“Grayowl-”

  “Sorry.” She shakes her head and looks away. “Please forget I said that. It was unbecoming.”

  He nods, saying nothing, and they continue forward. Owl stares straight ahead as they approach the next intersection, no longer examining her surroundings. After they cross the street and the dour moment fades behind them, she gradually begins to show interest again.

  A simple flower box hanging beneath the second-story window of a narrow dormitory next catches her eye. She turns her head as they pass to maintain focus on the humble display. In Lamp’s view, the floral arrangement appears mundanely pleasant. Perhaps to the outlander it seems exotic and extravagant.

  Her expression doesn’t strike him as overly confused or curious, so her world must also contain flowers. They surely bloom around the growth icon. Lamp considers asking whether her people bother to maintain ornamental gardens anywhere else, but the question feels insensitively close to gloating, so he withholds it.

  Moving through town at a good pace, they absorb the sites but never linger. Blackwing’s purposeful stride suggests an eagerness to return home, so Lamp anticipates an uninterrupted walk directly to his employer’s manor, wherever that’s located. The man surprises him a minute later, however, by pointing ahead to a busy storefront and declaring a brief detour. As they near the business, Lamp recognizes it as a cosmetics shop. Feeling flummoxed, he glances curiously at his employer; Blackwing notices the look and explains.

  “Owl’s graft will draw too many eyes at our destination. We’ll use silver face-paint to disguise her feather pattern.”

  Lamp nods in understanding and translates the explanation to Owl. She seems pleased by Blackwing’s impulse to preserve her anonymity, and she asks Lamp to convey her thanks. The girl’s mood seems to lift as they step inside, and she joins Blackwing in methodically analyzing the available products. Lamp loiters unproductively behind the two of them, becoming an apologetic obstacle for the shop’s actual customers.

  After a moderate span of independent searching, followed by a brief consultation between Blackwing and an eager-to-please shopkeeper, they determine that this little store doesn’t stock any products with the appropriate color and sheen. The owner apologizes profusely to her disappointed VIP customer, and he spares a full minute to reassure the woman of his continued favor before he shuffles their group back outside.

  They walk a few more blocks down before stopping again at a similar business, but they encounter the same problem at the second location. Blackwing accepts their failure with aplomb, declaring that they’ll simply buy what they need once they return to the big city.

  “Emerald should know where to find it.” He remarks without explanation.

  Lamp nods along, responding by route despite having no actual basis for agreement. Even after two years of collaboration, he remains ignorant to the details of his former partner’s day-to-day job. Lamp had never inquired after her regular duties, assuming that she wouldn’t tell him for fear of revealing her employer’s identity, but he’d always imagined the young woman acting as a clerk of some kind. Her regrettably-uncommon literacy and exceptional penmanship would be wasted by most other careers.

  Whatever else she does for Blackwing, the man seems to place a great deal of trust in her. Lamp’s thoughts take a macabre turn as he wonders if earned their employer’s faith through stunts like stalking a recently-contracted scholar back to his home.

  The woman probably has a more interesting personal history than Lamp had previously envisioned for her, but it’s still none of his business. He sets the unproductive and unpleasant thoughts aside and returns his focus to the present.

  Lamp glances around and determines that their brisk walk through Trembleheel has finally brought them close to its port. They haven’t quite reached the outer wall yet, but they’re close enough that most of the surrounding businesses now relate to the sea in some way. The scent of the ocean has grown stronger as well, though that odor might just be wafting from the fish stalls.

  When they reach the first fishmonger and start to walk past him, Owl stops dead.

  “What is that?”

  Lamp turns around to find the outlander gawping at a freshly caught tuna. The dead thing rests atop a graft-chilled bronze slab with its fins and head still attached. It regards the girl with glass-eyed indifference as she examines it with a confused mixture of reverence and horror. After a moment, she turns to Lamp and repeats her question in a more composed tone.

  He answers simply. “It’s a fish.”

  “Sorry. A what?”

  “Um… It’s like a bird, but in the ocean.”

  “Oh.” She pauses. “I see.”

  She turns back to the tuna and bends forward to get a closer look at its fins. The smell wrinkles her nose, but she maintains her proximity. A second later, she frowns in consternation.

  “Does it flap these wings to move?” She asks incredulously. “They look too short.”

