A dark stone statuette rotates slowly beneath a scholar’s watchful eye. The monstrous figurine depicts a creature with roughly human proportions, grotesquely assembled from a mesh of interwoven arms and hands. In a few, seemingly random locations, stray limbs break free from the body’s central form to writhe about and claw at the air. The figure’s lurching pose suggests the motion of a forward lunge. Near the base of its misshapen head, the imprint of a mouth hangs open in a silent roar.
Sculpted glass fingers click softly against the grim carving as the scholar turns his object of study for a final time. Then, with an unconscious furrowing of his brow, he gently lays the fearsome creature flat upon his crystalline palm and ignites the delicate bones of his hand with a minor exertion of will. The light stored within his glass-hewn graft shines brightly through its transparent casing to illuminate the carving from beneath. The scholar squints against the overbright light for a brief moment before an absent thought dampens the output to a more comfortable glow.
Relaxing his squint and unfurrowing his brow, the thirty-something year old man stares down with a contemplative expression at the strange item balanced in his palm. Fully oblivious to his surroundings, he leans further forward in his wicker chair, stooping over a square wooden table which spans just large enough that it might comfortably seat four people were it not shoved into the corner of a small, windowless room. Instead, it seats two.
The chamber’s only other occupant sits primly in a chair to the scholar’s left, at the table’s sole remaining edge. A clay-bodied oil lamp burns gently at her side, providing an independent and consistent source of illumination for her scribe work. Before her rests a finely crafted papyrus sheet, half-covered in cleanly written script. She presses the drying nib of her reed pen against the tail of an abandoned sentence while observing the scholar with a neutral expression.
The young woman lifts the pen toward her mouth as if to chew it, then taps its end against her chin. The reed produces a dull click as it bounces against warm stone. Vertical striations of dark green jade drape across her lower face, covering her bottom lip, jaw, and neck. The living rock moves like flesh as she speaks.
“Sir.” The scribe prompts her enraptured coworker; when the older man fails to respond, she tries again at louder volume. “Docent Lamphand, may I hear the remainder of your analysis?”
“Just Lamp, please.” The scholar replies, finally looking up. “How long have we known each other? Almost two years? And could you remind me when I stopped speaking?”
She waves at the black statuette with her pen and patiently replies. “You were commenting on its arms.”
“Ah. Thank you, Emerald. I’ll resume my ramblings, then.”
Lamp holds up the figurine and taps a crystal finger against one of the monster’s twenty-seven fully defined arms. As he continues speaking, the young woman transcribes a condensed summation of his words.
“The limbs seem to sprout from its body like branches from a tree. Some of them even grow as secondary or tertiary extensions from the primary shoots. Most interestingly, you can see three isolated arms growing directly from the terrain at the figure’s base, suggesting this creature can either conjure its appendages at range or burrow them underground like roots.”
Lamp gently sets the statuette on the table but keeps his graft active to see it better. After a pause, he continues.
“It’s difficult to judge through the mess of arms, but I think the sculptor tried to indicate a womanly silhouette for the central body. The limbs themselves also appear somewhat feminine to my eye, or at least slender. If the creature is female, then I believe we’ve encountered references to her in prior readings. This could be our first visual representation for the Icon of Manslaughter.”
Emerald nods in recognition without looking up from her page. Lamp waits for the scribe to finish writing. When her pen falls silent, he gently taps the black idol with a glass finger and listens attentively to the clink.
“Lastly, the material. The figure appears to be carved from black quartz. That stone, to my knowledge, is found nowhere inside the caldera or even on the rim. I have, however, heard recent rumors of a silver mine located somewhere in the wasteland that also produces black topaz. If I recall correctly, topaz, silver, and quartz may all be found in granite, so the base material might have come from that site. Of course, my supposition only holds true if this piece is of both local manufacture and fairly recent origin.”
Across the table, Emerald scribbles down everything he says, or at least an abbreviation of it. After a few moments, she lifts her pin and looks up at him expectantly. In response, Lamp hands the figurine back to her. She accepts the item in one hand while pushing her notes out of the way with the other. Then she lifts her satchel from the floor, retrieves a small wooden box lined with cloth padding, and carefully tucks away the statuette.
