A week later, Erson delivers a letter.

  I open the crisp, luxurious paper and read the flowing scrawl. “I’ll be headed to Shirano for a bit. Get a ship ready to leave in the morning.”

  His bushy brows crumple. “Why are you going there?”

  I brandish the paper. “The Guild Gala. I’ve gotta go make friends.”

  I’m certain Irminric never got an invitation. As if he’d accept, rubbing elbows with people he could snap in half – current company excepted. Erson nods, looking at me a little too long. “How long will you be gone?”

  I shrug, propping my boots on the desk. “At least a few weeks. Keep it together in the meantime.”

  “I will,” he says. He gives a curt nod. “Warchief.”

  I whistle sharply, and the door flies open. He jumps, shooting me a tired look. Then, he shuffles out.

  I look down. A smaller letter has fallen out of the invitation. I pause. It’s got a faint whiff of magic, waiting to send a notification. I open it, and the magic fades. It’s in a severely neat hand, in black ink, with a deep maroon sheen.

  Warchief,

  It’s my pleasure to congratulate you on your new position. I hope you will attend the Gala, where we can meet in person. The Guild can offer much prosperity, and I hope to continue honoring the agreements of your predecessor. I also look forward to hearing more of your intentions for the Byrian Isles, as I understand you have fresh ideas and no small amount of ambition. I admire that.

  Sincerely,

  Chairman Carolus Baumbach, Minister of Policy

  I freeze. That’s the head of the fucking Guild.

  I clear out the long hall, then meet the team at the high table. I slap the papers down, and Deach scans them. He’s a lithe, gold dragonkin wearing leather armor and furs, frills glimmering in the afternoon light. Things have been inexplicably awkward on his end since fucking at Drowning Man. He always looks like he wants to ask me something.

  “This is legitimate,” he says, setting down the invitation and the letter. His voice is liquid gold.

  “We’re leaving in the morning,” I say, glancing at the team. They nod. “The more time we’ve got ahead of the Gala, the better. Can anyone recommend accommodations?”

  “The Guild typically extends those to guests,” Karla says. Her glittery blue eyeliner is perfectly winged. “Meaning they’ll foot the bill until the Gala.”

  “It’s so they can spy on us,” Deach says. “We’ll need to be careful. And regardless, it’s a risk, bringing the four of us.” He gestures toward himself, Karla, Sven, and Genk.

  “Well, you’re part of my household now,” I say. “For that matter, I’ve got a plus one. The splendid Lady Mesura, how’d you like to attend with me?”

  Lucy smiles, fluttering her full eyelashes. “That’s very thoughtful, Warchief. I’d love to.”

  “You said the Gala’s got a theme every year? How soon do they release that?” I don’t see anything on the invitation.

  “They don’t,” Karla says. “It’s all very hush-hush.”

  “How do you know so much about it?”

  She looks down sheepishly. “I follow the fashion tabloids.”

  I point at her. “Keep doing that. We’re gonna need it.”

  A faint smile emerges from her stubbled cheeks.

  The group disperses after a bit more chatting about logistics. It’s edging toward dinner time, and we need to let the kitchens set up. I grab Sven, leading him toward the vault. “We’ve gotta get you better gear,” I say.

  He nods. “So I can protect you better.”

  "That, and we’ve got a whole vault of stolen goods going to waste."

  We meet the guards outside the stone doors. They’ve got stools to sit on, now. They greet us emphatically and let us in after chatting.

  Where it was once a perverted mountain of magical items and coin, it’s now organized into neat stalls and stacks, thanks to Karla. I consult a few sheets of paper tacked to the wall.

  “Shield,” I mutter, tracing a finger along the neat columns and lines. Sven’s metal shield is still dented and dinged from the Shadow Vault. He humbly refuses to trade for a new one. It’s a lockjaw hazard.

  I browse stalls of magical items. I find the right spot, but see only a piece of driftwood. I pause, furrowing. I pick it up.

  It’s definitely magical.

  It’s a wide, gnarled, and salt-saturated hunk of wood with handles on the back. Inscribed on the front is a symbol I don’t recognize – a stylized leaf. I close my eyes, feeling its arcane vibes. It's got its own tiny ley line. I follow, prodding for it. It can… create something. I draw a shortsword, tapping it against the wood. It’s solid as metal.

  I turn and hand it to him, stowing my blade. “Here. Make good use of this.”

  He hesitates, then takes it. “This is… thank you. This is the mark of the Wilderkeeper.”

  He doesn’t seem to think that’s a bad thing. “Does that suit you?”

  “Yeah. I follow her.”

  That’s not so unusual around the Byrian Isles. We’re stuffed full of sailors and raiders looking for a safe journey. She’s almost as popular as Udon, the Storm Father and valuer of strength and boastfulness, although not to the wet-making degree the Bellenstein Dynasty reveres him.

  “Well,” I slap him on the shoulder. “Good winds to you, then.”

