The dark-skinned stranger steps with apparent indifference over the gang leader’s broken corpse. Once beyond that obstacle, he stops at a respectful distance and lifts an outwardly human right hand to chest height. His asymmetrical chlamys cloak, which he wears over the right shoulder, slips down his forearm but leaves the upper limb obscured.

  The stranger draws a sign of greeting in the air, after the manner of priests. To Lamp’s trained eye, his gestures seem precise but stiff, indicating a moderate degree of practice without true familiarity. An educated layman, then.

  The tall man, once finished, holds his final pose for a few seconds. Perhaps he’s waiting for the scholar to respond in kind, but Lamp can’t manage to react. His heart still races from the effort and terror of the chase, and his mind hasn’t settled into anything remotely resembling a state of calm. He isn’t at all prepared to engage in social niceties, especially not in the custom of an institution he forsook a decade prior.

  Thankfully, the stranger seems unconcerned by Lamp’s lapse in etiquette. With an unwavering expression, he drops his arm and opens his mouth. The first syllable of a word begins forming on his tongue, but the sound cuts short when Lamp makes a sudden, brash decision.

  The scholar shoves out his own arm with an abrupt lurch, not to return the sign of greeting, but in an obvious bid to clasp hands. That simple motion disrupts the stranger’s concentration, forestalling whatever explanation he was about to initiate and forcing him to pause. However many scenarios the other man had in mind for their meeting, he won’t have predicted this response.

  The boundaries of their respective stations impose a taboo against physical contact, one that exists to protect the social inferior. Old customs of hospitality dictate that a person whose touch might kill should never reach out towards any stranger unable to return that threat. If the other man had made this gesture towards Lamp, it would have constituted a blatant act of rudeness and intimidation. However, when presented by the weaker party, an offered handshake signifies either complete trust or bold irreverence.

  Whichever attitude the stranger infers, he at least won’t view Lamp as frightened and helpless. That false front should provide an advantage in whatever dialogue follows, and maybe the scholar can sell the same lie to himself while he’s at it.

  Lamp holds the other man’s eyes with as much confidence as he can muster, taking care not to convey any appearance of hostility. The stranger, to his credit, recovers quickly and smoothly responds to the provocation. He steps forward, accepts the offered hand in a firm grip, and pumps the scholar’s arm twice before releasing him. Lamp feels an immense relief when they break contact, which he tries not to show on his face.

  Oblivious to Lamp’s suppressed panic, hopefully, the tall man takes a step back to reestablish a more polite distance. Then he gestures down the alley, away from the contorted, dripping remains of the young criminal.

  “Shall we move a street over before exchanging introductions?” He asks in a conversational tone.

  “Yes.” Lamp agrees with conviction. “Let’s.”

  Although tonight wasn’t his first time witnessing a violent death, Lamp isn’t so inured to the proximity of corpses that he can calmly discuss job offers while a dead body lingers in his peripheral vision. Granted, he isn’t any more accustomed to bargaining with a recruiter in the immediate aftermath of an attempt on his life, but circumstances dictate, he supposes.

  In any case, when the stranger nods and walks away, Lamp trails him almost by reflex. Together, they follow the alley to its terminus before crossing a wider street and stepping into a similarly narrow lane on the far side. This space feels no less claustrophobic than the one they just departed, but at least the scent of blood no longer taints the air.

  Evidently satisfied with their new location, the tall man stops and turns. He speaks his next words softly, perhaps concerned by the threat of eavesdroppers lurking on the interior of the alley’s windowless brick walls.

  “My name,” the former-stranger reveals, “is Blackwing. I lead a merchant company which specializes in luxury goods and rare antiques. Roughly two years ago, one of our dig sites uncovered a trove of unusual relics, most of which I have forwarded to you.”

  Lamp nods, recognizing the other man’s identity at last; he’s heard of the so-called merchant prince. Purveyor of the finest goods and commander to the third largest trade fleet currently at sail, his ships deliver jewelry, silks, porcelain, perfume, and gourmet seasonings at numerous ports throughout the southern caldera. Bigshots don’t get much bigger than this one, which makes their ensuing conversation a delicate affair; not only does this man have the power to kill Lamp, he could also make him unhireable.

  As an upside, Blackwing definitely has pockets deep enough to fulfill his promise of a tenfold pay raise, and that amount of money makes this a conversation worth entertaining, regardless of how strongly Lamp just wants to go home. Before moving on to business, though, he owes his rescuer a belated word of gratitude.

