“What was the magic you used during the fight?” Ethan asked, forgoing any preamble.

  The beaten and bruised group was seated in the parlour of his house, clustered around the coffee table with its sprawl of emptied teacups and scattered crumbs. Outside, the rain lashed against the windows in cold sheets, made all the more audible by the lack of conversation. The fireplace burned low, its flame casting a wavering orange across the mahogany panels and threadbare carpet. The bog pine gave off a resinous scent as it smouldered – not unpleasant, but it did little to soften the edge in Ethan’s tone, nor the stony fixity of his gaze.

  No one replied at first. The others had been too embroiled in the violence to notice the detail Ethan had seized upon – Lyra’s conjured blade of wind, a momentary ripple that had carved open their attacker’s face like cloth.

  Subtle, perhaps – but not invisible. Especially not to him.

  He observed her. Lyra sat opposite, upright yet visibly tense, her hands folded too neatly in her lap. A nervous tick played across her right thumb. She appeared to consider a diplomatic evasion, then evidently thought better of it.

  “I conjured a blade of wind,” she admitted. Her voice was so faint it barely breached the crackle of the fire.

  A beat of stunned silence.

  “Impossible,” Warren said flatly. “There exists no record of wind manipulation amongst the faye. Magic is dictated by their internal essence, I believe. Wind is ambient. That is–”

  “Not entirely true,” Ethan interjected, his voice colder now, but still precise. “I’ve read corroborative accounts from the Katagman Archipelago and its eponymous pirates. Vessels cutting through storms at twenty knots with their sailcloth never sagging.”

  Lyra did not blink. “That would track,” she replied softly. “What I used is not modern sorcery as the… the faye know them. That is to say, it is Ailbean. Before the disappearance of their civilisation. They possessed methods of tethering ambient aether and shaping it. Wind control is merely one application.”

  Simon leaned forward on the settee, focused. “That why ye been pokin’ ‘bout them ruins, then?”

  Mary snorted beside him. “Well that’s well and proper fuckin’ obvious-like ya gullhead,” she said, flinging her legs over his lap without care. “This is big. If King and Country learns to wrangle what them moss-suckin’ dogfish cooked up, we’ll be flyin’ bear banners over Falchovarii come next summer, sure as tide.”

  Warren, who had been clutching his cup with white-knuckled restraint, now spoke in measured tones. “It would not stop there. Armed battalions trained in this form – equipped with artefacts, enchanted gear, battlefield enhancements – would exert control over every border from the United Kingdoms of Maiagantia to the valleys of the Tisvarian Tsardom. A single Crown, unified by force.”

  Simon frowned, brow furrowed in vague thought. “So why ain’t King and Country done it already, then? If His Majesty’s got gnomes scribblin’ runes in his breeches, what’s stoppin’ him from gettin’ ‘em to scribble that shite on his guns?”

  “Magic costs a top guinea, yeah?” Mary offered, twisting a copper half-penny between her fingers. “And gnome glyphwork ain’t cheap. I’d wager Ol’ Ghost Dick reckons this new trick’s less dear down the line.”

  Across from them, Lyra sat increasingly motionless, as though shrinking into herself. Ethan noted the twitch at her temple muscle, the forcefully even breathing. She was uncomfortable with their speculation – perhaps because it tread too near to truth. Or perhaps because it went against some internal order.

  Either way, he did not particularly care.

  He had remained quiet throughout their discussion, but one thought had continued its dull knock against the inside of his skull. He voiced it plainly.

  “How much more can you do?”

  The room fell still.

  Lyra flinched as though struck. Her spine stiffened, shoulders squared against the interrogation, though her expression betrayed the effort it took not to flee.

  She was alarmed. Good. Better the truth when frightened than a pleasant lie at ease.

  “I – I beg your pardon?” she managed.

  “Your capabilities. When, not if, we are set upon by Falchovarian agents again, I will require a complete inventory of your abilities to construct an effective plan of engagement. I do not enjoy surprises.”

  His voice was dispassionate, but every syllable cut clean through the air like Aelielaya’s scalpels. The fire flared atop the hearth. A gust rattled rain-struck windows, drawing a howl beneath the door.

  Her heartbeat spiked. Ethan could tell. Saw the constriction of her pupils, the tremor in her jaw. The aether in the room squirmed.

  Interesting. Aether resonance tied to emotional state, by the look of it. Unstable? Perhaps. Dangerous? Certainly.

  “Ehm – Ethan?” Mary ventured at last, tone subdued. “Could this not wait ‘til mornin’? Folk speak clearer after sleep. And tea.”

  He turned his gaze upon her – cold, unwavering. She flinched. Sensible. The glow in his irises, faint though it was, betrayed the aetheric stimulation bearing down on him.

  It only added to the sourness of his mood. He knew the signs. They all did. The last few days had drained him, and now the cracks were beginning to show. He hated it, but hate only made the anger hotter.

  Simon subtly shifted further along the settee, placing a safe distance between himself and the source of impending violence. He, at least, remembered what Ethan had done to that would-be highwayman in Artisan’s Quarter – an object lesson in anatomical disruption, and evidently not one he was eager to witness again. Warren and Mary exchanged a quiet glance, communicating in raised eyebrows and tight lips. Neither had yet concocted a viable excuse for departure.

  Lyra, however, seemed to have found her breath again. Whether through resolve or resignation, she returned his stare with something that resembled defiance – albeit a trembling, white-knuckled version of it.

  “I think,” she began carefully. “It would be preferable if I were never again required to demonstrate my combat capabilities. Certainly not before the Republic. They already pursue me incessantly. And the man I struck… he shall not be filing any reports. Not after you…” she swallowed. “Did… that, to him.”

  Her voice had faltered at the end. He suspected she was remembering the aftermath in more detail than she liked. She had not even seen the worst of it.

  Yet.

