KNITE:

  My plans had changed. It mattered little.

  The idea had been to kidnap Elur. Not to kill her, mind you, because I wasn’t quite ready to have Roche hate me. Aminy had changed that. Escaping with the unruly godling in tow was simpler than Elur and her house ought to have permitted. If my memory served me right, heads were sure to roll; Lorail’s favorite, much like the rest of my sister’s children, was never one for letting equity stay her hand. Abducting the preeminent Painter, undetected and without using my so-called divinity, was a challenging but feasible endeavor. Rescuing a frail Aminy in tandem was less so. And now, in light of my recent escapades, security in and around Elur’s residence was sure to be rigorous—too rigorous to risk another attempt at the Halor’s pre-eminent Leaf.

  So here I was, a week after the impromptu rescue, prowling the city with Helena. She’d returned as per the instructions I’d given Roche, ones I’d written thinking Elur’s disappearance would have the Lorail godlings too busy to capitalize on Lira’s perceived weakness.

  Helena and I skimmed across Halor’s outer wall, riding the inner curtain. Somewhere along the line of modest buildings hugging the western border, I spotted a strangely large estate, its structures cordoned off by deviously built bulwarks—outwardly mundane and inwardly molded by Aedificators. I stopped, the toes of my form-fitting boots gripping the rim of the city wall.

  “Is that our target?” Helena asked, standing tall beside me. Even for the surety of her safety, she’d never question the potency of the alchemical solution she’d applied to our persons; such was the depth of her confidence.

  “Yes.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I waved a hand around the area just outside the estate. “All the nearest buildings are far smaller.” I traced the perimeter with a finger. “The sensus-wrought walls are hidden under a layer of mundanely laid stone.” I pointed down at the main building, a defiantly dull, vermillion structure. “The owners are mostly mortals. Only one has the markings of a Tripler.”

  “I thought our targets were ruling godlings?”

  “Lorail’s children have grown to believe any pursuit except that for more power and greater pleasure is for lesser beings. For the upper echelon of ruling houses, much of the day-to-day governance is handled by the equivalence of lesser Branches.”

  “But isn't governing a populace a form of power?”

  “They own the souls of those who govern for them—any power exercised by these servants they envisage as avatars is but a more compelling demonstration of their power.”

  “Are you certain? It has been some time since you had the lay of the land. Things might’ve changed in your absence.”

  “Are you seeking to aid my caution, persist in your rebellion, or, like Sanas, do you mean to let your lack of confidence in me be known?”

  “I—"

  “No matter. Lorail is immune to change. Age makes all of us stubborn. It is all but certain that her domain has inherited more of her… thinking. Besides, Aminy confirmed my suspicions before she’d succumbed to her lengthy slumber.”

  Helena released Pinmoon from its sheaths. “Then I’m ready.”

  I stepped off the parapet and let gravity pull me down. Assisted by Zephyr Arts and her desire to punish anyone who served the godlings in their dispensing of cruelty, Helena crept ahead, landing on the roof of the main building before me. We sprinted to the edge and used the protruding eaves as handholds, flipping onto the wall before scaling down it. The topmost window was locked behind metal shutters. Helena made short work of the obstacle, running a Zephyr blade along the tiny gap between the wooden doors. Past clear glass, a few minor matrix traps, and a pair of thick draperies, we stepped into the Tripler’s room. My assassin stalked forward, daggers at the ready. I grabbed her by the arm. She whipped around to glare at me. I pointed at the sleeping woman and shook my head.

  “Fine,” she whispered, then headed for the door.

  “Only this floor.” A tunnel of air delivered my words to her ear without leakage. There were children in the lower rooms, and since my promises barred my soulsight from gazing upon her emotions, I’d be none the wiser if she harbored murderous intent. It was one thing to allow her to reap carnage out of her own volition; it was quite another to let her kill innocents while she acted in my service.

  I approached the Tripler. The woman seemed so peaceful, so unlike what her soul told me she was. Soft wrinkles creased between her brows and drew faint crow's feet beside her eyes. Considering her actual age, her appearance exhibited her power. Not in Duros Arts, however. Nor Painter. With her nose set too low, eyes too wide, lips too narrow, and vanity too deep, she was too far from beauty to be either. No, she was a Tunneller. Her youth came strictly from the closer bond between body and soul that all practitioners of the Arts were capable of.

  I spiked a Tunnel of pain into her. She screamed awake, agony startling her out from beneath her covers. In an instant, she stood on the bed, arms wide, palms and back pressed to the wall. Her head swerved about the room as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “Who are you?” A thin, silken nightdress clung to her figure. Few Triplers dared to wear silk. Like other commodities whose production is unaided by sensus, owning silk was demonstrative of a high station.

  “Sit,” I commanded.

  The Tripler kicked her pillow at me with a flick of her foot, swooped down to pick up the dagger she kept hidden underneath, and lunged at me. The blade slipped off my face without drawing blood. She had aimed for my eye, hoping to slide the dagger through the socket and into my brain. She was good; I was better. I could’ve dodged the thrust entirely. I didn’t, only turning my head so the tip slid off my cheek. I didn’t block her follow-ups either. The first bounced off the pit of my stomach as it sought to find my heart without meeting my ribs. The second swipe glided off my neck. The last skittered up from my groin. It was then that I lost my patience.

  I grabbed the offending hand by the wrist. The Tripler groaned under the pressure of my grip.

  “A persistent one, aren't you?” I said. “Three failed attempts, yet you think another might see a different result.”

  She tried to pull her arm away. Failing, she dropped the blade, caught it with her free hand, and went for my left eye. I drove the butt end of one of my swords into her sternum and foiled her attack. She dropped the dagger, a hand pressed to her chest as she gasped for breath.

