Owl stares wordlessly at the great city for a long moment, slowly turning to take in everything she can see from her midship vantage. Lamp and Blackwing allow her the moment, patiently waiting until she completes a three-quarter rotation.

  After a further moment spent staring straight ahead, she slowly turns to Lamp and admits. “If you had described this to me, I would not have believed it.”

  Lamp’s smile returns, less exuberant and victorious but still immensely proud. His earlier flash of exaltation now feels slightly unearned, considering that not a single stone or brick of New Carcosa’s innumerable structures was laid by his own hand, but surely there’s some credit due for playing his small role within the grand community that creates the city’s soul.

  He doesn’t- didn’t- simply live here. He’s part of it, and it’s part of him. That will remain true no matter where he travels or how long he stays away. He’s glad it was only a week this time. He doubts the next absence will be so brief.

  Thinking that he should introduce his city to Owl more thoroughly, Lamp crosses the short distance toward her and Blackwing. When he reaches them, however, his employer douses that plan.

  Despite their distance from the docks, Blackwing instructs Owl and Lamp to wait inside his cabin for the remainder of their approach, explaining that he wants to keep the foreigner out of sight lest her strangely patterned graft attract the eye of light-binders powerful enough to enlarge distant images.

  At Owl’s subsequent questioning, Lamp attests that he knows of one only individual within the city who might be able to resolve their features from across the bay. Nevertheless, they comply with the merchant’s directive, shutting themselves inside his room and settling beside his low table to wait as their ship sails into port. They can feel their forward motion slow and eventually halt as the boat pulls even with its pier. Shortly afterwards, muffled shouts of command and acknowledgement inform Lamp that the ship has moored and the extraction of its remaining cargo has commenced.

  They continue hiding away, chatting amiably, until Blackwing finally enters to provide an update. After shutting the door, he informs them that he’s just dispatched a runner to deliver his prepared missive to Clearheart. The letter requests an audience at her earliest convenience. Given the magnitude of commerce Blackwing conducts within her territory, along with the longevity and ease of their commercial partnership, he expects the basileus will find time for him today.

  The merchant next informs them that he also sent a messenger to fetch Emerald with instructions to bring an array of silver face paints. If even she can’t find a suitable product to disguise Owl’s graft, then Blackwing will provide the outlander with a hooded cowl for their journey through the city.

  Owl expresses concern that they won’t have time to finish applying her disguise before Clearheart summons them, but Blackwing assures her that the reply will not arrive so rapidly. They’ll be made to wait an hour at least.

  With that, the merchant pokes his head outside to order tea from persons unknown before shutting the door again. He then joins his guests at the table, evidently intending to remain in place until they receive Clearheart’s reply. Shortly afterwards, a burly cabin girl arrives carrying a tray of four ceramic cups in her right hand and balancing a steaming kettle atop the heat graft on her right palm. She exchanges her cups and the tin pot for a round of thanks, then departs.

  The next few minutes pass pleasantly as the trio enjoys their tea amidst light conversation concerning the drink itself. Lamp tries to describe the flavors of his favorite blends by making comparisons to the limited selection of fruits, herbs, and spices Owl was able to taste in her own world. Blackwing, in contrast, mostly focuses on the growing conditions needed to produce high quality product, such as the ideal altitude for certain farms.

  The concept that temperature should vary with height proves completely foreign to the girl, though Lamp observes that his own world seems to only impose that rule within the caldera itself. He hadn’t noticed any difference in heat when traveling up and down the exterior slope.

  That comment almost sparks a tangential conversion, but a knock on the door interrupts them. A moment later, Emerald’s muffled voice announces her arrival aboard the ship. Blackwing calls for her to enter, and the door swings open.

  A large, ornate box held under Emerald’s left arm and propped against her matching hip gives the young woman trouble as she fumbles with her free hand to close the door behind herself. Blackwing reaches out with his graft arm to take the lacquered object out of her hands, and she passes it into his claws with a huffed word of thanks.

  Sounding slightly out of breath, the scribe explains that her container holds several silver cosmetics of varied hue, luster, and texture. She also stowed a letter for Blackwing in the top drawer. While her employer pulls open the indicated compartment and extracts a papyrus scroll, Emerald turns to face Owl.

  “Welcome!” She states cheerily in the girl’s own language while drawing a sign of greeting in the air.

  After a moment of pronounced shock, Owl responds with a rapid flurry of hand signals. The fluid dance of gestures clearly constitutes a language of some kind, though Lamp has never seen its like before. He watches transfixed for a few seconds until Emerald raises both hands in a halting motion and stiffly says “Please to stop. Please” in the old tongue.

  The scribe then turns to Lamp and asks him to explain that she doesn’t understand. He passes that message along before confessing to Emerald that he shares her ignorance and bafflement. From across the table, Blackwing looks up from the scroll which he had unwound and pressed flat against the wood.

  “The elites of her society use hand signs to communicate with their maskless underlings.” He belatedly explains. “Lady Jindep and her peers give orders through an interpreter. I thought I’d mentioned that to you, Lamphand. My apologies.”

  Without waiting for a response, Blackwing immediately returns to his reading.

  Brushing aside the misunderstanding, Emerald and Owl exchange their introductions through Lamp, with the former explaining the role she played in cataloguing Blackwing’s acquisitions. Lamp suppresses an unproductive impulse to mention that she also occasionally stalks her coworkers back to their homes; if he can’t fully move past that resentment, he needs to at least bury it until he changes employers.

  Oblivious to Lamp’s recriminations, Emerald reclaims her box of makeup from Blackwing’s side of the table and repositions it next to Owl. She offers to help the girl select and apply her disguise. The outlander cheerily accepts that assistance, so Emerald begins pulling open small drawers to examine the tidy arrangement of little pots and trays stored within. She spends some time perusing, looking back and forth between her cosmetics and the silver graft she needs to imitate. Eventually, she settles on three options and asks permission to apply them on in test patches, which Owl grants.

  The young scribe delicately paints three subtly distinct patches of silver against Owl’s forehead, pausing between each brushstroke to assess their appearance. As Emerald leans forward to intently study Owl’s face from close proximity, the handmaid’s cheeks gradually redden in response. When the rising blush grows too overt for any pretense that it might go unnoticed, she bashfully averts her eyes from the woman sitting opposite her. Lamp likewise looks away, suddenly feeling that his observation was immodest.

