《Canticle [Historical M/M Romantasy]》


 Chapter 1

    He''d been locked in the room for months, Mirk knew, from the tally he kept in the slim journal that''d been slipped in with his breakfast soon after he''d felt well enough to try eating again. Mirk had been keeping notes in it meticulously, day after day -- the note tucked in among its pages, written in a slanting, tidy hand, had said that putting all the emotions pounding at the back of his eyes into words would help. It didn''t. Being shut up alone in the narrow, low-ceilinged room hurt as badly as being trapped inside his mind.


    Mirk put down his pencil, turning away from the tiny desk across from the equally tiny bed, eyeing the door. It wasn''t technically locked. The other note he''d been sent, three days after the journal, had said he was free to leave at any time. That no one would keep him from shambling out of the building, that none of the mercenaries standing watch at the East Gate of the K''maneda''s City of Glass would bar his way, that the Teleporters Guild was down the road and to the left of the gate and had standing orders to take him wherever he wanted. He could go home.


    But there was no home for him anymore, not really. Without a family, home meant nothing. Which meant there was nothing left for him to do but start again. Providence made no mistakes. He could only make the best of what he''d been given. And he wasn''t helping anyone spending his nights scratching foreign words copied from the dictionary into the journal. Not even himself.


    Biting his lip, Mirk clenched the edge of the desk and levered himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady; he''d only gotten out of bed for the first time in weeks a few days ago. It would be better once he got moving, Mirk told himself. It was only five steps to the door. He grasped the handle. And met no resistance as he turned it and pushed the door open.


    Beyond the door was a hallway, one as narrow as his room and made of the same featureless gray stone, lined on either side with doors identical to the one Mirk poked his head out of. He paused to listen. To feel. There was nothing. Either everyone was out, or all the other rooms along the hall were shielded against errant emotions just like his own. Sucking in a deep breath, Mirk ventured out into it, trailing one hand along the wall for support.


    The hall led to stairs. Wider, but steep. And straight. Mirk took them one by one, like a child first learning to master them. Down one floor to a square landing. And then down another. And two more. Still, he felt and heard nothing. Though he knew it couldn''t be the truth, Mirk had the uncanny feeling that he was alone in the building, that everyone else in the world had vanished along with his family, and that the notes that kept coming with his meals were figments of his imagination. At the bottom of all the steps was a vestibule, with an unlit heater on one side and a bin tucked into the corner beside it. In front of him was a threadbare rug and two scuffed, heavy wooden doors with worn metal handles.


    He crossed the vestibule. Grabbed hold of one handle with both hands. Throwing all his weight backwards, Mirk pulled the door open.


    His senses were assaulted by a dozen things at once: the scent of damp earth, the hiss of drizzle on stone, laughter echoing in the distance. And a feeling of mingled lust and glee that burned like hot daggers shoved into his eyes. Mirk lost his grip on the door''s handle and it fell shut. But the lust kept reverberating in his mind, stronger and stronger, until Mirk could feel the claws digging into his shoulders again, the breath forced out of his lungs by a hot weight pressing down on his body, trapping him. All he could hear was the dark, cloying voice that had lurked in the back of his mind for months, now strong enough to rise up and make its endless demands for things he didn''t understand.


    Blindly, Mirk stumbled to the side and retched up that afternoon''s dinner into the bin. He sunk down onto his knees, still heaving, though there was nothing left in him. Mirk tried to get back up. But the emotions, the memories, all of it was too much. He curled up on the floor in front of the doors and hugged himself tightly in a vain attempt to stop shaking.


    If he was ever going to rejoin the world outside those empty halls, he''d have to try again. But not tonight.


    - - -


    A week after Mirk had tried to go outside, Pavel came to visit him.


    He was a slight man with a soft mental presence, light enough to perch on the edge of the desk across from Mirk''s bed without making it creak and bow. But even Pavel''s emotions, quiet and tinged with melancholy, were enough to make Mirk''s eyes water. "Are...is everything all right? With the others?" Mirk asked him, since the sell-sword seemed disinclined to break the silence himself. K''maneda tended to either be gregarious or taciturn, with little in between.


    Pavel nodded. "As good as they ever are."


    "Ah, I see..."


    After another long pause, Pavel sighed. "I''m sorry. I told them to start with someone else."


    "Oh, no, it''s fine," Mirk insisted, dabbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his robes as best he could without drawing attention to it. "It''s just...you feel very...euh, gray."


    "Gray?"


    Mirk started and stopped a few times, trying to find the right English words to describe what he felt, the depressive weight of Pavel''s mind in the back of his head. It was as if Pavel was resigned to everything in life, both good and bad, powerless to do anything but bear up under it. The feeling was uncomfortably familiar. "Like...everything is too much."


    Pavel shrugged. "I''m a Seer. It doesn''t leave you with a lot of hope for the future." He deliberated, then forced a smile onto his face. Even without empathy, Mirk would have known it wasn''t genuine. In his weakened state, without mental shielding to ward off the harsh edge of others'' emotions, Pavel''s melancholy lingered in the room like a dark pall of smoke hanging up near the ceiling. "But it''s not all bad. It''s just better to be prepared for the worst."


    "I suppose that makes sense..."


    "Like I said, I told them to start with someone else. Ilya, maybe. He''s always too distracted to think too hard about things like the future."


    For just a moment, the grayness that shrouded Pavel''s mind lifted. It was enough to make Mirk smile, though his eyes were still brimming. "Methinks that might be why you''re such good friends. It...helps. To make things, euh...equil...no...it''s a b..."


    "Balanced?" Pavel suggested.


    "Yes! That''s it. Like how you need lemon with butter..."


    "I am a little sour," Pavel conceded, swinging his legs, hugging himself. One of his usual habits, Mirk had noticed. Like he was trying to comfort himself, or like he was always cold.


    "That''s not bad," Mirk said. "The world needs all kinds of people."


    Pavel stared across the narrow gap between them. As he studied Mirk, a white film passed over Pavel''s eyes. He quickly blinked it away. "I''m terrible at this," he grumbled, looking down at his knees. "I was supposed to come in here and make you feel better."


    "You have," Mirk said. "It''s nice not to be alone. Even if it''s still a bit...much."


    Pavel snorted. "Share a tent with some of these bastards for a week and then come tell me that."


    - - -


    Two weeks after Pavel had first visited, Ilya was sent in.


    Pavel always knocked. Ilya walked in without knocking or fanfare, bringing that afternoon''s meal tray with him. He sat down cross-legged on the end of Mirk''s bed, setting the tray between them. Mirk was glad that the bed held up under both their weight. Ilya wasn''t the tallest of the foreign mercenaries who''d been protecting his family, nor was he the most muscular, but he was still double Mirk''s size. Despite that, the feel of his presence was as quiet as Pavel''s. And much less melancholy.


    "Dinner," Ilya said by way of greeting, nudging the tray closer to Mirk.


    "Oh...stew again?" Mirk was getting sick of it ¡ª he''d have given anything for fresh bread instead of the rocks that counted for rolls among the K''maneda ¡ª but it felt wrong to complain, considering he was living off their charity.


    Ilya nodded. "No meat."


    "I''m glad you remembered," Mirk said, reaching for the spoon beside the bowl. He paused. There was something more on the tray, a collection of metal ingots of different shapes and colors. "What are these?"


    Ilya considered them, then picked one up, blowing aside a lock of the long, white-blond hair that''d fallen into his face. "For practice," he said, holding his hand out to Mirk, the ingot cradled in his palm. "Watch."


    Mirk did watch. But the sight of the ingot lifting off Ilya''s palm and turning over in the air above it didn''t catch Mirk''s attention as much as the sound did. He hadn''t heard it in months, the faint murmuring of the Earth''s bounty. Then again, he wasn''t hearing it now either. His own mind was still too full of his own emotions, not clear enough to perceive the muted voices of the wood and metal and stone around him. But it was so loud inside Ilya''s mind, and Mirk''s shields were so weak, that he could hear the ingot through Ilya. "You hear it too?" Mirk asked him.


    Ilya smiled to himself. "Silver is nice. A pretty song, like a bird. Yes?"


    Mirk watched the ingot spiral higher above Ilya''s palm, thinking. Along with the fluttery, chime-like voice of silver, Mirk could feel Ilya''s contentment and fascination. It was a welcome change from Pavel''s gloominess. Though Mirk had been able to detect more traces of hope in Pavel''s mindset as of late, once he''d grown accustomed to all the pessimism. "I thought you were a fire mage?"


    "I am. But I''ve always heard things too. Metal is easy."


    "You''re very good. I couldn''t do that even when I was well."


    The ingot dropped back into Ilya''s hand. He stretched it out to Mirk across the tray. "Let''s try together."


    Smiling back at Ilya, Mirk took the ingot from his hand, though he was mindful not to touch the fighter''s calloused palm. He was getting better, but Mirk didn''t think he was ready for that. Not yet.


    - - -


    Ilya never knocked, but Mordecai took things one step further. He ignored the door completely, teleporting into the middle of Mirk''s room. The slap of displaced air from behind him startled Mirk so badly he almost spilled his morning tea all over his lap.


    "Oh! You''re up! Great! I hate waking people up," Mordecai said, grinning at him, stopping himself short before he could clap Mirk on the shoulder. "Though you wouldn''t stab me for it."


    Mordecai''s emotions were louder against Mirk''s steadily returning shields than Ilya or Pavel''s. They constantly shifted with Mordecai''s attention, though they were invariably cheerful and bright. Mordecai''s mind felt fidgety, just like his physical body ¡ª the teleporting mage was already poking through all the clutter on Mirk''s desk, one foot tapping. Mordecai was physically smaller than even Pavel was, but his mind filled up the room, leaving Mirk little space to sort out his own thoughts. Before Mirk could return Mordecai''s greeting, he was talking again. "Oh, no! Don''t tell me Gen stuck you with the dictionary too!" he said, grabbing it off the corner of Mirk''s desk.


    "Euh...well, I need it to read all the other books he sends me..."


    Mordecai shook his head, putting the dictionary down. "That''s not the way to learn English. Trust me, I know. I had a bitch of a time learning it. First had to learn Russian to deal with Niv and the rest, then I had to put up with learning English from Gen. The English was worse. Because of all these books," Mordecai said, prodding at a stack of them, then running his fingers along the spines. "How can you learn to talk from books?"


    Mirk smiled to himself. Even though Mordecai''s emotions were stronger, there wasn''t anything to fear in them. Even the annoyance that came along with his complaining was light, fleeting. "Methinks you must have learned somehow. You''re the best of all the Easterners."


    Mordecai waved a knowing finger at him. "That''s because I go out of my way to talk to normal English people! Well. Irish," he corrected, a grin coming onto his face again as he dug in his pocket for something. A different emotion overwhelmed all the rest for a moment ¡ª devotion, the bottomless warmth of someone hopelessly in love. Mirk was glad to feel it, even if it was strong enough to make him wince. It reminded him of his mother and father. Mirk quickly pushed that thought away, focusing back on what Mordecai was doing. He''d pulled out a scrap of paper and was smoothing it out against his chest. "The best way to learn is jokes! I tried them out on Danny first and they got her to smack me, so they must be good."


    "I might not know enough to understand..." Mirk said, though Mordecai''s exuberance was so infectious, he found himself grinning along with the teleporting mage. Even if it was spurred on by Mordecai''s emotions rather than his own, it still felt nice to smile. Like he was more himself.


    "They''re healer jokes! So I''m sure you''ll get them. All right, first up: what does a good healer need the most?"


    "Euh...hmm..."


    Mordecai, as always, couldn''t contain himself. He barely let Mirk sit with the question for more than a few seconds before blurting out the answer. "A lot of patients! Get it? Patients like sick people, and patience like not throwing them out the window for being idiots? It''s great!"


    It wasn''t very funny. But Mirk laughed anyway.


    - - -


    Mirk¡¯s bed had survived all his other visitors, but it hadn''t stood a chance against K''aekniv. At least the half-angel knew enough people and was imposing enough to get Mirk a new one in short order.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He pressed his back against the far wall of his room, opposite the door, making as much room as possible to allow both K''aekniv and his new bed to be crammed inside. It meant the door was left hanging open. Mirk could hear the voices of other people out in the hall, drawn out of their rooms by the commotion to gawk at K''aekniv, but K''aekniv''s emotions were so strong that Mirk couldn''t pick up on their mental presences. K''aekniv had to pull his wings tight against his back and do a lot of juggling to wedge both himself and the bed through the narrow door. Fortunately, from what Mirk could see and feel, the bed''s weight was nothing to the half-angel. It was just clumsy.


    With one final push, K''aekniv made it through the doorway, leaving clumps of tarnished grayish white feathers behind on the doorframe as he struggled through. He tossed the bed and its mattress into the gap left by the one he''d broken that morning, laughing in triumph. "See! Those idiots down in supply told me I should take it apart. Shows what they know, eh?"


    Taking it apart was what had finished off Mirk''s last bed. K''aekniv had wandered into his room and plunked himself down on the end of it without knocking, the same as Ilya before him. But the half-angel was even bigger than Ilya, inhumanly strong and heavy. Half of the bed¡¯s slats had snapped the instant K''aekniv sat down. The half-angel had shrugged and fished a bottle of a pungent, clear liquor out of the front pocket of his overcoat in apology before hunkering down on the floor to attempt to fix it. Within the hour, K''aekniv had gotten so frustrated by all its nails and splinters that he''d lit it on fire. They''d managed to save the quilts, but none of the rest.


    "Thank you, Niv," Mirk said, holding the bottle K''aekniv had left him with back out to the half-angel. Mirk had tried a drink, and although the liquor was potent, it wasn''t enough to take the edge off of K¡¯aekniv''s emotions.


    "No problem!" K''aekniv said, uncorking the bottle and taking a long drink. As an afterthought, he leaned over and pulled the door shut. Then he paused and looked about the room, thinking ¡ª there really was no room for both of them inside, even with Mirk being so small in comparison. The quarters in the healers dormitory weren''t meant for half-angels. At least, not ones who''d inherited angelic wings and stature. All Mirk had inherited from his father was angelic durability. And that had felt more like a curse than a blessing as of late.


    "Tiens," Mirk said, taking the quilt off his desk and shaking it out over the bed. "I''ll sit here. You can have the, euh, rest."


    Mirk had to press against K''aekniv''s side for a moment to squeeze past him to the bed. K¡¯aekniv¡¯s overcoat and his uniform didn''t leave any skin exposed. Still, being so close to him made his emotions press that much harder against Mirk''s mental shields. They were barely doing anything. But even though K''aekniv''s emotions were strong, strong enough to give Mirk a headache, there wasn''t anything to fear in them, just like there hadn''t been in Mordecai''s.


    When K''aekniv laughed at the sight of Mirk scrunched up on the bed, his amusement, his happiness at seeing him responsive and alive, was pure and complete. There was no pity in the emotions, no disdain, no lingering bitterness over what had happened and what he could have done. K''aekniv was glad to be there with him, without reservations. Though the feeling was intense, Mirk had no desire to avoid it; he was glad to endure it. And, underneath everything, sense a faint tinge of it mirrored in himself.


    "So what am I supposed to do, huh?" K''aekniv asked, rousing Mirk from his thoughts. "Teach you something? Like what? How to beat someone?"


    Mirk shook his head. "No...that''s not it. Methinks you''re here to...what was it...keep me company?"


    K''aekniv shrugged his wings, then got down on the floor. He had none of a full-blood angel''s stoic grace and poise. K¡¯aekniv collapsed into a heap, sprawling out across all the available space, unbothered by how cold and hard the floor had to be. He propped his feet up on the trunk they''d pushed aside to make it easier to get the bed in, sipping from his bottle as he thought. "Do you want to hear a story?"


    "If you have one.¡± It was a silly caveat. K¡¯aekniv¡¯s giant head held more stories than the greatest guild libraries. And K¡¯aekniv¡¯s were, on the whole, much more fun.


    ¡°Who do you think I am? What kind do you want? Exciting? Happy?¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­how did you all come here? You''re from far away, non?" Russia, Mirk thought, though the Easterners were always arguing about being lumped together like that, about how each of their homes were different, each the most beautiful. And not full of "stupid bastards who don''t know their foot from their ass" like everywhere else, to borrow their own words.


    "Ah! Yes, I''m from Kamenka. Some village up north, by the sea. No one''s ever heard of it. But the trip, that was interesting. I was a real idiot back then, you know, just some kid. So it makes a good story."


    Mirk settled in with his back against the wall as K''aekniv began to ramble, gathering up one of the quilts and hugging it against his chest to ward off the chill. The story was interesting, but the emotions that went with it were better. Nostalgia, happiness, pride. None of it at the expense of anyone else. Inch by inch, Mirk began to relax. So much so that when K''aekniv shifted and puffed up his wings to get comfortable, Mirk picked up the loose feather that drifted into his lap with a smile instead of regret.


    Instead of his own father''s torn and bloodied wings, all Mirk saw in it was K¡¯aekniv.


    - - -


    If one of the other men didn''t come to visit him, there was always Genesis.


    Genesis, who was the first person the healers had allowed into his room to speak with him face to face. Genesis, who had given him stacks of books to learn English and magic from, though he also grudgingly brought along adventures and plays sometimes, with muttered asides about not understanding the appeal of them. Genesis, who always felt like nothing, despite every indication that he had to be miserable, shaking with chills or fussing with some bit of bandage wrapped around one of his unnaturally long limbs.


    Even when Mirk brushed a hand against the back of Genesis¡¯s while the commander was passing him something, just to test himself, Mirk could feel nothing from Genesis. Nothing but the cold, staticky press of his chaotic magic. In that way, Genesis served his own purpose in his recovery, though Mirk didn¡¯t think Genesis realized it. He reassured Mirk that he would be capable of reaching out again one day, able to touch and embrace without fear of feeling too much. Mirk suspected his constant prodding bothered Genesis, but the commander was considerate enough not to scold him about it.


    Genesis had appeared a few hours after the supper tray had clanked down outside Mirk''s door that night, just as Mirk had mustered up the will to try calling the pewter spoon he''d been given to practice his magic with across the room from his desk to his hand. The commander had startled him; the spoon had ricocheted off the wall behind Mirk instead of snapping into his hand. It bounced off the dresser crammed into the corner of his room before landing at Genesis''s feet. Genesis had frowned down at the spoon, then launched into a lecture on the proper technique to controlling summoning spells.


    Mirk had stopped listening and had started woolgathering a few minutes into Genesis¡¯s lecture. The long pauses that littered Genesis¡¯s speech, a holdover from his incomprehensible native tongue, made it hard to tell whether the commander had concluded or was only collecting his thoughts. Genesis was lost in the middle of one of these when Mirk finally decided to cut in, wincing at the way his voice cracked as he spoke.