  I sighed. “I was hoping to avoid a scrying.”

  Her head jerked up, face full of horror. “No,” she wheezed.

  I closed my eyes and held my breath, so alluring was the scent of her fear. Composing myself, I asked, “You’ll behave?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “Good.” And it was. I sensed Lorail’s seal upon her, one she’d bothered to make more useful than brilliant. Another reason I knew this Tripler was my target. Scrying or devouring her sensus would, in all likelihood, cost me dearly, tainted as her soul was.

  I let her go. “You’re Halor’s Reeve, are you not?”

  She tried to hide her surprise. “Which House are you from? Bainan? Of course. Only they would send a Named. A man. My Goddess will not forgive this act of disrespect.”

  A string of my sensus stroked the hopeless barricade protecting her soul. She shuddered.

  “Did you not agree to behave?” I asked.

  Her head and shoulders slumped in defeat. “Whoever you are, and whatever you want of me, I cannot betray my Goddess,” she whispered, her voice strained.

  “I do not need you to. No, I need the name of the Tripler who’ll succeed you.”

  The faint light from the hallway lanterns rose and fell as Helena returned. She came to stand next to me, sneering at the lowly godling wilting at my feet.

  “Silently?” I asked her.

  “As death,” Helena replied. “No one will know until dawn.”

  I returned my attention to the Tripler. “So, what have you to tell me?”

  “My sister.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She owns the Barrell estate, a complex a little south from here.”

  “Is she bonded?”

  “Yes.”

  “As you are?”

  “No.”

  “Less than?”

  “Yes.”

  I narrowed my eyes, tasting a hint of satisfaction amid her dread. I erected a Tunneling matrix. It thrummed with enough power to make her flinch. “One more lie and—”

  “Less but not by much.” Fearful eyes turned to Helena. “My daughter?”

  “Dead.” Helena smiled. The Tripler muffled a cry, and Helena’s smile grew.

  “And who is next in line after your sister?” I asked, unconcerned. I cared nothing for the pain the innocent suffered; I cared even less for the pain that befell the guilty—enough that it was my life’s greatest pleasure.

  When she failed to answer promptly, I ran a finger down the back of her neck. Her attention was mine once more.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Beatry is my successor. The only successor.”

  I turned to leave. The godling didn’t sense her death, such was the swiftness of Pinmoon and her handler.

  Our new destination was close and easy to spot. More modest than her sister’s estate, Beatry had less to hide but hid it far more incompetently: The wood, which seemed to be the primary material used to build her manor, was cultivated by a Brownsmith; the courtyard was laid by a Golem; she had the gall to erect a mind arena; and worse of all, I sensed women in her underground stables—a concession made only for the most distinguished of Lorail’s godlings. Women slaves were the rarest of commodities, and here in my sister’s domain, rarities were reserved for the few who possessed her favor.

  Over a wall, past a few inept guards who’d fallen asleep during their watch, through the front doors, up a set of stairs, and down an empty corridor, we found our target. Her heavily bonded soul was easy to spot.

  A man slept at the foot of the bed, wearing nothing but a collar. Clean and healthy and sleeping on an oversized pillow like a well-groomed, well-fed, domesticated pet, his soul radiated contentment, accepting that, as a man of Halor, he could not wish for more.

  The Tripler looked like a rendition a mundane painter might paint of her sister if they used their artistic license to fix all that kept her from being beautiful. By way of her Painter Arts, the rendition pursued reality.

  We moved on without disturbing her.

  The hall was in the main building, its high ceiling level with the second floor with no third to block the natural sunlight that would stream through the windowed roof during the day. Helena and I hid high among the tall joists and beams.

  We waited. It took two days before someone rewarded our patience.

  The large doors to the hall creaked open on the morn of the third. Beatry strolled in, elation bright on her soul. The slave from her bed-chamber, collared and now wearing a chain leash, scuttled behind her, eerily happy and compliant. Five men, naked as the day they were born, lugged in her wooden throne, their handsome muscles evidence of how well they were fed and worked. Once they placed the ridiculous throne atop a small dais at the far end of the hall, she shooed all but her pet slave away and took her seat, stroking the armrests as she smiled to herself.

  The first meeting soon commenced. Two guards marched in and held open the doors, the circular emblem of their station sowed above their hearts, a sword above a quill marking them as officers from the War Institute lent to Admin as enforcers. Being the Reeve of Halor afforded her their services. With her sudden and precarious rise, she was wise to make use of them.

  A godling entered. If not for my soulsight, I might’ve mistaken her for Lorail herself. She was annoyingly perfect, a spitting image of my sister’s adult form. But unlike my sister, she extenuated her beauty with cold armor and the deliberate grace of a fighter. Every step she took, every sway of her hips, the way her smile pirouetted from one edge to the other and her stark-blue eyes invited danger spoke of a woman who studied combat above all else. Most surprising of all was her soul: Clean. Not entirely, but compared to her kin… There were methods the most powerful of the godlings could use to cleanse their soul, but none bothered. Not when they thought me dead and buried.

  The Fiora, for she was undoubtedly a daughter of Lorail, came to stand before Beatry. “It is customary to stand and bow to your betters, Beatry.”

  Beatry swallowed her fear. “I am the Reeve now, Nikal.”

  The godling shrugged. “You have me mistaken. Pompous formalities are of no consequence to me. I was merely warning you for those who come next.”

  “I doubt you’re so kind as to offer a warning for altruism's sake.”

  “Of course not. I warn you because such an insult might give one of my sisters enough leverage to browbeat you into making another mistake. And that, my dear Tripler, is a very slippery slope indeed. One I would much rather you avoid.”

