The scholar finds no surprises in Blackwing’s contract, and he examines the multi-page document carefully enough that he would have uncovered any conventional traps hiding within it. On the whole, the terms of employment seem similar to Lamp’s arrangement with his current clientele. The four major differences are its once-per-year renewal schedule, the fee for early departure, the flexible (or vague) boundaries of the work he will perform, and the massive increase to his pay.

  Lamp reads the full text multiple times, taking greater pains than he probably needs to and pushing his final decision later into the night. While he dithers, Emerald patiently lingers nearby. He occasionally questions her about the contract’s various clauses, and she answers as best she can. When their conversation eventually turns circular, they lapse into silence.

  The pair of them sit alone at Blackwing’s table, their host having exited his pavilion some time ago to deal with ambiguous matters outside. Lamp imagines that both the merchant and his scribe are keen to get on with their respective evenings, but he won’t rush this decision any more than he has to. The deadline of a single night is onerous enough.

  That said, he can only weigh his options so many times before admitting that he has nothing left to consider. His interests and motivations remain precisely what they were when he chose to march back up that gangway; the risks and rewards of his dilemma haven’t changed since he stepped inside this room. He made his choice in those moments, and he knew it then.

  After a quiet sigh, Lamp commits, signing the contract with a thumbprint and his name. Emerald claps once in response, more to punctuate the event than to celebrate it. Then she stands, excuses herself from the room, and steps outside to retrieve her employer. Shortly thereafter, she returns with the man in tow, and Blackwing adds his own claw mark to the same document.

  With that action complete, Lamp has officially signed away one year of his life. Despite his lengthy deliberation, it still feels quite sudden. He hopes he doesn’t regret this brash decision more than he would have regretted walking away. At least by joining, he’ll never have to wonder if he made the right decision. He’ll get to find out.

  Lamp holds that thought in mind as he distractedly responds to a short round of congratulations from his new boss and old colleague. The pleasantries conclude too quickly for him to fully refocus, and he remains slightly disoriented when the three of them step back outside.

  Blackwing thanks Emerald for working late and instructs her to head home for rest. She gratefully accepts her dismissal and wishes the others a safe journey before turning to leave.

  Lamp startles and swears when a man he hadn’t noticed suddenly rocks forward from his reclined lean against the outer wall of Blackwing’s pavilion. Neither his employer nor Emerald seem startled by the new arrival, so the scholar forces himself to take a calming breath as the stranger trots across the deck to meet Emerald en route to the gangway.

  Lamp watches with an oddly mournful sentiment as the departing scribe and her escort reach the bow and descend. When they drop from view a few seconds later, Lamp continues staring aimlessly at the empty space left in their wake. He thinks he can faintly hear the moment when their sandals touch the jetty, leaving him behind. A breath later, Blackwing startles the scholar again by speaking from his side.

  “I’m glad you chose to trust me.” The merchant tells him in a conversational tone. “I promise to earn it. Please wait here while I wake the crew. I’ll show you to your cabin once we’re underway.”

  Lamp promises to linger in an out-of-the-way position, and Blackwing begins a circuit around the deck to disrupt the surprisingly deep slumber of his sailors. As soon as the bleary-eyed seafarers find their feet, the merchant orders them into motion.

  Most of the crewmates show at least a passing interest in Lamp, with a few even throwing sullen glares his way before getting on with their tasks. He honestly can’t fault the latter group’s resentment, considering that he’s the reason their boss forced them awake at this unfortunate hour. He just hopes everyone managed to catch enough sleep while the ship was docked, otherwise their passage out of the harbor might get interesting.

  Lamp shakes his head and pushes those anxieties aside with a resolution to trust Blackwing’s judgment on maritime matters. Surely the man wouldn’t risk shipwrecking his new employee after going through so much trouble to collect him. For all Lamp knows, this isn’t even the same barge Blackwing sailed in on, or maybe it is but he refreshed the crew. Either way, worry performs him no favors.

  The scholar takes a calming breath of sea air and leans back against the wall of Blackwing’s pavilion, honoring his recently-given word by keeping well out of the workers’ way while they prepare to unmoor. Having never stood aboard a departing ship before tonight, he pushes himself to relax and relish the novelty of this experience.

  Before him, an experienced crew moves about with practiced efficiency, requiring nothing more than starlight to complete their tasks. To Lamp’s surprise, Blackwing joins the deckhands in their work, lifting bodies onto the spar as he passes the mast before leaving his workers to adjust the sail while he walks to the bow.

