KNITE:

  The night was quiet. Dark. Cold. It knew nothing of the hot-blooded violence brimming beneath the toughened exteriors of my followers.

  The cache of slaves Lira and Polerma had sent slumbered, their wrapped bodies stacked within a succession of horse-drawn carts. A squadron of excessively armored men and women headed by a Seculor marched beside the plodding procession toward Junko, a free city half a day’s ride from Frelkri. Their path wound between gentle slopes of drab meadows sparsely dotted with thickets, early spring winds making waves of the pale fields of grass.

  My people and I stood behind a Painting on the crescent of a far-off hill, a patchwork of leather and steel and deadly intent thrumming with eager anticipation. I had crafted their uniforms anew, reimagined iterations of those I had made the days before we took to war those many cycles ago. Except for Helena, that is. She’d been but a child back then, and the leathers I’d fashioned for her from the black pelt of a large, evolved feline from the plains of Af’titala were the first of its kind.

  Kip stomped to my side, chipper in that maddening way he was—smile indulgent, eyes dead. “Will the exchange be in Junko?”

  I looked over in the direction of the free city, seeing nothing but the tip of its glow in the distance. “Yes.”

  “Surely they’ll try to catch them in the act.”

  “The Annanas will. They have no need of slaves.”

  “Then what is their aim?”

  “The Scorpions are fanatically covert about their acquisition of slaves, and for good reason. Not only is it outlawed, but Grono does not care for the practice. Indentured servitude? Sure. But speak to him of slavery, and he’ll expound on virtues he’s stolen from our father.” A soft growl rumbled in the back of my throat despite myself. “For reasons unbeknownst to me, he thinks oppressing a man with starvation and dressing it in pretty verbiage is far more acceptable than simply chaining a man with tethers of bondage. It is a curse of irony that hypocrisy runs so deep among the children of a man as integrated as Merkusian.”

  “I thought Grono was in favor of all trade,” Kip said.

  “He’s in favor of wealth trickling into Evergreen. Given our empire’s reluctance to export slaves, the abundance of conquered persons on subjugated lands, and our disregard for the slaves' longevity, the market for human souls does little of that.”

  “What about Silas?”

  “He is too carefree to care.”

  “And The Annanas?”

  “They’re here to attain evidence for a tribunal.”

  “What of The Hoard? Will they be waiting in Junko?”

  “Perhaps.” A half-truth. It seemed my every utterance was just that these days: a manipulation of perception. There was a time I’d been more honest, where my promise to Merkusian inspired me to trust. That trust suffered a grave wound when he died, then perished the day I’d been betrayed. Seldom did I spare a moment in remembrance, and so deep and dark was its grave that I doubted anything or anyone had the power to resurrect it.

  “Intercepting one shipment is rather shortsighted,” Kip said. “Did you not say this Linton fellow is a clever sort?”

  “Compared to most. But like most clever men, he has an inflated sense of self.”

  “Then he’ll wait until they catch sight of whoever arranged the delivery, won't he? I’d think his best option is to finagle The Scorpion’s new source.”

  “Probable, but not certain,” I said. Another half-truth. “Linton might aim to trap me under his service. He may think I am worth more than whoever he’d find at the exchange, not least because I might lead him to them regardless.” Yet more half-truths. I was confident Linton would appear. Why? Well, because I am a molder of emotions, and his had been set to loath me. Much as a kindly father is cursed with unruly children who butcher his teachings into a mindless chimera of discord, it is a clever man’s curse to feed his pride into a gluttonous beast of arrogance.

  “But—”

  “Kip,” I said, “leave the thinking to me. I’m better suited to scheming.” The hypocrisy was not lost on me. I was, after all, a child of a kindly father. I still was.

  “I just—”

  “I am well aware of why you are questioning me. Whatever happens, your hammer will crush godlings this night.”

  I glanced back at him, then beyond and towards the others. Pride swelled in me for what I had so far reclaimed. They were a sight to behold: Helena in layers of black, tall and graceful, the sharpness of her presence animating her status as one of the most dangerous Named to have ever lived; Roche, dressed in the skins of Belinins—evolved bats found in the high caves of Golodan’s most perilous mountain range—his handsome gaiety a siren for his poisonous Tunnels and keen wires; Kip, decked in the thick furs of an evolved bear, scars upon scars crossing his exposed skin like medals of martial prowess and spiritual fortitude; Halga, adorned in obsidian armor and helm, the burnt-auburn metals harvested from the depths of the earth by the gods of Kolokasi. Then there was Sanas, who stood at the rear as if apart, back erect, shoulders squared, head held high, her supple form swathed in a flow of deep burgundy, the accented silk of its threads plucked from the carcasses of evolved arachnoids found beneath the volcanoes of the southern provinces of the Far East. More of her had returned than the Sanas who’d left us on the western shores of Partum. She watched me, her gaze hard and soft at once. That was the Sanas I remember: a woman striding the wall between empathy and conviction. She was, in temperament and moral resilience, more than anyone else I knew, and despite not having met the man, the closest effigy of Merkusian. Unfortunately, or fortunately, she was not nearly as surefooted as he.

