Finally, the night of the Gala arrives.

  The penthouse becomes a back-of-house ten minutes before curtain. People scramble, gathering clothes and armor and asking for last-minute help. I sit with a cup of coffee while Deach gives me the best shave of my life and Sven scrapes knotted patterns into my hair. In my room, I shrug into my chain jacket, plus some embossed leather armor pieces, and then toil through leg wraps. Finally, Deach settles my fur-lined cloak on my shoulders. He’s in his half-orc form, dark hair slicked back.

  My mandolin stays on its stand in the corner. I can’t bring it – not when the Ministry knows what I can do with it. I’ll have some magic, but not all of it. I can’t bring a weapon, either, although that’ll certainly not stop Deach. I might as well be going in there naked as the day I lost my nominal virtue. I’ve been knuckling through the day, avoiding the bar. I’ve been successful only by the team’s effort. Maybe Deach was right to loop in the rest of them.

  “Please don’t do anything stupid,” he says, adjusting me. We’re alone in my quarters. “I want us to get home tonight.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making rational decisions, you peremptory tadger.”

  “Yeah, and I wish you’d do it,” he snaps back. He pauses. “We’re skating close to the wind here. There’s a lot that can go wrong.”

  His tanned-leather eyes fall on me. I can’t help looking at them. I tilt my head. “And if it does, we’ll make it work.”

  He lets out a long breath. He’s close, and the smell of his pine wood and citrus cologne wafts. “It’s easy enough to believe when you say it.” He leans in, like he’s asking for a kiss. He hesitates, maybe remembering what form he’s in.

  But then he kisses me.

  It’s slower than usual. He pulls me closer by the back of my head, lips reaching. There’s the smoothness of his small tusks, the warmth of his tongue behind the relaxed tempo of his urgency. My blood perks. I tug him closer by his waist, and he responds with a hitched breath. I put my mouth on his green neck, where his smell only gets stronger. I taste it –

  “Okay, that’s enough,” he whispers. He pulls away. His mossy green cheeks flush slightly darker. “It’s time to go.”

  I take a knee over his hand. The flush of his cheeks only gets greener. “A moment first. Thank you, my dear, ripe Peach. I’d be no closer to any of this without you.”

  He gives a breathy, strangled laugh, searching for words. “That’s not –”

  “It’d be poor of me to ask Lucy but not you. Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the Gala tonight? I can’t think of a more exquisite partner than just one of your many lovely faces.”

  He goes rigid, clutching my hand. He makes a committal sound, then settles for nodding. His tanned-leather eyes become moist.

  I kiss the back of his hair-flecked hand, lingering over it. And when I look up, he’s smiling and trying to hide it. It's cute.

  We gather in the sitting area. Genk is harnessed with his gravity maul slung across his back, tits out. Jingles is wearing a stained chef’s outfit stolen from the Palace — a dark gray tunic, pants, and a matching hat — but it glimmers with faint mandarin-colored magical armor. Lucy is wearing her elaborate, twirling, Byrian-scale armor in earthy colors, with a fiery auburn cloak. She doesn’t have a weapon, and I still haven’t seen her use one. Whiskey sits on the slashed couch, washing their face. On their collar is a handsome pink bow tie. They’re not wearing it to the Gala, but I'm sure Felicia will be impressed before breezing away on the wind.

  Everyone gives appreciative applause as I appear. I offer a bow. “My thanks to all you perfect, wonderful people. I believe in each of you, and I wish you the best tonight. Look after each other, and let’s celebrate in the morning on a job well done. There’ll be one less bloodsucker in the world come dawn.”

  Jingles claps. Everyone joins in.

  Deach has planned every step of tonight. It’s impressive. We’ll be in good hands. I continue. “Jingles, it’s on you to get the dungeon team inside. Look to Lucy. She’s in charge.”

  She gives a languid Byrian salute. “Thank you for trusting me with this, and thank you for trusting Byrio. I’ll see it through, Warchief.”

  “Okay,” Karla says, stepping forward. “Everyone, stay still for a moment.” She consults her notebook and then puts her hands up, drawing a circle around us in light blue magic. “Communicate.”

  Three blue dots flash in front of my face and then vanish.

  Can everyone hear me? Karla’s voice speaks into my mind, clear as day. Her lips don’t move. It’s disconcerting.

  Yep, Jingles says.

  It’s Karla again. All you have to do is think.

  Does this mean Whiskey will finally talk to me? Deach asks.

  Whiskey keeps washing their face and doesn’t respond.

  Is it working? Damn, I have to take a shit. It’s Genk.

  Everyone turns to look at him.

  You can still think privately, Karla says generously. Just kind of… think toward the group when you want to say something.

  Well, now’s the last call to attend to your nethers, I think toward the new channel in my head. We’d best be leaving soon.

  Genk shuffles to the washroom. When I look over, Deach is inky.

  He turns into a perfect copy of Lucy.

  They’ve been spending the last couple days together, Deach learning her exact mannerisms and speech. She’s wearing a sleeveless, flowing Byrian gown of sage, the tight bodice embroidered with gold and auburn beads, the crescents of her full tits straining out the top. They’re bigger than usual. Her hair is halfway pinned up, the rest cascading in perfect curls, threaded with cherry blossoms and wildflowers. It’s heavenly on her strong, willowy figure.

  “Does this pass your approval?” she asks in Lucy’s voice. With gut-wrenching clarity, I realize I’ve been sleeping on the possibility of fucking two Lucys at once.

  The real Lucy smiles. “Absolutely. Take good care of this young man for me.”

  “What I’d give to take you to a Byrian party,” I say to her.

  She gives me a coy, lingering look. “There would be fights over who gets to take you home.”

  I raise a brow. “You included?”

  She puts a hand on my arm. “I’d win.”

  Genk returns a few moments later with a gruff nod. By the smell wafting behind him, it's time to vacate. Karla and the dungeon team ascend to the roof and the sky skiff. Deach-as-Lucy, Oka, and Sven, and I grab the carriage and head toward the Palace.

