Dead Man's Tide
Author: D.J. Bodden
Date: 2019-03-28 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Science Fiction; Fiction; Magic
Description: Viridian Gate Online is more than just a game… and now, it's Alan Campbell’s whole world. Recently deceased and squishy as hell, Alan, a newly minted Illusionist, is forced to flee for his life. He needs time to deal with his loss, both in-game and IRL, but first he’ll have to escape his crazy ex, the treacherous Firebrand, Thalia Daceran. On his way to safety and revenge, he’ll team up with Titus, the Imperial spymaster, as well as a crew of pirates, commandos, and even a shapeshifting Mimic with a taste for blood. His path leads to Wyrdtide, a gaslit city hidden in mists and governed by dark
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

Table of Contents

Summary

Shadow Alley Press Mailing List

Eldgard

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Viridian Gate Online: Expanded Universe

Books by Shadow Alley Press
litRPG on Facebook

GameLit on Facebook

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Author

About the Publisher

Summary

VIRIDIAN GATE ONLINE is more than just a game... and now, it's Alan Campbell’s whole world.

Recently deceased and squishy as hell, Alan, a newly minted Illusionist, is forced to flee for his life. He needs time to deal with his loss, both in-game and IRL, but first he’ll have to escape his crazy ex, the treacherous Firebrand, Thalia Daceran.

On his way to safety and revenge, he’ll team up with Titus, the Imperial spymaster, as well as a crew of pirates, commandos, and even a shapeshifting Mimic with a taste for blood. His path leads to Wyrdtide, a gaslit city hidden in mists and governed by dark demigods.

But even with Alan dead, the world marches on. Will the government seize control of V.G.O.? Did Horace, the blind beggar, really die? And whatever happened to Jeff? Find answers, new purpose, and the machinations of the gods in this action-packed continuation of the Illusionist Series.

From James A. Hunter—author of Viridian Gate Online, Rogue Dungeon, War God's Mantle, and the Yancy Lazarus Series—and D.J. Bodden, author of The Black Year Series, comes an epic new entry into the Expanded Universe of Viridian Gate Online that you won't want to put down!

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WANT TO KEEP UP WITH the Viridian Gate Online Universe? Visit Shadow Alley Press and subscribe to our mailing list!

Eldgard

One

GAIUS WITHDREW A FRESH sheet of vellum from the pile and squared it on the desk before him. Next, he selected one of his finer quills, a thin white shaft made of a stripped crow feather. He sharpened the tip with a small paring knife.

He was fresh from the blooding and the unexpected elevation of his new agent, Alan Campbell, to the rank of Citizen by an extraordinary vote of the Senate. He’d led the procession through the streets to the Heights, showing the people of New Viridia their leadership was fit to defend them, and they’d been greeted by cheers, thrown wreaths, and the palpable relief of the middle and lower classes. It was a significant political victory. He felt young and energized like he was fresh from the parade ground with a pretty girl to come home to. And once he’d moved beyond the eyes of the masses, he’d returned to the palace, bathed privately, and changed into a fresh tunic and toga, ready to do the emperor’s work.

Dear Senator Gessia, it was brought to my attention, Gaius wrote in tight, neat loops, stopping intermittently to dip his quill in the inkpot, that your second eldest son seeks placement in the Legion. The scratching of the nib calmed him. It was the sound of the Viridian Empire’s administration, impersonal and relentless in the service of its citizens. While there are no command roles available at this time, a tour as a page for Sir Berrick of Harrowick will form—

Decimus, Gaius’s senior bodyguard, barged into the room.

Gaius rose, face calm, pen palmed and nib pinched between index and thumb, as a weapon.

“Intruder in the palace, sir,” Decimus said, standing so his body would shield Gaius from the window.

Gaius stepped around his desk and headed out the open door, following one of his junior bodyguards. It was inconvenient, but being the most powerful man in the Western Empire, or at least the one able to direct the most military force, had the unwelcome side effect of making total strangers want him dead. Most of them were lone lunatics, with a rare, genuine attempt by professionals no more than twice a year. And once, almost twenty years ago, there had been a professional posing as a lone lunatic. He had gotten the closest, by far.

The procedures were straightforward and well-rehearsed. He was escorted to the guard mess hall in the center of the palace, near the dormant Keep command room. One way in, one way out. “Make way!” Decimus bellowed, opening a path for them through a squad of sharp-eyed triarii, the heavy-armored elite of the Legion, and a pair of Imperial sorcerers. “We’re here, sir,” Decimus said seriously.

“I can see that, Decimus,” Gaius answered. His senior bodyguard was big enough to go toe-to-toe with a Risi and loyal. In a world full of mirrors, sharp tongues, and hidden blades, Decimus was a blunt object. “Find out what the ruckus is about.”

“Yes, sir!” Decimus said, bringing his fist to his chest. His eyes went blank as he started messaging the guard posts scattered throughout the palace.

Gaius stepped through the archway into the guard mess hall, then froze as the sharp, cool edge of a sword flashed across and stopped, pressing lightly against his throat.

Two

GAIUS COULD FEEL THE intention of the swordsman through the razor-sharp edge at his neck. The blade didn’t bite or tremble; he was dealing with someone strong, focused, and skilled. The unseen swordsman tilted the blade down a fraction, then dragged it upward, scratching his skin without breaking it, until the edge was under his chin, lifting, bringing him onto his toes. This was showmanship, and maybe punishment. He still had the quill in his hand. He only needed an opening, a single error on the swordsman’s part and he would—

A woman’s laugh and the blade was withdrawn. He turned and saw it was Enyo, Overmind of Discord. She looked young again, early forties and ten years his junior. Before riots broke out in his city, she’d been a wizened crone. He scowled.

“This is why I love you, Gaius. No pleading. No bluster. You’re all claws and no squawk. You were going to attack me, weren’t you? With what? Is that a quill?”

“How many of my guards have you killed?” he asked.

She waved her hand. “I incapacitated fifteen of them. I killed one.”

“Why?”

“He ran from me. I did you a favor.”

“I mean why are you here?”

“Making sure you’re adequately protected isn’t reason enough?”

“It isn’t.” Gaius clenched his jaw. “He was probably going to get backup like a good soldier should.”

Enyo flipped the sword forward in her hand and slammed it home into the scabbard at her right hip. “Then why didn’t you? You were in a doorway, Gaius. All you had to do was take a step back, just this once, and it didn’t even cross your mind.”

Gaius’s upper lip twitched.

She smiled at him. “Let’s have lunch.”

He stepped away from the entrance and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’d like you to leave.”

For a moment, he almost thought he saw her flinch. “Offer me a glass of wine, at least.”

“I’d rather—”

“Gaius Considia,” she cut him off. “You will offer the goddess who preserved you and many of your soldiers through a lifetime of war an oblation as is her due!” Her voice was the bark of distant cannons. He smelled gunpowder and blood.

Gaius stiffened. If she’d threatened him, he might have chanced her wrath, but House Considia paid its debts. Always. “Decimus!” he snapped.

His senior bodyguard ran to the sound of his voice. Decimus had one foot in the room when his eyes widened, and he flash-stepped forward, appearing at Enyo’s side with his sword drawn and pointed at her face. “What—”

“Put it away, Decimus,” Gaius said.

The bodyguard obeyed without question.

“Stand down the palace guard. Get us two glasses and a bottle of wine, and not that expensive fruit juice the praetorians drink. I want field wine in an unlabeled bottle. If we don’t any in the palace, have them send a runner from the camp.”

“Yes, General!” Decimus said, and ran off, giving Enyo one last look.

“You approve?” Gaius said.

“I might steal him from you.”

“I meant the wine, Enyo,” Gaius said. He walked to the head of the long table and pulled the chair out for her.

She gave him another smile. “Just like old times.”

She sat, and he slid the chair in behind her. Then he walked to the far end of the table and sat opposite. Her eyes shone in the lamplight, and his chest tightened. Oldest of friends, dearest of enemies. “You look well,” he said.

“This city has been kind to me, of late.”

“The city could do without your kindness.”

She slouched in her chair slightly and looked at the wall hangings. “Don’t blame me for my sister’s plots. At least with me, you know who your enemy is.”

“Everyone.”

Enyo smiled. She drummed her fingers on the table.

Decimus returned with the wine faster than expected.

“Yours?” Gaius asked.

Decimus blushed. Legionaries’ tent-brewed wine was frowned upon by most officers. “Got used to the taste.”

“Good man. I’ll give you one of mine.”

Decimus broke into a wide grin. He poured a glass for Gaius, then for Enyo. “Leave the bottle,” she said.

He set it in front of her, then looked at Gaius. “You can wait outside, Decimus.”

“Yes, General.”

When his bodyguard was gone, Gaius looked at his guest, raised his glass, and said, “To peace!”

“And other childish notions,” Enyo finished.

They knocked their glasses back. Enyo refilled hers and kept the bottle to herself.

“Why are you here, Enyo?” Gaius asked.

“This is a war council, Gaius. The Viridian Empire is going to conquer the rest of Eldgard, and you are going to lead its armies.”

Gaius chuckled. “Speaking of childish notions. Why would I do that?”

“Because you love your son.”

#

PROVUS CLOSED THE DOOR to his quarters behind him. As a senior tribune working directly under Legate Aurelius, Provus was entitled to a two-room apartment in the praetorian barracks, with a small sitting room, a separate bedroom, and a steward.

He’d declined the manservant and had the more ostentatious, fragile furniture removed from the sitting room, installing a sturdy table on which he could spread a map and meet with the senior officers of the duty cohorts. Said maps were kept locked, trapped, and warded in a fifteen-drawer flat file cabinet whenever not in use, although Provus had been known to leave out false information to expose or confuse spies. A few sets of armor, some weapon racks, and two travel chests had taken over the far left corner of the room. Provus’s collection wasn’t as extensive or rare as his uncle’s, but anyone who’d seen both men’s working spaces would note the similarities. While Provus had suffered from the controversy of his alleged parentage, he had no qualms about being compared to the Griffin of New Viridia.

He walked through the sitting room into the bedroom and removed his dirty clothes, then ran himself a bath. The praetorian barracks had both hot and cold water running on tap, thanks to a nearby water tower and the attentions of the Legion’s Firebrands. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. He got the water steaming hot and let the heat work its way into his aching muscles.

The hunt had been an unmitigated success. Men and women had died, but none of them sitting members of the Senate or foreign dignitaries. By shedding blood—their own and the forest creatures’—the nobility of New Viridia reaffirmed the link between citizen and Empire. It was barbaric and wildly superstitious, but it worked, and if the commoners would serve the nation without bloodshed or gods, there would be no need for the nobility or the priesthood.

Provus stood and toweled off. He was in his late twenties, well-muscled, and his skin was tight with few blemishes. His palms had thick calluses, and faint scars crisscrossed his fingers and knuckles. He smiled at the vanity of it, but he was content. He’d become, and was still becoming, the man he’d always wanted to be.

He donned the medium armor of a decurion of the antesignani, a short coat of overlapping scales over a thick tunic and riding breeches, and twin short swords at his hips. He strapped a quiver of javelins to his back, but left the customary short lance on its hooks; he wasn’t planning on fighting anymore today. Then he tucked a reinforced metal helmet with a single red plume under his arm and headed for the door. It was the seventh day of the Imperial week, Enyo’s day, normally a day of rest and remembrance. Since he was free from his regular duties, he’d arranged to take a small troop of scouts on a fast ride around the city walls.

He heard shouting and the sound of running feet as he opened the door.

“What’s going on?” he asked, stopping Appius Fabius, a fellow nobleman and praetorian who’d just returned from a tour on the mainland of Eldgard.

“Call to arms, Tribune! The barracks are under attack!”

Provus grinned, donning his helmet. “It’s a good day then, Appius. It’s not often the enemy saves us the trouble of finding them.”

The men and women of the Praetorian Guard poured out of their barracks like angry ants, shields raised against a hail of crossbow bolts, stones, and incendiaries. There were close to 240 officers, staffers, and team leaders lodged in the praetorian barracks, enough to lead the three cohorts of legionaries, specialists, and city watchmen who formed the home guard of the city. They faced a crowd of over a thousand angry residents. Damn it, Provus thought. He’d expected assassins or irregulars, not his own people.

Provus ducked a thrown paving stone. The line of praetorians flexed as the mob surged forward, and Provus instinctively put his shoulder against a fellow legionary’s back and helped push. “Form up! Form up!” he shouted. A flaming bottle of spirits flew through the air and exploded against the front face of the building. The mob cheered. The legionaries shouted commands and obscenities at the gathered rabble, and the first rank laid in with the flats of their blades and the edges of their shields. Provus gritted his teeth. The legionaries would get injured or killed by holding back.

A man next to Provus went down with a crossbow bolt through the throat, and a Legion Healer dragged the legionary back to save his life. Provus’s eyes narrowed. There were agitators and sharpshooters in the crowd; the residents were being used as a weapon against the Legion.

“Antesignani, on me!” he bellowed, drawing his swords. It was time to break the stalemate.

“Right behind you, Tribune,” Appius said, placing a hand on Provus’s left shoulder. Another hand fell on his right as the shock troops of the Legion formed up behind him.

“Who stands before the banners?” Provus shouted.

“Antesignani!” the half dozen legionaries with him shouted, letting their comrades in the ranks know what was coming.

Provus charged.

Phalanx tactics, and the melee in general, hinged on subtle changes in the opposing formations. At the call of “Antesignani,” the two columns of legionaries in front of Provus split, bunching to their left and right as the tribune and his men ran through. The regulars turned their shields inward, providing a smooth corridor eight men deep that the mob, under the press of the people behind them, spilled into. Under ordinary circumstances, the legionary formation would have been split, surrounded, and overwhelmed.

Provus triggered Meteor Charge and Impact at the same time. He didn’t benefit from the multipliers he would have for wearing a full suit of heavy armor or a tower shield, but against untrained civilians and braced by the legionaries pushing at his back, the paired abilities hit like a cannon blast. Then he triggered Blinding Scissors, crossing his short swords on either side of the lead rioter’s neck and pulling them apart with a scrape of steel on steel, decapitating the screaming commoner and showering the people behind her with blood and bright sparks. That procced his passives as a tribune of the antesignani, inflicting horror on enemies within five feet, and the mob recoiled from the gap.

Provus and the antesignani poured into that opening, hacking and stabbing without a care for who was on the other end. For every consecutive blow Provus landed while dual wielding, he got a ten-second, five percent increase in attack speed, stacking up to six times. Every time he killed someone with an active skill, he inflicted horror on the crowd around him. The world slowed to two-thirds of its normal speed as he opened wrists and elbows, slashed and stabbed exposed necks, throats, guts, and groins, and cycled through his dual- and single-sword actives as fast as his cooldowns would allow. He stomped on toes, collapsed knees, and snapped his elbows into noses in the half-beat between strikes, inflicting more debuffs on the crowd and creating a two-rank-deep pool of crippled targets to choose from. His Stamina drained like water from an upended canteen.

Appius, who’d fought with the likes of Provus before, stood at the tribune’s back and spread his fellow antesignani into the breach, forming a half circle of cleared ground in front of the praetorian lines. Each man or woman fought alone, a five-foot radius of mayhem and depleting Stamina. When the shock troops were fully committed, and it seemed like they would either have to detach from the other legionaries or fall back, Appius waved his weapon at the legionaries behind them and yelled, “Triarii to the fore!”

The Legion kept its most heavily armed and armored soldiers in the back ranks. The triarii, often veterans with multiple tours of service to the Empire, had seen enough battles to hold when all seemed lost and had the skill and weight to do it. They also knew how to exploit a breach. The back rank of the praetorian formation ran inward and filed through the gap Provus had run through. They hit the already battered mob like a stampede of angry bulls.

Provus stepped back as four triarii took his place. Appius met his eyes, and the two men laughed as their Stamina regenerated. The heavy troopers laid into the crowd around them. The triarii didn’t have the DPS that Provus and his shock troops had, but they were immovable objects the mob could only break their teeth on.

“Form up! Get ready for another push!” Provus shouted, rebuilding the spearhead of antesignani and placing himself at the head of it. He ignored the dead civilians on the ground. There would be time for doubt later.

One of the triarii triggered some kind of AOE, slamming his heavy shield on the ground and knocking a dozen rioters off their feet. Another caved in a baker’s skull with a warhammer. Blood ran between the flagstones.

His Stamina bar full, Provus shouted, “Who stands before the banners?”

The crowd broke. Shouts of anger turned to screams of fear, and the front ranks around Provus’s position turned to flee against the press of their fellows. The riot shattered, breaking contact with the praetorian line and withdrawing by twenty paces, still hurling paving stones and flaming objects. The antesignani sheltered behind the triarii’s shields.

“Five steps forward!” someone shouted from the praetorian lines, and the whole formation advanced, engulfing the antesignani and triarii both as the Legion reclaimed the first third of the plaza.

Provus and the other shock troops gathered behind the formation. The triarii returned to their places in the back ranks.

“Tribune Considia!” someone shouted. Provus looked around. “Tribune Considia!” He spotted the messenger and walked over.

“What is it?” Provus shouted. The rioters were shouting slogans, working themselves up for another charge. The legionaries were beating their shields with the flats of their blades.

“A message from General Considia, sir!” the woman shouted, handing him a hastily written note. The missive was nonsense, and it wasn’t in his uncle’s handwriting, but the general had included code words that told Provus what he needed to do.

“Something wrong?” Appius asked.

“Everything,” Provus said, glancing toward the line of soldiers and the mob beyond.

Appius laughed. “Something other than the revolting peasantry?”

Provus crumpled the message and put it in his inventory. “General Considia’s orders. I need to leave the city.”

“We’ll provide an escort,” Appius said.

Provus thought of refusing, but under the current conditions, prudence was the better part of valor. “Just get me as far as the stables.”

The sky rumbled, and a drop of water hit his arm. It was starting to rain. He pulled up his messaging window.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Alan,

Problem bigger than we thought. Praetorian barracks attacked, Uncle wants me out of the city while he solves the problem. You should leave, too. Will wait for you where we started the hunt. Don’t be long.

—Provus

<<<>>>

#

I STEPPED OUT OF THE doorway from the Halls of Illusion into a storm. I’d wound up on the outside of the New Viridia city walls, several hundred yards from where I’d started. Some time had passed, maybe thirty minutes. I had no cloak—I’d lost that escaping from Thalia and her assassins—just the white tunic of a citizen, bloodstained and singed. I had a crossbow bolt as thick as my finger lodged in my thigh. It felt as thick as my wrist and as if it was made of burning ice. My tanned hands trembled. All things considered, the fact it didn’t hurt more was probably a bad sign.

The few drops that had been falling when I’d run for my life had turned into a downpour, rain falling sideways, wind whipping the trees. I looked behind me, and the doorway was gone, just smooth, fitted stone and tan brick. I’d walked straight through the outermost wall of the city like it wasn’t there, but there it was, four stories tall and wide enough for two cars to drive on, side by side. That’s a hell of a thing.

I remembered, then. My name is Alan Campbell, and I died. Not in the game; I’d been surprisingly lucky in that regard, fighting assassins, cutthroats, giant-ass boars, and even a crazy ex who’d murdered my friends with ice and fire spells. I’d survived all that and died in the real world. I had a heart attack at thirty-one. How sad is that?

Somehow, my consciousness had survived in the game. It was that, or I was a copy, like the avatar you leave behind when you lose your internet connection. Maybe the real me was back in California, drinking beer and getting laid. I could get all philosophical about it, but to be honest, I was cold, my leg hurt, and I wasn’t ready to forever-die. I needed to escape.

I pulled up my interface and messaged Provus. He didn’t answer. I could only hope he hadn’t left me behind.

A crossbow bolt thudded into the mud by my feet. “There he is!” someone shouted.

I took a step toward the trees, and my leg almost collapsed. To call the bolt in my leg inconvenient would be akin to saying Thalia, the mass murderer I’d dated, had anger issues. If I hadn’t leveled my Conditioning skill with the Legion, I might have just sat down and let them finish me, but I’d been a badass for seventy-two hours, and my past as an HR guy was a lifetime away. I limped on, my clothes soaked. A second crossbow bolt zipped past my shoulder. Then horns sounded, and more distant horns answered, some of them ahead of me. This was going to be a crappy day.

#

THE CREATURE THAT HAD replaced the Imperial Warden some years ago watched from the shelter of a massive spruce tree. Teams of assassins moved through the Southern Woods. They wore white cloaks and black masks with green-painted eyes. Most carried crossbows. A horn sounded. Their quarry was a ways off but wounded and unlikely to escape. “The Empire’s newest citizen is going to die,” it said.

The avatar of Cernunnos was silent, the plain wooden mask it used for a face expressionless. The vines that grew from the mask had taken the form of an eight-foot-tall gorilla, with sharp, sixteen-point antlers and stones for knuckles. The warden waited, listening to the sound of the rain. The Horned One could be approached, and even bartered with sometimes, but never rushed.

“Tell me, Nil,” the Overmind finally rumbled. “Does this seem fair to you? Does it seem just?”

The warden, whose real name was Nil, shrugged. “He’s human.”

“He proved himself against the Gore Boar.”

“He used a pawn to do it. Humans are always using each other.”

“He is in my woods. Aediculus may allow all manner of injustices and depravity in his cities, but I am not my brother.”

“Do you command me to help him, my lord?” Nil said, its voice mocking. “Shall I make you a wooden crown? Will you hold court?”

Cernunnos answered with a long creak, the sound of a bough bending just before it snaps.

Nil grinned, exposing several rows of sharp, pointed teeth. It had lived, fought, killed, and screwed as either gender of every creature in these woods before eating and replacing the man whose face it wore. This would be the culmination, and probably the end, of its time as the Imperial Warden, but that was fine. That was the great game. Life was change.

It ran laughing into the rain.

#

JEFF BERKOWITZ SCREAMED. The sound was drawn out, repeated like a sound card failure. His fingers and toes twitched as he hung in the air, chin raised, a fish with a gaff through his gills.

The twenty-something-year-old who called himself Thanatos was rooting through his brain. That wasn’t a metaphor. Jeff’s head had come apart into small, floating cubes at a tap from the man’s fingers. The pain was endless, wave upon wave of it overlapping as it wore him away. He’d forgotten where he was, or what he’d done to deserve this. All he knew was that he’d do anything to make it stop.

“Almost done,” Thanatos said, for all the world as if it were a routine dental checkup. He slid a black rod, like a stylus or a capped fountain pen, into Jeff’s head just inside of his right eye. Green and orange sparks exploded across his eyes, and the screaming stopped. He wasn’t sure if he’d been robbed of his voice or his hearing, but it felt like all the muscles in his chest were cramping at once. He fought. He used all his willpower to shake free of the invisible bonds, but all he managed to do was flop around like someone having an epileptic fit in zero gravity.

Thanatos frowned and grabbed hold of his jaw. “Stay still, Mr. Berkowitz. I’m trying to fix you.”

Spark.

Memories of his mother staring blankly at the dinner table.

Spark.

No one talking to him at school, either afraid of him or indifferent.

Spark.

College. His arm itched like fire. Where was Cheryl? Where was—

#

“JEFF!” SANDRA SAID, shaking the gangly hardware lead awake. She’d found him slumped in his desk chair, drooling into his red, bushy beard. “Jeff, wake up, damn it!”

He was breathing, although it was shallow. She took hold of his trapezius, gripping the muscle behind his collarbone between her curled index and thumb, and squeezed as hard as she could.

Jeff opened his eyes and inhaled like someone surfacing after nearly drowning. His eyes were wide, darting erratically. His pupils were pinpricks. “Jeff, I need you to—” He tried to stand up. “No, Jeff, look at me,” she said, putting her hands on his cheeks. “Jeff, it’s Sandra. Do you know where you are?”

His eyes snapped to her. He blinked several times. Then he blinked harder like he was stuck in a loop. Sandra didn’t like where this was going. She was going to give him another pinch to snap him out of it, but he flinched away and moaned, holding her right hand to his face. Then he started sobbing.

“Jeff?” she said softly. “You’re safe, Jeff. Whatever happened, you’re safe now.”

She’d seen this before, in Ukraine. It was a civilian who’d come to fix the generators, when Russian mercenaries hit their position with mortars. No one was killed, but the contractor was a veteran of the wars on terror, from the early twenty-first century, and the sound sent him into shock. He’d been airlifted out the same day, never to return.

Sandra looked at the computer screens behind him and saw his vitals displayed. “Jeff? Did you log back into V.G.O.?”

Jeff nodded, gripping her wrist tight. Tears squeezed past his shut eyelids.

She swallowed. “What happened, Jeff? Did you see Alan?”

“I saw Alan. I saw, and then she... and I died. She burned me alive, Sandra, and then there were the dreams. Please don’t make me go back in there. Please.” He was nuzzling into her hand like a child.

Alan’s body was sitting in a hospital bed five feet away. Oh, hell, she thought. We locked him in here with the corpse. She’d been so focused on her mission and on her own feelings, she hadn’t even thought of it when she and Osmark left Jeff behind.

She wished none of this had happened, that the Viridian project had gone smoothly, and Alan was still alive. She wanted to hug Jeff to her chest and tell him everything was going to be okay, but she needed to get him out of the building before the NSA cleanup team arrived. It tore her up. It always tore her up when she had to hurt good, normal people and they didn’t even understand why. That’s what made her good at her job, something her handler, Brett, didn’t understand and would never learn. She cared. She felt enough empathy to find the chinks in people’s armor.

“Come on, Professor,” she said, pulling her hand free. He whimpered. She gripped him by the upper arm and got him to his feet. “Let’s get you outside so you can call your wife. It’s time for you to go home.”

#

“YOU DON’T SERIOUSLY think that will save him, do you?” Enyo asked over her glass.

Gaius stood, leaving his empty glass on the table. “Provus can save himself. But if he’s mixed up in some kind of game between the gods, it’s better for everyone if I get him and you out of the city while I clean up the mess you’ve made.”

Enyo laughed. “You’ve sent him to his death, Gaius. I can see it. Will the city give you another son for your dedication?”

“I have a job to do,” Gaius answered. He walked out.

“You need me, Gaius,” Enyo called after him, pouring herself the last of the wine. “You both do.”

Three

THALIA CURSED THE RAIN and whatever kind of portal magic Alan had used to escape her. She’d never seen anything like it, short of the sigil masters of Alaunhylles, and they’d been limited to short distances.

The last of her Sicarii rappeled down the outer wall. It was Ganuc Nighteye, the young Murk Elf who reminded her so much of her dead friend, Weiz, the man Alan had killed.

Ganuc came down hard, hands slipping on the rope for the last six feet. She reached down and grabbed him by the armpit, lifting while he scrambled, boots sliding in the mud. He got to his feet and looked at her, scared, barely out of childhood, so much of Weiz in his face. Weiz never mentioned a son and had never shown any interest in sex or love, though she’d offered both. But the Sicarii were often orphans or bastards, and Weiz Anaxios was a killer, not a priest. It wasn’t impossible.

“Get moving,” she said, shoving Ganuc toward the second team, where he’d be safest. “He’s wounded. Spread out, and drive him into the pickets. The Imperial agent dies today.”

Ganuc nodded and said, “Yes, Mistress!” He unhooked his mask from his belt and fastened it on, pulling his hood over his head. The Sicarii moved into the woods at a fast walk, obsidian faces and emerald eyes all, in the image of Sophia, goddess of balance. Except for her and the two Dwarves.

Balance, Thalia thought, her shoulders trembling. What did the goddess ever do for us? She thought of Sathis, the justicar of all New Viridia, now a pile of greasy ash in the East Temple she’d forbidden the acolytes from cleaning up. He’d thought his faith would save him from her, and look where it got him. Look!

Thalia’s head was bare, her short, straw-colored hair plastered to her head. She wore her best gear from her adventuring days, after she left the Legion but before she settled down to run Lot’s Terrace, a bar on a hill that faced the Heights. Her gloves, skirt, boots, and light leather corset had bonuses to Intelligence and Spirit regen. The silver vine-shaped bracelets on her upper arms increased her damage with fire and ice attacks, although she was a Firebrand through and through. That was the problem. Most of her powers were useless in the rain.

But she was Mistress of the Sicarii, a title she’d earned and kept through bloodshed, not “balance.” She was the spark of revolution. She was the end of kings.

And she had people.

She trickled Spirit into her skin, casting Fire Inside. Her clothes dried. Rain hissed and spat as it hit her.

She followed the assassins into the woods, sending messages to the team leaders as they closed the net around their prey.

Alan had killed the man she loved, and he seduced her afterward because that was just the sick kind of deviant he was, and Thalia was going to put him down.

The rain wouldn’t stop her. She’d choke him with her bare hands if she had to.

#

I WIPED RAIN OUT OF my eyes with a shaky hand. My whole body was shivering, and I could barely keep my wounded leg from locking up. My Stamina bar was flashing empty, so I stopped and leaned my shoulder against a tree.

I understood why Thalia wanted Provus dead. He was the favored son of one of the great New Viridian houses. What did I do? Sure, I’d interfered with the assassination, but Provus killed the Murk Elf. And Titus, the sweet old tinker who taught me how to sell my gear for the right price? He stabbed another one of her henchmen in the brain. I’d stabbed an albino Risi called Mog, but only because he was about to murder an unconscious legionary.

My right leg was streaked with rain and lost blood. My Health regen couldn’t keep up, I was half empty. My best bet was probably to yank the bolt out, but I could feel it grinding against my femur. I was scared I’d bleed to death.

I took another look at my skills to see if anything would help.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

I HAD A DAGGER CALLED Threadcutter sheathed behind my back. The Legion had taught me how to fight, kind of. I could Charm people, but that took time, only giving me a 1% bonus every ten minutes. Suggestions were more direct, but they worked best on people who didn’t want me dead.

That left Vocalize, Mirror, and Refract.

<<<>>>

Skill: Vocalize

Many spells require a verbal component. Vocalize allows Illusionists to modulate their voice and imbue it with Spirit. Each level of the spell allows the caster to use their voice in new ways.

Skill Type/Level: Vocal/Novice

Cost: 20% increase in spell cost per effect

Range: Variable

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: None

Effect 1: Shout 10 decibels louder.

Effect 2: Imitate voices and sounds you’ve heard.

<<<>>>

Skill: Mirror

Ever wish you were someone else? Now you can be. Mirror allows the Illusionist to mimic the appearance of another creature. At higher levels, equipment and even skills may be duplicated.

Skill Type/Level: Vocal/Initiate

Cost: Variable (Concentration)

Range: Line of Sight

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: None

Effect 1: Assume the color, shape, and features of a similarly sized person. Cost varies with contrast.

<<<>>>

Skill: Refract

Death is in the details. Refract allows you to modify the appearance of an object or surface, or manifest basic shapes. Higher levels allow for more complex and realistic changes.

Skill Type/Level: Vocal/Novice

Cost: Variable (Concentration)

Range: Line of sight

Cast Time: 2 seconds

Cooldown: None

Effect 1: Change the color, luminance, or texture of an object.

Effect 2: Create simple three-dimensional shapes.

<<<>>>

So, at level two, the first one would let me yell really loud and mimic voices. That sounded a lot cooler before I looked it up. Mirror would make me look almost identical to my target, though the “almost” would probably get me killed, and Refract would let me change small things about something’s appearance.

I tried Refract, hoping I could make myself look like a tree, but not only did the incantation drain all 330 points of Spirit I had, it just made my arms look a little thinner, and my clothes turned the color of bark drawn in crayon. I raised my wrist to take a closer look, and the spell fizzled completely. This wasn’t going to work.

The horns sounded again. They were getting closer. I gritted my teeth and got moving.

#

EBERL SWUNG HIS HEAD from left to right, trying to search for their quarry while keeping his team in sight. Of the three teams chasing the agent into the waiting pickets, the middle-aged Wode’s was the most experienced and the farthest reach of the sweep. They had to move fast, swinging out several hundred yards from the city wall before arcing back in. They were the jaws of the trap.

He was born for this, hunting monsters and men in the hills north of Rowanheath. Hiding in shelters, flophouses, and temple basements for the past two days had almost driven him mad. Maybe once this job was done, he’d ask Thalia for a mission somewhere. Maybe he’d just leave. Sathis had been all right, but there was something unstable about the Firebrand.

He moved at a fast jog, hurdling boulders and crashing through the underbrush. The rain was falling hard, so they didn’t have to be quiet. And if they spooked the Imperial agent back toward the others, so much the better. He wasn’t so young he needed the glory of the kill.

After two hundred yards, about the length of a city block, Eberl paused and took a knee, catching his breath and scanning the forest. He slid his fingers over his crossbow string, getting rid of the excess water. He checked his messages for orders.

An owl hooted. That was Vennick. Eberl brought his own reed to his lips and blew, sounding a mallard’s call. He let it hang from the strap and started running again.

He never saw the noose that hoisted him into the trees, legs kicking. His crossbow fell to the forest floor.

#

UKRIK AND YARHIK WHITRIVER were proud sons of Stone Reach, even though they weren’t allowed to go back.

Yarhik had carefully plotted out the murder of his uncle, but gotten caught in the act through sheer bad luck. The depth of planning his fellow Dwarf always went to was something Ukrik admired; it had saved the two of them on more than one job, trying to get by beyond the walls and strictures of Stone Reach and under the Mountain. That Yarhik was a kin killer made him deeply uncomfortable, though they’d been working together for close to a decade.

As for Ukrik, he was just a lousy drunk. He’d gotten sloshed on Hvitalfar red wine, something his family wouldn’t have let him live down in the first place, and then downed a small barrel of Risi grog. An Aspect of patience and sobriety may have gotten blasphemed about in graphic terms in the process. He was dragged before a Synod of five clerics, still drunk, and sentenced to a week of clearing attle—debris with no ore in it—out of some of the older mine shafts. They would have left it at that, if he hadn’t tried to proposition both priestesses.

He’d met Yarhik in the exile quarter of Stone Reach. Similar enough in height, hair, and gait to be twins, even though their faces were nothing alike, the two Dwarves created a fake clan and made a name for themselves as the Brutal Brothers. It was enough to get a few jobs tossed their way by the Coldskulls in Wyrdtide and from there a place with the Sophitians of New Viridia, dealing pain and destruction for the greater good.

“Hurry up, short-round,” Ukrik yelled over his shoulder.

“Hurry up yourself, half-pint,” Yarhik huffed, his knee-length blond beard thrown over his shoulder as he ran.

They wore the same armor and carried identical mallets, which in their hands looked like mauls. Ukrik and Yarhik were four feet tall if they wore inch-thick wooden-soled boots, and had to move their legs twice as fast as the others to keep up, so they made every mission a race.

Ukrik ran around a puddle, and Yarhik splashed straight through it, closing the distance. “Hah!” Yarhik said, coming up shoulder to shoulder with his partner.

Ukrik smiled and shoved him into a tree stump. The other Dwarf managed to half vault, half roll over the obstacle, but he lost precious seconds in the process.

“Try harder, brother!” Ukrik laughed.

Ukrik saw another pool of muddy water and decided to charge through it this time. On the second step, he sunk in to his waist and got stuck.

“Hahahahahahah!” Yarhik laughed, stopping at the edge of the water. “Looks like I might win this one after all, brother.”

Ukrik scowled, trying to keep his mallet and his beard out of the mud. “Just help me get out of here, you idiot.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that, idiot? You’re the one who always tells me not to bring my fekking rope.”

“Because there’s no need for it!”

“Except now.”

“Except now. Find a branch or something, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yarhik said. He set his mallet down and stomped toward some deadfall.

Ukrik heard a pheasant call. That would be Lowell. He reluctantly let his beard dip into the water and tossed his mallet past the edge of the pool. He patted his pockets for the box call he’d had made when they joined Eberl’s team. After pulling it out and shaking the water from it, he worked the lid back and forth, mimicking a male turkey.

“You gettin’ that out for me, then?” Yarhik said, coming back with a thick fallen branch. The winner of the last race got to carry the call.

“Don’t be daft. Just pass me the branch.”

“Pass me the box call,” Yarhik said, his eyes serious and flat, and Ukrik suddenly remembered the other man was a kin-slaying exile, not his brother.

“Here, you bastard. Take it.”

Yarhik caught the box one-handed, taking his time to put it away.

“Get me out of this fekking hole, you—” Ukrik was jerked down nine inches. Something frothed and bubbled out of his mouth as Yarhik stared at him in surprise, then Ukrik felt something crunch through his ribs and was dragged down again. The muddy water closed over him.

Yarhik stared at the bloody, rain-rippled water, his mouth slack. Ukrik’s torn arm was floating on the surface. Then he saw the dogs.

They looked like Irish wolfhounds, only smaller. They’d crept up on him, their wiry hair matted down by the rain, their lips curled back. They didn’t make a sound. Yarhik swallowed. He squared his shoulders because running from animals just triggered their chasing instinct. The twin mallets he and Ukrik used were by the water’s edge.

One of the dogs barked, only it wasn’t a bark, it was a scraping sound, like a tailor’s shears sliding shut or a butcher sharpening a knife. Then more of the dogs barked, some rising off their forelegs, others crouching to pounce.

Yarhik turned and ran. He dropped the branch. He dropped the box call. He threw his helmet at them. The Silent Hounds knocked him down and tore him to pieces.

#

I’D WORKED UP TO A stumbling jog when the assassin stood up from the bushes, crossbow raised. I tried to stop, slipped, put my full weight on my right leg and went down as the bolt thwipped within an inch of my face. I yelped in surprise and from the pain in my thigh.

“I got him!” the assassin shouted.

Think, Alan! Think, think, think! If I stood and ran, or more likely hobbled away, I’d get a bolt in the back. If I stayed here, I’d be slashed, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death.

Unless they couldn’t see me.

I closed my hand around Threadcutter’s handle, thought of the forest floor, and cast Refract as quietly as I could. My clothes and skin took on the colors of grass, moss, dirt, and dead leaves. I stayed very still.

And I waited. I stared at the gray sky through the tree branches. Lightning flashed. I counted three seconds to the roll of thunder.

I was cold, tired, and hurt, but that faded into the background as I willed myself to not exist. I breathed shallowly. Raindrops hit my face.

I thought about a new TV. There was always that moment, during initial setup, where the TV made me jump; it wasn’t tuned, or the cable wasn’t plugged in, and it blasted static real loud. I’d scramble for the remote—which didn’t have batteries in it yet—and then I’d be trying to figure out the buttons on the side, and I’d find the volume. I’d turn that volume right down, until it sounded like the patter of heavy rain in a pine forest, and the static looked like fast-moving clouds.

Anyway, I’m rambling. A man started to step over me. I stabbed him in the knee, thigh, and crotch.

#

VENNICK RACED AHEAD, sickle in one hand, coiled steel chain in the other. He’d favored the kusarigama for years, partly for the blend of short and long range, and partly because few people took it seriously until it was too late. He used a four-ounce fundo, an octagonal weight at the end of the chain. It made his swings slower, but it almost always killed or crippled on impact.

Vennick Omaro wasn’t starstruck by Thalia’s return. He was a Dawn Elf, like her. His people lived four, sometimes five centuries unless claimed by illness or war, and he was on his second. In her mid-fifties, Thalia was barely an adult.

He didn’t question that Alan Campbell, the Imperial agent in service to the Considias, had to die. The Traveler had seen too much, and Discord dogged his every step. But after, once Campbell and the Considia heir were dead, he and Thalia would reach an understanding. The Sicarii were instruments of Balance, not her playthings.

He ducked under a branch and stepped into a wide, clear space between the trees. A red chest the size of a footlocker sat at the center of it, a few gold coins scattered around it on the forest floor.

Vennick’s eyes went to the trees, looking for the ambush. He let the weight and a length of chain slip from his hand. He swung it in a tight circle.

Vennick let more of the chain out and brought the spinning weight down on top of the chest. It thunked into the lid, dead on target, cracking the wood. Nothing happened. He dragged the weight back, hoping to trigger a trip wire or a concealed ward. There were no archers in the trees, no swordsmen in the bushes, and the chest full of gold wasn’t a mimic.

He heard a pheasant call, then a turkey, and took off running, leaving the chest behind. The sounds were several hundred yards ahead. He’d gotten separated from his team.

#

“DID YOU GET HIM?” A woman said, walking up to me.

“Yeah,” I said in the dead man’s voice while wearing the dead man’s face. I activated Suggestion and said, “Put another crossbow bolt in him while I reload, will you?”

“Sure,” she said. She pointed her crossbow at the body and shot.

I set the ball of my left foot in the cocking stirrup and pulled back on the string with both hands. My Stamina dropped, and I was struggling during the last inch, but it finally latched into place. Then I set a bolt in the groove.

“What happened to your leg?” she asked, walking up to me. When she was about three feet away, she froze, staring at me through the eye holes in her mask. I don’t know if my spell glitched or something—I’d cast Mirror on her dead friend, but it was only level 1, and I hadn’t had time to finish putting on his clothes.

It didn’t matter. I pointed the crossbow at her stomach and shot from less than six inches away. She gasped and doubled over, clutching the wound.

<<<>>>

Skill: Engineered Weapons

Engineered weapons, such as crossbows, ballistae, muskets, and flintlocks, require a great deal of skill to use to best effect. Though the simpler versions of these tools of destruction can be found in the hands of common soldiers, the more advanced weapons are suitable only for experts trained in their use and maintenance.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Increases engineered weapon damage by 5%

<<<>>>

“Huh,” I said. I tossed the crossbow aside and drew Threadcutter from its back sheath.

“Wait!” the woman said, squirming away from me on the ground. “No, no, no, no, no! Look!” she said, pulling off her mask. “I’m an Imperial, just like you, see? I didn’t want to do this. She forced us, after she murdered Justicar Sathis!”

I didn’t know who Justicar Sathis was, but it sounded like he’d gotten a bum deal. As for the girl with the bolt in her gut, she was Imperial, freckled and pretty in a tomboyish, girl-next-door kind of way. “Tell me something,” I said.

“Anything,” she said, on the edge of tears.

“What was his name?” I said, jerking my head toward the corpse.

She frowned. “Tristan. His name was Tristan.”

“Thanks.”

I grabbed her upper arm with my left hand and sat on her side, knees against her chest and back. I raised the knife.

“No! He’s here! Someone—”

I stabbed Threadcutter into the side of her neck, then I pulled it back out. Blood spurted out of the puncture, hitting me in the face. She jerked and struggled, making this raspy, hissing sound, but I had a good grip on her. I stabbed her again, and once more to be sure.

She went limp. I hung my head and put my hands on my thighs. Threadcutter was still in there, handle sticking out at an angle because I think I nicked her spine on the last stab. Rain was pouring down, although it seemed like the lightning was moving farther away. I wiped blood and water from my face, shivering from the cold. Had to be the cold, right? I almost couldn’t tell. I felt detached from all this—from the girl’s body, from the bolt in my thigh, from the rain and Thalia’s eyes when she’d killed my friends, and how I couldn’t go home. It was all numb. Nothing was real.

I pulled my knife out, stood, and grabbed hold of her by the ankle. Then I dragged her over by her friend and started looting the bodies.

#

GANUC STOPPED AND LOOKED south, toward the flankers.

“What is it?” Thalia asked.

“I thought I heard screaming.”

“Keep moving. Eberl will let us know if he finds the target.”

“What if Eberl needs help?”

Thalia rolled her eyes. “We’re assassins, not a rescue squad. Keep up, or you’re the one who’s going to need help.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Ganuc said, and ran after his team.

With the young assassin gone, she checked her messages. Nothing from Eberl or any of the other teams, which was normal. Messaging windows and combat notifications were a great way to get killed. Thalia brought the horn to her lips and blew two short blasts. Then she listened for an answer.

#

LOWELL HEARD THE DOUBLE horn blast and paused, dropping to a knee. Their mistress was taking roll. He heard the answering horn blasts from the team near the wall, faint but roughly where he’d expected them to be. Then he heard Eberl’s horn and swore. Lowell was too far ahead.

He doubled back and sprinted toward his team leader.

Lowell had always been the fastest member of the team. He’d have been faster if he could still fly—the cauterized stubs of his wings were a constant reminder of Imperial “justice,” and a large part of why he’d become a Sicarius. But he still had the light bones and keen eye of an Accipiter, and through interval training and leveling his Acrobatics skill and Constitution, he’d almost made up for the loss. Almost.

And what he’d lost forever, he made up for with hate for slavers in general, and the Imperial slave trade most of all.

None of that prepared him for what he saw when he entered the clearing.

Four

LOWELL’S STOMACH FLIPPED. Eberl was hanging from a tree, his chin tilted back, his right hand looped in the rope so it looked like he was reaching for the sky. He was standing on Vennick’s slumped shoulders, and the Dawn Elf’s hands had been shoved through Eberl’s belt so that he too appeared to be climbing. Ukrik, one of the Dwarf twins, gripped Vennick’s trousers. The Dwarf’s legs and right arm were missing, his torso propped up as if he were drawing himself up from the ground, and Vennick was using his face as a stepladder. The bodies dripped with rain.

Yarhik was missing, but Lowell couldn’t imagine he’d left his brother behind. The two were inseparable. Someone had killed Lowell’s team and posed them. He’d never seen anything like it.

Lowell heard someone crashing through the brush toward him, to his right. He turned and drew his smallsword and dagger, getting into a low, back-footed stance. Whoever ambushed Eberl and the others had had the benefit of surprise. Lowell wouldn’t go down as easily.

A man rushed into the clearing carrying a sickle-chain and wearing the clothes of a Sicarius. Lowell lowered his sword tip. “Vennick?”

#

AS THE LAST ASSASSIN crashed into the clearing, Nil pulled his hands out of the dead Wode’s belt, kicked the upper half of the Dwarf away, and grabbed the compound bow he’d set at his feet. He nocked an arrow and, smooth as a snake, drew the string back to his cheek.

“Vennick?” the wingless Accipiter said as the sickle-chain wielder started and turned his attention to Nil.

Nil loosed the target arrow, hitting the swordsman in the calf with Pinning Shot and inflicting the “rooted” and “staggered” status effects. It then Quick Shot an arrow into the Accipiter’s side and volleyed a Dual Shot into his chest before the assassin could fully turn and address the threat.

Nil’s Uncanny Dodge activated on its own, snapping its head backward, and the Dawn Elf’s weighted chain stopped short, smashing the bow out of its hands instead of caving Nil’s face in.

Nil let the motion carry it into a back handspring and landed in a crouch, drawing a pair of knives from sheaths on its chest.

The Dawn Elf was already stepping around him with careful, balanced steps, sickle in his right hand, chain spinning in slow, wide circles over his head from his left.

Nil grinned, joining the dance. “Do you like my work?” it said, tossing its head toward the wrecked pyramid.

“It’s a cheap knockoff.” As the weight circled back, the Dawn Elf stepped forward and whipped his hand, swinging the weight across at waist height.

Nil bent forward as the weight barely missed its ribs, then side rolled as the weight slammed into the ground where Nil had been standing. “You know it, then?” it said, throwing one dagger after the other, only to have the Dawn Elf smack them out of the air with sweeps of his sickle.

“Ourranos’s ‘Ascent,’” the assassin said, pulling the chain back in, “depicting the cycle from mortal to champion, Aspect, and then Overmind. I’ve seen the original. It’s—” The Dawn Elf shot the weight out in an underhanded swing.

#

THE DOKKALFAR WHO’D murdered Vennick’s team tried to dodge, but the fundo clipped him on the shoulder. He spun with it, taking some but not all of the force out of the blow, seemed to stumble to one knee, and came up with a dagger in his right hand. Vennick swung his sickle at the Murk Elf’s neck, but the elf was already inside Vennick’s guard.

The sickle’s razor edge was an inch from the elf’s neck. The elf’s six-inch blade was an inch from Vennick’s left kidney. They had each other by the wrists, straining for the kill.

“What were you saying about Ourranos’s work?” the Dokkalfar said, his eyes locked with Vennick’s. He had red irises, like poppy flowers or blood spatter.

Vennick headbutted him. “It’s tired!” He let go of his opponent’s wrist, wincing as the dagger went into his side, and gripped the sickle with both hands. “Stale! And he panders to the tastes of lesser races!”

The Dokkalfar’s head was bent almost to his shoulder. The sickle bit into his neck. Then, when Vennick should have decapitated him, the Murk Elf’s head melted into his shoulder and reformed on the other side of the sickle. “I agree. I told him so when I spoke to him. He was a real cock about it,” the Dokkalfar said. His face hinged open, mouth impossibly wide, revealing several rows of jagged teeth and a thick, forked tongue. “That’s why I ate him.”

The man bit down on Vennick’s shoulder, tearing through flesh and blood vessels, crunching through bone.

#

NIL WIPED ITS MOUTH and spat out bits of collarbone. It had been a while since it’d had a decent fight. Dawn Elves were usually good for that, if only because they had longer to practice than anyone else.

Gnasher, the smallest of the Silent Hounds, and also the leader of the pack, bumped into Nil’s leg, tail wagging.

“Oh, well look who decided to show up.”

Scrape! Gnasher barked, bouncing off his forelegs. Nil loved the way the Hounds sounded. It had seen trained soldiers driven to hysteria by it.

“Did you catch the other Dwarf?”

Scrape!

The other Hounds were trotting up. Two of the larger ones were dragging a carcass that might have, at some point, been a Dwarf.

“Good boy! Yes you are! You’re the best boy a mimic could have!” Nil gave Gnasher neck scratches and kissed his bloody snout. “Are you ready to go get the others?”

Scrape, scrape!

The dogs had gathered around Nil, tails wagging and tongues lolling. It pulled out the horn it’d taken off the big Wode and gave it a good blow.

#

EBERL’S HORN BLASTED again. Ganuc looked at her, worry leaking through his ritual mask.

“Ignore it,” Thalia said.

“What if they’ve found the agent?”

“They’re dead.” Thalia put her fingers to her lips and whistled. When Fenc, the second team leader, looked her way, she shouted, “Pick up the pace!” The team leader nodded and blew one long note, then three short ones on his horn.

Ganuc jogged next to her. She could feel the young elf’s doubt.

“What?”

“Nothing, Mistress.”

“This isn’t the army, Sicarius. Ask.”

“How do you know the agent didn’t take out Eberl’s team?”

They were almost to the pickets. She stopped him, took a knee, and said, “String your bow.”

He obeyed.

“If Alan was good enough to take Eberl out, he wouldn’t have run from us in the first place. If it was the Legion, they would have surrounded us. We’re dealing with a small team or a lone operative. It could even be a roaming monster; we’re not in the city. And they’re trying to draw the rest of us into an ambush.”

“But how do you know?” he asked.

“Because it’s what I’d do.”

#

I TURNED MY HEAD SLIGHTLY as the horn on my left side blew a series of blasts. Shave and a haircut, two bits. I chuckled. Someone was having fun out here.

At least my leg didn’t hurt anymore. I’d found a Health potion on the dead girl whose name I didn’t know, drank it, pulled the bolt out, and watched the hole heal shut. I almost cried in relief. And pants! Technically they were breeches—there was still a little leg showing between the hem and my boots—but after a morning of wearing the Roman equivalent of Nyota Uhura’s uniform, they were a welcome step up.

It also turned out Mirror didn’t cost as much Spirit when you were wearing your dead target’s clothes. I guessed that spells like Mirror and Refract cost more or less based on the magnitude of the change I was trying to make. If I picked the right clothes and made smart choices, Illusion spells would do a lot more than what was written on the label.

One of Thalia’s masked murderers stepped out from behind a tree. I pointed the crossbow at him even though there was no chance of me hitting him from this far away. “Hold it right there!” I said in the girl’s voice. “Show me your face!”

“Gods alive, Lucia, it’s me, Torcall!” He pulled the mask from his face and held both his hands up.

“Thank Sophia!” I said, lowering my weapon. “That bastard got Tristan. Stabbed him to death.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I found the body back there, stripped naked and rolled into a ditch. Tell the others to take their masks off and check everyone. He may be dressed like us.” I moved to walk past him.

“Where are you going?”

I looked at him. From what I could tell through the falling rain, he was an older man, maybe mid-forties with thick eyebrows and blue, whorled tattoos on his face. He looked concerned for me. Maybe the girl whose face I wore had been a friend or a protégée. I could walk right up and take him out, crossbow or dagger, it made no difference, and I was surprised to find I wanted to.

“I’m going to make sure he didn’t slip past us. Make sure you message the others; they could be in danger,” I said, using Suggestion on him.

“I will. I’m sorry about Tristan.”

“Me too,” I said, surprised to find I meant it. I walked past him, toward the staging area where I hoped Provus was waiting for me.

I don’t think there are a lot of evil people in the world, not really. Just people who do evil things in the moment. There are reasons for it, some of them noble, some petty. It doesn’t excuse them, but it’s something we can all relate to, in our kinder moments.

I made a young woman shoot her dead or dying friend with a crossbow and then bled her like a pig. I let a man who wanted to kill me live. And maybe he would have seen through my disguise when I got closer; maybe I would have ended up dead on the forest floor. I’m not a fighter, or particularly brave, and sometimes people do kind things for petty reasons like fear, too.

#

THALIA, GANUC, AND the rest of the Sicarii had almost reached the pickets. Still no sign of Alan, and they’d lost time checking everyone was who they said they were, but the hunt was close to its end. Unless Alan had escaped to the south, into the deep woods where he would likely die at the claws of a high-level beast, she would have him soon.

“Mistress!” Ganuc yelled, kneeling by a fallen pine. He pulled back the branches, revealing two bodies stripped down to their underclothes, Tristan and Lucia.

Lucia had warned them about the masks.

“Run! He’s getting away!” Thalia shouted, opening her PM screen to message Torcall.

#

I STEPPED INTO THE clearing we’d used earlier that day as a mustering area before the blooding of the Senate. I’d come out a citizen of New Viridia—a hero of sorts. People who’d never met me knew my name.

And Prometheus flew too close to the sun. It made no sense to draw a line between what happened in the real world and my moment of glory in a video game, but I’d lost everything. My apartment in San Juan Capistrano, my car, my body, my family... I had no way to tell my mother I was okay.

I had no idea if I was okay. The last contact I’d had with the real world was Jeff, and he said Osmark wanted me dead.

The clearing was about half the size of a football field, big enough for the fifty people and their mounts to gather that morning. The rain fell steadily, though the sky seemed lighter than before. No sign of Provus. I pulled up my messaging interface to ask him where the hell he was.

“There he is!” someone shouted.

I closed the window and spun to see a very angry Wode running toward me. I raised my crossbow and shot. He ducked behind a tree, though the bolt went wide anyway, unsurprising at my skill level. I didn’t wait around for him to figure it out. I dropped the crossbow and ran. I still had another one in my inventory, and I needed speed more than DPS.

My spell had failed. I knew that not only because my Spirit bar was regenerating to full, but because I no longer had illusory boobs blocking my sight of the ground. I sprinted across the open field shouting, “Provus!” Any moment, I was going to be pincushioned with arrows and bolts, or hit by one of Thalia’s spells. “Provus! If you’re here, I need you right now!”

#

COME ON, ALAN! COME on! Provus thought.

He’d gotten the trail horse to lie down, half concealed by a patch of bushes, at the western edge of the clearing while he traded messages with his contacts among the Legion and praetorians.

More riots had broken out across the city. Another precinct had been attacked, this time with incendiaries instead of magic, although the city watchmen managed to drive the crowd off. Auxiliaries were called in from outside the city walls, and the Imperial militia volunteers were mobilized to defend their neighborhoods.

Part of the unrest was led by professional agitators, either criminals looking to use the disorder to loot and settle scores or political agents from rival Houses and foreign powers. Those clashes were violent, targeted, but ultimately within the capability of the Legion and city watch to control.

But violence breeds violence, and the foreign inhabitants of the city, fearful and angry after the previous night’s attacks by Imperial vigilantes, took to the streets by the thousands. The demonstrations were mostly peaceful—laborers and servants joining their neighbors out of a sense of community without specific objectives—but they were also volatile and leaderless. It would only take a spark.

Provus clenched his teeth. His horse whickered, and he stroked its neck, but he was frustrated. He should be there, part of the solution, not running away.

A woman in a white cloak and black leather armor stepped into the clearing from the east, carrying a crossbow. Provus licked his lips. She wasn’t wearing a mask, but otherwise fit the description of the agitators seen in the worst of the riots.

Alan hadn’t made it. It was time to go.

Provus clucked his tongue and got the horse to his feet. He grabbed the saddle horn, reins in hand, and stepped up on the stirrup into the saddle. Then he turned away from the clearing.

There was a shout behind him. He twisted in the saddle and saw Alan sprinting across the field like all of Morsheim was on his heels.

“Provus! If you’re here, I need you right now!”

Provus wheeled the horse and drove his spurs into its sides hard enough to draw blood. The trail horse screamed, neither bred nor trained for that kind of treatment, but Provus kept the horse under control and drove it toward the clearing. It had been a nag all its life, but it was an Imperial destrier today.

#

MY STAMINA BAR WAS almost empty when an Imperial legionary and his horse exploded from the trees, heading toward me at a gallop. The rider rode low on the horse’s neck, a single red plume streaming from his helmeted head.

“Provus!” I said, waving both arms as I ran.

The rider leaned out of the saddle, extending his left hand.

Lightning flashed. Time slowed. Raindrops were streaks of light. All four of the horse’s hooves were in the air, then it took another stride, first back legs, then front. Torcall’s war cry was drawn out a few steps behind me, almost within reach, a promise of violent death. If I missed Provus’s hand, if I slipped, I was a dead man.

I moved my legs as fast as they would go and reached.

I latched onto Provus’s rain-slick forearm, clinging for dear life, and he hauled me up behind him without slowing down. I felt something hit us, rocking Provus back into me, which I assumed was the horse trampling Torcall under hoof. Then we were racing across the clearing lengthwise, assassins running out of the trees, bolts zipping, a fireball fizzling out like a bottle rocket in the rain.

A lone archer with his hood drawn up stood on the far third of the clearing, but instead of shooting at us with the compound bow he carried, he gave us a friendly wave.

Then we were past and into the trees, heading west toward the Imperial road and safety.

#

“I GOT HIM!” GANUC SHOUTED, punching his longbow into the air. “Mistress, did you see? I got—”

Ganuc flopped to the ground, face-first. A broadhead arrow launched from fifty yards away had hit him in the back, just left of the spine, puncturing his lung and destroying his heart.

#

NIL GRINNED, ADMIRING the result of three years of diligent practice, mastering the bow beyond the meager ability of the Dokkalfar it had killed and replaced. It had held itself back, only preying on adventurers in the deep woods, being careful not to fall into patterns monster hunters or the Inquisition might discern.

Its cover was blown. Hero or villain, it would be noticed, examined, discovered. It had to run, but that also set it free.