  He offered no reply beyond a low hum – to the untrained ear, it may as well have been the growl of a cornered pit dog.

  Lyra, pale to the lips, pressed on. “Additionally,” she added, swallowing again. “Mister Best has hinted at an assignment. I am not yet at liberty to divulge anything, but I shall provide more information when permitted. I give you my word.”

  I already have my suspicions on what the damned assignment is, Ethan thought sourly, though he kept it to himself.

  Instead, he simply observed her in silence. Five seconds. Then ten. Her breathing had grown shallow by the time he spoke again.

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered, rubbing the dryness from his eyelids. When he looked up once more, the glow in his irises had receded. Still, his sclera itched and burned as though sanded down. “Fine. I shall leave it. For now.”

  The exhalations around the room might as well have been wind through broken panes. It was only then he realised how close he had come – again – to that particular edge. To falling victim to that persistent voice, insisting on meeting every obstacle with violence.

  The thought made his stomach turn.

  “I agree wi’ Mary. This can wait ‘til mornin’,” his voice took on an Aury inflexion. Another sign of inner turmoil, though this one less dangerous.

  There was a chorus of assent. He coughed.

  “Where shall you all be sleeping tonight?” Ethan asked of Mary and Warren, accent neutral once more.

  “I reckon Lyra’s woman enough to sleep alone,” Mary said, winking at the pale elf. “I’ll be off.”

  “I shall assist the priests in preparing for morning Mass,” Warren added. “Then remain at the monastery. They will already punish me for missing All Hallows',” he heaved a great sigh. “Truthfully, I also have no desire to endure Simon’s snoring a second night in succession.”

  Simon opened his mouth.

  “You shall stay,” Ethan said flatly. “And assist me in watching over our ward.”

  The young man scowled, scabs flaking. From the way his jaw clenched, Ethan presumed the interruption had cost him a clandestine tryst. Likely with Victoria.

  Tragic.

  Lyra lifted her hands in a placating gesture. “I have no intention of fleeing, if that is your concern.”

  “You would fail even if you tried,” Ethan replied. “Our guard rota is for your protection, not your imprisonment. If the Falchovarians come again – and they shall – we will be ready.”

  The implication did not escape her. Nor the others. The salved bruises, bandaged bleeds, and sewn rips from hours before still haunted them.

  Silence settled. It was Warren who broke it. “I shall walk Mary home,” he announced, with all the awkward poise of an urchin offering to carry a lady’s baskets.

  Predictably, the others seized upon the chance to mock him, Mary included. Nevertheless, she stood and made ready, expressively grateful to have an escort.

  The streets of Westbank were always unfriendly. Especially to lone women. Especially on rainy November nights.

  Before the pair had departed, Ethan went to the wall-spanning bookshelf and produced a pistol for each of them. Two Queen Annes – breech-loaded and small enough to be concealed in a trouser pocket.

  Neither was happy with it, but neither protested either. They promised to return it come morning, used or unused.

  Satisfied, Ethan saw them off and began preparations for sleep. Lyra would again take the bedchamber and Simon would occupy the first-floor guest room. Ethan would resume his vigil from the reclining armchair, positioned in such a way as to monitor both the corridor and the nearest window.

  The fire still crackled in the firebox, low but persistent. It was guttering, so Ethan threw another log in. The ensuing scent of scorched oak sap was mildly soporific, as was its warmth. Ethan permitted his limbs to rest, his Elsian silk cloak better than any duvet.

  Though he still kept one hand on the butt of the horse pistol at his hip.

  Sometime later, Lyra crept past him with what she evidently believed to be stealth. It was a flawed assumption. He opened one eye the moment her foot grazed the creaky floorboard. Her target was the water closet.

  Judging from the gentle rustle of cloth, occasional curses, and ensuing splashes, he deduced she was removing her cosmetics. Some kind of powder, he assumed. Though after beholding her visage for a full day, even backhanding it once, he realised he had never seen its like. Not even on the pompous tarts of highest society.

  He awoke again at some ungodly hour to the same sound in reverse. Reapplication. She must have wanted to meet the dawn wearing the same mask she wore by dusk.

  Lovely. There goes my morning claim on the privy.

  He sighed softly.

  Work of the most pleasant kind, Richard Best had said but a day before.

  Ethan disagreed.

  “What a load o’ horsehite...”

  The ensuing weeks, though devoid of overt incident, bore the weight of anticipated violence – an oppressive certainty rather than a mere possibility. Regardless, each member of the group resumed their ordinary routines, albeit distorted by the logistical necessity of guarding their new ward.

  By agreement, Lyra was to be under constant surveillance, never left without at least two pairs of eyes upon her. Ethan constituted one of those pairs invariably; it was not a matter of trust but arithmetic. His habitual paranoia, once scoffed at by some, had proven more reliable than optimism.

  That said, he refused to let her presence derail his routine. Whoever drew the short straw of companionship would simply have to adapt. Their own obligations, preferences, or discomforts were irrelevant.

  Once per week, he paid visit to the Red Mist's private range on the eastern outskirts of Oaleholder – a place sufficiently isolated to allow the discharge of powder weaponry without disturbance. It belonged, nominally, to Mademoiselle Caroline’s criminal syndicate. In practice, it had become his for one day in every week, courtesy of prior negotiations with the station’s notoriously stringent landlord. He was also granted exclusive access and use of their armaments and ammunition stockpile.

  Contrary to legal consensus, criminal enterprise could, indeed, turn a tidy profit.

  The range itself was a dismal place: churned soil, soot-blackened targets, and spent balls of lead embedded in half-frozen muck. He practised with pistols, muskets, and – on rare occasion – rifles. Distances varied from twenty yards to two hundred. Targets comprised bottles, strawmen, clay pigeons, and sometimes objects moving by pulley. He shot standing, kneeling, prone, and in motion: rolling, walking, running, leaping, shifting from left hand to right without pause.

