The Assassin's Code - Act I: Finrad's Magnificent Tower

I DON’T COMMIT MURDER WITHOUT REASON or cause. It’s never about personal grudges or slights, either. There’s a code to these sorts of things. An Assassin’s Code, one might call it, though assassins simply call it the Code the same way knights refer to theirs. But our code is not a chivalric one. The Assassin’s Code is much more practical, with basic tenets like ‘Never let a job become personal,’ ‘Never have regrets,’ ‘Never work for free,’ and ‘Never leave a job unfinished.’ Regarding the first two, I’ve found that by never letting a job become personal, one doesn’t have regrets . . . most of the time. If everyone followed the Code, the world—or at least my life—would be much simpler. But few do. Take Gwendolyn Goddard, for example. The woman has the exact sociopathic tendencies needed for my trade, but everything about her is an antithesis to the Code. For one, she makes everything personal, starting with when she set me up for murdering her brother. One might consider that business since she gained majority control of the Society as a result, but then she had to go and send her mercenary police force after me when the authorities failed to do the job. Then, despite knowing of my relationship with Atticus Drake, she tried to hire me to assassinate him. Throw in a plan to undermine my alliances and a harrowing escapade with automated carriages speeding across the city, and I couldn’t guess what came next. I was confident Gwendolyn already had something in mind, though. So, as I waded through the night’s chill air, wondering if we might get our first snow this very evening, I approached Atticus Drake’s manse with the beginnings of a plan to remove Gwendolyn Goddard from my life for good.

No dark armor or masks this evening, I stepped onto Atticus’s porch sporting a casual ensemble of a jacket lined with lamb’s wool, vest, trousers, and sturdy boots. I left my Steel Islands sword and long knives at home, preferring to carry more inconspicuous weapons like a small dagger at my side and numerous throwing knives secreted away elsewhere. Though Atticus expected my arrival, I was caught off guard when the door flung open with dramatic flair before I even raised my hand to knock. Even more surprising was the sight of Atticus himself, flanked by his right-hand man, Samuel, storming from the house with such urgency I had to leap aside to avoid being bowled over.

“Thomas!” Atticus said, an unusually dark expression creasing his older but still handsome features. He gesticulated with hands nestled inside a pair of leather gloves. Heavy coats meant they were on their way out. “You’re here! Excellent. There isn’t a moment to lose. Come with us.”

I followed the pair to a clarence parked along the drive with a draft already harnessed. While Atticus and I ensconced ourselves inside the cab opposite one another, Samuel took his usual place in the driver’s seat. Wasting no time, Samuel had the carriage’s wooden wheels rattling over the main boulevard’s cobbles in no time. The perceived urgency of the situation was so great that only after we had established a steady rhythm did I feel at ease enough to ask about our destination.

Fuming, Atticus exhaled sharply, his expression darker than I had ever seen. “Do you remember the Cranes?”

“Of course,” I said. “Professors Remy and Ruby, as I recall.” Father and daughter scientists, each as odd as one might expect for such scholarly intellects. I frowned. “Did something happen to them?”

“No,” Atticus said, thrumming his fingers on his knee as he gauged our progress via the view through the window. “But something will once we arrive at their laboratory.”

I raised a brow, expecting—and receiving—a more detailed explanation.

“I expressly forbid them from building the Tillwood Device, yet that is exactly what they have done.”

“Tillwood Device?” I recognized the artificer’s name but not much else.

“That’s what the Cranes are calling it. After you and Elizabeth delivered the sheaf key, they extracted and successfully deciphered the remaining parchments. Our initial supposition that Mr. Tillwood had designed a power amplifier proved true. However, as they worked through the numerous schematics and other information, the Cranes discovered much more. So much more that I asked them to hold off on any plans to take the next step by building the device until we had time to adequately study and understand the ramifications of such a powerful piece of machinery.”

I remembered the scientists’ excitement when we delivered the key to unlock the sheaf parchment’s secrets, so it didn’t surprise me to learn they’d moved ahead with the next logical step. Scientists will do what scientists do, after all. But clearly, Atticus had assumed they would not defy his request to wait. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be lurching down the street in the dead of night on our way to see them. But one man’s setback is often another’s gain, so with Gwendolyn Goddard still on my mind, talk of the Tillwood Device sparked an idea.

“Is the Tillwood Device dangerous?”

Atticus shook his head lightly. “The device itself? Maybe. But the greater danger lies in those who wish to possess it. I need not remind you of the various organizations that tried to possess the artificer’s schematics after you stole them. If those organizations learn we built a working prototype, they will no doubt seek to take it instead. Not to mention Ms. Goddard. As I’m sure you recall, the artificer worked from her designs. Underhanded actions notwithstanding, she has a legal claim to any inventions created from the schematics. She could show up at the Cranes’ doorstep with a host of city officers, demand they turn over the device, and I can do little to stop her.” Atticus shook his head in disapproval. “The Cranes have exposed all of us to unnecessary danger.”

No one understood the organizations Atticus mentioned better than me. First were the Warders, operating in the shadows on a mysterious project that reeked of something sinister. Then, the Jakaree, zealous priests hell-bent on constructing a dark machine designed to tear open a chasm into a chilling realm of despair. And last, the Progressive Society, whose mission seemed benign until one considered the two-edged nature of technology. Atticus belonged to the Society and, in fact, called himself a founding member. But the Society was fractured, with Atticus’s tenuous hold threatened by Gwendolyn’s firmer hand. That Gwen was a bigger thorn in Atticus’s side than in mine was an understatement. But I wondered how deep that thorn went and how far Atticus might go to see it removed.

I steepled my hands. “I have an idea, Atticus. One I think you’ll like.”

Atticus raised a brow and regarded me with curiosity.

I leaned closer. “I know how we can ensure those organizations never come looking for the device or anything else ever again.”

Atticus narrowed his gaze. “I’m listening.”

Meaning he wanted to know the catch.

“I need to borrow the Tillwood Device.”

Atticus raised a brow but said nothing. I was ready to provide more details to win him over, but Samuel interrupted with a signal that we approached the secret laboratory. So, as he guided the carriage around back, I held onto those details until the soonest opportunity presented itself.

The laboratory’s interior was as much a haphazard array of machinery and spare parts as the last time I’d visited, as were the two professors, who greeted us with nary a nod since their full attention was on a machine—the Tillwood Device, I presumed—resting by itself on top of a solitary table. The device stood a modest three feet tall. At its base, dark, polished wood adorned with intricate carvings of swirling vines and arcane symbols shimmered in the light as if infused with a subtle, living essence. Upon the base rested a multifaceted, crystalline orb that glowed in various hues, shifting colors like a wizard’s pyrotechnic display, its streams of ethereal, pulsing light illuminating the carvings below and creating an enchanting dance of shadows. A latticework of brass—an excellent conductor of alchemical power—surrounded the orb. These thin metal filaments absorbed energy radiating from the crystal, transferring that power as spirals of silver energy to slender metallic arms stretching upward like the branches of a tree seeking the sun. The arms, forged from an unidentifiable alloy, ended in intricate geometric shapes that hummed with latent intensity. Besides the illuminating display, the device emitted a soft hum that sent vibrations across the room.

Both scientists wore dark goggles, and with good reason, given the bright, pulsating light. Professor Crane—Ruby, that is—took fastidious notes using quill and ink, recording measurements from a handheld device on a piece of parchment. More parchments, already covered with data, were stacked next to her. At the same time, her father made adjustments to the machine using levers in a small control panel at the machine’s base.

Shielding his eyes with a raised arm, Atticus swept into their midst. “By the Old Gods! You not only built it, but you’re testing it, too. Turn it off. Now!”

Professor Crane—Remy—could scarce ignore Atticus’s tone, let alone his command. “But we just started calibrating the harmonization of the—”

Atticus slammed his fist onto the table. “I don’t care. Shut it down before it’s too late.”

Startled by the sudden outburst, Ruby’s attention snapped up from her note-taking. She and her father exchanged a startled glance, and with her dark goggles still resting on her face, Ruby blurted, “Too late for what?”

“Just do it!” Atticus barked, stepping toward the machine as if he meant to turn it off himself if they wouldn’t.

Remy grumbled something under his breath, but he flipped a switch on the device, extinguishing the pulsating light and silencing the machine’s hum so the laboratory settled into an eerie silence. Remy spun on his stool to address Atticus while Ruby looked on.

Professor Crane—the elder one—lifted his goggles to his forehead, revealing a pointed stare and narrowed wrinkles across his brow. He folded hands bearing the cuts and nicks of a seasoned craftsman in his lap and asked in a tight voice laced with irritation, “Care to explain why you barged into my laboratory and interrupted our experiment?”

That did not seem the best way to cool Atticus’s anger, but then I wasn’t sure what this was all about, so I crossed my arms and, remaining at the periphery, leaned against the nearest wall to watch the confrontation unfold.

“Your laboratory?” Atticus asked.

I half expected steam to explode from his ears.

“Need I remind you who pays for all this?” Atticus waved a hand, not waiting for an answer. “I most certainly did not barge in here. However, if I had, it was only because the situation's urgency dictated I do so. I asked you weeks ago not to proceed with the device's construction. Yet, despite the danger, you did so anyway.”

Ruby ducked her head and returned to her note-taking.

Professor Crane’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Danger? What danger?” His voice rose with each word. “I told you we took all necessary precautions, and we did. As long as the power levels remain nominal, the danger is minimal.”

Atticus stamped his foot. “I am not as concerned with the device as I am with those who wish to possess it. As you know, certain others have gone to extraordinary lengths to take back the sheaf parchment. Since Elizabeth retrieved the key, they must assume we’ve made some progress in revealing the secrets of the various schematics. But have they guessed we’ve gone further and built the artificer’s device?”

Ruby gathered her stack of parchments with her head ducked, slid from her stool, and slowly extricated herself from the melee.

“I’ve kept the location of this laboratory secret so far,” Atticus said. “But how long before the likes of Ms. Goddard, the Warders, or even the Jakaree death priests detect the energy emanating from the device? From studying the designs, we know it gives off a power signature unlike any we’ve ever seen. We also know the Warders are monitoring the purchase of rare earth materials via their contacts in the marketplace. If they don’t already know you’ve built the device, they probably do now and, thanks to the two of you, might even know precisely where to find it!”

Remy shot up. “Do you, sir, take me for a complete idiot?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

I wondered if steam might come from the professor’s ears first.

“Why, you, sir, are a horse’s arse if you think I’m stupid enough to—”

“Gentlemen!” I said, abandoning my place of safety to step between the combatants before the argument progressed any further. “What’s done is done. The professors built the device, and since that fact won’t change, we should figure out how best to use it.” I paused to let my words sink in and the temperature of the room to abate. “Fortunately for all of us, I have already deliberated over the situation, and I think I have just the thing.”

The two scientists continued glaring at one another, but at least my intervention had introduced a momentary cessation of their verbal hostilities. Finally, Atticus took the high road and looked away. Remy followed suit, tossing his goggles onto the table before he crossed his arms and settled into a dark silence.

“Surely someone wants to hear my idea,” I stated.

Ruby, who had found safe harbor behind a desk in the room’s corner, raised a pudgy-fingered hand. “I’d like to hear it.”

“As would I,” Atticus grumbled, “but not until after I’m sure this location remains secure. You are far from an idiot, Professor Crane, so can I assume you have the device, if not the entire building, shielded?”

Remy appeared no less irritated, but he accepted the olive branch. “You can.”

“Not the entire building,” Ruby said from her corner. “But a sufficient area around the device to ensure no exo-energy can escape. I assure you, Mr. Drake, we've taken every precaution to ensure the laboratory’s location and our work remain a secret.”

Remy jutted his chin at Atticus in a gesture clearly meaning, “I told you so.”

Atticus, who noted the gesture, chewed his lip while he contemplated Ruby’s words. Finally, Atticus nodded, accepting the younger scientist’s explanation, though he did ask, “Did you confirm the efficacy of the shielding by monitoring the energy emanations?”

Ruby held up her stack of parchment. “Measured and recorded.”

Atticus exhaled deeply, the last bit of tension melting from him. “Very well. Professor Crane, I apologize for my overreaction. However, I do not apologize for barging into my laboratory.”

Remy shrugged. “Apology accepted.”

With the confrontation settled, I intended to outline the details of my plan. However, a tangle of laundry lines sprawling across the back half of the laboratory distracted my attention. Dozens of parchments fluttered from each line. “Did all those come from the original sheaf parchment?”

Ruby came around the desk, smiling at my astonishment. The young woman had a roundish figure beneath her laboratory coat and a plain face framed beneath short brownish hair she kept simple and tied into a short ponytail. She removed her glasses, cleaning the lenses with the tails of her shirt. “Even more. We ran out of places to hang the others.”

“They all detail some part of the device?”

“Most. Some have more to do with the underlying processes, but they all correlate with the machine in one way or another.”

Still astonished, I asked, “What does the device do? Atticus mentioned power amplification on the way over.”

“That’s right,” Ruby said. “The Tillwood Device—we’re calling it that out of respect for its designer—is, more precisely, an energy multiplier.”

That told me little beyond the obvious. Ruby saw my blank expression and launched into a more detailed explanation.

“The Tillwood Device uses an asymptotic duclidean process to generate a small amount of energy by agitating minuscule power rivulets into a hyperactive state. After a multitude of iterations—”

Ruby’s father cleared his throat. “Perhaps a high-level explanation will suffice, especially since Mr. . . . ?”

“Thornton,” I said by rote. “Though Thomas will do.” Present company knew me best as Thomas Thornton, so while the identity bordered on overuse, I required its service a little longer.

“Especially since Thomas is not a scientist.”

“A high-level explanation will suffice,” I said.

Ruby frowned, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features. “Very well. The Tillwood Device operates on a transformative principle: given even the most modest energy input, it can amplify that energy output by a factor of a thousand. Advanced energy convergence mechanisms and resonant amplification processes make this possible. The gains in efficiency are nothing short of revolutionary. This device represents a paradigm shift in energy generation—one the world has never seen before.”

“Interesting,” I said. “About the energy input. I assume you mean an external generator?”

“Exactly,” Ruby answered.

“Does any type of generator work?”

“Some better than others,” she said. “But assuming the correct calibration and alignment, most will do the job.”

Ruby’s father stepped in. “In our case, we’re using a typical, low-output alchemical generator. Nothing special. But then, the device doesn’t require anything special. That’s the beauty of the multiplication process. There is a small issue with energy leakage, but we’re confident we’ll have that figured out soon.”

“So, Aravar was a genius?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” Atticus said, whose flat tone and lack of astonishment told me he already knew all this about the machine. “But Ms. Goddard also had a hand in its design, so some—perhaps most—of the credit must go to her.”

“Speaking of Gwendolyn,” I said, thinking to bring the conversation back to my plan. “Ever since Liz stole the sheaf key from Ms. Goddard some weeks ago, Gwendolyn has been trying her damnest to get the schematic back, right?”

Elizabeth had pulled off a fine operation, infiltrating Gwendolyn’s inner circle and stealing the key right from under her nose. Still, it hadn’t taken Gwen long to deduce where the key had gone, though she’d gotten no further than accosting Atticus at every opportunity about it. Atticus, for his part, had become an expert at denial. ‘I know nothing about a key,’ ‘I know less about its whereabouts,’ and ‘How would I know anything about the thief who stole it from you if I know nothing about what you claim was stolen?’ Eventually, Gwendolyn grew weary of asking him and finally gave up.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn had her new mercenary force, the Black Blades, scouring the city for the key and the thief who had taken it from her. So far, their search yielded few results. But what Gwendolyn lacked in patience, she more than made up for with intelligence, so I knew she’d eventually find the secret laboratory and perhaps even learn Liz’s identity. Both outcomes were another reason to move forward with my plan. Better to strike first—and rid ourselves of Gwendolyn Goddard for good—than wait for either to happen.

“Indeed,” Atticus said to my question. “The Tillwood Device represents a gigantic leap forward in energy production with near limitless applications. It’s worth a great deal to Ms. Goddard and the Society in terms of reputation and financial gain.”

I strolled about, thinking. “If I understand the writs governing the Society’s presence in Alchester, such a significant invention must benefit Kallendor and no other, correct?”

Atticus folded his hands before him. “That’s correct. The crown is one of our most generous patrons. As part of our agreement to operate within the city, the Society shares our most important findings with Kallendor alone. Some of our inventions have specific military applications, so this only makes sense. But others, like the Tillwood Device with its broader reach across multiple industries, must also remain close to home, so to speak, to maintain a superior technological advantage over the other fiefdoms.”

I crossed my arms and lifted a hand to my chin. “What happens if word got out that the Society intended to sell the Tillwood Device to the highest bidder?”

Atticus’s face took on a pinched look. “That will never happen as long as I sit on the Primary Council.”

“Humor me,” I said.

“Such an act is considered treason. As such, the Ministry of Justice would cancel our operating agreements, seize our assets, and arrest and imprison the Society's members. As a founder, I would face execution or imprisonment, along with the others on the council, including Ms. Goddard.”

“Including Ms. Goddard,” I said, tapping my chin with my forefinger. “Interesting.”

Atticus lifted a brow in curiosity. “I suppose this has something to do with the idea you tried to tell me about earlier?”

“What idea?” Professor Crane asked. Even Ruby, who had returned to her desk, looked interested.

“You’re all concerned about Ms. Goddard finding the Tillwood Device. Not to mention the Warders and the Jakaree. This laboratory is safe for now, but for how long? You can always move the device, but how much time does that buy you before they find you again?”

Atticus crossed his arms. “So, what are you proposing?”

“That we take the fight to them. The best defense is a good offense and all that. What I’m proposing is simple. We set a trap for Gwendolyn, the Warders, and maybe even the Jakaree using the Tillwood Device as bait. Now, I don’t have all the details worked out, and I’ll need to bring in some others to legitimize the charade, but if we play our cards right, we might rid ourselves of the opposition in one fell swoop.”

I quieted, waiting to field the barrage of expected questions. But everyone remained silent. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have,” I said, wondering if the prompting might help.

That at least got Atticus to clear his throat.

“I do have questions,” he said. “Concerns, as well. You could not have chosen a better lure, though I am curious about the details. You may intend to ensnare certain individuals and parties, but as I said, my involvement with the Society may pull me into your scheme as well, and not in a good way. Also, once you’ve lured everyone into your trap, how do you intend to catch them, so to speak?”

I suppressed a smug smile because that was the brilliant part. But like a magician clinging to his secrets, I felt the need to keep such details to myself for now. So, I said only, “We’ll need to get the word out that we have the device and intend to sell it. But that information will have to come from the right person. No offense, but that person can’t be you, Atticus. No one will believe someone of your standing and reputation is capable of doing such a thing.”

Atticus tugged at his jacket. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“Fortunately, I know someone.”

Atticus nodded, understanding the less he knew, the better. “How do you intend to keep the Society from getting dragged into this? Also, once the respective parties have fallen into your trap, what do you intend to do with them? You have a reputation as well, Mr. Thornton, and so I feel compelled to inform you I will not be a party to murder.”

Remy frowned, and his daughter, who had no trouble meeting my gaze earlier, found her tabulated data much more fascinating now.

Murder.

For some, it was a taboo word, disgusting even. For others, it represented a means to an end, a calculated risk in a game where stakes were measured in power and survival. To many in Alchester, it represented an irrevocable choice. To others, it became a necessary evil, a tool wielded in the shadows of ambition, stirring a complex mixture of fear, thrill, or even admiration. Regardless, it always revealed the darkest corners of human nature, its moral dilemmas too terrible for most to consider. Even the few who embraced it, like me, had to reconcile its ghastly nature from time to time. But that’s where the Code came in, providing guidance and, I daresay, a rationale for it all. But no one else present knew about the Code. To them, I was a killer without principle. An executioner of a sort. A murderer without remorse or pity.

“You can stop now,” I remember Olivia telling me once.

But my sister didn’t understand. She didn’t recognize the danger still lurking so close. Yes, I had avenged my parents’ murders. But Olivia didn’t know our family’s enemies like I did. For now, they lingered in the shadows, waiting, watching perhaps, but always ready to take advantage of weakness. I may have ended the worst of them those many years ago, but someday they’d tire of the shadows and come into the light once more. Unlike my father, I refused to allow them to find me unprepared. If people like the professors, Atticus, and so many others saw me as something to disdain and fear, I could accept that. One thing I could not accept was becoming a victim again.

Such ruminations remained my own, so, affecting my best smile, I said to Atticus, “Nothing like that this time. But I can’t say anything more right now. Keep the device safe. If all goes well, I’ll have the pieces in place by the end of the week. I’ll provide more details then.”