  He nods, fitting the shield over his forearm. It shifts, proportioning itself to his wide build. “And may the light be with you.”

  I give a polite smile. I'd hoped nobody picked up on that. I gesture at the shield. “That’s got something magical going on. You’ll figure it out.”

  I stop by the sheet again and cross the shield off. We exit the vault, and it’s closed behind us. We head upstairs. “I think it’s something to do with water,” he says distractedly. The hall’s beginning to fill with dinner guests. My stomach grumbles.

  “Then it’s a lovely fit for you,” I say, stepping around people claiming seats. I glance at his aquamarine skin. It’s probably a spell that summons or shapes water, which might be useful in a pinch. He’s a maridon already –

  “Aqueous?”

  Magic channels. Suddenly, I’m underwater.

  I’m met with roaring silence. I flail. I’m weightless, floating in translucent water, salty and cold. I spin, trying to find my bearings. Someone else is nearby, bobbing upside-down. There’s more people. A hunk of waterlogged pork floats by – forks, plates, and mugs. Raja the cat is treading in circles, eyes wide and fur splayed around her. There’s a curved wall, beyond which is the long hall. People outside are gaping - maybe screaming. I can’t hear them. I whirl. We’re in a bubble, fifteen feet across. My lungs burn.

  Then I spot Sven. He’s wide-eyed and upright, easily treading in place. He’s looking at me, the realization hopefully seeping in that not all of us can breathe water.

  Then I’m on the floor, gasping.

  Water rushes outward, dousing fires and sweeping through the hall. Chairs are carried with it. People scream and hustle out of the way. I spit out salt water, hacking and snorting. I’m hauled to my feet. I grab Sven’s shoulder, steadying myself. I empty my mandolin. Water laps around us, shin-deep. I let out a sharp whistle. The double doors to the hall batter open. Water drains outside. I flick out my arcane hand and grab Raja who’s yowling, swept by the current.

  “Sorry,” Sven sputters. He bends and spews water on the floor. He turns to everyone else. “I’m sorry!” He helps a drenched bugbear up.

  I wipe saltwater from my eyes. I’m soaked.

  Sven takes two knees in front of me. He draws his shortsword and holds it up. “Warchief. I almost took your life. I’m sworn to protect you, which means I failed.”

  It’s dead quiet suddenly. I splay my hands out, glancing around. We’re all sopping wet. Everyone’s watching, coiled and ready to scatter or hide. I grab the blade and chuck it aside. “Oh, stow it. The worst you did was ruin dinner.”

  He looks up at me with sad, wet eyes, the color of a sandbar. “That’s worthy of punishment.”

  “It’s most certainly not. As someone who spent five years making a point of ruining the Warchief’s dinner, I’m impressed.” A few people laugh. I’m shivering.

  “Respectfully, I disagree,” he says. “It was irresponsible of me.”

  “Then red’s a bad color on you, you piscine lout. How’s that?”

  He looks at the rim of his damp sleeve, visible under his chainmail. “You honor me.”

  “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna dry off before I catch a cold.”

  He hides a faint smile in his seaweed-colored beard while he retrieves his wet shortsword and follows.

  The next morning, we shuffle aboard The Biggest, Blackest Tide. Erson waves from the docks. I’ve not told him what we’re actually doing here. He’s smart enough to know something is up. But it’s better this way if the Guild comes knocking in my absence. My sky skiff is lashed on the deck, newly tuned up and ordained The Smaller, Pinker Tide. On the back is a sticker that reads, Do you follow the Light Daddy this close?

  I spend three miserable days in the cabin nursing a bucket. I try magicking the nausea away this time, but the rocking doesn’t stop. It comes back. Genk and Sven oar below. Genk is pulling on the right side. Lucy’s elk, Carrojack, is on the ship, too, and having a better time of things than me. She offers me herbs that taste like ass in the worst possible way, but help a bit.

  Finally, we dock in Port Nakanai. This time, I head straight to Weekes.

  I leave everyone but Sven with the ship. Weekes isn’t far from the port, but far enough away from the bustle – he’s within good proximity to something called the Night Market, where he helped secure illicit substances and exotic liquors for Drowning Man. His modest house is well-maintained. In fact, it’s got a small fence enclosing clover and lettuce plants. He’s in no shortage of coin based on what I gave him.

  Stopping before the gate, I snap out my pick and close my eyes, searching for the flickering waves of sound in the ley lines’ resonance. Arriel taught me some new things, but I figured out others. It’s not hard extrapolating spells, like filling a simple melody into a song – or the other way around. For talking over short distances, there’s no spell connection needed. Arriel only looked at me like I've got goat legs when I explained it.

  “Cheeks, are you in there?” I talk into my pick. It flashes with pink light. “You’ve got a visitor outside.”

  Wait, what? Comes the immediate response in my head. I glimpse rabbit ears through a slatted window. His voice quivers. I’ll be right out!