  His companions found this theatrical. He did not much care.

  Either Simon or Warren generally accompanied him and Lyra. Mary had elected never to return, citing the stench of spent powder and the volume of each report alike as sufficient deterrents.

  On one particular visit, Lyra voiced a query – her tone sceptical, though she masked it in civility.

  "What are you doing?"

  He discharged the pistol mid-roll. The bottle some twenty yards away shattered. He rose, hand already reaching for the second firearm.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You switched hands," her brow knitted as she demonstrated the motion, stepping closer. "From right to left mid-roll. It seems... gratuitous."

  "Perhaps," Ethan brushed soot from the flintlock's barrel. "But should I ever lose an arm, or sustain a break, or a gash deep enough to compromise function, my combat ability must not suffer for it."

  She stared at him as though he had suggested growing a third limb.

  "...That is simultaneously valid and utterly bewildering," the pale elf muttered.

  He offered no retort. Instead, he fired again – deliberately close to her, striking a strawman square in the head at thirty-five yards. The crack of discharge startled her visibly and she stomped away cursing. He did not smile, but he allowed a fractional exhalation that, in another man, might have passed for amusement.

  ---

  The training hall – also Red Mist property – was another frequent haunt. Here Ethan honed bladed combat and fisticuffs alike. Mostly the former.

  Steel on straw, steel on wood, steel on steel when the fencing master deigned to engage him. The man was well past his prime but retained enough reflexes to match him, though neither had bested the other in months. The tally, by mutual reckoning, was even.

  "Ha!" The master scored a hit to Ethan’s shoulder with a blunted rapier. “Ten to ten, Se?or Harbinger. Seems these old bones are not yet ornamental.”

  Ethan offered a non-committal grunt, shook the Graflian man’s hand, and withdrew to the sidelines where the rest awaited with open smirks.

  Mary did not mind the hall; she described the sound of fencing as 'nobby violence' – just enough bloodless menace to be respectable. Warren, typically adverse to any preparation for conflict, forced himself to attend out of some dim notion of duty.

  Simon, however, flourished. He was faster than either of them, marginally more graceful, and unrelentingly smug.

  "Aye, I mightn’t look it," he told Lyra that morning, puffing out his chest. "But I’m a killer of no small repute."

  She laughed, too politely. He preened. Ethan promptly struck him across the posterior with the flat of his sabre.

  “Stay focused, killer – unless you are eager to become the killed. En garde!”

  They sparred while Lyra giggled into her sleeve.

  Neither suffered injury – beyond Simon’s pride, which had never been especially sturdy.

  ---

  Twice each week, Ethan jogged to the southern treeline beyond Oaleholder – braving sloping trails, jagged ridges, and the perpetual damp that clung to the underbrush like mildew. The trees there, though sparse after much deforestation, filtered the light in thin ribbons. Maple, elm, and beech were his usual companions.

  The Matresa waterfall was his ultimate destination: a cascade of glacial clarity that summoned to mind the faintest echoes of Cadefal.

  Of home.

  It was no substitute for Daesach’s fjords and mountains, of course. That kind of wilderness did not lend itself to the south’s insipid attempts at imitation.

  On these exercises, it was Mary alone who possessed the stamina to keep pace. Her former entanglement with him – ill-advised though it had been – had left her in sufficient condition to endure his rhythm. Warren and Simon could not manage. Lyra, to her credit, tried.

  She was not completely unfit, merely insufficient. Her limbs lacked tone, and her breath gave out long before her will did. The latter, it seemed, was all that kept her moving when the world turned white and her stomach threatened mutiny.

  A familiar experience. Half of Ethan’s childhood was spent in that same fugue.

  And yet, when she vomited on herself without breaking stride, Ethan was – privately – impressed. Mary was less charitable, delivering a scathing rebuke while cleaning the pale elf with a handkerchief and several expressions of disapproval.

  At the grove, Ethan would break from the jog to climb – trees, boulders, cliff faces, anything with elevation and grip. The women abstained. They used the time to rest and invent new sobriquets in his absence.

  They included, but were not limited to: white-faced gibbon, wan badger, and scruffy mountain goat.

  Once his climbing ended – either by design or by injury – they would return to Oaleholder on foot and eat breakfast at Bertha’s. Occasionally, they encountered Frank along the way. He had, apparently, taken Ethan’s recent disciplinary approach to heart. No longer unshaven, no longer hungover, and marginally less offensive to the nose than before.

  One morning, during a descent from an elm, Ethan misjudged his grip on a wet branch and fell. A series of snaps and crunches punctuated his drop. He landed awkwardly, ribs first on a boulder, scattering twigs, leaves, and his dignity along the way.

  Lyra rushed to his side. Mary, by contrast, dissolved into convulsions of laughter.

  “Ye gull-arsed fuckin’ whelk,” she wheezed between gasps. “Did the big bad tree bite ya or somethin’?”

  He did not dignify that with a response, merely wheezed. Mary laughed louder still. They dragged him to Aelielaya’s surgery.

  The elf took one look at his dishevelled state and sighed. “Earth in your hair, sap upon your sleeves, and the scent of crushed elm bark clinging like guilt. Ethan, have you taken another tumble from your beloved trees? I was under the impression human children outgrew such habits somewhere in adolescence.”

  He struggled to speak through fractured ribs.

  “Perhaps... I am... an elf... at heart.”

  The Augustine Elf fell eerily silent after that. She magically mended the injuries without comment and refused payment by long standing tradition.

  Ethan would, of course, repay all his debts at the end of the month, also by same tradition.

  ---

  Obviously, Ethan maintained a regular presence at the Stag’s Head. The establishment’s food was tolerable, its drinks serviceable, but the primary lure remained Jacob. At least two of the others always accompanied him, his preferred solitary visits reduced to an intangible memory. Conversation, in such settings, was more efficient without superfluous commentary.

