The ship’s bow crashes through a rising wave, churning the dark water into foam and casting droplets high into the air. A sudden gust of wind catches the lofted spray and carries it across the deck to fall like mist upon the yellow cloaks of two isolated figures standing at the aft railing.

  Lamp waits for the saltwater rain to pass before he breathes in and answers his companion’s question.

  “Hypocrites.” He decides easily. “And even if there are harsher words that should apply, ‘monster’ is not among them. We’d only be monsters if we had killed those people ourselves, or if we had in some way instigated their suffering, but none of us did that. Blackwing and Clearheart simply avenged the butchers’ victims, then we took what the dead no longer needed.”

  Lamp leans against the railing and bows his head, suddenly feeling tired. Pushing one hand up the side of his head, he drags glass fingers through his dark curls as he considers what else to say. After a long moment, he settles on his next words.

  “The way I see it, we’re effectively using stolen organs as fertilizer; as grim as that sounds, I don’t see how any living person’s being harmed by it. There’s an argument to be made that the deceaseds’ grafts should be returned to their kin for private burials, but realistically, it would’ve been impossible for us to identify the victims’ surviving relatives with any degree of certainty.

  “The only workable alternative to what we’re actually doing was the solution Blackwing claimed we’d follow. And to the people of New Carcosa, it makes no difference in their lives whether we dump the grafts at sea or cart them off to another world-tile.” Lamp makes a face, then makes an admission. “Of course, the general public would be outraged if they knew we’d given these grafts away to a foreign power, and doubly so if they thought we’d sold them, but the angry mob isn’t always right.”

  Lamp almost stops there, tempted to end on an authoritative note of confidence. However, a greater apprehension lingers in his mind, and he knows it needs to be addressed. The scholar speaks his next words in a hush, despite his full confidence that one one else around for miles could understand a syllable.

  “My biggest concern is whether Growth will be satiated by the quantity of grafts we’re providing; I don’t like the idea of this shipment being repeated. That said, I’m not too worried about needing more. If one human body could keep Growth alive for decades, then what we’re bringing should last it far longer. Your people will hopefully have centuries before the icon starts to decay again. By then, we’ll have found a better method of keeping everyone fed, so this exchange will only happen once.”

  He meets Ashti’s gaze and holds it for a long moment. Eventually, she nods. Plenty of doubt remains in her expression, but he sees a smidgen of hope to go along with it. Still, her voice carries clear tones of worry and guilt as she responds.

  “Is our theft not made worse, though, by the nature of a graft?” She traces a finger down one of the feathered silver lines on her face to illustrate the point. “I never thought to ask how your culture appraises the value of such things, but this ‘organ’ seems far more significant than, for instance, a liver or a heart.”

  “Does it?” Lamp smiles ruefully. “Try living without a heart, then.”

  “We happen to know a woman who manages.” The handmaiden dryly answers.

  Lamp chuckles softly and shakes his head, choosing not to argue that technicality. Instead, he looks down at his own graft and summons a soft light at the tip of the last bone in his index finger. He wills the little mote to drift around inside his hand while he replies to Ashti’s point.

  “Most people throughout the caldera would tell you that grafts are sculpted by the soul, but they don’t contain it. Rather, our grafts house no greater portion of our soul than any other segment of the body…” He trails off as an errant thought occurs. “Granted, there used to be an offshoot cult that believed otherwise. Their last major enclave only converted to the reformed faith around a century ago. When they were still around, their priests would extract and clean the grafts of deceased former leaders so successor basileis could commune with… Sorry. That tangent’s not important right now. My point is, grafts are special but not sacrosanct. From a theological perspective, they’re just another component of the human form.”

  “I see.” Ashti murmurs. “You argue that taking a graft is no worse than stealing an arm?”

  “More or less.”

  She nods, then challenges him. “But no other portion of human flesh can feed an icon. My people have offered corpses before, both to Growth and to others of its ilk, yet that measure made no difference in their lifespans. We now pin our hopes on grafts precisely because we know them to be different. They are flesh transformed by the gods to house magic. That distinction seems spiritually significant to me, though I would not pretend to know precisely how.”