  Although Emerald’s bearing doesn’t change, she clearly takes notice of her patient’s discomfort. Pausing her work, she suggests relocating behind the privacy screen that separates the cabin’s workspace and social area from its bed. Owl agrees, and the two of them move across Blackwing’s small room to hide away behind a wicker mesh.

  Remaining at the table with his employer, Lamp glances over at the other man to check his progress with the letter. Blackwing, perhaps feeling those expectant eyes, lifts his head a moment later and explains.

  “This is a missive from Bronzemane. Its first section concerns the graft thieves who attacked you shortly before we met. I dispatched a report of that encounter on the same night while you were reviewing our contract. I’ll read his response for you.”

  He looks back down and recites. “‘Gods keep you, Blackwing. I offer my deepest thanks for your most shocking account of an attempted graft butchery occurring within my hold. Wayward only knows how those fiends evaded my attention before you found them; I strongly suspect their operation began quite recently and they were simply unlucky in their choice of early victims.

  “‘Regardless of circumstance, I offer my deepest apologies to you and your subordinate. It should please both of you to learn that I have already identified and dealt with the remaining members of that dreadful gang. Should you wish to identify the miscreants, I can preserve their bodies for a short time. Please inform me of your preference immediately upon your return.’”

  Blackwing releases the scroll, allowing it to curl in on itself, then sets the parchment aside before concluding. “He also claims to have forwarded the full value of the gang’s possession to me as compensation for the crime committed against my employee. I’ll pass his bribe along to your account.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Lamp receives the offer numbly. “I honestly didn’t think he’d do anything about it.”

  He isn’t sure how to feel about the boys being executed. Upon hearing that news, it had crossed his mind that he ought to revel in Bronzemane’s deliverance of justice, but he just can’t bring himself to celebrate these deaths. He tries to recall his assailants’ faces for the first time since he escaped from them, and in so doing he makes the conscious realization that some of those young thugs were of the same age as his students.

  That belated comparison plunges a dagger through his heart. In the next moment, he wonders if his sympathy is deserved. Perhaps the organ bleeds too freely; he isn’t sure. Lamp won’t go so far as to weep for his would-be murderers, but in searching his emotions he finds no lingering scorn for them either. So, moved either by compassion or a twisted sense of guilt, he murmurs a brief prayer.

  “Wayward guide their souls. Regent judge them fairly. Mirror receive them as they are due. Mother provide for those bereaved.”

  With that small funerary service complete, Lamp returns his attention to the present and comments to Blackwing. “I’m impressed Bronzemane went to the trouble of tracking down the assailants, and by how quickly he resolved the matter. That man never rushes when performing favors.”

  The merchant nods with a sober expression. “I suspect he knew of their operation and quietly took his cut for however long it operated. He only destroyed the group because he feared I might uncover his involvement through my own investigation.”

  Emerald pipes up from the other side of the screen. “Should we look into it? There might still be a trail to follow.”

  “No. We’d change nothing.” Blackwing coolly replies, then pauses to look toward Lamp. “Unless the aggrieved desire further restitution. I can press him if you ask it of me, Lamphand.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather leave it behind.” The scholar demurs, allowing the matter to drop.

  Emerald makes use of the ensuing silence to tell Lamp where she moved his possessions after settling his lease. Aside from his clothing, there was nothing inside the apartment that he needs to reclaim immediately, so he accepts Blackwing’s offer to keep the remaining items in storage.

  With that matter settled, the merchant rises from his cushion and exits the room with a promise to return quickly. True to his word, he soon reenters with two bundles of vibrant yellow cloth tucked under his right arm; these must be the himatia he mentioned yesterday. The man hands one off to Lmap, then drapes the other over the privacy screen and directs Emerald to assist Owl in wrapping it.

  So eager is Lamp to exchange his borrowed shepherd’s cloak for more familiar attire that he’s already doffed and folded the chlamys before Blackwing even returns to his seat. Though it’s a pretentious sentiment, the scholar can’t deny how much more comfortable he feels dressed in urban fashions. The color is slightly unwelcome, however. After affixing the wrap, he plucks up a bit of fabric draped over his chest and shoots Blackwing an inquisitive look.

  “Yellow? Are you trying to pass us off as priests?”

  The merchant nods. “It provides an easy explanation to anyone who overhears the two of you conversing today, and should the actual clergy take note, they’ll have a dead-end rabbit hole to follow.”

  “Alright.” Lamp agrees without enthusiasm.

  After that, nearly a minute passes in silence before Blackwing revives the atmosphere with a new round of inconsequential small talk. Lamp interprets the exchange for Owl’s benefit, and the four of them chatter amiably until Emerald eventually finishes applying Owl’s new look and the pair emerges from behind their wicker screen to reclaim seats at the low table.

  Blackwing examines Emerald’s handiwork on the outlander’s face and complements the cohesive effect she achieved. The scribe thanks him but warns that Owl’s disguise won’t withstand close scrutiny, which he dismisses as an unnecessary standard. He won’t let anyone get close to her.

  Blackwing then turns toward Owl with a serious expression and poses a morbid question so bluntly that Lamp almost declines to repeat it.

  “Do your parents have another child? I’d rather not facilitate the termination of your bloodline if this turns violent.”

  Owl blinks once in mild surprise then answers. “Yes. My older brother is also a member of the Select, as are both my mother and paternal uncle. My departure and potential death will cause minimal harm to our house’s standing. Besides which, my parents prefer Vahid as an heir anyway, in spite of his… proclivities.”

  Blackwing nods. “I don’t anticipate violence, but we’re surprising a dangerous woman with secrets she presumed were buried. She might not want our world learning her true origins, and I doubt she’d care for your world discovering her new location. To minimize the chance of conflict, speak carefully, behave graciously as her guest, and most of all: don’t issue any orders under the authority of your king; I know Clearheart well enough to predict she’d take that poorly.

  “Also, you deserve to know that if our meeting does turn nasty, my priority will be to protect myself and Lamphand before you. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  On that somber note, their conversation lapses while they silently drain their tea. Emerald has just risen to fetch a second pot when they hear a knock at the door. Blackwing calls for it to open, and a courier briefly steps inside to hand off a wax-sealed scroll. Lamp doesn’t get a clear view of the imprint, but he’d wager one month of his old wages that it bears the Glassblood insignia.

