It really is Clearheart.

  Or at least, she seems a likely enough candidate that Blackwing and Owl will insist on meeting her, and that conversation will unfortunately require Lamp’s involvement. There’s really no way to hold the meeting without him.

  If Clearheart admits to her past, then Blackwing will want to prevent the two foreign noblewomen from excluding him from their conversation by slipping into a language he can’t follow. If she instead denies her history and purports not to understand a single word of the old tongue, then Lamp will need to translate between Owl and everyone else.

  No matter how it slices, he needs to be in the room.

  Shit.

  Lamp closes his eyes and hurriedly compartmentalizes an emotional perturbation which he doesn’t have time to deal with at the moment. He reengages with his surroundings a few breaths later at the sound of Blackwing’s human fingers drumming across the table in a soft staccato. Lamp looks up and briefly catches his employer’s dark eyes as they pan across the room to assess each of its occupants. After a moment, the man reaches some silent conclusion and returns his attention to Owl.

  “We’ll pause there. Have you eaten?”

  She shakes her head. “Not recently, your lordship.”

  “Call me by my name, please. You can drop the titles.” He waits for her to nod before continuing. “Would you care to join me for lunch in an alcove above the town?”

  Her expression turns wooden, and she swallows before answering in a flat tone. “I would love to.”

  “Good. You should accustom yourself to open spaces.”

  Blackwing stands, and the others follow suit. Owl grabs the box with her falsemask and tucks it under one arm as she rises. Lamp, for his own part, reflexively collects their cups before realizing with embarrassment that he actually has no idea where to take the used dishes. He regretfully abandons his chore and catches up to the others as they transit back through the foyer. By that point, he’s managed to push the specter of Clearheart out of his mind.

  Blackwing holds open the apartment door for Owl’s matronly attendant, and the light-binder leads their way back into the ink-dark tunnel. Once all four of them have stepped outside, the old woman and her employer walk ahead in double file while Lamp and Owl trail behind. After a few steps, the outlander draws his attention with a small wave.

  “I apologize for not asking your name.” She offers in a friendly tone. “May I know what to call you?”

  “Of course. My name is Lamphand.”

  He prefers ‘Lamp’ among friends and colleagues, but the handmaid is too young a person and too fresh an acquaintance for him to invite that level of familiarity. It would also be prudent for him to use her full name- rather, the full version of her assumed name- when speaking aloud. He might get away with dropping formalities as her elder, but there’s at least one world in which this girl’s social rank vastly exceeds his own. He should avoid any appearance of condescension.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lamphand.” She smiles. “Thank you for translating for us.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I was happy to assist.”

  The scholar nearly elaborates about what a fascinating experience this encounter is for him and how greatly he appreciates the opportunity to study a living member of her culture, but he manages to block that metaphorical foot before it enters his mouth.

  He needs to keep in mind that Owl came to this world to save her beloved from an untimely death. On top of that, she just learned that her only path to victory requires suborning an opponent of Blackwing’s caliber. Given the magnitude of those problems, she might take umbrage if Lamp flaunts his emotional detachment. To avoid sabotaging the girl’s opinion of him, and by proxy his boss, he should refrain from treating her like an object of academic study. Difficult as that may be.

  The outlander shoots him an inquisitive look, clearly aware that he just stopped himself from saying something. He shakes his head with a polite expression, and she lets it go with a shrug. They walk a few steps further down the hallway before she turns to him again.

  “I hope this is not rude to ask.” She speaks softly and casts a glance ahead at their current guide. “Why do we make her walk with us when the two of you share the gift of light in common? Is it a matter of rank?”

  Lamp adopts a conflicted expression and waggles his hand in a gesture which he hopes the outlander will understand as a partial yes. That hardly answers her question, though, so he elaborates verbally.

  “Rather than rank, it’s an issue of assumed obligations. The range of duties for which Blackwing hired her must include both housekeeping and way-lighting. I was hired purely as a translator, so the terms of my contract don’t outline any responsibility to help my employer navigate dark corridors. The man’s a stickler for his own rules; he won’t ask me to perform any work for which I’m not expressly getting paid.”

  “Fascinating.” The outlander’s tone implies that she really means: strange. “How long have you owed Lord Blackwing service?”