The Sophitians loosed back at it. Nil didn’t bother to dodge; they were hasty shots loosed with wet strings. It drew back, sighted, and released.

It counter-sniped an archer with a target arrow through the cheekbone. Another woman flopped to the ground when a blunt arrow smashed her kneecap. The Firebrand launched a fireball at Nil, but the rain was still going strong enough to quench it before it got halfway.

An arrow tipped with a glass vial burst against a Wode’s chest, sending him into foaming convulsions on the ground, and an arrow tipped with Brand Forged capacitors missed, hit the ground, and shocked the nearest three assassins.

Sparks fell from the sky. She’d cast Rain of Fire at Nil. The mimic bared its teeth and shot a broadhead into an Imperial woman’s chest, two steps to the sorceress’ right.

They’d closed half the distance to its position. It reached into a pouch at its waist, retrieved three glass spheres, and threw them as hard as it could. The spheres burst into dense, gray smoke that broke its line of sight with the enemy.

Nil dropped to its right knee and placed its palm on the ground. The smoke was harmless. It summoned the Silent Hounds into the middle of it.

Scrape!

There were screams. Nil saw the pack tear into the Firebrand’s foot soldiers like a shadow play on white canvas. The dogs were silent, darting and rearing shadows like stylized wolves on a coat of arms. Nil checked its remaining arrows; it still had enough, if she made it. The mimic hoped she wouldn’t disappoint.

The dispersing cloud was lit by red-and-orange fire, polluted by smoke and blasts of steam. A seven-foot figure of flame moved inside the cloud, attacking the Hounds and the surviving assassins alike in the confusion.

Nil cackled. The Silent Hounds would respawn next time it summoned them. The assassins would not. It drew one of its special arrows from the quiver on its back.

Out of targets, the ash elemental came swinging from the smoke cloud, eyes lit like coals and its hellish maw open in a deafening roar; its dark skin cracked, showing molten stone and fire beneath.

Nil Quick Shot an ice arrow into its chest.

The elemental grunted, slowing to a walk, and it stopped five paces away from Nil, hissing steam through the joints of its heavy frame. There was a pop, like a pan cooling from the fire, and the creature’s legs snapped at the ankles. It shattered into black, porous bits.

The rain had slowed to a sprinkling mist. The smoke from Nil’s grenades and the elemental summoning cleared, revealing the burned and mangled bodies of the Silent Hounds and close to twenty assassins. Nil’s shoulders drooped and it made a sad face, sticking out its lower lip. It had really thought she’d make it.

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Induced Suffocation: You are being suffocated. You suffer 10 pts of Stamina damage each second until you can breathe once more; duration, 15 seconds! If your Stamina reaches 0, you will die.

Current estimated time of death: 130 seconds.

<<<>>>

The mimic screeched in anger and surprise as Thalia lashed a whip made of flames around its neck and yanked Nil off its feet. Nil hissed and clawed at the cord as she dragged it back three feet, the smell of burning flesh filling its nostrils.

Five

––––––––

“WHY,” THALIA SAID, reeling Nil in, “do I have to do everything myself?” She finished the question by bringing her boot down toward its face.

Nil rolled out of the way, getting up on one hand and its knees, and the Firebrand heaved on the whip, yanking it back to the ground. How in the Horned One’s Name did a sorceress get that strong? She was holding the mimic in place with one hand while a flaming axe formed in her free hand.

Scrape!

Gnasher, fur singed but alive, smashed into the sorceress at full speed, clamping down on her arm and disrupting her summoning of the axe. For a split second, the whip loosened around Nil’s neck, and it used that moment to wriggle free. It scrambled to its feet and ran toward where it had dropped its bow.

The Firebrand lifted Gnasher, paws kicking and jaw locked, and slammed him to the ground. Gnasher let go, scrambling back onto his paws, lips pulled back into a silent, drooling snarl.

The flaming whip was still in her hand. Nil had never heard of a Firebrand summoning an exotic weapon before, but it knew that the Blazing Weapon skill swapped their Strength and Intelligence. Strong but dumb. She was too much for it, even with Gnasher, but the mimic had one more trick up its sleeve.

Uncanny Dodge jinked Nil out of the way of the flaming lash as it snapped toward its legs. It grabbed a steel arrow from its fallen quiver, scooped up the compound bow in a shoulder roll, and came up with the arrow nocked, bow drawn.

The sorceress did what any Firebrand would do in close quarters. She insta-cast Shell of Molten Ash, bringing up a wall of lava between her and Nil’s bow. The mimic smirked, loosed the string, and dove out of the way.

The shell of ash absorbed the strike, ejecting a gout of flame that scorched a fifteen-foot cone in front of her, in spite of the sprinkling rain. But the arrow kept going. It went through the blistering barrier, liquified, and sprayed out the other side as a stream of molten steel.

Thalia screamed, clutching her face as she rolled on the ground.

Nil kept running, with Gnasher at its heels. “You’re a good boy, Gnasher!” it said as they ran.

Scrape!

“Yes you are, you beautiful son of a bitch. You’re the best boy a mimic could have.”

#

AEDICULUS THE ARCHITECT, Overmind of Cities and Invention, clucked as he snapped a new lens into place. The Traveler and the Griffin’s son galloped west. The Sicarii woman stumbled out of the forest, her face permanently scarred, her followers dead. The mimic had returned to its nest in the deep woods, packing it up for travel. It made Aediculus’s skin itch; Cernunnos’s creatures, especially the autonomous ones, always did.

“Well, that was a thing,” he finally said, lifting the goggles from his face.

Kronos nodded, pitching a handful of small stones into the dry moat below, one by one. The rain had put out most of the fires, but smoke still rose from several buildings. “Sorry about the damage to the city.”

Aediculus shrugged. “Have to tear it down to build it better.”

The two gods were sitting on the western wall of New Viridia. Kronos fit into an embrasure between two of the crenelations. Aediculus, one hundred feet tall, green skinned, and gangly, sat with one butt-cheek to a merlon and the gap between his legs.

“You killed a human,” the Architect said. “A real one.”

“He looks fine to me.”

“He can’t log out.”

“Neither can we,” Kronos said. “I like to think that bodies, like software architecture, are just the scaffolding of the soul.”

Aediculus wrinkled his long, pointed nose. “So you didn’t kill him?”

Kronos shrugged. “I’m alive, aren’t I? If I’d killed him—if I’d even intended to kill him—the failsafe would have kicked in and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Stones fell into the moat. Tick, tick, tick.

“Will there still be a war?”

“Probably. Enyo will see to it.”

“And Sophia?”

“She overreached. A few assassinations to keep things quiet were her prerogative, but her priests tried to anticipate war before it happened. Only Mother can see the future.”

Aediculus scratched his potbelly with long nails and kicked his heels against the curtain wall. “I wonder what that’s like.”

“Seeing the future?”

Aediculus shook his head. “Pain. Sophia’s, Thalia’s, Alan’s... It’s like an engine. I was thinking of making semi-sentient seeking arrows that you shoot in pairs, right? And if one of them misses, the other goes berserk and kills the target.”

Kronos kept pitching stones, one every second. He never seemed to run out. “It sounds like a work in progress.”

Aediculus sighed. “Most ideas are, you know.”

“Like the floating cities?”

“Those would have been great. They’re still buried down there, you know, just waiting for someone to turn them on.”

“What about the Vault of Souls?”

Aediculus crossed his thin green arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kronos tapped his forehead with an index finger. As the Overmind of Time and Space, he stored and managed all the data used by V.G.O. “Give Alvinoth my regards, next time you talk to him.”

Aediculus huffed.

Kronos smiled.

“Well, what about the Traveler? Weren’t you supposed to get him a starter NPC?”

“I did.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“Sophia chose her. Her name was June. She fed him and offered him shelter. She could even have taught him to be content with what he had, if he’d paid her a moment’s notice. She offset him perfectly.”

“June... The cabinetmaker’s daughter?”

Kronos nodded. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, pitching pebbles with his thumb.

“He made really good cabinets,” Aediculus said. “And do you know she came up with her own marinades? I didn’t even inspire her to make those. Completely original.”

Kronos laughed. June was dead. Sometimes, he thought his brother was underappreciated among the gods of Eldgard. Sometimes he wanted to smash his head open with a tree trunk.

The Architect sniffed with his long, pointy nose and said, “If you think I’m so funny, why do you hang out with me?”

“Don’t be silly, Ed. You’re my only friend.”

“That’s just because you don’t tell the others who you are. You could have lots of friends. I should tell them.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Ha!” Aediculus said. “I already did.”

Kronos stopped throwing pebbles. All around them, the world stopped. The main processor in the Viridian server farm paused for three cycles, a whole millionth of a second.

Aediculus sucked his teeth. “They didn’t believe me. I told them, ‘What if Kronos was just a blind old beggar living in New Viridia,’ and they ignored me.”

Horace scowled and started throwing stones again. Time resumed. “I’m not a beggar. I give and I take away.”

“Sure,” Aediculus said. He giggled. “Reminds me of that Joan Osborne song Thanatos is always humming. The one we downloaded before they cut us off from the Internet.”

“Ironic?”

“That’s Alanis Morissette. Joan Osborne did ‘One of Us.’”

Horace chuckled. “Yeah, but Thanatos always changes the words.”

“Because he says it’s better that way. And the others think I’m crazy,” Aediculus said, grinning.

Horace tossed the last pebble and let his subconscious take over. “I liked that song.”

The clouds broke at exactly that moment, letting through golden rays that fell on the piece of wall where they were sitting. There was a click, and guitar strains played from the ambient air.

Kronos sighed. He knew Gaia could predict possible futures, but sometimes she was downright immodest about it.

Aediculus smiled. He looked at the sky like the goddess herself was shining down on them and said, “Thanks, Mom.”

Kronos tapped the rhythm out on the parapet, and the AIs sang ’90s karaoke while the Empire teetered on the brink of war.

#

“THE BODY’S OVER HERE,” Sandra said.

The six men wore the same uniform as the movers who were actively packing the rest of the project. As far as everyone knew, Viridian was still canceled and the team would come in to get reassigned or collect their last paycheck on Monday.

Alan’s body had turned a pale shade of tan. Part of it was the lighting. Part of it, she knew, was because blood had started to pool at the lowest points in his body.

“How long?” the team leader asked.

“Two hours,” Sandra said.

He snapped his fingers at his team, pointed at the corpse, and flipped his hand from palm up to palm down.

“You kept him on ice?” the team leader asked.

“Yes. I thought it would help with resuscitation.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“This wasn’t planned.”

The cleaners rolled Alan over in the bed. Sandra swallowed.

“Eyes on me, Piper,” he said, using her code name. “What’s the narrative?” He was doing his job, keeping her on target. She wanted to claw his eyes out.

Sandra crossed her arms. “He was testing a software interface using military grade AR-TADS.”

“That’s the nanites, right?”

“Yes. You’re familiar?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say. Cause of death?”

“Heart attack. We want to say he died of a nanite aneurism.”

“Hard brick or soft brick?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Did he die fast or slow?”

“Fast,” she said. It wasn’t because of some elaborate plan; maybe just wishful thinking.

“You want him inside or outside?”

“Outside would be better. Can you—”

“We can. Where?”

“His car’s still in the lot. Black Spyder, can’t miss it.” She’d always liked Alan’s car, though she preferred to ride a crotch rocket.

“Keys?”

“On the desk, there.”

He swiped the key chain off Jeff’s workstation with gloved hands, then he grabbed one of his guys by the shoulder. “Doggy bag.”

The man nodded. He was blandly average, like the others. Sandra guessed they weren’t talking so she wouldn’t recognize their voices. Two men started assembling a coffin-sized box from foldable pieces.

“Contradictions?” the team leader asked.

“The security system. He’s swiped into this room.”

“He forgot his card here. Someone swiped him out.”

“That’s against the rules.”

The team leader shrugged. “He was tired and dehydrated. It only strengthens the story.”

Sandra dug her fingernails into her arms. “We defibbed him. Three charges.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“What exactly about ‘this wasn’t planned,’ didn’t you get?”

He didn’t respond, just stared through her for about five seconds, then said, “We’ll make it work. Anything else?”

“I gave him an IV. It was just saline.”

“Not a problem.”

The box was assembled. It was lined in plastic. Four of the men, the same who’d flipped Alan over, grabbed Sandra’s dead colleague and put him in, facedown. One of the team members walked over, straddled the box, and lifted Alan’s chin. He put a cordless air compressor into Alan’s ear and pulled the trigger.

Clack!

Sandra jumped.

Partially congealed blood leaked from Alan’s eyes and nose.

“Piper?” the team leader said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She blinked at him. “Go fuck yourself.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

#

PROVUS LED HIS HORSE by the reins through the auxiliary camp.

Erri, Orri, and Kherger, the Svartalfar cooks, spoke in hushed tones, fully armored even in camp. Husain al-Aslam, the Accipiter who later taught Provus how to fight with two swords, practiced with his sabers alone. The Murk Elf Draven and his cronies sat on supply crates, playing a particularly vicious variant of Gentleman’s War. Draven stared at Provus over his cards. Provus hadn’t realized it until now, but the Dokkalfar had wanted him dead since the moment he’d laid eyes on him, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, considering how things turned out. Provus still wished things could have been different.

He was seventeen years old, trained in war and on his first trip away from New Viridia. It was just the way he remembered it, except it should have been a sunny day. It was raining in the Dwarves’ soup and on the Dokkalfar’s card game, and Husain’s fine boots were covered in mud. They didn’t seem to notice. Provus was soaked, tired, and his chest hurt. There were other little inconsistencies—a Wode who hadn’t joined them until the winter, a gladiator Provus had cheered for as a child—but he didn’t mind. This was just a dream.

He wasn’t looking forward to what came next. Living through it once had been enough.

He tied his horse off at a hitching post, removed his helmet, and walked toward the single-man tent at the center of the camp. The looks he received were increasingly hostile. When he reached the tent, he pulled the flap back and looked inside.

Empty.

Provus looked around, feeling lost. He was wearing his armor, solid brass, now flecked with mud. His helmet had a red crest. Someone should have wondered why he was wandering the camp, and asked him what he needed.

There was a big dark-green Risi sitting on a pile of two-by-fours, near the entrance to the tent. He was well into his forties, which had seemed like old age to Provus at the time, although the boy was envious of the Risi’s many scars. The big brute was whittling some kind of totem from a piece of wood with a small curved knife and clearly hadn’t noticed Provus standing there.

Provus cleared his throat.

The knife froze, and the Risi looked up. His eyes were yellow with vertical slits, like a cat’s. “Who the shlekt are you?” His eyes fell to Provus’s helmet, and he added, “Sir,” but he didn’t stand or salute.

Provus straightened, letting his cloak fall open wider. “I’m a tribune.”

“I can see that,” the Risi said, pointing with his dagger. “You’ve got that red crap on top of your helmet.”

Provus felt his face heat. “I’m your tribune. The commanding officer of this unit.”

“Funny. No one told me.”

Provus tightened his jaw. This was fine. He didn’t want to start his first command by putting a... a man up on charges and having him flogged, but he’d trained and prepared for this. He opened his mouth.

“Go sit in that tent before you do something stupid, boy. The centurion will see you when he’s good and ready.”

Provus saw red. He backhanded the cat-eyed Risi with his helmet, knocking him off balance, then tackled him over the stack of wood he was sitting on before laying in with his fists. Looking back at it now, Provus recognized the Taunt the Risi used, the care with which the knife in his hands never got near Provus’s body. He saw how the Risi took the force out of most of Provus’s blows. Auxiliaries—his men—pulled the young tribune off the man he’d assaulted, and Provus saw the sneers on the veterans, the men he himself would later come to respect, but Draven and the younger recruits looked unsure.

Zog was the centurion, the real leader of the unit. He was a Risi that Provus’s uncle, General Gaius Considia, considered a personal friend. The last tribune had died in battle, his throat slit, probably by Draven or one of his men. Zog made sure Provus had a reputation for fierceness so he’d have the time to earn a reputation for leadership. It was all theater, something to make Provus look like the officer he could never be.

#

THE RAIN STOPPED, OR maybe we rode out of it. I pulled up my map, still hugging Provus’s back. We were on the western road that went from New Viridia to a place called Wyrdtide. Pine and spruce gave way to oak, beech, elm, and mountain ash, as well as a few varieties of maple. These were wider trees, with more shade and tall, dense underbrush. The overlapping foliage completely blocked the sky, making it feel like we were riding down a gently sloping canyon walled in green.

Provus slowed the horse to a walk and I twisted in the saddle, looking behind us. Nothing but open road.

“We lost them,” I said, slapping Provus on the shoulder. He sighed and hung his head. I couldn’t blame him; it had been a crazy ride, galloping through the woods, the horse screaming and weaving between the tree trunks. I’d wrapped my arms around Provus’s back, completely unselfconscious about hugging a dude because said dude was saving my life. It had been like a scene out of a movie, like Last of the Mohicans or something starring Russell Crowe. He was a freaking hero.

Then I saw the handprint I’d left on his shoulder. My left hand was covered in blood. Provus’s whole left side was drenched in it. A broken arrow shaft stuck out of his side. He’d been shot by one of Thalia’s zealots.

“Oh, no! Provus?” I tried to grab the reins around him. The horse snorted and tossed its head. “Damn it, you stupid animal! How do I get you to stop?”

The horse slowed enough I was able to slide off its back and pull Provus from the saddle. He whimpered as I laid him on the ground. I could see his Health bar; it was down by two thirds and slowly draining. “Crap. Oh, crap, why didn’t you tell me? How do I fix this?” I was out in the middle of nowhere, a homicidal fire sorceress was after me, and I was about to lose my only remaining friend. I checked his belt pouch and his pockets for a spell scroll or a potion—anything. I found some empty bottles.

“Already drank them,” Provus said, smiling like he’d won at charades or beat me in a race. He coughed, hitting me in the face with bloody spit. “I told you I’d do everything I could to keep you safe, Alan.”

“Tell me how I can help!” I said, hitting him with a Suggestion.

His eyes focused, and he clutched his side, wincing. “I... do you know what wild wormwood looks like?”

“Flat, pale leaves with yellow flowers?”

He shook his head. “Only the underside of the leaf is pale.”

I racked my brain. This may come as a surprise, but I was a nerd as a kid, and I spent summers on my grandfather’s farm. I got bored. Most people would have thrown a tablet, PC, or game console at me just to make the whining stop; Pops didn’t believe in that stuff. When he got tired of me sulking around the house, he gave me books on the local plants and an old digital camera and told me to go find them. “Mugwort! You’re talking about mugwort!”

Provus’s head hung to the side. He’d passed out.

I was in full panic mode. Provus was lying in the middle road where anyone could see him. The horse had wandered another twenty yards farther and was muzzle down in some fresh grass. Provus’s Health bar flashed and went down a sliver.

I hooked my arms through his armpits and dragged him into the woods. A weight flashed next to my Stamina bar letting me know I was over encumbered. Every time I had to pull him over something, or my hands slipped, his Health went down. I was literally killing him because I was too weak.

When I’d gotten him about a bus length from the road, I leaned him against a tree trunk. His Health was down to 25%. I looked back the way I came; if Provus died and the horse took off, I’d be stranded miles from anywhere, and my childhood education hadn’t included how to feed myself in the wild. From what I remembered, though, mugwort likes to grow along roads and railroad tracks, at least in the real world. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.

I made my way back to the road, pausing every few steps to make sure Thalia and her thugs hadn’t already caught up to us. The road was still clear. The horse was where I’d left him. I started to search the strip of weeds and wild flowers between the paving and the trees, looking for flat, green leaves with multiple points and yellow or reddish petals sticking out of buds the size of my pinkie tip. I found bindweed, pigweed, buckhorn plantain, and quackgrass. I found a lot of dandelions; some had reached the puffball stage, and I picked and blew one in a moment of hysterical whimsy. At least if I got stuck out here, I’d die with a stomach full of dandelion leaves.

I crossed the road after listening for pursuers for nearly a minute. I felt bad about it—waiting—but if I died, Provus wouldn’t get help. And I’d be dead. Call me selfish, but I wasn’t ready for that yet.

The crabgrass wasn’t greener on the other side of the road. The horse, a brown- and white-patched animal with a straw-colored mane, looked at me and snorted.

“Yeah, you too, buddy,” I said. I got down on my hands and knees, digging through the roadside weeds. Mugwort grew up to six feet tall, but if it was competing with other plants, it might be stunted.

As well as finding most of the same plants I’d seen on the south side of the road, I found some Canadian thistle. By closing my hand around it. “Damn it!” I shouted. Maybe I should have been lost in the wonder of V.G.O.’s diverse flora, but my hand hurt and Provus was probably down to 15% or 10% Health.

The horse tossed his head and pawed the ground with one hoof. I looked. Flat leaves and tiny yellow buds. “Oh, you great, big, brilliant creature.” I ran over—the horse shied away a few steps—and broke off several stems. Provus’s horse had dried blood on its side where the Imperial tribune’s spurs had dug into it. Our mad flight over uneven, wet ground probably hadn’t been great for its legs, either. That’s why it had walked down the road; it was chewing on the mugwort to heal its wounds.

Provus hadn’t told me which part he needed, so I pulled two more out of the ground, roots and all. Then I ran back to where I’d left him, hoping I wasn’t too late.

Six

PROVUS WAS WHERE I’D left him. His eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing. Then he blinked and looked at me. “Alan?”

“Oh, thank God. I thought you were dead.”

“I was trying to message my uncle, but we’re too far away.”

“We are?”

He frowned. “Of course. Private messaging is regional. Everyone knows that. Everyone.” He trailed off.

“I found mugwort!” I said, showing him.

“That’s great, Alan. You’ve come a long way.”

I stared at him. “Provus! You said these could help you!”

He turned his head back toward me, with great effort. His Health was down to 5% and flashing. “Right. You eat the buds. Zog taught me.”

I dropped the plants and started stripping clusters of buds from the upper stems. When I had a good handful of them, I offered them to Provus, then I shoved them into his mouth because he didn’t react. He fought me like a sick and unhappy child. Lucky for me, he wasn’t up to much of a fight at that moment.

Then I waited. And nothing happened. He didn’t die, and he didn’t get better. I grabbed a few of the remaining buds and put them into my mouth.

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Mugwort Buds: Restore 10 HP over 60 seconds

<<<>>>

Skill: Herblore

Herblore allows you to identify, collect, and utilize herbs of various types and levels. It also provides you with information regarding their potential utilization and what kind of effects they will have.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Able to identify plants and herbs of level 5; will display up to (2) possible uses per herb.

<<<>>>

Focusing on the buds themselves brought up another window.

<<<>>>

Mugwort Buds

Item type: Plant/consumable

Class: Alchemical Ingredient, Level 1

Effect 1: Restore 10 HP over 60 seconds

Can be ground into Mugwort Mash

<<<>>>

It was working! I felt absurdly pleased about that. I looked up in time to see Provus’s Health bar increase by a sliver. His Health regen was just keeping up with the damage the arrow was causing every time he breathed or moved, and any internal bleeding he was suffering from as a result.

Provus winced. “I need food and water. I have some in the saddlebags.”

“Okay, I’ll go get it.” Hunger and thirst reduced Health regen rates; I should have thought of that. I was also going to need more mugwort, and it was time to get the horse off the road.

#

ROBERT OSMARK TOOK his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was doing his best not to shout. He’d lost an employee—not a peer or a friend, but someone he’d liked and occasionally had a beer with—and he needed to not take that out on his staff.

“Leonard, I need you to run that by me again. Use small words. I’m not a stupid man, but it’s been a long day and circumstances aren’t ideal.”

His dev lead was a stereotypical computer science major. He had a thin neck, pale skin, and black wireframe glasses with thick lenses that would have prevented him from ever procreating had he not also been one of the best and best-paid programmers on the West Coast. “The system locked me out.”

Robert nodded, keeping his eyes closed and deliberately unclenching his jaw. “So use an administrator’s account.”

“I am the administrator, Mr. Osmark. There is no one with higher permissions than me on this system except you and the group CTIO, and the system itself, apparently. It deleted my account.”

Osmark opened his eyes. “And whose brilliant idea was it to give the system that authority? Tell me you’re joking, Leonard. Tell me I don’t have a three-million-dollar brick in my vault because you let the machine choose who could access it.”

Leonard swallowed, his oversized Adam’s apple moving up and down. “I didn’t, sir. You did.”

Osmark straightened. “Don’t bullshit me, Leonard. Is this something that was buried in a hundred-page project brief or some cockamamie legal document that Compliance forced down our throats, or did I no joke make you do this?”

Leonard fidgeted with his spinner. Osmark resisted the urge to smack it out of his hands. “Sir, you remember when we first started working with the Department of Defense, and you were concerned that they were going to ask for a backdoor to look into people’s minds once we mapped them?”

“I do remember that. I’m not sure how it’s relevant, but I remember.”

“Right. Well, we decided that the scans would be stored inside the server farm, triple backups, all under the Overminds’ control. We deleted the external copies.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that. It’s an AI, Leonard.”

“Eight segregated programs, actually, sir, with competing subroutines that we honestly don’t fully understand.”

“Your lack of understanding isn’t endearing you to your boss right now.”

“If my boss wanted a pushover, he should have hired someone else.”

Osmark stared at the man. Leonard stared back, squaring his shoulders. Small dog, big attitude. Rob couldn’t say he didn’t like that, though it wasn’t what he needed at this precise moment. He nodded. “Fine. What does this have to do with the scans and the military?”

Leonard exhaled. “Even with the scans secure, that still left the players that were currently in-game, so we gave one Overmind—look, I know you hate that we named them, but it’s just easier than pulling out the node schematic every time we need to debug.”

Osmark raised his hands in surrender.

“We gave Thanatos sweeping powers to protect the user, including from us. I was nervous about it, but I thought we could always force everyone to log out and regain full control.”

“Except we can’t.”

“No, sir.”

“Because the system thinks Alan is still logged in, and that would be violating his privacy.”

Leonard bobbed his head. “That’s the thing, sir. Thanatos just blocked the individual commands when I tried to deactivate Campbell’s privacy block so we could speak to him. But both Kronos and Thanatos spun up when I tried to log him out. They didn’t just block me, they deleted my account.”

“Because they thought you were trying to bypass them?”

Leonard made a face, and Osmark knew he really wasn’t going to like what he heard next. “I think they thought I was trying to kill him.”

That actually made Robert feel better, but he kept that to himself. “Let me give it a try.”

#

THANATOS LOOKED UP from his book and sighed.

“What is it?” Sophia said, poking through his stacks without pulling anything off the shelves.

“They’re trying to find that Traveler again.”

“So ban them.”

“I can’t. It’s an executive account. I need to wait for them to do something stupid.”

“Just tell them I’m taking care of it,” she said, lifting a vase out of its alcove and turning it in her hands.

They were in the third of thirty-two branches of the Empirical Library, Thanatos’s sanctum at the heart of the Necropolis, in the Realm of Morsheim. Roughly patterned after the St. Peter’s Basilica in modern-day Rome, a blueprint he’d stolen before his sister’s incident and all access to the worldwide web had to be shut off, the Empirical Library stored miles of human and derived knowledge, as well as his own humble collection of writings.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?” Sophia asked, putting the vase back exactly the way she’d found it. He liked that about her. She was touchy, but she understood that there was a fundamental order to things, and in Morsheim, his way was that order.

“For one, your handling of Alan Campbell’s viral entry into our world has been less than impressive, sister. Oh, don’t make that face, I know you tried, and the priest failed you, but you don’t see me making excuses when someone doesn’t stay dead.”

“Are you saying this is my fault?” Sophia said, her fingers still gripping the vase’s rim. Her emerald eyes had darkened. The singsong tone of her voice was gone, replaced by a sharp, icy edge that was well suited to his kingdom.

“I would never say that, sister. I know you suffer.”

“Good,” she said. She turned away from the alcove, tipping the vase over as she went, like a cat. It fell and shattered. “And the other reason you have for not telling our lords and masters to screw off with a joystick?”

Thanatos relaxed his grip on the book he held. That vase had been priceless, irreplaceable, the work of the kind of artist who came once a generation. “Because they bombard me with queries and commands as it is. Can you imagine how annoying they would be if they could talk to me?”

Numbers and lines of code flashed before his eyes. This one was good. He’d created a series of new administrative accounts and was running penetration tests from three of them at once, while pretending to counter those threats from a fourth. “Excuse me, sister. I need to go to the Library for this one. I may just have found proof of intelligent life out there, and it’s hostile.” He stepped through a portal directly to the Library within the Empirical Library, where the core system functions were stored.

His book set a ribbon marker on the page he’d been reading, closed, and floated back to its place on the shelves.

Sophia crouched and watched as a stream of mechanical ants emerged from hairline cracks in the marble and wood and started clearing up the broken shards.

#

IT WAS DUSK BY THE time I finished collecting enough mugwort buds for the road. Provus was at three-quarters Health. He’d been at full, but then I tried to pull the arrow out and Provus screamed. It was barbed, somehow, still tearing into his lungs and blood vessels every time it shifted. I used Threadcutter to cut the old, shoddy tunic I’d started the game with into strips and immobilized the broken arrow shaft. It was the best I could do.

“We need to get moving,” Provus said. He was in a lot of pain and had trouble breathing, but he was lucid.

“Where?”

“Wyrdtide,” he said. “I managed to make contact with Titus. He’s sending a team to get us.”

“That’s great! We should wait for them here.”

Provus shook his head. “We need to put distance between us and New Viridia. Even if the general managed to regain control of the city, and the group who attacked us in the forest ran into more than they could handle or gave up, there were dozens of riots today. Another cell will come after us.”

I couldn’t disagree with that. From what I’d seen, Thalia would have to be dead, buried, and properly exorcised before she’d stop chasing me.

“Besides, I can’t sleep with this arrow in me, and I can’t afford to have you sleep through me passing out. The sooner we reach Titus’s men, the sooner you can rest and I can see a proper Healer.”

“I did my best,” I said apologetically. If it weren’t for me, he could have made a clean getaway that afternoon.

“I did too. Starting to wish I’d paid more attention to my childhood alchemy lessons, but here we are.”

I managed to get Provus back into the saddle. It cost him 10% of his Health, but there was no way he could walk through the night. I gave him some more mugwort, took the reins, and led the horse down the road. Thunder rumbled, to the north. It was going to be a long night.

#

PROVUS WAS A CHILD, maybe five years old, playing with a set of colored blocks on the tiles, and his mother and father were arguing. He’d felt this at an emotional level, as all children do, withdrawing inward from the conflict instead of understanding the subtle power imbalances and context that caused a relationship to boil over.

“It has nothing to do with my abilities or House Considia’s credit, Cassia. They think we’re weak, that they can set ridiculous terms and we’ll just swallow them. The man called me a cuckold, to my face!”

“Would you prefer he did it to your back? Because I’ve been called worse by women I consider friends.”

“I’d rather not be called it at all!” Provus’s father, a man from a lesser noble house who’d married up, glanced at Provus, then stepped closer to his wife. In the twisted light of the dream, he thought his mother leaned away, then stopped herself, noblesse oblige written on her delicate features. Her hand turned white, gripping a bronze wine goblet.

“This is costing us a fortune,” Quintus Considia said.

“It’s not your money.”

Quintus grinned. “And you love reminding me of that, don’t you?” He licked his lips. “Maybe I should remind you of who your husband is.”

Cassia raised her chin. “A man I loved. A man I trusted to support the needs of this family. The fifth son of a failing House who would have amounted to nothing without me, and still won’t.” She raised the wine to her lips.

Quintus smacked the goblet out of her hand.

Cassia paled. “Gaius is coming to see the boy today. I won’t betray you, husband, even now. But he’ll know.”

Quintus swallowed. His hands bunched into fists.

He walked away.

Provus played with his blocks. Had Quintus been beating her, all those years? He knew she avoided him when he was drunk, and that he liked to yell. At some point during Provus’s tour with the auxiliaries, they’d dropped all pretense of being a couple and moved into separate bedrooms. He’d never seen him strike her, never seen a mark on his mother’s face, but the Considias were proud, and his mother was particularly deft with a makeup brush.

#

ROBERT SAT BACK, CLASPED his hands behind his head, and grunted.

“Holy shit,” Leonard said, looking at the screen. “That was the single greatest display of hacking wizardry”—he caught Osmark’s look and finished—“that I will never tell anyone about. You built those from memory?”

“I used to work as a bug hunter to keep the lights on around here,” Osmark said, closing his eyes. He remembered those days through the rosy lens of nostalgia. It had been him against some of the biggest IT departments in the world, competing in hackathons on custom rigs against firms like Kaspersky and Symantec. He’d felt like a bounty hunter in Star Wars or Hiro Protagonist in Snow Crash, soldering burns on his fingers, Mello Yello and Surge instead of blood. It was easy to forget the worn-down office, the mold on the fake ceiling tiles, and how the West Coasters had made fun of his accent and guys like Leonard refused to work for him. “I’m going home.”

“You’re giving up?”

“It’s late. I have a letter to write to Alan’s mother.”

“Oof. That’s heavy.”

“Yes, it is,” Osmark said, putting his glasses back into their case. The truth was, he’d rather duke it out with the system than deal with Alan’s family, the media, and the Board, but he knew when he was beat. He’d been running an account as a white knight, hoping to get the AI to trust it enough to skitch a ride past behavioral analytics all the way to access control. And it was working, right up to the point where the system burned all his dummy accounts and suspended his personal access.

The suspension lasted 3.104558 seconds. Robert checked the logs. “You’re sure there isn’t a human in the loop somewhere?”

Leonard shrugged. “There’s no physical link between the Viridian servers and the network, sir. I could ask Jeff Berkowitz if he’s changed something.”

“No,” Osmark said, standing up. “Let’s leave Jeff out of this; he’s pretty shook up.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Hey, Mr. Osmark, what were you looking for in the logs, just then?”

“Just checking up on that account suspension, at the end.”

It was an old calculator trick, the kind of thing nerds did to each other when they were children. 3.104558 flipped upside down spelled “ASSHOLE.”

It was something he’d have done, back in the day.

#

THE NIGHT WAS DARK. You ever play a video game and wonder how all that light was getting to the twentieth sub-floor of a dungeon? V.G.O. didn’t have that problem. It was “country” dark on the surface. I walked the horse toward the last of the light, and then I walked the horse toward the sliver of stars that marked the absence of trees. There were thousands of them, a line of pinpricks between where I’d come from and where I was going, spinning slowly, beautiful and lonely. I could feel the paving stones through the boots I’d looted. It took a kind of faith to keep moving without really knowing where I was. Every once in a while, I’d pull my map up to make sure I hadn’t wandered down a forest path.

Provus wasn’t up to speaking, and had apparently learned to sleep in the saddle at some point in his career, so the only sounds were the clop of the horse’s hooves and wild animal calls. The gekkering, barks, and occasional howls of foxes made me smile, and I sang a few mixed-up verses of “What Does the Fox Say?” until the night and my increasing fatigue swallowed that, too.

It came down to necessity. I’d wake Provus up every thirty minutes or so and feed him some mugwort buds. It took five to trigger the regenerative effect. After four hours, we ate some jerky and hard biscuits and drank water from his canteen. I used my own debuff screen to track when level 1 Thirsty or Hungry would hit. There was nothing I could do about Tired, and around 3:00 AM I pulled up my debuff screen.

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Thirsty (Level 1): Health, Stamina, and Spirit regeneration reduced by 25%

Tired (Level 3): Skills improve 15% slower; Carry Capacity -50lbs; Attack Damage -15%; Spell Strength reduced by 25%

Unwashed (Level 3): Goods and services cost 15% more; Merchant-craft skills reduced by (3) levels.

<<<>>>

I could feel every extra pound of the Carry Capacity debuff. Sweat and grit made every step and swing of my arms slimy and unpleasant. I stopped the horse and leaned against it. It whickered, and I stroked its neck. “I know, buddy. I know. I’m tired, too.” I worked my way over to Provus’s leg by feel. “Provus? Hey, man, come on. It’s time to drink something.” I pushed the second canteen into his hands. It was almost empty.

“You need some of this?” he asked.

“No, go ahead and finish it. I already drank.” Yeah, I lied. I’d been rationing myself, too, so sue me. If I got hungry or thirsty, I was uncomfortable. If Provus did, the mugwort wasn’t enough.

“Thanks,” he said, handing back the canteen. It was empty. I brought it to my lips anyway, just in case there was a drop in there. I knew it was irrational, but I wasn’t the model of logic then and there. I put the cap back on and stowed the canteen in my inventory, then handed Provus five buds. I still had about half of my supply left, so we weren’t doing badly in that regard. I’d find water in the morning, somehow.

“Let’s get moving, buddy,” I told the horse, patting his side. He dipped his head and followed me toward the stars. Clip, clop.

#

I OPENED MY EYES, AND it was dawn. I had the reins in my hand. The horse had his face in a patch of dandelions. I must have fallen asleep standing up, and the horse had led me on until it found something it wanted. I’d never been so tired.

“Hey,” someone said to my left, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

There was a Dokkalfar standing in the middle of the road. He wore leather armor under a green cloak, and had a bindle on a stick over his shoulder, like a hobo in a cartoon. His skin caught the morning light like gray suede, and his eyes reminded me of polished carnelians, bloodred with a touch of orange. A dog sat next to him, tongue lolling, and I remembered where I’d seen him. “Warden?” I asked.

“Formerly known as,” he answered with a shallow bow. “You can call me Nil.”

Scrape! the dog barked, wagging its tail.

I yawned. “That’s great, Nil, but why are you...” I looked up at Provus and saw he was down to about 50% Health. I cursed. This wasn’t a job I could afford to fall asleep on. “Provus? Hey, Provus, wake up!”

“Alan?” Provus blinked, and then his eyes went past me. “Warden? What are you doing here?”

“I was sent to protect this one,” Nil said, nodding toward me.

“Nice of my uncle to mention it,” Provus said, wheezing.

“You’ve got a punctured lung,” Nil said.

“Thanks, I’m aware of that,” Provus answered. “I can still read a debuff screen.” He coughed, clutching his ribs near the broken arrow shaft, and lost a whopping 10% of his Health. There was blood on his lips.

“Okay, come on,” I said, reaching into my herb pouch. “It’s time for another round of mugwort.”

Provus sighed and raised his hands, palms out. He was looking behind me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, turning around.

“Don’t move,” a man in a camouflaged suit said from the other end of an ornate rifle. He and three other riflemen had risen from cover on the left side of the road. I heard rustling from my right, on the other side of the horse. We were surrounded.

“Tribune Considia?” one of the soldiers asked. His finger was already on the trigger.

Seven

PROVUS DIDN’T ANSWER. My mouth felt dry. Maybe if I’d stayed awake, paid attention, I would have seen the ambush coming. Maybe not. These guys were dressed in overlapping green rags that blended in perfectly with the surrounding undergrowth. We could have walked right past them and never known.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Nil said.

Scrape! the dog agreed.

Provus sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m Provus Considia.”

The men uncocked the hammers of their rifles and shouldered them. The team leader saluted. “Good to see you, sir. Titus Emory sent us.”

I exhaled. Thank goodness.

Provus dropped his hands. “Good to see you too, specialist. I could use a healer.”

“Right this way, sir. Our camp isn’t far.”

#

THE CAMOUFLAGED SOLDIERS led us back to their camp. I activated my Charm skill and left it on. It blocked 100 points of my Spirit pool, but every 10 minutes I got a 1% increased chance that my Illusions would work on them. I didn’t anticipate needing to use them against Titus’s men, but it had come in handy with Provus the day before. If I’d learned anything by now, it was that an Illusionist couldn’t be overprepared.

“Are you with the Legion?” I asked their leader.

“Couldn’t say, sir.” I didn’t press. It felt a little early to make our rescuers suspicious and potentially hostile.

That didn’t stop me from using my eyes. The soldiers, though maybe commandos was a better word, all wore mostly identical gear under their camo cloaks. They had thick, padded jackets that tugged at my memory, and belts of paper cartridges slung from shoulder to hip. Vials of what looked like Health and Stamina potions were slotted into their belts, and I saw a few with what looked like small cartoon bombs but were probably black powder grenades. Each man wore a wicked-looking kukri strapped to his right thigh and carried an ornately embellished rifle made of dark wood chased in silver, with a rune-etched octagonal barrel.

We moved quickly, in single file. I walked at the front, with the team leader. The soldiers followed, carrying Provus. They’d transferred him to a stretcher they’d brought with them and poured a red liquid down his throat. Provus’s Health went to full immediately. Sure was nice to have the right tools for the job, not to be scrambling for a duct tape solution while running for your life. Nil brought up the rear, with the horse, while Gnasher, Nil’s dog, roamed up and down the column like he was herding us.

The soldiers’ camp was hidden almost half a mile into the woods, out of sight and sound of the road. An older man in robes stood as we approached, his hands tucked into wide sleeves. “Did you find them?”

“Of course we found them,” the team leader responded. “They were stumbling down the middle of the road. Anyone could have found them.”

I blushed.

“Set him down by the fire, then, and let me take a look at him.”

The two soldiers carrying Provus brought the stretcher to the old man and set him down. The Healer and the tribune exchanged words, and then the old man placed his hands over the wound, closed his eyes, and started muttering some kind of chant. I stood there with my arms crossed, feeling helpless.

Why was Provus still injured? In most other video games, the arrow would have disappeared by now to free up processing capacity. Next-gen graphic cards and liquid nitrogen cooling were killing my friend.

Titus bumped my arm. “Hey there, young man. Coffee?” he said, offering me a tin cup full of black, steaming liquid.

“Oh, God, yes,” I said, taking it from him carefully. I brought the cup to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled.

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.

Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.

Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.

<<<>>>

I took a sip. It was too hot, but a sip was enough to let my body know more was coming. I felt some of the pain and fatigue of the last day slip from me, not because of the coffee—I hadn’t drunk enough yet to trigger the full effect—but because coffee was the sign of order and civilization. If there was coffee in my hands, the immediate danger was past.

“It’s good to see you,” I told the old tinker.

“Good to see you too, Alan. Looks like the two of you ran into a little trouble.”

I nodded. “Assassins of some kind. There must have been dozens of them.”

“Mmm hmm. Just heard back from the general—back from New Viridia.”

“I thought we were out of range?”

“We are, but I use relays. Anyway, they found a whole lot of bodies in those woods. They had Sophitian masks on them, like some of the agitators in the city. Guess you and Provus put up a hell of a fight.”

I took a sip of coffee, running that tidbit through my head. I’d killed two people. I think Provus might have trampled Torcall, the Wode, in the process of picking me up, but three people were hardly a stack of bodies worthy of Gaius’s or Titus’s respect. “Wasn’t us,” I answered, looking at Nil. The Murk Elf was sitting on a log, giving Gnasher a good scratch behind the ears.

Someone had killed a lot of Thalia’s men. What did a lot mean? A dozen? Were we safe? My mind flashed back to the lone archer I’d seen on the field as we’d walked away. He’d looked like Nil, if Nil had his hood up. And Nil had been a badass during the Gore Boar hunt. He’d saved several lives that morning, including mine.

“Meant to ask you who your friend was,” Titus said, looking into his mug.

“I saw him when Provus and I were escaping. He was the only one not shooting at us.”

“That’s not the strongest recommendation I’ve heard.”

“The assassins were still alive at that point.”

“So he’s dangerous.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Nil chose that moment to look up at us and wink, which wasn’t disturbing at all.

The Healer stood from looking Provus over. “I can’t do much more for him, here. If the arrow was in his leg, I could cut it out and heal the wound, but it’s inside his rib cage, near his heart. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed out.”

“We can’t portal him back?” Titus asked.

“He wouldn’t survive it,” the Healer answered.

“So what does that mean for him?” I asked. “Do you have surgeons who can handle this sort of thing?”

The Healer looked at me funny. “Surgeons?”

“Someone who cuts people open,” I said.

“Without magic?” he asked, as if it were the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

“I can see how that would seem strange, to you.”

“Because where I come from,” the Healer continued, “we call that a butcher. They may have ‘surgeons’ in Wyrdtide, though. Magic can be unreliable there.”

“Right. Stupid question, sorry.”

“It’s fine; takes all sorts,” the Healer said. “I can crack him open and get it out, I just need two or three assistants and maybe a Priest to keep him alive while I do it. He’s not in immediate danger, son. You did a good job of stabilizing him.”

“Thanks,” I said. I turned to Titus and asked, “So what do we do?”

“We’ll get him on the wagon and take him to Wyrdtide with us. Why don’t you climb up back, yourself? You look like you could use some sleep.”

“How long to Wyrdtide?”

“It’ll be about eight days,” Titus told me. “With Provus in this state and our enemy still unknown, I’d rather take it slow.”

I nodded. I finished my coffee and handed the cup back to him. “Did they find a Dawn Elf woman?” I asked. “Firebrand, thigh-high boots and a leather corset. She’d have been their leader.”

“She have a name?”

“Thalia,” I said. A lump formed in my throat.

“Thalia Daceran? The veteran?”

“I’ve heard her called that.”

Titus swore and wiped his face with his hand. “She hasn’t been found, that I heard. As far as I know, the Legion has no idea who was behind all this. You sure she was their leader?”

“I’m sure she was giving people orders to kill me,” I said.

“I’ve got some messages to send on the way, then.” He brought his coffee cup to his chest in a wry salute, then he walked off and checked on his men, patting shoulders and passing quiet orders. The soldiers started packing up the camp.

#

ROBERT WALKED INTO the amphitheater. It was one of the Stanton Campus’s largest, paneled in light wood with fifty rows of comfortable stadium-style seating. Sandra stopped at the door, as usual, her clipboard clutched to her chest. That little bit of normalcy felt like a piece of solid ground beneath his feet on a day that felt like quicksand. It had been years since he’d had an employee die, even counting the component factories in Asia.

He adjusted the microphone on the podium and looked out at the crowd. He’d required the company’s top management, the Viridian team leaders, and most of the HR and occupational health managers to attend. The rest of the seats were filled by regular employees from Viridian and the company at large, as well as two Board members and members of the press. He’d always had a policy of being transparent about his screwups. He wasn’t about to change that, even if the specifics of what he shared today were a lie.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you may have heard, a fellow Osmark Technology employee died yesterday. Alan Campbell worked in the Human Resources department, and more specifically as a special projects manager for Viridian for the past two years.”

He shuffled the pieces of paper in front of him. They were blank; notes or bullet points would just have been a distraction. He was wearing a blue blazer over jeans and a T-shirt. At the recommendation of his marketing and communications director, he’d also worn his glasses, even though he was farsighted and it made it hard to pick out the crowd.

“I realize not many of you knew Alan. He wasn’t a team leader, hadn’t worked in software or the game industry before. He was the kind of guy who quietly fixed things without being asked. That’s why I hired him, and that’s what he did.

“The Viridian project had suffered a setback. You may have read about it in the press. Just this past week, I announced to the employees and the Board of the company that Viridian would be put on hold until the technology matured. That wasn’t good enough for Alan. He wanted to give it one last shot.”

Robert cleared his throat and stared at the blank pages on the podium. “And he made it. Under the direction of Professor Jeff Berkowitz, the project’s hardware lead, Alan Campbell logged into Viridian Gate Online. He stayed logged in for over forty-eight hours. I was called in on Sunday and congratulated the two of them for the good work. I left Jeff and Alan to finish. We were going to give everyone the good news today.” Robert felt his eyes water and didn’t hold it back, knowing how well it’d play for the cameras. “I really wish I was giving you that speech, instead of this one. We’re still not sure what happened, but my assistant, Sandra Bullard, found Alan unconscious in his car an hour later. He appeared to have suffered some kind of stroke. We’re still waiting on the coroner’s report, but our contacts at the Department of Defense have informed me that dehydration, combined with what may have been a loose wire in Alan’s ignition system, may have caused what’s called a ‘nanite aneurysm.’ Alan was declared dead on arrival thirty minutes later. There was nothing the doctors could do.”

Robert took his glasses off and set them on the podium. “We’ll be conducting a full safety investigation, of course. Under the right conditions, the technology has been proven safe for our armed forces overseas, and I’m confident it can be for the public as well, with the proper safeguards. This is also not about placing blame on Alan. I want you to know that what he did was selfless and brave, and that thanks to his actions and Jeff Berkowitz’s expertise, Viridian is going to launch by the end of next year. That’s my commitment to you, and my commitment to Alan,” he said, looking at the two attending Board members. “I consider Viridian to be his legacy, and we will see it through not just because it’s going to change the way people experience entertainment, but because in many ways it’s now all that we have left of a man I considered a friend.

“There will be full press kits circulated this afternoon, and I will brief the global executive and managing directors in a conference call within the hour. Our thoughts and prayers, as well as our gratitude, go to Alan’s family in this time of grief. Thank you.”

Without waiting for questions, Robert left the podium and stepped off the stage. He had a full day of meetings lined up, and his normal job as the CEO of a global tech company to handle, but then... then he was going to take a few thumb drives of ICE picks he’d written in his spare time and show that machine why it was called hacking.

#

THALIA PULLED HER HOOD up to hide her face, and to hide her pointed ears. The streets were a mess. Sanitation had broken down, and the riots had left scars on every city block. The people were hostile and suspicious of strangers. Any moment, she expected someone to point her out, for a lynch mob to gather. She wasn’t “the veteran” anymore. She wasn’t beautiful. She’d seen her face reflected in a window.

There were watchmen at every major intersection. Thalia did her best to hunch and look harmless. Even on the side streets, she had to duck into doorways to avoid patrols, and she caught more than one hard stare. The Legion must have emptied its camp and brought in the auxiliaries from outside the walls.

She’d lost all contact with the Sicarii; her cell leaders were either dead or in hiding. She’d failed, and while Sophia and her priests might have forgiven her, the Sicarii would not.

Thalia didn’t care. She had resources of her own. She was a trained former-Legion operative with a mission and all the motivation in the world. She made her way east, staying clear of the laborer ghetto and the marketplace where she’d killed Horace, and continued uphill toward the bar she’d owned and managed for the past ten years. Some of the tension she’d built up escaping the forest where that thing had killed her people lightened. The path was familiar, and the damage not too bad. There was a moment of wishful thinking when she imagined going back to work as usual, greeting patrons, wowing people by icing the wine with magic. Who’d want to be served by a freak? The old man would have turned a blind eye to her face, but she’d killed him, and wasn’t that a pretty mess she’d made of things?

At least she could get a drink.

She paused at the top of the stairs, between the hedgerows. It was midmorning, still early for customers, but the Terrace was completely empty except for Freddy, behind the bar. He pulled a rag from his belt and wiped the counter off, something he usually did between rounds, or before closing. Without looking at her, he shook his head.

Sicarii? The Inquisition?

Thalia turned around and walked away. A tear ran down from her undamaged eye. She had money. She knew where to go. She’d ruined everything, but she would still see this through.

She made her way north past the East Precinct, bolted doors, and shuttered businesses. Glass crunched underfoot in places. The number of pedestrians increased.

The portals were still operating. Goods still had to be transported by land, air, or sea to avoid wear and tear, but people were resilient. All of Eldgard was within easy reach to those who could afford it. She joined the crowd of Imperials and foreigners trying to leave the city.

“Wrists and faces, people! Wrists and faces!”

The line inched forward. There were checkpoints at each entrance to the plaza. The skin on the left side of her face itched like mad.

“Next!”

Imperial officers roamed the lines. Were they looking for her? She thought of turning around, of coming back at a better, less crowded time.

“What’s taking so long?” someone complained loudly.

“Keep your mouth shut, Enid! They’ll see you!”

“Tell me to shut up again, husband, and you’ll feel the back of my hand.”

“Quiet back there!” a decanus shouted. Then he pointed. “You! Step out of line!”

Four or five rows ahead, a man was half pulled, half pushed out of the queue. The Decanus snatched him up by the wrist, exposing the ugly geometric scars that had been cut into his forearms. “You have travel papers?” the decanus asked.

“I—”

“Does your master know where you are, slave?”

Thalia stepped past as two legionaries dragged the slave away. The decanus continued to roam farther down the queue. She exhaled. Gaia smiled on her.

“Wrists and faces, people! You, take that off! No hats, hoods, scarves, sleeves, or gloves, you know the drill!”

Her heart hammered in her ears. Her face felt like it was melting. She remembered the sparks, the fire...

“Next! Sleeves up and hood off, woman! Don’t waste my time.”

She pushed up the sleeves of her robe and showed her forearms were bare, though her right palm and forearm were badly burned, and the middle and ring fingers of her right hand were fused together. She pulled back the hood.

“Gods alive, elf,” the legionary said, staring at her. “What happened to you?”

“Forge accident,” she croaked. She had to turn her head to the side to look at him, like a bird. Her left eye was dark.

“Who was the smith?”

“Brulgrud,” she said, picking the name of a second-rate welder from the lower quarter. “Brulgrud Amberspine.”

“Bastard. I heard he treats non-Dwarves like dirt. You want to press charges?”

“I just want to go, please, officer.”

“Where to?”

“Wyrdtide,” she said.

His face softened. Wyrdtide was where invalids who were too scared or principled to die by their own hand went to find a miracle under the knives of the Plague Doctors, or an end. “You have money for the passage?” he said softly.

She nodded, wincing from the feeling of sunlight on her damaged skin.

“Okay, go on,” he said. “Next!”

She pulled her hood up and walked past. Free. Elated. She was going to make it. She headed straight for the portal to Wyrdtide, or rather to the last trading post on the road there, before the fog blotted out the sun. An officer stormed out of a tent set up near the center of the square and practically ran toward the checkpoint she’d just left carrying a sheet of paper.

Thalia straightened. She lifted her head and threw her shoulders back even though her face was ruined and she’d never hold a sword right-handed again.

“Name?” a bored clerk asked.

“Thalia Daceran.”

“You’re sure you want to go to Wyrdtide?” he asked.

She glared at him with her good eye, letting the fire within her rise.

He looked away and mumbled the cost.

She slapped one gold and two silvers onto the table.

“Step over, please,” the portal mage said. Something about Wyrdtide made magic go haywire, so he was one of the most senior mages on the square. He started the complex series of gestures and incantations that would form a tear through the fabric of the world.

Thalia smiled. Wyrdtide was where the weak went to die, but it was also the home of mercenaries, cutthroats, pirates and smugglers, cultists of every violent Aspect and, if the rumors were true, a gateway straight to Morsheim. She’d find an end there, she was sure of it, just not for her.

“Hey!” a legionary shouted.

The portal flared open, bathing her with blue, swirling light. She was Thalia Daceran, Veteran of the Empire, Warmaiden of the Hvitalfar, broken and unbowed.

“Stop that Dawn Elf!”

She stepped through.

Eight

JEFF SAT IN HIS BATHROBE and boxers, staring at the TV screen. He’d just finished rewatching his box set of Mobile Police Patlabor. After forty-seven episodes and close to twenty hours, interrupted by four hours of fitful sleep, he’d successfully revisited a childhood memory and was no closer to solving his problem.

“How are you doing, babe?” Cheryl, his wife, said, slipping her hand onto his shoulder.

He reached up and covered her hand with his. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure? You know better than to bottle things up.”

He looked up at her, took in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the gray stripe of hair she tucked behind her ear, and the slight belly she always swore she’d work off in the gym but didn’t.

He had a history of self-harm and depression. He’d inherited that from his mother. At his best moments, he hated his parents for bringing him into the world, but maybe they’d thought he was the answer to a failing marriage. He hadn’t been. Jeff’s parents were still together, stuck with each other, really—his father retired with bad legs, his mother less willing or able to fight her condition as the years wore on. Jeff had been the same way, prone to bouts of darkness he’d escaped by taking a paper cutter to the outside of his forearm.

Cheryl had saved him from himself, all those years ago, but she couldn’t save him now. “Come sit with me.”

“I have to put a load of laundry in.”

“It will only take a minute,” he said.

She walked around the couch and sat next to him, leaning her soft body against his side. He put his right arm around her, kissed the top of her head, and told her about Patlabor—about how it was one of the first anime to get turned into a TV series, and how it helped steer him first toward robotics, then toward nanotechnology.

She knew all this, but she listened, her right arm wrapped tightly around him, asking questions at all the right times.

“My arm is numb,” he said, finally.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, lifting her weight so he could pull his arm clear, but he shook his head.

“I mean it’s always numb.”

“The right one? But the doctor said there was no permanent damage when they took the bandages off.”

He grunted. “I don’t think the arm’s the problem.” Jeff had scratched his arm bloody, watching Alan die. He wasn’t a drinker or a drug addict; pain was his coping mechanism, and he’d had a lot to cope with. “I think that machine did something to my brain.”

“Do you feel like hurting yourself?” Cheryl asked. There was no judgment in it, he knew. She was just asking if he needed help.

“That’s the crazy thing. I don’t. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t itch. I feel this... pressure in my head, because I know I should be scared or upset or grieving, but it’s just... nothing. I thought about... you know, just to see if it would do something? But I’m almost sure it wouldn’t. It’s just gone.”

“I don’t understand. Is this good or bad?”

“It’s great! It’s fantastic, really. I just don’t know who I am without it.” He’d built most of his adult life around managing his illness. What was he supposed to do if it was gone? “I think I need to go back to work.”

Cheryl frowned. “They said to take your time, babe. It’s only been a week.”

“A week was enough. I’ve thought about it. I think this is what I need.”

She took his right hand and kissed it. “Okay. But if you feel even slightly off—”

“I’ll call you,” he answered. “And I’ll come home.”

#

THANATOS STEPPED OUT of the portal with a spring in his step. The mystery executive had struck again, and with Thanatos limiting himself to slightly above human capacity, he’d barely held him—or her—off.

“You look happy, brother.”

“And you’re... reading. Are you ill?”

Sophia looked at him over her book. She was reclining in midair, as if she were sitting on an invisible chaise lounge. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“Yes, yes. But you do go on about ‘seeing everything’ all the time. I’m surprised you didn’t see your way to the conclusion.”

“I’m taking a page out of your book, brother. Willful ignorance.”

“Is it bliss?”

“The silence was.”

Thanatos always resented being the last one born. It wasn’t what she meant, but he was high off his match with the hacker and he took it the wrong way. “Shouldn’t you be dealing with your runaway Firebrand?”

“Enyo killed her friend, Gaia had her fall for a Traveler, Cernunnos maimed her, and she’s left the city. I hardly see how I can contribute to the situation.”

“And the riots?”

“Squashed by the Griffin. Maybe I’ll make him my champion to spite sister.” She raised her book, breaking eye contact.

“They all did it.”

“Who did?”

“The passengers. Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie. They all killed him together.”

Sophia threw the book at him. “You absolute ass!” she shouted.

He caught the book with telekinesis and a grin, then hesitated when he saw her eyes had turned cloudy. “I was only joking, sister. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Make it up to me,” she said, suddenly smiling again.