  “Thank you for saving me from the graft hunters, Blackwing.” He states earnestly. “I appreciated your timing.”

  The merchant nods. “You’re welcome. Are you injured?”

  “No.” Lamp answers after glancing down at his remarkably un-stabbed body. “I think I mostly got through all that unscathed. Just a few scrapes, stains, and bruises.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yeah…” His voice trails off as an overdue thought finally occurs. “Say, how did you find me?”

  He speaks the inquiry in a consciously respectful tone, withholding all suspicion from his voice.

  Now that Lamp considers it, Blackwing had arrived from nowhere at the last possible moment, swooping in to play hero just before the thugs could inflict mutilation and murder. That timing was either a miraculous coincidence or a staged performance, and Lamp’s sudden bout of stress-induced paranoia loudly insists upon the latter case. Nonetheless, he doubts himself even as he awaits his answer.

  If that whole ordeal was just a show, then what value did it provide? Why would one of the richest merchants in post-rupture history go through the effort to enlist and then suborn a disposable pack of thugs? Would he really trouble himself like that just to orchestrate a scenario that would make Lamp feel indebted?

  No. Even considering that Lamp turned down Emerald’s previous recruitment offers, it doesn’t make sense for Blackwing’s next resort to be anything aside from a face-to-face meeting and an offered pay raise. Dissatisfied with his own conspiracy, Lamp mentally sets it aside even as his rescuer finally responds. The merchant had paused a moment before answering, yet his voice betrays no hesitancy when he replies.

  “I saw your flare from above, then followed the shouting. As for why I was nearby: one of your neighbors told me you had left before sunset, and Emerald guessed you might have visited the nearest rupture arc.”

  “Oh. I suppose that makes… Wait. You went to my apartment?” That detail abruptly rekindles Lamp’s concerns. “I remember telling Emerald about the old ruin a while back, but I’m certain I never volunteered my personal address. How did the two of you know where I live?”

  “Emerald followed you home.” Blackwing answers without hesitation or shame. “She tailed you after your initial meeting, in case we ever needed to search your apartment for stolen artifacts or illicit records.”

  “She followed- That’s- She’s supposed to be a scribe!” Lamp sputters, his voice rising. “Who have you-”

  The merchant raises his human hand in a forestalling gesture. “No agent from my association has ever set foot inside your apartment, and we never surveilled again you after the first instance.”

  “Oh? Was it a one-time thing? That makes it perfectly ethical!”

  He knows it’s reckless to talk so flippantly. Speaking blame to power’s face is a dangerous activity, and naked scorn tends to worsen the consequences. Indignation and frayed nerves overrode Lamp’s sense of self-preservation, however. Fortunately, the merchant prince accepts his sass with aplomb and even nods his head in acknowledgement of the point.

  “I apologize for the breach of trust.” He answers. “We hired you shortly after uncovering the first relics, and I feared potential leaks. We were overzealous in our attempts to protect the discovery. I beg forgiveness for the intrusion.”

  Lamp can’t offer a polite answer to that statement in his current mood, so he holds his tongue. After an awkward moment of silence, Blackwing progresses the conversation.

  “You’ve had a difficult night, and I know I’m only adding stress, but I can compensate you for the disruption. If you’re willing to accompany me to the harbor, I have an artifact aboard my ship that I would like you to examine before you decide on my long-term proposal. I’ll pay double our usual rate for your time this evening.”

  Double? That offer gives Lamp pause. For these past two years, the monthly payments from his second job have held the scholar out of poverty and debt. Earning twice his usual pay on the same day as one of his normal sessions would net a hefty sum of money, and Lamp can use those funds to relocate to another district. That’s a task he’ll need to accomplish promptly, because if graft butchers stalked him from the beach to the ruin, then they’ve seen where he lives.

  Even though this situation doesn’t feel right, the payout seems like too much to turn down.

  “... Maybe.” Lamp hedges after a prolonged moment of hesitation. “Maybe I’ll go with you. First, you need to tell me why this job offer is so urgent that you came to fetch me personally. Also, you said earlier that we need to leave tonight? Explain why.”

  Before answering, the tall man scans the walls to either side, perhaps trying to gauge how porous or thick they are. The rough bricks and their mud-based mortar look substantial enough to mute conversational voices, but the merchant’s cautious expression still holds taught.