Lamp briefly hopes she’ll pull another object from the bag, but instead she stows her notes and closes the flap. It appears their work has concluded for the day. That’s a pity. Lamp had wanted to crack another translation. Feeling slightly disappointed but overall content, the scholar pushes his chair back from the table and all but jumps to his feet. He indulges his stiff body with a few minor stretches while waiting for his partner to stand.
“Are we meeting again next month?” He asks the young woman as she exits her seat with considerably more grace and composure than he had bothered to attempt himself.
She shrugs in response to his question. “We’ve processed every item stored onsite, so our schedule will depend on what we receive from the excavation. If there’s no need for the next regular meeting, we’ll send you a cancellation notice at least a week in advance.”
When Emerald mentions “the excavation” the corner of Lamp’s mouth twitches, but he stifles his reaction before it can grow. Instead of smirking or shaking his head, he simply nods along in feigned belief.
The scholar knows his clients are lying, and by now they must appreciate that he’s intelligent enough to realize it, but the accusation remains unspoken. Lamp can easily pretend that every artifact he examines was plucked from the ancient, half-buried ruins of a city discovered by chance on some hitherto-unexplored island. Never mind that some of the objects Emerald brings him were clearly painted less than a month ago, and that none of her supposedly-ancient relics resemble the old-world artifacts he saw back in his cult years.
Despite his silence, Lamp can’t help but speculate, and he can only imagine two plausible motives for the ruse. Firstly, that his anonymous clients are using him to screen and legitimize a trove of counterfeits for sale to gullible collectors. Or, second and more striking, that they’ve made contact with another world-tile and want to keep that massive revelation to themselves. Lamp isn’t certain which outcome would annoy him most, but learning the truth of either might get him killed, so he’s willing to play along.
Or he was, at least. Lately he’s started getting bold.
“Has the boss declined my latest request for a personal copy of your notes?” He asks.
“He did, unless you’ve reconsidered our offer for a transfer?”
That’s the answer Lamp expected, so it hardly stings. He opens his mouth to decline Emerald’s counter-proposal, responding mostly by reflex, but something makes him hesitate. Lamp realizes, numbly, that this is the first offer tendered since he passed the second anniversary of his… change in lifestyle.
The scholar shuts his mouth and pauses to think. He unconsciously taps his right thumb against its adjacent index finger. The twitch produces a dull clink. He barely notices the noise as he weighs Emerald’s offer, considering the proposition more seriously than during any prior meeting. After a few moments of internal struggle, he reverts to his usual caution.
“That depends.” He answers. “Are you ready to tell me who we work for?”
“No.” Emerald shakes her head with a small frown. “I’m still not authorized to divulge that in advance.”
“Then I suppose our respective positions haven’t changed.”
She nods in agreement and plucks up her oil lamp, which the scholar takes as his queue to get the door. He leads their way out through the room’s only exit, and the two of them step into a narrow hallway. Thin, vertical slits on the outer wall admit enough light for the scribe to extinguish her burning wick with a quick puff of air. Once that’s done, she looks up with a politely impersonal smile.
“Thank you for your time, Lamp.”
“Likewise, Emerald. Please take care on your walk home.”
“I will, and you also.”
They share a nod then turn opposite ways down the hall. Emerald takes their work with her, entrusting Lamp with the possession of nothing besides his memories of secrets he can’t share, findings he can’t publish, and credit he can’t claim.
Well. To be fair, he has both the memories and a good bit of money. At least rent isn’t an issue for him anymore. That’s probably worth the smothering of his only meaningful legacy.
At any rate, there’s nothing he can do about the policy of secrecy. His anonymous employer is clearly someone powerful, rich, and paranoid. Lamp doesn’t want to make an enemy of such a person, so he’ll stay well inside the lines they drew up in his contract. He does hope, however, that his contributions are attributed to him in the organization’s private records.
So long as his work is properly credited, the world might someday understand and appreciate the little bit of good he did for it. No one would sing his praises in the streets, of course, but it would be nice to have his name listed somewhere in the citations and footnotes of future treatises. Lamp smiles ruefully at the unambitious thought and pushes the matter from his mind.