  “They’re slavers,” I said to her, to which she nodded. “I trust you have no objections against what I intend?”

  “None I care to action.” Sanas’ eyes softened as they shifted past me towards the procession of slaves.

  “When I said they’re slavers…”

  “I am well aware of their origins and why they were chosen, yet there are some ordeals too grievous for even the most reprehensible of sinners.”

  Sin, I thought. What a na?ve concept. “But you will consign them to their fates so we might do what we must?” I asked.

  “I will.”

  I grinned at her. “Good to have you back, Sanas.”

  The softness in Sanas’ expression hardened as her gaze shifted back to me. “Did you know?”

  “What became of our great empire’s vassals?” I shrugged. “Not the details, but I remember the war. As do you.”

  “So you knew?”

  “I had a fair guess.”

  “And you knew how I’d react?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that I’d fail?”

  “Did you?”

  “You knew I would.”

  I sighed. “If a man went into the world seeking a fortune of gold but returned with the secret to happiness, did he fail?”

  “His aim? Yes.”

  “I might argue otherwise—I might argue that his quest for wealth was a misguided quest for contentment and that the root of his purpose was achieved—but that was not the question. Did he fail?”

  “I…”

  “Nor did you? I assume you rushed in to save the first hapless strays you encountered?”

  Sanas’ head dropped to her chest. “I failed them.”

  “Perhaps. But you did not fail. Are you not here, ready and able? Did they not give you back your purpose? Your strength? Your conviction?”

  “I know.”

  “Indeed, you do. Else, you’d not have made it back, nor would I have welcomed you.”

  Sanas had no more words to share after that.

  Our enemies arrived long before dawn. The band of riders nearly escaped my senses; I had not expected them to travel so far underground.

  “The time is nigh!” A wave of my hand shattered the Painting we hid behind. “Burrowers!”

  My people moved. Helena sank into the night, fading like fireless smoke. Roche loped down the gentle hill, arms flapping, cackles shrill, Aedificator wires reflecting moonlight so he appeared to be traveling within a glinting haze of tempestuous rain. Thunder marked Halga’s single step. Clomps of soil erupted. She soared, a bird of metal and death, swooping across the sky. Kip was a wave onto himself, a tide of earth rolling forth. Above them, the torch that was Sanas floated on a billowing cloud of flame, a beacon of daylight amid a landscape of darkness.

  Yes, I was proud of what I’d reclaimed, but there was so much more to take back and even more to extract as compensation.

  The Halorian caravan shuddered to a halt. Panic set in. Horses neighed. The guards scurried closer to their burden in a practiced formation. Weapons left their sheaths to leap into shaking hands. Sensus glowed. Tunnels swayed. Paintings shimmered. All this without having seen their true enemy.

  Linton and his band of ambushers got to them before we did. Horses and carts sank, the compacted earth of the road suddenly too soft to carry their weight. Once the animals were knee-deep, the soft soil rehardened. The beasts went wild, bucking and thrashing. Their legs remained rooted, and the only thing their efforts achieved were snapped bones.

  The ground rumbled. Leech-shaped creatures covered in a carapace of rock, their forms slick with mucous, emerged from mounds of excavated dirt. Dadaks. Three dozen sat low to the ground on squat legs, each twice the height of a man, twice again as long, and almost just as thick. Spaced evenly, they encircled the band of Halorians and their carts. With wet hisses, their backs parted as if they were the blooming petals of a hideous, acidic, flesh-eating species of flower. Behind the shells, standing on folds of skin meant to carry the creature’s young but were now reserved for their riders, were Linton and his flock, two to each dadak, over fifty Alchemist and Aedificators, here to dispossess the Halorians of their merchandise.

  Then my weapons landed.

  Halga arrived first. A swing of her hefty claymore adjusted her trajectory just so as to land its edge across two women. Ribs broke. Hearts were sundered. Blood flew. Screams of surprise shrieked into wails of pain and horror.