  His employer wastes no time in breaking the seal and rolling the letter open. His eyes scan across the inner surface, and the corner of his mouth twitches a second later. Then he releases the scroll and looks up to recite its contents.

  “She says only this, ‘Need somebody killed? Swing by and tell me what he looks like.’”

  Blackwing passes Clearheart’s letter off to Emerald with instructions to burn both missives received from the basileis and to decline Bronzemane’s offer to examine the graft thief corpses. Upon receiving a nod of confirmation, he rises from the table. Owl and Lamp follow suit, recognizing that the time has come at last.

  The merchant affixes each of them with a serious gaze. “As we cross the city, our movements will be tracked and our conversations overheard. We will be watched by agents in the employ of rival merchants, lords, information brokers, and the central cult. They will note my decision to visit Clearheart almost immediately after arriving. They may take interest in the two unknown individuals with whom I travel. Give them nothing further to report.

  “We will walk at an unhurried pace, we will avoid gawking like tourists, and we will not utter compromising secrets even in a whisper. I have an established habit of eschewing palanquins, so we’ll make this trip by foot. Hiding you away would draw more attention.”

  He turns to the outlander. “Owl, I want you to keep your graft active at a low level. Our world’s psychological magic is more effective when employed subtly. Your aim is to become uninteresting, not unnoticeable.”

  The girl nods. “I could manage full invisibility before I lost my mask, but the graft is weaker. I will attempt to do as you advise, sir.”

  He nods, then looks between her and Lamp. “Are you ready?”

  They answer affirmatively, so their group exits the captain’s cabin. As they cross the deck, Blackwing orders an idle sailor to carry Emerald’s box of cosmetics back with her to her office. The five of them then descend the gangway, stroll together down the jetty, then turn opposite directions once they reach the end of the causeway and set foot onto flagstone.

  As they separate from Emerald, Lamp catches Owl looking back over her shoulder to watch the scribe’s departure somewhat wistfully. He fakes a light cough, making the handmaiden jump. She snaps her head forward, straightens her back, and adopts a composed expression, though Lamp catches rosy hints of a blush creeping up her neck.

  Owl clears her throat, then comments in a strained attempt at a conversational tone. “I was just appreciating… That is… She has a beautiful graft! And I like the way she painted her upper lip in a matching pattern. It was fascinating. Um, I mean… Do you happen to know what it does? Her magic?”

  Stifling a smile, Lamp shakes his head. “No. Most people aren’t too private about that detail, but it’s still considered rude to ask. The topic simply never came up in the time I’ve known her.”

  “Ah. Nevermind, then. I was merely curious.”

  Lamp looks away to hide a knowing smirk and lets the matter drop. Following that brief exchange, he and Owl keep quiet as they climb the hill towards Clearheart’s fortress. The outlander exercises restraint in her examination of the surrounding urban hubbub, maintaining a disinterested expression as she examines the assorted stalls, storefronts, and customers. Lamp, for his own part, locks his eyes squarely on the path ahead, keeping tabs on his counterpart only from the corner of his eye.

  Their ascent progresses uneventfully and with surprising ease as the city’s bustling traffic makes way for the merchant prince and his hangers on. Lamp can’t tell if anyone’s actually tracking them, though he’s not enough of a fool to make a show of checking all the rooftops, windows and alleyways. For all he knows, every shadow is fully packed with spies.

  Either way, he thinks the three of them put on a good act, and their performance of aloof stoicism seems to hold as they quickly cover ground.

  It isn’t much longer before the trio ascends beyond the busy market into a less crowded residential sector, emerging from the press of bodies as if hiking above a cloudbank. With the road ahead largely cleared, they make quick progress towards Clearheart’s headquarters. So brisk is Blackwing’s pace, in fact, that Lamp barely has time to brace himself before they arrive at the outer perimeter.

  A high wall of mortared stone with a deep, narrow ditch at its base separates the Glassbloods’ block-wide compound from the district they oversee. Sentries patrol in pairs along a raised walkway set behind the barricade. Their relaxed attitude suggests anticipations of an uneventful shift, and they barely glance at the arriving visitors.

  Blackwing leads his followers across a narrow bridge to the nearest entrance, then stops outside the gate at the polite command of a checkpoint guard. The officer greets Blackwing by name before demanding the identities and roles of his companions. Blackwing provides brief and vague introductions, which apparently suffice.

  The officer waves the three of them through, and they pass under the arch. As they proceed, one of the guards detaches from his station to tail the visiting group into the compound. Blackwing pays the tagalong no mind, so Lamp likewise ignores him.

  The scholar draws a sharp breath as he steps out from the wall’s shadow on the gateway’s other side. He can scarcely believe he’s here, or that he came willingly. To avoid thinking about the small army which now surrounds him, he distracts himself by focusing on the architecture. His educated eye quickly assesses that most buildings within the fortress are of modern construction, but the deeper they press, the more evidence he sees of the citadel’s ancient roots.

  Large blocks of old and weathered stone form the foundations and ground floors of warehouses and barracks. Weathered messages chiseled by centuries of prior occupants tell a story of changing dialects and sensibilities, and some of the flagstones beneath their feet still bear faint insignias from the original city of Carcosa. Lamp even catches sight of the old tomb in which Clearheart’s predecessor met his ignoble end; rumor holds that the dead lord’s body still resides there, in the quiet company of corpses nearly a millennium older than his own. The scholar almost feels jealous.

  Despite himself, Lamp has to give the mercenary compound its due as an impressive archeological site. If not for the unfortunate detail of its current occupants, he might count this ruin as one of his favorites in the city. Built atop one of few surviving ruins from the rupture, the Glassblood fortress manages to pass itself off as a functional antique.

  Its most arresting feature, however, is Clearheart’s centrally placed manor, and there’s very little of antiquity about that building. Still, its modern grandeur commands his begrudging attention and respect. Serving double duty as both the Glassblood company’s administrative headquarters and as the personal estate of one of New Carcosa’s wealthiest residents, it does not lack for gravitas.

  A two story octagon of brightly painted limestone wraps around a spacious central plaza. Colorful bands of smoothly chiseled rock shield the interior from all threats of force and flame. The ground level contains no windows or doors facing the outside. The fort’s only entrance, barely large enough to admit more than one man at a time, is a heavy wooden gate that occupies the center of the street-facing wall.