  “A few days. I joined his payroll two years ago as an outside consultant while still retaining other clients. He only hired me full-time - or I should say, I only agreed to work for him full time - after you became a factor.”

  She bobs her head in understanding. “I remember now that he credited my falsemask for his acquisition of a translator. Do I understand correctly that you were a freeman until quite recently?”

  “... Yes.”

  “Well, now.” She raises a delicate hand to her mouth, hiding a smile behind her fingers. “My mere presence reshapes the vassalage. You make me feel rather important, Lamphand.”

  “You are important.” Lamp insists with a small laugh, brushing past the outlander’s apparent misapprehensions. “You might be the first human to successfully traverse between the world-tiles in the centuries since they were formed! I doubt any pioneer throughout history could rival the feat you and Blackwing just performed together.”

  “I know.” Her grin widens, barely occluded behind its dainty shield. “And I cannot express to you how jealous that will make my dear uncle. I shall hold this achievement over that proud man’s head for the rest of his days. I might even threaten to have it carved on his tombstone: ‘Here lies the forgotten relative of a more famous adventurer. He accomplished many impressive things in life, but never mind those. Have you heard about his niece?’”

  Lamp smiles back, infected by the girl’s jovial mood. “I can guess the type of uncle he is. I trust he has this coming?”

  “Oh, he absolutely does.” She stares off into the distance with a devious expression. “I must remember to acquire a trophy during my travels here. Something obnoxiously large and ostentatious that I can present to him as a gift.”

  Lamp chuckles at the villainous glint in her eye, then gestures ahead to Blackwing.

  “You’ve already encountered the perfect person to facilitate that purchase.” He remarks. “Though I suppose you aren’t carrying much of our currency, are you? Or any loose bronze, for that matter.”

  “No.” Her expression suddenly turns wistful. “There are only a few complete sets of your denominations in my kingdom. Our princess- the younger, not the runaway- owns one of them. She displays her set as the centerpiece on the mantle above the largest fireplace in her main dining hall. Those coins are one of her favorite conversation starters. She shows them off to almost everyone who visits. Sometimes she…”

  Owl pauses, then sighs. She lowers both her head and her voice, looking down at the ground while her words grow soft.

  “Apologies. I should not spoil such a fine mood. We can speak more about my uncle instead; he leads a life of brighter stories. Or, if I am troubling you, we may walk in silence.”

  She shoots Lamp a questioning glance, and he answers gently. “You can tell me more about the princess’s coins, if you’d like.”

  The handmaiden offers a small but warm smile, not bothering to hide her face this time. The expression slips a moment later as she falls back into a melancholic mood and somberly shakes her head.

  “Perhaps we shall discuss it later. I should not lay such dour musings at your feet so early in our friendship. For now, it is enough to say that Lord Blackwing’s gifts have brought our princess much solace and joy.” She pauses. “And I hope I have not overly presumed in calling you my friend.”

  “That’s fine.” Lamp assures in an unbothered tone. “Besides, I’m the only person you’ve been able to talk to in… about a week, right?”

  “Seven days, as measured by your sun.”

  Lamp nods. “That’s a long time to go without speaking to anyone. You may consider me your friend, and feel free to share those dour musings. I don’t know how much you want to disclose, and I admit I’m not the caldera’s best listener, but until you learn our language, you have my permission to unload all worries onto me.”

  “Thank you, Lamphand.” She smiles politely, giving no indication of whether she’ll take him up on the offer.

  Lamp’s fine with both outcomes, but he feels a little awkward in the aftermath of his promise. It can be hard to gauge the line between friendliness and paternalism when dealing with young people, and he doubts she was looking to him for the latter. He breaks eye contact, and they lapse into an inelegant silence. Shortly thereafter, their graft-lit tunnel finally lets out into Wall Town’s pocket cavern.

  The settlement nestled beneath stone seems even darker than before. From his vantage at the back of the cave, Lamp has only a narrow view of the winding canyons beyond the town’s defensive wall. Nonetheless, he can judge by the lengthening shadows that the sun has descended from its midday perch at the top of the sky. It won’t truly set for another few hours, he estimates, but it’s evidently begun to fall behind the occlusion of the chasm’s lip.