  As the merchant weaves between his sailors, they exchange passing words with a tone of relaxed courtesy. Though deferential, their attitude conveys none of the obsequious sycophancy that some of Blackwing’s peers demand from their inferiors. That permissiveness bodes well for Lamp, and he takes heart from the assumption that his mutually respectful dynamic with Blackwing will endure even after the ink on his contract has dried.

  Lamp continues observing his employer as the man finally nears the prow, and he raises an eyebrow as Blackwing retrieves their gangway without assistance. Seizing the board with the claws of his left hand, his employer lifts the long plank in a seemingly effortless motion, then turns about to carry it below deck.

  As the merchant prince descends into the ship’s hold with his unwieldy burden, a grizzled individual whom Lamp presumes to be the helmsman starts yelling at the sailors to get his boat moving. In short order, and with no assistance from the contextually useless scholar, a square sail lowers from its angled spar and long oars dip below the gentle near-shore waves. A moment later, by force of wind and arm, the vessel begins drifting away from its berth.

  Well.

  This is it, then. Unless Lamp decides to jump overboard in the next few seconds, he’s really, fully committed. Wherever this ship goes next, he’s going there with it. That thought quickens his pulse, and it’s only through conscious effort that his heart begins to settle as the dock drifts further away.

  Gods. What a night this has been. What a horrid, stressful, momentous, wondrous night. Only two prior occasions in Lamp’s life have provoked this much uncertainty, and it’s been almost a decade since he felt such a large swell of hope. The life he had yesterday is over now. He knows not what happiness or harm awaits, but whatever comes, it will be new.

  Stepping away from the captain’s pavilion, Lamp walks over to an open stretch of railing near the stern. He turns to look back the way they came and watches pensively as his home slowly recedes. The sight of it inspires an emotion somewhere between nostalgia and lovesickness.

  His home city reigns as the largest, most prosperous polis in what remains of the known world. It’s also the only portion of that world he’s ever known; this is his first time leaving it. Now that he’s pulling away, he feels far more sentimental than he’d expected to.

  “One year.” He whispers.

  While his voice drifts away on a chill sea breeze, Lamp reflects again on how tired he feels. The past few hours were jam packed with arduous experiences and momentous decisions, and his life-changing adventure has burdened him with no small amount of fatigue. In spite of it all, however, the building excitement of his first sea voyage manages to keep him awake and reasonably attentive.

  Their plodding merchant vessel slowly builds speed as it sails away from the jetty, and the deck begins to sway beneath Lamp’s feet when their rounded hull meets the larger waves of the open bay. Feeling unsteady, he rests a hand on the railing for a minute and focuses on relearning balance. Once assured of his footing, he lifts his head to watch the water and the crew with equal interest.

  While Lamp was distracted, a light-binder considerably more powerful than himself had assumed a station at the ship’s prow. Her brilliant, radiant graft carves a bright blue cone from the otherwise black water, illuminating their way towards the harbor’s mouth and its exit to the sea. The cobalt glow announces their presence to nearby ships and guides them around the few fishing canoes and bay-crossing ferries with which they share the surface.

  Nearly all of those oncoming boats carry a light-binder of their own, though few shine bright enough to serve as anything besides a beacon. Only the larger vessels, those with sails, cast a headlight similar to Blackwing’s. Most active ships of that class are late-night arrivals cruising into port from the opposite direction. Lamp only spots one other departing craft.

  Still, enough vessels of their own size occupy the bay that Lamp spots several other wedges of multicolored daylight drifting atop the dark waves. Despite having witnessed this ethereal dance of glowing ships before, he finds himself enchanted anew by his novel vantage as a participant. He settles in to watch and contentedly passes time until Blackwing finally emerges back on deck.

  Lamp is alerted to the merchant’s return when a sailor asks the man a question. Turning around, Lamp sees his employer ascending the steep stairwell that leads into the hold. Blackwing gives the inquiring deckhand a concise reply before turning towards Lamp and making his way across the ship. The scholar moves to meet him, and their paths intersect at the door to the captain's pavilion.

  “Are you available to answer a few questions?” Lamp speaks first. “A few occurred to me while I was waiting.”

  “I can be.” Blackwing answers. “Does this relate to your assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  The merchant pushes his door open and waves Lamp inside. The scholar obliges with a nod, stepping across the threshold and walking to the table. He waits standing while his boss props the door open, then the two of them sit together.