  Blackwing’s trio and their silent follower pass through the open gateway into a narrow tunnel that cuts below the unbroken second story. A second gate, equally sturdy, awaits them on the far end. Lamp glances at the walls and ceiling as they cross. He finds, to his disquiet but not surprise, that every surface aside from the floor contains strategic gaps between its stones. He’d wager each hole was made just large enough to admit a spearhead.

  Lamp can’t help but conjure a morbid vision of both gates slamming shut to trap them in this corridor before long weapons drive out from the walls to skewer them. Shivering at the thought, he feels greatly relieved when they emerge from that hallway of murder into the warm sunlight of an eight-sided courtyard.

  Quite dissimilar to Blackwing’s garden, Clearheart uses her manor’s inner space as a training ground. Armored soldiers march in formation across the flat expanse of packed dirt, carrying headless spears in precise alignments dictated by their bellowing instructors. Cloth-wrapped straw targets set up along the back wall serve as practice for javelin throwers. Wrestling matches occupy the center.

  Fluted columns along the perimeter of the field support the compound’s internal veranda. Two breaks in the walkway, one at the main gate and another at the opposite wall, create a visual divide between the structure’s two halves. The building itself continues without interruption, despite its broken porch.

  Short stairs to either side of the entrance lead up onto the raised walkways. On the section to their left, a smartly dressed servant gracefully steps forward from the shade. A pearlescent graft wraps his forehead like a shimmering bandana, and he wears a wide, unnaturally white smile. Lamp initially perceives the man’s teeth as an extension of his graft before comparing their color to the headband and realizing that the footman must have gargled lye or some similar substance to produce that dramatic effect.

  The white-toothed man greets their party with a silken voice. “The Glassbloods welcome our esteemed guests, and you foremost, ‘tajir barabar ba basileus.’ I notice you arrived without Candlewire. Are we to expect her as well?”

  “No.” Blackwing provides a clipped response. “This isn’t a trade meeting.”

  “Of course, sir. My employer presumed as such. Please follow me inside.”

  The footman spins on his heel and strides inside, leaving the trio to trail after him. As they climb the short stairway to pursue their guide, the Glassblood soldier who had accompanied them from the outer wall finally breaks off to return to his station.

  The visitors quickly flow through the veranda and into the house proper. Their hurried pace offers little time to appreciate the pebble mosaic which paves the covered walkway before they cross the threshold and leave it behind.

  Lamp has plenty to occupy his eyes within, however. A colorful fresco adorns the back wall, depicting peaceful scenes of nature. Painted vases with similar themes rest on varnished tables at the edges of the room. Amidst the pottery, lacquered shields and polished spears hang with even spacing, and two tall wooden stands display well-used sets of armor. To Lamp’s discerning eye, the exhibit speaks of violence in the past, but serenity in the moment. May it last.

  As they cross through a doorway into the next room, Owl murmurs at his side. “She has a worthy house.”

  Lamp nods in agreement. “It was the talk of the city when she started building. Clearheart poached a lot of weight-binders from other districts to get it fully assembled on her preferred schedule. Even with such a large workforce, it still took a while for her to give any of them back.”

  “Well.” The handmaiden sniffs. “I suppose we should be glad she’s not living in squalor.”

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  “Yes… I suppose we should.”

  As their guide enters the next room, he steps aside and gestures for them to avail themselves of its padded wicker chairs. The three guests file in and obligingly take their seats. A muffled conversation carries from the next room over, but a closed pair of ornately carved wooden doors dampens the sound.

  As they settle in, Blackwing’s head twitches sharply toward a seemingly innocuous location on the wall.

  “She knows we’re here.” He mutters without explanation; Lamp takes the man at his word.

  If their host is spying on them, then they might as well return the favor. Closing his eyes, Lamp focuses his full attention on eavesdropping and manages to resolve enough of the conversation to guess most of the words he misses. The current speaker is a woman, no mystery as to whom. Her stern voice helpfully grows louder as she berates her interlocutors.

  He hears her say… “- will pay him double what you extorted before the end of this week. If you fail to do that, or if you ever rob one of my vendors again, then I will allow you to choose which of your hands I break before I repossess your houses and exile you from my territory.

  “You aren’t with Bronzemane or Stonehoof anymore; the Glassblood company has standards. You will either abide by our principals, or you will find yourselves in need of surgical treatment and a new place to sleep. Am I understood?”

  Two male voices answer. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. If you doubt how far I’ll go to maintain my laws, ask your seniors about a man named Bristlepalm. They’ll tell you I follow through on every threat.”

  Additional affirmations follow. A few moments later, the decorated doors swing open and closed again as two uniformed young men exit Clearheart’s office. They seem surprised to see Blackwing waiting on the other side and offer respectful nods while hurrying past. Once the apparent fresh recruits have cleared the room, Clearheart’s white-toothed footman crosses to her door, knocks, and enters at her call. Lamp can’t hear what he says to her within, but he catches her laughter in response.

  “Oh. He heard all of that, then.” She chuckles, then calls. “Come in, Wing! I’m not busy.”

  Rising from the chair in which he’d sat for less than a minute, Lamp follows his employer through the doorway into Clearheart’s office. As they enter, the mercenary captain stands from her desk but remains behind it. Blackwing crosses the room to shake her hand.

  “Khosh amadid. Kalimera.” She greets him in the old tongue, followed by the new. He replies with only the latter.

  Lingering in the back of the room, Lamp observes the conqueror from the closest vantage he’s ever occupied. He notes that she’s closer to Blackwing’s height than his own and stockier than either of them; her burly physique clearly sees just as much practice in the training yard as any of her soldiers. Unlike her subordinates, however, she dresses out of uniform.

  New Carcosa’s most dangerous woman wears an orange himation wrapped over her right shoulder, following the masculine style. The garment covers the right half of her athletic torso and clothes her only breast. She demonstrates less modesty about the left side, baring its androgynous contours from shoulder to hip. This arrangement of cloth also displays the most notable portion of her graft.

  A flat-surfaced cylinder of glass runs clear through her body, starting at her sternum and projecting left, its faces flush with her skin. Within that transparent cutout, clear crystal has either replaced portions of her ribs, spine, and lung, or else rendered them invisible. Either way, the window displays only one organ.

