Another week passes. One remains until the Gala.

  Deach is thrilled with the information funneled in by the Fuzzy Back. Jingles reports Richard and the Ministry fuss about the Fuzzy Back coming under my name, but I play coy and say I enjoyed my time so much, I had to have it for myself. More suspicion is thrown at Felicia and Kanon for giving me the coin. Felicia recuses herself from the Gala. Karla’s tabloid research turns up that she's hardly been seen at her estate in years.

  So, we might find her in that dungeon the night of the Gala. It’s the perfect opportunity to remove her from contention.

  Except Deach can't find records of those dungeon plans Rus mentioned, and he and Jingles scout the outside of the Palace to no success. Lucy, Genk, and I request a tour to poke around for signs of an entrance. I use an illusion so Lucy and I are caught fucking in a closet while Genk slips into the kitchen, where his minotaur sense tugs him. With no small amount of persuading, I send Whiskey to sneak down a hatch in the pantry, where they find a barred metal door, only missing a sign that says dungeon.

  “So,” I say to the team gathered over breakfast at the penthouse. “Let’s take out Felicia. But we’ve also gotta turn the Gala into a disaster.”

  “I hate to say it, but we’ll split the party,” Deach says, taking over unprompted. He’s been working out a plan all week. “We’ll need a dungeon team to take her out. The other team goes to the Gala to distract – that, of course, includes Chouncey. And Lucy, since she’s going with him. I’m going, too, so I can see Vincent.”

  “You’ve not got an invite, you lamentable pleb,” I throw back.

  “I didn’t say I’m going as a guest.”

  Lucy holds up a willowy hand. “Why don’t the two of you go? I’ll lead the other party. Deach can go as me.”

  That’s not a half-bad idea. “I thought you were looking forward to it.”

  She smiles demurely. “I can get invited to a thousand society parties if I want. Killing vampires is a much better use of my time here.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Deach cuts in. “They’re serious about detecting shapeshifters on the premises. There will be a screening process. We’ll have to do something about it.”

  “Can we fuck with it?” I ask, sipping coffee.

  “Yes,” Karla says. “I can give you a solution.”

  “Problem solved.”

  “Although I’d rather not go into the dungeon,” she says hesitantly. “I’m not good in a fight.”

  “And I should stay with you, Warchief,” Sven says.

  “And I reckon I’ll need to get us out of there,” Oka says.

  Deach sighs. “The three of you will stay outside, then. You won’t be allowed in. That leaves Lucy, Jingles, and Genk for the dungeon party. It's not a lot. I'd rather we have more.”

  “For one vampire? That's plenty,” I say. “Although you’ll need to be careful. Spawn are nothing – they can’t turn you. But vampires can. Stake her in her coffin. Or hit her with holy fire. Preferably both.”

  “Can anyone make holy fire?” Genk asks.

  Silence stretches. Whiskey trots across the table, sniffing at the plate of fish, before being shooed off by Sven.

  Deach puts his half-orc face in his hands. “It’s not enough. We should be sending the closest thing we have to a cleric, but we can’t.”

  I'm not sure if I should feel insulted or not. “Well, we’ve got a week to figure it out. In the meantime, I’ve got ideas on how to dismantle the Gala, but I’ll need information first.”

  He nods hesitantly. “Alright. What do you need?”

  That afternoon, I meet Sven, Jingles, and Karla near the door. Karla’s wearing a deep-indigo patterned kimono, and Jingles is wearing a flower-patterned shirt, open in the front, with a pair of cut-off booty shorts. Their tail feathers stick out the back. I’ve not asked where they got their wardrobe from. I suspect it’s a collection from several dumpsters.

  “Nice ass, bird,” I say as I approach. Their crest flutters in something close to a blush.

  “How are we getting me in there?” Karla asks, referring to the warehouse we’re headed to.

  That’s a problem for later. “I’m sure it’ll come to me.”

  “Well, I had an idea,” she trails off. She picks at a light-blue-painted nail. “I can transform – maybe into Whiskey. And then I can sneak off.”

  I pause, brows going up. “You can transform? All this time?”

  “I got a lot of spells at the College that I’ve never used. I haven’t needed to, at least for work.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” I say. “What else can you transform into?”

  “Most animals and large beasts. Like a cat, obviously.”

  “Couldn’t you turn into a dinosaur?”

  She blinks like it never occurred to her. “I… I could.”

  I share a look with Jingles. “And you say you’re no good in a fight. You’ve gotta dream bigger.”

  “Well, a cat is enough for now. Here it goes.”

