The great city celebrates as only it can.

  Sound grafts blare with the noise of songs, cheers, and laughter as their owners amplify small moments over the din of the exuberant crowd. Bodies reduced in weight rise above the press in vertical jumps, some of them thrown high by momentum-binders helping from below.

  A hundred myriad hues shine from the upraised limbs, antlers, and even fangs of off-duty way-lighters, coloring the streets in a dizzying combination of flashes and persistent blooms. Somewhere deep in the morass, a reckless storm-binder throws an arc of lightning into the air, letting the raw power climb upward in an expanding loop until it eventually snaps toward the sky and dissipates in a chaotic stream of sparks.

  Owl watches the display with mute wonderment, but she still imitates Lamp’s grip on Blackwing’s graft without being told before firmly nodding her head to convey readiness. The merchant glances briefly at the girl before looking back at his employee to convey an order.

  “Tell her to siphon lightly.”

  Lamp nods, then turns toward Owl to explain his employer’s words. “Blackwing asked you to consume a small amount of attention from the crowd while we travel overhead. You’ll likely need to sustain the pull for a few minutes before we’re clear of them, and you won’t have any opportunity to expel energy along the way. Do you think you have enough capacity right now?”

  Owl bobs her head. “I believe so. I typically keep my reserves low; going unnoticed seems more broadly useful than attracting attention.”

  Lamp smiles approvingly, then reports to his employer. “She can do that.”

  “Good. I jump on one. Seh… do…”

  Blackwing had switched to the old language for his countdown. The words sound accented and clumsy on his untrained tongue, but Lamp and Owl understand his intention all the same. Both of them tighten their grips in expectation, and the scholar spares a brief moment to feel grateful for his physiological inability to develop sweaty palms.

  The moment before Blackwing reaches ‘yek,’ Lamp’s weight reduces to almost nothing. In the next instant, the merchant kicks off from the ground, and the three of them surge forward and up. Lamp, having expected his feet to trail behind him as they take to the air, experiences a disorienting absence of change when his body remains perfectly upright.

  It takes the scholar a moment to realize what’s happening, a moment to understand that Blackwing didn’t simply haul his weightless passengers away from the ground like he’d done when scaling the caldera’s exterior. No. This time, he twisted the laws of nature to make them fall into the sky.

  Lamp almost laughs at the absurdity. How much magic is the merchant burning to accomplish this feat, and how in Regent’s name does he expect Owl to stop people from staring at it?

  Just as expected, when their bodies soar over the Glassbloods’ defensive ditch and pass above the busy street below, nearly everyone looks up. Lamp sees astonishment and admiration writ across the hundred faces tracking Blackwing’s flight.

  Sparing a thought for where exactly those upturned eyes might be landing on his person, Lamp thanks the gods that his long chiton and overwrap prevent him from accidentally flashing the crowd. He’d hate to be wearing anything short or billowy at this moment.

  With that humiliating image in mind, he wonders whether Blackwing’s instruction to Owl was simply intended to provide additional defense for her modesty by deflecting attention towards the men. That was considerate of him, if so. The poor girl doesn’t need more problems to worry about.

  Lamp sets his concerns of voyeurism aside as their upwards momentum begins to drain. He feels a strange and subtle twisting throughout his body when they reach their apparent zenith halfway across the street. Then nature reasserts itself, and the earth begins to pull him down again.

  Thankfully, they still have their forward velocity. Lamp estimates they’ll land midway across an oncoming rooftop. Blackwing must have targeted it as the platform for his second jump, intending to leap to another building from there. It seems not even he wields enough power to simply hurl three people across Clearheart’s district in a single bound.

  Or, at the least, it’s not in his budget.

  These single-street hops might be more economical than a longer stride, and they’re certainly more precise, but they likely don’t represent Blackwing’s maximum output. That raises the question: how much distance could their flying merchant travel with this method if his life depended on it? More than the width of one avenue, certainly.

  Lamp doubts he would be given a clear answer if he asked. No one at Blackwing’s level divulges their limits easily. Regardless, it’s a bad time for conversation. Despite his curiosity, Lamp isn’t foolish enough to pester the man carting him through the air right as they’re about to land.

  Not that the moment is otherwise serene.

  People celebrating atop an adjacent roof shout in excitement as the merchant prince briefly touches down within a few yards of them. Blackwing immediately kicks off again, leaving hurried calls of blessings and gratitude in his wake as the trio soars away. One man, in what Lamp hopes is only a jest, promises to rename his newborn twins after the city’s great heroes.

  Those words are lost to the wind as they pass over a second, slightly narrower street. Here, one road removed from the epicenter of celebration, the crowd thins significantly, though enough people still throng the lane to justify crossing above it. However, their elevated transit can’t completely separate them from the festivities.

  In the first moments of their second jump, they pass through an isolated wall of scorching hot air which rapidly turns frigid. Lamp fails to catch sight of the people responsible, but the effect was doubtless conjured by a group of heat-binders flexing their grafts to join in the morning’s joyous pandemonium. More chaos of the same variety follows.

  Jumbled colors and twisted sounds fill the spaces between bodies while random objects and miscellaneous garments pass above the crowd in blind games of toss. Stranger still, Lamp spots a reddish-gray chunk of stone nearly the size of a child’s head hovering motionless in the air above an old man’s outstretched hand. His stern, deeply concentrated expression almost seems to dare the rock to move. Lamp isn’t sure what’s being done there, but he thinks he recognizes the elder as a retired navigator from whom he once purchased sea maps on a client’s behalf.