  Jacob received him as warmly as ever, every time. Age had not dulled the man’s enthusiasm, nor had his enduring mediocrity in intelligence gathering dampened his spirit. Ethan tolerated both.

  Most of Jacob’s 'far' reported nothing of import – pavement whispers, market quarrels, and the occasional overheard rumour of domestic scandal. But it was information, and information was never entirely valueless.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  News of Richard Best remained elusive. This was not surprising, though the circumstances were regrettable. One of the 'mice' – no more than fourteen by the look of his corpse – was found by a Matresa mudlark, floating in the shallows with his hands broken and ligature marks about the neck. No attempt had been made to conceal the torture. A warning, plain as day.

  Jacob did not mourn. He had never bothered to learn their names. What he had done, however, was cease all intelligence-gathering on Mister Best. Permanently.

  Instead, he shifted his focus: gang disputes, movements within the Great Hall, and who had vanished into the judicial system of late. Where and why. Names, dates, charges – accurate or otherwise. Ethan neither enquired into Jacob’s sources nor expressed surprise at their reliability. Whatever vile arrangement he maintained with the constabulary was none of his concern.

  He paid well only when the information proved sound.

  ---

  Once per week – more if circumstances warranted it – Ethan also called upon Jinny and John's bathhouse.

  These visits were far from a tactical necessity – he had painstakingly ridden himself of that delusion – but a necessity nonetheless.

  Cleanliness is next to Godliness, his theology tutor of yore had always insisted. One of few lessons from the old hypocrite Ethan had ever taken to heart.

  Caroline, if available, offered updates both personal and political. If not, Graham filled the conversational void with the usual blend of apolitical drivel and merchant gossip. Ethan preferred the latter. Less falsehood, marginally fewer knives under the table.

  Ordinarily, he would have taken the service économique: tepid water of indeterminate provenance, reused until it bore the viscosity of soup. Its hygiene was suspect, but no more so than the city’s drinking water. Unfortunately, the budget baths were unsegregated by sex, which Mary objected to on moral grounds. Lyra, eager not to contradict her by then friend, played the innocent coquette.

  In private, Ethan suspected the elf minded very little. He had not forgotten her acting the trollop on their first morning.

  Eventually, a compromise was reached. He opted for the service affaires – the baths were still communal, but now segregated by sex. The water was both cleaner and warmer, and the clientele far more polite but also judgemental. It was a step below service première, where high society wined, dined, and bathed in private stalls, and two steps below service spécial, which was only available upon the Mademoiselle’s personal sanction.

  Due to the increase in costs, visits were reduced to strictly once weekly. On other days he relied on the ladle-and-barrel with bone soap method at home: frigid, unsatisfying, and likely to induce pneumonia. But effective at reducing the ever-present stench clinging to him.

  Like many things in his life, it was deemed good enough.

  ---

  Last, but certainly not least, he made a single visit to the western end of Upper Portside. An appointment with his barrister who – like on all of his previous visits – regretfully informed him that his inheritance was not any closer to him than before. Alfred Verrmann, Castellan of Cadefal Castle, would remain Duke Regent ad interim of Daesach Duchy for the foreseeable future.

  Ethan paid the bastard barrister his monthly due, wondering – not for the first time – why he continued with this charade when it brought no results.

  It matters not, he told himself. So long as Daesach is mine to rule at the end of it all, I shall make back all the coin I spent within a month.

  It was a cold comfort, more hope than fact.

  ---

  The rest of his hours were spent at the house – reading, cataloguing, or, when the mood struck, engaging in correspondence. Letter exchanges included no companions; merely some of his old tutors from a life long lost, his diminishing contacts in Cadefal, and the other ever-ineffectual barristers failing to make a proper case for reclaiming his birthright.

  His home library was modest, though eclectic. When it failed to suffice, he borrowed from The Westbank Bibliotheca.

  Lyra’s reaction to both his reclusive habits and his literary interests had been revealing.

  “You read?” she had asked, as though surprised the faculty of literacy extended to men who owned blades and pistols.

  “Yes. Frequently.”

  He was engrossed in a biography of Lucero the Scheming – an infamous Huntsman of Monstrosities – which styled itself as impartial. Ethan found it read more like a manifesto trying to justify murdering the man.

  “And… Westbank has a library?”

  He turned a page. “Of a sort. I am fairly certain I am the only member. The remainder of the premises is reserved for laundering accounts and conducting illicit business over poorly made coffee. But they know me, and they know who I know, so it is simpler to feign respectability toward each other.”

  Her silence had been punctuated by a faint noise somewhere between disbelief and delight.

  “For such an officiously inclined individual, I never would have imagined you were such a… well, how do I put this…”

  “Troglodyte?”

  She laughed. He did not.

  ---

  Mary spent most of her hours in Eastbank, attempting to provide for her ever-expanding collection of siblings. She drew coin from Ethan’s coffers regularly and spent it with alarming speed. Roof repairs, fresh provisions, inevitable fines imposed on the family. Occasionally, some trifling pleasure for herself: the penny gaff, dice games, and drink.

  A scallop’s Holy Trinity.

  Her parents – Mister and Missus Brown – never questioned the origin of her earnings. Ethan recalled as much from his occasional past stays. They merely cautioned her not to return home pregnant. If she did, she would be married off at once, likely to a cousin.

  Disgusting as the insinuation was, Mary had declared it preferable to the truth. Better they think her a whore than a cutpurse and killer.

  She had shared this with Lyra during one of her frequent visits. Officially, Mary attended Ethan’s residence as a supplementary guard. In truth, it was more social than strategic. The two women had grown close in a way Ethan did not examine too deeply.

  He permitted it. So long as Lyra remained under watch, he had no interest in policing how that watch was conducted.

  During these visits, the pair conversed in the usual feminine fashion: gossip, rumour, and inanities. Ethan would read, or sleep, or – rarely – interject. He found the cadence of their chatter tolerable, provided it did not encroach upon his page count.