  Ambient silver starlight mingles with the scattered graft-glow bouncing off the waves beneath their prow. The gentle blend of blue-white luminance pours into Blackwing’s pavilion through its open doorway, casting an ethereal sheen over every surface within. The air glows just brightly enough that Lamp doesn’t bother expending his own reserves to create a third source of light.

  Once the two of them have settled into comfortable positions, the merchant waves his right hand in an inviting gesture. Lamp takes his cue to begin.

  “You said before that we would sail to a town at the base of the caldera’s rim, but we aren’t stopping there. Where is our actual destination?”

  “Farther down the line.” Blackwing points to the South. “I have a compound beyond the rim, at the foot of the outer slope. I’m taking you to meet someone there.”

  “A person? Living?” Lamp’s eyes widen as he considers the implications. He lowers his volume when he asks, “Did someone come through from the other side?”

  Rather than an answer, Blackwing gives the scholar an assessing stare. Lamp can guess what the other man’s thinking, so he preempts that unspoken accusation.

  “Emerald didn’t need to tell me. It was obvious. I’ve seen hundreds of genuine old-world artifacts, and Regent knows those aren’t what you’ve been sending me these past two years.” The scholar leans forward. “Your company found another world-tile, didn’t it? And now somebody’s passed through to our side, so you need a translator in a hurry. Am I right?”

  Blackwing smiles minutely. “Astute. I should be embarrassed you saw through me so easily, but I’m simply glad to finally have you on my team. As for your suspicion, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

  “Alright.” Lamp agrees without protest, though he wonders why secrecy would still be warranted at this stage. Is Blackwing worried about a sound-binder listening in from one of the nearby boats? The spy would likely require a graft on par with Blackwing’s own to decipher anything intelligible. Regardless, there are other subjects he wants to raise.

  “You said you initially chose me as a consultant because I had no ties to major organizations. Are you aware that I was formerly employed and even fostered by the Blessed Order of the Second Covenant? I disclosed that association to Emerald when she interviewed me.”

  Blackwing nods. “I’m aware. They raised and educated you. From what I understand, that relationship terminated long ago.”

  “It did.” Lamp responds with an uncharacteristically leaden tone. His voice resets as he continues. “On a related subject: You wouldn’t need me if you had even a half-trained priest at your disposal, and absolutely any temple would loan someone out for what you’re paying. I take it you’re hiding your ‘excavation’ from all representatives of the central cult?”

  “Correct.”

  “Sensible.” Lamp allows. “But difficult to manage, especially over multiple years… Unless you don’t maintain a single integrated temple inside any of your compounds. I can't imagine how else you’d pull it off.”

  “We don’t.” Blackwing absently taps a claw against the floor while shaking his head. “All attempts by the unified order to establish missions near our main settlement are rebuffed. Their agents occasionally deliver translations of sanctioned scripture, but we tolerate no permanent presence or sermonizing.”

  “Oh?” The scholar leans back with widened eyes. “That’s a rare policy these days, especially in the south. How and when did it happen? Was the Blessed Order never allowed inside, or were they ejected at some point? It sounds like they’ve been outlawed for a while, so I’m guessing relations soured during the reformation?”

  “Yes.”

  Lamp nods, tilting forward again. “Some overambitious zealots squandered the trust of a prior generation, and successive leaders saw no reason to extend more. Am I right?”

  “Roughly.”

  “I see. Can you-”

  Blackwing lifts his human hand to cover a small yawn, and Lamp finds his own mouth shifting in sympathetic imitation. The scholar willfully stifles his reaction, then apologizes and attempts to resume his question, but Blackwing stops him with a raised palm.

  “You’ve had a difficult night, Lamphand, and I feel overtaxed myself. Would you care to resume this conversation in the morning?”

  Lamp takes a moment to appreciate his mounting fatigue. Then he nods. “Now that you mention it, I think I might be close to collapsing.”

  “I’ll show you to your quarters, then.”

  They head back outside, intending to descend belowdecks, but Lamp tarries for a moment to absorb one final view of the receding city lights. Blackwing waits patiently at his side until he’s ready to go, then guides him down the stairs to his makeshift approximation of a cabin.

  The room, if it can be called one, is clearly a temporary structure. In place of permanent wooden walls, a collapsible set of wicker privacy screens defines its borders. Lamp surmises that the assemblage would normally rest folded up against the wall to leave more space for cargo. He supposes he’s lucky Blackwing bothered to set it up.

  Lamp thanks his employer with as much gratitude as he can improvise, and the two of them exchange brief pleasantries before the merchant departs. Left alone in the claustrophobic darkness, Lamp does his best to settle in. His windowless, closet-sized cubby barely provides enough room for its single reed mat, but he manages to fit inside and eventually makes himself halfway cozy.