  “Ah, no.” Lamp points at the caudal fin, redirecting her attention to the fish’s backside. “It uses its powerful tail to kick against the water. The little ‘wings’ are just for steering.”

  “Aha!” She straightens back up. “So it moves more like a snake than a bird?”

  “Yes. Well… I’m not sure how to explain. When you see them in motion, you’ll understand.”

  The outlander takes his word for it and turns away from the tuna, prompting their patiently waiting escort to set off again. As they continue through the market, Blackwing asks Lamp if he and Owl would enjoy fish for dinner. The two of them agree that they would, so the merchant prince graces a humble stall with his custom.

  As the chosen fishmonger prepares to wrap their future meal inside a broad, glossy leaf, Owl interrupts his packaging with a request to touch the creature before it’s sealed away. Blackwing nods in reply to Lamp’s translation and gestures for the shopkeeper to wait. The merchant seems mildly annoyed by this delay but holds his tongue. Owl, evidently conscious of the fish seller’s impatience, quickly steps forward and delicately prods the dead fish.

  “Aahk!” She immediately yanks her hand back. “Why is it slimy?”

  Lamp suppresses a smile, amused by the degree of sheer indignity contained in Owl’s tone. Before answering her question, he glances aside at Blackwing and finds subtle amusement written on the other man’s face as well. The outlander’s protest apparently didn’t require translation.

  Lamp turns back to the girl and answers. “Fish produce a thin film of mucus to deter parasites and to reduce drag against the water. It’s normal, and the cooks will scour it off before we eat.”

  Owl nods in acceptance, and the interrupted fishmonger takes that gesture as his cue to finish wrapping. Moments later, he presents the neatly tied package to Blackwing, holding it out with zero ceremony or enthusiasm. The wealthy man accepts the fish in the same casual manner and tucks it under his human arm. He then thanks the seller before walking off.

  The three of them traverse the rest of the fish market without further incident, exiting on the far side into a primarily residential area. From there, they follow a lane that runs parallel to the sea, or at least parallel to the city wall. As they walk, the houses to either side gradually assume a finer appearance, and they eventually see the addition of large central courtyards. Most such enclosures hide themselves away behind tall gates, but the occasional patio or garden stands exposed, proudly displaying its manicured splendor to the public eye.

  Owl and Lamp enjoy the odd flowerbed in passing, but nothing arrests their movement until they chance upon a house with a chicken coop. The domesticated birds prove fascinating enough to make Owl pause for a few minutes. She asks several questions about their behavior and lifestyle, which Lamp answers to the best of his ability while Blackwing stoically looms behind them.

  Their conversation stumbles to a halt when one of the hens begins to lay. Owl cuts off her question mid-sentence and watches the entire process with enraptured disgust. Once the bird concludes its activity, the outlander slowly shakes her head as if waking from a trance. She turns away and starts walking without another word. Blackwing overtakes the girl before she can wander off, and the trio falls back into their established arrangement.

  It doesn’t take them too much longer to reach Blackwing’s manner. The moment arrives without any buildup or fanfare. They simply walk down a row of grand but sub-palatial houses, and their host informs them once they’ve reached the one in which he lives. It’s a fine example of the classic ‘three halls and a wall’ architectural style, but nothing outwardly marks the two-story oikos apart from its neighbors aside from subtle hints of enhanced fortification.

  Lamp feels a little underwhelmed by the reveal. He certainly wouldn’t call this building modest, as Blackwing’s manor clearly belongs to a person of great wealth. However, knowing who owns this place, Lamp can't help but find it understated. A man who ranks among the richest people in the world could surely afford a larger and more ornate structure.

  Maybe there just isn’t enough space inside the city’s walls, or perhaps the prince of merchants simply spends too much time traveling to ever sit still and enjoy his money. If this house is just a waystation, then it doesn’t merit so much grandeur.

  In any case, they’ve barely reached the gate to Blackwing’s property before an alacritous servant pulls it inward to admit the trio into the central garden. After stepping inside, Blackwing pauses for a moment to survey his small but stately collection of bushes, trees, and ornamental flowers before turning back to the apparent groundskeeper and offering his compliments.

  The gardener demurely thanks his employer while closing and latching the gate behind Owl. He then wishes the three of them a pleasant day and vanishes back into the house. Blackwing nods his head in satisfaction before directing his guests toward a different entrance at the back of the opposite wing.