  There’s little time to dwell on it as another rooftop passes under Blackwing’s stride, and a new street enters view. Like before, fewer people throng this avenue than the last, and Lamp also observes a stark decline in ostentatious displays of magic. The change is not absolute, however.

  As Blackwing’s trio rises to the apex of their third jump, a sudden wave of fatigue washes over Lamp’s mind, followed promptly by a surge of alertness. Organic annoyance comes third. Somewhere on the lane below, an irresponsible sleep-binder just took the same excuse as everyone else to throw around their magic during a rare moment where anything goes.

  Luckily, the mental push and pull has no apparent effect on Blackwing, and they make their next landing without issue. From there, they finally descend to ground-level in one last gentle hop, the traffic below them having finally thinned enough to make walking suitably convenient. The new street’s hardly empty, but the crowd has fallen to a low enough density that a large man with an intimidating graft can expect to move unimpeded.

  Blackwing gently sets his passengers down and returns their weight. They release his arm then fall in line behind him as he marches onward. Scattered revelers move aside for their group, as expected, and the three of them quickly cross through an alleyway into the next street along, finding even fewer people on the other side.

  They’re drawing close to the district’s main commercial boulevard now, which gives Lamp a hint as to their destination, and Blackwing’s first turn northward all but confirms his guess. It seems they’re headed to a location Lamp has visited several times before: the office where he previously worked with Emerald.

  It feels strange to be walking there again. His last visit was less than two weeks ago, but he still feels a twinge of nostalgia. Lamp had made this same journey once a month, almost every month, for the past two years. Although he remembers that time fondly, he now reflects that he barely misses it. In the past week-and-change since he last traveled this way, his life has felt more exciting, purposeful, and fulfilled.

  He almost feels as though a void was patched in his soul. Signing on was unquestionably the right choice.

  Lamp remains in a contemplative mood until they reach a familiar, nondescript building a few minutes later. He nearly indulges a sentimental urge to take in the sight, but Blackwing doesn’t pause before striding up and pushing open the front door, so Lamp deems it imprudent to cause an interruption.

  When they step inside, Lamp half expects Emerald to be waiting in the foyer, like usual, but today she’s nowhere to be seen. Only the watchman waits within. The burly man gives Blackwing a respectful nod, offers Lamp a knowing smile, and shoots a curious glance at Owl. Then, returning his attention to his employer, he asks if the door to the street should be barred behind them, to which Blackwing answers in the affirmative.

  The merchant doesn’t pause to see it done, however, and presses deeper into the small building at a brisk pace. Rather than visiting the familiar, windowless room Lamp and Emerald used in their prior meetings, Blackwing leads his group upstairs to a private office on the second floor. The scholar hadn’t visited this part of the building before, so he feels a slight thrill of discovery for having finally reached it.

  There’s disappointingly little to see up here, however. They simply follow an empty hallway to a closed door, where Blackwing knocks once before entering. As the aperture swings open, Lamp sees his company’s second in command awaiting their arrival within.

  The copper-plated woman turns her head toward the door as it sweeps inward, but her eyes don’t focus on the newcomers. Her poor vision likely renders the three of them as little more than rough blobs.

  A highly-polished magnifying lens carved from transparent natural quartz rests on the cluttered table before her, suggesting that her impairment applies to nearby objects as well. The crystal sits propped against the side of a wax tablet she’d apparently finished reading a few minutes prior.

  Having dispensed with the report, she now holds a wine cup carelessly in her left hand while her right index finger idly toys with the lip of a bottom-heavy jug that’s clearly lost more than the volume of a single pour already. A second, empty cup waits across from her, perched at the edge of the tabletop nearest the door. It was evidently intended for a guest who’d failed to arrive before his hostess lost patience and began libations without him.

  Tipsiness notwithstanding, Candlewire’s full-skin graft gives her the appearance of a living statue. Her impressively-crafted false eyelashes and the large cap she wears at a low angle work together to restore an element of feminine mystique. However, her current pose dispels most lingering mystery.

  The woman Blackwing had introduced yesterday as his right hand in New Carcosa and his most highly-trusted proxy sprawls in her chair with her legs kicked up onto the table and crossed at the knee, feet unshod. Her delicate copper toes curl inward as she languidly raises both arms above her head and arches her spine in a deep stretch. The exaggerated motion tugs at her chiton in provocative ways. Most arrestingly, its knee-length hem rides up from three quarters of her thigh to little more than one.

  “Welcome back.” She greets Blackwing in a silken purr.

  Lamp feels a blush climbing up his neck and tears his eyes away from the unexpected display as his face begins to redden. He’s less embarrassed by Candlewire’s behavior than by his own momentary failure to avoid staring at her. As a formerly married man, he ought not to be so easily transfixed, especially not by a person who wasn’t aiming at him.

  His one minor consolation is that Owl’s attention was even more thoroughly ensnared; she takes slightly longer before bashfully turning her own gaze aside. Enough of her silver paint remains to hide the true color of her cheeks, and she maintains a convincingly straight face, but her blood-darkened ears still give the game away.

  “She’s worse than my brother.” The outlander whispers in a tone that sounds at once both horrified and impressed.

  Her quiet voice breaks Blackwing from his own moment of stillness. Lamp can’t judge whether the man was more stupefied or scandalized by the scene they stumbled into; regardless, he steps inside and marches up to his subordinate, leaving his tagalongs to hesitantly follow him through the doorway.

  “Put your feet down. We have guests.” The merchant gruffly orders.