  The roads are bustling. Oka gets us there in top form, other carriages not willing to risk a confrontation with the number we’re driving around. I pace and hum the whole way. The roads and walkways thrum with people as we get near. Deach-as-Lucy and Sven watch me throw down a couple shots of whiskey. It’s necessary for tonight – I’ve gotta keep up appearances. I’ll be walking a fine line between staying competent and seeming positively squiffed. Luckily, I know that line well, crooked as it is.

  We’re headed inside, Lucy says in my head.

  Karla will have parked the sky skiff in an unlit area of the private gardens behind the Palace. She’ll stay with it while the dungeon team's inside. Deach and Jingles have spent the last several days mapping their exact path, pretending to be workers. Jingles has an almost perfect memory thanks to their cursed timepiece. They only stared at the map Deach put together so they can see it later.

  We arrive at the Palace exactly ten minutes late, and it’s swarming with people. Deach-as-Lucy appears beside me, and I slip a hand around her waist. I straighten and put on my best smile. She cracks her neck and does the same, sliding into character like a merfolk into water. Oka opens the door with a flourish, and we step out.

  The massive wood steps to the Palace are thronged with journalists and gawkers. The scrabbling sound pours in. They applaud and beg for attention as we go past. We make one hell of a couple, a Byrian noblewoman and the Warchief of the Byrian Isles. She waves and blows kisses. I banter and snap my fingers, sending fluttering hearts at the crowd. We leave a stunned wake.

  Then we step through the open sliding door to find the security line.

  It’s moving, at least. Guards are sitting behind a table ahead, another walking up and down the line. “Please have your invitations ready. All guests will step through the scanner to gain entry.”

  That’s our first problem. Deach said it’ll screen for magical weapons and reveal shapeshifters. I watch the next couple walk through it. It’s a magical archway that projects an illusion to the guards behind the desk. I can sense the magnetic magic even here. On the pretense of flirting in Deach-as-Lucy’s ear, I subtly point out the panel on the side where runes are inscribed.

  We finally approach the table, manned by a mustached human guard in official Guild livery. He’s in his mid-thirties, his dark, curly hair going for a moppish look. It’s noticeably too short in the front. It’s giving him bangs. “Invitation, please.”

  I chortle. “Are you serious?” I jerk a thumb toward the Grand Hall. “Do you know who I am? I’m fairly sure they’re riffing on my island in there.”

  He gives a razor-thin smile. “It’s a pleasure, Warchief. I still need to see it.”

  I sigh and rummage in my chest pocket. I stop. “Fuck me. Lucy, dear, did you grab the invitation?”

  “It has your name on it,” Deach-as-Lucy says. “Didn’t you bring it?”

  “I thought I did. Shit. It might be in the carriage.”

  I snap out my pick, talking into it. “Oka, could you bring the invitation? I’m fairly sure I left it.”

  The guard glances past the line to the extra-large carriage parking among the others. He holds up a hand. “Tell your driver to –”

  Oka dismounts the bench, hustling toward us. The carriage is halfway cocked across the road, blocking all traffic. He waves apologetically to everyone.

  The guard waves me back. “Could you step aside so we can move the line along?”

  “You’re asking the guest of honor to wait? With that haircut?” I ask, letting my voice drift in volume. I snort, glancing at the people behind us. One of them laughs. “Where’s your supervisor? I’ve gotta report a uniform violation.”

  The guard’s jaw squares. “My patience is –”

  I grasp a connection and scratch underneath my eye, then cross my arms. More people turn to look, pink flashing briefly across their eyes. I gesture at him. “Doing as much work as that mustache. The fuck boy career wasn’t working out for you, I see.”

  Deach-as-Lucy snorts a laugh, nearly breaking character. She steps back.

  People further down are craning to see. The guard bristles. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to –”

  I raise my voice. “You’re gonna ask the Warchief of the Byrian Fucking Isles to leave? Alright, here. Let me check again –” I rummage in my chest pocket. “This is where I keep my fucks, too. Actually… no, still not there.” I pull my hand out, flipping a middle finger. “Here’s the best I can do.”

  A drunken stakeholder two places back cackles. It’s infectious.

  Behind me, Deach-as-Lucy slips a slim piece of lead into the scanner.

  Oka pushes through the line, holding up the invitation. I point at him. “Folks, here’s the wonderful Oka Shiro to save the day.”

  I clap, and people join in. Somebody slantedly cheers.

  “Thank you, sir. Here you are.” I take the invitation and hand him a gold coin with a snap of my fingers and a flourish. “You wouldn’t happen to know any good hairdressers for our dear late-blooming corporal here?”

  He looks at the guard. “I reckon you’ll want to see Uppercuts over on Grand and Fifth.”

  The guest behind us speaks up. “I see Sumadera out of her apartment on East Terrace.”

  I point at her, turning back to the guard. “There you are. Two good options.”

  He glares at me. Oka returns through the crowd to wrangle the carriage. Other carriages are piling behind it a mile down the street. I snap out the folded invitation and hand it over. “Is this good enough for you?”

  The guard snatches the invitation, peering at it. He tosses it into a pile. He’s an inch away from blowing. He gestures toward the scanner, speaking through his jaw. “Please step through. Enjoy your evening.”

  I sleight a finger, and a piece of spinach appears in his teeth. I gesture on myself. “By the way, you’ve got a bit of…”

  That shuts him up. He sneaks a glance in a mirror, red-faced.

  Deach-as-Lucy and I shuffle through. The guards pause, peering at the screen. They consult each other, puzzled, but let us go. And we hustle toward the Grand Hall.

  We’re through the scanner. Thanks for the assist, Karla, I think to the group chat.

  Dungeon team, what’s your status? Deach-as-Lucy says in her usual masculine half-orc voice. It’s jarring.

  We’re through the kitchens and found the hatch, Genk says. Lucy and Jingles made a scene about the cheese, and Whiskey stole a fish to draw everyone off. They’re back with us in the pantry.

  Then Deach-as-Lucy and I step into the Grand Hall. I stop, looking up. We’re not in a Grand Hall. We’re on a longship. Across the calm pool in my mind, a ripple stirs.