  As the two visitors begin to trail their host’s leisurely pace through his circular garden paths, both of them are startled by the deep and sudden bark of an obviously large dog. Lamp looks around for the creature, expecting it to rush out from the bushes to greet its returning master, but when two additional canine voices join in from the same direction, he realizes that the animals must be fenced inside a neighbor’s courtyard.

  Feeling simultaneously relieved and disappointed by the physical separation, he glances towards Owl to check her reaction. He finds the outlander glancing in the direction of the noise with an expression of calm interest. The two of them had discussed dogs when she was listing familiars earlier that morning, so it’s no surprise that she seems to recognize the sound.

  “The living versions seem quite excitable.” She remarks over the baying chorus.

  “Yes.” Lamp agrees. “They generally are.”

  The dogs maintain their spirited protest for only a few moments longer before a shrill, high-pitched whistle cuts through the noise and berates the beasts into silence. As soon as the barking stops, the piercing note abruptly terminates.

  “That was a sound graft.” Lamp remarks to Owl before jesting. “I wonder if the neighbors keep someone on staff just to stop their dogs from annoying Lord Blackwing.”

  “That would be a sensible measure.” Owl agrees with a nod. “I was given a similar duty shortly after my ascension. Whenever Lady Jaleh decides to patrol her city, she has younger members of the Select run ahead to quiet the rowdiest taverns before she reaches them, as she finds the noise offensive. For my own part, I took offense to all the jogging.”

  Lamp shakes his head at the bizarre mental image conjured by her story. “They had a young girl running off alone to random pubs, asking the unruly patrons to settle down?”

  “Just so.” She answers proudly. “And I never had any trouble either. My soulmask was exceedingly persuasive.”

  They reach the back end of Blackwing’s garden before Lamp can pose a follow up question, so he shelves the half-formed thought for now. Following his employer’s lead, he takes two steps up onto a narrow porch, whereupon an overhanging second floor finally blocks the light patter of rain. Although Lamp’s still more damp than soaked, he looks forward to drying off inside.

  An embossed wooden door with a twisted bronze handle waits before them, standing out as the first truly ostentatious feature of the residence. Blackwing steps forward and lifts his right arm, but the entrance swings open as he’s reaching for it. A smartly dressed maid greets them from within while simultaneously stepping aside to let them pass into the stuccoed interior.

  Once they’re all indoors, Blackwing thanks the woman and hands over his leaf-wrapped fish. He recites instructions for her to forward to his chef, and she departs with a confident nod. That done, Blackwing leads his cohort up a wooden stairway to a spacious but comfortable study on the second floor. They find a fresh-faced manservant waiting unobtrusively in one corner; Blackwing directs that young man to attend to his guests' needs.

  “Make yourselves comfortable.” He tells Lamp and Owl while ushering them inside. “I’ll join you again at dinner. If you need me before then, you’ll find my office on the ground floor at the center of the middle wing.”

  Blackwing then turns away and heads off without further explanation. The busy merchant presumably has a tall stack of reports and requests waiting for him on his desk. Such missives would have piled up for a week or so by now, and Lamp can scarcely imagine how many he receives per day.

  In any case, the scholar’s eager to get off his feet again, and those wicker armchairs waiting by the central table seem like an ideal spot to rest. As Lamp begins to cross the room, he tosses a casual glance at the open-faced cabinets lining its perimeter. The items on display stop him in his tracks.

  He recognizes some of them.

  Several dozen artifacts from Owl’s homeland adorn the shelves, dotted among an equal selection of local artwork and a larger assemblage of tablets and scroll cases. None of the foreign objects appear so exotic as to look out of place, blending seamlessly into the larger collection. Blackwing clearly curated this exhibit to exclude all acquisitions which could never pass as native. The one exception to that rule is a glazed amphora depicting a thin white mountain against a sable sky, but something so simple and abstract could always be excused as artistic license.

  Looking further, Lamp notices that even the pieces made by local artisans lean more on the side of eccentricity than tradition. Taken as a whole, the selection presents itself as the product of an eclectic collector who either hunts or commissions unconventional art. That false impression allows Blackwing to hide his trophies in plain view. The whole room functions as a clever lie. It almost feels smug.