  Lamp answers carefully. “I’m not denying their significance. However, grafts are only tools. The gods assign our professions by bestowing magic suited to specific labors. When we die, our work ends, so the grafts have served their purpose. At that point, they become no different from any other limb.”

  “Oh.” She whispers. “Then are you certain we have not harmed the dead?”

  “I am.”

  “And are you certain we have not offended heaven?”

  “That…” Lamp sighs in mild frustration before admitting. “No, but to paraphrase something Blackwing said to me on the day I met you: If the gods want us to behave differently, they can come down and say it themselves. Until then, we only have our own conscience to guide us, and mine says we should proceed.”

  Before Ashti can respond, a flash of ochre light plays across the ship, flaring from the way-lighter stationed at its prow. Although issued forward across the waves, enough of his yellow-hued luminance reflects back to cast long shadows behind the oarsmen and the mast. The glow lingers for several seconds before suddenly dimming into darkness.

  “Clear!” The light-binder shouts back towards the helmsman, reassuring his crew of safe, open waters ahead.

  The practice will be repeated periodically as the night progresses, Lamp expects. Their way-lighter won’t want to leave his graft active permanently, both to preserve his store of light and to avoid constantly advertising their position to any other vessels sailing through the night. Panning his eyes across the dark horizon, Lamp doesn’t see anyone else out there, but he supposes it makes sense to avoid notice as a general policy. Tonight it matters all the more.

  To that end, he snuffs out his own light, ending its idle dance atop his bones. Then he and the outlander stand together in the darkness for a while longer. Eventually, Ashti makes a small noise to draw his attention. When he looks her way, she gives him an awkward smile.

  “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Lamp. They do provide a measure of reassurance.” She tells him earnestly. “And please forgive me for quibbling over the details of a plan that has already been enacted. I know I should have voiced these questions before Lady Clearheart launched the raid. It is just that… after we settled all questions of how and why, I scarcely thought to dwell on questions of why not.”

  Lamp nods with a reassuring smile of his own. “I’m glad I could help resolve one of them, at least. Though, from your phrasing, I take it you have other misgivings?”

  “Several.” The handmaiden says dryly.

  “Care to share any of them?”

  “No.” She laughs with a bitter tone. “I will, but I do not care to.”

  Despite her assurance, she falls silent for a long pause before asking softly. “Lamp?”

  “Yes?”

  Ashti looks down at her hands on the railing, and doubt seeps in to fill her shrinking voice. “When Lady Clearheart offered to share her secret of stealing magic and I refused to hear it… Do you think I made the right choice?”

  Lamp breathes out slowly and considers his words with great care. Although he has an immediate answer, the trick of such conversations is to say it delicately. Next to him, the worried girl waits silently for his reply, staring down at her delicate fingers with a troubled expression, watching them intently as they tighten around the dark-stained wood.

  “I think the decision you made was brave, pragmatic, and morally sound.” He tells her gently. “You put the common good above your personal interests, which was a difficult and selfless thing to do. However, it’s not your life on the line, is it?

  “If I had been in your position, where a person I loved was facing the same sort of peril…” Lamp sighs softly and admits. “It’s impossible for me to know how I’d really handle that situation, but I think I’d at least have presented the opportunity of escape. I can’t see myself making such an impactful choice on my own without any consultation.”

  He trails off.

  After a moment, Ashti murmurs. “So you agree with Lady Clearheart that I was wrong?”

  “No, I… Maybe.” Lamp brushes past that sticking point to clarify his position. “The question of whether you should grab your princess and run away together is separate and more complicated than the question of whether you should have allowed her to make that choice herself. I only meant that she should be aware of every available option.”

  The outlander nods stiffly. “I cannot argue otherwise. However, I still believe Her Highness would have made the same decision had she herself been present. Does that aid in my defense?”

  “Yes, but we have to acknowledge that she didn’t choose. You did.”

  Ashti nods again, then lifts her face to look out at the horizon once more. After a moment of stillness, another spray of sea water rides a gust of wind from the prow and rains against them in a light mist. Neither pays it any mind.