  It’s a massive room, but gobs of magic are making it look like we’re under the stars. The faint sounds of creaking wood and waves drift beneath music from a Vasterholmian-garbed band in the corner. The walls aren't visible except where doors punctuate them, stretching into the dark ocean. A long path runs the length of the hall with rowing benches on either side, except they’re tables. A round mast sprouts from the center with a draping sail overhead. An empty stage in the form of an upper deck is on the other side of the hall. Hundreds of people in finery are sitting at tables or mingling. Workers thread through the crowd with trays of food and drinks. There’s a bar, lined with people.

  We were right about the theme, I think.

  The Isles? Lucy responds.

  They’re more turgid for our ships than Torm was to see me.

  A voice rings over the crowd, amplified magically. “Announcing the arrival of the guests of honor, Chouncey of Seven Oaks, Warchief of the Byrian Isles, and Lady Luciavir Mesura of the Byrian Council and Head of Urban Development.”

  Applause burbles. We both bow, and Deach-as-Lucy takes my arm, clinging lustfully.

  We wade toward the bar, flirting and meeting the riffraff as we wait in line. In front of us is a half-elf woman in a bright scarlet kimono. She’s wearing a string of pearls longer than she is tall, looped over several times. She’s noticeably wide-eyed when I introduce myself. “I can see where the budget went,” she says when I ask her thoughts on the party. She gestures overhead at the décor. “The drinks are rather cheap, though. They’re saying it’s Byrian Garnacha wine, but, honey, that’s nothing close. I have a crate at home better than that.”

  “You don’t say. What do you do?” I ask.

  “Oh, my husband is one of the best speculators on the market for adventurer hauls.” She gives what I can only explain as a wealthy laugh. “He’s quite successful. And believe me, we’re looking forward to seeing what adventurers the Byrian Isles can introduce into the mix.”

  Even the idea of speculating clenches my teeth. Genk, I think. What happens to the loot if you die in a dungeon while you’re on a Guild gig?

  It depends on who else is alive.

  If you all die, does it go to the Guild? I ask.

  Yep. If anyone else is left, it goes to them.

  I pause. Does the Guild make sure your cut goes to your family?

  Deach-as-Lucy catches my eye. She shakes her head.

  My throat's itching for drink. These people’s riches are built on the blood of dead adventurers like Boris, and we’ve only just started. I turn back to the half-elf, putting an easy smile back in place. “And what do you do with all your time then?”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “I collect art. It’s just a little side investment for fun money. Buyers are always looking for assets.”

  “Do you have a favorite piece?”

  “Oh, I don’t see them in person. I have someone take care of it.”

  I feel sick.

  “By the way, are you married?” she asks. She gives me a coy smile. “I won’t believe someone like you isn’t spoken for.”

  “My lovely wife’s all the way back in Carthesia. Lady Arriel Ronchellard,” I say.

  She pauses. “Isn’t she married to Lady Brivari Ronchellard?”

  “We had the ceremony in Torgal. They practice that sort of thing there.”

  Her brows go up. Arriel’s got the sudden itch to smack me, wherever she is.

  A worker appears with a tray of appetizers – glistening pork ribs on the bone with small cups of sauce. It’s far too rich for the Isles' taste. The most you get is extra salt on the side on special occasions. When Irminric’s around, you might even get a bloody eye to rub it in. “Sir, can I offer you anything?”

  I give a charming smile. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t eat meat. What else have you got?”

  “Oh. My apologies – I can return with something else –”

  “I’d love one,” Deach-as-Lucy cuts in. She reaches with her sapling fingers, making a show of picking one.

  Behind my back, I snap my fingers.

  The half-elf also takes one. “I haven’t tried these yet. How are they?” She takes a bite, then pauses. “Hmm. Rather… bland.”

  The worker leaves. “On the Isles, if you try to pass that off for a feast, you become the entertainment,” I say, leaning in to the half-elf. “Bad news for Kanon."

  The half-elf gives a conspiratorial chuckle. “How disappointing. The Warchief turns down meat? Color me surprised.”

  I keep a smile carved onto my lips. “Not that kind, at least. It’s a medical thing. They didn’t run a menu past me.”

  She looks at me, blinking. “Oh, gods. They didn’t? Did they?”

  She leans to the dragonkin beside her, explaining. It spreads like wildfire.

  We grab drinks, and I’ve had better whiskey from a pisspot. We mingle, repeating our act. Deach-as-Lucy distracts and rants about the appetizers while I magic it into tasting like Sister Mary’s best. A worker brings me to the expo area just outside the kitchen, where trays of appetizers await. Deach-as-Lucy makes me a public martyr to the workers while I snap over every tray. More workers bring nearly full trays back to the kitchen, indistinct conversation drifting in wisps. I think I hear shouting, too. I finally leave with my own tray of unsnapped seasoned cheese-and-potato bites on sticks that look like little oars. They’re admittedly exceptional. Another guest asks where I got them, and I explain the whole situation, colossal fuck-up on the Guild’s part and all.

  After more mingling, we’re first through the buffet. Deach-as-Lucy picks over everything, reminiscing about how the food was better two years ago, when it was Byra-themed. Lucy feeds her what she remembers of the menu in real time. I subtly snap over everything, scraping something together that doesn’t feature a slab of roasted meat. Seeing me avoiding it, others do as well.

  The red-kimono half-elf introduces more of her friends, all of them wealthy sacks at the bottom of a shithole. I flirt and play along, laying on the charm so thick they’re swimming in it. We’ve got a veritable horde of hangers-on scrambling for conversation – or even just a glimpse. They’re enamored with the Warchief of the Byrian Isles being a bard, saying nothing of him also being a slave. As they prod about my marital status, I scrape my lower intestine, retrieving an entire years-long relationship with Arriel from my ass. I talk at length about the long-standing cultural history of polygamy in Torgal, and they devour it quicker than the buffet line for seconds. I’ve got a feeling offers are incoming.

  I dive headfirst into the gossip, sowing everything Kanon told me far and wide – Ichiro spending more time in whores than in his office, Holly tossing in the Bellenstein Dynasty’s coffers, and even Felicia’s aspiring career as a romance author. I throw in a few of my own invention, too – Kanon losing tens of thousands of gold trying to undercut the lemon trade in Ammon, and Vincent vanishing for a messy court battle with hush money and a bastard child. The stakeholders go rabid.

  Update? Deach-as-Lucy asks in the chat after we’ve eaten. She’s so damned convincing that, except for the times that key chimes in my head, I almost forget she’s Deach.