  “How exciting.” Candlewire’s teasing words convey no regard for the order she received. “How many did you bring?”

  “The same pair you met yesterday. One’s still too young for you, and the other still works for us. Feet. Down.”

  Rather than complying, the inebriated overseer tilts her head back and sighs dramatically. “So, when our ship docked and you said you wanted a private rendezvous with me after you ‘escaped’ from Clearheart, you were actually just being your usual, insufferably industrious self? By scheduling a business meeting for the morning after an all-nighter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boooooooo.” Candlewire drags her heels off the wood in a graceless motion, though she thankfully retains enough decorum to keep her legs crossed. After dropping her feet to the floor and adjusting her dress, she mutters. “I should’ve just gone home. Damn near fell asleep right here waiting for you. And for what? More work.”

  “I apologize for our delay.” Blackwing offers in a businesslike tone. “The Glassbloods have a greater love for pageantry and speeches than I anticipated. But- since you had so much time- did you refresh my crew as I requested?”

  “You need to ask? Of course I did.” She scoffs in a voice that now sounds only gentle and tired without its flirtatious overtones. “I arranged transfers from the other ships we have in harbor. ‘Not one sailor without at least seven years on our payroll,’ and all of them well-rested, as you specified. They’re all either deeply committed loyalists or extremely dedicated spies.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. You tease.”

  Rather than respond to that bait, Blackwing turns back to the door and waves for Lamp and Owl to grab some of the chairs stowed against the back wall. They do so, then carry their seats to Candlewire’s workstation. As they seat themselves, Owl looks at Lamp inquisitively, clearly waiting for him to translate everything that was just said. He ruefully shakes his head before providing a sanitized summation.

  In his peripheral vision, he catches Candlewire slowly turning her head their way while he speaks. As soon as Lamp pauses, she interjects.

  “Grayowl, right? If you’re asking him whether I usually drink on the job, the answer is no. Not usually.” The copper woman quips in an airy tone before flicking her unfocused eyes back at Blackwing and adopting a more professional mien. “Those two just reminded me about the second matter you asked me to resolve before we parted ways this morning. Should we discuss that next?”

  “We might as well, if you have his payment ready.”

  “I do.” She nods. “And since we’re on the subject, I must say- your translator’s becoming quite expensive. Before you made him full-time, we were already handing this man half-a-week’s wages for just one day of work per month. When we multiply that tetrobol by the ten-times increase to his base pay that you for some reason presented as your first offer, then multiply it again by the nine days he’s worked for us since, then subtract three tritartemoria for his room and board, then add back in the two tetrobols for his work on the night you promoted him, we come out to fifteen tetradrachmae, five obols, and one tritartemorion in back pay. All of which, I will reiterate, he’s earned for less than two weeks of work. I frankly can’t believe you agreed to a full year at that rate, much less that you proposed it.”

  “Don’t pinch every drachma.” Blackwing answers patiently. “He’s worth the expense. Or he will be once we open formal relations with Owl’s kingdom.”

  “I hope so. Regardless, here’s his note.”

  Candlewire bends forward to rummage through the small items haphazardly gathered at one end of her workspace. After a moment, she triumphantly lifts a thumb-sized bisque fired clay tablet from the mess before passing the token across to Lamp.

  The scholar accepts his payment with a slight rush, looking down at the markings with an emotion approaching reverence. He quickly skims the script to find his name, the total payment due to him, a description of services rendered, and the rectangular patterned imprint left by Candlewire’s personal cylinder seal. He recognizes Emerald’s handwriting in all elements except the last.

  Lamp’s heart flutters as his eyes return to the symbols displaying his compensation. Those markings represent more money than he’s ever held at any one time before, and he feels a strange protective urge to hide the little ceramic tile under his cloak despite every other person in the room still being far wealthier than himself. Overcoming that impulse, he instead tucks the marker into his belt pouch, then gives Candlewire a nod she likely can’t see.

  “Thank you.” He tells her in a voice more casual than his true emotions.

  “You’re completely welcome.” She answers with a polite smile. “Oh, and since I just admitted to your face that I think we’re overpaying you, I should make it clear that I don’t blame you for that. It’s purely the fault of our company’s primary owner, a perennially reckless man whom I’m sure you will agree is neither sensible nor considerate in nature.”

  Blackwing shifts in his chair at that, prompting a drunken grin from Candlewire, but she continues speaking to Lamp. “By the way, I’m technically your direct superior. That is to say, I’m the only person in our company to whom you’re required to answer other than His Glowering Highness over there. If Wing ever drops you off in New Carcosa, you’ll report to me until he sails back around to collect you. I’ll probably make you help Emerald with our accounting, so you’d better hope he keeps dragging you across the map until your contract runs out.”

  “Understood.” Lamp represses a shiver at the suggestion of ledger keeping.

  “Great. With that established, would either of you care for any wine?” Candlewire asks with a wave towards Lamp and Owl. “I opened a good vintage in celebration of not dying last night.”

  Lamp smiles awkwardly, then answers on the handmaid’s behalf without forwarding the question. “Thank you for the offer, ma’am, but we’ll decline.”

  Candlewire shrugs and refills her own cup. “Suit yourself.”

  As soon as she sets down the oenochoe, Blackwing picks it up and transfers it to the floor beside his chair. However, he makes no attempt to confiscate his subordinate’s cup as she takes a light sip.

  “Aahhhh.” Comes the contented sigh after she swallows. “So, what’s left for us to discuss?”