  The scholar briefly worries that he’ll struggle to fall asleep, but fatigue soon overrides his discomfort, and he gradually drifts off. The rest of the night passes in intermittent spurts of restless dreaming interrupted by timeless spans of unwanted partial lucidity. At some point, he awakens with a feeling that the night has passed.

  Lamp remains lying in bed for perhaps a minute afterwards. He spends the time rearranging his limbs into less awkward positions while gradually reconstituting his thoughts from their sleep-addled jumble. Eventually, he considers that it’s time to get up.

  While he can’t judge the hour from below deck, he doesn’t feel as though he could easily fall back asleep, so he might as well head up top. With the decision made, he activates his graft for light before shambling to his feet and converting his himation back from a pillow into a cloak. Taking stock of himself, he affirms that most of his body feels at least slightly sore, and that his chiton smells in patches, but at least he survived his first night at sea without drowning!

  With that cheerful thought, Lamp shuffles out from his cramped room and carefully navigates around a neatly bundled row of jars that separates him from the stairwell. He deactivates his graft after reaching the first step and ascends from the dim confines of the hold into a milder darkness waiting above.

  Upon reaching the top, two changes from the prior evening become immediately obvious. The first development is the unwelcome arrival of a brisk windchill, while the second is the un-glaring absence of their forward graft light. Last night’s brilliant cerulean cone no longer shines across the waves. However, Lamp’s readjusting eyes eventually manage to resolve the same light-binder still standing at the prow.

  The woman likely switched her role from beacon to lookout when their ship exited the highly trafficked waters around Lamp’s home island. Now she observes the sea through her graft, enhancing the detail of dark and distant features with a clarity that Lamp can only envy. He looks away from her before his wistfulness has time to ferment into self-pity.

  Glancing over the rest of the deck, Lamp confirms that the oarsmen have mostly retired, although the majority of them still line their stations on either side of the ship, dozing between the benches as they had last night. A few others move quietly about the deck, seeing to simple tasks or merely keeping watch.

  The crew must have stowed away their paddles and returned to slumber after they entered open water and the wind picked up. Indeed, their box-shaped mainsail still pulls taught against its rigging, and they seem to be moving at a good speed. If only it wasn’t so cold.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Lamp wonders if the heat loss is just a product of movement over water; if not, maybe the world truly does grow frigid near its edge. On a sudden flight of whimsy, the scholar decides to test an old rumor. He slowly exhales through his mouth, then frowns in disappointment when his breath fails to produce fog. Those older kids lied to him after all.

  Shaking his head in self-recrimination, Lamp crosses his arms across his chest to preserve warmth and meanders over to the portside railing near the stern. Judging by the faint red glow on the eastern horizon, it won’t be much longer before sunrise.

  Lamp takes in what scant few details he can discern under the wane pre-morning light. Before him, the crater sea extends endlessly. Thin patches of mist cling tightly to its languid waves. There might be a small island to the southeast, its silhouette only visible because of the impending dawn, but the water looks empty otherwise.

  What of the South? How close have they come to landfall?

  Lamp turns to face their heading and walks down to the prow of the ship, hoping to catch his first view of the caldera’s wall. He stops at a polite remove from the watchwoman and exchanges a silent nod with her before they both return their eyes to the water.

  The scholar leans against the railing and peers forward, searching for a black line of land between the dark water and the twilit sky. After a few moments of fruitless squinting, he gives up without a firm conclusion. He’ll need to wait until dawn breaks to be sure.

  As if by miracle, the moment he thinks of sunrise, it occurs. From the eastern waters lifts a brilliant point of blinding light. Its arrival sparks a line of fire atop the waves and sets the heavens aglow. Lamp reacts with unconscious reflex, drinking greedily through his right hand to refill the reserve he burned last night. The restored energy quenches a subtle thirst that had softly troubled him since he fled the ruin.

  With that accomplished, he can take more from the sunrise than mere refreshment. This is his first ever dawn at sea, and its beauty holds him in rapture. He watches transfixed as wandering clouds pass before the sun, catching its rosy light on their feathered underbellies. Behind them, subtle bands of red, orange, and pink blend upwards into a deep blue twilight. Each color shifts slightly lighter with every passing second.

  The gradual yet magnificent changes to the horizon keep Lamp distracted for the next several minutes. When he finally lowers his gaze to the sea, he confirms that there is indeed an island to the southeast, although it appears to have traveled significantly northward since he last glanced at it.