  “I’m the Reeve.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “No one will dare attack me.”

  “Your sister likely thought the same.”

  “And when her killer is caught, all will remember why they ought not to.”

  “You think my mother will return for the sake of your safety.”

  Beatry paused, uncertain. “I am her primary agent in Halor.”

  Nikal chuckled. “So?”

  “So I am the hand by which she controls her domain.”

  Nikal shook her head. You’d never guess she was nearly half the Tripler’s age. “My mother will rule upon her return, regardless of the circumstances. She does not need you to preserve her control. By the very nature of the role, your authority is entirely hers.”

  Beatry sprang to her feet, rediscovering her confidence. “Exactly! Killing me would be an act of treason.”

  “Your death would be a small act of unfilial rebellion. Mother is as likely to praise the author of your death as she is to punish them.”

  The Tripler fell back into her seat. “Why have you come?”

  “I’ve done what I’ve come to do.” And with that, Nikal strode out of the room.

  I tapped Helena to get her attention. I pointed after Nikal, then drew my finger across my throat as I shook my head. My meaning was clear: Follow but do not engage.

  There were five more visitors. Other than the twins—Elur and Lira—the ruling Fioras arrived over the next few days. With the twins and the newly risen Leaf, Nikal, eight Fioras ruled Halor in the absence of their mother. Elur controlled three cities and much of the south. Nikal, as inadvertently exposed to me by her sister, Ramla, held the entire east by herself, two of the twelve cities falling under her rule. Ramla, Aslian, Trisel, Munis, and Fralk controlled western and central cities. Lira held the northern tip, and though she held only one of the great cities, the land she controlled held three of the five free cities, putting her third behind Elur and Nikal. The five lesser sisters came, made demands, and left Beatry to consider her options. The Tripler decided to follow Nikal’s advice, treating them courteously, offering them all the social cues expected of her, and then politely refusing to reject or accept any of their offers. I remained among the beams, observing.

  After three days, I left in the dead of night, slinking back to the safe house. The mass of disjointed plans that had sprouted from what I’d absorbed would need time to untangle and prune. Until then, I had slaves to free.

  When I returned, Helena loomed over a merrily drunk Aminy, Pin’s tip resting above the godling’s heart.

  “Helena,” I said from the doorway.

  She turned to regard me, the move revealing Moon’s edge pressing down on the godling’s throat. Why prepare one killing blow if you can prepare two? Another one of my lessons.

  “Stand down,” I said.

  Helena did as I instructed, drawing back but keeping her blades unsheathed as if only a brief wait separated her from being allowed to put them to use.

  “How long have you been waiting to kill her?” I asked.

  “Since this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s one of them.”

  “A Godling? What of it?”

  “Not by blood, but by belief. She thinks me lesser.”

  Aminy sat up, grunting through the pain without letting her smile falter. Her injuries were far from healed. But then again, insanity does well at making light of such things.

  “Well, you are,” Aminy said.

  Helena spun and raised her weapons, falling just short of attacking, like Aminy’s admission brought the permission she sought that much closer.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, tired despite being incapable of physical exhaustion. “What happened?”

  Helena resettled her fingers around the handles of her weapons into a tighter grip. “I came back to find her here. She asked about my assignment. I’d told her I’d followed and lost the Fiora. She was of the opinion that I should’ve expected to, that if I had succeeded, death would’ve been my recompense.”

  “Strictly speaking, she did not say you were less than her because you are a Root.” I turned my gaze to the smiling godling. “But Aminy, you are wrong to think so lowly of Helena. She is one of mine after all,” I said, tickling Helena’s pride even as I reminded her who she belonged to.

  “Fine, fine. She might contend well enough against us to escape—your praise is enough to change my mind that far. But Nikal?” Aminy’s smile returned, sloppy and perverse. “We’re afraid not even Sanas is her match.”

  “How old is she, this Nikal?” I asked.

  “No older than fifty.”

  “And she’d best Sanas in a duel?”

  “Yes.”

  Helena sheathed her daggers—being called weaker than Sanas didn’t put much of a dent in her pride. Once a Leaf herself, Sanas’ might was not to be underestimated.

  “Was she the first?” I asked.

  “Of Lorail’s succession of litters?” Aminy thought for a time. “We’re not sure, but it fits. She’s likely one of the first.”

  “It’s working,” Helena said. “I’d heard this Nikal was talented, but…”

  “If, at her age, she’s already outdoing her sisters,” I said. “Yes, it is working far better than we’d suspected. Why is it you and Roche did not mention her.”

  “We knew she was favored by Lorail, but only that. We’d assumed, given her age…”

  “A rather glaring oversight.”

  “But Merkon—”

  “I know,” I said. “He was a failure. Whatever she’s doing must not work often. That explains why she’s had so many. It also explains why the others haven't acted against her.”

  “Assuming they know.”

  “They do.”

  “Do they?”

  “My mask. The one I’d hung over Merkon. Someone had disturbed the working.”

  “Then they know what you’ve done?”

  “No. They likely think the mask Lorail’s doing. I died, remember?”

  Aminy’s giggling broke into our conversation. “Oh, how fun! The intrigue. The schemes. How we’ve missed these godly games of triumph and disaster. Tell me, how can we help?”

  ***

  Helena and I met Roche north of the capital city and a ways off from the well-traveled road leading to Lira’s domain. A rugged terrain of low hills, dense thickets, and clotted groves hid us from distant passersby, the narrow passages between them only just accessible by horse and carriage.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I opened the door to the carriage Roche had escorted. Slaves huddled in the corner, dirty, naked, and listless. Vomit had dried on the floor and walls; Roche’s kindness had failed. Bodies accustomed to hunger forget how to stop being hungry.