  Obvious effort and care went into the presentation of this space, but Lamp can’t help but feel annoyed by the sight of it. For the two years he had worked as Blackwing’s contractor, his formerly-anonymous client had taken great pains to ensure Lamp’s discretion. All the while, the man was audaciously showing off his otherworldly treasures to anyone who paid him a social call. It doesn’t seem fair.

  It also raises a burning question. How many people outside of Blackwing’s command structure know what he’s doing beyond the caldera’s rim? Lamp feels safe in assuming that no one has ever laid eyes on Wall Town without its master’s consent, but rumors about that settlement have surely spread at least this far.

  While the long tunnel connecting Trembleheel’s Landing to Blackwing’s mountainside fortress can’t receive much foot traffic, people still move through it. Likewise, while there aren’t many people trekking up and down the mountain, the journey is still made. Most compromising of all, Lamp had inadvertently confirmed during his mid-breakfast conversation with Wall Town’s street cook that every person who’s ever glimpsed the edge of their world will eventually return to this bustling trade center by the sea.

  When Trembleheel asks those people where they’ve been, what do they say?

  Blackwing may have sworn his people to silence, but it only takes one drunken boast to a friend, one whispered confession to a worried parent. Whatever the circumstances, Lamp has to assume that critical information spilled at some point. If enough was divulged, then the truth of Blackwing’s activity must exist as something between a fringe theory and an open secret.

  Lamp wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his boss spread false rumors in anticipation of inevitable leaks. The townspeople might have their pick of colorful stories, including the fictitious dig site that was presented to Lamp two years ago. However, there’s always a risk of the real explanation escaping into the world and reaching the wrong pair of ears.

  If the Blessed Order heard a rumor like that… They would come politely, discreetly. At first.

  But what are the odds they know? That calculus heavily depends upon a single factor: how many ships visit this city that aren’t owned by Blackwing? Lamp has no idea, so he’s at the limit of his speculation.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He shakes his head and pulls away from his musings, setting both his concern and its preceding frustration aside. Lamp glances around to check Owl’s position, having lost track of her in his distraction. He finds the handmaiden standing before one of the shelves, peering down at an artifact from her homeland. She must also have recognized the hidden pieces. No surprise there.

  Sensing a golden anthropological opportunity, Lamp strolls to the outworlder’s side and looks down at the object that caught her eye. Before him, he sees a small figurine skillfully chiseled from milky quartz into the shape of a sleeping robin. He tries to recollect the meeting with Emerald in which he assessed this artifact, but he can’t recall any specific details. On reflection, he’s actually not certain whether he’s seen this carving before.

  Despite that, his experienced eye still recognizes the subtle hallmarks indicative of sculptures from Owl’s kingdom. Although, come to think of it, the girl mentioned yesterday that many of these pieces were produced specifically for trade with Blackwing. Given the skew toward modern commissions, Lamp might have simply learned to recognize the handiwork of a few living artisans.

  That would be a disappointing revelation, if it turns out to be true. The one upside is that he might someday get to meet those sculptors and profess his love of their work. Regardless, Lamp had walked over here to start a conversation, so he’d better get on with that.

  The scholar turns to the outlander and comments. “It’s a lovely carving, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Owl nods without looking at him. “I know this one, actually. Lady Jaleh often invites the princess and me to help sort through items submitted by our artisans for the exchange of gifts. Her highness noticed that I liked this piece after it was chosen as an offering, so she promised to purchase it for me if Blackwing sent it back to us. Obviously, that never came to pass; our little bird flew away to your world. I never thought I would see him again, but here he is, snuggled in his nest.”

  Owl gently taps a finger against the robin’s head, rocking it slightly on the shelf but leaving it in place. She smiles sadly for a moment before her expression slips back into a neutral calm. Then she turns to Lamp with a glint of excitement in her eye.

  “Do you want to make a circuit of the room together?” She asks with a brighter tone than her voice had carried a moment prior.

  Lamp happily agrees, and the two of them begin a slow tour of Blackwing’s collection. Lamp asks about each item from Owl’s world-tile as they pass them. She, in turn, poses her own questions about the works made by caldera-based artisans. Neither of them can answer every inquiry the other presents, but they gladly exposit what details they know, launching into numerous tangents along the way.

  Some indeterminate time later, after they’ve taken their seats but before they’ve really settled in, they hear a knock from the open doorway. The two of them turn over their shoulders to find Blackwing waiting at the aperture. He declares that dinner will finish cooking soon and invites them to join him at his table.