  Evening comes artificially early to this community buried at the bottom of a crevice. For Lamp, those darkening pools of shade lend the settlement an air of melancholy, but the locals don’t seem at all bothered by the gathering gloom. Blackwing, of course, remains outwardly undaunted by the change in atmosphere. His long, purposeful strides quickly lead their group away from the tunnel and down a side street.

  This must be the way towards food. Lamp hadn’t paid much attention to his hunger since arriving at the compound, but now that he’s enroute to lunch, his stomach begins protesting its emptiness. Strengthening scents of grilled meat and charred onion do nothing to set his appetite at ease.

  For the first time in days of travel, Blackwing’s gait seems a touch too slow. Lamp staves off his impatience with the assumption that there won’t be much of a wait once they finally reach the food vendor. After all, who in this town would make Lord Blackwing stand in line?

  Absolutely everyone would, it turns out.

  About a minute after exiting the tunnel, Lamp finds himself waiting at the back of a modest queue behind his employer and several other underlings. When they arrived here, Blackwing had casually taken his place at the end of the assemblage, making no effort to skip ahead. The workers who were already waiting had accepted their boss’s arrival with aplomb; no one extended even a token offer to let him pass.

  Lamp largely respects that equitable dynamic. However, a small part of him (his stomach) resents Blackwing’s restraint. What good is overwhelming power if you can’t use it to get quick service? That seems like a waste of gods-given privilege to Lamp, but he keeps his grumbles to himself.

  The line moves forward at a tolerable pace, at least, and their party of four gradually ambles closer to the tantalizing fragrance of grilled mutton. After the queue settles again, Blackwing glances back over his shoulder and poses a question to Owl, which Lamp promptly translates.

  “Have you explored much of the compound?”

  Owl shakes her head and answers in a more serious tone than she had used when conversing with Lamp.

  “I have not, milord. Sir.” She almost grimaces when correcting his honorific, as if the latter word left a bitter taste, but she presses on. “Everywhere I ventured within the village, I invariably fell under foot, whereas the tunnels kept me out of the way. Also, I admit that I still find your sky somewhat unnerving. I had heard descriptions of it before my crossing, but I was quite unprepared the first time I looked up.”

  “I see.” Blackwing nods in a casual acceptance of her bizarre statement. “Have you grown more comfortable since your first exposure? That fear will become an impediment.”

  “I am confident that I will acclimate. It will not be an issue on our journey.”

  “Good.” He gestures towards the mouth of the cave. “We’ll exit these canyons within two days' travel. Beyond that point, the sky will occupy half of your view.”

  Her lips draw thin as she nods. “I expected as much.”

  The queue advances as another group of customers departs with their lunch. Blackwing turns back around and takes a few steps forward to close the gap. The rest of the line shuffles after him. Lamp expects to resume translating once they stop, but neither his employer nor the outlander makes any effort to continue their conversation.

  Taking advantage of the silence, the scholar mutters ahead. “Is it the brightness that bothers her? I understand our sun never reaches her world-tile, but I struggle to imagine anyone feeling intimidated by clouds or the color blue.”

  “I expect it’s more the depth.” Blackwing answers over his shoulder. “She seems apprehensive towards open vertical spaces, likely on account of… Ah, you must not know. Her homeland has a metal sky.”

  “What? Oh. Ooooh. That explains a few poems I was never able to penetrate, thank you. But- How does it work, though? Are there pillars? The support structures must be gargantuan, and I’m sure no one mentioned those anywhere. I don’t see how I could have missed that.”

  “There are no columns. It just stays up.” The merchant shrugs. “Gods have no need for engineering.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. The gods.”

  “Indeed.”

  The four of them wait in silence for another minute until they finally reach the front.

  Blackwing purchases four skewers of vegetables and meat from the vendor, along with flatbread in which to wrap them. He hands two of the bundles to the maid, another to Lamp, and keeps the last himself. Owl, still holding the lacquered box which contains her falsemask, is exempted from carrying her own food.