  “Eleven?” I asked.

  “One died,” Roche said, unhitching the horse.

  “How?” Helena asked, looking past me to peer inside the carriage, a rare showing of sympathy glinting in her gaze.

  Roche began to straighten his clothes from the dishevelment the journey had inflicted.

  “Roche,” I said. “Speak.”

  “One of the Triplers thought it better to kill the slaves than to lose them to me. She managed one before I stopped her. Permanently.”

  I stared at him. Roche tried to ignore me at first, picking at a loose thread on his left sleeve.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” he said, sensing my disapproval without having the heart to see it in my eyes. “I might’ve been a little more distracted than was appropriate.”

  “A mistake that has cost an innocent soul their life and freedom,” Helena said. I agreed.

  “Next time, bring me thirteen,” I said, then went about convincing my defiant horse to let me hitch her to the carriage.

  Roche rode away the same way he came, whistling a melancholic version of my song. Helena and I headed in a southeastern direction. To avoid the godlings and merchants who traveled the more traditional routes, we plotted a winding path through a hilly terrain. Before the angle of the sun had the time to stretch our shadow, our wants were made worthless.

  Helena dodged an arrow. It thumped into the wood of the backrest. Her My eyes swept the horizon for her attacker. The hills drew the horizon too close. Failing to spot her assailant, she looked to me for answers.

  Another arrow whizzed in an arc towards us with deadly accuracy and speed. I swatted it out of the air. More followed. Helena erected a wind barrier over us, the carriage, and my horse. Yet more arrows descended, a flock of shap-beaked avians. They struck Helena’s shield and fell to the wayside. I picked up one of the crude things. It was little more than a strip of wood, smooth and featherless. Not sensus molded. Only the Kolokasians knew the Art of molding trees and plants, and this far from their empire and within the protective barriers Merkusian had erected, that was unlikely; Kolokasians needed a physical connection to their land to practice their Art effectively—it’s the reason they rarely invaded other lands. Sensus crafted then.

  The ceaseless barrage grew denser and continued without end, bouncing and sliding off the dome to collect around us.

  “Helena.”

  “Yes, Lord,” she said.

  I sprinted out of the wind dome and into the hailstorm of arrows, my pounding feet crushing loose stones and rocks into dust. A few more strides brought me out from under their flight path. I raced toward the source. Faces rose from behind the hill before I crested its top, each belonging to a soldier draped and armed in the best the Telums of Partum could offer. All wore the same metallic plates stitched to dark leather, though the matrixes carved on the silver alloys differed. As expected, all were women; the contours of their armor curved too far and too often to be suitable for men. All were Named; each held expertly controlled sensus wrapped into simple yet elegant matrixes at the ready.

  The first to spot me shot an invisible slice of wind from the edge of her sword. It was a thing of beauty, the sharpness thinner than a man’s naked eye could see. I backhanded it away. The errant wind-blade cut a groove half a man’s height into the earth a stride or two to my right.

  The second soldier tried to hide her companions, throwing up a Painting. It was a good one, too. Better than good. Good enough to need her, a Named, to stand still and do nothing else. I left her to her impressive yet nugatory efforts.

  The third and fourth, the two on the far edges of their group, broke off to encircle me, thinking themselves hidden from my sight. I ignored them. Their plan and my knowing of it would make killing them effortless.

  The fifth was the most powerful—not the best because she was the youngest of them and lacked the control the others had, but certainly the most powerful. She concentrated that power into four different Tunnels, hoping I’d either fall under her sway or stumble into her companions’ attacks.

  I’d kill her last.

  I came to a stop and waited. The action gave the illusion that their tactics were effective. Brazenly, three attacked in unison. Perfect timing demonstrated their coordination and experience. Unaided by the Painter’s Art, the Zephyr came from my front, her windswept sword raised in a dramatic attack meant to steal my attention. Behind me and to my right, an Arcanist burned a soul extract to give her half the form and all the strength of an evolved bear, black claws swiping toward my neck. To my left, the Reaper’s feet dug into the earth as the augmented muscles of her legs transferred power into the horizontal swing of her hammer. I leaped back, head low, and slipped between the two hidden Named who had circled behind me. Simultaneously, I unsheathed my swords, parted the arm holding the axe from its shoulder, and declawed the offending hand of the Arcanist. Arm, axe, and hand fell. Blood spurted. I raised my weapons to finish them, but the Zephyr foiled my attempt.

  Our blades met. We froze in place, her one heavy claymore against my two light shortswords. She grunted, glaring at me with the beginnings of hate and fear. Their plan had not gone as expected. I smiled and allowed myself a taste of her trepidation. Sensing me nibbling at the edges of her soul’s aura, she shivered. I used that brief lapse in concentration to twist my wrist and break our stalemate. Her sword slid off mine, and as she lost her footing and followed, I struck the back of her head with my pommel. Hard. The blow cracked the back of her skull and took her out of the fight. She fell and rolled a little down the hill. My dagger took her in the throat before she came to a stop.

  One down.

  The Arcanist recovered first. I plunged a sword under her chin and into her brain before she managed to do much more.

  Two down.

  The Reaper moved, prying the axe from the clutches of her severed arm, the stump from which it came only half sealed by her Arts. She roared and swung. Not having the time to pull my sword out of the Arcanist’s head, I carried her corpse to evade the blow, only then letting the soulless vessel slide off my blade. One-armed and outraged, the Reaper came at me like a storm. I countered her wild swings, slicing deep cuts into her body until she’d exhausted her sensus, and the blood loss dropped her to her knees. I left her there. She would die soon enough.