  We’re in the dungeon, Lucy replies. It’s dark and definitely suitable for a vampire.

  Have you seen any yet? I ask.

  Nothing, Jingles squawks.

  Smells bad here, comes Whiskey’s small voice.

  Deach-as-Lucy nearly drops her wine.

  “I told you,” I hiss. “I’m not crazy. They can talk.”

  “Well, they still won’t –”

  “Warchief.”

  I turn at a new voice, a velvety tenor. A tall, lithe high-elf approaches. Our hangers-on part for him, some vacating at his presence. He’s wearing a crisp black shirt and hakama, along with a rich red ascot. He’s got immaculate bone structure, even for a high elf. His long hair is deep blond, and there’s a certain paleness to his skin, despite the dim warm lighting overhead. His eyes are too perfectly blue.

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  “And…” he pauses, then gives a short bow. “Lady Mesura.”

  Deach-as-Lucy goes rigid beside me.

  The elf turns back. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Minister Vincent Dupuy of Internal Affairs. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Of course,” I say, gesturing with my drink. “I’ve heard so much about you. To my great disappointment, I’ve seen less.”

  He gives an easy smile that doesn’t part his lips. His words are measured, like he’s lingering over them. “I’ve been working with the Chairman to bring the Guild into the next phase of development, as I’m sure you’ll no doubt be part of. International expansion on a redoubled scale.”

  I tilt my head. “Wouldn’t that fall under external affairs?”

  “Holly has been handling her side of things. But we’ll need only the best people to oversee these changes.” He turns to Deach-as-Lucy. “And what is the latest on Byra’s discussions of these sorts?”

  She carves a smile on her face. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the Council’s business at the moment. I’m here to enjoy the Gala.”

  He gives a hollow laugh. “Well, pardon me. I have a nasty habit of discussing work outside of working hours. I’ll leave you both to enjoy the evening. I simply thought it rude that you’ve both been in Shirano, but we haven’t yet met. Please accept my apologies.”

  “There’s none needed,” I say. “I appreciate you stopping by. I hope we’ll see more of you before we head back to the Isles.”

  His lingering voice wrings a shiver from my spine. “I’m certain you will.”

  He brushes into the crowd and vanishes.

  Shit, Jingles! It’s Lucy.

  I’m okay.

  Watch out! Genk says. Stay back.

  There’s a pause. The floor rumbles slightly.

  What’s going on? I ask.

  Spawn. Only a few, Lucy says. Shit!... Okay, we’re okay.

  There’s one! It’s Jingles.

  There’s a pause.

  Wilderkeeper's tits, Lucy breathes.

  Got it, Whiskey says.

  Chouncey, good call on sending Whiskey, Lucy says.

  That’s good to hear, I think. I glance at Deach-as-Lucy. She’s catatonic. There’s a new problem. Vincent’s a leech, too. We just met him.

  That’s two, then, Karla interjects.

  My mouth is dry. Someone made those spawn you just killed. We can’t be sure who. But now they'll know you’re there. Stay alert.

  I easily slip a hand around Deach-as-Lucy’s waist and lead her through a door along the wall. I find a hallway with a few workers. We go the opposite direction, finding a small alcove.

  “Are you alright?” I ask. We speak in fey in hushed tones.

  “I’m okay." She puts her slender hands over her face. "We have to stick to the plan.”

  “Was he like that before?”

  “No. They turned him since then. I just… fuck. I can’t…”

  I touch her face. It’s slightly textured, like tree bark. It’s also slightly damp. She leans into my hand.

  Footsteps come behind us. I kiss her, pushing her into the corner of the alcove. She gives a surprised gasp but rolls with it, clutching me. She hooks a leg around my hip, giving a convincing moan for good measure.

  “Oh, gods… um… sorry.”

  I turn. A worker’s standing there, red-faced. “Do you mind?”

  He shuffles away. We continue until he’s gone. Then I pull away. She puts herself back together, smoothing my hair. “Okay, thank you,” she whispers. I'm not sure what she's thanking me for. She breathes. “I’ll keep it together. I’m going to keep an eye on him. Stay in contact.”

  I don't have time to ask if she's really alright. She shifts into a halfling man in a worker’s uniform, scurrying down the hall. I head back into the Grand Hall, stopping for another drink.

  Karla, how are things? I ask as I thread through the crowd. It’s becoming difficult to go anywhere without people wanting to chat. Every rumor I’ve sown has sprouted unexpected fruits ten times over.

  No issues here. It’s quiet.

  Good. Oka?

  Same here, comes Oka’s drawl. We’re ready to go whenever you need.

  The band is doing a passable rendition of “Byra the Bastard.” It’s instrumental and likely to be as raunchy as they get.

  Odegaard, you’d hate it here, I think, watching a moment. They’re trying to pass off pickled herring without a scrap of bread in sight.

  What the fuck?

  I catch a splash of color and spot Sigert, the Head of Players. He’s a shimmering, scaled maridon dressed in what I can only describe as the progeny of the Wilderkeeper and an oyster. I try describing it to a rapt Karla, who begs me to show her an illusion later. I pause when I spot a familiar figure seated at a table.

  They’re wearing a pinstriped suit with a silken wine-colored ascot, their long hair gathered at the nape of their neck. I approach.

  “Talmadge.”

  They turn from conversation with a half-elf and a catfolk. They smile. “I wondered when I might see you again. Please, sit. Welcome to Shirano, although I may be late in that.”

  I sit beside their wheelchair. “Certainly not. How’s Iwakotan?”

  “I was just discussing that. I’m certain you’ve met Minister Miyake, my superior.”

  They gesture to the half-elf across from them. He has coppery brown, coiffed hair and light gray eyes. His skin’s immaculate, although it’s got a grayish cast in the light. He’s wearing a suit of exquisite make, tailored tight over a surprising amount of lean muscle. His ascot is burnt orange, and around one finger is a plain, brass ring.

  The pure white catfolk nestled beside him gives me a sly wink. Rus.

  “Actually, I’ve not,” I say. I turn to Ichiro. “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, and what a pleasure it is. Talmadge and I met a few months ago while I was traveling through Iwakotan. They’ve had nothing but good things to say.”