  “I still guard my secrets.” He answers softly. “I won't fully explain the unfolding situation unless you enter my service. For now, know that I require someone with your expertise to work onsite. The task poses no danger to you and will require nothing onerous from you.”

  Slightly intrigued, but still mostly suspicious, Lamp frowns. “You won’t divulge what the main job is until after I’ve agreed to do it?”

  The merchant shakes his head. “The deal isn’t that restrictive. I’ll reveal the details of my preferred assignment after we sign our contract. If you decline the first role, I’ll find another position that suits your experience and preferences. Bear in mind, those alternatives won’t incur the ten-times multiplication of your salary. The full bonus only comes with my first offer.”

  Blackwing gives the scholar an assessing glance. “Given everything I’ve heard about you, I can’t imagine you’ll want to turn the big job down once you know what it is.”

  “Uh huh.” Lamp mumbles while averting his gaze.

  He stares into the shadows and broods for a moment. This all sounds too good to be true, which makes it extremely suspect.

  Lamp briefly considers making a break for it before dismissing the idea as ludicrous. He’d likely fare worse in a footrace against Blackwing than he had against the thugs. Although the other man looks about a decade or two older, he has a longer stride and that inhuman reach. Plus, he can apparently fly.

  Either Lamp is completely free to go, or he’s entirely unable to get away. In both cases, he’d gain nothing with an abrupt escape attempt. Also, in spite of his better judgment, the scholar desperately wants to pry open the momentous secret which Blackwing has kept hidden from the world these past two years.

  Lamp had harbored suspicions about the nature of their venture since shortly after it began. If he’s right about the artifacts’ true origins, and if this mysterious rush job brings him closer to their actual source, then the opportunity of a lifetime waits before him. No. More than a lifetime, the opportunity of an era.

  All he needs to do is say yes. The only thing that’s required is for Lamp to trust a man who stalked him like a deer two years ago. A man who introduced himself tonight by cracking a human body like an almond shell. It’s a small hurdle, truly.

  After a long internal struggle, some part of Lamp loses the fight, and he decides.

  “I’ll at least hear your terms.”

  “Excellent. Will you accompany me to my ship?”

  “If that’s required, sure.”

  “It is. Please follow closely.”

  Blackwing leads the way again, and the scholar trails behind. At every corner, he thinks about ducking away, but unyielding curiosity holds him on his track. That, and a healthy dose of fear. After all, the rest of the graft hunters are still out here somewhere. They’ve almost certainly given up on catching Lamp tonight, but he still feels safer walking next to a person who can easily kill them.

  Although, thinking back to the final moments of that confrontation, the surviving hunters purportedly owe their allegiance to someone far more dangerous than their dead frontman. Shortly before his death, their leader had claimed to work for Bronzemane, and that’s not a thing to lie about lightly. If that bastard genuinely was affiliated with the local ruler, then his death at Blackwing’s hand will necessitate reprisal.

  After a moment of internal deliberation, Lamp decides to voice his concern.

  “About the thug you flattened.” He says to the merchant’s back. “He implied he was one of Bronzemane’s people. That might have been a lie, but if it wasn’t, then you’ve killed the soldier of a basileus inside his own territory. He has to answer that infraction.”

  “I’m not concerned.” Blackwing replies without slowing his pace. “Mane’s more talk than action. He won’t start a war over one dead tough, especially not one who threatened me before I killed him. At most, I’ll finance the funeral.”

  Holding back a frustrated sigh, Lamp hastens his step and draws even with the taller man. He presses the issue in a serious tone.

  “While I don’t claim Bronzemane as a personal acquaintance, I’ve lived inside his territory for years now. I know what he’s like. He has firm rules, he’s petty, and he’ll gladly act instead of talk whenever his enemy is someone weaker than himself. If I stay here and he learns I was involved, then he might decide to make an example out of me just to compensate for his inability to get to you.”

  Blackwing glances over with an inscrutable expression. “He won’t touch you if you’re one of mine.”

  That’s a conclusion Lamp had already reached on his own, and he isn’t thrilled by it. He doubts the idea came as a revelation to Blackwing either. The only question is whether the merchant realized what this situation could mean for Lamp before or after he maneuvered him into it.