  “Much.” Blackwing answers seriously. “We need to establish next-steps, although today’s schedule is already set. Clearheart told the whole city I have a stockpile of grafts aboard my ship, and eventually someone will try to take them. She assigned a few Glassbloods to defend our berth, but not in sufficient numbers to withstand a serious assault, especially not from a basileus, so we need to be long gone before nightfall grants anonymity.

  “We’ll sail north towards deeper waters to sell our lie of a burial at sea, then turn back south once I’m sure we weren’t followed. From there, I want to take the grafts at least as far as Wall Town… With that established, the first question we need to resolve here is whether we want to go further.”

  He looks toward Owl. “Clearheart presented a potential method of opening the chaos gate on-demand. If that proves achievable, I assume you’d prefer to go directly home?”

  “I would.” She nods firmly after Lamp translates the question.

  Blackwing returns the gesture. “Then we’re both keen to test Clearheart’s notion as quickly as possible. We’ll bring the stolen grafts and sufficient provisions along with us in case it works.”

  “You’re eager.” Candlewire murmurs over the lip of her kylix cup before downing another draught.

  “Yes I am.” Blackwing admits evenly. “I fear our secret won’t keep much longer. We need to act quickly to secure our position, and by ‘we’ I do mean everyone present. I want you to come along, Candlewire, partially because we’ll travel much faster with your help, but mostly because I need you to stay behind when we cross so you can reopen the portal once we’re ready to return.”

  He looks away from her and stares into the wall, or maybe through it; his next words are spoken in a hush. “I won’t risk bringing the key with us. The last golden spear that fell into human hands disappeared when it passed through the gateway. (Lamp, don’t translate this next sentence). I also don’t want to deliver a divine relic into foreign hands; I can’t trust that their king wouldn’t take it from me, either to enable an invasion or to prevent one from our side.”

  Blackwing falls silent. Candlewire, after waiting a moment to confirm he’s finished, sets down her wine and raises a single brow ridge. Then she crosses her arms, taps a foot, and nods. When she speaks, her soft voice carries a bitter undertone.

  “So. Last night, when you asked whether I thought our enterprise could survive without us for a few weeks, you weren’t suggesting that we take a sabbatical together? No? Of course not. Such a pleasant thought would never cross your business-oriented, cynical mind.”

  The overseer throws her head back, nearly dislodging her oversized hat, and produces a sigh even more exaggerated than her first. Then she lifts an arm towards Blackwing and waves her open hand in a circular pattern that seems to communicate ‘give me something here.’

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Could we…” She starts to ask in a plaintive voice. “Could we just open the gate, chuck those two miscreants through it, then loiter together on our own side to let them back in after they’ve completed their delivery?”

  “... No.” Blackwing tiredly declines after a moment’s delay. “I need to go with them. I’m sorry for the ambiguity in our last conversation. I wanted to avoid saying anything too-”

  “I know- I know.” Candlewire interrupts. “Mixed audiences mean you hide your intentions. That should have been obvious to me… In retrospect, I was the fool for thinking you’d try to relight our spark.”

  She falls into silence, in which Blackwing joins her, the two of them maintaining eye contact but saying nothing. Lamp sits stiffly in his chair beside the merchant, quietly wishing he wasn’t present for this portion of the meeting.

  At his other side, Owl shoots him a curious glance, clearly wondering why he’d started and stopped translating multiple times over the past few seconds. After a brief moment of consideration, he decides to toss a bone. “Candlewire suggested sending the two of us through the portal alone while-”

  The outlander almost jumps out of her chair as she quickly leans forward to catch Blackwing’s eyes.

  “We cannot do that!” She tells the man emphatically. “Lamphand would die!”

  Translating that sentence into the modern tongue proves to be a surreal experience for the scholar, and he feels quite betrayed when both of his superiors smile in response. Still, he’s grateful to Owl for dispelling the room’s sour mood with her interjection.

  With their dour moment of tension shoved aside, Candlewire responds to Blackwing’s request in a flippant tone. “You understand, I trust, that abruptly dragging me away from my duties in the city would likely cost us more than it’d take to simply higher any random basileus for the same work.”

  He nods. “I understand, but no one else I trust has the necessary strength.”

  “Not even Oaktusk? You’ve known her longer than anyone.”

  “Too old to travel. She missed her nephew’s funeral last year because of it.”

  “Ah. I recall that. Alright.” Candlewire shakes her head in admission of rhetorical defeat. “Fine. I’ll go, but I am not camping out in a haunted ruin on the edge of the world to wait around unless you three plan to return within a day. Otherwise, we’ll bring people along with us who can get me to and from Wall Town without your assistance. Also, if you intend to be gone more than a week, then I’m heading straight on through to Trembleheel, and if you don’t expect to return until the next conjoining, then I’ll sail all the way back here to resume operations.”

  “Reasonable.” The merchant agrees.

  “I’m glad you see that.” She leans forward with a focused expression, bends a bit too far, then straightens up without seeming to notice. “Next is the matter of my payment. This thing you’re asking me to do falls well outside the stipulations of our contract, so I expect considerable remuneration. State your offer.”

  After a brief moment of consideration, Blackwing begins. “Two-”

  “Not enough.”

  He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t let me say it.”

  “If the number starts at two, it’s too low.” She punctuates her curt reply with a dismissive wave of her dainty metal fingers.

  “Alright. Five-”

  “Nope.”

  He sighs. “Nine. Are you happy with nine? Good. Nine weeks salary. In advance.”