  Helena faded into view on one of the Dadaks. She slid Pin into a man’s temple, twisted around him, and drove Moon in an arc meant to slice open the next victim’s throat. The former was a Root, likely a Named, his hazel eyes agast and leaking blood. The latter was a godling, her teeth gritted as she blocked Moon with her shortsword, turned the blade, and dashed in low. Helena had faded into darkness and toward more unsuspecting victims before the counteroffensive was little more than a spark in the godling’s eye.

  Roche’s madness fell under the sway of his survival instincts; his Tunnels led him to the greatest concentration of Roots. There, he sowed their slow deaths, a flurry of steel and sensus slicing into their flesh and minds.

  Kip plowed into a dadak without care, riding earth, his hammer held high. Few could penetrate his stalwart constitution. His momentum knocked a pair of godlings from their mount. Kip’s hammer followed, flattening one to the ground. Three swings later, more of the woman was paste than not. All the while, three godlings tried their utmost to topple him with claws, swords, and castings of earth and stone. Their efforts garnered no visible results, and when he turned his bloodthirsty gaze on them, they ceased altogether.

  Sanas waited. Hovering. Ablaze. Watchful. Thoughts and emotions flickered across her face like words on a page. First, the creases of trepidation between her brows as she considered the safety of her comrades, then the spasms of hesitancy as she contemplated how to aid their plight without dispensing death, and finally, the resolute tension of tight lips and a clenched jaw as she found the most tolerable answer. She plummeted into the ranks of The Hoard, arms wreathed in flames, delivering the quickest and most painless deaths she could.

  The battle raged. Lira’s people were rooted in place, shivering in wait, backs pressed against their slumped carts and now-dead horses—the strength of both parties was more than they could face; whosoever claimed victory decided their fate, and the excerpts of brutality they witnessed sketched for them a future of doom, irrespective of who won.

  Amid the chaos of battle, I watched as Linton and two others slipped into a dadak. I lashed two matrixes in their direction before the evolved beast burrowed and slid them underground. I was not in the habit of letting my quarries escape.

  The violence raged on. Surprisingly, it did not end with a clash of metal, a shout of defiance, or the brilliance of a powerful matrix, but with a whimper. Our enemies died, one by one, until the symphony of screams and shouts was whittled into the lonely, pitiful moans of a single Tripler. She hung from Roche’s wires like a puppet as he played with her mind and forced her to enact her own torturous death. Once she groaned her last breath, Roche diced her body into mince and let the pieces pour and splash to the ground. He had fed the soil well that day.

  “Is that all of them?” he asked, standing amid a field of blood, his clothes dry as bone, his skin smeared red.

  “All but three,” I said.

  “Escaped?” Halga asked.

  “So they believe,” I said. “I’ve Tunnelled their dadak. Its distorted sense of direction will keep it near.”

  “Ha!” Kip’s dead eyes sparkled—the fa?ade of joy he wore most other times was a cheap and hollow imitation in comparison. “What I’d pay to see them when they realize.”

  I glanced over at Helena. The battle had been fierce. Linton had brought along a competent lot—the Roots were all as skilled as Named, and the godlings, though far from Leaves, were not Autumns. Helena’s thirst for divine blood had thrown her into the thick of the action. She did not have a good time of it. But then again, perhaps she had. While blood traced down from her split lip, one of her shoulders hung out of its socket, and sweat mortared strands of hair to her forehead, her grin was wide, and a sinister satisfaction radiated from her bright eyes.

  “Do you require healing,” I asked.

  Helena reached around to the small of her back and withdrew a pair of tinctures. “I can tend to my own injuries.”

  “What is to become of the Halorians?” Sanas asked.

  “Let us go and see,” I said.

  I approached the Seculor in charge of the slave train. She wore a hideous and impractical suit of armor, cumbersome, sharp, and bright. Adulation sparked in her people’s eyes when they saw her lumber forward. Fools. If only they knew what I knew, what Lira knew when she sent this young Seculor on this errand.

  “My thanks for your aid, stranger,” she said. I wondered if she’d be so cordial if she was privy to her role as bait. I wondered how the appendage hanging between my legs might’ve cost me if she thought it at all possible to make me pay for it. “I am Pefely kin Lira. May I know who—"

  “Leave,” I said.

  “I—”

  “Now.” I pointed at three surviving dadaks. The domesticated beasts were dumb without instruction. They sat there, waiting amid the ravaged corpses of their riders. “Make use of your new steeds and go about your business. We have our own to conclude.”