“See that you do,” Atticus said. “My approval of the device for this scheme of yours hinges on those details. Make no mistake, Thomas. I would like nothing more than to see Gwendolyn and those others removed from the list of participants in this game of ours, but not if there’s even the slightest chance the schematics or the device fall into the wrong hands. You and I have seen enough regarding the intentions of the Warders and Jakaree, so even though their end goals remain elusive, handing over the device to either is entirely unacceptable.”

“Agreed,” I said, leaving it at that.

It seemed an opportune time to leave, so as Atticus settled into a conversation with the professors over their latest data, I slipped from the laboratory and back into the night. I exchanged nods with Samuel as I strolled past him, and then I was alone. Thinking of giving my legs a rest, I hailed the nearest coach—conventional, as chance had it, and not one of the newer automated ones—gave the driver some quick instructions regarding my destination, and, with a snap of the reins, off we went. For some time, I watched street lanterns pass through the window before we came to a final lurching stop. The carriage swayed as the driver stepped down, and the door opened. I paid and thanked him, then waited in front of The Jaded Peacock while horse and wagon clopped away.

Meanwhile, the tavern door swung open, releasing a symphony of delightful sounds into the night. The lively notes of pipes filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of friendly conversation and the occasional burst of cheerful laughter from patrons savoring delicious food and fine wine. I caught the barest sight of flickering flames dancing in the hearth, its warm glow inviting all who passed by to step inside and share in the joy and comfort of the bustling atmosphere. While I longed to heed its call, I told Atticus I had a plan in mind, one I meant to put in motion tonight. So, pulling my jacket tighter against the brisk air, I blended into the sparse crowd of night revelers on their way to warmer places and set my sights on Beggars’ Quarter.

With more civilized neighborhoods left behind, I soon walked alone. Alone but for the cutpurse tailing me. I picked up on him as soon as I entered the quarter’s fringes. I expected to see others. A lead man ahead to hold me up while the thief behind closed in, and maybe even another coming at me from the side from one of the myriad dark alleys characteristic of this part of town. I didn’t see any reason to oblige them, so I ducked into the next alley, disappearing within to wait. The cutpurse glided in, smooth as butter, a surly look on his stubbled face and murder in his eyes. Not a simple robbery then, especially when I spotted a Jakaree kris held in a white-knuckled grip beneath his cloak. I didn’t fancy a knife fight right now, so I slipped in behind him, wrapped my arm around his throat, and jabbed him in the back once, twice, and a third time, so fast his first gasp didn’t come until I’d already released him and he’d fallen to his knees. He groaned, then fell flat onto his face, his wavy-bladed knife rattling across the cobbles as it slipped from his grasp.

I almost didn’t sense the pair behind me until it was too late.

Spinning around, I caught the knife hand of the first, then kicked the other in the gut. Before the first could dislodge himself from my grip, I smashed my fist into his nose, breaking it.

“Gah!”

I gutted him, stabbing once, twice, before the other, recovered now, darted toward me with a knife—another kris blade—aimed at my face. I shoved the first into him, knocking him astray, which opened up the opportunity I needed to get behind him and jam my knife into his kidney. He gasped but still had some fight in him. So I threw him against the wall, cracked him across the jaw when he turned, and, finally, slashed him across the abdomen. He collapsed, falling almost on top of the other.

No one was getting back up, so I checked vitals all around to make sure I didn’t need to stab anyone again. Two were dead, and the third, almost. I turned the one still breathing over, slapping his face to see if enough life remained in him for me to ask who sent him, but his last breath came in the next instant, and that was that. Rifling pockets, I found some coins and nothing else. Looking at their stubbled cheeks, crooked teeth, and cropped hair, I didn’t recognize any of them. I stuffed one of the kris knives into my belt. The knife had all the trademarks of the Jakaree with its black leather-wrapped hilt and dark wavy blade. Though all three carried the same style weapon, none conformed to the standard I had come to expect from Onius and his bunch. Their faces and heads were oddly bereft of tattoos, and their heads, far from cleanly shaven. Also, the assassins’ simple tunics and heavy cloaks were uncharacteristic of the usually robed death priests. Whatever these gentlemen’s identities, they were most definitely not Jakaree.

With three fresh corpses at my feet and the night getting colder, I stepped from the alley and, when I saw no one else about, continued on my way. In my line of work, one is bound to attract the wrong kind of attention, whether that attention came from an affronted relative of someone I killed or someone with an axe to grind over something else I’d done. Ridlin Tamarock’s name surfaced, but while hiring someone to do his dirty work was his style, the consequences for failure were too debilitating for someone of his meek fortitude. Someone else, then, though right now, no names came to mind. In my experience, these sorts of things have a way of sorting themselves out, so while I didn’t put it entirely from my mind, I at least set it aside until I had more information.

Before the interruption, I planned to take a direct route to my destination and perhaps even walk right through the front door. But with my blood still roiling, I decided on a more circuitous route and a more clandestine entrance. The extra steps gave me more time to think about the meeting ahead. I hadn’t spoken to Thjorn since Malakai’s murder. If the old beggar had been a mentor to me, then he was a friend to Thjorn, so it was a wonder Heavyhammer didn’t have half the city turned upside down looking for the blood witch that had sucked Malakai dry. Maybe Thjorn expected me to handle her. Murder was my business, after all. But Heavyhammer was an Anolgan warrior—a barbarian—before he’d settled down to the relatively peaceful life of a crime lord who ran most of the city’s underworld. If anyone knew how to even a score, Thjorn did, and then some.

I turned off before any of the guild’s spotters saw me. With the cold biting now, most were likely far more focused on stomping boots and wrapping themselves in cloaks or blankets than scanning for potential intruders. Almost a decade of complacency also played a factor, since no one worth their salt had made a play against Guild House in all that time. Heavyhammer’s barbarian sensibilities and a trail of bodies had seen to that. Still, Thjorn liked receiving advanced warnings about visitors. He’d have to live with disappointment this one time.

Stopping short of the manor wall, I blended into the shadows, waiting and watching for the next guard to stroll across my field of view. I heard him coming before I saw him when he emitted a resounding inhale and then let out a voluminous sneeze that echoed through the dark. I shook my head at his carelessness. Once he strolled past, I ducked in behind him, whisper-quiet, and hoisted myself up and over the wall, landing in a crouch that kept me well out of sight of the next sentry. Not waiting for anyone to pass this time, I prowled through the dark until I found the guest house I remembered from my previous visit. Windows and doors were closed tight, and no lights shone from within. The small house lay in stillness, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the much larger manor nearby. From an open window, the spirited strumming of a lute floated through the air, weaving its way into the night. A joyful chorus accompanied the melody, voices rising in harmony while an energetic crowd cheered and sang along, their enthusiasm swelling to a triumphant crescendo with each soaring high note.

As I sank further into the dark, the guild’s merrymaking faded, and thoughts of tonight’s assassins rose to the forefront. Heavyhammer throwing a party was about as dependable as the sun rising. In my line of work—and Thjorn’s—that kind of consistency was a disaster waiting to happen. That was why I never frequented the same taverns or wine shops with too much regularity and never on a set pattern. By itself, throwing a party meant nothing. Even combined with tonight’s attack, it still amounted to little more than a coincidence. But the kris knife added an additional element. Before the Jakaree’s arrival, I seldom saw such blades. Yet, now they were so common that ordinary street thugs carried them? That seemed unlikely. Whoever hired those men to waylay me meant for them to attack with those specific weapons, as if they wanted to send a message. I might not yet understand the message’s meaning, but I was sure their plan encompassed other targets. But with nothing tying my trio of assassins to Guild House, I almost considered coming out of the shadows and announcing myself. Yet the unknown aspect of tonight’s attack nagged and nagged at me until I figured it didn’t hurt to keep a low profile and have a look around first. Infiltrating the guild hadn’t been part of tonight’s plan, but it seemed that was what I was about to do.

Most thieves—or assassins—will go up when invading a place. Scaling walls and such is second nature, so finding an open or unlocked window and slipping into a dark room works best most times. But why climb when I don’t have to? A torch bobbing down a walkway and boots crunching on gravel gave me pause, but then I got moving, reaching the house with nary a sound. Padding around the building’s corner, I settled into a familiar crevice where I probed for a hidden catch I’d seen Elizabeth use more times than I could count. When I pressed on the brick and heard a soft click, I knew I had my way in. Slipping into the narrow hall within, where all was dark as pitch, I made sure the door was closed behind me before carefully navigating down the hallway to an expected dead end. Hearing no sounds coming from the other side, I pulled on a hidden catch—another secret door—and stepped into Guild House’s wine cellar.

Soft lantern light bathed the darkened space in a faint, mesmerizing display, illuminating the granite floor and walls but leaving much of the excesses in shadow. At the edge of the light, wine bottles filled dark lacquered racks set in stone alcoves, while barrelmen had stacked barrels of mead and ale in a corner. Heavyhammer was anything but a wine connoisseur, but he pampered guests with one of the premiere wine collections in the city. No one else was here. So, once the secret door had clicked shut behind me, I indulged in a quick perusal of the wine selection. I passed over the ’12 Red Hydra—an odd name for a wine and not a particularly good year, anyway—and the ’35 Saint Berlot for the more refined taste of a ’36 red from the vineyards of Meristo, a principality at Kallendor’s eastern fringes. Heavyhammer’s staff was accommodating enough to leave a tray with glasses and an opener on a small table, so I had the bottle uncorked and a small taste poured into a glass in no time. I sampled the Meristo, confirming its full-bodied aroma and bold flavor, before pouring myself a full measure. Holding my glass to a lantern so the light reflected from the swirl of the wine’s scarlet depths, I took a small drink and found it as delightful as the initial taste. This minor distraction was more than an indulgence. The wine glass was a prop, and I was no longer a nameless assassin but an invited gentleman attending the Lord of Thieves’ grand party. Or perhaps I was one of the people in charge of Thjorn’s estate. I’d have to see how events unfolded.

I left the open bottle for someone else to clean up and, with my glass leading the way, made my way up a creaky staircase to the manor’s kitchen, where the bustling activity of the scene before me unfolded like a colorful tapestry. Guild cooks and their assistants rushed every which way, their faces flushed with the heat of the fires and the labor of their craft. Over the roaring flames, frying pans sizzled with whitefish cooked to golden perfection while pots bubbled with steaming vegetables, their colors bright against the dark metal. The savory aroma of sizzling meats also filled the room, enticing and warm, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. Each chef shouted commands and inquiries, their voices blending into a lively symphony of culinary chaos while the rhythmic clatter of utensils and pans filled the background. As I swept into their midst, the divine smells set my stomach grumbling.

I settled into the second of my pre-determined personas without missing a step.

“Heavyhammer requested an extra chop!” I announced, never stopping. “Also, Mr. Preyton asked for his tenderloin extra well done.”

A cook looked at me with a horrified stare.

“I know, I know,” I said. “Who eats meat that way? There’s no accounting for taste anymore, is there?” I hadn’t interacted with Gustav Preyton, who administered Heavyhammer’s affairs, since my last visit, nor did I know him well. I certainly had no idea how he liked his steak. “Also, Ms. Blackthorn requested a glass of Master Targalas’s finest white wine. A chardonnay if you have it. In fact, bring her the entire bottle.” Never mind that Zara absolutely hated wine. One last request occurred to me before I exited the kitchen. “Make sure Ms. West receives a freshly cut red rose. One from the greenhouse will do nicely. Preferably delivered to the main dining hall before she sits down for dinner.”

"But, sir," the cook who had given me the look sputtered. "Master Targalas requested dinner be served in the Green Room this evening."

Right. The Green Room, which Heavyhammer reserved for private gatherings or when he wished to speak about something important with his highest-ranking thieves. The Green Room was also an excellent place to strike a decisive, impactful blow against the guild if such was one’s goal.

“The Green Room it is, then,” I called over a shoulder, grabbing an apron hanging from a wall hook right before I left the kitchen behind to stride into the grand hall.

The scene beyond was everything I remembered from my previous visits. A mighty blaze roaring in the extraordinarily large fireplace illuminated a grand celebration or, for Guild House, just another ordinary night. Food and drink covered long tables beyond capacity, white-jacketed servers navigated lanes that closed as readily as they opened with expert precision, and guild members and others laughed, hollered, and shouted at one another like old friends. But the celebration’s true centerpiece was the minstrel, whose sweet melodies I’d heard outside. One look at him and I recognized him from other engagements elsewhere in the city. An excellent musician by any measure, his name was Jorin Silversong, which I was sure was a stage name and not his real one. Flashing a broad smile, Jorin furiously strummed his instrument while hitting all the high notes as he belted out a fanciful tune about a young lad who garners the attention of one too many lasses. In the true sign of a master bard, the crowd hung on his every note, word, and gesture, responding with laughter, hollers, and raised mugs as the musician took them on the journey of his song. The minstrel had his audience so enraptured that I had no trouble sauntering in unchallenged. Stopping momentarily, I raised my glass and laughed with everyone else while peering through the bedlam to where an open hall led to Heavyhammer’s private dining chamber. I saw no guards, which wasn’t surprising. People often feel safest when amongst friends in comfortable, familiar surroundings. This, of course, is a mistake. But I’d taken advantage of it often enough when on a job, so I was thankful most people did not share my cynicism.

Not wanting to attract attention or risk being recognized, I kept on the move, weaving through the throngs of laughing, rowdy ruffians. I offered smiles when necessary but avoided direct eye contact, ensuring no one had more than a fleeting glance at my face. I aimed to blend in seamlessly, slipping like a shadow amongst the revelers. Though my visits to Guild House were infrequent and my interactions limited to Elizabeth and a few others, a sober patron might still recognize me. Not that it mattered. As a friend of Heavyhammer’s, most wouldn’t give my presence a second thought.

With so much activity, I needed to winnow down the possible list of miscreants, no small task when the entire hall was full of them. But the regulars—the ones who belonged—didn’t concern me as much as those who didn’t. While I couldn’t be certain of every guild member, I ruled out anyone openly drunk or so engaged in the revelries they didn’t have the wherewithal to plan or involve themselves in an attack. That included almost everyone indulging in Silversong’s rowdy adventure—including the minstrel himself—but not necessarily others engaging in feats of daring, like knife-throwing or games of chance involving dice or cards. Putting those individuals aside, though, left the servers, most of whom moved amongst the array of tables with faces of stone, dropping off platters of meat and fish and picking up empty plates and such on their return to the kitchen. Others carried pitchers overflowing with froth that they dispensed wherever they saw an empty cup. But even these garnered little of my attention. Anyone planning a hit inside Guild House wouldn’t waste their time with the rank and file in the common hall. They’d target one or more of the guild’s master thieves or Thjorn himself.

So, I found a corner where I feigned interest in two muscled giants engaged in a vein-popping feat of arm-wrestling while I monitored who entered and exited the Green Room. That meant keeping an eye on the waitstaff and wondering who amongst them intended to commit murder. I reminded myself that all of this could be for nothing. I might be wrong. Either way, I was here first and foremost to see Thjorn. Choosing the cautious route delayed our meeting, but better that than discovering I was right too late.

One of the servers caught my attention as he repeatedly glanced toward the Green Room with a sharpness that spoke of someone on serious business. When he wasn’t looking that way, he exchanged glances with two other waiters, communicating without words. Such fleeting looks were enough for trained killers to coordinate an attack or, as the seconds ticked by and nothing happened, they might mean nothing at all. Perhaps my instincts failed me this one time? I almost thought so, but then the waiter, who ambled casually amongst the rabble one second, abruptly veered toward the hallway leading to the Green Room the next. The other two followed suit, but not before they intercepted another pair of waiters carrying trays of food and drink—and a single red rose—from the kitchen. They exchanged words, and the trays changed hands. This was no mere coincidence.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years,” said a familiar voice loud enough to rise above the revelry, “is to never trust an assassin.”

Still tracking the movement of the suspicious waiters, I smirked. “And what do all those years of experience tell you about thieves?”

“To trust them even less!”

A hearty chuckle, a slap on the shoulder, and an extended hand, which I took without hesitation, and there before me stood Garrick Greyfoot, thief extraordinaire, the most handsome man in any room by his own admission, and Heavyhammer’s Chief of Thieving Operations. Garrick was an old saw, with speckled gray in his dark beard, streaks of the same in his slicked-back hair, and the weathered skin of someone who spent plenty of time outdoors. If Gustav handled the guild’s legitimate operations, then Garrick was his counterpart, except his purveyance covered the illegitimate activities or, as Garrick liked to call it, the real work of the guild.

“How are things, Garrick?” I asked, leaning close to ensure he heard me. “Bree still running you out of the house at every opportunity?”

Garrick chuckled some more. “Of course! It’s how we’ve stayed together for so long. Twenty-three years of marriage, you know.”

I let out an appraising whistle. “That many?” The first waiter was almost out of sight, but a drunken group of revelers momentarily blocked the other two. If Garrick noticed me holding onto a kitchen apron, he said nothing about it.

“Aye,” Garrick said, still smiling. “It’s a heavy burden, but someone has to bear it. Besides, most have a hard enough time putting up with either of us for twenty-three seconds, let alone that many years.”

I grinned back at him. “I know I’m already finding it a challenge.”

Garrick chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder again. “It’s good to see you. You don’t come around enough.”

“I should stop by more often, but you know how it is with Heavyhammer. Speaking of the old barbarian, shouldn’t you be at his table in the Green Room?”

“Not me! Oh, I got the invite. But why sit down in that stuffy room when I can partake in this?” Spreading his arms wide to embrace the celebration’s lively atmosphere, Garrick let out a hearty laugh. But as his laughter faded, a somber expression settled over his features. “I’ll check in on things later. Word is Heavyhammer’s working on a plan to take down Malakai’s killer. You know about Malakai?”

“Of course,” I said. “I know about the witch, too.”

Garrick curled his lip. “Nasty woman, if even half the stories I hear are true. She’s dropping bodies left and right in the Shambles. Looking for someone, people say. Surprised you haven’t taken a turn at her. Weren’t you and Malakai close?”

“Who says I haven’t? Killing witches isn’t easy, turns out.”

Garrick nodded knowingly. “Maybe go see what ol’ Heavyhammer has to say about it. I know you and him don’t see eye to eye often, but now is as good a time as any to put your differences aside.”

I didn’t think I’d get a better opportunity to return to the business at hand, so I said, “Excellent idea. In fact, I think I’ll go do that right now. It was good seeing you again, Garrick. Give my best to Bree.”

“I will! She’d love to see you. Stop by anytime. You know where to find us.”

I contemplated bringing the old thief in on my suspicions but remained wary of revealing my hand too soon. With the pieces in play now, I felt a strong need to catch the suspected assassins in the act, or they might slip back into the darkness. So, I pursued, sidestepping a trio of drunken guild members and weaving around a pair linked arm-in-arm, struggling to sing along with Silversong. The first suspected assassin had already vanished down the hallway, with the other two about to join him.

By the time I reached the corridor, the three of them had already entered the Green Room. I wasted no time, swapping my coat for the borrowed apron before following them in. Keeping my head down, I headed straight to a sidebar, set my wine glass down, and feigned sorting through dirty plates and utensils while observing the dining room's occupants. No one ever missed Heavyhammer, with his deep baritone and hearty laugh, or Gustav’s pinched voice responding to an inquiry from the always sweet-sounding Elizabeth. Zara, either, whose acid-tinged words cut through the chatter as she questioned why a waiter had placed a glass of white wine in front of her. As the server smoothly answered that he thought she had ordered it, I took in the voices of others, some familiar but many not. Besides the three servers, I detected five male voices and two female. Everyone was seated, with Thjorn at the table’s head as befit his station as lord of the manor. The remnants of appetizers and half-empty glasses and mugs lay scattered across the table. Someone had cracked open the balcony doors at the far side of the room to let a cool breeze in.

“Why in the Nine Hells would I ask for a glass of wine, let alone the entire bottle? See this mug? It’s the same one I’ve been drinking from all night, and it’s got ale in it. Is this your idea of a joke, Kay?”

A difficult woman at the best of times, Zara Blackthorn was downright impossible when in a mood. Given our mutual dislike of one another, I wasn’t sorry if I was the one to put her in one.

Kay wasn’t someone I knew, but I saw he was a plain-looking fellow with a thin face, long hair, and a tunic patterned with enough gold stitching to lure the eye and hold it. Kay held his hands up. “Wasn’t me! Maybe the wine is supposed to go to someone else, and the server made an honest mistake. Cut the man some slack, Zara.”

Another server said, “Pardon me, but I overheard the gentleman in the kitchen. He was quite specific about bringing a bottle of the household’s finest white to Ms. Blackthorn.”

“Who the hell called me ‘miss’?”

While that exchange played out, one of the servers deposited plates of food in front of the other guests while the one who first attracted my attention moved from person to person, refilling wine glasses. He paused at the head of the table—close to Thjorn—and looked at each of the settings to ensure he missed no one or because the other two needed more time to get into position. I watched those two. One had retreated to a corner, while the other remained near Zara, still apologizing for the affront of setting a wine glass in front of her while offering to return the glass and the bottle to the kitchen.