    "I...methinks it might be time for me to leave, messire."


    Again, Genesis frowned. Whether it was because Mirk had interrupted him, or because he¡¯d called him messire  ¡ª it had become a habit, and Mirk never had been good at breaking those ¡ª was unclear. Nevertheless, rather than ignoring Mirk and carrying on, the commander nodded. "If that is your preference."


    "How can I help here? I¡¯m not suited to fighting, but if there are other healers¡­"


    Genesis''s frown deepened, just a hair. "You are under no obligation to remain with us. You were brought to the City because you required...assistance. We will not keep you from returning to Nantes."


    "There isn''t really anything for me to go back to, is there? Unless there''s been a letter from someone."


    "No. There has been nothing."


    Mirk sighed, doing his best to ignore the way his heart sank at his words. Though he¡¯d been trying to put it out of mind along with the rest of it, Mirk had been hoping that someone might try to reach out to him. An old friend of his family, or someone from the abbey. But there was no sense in dwelling on it; no amount of wishing would bring back what was gone. "Then you and the rest are all I have left."


    "I...see."


    The one thing Genesis''s magic didn''t shield him from completely, Mirk had discovered, was pain. Tiny flickers of it escaped Genesis''s chaotic aura as the commander considered Mirk¡¯s request, shifting back on his heels and leaning against the door to Mirk''s room. Pain wasn''t nearly as strong coming from Genesis as it was from anyone else, but it still chafed at Mirk''s mind, like a blister from breaking in a new pair of shoes.


    The pain had to be bad that night. Some part of Genesis was almost always bandaged whenever the commander came to see him, but the wounds were rarely severe enough for Mirk to be able to feel his pain. Mirk scanned Genesis for injuries as the commander mulled things over.


    There were no bandages on him that evening. But Genesis was wearing low, thin-soled shoes rather than his usual tall riding boots, and he was favoring his right side. It had to be his leg. "We have considered the possibility that you might choose to stay,¡± Genesis finally said. ¡°It would be pointless to put you through the Academy. I have been told that healing is best learned through¡­practice. A position is open at the infirmary. I will handle all other matters personally as they arise."


    Mirk found himself smiling, even though Genesis''s pain was still nagging at him. Genesis had always been stubborn, ever since they''d first met last summer. It didn''t matter whether Mirk bumbled into the right results through trial and error first; Genesis was insistent that he learn the proper method to handling magic. The proper method being the one closest to his own. "How many healers are there?"


    "One hundred and fifty-three." Genesis paused, doing a bit of mental math. "Three hundred and twenty-seven support members who are not full healers are counted as part of the Twentieth Medical Division as well. The Tenth is...approximately the same size"


    "That many?"


    "This is an army. There are many....incidents."


    Mirk saw his opportunity and took it. "Like what happened to you?"


    Genesis gave him a blank look. "Nothing has happened."


    "Your leg is hurting," Mirk said, gesturing at it. "What happened?"


    "...it is unimportant."


    "Methinks it''d be best if you sat down, messire. It won''t heal any faster with you standing on it."


    Genesis continued to stare at Mirk as if he didn''t understand. After first moving aside his growing collection of pillows ¡ª K''aekniv delighted in stealing them from somewhere, and although Mirk had told him he had enough, he still brought a few every time he visited ¡ª Mirk patted the far end of his bed. Mirk supposed he could have directed the commander to the chair at the desk across from him. But Mirk found it too low to be comfortable for long, and the top of his head didn¡¯t quite reach the level of the commander¡¯s shoulders. Genesis would have needed to fold himself in half to sit in it.


    Still, Genesis refused to budge. "It will heal...no matter what is done to it. Eventually."


    Mirk caught himself an instant before he could tisk at him. He hated to be so blunt, but it seemed to be the only way to get K''maneda to listen. Either they were too literal-minded to pick up on subtlety, or they were too intransigent to do anything they didn''t feel inclined toward unless asked directly. "Everyone would be hurting less if you sat down. Messire."


    With a tired sigh, Genesis pushed off against the door and crossed over to the bed. The commander''s pain flared as he moved. Probably because he was walking on his leg like there was nothing wrong with it instead of being gentle with himself. "A proposition. I will sit...if you stop calling me that."


    Mirk shrugged. "All right."


    Cautiously, as if he expected something terrible to leap up out of the crack between the bed and the wall and attack him, Genesis sat down. Despite the dimming of his pain as he stretched his legs rigidly out in front of himself, Genesis seemed much more uncomfortable sitting on the bed than he had been standing back by the door.


    Mirk considered the best way to phrase the question that was bothering him as he looked the commander over again. Everything about him, his missing boots aside, was perfectly in order, from his long black hair drawn back into a tidy low pony-tail, to his immaculately pressed black uniform. Though, the more he eyeballed the latter, the more Mirk thought there was something off about that too. "Are the healers very busy this time of year?"


    "Not particularly."


    "Oh. Then you''ve just been busy."


    Genesis shook his head, once. "No more than is...customary."


    "Euh...then it''s...a magical injury, I suppose?"


    "No."


    Mirk sighed. Getting information out of Genesis was worse than prying sweets from a child before dinner if the commander wasn¡¯t in a sharing mood. Which he rarely was. "Then why isn''t that fixed?"


    "It has been seen to," Genesis said. The commander seemed genuinely perplexed by his question, much to Mirk''s surprise. Mirk leaned in and took a closer look at Genesis''s right leg. That was what had been bothering him about Genesis''s uniform. Now that he was closer to him, Mirk could see that blood was beginning to seep through Genesis''s trousers up near the knee.


    "It''s still bleeding."


    Genesis cursed ¡ª at least, that was Mirk always assumed he was doing whenever he made those occasional jumbles of hissing and clicking noises ¡ª prodding at his leg with the barest tip of one finger. It came back red. Continuing to mutter to himself in something that was decidedly not English, Genesis dug in his overcoat pocket for his handkerchief and dabbed at the growing bloodstain.


    "You should go see the healers, Genesis," Mirk said.


    Genesis gave up on trying to clean his trousers, dropping the handkerchief. A tendril of shadow lashed out from underneath the bed, snatching it out of the air before it could hit the floor and dragging it off under the bed. Mirk was still uncertain whether Genesis actively summoned the shadows to do his bidding or whether their interests just happened to often coincide. Either way, their uncanny movements whenever the commander was present had never bothered Mirk. They were just another part of Genesis, as integral to him as his slender limbs and long nose. "The healers were the ones responsible for this...shoddy workmanship in the first place,¡± Genesis said, not without some bitterness.


    "What do you mean?"


    "Their healing magic is¡­ineffective. The chaos does not allow for it. I wouldn''t have gone to them at all, had the bones not been broken. The rest, I am...capable of seeing to myself."


    Mirk searched for something to say, still staring at Genesis''s injured leg. Genesis had never said anything before about healing magic not working on him. Mirk had always assumed that he just put off visiting the healers as long as he could, or that he was too stubborn to go to them without first waiting to see if his wounds would take care of themselves. The bandages always went away, after a time. "Couldn''t they at least give you something for the pain?"


    "Pain blockers make me¡­ill."


    Useless to do much else, Mirk picked restlessly at his quilt as he groped for a solution. None came. "It doesn''t seem fair."


    "Few things are."


    "Maybe they just haven''t found the right spells to make it work yet."


    "I...doubt that."


    Mirk had tried for so long to forget it that the memory took him by surprise. During their flight to his grandfather''s manor, they¡¯d been ambushed. A horde of dark, rotting things so wretched and lurching Mirk could barely stand to look at them had risen out the canal by the roadside. One of them had managed to land a blow on Genesis''s leg that had severed some vital part of him, making blood pour from him in torrents.


    Unable to help with the fighting, Mirk had clamped his hands over the wound, stuttering every prayer he could remember as he''d watched Genesis''s eyes lose their focus. Mirk had been terrified. He''d begged all the saints, anyone who might hear him, to stop the bleeding, to let Genesis get up again. Without the commander''s shadowy magic there to hold the other nightmares back, Mirk knew they were all dead. Or worse.


    And Genesis did get back up. The bleeding had come to a sudden halt. Once they''d all made it to the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re, Mirk had asked Genesis about what had happened. The commander had offered Mirk nothing more in response than a shrug and the unlikely explanation that the wound must have clotted on its own.


    "I''ve done it," Mirk said, softly.


    Genesis waved a dismissive hand at him. "A fluke. Occasionally a healer will manage to do something. The chaos is not...prone to excluding any possibility completely. However, I would strongly advise against making a second attempt. It will not¡­end well."


    He wanted to protest. But Mirk bit his lip instead, forcing himself to look away from Genesis''s leg and down at his own. They were growing thicker by the day, as he ate more and did exercises in his room to try to recover his strength. He was getting better. Closer to leaving. Mirk still felt adrift without either his family or Father Jean to guide him, aimless and overwhelmed by all the strangeness around him. But that one small thing, Genesis¡¯s pain and the commander¡¯s seeming indifference to it, was enough to conjure up a spark of the certainty that Mirk had always taken for granted.


    Mirk refused to believe, considering all the wonders and horrors he''d seen magic create, that there wasn''t a way for it to do something as simple as fix a broken leg.

 Chapter 2

    They were there waiting for him, exactly how he remembered. Two wooden doors, heavy and made of a dark wood Mirk couldn''t pick out the murmuring voice of, scuffed at the bottom, the rug spread out before them threadbare and stained. The heater was still off to the right, still unlit. And the bin he''d thrown up in was still beside it. Mirk wondered, as he steeled himself and crossed the vestibule, who''d been stuck cleaning up after him.


    Like last time, Mirk grabbed hold of the metal handle of one of the doors with both hands, bit his lip, and dragged it open. Unlike last time, the emotions that poured into the vestibule were strong, but bearable. Just like the sunlight that streamed in and filled the vestibule along with them. It was the first time natural light had washed over him in months.


    The street beyond was full of people. All kinds of people, all rushing to places unknown, their dress and their voices as riotous and colorful as their feelings. There were clusters of women, many of them wearing bright red cloaks over their dresses despite the warm breeze, their voices loud and their gestures expansive. Their unrestrained mannerisms stood in stark contrast to the carefully cultivated and refined grace of the noblewomen he¡¯d trailed after for most of the last four years. So did the ease with which they carried along their heaped baskets of clothes and sundries, balanced against their hips so that they had one hand free to wave or jab at their companions. The difference brought a smile to Mirk¡¯s lips.


    Then there were the groups of men, ambling along in larger groups, some of them in plain, workman''s trousers and shirts and vests, others dressed for fighting, their patchwork armaments making each one of them distinct despite the uniformly black clothes they wore beneath them. The bulk of the fighting men wore at least a cuirass, though few were made of metal. Fewer still wore maille or gauntlets or any of the other dozens of pieces of armor that Mirk''s tutors had tried and failed to drill him on the names of. The fighters all carried swords. Most of them were long and heavy, some too big to be worn at the waist, leaving the men no choice but to carry them propped up on their shoulders instead. Their weapons were also, invariably, the worse for wear.


    None of them paid Mirk the slightest bit of attention. Thankfully. Which meant that none of them bore witness to the way he stumbled back past the threshold for a moment to draw up enough magical potential to strengthen his shields. Sensing so much at once ¡ª amusement, irritation, and, above all else, fatigue that gave the rest of the emotions a muffled feel ¡ª was difficult. But it wasn''t unbearable. He''d gotten better, somehow. Mirk shuffled outside and let the door fall shut behind him.


    There were a few notables weaving their way through the rest of the pedestrians, Mirk noticed, now that he was able to take a closer look from behind reinforced mental shielding. The mages were easy to spot. They wore robes in the City, just like the guild mages in France, unwilling to let passers-by assume they were nothing but an average man of means. But the robes favored by the English mages weren''t so flashy and dramatic, not lined with furs or contrasting silk, instead solid colors that signaled the element of the wearer''s magic. Though they lacked the usual flourishes, the robes still bore the marks of refined taste. Especially in their tailoring, the waists and shoulders cut closer than the style currently in fashion among the well-to-do guild mages of Nantes allowed.


    Amidst all the other passers-by, the wealthy fighters stood out the most. Their overcoats and riding boots were of high quality, their armor more complete, the latter etched all over with sigils and runes that betrayed the layers of magic on them. Especially their swords, which many wore on their backs rather than at their waists even if their length didn''t require it, a subtle indication that they were able to afford the enchantments necessary to make drawing from the back less of a hindrance. Yet they uniformly wore plain black, just like the other fighters. Most had a few lower-born attendants trailing after them hauling stacks of ledgers or rucksacks full of equipment. Mirk wondered if officer positions among the K¡¯maneda were more often bought rather than earned.


    There was only one person out in the street at the moment who was dressed as he was, in long, loose, plain gray-green robes. And he was waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the healers dormitory. Mirk took a moment to smooth his hands over the front of his robes before heading down. No amount of ironing or tailoring could make them look tidy, but, at the very least, Mirk thought it''d be best to greet his new superior not looking like he''d just staggered out of bed. Even if that was closer to the truth than he would have liked to admit.


    "Ah...Comrade Commander Emir?" Mirk called out, hesitant.


    The man looked up. He flashed Mirk a tight-lipped smile and nodded to him. Greeting a superior from ten feet above simply wouldn''t do. Mirk hurried down the steps, his feet sliding in the unfamiliar wooden clogs he''d been given to wear along with the robes in place of normal shoes. But he made it down to the street without tripping, allowing himself to feel proud for a moment of how far he''d come, capable of walking outside like a normal person, without any wincing or crying. And capable of bowing to someone in greeting instead of peering up at them from his bed.


    However, before Mirk could bow, Emir had shot off from the base of the steps like a rabbit from out of a bush. Instead of greeting Emir properly, Mirk was forced into a near run to try to keep up with him.


    "The healers dormitory is the closest to the parade grounds. And the infirmary. So we don''t have far to go," Emir said, without either pausing or looking down at him.


    "Ah...that''s lucky...I''m glad..." Mirk panted, embarrassed by how little activity it took to wind him. It didn''t help that Emir was yet another giant among men, not as tall as K''aekniv or Genesis, but still almost a foot taller than he was. The commander of the Twentieth could take two steps for every one of his. Mirk hoped that the other healers would be a more reasonable height.


    "It''s the most practical place for it," Emir continued. "By dusk, half of us are too exhausted to hold our shields any further. Besides, the dormitory has been where it is ever since I came here. It takes less work to renew the shields every spring than it would to start over somewhere else."


    Despite how flustered he was by it all, Mirk found his smile growing. Emir was sensible, composed, just like he''d expected him to be. He couldn''t be completely certain of Emir''s linage, but the signs were all there -- long dark hair tied back with a cord rather than a ribbon, light eyes with a faint violet cast that contrasted sharply with his golden brown skin, the black tips of intricate geometric tattoos that peaked out along the neckline of his robes.


    The commander of the Twentieth Medical Division had to be a half-blood angel from south of the Mediterranean. All the other Moorish half-bloods Mirk had met had the same erect bearing and practical attitude. Except for when they got into debates, or got wrapped up in retelling a story of their youthful adventures across the great desert. Then they tended to get sentimental, wistful in a way that a full-blood angel would never tolerate, either in each other or themselves.


    Mirk tried to quit gawking and make polite conversation. But he was having trouble finding both the right words and enough air to speak them. "Oh...that''s smart...everything is smart here..."


    Emir looked back at him, then paused. Mirk hurried to his side, then stopped to catch his breath. The temptation to clutch his aching sides nearly overwhelmed Mirk''s manners. Emir was diplomatic enough not to comment on his panting, instead directing Mirk''s attention to the buildings ahead of them. "There are only two other original buildings between the dormitory and the infirmary. The library and the central armory. The armory''s the one closer to the parade grounds."


    It was easy to tell which buildings were original and which had been built more recently. The oldest buildings in the City of Glass were made of flat, slate gray stones, each of them perfectly smooth and cut so precisely that Mirk couldn''t tell if there was anything binding them together beyond their own weight. But unlike the other ancient places he''d visited, the City¡¯s oldest buildings were plain, rectangular and indistinguishable from each other.


    Between the older buildings were all sorts of other constructions, none of them quite so perfect. The most popular style was one that featured a ground floor made of salvaged stone, with the levels above half-timber, the gaps between the dark wooden beams painted a bright white that reflected back the morning sun. They were as bright and tidy as the rest of the City around them, even if they lacked the majesty of the older buildings.


    The place really was a marvel. The streets were free of all the usual detritus, the leavings of both horses and men churned into an unappealing slop that most people of means took carriages to avoid slogging through. Mirk wasn''t sure whether it was due to some magic, or if a large contingent of the workers around them were tasked with keeping them clean. "Your City is very interesting, Comrade Commander. I''m very happy to be able to see it all now," Mirk said, once he was composed enough to better hide how out of breath he was.


    Emir clasped his hands behind his back, scanning the faces of the people that sidestepped around them. The crowd avoided them without prompting. As if, in the absence of actual rubbish left out in the street, they were the next worst thing, best avoided and not examined too hard. "Let me know when you''re ready to continue," Emir said.


    Mirk sighed. His weakness made him feel useless. Though Emir, considering his profession, must have understood better than most how much the kindling sickness exhausted an empath. There was nothing for Mirk to feel ashamed of. Nevertheless, he still felt compelled to apologize. "Ah, I''m sorry, Comrade Commander...it''s only been so long since I''ve been out."


    Emir shrugged. "There''s no rush. And you don''t have to call me that. The high-ranking mages and officers will expect you to use their titles or sir at them, but we don''t stand on formality in the infirmary. At least not in the Twentieth."


    "Oh...right..." Mirk already felt strange calling those above him in station comrade-something instead of by a proper title. And most of the fighters he¡¯d met from the Seventh refused even that courtesy, Genesis most stridently of all. The word felt too familiar to Mirk''s ears. Apparently it was a crude translation of some similar-sounding term in the ancient, long-dead language of the original K''maneda, according to the commander. "I''m sorry. I''ll do my best to remember, co...euh...no, not comrade, but maybe ilae..."


    Emir''s eyes narrowed. "Are my shields that bad? Or is too much getting through yours?"


    Mirk shook his head. "Oh, no. I...well, my father was close with the southern half-bloods. Ilae Kasim from our house guard was wingless."


    After giving a snort of a laugh, Emir turned away from Mirk, looking off down the street. "Right. I forget that you''re a half-blood. You''re just so short."


