KNITE:

A noon sun blazed. The crowds bustling around the busy streets of Partum's trade districts paid the heat no mind. Bare-chested Roots and skimpily dressed Branches who'd long been acclimated to the unforgiving swelter marched about their business. Foreign merchants, fastidiously prepared for Evergreen's fickle springs, ambled through the streets, the richer carried in canopied litters, the poorer or more miserly accompanied by servants holding wide-brimmed sunshades or beating plumed fans.

"How am I to survive this meeting?" Linton walked a step ahead, his pace hesitant. The man did not tolerate ignorance well, and my enigmatic plans had him on edge. Beads of sweat traced down his temples to follow the stark angles of his shaggy cheekbones, dark folds hung beneath his eyes, and creases decorated his once pristine outfit. This worked in our favor—deception is the art of the unsaid, and I hoped to weave his frazzled state into a wordless tale, a story composed by the spaces between words.

"You will come out of this with your life intact," I said. "Do as I've instructed and leave the how of it all to me."

"Having suffered your cunning," Linton said, "I do not question the truth of your promise. Nevertheless, we are to confront four Leaves and their retinues this day. Four Leaves, who, by my reckoning, will be averse to entertaining ill tidings from a runaway slave and a suspicious outsider in any manner resembling peaceably."

"Four?"

Linton ran his damp sleeve across his forehead for the umpteenth time. "I sent word ahead. The reply I received was that they would see me. Or us, I should say. I can only assume the Court will be in full attendance."

I snorted. "To think they'd call themselves The Court of Dragons. Savistine would flay them alive if she knew."

"The winged serpent? She is but a myth."

"As am I if the rumors are to be believed."

"And who are you?"

I ignored Linton's question in favor of my own: "Have they already replaced Momoose?"

"Why would they?"

"Because it is folly to expect anything but decay and fetor from a dead man. "

"Momoose is dead?" The revelation struck Linton still.

"Moderate your tone," I said, glancing back at him, my stride unbroken. "Have you forgotten where we are?

Linton labored to catch up. "Apologies. It's just…"

"And yes, Momoose no longer draws breath."

Curiosity and calculation wiped away a little of Linton's fatigue. I could all but see his excited mind plotting ways he might leverage the Leaf's death. He hunched forward and clasped his hands behind his back, fingers intertwined, thumbs rolling over and under one another. "The death of a Leaf would incite pandemonium among potential candidates," he said softly. "A clandestine war for ascension would initiate a string of deaths. I'd have heard word of the signs if anyone knew." His head jerked up, a frantic twitch to his fevered stare. "When?"

"Some time ago," I said. "Long enough for his absence to be felt. Of course, there is also the matter of having left his body where it was sure to be found."

"By who?"

"Another Leaf, I'd wager—his deathplace was inaccessible to most."

Linton resumed his hunched posture, the sweat spilling down his forehead ignored. "Then they know but have taken pains to ensure others do not. Why? To prepare for securing their chosen candidate as the successor?" He looked to me for answers once more. "Has it been more than a moon cycle?"

"Since his death? Thereabouts."

Linton continued to speculate, mumbling postulations under his breath as we continued on our way.

The Godtouched Quarter, a region in the trade district named for its exclusive wares crafted by godlings, came into view through an archway fifty paces wide and twenty-five high. Barks patrolled its borders—besides godlings, ascended Branches, and select Roots employed for maintenance, only the wealthiest and most trusted merchants were allowed entry.

I nudged Linton out of his rumination as we approached. "Make yourself known."

Linton marched ahead, slid a hand into the folds of his disheveled tunic, withdrew the square-shaped marker of jade and amethyst that signified his station, and pinned the emblem to his chest where it was sure to be seen.

A pair of Barks intercepted our entry with courteous bows. As the holder of his emblem, Linton was an ascended Branch, a Named, while Barks were a people of regiment, a people who knew well the myriad degrees of respect they were dutybound to project for all manner of statuses.

"Good day, sir," the slighter of the two greeted. He was clean-shaven and well-groomed. An air of competence hung off him like a favored and well-worn mantle. "Are you here in an official capacity?"

"I am," Linton said, bored—they were expecting him.

"Shall we send word ahead?"

Linton failed to hide his scowl; he knew what I knew: They'd sent word regardless, and if he'd requested otherwise, they'd sent word of that, too. After all, Barks were creatures of duty, and theirs was beholden to this so-called Court of Dragons.

"By all means," Lintons said. "I shan't venture to arrive unannounced. Please inform them that I have brought with me a guest."

The guards stepped aside, and we continued on our way.