  “Smart man.” Candlewire nods with a knowing smile. “Was the original offer two months?”

  “Yes. The second was ‘five weeks pay in advance. Three after.’”

  “Plus-one makes nine.” She smirks. “I’ll consider this a successful negotiation. I’m in.”

  Blackwing grumbles his thanks, then says. “I trust you realize you can’t complain any more about what I’m paying Lamphand.”

  “Hey- hey- I already said I didn’t blame the guy for taking what he could get. You’re the man letting money slip through his fingers. Among other things.” She mutters the final three words into her wine cup as she takes another sip.

  After swallowing, she shakes her head and pushes the vessel away. “If you plan on leaving today, then I should get a jump on prepping my subordinates to operate without me. I’ll head downstairs to send out missives- unless you need me for the rest of this conversation?”

  “We don’t. Not enough to warrant further delay. Go. Please.”

  “Sure…. Now, let’s see if I can remember my way around.” Candlewire stands up and begins navigating past the table with a mostly-steady gait. “You know, with all the emphasis you placed on secrecy over these past two years, I actually hadn’t seen this place since we purchased it… heh… And that’ll still be true when I leave! Ha ha… ha… Man, you used to pretend to laugh at those jokes.”

  “Long day. I’ll pretend to laugh at the next one.”

  “Much obliged.” She reaches the exit, carelessly flings it open, then turns her grinning face toward the wrong wall. “See ya!”

  As the door swings shut behind her, Blackwing smiles slightly, but the wistful expression quickly passes as his attention returns to the task at hand.

  "Our initial obstacle is the gate itself." He begins without preamble. "Our caldera's first- and sole documented- expedition to the Sea of Chaos concluded slightly more than two hundred years ago. The surviving explorers recorded accounts of a man who stepped into the waves and instantly vanished. His body was never recovered.

  "When my own expedition discovered a passage across the sea, we tested its safety by pushing a goat through first; the animal died on contact. Because of those incidents, no human with a graft has ever dared to touch the gate. We don't know whether it's fatal to us."

  Owl listens with a resolute expression, then nods firmly as soon as Lamp's translation concludes. "I always planned to be the first person to cross over. Neither of you would face this risk if not for me, so I will prove the journey can be made."

  Blackwing returns her nod. "We can toss one of the grafts ahead of you. If it turns dun or fractures, then passage may not be safe. It's an imperfect indicator but preferable to total ignorance. Also, if the amputated graft retains both its form and vitality, we'll have evidence that our native magic can persist on the far side."

  The outlander agrees, so he continues to his next concern. “What happens immediately after we cross? Can we reach your people safely?”

  “Oh. Hhuuuuuu.” She vocalizes a slow exhale as her countenance morphs from confidence to apprehension. “I will not minimize the risk you both face. The route we must follow is extremely perilous for men. To begin with, it is likely that neither of you would survive an encounter with the icon of Manslaughter, so we must take pains to avoid it. Beyond that obstacle…”

  Owl sighs and takes a moment to consider her words before pushing onward. “In my world-tile, your portal opens at the edge of a region called the Women’s Highway. The ‘highway’ is a section of desert which contains the abutting territories of two icons: Manslaughter and Heartbreak. Men can’t travel safely through either icon’s territory, so the area nominally belongs to women, although no one actually lives in or uses most of it.”

  She glances at Candlewire’s table and rises a little from her seat to peer above the clutter atop its surface. “Did she leave ink and paper behind? I would like to draw a map.”

  Blackwing rises before Lamp even finishes repeating the question and walks around the table to sift through its contents. He passes over Candlewire’s wax tablet but grabs its bronze stylus, then plucks up a loose pottery shard with black coating and a reddish interior. Flipping the apparent ostracon over to examine it, the merchant reveals writing scratched into one side and a blank face on the other.

  Whatever message the hardened clay carries on its backside must be unimportant, as Blackwing passes both objects across to Owl before dropping into his partner’s abandoned seat. The handmaid offers her host a few words of thanks before quickly scratching a simple map, narrating its features as she notates them.

  “This is the world wall.” She points to a shaded rectangle on the far left before moving her stylus to draw an oval slightly to its right. “These are the dunes you see through your gateway. And this…”

  Owl marks a curved line, starting and ending at the wall and bowing outward into a slightly-flattened semicircle which fully encloses the oval. The two round shapes neatly overlap at their rightmost edges.

  “This zone represents Manslaughter’s territory; its domain will surround us on all sides as soon as we cross into my world. Thankfully, over the past few years the icon has demonstrated a persistent aversion to the chaos gate, even when it’s closed. We can therefore expect Manslaughter to veer around Lady Jaleh’s staging area, so you should have a little time to get your bearings.”

  Looking back down at her map, the handmaid carves another curve arcing out from the semicircle’s upper and lower thirds. This sickle-shaped protrusion hews close to the semicircle at its endpoints but deforms near its midsection to extend further right, sending a protrusion outward as if clinging to an as-of-yet unmarked feature.

  “Manslaughter’s domain abuts against Heartbreak’s here.” Owl lifts her reed pen from the page, then taps its nib against the overlapping lines where the dunes end and the icons’ territories intersect. “Beyond this point you will at least have physical safety. Icons never intrude upon each other’s territories, so if the two of you elude Manslaughter’s notice until reaching this boundary, then we have escaped it.

  “However,” she looks up towards Blackwing with a serious expression. “This border is also the location in which Manslaughter spends most of its time. Though we might encounter it anywhere, we are most likely to find it here.”