  Their leader sets off, and his three tagalongs trail behind him as he follows a slender lane towards the broad mouth of Wall Town’s shallow cavern. As soon as they emerge from beneath the stone, Blackwing turns right, seemingly headed towards the town’s rampart. Lamp and the others follow unquestioningly, pursuing the merchant like a trio of ducklings. The scholar smiles at that mental image before dismissing it.

  Casting a glance upwards, Lamp appraises the narrow blue band of visible sky. Although his graft is still nearly full, he siphons off a bit of the diffuse sunlight for the sake of his own comfort. Once satiated, he casts a glance over his shoulder and catches Owl almost scowling upwards. She eyes the heavens with fierce determination, jaw set and eyes narrowed as if she expects the sky to blink first. Her focused gaze quickly turns chagrined when she looks back down to earth and notices Lamp’s amused expression.

  “What is it?” She asks him with unconvincingly forced cheer.

  “Nothing.” He turns his head forward to hide a smirk.

  “That was normal. I am normal.”

  “Sure.”

  Wall Town is a narrow enough settlement that they reach its outer edge fairly quickly. Blackwing leads them to the point where the manmade defensive wall meets the towering mass of natural stone. Nestled at the base of that corner, an aperture in the rockface leads into a short tunnel. Their group stops outside on Blackwing’s signal.

  Standing at the entrance, Lamp notes that the excavated hallway only cuts a few paces into the wall before terminating in a square chamber. He shifts his gaze downward and stifles a sigh when he beholds a familiar wooden platform resting on the ground. He isn’t terribly surprised to encounter Blackwing’s lifting contraption again, but a tiny bit of joy dies within him, all the same.

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  At least he won’t need to climb any stairs.

  Curiously, the lift doesn’t appear to have any ropes attached to its frame. Lamp can only assume the conveyance was disabled in Blackwing’s absence. He looks to his employer questioningly, but the man seems unperturbed by the state of his machine.

  “Please hold this and wait here.” Blackwing requests while passing his maid a third meal to carry.

  He turns away from the group and walks through the tunnel, crossing into the lift chamber before stepping to the side and moving out of Lamp’s view for a moment. The man returns a few seconds later with a heavy-looking box held lightly in his clawed left hand, then walks back through the tunnel and emerges from the wall. Once outside, he sets down the box, pops off its lid without apparent effort, and withdraws a coiled mass of rope.

  Then, in a smooth, untroubled motion, he turns to the rockface and kicks off from the ground.

  Blackwing launches into the air with surprising velocity, soaring upward and forward in an arc that seems calculated to dash his bones against the canyon wall. The sudden burst of momentum drains as he rises, however, and his speed seems far less frightening by the time he reaches the apex of his leap. Just before ramming into the stone, the merchant reaches forward with his left arm and somehow finds purchase with his claws. Not wasting a moment, he flexes the elongated limb and throws himself higher.

  Lamp watches amazed as his employer ascends the wall in a series of flying pullups. It’s been a long time since the scholar last felt envious of other graft types, but he feels that emotion now, and he feels it keenly. Some natural forces are simply more exciting than others.

  Curious of what the outworlder thinks, he glances left to check her reaction. He finds the girl watching Blackwing’s progress with interest, but her expression seems more subdued than he’d expected. He can’t detect any trance of exhilaration or awe in her eyes; this exhibition must somehow be less of a novelty to her than it was to him.

  “Not your first time seeing a man fly, I take it?” He asks.

  Owl smiles demurely and shakes her head. “No, and I would not call this flying, though I am impressed by how much weight he manages to haul. Few of the Select could have accomplished this same task with his alacrity.”

  “But you know people who could reach the top faster in an unburdened race?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you one of them?” He thoughtlessly asks before internally wincing at his own insensitivity.

  The handmaid's expression falls, naturally, as Lamp’s stupidly phrased question reminds her of the magic she left behind in her homeland. The brave-faced girl recovers quickly, however, and offers him an unoffended shake of her head before she replies.

  “I could not fly myself, but my jinni was quick on the wing and would have won this race handily.” She pauses to assess him. “I can see you have further questions, and I appreciate your curiosity, but I would prefer not to speak on that subject any further at this time.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” He apologizes with only partial understanding.

  “Forgiveness is granted.”