  One afternoon, however, he awoke from a nap to find them both staring.

  “Something the matter?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

  “C-Course not,” Mary said hastily, her face blotched crimson.

  Lyra coughed, disguising a laugh. Badly.

  Their eyes darted. Then the giggles began. Too synchronised, too restrained.

  He rose. Went to the water closet. Regretted it.

  The mirror revealed a crude eyepatch drawn across his left eye socket, a mole large enough to rival Warren’s, and several ink-rendered phalli with no anatomical merit whatsoever. All in warm ink, ensuring it was applied and dried without discomfort.

  “Glaikit fuckin’ levvy-heided whor–” he swore, only for his shouting to be drowned out by their collective peals.

  He returned to the parlour and found them rolling on the floor. He considered homicide – it certainly held much appeal.

  Instead, he took a breath and engaged in another favoured pass time: plotting vengeance.

  The next morning brought downpour. Sheets of rain that stripped cobblestones of dust and drowned the city’s vermin. He insisted they go jogging regardless, offering no explanation. The women protested. He ignored them.

  At the usual grove, the mud was ankle-deep and unforgiving. Twigs lashed. Slopes slid. Tripping was effortless.

  When they returned to the house, Both Mary and Lyra resembled beasts dragged from a bog. The elf was mute with rage. The scallop lass swore vengeance in increasingly creative dialect.

  Simon howled laughter the moment they walked inside.

  “Did ye– did ye go pig wrestlin’? Fuck me, look at yer faces!”

  Ethan, dry beneath his Elsian silk and entirely unrepentant, removed his cloak with feigned indifference.

  “If ya ever tell anyone – anyone! – what happened,” Mary growled. “We’ll fuckin’ gut ya. Fish-like.”

  Ethan believed her but did not worry.

  Warren remained the most dutiful. He split his time between Hold Cathedral – where he assisted in masses, feasts, and other displays of public sanctimony – and Oaleholder College. There, he attempted to recover the years of academia lost to practical truancy and criminal enterprise.

  Priest by day, accomplice assassin by night. A contradiction only sustainable by absurd luck and obsessive scheduling.

  But it paid for his tuition.

  Thus far, he had passed every examination. Barely. Ethan highly doubted Warren was the next pope in the making – indeed, he would be surprised if the farmhand made it past deacon. But stranger things had happened. And for what it was worth, he fully supported his friend’s honest efforts, no matter how misguided he thought them.

  Simon, by contrast, became increasingly scarce.

  No one knew where he spent his time. Ethan suspected drinking, whoring, or haunting the Westbank workhouse like a ghost unsure if it still belonged there. He had once found Simon there – not returned to reside but merely visiting – and had chosen not to inquire.

  Then there were Denzil and Abigail.

  Abigail’s funeral came and went somewhere in those ‘quiet’ weeks. She was buried under grey skies, with Mary inconsolable and Warren draped in black ministerial vestments. He served as an apprentice deacon for the Requiem Mass, and performed as admirably as his priest could have expected.

  Ethan, Lyra, and Simon attended with the requisite solemnity and minimal conversation. The rest of the mourners were Mary’s kin. Ethan avoided them. Particularly her father.

  Denzil thanked them through a veil of grief, barely coherent. His hands trembled. His words faltered. His presence was that of a hollow man propped up by expectation alone.

  They tried to visit him more often afterwards, but none succeeded in drawing him out his stupor.

  Baron Stonewater’s disappearance was declared a crisis before the first week had run its course. The Lord Mayor, in a public display of performative conviction, declared the city would search “from sewer to steeple” until the baron was found. Predictably, his dedication lasted as long as The Oaleholder Gazette’s headlines did.

  No trace was uncovered. By the second week, the baron's presumed death was quietly declared by the printing presses – an obituary masquerading as an investigative update.

  In accordance with custom, the churches of Oaleholder rang their bells in funereal solidarity, Hold Cathedral’s gongs loudest among them. The melody was mournful and meandering, missing only the sound of gunfire to be mistaken for an alarm.

  In the Inner City, candles were lit and placed outside doorways to guide the deceased’s soul into whatever firmament lay beyond. The tradition persisted more out of pagan habit than contemporary piety, for there were no such candles to be found near the parish churches.

  Most of the boroughs in the Outer City had long since adapted: candles left on doorsteps were promptly stolen, so the savvier residents kept theirs behind windowpanes, where they were less vulnerable to petty theft.

  And then, Inevitably, Richard Best’s promise of a new assignment arrived.

  Best’s valet – Rupert – personally delivered the letter to Ethan’s doorstep, bringing with him the chill of late November that had settled into the cobblestone streets. The message was courteous in wording but firm in implication – his presence, and that of his associates, was requested and required, that same evening, at Oaleholder Great Hall.

  He was with Lyra and Warren when it arrived, discussing what – if anything – could be done to help Denny live through his grief. The conversation was abandoned with due urgency, and they set out to find the other two.

  Mary was located with minimal effort, having chosen to spend her afternoon attempting to entertain her youngest siblings with a battered set of painted stones.

  Simon, however, had again absconded from responsible society. Ethan was already drawing up contingencies when Mary interrupted. She told him to leave it to her.

  She returned less than an hour later, damp, breathless, and visibly irritated. Simon trudged behind her, sullen and clutching one ear.

  “Had to drag him out by it,” she muttered, face flushed, fingers pulling at her hem of her cloak. “Sodden lamprey ain’t even paused pumpin’ that whore while lookin’ me dead in the eye.”

  Simon, apparently lacking both shame and self-awareness, offered a grunt in reply.

  “I’d paid upfront, ya bint – coulda at least lemme finish…”

  “Let’s go,” Ethan ordered before Mary strangulated the lecher.