  A few moments later, the door flies open. Tiny rabbit children pour out. And Weekes stands in the doorway, smiling.

  My heart clenches. He looks the same as he did six months ago. His fur is mottled and light brown, his big rabbit eyes fixed on me. He’s wearing a plain, well-woven shirt with wide sleeves rolled up and a basic gray hakama around his waist. His furry paw-hands and forearms are wet, like he was scrubbing dishes. His baby ear looks just like the other one.

  He bounds over, clearing the fence gate with an easy leap. He slams into me.

  I hug him tightly. His downy ears brush my cheek. Tears threaten my throat. I’ve missed him.

  “I didn’t know you were coming!” he says, pulling away.

  “I’m just passing through,” I say. “I thought I’d see how you and your lady love are holding up.”

  “We’re great! Rose is still recovering – she had the babies earlier this week.”

  All the timelier I am. I glance through the fence at the tiny rabbitfolk running around and screeching. Two of them run headlong into each other. They’re already walking.

  I pat him on the cheek. “I’m sure your patron daddy’s proud of you.”

  He takes my hand. “I wouldn’t be here without you. How have you been?”

  “Just lovely. Drowning Man was something else, thanks to no small part of yours. Your mother and I missed you, but I’m glad your scamps are here safely.”

  Sven glances at me, puzzled.

  Weekes gestures over his shoulder. “Do you want to come in? How about a drink? I picked up some hundred-year-old whiskey from the Night Market a few weeks ago. I was going to send it to you.”

  My gut clenches. I’ve not touched drink since Arriel came around. It’s been a nagging, gnawing feeling in my chest every moment since. “You know, I –” I stop. How often do I see Weekes anymore? “I knew you’re my best friend for a reason.”

  He starts vibrating and brings me inside.

  He cracks the bottle and pours me a couple fingers. It tastes delicious, but feels awful. I’ve got three kids clambering on my lap within moments of sitting on a fine rush mat. They’re all wearing little ear caps, one of which is white with yellow suns. He introduces them as Bree, Dee, and Lee. Then he introduces Chouncey Jr. I sob. Rose comes downstairs looking exhausted, but sits and chats. They found an elderly rabbitfolk woman named Hisako who comes by to help most days. But Rose still has some bleeding. I offer to heal her, and she eagerly accepts. Weekes sobs, too.

  She goes back to sleep, and I help him around the house, snapping the rest of his dishes clean, putting them away with my arcane hand, and using magic to repair a blanket with a hole chewed in it. All the while, we chat like we never parted ways. He asks why I can’t just wish it into good shape, and I tell him it’s more satisfying helping him the old-fashioned way. Then I pour myself another couple fingers of whiskey and keep the kids enraptured for a half hour with an illusion playing Gretta the Fawn on repeat while he folds laundry. I move a bedframe into a different room while he clutches two kids, keeping them out of the way. I freeze the other two in place with magic. I pull a few Drowning Man bibs from my magical bag for him. Then, I chat at the door, spinning.

  “So, what are you going to Guildania for?” he asks. “You wrote that they’re probably looking for you.”

  I hesitate. I want to tell him everything. In fact, if I asked, he’d come along. But I look past him, where kids are clambering on a low table. One tumbles and lands face-first on the floor. My arcane hand picks her upright. I can’t pull him away from this, not when I helped him get everything he wanted. Sometimes, it’s a keen ache when I remember Weekes, Arriel, and me against the world. The three of us could’ve toppled the Guild ourselves. I look at the half-empty bottle in my hand. Or maybe not – I’m not what I used to be.

  “I’m invited to the Gala,” I say. “I've gotta show before they crack their bedsheets thinking of putting a Hall on the Isles.”

  “Wow,” he says, his ears straightening. “I hope you can stop by on your way back.”

  “I hope so, too,” I say. For once, I want to stay. “Maybe you can visit for a bit, once these little frights aren’t so intent on getting hurt. I think you’ll like the place now.”

  He smiles. “I’d love that.”

  There’s a pause. I’m not sure what else can be said. I hug him. He falls into it, and we stay like that for a long moment. I catch tears in my throat, sucking them down before he can see. Then I turn and stumble into Sven, holding his shoulder as we return to the ship. When I squint back, Weekes has Chouncey Jr. propped on his hip, waving goodbye.

  We’re met with an entourage just outside the city walls. A group of people in Guild livery is waiting with a large carriage.

  There’s also a wyvern.

  Wyverns are dragons slightly bigger than a horse with leathery winged forelimbs, making them excellent flying mounts. The downside is that people rarely mount them without being exenterated. Despite their size, they’re several times meaner than their more intelligent draconic counterparts. The fact that this one’s not uncoupled anyone yet means it’s either tame or magically conjured. Either way, I stop dead in my tracks.