  The merchant nods and responds calmly. “How much more likely?”

  “I cannot provide a definitive answer. Manslaughter’s habits are not the concern of my own house nor of any house which I have served. I know only that the icon is said to prefer the outer dunes, though it does not confine itself to them.”

  Blackwing nods again, slower this time. “How high are these dunes? As tall as a man?”

  “Taller than the walls of Trembleheel’s Landing stacked atop Lady Clearheart’s fortress, with room for a tree above them.”

  “Good. What about spacing? Are the gaps between adjacent crests wider than the streets I crossed on our way here?”

  “By a few times, yes… I would estimate a range of four to ten street widths, with most on the latter side of that distribution. However, that was simply my observation from circumnavigating this region’s exterior. The trade caravan I followed from Baghdokhtaran veered around the dunes for ease of transit, so I cannot describe the area in detail.”

  “Mhh.” Blackwing hums through closed lips. “Manageable. But before we choose our route, please confirm something for me. If we exit Manslaughter’s territory without directly entering Heartbreak’s, is there a risk the icon pursues us?”

  “Yes. If you attract its notice before we escape its range, then Manslaughter will pursue you outside its normal zone.”

  “For how long.”

  “In principle…” Owl purses her lips with an unsure expression. “It might hunt you indefinitely. Icons are incapable of boredom, and they never tire.”

  “Then a straight path towards Heartbreak’s demesne seems to be the marginally safer choice. Is there any benefit to skirting around the dunes? How far would we need to veer to mitigate risk?”

  “I do not know. I apologize. I never expected to cross this region in a man’s company.”

  “I understand.” The merchant responds calmly. “We’re operating on guesswork. Based on what you know, do you agree that a direct course would serve us best?”

  She hesitates before answering. “Honestly, Lord Blackwing, I have begun to question whether this endeavor is truly so pressing as to merit the risk of a rushed attempt. We might be better served by waiting out the interstice and then petitioning Lady Jaleh for assistance. She could easily orchestrate a distraction in some far corner of the icon’s territory to grant us safer passage.”

  “We can take that route.” Blackwing replies in a neutral tone. “Is it your preference to wait?”

  “No! At least, not for my own part. I simply… I cannot justify the risk you both would face. Not for such a minor gain of time. It would be safer for me to make this journey alone, or for all three of us to wait until we can arrange an escort. An immediate and simultaneous departure seems unnecessary and goes far beyond what I feel comfortable asking.”

  “That’s fine. You didn’t ask. I offered, and I’m still offering.” He turns toward Lamp and addresses the translator directly. “What about you, Lamphand? If you say you’d rather wait, then we’ll wait.”

  Lamp’s immediate impulse is to side with Owl and her sudden onset of caution. After all, her princess isn’t scheduled to be sacrificed for another seven years. A delay of three months wouldn’t kill the young lady, and acting any faster might result in his death and Blackwing’s, so what compelling reason do they have to rush ahead? The scholar can’t think of one.

  As Lamp begins to form that conclusion, however, he exchanges brief glances with each of his companions, and he could swear he feels both of them silently urging him to choose Blackwing’s accelerated timeline instead. Though either of their expressions seem demanding- or even expectant- Owl’s eyes hold a subtle pleading while the merchant just looks a little too invested in Lamp’s decision for him to maintain his illusion of indifference.

  Both of them clearly want to move with haste. The question is why.

  Owl clearly wants to rescue her lady-love as quickly as she can manage. But is that all there is to it, or does she have another cause for urgency? Is there, perhaps, some perceived benefit to sneaking back inside rather than waiting for an escort?

  From the scattered anecdotes Lamp’s heard about Owl’s expedition, it sounds as though the outlander hid her presence from her own people as well as Blackwing’s. She not only avoided their notice when crossing through the portal but also followed Jaleh’s caravan in secret to reach that point.

  Whatever factors pushed the girl to exit her world-tile so discreetly will likely still apply upon her return. And with that realization made, Lamp can easily guess what she’s worried about.

  Owl had stated on multiple occasions that she’s the only member of her aristocracy who’s truly committed to disrupting the growth icon’s next cycle of renewal. She might therefore be concerned that her superiors will refuse to play along with her new scheme, or will at least impose road blocks.

  Choosing to rely on Lady Jaleh’s assistance to progress doesn’t just require waiting three months. It also means granting that woman partial control over their mission, and who knows what path she’ll lead them down from there? Owl clearly doesn’t want to take that risk.

  Perhaps Blackwing doesn’t want to either.

  Maybe the exact same concern lies behind the merchant’s own desire to rush ahead. It could be that both he and Owl want to move forward as quickly as possible for roughly identical reasons. If that’s true, then the only difference between their respective positions is that Blackwing remains fully willing to take his chances against a bloodthirsty icon while Owl has begun to second guess the feasibility of that plan.

  Diverging risk tolerances aside, they apparently share a common interest in securing more time during which to operate as independent agents. They want a longer grace period before the political mechanisms of Owl’s world ensnare them. Lamp knows exactly what Owl intends to accomplish during that window of opportunity, but he isn’t sure what benefits Blackwing expects to extract from it.

  The scholar wonders: What reason would a merchant have to bypass his established trade partner? Does he hope to cultivate new connections among Jaleh’s rival houses? Is he seeking to make inroads with Baghdokhtaran’s non-aristocratic merchant class? Could he be angling for a direct line to their king?