His measured pace soon brings him to the building’s exit, and, after exchanging nods with the watchman, he pushes the door open and steps out onto a brick-paved street. The afternoon sun shines warmly through humid air, but a brisk sea breeze offsets the late day heat. Lamp pauses for a moment to enjoy the salt-scented wind. A deep inhalation transforms into a yawn, and he raises a forearm to cover his mouth.
It’s a cumbersome gesture. Lamp would normally prefer to use his hand for this, regardless of its unfavorable opacity, but the office he just exited happens to sit in one of his city’s most esteemed neighborhoods. Lamp would hate to seem like a ruffian, traipsing about on their fine streets and yawning everywhere without the decency to fully obscure his mouth from high society’s view.
He could never be so debauched.
With a private and short-lived smile, Lamp turns down the clean-swept avenue and begins walking home. The sunlit stroll quickly elevates his mood, and he decides on impulse to spend a little more time drinking in the day. At the next intersection, he detours towards the beach. Walking home along the seafront will make for a less efficient path, but there’s nowhere else he needs to be tonight. He can take an hour to enjoy his afternoon.
As Lamp walks downhill, he pulls sunlight into his grafts to replenish what he expended during the workday. His translucent bones flash black, and the surrounding air darkens slightly to create little pockets of gloom. The effect draws a few idle glances from passersby, but of course no one cares enough to stare. Lamp deactivates his magic less than a minute later, restoring his hands to their default appearance.
Despite his initial intentions of a leisurely stroll, Lamp finds himself maintaining a purposeful stride that quickly brings him near the waterfront. As the elevation lowers and the smell of salt grows stronger, the district metamorphosizes around him. Fine stone houses with their beautiful courtyard gardens gradually transition into more modest assemblages of brick. A few minutes later, brick is joined by wood.
Despite the declining wealth of each subsequent subdivision, the boulevard itself retains a high-class quality. Lamp would see a more pronounced decline in standards if he traveled just a block in either direction, but the road he chose for his afternoon stroll serves as the main route linking the docks and their imports to a community of high paying customers. Consequently, trip hazards such as mud puddles or broken pavers cannot be tolerated, lest they induce expensive falls.
Naturally, the porters for whom this road is so carefully maintained comprise a minority of its traffic. Most pedestrians are either commuters like Lamp or customers on their way to visit the throng of merchant stalls that line the lower section of the avenue. The first examples of those humble little shops already dot the wayside, and it doesn’t take much longer before Lamp begins to see them everywhere.
At that point, the steady flow of foot traffic which he had followed downhill rapidly condenses into a crowd. The sudden press of bodies slows Lamp’s progress, but not by much. With a sense of timing honed by decades of experience, he deftly weaves his way between stately palanquins, over-laden carts, and the implausibly massive backpacks of obvious weight-binders.
He takes care to avoid bumping into workers, preemptively sidesteps potential thieves, and gives a wide berth to the most obviously wealthy visitors, acting less out of deference than caution. Most of all, he tries to avoid the Glassblood guards.
Their red-and-gray patterned uniforms make them easy to pick out among the crowd, as do their large and ostentatious grafts. The puffed-up soldiers of fortune meander through the avenue and its surrounding alleyways in leisurely patrols, exchanging pleasantries with the well-to-do and keeping a watchful eye on everyone else. Lamp checks their positions periodically but restrains himself from staring, lest he seem suspicious.
The scholar fully understands that his worries are overblown. He knows these foot patrols mostly serve as a deterrent, and he expects no real trouble from them. Despite that, he can’t lay eyes on a Glassblood mercenary without dredging up painful memories.
The sight of them pokes at his oldest wound, a mental scar inflicted by the week-long war in which their leader claimed this territory from its former master. Most of the company’s current rank-and-file look too young to have participated in that fight, but they still take their orders from veterans who did, so Lamp feels disinclined to extend his trust.
As a minor consolation, at least the flaxen-haired monster herself isn’t present today. Lamp took a long detour the last time he spotted Clearheart on this street, and he’s prepared to do so again. For all that she cultivates an atmosphere of peace and welcome within her district, and in spite of how long that atmosphere has persevered, he still doesn’t trust the woman. Some childhood fears never fade.
Lamp breathes easier once he finally reaches the waterfront and breaks away from the main thoroughfare. He maintains a brisk stride until the busiest cluster of docks falls behind him, then slows his pace to the leisurely walk he had imagined when setting out. With a restored calm, the scholar begins his stroll along the seawall, relishing the sensations of wind and sun once more.
