(Fifthday of the Second week of Azonro, 670 A.C)

  Kletz was going mad. But, he thought, it was better than the alternative.

  He stood outside a store front in some town in Oavale, using the overhanging lip of the roof as cover from the rain. It had been raining for the last couple of days, and it was only souring Kletz’s mood further.

  He glanced at his reflection in the window of the store and almost winced. His black hair was shrunk close to his head from his earlier trek through the rain, his eyes were sunken into his skull with dark bags underneath from lack of sleep, and even now, his hands were shaking.

  Of course, Kletz didn’t see the woman at his feet in the window’s reflection. He looked back down at her, sighing through his nose, and tried taking a step back. The woman, with pale skin and flowing, pastel orange hair, crawled forward on hands and knees before pressing her forehead to the ground at Kletz’s feet once again. She was mumbling something, but Kletz didn’t care to try to figure out what it was. For all he knew, it could have just been nonsense.

  She was either a hallucination or she was one of his marks come back to haunt him. The latter didn’t make any sense--souls returned to Moss when the people they belonged to died. They didn’t remain in the living plane to follow their killer around. And Kletz figured that if they were ghosts like the writers and poets talked about in their stories, then other people would be able to see them.

  So far, only Kletz had been able to see them. Ergo, Kletz was going insane.

  It was a matter of time, he supposed. Make a business out of killing people, and it was only a matter of time before you started to think you saw their ghosts.

  There were a couple other hallucinations around, standing across the street and watching him. He didn’t know the rhyme or reason to why the same ones seemed to follow him around for a while before they stopped, only to be replaced by new ones. He just had to bear the stares they fixed him with and do his best to ignore whatever they said. Most of the time, it didn’t make sense anyway.

  He wanted to wait until the rain stopped before he ventured back out into the town looking for his latest mark, but it showed no signs of slowing. Sighing to himself again, Kletz sidestepped the woman at his feet and headed out into the downpour.

  “Bryo waits for us all,” one of the men said, following him. He was short, with haunted eyes and limp, silver hair.

  Kletz ignored him. He’d tried talking to them at the beginning--five, six weeks ago now--but they never said anything intelligible in response. Usually just more nonsense like what this man was saying. Who was Bryo? Why would he wait for anyone, much less everyone? Kletz had no answer, and he doubted there was one anyway.

  His current mark was a man by the name of Hansen said to live in a mansion in the richer part of town. Kletz had no idea what he’d done to piss off the woman who gave him the job--and frankly, he didn’t care. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel, maybe it was a failed trade partnership, or maybe it was just none of Kletz’s fucking business. He’d go with the last one.

  The houses quickly grew in size as Kletz walked along the street into the richer district of town. He knew which house his mark lived in and had good intelligence that the man was a hermit that stayed there day in and day out--it was just a matter of getting there and breaking in.

  When Kletz had been part of the Kra’xen military, he had been simple infantry. Nothing high ranking enough to garner teaching him magic, and he never had the opportunity to learn it from someone before joining the army. He definitely wasn’t going to learn it from a mage after defecting from the army, either. But, with his experience and skill, he didn’t need magic. He’d been a blade for hire for years now, and he was damn good at what he did.

  It would just be a matter of finding a good entry point, sneaking in, killing Hansen, and sneaking out before anyone else in the house or any guards in the town were any the wiser. Then Kletz could meet at the rendezvous point with his employer in two days and be on his merry way a richer man.

  He jumped and stumbled as he heard a sudden scream from right behind him. It was the orange-headed woman from before, following him with her arms wrapped around herself. Kletz met her eye--or tried to, she seemed to just look straight through him--as she opened her mouth and screamed again, a tortured sound like she was being stabbed.

  Kletz let out a shaky breath. Grimacing, he cast his gaze around the street, but there was no one else around with how heavy the rain was becoming. Eventually, he turned and started to walk toward his target again. When he glanced back, he found the woman still following him, taking one staggering step after another like she was walking on shifting ground. At least she’d stopped screaming.