  A battle played out in Pefely’s soul. Fear won over anger. A withering look that promised a vengeance that’d never come to be shot at me, but in the end, she returned to her people. With shrill barks, the young Halorian coordinated a rescue of the mired carts from the hardened soil, the attachment of makeshift harnesses to their new draft animals, and the recommencement of their sluggish trek to the free city of Junko. I waited for them to go beyond the reach of their sensus before I turned my attention to the Tunneled creature circling beneath us.

  At my behest, the dadak eagerly returned to the surface. Another light touch on its soul—light because its eagerness to please me was revolting—and its back bloomed. Three figures blurred. I let them escape our encirclement and turned to face them. Helena and the others arrayed themselves behind me, weapons out and, except Sanas, wearing murderous grins.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “We meet again,” I said.

  “Who are you?” Linton asked, his expression grim.

  Golden sensus suffused Linton’s entire being, particularly around his head and most especially in his brain, where it saturated, shining like the sunkissed turquoise of the southern seas. Invisible tendrils of sensus slithered masterfully around him. I had to dull my senses to see him, and see him I did. Beard combed, hair washed, skin clear, clothes immaculate; I saw Linton. Then I saw deeper. A child. Incomplete. Arrested. Clever. Dangerous. Prideful. But most of all, afraid.

  “I assure you,” I said, “who I am is far less important to you than who you think you are.”

  “Do not play games with me.” Linton hissed the words through gritted teeth.

  I looked to his sides, where familiar godlings stood. My eyes landed on the older of the two. “Are you training him to take over?” I asked her.

  A hint of surprise came and went like a mote of dust caught in a breeze. I was very impressed by the Fiora’s control; she might very well have been a Leaf, though her talent was in an Art few in Partum would appreciate—not that they found it distasteful, but because no Arts but their own was worthy of pursuit.

  “More games!” Linton shouted.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Just because I’m enjoying myself does not mean I’m playing games.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” I threw back.

  Tunnels caressed Linton’s aura once more, easing his spike of anger.

  “Better yet,” I continued, gesturing at the pair of godlings, “who are they?”

  “My subordinates,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Linton glanced at them both. His brief note of uncertainty was crushed by the way they flinched under his gaze. He smiled and turned back to me. “I am.”

  I sighed. “You’re a Duros, correct?”

  “How did you—Ah!” He tapped a finger under one eye. “Soulsight. Then you should know I am more than just a Duros.”

  “You think yourself an Auger?” I shook my head. “Are you familiar with the Wheel of Arts?”

  “Only godlings are limited by their spread of talent.”

  “The spread must be near even to cross adequately into opposite Arts. Do you mean to say you count yourself among the exceptionally rare statera?”

  “I…” Linton shook his head. “I—"

  The Tunnels dug harder. Deeper. Discombobulation shifted Linton’s expression between confusion and concern.

  “What are you saying?” Linton asked.

  I pointed at him and addressed the Silas Tunneller. “Are those your bindings?”

  “You can see them?” she exclaimed before reason and caution could stop her. Her hand flew up to clamp over her mouth. Too late, I thought.

  Linton spun, fists balled. More Tunnels enveloped his aura, squeezing ever tighter. When he spoke, the words were calm and all the more chilling. “Explain yourself, Tillis.”

  The woman sighed as if she’d lost a game. The young Fiora with her—Jolnes, I think his name was—laughed, back arched, eyes shut to hold back tears.

  “You’ll be anchored to his bond this time,” Tillis said to the young Partumian.

  “Worth it,” Jolnes said, wiping tears away. “I’ve endured his insufferable arrogance too long.”

  “Savour the time. The Court’s handler shall not permit such failures too often.”

  “Another reason it is worth it. You have been a disagreeable partner, Tillis, and I shall enjoy your punishment.”

  “As I shall enjoy the remainder of your training. Pay close attention when I suffer through the handler’s attention—the same will await you the first time you fail. And trust me when I tell you that you will fail. Much as I hate this rebrobate, his mind does well to pick apart our prison. This’ll be the fourth time we have to build it anew.”

  Jolnes’s amusement morphed into chagrin. “That is what I meant? Leave it to you to wring the fun out of this for me.”

  “Neither of you seem to understand your predicament,” I said. Both godlings turned to me, unconcerned.

  “This pawn is no more dangerous to us as this dadak is,” Tillis said.

  “He might be once I free him from his bond.” I gestured my people forward. “He, however, is not the predicament you face.”