  Suspended at the graft’s center, a scarlet gemstone heart beats with a slow, comfortable pulse. Ruby arteries and amethyst veins branch from that core into the rest of her body, suggesting a wider network of power beneath her skin. In spite of himself, Lamp can’t help but admit that it’s one of the most beautiful grafts he’s ever seen.

  He looks away before their hostess can catch him gawking. Luckily, she hasn’t glanced at him or Owl yet.

  “Fetch another chair.” She orders her footman; her desk only has two positioned before it from her last meeting.

  As the servant turns to obey, Blackwing declines. “I can stand.”

  Clearheart shrugs. “Suit yourself. I choose comfort.”

  She plops back into her well-cushioned desk chair and waves a hand at Blackwing’s hangers-on to indicate that they should follow suit. Lamp and Owl approach and seat themselves. Once his subordinate and ward are situated, Blackwing glances at Clearheart’s white-toothed servant. Taking the hint, their hostess waves for the man to leave the room. He gives his employer a slight bow before exiting and closes the doors as he leaves.

  The room falls silent for a moment afterwards, during which the mercenary captain assesses the newcomers with a relaxed attentiveness. She appraises and dismisses the lesser guests before returning her attention to Blackwing.

  “What’s this urgent business, then?” She asks in an unbothered voice. “Do you need to hire an army? I may have left one lying around here, somewhere.”

  “Nothing so involved. Our business is merely her.” Blackwing declares with a wave towards Owl. “That girl crossed into our world-tile from another realm. She claims you made the same journey two decades prior, and she wants to speak with you about your niece.”

  Clearheart’s expression freezes at Blackwing’s mention of the other world, but she quickly restores her aura of calm. When the merchant finishes his brief explanation, Clearheart turns to face Owl. She gives the girl a more thorough examination, through which Owl sits in uncomfortable silence.

  After a lengthy moment of stoic consideration, Clearheart raises her hands and performs a complicated series of motions with her fingers and arms. When the mercenary pauses, Owl responds with her own rapid parade of hand symbols. Blackwing shoots a glance at Lamp to confirm that the scholar has no comprehension of their exchange before interjecting.

  “Apologies for the interruption, but would the two of you mind switching to the old tongue so we can overhear?”

  “Sure. Spares me the trouble of repeating myself.” Clearheart answers in the local language after concluding one final gesticulated flourish. “As for the girl, I don’t recognize her, but I’m convinced she’s genuine, so I’ll confess to our common heritage. Did she tell you how she made the jump?”

  “She crossed through a portal I opened for my own purposes.” Blackwing reveals after a moment’s hesitation.

  That admission catches Clearheart’s interest, honing a sharper edge to her gaze.

  “Care to describe the method?” She asks in an inviting tone that doesn’t quite match her expression.

  Blackwing nods in begrudging agreement. “You were forthright with me. I will return that favor.”

  He waves his human right hand in a gesture at nothing. “Years ago, I found a golden spear at the edge of this world. I used it to establish trade with your homeland. Grayowl is the first living person to cross in either direction since you made that journey twenty years ago.”

  “Hmm.” Clearheart glances back towards her fellow expat but continues speaking to Blackwing in the modern tongue. “Owl, you say? She took a new name already? Does she intend to stay here?”

  “No. She chose that name to hide her origins while she searched for you. We made that task a few years shorter than she expected.”

  “I see. Lucky her, then.”

  Clearheart turns to face Owl and addresses her in the old language. Lamp begins translating for Blackwing’s benefit, trying to keep his voice low to avoid distracting the speakers.

  “Welcome to the city where dreams are born and tribulations are shanked in back alleys.” Clearheart greets her young petitioner. “Have you enjoyed your tour of paradise thus far?”

  “I did, my lady.” Owl answers respectfully. “Though I have had regrettably little time to explore.”

  “I may help you amend that, depending on the outcome of our debate.” She looks over to Blackwing and switches languages. “This will be a long conversation. I can’t have an important guest waiting on his feet, regardless of his stuffy personality. Please follow me into the lounge.”

  Blackwing agrees, so Clearheart moves their conversation upstairs into a room where all of them can sit comfortably. She claims the largest kline for herself, spreading her arms over its back in a confident sprawl and crossing her legs at the ankle. She sighs contentedly, then turns toward Owl, who sits across from her at a low table.

  “You’re here because of the growth icon.” Clearheart states with a dry tone.

  Across the table, the girl nods her assent before speaking with uncharacteristic trepidation.

  “Your highness,” Owl begins, “I have come here for the precise reason you suspect. The icon of growth will soon reach the end of its lifecycle. Its next available host is your young niece, whom you were never able to meet. I came here in the hopes that you would save her from that untimely fate.”

  Clearheart bobs her head at the confirmation, her expression growing annoyed. “You want me to die in her place?”

  “No, highness.” Owl’s voice gains an edge. “I want to prevent her from dying in yours.”

  She meets Clearheart’s gaze with open challenge, though she’s still clearly nervous. Owl must understand by this point that persuasion is her only option. If she had still planned to intimidate or abduct her lover’s aunt before they reach the Glassblood fortress, then that prospect must seem impossibly remote by now.

  Clearheart doesn’t answer, so Owl presses on. “Our princess is only nineteen years old; she ought to have decades of life left ahead of her! I beseech you, do not steal that time away! She needs you to come home. Your kingdom needs you.”

  “I refuse.” Clearheart’s dispassionate answer immediately returns. “Now, was that all? I don’t suppose you thought to bring me any baklava from the palace kitchens?”

  Owl shuts her eyes and slowly exhales. When she looks back at Clearheart, shimmering tears well at the corners of her silver graft-eyes.

  “Please.” She almost whispers. “I have nowhere left to turn. Everyone else has given up on finding a way out. Those with power berate me for my persistence, as though her life is not worth saving. I beg you, at least let me tell you of her, so you may know who you abandoned.”

  “Ah.” Clearheart murmurs softly. “You’re in love with her.”

  “Yes.” Owl answers without hesitation.

  “And she reciprocates?”

  “She does.”

  The mercenary sighs. Her face relaxes into a more neutral expression as her guard lowers but her obstinacy endures. The room falls silent for a moment until she resumes speaking.