Seeking distraction, he turns his head toward the bay and attends to the haphazard fleet of fishing vessels and merchant ships therein. Innumerable boats of endless variety bob gently in the harbor’s sheltered water, attracting seagulls whenever they pull a fish from the waves or throw waste over the side.
Their drifting dance seems serenely intricate from the shore, but even through appreciative eyes, the boats can only hold his attention so long. Eventually, Lamp moves his gaze from the water of the bay to its curving coastline. His city hugs the edge of a crescent-shaped inlet, and his current position offers a beautiful view of the opposite bank. He recognizes a scant few locations he’s visited over the years, but most of that vista only seems familiar from a distance. There are some zones he would never dare to visit, some districts he’s no longer allowed to enter, and several boroughs outside those categories which he simply hasn’t made the time to see.
Lamp reflects that, despite having lived in this city all his life, he’s walked through less than half of it. Recently, he hasn’t traveled anywhere beyond four locations: his house, his market, the manor in which he tutors his clients’ children, and the office where he meets Emerald to examine her monthly handful of curios. That static tendency hasn’t troubled him much over the past few weeks, but maybe it ought to.
On a sudden surge of whimsy, the scholar begins concocting rough plans for a relaxed day trip, giving little consideration to effort or expense. Entertaining idle fantasies of vineyard tours and fishing trips, he strolls carelessly along until a stone border-idol crosses his peripheral sight. The windworn, salt-pocked bust of a faceless, hooded figure returns his thoughts to the present with the realization that he’s almost home.
Taking note of the sun’s position, he considers his schedule for the remainder of the afternoon. He has tomorrow off from his main job, and with no lectures to deliver or debates to judge in the morning, his options for tonight are wide open. He might as well get-
“Help!”
A startled cry breaks Lamp’s concentration. He thinks it came from behind and to his left, beyond the seawall and likely under one of the piers. The voice sounded male and old, though it’s difficult to judge from just one word. For a moment, Lamp stands frozen, caught by indecision as he weighs compassion against prudence. In the very next heartbeat, he finds his body moving.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The scholar clambers down from the sea wall to the beach. The familiar descent isn’t quite as easy or as smooth as it used to be in his younger years, but he still knows the right technique, and he manages to find his footing in the sand without injuring or embarrassing himself. From that vantage, he can finally see what’s going on.
Under the shade of a nearby pier, he spies six young men standing around a hunched and disheveled figure. The late-adolescents taunt their apparent victim as he weakly pleads for them to let him go. Having witnessed more than enough, Lamp commits to his choice and calls for their attention.
“Bold of you to do this in broad daylight!” He shouts with a false bravado.
All eyes turn to him, and he pushes down his fear before it shows. Remaining under the sun and within view of the public, he points towards the old man cowering in the sand.
“Whatever lesson you were trying to teach him, I think he’s learned it! Let him go before someone crosses a line.”
The six bullies assess Lamp with varied expressions. Three of them seem wary, two look confused, and the last one smirks but remains silent. None of the six offer an immediate response, and none step aside to let their captive escape.
Lamp’s options at this point are limited. He could shine a bright light in their eyes to make them uncomfortable, but that would give away his energy-type and thereby weaken his bluff. For now, the youths don’t know what nature of power he commands, and, with his himation draped to cover his left arm above the wrist, they also can’t judge the true size of his grafts.
The ruffians can safely assume that Lamp isn’t a magical heavyweight, else they would have recognized him. However, he can still present himself as a credible threat. A middling graft wielded by a determined opponent could cause this gang a lot of pain, so now they have to calculate whether their twisted fun is worth starting a real fight. The only question is whether the boys take their challenger seriously.
The quality of Lamp’s clothing works to his advantage in the mind game. Both he and the old man he’s attempting to rescue are lucky this altercation occurred today, because the scholar always dresses up for his archeological gig.
From a distance, the vibrant madder-dyed red of his himation wrap passes for a far more expensive kermes scarlet. That color suggests a wealth he doesn’t actually possess, and his illusory refinement carries implications. If he’s well-off but walking around without a bodyguard, then he must be either strong or crazy, right? Either way, he’s probably dangerous.