  Kletz finally reached Hansen’s mansion, absolutely soaked by the rain and more than a little tense. This job really should have been business as usual, but there were five people now, all of varying hair colors, following him and staring at him and he was getting very tired of this.

  As he surveyed the perimeter of the mansion, he wondered if there was a potion that could help him. There seemed to be potions for every kind of ailment, after all--maybe there was one for madness. All Kletz knew was he needed something if he was meant to keep going. The last thing he needed was to be distracted on the job.

  Because nothing could ever be easy, all the windows of the building were shut tight against the rain. There was at least a tree next to one of the walls, its branches reaching close to a balcony on the third floor. Kletz scaled the trunk with practiced ease, pulling himself onto the lowest branch and surveying the property and the street beyond. No guards, no passersby, no witnesses. It was almost too easy, but Kletz would take a simple job over the alternative.

  Balancing himself on the branch, he shuffled forward until he was close enough to leap to the wrought-iron railing of the balcony. Kletz imagine, in the split second he was flying through the air, that the railing wasn’t stable or strong enough to hold him and he was about to fall and possibly break several bones. Luckily, the flat handrail shook slightly as he landed on top of it but otherwise did not spell his demise. His momentum carried him forward, and he tucked himself into a roll, his shoulder connecting hard with the stone floor of the balcony. Kletz popped to his feet and quickly checked himself over. All his knives were strapped to their proper places and the single vial of poison he kept remained unbroken. So far, so good.

  He found himself glancing down at the ground where his hallucinations remained staring up at him. Through his travels, he’d noticed that they tended not to follow him into the upper floors of buildings for some reason. Like now, most of them stayed below, with the only one next to him being the orange-haired woman. She was on the ground by his feet again, hugging herself, rocking back and forth, and crying. Kletz did his best to ignore her.

  Kletz turned his attention to the balcony doors, slipping out some lockpicks from his sleeve and getting to work. He’d only joined the Kra’xen military because he’d gotten caught breaking into a mansion not unlike this one. Once upon a time, he’d been something of a professional thief, and when he’d finally been caught, the Kra’xen government gave him the ultimatum they gave most thieves--lose his hands, or join the war effort.

  Of course, Kletz wasn’t about to lose his livelihood. That didn’t mean he had to stay in the military, though. He could never return to Kra’xen unless he wanted to die, but his homeland was hardly anything worth missing. All the land in the north of the continent was bitterly cold and brutal, with Kra’xen being just about the worst of them. Kletz was more than happy to traipse around the southern part of the world.

  The door of the balcony popped open in just a few expert tweaks of his lockpicks. Kletz peeked into the room beyond, and, finding an empty bedroom, quickly swung the door open just enough to slip through before shutting it gently behind him. Crouching, keeping his steps as silent as possible, he crept through the room to the closed door in the opposite wall. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened for a moment.

  Nothing. No voices, no movement, no sign of life. He knew Hansen lived in the mansion alone, but Kletz would have at least expected to hear some servants or maids bustling around the place. Not complete silence pure enough to hear the patter of rain against the roof two floors above.

  Kletz cracked the door open, thankful that it swung silently on its hinges. Beyond was a nondescript--if ostentatiously decorated--hallway with half a dozen other doorways leading to other rooms before it opened up to what looked like a bigger drawing room. Just beyond that, a staircase leading down into the greater part of the home. Kletz would bet there were stairs leading up to the higher portions of the house in the room, too, somewhere out of sight.

  He considered for a moment but figured that it would be better to clear out the lower floors before moving to the higher ones. After all, if Hansen happened to hear him as he maneuvered through the upper floors--unlikely with Kletz’s skill but a possibility--and he was closer to the ground floor, he could make a hasty escape. No, better to clear out the bottom first.