The Godtouched Quarter was far more practical than I'd suspected. Stone basins, balanced and mortared onto pedestals, held small stones the color, shape, and size of grapes. Visitors took one upon entry, went about their visit, procuring what they willed, and returned the stone at the exit, whereupon a Root would prepare all they had earmarked for purchase and tally their outstanding debts. Warehouses populated the exit. Shops were partitioned into ever more specific regions, each intersection between the many streets home to a pillar of wooden signs that gave directions to the innumerable sorts of wares available. Mountless coaches patrolled the district, matrix lanterns hung from them to suggest if they were occupied or taking fares. Portable food vendors hawked delicacies. Custodians, easy to identify by their cheap yet sturdy brown uniforms, pushed hand carts of mundane and Alchemical cleaning solutions as they roamed for any signs of spoilage or dirt. Young Roots ran to and fro, going about some errand or another. The pretty ones were better dressed, though still in shades of brown, offering companionship and guidance.

Linton led me to a modest building, squat like many others, yet distinct in that none of the patrons or workers seemed to acknowledge its existence. The interior was devoid of furniture or merchandise. A soft glow emanated from the wooden walls and ceiling, illuminating its sole occupant: a Branch clad in a helmet and armor of oiled bronze, a halberd in his grasp, stood alone, eyes fixed on us.

"Linton," he growled, the rough texture of his voice a feature rather than an expression.

"Jawell," Linton responded.

"I have asked you before and again to call me by my earned Name."

"I much prefer to call you by the name you were bestowed at birth."

Jawell shook his head. "Must you be so unaccommodating?"

"I am expected."

"But not welcome."

Linton smiled. "Is this your chosen reprisal—an incitement? There's no need. I am both too weak and too clever to allow a trade of words to escalate to a trade of blades. There are good reasons why I've been employed for my mind and you for your brawn."

"Nothing of the sort. I was merely relaying a truth. Our masters don't take kindly to strangers inviting themselves to their seat of power. And since I am a projection of their will, it is only right that I make their displeasure known." Jawell spared a moment to acknowledge my presence. If not for my souleyes, his visor might've concealed his instant distaste. "They have been forewarned of this man and have provisionally accepted his entry. However, expect to be reprimanded for extending him an invitation without permission."

"He is integral to what has brought me here."

Jawell snorted. "We are equals, Tingold. At least in matters of station. It is not me you shall have to convince of your innocence."

Linton grimaced. "That Name is not a name I wish to hear."

"That was my reprisal." A taste of Jawell's satisfaction infused his words.

Jawell stepped aside. The movement was too nimble and abrupt for Linton to resist the tense spasm that locked his limbs in place. It was also unusually silent—the only sounds were the clinks of the fish scales on Jawell's sabatons tapping against one another.

A vibration sang beneath our feet. The wood of the floor was alive, shining with a soul of nature. A consciousness resided within, observant and servile, trapped in slavery. Some unheard command had bid it to open, and where Jawell's cumbersome armor failed to cause a creak or a groan, the command succeeded. The trapped creature pulsed in effort and pain, planks bending like crooked, strained fingers. Beyond the trembling appendages of timber, a stairwell came into view, deep and dark.

"The masters are waiting," Jawell said.

I let Linton lead the way. The steps were sleek underfoot, damped by trapped humidity. Darkness closed in behind us as the subjugated creature loosened its grip, the opening snapping shut. We continued deeper. The tunnel stretched on, a dim light guiding our steps. Smooth walls grew ever rougher before blowing wide into The Hoard's seat of power.

The Dragon's Lair—as coined by the hubris of those I'd come to visit—was itself unironically true to its name, a cavern fit for the creatures it purported to harbor. Broken stalactites hung from the ceiling, veins of once-precious stones shimmering between their cracks. Hordes of gold beleaguered the far reaches, every coin emblazoned with Grono's mark. On either side of the pathway overlayed by thick furs of lilac and emerald that led to the far end of the space, silk-garbed Godlings gathered around baroque tables, laughing, gorging on exotic fruits, and guzzling soul-sweetened wines. Among them, near in proximity yet distant in presence, beautiful Roots sat upon laps, feeding their lords and pretending to be coy, while stoic Branches stood guard, mere ornaments of wealth adorned in armor and weaponry more notable for their innovation than for their function.

Linton did not spare them a glance to impress upon his audience the poise granted by his allegiance. I, however, did, just so they might catch my eye and find me unimpressed. I maintained my dismissive expression as we came to a stand before the four thrones and the four individuals they supported.