  Eventually, Lamp comments. “It’s too late to carry the secret back home on this journey, but Clearheart was correct that you’ll have years to make another choice. Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

  “Do you also believe I will choose differently, given time? Do you also think I should?” Ashti asks in a quiet voice which Lamp can barely hear over the wind before she turns to him. “Tell me, what do you make of that second, more complicated question? If all else fails, and only escape or sacrifice remain, what do you think she and I should do?”

  “Where do you stand on the matter?” Lamp cautiously rejoins. “I take it you still feel she should remain?”

  “I do.” The outlander replies with quiet conviction.

  “Because it’s her duty?”

  “No.” Ashti shakes her head. “Because it is within her power. The obligation still belongs to her aunt.”

  “Ah, right. It was Clearheart’s turn coming up. I notice you said ‘belongs’ in present tense, though. Have you not given up on dragging the warlord home? Please say you did.”

  Ashti offers Lamp a cryptic smile but doesn’t answer outright. Instead, she insists. “Tell me your opinion, please. I need another person in the universe to hold one. What do you feel we should do?”

  Lamp blows a long breath out over the waves, turning the question over in his mind. After a moment, he decides to voice his thoughts as he formulates them.

  “I’m trying to imagine how a similar dilemma might occur in my own world.” He tells her slowly. “A scenario in which one individual becomes duty-bound to give up their life for the welfare of others in order to redress a problem they did not cause. It’s more of a struggle than I expected.

  “The closest parallel, I think, is the basileis’ obligation to protect their subjects from invasion, but that’s also a matter of self-interest. Lords who run away or hide lose their reputation, status, and territory. The same cynical view can be applied to their soldiers; whoever isn’t fighting for security fights instead for glory and wealth. Loyalty exists, but very few basileis in my people’s history have commanded it to the point of certain death. Most would be abandoned well before then.”

  Lamp rolls his neck to work out a bit of stiffness. Completing the motion, he resumes his answer.

  “There are countless scenarios where self-sacrifice is the heroic or even practical choice, but far fewer where I’d call it mandatory; most of those cases involve a parent’s responsibility to protect their children.” He glances askance at Ashti and asks in a neutral tone. “Would you say a similar relationship exists between the nobility and commoners in your homeland? Masters and workers don’t view each other like that in mine.”

  “In a way.” The outlander half-sighs her answer, seeming unenthused by his question. “Do you recall the debate we started while crossing through Lord Blackwing’s passage into the caldera? When I argued that the scions of established families were better suited to rule because their parents held greater resources and experience with which to prepare them?”

  Lamp nods, so she continues. “Many would view Her Highness’s sacrifice as a price of that privilege. Specifically, it is the price paid by her family. By giving up his daughter to the icon, our king affirms the virtue of his House and renews its right to rule above all others.”

  “That seems an unfairly allotted burden.” The scholar quietly interjects.

  “I agree, but Her Highness’s body is the only one Judgment or Growth will accept; her brother and father could not assume her place even if they wished to. In any case, it could certainly be argued that all members of the nobility play a role analogous to parentage through their provisioning of resources, boundaries, protection, and guidance. That is how our system is meant to function in the ideal case, at least.”

  “So could any of you be expected to lay your lives down for the good of the kingdom?” Lamp asks with buried suspicion.

  “Well…” Ashti makes a dubious face. “Any of us could be asked. I would not expect most of them to say yes without considerable persuasion. It is for that reason, among others, that our hierarchy requires more than two tiers.”

  “To persuade people?”

  “Sometimes it becomes necessary.” They exchange a look, and the outlander shakes her head. “I can tell you disagree, but while I value your thoughts, I would rather not debate that matter tonight. Not when we already have so many other weighty subjects on our minds.”

  She taps his arm with a gentle fist and smiles weakly. “Now, quit dancing around the jinni and tell me outright. Should I abduct my girlfriend or her aunt?”

  Lamp laughs at her phrasing, and she quickly joins in with him, sharing a moment of mirth before her smile turns somber.

  “Neither one of them would cross the portal willingly.” Ashti elaborates. “However, for my princess to live, it may yet prove necessary to convey one woman through it against her will. Whom, then, should I take? Whose choices should I override? Forget all questions of feasibility and pick someone.”