  From the folds of her kimono, she pulls out a notebook with pages neatly written in glittery blue ink. She flips through it, skimming, then puts it away. She pauses, then sweeps her hands over herself. “Mutate.”

  Magic channels and a swirling puff of blue energy surrounds her. Her slight form vanishes, and a perfect copy of Whiskey steps out of it. She mews up at us.

  The real Whiskey freezes, tail fluffed, and hisses from the back of the slashed-up couch.

  “It’s just Karla,” I say.

  I don’t like it.

  “She’s only the second-best Whiskey around here.”

  Whiskey pouts. But then their tail twitches.

  Deach has been feeding them every morning, but they still won’t talk to him. The closest they’ve come is when they discovered meowing a few days ago. Deach blames me for singing to them. They’ve already broken and shredded their cat tree. I bought another one, enchanted this time.

  Almost everyone has found dead rats and birds stashed around the penthouse. Whiskey pitches a fit when I get rid of it, saying they were saving it. Half the time, they forgot it was there. I scratch their head, and purrs rumble forth.

  We meet Oka and the carriage outside.

  The carriage has a gravitational enchantment that reduces bumping and swaying, making it feel almost like standing on a floor. I resist the urge to pour myself a drink. I’ll need to save myself for what’s ahead, of all the things I never thought I’d say. I pour a short saison for Sven. Then I pour something sweet for Jingles and set down a bowl of cream for Karla when she points it out with her paw. The feel of a glass in hand has me itching for it.

  “What’s up with the timepiece?” I ask as I sit next to Jingles, gesturing at their feathered wrist. I’ve never seen them take it off. Uncomfortable magic wafts from it.

  “It’s cursed,” they say.

  If it were any more obvious, it’d start whispering to me. “What’s the story?”

  They sip their zero-proof Byrian Sunrise. Their bells tinkle. “I made clocks. Some adventurers brought it to me to fix. It frayed the ley lines.” They tug at it. “It’s stuck.”

  “Time magic, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  They’ve got perfect memory, too. It’s something about going back in time and reliving the moment. They gave an explanation that made my eyes glaze. “And the… ticking?”

  “It’s always there,” they say, a crazy look coming into their yellow eyes. “It gets faster when I’m close to death.” That explains why they’re utterly unbothered by the fucking wyvern on Richard’s roof. They continue, fiddling with the timepiece. “It lets me freeze time, too. Just once, though.”

  I pause. That’s some of the most potent magic out there, short of a wish spell. “Per day?”

  “No, just once.”

  “And then what?”

  They shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Karla mews. I gesture like she's made a good point.

  We arrive at an unassuming warehouse and exit the carriage. It’s near the city walls and has no small number of guards outside. We’re near the working-class district, the air ripe with the smell of tanneries and coal. A justicar mingles with the guards. Karla’s perched on my shoulder, Jingles at my side. A guard meets me when I approach the gate.

  If three mages can’t succeed, I’m not sure who can.

  “Do you have business here?” the guard asks. She’s a red-haired half-elf wearing the chain and tabard of the official Guild guard.

  “I hope you’re having a fine morning. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, the Warchief of the Byrian Isles,” I say, giving a bow. “Minister Obara gave me a pass to check on the stores you’ve set up for the Gala. I’ll be something of a guest of honor. This here’s my sommelier.” I gesture at Jingles.

  I hold out a note forged by our irreplaceable Deach.

  The guard takes it, skims it, holds it up to the light, and checks the seal. I find myself holding my breath. “Okay. Come in.”

  We’re led inside. Sven stays, ready in case we need a percussive solution. Inside, we’re brought to an absolute maze of kegs and bottles gridded on pallets. It’s staggering. I’d not come out of here alive if Jingles and Karla weren’t with me.

  A djinnian woman appears and introduces herself as Nura. She’s got airy gray-blue skin and whispering white hair pinned up in buns. She’s wearing a black kimono and cummerbund, a towel draped over her arm.

  She gives a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you. I would’ve arranged a more private tasting if I knew.”

  I give my most charming smile. “Please, I’m easily impressed. What can you tell me about this?”

  “Each year, we acquire it from our best-in-class suppliers all over the world. We spare no expense. This year, we’re featuring Byrian Garnacha wine and…” she pauses, stumbling. She clears her throat. “A Southern Saison.”

  Reesh is famous the world around for its ale. It all but confirms the theme for the Gala. They’re gonna dangle their ass for me in front of their stakeholders. Guest of honor indeed.