Three I recognized. To the far left, on a throne of vines wreathed in flames of violet, was Silas's oldest surviving son, Nasiil, all skin and bones and thinning hair. Beside him, on a chimera fashioned from birds and lizards, his throne dressed in teeth and feathers and scales, was his younger brother, Ahmuur, large and handsome and uniquely reminiscent of a Bainan. Next to him, on a seat of liquid metal that flowed yet remained in shape, sat the dead Momoose, hooded so as to obscure the deathly paleness of his skin. Some trick had animated his corpse, granted him a soul that was not his own, the workings hidden behind convoluted matrixes. The fourth, a woman clad in writhing ink that flowed under, over, and through her pale skin and olive dress, sat upon a simple construct of metal, its glory donated by the sheer density and weight of the otherwise unassuming chair. Her, I did not know.

Linton went to his knees and bowed, his brow flat against the plush rug. I remained on my feet.

"Rise!" Ahmuur commanded, his elbow tucked into the crook of an ivory armrest, his cocked head resting on his oversized fist.

"Who is this you've brought to us, Tingold?" The unknown Leaf's voice was delicate, a contrast to the barbed ways her tattoos danced about her skin.

Linton stood but dared not let his gaze rise. "A friend, if you'd allow, masters."

"A foreigner?" The skin stretched tighter around Nasiil's cheekbones as he spoke, and his already gaunt features approached a sickly pallor. Where Ahmuur was a man of brawn, a seeker of overwhelming strength, Nasiil had forsaken his martial practice and the physical prowess therein for intellectual pursuits, and this had lent him a different and sometimes more potent sort of strength. Both brothers had, however, inherited their father's propensity for thoughtless cruelty, which I assumed served them well in their ongoing bid to remain prevalent. It was this utter selfishness that sparked identical glints of ruthless curiosity in their gazes.

"He is a native of Evergreen," Linton said, his voice softened by submission. Much of his meekness was a practiced façade; some was not. Revelations of his ongoing and concealed defeat had sparked fear in the once poised man.

"A godling?"

"No, Lord Nasiil, I do not believe so."

"Why, then, does he stand before us as though he were our equal?"

"And do you propose we befriend our subjects?" As if it sought to transmute vanity into credence, little of the tattooed woman's arrogance was present in her tone.

"I'd not dare, Lady Casillas," Linton said. "No, I meant to ask if you'd allow me to accept the friendship he has offered."

"We care little for such frivolities." Nasiil turned to address me. "What is your name?"

"Some call me Merkus," I said, head held high, expression neutral.

Nasiil grimaced, though I was sure he was trying for a smile. "We have already witnessed your conceit, little pup. Enough to question how you still draw breath." He tapped his finger just under his left eye. "That is, if you were named Merkus. My godly sight can see much, yet, to my divine senses, you do not exist—a feat no commoner could hope to accomplish. And since no House has ever named any of their children after our late king for fear of inciting The Old Queen's wrath, I must assume your name is not Merkus."

I smiled back at him, doing a better job of it. "I did not say my name was Merkus."

"Ah, yes, clever of you. Do you mean to deny us your name?"

"I do."

"An outcast?"

"You could say so?"

"And would it be accurate?"

"More so for me than any other, I suspect."

"Then I understand and accept your reluctance to share your name… for now." Nasiil turned his attention back to Linton. "You have asked for our audience. We have granted you your wish. Speak."

"Yes, Master Nasiil." Linton glanced up tentatively. "Tillis and Jolnes are dead."

"How?" Momoose spoke in a voice not his own.

"The Annanas," Linton said.

"Your ploy failed?"

"No, just that success came at a price."

"Explain."

"We managed to intercept the shipment—Pefely, of house Lira, who led the procession, did not resist overmuch. Rather than absconding with a singular consignment, I planned to negotiate a longer-standing agreement."

Ahmuur leaped to his feet, hands clenched into fists. "An agreement that'd see us answer to Silas and Grono, you fool!"

Linton shrank in on himself. "We wanted live specimens, Master Ahmuur."

"One stolen shipment to waylay The Scorpions' efforts. Our foreign operations have served us well enough. We cannot risk such activities within the borders of our father's domain."

"The risk was lessened by division, Master. The Scorpions will make for silent partners."

"You—"

Nasiil raised an emaciated hand, silencing his brother and declaring himself the superior Leaf. "A calculated risk. I approve of your estimations, not least because you stand before us. However, you have acted beyond the bounds of the freedom we've bestowed and shall answer for this indiscretion. For now, continue with your tale."