  They reconvened at Ethan’s home and sat in the parlour. No tea or titbits this time, only tension preluding the storm. The room was quiet – rain ticking steadily against the windows, the glowing Argand lamp sputtering its disapproval.

  Simon eventually broke the silence. “Any clue what Ol’ Ghostie’s plannin’ for us?”

  Mary, calmed now, stretched her arms behind her head and yawned. “Burglary, I hope. If we’re proper lucky-like. Killin’, again, if we ain’t.”

  “Too public,” Warren interjected, flicking idly at the wiry hairs sprouting from his mole. “Stonewater’s death is still fresh news. Best will be wary of disrupting the equilibrium just yet,” He turned to Ethan. “Thoughts?”

  Ethan offered no immediate reply. He regarded each member of the room in turn, appraising them.

  His gaze lingered on Lyra. She sat beside Mary, posture relaxed but expression taut, as though aware of something the other’s were not.

  The two had grown close of late. Whether it was a matter of common sex or shared disinterest in the masculine posturing of the others, he neither knew nor particularly cared.

  He exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Given what we know of Lyra’s mission, I assume we shall be sent into some half-collapsed ruin on the far end of civilisation, and tasked with investigating something arcane, dangerous, or both.”

  No one had the chance to argue. The rain’s rhythm was interrupted by the clatter of hooves on cobblestone, followed by the screech of damp brakes and the impatient whinny of soaked horses.

  They glanced out, but the window revealed only shadow and rivulets of rain.

  Ethan stood. “That will be our coach.”

  He made a mental note of the arrival point. Too close to the house. The coachman was an amateur.

  A vehicle stopping directly at his residence would draw attention. That attention would breed speculation. Speculation, inevitably, led to trespass.

  He did not mind disposing of would-be burglars. But he did mind replacing broken windows in winter.

  Ethan donned his Elsian silk while the rest cloaked themselves in oilskins – hoods drawn, bandanas raised. The ensemble gave them the appearance of travelling marauders.

  Or unusually well-armed fishmongers.

  The coachman wore similar garb, though his hood was down, and his face was lit by a swinging oil lantern. Recognition set in immediately.

  Arthur. Baron Stonewater’s former coachman.

  “Mister ‘Arbinger?” Arthur asked, the accent was pure Crowg – consonants softened by a collier upbringing.

  “Aye,” Ethan said and climbed aboard.

  The others followed wordlessly.

  None dared speak. Not because of loyalty to secrecy, but because the coachman might remember their voices. Arthur, for his part, would have to be kept blissfully ignorant.

  They set off at an even pace, jumping and jostling on each irregular cobble. Ethan concluded that even if Richard had hired Arthur as a coachman, he had yet to extend him the privilege of driving his arcane carriages.

  Eventually, the bumping ceased and the wheels ground to a halt. Rain spattered the roof.

  Ethan disembarked first, cloak sheeting water.

  “You will wait until we are done?”

  Arthur nodded. “A-aye, sire.”

  Ethan inclined his head. The group ascended the limestone steps, boots slick on wet stone.

  The ironwood doors opened inward without prompt. The Great Hall’s custodian stood within, moustache waxed to perfection, gloved hands resting on his lapels.

  He said nothing. Simply nodded, turned, and walked.

  They followed.

  Gold leaf and velvet lined the lobby, the draperies swapped from crimsons to silvers. Walnut trim adorned the walls. The hallway beyond glowed with the warm light of oil sconces, diffused through stained glass and polished marble.

  It was disgustingly extravagant.

  “What is your name, sir?” Lyra asked, as they passed a particularly gaudy likeness of some long-dead dignitary presiding over a feast.

  “Anthony Krieg, Miss Lyra. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  She adopted a tone reserved for male egos and provincial officers. “Thank you for escorting us at such an unfortunate hour, Mister Krieg. I do hope we have not disrupted your other duties.”

  Krieg’s moustache twitched.

  “It is my privilege – one of the many duties I perform as Custodian of the Great Hall. Yet your gratitude honours me, nonetheless.”

  They progressed through the corridor. The windows to the left framed the western parts of Lower and Upper Portside – rows of lamps casting their glow onto the slick cobbles and damp derricks.

  They arrived at Richard Best’s office shortly past the half-hour. The redwood door, as before, opened of its own accord – silent, automatic, and inexplicably aware of their presence. Ethan, as before, did not remark upon it, blinking away the glow in his eyes.

  Just another mystery in a building that seemed to host nothing else.

  Richard Best was seated behind his customary redwood desk, ensconced in an equally ornate redwood chair with a high back and upholstered in fading scarlet. Behind him, heavy velvet curtains had been drawn aside to admit the dim aureate glow of the city’s lamps, casting the room in long shadows. The desk bore a mess of clutter: uncapped inkwells, smeared papers, shattered quills, unwashed sand bowls. The overall impression was that of a man who wrote often and slept rarely.

  A fire had recently died in the fireplace to the right, its embers still radiating faint heat atop the soot-streaked hearth. To the left, rows of shelves bowed under the weight of books, folios, and scrolls that bore no titles. A chandelier – crystal, elaborate, and largely decorative – hung dark and inert from the ceiling, it’s candles snuffed. The only light remained that which trickled in from the rear window, silhouetting Mister Best in dull gold and sharpening the lines of fatigue around his visage.

  Rupert and Meat Man – Fergus – stood nearby. The third was the same towering thug whose shin Ethan had heeled during their first meeting with Lyra. He had not forgotten the injury, judging by the clenched jaw and flexing fists.

  Good. Pain kept memory alive.

  "Mister Harbinger. Mister Macintosh. Mister Gershom," Best inclined his head. "Miss Brown. Miss Lyra," Another nod.

  Ethan noted the dark crescents beneath the man’s eyes and the sluggish drag of his movements. The decay of sleeplessness, barely incipient last time, had only grown worse on him.