  “My compliments to your fine taste,” I say. “Shall we get –”

  Karla jumps off my shoulder and scampers into the maze of kegs.

  “Sweet fucking hells. Whiskey! You miserable little mog –” I turn to Nura. “My deepest apologies. Let me go find them.”

  “Oh, please don’t –”

  I hustle after Karla, leaving Jingles.

  She’s already gone when I turn down alleys between kegs and barrels as tall as me. I follow the exterior wall of the warehouse, losing sight of any guards. I find a small gap between racks. I bring my mandolin around, breathing and strumming a few quiet chords. Inside, I grit my teeth, reach out, and grasp the fourth ley line. Magic electrifies me.

  A translucent pink square appears in my vision.

  I nearly sob. I drag it to the base of the wall with a finger, tucking it between racks. A small hole opens, large enough for a cat to squirm through.

  I kick over a small cask and knock my mandolin against a barrel like I tripped. “Ow! Bloody fucking –”

  I make more exasperated sounds, then snap out my pick, crouching and whispering into it. “You’ve got an exit on the east wall between the racks.”

  Karla’s voice comes into my head a moment later. Okay. I’m in the far corner. There are rats back here. There’s a pause. I’m having second thoughts.

  I worm myself halfway between some barrels, pretending to check a dark corner. “We’d still be swimming in the Shadow Vault if you hadn’t come through for us on that door. You can do this.”

  Her response is hesitant. What if I get caught and mess up the plan?

  “Then turn into a fucking tyrannosaur,” I whisper. “We pivot – that’s what we do. You’re smart and capable and a lovely woman if I’ve ever known one. You can do this.”

  No response comes.

  “Remember, dream big.”

  A long pause stretches. Okay. Dream big. I’m getting started.

  I wander back to where Jingles and Nura are chatting. I throw my arms up. “Let’s keep going. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

  Jingles is sniffing a glass of red wine – Garnacha, judging by the giant lettering they’re standing next to. “That’s good. I’m getting lamp oil and fresh linens.”

  Nura tilts her head a little. “You have… quite the interesting palate.”

  I put a hand on their shoulder. “Jingles has never steered me wrong.”

  “What’s your background?”

  Their crest flutters, and they look to me. “They’re from the deep swamps north of Sissthira, or thereabout. Did you know there’s moonshine you can only find there? It’s the temperature and the swamp soil – from sorghum, mostly.”

  Her brows pull together. “I didn’t know that. Where can I find some?”

  “Oh, it pops up occasionally at the Night Market over in Port Nakanai. It’s terribly rare in these parts.”

  She looks at Jingles, blinking. Their bells tinkle a little as they snake their long, thin tongue in the glass. They somehow make a smacking sound. “Mmm. And copper. A little acidic.”

  “Warchief, would you like –”

  A small crash comes from across the warehouse. “Shit.”

  It’s Karla. Nura turns. The guards turn.

  Suddenly, time pauses for a split second. It’s almost like a glitch, a lag. Magic channels beside me, but without any sound or movement. Does anyone else notice? It raises the back of my neck.

  I blink. Nura’s looking back at me, unbothered. “Would you like a taste?” The guards don’t stir. I don’t hear anything more from Karla.

  “That’s kind of you. I’d love one,” I say, smiling. Nura hands me a glass.

  I glance at Jingles. They give me a thumbs-up.

  I cross one ankle over the other and lean against a huge barrel. “So, dear Nura, tell me more about your acquisitions process. I’ve spent no small amount of time in Byra. Tell me who you know. Maybe I can connect back on the Isles.”

  I finger a magical connection, subtly rubbing just under my eye. The mandolin hums. Nura and the guards relax, turning their eyes on me, pink briefly flashing in front of them.

  And so, we meander around the warehouse, chatting and boozing, avoiding Karla. Between my distraction spell and Jingles keeping ready with their time-modifying magic, we keep her out of trouble. She keeps her distance, sneaking around and alchemizing every last drop of alcohol into cheap, watered-down swill. A week out from the Gala, they either won’t notice or it’s too late to get more. And if they do, it won’t be cheap.

  I’m thoroughly soaked by the end of the hour. That’s how long Karla said she needed.

  “Well, this has been lovely,” I say, handing over yet another empty glass. The warehouse is spinning. I've choked down enough saison to put me off it forever, if I wasn't before. “This'll be more than perfect for the Gala.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” Nura says with a practiced, professional smile. “I look forward to it.”

  “I’d best take another look for Whiskey. I’m sure they’ve found a snack back there.”

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Nura pales. “I hope not.”