  Three.

  I disappeared. Or so it must’ve seemed. I moved too fast for the Auger to keep track of me; unaided and directionless, the pesky pressure of her Tunnels vanished. My reappearance marked the Painter’s death. Twin swords cut her from neck to hip twice over.

  Four.

  The Tunneller spun towards me. Flecks of the Painter’s blood landed on her face. Surprise let some land in her open mouth. Shock mutated into fear and rooted her in place. I licked my lips. She shivered, too young and inexperienced to have instinct and reason protect her from her raw emotion.

  I took her in one bite. A husk fell at my feet.

  Five.

  I reached the hilltop. Ten armored horses lined the treeline of a vast copse a little further from the base of the hill. Four carried Named. A fifth Named stood amongst the trees, her Zephyr Arts stripping shards of wood and launching them at Helena and the slaves. Her sensight must’ve been formidable to see through the denseness of the hill.

  One of the Named dismounted, a slim but tall woman, a Reaper who wore leathers of a midnight blue. She rushed at me, covering the height and distance of the hill in one ground-crushing leap that cut her feet through the soil better than any plow could. I bent low and made to sever her legs. Commendable speed helped her avoid the blow.

  This Reaper was different from the last. Where the hammer-wielding Reaper preferred strength, this one favored speed. It took me two more attacks before I caught the evasive girl, scoring a Zephyr-enforced swing that all but bisected her left calf. Robbed of her speed, she had no choice but to let me spread a cut across her throat.

  Six.

  Another Halorian reached me. A Telum from the way the surface of her weapons rippled. A horizontal swing of brute strength ripped through the Telum's considerable defenses, spilling her entrails.

  Seven.

  Next was a Surgeon. My blade took her across the eyes, over her ears, and through the back of her head before she laid a finger on me. The top half of her head slipped to the ground. Lifeless, she staggered, somehow found her balance for a breath, wobbled for another, then collapsed.

  Eight.

  The arrows had stopped soon after the death of the slippery Reaper. Having watched me dispatch her colleagues, the Zephyr got on her horse and took off. One remained. Despite witnessing me decimate three of her colleagues and suspecting I’d similarly disposed of the five others whose deaths she hadn't the chance to observe, the Golem still chose to stay behind. Brave of her. Loyal, too. Too bad it was me she was attempting to hinder. Too bad Helena had time enough to join.

  The Golem died with a hole in her heart and a valley of blood trenched across her throat. She’d never know who killed her.

  Nine.

  Zephyrs are fast. For long distances, they might very well be the fastest. But for pure speed, for the quickest and most explosive of movements, Reapers could not be outdone.

  I caught up in less time than it took to blink. My shoulder slammed into the small of her back, and I tackled her off of her horse. We crashed against a steep incline of another more rocky hill, skipped up and over it, and tumbled down until the land evened.

  The last of the ten lay beneath me, limp and groaning. Her spine had snapped—other bones, too, but it was her broken back that left her immobile. I was better off. Reaper Arts left me nearly without injury, and the few cuts and scrapes I sustained were already healing.

  I stood and brushed the dirt off my ruined jerkin and cloak. Skidding along the rough ground had not been kind to my mundane clothing.

  “So, you’re one of Nikal’s,” I said. The faint scent of the Fiora’s aura emanated from the Zephyr. “Impressive. She’s amassed a capable following fairly quickly.”

  Face pressed to the ground, the muffled sounds of her cursing blew a puff of dirt into the air. I rolled her over with a foot.

  “You were saying?”

  She spat at me.

  My sensus rolled over her nape. Something not-hers was there, subtle and pure. I tested further, parting her defense but not going so far as to delve into her soul. Yes, something was there. Whatever its working did, the matrix would not impede my entry. Matrixes often left behind some sense of their creator, some sign of their intent, and a hint of the originator’s emotions at the time of formation. This one held no malice, no disregard for the soul it inhabited.

  The Zephyr’s eyes seemed to widen and narrow at the same time. “A Tunneller? And an Auger and a Duros and a Vapor. Who are you?”

  “I know we weren't followed, same as I know you’d not left a tracer on my guard. So, tell me, how did you manage to find us?”

  She steeled her expression. “Be done with it.”

  I shook my head. Trodding hooves and creaking wheels clopping and rolling over hard earth told me Helena had retrieved the carriage of slaves and was approaching.

  “I can take your soul,” I said, refocusing on the Named. That was a deception. Despite being a Halorian in the service of a Lorail Fiora, her soul was too clean to reap. Much like the others, only combat allowed me her life. She was too beaten to offer me the chance.

  The Zephyr closed her eyes and sighed. Her resignation gladdened me until I realized what it was she was resigning herself to.

  The explosion of sensus severed her soul from her body. Quick, painless, and final. It surprised me. Acutely. Her soul was wholly hers, and she’d chosen to die. For Nikal. Without the compulsion of Tunnels or threats. Out of what? Admiration? Respect? What did this say about my new enemy? Certainly, it said that she was not what I’d expected. Whatever else it said, it did not say enough. One thing was sure: Nikal was not who I supposed her to be.

  ***

  Two prettily dressed men met me at the door of the pleasure house, all chipper and interested. Neither was armed—who needs weapons of steel when you can trap intruders in a wave of rapture or agony that would have them gladly commit suicide? There were, however, a pair of truncheons leaning against a wall a few paces away, close at hand in case whatever unruly patron their duties called them to attend to were immune to their Arts, or they felt the need to commit violence of a physical sort—the dark blood stains soaked into the wood told of such occasions. The pair of men appeared to be twins, but they weren’t. They were the same height, had the same round face, deep-set eyes, thick but shapely brows, and full lips, but even in the dark of night, their artificial beauty could not hide their ugly scars from me.