    And wingless as well. And soft. And he had few of the other usual markers of a northern half-blood besides, his eyes too dark and only tinged with hints of purple, his hair blond rather than silver or gray, his complexion too rosy, especially considering how fair his mother had been. Mirk and his mother had shared the same unassuming height, though everything else about them was different. Her dark hair made her skin look even more clear and pale, and her lively blue eyes, which she had always brightened by wearing sapphire, were perfectly proportioned to the rest of her fine features. Mirk let his mind linger on the memory of her only for as long as it took to reply to Emir. "I take after my mother."


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    "I get mistaken for one of Ravensdale''s djinn more often than people spot that I''m half-angel. Then again, most of what the K''maneda knows about angels is limited to how to kill them."


    "Aren''t there other half-bloods here? Or any full-bloods?"


    "There''s one full-blood in the assassins, but you should stay away from him. As for the other half-angel, you already know him. The Russian." The tired look that crossed Emir¡¯s face made it clear what the head healer thought of K¡¯aekniv.


    Mirk chuckled. "Niv¡¯s very nice. He¡¯s just¡­a little much, sometimes."


    "Tell that to my nurses."


    They carried on then. If Emir slowed his pace to make things easier on him, Mirk couldn''t tell. He was winded again by the time they made it to the parade grounds, a big rectangle of trampled-down grass. A strange metal device made up of two pillars with an archway connecting them high above the ground stood at one end, and a tower at the other. Mirk almost hadn''t noticed the tower, even though it was three times taller than all the other buildings. From the outside, it seemed to be made entirely of glass. Glass that cast arcs of rainbow down onto the field below it.


    "The City''s namesake," Emir said, gesturing at the tower as he paused across the street from the foot of the steps to another old building, the third away from the dormitory. "And the main transporter," the head healer continued, referencing the metal structure opposite it.


    There was a crowd of men milling around in front of it, all of them in thick, buttoned outer coats and gloves despite the summer sunshine. Only their helmets and swords give any indication that they were fighters. Exhaustion radiated off them like heat off a brazier. At their head were five djinn dressed in identical black robes that matched the thick collars around their necks. They looked as weary as the rest of the men felt. "Without the transporters, we''d have probably been either taken over by a guild or run out of money centuries ago,¡± Emir added, when Mirk declined to comment.


    "I''ve heard of those," Mirk said, trying to take deep breaths to hide his strain, in through his nose and out through his mouth.


    "Most of the divisions have a smaller transporter they take through to make things easier on the other side. The infirmary has one too. That''s how the worst patients come to us. Anyone who can still walk comes back through onto the parade grounds and we have to drag them up the steps. Impractical, but no one listens to me when I tell them that."


    Though it was clear to Mirk that Emir was uninterested in lingering in the street long enough for him to get his fill of gawking at all of the City''s oddities, Mirk felt compelled to stay beside the parade grounds and the men waiting before the transporter. It was the djinn that kept drawing his attention, Mirk realized. They were sickly, worn down to nothing, their faces too gaunt and their hair so thin that patches of their scalps showed through. Despite all of that, Mirk couldn''t feel more than a hint of their fatigue.


    Their robes hid their wounds well, but Mirk had seen enough djinn in his life to tell that at least three of them had injuries to one or more of their limbs. All the djinn Mirk had ever seen, pulling open the doors to noble parlors ahead of him or whisking by on their business sending messages back and forth, had been so composed. So upright, so controlled, their faces guarded, yet pleasant. The djinn before the transporter were all wilted, the way they leaned to one side or the other and how their arms hung limply at their sides betraying their pain. The same as their pinched faces, all a sickly yellowy color instead of a rich variety of tawny golds and rich umbers.


    "Your team is waiting," Emir said, after a minute or two had passed.


    Mirk knew he needed to listen. He was a no one, allowed to stay in the City only out of charity and whatever influence Genesis and the rest of the Seventh had over the divisional commanders. Really, he was being given undue deference as it was ¡ª why waste a proper commander''s time on someone who only knew the most instinctual parts of healing, whose empathy had been honed at parties instead of by helping make others well?


    And yet, Mirk couldn''t make himself move. The longer he looked at them all, both the djinn and the men, the more little things he noticed. Open sores. Bodies that were too thin, just sturdy enough to bear up under the weight of a sword. Coughs, covered by sleeves or the odd rag, both pockmarked with blood. "Euh...the healers here really must be very busy," Mirk said, as he tried to buy time, tried to think of a way to express his concerns in a way that didn''t sound accusatory.


    Emir started to ask a question, but fell silent after only a few words. Mirk glanced back at him. He was looking across the parade grounds at the djinn as well, frowning. "The djinn are all the Tenth''s business. Command doesn''t allow the healers from the Twentieth to work on them."


    "Methinks it''s only a little...euh...strange sending them to fight like that," Mirk said, choosing his words carefully. "I don''t know as much as you do about how the fighting here is done, of course, but methinks everyone would have an easier time if they were healthy."


    "You can always buy more djinn. And more fighters." The way Emir said the words had a second-hand cast, like he was repeating a refrain he no longer held any belief in.


    "I...of course. But...still. It all seems a little...hmm..."


    "Yes. It''s cruel. But it''s not my division."


    "Are things so...set, here? The way Genesis spoke of things, the commanders all can do a little of what they''d like. But I may have misunderstood. You would know better, of course. Comrade Commander."


    Emir laughed. There wasn''t a trace of humor in the sharp sound. "You''re much more polite about your demands than the other nobles here."


    Mirk felt the blood rush to his face in an instant. He wrung his hands together at his waist, fighting against the urge to protest. All his manners were shouting at him to nod and go along with things, to offer a prayer for the djinn and push them out of mind. But what good was praying when healing was what was needed? Healing that was right there, coiled up inside of him, potential that''d been wasted all the long months he''d been in bed? "I''m sorry, Comrade Commander," Mirk said, struggling to speak loudly enough to be heard over the din out in the street. "I know it isn''t my place. But can''t we do anything at all?"


    "No," Emir said, after a long pause. "But he can."


    Mirk looked away from the djinn once more, only to find that Emir was no longer staring across the parade grounds at them. Instead, he was looking over his shoulder, back at the tall, plain building they''d stopped in front of. A man in the black fighter''s uniform but without any weapons was at the top of its steps, holding one of its double doors open. Without looking to the side to acknowledge the fighter, another man walked out, head held high, nose wrinkling as the sun hit his face.


    That, Mirk thought, was more in line with what he''d been expecting out of someone who led a division. Emir was impressive, but only if one knew how to search out the right details. The man headed down the front steps of the infirmary left no room for doubting his authority.


    Emir wore the same robes that Mirk did; the man on the steps had his tailored precisely to his frame, and had gone through the effort of adding all the proper adornments to them befitting a man of means. Subtle silver embroidery down its whole length, double-stitched with gold around the collar and cuffs in a pattern so intricate it must have taken nearly a month to stitch, even with magic to help. His long sandy blond hair was held in place with a large clip, also silver, with a cluster of dark stones at its center.


    And his hands, swinging at his sides with the practiced, yet natural motions of one who''d been given lessons for years to enhance the grace he''d been born with, were slender and white. With mages and ladies, it always was prudent to take note of their hands. The man on the steps didn''t look like he''d held anything heavier than a wand in his life.


    The man didn''t notice them, or the men on the parade grounds, or even the people on the street who instinctively made way for him. That was, until Emir raised his voice and called out to stop him. "Comrade Cyrus!" The man turned to look, a scowl twisting up his face once he spotted Emir on the other side of the street. "A word?" Emir''s voice had taken on a coldness it hadn''t contained before.


    Though the man''s body was well-trained, his face wasn''t. He rolled his eyes like a boy being scolded about his penmanship by his tutor before he gave in and crossed the street to meet Emir face to face. "What do you want?" the man, Cyrus, apparently, asked Emir. His resentment at having to crane his neck to look up far enough to meet Emir''s eyes skittered across Mirk''s mental shielding. He was only half a hand taller than Mirk was. And, Mirk noticed, now that Cyrus was closer, he had padding sewn to the inside of the shoulders of his robes to fill them out more.


    "Those djinn shouldn''t be going out like that," Emir said, gesturing back at the transporter. But he didn''t shift his eyes away from Cyrus.


    "That''s none of your business," Cyrus snapped, his eyes narrowing. "Mind your own divisions."


    "The fighters are from the First. It''s half my business."


    Cyrus scoffed. "What do I care if Ravensdale decides to throw North a bone? So you''ll have a little extra work to do tonight. It''s not my problem."


    Mirk knew he shouldn''t say anything. But the venom in the look Cyrus threw in the direction of the djinn when he deigned to glace at them, the disgust that he threw with it, strong enough to cut past Mirk''s shielding, startled Mirk so badly he forgot his place. He''d never felt such animosity from someone over such a small thing. At least, he''d never felt it displayed so openly from someone who should have known how to control himself better. Mirk spoke up. "If it''s too much trouble for you to see to it in person, Comrade Commander, I''m certain someone else would. Even a little healing would make things much better for them, methinks."


    It took the commander of the Tenth a moment to notice Mirk standing beside Emir. When he did, the press of his annoyance against Mirk''s still-tender mind doubled. "Who the hell are you?"


    In that instant, Mirk was glad for all the hours he''d had the art of making a proper introduction drilled into him as a child. He didn''t need to think to find the right bow, to put the right politely deferential smile on his face, despite how much of a mess he''d stumbled into. Performing the practiced gestures and words gave Mirk time to start thinking up what he''d do after he''d concluded. "Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon. An honor to be of service to you, Comrade Commander."


    Cyrus''s eyebrows lifted as his attention shot back to Emir. "I thought you were estranged from the rest of the half-breeds, Emir."


    Rather than rising to the provocation, Emir ignored it. Unlike Cyrus, Emir had exceptional control over the power of his emotions; Mirk couldn''t feel a thing from him, though his tone remained cold. "If even a trainee can tell that those djinn haven''t been healed right, then you''re doing a poor job. Either heal them, or don''t. But know that I will tell North that you''ve been negligent in your work." Emir paused, glancing over his shoulder at the djinn. If they could hear them discussing their fate, they gave no indication of it. "I look forward to doing the work myself once North complains to Ravensdale about it."


    After thinking the threat through for a moment, Cyrus threw up his hands and stalked off, shouting something across the street at the man in blacks still up on the steps beside the doors before hurrying off down the street. Cyrus had spoken too quickly and the noise out in the street was too loud for Mirk to follow his words. But the tired, humorless smile Emir gave in response told the story well enough.


    "I''m sorry to have caused you so much trouble, Emir," Mirk said, once he was certain Cyrus was out of earshot.


    Emir waved a dismissive hand at him. "You were right about all of it. I''m just used to seeing them like that. It hardly even registers. For better or worse."


    Mirk couldn''t think of anything to say in response that didn''t risk making him sound ungrateful for Emir''s intervention. So he changed the subject, just a little. "You''re very tactful, though. Methinks none of the other half-angels from across the sea would have been so...euh, delicate about things."


    "In the K''maneda, you either learn to make good threats, or learn to give good beatings. I''d prefer to spare myself the headache, so I favor the former. In any case. Your team is waiting for us. Unless Yule was out drinking all night again." Emir grumbled the last bit to himself, not waiting for Mirk to reply before heading off across the street. The doors at the top of the infirmary steps opened again, and this time a group of three healers with bags full of supplies in hand trouped out of it instead of a commander. They nodded to Emir as they passed him at the foot of the steps. Not without a bit of respect, Mirk thought. He could understand why.


    Pulling up the hem of his robes so that he wouldn''t trip on them, Mirk ran across the street to catch up with Emir. His superior was right. If there was someone in the infirmary who was anticipating his arrival, it wouldn''t do to leave them waiting. First impressions always counted. And even though Mirk hadn''t done the best job with the commander of either the Tenth or the Twentieth, at the very least he could try to do better with the people he''d be spending his days working alongside.

 Chapter 3

    Inside the infirmary, everything was pain. Mirk cowered in the doorway, drawing on even more of his empathic potential, the part of his mind that yearned to seek and feel, and twisted it directing it inward, turning it into a barrier against feeling too much. Once the pain faded and his vision cleared, Mirk drew himself up back into a less hunched and defensive posture and followed Emir into the gloom beyond the infirmary''s double doors.


    The source of the pain was clear to Mirk after only a cursory glance around. In place of an entry hall was a room full of long benches that reminded Mirk of church pews, scattered with men in uniform blacks, all of them wounded. Most of them weren''t too ill, as far as Mirk''s untrained eye could tell, afflicted by sprains and strains and superficial wounds that could be kept from bleeding everywhere with rags or wadded-up shirts.


    The emotional half of their pain was worse than the physical. A wound could be clamped down on, an injured leg could be splinted and wrapped to lend it strength, but there was no alleviating the continual ache of regret and loneliness. Though, the longer Mirk allowed the pain to curl around his shields, the more he realized that, in many cases, it was also colored with a strange feeling of relief. If a trip to the infirmary counted as a welcome respite, Mirk wondered how awful the men''s work off-realm had to be. "Hmph. A lot of shirkers today," Emir said as he swept into the room, nodding once to a pair of women in gray-green robes that matched their own behind a desk on the far side of the benches.


    "Euh...pardon me?"


    "Never mind," Emir said. The commander of the Twentieth appeared more at ease in the infirmary, a master inside his own domain. The men on the benches and the lady healers behind the desks looked to him with reassured smiles rather than pretending they didn''t see him at all. "You''ll figure it out eventually. In any case, this is the infirmary. The patients with minor injuries or other sicknesses wait their turn to be seen here. Everyone else gets taken straight to the back."


    Skirting around the perimeter of the room, Emir led Mirk to a hallway over to the left of the desk. The head healer grabbed a ledger off the corner of the desk as he passed, but tucked it under his arm rather than pausing to flip through it. "The field transporter''s at the end of this hall," Emir said, waving down the length of it. The transporter was still too far away for Mirk to see much of it, despite the hall being perfectly straight. More featureless gray stone that collected moisture for some reason, making Mirk''s skin feel clammy. Though the infirmary was full of lived-in touches unlike the blank facades of the oldest buildings of the City. There were bits of parchment tacked to the walls with magic at intervals, and carts on rollers were left idle in places, full of bottles and instruments and rolls of bandages. "This half of the first floor is where we do most emergency healing. We don''t have the best tools, but we make do."


    Mirk let himself fall a little behind Emir so that he could peer into the rooms that lined the hall as they passed them. They were plain and practical, much like the outside of the building was, though bore signs of everyday use like the hall beyond. Each had a large wooden table in its center, a smaller one beside it, and a cabinet against the wall facing the door. The only things left atop the closed cabinets were washbasins and ewers of water, along with small, struggling plants in clay pots. Mirk wondered what the plant in each room was for, but decided now wasn''t the time to ask. He''d delayed Emir long enough, and though the man was being patient with him, Mirk could sense that he was delaying his business.


    Emir continued on until they reached a cross hall. To the right was another long corridor with rooms on either side. To the left was a wider doorway, leading to a stairwell. A few well-worn steps led precipitously downward before the stairs turned off sharply to the right. The air was unnaturally cold at the junction, even worse than the rest of the building. It was almost cold enough to leave their breath hanging in the air, despite the damp heat of the rest of the infirmary. "We''ve got workrooms and a common room off this hall, then there are treatment rooms down the other hall past them. That''s where we take the patients from the waiting room. The barrier to the second floor is over at the end of that one."


    "Barrier?" Mirk asked.


    "They ignore me when it comes to the front steps, but the problem was already solved in here," Emir replied. "There aren¡¯t any stairs going from floor to floor. Just the barriers. Some kind of chaotic magic with a teleportation bent. No one knows how they work. Old K''maneda magic. But we do know how to lock them down. The barriers onto third are mostly kept locked. Third''s the long-term ward. A lot of the patients there are mad. They have their own healers and aides. Handling them usually requires a bit of muscle."


    All Mirk could come up with in response was a slow nod. It made sense. There had been a few madwomen at the abbey, but they were left free to wander the grounds, as long as they weren''t in any danger of hurting themselves. Most of them spent their time writing or drawing, or doing what they could to help in the kitchens and laundry. The sisters took turns leafing through their reams of notes, searching for Divine inspiration. Mirk had a feeling that wasn''t the kind of madness one found among soldiers. "But what about these stairs, co...Emir?" Mirk asked, inclining his head toward the doorway off to their left.


    "No one''s in a hurry to get down there," Emir said, frowning. "That''s the basement. Where the dead are kept until the Festival of Shades. The divisions are mostly good about taking their own down, but we have to do it for the First and the Fifth when things get bad. Another job for the aides."


    Inexorably, Mirk was drawn to face the stairs. A chill ran through him. The thought of the whole infirmary resting atop the dead, the business of life going on above while bodies moldered below, stole the right English words from him. It took Mirk a few tries to voice the question that sprung to the front of his mind. "Euh...so...you put everyone in graves all at once?"


    Emir shook his head. "No. The K''maneda don''t bury their dead. Some of the high-born officers and the mages have their bodies taken to family crypts, but everyone else stays down there until February. Then they''re burned."


    Unbidden, the memories came to him -- the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re in flames, the stench of burning flesh, the screaming of the horses. They''d burned the stables too, burned the servants'' quarters, burned everything. They knew what it meant to rob them of final peace in consecrated ground. Mirk shook his head to clear it, but the motion only made bile rise up thick in his throat. If Emir could feel his distress, the older healer didn''t comment on it. But Mirk thought his fright was evident in what he blurted out, in how the word came out sounding like a curse. "Burned?"


    "They stack the bodies in a big pile in some forest out east and light them all at once. It takes days to get through them all." Emir''s nose wrinkled at this, as he glanced down the stairs to the basement. "I agree with you. It''s barbaric. But it''s what they''ve always done. Most of them don''t have any family left to tend their graves anyway. It might be a blessing. Better to be burned than dug up by some necromancer."


    "Oh..."


    Emir turned Mirk away from the stairway to the basement with a hand on his shoulder, the touch accompanied by a faint projection of his sympathy. It was enough to halt Mirk''s whirling thoughts. It was easy to forget sometimes that there were others there like him, who spoke half in words and half in feelings, who understood things. Mirk had started to think that everyone in the K''maneda might be like the members of the Seventh he''d spent the past year with, jovial, but still a bit removed, eager to bury their most painful feelings under drink and revelry every chance they got. And the touch reassured Mirk that his terrible manners that morning hadn''t soured Emir on him completely. "Let''s head down to the common room. We won''t be starting you off in emergency. You''ll just do the basics until you have a better handle on things."


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    "Ah...thank you, Emir. Methinks I wouldn''t do so well, thrown into the middle of everything..."