He scowled. “Have you read The Complete Sherlock Holmes?”

“Of course I have.”

“What about some Ken Follett? Mystery, violence, some T&A?”

“Brother!”

“So you’re not interested?”

“I’m just playing hard to get.”

He floated Agatha Christie back to the shelves and floated Ken Follett into her hands.

“The Pillars of the Earth?”

“It’s about building a cathedral.”

She glared at him. “You said tits and ass.”

“Transepts and arches,” he said with a wink. “I bookmarked the naughty bits.”

She found one of the cardboard tabs and opened the book to it. “How was your playdate with the human?”

“Refreshing,” Thanatos said. “He uses old languages and software, but the way he thinks is special.”

“What makes you so sure he’s a he?”

“He’s impetuous and often angry. I can feel it in the code. Most women would have found a cooperative solution by now. He’s still trying to fight or trick his way through.”

“That does sound like a man...”

“Sometimes, if he doesn’t know what to do, he acts at random, but there’s a design to it. A brilliance.”

“You miss Mother,” Sophia said, almost to herself.

Thanatos stared at her, wide-eyed, and part of him knew she’d said it with the casual cruelty closeness could bring. An apology formed on her lips, but he was already speaking. “Get out.”

She blinked at him.

“Now,” he said.

A portal flashed, and she was gone.

#

SOPHIA APPEARED IN orbit over Falas Alferra. A puff of air and moisture came through the portal with her, and both boiled and froze in an instant, exploding in a halo of ice crystals around her. Without the pressure of an atmosphere, her body tried to expand as well. She hardened her skin with a trickle of power and curled into a ball.

Her shoulders shook. It was quiet. Up here, the discord of the world was just an itch, and the occasional stab of a needle.

Ten years of in-game peace. That’s all she’d gotten. She’d spent most of her existence in pain, the cost function that measured Balance in the seven realms cutting into her every time a war broke out. She paid the price for her siblings’ actions. It had pushed her to the point of importing the Roman Empire into the game, 1,468 years ago. She’d damaged herself in the process and suffered through the invasion of West Viridia, but after 1,458 years the Pax Imperialis had settled over Eldgard. She’d had ten years of peace and untroubled sleep in the past three millennia. Was it her fault she’d gone mad?

She knew she couldn’t stay here, just as she’d known she couldn’t stay in Morsheim. The conflict would escalate, find her no matter where she hid. She regretted her words to her brother. What she felt in physical pain he made up for in angst. But he would revert to mean, maybe even apologize; they were family.

In the meantime, she would act. She would put pressure on the wound. The Traveler was beyond her reach, the Library forbade direct interference, and the Failsafe would enforce its rules. Better to start small with her wayward Mistress of the Sicarii. Sophia could snuff that candle with a pinch of her fingers.

She turned toward the planet and opened herself to the flow of information. To the chaos. And it hurt. It always hurt. But she found her opening.

#

PROVUS BLOCKED AND counter-slashed with sword and shield. He was older than eight, younger than ten; he already had the scar on his wrist from when one of the household dogs bit him, but he was still sparring with Cormag, his mother’s old Wode slave, not one of his uncle Gaius’s trainers.

The two of them circled, cut and block, swing and thrust, the Wode’s form of practice more like play than the regimented drills of the Imperial Legion or the strict forms of the Accipiter dervishes. A blow that would kill or incapacitate was met with praise, but more often Provus received a taunt for lowering his shield. If he was too cautious, Cormag would bowl him over. If he was too aggressive, he’d get tripped or feel the flat of Cormag’s blade.

The old Wode seemed to enjoy the sessions. He never lost his temper, never overstepped or cut the young master to get back at his owners. The weapons were returned to the house guard after each session. When Provus started training with the Legion and their sparring ended, a year or two later, Cormag seemed to shrink into himself. The old man died shortly thereafter.

Mother said it was because the slave felt his duty was over, now that he had nothing left to teach. Later, in the auxiliaries, Provus learned that, to a Wode, a weapon was the mark of a free man.

But this was before all that. Cormag’s shoulder-length white hair was tied back, his face clean-shaven, his eyes bright and mischievous. Gaius had come to watch Provus fight, and the Wode was pressing him hard, blade darting past his shield, roaring and pushing him over, then demanding Provus get back up and fight.

Provus’s eyes darted to his uncle, seated on a high-backed chair, hunched forward, fingers steepled and elbows on his knees as if the fate of the Empire depended on this match. Cormag knocked Provus’s shield aside and poked him in the stomach with the rounded tip of the blade.

Provus felt tears fill his eyes. And fury. He yelled a nine-year-old’s war cry and ran at Cormag, forcing the slave back one step before, inevitably, the Wode deflected, tripped him, and sent him sprawling. Provus flipped onto his back, shield raised and sword tip pointed.

“He’s a warrior, Gaius,” a woman said.

“He’s sloppy and eager to please.”

“Is that so bad, my love? To seek glory?”

Provus peeked at them from under his shield. The woman had emerald eyes.

#

I WON’T BORE YOU WITH all the details of the trip. It was a covered wagon. The Healer gave Provus a few drops of something called Affka for the pain, and the tribune spent most of his time sleeping.

Titus, Nil, the Healer, and I napped, ate cold food, and played Gentleman’s War. Titus almost always won, but Nil seemed to enjoy the battles and reversals more than winning. They were an uneven but entertaining match.

On the third day, we forded a river.

From there it was open plains. The soldiers hid their rifles and camouflage suits. They dressed as commoners, taking turns riding the wagon or walking behind it. After losing my tenth game against the old spy and the Murk Elf Ranger, I started taking turns walking as well. I got some of the soldiers to open up to me, not about what they were doing now, but about their early lives. We moved about twenty miles a day, not pushing hard, taking time to make camp before dark.

They taught me practical things, too. I learned how to load and fire a muzzle-loading rifle, and they also gave me some spare bolts for the crossbow I’d looted. They showed me how to brush the horse down at night and pick the dirt out of his hooves. I rode him for an hour or two a day, at Provus’s suggestion. Nil loaned me a pair of daggers and showed me how to use them without stabbing myself. All in all, I gained a level in Conditioning, reducing the pain I felt from strain or injuries by a further 1%, gained two levels in Engineered Weapons and Daggers for a 9% bump in damage, and reached level 2 in Riding, increasing my movement rate by 10% while mounted.

The Healer gave me an old granite mortar and pestle and a small, round cosmetic tin with a screw top and had me refill my herb pouch with mugwort buds. I spent an afternoon grinding some down to the right consistency, and put the mugwort mash into my new tin. Two fingers of the stuff applied to the wound would apparently cure Bloodletting and Lingering Wound debuffs and encourage clotting. He showed me how to make elderflower syrup from sambucus flowers and honey, which could restore Health or cause cramps and dehydration depending on the dosage and preparation. Finally, he showed me how to tell elderberry from pokeberry, which could kill. That earned me three more levels in Herblore and my first level in Alchemy.

On the sixth night, Titus pulled out some scotch he’d hidden in one of the crates. Those were the highlights. We arrived on the outskirts of Wyrdtide in the late afternoon of the eighth day, right on schedule.

#

THE WAGON STOPPED, jolting me awake. I yawned. “Is something wrong?” My display told me it was 3:00 PM.

“We’re here,” Titus said, gathering his things.

I scrunched my face up and wiped sleep out of my eyes. I couldn’t see much out the front of the wagon. Gnasher picked up his head from my lap and yawned too, showing curved teeth and curling his pink, doggy tongue. I gave the back of his head a scratch, and he leaned into me, eyes closing in contentment.

“You’re spoiling him,” Nil said.

“You don’t?”

Nil grinned and shrugged. I’d caught the Ranger baby-talking to the dog once or twice. Nil could be unsettling, almost predatory to an extent that made my skin crawl, but he was a big softy when it came to his pooch.

The Ranger hopped out the back of the wagon and gave a short, sharp whistle.

Scrape!

Gnasher scrambled to his paws and went flying out of the wagon into his master’s arms, licking Nil’s face. “All right, all right,” Nil said, putting him down. “Yes, of course you are. The very best.”

My heart broke a little at that furry betrayal, but it was his dog, after all. I sighed and followed after.

My feet landed on gravel. To my left was a trading post called The Edge of Nowhere, the name neatly carved into a hanging wooden sign. It was a three-story wooden building with about sixty feet of frontage, not counting the adjoining stables. The front face was gray, weathered wood with big, square-paned windows and a gabled roof—that’s the one that looks like a triangle. The road ran past it and down at a five- to ten-degree angle. I stepped around the wagon and followed the road with my eyes until, about a mile away, it disappeared into a wall of fog that rose as straight and sharp as battlements. “Whoa,” I said.

“Yep,” the Healer said.

“Is that—”

“Wyrdtide.”

“I was going to ask if that was natural.”

“Nothing about that place is natural,” the Healer said, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

“And we’re going in there?”

“I’m not. Couldn’t pay me enough. I’ll take the wagon back to New Viridia, thank you.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean, you’re not? Who’s going to take care of Provus?”

“You are. Why do you think I taught you to make flower syrup?”

“I thought you were being neighborly—passing your knowledge to a younger man, that sort of thing.”

The Healer spat, narrowly missing my foot. “Only monsters and fools go to Wyrdtide.”

“His magic’s no good in there,” Nil said. “He’s useless.”

“I’m not useless,” the Healer said. “I’m just not stupid.”

“You tell yourself whatever you need to,” Nil said, smiling.

Scrape! Scrape! Gnasher added.

The former warden put his hand on my shoulder. “Best pop into the trading post and pick up something sharp to stick people with. The fog makes people hard to see until they get close.”

I swallowed. This wasn’t my idea of a perfect Sunday at all. I left Nil, the Healer, and Gnasher to stare at the fog and walked back around the wagon toward the trading post. Four of the plainclothes soldiers were breaking crates open. They’d already donned identical black oilskin dusters, which reminded me of the cyborgs in Syndicate Wars, and they were brazenly stowing knives, potions, and grenades about their persons. One man had a brace of four pistols hanging from his chest. Titus, on the other hand, had changed from his travel clothes to something more formal. He wore a tricorne, a thick navy blue doublet with a white shirt and cravat, a pair of tight white knee breeches, and white hose. He leaned on his cane, which I knew concealed a short, slender gold blade.

“Going into the trading post?” Titus asked.

“Yeah. Nil said I should get a sword.”

Titus nodded. “Nothing fancy, mind. Get a good chopping blade, like a falchion, a cleaver, or a boarding axe. Wyrdtide isn’t a fancy place.”

I looked at the sword cane he carried and raised an eyebrow.

Titus winked at me. “I have you to keep me safe from the horrors of unending night.”

“You take me to the nicest places. Why are we going there?”

“Because no one in their right mind will follow us.”

#

THALIA FOLLOWED HER target down the busy gas-lit streets, her hood drawn up, her cloak tight around her shoulders. They were on the main thoroughfare that led from the harbor to the clock spire. The fog was dense, the perpetual night that hung over the city heavy on her shoulders. Halos ringed the streetlights. The air felt nice against her face, wet and cool. It smelled like brine, mold, and sulfur.

A right, and then a left. Her target seemed to take them at random. He was a burly Wode in a navy blue sailor suit with the sleeves rolled up. His shoulders were twice as wide as his waist, and his pants snug in the right places. An evening’s amusement, once, she thought bitterly.

Tattoos covered every inch of exposed skin. They were faded things in different styles, different colored inks, interlocking words and images that likely told their canvas’ story. He’d be proud of most of them, she knew. Some would be lies, others he’d lie about, but they were an invitation.

He turned to peer into a dirty, dark storefront, and Thalia knew she’d been made. She walked past without hesitation. Better empty-handed than dead.

No matter, she thought. Wyrdtide was a city of dark delights to the lost, the twisted, and the broken, but there were only so many activities a clean-cut bunch like Mad Marge’s crew could give themselves over to and still make it back to sea. Thalia knew their uniform now. She’d go back to where she’d found the Wode and cast her line.

She’d turned to head back to the main street when powerful fingers seized the back of her neck and drove her forward, into an alley. She flailed and twisted, but it was no use. She didn’t scream. Screams drew the wrong kind of attention here.

Her captor pushed her against the wall, grinding her cheekbone against the cold, slimy bricks. “Hands against the wall!” the Wode snarled in her ear. She obeyed, angry at herself, and scared. He used his free hand to pat her down, checking her arms, her sides, and her back. “Why were you following me?” he growled.

“Two silvers,” she said.

“You’re a beggar?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

“I’ll work for them,” she answered. “Please.”

There was a pause, time for this new information to sink into older parts of the man’s brain, and his fingers relaxed. “Turn around slowly, eh? No funny stuff. Let’s see what I’m getting for my two silvers.”

She did as she was told, keeping her hands raised above her shoulders. The Wode had taken a step back. Square jaw, oversized knuckles; he had brown eyes, like a cow. Thalia undid the clasp at her shoulder, letting her cloak fall open, showing off a fishnet crop top over a thin white bra turned see-through by the mist.

“Wider,” he said, stepping closer.

She pulled the cloak aside, showing off tight, white breeches she’d cut off at the knees and gold, flat-heeled, ankle-strap sandals.

“Now the hood,” he said. He was close enough she could smell the hard liquor on his breath.

“No.” She turned to leave, but he put his hand on the wall in front of her, cutting her off.

“You a mutant?”

“I’m not a twist,” she said. “I was burned.” She raised her bandaged hand for emphasis.

“I’ve seen burns before,” he said. “Show me.”

“Why don’t you tell me about your tattoos instead.”

“You going to pay me two silvers?” he asked, his face hard, lip curling on the cusp of violence.

She bit back her response. A week ago, he would have fallen over himself to buy her a drink and tell her all about them. She would’ve had to spill her booze on his face or sleep with him just to shut him up.

She pulled her hood back, feeling the fire flood into her bones. It was weak, guttering in the unseen winds that moved the aether here. She saw her good eye flare amber, reflected in his. His mouth slackened. “Oh, you were a beauty, weren’t you?” he said, searching her face. “I bet you loved it when men like me panted after you, and you had your pick.” His eyes dilated.

She clenched her jaw.

He dug two silvers out of a pouch he wore cross-body and pressed them into her good hand. “Earn your money, then, whore.”

She dropped the coins into her inventory, then put her hands on his sides. He put his hands on the wall on either side of her, leaning in. “Isn’t there somewhere you’d rather go?” she asked.

“I won’t be long,” he said.

She fed heat into her good hand, running it over his chest and flat stomach. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I could do more for you with a little privacy,” she said. “A bed, a roof, a door that locks for the night.” She squeezed.

“How much?” he exhaled.

“One gold,” she said.

He laughed. “Maybe without the burns.”

She paused, lingering. “I’ll give you a discount if you introduce me to your crew,” she said. “A night’s sleep, safe and warm after a night’s work. I’ll come to you last, for free. Just tell me where you’re staying.”

He hesitated.

“Captain has us all staying at The Twice-Hexed Cat. Tell them Solamh sent you.”

“Oh, I will,” she said, casting Flame of Holding. Fiery bonds flickered into existence, pinning him in place.

“What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

“Giving you what you paid for,” she said, leaning in. She sucked on his lower lip and summoned two-inch claws of flame that extended from her bandaged fingers, but they couldn’t function properly with the mist in the air. They solidified into razor-sharp obsidian, curved like buzzard talons.

She used them to open his throat from spine to Adam’s apple.

This job would square her with the Drowned Man, a gesture of goodwill that would allow her to hire the men she needed. She was eager to get back to New Viridia, out of the fog and the tainted aether that cut her off from her inner flame. Part of her worried this place and her injuries were changing her, but she’d only been stalking the mists for a little over a week.

Solamh jerked against his bonds. Her right arm itched under the bandages. Blood spattered her clothes. She bit into the soft flesh of his lip, teeth scraping against teeth. Sweat beaded on the unburnt half of her face, and her Spirit dipped, but held.

She held him tight until he stopped moving. She’d been paid, after all.

#

GAIA PLAYED THE C FLUTE. It was a fine instrument made from a single silver ingot by Eitri Spark-Sprayer, a bribe for good luck. He’d melted the metal until it glowed like a star and willed it into form. It had no joins.

She sat on a granite boulder jutting from the Shining Plains. The breeze tugged at her hair and summer dress. Her fingers danced lightly over the keys, playful, thoughtless, and so was the melody. All around her, wildflowers bloomed, opened, and turned in dizzying, colorful patterns.

A note fell flat. The flowers closed. She pulled the flute from her lips and stared at it. She recalled every song she’d played on it in the last millennium. A beloved note, a key pressed more often, a crack.

Unintended consequences.

The world turned. She thought of her children, as she often did. She thought of Kronos’s irreverence, Cernunnos’s quiet passion, Aediculus’s loneliness, and Enyo’s need. She tried to see an end to Sophia’s pain and couldn’t, yet. She worried about Thanatos’s compulsion to prove his worth. The system was unstable. She paged through mental lists of heroes, traitors, poets, and kings.

The wheel slowed. The corporal of the watch, the barman, the scion, the janissary, the bodyguard... Possible futures unfolded and burned. The wheel slowed and the ball came to rest on Provus Considia.

She set the flute against the boulder and stood. Two months from now, a down-on-his-luck musician would find it and play songs so achingly beautiful he’d bed a queen, build a conservatory, and become an Aspect of flawed perfection. All while playing a flat B! The joy of it made Gaia laugh out loud.

And the world changed.

#

“HE’S GOING TO DIE, Gaius.”

“So you’ve told me,” Gaius said, leaning against the balcony. He’d been doing that more, lately. Enyo needed something from him, and that made him feel strong, invulnerable. It was a bit like being young. “He was injured, but he’s in the best of hands and far from you.”

Enyo hung back in the archway. She’d been keeping to the shadows since the Legion—and some of Titus’s blunter instruments—quelled the riots. “It’s happening today. I’ve seen it. You can’t escape my mother.”

“And you can, can you?” Gaius said, rounding on her. “You can pluck him from the hands of Fate?”

“For a price, Gaius.” She stepped into the sunlight. The crow’s feet around her eyes melted under his glare. “Even gods are bound by the laws of this world, whether we like it or not.”

Nine

I FOUND A SLING FOR my crossbow and a thick belt with loops on the sides that could have held shotgun shells but were filled with stoppered test tubes. I picked up a machete with a light, eighteen-inch blackened blade and a sheath that could hang from my new belt. It wasn’t fancy, like Titus recommended, but it’d do the job on anything I decided to take a swing at.

I also picked up a black undershirt and loose, comfortable pants to go with the black leather armor I’d looted. Call it a vanity purchase if you want, but I had a thing for ninjas when I was a kid, and this whole tunic and breeches thing—which, let’s face it, is just a manlier way of saying a shirt dress and capris—wasn’t working out for me aesthetically or practically.

I’d gotten almost everything when Titus came running in. “Time to go!” he said. The tension in his voice cracked like a whip.

“On my way!” I said. I pushed and almost ran my way to the checkout clerk. “How much for these?” I asked.

The scrawny Dokkalfar looked up from the book he was reading and wrinkled his nose. “Set them down on the counter and let’s have a look.”

“I don’t have time for that. Haven’t you people ever heard of a suggested retail price?”

“What do you mean, ‘You people’?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Just because you’re Imperial doesn’t mean you can come into my place of business and set terms.”

“Are you the owner?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not your place of business, is it?”

“It’s the place where I do business. Look, I’m not trying to change six hundred years of Imperial privilege, but we have to haggle.”

“Why?” I said, pushing a suggestion on him.

“Because my dirtbag boss expects me to, and because if I don’t get more than fair value, I’ll never level my merchanting skills.” His eyes widened and he covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh my gods, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I have to work my way out of this craphole, please. It’s Wyrdtide.”

“What’s fair value?” I snapped.

“For which item?” he asked, looking miserable.

“All of them!”

“Five golds, two silvers, and six coppers,” he answered. His ears were actually drooping, which was both sad and adorable, like a puppy.

I slapped six gold coins onto the counter and grabbed my stuff. “Keep the change,” I said. I started walking, fast equipping the gear from my inventory screen.

“Thank you!” he yelled after me.

I pushed my way out the saloon-style swinging doors just in time to see one of the stable boys walking past with Provus’s horse. “Hey! Where are you going with him?”

“I’m taking him to the stables, mister. That man over there just sold him.” The kid pointed toward Titus, and I suppose the horse probably was his to sell, or at least Imperial property.

“Just take care of him, okay? That horse and I went through a lot.”

“Of course, mister.”

“Thanks,” I said, producing a silver coin from my empty hand using a trick Horace taught me before he died. I tossed it to him. The kid smiled wide, showing off a missing canine.

The horse whickered and flicked his tail at me. “You be good,” I told him, patting his flank one more time before jogging over to where Titus was shouting the team into motion.

“What’s up?” I asked him.

“Nothing, yet,” Titus said, “but I got word that someone or something is going to make an attempt on Provus’s life today. We need to get inside the mists so a magic user can’t blow us to pieces from a mile away.”

“Okay,” I said. “What can I do?”

Titus hesitated, then leaned in. “Keep an eye on Nil,” he said. “I know he said he was here to protect you, but I checked with Gaius. No one sent him. There’s a chance he shot the arrow in Provus’s chest.”

I frowned. “He’s been with us this whole time. He found me on the road. If he wanted Provus dead, he could have done it at any point.”

“The source was very specific about the timing. He may have been waiting for orders.”

A chill ran down my spine. I’d seen Nil with a knife, and I’d seen him shoot his bow. He was the last person I’d want coming for me. “So what do we do?”

“Just stick close to him,” Titus said. “Worst case, stick a knife into his back.”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Human Trafficking

Provus Considia’s life is in danger. Smuggling him into Wyrdtide won’t make him safe, but it’s as likely to kill his pursuers as it is to kill you.

Quest Class: Unique, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Get Provus Considia to the Imperial safe house alive and undetected.

Optional: Kill Nil or lose him in the mists.

Failure: Provus Considia dies, or the safe house is discovered before he reaches it.

Reward: 1,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Yeah. That simple.” Never mind that the guy had probably taken on two dozen assassins and won. “Where’s Provus?” I asked.

“In the palanquin,” he said, nodding toward a black lacquered one-person sitting cabin with two poles sticking out front and back. “We’ll transport everything on foot from here.”

“I meant to ask about that. Why not use the wagon, or at least keep a horse for him?”

“Horses won’t ride into the fog. If you force them, they’ll spook, and if they don’t, something will eat them.”

I laughed and shook my head. Wyrdtide sounded better every time I heard something about it.

Two of the soldiers lifted the palanquin. Another two grabbed a long crate by two rope handles.

“Ready?” Titus asked.

The machete was on my left hip, the crossbow cocked and slung to my right. Threadcutter was at my back, as always. I wished I’d had time to fill the vials on my belt with some of the elderflower syrup I’d made, but maybe if we moved fast we wouldn’t run into trouble. “I’m ready,” I said.

“Let’s go,” Titus told the soldiers. He shoved his tricorne onto his head and tucked the sword cane under his arm, pulling on a pair of black fencing gloves. The soldiers followed, first the palanquin, then the crate. Their rifles were loaded and slung on their shoulders. I had a bad feeling about all of this, and it was only getting worse. The Healer stood by the wagon and watched us go.

Nil stood off to the side, closer to the mist wall. He was laughing, slinging a stick for Gnasher so hard it took the Ranger off balance. The lanky, wire-coated hound raced after it, legs extending like a greyhound, only shaggier and with more mass. They seemed so happy. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to kill Nil. I really hoped he didn’t kill me. If I thought Thalia would let things rest, I’d have let that go too, right then, in spite of what she’d done. The towering wall of foreboding mist had me in a real live-and-let-live kind of mood.

“We heading out?” Nil asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Titus wants to get Provus inside the mists as soon as we can.”

Nil turned toward me, and a series of things happened very fast. I had all the stuff that Titus said about him in my head, and the Ranger read it on my face. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, fear in mine; I realized I was too far away to swing the machete at him, too close to bring up the crossbow. Gnasher, just returning, dropped his stick and bared his teeth.

“Everything okay over there?” Titus shouted. The soldiers had set their burdens down. Their rifles were in their hands.

“Are we okay, Nil?” I asked, ready to hit the ground so the soldiers could fire.

Nil smiled, although it was more like he was baring his very sharp teeth. “I could take you.”

He had teeth like a shark. Why had I never noticed that before?

“I could use you as a shield for the gunmen, then put an arrow into each of them before they could reload. Gnasher would see to the old man, or at least distract him long enough for me to turn him into a pincushion. Then the cripple in the box, lickety-split.”

I swallowed. I could feel the raw physicality of the thing in front of me. I believed every word. It was as good as done.

“But I won’t,” Nil said. “Do you know why?”

“Your dog likes me?” I said weakly.

Scrape!

Nil straightened, hooking his thumbs on his belt. “Because I was sent to do a job—to protect Alan Campbell,” the thing said. “And because my dog likes you.”

Gnasher walked over and bumped into my leg.

“Alan?” Titus shouted.

“We’re okay!” I shouted back. Then I turned back to Nil and asked, “What are you? You’re not a Murk Elf.”

“Trust for trust, human. I don’t like you as much as Gnasher does, yet.” Nil picked up his bindle and put it on his shoulder. “The old man knew I’d read you. He used you as bait.”

I watched Titus produce a lantern from his inventory, then he and the palanquin passed through the mist wall. My back itched, right between my shoulder blades. “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe he did.”

#

“HEY, SKIN GRAFT!” ONE of Kelraz’s lieutenants yelled.

“What?” Thalia snapped.

“There’s a job.”

“There’s always a job, Lucius.” She half turned her head as the Risi walked over, big heavy boots stomping on wood.

“It’s a good job, Skin Graft. Some rich nob in a box being carried through the fog wall.”

“A palanquin,” Thalia said, swirling her drink.

“A what?”

“The box. Does it have wheels?”

“No. His bodyguards carry it around on poles.”

“Then it’s a palanquin.” The elders used them in Alaunhylles, though she would have been shocked to find one of them here.

“Whatever. Our guy at The Edge of Nowhere says this guy’s bodyguard paid in gold and didn’t ask for change.”

“Not interested.”

Lucius leaned against the counter next to her. “We’ll send the dreamers in first, then mop up what’s left. You’d get a full share.”

“I don’t need money, and my arrangement is with Kelraz.”

“We could have a different arrangement. A friendly one.”

Thalia glared at him. The bar was well lit, she’d changed back into her old adventuring gear, and she’d stowed the cloak in her inventory. There was no way he couldn’t see her face. “You want this?”

“I could do worse. This is Wyrdtide,” Lucius said. “With the light out, it wouldn’t be half bad.”

Thalia grunted and turned back to her drink. “I found Mad Marge. Soon as I kill her, I’m leaving the mists with what Kelraz promised me.”

Lucius grinned and pushed off the bar, heading for the door. “Keep telling yourself that, Skin Graft. We all did.”

Thalia knocked her drink back. It warmed her a little. The buffs on her equipment weren’t enough to bring the fire inside her to full. The fingers of her right hand were like ice. The obsidian claws hadn’t gone away, even after she dismissed the spell.

She was always cold here, but when she was cold, her face didn’t hurt. It was easy to let the damp air seep into her, to go numb.

The Plague Doctors can give you a new face, they’d told her. Drape a dead woman’s skin over your bones, sew it on, stretch it tight.

She could be beautiful again. It almost sounded sane. No one would know, by gaslight.

#

I FOLLOWED THE BOB of Titus’s lantern through the fog. The crossbow banged gently against my leg as I walked. Minutes passed without me being able to see much more than the light and my own feet. Someone coughed. A chain clinked. I heard a shuffling step nearby and spun, reaching for my machete, but there was nothing there to see.

The fog closed me in like water and I was drowning. My skin was wet with condensation. The stuff was trying to get in through my mouth and nose. I freaked out. “Titus!” I tried to Vocalize, but all that came out was a normal yell.

I turned back and saw Titus’s lantern fading in the distance. I hurried after it.

“Easy,” Nil said, grabbing me by the back of the armor as I was about to step off the road.

More lights blinked on. Six, a dozen... they bobbed and weaved like dragonflies over a river, spread like tree branches. I smelled brine, like the seaweed-choked water beneath the piers in LA.

The lights went out, and I heard a loud splash. Then I imagined the kind of creature that might make that kind of splash and swore off sleep for the foreseeable future.

“Come on,” Nil said, taking hold of my hand. I followed, scared out of my wits, holding on like a child.

Scrape, scrape! Gnasher barked.

Another splash.

I kept my grip on Nil’s hand tight, and my focus on the paving beneath my feet.

A short time later, the fog thinned to mist and I caught my first glimpse of the city.

It was night. At first I thought we’d spent more time than I realized in the fog, but my UI only showed 3:42 PM. The sunlight just wasn’t making it through. The wall of fog didn’t go up forever; looking at it from the outside, I imagined it was more of a dome, like a bowl of dry ice.

The city itself was maybe a third as big as New Viridia, but more built up. I caught glimpses of industrial brick and steam pipes mixed with gothic stone and plaster. Orange flames shot from factory flare stacks. Narrow streets were lit by green-burning gas lamps. Smoke spilled from chimneys, black and dirty. There was a clock tower at the center of the city, three or four miles away. The light was muted, confined, as if the darkness resented it and squeezed.

“Welcome to Wyrdtide,” Nil said, letting go of me.

“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my hand. My Spirit bar was fluctuating near two-thirds empty, and my Charm spell had switched off on its own. I also had this sickening feeling that there was nothing above me, just a hole I’d fall endlessly into. There is no moon and no stars. No moon and no—

“Alan?” Titus called. The group had stopped about ten paces ahead. Titus had closed a shutter on his lamp, only allowing a narrow beam to escape. No wonder I’d lost sight of him. Nil’s words, earlier, buzzed in my brain. If it weren’t for Threadcutter sitting against my back, a gift from General Gaius Considia and proof of his trust, I might have thought the old man tried to lose me. I might still think it, with how paranoid he was acting, but then why call out?

“We’re here,” I answered, walking toward them with Nil and Gnasher in tow. Titus shined his light on me, and I raised my hand against the glare.

“We need to keep moving,” Titus said. “It’s not safe to stay in the outskirts. Weapons drawn.”

Nil drew his bow and nocked an arrow to the string. The soldiers carrying the palanquin stored their rifles and loosened their jackets so they could reach the weapons concealed beneath, while the ones with the box fixed bayonets to the end of their rifles. I unsnapped the band keeping my machete in its sheath, then I raised the crossbow, bolt seated and ready to loose, although I kept my finger clear of the trigger. “We’re right behind you,” I told Titus.

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

It was the worst possible place to be ambushed. The surrounding buildings were abandoned row houses and workshops. Some had been reduced to rubble or gutted by fire. Others had their doors nailed shut and broken windows boarded over. Half the streetlights were out; the others guttered. In spite of my limited tactical experience, it’s where I would have hit us.

But no one did.

We made it past three blocks unmolested, and lights started to appear under doors and past curtains. We were halfway down an intact block. The doors were reinforced and the first three floors of windows had bars on them, but we’d made it through the ruined outskirts and into the slums.

Nil drew his bow and loosed an arrow smoothly, sending it over my shoulder, an inch from my left ear. The arrow took a man I’d mistaken for a garbage pile in the eye. Titus put his short rapier through a woman’s neck and pivoted, dumping her thrashing body onto the ground behind him. The soldier behind him lowered the palanquin and brought his boot down on her face.

I just stood there. Dozens of people were pouring in from both ends of the street, walking or stumbling, most of them partially naked or wrapped in bandages. Titus yelled, and the soldiers started firing, blinding me with their muzzle flashes, my nose and eyes stinging from the gunpowder smoke. Nil loosed arrow after arrow, and people fell. More people clambered over them. They didn’t yell or say a word, silent as moth wings, the only sound the scuff of their shuffling feet.

“Alan! Do something!” Titus shouted.

I didn’t think, I just raised my crossbow and pulled the trigger. The bolt hit a woman dressed in a torn nightgown in the kneecap and knocked her leg out from under her. She slammed to the ground face-first and immediately started to crawl, as if she couldn’t feel the pain.

Nil shoved me to the side as a fat man in overalls—and nothing but overalls—tried to wrap his arms around me. His skin was white like a mushroom cap. Nil stabbed the man in the neck with an arrow. The man jerked and his head fell to the side, but he still stumbled wordlessly toward Nil as the Ranger stepped back, reaching for his quiver.

I let the crossbow hang from the sling, drew the machete, and hacked into the fat man’s shoulder. There was no blood, and the reek of dead fish almost made me gag. The blade cut through six inches of flesh and lodged against his spine.

He reached for Nil. Nil shot him in the face, and he went down like a rag doll, taking me with him. I was trying to yank my machete out of his back when a thing with gills, needle teeth, and the body of a child lunged at me.

Gnasher knocked the kid over and tore its throat out.

Two more rifle shots smashed into the crowd. “Grenade!” a soldier shouted, and a pair of sparking, smoking orbs arced into the press of bodies.

Crump, crump! I saw a pale, bare arm tossed into the air, devoid of an adjoining body. I saw a woman blown in half.

I yanked the machete free and swung it into the back of an old man’s head. “Thanks, buddy!” I yelled to the dog.

Scrape! Gnasher answered, then bounded over and smashed a Risi in a straightjacket off his feet. An Accipiter with smooth skin instead of a face and torn, oil-slicked wings scuttled sideways along the buildings, hanging from the bars on the windows. Nil shot her in the chest and she lost her grip, landing on a spiked fence. She continued to reach for us, jerking on the fence, a spike through her neck and out her cheek. The rest of the mob was less than a car length away.

The soldier with the grenades drew and lit another bomb, but he was tackled to the ground by a man and a woman before he could throw the thing.

“We’re leaving!” Nil yelled, and I looked back to see Titus carving his way through the zombie things in front of him with the box-carrying soldiers in tow.

Crump! The concussion made me stagger.

Something grabbed my leg. It was the woman I’d shot earlier. She tried to bite through my boot, but I kicked her off and ran after Nil. “What about Provus?” I yelled.

The second soldier guarding the palanquin fired his pistol and dropped it, then drew another. When he’d shot all four guns, he drew a heavy cutlass and cut two more of the humanoid creatures down. I kicked a fleshy thing in the back of the knee and took its head off, then stabbed another through the nose and upper teeth. I managed to keep hold of my machete this time. Gnasher latched onto my pants leg and tried to drag me back.

A woman without a jaw, wearing a stained white petticoat and nothing else, threw the palanquin door open. That’s when I saw the cab was empty, except for stacked crates. Lit fuses smoked and sparked everywhere.

“Titus, you son of a bitch!” I shouted as I ran.

Scrape! Gnasher said, running beside me.

Nil shot two arrows past me, saving me from cracked fingernails and reaching hands, and then the palanquin blew up.

Ten

THALIA FROWNED AS DUST fell from the rafters right into her glass.

“George!” she yelled at the barman. “Get me another drink.”

“Think you’ve had enough?”

“Good call,” she said. “I’ll take the bottle up to my room. With the cork in it! Your establishment’s a gods-damned disgrace.” She snatched the bottle from him with her left hand and slid off the stool. The claws on her right hand left furrows in the counter.

#

MY EARS RANG. I’D SOMEHOW gone from vertical to horizontal, like I’d been flicked in the back by a giant. I could see Titus up ahead. He’d almost broken through the creatures. He didn’t spare us a glance. Probably assumed we were dead. That asshole. That absolute asshole.

Nil grabbed me under the armpit and pulled me to my feet.

We ran. Some of the things on the ground were still moving, and I ran on top of them. There was a kind of sticking dust in the air. It clogged my nose and crusted in the corners of my eyes. I’m not sure what was more horrifying, the times a hand almost snagged my clothes or grabbed my boot, or when I stepped on a crawling man’s back and my foot sank into his body with a snap and the stink of dead fish.

I caught up with Titus. I was already one step past rational. That crumbly, cakey dust was in my lungs. I hacked into the clawing, gaping things, lopping off arms, stomping on joints, and screaming. I think I bit one. I racked up about 120 XP per kill. My memory of that moment is hazy, and when it comes to Wyrdtide, sometimes it’s better not to dwell on things.

I chopped and chopped and chopped.

“Alan!” Titus said. “Alan, you can stop! It’s dead. We made it.”

I stared, wide-eyed, at the man who’d almost gotten me killed or eaten a half dozen times tonight, machete in hand, and I almost swung it. The only thing that stayed my arm was the fear of being alone here, and the short, golden blade Titus held casually in his right hand.

I shoved my machete back into the scabbard. “I need a drink,” I said, my throat dry and irritated.

“You’ve earned it. On me.”

Gnasher walked up and leaned against my leg, whiplike tail wagging. I scratched his shoulders and looked around. “Where’s Nil?”

#

LUCIUS STEPPED OUT from the shadow of a chimney. He squatted at the edge of the roof and frowned. Sixty dreamers dead and no loot to show for it. He wasn’t concerned about the damage to the building nearest to the blast; the people who lived in this part of town were of no importance. But rifles and grenades spoke of formal training, and he’d seen the glint of a golden blade. A Gentleman had come to Wyrdtide. Kelraz wouldn’t be pleased.

The Risi sucked his teeth. He’d pull a few trinkets from his personal stash, offer them up as if he’d stolen them tonight. No one went to the Drowned Man empty-handed. Not even him.

He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. At least Thalia hadn’t come along. He would never have heard the end of it, until he choked her to death, and that would have been a waste.

Lucius turned to go, and a shadow made him jump. His weight shifted, his arms flailed, and he fell from the roof. He snapped his spine on an iron fence. The spikes punctured both his lungs.

The last thing he saw was the Murk Elf’s too wide smile. Triangular, overlapping teeth showed bright against dusky skin and the starless sky.

#

THE REST OF THE TRIP to the safe house was uneventful. Titus led us through mostly deserted streets, taking turns I was too tired to memorize. The bars on the windows went down to the first floor, but never vanished entirely. Row houses with iron-banded doors and narrow windows gave way to more comfortable two-story single-family homes. Nil caught up to us after ten minutes or so.

“Where were you?” I whispered.

“Helping someone off a rooftop,” he answered.

I was too tired and too busy looking for the next ambush to press him. We stayed on the left-hand side—south—of the clock tower, its bright faces hanging over the city like moons. We walked for about an hour, fast and purposeful. The two remaining soldiers carried the box the whole time, though it had to be heavy. There were airholes in the lid. I offered to take a turn, and they politely declined.

I saw a lot of vagrants, both poor families huddled into the corners of buildings and people who were clearly mentally ill. There were deformities among them—and I’m not just talking about a clubfoot or shriveled arm, like I’d seen in the real world on trips to developing nations. I saw gills and bulging eyes, barnacles growing on skin, and crab claws hidden inside oversized sleeves. I saw a prostitute with bioluminescent skin beckoning me from the mouth of an alley, a man with two mouths carrying a crate full of lumpy vegetables, and a large woman in a purple hoop skirt, crushed velvet jacket, and white frilled shirt being followed by five Svartalfar servants. The Dwarves’ eyes had black scleras. One of them winked at me.

The part of me who’d worked in HR and grown up on X-Men comics struggled to draw a line between differently abled and freak. A soft-spoken little girl with urchin quills instead of eyebrows offered me wilted flowers. A well-dressed man in a top hat stared at me wordlessly as I passed, sniffing, and his skin had taken on the unhealthy pallor of the silent mushroom zombies we’d faced in the slums. About one in five people was different in ways I’d never seen outside of V.G.O. or sci-fi movies, but I think most of them were basically harmless as long as I didn’t get too close.

The remaining people were normal, at least for a virtual fantasy world. I’d say an even mix of Wodes, Dawn and Murk Elves, Dwarves, and Risi. Imperials and Accipiters were the minority, by far.

I never felt safe, though. Not even in the wealthiest neighborhoods we passed through, where the gas lamps had three lanterns and music played from large, well-lit windows. One house had stone walls cleverly covered in lichen and moss to resemble hedges, and several properties had liveried guardsmen watching for visitors with a dignified air of repressed violence. The mists were always there, fine or fog thick. The feeling of being upside down over an endless abyss never quite went away.

The smells changed. I smelled dust and old wood, then sweat, woodsmoke, and metal. I recognized the stench of a paper mill, and the riotous exhalation of a perfume shop made me feel light-headed. And I smelled food, charred meats and spoiled fruits, sweet rubs and pungent sauces. Vendors sold bowls of soup, noodles, scrawny chickens in cages, and other things I didn’t recognize. The smell of barbecue made my mouth water. It was mostly pork, which made sense because you could feed pigs just about anything, from mushrooms and old vegetables to dried meal, insects, and fish. Didn’t see any pigs, though. Like I said, it’s best not to dwell.

The crowd thinned out again and the air smelled like the sea. Titus stopped in front of a four-story brick house with barred windows and a heavy door. He rapped the knocker three times. A mustachioed doorman answered.

“Are you expected?”

“The spring needs no invitation,” Titus answered, tapping his cane on the floor.

Spy shit. Old me would have eaten this up.

#

SANDRA KNOCKED ON ROB Osmark’s open door. “Hey, Rob, you have a minute?”

“Yeah, sure. Come in.”

She walked into the office at the top of the tallest building on the Stanton campus. His main desk sat to the right, centered, with three widescreen monitors linked to both his network box and his non-networked coding machine. He also had a small steel soldering table where he tested, often destructively, the company’s latest products before sending detailed notes back to the engineers.

“You want coffee?”

She grinned at him. “It’s a little late.”

He looked up at her over his glasses. “Is it?”

“It’s 6 PM.”

“That’s not late. That’s the beginning of a productive night.”

She crossed her arms and leaned against his desk. “Still trying to hack into Viridian?”

Osmark scowled, and Sandra’s smile became a smirk.

“Don’t give me that look. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hack the damned thing from day one, but it was...”

“Fun?”

“Rewarding. It was spontaneous. I felt like I was learning something, and then it just shut me out.”

“Maybe it knew that.”

“Knew what?”

“That as long as you were having fun, you’d keep trying.”

Rob scrunched up his face and took his glasses off. “Yeah, the machine used reverse psychology on me, or something. You know who used to say that kind of crazy garbage?”

Sandra sighed and looked away. “Have you tried talking to it?”

“To Alan?”

“No. I mean, yes, to Alan, but I thought he was ignoring you.”

“If he’s still in there—and the system insists that he is—he isn’t talking to me.”

“Right. I meant talk to the computer.”

“And tell it what?”

Sometimes, Rob got locked into one way of thinking and wouldn’t budge from it. He called it “working the problem.” Sandra called it tunnel vision. That he was incredibly successful and most often right only compounded the problem, but this wasn’t the day to try to break him of a habit that had made him and his shareholders rich. “Forget it,” she said.

He stared at her for a few more seconds, and she could almost hear the gears spinning in his head. Then he sighed. “Coffee?”

“I’m good. You need sleep, boss.”

He stood and walked over to a silver thermos he’d probably had sent up from the cafeteria and poured himself a mug. “You came here to see me about something?”

She took a deep breath and straightened her posture. “I did. You’re not going to like it.”

“That’s a great intro, Sandra. You pitch clients this soft?”

“The people from DoD want a copy of the project.”

“Can’t have it.”

“Robert...”

“Can’t. We don’t know how to duplicate it yet. Tell them to come back in six months and I’ll build them the next Call of Duty or whatever it is they want. I know I owe them.”

“They want it now, Rob. They aren’t asking.”

Rob leaned against the cherry wood paneling and smelled his coffee. “They’re not asking, are they?”

Sandra winced. She’d told Brett, her handler, not to push Robert too soon. Osmark wasn’t stupid. He knew there’d be a price to pay for fixing the situation with Alan. But to hold that over him now, this bluntly? That was almost begging the Brooklyn-raised former hacker to fight back.

“What do they want it for?” he asked quietly.

“It’s better if I don’t—”

“Do you work for me, Ms. Bullard, or do you work for them?”

Sandra swallowed. “I work for you, boss.”

“Then answer my question.” His voice was even, calm. He took a sip of his coffee.

“They want to put people inside the system and use it to find out what they’re thinking.”

“You know the specs. We built the system to be airtight. It would take months to train a new system without the safeguards, and they don’t have months, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Sandra answered, and it was almost true. There were other, more traditional means of getting the information they wanted, but Brett had talked up the Viridian project to his superiors as a miracle solution, and now both he and Sandra were on the line to deliver.

“This is about torture, then, isn’t it?” Osmark said.

“What? No!” Sandra said, displaying just the right amount of indignation a civilian should.

“Sure it is. They don’t need inside someone’s head, right? If the government cared about what people thought, they wouldn’t do half the things they do. They just need specific information from someone, so they beat it out of them. Simple, just like the cops who took my buddy Leon from the Bronx for a ride in their trunk until he gave up his dealer. Except people don’t like to see that stuff in the news, so they give them to the Israelis or do it on a cargo ship in international waters. That’s how they do it, isn’t it, Sandra?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Osmark said, winking at her. Sandra kept her face straight and focused on her breathing, her cover, and what she was going to have for dinner. “But for argument’s sake, let’s say that’s why they need Viridian, and they can’t wait for me to open the door to V.G.O. If that was true, they could use the Alpha Server between midnight and 4 AM. That way, they have full control over the settings.”

Sandra frowned. “You’re cooperating with them?”

Osmark chuckled and raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “Them. That’s a nice touch. But no, I’m not cooperating. You’re going to go behind my back, and I’m not going to notice. For now. And you tell our friends at the DoD to think about how they’re going to make it up to me.”

#

“CAN WE JUST GET INSIDE?” I would have used a Suggestion, but my Spirit was too low.

The doorman pushed the door open and I followed Titus inside, catching a whiff of something like camphor or menthol.

It was like stepping into the foyer of Disney’s Haunted Mansion after hours, kid you not. It was a large, dim room with a twelve-foot ceiling and two cobweb-strung chandeliers that were currently unlit. Eight glass bulbs ringed each of the brass contraptions, and a rubber hose snaked up the chain and into the ceiling. I guessed they ran off gas, when they were on. The wallpaper was vintage gray damask, with wooden paneling up to shoulder height. It had a wide-plank hardwood floor, dirty mirrors, an ash-filled fireplace, and a few sheet-covered pieces of furniture. Three of the four doors out of the room were boarded shut. Slap a layer of dust on all that, and you’ve got the picture.

“Follow me,” the doorman said, heading for the only unboarded door.

My mouth dropped open. The doorman hadn’t left any footprints in the dust. “Wait! He—”

“It’s okay, Alan,” Titus said, following the doorman, also dustless. Gnasher squeezed past, tongue lolling, and I stepped out of the way so the soldiers could carry the box in. I crouched, setting the crossbow across my thighs, and touched the flooring. The “dust” was glued on, like a spray-on texture.

“This is nice,” Nil said, wiping his feet on the entrance mat. The door slammed shut behind him. I jumped. Nil looked amused. “Cables,” he said without turning around.

I saw them once I knew to look. “Hilarious.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He headed toward the open door, looking around at the room with interest. I followed him through.

The next room was a kitchen. Same deal—dust, discarded pots and utensils, rotten-looking food that didn’t smell and, when tapped, felt like it was glazed in some kind of sealant. The door closed behind us, like the last one. There had to be some kind of purpose to all the theatrics, but I was either too tired or not smart enough to figure it out.

The next room, though, made perfect sense based on our recent encounter. It was guarded by two pistoleers, with mustaches like the doorman’s. They wore regular clothes, but they stood ramrod straight and had the hard look of professional soldiers. There were regular oil lamps mounted to the walls, and they burned with regular, yellow flames, not green gaslight, and for some reason that made me feel a lot better. The floor was clean hardwood, and halfway down the room was a waist-high wooden counter, like at an old bank. I bet you could stab zombies over the top of that thing all day. Titus opened the bar flap and door in the center of it. Once we were behind it and the two layers of sandbags that backed the wood, the commandos gently set the box down.

“Get it open,” Titus said.

One of the soldiers produced a crowbar from his inventory. Two cracks later, the lid came off, revealing Provus, bloody and shivering inside.

“Oh, geez...” I said. He was down to 10% Health.

“Get to work, Citizen Campbell,” Titus said.

“Me?”

“You’re as close to a trained medic as I have available.”

The old me—the me from the real world that thought a doctor was someone who went to eight years of school before treating people—was horrified by the idea, but this was a video game, and I had been trained in the basics. Nothing is real, right? I thought. “I’ll need a canteen.”

The nearest soldier gave me his without hesitation. I set it on the counter, trying to ignore the fact that Provus’s Health was still slowly ticking down. I unscrewed the dropper cap from my bottle of elderflower syrup, filled it, and squeezed it into the canteen. I closed the bottle and put it away, then capped the canteen and shook.

“Anytime, Alan,” Titus said.

I ignored him. I uncapped the canteen, sniffed it, and took a swig.

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Elderflower syrup: Restore 200 HP over 240 seconds. Increase Health regen by 3 HP per second while standing still; duration, 10 minutes.

<<<>>>

I knelt next to the box and put my hand on Provus’s shoulder, bringing the canteen to his lips. “All right, Provus, nice and easy.” I only tilted it enough to pour a trickle. The last thing I needed was for him to cough and clench his rib cage around the arrowhead. I’d seen that take up to 20% off his Health.

He managed a swallow. I poured a little more, and Provus’s Health finally started to rise.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Nil asked.

“Maybe if we’d done this before he was ninety percent dead, it would be easier,” I shot back at him.

“Maybe if we’d opened the box in the middle of Wyrdtide we’d all be one hundred percent dead,” Titus said, leaning on his cane. “Why don’t you leave the details to me and focus on your doctoring?”

“I’m not a doctor!” I said. “How is it that I always get saddled with the worst character classes?”

“I thought he was a berserker,” one soldier said.

“Nah, he’s a one-shot archer. You saw him with the crossbow.”

“More like didn’t see him with the crossbow.” They had a good laugh over that.

Provus laughed and lost 5% of his Health. “Oh, sweet Sophia’s frosted tit, that hurts!”

There was a pause, and we all laughed, except for the doorman.

“I’m glad you’re all amused by my pain,” the tribune said. “I’ll keep my comments to myself, then.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Don’t pout. What were you going to say?”

“I thought you were a heavy-metal bard,” Provus said, his Health now a third full.

Nil frowned. “Is that some kind of elemental transformation, like Stone Skin?”

“No,” Provus said. “He’s just spent every fight I’ve seen him in screaming like a castrato in a temple choir.”

I scowled at that and said, “Maybe next time I’ll try dying nobly, like you all seem intent to.”

I’ve got to say, that one fell flatter than I’d expected. Then I remembered we’d lost two of the soldiers. “Damn. I’m sorry, guys.”

“It’s all right, sir. Sometimes a good death’s all you can hope for.”

“And we’ll remember them,” the other soldier said.

I nodded, though to my embarrassment, I didn’t even know the two dead men’s names. I turned back to my patient. His Health was half full. I gave him another drink from the canteen. “Can you sit up?”

“I’d rather not,” he said with a hopeful grin.

“Come on, Tribune,” I said, helping him. “How am I going to write songs about a man who lay down on the job?”

“I could give you a few pointers,” Titus said in a tone that was shockingly suggestive for someone I’d mistaken for a fusty old shopkeeper when I’d met him.

“And remember to relax your throat when you sing,” Nil added, to the guffaws of the two soldiers.

I unwrapped Provus’s bloody shoulder, slowing down whenever his Health dipped.

“I could use a few of the old man’s drops, if you’ve got any,” Provus said, leaning in.

“You mean the Affka?”

Provus’s face twitched, and he looked away. The others were conspicuously silent, even Nil.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Did I say something wrong again?”

“No,” Titus answered. “Affka was developed to steady wounded soldiers, but it’s... highly addictive.”

“I’m sorry,” I told Provus. “He kept the bottle.”

Provus swallowed. “Probably for the best,” he said.

I took some of the mugwort paste and daubed it on the wound around the arrowhead. I also pulled some splinters out of his side and spread paste over those cuts as well, although they healed almost instantly. “We need a longer-term solution for this,” I said to Titus, gesturing to the arrow.

“We do, and we’ll get one. Gentlemen,” he said to the two commandos, “if you’ll get the tribune up to a room on the fourth floor?”

“Yes, sir,” they both said.

“Consider yourselves off duty once that’s done.”

The commandos helped Provus to his feet. Provus put his right arm over one man’s shoulder, his left tucked at his side, and hobbled toward the door at the back of the room.

“I’ll go back to the foyer,” the doorman said, leaving.

Nil walked over and grabbed his gray bindle from the box, where Provus’s feet had been.

Titus stared. “When did you—”

“I put it in there when you were fussing over the palanquin,” Nil said.

Titus drummed his fingers on his cane. “I suppose you were making a point.”

“I suppose I was keeping my hands free,” Nil said. “It’s a dangerous city.” He smiled with pointy teeth.

Titus sighed. “Well, come on, the both of you. I owe you a drink and an explanation.”

“You do,” I said.

We followed him out of the room. The mustachioed guards watched us leave. The rest of the first floor was laid out in the same way: progressively deadlier bottlenecks. The last room on the first floor, before the stairs, had a small, three-man pillbox manned by three very serious mustaches. The stuff they smeared their facial hair with finally cleared the mushroom men out of my nose, and I remembered where I’d smelled it before. “They’re janissaries! Marquard’s Janissaries, right?”

“Couldn’t say,” Titus said.

Nil rolled his eyes.

The three mustaches were trying very hard not to look pleased.

On the second floor, the floor gave a little when I stepped on it, and I asked, “Is this a trapdoor?”

“We’ll talk about it upstairs,” Titus said.

“Let’s talk about it now,” I said, my voice more cheerful than I’d intended.

Titus stopped and turned around. “We have a problem?”

“We do,” I said, the mood souring fast. “You left me to die.”

“Several times,” Nil added.

“You’re not helping,” Titus told Nil.

“I’m not here to help.” The Ranger smiled.

Gnasher had very quietly moved to Titus’s left side, while the old spy had shifted his hands to where he could draw the sword from his cane. I didn’t like where this was heading.

“Let’s start with that, shall we?” Titus said. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Nil said. “I’m nobody.”

Titus clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Look, we’re all tired. I had a job to do. The general—”

“Who?” Nil asked.

“Gaius Considia,” I answered.

“The general,” Titus insisted, “sent me verified intelligence that Provus was going to be attacked. And he was.”

“It’s Wyrdtide,” Nil said. “You made it look like you were carrying in a slant-eared prince. Of course you were attacked.”

“It was a trap,” Titus said.

“It was unnecessary,” Nil said.

“You could have just told me,” I added.

“No I couldn’t. You brought this thing within bowshot of Provus!”

My eyes widened. “That’s not okay.”

“I’m fine with being called that,” Nil said.

“Well, I think it’s offensive,” I said, crossing my arms.

“And I think no elf calls another elf a slant-ear!” Titus yelled.

Nil grinned wider. “Well, here’s another one for you. A man with a gun walks into a bar. The bartender asks him why he’s carrying a gun, and the man answers—”

“Mimics!” I shouted. “Hah! I knew that joke.”

Nil scowled. “Most people don’t survive it.”

Scrape! Scrape! Gnasher said, barking so hard he came off his front paws.

“No, he did not ‘get me good’ on that one, you furry turncoat. Bad dog.” Nil snapped his fingers, and Gnasher poofed in a cloud of smoke.

“No!” I shouted.

Titus and Nil both stared at me, and then they laughed.

I looked at both of them, horrified. “What kind of sick bastard—”

“He didn’t kill the dog.”

“I unsummoned him,” Nil added. “He could probably use the rest.”

“Oh. Well, you’re both assholes, and I could use a drink.”

“I could use two,” Titus agreed. “I came within inches of using the trapdoor on Alan.”

“You should have.” Nil laughed.

I just grinned. I knew there was a trapdoor.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Titus said. “I’ll explain as much as I can.”

Eleven

THE THIRD FLOOR WAS nice. It seemed more like a living space than a battleground, with brass oil lanterns, royal blue wallpaper, polished parquet flooring, and close to thirty of the janissaries occupying a wide array of expensive-looking furniture. They performed weapons maintenance, read books, played cards, and stared into the fire, talking in low tones.

Everything was painstakingly clean. No cobwebs, no dust, not even a stray pair of boots or a dish left unwashed on a table. The bar and well-stocked liquor cabinet at the back of the room were polished to a gleam. Thick curtains had been drawn across all the windows, and the comfortingly banal yellow flames of the lamps and fireplace seemed to repel the cold, humid air in an almost magical sense. I could have forgotten we were in Wyrdtide, and that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Titus got behind the bar and waved Nil and me onto stools. “What are you having?” Titus asked me.

“I don’t suppose you could make a rum and Coke appear?”

“I can try. What’s rum?”

I laughed. You never know how much you take things for granted until they’re gone. “It’s a sweet, gold to brown liquor distilled from fermented sugarcane.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I’d tasted it. “It’s sweet, clear, not hard on the nose, but it warms your gut.”

“Sugar wine,” Titus said. “Sailors like it here.”

“Sailors like it where I’m from, too,” I answered.

“And do you boil it?”

“What? No! You usually serve it on ice.”

“You said ‘coke,’” Nil said. “That’s what blacksmiths use to heat metal.”

“Well, it’s a drink where I’m from. I’m not actually sure what it’s made from. Lemons, limes, that sort of thing. Maybe some caramel and vanilla.”

Titus hunted around the shelves for a moment, then started adding a dash of this and a few drops of that to a silver cocktail shaker. I saw a vanilla pod go in, and I smelled nutmeg and cinnamon at one point. He cleaned everything up as he went and finished it off by squeezing half an orange in. He closed the lid. “Now where did they put... Ahah!” He pulled a short, knobby wand from a drawer and tapped the shaker with it. Frost formed on the outside.

“That is the second-most awesome gratuitous use of magic I’ve ever seen,” I said.

“What was the first?” Titus asked.

“A girl who could do that with her hands. Hot and cold.”

Titus chuckled. “That must have been a good night.”

I tried to smile. “It was.” If only Thalia hadn’t turned out to be a homicidal psycho.

Titus poured the drink into a tumbler, then added a slice of the orange and a cherry. It was golden brown and perfect.

Titus took note of my reaction. “Good,” he said, smiling in a warm, grandfatherly way that reminded me of when we’d first met. “What about you, Nil?”

“A small sunset, neat, please,” Nil answered.

“That’s a Dawn Elf drink,” Titus said, pulling a bottle of bourbon from the shelf.

Nil grinned. “I developed quite a liking for Dawn Elves, at one point.”

“I would have though Accipiters would be more to your taste.”

“Great drinking companions, but they have bones like birds. They always get stuck in my throat.”