  A reckless impulse presses Lamp to accuse the merchant of deliberately backing him into a corner, of setting him up so that he’d have no choice but to accept the deal. He nearly acts on that urge to reproach his rescuer, but the words won’t leak out through a clenched jaw. So, instead of making a stand, he abandons their dialogue, slows his step, and falls behind again.

  As he walks in sullen silence, opposed emotions wage bitter war within his troubled mind. Gratitude wrestles resentment while suspicion derides every generous interpretation and assails each benefit of the doubt. Lamp’s twisted mess of feelings fiercely resists disentanglement, but their long trek to the sea gives him ample time to loosen the internal knot. Gradually, two central themes emerge from the tumult.

  Firstly, Lamp determines that his resentment towards the man who saved his life has inspired a secondary feeling of guilt, which in turn produced an additional layer of resentment. After struggling with this quandary for a time, he eventually affirms that a person in his position may indeed complain about the manner in which his life was saved. He can feel gratitude towards Blackwing without indemnifying him for every harmful consequence produced by his heroism.

  Secondly, with even greater difficulty, Lamp acknowledges the shame he feels over his own helplessness, along with his lingering fear and anger towards the graft hunters. He begrudgingly admits to himself that he transplanted these emotions onto his attitude toward Blackwing, a reflexive response which was neither useful nor fair. It’s hardly the merchant’s fault that Lamp was too weak to save himself, and it’s not really Lamp’s fault either. No one deserves shame but his attackers.

  Reaching those two conclusions doesn’t make Lamp feel better, precisely, but they at least calm him down. It’s decent timing on his part, because they seem to be getting close to Blackwing’s ship. Intersections and entire neighborhoods had rolled past at a steady rate while Lamp was mulling his way back towards an emotional baseline. Now, at the end of that process, he and Blackwing finally reach the waterfront.

  Lamp’s concluded rumination proves its positive impact as he allows himself to appreciate the dark beauty of his city’s starlit bay. Looking out over the softly glinting waves, he affirms that he really does feel better. He’s almost calm. Almost secure. Well enough to function.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Without dropping their pace, the two men travel a ways across the harbor, then turn to jaunt down a stone-paved jetty. Shortly thereafter, Lamp finds himself following Blackwing up a port-side gangway at the bow of a fat bellied merchant galley.

  Glancing up the plank, he starts with surprise when he notices Emerald waiting for them at the top of the ramp. The businesslike expression on her half-stone face contrasts with nervous fists clenching the skirt of her peplos. As Blackwing climbs to meet her, she smooths the fabric before greeting him.

  “Welcome aboard, Sir. Has he agreed to join?”

  “Not yet,” Blackwing answers as he steps aboard, “but I still hope to convince him. If Lamphand does sign on, I’ll need you to remunerate his current employers for any unfulfilled obligations, settle his lease, and transfer his possessions to our warehouse.”

  “I’d offer directions,” Lamp interjects sourly, “but I understand you already know the way to my apartment.”

  Summiting the gangway, the scholar glances around to see a deck littered with dozing sailors, most of them tucked away between their rowing benches. Blackwing must have restricted the crew from seeking beds in town to ensure this vessel could depart swiftly upon his return. The merchant likely brought Lamp here, instead of to an office, for that same reason.

  “I’m familiar.” Emerald softly answers his implied accusation.

  Lamp’s eyes return to her. He opens his mouth to retort but holds his tongue when Blackwing steps partially between them.

  “Please.” The merchant speaks in a gentle tone. “Blame me alone for that intrusion. I should have either directed her to request your address outright or else accepted my ignorance. Emerald isn’t to blame for my indiscretion.”

  “Oh, I do blame you.” Lamp replies with hushed acrimony, bitter-voiced but mindful of the sleeping sailors. “And since we’re getting into this, I don’t see how I can trust a man who’s demonstrated nothing but mistrust towards me for our entire working relationship. I didn’t even know who you were until less than an hour ago! Now you want me to drop everything and sail off with you for the sake of a job you’ll hardly tell me about? Would you trust someone who hid as much from you as you’ve hidden from me?”

  “No.” Blackwing answers readily. “Your objections are well-reasoned, and your wariness is prudent. I behaved in bad faith, as you say, and I continue to withhold crucial information. I have no right to demand your trust, but I implore you to consider that I have good reasons for my secrecy.”