  Upon focused inspection, he discerns a small woodland atop the little landmass. It seems too small for major habitation, but there might be a home or two hidden amidst the trees. Lamp likes to imagine so. It would be a shame if no one woke up here every morning to appreciate this splendor. He’s glad he gets to see it for himself, if only as a passerby.

  And to think, he had almost scorned this moment. He had almost chosen to spend this morning alone in his apartment, waking up to the familiar cacophony of Bronzemane’s slums. If he had made that decision, Lamp would have risen with regret.

  The scholar closes his eyes and breathes deep, affirming to himself that this is a better place to be. The rocking deck and spraying surf almost feel natural, in a strange way, but he supposes that shouldn’t surprise him. After all, his people are and always have been of the sea.

  While waves roll on and minutes pass, Lamp contentedly maintains his post at the prow and watches the world slip by. As the final wisps of sea mist slowly evaporate and a clear blue sky overtakes the rosy dawn, Lamp finally returns his gaze back from east to south. There, for the first time in his life, he catches sight of the encircling wall.

  A solid band of green topped by jagged white peaks divides the southerly waters from their hazy sky. The caldera’s mountainous rim dominates its entire horizon like a dark brushstroke across an endless canvas. The earthen stripe stretches from farthest southeast beyond furthest southwest. Lamp isn’t sure whether the coastline’s inward curve should be visible from this distance, but the wall looks flat to him.

  Regardless, this is his first glimpse of the forest that encircles the sea and its crown of never-melting ice. The sight steals his breath away, and he silently chastises himself for never making time to view it. Although the southern rim is faintly visible from certain vantages on Lamp’s home island, the bay city itself has few clear sightlines to the south. Sailing out for a better view was always a wish of his, but he could never spare the energy or the coin.

  Now, after decades of mere imagining, he finally beholds the functional end of his world. Later today he’ll set foot upon that shore, and sometime today or tomorrow he’ll even walk beyond it. What an incredible thought. Lamp hasn’t felt so much giddiness in a rather long time; he spends a while relishing the emotion.

  Eventually, the scholar turns back east. He watches wistfully as the presumably nameless island slowly drifts past and eventually falls behind. Once it’s gone from view, he turns left to scan the water for the next land mass. Islands ought to be frequent, this close to the rim. Supposedly, there should be at least one body within view at all times.

  Lamp looks forward to testing that aphorism. It will give him something to do while he waits around for something to do. He manages to pass a few more minutes with his vaguely academic sightseeing before he hears soft footsteps approaching from behind. Glancing back over his shoulder, he sees Blackwing striding across the deck.

  “Good morning.” The two men greet each other simultaneously.

  Blackwing reaches Lamp’s side and joins him at the rail. The tall man takes a deep breath of sea air before looking down at his new employee.

  “Have you eaten?” He asks.

  “No. I didn’t know where to find food.”

  “We store jerky near the base of the stairs, though I can offer you tea and a finer breakfast if you’d care to join me.”

  Lamp agrees, and the two of them return to the captain’s quarters, closing the door this time. A meal for two already occupies the table, along with a steaming bronze tea kettle. Some unfortunate heat-binder among the crew must have brought the vessel to a boil before being told to leave. Lamp spares a moment of sympathy as he inhales the pleasant chamomile aroma.

  After settling in, setting out the food, and exchanging a brief round of pleasantries, Blackwing asks Lamp if he feels recovered from his ordeal with the graft thieves. Lamp dodges the question, uncertain of its true answer. The merchant accepts his deflection, and from there they return to the foremost of Lamp’s unresolved inquiries from the night prior.

  “Have you made contact with another world-tile?” The scholar asks in a soft voice that shouldn’t carry beyond this room.

  “Yes.” Blackwing answers at a similar volume.

  “How?”

  The merchant shakes his head. “Only a handful within the caldera know the answer to that question. I’m still not ready to make you one of them.”

  Lamp understands the value of that secret, so he doesn’t press his luck. Instead, he asks. “Can you describe the outworlders to me?”

  “Sure.” The merchant taps a finger against his teacup as he considers where to start. After a moment, he begins by listing simple observations. “They have skin pale as snow and wear white clothing to match. Their elites occasionally don jewelry, but often their only color comes from the masks.”

  “How many of their nobles have you seen?” Lamp asks with interest. “Do they attend in large numbers, or is it just one at a time?”