"Pefely was less amenable to such an arrangement," Linton said. There was a quiver in his voice, his disconcertment aggrandized into an acute distress. "Not without consent from The Scorpions as an intermediary. We arrived in Junko to find Inaci, ruler of the free city, hosting not only Aersly of The Scorpions but also a group from The Annanas led by a Seculor named Georde. Talks of peace quickly crumbled, and in the aftermath, Tillis and Jolnes lost their lives."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"What of the slaves?" Ahmuur asked.

"Aersly insisted she be given possession of the first lot."

"And when do we get ours?"

"My agents in Frelkri have taken possession of thirty and are on their way to deliver them to our facility here in the capital."

Ahmuur snorted and retook his seat. "Very well. Reroute a dozen to my estate."

Linton bowed. "As you wish, Master Ahmuur."

Nasiil steepled his fingers. The sleeves of his oversized robes fell around his elbows, revealing bare, skeletal forearms. "I assume Merkus here is the broker who informed us of the trade between Lira and The Scorpions?"

Linton nodded before putting words to his affirmation. "Yes, Master."

Nasiil began to massage his palm with his thumb. "And why have you brought him here to listen in on our affairs?"

"Two reasons," I said, stepping forward and interjecting myself into the conversation. "But before I expound on those…"

The hushed merriment behind us ceased. Notes of weapons leaving sheats echoed, the smell of steel thickening in the air. Casillas tensed. Ahmuur leaned forward, smiling. Nasiil remained unaffected.

"You are the handler, I assume." My gaze was fixed on the figure of Momoose. He sat stiff and cold. Silent. "Know that I have freed Linton of his bonds."

"We are aware," he said. "But I know not of this handler you speak of."

"You are certainly not Momoose."

Those words incited further melodies of warning: a dozen feet stepped forward, leather grips squeaked into a hum of protest, and exhalations of intent combined into a soft growl as if the crowd had combined into a chimera of their own.

"You hint at matters few a privy to, Merkus." Nasiil's eyes were steely, and he searched my countenance like a predator searches for prey.

I raised my arms to my sides. "I trade in secrets from time to time. I dare say I'm rather adept at it."

Ahmuur approached me. His throne warped, folding over him like sentient armor. Off-white ivory horns melted into chest plates, dull green scales grew like moss to cover the spaces between them, and gray feathers gathered into a pair of wings upon his back.

"Stop!" Nasiil was on his feet, his placid expression and sickly demeanor nowhere to be seen. Veins bulged and pulsed. Canines protruded. Nails lengthened and sharpened into claws. The roar of a beast clutched the tenor of his voice. He stood tall, an unseen vitality smothering the weakness of his still skeletal frame. "Stand down, Ahmuur."

Ahmuur was in the air, held aloft by beating wings. "But—"

"You know how I loathe having to repeat myself, Brother." The growl was still there, subdued and all the more menacing for it.

Ahmuur's keen fury was volcanic, yet his rising tremors did not lead to the promised eruption. "I—"

"Best you let him at me," I said.

Ahmuur beamed as if he were a grieving man whose beloved had suddenly returned from the dead. Nasiil eyed me sideways. Momoose, or the man who puppeteered his corpse, did not seem capable of shifting his vacant expression, and he stared blankly at us. Casillas remained taut, a coil compressed, an action holding its breath.

"I find you might have value," Nasiil said.

"Letting your brother off his leash will not extinguish nor diminish my worth," I said.

"Nasiil," Ahmuur pleaded. "You have always been more fond of risk than I. It has served us well. But my council has aided in curbing your appetites. Allow me to end this man, and later, when the fog of your addiction lifts, you shall thank me."

"Let him loose," I said.

Nasiil studied me. "That is not mere bravado," he said. My grin agreed. "You wish to display your strength?"

"Your fellow dragons—well, the handler and Ahmuur here—are under the impression that I do not stand among you on equal footing." They were right. I stood above. "Contending with their misapprehensions is growing tedious." A half-truth. Less than. Mostly, I wanted to reaffirm another misconception: that I was an outcast. And what better way than to exhibit proficiency in an Art unattainable for anyone but a godling?

Nasiil looked over at the silent Casillas. "What say you, cousin?"

"I am of the same mind," she said. "We shall intervene if we must."

Ahmuur moved without consent. He swooped down, wings folded, arms outstretched. Ivory daggers slipped from his scaled vambraces and into his hands.

I disappeared—or so it must've seemed to the man. Ahmuur felt my presence at his back. He twisted, but his wings did not follow. A grunt hissed past his gritted teeth. He grimaced. The pain was a surprise. He saw me then, saw the roots of his wings gripped in my hands like a pair of swords, and tried to slash at me. I was already out of reach. As we descended, I threw his wings after him. They fell, twirling in the air, stray feathers following in their wake.