  The one to my right stepped closer, all sensual and fluid as he came to hang off my shoulder, a flirtatious hand trailing down my chest. “Evening, good sir. Welcome to Qanis’ Pleasure House, where your every whim is entertained and your deepest desires satiated… for the right price. A meager sum of five silvers will open these here doors and grant you entry.”

  I took out the requested payment and held it out to the other Surgeon-carved twin without a word. He smiled at me, took the coin, and knocked on the door three times—two quickly and once more after a brief pause.

  The door opened. Another specimen of synthetic beauty greeted me with a smile, this one a woman. “Welcome, good sir,” she said, her mouth almost too wide for her face. “Please follow me.”

  She pulled me into a hallway. Expensive matrix lanterns lined the walls, throwing dim lights of various colors through the musky air. As the Surgeon-carved Auger led me deeper in, her lines of sensus reached back to stroke at my aura, coaxing forth the beginnings of lust. I let her lead my feeble desires to the surface.

  Soon, we crossed a threshold and stepped into a large circular room. Loud music and the reek of perfume, sweat, and alcohol slapped against my senses—scent and touch and taste and sound, all at once. Few sounds and smells were detectable from outside the well-crafted Zephyr matrix. Such a matrix likely meant I was where I wanted to be; only a Seculor, a talented Named, or a well-trained Tripler could forge a matrix of such quality. Then again, considering the skill demonstrated by the staff, I already knew I was in the right place.

  Partitioned booths bordered the room, their occupants hidden behind dark shadows and soft moans. Closer to the center was a ring of tables filled with free men drinking spirits, smoking hashla, or partaking in some other such mind-altering substance. In the center was a musician, less pretty than the deadly prostitutes, but not by much. Sensus-infused notes hummed out of the string instrument she plucked, filling the room with a musical ambiance that inspired careless hedonism. Between her and the tables of seated men were scantily clad whores, men and women both, their allure enhanced by the unseen Tunnels gliding throughout the room. Among them were a handful of patrons in a blissful daze, dancing drunkenly to the sensus-laden music.

  The wide-mouthed woman who escorted me stopped near the entrance and turned. “Would you like to join the common area or order a private booth?” She leaned in close, flicking my earlobe with her tongue to distract me from how forcefully her sensus brushed against my aura. “Or better yet, would you like a private room?”

  I groaned a little, my lust inspired to new heights. That’s the thing about lust; it is a call of the body, mind, and soul, and though I felt nothing but disgust for this carving of a woman, my body disagreed.

  “I’ve come here to meet Qanis,” I said. “I assume he’s the proprietor of this establishment?”

  The woman pulled back, offended. “Why, good sir, would you want his company over mine? Or, if you are so inclined in such a direction, one of my pleasure-house brothers?”

  I refused to look at her, instead running my gaze across the room. “If he is skilled enough to own and run a pleasure house, and in Halor of all places, he must be rather capable.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Sadly, our employer retired from this line of work long ago. I fear he will make for a poor companion, unwilling as he is to reenter the fray.”

  “Nevertheless, I wish to meet him. Can that be arranged?” I let my eyes meet hers. “Here, in this place where all desires are supposedly fulfilled?”

  “Good sir, surely you don’t expect us to fulfill dreams in truth,” she said, her tone too playful to encroach on ridicule. “We offer fantasies, nothing more. We have several Painters who’d surely have you believing you’ve spent the night with Sir Qanis. Galda, our best, could make you remember drowning in his sweet scent, every delicate touch, every whisper as vivid as can be. But I do not think that is what you wish.”

  I smiled. “It isn't. But bring me Qanis, nonetheless. In the meantime, I will not lack for entertainment.” I left her there without another word. She seemed ready to ask more questions, and I, drawing closer to the end of this irritating hunt, was in no mood to dance around them.

  I sat at the least occupied table, finding myself in the company of two men. A booth with a view of the two entrances might’ve been better suited for my comfort, but I had my reasons. Closer to me was the older of the two men, slouching in his chair, his eyes half open—a telltale sign of hashla intoxication. From the grey hair spilling out from under his leather cap and the lack of age on his face, I guessed he was moderately talented in the Arts. The other was young. Naturally so. He tried to look otherwise, wearing the reserved expression most would identify as aged wisdom or calm assurance. A fa?ade, of course. He’d barely made it into his third decade.

  The young man noticed my inspection. “Am I more interesting than the beautifully naked men and women dancing around us?”

  Before I had a chance to reply, a servant came over. A slim boy with whisps of hair curling above his upper lip. “Would you like anything to drink, eat, or smoke, sir?”

  I pressed a gold coin into his hand. “The best ale you have. The difference is yours to keep.”

  “Excellent, sir,” he replied, unaffected. They must not let him keep any gratuity he earns, I thought.

  “So?” a voice said.

  I turned to the young man across the table, catching his hard stare. “Enough for a brief assessment,” I said. “It’s always best to have a measure of whoever you find yourself sharing a table with.”

  “Speak plainly,” the boy said, rising from his chair and making his way towards me. One of his hands disappeared into the folds of his jacket, likely creeping closer to whatever weapon he kept there. The young are so easy to insult, so eager to give their life for useless things like pride. I suspect my only true friend would disagree. He would say pride was as worthy as it was helpful.

  I held out my hand. “Merkus. Who might I have the pleasure of meeting?”

  My genial manner deflated his bluster, and he hesitated. Then, coming to a decision, he took my hand, his grip unnecessarily tight.

  “Joxal,” he said.