  He envisions a line of masked strangers watching silently from the far side of a bridge between worlds. The outworlders strike an intimidating image in his mind’s eye, and if the reality at all matches his brief fantasy, then he commends Blackwing’s company for their casual dealings with such deathly figures.

  Although, in fairness, the masked ones could easily view Lamp’s own world with the same wariness. Perhaps he and his people seem like half-transformed monsters with their inhuman appendages and strange textures.

  It’s an interesting quandary. As much as Lamp looks forward to forming his own opinions on the outworlders, he’s nearly as excited to learn what they think of his own people. But those are questions for another day. The scholar sets such thoughts aside as Blackwing swallows a bite of fruit and the conversation resumes.

  “It’s always at least two, but never more than five.” He answers. “Their leader, an elderly woman named Jaleh, attends every exchange. She keeps a few subordinates with useful magic on rotation, and she occasionally brings additional guests who only spectate. We tend not to see any members from the latter group more than once.”

  “Tourists?” Lamp asks over a raised teacup.

  “I expect so.”

  “Hmm.” He takes a sip and changes topics. “The form of their magic drastically differs from our own, correct?”

  “Yes. Their elites possess a divine organ distinct from our grafts, which they hide beneath their masks at nearly all times. The covering seems to inhibit their power until removed, though the one you examined last night had no effect upon either of us.

  “They always turned away from the portal before revealing their faces, so I’ve never seen what lies beneath. However, I’ve witnessed some of its effects. Their magic can function similarly to psychological grafts, with the same apparent limitations. More intriguingly, it can conjure matter from nothing. I’ve seen the outlanders summon ropes of arbitrary length, pitchers that never run dry, flames that require no fuel, and plants that sprout from seed to sapling in an instant. Each individual seems limited to a specific category of object, with random variation in its appearance at each summoning.”

  Blackwing lists his outlandish observations in a nonchalant tone before concluding. “I had hoped you could explain how their power is bestowed. Do you recall any clues from your research?”

  “Their king plays a role, somehow.” Lamp answers distractedly. “At the least, he can take magic away. The texts were vague… I’m sorry, could you clarify a point? Do you mean to say that only the masked nobles wield magic? That’s a tiny sliver of their population!”

  The merchant nods in response. “Only those who cover their faces possess the gift.”

  “Oh. Hmm.” That confirmation hit the scholar like a mental slap, and he fights to maintain composure. “Magic is actually that rare on their side?”

  Blackwing nods once more, and Lamp frowns in consternation. How did he not know that? He doesn’t understand how such a culturally significant detail never stood out in any of the texts he translated and analyzed. Did he overlook obvious allusions out of ignorance, or were those references simply never made? After a moment, he realizes the second explanation might actually be more plausible. Poets write about heroes, after all, not the undistinguished masses.

  And as for those masses, Lamp feels a welling concern for their condition. The lot of common folk in that foreign land seems unconscionable to him. While the gods disseminate their blessings unequally in his own world, at least every child receives the gift to some degree. In younger days, Lamp had often lamented his poor toss of the dice. In this moment he feels grateful that he was allowed to roll at all.

  He must set such musings aside, however, as Blackwing continues speaking.

  “Can you guess what they’re hiding under those masks?” The merchant asks before biting into a pear.

  “I’m not…” Lamp hesitantly tenders the beginning of a denial before epiphany strikes. “Actually, I think I do know. It must be what their culture refers to as a soulmask. I had presumed those were a special form of ornamentation awarded to the kingdom’s greatest champions, because they’re rarely mentioned apart from a few tales of heroism. One poet described them as a window to the soul, which at the time I mistook for a flowery metaphor. If the soulmasks are inherently magical, however, then that window might be completely literal.

  “As for their appearance, the few examples I’ve encountered described scenes dominated by a central theme or mood. One mask might show a vault overflowing with gold, while another presents an endless abyss crisscrossed by barbed chains. I read one disturbing account of a soulmask depicting a woman hanging from a tree; I think I’d rather not meet its owner.”

  He breaks for a drink then concludes. “That’s about all I know on the subject. At least, it’s everything I currently recognize as relevant. If I reexamined the artifacts in your repository, I’m sure I would uncover references which I had previously lacked the context to understand.”

  “We don’t have time.” Blackwing responds lightly. “Besides, we’ll have a direct answer soon enough. Changing subjects: Every member of the outworlder delegation is always a woman. Do you have any notion of why?”

  A fascinating question. The scholar carefully considers his response while he takes a bite of sweetbread. After chewing and swallowing the syrup-soaked mouthful, he offers his most interesting guess.