  His guests graciously accept and rise to follow their host downstairs to a modestly sized dining hall. Relatively modest. It’s larger than Lamp’s entire apartment. He had seen the rooms where his betters ate before he left the cult, however, and Blackwing might as well have led them to a broom closet in comparison.

  Their current space feels domestically intimate, and Lamp finds himself relaxing as he sponges up the atmosphere. The effect dampens when Blackwing strikes up an idle conversation with Owl, forcing Lamp to resume his work.

  Chitchat ensues while they await, then subsequently dig into, their starting course. Lamp adds his own commentary whenever he finds a gap between translations and chewing. By this point, he feels fully comfortable as a participant in the discussion, having developed an individual report with both of the other parties. Gone is the desire to avoid intruding that troubled him in their first meeting.

  His employer and the handmaiden likewise engage with Lamp as a peer, including and responding to him in the same manner as they interact with each other. Although this dynamic is neither a recent development nor an unexpected standard, it’s still gratifying to be treated like an equal by people whose social rank so drastically exceeds his own. Lamp generally tries not to care about that sort of thing beyond what pragmatism requires, but it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy in spite of himself.

  As their meal progresses through its appetizers, the sound of rain gradually intensifies above their heads and against the exterior wall. The trio merrily prattles on without concern for the weather, mostly retreading topics that Lamp and Owl had discussed in Blackwing’s presence but without his awareness. A few additional topics of interest occasionally pass around the table, but they share little information of real import. No one seems inclined towards serious conversation at the moment.

  Eventually, their main course arrives with a small element of fanfare, and Owl eagerly sits forward in anticipation of her first bite of seafood. Her expression falls when she finally lifts a chunk to her mouth and tastes it, but she seems more confused than disappointed. Blackwing prompts his guest for her opinion, and she compliments the sauce before admitting that she finds the texture of the meat a little strange. She further softens her minor complaint with additional praises for the meal as a whole, and Blackwing promises to convey her satisfaction back to his chef.

  From there, the conversation pivots to differences in cuisine and etiquette between their homelands. Lamp had never viewed table manners as a sufficiently complicated subject as to require formal training, but Owl apparently endured quite stringent lessons while her family was preparing her to join a royal household. The elaborate ceremonies sound maddening from the very start of her description, and she lingers on the subject for a much greater length of time than Lamp would have imagined possible. Undaunted by her translator’s growing disbelief, Owl manages to disclose fresh details all the way until the arrival of dessert.

  Dialogue dwindles while they nibble on their bittersweet morsels, and soon thereafter Blackwing excuses himself to return to work. He ushers his guests back into the upstairs study, tells them where to find their rooms, leaves them in the care of the same young manservant whom he’d recruited before dinner, and then departs. Lamp presumes that they won’t see the man again before tomorrow morning.

  “How much later do you think you’ll stay up?” He asks while settling into a chair.

  Owl plops down in an adjacent seat before giving Lamp a shrug. “An hour, perhaps? I have enough words left in me to talk that long, assuming you have the ear for it. Could you teach me how to play that game we found earlier?”

  She points towards the shelves, indicating the Senet board they had discovered in their pre-dinner tour. Lamp nods in agreement and starts to rise out of his chair, only to settle back down when Blackwing’s footman hurries over to fetch the game on his behalf.

  Lamp offers a word of thanks in exchange for the painted board and its half-cylinder dice. Before stepping away, their attendant informs them that he possesses a heat graft, and he offers to modulate the guests’ temperature if they get too hot or cold. Lamp and Owl both report that they feel comfortable enough already, so the young man quietly retreats to an isolated chair at the edge of the room.

  Lamp experiences a twinge of sympathy for the attendant, but he doesn’t feel sociable enough to invite the man back over. The weary scholar would prefer to speak only one language for the rest of the evening, and Senet is a two-person game anyway. He shakes his head and focusses.

  Owl listens attentively as Lamp demonstrates the rules. She poses no questions, never prompts him to repeat anything, and nods confidently when he asks if she understands. Trusting the girl to make her own assessment, Lamp returns all pieces to their starting positions. They roll to determine play order, and the game begins.