  “No one.” Lamp answers immediately. “Both have the right to decide whether they die for your kingdom. Neither has that obligation.”

  He nods to himself, more sure of his position now than he was when they started. “Sacrificing your life for the greater good is an undeniably honorable act, but only if it’s done by choice. I don’t think people have an assumed obligation to lay down their lives for the good of others, especially not for people outside their families.

  “I’ll grant that it was extremely selfish for Clearheart to prioritize her own survival above the welfare of an entire nation, but I also feel that every person is entitled to be selfish about their own basic existence. For instance, even if everyone who knows you agrees that you should die for them, they still don’t have the right to insist upon it.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, breaks eye contact, and sighs. “That said, I don’t think a civilization could hold itself together unless people were constantly performing unnecessary good deeds and making voluntary sacrifices. So, regardless of the rights each woman holds, I contend that your princess is a better person.”

  The handmaiden smiles proudly. “On that matter, we are fully agreed. As for the issue of royal obligations, I may continue turning it over in my mind a while longer. You have, at least, given me a fresh perspective on the matter. Thank you.”

  “Any time.”

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  With that, Ashti declares herself ready for bed, bids Lamp good night for the time being, and descends below deck. The scholar stays behind at the railing, gazing out into the starry night sky. He doesn’t feel tired enough to sleep and doubts he’d manage much rest before their ship reaches its port. However, staying awake leaves him with nothing to do.

  He won’t bother the crew with questions about their travels for fear of tarnishing his false image of priesthood, and Blackwing is either asleep by now or indisposed, so Lamp has no one remaining for conversation. Instead, the scholar dwells in his own thoughts, running back through his memories of the past few days. Over and over he thinks through the words he spoke to set the graft raid in motion.

  Over and over he wonders: “Was it right?”

  The dead can’t answer him, and the gods won’t. Even his own conviction, so easily expressed to Ashti when she questioned his decisions, flees from him now. In the relative quiet and isolation of his secluded station at the ship’s aft, he wrestles with doubts that no longer matter.

  Whatever he should have said in that conversation with Clearheart, it’s too late to go back and change his words. He had one moment of influence, one chance to shape the deeds of rulers, and he made the choice he made.

  No matter how many times he repeats that simple fact to himself, however, his inner voice of doubt refuses to fall silent. Until the damn thing shuts up, there’s no point in trying to sleep. So, left with no alternative, Lamp lingers by the railing as a handful of hours pass him by. He’s still there when Blackwing finally emerges from his cabin.

  The first thing the other man says to Lamp, after a subdued “Good evening,” is that he wants the scholar to change back out of his yellow himation into an inconspicuous brown chlamys. He murmurs that in Trembleheel, it is not to their advantage to pose as agents of the central cult.

  Lamp agrees and finally heads below deck to adjust his wardrobe and carry a second cloak to Ashti. He finds and wakes the girl after seeing to his own clothing, then heads back upstairs to grant her privacy. When she emerges a minute later, she wears the same nondescript shepherds cloak as Blackwing and himself.

  Candlewire, when she finally emerges from Blackwing’s quarters, still wears only her knee-length chiton. Lamp supposes that the night air’s gathering chill must be of little consequence for a heat-binder of her prowess.

  Not long after the copper-leafed overseer joins them on deck, the ship’s way-lighter declares that Trembleheel’s Landing has entered his magnified sight. A few minutes later, Lamp sees their destination himself. The little city announces its presence not with the rivers of light he would expect from a metropolis, but rather with a few steady pinpricks along an otherwise dim shoreline.

  This is not a place with thriving night markets; it glows only for the safety and convenience of approaching sailors. For all Lamp knows, those scant lights only shine because Blackwing pays for them. The fatigued scholar opts not to ask.

  After a few minutes more, their ship reaches the empty mouth of the walled town’s dark harbor. At that point, the powerful light-binder stationed at their prow activates his graft at full output, illuminating the forward waters in brilliant yellow light and advertising their presence to all eyes for miles around. Blackwing does not object to this display, quietly indicating that the time for secrecy has passed. Either that, or concessions must be made to avoid shipwreck.