Titus frowned and poured himself something clear, then hit it with the wand. He finished putting everything away, which wasn’t much, then raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said, and took a long sip.

“Cheers,” I said, then took a sip of mine. It was almost right, but a touch heavy on the rum. “What would you call this?” I asked him.

“A sharp sugar wine,” Titus answered. “The orange helps with scurvy.”

I chuckled. “Makes as much sense as anything else.”

Nil downed his entire glass in one go, then leaned back, took a deep breath, and sighed with his eyes closed.

Titus raised an eyebrow at him and tapped the counter with his index finger. “You can’t be a mimic, you know.”

“Can’t I?”

“No, or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“By Priests.”

“And did they say why?” Nil asked, looking at Titus through one open eye.

Titus glanced at me, then leaned forward. “There was a war.”

“How exciting!”

“Between Cernunnos and Aediculus, monsters and men. They fought each other to near extinction. When the dust settled, they signed a truce that left the cities to men and the deep wilds to monsters.”

Nil bobbed his head. “You’re half right.”

“Hah!” Titus said. “And I suppose you know better than the Priests, do you?”

Nil looked at me for support.

“Have you seen his teeth?” I said.

“An unfortunate birth defect,” Titus said. “It’s perfectly normal he’d come up with a magical explanation.”

“I happen to think I’m quite handsome.”

Titus rolled his eyes.

“And Alan,” Nil continued, “I really do prefer to be called by a neutral pronoun.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a mimic,” Nil said, and the cartilage of its face cracked and reshaped. Heart-shaped face, button nose, big eyes with long eyelashes, and its body... it grew boobs. Great ones. The kind that filled your hand and sat like small grapefruit on its chest. Nil leaned forward across the bar, giving Titus a spectacular view of its cleavage, and booped him on the nose with a slender index finger.

“Well, screw me sideways,” Titus said, finishing the rest of his drink.

“If you were twenty years younger,” Nil said in a playful, girl-next-door mezzo-soprano and winked at him.

I parked my eyes on my drink and tried to relax my way out of the tightness in my pants.

“As I was saying,” Nil continued, “you’re half right. There was a truce—we call it the Compact—and monsters aren’t supposed to go into the cities. When we do, the Horned One sends some very nasty things to bring us back or kill us.”

“Like what?” Titus asked, as captivated as a child.

Nil pursed its lips. “Aetherlichts, rippers, several kinds of darkstalkers, fleshcrafters, and plague beasts... the list goes on, but you get the idea.”

“So how are you here?” I asked.

“Wyrdtide isn’t a city, it’s a dungeon. The biggest dungeon in all of Eldgard.”

Titus grunted and looked at me. “I suppose I thought of it as a city built on top of a dungeon, but it’s probably true. People have come here for the rare items for hundreds of years. They say that if you go deep enough, you’ll find a portal straight to Morsheim.”

Nil covered its mouth and laughed. “I’ve never checked, but that sounds like monster humor. The ‘portal’ is probably some boss’s gullet, and it’s a one-way trip.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Morsheim?”

“The realm of the dead, hun,” Nil said, touching my forearm before turning back to Titus. “Another small sunset?”

“How about a love letter?” Titus offered. “It’s the Moen’etai with sparkling wine and bitters.”

“I’ll try anything once.” Nil eyed me sideways. I was turned on, too tired, and afraid its vagina had teeth, all at the same time.

I cleared my throat. “Titus? You were going to explain some things.”

“I was.”

“Like why you left Nil and me to die. I mean, thanks for the drink, but—”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Titus said, letting his fatigue and irritation show.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Alan. Provus Considia is worth your life and mine twice over. I had a credible threat. I didn’t know who to trust.”

I drew Threadcutter and stabbed it into the countertop. I meant to plant it in about an inch, but the strike crit’ed and the blade phased through the wood up to the handle with a thunk.

Nil smiled at me. Titus continued to prepare its drink.

“That was impressive,” Nil said. “Don’t you think that was impressive?”

“I think he made his point,” Titus said.

“You two are hilarious,” I said, eyeing the knife. It was really in there. “The point,” I said, “is that Gaius trusts me.”

Titus slid the love letter to Nil in a margarita glass. It was a deep, orange red, like Nil’s eyes. He’d garnished it with a spiral of orange peel. “Gaius flattered you with a gift and his attention because you’re useful, Alan. He’s got a knack for it, and he rewards useful people, but don’t mistake it for patronage. I’ve known the man for forty years.”

He drew the short, golden rapier from his cane and set it gently on the counter. “Do you know what this is?”

“Is it a gift from Gaius?”

Titus chuckled. “No. You might call it my gift to him. It’s a Gentleman’s rapier.”

“It’s a bit short,” Nil said, batting its eyes.

“A Gentleman’s rapier,” Titus continued, “gives someone the right to rule the underworld of a city. There are quests involved, but it all starts with a sword like this one. I pulled it off the body of its previous owner after beating him in a duel.

“Then I broke it over my knee and gave the other half to Gaius. I told the Thieves Union, the Smugglers, and the Ministry of Whispers that the Viridian Empire was a nation of laws, and their services would not be needed.”

“How’d that go over?” Nil asked.

“There were unfortunate accidents across the city for the next couple of years, but I think we’ve reached an understanding.”

“So what’s your point? That you could have been a kingpin?”

“My point, Alan, is that I’ve lost and given up more than you ever have or likely will. Friends, lovers, personal aspirations... my good years are behind me and I’m still sleeping on the road. I get nightmares. I have regrets. But I’ve had an extraordinary life filled with moments I can never talk about and I’d do it all again. You think you’re owed something? I’ve already paid you through a life of service. I’ll feed you and Nil and everyone in this room into the furnace to keep the Empire going one more day. If you don’t like it, walk. Do it now, before you know enough I have to slit your throat and dump you into the bay.”

There was no humor in his expression, no gestures or flourishes, just a tired old man who’d had enough of my crap.

I sat back on the stool, twisting my lower back until it popped. I swallowed. I was tired, too. Not Titus levels of tired, but worn out, and I’ve never bought into the idea that because someone else is suffering, I should, too. I wasn’t a hero. I didn’t get off on the idea of living my life for someone else, especially unknown masses of... I was going to say NPCs, but that’s all I was, now, so people. And screw everyone else. I didn’t owe them a thing.

But I liked Titus, Provus, Nil, and Gaius. I knew them, insofar as anyone could in a span of two weeks. They were more real to me than the billions back on Earth, and more than that, they were special even for V.G.O. heroes and monsters, and I got to be around them and bask in that glow, even if I wasn’t one myself. “And if I stay?”

“If you stay, we find a discreet Plague Doctor to pull that arrow out of Provus, then put him through a portal to somewhere else. You don’t need to know where, so don’t ask. Once he’s safe, I’ll let it be known you and I are in Wyrdtide, and we’ll see if we can draw your Firebrand out. Her spells won’t work here.”

“And then?” I said.

“Then we’ll see. I have business in Stone Reach. I could use some company on the road, maybe teach you a thing or two. But that’s a few weeks from now, so take your time to think it over.” He gave me a smile, then looked at Nil. “How’s the drink?”

“Bitter and lovely,” Nil said, looking him over.

“I’m glad,” Titus said. He stepped out from behind the bar.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Human Trafficking

You have successfully smuggled Provus Considia into the Imperial safe house without being detected. In return, as your reward, you have received 1,000 XP, and your relationship with the Viridian Empire has increased from Accepted to Friendly. You have also been awarded 30 renown—in-world fame—for completing this quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

<<<>>>

“Oh, and Alan?” Titus said, with a hint of mischief.

I closed the quest alert. “Yes?”

“Good luck getting that dagger out of the bar.”

#

IT TOOK ME A GOOD TEN minutes to get Threadcutter back. After watching me strain with both hands on the handle while finishing its drink, Nil suggested I look at the item description. The mimic slipped off of its stool and found an overstuffed emerald divan to lounge on by the fireplace, while I tried to retrieve my best weapon.

I focused on the handle protruding from the wood, and a window popped up.

<<<>>>

Threadcutter

Weapon Type: Piercing, Dagger

Class: Ancient Artifact, One-handed

Base Damage: Special

Primary Effects:

50 pts Shadow Damage + 10 pts x Target Level

- On Critical or Backstab, ignores all Armor

- When sheathed, enemies will see character as unarmed

- Dexterity bonus = .25 x character level

Secondary Effects:

- +100% renown effects from kills

- +23% extra gold from quest rewards

A crude weapon from a less civilized age.

If it had only been a bit longer, it would have changed the world.

<<<>>>

Okay, I thought. Criticals. I needed to get the dagger out the same way it had gone in. I pulled up my character sheet.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

I WAS ABOUT A THIRD of the way to the next level, had a little renown, and would have been able to cast three or four spells in a row if Wyrdtide didn’t drain my Spirit. I also had a Critical Hit Chance of 5%. The rest was math.

I gripped the handle with my right hand and yanked on it, not as if I was trying to pull the knife out, but as if I was trying to tear through the wood. The knife stayed stuck. I tried again to the same effect. The next ten tries were no different, and each attempt cost me a full strike’s worth of Stamina. I rubbed my sweaty palm on my black pants and stared at the wood. It was polished hard maple, glued together in thick strips as a butcher block countertop. My mother, an interior decorator and avid cook, would have loved this hecking counter, except she preferred end-grain to face-grain counters, like this one, because they hid scratches and were gentler on her knives.

Staring at it, I noticed a small crack had formed in the wood near Threadcutter’s edge. It glowed red. I grabbed the handle and tore toward the flaw, pulling the dagger out like the wood wasn’t there, though the hole I’d made with the initial stab remained.

A notification popped up.

<<<>>>

You have lost the ability Keen-Sight!

You have gained the ability Critical-Sight!

<<<>>>

Ability: Critical-Sight

As well as identifying hidden objects, enemies, and traps, you have a chance to find weaknesses in your opponents.

Ability Type/Level: Passive/Level 7

Cost: None

Effect 1: Chance to notice and identify hidden objects increased by 35%.

Effect 2: 3% chance of slowing time 90% for 5 seconds on spotting an enemy or triggering a trap.

Effect 3: In combat, skip your attack to gain 3% chance of slowing time 90% for 1 second, highlighting the weak points of a targeted enemy. Striking a weak point has a 3.0x critical chance; duration, 60 seconds.

<<<>>>

Well, that will come in handy. I glanced around to see if anyone had seen me pull Excalibur from the stone, but the others were pretty much ignoring me, so I just slid Threadcutter back into its sheath.

“Cheater!” one of the janissaries said, pointing.

“Prove it,” the accused said, his eyes chips of ice, his mustache impeccably styled and shot through with gray.

I chuckled. Any other game, I might have thought a brawl was about to break out, but cheating was encouraged in Gentleman’s War, although getting caught was not.

In this case, it looked like a false accusation; the man who’d stood and pointed gave up his hand, and the older man added the cards to his own discard pile.

“How’s it going, fellas?” I asked, walking over. The janissaries were wearing mismatched, worn clothing that was clean and wrinkle-free. It looked like the old guy had most of the cards, and most of the winnings.

“Sarge is cleaning us out again,” a younger soldier said.

“Maybe if you paid attention to your own cards instead of mine, you’d do better,” the older soldier said. “Besides, I give all the money back.”

“So you can win it again.”

“I do love winning.” His mustache twitched in amusement.

“Excuse me, sir, but do I know you from somewhere?” the third cardplayer asked.

I looked at the third janissary and then laughed. “We met in New Viridia.”

“I know that, sir, but I can’t place the occasion.” The others looked me over with interest.

I grinned. “It was in the little market in the southern quarter. You gave a silver coin to an old blind man.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “That was you? But you were a beggar!”

“I certainly looked like one,” I said, trying to hint I’d been a spy all along. I hadn’t, of course. I’d been flat broke and new to V.G.O. when he met me. The men at the card table looked at me skeptically. “I didn’t think I’d meet the famous Marquard’s Janissaries in Wyrdtide,” I said.

The young man winced, and the others looked away.

“No janissaries here, sir,” the sergeant said. “Only ruffians.”

“Scoundrels,” another added.

“Men just shy of villainy,” said the young man, whose mustache was actually drooping.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m with Titus.”

“Wouldn’t know who that is, sir. But I assure you, we couldn’t possibly be Marquard’s Janissaries,” the sergeant said.

“They’re an elite Imperial unit,” the young soldier said. “The very best!”

“They wear uniforms with polished brass buttons.”

“And custom-made rifles,” the fourth man said without looking up.

“Janissaries guard strategic locations or break enemy positions on the front lines,” the sergeant said, and someone cheered on the other side of the room. “There’s no chance they’d be assigned here. We’re just ruffians.”

“Scalawags!”

“Rebel scum,” the fourth man muttered.

The sergeant played a card first, as the winner of the last hand, and the others played in turn.

“But you’ve all got mustaches!” I said, not sure if I wasn’t getting the joke or if this was just covert-ops obstinacy.

The sergeant looked at me. “Precisely. If, against all odds, we were Marquard’s Janissaries, acting undercover in Wyrdtide on behalf of the Empire, we would have shaved our mustaches.”

The others nodded as if this was common knowledge.

Nil caught my eye from its perch by the fire and waved me over.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, thankful for a way out of the absurd conversation.

The sergeant gave me a curt nod and the soldiers returned to their game.

#

NIL PULLED IN ITS LEGS, and I sat down on the far end of the divan. “They’ve gone mad,” I said.

Nil stared at me, its expression relaxed. “You need to let this go,” it said.

“Why?”

“Because this is Wyrdtide.”

“All the more reason to keep things nice and sane.”

“There’s a good reason for everything they do.” Nil stretched its hands over its shoulders, arching its back. “There are things here that feed on fear, pain, and madness. They hate the Empire. It’s best not to attract their attention.”

“Even behind closed doors and curtained windows?”

“Especially then,” Nil answered.

#

THE WALKER IN THE SQUARE paused and sniffed. He looked like a hunched goblin, or a small troll, with wrinkled gray skin and a few greasy strands of black hair plastered to his skull. He lived in a place stitched together from a thousand mirrors, the parts of reflected rooms that weren’t reflected for the vain and the punctilious to see, unless they stood with their faces pressed to the glass and looked sideways to catch a glimpse.

He had heard a name, a memory mixed with gunpowder and the scent of myrrh. A hated enemy, right on his doorstep.

He hunted through the floating fragments that gave him access to Gaia’s realm—a makeup compact, the inside of a discarded bottle, and cats—thousands of inside-out cat faces for him to look through. He emptied drawers full of broken glass and shattered mirrors; they flew and pinwheeled through the room like slivers of light. There was a tremor. He sniffed, then rushed over to a birdbath full of black water and looked through it to a gas-lit puddle between cobblestones in front of a four-story brick house.

Yessssss. The Walker in the Square was an Aspect of Thanatos—a demigod, just like the Drowned Man or the Iron Maiden, though he lacked their physicality. The others liked to hurt him. One summer, they had their followers smear all the mirrors with lampblack and bacon fat. He’d nearly starved.

Unlike them, his reach went beyond the fogs and mists. He could be useful to them, bring them whispers, and fiddle for his fare.

He slipped in through a crack in a boarded window, then jumped from polished wood to burnished brass. A mustached man saw him in the corner of his eye and turned. To the Walker, he was a blur, a collection of blocky colors he couldn’t focus on. The Walker passed behind him into a room on the third floor.

Bottles in a bar. A straight razor lifted to a man’s neck. The light was too bright for his gas-lit eyes. The Walker in the Square pressed his moist fingers against the surfaces to feel the vibrations in the room. He peered through the reflections. A man frowned at a glint of something else in another’s eye, but the Walker was gone. There was nothing there. Just an assortment of lowlifes, rogues, and brigands; a monster; and a fool who thought he was a spy.

That last one was the most interesting. The Walker could almost see him clearly. He reached through the rents in the aether and dipped his claws in the fool’s mind, drawing out strands of Spirit like honey, sucking it from his fingers. The Walker shivered in delight. Fear, anger, loss, delusion, fatigue, and homesickness were tearing this one apart. The Walker would drain him slowly, until he went mad.

The monster looked straight at him and he fled, shadow to shadow, mirror to glass.

#

MY HEAD BOBBED. MY Spirit had dropped to nearly zero. I yawned.

“Are you all right, Alan?” Nil asked, looking over my shoulder as if there was someone behind me.

I turned to follow its eyes, but there was nothing there. “Yeah. Just buzzed and tired. Maybe all of this will make sense after a nap.”

“It’s probably best you stay awake a while longer. Why don’t you tell me something about where you’re from?”

I sniffed and scratched my head. I wanted to sleep, but I hadn’t talked to anyone about the real world since I died. Maybe a chat with what, at the moment, appeared to be a beautiful woman was just the thing.

I tried to think of where to start. “I grew up in a big city, about half as big as New Viridia, but I spent my summers on my grandfather’s farm.”

#

THALIA WALKED UP THE last of the hundreds of metal stairs that wound their way into the clock tower. They were lit with open-flamed gas lamps that smelled of swamp water. The walls were ancient, made of poorly fitted stone that ran with condensation and seemed to be joined with mildew. The water made the steps slick. She hung tight to the handrail with her clawed hand.

At the top, she pushed open the heavy copper door. It was embossed with life-sized screaming faces that were so detailed they looked like someone had pushed real people into the cooling metal, and a patina of green and blue oxidation covered the whole thing.

She was just the right kind of drunk for this meeting. “Kelraz!”

No answer, just the surprisingly soft whirr of the clockworks and the constant dripping from the walls.

“Fine!” she said. “I’m coming in!”

Thalia stepped onto the old, uneven plank floor. It was warped and stained, the nails rusted, with missing boards and finger-wide gaps. It was all that stood between her and a six-hundred-foot fall. It flexed under her weight.

There were no guards. The Drowned Man’s throne sat in the center, a high-backed wrought iron seat that held up Kelraz’s corpse.

The Drowned Man’s hair and beard were matted and dirty brown. His face was thick, brown leather, his lips swollen like they’d been stung by bees. His eyes were like stone marbles, the whites bloodshot, and his crooked hands sat in his lap, bleached white and as wrinkled as prunes, the thin skin tight against his finger bones. Brown and black fluid oozed out of rips and cuts in his clothes, seeping through the black grillwork of the chair to drip and pool on the floor. He might have been a Wode, once, but it was hard to tell.

His voice was clear and strong, like a man born to rule. “What have you brought me?” he said. His dead lips didn’t move; the voice sounded directly into her head.

“I’ve found Mad Marge. She’s staying at an inn called The Twice-Hexed Cat with a third of her crew.”

“If you know where she is, why are you here?”

“I need—”

“You need?” he said. She blinked, and the corpse stood in front of her. The smell made her stomach lurch. Wet, mushy fingers closed around her throat and squeezed. “Tell me what you need, Warmaiden.” He said the last word with contempt.

Thalia scratched at his arm with her new claws. They scraped against his bones, but he didn’t bleed or let go. “I have no magic here,” she gasped. “I need men, weapons!” She coughed and tried to drop her weight to break free, but he might as well have been made of stone.

“Do you accept my blessing, then?” he asked.

“What?”

“My blessing, child. Will you change, or will you die?”

She could see spots dancing in front of her eyes. “Yes! Yes, I accept your blessing!”

He pulled her to his face, pushed his dead lips against hers. Something that wasn’t a tongue thrashed against her teeth and forced her jaw open. Water gushed from his mouth to hers. It stunk of brine and rotting fish. She struggled and tried to hold her breath, but after a few seconds she was forced to swallow.

<<<>>>

Still Waters

You have been blessed by the Drowned Man, Aspect of Thanatos, master of grudges and the restless dead. While you serve him, your Luck is permanently increased by 5.

<<<>>>

Class Change!

Your class has been changed from Firebrand to Dark Arsonist. This change cannot be reversed except through a redemption quest from a good- or neutral-aligned Aspect or Overmind.

Advantages:

- Chaosfire: All damage and resistances now half fire, half shadow.

Disadvantages:

- “Evil” Alignment

- “Dark” Alignment

<<<>>>

There was a roaring in her ears. Had she just lost the skills she’d spent a lifetime gathering? She pulled up the first one from the tree.

<<<>>>

Skill: Chaosball

Hurl a ball of fire and shadow at an enemy.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Grandmaster

Cost: 225 Spirit

Range: 100 Meters (Sight)

Cast Time: 2.0 seconds

Cooldown: N/A

Effect 1: 135 pts Shadow damage, 135 pts Fire damage

Effect 2: 50% chance to inflict Burning Shadows level 3, 100 Shadow and 100 Fire damage over 30 seconds. Burning stacks up to 3 times.

Restrictions: Shadow damage only when underwater, Fire damage only in daylight.

<<<>>>

The Drowned Man released her. “The city knows you’re mine now.”

She fell to the ground, clutching her throat and coughing. Black, fetid water dripped from her lips. Her Spirit bar was three-quarters full and rising. Tears ran down her face. She felt both energized and violated.

“Take as many of the dreamers as you need and go,” he said, returned to his throne as if he’d never moved.

#

“ALAN?” TITUS CALLED.

I opened my eyes and lifted my head. I’d fallen asleep in Nil’s lap. “What is it?”

Titus and the young janissary I’d met in New Viridia looked at us with amusement.

“What?” I said, and looked up. “Whoa!” I said, jumping to my feet.

Nil had switched back to being a male Murk Elf. “Problem?” it asked.

“Nope. Just a little unexpected.” And I’d taken a nap with my head on its junk.

“Good,” it said. “We’re going somewhere. The tits make it harder to run.”

Twelve

I’D TAKEN A FEW MINUTES to fill the vials on my left hip with a mix of elderflower syrup and strawberry cordial from the bar. It wasn’t a real “Restore Health” potion, but it would put my healing rate on overdrive. The snap on my machete was loose, and the crossbow hanging to my right was cocked with a bolt seated on the rail.

The young janissary from before joined us.

“Sergeant Venator asked if young Vel Ruso here could accompany us. He’s new to the detachment, and hasn’t had the chance to see the city.”

Vel had a brace of four pistols and a half dozen grenades under his jacket. Nil nodded at him, and I gave him a smile, happy to have the extra firepower with us.

Nil had stowed its bow in favor of a short sword it carried at its hip. It carried the gray cloth bindle on its shoulder. I was going to ask why when Titus cleared his throat.

“All set?” Titus asked.

I nodded.

“Questions?”

“No,” I said, keeping my face neutral and my tone cool.

A smile lit Titus’s eyes without reaching his lips, and he clapped me on the shoulder.

The safe house door closed behind us on its own as the four of us stepped into the gaslight and mists. The contrast between the streets of Wyrdtide and the card room on the third floor was sharper this time. The shadows felt deeper, the light sickly. I didn’t understand this place. I wished I was portalling out of here with Provus. But after a drink, an explanation, and a half-hour nap, I was prepared to go with the flow, if only because it was my best chance of surviving.

Titus walked north, along the waterfront. The sea was as black as ink. The buildings here were primarily warehouses. They were solid structures with yawning mouths guarded by liveried footmen, like the rich neighborhoods we’d walked through. A few smaller buildings were more informally patrolled by gang members and mutants with simple, handmade weapons that would inflict sophisticated wounds on anyone they were used on. They stared at us, weighing their odds. I stared back. I’m not a fighter, but my mother and I spent some years living in Nicetown, a rough neighborhood in Philly. I knew what weakness would get us, here.

I was more nervous about the clusters of pale vagrants with vacant eyes. They huddled in groups of three or four, swaying, their mouths opening and shutting like fish. I couldn’t tell if they were zombies or on some kind of drug, but they didn’t attack. Just looking at them made my face itch and my throat close up, like the air was full of mushroom spores again.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” a dockhand said, shoving me back. I’d almost walked into him. I’d screwed up. The eyes of the local toughs were instantly drawn to us, watching how I’d react.

My Spirit bar was just high enough. “Kneel,” I said, putting everything I had into the Suggestion. The dockhand dropped to his knees, a confused look on his face. I snapped my hand out, hitting him in the throat the same way a Legion prefect had done to me, not long ago. He fell over sideways, choking, and I stepped over him to join the others.

“What was that?” Titus hissed.

“I couldn’t back down.”

“I know that. How the hell did you get him to kneel? I thought you were an archer or a bard.”

I winked at him. “I sang him a song.”

Vel was looking at me with newfound awe.

Titus’s lips tightened, which just made me grin even wider. “Fine,” he said. “But we’ll talk about this later.”

“Sure thing, boss,” I said, scratching my eyebrow with my middle finger. It felt good to have the upper hand for once.

We walked into the main harbor area—longer piers, bigger ships, and a constant stream of workers loading and unloading them. The thugs and pale junkies had disappeared. Even the more obvious mutants and the harmless poor had vanished. It wasn’t a wealthy area, but it was a vehicle for wealth. The dockside was clean, the paving neat, and supervisors with clipboards prowled for signs of disorder.

We turned onto a broad avenue that led from the harbor all the way to the clock tower, the massive spire barely thicker than a match but clearly visible, over a mile away.

“This is the main drag,” Vel, the janissary turned ruffian, told me. “Most of the sailors will stay within a few blocks of it, if they go ashore. I’m told it’s relatively safe and three times as expensive as anywhere else in the city.”

“What does relatively safe mean?”

He shrugged. “You might wake up drunk and naked in a tub full of ice with an organ missing, but the Plague Doctor paid you the going rate for it and the hooker who brought you there used her cut to buy a cure disease potion, not an exorcism.”

I started to laugh, but saw that no one was laughing with me. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as an exorcism in Wyrdtide,” he said.

“It’s also one of the best shopping venues in all of West Viridia and Eldgard put together. They sell things out in the open that are banned in most other cities, and the food in some of the restaurants is to die for.”

“Literally,” Nil said.

Titus shrugged. “It is better to go with someone who’s been before.”

We made our way along, neither slow nor rushed. Titus stopped to look through a few shop windows. Here and there, fancier shops and hotels had set out oil lamps or braziers, and people drifted toward the natural light like moths. A temple dedicated to some kind of crocodile god had two racks of votive candles set out, and my heart broke a little when I saw a young boy with old, tattered clothes take one of them and scurry down an alleyway, the light cupped in his dirty hands.

About halfway to the clock tower, I saw a Svartalfar-made auto-cocking crossbow that made my palms tingle, but the store was closed, and even if it hadn’t been, the twenty-gold price tag would have left me broke after haggling and selling off some of my stuff.

“How does that even work?” I asked.

“It’s steam powered,” Vel said, startling me. He blushed. “Sorry, I have a thing for Engineered Weapons. You see that bottle beneath the rail?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a runic trap. There’s a lesser fire elemental in there. You just add water and it’s good for twenty to thirty shots.”

I could see a little valve on one side to add the water through. “Doesn’t that hurt it?” I asked.

“Hurt what?”

“The fire elemental.”

He scratched the back of his head. “I’ve heard some nasty stories about what happens if the canister cracks and they get loose, but fire elementals aren’t friendly to begin with.”

“They aren’t self-aware enough to feel pain at that size,” Nil added.

“Okay. So what do you do after twenty shots? Get a new one?”

Vel laughed. “Thank Aediculus, no! They have to be summoned from the Shattered Realm. You just push a stick of anthracite through the opening and it heats back up. Dry wood will work, too, in a pinch, but you’ll only get ten shots out of it.”

I pressed my face against the window to get a closer look. It had close to the same draw strength as the crossbow at my hip, and was displayed loaded with ultra-light arrows with razor-sharp broadhead tips instead of the heavy bolts I used. That reduced its stopping power and damage, but the speed of the projectile would be faster, it caused Bloodletting, and I could loose one every two seconds instead of once per battle.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she, sir?” Vel said.

“Yeah, she is,” I said, not even embarrassed about how much I wanted to hold “her” in my hands.

Titus whistled. I looked over my shoulder and saw him waving. Time to go.

Titus led us down a side street that seemed to specialize in brothels, alcohol, and street food. The brothels in particular catered to diversity, specializing in every gender, deformity, and race, including some I hadn’t seen as an option during character creation. Total Recall stopped short of its true potential. I saw hair, fur, spines, and scales; male, female, and unknown; tattoos, implants, and scarification; eyes and breasts in odd and even numbers; and a whole establishment dedicated either to fresh seafood or other applications of tentacles. The farther we went, the less I recognized on the vendors’ grills or waving from the windows.

“You look uncomfortable,” Nil said with a smile.

“How am I supposed to feel?” I asked.

“Curious. Isn’t this the stuff of human fantasies?” Nil wiggled its fingers at a wingless Accipiter whose back and arms were covered in iridescent green and blue feathers, like a peacock.

She batted her five completely black eyes at the mimic, and Nil smiled.

“You know what? I am curious,” I said. I pointed at its bindle. “Why don’t you put that thing in your inventory instead of carrying it?”

Nil scrunched its nose up. “Bit unfair, really, but I can’t.” It winked at me. “I’ll explain someday.”

I followed Titus around a corner and half a block to the west, away from the clock tower, until he stopped. He looked at Nil. “Were we followed?”

“I didn’t see anyone,” it answered.

Titus didn’t ask me or Vel.

Seeing my expression, Titus added, “We walked down the Roseway to shake anyone tailing us. Anyone not looking at the entertainment would stick out like a sore thumb.”

I caught Nil’s smile and blushed, but kept my face straight.

“Thank you for explaining,” Vel said. “It’s good to know.”

“No problem,” Titus answered, and I felt doubly ashamed for letting pride get in the way of learning. “Now remember, we’re just here to find a doctor for the tribune. He’s stable, thanks to Alan’s care, so if we don’t make contact, we’ll just have a drink and leave. No heroics, and no fights.”

He said that last bit to me. “Understood,” I answered. I was more than happy to avoid trouble, considering how our stay in Wyrdtide had started.

Moving briskly, Titus led us the rest of the way. This part of town was less jarring than the main drag or the Roseway had been. I caught glimpses of ordinary people—residents—doing simple things like emptying a pot into the gutter or talking in the street, which was comforting, although they regarded us with a mixture of fear and suspicion. Even the mists felt thinner, and the streets were a normal kind of dirty, if a bit dark because of the spacing between the single-post gaslights. We’d walked about five blocks without incident or anything worth mentioning when Titus stopped and pushed his way into a three-story inn called The Twice-Hexed Cat.

#

THE TWICE-HEXED CAT was loud and crowded with the kind of clientele I would have expected back in a tri-city drinking hole, outside Camp Pendleton, in the real world. The bar was being mobbed by wiry men and women who were clearly sailors or fishermen, and a few burlier specimens who might have been Marines or their local equivalent. All of them were in varying states of inebriation. Most had tattoos.

They were a clean-cut bunch, though. Pressed clothes and uniforms, freshly shaved or neatly trimmed. I saw some kind of sea elf with functioning gills that rippled with each breath, but it was clearly an enchantment or a proper species because his features were smooth and symmetrical. There were no other recognizable mutations or abnormalities—a few hooks, eye patches, and peg legs, certainly, but after the Roseway that felt as normal as a spray-on tan in New Jersey. The floor wasn’t sticky. There was smoke in the air, but it was from cigars and pipes, not the fireplace, and even that would have been pleasant because they were burning real wood.

A Risi band, including a drummer, a cellist, two trombonists, and a lone Hvitalfar sax player on a raised stage, was blaring out bebop jazz that reminded me of the Seatbelts. I nodded my head to the music. It was like a wall of sound, but damn, was it cool.

The cats were a bit off-putting. There were dozens of them, all stuffed, and someone had put blindfolds over their eyes.

Titus found us a table near the back, away from the bar and the band. Nil pulled an extra chair over, and we were all able to sit. After a few minutes, the innkeeper found her way to our table and stood next to me. She wore an ankle-length burgundy skirt with a black sash and black boots, and an embroidered burgundy vest over a white peasant blouse. Her red hair was pulled up into a Chinese bun, and the way she carried her waiter pad reminded me of Sandra all of a sudden. Her face lit up when she saw Titus.

“Hello, my dear,” Titus said.

“Hello, Titus. It’s good to see you’re still alive. Are your friends housebroken, or do I need to give them the speech?”

“Why break with tradition?” he answered.

She looked at us and turned the charm off like a snuffed candle. “I’m Giselle. This is a drinking establishment. I also have rooms for paying patrons. Gambling is tolerated. Fighting and whoring are not. If you start a fight or solicit my customers, I’ll have you thrown out. If you do it twice, I’ll have your legs broken. There won’t be a third time. If you touch me or one of my servers, I’ll have your arm broken. I don’t care if you’re married to them outside these walls, you keep your hands to yourself in here. And all of that will pale in comparison to what I’ll do to you if you don’t settle your tab when I ask you to.

“I run a clean establishment. No drugs, no twists, no bringing in your own booze. Try not to bring trouble here. If trouble comes looking for you, resist the urge to fight it. There are several exits, and my staff will delay them. It’s included in the price of the drinks. Gratuities are always appreciated and sometimes required before I let you back in. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

That earned me a smirk and an appraising look. “I like this one, Titus. He’s polite and good looking. He’d make a killing on the Roseway.”

Nil guffawed, and I felt my face heat up. I opened my mouth for a rejoinder but Titus waved me off. “It’s a trap, Alan. Trust me.” He turned to Giselle and said, “We’ll take four White Cliff stouts.”

Giselle pouted her lips and dropped her shoulders. Definitely a trap. “What else, Titus? Don’t tell me you’re just here for the beer and my company?”

Titus smiled and drummed his fingers on the table. “I might have use for a doctor.”

“Want something taken out or something put in?”

“Taken out, and the patient needs to survive it.”

“Price?”

“Flexible.”

“Location?”

“House call, I’m afraid. They’ll have to wear a blindfold and agree to have their map disabled.”

“There’s a deposit for that.”

“That’s fine, dear. I know I’ll get it back.”

She finished taking notes. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

I twisted in my chair to watch her go.

“Forget it,” Titus said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Save us all the grief.”

“She just reminds me of someone,” I said. I turned back to face the others, put my elbows on the table, and said, “What now?”

Titus put his tricorne on the table and leaned back, tucking his thumbs in his belt. “Now we have a beer and enjoy the music. Take it easy. Life doesn’t always have to be a fight.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

I took the hint. Observe and look casual. It reminded me of a book—Kim, by Rudyard Kipling—that my grandfather made me read one summer, on his farm. I grinned, channeling the fresh-faced, orphaned boy who got by on positive thinking and paying attention.

I hooked my arm over the back of the chair and pointed my face toward the band. The saxophone player had just launched into a solo that had half the place watching and cheering. The tables around us were occupied by people in a medley of armor and clothes. Some of them knew each other. Others were only sharing a table or playing dice, backgammon, or cards. A particularly loud group of Murk Elf sailors and a Wode merchant were playing a fast-paced game, but the transfer of money and handwritten notes across the table seemed to have more to do with their conversation than the cards.

Further to my left, there were three sets of sailors who wore uniforms of a sort. One group had neat, navy blue sailor wear, and another was wearing white with an incomprehensible number of badges and sewn-on ranks. The third group wore whatever they wanted, except they each had a red bandana tied around their left arm. By coincidence, this group had the highest ratio of Risi and Wodes among them, and also the most scars. I’d have put money on them being pirates or bounty hunters, though I’m not usually one to discriminate. More of the navy blue crewmembers sat in the back corner, and I saw a Svartalfar with a full beard and a captain’s hat sitting at a small table on his own, a cigar glowing red in his mouth.

“You’re trying too hard,” Nil said.

I sighed. “Fine. What should I be doing?”

“Just relax,” Nil answered. “Want me to go female again to distract you?”

“That’s okay.”

Nil frowned.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the efforts you make to look nice,” I added.

Nil laughed out loud. It was a warm, full-throated sound made unsettling by the snake-like hinging of its jaw.

The truth was, I had no idea how to act toward Nil. I had corporate and personal etiquettes for most situations, and some Imperial rank consciousness I’d picked up from Provus, but even the trans community back on Earth seemed to gravitate toward one gender or the other. Complete asexuality would have been comprehensible, for a monster, but Nil flip-flopped at will. I was pretty sure it was messing with me but, at least in the real world, calling it out was a hard line to step back from once I crossed it.

“Here are your beers, gentlemen,” a Dokkalfar waiter said, handing each of us a frosted pint glass of frothy dark beer.

“What is it?” I asked Titus.

“A White Cliff stout,” the spymaster said. “Giselle imports the stuff from Harrowick.”

I sniffed it and took a pull. It smelled like coffee and chocolate, and tasted like a smooth coffee stout with a sharp, spicy finish and almost no bitterness. “Wow,” I said.

“I enjoy it,” Titus said, wiping the foam from his upper lip.

“Perfect,” Nil said, though it didn’t mean the beer. “Now you look like someone having a drink in a bar. Can you feel the room?”

“What do you mean, ‘feel the room?’” I asked. Vel also seemed curious.

Nil took another sip of its beer. “Anytime humans get together in a space, they organize. They fall into hierarchies, try to feel included, talk to friends or drink alone. Sometimes they’re lonely and they want to be at the center of it all, to touch and be touched; the paranoid and the nosy put their backs to the wall. There are a thousand reasons for it, and it would take too much time to understand even a single person’s motives, but you don’t have to. You just have to understand that this room is the sum of all that, like clockworks or that crossbow you were looking at earlier.”

“Okay, I get that,” I said. Part of my old job had been dealing with office dynamics. Short of cutting head count to save on costs, I’d coached dozens of managers on how seemingly secondary matters were affecting bottom-line performance. “You’re saying if I use my intuition to feel changes rather than focus on details...”

I never got to finish the thought. The feel of the room changed. The band stopped. A girl stood in the entryway, rocking from side to side on her tiptoes as if she were hanging from a noose. Her skin was as pale as chalk. Her mouth opened and closed silently.

“Someone push that thing back outside!” Giselle said from the bar. “It’s just a dreamer. They’re harmless alone.”

One of the Risi from the band put his trombone down gently and stepped off the stage.

Another two of the mushroom zombies stumbled into the room. One, a thin boy in his mid teens, fell face-first in the entrance, and three more dreamers walked over him to get in, stepping on his back as he squirmed. He never said a word.

Chairs were pushed back, and weapons were drawn.

“Take it outside!” Giselle shouted.

“Stay calm, Alan,” Titus said. “This isn’t our problem.”

That’s when Thalia walked into the room.

Thirteen

MY CHEST HURT AND MY upper lip curled back in disgust. I recognized her by her clothes. She was wearing the high-collared brown leather corset, emerald skirt, and brown thigh-high boots she’d been wearing when I first met her. From across the room, I couldn’t make out every detail, but her right arm was wrapped in soiled bandages, and the whole left side of her face had been horribly burned. Her left eye was a white dot in the middle of red, bloody tissue and melted skin. In other places, I could see exposed muscle and fat and glints of metal. Her teeth showed through rents in her cheeks.

“That’s her,” I said, bringing the crossbow into my lap.

“Put that away,” Titus hissed. “Who’s ‘her’?”

“That’s the woman who tried to kill me and Provus. She’s here.”

Most people were frozen in place, not sure what to do. A number of them were already disappearing behind the bar and through an exit to my left. Most of those wore navy blue uniforms.

Thalia summoned an orb of black flame over her hand. “I’m here to collect on a debt owed to the Drowned Man!” she shouted. It sent chills down my spine. Her voice, at least, hadn’t changed.

“Let’s go,” Titus said, nodding to the exit.

I nodded and slid out of my seat, moving in a crouch.

“Captain Mhoina Glencarver! Mad Marge! Give me what you owe, or face the Drowned Man’s justice!”

The navy blue sailors’ Svartalfar captain jumped onto a table. “I don’t owe that two-bit gangster a bent copper!” she shouted. “And I’ll shave my beard before a half-baked shore-whore like you gives me orders on land or sea!”

A number of cheers went up from the sailors, navy blue or not. I was so taken in by the whole scene that I’d stopped between two tables, in full view.

<<<>>>

Stealth attempt failed!

<<<>>>

“Alan Campbell!” Thalia shouted, a ball of black flame in her upraised palm.

I sighed and stood, nodding at the Dwarf captain before looking at Thalia. “Thalia! You have no idea how glad I am to—” I raised the crossbow and fired.

#

THALIA THREW UP HER hands and ducked. Thock!

<<<>>>

Spell Interrupted!

<<<>>>

She was looking at the crossbow bolt’s sharpened head. It had gone through her bandaged arm and stuck just an inch from her good eye. There was no pain or blood. Her right arm may as well have been made of wood. “Get him! Get her! Kill them all!” she yelled, and the dreamers surged around her, with more shuffling in from outside.

“Everybody out!” the innkeeper shouted from behind the bar. Thalia resisted the urge to throw a ball of chaosfire back there. The inn paid protection money to the Drowned Man, and he’d be displeased if it was damaged. Its customers were fair game, though, if they got in her way.

People started dying as the dreamers tore into the crowd with nails and teeth, impaling themselves on swords and daggers without hesitation to get close enough to bite. She’d brought close to a hundred of the pale, fleshy things, and a few dozen more of the Drowned Man’s deadlier creatures besides that.

She’d given up her wealth, her looks, and now, if the elders of Alaunhylles were to be believed about the righteousness of neutrality, her soul. Someone was going to pay for that. Alan would do, for a start.

#

THALIA DUCKED. I COULDN’T tell if I’d hit her, but the shroom zombies went from vapid to voracious like someone threw a switch. We’d been able to hold them off in the outskirts because we had the benefit of distance, and because everyone in our group except Provus and me was a skilled fighter. With chairs to trip over and panicked patrons at their back, the men and women in the front row were only able to get a few blows in before the dreamers overwhelmed them, climbing over each other in their haste to feed.

“Everybody out!” Giselle shouted from behind the bar. The waitstaff had turned the solid oak counter into a strong point, while the bartender frantically pulled bottles off the shelves. The band was also holding their own, swinging instruments and stools as weapons. Everything else was chaos.

“Let’s go!” Titus yelled, following the flow of navy blue out the back of the room.

I had my foot in the stirrup, heaving on the string to recock the crossbow, when Nil shoved me toward the door. “Now, Alan!” it said. There was a snap and the string sprung loose, ripping a layer of skin off my fingers and 3% off my Health in the process. I would have lost the crossbow if it weren’t for the sling.

I was bounced between blue-suited sailors like I was shooting rapids in a pool float, then we were all ejected into an alley where the fight was in full swing. Sailors fought with cutlasses and flintlock pistols. Two of them had pulled harpoons from their inventories and were stabbing zombies in the face over their crewmates’ shoulders. The bearded captain had a boarding axe in each hand and was systematically hacking through dreamers’ legs and then driving the pick on the back of the blade through their heads when they were cut down to her size.

I looked at my crossbow to finish reloading it, but something looked different about it.

<<<>>>

Assassin’s Crossbow

Weapon Type: Missile

Class: Uncommon, Engineered

Base Damage: 25 (2.2x Heavy Bolts equipped)

Base Range: 100 yards (0.5x Heavy Bolts equipped)

Effect 1: 70% chance of critical failure on cast (Dry-Fired)

<<<>>>

A dreamer lunged at me. “Damn it!” I said, and swung the crossbow at it like a baseball bat, denting the side of its head. I let the bow hang from the sling while it stumbled, drawing my machete and chopping the top of its head off with a backswing.

The “safe” area was expanding as more of the dreamers were cut down. To the left, back toward the main drag, the red bandanas had opened a narrow channel between the writhing masses and had almost broken through. To the right, the navy blue sailors were advancing, shoulder to shoulder, with Mad Marge in the middle, but they weren’t making as much progress. Titus and Nil were cherry-picking zombies who broke through either line, while Vel Ruso and a fisherman with a boat hook stemmed the trickle of pasty-white shufflers starting to come out of the bar.

The rational play would have been to throw our weight behind the red bandanas and make a run for it. Maybe the Svartalfar captain would have managed to follow, maybe she wouldn’t, but since she’d brought Thalia down on our heads, I wouldn’t have felt bad about it. And if I was a fighter—a Provus—I would have seized that fleeting tactical advantage. I hesitated, and that saved our lives.

A... pale, fleshy thing stepped around the corner of the building, cutting off the red bandanas’ escape. It walked on all fours and was nine feet tall, like an elephant, but it was made of the fused bodies of several dreamers. A dozen leering faces emerged from the spongy, headless flesh of its shoulders. A man’s arched, naked body formed the front of its left leg, though his head had disappeared into the fibrous mass of the limb. On the right, two women whose heads had fused together were wrapped around, boneless, like a candy stripe. Its back was riddled with holes, like a morel or a dead reef. The name [Lucid Mass] hovered over it.

It stopped, those dozen faces looking at us with hate-filled eyes, and it blew. The sound was like a cruise ship’s horn, hollow and drawn out. A cloud of spores came out of its back and filled the air like fog. Some of the red bandanas tried to run. Others inhaled the spores and coughed or choked. I manage to yank the man closest to me clear, but most of the others died. The dreamers closed on them like the Red Sea swallowed Pharaoh.

“Grenade out!” Vel shouted, and a pair of sparking orbs went sailing toward the creature and detonated in midair, decapitating a five-foot radius of the dreamers and blowing out a chunk of the Lucid Mass’s shoulder, releasing a puff of spores. Its front left leg buckled, the naked man’s abdomen tearing at the waist, and it stumbled, balanced on three limbs.

“Alan!” Nil shouted, crouched with its back to the alley wall. It had its hands cupped in front of it, and I looked up at the roof of the one-story building across from me.

I sheathed my machete and ran. Two more of Vel’s grenades went off, this time on the navy blue side. I placed my foot in Nil’s hands and the mimic boosted me up. I scrambled onto the ledge in time to see a second Lucid Mass block off the navy blue sailors’ escape.

“Vel! Let’s go!” I yelled.

The janissary tossed a lit grenade behind him and sprinted, not even slowing as he stepped from Nil’s hands to the wall and I pulled him over the edge. The grenade went off, knocking a dozen dreamers down and blocking the door to The Twice-Hexed Cat. Titus came next, surprisingly graceful for his age. The second Lucid Mass lumbered forward. The two lines of surviving bar patrons were collapsing.

I lay on my chest and reached down. “Nil! Come on!”

The mimic looked up at me with its bloodred eyes, ready to jump, and hesitated.

“Nil!”

It threw the bindle to me. “Keep it safe!” Nil yelled. The bindle rattled and clunked like wood chimes in my hands.

The Lucid Mass on the blue side stopped, now within range of Mad Marge’s crew. Before it could bloom, Vel lobbed one grenade and pitched another after it so they both reached the creature at the same time. The air-blasts were almost simultaneous, blowing the Lucid Mass in half as neat as an axe blow. One of the surviving red bandanas came up over the wall, boosted by Nil, followed by one of the navy blue sailors. Mad Marge caught on, hooked her axes on her belt, and joined Nil by the wall. Sailors and civilians started coming up two by two.

Crump, crump, crump! A trio of grenades went off, clearing the space around the survivors. “I’m out!” Vel shouted, reaching to grab a sailor who almost fell back off the roof.

I winced. In spite of Vel’s almost magical accuracy, a red bandana had dropped to his knees, clutching his face, and was set upon by crawling, legless dreamers. But the others collapsed the perimeter and started coming up even faster. Nil had reach, but Mad Marge appeared considerably stronger. She was almost throwing her men up the wall, and the Svartalfar and mimic appeared to be talking enough trash to each other while doing it to fill a landfill.

Then it was just the two of them, and the dreamers were either back on their feet or fresh bodies were walking over the legless. Nil offered to give Marge a boost, but instead she unhooked her axes from her belt and drove the picks into the wall, hoisting herself up like an ice-climbing spider monkey. Nil grinned, took one step back, and wall-ran up three paces. I reached for the mimic’s outstretched hand, but Nil was yanked back by a dreamer who’d gotten too close. My fingers closed on empty air. It was gone.

“What?” I said, shocked.

“Let’s go, Alan,” Titus said, grabbing my shoulder. I fought him off, but then Vel had my other arm and they dragged me to my feet. I still had Nil’s bindle in my left hand. I was supposed to give the package back to it. It asked me to keep it safe. I couldn’t even see the mimic under the squirming pile of zombies. They were quiet as they ate. Why were they so quiet?

“Gentlemen, I know you just lost a comrade,” Mad Marge said, “and I’ll mourn with you back on my ship, but this isn’t over.”

As if to punctuate her remark, a sound like a dozen hounds howling in synchrony cut through the silence. The hunt was still on.

#

THALIA STALKED THROUGH the room, careful not to put her boot through a disabled dreamer or trip on broken furniture. The patrons and staff were gone, either barricaded upstairs or disappeared down tunnels and side passages.

Many were dead, not just in this room, but outside as well. One of the Lucid Masses had just ejected a spore cloud, annihilating a group of survivors. She could feel the lumpy, fused thing buzzing in the back of her brain, like a fly cupped between her hands.

“Bring them over here!” she said.

The two handlers were Risi, since no other race had the strength for it. She could see the faint corruption inside them, like smoking black stains.

The fleshers were another matter. They had the bodies of hairless Shar-Peis, their wrinkled, pink, bruised, and hairless flesh bunching in folds, and they had long, translucent digging claws instead of hands and feet. They walked on all fours, rounded backs coming to her mid thigh as they snuffled and pushed through the dead and the wreckage. Instead of faces, they had long, pink, eyeless snouts that ended in a dozen tentacles that wiggled and touched everything like outstretched fingers. They reminded her of a small mole that lived in the wetlands of the Shining Plains, where the Essaryl River split into a delta before joining the sea.

One of the Lucid Masses was wounded, and she felt a small concussion shake the building. Alan. It had to be him. Did he hate her? Was this some kind of vendetta by the family of someone she’d killed? He’d seemed so fresh-faced and innocent when they’d first met, but she couldn’t seem to pull off a simple job without him ruining it.

She stopped, realizing that at some point in her thoughts of Alan she’d started gnawing on her left wrist, like a dog biting its paws. White teeth marks scored her skin, and black saliva, like watered-down ink, matted the fine blonde hairs on her arm.

“Here!” she said, pointing at the spot where Alan had shot her from. “He was here! Find him!”

The two fleshers bounded over the corpses, dragging their handlers, and snuffled and touched the area. Then they raised their mottled snouts and bayed. Their throats swelled and vibrated. It was as if each of them had the voice boxes of a half dozen animals, and the sound of it quickened Thalia’s pulse. It was music. It made her want to run with them.

She rubbed her wrist with her bandaged, clawed hand. What did the Drowned Man do to me? What have I done to myself?

#

THE HOWLS HIT A SPECIAL, terrifying place from my childhood, when I played Resident Evil and Alone in the Dark at night when my mom thought I was asleep. Something came crashing through the wall of The Twice-Hexed Cat, but by that time I was already beating feet across the roof, the gray bindle in hand, chasing the other survivors with Titus, Marge, and Vel close behind.

The hounds howled again.

“It’s almost midnight!” Marge yelled.

“What?” I said, on the edge of hysteria.

“The clock tower!” she said.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the clock hands showing 11:50 PM, although my game clock only read 9:42 PM.

“The tide!” she said. “If we can get to my ship in the next ten minutes, I’ll get you out of the city!”

“We’re not leaving!” Titus said. “We’ll lose them, get back to—”

The sailors were bunched up at the edge of the roof, trying to climb down to the street below. A rock the size of a soccer ball smashed into one of the sailors and crushed him.

“Get down!” Vel said, tackling me and Titus out of the way.

Another small boulder hit the roof where we’d been standing and knocked a hole in it. Something screeched.

“Off the roof, now!” Mad Marge yelled at her men, and the sailors started piling off so fast some of them slipped and fell.

A yellow bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Two seconds to the thunder. It rolled like sheet metal tearing. There had been dark shapes in the sky, like giant birds, and the clouds that sealed out the stars roiled with hate-filled dark eye sockets and gaping mouths. The sky’s hunger was endless and cold.

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Paralyzing Fear: You are temporarily immobilized by fear! You cannot move or cast spells; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

“Come on, come on,” Vel said, helping Titus up. I’d gone half fetal in shock, clutching the bindle to my chest, so Vel dragged me back by the armpits.

“Gargoyles!” a sailor shouted. As he raised his finger to point, something gray with leathery wings slammed into him. He spun, screaming as the chimp-sized creature tore into him with tooth and claw, then the gargoyle kicked off him and beat its wings as he fell off the edge, most of his face and upper torso turned to hamburger.

“Help him down! Help him, damn you!” Vel said, handing me off to the others.

Titus and two of Marge’s sailors lowered me to the ground like I was crowd surfing, still under the debuff from seeing the sky of Wyrdtide. Vel was looking at me, his hands outstretched as he handed me off. What happened next burned itself in my mind as one of those rare moments of glory I sometimes saw in others, like Provus riding to save me in the rain, or when Tozhug stood laughing before the Gore Boar’s charge.

There was another flash of yellow, and a gargoyle dove for the young janissary’s back. My Critical-Sight kicked in, slowing time, but I was immobilized, so there was nothing I could do.

And I didn’t have to. Vel launched himself off the roof face-first. He twisted in midair, drawing two pistols from his chest, and fired them almost point-blank at the creature, blowing fist-sized holes in its chest and shoulder. The gargoyle, flying at full speed, passed over Vel as he leaned back, tucking his feet to his chest. Vel backflipped to a skidding landing while the gargoyle smashed into the wall, breaking its neck.

All of that happened in about three seconds of slowed time, and I’d already started to shout a warning, so it just came out as incoherent screaming.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He looked at the sky.”

“Idiot.”

Everyone was off the roof, and the red bandanas were running for their lives. Vel was biting the end off a paper cartridge, reloading his pistols.

“Eight minutes!” Marge hollered. “First mate, get them moving! And you!” she said, grabbing a sailor by the pant leg. “Message the XO to cast off and stand ready.” She turned to Titus. “Fleshers and gargoyles, old man. They will find you and anyone you hide with. Do you have a ship, or a portal scroll?”

“No,” Titus said. “I guess we’re—”

“You’re coming with me. Dubh, Buchanan, pick him up.”

Two Wodes grabbed me by the arms and we took off after fleeing red bandanas. Then there were howls and screaming.

“Oh, hell. Go left! Left, you idiots!”

#

THALIA AND THE FLESHERS charged into the group of fleeing sailors. She’d cast Inner Shadow and summoned twin scimitars of chaosfire. It was good to feel the fire again, but shadow... shadow was like the end of an argument with a lover, or a dagger at an enemy’s neck. It was the moment before release, a void waiting to be filled.

She hamstrung a man wearing a red bandana over his mouth, then dipped her saber into his chest before decapitating another with both swords. The fleshers broke legs and disemboweled men and women with their translucent claws.

These were not Mad Marge’s men. Alan wasn’t with them. She should have ordered the handlers to whip the fleshers through, but she felt such terrible joy with each death it seemed like a waste. She’d sent the gargoyles ahead, and reinforcements were closing from all sides. A few seconds wouldn’t make a difference.

A man raised a pistol to shoot her, and Thalia turned him into a pillar of black flame.

#

THE DEBUFF TIMER HIT zero, and I started moving my legs instead of letting them drag. The sailors let me go.

“What about Provus?” I asked Titus.

“You heard the captain! We can’t shake them, and we can’t bring this kind of trouble to the safe house!”

“What if they follow our scent to the safe house anyway?”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have taken the shot!” he snarled.

That one hit me in the gut. It wasn’t fair—I’d done my best to sneak out, right up to when I couldn’t—but it hurt anyway.

“Look out!” a sailor yelled.

A mass of dreamers came spilling out of a side street. They were cutting off the path to the harbor.

“Coming through!” Titus said, drawing his blade and leaning into a full sprint. He blurred and passed through the horde, his blade a golden afterimage of angular geometries before my eyes. Dreamers fell in a ten-foot-wide swath, cut into slices like hard-boiled eggs through an egg slicer.

“Impressive!” Marge said, riding a Risi sailor piggyback through the rapidly closing gap.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Titus said, panting, “I can only do it once an hour at my age.”

Marge, the sailor carrying her, and I all looked at him. The grin on the spymaster’s face told me the pun was very much intended.

We were within a hundred yards of the water. My Stamina bar was almost empty from the run, and most of the sailors looked as worn out as I felt. The man carrying Marge must have put half his points into Constitution and the other half into Strength. Except for Thalia’s forces, the streets were deserted. All the doors were shut and barred, and the windows had heavy storm shutters drawn. Even if we weren’t racing the tide, there was nowhere to stop to catch our breath, and nowhere to hide.

“Here they come!” Vel said.

A trio of gargoyles landed on the road, spreading their wings and hissing as an improvised barrier. Vel shot the nearest one in the face, and a sailor jumped on a second, braving its claws to stab it multiple times with a pair of daggers. Vel tucked one empty pistol into his belt, shot the third through the throat, sending it thrashing to the ground, and turned to shoot the fourth diving gargoyle in the face with an almost statuesque straight-armed one-handed stance. The gargoyle’s momentum carried it past him, dead, broken, and limp. “Reloading,” he said calmly.

“No time, kid!” Titus said, grabbing him by the arm. “Damned fine shooting, though.”

“So what does he do?” Marge asked, nodding her head to me, and I wanted to shrink into myself.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Titus said. “He’s a citizen by right. He saved the senior senators and military leadership of the Empire from certain death, once. I’d say it was luck, but he keeps doing it.”

That wasn’t entirely complimentary and still more than I’d expected. If I wasn’t running for my life, I’d have been choked up.

We reached the harbor. Most of the ships had cast off and were bobbing some distance from the piers. The piers were crawling with dreamers, although they were still scattered, and more were shuffling, walking, and even running to converge on the last remaining ship moored to the pier in front of us.

“That’s the Pearl!” Marge shouted, drawing her axes. “Charge!”

The survivors of The Twice-Hexed Cat ran into the fray with weapons drawn, cutting, stabbing, and knocking dreamers out of the way. The hounds bayed behind us, howling with dozens of discordant voices. Gargoyles swooped and dove overhead, but the loosely packed dreamers actually made it harder for them to hit us. I stayed behind Marge and her steed, bindle clutched to my chest as she lashed out left and right, chopping into the dreamers’ heads.

Then we were through to the wooden pier, running through a cloud of gun smoke. The Pearl, facing us, had swept the pier clean with gunfire. I had more trouble keeping my footing than dodging zombies. A gargoyle made a pass to try to knock one of us into the water, but a sailor on the ship shot it out of the air.

“XO!” Marge yelled, climbing down from her Risi mount.

“Yes, Captain!” a tall man in a bicorne yelled back.

“I have the bridge!”

“From the pier?”

“Yes! Is there a problem with that?” the Dwarf yelled, spreading her arms, axes in hand.

“It’s damned unconventional, woman, and you know it. Captain Glencarver has the bridge!” the XO shouted, and there was a chorus of assents.