  "I thank you for responding promptly to this summons," Best continued. "We shall proceed directly. An Ailbe ruin has been uncovered in one of Helvecone’s western mining operations. Your task is to escort Miss Lyra to the site, ensure her unhindered study, and defend her from any interruptions. Intelligence indicates the Republic intends another abduction attempt. You are to maintain vigilance at all times."

  An assignment exactly as Ethan had predicted but for one detail – the location. His mind immediately turned to gear and supply. Ammunition. Blades. Spare powder. Food, if someone remembered it.

  "You shall travel to Crowg County, within the Barony of Clayton," Best added, and the entire group stiffened. Predictable again, but still unwelcome.

  "Upon arrival, you will make contact with the mine’s overseer. They are under instruction to admit you. A coach is prepared to depart forthwith. Are there any queries?"

  "Three," Ethan said, wasting no time.

  "Proceed," Best muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  "First, Arthur the coachman. He has previously seen and spoken with Warren and Mary. There is a risk he may recognise them."

  Best waved the concern away with a brittle motion. "Arthur is now in my employ. He has renounced all former loyalties and serves the Crown alone and directly. Should he recognise any of you, he shall not act upon it."

  A gamble, then. One Ethan had not agreed to. Still, he understood the rules of this particular game: protest all you like, nothing changes.

  Lyra’s brow creased. She was unlikely to have missed the tension when Arthur had first reappeared, nor the weight in Ethan’s voice now. She did not ask – not yet – but the pieces were beginning to align.

  The plot will be revealed soon. But not here, nor now.

  "Second," Ethan continued. "We will require arms. If the Republic intends an ambush, we must be able to reply in kind."

  Best allowed himself a grin – narrow and distinctly sharp. "Beneath the seats of Arthur’s coach you shall find muskets, pistols, blades, powder, shot, and other useful implements. I would expect nothing less of you, Mister Harbinger."

  "Aye, I imagine you would," Ethan kept his voice flat. The more Best smiled, the less trustworthy he became.

  "And third," he asked, gaze fixed on the man’s hands. "Who is our contact in Clayton?"

  This time, the grin spread wider. The teeth gleamed, too white, too straight to be wholly natural, especially with how given their employer was to tobacco leaf. A quiet laugh escaped Mister Best’s throat – barely more than an exhalation, but entirely audible. Rupert shifted behind him.

  Ethan received no answer. Which, in itself, was answer enough. No point in wasting further breath, he turned on his heel and departed without another word.

  Outside, Anthony Krieg was already waiting. He offered a bow more formal than necessary. "Shall I escort you to–"

  "No need," Ethan interrupted. He gestured the others forward.

  "May fortune attend you," Krieg offered behind them, voice dulled by routine. The sentiment was hollow, but not discourteous.

  Once again, the ironwood doors opened without assistance. The party descended the hundred-and-one steps in silence, eyes fixed on the limestone; slippery with rivulets of sooty rain. Ethan heard Arthur shift on the coach perch as they approached.

  "To Clay'on, sire?" the man asked.

  "Aye. But stop at my residence in Westbank first. Do not approach the door. Pull in at the end of the street."

  "By thee command."

  A northerly gale ripped through the Inner City as they boarded, giving the rain a diagonal trajectory which led straight under their cloaks. The wheels began their slow roll through the sodden streets.

  “Why’re we stoppin’ at the house?” Simon asked, tone low and wary.

  "I need to retrieve something."

  "What is it?" Lyra again. Her curiosity was rapidly exhausting its leash.

  "You shall see soon enough."

  The coach halted at the end of the street. Ethan disembarked without further explanation, entered the house, and went directly to the parlour. His boots smeared mud over the boards and carpet, and for a moment, he heard the Aury-inflected disapproval of a long-dead underbutler in the back of his mind.

  He went through the process of opening the secret cupboard behind his family’s likeness – frog, stoker, panel, hole, second panel – reached in, and removed the rifle.

  The heirloom weapon was entirely grey in his darkvision. The dwarven alloy barrel had not rusted in over forty years. It never would. He checked the breach, confirmed the rifling was clean. Inside the openable stock, ten cartridges waited – paper-wrapped, wax-sealed, and ready.

  The bayonet came next, its hilt engraved with the twin key insignia of his house. He fixed it to his belt, next to the pistol, wrapped the riflebore in a sheet of oilskin, and resealed the panel.

  The whole business took less than three minutes. When he returned to the coach, he made no comment. He sat, set the bundle across his lap, and shouted Arthur onward.

  Simon stared at the oiled cloth. “That what I think it is?”

  Ethan did not answer.

  Lyra leaned forward. "What is it?"

  "Insurance," Ethan said softly, and a smile – more a thin grimace – spread across his face. "In the event any frogs think to play soldier in the dark."

  Lyra recoiled instinctively, her gaze flitting between the bundle and the man cradling it.

  "On second thought," she muttered, turning away. "Do not tell me."

  The road west from Oaleholder offered little resistance, save for the sodden ground and damp-thickened air. Rain eased into a listless drizzle, more a condition of the landscape than an act of weather. The wheels of the coach did not so much roll as trudge, sluicing through muddy cobbles in slow protest.

  Inside the compartment, the atmosphere remained taciturn. Not a word had been exchanged since departure – not from discomfort, but mutual agreement. Only Simon had the gall – or obliviousness – to sleep, his snoring so thunderous and erratic it sounded like a blacksmith attempting to forge a kettle from within his own skull. The others endured it with admirable forbearance.

  An hour’s ride brought them to the first checkpoint, a modest rest stop just outside the city of Boulstran, built for late departures and rough-footed travellers like themselves.

  The Nightingale Inn stood tucked in a hollow of stone and orchard. The apple trees were skeletal, their bark glistening with rainy runoff. Above, the roof of the inn slanted wearily beneath a cap of weathered tiles, multiple chimneys leaking the faintest curls of smoke into the drizzle. Its frontage was narrow, a mismatched veneer of crumbling stone and cheap whitewash. A wooden sign bearing the painted silhouette of a sparrow – not a nightingale – swung on rusting chains, groaning with every shift of wind.