    The head healer set off again, hurrying down the hall that connected to two sides of the first floor. That time, Mirk was thankful for the distraction provided by Emir''s quick pace. "The rest of the K''maneda might be full of lunatics, but we''re fairly rational here. No sense wasting a set of hands on something they''re not suited to."


    Emir turned off into a room that was larger than the rest, but still a third of the size of the room the injured fighters had been waiting their turn in. It was dominated by a wide circular table, mismatched chairs gathered all around it. The couches that ringed the room weren''t in better shape, their rough fabric worn through in places. Opposite the door was a giant glass-front cabinet full of bottles and glasses. And in front of that sat the room''s two occupants, a man and a woman, chatting listlessly with one another over their half-full glasses and looking very much the worse for wear, just like everything else in the room. Emir led Mirk over to them -- he was painfully aware of the pair¡¯s scrutiny once they noticed him, both of them giving him a visual once-over that was accompanied by a slight pressing against his shields. Mirk was unsure whether that last bit was intentional or not.


    "We work in teams of three," Emir said, waving a dismissive hand at the other healers. "Since Danu and Yule lost their third a few months ago, you''ll be training with them."


    Mirk looked awkwardly between the two healers -- neither of them stood to bow, nor did they extend a hand to shake. Mirk settled for greeting them with a differential half-bow, hoping it''d suffice. Nothing was like what he was accustomed to there; none of the K''maneda''s habits made sense to him. There were no polite rituals to follow to give him time to think of the best way to approach things. At least, not among the majority of them. Cyrus, he''d known how to handle, despite the commander of the Tenth''s curt and dismissive attitude. "Euh...it is an honor to meet both of you. Thank you for allowing me to work with you."


    The man -- average in height and build, with long masses of auburn curls that obscured half his face -- shot the woman a skeptical look. "Honored? Really? I don''t think anyone''s ever been honored to meet us."


    "Don''t be an ass," the woman shot back, cuffing the man in the shoulder. They seemed like they could be related, though the woman was much taller than the man, even while seated, her uncovered and curly hair bright red, the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks scattered with freckles. Both of them had a self-assured and confident air about them. Was that what most healers were like in the K''maneda? Mirk didn''t think he could act like that all the time, even if he''d had the energy to try.


    Emir sighed, giving Mirk another bracing pat on the shoulder, a gesture accompanied again by a touch of his sympathy. "They''re competent healers. And Danu has decent manners. Listen to her first." With that, Emir swept out of the room, shooting a pointed look at the other two healers over his shoulder as he went. It was mirrored by some sort of emotion, though it wasn¡¯t strong enough to reach through Mirk''s mental shielding.


    Mirk worried at his lower lip, wringing his hands behind his back as he shifted from foot to foot, waiting for one of the other healers to speak. Neither of them did. Although he felt rude addressing a superior without being spoken to first -- and they were his superiors, despite their casual demeanor and how they were all dressed the same -- he could see no other way out of things. If he''d learned anything about the K''maneda thus far, it was that they did everything opposite from the way he''d been taught.


    "What may I help you with?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering, searching for the most polite and deferential terms he''d been able to find in the dictionary. The words still didn''t feel right to him -- they were too dismissive, too forward. It was the "you" business that was half the problem, Mirk was certain. How could a peasant and a king both be the same "you"?


    With a tired sigh and a smile, the woman stood, leaning across the table and offering a hand out to him. "I''m sorry. We''re not used to high-born trainees in the Twentieth. I''m Danu."


    "The women, the foreigners, and the weird. That''s us," the man commented, though he didn''t move to follow suit and extend his hand, sipping at his drink instead.


    Relieved, Mirk reached out and took her hand, clasping it gently about the fingers and giving another deferential half-bow. He supposed a full one, coupled with the appropriate touch of his lips to her fingertips, wouldn''t be appreciated by a K''maneda. Too "royalist", as Genesis was constantly complaining of his habits. That aside, the table was in the way. How was anyone supposed to greet someone properly across a table? "Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon. Your servant, ma dame."


    Danu gave him a puzzled look. Beside her, the man nearly spit out his drink. "Madam! You?"


    Cringing, Mirk released Danu''s hand and took a step backward, wishing that his face wasn''t going as red as it felt like it was. Again, Danu snapped her arm out to the side and smacked the other healer in the shoulder, this time with enough force to make him yelp. "Just because you''re an ass doesn''t mean everyone else is," she scolded him.


    Rolling his eyes, the man got up and circled around to where Mirk was hovering beside the table. Mirk had to catch himself before he took another step backward. At least the other healer was a sensible height, the same as him, perhaps taller by the width of a few fingers. Mirk had grown accustomed to having to look up to speak with people his whole life, and it always relieved him a little when he didn¡¯t have to. Aside from when it involved dealing with domineering men like Cyrus, who were more annoyed than relieved to be able to look at someone at the same level. "Look, it''s easy," the man said. He flashed Mirk a grin and tossed him a wave. "Oy, name''s Yule. Wotcha?"


    Before Mirk could come up with a reply, Danu cut in again. "He''s still being an ass. We''re not very formal here. A hello and any name is better than what we usually get, half the time."


    "Euh...right...I''ll do my best to remember, ma...ah, Danu..." Mirk stared down at the floor, frustrated with himself. Why hadn''t anyone taught him anything useful? Knowing how to levitate pots was pointless if he didn''t even know how to say hello properly. He probably should have anticipated this gap, considering who he had as a teacher. Genesis wasn''t exactly the most personable man, even on his better days. And as for the rest of the Seventh, they were so friendly and forward that they were joking with you and offering you a drink before you could pause to consider the best way to approach them.


    Yule sighed. "All right, all right...look, I was just joking with you," he said, putting an arm around Mirk¡¯s shoulders. The weight of it brought Mirk back to the present. The gesture was coupled with a faint feeling of apology and a hint of sympathy. "Like she said, we''re used to getting drunks and bastards around here as trainees, not decent people."


    "You''re one to talk," Danu grumbled.


    "Alors, bien..." Mirk mumbled, shifting a little under Yule''s arm. He was quite strong for his size. The robes they all wore, Mirk realized, could hide many things.


    "I didn''t really upset you, did I?" Yule asked him, tilting his head to look him in the eyes. "I wouldn''t ask, but I can''t tell. You''ve got your shields pulled up so high I can''t feel anything."


    "Oh, no, not at all, co...euh...it''s just that you''re all very warm here. Very open. I...I wasn''t expecting it." Mirk slumped a little in dismay. He tried reeling in some of his potential so that his feelings might come across more clearly to Yule, to make up for his fumbling with the words. Explaining feelings in English was the worst part of the language, he''d come to find.


    Yule stepped in front of Mirk, seizing him by both shoulders. After months of no one reaching out and touching him -- Mirk suspected the healers monitoring his care behind the scenes had told the men from the Seventh not to reach out to him, in case their emotions were too much for him to bear -- Mirk had grown unaccustomed to it. But he felt nothing bad from Yule, nothing too strong to bear. Just curiosity mingled with concern and a hint of suspicion. "Who the hell have they been keeping you with? No one''s that much of a cold fish."


    "Euh...I''ve been alone the past few months, mostly. I''ve been ill. There''s...well, Pavel and Ilya...and Mordecai...and K''aekniv..."


    "The Russians?"


    "Oh! You know Morty? Then it can''t be that bad, he''s a sweetheart," Danu said.


    Yule ignored her. The feeling of suspicion coming from him had grown. But it was obvious to Mirk that it wasn''t him and his motives the other healer found questionable. "Is that it?"


    "Well, Genesis is probably the one who''s been by the most."


    "Him? No wonder you''re all messed up. Anyone would be after having no one to talk to but that bastard. Tell you what, the first round''s on me. You''ve earned it."


    Mirk found himself laughing, more out of relief than anything else. "He is a little...euh...particular?"


    Giving Mirk a final clap on the shoulders, Yule released him. "No need to explain, we all understand. All right. At least it''ll probably be hard to scare you, then. Let''s go pull someone out of the waiting room and teach you how to stitch."

 Chapter 4

    "We''ve got him. Focus. Try to see how everything connects."


    Mirk bit his lip, giving up on staring at the gaping wound in the twitching leg in front of him. Yule was right. The man wasn''t going anywhere. Yule and Danu had made every effort to ensure that Mirk had time to think about what he was doing ¡ª they''d given their patient laudanum, though they usually didn''t waste that on flesh wounds, and Danu was using her Deathly magic on his leg, slowing the flow of blood to the limb by keeping her hands wrapped tight around his thigh.


    He felt ungrateful for not taking advantage of the help. But Mirk had quickly learned over the past week that he''d never be the same kind of healer Yule was. Yule had poked around inside so many bodies that he''d memorized where every vein and sinew belonged, understanding after just a glance where things had gone wrong. Mirk was more certain of himself when he did things by instinct, through sensing rather than looking.


    Lowering his shields a bit further, Mirk closed his eyes and let himself feel.


    Despite how the aching in his mind intensified, Mirk felt a wave of relief wash over him. Everything made sense once he closed his eyes and slid his fingers deeper into the wound. When he stared at the gash with his physical sight, the mass of split flesh made him feel nauseous and uncertain of where to begin. With his eyes closed and his fingers warmed by the man''s blood, all the severed connections became obvious. Mirk could feel parts of the man''s body straining to be joined back together. It was almost as if he could hear his blood like a voice in the back of his head, someone who¡¯d been happily singing a familiar song before losing track of the verses. All Mirk had to do was give things a little push and the man¡¯s body would gladly restore itself.


    Mirk withdrew his mind''s eye and reached down into himself, dipping into the warm well of magic there, the spare life energy he could choose to give to others and that could make things grow and mend. Deep at the center of it was the slowly beating core of his own life energy, which Danu had already warned him dozens of times to never touch. Mirk drew off only a bit of the extra healing potential, running it up into his arms and down into his hands. Then he pressed it further out into his patient''s body, into the bits of it that were calling to each other, encouraging them to reunite. Yule had told him that there weren''t any magic words he needed to say, that there was no power outside himself he needed to invoke in order to heal simple wounds like the one he was working on. Still, the words came to him, like they always did.


    Beata Maria, make him whole.


    Distantly, Mirk heard Yule sigh. "You didn''t need to heal it all the way, Mirk. If you keep doing that, you''ll burn yourself out before noon."


    Mirk blinked his eyes open, looking down at his patient''s leg. The wound was gone. All that was left was a faint white scar, one that wouldn''t have even been noticeable, had the limb not been positioned under the bright magelights hung over the table. Mirk shrugged, sheepishly, taking his hands off the man''s leg and stepping back from the table. "I''m sorry, Yule. I just got carried away, I suppose."


    As Mirk settled his magic, Yule circled around the table to his side while Danu began unstrapping the man from the table. His patient had fallen asleep while Mirk had been distracted. Some combination of the poppy and the influence of Danu''s Deathly magic. "Let me take a look before you bring your shields back up," Yule said, reaching a hand out to Mirk''s forehead.


    Yule''s magic was warm against his mind, though it tickled a little, like being brushed all over with feathers. Like the static feel of Genesis''s magic, but much less intense. Yule was a rarity among the infirmary healers, Mirk had learned, a healer with a chaotic rather than an ordered orientation, but who had too much empathy to work in the field. Yule¡¯s magic stayed pressed against Mirk¡¯s mind for only a few seconds before Yule withdrew. The older healer shook his head, muttering to himself. "Barely put a dent in your reserves. You''d better keep that to yourself. Otherwise Emir will be sticking you on all the bad ones, new or not."


    "Well, if I can help..."


    "Help yourself first," Yule said, shooting him a pointed look. "Rule number one."


    Danu scoffed. "Don''t listen to him. Unless you like having more enemies than friends."


    "I''m trying to keep him from burning himself out," Yule protested, though he joined in helping Danu prepare their patient to be taken off to a recovery room by the aides. Yule snatched the man¡¯s ripped and bloodied uniform trousers off the supply cabinet, dropping them on the unconscious man''s chest before him and Danu worked together to fold his limp arms over it. "Could probably put him in a chair instead of a bed," Yule muttered to himself, looking the man over. "He''s fine. Just asleep."


    Danu went to the door to the room, calling out into the hall. "What are the beds like on fourth?"


    "Almost all open," someone shouted back.


    "Lucky bastard," Yule said, as he glanced at the patch on the man''s shoulder. "First. Probably won''t end up trying to hog a bed for a week, then. Seventh and Second are the ones you have to look out for."


    Two of the burlier aides shuffled into the room, stretcher in hand, and carted the sleeping man off. After doing what he could to help clean up the blood smeared all over the table and floor, Mirk followed his two team members back down the hall to the common room.


    It was the steady rhythm of work in the infirmary, a pattern Mirk didn''t mind and was quickly growing accustomed to: pick someone from the waiting room and fix them up, then retreat to the common room to have a drink and regroup before taking the next. There were other tasks that needed to be done, but Emir had been keeping them on waiting room patients ever since Mirk had started. To get him ready for when one of the divisions the Twentieth was in charge of healing came back shredded from some nasty battle and they needed all available hands over in emergency, Yule had explained. Yule and Danu had been debating ever since he''d joined them which was more exhausting, being on emergency watch or having to constantly keep chipping away at the crowd out in the waiting room.


    "Pick your poison," Yule said, dragging himself into the common room and surveying the stock of liquor in the cabinet against the back wall. "Gin, or whiskey?"


    "What do you think?" Danu asked, as she stole a bun from the basket on the room''s central table. They had been stale and tasteless ever since Mirk had arrived, but, in the infirmary, there was no such thing as proper breaks for meals. You ate what you could, when you could. Just like you had a drink whenever someone offered.


    They were given one dose of pain blockers at the start of the day and were expected to make it last until they left for the night, unless something particularly bad happened. The gap was covered with liquor: it dulled empathy, supposedly, though it never seemed to help Mirk as much as it did the others. Yule theorized that Mirk would need to drink triple what the rest of them did to get the same effects. The older healer had personally witnessed how many bottles it took to put K''aekniv on the floor. Yule had assumed it was due to the half-angel''s size, but was beginning to suspect it had more to do with angelic blood.


    Mirk couldn''t be sure. He''d never seen his father drink.


    Yule passed out glasses of whiskey to all of them -- not much, but enough -- sitting down at the table while Danu collapsed onto a couch. Mirk decided to join her, after taking a bun of his own. The moment he sat down, the fatigue hit him.


    When he was up and moving around, it was easy to put it out of mind. But once he sat down and let his body relax, it nearly overwhelmed him. It made Mirk feel more useless than he already did. If he''d come to the K''maneda straight away after the abbey instead of trailing after his mother for four years, idling about in the parlors of her friends and relatives, attending plays and dances, his body and mind might have held up better. Father Jean and his father had done their best to try to keep him working, but both of them seemed to know from the outset that fighting and leading wasn''t for him. He was meant for softer, more delicate things.


    "Are you all right?" Danu asked, breaking into Mirk¡¯s thoughts. She reached out to him, putting a hand on his wrist -- her magic felt a bit chilly, but her feelings were still warm, her sympathy and concern a welcome distraction from the ever-present pain lurking beyond his shields, constantly pressing in on him, like he was always being dragged at by entreating limbs.


    Mirk nodded, mustering up a smile for both her and Yule. "I''ll be fine. Just a little tired. Methinks after a few more weeks it''ll be better."


    "I''ve been here almost twenty years and it hasn''t gotten better." Yule sighed, spinning his glass restlessly on the table. "But, you''re right, it does get easier." He quit fidgeting and threw back his drink. Then he forced himself up onto his feet and went to the door, looking both ways up and down the hall. "Hey!" he yelled at someone. "Is anyone else dying out in receiving?"


    There was a laugh. "No one''s bleeding bad enough to need the mop."


    Yule leaned out into the hall further. "Don''t see Emir either. Good. We''ve earned a break. Let''s go up to fourth and do some restocking. If they can''t find you, they can''t make you do anything."


    Though it felt like it took more effort than it rightly should have, Mirk shoved himself up off the couch. He kept picking at his bun as they walked together down hall after hall and through barrier after barrier, moving fast so that it looked like they were on their way to something important. Once they were past the long-term patients on third, Mirk started to feel less tired. The shields between third and the rest of the infirmary were some of the strongest on the building. They made both the quiet suffering of the long-terms and the acute pain of those down in the waiting room more distant, less pressing. Easier to forget.


    The fourth floor supply closet was at the rear of the building, near the barrier between that floor and the next. Yule paused in front of its door to fish his key ring out of the pocket in the sleeve of his robes. All the supply rooms were kept locked up tight -- the mundane supplies inside, the bandages and the cloths and the spare clothes weren''t worth stealing, but the potions and their components were expensive. And even if someone wasn''t looking to make a bit of gold, half the potions could be used in other ways. Especially the ones infused with laudanum.


    Yule undid the two physical locks on the door quickly with one hand while making the necessary arcane gestures with his other to disengage the magical ones. The supply rooms were kept dark and cold to keep the potions inside from reacting and going bad. Yule ducked inside, bumping the magelights on with his elbow as he went. Then he froze.


    "Oh, hell."


    "What...do you want?"


    Genesis was standing before the rack full of wound treatment supplies at the back of the room, reorganizing its jars and packets like it was perfectly normal for him to be inside a dark, locked room in the depths of the infirmary. Yule stormed into the supply closet, shooing Genesis away from the shelves. It took the threat of the older healer laying hands on him to get the commander to stop fiddling with their supplies. Or, rather, limp away -- the leg that Genesis had been able to walk normally on a week ago had gotten significantly worse. It was easy to tell where he''d already been in the supply closet by the bloody footprints he¡¯d left on the floor.


    Although Mirk wasn''t happy Genesis''s injury was worse, he was still relieved. He hadn''t seen much of Genesis ever since he''d started at the infirmary. Mirk thought that maybe Genesis had decided that he needn''t bother with him any more, not with the other healers there to look after him. He''d been wrong. Genesis hadn''t been avoiding him; he''d been avoiding having to deal with the other healers poking and prodding at him.


    "Can''t you just sit in the waiting room with the rest of the normal patients?" Yule asked, taking a long look at Genesis''s leg. "You''ve been picking at that."


    "It was not...set evenly," Genesis flatly replied. It was easy to get the impression that Genesis didn''t like anyone. Which, Mirk was willing to admit, was partially true. But from the depth of his frown and the extra distance he was keeping between himself and Yule, Mirk could tell Genesis especially disliked him. "I required supplies to repair your shoddy workmanship."


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    "You probably knocked it out of line by walking on it."


    "As I said. Shoddy...workmanship."


    "Fine!" Yule hissed, throwing his hands up in frustration and storming back the way he''d come, sidestepping Danu and Mirk without looking at them and heading back into the hall. "But you''re breaking it yourself this time."