  A high elf is perched on it, wearing leather and silver lamellar plate armor, overlapping and sturdily built. A cloak of royal purple spills down his pauldroned shoulders. He’s got marble bone structure, looking like a hero from an old play - or maybe a villain. His dark eyes rain disdain. And his hair is lustrously, lusciously, honey blond.

  “Fuck,” Deach breathes beside me.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He’s a catfolk, hairless and wrinkly. Like a ballsack shrinking, his brows pull together. He’s wearing a black, hooded robe, looking for all intents and purposes like a scheming eunuch. His blue feline eyes are locked on the high elf who’s sitting utterly straight, a longsword on his waist.

  “What?” I say aside. “You know him?”

  He talks next to my ear, voice reedy. “We have a hithtory. I went on a date with him. We fucked. It wath pretty good. Hith information wathn’t.”

  “What’s the issue then?”

  He sighs. “He got clingy.”

  The high elf dismounts the bronze, scaled, spiky wyvern. It watches us with sharp reptilian eyes. I find myself clenching a hand around a sword. The high elf clanks over, nose to the clouds. Sven hovers at my side while he gives a curt bow.

  “Welcome, Warchief,” the high elf says brassily. “May I introduce myself – I’m Senior Justicar Richard Manchego Ortega. I’ve been tasked with the honor of escorting you safely to Shirano.” He turns on his heel, looking at Deach. “And welcome, Deachrome.”

  Deach shoots a cringing look at me, or maybe it’s a plea for help. He becomes inky and shifts into a different form. My blood zings.

  Her scrotal skin becomes smooth and fair, her hair twined in an elaborate knot with strands falling just so. Her eyes become hazel with hints of turquoise, limned with smoky kohl. Her clothes shift into a silken, deep moss kimono shot with teal in scrolling patterns.

  Deach shifts into a walnut-haired half-elven woman.

  “Hello, Richard,” she says. Her voice is velvet.

  My mouth is open. I shut it. I’ve never seen Deach female before, if that’s what she is. Something stirs in me, thinking of the possibilities. What happens if she shifts while –

  “Is this your pretty new boy toy?” Richard asks down his well-bred nose.

  “You think I’m pretty?” I ask, raising a brow.

  “Hardly,” he snaps. He blinks. An awkward pause stretches.

  “My apologies,” I say. “It’s been a long few days of travel. What’s your name again?”

  “I’m Senior Justicar Richard Manchego Ortega,” he recites, scathing eyes locked on Deach.

  “I’m sorry, I'd like to make sure I’m hearing you right,” I cut in. “You mean, Manchego like the cheese? Your name’s Dickcheese?”

  Deach claps a hand over her mouth, sputtering into it. Her shoulders shudder.

  Richard bristles, straightening. He turns to me. “I'm a member of the noble Manchego family of Byra. It was the proud and well-known name of my father. My mother, Felicia Manchego, is the Minister of Defense. I’ll ask you to show due respect.”

  “Was, huh? Is that what got your father?”

  Deach sprays into her hand and steps away. Lucy’s swaying laugh splits the air. The carriage handlers look over.

  Richard’s face reddens. If he could stand any straighter, he does. “I’m the Senior Justicar, and that's not a position I take lightly –”

  “And your mother is your boss’s boss?” I ask. I’ve been studying the chart Deach gave me. “I hate to ask whose unwashed cock you had to suck to get that position.”

  Deach’s eyes are watering. Genk huffs a laugh out is nose.

  Richard maintains a glassy, stern look. He turns again, ignoring me. Snubbing Irminric would've gotten him turned into feed by his own wyvern, if he lasted this long. “Lady Mesura. It’s a pleasant surprise to see you here. I assumed you would be party to your own household.”

  “I didn’t get an invite,” she says. She’s mounted on Carrojack, who’s skittering and stomping in the presence of the small dragon. She’s fully armored in her Byrian scale and impressive as ever. “I thought this striking young man might take me instead.”

  “Her husband and I have got an… arrangement,” I say, passing a wink. "Not the nepotistic kind, to be clear. I'm sure the line gets blurry from atop your high wyvern."

  “Indeed. We would be happy to have you, Lady Mesura,” Richard says flatly. He steps closer, passing a snide look to Sven lingering by my side. He turns to me. “The Guild is aware of what you’ve done at the Shadow Vault. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” I say. He's almost close enough to kiss. I give him an alluring look, angling and tilting toward him. He stiffly eases back. “I’m just honoring your agreement with my dear friend Ricky. I take who I want, and you buy my ships.”

  His lips twitch sourly. “The honoring of that agreement will be left to the Ministry’s discretion.”

  I pause. This close, there’s something odd about him. He might be on drugs. But it’s something else. It’s a familiar smell – except it’s not a smell. It’s a slight blankness to his eyes, a slight feel of alluring magic, not perceptible to most people, but clear as day to me. Some magics can influence the mind and make you behave in ways you otherwise wouldn’t. But they can’t entirely mask the subtle awareness of free will that comes with an unclouded mind.