  I wander the racks again, turning a few corners. I whistle and make a pspsps sound, which Whiskey admittedly hates. I crouch, pretending to check under a dark gap and snap out my pick.

  “Are you out?” I whisper.

  There's no response, which could mean either she’s been caught or she’s a cat and can’t talk. Considering the dinosaur contingency, we'd know if she's caught. I close my hole spell.

  I rejoin Jingles and Nura, saying Whiskey will find their way back eventually. When we arrive outside, Karla's sitting at Sven's feet in Whiskey form. We all share an exasperated laugh, say goodbye, and pile into the carriage.

  “How’d it go?” I ask as we rattle off.

  Karla turns back into a dwarf, brushing cobwebs and grease off her kimono. “I got almost everything.”

  I smile. “And you didn't tear anyone head from shoulders. Nicely done.”

  She nods, not meeting my eye. She’s got a faint smile on her face. “Thank you.”

  I plop on a padded seat and put my numb face in my hands. I can barely see straight. How did I ever live like this? I breathe. Yet somehow, it’s familiar, like an old friend - one that's too sexy, too alluring to pass up.

  With every small ounce of willpower I’ve got, I snap out my pick and strum on my mandolin. I sing and grasp a connection:

  Here I am with another refrain

  I’m sure it comes as no surprise

  I’ve got no choice but to poetize

  Light Daddy, lend me your arcane

  I gasp. I groan. The alcohol’s ripped from my blood like ice on my neck. It’s almost more worth it to stay worse for drink.

  I stand, the world now painfully sharp, lacking the blur and smear of comfort. Sven’s sitting near the minibar. I head toward it. He stands, too.

  “Respectfully, Warchief, I was told to… stop you.”

  I squint. “By who?”

  “Deach. We all talked about it.”

  I turn. Something’s sour in my stomach. “You did?”

  Karla and Jingles nod. “Last night,” Sven says. “After you went to sleep.”

  “Oka, is that true?” I ask.

  His voice comes through a small, magical speaker. “It is indeed, Mr. Seven Oaks.”

  My blood rises. Why’re they making decisions about me? If I want to drink again, that’s my problem, not theirs. I look at Sven. Is it worth fighting over? A year ago, I might’ve said yes.

  I sink into my seat and cross my arms. I’m cold. And like the horrifying hunt of some beast below, a black ripple stirs the surface of the pool of my mind.

  The next morning, I wake to Whiskey on my chest. They’ve forgiven me for keeping company with a different Whiskey. They’re staring at me, inches from my face. They blink slowly. Sweet fucking hells, there had better not be a rat next to me.

  Human. Can I have a treat?

  I sigh. I’ve hardly opened my eyes all the way. Sunlight’s streaming in. I yawn and stretch.

  Human. It’s morning. Can I have a treat?

  “I’m working on it,” I say. I sit, and they scamper off me. No rats, but there’s a pile of retched-up feathers on the floor.

  I search my chest of drawers and nearly cut myself on a dagger stuffed under my shirts. I’m surprised Deach still has all ten fingers. You can never have too many, and all that. I find a pair of heart-patterned undershorts and put them on. I grab my pink coffee mug and exit the room, Whiskey scampering ahead of me.

  It’s a quiet morning. Almost everyone is out running errands. Maybe that was intentional, giving me a chance to sleep. I’m glad Deach isn’t around. I’m not sure what to say after hearing he told everyone the grimy details of my personal struggles.

  Human. A treat. Can I have one?

  I pour some coffee and fatty milk, then head to the bar. I nearly trip over Whiskey.

  Please?

  By treat, Whiskey means a small bowl of cream mixed with whiskey, unsweetened. It’s more rancid than hag’s pussy print, but they love it. They hop on the bar while I mix it over ice, making the cream extra frothy, and pour it into a small bowl for them. I find another dagger tucked behind some glasses.

  “Do you want cherries?”

  Cats can’t have cherries.

  “They can’t have tipple, either, but here we are.”

  Then yes. Extra cherries.

  I drop a handful into their bowl, and they lap it up. I stare at the bottle of whiskey, holding it to the light, following the reassuring curve of the cling against the glass. I pour myself a double shot and thrash it back. It's butter. I pour myself another to sip, taking the bottle with me.

  I call for breakfast, tip the worker a gold piece, eat, and then doze off on a tattered couch in the sitting area with an oversized merino wool blanket. It’s after noon when I wake again. I’ve got an audition at three with the Players’ Guild.