    Even though the pain didn''t radiate off Genesis like it did with other patients, Mirk could tell that the commander was suffering. The sparks of pain that escaped his chaotic aura were steadier than when he''d seen him last. Sharper. Mirk went to Genesis''s side, looking down at his leg. The whole length of his trousers were soaked in blood on his right side below the knee. "Messire, you should have said something..."


    Genesis sighed. "It is of little importance." He began to limp off toward the door, still determinedly trying to walk on his injured leg as if nothing was wrong with it, though he couldn''t keep himself from wincing with every step. Mirk edged in front of him, blocking his way and shaking his head.


    "No, you''ll make it worse." Mirk scanned the shelves and bins that filled the room. "Danu, we should give him...euh...walking sticks..."


    She''d beaten him to it, already hunched over the long bin by the door where they were kept. "Crutches. Looks like someone stole the last of them."


    "Tiens," Mirk said, circling back to Genesis''s side. "Use me, then. As much as you need."


    Danu burst out laughing. Genesis''s expression went puzzled, then cross.


    "What is it?" Mirk asked.


    "Some...madness, doubtlessly," Genesis grumbled.


    Mirk decided it''d be best to switch back into French. He''d have no chance of convincing Genesis to accept healing if he had to struggle against both English and Genesis when he was in a mood. That aside, he had a feeling that the commander would be more accepting of concern if Danu couldn''t understand what he was saying to him."If you lean on me, you''ll get there faster. And you''ll keep it from bleeding more. Though, it looks like you''ve ruined those trousers anyway. Why didn''t you come in earlier? You know we wouldn''t keep you waiting too long. It isn''t like you to waste good clothes."


    Genesis still refused to budge. "I find the waste to be less...tiresome than the healers."


    "Come now, messire, there''s no sense in being stubborn. Being prideful never got anyone very far. How can you help everyone else do their work when you''re like this? You''re making it harder on me too. I''ve had my head full of pain all morning. I''ll have to ask for an extra set of blockers if this keeps up."


    This, at least, got Genesis to uncross his arms. "I see they are well on their way to making you¡­ dependent on the things."


    "I wouldn''t need so many if more patients came in before things got this bad."


    Grudgingly, the commander put a hand on his shoulder, though he made it a point to lean on Mirk as little as possible as he hobbled toward the door. "Meddling...miserable..."


    It was time to resort to final measures. From what he knew of Yule, the older healer wasn''t fond of waiting. "Genesis, please...let me help you. You''ve done so much for me. Let me return the favor a little."


    More pressure on his shoulder. Mirk couldn''t tell if Genesis was still keeping too much weight on his injured leg, or if he simply weighed so little that there wasn''t much extra weight for him to shift. Mirk put a supportive arm around Genesis''s waist, keeping his pace slow so that the commander was forced not to rush. Mirk couldn''t have been sure, since Genesis always kept every possible inch of himself wrapped up in countless layers of clothing, including a drab, shapeless, and unflattering overcoat that he wore even during the summer, but it did feel like he''d grown thinner. Somehow. Mirk tried to ignore it, just like Genesis was doubtlessly trying to ignore Danu trailing behind them, still chuckling to herself under her breath.


    Mirk hoped that Yule would be in the nearest examination room -- and he was, continually cursing to himself as he mixed something in one of the biggest potion bowls they had, barehanded. "Look, you ungrateful bastard, I''ll even use your stupid magic water this time. Can you try not to be a pain in the ass?"


    "Magic water?" Mirk asked, drawing over to Yule''s side once he guided Genesis to the exam table. It looked like the bowl had nothing in it but plain water, still steaming from being drawn from the magicked taps a few rooms down that heated it. But the water had an unpleasant smell to it, one Mirk didn''t recognize.


    "It is not...magic water," Genesis muttered to himself, as he shifted back from the edge of the table. At least Genesis was tall enough that it wasn''t much of a struggle, broken leg or not.


    "Complete hocus pocus," Yule replied, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Genesis before returning to his work.


    "What is it, then?" Mirk asked Yule.


    "You see, Mirk, there is magic, as in the useful things that mages can do, and then there is magic, like alchemy and believing you have to put your hands in poisoned water before you work on a wound. Apparently we''re all covered in tiny invisible insects. According to some people."


    "Insects are not involved," Genesis said, crossing his arms once more, settling in for a protracted debate on the matter. "It is a serviceable...analogy, but incorrect nevertheless."


    Yule rolled his eyes. "Fine, you explain it to him then."


    "Disease, as all...reasonable persons are aware, is spread by touch. Motes of it settle on all surfaces as the sick pass by or touch them. Thus, one must properly...clean oneself before touching an open wound, unless they wish for the disease to spread."


    "So, invisible insects," Yule said, swirling his hands about in the water, wincing. "Ugh, this stings!"


    "That is how one is certain of its...effectiveness."


    "It can''t be effective if there isn''t anything there!" Yule snapped. He turned to face the commander, absently drying his hands off on the front of his robes. "Do I tell you how to kill people? Let us do our job."


    As Yule approached, Genesis cringed away from him. "Wash them again."


    "What?"


    "You...touched your robes. Your robes are unclean. Wash them again."


    Yule stomped back to the bowl, pointedly splashing his hands about in the water. Mirk was beginning to see why the other healers groaned and shook their heads whenever Genesis was mentioned. Mirk had no idea that the commander''s strange rituals involving cleanliness were so involved.


    Before Yule could return to the table, Genesis gestured to Danu. "I would prefer if you would...cut off the necessary fabric. Wash the scissors first. They are...doubtlessly filthy."


    "We clean them twice a day!" Yule spat, now standing beside the table. But at a distance of a few paces, his hands held out awkwardly away from himself and at the level of his waist.


    "As I said."


    Yule glanced back over his shoulder at Mirk, while Danu sighed and went about scrubbing the scissors she took out of the room''s supply cabinet in the bowl of water. "Do you see now? He''s horrible!"


    Mirk shrugged, at a loss for how to explain. "Everyone has...euh, ideas? Like religion."


    "Religion is...mostly nonsense," Genesis said, shaking his head. "This is fact."


    "You''re right about half of it," Yule grumbled, bending down to examine Genesis''s broken leg. Danu returned to Genesis''s side and began cutting away his trousers, first detaching them at the knee, then cutting a slit in the side of the leg so that the bloodied fabric could be drawn away. Once it was gone, the wound revealed underneath was terrible, a horrible cut that stretched from Genesis¡¯s knee to his ankle, the flesh around it mottled purple and red, blood seeping from it in a steady stream. And his leg looked wrong, hanging at an angle that was just a hair off. It was a wonder Genesis was able to keep upright, not to even think of walking on it. "It gets worse than invisible insects," Yule said as he straightened back up. "Wait and see."


    Genesis spoke up again. "It will not stay shut. I have...sewn it closed seven times."


    Yule caught himself just before he could plant his hands on his hips, scowling at the wound. "Either your magic is eating the stitches, or it''s from walking on it. Probably both. But, you''re right, the bone is healing itself crooked. Do us all a favor and force it straight. If I have to do it myself, there''s no way I''m going to get through long enough to heal anything."


    As Genesis prodded at his leg, contemplating the best way to straighten it, Yule backed away from the table until he was pressed against the wall of the room opposite the exam table. Danu took Mirk''s arm and guided him over to join Yule.


    "If you stand too close, his magic will think you''ve done it," Danu explained. "Sometimes if it''s really nasty, you have to go out into the hall until after he''s done what he can on his own."


    Mirk had never heard of such a thing, and he''d treated patients of every element and orientation since coming to the infirmary. "What do you mean, his magic will think?"


    "We''re not sure whether it actually thinks or not, but it doesn''t do what he tells it to. There''s a pattern to it, though. Like it thinks."


    "Thinks like a rabid dog," Yule commented with a derisive snort.


    The wet-sounding snap took Mirk by surprise -- he''d been too distracted by his fellow healers to keep an eye on what Genesis was doing. Though Mirk had braced himself for pain, none ever came. Genesis didn''t so much as flinch as he continued to fiddle with his leg, nudging it imperceptibly from side to side.


    "That should have hurt," Mirk said. ¡°Even coming from you.¡±


    "If one limits motion and...focuses the mind, pain can be dismissed. Temporarily. It is not an adequate replacement for full repair. But one must operate within the¡­constraints they find themselves in." True enough, as Genesis spoke, Mirk felt sparks of pain slip through his chaos. Once the commander fell silent, the pain faded again.


    "Basically, he''s a freak of nature," Yule said.


    "But a useful freak of nature," Danu added. "And, more importantly, our freak of nature. Morty always tells me that they''d be lost without him."


    "Mordecai will sing the eternal praises of anyone who throws him a few spare coppers. Same as the rest of them," Yule said.


    Though Genesis didn''t comment on this exchange, his expression went blank as he settled back on the table, laying his hands flat on its surface at his sides. As if he wanted them all to see, clearly and deliberately, that he wasn''t making any arcane gestures with them. Sucking in a deep breath, Yule approached the table. Mirk moved to follow, but Danu shook her head, pressing a restraining arm across his chest.


    Mirk soon saw why. Before Yule could even touch Genesis''s leg, a coil of shadow whipped out from underneath the table, lightning fast, and smacked him away. Yule cursed, but managed not to rub at the spot on his side where it''d hit him. Visibly bracing himself, Yule tried to reach for Genesis''s leg again. That time, Yule managed to get one hand on the wound before the shadows pried him off and shoved him away.


    So, Yule tried again.


    And again.


    "Damn it, can''t you do anything?" Yule hissed. That time the shadows had grabbed him about the ankles and had tried to pull his legs out from under him. Yule had managed to escape, but had gone reeling into the supply cabinet. Mirk noticed that, despite all his complaining about Genesis''s poisoned water and disease motes, Yule made it a point to simply take the blow rather than throwing out a hand to steady himself.


    Danu sighed, pushing up the sleeves of her robes. "I''ll distract it. If Emir comes to bother us after this, you''re telling him we''ve earned a light afternoon," she said to Genesis, who nodded, once.


    Before Mirk could ask Danu what her plan was, she''d shoved off against the wall and taken up a defensive stance over near the room''s window. With a shudder, she changed -- all the life drained from her, all the color and emotion, her eyes shifting from green to black as the faint feeling of her mental presence beyond Mirk''s shields vanished. In its place was a horrible feeling of coldness, of void, like the sinking feeling that came in the midst of falling from a great height, waiting helplessly for the pain of impact. The shadows were drawn to the feeling, snaking out from under the table and coiling around Danu until she was completely obscured by them. Every so often they tried to jerk her in the direction of the window, but they never got very far.


    "Come here, quick," Yule said, knocking Mirk out of his confused daze. After splashing his hands in the bowl of water for a few seconds, Mirk joined Yule kneeling on the floor beside Genesis''s leg. "Don''t even bother trying to heal anything. Just try feeling your way through this mess."


    Mirk banished his shielding and closed his eyes. He put one hand over the wound, reaching out with his mind as if to begin healing, searching for misalignment and drawing life energy from the warm pool within himself to help pull the broken parts of Genesis¡¯s body back together.


    He instantly felt what Yule meant by Genesis''s body being a mess. Whereas he''d found it easy to spot the misalignments in his other patients'' bodies, both chaotic and ordered, it was impossible to make sense of Genesis''s. Everything felt out of place, disjointed, strange and twisted. Even worse, just when Mirk thought he was beginning to make sense of some of it, beginning to feel how the injury differed from the general disorder, the whole of it shifted, the patterns in Genesis''s body becoming impossibly jumbled again. It made Mirk feel disoriented, like he was being spun around in circles.


    "How...euh..." It was difficult for Mirk to think of any of the right words to say while keeping a grip on Genesis''s shifting magic.


    "No idea. Nearly twenty years I''ve been trying to heal him, and I don''t have a clue how any of it works," Yule said.


    "So, how can you..."


    Yule laughed, his fatigue coming through to Mirk strong now that both their shields were gone. "You blast at the first part that makes sense as soon as you see it and hope for the best."


    "It generally fails," Genesis said, flatly.


    "Not my fault if it doesn''t work now," Yule said, not diverting his attention away from the wound. "You''ve cursed it."


    "Superstition has nothing to do with it. It is simply...how I am." Genesis didn¡¯t seem bothered by either his strangeness or the difficulty it posed in healing him. Mostly, he just seemed annoyed by them touching his leg all over.


    Mirk couldn¡¯t argue against that. Not for the first time, he wondered what Genesis was, exactly. The commander never spoke of his parents, nor did he ever explain much of what his magic could do or how it worked. And when he did, the explanations were usually so complex and theoretical that Mirk lost track of them a few minutes into his lecture. Yule made an attempt at healing the wound then, but he didn''t get far. Mirk thought that the strange, not-pattern of Genesis''s body seemed a little more put-together, but he couldn''t be certain. And there was no visible change to the depth or thickness of the wound.


    Mirk sighed. It didn''t seem right that a person could be made in such a way that healing did nothing to them. That their body could constantly be undercutting them, making things worse instead of better. How did anyone survive for long living in such a state? There had to be some explanation, some kind of right, one that was different from everyone else''s body, but suited to Genesis''s. Mirk felt that he owed the commander some small relief. Not only because of what Genesis had done for him, but because every person deserved better than walking around for weeks on a broken leg simply because no one had the time or patience to understand them.


    Then again, considering the way Mirk could feel the shadows stirring restlessly about his legs, as if contemplating whether he deserved to be thrown out the window too, he also understood why no one else had tried it.

 Chapter 5

    A booming voice from out in the hall made Mirk jump. Which made him knock over the bowl he''d been concentrating on, spilling the fever-reducing potion he''d been mixing with Yule''s guidance all over the common room table. As Mirk watched the wood sizzle and blacken, he sighed, only half-listening to what the voice was saying.


    "Eva! Eva, is that you? Come! I need a knife healer! And Yule, get him too! Give him some of that good shit your uncle makes if he bitches!"


    Yule cursed and swiped reflexively at the ruined potion with his sleeve. He cursed again once he realized what he''d done; the potion was quickly disintegrating his robes up to the elbow. "I told you we should have gone up to the potions room to do this. Fuck! These were brand new!"


    "It''s Niv," Mirk said. The sound of heavy footfalls coming closer drew his attention away from Yule''s continued grumbling over his robes. "I wonder what happened..."


    "Something stupid, obviously. If anyone asks, I''m not here."


    After a moment, Mirk heard someone out in the hall reply to K''aekniv, their voice low and tinged with an accent Mirk had never quite placed. "I have told you, K''aekniv, I''m a surgeon. If Slava can remember, so can you. What''s happening?"


    Before Yule could throw an arm across his chest to stop him, Mirk scrambled out of his chair and hurried into the hall, searching for K''aekniv. The half-angel was standing in front of the doorway to the basement, a gangly body wrapped in a gray blanket held tight against his chest. Mirk tried to ignore the way his heart leapt into his throat as he ran over.


    Eva stood before K¡¯aekniv, surveying both the covered body and K¡¯aekniv¡¯s disheveled wings and mud-streaked overcoat with a disapproving air. She was a tall, serious woman, her blond hair always tied back in a tight chignon that only made her look more severe. And she was an expert in surgery. Mirk only knew her in passing ¡ª Eva divided her time between the Tenth and the Twentieth, seeing to both the handful of high-ranking officers who were willing to go under a woman''s knife and common soldiers in need of urgent care. Eva pulled back a corner of the blanket. What she saw made her frown shift to a grimace. "How long has he been like this?"


    "He was like this when I woke up. Is it bad?"


    "I won''t know until I see all of him. Bring him back to a room." Her eyes darted over to Mirk, who was vacillating in the hall a few paces away, torn between throwing himself into things and waiting to be called for. "We''ll need your team too. Scold Yule a little if you have to." She paused, then turned to walk away, though she continued to give orders. "And tell him I''ll give him a bottle. But only if he doesn''t complain."


    "Oh! Good! You''re here too, Mirk," K''aekniv said, the heavy press of his worry against Mirk¡¯s shields lightening when the half-angel finally noticed him. "Maybe it will work better if someone is nice to him between people stabbing him."


    "It''s Genesis?" Mirk asked, despite knowing full well that it couldn''t be anyone else. The commander shared a room with K''aekniv, albeit grudgingly. And he was the only person Mirk had met from the Seventh whose body matched the rough dimensions of the one K''aekniv was clutching.


    K''aekniv nodded, heaving a great sigh and turning his attention back down toward the body in his arms. "It''ll be all right. It always is. Every time, the same shit..."


    Before Mirk could reply, K''aekniv tramped off, heading to where Eva was waving at him from a room down near the field transporter. Swallowing down his worry, Mirk returned to the common room, trying to think up some way to tempt Yule into coming. To his relief, the older healer was already up, shaking Danu awake from where she''d been sprawled out on one of the couches. "I don''t mean to be a bother, Yule¡ª"


    "It''s not your fault," Yule replied, cutting him off. "I''m the one who''s been fixing that bastard for years. Just because you got lucky once doesn''t mean they''re going to stop calling for me every time. If anyone should be apologizing, it''s him."


    Mirk couldn''t fault Yule for being annoyed. Genesis was a thankless patient. Their team had needed to leave and return to the patient room on the fourth floor three times in order to get Genesis''s broken leg more or less fixed. Yule had muddled through the bulk of the healing while Danu had kept Genesis''s magic distracted. Though Mirk had managed to get in one good burst of healing too, enough to finally fuse the bone in Genesis¡¯s leg together.


    It had shocked both Yule and Danu, but it had left Genesis looking more distant and cold than when they''d first found him lurking in the supply closet. Now, a week later, Genesis was back in the infirmary, in even worse condition. Yule and Danu only ever encountered the commander there. Neither of them could know that Genesis had been missing the whole of last week.


    Though she still looked drowsy, Danu trailed along after them as Yule and Mirk made for the room Eva had directed K''aekniv to. Mirk did his part and led the charge, hurrying to be first through the door. What he saw sent him reeling back into the hall, his hand pressed over his mouth.


    Genesis was little better than a corpse. Someone had already pried him out of all his protective layers, exposing a multitude of cuts along with three deep stab wounds in his chest. The injuries had closed enough not to be bleeding too much, but they were all still dribbling blood down his sides. There were a ring of angry bruises around his neck from where someone or something had tried to strangle him. And it was impossible to tell what other injuries his uniform trousers and boots were hiding. Clenching his fists at his sides and trying to rein in his shock, Mirk forced himself back into the room, doing his best to ignore the puzzled looks that Danu and Yule were both giving him.