  I know someone under the effects of a charm when I see it.

  “It’s a day’s travel to Shirano,” he says, stepping away. “I’ll escort you to your arranged accommodations within the city. Please.” He gestures toward the carriage.

  I turn to the team. “You heard Dickcheese. Genk, go with Karla so we don’t strain those poor beasts.” I gesture toward the carriage. Karla's meeting us with the Smaller, Pinker Tide a mile outside Port Nakanai. It's still being unlashed.

  “I’ll follow,” Lucy says. She pats Carrojack on the neck. “He’ll appreciate the walk.”

  Deach, Sven, and I pile into the carriage. It’s roomy and fitted with glossy leather seats. They screech and grunt as we scootch inside. I prop my feet on the bench across from me, and we rattle off.

  “So, what’s the deal with him?” I ask Deach once I hear the wingbeats of Richard’s wyvern.

  She sighs. “He’s never heard no in his life. And he got weird when he found out I’m a shapeshifter.”

  “Is it a coincidence that he’s here?”

  “Probably not, and it means the Guild is trying to make a good impression,” she says. “His job isn’t usually escorting around foreign dignitaries.”

  “What is his job?”

  She crosses her distractingly long legs, peering out the window as the wilderness passes us by – grasslands dappled with rice fields and small settlements, but encroaching with forest. “Justicars are knights sworn to the Guild. They're not part of the guard - in fact, they're above it. They don’t have much oversight, and that's by design. They aren’t bound by bureaucracy, so they can accomplish the Guild’s goals without many questions. They’re dangerous. But the High Justicar, Masato, is one of the better ones in the Ministry. Richard, less so.”

  “He’s charmed,” I say.

  Both Sven and Deach turn to look at me.

  “You’re sure?” Deach asks. She leans in. It’s hard looking at anything other than her full, red lips.

  The charm’s subtle and probably long-lasting, which means it’s the powerful kind. Charms that make use of the lower ley lines are easy – they make people like you for a short period or influence them to do a small, simple thing. Charms that make use of the higher ley lines can fuck with your memory, bind you to complete a task on pain of death, or even take over your consciousness. In short, the more nefarious, the more powerful, the harder to detect. “I’m sure. I’m assuming that’s not part of the job.”

  “Hmm,” she says throatily. “I know someone. They might have answers.” She pulls out a notepad and begins writing. New lines appear after a few moments.

  I glance her over. “I’ve not seen you female before. Do you have a preference?”

  She brushes back walnut hair. “I’m a man, except for when I’m not. Sometimes, I’m in the mood for it. It’s like when you decide you want to dress up today.”

  “I’ve not known a day like that in my life.”

  Her eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes, glance me over. “I’m sure you will soon enough.”

  Finally, we see Guildania.

  I’ve avoided it for many reasons – the first being that it’s no place for peasants. Whereas Carthesia has the Low, Mid, and High, each according to its class, Guildania's poorest areas are at-home in the Mid. The richest parts reach far beyond anything in Carthesia. You’re not living here comfortably unless you’ve got contingencies on your contingencies. For anyone who works to live, it’s bleak. And for a destitute, aspiring musician living flask-to-mouth, it’s asking for it.

  Guildania, or Shirano, is also different from Carthesia in that it’s built upward, not outward. Buildings rise above the scape, twenty floors tall, others arched and curved, featuring open, airy architecture. We rattle through the expansive gates without hassle, word having been sent ahead by Richard. We travel streets packed with carts and people. Gardens are speckled with white-pink cherry trees and artful shrubs, pools bearing scaled fish with draping fins like feathers. We go past businesses with sliding doors open, people browsing. Others are lined up at food stands for noodles and rice dishes. We pass a massive Guild Hall of spired wood and limestone. And everywhere, haphazard shops are set up on blankets, selling souvenirs and cheap trinkets. A busker vanishes around a corner when a couple guards notice. Deach becomes quiet, only staring out the window.

  We’re brought to a tall building in the middle of the city called the Cherry Blossom Resort. I’m sick at the sight of it. Gilded letters are wrought over the sliding doorway, painted and etched with flower blossoms. I couldn’t step within a square mile of it only a year ago. Sven exits the carriage first, glancing around with a hand on his shortsword. Then, he helps me down. I move him and offer Deach a flourished hand. She clings to me like a night piece we picked up along the way. Richard gives a sour frown by way of goodbye before taking off on his wyvern.

  We’re shown to a penthouse on the top floor.

  “This is the Presidential Suite,” the half-devil worker says. She’s wearing a spotless black suit and carrying a writing board. “Will this be sufficient for your household?”