  “Certain icons behave differently towards women and men. For instance, if the other end of the bridge was situated inside Manslaughter’s territory, then men couldn’t safely travel near it.” Lamp pauses before adding. “That assumes icons are real, though. I’ve never been sure.”

  Blackwing finishes a sip of tea before replying. “You’ll need to remind me what an icon is.”

  That admission burns Lamp’s pride a little. This is a subject he and Emerald covered numerous times in their reports, so did Blackwing not read any of the assessments they recorded for him? Lamp tries to keep the disappointment from his voice as he explains.

  “The icons are monstrous and powerful entities which were either created or transformed by the gods during a prior age. Depending on the text, they seem to be regarded as either demigods or demons. Emerald and I processed a figurine of the latter sort yesterday. Did she return our latest batch of artifacts to you? It might be aboard the ship.”

  Blackwing nods. “Those items are currently in the hold, but I recall the term now. Emerald touched on this in some of our meetings. I believe she told me that you dismissed the icons as imaginary monsters used to frighten children.”

  “I entertained that idea that early on. After completing additional translations, I came to understand that the outworlders worship certain icons as heavenly messengers or divine servants. Their society takes the concept far more seriously than a simple bedtime story, and they sincerely believe the icons exist as physical presences in their world. I’ve even read some purported accounts of chance encounters.”

  “Yet you remain skeptical. Why?”

  Lamp shrugs. “The few records of physical interaction between humans and icons generally start by cataloguing the ancestral line that leads back through the story’s hero. Their poems plainly establish that the events described occurred in previous generations. I found it odd that none of those texts contained the personal experiences of the author or any living witness.

  “I was also unable to locate any clear references to the icons within our own recorded histories. I identified a small number of rough similarities between specific figures and our surviving myths regarding the gods’ favored avatars, but there are more inconsistencies than parallels. That factor, combined with the lack of primary sources, gave the icons the air of a folk legend.

  “In any case, returning to your earlier question about Manslaughter, that icon is described as a…” He hesitates before saying: female. “Well, I wouldn’t call it feminine, and I don’t know whether any icon has a biological sex, but it supposedly looks somewhat like a woman. Also, the texts I’ve read sometimes described it as a guardian of women. The icon apparently performs that guardianship by dismembering any man who trespasses inside its territory. Manslaughter’s name is therefore something of a pun.”

  Lamp refills his teacup while he continues speaking.

  “Getting back to your original point, if the icon of manslaughter is lurking somewhere on the other side of your inter-tile bridge, then her proximity would explain the all-female contingent. Otherwise, the phenomenon’s probably due to another icon’s influence. They all exhibit inscrutably strange behavior and possess incredible power, from what I’ve read.”

  He takes another drink of the smooth, brightly-flavored brew and waits to hear his employer’s reply.

  “Hmm.” Blackwing murmurs after a moment. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I thought perhaps the conditions of travel across the desert somehow necessitated clothing that men couldn’t wear… No matter.”

  Lamp nods. It’s not a gesture of agreement so much as an acknowledgement that his boss spoke some words. After a moment of silence, he poses his own question.

  “I assume you haven’t seen any of the icons yourself, then?”

  “No. I haven’t had the fortune, for good or ill.”

  “Definitely for good, if I’m right about which one’s closest to you.”

  Blackwing makes a noise of agreement as he finishes the last few bites of his pear. Lamp decides to exploit the relative quiet by raising a tangential subject. He needs to clarify the limits of his knowledge at some point, and if he outlines his ignorance after demonstrating his expertise, then hopefully this will sound like a caveat rather than an excuse.

  The scholar clears his throat. “From the numerous examples I’ve seen in their poetry and art, the icons appear to occupy a position of central importance to the outlanders’ cultural identity. As a result of that ubiquity, I’ve studied icons to a disproportionate degree, unavoidably neglecting most other aspects of outworld society. Beyond this subject, I know a little about their major cities, their prominent geographical features, the upper echelons of their class structure, and a dozen or so culturally important events from their history. In most other matters, I know essentially nothing about them. There will be many questions I cannot answer.”

  “Ah. Don’t fault yourself for that. ” Blackwing glances away with mild chagrin. “We exchange trinkets and scrolls at the start of every trade. Since I can’t read their language, I tend to select items with evocative illustrations or carvings. That’s likely how we obtained a disproportionate number of artifacts related to mythical beings. Your blindspots on other subjects are my own fault. I should have chosen more of the unassuming items, but I was too focused on building an appealing collection.”