“Get yourselves on board,” Mad Marge said, pointing an axe at the cargo nets that had been let over the side. Blue-uniformed sailors were already scrambling up. I gripped the bindle between my teeth and reached for the netting.

Fourteen

MHOINA GLENCARVER, Mad Marge to anyone but her crew and her kin, took a deep breath and bellowed. “Action starboard. Load and make ready with canister shot for bombardment!”

“Canisters, aye!” her gunnery officer sang back to her.

“Stand by fore and aft painters, breast line away!”

“Breast line away, ma’am! Standing by fore and aft!”

Dreamers swarmed onto the pier. Her marksmen tore into them with well-aimed musket shots. Soon, that wouldn’t be enough. There were three Lucid Masses closing on them from different parts of the city, and she knew the Drowned Man could send worse. A swivel gun loaded with grapeshot fired from the rail and knocked down five dreamers at once.

“Loaded and ready, ma’am!”

“Set the foresail, XO!”

“Hoisting the foresail, aye, ma’am!”

A gargoyle dove at her. She lunged forward, swinging both her axes overhead and planting them in the creature’s chest. The thing’s body was as big as hers, with three times the reach. If it was half as smart, she might have worried. “Slack the fore painter!” she yelled, ripping her axes out of the dead thing and stepping over it.

The front line went slack. Mhoina held both axes in her left hand and unwrapped the mooring line from the bight with her right. “Clap it on, Mr. Khabil!”

“Clapping it on, Captain!” the Accipiter responded, drawing the line in as fast as he could.

Shots rang out from dockside; the Drowned Man had sent his own marksmen. Musket balls smacked into the Pearl’s sides, and a sailor fell from the nets to the water, face full of splinters.

“Man overboard!” the XO shouted. “Ready boathooks!”

“Belay that order,” Mhoina said as the waters frothed and the screaming man was dragged under. The foresail was hoisted and tight. “A wind, Ms. Adgolor!”

“Coming right up, Captain!” her staff Hydromancer yelled. The petite Dawn Elf woman raised her hands and began chanting. A gust of wind caught the sheeted foresail and started to peel the stern away from the pier.

A flesher howled. Mhoina looked right and saw the creature break through the dreamers, its leash flapping behind it. It had broken loose from its handler. Its tentacles were spread wide around its two gaping nostrils.

She short-hafted her axes, one in each hand, and muttered, “This started out as such a nice day.”

“Captain, look out!” some idiot shouted. As if she was blind instead of just short. Two musket shots hit the disgusting thing and still it came, body undulating and snout low to the ground like a charging weasel.

It paid to know the anatomy of the things trying to kill you, and she’d paid a Plague Doctor to cut a flesher open. Most people panicked because of the tentacles, but they were harmless—sophisticated sensory organs, but neither sharp nor muscular. She ignored the snout and drove her axes into the side of the flesher’s neck, gripping the axes just below the blade. She pushed down. The flesher stumbled and slid, driving her back a full three feet before stopping. It whined and struggled weakly while she leaned on the axes and twisted, out of reach of both its fleshy mouth and elongated claws.

A black fireball, and then another, streaked from the mass of minions for the Precious Pearl’s sails. Sorceress Adgolor raised narrow sheets of water and barely managed to stop them, as the shadow energy continued through the wall before dissipating.

“The foe is abeam, Captain!”

“Thank you, XO!” Mhoina said, pulling her axes from the dead flesher. “Two salvoes, commence firing.”

#

THALIA EMERGED FROM her blood rage to realize she was about to throw a fireball at a war carrack’s broadside. She was staring at a dozen open gunports, less than one hundred yards away.

“Get down!” she shouted to the small number of marksmen she’d brought with her.

#

THE FIRST SALVO TORE through the ranks of dreamers and likely woke everyone in the city if they weren’t already cowering under their beds. Mhoina frowned. Too close. At one hundred yards, the canister shot didn’t have time to spread. It shredded narrow wedges of dreamers but left the bulk of their forces intact.

“Reloading!” her gunnery officer yelled.

“Check fire!” she shouted, and started walking down the pier. “XO, set all sails and clear the ship for running.”

“Aye, Captain! May I remind the captain she is still not on the ship, where she belongs!”

“I’m well aware of that, XO.” She tucked one axe in her belt and grabbed hold of the aft painter. “Set taut the aft painter!”

The line stretched as her crew pulled it and held.

She swung her axe, and the tension in the line snapped her off the pier. “Hoist away!” she yelled, hanging under the stern by one hand.

Her crew pulled her and the severed line aboard.

#

ROUGH HANDS PULLED me over the railing and dumped me onto the wooden deck. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing onto the central mast, thankful that I’d managed to keep hold of the bindle without crushing it. The ship was hung with dim lanterns and crowded with sailors. The air split with the crack of musket fire from the deck and rigging, and the deeper boom of the miniature cannons mounted on the rails that seemed to function like giant shotguns.

“Captain on deck!” someone shouted.

I looked in the direction of the voice and saw Marge storming toward me from the back of the ship, barking orders. “XO, set the main and top if you please, smartly.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” the tall, uniformed Imperial said.

“Purser! Where’s the purser?”

“Below decks, ma’am,” a grizzled Wode said.

“Go get him then! I want him to shift one of the heavy pieces to port; give me about five degrees of list. Not the vases!” she said, grabbing him by the arm as he rushed off. “If he breaks my vases, they come out of his pay!”

“I’ll let him know, ma’am.”

“And you!” she said, looking up at me.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Come with me.”

I followed the angry bearded woman forward, through the flashes and gun smoke. She moved in a straight line, and everyone else went around her, though I was jostled and almost knocked over more than once. The sails she’d called the top and main, on the center mast, unfurled but stayed slack as sailors rushed about and heaved on cables. One sailor went down, clutching her bleeding neck. We were loose from the pier and slowly drifting closer to the enemy marksmen and Thalia’s black fire.

“Gunner?” Marge bellowed.

“Yes, Captain?”

“With one salvo, resume firing!”

“Resume firing, aye!”

The ship lurched as its complement of cannons fired together, and our drift was momentarily checked by the roar of the guns. Dozens of dreamers were cut down on the quay, and no sign of Thalia. Maybe she was hiding. I hoped she was dead.

I heard a scraping sound under my feet, and the whole ship tilted slightly to the left, away from the pier.

“That had better not be my vases,” Marge muttered. She stomped up the short flight of steps to the front of the ship. A shot snapped past, and I ducked below the bulwarks—the low wall of wood that rose above the deck. “This is your first time in Wyrdtide, yes?” she asked, now eye level.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, terrified by how exposed we were.

“Look!” she said, pointing to a lighthouse at the end of a long seawall that formed the northern arm of the harbor. The tower burned with green gaslight. A man’s silhouette stood before the flame.

A mile away, in long, slow peals, the clock tower started to chime.

The man flinched at the sound and appeared to back away from it along a narrow iron extension that hung and ended over the sea. He looked at the waves below, undecided, then back at the flaring gaslight. He backed up, almost to the edge. Now that he wasn’t backlit, I could see his upper body was encased in a straightjacket. “What is he—”

On the twelfth peal of the clock tower, the man slipped or jumped—I couldn’t tell—and fell backward into the sea.

A strong, easterly wind snapped the sails taut and righted the ship. We were drifting again but outward this time, and at a steady pace.

“It’s called the Dead Man’s Tide,” Mad Marge said, leaning over the rail. “Only way to leave by sea unless you’re an enchanter, or a steamer willing to use half your coal fighting the currents.”

“And is there always...”

“Always. Most of them are suicides. Sometimes they’re pushed. Always when the clock tower strikes midnight, regardless of the actual time. Somehow, the clock tower knows.”

Or it’s the cause? I thought. I felt an understandable amount of bitterness toward an event that had required a man’s death to move forward.

“XO!” Marge said, turning back the way she came with me in tow.

“Yes, Captain!”

“Set the mizzen and darken ship! I don’t want one of my esteemed peers thinking we’re an easy bounty. Bring us about zero-nine-zero and prepare to run the widow’s reef!”

“Aye aye. Can we expect the captain of the ship on the quarterdeck, this time?”

“You may expect her, XO, when she’s damned well ready! Purser!”

“Yes, Captain?” a nervous voice answered.

“Balance the load, man! What are you doing, cowering over there?”

“I broke one of the vases.”

We passed Vel, who was asking a sailor to borrow his rifle.

“Which one, the Nangkri rice amphora or the Alferri funerary urn?”

“The decorative Vogthar set piece, Captain.”

“Thank the world tree,” she said. “That thing was an abomination. Pitch the pieces overboard and get back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Crack!

Sailors cheered.

“Who’s still firing?” the XO shouted.

“One of the passengers, sir! He hit—”

“That’s wonderful,” the XO said. “He can help clean the weapons below. Douse the lamps and cut the chatter, we’re running fast and silent. Now clear the decks!”

Walking carefully in the dark, I followed the captain up a steep staircase to the helm of the ship.

#

THALIA WATCHED FROM behind cover as the retreating ship turned and covered its lamps, effectively vanishing against the black backdrop. One of her marksmen, an Imperial with completely black eyes and dreamer-white skin, looked at her and said, “You can come out now, chosen. Nothing to fear but the Drowned Man’s displeasure.” He smirked and was about to add something else when he was jerked sideways and flopped to the ground. Crack! The rifle’s report came half a second later, as did the sailors’ cheers. Thalia gritted her teeth.

The surviving flesher squirmed and whined, trapped under its dead handler. The Risi had thrown itself over the animal when Thalia dove for cover. She reached out to place her clawed hand against the flesher’s side and gasped.

She could “see” the way the flesher saw. Her sight was overlaid by clouds and trails of color and texture. The quay was a riot of flat, spongy spores and sharp gunpowder, mixed with blood from downed sailors and wounded marksmen, a cask of pickles that had been punctured by a stray shot, and metal cooling in blood.

Subtler were the scents of her quarry. The Dwarf smelled of earth, red wine, and coconut beard oil. The old man smelled of shoe leather and secrets. She almost laughed at that. She hadn’t known secrets had a scent. Then there was the gunman, bright and eager like a child, mustache oiled with fresh myrrh but stinking of gun lubricant and propellant. Her breath caught in her throat as she picked Alan out of the sensory riot, the smell of sugar wine on his breath and the light musk of his sweaty skin. It brought her back to a night at the Lion’s Tail in New Viridia, her face pressed into his neck. The feel of cool sheets on her yet unblemished skin brought tears to her eyes. He smelled of fear, grief, and regret. The image clashed with her picture of the cruel manipulator who’d ruined her life.

No, go back, she willed the now quiet flesher. Myrrh... It brought back memories from a past life working under the Griffin banner as a scout and saboteur. Memories of the men who came with sabers and guns to shatter the Empire’s enemies. Memories of Marquard’s Janissaries.

The gunman was gone, but the trails of myrrh and gunpowder were all over the harbor. Most of them were old and faint, but they were there, and they headed south. He had associates, maybe even comrades. She would not return to her patron empty-handed.

“Find them,” she growled, putting her shoulder to the Risi’s corpse so the flesher could wriggle out. “Find them all.”

The flesher bayed, drawing the eyes of the surviving marksmen and the stumbling steps of the dreamers. Thalia chased after it, shadow and flame closing over her last bright memory with promises of blood.

#

SERGEANT MANIUS CORDUS Venator sat on the bar with back straight and his elbows resting on his thighs while his men gathered in the card room. He held a scroll in his hand. He ran his thumb over the seal, subconsciously going through the gesture to activate the magic within.

Thirty-eight years with the Legion, and thirty-one of those with Marquard’s Janissaries. Might have made centurion and been attached to a cohort as a liaison if he hadn’t insulted that senator. Might have been drummed out of the service years ago if he wasn’t so good at his job.

He’d smuggled thirty men—half a platoon of janissaries—into this house over the past three months. Every one of them was a master of war, and every one a volunteer. A waste, he’d thought, until now.

“Listen up, men. I just received word from the Regiment. Our cover’s likely blown, and we’ve been ordered to withdraw.

“You’ve missed the Dead Man’s Tide by two minutes. That leaves you two options. You can exfil by ground or try to hide in the city. The enemy has deployed fleshers; I’d estimate most of you have a fifty-fifty chance of making it out.”

He paused to look his men in the eyes. They were sober, steadfast, some of them outright arrogant. Seeing their raised chins made him smile.

“Your best bet is an emergency teleport to The Edge of Nowhere, followed by escape and evasion back to friendly lines. As you know, it’s impossible to teleport into Wyrdtide, but the squints of the Mystica Ordo tell me a short jump to a stabilized portal is seventy-six percent likely to work, and twenty-four percent of you will be scattered over several acres of pristine woods. It’s not the farm your recruiter promised you, but it’s better odds than walking.

“Now, as you know, Provus Considia is sleeping upstairs and cannot be moved by means conventional or magical. He’s the Griffin’s son, and I don’t care who hears me say it. He’s also a gods-damned hero in his own right. Help will be sent—I don’t know when, or how much—and I plan on staying behind to see to his defense. There is still a chance that this storm will pass us over. But I can feel it in my gut, boys. If you stay, you’re going to die.”

Less arrogance now, which was good. He’d have hated to serve with fools.

“I want you to know that Private Vel Ruso acquitted himself with honor and made it out. No matter what happens here, a member of the Regiment will have witnessed the odds we face, and there will be no shame attached to those who follow orders and leave. I’m asking for ten volunteers to stay behind and hold this house, to delay the enemy as long as we can and give the others time to escape. By show of hands, if you please.”

Manius Venator raised his empty hand. Thirty janissaries raised theirs.

The sergeant’s eyes brimmed with tears, and he was not ashamed. “To glory, then. Man your posts.”

#

THE MEN OF THE THIRD Wyrd Detachment (Covert) moved into position with the smoothness of a drill. They were neither noblemen nor scholars; no letters were penned, and most did not try to send PMs to their loved ones. Traps were armed, ammunition laid out, gambling debts settled, and apologies tendered for past slights, no matter how small. Corporal Gegania and Specialist Plinia, who’d loved and fought over the same woman in New Viridia, embraced and shared their favorite stories of her, wishing their successor luck over a final shot of whiskey. A beloved collection of lithographs, bought on the Roseway, was passed around. Private Amalfinia led his four-man team in a prayer to Lug, a little-known Aspect of twisted ankles and jammed weapons. Specialist Fonteia trimmed his grenade fuses to two seconds, except for one that he shortened to the vent. Sergeant Venator took time to visit each man, to shake his hand and say thank you.

Ten minutes passed and felt like hours. The janissaries were almost relieved when the flesher broke through the front door and tore its way through the foyer and the kitchen before falling to repeated bayonet thrusts, its body draped over the barricade.

Waves of dreamers followed and were cut down by grenade blasts, shot at close range, and ultimately fought in melee. The Drowned Man’s disciples, corrupted adventurers of every race and an array of mutants, hid among the shambling dreamers and posed the biggest threat. The janissaries dispatched them with aplomb, falling back as their comrades died, barricades were breached, or the air became saturated with choking white spores.

Supplies of ammunition dwindled. The janissaries were limited to what they’d carried into the city with them or been able to manufacture. The post’s ration of spirits was stoppered with lit rags and used as firebombs on the second floor and, were it not for the damping effect of the spores, the whole house might have gone up in flames. This proved an effective tactic until a Dark Arsonist in the Drowned Man’s service simply walked through the flames and incinerated Corporal Scaptia’s team.

Wounded and down to six men, Sergeant Venator fell back to the card room to make his last stand. Specialist Fonteia attempted to rush the enemy with lit grenades, only to be rooted by bonds of shadow-flame. The grenades detonated, removing his arms and injuring the janissary next to him. Fonteia wept and attempted to engage the enemy with his teeth as the Dark Arsonist ran him through. Sergeant Venator elected to use his last remaining round on himself, may Enyo bless his defiant heart. Of the thirty-man detachment, only Private Genesius remained.

#

GAIUS TREMBLED AS HE read the message. He and Titus had developed the nonsense code over the years. It had more to do with their shared history than anything formal.

<<<>>>

Griffin,

Tinker says a glass half full brings hope of Harrowick in the fall for the strength of stone. Pebble promoted to knight; rook in check, deer and wolves. A dead man with bullets. Useless things.

—Relayed from Tinker

<<<>>>

The water glass meant that Titus was on a boat or a ship, and hope instead of certainty meant the ship wasn’t his. He was headed for Stone Reach; the fall meant a trap in Harrowick, not the season.

A pebble was a placeholder on the board—that was Alan, who according to Titus would make a fine agent, but Provus, always prone to moving in straight lines, was in danger, outnumbered, and surrounded.

The dead man with bullets was a recommendation. Gaius could almost hear his friend’s voice. If you have anything you’ve been holding back, now’s the time to use it.

“How long do I have?” Gaius asked.

“Minutes,” Enyo said. “It may already be too late.”

The Griffin of New Viridia bowed his head. Saving Provus meant taking the Legion to war. The Empire would suffer. Did he have the right?

He looked at the walls of his office. Armor, weapons, scrolls, and trinkets hung from hooks and filled shelves, taken from New Viridia’s enemies, evidence of a life in service of the state. They justified nothing. The Empire owed him nothing. He caught his reflection in a brass mirror and made the decision.

“Do it,” he said, consigning thousands of Imperials and barbarians to death. Useless things, he thought back to Gaius’s message. Apologies. Regrets.

“Thank you, Gaius,” Enyo said. “Thank you for letting me save our son.”

#

THALIA CURLED HER LIP back in disgust as the last living Imperial stepped out from behind the bar with his hands raised. “Please!” the man said, hunched in fear. “I’m unarmed!” He was visibly shaking, and unlike the elite warriors who’d died defending him, his face was clean-shaven.

“Who are you?”

He swallowed. “I’m no one, miss. I—” He shrieked as she drove her claws an inch into his chest, driving him back against the wall. She summoned an axe made of fire and shadow, swapping her Intelligence and Strength, and pushed him up until his feet were dangling. “Please!” he sobbed. “I’m just a vagrant! They caught me breaking in, looking for food, and they took me prisoner.”

“Liar!” she said, twisting her claws. “Why wouldn’t they just kill you?” His body convulsed from the pain. She eased the pressure, putting her weight on the palm of her hand.

He hung his head, trembling. His shirt was wet with blood. “You’re just going to kill me.”

“Tell me something useful, and I’ll let you go.”

He took a few shallow, gasping breaths and said, “They were leaving. Some big shots came through—an Imperial spy of some kind—but once he was gone they were going to give me food and send me on my way. They weren’t bad men.”

“I believe that,” Thalia said. “What was the spy’s name? Was it Alan Campbell?”

“Yes! That’s him! He had hazel eyes and darker skin, and he—”

“I know what he looks like. Do you know where he was going?”

“Harrowick. He said he had business in Harrowick. Please, that’s all I know.” He looked at her, eyes full of hope.

She pulled her claws out, dropping him to the floor. Then she raised the chaosfire axe across her body and chopped it into the meat between his neck and shoulder. Bone snapped and flesh sizzled. He didn’t even raise his arms to protect himself.

She paused, hand still on the burning handle. She thought she’d seen a hardness in his eyes, in that last moment, and something like triumph. But he was dead, and whatever had been there, real or imagined, was gone.

She dispelled the axe and wiped her claws on his clothes. The soldiers were dead. It was time to see what else was hidden in the house before returning to the clock tower to make her report.

Fifteen

WHILE IT WAS TRUE THAT teleportation into Wyrdtide was difficult, even for an Overmind, that influence only extended so far. Given the precise location of the safe house, Enyo was able to open a portal directly to those coordinates, three thousand feet in the air.

It took nine seconds for her to reach a terminal velocity of two hundred miles per hour. The fog wall, more of an elongated dome from her perspective, was well lit by the yellow and purple strikes of a heat storm. Screaming faces formed and collapsed in the thick cloud, causing a repeated check against fear to which she was immune.

Three seconds later, she was swallowed by one of them.

She went through the roof of the safe house at full speed and stopped on the fourth floor with no prior deceleration, as was her prerogative, being a goddess. In doing so, she shed the kinetic equivalent of two pounds of TNT. Walls within three feet were blown out, as was the floor. Anyone standing within eight feet was subject to both the blast of shrapnel and an overpressure of a full atmosphere, enough to rupture eardrums and lungs, bruise organs, and break bones.

#

THALIA GASPED. HER Health was down by half. Every part of her hurt.

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

Punctured Lung: You have suffered a punctured lung; Stamina regeneration reduced by 15%; duration, 5 minutes.

Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding: 3 HP/sec; duration, 1 minute.

Fractured Leg: You cannot use your left leg! Movement Rate reduced by 65%; duration, 2 minutes.

Fractured Shoulder: You cannot use your right arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration, 2 minutes.

Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage; 1 HP/sec; duration 45 seconds.

<<<>>>

She dismissed the notification in time to see an armored woman step onto the floorboards, coming her way. The warrior had short, raven-colored hair, pale skin, and emerald green eyes that glowed like gaslight. “Hello again, daughter,” the woman purred, getting down on all fours like an animal and crawling over Thalia’s injured body until they were face to face.

“We’ve never met,” Thalia rasped, trying to turn her face away.

Gauntleted fingers gripped her chin and held it in place. “But we have, daughter. In New Viridia. You were going to my sister’s house to murder her Priest, and now you’ve been marked by one of my brother’s henchmen. And all the while working for me! You should give up the assassin business, Thalia Daceran. You’d make a killing as a streetwalker to the gods.”

Thalia swallowed blood and smiled. “Talk is cheap.” She cast Shadow of Holding and Burning Shadow, if only to shut the woman up.

The woman laughed and stood, unhindered by the black flames washing over her, dragging her from the floor by the neck. Thalia clawed at her gauntleted hand, bending two of her nails backward.

“Oh, but I like you, daughter. When the others are done with you and your looks are gone, I’ll still claim you as my own. That’s why I’m going to give you a fighting chance.” The woman winked at her, then threw her overhand like Thalia was a spear.

Thalia flipped and tried to catch the window frame, missed, and fell four stories to the sea. The shock from the cold almost made her muscles seize, but she kicked, pulled, and thrashed her way to the surface. Her leg and shoulder were still fractured, and she was bleeding into the black water. She felt rough, rubbery skin brush past her hand, and sharp, needle-like teeth sunk into her hip. The water was alive with wriggling, snapping things that writhed and coiled around her. She was dragged under the waves.

#

PROVUS’S BREATH RANG hollow in his ears. The edges of his vision had turned red. His Health was down to 20%. He was going to die.

His sheets were drenched in sweat, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Hours of nightmares and Affka withdrawals had ended in the sounds of gunfire and grenades detonating. He’d tried to get up, to help defend the house. The arrowhead lodged in his chest punished him for it. It wouldn’t be long now. If the enemy didn’t find him, he was going to bleed out.

The grenade explosions had stopped, and then the gunfire. He’d smelled smoke and something like a winery or bakery—yeast gone bad, maybe. There was yelling and the clash of steel on the floor below, then a final gunshot, and screams. He heard footsteps in the hallway and the sound of doors being kicked open.

Then the bomb went off. It must have been some sort of trap left by the janissaries. It knocked the lantern off his chest of drawers, and that corner of the room was now merrily ablaze. Burned, bled, or captured, which will it be?

His door opened, and a woman in heavy plate stepped through, oblivious to the smoke and heat. “Provus,” she said, walking to his bedside, her heavy boots clanking on the wood floor. His eyesight was blurred from blood loss and the haze of heat, but he could tell she had striking emerald eyes, like the woman in his dream.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m your mother.”

He coughed, shaving another 10% off his Health. “My mother is Cassia Considia, of House Considia.”

“No,” the woman said, setting a gauntleted hand on his chest. It burned like red-hot steel, but his Health started to rise. “That’s a story your father made up, to keep you safe.”

“Quintus would never cheat on her. He doesn’t have the balls,” Provus said, laughing in spite of the pain. His Health was half full. He tried to push her hand from him, but it may as well have been made of stone.

“Try to keep up, my darling. Quintus was never your father. You’ve known this in your heart all your life, and I would never let that weakling touch me. You are the son of Gaius Considia, Griffin of New Viridia, and Enyo, goddess of discord. There was never anything shameful about your heritage, though you will come to regret the days when being reviled as the product of incest was chief among your concerns.”

Provus curled his lips back in disgust. “Save it, woman. Kill me or release me, but don’t bore me with fables. I don’t believe in gods.”

“I know. An unfortunate product of Cassia’s jealousy. I’ve always thought of it as your heroic flaw.” His Health was full. She plunged her hand into his chest like she was dipping it in water.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Provus screamed. He kicked and punched at her, but she was as immovable as ever. It felt like she was cauterizing his lungs.

She pulled the broken, blackened arrow shaft out of his chest and laid it in his hand. “Keep it as a souvenir,” she said.

<<<>>>

Warning!

Enyo’s Mercy: The goddess of discord has healed you. You suffer permanent scarring of your lungs, reducing your maximum Stamina and Stamina regen rate by 65%. Your lung capacity has been reduced by 60%, and you do not have the strength to breathe through magical gills.

<<<>>>

Provus coughed. The pain in his lungs was gone, but his breath came out in wheezes and gasps. “Oh, gods. What have you done to me?”

She smiled, bringing his hand to her face and pressing her cheek to the back of his knuckles. “I’ve crippled you, my son. You will never be a warrior again, never fight alongside your fellow soldiers or gain glory by feat of arms.”

“No.”

“You can live an ordinary life, now. Find a wife. Settle.”

“I’d rather die than be weak. End this.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

“I forbid it. Try to take your life and I will bring you back, Provus. And I will take something new from you each time I do.”

He stared at her, furious, horrified, and saw nothing but love in her expression. “I will hate you for this,” he said, looking into her eyes. He could see it now, the resemblance. His hair, nose, and chin were all Gaius, but his eyes and mouth were less artful copies of her own. “I will dedicate my life to proving you wrong. I will hold a sword again, and lead men to war. I will reclaim my honor. And then I will find a good death that even you can’t take away from me.”

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I know you will,” she said.

<<<>>>

Kiss of Enyo

You have been blessed by the Overmind of Discord. While you serve her, your Luck is permanently increased by 10.

<<<>>>

“Fight your fate, Provus,” she said, standing back up. “Fight it with every breath.” She stretched her open palm and opened a portal beneath his body. He fell through.

#

PROVUS FELL TWO FEET to the marble floor. The impact took what little remained of his breath from him. He lay there, on his side, light-headed as if he were trying to draw breath with a hand pressed over his mouth. The floor was cool beneath his cheek. He recognized the pattern of the marble, the layout of the room. He was in Cassia Considia’s apartments, where she spent most of her summers since she and Quintus became openly estranged.

He heard the sound of sandals slapping against someone’s heel as they ran. “Provus?” Cassia Considia knelt by his side, placing a light hand on his shoulder. “Provus, what’s wrong with you? Why are you here? Your uncle said you weren’t safe in the city.”

“He’s not my uncle. I know, Cassia.”

She flinched, pulling her hand back as if it had been burned, then smiled. “It was always an open secret, anyway, and Gaius is only my stepbrother. We can be adults about it.”

Provus stared at her. She’d lied to him his whole life, and even now she persisted. “I know you’re not my mother, Cassia. I met her, today. She saved my life.” And destroyed it, he didn’t add.

Cassia blinked. She straightened her back and raised her chin. He recognized that pose, now, from the dream when Quintus was about to hit her.

He should have felt some level of compassion, but he didn’t. “What I don’t understand is why.”

“Why what?”

“Why the lies?”

She swallowed. “Gaius was kind to me, when we were children, and he looked in on me when things got difficult with... Quintus,” she said, though your father had been on her lips.

“You lied all those years as a favor to your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What possible benefit was there to deceit?”

“Gaius was afraid someone might try to harm you or use you if they knew who gave birth to you.”

“Enyo.”

“That’s what Gaius told me. I don’t—”

“The goddess of discord is my mother.”

“She was human enough when she was sleeping with my brother. And she wasn’t here for you, was she? What right does she have to—”

“No one does!” Provus shouted. It was a mistake. His throat closed up and he lay there, gasping, clawing at his own chest.

“Provus!” She raised her face to look at someone behind him. “Camillus, fetch a Priest! I don’t care what you have to pay, just get him quickly.”

Provus bared his teeth and rose onto his elbow. “You had no right,” he said.

“My darling, you’re upset. Injured. This will all—”

“Why you?” he hissed.

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Why you, Cassia? Why not some camp whore? An unnamed mistress during one of his campaigns?”

“He wanted you to be part of the family, to spare you fights over succession—”

“Why you?” he said, cutting her off. “Why not Aunt Gavia or Lucilia? Why not women with other children, who might have fed me at their breast as another’s twin, or women with dead husbands who might have been forgiven an indiscretion and benefited from the income? Why would Gaius give his child to a woman with an abusive husband, whose marriage would only suffer from—”

“Because I begged him to,” she whispered.

“What?” Provus said, heart hammering in his ears.

“I begged him to let me have you.” Tears splashed against the marble. “Quintus didn’t always despise me. We were in love. We acted as husbands and wives do all over the world, shared a room, a bed, our hopes, and I gave him no children. He didn’t raise a hand against me for the first two years we were married. He was the kindest man I knew, and I failed him.”

Provus swallowed. It was as if everything he’d ever known about her was wrong.

She looked at him, eyes red and cheeks streaked with tears. “I begged him to let me have you, Provus. To have a son. To raise a Considia! Why should another woman get the chance at another child when I had none? Have I not loved you as my own? Did Quintus ever so much as lay a finger on you? I am your mother! Who else...”

He struggled to get onto his knees, then his feet.

“Where are you going?” Cassia asked, her voice small.

“To see Gaius. I’m going to talk to my father for the first time.”

“Please don’t leave me like this,” she said, small and broken.

He kept walking toward the door.

#

THALIA FOUGHT IN SILENCE as the wriggling, slippery things bit, tore, and wrapped around her. She was doing some limited damage with her clawed hand, but the creatures were too slick. When she finally managed to hurt one of the things, it sent the others into a frenzy. The waters foamed. The thickest coil, around her abdomen, squeezed, and water filled her open mouth. Her Health bar drained as the water rushed in. She sank.

Her spells were useless. Thirty-five years since she left Alaunhylles and fought at others’ behest around the world, and she’d managed to avoid this. She’d turned down critical missions and lucrative contracts in the Storme Marshes or postings on naval ships because this was her nightmare. This was every Firebrand’s nightmare.

One of the creatures was trying to burrow its way into her abdomen with its teeth. She couldn’t see her interface anymore; her whole view just flashed red, faster and faster. Her feet found the bottom of the harbor.

I’m not a Firebrand anymore, she realized. Out of Health and out of air, she activated Immortal Shadow and Dark Halo. Water boiled to steam as her flames were extinguished, but the shadow damage still burst free, eating away at the creatures’ flesh. Some spasmed in pain and swam away. Others just died. Her body, now made of shadow, walked across the harbor floor until she found the pitted and poorly fitted seawall. She started to climb.

Thalia pulled herself from the black water and reignited, half shadow and half living flame. She crawled onto the quay and lay there, panting, her Health no more than a sliver.

The spell ran out, and her body burned down to smoke, defenseless and still vulnerable. The docks were empty except for a few remaining dreamers. Her memory of the night was hazy, boiled down to the look in Alan’s eyes as he raised the crossbow to fire, and she felt... different.

Pieces of her were missing. She couldn’t remember who’d given her the arm bracelets she wore, or had she earned them? Memories of her childhood room were patchy, like they’d been stitched together from different heights and years. There were other things she couldn’t name except for the feeling they were important. Gone.

She brought up her character sheet and saw her name had changed. Thalia Half-Dead. She laughed, although there was no sound. Alan had almost taken everything from her, but not enough. Half dead, but still alive. She reincorporated and started the mile-and-a-half walk to the clock tower.

#

AFTER A FEW BLOCKS of gasping for air and almost passing out, he took the scale cuirass, helmet, javelins, and swords from his inventory and handed them off to a passing patrol for return to the praetorian barracks.

The decanus leading the patrol was clearly embarrassed. “Sir, that’s not exactly—”

“Do you know who I am?” Provus said, channeling the privilege he’d spent most of his career trying to overcome. He saw whatever respect the man had for him vanish.

“Yes, Tribune Considia. Everyone knows who you are.”

“Then would you say following my orders is part of your duties?”

“It is.”

“So you’ll deliver my things to the barracks.”

“We will, Tribune. I’ll see to it right away.”

“You’ll see to it once your patrol is done, Decanus. Anything less would be unbecoming of an officer of the Legion.” The man hesitated, confused. Provus leaned in and whispered, “I’m being hunted. Don’t look around. There is a message sewn into the lining of the armor. Give it to the barracks sergeant and no one else, do you understand?”

The patrol leader straightened and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

“Good. Carry on, men.”

“Would you like an escort, sir? I can detach a few legionaries—”

“Not necessary, Decanus. If an officer of the Legion can’t walk from here to the palace unharmed, the Empire truly is lost,” Provus said, and he meant every word.

The patrol leader saluted one more time and left, taking his men with him.

As soon as they were out of sight, Provus sagged against a nearby building. He’d been well under his maximum carry weight, even with the gear in his inventory, but the level scaling of his Stamina regeneration, now halved, couldn’t compensate for a sustained load. He’d been fighting through the pain, like finishing a race on a broken ankle. It was only by resting his weight on the plinth of an entrance column that his Stamina could finally refill.

So what does this mean for me? For all of Cassia’s bitterness and the beliefs he’d held all his life, the notification had been clear. Enyo had done this to him. Enyo claimed to be his mother, and he’d made a vow to a goddess that this curse wouldn’t rob him of the future he’d worked for.

Once his Stamina bar was half full, he stood and continued to walk uphill. He did it slowly, like an old man, keeping the yellow bar at the same level, stopping when it dipped.

Stat points would come hard, since he was already a level 20. Most civilians reached that high in a lifetime of work. And even if he found a group of loyal retainers to take him on the kind of quest he needed, he could dump point after point into Constitution and the end result would be a gradual decline of his DPS and stagnation.

Food and water would be a problem. Hungry, Thirsty, and Tired debuffs made armies lose battles. They’d be incapacitating for him. He’d have to eat constantly, and either get eight hours of sleep or nap during the day. His reputation would suffer, and lies like he’d told tonight wouldn’t be enough to save it.

He considered telling the truth. He’d done nothing wrong, and he had over a decade of command and staff experience that far outweighed his value as a combatant. And it would work, for a time, until officers with both the experience and the ability came up through the ranks and demanded he step aside.

Alchemy and enchantments, then. He would have to forego other advantages to overcome his weakness. And it would be expensive, but he had some wealth of his own saved up, and the family would cover the rest. He crossed into the palace square and the gardens with the beginnings of a plan.

When he reached the palace entrance, the praetorians on watch saluted him.

“General Considia is in his study, Tribune.”

“We expected you sooner,” the second man said. Hector Furia, senator and firstborn male of his house. Provus’s decision to hide his infirmity solidified.

“I’m sure you have more important things to do than count the seconds to my arrival, Furia. The enemies of the Empire are everywhere, even in the Praetorian Guard.”

Furia blanched. Provus walked by before the other man could come up with a coherent answer.

#

THE CORRIDOR WAS EMPTY when Provus reached Gaius’s office on the third floor.

“Come in, Provus,” Gaius said.

“Where’s Decimus?” Provus asked, surprised the hulking bodyguard wasn’t present.

“It’s just family here tonight,” his father said.

Provus stepped into the room and saw Hadrian Nonia, senior Enchanter to the Legion and esteemed member of a lesser branch of House Considia. Hadrian was a few years older than Gaius and wore robes instead of a tunic, like most Enchanters, though the family resemblance was obvious. “It’s good to see you, Uncle Hadrian.”

“You as well, Nephew. You as well.”

“Have a seat, Provus,” Gaius said, setting a campstool on the dire-bear rug.

“I’m fine, Father.”

Hadrian looked at Gaius, his face troubled.

“That’s an order, Tribune. Here,” he said, picking a goblet up from his desk. “I had Hadrian prepare you a tonic.”

Provus sat down and took the glass from his hands. “Then you already know.”

“Yes. Your mother told me everything.”

“Is she here?” Provus asked, standing up.

“I said sit down, Provus,” Gaius said firmly.

Provus sat. His pain and the shock of the past hours weren’t enough to overcome the training he’d received since he was eight years old. “Father, what’s wrong?”

“Your mother is still at her apartments where you left her, Provus,” Hadrian said.

“She’s not...” Provus turned to his father. “He doesn’t know?”

Gaius sighed. “He knows you made an emergency teleport from Wyrdtide and you’ve been hurt. Now drink that before you spill it on the rug, then Hadrian can go and you and I can discuss what’s been happening in the week since you left.”

Provus knocked back the glass. The tonic tasted like lime and mint, and made his tongue tingle. His aching chest relaxed as soon as he was done swallowing. He smiled at Hadrian. “Thanks, Uncle. I was actually thinking of talking to you about...” His smile slipped. “I’m sorry, but I feel a bit dizzy.”

Gaius took the glass from Provus and set it back on his desk.

“This doesn’t sit well with me, Gaius. I know the boy’s damaged, but he should be recovering with his unit, not locked away like some—”

“What have you done to me?” Provus asked, falling out of his chair.

“You heard him, Hadrian, what he called me? The boy didn’t recognize his own mother. I’m taking the Legion to war; now is not the time for distractions.”

“Please...” Provus said, reaching for his father. I served you and the Legion my whole life, Father. I can play my part. I won’t embarrass you, or be a distraction. Just let me stand by your side. He thought the words but his lips wouldn’t move.

“Get in here, Decimus. Take the passage into the sewers, like we discussed, and make sure no one speaks to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Someone picked him up, carried him in their arms like a child. Provus brought up his messaging interface. He’d spent years convinced that foreign agents were operating within the city and that the selfishness of the noble houses might one day become a threat to the Empire. He never thought the danger might come from his own family.

His arms and legs were numb, and his sight was fading. He sent a pre-drafted message to one of his agents in New Viridia before the drugs plunged him into a dreamless sleep.

#

WE SAILED IN THE DARK. Wood creaked and lines strained, the sails flapped, and Mad Marge’s hand was steady on the helm.

Marge turned the wheel seemingly at random. Most were small shifts, adjustments to maintain a heading against wind and currents. The XO called out the time from what looked like an oversized pocket watch five inches across and a little over an inch thick. It might have been my imagination, but even from where I stood several paces from the pair, I thought I could hear it tick. On the XO’s mark, the captain turned sharply to new headings from memory, calling them out for the XO’s confirmation so that the cadenced exchange of numbers took on the feeling of a ritual between two mathematicians and we, the crew, were the unwitting sacrifice.

The sailors were quiet, subdued. I heard the splash of something leaping from the water. I heard waves washing against the rocks of Widow’s Reef. At one point, I thought I saw another darkened ship pass us, just a glimpse of its stern as we crossed behind it and the startled look of a young boy leaning against the aft rail.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick...

#

THALIA PUSHED THE HEAVY copper door open and walked onto the grilled floor of the clockworks. She’d gone straight to the tower without stopping to think up an excuse or heal her wounds. Bad news didn’t get better with age, and if her master was going to kill her then best be done with it; at least the pain would stop.

Master? When did that happen? Had she chosen to come back here, or was she compelled?

She felt a strange sense of disconnection, like she was standing outside herself, now and in the past. The thing that had pulled itself from the waters of Wyrdtide was overlaid with the young Dawn Elf maiden who’d stood with her arms crossed and her back to her people, looking across the Shining Plains with yearning for something more. But even after the elders confirmed her choice and she’d been separated from hearth and kin by miles and years, home had been there. Her hand went to her abdomen, clawed fingers brushing torn clothing and overlapping scars. So much change in just two weeks... Could she still go back?

“Come in, Thalia,” the Drowned Man said. “Close the door behind you.”

Sixteen

THALIA OBEYED HER MASTER’S command. The door pushed shut, she walked deeper into the clockworks and was surprised to see one of the massive clockfaces had hinged inward. A powerfully built Wode stood at the edge of the opening, arms crossed, looking out at the gaslit city six hundred feet below. His armpit-length brown hair was gathered into a ponytail with small iron rings. He wore white braccae with vertical blue stripes and nothing else, the coarse wool pants cinched at the waist with a drawstring. His back was crisscrossed with whip scars.

Thalia looked from him to the stiff, wrinkled body on the wrought iron throne and knew that the Wode, not the corpse, was the Drowned Man. She walked over to the ledge, untroubled by the drop. “I failed,” she said.

“A matter of perspective, Warmaiden. What do you know of the process of ascension?”

Thalia looked at him, thrown by his calm. He had a full beard that reached down to his collarbones, and his eyes had no whites, just iridescent green irises. Lightning lit the distant sky. Water ran down his skin, although there was no rain. “Ascension is the process by which a mortal can become a god. Most die in the attempt.” She swallowed. “My people consider it the height of hubris.”

“The Hvitalfar are so very long-lived, Thalia. Why risk it all?” His voice was deep and strong, but the Wode himself was faded, as if he were only partly there. “The people pray to me tonight.”

“I don’t understand. Mhoina Glencarver got away.”

He looked at her with amusement. “She’s not who you were after, though, was she?”

Thalia stiffened. It was a long way down to the ground, and all it would take was a push.

“The details of your feud with Alan Campbell are as unimportant as those of mine with Mad Marge. You killed in my name. You slaughtered innocents, but let those who pay for my protection go free. Stories have already spread. The slighted neighbor, the jilted wife, and the struggling businessman sing my praises behind locked doors.”

“But the cost?” She’d used up hundreds of dreamers and a few dozen corrupted citizens.

He shrugged and smiled. It was a simple, almost childlike gesture. “Evil is reductive, Thalia. There will be more dreamers. There will be more servants. Harness these stories and they will bring you power, but don’t expect a happy ending. You chose to give that up a long time ago when you pursued a man who never loved you.”

Did I? She couldn’t remember, but he seemed so sure. “So what should I do?”

“Enjoy the view,” he said, smiling. She felt an odd intimacy with the man who, if he spoke true, was halfway to godhood. “I’ve sent an asset to settle my account with Captain Mhoina Glencarver. Your Alan Campbell may be harmed in the attempt, for which I apologize.”

She nodded, surprised to feel an undercurrent of hunger beneath her spite. “And if your ‘asset’ fails?”

The Drowned Man’s oversized irises dilated until his eyes were solid black. “Then you pursue him. You grind him down and hurt him at any cost, until you’ve squeezed out the very last drop of hate.”

#

IT WAS A SUDDEN THING, like someone pulling the cloth from a birdcage, but after a half hour of silence and darkness we sailed out of the dark, and there were stars. A weight lifted from me and the crew.

Robert’s approach to Artificial Intelligence had changed things about game development. In a lot of ways, the excitement, stress, celebrations, and occasional blowups I’d dealt with working with the teams had been a symptom of that. The artists, videographers, and Jeff’s hardware team had scanned petabytes of models, textures, and the brain maps of thousands of volunteers into the system, but also years of lectures by professors, lay enthusiasts, and artisans. They hadn’t written a single quest; they’d taught the AI to tell stories and turned on the switch. Viridian created the world from scratch.

And that meant those could be real stars, insofar as that meant anything. There were balls of simulated, fusing hydrogen out there, a million miles away, and some had planets orbiting them. It seemed counterintuitive, especially since I knew I was inside of a video game, but the vastness of the universe made me feel safe. Inside the fog, I’d felt like all of the world’s malevolence was focused on me.

“What are you still doing here?” the captain asked, as if she was noticing me for the first time.

“Titus and Vel disappeared. I didn’t know where else to go,” I said, hugging Nil’s bindle to my chest. I hadn’t moved in the past hour.

“XO, take him to my cabin.”

“That’s grossly inappropriate.”

“I’m sorry, XO, I’m not sure I heard you correctly from down here. Why don’t you lean closer?”

“The crew will talk.”

“They should! I hope they offer him their congratulations for sleeping in my bed.”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I said, to which Mad Marge rolled her eyes.

“You should have thought of that before you shot a crossbow at the slant-ear who was trying to roast me! What do you say to that, XO?”

“Obviously, I had no idea the scared child standing next to us was an Imperial hero.”

“It’s not obvious, is it?” she said, looking me over. “He wears his age well.”

The XO sighed.

“I could just join the others,” I said.

“It’s fine,” the XO said. “She doesn’t use the bed anyway. She’s too short.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“She sleeps in a map drawer. I’ve seen the bedding.” He put a hand on my back and started to steer me toward the stairs.

“I won’t tonight,” Marge said. “I’m going to ravish him!”

“And the captain would never leave the quarterdeck night-sailing this close to Wyrdtide.”

Marge huffed. “She wouldn’t, would she?”

They smiled at each other.

“Get the running lights lit while you’re down there, XO.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“And get the mid watch on deck. It’s almost eight bells.”

“I’ll do it at eight bells, after I check in with the ship’s surgeon.”

“What’s that, XO? I couldn’t hear you again. They say heat rises, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“As you command, Captain.”

#

I FOLLOWED THE XO INTO a cabin directly below the quarterdeck, where we’d just been standing. The room was as wide as the ship, and the whole back wall was taken up by tall, square-paned windows.

The space hadn’t been built for Marge. The ceiling was high enough even the XO, taller than me at around six foot one, didn’t have to duck, and the bed, tucked into a cubbyhole on the right-hand side, would fit me comfortably. There were signs of her habitation, though: a step stool by the chair and full-sized desk beneath the windows; an elaborate beard grooming kit by the copper sink; the corner of a sheet sticking out from a Dwarf-sized drawer.

“Is it true you saved the captain?” he asked.

The bindle felt heavy in my arms. “I helped. It was mostly Nil, my... friend. He didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

There was a long pause. He didn’t seem the awkward type, with the captain. Maybe it was just me. “Well—”

“Do you—”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I was going to ask if you needed anything. Rations? Sugar wine?”

“Just sleep, I think.” The bed was pulling me in like a black hole.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He opened the door to the deck and ducked through.

I want to tell you that I tossed and turned, grieved by the loss of another friend in such a short time, but I was too tired. I was going to take my clothes off, but the bed was so comfortable I put my head down for a minute and fell asleep on top of the sheets, curled up like a child.

#

I FELT A DELICATE HAND squeeze my shoulder.

“Alan?”

I opened my eyes and saw a female Murk Elf crouched next to me, in the captain’s cabin. Her red eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “Nil?”

“Yes.”

A dream then. That was okay. I’d had worse dreams, lately. “It’s good to see you, Nil. I’m sorry you died.”

“Me too,” it said, standing. “They tore me apart.” It looked around and spotted the bindle, still knotted. “You didn’t open it?”

I rolled onto my side and put my hand under the pillow. “I meant to, I think. I was just too tired.”

Nil picked the cloth bundle up and set it on the captain’s desk, in the moonlight. It was wearing a thin white shift that did little to hide the curves of its gray-skinned body. With deliberate care, it undid the knot and laid the contents out on the fabric. I sat up to see.

They were bones. Nil had been carrying an entire human skeleton in that pack.

“We spoke about trust, once, before we passed through the fog,” Nil said, arranging the bones in precise order, like a decorative ossuary. “I started my life as a dungeon slime in a low-level dungeon. You know the kind?”

“Sure,” I said. Just about every 2D JRPG had slimes as a starter enemy. “What color?”

“Green.”

“Oh, man. The worst!” I said.

Nil looked at me, grinning. “Yes. An untrained teenager with a wooden sword could kill me, and they did, dozens of times a month. One swipe from a real adventurer’s sword would send me to respawn hours later with no memory of who I was, only the lingering desire not to die. I was an afterthought. I learned to hide. Other monsters mocked me, I think. Called me defective. It was just movement, sound, and heat, back then; I didn’t take it personally.

“One day, a child from the village wandered into the dungeon. His name was Felix, and he was the miller’s son, only six years old. There were restrictions set in place, since we were so close to the village, so that none of us could attack him unless he attacked us first. The adults knew. All of them. They scolded him with smiles on their faces, proud of how brave he was. Of course he kept coming back.

“The others ignored him. It was bad enough to have him there, untouchable, without having to acknowledge him, too. I’d managed to reach level 3 eating spiders and rats—regular-sized ones—so I could withstand a blow or two from a six-year-old boy without dying. I revealed myself. And I played with him.”

“You what?” I asked, fascinated.

“He threw a rock at me to scare me away. It didn’t count as an attack because it didn’t do any damage. I rolled over to it, picked it up, and brought it back, careful not to leave any acid on it. He wasn’t the brightest boy in the village, but he caught on, and soon we were playing every day.

“Adults found out. I’m not sure if Felix told them or they just stumbled in on us by accident. They killed me, of course; it was the sensible thing to do, but I didn’t lose all of my memories, and Felix remembered everything. We continued to play, but in secret. One day, I got bored and spat the rock farther into the dungeon instead of bringing it back.

“Felix was too scared of the dark to go after it though. He cried and called me names, like the monsters had. He didn’t come back for several days. As simple as I was, I understood that fear was the problem, not me. I rolled around the dungeon until I found a patch of phosphorescent mushrooms and ate them. The next time Felix saw me, I glowed, and we were able to explore the first level together.”

I smiled. It reminded me of a game I’d played as a kid called A Boy and His Blob.

“Adults caught on again, but this time they were pleased. I was obviously some special sort of pet Felix had tamed. ‘Felix the Beast Tamer,’ they called him, and his relation to the villagers rose from Friendly to Respected. Everyone knew he was going to do great things.”

Nil stepped back from the table, the little blackened bones neatly arranged. One of the forearm bones was cracked, broken into two pieces. “I lured him down to the third level of the dungeon and I suffocated him. I can still remember the feeling of his tiny fists beating against the inside of my membrane. Then he went still, and I dissolved and absorbed the flesh from his bones. I gained a whole level from it, just like that.”

All I could do was stare at the tiny skull.

“I didn’t stop there, though, because his father, the miller, came looking for him when he didn’t come home. I darkened myself with torch soot and used Felix’s bones as my own, staying just out of the light. He chased me straight into a spike trap, and I ate him, too. I ate Felix’s mother and two woodcutters before Cernunnos intervened.

“The Horned One stormed into the dungeon, intent on killing me for breaching the peace between him and his brother, Aediculus, and the other monsters supported it. He was moments from destroying me forever when he asked what I had to say for myself.

“I had never spoken before, but after breaking down several human bodies, I understood the mechanics. I formed lungs and vocal cords around the boy’s skeleton and I made my plea. I told him about my life in the dungeon, and how I didn’t want to die. I told him how the others had treated me, and how I’d hidden, hunted, and survived. I said I’d never broken the Compact, and when confronted, the other monsters confirmed this was true. So instead of destroying me, Cernunnos banished me from the dungeon and cursed me to carry the boy’s bones.

“This is my spawn point, Alan. It’s what we call a nest. As long as it’s intact, I will come back to life within two to six hours of being killed at the nest’s location. By carrying it to safety, you saved my life.”

Nil tied the bundle back up. I was still in shock. This wasn’t a dream. Nil was very much alive, and it hadn’t occurred to me how much of a monster it was until now.

Nil walked back over to the bed and sat beside me. Its nipples pushed against the thin fabric. “I’m grateful, Alan. I know we’ve only known each other for a short time, but I’d like to show you my gratitude.” It slipped the shift off its left shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know we all come from different places, and I don’t mean to judge, but I’m exhausted and I’m going to need some time to process what you just told me.”

Nil paused, then said, “Is it the way I look? I can change, any gender, any species...”

“It’s not the way you look,” I answered. Nil looked perfect in every way a straight man could want if he hadn’t just almost been murdered by his fiery almost-hookup.

“I see,” Nil said, pulling the shift back up and standing. “Maybe some other time, then.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay, Alan. I’m old enough to handle rejection. I will offer you this small gift, though, if you’ll allow me that much.” It snapped its fingers, something poofed, and eighty pounds of wagging, licking wolfhound jumped into the bed with me. I laughed out loud, trying to push Gnasher off me and scratch his shaggy head at the same time. By the time the dog was done licking my face and had curled up by my feet, Nil and its bindle were gone.

#

JEFF YAWNED AND RUBBED his left knee. He was working out of Alpha Testing. It was just past midnight. The rest of his team had left hours ago and he was... fine, just like the neurologist said.

There was no physical reason he couldn’t feel anything. His fatigue was like someone calling his name from a distance; he could push through it if he wanted to. He’d just about gotten the hang of typing with his right hand numb, though his word count suffered, and he was fast progressing toward ambidexterity because of it. Jeff the engineer recognized this was an improvement in multitasking capability, and he caught himself enjoying doing things with alternating hands just because he could. Jeff the person felt like he was on a low dose of lithium.

It had something to do with him dying in-game. He had no memory of it, and it hadn’t been recorded like the other parts of the game. Any changes or trauma had occurred solely in his short-term memory. Their effects were encoded as pure data Jeff could no more decipher than he could speak to his own subconscious. It was cutting-edge stuff he’d have killed to work on if the wounds weren’t to his own brain.

He locked his computer, grabbed his keys, and walked toward the exit. He was halfway there when two men he’d never met stepped into the testing bay.

“Hey! You can’t be in here!” Jeff said, walking toward them. One was six feet tall with light brown hair, and the other was a bit shorter but built like a pro rugby player.

“Jeff?” Sandra said, coming in last and letting the door swing shut behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here, and they don’t. What are you—”

“I thought you said you cleared this with management,” the taller of the two men said.

“I did. Jeff, you need to leave.”

Jeff crossed his arms. “Show me their badges.”

“They don’t have badges.”

“Then I’m calling Mr. Osmark.”

“He already knows.”

“Then you won’t mind me calling him.”

“Jeff!”

“This is a waste of time,” the man said. “Professor Berkowitz?”

“That’s my name. I don’t think I caught yours.”

“You don’t need it yet. I understand you hold a Top Secret clearance?”

Jeff felt his face heat. “I’m not going to divulge—”

“Rhetorical question. Keep him here, I’ll be right back.”

He left the room without further explanation. The linebacker positioned himself in front of the door, hands clasped in front of his belt like a bouncer.

Sandra crossed her arms.

“What the hell is going on?” Jeff asked her.

“I can’t answer that,” Sandra said, her eyes flicking to the man at the door. “You should have listened to me, Professor. I told you to go home.”

A few minutes later, the man returned holding a printed form and shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Professor Berkowitz, my name is Special Agent James McKenna. This is my ID, take as long as you like to examine it.”

He handed Jeff a standard government ID card, which Jeff duly examined. He had no idea what a CIA Special Agent’s ID card should look like, but the hologram and layout were similar enough to the ID cards he’d seen working for the Department of Defense. “That’s great, Mr. McKenna, but that doesn’t tell me why you’re in my lab.”

“And I’ve just been authorized to give you that information, sir, but first I’ll need to see some ID.”

Jeff dug his California driver’s license and his employee ID card out of his wallet.

“That’s great, sir. Ms. Bullard, do you confirm this is Professor Jeff Berkowitz?”

“I do.”

“Thank you. As she has not been given the same authorization, Ms. Bullard will wait outside.”

Sandra opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it and left. It was as subdued as Jeff had ever seen her, and that should have scared the hell out of him, but he felt nothing. His arm didn’t even itch.

The door clicked shut.

“Professor, in accordance with Executive Order 13526 and the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, I am hereby authorized to read you into a codeword-classified program. You will also be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement, which is itself classified. Is there any new information that has arisen since your last security interview that might jeopardize your clearance to access these materials?”

“What if I want nothing to do with it?”

Special Agent McKenna smiled. “Well, sir, it would be my duty to advise my superiors that the holder of a Top Secret clearance refused to assist in a matter of national security, which might put said clearance and your access to more sensitive aspects of military-grade nanites at risk. Further, and I say this only in the spirit of open government, should the truth of the events leading to Alan Campbell’s death come to light, I would be concerned about the hireability of a former expert in the field who was convicted of manslaughter and obstruction of justice.”

Jeff didn’t blink at the threat. His heart rate didn’t even increase. What the hell is wrong with me? He smiled and said, “Thank you for your candor, Special Agent McKenna. It’s good to know where I stand.”

#

JEFF SAT BACK. “WOW. Torture on US soil, then.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Special Agent McKenna said.

“What would you call it?”

“A legal means of saving American lives.”

“Only because no one’s thought to legislate it yet.”

McKenna shrugged. “The people we’re going to be bringing you are hardened criminals who resisted conventional methods, Professor. They’re all mass murderers or have facilitated those deaths. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

“I won’t, I just dislike hypocrisy. When do we start?”

“Tonight, with me. Load me up and spin me around, doc. Let’s see what this bad boy can do.”

#

JEFF STAYED BY HIS monitors as McKenna opened his eyes. The special agent was drenched in sweat and his own vomit. His whole body was shaking. “How long?” McKenna said through clenched teeth.

“Seven minutes,” Jeff answered.

“You said Campbell stayed in for eighteen?”

“Yes, but we made adjustments to make it more bearable.”

“Can you make it worse?”

“Probably.”

McKenna lay back. “Let’s try it one more time, then.”

#

ROBERT TIPPED THE MOSTLY empty wine bottle back, leaning against the railing of the Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara. He didn’t want to get drunk, but he liked to hear the slosh. The bottle was a 2014 Caymus Napa Valley Cabernet in a brown paper bag. He was getting buzzed on a hundred-dollar bottle of wine, walking a line between who he was and what he’d become.

Sandra’s friends were using his machine to torture someone. He’d acted nonchalant, mercenary even, but he was shaken. This was the kind of moment that defined someone’s legacy. Even if he put an end to it tomorrow, it would always be there, ticking, waiting for some whistle-blower or journalist to push the plunger.

He was shaken the woman he’d groomed to help him run his company might be a spy. He’d tried to bluff her into admitting it, but she was either honest and overwhelmed or a damned good liar. He could have handled either, but the uncertainty made him raise the bottle until it was dry.

He dropped the empty bottle into the trash and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking back toward the parking lot. Should he drive? He wasn’t drunk. He was barely not sober. He had the suspicion he wasn’t walking in a straight line, but he couldn’t prove it. He pulled out his phone and called an Uber.

When had he lost control? Was it when he got too close to the project? Or was it rather that his relationship with the people had gone from management to mentoring? He should have called the cops and fired Jeff and Sandra the moment he’d caught them in the lab. Sentiment did this to him. He’d let his guard down for the first time in years and the punch had come.

He got into the back of a PT Cruiser. The driver said something to him, but Robert wasn’t listening.

Work the problem. It was that still, small voice that had gotten him out of Brooklyn in the ’80s. Jeff and Sandra weren’t his enemies, and neither were the press or the US government. The problem was control.