  I look around. It’s almost the size of the long hall. We’ve got the entire floor to ourselves. It’s pristine and untouched, with wide-open spaces, panels, and paper dividers giving a geometric feel. A huge bedroom is off one wall, the sliding door open to reveal a bed large enough for five to fuck comfortably. The sitting area has an arrangement of minimal leather couches and tables. A long, low table with sitting pads occupies another room, the kitchen situated between the two. There’s a fully-stocked bar, too. I spot three or four other rooms branching off a hallway. It’s got three washrooms. All the outside walls are glass. I peer at the city below. It’s a mistake. I back away.

  “We’ll start with this,” I say.

  “Of course,” the half-devil says. “If there’s anything we can provide you, please ask. I’ll leave you to get settled.” She gives a low bow and leaves.

  This is disgusting. But it’ll be home for the next few weeks.

  “I heard from my contact,” Deach says. He’s back in his half-orc form, wearing a creased white shirt and a dark gray brocade waistcoat with matching, tight-fitting pants. A dagger is holstered on his side. “We can meet them in a couple of hours.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re close to Richard. They’ve been reporting to me, just in case he decided to be a shithead. I think they can get us into his apartment.”

  My brows go up. We’re here to embarrass the Guild, and Richard’s doing half our work for us. I’ve got an idea. “But, who are they?”

  Deach only looks at me. “Nothing I say is going to prepare you.”

  We lounge around the penthouse and call for dinner. A worker quietly delivers it without making eye contact. It’s unsettling. I browse the list of amenities. We’re to bill it to the Guild. I’ll do my part later and waste their money. Karla, Genk, and Lucy soon arrive, having found arrangements for the sky skiff and Carrojack. Karla sets her bags by her door. A dinosaur plushie protrudes from one. She sets the nondetection vase on the dining table and activates it.

  “We’ll need better security than that,” Deach says, stuffing a piece of sushi in his mouth.

  Karla ponders. “We could get a sigil kit.”

  “Don’t those explode?” I ask. They’re magical enchantment kits you can inscribe onto a surface. They trigger when a parameter is met. It’s what I put on my sky skiff before Deach set it off. He glances at me mid-chew, cheeks ballooned.

  “They can,” Karla says. “But you’re the enchantment expert. You’ll have to decide.”

  I’m gonna make it explode.

  Deach, Sven, and I leave to meet Deach’s contact. In the meantime, Karla, Lucy, and Genk stay to take a breather and then find a kit. We take an elevator to the ground floor. Deach becomes inky and shifts into the same half-elf woman from before, hanging like the sweetest arm candy. The lobby features glossy rosewood floors and multi-level spaces, divided by paper walls and discreet sliding doors. Everything else is conspicuously gilded. I approach the front desk. The same half-devil from before looks up.

  “Warchief. How can I help you?”

  “I’ll need a carriage. Is the Guild picking up the tab on those, too?”

  “Of course.” She turns to a magical display. She hovers a finger over the text, then turns back. “I’ve called one for you. It’ll be just a few moments.” She gives me a plastered-on smile.

  “Perfect. My deepest thanks to you.” I snap my fingers and slide her a gold piece.

  A small carriage halts at the wooden walkway shortly after. It’s pulled by two brown and gray mottled coursers, billowing with magic. They huff and toss their heads. The driver steps down, approaching.

  He’s a catfolk, fur striped with dark gray, brown, and black like a mackerel, with a terracotta nose and sage green eyes. The fur of his upper lip is waxed and twirled upward into a mustache. He’s wearing a creased white shirt and gray vest under a long leather duster coat. He’s also wearing a dark, suede, wide-brimmed hat with holes for his pointed ears. There’s not a speck of road dirt on him.

  “Howdy, Mr. Seven Oaks,” he says, tipping his hat. His voice is bassy and buttery with a slanted drawl you might find closer to the northern marshes. “My name’s Oka Shiro, and I’m here to get you safely to your destination today. Where might I have the pleasure of taking you?”

  “I’ve got a meeting of sorts with the Senior Justicar. I’m hoping you might know where he lives.”

  “I sure do,” he says. “I can bring you there shortly.”

  I nod. “It’s a bit time sensitive, if you don’t mind.”

  According to Deach’s contact, Richard just left and will be away for the next hour.

  “That’s a twenty-minute journey. We’d best get underway. Can I get you a drink?”

  I ignore Deach giving me a look. “I’d love one. Whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

  From under the bench seat in the front, he pulls out a drawer. Soon, I’ve got a glass and climb into the carriage beside Deach. Sven rides up front, too broad to squeeze in with me. We take off at a brisk pace.

  The ride is smooth and fast. I chat with Deach for a bit while she points out places around the city. Then I slide down the window that separates the carriage from the bench outside. “Oka, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says. He’s got a small magical display showing a map of the city.

  “It’s been a bit. What’s new?”

  “It’s a busy month,” he says. We turn down a smaller street. “The city’s getting ready for the Gala. There’s been hubbub about refugees looking for work. Last week, justicars cleared out a whole tent city. A lot of people are saying we shouldn’t let people in without employment.”

  Slaves, they mean. I take a drink. It’s all the more reason we’ve gotta get moving. “How long have you been driving?”