  Ichiro has an almost boyish voice. “I’ll take that into consideration for their next performance review, which is excellent as always. I’m glad to meet face-to-face.”

  “I’m told you’re responsible for all things construction. I must say, what a beautiful building.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t take praise for this one. But much of the rest of Shirano? Absolutely. What’s life without a little beauty?”

  “That’s truth if I’ve ever heard it." I glance around. "It's too terribly bad my Lady Lucy's not around at the moment. She's got her own share of urban development experience. You know all the city’s secrets, then?”

  He laughs, the faintest glimpse of a too-sharp incisor peeking from behind his lips. “Only slightly better than my own. No, you’ll find Shirano to be quite transparent in the right lighting.”

  I lean back and drape an arm over the chair beside me. I swirl my drink. Ichiro’s piercing eyes watch me, appraising – even lingering on my neck, if I didn’t know any better. There’s something alluring about him. Unlike Felicia, he seems too comfortable in his body.

  “That project we discussed came along perfectly,” Talmadge tells me. “I thought you might appreciate an update.”

  The new house for Evelyn and the rest of the slaves. I raise my glass. “I deeply appreciate you taking care of that. You’ve done me a great personal favor – one I hope to repay.”

  Ichiro becomes attentive at that. A chime sounds in my head.

  A worker suddenly appears — a dark-elf woman with midnight-violet skin speaking in a perfect throaty accent you might find around the Bellenstein Dynasty. “May I clear some of this for you?” She gestures to the empty glasses and plates scattered between Ichiro and Talmadge. They nod, and she begins piling them onto a tray.

  You know Talmadge? Deach asks.

  Quite well. They’ve still got feeling in their hips.

  The dark elf woman gives the slightest smile.

  Ichiro’s a definite yes, I think. I can almost hear the sound of Karla scribbling down notes. So that’s three. I’m not sure if Talmadge knows.

  Could they be an ally? Deach asks.

  I know they are. They’re the one who told me about you. We should get them involved.

  Later, at least, she says. Masato is at the bar, by the way.

  I hand her my glass of half-watered whiskey. “I’m all set with this, too. It’s not that good.”

  “It’s been a little… disappointing tonight, hasn’t it?” Talmadge says. “That pork was completely unseasoned.”

  I stand, putting a hand on Talmadge’s shoulder. Ichiro watches me. “Well, here’s hoping next year is better. It’s been wonderful chatting – I’m gonna try for something halfway decent at the bar.”

  They wave their goodbyes, and I can't shake the feeling of Ichiro watching as I go.

  The line at the bar has shortened significantly. A couple workers are having a terse conversation behind it. Masato sits at a stool nursing a mug of ale. He’s wearing a deep indigo hakama and shirt, his silvery hair tied back at the temples. A purple cloak spills to the floor, fastened with a Guild insignia pin.

  And next to him is Richard.

  “What a pleasant surprise finding you here, Dickcheese,” I say as I lean against the bar. Masato chokes on his drink.

  Richard’s wearing his silvered lamellar armor, his honey hair glistening blindingly in the low light. He’s apparently allowed a weapon, and his longsword gleams at his hip. He looks like he’s figuring out whether to trust a fart. He straightens up. “Warchief. Please, call me Richard.”

  The slight blankness in his eyes is still there. “Is your lovely mother around?”

  “We were just discussing that,” Masato cuts in. He sips some mediocre saison. “I don’t believe Minister Obara will be joining us, either.”

  I laugh. I hold up two fingers. “I’ve got two guesses what they’re up to. Or maybe two more.” I hold up another two fingers, forking them together –

  Richard leaves.

  Masato watches him go. Then, he turns to me. “Thank you. I can’t stand these affairs.”

  He looks a bit pickled already. I order a couple shots of whiskey. I thrash one back, then tip the other into his ale. “We call that a Byrian Bastard. It’ll help.”

  He sips it, nodding. I casually take a seat beside him. “I trust you have something in the works?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m not sure what you could possibly mean.”

  He grunts. “Whatever happens, make sure it happens tonight. I can’t guarantee what tomorrow will bring.”

  My spine prickles. I smile, making it look like we're having a decent chat. “That’s lovely advice for anyone.”

  He leans in, lowering his voice. “Felicia is facing pressure to step away, and there have been whispers of me taking up her position, and Richard mine. I think both of us will be turned, and soon.”

  “Can you get out of here?”

  “Not without suspicion. And I would leave the justicars open to direct influence.”

  I nod. “Keep holding the line, then –”

  Chouncey, are you somewhere safe? It’s Lucy.

  I’m at the bar, if that counts, I reply.

  There’s a pause. Her voice comes through a bit more pointed. Are you somewhere safe?

  My guts stir. I turn back to Masato. “Pardon me. I’ve gotta take a call.”

  “Of course,” he says. He raises his mug. “Give your team my best.”

  I’m headed to the hallway, I think as I push through the crowd, smiling and chatting. It seems to be getting denser, or maybe more liquored up.

  I’m on my way, too, Deach says.

  “Warchief.”

  A new voice seeps into my bones. Somehow, I know who it is before I turn.

  A middle-aged human approaches, flanked by a couple justicars. He’s wearing a pristine black shirt and hakama, leaning on a cane with a polished silver ball on the end. A square-shouldered black surcoat is clasped over his outfit. His dark hair is beginning to gray at the temples, perfectly parted and slicked. Threads of gray lace his short beard, too. His eyes are deep hazel and lined with a few tasteful creases. He somehow looks aged and not aged at all.

  Carolus offers a hand, drawing closer as people converse and mingle around us. He smiles, nothing but confidence in the crease of his handsome cheeks. “The man of the hour. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. I’m sorry it’s taken this long.”

  “Chairman,” I say with my best smile. I take his hand. It’s warm. On his forefinger is a black ring giving off a magical wisp. It’s almost like a feeling of darkness. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to get me here. I’m sure Irminric was never up to the task. He’d have threatened to drink from no fewer than three skulls already.”

  He laughs. It's effortless – he’s a silver fox if I’ve ever met one. I relax. “I considered inviting him many times, although the blood would be so terribly difficult to clean.”