    It was all exceptionally odd. Mirk had caught glimpses of how the healers usually reacted to patients who were brought in with similar wounds. Three or more teams of healers would engulf them, all of them shouting directions at each other, the aides and nurses rushing ahead and behind them to gather supplies. But Eva wasn''t grabbing frantically for her tools, and her emotions were level enough to be hidden completely by her shielding. She had her fingers pressed to the side of Genesis''s neck, ignoring him in favor of looking at her pocket watch.


    Mirk would have been appalled by her indifference, had K''aekniv not seemed alarmed either. Though the half-angel still felt worried, there was a certain tiredness and resignation overshadowing the emotion that troubled Mirk. "What happened?" Mirk asked K''aekniv as he entered, going to his side.


    "Who knows? Some shit," K''aekniv said, shrugging his wings. "You know him. He never tells anyone anything."


    Mirk wilted a little as Yule and Danu cautiously edged into the room. "Should we be worried?" Yule called out to K¡¯aekniv.


    K''aekniv shook his head. "I beat him a little to make sure he keeps sleeping."


    "Twenty-seven," Eva said, sliding her watch back into her pocket. "I would like for him to get to thirty before we start, but beggars can''t be choosers."


    "Is...euh...does this happen a lot?" Mirk asked. "Where is his magic?"


    "This bad? A few times a year, maybe," Yule said, joining them at the table. Though the shadows underneath it looked normal enough, Yule wasn''t taking any chances. He kept staring down at them, even as he spoke to K''aekniv. "If he slams me, you''re going to get it."


    "Don''t worry so much," K''aekniv replied, waving him off. "I know how this works. If I beat him at the end, then he stays normal."


    Despite himself, Mirk was beginning to feel frustrated at the listless way everyone was gathered around Genesis, like his broken body was a chore no one wanted to tend to rather than an emergency. Mirk took a harder look at the commander''s wounds as he tried to think of something diplomatic to say. And he avoided looking up into Genesis¡¯s lifeless face as best he could. "Methinks it''d help if someone could explain a little more."


    "Ah, right. This is your first time," K''aekniv said. "When you healers try to do things to him when he''s awake, or right after someone got him, his magic gets all angry when you try to touch him. But if he''s really asleep like this, then it leaves you alone for a while. And it listens to my magic, for whatever reason."


    "It listens to his too," Yule said, finally looking up from the shadows, nodding across the table at Mirk. "Sort of. I''m beginning to think it might be an angelic thing. We should make Emir come in here and try with him."


    "Maybe. I don''t know how this magic works." K''aekniv sighed, rocking back on his heels and running his hands through the ragged locks of tarnished silver hair that had fallen out of his high ponytail. "Like I said. Always the same shit..."


    Mirk''s frustration got the better of him. "It''s not right," he said, in a harsher tone than he''d meant to. It came out more like an accusation than a protest. Everyone glanced his way, but no one said anything.


    No one other than K''aekniv, who reached over and set one of his massive hands atop Mirk''s head, nudging it gently so that Mirk looked his way instead of continuing to stare at Genesis''s body. "He always comes back fine. This is just life, yes? Everyone has something. Listen, did you know he was going away?"


    Mirk shook his head. At least, as much as he could with the hot, heavy weight of K''aekniv''s hand on it.


    "Then I''ll tell him not to be a bastard next time. He does everything fucked up, but he''ll do something. He made sure we were fine before this, anyway. I think this might be some money thing," K''aekniv added, glancing back at Genesis. "That bastard Ravensdale told horse-fucker not to give us any contracts. You know, make us hurt a little for going off and doing something on our own. The money your deda gave us can take care of things for a while, but you know how Gen is. He wants everything in a row forever instead of just looking at now."


    Mirk''s chest seized up, but he forced himself to remain still, to broach the subject. "Genesis said that K''maneda don''t take any money until everything is over. And it..."


    K''aekniv flashed Mirk a smile, ruffling his hair before withdrawing his hand. "That''s why your deda gave it to me. He was some peasant before too, he knew I''d know how things work. That honor shit doesn''t pay for things." K''aekniv looked wistful for a moment, the warmth of his emotions providing a momentary reprieve from the grimness of the situation. "He was a good man, your deda. A real mean bastard if you did some shit to one of his people, but still pretty good. He even gave us enough to get Ravensdale not to fuck with us when we came back, just in case. Ah, well. What can you do?"


    What could any of them do? It seemed like everyone had been repeating the same grisly scene spread out before him for decades before Mirk had come to the City of Glass. Mirk doubted that he''d be the one to break the cycle. Though it wouldn''t keep him from trying. Providence wouldn''t give him more than he could bear. It had given him Nantes. And now it had given him this. In light of the former, the latter seemed almost manageable.


    "We can get to work on this mess," Yule said, cutting into Mirk''s thoughts. "We need to get these wounds sorted before his magic starts coming back. Eva and Danu, you cut them open and start getting all the gunk out. You''re with me," he said to Mirk. "You healed some of this once. Maybe you''ll have better luck without him getting in the way of things."


    -   -   -


    "What are you still doing here?"


    The voice from the doorway broke Mirk''s concentration, made all the strange patterns that held Genesis¡¯s body together fall apart into an indistinct whole. Sighing, Mirk set down his needle and glanced over at the entrance to the room. It was Danu, leaning against the doorway and hugging herself for warmth. She''d put on the thick brown cloak she kept tucked away in the second floor storage closet. Summoning her magic for too long always made her freezing, even in summer.


    Mirk shrugged, still at as much of a loss with what to do about Genesis as when he''d first started hours ago with everyone else. "Methinks it''s not nice...euh...non, c''est-¨¤-dire...cold? Sad? Something like that."


    "What is?"


    "Not closing all the wounds."


    They had all done their best. Eva had left first, after all the strange purplish growths Genesis''s body made when it tried to heal itself had been cut out of his wounds, after all the snaky extra black veins that lead to nowhere had been trimmed back. She wasn''t good for much more than that, Eva had said. She had a strongly ordered orientation; getting her life giving-potential through to Genesis was impossible in even the best conditions. And there were other patients to see to.


    Then Yule had stormed out, after three more hours spent trying to undo the mess that''d been made of the commander, muttering something about a headache and how Genesis''s body would heal itself fine enough now that they''d started the healing process in each of the deeper wounds. Mirk hadn''t blamed him. Yule was a thinking healer at heart, one who leaned hard on charts and grimoires, none of which applied to whatever logic Genesis''s body followed.


    Danu had left shortly after, once Mordecai had started wandering the hall outside the room, concerned for everyone involved, but worried about Danu''s well-being above all else. He''d brought a bag full of meat pies and wine he''d teleported into the officers¡¯ dining hall and stolen to share with her, to make sure she had at least one good meal that day. Mirk hadn''t blamed her for leaving either. If there was one thing Mirk had learned well over the past weeks, it was that, in the K''maneda, it was important to find what joy you could and cling tight to it to help make up for the rest. If Mirk strained, he could still sense Mordecai somewhere nearby, waiting for Danu again. It really was considerate of them both to check in on him again before leaving.


    "You need to look out for those," Danu said.


    "What?" Mirk asked, shaking himself out of his woolgathering.


    She jerked her head down at the floor. The shadows were starting to get restless. Though some of them curled around Mirk''s legs, he didn''t sense any particular malice in them. It felt more like they were curious about the odd person who''d elected to linger for so long beside Genesis''s body. But he could have been imagining that. Either way, they didn''t seem inclined to fight with him, at least not then. "They''re not hurting me," Mirk said, with another helpless shrug.


    "No...I guess not. He must still be too tired."


    Mirk made an attempt at a smile. "They may just be getting used to me."


    "They didn''t seem very used to you last week."


    Mirk sighed, nudging at a few tendrils of shadow that''d wrapped themselves around his ankle. The cold, staticky feeling rose up in them, but they still didn''t try to pull him over. "I...I don''t know. Maybe they get tired too. Somehow."


    "Speaking of tired," Danu said, as she tugged up the hood of her cloak for extra warmth, "it''s past dusk, you know. You''re due in tomorrow morning. You need to rest."


    Again, all Mirk could do was shrug.


    "Go home, Mirk. I told Morty to go steal you something to eat too. Since the dining hall''s probably cleaned out by now."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Mirk thought his smile came out more genuine that time. "Thank you both for thinking of me. I won''t be long. I only have a little bit left. And...I don''t know. I hope...maybe..."


    Mirk looked back down at Genesis''s lifeless body. His pulse had gone up to forty, but he still didn''t seem to need to breathe often. It made Genesis appear more dead than he actually was.


    "Hope what?"


    "There''s a pattern to how he''s made. No, maybe...a not-pattern? Sais pas. But there is a normal. It''s just...hard to see. You have to feel for it. Or listen, maybe."


    The voices tucked away in the bodies of the other patients Mirk had tended to had always been clear, the parts crying out to be reunited, each in their own, plaintive, distinctive way. Genesis¡¯s body was static. A hissing that rose and fell for reasons Mirk couldn¡¯t work out.


    But with every hour he spent prodding at him, stitching and trimming and trying a little healing here and there, Mirk thought he could sense something else in it. A discordant, halting voice, speaking a language even feelings couldn¡¯t understand. Neither singing nor speaking, something variable, something in-between. It shouldn¡¯t have surprised him that Genesis¡¯s body was like that, Mirk supposed. He¡¯d never met anyone else who could manage to be both so predictable and so enigmatic at once.


    "What does that have to do with why you''re still here?" Danu asked.


    "Methinks he wouldn''t put up with someone poking at him for hours if he was awake."


    Danu laughed, tiredly, turning to leave. "Fair enough. But if I find you on the common room couch in the morning, I''m locking you up on third with the rest of the lunatics until you get real sleep. So you''d best listen."


    Mirk nodded. "Of course, Danu."


    It was the truth. As soon as his vision started to go vague and the world started to drift off-kilter, Mirk planned on heading back to his room. His work would be done then. There was no sense in continuing if he couldn''t see straight.


    Mirk didn¡¯t think Genesis would appreciate waking up to a chest full of crooked stitches


    -   -   -


    They were at the table in the common room again, as always, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for an aide to come back from the waiting room with the next worst off patient hanging off their arm. An aide never came. Instead, a nurse appeared, out of breath and shaking.


    She was one of the ladies who attended with Eva, one of those rare nurses with very little empathy and a good amount of ordered Earth potential but no healing ability proper. They always smiled warmly at Mirk whenever he passed them in the halls, but their eyes never quite softened. At the moment, the nurse¡¯s eyes were wide and glassy. The smock over her robes was smeared with blood. Mirk had been at the infirmary long enough by then to know it was fresh.


    "We need Yule in the room third down from the transporter," she said breathlessly. She braced herself against the doorframe for just a moment longer before dashing off.


    Yule shot both Mirk and Danu a questioning look. "None of our divisions are out today. It has to be pretty bad if command is going to let a worthless Teague touch one of their precious boys."


    Danu replied, but Mirk didn''t hear her. Something felt wrong. Mirk couldn''t quite put his finger on it. He strained with his empathy to pick up on what it could be, going so far as to lower his shields halfway to let in any subtle emotion that might have been hiding under the constant, low-level thrum of pain that permeated the infirmary. There was nothing there.


    But he did catch something with his physical eyes, as he stared at the now-empty basket that the morning buns had been dropped in. The shadow the basket cast on the table was off. It was pointing the wrong direction, stretched out twice as long as it should have been. Forcing down the panic that welled up in him, Mirk scanned the rest of the room. All of the shadows were off, in exactly the same way. They were leaning toward the hall the field transporter was at the end of. Mirk shoved himself to his feet.


    "It''s not that," he blurted out, talking over Yule. "It''s Gen. He''s back."


    Danu and Yule exchanged a tired look. But they got up quickly and, together, they headed off to see what mess the commander had made of things. "I should have known," Yule muttered to himself as he passed through the common room doorway. "Every time that bastard decides to fuck off for more than a month, he always comes back shredded."


    Mirk probably wouldn''t have put the pieces together if it hadn''t been for the things Genesis had left before he had run off again, two days after the last time the commander had been in. Genesis had vanished in the middle of the night, disappearing without a word to anyone from the patient room Yule had locked him in with strict orders to rest. But when Mirk had woken up that morning, there''d been a stack of books left on his dresser, along with a note that he should make inquiries with the ghosts at their central counting house about whether or not they had a ledger under his family''s name. And that he needed to take Pavel with him.


    There had been a ledger, full of references to others tucked away within the quiet depths of the French counting houses. The ghost manning the public room had only divulged those secrets once Mirk had plunked his grandfather¡¯s staff down on the front desk as proof of his claim. Mirk hadn¡¯t known what to do with that bit of knowledge. He¡¯d settled for taking out a small sum for necessities, though he must have badly misjudged what counted as small among the low-born K¡¯maneda. The tidy stack of mage gold the ghost had floated back from the vaults with had been enough to make even Pavel, quiet and unassuming as he was, whistle and shake his head.


    Mirk had been in the middle of putting the gold he''d requested to good use, ordering a new cloak and proper clothes for the coming autumn from the nearest reputable-looking tailor, both for him and everyone else he could think of who looked like they needed better things to wear, when Pavel had gone off. The Seer had shifted from being gloomy and bored into a frenzy in seconds, his eyes going wide and cloudy. He made Mirk sprint with him back to the East Gate through a network of back alleys that Pavel himself only seemed to half know. Mirk had asked him why he''d done it, but Pavel had simply told him to go back to the infirmary and not worry about it.


    Though Mirk had tried as hard as he could to take Pavel''s advice to heart, he couldn''t manage it. And as Mirk had worked through each book, following the cryptic instructions and guide for further study tucked into the front of every volume, he''d grown more and more worried. He''d finished with the last of them the night before, feeling more uncertain about the rudimentaries of enchanting stone than when he''d first began. And even worse about what was going to happen now that he''d completed all of the work that''d been left for him.


    His instincts had been right. And so had Genesis''s. Genesis had left him just enough work to cover the time he was gone, gauging Mirk¡¯s reading speed and tendency to woolgather exactly. And Mirk had been right too ¡ª there was nothing good waiting for them down the long hall to the transporter. Just as Yule turned the corner onto the hall, a body skidded down the length of it, tumbling to a stop right at the top of the stairs to the basement. Mirk knelt down beside it. It was another of Eva''s nurses. Shaken and a bit bruised, but otherwise fine.


    "What''s happening?" Mirk asked her as he helped her back to her feet.


    She shook her head. "I''m not going back in there. It''s hopeless."


    "Can''t say I blame you," Yule replied with a sigh. "Go take a break. We''re the ones who''ll have to handle the worst of it anyway."


    Mirk began to move off toward the transporter alongside Yule, but paused once he noticed Danu wasn''t following them. She was standing stock still and staring off down the hallway that led to the waiting room. Mirk backtracked, nudging her on the shoulder. "Danu? Are you all right?"


    She didn''t turn to look at him. "It''s Uncle..."


    Mirk took a step back to look around her down the length of the hall. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was the usual mid-morning crowd, aides escorting weary patients toward the back as nurses debated which team would be best suited to handling their complaints. "Uncle?"


    "Uncle Ankou," she said, fumbling at her side until she caught hold of Mirk''s bare wrist. Only when he was touching her skin-to-skin could Mirk see it: a tall white figure drifting slowly down the hall, its face indistinct under the hood of its cloak. Rather than stepping around the patients and their attendants, it was passing straight through them. "He''s not like me or Da. He''s a Scythe Bearer. They only ever come for things that don''t die easily. Like necromancers, and Patchworks, and..."


    Ahead of them, Mirk heard Yule groan. "Oh, hell. You''ve got to be kidding me."


    Danu tore off down the hall, grabbing Yule''s arm as she ran past, dragging them both to the third room down from the field transporter. They all stopped in the doorway and Mirk took a frantic look around.


    The scene would have been comical, had Mirk not known better how Genesis''s magic and body worked by then. The commander was still wrapped up in his ugly oversized coat, motionless on the exam table. Eva and her three remaining nurses were standing as far away from his lifeless body as possible, lined up against the far wall of the room with their backs all pressed against it. The surgeon looked to them in the doorway, shaking her head. "It''s bad. Five minutes, no breathing. No matter what he is, he has to be almost dead."


    "Can you do anything?" Yule asked her.


    Eva trained her gaze back on Genesis''s body. "His magic let me look at him a little. Long enough to see that his chest''s blown open. But if any of them get close¡­¡± she trailed off, making a sideways gesture at her terrified nurses. ¡°It must know I never try to use magic on him. Which is nonsense. Magic can¡¯t know anything. But here we are."


    Mirk tried to approach Genesis''s body, but Danu held him back. "Don''t go rushing in. We need a plan."


    "There is no plan," Yule snapped, frustrated. "If his magic is throwing anyone who gets close down the hall, what are we supposed to do?"


    Eva gave a helpless shrug. "You can try getting in."


    "And end up just as dead as he is? What good is that?"


    Something in the tone of Yule''s voice ¡ª the defeated note to his anger, the way the word "dead" rolled so easily off his tongue ¡ª made Mirk snap. He yanked his arm out of Danu''s hold, though some small part of him recoiled from his rudeness, his insistence. "I can find a way."


    Yule caught his other arm before Mirk could get very far. "Don''t be stupid. You''re no good to anyone dead. Stop and think. Do you even have a plan?"


    "I just have to be able to touch him. Just a little. If you and everyone else keeps his magic back, I''ll¡ª"


    Yule narrowed his eyes at him, trying to elbow Mirk back out into the hall. "You''ll what? Get slammed through a wall?"


    "I''ll find a way."


    Yule cursed, releasing Mirk in favor of running his hands back through his hair, yanking on it, either in frustration or in an attempt to get himself to focus. For a moment, Mirk''s resolve wavered again ¡ª who was he to tell the healer who''d been handling Genesis for decades how to do things? Who was he but a trainee who got all his bones mixed around still, who couldn''t put together the simplest potions? But Mirk forced himself to speak up, blinking the blurriness out of his eyes. The beginning of tears of mingled desperation and fright. ¡°Please, Yule. Let me try. I have to do something.¡±


    Yule relented, sidling cautiously into the room. He hugged the wall until he was beside the last of Eva''s nurses. Though Mirk wanted to bolt for the exam table, he followed along after him, Danu taking up the rear after another long look down the hallway toward the stairs to the basement.


    After surveying his options for a minute or two, Yule spoke. "All right. You three go in together through the middle. Link up so that it takes him longer to shove you off," he said to the nurses, who all gave shaky nods in response. "We''ll cut in before he can slam you. Eva, you take the left. Throw your order at him, that''ll draw his magic. Then we''ll come in from the right. You know what to do," he said to Danu, before his eyes locked on Mirk''s. "And I don''t know what the hell you''re planning, but that''ll be the only chance you''ll get. A minute or two at best."