  “Since the two of you share such a bond, you should be more ambitious in your plans. Think beyond the next few years, girl. I won’t return with you, but even if I did, my sacrifice would only buy her three decades. How will you protect your lover when my branches begin to split and my fruit falls rotten from the vine? What will you do to save her when the wheel turns anew and hungry eyes once more pan towards her fertile soul?

  “What you should do,” Clearheart props herself forward and lowers her voice, “is get her out. Go back inside one last time to grab your sweetheart, steal some magic to keep her shielded during the dip through chaos, then run away like I did. That middle step’s the tricky one, but I can teach you what she needs to do. Are you interested?”

  Owl sits quietly for a long moment before answering. “Even if I trusted your information, and even if we successfully enacted your plan, removing the last sacrificial candidate from the kingdom would leave our people-”

  “Wrong!” Clearheart interrupts. “You think her escape would lead to mass starvation, but that would never come to pass. Stubborn as the damned thing is, Judgement has repeatedly proven it can place necessity before tradition. You just need to force its hand, so to speak. If we deny it the royal sacrifice it wants, then it will choose someone else to play that role. It might even discover a willing volunteer among the low nobility.”

  “I- that-” Owl sputters, then frowns. “What if it takes someone by force? Do you want me to pass our troubles onto someone else’s head without knowing who they are or what they stand to lose? Like you did to us? And what if you’re completely wrong about Judgement? What happens if the icon won’t tolerate a substituted bloodline? What if it finally lets Growth die? Every man, woman, and child outside of the Select will starve!”

  “In that case…” Clearheart leans back again into a more relaxed posture and answers the challenge in a dismissive tone. “Wing could earn a killing by trading them food, or we could find other ways to preserve their agriculture. Did you know it’s possible to grow crops by graft-light? We could sell them the sun itself! In any case, you came to me seeking a solution, and I just gave you three. You can either follow my advice, or you can let your lover die. Pick the outcome you prefer.”

  Owl shakes her head emphatically. “It’s not as simple as you think. The portal only opens four times per year. How many light-binders would Blackwing need to supply for us to maintain our farms across multiple months? And what about the soil quality? Fertility might not matter in the slightest to Growth, but my mother’s experiments with our own private farm yielded-”

  “Wing can explain the concept of fertilizer to you.” Clearheart interrupts again. “Or not. Maybe he wants to keep that as a trade secret. In any case, lights or no, he can provide what you need.”

  “Could he? Do you really think Lord Blackwing could haul enough food across the empty plain to sustain an entire kingdom? Consider: would he be able to feed all the people of this city, if they had no one else to support them? How many tons of produce would all those mouths consume per day? Your suggestion is impossible!”

  Clearheart waves her hand in a frustrated gesture. “So partner with other merchants. It doesn’t need to be just him. This city does receive much of its food via trade. It’s not as infeasible as you think.”

  “What fraction? More than half?”

  “Not quite, but we-”

  “Do your farms have capacity to feed this city plus everyone in our homeland? We cannot grow the food ourselves, and your people would not consign themselves to starvation just to save mine from the same fate, so where is it all coming from? Do you have a literal mountain of fresh bread just waiting to be given away?”

  “Look-” The mercenary snaps. “None of this is material because Judgement would never allow it to happen! That icon exists to preserve your kingdom. It was created for that purpose and no other. Letting almost everyone starve to death would be a massive dereliction of its duty, which is the only thing it cares about!”

  Owl’s eyes narrow. “You assume its interpretation of duty matches our own. Mine, rather. You would let the fate of our entire people rest upon the whims of a monster.”

  Clearheart smirks. “Careful, now. Your king would call that word choice sacrilege.”

  “Your brother, you mean.” Owl responds primly. “Do you truly have no wish to see him again? Or to meet either of his children?”

  “Can’t say that I do; we weren’t close. Now, before you go off on me about something else, consider this: you have time. You can try the methods I proposed over the next few years. Maybe I’m wrong and it won’t be enough, or maybe I’m right and you have a way to save everyone without turning me into a giant tree. At least make the effort, hey?”

  “We… No… It pains me, but we cannot. The king would never agree. Purchasing that much food, on an indefinite basis… The expense…” Owl bows her head. “They will say it costs more than her life is worth. Even the princess herself… She- she will say the same.”

  “Well.” Clearheart shrugs. “That’s a damn shame, really, but it’s her choice to make. Now, if we’ve reached an impasse, I suggest you hurry home to spend all of your girlfriend’s remaining days by her side. I’m sure she’s worried sick about you.”

  “You will not help us, then?” Owl asks softly.

  “Not a chance.”

  The handmaiden looks up with a glare. Her limbs tense, and it almost seems like she wants to lunge across the table. Clearheart’s only response is a humorless smile, her cold eyes daring the girl to try it. The younger outworlder restrains herself with evident difficulty.

  “She’s your blood!” Owl hisses. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “Yup.”

  “You- you could at least pretend to care!” Her fingers clench around the armrest. “For once in your life, show your people just an ounce of fidelity you coldhearted bi-”

  Blackwing clears his throat, drawing both women’s attention. Lamp translates the merchant’s next words for Owl’s benefit.

  “A temporary change of subject will allow time for tempers to cool. I have a question I’d like to ask , one which might prove useful to Owl’s mission.”

  Clearheart nods. “Do go on.”

  Owl sits back down as Blackwing continues. She watches him intently, perhaps hoping for another option. Lamp finds himself hoping the same, despite having no stake in the outcome.

  “As I said before, I have in my possession a golden spear which I use every three months to unlock the door between realms. Does that object sound familiar to you?”

  “It does.” The lounging woman answers. “I used that spear to escape my own world, but I lost it in the crossing. I had assumed it was reclaimed by whichever hand first offered it to me.”

  “So you share my ignorance regarding its true owner. Could you please tell us how you first obtained it?”

  Clearheart glances at Owl before answering. “When I was a little younger than this spring twig here, my aunt, to whom I was very close, became the current icon of growth. I was torn apart by anguish after her passing. It was made all the worse by everyone’s insistence that I shouldn’t grieve for her because she wasn’t gone. She was.”

  The mercenary captain waits for Lamp to catch up on his translation, then she switches back to the old tongue to directly address her petitioner.