  “The most I’ll be spilling tonight is some drinks.”

  “As you deserve,” he says. He leans on his cane. His voice is a woolen baritone. “You might be intrigued to know Irminric was one of our adventurers in his younger years.”

  “You don’t say?” It’s news to me that he didn’t spring from the searing rings of hell, fully-formed.

  “I believe that’s where he acquired his exquisite greatsword, though my father was Chairman at the time, so I’m uncertain. Irminric tended to get ahead of his station, thinking he had us wrapped around his claw, buying his magnificent ships. We would’ve replaced him soon enough. So, thank you for saving us no small effort.”

  His words sink in. My blood rushes. I’m gonna say something stupid. “Setting all those slaves free was gonna be part of that effort, obviously.”

  Something changes about his voice, like it's a practiced blurb. “Of course. The Guild does not – and never has – condoned slavery. We’re believers in dignified, paid work for all who are willing.”

  “And those who aren’t?”

  He smiles. “We call them thieves, rogues, and scoundrels, and they exist anywhere you go.”

  Incidentally, one of them's standing right in front of me.

  He continues. “But I’m interested in your opinion. I can only imagine what a perspective you could offer us.”

  “Well, coming from someone investing in the arts, yours could use some improvement,” I say. “I spent time with the Players’ Guild the other day, and it leaves a bit to be desired, although I see the point. The fewer artists you’ve got, the less people get ideas about things.”

  His bearded lips quirk. “I disagree. Even Irminric saw the value in having an artist at hand.”

  I clench a fist, itching to put it on his face. I glance at the justicars behind him. I smile. “I think he changed his mind in his last moments.”

  Carolus gives an amused chuckle. “I heard it was spectacular, although it drastically upset our markets. Our stakeholders don’t appreciate a good death like the Byrian Isles do.”

  I keep myself together. “We don’t appreciate them as much anymore, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “Everyone has. Turning fighting pits into performance arenas. What an exquisite way use your resources – you have the makings of someone the Guild can truly do business with. Irminric was a shrewd businessman, but he lacked a certain… creativity. It’s rare to find someone of your background so able to put forward big ideas rather than focus on… other things.”

  The implication sets my nerves off. His eyes are locked on me rather than noticing anything else going on around us. It’s hard looking away.

  “I’m sure this is the start of something lovely, then,” I say.

  Chouncey, where are you? It’s Deach.

  I’m caught up. Just a moment.

  “That’s my hope,” Carolus says, his liquid voice lowering. He leans in. We’re similar in height, but I feel like I’m being loomed over. It’s hard not to step back. “Although from what I’ve heard, you contain multitudes. The church of Iros has much to say about someone of your name. When I pictured a Champion of the Dawn Lord, I had a different image in mind.”

  A shiver pours over me. My blood’s quickening. I raise a brow. “You follow him?”

  “Gods have their uses. But, I’ve never been one to pray.” He pauses. He inches closer. He’s nearly at my ear. “Perhaps you should pray to your Dawn Lord for protection. Or, better yet, cease whatever you’re doing, meddling in the Guild’s affairs. Should you continue down this path, Irminric will be the least of your problems. Deachrome will return to petrification for eternity, and I’ll chain you in my deepest, darkest cellar for the rest of your days. And you’ll never see light again.”

  Voices in my head fade into the familiar sound of rippling, churning water.

  What’s going on? Where are you?

  Chouncey, please. We need to talk, and soon. It’s very important.

  Deach, is he okay?

  My breath leaves me. I’m shaking. An old, terrible feeling explodes upward from the calm pool of my mind, bursting past the seal. Rushing, black water against cutting cliffs. The heaviness of chains and the churning deck of a longship. The smell of sour acid and blood, ale and musty wood. It might as well be a hulking black dragonkin before me. But this is something far worse.

  I’m sweating. I keep myself together, like gripping the edge of an endless cliff by my fingernails. I have to get out, and right now. Worse than the feeling of meeting Felicia and realizing I was alone in a room with a vampire is what’s raking through me right now, freezing my blood.

  I need a moment, I think.

  I told you to stay in contact. What’s happening? It’s Deach.

  “I’m not sure where you got that idea,” I say, keeping an easy smile in place. “Your Ministry’s been nothing but accommodating. But regardless, it’s poor form to make threats at a party. That’s not the start of a good business relationship.”

  He smiles. It’s predatory. “We’ll have our ships, one way or another, Warchief. I look forward to speaking more, perhaps tomorrow after you’ve shaken off the evening. I’ll send my people to get in touch.”

  My mouth’s dry. “Sure. It’s been lovely chatting with you, but I’ve gotta find a washroom and Lady Mesura. She might already be there waiting for me.”

  His composure shifts. Something like a sense of darkness lifts, and the space around us seems brighter. He passes a knowing look, relaxed and mischievous. “Enjoy.”

  I find myself looking at the black ring on his finger. “The light be with you.”

  “And may the darkness find you wanting.”

  Then he all but vanishes into the crowd in a puff of smoke.

  Chouncey! Deach is think-yelling at me now. I swallow. It cracks my throat.

  I push through bodies toward the hallway where I last encountered Deach-as-Lucy. The illusory creaking of the ship and the sound of ocean winds tear through me. I can't stay here. I should leave. I could be back at the penthouse to grab my things and gone before anyone knows better. I barge through the door into the hallway and turn. Deach-as-Lucy is waiting at the alcove. She straightens. “What the hells –”

  Everything hits at once. I’m gonna start screaming. If we fail, I’m gonna be right back where I started - or even worse. I desperately need a drink or five. I need Arriel. “I need a second,” I say, switching to fey. I tuck myself into the alcove, like it’s enough to protect me right now. I’m drenched in sweat.

  “No – I told you to stay in contact!” she snaps. “You can’t just –”

  “Fuck off!” My voice splits. I take a deep, deep swig from my flask. I lean against my knees. I should go to the bar and make it bearable.

  She pauses, stepping back. “Are you okay?”

  I laugh. I sound insane. I shake my head. My face is wet. My throat constricts around words. I can only hear roaring in my head. The crashing of waves. The endlessness of an utter lack of light.