  I can’t avoid it anymore. After Drowning Man, I’ve become a widely-known bard, making no mention of my performance with Irminric, and one who’s making a name for himself in Guildania. Deach could make me a license, and it’d be as convincing as any other. But the Players’ Guild has likely checked that I’m not registered, and it’ll cause a stir if I don’t at least show up sometime. Weekes set up an appointment as my manager, and I’ve gotta keep it.

  Whiskey is perched on their cat tree against the glass wall, watching the city twenty floors below.

  “Whiskey,” I call and whistle. I pat my chest. Their ear rotates toward me, but they otherwise don’t move. “I know you can understand me, you little shit.”

  They don’t say anything.

  I click my tongue and point. A pink dot appears on the floor. Their head snaps over. I jiggle it, and their ears flatten. They hunch down, their tail swishing. Their gold eyes become pools of black.

  They tear after it.

  They race around the sitting area, chasing the dot. They whiff by, landing all twenty of their pounds on my guts and springboarding off me. I grunt, curling up.

  Where’d it go? Human, do it again.

  “Just a moment,” I groan.

  I send them to the other side of the room with another pink dot. They vault sideways off a wall, leap over the low dining table, scamper across the counter, zig-zag across the floor. They pounce on it, and it vanishes.

  They stop, searching. Their tail twitches.

  I point. It appears on the ceiling. Their eyes snap upward, locking on. I jiggle it. They crouch, muscles winding up. They leap, almost touching the ceiling. They land on their paws, tail poofed. I spin and twirl it around on the ceiling, and they follow, tearing in a circle, leaping. They jump from the couch, slashing more stuffing out of it. They land. A low growl escapes them.

  They hunch their back. They gag and undulate, making a horking sound. As predicted, those cherries are coming back up. Then, they open their jaws and spew.

  Gold holy fire erupts at the ceiling.

  A couple hours later, I call the team and explain that Whiskey will be joining the dungeon team during the Gala. They look between me and the blackened ceiling and still-smoldering sitting area. I’m sunburned. I leave Lucy to manage one hell of an insurance claim and take Deach to my appointment.

  The carriage ride is awkward, but I have the excuse of warming up. Sven is there, too, so it’s hardly time for a personal chat. I’m wearing a halfway decent shirt, a leather jacket embossed with knots along the collar, and baggy pants with woolen legwraps, along with my fur-lined cloak. It’s the getup I wore for my Drowning Man set, and the only one I’m likely to have. Jingles put magic armor on me. When it’s quiet, I swear I can hear faint ticking.

  We stop outside the Players’ Hall. It’s made of dark rosewood with engraved spires and painted, artful touches. We head through a peaceful garden, laced with pink cherry trees and a lapping fish pool. Oka explained that the Guild employs druids to keep the cherry trees in blossom year-round. It seems excessive.

  I head inside. The whole place is laced with magic. Music drifts, twanging and ethereal. In the foyer, a white dragonkin woman wearing a blazingly multicolored kimono stands behind her desk and gives a bow. “You must be the Warchief. Welcome. The Head of Players is expecting you.”

  My brows go up. I should’ve expected that. I’m a foreign dignitary, or something to that effect, and the belle of the upcoming Gala. Even if, to anyone who knows better, I'm yet another artist defeated by Byra.

  “That’s a rare treat,” I say with a smile. “I’m honored. This is my bodyguard and kobold, by the way. Are they alright coming with me?”

  “Of course,” she says. She glances at Deach. He’s a small, coppery kobold wearing a three-piece suit and a matching hat. I’m far from the only one walking around with an adopted kobold – or a goblin, for that matter, although being fluent in either language, I’d not make the mistake of calling him hello. “We just ask that they remain respectful during the performances.”

  I nudge Sven with an elbow. “Keep the killing to a minimum. They frown on that here.”

  He looks at me, puzzled.

  We’re brought through halls lined with old artifacts, instruments, paintings, and books. Some of it’s even magical. Deach nudges me when I get caught up looking at it. We’re escorted to the small auditorium. It sits about a hundred people, decorated with plush, multicolored curtains and stuffed seats. The stage is deep-stained oak, and magical amplification devices are dotted across it. Glowing arcane lamps flicker overhead.

  A few other people are seated. We’re ushered to the front row. I’m not sure why until the lights dim.

  The curtains part and a flurry of color thrusts out. He’s a young human with almond-shaped eyes, wearing a ruffled, moppish hat stuffed with feathers. It matches a richly embroidered shirt and hakama of emerald and teal. A shoulder cape drapes behind him in tangerine and gold. All signs point to this being Sigert Groen, the Head of Players. Lights tint and follow him. I know exactly what this is when he starts talking. His baritone voice carries, speaking from his toes while he gesticulates and poses.