“I don’t care what you do with it,” Zara said, her anger continuing to simmer. Who knew a simple glass of wine could cause so much trouble? “Pour it down the drain for all I care!”

She might have continued her tirade if not for Gustav's sudden squeal of disgust. He shoved his plate away, his face contorted with displeasure. “This is not at all how I wanted my meat cooked. It’s burned!”

“But, sir, the gentleman said—”

“What gentleman?” he snapped.

I stifled a laugh, satisfying myself with a hidden grin instead.

“A rose! How sweet. To whom do I owe my thanks?”

“You can thank Leonidas Storm!”

All eyes shot to the table’s head, where the waiter tossed the bottle of wine aside and drew a knife. Black hilt. Wavy blade. Another Jakaree kris knife, this one poised to stab Heavyhammer in the chest. At the same time, a second assassin revealed himself. The one in the corner, kris ready to strike, shoved the apologizing waiter aside and lunged for Zara.

It's rare that reaching for my knives isn’t the easiest solution to a problem, but with the assassins’ knives already in motion, I used the weapons I already had in hand, flinging a dirty hors d'oeuvres plate at the first assassin and a half-filled mug at the second. The plate spun over the heads of Thjorn’s thieves, bouncing from the assassin’s knife arm but arresting his motion enough for Thjorn to take hold of the waiter’s arm in a vice-like grip and stop it cold. The mug bounced from the other’s chest, but ale splashed all over his face.

“Gah!”

I leaped across the table, scattering dishes and trays and splattering Zara’s wine everywhere in a frantic attempt to intercept the second assassin. Off balance, I did the only thing I could, pivoting and delivering a kick that sent him stumbling backward before he struck. As he staggered, I jumped from the table, drawing a knife before my feet hit the floor. The assassin recovered quickly, slashing and stabbing at me in a frenzy that ended when I smashed my fist into his nose. A spray of blood and a cry of rage preceded a perfectly timed side kick that rocked him back onto his heels. Two thrusts into his abdomen followed by a walloping uppercut that lifted his feet from the floor, and he collapsed. Or almost did. Demonstrating resilience I might have admired if he wasn’t trying to kill me, the assassin stumbled but somehow remained on his feet. I hated to kick a man when he was down, but then I didn’t have to because Zara did it for me, doubling him over before she smashed his skull with a metal tray. This time, he went down. Not dead, I didn’t think, but not getting up anytime soon, either.

At the table’s other side, Thjorn had made sure the one who tried to kill him never got the opportunity again. Still holding firm to the assassin’s arm, his fist had pulverized the man’s face until I doubted his mother would recognize him. Thjorn didn’t look like he was finished, either. He had his bloodied fist cocked, ready to strike that moaning visage again, when Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm.

“Thjorn, he’s done,” she said.

A gurgling sigh escaped the assassin’s ruined lips. A plea for mercy? Thjorn wasn’t one to grant such requests. But he did this time, finally releasing him. Before the assassin slumped to the floor, two others grabbed him by the arms and dumped him into a chair.

Two were down, but three assassins had entered the Green Room. All eyes shifted to the last waiter, who had pressed himself into a corner, hands raised and sheer terror on his face. “I had no idea about them,” he stammered. “I swear it! We were short on staff, so we hired them at the last minute. I didn’t know they were—”

That kind of fear is hard to fake, so I believed him. Heavyhammer turned his stony gaze elsewhere, signaling his agreement.

The lively sounds of cheering and raucous merrymaking echoed from elsewhere, indicating all was well in the great room and that no more assassins had revealed themselves. But that didn’t mean others didn’t lurk about.

“Gustav,” Heavyhammer grumbled, his deep voice measured and calm despite nearly beating a man to death. As always, Thjorn was easily the biggest man in the room. Though he wore the finery of a gentleman, with a richly embroidered jacket over a shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no amount of refinement could conceal the predatory intensity lurking within him. Dark eyes highlighted a glare set in a ridged brow that featured thick, unruly eyebrows. Although past his prime, Thjorn’s physique was a testament to hardened strength, with broad shoulders, powerful arms, and hands capable of crushing a man’s windpipe or beating one senseless. Age may have wrinkled his skin and grayed his thick beard, but his Anolgan ferocity remained. “Sound the alarm. Detain the kitchen staff, especially the head cook. I have questions for him. Then, scour the manor to make sure no other assassins have infiltrated the House. Kay, go with him and take this one with you.”

He pointed to the waiter cowering in the corner.

“Of course, sir,” Gustav said. Along with Kay, he guided the server out.

Thjorn gestured at the assassin slumped over in the chair. “Check him.”

Zara did the honors. She had the job done in seconds.

“Nothing except for the knife,” she said.

Thjorn let out a near-silent grunt. “Callum, Soren, take him to interrogation. Make sure he’s comfortable. I have questions.”

The two thieves lifted the stricken assassin from either side and started carrying him from the dining room.

“You’re not the only one,” Zara growled, her hands twisting into fists. Her dark glare matched the darkness of her skin perfectly. Given the informality of the dinner, she wore a simple tunic over trousers and let her hair hang loose past her shoulders. Always pragmatic, she had a dagger belted at her waist. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll go with them and get started.”

“No,” Thjorn said. “I need you here right now, Zara. Same for you, Elizabeth.”

The room fell silent. When I looked up from my attempt to clean the blood and assorted foodstuffs from my clothing—fortunately, the apron had caught most of it—I found Heavyhammer’s iron stare had turned to me.

“We only need one for questioning,” he said. “End the other one.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied instinctively, immediately hating myself for saying it. Not that I didn’t owe Heavyhammer the respect, but it was the way he gave an order, and, after all this time, I still hopped to it without question. ‘This one stole from me. Teach him a lesson.’ Or, ‘That one is gaining too much influence in the guild. Kill him before he becomes a threat.’ Heavyhammer fought plenty of his own battles, but only a fool doesn’t use the tools at his disposal. At one time, I was one of those tools. Even though years had passed since then, it seemed I still was. But personal grievances aside, I agreed with his assessment. So, I took care of business, kneeling on the man’s chest and slicing his throat. He was half unconscious, his breathing ragged and wheezy, and probably dying anyway, so I did him a mercy he didn’t deserve. No one gave the man’s death a second thought. As I stood, though, I caught Liz’s disapproving stare.

I cleaned my knife and jammed it into its sheath. Then I balled up my apron and tossed it into a corner. Only then did I turn my attention to the others and say, “So, I know why the Warders want me dead. But what about the rest of you?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Heavyhammer grumbled. He returned to his chair to clean the blood from his knuckles with a napkin dipped in water.

I spotted Liz’s rose on the floor, so after I returned it to her place at the table, I found a clean glass and lifted Zara’s wine bottle. By some miracle, the bottle had survived the kerfuffle.

“You don’t mind, do you, Zara?”

Her glower wasn’t enough to stop me, so I poured a full glass and took a sip. Delighted at the taste, I raised the glass to Thjorn. “Excellent! My compliments to your sommelier.”

Thjorn added his glower to Zara’s.

“The waiter who attacked Thjorn mentioned Leonidas Storm,” Elizabeth said, lifting one of the assassin’s weapons. Both had gotten tossed onto the table. Like Zara, casual dress was the order of the evening, though Liz eschewed Zara’s dark attire in favor of a cream-colored blouse beneath a stylish blue vest. As always, I found her auburn eyes mesmerizing. “I know Storm. He’s not the shy type. But kris knives? Why send assassins armed with the weapon of your sworn enemies?”

Zara’s piercing gaze found me again. “Well?”

“Well, what? I haven’t the faintest.”

“You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Ever seen those two before?”

“Obviously not, or I would have already said something. Besides, these two weren’t professionals. Sloppy work all around, if you ask me.”

“How’s that, you figure?” Thjorn asked. He finished cleaning his hand and now chewed on one end of a pork chop. Never mind the cutlery as he manhandled the chop with one meaty paw. The only thing more legendary than the Anolgan’s prowess in battle was his manners and his appetite.

“Well, for one, they didn’t kill anyone. Also, one got caught, and four got killed.” Curious stares wondered at my math, so I tossed the kris I’d taken from the one in the alley into the collection. “I took this off another one who tried to kill me on my way here. Three attacked me. All dead, in case anyone wondered. They couldn’t have known I was coming here, but they knew enough to follow me into Beggars’ Quarter.”

“A coordinated strike,” Liz said.

“Too bad they missed you,” Zara spat, crossing her arms.

“If they hadn’t, one of you—maybe more—might be dead right now. You're all welcome for saving your lives.”

“You didn’t save anyone’s life,” Zara shot back. “As usual, all you did was add to the chaos. Everything was under control. If you hadn’t jumped over the table and gotten in everyone’s way—”

I laughed loud enough to interrupt her. “I spotted those waiters in the great room. You had no idea they were even coming. If I hadn’t been here to save all your—”

Thjorn's fist slammed onto the table, making the cutlery jump and bringing instant silence to the dining room. “That’s enough! Sit down. All of you.”

Liz obeyed first, nudging me in passing when I continued to meet Zara’s glare. After retrieving my glass of red wine from the sidebar, I found a chair and sat. I found the chardonnay satisfactory, but the red was better.

At her seat, Liz picked up the rose and brought it to her nose. She caught sight of my smile and mouthed the words, “You?” I responded with a bow of my head. With the rose held to her nose, she smiled back and mouthed a seductive, “Thank you.”

When everyone sat, and the four of us stared at one another across a jumble of overturned serving dishes and spilled drinks, Thjorn spoke.

“What are we calling you today?” he asked, the question obviously leveled at me. He almost immediately waved a hand and said, “Never mind. Tell me about the men who attacked you.”

“Not much to tell. Except for the knives, they were your typical street thugs. A few steps below the quality of assassin needed to take me out. It’s a little insulting, now that I think about it. But they weren’t Jakaree. Like the two here, no tattoos. But they didn’t strike me as Warders, either. Like I said, too sloppy.”

Thjorn didn’t raise a brow or bat an eye at the mention of the death priests or the Warders. I figured he already knew about them. If not from Liz, then from another of his informants. One of Heavyhammer’s greatest assets was his network of spies, snitches, and sneaks. Young and old, rich and poor, some guild members but many not. I’d bet Thjorn was aware of events in Alchester before even the king found out about them.

Liz shifted in her chair. “So, if they weren’t Warders, why mention Leonidas’s name?”

Zara picked up a mug from the floor but tossed it away when she realized the pitcher and its contents had gone to the floor with it.

“They mentioned the name to send a message,” Thjorn said. “I agree they were not Jakaree or Warders. But the Warders sent them. Hired help is my guess. Desperate men to come looking for a fight here. The knives were meant as a reminder.”

Liz and I exchanged glances.

“A reminder of what?” Liz asked.

“Who our real enemy is.”

Wondering if I was the only one missing something, another exchange with Liz revealed a befuddlement equal to mine. So, I instead looked at Zara. Like Elizabeth, Zara was a high-ranking guild member. Thjorn’s lieutenants, if he ran an army. As one of those lieutenants, Zara knew almost as much as Thjorn did. But as she reached for the chardonnay and, figuring it better than nothing, took a swig straight from the bottle, I saw she wasn’t even following the conversation. So I asked Thjorn, “How do you know they were Warders?”

I thrummed my fingers on the table, waiting. Thjorn narrowed his gaze at me but said nothing. Zara swallowed her wine, making a face that didn’t stop her from taking another drink.

“Liz, what’s going on?”

She may not have an answer, but she shared my curiosity. Maybe she could help pry open the coffers of knowledge Thjorn wanted to keep locked up tight. But Heavyhammer cut off anything she was about to say with a curt statement that reminded me too much of the past.

“It’s guild business.”

“Guild business?” I shook my head in disbelief. “That old card?”

Heavyhammer glowered. “That’s right. Besides, Liz doesn’t know, so she can’t answer your question.”

“But Zara can?”

Thjorn’s silence gave me time to try putting the pieces together myself. I knew why the Warders—and Leonidas Storm, in particular—wanted me dead. But in a room full of targets, the assassins singled out Thjorn and Zara. Thjorn, I understood. But Zara? Me and the Southlander thief had little in common. Aside from a recent visit seeking information, I hadn’t seen Zara in quite a while. But that one meeting had yielded some exceptional results. Chief amongst them, the discovery of the identity of the Warder Primus, something that must irk the Warders to no end. The coordinated strike—or message, as Thjorn said—was beginning to make sense, especially when one considered the list of Warder names Zara had provided me. Without that, the primus’s identity would have remained a secret.

While I ruminated through the pieces of the puzzle, Gustav returned. The sounds of merriment emanating from the common room had ceased, and Thjorn’s chief administrator arrived flanked by two guards. Gustav gave his report without prompting.

“I detained the kitchen staff,” he said. “Though, so far, they’ve all checked out. Guild House is on alert and locked down. Garrick saw to that. No one gets in or out without your approval. There have been no other signs of infiltrators or attacks, but we’re continuing to scour the property looking for anyone who doesn’t fit in.” Gustav turned a sour expression toward me. Then, to Thjorn, he said, “With your leave, sir, I’ll return to help coordinate the search.”

Heavyhammer dismissed him with a nod. “Thank you, Gustav. Send someone to clean up the mess in here.” The assassin’s corpse was destined to disappear to places unknown, never to be seen again. “The rest of you, let’s step outside.”

Thjorn picked up my unfinished glass of white wine and guided us through the balcony doors. On the way out, Liz and Zara grabbed ermine-trimmed cloaks hanging by the door while I ran to the hallway to retrieve my jacket. Thjorn stepped outside with no concern at all for the cold.

Below us, thieves on patrol weaved through the shadows. We watched them in silence, waiting for Thjorn to speak. Finally, with a swirl of his wine, he did.

“Tell them, Zara.”

Zara gnashed her teeth, saying nothing at first. Inside, she may have pretended disinterest, but it was clear now she knew exactly what this was about. When Thjorn turned his glare toward her, she let out a frustrated sigh and said, “I gave Liz’s boyfriend a list of names.”

The list of names, as expected.

“One of the names was an alias used by a guild member. I didn’t know about the alias. Otherwise, I would have never given up the list.”

However, this wasn’t about the identity of the primus at all. This was about something else entirely.

I gave an appreciative whistle because the revelation struck me as bold and unexpected. “You have a spy in the Warder organization.” I noticed right away that no one shared my enthusiasm. Especially Zara, who looked like someone had taken away her favorite knife. “Or you did. Is your spy dead?”

“Not yet,” Thjorn grumbled. “But he likely will be soon. No thanks to you.”

“Come again?”

“The list had another name on it,” Zara said, clenching the railing. “The name belonged to the Warder primus. You tracked her down and exposed her.”

“What did you just say?” Liz asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. In frustration, she hurled the rose she had brought outside over the balcony. I watched it disappear into the darkness. “You identified the primus and didn’t bother to tell me?”

Elizabeth had been trying to identify key members of the Warders for some time, so I understood her irritation. Despite her considerable progress, one gaping hole remained at the top of the hierarchy.

“I didn’t tell anyone if that helps.” By the tenseness of her lips and furrowed brow, I could tell it did not. “Ms. Carter—Primus Carter, that is—and I came to an understanding, and I needed some time to sort out what that meant.”

“Seems like she sorted out her end just fine.”

Meaning she was the one behind tonight’s attack. The assassin may have shouted Leonidas’s name. But the order? That came from Claire. Given this new information, I was sure of that much now. After that night, I wondered more than once why she had allowed me to live. I knew her secret, knowledge that presented an incalculable danger to her and her organization. But it seemed whatever had stayed Ms. Carter’s hand earlier did so no longer. I wondered, what was the catalyst? I need look no further than the guild’s spy.

“You spooked the Warders when you exposed their primus,” Thjorn explained. “Bastards are already suspicious of everything. But with one of their most guarded secrets out in the open? That kind of information could only have come from inside. It didn’t take them long to piece together a list of suspects. Our spy was amongst them.”

“Who’s the spy?” I asked. Might as well know who I got in trouble.

“Ethan Smith, to the Warders,” Thjorn said. “You know him as Nyxander Hawkins.”

Liz let out a soft whistle of recognition as her attention shot to Zara. I also knew the name, though not the connection to Zara that Liz’s look seemed to imply. I’d seen Nyxander, or Nyx, around town here and there, and while we’d met a handful of times, those meetings had been brief. Nyx was a talented thief—one of the best if rumors were true—with a reputation as a hard edge and a reliable man in a fight or a caper. A rising star inside the guild, he was well-liked and on his way to bigger things, like leading his own guild someday if he played his cards right.

“Nyx is a good operative,” Liz said, her gaze lingering on Zara but finally straying when the other woman refused to acknowledge her stare. “Knows how to make people think he’s someone he’s not.”

Thjorn nodded his assent. “He’s one of the best. He infiltrated the Warder organization not long after they arrived a year ago. I didn’t know what they were about back then, but something told me they needed watching.”

“Something should have told you to keep others in the loop,” Zara growled. “Nyx told me he was working the usual government envoys. Not infiltrating a secret society.”

Thjorn’s face turned dark. “Even if you knew, the list of names wasn’t yours to give up.”

“I would never have given anything up if I’d known—”

“It seems we’re about to go in circles,” I said, loud enough to silence the argument before it got out of hand. “I know I’m not part of your merry band, but if you want others to help protect an operative’s cover, letting them know about it is probably a good idea.”

“Yes, exactly,” Zara said, somewhat reluctantly, since it meant we agreed on something.

Liz cleared her throat. “He’s right, Thjorn. You kept us in the dark about Nyx’s whereabouts. We can’t protect his or anyone else’s anonymity if we don’t know the details of their assignment.”

Thjorn glowered, but I saw the wheels turning in his head. Thjorn may be a barbarian at his core, but he hadn’t gotten to his current place in life without a keen sense of diplomacy. Sometimes, that meant acknowledging one’s mistakes.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll accept the responsibility for keeping you in the dark. But we’re well past that now. The Warders have Nyx. I know because he missed our usual check-in. Then Warder assassins show up at my doorstep? That’s not a coincidence. Nyx talked. They know he works for the guild. That’s how I know the Warders sent tonight’s assassins to deliver a message.”

“I don’t believe it,” Liz said, exasperated. “I know Nyx. He would never give us up.”

“Never is a strong word,” I said. “Subject someone to enough torture, and even the most hardened will talk.”

For some reason, Zara squirmed uncomfortably.

Thjorn took a small sip of his wine. “That’s why you three are going to find him and get him out of there before he tells them anything else.”

“When do we go?” Liz asked, all business now. “And where do we look first?”

“Now. Tonight. Before the Warders can squeeze anything else out of him. Nyx spent his days working for the Warding Mining & Manufacturing Company in the industrial district. If the name isn’t obvious enough, the company is a front for all sorts of Warder activities, some legitimate but most not. His position in the company was ideal because it kept him close to the action. The Warders are building something.”

Me and Liz exchanged glances. She knew everything I did about the Warders’ secret project and maybe more. Dragon symbols, dragon blood, dragon scales, and the latest revelation, the Heart of the Dragon. I wondered why Liz hadn’t shared this information with her boss. But since now wasn’t the time to ask, I played dumb.

“Building what?” I asked.

Thjorn shrugged. “Nyx was close to finding out when they discovered him. My guess is they have him held in some backroom deep in the twisted maze of a foundry where no one will ever find him.”

“Alchemical foundries are a good place to dispose of a body, too,” I added absentmindedly.

Liz jammed her elbow into my side.

“Hey! What was that for?”

If she meant to silence me with her accompanying glare, it only worked for a short while. I had other information to share. Useful information, so I made sure Liz kept her elbows to herself as I said, “As Thjorn said, the Warders are building something they don’t want anyone to know about. They work under the cover of night. So, while you won’t find much of anything out of the ordinary during the daytime hours, after the sun goes down is a different story. Operations like theirs mean heavy security. Imperators, compulsors, and, the latest, arcanists.”

“Sorcerers,” Zara spat.

“Something like that. You know about them?”

But, staring into the night, she sank into her thoughts and didn’t answer. So I went on.

“The one I ran into was a blacksmith. His hammer was a nasty bit of work. Magical, if the glowing runes were any indication. While I can say with certainty that you won’t run into that arcanist, I can’t say if you won’t encounter others. Make sure you’re prepared.”

“You make it sound like you aren’t coming,” Liz said.

“I hate to disappoint, but retrieving an errant thief was not on my agenda for the evening. Besides, I have every confidence you and Zara can handle this without me.” I meant it, too. Liz was one of the best. Zara, a close second, though you’ll never hear me admit that out loud. Chances are they’d have Nyx extricated and back at Guild House before the Warders even noticed he was missing.

“I have every confidence as well,” Thjorn grumbled. “But I still want you to go with them.”