  What’s going on? Lucy asks. Chouncey, we need to –

  Deach-as-Lucy cuts in. Hang on. He’s –

  I need this damned chat out of my head. Would everyone kindly shut the fuck up for a moment? I shout in my head. My legs are weak. I’m shivering and overheating at the same time. My chest comes in heaves.

  A different voice rings in my head. You’ll never see light again.

  I shut my eyes against the hallway. But it’s only darkness like the deepest, coldest depths of the ocean, the despair of a lonely cellar. Movement comes toward me. It's a black claw. I cower from it.

  But it’s only Deach-as-Lucy. She hugs me.

  It’s hesitant, like reaching for a cornered animal. She puts her willowy arms around my neck, pulling me close. We tuck into the alcove, into the quietness, almost completely hidden. I’m shuddering, but she holds me. Despite her many forms, Deach can only look muscular. She’s actually terribly weak. But her quaint strength squeezes me. I squeeze her back, and if it’s too much, she doesn’t say it.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers in a breath of citrus and pine wood. “We’re here.”

  Light flickers behind my eyes. After a few moments, the crashing waves calm to a lapping ripple. The picture of the pink sunset returns, disturbed and wavering. The seal settles back over it all.

  He’s alright, Deach-as-Lucy says to the chat. I’m with him. Things got spicy.

  Chouncey, we have to talk. It’s Lucy.

  Go on, then. How much worse can this get?

  She pauses for a moment. There are... people down here. They’re chained up. Their… their senses are missing. It looks like they were using them for… blood.

  My stomach churns. That’s what Carolus meant. That’ll be me if we fuck this up. Maybe all of us.

  Her voice quiets. Chouncey… some of them have brands.

  It takes a moment to realize what she said. Brands like mine. Brands like Evelyn's. Brands like the ones Irminric put on all his slaves. My guts sour. Some of them ended up here. Some of them ended up in Carolus’s dungeon. Some of them ended up blood slaves to a cabal of vampires.

  Deach-as-Lucy’s still touching me, wedged into the alcove, face-to-face. She’s got a hand on the back of my neck, absently stroking it. I can only stare at the wall. My ankle itches maddeningly.

  I’m going to save them, Lucy says. Her voice wavers. I’m going to do that for you. I couldn’t do anything back then, but I can do something now.

  Thank you.

  Where should we bring them?

  I rub my eyes, trying to snatch thoughts out of the wind. The church of Iros. They’ll be safe, and they can get healing there. Better than what I can offer. Tell them I sent you.

  I’ll be ready to head there, Karla says.

  We found Felicia, too, Genk says. She’s in her coffin. Give us the word, and we’ll make her dust.

  No! I think quickly, coldness gripping me. Everything falls together. It’s Carolus. He’s the vampire lord.

  Stunned silence falls over the chat.

  I just met him, I continue. He knows something’s going on.

  Deach-as-Lucy pulls away, looking at me. Her eyes are wide with implication.

  He’ll know as soon as we kill her and fly down there. You don’t want to be stuck with him.

  Deach-as-Lucy releases me, leaning against the wall in the alcove. She puts a hand over her face. Fuck. The plan is fucked. We can’t kill her. Not until we know more about Carolus. Let’s abort and meet back at the penthouse.

  We’ve gotta do something now, I think back.

  We’re in the middle of the Gala. We can’t just pull something out of our asses! Deach-as-Lucy snaps back. She pushes off the wall, pacing.

  I cross my arms snugly. We won’t get a better opportunity than this. Felicia's slumbering, and we can get the jump on her. We absolutely can. We pivot, I think.

  Deach-as-Lucy cuts in. Her brows pull together. Again, this is the GALA. Now is not the time to wing it. We can’t fight our way out of here, and neither can the dungeon group. We need to leave with our lives and figure out something else. We'll come up with a better solution.

  That’s always a reason why it’s not the right time. Ask me how I know. We do it imperfectly, but we do it. A plan whirls in my head. I look at Deach-as-Lucy. I can keep everyone in their seats, no fighting needed.

  Great, Lucy says. If you can give us twenty minutes, we’ll make it count.

  No, that’s –

  I step over Deach-as-Lucy. I can give you a few hours. I just need ten minutes to set up. I’ll give word.

  Deach-as-Lucy’s eyes narrow. What are you planning?

  I’ll give them a real taste of the Isles. I’ll need your help. Keep the doors closed. And keep an eye on Carolus. Don’t let him leave.

  She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. Okay. We’ll do it your way.

  She becomes inky and turns into a hulking orc in Guild armor. I breathe, rubbing my face and slapping myself back together. She stops me when I turn to leave. She hesitates, then kisses me. It lingers. I push out the door and into the Grand Hall again.

  I find the band.

  I chat for a few minutes, handing over a thousand gold and a promise of a spot at Drowning Man next year. One of them lets me try their piano. I flutter a few quick chords, grasping a ley line and shaping an illusion over the stage. It’s empty for now, like it’s not even there.

  I grab a drink and find the stage entrance. A guard’s standing in front of it – a birdfolk like a reddish falcon. She closes me off. “I’m sorry, Warchief. I can’t let you up here.”

  I gesture over my shoulder. “The Head of Players thought it might be nice for me to do a toast.” I can hear him singing even here.

  She pauses. “Can I see your Player’s License?”

  I tug it from a pocket and hand it to her. A moment later, I step onto the stage.

  The band ends their song. People at the base of the stage quiet. It flows outward, voices hushing. Necks crane, searching. Focusing on the afterimage of the ley lines, I magically project my voice. “If I could direct your attentions up here,” I say, rubbing underneath my eye and teasing a ley line connection. Nearly every head in the Grand Hall turns, a wave of pink eyes flashing. Silence falls. I hold up my glass. “What a night. I’d like to personally thank you for coming here for another exceptional Guild Gala. It means much to me to see everyone so thoroughly celebrating the Byrian Isles and everything we hold dear.”

  Polite applause ripples.

  “If we didn’t meet at the bar, I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, the Warchief of the Isles.” Some laughs burble through. “The Isles are a lot of things, but there’s a lot of things they’re not. I’ll be the first to admit it. But it’s my sincere hope the Guild can help us drive change. I know that’s what you’re all about – a better future and, frankly, profuse amounts of gold in your pockets. That’s one of the many things I can get behind.”