  In any case, the gentle waves before them hold no other vessels, and their approach proceeds untroubled. Shortly thereafter, the boat has docked, and the tired crew begins preparations for departure. Once their sail is restrained, the oars are stowed away, the lines are tied, and all passengers have collected themselves in an out-of-the-way position, the seafarers begin to unload their grisly cargo.

  Despite Lamp’s expectations, however, the first sailors who descend into the hold emerge carrying a large wooden palate buried beneath a strange bundle of cloth. Lamp studies the contraption from a distance while more bodies venture up and down the stairs. Eventually, he recognizes it as the prototype flying platform that was described to him before the Glassblood raid. His stomach drops as he realizes what its presence entails.

  “Not again.” He quietly moans to himself.

  Though soft, his voice carries farther than intended. Ashti shoots him a curious glance while Blackwing stifles the hint of a rare smile, and Candlewire pats the scholar’s arm in a sympathetic manner. No one speaks in response, however, as a heavy silence sweeps across the deck.

  From the graft-lit hold, a man emerges carrying the first crate of stolen parts. A line of similarly burdened workers follows after him. Lamp, though discomforted, can’t look away. He notes that although the rectangular boxes vary slightly in dimension and volume, they seem to trend around the size of a man’s torso.

  The crew arranges their first six containers into a two-by-three rectangle, then stacks two more layers on top before lashing the assemblage together with thick coils of rope. The collection then transfers atop a simple wooden frame of sturdy wooden beams.

  Once the first such bundle is completed, Blackwing steps forward to grab the wicker platform of his lift-contraption and transfers it on top of the crates. Then, placing himself along the load’s narrowest edge, he bends his knees to drop into a shallow squat, grips the wooden frame beneath the lashed boxes with both hands, and carefully pulls the combined mass up from the deck.

  After a slight adjustment in posture, Blackwing carefully shuffles the heavy load down his gangway to the quay below, where he sets it down upon the level stone before climbing back aboard with empty hands. The merchant repeats that action when the second stack of boxes completes, and again with the third. With every trip, a little blood drains from Lamp’s face.

  He’s not sure how many grafts each box holds, but he can estimate a grand total, and the number’s high. Even accounting for the copious allotment of cloth padding within every crate, there could be enough room left over for two to ten grafts per container, depending on their volume and shape. Given the correlation between endowment and social rank, their contents likely skew on the smaller side.

  With a total of fifty four boxes and a plausible average of five grafts in each, the total count might be somewhere around two hundred and fifty, if not higher. Each representing a life stolen. The sheer quantity is absurd; looking at it makes his stomach turn.

  “Why did they have such a large stockpile?” The scholar asks in numb horror. “How many people were they harvesting each night?”

  “They didn’t collect it all at once.” Candlewire quietly answers from his side. “We pulled a lot of this haul from the ditch around their compound. It seemed like any grafts their butchers damaged during extraction were simply tossed over the wall. Wing and Clearheart thought the thieves’ refuse might still work for our purpose, though, so we grabbed everything that wasn’t already too brittle to move.”

  Lamp nods and swallows. “I suppose it would have been wasteful to leave those grafts behind.”

  “We felt the same.” She murmurs.

  They fall silent as Blackwing climbs back up the gangway from his third delivery. The rest of the ship follows suit.

  Most of the crew already lingers about on the deck, having ceased unloading after the final grafts were gathered. The merchant nods to them and crosses to the stairwell. He calls down for anyone still working below to set down their burdens and ascend, then waits for the few stragglers to emerge.

  The sailors gather around Blackwing without being told. Turning to face them, he takes a moment to pan his eyes across the watching faces before he speaks.

  “Thank you.” The merchant begins. “In time, I will explain what this was all for. I cannot share that knowledge tonight, but I promise my deeds will bring salvation. Until the truth becomes known, I request that you remain here, at this port. We will arrange a stipend, lodging, and opportunities for work. You are free to sail elsewhere if you wish; just know that every day you linger lends us precious time.”