Lamp’s fairly confident of his opening psychological edge, but it won’t hold long. The faster he resolves this situation and disengages, the less scrutiny his fa?ade will need to endure. Thankfully, the old man finally spots his moment and springs away through a gap in his encirclement. One of his tormentors tries to trip the vagrant as he makes a hobbling dash for freedom, but the rest of them permit his escape without protest.
All eyes then return to Lamp. The two confused-looking thugs glance towards the smirking one, and their apparent leader shakes his head in response. His keen eyes never leave Lamp’s face, and his expression seems too knowing. Lamp doesn’t like the look of that boy, so he figures it’s time to make his own escape. Not wanting to chance a footrace through the sand against six youthful opponents, he decides to exit like he entered.
“Well done!” He calls to them with insincere approval. “May the gods grant you mercy as you have bestowed it to others!”
Hoping to pass himself off as a priest, he recites a phrase in the old tongue and draws a holy symbol in the air with perfect form. Even the boldest gangs tend not to cause trouble for the cult, so this added layer of bluff gives them another reason to let him go. Now he needs to make good on that illusion before they realize he’s wearing the wrong color.
Lamp calmly turns around as if he’s unconcerned by the gang’s response, then casually walks away. Rather than climbing back up the seawall, he heads for the nearest stairway up. He doesn’t hear anyone pursuing him, so his tension gradually declines until he finally climbs back up to street level and resumes his journey home.
He likewise hadn’t heard the young men chasing after the old transient, so the situation seems neatly resolved. Given how easily the group gave up, they might actually have been close to abandoning their brutish sport before he intervened. Lamp won’t count his actions as a waste, however. Even if he only prevented a moderate amount of pain or humiliation, that’s still a good deed done.
Now then, what was he thinking about before that interruption? Ah. He had been trying to plan the rest of his day. He was considering an outing, but after the excitement of his brief detour, he just wants to get home and rest. He can have his night of revelry some other evening.
The rest of Lamp’s seaside walk passes far more pleasantly, and soon enough the placid stroll leads him back into his own part of town. It’s a significantly cheaper neighborhood than he’d find around either of his workplaces, and it smells a lot better than most other districts in its price range. It isn’t fully odorless, of course, but the mild stench is tolerable.
As an additional point in its favor, this region has no true equivalent to the Glassbloods. In place of ostentatiously uniformed mercenaries, charcoal graffiti proclaims this territory’s ownership. Crudely drawn portraits of Bronzemane, better-drawn depictions of his personal crest, and a few stylized spellings of his name intermingle with a myriad of other tags and images. Some of those markings are older than Lamp, refreshed as needed by the local youth in a quaint display of hoodlum tradition. He’s not sure anyone knows what all of them mean.
Observations and musings of a similar nature distract him for the short remainder of his journey. Not long after, the stroll finally reaches its conclusion, and Lamp finds himself climbing the narrow stairs of his crowded and cacophonous dormitory. He greets his neighbors, whom he knows to various degrees, and avoids interacting with the roving packs of playing children.
Reaching his door with only minor inconvenience, Lamp quietly admits himself into his cramped and empty home. He quickly scans the single room to verify that no one stole anything while he was out, and he’s relieved to find all his furniture and loose possessions still lying where he left them. Most importantly, the shelf he uses as his larder remains just as well-stocked as it was this morning.
Feeling hungry, Lamp unwraps his himation then gets to work preparing an early dinner. His pantry contains slightly too few ingredients, just enough cookware, and precisely twice as many dishes as he needs. His least-used spares have gathered dust again, but he can’t be bothered to clean them tonight.
Wearing only his chiton, Lamp ducks back downstairs to utilize the shared kitchen. Having long neglected his study of culinary art, he only knows a few quick and simple recipes, the benefit of which is that it never takes him very long to produce a meal. Once it’s ready, he hurries back to his room, serves himself a modest portion, stows the rest in a pot for tomorrow’s breakfast, then settles at his table to eat alone.
After the first bite, he nods in satisfaction. The quality has noticeably improved over this past year, and it’s dramatically better than anything he could produce when he started cooking a little more than two years back. He has this whole thing figured out.