  “A few years,” he drawls. “Not much longer, though. It’s contract work. I started freelance like most. But you supply your own materials, or the Guild leases them to you. Most of the pay goes to that. I’m lucky enough to be blessed with Sone and Konno here.”

  Something tells me he’s living in the carriage. “You get a cut of the pay, at least?”

  “Ten percent. Tips go to me, but that ain’t reliable.”

  “And you cart around a lot of big names.”

  “I do indeed. I had the Minister of Internal Affairs in this here carriage this morning.”

  Deach stiffens beside me. Her jaw sets.

  “I appreciate you talking with me,” Oka says. “Most don’t pay attention.”

  “Well, I’ve not come close to spilling a drink, so I’d call that a job well done. You’re a man of many talents - from one to another.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir. We’re arriving at our destination.”

  I glance out the window. It’s only been ten minutes. I thrash back the rest of my drink. We’re coming up on a ritzy apartment building.

  “Could you drop us a block away?”

  “I certainly can. How discreet would you like to be?”

  “Make it look like we're trying to be, but bad at it.” He takes us to the other side of the building and down a side street, coming to a stop. “It won’t be long. Would you mind waiting? For a bit extra, of course.” I pass him a few gold coins through the window.

  “I’ll stay right here,” he says.

  I exit the carriage, Deach behind me. Sven steps down from the bench. I turn to Deach. “Where’s your friend?”

  “They should be –”

  I sense movement. Rapid footsteps. The clear ring of a weapon being drawn. There’s a click. Two loud, cracking booms ring out.

  Suddenly, I’m thrust into an alcove. Sven blocks me in, shield up. Deach is gone. The sound recoils off the buildings. Somebody across the road screams. People scatter. My ears are ringing. My heart hammers. My hand is knuckled on a weapon. A moment passes.

  “Mr. Seven Oaks, are you unharmed?” It’s Oka.

  “I’m alright,” I say, stepping around Sven. He sticks to me like a fly to honey. Deach emerges from underneath the carriage.

  Two bodies are splattered on the sidewalk. They’re hooded, a knife just out of reach. My stomach churns.

  Oka’s got a smoking gun in a paw hand.

  It’s about the length of my forearm. He cracks it open like a lever, two steaming metal shells pinging onto the road. From a pocket in his coat, he puts in two more cartridges. He snaps the gun shut, tucking it in a hidden holster on the bench.

  “My apologies if I startled anyone,” he says. “I reckon those two were after you.”

  “You saved my fucking life,” I say, blinking.

  I glance at Deach. She’s looking at the bodies. They might’ve been after her, not me.

  “Warchief,” Sven says, taking a knee. “I failed –”

  “Oh, not again.” I should spank him over a knee and be done with it. I push his face away and turn to Oka, pointing to him. “You’re a useful man to have around. How’d you like working for me?”

  He smiles, his mustache curling. It’s charming. His striped tail twitches in the seat beside him. “That’s mighty generous of you. I’m afraid I’m under contract with the Guild, though.”

  “Can I buy it?”

  “If it ain’t a matter of money, then sure.”

  I gesture at him. That voice is doing things to me. “I’ve got a use or two for you.”

  Deach beckons. “Come on. We need to go.”

  We leave Oka with the carriage to do his dead-people paperwork. The guard's on their way shortly. If my name shows up for a rendezvous with the Senior Justicar, it’s more evidence for later.

  Deach takes us down the side street and through another alleyway. The apartment building is still within sight. She scribbles a message in her notepad. Another one soon appears.

  “Alright. They’re coming.”

  Not a couple moments later, we hear the sound of wingbeats.

  I put a hand to my blade. Is it Richard? Instead, a birdfolk lands in front of us with the small tinkle of… bells.

  “Hi,” they squawk.

  They’re a heron, their feathers dusty gray, with a white plume on their head. An elongated, straight orange beak protrudes beneath yellow eyes. They’re wearing a faded kigurumi styled like a yellow chicken, their real wings tucked behind them. They’re wearing a flour-coated apron, too. Long, stick-like legs with webbed feet poke from underneath. Around one wrist is a timepiece. There’s no face on it.

  And tiny bells are tied to their feathers.

  “This is Jingles. They’re an arcanist,” Deach says. “How have you been?”

  “Great,” Jingles says.

  “How’s the ticking?”

  “Still there.”

  “This is Chouncey, who I told you about. And Sven, his bodyguard.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jingles says.

  I give a short bow, hand over my chest. “Jarnathan –”

  “Jingles.”

  “Jingles. Deach says you can get me inside Richard’s apartment,” I say.

  “Yes,” they squawk. “Can you fly?”

  “Easily enough. I’ll go with you.”

  Sven cuts in. “But –”

  “Stay here with Deach. The Guild just tried to kill her.”