  He takes a breath, then adds. “I need eight weight-binders to assist in moving our cargo to safe storage inside the city. For everyone else, your work is finished. Rest well, and give the gods their due. Goodnight.”

  After the sailors return his salutation, Blackwing turns away to face Lamp, Candlewire, and Ashti. He gestures wordlessly toward the gangway, and they silently move as directed, though the overseer reacts a moment slower, seemingly responding to the sound of her companions’ movement rather than Blackwing’s signal.

  As the four of them reach the downward ramp, Candlewire reaches out for her partner’s arm, which he provides. Rather than guiding her down the ramp, however, he simply steps forward into empty air and gently drifts across the gap to solid ground. The copper-leafed woman softens her grip as they land but maintains contact; Blackwing doesn’t pull away.

  Glancing aside at Ashti to check whether she intends to disembark next, Lamp finds her staring down into the dark water between their boat and the stone with a nervous expression. Hoping to help, he steps onto the gangway and lifts an arm to the side while descending. The scholar activates his graft at moderate output and moves slowly down the rigid plank, smiling slightly to himself when he hears tentative footsteps following carefully behind.

  He keeps his light active until both he and Ashti have settled on firm earth, then moves out of the way while a short line of sailors follows last. Eight workers descend from the ship and arrange themselves, per Blackwing instruction, to each take one side of the second and third box bundles. The merchant waits for his porters to confirm they can handle the load before turning forward and picking up the first mass on his own.

  Their procession then sets off through the docks towards the city. They find the gates closed when they reach them, but the night guards stationed above quickly confirm Blackwing’s identity before pulling open their doors. No one questions the nature of his cargo, and the merchant proceeds inside the walls with no further impediment.

  As they press deeper inside Trembleheel’s Landing, Lamp finds the city’s quiet darkness somewhat perplexing. Many districts in New Carcosa would still host boisterous night life at this hour, and few safe areas would ever fall this still before midnight.

  Back home, this kind of lightless, lifeless silence would feel foreboding. Here, it seems almost restful. The townspeople aren’t hiding from dangerous figures who stalk the night; they’re just asleep. How quaint.

  Even if no one ventures out onto the streets with them, however, Lamp still catches a few snippets of noise from the odd household. A few dogs bark at them from behind closed gates while they pass certain houses. Muffled laughter drifts through a second-story window as they cross a courtyard. Two men a street away shout insults at each other before a door slams.

  Each little noise makes the small city feel a bit more alive, even if most of it has retreated to slumber. Maybe… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live here for a while. That’s something for Lamp to think about once his whirlwind adventure finally concludes.

  For the time being, he just focuses his tired mind on marching forward, and their smooth progress through Trembleheel soon leads them to the gate of Blackwing’s stately oikos. The porters set down their burdens while Blackwing knocks loudly on the gate with the knuckles of his graft arm. Almost immediately, they hear movement from an upper floor as someone hurriedly rises in response.

  While they wait to be admitted, Blackwing muses aloud that the graft bundles should just barely fit through the gate to his courtyard, but they’re too wide for any entrance to the house itself, and there’s no free space for them in the garden. The merchant resolves the problem by ordering his porters to untie the ropes and carry each crate individually.

  By the time the first box lifts away from its stack, Blackwing’s bleary-eyed gardener has already opened the gate to admit them. Candlewire briefly confers with her partner to decide the grafts’ placement before leading the porters in through the gate to an empty sitting room on the left.

  The merchant remains outside to guard the remaining bundles but suggests that Lamp and Ashti should find seats along the porch while they wait. Lacking any reason to do otherwise, they follow his advice and venture inside to find a bench below the veranda. Candlewire crosses the garden to join them soon thereafter, and the three of them watch from comfortable seating as the work of unloading swiftly progresses.

  Eventually, the last crate is deposited, and the room containing them is sealed. Blackwing thanks his employees for their aid and pays each of them a tip from a coin pouch hidden under his cloak. Then he sees the sailors off and latches his gate behind them.

  Candlewire rises from her seat as the merchant strolls between his trees and bushes to meet them. She tenderly asks the man whether he’s ready for bed and seems rather put out when he announces his intention to sleep on the floor in the grafts’ makeshift storage room. With a mild tone of amusement, he invites the overseer to join him there; she politely declines.