  “Well, Joxal, I find I quite like your taste in clothing.” I waved my free hand up and down his dark and expensive attire. “It is rare to find a man so well dressed in Halor, even in a city known to accommodate many of the island’s free men.”

  Joxal offered me a smile, relaxing the tense muscles he held ready for conflict. “Well met, Merkus. Apologies for my… pugnacious behavior. I had thought you were hinting at an insult.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said, smiling back at him.

  “If it pleases you, I would enjoy some company.”

  “I suppose that is why most find themselves here,” I said, glimpsing the white-haired man watching us from the corner of his eye. “But I must be so rude as to make sure you understand that I am not inclined towards men in… intimate matters, so to speak.”

  Joxal relaxed further, barked a laugh, and dragged an empty chair closer to me. “Nor am I, dear Merkus. Fear not—that is another trait we share besides our impeccable fashion sense.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. So, Joxal. An interesting name, that. Where does it hail from?”

  The boy snorted derisively. “No need to be polite. It is a strange name, guttural and ugly, like all things Golodanian. My father gave it to me in remembrance of some brute who’d died long ago. The fool, slave that he is, fell in love with the thing. Thankfully, my namesake died before I was born.”

  The other man at our table suddenly stood, quick enough to draw more than our attention. He turned to us, scowling at Joxal. The look of intoxication he wore was gone, his eyes clear and open and furious. Joxal shuddered under the relentless glare.

  “Leave,” said the man.

  Joxal stood and faced him, his defiance marred by wobbly knees.

  “Now,” the white-haired man growled, and after a moment of resistance, Joxal did just that.

  “I take it you’re the foolish slave?” I asked, watching the rebellious youth stomp towards the exit.

  “I prefer Merkel, but yes, I suppose I am.” He glided to the seat his son had vacated and sat.

  “I thought you went by Qanis,” I said.

  A quiver of his lips almost had him smiling. “I suppose some call me that, too.”

  The servant returned and placed a mug of ale in front of me. I picked it up and took a sip.

  “Named?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’d rather not say, though I suspect that was the answer you sought.”

  I nodded, praising his observation with a smile. “Yes, I already know who you serve. The question was, how well do you serve her? Curious, though. It isn't like her to bestow an ancient word as a Name.”

  “It is just that, a Name.”

  “Clever of you,” I commented.

  “How so?”

  “It is a smart man who asks the right question. It is a clever man who asks it without asking at all.”

  Qanis shrugged. “People are always more willing to cure you of your ignorance when they think you are unaware of it.”

  I nodded. “True enough. So, do you know what your Name means in the old tongue?”

  “No, but I never cared enough to try and find out.”

  “You're doing it again,” I said, “asking without asking.”

  Merkel chuckled. “I suppose I am. In all honesty, I’ve always wondered about my Name. Unfortunately, my attempts at finding out have not borne fruit. So few know the language of yore. But I doubt you’ve come here to enlighten me on the matter. So, Merkus, why is it you’ve sought me out?”

  “Let me repay honesty with honesty,” I said. “You are not who I’m seeking, merely a step in their direction.”

  “And who is it you seek?”

  “The next step,” I said. “Your supervisor. Your direct superior. The woman who truly runs this establishment.”

  Merkel did well to hide his reaction. If not for the roiling uncertainty in his soul, I might’ve thought my words had no effect.

  “I know it is hard to believe,” he said, “given where we are and what I am, but— “

  I sighed. “And here I thought we’d agreed to be honest.” I shook my head as though disappointed. “You’re the face of the operation, maybe even the second in command, but I’m not so gullible as to believe she would let a man take charge. Even if she were so inclined, Halor would not allow such things.”

  “I assure you—”

  I stood, grabbed my mug of ale, and drained it in one. “I shall take my leave, then.”

  “Wait!” Merkel leaped to his feet, altogether too eager. “I am saddened that you think me lying, even if I am not. However, since you are here, please enjoy whatever service you wish. Free of charge, of course. Moreover, if I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion, I believe there is one particular Auger who you’re quite likely to approve of.”

  “Where?” I asked. A wave of my hand indicated the deep alcoves lining the room’s walls. “These booths are not as… private as I’d like.”

  “There are rooms upstairs,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of where I’d entered.

  I nodded and headed in the direction he’d indicated. There was another threshold when I stepped out of the main room, and an absence as loud and odorous as the shameless noises and smells it kept away met me on the other side. Stairs took me to a second-floor hallway with five doors, one at the end and two on either side. Three were locked. The other two were simple affairs, clean and modest except for the array of provocative objects hidden in unprovocative places: formfitting suits of leather and flimsy outfits of silk hung in wardrobes, whips and gags and restraints and other… sexual tools lay stored in drawers, and drugs, hidden in plain sight, sat among bottles of oils and perfumes atop the dresser.

  I chose the closest vacant room to the stairs, sat on the edge of the rather comfortable bed, and waited. Thankfully, given the time I’d already wasted on this task, I did not wait for long.

  She strolled in without Tunnels or the overly sensual sway of hips and shoulders whores used to lure their prey, watching me with an appraising eye. I returned the look.

  “Quite an operation,” I said. She remained quiet. “The doormen checked for my tastes, then signaled the greeter with a knock. I assume if I preferred men, it would’ve been two slow and one quick.”

  “Three quick,” she said, her voice as melodically attractive as the instrument she played with such enviable skill.

  “Four booths with warriors of one sort or another and a spy in all the others.”

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “A good guess,” she said.

  I shrugged, and in return, she attacked me with a coy pout. Take my word for it: her pout was an attack. My earlier observation was wrong. She wasn’t almost as pretty as the whores; she was prettier. Far prettier. And all the more for being born with it.