  Tillis reached into her silken robe, down her abundant cleavage, and pulled out a miniature flute no thicker than a feather and no longer than a child’s finger. “It is not us who’ll face a predicament. Our superior shall be here soon. I called for him the moment you appeared.”

  “I know,” I said and watched her smug surety drain a little.

  “How long do you think a Leaf needs to travel here from Frelkri?” she asked.

  “He is not a Leaf.”

  “He used to be.”

  “I know.”

  Tillis went paler. “And you think yourself able to survive his wrath?”

  “I do.” I looked back at Helena. “Two hundred?”

  “More like a century and a half.” Helena’s smile was hungry. She’d not had her fill. I doubted she ever would. “He’s barely older than me.”

  I shrugged. “In the end, it matters naught.”

  “Where is he?” The boy, Jolnes, glanced between Tillis and me, confused. He could sense her worry but did not understand the reason for it; coddled children rarely have reason to fathom the fallibility of those whose protection they enjoy. Not until said protection fails, and they feel the sting of vulnerability.

  “Likely neck-deep in tinctures and whores.” I flicked my hand at Tillis. A slice of force, thin as hair and as invisible as the wind, severed her hand by the wrist, and a gust sent the appendage to me before it hit the ground. The pain only hit her when I had her severed hand in mine, and she grimaced. “The call for his aid did not reach him. Now, please die.”

  Sanas and Halga moved in unison. Wind and flames rushed. Halga’s sheathed sword crashed into Jolnes’ ribcage and slammed the boy onto the ground. He died before the back of his head cracked against the dirt road. Sanas buried spears of fire into Tillis’ eyes, scorching her brain into a lump of seared meat. The Tunneller toppled over, eyes wide and hair burning.

  I turned to the flabbergasted Linton. “Well, then…”

  ***

  Like most free cities—like most cities in general, but particularly those who dared call themselves free—Junko was a chasm of freedom; all but a few of those who lived within its walls were afforded any degree of liberty. And so it was that in the brightly lit city, only guards and the well-to-do residents who’d bought or otherwise attained the favor of the city lord were allowed to roam the streets past curfew. That, by which I mean its quiet emptiness, I found, was the city’s only distinction besides how painfully bright and ordinary the place looked.

  The guards needed only to glimpse Sanas and Halga’s ice-blue gazes to open the gates and scurry out of our path. We walked through Junko along its main road. The city appeared deserted. Distant footfalls of patrolling guards and the hum of evenly spaced matrix lanterns were the only sounds to reach us. Generic masonry and oversimple carpentry stretched like someone had redrawn a series of the same dreary buildings in a sequence. Only at the end of the road, as though the cobbled street was a pointer and all the buildings on its peripheries were but a dull background meant to further accentuate the grandeur of its subject, stood the city lord’s home, a monstrosity of white stone and symmetry and pointed towers.

  “How drab,” Roche said. “I’d expect nothing less from a former Branch.”

  Helena snorted. “We can only assume how much of a loyal dog he was to be given his own free city to rule over.”

  “Who?” Sanas asked.

  “Inaci, Silas’ previous Adjudicator,” Roche said. “Silas gave him Junko when the lucky bastard managed to find an unspent phoenix feather somewhere on the borders of Kolokasi.”

  “The Chameleon?” Helena asked.

  “The same,” Roche said.

  “I wondered how he came upon his role as a city lord. When did he have cause to be on the frontier? Last I knew, he was still Silas’ Adjudicator.”

  Roche laughed. “Silas sent him there the day he lost to you.”

  “You mean to tell me I as much as gave him this city when I defeated him?”

  “Now that you mention it—” Roche’s laughter redoubled.

  “And the exchange is on his land?” Sanas was frowning.

  “Within his estate,” I said.

  “Won’t he be… biased?”

  “The weasel will do whatever casts the least amount of risk on his life,” Helena answered, though her attention was burning a hole in the back of Roche’s head.

  I prodded Linton forward. “We shall be there soon. Best you act the part. We can’t have you leading from the back.”

  Linton stumbled forward and shuffled ahead, back bent. Much had happened to him that night, and the weight of it all saddled his sapless shoulders. The man I’d met in that seedy bar, the Root who commanded godlings and gazed at me with such superiority, was nowhere to be found. The shell had been broken, and before me hobbled the broken boy beneath.

  “Stand straight,” I said. The bark in my voice sent lightning through Linton, and he stood erect. “Remember who you were, the man you wanted to be. And if you cannot, remember who they think you are.” I turned to my people. “We must hurry. The slaves have nearly reached the manor.”