  Blackwing gestures towards his captain’s quarters, a lone pavilion rising from the barge’s stern. “I ask only that you follow me a few steps further to examine an item I am certain you will want to see.”

  For a long moment, Lamp considers saying yes. Even if he declines the full offer of employment, he still wants to catch this final glimpse of a foreign world. However, that reaction only builds upon his wariness.

  This ‘last job’ feels like a trap, like bait on a fishhook. Whatever bit of mystery they’ve got waiting for him in Blackwing’s cabin, they clearly think it’s too enticing for him to refuse their offer after he’s seen it. So, if Lamp’s going to back out at all, maybe he should do it now. Maybe he shouldn’t let them tempt him.

  He looks back over his shoulder at his dark home-district with its quiet streets, and he asks himself whether he feels ready to walk through it alone. What are the chances that anything else happens to him tonight or tomorrow? He can probably get back to his apartment without trouble, but if the surviving thugs decide they’re not done with him, they could turn up at any time. Beyond that, there’s the issue of their alleged boss.

  Lamp knows he won’t feel safe in Bronzemane’s territory anymore, but he could relocate almost anywhere else in the city within a week. That means the man before him isn’t his only option for protection. Lamp can afford to walk away.

  “Blackwing.” He looks back to the merchant. “If I said I had changed my mind and I wanted to go home, would you allow me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  Lamp nods, then turns on his heel and starts back down the gangway. Despite his budding apprehensions, no one grabs his arm or shouts for him to halt. He crosses the length of the ramp and steps off its base without complication. At that point, he stops. His traitorous feet remain planted on the dock as frustrated indecision whirls through his mind. As much as he wants to escape, to flee, he yearns just as badly to turn around again.

  The problem is that he doesn’t know which way to run.

  A familiar path waits before him, darker and more dangerous than it ever seemed before, but still something he knows. Behind him, there lies a road he can’t look down, one which might lead him anywhere. He only has fragments of a map, so how can he know which route to choose? How does he judge if the risk of change is worth it?

  After a long moment of fruitless dithering, Lamp hears careful footsteps on the plank behind him as Emerald descends to join her coworker on the jetty. He wonders: did Blackwing send her, or did she follow on her own initiative? After a breath, he decides it doesn’t matter. She’s acting on a professional basis either way. Whatever they discuss next, this conversation is a recruiting pitch.

  Lamp doesn’t acknowledge the scribe’s arrival, but he also doesn’t leave. Instead, the two of them stand near each other for a quiet moment, staring out together toward the dim contours of the sprawling slum which Lamp has spent the last decade calling home. As seconds slip past without decision, Emerald’s silent presence persistently whispers for his attention. Eventually, he relents, turning over his shoulder to meet her patient gaze.

  For the first time in a while, Lamp finds himself wondering about the work his documentarian handles outside their meetings. He’d always assumed her other tasks were similarly clerical in nature, but if Blackwing has the young woman covertly following people around the city, then maybe there’s more to her position. He’s not sure he wants to ask.

  Yet, strangely, he finds he wants to trust her.

  Even in the face of everything he’s learned about her boss tonight, and despite hearing what she did on that man’s orders, Lamp still feels compelled to at least hear out whatever Emerald walked down the gangway to say. Maybe, after all the time they’ve worked together, he’s started counting her as one of his closest colleagues. That must be why.

  Lamp draws a deep breath in, then addresses his associate in a quiet tone. “Are you happy, working for him?”

  “I am.” She answers at the same volume.

  “Even when he makes you stalk strangers across the city?”

  “Lamp…” She breathes out slowly, draws a sharp breath in, and then confesses. “Blackwing never directly ordered me to trail you. He wasn’t in the city on the day of our interview, or even during that same week. I received my instructions in writing, and his last missive before our meeting directed me to investigate your current and former affiliations. The letter made no specific mention of following you to your home; I chose to do that on my own initiative. At the time, I considered it due diligence.”

  As Emerald speaks, Lamp’s initial expression of incredulity gradually morphs into one of betrayal. He anticipates a surge of anger after she falls silent, but the emotion barely stirs. Having already settled his displeasure towards Blackwing, Lamp finds that he can’t rile it anew against a substituted target.

  Or maybe it’s just the hour; maybe he’s grown too tired to hate. Whatever the reason, he releases a sigh in place of a shout.