  “Hear me, child. When I tell you to run away with your princess, I’m not saying you should do exactly what I did. I’m advising you to do what I should have done before I lost my chance. Help the person you love most get out of that hellhole and bring her here. I’ll offer both of you protection and a place to live, if you ask that of me, and I’ll give you anything you need aside from my freedom and my life. Know that if you decline, if you leave her there, you’ll regret that decision for the remainder of your life.”

  Even after a long pause, Owl doesn’t answer. Her face betrays an internal struggle. Rather than waiting, Clearheart switches back to the local language and resumes answering Blackwing’s question.

  “A few weeks after my aunt sacrificed herself, I ran away from my tenders and climbed to the peak of a lone mountain that rises above our city. I stood upon the edge of the highest cliff, and I prayed to each of our gods for salvation. When none of them answered, I screamed my prayer to anything that was listening, begging for rescue from any hand able to offer it.

  “Nothing answered at first. I thought my second plea had failed too, and I was ready to jump, but then I heard the crack of splitting stone. I looked to my side and saw a golden spear sticking straight up out of the rock like someone had dropped it there from above. I tried pulling it out, and it drew easily.

  “Written on the shaft were instructions…” Clearheart trails off, then shrugs. “I don’t know who gave me the spear, or why they helped me, or whether they still listen when I pray to them. I just know they saved my life on the one occasion where I was unable to save it myself, and they offered me a future. I won’t throw away that gift. Not for anything.”

  Blackwing nods in acknowledgement, then glances at Owl. “Do you think your benefactor would answer the girl, if she climbed that same mountain?”

  “I have absolutely no idea if they’d listen to her, but they gave you the spear, right? Maybe you could try praying for her. Should be a damn sight easier for you to get up there than it was for me, at least.”

  “A valid point.” The merchant remarks contemplatively. “Perhaps I will. I had wanted to meet their king, regardless. I can visit this mountain and assess the feasibility of supplying food while I’m conducting my own business.”

  “Excellent!” Clearheart claps her hands and smiles. “That’s settled then. You’ll convey the girl home, pray for a miracle on her behalf, and open discussions with my brother to set possible terms for the bulk importation of food. If the king decides to kill his daughter anyway, Owl can sneak her out.”

  She turns towards the handmaid. “Mawafqeedi?”

  Owl doesn’t answer. Looking down with a defeated expression, she slowly rises from her chair and turns to leave the room. Blackwing glances toward Lamp, expecting him to follow.

  It’s now or never.

  Lamp has to say something.

  A wild thought had occurred to him while the others were discussing alternative solutions to Owl’s problem. Maybe it started even earlier, when Clearheart described Growth’s decay in terms of splitting branches and rotting fruit. Or maybe the gears began turning an hour ago on Blackwing’s ship when Lamp heard Bronzemane’s letter read aloud. Or maybe it happened days ago, when he was discussing the idiosyncrasies of magic with Owl while they walked through the tunnel towards Blackwing’s home, when he said that it was water either way.

  Whatever the impetus, Lamp’s mind had started twisting the puzzle while his mouth translated by route. Now, at the close of their meeting, he thinks he found a loose component that none of the others touched.

  He’s afraid to draw attention to himself in this place, but he has to say something. He can’t just watch while Owl slumps from the room with her head bowed in defeat.

  “I have another idea.” Lamp blurts in the old tongue. “It’s extremely dangerous, and it might cause even more trouble if anyone finds out afterwards, but I think it’s worth trying.”

  Blackwing shoots Clearheart a pleading look as his interpreter suddenly goes rogue. She sighs and begins translating for her peer’s benefit as Lamp continues.

  After a deep breath in, the scholar asks. “What would happen if we grafted a false icon? It might take a large supply of them to produce an appreciable effect, but… we could liberate an existing stockpile.”

  Judging by the changes to their respective expressions, Clearheart and Blackwing immediately realize where he’s going with this. The former nods her head in appreciation, while the latter adopts a slight frown. Lamp ignores the scrutiny of titans for the moment and refocuses his attention on Owl. She looks to him with a nervous hope, which he intends to validate.

  “To begin with,” he posits, “it doesn’t sound like the icon of growth is running out of magic. If that were the case, then simply transferring its power to a new host wouldn’t refresh the supply. Your description makes it seem more like the icon’s power is slowly wearing down the body it inhabits. Is that correct?”

  “It is impossible to ‘run out of magic’ in my world.” Owl asserts while slowly returning to her seat. “We don’t store and release power like you do, we just open a window and it pours through.”

  Lamp nods. “That’s what makes me confident in my plan. Before we get to that, though, I should explain a little about the way grafting works.”

  Lamp holds up his right hand and pinches one of his knuckles between a finger and thumb. “If I chopped off part of my graft, I wouldn’t get two functional pieces. The bit that’s still connected to me would retain its magical potential, while the other half goes dull and brittle. We would call the part that still works a ‘living’ graft while the other one becomes a ‘dead’ graft.”

  Lamp moves his grip from his knuckle to his wrist, wrapping his fingers around the opaque line that divides his flesh from the glass. Owl watches him closely while Blackwing and Clearheart exchange an inscrutable glance.

  “However,” Lamp continues his lecture, “if you separate a graft from its host without breaking it, then it stays viable, remaining alive and magically potent. This allows you to remove a graft from one body before surgically attaching it to another person. If the graft takes, then the recipient gets more storage capacity for their established energy type.”

  This brings them back to Lamps plan, which he states after a brief hesitation. “If the growth icon needs a new body because her current one’s falling apart, then maybe we can enhance that current body by giving her a pile of ownerless grafts to support her magical weight.”

  The more Lamp speaks, the more blood drains from Owl’s face.

  “Lamphand,” She starts worriedly, “I pray you are not suggesting that I should go out and harvest innocent people’s organs?”

  On the other side of the room, Clearheart and Blackwing seem to have reached a wordless understanding. The mercenary breaks off their silent communication to answer Owl’s question.

  “The man’s not proposing that you, or any of us, should steal other people’s grafts. He’s suggesting that we raid a chophouse outside the city to commandeer everything they already have in stock.”

  Owl turns her horrified expression on Clearheart, so the older woman expounds.