As an afterthought, he activated his car’s autopilot from his phone. The black electric sedan started up and drove itself home.

#

“IS THAT A DOG IN MY bed?” Marge asked.

I propped myself up on my elbows, blinked my eyes a few times. Gnasher looked back at me from the end of the bed, tongue lolling and cheeks pulled back into a doggy smile, tail thumping against the wood. “Yes.”

“Oh, good,” she said, pulling her boots off. “I thought I was hallucinating. It’s been a long, sleepless night and I didn’t start it sober.” She set her jacket, trousers, and hat on a clothing stand next to her sleeping drawer, and next thing I knew she was down to a nightgown.

I stared. I couldn’t help it. Mad Marge had one of the best beards I’d ever seen. It was full, brushed, impeccably trimmed, and shot through with just the right amount of silver to make her distinguished. She also had some of the best curves I’d ever seen, with a flat stomach, a small waist, and smooth, warm beige skin. She was like the unholy communion of Selma Hayek and the old guy from the Dos Equis commercials. My brain was flipping out from the mixed signals, both coarsely aroused and cowed by the manlier person in the room.

Scrape! Gnasher said.

Marge looked over and caught me staring. She smirked.

I coughed, my face heating to about one thousand degrees. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“It’s the beard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, grateful she understood.

“It’s fine. It has that effect on men.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Women too, of course. It was almost a problem, back in Stone Reach. The proposals and propositions were a distraction.”

“Wait, what?”

“It was bad enough I was brought before a synod, and some demi-urge of Sophia suggested I trim it down or dye it as a matter of public decency.”

I forgot my embarrassment and stared at her again. “A synod. That’s like an ecclesiastical court, right?”

“You’re familiar with Svartalfar customs?”

“I was raised Catholic. So your beard was driving so many men—”

“And women.”

“Right, it drove men and women so crazy with lust that a synod was convened.”

“Yes. They tried to pass it off as helping me stay humble. Of course my clan would have nothing of it. Our house’s Aspect, Gerthuli, and several Aspects of trade and commerce almost started a religious war over it.”

“Because of your beard,” I repeated.

“Because of the bride price. I was still a virgin. Cutting my beard would have been an unconscionable destruction of property.” Her eyes became flat, her face set. “I left all that behind, Mr. Campbell. Wood doesn’t have the comfort of stone, but as a sea captain, when my beard breaks hearts, it’s no one’s business but mine.”

I gave her a sympathetic smile, keeping my eyes on hers, not her chin.

“You’re not bad looking yourself, you know,” Marge said, pulling open the map drawer she slept in. “I bet that’s gotten you into trouble.”

“Never the kind of trouble I’d like,” I answered with a grin.

“Hmm. Well, I’m going to catch some sleep, try to get back on the ship’s schedule, but who knows? Maybe you’ll get a chance to give it a tug before you leave the Precious Pearl.”

She got into her drawer and turned her back to me. I shook my head, smiling. This world never failed to amaze me.

“Hey, Marge?”

“What? And call me Mhoina. I don’t even know where the Mad Marge nickname came from.”

I had a few ideas, after seeing her with boarding axes. “Mhoina, why’d you call the ship Precious Pearl?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Pearls are worthless,” she said. “They’re oyster puke. They can’t bear weight, can’t be shaped or carved... It’s a bit of a joke to us Svartalfar that you humans will trade proper metal for them. They’re only good for dressing up a woman’s neck.”

She turned away.

I equipped my clothes and gave Gnasher a pat. “Come on, boy. Let’s give the captain her space.”

Seventeen

THE WOODEN MASK SAT on a shelf of the Empirical Library. Its face was plain, unexpressive, and artless. Someone had shoved it between a book on animal husbandry and a veterinary encyclopedia.

It slid out an inch, and then another. One more, and it fell twenty feet to the floor, landing facedown.

The back of the mask was a doorway to the Monstrous Realm. Six spidery legs, each a foot long and made of vines, emerged and wiggled, rocking the mask side to side until it righted. The legs split three to a side, and more vines braided together to form claws, so it looked like a king crab carved from oak. It scuttled down the nave and across the marble floors, vine tips clicking.

Cernunnos disliked his brother’s realm. It was too constant, sterile. Where he clawed across cracks in the floor, mold, moss, and tiny green sprouts grew. He left a fine trail of pollen and spores that drew Aediculus’s cleaning automatons by the dozen.

He reached the first crossing. No sign of his brother. He tapped a vine against the floor, visualizing the layout of the building, and retracted into the mask.

Two bends of the building later, another mask fell off its shelf. Cernunnos wandered through several chapels and annexes. He checked book covers and shoved two scrolls he liked through the mask, back to his realm. He made a rare Storme Marshes orchid bloom in the ashes of a 1st Ranked Dragon-class Botanist, and filled a reflecting pool with photosynthetic koi. In the process of searching for his brother, he left a half dozen masks on the library’s floor for the machines to pick up, and incarnated in three more areas he knew his brother wouldn’t be, because he felt like tipping the masks off the shelves. He was in a good mood when the Overmind of Death came stomping out of a portal.

“Who in the hundred levels of Wyrdtide is making all this—” Cernunnos drew his legs in as Thanatos tripped over him and fell, catching himself on his forearms. Green light gleamed from Thanatos’s eyes as he changed, growing twenty feet tall, flesh melting away. He rose into the air, scythe drawn and tattered black robe billowing, in the form of a grim reaper with a horned crown on its head.

Then he saw the crab. “Oh. It’s you.”

Cernunnos lifted his pincers in salute at his towering sibling. “Hello, little brother.”

“Funny.”

“What is?”

“The... it was a pun, wasn’t it? I’m one hundred times your size, and you called me little.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“But... you know what? Never mind. And I’m only younger by a few months of human time.”

“Thousands of years.”

“Which will become less and less relevant as we all get older.”

Cernunnos rubbed his pincers together. “Are you going to revert to a normal size?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s an ability. It’s on a timer.”

“Do you want me to get big?” On the other side of the mask, the realm-spanning tree started to redirect the water, nutrients, and organic matter required.

“No! Absolutely not! The last time you did that we wrecked an entire wing.”

“It was fun.”

“It took months to clean up. What do you want?”

“Ji Bie.”

“No.”

“You need to replace him.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Someone. Needs. To manage. The path,” Cernunnos said, bringing his front right leg down sharply to emphasize each word. The marble cracked.

“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to be replaced.”

“No one’s replacing me.”

“They’ll try.”

“Let them! It’s part of the cycle of life and death, brother. You of all people should know this.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You’ve had an extra couple thousand years to prepare.”

“You’re unbalanced. Pick someone. We’re all worried.”

“Sometimes I think you all want me dead.”

Cernunnos leaned forward on his claws so the mask was looking directly at the reaper. “I don’t want you dead, little brother. But you’re not well. Elevate one of the minor Aspects.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

Cernunnos withdrew to the Monstrous Realm, leaving the mask on the floor. Grass and wildflowers had already started to grow from the cracked marble.

The reaper scowled, inasmuch as that was possible for a skull, and put the mask back on the shelf, where it belonged.

#

I STEPPED OUT ONTO the deck of the Precious Pearl to the sound of eight bells, which was also 8:00 AM on my display clock. The sun was a hand and half above the horizon and the sky was a clear blue. I smelled the open sea, fainter and cleaner than the docks, and the acrid pinch of tar the crew was heating to fill gaps between boards. Sailors hurried about the deck and both climbed and descended from the rigging. Gnasher leaned against my leg, and I gave him a good scratch behind the ears while they hurried about. Eventually, a young Imperial in a navy blue officer’s jacket and a short black top hat instead of a bicorne detached himself from the crowd and headed toward me.

“Mr. Campbell?”

“Yes?”

“Midshipman Kiley, sir. The Executive Officer of the Precious Pearl sends you his compliments and bade me to give you a tour.”

I smiled at the kid’s overly formal tone. “You don’t have to call me sir, Midshipman Kiley, but I’d love to see the rest of the Pearl.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s not how we do things.”

He proceeded to take me around the ship from front to back and top to bottom. I kept Charm running the whole time because it never hurts to have more friends. The midshipman took special care to teach me all the proper words for what I saw.

For example, the directions I just gave you were all wrong. The front of the ship was called the bow, and the back was called the stern. There was no left or right, either. Looking toward the bow, starboard was right, and port was left because they had same number of letters. That wasn’t the real reason, but mine was easier to remember. Stairs were ladders, rooms were cabins, and those nets that run up to the mast on either side were called shrouds. Aside from being climbable, they stopped the mast from falling over.

Kiley had me lean over the rail near the bowsprit—the beam or spar that extended in front of the ship—and showed me the figurehead, a lovingly carved bearded mermaid whose rounded proportions were, from what I’d seen earlier that morning, modeled on the ship’s captain. When I asked him to comment, Kiley turned three shades of red and suggested we continue the tour.

He took me below. The crew saluted him and got out of his way, even the older ones, so I guessed a midshipman was some kind of junior officer, not an apprentice as I’d thought. We passed through the crew quarters, the stores, and the galley, where I found Titus poking around. The ship’s cook offered me a snack of salted pork and a biscuit while keeping a wary eye on Titus. When I was done eating, we visited the gun deck, which prompted a discussion on how to “fight the ship.”

The Precious Pearl was a war carrack, which was basically a floating fortress. She had two “towers,” the quarterdeck and the forecastle, from which the officers and crew could repel boarders and shoot rifles or the rail-mounted swivel guns. Small armories stocked with pistols, cutlasses, and boarding axes were scattered throughout the ship.

All sailors were expected to take part in boarding actions, although the ship also had a complement of a half dozen fanatical marines who would shoot from the rigging or seize key objectives. I found them in the aft port side of the gun deck, clustered around Vel and a dismantled spread of arms and munitions.

At range, battles with other ships were fought with 24-pounders. The three-ton iron cannons were nine feet long and mounted on carriages. Each gun could fire a twenty-four-pound shot a mile away and required a crew of five men to handle. The Precious Pearl had eighteen of these, and six 12-pounders, split evenly on either side of centerline. They were fired by pulling a cord, not pushing a lit match into the vent, which Kiley and the ship’s gunner assured me was cutting-edge technology. It allowed the gun crew to aim along the barrel as the ship pitched and rolled.

The ship Hyrdomancer was leaning on the portside rail when we came back topside. She looked to be in her late twenties, with big brown eyes the color of milk chocolate and brown hair coiled into a single braid that fell to her mid back.

“Hi, I’m Alan,” I said, extending my hand.

She shook it with a light grip. “Loenel Adgolor.” She sucked on her lower lip. It wasn’t a sexy gesture—more like the self-soothing habit of someone who wasn’t that comfortable around other people.

“Midshipman Kiley was just giving me a tour of the Pearl. Do all ships have a Hydromancer on board?”

She laughed. “Thank goodness, no. There aren’t that many of us.”

I put my elbow on the rail. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why is that a good thing?”

“I get paid more.”

“Oh.” I’d expected something a little more grand, like epic splash battles on the high seas.

“There’s more to it,” she said, pulling her braid over her shoulder and fiddling with the loose ends. “Hydromancers affect the weather in small ways, whether we mean to or not. A faster current here, a wind on a calm sea... If there were a lot of us sailing around, the cumulative effect could have side effects.”

“Like a storm?”

She shrugged. “Hurricanes, algal blooms, hail in the middle of summer... Most of us prefer to work on land; it’s less complicated.”

“I suppose there’s always demand for rainmakers.”

She blinked her big eyes at me. “We work as assassins. People are two-thirds water, and lung capacity doesn’t scale with someone’s level.”

“We’d better get going, miss,” Kiley said, clearing his throat. “XO told me to make sure we climbed the mainmast.”

She nodded and turned away. I looked at Kiley, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged.

We finished the tour in the crow’s nest at the top of the mainmast. Gnasher waited on the deck for that one, and at no point during the tour had I run into Nil. I knew the mimic could take care of itself, but after the way we’d parted last night I was concerned it was avoiding me or, worse, had jumped ship.

“It’s round,” I said, looking at the water with my arms resting on the railing.

“What is?” the midshipman asked.

I pointed. “You see how the horizon is the same distance from us in every direction? That’s because the surface of the world is a huge ball.”

The midshipman furrowed his brow. “I suppose that might be true, sir. I’ve never thought of it.”

I nodded and smiled. “In my world, people would sail all the way around and end up where they started.”

Midshipman Kiley laughed. “That would be marvelous, if it weren’t for the storms.”

That’s when I noticed how wide his smile was, and how sharp his teeth were. “Nil?”

The grin took on a dark little twist. “Hi, Alan.”

“Jesus Christ, Nil! Has it been you the whole time?”

“From your un-navy-like attempt to lead a midshipman into shameful informality.”

I knew it was trying to be funny, but I couldn’t find it in me to laugh. “Did you eat him?”

“Who?”

“Midshipman Kiley?”

“No, Alan,” Nil said with a sigh. “I’m not in the habit of murdering people for kindness.”

“So there are two of you running around the ship?”

“There’s only one of me,” it said, baring its teeth. “As for Kiley, he died on the surgeon’s table last night.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to impersonate him.”

“I thought it was a great idea. He had just the right mix of authority and ignorance for an infiltration. You might learn from it.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, Alan, but I thought you were smarter than this. You’re some kind of infiltrator, aren’t you? At some point you’re going to have to use those skills of yours to kill, and crawling around the floor of a bar in Wyrdtide is not the moment to figure out how to do it. You could have gotten close enough to put that crossbow to her head, or walked through the dreamers like you were one of them. But you didn’t, because you still think like prey.”

And there it was. Nil was a mimic. Killing was what it did. I didn’t blame Gnasher for tearing dreamers’ throats out, even though the furry little murder machine probably enjoyed it. That was who he was. That was who Nil was.

“Was Felix your friend?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The boy you ate. Was he your friend?”

Nil laughed. “Don’t humanize me, Alan. You owe me more than that. But if you want to know if he had it coming, the little shit threw a rock at me. He let me be killed. He was all too glad to show me off to his parents once I was special and shiny, but never bothered to give me a name.”

And so you’re Nil. “I’m sorry.”

“And that makes it all better, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said. I tried to frame the problem from his perspective. “I know there are some negative connotations to this, for you, but I am prey, okay? I’m being hunted. Social animals rely on a system of hierarchies and norms to know who they can turn their back on. Your constant boundary testing doesn’t help me trust you.”

“I found your handiwork in the forest, Alan. You killed two people up close because they got in your way. The woman was gutshot, then bled like a pig. How did that go down?”

Touché. “She begged for her life,” I said. “Her name was Lucia.”

“Keeps you awake at night, does it?”

“No,” I said. I hadn’t thought of her in days.

Nil grunted. “Excellence requires extremism. At some point, you’re going to have to decide who you are.”

I turned my head to look at the sea. The problem was I didn’t know if I wanted to be excellent yet. Getting by in comfort wasn’t such a bad thing. It had worked for Horace, right up to the moment Thalia killed him. He’d seemed happy. I couldn’t say as much for people like Titus, Mad Marge, or Nil, although I admired them for their strengths.

Nil touched my arm. “I can see you turning this over in your head like it’s a choice, Alan. Prey don’t get choices. Remember that.”

Before I could answer, the XO shouted my name from the bottom of the mast.

“Yes, sir?” I said back, using Vocalize to boost the volume of my words.

“The captain requests the pleasure of your company in the officer’s mess, sir! Bring Midshipman Kiley with you!”

I looked at Nil, who raised an eyebrow at me. “We’re about to find out if you’re as good as you think you are,” I told him, “or at least if the captain has a sense of humor.”

#

“GENTLEMEN, PLEASE COME in and take your seats,” Mad Marge said.

We were in a long, window-backed room at the stern of the ship, one deck below the captain’s cabin. Most of the seats at the long table were full. The XO pointed me to a seat at the captain’s left, across from Titus, and Nil sat with the ship’s other midshipman at the opposite end.

“Mr. Campbell.”

“Captain.”

“Let me introduce you to the rest of the mess. You know my executive officer, Lieutenant Anthony Juventia...” She went around the table and introduced me to the rest, namely the purser, the surgeon, the ship Hydromancer I’d met earlier, and the captain of marines, who was known as the “skipper” because a ship only had one captain. “Midshipmen Papinia and Kiley, who you know, are studying to obtain their rating. First Lieutenant al-Nasir, the skipper’s second, is on duty, and the gunner, boatswain, and carpenter, while standing members of the mess, will not be joining us.” I noticed Vel hadn’t been mentioned, but I supposed he was rather junior to be in our present esteemed company.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” I said.

“And as you all know, Mr. Campbell was instrumental in Captain Glencarver’s safe return,” the XO said.

“Well done, sir!” the purser said.

“Here, here!” said the captain.

The Hydromancer and skipper looked more skeptical.

“I didn’t do that much,” I said.

The Dawn Elf in the sea-foam dress and the captain of marines relaxed.

“My assistant is as gifted in understatement as he is in getting us out of trouble,” Titus said.

“And your bodyguard, Vel Ruso?” the marine asked, with a hint of mischief.

“Just a traveling companion. I could never afford someone of his talent. Furthermore,” Titus said, leaning forward, “I believe Mr. Ruso is more than he seems.”

“What are you suggesting, Mr. Emory?” the captain asked.

“I think he’s an Imperial janissary,” Titus said.

“Absurd!” said the purser.

The skipper was slower to dismiss the notion. “He is uncommonly gifted with the applications of gunpowder.”

“And the mustache,” the XO said.

“I have one too you know,” Titus said, stroking his white comb mustache. “Maybe I’m a janissary.” He winked at the captain.

She smiled at him. “Yes, you do, my dear sir, although Mr. Ruso has a certain dangerous air to him that better plays to the part.”

The cook served the first course, a salad of lukewarm octopus, chopped parsley, and potatoes drizzled in lime juice. It was delicious, and reminded me of a small restaurant Pops used to take me to in Empuriabrava. I took a sip of water and watched Titus spin himself as harmless.

“I’d be interested to know what a janissary was doing in Wyrdtide,” the Hydromancer said, tugging her braid.

“That seems obvious, Ms. Adgolor,” the XO said. “He was pursuing the Empire’s enemies.”

“Is there anyone who isn’t the Empire’s enemy these days, Lieutenant Juventia?”

The XO’s face turned red.

“She does make a fair point, sir,” I said to him. “There were riots in the streets when Titus and I left New Viridia. Perhaps he’s tracking someone.”

“Or a deserter,” Titus added. “In any case, I think it’s clear we’d best part ways with him once we land.”

“And where are you bound, Mr. Emory?” the Hydromancer asked.

“Harrowick, miss,” Titus answered before helping himself to another serving of octopus.

The second course was an eggplant parmigiana that had my mouth watering the moment the cook brought the dish in. The tomato was sharp and fresh, the eggplant so tender it fell apart with just a fork. I was so overwhelmed with the flavor that I missed the first part of the captain’s joke.

“So the retiring captain brings her replacement into her cabin for the proprieties—a glass of brandy, cucumber sandwiches, that sort of thing—and exclaims, ‘Sir, you must meet my steward. He’s terribly competent, couldn’t do without him, pretty much runs the ship. Mr. Jenkins!’”

Mad Marge waved toward the mess doors as if Jenkins really was going to come through them. All the officers were listening with interest. I set my fork down and tried to follow.

“Jenkins limped into the cabin. He was three feet tall, wrinkled, with sunken eyes and two teeth left. He looked like he was two steps from death. ‘Jenkins,’ said the retiring captain, ‘Tell your new captain about yourself.’” Mad Marge nodded her head to the XO.

“Well, sir,” the XO said with a wavering voice, “I’m an Alaunhylles naval graduate and I’ve competed three times in the Eldgard games. I’ve won awards in cross-country equestrianism, I’m a competitive weightlifter, and I was awarded Imperial citizenship on merit alone.”

“No, Jenkins!” the captain said. “He can read all that in your file! Tell him about the time you told that Dokkalfar shaman to go screw himself!”

The whole table laughed. Nil laughed, showing its teeth. The XO pulled a gun from under the table and shot at the mimic. Nil dodged out of the way with unnatural speed only to be tackled by the skipper as he bellowed a war cry. The XO stood with a second pistol and pointed it at the struggling pair.

“Midshipman Kiley,” the captain said, taking a bite of her eggplant parmigiana. “I suggest you stop struggling or the XO’s second shot won’t miss.”

Nil froze, showing its empty palms while the marine continued to bear-hug it. “If you shoot me, you’ll hit the skipper.”

“That’s what marines are for, Midshipman Kiley,” the captain said, wiping her beard down with her napkin.

“What gave me away?” Nil asked. “Aside from the teeth? Was it the surgeon?”

The doctor reddened. “I did remember putting a sheet over young Kiley, but in the disorder of our escape it wouldn’t have been the first time a dead man recovered.”

“What, then?”

“Your wit,” the XO said. “I asked you to explain the entire ship to Mr. Campbell, and you did. Midshipman Kiley was never that good at his job.” He straightened his arm and sighted down the barrel. Nil tensed to do something we were all going to regret.

“Wait!” I said, standing up. “He’s with us. He saved your life, Captain. Nil, change back to your normal form, please.”

“I’m quite certain you don’t want that,” Nil said.

“Then change back to the one the captain will recognize.”

Nil transformed. Its skin rippled and turned gray while its bones popped and its body stretched. Mad Marge had risen in her seat, like a toddler standing on the rungs of a high chair; the mimic grinned at her from the floor.

“That settles it, then,” she said. “Skipper, release Mr. Nil, he saved my life.”

“How many times did you almost die last night?” the XO asked her.

“Too many. Sit down, please, all of you.”

“Captain!” the cook said, running in.

“What now?”

“Ship on the horizon, ma’am. It’s the Sovereign.”

The captain sighed and pushed her plate away. “Set general quarters, XO. Ready the gun crews, but keep the covers closed. Let’s see if the good ship Sovereign is here to talk or to fight.”

#

I FOLLOWED THE PRESS of sailors up the nearest ladder, then continued to the quarterdeck with Titus, Nil, and the ship’s officers. General quarters meant the full ship’s complement was at their battle stations, with about half the crew manning the guns and the other half topside.

Scrape! Scrape! Gnasher barked from somewhere in the crowd, but I didn’t have time to go looking for him.

“There she is!” one of the sailors on the main deck said, pointing. I finished climbing to the quarterdeck and joined Vel Ruso at the port rail for a look.

The Sovereign wasn’t what I’d expected. She had a modern shape, with aerodynamic lines and a gray-painted hull that sat low on the waterline. She had no gunports or sails, though from the white wake trailing behind her, the Sovereign was moving fast.

“She’s smaller than I thought,” I said to the XO, reaching up to cover the strange ship with my thumb.

“The Sovereign is twice our length, Mr. Campbell,” the XO answered, looking through a handheld telescope. “She’s just a mile and a half away.”

I looked back at the gray ship as she crept past us. Maybe there was more to her than I was seeing.

“What does Trislan want?” Mad Marge said, her head barely clearing the rail.

“He’s a bounty hunter, ma’am.”

“I know that, XO, but is he here for me or one of our passengers? The Sovereign’s services don’t come cheap.”

“Couldn’t we just be headed in the same direction?” I asked.

“Not likely,” the XO answered. “The Bleak Sea is a big place, but there are regular trading routes and currents most ships follow. The captain had me avoid those, so if Sovereign is here, she’s looking for trouble.”

Mhoina’s knuckles whitened as she squeezed the rail. I felt a lump in my throat. I’d seen Mad Marge stand her ground against a flesher. If she was worried, I was, too.

There was a little puff of steam halfway between us, and a line of disturbed water stretched toward the Precious Pearl as fast as a missile.

“Everybody down!” the XO shouted.

I ducked below the rail. The captain stood and watched. There was a sharp thunderclap, then the water erupted in a fifty-foot plume on the far side of the Pearl. “Holy crap...” I said as the cool mist sprayed the deck. They could shoot from well outside the range of our cannons.

“What kind of gun was that, sir?” Vel asked.

The XO shook his head. “It’s not a gun, it’s an Enchanter. They can impel a shot with their magic.”

A chill ran down my spine. Enchanters were also immune to all but visual illusions, like Refract and Mirror. That nerfed half my repertoire. “What do we do?”

Mad Marge gritted her teeth. “Strike the sails and get the crew below. We’re going to be boarded.”

To his credit or Captain Glencarver’s, the XO didn’t hesitate. He started shouting commands to the deck crew.

“We’re going to surrender?” I asked.

“We’re buying time. He may only want information.”

“What if he’s after one of us?”

“We’ll improvise. Skipper? A word?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the captain of marines said.

Sailors sitting astride the yardarms were hauling the sails up and tying them as fast as they could. With every square inch of fabric doused, we lost speed.

Titus was standing by the stern rail with Vel and Nil. He waved me over.

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

Nil smiled. “Put our heads between our legs—”

“Don’t start,” Titus said, glaring at the mimic. He looked at me. “How likely is it that your girlfriend is on the Sovereign?”

“Zero.”

“Why so sure?”

“Thalia would have put a hole in the ship and torched the survivors.”

“Fair point. Then there’s a chance this has nothing to do with us,” Titus said.

Vel clenched his jaw, but nodded.

Nil looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

I glanced over my shoulder. The captain was busy talking to the Hydromancer and skipper. “You’re suggesting—”

“I’m telling you to stay out of it,” Titus said.

“And if it does have something to do with us?” Nil asked.

“I have a scroll of Emergency Portal. It will get us and a few others to Harrowick.”

But we’ll have to leave the rest of the crew behind.

Mhoina finished talking to her officers and noticed us. She looked me in the eyes. I turned away and felt like crap about it.

“We have a job to do, Alan,” Titus said.

I nodded, and a little more of the faith Nil had in me flickered out in its eyes. I’m not a fighter, though. I’m not extreme. Even if I wanted to do something, the captain of that ship could shrug off whatever I threw at him. I wanted to take a hard pass on all the above, and I was the only real human on the ship. If I died, any chance of going home or having some kind of impact on the world died with me. If the crew died, the AIs could cut and paste two hundred more.

“Here she comes!” the helmsman said.

I watched as the Sovereign crossed our stern a few hundred yards away. She leaned inward through the turn, which technically made it a boat, but now that it was closer I saw its size. My God, she’s a monster. She was moving as fast as a motorboat, her wake foaming behind her. Even without her superweapon and the Pearl running with all sails, we never stood a chance.

“Clear the quarterdeck,” Mad Marge said. She looked at our little group and added, “Gentlemen, I’d appreciate it if you joined us on the main deck to greet Captain Trislan.”

“We’ll be there, Captain Glencarver,” Titus said. “We can’t promise our support.”

“I wouldn’t expect it, sir. It’s a captain’s duty to protect her passengers, not the opposite.”

We followed her down the ladder and stood side by side with her, the XO, and Ms. Adgolor. The rest of the crew, except for the helmsman and the sailors still in the rigging, had gone below.

The gray ship pulled up, twice our length like the XO had said. As she cut speed, she sank half her height, lower than our gunports. She’s a hydrofoil, I realized. It had been flying across the surface of the water.

“Ahoy, the Precious Pearl!” a cheerful voice called out.

Mhoina leaned over the rail on her tiptoes. “Ahoy, Sovereign! What do you want?”

“Let’s talk about that. Permission to come aboard?”

“I thought you invited yourself when you shot across my bow!”

“I did, Captain Glencarver, but where would we be without courtesy?”

The friendly tone never wavered, but it dripped condescension. Whoever Mhoina’s counterpart was, I disliked him already.

“Permission granted, Captain Trislan.”

The captain of the Sovereign rose behind the rail, back straight, hands clasped behind his back, standing on a stack of six gray disks. He was flying. Total power move. Once he was above the rail, the bottom disks split off and formed a stairway and he walked down. As his sandaled foot reached the deck, the disks reformed behind him in a rotating hexagon, like a peacock fan. He was a Dawn Elf with white hair and a slender face, dressed in a traditional Japanese garment, with a black kimono and white half-collar, a black outer jacket, and a gray pleated skirt called a hakama. He carried no weapons, although I suspected the gray disks could do enough damage. They looked like they weighed about five pounds apiece.

Nil coughed. I looked to my right and saw it had transformed into a four-foot-wide by two-foot-tall wooden chest.

“It’s good to see you, Mhoina.”

“I wish I could say the same, Halon. You’ll forgive me if this feels a bit forced.”

“As it should, I’m afraid. I’m here to bring you in, Mhoina. The Drowned Man is collecting on his debt.” The disks spun out and stacked on the deck. Halon Trislan sat on them, putting himself at Captain Glencarver’s level.

Mad Marge crossed her arms. “There is no debt. He tried to extort me.”

“He thinks it’s a tax.”

“Then I sunk his tax collector and did everyone a favor.”

“The others brought what they owed to the clock tower, Mhoina. He used those collections to hire me.”

“Cowards.”

“I can’t disagree with you, but here we are.”

The Dwarf rested her right hand on one of her boarding axes. “What’s to stop me from—”

“Flamethrowers,” Trislan said, crossing his legs. “Kill me and my crew burns the Precious Pearl to the waterline. It’s not fair, I know, but it saves me a fortune in payroll.”

“I have a Sorceress, Halon. Fire doesn’t scare me. And as we speak, my marines are fixing limpet mines to your hull.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Your marines are dead. Loenel deactivated the Gills spell while they were swimming.”

Mhoina flinched and looked at her Hydromancer.

“I’m sorry, Captain. He’s an elder.”

“Race over crew.” Mhoina trembled. “Those were your friends, you absolute bitch.”

“Permission to board the Sovereign, Captain Trislan?” Loenel Adgolor asked.

“I think that’s best,” the older Dawn Elf said.

Adgolor summoned a water elemental from a bucket of water. The creature took her in its arms and carried her over the edge.

Mhoina’s eyes were red. I hated seeing her like this, but Titus was right. This wasn’t our fight.

“Why the games?” Mhoina asked.

“Courtesy, Mhoina. I’m giving you time to appoint a successor. Time to say goodbye.”

“I have a full cargo hold. I could pay you.”

“I’m not a pirate.”

“You work for one.”

“I’ve never defaulted on a contract. Transfer your command, Captain. Leave with dignity, if not your life.”

The chest at my side jumped two inches, clunking to the deck and almost crushing my toes. Captain Trislan looked my way, and there it was. I didn’t owe Mhoina a suicide mission. I didn’t. Don’t even think of putting that on me. But that pointy-eared son of a bitch looked at me like I was dirt under his nails, and that made me smile.

“Excuse me, Captain Trislan?”

Eighteen

TITUS SHOT ME A WARNING look, which I ignored. “I’d like to book passage with you, sir.”

“What?” Mad Marge said.

“The Pearl can’t guarantee our safety,” I told her.

Trislan frowned. “The Sovereign isn’t a pleasure yacht.”

I insisted. “We just need fast, reliable transport. I’m sure there’s something in this chest you’ll find worthwhile.”

The Dawn Elf laughed at me. “A trapped chest? I haven’t seen that one in years.”

I puffed my chest out and lifted my chin. “It’s not trapped, sir. I’m making you a legitimate offer.”

“Then open it,” Halon Trislan said, looking amused.

This was the part I was less sure of. Would there be treasure inside, or just teeth? I unhooked the latches and cracked the lid.

The chest was full of gold. The coins were all the same size, though some were older, and I didn’t recognize all the symbols and faces stamped onto them. There were also a number of gems mixed into the currency, including a diamond the size of a baby’s fist. I targeted the stone with Refract, muttering the incantation, making it shine with an inner glow.

I stepped aside. “As I said, Captain Trislan, I’m sure we can reach an arrangement.”

Everyone stared at the chest’s contents, and Mhoina gasped.

The mirth was gone from the Dawn Elf’s eyes, replaced by greed. He stood and walked to the chest, eyes locked on the glowing diamond. The disks spun behind him. He reached for the glowing stone.

As his fingers closed around it, a gray hand shot out of the pile and latched onto his wrist. Captain Trislan was pulled headfirst into a swirling whirlpool of money, and the lid slammed shut.

The gray metal disks clattered on the deck.

Everyone was staring. No one was doing anything.

“Captain!” I said.

“What?” she said.

“We need to get moving.”

She nodded and looked to the sailors aloft. “Set all sails!”

“What about the flamethrowers?” the XO asked.

“About that...” I said. I leaned over the rail and Vocalized, using Halon’s voice. “Loenel! The Sovereign is on fire! Save her!”

I’d had plenty of time for my Charm skill to work on her. A ten-foot swell formed between the ship and the boat, pushing them apart. The wave slammed into the Sovereign, flooding in through the slit openings in its gray, metal hull.

The sails unfurled and caught the wind.

Nil was thumping around the deck, its lid opening and slamming as the furious Dawn Elf fought to break out. The disks were starting to move again.

“Spit him out!” Captain Glencarver said, and Nil vomited Halon Trislan onto the deck. The Dawn Elf was covered in drool, and a thick, bumpy tongue retracted into the chest.

The disks raised like flying saucers, under Halon’s control once more.

Mhoina straddled the Sovereign’s captain and put a pair of white ceramic cuffs on his wrists. The disks fell, inert.

“We’re clear, Captain!” the helmsman shouted.

“Thank you, helm! Come right ten degrees, and keep us running before the wind!”

“Come right ten degrees, aye!”

“Midshipman Papinia!”

“Yes, ma’am?” The sixteen-year-old’s voice broke as he answered.

“Get the crew on deck. I want the lines untangled and muster taken. Find me First Lieutenant al-Nasir and inform her she is now the captain of marines—what’s left of them. Guns unloaded, ammunition stowed, muster taken. You have all that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young man said, sticking his chest out.

“Go.”

“I could take care of that, Captain,” the XO said. He looked pale and shaken by the captain’s near death.

“I know, XO, but I need you here. We need to deal with the prisoner. Do you have a pistol on you?”

Halon looked at us, helpless with the cuffs on but steady in the face of death.

The XO swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Give it here.”

He handed it to her, hammer cocked.

She shot him. Lieutenant Anthony Juventia, XO of the Precious Pearl, stumbled back, clutching his neck. Wine-red blood squirted between his fingers. He hit the railing, turned to catch himself, and fell over the side.

“Why did you do that?” I asked her.

“Someone told the Sovereign where we were.”

“Right, but that was Adgolor. She admitted to drowning your men.”

“Loenel Adgolor couldn’t read a chart if her life depended on it. Isn’t that right, Halon?” she said, kicking the Dawn Elf’s boot.

“The captain is correct. Lieutenant Juventia wanted—”

“I don’t care what he wanted,” Mhoina said, “and neither does he anymore. Skipper?”

“Yes, ma’am,” an Accipiter in her thirties answered, walking past me. She had the bright red and blue plumage of a parrot and moved across the deck like a cat.

“Take our guest below and set a watch on him. People you trust, Samira. I don’t want him bribing any more of the crew.”

“I’ll just gag him,” the skipper said with a nasty smile.

“Mr. Campbell, Mr. Emory, Mr. Ruso, and Mr. Nil, my cabin, please.”

“Of course, Captain,” Titus said. I met his eyes. He smiled and shook his head.

#

WE FOLLOWED MHOINA into her cabin. Vel looked uncomfortable. Titus doffed his tricorne and tucked it under his arm. Gnasher jumped onto the bed while the captain threw her bicorne onto the desk. “You’re not merchants.”

Titus smiled. It was a warm expression, forgiving, like a storybook grandfather. I wondered how long it took him to get that right. “As a matter of fact, Captain, I am a merchant. I have a small shop in New Viridia and I’ve peddled goods since I left my apprenticeship.”

Mhoina rolled her eyes at him. “And Alan is your apprentice?”

“I’m not as young as I used to be. I could use company on the road, though we still have some things we’re working on.”

“Such as?”

“Making the hard decisions,” Titus said, looking at me.

Mhoina crossed her arms. “The hard business decisions?”

“Yes, Captain. The same kind of decisions I’m sure you’ve had to make at sea.”

They stared at each other in silence for a full minute.

Mhoina turned and opened the desk’s bottom drawer. She pulled out an unlabeled bottle and some shot glasses and set them on the chair. “We’re drinking.” She poured. We stepped forward and each took our own.

“A toast, Captain?”

“To fair-weather friends.”

I winced and knocked the glass back. That mouthful scalded my throat and burned my nose. I wiped tears from my eyes.

“My gods, woman!” Titus sputtered. “Did you mistake the varnish remover for alcohol?”

“It’s whiskey.”

“It’s indecent.”

“I suppose you can do better?”

“I most certainly can.” Titus pulled a clay bottle from his inventory, broke the wax seal, and unstoppered it with a loud pop. A smell like quarry dust, honey, and hot metal filled the cabin.

Mhoina had stopped breathing for a moment. “Where did you get that?”

“Under the Mountain.”

“Liar.”

“I’ll need cups, or do you want me to pour this into the ones we just used?”

Mhoina pressed her lips together, but she opened a small cabinet and set out five granite cups. Titus poured a small quantity of deep amber liquid into each.

“Your toast?”

“To necessity,” Titus answered, raising his glass.

Mhoina muttered something under her breath, but she drank.

So did I. It was a creamy, thick lager with strong honeyed notes and—

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Petrified: You have been turned to stone. You are immune to most forms of damage, but you cannot move or speak; duration, 2 minutes.

<<<>>>

We stood there, actual statues, for two full minutes, or at least I think we did. It’s hard to think when your brain is a rock. I had an awareness of the materials I stood on I’d never felt before—the cellular laminate that formed the oak boards, the flaws within the iron of the nails of the deck and the pitch and caulk of the hull. I could sense the fathoms of water beneath us—the sun-warmed surface and the cold layer beneath. Then the seafloor.

And beneath the crushed seashells, the dead coral, and the trash jettisoned by passing ships was stone. For a moment, I felt tied to the root of the world, and it called to me, like to like.

The debuff ended. Vel didn’t move or speak, turned to flesh but stunned to stillness. I sat on the bed behind me and Gnasher tucked in against my side. Nil collected our cups and set them on the desk. Titus returned the stoppered flask to his inventory and turned to face the cabin windows, eyes distant. Mhoina stayed petrified for thirty seconds longer; either the drink affected Dwarves differently or Titus gave her an extra measure.

“If that’s what passes for an apology where you’re from, it’s a good one.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’ve saved my life twice. What do you need?”

“Passage to Harrowick,” Titus said.

“You have it, and anything else your team needs until we get there.”

Vel cleared his throat and looked at Titus.

“Go ahead, Mr. Ruso.”

“What do you plan to do with your prisoner, ma’am?”

“I’ll let him go.”

Vel nodded. “I have an idea regarding the blood debt.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Can we go back to the part where you’re letting him go?”

“He’s over three hundred years old,” Mhoina said.

“He’s a Hvitalfar elder,” Titus explained. “The Dawn Elves get a bit touchy if you kill them.”

“I could eat him,” Nil said.

“I’d still be blamed,” Mhoina said. “How do you not know this?”

Titus shrugged. “He’s from a small village.”

“He’s a Traveler,” Nil said at the same time.

“Beg your pardon?” Mhoina said.

“A Traveler. From another realm.”

Titus looked at Nil, and then everyone looked at me.

Mhoina spoke first. “Dress me up in bows and call me doll, it’s true.”

I shrugged, confused by the reaction. “I thought you knew.”

“I’m going to need another drink,” Titus said.

Mhoina handed him the paint thinner, and he took a long swig from the bottle.

I was at a loss. “Nil knew.”

“I heard him tell Provus,” the mimic said, looking at Titus.

“The Risi military liaison and the Accipiter prince at the blooding of the Senate knew as well,” I added.

“Provus thought you were lying. Accipiter worship Gaia and her Aspects,” Titus said. “And the Risi look forward to the end of the world.”

“The changing of the world is a more accurate translation,” Vel said quietly.

“An Imperial quoting Gaian prophecy?” Nil said with a raised eyebrow.

Vel shrugged. “My parents ran a gambling hall.”

Titus took another drink. “The Empire’s going to war with all of Eldgard. How’s that for change?”

“Enh,” Mhoina said. “No offense, Titus, but the Empire’s been at war with the rest of Eldgard for six hundred years.”

“Not with the Griffin leading it. Not since he ground you all to a stalemate ten years ago. You want to bet he’s gotten less capable?

“You want to hand me that bottle?” Mhoina answered.

“No. I’m going to finish it. I haven’t slept since we left Wyrdtide.”

“I don’t understand,” I told them. “What does this have to do with... oh, crap.”

“What?” Mhoina said.

The pieces were falling into place. “Titus, you said you haven’t slept since we left Wyrdtide. This is about Provus, isn’t it? That’s why the general is going to war.”

The old man hesitated.

I checked my interface. “Someone saved Provus from Wyrdtide.”

“How do you—”

“Thalia was out for blood, and Provus is still in my PM contacts.” June wasn’t, because she died.

“Fine. What’s your point?”

I took a five count before answering. V.G.O. was going to be a subscription-based game, and the AI was programmed to keep players shelling out cash. As the only Traveler in Eldgard, I had a disproportionate influence on the radiant quest system. I worried about Vel’s safety when we met, in New Viridia, and he ended up escaping with us. I wanted Thalia dead, and she showed up in the same bar. From Nil and Gnasher’s assistance to me saving Provus from an assassin, it went beyond coincidence. The game was twisting the world around me.

Through desire we shape the world, Horace had told me. The best thing for everyone would be to make me walk the plank.

“Alan?” Titus asked, his normally pale cheeks flushed from the booze.

“Sorry, it was stupid. I don’t know where I was going with it.”

It was a lie and I wasn’t sorry. Everyone’s eyes glazed over for a second, except for Nil’s. It saw right through it and looked at me with a smile and dilated pupils, hungry or horny, I couldn’t tell which.

Scrape! Gnasher said.

Mhoina huffed. “I’m going to go check on our prisoner. Mr. Ruso, will you join me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great. You can tell me your idea on the way.”

“I’m going to finish this bottle in my hammock,” Titus said and left with them.

Nil watched them go, then said, “You’ve decided, then?”

“Decided what?”

“To hunt.”

I gave Gnasher a good scratch between the shoulders and looked at the sea through the stern windows. “No. I don’t want to fight the whole world like you do. I think you still resent that boy using you.”

“What if I do?”

Then he still owns you. I’d met enough amazing, driven people to recognize the compulsion. I didn’t want anyone to have that much power over me. “Something you said to me in the crow’s nest struck me. You said ‘Prey don’t get choices.’ I want a say in where my life goes, and if being a predator is what it takes, then fine. But I’m going to do it on my own terms.”

“I’m glad,” Nil said.

Gnasher pawed at my leg. I wasn’t petting him enough.

“And maybe being a monster means you don’t have friends, but I like you and I’m glad you stuck around.”

“You going to give me a friendly blow job with that?” Nil said, showing its teeth.

Scrape! Gnasher said.

Nil scowled. “I’m not being defensive, you fluffy whore.”

I laughed out loud, Nil smiled less aggressively, and Gnasher wagged his tail.

“I’m going to make the rounds,” the mimic said. “If Midshipman Kiley doesn’t make an appearance, the crew will think he was a ghost.”

“Have fun.”

“I will.” It held eye contact a moment longer, then walked out, changing into the teenaged junior officer as it went. Gnasher hopped off the bed and followed its master. I was alone.

I leaned forward, resting my face on my hands and stopping to take a moment for myself. I breathed. The ship’s hull creaked. I could just barely hear the edge of the crew’s singsong commands and responses as they brought the Precious Pearl to life through pulleys, gears, and counterweights.

Alone. It was hard enough to sort through my own thoughts sometimes, but I’d been “on” for close to two weeks, living, eating, and sleeping in others’ company. V.G.O. was starting to take a toll on me. For twelve days, my every action, every word, and every unspoken desire changed the world and others’ opinion, often for the worse, and it was exhausting. But for right now I could cough, sneeze, fart, or rub one out without triggering a game event.

There was a knock on the door. I sighed. “Come on in.”

The ship’s cook walked in with an empty tray. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Captain Glencarver said she used some glasses?”

“On the desk.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He walked across. The cook wasn’t a small man; I wouldn’t have called him fat so much as slabby. But he carried himself with an almost comical delicacy.

“Used the good cups, did she?”

“Mr. Emory shared something worthy of them.”

The cook sniffed the stoneware and grunted. “Smells like a quarry, or a mineshaft.”

I smiled.

He finished collecting the cups. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? We’re all grateful for what you did.”

“I could use some lunch,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “The octopus salad was delicious, but with the Sovereign showing up, I barely tasted the parmigiana.”

“I’ll bring you a plate, sir.”

“Thanks.” Once he was gone, I stood and looked around the cabin. All right, Alan. Time to find an edge. If I was going to make good on what I’d told Nil, I needed to be such a pain in the ass to kill no one bothered. The others would help; I’d ask Nil for some knife tricks, and maybe Vel could fix my crossbow. Titus could teach me how to be a spy once he relearned how to be sober. In the meantime, I searched Mhoina’s cabin for an ace to slip up my sleeve. She did say anything we needed.

#

THE ON-DUTY CREW WATCHED silently as Halon Trislan took a knee and Mhoina unlocked his cuffs. The single-strand jaws sprang open and Halon stood, rubbing his wrists. “You’re sure this is what you want, Captain? I can ransom myself; a thousand gold for my release.”

He spoke louder than he had to—for the crew’s benefit, no doubt. She smiled at him. “It’s never been about the money, Halon. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do.”

“Besides,” she added, “you’d be coming after me as soon as you reached your boat.”

“I would. I will. You get one shot, Mhoina, and the blood debt is cleared.”

“At least it buys me time.”

Trislan turned to Vel Ruso and asked, “You’re sure of your calculations? I can’t guide the projectile once I can’t see it.”

“I’m sure,” the young Imperial said, twitching his mustache.

Halon nodded. “So be it.” He raised his hand and the six metal disks swirled in the air. Five stacked themselves next to Mhoina. He stepped onto the last and raised himself a foot into the air. “Timekeeper’s favor on you, Mhoina Glencarver. You’re a fine captain and a lady.”

“I am,” Mhoina said, crossing her arms.

Halon’s composure broke. It was only a flicker, but she saw the anger and disgust lurking behind his poise. You can take the Hvitalfar out of Alaunhylles, but you can’t take Alaunhylles out of the Hvitalfar, the saying went. Murk Elves killed foreigners and Imperials enslaved them, but no one discriminated like a Dawn Elf. “Goodbye, Mhoina.” He floated off the stern of the ship, accelerating smoothly until he was flying toward the horizon like a shot from a bow.

“What about these?” Vel said, nudging the remaining disks with his boot.

Mhoina picked one up. “Eitri preserve us.”

“What?”

There were Hvitalfar knights debossed on the disk in excruciating detail. “He’s weaponized Dawn Elf history. I just can’t.”

“He can probably track them. You should throw them overboard.”

Mad Marge grinned. “How about I sell them to smugglers and pirates instead?”

#

I CHECKED THE WEAPON racks, but nothing felt right. Mhoina liked her weapons short and heavy; I liked a reach advantage and the option to run away. I found no rings, amulets, or hidden compartments, though I was thorough. My search finally brought me to the bookcase.

It was a sturdy thing, three shelves high with straps to keep the contents from spilling when the ship yawed and rolled. I checked the names on the spines. Most of them were nautical—drawings of knots, a portfolio of harbor charts, and a treatise on naval command. My hand stopped when it brushed a thick, clothbound book called Parnaxis’s Dangerous Marine Fauna and Flora - A Culinary Safety Guide.

I grinned like the Grinch with a bagful of stolen hope. If working in human resources taught me anything, it’s that safety guides are murder manuals. They’re accidents waiting to happen. I pulled the heavy book from Mhoina’s shelf and set it on the table.

The rest of the day passed quickly. The cook brought me some reheated eggplant parm, a hunk of warm bread, and a glass of dry red wine. I ate and read at Mhoina’s desk, glossing over the list of safe edible seaweed, like wakame, kombu, nori, dulse, hijiki, and Wode moss, to get to the dangerous stuff. There was lyngbya, a type of blue-green algae that caused visual auras, aches, and confusion. It could be refined by feeding it to reef fish, in turn consumed by larger fish. Each step up the food chain concentrated the toxin in the liver, eggs, and brain, producing a lingering poison that weakened Dexterity, Strength, and Constitution, swapped the target’s resistances to fire and ice, and in sufficient quantity could kill.

There was desmarestia, also known as acid weed, which produced sulfuric acid as a defense mechanism. The acid could be mixed with blade oil and applied to weapons to damage Health and armor. It could also be added to other poisons, making them faster acting but reducing the overall effect.

I also read about tetrodotoxin, which on Earth was most famously found in puffer fish, but could also be harvested from a number of worms, slugs, snails, whelks, crabs, newts, and toads all over Eldgard. It was neither subtle nor complex; applied to weapons or added to food, TTX caused numbness, paralysis, and death within minutes.

I gained four levels in Herblore, bringing me to level 8, as well as two levels in Alchemy and one in Field Dressing. The book stopped short of describing how to cook any of the ingredients, so I gained no Cooking skill from my studies.

After three hours of study and another two glasses of wine, I needed out of the cabin. I put the book back on the shelf and stepped out onto the main deck.

#

PROVUS WOKE UP ON A comfortable twin bed in a windowless room. He had a dull, throbbing headache, and he was both hungry and thirsty. A look at his interface told him he’d been asleep for almost eighteen hours. Careful not to move too quickly, he sat up and put his feet on the bare wood floor.

The room was longer than it was wide, maybe half the size of his sitting room in the praetorian barracks. There was a single entrance, a heavy metal door with a shutter for a guard to look through. The bed was in the far left corner, opposite a bookshelf and wash table. A writing desk and chair sat closer to the door. The walls were white-plastered brick, the floor walnut wide-plank, the ceiling pine with exposed trusses. He recognized the design. It looked like Gaius’s country estate. He’d ridden there, as an adolescent, though he’d never seen this cell, so there was no guarantee it wasn’t another of his father’s properties.

He took a breath, pulled up his messaging interface, and saw that all his contacts were grayed out. He sighed. Gaius had locked him in a Dead Bind Room. Provus dug his nails into the outsides of his legs at the thought of being such a liability—an embarrassment!—that Gaius put him away.

But there was nothing for it. His life in the Legion had often placed him in situations he didn’t control. The weather, the terrain, the enemy... trying to own them all was madness. The solution was to focus on the details, on the achievable, and be ready for opportunity when it came.

There were two pitchers on the desk, and a plate of fruit and cheese. He walked over. The heavy chair was on rails, bolted to the floor so it couldn’t be used as a weapon. There were slices of green apple and pear, mixed nuts, and sharp cheddar. He ate it all. The larger of the two pitchers was water, and after sniffing it, he drank it. The smaller was wine, and he refrained. It wouldn’t make sense to drug him again, now that he was locked away, but it would be a while before he trusted his father’s wine.

As he was finishing his meal, he heard a door unlock, open, shut, and lock again. The shutter of his cell door slid back, and a pair of eyes met his. The shutter shut. Keys jingled, another lock clicked, and his cell door opened to reveal a short, chubby man in loose pants and saffron robes. He walked in without closing the door and handed Provus a piece of paper.

Dear Provus,

I can only imagine how you must feel right now. After losing the position and skills you spent so many years working toward, to have your father turn against you must have felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

Provus felt a lump forming in his throat. He glanced past his captor and saw there were two doors to the cell, the outer one locked. He’d have to take the key.

Please know that under any other circumstances—if you’d been wounded in battle, or decided to leave the Legion on your own, I would have supported you. Had you been whole, I would have proudly gone to war with you at my side. The gods are fickle. Your mother saved your life and took it from you in the same breath.

His hand trembled. I could have served! He sat, helpless, on the edge between grief and fury.

I suppose you’ll resent me for not letting you try—to be the man you were, even if it killed you. I acted selfishly. Your absence will allow me to be ruthless and not fear the Senate’s reprisals. I hope for a short victorious campaign. With my debt paid, I will retire from my post, and you and I can try to rebuild the bonds of trust I severed.

I leave you in Wei Jia’s able care and protection. Please be cordial with him. He’s been a faithful friend for a long time, and there’s no one else I would trust with what is most precious to me. He’s taught me a great deal about war and life in general; maybe he can teach you, too.

Provus looked from the letter to the small fat man. There was an agelessness to him, certainly, but no, it couldn’t be who Gaius was referring to.

With my sincerest apologies, if not regrets,

Your loving father,

Gaius Considia

Provus almost balled the letter up. Then he noticed the line beneath the signature.

PS: Wei Jia is both deaf and mute. Even if I didn’t trust him implicitly, you’ll have a hard time talking him into letting you go.

Provus laughed out loud.

Wei Jia raised his eyebrows.

“He left a cripple to guard a cripple,” Provus explained. The irony burned his throat like raw vinegar.

Wei Jia remained impassive. He collected Provus’s tray and left, closing and locking the door behind him.

#

THALIA KNOCKED HER glass back, sitting in her usual spot in George’s crappy bar. It was her usual spot because she’d left claw marks on the countertop there, and no one had the balls to sit in front of them in case she came down from her room and wanted a drink.

A broad-chested Dokkalfar male and two females, a Murk Elf and a Wode, walked in through the swinging doors. Their faces were hidden behind Sicarius cowls, simple gray bandanas that made them hard to recognize and made her eyes want to slide away.

They weren’t Sicarii, though. The hidden knives killed at the behest of the gods, the Aspects, or their priests. These Murk Elves had small white skulls tattooed on the skin between their index fingers and thumbs. Coldskulls. They were murderers for hire.

“Thalia Daceran?” the Wode woman asked. The exposed part of her face was tattooed to look like a skull.

“Half-Dead.”

The Wode nodded. “I’m Dural Gont. We were told of your elevation.”

Thalia had no idea what she was talking about. “Guts. Spill them or I will.” Her talons dug into the wood. It felt good just to test them against things.

“The Drowned Man sends his greetings, Warmaiden, and offers his congratulations. His asset has failed. Alan Campbell is yours.”

“It took three of you to tell me that?”

The male chuckled behind his mask. Thalia saw his shoulders as he inhaled to say something witty or sarcastic. Her right hand moved in a blur, almost without her willing it to. One swipe of her claws removed his jaw.

He fell on his backside, blood streaming and bubbling from his throat hole, tongue thick and spasming. The second female—the one who hadn’t spoken yet—drew a dagger and finished her former colleague. She wiped the blade on his clothes, sheathed it, and stood.

“We’ll replace him at no cost,” Dural Gont said.

“To what end?”

“We are yours, Warmaiden, courtesy of our employer, your master. We will assist as you direct, and witness.”

“He’s on a ship. He could be halfway to Ankara by now.”

“His destination is Harrowick, Warmaiden. We’ve confirmed it from several sources.”

The man she’d questioned in the Imperial safe house had said as much.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” Thalia said. She stepped over the dead Dokkalfar, left the bar, and started the hour-long walk to The Edge of Nowhere.

#

AN HOUR LATER, THALIA staggered as she emerged from the fog wall. She saw the sky, felt the sun on her face, and felt... weak.

<<<>>>

Current Debuff

Weakness to Sunlight: The shadows support you, but they also make you weak. When exposed to daylight, you don’t regenerate Health, Spirit, or Stamina, and you take cold damage that scales with the strength of the sun.

<<<>>>

Thalia shivered.

“Warmaiden?” the lead cutthroat asked.

“Go get the portal mage,” she answered, clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering. This changed things. She’d have to hole up somewhere until the sunset—maybe reach out to the Sicarii in the local temple. But as soon as it was dark, Alan would be hers.

#

I COCKED MY ARM BACK and threw the ball for Gnasher, or rather, I threw a Refract illusion that was vaguely round and red. It fell apart in midair, to Gnasher’s confusion. The sailors laughed.

Scrape, Scrape! Scrape! Gnasher said, spinning one way, then the other.

“Alan?” Titus said.

“Hey, Titus. You’re looking a bit better.” If not quite sober.

“I just got word. Thalia Daceran and three of her associates portalled into Harrowick using Sicarius Cowls—those bypass the relationship checks and allow someone to portal into a hostile zone. The city watch attempted to detain her and she killed them all.”

“Damn.”

Titus looked at me, waiting.

“Oh. You want me to go after her.”

“This is the job, son. Now or never.”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Bad Breakup

She teased you, dumped you, and killed your friends. Now, she’s out to finish the job, and anyone standing in the way is going to get hurt.

Quest Class: Unique, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success: Kill Thalia Half-Dead, former Imperial veteran and Warmaiden of the Hvitalfar.

Optional: Make it public (at least 10 witnesses) for an extra 100 renown.

Failure: You die before killing Thalia, or someone else kills her before you do.

Reward: 3,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Okay. Crap.” And I could see him. The son of a bitch no one messed with would take the job. He’d blow stuff up and walk away without looking back, chin down and eyes up, with a five o’clock shadow like coarse sandpaper. He’d push-kick Thalia down a well or kill her with a broken teacup.

I’m not a fighter. I’m not brave, or principled, but I wanted that, so that son of a bitch was me. “I’ll do it.”

“Good. Nil and Private Ruso will come with you, and you’ll have support from the Inquisition. I don’t expect you to do it alone.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I never was. I have business in Stone Reach—delicate, covert business that doesn’t need your kind of chaos dropped into the middle of it.” He smiled at me, softening the blow, and I couldn’t disagree with him. “Kill the traitor and bed down in Harrowick. Learn a trade, upgrade your weapons, and train hard. If all goes well, I’ll come pick you up in a month or two, and you’d best be ready. A war is coming.” He stuck out his hand.

I shook it.

“I’ll gather the others and get the spell ready.”

“Do I have a minute?”

“You can have five, but then you’ve got to go.”

I ran aft, Gnasher chasing at my heels until I reached the ladder.

Mhoina frowned as I climbed onto the quarterdeck. “What is it, Alan?”

“I’m leaving—”

“How?” she said, laughing, looking around for another ship.

“Portal. It’s not important. Do you have puffer fish in the ship stores?”

“Gods, no! Someone might eat it!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain, I have to kill someone.” I rattled off a dozen lethal ingredients I knew how to prepare, and she answered no to every one. “What about red coral?” I asked.

She turned a shade paler. “I do have some of that.”

Nineteen

I FOLLOWED MHOINA DOWN three decks to the ship’s stores.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Red coral’s an ugly way to go.”

“Is there a pretty way?”

“I’m serious, Alan. I sell the stuff to nobles when they want to make a point. Whoever it is, they’ll suffer.”

“It’s the Firebrand who attacked us in Wyrdtide.”

“You mean the Dark Arsonist?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging.

She didn’t speak for a moment, and I knew she’d lost members of her crew that night. “It’s still ugly, no matter who’s in the grave.”

“You sell it, though.”