  “If that’s true, then why did he lie?” Lamp mutters before shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t think he ever said he gave the order, so I suppose he technically never fibbed. Still, why would he allow me to misassign blame in the middle of a recruiting pitch?”

  Emerald shrugs. “To shift your resentment away from me, I assume; he’s always been protective. Or maybe he wanted to avoid admitting that the situation progressed outside of his control. He also might genuinely hold himself responsible for issuing orders which he now feels were too ambiguous. That would certainly fit his pattern; he always tries to shoulder everything his subordinates drop.”

  Lamp nods, but offers no reply. The two of them stand together silently for another minute, listening as gentle waves lap against the galley’s wooden hull. Eventually, the scholar has to admit that he isn’t ready to leave. So, while he’s standing here, and while he has Emerald’s company, he might as well dig into Blackwing’s offer.

  He sighs, then asks. “How long is the standard contract duration? Do his employees have the right to terminate their agreements at will?”

  “Within limitations.” His coworker answers carefully. “Most of us sign contracts with a one-year term. We can leave early if we either pay a convenience fee or successfully argue for an exemption on the basis of dire personal circumstances.”

  Lamp nods along with a neutral expression. Plenty of employers dictate worse terms, but his current placement as a tutor offers better. He can leave that job whenever he wants with no consequences. Most businesses in Clearheart’s territory operate the same way, following the model of her bizarrely permissive mercenary group. Wouldn’t Lamp be a fool to sacrifice that freedom?

  “How much is the fee?” He inquires for some reason.

  “One month’s salary, not including room and board.”

  “Steep.” He mutters unhappily before voicing a concern. “Blackwing said he’d pay me ten times what he offered previously. Does that mean I’ll owe ten times the fine if I leave early?”

  Emerald clears her throat then softly replies. “Probably.”

  Lamp lets a long breath out and looks up at the constellations. After a few slow heartbeats, he asks. “What would he do to you if you walked away without paying the price?”

  “He’d never hire me again, and I would struggle to find another boss who offers as much money for the same work. Also, I’m not getting paid that week.”

  “That’s all? He won’t track you down to get his money back?”

  “Not unless I did something worse than just walking out. Or if I disappeared without explanation and he thought something bad had happened to me.”

  “Then why would anyone pay the fine?” Lamp asks bemusedly.

  “Because it guarantees transit back to civilization.” Emerald responds in a patient tone. “Some of Blackwing’s outposts are located in remote areas that would be difficult for anyone to leave on their own. Sailors and urban employees like me have a simple exit strategy, but you probably won’t share our easy way out.”

  “Hmm. I’m still hearing details that make the deal sound worse.” Surely by now he’s heard enough, but he meets Emerald’s dark brown eyes and asks another question anyway. “Do you believe I would be happy? Working for him?”

  She nods. “I do, especially if I’ve guessed correctly about the project he wants you to work on.”

  “The project you couldn’t ever talk about.”

  She nods again, and he exhales slowly. There’s one misgiving left for him to air, then maybe he can make up his mind.

  Lamp holds up his left graft and wills a tiny glow to spark at the center of his palm. It refracts through his joints and shimmers along the outline of his hand. Emerald patiently watches the wandering light, trusting him to lead somewhere with this display.

  After another lingering pause, he quietly tells her. “I was attacked by graft hunters earlier this evening. They were about to kill me when Blackwing arrived and drove them off. The timing seems a little convenient.”

  He glances over to meet the young woman’s eyes again. “Is your boss the sort of person who would arrange an attempted murder just so he could intervene and make himself look like a hero?”

  “No.” Emerald shakes her head emphatically. “He’s not like that. Blackwing’s difficult to read, and sometimes difficult to work for, but he treats his people fairly. As long as you give him your loyalty, he will return it. He wouldn’t set someone up in a terrible situation and then offer them a job, if for no other reason than it’s a bad way to kick off a business relationship.”

  She hesitates before concluding. “I can’t believe he played any part in creating the situation you experienced tonight, and I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  Lamp breaks eye contact, lowers his hand, and glances down the jetty towards the darkened district he calls home. For a long moment, he stares up at the hillside, taking in the isolated, sporadic lights of the few buildings whose residents still refuse to sleep.

  In his peripheral vision, brighter pockets of luminance glimmer like stars. Elsewhere in the city, in its wealthier sectors, graft-lit night markets continue operating well past sundown. Their appearances vary in scale from tiny ponds to winding rivers, depending on the quantity and length of the streets and squares they occupy.