  The two of them play a few turns in relative silence, speaking only to comment on the luck of various rolls or the consequences of a sub-optimal move. During that brief span of quiet, they can hear the weather worsening outside. The drumbeat of raindrops quickens and intensifies, progressing from the rolling staccato of a steady downpour into the rumbling chaos of a proper storm. The wind strengthens as well, howling against the walls and rattling their shutters. Thankfully, no water manages to drip inside.

  Owl appears briefly nervous about the ramping deluge, but she promptly composes herself after observing the lack of concern from Lamp and their footman. All the same, she nearly jumps out of her seat the first time they hear a clap of thunder. Lamp manages not to laugh at the poor girl, but she catches his smile before he can mask it.

  “I assume that sound is normal?” She asks with a mix of amusement, embarrassment, and indignation.

  Lamp assures her that it was and shares what little he knows on the subject of lightning. The outlander has more questions than he’s able to resolve, however, and he quickly admits that the phenomenon isn’t well-understood. Owl, clearly disappointed, relents.

  Their game resumes and continues at a sedate pace, with neither of them holding a clear advantage for very long, and the room maintains its relaxed atmosphere in defiance of the raging storm. A minute or so later, their attendant speaks up from his chair across the study. Calling in a soft, almost-apologetic tone, he asks whether Lamp and the other guest would mind if he begins knitting. Lamp has no objections, and, after checking with Owl, he relays that she doesn’t mind either.

  The attendant thanks them both before retrieving his materials and tools from a satchel he had stashed behind a table. The knitter then begins his work, and the soft click-clack of bone needles tapping against each other fades beneath the muted roar of rainfall. Lamp finds the combined percussion soothing, and he feels himself growing drowsy as he listens. He starts to yawn before Owl interrupts his reverie by asking him a question.

  “Are rains like this common?” She waves a hand toward the rattling window shutters to gesticulate her meaning.

  Lamp nods. “Yes, though the frequency varies according to the time of year. We’ll get more of them in a few months. Stronger ones, too.”

  Her eyes widen in concern. “It gets worse than this?”

  “Oh yes. About ten years ago…”

  He recounts his memory of a violent storm whose great waves swept away entire settlements elsewhere on his island. The protected bay in which his city dwells was spared the worst of that storm surge, but the monstrous winds still tore roofs from houses and made it impossible for anyone to leave their homes. The damage took months to repair afterwards, and some districts never fully recovered.

  Owl listens to his anecdote with an apparent mix of disbelief and horror, though her expression gradually resets to neutral over the course of his recounting. When he’s done, she mumbles a simple reply.

  “So your world is not perfect after all.”

  “No.” The word falls off his tongue like lead, though it tastes less sweet. “The rains aren’t the worst of it either. Owl…”

  “I know. I apologize for phrasing it that way. You have problems of your own.”

  “It’s not…” Lamp shifts restlessly in his chair before continuing. “Earlier today, you remarked that the gods must love my people more than yours. I’m sorry to raise this subject again after you asked me to forget, but I don’t want you traveling any deeper into my world with such a distorted view of it. My homeland hosts many dangers and indignities of which you are not yet aware. You should know of them, both to prepare yourself for ill fortune, and, I hope, to better appreciate how the gods have spared you.”

  “I am not completely ignorant.” Owl asserts while straightening her posture. “Before I came here, I had… I had preconceptions.”

  She looks away but continues speaking. “Some of the artwork your employer gifted to us depicts brutal scenes of tragedy and depredation. Two visits ago, we received a painted amphora showing a line of women throwing themselves off a cliff to avoid capture by bandits, along with a small mosaic in which emaciated hounds chase and nip after terrified children. I have seen numerous bas reliefs of men killing each other over insults, treasure, or seemingly nothing…”

  She pauses for a moment, staring off at empty space for a few breaths before continuing. “On the rare occasions where Lord Blackwing provides a text written in high script, it almost always contains a litany for protection against a horrid list of dangers that nobody faces in my own society. The last public reading was particularly lurid. It featured a mother’s prayer to ward her home against poisonous snakes, skull-crushing jaguars, spiders whose bite induces rot, and even other people. Worst of all, there were separate callouts for burglars, murderers, rapists, arsonists, and pirate raids.”

  Owl smiles without mirth. “I saw two noblewomen faint over the course of that recital, and a few other attendees openly wept. Later that week, one of my mother’s friends led a women's circle to recite the same prayer for Lord Blackwing’s sake because they were all so worried about him. I didn’t join that ceremony, but I did invoke a few of the litanies for my own protection before I crossed over, just in case. None of it has proven relevant, thankfully.”