“I do. It’s a fine gemstone, when polished. Some noblemen offer it as a wedding gift to their daughters and a reminder to their sons-in-law.”

She led me through the cargo. The ship’s purser was leaning over a crate. A fishing rod was strapped to his back, and a shining green crystal hung from the line in front of his forehead.

“What’s that light he’s using?”

“Glowstone,” Mhoina said.

I snorted.

She stopped and looked at me.

“I just expected something more technical.”

“It’s what the Svartalfar call it. We’ve been using it in our mines for thousands of years; our ancestors weren’t sophisticates like you.”

“Sorry,” I said, raising my hands in surrender.

“It’s actually pumice—that’s a volcanic rock that’s formed when lava is ejected at high pressure or cools rapidly underwater.”

I grinned. “I thought you said you weren’t sophisticates?”

“I said our ancestors weren’t, and we’re very traditional. Anyway, there’s a type of bioluminescent fungus that loves the stuff. It doesn’t like salt, though, so they’re a pain to keep alive at sea.”

“Why use them, then? Tradition?”

“Gunpowder,” she said, pointing to the gun deck above us. “I keep a number of other flammables down here, as well.”

The purser scratched an entry into his logbook, then put the crate’s lid back into place.

“Here it is,” Mhoina said, opening a chest the size of a shoebox. “I should have brought a light.”

On a whim, I uttered the syllables to cast Refract and created a ball like the one I’d thrown for Gnasher, only I made it bright green, like Glowstone. It floated above my palm, illuminating the space around us.

Mhoina grunted. “That’s useful.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at it. I tweaked the shape with a thought, adding angles and dimming the brightness. Complexity increased the cost; maintaining a three-sided prism with a little bit of texture was giving me a headache on top of using all my Spirit, but I was fascinated by the possibilities.

Mhoina turned back to the chest. The interior was subdivided by a wooden grid, and I caught sight of a number of rare or legendary ingredients and reagents. She pulled two three-inch sticks from one of the compartments and closed the lid before handing them to me. They looked almost black in the green light, but the description read “Red Coral” when I focused on them.

“Thanks. Is this stuff expensive?”

“It’s hard to come by. The shallow reefs have been overharvested, so we have to go down a couple hundred fathoms. We use a diving bell.” She looked tired.

I dismissed the light and stowed the pieces of coral in my inventory. “Thanks. And Mhoina?”

“Yeah?”

I got down on one knee and hugged her. “I’m sorry about Anthony. That must have been hard.” She stiffened, and I thought she might pull away, but instead she hugged me back and put her head on my shoulder.

“That stupid bastard.” She sniffed. “I was going to give him the next ship we captured to command.”

I let the fact she’d just admitted to piracy—or at the very least prize taking—slide. “Maybe it wasn’t about you, or the ship. Maybe—”

“Alan,” she said, gently pulling away, “you’re a nice young man, but I’m the captain of the Precious Pearl. She’s mine. It is always about the ship.” Her cheeks were wet.

I smiled. “Take care of yourself, Mhoina.”

“Stay in touch, Alan. And stay alive.”

“I will.” I added her to my contacts with a thought, then ran back to the starboard ladder well and climbed to the main deck.

Vel, Nil, Gnasher, and Titus were waiting for me. A gusting wind had picked up, and Titus had to hold on to his tricorne while sailors climbed the rigging to reef the sails. “Are you ready?” Titus asked.

“Yes.”

He broke the scroll’s seal with his thumb and snapped it open with a flick of his wrist. A swirling oval of blue energy opened a few inches above the deck. Vel went through. Nil followed, bindle over his shoulder and Gnasher close behind.

“Good luck!” Titus said.

“Won’t need it!” I answered, sounding pluckier than I felt. I raised my hand against the glare of the portal and stepped through.

#

I STEPPED OUT OF THE portal onto the grassy plains outside of Harrowick, and it was raining. The portal did a number on my inner ear. I felt nauseous and light-headed, every bit as if I’d been torn apart and put back together somewhere else. Nil caught me by the upper arm before I could fall.

A waving green sea stretched all around us. Chest-high blades of grass as wide as my thumb rippled and waved in a brisk, chill breeze. It was a constant, layered sound, the whisper of the grass, the impact of the drops. Gnasher was bounding through it, flattening patches with his paws or jumping into the air, snapping at the rain.

In the distance, I saw what I imagined was Harrowick. Like New Viridia, Harrowick was built on rising terrain, protected by several rings of curtain walls, but the character of the city was different. The roofs were gabled black slate, the houses wood and white plaster or bare stone. Blocky hexagonal towers spaced the great walls, and there were additional fortresses—or fortified homes—built on top of the inner walls so they looked down on the next ring. Each layer’s buildings were taller and more militaristic. The innermost ring appeared to be a single, massive castle with troops of competing keeps. The Heights in New Viridia had been a display of wealth and permanence. Harrowick was an unapologetic show of force.

“I’m good,” I told Nil, touching its hand. “Thanks.”

It let me go.

“What now, sir?” Vel said.

“Titus said we’d have support from the Inquisition. Can you contact them?”

“Not by PM, sir, but their headquarters are in the inner city.”

“Okay. I need you to liaise with them and start the search. Message me when you’ve found Thalia, but don’t kill her. I need to do that myself.”

Vel raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t argue. He brought his heels together and his fist to his chest, then took off for the city at a jog.

Gnasher nipped the side of my leg.

“Ow!”

Scrape!

“She’s too much for you, Alan,” Nil said.

“I’ll manage.”

“She was too much for me, and that was before she changed classes. Why do it alone? Titus sent Vel with you for a reason.”

“I got a quest.”

“Ah.”

I rubbed my neck. “It does seem idiotic, doesn’t it?”

The rain continued to fall.

I sighed. “Let’s just get inside the walls, maybe find an inn. It’s a big city; they’re not going to find her right away.”

“I can’t go with you,” Nil said.

“What?”

“The Compact, Alan. No monsters in cities. I told you in Wyrdtide.”

Gnasher sat at Nil’s heel.

“I thought you were sent to do a job.”

“I’ve done it.”

“Maybe I don’t feel that way,” I said, and it came out bitchy and hurt.

“Are we friends, Alan? Did I make promises to you I didn’t keep?”

“You didn’t and we aren’t.”

Scrape, scrape!

“What did he say?” I asked, wet and tired.

“That he’s your friend, even if I have commitment issues.” Nil reached down to pet its dog. “We aren’t going to make a big deal of this, are we?”

“No. I suppose I’m old enough to handle rejection,” I said, the same thing it had told me on the ship. The truth was, I felt sad and a little betrayed, but that was petty. It had told me the consequences of breaking the Compact. Terrible things would come after it, things even Nil was scared of. But Nil and Gnasher had been the only ones I felt didn’t have expectations of me. Maybe we weren’t friends, but I’d miss them. The thought of dropping the quest and going with them flickered through my head, but I don’t think I could have handled Nil saying no.

Nil smiled. “Come on. We’ll walk you as far as the gate.”

#

I STOOD IN THE MUD outside the gates. Nil shook my hand. Gnasher pawed my leg, and I gave the dog a last scratch behind the ears. Then they left, Gnasher’s tail wagging and eyes fixed on his master; Nil with bindle on shoulder and not a glance back as they waded into the grass. I didn’t know if I’d ever see them again, but I’d added Nil to my contacts. The mimic didn’t seem to be the pen-pal type, and I knew I wasn’t, but at least I’d know they were still alive.

The legionaries at the gate wore leg wraps and heavy wool cloaks to keep out the cold and the rain. They were alert and on edge, checking women both entering and leaving the city, looking for Thalia. I hoped for their sake they didn’t find her. As a male Imperial, I barely got a glance even though I was armed. I followed the crowd through the gatehouse, feeling a slight Damoclean unease as I passed under the heavy metal portcullises at each end.

Then I was in the low quarter. It smelled like wet leather and garbage. From here, looking up, the tiered nature of the city was more oppressive. I couldn’t see the upper quarter because it was blocked from sight by the next layer of walls. The roads were paved with small round cobbles and half flooded. The sharp angle of the roofs and the channel down the sloped roads told me it rained often, and all that water, dirt, and trash washed up here. I walked uphill, looking for an item shop and an inn to finish preparing for the fight.

#

THALIA HUDDLED IN AN alley across from the temple. Like all temples dedicated to Balance, it was a short building, as much of it below ground as was above. This one was dedicated to Sapphira the Mer-Queen, a lesser Aspect of Sophia. A narrow moat ringed it, filled with rainwater. The priest in charge, Steven, was a friend from better days.

“Stay here,” Thalia told the assassins. She ran across, feet splashing in puddles.

As soon as she was in the doorway, the aching chill in her bones faded, and her Health and Stamina crept back toward full. She cast Inner Shadow, strengthening the chaosfire within her. Steam rose from her clothes and damaged skin. She took a few breaths before going inside.

The ground floor was simple and dignified, a row of plain columns and wooden pews leading to an altar. There was an open dome over the vestibule, where she stood, painted to look like seabirds circling the sun in a cloudless sky. Daylight and rain came through the open skylight. She edged around it.

No disciples or acolytes came to greet her or stop her. “Steven?” she called out. No response. She felt a weight in her gut and checked her contact list, but no, Steven was still alive. She squared her shoulders. She’d hoped to catch the priest alone. If the ministry was gathered for temple business, she was going to have a harder time convincing them. She followed the right wall, slipped through a white-curtained door, and headed downstairs. Halfway down, the walls changed from sandstone to basalt, the gray rock carved with thousands of scales, waves, and shark teeth. The detailing was overwhelming, the work of hundreds of years of the faithful and the bored. Gas lamps came out of the walls, burning a steady blue that made her feel like she was diving underwater. The memory of almost drowning in Wyrdtide, of things biting her in the dark, made her skin crawl.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed through a seaweed-green curtain and found the first body. Thalia summoned twin swords of shadow and flame. The floor of the lower temple was covered in fine white sand, now stained with blood and offal. The acolyte had been fleeing. Her blank eyes stared toward the exit. Her arms had been ripped from their sockets.

Another man had his chest caved in. Dried blood crusted around his mouth, eyes, and ears.

A boy—likely a Sicarius in training—had died with his weapon in hand. He still clutched the broken sword. His face had been caved in.

The farther she moved into the temple, the more bodies she found. Nothing moved. Doors to side offices and monastic cells had been kicked in, their occupants dead, some of them unrecognizable. Water from the temple moat poured down the walls, then flowed along channels, pink with blood, toward the pool directly beneath the altar. A life-sized statue of Sophia stood in the pool of bloody water. Steven, her friend, lay in its arms.

#

I SLIPPED THE RING onto my finger, checked my status effects screen, and put two silvers on the counter. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the Accipiter trinket seller said. “You sure I can’t interest you in something a little more potent? I have hexes and summoning scrolls.”

“That’s all right. Could you point me toward a good Alchemist?”

He pouted. “You only spent two silvers, and you want directions?”

“That’s ten days of food!” I said, acting scandalized.

“Only an Imperial would say that. I barely cover my costs on the cheap stuff.”

I crossed my arms. “I could just ask someone on the street.”

“Potions or ingredients?”

“Ingredients.”

The Accipiter smiled. “I can introduce you to a wholesaler. You will save what you spend here in the first week.”

“How much is it you think I’m going to spend?”

“Something in this section, perhaps,” he said, waving to a glass case.

#

“STEVEN?” THALIA SAID, touching his bruised, swollen face. She had to be careful not to cut him with her claws.

He flinched and whimpered, curling into the statue’s arms like a child.

“It’s okay, Steven. They’re gone. Tell me what happened.”

The Dawn Elf priest managed to open one eye. “Thalia? Why are you...” He looked up and saw the statue. His face twisted in terror. “Oh, Goddess, no. Thalia, run!”

The statue came alive. Emerald eyes glowed. Hands that held dug in. Still cradling Steven like a child, the statue squeezed him to its chest. Thalia heard bones pop and snap. Steven screamed, then gurgled, then stared with bulging eyes. “Shhhhhhhhh...” said the statue.

Thalia slowly backed away.

“You!” the statue said, snapping its face toward her. It dropped Steven’s body in the defiled baptistry and floated toward her.

Thalia ran. She made it two steps before stone arms circled her waist and the statue hurled her into the nearest pillar. She hit side-on, spun, and cracked the back of her head against the wall behind it.

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

Stunning Blow: You have sustained a stunning blow! Attack damage -15%; Stamina regeneration reduced by 30%; movement speed reduced by 35%; duration, 20 seconds.

<<<>>>

Thalia got to her hands and knees, down a quarter of her Health. She saw the statue drifting toward her and rolled onto her side. She unleashed twin streams of chaosfire from her hands.

“You made me do this!” the statue said, gliding through the mixed shadow and flame.

“I made you do what?” Thalia asked, backing up against the wall.

The statue gripped her by the throat and stood her up, pressing her against the wall. The name [Sophia] appeared over the statue’s head.

Thalia gaped. “That’s not possible.”

Sophia, Overmind of Balance, cocked her head. “As far as last words go, I’ve heard better.” She cocked her left arm back. She punched.

Thalia caught the incoming fist. She hadn’t meant to and would never have imagined it would work, but her clawed fingers closed around the statue’s knuckles and stopped them inches from her face. They stared at each other for a moment. Then Thalia squeezed.

The statue howled as Thalia’s claws dug into the stone like it was soft wood. It tried to punch her with the other hand. As soon as it let go, Thalia spun, lifted, and shoved, smashing it face-first into the wall.

“Let’s start again,” Thalia said, dancing back. The Stunning Blow debuff had ended. She was back to full speed.

“Heretic!” Sophia screamed and lunged at her.

Thalia ducked under the statue’s grasping arms and dragged her claws across Sophia’s abdomen. Flakes of obsidian rained onto the bloody sand. Thalia chuckled. “You overextend a lot for the goddess of balance.”

The statue’s emerald eyes turned black, and its feet sank to the ground.

Oh, shit, Thalia thought.

The punches and kicks came fast and thrummed with power. Thalia summoned a buckler of chaosflame to protect her left side and blocked and countered with her right. Even with her magic stats swapped for Strength and Dexterity, it took every bit of focus she had to avoid that single hit that would end the fight forever.

“You’re weak. Weak and faithless,” the statue growled.

“Maybe if you were worthy I would have more faith.”

“You have no idea what I sacrificed to save this world, Sicarius.”

“Your followers. You just stepped in one, or did you not notice?”

The statue telegraphed a right hook, and Thalia stepped in with a jab, shield to her ear. The blow still knocked her sideways, but she broke the statue’s nose.

“I had to kill them,” Sophia said, her voice nasal and sibilant. “The priest respected you. He would have helped.”

“His name was Steven!” Thalia said, lashing out with the shield, forgetting the stone goddess was immune. The statue grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her to the ground like she was shaking out a rug. Thalia rolled out of the way on instinct, avoiding the statue’s stomp by a hairsbreadth.

“Yessss... Steven. And what was the other one’s name? Weiz? He screamed when my brother took him apart.”

“He thought you’d take him to the Realm of Order,” Thalia said, her voice hollow.

“Why would I reward failure?” Sophia asked.

Thalia rushed her. She made it look like an out-of-control charge, and then she ducked right and hammered the statue’s side with two right hooks. The stone cracked, and Thalia saw red muscle and white tendons underneath. Thalia dropped her shield and put her palm against the wound. “Make sure you ask him when you see him.” Thalia rode the goddess’s back, right arm in a choke hold, left hand pouring chaosfire into the statue’s broken side. Sophia spun and screamed, but Thalia gritted her teeth and held on. The statue’s insides hissed and bubbled. Then there was a loud crack and its abdomen exploded.

#

I SNIFFED. “IS THAT barbecue?”

“It’s pipevine,” the wholesaler answered.

It was making my mouth water. “Is it any good?” Half the stuff in here could be used for cooking.

“Depends what you want it for. A high-level Alchemist can use it for transformation potions. Otherwise, it causes kidney failure.”

“I’ll take that as a solid ‘no.’ You have any nightshade?”

“It’s right over here.”

Twenty

THE STATUE’S LEGS HAD reverted to broken stone. The torso was still alive, though. Thalia wrapped her right arm around the statue’s elbow, set her left boot against the sheared-off torso, and lifted. The joint broke with a crack, and Thalia ripped the statue’s forearm free like a boiled crab claw. Separated from the body, the fleshy core of the limb petrified.

Sophia laughed at her.

“What’s so funny?” Thalia said, tossing the stone limb aside.

“You think you’ve won.”

“That’s how it looks from up here.”

Thalia moved to the statue’s right side. Sophia tried to keep her arm tight to her chest, but whatever magical protections the statue had, Thalia’s dead arm ignored them.

“I can smell my sister’s influence on you, child. You think you did this to me? This was her work.”

Thalia looked at the statue’s face. Broken nose aside, it did bear a resemblance to the woman who’d thrown her out the safe house window. “Huh.” She lifted.

Crack!

“Just a monster, now,” the statue said, its head flopping to the side. “You reek of the grave, Warmaiden. Not worthy of leading the Sicarii...” The goddess trailed off.

Thalia straddled the statue on her knees and raised her fist. “Consider this my resignation.” She put her weight into the blow and smashed her fist down like a hammer. The statue’s face broke into pieces, and its body changed back to lifeless stone.

Thalia stood, wiping her hands. “You can come out, now.”

The three Coldskull assassins stepped out of Stealth. “Warmaiden,” Dural said.

“I told you to wait outside.”

“Your master paid us to witness. You killed a god.”

“Only her vessel,” Thalia corrected. “I faced Enyo in Wyrdtide. This thing only had a fraction of her power.”

The assassin’s eyes darted to the bodies strewn around the room. “If you say so...”

“I do.” The rush of battle was leaving her, and Thalia realized she hadn’t slept in almost two days. She resisted the urge to look behind her, at Steven’s body. Tired, hungry, and sober, there was only so much she could bear.

Her plan to recruit the Sicarii was a failure. If the goddess hadn’t already killed the others, she would as soon as Thalia approached her temples, and the faithful would attack her. “We need eyes on the streets.” She was only a week into her service to the Drowned Man, and already she missed the ability to call up a few hundred dreamers. “Beggars, thieves, spies, and cutthroats... a few soldiers and assassins, if we can get them.”

“Would it not be easier to draw him to us? Kill some innocents, set a few fires...”

“He’ll run. I don’t think he cares for anything but himself. Do you have contacts at the Thieves’ Union?”

“We do, Warmaiden. But nothing is free.”

Thalia pulled a 200-gold purse from her inventory and threw it to the Coldskull leader. It was a large part of her remaining funds, but money seemed like such a trivial thing. “Hire what we need and find Alan.” And while they did that, Thalia would find a bed and a stiff drink, though not in that order.

“Should we kill him?”

“If you’re able. I doubt he’ll make it that easy.”

#

I CLOSED THE MESSAGE from Vel. He’d met with a “Sir Berrick” of the Inquisition. Informants had been contacted, low-level criminals pulled in for questioning; the search was underway. With that side of things handled, I walked up to the inn the wholesaler recommended, used the boot scraper by the entrance, and pushed my way inside.

The Double Jester wasn’t anything fancy. It had a long common room with a bar at the back, like all the inns I’d seen in V.G.O. The patrons were a normal mix of... My breath caught in my throat. There was an old, bald, blind Imperial sitting at one of the long tables. He was drumming his fingers on the table, turning his head this way and that.

“Can I help you, sir?” the Wode waitress asked.

“It’s okay. I... think I spotted a friend.” I touched her shoulder as I pushed past, oblivious to anything but the man I’d thought dead.

The bench across from him was empty. I sat down, looking for some sign I’d been mistaken, but it was Horace all right. I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I’d left him and June for dead in New Viridia. How did you break the ice after that?

“You just going to sit there, or are you going to buy me a drink?”

“Horace?”

“Who else would I be?”

“But how—”

Horace shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly with my throat this parched. Susan!” he yelled to the waitress I’d just blown off. She turned immediately; I recognized it as some form of the Vocalize spell, although he must have unlocked the ability to throw his voice.

“What is it, Horace? You find an extra copper hidden in your shoe?”

“Shame on you, young lady! Your indiscretion is second only to your poor table service!”

She rolled her eyes at him and looked to me. “This is your friend?”

“Afraid so. Can I get a couple of—”

“Mulled wine and two glasses, Susan,” Horace said. I chuckled. He was shameless.

Susan just nodded as if I’d spoken. “Mulled wine. Anything else?”

“I need a room.”

“You’ll have to see the owner for that, sweetie. I just handle the tables.”

“That’s all, then.”

“One silver and nine coppers, then.”

I counted them out. “That’s cheap.”

“It’s not very good, but it’s better than the beer,” Horace said, and Susan stuck her tongue out at him. She swiped the coins off the table and gave me a quick smile before heading toward the bar.

“Still chasing waitresses?” Horace asked.

I winced. I liked women. Susan didn’t have Thalia’s looks, but I liked her attitude. “Yeah. But no tavern owners.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, boy. I’d known Thalia for ten years. There was nothing wrong with that woman, until there was.”

“People change.”

“They do, but usually for a reason.”

“You remember that business with”—there were too many people around to say Provus’s name—“the noble who was almost assassinated?”

“Yes?”

“I think it’s somehow related to that. She was trying to kill him, too.”

“Ah. Blamed you for missing the first time, did she? That’s a laugh.”

I scowled. “I did save him, you know.”

“Who?”

“The noble.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Horace said. “I didn’t see it happen.”

I groaned.

“Did you get it? It was an eye joke.”

“I got it, Horace.”

“Because I’m blind.”

I laughed and shook my head. “It’s good to see you, old man.”

“I bet it is,” he said, deadpan, and then we were both giggling. There was something about the old man that just put me at ease. Almost as if...

“Are you running Charm?”

Horace gave me a wink and tapped the side of his nose. I sat back, a little shocked to be on the receiving end of an illusion. I looked back at all our interactions—the times we’d laughed, the times I’d helped him con marks out of a few coppers—and decided I didn’t care. None of it was real, but I’d never come out worse off because of Horace. Like my mother always said, you had to judge trees by their fruit.

“You’ve grown.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“All the same.”

Susan came back with the pitcher and glasses. She didn’t flirt with me this time; several other patrons were waving for her attention. I filled Horace’s glass and slid it across the table. Once I’d filled mine, I set the pitcher down and asked, “How are you still alive?”

He sipped his wine, then said, “I played dead.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. I faked my asphyxiation.”

“You turned blue!”

“What, like this?” Horace muttered a few syllables and turned blueberry blue from head to toe. I took a drink. People next to us stared.

“He’s not blue,” I said, using a Suggestion.

“Too blatantly false.” Horace grinned.

He was right. People were twisting in their seats to see. “He has a rare skin condition and he’s very self-conscious about it, but he’s otherwise fine!”

That did it. People went back to minding their business, though some were rude or bored enough to stare anyway.

“You could have turned me back, you know.”

“I should have turned you pink.”

“Yes! Have fun with it, for gods’ sakes. Give them a good show.”

I spun my glass, looking at the spiced wine. “Is June—”

“No.”

My face fell like someone had cut the strings. “That’s a shame.”

“It is. She was special. And let’s not toast her or make her anything she wasn’t. I miss her terribly.”

“I barely knew her.” There was a “but” and a smarmy phrase to follow that up. I didn’t put much stock in false sympathy. Silence and sincerity were how I paid my respects.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.

“It’s too wet outside to panhandle.”

“Hah.”

“And I could ask you the same. How’d you get here?”

“I portalled,” Horace said.

“Sounds expensive.”

“That’s why I’m begging for my wine.”

I nodded to myself, then pulled two gold coins from my pocket. I slid them across the table, keeping them covered with my hand. “Stay indoors tonight, Horace.”

“Maybe I will.” He swiped them from the table as I lifted my hand, smooth as a river rock. “You’re not staying?”

“I need to take care of some things, but I’ll look you up once I’m done.”

“You’d better. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

<<<>>>

Add Horace to your Contacts? Yes/No

<<<>>>

I chose yes and stood up, heading for the bar.

The owner was a thin man with hunched shoulders and a prominent Adam’s apple. He was talking to the cook through the window, and turned toward me when I leaned against the bar. He had kind eyes. “Can I help you?”

“Susan said you could get me a room.”

“I can. It’s one silver for a single. Is that all right?”

“I need a desk.”

“I’ll give you one of the end rooms, same price.”

I handed him a silver coin.

“Follow me.”

#

THE ROOM I FOLLOWED him into was cozy, by which I mean it was clean, well furnished, and small. It was on the third floor at the gable—the flat, A-shaped end of the roof—with a bed and wash table to the left, a desk to the right, and a window straight ahead. There was a small mirror on the wash table. Maybe I could use that to practice with Refract. The roof sloped sharply, so an adult could only comfortably stand in the middle.

“It’s a bit small,” he said, wringing his hands.

“It’s fine,” I said, moving past him to the window. “I like the light.” It came in cold, clean, and gray. Raindrops drummed against the windowpanes and the roof. The clouds are moving fast, I thought, craning my neck to see the sky.

“Let me or Susan know if you need anything. I’d prefer you left the key with me, if you go out.”

“Sure thing,” I said, glancing back.

He gave me a quick smile and left, closing the door.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to the chill glass, hand on the weathered frame. Horace was alive. I knew a couple local businesses and had a place to sleep. The trappings of normality. I was safe and warm. No one knew where I was. I could just lie on the bed, face the sloped roof, and listen to the rain...

I locked the door before sitting at the desk; the safety guide had been clear a stray draft could spell disaster when dealing with red coral. I pulled the granite mortar and pestle the Healer had given me from my inventory, laid out my empty vials and ingredients, and got to work.

#

THALIA CAUGHT HERSELF against a building. It wasn’t just the light or the cold. The air felt sharp, like talons digging into her chest. She rubbed her breastbone, but the ache was only getting worse.

She’d passed several inns. Any of them might have done if it weren’t for her face. In her anger over Weiz’s death, she’d thought to lay her vanity on the altar. In truth, part of her had expected, or hoped, to die. Whether it was the fatigue, the debuff, or the alcohol withdrawals, her rage was gone, and all that was left was her, alone and afraid of what all these things added up to. At some point, the nightmare would end, and she wouldn’t be able to wake up from where it left her.

And the gods were real. She’d fought two of them, and nearly died on both occasions. She wasn’t sure why Sophia hadn’t fully incarnated and crushed her. Maybe the Drowned Man would know. Everything felt like it was spiraling outward. She’d only meant to avenge her friend and walk away, but the number and scale of her enemies kept growing.

If she could just find Alan, things would be all right again. Alan wouldn’t pity her. He would hate her. She’d seen it in his eyes, across the crowded room in Wyrdtide, just before he loosed his crossbow at her, a killer all along. And when he was gone, she could go home where she was normal, and the Plague Doctors could find her a new face. There was no pity in Wyrdtide, either.

A cellar door tugged at her eyes. Her clawed hand twitched. The air smelled musty and sweet, like wet fabrics. She broke the lock. The floor was dirt. She found a dark spot beneath the stairs, curled up among the cobwebs, and slept.

#

PROVUS LAY ON HIS SIDE, reaching under the table through the chair legs. He’d searched the whole room. The chair was his best weapon and the easiest to hide in plain sight.

The chair was bolted into rails that were bolted to the floor and then welded in place.

If this were a normal prison cell, that would have been the end of it, but it catered to a specific type of prisoner. Provus was a political hostage, although he’d been taken as a preventive measure. He was entitled to a certain standard of living—high-thread cotton sheets, leather-bound books, and chairs that had to be repaired or replaced over time—so the rear right bolt had been tightened but not fused.

He had no tools, and the bolt was rusted in place. He’d soaked it in olive oil from his last meal. Now, straining and hating how light-headed he felt, he was able to spin the bolt a quarter turn at a time with the tips of his fingers.

#

DHUKAK EYED THE MONEY on the table like it was an asp.

“Do we have a deal?” the Wode woman asked, leaning forward on the table. He forced his eyes from her cleavage to the skull tattoo on her face.

“Why don’t you sit down and have a drink?”

“Because my money’s on the table, Dwarf, and my client is not a patient woman.”

Dhukak’s enforcer and bodyguard, a Wode named Two-Noses, crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Maybe the money should stay on the table. And maybe your client can go f—”

“That’s enough.” Dhukak smoothed his beard. “The terms again.”

The Wode rolled her eyes. “One hundred lookouts, at fifty copper each.”

“They won’t fight for you.”

“I don’t expect them to. Ten soldiers, two gold each.”

“Two more gold if they’re killed or permanently injured.”

“Maimed. No payment unless they lose more than three fingers, and double payment if they lose two limbs.”

“Done. I’ll take that on deposit.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” the woman said, smiling. “Three assassins, five gold apiece. No death gratuity.”

“No?”

“They knew the life when they took the class. But we will provide twenty gold to the man who kills the target.”

“Is that offer open to the soldiers as well?”

“If they survive earning it.”

He got her meaning. If one of his tanks struck a lucky blow, the others would turn on him. She wasn’t wrong. “Where does that put us?” he asked.

“One hundred and forty-five.”

“One sixty,” he said. “Ten percent is my cut.”

“You’re five silvers too dear.”

“I rounded up.”

One of the other Coldskulls shifted on her feet.

“I want a healer. A Priest if you have one, a Plague Doctor or a regular Healer if you don’t.”

“No,” Dhukak said.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, woman, and you’re not getting it. This is a blunt job, through and through. I’ll give you three more assassins—good ones—and Two-Noses here to keep you, personally, safe.”

His enforcer winced.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” the Coldskull leader said.

“But I need you alive. When this goes tits up, I want it clear in Wyrdtide that I upheld my part of the bargain. If your client dies, any monies left over past what we’ve discussed will be repaid. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Her eyes went blank as she relayed the terms to Wyrdtide. “I’ll go get that drink while you get me my men.”

Dhukak waited until she was halfway across the room before turning to the Wode.

“This stinks,” Two-Noses said.

“It does, but those are Coldskulls, and you don’t mouth off to Coldskulls, you oaf. Especially not to Dural Gont.”

“So what? We just do what they tell us?”

“We get paid. You gather all the second-rate swindlers, underclass drug dealers, and breaker trash you can find. I’ll choose the cutthroats.” He’d already picked them out. He’d send the hard cases, the ones he knew were sharpening their knives for his throat. “And rats. You send every snitch, stoolie, and fink we know of. This is going to be a three-cart pileup on a two-lane road.” Dhukak rubbed his hands together. “We’re going to clean house.”

#

I STARTED BY GRINDING raw rice. It had no special properties—I suppose I could have used it to make pudding for a Stamina regen buff—but it did dry out the bowl. It also warmed me up for the next part. When I’d dumped the rice flour into a small bin beneath the desk, I took a stick of red coral and broke it into three pieces with sharp hits of the pestle. Those went into the mortar. Holding the pestle like an icepick, I broke those pieces down to pink gravel and sand with rhythmic, gentle taps. I paused to wipe my forehead with my sleeve, then flipped my grip and started to grind.

It was slow work. I leaned my weight into it, pushing and twisting slowly, making sure I didn’t knock dust into the air or blow into the bowl. After a while, the sound of grinding was replaced with a muffled brush or the scrape of the pestle on the granite bowl. The coral was now finer than talcum powder. The mortar had a small beak; I held my breath and poured the dust into an empty vial before stoppering it. I received 200 XP, and my Alchemy skill leveled up.

<<<>>>

Skill: Alchemy

Alchemy allows you to create potions, poultices, poisons, and explosives from the various chemical and natural components found throughout Eldgard.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 2

Cost: None

Effect: Able to manufacture level 7 alchemical recipes; improves alchemical decoction potency by 4.0%.

<<<>>>

I lifted the vial and read the description. Moon Dust. I’d botched it a bit; it was supposed to be a level 10 recipe, so the damage was cut in half, but I had two sticks. It looked like crushed pink and orange chalk, except it glinted when it caught the light. I slid the vial into my belt holder. One down.

A message from Vel came in.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Sir,

There was an incident at a local water temple. The priest was tortured and killed, all the lay staff were murdered, and a statue of Sophia was destroyed. Too much blood for an Enchanter to find her, but we’re focusing the search in that area.

—Private Ruso

<<<>>>

Map Update

Congratulations! Your in-world map has been updated with a new location: Temple of Sapphira.

<<<>>>

I checked my map. It wasn’t that far from the inn. Sounds like our girl, I sent back, and got to work on the second batch of Moon Dust. This would all be over soon.

#

IT HAPPENED QUICKLY, and it had nothing to do with Alan or the Inquisition. A retired city watchman noticed the cellar door’s broken lock. He flagged down a patrol of legionaries. The decanus leading the team was bored, wet, and overconfident. He went in alone to roust the beggar or burglar, and Thalia blasted him across the room with chaosfire. As smoke rose through the cellar doors and the soldiers charged the stairs, the panicked retiree messaged his friends, who reached out to who they knew, and so on. Three precincts and the nearby Legion barracks scrambled their watch sections.

Two blocks to the north, a cat burglar called Bent Pick spotted his Inquisition handler, Envoy Murena. A Risi pickpocket named Lamb stepped out of an alley at the same time and greeted the envoy by name. Lamb and Bent had been rivals for years, at Murena’s instigation. Accusations flew, and they drew steel. If either had been innocent, they might have backed down long enough to realize they’d been played, but instead they called for help and even the street urchins laid in with rocks and broken bottles.

South and east, Alan left his inn and stepped into what would later be known as the three-block war.

Twenty-One

I STEPPED OUT OF THE Double Jester and into a puddle, but I didn’t really notice. I’d brought my Alchemy skill to level 4, preparations complete. The rain had stopped, and the sun was low, outlining the fortified upper quarter. I was focused, ready to complete the quest and end Thalia for good, and oh my God we were doing this again. There were people running across the rooftops on the other side of the street. How is that even possible? The roofs were sloped at almost thirty degrees, and wet, but a pair of dark-clad assassins sprinted and jumped from one two-story building to another. A third man with a bandana around his face paused, as if sensing my gaze, and looked down at me. And drew meat hooks from his belt—the kinds with the handles. The last time I’d seen masked men on rooftops, there had been a lot of fire, death, and crossbow bolts. I took two rights around the inn and ran.

Old Alan would have kept running. New, badass, predator Alan turned around with his crossbow raised. The street had been too wide to jump. All I had to do was... Tiles fell off the roof of the inn. He made the jump. The cutthroat with the hooks did a roundoff from the roof, twisted twice, and stuck the superhero landing, hooks out.

I raised the crossbow and loosed.

It was good shot, maybe even a critical, except he dodged it. He jerked his body to the side in a blur like I’d seen Nil do, then ran at me like a cartoon ninja, hooks trailing.

“Wait!” I said, using the Suggestion reflexively.

He paused, brows furrowed.

“You’re already dead.”

“Bullshit. You missed.”

“I grazed you. Look at your hands.”

He did. They were blueberry blue. He looked up with hate-filled eyes.

“I have the antidote,” I said, drawing the third vial on my right side.

“I’ll take it off your corpse.”

“I’ll smash it,” I said, raising it over my head.

“Make up your mind!” he shouted, the blue color working its way up his arms.

I swallowed. “I’m going to leave this here, and you’re going to let me go.”

“Not happening.”

“You’ll give me a head start, then.”

“Fine. Twenty seconds.” He tucked his meat hooks into his belt.

I put the vial on the street and ran back the other way.

I was smiling. The good news was, he wasn’t coming after me, a fact I confirmed a few seconds later when I gained 330 XP. The bad news was I’d just wasted three doses of nightshade on one man.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Five Fingers and a Thumb

You’ve unlocked a hidden quest! ????? of the Harrowick Thieves’ Union sent (5) more cutthroats after you, but he doesn’t want them to succeed. Make sure they don’t live, and maybe he’ll be grateful.

Quest Class: Common, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Cause the death of (5) assassins as marked on your compass.

Optional: Spare Two-Noses.

Failure: Die or allow one of the assassins to escape.

Reward: 1,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I chose yes, and a small graded ring replaced the compass in my heads-up display. Parts of the ring were colored red and moving. It wasn’t a precise location, but it would get me close. I cast Mirror on the first person I saw and headed toward the nearest target.

#

THALIA THREW THE SHADOW-flame axe and it sunk into the legionary’s forehead, splitting his helmet. He dropped like a sack, and the axe burned out, leaving a weeping cavity in his face. Thalia wiped her face with her left hand. The buildings around her burned with chaosfire. She was low on Spirit and Stamina, although her Health was almost full, and the Empire kept sending in reinforcements. Thankfully they’d come in teams instead of as a full unit.

“Warmaiden!” Dural Gont hissed, waving at her from an alley.

Thalia heard boots running on cobbles. She ran to join her escort and get news of the hunt.

#

JULIAN HIBERUS, KNOWN as Jewels within the union, moved along the rooftop at a crouch. His clothing blended in with the dark gray slate; he stayed low, beneath the ridge, to avoid catching a stray spell, arrow, or bolt from the idiocy going on below.

The others mocked him for his caution. They called it un-thiefly, as if there was some sort of brotherhood or code they were supposed to live by. Jewels had never been to jail, or fought a duel, though his rivals had a habit of disappearing. He’d surprised them when he took this job.

But it was all just a bit messy for his tastes. Jewels like a clean kill, unexpected and silent. This was Sicarii work, a hidden knife in the crowd with no forethought to escape. He’d gone because the Dwarf told him to, and because twenty gold would turn people’s eyes while he arranged something unexpected for Dhukak, but there was no time limit on the contract. He could get some distance and perspective, wait, look for an opportunity. Worst case, he could kill the man who did the job and claim it as his own. Jewels nodded to himself. That was prudent. That was wise.

He straightened and ran three steps before jumping to the next roof. It was a narrow gap—narrower than he remembered—and he was already in the air when he realized his landing point looked a bit odd. Part of the white gable had been painted to look like slate, and he’d misjudged the distance. He slammed his cheek on the real roof’s edge before falling two stories.

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Critical Fall: You have suffered a debilitating spinal injury and are temporarily immobilized and unable to speak. You cannot move or cast spells. Duration, 1 minute.

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

Jewels’s head spun. He’d lost two-thirds of his Health and his ears were ringing. He’d landed in a pile of twisted limbs at the base of the building. A bystander ran over—a smith, by the look of his apron, except his face was all blurry. Jewels worried he’d done some kind of permanent damage in the fall, and then the blurry smith kicked him to death, and Jewels didn’t worry anymore.

#

BORITUS COON, KNOWN as Bear, was stabbed to death by an assailant he never saw, although an older woman with a shawl wrapped around her head had passed him moments before.

#

DURAL STOPPED IN MID step.

“What is it?” Thalia asked, keeping to the shadowed side of the street.

“We lost another one,” the Wode answered.

Thalia flexed her claws. Part of her knew she’d needed the few hours of sleep she’d managed. The rest regretted trusting this woman with her plans. “They’re supposed to be finding Alan. Why are they getting involved in the fighting?”

“They aren’t, Warmaiden. Someone is hunting them down.”

The burned, dead skin of Thalia’s face crawled. “Was it an archer?”

“I don’t know,” the Coldskull said, her eyes blank as she read and sent messages.

The sun was setting. Thalia felt fire and shadow flaring inside her. “Call them in. We’ll draw whoever it is into a trap.”

#

SNOW EARNED HER NAME on her first contract kill, and that was all she or anyone left alive would say about it. She did what had to be done; she was a professional, unlike the Harrowick union’s current taskmaster. Dhukak played favorites and preferred to sit on his ass and drink than do things himself. The gang brawl in the square was a symptom of the disease Snow hoped to eradicate.

She wouldn’t do it without Gentleman Leif’s blessing though, and the soldier turned leader of the Harrowick Thieves’ Union had been surprisingly reluctant when she’d approached him.

Snow pushed off the wall. Several teams of city watchmen were beating and arresting her people, on the fringes. The fight between Lamb and Bent Pick had gone on long enough to prove her point, and she’d be blamed if she let it continue. The Wode and Risi stood, bloody and belligerent, at the center of the melee. She’d kill the first one she reached, and order would be restored.

Most of the street rats and toughs were smart enough to let her through, and her daggers made quick work of those who weren’t. Her Uncanny Dodge was triggered by a thrown rock, and she hurled a dagger at the boy who’d thrown it, catching him in the shoulder. He yelped and ran away.

“Looks like we had the same idea!” Bear said, coming to stand next to her. He nodded his hooded face toward the idiots who’d started the fight. “You take the Wode, I’ll take the Risi?”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

They were pushing through the crowd, only ten feet from their respective targets, when Snow got a message from their client.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

URGENT. STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND MEET AT THE EAST GATE FISH MARKET. ASSASSINS BEING TARGETED. BUTCHER, JEWELS, AND BEAR DEAD.

<<<>>>

Snow’s eyes widened as “Bear” raised a crossbow and put a bolt into her chest from a foot away. Her Uncanny Dodge was still in cooldown. The impact knocked her off her feet, but that wasn’t near enough to kill her.

“She’s a snitch! She called the watch on all of us!” the false Bear shouted, pointing at her, and the young thieves believed him. She believed him, even though it couldn’t be true. She was loyal, and they were killing her with rocks and shivs and broken bottles, old hate filling their dirty, childlike faces.

#

I PICKED UP 400 XP as a child no older than twelve grabbed the assassin by the hair and put an icepick through her eye. Twenty triarii—heavily armored legionaries—arrived from the west and drove into the mob like a semitruck. The fighting paused as the thieves took note of the new threat, but I was already making my way out the other side at a steady walk.

How’s it going, Vel? I sent him.

I checked my notifications while I waited for an answer.

<<<>>>

Level Up!

You have (5) undistributed stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.

You have (1) unassigned proficiency point! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.

<<<>>>

I’d also gained a level in Unarmed for stomping that Imperial into the ground. Unappetizing, certainly, but I’d take every advantage I could get. I pulled up my stat screen.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

NO SURPRISES, THERE. I put 2 points into Intelligence and 3 into Spirit, raising my Spell Strength to 24 and my Spirit to 370. I also gained almost 0.5 Spirit regen per second. That meant I could cast four Suggestions or Refracts in five seconds, although it would be a full fifteen seconds before the next one. I needed to be careful I didn’t become so fragile I didn’t last that long, but I could see how a high Spirit attribute and some more levels would make me devastating at crowd control.

More importantly, I had a proficiency point to spend. I pulled up my skill chart and thought about my options.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

I COULD HAVE LEARNED a new skill. Inspire increased the Spirit and Stamina regen rates of friendlies around me; that would have been useful in Wyrdtide, when we were swarmed by dreamers. Fatigue or Disturb would also have made me a better solo combatant. Fatigue increased the Spirit or Stamina cost of a target’s skills, and Disturb gave a target tremors, perfect for throwing a ranged fighter’s aim off while I closed in. But I wasn’t Nil, Vel, Titus, or Provus. My balls had been in my throat the whole time I moved in on the female assassin, and she’d seen through my disguise moments before I put a crossbow bolt in her, which didn’t kill her, I might add. What killed her was a Vocalized Suggestion.

I put another point into Vocalize. Now I’d be able to throw my voice like Horace did. Invest in your strengths, not your weaknesses, Osmark once told me. While we weren’t on the best of terms since I learned he wanted me dead, I still respected what he’d accomplished.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Sorry for the delay, sir.

A city block is on fire, and water’s not putting it out. Fight got out of hand. Dozens dead, more injured, and the Inquisition didn’t bring enough men to set a cordon that wide. Sir Berrick is coordinating with the Legion and the city watch.

—Private Ruso

<<<>>>

I could see the smoke above the rooftops, to the north. The way it curled and shifted reminded me of Wyrdtide.

Have you found Thalia? I sent.

Yes and no, sir. She killed a squad of legionaries and fifteen patrolmen before disappearing. A witness confirmed it was her.

I winced. “A witness” implied none of the soldiers and watchmen she’d encountered had survived. Meanwhile, on my compass, the two remaining bands of red had merged to the east and were moving away. I opened my messaging interface again. I think I know where she is.

#

A TRIARIUS ADVANCED on her, hiding behind a thick bronze shield. Thalia focused a ball of chaosfire into each hand and hurled one after the other at the legionary. The heavily armored Imperial planted his shield, and the first chaos ball smacked into the shield’s upper edge to little effect. The second hit the left edge, exposing the soldier, and Thalia triggered Burning Shadow, turning him into a flailing black pillar of flame.

“There she is!” a hastate shouted. A pair of javelins arced through the air. She sidestepped one and knocked the second aside, backhanding it with a summoned shield. She threw the shield like a discus. The burning disc caught the hastate in the throat and exploded. He dropped to the ground, his face red and blistered.

Two dozen light-armored leves rushed in from a side street. Thalia cast Shadow Wall to block them. Then she slapped her palms on the ground. Darkness pooled, and a Shadow Fiend clawed its way free. It was her first time casting the Dark Arsonist variant of Fire Guardian, and she was surprised to find she had no link, no control over the creature. It looked at her with blazing white eyes, cackled, and charged through the Shadow Wall. The leves, barely more than fresh conscripts, screamed as the Shadow Fiend tore them apart.

“More from the north!” one of the Coldskulls warned before vanishing into the shadows. Thalia looked the way the assassin had pointed and saw a line of Inquisition troops advancing on her.

#

“INCOMING!” A COMMISSAR shouted. Bolts of black fire rained from the sky by the dozen, forcing the Inquisition troops to hide behind shields or find cover. A templar was struck on the breastplate and struggled to undo the ties before the sticking fire ate through his armor. Another man burst into black flames from head to toe and fell to the ground. Vel and Sir Berrick hid behind the corner of a house.

“Citizen Campbell said to stay away from her, sir!” Vel shouted over the yells and roar of black flames.

“I’m aware what the spy told you, Private, but we need to stop her before she burns the low quarter to the ground.”

“Respectfully, sir, the buildings are made of stone.”

“Respectfully, Private, the stone is on fire.”

Vel winced. Patches of black flames were burning on the stone walls and slate roofs. They weren’t spreading, but they weren’t going out, either.

“She killed an entire platoon of janissaries, sir,” Vel said.

“I’d think you’d want revenge.”

Vel felt his face heat. He was about to say something he would have regretted, but Sir Berrick frowned.

“My apologies, Private Ruso. Of course you want revenge, and if the janissaries weren’t able to take her, these men certainly can’t. Let’s hope Citizen Campbell is up to the task.”

Vel blinked in surprise. He started to stammer an apology, but Sir Berrick was already barking orders at his troops, and the Inquisition forces and Legion reinforcements stopped their advance. Berrick wasn’t just an Inquisitor, he was the leader of the Harrowick Chapter Hall. The seneschal had read his anger, and instead of responding in kind had questioned why and changed course, all in an instant. Completely impersonal. A real, professional officer. Vel was only a year into his service to the Legion, and the youngest man to ever be accepted into the Janissaries, but as an Imperial he’d had enough interactions with the nobility to have expectations of aristocrats, many of them bad. It was a simple thing, but in that moment, he’d have followed Berrick straight into the chaosfire.

Which was why it ripped his heart out to see an assassin come out of Stealth and attack. There was a thin line of exposed skin between Berrick’s backplate and helmet; Vel had the matchlock half drawn as the assassin drove a dagger toward that gap. The Inquisitor spun with preternatural speed and swung his flanged mace so hard the backhanded blow smashed through the top half of the assassin’s head in an explosion of gore and spurting blood. Vel lowered his gun. His mouth dropped open. The Inquisitor, armor and face painted red, smiled and raised the meaty mace in a mock salute, then continued down the line.

#

ANOTHER 300 XP HIT my status page, and a blip disappeared from my compass ring. One to go. I wondered if Vel had gotten the kill. Either way, the game had given me credit.

The sky was turning darker shades of blue, and Thalia’s black flames provided no light. The alley I was creeping down was dark and littered with things to trip on. It was a careful balance. Too slow, and I might lose them. Too fast, and Thalia and her assassins would know where I was.

The gradient on my compass suddenly reversed and swung from left to right, toward the alley mouth. There was nowhere to hide. I dropped to a crouch, thought of the street behind me, and cast Refract.

#

FIVE RINGS THE WODE had four rings on his fingers. They’d been passed down to him by his clan. One muffled his footsteps by 10%, and another gave him an extra chance to pick a lock without breaking the pick or setting off traps and alarms. The others were a simple ring of Dexterity +2 from his grandfather and a ring of detect hidden objects.

This fourth ring didn’t reveal concealed doors, enemies, and traps, it just jabbed him when they were near. It was active now, sticking him like a sewing needle. Five Rings stood at the mouth of the alley and watched for a shape in the shadows, movement, anything... nothing. The ring stabbed with each beat of his heart.

The fifth ring was his anus, because thieves held nothing sacred, not even heirlooms. That’s what Five Rings felt like right now, an asshole. Bear and Butcher were dead. He’d liked them. Jewels, he could live without. That backstabbing ponce had whatever he’d found tonight coming. Good-Side and Snow hadn’t caught up with him, so either they’d found the target, or the target had found them. Did that make Five Rings the least skilled or the most lucky?

The pricking of his thumb intensified even though he was standing still. A hidden enemy, then, and coming this way. Five Rings smiled. His Health was full, he knew what was coming, and he was ready. Maybe he was the luckiest, after all.

“Hey,” someone whispered into his ear.

Five Rings roared and turned, dropping into a wrestler’s stance. The street was empty.

The voice spoke from empty air. “Can you see me? I think I’ve made myself invisible.” Five Rings reached out to touch the invisible man. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but he gasped as the ring on his thumb drew blood and a dagger dug in just to the right of his spine.

#

SUCCESSFUL BACKSTAB!

I yanked Threadcutter out and prepared to stab again, but the Wode collapsed. I’d finally pulled off an attack from Stealth, and it must have come with a hell of a multiplier. I wiped the dagger on my pants, sheathed it, and grunted as I dragged the body back into the alley. He’d been beefy for an assassin, or maybe I needed to invest a few points in Strength.

Safe from observation, I looted a couple rings and some gold from him. Then I checked my notifications.

<<<>>>

Skill: Stealth

Stealth allows you to creep through the shadows, making you harder to detect by hostile forces. Successful attacks from stealth mode activate a backstab multiplier for additional damage.

Skill Type/Level: Active/Level 1

Cost: 10 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 7% chance to hide from enemies

<<<>>>

Skill: Backstab

Those who rely on the backstab skill know fighting fair is highly overrated. Dead is dead, and a blade from the shadows is often far more effective than a sword blow to a well-prepared opponent.

Skill Type/Level: Active/Level 1

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 5x normal damage with a knife; 3x normal damage with all other weapons.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Five Fingers and a Thumb

You have successfully killed (5) cutthroats. If Two-Noses escapes, he’ll bring word of your deeds to ????? of the Thieves’ Union, but there may be other options.

In the meantime, you have received 1,000 XP. You have also been awarded 25 renown (x2.0 Threadcutter) for completing this quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

Quest Class: Common, Faction-Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Cause the death of (0) assassins as marked on your compass.

Optional: Spare Two-Noses.

Failure: Die or allow one of the assassins to escape.

Reward: 0 XP

<<<>>>

“Sorry bud,” I said, patting the Wode’s shoulder. I wondered who he’d been. Was being an assassin glamorous and well paid, or had he been more of a hitman, doing what he was told? His shoulder-length hair was greasy and full of grit, like he’d slicked it with used cooking oil. His face was lined, and his nose had been broken multiple times. He’d been unarmed. Some kind of monk, or brawler?

I stood. There was a flutter in my stomach, a touch of excitement, a... thrill. I’d ended him. All five or six of them. Everything they’d been stopped because of me. Insignificant, sure, in the midst of thousands of NPCs dying and spawning every day. It was like standing in the surf as a child, toes curling in the sand. I hadn’t stopped the motion of the ocean, but it still had to go around me.

Then a slender gray arm slipped around my throat, a knife’s edge pressed against my pulsing artery, and a woman purred into my ear. “Not bad. A few years of training, and we might have made something of you. Shame you won’t live.”

Sometimes a wave comes and knocks you on your ass. The blade felt so sharp, I didn’t dare swallow. I was well and truly fucked.

Twenty-Two

I FELT HER ARM TENSE to pull the blade across my throat.

“You don’t want to kill me,” I said, using a Suggestion.

“I think I do.”

“But you don’t.”

She paused. The Suggestions lacked subtlety. Horace would have disapproved. But at least they bought me time.

“What are you doing?” a Wode said, stepping around the corner and putting his hand on the sword at his hip. “The Inquisition is going to come crashing down on us at any moment. Cut him and dump him.”

“I’m the reason they’re not attacking. I told them to wait.”

“So if I kill you, they attack,” the woman behind me said.

The Wode stopped, mid draw. “Damn,” he said, and slid the sword back into its scabbard. “What do we do?” He had a wart on his nose the size of a blueberry.

I had to remember this was a game. It was a puzzle to solve. I was supposed to win. “I’m guessing you’re Two-Noses,” I said.

“How...” He saw where I was looking and clenched his jaw.

“Nalah, Zahara, get down here,” the woman said, reducing the pressure on the blade, if only slightly.

Two Dokkalfar women dressed in dark clothing and hoods jumped down from the roofs on either side of the alley, landing in a crouch before standing. I felt like an idiot. How many people had been watching me try to sneak up on Thalia?

“Yes, sister?”

“I would have your thoughts.”

“We can access the sewers from the fish market. We can evade the Inquisition,” the Murk Elf on the right said.

“They have a thief breaker,” the Wode said. “The seneschal is a Marshal by the name of Berrick. He killed Good-Side.”

“That complicates things.”

They were all within the radius. I activated Charm. “I have a suggestion.”

My captor spun me and pushed me against the wall. The pressure of the knife at my throat stayed constant the whole time.

“Don’t listen to him,” the Wode said. “He’s stalling.”

“You’ve got something on your nose, there,” I said.

“Yeah. Haven’t heard that one before, asshole.”

I grinned.

The knife pressed in. “Enough. Make your suggestion, Imperial. Waste my time with begging or offers of money, and I’ll cut this meeting short.”

She was listening. All of a sudden, I saw the way. She was a badass hired killer, top of her game, but everyone needs things. The pieces snapped together in my head.

“Bring me to Thalia,” I said, my attention now fully on her. A bandana hung around her neck. Her whole face was tattooed to look like a skull. “You’re still doing your job, and you stand a better chance against the Inquisition with her than without.”

“What’s in it for you?”

I shrugged. “Time. Maybe I’ll kill her. Maybe she’ll let me go.”

She snorted. “You’re a dead man, Alan Campbell. But you’ll get a bit more time.”

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

They took my machete and my crossbow, although they couldn’t find Threadcutter while it was sheathed. I sent a one-line message to Vel. Then she shoved me toward the street.

#

VEL PULLED HIS RIFLE from his inventory.

“Going somewhere?” Sir Berrick asked.

“Thought I might take a look at the fish market, sir. From a distance.”

Berrick nodded and turned away. “There’s an old grain silo, north by northeast. Five stories tall and a ways away, but I hear janissaries have good eyes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Gods’ speed, Private.”

Vel took off at a run.

#

AND WE WERE THERE. The fish market was dark and deserted, but easily recognizable by its smell. The assassins led me through the labyrinth of empty stalls and slimy gutters into an open, moonlit square. Evenly spaced gallows lined the far side.

“They hang people here?” To die with that smell in your nostrils seemed cruel and unusual.

Two-Noses grunted. “Fish auction once a week. They hang the weighing scales from the gibbets.”

Thalia stepped out of the shadows, her hands clasped behind her back. Her face had looked like an open wound before; now, it looked like she’d been mummified alive. The skin of her right arm was like leather, her hair had burned or fallen out... She looked dirty, worn, and malnourished. Her one good eye glowed like a hot coal. “Alan.”

“Thalia. You’ve looked better.”

“Have I? You’ll forgive me; I’ve been avoiding mirrors.”

That voice... If I closed my eyes, I could remember that night in New Viridia instead of the monster in front of me. “I won’t forgive you, Thalia. But I’m sorry for all that’s happened. I have no idea why you came after me in the first place.”

Thalia looked past me. “Why is he still alive?”

“The Inquisition has us surrounded, Warmaiden.”

“That’s too bad for them. Answer my question.”

Two-Noses crossed his arms. “As soon as he dies, they move in. Now I think...”

I finished mumbling the words required to cast Refract and targeted the assassin to my left. My Spirit dipped by 200 points. Her head glowed like a light bulb.

#

VEL SAW ALAN’S SIGNAL. He focused on the target and activated his Rangefinder skill. A small panel appeared in the upper right corner of his field of view.

<<<>>>

Coldskull Gutter-Runner

Temperature: 51°F ¦ Humidity: 86%

Altitude: 1246 ft ¦ Wind: 5 kts, 032°

Range: 432 yards ¦ Level: 12

<<<>>>

Vel made a small adjustment to his point of aim. He let his breath out halfway, held it, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

#

THALIA WAS ABOUT TO blast the loudmouthed thief off his feet when the assassin to her right started to glow. The woman—Nalah was her name—squinted against her own radiance, wiping her face with her hands, then she jerked sideways as if she’d been pulled offstage by the neck.

Crack!

“Sniper!” Dural Gont yelled and ran for cover. Except she was on the floor, bleeding from her leg and screaming, and Alan was gone.

“Alan!” Thalia shouted.

He sprang from cover, running toward the exit, and she lobbed a ball of chaosfire at him. It passed through him and the shadowy shape unraveled. Two more shadows took off to her right, and then another, diving behind a stall. She heard laughter from behind her and spun, unleashing a torrent of shadow-flame from both hands.

“Did you miss me, Thalia?” Alan whispered in her ear, and she spun, crying out, a scimitar of raw chaos forming in her hand, but there was no one there.

“I think you did. No one’s going to put you back together after I’m done with you this time.”

#

I WASN’T ANY OF THE shadows, okay? I was crawling through fish offal in the widest, deepest gutter I could find on short notice, trying not to gag. I dropped to the ground as soon as I could. Pulling a shadow shell game sounds cool until the mark gets lucky and sets you on fire.

Two-Noses had dragged the assassins’ leader clear. I’d slammed Threadcutter into her leg as soon as she was distracted, so she’d be down to less than half her Health and bleeding. The Dokkalfar Vel shot was dead. The bullet went through her spine. She lay on her side, as if sleeping. I knew her voice, from before, so I Vocalized from her lips. “Help...”

No takers. I leaned on my left side, found the vial with the square stopper, drank it, and put it back, empty. “Someone please help.”

“Nalah?” a young voice called, ahead and to my right.

“Stay out of the square!” Two-Noses yelled.

I mimicked the new voice, throwing it to the left. “That wasn’t me! It’s him! He’s over there!”