    There was a momentary pause, a collective holding of breath. Then the three nurses shoved off against the wall, arm in arm, and the struggle began.


    The nurses made it halfway across the room before the shadows swarmed out from under the table and enveloped them. Though the nurses slid backward a foot or two, they held on, their different magicks escaping through the writhing black coils snaking around them, faint glimmers of multicolored light in the darkness.


    Before the shadows could throw her nurses, Eva plunged into the fray. She projected her magic, surrounding herself in a haze of green-tinged golden light. The shadows were drawn to it, as Yule had predicted, no longer pushing the nurses further away in favor of trying to consume the ordered half of Eva''s magic. Still, she struggled onward against it, coming almost within arm''s reach of the exam table before getting stuck.


    Once it was clear Eva could go no further, Yule and Danu each took one of Mirk''s arms and started for the table. It took time for the shadows to reach them, but they came before they got within arm''s reach. Danu''s grip on Mirk''s arm grew tighter as she released her Deathly magic, her mental and physical touch going ice cold. The shadows rushed in to encircle her, ripping her away from Mirk. Though they jerked Danu''s body this way and that, the shadows couldn''t throw her out the door.


    The shadows had better luck with Eva across the room, yanking her hard and smacking her into the room''s supply cabinet. Eva cursed, but kept projecting. Mirk couldn''t tell in all the chaos whether she cursed because she was hurt, or because the jolt of her hitting the cabinet had sent all the supplies on it flying, including all of Eva¡¯s enchanted surgical tools and the potted mint plant kept in every room they did emergency healing in. It was there for the healers and attendants to pluck leaves off and chew on to distract from the oppressive taste and smell of the almost dead.


    Mirk and Yule kept going. The shadows weren''t satisfied with the others. Soon they came for them. They started with Yule, prying his hand off Mirk''s arm. They seemed less intent on crushing or throwing Yule than they did the mages in the room with an ordered orientation. Mostly, they were intent on dragging Yule under the table that Genesis, still motionless, was lying on. What they planned on doing with him once he was there was unfathomable to Mirk. They wanted to keep Yule in some way, Mirk felt. Though how he knew that, or if it was even true, was impossible to tell.


    He was alone now. Mirk gritted his teeth and pressed onward, ignoring the shadows curling up his legs like a trellis, falling just short of reaching Genesis before he could no longer lift his feet and keep moving. Mirk stared at Genesis''s body as he thought. The commander''s drab overcoat was saturated with blood. Growing puddles of it had dripped onto the floor on either side of the exam table.


    There was so much blood, too much for such a thin body to hold. Eva had to be right. No matter what else Genesis was, above all else, he had to be on the brink of death. The thought of it gave Mirk the strength to struggle on further, just far enough to flail one hand onto Genesis''s arm. He couldn''t feel anything through the commander¡¯s overcoat.


    Frantically, Mirk scanned the room. Everyone was pinned down. But the sight of the mint plant and its shattered pot on the floor and the feel of the shadows squeezing around his legs gave Mirk an idea. Closing his eyes to the horror around him, the shadows swarming over everything and Genesis''s blood still dripping, constantly dripping onto the floor, Mirk banished his shields, ignoring the waves of panic and anger it let in. Instead, he reached out first to his own magic, then to the feel of the plant, a pinprick of life at the very edge of his senses. And then he thought of growing.


    Mirk heard crunching. Then he felt something else curl around his body, something warm and pulsing with life, as strong as the shadows but not quite enough to overpower them. He blinked open his eyes. Roots, thick and bone white, had unfurled from the mint plant and come to his summons. More and more of them kept branching off and joining him, as long as Mirk kept feeding them his magic.


    He had to be careful. He had to find balance. He couldn''t drain himself of his magic before even getting to Genesis''s chest. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Mirk willed himself forward, willed the roots to hold strong, to curl him closer to the table. Mirk didn''t know how long he struggled. Time felt like it''d become meaningless, everything taking an instant and eternity. But he made it. He slumped over Genesis''s lifeless body, forcing a root-wrapped hand inside the commander''s overcoat. He''d have to trust the plant not to take too much from him. Mirk drew his mind away from the plant, though he left his magic open to it, turning his attention to Genesis''s body.


    The shifting not-patterns of Genesis''s insides flickered in front of his mind''s eye, their pulsing changes quick and unsteady. Mirk ignored everything but the mess he''d unknowingly dipped his hand into. There was a deep and wide wound in the commander''s chest, along with some sort of crushing injury that had knocked his ribs out of place. For a moment, Mirk struggled to remember the structures he''d learned, which bones met which and how a heart felt, how many veins and arteries branched off from it, his fingers searching weakly for answers. None of that helped him. But the inhumanly tall white figure that Mirk saw appear across the table from him did.


    Mirk glanced up. The man across from him seemed puzzled, the human expression on his face disconcerting, his narrow brows furrowed over eyes that were black pits into a bottomless expanse, his lips straining over a mouth filled with jagged teeth. Biting his already bloodied lip harder, Mirk refocused on the wound, on the faint, wet warmth of Genesis''s body beneath his hand.


    "What is it?" he heard Yule call out, distantly.


    "I...it..." Mirk squeezed his eyes shut, spreading his fingers out into the wound. Everything he felt with his hand was slippery and meaningless. He felt with his mind instead. Mirk had never examined Genesis''s heart closely; he didn''t know what was normal, whether there were supposed to be six or a dozen indistinct branches spreading out from it. Mirk shoved the question from his mind, pressing his mind deeper. Something was out of place. His fingers slid over a fragment of bone. That had done the damage. But how to repair it, what parts to call together and which to spread apart...


    Danu''s voice came through to him in a faint mental whisper. Uncle, please...


    Mirk couldn''t look. If he opened his eyes, he''d lose it. Fear would claim him, or uncertainty. And then he would fail; he¡¯d lose what he¡¯d fought so hard to save, again. Instead, Mirk focused intently on the ever-shifting patterns of Genesis''s body, on what felt right instead of what made sense. He could sense Genesis¡¯s torn heart as a snarl of chaotic magic, fighting to remember what shape it went in. It was a void, like the eyes of the figure across the table. The void sucked in magical potential, draining life. But, in the depths of it, Mirk thought he could feel a pattern, a ghost of what had been there before. And he could hear a voice, tired, alone and confused. Hissing along with the shadows.


    He didn''t have time to make certain of it. Mirk drew in all his potential, yanked hard on the life energy still burning bright and unwavering within himself, and slammed it into the wound in Genesis''s chest, forcing it into the pattern that he thought -- that he knew -- was right.


    For a moment, nothing happened. Mirk''s body ran cold and everything suddenly felt distant and strange. He heard a sickly, rattling wheeze.


    Then Mirk was hurled away from the table, his back crashing into stone, his limbs going limp and useless. Everything went black. The darkness cleared for just a moment as Mirk forced his eyes open. He was closer to the floor than before. The shadows that had been creeping over everything had vanished. And the impossibly tall white figure on the other side of the table, its void-window eyes a bit wider than before, disappeared as well.


    With a breathless, aching laugh, Mirk let himself slip back into unconsciousness.

 Chapter 6

    Genesis had been asleep for three days. He still looked as dead as when Mirk had first seen him after waking up himself.


    During those three days, Mirk hadn''t left the infirmary, always either asleep in one of the vacant, heavily-shielded long-term rooms on third, eating to recover his strength, or tending to the laborious process of putting Genesis back together. Something had changed in the commander''s magic since Mirk had healed him last.


    Perhaps it was because Genesis was so deeply asleep, but the shadows were mostly ignoring him. Every so often, when Mirk found himself working at odd hours, around the time he used to force himself awake just long enough to recite Matins, a few tendrils would reach out from under the bed Genesis had been put in and curl around his ankles. It felt less like they were debating the best way to hurl him into the wall and more like they were trying to use him to hold on.


    Or perhaps the shadows were leaving him alone because keeping Genesis from dying had consumed so much of Mirk¡¯s life-giving potential that he could barely summon any healing magic yet. Yule had warned Mirk strongly against using any for at least a week, after scolding him for a full half hour about how what he''d done was irresponsible and how easily both him and Genesis could have ended up dead.


    Instead of making use of his magic, Mirk was using potions and pastes and poultices to piece Genesis back together. They all required alteration to work on the commander¡¯s body, but Mirk thought he was making good progress. It helped that the gaping hole that''d been in Genesis''s chest was gone, leaving nothing for Mirk to see to but flesh wounds and broken bones and bruises. In his more optimistic moments, Mirk tried to think of it as a particularly extended and involved anatomy and potions lesson.


    Mostly, though, it just made Mirk frustrated.


    According to the pair of Watch members who''d dragged in Genesis''s lifeless body, they''d found the commander in a crumpled heap in an alleyway to the north of the Glass Tower. Put together with the kind of injuries Mirk was finding, he could guess at part of what had happened. Genesis must have jumped off the Tower, for some unfathomable reason, probably related to what had torn open his chest, and had missed catching the eave of whatever building he was trying to leap to. Genesis had to have hit the ground hard, considering the mess that¡¯d been made of his legs. He must have used so much of his magic beforehand that he hadn''t been able to summon enough shadows to completely break his fall. How exactly such a scenario had come to pass, Mirk didn''t know. Genesis had certainly had plenty of magic in him again by the time he''d been brought to the infirmary.


    And Genesis wasn''t giving him any answers. Not yet, anyway.


    Biting his still-sore lip, Mirk gave up on trying to stitch the last of the strange, runic cuts on Genesis''s forearms closed and retreated to the chair he''d brought to Genesis''s recovery room, flopping down into it with a huff. Three days he''d been working on Genesis, and still no sign of life. That was on top of the day and a half Mirk had been out himself. Mirk wondered if Genesis was doing it on purpose, playing dead until Mirk finished healing him so that he could sneak off without having to explain himself.


    Mirk knew the fatigue was making him cross, not himself. But hadn''t he earned the right to be a little cross, just for once? He had helped save Genesis''s life, after all. In exchange, he felt he was owed some kind of explanation.


    He was so lost in thought, arguing with himself over whether it was right to be angry with Genesis, that Mirk didn''t notice the commander was awake until he cleared his throat and spoke.


    "...ah. Mirk. This is...different than I''d anticipated."


    Mirk launched himself out of his chair, back at Genesis''s side in an instant, his anger evaporating into relief, relief he felt stupid for feeling. Genesis was staring up at the ceiling, unblinking.


    "Gen! Bon sang de bonsoir, c''est...ce n''est pas...votre..."


    Laboriously, Genesis lifted one hand, just a fraction, just enough to stem the flow of the diatriable Mirk had been saving up for that very moment. "I...will explain. Momentarily."


    For a moment, Mirk was too stunned by Genesis¡¯s nonchalance to respond. Then, half in frustration and half in joy, he seized Genesis about the midsection and hugged him, tightly. It caused flickers of pain to radiate through Genesis''s slowly returning magic. Mirk ignored them, for the time being. "You could have died!"


    Mirk refused to let him go until Genesis gave him a weak pat on the side, the best he could manage with his still-injured shoulders. "Yes. You...do have a point."


    Genesis tried to sit up. Mirk looped an arm around his waist and helped him up, lest Genesis strain himself and break one of the dozens of rows of stitches and spell paper casts that were holding him together. It was easy to move Genesis. The commander had grown alarmingly thin while he''d been away. Mirk could fit his fingers into the grooves between his ribs. The ones he''d spent all of yesterday fixing. "Before you get any ideas, messire, you''re not leaving. I haven''t even started on your legs, for one thing."


    "Yes...fine..." Genesis moved to run a hand over his long, snarled black hair, but came up short, his shoulder unwilling to cooperate with his efforts. Instead, it only made an upsetting popping noise as Genesis tried to force the joint into motion. Genesis must have assumed that since he could bend his arms at the elbow, the rest had to be functional as well.


    "Leave it," Mirk said, pushing his hand down, mindful of the fresh stitches on his forearms.


    Genesis frowned down at the wounds, hesitating before trying again.


    "Tiens," Mirk sighed, gently pushing his hand down once more. "I''ll brush it for you. Your shoulders still confuse me, so they''re not healed yet. I''ll probably need Yule''s help, once he decides to stop sulking. But if I''m going to help you, messire, methinks it''s only fair that you help me a little. What happened?"


    Genesis shook his head. He was still staring at the wounds on his forearms, as if he expected them to crawl away if he took his eyes off of them. "It is complex."


    "Well, your hair is a mess. You''ll have plenty of time to explain."


    Though Mirk turned his back to Genesis when he went to the room''s supply cabinet to search for a hairbrush, he could feel that Genesis had shifted his blank stare from his own forearms to Mirk''s back. Somehow. "You are...upset."


    "Yes! I worry about you, Genesis. Maybe Niv and the rest are used to you disappearing and coming back like this, but I''m not." Finding the brush at the back of one of the bottommost drawers, Mirk snatched it up and returned to Genesis''s bedside. The commander seemed deeply puzzled. At least, Mirk had come to understand that was what the odd expression Genesis made on occasion, his eyebrows raised and teeth half-bared, meant.


    "You...worry. About me."


    "Of course!"


    "I...see."


    Mirk began to work at coaxing the tie out of Genesis''s hair, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It''d take a while ¡ª Genesis''s hair was thicker than he''d been expecting, matted in places. "You''re my friend, Genesis. Everyone else might be too stubborn to say it, but the rest of your friends have been worried about you too. Niv''s started losing feathers."


    "That is because he''s incapable of grooming himself," Genesis muttered.


    "See? People depend on you." It wasn''t what Genesis had been getting at by complaining about K¡¯aekniv¡¯s lackadaisical approach to taking care of his wings, but Mirk wasn''t about to pass up such a good opportunity to emphasize his point.


    "Which is...precisely why I''ve done this."


    "Oh?"


    "With this, I have...obtained all the necessary credentials to be ranked as a five star assassin."


    Genesis''s face had taken on another of its more awkward expressions, the one with the furrowed brows and the rigid grin. That meant he was satisfied with whatever it was he''d done. Genesis always had trouble making the right faces to convey emotions he didn''t feel often. "That''s...good? Did you have to take a test?¡±


    "No. To become a five star assassin, one must...kill another five star."


    The commander didn''t sound concerned in the slightest by the implications of this. Mirk, however, paused, trying to remember the faces of all the assassins he''d treated with minor wounds. "Who...?"


    Genesis made a dismissive noise. "A...horrid man. You wouldn''t have met him. He only took healing from the Tenth. Being touched by someone as...impure as a member of the Twentieth would have been unacceptable. Being a wingless angel of pure blood."


    Emir had mentioned that there was one full-blood angel in the K''maneda on the first day he''d come to the infirmary. But Mirk hadn''t known he was pure blood, a member of one of the elite families that could trace their lineage back to the first of the Western Emperors of Heaven. With that in mind, Genesis''s conclusion made sense. His father had a close Northern relative, the matter of Mirk''s own mother being human aside. "I suppose not," Mirk mumbled, as he returned to fixing Genesis''s hair. The tie was hopelessly stuck in it; Mirk snapped it and picked out the pieces. Genesis didn''t comment.


    "I believe he was contemplating...eliminating you, in any case. There is no cause for sympathy."


    Mirk stopped again, his breath catching in his throat. "Me?"


    Again, Genesis stared down at the cuts on his forearms, which he kept stiffly at his sides. "A question. Was your father in any way...related to a certain Gaebriel?"


    Mirk used trying to remember the charts in the grand family ledger that his father had kept in the library to settle his suddenly racing thoughts. "Gaebriel...no. The name sounds familiar, but methinks that''s just from the mortals using it."


    "And another. Imanael."


    "Euh...maybe, yes...there was someone with a name close to that on his mother''s side, methinks, a few generations back...but that would mean he''d have to be thousands of years old, Genesis. Even angels don''t live forever."


    "Imanael is...very much alive."


    "He must be very powerful, then," Mirk said, slowly, uncertain of whether to press the commander for more information.


    "Yes. He is. But that does explain...this," Genesis said, making a vague gesture at his bare chest. "I should not have survived. However, if you¡­share enough blood with him...perhaps the healing could pass through, even if he was set against it..." Genesis''s voice lowered further, barely audible. "...it all goes further than I suspected..."


    "I''m afraid I don''t follow, messire," Mirk said, sighing as he began to work at brushing out the ends of his hair. He had stopped truly listening the moment Genesis said that he shouldn''t have lived. If Genesis was willing to admit the fact, then it had to be true. Unbidden, the memory of the tall, white figure with eyes into the Abyss who''d stood across from him as he''d frantically tried to mend Genesis''s dying body came to Mirk. He dismissed it with a shudder, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation. Genesis beat him to it.


    "Nevertheless. This was all intentional. Having earned the highest rank, I am now...entitled to the highest paying contracts. They cannot deny me them. Commander Ansel of the Twenty-First is a¡­practical man. He wants his cut. And we will have ours. It...improves our position as a whole. Ravensdale can only do so much by denying us contracts with this buffer. And if the contracts proceed well...perhaps I can regain my former position in the Seventh."


    That had been a sore spot for the commander for months, Mirk had gathered. Genesis wasn''t a commander ¡ª he wasn''t ever one, technically, which was why he''d been so opposed to Mirk¡¯s family calling him that in the first place. But Genesis had been demoted from some kind of middling officer to the rank of little more than a common soldier due to what had happened in Nantes.


    Mirk couldn''t help but feel responsible for it. Genesis had failed to protect his family; he''d accordingly been demoted. Which Genesis thought he deserved, though he was annoyed by the way the commander of the Seventh had gone about it. Mirk didn''t think Genesis deserved any of it. Mirk thought his own powerlessness was as much to blame as circumstance. "I wish I could do more to help you, Genesis," Mirk said, as he tugged harder than he''d meant to at a particularly stubborn knot.


    "That is...the other issue. You are under¡ª"


    "Snegurochka! You live!"


    Genesis let out a string of hissing and clicking curses in his native language, cringing away from the sudden gleeful shout from the doorway. Mirk looked up. K''aekniv was wedging himself through it, his wings catching on the jamb and tearing out clumps of loose, dirty silver-white feathers.


    Mirk waved to him, his shoulders slumping in relief. The atmosphere in the room had grown increasingly tense, but it was impossible for things to stay that way with K''aekniv nearby. The half-angel¡¯s emotions filled whatever room he was in, no matter how hard one tried to shield against him. And K''aekniv''s good moods were particularly infectious.


    "Oh, hello Niv!" Mirk said. "You''re lucky, he just woke up."


    Unceremoniously, K''aekniv plunked himself down on the half of the bed that Genesis''s narrow frame left empty, grinning and taking the commander''s face in both hands. Genesis looked horrified.