  Owl looks away, tilting her head back and glancing up just in time to watch Blackwing reach a small cave hidden in the cliff face. The dark spot would have stood out clearly were it placed at ground level, but its remove made it difficult to pick out until Lamp knew where to look. He watches attentively as his employer’s distant silhouette disappears over the cavern’s lip, carrying the thick coil of rope with him.

  Anticipating Blackwing’s next action, Lamp looks down the tunnel towards the lift. He doesn’t need to wait long before one end of the long rope drops into view.

  The final loops of the tightly wound spool rapidly uncoil as it falls. Lamp barely has time to register its arrival before the leading segment whips against the platform with a heavy-sounding thump. More noise follows as the slack line continues its cascade, quickly piling itself around the initial point of contact until the rope suddenly pulls taught with a dull snap.

  As silence settles, Lamp watches the lift chamber for a moment longer, waiting to see if Blackwing will descend through the same shaft. Seconds pass and nothing happens, so when his peripheral vision catches Owl looking back up, he follows suit. His gaze returns to the cave entrance at the very moment Blackwing steps off its edge.

  Lamp knows this trick. He’s seen weight-binders jump from tall places before. All of them can steal the impact from a fall, and the more skilled are able to control its speed as well. Based on these prior observations, Lamp confidently expects his employer to slowly drift downwards in a gentle descent, falling with the languid grace of a flower petal.

  Instead of doing that, Blackwing plummets.

  The distant figure drops from his perch with uncanny velocity, plunging downwards like a diving falcon. Lamp’s pulse quickens in automatic response. He knows better than to expect a messy outcome, but this rapid descent seems destined to end in a violent splatter.

  An unwelcome memory of a young graft thief lying dead and broken on the ground flashes across the scholar’s mind. He pushes the gruesome vision away, but he can’t help his muscles tensing as his employer rapidly approaches the ground.

  Then, in the last instant before impact, Blackwing suddenly halts in the air. Rather than the jarring, forceful collision Lamp had feared, his movement arrests with an ethereal grace. He stops as if he had never fallen at all.

  It doesn’t look as though he caught himself, like he wrestled against his own velocity and won. His momentum simply vanished. It almost seems as if he never stepped off the ledge, as if his dive was not merely terminated but wholly undone. The only flaw in that illusion is the trifling fact that his feet still float at shoulder height.

  Blackwing crosses the gap by falling to the ground at half-speed, dropping to the earth as if moving through water. As soon as his feet settle, he beckons for the others to join him at the platform before he turns and walks that way himself.

  The maid strides ahead immediately while the Lamp and Owl trail slightly behind. The pair of them share a glance, and Owl dips her head in answer to Lamp’s unspoken question.

  “He might win some races after all.” She softly remarks. “That was something to behold.”

  Lamp nods in silent agreement. Although he has quite a few follow-up questions for the girl, he holds them in reserve. As much as he’d like to hear her compare Blackwing’s abilities to the powers of her homeland, he doesn’t want to poke at the same wound twice. So, with the wisdom bestowed by age and the experience of previous faux pas, he keeps his mouth shut.

  Ahead of them, the maid catches up to Blackwing at the wooden platform. She keeps ahold of his lunch and stands out of the way while he collects the fallen rope and threads it through a pulley system attached to the frame. Once the man is satisfied, he turns towards Lamp and Owl and waves for them to board.

  Owl steps forward first, seeming perfectly at ease. Lamp follows close behind, affecting the same temperament in a shameless act of deception. Once they’ve settled into their places, Blackwing turns back towards the rope and takes hold of it in both hands. He grips the line at chest-height with his right arm while the left reaches as far above as it can.

  The merchant asks his trio of passengers if they’re ready to ascend. As soon as they affirm, Blackwing begins to pull. Down comes the long black arm. Or, rather, up goes the lift. Their platform rises surprisingly smoothly as the man pulls them higher hand-by-hand. It’s a slower ride than either of Blackwing’s last two trips, but Lamp won’t complain of that.

  Rather than staring at the walls or- gods forbid- looking down, Lamp casts his gaze upwards. He sees indirect sunlight bouncing off the walls of the chute, but there’s no patch of blue sky waiting above them. This shaft must not rise all the way to the top of the wall, then. Or maybe it does, and the opening is just so far above their heads that Lamp can’t see it. Either way, they aren’t rising that high on their current trip. Not even Blackwing could possess that much endurance, surely.