“Why?” Zara snapped. “We don’t need him. You said it yourself, Thjorn. This is guild business. He’ll get in the way.”

I gave my wine a swirl. “Zara has a point.”

“About getting in the way?” Liz asked with a smirk.

I feigned a quick laugh. “No, about this being guild business. Besides, I stopped by to have a few words with Heavyhammer. I’m not even dressed for work.”

“You can have all the words you want after the job is done,” Thjorn said with such finality that Zara stifled a response she had ready and waiting. The old barbarian expected me to fall in line like everyone else. I slipped up earlier because I was unprepared. But I had time to consider that flub and to make sure it didn’t happen again. The days of playing the obedient soldier were long past, so I folded my arms and took a defiant stance, signaling I wasn’t willing to budge an inch. Whether or not my defiance made the difference, Heavyhammer seemed to sense my resolve as he turned to the others and said, “Give us a minute.”

Liz took Zara by the arm. “Come on.” Before leaving, Liz told me, “Meet us outside when you’re done here.”

She assumed my participation was a forgone conclusion. Maybe it was. I needed Thjorn’s help, so if he made that help contingent on retrieving Nyx, he already had me. Or maybe Liz knew as well as I that when Heavyhammer asked for something, he usually got it. As soon as the balcony door creaked closed, Thjorn wasted no time getting down to business.

“So, what do you need?”

I left nothing out, telling him about the Tillwood Device and how I needed him to put the word out about its potential sale. The guild moved all sorts of valuables, most ill-gotten, so he had the connections and the means to make any sale legitimate, even if it wasn’t.

“There is one catch,” I said. “Mr. Drake must designate the device as vitally important to the fiefdom’s technological development.”

“Making it the property of the king,” Thjorn said. “He’s agreed to do this?”

I nodded my affirmation.

“How hot is this item?”

“Not hot at all. The device is safe and sound with its rightful owner.”

Thjorn grunted. “Good. Moving stolen property is one thing. But moving stolen king’s property? That’s something else. So, all you need me to do is get the word out?”

“For now.”

“What about later?”

I didn’t know, so I said so. “There may be more to it. I’m still working out all the details.”

Thjorn grunted. “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

I shrugged. “It’s still in the planning stages.”

Thjorn looked out into the night. Mulling over my request, no doubt. But also considering what else he wanted besides help with Nyxander. Helping should be enough. But not for Heavyhammer. He always expected more and somehow always got it. Whatever he wanted to ask must be something big. Otherwise, why stall? Figuring to move things along a little faster, especially with the clouds thickening and the cold creeping in, I decided to give him a nudge.

“You want me to even the score with the Warders by taking out a few?”

“What makes you think helping rescue Nyx isn’t enough?”

“Because you wouldn’t have sent the others away otherwise. So, what else do you want?”

He was about to respond when a shiver ran through him. He tightened his jacket around his massive frame, but it offered more style than warmth. “Damn, it’s cold out here.” Thjorn gazed into the darkened sky. “First snow any day now, is my guess. Maybe tonight. Let’s go inside.”

We found the dining room restored to some semblance of order. Someone had removed the corpse, cleaned up the overturned plates and scattered serving dishes, and placed new jugs, glasses, and mugs on the sidebar. Thjorn walked right to a jug exuding warmth and a rich aroma, with lazy wisps of steam rising from the opening. He poured an amber, viscous liquid into two tin mugs. With a nod, he urged me to sit, placing one steaming mug before me.

“Hot cider,” he said, winking as he took his usual place at the head of the table. “With a little something from back home to help warm the bones.”

The crisp, aromatic smell of apples and the warm fragrance of cinnamon barely disguised the comforting smell of vanilla and oak whiskey. The drink was too hot still, but I took a small sip, anyway, the distinct flavor flooding my mind with memories I’d prefer to leave in the past. A harrowing night of desperate running, my small hand clenched around Olivia’s as she led us from the only home we’d ever known into the frozen night. Our pursuers, so close behind, giving chase across half the city, down streets and alleyways I didn’t recognize because I’d never been so far before that night. We ran, and ran, and ran some more until cramps and fatigue doubled us over. But stopping meant dying, so we shook off our exhaustion and kept running until, finally, we had to stop because our father’s enemies had caught up to us despite all our efforts. I remember the fear, worse than the cold, suffocating me. My sister’s desperate cry as she shoved me behind her. Like our parents, I thought we were dead. The clubs and knives all around us said so. I felt a sharp crack on my shoulder, and I fell, curling into a ball to wait for what came next. I saw what they did to Mom and Dad, so I knew exactly what came next. But Olivia stopped them. Earlier in the night, she’d taken a knife from one of our assassins. A knife she raised as she threw herself between them and me, intent on protecting me with her dying breath if needed. I had my eyes squeezed so tight I only imagined later what happened next. A hulking brute, battle-scarred and wielding a giant’s hammer, descended on the assassins, striking them down, crushing their skulls, and making mincemeat of their bodies. Other than me and Olivia, no one survived. When the battle ended, when the alleyway had fallen into a silence as quiet as death, a giant’s bloody hands lifted me from the ground. He only needed one arm to hold me. His other hand held tight to Olivia’s. He told us he was a friend of our father’s. Then he took us to his home, where a now familiar smell greeted us. “Hot cider,” the giant had said, winking. “With a little something from back home to help warm the bones.”

Thjorn’s rumbling voice broke through my reverie.

“What was that?” I asked, rising from the depths.

“I said, how’s your sister?”

“You would know better than I do. Olivia thinks I’m dead, remember?”

Thjorn drank and settled back in his chair. “How many years has it been since you talked to her?”

I shrugged. “Who’s counting?”

“Not you, apparently,” Thjorn grumbled.

I took another small sip of my drink, returned the tin mug to the table, and said nothing else, waiting for Thjorn to continue the conversation he had started outside. He knew me well enough to get the hint, so, in no small words, he told me. When he was done, I had to take another drink, this one longer and deeper.

“Is that all?” I asked. “I’d ask why, but I know I’ll get the usual answer about it being guild business.”

“Do you ever need to know the reason?”

“Not usually.”

“Then don’t ask now. There’s one more thing you need to know. Zara and Nyx are tight.”

Given Zara’s body language, I had wondered. But it didn’t hurt to hear it out loud. “How tight?”

“You know Zara. She’ll go to any lengths.”

“And Nyx?”

“About the same. He isn’t as passionate, but he’ll do whatever it takes to protect Zara.”

I sank into my chair, contemplating my options. It didn’t seem I had many.

“So, will you do it?”

“If you’ll help get the word out about the item for sale.”

Thjorn lifted his mug and said, “Done.”

I lifted mine in turn, and we both drank, sealing the deal the Anolgan way, with drink rather than a handshake or a written contract.

With our business concluded, I considered leaving. But it seemed a shame to not finish my cider, so I stayed put. For a short time, we drank in silence, neither of us looking at the other. I wondered if Thjorn thought about that night and almost asked him. But he spoke first.

“Who you hoping will take your bait?”

“There’s a woman . . . ”

Thjorn humphed. “Isn’t there always?”

“Not like this one. Gwendolyn Goddard. Name sound familiar?”

The old barbarian’s face scrunched in thought. “Founding member of the Progressive Society?”

“That’s the one.”

 “What’s she done?” Thjorn asked, scratching his chin through his beard.

“More like what hasn’t she done.”

Thjorn grunted. “Then why the elaborate scheme? You get hired all the time to deal with troublesome people. Do what you always do.”

“Not this time. I made a deal with someone. A favor for a favor.” I spread my hands wide. “No killing.” Heavyhammer didn’t need to know anything more than that. He certainly didn’t need to know the person I’d made the deal with was a king’s inspector.

Thjorn took another drink. When he returned his cup to the table, he spun it around, preoccupied with some thought. “You know about Malakai.”

It was a statement, not a question, so I said, “Garrick says you’re working on a solution to the witch that killed him.”

“A solution? We’ll see. Blood witches aren’t easy to kill. Ask me some other time how I know.”

“You thinking of going after her yourself?” I asked.

“In my younger days, without question. I would have already said to hell with caution, and I’d be out there now scouring the Shambles, looking for her. But age has brought wisdom, or so I like to think. When we face her, we need to make sure we’re prepared.”

“We?”

“Malakai was family. I assume you want in?”

“Of course,” I said without thinking. Malakai may have been a half-crazed beggar who didn’t recognize me half the time, but like Thjorn, Malakai was there when I needed him, so there was nothing to think about. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with Isadora already.”

“You know the witch’s name? Damn if I haven’t had a hell of a time finding out even that much about her. What else do you know?”

 “Isadora’s in town to settle a score. She needed information from Malakai, and instead of asking nicely, she took it from him, along with all his blood. While she’s in town, seeing to her personal business, she also decided to align herself with the Jakaree.”

Thjorn grunted. “That’s good information. You know a lot about her.”

I shrugged. “Like I said, we’ve had a couple of run-ins. I tried to kill the witch both times, if that makes you feel better. Needless to say, she escaped.”

Thjorn downed his remaining cider, then stood and gestured at me with his empty cup. “Another?”

I shook my head. “Maybe next time. Need to keep my wits about me.”

As he poured, Thjorn talked over his shoulder. “Have you considered upgrading your arsenal? Maybe I’m mistaken, but there are a lot of new dangers out there. Things me and your father never had to deal with, thank the Old Gods. This melding of sorcery and technology everyone is so keen on will be the death of us all. Conventional weapons aren’t enough anymore.”

He had a point there. “I’ll certainly consider it.”

“All right, then,” Thjorn said, which was his way of dismissing me. When I remained seated, lingering, he asked, “Something else on your mind?”

I stood. “Only one thing. Find something else for Elizabeth to do tonight.”

“Like what? You may need her. Zara’s good, but Elizabeth’s better.”

“Zara is enough.”

Thjorn’s dark gaze studied me. “This have anything to do with what I asked you to do?”

Of course it did, and he knew it. So, I let my silence answer for me.

“I’ll have someone fetch her before you leave.”

I nodded my thanks. “Zara and Liz are probably waiting.”

I found the pair of thieves outside, ready as expected. Both Zara and Liz were decked out for a night of clandestine thieving and such, with masks pulled down for now. While Zara’s dark skin complemented her equally dark leather, only Liz made its sleekness look so good. As Thjorn had promised, someone intercepted Elizabeth before we’d left the grounds with a story about the boss needing to see her right away. No need for me and Zara to wait for her, the messenger told us. Liz’s suspicious gaze lingered on me longer than I liked, but she left with the messenger.

Unlike Zara, I was dressed for a night on the town, not for leaping across rooftops and skulking through dark alleyways. So, once we were outside the manor’s walls, I told her we needed to make a stop before we got to business. Zara’s brow furrowing and lips pressing into a thin line betrayed her annoyance at the delay.

“It won’t take long,” I said, wondering why I cared enough to reassure her. “Or, if you like, we can split up and meet in, say, an hour.”

“Not a chance. We stick together.”

“You don’t trust me?” I asked. “Or do you suddenly like me that much?”

“You know the answer to both questions,” she shot back with her usual venom. Her hardened stare lingered on me like she wanted to say something more. Zara rarely held back or hesitated to speak her mind, so I suspected whatever she wanted to say was something sensitive or private or—

“What did Heavyhammer want to speak to you about?”

Ah, so that was it. “Nothing important. Just catching up.”

“Bullshat! Tell me.”

“You know, that sort of language coming from a lady isn’t—”

“I know he asked you to kill Nyx.”

I fell silent, not stunned by the directness of the question but perhaps a little surprised. “Really?” I asked, not wanting to give anything away. Handling Zara was enough on her own. But worse was Zara thinking I was sent to kill her boyfriend. “What makes you think that?”

“Everyone knows Heavyhammer doesn’t tolerate squealers. It doesn’t matter how high up Nyx is in the guild. If he talked, he’s as good as dead, and he knows it. He’ll know why you’re there the second he spots you.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say to her, so I said only, “You and Liz seemed sure Nyx didn’t talk. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing.” But she let out a breath and looked away from me. “Nothing at all.”

Since she had nothing else to say, I led us to an apartment of mine where I had most of my gear stashed. While Zara waited a block away in the shadows, I changed into my usual black studded armor, gloves, soft boots, and mask. Given the cold, I opted for a dark woolen cloak. My usual long knives and throwing blades were adequate for most jobs. But with a near guarantee of encountering Warders this evening, I also took my Steel Island sword. The entire process took less than ten minutes, with another minute to rejoin Zara, who said nothing as she fell in beside me.

“Tell me about the arcanist you fought,” Zara said.

Good. Her mind was on the job and not on the other matter.

“Not much to tell,” I said. “Big and strong, but overconfident. But like I said, he’s dead.”

“What about his hammer?”

“We go up from here,” I said, leaping to grasp the balusters of a tenement balcony. I heard a conversation between two or more people inside the apartment right before I jumped to the next higher balcony over, repeating the exercise until I was close enough to the roof to get a fingerhold on the edge. Lifting myself the remainder of the way was easy enough, so I soon looked over our fair city's spired rooftops and smoking chimneys. Zara appeared beside me moments later.

“The hammer?” she asked again.

“A blacksmith’s hammer, actually,” I said, gesturing for us to get moving. “But the arcanist also used it like a weapon. It seemed too awkward for either. Too heavy and not weighted right. But then the arcanist was a lot stronger than me.”

“Describe him.”

Wondering where Zara was going with all this, I glanced sidelong at her. When she didn’t meet my gaze, I answered, “Like I said, not much to say about him. Big, strong, ugly. Dead eyes and a dead stare, too. He gave the initial impression of someone unskilled, but I saw through that right away.”

“Most wouldn’t,” Zara said.

“Why, Zara, is that a compliment?”

“No,” she said. “The arcanist came across as a dumb brute, yes? But behind the dead eyes was a cold, calculating mind, singular in its purpose and vicious in its execution. In my homeland, we call them banoos—tricksters—because they give the illusion of something they are not. They use this to surprise and defeat their enemies, who too often underestimate them. The one you encountered was big and strong, giving you the initial impression of someone slow-witted. Others appear physically weak but possess a hidden inner strength, making them powerful adversaries. Still others have no outward characteristics to distinguish themselves from anyone else. They look like any ordinary person. These arcanists are often the most dangerous.”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” I said. “Why is that?”

“Because this isn’t my first run-in with the Warders,” Zara said, pausing as we leaped across the chasm between two rooftops. “Many years ago, they infiltrated my home much like they have done in Alchester, living in the shadows but also in plain sight, spreading their lies about a coming storm of darkness and chaos only they could save us from. Too many believed them.”

“What happened?” I asked, genuinely curious because I wondered if Alchester was headed for the same fate.

“Nothing,” Zara said. “They left, and soon after, so did I. Strange that we both ended up here.”

A thoughtful stillness settled over Zara, and I was content to join her as we continued navigating the maze of city rooftops. Slick roof tiles, crumbling brick stacks, and leering gargoyles were soon behind us, and with the industrial district close now, I took advantage of my last opportunity to pursue my line of questioning.

“What about the Jakaree? Were they there, too?”

In my experience, the two went hand in hand with one another, and though they stood in opposition, they each adhered to similar doctrines in that, whichever won, the rest of us lost.

“If they were, I never knew it.”

We had all but arrived, so silence became the rule as we made one last leap across an alley’s chasm to another landing, where we descended a spiraling stair that wound round and round like a rusted serpent. Each step was a groan of iron echoing across a dark inner courtyard. Beyond an equally dark portico, faint streetlamps cast anemic pools of light, illuminating a twisting lane that bisected alchemical factories and metal shops. Wooden fences jutted at irregular intervals, some half-rotted, others standing like broken teeth, marking territories that blurred and bled into one another. The boundaries between factories dissolved in a writhing nightmare of twisted and intertwined pipes, massive vats breathing steam, cylinders groaning like sleeping giants, and forges glowing with banked embers. Though the proprietors and owners must know the boundaries well enough, I couldn’t tell where one factory started and another ended. This was the industrial maze Thjorn had mentioned, a tangled mess of byways and lanes, with one not any better than another unless you somehow solved the labyrinth’s mysteries. Workers vanished here not by chance but by the maze's deliberate design. I'd read the accounts of bodies discovered in alchemical vats, limbs crushed between grinding machinery, and entire shifts swallowed by the industrial behemoth's indifferent maw. This wasn't just a district. This was a predatory landscape, ready to consume the unwary, where every pipe could be a path or a trap and every shadow a potential grave.

Right away, we spotted a night watchman making his rounds. With his head tucked low in the upturned collar of his heavy coat and a plain cap pulled down over his ears, he seemed more interested in staying warm than doing his job. Whether or not his loyalties aligned with the Warders, we didn’t know. But we still waited for him to pass before creeping down the center lane, where we clung to deep shadows cast by the overhanging machinery. Regular workers had long gone home for the night, so foundries and forges shone only with the subdued glow of banked coals, though pressurized vats and cylinders full of industrial alchemicals hummed as always.

Peering from behind one such cylinder, I saw another sentry dressed like the first, stamping boots on the ground to keep warm. Even if these men did not pledge their allegiance to the Warder cause, they were most certainly on their payroll and, therefore, no friends of ours. Still, two sentries hardly verified a Warder presence here. That revelation arrived in the next few moments as another gentleman stepped into view. From the outset, I could tell he was no ordinary guard. If his full-length jacket—rich in color and elegance, draped stylishly down to his shins, and made from an exquisite blue fabric that shimmered in the light—did not set him apart from the others, then the thin sword strapped to his hip, which boasted an elegant jewel-encrusted hilt, did. He had the straight posture and purposeful stride of a man in charge, and a coif of thick, dark hair arranged with such precision I doubted a single hair was out of place. Yet, his most revealing feature was his face, with its fair complexion and high cheekbones, because I instantly recognized it.

Leonidas Storm, Warder compulsor and a man I’d left bleeding to death in a darkened study, approached the guard directly, exchanging words in his oily aristocratic tone before he disappeared into the maze of machinery as quickly as he had emerged.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Zara hissed from behind me.

Why indeed? Something made me hesitate. The lone guard was no threat. Yet there went my instincts again, warning of some danger as yet unseen. How to explain this to Zara, though? Then, thankfully, I didn’t need to because the threat revealed itself in the form of tattooed faces oozing from the dark. As if the Warders weren’t enough, now we also had the Jakaree to contend with.

Dressed in dark leather with countenances darker still, I counted at least half a dozen closing on the unsuspecting sentry. Zara, who had quieted down, watched alongside me as dark-fingered hands reached for the guardsman and dragged him into the deeper shadows. The quick glimmer of a descending kris told me all I needed to know about his fate.

I exchanged a look with Zara. By the way she clasped her knife, I could tell we both wondered if the death priests had spotted us. We knew we were safe when the last Jakaree—I counted eight in all—disappeared down the lane Leonidas had taken.

The Jakaree’s arrival changed nothing. Nor did it matter if they’d come for Nyx or not. We needed to find him first. Zara, who knew this as well as I did, took the lead, ascending a ladder attached to the nearest vat. From there, she reached out to the railing of a nearby platform and, as silent as the breeze on a calm day, sprang to it. I was right behind her, just as quiet, so we stalked deeper into the twisted display of pipes and conduits in tandem. From our elevated position, everything looked different. The arrangement of vats with bubbling alchemicals and the interconnecting conduits between them almost had an order to them. Through a hazy mist of wafting alchemical gases, we spotted the Jakaree, whose shadowed forms were forced to follow the lane created by the line of steaming vats. Our elevated runway defined a course all its own, so we soon hovered over them, padding across the metal grating with the softest of footfalls until we were ahead of them.

With too much attention on the death priests below, we almost missed the Warder sentry posted at our level. The Warders had no uniform or insignia I’d ever seen, and while this one’s tweed jacket and bowler failed to distinguish him from the other watchmen, his small sword, a killing weapon by any measure, did. Stopping Zara with a touch to her shoulder, we sunk back, crouching low.

With the Jakaree advancing with military precision, spreading out now and preparing to engage the Warders at first sight, I readied a killing knife. Zara saw the blade, so she knew what I was about as I inched toward the nearby guard. His attention remained elsewhere, so with a final few steps, I wrapped a gloved hand around his mouth and slit his throat. As I lowered the body, I saw my deed had not gone unnoticed by our clerical friends. One Jakaree tapped another on the shoulder and pointed his knife in my direction. But they took it no further than that. Maybe they considered the killing of the guard, who would have seen them and sounded the alarm, a gesture of good faith. Maybe their purpose here had nothing to do with ours. Or perhaps they reasoned the enemy of their enemy was, at least for now, an ally. I didn’t see Ao-utet, who kept a special place in his black heart for me, raising the possibility that our mutual presence here might not end in a confrontation.

The Jakaree kept moving, and so did we.