  More laughter comes through.

  “The Isles aren’t known for their arts and literature, but we are known for one thing. Well, several things, but those aren’t polite dinner conversation.” More laughs. I pause, letting them work it out. I smile. “Our scops have preserved stories and legends for generations, some of them more famous than others.” I put a hand on my chest. “I’ve played my own part in keeping art alive in the minds of people around the world. So tonight, I thought we’d celebrate that. Thorhild and the Titan is one of Vasterholm’s most time-honored traditions, and the Head of Players did me the great honor of performing a bit of it. It’s a tale about daring to make the change we thought wasn’t possible because that’s the way it’s always been. It’s pretty fucking fitting for a feast of this magnitude.” Applause kicks up proper. A few people cheer, seeing what I’m getting at. I gesture with my drink. “You’ll not find a better place and time to experience this tale than right here by the Warchief of the Byrian Isles himself.”

  What the fuck are you doing, Chouncey. It’s Deach, sounding profoundly tired.

  I only smile. I snap my fingers, and the lights dim. Carolus can’t leave without snubbing me in front of his stakeholders. I spot him near the base of the stage, seated at a table. He’s leaning a hand against his cane, his narrowed eyes locked on me.

  I raise my glass and step back. My illusion swallows me, summoning crashing, foaming waves on a rocky island cliffside, smelling of salty spray and soil. Gulls cry overhead, circling. Wind breezes past. Slow, atmospheric music drifts. It blends seamlessly into the illusory longship around us, all the way to the feet of the people sitting closest. Some of them jump and scramble backward. Raucous cheers and gasps go up. Aggressive hushes split it. I thrash back the rest of my drink and step forward, becoming visible again.

  When the world was a grain of earth-gray sand, a Titan stood tall.

  Its feet were the tread of mountains, its breath the brush of clouds.

  Its three steps left isles of wind and water, of blood and stone.

  Its name can be found in no living breath –

  Lost to the inky darkness before the round world knew the embrace of sound.

  My illusion shifts, revealing a leviathan figure of stone traipsing broken landscapes and early volcanic ruin, darkness and starlight overhead.

  Go, Lucy, I think. The light be with you.

  Okay. Genk, lift the lid. I’ll get ready to stake. Jingles, get Whiskey in position.

  Moments pass. I continue. It flows from me like rote muscle movement. It’ll be hours before I can leave. But they’ll be long gone before Carolus can investigate what happened.

  It was spoke that no mortal could kill it

  Or bring it low, even for the deep-dark ocean to brush its knees,

  For to do so would shatter the earth entire.

  But the daughter of Einar, Thorhild of Jor, was to be remembered eternal,

  Her name in the breath of every living thing

  As the Titan-slayer, the change-bringer, the liberator, the darer of better worlds –

  A champion of gods and people.

  Everyone ready?

  Ready.

  Ready.

  Ready.

  One, two… three.

  Carolus twitches. His gaze flicks from the stage briefly, then returns. His eyes narrow on me. I spot a worker drifting through the crowd, a tray of empty glasses in hand, glancing at Carolus. Vincent is seated beside him.

  I step back. My illusion shifts, a young maridon woman with a shaved braid coming into picture. She’s wearing fur and chainmail and baggy, leg-wrapped pants, a shield slung across her cloaked back. She peers heroically over the rocky shore, leaning on her spear, wind whipping about her. Someone drunkenly cheers from the back.

  We got her.

  Get out of there, I think between stanzas. Bring the slaves with you.

  Already on it, boss, Genk says.

  I killed her, Whiskey says with surprising bloodthirst. I turned her into litter.

  They shit in her coffin, Jingles says.

  It’s a feat of strength not to laugh. Hallgrim, Warlord of – fuck me. You’re gonna mess me up here.

  Sven cuts in. Wait, are you doing Thorhild? Son of a bitch. I wanted to see.

  I continue, harnessing my illusion and stepping in and out of it, letting the characters act while I narrate. I’ve gotta save stamina, doing this off the cuff. The dungeon team exits, giving live updates, and Karla extracts them in the sky skiff. They report when they reach the church of Iros, delivering the blood slaves. All the while, Carolus sits and watches, an odd mix of enraptured and annoyed. I’m not the least bit sure what entertainment they had planned. But to the stakeholders, this was part of the surprise. They devour it. Nobody stops me.

  It's a grueling four hours. I draw it out, but nobody minds. Deach reports while meandering as a worker, quietly bringing food and drinks to keep people in their seats. He occasionally slips in as an attendant, shushing talkers. Or he’s an usher quietly directing them to the washrooms, making sure they stay quiet. Or he’s Lucy, eavesdropping on stakeholders. Finally, a chime dings in my head when the guard at the stage entrance changes over.

  My illusion rattles the Grand Hall when the Titan falls, Thorhild sobbing beside a dead Hallgrim, gut-wrenching music flowing like liquid. There’s exactly two dry eyes in the house, and they’re both in Carolus’ head. But I wrap it up, and my illusion dissipates. I bow deeply to thunderous, standing applause.

  And like a glimpse of dawn, a wisp of light draws me closer to the humming fifth ley line.

  I get a special concession for Sven to help me hobble out. I’m dead on my feet. People mob me with praise and congratulations, but Deach-as-Lucy scatters them. Oka forces the carriage up to the entrance, and I stumble onto a padded bench, not moving except to slug from my flask until we get back to the Cherry Blossom Resort. Genk carries me up. I can barely talk.

  Everyone claps when I shuffle into the penthouse.

  “Let's chat in the morning,” I rasp.

  “We’ll keep an eye out tonight,” Sven says. “Get your rest.”

  Deach, now in his half-orc form, helps me undress, and I flop into bed. I’m starting to shake again. I can’t hold it together any longer. The ripples on the calm pool of my mind are getting higher. I shut my eyes, but all I can see is darkness.

  You’ll never see light again.

  I’m gonna scream. I’m slicked in sweat. The lights go out. After a few moments, a weight disturbs the bed. Mossy-green arms wrap tightly around me, nestling against my back. Then, there’s the nudging of a furry head against my hand, a weight settling on my legs.

  And I crash asleep, dreaming of red eyes.

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