  “There’s a cartel based out of a fortress on the northwestern end of the island. They’ve used a few different names over the years, but we generally call them graft hunters. They kill isolated people late at night, rob unprotected graves, and purchase dead bodies from other underworld organizations. Once they have a corpse in their possession, they dissect it to harvest the graft. A few desperate souls even surrender to them willingly in exchange for payment, but a lot of those people die during surgery.

  “From the accounts I’ve heard, their base is slightly more than a day’s walk through the jungle if you know where you’re going. Much longer, if you don’t.”

  “What?” Owl looks at Clearheart aghast. “If you have something that wretched lying on your doorstep, and you all know exactly where to find it, then why haven’t you done anything until now?!”

  Clearheart pauses a moment to frame her thoughts, so Lamp interrupts with his own long-held cynicism.

  “It doesn’t threaten them.” He explains. “Transplants only work if you situate the entire graft into the same part of a body from which it was originally detached. Hands have to go at the ends of wrists; eyes have to go inside of sockets. Replacing a hand is dangerous enough, but it’s survivable if done properly. Whereas, if you tried to transfer Clearheart’s graft into another person, you would need to cut out the recipient’s heart and a lot of surrounding flesh first. That type of surgery would kill anyone who attempted it before the graft was even inside them.”

  Lamp waves an accusatory hand at Clearheart and Blackwing. “People like them don’t need to worry about being targeted by butchers. There’s too much graft matter on the interior of their bodies. It’s only people like me who become victims. And whenever a problem only affects the weak, it’s easy for the strong to ignore it.”

  After a long moment of silence, Clearheart nods begrudgingly. “There’s truth to that, but it’s also more difficult to intervene than you realize. The graft trade has powerful backers on the ‘legitimate’ side of society, and every faction in the city, mine included, has at least a few soldiers who were empowered by transplants.”

  She moves her gaze from Lamp to Owl, then finally answers the girl’s question in her own terms.

  “It’s dangerous to fight underworld organizations alone, and if you try to gather allies, you can’t be sure who’s taken bribes, who owes debts, or who has family on the other side. Anyone could warn the enemy that you’re coming, which gives them time to either run away or set an ambush. Plus, and this is a big one: my Glassbloods are mercenaries, not vigilantes. We haven’t done it because nobody’s ever offered to pay us what this is worth.”

  “But could you do it for your niece’s life?” Lamp presses, not content to wait until Owl asks the question for him. “You’ve established that you won’t die to save her, but would you kill for it?”

  Clearheart smiles dangerously. “Sure, sure. I love any problem I can solve with violence. Mind you, this will cause a shitton of backroom political trouble for me, but the public will adore it. Not to mention, it places my dear brother in considerable debt.”

  The mercenary turns towards Blackwing. “I’ll lead the raid if you can get my strike team over their walls. Is that possible for you?”

  “Maybe.” He hedges unenthusiastically. “Before we discuss that, do you believe Lamphand’s larger plan is feasible? If Growth takes the form of a tree, where would we attach anything we obtained?”

  “There’s a human body at its core.” Clearheart answers darkly. “But I don’t think you’ll need to dig in to reach that; the icon already has a habit of accepting offerings. Every time somebody discovers the ability to conjure another lost vegetable, they feed it to the roots. Growth absorbs whatever produce it’s given, learns how to make it, and hey-presto we have a new staple crop. Since she can do that with magical foodstuffs, maybe she could also metabolize grafts. I think your odds of success are at least decent.”

  The merchant nods but doesn’t respond.

  Lamp turns to his employer. “Blackwing? Sir?”

  The tall man sighs and rubs his temple. “This wasn’t in today’s agenda, Lamphand… Gods. There’s a fine line between what you’re proposing and human sacrifice. Even if we overlook that, the outpost you're asking us to raid is just one node of a larger organization. If we strike them here, other cells may retaliate against my own holdings. We could imperil many lives.”

  Lamp shakes his head. “The butchers aren’t that loyal to each other. Their remaining strongholds would only care about this one-off attack if you tried to compromise their markets afterwards by selling the grafts yourself. Otherwise, it just means less competition, lower supply, and higher prices. They might thank you.”

  “Maybe, but Lamp… This is far more than I agreed to do for the girl, you know that. If we try your plan, and I emphasize if, then approaching the cartel in secret to arrange a trade would be easier than what you’re pushing towards. Reputational risk notwithstanding. There are multiple avenues before us; we don’t have to rush into-”

  “They attacked one of your people.” Lamp softly interrupts.

  He’d only been a contractor at the time, but Blackwing doesn’t dispute his claim.

  Instead, he argues. “The men responsible are dead.”

  “Those boys were only puppets. The men responsible are very much alive.” Lamp takes a deep breath in, then gambles. “You asked me if I wanted further restitution. I do.”

  The room falls silent. All eyes watch the merchant, Clearheart with interest, Owl with pleading, and Lamp with something close to fervor. They can all judge from Blackwing’s expression that his resistance is crumbling. The scholar clearly chose an effective lever to pull.

  Did he actually accomplish this? Did his wild whim and crazed momentum actually push these titans into motion? After decades of inaction, are the basileis finally moving against their city’s common enemy? Because of him?

  Lamp feels sharp eyes turn upon him, and he glances across the table to meet Clearheart’s even gaze. She’s fully focused on him now, really looking at him for the first time since they met downstairs. The merchant prince’s no-name translator wasn’t supposed to play an active role in this negotiation, yet he’s now the one getting precisely what he wanted. That development didn’t slip the mercenary’s notice. Her keen attention almost makes him shiver.

  “Polytropos.” She mutters in the modern tongue. Many-turning. Twisty.

  Lamp looks away, uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny. A moment later, his employer saves him.

  “Yes.” Blackwing addresses Clearheart with a grim expression. “I can drop us from above, but you’ll need to supply the full complement. I didn’t think to stow an army on my ship.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “Not a problem. I can martial enough of my people, even on short notice.”

  Perched at the edge of her sofa, Owl softly speaks up for the first time in minutes. “Should I help?”

  “No.” Clearheart and Lamp react in unison, though the scholar defers to the lord as she continues. “You’ve barely had time to train with your graft, and I doubt you’ve ever seen a real fight, let alone joined one. You’d become a major liability if we brought you along, flower girl, so you and your translator are staying here.”

  The handmaiden nods meekly. “I have also never killed before.”

  “Keep it that way, if you can. Once you dip your hands in blood, it never washes off.”