  I strum the three chords on my mandolin. Energy crackles and gathers behind me. I follow Jingles into the sky. The sun’s setting, and we stick to the shadows, but it’s easy enough following them. I just listen for the choir of bells ahead of me.

  They land atop the apartment building. A familiar wyvern watches us. I touch down and freeze.

  “This is Victoria,” Jingles says. “She’s nice.”

  "We've met," I say, my mouth dry.

  They step forward and scratch her chin. I blink. Spattered on the roof are the remains of its lunch – a goat, maybe. I hope. A vast padded bed is set against the low, bloodied wall.

  “This way,” Jingles beckons. I inch around Victoria. She watches me with fiery eyes. My heart thumps. Jingles opens a hatch door to reveal a set of stairs. It’s apparently unlocked.

  “He’s still gone?” I ask.

  “He left seventeen minutes ago.”

  “That’s specific.”

  They hold up a wrist clasped with a timepiece. Bells tinkle. And then they step down the stairs. I follow.

  We enter a lush apartment. It’s open and straight-lined in the Horonese style, but with some distinctly Byrian touches. A large sitting area is arranged with plush purple velvet couches. There’s a bust of Richard’s high-elven, notably punchable face in the corner. The kitchen is in use, with a stack of half-eaten pancakes on a plate at the counter bar. Jingles cuts into it with a fork.

  “Do you live here?” I ask, blinking.

  “I’m the housekeeper,” they say by way of explanation. “Pancakes?”

  “I’ve just eaten, thank you. And you’re an arcanist?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m severely lacking in explanations here. But arcanists aren’t like wizards – they’re either born with magical ability in their blood, or it’s infused into their matter through a powerful magical encounter. Either way, they’re formidable mages. I’m sure Jingles is no different, even if, by all incongruous appearances, they don’t look it. They might be a valuable addition to the team.

  “How’d you end up here?”

  They shrug. “I found Victoria on the roof. The door wasn’t locked. He came home and thought his mom hired me.”

  “But you’re not hired? He doesn’t pay you?”

  “He leaves money for groceries every week. It’s always too much.”

  Either Richard is profoundly stupid, or Jingles is the luckiest bird in the sky. “Have you noticed anything… odd about him? Any enchantment magic?”

  “No,” they say around a mouthful. Crumbs fall on their kigurumi, and they peck them up. “I’m better with time magic.”

  My brow goes up. That’s powerful stuff. “Well, I’m gonna look around.”

  I poke through cupboards, rooms, and closets. Everything smells like rosewater. Jingles follows, plate in their claw-hand. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but any clue of what’s going on with Richard and the Ministry will be helpful. I soon find the bedroom. It makes up most of the apartment. A large poster bed is surrounded by translucent purple drapes. There’s a mirror on the ceiling. I browse the closet and dressers, finding expensive clothes and linens, along with a set of silken purple underthings. I slip a pair in my pocket. A vanity hosts a basket of products. I poke through it. It’s no surprise he’s got a thirteen-step haircare regimen, most of it from Byra. I glance up and pause. On the wall is a large painting of Richard sprawled on a lounging chaise, completely naked. It’s rather tastefully done and high quality, all things considered. I make note of the signature.

  “That’s quite a hog.”

  “It’s not actually that big,” Jingles says.

  I flick out my pick and talk into it. “Peach, did you know Dickcheese has got a self-portrait of the wanton nature?”

  A pause. He has what? Deach tips over the emphasis on the last word.

  I look at the painting, committing it to memory. “I’ll most certainly show you later.”

  Then my eyes fall on something else.

  Next to the bed, on the nightstand, is another portrait. I pick it up. It’s framed, about the size of my hand. It’s a painting of a woman. She’s a fey elf, slender and tree-like with deep brown hair and sky-blue eyes. She’s posed in a breezy Byrian gown of lavender, her braided hair gathered in a knot, stray braids falling over her delicate collarbones.

  I turn to Jingles, who’s pecking up the last of their pancake crumbs. “He’s got a girlfriend?”

  They shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”

  I talk into my pick again. “Has Dickcheese got a girlfriend?”

  He might, Deach responds. Why?

  “There’s a portrait next to his bed.” I pause. Richard mentioned his family being from Byra. I look at the portrait of the fey elf. “I’ve gotta chat with Lucy about it.”

  Okay, comes the response. Hurry up. I don’t want you getting caught in there.

  “Alright, just a moment.” I turn to Jingles. “I'm putting together a team. How’d you like helping me kick over the Guild?”

  They stare at me, large yellow eyes blinking. “Sure.”

  “You’re no fuss. I like that about you,” I say. “Give me a moment here.”

  I slip off the pair of Drowning Man booty shorts I’ve been wearing underneath my pants. I drop them under the bed, barely peeking out, carelessly rumpled like they were left there. It’s a shame – they make my ass look positively sculpted. Jingles watches, tongue darting out to lick the leftovers off their plate. I dress and put myself back together.

  And then we slip out.