  Kletz stepped through the doorway, quietly shutting the door behind him. He crept to the staircase leading to the lower floors, pausing at the top and listening. He thought he could make out a soft voice coming from downstairs, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He glanced behind him. The orange-haired woman followed him even now, back on her feet and watching him with wide eyes. Kletz resisted the urge to sigh and continued down the stairs one careful step at a time. At least a hallucination couldn’t give him away.

  The second floor landing opened up into what looked like an art studio, dozens of half-finished paintings propped up on easels or scattered across the floor. There were two hallways branching off from the room, but Kletz ignored them for the time being. A male voice drifted up from the first floor, and considering Kletz hadn’t heard signs of anyone else in the house, he made the bet that it belonged to Hansen.

  The stairs ended at the landing, however, so Kletz did end up searching for the staircase leading to the ground floor. He went down the left hallway first, but only found more rooms empty save for some gaudy furniture. At the end of the right hall, however, were the stairs going down.

  He didn’t smile to himself. In all reality, he didn’t take much joy from his job. It was just what he knew how to do, and it kept him fed. So, taking a deep breath, he continued forward, completely expressionless.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs again and listened. Now, he could make out most of what was being said. And... the sound of someone quietly weeping.

  “This doesn’t make any sense, any sense at all. You have blonde hair, not enough to use old magic. Or is it? I’m no mage myself.” A nervous chuckle. “That really is rather unsettling, you know. Please stop staring at me while you cry, it really is very upsetting. Are you listening to me? Can you listen to me?”

  Kletz considered this for a moment. There was another person with Hansen after all. Should Kletz wait for the two to break apart or should he just kill both of them and be on his way? It didn’t sound like this other person was in their right mind, from the way that Hansen talked. Presuming that was Hansen speaking at all--maybe the person crying was Hansen.

  Whatever. Kletz’s skin was starting to itch under the stare of the orange-haired woman that was still following him. He’d deal with Hansen and decide what to do about the other person when it came to that. Anything to get him out of this house and to an apothecary that might have a cure for his ailment.

  Just as Kletz began heading down the stairs, the orange-haired woman screamed again. It startled Kletz badly enough that his foot slipped, causing him to land on the stairs with a thump. He swallowed hard, jumping to his feet and whipping out a knife for when someone inevitably came to investigate the sound.

  It didn’t take more than a few seconds before a man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He was portly, middle-aged, with brown hair and glasses. He looked up at Kletz, and where there should have been alarm or panic or something, the man merely gave a nervous laugh. “Two more? That’s a turn. And you have black hair!” He gestured to Kletz. “What could you have done to end up a ghost?”

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  What?

  “At least she has orange hair. Can either of you hear me?” Kletz, shocked, remained frozen on the stairs and didn’t respond. Hansen... could see the orange-haired woman. Which meant she wasn’t a hallucination, and he specifically called her a ghost as well. He obviously thought Kletz was one, too, but none of this made any sense.

  Hansen muttered, “Of course I couldn’t be so lucky.” He turned as a silver-headed man wandered over to him, the man scrubbing at his face even though he continued to softly weep. “Look, can you see them?” he asked, gesturing back in Kletz’s direction.

  The man didn’t respond. If Kletz had been anywhere else, he would have thought the man was another of his hallucinations. But Hansen could see him, so that couldn’t be right.

  What was going on?

  For a moment, the man didn’t respond other than a sniffle. Then, he pointed at Kletz.

  “I see you,” he murmured. “You’re free, too, aren’t you?”

  Hansen appeared just as shocked as Kletz felt. Hansen snapped his gaze back to Kletz, finally seeming to notice the knives in his hands. “You’re not a ghost,” he said, backing away. “You’re--you’re real. You’re here to kill me.”