  The outlander falls silent for a moment. After a deep breath in, she resumes in a soft, faintly apologetic tone.

  “To my people, it appears that bloodshed, usurpation, and deprivation are all common occurrences in your world. Our perception is that strong leaders such as Lord Blackwing protect oases of civility amidst a wasteland of barbarism. I held that belief for a long time, but now that I am here, your world-tile seems… so very far beyond what I imagined. I have found none of the dangers I braced myself to face, and there are so many wondrous things here which I could never have expected. I just… I no longer know what to think.”

  She turns toward the window and stares pensively at the rattling shutters. Lamp, unsure of how to respond, rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the floor. Their unfinished game lies forgotten between them.

  He had planned to dispel an innocent girl’s illusions about a harsh world she wasn’t prepared to face, but now he finds himself on the opposite side of that issue, wanting to defend his people from the uncharitable pessimism with which Owl’s kindred apparently view his own. Unsure of how to begin, he fills the silence with a neutral sentiment.

  “We have no shortage of art that presents our world in a better light. I wonder why Blackwing gave you so many morbid pieces.”

  Owl shrugs. “It happens because Lady Jaleh continues selecting them. A good merchant sells whatever his clients want to buy, and she has a penchant for the macabre. Before this moment, I had never given due consideration to the staggering degree of influence she wields over our perception of your world. I must speak with her about that when I return.”

  “Please do.” Lamp mumbles. Then, with a sigh, he decides to begin his defense.

  “Most land inside the caldera still remains unsettled, and it can be quite dangerous to venture away from civilization. You’ll encounter natural hazards, dangerous predators, and, if you’re unlucky, predatory humans. That said, Most places that are inhabited are fairly safe, so long as you keep your wits about you and conform to the local customs. Interpersonal conflicts between strangers are rare because you generally can’t tell at glance whether or not the person you’re dealing with has a dangerous graft. That ambiguity keeps us all polite.”

  With that established, Lamp can return to his original objective of providing fair warning. He feels even less enthusiasm for the task now, but it’s still necessary.

  Choosing to begin with the dangers posed by beasts, Lamp confirms that venomous snakes and spiders do in fact enter human dwellings in search of warmth, and that big cats sometimes venture into the back reaches of his home city late at night to hunt livestock and stray dogs. He also repeats harrowing accounts told by sailors of voracious predators dwelling in the deep, though he elects not to share the unsubstantiated rumors of monsters large enough to swallow ships whole.

  Closing the first subject, he next moves to the topic infectious disease. Owl quickly confirms that her world also contains sickness, but they soon establish that she knows nothing of plagues. Lamp himself was spared from direct experience, the caldera’s good fortune having held during his lifespan, but he’s heard numerous stories from living witnesses who saw worse times.

  He tells the handmaiden of a great sickness that cleaved through the world shortly prior to his birth, ending many lives and disrupting all others. The final wave of that pestilence may have robbed Lamp of his father, though he can’t be sure. Anything could have happened to the man.

  “Blackwing would remember those years, but it’s best not to ask him about it. He might have lost a loved one to the plague. Most in his generation did.”

  Owl agrees to maintain discretion, and they lapse into a brief quiet. Of course, even in the absence of human speech, the room cannot return to silence. Rain still falls against the roof in sheets, and the knitter still clicks his needles in a steady pattern from his corner of the room. The study’s comforting, domestic atmosphere begins to reassert itself during this moment of reflection, and their neglected, nearly-finished game of Senet beckons from the tabletop. After a moment of temptation, Lamp rejects the call.

  “One last thing, and I promise to stop after this.” He pauses for a weary moment, then declares. “You should hear about the gangs and the butchers.”

  He begins his final diatribe with the former group, assuming that Owl will more easily understand this concept. Indeed, she requires disappointingly little explanation; Lamp learns with sympathetic remorse that gangs exist in her world also. However, she describes the criminal organizations operating on her side of the gate as small and marginalized, doing their best to keep hidden.

  Lamp asks her to imagine a society in which such institutions operate openly and govern wide swaths of the population. She looks disgusted and horrified in response, which he supposes is a fair reaction. While the girl’s still reeling, he presses on with a description of his home city’s slapdash governing structure.