The scholar contentedly chews a second mouthful and makes an effort to relax in the limited silence of an empty room with too-thin walls and over-loud neighbors. Muted shouts and laughter drift in from the adjacent units in a ceaseless chorus of domestic noise.
Juxtaposed against those sounds, the silence hanging in the air of Lamp’s small and sparse apartment feels increasingly lifeless. By the time he finishes eating, the quiet has grown far too sullen. So, with a sign, he decides he will go back out after all.
That leaves the question. What shall he do this evening?
Brothels remain out of the question for as long as he retains any degree of self-respect, but a bar might do the trick. Lamp can’t remember how long it’s been since he last went out drinking. After a moment of contemplation, he decides to keep the streak going. One night’s indulgence could easily become every night’s vice, and he’s seen where that leads.
A new thought occurs. Rather than wasting the night numbing his mind, why not do something to enrich it? He knows just the place, too. Selecting that destination will subject him to another long walk, but it’s really not that far, and he knows the area fairly well. It will be good for him.
Mind made up, Lamp washes his dishes, wraps himself in an older and less colorful cloak, then heads back downstairs again. He bids farewell to a few people in passing but doesn’t mention his plans or ask for theirs. Then he’s back out on the street.
With more than an hour remaining before sunset, Lamp begins the trek uphill. Every few blocks, the character of the city changes slightly. Each little community manages its own repairs, handles its own waste disposal, and replaces its own paving. Half of those neighborhoods barely seem to bother looking after themselves, but it’s nothing a little rain and a few days of work couldn’t fix. Bronzemane wouldn’t let any section of his territory get too rundown, after all.
As for the people who dwell in this part of town, they walk quickly and avoid eye contact with strangers. Lamp does the same. Nobody causes trouble for anyone else, and he nears his destination without issue. The sky begins to darken by the time he’s getting close, the walk having taken a little longer than he remembered. Even if he turned around now and went directly home, there’s little chance he’d reach his apartment before nightfall. Lucky, then, that he carries his daylight with him.
Continuing onward is an easy choice. Lamp crosses a few more intersections, rounds one final corner, and at last slows his pace as he arrives.
With a pleasant mix of reverence and nostalgia, he approaches the curving, carved-stone walls of an ancient, windworn ruin. This sprawling, single-story, roofless structure proudly stands between two rows of much taller brick apartments. The ruin’s vaguely circular footprint interrupts the course of multiple streets and alleys, although a few wide holes blasted through its edifice prove that right-of-way isn’t always yielded.
Despite its long neglect, its injuries, and its primitive constriction, the complex still impresses with its rigid strength. The rough fa?ade almost seems to beckon Lamp with whispered promises of lost and unknowable history. He gladly obliges that invitation.
Disdaining the modern, destructive openings, Lamp crosses through one of the ruin’s original sculpted archways and steps inside with a sense of fond familiarity. He resists the urge to trace his fingers along the stone, fearing that he might scratch its already weathered surface. His restraint is patently futile; other visitors to this place have already shown it far less concern. Most of the ruin’s edifice is marred by etchings and charcoal marks.
Lamp skims disapproving eyes over affirmations of love, vulgar insults, and declarations of allegiance to leaders long since dead. He ‘tsks’ at the vandalism. Few in this city treat their common history with the respect it’s due. He can only assume they don’t understand what they’re defacing.
This compound is one of the few old-world structures left standing on the isle. There are a handful of others like it deeper inland, hidden beneath the cool mists and canopies of the temperate jungle, but most of the accessible sites along the coast were dismantled long ago so that their stones could be reused for modern projects.
This old building was spared that fate largely because it isn’t worth the effort required to deconstruct it. Rather than a stacked assemblage of rocks, the complex was carved as a single piece from the stone of a hilltop it no longer occupies. The ruin would have lain at the bottom of an excavated pit for most of its history, until the rupture plucked it from the earth and dropped it in a new location along with all of its terrified inhabitants.
The site’s history after that point is a sad story of slow abandonment. In the dawning years of the new age, it served as a shelter and a storehouse. Two generations or so afterwards, once settlers had constructed enough surrounding infrastructure, the ruin was repurposed as an early center of worship, potentially returning the building to its original, unconfirmed purpose. The complex maintained that role for more than a century afterwards, but Its significance gradually diminished as grander temples were erected elsewhere around the bay. The last official rituals were held about a hundred fifty years ago.