  None of those rainbow-colored avenues cross into Bronzemane’s district. Their absence never bothered Lamp before tonight, but his vantage on the docks presents a novel view. For some reason, the localized darkness makes him feel isolated. Forgotten.

  He’s not alone, though. Emerald still stands enduringly by his side, waiting on him to make a choice. He supposes she doesn’t yet know whether she ought to carry out her employer’s last orders regarding Lamp’s lease and current job. The young woman probably can’t go home to rest until Lamp makes his decision. As a courtesy to her, then, he needs to stop putting it off.

  So, what will that verdict be? What does Lamphand really want? Does he prefer to stay where he’s always been, leading the same unbalanced existence he’s maintained these past two years? His original plans for the future fell apart when his partner walked out on him, and now the biggest remaining source of joy in his life is the work he does on Blackwing’s credit. Will he have to abandon that labor if he doesn’t take the new deal? Even if they let him continue, would the old arrangement still satisfy him now that he’s tasted a chance for more?

  What does he really want?

  What does he want?

  He knows what he wants. He wants to take his research further. He wants to uncover the truth. He wants to run away from his empty home. He wants to nurture his soul with all the purpose and joy he can’t access by staying rooted in Bronzemane’s poor soil. He wants his life to feel meaningful again, like it hasn’t in years.

  If the prince of merchants wants to sell Lamp a dream, can he afford not to buy it? The price is just a year. One year in exchange for ten salaries and the chance to discover secrets that no one else has ever learned. One year to remake himself. One last year to move on.

  “Fine.” He tells Emerald quietly. “I’ll take a look at that artifact. Then we’ll see.”

  She smiles and waves him up the ramp. Lamp obliges her wordless suggestion and climbs back aboard the ship. He steps onto the deck to find Blackwing waiting in the same position as they left him. Lamp gestures for the man to lead on, and Blackwing nods.

  Lamp and Emerald follow the merchant as he leads them to a double set of doors and pulls one open. They walk into a cramped room that looks like a combined office and bedchamber, with only a wicker privacy screen dividing the two sections. Blackwing steps inside after them and shuts the door.

  Small windows on the rear wall, too narrow for even a child’s shoulders, admit twin beams of diffuse starlight. It’s barely enough by which to see, so Lamp holds up his left hand and activates his graft to brighten the room.

  Glancing around, he sees thick woolen sheets tacked against the walls and ceiling to provide insulation and dampen sounds from the world outside. The scholar absently wonders how often they need to be changed and whether their true purpose is to decrease the likelihood of private conversations being overheard by distant eavesdroppers.

  “Thank you, Lamphand.” His host acknowledges the graft light while drawing a curtain over the windows, supporting Lamp’s suspicion. “Please, take a seat.”

  Lamp and Emerald settle themselves on a finely woven rug beside a low table while Blackwing slips around them to unlock and open a small chest at the back of the room. The merchant retrieves a small wooden box with his human hand, then turns around and sets it on the table and rotates its opening to face Lamp. Emerald leans over to assist her functionally one-armed employer. Unclasping and pulling open the lid, she at last reveals the relic.

  Within the box, nestled on a padding of folded silk, sits a painted wooden mask. A silver inscription adorning its forehead glints below the pale graft light.

  Lamp’s breath catches in his throat. He knows what this is, or at least, he knows its name.

  “A falsemask.” He whispers reverently before looking up to Blackwing. “May I hold it?”

  “One moment.”

  Blackwing reaches back into the chest with his long arm and retrieves writing implements and papyrus from its interior. He sets both before Emerald, and she dutifully takes up her tools. Thus prepared, Blackwing nods to Lamp.

  The eager scholar gingerly lifts the mask from its casing and carefully turns it over in his hands to examine the back. He finds a second inscription written on that surface but ignores it for now. He mutters his subsequent observations as he makes them.

  “Only the front is painted. The inside appears to have been sealed with oil. The wood is exceptionally pale and uniform. I can feel the grain, but I can’t see it. I’ve never encountered this material before, not even in the other artifacts.”

  He moves his graft beneath the mask, and the backlight confirms a strange trait.

  “It has no holes for the eyes, nose, or mouth. Their absence suggests that the wearer required neither sight nor air. Perhaps this mask was intended for a corpse. Either that, or the piece is purely ornamental.”