Ahmuur landed hard, the stone beneath his feet rippling before it knew to crack. Blood dripped from his back. His wings landed before him, ornaments of his loss.

"Reaper," he spat as if it were a curse.

I glanced at Nasiil. He nodded.

"We've seen enough," Casillas said.

Ahmuur stepped forward, ready and eager to continue. "But—"

"He spared your life," she said. "Neither of us could've stopped him if he'd chosen to deal a death blow."

"But now I know he's a Re—"

"Ahmuur." Nasiil closed his eyes and shook his head.

Ahmuur refashioned his armor into a throne once more, though the thing had grown smaller and sported far fewer avian properties. The brute of an Alchemist sat, arms crossed and eyes closed, brooding as only an ancient child could.

Linton eyed me as I returned to his side; he had not witnessed the full breadth of my strength. They still hadn't. None had since my return. But the prowess I demonstrated was that of an elite Titled.

"So," Nasiil began, "you are of House Bainan. With your prowess in Reaper Arts, it's a wonder how you became an outcast. Nevertheless, I shall not pry. You said two reasons brought you to us."

"Yes," I said, "but again, before we may proceed, there is another matter I want concluded." My gaze returned once more to the husk of Momoose. "Please make yourself known."

Momoose turned to Nasiil. The Leaf nodded his accent.

"I am the handler," said the corpse of the man I killed.

I looked up, past the back wall, and into the actual meeting place of The Court of Dragons, a simple room devoid of gaudy riches but filled with truly valuable possessions: maps to places unknown or lost were posted on the walls, ledgers detailing confidential accounts rested on shelves, and tomes of Alchemical recipes from seminal works nearly as old as Silas to new and ingenious inventions lay suspended in conservation fluid. There the handler sat, among riches, alone, his eyes closed, his efforts focused on controlling the evolved beast he'd implanted into Momoose.

"In person," I said.

Momoose's corpse collapsed. The evolved beast trapped within fell into slumber. The man who'd pulled their strings stood from his seat, strolled out of the back room through a hidden door, and appeared behind the four Leaves and their thrones. He carried himself with exacting grace, each step and swing of his arm identical. His hair, blonde but dirtied by strips of a darker hue, was cut short and parted in the middle. Armless glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, circular and with a glow about them. Without instruction, he went to stand beside Nasiil's flaming throne.

"What need have you of my adjutant?" Nasiil said.

"To confirm he understands that Linton's mind and soul are to be left alone."

"That license is within my province, not his."

"Name your price."

"Tell me why."

"Is that the price?"

Nasiil smiled his smile, its weathered ridges unchanged by centuries. "The price for the price."

"A constricted soul makes for an addled mind. Your mishandling has made less of him. If he is to be our liaison, his faculties must remain unmolested."

"Your name?"

"That is the price you've chosen? My Name?"

Nasiil and Casillas shared a look. "Yes," they said in unison.

I shook my head. "You overstep. Not even his whole being—body and soul—is worth my name."

"You undersell Linton here," Nasiil said. "And the risk of leaving his thoughts unattended bears on us."

"You say that without knowledge of my name."

"Then we are at an impasse," Casillas said.

I turned, ready to leave, but confident I'd not yet have to.

"Wait!" Nasiil was on his feet, cadaverous hand outstretched. He was as susceptible to intrigue and opportunity as he'd always been. "Let us not be hasty. Speak to us of why you've come."

"Simply mentioning my reasons shall serve you," I said. "You might imagine my reluctance to do so without remittance."

"What of telling us how you came to know of Momoose's demise? Is such a question commensurate with what you've asked of me?"

"It may very well be in my favor."

"Nevertheless, if it allows us to proceed…"

"Very well. The answer to your question plays into one of the reasons that brought me here—the more important of the two. However, let me first offer the lesser reason. I am here to offer my services as a mediator for your negotiations with The Scorpions."

"Linton has already concluded that matter," Ahmuur said.

"Not quite," Linton said. "As you know, we have no agreement with Lira—the Scorpions do. Although I secured one shipment, no subsequent consignments are currently scheduled for delivery or collection, primarily because Aersly did not have the authority to establish an abiding agreement."

"I see," Nasiil said, getting ahead of Ahmuur's predictable tirade. "And you have dealings with The Scorpions?" he asked me.

"I do," I said.

"Selling their secrets to us does not paint you in a good light," Casillas said. Her tattoos had calmed, still barbed and ominous, but without the hungry, frantic shifts they had displayed when I first arrived. Their calming emphasized the Leaf's cold beauty, its pacified rampage giving the milk of her skin, the wheat of her hair, and the ice of her eyes the space to be distinct against its odious gloom.