  Arthur guided the coach into the yard with slow care, the lantern on his perch guttering but never dying. He dismounted with a grunt and led the horses into the open stables. Straw had already been scattered and the feed baskets replenished – presumably by someone whose sense of time remained flexible enough to accommodate such late arrivals. The water troughs brimmed, raindrops plip-plopping into the dark liquid.

  Ethan noted the subtle signs of upkeep: no cobwebs in the rafters, no rust on the hinges. Someone was taking their stewardship seriously, even if the rest of the inn looked a fortnight away from collapse.

  They entered without knocking. The main room was plainly appointed – rough-hewn beams, a battered counter, and a fireplace in which coals still glowed sharply. Candles in thick-bottomed glasses provided just enough light to conjure the innkeeper from the gloom. He stood behind the bar like an apparition of the place itself, squat and whiskered, missing several teeth and most of his polish.

  He looked up from his pewter at they approached and wheezed through his smile. His breath smelt of pipe tar and stale spirits, even from across the room.

  “Arthy! Bugger me blind – bain’t thought Oi’d ever see yer face again, wot wi’ the baron croak’d an’ all!” The innkeeper’s Crowgish inflexions rolled out like molasses over gravel. Whatever consonants he once possessed had long since been pawned for liquor.

  Lyra blinked slowly, clearly opting not to bother attempting translation. Wise.

  Arthur responded in the same asinine lilt. “Nor Oi meself, Billy. Bu’ the stone’s rolled; aye, it has. Got meself a new mas’er now, an’ these here are his lot. They’ll be stayin’ the night, if thee pleases.”

  Ethan detested this assignment already.

  “Aye, been told, been told. Got a pair o’ rooms up top. Three beds each – take it or leave it,” Billy’s hospitality extended precisely to his professional obligation, and no further.

  Mary snorted. “That’s the lot? Two rooms for six scallops? Ye holdin’ the rest back for the Duke o’ Nowt, are ya?”

  Billy shrugged. “Oi only keeps wot Oi’m paid for. Any complain’s, take it up wi’ thee lordlin’. Share beds, sleep on the floor, or bugger off back down the lane. Dun bother me none. Ha!”

  Mary’s eye twitched. Ethan preemptively stepped away from her elbow.

  As the others removed their hoods and scarves, Arthur sputtered mid-sentence. His eyes widened, and a deep crease seized his features.

  “It’s thee!”

  Mary and Warren froze. Ethan turned, expression blank. “Pardon?”

  “Thee’s the one! Put this on me jaw!” Arthur jabbed an arthritic finger at the side of his lantern chin, where a jaundiced bruise lay like the memory of an elbow strike.

  “...Am I?” Ethan’s tone was less contrite than curious.

  Arthur launched into a slurred soliloquy. “Weeks gone, Oi were down on me luck – outta work, coinless, desperate an’ the like. Oi met this sore-fingered bas'ard named Frank in the taproom. And he said he knew a soft mark wi’ no friends. Thought we’d give him a nudge an’ lighten his purse. And I says, says I: thac plan be sure as pits, Frank. Three of us! And what'd we get? A thrashin’ in the mud outside Westbank, from thee! Thee gravelly bas’ard!”

  Huh. Small world, indeed, Ethan thought. Though outwardly, he said nothing, staring the coachman down.

  Arthur turned to Simon, who was clearly braced for a second performance. “And thee! Yer the one wot gave me a groat just afore Oi signed on wi’ the poor house. Thank’ee.”

  Simon raised his chin with a grin. “Aye, sounds like me: generous to a fault. No need to thank me – just clock some ugly prick for me next time, yeah?”

  Arthur harrumphed and turned away, seemingly satisfied to have recounted his tragedy to someone who listened.

  “And as for her,” Simon continued, gesturing toward Mary. “She’s fierce enough to guard yer honour and mean enough to nick it after. So watch yer tongue.”

  Mary bared her teeth. “Go stuff a crab trap, ya spavined chum pot.”

  The keys were dispensed with no further ceremony. Two rooms, adjacent and unclaimed save by dust. Ethan inspected the hallway: no recent footprints save their own, no loose hinges on the window latches. The walls – stone with lime mortar – were thick enough to muffle most indiscretions.

  Satisfactory.

  Mary crossed her arms and declared the verdict. “Right, well. I ain’t cruel enough to make someone sleep on the floor – but none o’ ye lot are saint-like neither. Warren, ye wear the holy cloth. Least likely to try a hanky or pull a panky, so yer bunkin’ with me and Lyra. If ye snore, I’m drownin’ ya in the chamberpot.”

  “I shall endeavour to breathe meekly,” Warren deadpanned.

  The groups dispersed. The stairs creaked less than expected, though Ethan noted the uneven step at the halfway point – prime spot for a squeak trap if this were an ambush site. Once inside his room with Simon, he bolted the door, unwrapped the rifle and leaned it against the corner.

  “Oh bollocks, it is what I thought.” Simon muttered, looking at the weapon. He had seen Ethan take a man’s brains out at two-hundred yards with it. He would likely see it replicated, soon enough.

  Ethan did not comment.

  The straw mattress was thin, but dry. The linens had been aired recently enough to matter.

  There were worse inns. Worse places. He had slept in worse. Killed in worse.

  From downstairs, the muffled babble of Arthur the coachman and William the innkeeper resumed, two old dogs yapping over bone-pile memories.

  Ethan lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, listening for anything unusual. There was only wind, the soft pitter-patter of late autumn rain, and the intermittent creak as damp timber settled.

  Work of the most pleasant kind, Richard Best had said.

  Ethan willed himself to sleep before anger chased it away.

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