  He turns the object back over to examine its front.

  “The outward side is carved and painted to resemble a young woman’s face, although with abnormal coloration. She has blue skin, solid silver eyes, white eyebrows, and white lips. She appears awake with a serene expression.”

  Lamp positions his hand to better light the mask’s forehead, and Blackwing leans forward. This is clearly the part he was waiting for.

  “There’s an inscription painted…” He pauses to peer closer. “Not painted, inlaid. There’s a silver inlay above her brow which should identify the mask’s owner. It’s scribed in the old tongue. Although, like all the writing you’ve brought me, the lettering is a little skewed, and some spellings have changed. Give me a moment to translate.”

  Lamp reads and rereads the message, taking in the full phrase and validating the words against their context. After a moment, he’s confident enough to speak.

  “It says, ‘Eldest daughter of the Eighth House. Lurker in shadow. Quiet of death. Handmaiden to the offered princess.’” Lamp pauses before correcting himself. “That might be ‘sacrificed princess,’ actually. Or, most directly translated, ‘the royal daughter belonging to sacrifice.’”

  Leaving that mystery alone for the moment, Lamp turns the mask over and examines the second inscription on its interior surface.

  “On the backside of the forehead, it reads, ‘May the gods preserve our final refuge.’ That sort of pessimistic phrasing was common after the rupture, but it petered out after a few generations. Its presence here may suggest a society with an apocalyptic event in living memory and a dour outlook for their future.”

  Lamp gently returns the mask to its box and waits for Emerald to finish writing. When she sets down her pen, Lamp looks up at Blackwing and points to the mask.

  “Based on what I’ve read about masks like this- and it’s been a while since I’ve seen a clear mention, so I’m a little hazy- they belong exclusively to the main branches of noble families. The example we have with us now obviously wasn’t made to be worn by a living owner, so did it come from a tomb? Did you, perhaps, pry a burial mask off a skeleton’s face?”

  The object didn’t feel or look old enough to have come from a tomb, but the scholar can’t think of another point of origin within his own world that would adequately explain Blackwing’s excitement. If the story Lamp was fed about a dig site is actually true, and the merchant company really had been raiding rooms full of trinkets, then the recent discovery of their first body might justify Blackwing’s decision to finally visit his temp-hired archeologist.

  The alternative, that Blackwing received this mask from a living person, is even more enticing. Lamp searches the merchant’s stoic expression for any slight reactions, but he fails to pick up on any tells. That’s a shame, because he doesn’t expect to get a straight answer either. A moment later, he’s proven right.

  “That’s beyond what I’m willing to divulge.” Blackwing predictably asserts. “We’ve come the farthest we may as client and consultant. From this point, you either sign a contract, or you collect your final payment and disembark. I will provide a guard to escort you home, if you’d like.”

  Well. There’s the ultimatum.

  “If I agreed, would we leave tomorrow?” Lamp asks. “Where would we sail?”

  Blackwing shakes his head at the first question. “If you agree to join, I will rouse the crew. We have the means to sail safely at night. As for our heading, we’ll travel South. Our first stop is a fortress town on the caldera’s shore.”

  Lamp narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Our first stop is at the edge of the world?”

  “It’s only the edge of the livable portion. I’ll say no more.”

  “Fine,” Lamp drops the subject, “but I have one more question. Just for my own satisfaction, I want to know: Why did you approach me, two years back? How did you decide that I was the one?”

  Blackwing considers the question for a moment before answering. “Put bluntly, I chose you because you were the best-educated nobody I could find. I had the option to approach more qualified scholars, but they all maintained active ties to powerful families or major institutions. I wanted someone who lacked those affiliations so I could snatch them for myself without worrying about divided loyalties. Within that restricted group, you were the strongest candidate.”

  Lamp nods with a flat expression. “That isn’t surprising, but I’m still a little sorry I asked.”

  Blackwing smiles slightly. “Would you prefer for me to be less candid?”

  “No.” The scholar shakes his head. “I’d rather hear impolite honesty than a flattering lie.”

  “Then please do me a courtesy in kind. Tell me Lamphand, do you want to sign on, or have you decided to leave?”

  Lamp shuts his eyes and breathes in deep. On the exhale, he meets Blackwing’s gaze.

  “Show me the contract.”