  Kletz tensed. Hansen made a break for it, cutting across the room toward what must have been the front door. Kletz didn’t think--he only acted. He vaulted over the railing of the staircase and, in a single, fluid motion, threw one of his knives. It landed straight in Hansen’s back with a thunk. The man landed with a harsher thump against the wooden floor, but was quick to try to recover. Groaning in pain, he struggled to climb to his feet--which was when Kletz came up from behind him and slit his throat. Hansen toppled back to the ground, blood spilling onto the floorboards.

  Well. Damn. He seemed to know something about Kletz’s affliction, but it wasn’t like he had given Kletz a chance to mention that. Kletz couldn’t afford him running to the guards or otherwise attracting attention. He had to kill Hansen. It had nothing to do with violence as his first and last resort.

  That's what he would tell himself, at least.

  Well, what was done was done. Kletz sighed, cleaned his blade on Hansen’s shirt, and tucked it back into its sheath. He turned to find the silver-haired man and the orange-haired woman standing next to each other, though they didn’t seem aware of the other’s presence. That was normal for the ghosts or hallucinations or whatever they were, so Kletz didn’t pay them any mind.

  “You killed him,” the silver-haired man breathed.

  Kletz didn’t bother to respond. The man began to cry again, and Kletz ignored that, too. He had no idea what was going on, but he didn’t plan on sticking around to be found next to Hansen’s body.

  He hurried back up to the third-floor balcony and jumped back out onto the tree, managing to grab onto the limb near the trunk. The branch groaned under his weight, but that it didn’t snap was all that he could really ask for. Instead of pulling himself up onto the branch, he eyed another, smaller one a foot or so below him and dropped down onto it. It wobbled under the sudden impact, and Kletz gripped it until it steadied again. At that point, he was only a few feet up from the ground. He swung down the branch, letting his body stretch down and allowed himself to drop the last three or so feet.

  He still landed hard, the impact making his teeth clack together. The other hallucinations were here, too, still waiting for him, though there seemed to be one or two new faces. Kletz, as he was growing good at, ignored them and started looking for a back gate or some way to leave Hansen’s property without exiting through the front. He found a gate in the northwest corner of the wall surrounding the mansion. Kletz prepared himself to get his lockpicks back out, but the gate swung open when he tried it. With an internal shrug, Kletz slipped through the gate and peered around.

  It was still raining. No one else walked down the small, cobblestone path Kletz was on. It was just wide enough for a carriage to pass through, and with the mansions rising on either side of it, Kletz figured it was just a convenient backway for these aristocrats to get into their homes.

  He walked down it until he had passed a few of the homes, keeping an ear open for any signs of people out and about. There were balconies on several of the mansions he passed, but no one out on them because of the rain. Many of the properties had neatly kept gardens of luscious grass with a few artfully selected flowers still remaining in the late autumn chill. These were devoid of people, too, though Kletz did spot small footprints squished down in one of the yards suggesting an unruly child had played in the rain for a bit.

  Other than that, nothing and no one. Kletz tested another gate a fair distance from Hansen’s mansion and found it was open as well. He went through it, gently closing it behind him and silently grateful that its hinges didn’t let out so much as a creak. He kept close to the stone wall surrounding the property, one eye trained on the windows for any movement.

  Nothing. Kletz stepped out onto the open street in front of the house and began strolling back toward the poorer side of town. No one called out to him or stopped him or even seemed to spot him.

  He glanced behind him to find his little crowd of ghosts still tailing him. The orange-haired woman was gone, but the silver-headed man from Hansen’s mansion was there. He watched Kletz with wide eyes, tears still flowing freely down his cheeks. For the first time, Kletz noticed that the rain seemed to pass right through them.

  Kletz turned, debating. He clearly couldn’t keep ignoring them--one of them had spooked him enough to almost botch his job. After he got paid, he would go to a potion-maker and see if they knew anything about this. Maybe he would even try a priest of Amera. If the affliction was magical, they might be able to help him, too.