"A liberty I took for having made their deal possible," I said. "I dare say The Scorpions would think the exchange worthwhile despite the hidden costs."

"Very well," Nasiil said. "We accept."

"We do?" Casillas asked. "I do not mean to divide us in the eyes of an outsider, but I must remind you that in Momoose's departure, I hold two votes until we assign his replacement."

Nasiil frowned at his fellow dragon. "Do you disagree?"

"No, but nor do I agree just yet. This man is suspicious. And dangerous."

"And you want him to walk away, unknowing of his motives. I—"

"Please stop," I said. Both of their gazes snapped in my direction. "Allowing this charade to continue would be a waste of time. Stupidity and inexperience are not afflictions I must contend with. Let us proceed?"

Casillas' look of confusion was a marvel of deception, one that'd have its place in my collection, though not one I'd ever rely on when it mattered. Ahmuur, brute that he was, appeared genuinely confused, and his, if it were insincere, was one I'd be proud of. Nasiil opted for the easier deception, maintaining the frown he'd worn.

"I understand you meant for me to rely on this fabricated contention at a later date," I continued, "marking me a fool. Or, failing that, you expected me to eagerly make known my reading of this falsehood, marking me as young and inexperienced. In either case, you'd have a better understanding of me. Yes, I am astute. And yes, I am old. Now, may we proceed?"

Unapologetic smiles bloomed on Casillas's and Nasiil's faces.

"Forgive us, my dear Merkus," Castillas cooed. "You know how we godlings conduct our affairs."

"I do not begrudge you the attempt, merely its necessity."

Nasiil waved for me to continue.

I shared a long look with both Nasiil and Casillas before I spoke. "Af'titalans have infiltrated Patrum."

All three Leaves stood. As did their godlings and Roots. Weapons in hand, sensus blaring, they readied themselves for a battle of death, all at the mere mention of their most hated enemies.

"You're certain?" Nasiil's eyes glowed the purple of an Arcanist.

"Did you think yourselves capable of capturing a son of Af'titlala?" I asked, a little of the mockery I felt slipping past my lacklustre control.

"Why not?"

"The same reason no Leaf has ever been apprehended by enemies. Killed? Sure. But a Leaf would rather die than subject themselves to a foe's hospitality. Not unless…"

"Then he meant to be captured? Why?"

"I'm not certain."

"I thought you had all the answers."

"Not even Merkusian had all the answers."

"Evidently," Ahmuur guffawed. His fellow dragons sent him withering glances, and the brute returned to his sullen dormancy. Dead and buried were his ashes, but the memory of Evergreen's King was immortal, even to his mutinous descendants.

"What else?" Casillas asked. Her tattoos had gone quiet, reverting to dull lines below her skin.

"Your supposed prisoner was most likely meant to offer distraction," I said. "I have it on good authority that they mean to assassinate Grono and Silas."

"Impossible," Ahmuur said. His ever-insightful contributions to our conversation were relegated to farts in the wind, and we ignored him.

"Have you identified his co-conspirators?" Casillas chewed on her nails as she spoke.

"For a price…"

I had not yet told the blind dragons that the handler and a third of the godlings present were Af'titalan allies. Better to burn an anthill than to chase ants.

***

Our steps echoed. Aersly's were a staccato. She waddled a song of ponderous thumps and stabilizing scuttles. Open windows confessed the muffled chaos of Frelkri and the incongruous hum of the river Styx. Nothing but the soft patter of my shoes accompanied these sounds; The Scorpions' headquarters appeared to be empty. An odd sight, to be sure—an empty hive is like a dry river: distinctly disconcerting.

Aersly lurched to a stop beside the open doors of Klinst's office. She swayed, one arm gesturing for me to enter.

Upon the intemperate settee lounged a stranger, a glass of wine in his hand, while Klinst—the man who ruled the day-to-day operations of The Scorpions—stood at attention, sober as a rock, a guest in his own place. I smiled. I knew this stranger who'd usurped Klinst's domain. Once. Young as he was when last I'd seen him, I assumed time and life had unmade the boy I knew.

I strolled in, leaving a swaying Aersly by the entrance, poured myself a glass of wine, and sat opposite the Silas Leaf. "Greetings, Ileye. Good of you to join us."

Ileye's eye twitched. He threw a glance at Klinst and Aersly in turn as if to accuse them of having forewarned his presence. Klinst, being innocent of the charge, shook his head. Aersly's sustained eye contact with the formidable Leaf was as emphatic of a denial as she was able.