  Even with the relative proximity of their destination, it takes a fair bit of hauling before their platform finally reaches the top of its line. The ride can’t last forever, though, and the overhanging frame of their lift eventually stops against the ceiling with a soft clunk.

  After checking his balance, Lamp scans the awaiting chamber. Benches and cabinets carved from stone walls line either side of the short room. The far end stands exposed, letting out into the open air without even the suggestion of a safety rail.

  Lamp glances at his employer for confirmation, then steps off the lift after receiving a nod. The other passengers trail behind. Once the trio’s clear, their porter casually walks off the platform to follow. His graft arm keeps ahold of the wooden frame as he steps into the room, and he effortlessly extracts the heavy machine from its chute before setting it aside on the level stone floor.

  With that task taken care of, Blackwing approaches the maid and requests his lunch back. She presents the stack of flatbreads, and he retrieves his meal with thanks before strolling over to the room’s open precipice. The maid follows dutifully behind her employer with Lamp and Owl trailing close in tow.

  When their group reaches the edge, Blackwing plops himself down on the lip and hangs his legs over the side. Lamp and the maid hesitate to imitate him, but Owl immediately joins her host on his perch. After exchanging an uncertain glance, the two light-binders delicately lower themselves into similar positions on either side. The maid moves next to her charge while Lamp settles beside his employer.

  Their precarious arrangement instills a dizzying vertigo which dulls Lamp’s appetite, so he delays his lunch for a moment to appreciate the frightening yet impressive view. Wall Town looks small beneath their feet. The handful of pedestrians he can spot from this vantage seem tiny enough to hold in one hand. He watches the miniscule people mill about with a strange feeling of detachment whilst absently pulling the skewer from his mutton and lifting the flatbread-wrapped meal to take his first bite.

  A groan of pleasure dies in his throat before it can embarrass him. This food is delicious.

  Lamp chews happily while glancing upwards to check the landscape above their heads. He finds that it hasn’t changed much compared to his prior vantage on the ground. He still can’t see over the mountainous canyon walls, which dashes his hopes of viewing the caldera’s exterior from this distance. If not for that obstruction, its outer slope would still be visible on the horizon. It should have made for an impressive sight.

  Ah well.

  The meal passes in silence apart from a few meaningless pleasantries that Lamp translates on a delay. Blackwing eats faster than the others and finishes his lunch first, setting his skewer on the stone behind his back once done. Although Owl hasn’t quite finished her own food by that point, she lowers what’s left and likewise sets the stick behind herself.

  Lamp, assuming that the two of them are either about to stand up or start talking to each other, scarfs the remnants of his meal in preparation. When he swallows the last bite, Blackwing gives him a nod before facing forward and speaking into the open air. The scholar leans behind him to translate for Owl.

  “I have additional questions concerning your objective. After I’ve asked them, we’ll break for the day. I plan to leave early tomorrow morning, so I need to resolve pending administrative matters before dusk.”

  He turns back towards Lamp to address the scholar directly. “On that note, Lamphand, I have another matter to discuss with you privately. I’ll point out my office once we’re back on the ground. Please meet me there around sunset. You’ll hear a call to mark the time.”

  Lamp nods in assent, and Blackwing turns the other way to deliver instructions to Owl’s maid. He asks the matronly woman to escort the outlander back to her room after lunch and informs her that today will mark the end of her service as a personal attendant; she won’t be joining his caravan for tomorrow’s march back to the caldera. The grandmother seems relieved to hear that update.

  With those orders given, Blackwing resumes his conversation with Owl.

  “Regarding your fugitive princess, can you guess how she opened the gate between our worlds twenty-odd years ago?”

  Owl shrugs. “I can only assume she employed the same method you do, sir, or at least something similar. May I ask how you obtained your golden spear? My people presume it to be a sacred treasure, but did you create it somehow?”

  “No. I didn’t make it.” He flatly refutes. “Nor do I know its true origins. It simply fell from the sea of chaos and landed at my feet.”