  First, he needed money. So, Kletz continued through the town, then past it, out into the farmland surrounding the town. He hopped the fence into one of the farms, jogging to a derelict shed at the edge of the property and ducking inside. The building was once, perhaps, a leatherworking station, but now all that remained was a rotting workbench and some rusted tools. Kletz went to the back of the shack, where he’d stowed his traveling gear behind a barrel and two buckets stacked on top of each other.

  He checked over his pack, but everything was right where it should be. Why wouldn’t it be? It was clear no one else had been in the building. Nodding to himself, Kletz slipped the pack onto his shoulders before making a hasty retreat from the shed. He returned to the main road just as the rain slowed to a stop.

  He still had about a day and a half until he was supposed to meet with his client at a large tree a few miles to the west of the edge of the farmland. But, with nothing else to do, he began to head toward the location. He trudged through the mud of the road, thankful that at least it wasn’t still raining.

  A voice sounded from behind him, wailing, “You killed him!”

  Kletz jumped. Scowling, he glanced back. The silver-headed man was sobbing now, one hand covering his mouth without stifling the sound.

  Soon, Kletz told himself, turning back around. Soon, he would get to the bottom of all this.

  Kletz sat and chewed on a piece of jerky, watching the road and its travelers in the distance. Above him, the leaves of a large tree rustled in the chilly autumn breeze. Beside him, his pack was laid on the grass. And behind him, a crowd of ghosts watched him.

  It shouldn’t be too long now. Today was the day for the rendezvous, and it was nearing starbreak, the time of day when the sun was high in the sky and no daystellation appeared. That was when his client said to meet at the tree that Kletz was currently sitting under. Ergo, Kletz shouldn’t have to wait much longer.

  The grass of the plains swayed under the breeze in a mesmerizing dance. There were few travelers on the road, mostly wagons drawn by oxen and the occasional lone person on foot. So far from the town, there were no pixies fluttering through the air, but actual birds soaring high overhead through a perfectly blue sky. Kletz may make murder his profession, but even he wasn’t so barbaric that he couldn’t enjoy a nice view like this.

  Finally, he caught the sound of footsteps above the whisper of the grass. He stood, brushed himself off, and turned to greet his client. She was a tall woman wearing a long, gray cloak with the hood up, mostly obscuring her face and hiding her body. He only knew she was a woman at all because of her voice.

  She walked through the ghosts, their bodies distorting along the edge of contact with her. They didn’t turn toward her or acknowledge her at all, so Kletz assumed they couldn’t see her even as she passed through them. Thankfully--for Kletz’s sanity--she stopped in front of them.

  Without preamble, she asked him, “Is it done?”

  Kletz nodded. The woman flicked her cloak aside with one hand, throwing out a bag of what Kletz assumed to be Tirandan marks at his feet in the same motion. Kletz noted that her clothes under her cloak were fine. He supposed that made sense--who else would be able to afford his services?

  He stooped down to pick up the bag, weighing it in his hand. Felt about right, if the marks inside were high enough in value. He peeked inside and confirmed that, yes, they were.

  That should have been the end of it. It was an old song and dance for Kletz: get the job, complete the job, get paid, part ways with his client before anything more could be said. But Hansen had known something, and this woman obviously knew Hansen, at least enough to want him dead. It was a possibility that she knew about Kletz’s affliction, even if she couldn’t see the supposed ghosts.

  Or maybe she could, and she knew exactly what was happening. Either way, Kletz couldn’t let it go.

  “Why did you want him dead?” Kletz asked, stopping the woman as she turned to walk away.

  Kletz could hear the scowl in her voice. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Was it because he’d gone mad?” Kletz asked, ignoring her ire. “He saw people that weren’t there?”

  The woman froze. “How would you know about that?”

  So she did know something. Kletz seized onto that, more than a little desperate. Even now, the ghosts stared at him, several of them crying or expressions completely vacant, and he was so sick of it.