Zara spotted a light amidst the tangle of machinery I doubted the priests had seen yet, so we continued to use the elevated platform to our advantage, finding a path that led us closer and closer to the source of illumination. Soon, we saw a handful of Warders outside a cluster of walled offices or workrooms. Leonidas was amongst them, his hand resting easy on the pommel of his sword. Scanning the adjacent runways, I saw no other guards, so we passed over the group of Warders and got as close as possible to the walled structures. Thin sheet metal roofs were too weak to support our weight and too noisy to walk across without giving away our position, so we stayed on the platform, looking for any sign the Warders might have Nyx held inside somewhere. But with the death priests inching closer and closer, time was running out before the Jakaree and Warders spotted one another.

Struck by the inevitability of fighting our way out no matter what happened, I whispered to Zara, “Find Nyx.” Then, leaving her questions behind, I ran down the walkway.

No longer concerned with stealth, I spied the Jakaree, slipping into view. Tattooed faces and raised knives were impossible for the Warders not to see now, nor could they miss the ear-piercing screech that passed for a battle cry as the Jakaree rushed their unsuspecting enemy. Leonidas reacted first, the compulsor drawing his thin blade but unable to use it as the first priest slammed into him. The pair went down in a tangled mass of thrashing blades and limbs. The next Warder wasn’t so lucky as a kris came down on him in rapid succession, stabbing and stabbing until the horror on the man’s face became his permanent death stare. Before that fellow died, the remainder of the Jakaree swarmed the Warders in a barbaric rush, wiping clean the demarcation line between friend and foe, which was fine with me because everyone below was an enemy as far as I was concerned.

Drawing my Steel Islands sword, I leaped from the elevated walkway to land in a crouch amidst the melee. Since everyone was a target, selecting victims was as easy as slashing and stabbing in any direction. Taking the closest Warder down was almost too easy. The second, a Jakaree, slightly less so, but when your attention is elsewhere, and you find a yard of steel piercing you through the back, you still die whether you saw the attack coming or not. My third opponent got lucky. Dodging to one side, I missed him, but no point in dwelling on mistakes when I only needed to sail past that one to find another less suspecting foe. Another Jakaree presented himself almost immediately, so with my blade moving too fast to follow, I slashed his arm and then, on the return stroke, chopped deep into his thigh. While he toppled over, I set my sights on another Warder, almost running him through before a blade recognizable by its thinness snaked out and turned mine away.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Thornton,” Leonidas Storm said, a thin smile adding to the amused look across his face as his blade weaved a tapestry of death in the space between us.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same, Mr. Storm.”

Sword slashing the air, Leonidas said, “I trust your evening up to this point has been uneventful?” His smile never left his face.

“Besides killing four of your assassins, quite uneventful.”

Leonidas raised a brow. “Four? Ah, so you headed off the others? Pity. Still, I trust Thjorn received my message.”

“Your message or Claire’s? How is Ms. Carter? I’d say give her my regards, but I don’t plan to let you leave here alive.”

“Pfft,” Leonidas said, rolling his eyes.

No more time for words, the compulsor advanced, his rapier slicing the air where I’d stood moments ago. Then the surrounding mayhem faded, and the contest of skill and steel became our sole focus. Leonidas maneuvered his blade faster than a whip, with quick jabs and quicker slashes. Once, and only once, his blade slid from mine and contacted my armor, sliding off and doing no damage other than to my pride.

“A-ha!” he yelled, relishing the moment. Then, “Oof!” when I spun around and planted my boot into his stomach.

With Leonidas doubled over, it seemed the perfect opportunity to strike him down. But as I prepared to cleave his head from his body, a tattooed figure erupted into my path, emitting a wild, bleating war cry. Instead of the compulsor’s neck, my blade slashed across the Jakaree's face, creating a gruesome gash that silenced his shout. Yet his sudden intervention ruined the moment between me and the compulsor, who staggered out of reach. As much as I wanted to finish our fight, a shout from Zara told me it was time to leave.

“Come on!” she yelled from somewhere behind me.

A swift glance revealed another figure with her. Nyx, I presumed, though I only had time to take in his tall, lean silhouette before a sea of tattooed visages blocked the pair from view. Then, I was once more fighting for my life amidst the chaos of the battle. I deflected a kris with my blade, almost taking the priest’s arm off right before another lunged at me, attempting to knock me down. A Warder crashed into him instead, and they tumbled to the ground, fists flying amid the slashes of their weapons. I scanned the fight for Leonidas one last time, but he was gone, vanished, or, since it appeared the tide had turned against the Warders, escaped. He had the right idea, and I considered joining him. But as I spun around in search of an escape route, two death priests blocked my path. Behind me, two more closed in, knives poised and ready. Fine by me if they all wanted to die. I stepped forward to confront the first pair, ready to take them down, when a shout halted me in my tracks.

“Hold, assassin!”

More Jakaree emerged from all directions. With them came Zara and Nyx, who were herded my way until we all stood together. Zara, in a fighting crouch, with wicked-looking daggers in hand and a wild look in her eyes, asked, “What’s happening?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said, my sword poised to strike at anyone who got too close. I spared a glance at Nyx. He caught my look, his chiseled, bruised features reflecting recognition despite my mask. His thick, upturned brow reflected contemplation, no doubt wondering why I was here, before he returned his attention to our adversaries.

“We meet again, assassin,” rumbled one of the priests.

This time, I recognized the speaker, who stepped into view to reveal black geometric tattoos scrawled across a face bereft of one eye, with a jagged scar down his face on the other. Despite his horrible disfigurements, the priest grinned like a cat who’d just found a mouse. He wisely remained out of reach behind his underlings.

“Scarface One-Eye, isn’t it?”

The priest’s delighted expression turned sour. “Scaramon One-Eye.”

Only one Warder survived. The others were dead, or like Leonidas, had fled. The lone survivor showed spirit by continuing to tussle, throwing his fists about after having his short sword torn from his grasp. But with so many Jakaree and no help from us, he fought a losing battle. Finally, a priest cracked him over the head with a club, subduing him. A pair of priests grabbed him by his arms, hauled him to his feet, and held him fast. Another priest approached with a knife, ready to gut the Warder, when a female voice stopped him.

“This one does not belong to you,” the unseen woman said.

The priest bowed and stepped back.

In his place emerged a woman—a priestess—whose association with the death cult I might have called into question if she hadn’t just stepped from their midst. Instead of a shaved head and geometric tattoos, she had short platinum blonde hair, light skin, and dainty yet strong features with a look even more stern than the others, if such was possible. A blue-dyed leather corset protected her torso, and an assortment of bronzed jewelry with muted gemstones of varied colors hung from her long neck. A light cloak, white in color, fell from her shoulders. Her height, considerably shorter than the others, explained why I hadn’t seen her until now. But for all her stature, I saw how the others backed from her approach and knew she commanded their respect, if not their fear.

Standing before the captive now, the priestess extended her hand like a whip toward the priest whose place she had taken. Bowing, he handed his knife to her. Without ceremony—or warning—the woman plunged the blade into the left side of the Warder’s chest, driving it to the hilt. The Warder, still dazed, let out a pitiful whimper, a sound more animal than human, and if not for the grip of the two priests restraining him, he would have crumpled to the foundry floor. A low murmur escaped the priestess—a dark incantation laced with twisted intent—before she withdrew the knife and, without hesitation, plunged it into the right side of his chest. More eerie whispers spilled from her lips, and again, she pulled the blade free. Blood soaked the unfortunate man’s tunic, seeping into the dusty ground like a grotesque offering. Though the Warder already teetered on the brink of death, she continued her brutal work, driving the knife into his gut this time, carving a gruesome chasm while murmuring yet another fervent prayer to her vile god.

Throughout the episode, I remained indifferent. Next to me, I felt Zara tense, her hand straying to Nyx’s arm where her fingers clenched down hard. Nyx made no attempt to hide his disgust. Finally, with the last word spoken, the priestess stepped away from her horrific sacrifice. The priests relinquished their hold, and the corpse collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, settling into the grotesque pool of crimson. The gathered Jakaree, including the priestess, stepped away, treating the empty shell of a man with chilling indifference, as if he had never existed. Returning the knife to its owner, the priestess fixed her piercing gaze on me. I wondered if she might say something, but she only stayed silent, staring.

“What do you want?” I asked, venom in my voice lest they forget they weren’t the only murderers here.

Scaramon smirked. Unlike others of his priesthood, who seemed a broad, stocky lot, Scaramon was tall and lean, the geometric tattoos covering his bare skull merging into his face's twisted, confused ruin. Dark leather covered much of his person, including a hardened leather vest from which well-muscled arms protruded. I spied twin kris knives at his belt and a mace hanging from a leather strap. Where all the other priests had clenched jaws, grim expressions, and blades drawn, Scaramon’s arms hung loosely at his sides, and while his expression was no less grim, he made no threatening gestures. In fact, just the opposite. “Perhaps I wish to get reacquainted.”

“The last time I saw you, I buried you under a house. What part of that gave you the impression I ever wanted to see you again?”

Zara, whose dark skin had gone a shade lighter at witnessing the ritual sacrifice, hissed, “You know this priest?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “We crossed swords once. Or was it twice? Each occasion was unremarkable, so I can’t quite remember. However, how about we cross them again? You might need to change your name to Scaramon No-Eyes when I’m done with you, though.”

The priest sneered, twisting the scar running from his chin, across his cheek, and to his temple, which was fresh the last time I saw him but healed over now. “The only reason I do not turn my brothers loose on you is because Onius has decreed you should live. If it were up to me, you would already be dead.”

“Then I will thank Onius for reining you in the next time I see him. Now, I ask again, what do you want?”

Scaramon’s gaze strayed to the priestess, who looked on with disinterest. If he expected some sign from her, she gave none. So, One-Eye shifted his focus back to me.

“An alliance,” he finally stated, the implication of his words hanging heavily between us.

I exchanged glances with Zara and Nyx.

“Why would we make a truce with one such as you?” Zara spat, voicing the question foremost in all our minds.

“Because we share a common goal.”

We accomplished our objective, I wanted to say, so what else remained? But I knew better than to show my cards, so I stayed quiet.

“Your spy failed,” Scaramon said, jutting his chin at Nyx. “But I offer a chance for redemption. I know about the Codex. More importantly, I know where to find it.”

I exchanged another look with Zara, but not Nyx, who kept to himself this time.

“What codex?” I asked, lowering my sword.

Scaramon’s gaze narrowed at Nyx. “You haven’t told them?”

“Told them?” he replied, his attempt at feigned ignorance falling flat as he winced, a jolt of pain flickering across his features from the angry bruise marring one side of his face. “Told them what?”

A thin smile creased Scaramon’s lips. “Come now. Shall we play games or get to the business at hand? If you will not enlighten them, then I will.”

“Enlighten us about what?” Zara asked. “Nyx, what’s this about?”

Nyx fiddled with a knife he must have gotten from Zara, spinning it as he flexed his wrist. As an agent of the guild, he had no obligation to share what he’d learned with anyone other than Heavyhammer. Zara, maybe. But certainly not me or the death priests. But Scaramon already knew Nyx’s secret, or so he said, so the thief had little choice but to tell us what he knew or let One-Eye do it for him.

“Very well,” Nyx said. “The priest speaks of the Codex of the Dragon. The Warders found it during a dig outside the city walls. I don’t know many details about it other than that it’s vitally important to them. After the Warders dug it up, they moved it to a secure location. I was attempting to learn that location when the Warders discovered my subterfuge.” Nyx paused to stare at Scaramon. “You said you know where to find the Codex. The Warders would not have easily given away such information.”

Scaramon flashed a smug look. “Nor did they.”

Zara sheathed one dagger. She kept the other clearly visible. “So, if you already know where to find this book, what do you need from us?”

Scaramon and Nyx exchanged glances. One-Eye smirked at Nyx’s sour expression. Both knew the answer and, again, if Nyx wouldn’t tell us, Scaramon’s expression told us he would. Nyx swallowed and said, “The Warders locked the Codex in some sort of vault. Access to the vault is protected by a combination lock. I learned the combination days ago, but the Warders detained me before I could relay that information to Heavyhammer.” A hand rose to the bruises on his face. “A compulsor named Leonidas Storm was trying to see how much I knew. I told him nothing. If you need us, priest, you must not have the combination.”

No smiles now, Nyx had hit on the reason we weren’t all still clashing blades.

“I know the vault’s location,” Scaramon said. “You know the combination. I propose we work together. The Codex is all yours as long as it remains out of our enemy’s hands. I am interested in something else.” The priest joined his hands before him. “Discuss my proposal amongst yourselves if you must. But do not delay. Already, the night grows long.” Scaramon conferred with those nearest while the priests behind us backed off, giving us ample privacy.

Immediately, Nyx turned toward Zara. “What are you doing here?” Nyx was taller than her by a head, and while his tone was harsh, his proximity suggested something other than friendship. Like Zara, Nyx hailed from the Southern Reaches, though where her skin was dark, his was dusky, his sharp, handsome features framed by dark hair flowing straight from his scalp to his shoulders. He finished his look with a goatee and a thin beard, both trimmed and neat. Besides the bruising on his face, one lip was split, and blood matted his facial hair.

“Saving your arse,” Zara hissed back at him. “Told him nothing? That’s bullshat! The Warders sent assassins to kill Heavyhammer.”

“They what?” Nyx asked, genuinely surprised.

“It’s true,” I said, sheathing my sword. “Your chief would be dead if I hadn’t stopped them. Zara too. No need to thank me. But I would like to know about the Codex.”

“Wait,” Zara said. She lifted a hand to Nyx’s bruised cheek, but with Scaramon and the other priests so close, she thought better of the gesture and let her hand fall back to her side. Still, her gaze lingered on the bruises and the speckles of blood on his tunic. “Are you all right?”

Nyx let out a breath that was more like a sigh. “I’m fine. I may have let it slip who sent me, but I never suspected they’d act so quickly. I figured I’d escape and make it halfway home before they sent anyone. Even then, the guild has done plenty of work for the Warders, so I expected them to send emissaries, not assassins.”

“Well, they did,” Zara said. “Luckily for you, it was a half-arsed effort on their part, and no one was hurt. Except them, of course.”

Nyx frowned with concern. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Zara said. “You know I can take care of myself.”

Not so subtly, I cleared my throat. “The Codex?”

Nyx’s gaze drifted to me. “I know you. I also suspect I know why you’re here. Heavyhammer wants you to clean up this mess, starting with me.”

I prefer to kill from a distance or by surprise, especially when the mark knows who I am and what I do. But unusual circumstances require an unusual response, and Nyx, like Zara, only assumed I was here for him. Neither knew anything for sure. So I raised both hands in a show of innocence and said, “Like I told Zara, Heavyhammer wanted me to help rescue you. That’s all.”

Nyx seemed as convinced as Zara had been earlier, but he said, “Then I thank you. You can return to Guild House and tell Heavyhammer I am safe. Or Zara can do it.”

Zara was having none of that. “And you’ll do what? Help the Jakaree find this thing and end up with a slit throat for your trouble? You’re not going with them alone.”

I had a better idea. “How about you both go back to Guild House, and I’ll stay.”

“But only I know the combination,” Nyx said, meaning he had no intention of surrendering such information. “Besides, what’s your interest?”

“Let’s just say me and the Warders don’t get along.”

“But you and the death priests do?”

I shrugged. “At least they’re the devil you know.”

That satisfied him, at least for now.

“Then are we agreed?” Nyx asked. “We three are in this together, united at least until we have the Codex in hand?”

Zara nodded. For her, it was simple. But the words had a different meaning for me. Agreeing meant I would stay my hand until the business with the Codex was done. The Code said nothing about honesty, so nothing saying I couldn’t go back on that agreement. But an alliance between us made sense, and since I was a most patient killer, I agreed.

Satisfied, Nyx said, “The Codex of the Dragon. Like I said, I learned little about it. It must contain crucial information related to furthering the Warders’ goals. But those considerations aside, the book is highly desirable by collectors who will pay unfathomable amounts of money to possess it.”

“So much that Heavyhammer wants it?” I asked.

“Correct,” Nyx said. “Heavyhammer ordered me to learn the Codex's location and either steal it or get that information back to him so he could send someone else. In hindsight, its allure may have caused me to take too many risks. I learned the vault’s combination, at least.”

“Speaking of that . . . ,” I said.

Zara guessed my line of thought. “If the Warders so much as suspect you know how to get into the vault, and they must, they likely already changed the combination, making it useless. Scaramon must know that.”

Nyx shook his head. “The lock is no ordinary lock, and the combination, well, no ordinary combination. I don’t think the Warders know how to change it. I’m not sure anyone does.”

Locks and vaults aside, I knew I needed the Codex. Metallic scales, dragon’s blood, and now a book named The Codex of the Dragon? I knew nothing about the book or its contents. But with a name like that, what else did I need to know? Despite Scaramon’s overtures, he seemed unlikely to allow us to take the book without a fight. Also, Zara and Nyx presented a problem of their own. Not the assignment given to me by Heavyhammer but the fact they wanted to sell the book. I had no interest in the Codex’s monetary value, but if it helped answer the question of why the Warders were in Alchester, it needed to go to Atticus, who was best suited to deciphering such things. Zara and Nyx might not see the value in that, but I’d solve that problem after I had the book in my possession. All things considered, I had no allies in this endeavor. If the Jakaree didn’t turn on me first, then Zara and Nyx would. Still, no better way to spend the evening came to mind.

“We have the combination,” I said. “The Jakaree know the vault’s location. I say we accept their offer.”

Zara pursed her lips, waiting for Nyx’s counsel. But though I saw the wheels turning in his head, Nyx knew better than anyone he had no choice. Heavyhammer had ordered him to steal the book, something Nyx couldn’t do without One-Eye’s help. His nod of agreement was reluctant, but it came nonetheless. Zara, however, held a different opinion about the situation, and true to her nature, she had no qualms about expressing it.

“Aligning ourselves with the priests is suicide. I say if Heavyhammer wants the book, he can come get it himself.”

“But Zara,” Nyx said, touching her shoulder. “He’s already given me an order to steal it. I can’t go back empty-handed, especially after . . . ”

After getting captured and blabbing, he was about to say.

“I don’t like the situation any more than you do, but I have to do this. You know that.”

Zara seemed ready to say more, but recognizing the futility of the situation, she bit her lip and fell silent. They had never truly drifted apart, so now they stood together in silence, locked in an exchange of glances.

Again, I cleared my throat, hoping they got the point.

Zara sighed, and the two separated. Collectively, we returned our attention to the Jakaree. Zara spoke for all of us when she said, “All right, then. We accept your truce. Now, tell us where we can find the vault.”

Scaramon found every opportunity to smirk, it seemed, and this was another such time. “We each hold on to our secrets. In this way, we ensure the sanctity of our alliance. Agreed?”

One-Eye’s answer was not entirely unexpected, but no one blamed Zara for trying.

Scaramon turned with a flourish. “Come! The vault is outside the city walls. Fortunately, it will not take long to get there.”

All but the priestess filed in behind him. She remained where she was, still staring at me with her ghoulish look. If she meant to unnerve me with her stare, I had to admit, it was working.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

The priests stopped, and a dozen visages turned toward me.

“There are only three of us. Let’s keep the odds even, shall we?”

Scaramon considered it. “Very well.” He scanned the faces of his underlings, alienating the priestess by hardly looking her way, and selected two. “Jutrick and Velka, you will accompany me. The rest of you return to Onius and inform him of our progress.”

“No.”

The priestess, come back to life.

“I am going with you.”

Her voice, soft like velvet, carried a heavy weight of command.

Scaramon leveled a disconcerting eye—one eye—at her. “But High Priestess Lyra, entering the vault involves great risk. Surely the Dark One does not—”

“Do you presume to know his will better than I?”

Scaramon affected a thin smile. “Of course not, High Priestess. But I think that—”

“You are not here to think, Scaramon. You know why I am here. Onius does not wish the failure of your men repeated. Send Velka home. I will take his place.”

Scaramon’s lips pressed tight, but he said nothing else as he bowed in acquiescence. “As you wish. Velka, return to Onius with the others.”

Jutrick remained while Velka and the other priests melted into the factory’s darkness. Jutrick’s most distinguishing characteristics were his beefy arms, broad chest, and a shaved skull, too narrow for his bulky torso, adorned with the usual mysterious geometric tattoos. His weapon was a wicked-looking spiked mace, and he chose to trust in his god for protection since he wore nothing above the waist.

I caught High Priestess Lyra staring again, though she stepped toward me this time, not stopping until she stood inches away.

“You have spoken to the Whispering Shade,” she said, her eyes as piercing and cold as icicles.

“Who?”

“The Whispering Shade,” she said again. “The others call him the Dark One. You visited a cemetery and spoke to him in a tomb.”