  She stepped closer, and a mass of Tunnels erupted from her, swarming me, a score of weightless tentacles slithering over my aura, hard in some places, soft in others, molding my emotions without intruding on my soul, and lust drove my estimation of her beauty to new heights.

  She took another step. My mouth was open, nearly drooling from imagining the taste of her. She was close enough to touch. Hungry hands reached for her. She deflected my attempt and shook her head.

  “Not yet,” she whispered. Two words, barely uttered, and stakes of bliss plunged into me.

  She put a leg between mine and pressed in close so her thigh brushed against my crotch. She pressed harder, and we fell into the bed. The tips of her fingers brushed down the side of my face. The touch sent shivers through my body like arcs of lightning, stiffening my spine. The same hand went to her shoulder and slipped her dress a little down her arm, revealing more of her glorious skin.

  “Do you want me?” she asked, her voice a sultry murmur.

  “Yes,” I said, breathing the word.

  “How much?” she asked, her every syllable a Tunnel.

  “So much. So very, very much. Can you feel how much I want you?”

  “Yes,” she said, her smile victorious.

  I craned my neck forward, struggling to get closer, breathing hard and deep and hot. “Good—”

  With a hard shove, I pushed her off me. My soul condensed. My aura contracted. My lust vanished. Her Tunnels whipped out of control, finding no purchase, nothing to clutch to, mold, influence, or sway. Instinctively, her Tunnels shot towards my nape, searching for my soul even as she fell off the bed. They found nothing but an impregnable wall.

  She jumped to her feet. I was already on mine, laughing. I laughed harder when I saw her stupified expression. I kept laughing as she brought to bear matrix after matrix, each more powerful and complex than the last. None succeeded. Par for the course, my laughter crescendoed.

  “Sit,” I said when, at last, my mirth petered out. “We have matters to discuss.”

  “What is it you want?” she asked.

  “I’ve spent almost two cycles of the moon trying to find you.” I unstrapped my swords from my back, sheaths and all. “After three dead slave traders, two low-standing members of Halor’s Administration left catatonic, and a handful of others who won't ever remember the pleasure of meeting me, I finally find myself here. Do you know I had to postpone other more gratifying pursuits to hunt you down?”

  “So it was you who’s been attacking my spies,” she said, still poised. “Why?”

  I threw my swords onto the bed, closer to her than me. “To find one of Nikal’s Named. The last five…” I tilted my head, thinking, “Or was it a dozen? No. Ten? Yes, ten. Two groups of five, if I remember correctly. They weren't the greatest of talkers. Particularly the last one. Can you believe she preferred to die rather than share a few words with me?” I threw my dark cloak onto the bed. “How rude. I do very much hope you feel differently.”

  Her brow furrowed. “So, you massacred the squad near the capital?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. You must understand, they all but forced my hand.”

  “Alone?” she asked. There was a hint of fear now. She was holding back her last trick and was starting to wonder if it would be enough.

  “I had a little help.”

  “Why me?” she asked, perfectly hiding her dread from her expression. “Qanis is one of her Named. There are others, too, almost all of them more easily found than I.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back. “Because you are also her chief spy.”

  “Even if that were true, why is it of import?”

  “Partly because I knew you’d be outside her seat of power, but mostly because, as a surveyor of secrets, I was hoping you might be privy to some of hers.”

  A flash of anger pushed back her fear. “And you expect me to share them?”

  I grinned. “You’d be surprised. I can be rather convinc—”

  I unsheathed a hidden blade from the small of my back and whipped it at her face. The butt of the dagger struck her brow, snapping her head back. I leaped over the bed and delivered an elbow to her temple before she recovered, and she collapsed to the floor. A brief excursion into her soul trapped her mind. This was neither the place nor the time for my questions.

  The plan was to abduct her and take her to Lira’s estate. Considering this free city was just this side of her territory, it was not an overly long journey. But before I took my leave…

  Back in the main room, Merkel—or Qanis—and his son sat in the same seats I’d first found them in, once more wearing their disguises as though they were but pawns being reset for a new game, a new opponent, a new victim.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” I greeted them. Qanis looked up at me in surprise. Joxal gave me a strained smile, seeming pleased to see me, though not so much as to cure him of his sullen mood. So, I thought, it wasn’t all an act. Not for the son.

  “Where is she?” Qanis asked.

  “Merkus,” Jaxol said, oblivious. “You haven't left. Good. I was hoping to—”

  I waved his apology away. “Come,” I said before striding back towards the stairs.

  Regardless of how strong they were or what position they held, men in Halor were used to listening to orders. I might not have been a woman, but I knew my tone of authority would make up for it. And it did; they followed.

  I killed them both.

  Qanis died first. A dagger to the heart took him as soon as he stepped into the room. He ignored me and the blade handle jutting out from his chest, eyes locked on the prone body lying on the bed. The stubborn fool died on his feet, unwilling to fall despite his death. Jaxol’s death was wholly different. He thrashed and rolled and screamed and whimpered till his last breath. A commendable feat, considering I’d cut him from ear to ear. An entertaining one, too. Enough that I’d stayed to watch.

  Opening the fixed window was a bother. Breaking the thing was not an option I cared for. A Zephyr and a Golem had worked together to harden the glass and timber it was made of and the stone it was framed in. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the alarms. Said alarms called for a delicate touch. Half a turn of slow work later, I managed to unspool the matrix on the lock.

  The Named Lorailian—a trace of Lorail’s bloodline besmirched her own, enough to let me know she was a very distant relative—went over my shoulder before I climbed out. I stashed her in a dark corner near the pleasure house, away from well-trodden streets and alleys. Then I went back once more.

  There were a pair of doormen and a particularly annoying whore I had to take care of.