  He finally explains to her the grim distinction between a man of Blackwing’s high stature and those who claim the title ‘basileus’, outlining the bloody methods through which most claimants to that rank earn and keep their thrones. He doesn’t mention Clearheart by name, but he trusts Owl to make that connection on her own.

  Out of all the threats he’s mentioned or hinted at, the Glassblood mercenaries and their captain pose by far the greatest risk to Owl’s safety. Lamp refrains from stating that point outright, however, as he worries the outlander might distance herself if he openly attacks the only plan she could devise to protect her beloved.

  Hopefully, she’ll realize the futility of that course without his prodding. They haven’t spoken about her intentions since the day they met, so for all Lamp knows, she’s already given up on the forceful approach. It would be a simple thing for him to ask, but it would be equally simple for her to lie, so he doesn’t bother.

  Instead, he concludes his summary of prevailing norms among the gangs’ micro kingdoms and falls silent. He briefly opens his mouth again a few moments later, then closes it without speaking. There was one more subject he had intended to raise, but now that he’s come to it, he finds himself reluctant. Lamp asks himself whether Owl really needs to know about graft thieves. He supposes she would, at least to the same extent as she needed to know about hurricanes and house spiders. All the same, he finds himself without the will to speak.

  His near-victimization is still too recent. Gods’ sake, he was attacked only six nights ago! He hasn’t dedicated any time to work through it yet. In fact, he’s avoided dwelling on the matter as much as possible, even when presented with ample time. That reluctant approach has worked well enough for him so far. Might as well continue.

  Right now, Lamp feels fine. He feels like it didn’t affect him much. However, he’s not sure what emotions would bubble up if he dove into those memories now.

  He’s too tired and stressed to dig through it tonight. Owl can get the rest of her lesson tomorrow; she’s probably tired too, so they could both use a break. With a resigned sigh, Lamp accepts his own argument and surrenders to his weariness.

  “I think I’m about done for the evening.” He states. “Would you like to finish the game?”

  The girl shakes her head. “I do not mind leaving it. I was obviously winning and will accept your forfeit.”

  He laughs but doesn’t argue. The two of them begin packing up the board, its pieces, and the dice. Across the room, the footman hurriedly puts away his yarn and rushes to assist them. They thank the young man as he carries the game set back to its place on the shelf, then rise tiredly from their chairs. Well, Lamp rises tiredly. Owl just stands up. Damn the young and their vigor.

  Lamp dismisses their attendant and bids him goodnight. The young man wishes them a pleasant rest in return before departing towards the street-facing end of the house. The male servants’ quarters are likely located on their current floor and wing, directly above the guest room to which Lamp will soon retire. Since they met no other residents at dinner, the scholar expects to have that space to himself.

  Lamp leads Owl back down the stairs. As they descend, he considers that the continuing storm precludes her from crossing through the garden to reach her room on the opposite side. She’ll either have to make her way along the veranda or pass through the interior rooms. If she goes through the house, however, her route will likely dead-end at Blackwing’s office and bedchamber. Lamp very much doubts they’d find the master’s quarters unlocked, and he’d rather not bother the man over this.

  On paternalistic impulse, he offers to escort the girl around the porch to her side of the building. She accepts, seeming relieved to have a companion with whom to brave the wind and rain. They step outside together, and Lamp takes the outside track as they circuit Blackwing’s garden under the veranda. The storm winds favor them, and thankfully little water blows into their walkway as they rush along it.

  They reach the opposite side without issue, and Lamp starts to see the outworlder off, expecting her to hurry inside to dryer conditions. She surprises him by lingering at the door, where she asks him to pray with her again before they separate. The scholar obliges tiredly, but without annoyance.

  “Hail to all the gods. We offer thanks and beg forbearance. May Mother protect us in our weakness. May Regent correct us for our failings. May Mirror show us all we are and may become. May Artisan hone our skills and lead us to wealth. May Wayward shepherd us in our travels and sing to us his songs of freedom.” Lamp takes a deep breath and continues. “I thank you for today’s gifts, and I offer my dreams in gratitude. Bestow upon me restful sleep and restored wisdom. By your care do we endure.”

  Owl adds her own prayer, matching Lamp’s for brevity. Then they wish each other goodnight and part ways.

  The gods must accept his offering, for he dreams of nothing that night.