“How do you . . . ?” But I’d been around enough mummery of late that I didn’t need to finish the question. Mathilda claimed to have heard his voice, so why not others? But the high priestess wasn’t there, so how did she know anything about it?

“I speak to him sometimes,” Lyra said. “On one occasion, he whispered to me about your confrontation. How you closed the portal before he completed the crossing. He was not pleased. In hindsight, he realized the energy was unstable and the crossing impossible. Besides, it is not time yet. So, all has been forgiven.”

“What in the Nine Hells is she talking about?” Zara asked.

Lyra backed away, her lingering gaze on me promising our discussion wasn’t over.

“Nothing that matters right now.”

“We should get moving,” Nyx said. “Leonidas escaped. If he doesn’t already know where we’re going, he may figure it out soon enough. We don’t want to deal with any more compulsors or arcanists than we have to.”

“Speaking of arcanists, where are they all?” Zara asked. “We expected more resistance.”

“Elsewhere,” Nyx said, offering nothing else.

The priests were already leaving, so we ran to catch up, leaving the foundry behind to return to the night’s icy darkness.

Scaramon guided us through dark and silent boroughs to a postern gate heavy with rust and ivy. The priest fit a key into the lock and, with a groan loud enough to rouse the dead, he and Jutrick heaved it open. Meanwhile, Lyra retrieved a hidden bundle. With deft fingers, she revealed a handful of torches, their wooden surfaces dark and unblemished. One by one, she lit each torch, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the gate’s ancient surface, before passing them out to us.

Outside the city walls, we followed a little-used path into the surrounding hills. I wondered if we might end up at one of the Warders’ many excavation sites, but the one time we saw such a camp, we stayed clear of it. Though the path changed directions often, we left the city heading west, so I searched my memory for any information that might help determine our destination. But I recalled nothing else this way unless Scaramon took us to the old wizard’s tower. Abandoned and mostly forgotten, the tower was a cursed place. Stories say even those who strayed too close vanished and never returned. Hear enough of those stories, and even the most hardened treasure hunters and thrill seekers stopped visiting the place long ago. Surely, I thought, there must be something else out here. But as we moved further and further from the city, leaving anything resembling a trail or even a game path behind in favor of thick, nagging brush and thorny vines, I began to suspect our destination was, in fact, the tower. Scaramon confirmed my suspicion an instant later.

“We are here,” he announced, spreading his arms wide as he freed himself from the last tangled bush and emerged into a clearing marked by a single looming structure.

“Finrad’s Magnificent Tower,” Nyx said next to me.

Jutrick and Lyra fanned out to either side of Scaramon, neither saying a word as they took in the tower’s precarious height. The structure was a dark vertical slice across a slightly less dark night sky, and while multitudes of stars shone between breaks in the clouds, it seemed those in the tower’s backdrop dimmed and faded so, in that region only, no stars shone at all. A trick of the night, I thought, though the shiver up and down my spine said otherwise. Finrad was once a powerful master wizard, or so the stories said. Some say he built the tower. Others say it already stood here, its construction predating Alchester by a millennium. If the latter was true, that put its origins squarely in the time of Khoras, the city from which Alchester rose. Whatever its history, the tower’s bulky, weathered stone rose at least a hundred feet, and despite the tangled growth we fought through to get here, the space around the structure was bare. Once, a path or road might have led to the steps and single metal door I spotted, but now the way consisted of dry, crumbly dirt. Oddly enough, I saw no windows or balconies dotting the tower’s exterior. Only block after block of sooty stone stacked one on top of the other, all the way to the crenelated rooftop. The ‘magnificent’ part of the tower’s name was as antiquated as its former owner. At one time, wonderful things might have happened here. Now, I saw little to inspire the imagination.

Scaramon approached the steps leading to the door with caution, his gaze ever roving. Without prompting, Lyra and Jutrick accompanied him. Grim-faced as ever, the death priests held torches high and kept weapons close at hand.

“Expecting trouble?” I asked, surprised we’d encountered no Warder patrols on the way here but seeing no danger now. I was even more surprised no guards stood outside the tower. But I didn’t think the priests searched for Warders. Something else had them spooked.

Zara laughed. “They’re looking for bonkoodas.”

“Bon-what?” I asked.

“Ghosts,” Nyx said, not nearly as amused as Zara. “The tower is haunted, is it not?”

“That’s what the stories say,” I answered. “Probably by the spirit of the dead wizard who used to live here.”

I saw few signs of visitors. A partial track here and a boot heel there leading to the tower’s steps. But the ground remained mostly undisturbed. The door at the top of the steps, an impressive slab of smooth black iron, appeared frozen in place. In the spirit of the tower not having windows, the door had no handle, knob, or keyhole.

“Onius sent three warriors here three days ago,” Scaramon said. “Their task was the same as ours, to reach the vault. They entered the tower. None returned.”

“How did they get inside?” Nyx asked.

“The door may look impassable, but it is not. As in all things, the Dark One has shown me how to open it.”

Zara banged a knuckle on the smooth surface, the resulting metallic clang fading quickly. “You’re sure the vault is inside?”

Lyra leaned back, taking in the tower’s length. “It is inside.”

“Then why are we standing about in the dark?” Zara asked, impatient. “Open the door. It’s cold out here.”

Scaramon bowed his head slightly. “Of course. Jutrick, help me.”

We backed away, giving the priests space to examine the door, which they did by moving their hands across its surface. Mumbled words in a language I didn’t recognize floated back and forth between them for some minutes. Zara stomped her foot once, but a touch from Nyx seemed to calm her before she unleashed her impatient fury on the priests. I crossed my arms and let them do their work while I did my best to ignore Lyra, whose gaze strayed my way too many times.

“I don’t like this,” Zara said. “A job like this requires planning. Assuming the priests ever get the door open, we have no idea what we’re walking into.”

Nyx studied the priests working at the door with a skeptical eye. He spoke without turning from them. “I have some idea. The inside of the tower is full of traps set by Finrad to deter thieves.”

“You know this how?” I asked, genuinely curious, though engaging with Nyx also served as a welcome distraction from Lyra’s unsettling stare.

“Because I came here to rob the place once. People speak of the tower as far away as my home in the Southern Reaches, if you can believe that. Finrad’s Magnificent Tower, they call it. Not so magnificent now, is it? Upon my arrival in Alchester, I had the grandiose idea of being the first in ages to penetrate its mysteries and discover its riches. I spent countless hours learning about Finrad, studying everything about him and his supposed descent into madness. I thought understanding the tower’s master might help me unravel his secrets.” He shrugged. “It didn’t.”

“You never even made it inside, did you?” I asked.

Nyx chuckled. “All those weeks—or was it months?—studying everything about Finrad and the mysteries and legends surrounding him proved little use once I got here. An impenetrable door and no windows? What’s that saying about a wizard always having the last laugh?”

“I think we almost have it,” Scaramon announced. He and Jutrick stepped away from the door. “Lyra, we have said what prayers we can. It is ready for you.”

Zara huffed. “Prayers? How are prayers going to open a door?”

The priests ignored her as Lyra handed her torch to Jutrick. Like her brothers, she also placed her hands on the smooth iron surface, but she kept her open palms in one place, closing her eyes as she murmured under her breath.

Prayers, or was it the incantation of a sorceress or witch? I had no idea. But after less than a minute, she stepped back and screamed into the night, “By the power of the Dark One, I command thee to open!”

Nothing happened.

But Lyra remained in place, resolute, with arms raised, and finally, without further ceremony, the heavy iron door opened. It didn’t swing but lifted, like a portcullis, straight up until it disappeared into the wall. What was odd about it—not the first odd thing and probably not the last—was the door made no sound as it slid up. Not a creak or a groan or even a rub. The opening it left behind exposed nothing but uninviting darkness.

“Nyx mentioned traps,” I said. “What do you know about those?”

“Very little,” Scaramon said. “But the Warders solved their mysteries, so we shall, too. We must trust the everlasting darkness will not lead us astray.”

I thought he must be joking, but he neither laughed nor even cracked a smile.

Zara turned her dark glare on the priest. This time, I felt her wrath justified. “That’s your plan? Trust in your dark god?”

Scaramon nodded, all seriousness. “We need trust in nothing else.”

If this was the Jakaree’s plan, we were all dead men. I wanted the Codex as much as the next person, but not at the expense of my life. If Scaramon truly had nothing else to offer to guarantee our safety, then our truce was over, and I planned to return to the city. I didn’t doubt that Zara, whose clenched fists and tightened lip indicated her ire was well on its way to reaching new levels, harbored similar thoughts.

Only Nyx seemed unperturbed.

“I may have a way to help our chances.”

All eyes turned to him.

“I may not have found a way into the tower, but I learned much about the traps Finrad favored. You see, Finrad knew his time in this world was ending, so he was forced to face his greatest regret. More than anything, he lamented not being able to take his riches with him when he died. Some say that regret drove him mad. Maybe it did. But he was adamant that if he couldn’t possess his treasures for all time, then no one would. So, he hid them in his vault, and to protect the vault, he hired a man named Karmarillion. Has anyone ever heard of Karmarillion? No? In Finrad’s time, he was an expert craftsman. The mad wizard commissioned him to build most of the tower’s traps. Finrad designed them, but Karmarillion made his vision a reality. Turns out Karmarillion was more than a simple craftsman. He was also an opportunist.”

“You mean he was a thief,” I said.

Nyx shrugged. “He took advantage of a situation. If that makes him a thief, so be it. Unbeknownst to Finrad, Karmarillion made copies of the designs and documented the construction of each trap Finrad had him install. When Finrad finally died, Karmarillion thought he’d walk right into the tower, disarm the traps, and have free access to the tower’s riches.” Nyx chuckled. “Like me, he made it as far as the door. It seems Finrad installed that particular obstacle all by himself. Karmarillion had no idea how to get inside.”

Wizards seemed to get a lot of last laughs.

“Back when I thought I had a chance of finding my way into Finrad’s vault of treasures, a copy of Karmarillion’s notes made its way to me. It’s been years since I last looked at it, but I remember enough to help.”

“But the Warders brought the Codex into the tower,” Jutrick said, voicing his first words other than his muttering exchange with Scaramon. He had a deep, husky voice and a manner of spitting every word, as if he found speaking a disdainful chore. “They must have disarmed many of the traps already. Otherwise, they risk their lives every time they visit the vault.”

“Our enemies are fools,” Lyra said. “They trust no one, including their own. Even if they disarmed the traps, they would re-arm them to protect the book.”

Nyx shook his head. “The Warders would not even have to do that much. Many of the traps are mechanical in nature, but they are also magical. From my reading, Finrad made sure the traps reset themselves, so even if one trespasser made it through, the trap was ready and waiting for the next.”

“We’ve seen no Warders outside,” Zara said. “Will we find any inside?”

But no one knew the answer to that, and since we’d been standing around for long enough, we filed into the tower. Right away, Finrad’s Magnificent Tower defied expectations.

Warm candlelight and the scent of hardwood burning in an open hearth greeted us. Plush carpets, elegantly painted stucco walls decorated in colors of silver and gold, a winding stair with lacquered balustrade leading up and another on the room’s other side leading down, and—oddest of all since nothing but bare stone covered the tower’s exterior—latticed windows with views of the surrounding woods and darkened hills. The chamber was circular. No surprise there, considering we stood inside a round tower. But the room’s size somehow seemed greater than was possible, given the circumference seen from outside. Perhaps a trick of the architecture, I thought, hanging back with Zara and Nyx while the priests explored, uninhibited by common sense or fear of a dead wizard’s wrath. A fine layer of dust covered the place, making it easy to notice tracks leading from the doorway to the ascending stairs.

“The Warders,” Nyx said, stating the obvious.

“Not just them,” I said, pointing. “The heaviest concentration of tread patterns is the same. But these two, no three, are unique, even from each other. They follow the path of the others up the stairs.”

Scaramon examined the tracks and grunted. “Our missing brethren, no doubt.” Then he rejoined the other two to continue their exploration.

“It’s warm in here,” Zara said, removing her coat and hanging it on a rack near the open door.

Curious, I checked the nearest window, which had solid panes that did not open. When I tapped on the glass, it felt hard like stone.

“If the mad wizard placed traps here,” Zara said, “those idiot priests would have already triggered them. Let’s follow the tracks up the stairs.”

I agreed with her about the room, but that didn’t mean the stairs were safe. “Nyx, any traps we should know about?”

He considered the question but finally shook his head. “None I recall.”

Since the wall lanterns provided ample illumination, we deposited our torches in a water-filled urn near the door. Its presence seemed too convenient, and if I didn’t have a small supply of alchemical glow-sticks, I might have taken my lit torch with me. But I tossed mine in with the rest, and we started up the stairs. Scaramon was in the lead now. As soon as his foot touched the first step, the main door slid closed behind us whisper-quiet, a slight whoosh of air the only sign.

“Shat!” Zara yelled.

Lyra muttered something under her breath.

I glared at Nyx. “Any other traps you can’t recall?”

He shrugged. “I did say it’s been a while since I reviewed the notes.”

I joined Scaramon on the first step. “Can you open the door from the inside?”

“Of course,” the one-eyed priest said. “But, for now, best it remains closed. We don’t want to arouse the suspicions of any Warders patrolling the area.”

He had a point there.

“But when it comes time to free us from this cage,” I said, “you’d best do so without conditions.”

“The only conditions are the ones we already discussed. For the time being, consider this an added incentive. Only my brethren and I have the power to open the door. If we don’t return alive, then you and the others will remain trapped here forever.”

Zara glowered. “Fair enough, priest. We’ll make sure you live long enough to open the door. But we make no guarantees past that.”

Scaramon grinned and dipped his head in the smallest of bows.

The stairs twisted up and around, and with more light ahead, we went cautiously. Mindful that others had entered the tower before us, I half-expected to see Warder sentries or the missing Jakaree around every curve. Instead, to my surprise, after wrapping around twice, we discovered ourselves back in the entry chamber, its roaring fire and windowed views of the outside greeting us as if we’d never left. Somehow, we’d come up the stairs opposite the ones leading up.

Zara shook her head, as confused as the rest of us. “How the hell did we wind up back here?”

Nyx crossed his arms and raised a hand to stroke his goatee. He looked from one staircase to the other. “This must be Finrad’s Neverending Stairs. If the accounting I read is accurate, it’s more a puzzle than a trap. It’s harmless, though annoying, I suppose.”

While the rest of us loitered in the foyer, Lyra took it upon herself to start up the stairs again. While she did that, Zara retraced our steps in the other direction, descending the other staircase. After a short while, Lyra returned the way we’d just come, and Zara padded down the stairs opposite her until, like before, they were right back where they started.

“The stairs may be harmless, but we’re trapped here all the same,” I said.

“The others got past this,” Zara said. “So, how hard can it be to solve?”

Scaramon, who had no answer, went to the stairs spiraling up. Jutrick joined him. “We shall see if the Dark One can provide guidance.”

Meanwhile, I focused on something more useful by questioning Nyx.

“What do you remember about the stairs?”

He tilted his head. “Karmarillion mentioned little about the stairs. But in that context, I remember something about a narrow passage.”

Zara joined us. “A way separate from the stairs?”

We all looked about, wondering if we’d missed something. But the room had no other ways in or out.

“Maybe it’s a secret passage,” I suggested.

Zara started searching, though scant places existed for such a hidden corridor.

“Or a specific path?” Nyx wondered out loud.

I joined him. “Not a narrow passage, but a narrow path? As in a specific way to climb the stairs.”

Dropping into a crouch, Nyx eyed the lacquered steps. “I was about to suggest we follow the tracks of the others, except we trampled all over them.”

“But if we’re right, I expect to see the Warders’ footprints concentrated in a single line. The priests’ footprints and ours are the ones all over the place.”

While Zara continued searching for a hidden door and the priests mumbled to themselves, we scrutinized the unsettled dust for a straight line or pattern. With so many prints in the dust, the task proved challenging enough that I was almost ready to give up. But then I realized we were approaching this the wrong way.

“The Warders wouldn’t have left a clear sign. Secrecy, obfuscation, compartmentalization of information. That’s how they operate.”

Nyx raised a hand to his chin. “What are you thinking?”

“That they intentionally left the wrong path. Or, at the very least, they didn’t leave a clear one.”

Nyx grunted. “Leaving an intentionally incorrect path sounds like their style. So, how do we find a hidden path when all the clues lead us down the wrong one?”

“We find the path no one has walked.”

Finished with her search, Zara joined us. “If there’s a hidden passage, damn if I can locate it.”

Zara was an expert in such things, so if she had found nothing, there wasn’t anything to find. Nyx filled her in on our theory. The priests stood by the fire now, staying out of our way at least. They hadn’t come up with any revelations of their own, leaving the problem for us to solve. So much for the Dark One’s guidance.

“Look for places on the steps without tracks,” I said. “But also, look for places free of dust.”

The Warders were thorough, but not that thorough.

“Is it every step or every other?” Nyx asked out loud. “Or every third?”

“There’s no way to know,” I answered. “Maybe the actual steps aren’t as important as the path itself. Look! If you start at this corner and sidestep up, there’s almost a clear line.”

Zara took the steps as indicated but came up against the railing almost immediately. “But that ends here. Wait.” Angling away from the railing this time, she took the next handful of steps, stopping halfway because to go any further meant crossing a line marked by many prints. A ruse, she must have figured, because she turned back, ascended some more, and stopped. Then she turned the other way, took three steps, and vanished.

“Where did she go?” Jutrick asked from his place by the fire.

Zara reappeared before anyone could answer.

“It’s this way,” she said before disappearing once more.

I took the steps in the same manner she did. Nyx and the priests followed. Sure enough, though the staircase continued to spiral ahead, when I took that last step, the entry chamber vanished, and I emerged at the topmost step of a new and different staircase, this one lighter in color and adorned with a different style of balusters. Like before, fluttering torches and even a few braziers lit the space before us with abundant light. This new room was as round as the first and richly adorned with polished hardwoods, elaborately carved wainscotting, and, right at the center, a rectangular dining table with every place set and a feast fit for a king spread across its length. I even saw a bottle of wine chilling in a frosted bronze bucket.

“Perhaps the tower is not as deserted as so many think,” Nyx said.

Succulent aromas washed across my senses as I approached the table. I spotted plates of roasted duck and boar, bowls of potatoes and carrots, and an assortment of leafy greens with sauces and dips already arranged at each setting. Dinner plates and utensils were clean and untouched, and only then did I notice the number of places. Six, to match our number precisely, or perhaps the number was a mere coincidence. I stopped at the wine bucket and removed my glove to touch its side. “It’s cold.” Feeling compelled to examine the wine, I lifted the bottle and held it to the light. Moisture from the ice dripped onto the floor. “I don’t recognize the name or the region, but the year is 1279. It’s a red. Possibly a cabernet.”

“1279?” Nyx asked. “That’s before the Fall of the Old Gods.”

The current year was 539, the number of years since the Old Gods saw fit to destroy themselves. That event prompted society to restart the calendar from zero to give everyone a fresh start. The year 1279 was, therefore, indicative of the old calendar.

I eyed the wax seal. “It’s unopened.”

Nyx smiled. “Do you think it’s still good?”

I grinned because I liked how Nyx thought.

“Only one way to find out.”

I took out a knife and was about to cut the wax seal off when Zara’s piercing whistle from the other side of the table stopped me. She stared at the floor.

“Unless you want to wind up like this one, I’d put that back where you found it.” Her lips curled in a devilish grin as her gaze turned to me. “On second thought, go ahead. Let’s see if it does.”

There, sprawled across a tattered rug, lay the lifeless form of a Jakaree priest. The pallor of his skin was unsettling, an unnatural greenish hue hinting at the horror that had befallen him. A grimace contorted his face, a grotesque tableau of agony preserved in death, and dark patches stained the corners of his mouth. A small, ornate bowl lay overturned beside him, remnants of food from the wizard’s table clinging to its edges.

The Jakaree surrounded the fallen priest and bowed their heads. We gave them what time they needed to perform their death rituals. With a sigh of disappointment, I returned the bottle. Though Lyra strayed the longest, Scaramon and Jutrick rejoined us in short order. No one offered condolences, because I didn’t think anyone was truly sorry.

“The vault is this way,” Scaramon said, pointing at another staircase marked by twisting metal balusters etched with thorns and roses. He started for it without waiting to see who followed.

Letting the others go before me, I waited in silence for Lyra to finish her ritual. Kneeling now, she touched the dead priest’s forehead, muttered some final prayer to the Dark One, and stood. When she walked away from the corpse, she did so with an air of finality. The priest may have sacrificed his life for their cause, but he would receive no more regard from his high priestess. Still, as Lyra neared me, I noticed her lip trembling, betraying her stoicism. She stopped opposite me, unable to meet my gaze for once.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” I asked.

“I know all the Dark One’s children.”

“But this one more than those others.”