  Each of my five pulled their hoods over their heads and matched my quickened stride.

  The gates were golden. At its boundary, the cobbled stone of the road shifted from cracked gray bricks to smooth, sanded, white slabs. Beyond it, the seat of Inacu’s fiefdom sat like an ugly actor in the role of someone much more impressive, the waxy, stained ivory of his walls a cheap costume of the white marble godlings so preferred.

  “Whoever you are,” said a guard dressed in ornamental armor with violet geometric designs, “Lord Inacu the Dragon is entertaining guests and is unavailable for an audience.”

  “Did you say ‘The Dragon’?” Helena’s pitch drove ever higher. “He dared Name himself.”

  Roche snickered. “Does he make you call him that? I bet he has his chambermaids and whores scream the Name as he fucks them. Can’t blame the man. I myself go rock hard when they scream as I asked them to.”

  The guard’s hand tightened around the shaft of his spear, and he stepped forward, the noseguard of his helmet poking out between the golden bars of the gate. “You best—”

  Helena dashed forward, slid her fingers under the open visor, and pulled. The helm thudded against the cheap bars of the gate. Then she kept pulling until the metal groaned, the golden veneer began to scape off, and the twisted edges of the helm began to bend inward to cut into the guard’s cheek. Three men heard the screams, saw their fellow guard being assaulted, and hurried from the small gatehouse to the side, clattering in their useless suits of steel.

  “Stop,” Linton spoke the word barely above a whisper, yet the command was clear and domineering. Somewhere along the way, he’d reassembled the broken shells of his pride and made himself his own costume. “Release the man.”

  Helena did as he ordered, schooling away her surprise and anger. The bleeding guard fell back on his rear, whimpering.

  “I am an envoy,” Linton said to the newly arrived guards, presenting them with an emblem—the square-shaped marker of jade and amethyst was a badge of authority for high-ranking members of Partum’s Admin. “You shall open these here gates posthaste.” The irrefutable command in his tone remained, this time laced with the offhand twang of a threat.

  The men sprang to obey him.

  “Take us to the meeting,” Linton ordered. Again, they obeyed him without thought.

  We entered a garden, circular and encompassed by the same tainted walls of off-white stone. But for the pathway leading to the front house, a bed of grass covered its floor while different species of plants and flowers, all shades of purple, hugged the outer edges. All parties were present, tense, one and all, a readiness for violence simmering below the stillness. Georde and his fellow members from The Annanas, Aersly and a trio of Alchemists, Pefely and her underlings, and between them, an aged Named with stark white hair, the kind of rotund figure attained by a marriage of gluttony and sloth, and a look of duplicitous submissiveness. All four parties turned to watch us enter.

  “Did I not order you to turn away any visitors?” Inacu screeched.

  The three guards who escorted us stepped back in primal fear, then went to their knees and bowed. An impressive feat considering the unwieldy armor they wore.

  “Apologies, Lord,” the bravest of the three men said. Inacu grimaced, knowing he’d risked offense when he allowed—or, more likely, demanded—his subject call him by that title. “I did not think the order applied to an envoy from Frelkri.”

  Squinting, Inacu gazed at Linton. “The tithe has been paid this moon, and you are not my usual contact. Why has the Reeve sent you?”

  “A misunderstanding,” Linton said. “I do not come at the behest of the Reeve.”

  “Then—”

  “I come in the name of The Hoard. Shall we sit and talk?

  Inacu stepped forward, his back bent forward ever so slightly in that way meant to subtly placate someone of a higher station. His gaze kept twitching between all present parties as he spoke. “I beg we try for peace.”

  Aersly snorted, the gesture momentarily quickening her drunken sway. “You serve at our pleasure, Chameleon.”

  Inacu went to his knees and prostrated before the Alchemist. “With ardent enthusiasm, Lady Aersly. It is my servitude that informs my humble suggestion. The support of my men and I does not guarantee our victory. And in the uncertain future where we’ve succeeded, whatever victory we eke out will surely exact a dear price.”

  “I care nothing of commoner lives.”

  “Listen to your vassal, cannibal.” Georde had twelve Aedificators to Lady Aersly’s trio of Alchemists, but it was clear he did not like how much Inacu and his men might sway the odds in her favor, numerous as they were.

  “Allow me to beautify the option of parlance,” Linton said. “We shall join against whoever strikes first.”

  “As shall we,” Pefely said.