  The girl pauses to absorb that declaration. She closes her eyes in a slow blink and softly inhales. After another moment, she sighs, reopens her eyes, and shakes her head.

  “That account differs rather strikingly from the image we entertain in court rumor.” She comments with a hint of primness. “Your description makes the event sound rather unceremonious.”

  “It was.” Blackwing confirms dryly.

  “Then you have made charlatans of our best minstrels.” The young noblewoman adopts a slight frown, though Lamp catches a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Are you quite certain you were not greeted by one hundred trilling reeds and the beatific chanting of an ethereal choir while a thousand rays of purifying light erupted from the resplendent heavens?”

  “No.” The corner of Blackwing’s mouth twitches up. “Maybe I missed them. It was a busy day. I was tired.”

  Owl huffs. “You surely must have done so.”

  The pair of them seem to share a moment of amusement, but meanwhile their translator can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Lamp had recognized Owl’s phrasing from a poem he translated roughly half a year ago, meaning that one of the items in Blackwing’s collection was written about the man himself!

  Wherever that scroll’s stored now, there’s a glossary stashed somewhere nearby which contains Lamp’s strained attempts to attribute its content to the deeds of an ancient folk hero. He’d thought he caught a subtle allusion in one of the latter stanzas; now his only remaining hope is that the poet evoked that reference intentionally. If not, Lamp will have to find out where that scroll was stored so he can break in and forge a new description for it.

  The embarrassed scholar keeps his infiltration plots to himself as the conversation picks back up. He manages to smoothly resume translations when Blackwing poses the next question.

  “During our earlier conversation, you referenced conspiracies surrounding the missing princess. Did any of those rumors present a credible explanation for her disappearance?”

  The handmaid breaks eye contact and frowns. Her displeased expression seems fully genuine this time. When she answers, the pitch of her voice lowers slightly in a sign of discomfort.

  “I can, but some of those stories slander our previous king. I would prefer not to repeat them.”

  “I see. I won’t pry, then.”

  “It-” She sighs frustratedly. One of her hands rises above her eyes as if to rub at her forehead, but she reverses that motion, lowering her arm and interlacing her fingers in her lap. She then straightens her back and turns to Blackwing with an unenthused expression.

  “I cannot prove that this rumor is not relevant, and we cannot aid each other effectively without sharing information, so I will tell you.” She takes a calming breath before pressing on. “One of the true icons, the icon of judgment, possesses the ability to transfer soulmasks between hosts when certain conditions are met. The existence of that power provides a simple explanation for the fugitive’s acquisition of magic, but this conspiracy cannot withstand even casual scrutiny.

  “Judgment constantly accompanies the reigning king, so it would have been impossible for the princess to approach it without his knowledge. Furthermore, I have observed in its interactions with the royal children that Judgement grants them no special favor. The fugitive would have found better luck pleading her case to any other icon.”

  Owl inhales deeply and continues. “Some people, specifically those who are far removed from court and are therefore unfamiliar with Judgement’s tendencies, have speculated that our late king commanded the icon to bestow a soulmask upon his daughter. This is categorically impossible.

  “Icons are simple-minded creatures with narrow fixations; the icon of judgment is obsessed with tradition and law. Its authority over magic is the mechanism by which we transplant the growth icon between hosts, and Judgement would never consent to sabotage its own sacred ritual. If our prior king had ordered Judgment to spare his daughter from her role in the cycle, it would have refused him. Of this I am beyond certain.”

  The outlander breathes in sharply then out slowly. Her eyes meet Blackwing’s in a challenging gaze which she quickly tempers into a more polite expression.

  “Do you have any further questions on the subject, milord?” She asks with a strained attempt at a demure tone.

  “None regarding that specific conspiracy.” Blackwing calmly answers. “I intended no disrespect to your royal family, and I apologize for any offense given.”

  “I know.” She lets the tension fall from her shoulders. “And I am sorry for my tone. You said nothing untoward.”

  “No apology needed; I admire the fervor of your loyalty. Would you like me to stop now, or are you willing to answer one more question?”

  She nods to him. “I can continue.”

  He nods back. “Correct me if I misremember, but did you tell us you had an icon in mind as the fugitive’s accomplice? Which one do you suspect, if not Judgement?”