  Whatever Blackwing’s plan is, it will likely cause trouble if it’s clandestine. Consequently, if Lamp argues in favor of skipping the wait and charging into another world ahead of schedule, then he’s signing on for more risks than just the icons.

  How troublesome.

  Glancing at his companions again, Lamp murmurs two quick apologies for the delay in his response. Both of them kindly assure him that they don’t mind waiting, but he still feels pressured to reach a decision quickly, along with a slight degree of resentment that they placed him in this position to begin with. He’d almost have preferred being dragged along behind them with no say in the matter.

  At the very least, he wishes they’d communicate the full extent of their agendas to one another. Their aggrieved translator is performing far too much guesswork on the slim basis of two expressions. Lamp has half a mind to request time for an augury, nevermind the central cult’s insistence that those rituals don’t work anymore. Instead, he settles for whispered invocations of Regent and Wayward.

  The little prayer does help to resolve something in his mind. Lamp knows he could lose hours weighing the uncertain risks of their plan against its even murkier rewards. However, he tosses those thoughts aside in favor of a clear and simple truth.

  He owes this to Blackwing.

  After last night’s raid against the graft thieves, after Clearheart’s public declaration of the merchant’s involvement, after their long march through the cheering streets with a mutilated corpse held aloft before them, and after saving Lamp’s life nine days ago and lifting him out of poverty… A debt is owed.

  Lamp can’t say no. If he did, he’d feel disgusted with himself. Whatever scheme the merchant happens to be planning, his loyal translator will support him in its execution. Lamp understands this decision might lead to his untimely death, but, as recent experience has proven, so could any late night walk alone through his own neighborhood.

  And he survived meeting Clearheart, didn’t he? Lamp’s perception of danger might have shifted slightly after accomplishing that feat. After all, what’s a demigod compared to a nightmare? Probably another nightmare waiting to happen, but Lamp can worry about that later. For the time being, he’s found his courage.

  He does have one practical safety concern, however.

  Lamp looks toward Owl and asks a simple question. “Can it fly?”

  She blinks slowly in momentary confusion, then answers with confidence. “No.”

  Lamp nods, then faces his employer. “Manslaughter can’t fly. Can you?”

  Blackwing smiles tiredly but gives a nod. “With limitations.”

  “Then I’m willing to try it.”

  Lamp’s answer apparently requires no translation, as Owl's expression immediately shifts into a conflicted smile that seems at once both relieved and worried. The merchant, meanwhile, stiffens slightly before his eyes harden with resolve. Lamp has only a second to wonder whether he misjudged his boss’s intentions before Blackwing glances back down at Owl’s crudely drawn map and gestures toward Manslaughter’s domain.

  “Should I bother bringing armor?” He asks.

  “It would make no difference.” Owl answers gravely after hearing Lamp’s translation. “Please take this warning to heart: Under no circumstance should you attempt to engage a true icon in battle. Even the greatest of mortal champions cannot contest with them. Only a fool would try.”

  The merchant nods. “How do we avoid it?”

  “That, at least, should prove achievable.” The girl seems to relax as she delivers relatively favorable information. “You need not worry that the icon will silently stalk behind us or await our approach in ambush. As soon as Manslaughter notices any men inside or near its territory, it begins to scream loudly and floods the air around its body with raw, undirected magic. We will know immediately if it begins to hunt.”

  Blackwing leans forward. “Please elaborate on ‘flooding the air with magic.’ How does its power affect living creatures and the terrain?”

  “Assuming the sparse accounts of previous survivors were accurate, Manslaughter’s aura has no effect aside from intimidation. It can only harm you if it touches you.” The outlander pauses momentarily before qualifying her statement. “I should note that none of the true icons have killed a human during my lifetime. Our noble families go to great lengths to ensure they remain docile and unprovoked, and the systems we employ today were refined over centuries. If there are still any living witnesses to Manslaughter’s last attack, I never encountered them.”

  She clears her throat. “If we are unfortunate enough to encounter Manslaughter, you must remain as far from it as possible. You should be able to traverse the dunes with far greater ease than your pursuer, so you stand a decent chance of outrunning the icon until you reach its neighbor’s territory. At that point, it will abandon its pursuit. Also, should you need to run, you may leave me behind and disregard my safety. Manslaughter will ignore me.”

  When Lamp finishes relaying Owl’s instructions to Blackwing, the merchant responds with a curt nod. He then points to the second blob on the handmaid’s map, which signifies Heartbreak’s territory.

  “What precautions should we take for the next icon?”

  “Ah…” Owl shifts uncomfortably. “Here you will face a different sort of peril. Whereas Manslaughter loathes men, Heartbreak… likes you too much. Fortunately, this icon will only accost men who first perceive it, so males regularly pass through this region with no precautions beyond a blindfold. The threat is significant but easily mitigated.”

  “And what exactly is this risk?”

  “Um… How to phrase this? If Manslaughter catches you, it will kill you. If Heartbreak finds you, it…” Owl pauses, apparently not liking the first phrase that came to mind. After a moment, she finishes her sentence. “… will take you. In both cases, you would be powerless to stop them. Icons don’t yield to any force besides another icon. In Heartbreak’s case, it would twist your mind so you have no interest in resisting.

  “The icon of heartbreak forces a man to feel the emotions and desires it wants him to feel, then it… it- ah- it has its way with him. When the icon ends these encounters, right before leaving, it injures its victim’s mind so he can no longer feel lust or romantic affection towards anyone save Heartbreak itself. This is the final cruelty, for the icon will never touch or acknowledge him again.”