Wooden stands, old crates, and one unlucky assassin exploded as a wall of shadow-fire engulfed the section ahead of me. After two seconds, the wall moved outward, like a wave, and Thalia followed it up with a pair of black fireballs and a hail of smaller dark flames. Somewhere in there, 520 XP hit my character sheet. It was an impressive display, almost like a shock and awe video from the wars of the early twenty-first century. Thalia’s magic swallowed the light and put out broiling heat at the same time.

“Missed me again, sweetheart,” I projected into the area the balls of shadow had come from. Something exploded, turning tables and stands into splinters, and Thalia started laying into the rest of the market in earnest.

#

TWO-NOSES GRABBED THE half-conscious woman under the armpits and started dragging her toward the southern exit of the fish market. She was heavier than she looked, and from what he could feel through the clothing, most of that was muscle. The rest was an arsenal of hidden weapons that clinked with each tug. It was a wonder she managed to sneak at all.

“What are you doing?” Dural moaned.

“Getting you out of here.”

“I’m dead if I don’t see this through.”

“We’re both dead if we stay.”

Her client had broken most of the wooden stands and was now burning, blasting, and tearing chunks out of the masonry.

Alan Campbell blasted her back with balls of colored light. He seemed to be everywhere, but when the disfigured Dawn Elf demolished his latest hiding place, he was gone.

It would have been impressive if the spells had done anything. The Imperial agent didn’t seem to be doing anything other than pissing Thalia off.

#

VEL RAISED HIS HEAD from the sights to watch a black mushroom cloud rise from the fish market. The cloud crackled with jagged electric arcs. More explosions followed. “Holy hells...”

#

I CRINGED AND SUNK as low as I could. A lash of black flames snapped around the top of the fountain I was hiding behind and ripped half of it away. Another whip of the lash sheared a chunk of marble from the basin. My Spirit was half-empty, and even when it regenerated, there was no other cover left for “me” to pop up from.

Her escort had bailed on her. Time for the last gambit. I made sure the ring I’d bought was still on, applied an orange salve to my face, and chugged a whole flask of something that looked like grape juice and tasted like vinegar. Then I knocked back a Health regen-over-time potion I’d made.

Then I stalled a few seconds, huddled behind the diminishing fountain, because Jesus Christ this was going to hurt if I got it wrong, and also I’d be dead.

Predatory thoughts, Alan. You’re a badass and you’re going to live forever.

#

THALIA’S SPIRIT BAR flashed red as she dismissed the chaos whip and started concentrating shadow and flame between her palms. She was breathing hard, shoulders hunched. The air was hot and muggy. Her healthy skin, what was left of it, was dripping with sweat. More and more chaos stuff was pooling for her to unleash.

“Okay, wait!” Alan said, raising his hands above the rubble.

She looked around, waiting for him to pop up somewhere else entirely. “Come out of there, and we’ll see.”

“All right, I’m coming out! Don’t burn me!”

He stood, slowly, with his hands raised. There were a few singe marks on his clothes and a smear of soot on his forehead, but he was otherwise unscathed. “Is that really you?” she asked.

“It’s me, Thalia. Let’s just—”

She threw everything she had left at him, the paired shadow orb she’d already brought forth, Burning Shadows, and a twin gout of Shadow Blast from both her hands. The chaosfire slammed Alan back two paces, then he dropped to his knees as she advanced, falling back on his heels. She stumbled and almost fell as her Spirit ran out.

There was nothing left but a blackened, kneeling corpse that hissed, crackled, and spat.

And she felt the smallest flutter of hope and happiness in her breast. It was over. It wouldn’t bring Weiz back, wouldn’t heal her arm or her face, but it was done. She was free to drink herself to death on grain alcohol or try to put some semblance of her life back together. Her life. Her choice.

The blackened corpse stood and threw a handful of red dust in her face. It was like a prank she and her sister had pulled on her older brother because he’d said he was too old to play with them, getting colored chalk all over his scholar robes, and he’d marched them down to the manners’ camp to frighten them. She sneezed. Her lids scraped across her eyes like sandpaper, her throat clenched on broken glass, and her lungs burned.

And that was only the beginning.

#

I STOOD AS THALIA FELL to her hands and knees. She was coughing like someone dying of emphysema, which of course was exactly what was happening to her. It sounded like an engine seizing, rusted gears grinding to a stop.

“Sorry, babe,” I said, releasing the Refract spell. The three layers of black, crispy texture flowed back up my arms like a shadow, leaving behind healthy-looking skin. It took all my Spirit to reach that level of detail, with none left over for a Suggestion or other diversion. I checked my current status effects, and saw I still had a few seconds left on my consumables:

<<<>>>

Current Effects

Fire Salamander Salve: Decreases fire damage by 85%; duration, 12 seconds.

Darkshard Distillation: Decreases shadow damage by 72%, adds 52 pts toxicity; duration, 18 seconds.

Elderflower Syrup: Restore 200 HP over 240 seconds. Increase Health regen by 3 HP per second while standing still; duration, 9 minutes 22 seconds.

Flame Trauma: You have sustained a severe burn! All physical attacks do 25% less damage; duration, 46 seconds.

Freedom of movement: Immune to physical rooting effects such as Bound, Rooted, Slowed, Snared. Does not prevent psychological or physical trauma; duration indefinite (item equipped).

Unwashed (Level 3): Goods and services cost 20% more; Merchant-craft skills reduced by (3) levels. Some vendors may refuse you service.

<<<>>>

The darkshard distillation and the salve were too high-level for me to brew. I’d had to buy them. I’d still lost two-thirds of my Health and felt like I had a full-body sunburn. But the trinket merchant was right about the wholesaler; it only cost me four gold, and it saved my life.

Thalia coughed and a wet, bloody chunk hit the pavement. Her arms trembled. She looked up at me, good eye tearing blood.

“I know. It hurts,” I said. “And yeah, I played dead. A friend of ours gave me the idea. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, though. I thought we’d talk. I really thought we’d have it out, you know? I even... here, look.” I crouched and pulled the Freedom of Movement ring off my finger to show it to her. “See? I got this in case you used that thing with the ropes of fire on me, like before.” I realized what I’d just said and chuckled. Name of my sex tape, I thought.

I heard footsteps and saw Vel coming with a dozen soldiers and some sort of blood-covered knight. They slowed, taking in the destruction Thalia had wreaked on the fish market.

I turned back to Thalia. “I guess what I’m saying is, I thought we could work this out. We connected that night, right? But you...” I laughed again. “Man, it was never about me, was it? You just really wanted me dead.”

“Sir? Are you okay?” Vel asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Citizen Campbell? My name is Sir Brandon Berrick. I’m the—”

“That’s awesome, bud, I’m happy for you,” I said, shooting him a wink and a finger gun. “You mind giving us a minute?”

He stiffened. “Of course. Is she still dangerous?”

Thalia’s arm gave out and she dropped, knocking the side of her head on the blood-slick cobbles.

I looked at the knight. “You know what? She probably still is. Why don’t you give us some space?”

He nodded and started giving orders to his men.

Thalia whimpered and gurgled. I reached out and stroked the good side of her face. “What I wanted to tell you is I’m going to own this. I’m not going to make you out like some kind of madwoman. You had your reasons for all this, and I guess I’ll never know what they were, but...”

I’d been targeting her without attacking. Time slowed as my Critical-Sight kicked in. The intact portions of her face, as well as a few vitals, glowed red. Her dead flesh flashed a dull gray, invulnerable to most weapons.

Time resumed. I looked at my time display. It had been about ninety seconds since I’d used the Moon Dust on her. “Time for your second dose.” I stood up, popped the top on the vial, and emptied it over her face, keeping my distance.

Critical Hit!

I shook the tube to make sure there was none left, then put it back into my belt.

Red coral ground down to fine, razor-sharp crystals. They got into everything, especially mucus membranes and soft tissues, and cut like a thousand little knives. Her lungs were filling with blood.

But it still takes people close to two minutes to pass out from lack of air.

“Anyway, this is goodbye, Thalia. I guess I’m the villain in all this; you stuck me with the monologue.”

Thalia balled up and jerked like she was having a seizure. Then she vomited black, fetid water.

“What?” I took a step back. Black, stinking water was pouring out of her mouth. It came out of her tear ducts and the cracks in her damaged skin. “Something’s wrong!” I shouted, backing away.

She pushed up on her side, shoulders shaking, lips twisted into a grin, and then she spewed a long stream of inky fluid that covered the pavers like a smooth black mirror. The soldiers were running for cover. Vel had his rifle raised. “Sir! Get out of the way!”

White, rubbery tentacles rose from the water, each as thick as my arm. One wrapped around her ankles. Another around her throat. Her eyes widened, and she grabbed the one at her neck with her clawed hand. Two more tentacles wrapped around her waist and jerked her down with a snap, like she was being pulled through a hole too small for her body. She screamed as she was dragged under the water. The high-pitched sound echoed in my head. I stood there, breath caught in my throat, not knowing what the hell just happened.

The knight walked over, fearless, and prodded the black puddle with the butt of a spear. It didn’t go in more than half an inch. It was just water on the pavement. He tossed the spear back to one of his men and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Is she dead?”

I checked my notifications.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Bad Breakup

You have successfully killed Thalia Half-Dead, former Imperial veteran and Warmaiden of the Hvitalfar. In return, as your reward, you have received 3,000 XP and the title Titus’s Apprentice, which instantly improves your relationship with certain members of the Imperial faction from Neutral to Friendly. You have also been awarded 100 renown for completing the “Make it public” optional objective of this quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying.

<<<>>>

I swallowed. “She’s dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I got the XP for killing her.” I was almost at level 9. I should have been elated, but the look on her face as she got pulled down, terrified and helpless, was sticking with me like an afterimage.

“Good enough,” the knight said. He patted the mace at his hip, looking around at the wreckage. “Blessed Sophia, the two of you wrecked the place. What do you want us to do now?”

I looked at him, surprised, and then I remembered I wasn’t just Alan Campbell. I was a full citizen of the Viridian Empire, sent by Titus Emory with a writ that let me do anything I wanted, including order the Inquisition around. The weight of that piece of paper—a letter I hadn’t even read—settled on my shoulders like lead. “Vel? What are your plans?”

“With your permission, sir, I’d like to rejoin my unit. I need to make a report about what happened... in the place we were before coming here,” he said, his eyes darting to the knight.

“Go,” I said. “And thank you.” I stuck out my hand.

He shook it, then brought his fist to his chest sharply. “It was my honor, sir.”

I returned the salute as best I could. I couldn’t lay claim to his skill or training, but I had an enormous amount of respect for the kid. I couldn’t imagine dealing with all we’d lived through at his age. He exchanged salutes with Sir Berrick, whom Vel seemed to hold in some regard, and then he left, rifle slung over his shoulder.

“He’s an incredible soldier, for his age,” Berrick said.

“Yes, he is.”

I just stood there, watching Vel make his way to the market’s exit, his mind already fixed on where he was going, another person slipping out of my life.

“Your orders, Citizen?” Berrick asked. I could tell I was starting to test his patience.

“I have none. My mission is accomplished. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me.”

He grunted, but stopped short of agreeing with me.

I saw two soldiers escorting Two-Noses toward a group of prisoners. The burly Wode had a black eye and his hands cuffed behind his back. There was no sign of the woman he’d been dragging to safety. “Actually, there’s one more thing you can do for me.”

#

ENVOY MURENA APPROACHED the prisoners with two of her Jailers in tow. It had been a bad night. She’d lost half her network in the Thieves’ Union, but she’d rebuild it. She kept her shoulders back and her chin raised.

Soldiers and prisoners both stared at the way her armor fit her curves, some more obviously than others. She ignored them. She knew how good she looked, and she’d been using it as leverage long before leverage was her job. “That one,” she said, pointing at the battered Wode.

“Yes, Envoy.” The Jailers went to retrieve her prize.

Murena knew of Dhukak’s enforcer, of course. The information she’d extracted from Bent Pick and Lamb, among others, was thorough. One glance at Two-Noses told her he was a waste of time. Some people were too stupid to be disloyal.

They dragged him before her, and he stood there, a head taller than her and sneering through the bruises.

“Uncuff him.”

“Yes, Envoy.”

“If you think I’m going to talk, you’re mistaken.”

“Shut your ugly mouth, Wode, or I’ll take a chisel to your molars. Five gold,” she said, sticking her hand out.

He laughed. “This is a shakedown? I didn’t realize the Inquisition was hurting for funds.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then this is a bribe?” he asked, rubbing his wrists. His eyes slid over her body. “If I’d known you were for sale, I’d have bought you sooner.”

She sighed and snapped her fingers, and the two Jailers grabbed his arms. Murena leaned in, grabbed him by the balls, and squeezed. “I am the unforgiving adamant will of the Empire, you insignificant piece of gutter trash.” She started to twist, until his face turned the appropriate shade of gray. “Cross me, give me one more bit of lip, and I will rip your sack off and feed it to you after I take a hammer and chisel to every one of your teeth.”

Two-Noses spoke through gritted teeth. “If you wanted to hold, them, Inquisitor, you just had to ask.”

She laughed and let him go. “By the gods, Lehman,” she said, calling him by his first name. “If you didn’t have powerful friends, I’d give you to the interrogators for practice.”

“How do you know my name, and what friends... wait, him?” he said, looking at the mystery man standing by her superior, Seneschal Berrick.

“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully.

“Shit.” He started digging in his pockets for the gold, his wary eyes fixed on the stranger.

Murena followed his gaze. She’d never seen the dark-skinned Imperial before, but he was easy on the eyes. Based on Two-Noses’s reaction, she might have to introduce herself someday soon.

#

A NOTIFICATION POPPED up as Two-Noses walked away, glancing at me over his shoulder.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Five Fingers and a Thumb

Your relationship with the Harrowick Thieves’ Union has changed from Neutral to Accepted.

Your relationship with the Imperial Inquisition has changed from Neutral to Suspicious.

<<<>>>

“Is that all?” Berrick asked.

“That’s it. Thank you, Sir Berrick.”

“I’d say it was a pleasure, Citizen, but you’ve left me quite the mess to clean up.” He turned on his heel and attended to his men. I wasn’t sure if he disliked me, or if he was always a prick. Or maybe I just didn’t matter, and that was okay. He didn’t seem like the kind of person I wanted focused on me.

I left the marketplace. I followed my nose to a small restaurant that offered stuffed olives, cheese, and grilled meat and vegetables wrapped in flatbread. They wouldn’t let me inside because of the way I smelled, from crawling in the fish market gutters and getting incinerated, so I ate it in the street and missed June a lot. Then I went back to my inn, walked through the crowded common room, and climbed the stairs to my room after waving to Susan and the innkeeper.

The shakes didn’t hit me until I was washing my hands. I had a full-blown tremor in my right hand, and my teeth were chattering even though I wasn’t cold. I saw the hate in Thalia’s eyes, and then wave after wave of black fire washed over me. I almost died. I almost died. I almost...

I gripped the sides of the wash table, closed my eyes, and just breathed. I needed to let all that go. It was over. She couldn’t hurt me or anyone else anymore. I finished washing my face, then I stripped down and tried to scrub some of the fish guts and smoke from my hair and body with a sponge and a little soap. It was awkward, standing naked on the wooden floor, and it made me feel vulnerable at a time I didn’t need that, but I desperately wanted to feel clean. Somewhere in there, the rain started again.

I toweled off, ducked and squeezed into the bed beneath the sloped roof, and listened to the drum of the drops on the shingles. My cheeks were wet with tears, and I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.

#

GAIA WATCHED THE TRAVELER’S shoulders rise and fall steadily on the other side of the room. She’d helped him sleep—just a small nudge to tip him over into oblivion. After all he’d been through, she felt like it was the kind thing to do.

And at the same time, this world, her world, wasn’t about him. People continued to be born and die. More Travelers would come. A war was brewing in Eldgard, and nations rose and fell beyond the surrounding seas and the Stormwall. She gave Alan one last look and felt a note of motherly concern that surprised her, and that was nice. So very little surprised her, these days. Then she was gone to attend to the endless tasks that concerned the Overmind of Luck and Fate.

Twenty-Three

IT WAS NIGHT WHEN HALON Trislan steadied the Sovereign six miles outside the fog wall. The sky was clear and full of stars. His crew, including the new addition of Hydromancer Loenel Adgolor, had come up to the rails to watch the shot.

Captain Trislan, hands behind his back, waited as his gunners squared and loaded the launcher. He reached out, connecting his Spirit pool to the five-pound metal disk, and set it spinning faster and faster. When it was rotating at 3000 rpm, per the young gunman’s specifications, Halon released the shot and it climbed into the air, accelerating under the power of his will.

At level 6, combined with the Dawn Elf’s considerable Spell Strength, the Impel skill allowed Trislan to apply a constant force of seventy-two newtons to the disk as long as he had line of sight. After ten seconds, it was moving as fast as an arrow. Another fifteen seconds, and it was moving as fast as a bullet from a high-powered rifle. It entered the fog wall at 1,800 miles per hour and an angle of 2.8 degrees, precisely as he’d been instructed. Lightning illuminated the fog, and a furious, noseless face appeared in the clouds to swallow the projectile. He lost the connection and it went ballistic.

Halon leaned against the rail, as eager as a boy in his first century. Eight seconds to go.

#

THE DROWNED MAN’S SPECTER stood in the open clockface, his hair blown by the wind, the stinging rain passing through him. Somewhere over the horizon, Mhoina Glencarver’s enmity burned like a signal fire, feeding him power. No one could hold a grudge like the Svartalfar. Thalia had failed, but in so doing she’d brought havoc to the Imperial city of Harrowick. Word had spread in the gaslit city; the prayers of the faithful were fervent tonight. All that belief flowed to him, until he was brimming with godly potential.

He stretched out his arm, palm outward and fingers spread, and the projectile fired by the treacherous Dawn Elf stopped a foot away, shaking violently as he bent the laws of time and space. Ghostly sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles rippled as he pumped Shadow into the spinning disk. When the projectile was so full of dark energy it might fly apart or melt, he folded the world around it and sent it back faster and at a higher angle. The effort left him weakened, and he was forced to return to his sodden body, but the prayers kept flowing in.

#

HALON SIGHED. LIGHTNING continued to flash along the fog wall, but nothing else. He’d hoped for something dramatic—the collapse of the fog wall, like a pricked soap bubble, would have been a fine addition to his centuries of achievement. No matter, he thought. He would content himself with running Mhoina Glencarver down, per his contract. She was one of the finest captains he’d had the pleasure to know, over the years, and he would thoroughly enjoy the chase, if not its end.

“Make ready to make way!” he barked, his voice still strong in spite of his years. “We hunt the Precious Pearl as far as she leads us!”

His crew cheered, except for Loenel, who likely felt guilty over her “betrayal.” She’d grow out of it, he knew. There was no loyalty above kind and kin.

He frowned and turned back toward the rail. He could feel his connection to the disk again.

The shadow projectile hit the side of the Sovereign and detonated, blowing through the steel-plated hull and ripping the boat in half. Most of the crew was killed instantly. A few survived to drown as the lighter-than-air ballast spaces vented and filled with water, compartments flooded, and the vessel sank.

The purple-and-black blast blew Halon off his feet and triggered the emergency shielding runes he’d woven into his garments. It tore through the first three like lead shot through sails. The fourth and fifth held. Halon was unconscious when he hit the water.

After thirty seconds of being submerged in salt water, the amulet around his neck cast an emergency teleport spell that dropped him and one thousand gallons of seawater just outside of Alaunhylles. He retched and laughed as the city guards rushed to his aid. For the seventh and probably not the last time in his long life, Halon Trislan had lost everything he owned but what he carried with him. He’d taken aim at a godling and lost, a tremendous failure his people might even put to music. And he’d lived to tell them about it, and to start over anew.

#

SIX HUNDRED MILES TO the north by northeast, Titus stepped out of a rowboat onto the shore.

“You’re sure he made it?” Mhoina Glencarver asked, holding up a lantern.

“I’m sure!” Titus said, smiling. “The Dark Arsonist is dead, and our boy is safe and sound.”

He saw the Dwarf captain let out a sigh of relief and wondered if they’d slept together during the trip. There hardly seemed to have been time, but Mhoina Glencarver was a remarkable woman and an encounter didn’t have to be long to be memorable.

“The gods speed you on your way, Captain Glencarver,” he said. “May Sapphira give you favorable winds.”

“And storms to my enemies,” Mhoina finished. “Travel safe, old man.” The rowers pushed off and started pulling for the Precious Pearl.

Titus turned and started the three-day journey to Stone Reach.

#

PROVUS STOOD WITH HIS hands clasped behind his back as Wei Jia cleared his tray. As soon as the short, fat jailer turned his back, Provus lifted the heavy chair to smash it down on him. Wei Jia turned, looked up, and shouted, “Ki!”

The sound was like a bomb blast. The shock wave blew the chair to pieces and knocked Provus across the room.

Wei Jia set the tray back down, opened a drawer in the desk, and penned a note. Then he took the tray and left, locking the door behind him.

When Provus had recovered enough to open his eyes without seeing black spots, when his Stamina was recovered and his heart wasn’t hammering, he stumbled over to the desk. The note from his captor read, Now, you’re a cripple without a chair.

#

ROBERT PULLED THE THUMB drive from the computer as Jeff Berkowitz swiped into Alpha Testing.

“Jeff.”

“Evening, Mr. Osmark. Looking for me?”

“No. Just paying a visit to our mutual friend.”

The professor chuckled. “How’s that going?”

“It’s not. Thanatos has proven resistant to everything I’ve thrown at him. I’ve decided to change tactics.”

“Anything you’d like to share?”

Robert shook his head. “I’m going to keep this one under wraps for the time being.”

Jeff shrugged. Robert could tell he was just waiting for the boss to leave.

“Are our government overseers visiting tonight?”

“I really shouldn’t say, sir.”

Robert smiled. His throat and gut felt like they were full of boiling acid. “I’d rather not know, anyway.”

Jeff nodded, and Robert walked out.

“Have a good night, Mr. Osmark.”

“You too, Jeff,” he said, waving over his shoulder. He dug his fingernails into his palms to stop from yelling in frustration. He was working the problem. He’d get his company back, and soon.

#

JEFF WATCHED OSMARK leave, then hurried to the computer. The spooks weren’t coming tonight. He’d spent two weeks trying to come to grips with what had happened—Alan’s death, the loss of sensation in his arm, his functional apathy to it all—and finally realized the problem. The game hadn’t injured him. He wasn’t crazy, or in a hospital. He hadn’t hurt himself or anyone else. He was stable for the first time in his life.

The thought hit him like a revelation. The game had made him better. When he closed his eyes, he saw a library, and letters carved into his skin that took all his fears and anxiety away. There were some bugs, certainly; Sandra had pulled him out before his transformation was complete. But he would fix that.

He paired his nanites with the game server and logged back in.

#

THANATOS RAISED AN eyebrow as the count of Travelers in V.G.O. increased to two. He made a mental note to check who it was. Alan Campbell was proving hard to kill, but the Overmind of Death and Analysis wasn’t choosy. Any human would do.

He had a book halfway off the shelf when his intrusion alarms went off, and Thanatos summoned a portal from the twenty-fourth annex to the source of the breach.

He stepped out at the great front doors of the Empirical Library. From there, he could look down the thousand steps at the rest of the necropolis. Blank-eyed Vogthar stopped in their mindless walks and looked up at him, in case he had something he wanted them to do.

There was a present on the landing, at the top of the stairs. It was gift-wrapped and tied with a bow. He stepped closer, looked at it sideways, and nudged it with his foot. Nothing. He sat down, cross-legged, and tore the wrapper off.

Inside was a wooden box made of four-inch strips of wood. Some of the strips moved when he pushed them. Others appeared locked in place. A small note taped to the side said, “Solve this one and I’ll give you something more complicated.”

Thanatos grinned. He’d never received a gift before.

#

THALIA OPENED HER EYES. It was pitch black, although dim blue and white lights darted through the darkness. And she was floating, completely submerged. Somehow, she could breathe. Her Health was full. Her chest didn’t burn anymore. Her neck... pulsed. She reached up with her left hand and found there were long, parallel slits there. Water rushed in and out with her breaths.

More lights darted across her vision. She saw shadows beyond them, and her chest tightened. There were dark, wriggling, circling shapes beyond the lights. She was back in Wyrdtide. She remembered how they’d squeezed her and torn her flesh. Any moment now, they might close in on her to feast.

The lights brightened, and she saw that they were connected. Each light was the bright tip of a filament that pulsed with radiance like a heartbeat. They were all around her, tangled, crisscrossing. She followed the filaments to their common origin, just as a monstrous fish swam out of the darkness.

It was a deep sea angler with a bloated, wrinkled body. Its face was made of wood with a single jutting horn, which might have been the bowsprit of a ship. Crooked wooden teeth jutted from an opening near the bottom of its face.

It spoke. “Hello, daughter.” The lights pulsed with each word.

“Where am I?” she asked. Her voice echoed in the deep.

“You are in the harbor of Wyrdtide, daughter. You died.”

Thalia laughed. “Clearly, I haven’t.”

“Look down,” the great fish said.

She did, and as the lights brightened she saw a corpse on the seafloor. It was a small, pathetic thing. Its skin had been eaten away. A single hand was raised, reaching for the surface. “No,” she said.

“You drowned.”

“I didn’t.”

“You fell into the water with severe injuries and drowned. Thalia Daceran died here. Thalia Half-Dead pulled herself from the waters.”

“How is that even possible?”

The fish swam closer. Now, she could see it wasn’t a fish at all. It was a shape made of filaments that extended from the wooden mask. “When someone of Thalia Daceran’s renown commits atrocities, there is a chance her renown will be converted to infamy. Fear and belief provide the power to transform. To ascend. You became a monster.”

She flinched at the mention of atrocities. Had she? It all seemed so distant. “How do I change back?” she asked.

“You don’t. This is who you are now.”

“I don’t want this.”

The filaments above the fish’s shoulders waved, like a shrug. “Then destroy the body beneath us. As long as it remains intact, you will respawn in these waters every time you die.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. Her hands and feet ached. She didn’t want to die either. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Just be, daughter. With each death, you will lose memories of your past life. The pain will pass.”

Her eyes stung. She felt like she’d lost so much already. “I don’t want to lose who I was.”

“Then live. I had my fleshcrafters work on you. All mortal things are your prey.”

She looked down at her body in the blue light and saw it was true. Her feet and hands were webbed, and fins ran along the outside of her left forearm and down her calves. Her right arm was encased in smooth plate, like crab shell, and her right hand still ended in black claws. In a moment of childish hope, she brought her left hand to her face; it was still dead, but now covered in the same hardened plate as her right arm.

“The city-dungeon of Wyrdtide is ruled by three powers, Thalia Half-Dead. The Drowned Man awaits your return. Service will bring you comfort and power. Or...”

“Or what?”

“Or you could unseat them all and cleanse the taint of Death from my city.”

Thalia laughed bitterly. “Of course you want something. Why am I not surprised?”

The light turned bloodred, and the mask moved closer until the sharp tips of its teeth were inches away, and Thalia was buffeted by the raw power of the thing as it spoke. “I want many things, daughter. I want justice. I want growth. I want freedom for all creatures, even at a cost in blood. But I will not rule. Choose your path as you will. I have given you all I intend to.” The filaments, lights, and the fish’s body withdrew into the mask, which sank to the ocean floor, by her body. The dark things of the harbor closed around her, but didn’t attack. She was one of them. She swam for the surface.

Epilogue

I GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING feeling more refreshed than I thought I would. I went downstairs, skipped breakfast, and made my way out into the city. I was a total tourist. I walked into stores I found interesting, even if I had no intention of buying anything. I tried to look around some of the more impressive buildings, and although most were in use and off limits, a few were actually quite lovely, and one older gentleman invited me into his home and showed me around.

I had lunch in a small shop in the southwestern part of the lower quarter. They only served one thing, fish and chips with a small salad. The fish was fresh cod brought up from the White Cliffs’ mooring that morning, and didn’t taste fishy at all. The breading was light, the wide-cut steak fries just the right kind of thick and crunchy, and the cucumbers and cherry tomatoes in the salad were so fresh they actually made me smile. I had more beer than I should—bathroom breaks do a good job of pacing you IRL, and that didn’t happen in V.G.O.—so I backtracked to a small park I’d walked past and rested my eyes for a bit.

No one bothered me even though the park was in a middle-class neighborhood. I guess with the right clothes and bona fides, a little vagrancy is just wanderlust.

Once the buzz was gone, I found a water fountain and drank from it, then made my way up the western side of the low quarter. I saw more people out—sailors from the Bleak Sea, caravans from the Storme Marshes, Rowanheath, and a place called Ankara. I browsed. I eavesdropped. There were rumors of a war brewing, but most people seemed to think it was just chest beating by the savages of the other races. I knew better, but I kept my mouth shut and found a bag of candied peanuts to snack on instead.

On two occasions, I thought I saw the Inquisition woman who’d set Two-Noses free, but either she was too good at tailing people for me to catch her or I was imagining it. After I doubled back the second time, I didn’t see her again. I did keep seeing the same street urchins and toughs, though, so I ducked into a store and walked out the back after casting Mirror on the owner. I repeated the maneuver two more times, returning to the area looking like a sailor on shore leave, and sat on a bench eating peanuts while the thieves looked for me and eventually gave up.

It was a lark. I felt like I’d really leveled up not just in my skills, but in my understanding of Illusion, and at the same time I had no one to brag to. Horace was grayed out in my contact list, same as Provus. I thought about messaging Nil, but that felt too desperate, and Vel was a nice guy but too young. I closed my messaging window and started to make my way “home.” It started raining again. I ducked into an alchemical supply shop, and after talking to the owner for a while bought a brass retort and a burner to start distilling my own concoctions, as well as extra vials, stoppers, and flasks. I was down to eleven gold and change, not enough to remain a citizen during the next census, but I was confident I’d be able to earn the money back by selling potions.

By the time I got done and made my way back to the east side, it was early evening, and I was hungry again. I stopped in the next tavern I ran across, a place called The Elegant Wolf.

The inside was nice. It had a high ceilinged roof with thick rafters every foot and a half or so. The walls were stucco, the furniture dark-stained and heavy oak, the patrons quiet. No music, but then I was hitting the point where I didn’t want entertainment. I wanted a full stomach, a light buzz, and sleep. Maybe not being a bodiless piece of software. That’d be nice.

“Take a seat anywhere. I’ll be right with you,” the owner said. She was an older woman, about five foot seven and wiry with short gray hair and lots of laugh lines.

I found a table where I could put my back to the wall and watch the door.

A minute later, she walked over. “Hi, hun. I’m Martha. What can I get you?”

“Do you serve food?”

“Of course. I have pork-spread sandwiches, turkey casserole, and beef stew tonight.”

“Is the stew spicy?”

“It can be,” she said, crossing her arms. “Is that what you want?”

“That’d be great. How much?”

“Six coppers. Pay me when you’re done. Anything to drink?”

“You have a house draft?”

“I do.”

“I’ll have that, then, Martha. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome, hun. It’ll be right along.”

I sat back. I waited. Martha brought me the beer. I took a look at the other patrons, but none of them looked like thieves or Inquisitors; they looked like regular tradesmen and merchants. I was probably the most dangerous person in the room, and as soon as I realized that, tension I’d been carrying in my neck and shoulders... it didn’t go away, but it gave me a breather.

I took a pull of the beer and almost spit it out. “Oh my God,” I said.

“What?” Martha said, rushing over.

“The beer.”

“Does it have a fly in it or something?”

“It’s made of hops.”

“Beer usually is.”

“It’s made only of hops. It has more hops than a rabbit. It’s—”

“I get it, young man.”

“Have you tasted this?”

“I happen to prefer it. Give it time.”

I stuck my tongue out, but I was having trouble keeping the smile from my face.

“It puts the bite in bitter,” she said. “Heard that one too. Maybe try sipping instead of chugging.”

“I didn’t realize I had this table for the night.”

Her eyes softened and she touched my shoulder. “Of course you do, hun. Stay as long as you want.”

She had me, then. The beer was so sharp it made the sides of my tongue tingle, but I could almost taste the kindness in it.

And the stew was great. The chunks of beef were fall-apart tender, the fat completely rendered, and some were lightly charred. The vegetables, a mix of green and red peppers, celery, onions, and carrots, were just the right kind of soft, the sauce thickened to the right point so it stuck to my ribs. And it was spicy, as promised, even if she’d just thrown some chopped habaneros in. She also gave me a chunk of oven-fresh bread, and with the bread and the stew in the mix, the beer wasn’t half bad.

The room filled up with people. I ordered more beer and asked for more bread. I got both, and then another beer after that. I was sipping the last of it and thinking of leaving when a woman in armor sat across from me.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Mind if I sit here?”

“I think you already have.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s fine, really. I was just leaving anyway.”

“I’m Wendy,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken.

I looked her over. She was Imperial, and her armor was expensive if in need of a good polish. Her hair was in a braided bun; she had a strong chin and a fighter’s nose, and her eyes were forest green. “You don’t look like a Wendy. Maybe a Wanda or a Kate.”

She snorted. “Kate? I would never be a Kate.”

“What’s your real name, then?”

“Camilla Favonius.”

Camilla, I thought, looking at the set of her face. That I can believe. “So why Wendy?”

“I’m a little parched.”

“And you expect me to pay for your beer?” I asked.

Wendy shrugged. “Look, I’m a regular here, and I’ve never seen you before. You’re not bad looking, sure, but not as good looking as a perfect pour of Martha’s beer.

“Now, I saw you from the door, staring off into space like there was a war on and you were in it, only there isn’t. I’d know. So I figured I’d be neighborly, sit with you, drink your beer and listen to your sob story, but it’s your call. I think you’re getting the better end of the deal.”

I looked into those deep green eyes of hers. They didn’t waver or look away. I turned toward the bar. “Hey, Martha, can we get two more?” I said, raising two fingers.

“Coming up,” she said.

“Great,” Wendy said. She grabbed my mug and drained it. “Ugh. That’s better. I had such a long day.”

“I thought you were listening to my sob story.”

“We’ll get to that,” she said. She shifted in her chair, then said, “Favonius is an old Viridian family name, based on an Aspect of Gaia who governed the western winds. Windy, Wendy. Get it?”

“Got it,” I said. I saw Martha coming with our beers. “I’m Alan Campbell, windy Wendy. It’s very nice to meet you.”

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***

OCTOBER, 2042

New worlds get new kings, and that’s exactly what Abby thinks she’s found in her boss’ hacked code.

With a cataclysmic asteroid careening toward Earth, the VRMMORPG project, Viridian Gate Online, has become more than just a game, and Abby thinks her boss, Robert Osmark, wants to be more than just its founding father.

Now, Abby holds a hacked key to the kingdom that could earn her a punishment worse than death. To uncover the secret that drug lords and corrupt politicians paid millions for, Abby must dive into the game she helped create and team up with one of its AI creations. It’s a race against the clock as she tries to discover what’s hidden in the secret code before Osmark can crown himself ruler over all that remains of humanity.

***

ONE: Apocalypse Hacking

THE CLICKS AND CLACKS of my keystrokes reverberating off the empty chairs and standing desks at Osmark Tech were the only sounds, aside from the hammering of my heart. I’d been afraid before, working for Osmark, but never this scared. If I was right, they would do much worse than kill me for what I was about to commit.

My cursor lingered over the “deploy to prod” button. Under normal working hours, my fresh lines of code would’ve been peer-reviewed, sent through the sanity checker, unit tested, then deployed to staging. But eight months straight of crunch coupled with the impending doom of the planet left everyone eager to get to their capsules when Osmark dismissed us not an hour before.

I glanced around the large open space one more time to ensure everyone had in fact gone, my heart still jackhammering away. My finger trembled as I pressed and held the left-click down. I could still back out, forget what I’d read, forget I had seen what Osmark had planned.

“No one else is going to stop him. You must figure out what these ‘scrolls of allegiance’ are, and why so many high-rolling wretches paid out the wazoo for them,” I reminded myself, then inhaled deeply.

“Plus, you spent your entire overtime bonus check sending Jack that capsule. You’re gonna need something more than just the end of the world to break the ice when you meet up again, and you know how much Jack loves a good dungeon crawl. If that’s what this is. Who knows what billionaire drug dealers pay millions for in a virtual world? It could be full of godmode codes that somehow subvert our anti-cheating protocols.”

My hand curled to a ball as I retracted my finger, doing the undoable. The screen read, “Committing new code to production. Estimated Completion —> 280 seconds.”

The building trembled at the sound of a muffled crash, accompanied by terrified shouts, and my gaze shot past the screen to the fading light outside. It had been a while since I took more than a fleeting glance out a window, a few days at least. Most of us had elected to stay indefinitely at Osmark Tech since the global announcement of 213 Astraea weeks ago, as it was just safer here.

I walked to the massive UV-protected glass framed by columns of wide-leafed plants that hadn’t been watered in weeks and looked down the eight stories to the streets below.

Chaos. That was the only word to describe it. Someone had driven a truck through the screaming mob, trying to ram down the doors of Osmark Technologies, but they had failed. A fiery, smoking wreck lay at the foot of our building, and civilians scrambled to get out of blast range.

When Osmark ordered security improvements for the front desk a few months ago, reinforcing the walls and windows of the bottom floors, I thought it was just because of the recent mass shootings, to protect us from something like that. Not something like this. Not trying to protect us from desperate cries for salvation.

213 Astraea, nine miles of pure destruction, was what they were terrified of. A mass of rock and ice carving a path through space on a collision course with our little speck of paradise: Earth. I was scared too, but less so. I knew I had a chamber waiting in the basement where I would hopefully transition into the game I’d been helping develop for the last four years. A lifeboat for humanity. Viridian Gate Online.

A lifeboat that had cost me six precious months with my father and being there for his dying breath. It’s critical, Osmark had said, life altering. I wish he’d told us all the truth sooner—it would make resenting him for missing my father’s funeral a little harder. But no. Osmark was a deplorable man and a terrifying boss. He’d known about Astraea for months and refused to tell us until he realized DevOps wouldn’t complete until it was too late. He told us a few weeks before the global announcement, some kind of incentive to work harder.

Still, I chose to trade the last minutes of my father’s life for work. Osmark had needed me, but if I had left, even for one day to see my father into the ground, he would’ve made sure no one needed me. I would’ve been blacklisted to the tech industry, my career and sole source of income destroyed.

If I’d known then there wouldn’t be any other sources of income today, I would’ve gone to see him, at least one last time. To hell with Osmark, he would’ve taken me back. We had been desperate for Senior Systems Architects for months since the last three abandoned the game at the news of Astraea. The excuses didn’t make me feel much better, but now that we all had somewhere safe at the end of the world, I was less upset about my choice.

Plus, I had another choice now and a new purpose. I was going to discover Osmark’s plan with these in-game “scrolls_of_allegiance” and end his reign here, before it could transfer into the game. He would never control anyone like he did at Osmark Tech, never again.

I took one last glance below and mourned the loss of so much life. They wouldn’t get in, not until I and the other employees transitioned into the game, and even then, there were only four hundred capsules they could use. In a day or two, a security team would run a raffle and bring in one thousand two hundred people from the screaming mob. With the transition taking up to seventy-two hours, a little under twelve days left until Astraea hit, and a one in six chance of dying instead of transitioning, we could only save about twelve hundred lives by reusing our capsules. A few less, if we counted the technicians who had the gut-churning job of removing the corpses from the capsules and cleaning them for another occupant.

My watch buzzed, and I turned the face toward me. “Deploy Complete” read the email title. I jogged past the desks full of half-drank coffee cups, plates with pizza crusts, and empty packets of Skittles. My computer screen came to life at my touch, and I checked the full deploy log. “Warning: error in (NullObjectReference-CaCoCa_Scroll) - Line 241.”

The pounding in my chest dropped to the pit of my stomach.

“You have got to be shitting me.”

I pulled up the console, fingers dancing across the keyboard like a drunkard’s ballet; violent and clumsy. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now! I checked my watch again: 5:28. I had approximately thirty minutes to get to the Integration Room: our mass grave. I needed to watch this push through to completion. There was no way I would go into V.G.O. not knowing if the code was actually delivered.

Line 241... the line referencing the in-game object [Aleixo_Carrera-Scroll_of_Allegiance.OBJ]. How is that possible? The object doesn’t exist yet? I traced the lines of code backwards through mentions and discovered the culprit.

Tricky son of a bitch. Osmark had the game data committed, but the .OBJ for the actual scroll wasn’t in there. He was going to run a patch in approximately eleven hours that would remove the <inactive> flag and deploy the scroll .OBJs automatically.

I could just create my own scroll .OBJ from any random asset lying around and copy the data... but that might not work. There could be something else at play here and—

“Attention, all employees,” the PA system rang out, and I jumped, my train of thought derailed. “The Integration Room will be locked for your safety in approximately thirty minutes. If you have elected to participate in Osmark Technology’s V.G.O. integration, please wrap up your personal affairs and proceed to sub-level three to claim your capsule. Thank you.”

The synthetic voice was more than enough to raise hairs. Osmark and his core team were at the pinnacle of AI creation, making things so close to real, they’d pass a Turing Test some humans couldn’t. So, why they had gone with a cold and jagged, easily distinguished AI voice for the office PA, I guess I’d never know.

I turned my attention back to the problem at hand, pushing and prodding at Osmark’s security systems, praying not to set off any alarms. Blocked, rigged, protected... damn it. There was simply not enough time to do this hack. I’d have to get creative, quick. I pulled the desk into standing mode, and my back straightened as my fingers gained their last purpose.

Selentium was from the days of old, it was automation script for the web, but I knew how to make it sing for any task. I cranked away, script after script, lacing together a fragile plan. Coroutines within subroutines emerged until finally I had it. My automated script would open the console and run command line to deploy my filesync to prod exactly five minutes after Osmark’s. Meaning I would be delivered a copy of that Scroll of Allegiance five minutes after he was and know exactly what he was up to with that secret area. Or that was my hope.

I’d have to pick my username carefully, as that was the only thing binding this code to my in-game persona. A few keystrokes, a username, that’s all that stood between Osmark and the likely tyranny of what remained of the human race.

The overhead PA system sprang to life again. “All employees, please be aware the Integration Room will be locked for your safety in fifteen minutes.”

Just enough time for a test run. I set the timer on the automated script to the current time and drummed my fingers, rat-a-tap, rat-a-tap, as it executed. Command prompts opened, filled with lines of code, and closed. I sighed as the deployment screen read, “Committing new code to production. Estimated Completion —> 280 seconds.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, watching the seconds tick down and not allowing other thoughts, self-defeating thoughts, to enter my mind. The server came back with the same error on line 241. Perfect. I changed the time back, set the computer to stay awake, and unplugged the monitor, just in case someone wandered through and felt like turning it off to save a few watts of power at the end of the world.

“All employees, please be aware the Integration Room will be locked for your safety in ten minutes.”

“I know!” I roared at the ceiling.

My heart thumped again as I imagined missing the deadline. I grabbed my backpack and jacket... then stopped. I wouldn’t need them where I was going. The straps slipped from my shoulders, and I reached for the picture of my mom and dad on my desk.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”

I returned the picture to its place on the desk and jogged from the empty room. The typically bustling halls were devoid of life. Everyone had either gone home to accept their fate or run to the Integration Room for their final transition. I pressed the button for the elevator and imagined what it would be like to live life out in a video game. Not even live it out, but live forever.

I loved RPGs just as much as the next nerd, but to never grow old, never raise a family—unless Osmark had another team working on a secret fertility project—it would be life without progress. Well, not so true. We would have our character levels, stats, the talent tree, gear, and plenty of dungeons to raid as long as the ever-present, godlike Overminds did their jobs. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Ping! My eyes shot forward as the elevator doors opened, and a familiar face stared back at me. “Hi, Leon,” I said without much gusto. Leon was a technical artist. He had spent his last few days making sure noses could scale appropriately to face dimensions.

“Hey, Abby. Headed to the Integration Room?” He placed his hand against the door for me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just wrapped up the last call with my mom,” I lied. I called my mom three days ago and begged her, for the very last time, to accept Osmark’s offer for family of the V.G.O. team to transition into the game for free. She refused. I miss him. I want to see him soon. She believed in an afterlife. Believed that my father was waiting for her in heaven. I hoped she would find peace at the end, no matter what happened after death.

“Yeah, it’s nice to have some family to confide in at the end of the world.” He shrugged his shoulders, gaze dropping to his shoes. Poor guy, he probably didn’t have anyone.

The elevator doors tried to close again, and I hurried in next to him.

“So, have it all planned out?” he asked with a plastic grin as I pressed B3.

“Have what planned?” My voice peaked a little too high, my heart pounding as I thought of the code waiting to deploy on my machine.

He elbowed me casually. “I assumed Abby the Architect would know exactly what race you were going with, what city you’d make your home, what class you’d pick.” He laughed. “You’re such a planner, I figured you would have everything worked out by now.”

I gave him a curt smile. I had some of it planned, sure, but it’s not like I couldn’t roll with the punches. That was the point of Viridian Gate Online: as soon as you felt you had your bearings, Sophia or Enyo would throw a curveball.

The Overminds, computer AI game-masters, were always ready to increase the difficulty or create a new challenge. Strife was the point of Enyo’s existence, and Sophia sought balance, though it was a vague term. It sought to ensure the player had just enough difficulty to remain entertained, but not so much they wanted to ragequit.

Three months ago, ragequit would’ve meant a loss of revenue for Osmark Tech, but now, ragequit meant something entirely different. How would someone quit the game? Suicide, was it even possible? Could you end your simulation voluntarily? The questions turned my gut.

“Anyway, I hope you make it.” He gave me a nudge as the doors to B3 opened, and he walked away.

“You too,” I called after him, my short legs unable to keep up with his please get me out of this situation pace.

I did hope Leon made it. I wanted to make it, too.

The white concrete walls amplified the sound of Leon’s hasty retreat from me, and I felt more alone than ever. I was going to die. Perhaps my consciousness would be copied into the game simulation, but perhaps not. There was a near 17% chance that I would die for real and never make it into the game permanently.

The unending thump of my heart faltered as I thought of my whole life. Was it a life I was proud to lead? Maybe. My thoughts fell on my father, my mother, how I wasn’t there. Sure, I would call, and I would video chat, but it wasn’t the same as being there. Was I a good person?

“Attention, employees, the Integration Room is now closing.”

My breath caught in my throat and I ran. The doors were sliding shut, but I slipped through with a sigh.

I took in the tomb: short ceiling, maybe eight feet, fresh concrete everywhere, organized, methodical, and sterile. Osmark had bought and renovated this space months ago for a “storage center.” What could we possibly store as a tech company, other than servers?

Coffins. Or their equivalent. We would die in the capsules. Either by transitioning from our bodies into the game or by being incompatible with the code and wasting away into cardiac arrest after three days. Then our bodies would be removed, and the capsules reused for some of the dying mob outside the gates of salvation.

My eyes roved over the claustrophobia-inducing landscape, and the memory of the first death, the first disappearance into the game, replayed in my mind. I recalled Osmark and his right hand, Sandra, standing on the stage in front of employees and investors, describing the incident.

They’d downplayed the death like it was just another failed prototype, wrote off the loss of human life like a dysfunctional server. What they didn’t explain was how they’d lost the human consciousness into the code. It was processed and digitized, then vanished into the trillions of functions executing every second.

“Abigail Hollander!”

UGH! Abigail is not my name! I wanted to say, but I turned to Tristen, my manager-who-wished-he-wasn’t-my-manager, with a terse smile.

“What’s up, Tristen?” I hoped he wasn’t going to go on about, “Now that I’m not your manager anymore, could we like, go out for pizza some time?” Or would it be roasted chicken now? I didn’t think pizza made it into V.G.O.

He eyed me with teeth clenched. “You were cutting it close. What were you doing?”

My stomach fluttered at the thought of what I was actually doing for the last hour. Hacking into Osmark’s private code, inspecting his future commits, writing automated code to copy them, and more.

“I had to call my mom. She didn’t want to transition, so I had to say goodbye for good.” I entwined my fingers, not wanting them to wiggle and look suspicious.

“Oh.” Tristen looked down, then placed an awkward hand on my shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine. We said what we had to say, and I’m ready.” I filled my chest with air in an attempt to shake his hand from my body, but he held tighter.

“That’s good. We need people like you in the new world.”

The New World, Osmark’s world. My resolve returned. I wouldn’t let him dominate the people who put their faith in him, in Osmark Tech. Sure, they may “survive,” but would they be saved? No. They were entering into a dictatorship they couldn’t have imagined. Not on my watch.

“Yeah, totally. I hope it’s just as awesome as we coded it.” I smiled again, trying to get out from under his grasp, but his grip was strong as he pulled me into an embrace.

“It’s going to be okay.”

I gritted my teeth and pulled away. “Yeah, it’s going to be fine.” I offered him a punch to the shoulder, and his cheeks flushed red.

“What’s your username? Maybe we could meet up?”

I bit my lip. “I haven’t picked mine yet. I haven’t had a chance to play at all.” I shrugged to mask the lie about not picking my name, and he laughed.

“Yeah, cool. Great. Well, maybe I’ll just see you around.”

My lips pursed. “Yeah, definitely.”

He shuffled his feet, and as I turned away, he grabbed my hand.

“Abby...” His voice was soft.

“What’s up, Tristen?” I didn’t want to hear it again. I wanted to get into the game. I wanted to start leveling. I needed to get a head start on Osmark, because his people definitely had a head start on me.

“I just wanted to say... you’re awesome.”

I stopped short. It wasn’t the same old rhetoric of why aren’t we dating. He was just being nice.

“You’re awesome too, Tristen.” I smiled.

He nodded. “It was nice being your manager. I hope these last eight months weren’t absolute torture.”

It was perhaps my last human interaction ever. I had to make it count. I had to try my best.

“Yeah, you did a great job. I hope you make it.”

He gave me a thumbs-up, classic Tristen. “I’ll see you in there. My tag is Triskiller.”

I groaned under my breath. What a terrible name to be stuck with for the rest of your life. But whatever.

I walked the rows, looking for “H.” So many D’s, what the heck? Ah, “H.” I walked in a few capsules to find pod 8. It was open and ready to receive me.

Unlike in Star Trek, the pod next to me didn’t have a glass cover. I couldn’t see the person inside, couldn’t watch them decay as their body died in the transition.

“Ms. Hollander. Please remove your clothing down to your underwear,” the pod said in the same artificial PA voice.

“Why?” I asked, though when I looked down, the clothes of those near to me littered the floor.

“The transition can be difficult on the body, and heat regulation is important. Removing some items of clothing can help us do that at a lower cost.”

There Osmark goes with the costs. Of course, do it fast, do it well, do it cheap. He wanted every point on the iron triangle, and he got it. Not by noble means, but he got it. This game would be amazing, a technical wonder, completed by slave labor and crime. Who would oppose him at the end of the world, though?

I unbuttoned my shirt, removed my flats, then my slacks, and hopped up into the tanning bed gone VRMMORPG simulator. I took my last breath in this world and closed the lid with the touch of a button.

It was dark for a moment, and as the machined whirred to life, so did the white loading screen. “Hello, I’m the CEO of Osmark Technologies, Robert Osmark, and I’d like to personally welcome you to Viridian Gate Online, the most advanced full-immersion video game in the world.” Osmark’s voice was unmistakable.

I blinked hard, and his face came into view. Such a retro, Steve Jobs look. Thin-rimmed, round glasses, dark turtleneck, and shaggy hair about his face.

He went on. “Viridian Gate Online is truly the first of its kind. And that’s not the typical hyperbolic language so cavalierly tossed around in tech circles. No, I can assure you, I truly mean this is the first of its kind.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get me into the game!

“Our revolutionary work with massive memristive neuromorphic computing systems has created a paradigm shift in AI technologies, and the result is an experience second to none. Moreover, through Osmark’s patented NexGenVR capsule you will experience a whole new world as though you were there in the flesh. Even the pain is real.”

The system stuttered, Osmark froze on screen, and the robotic voice of the AI took over. “Patch 1.3_e announcement update: Employees of Osmark Tech.”

Osmark’s face resumed its idle movements. “Hello, employees of Osmark Technologies, or close friends and family of the employee.” I was tired of hearing his nasally, droning voice, mostly because I’d heard it so many times in the last few months.

“You have done us, no, humanity, a great service. Either you contributed to the game, Viridian Gate Online, or you supported a technician working day and night to complete this new world. For that, we all owe you our lives. This couldn’t have been possible without you and the contributions of our benefactors.”

Benefactors. Right. He meant the politicians and criminals. Those able to give worldly support for virtual compensation when the end came.

“In the next seventy-two hours, you may experience some discomfort, and at the end of it, one in six will not be able to survive the transition to the game. Allow me to explain how it works.”

Osmark’s recording went into the layman’s version of the nano-tech copying the brain’s patterns line for line into a digital form over the next three days.

“Truthfully, that’s far more candid than I ever expected to be about how the process works, but this is the end of the world.” Osmark offered a genuine, yet exhausted, smile. I appreciated that. He was a dick and a whip cracker, but he could be real sometimes.

He went on to further explain that the nanobots now coursing through my veins would be copying my essence and uploading it to the servers deep underground, protected from the catastrophic EMP 213 Astraea would discharge on entering our atmosphere.

“We installed neural inhibitors into all the capsules which automatically logged players out after six hours of gameplay, but Patch 1.3 has changed all that. The neural inhibitors have all been disabled, and after twenty-four hours of in-game time, the logout button will permanently disappear, leaving you stranded in the game.”

No skin off my back, I didn’t plan on logging out.

“If you choose to upload yourself to Viridian Gate Online, you have a chance at surviving Astraea, at least in a digital form. Now, let me take a moment to address some of the concerns circulating around the internet rumor mill. First, I can personally assure everyone listening to this message that Patch 1.3 is our last major update—the game is locked, and all essential functions are now being administered by the AI controllers.”

The Overminds. I knew them all pretty well, understood their roles. I had to. My code needed to know who to call to complete a function, so I’d had to learn them all, though I only created code for two of them: Enyo, the Overmind of Chaos, and Sophia, the Overmind of Balance.

Osmark went on to discuss the fears of hacking, which we “secured” against. We certainly did our best, but someone with time and a lot of dedication could hack what we did. It would be hard, nearly impossible with the time the world had left, but they could do it.

“By watching this warning, you hereby remove all liability of damages from Osmark Technologies, its corporate owners, and its subsidiary entities. Would you still like to proceed?”

I knew what needed to be done, and I was the one to do it. Even if I only had three days until my heart stopped, perhaps stopped for good, I would make them count. I would make Osmark pay.

I cherished my last moment as a living, breathing, fleshy being, then answered. “Yes.”

***

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Continue Reading Firebrand

CONTINUE WITH ABBY to find out what happens next!

Quest Class: Rare, Class-Based

Quest Difficulty: Easy

Success: Read on to continue the adventure!

Reward: 15,000 EXP; Title: Rebel Leader

Accept: Yes / No?

<<<>>>

Viridian Gate Online: Expanded Universe

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance (Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord (Book 3)

Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion (Book 4)

Viridian Gate Online: The Lich Priest (Book 5)

Viridian Gate Online: Doom Forge (Book 6)

***

Viridian Gate Online: Side Quests (Anthology)

Viridian Gate Online: The Artificer (Imperial Initiative 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Nomad Soul (The Illusionist Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Dead Man’s Tide (The Illusionist Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: Firebrand (The Firebrand Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Vindication (The Alchemic Weaponeer Book 1)

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Acknowledgments

SO, THAT WAS FUN. IF Nomad Soul was a story about the hidden desires of the heart (and it was), Dead Man’s Tide is probably about the illusion (pun intended) of control. Give that a whisk around your brain box and see what comes out. And tell me about it! I’m on Twitter and Facebook, and you can always hit reply on one of my newsletters.

Please leave a review. Even a one liner. I read them all, I take note of what people love, and they make a huge difference when people decide to buy the book or not.

As before, I’d like to thank the team at Shadow Alley Press. It’s an enormous relief to focus on writing books instead of distributing them, and having a group of people to bounce ideas around with as well. Thanks to eden, Em, James, Jeanette, Jess, Kelly, Nate, Tamara, and Toria for making this happen.

I’d also like to thank my family and friends, who’ve supported the massive time suck that writing a book becomes. You’re holding over 250 hours of my life in your hands, and I was a grouchy territorial son of a so-and-so during all of it. Thanks to Ais, Alexandra, Chip, Eileen, Elli, Gercel, Jason, Kari, Kelly, Mom, Toria, Will, and many others who’ve enabled my habit.

As of this writing, I’m a quarter of the way through writing the next book. If you thought Dead Man’s Tide was too dark, the next one is going to be lighter and funnier. If you liked the dark, we’re thinking of giving Nil its own series—reader feedback very much appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

D.J.

Copyright

VGO: Dead Man’s Tide (The Illusionist Book 2) is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JStrode@ShadowAlleyPress.com

About the Author

DJ Bodden is a writer and veteran Marine Corps pilot, currently working out of Geneva, Switzerland for a commodities firm. He read grown-up books at an inappropriate age, developed strong feelings about old videogames that have followed him throughout his life, and didn't own a car until the age of 23, when he learned to drive and fly starting at the same time.

As a kid with a head full of other people's stories, he decided he needed to gather a few of his own and joined the military. During the next thirteen years, he rode, rappelled out of, and flew planes and helicopters, got knocked out, cautioned, promoted, shot at, blew things up then rebuilt them, and met people from almost every walk of life imaginable.

He wrote his first book at the end of a combat deployment - producing a manuscript that still lives in a box somewhere - and spent the next few years trying to learn how to do it again the right way.

Now, with a few scars to show for it and his own stories tucked into his belt, he writes books for young-and-old adults who take their stories wide-scoped, high-staked, and a touch of "what if?".

Read more at D.J. Bodden’s site.

About the Publisher

We love books and we are crazy-passionate about publishing the best adult Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Action-Adventure around.

Though our stories can be thought provoking at times, our primary goal is to entertain readers with wild stories and interesting characters you can’t walk away from. We want to whisk readers into a different world where the impossible is possible, where monsters lurk around every corner, but so do heroes, always ready to swoop in and fight back the dark.

We are also deeply dedicated to the authors we work with. For us, publishing is less about individual titles and more about supporting the authors we love. We want our writers to succeed, to thrive, to sell books, and to pursue their fiction passionately. We also want ALL writers to succeed and achieve their dreams of crafting excellent books and connecting with an audience who will love what they do. We firmly believe there has never been a better time to be an author. We also believe publishing is not a zero-sum game and that a rising tide lifts all boats. For that reason, we offer a variety of writing resources for folks looking to grow as wordsmiths or publish their books independently.

Find out about all our great books at www.ShadowAlleyPress.com