  Aersly spat on the ground in front of Georde. “Fine, but only as long as you understand the slaves are ours, worm.” She cast a look of disgust at Linton. “Ours,” she stressed again.

  Inacu clapped his hands once, interlaced his fingers, bowed his head, pressed his double-handed fist to his breast as though he were praying, and said, “Wonderful. Truly. Please, come. Let us converse in comfort.”

  “Only the five of us.” Aersly pointed at Inacu, Linton, Pefely, and Georde.

  “I’m afraid I must refuse,” Linton said. “While I carry the authority of The Hoard with me, I do not possess their might. I fear, alone and in the presence of godlings, I’d be an underwhelming surrogate.”

  “Then you may bring one of your… attendants?” Aersly offered, peering at me and mine as if to pierce the veils we wore. She failed.

  “Supervisors may be more accurate,” Linton said. “In any case, they are my betters. I am only here to as a pair of lips.”

  “I have heard of you, Linton,” Aersly uttered his name like one might rid themselves of a putrid taste. “They say your talent for numbers and negotiation is unmatched. I suppose you’d have to be truly exceptional to be given the responsibility of running The Hoard’s business affairs.”

  In accordance with the man he used to be, the man he was pretending to be, Linton did not reply hotly, merely offering a look of amused disregard.

  “Shall we?” Georde offered.

  Inacu gestured at the entrance to his estate. “Please. This way.”

  I trailed behind at the rear. Inacu, host as he was, led. Georde, Linton, and Aersly walked abreast, unwilling to let the others at their backs, while Pefely, half-forgotten and in a rotten mood because of it, stalked behind them like a pup edging to join a hunt.

  Purple. So much of it as to be nauseating. Rugs, walls, paintings—and a Painting—lanterns, sculptures, chairs, a table, and more, every article in the study was a shade of violet. The room was not particularly large, though much of the space was occupied, and it might’ve appeared larger if it were not. The table, the centerpiece, ran from one end to the other, longer than it was wide, its wood the color of mulberries. The chairs themselves were of a similar color but for the lighter lavender of its velvet upholstery. Linton and Georde sat on one side, Aersly and Pefely on the other. There was the width of the table or two empty seats between them all. I chose to lean against a rare spot of open wall, far enough to hopefully be forgotten.

  Inacu stood at the head of the table as if to mediate the discussions. “I’m sure—”

  “Sit down and be quiet, Chameleon,” Aersly said, stripping the host of his self-appointed role. Inacu did as he was told, slumping into his chair. Aersly turned her attention to Georde. “So—”

  “How did you fail so spectacularly,” I asked the Alchemist. Her demeanor rankled me, and, due to my admittedly impulsive tendencies—tendencies that were further compounded by low tolerances—reflex discarded my plan to play a passive role until the death toll began to swell. “I expected to come upon a battle, yet I find you facing your enemy, inert as a drunk sailor’s pecker in the care of an old, ugly, homeless courtesan.”

  Silence. At my words. At me for having uttered them. At the audacity of who I’d spoken them to.

  “Lower your hood so I might see your face.” Aersly was on her feet, palms on the table. Streams of sensus reached into her prison of inert souls, which, her being an Arcanist, was her source of power.

  “Sit down and be quiet, child.” My own sensus lashed out and severed hers, and she found her prison—her power—was locked from her. Before I retracted the ancient Arcanist matrix, I let the edges of the construct brush the door to her power, letting her know I could do more than merely deny her access. The blush of her rage drained, replaced by pale terror. “Your petulance shall not serve your goals here. And while Linton might tolerate your rough-hewn attempts to wrangle this discussion, likely because he’s already devised some cunning manner in which to take advantage, I am not nearly so patient about punishing an offense.”

  Aersly’s bowed. “Apologies, Uncle. I was not aware I was in the presence of a Leaf.” She glanced up at me, brief but penetrating. “You are a Leaf, are you not, Uncle?”

  “What I am is more powerful than you. You may continue discussions with Linton here. Behave, and I shall gift you by remembering who you represent. But be careful, however, for my memory can be a fickle thing—an arrant breeze might see it drift off.”

  Aersly dipped her head. “My thanks.”

  Discussions of profit and slaves commenced. Pointless discussions. Georde’s protestations began almost immediately, though his initial forays were meek. It pleased me to find I was the source of his apprehension. Aersly and Linton agreed to offer the man and his lot a share, then went on to haggle for coppers. This, too, was pointless; all of us participated in this fa?ade for our own reasons. The evidence of today’s trade was too sweet for The Annanas to pass up. Power bought far more than coin, and the fall of The Scorpions would see them forward theirs. Aersly knew this, and so this charade was not for him. Georde knew this, too.