  “Ah.” Lamp murmurs after completing his translation. “So that’s why it’s called Heartbreak. The poems featuring this icon were always frustratingly vague, and its pottery, while appropriately suggestive, failed to get the full point across.”

  Owl bobs her head with a serious expression. “My people named it Heartbreak for good reason. It makes men incapable of loving or being loved.”

  Lamp translates their aside to Blackwing, who nods and brushes past it. Leaning forward, he taps a finger against the rightward protrusion jutting out from Heartbreak’s territory.

  “Is this your city?” He asks Owl.

  “It is.” She answers with a wistful tone before focusing. “Two of them, in fact. The true city lies on the far side of a narrow mountain, while a smaller town rests at the base closer to the world wall. We will circumvent the latter settlement and must enter the former.

  “As for the shape I illustrated, Heartbreak prefers to adhere its domain to the territories of other icons and will seek them out if left in isolation. Its current range fully envelops Growth’s significantly smaller footprint, which in turn encompasses the city of Baghdokhtaran.”

  The merchant nods. “Growth repels Heartbreak, which itself protects you from Manslaughter.”

  “Correct.”

  “Are there any additional obstacles before we reach your city?”

  “No. Not for you, at least. What remains should be trivial.”

  “Good.”

  Blackwing glances at the door as if expecting Candlewire to return through it. When she doesn’t materialize, he returns his focus to Owl.

  “I intend to offer gifts to your king; I’d appreciate your help determining appropriate items and quantities. Let’s begin with clothing. Lady Jaleh once seemed enamored by a fur cloak I traded with her, but she refused another one like it on my next visit. Did your people take issue with that garment?”

  “Ah. No.” Owl murmurs while looking away with a chagrined expression. “For now, Lady Jaleh is the only person in our kingdom who possesses such a cloak. She likely prefers to remain so.”

  “I see.” Blackwing replies flatly. “Would she take offense if I gave one to your king?”

  “She would say nothing against it.” The tone of Owl’s answer implies she dropped the word ‘publicly.’

  The merchant sighs. “Setting that aside, what about dyed wools? Jaleh took a small quantity of green yarn on two occasions.”

  The handmaiden nods. “Green is House Caution’s primary color. As for the fabric-”

  Owl’s voice cuts off as they hear the room’s only door swinging open behind them. Lamp glances over his shoulder to witness a moderately sobered Candlewire striding back inside. As she crosses the room, Blackwing’s second in command squints at the merchant accusingly, clearly noticing despite her poor vision that he’s occupied her chair.

  Instead of claiming the vacant seat next to Lamp, however, the copper-leafed woman struts around her table, stops at Blackwing’s side, then turns as if she intends to plop into the chair despite its occupancy. The merchant hurriedly stands before his partner can attempt that maneuver and guides his former seat beneath its rightful owner as she lowers herself onto it.

  Candlewire’s expression seems smug as the tall man adjusts her orientation so she points towards Lamp and Owl.

  “What did I miss?” She asks.

  “We’re ready to leave.” Blackwing answers. “While you were gone, we agreed on a route to the first city in Grayowl’s world, and we briefly discussed which gifts I should bring to her king. I expect we can source appropriate items from Trembleheel, so there’s no need to waste time shopping here. Are you ready to go?”

  “One moment.” She holds up a finger, grabs her discarded cup of wine with the other hand, then downs its remaining liquid in two gulps before gasping. “Okay! I’m ready for you to take me back to the edge of the world, now. To be honest, I didn't get that great a look at it last time.”

  She stands up with a sudden jolt, steadying herself on Blackwing’s arm as she rises, then starts walking back around her table toward the exit again. Lamp and Owl rise from their chairs and follow along behind the overseer. The merchant trails last, plucking Owl’s map from the wooden surface as he passes it.

  Half-a-minute or so later, their group returns to the building’s foyer. Blackwing and Candlewire both entrust a few last-minute instructions to the door guard before turning towards the exit. The merchant’s long stride quickly carries him across the room, whereupon he unlatches the door and pushes it open. He marches through then holds the exit ajar while waving the rest of them to follow.

  Once the last of their party emerges into sunlight, Blackwing lets the door swing shut. Pivoting to face down the street, he takes a single step before abruptly stopping. Then he turns slightly to examine Candlewire with a sideways glance.

  “I doubt the city’s calmed yet.” He comments in a neutral tone. “We’ll have to pass over the crowd to reach our ship. Do you want to change into anything longer?”

  Lamp catches the merchant’s meaning immediately, clued in by his own street-hopping experience from an hour prior. He glances at Candlewire’s attire and confirms that her knee-length dress is indeed both short and billowy. Less than ideal for a jaunt above densely populated streets.

  The woman, however, plays dumb.

  “No.” Candlewire answers in an innocent tone. “Why would I?”

  Blackwing bows his head with a deep and weary sigh. “Mirror bless your rotten soul… If you aren’t aware, Wire, other people have working eyes, and sometimes they look up.”

  “Truly? How marvelous. In that case-” Candlewire places her right hand on Blackwing’s shoulder. “Give me a lift?”

  The petit woman slowly rises upwards, propelled by Blackwing’s magic but guided by her own strength. She raises her body high enough to scoot her rear onto the merchant’s upper arm, which he holds horizontal to make room for her. She then adjusts her right hand to grip his deltoid while pressing her hat down with the left.

  “Does that satisfy you?” She asks him playfully, looking down from her perch with half-lidded eyes.

  Blackwing shakes his head but still relents. “It’s enough. Let’s go.”