  Lamp rises also, assuming his work is done for the day, but stops when Candlewire raises a forestalling hand. Looking at each of the others in turn, she asks them if they’d like to join her for a late drink.

  “I could use some assistance falling asleep.” She states by way of explanation. “And I think we’ve all earned it.”

  “How generous of you to open my pantry for them.” Blackwing retorts with a tired smile.

  He doesn’t decline, however, and requires no further persuasion before he leads the other three inside. Lamp lights their way through the building’s interior without being asked, eliciting a round of thanks from the others and an apologetic offer from Blackwing to fetch an oil lamp instead, which the scholar rebuffs.

  When they reach the merchant’s wine storage, he carefully examines a few labeled amphoriskos before selecting something that earns an approving noise from his business partner. Handing the vintage off to Candlewire, Blackwing snags a jug of water with his graft arm, followed by a krater for mixing, then directs his guests to grab their own cups from a nearby shelf. With their provisions secured, he shepherds the group into an adjacent dining room with cushioned benches.

  Unsealing the concentrated wine, Blackwing pours a share of it into the larger vessel and tempers the brew with a lesser portion of water before setting both liquids aside. He then pours for each of the other three and fills his own cup last. Once all are served, he raises his kylix in toast.

  “To life among good people.” He offers simply.

  They each echo his refrain, then drink. The sour, earthy sweetness burns pleasantly as it slides down Lamp’s throat. He can’t recall the last time he tasted something so refined; his health would surely suffer if he could afford to do this every night.

  After their first sips are swallowed, the group’s attention turns toward conversation. A few inconsequential subjects are raised and resolved before Lamp risks dampening the mood by asking Blackwing whether he anticipates any changes to his trade relationship with Ashti’s kingdom following her return.

  The merchant shrugs nonchalantly in response. “It may prove inconvenient when she tells her people how plentiful our livestock is. I’ve been selling meat and hides at a premium.”

  Lamp glances at his employer askance. “Should I translate that?”

  “No.”

  “You need to ask?” Candlewire laughs from across the table.

  Ashti glances between them with amused curiosity before hesitantly saying in the modern tongue. “A joke, yes? I know ‘meat’ the word. Joke on meat?”

  “Ah, right!” Candlewire’s face splits into an excited grin as she turns to Lamp. “You’re teaching her our language, aren’t you? Does she know any of the fun words yet? I can-”

  “Please don’t.” Blackwing interrupts.

  “Aw, come on you old codger! Just one.”

  “No. Also, if I’m old, so are you.”

  “I don’t have to admit that. And let the girl choose for herself, at least.” The copper woman turns back toward Lamp and commands. “Tell Ashti I want to teach her some invectives and ask her if she’s interested.”

  Blackwing doesn’t gainsay the order, so Lamp carries it out.

  Once informed of the request, Ashti muses. “Mother strictly forbids swearing, but if she cannot understand what I say…”

  A slow smile spreads across the outlander’s face, which the overseer rapidly returns.

  “I like the way you think, kid! Unlike some spoilsports- who won’t be named- you see language’s true potential! Now, would you like to learn a phrase with a little ‘heat’ to it? Alright. Repeat after me.” She waves Lamp to silence. “‘Your father. Likes it. Up his ass.’”

  “Your father likes it up his ass.” The handmaiden imitates with careful elocution.

  Candlewire bursts into tinkling laughter while Blackwing closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

  Ashti turns to Lamp with a lopsided grin and bashfully asks. “What did I just say?”

  The scholar, with his head fruitlessly hidden behind a pair of transparent hands, numbly informs the foreign dignitary of the content of her own speech. To his astonishment, she joins her trickster’s mirth in a fit of giggles.

  After recovering her breath, Ashti asks. “Are such relationships between men considered taboo among your people?”

  “Not precisely.” Lamp awkwardly replies. “It’s just that ‘catching’ is perceived as less masculine than ‘throwing.’”