"Have we met?" Ileye asked. He set down his wine and ran his fingers through his oil-scented hair, drawing back his fringes and revealing more of his face. There was a pretty sort of charm to Ileye, the kind of handsome that came from aged youth and meticulous grooming. Even before he'd reached his second decade, Ileye's winsome looks and bodacious wit had women swooning over him. I could only assume time had compounded the phenomenon.

"I'm glad for the chance to speak with you directly," I said.

Ileye set his cup down. "I do not take kindly to being ignored."

I cocked my head, bemused. "Am I to understand that you shall be answering any questions I might have?"

Ileye smiled. "You are to understand that I will make my refusals known."

"I thought I had done so."

"We are not of House Lorail, this is not The Island of Bitches, and the only currency of discourse we trade in is truth. Speak plainly as we do. Only cowards hide behind words."

I took a sip of my wine, then pursed my lips as if the beverage disagreed with me. It didn't. In fact, I knew and liked its rich profile—Silas' brew was nearly unmatched. But Ileye had to understand the best way to stop a game was to win it, and so I continued my game of implications and inferences.

"As you wish," I said, setting down my glass. "No, I will not tell you whether we've hitherto met. How was that?"

The smirk remained on Ileye's lips, the same playful thing he'd worn as a precocious child, and I knew he'd begun to participate. "Wonderful," he said, meaning anything but. "So, what have you for us this time?"

"Information."

"Your last offering was not as useful as it first appeared." A glint shone past Ileye's narrowed eyes. A reprimand. A warning yet unsaid, but somehow made. He was playing the game, but he was playing it poorly—a threat in a game of words was a mark of an amateur.

My gaze met his, and I let my vision dig deeper, searching for answers; Ileye was no amateur. He was, even as a young Leaf candidate, eloquent, the type of godling who won his battles with persuasion more often than dictation. It is why I remembered him. Few so young caught my eye bright enough to singe into my memories.

"I'm aware," I said, finding no hidden motives. It appeared as though the boy had allowed authority to atrophy his tongue.

Ileye stood and ambled toward Klinst's workshop. Even the way he walked was beautiful, though his stride was distinctly virile. Flurries of wind from open windows tousled his hair. A breeze carried the tail of his silken overcoat, and it, too, fluttered, seemingly dancing in his wake. He approached the jistel, which lay in its cage, still ugly, still featherless, still in abject misery. Unconcerned by its deadly poison, Ileye deactivated the matrix holding the prison closed and, gently, as if he held for it the care of a doting mother, took the creature out of its prison, caressing the cracked, broken, and bleeding skin of its back as he returned to his seat. This showing was far better than his last, though a subtle and unspoken display of strength was still far from a mark of mastery.

"Of?" he asked, the jistel in his lap.

"The price I reaped without your consent," I said. "Where is Mustar? I had hoped he might join us."

Ileye's smile faltered, and he did nothing to foil the budding frown of his confusion—more signs he'd lost his touch. "Occupied with other matters. Why is it you speak to me and of him with such familiarity?"

Another sip. Slow. I peeked over the lip of the glass, watching his confusion spoil to anger. "I'd be a poor broker if I did not do my due diligence on potential acquaintances."

Ileye raised a hand. His nails were manicured: cut and polished, cuticles trimmed, and the tips painted a dark violet. Figures slithered through open windows, silent as death. A dozen men and women, Fioras all, eyes blazing. The Aculeus. The Scorpions' swords. Leaf candidates, one and all, hoping they'd one day rule beside Ileye and Mustar.

"I do not take kindly to being ignored." The pretty way Ileye snarled did little to abate his hunger for savagery. "You understood my question, yet you answered another."

I laughed. The air of it whistled dully over the rim of my glass, playing ripples over the wine. "I thought you spoke plainly. Clearly not, if you are so easily misunderstood."

Ileye snatched the jistel from his lap, hurled it aside, and sprang to his feet. Klinst scrambled away from the creature—every drop of the creature's blood, every flake of skin, could cost him his life.

"You!" The walls shook, Ileye's voice amplified by the growl of a long-dead beast. "Come into my city." The shout softened into a whisper. "Into my house of power." his eyes glowed a feral yellow. "Alone." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sat back down. A wave of his hands hurled the squealing jistel back onto his lap. "And try to make a fool of me." Placid eyes rose to regard me. "Do you think that wise?"

I set the wine down on the table between us, surprised and trying not to let it show. "Perhaps not, but it is certainly entertaining. Quite an elaborate strategy for something I'd have freely given if only you'd asked."