  “I see them, too,” Kletz confessed. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  “The world ends with the reaper meeting a medium,” the woman said, like that made any sense at all. Kletz furrowed his brow, trying to piece together what she meant, when she sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  And with another flick of her cloak, she threw a dagger at him.

  Kletz’s quick reflexes were the only thing that saved him from a very likely death. Instead of landing square in his stomach, Kletz managed to twist so the dagger only grazed his side. Pain and blood blossomed there, making him grunt and staining his clothes, but it was better than a near certain death by infection.

  He drew one of his own throwing daggers just as the woman pulled out a wand. Sensing that he was not going to like what was about to happen, Kletz dove to the side and flung the throwing knife at the woman.

  It all happened in the span of two heartbeats. She pointed the wand at him. The knife found her shoulder a half-second later. Her arm jerked slightly away from him--right before a blast of energy erupted from the end of her wand. Instead of crashing straight into Kletz’s chest and probably crushing his ribcage, it slammed into his shoulder, instantly dislocating it. Kletz let out a tight scream as he was flung backwards. He hit the ground hard, forcing the air from his lungs, and rolled several times through the grass. He found himself panting in pain when he came to a stop, his side and shoulder screaming in agony. He tried to push himself up with his good arm, only to collapse back to the ground when his side protested more fiercely.

  So. This was how he died.

  He could hear the woman moving toward where he’d landed, presumably to finish the job she’d started. Kletz drew another of his knives. If he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be alone.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman panted as she grew closer. “I have to kill you. The world ends with the reaper meeting a medium.”

  Yeah, Kletz had no idea what she was talking about. Something about the reaper sounded familiar, but Kletz didn’t know what a medium was. Had Hansen been one? Was Kletz one? What did that mean?

  The woman finally appeared above the swaying grass, and Kletz threw his knife at her just as she locked her eyes on him. She yelped, the sound turning into a gurgle, as his knife struck her right in the throat.

  She collapsed to the ground, making choked sounds until those silenced as well. Kletz gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet. Blood soaked his entire left side and his arm and shoulder throbbed with pain. He shuffled forward back to the base of the tree where his belongings and his payment still sat.

  He, fortunately, had some idea how to put his arm back in its rightful place. He pressed his shoulder against the tree trunk and pushed until the bone moved back into his socket. He gasped, all but collapsing to the ground, as spots danced across his vision.

  He leaned against the tree, grinding his teeth until the worst of the pain passed. When he felt he could stand again, he tried to climb to his feet. Once he was upright, he stumbled toward his things. It wasn’t until he was standing above them that he realized he’d have to bend down to collect them, and once he had the pack, he would have to swing its straps onto his shoulders.

  Kletz fell to his knees. He glanced at the wound in his side, noting how deep and painful it was. Maybe it was a fruitless endeavor. But he wouldn’t die alone, he thought, for once a killing giving him a sense of grim satisfaction.

  He fell onto his back, breathing hard as he tried to apply pressure to his wound. There was just so much blood. That was not unusual in Kletz’s life, but hardly ever was it his blood. It made him feel a little sick.

  As he stared up at the tree’s leaves above him and the patches of sky past that, his ghosts began to crowd around him, peering down at him.

  He laughed, feeling more than a little light-headed. “Don’t suppose any of you can help me?”

  None of them responded. Typical, Kletz thought. He didn’t know why he bothered.

  One last ghost appeared above him, younger than the ones he usually saw. She couldn’t be older than eighteen, with silver hair and golden eyes. She appeared concerned, unlike the other ghosts that simply stared at him, expressions empty.

  “Oh, man, that’s a lot of blood,” she said, much more coherent than ghosts typically were. “Hang on, okay?”

  She disappeared from Kletz’s view. He paid her no mind, allowing his eyes to slip shut. He wasn’t dying alone, and he had found a cure to his ailment. An inconvenient, more permanent cure than he’d like, but a cure nonetheless.

  For a madman, it was all that he could ask for.