  “Ah, I see.” She shakes her head, still amused, then turns to thank Candlewire in the new tongue before swapping back to her own language for more complicated speech. “I unfortunately cannot repeat that phrase to its most deserving target, given our shared parentage, but I know others who may benefit from hearing your words. Thank you for your instruction.”

  Candlewire magnanimously accepts her student’s praise but acquiesces to Blackwing’s request that she leave all further language lessons to Lamp. From there, the conversation returns to matters of low importance, and soon enough their cups have emptied.

  Ashti stands from the table first, announcing that she feels ready to turn in for the night. Blackwing asks whether she remembers the way to the women’s guest room, and she assures him that she does. With that, the girl departs, leaving the three full adults behind to contemplate replenishing their kylixes.

  Ultimately, Blackwing makes the decision for all of them, working the bottle’s original clay seal back into place with one hand. He starts shifting his posture in preparation to stand but pauses when Lamp softly interjects.

  “There was one matter I wanted to discuss, if you have a moment.” Blackwing gestures for Lamp to begin, so the scholar states his purpose. “I’m worried about the consequences we could incur if our plan works. It’s a day-and-change late to say any of this, but it only occurred to me after we all parted ways following dinner.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about whether our actions constitute blasphemy, and I’ve mostly come down on the side of saying they don’t. While we are well beyond the bounds of orthopraxy, I don’t think the gods ever described the type of act we’re in the midst of committing, so technically it’s not forbidden. However…”

  Lamp takes a deep breath, then voices the worry he’s carried alone through most of the night. “Something that hadn’t occurred to me until a few hours ago is the question of whether our actions will upend theocratic norms in Ashti’s society. If we succeed in stabilizing Growth, if we make a false icon permanent through the introduction of foreign magic, then I would expect her people to form strong opinions about that event. The sort of strong opinions that lead to mass action.

  “She told us once that returning the lost princess would result in ‘weeks of celebration,’ but that’s not our actual course anymore. Yes, we’re still solving the same problem, but we’re approaching it in a way they don’t understand and may not accept.

  “From everything I’ve seen in their art, her kingdom worships the true icons as divine emissaries. Because of that, I worry that if we show them a way to ‘rescue’ false icons, to grow the ranks of the true immortals, then they might view that method as either blasphemy or a holy dictate. I don’t know which response is more plausible.

  “Probably not the latter, actually; I remember Ashti saying that only Growth was considered useful. Regardless, I feel confident that we’ll provoke a stronger reaction than raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. I’m not sure what will happen- their response might turn out to be universally positive after all- but I fear we’ll cause upheaval. It’s worth considering.”

  Lamp falls silent at last, having said all he can. Across from him, Blackwing maintains a neutral expression, seeming untroubled. After a few moments of silent consideration, he poses a question.

  “Do you still believe it’s worth trying?”

  His tone suggests mere curiosity. The man isn’t asking Lamp for advice. He seems to have already weighed the risk and made his choice. Still, Lamp answers with his honest opinion.

  “Yes.”

  “I agree.” Blackwing doesn’t ask for Lamp’s reasons or volunteer his own. Instead, he asks. “Have you mentioned this to Ashti?”

  “Not yet. At least, not the part regarding her kingdom’s reaction.”

  The merchant nods. “Don’t.”

  Lamp hesitates, not sure he understood. “Sir?”

  Blackwing stands, carrying the wine jar up with him. Looking down, he flatly answers. “We proceed as planned, come whatever may.”

  “Should we not discuss-”

  “No.” The interruption brooks no debate. “We carry forward.”

  With that, the merchant turns to leave, taking an exit onto the veranda and disappearing into the night. As the door swings shut behind him, Candlewire rises from her own seat. She shoots Lamp an apologetic smile and bids him goodnight. He returns the phrase by route, not fully focused on anything around him.

  The overseer steps away, crossing the room toward an aperture that leads deeper into the house. Pausing at the threshold, she glances back for a parting phrase. “We’ll purchase gifts for Ashti’s king before we leave tomorrow. Don’t fret about waking early.”

  Lamp murmurs his acknowledgment, and she leaves with a nod. Her light footsteps fade within seconds, leaving Lamp sitting at the quiet table alone.