  “Manslaughter.” Owl answers easily. “Its territory abuts the wall between our worlds. It was guided to that location long ago by the second princess, which suggests it has a willingness to obey daughters of the royal family. I cannot confidently describe the method by which the icon might have rendered aid, but I imagine it could have wrapped her in its arms to pass her safely between worlds.”

  Lamp blanches at the thought of Manslaughter passing anything through the portal; it would be very bad for half of Blackwing’s workforce if that particular icon ever crossed through the gate. The scholar calms himself with a reminder that his employer has never laid eyes on the creature despite years of operating in its proximity. Either Manslaughter’s senses can’t extend across world-tiles, or it simply doesn’t care about men on the opposite side of the rift. All the same, Lamp feels less excited about the prospect of one day visiting the portal’s location.

  Blackwing, for his part, shows no sign of perturbation on his face. He does, however, announce an end to his questions. The merchant stands, and the other three follow suit, stepping away from the precarious edge to await instruction. Their leader takes a long breath in before speaking.

  “Are any of you afraid of falling?” He asks them. “Would you like to take the fast way down?”

  Lamp translates for Owl, and she agrees with a caveat. “Not as quickly as you fell last time.”

  “No, not that fast.” Blackwing soothingly confirms. “If all of you agree to join me, we’ll fall at the pace of a feather. I offer because it’s less hassle than taking everyone back down in the lift.”

  His guest and subordinates collectively agree to the proposal, so he instructs them to stand to his left. When they’re arranged to his liking, he raises his graft arm to chest height and tells them to grab hold, then reduces their weight once all three of them comply.

  The funny sensation feels quite familiar to Lamp after his journey down the mountain, and the maid seems likewise accustomed. Owl looks slightly caught off guard by the sudden feeling, but she laughs with bright excitement as Blackwing lifts them from the ground. The tall man confirms one last time that all three of them are ready before stepping out into the empty air. True to his word, they fall at the relaxed pace of a twirling leaf.

  After Lamp’s initial rush of fear peters out into exhilaration, he finds himself enjoying the experience. Clinging to Blackwing during freefall somehow feels less perilous than either of his platform rides. In fact, the vertigo’s not much worse than when he stood on his own feet beside the cliff edge. That said, he wouldn’t want to try this on a windy day.

  Lamp enjoys the view as Wall Town steadily increases in size below them, remaining pleasantly at ease until Blackwing finally sets down on the canyon floor with the toe of his left boot. The merchant holds his passengers off the ground while he plants himself. Once steady, he lowers his left arm and returns their weight. The three of them release his graft, and he rolls his shoulders while turning around to face the wall again.

  “I need to go back for the lift.” He tells them. “The three of you are free to leave. I’ll be busy with other tasks for the rest of the afternoon, so don’t bother waiting.”

  With that, he launches himself into the air and begins ascending the wall in the same manner as his previous climb. Lamp and Owl watch him for a moment before the latter turns to walk away. Lamp performs his own about-face and keeps pace with her. She glances at him with friendly curiosity, likely wondering if he intends to accompany her all the way back to her room for further conversation.

  He doesn’t.

  “Do you happen to know whether that main tunnel leads all the way through the wall?” He gestures towards the back of the pocket cave to illustrate his point. “I’d like to lay eyes on the empty plane while I’m here.”

  “It does.” The girl confirms. “I found the view rather monotonous, myself, but it was striking in its own way.”

  Lamp nods. “It would be a shame to miss it after coming so close.”

  “So it would. Happy viewing, then.”

  He nods again in thanks, and the two of them make idle chit chat as they walk back through the town and under the lip of the wall. Lamp suspects the outlander could ask as many questions about his world as he intends to pose about hers, but he needs a moment for himself before they start.

  He’s surprised it took him less than a day to get tired of interviewing their visitor from another world, but now that he’s finally met her, the excited anticipation which buoyed him throughout his journey has begun to ebb. He expects his energy would crash mid-conversation if he tried to continue.

  More importantly, he has concerns about their plans with which he must grapple alone. Cultural exchange can resume tomorrow. For the next few hours, he needs to get away. He needs to think.

  Clearheart awaits.

  Lamp isn’t ready to face her.