Lamp was never able to get a straight answer as to precisely when or how the site was fully abandoned by the cult, but he knows that local gangs started using this location for their initiation ceremonies around the start of the current century. The formerly-sacred ground must have lent an air of consecration to their blood oaths. In a bittersweet twist, even that profane tradition died out a few decades back when Bronzemane’s predecessor took over the area.
These days, the ruins are used for nothing. It’s just a place to write your name and toss your refuse, and even the homeless have better places to sleep. Lamp shakes his head in scornful dejection. What a mess humans make of their own heritage.
And what a mess he’s making of his own mood. He didn’t come out here to rant at himself. The scholar shakes his head again in a self-directed rebuke and draws in a slow breath. Then, to compensate for the darkening sky, he activates his graft. Navigating by the dim glow, he turns through a doorway that he remembers leading into a larger chamber. It was probably used-
The scholar stops dead. He hears a voice.
“I told you it wasn’t anything to worry about.” A young man says snidely.
Lamp can’t see the speaker, but now that he’s paying attention, he notices the soft rasp of multiple footfalls. A group of friends must have come here to explore the ruin after dark, probably as a test of courage. Lamp doesn’t mind sharing the space, he just hopes they don’t plan to chisel any new messages into the rock.
He hears one of them stumble and curse softly.
“How old is this thing?” Another voice asks.
“At least seven centuries!” Lamp calls back helpfully. “Though it’s likely far older. These rooms were carved from bedrock with stone tools, which the ancients had largely stopped employing on large infrastructure projects by the time of the first revelation. As I just alluded, this complex was actually underground prior to-”
His lecture falters as the boys walk around a corner and enter his view. After a moment of confused familiarity, Lamp recognizes them as the same gang of adolescents he encountered on his walk home. That realization drains the blood from his face. What are they doing here?
Their evident leader, the smug one with keen eyes, chuckles at Lamp’s expression.
“What are the odds, huh?” He asks with a mocking tone.
Lamp answers with as much confidence as he can fake. “Paltry, unless you followed me.”
“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”
The gang leader pulls a thin reed pipe from a pouch on his belt and holds it out toward one of his subordinates. The lackey pinches two cobalt-plated fingertips above the bowl, and a bright spark starts the leaves burning.
The leader takes the stem between his lips and pulls in a deep breath of smoke. He holds it in his lungs for a long pause, delaying the exhale. Lamp starts to back away during the silence, and the other thugs quietly fan out to begin encircling him. That won’t do.
“Well,” the scholar says with false cheer, “it was lovely running into all of you again, but the hour is late, and I need to be going. Enjoy your tour.”
Their leader exhales a pale cloud when he speaks. “No use hiding your fear behind that mask, friend. I can taste it in the air.”
Lamp immediately understands the implication. This melodramatic young man has a fear graft, like Clearheart. That must be the reason this group was harassing a homeless man under the pier; their leader wanted energy to fill his reserves.
Is he burning that fuel now? Lamp can’t tell whether the emotions he’s feeling go beyond natural terror.
If these bullies are playing the same game they were engaged in at the beach, they might let their victim escape once they’ve heightened his emotions long enough. In that case, should Lamp play along? Pride doesn’t matter here. He just wants to go home without injury.
As Lamp considers whether to run or cower, the gang leader slips a hand under his hunter’s cloak and draws a long knife from a concealed wooden sheath. The ruffian then waves his bronze blade through the air in a sloppy pattern, and Lamp recognizes a crude imitation of the same holy symbol he drew for them that afternoon.
“Back on the beach,” the leader speaks in a casual tone, “while you were drawing fancy symbols in our faces, your left sleeve rode up a bit, and I happened to notice that both your grafts end at the wrist.”
He pauses for another long pull on his pipe. His eyes, faintly lit by the smoldering leaf, display a cunning sadism. Despite the malice in his gaze, he continues speaking in the same lackadaisical manner.
“Do you happen to know how rare it is to find a matching set of grafts that perfectly replace both hands?” He asks nonchalantly. “You have any idea what those can fetch at market?”