Lyra nodded. “Eamon was a friend. Sometimes, he was like a brother.” The words triggered something within her, and she sniffled and wiped a growing tear from her eye. “He leaves behind a wife and child. I will have to tell them what has happened here. How their husband and father died for the Dark One’s holy cause. That will give them some solace, but it will never change the fact that Eamon is gone forever.”

I didn’t know which surprised me more. The high priestess’s sorrow or the revelation that one of her dark brothers had a family. I had only ever seen one side of the Jakaree, and though my acquaintance with Lyra was brief, I now saw her in a new light as an ordinary young woman bearing the weight of the world—or at least the return of a dark god—on her shoulders. I understood all too well the stress that such a burden brought. While I had difficulty mustering sympathy for Lyra, the high priestess, I wasn’t so inured that I didn’t feel something for Lyra, the woman.

“Tell them they will never be alone,” I said.

Lyra stared at me with glistening eyes.

“Tell them Eamon may be gone, but you remain to watch over them.”

Lyra wiped and fluttered her eyes to clear them. “I did not expect such words from you.”

“I can’t take credit for them. But words like those sometimes help, I’ve found.”

Zara’s sharp whistle and a shout to hurry up or get left behind prompted us to catch up with the others, who were already halfway up the next twisting staircase. When we caught up to them, Nyx was cautioning One-Eye to take it slow because of something he recalled from his research.

“Finrad called these the Stairs of Thorns,” he said. “I know because he described the balusters as you see them, with roses and thorns.”

Zara humphed. “Who cares what they’re called? The old wizard could have called them the Stairs of Roses for all I care. We need to know about traps. Are there any?”

As if Zara’s question had prompted the old wizard himself to provide an answer, the stairs beneath our feet trembled. We all felt it, though those at the center of the stairs more so than the others. I didn’t need a second hint. Without hesitation, I leaped to the edge of the stairs. Scaramon did the same. Nyx and Zara were already there, and Lyra so close that one quick step ensured her safety. Only Jutrick, who held his arms wide, trying to regain his balance, was too slow. Wooden steps polished to a shine vanished, replaced by a gaping hole of nothingness. Jutrick cried out, first in astonishment and then, as he fell out of sight, in agony. Peering over the edge, I saw the priest at the bottom of a pit, pierced by a dozen foot-long metal spikes. Next to him were two corpses with as many spikes in each. No one dove into the hole to save him because we all knew he was as good as dead already. Then it no longer mattered because the stairs began to re-materialize. In seconds, the reconstituted floor sealed Jutrick inside the pit, cutting off his groans of agony and leaving him to die alone. Scaramon banged on the steps with his fist, proving they were as solid as when we first placed our feet on them.

“We must break through and help our brother!”

No one—not even Lyra—moved to help him.

“It is too late for him,” she said. “He is gone.”

Scaramon knew it, too. So, with a final heave of breath, he sat back, leaving Jutrick to his fate. His relative calm lasted as long as it took for his one good eye to wander to Nyx and Zara, who had, by chance, remained clear of the trap from the onset. When it did, his face twisted into a scowl.

“Where was your warning, thief?” he snarled. “Did you expect this to happen?”

Nyx licked dry lips. “I was trying to warn you. As I said, I read the craftsman’s notes some time ago. You cannot expect me to remember every detail or issue a warning at every moment, especially when you plod on so far ahead of me. We are in a mad wizard’s tower. We must each expect danger at every footfall and accept the consequences if we cannot react fast enough.”

Scaramon huffed but turned away. Lyra had her own glare set on Nyxander, but she remained quiet. I stayed in the background, watching Nyx and wondering if he might have some other reaction. A sly smile, a furtive exchange with Zara, or perhaps a quick sigh of disappointment that more of us hadn’t fallen into the trap. Or, more specifically, that I hadn’t. Suspicion kept me alive as much as my instincts and superior reflexes, so I found it hard to believe Nyx hadn’t known about the trap. I let my guard down for a second and almost paid the price. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I saw two corpses in the pit,” I said. “One, probably a Warder. The other, another of your priests.”

Scaramon cursed under his breath. Lyra, who had also seen into the pit, closed her eyes and bowed her head. One-Eye, who had no more time—or patience—for mourning, continued his ascent. Nyx gave him some space before following. Determined to remain more vigilant, I went next.

“What is it with this wizard and his damn staircases?” Zara asked as I passed her. She shook her head and, along with Lyra, we all got moving again.

No other traps hindered our way, so once we reached the top, we stepped into an empty chamber with obsidian floors and doors of all types and shapes along the room's circumference. Wood, metal, stained glass, round, rectangular, and even one that was square. I noticed indentations or depressions on the floor and a spiderweb of cracks spreading from each. Dried blood stained the dark tiles and infiltrated the spidery cracks of at least one deformation.

“The Room of Doors,” Nyxander said, the name so obvious I wondered if he made it up. “Karmarillion’s notes contained much about it, though he deals only with the concrete and absolute. Here, he wrote of an elevator and its associated mechanisms. But the room is magical in nature, too. The craftsman said little about that, though I chanced upon a bard who claimed to know about it. Most of his information was too bizarre to believe, no doubt derived from the stories he tells when the night is cold, the fire warm, and the ale flowing too freely. But some of it seemed useful. Most of the doors, he told me, open to places not of this world. Those are best avoided because what lies on the other side is neither welcoming nor hospitable toward mortal beings. But one door, he said, opens to Finrad’s vault.”

“What about traps?” Lyra asked.

Nyx hesitated but said, “We’re safe as long as we only open the door leading to the vault.”

“Which one is it, then?” Scaramon spat, his one eye gone wide at the options. “How do we choose?”

No one knew, though I had a suggestion about who we might ask. “Lyra, what advice does your dark god offer?”

The priestess chewed her lip, thinking and taking in the chamber with its many doors. Taking slow steps, she walked the room, stopping before each door and sometimes touching the surface before moving on to the next. I assumed she would let us know if she learned anything useful.

Zara spun a dagger, blade over hilt, and caught it with an expert hand. “We may have no choice but to try each one.”

Zara liked to gamble, so it almost seemed she relished the idea.

“Let’s see what the priestess comes up with first.”

So, we waited while Lyra continued moving from one door to the next. She didn’t stop at any one longer than another, and soon she was almost at the last, with no revelations shared yet. When she reached the last door, she spun around and strode to the room’s center.

“The Whispering Shade knows this place. Once, the mad wizard summoned him here under duress. He does not have the answer we seek, but he told me how to find it. We must first open one of the doors. It does not matter which one.”

Zara spun her dagger again. “What happens when we do?”

Lyra would say no more, and since no one had a better idea, Zara took it upon herself to choose. Like Lyra, she stalked about, taking in one door after another before settling on one with dark stained wood and banded iron. She gripped the handle with caution, counting down with her outstretched fingers. Three, two, one. Then she tugged the door open.

Inside was . . . nothing.

Not a room or a hallway or anything other than a blank slate of impenetrable darkness. It seemed unwise to tempt fate, and since Lyra had said nothing about keeping the door open, Zara slammed it shut.

“This is the most idiotic way I’ve ever seen to access a vault,” Zara growled. “Might as well—”

The chamber groaned. Not the sound a person made, but one grounded in mechanical gears and other mechanisms. A calamitous clanking with alternating squeaks followed, and three distinct concentric sections of the floor began to spin, with the center where Lyra stood turning in one direction while the two outer bands rotated the opposite way. All three sections moved at different speeds. Also, as the outermost band moved, so too did the doors. I found the purpose of all the motion puzzling until etched runes on the floor, previously unseen, appeared at both the inner and outer edges of each of the two bands. The outer edge of the center circle also had them. Nyx recognized the symbols at once.

“The vault’s combination!”

Only he knew which symbols and their order, so without prompting, he studied the runes on each band, moving with the floor’s rotation as needed and calling out his findings as they came to him. “Each band contains symbols from the combination.” He moved on, his gaze scanning back and forth. “The way each circle moves, the symbols will eventually align across all three sections. But how to lock them in?”

“No other mechanism remains other than the doors,” Lyra said, turning round slowly with the centermost piece’s motion.

Zara’s eyes lit up. “Look how the symbols align across the bands. When they do, a door also aligns with them.”

Thieves were expert puzzle solvers, and what she said made sense, inasmuch as anything did in the mad wizard’s tower.

Excited now, Zara strode around the room. “Nyx, how many symbols are there?”

“Three.”

“Good! Once three like symbols align, we need to open the door corresponding to the alignment. Maybe that will lock it in, and maybe the vault lies through the final door.”

We watched Nyx examine the symbols until he pointed at two identical ones nearing each other. “That’s the first symbol,” he said. “Now, it’s aligned at the first and second band!”

“But not at the circle,” I said, more wary than the others because while they watched for the symbols to align, I wondered how the blood-stained marks fit into the mad wizard’s puzzle. Lyra also glanced at the indentations while observing their proximity to the candidate doors.

Nyx pointed. “There! The first symbol is in alignment across all three bands! Zara, open the door!”

Zara was closest, but she had to act fast. Leaping across the distance, she grabbed the wooden handle and heaved with all her might. The door, larger than the others, resisted her pull, but she wrenched it open with a cry of triumph right before the symbols moved out of alignment.

At once, two things happened. The trifecta of runes across each of the concentric platforms lit up with fiery brilliance. Also, a deafening roar from above announced the arrival of a stone pillar directly over Zara’s head.

“Watch out!”

Zara didn’t waste time looking up. If she had, the descending column would have pulverized her. Instead, right before the pillar crashed into the obsidian floor, she lunged forward, rolled, and evaded death by inches. Dark bits, some so pulverized they formed a cloud of debris, exploded outward, showering everyone nearby, and the resounding boom prompted hands to cover ears by reflex. No one moved except to peer upward, wondering if another pillar waited to fall. But as the dust settled and grinding gears and rattling chains above us screeched to a halt, tranquil quiet spread throughout the chamber. It was enough time for us to breathe a sigh of relief before the gears started up again. Chain links pinged against one another and clinched tight, gears creaked into motion, and the pillar rose. Where it had fallen, the violent impact deepened—and further complicated the spidery cracks—while explaining the already significant indentation there.

The three runes, interlocked now, continued to blaze with energy even as the floor’s continued rotation displaced each of our positions relative to the open door. The motion pulled Zara further from it while bringing others, namely Scaramon and me, closer. But no one remained close enough to slam the door shut, which would have been the thing to do before a thrashing of tentacles, like those belonging to some deep-sea nightmare, exploded from the open doorway. The appendages indiscriminately lashed out in all directions at once, probing, seeking, trying to wrap themselves around anything alive. Scaramon, so close, was caught instantly by two tentacles wrapping around his leg and torso. Stunned at first, he recovered quickly, snarling as he took hold of his spiked mace.

“Haraah!”

He slammed his weapon down on the meaty appendage once, twice, and a third time, sounding out a drumbeat of squishing noises but with little else to show for his effort even as the tentacles slowly, inexorably dragged him toward the open door. I was closest, and while the temptation of letting the creature pull One-Eye into whatever hell it had sprung from seemed appealing, I reminded myself that we needed the priest to get out of the tower. With tentacles whipping around me, I was already in the thick of it and forced to duck and roll when they reached for me. One got close, paying the price as I used my sword to slash a deep gouge into it. The wounded tentacle recoiled, letting me know the creature felt pain, something I used to my advantage, cutting and slashing at every opportunity until I reached Scaramon, who used a kris now but was ever so close to getting yanked through the doorway. Two quick slashes freed him, and then, together, we backed from the enraged appendages.

Zara and Nyx stood back to back, knives and daggers slicing anything that drew near. Lyra had backed to a safe distance, though with the floor rotating and more tentacles slithering from the open doorway, such safety was temporary at best.

“Watch for the next alignment!” I yelled at her, realizing our one way out of this lay in escaping to the vault.

Like the fastest of whips, three—no, four—tentacles lashed toward me. Few had any hope of anticipating their path, let alone countering them, but then few had my instincts or speed. Right before the slimy tips reached me, I sidestepped two appendages and slashed another in half. On the return stroke, I nearly sliced through one more. Thinking to buy us more time for the next symbol to come into alignment, I pressed forward until tentacles wiggled and twisted all around me, making my task easier because every motion of my blade cut into something.

Then I heard Lyra call out that the second symbol had aligned across all three sections. A moment later, Scaramon yelled he had the corresponding door open. Briefly, I wondered what new hell he unleashed on us. I wanted to look, but the writhing tentacles demanded my full attention as more and more reached for me. Out of the corner of one eye, I glimpsed three runes, locked in now, coming to life as magic surged through them. I heard Lyra shouting, speaking words I didn’t understand. But I was too preoccupied to tell if her mummery had anything to do with something new coming through the second doorway.

“The final symbol is coming into alignment!” Nyx yelled.

At the same time, shapes dark as night appeared all around me. Instinctively, I slashed at the nearest, feeling no resistance as my blade sliced through a cloud of darkness bearing the vague shape of a man with blue pinpricks for eyes. Dozens descended on the tentacles, soaking into them like water soaked a sponge. Where they went, the tentacles slowed and stopped, held in place by some unseen force. The reprieve allowed me time to look around. The tentacles now reached every part of the chamber, so even Lyra had to contend with them. But her focus was on the dark wraiths. With arms extended and hands raised, her every motion caused one or more apparitions to move in lockstep. She guided them, I realized, using them to attack the tentacles. But with more and more wraiths emerging from the second doorway, her limit fast approached.

Nyx stood before the third door. With the symbols aligned, he yanked it open. Nine runes in total now flared, blinding the senses and making it almost impossible to see what lay beyond the threshold. But then it no longer mattered, because the centermost section of the floor began sinking.

“Karmarillion’s elevator!” Nyx shouted.

Each person leaped, jumped, or dove for it. Only Lyra, consumed by her spellcasting, didn’t move at all. Scaramon noticed, but he was nearly on the elevator already, and it wasn’t stopping. I was closer to her, though not by much. Scaramon’s gaze went to Lyra, then to me. Then he settled into the elevator and looked at nothing at all. Fortunately for the high priestess, I was not so callous. I reached her with little trouble.

“Lyra!” I hoped she heard me. “The combination is complete. The way into the vault is open, but it might not stay that way for much longer. We have to go.”

Though her gaze focused elsewhere, her hands still waving as she directed the wraiths, she said, “When I release them, they will come for us. The tentacled beast, too.”

I grabbed her arm. “Then let go, and let’s get out of here.”

A tenseness surrounding Lyra vanished, and I knew she had released her hold over the wraiths. A baneful wail rose from all quarters as the apparitions, their blue eyes flaring to new brilliance, came for us. The tentacles, free now, released their fury by thrashing violently and, no longer interested in capturing us, slammed into the obsidian floor with such strength the walls shook. Fighting such rage was a fool’s errand. Lucky for us, since our only goal was to get the hell out of here, we ran instead, maniacally navigating amongst the writhing tentacles while hoping to escape before the wraiths blocked our way. I kept a firm grip on Lyra, so once we drew close enough to the descending platform, which had sunk low enough to obscure the others, we made one final leap and crashed onto the descending platform.

“What took you so long?” Nyx asked with a grin.

As labored breathing subsided, and the chaos above us remained at bay, sighs of relief followed. The elevator’s progress was slow, going down and down, not to the feasting hall, which in a sane world lay below us, but to some new place that came into dim focus as lights flared to life. Briefly, I saw a large chamber ringed by shadow before the platform slipped into a round sleeve constructed of perfectly aligned stone blocks. I thought we descended into a well, but as we slowed and finally stopped, an arched opening presented itself. Through the archway, unseen from above, I spotted someone standing amidst a shifting gray fog. The person had their back to us, unmoving and unaware of our presence. Exchanging looks, we reached an unspoken consensus that hailing the stranger was harmless. Nyx did so, but to little effect.

Scaramon stood apart from Lyra. He neither noticed nor cared that long after everyone else had shaken off their expenditures from the Room of Doors, her breathing remained labored, her demeanor reflecting a weariness that transcended the physical. When she raised her bowed head long enough to notice me staring, she spoke with a weariness I had not heard from her before.

“Channeling the dark one’s power is never without a cost.”

I saved my questions about what she’d done for later. Right now, I was more interested in the stranger who refused to acknowledge our presence.

“Perhaps he’s deaf,” Nyx said. “If I tap on his shoulder, that should—”

“No.” Lyra brushed past us, stopping short of the archway. “The fog is another trap. Something about this place is different. Also, I sense something.”

I stood next to her, staring into the shifting miasma. “Different how?”

Lyra’s brow furrowed as she mulled over the question. Moments later, her lips widened as some realization struck her. But rather than articulating her discovery, she looked at me with a curious stare. “You cannot tell? You who have traveled to the shadow realm and lived to tell about it?”

“This is the shadow realm?” Zara asked from behind us.

“No,” I said, unsure how I’d become an authority on the subject. “It feels . . . different.” Not as dark and nowhere near as cold, for one. Also, I didn’t know what Lyra sensed, but it wasn’t her and Scaramon’s dark god. Before, when that entity was near, I felt an overwhelming, suffocating pressure threatening me from all sides. I felt nothing like that now.

Lyra drew her cloak tighter about her. “It feels different because we are at the realm’s very edge. We are halfway between worlds, with half our presence in the mad wizard’s tower and half in the shadow realm.”

“Then we are close to the vault,” Scaramon said. “Before he died, our Warder captive said to look for it in a world between worlds. It must lie beyond this mist.”

Zara crossed her arms. “Unless someone has another theory, I’d say whatever the trap is, it ensnared all those people standing in the mist. Not a one has moved a muscle since we got here.”

Nyx stroked his goatee. “If you stare long enough, and the mist parts just right, you can see them. As Zara said, none have moved.”

The mist didn’t shift so much as thin in places, strange amorphous lights embedded in the fog revealing more motionless figures. Like the one closest, they each had their backs to us, as if they all moved toward the same thing when the mist had trapped them. What else could their goal have been if not the vault?

“You are our expert,” Scaramon sneered at Nyx, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What do you know of this trap?”

Nyx paid no attention to the insult. “Nothing. Karmarillion never mentioned it. Nor did my other sources. Finrad kept this trap—the final one we must disarm—a complete and total secret from everyone. I can’t help but wonder, who are—or were—these people? Treasure hunters? Thieves? Adventurers?”

“Likely all three,” I said.

“When did they enter the tower, I wonder?” Nyx mused out loud. “Was my ambition to enter before all others during this age a fool's quest because someone else had already done it?”

No one had an answer to that.

“Why did they go in?” Zara asked. “They must have seen the others. Yet, they still went.”

“Greed?” Nyx said. “Stubbornness? Or perhaps each thought they had a solution to the mist’s effects, only to realize too late that they did not. I'm almost relieved I gave up when I encountered the outside door. Otherwise, you’d likely be staring at my frozen form amongst theirs.” Nyx shook his head. “I can’t see how we’ll conquer this last challenge.”

“I may have an answer,” Lyra said, new life emerging in her voice. “In wizard’s circles, the fog is called the Mist of Paralysis. At first, those who enter experience a slight cold sensation. Although the feeling doesn’t perceivably worsen, it slows movement and numbs thought. If this causes alarm, the mist’s victims soon forget why. As the mind drifts, time itself loses meaning, and the mist traps them forever.”

Zara shifted from one foot to the other. “But do they age?”

“They do. But they move forward through time with no cognizance of who they are or where they came from. In effect, they sacrifice everything when they enter the mist.”

“Death seems like a better fate,” Zara said.

A far better one, I thought. But dwelling on it helped us as much as trying to murder someone with a dull knife, so I said, “We have to cross through the mist to reach the vault, right? How do we do that?”

“By channeling the Dark One’s power once more,” Lyra said. “But I must warn you all. Countering the mad wizard’s spell is no trifling task. The Dark One will exact a toll for lending his aid.”

“Then we will pay it!” Scaramon spat. “Now, do what needs doing.”

Lyra stepped forward until she stood beneath the archway.

“I can deliver us through the Mist of Paralysis, but you must stay close to me and not deviate from my course. If you become trapped in the mist, you will remain there until you die. I can hold off the effects of the mad wizard’s spell, but if you succumb to it, I can do nothing for you.”

No one amongst us was immune to such a warning. But this was the life we had each chosen, and while we couldn’t always predict the dangers we might encounter, when we chanced upon them, we had no choice but to face them. Some, however, were more eager to face those dangers than others.

“What must we do, priestess?” One-Eye asked.

“For one, be silent! I must concentrate.”