Ileye's eye twitched. His charade had gone awry. The bastard had been playing the game. He'd been playing from the start. Worse yet, he'd been playing it much better than I'd suspected. This was a test, a way to tell if I was a Lorailian. The being I'd been conversing with until the moment he sat was a soul under his employ, one he'd extracted with its consciousness intact—a dangerous feat I'd seen but once.

"So?" Ileye kept the question vague. Perhaps his cunning has not atrophied, I thought. Perhaps it has flourished.

"By the grace of fate," I said, "no, I was not born into House Lorail."

"Then?"

I gestured at the twelve godlings. They stood ready, cold eyes watching me lazily, unaware of the game and haughty because of it. "So we might save them from irrelevance, how about a demonstration?"

Two of the youths—a tumble of twigs and a crescent maw of sharpened teeth—stiffened with indignation. They were the youngest of the lot. The others felt the same but did not let it show.

"I see at least a pair who agree," I said.

"Did you not offer the answer for free?" Ileye asked.

"I've gone a step further—I offer proof for free."

Ileye nodded. "How free?"

I smiled. "Some spilled blood, maybe a bruise or two. Rest assured, I shall not cull this fat herd you've reared."

"No deaths, then?"

"Excepting any taken by incompetence."

The tumble of twigs moved first. She dove at me, carried by the wind. Without vacating my seat, I snatched her wrist, broke it, and swung her into the sharp-toothed boy who'd been quick to follow her lead. Their bodies tumbled out of an open window.

The rest came at me as one.

Arcanist powers blared, invisible to most yet tangible to all, a purple-tinged fog of echoing screams to my senses. A tumult of forces suffocated the air. Soulless souls wrapped in foreign sensus materialized: One girl became frost, her breath a diminutive blizzard, her skin the ice of a frozen lake her; the tallest of the bunch glowed with darkness, his visage transforming into shadows; another grew scales like that of a lizard, her eyes turning to slits of amber.

A fanged boy reached me first, his claws swiping at me. I let the jagged, poison-coated talons skid across my cheek. There was a moment of triumph in his eyes, but the infant smile tugging at his lips died at birth—there was nary a scratch upon my skin, nor had the force of his blow moved me from my seat. Our eyes met. Leaf that he was, he accepted his defeat grudgingly and with haste.

A spike of ice tried for my eyes. I gripped the throat of its wielder, my fingers elongating to meet and pinch the summit of her spine. She tried to sink the heat of my life into the depths of her cold, ice spreading from her neck to my hand, down my arm, into my flesh, and towards my heart. I squeezed until her neck creaked, her eyes bulged, and her efforts seized.

As I dealt with the glacial witch, my other hand batted away the fists of a lean Alchemist. He struck at me like a hummingbird flaps its wings. His flight ended as soon as he noticed I'd turned my full attention on him.

A sudden silence took hold. No one else approached.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Lalita is the greatest among their number," Ileye admitted, glancing at the unconscious heap of melting ice at my feet. He tried for apathy. His soul betrayed him. The strength I'd shown was on par with the strongest of Bainan's Leaves, and he'd come to comprehend his inferiority—no spawn of Silas had ever neared the strength of Bainan's finest.

"Understandably," I said, brushing frost off my arm. "That is a rather pesky ability she's honed."

Ileye and I spent an afternoon discussing the trade between The Scorpions and The Hoard. Each step of the negotiation was a game, each worded point sheathed in a sharper and altogether different meaning. In the end, the trade agreed, and the game won, I left satisfied. And again, I said nothing to Ileye about the rot that had begun to fester among the seedlings he'd been nurturing.

Twilight and a wreathing swarm of people and sounds enveloped me upon exiting the haunted silence of The Scorpion's den.

"A success?" Helena's voice appeared much the same way she did. That is to say, not at all.

"Yes," I said.

"Where to next?"

I looked back, saw Ileye watching me from a balcony, the jistel nestled in his arms. I nodded my farewell. He nodded back. I began to thread through the crowd toward the nearest city gate. Ileye's gaze haunted me until I strode out of view.

"I shall remain in Partum," I said, walking down a lonely alleyway. "My presence is needed. You and the others will travel back to the Discipulus."

Shadows coalesced. Helena's silhouette brushed against me. "Why?" she whispered into my ear.

"The Af'titalan agents in Partum are too entrenched for us to confront carelessly. I'll need you and the others to track down that agent Georde told me of."

Helena's arm wrapped around my own. She smelled like a blacksmith's forge sprinkled with pine trees. Her warmth smothered the remnants of frigid cold from my arm—the Leaf girl, like all Leaves, had been powerful.

"I cannot wait for the day you return," Helena said.

"I am," I said. "You mean to say you cannot wait for the day my enemies know I have."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.