Whatever blood was left in Lamp’s face drops down into his racing heart. That question was about the worst thing the gang leader could have uttered. Lamp answers in a voice that he can no longer manage to hold steady.
“Bronzemane forbids graft theft on penalty of death. You won’t enjoy your profits long.”
The thug offers him a smile sharper than his knife. “And how’s he gonna know? Who’s gonna tell ‘im?”
The young man takes a step forward. From the sneer on his face, and from every horrible thing he’s said thus far, it’s obvious that this situation won’t end with Lamp going home. That leaves the scholar with only one option, so he stops hesitating to use it.
Lamp shuts his eyes and flares all the light trapped in his right hand. For a brief moment, the dark room burns bright as the noonday sun. The thugs shout in surprise at the sudden burst, and Lamp takes advantage of their blindness to break and run.
He hears them cursing and stumbling after him even as they struggle to see through the restored darkness. His mind can’t focus on the words, but their angered and determined voices promise him they won’t give up on account of one interruption. Lamp needs to cut their line of sight and disappear. If they catch him, they will kill him, and if he doesn’t shake them soon, he will be caught.
Lamp sprints out of the ruin and rushes down the city streets. He had hoped to find other people around to help, or at least a crowd for him to blend with, but he’s not that lucky. This is a neighborhood too poor to afford public way-lighters, so its foot traffic disappeared with the sun. People are probably still awake all around him, but they won’t step outside their homes to get involved in a stranger’s problem.
So, he runs. Lamp sprints for all he’s worth, darting down alleyways to break sightlines and making as little sound as possible without compromising speed. For a brief window of time, he entertains a fantasy of escape. It doesn’t last.
The six men pursuing him are all younger, and some of them have longer legs. The scholar soon hears a pair of rapid footsteps catching up behind him, and he prepares to flare his other graft, but he mistimes the moment. Before he can blind his pursuers, one of the boys tackles him and drives their bodies to the ground.
Lamp frantically hopes the thug who crashed into him isn’t the one with a knife. His only option is to hope, because he doesn’t know if his body would feel a stab wound through all the panic. It might not matter either way. His frantic struggles aren’t making any progress to break himself free.
“Help!” He shouts into the merciless night. “Graft hunters!”
The young mugger on his back laughs with cruel humor. “No one’s comin’ outside after hearing that!”
Lamp doesn’t bother shouting again; he knows the bastard’s right. No one would take that risk to save a stranger.
He mutters a brief prayer to the Mother in vain hope of divine salvation, but when he hears approaching footfalls, he knows better than to hope for rescue. It’s just the other thugs catching up with their faster friend. One by one, the boys gather around, breathing heavily but still finding enough air to make insults and threats. One of them even tries to stamp on Lamp’s hand before their leader slaps the idiot away.
“Don’t fucking touch the merchandise!” He castigates. “Do you understand how valuable-”
“Excuse me.” A smooth, deep, commanding male voice cuts through the noise from further down the alley. “I have business with that man on the ground. Leave us.”
The gang leader draws his knife again and angrily turns to face the interloper. “This is Bronzemane work. Who the fuck are you?”
“A man with a tight schedule and no patience for repetition.” The stranger answers coldly. “You need to leave. Now.”
The leader steps forward aggressively. “I don’t need-”
A long black arm rises swiftly from the shadows and taps a clawed finger to the hoodlum’s chest. At the very moment of contact, the graft hunter’s body instantly slams into the ground. He collapses flat in the blink of an eye, crumpling into the dirt as if he’d fallen there from a great height. The crunch of shattering bones, the wet thump of contorted flesh, and the sudden wellspring of blood bubbling out from his misshapen skull communicate to the onlookers that he isn’t getting up again.
The gang’s bravado evaporates. Without a word exchanged, each boy turns and runs. Lamp almost scrambles to follow them out of the same fear, but a blend of hope and fatalism holds him in place. Instead of wasting his time trying to get away, he rolls onto his back and props himself up into a sitting position.
“Can I help you?” He asks uncertainly while bracing his hand against the wall and rising to his feet.
“I hope so, Lamphand.” The smooth voice answers him. “I’m the anonymous client you’ve been working for these past few years. I’ve come to make my recruiting pitch in person. I’ll pay ten times what I offered previously, but I need you to leave with me tonight.”