Lyra closed her eyes and murmured something under her breath. She kept her arms at her sides and shoulders squared. No part of her moved except for her lips, which continued to emit the whisper of some incantation or prayer. When the Old Gods faded from the world, people generally accepted the god-given powers of their most faithful—the clerics of the time—faded with them. Priests strong in their faith, like Father Kem, might measure their beliefs in greater measure than most others, but these days, that sort of conviction was as toothless as a drunken goblin. Maybe Lyra wasn’t a priestess at all, or maybe, like Mathilda, who seemed part witch at times and sorceress at others, she was an odd mixture of cleric and wizard. Before, in the Room of Doors, I might have guessed the latter. But now, though I failed to understand her, I wondered if she somehow worked the magic of a true priestess because I heard whispers of . . . something else.

Impossible, I thought, so I whispered to Nyx, who stood closest, “Do you hear that?”

But he only stared back at me as if I’d said something strange and shook his head.

The voice—I was sure it was a voice—whispered more incoherently than Lyra, so I had no hope of comprehending the words. But then I realized I recognized the voice nonetheless. This was the Dark One, not booming at his priestess like he had done to me in the tomb but speaking to her in a manner befitting her station as his most faithful. The Whispering Shade, Lyra had called him, and now, she asked him to share his power with her like a cleric of old. It would have all seemed spectacular if the asking part didn’t take so long. While we fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot, Lyra kept on with her whispering and the voice—the Dark One—kept whispering back. It kept on long enough that I stepped away from the priests and motioned for Zara and Nyx to join me.

“Are there any more symbols from the combination?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Do the symbols have any further meaning or purpose?”

Nyx shook his head. “I know of no others besides the three, nor do I know of any other use for them.”

“Then we’ve outlived our usefulness to the Jakaree.”

Zara lifted her chin. “You expect treachery?”

“Don’t you? It’s only a question of when they’ll make their move.”

Nyx pressed his lips tight, nodding. “Then we need to make ours first.”

“Except we need them to get out of the tower,” I reminded him.

“Take another one out, then,” Zara said, mirroring my thought process. “The tower took care of one of those bald bastards for us. Let’s take care of the other one.”

“You mean Scaramon,” Nyx said. “But what about Lyra? Of the two, which do we need to open the main door? We all saw Lyra use her magic. But did she open the door, or did Scaramon’s doings have more to do with it? I am unclear on the answer.”

“Maybe it was both,” Zara said.

All our whispering attracted Scaramon’s attention, though the priest did nothing more than eye us with suspicion. Lyra remained entranced with her mummery and the answering voice.

“Striking first makes sense,” I said. “But we can’t kill Lyra. We need her to get us in and out of the mist.”

Zara growled in annoyance. “So, we can’t kill the priest because we might need him to let us out of the tower, but we also can’t kill the priestess because no one else can prevent the mist from trapping us forever. Why are we even having this conversation?”

Zara possesses an acute inability to see anything past what’s right in front of her face. Fortunately, Nyx had a clearer sense of things.

“Because we still need to strategize and make sure we’re ready when they make their move,” he said. “They may try to rid themselves of us on the way to the vault, but the safer play is after. Once we have the treasures, we’re more likely to let our guard down. That’s when I would do it, anyway.”

“That’s when I’d do it, too,” I said.

Nyx smirked. “Should I worry more than the priests?”

I spread my hands wide. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He kept smirking, not believing a word of it. A man who smiled in the face of certain death revealed much about his character.

“All is ready,” Lyra announced. I no longer heard the answering whispers. “Remember what I said. Stay close.”

We assembled behind her, with Scaramon the closest. Then the priestess led us into the mist. I expected we’d follow a straight line, or at least a path that made sense, but the dark force guiding Lyra had other ideas, turning us one way and another until we lost all sense of direction. Globes of light seen before we entered the mist never seemed to grow closer or remain in one place for long, further confusing our location and progress. Once, I looked back—or forward?—to locate the arch, but the mist had claimed it.

We passed the mist’s first victim not long after that. A middle-aged fellow dressed in the light, practical clothing of an adventurer or thief, he must have come to find his fortune after hearing tales of the tower’s riches. His face was a blank slate beneath a long, unkempt beard, his half-slitted eyes were dry and red, and his lips blistered. His choice of fashion hinted at the date of his entrapment, his spiral-toed shoes, tassel-sleeved tunic over a simple leather breastplate, and a puffy bonnet at least thirty years out of date. Moving past that one, we were unable to mark our passage until we encountered the next. This one had a more modern feel about him, his simple jacket, trousers, and bowler fitting today’s norm. Figuring him for a Warder, he posed no threat now or evermore, so we kept moving, seeing no one else until we came upon the last of the missing Jakaree. His tattooed face was as blank as the previous pair, and while he had drawn his kris, it hung at his side in a grip so loose I wondered how he still held it. Scaramon waved a hand before the man’s face. When he made no reaction, One-Eye shook his head and moved on.

The dull mist curled around us like a thing alive, and while it seemed it wished us harm, Lyra’s magic—or the Dark One’s—protected us. We passed the remnants of other victims. Decaying corpses and others that had become nothing more than dust, bones, and a bit of armor. Time took on a different meaning here, where distant lights floated like will-o-wisps, and the shifting mist thinned, inviting us closer, only to close back up to obscure our view once more. I felt on edge, as did the others, so we shared a collective sense of relief when Lyra finally called a halt to our march.

“The vault,” she said, pointing ahead.

Twelve obsidian stone henges arranged in a circle rose from the mist.

“I must remain here to guard our exit, but the rest of you are free to enter. But do so quickly! This place limits the Dark One's powers, so I can only guarantee our escape for so long.”

The vault’s unconventional appearance gave no one pause. Nor did anyone need a second urging to pass through the massive pillars. Scaramon led, with Nyx and Zara close behind. They walked between two of the henges and disappeared from view.

Lyra tilted her head toward me. “You do not intend to go inside?”

“There’s only one thing I’m interested in, and Nyx and Zara will bring it out. And you? No interest in seeing what treasures the mad wizard secreted away here?”

“None. Scaramon knows what we seek. He will retrieve it. My task was to ensure he made it here. My work is all but done.”

I remembered what Lyra said earlier about a price.

“The Dark One’s levy. I wonder, who will pay it?”

Lyra smirked. “It will not be you, if that’s what you’re wondering. The Whispering Shade deems you necessary for his return.”

“Not everyone believes that.”

“You speak of Ao-utet.”

“And others, like Scaramon.”

“It does not matter what they believe, as long as they obey.”

“What about those who don’t? What happens to them?”

But Lyra wouldn’t answer.

We spent the remainder of the time waiting for the others to return in silence. The wait was blessedly short.

Scaramon emerged from the vault first. He carried a small black box constructed of wood and etched with silver runes, wearing such a smile of satisfaction I knew the box was the reason he’d come. Zara was empty-handed, though I noticed her belt pouch bulged, either with coins or jewels or perhaps both. Last came Nyx, who held something under one arm wrapped in vellum whose shape looked very much like a book.

“The Codex?” I asked.

He peeled back the vellum, revealing a leather-wrapped cover dyed crimson. At its center, I saw a dragon head emblem.

Scaramon cackled, his delight at what he had found downright devilish. “We all have what we want, eh?”

“Not everyone,” Lyra said, not peering at Zara or Nyx but at her fellow priest. “You forget the Dark One and his price.”

Scaramon’s preoccupation with his treasure kept him from noticing her gaze on him. “He can take whatever he desires. Or whomever.”

“Oh, he will,” Lyra said in as calm a voice as I’d ever heard from someone about to commit murder.

Still focused on his treasure, One-Eye’s grin intensified, his one eye widened, and the veins at his temples bulged in a maniacal transformation. But this was no longer the fervor of someone finding long-lost treasure. His one good eye bulged, and his face, which had gone red, quickly surpassed the scarlet spectrum into a purplish exaggeration fueled by the lesson of a good old-fashioned comeuppance.

The Dark One had named his price, and Lyra was collecting.

The priestess didn’t look away from Scaramon as she said, “This matter is between Scaramon and me.” She waved, and a lighted path—twisting and turning much like our way here—appeared in the mist. “The way lies open before you. Take the path to the arch. You know the way from there.”

Scaramon pulled his lips back in a rictus. His hands clenched the box with such intensity, I wondered if he might break it into pieces.

“What about the door?” Zara asked, even as Scaramon emitted a baleful groan. “No one else knows how to open it.”

But Lyra’s treacherous brethren dominated her attention now.

“The Dark One knows of your disobedience, Scaramon. Onius decreed the assassin was to remain untouched, yet you ignored his order. Even now, you expected the Dark One to take the assassin’s life in exchange for his aid. That you think you understand his will more than your betters is offense enough, but you take it one step further with your continued lies and deceit. But where the Dark One needs Ao-utet, you Scaramon, are expendable.”

One-Eye’s mouth moved, but other than a gurgling croak, no sound emerged. His face had become like a purplish bruise that grew darker by the second. A knife between the ribs or a slash across the throat seemed an easier way to kill and a better way to die, but I supposed the Dark One had his particulars about how to deal with disobedience. Those particulars demanded every bit of Lyra’s attention, so much so that I doubted she noticed Scaramon’s hand fumbling at the clasp on his wizard’s box. I didn’t warn her. There wasn’t time, and I didn’t think she could hear me anyway. But then, it no longer mattered, because Scaramon opened the chest. The lid swinging wide meant nothing unto itself, but One-Eye’s clawed fingers emerged, holding a medallion of dark obsidian with rough angles and an even uglier stone at its center. The magic emanating from Lyra, unseen until now, became visible as streams of energy that poured from her being to encircle One-Eye. Scaramon fought to lift the ugly square of obsidian. When he finally placed the medallion between himself and Lyra, the energy suffocating him instead went to the talisman. While Scaramon sputtered and coughed, trying to get air into his lungs, Lyra gasped as the energy stream between her and the medallion intensified. Soon, it overflowed the medallion, melting into Scaramon, whose skin blackened while the skin of his hands and arms bubbled. If he felt any pain, he showed no sign. But neither was he trapped by Lyra’s spell any longer. He stepped toward the priestess, holding the medallion high, and let it suck the life from her.

“Time to leave!” Zara yelled, already moving toward the lighted path.

But Lyra’s interaction with the medallion drained her power, and the lights faded. If we left now, we might have a chance. Or we might wind up trapped in the mist. Either way, we had to make our decision now, before time ran out. Zara, her mind already made up, made a dash for the path while it remained lighted.

“We can take our chances with the door,” she yelled at us.

Nyx and I exchanged a look. Then he ran after her.

I almost followed. I owed Lyra nothing and Scaramon less. But I played out the scene unfolding between the two priests and didn’t like the conclusion. Lyra was far from an ally, but outside of our temporary alliance, only Scaramon and his ilk were actively trying to kill me. That made Lyra the enemy of my enemy and all that. Abandoning her to whatever fate awaited her was easy. But I was never one for easy.

Charging Scaramon with long knives drawn, he had no choice but to defend himself. Freeing his mace, he clung tight to the medallion while deflecting my first strike. But I was quicker and had the advantage of a two-pronged attack, so my second cut connected, slicing through his forearm. But the cut was too shallow and not enough to stop his attack on Lyra. No matter. I swung the same knife on the return stroke down on his unprotected thigh, or I was about to when the dark talisman’s energy bubbled from One-Eye’s mace onto my knife. It started where the blade touched the priest’s weapon, sliding down the steel toward the hilt and my hand. I let go, letting the knife clatter to the floor.

Magic—Lyra’s very life force—continued to flow from the priestess into the medallion. A silent scream burst from between her lips. She was weak. Too weak to maintain her spell of protection from the mist’s debilitating effect as the fog roiled around us. Scaramon sneered because he sensed it, too. The growing weakness, the slowing of thought. Sensed it, but seemed unaffected as his maniacal diablerie, fueled by the talisman’s dark magic, intensified. I, on the other hand, didn’t have long. How long before the numbing mist left me vulnerable? I had one chance. So, I did the one thing Scaramon wasn’t expecting. I backed into the mist and let it take me.

The master assassin who trained me insisted I leave the city for a time to study under a haurek master, so he sent me through the distant Simmaron Woods, past the patroller hall there, and deep into the desolate Ugull Mountains, where a goblin named Skulkin lived. Skulkin taught me many things, but chief amongst them was the discipline of the mind. Not mind over magic, which wasn’t possible. But mind over my physical self, so as the mad wizard’s magic soaked into me, dulling my senses and draining my strength, I resisted by pushing my physical self beyond the barriers where most stopped. When the mist pulled at me, I pushed back. When it sought to drain me, I tapped hidden reserves. When it urged me to let go, I focused my unbending will and silenced it.

In the distance, through the gray fog, I heard Lyra scream, a beacon I used to guide me, not to where I’d started but where I had a strategic advantage. I was done with knife work, so I drew my sword and, in position, emerged from the mist in a blur of silent motion, striking the Jakaree priest on his blind side before he even knew I was there. I could have killed him right then, but black sorcery was so thick about him now all I managed was a quick jab before I disappeared into the mist. Right before I struck, I saw Lyra on her knees, her head thrown back, and her mouth opened in a perpetual wail as her life force continued draining into the obsidian talisman. I thought I almost saw her glance my way, her eyes pleading for help, but I moved too fast in that microcosm of time to know for sure.

Again, the mist of paralysis slowed my reflexes and blanketed my mind, this time with a soothing sensation that defied resistance. Still, I shook it off and kept moving, forcing my legs forward, to take one more step. But as much as I liked to think my mind—my discipline—was superior to others, that didn’t matter here. The magic was all-consuming, unrelenting, needling at my resolve until, before I realized it, I’d stopped. Distantly, I heard Lyra cry for help while Scaramon admonished her for her treachery, but their voices were distant and growing fainter. As the world slipped from me, I held onto my purpose, pushing away the fog’s soothing embrace. This magic—this beguilement—was a sort of torment I recognized. Let it go, it urged me, like Olivia, who told me to forget about our parents’ murderers.

“Let it go,” she had said. “They think we’re gone, vanished. Thjorn made sure of it. They can’t find us anymore.”

She was right. They never did find us. But I found them. Every . . . last . . . one. It took more than a decade, but I learned the art of assassination, perfected it even, until it didn’t matter what defenses my enemies hid behind or how many men stood between me and them. Letting go? I’d never done that, so as inviting as the mad wizard’s trap seemed, its peace was not something I ever wanted or deserved. Let others find peace in these quiet, misty surroundings.

This place was not for me.

I exploded from the fog in a whirlwind of steel. Scaramon saw me, but the dark magic ruled him now, making him think he was invincible. I showed him how wrong he was by slicing a bloody gash in his face that cut across his remaining eye. I told him if we ever met in battle again, he’d need to change his name to Scaramon No-Eyes. The dark magic was all over him now, so I struck again and again wherever its black mark had not yet reached, stabbing, slashing, and piercing his body over and over until I didn’t know how he still lived. But my repeated attacks weakened him enough that his mastery over the amulet faltered, and, finally, its hold on Lyra diminished enough for her to shake herself free. The priestess had nothing left. Instead of striking back, she sank to the floor in a heap.

The mist encroached everywhere now. It still tugged at me, and while I held it off for now, I couldn’t do so forever. Scaramon even less. Blinded, with black blood leaking from a dozen cuts, including where it oozed from his lacerated eye socket, he had no strength left to resist. Despite his wounds, he did not cry out, nor did he react other than to issue the slightest of sighs as the mist took him. The medallion remained in his hand, its dark energy slowing and finally stopping altogether.

Lyra’s cheek touched the floor. Her breath came in ragged gasps. I kneeled next to her and, gently rolling her over, lifted her head to stare into her icy blue eyes. But the light was dim in them, and, at that moment, I realized she was dying. Her skin, already so ashen, had faded further until almost stark white. Her lips, so full before, were limp and as white as her skin. Drool hung from her mouth. With the mist curling around us, she must have tapped into some hidden reserve, because she found the strength to speak.

“Tell . . . him . . .”

“Tell who?”

“Onius,” she said in barely a whisper.

Though she didn’t finish the sentence, I knew what she meant. Tell Onius what she had done here. But with the mist already closed in, I had no way out, or so I thought. Lyra raised her hand and pointed. Like before, a path opened, but this time, instead of lights, the mist parted, opening a meandering lane through the fog I knew led to safety.

“Thank you,” I said to her, but she was already gone, dead or taken into finality by the mist.

I took one last look at Scaramon. I longed to run him through, but I saw what remained of my long knife lying on the ground, the blade still festering with dark magic, and decided I needed my sword more than I needed the satisfaction of dispatching the priest to the next world. Besides, leaving him trapped in the mist for all eternity was a far worse fate.

Striding down the lane created by Lyra’s final act, I felt the mist’s tug, but at the periphery now. In less time than it took to reach the vault, I was free of its influence, through the arch, and back on the elevator platform. Or I would have been if Zara and Nyx hadn’t already taken the elevator to the Room of Doors. I hoped the hell we had unleashed gave them a warm greeting.

Since I saw no lever or other mechanism to lower the elevator, I started climbing, finding purchase on rough edges and mortar joints. I made it to the bottom of the platform, which blocked further progress. With muscles straining, I found a sliding panel in the wall and, inside a large compartment, the elevator’s gears, belts, and shafts. Past the gears, I spotted a service accessway that might allow access to the main chamber. It did, so after sliding through the gear compartment and the service panel, I found myself back in the Room of Doors.

Tentacles and shades were gone, and the doors closed. I left them that way, navigating the stairs until I returned to the tower’s main entry. Not surprisingly, the sliding metal door leading outside remained closed. I walked to the middle of the room and stopped, waiting for Zara and Nyx to make their move.

Planning an ambush is easy. Pulling it off? That’s something else.

Right away, I knew these two had little experience with assassinations. Zara padded in nice and quiet behind me, but not quiet enough. Meanwhile, Nyx waited in the shadows. Zara was the distraction. Nyx was the killing stroke. I allowed Zara to get close, but not too close, before I whipped my sword out and spun on her. Then Nyx was there, knife in hand, but I was ready and waiting for him, deflecting his stroke as he sailed past me. I spun around, sword ready.

“Nice try,” I said. “But I have a better idea.”

Nyx took a step back. He was wise to fear me. Little did he know I wasn’t here for him.

“Too many mistakes, Zara. Heavyhammer didn’t say as much, but I’ve heard things. Giving up the list must have been one too many.”

I watched the color drain from her face.

“He wanted it done in the factory. Easier to blame it on the Warders that way.”

“That’s bullshat! Thjorn would never—”

“Wouldn’t he? He’s done it before. We both know that.” Me better than most, but I kept that to myself. “But, look. I’m not here to cause trouble. In fact, I think we can work something out.”

“We can?” Nyx asked, skeptical. He fidgeted with his knife handle, wondering if he could put the weapon away or if he still needed it.

“I owe Zara for the list of names,” I said. “So, let’s make a deal. Take the Codex to Heavyhammer. Its value is more than enough to get Zara back in his good graces. But I want you to make sure he sells it to a specific person. That person’s name is Atticus Drake. Got that? Good. Then tell Heavyhammer I’m done doing his dirty work. If he wants either of you dead, he can do it himself.”

“Truly?” Nyx asked, still holding tight to his knife.

“I have the upper hand. I have no reason for deception.”

Convinced, Nyx nodded and put away his knife.

Zara, who was stuck somewhere between shock and fury, remained quiet.

“The priests?” Nyx asked. “They are dead?”

Not exactly, but as good as, so I answered with a nod.

“I see the door remains closed,” I said.

Nyx shrugged. “It defies all conventional means of opening it. I searched for pressure plates but found nothing. I think the priest lied to us. Whatever he and the other one did before Lyra tried her hand was inconsequential. The priestess’s magic opened the door. Without her, I fear we will never escape the tower.”

I didn’t doubt him, but it didn’t hurt to look. While Nyx retrieved the Codex, which he had hidden, I approached the door. I was about to search for hidden triggers or some other way to open it when it slid open on its own. The three of us exchanged looks. Before it slid closed again, we dove outside.

One last parting gift from Lyra? Or perhaps the Dark One wanted—or needed—me to leave Finrad’s Magnificent Tower behind so I could play my role in his return. Outside, with the night’s chill sweeping across my face, no easy answer awaited me.

Right away, Zara stomped off into the night. She glanced back once, and then she was gone. Nyx offered a thin smile and a nod before following her, leaving me alone with only chirping insects to keep me company. Behind me, the door slid shut, the tower an unassailable fortress once more. Mindful of Warder patrols, I sought the darkest path back to the city. I’d have to let Atticus know about the Codex and make sure Heavyhammer extended first buyer’s rights to him. I heard Atticus grumbling about the price already, but I knew he’d pay whatever Thjorn wanted.

As for Lyra, I was in her debt, so the least I could do was find Onius and fulfill her final wish. Though the hour was late, it was still early for assassins and death priests, so I quickened my pace and set my sights on the last place I saw the high priest. He may have moved on, but I didn’t think I’d have much trouble finding him. I felt confident the Dark One would show me the way if he did.

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