  Her foes slain, Thorhild wept at the feet of Hallgrim,

  Her tears flowing like bitter sap untouched in the cold-dark days of night.

  Still before her stood the Titan of lore who would see Coramine thrust into darkness

  With no sun to brush its horizon with gold-butter rays of warmth.

  He steps forward and to the side. Suddenly, he blurs, becoming inky in a familiar way. In a split-second swirl, he becomes a hulking, bearded elf in furs and leather, reddish hair braided and shaved on either side. He raises a hand like he’s cupping a chin. His voice becomes deep and raspy.

  Dearest one, dry your eyes lest the Titan add them to the fathomless ocean, Hallgrim said.

  Any Titan with legs can step wrongly and fall,

  But beware the fall lest it quake the world harder than its shuddering steps alone.

  He steps to the other side. As quickly, he smears again, becoming a maridon woman in similar leathers and fur. Her light green skin glistens with dewiness, and her stringy, shaved hair is the color of deep ocean water. She frees herself from Hallgrim’s grasp, turning away and looking over the audience.

  I will cause a quake the likes of which Coramine has not borne, Thorhild said.

  For any Titan who can be permitted to stand can be demanded to fall.

  But Hallgrim, dearest, I cannot do it alone.

  Sigert switches back to the elf. He puts a hand over his chest.

  Said Hallgrim, the Titan shall be the start of the long-rest that claims us all,

  But I will rest knowing my namesake and death-legacy will bear me higher than any Titan.

  And still, you weep.

  He switches to the maridon. She comes to her knees, tears dribbling from her eyes.

  My tears are not for what charge I will pay, but for what I have paid already.

  Shall it come to this that I must fell a Titan

  Or suffer my long-rest in silence?

  He continues the rest of the scene. It’s a one-man performance, in a theatrical style rather than an epic, and that’s talent. He shifts back and forth, playing Hallgrim, Thorhild, and the narrator, before letting the last words ring out at the end of the scene.

  Then, he shifts into a handsome half-elf with platinum hair and alluring hazel eyes. He’s wearing a similar outfit to the narrator, just as colorful and tailored. It’s in rich purple and sage this time. He bows deeply. We applaud. Sven is wide-eyed.

  “With great honor, we welcome you, Warchief. Permit me the pleasure of performing this scene, albeit brief,” he sings. “I’m Sigert Groen, Head of Players as we speak. Your presence here could not be more unique.”

  I blink. He’s singing in rhyme. I can admire someone committed to the bit – and that’s one hell of a bit – so long as he’s not expecting me to follow. My bit’s looking like I just rolled from a corner of the long hall after last night’s feast.

  “That’s one of our greatest works,” I say. “What a delight seeing you making use of it – and with no small amount of talent.”

  “Your words bring me higher than Thorhild’s name,” he sings. “Please honor us with the performance for which you came. Show us your skill with instrument and word, so we may witness the talent of which we have heard.”

  I glance over at Deach and Sven, who are staring and squinting respectively.

  Sigert steps down from the stage, sweeping into the second row in a flash of silk. A few more people have since appeared, all dressed in what I can only describe as thespian attire. It’s starting to become overstimulating. Sometimes, even I can’t stand us.

  From what Weekes explained, the audition gets me a Player’s License, whether I suck or not. But my performance determines the rank. Better ranks mean better rates when playing shows, meaning the Guild takes less of a cut. It goes up to ten. Seeing as I’m not living off my work anymore, it doesn’t entirely matter. But I’m nothing if not dedicated to putting on a good show. My blood coursing, I get to work.

  I play four of my best songs with the backing of my illusion, one without, and then perform a couple more obscure poems and tales from Byra. Sigert stole my rep with Thorhild and the Titan, which I’m salty about. But I’ve played an arena at Drowning Man. This is nothing. All the while, Sigert and the players watch, taking notes. Sven and Deach hold up the audience, clapping and cheering.

  I finish my last song, and everyone applauds. I bow with a hand over my chest. Sigert and the others confer. I step down from the stage, and Sven claps me on the shoulder. Deach pats me on the leg with a small claw-hand. He barely reaches my hip.

  Sigert’s well-constructed voice rings out. “To Chouncey of Seven Oaks, six is your score. Without further auditions, we cannot award more.”