  “I see.”

  Blackwing’s final sentence recontextualizes Lamp’s previous contract work. The merchant prince was apparently assembling an exhibition, and Lamp had simply provided its catalog. That job was never the sort of high-minded archeological study he had envisioned. At least, it wasn’t like that to anyone but him. And maybe to Emerald.

  Lamp feels a bit of enthusiasm drain out of him at that realization, but he chides himself for foolishness. Regardless of Blackwing’s prior designs, the man’s still granting Lamp the chance to speak to a living soul from a surviving foreign land. That portentous meeting will present the greatest opportunity for historical, religious, magical, and anthropological research in centuries, which is more than enough scholarship to salve a bruised ego.

  On the subject of that encounter, Lamp asks. “Can you tell me anything more about the guest you’re taking me to meet?”

  Blackwing nods. “I’ll share the rest of what I know about her, but that’s a dwindling list. The guest is a young woman, a girl really, who somehow smuggled herself into our world during the last trade meeting. She wasn’t the first person to attempt that crossing, but she’s the first survivor. She knows three languages, none of which I share with her, but one of which you do. I need you to interpret for us so I can learn who she is and why she came here.”

  “Hmm.” Lamp rests his chin on two curled glass fingers and recalls the inlayed script he translated in this same room last night.

  “Her mask- it is hers, correct?” He waits for an affirming nod then continues. “Her mask called her a handmaiden to a sacrificial princess. Maybe she’s here because of that relationship.”

  Blackwing nods. “As I recall, the mask also called her a ‘stalker of shadow’ or something to that effect.”

  “That might be a poetic description of her abilities, or maybe it’s a moniker of her noble house.”

  “Feasible explanations. I’m sure she’ll tell us, once we reach her. She seemed eager to communicate before I left. Eager to speak, I should say. I had hoped to bring you a letter to translate, but she refused to write when I offered a pen.”

  “Interesting. I doubt she’s illiterate. Do you think she wants to control her audience?”

  “Likely.”

  A thoughtful silence falls and lingers as the meal concludes. Both men have many questions left unanswered, but neither can render much immediate assistance to the other. From this juncture, elucidation requires more of patience than of inquiry.

  Lamp glances towards the rear windows, looking out through the narrow gaps at the rolling seascape receding behind them. Blackwing follows his attention a few seconds later, and the two men share a brief moment of quiet contemplation before Blackwing rises and gestures towards the door.

  “Shall we?”

  Lamp stands to join him, and they step outside.

  The caldera wall looms noticeably closer when they emerge. At this distance, and under full daylight, Lamp can easily distinguish the larger features on its surface. Most of the mountainous ring remains covered by untamed forest, but he sees occasional clearings or patches of farmland carved out between the trees. From this far away, they look like freckles on the caldera’s face.

  The most arresting feature is a long, dark scar left by a massive landslide. It must have happened fairly recently, judging by the apparent lack of regrowth. Lamp hadn’t known storms could get that violent this far from the center, and he feels renewed appreciation for the peaceful seas and clear skies they’ve enjoyed on their voyage thus far. Holding that thought, he takes a moment to glance in all directions to confirm that no storm clouds are churning in.

  Whilst Lamp satisfies his sudden paranoia, Blackwing excuses himself to perform and oversee other tasks around the ship. The scholar is once again left to his own devices. As before, he chooses to spend his time on deck, watching the islands drift along.

  The better part of an hour passes in that manner, and the novelty of this new experience gradually degrades into monotony. Lamp’s one moment of excitement comes when they pass near an island which hosts a small town. He doesn’t know its name, and he elects not to interrupt anyone to ask, but he watches it with interest as their ship sails by.

  He wonders how many of the people on that island have ever left it. Do those fishermen ever decide to row towards a different harbor? How many of those distant farmers ever throw down their tools to try something new? Could there be a scholar, somewhere in that huddled mass of buildings? Does he ever dream of seeing more?

  Lamp wonders whether he would have stayed in one city for so many years if he’d been born somewhere small and remote like this. He can see at least one yellow-roofed temple inside their encircling wall, so his childhood could have played out in a similar manner. He might even have remained within the faith as an adult, far away from the big city and its politics.

  He would never have joined Blackwing’s company in that alternate life, but maybe he’d still be married. Not to the same person, but to someone.

  How far away would he have ended, if he had started in a different place? That’s a question thick enough to leave him chewing for the final hour of their voyage. Time marches by while he muses in the shade of the mast, and, almost before he knows it, they reach their destination.