  “Tell me,” I said. “How did you discover The Annanas’ presence? I suspect they took pains to catch you off guard.”

  “Trade secrets,” Aersly said, and I sensed it pleased her to say so, to refuse me an answer.

  “An answer for an answer.”

  “Halorian trade is within my purview.” Aersly’s grin was barely contained. “The answers you seek are not.”

  “Very well,” I said, unimpressed. I’d predicted the Alchemist’s response. Wanted it. “Then, considering your inability to extend our negotiations to matters of information, please step out while I discuss some secrets with young Georde here.”

  Aersly stepped forward instead. “I will not be excluded.”

  “You will.” I met her step with one of my own. “Or that breeze I sense sturring will come to pass.”

  Aersly gritted her teeth and furrowed her brow, frustration stamped on her face. With no better choice available to her, she strode out of the purple room. I looked over at Inacu, eyebrow raised. Though it took him a long breath to realize my meaning, eventually, he scurried out after her.

  “So, Georde, was it?” I said. He nodded, a note of deference to him. “It has come to our attention that enemies have infiltrated Partum.”

  “Halorians?”

  “Worse.”

  “Who’s worse than Halorians?” He smirked and watched me to see the appreciation of his jest. His smirk crumbled in the face of my unamused expression.

  I looked the boy over, saw his pale, soft skin, his expensive attire, the untested confidence in his gaze, and snorted. “Have you ever left the lands of Evergreen, Georde?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “It shows. But I suppose not many from your House venture onto the road of blood and battle.” I shook my head. “In any case, has your order become acquainted with any unknown characters as of late?”

  “It is not for me to disclose information about our—”

  “I do not require their names or descriptions. Just tell me if The Annanas has done business with any persons of unknown origins.”

  “One, recently, though his origins are not entirely unknown.”

  “How so?”

  “We confirmed he was an Islander, born and raised. My Leaf suspects he is an outcast.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “None I know of.”

  “I see.”

  “Ah!” A jolt ran through Georde as realization struck him.

  Something about how his eyes lit up and the doltish and clumsy way he smiled made it challenging to see the black of his soul. But I knew it was there. I had seen it. Saw it still. The ink of his malevolence. Few were those who gained power or influence or fulfillment without staining their souls. But such was Evergreen. So, too, was my family without Merkusian. As would I be were I to let my promise die.

  “There was another,” Georde continued, unaware of my thoughts. “But we refused to meet with him. The way Franlos had it, he was a matrix of lies—nothing he said had even a grain of truth.”

  “Where?”

  “Franlos? He’s based out of Discipulus.”

  “Thank you. It is a shame you were not born an age ago.”

  “Why?”

  I ignored his confusion.

  My sword took him in the neck. His eyes were wide again, once more in that almost innocent way he had about him. I did my best to see through the misleading surface. It was easier once his soul unmoored from its lifelong harbor and the blackness he wore stained the very surface of his expression.

  Georde’s soul departed. My sword slid out of his now empty body without protest. The bag of meat and bones collapsed. A flick of my wrist flung the blood from my blade, and I resheathed the weapon.

  Inacu and Aersly smelt what I had done the moment I appeared. Their faces told me so. Blood is such an easy fragrance to parse; its flight is so quick and eager I’d call it promiscuous.

  “Are you not enemies?” I grabbed Aestly’s heavy-lidded gaze with mine. The door was ajar, and she’d been angling for a glimpse inside, masking her attempt with her drunken sway. “Do you believe the share you offered him would’ve stayed his hand? That his betters would’ve allowed him to come here, find what they sought, yet return empty-handed? You are reckless, but you are no fool. Maybe fool enough to think I’d fallen for your ploy like he thought you had fallen for his?”

  “I knew you saw what I intended,” Aersly said. “I simply assumed you did not care. Actually, I suspected you might approve—fewer fractions are larger fractions, after all. For the very reasons you’ve already stated, I was willing to strike the blow. Why were you?”

  “It is wise to take heed of the story of Kilonon.”

  “Kilonon? The man who surrendered Golodan to us? What has his tale to do with it? I do not understand.”

  “You will. Now let us see to Georde’s group.”

  I did not set all this up to kill them; I came to plant seeds of trust—not for each other, but for a man named Merkus. Many would die today, and the war that’d begin in the aftermath of their deaths would feed me their confidence.