  I doubt I’ll be coming back to raise that, but at least I’ve got a license now. One of the players hands it to me. It’s similar to a Guild card, although it’s got a stylized sigil of a musical note on it.

  “Thank you kindly for the chance to play,” I say. “I appreciate you having me here toda – this afternoon.”

  The other judges say their goodbyes and filter off. Sigert stays. If I thought he’d code shift once everyone else left, I was wrong. “I relish the chance to meet face-to-face. Your name, I have followed since Drowning Man, with grace.”

  Deach told me it’s odd for a shapeshifter to take a last name – typically, they’re known by one name. And it’s especially strange for a performer not to have a carefully constructed stage name. It might be the oddest part about this, frankly, bizarre person. “Were you there?”

  Sigert brightens. His voice rings with practiced vibrato. “I toured the islands in forms aplenty. The shows I attended totaled close to twenty. I saw your performance and admired it greatly. Your music was delightful and your address stately.”

  “Well, we’d love to see you next year.” I hold up the new license. “What does this get me aside from better rates? Do you vote on anything or offer any benefits?”

  “It’s my displeasure to say that’s not the case. The Players’ Guild offers only this space.” He gestures grandly around us.

  For all the acrobatics I did to keep my ass from the Players’ Guild's meaty cock while wandering Rheda, what an utter fucking disappointment. “Couldn’t you offer protection? Guaranteed base rates or funds for repairs? Sponsorships? Legal services? Lodgings?”

  He smiles sadly. “Alas, what a force for the arts we could be. But unfortunately, our funding is not up to me.”

  I nod, passing the license to Deach. He tucks it away. It’s only good for keeping more of my pay if I try living off my music again. All devouring and no scraps, funneling it upward and leaving artists with nothing but the need to find traditional work. It's certainly intentional. I glance around the auditorium, thinking of Sigert's performance. It's because places like this are where ideas happen.

  Sigert continues. “Change would be welcome, were someone to bear it. As Thorhild and the Titan, it's possible if we dare it.”

  There’s a twinkle in his hazel eyes. I find myself pausing. Is he suggesting something? Does he know what I’m doing here? And most importantly, is that a bad thing?

  “Well, I hope I’ll see you at the Gala,” I say. “I’m a fan of…” I gesture to him. “All this. I’m sure your astounding self will be hard to miss.” Fuck me. I’m starting to rhyme.

  “Your words mean more than a thousand gold coins. I will attend to my best, most fabulous appearance as my station enjoins.” I'm not sure how that's possibly different from what I assume is his daily attire.

  He takes us around the Players’ Hall, giving us a tour of the relics and antiques, all in rhymed, musical meter. It’s giving me the feeling we’re gonna break out in a number. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t getting the idea he wanted me to join. Finally, we part ways and head back to the carriage and the penthouse.

  While we wheel back, I sit and ponder the Players’ Guild and the part they might play in all this. And I try not to look at the bar where Sven’s keeping a close eye on me.

  That night, I ask Deach on a date.

  He eagerly accepts. He’s in his fuckable half-elf form, wearing a dark gray, patterned hakama and broad-sleeved white shirt. A dagger is holstered at his side. I’m dressed in the only nice clothes I’ve got, the same as I wore for the audition earlier.

  We go to the Glass Lily. He was miffed that he missed the food when he made a scene as Richard. They recognize me and give us a private seat upstairs with profound apologies. I don’t have to translate the menu this time – Deach knows his fair share of languages, too, short of draconic.

  The half-devil worker brings me a sparkling drink with berries and mint, and a glass of unreasonably expensive Laurent wine for Deach. I find myself staring at it. The weight of my empty flask in my pocket is too light. I put a hand against my mouth, leaning against the table.

  “You told everyone about the drinking,” I say in fey.

  He glances up, switching over, too. “Yeah. You don’t like talking about it, so I told them. They need to know so they can help.”

  “Nobody needs to know. It’s none of their fucking business – or yours, for that matter.”

  He shrugs. “You told me about it. And you wanted accountability. I can’t always be there, but if they know what to look for –”

  I’m having trouble keeping it together. I lean in. “Do you see how that could be humiliating for me?”

  He pauses, putting his menu down. “That’s not what it was. They were concerned, too. We don’t judge you for it. They understood –”

  “Understood what?”

  He falters. “That you went through something… horrible. I hate to think of that happening to anyone, no less to you. The fact you came out of it with just a drinking problem is honestly impressive.”

  “I’d love for it to be just a drinking problem,” I hiss. My blood spikes. I need to get out of here.

  “We know,” he cuts in. His voice is steady. “We all know. And that’s okay. We’re here to help. In fact, we need you. You’re the face of this whole thing – the idea behind it, even. Without you, we have nothing. I only joined because I wanted to kill Vincent, but now you have me believing in all this other shit. With what we’re up against, the stress will only get worse. And frankly, I don’t think anyone but you can keep this thing together, so we need to hold you together. That’s why I told them. Because we…” he stammers, holding my eye for a moment. “Because I care about you.”

  His words catch me like an off beat. Across the pool of calm waters, a ripple skims. I really need to get out of here.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand, holding it firmly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt you, and I’m sorry it did. But I stand by it.”

  I sip my sad little zero-proof drink. It’s like a handful of spring in a cup. I grip his hand. It’d be too easy to get lost in a tavern for the night. I’d feel awful, leaving him. But it draws my bones toward the door anyway.

  “Look,” he continues quietly. “I went through my own shit. I know it sucks. I didn’t trust anyone after Boris died.”

  I can’t help looking at his teal eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen earnestness in them - maybe even tears. “But you trust people now?” I ask.

  “I trust you.”

  Something flutters in my chest at his touch.

  He’s right. If I flounder myself into a ditch and join the twenty-seven club, everything falls apart – not just for the team, but for everyone counting on us, including the slaves I set free. Maybe I mistook thinking my closest friends are in Carthesia and Port Nakanai. Maybe I mistook thinking it's darker than it really is.

  He continues with a slight smile. “Aside from that, you’re gonna be a fucking legend someday, and I want to be able to say I was there.”

  Another ripple wavers across the pool of my mind, sharper this time. From the bottomless, black depths, something creeps upward like a claw. I freeze. The picture forms of a small tavern on the coast, a young catfolk of orange and cream stripes –

  I shove it away. “Don’t say that.”

  He shrugs. “It’s true –”

  “Stop.”

  More ripples form, pushing against the seal. More blackness threatens to claim me. My mouth is dry.

  He looks me over, then sips his wine. “Are you okay?”

  I pull myself back together. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep myself together. I haven’t tested the bounds of this wish spell, this seal, yet. Maybe I will soon.

  “I’m fine.”

  We eat our meal, steering away from serious topics. We chat about the audition and the next few days. It's more stilted than usual, and poor form to be talking business on a date. Afterward, we walk the streets as night falls proper. Sven follows at a calculated distance. We soon leave the respectable middle city, finding more taverns and bathhouses than overpriced stores and restaurants. Hawkers are folding up their blankets for the night and vanishing.

  I stop when I spot a figure slumped against a wall.

  They’re halfway curled up, face-first against the corner of a building where it meets the wooden walkway. People step around them. I can smell the ale and refuse from both ends, even here. Deach prods me to keep going, but I can only look.

  “What are you –”

  I approach. I nudge the figure with a boot, rolling them over. A bottle skitters away. It’s a middle-aged dark elf, his white hair yellowed with smears of unmentionable origin. He’s alive, at least. He mutters something incomprehensible. I crouch, grabbing an arm and hoisting him around my shoulders. I grunt, settling him. He barely stirs.

  I head down the block to an inn. Deach and Sven follow wordlessly.

  The tavern is filled with carousing. Heads turn when I carry in a drunken sack of a person. The sharp smell of spirits threatens to lock my ass to a barstool. A bugbear is behind the counter. I smile and slide across a gold piece.

  “My friend here will take whatever room you’ve got available, for however long this will get him. Food’s included.”

  The bugbear takes the coin, tucking it behind the counter. It’s likely enough for a couple weeks at least. She produces a key. “Fair enough. I’m guessing you won’t be staying.”

  “I’ll not be.”

  “What do you want me to tell him when he asks?”

  I pause. “That it’s on behalf of the church of Iros. They can help him more if he needs it.”

  I take the key and find the room. Inside, I drop the dark elf on the bed and stuff a pile of pillows and blankets underneath his upper half. I roll him on his side and drop the key on the nightstand with some water and the pisspot. Then, I exit.

  Deach falls in as I walk toward the carriage. Sven follows. I pull out my empty flask. There’s five new stickers on it. I tuck it back away.

  “What was that?” Deach asks quietly.

  My mouth is dry. My throat wavers. I can barely say it. “That was me a year ago.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds mine. We return to the penthouse, where he asks if I want to fuck. I tell him I can’t right now. Instead, he follows me into bed, shifts, and nestles beside me, his half-orc face between my shoulder blades. After a moment, Whiskey joins us. And I drift into troubled sleep.