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    "Come! You missed me!"


    Genesis shuddered. "...no."


    "Bastard!" But K''aekniv said it with a laugh, and accompanied the curse with the obligatory kiss of good health on both cheeks.


    Genesis hit ineffectually at K''aekniv with his half-working arms, hissing. "Get...off."


    K''aekniv leered back at Genesis. "You want me to get off, eh?"


    "That is not¡ª"


    Before Genesis could work his way out of his grasp, K''aekniv leaned in and inflicted the final part of the greeting on him, the part that he usually left out in an act of self-preservation: a smack of a kiss on the lips.


    "Niv, you''ll make him break his stitches," Mirk warned, though he was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out.


    "Bah! Who cares? He¡¯ll live," K''aekniv said, though he was wise enough to relent before Genesis could raise his hands far enough to strangle him.


    Genesis tried to wipe his face on his shoulder. "I...detest that miserable¡­eastern folk¡ª"


    "But I''ve been so lonely!" K''aekniv interjected before Genesis could finish. "No one to bitch at me in the morning, no one to make the bed cold at night...do you know how much it costs to have the women stay all night for a month? Terrible!"


    "You''re terrible," Genesis muttered.


    "And you love it! But, anyway, tell me, how did you finally kill that bitch Aeli? We saw them take out his body from the Tower. We all decided it was good luck and took the rest of the day off."


    "If you saw the body, then the...cause should be evident."


    "Fine, how did you catch him? We''ve been trying to kill Aeli since we were in the Academy."


    "First...it was necessary to locate an Abyssal creature of proper size and proportion, and use the whole of its...blood for the weapons cursing spell. In accordance with the procedure outlined in Ovgeny''s Void Magicks Grimoire. The fifth edition, as...the first three are¡ª"


    "Whatever," K''aekniv grumbled, leaning with a defeated sigh against the wall the bed was pushed up against. The motion made the bedframe creak and snap in protest. Though K''aekniv and Genesis were the same absurd height, K''aekniv frame was as broad and heavily muscled as Genesis was bony and narrow, save about the shoulders. It was a wonder that the bed hadn''t already collapsed with both of them on it. "You''re the only person who could make killing someone so boring. Mirk," he said, turning his attention toward him, "how long until he''s fixed? Ravensdale put us on some shit contract to get back at us. We need him for it."


    "It''ll be a little while more, methinks," Mirk said, hesitantly. Though it was hard to tell just from looking at Genesis, by how the commander kept his back ramrod straight and his injured shoulders squared as much as possible, Mirk knew that Genesis was the weakest he''d ever seen him. The fact that Genesis hadn''t called to the shadows to pry K''aekniv off of him was clear evidence of that. "If he actually rests, it won''t be as long."


    "I will not...let him kill any of you."


    It was like the room''s magelight had winked out: K''aekniv''s emotions shifted from carefree to focused, concerned, though the grin on his face didn''t change. "He wants to kill us all in those mountains, Ravensdale and his big mages. He thinks we''re all idiots, but Iliusha has seen them working. Some trap. But what can we do? Mirk is right. You look like shit. Maybe half of us don''t make it if you don''t come, but if he gets you too, we''re all dead with the way he keeps fucking with us. You have to be smart, Gen. That bitch Aeli almost got you."


    Genesis considered this for a time as Mirk returned to brushing out his hair. It made him feel a little less useless, considering the topic of discussion. "I will...make arrangements, then."


    "Huh?"


    "North has been in my debt for some time now. His men will...accompany you at the proper moment."


    Again, the shift in K''aekniv''s mood was instantaneous. The half-angel''s good cheer returned, though with reduced force, enough so that Mirk no longer risked getting a headache from it. "Hmm, all right. It should be fine. The First has good men, even if they''re all Bavarians."


    Though there was a certain comfort in listening to the both of them talk about this and that, in the reassuring pattern to their bickering that came from years of friendship, it also made a melancholy feeling steal over Mirk. He wished he understood more of what they were talking about, could put faces to all the names K''aekniv tossed around and that even Genesis seemed to understand. Over the past few months, it had become clear to Mirk that something was terribly wrong inside the K''maneda. He''d sensed it in all the things K''aekniv and the rest talked about, bad contracts and no money. And he''d seen it in the patients who were brought in, how differently they were treated.


    All the powerful mages, the robes around their injuries resplendent with gold and silver thread, and the officers in their dress coats fine enough for a noble ball, were seen to without hesitation by the Tenth''s healers. They left the infirmary in short order, always in perfect health, without a single scar left on them no matter how severe their injuries had been. The fighters and mages with less potential but who were still high-born, gulidmasters¡¯ bastards and forgotten fifth sons, were treated well enough too, though it took a bit longer for them to recover. As for the rest...


    They were ignored. Expendable. Except for when more upright bodies were needed to finish some unnamed war on some distant realm. And Mirk had noticed from watching the healers from the Twentieth that were put on emergency watch that the low-borns, the ones they needed to use translator charms on and who were always frightened and too young and too weak, returned from the transporter with the worst injuries of all. There were hardly ever enough healers to help them all. Too many got sent to the basement.


    And then there were the djinn. Ravensdale''s, Yule had Emir reminded him, every time Mirk protested their treatment. As Mirk had found out on his first day, they were treated exclusively by the Tenth''s healers. But they were handled like clockwork machines ¡ª the most powerful healers from the Tenth were summoned to repair them, but that was all they did. They didn''t seem to care if the djinn were left in pain, or if they were so drained they rightly should have been kept in bed for a week or more. They were sent out as soon as they could walk again, in their plain, rough black robes, all of them with magic burns around the collars on their necks, to fight again. They were nothing like the djinn Mirk was accustomed to seeing, servants buttoned up in the finest of their masters'' cast-offs, always tidy and proud. Too many of the djinn got sent to the basement as well.


    Mirk already had wanted to help. But knowing that Genesis and the rest were involved in it too convinced him. He had to do something. Or else the small spark of hope he¡¯d found over the past months, that warm feeling, the sense of having a family again, albeit one that was more odd and rough than the one he¡¯d had before, would be snuffed out.


    He was pulled out of his worries by the commotion caused by K''aekniv shoving himself back up onto his feet, stretching his wings and replying to some comment Genesis had made that had finally inspired him to get up and get going. "Enough," K''aekniv said, yawning. "You''re making me tired. And it''s time for supper, anyway."


    K''aekniv turned to Mirk with an easy smile, reaching over and placing his unnaturally large and warm palm atop his head, swiveling Mirk''s face upward so he could look him in the eye. It was still disconcerting to Mirk, seeing red eyes set in a face with perfect angelic full-blood coloration. Though the masculinity of K''aekniv''s features and his ratty hair helped detract from the uncanniness some. "Keep him from running away, eh? I''ll bring you supper. Maybe I should go steal some of the good things from the officers..."


    Mirk chuckled as K''aekniv let go of him. "Don''t get yourself in trouble on my account."


    "Me? Trouble? Who do you think I am?"


    Laughing to himself, K''aekniv barged back out into the hall and clumped away. The sudden stillness in the room once he was gone caused an emotional echo, almost. A feeling of emptiness. Blinking a few times to dispel the feeling, Mirk focused back on what he''d been doing. He''d finished brushing out the bottom third of Genesis''s hair, but it was clear the commander was getting tired, his prim posture wilting into a defeated slouch. But before he let him rest, Mirk knew he had to get to the bottom of things. If he waited until after Genesis had rested some, Mirk suspected he''d have a much harder time getting anything out of him.


    "You need to stop getting yourself into trouble too, messire," Mirk said, fixing his attention on Genesis''s hair. "You nearly died. You said it yourself, even."


    "...some things must be done. In pursuit of a...larger purpose."


    "And what is that, Genesis?" Mirk asked. "I hate to be so direct, but whatever you''re doing, you can''t keep doing it alone. This is twice in two months that you''ve left us and come back like this. I appreciate you thinking of leaving me something this time to let me know, but...really, it''s not enough. I want to really help. I know that you must have some of your other men helping you already. Let me help too."


    Genesis shook his head, once. Though it seemed like even the small motion made him dizzy after sitting up for nearly a half hour. "That was...what I was attempting to explain, before. You have no obligation to stay here. These are not your¡­difficulties. They were pressed on you without your knowledge or your willing participation. This has all been...too carefully planned," he added to himself, glancing down at his forearms again.


    There was something wrong about those cuts too, Mirk thought. But he knew better than to try to pry more than one secret out of Genesis at a time. "Well, I''m willing. So let me know what''s happening, Genesis. Please. I can tell something''s wrong in the K¡¯maneda. What are you doing?"


    "You would be...well advised to retract that willingness until it has all been fully explained. True choice...cannot come without knowledge."


    "Well, you''re not going anywhere, like I said. So, explain. If you would, please."


    Genesis sighed deeply. "The K''maneda is...not what it once was. This...hierarchy. The powerful collaborating with their...own kind across the realms to chain the weak. An inevitable consequence of...certain dispositions common among all people. It can never be entirely destroyed. But it is our duty to resist. It is not our duty to...willingly abet it."


    Mirk shook his head. "I''m sorry, messire, but you''re being too vague. I want to know what''s happening. Here and now. What are all those djinn for? They''re always at the transporter whenever the Fourteenth and the Third go out. And they always come back hurt. The same as all the men from the low-born divisions, the First and yours especially. The only ones who don''t end up dying are the ones that go with the djinn. It isn''t right, messire. Is that what you''re talking about?"


    "The djinn are...Ravensdale''s tools. As you noticed, they are there...to keep those he favors from bearing the brunt of things."


    "Who is Ravensdale? Everyone mentions him, but no one wants to explain."


    "He is a...miserable profiteer who needs to be...dealt with. But he has claimed the head position in the K''maneda. He is...choosing all the contracts himself. And...dispensing with them as he sees fit."


    Genesis didn''t need to explain what he meant by dealt with. Mirk knew the commander well enough by then to know that when he used those sort of words, the person they were directed at wasn''t long for the world. Though, considering that Ravensdale, whoever that actually was, was still in command, he had to be terribly powerful. "If it''ll help all the poor men and those djinn, then methinks I agree with you. Though maybe not in...euh, such a final way."


    "With him...there is no other way."


    Mirk sighed. "What are you planning, Genesis? What are you getting at? Forgive me for prying, but if you have a plan, I''d like to know about it. You said it yourself. Choice and knowledge."


    "There is, as of yet, no...concrete plan. Many things are in motion. However...with Ravensdale...one must strike when there is an opportunity. One can...tilt the odds in one''s favor. But the final movement...will come when it reveals itself. Until then...this," Genesis said, gesturing at his still-injured legs.


    "Then I¡¯ll keep helping. If you''re going to keep doing this, then you''ll need someone to heal you. And everyone else who decides to help. I only wish that it didn''t have to be so...so violent. But methinks that''s the way things are here, as far as I''ve seen."


    Genesis glanced at the cuts on his arms again. "One cannot change what they are. One can only...put it to good use."


    "Then let me do that too. I''m not good for much, messire. I can''t fight. I''m a healer. And even if I could fight, I can¡¯t leave Earth. So...let me do this. And anything else that I might be suited to."


    Genesis sighed. "I don''t¡­understand why you would choose to concern yourself with this."


    "Because all I''ve ever wanted to do is help." Mirk said, pausing to work a particularly nasty tangle out of Genesis''s hair as he tried to think of the best way to explain. "I never wanted to be involved in everything that goes on with the guilds and the noble mages. I wasn''t suited to it. But my family needed me after Uncle Marc died. Now that they¡¯re all¡­well, anyway, I''d like to go back to what I was doing before. This isn''t the same as the abbey, but it''s close enough. And¡­well, it might sound strange to you, but this place has the same feel. Like I have a family again. And it wouldn¡¯t be right to let my family be hurt. So, if what you''re doing can make things better, then I''d like to be a part of it. That''s what I''m suited to. Helping. So...let me help. Please."


    Genesis glanced over his shoulder at Mirk. His face was a tired mask, without any hint of an expression that could give Mirk a clue to what he was thinking. "You can leave. At any time. As more becomes...clear to you. I do not believe you...fully understand."


    Mirk shook his head. "Some things can''t ever be understood all the way. Sometimes we have to have faith."


    That drew a frown onto Genesis''s face, at least. "Faith has nothing to do with it."


    "Then I''m afraid we''ll have to agree to disagree, messire."


    Genesis muttered to himself under his breath, fidgeting with the thin sheet draped over his lower half. Mirk had gone through the trouble of finding him something to wear that wouldn''t hurt too much, and found that the strange, long and loose eastern trousers K¡¯aekniv said the commander chose to sleep in fit the bill. Mirk had the suspicion that Genesis would be more tractable if he didn''t wake up to find himself completely naked. "If that is your choice...then it is your choice."


    Before he could stop himself, Mirk paused his brushing to put a hand on Genesis''s shoulder, on the inside, further away from the injured joint. "You''re my friend, Genesis. And you''re a good person, no matter how hard you try to get people to think you aren''t. So I''m glad to help however I can."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But his arms twitched at his sides.


    "Though," Mirk continued, "I''m going to have to be a little insistent with you, messire. You''re in no condition to go running around like usual. You''re staying in bed for another week, methinks. At least."


    "Idleness is not...conducive to any project."


    "Sometimes you have to rest to get better. But maybe I can bring you some books to read, as long as you stay in bed."


    Genesis slouched further, muttering to himself. "Hmph...bribery..."


    "Here. You''ve been up for too long. I can tell you''re getting tired. Lie back down and I''ll keep working on this," Mirk said, tugging lightly on his hair. "Once you''re asleep, it''ll be easier to see to...euh, the rest." Before Genesis could protest, Mirk put an arm around him, giving him a gentle nudge in the middle of his chest to start him going backwards. It was alarmingly easy to overpower his resistance.


    "I am not tired," Genesis said, now left with nothing to glare at besides the ceiling.


    "Hmm...methinks we''ll just have to wait and see about that, messire."


    Before Mirk could even start on Genesis''s hair again, after pausing to get an extra blanket from the supply cabinet to cover him with, the commander was asleep again. Mirk hesitated before draping it over him, looking his body over, trying to see all the stitched up wounds and bruises covered in poultices with a healer''s eye rather than a friend''s.


    It was pointless. When Genesis was like that, cold and lifeless in sleep, he looked so fragile. Defenseless. His thin chest barely moved, his long, slender neck bared, his face drained of its characteristic rigidness as Genesis''s unforgiving hold on his own emotions was loosened by slumber.


    It made it easy to forget that Genesis could shift from dead unconsciousness to vicious attention in the blink of an eye. That, no matter how injured, he could nearly always force himself to snap out a hand the moment he woke and kill most anything within reach. The truth, Mirk thought, floated somewhere in between. He''d seen Genesis cut down opponents on the road to Nantes, one after one, effortless and unrelenting. But he''d also seen him completely disarmed by a handshake, perplexed by smiles and tears and laughs and what he''d done to merit them.


    It reminded Mirk of something that Father Jean had told him, as he''d sat beside him in the abbey''s main courtyard, watching Mirk work with one of the sisters to shield himself from the emotions he''d suddenly found himself bombarded by. He needed to be careful with shielding, the priest had said. It could be a weakness as well as a strength. The thicker the shielding, the less accustomed the inside became to being touched.


    He was being silly. Chiding himself under his breath, Mirk tucked Genesis in up to his chin and started working at his hair again. It was a small thing, but Mirk thought Genesis would appreciate having it back in order as much as he did the rest of his body.

 Chapter 7

    "Methinks I''m really no good at this, Yule..."


    Yule peered down into the potion bowl on the table between them, sniffing. Then he consulted the grimoire beside it, running his finger down the list of ingredients, stopping at one near the bottom and tapping it. "Not enough powdered valerian. Has to be. Weigh out another scruple and put it in. But not a grain more," Yule added, as Mirk reached for the tiny envelope of powder. "That stuff''s expensive. And reactive too. If you blow up our last good potions room, Emir will be after us, trainee or not."


    Sighing, Mirk pulled over the tabletop scale, taking a few weights off the left arm of it before turning his attention to the envelope of powdered valerian. None of it felt right. Potions, as had been explained to him by Yule and a half-dozen other older healers who''d had a spare moment to provide him with instruction, were an exact art. One was to follow the weights and measures in their master grimoires to the grain, then combine them in a dedicated potions bowl with the silver plated stirrers that were kept under lock and key so that no one ran off with them. With sufficient attention to detail, general potions were supposed to be impossible to ruin.


    Mirk had never been good with details. Every time he tried to follow the grimoires exactly, something terrible happened.


    Carefully unfolding the envelope, Mirk tapped tiny amounts of powdered valerian onto the scale. Not trusting himself, he held his breath while he did it, steadying his right hand by holding its wrist with his left to be extra certain he didn''t accidentally shake out too much. Once the scale was balanced, Mirk folded the envelope back up and set it aside, far enough away that even if the worst came to pass, it wasn''t likely the potion would explode all over the expensive component.


    Yule nodded in approval, leaning against the edge of the potions table rather than sitting on the stool beside Mirk''s. So he could bolt if things went poorly, Mirk thought. "That''s good. You''re getting the hang of handling it. Now chuck it in and let''s get this over with."


    "Do you have something to go to this afternoon?" Mirk asked him. Though Yule had complied when Emir had told him to take Mirk up to do potions practice, he''d grumbled more than usual about it. And he''d been glancing over at the clock on the wall -- a very accurate artificed one, to be sure that reaction times could be measured exactly -- every few minutes.


    "Never mind," Yule said. "It''s fine. Mix it up."


    Mirk took the plate off the right arm of the scale and tipped the powdered valerian into the potions bowl. The potion immediately began to steam, giving off a scent like overripe berries. Hesitantly, Mirk took the stirrer off the tray beside the bowl and mixed the concoction up, lowering his mental shielding just a bit so that he could sense whether or not he''d gone wrong somewhere.


    He was certain he had. The blood regenerating potion didn''t feel right, not like the ones he''d used before on patients. And it didn''t sound right either, but Mirk had decided it''d be better to keep that detail to himself. Everyone told him that there wasn''t anything to hear from long-dead plants. Or from anything else. Ilya was the only person Mirk had met so far who heard components the way he did, better able to judge things by listening than by feeling or seeing. And everyone thought Ilya was mad. Though they all depended on Ilya''s strange clockwork devices and bombs all the same.


    "Euh, is it supposed to do something?" Mirk asked, setting down the stirrer. He consulted the grimoire, reading the description at the top of the page. "A smell like fresh linen...and a clear blue color..."


    Yule edged close enough to look down into the potion bowl again. Just in time for its contents to suddenly go up in flames, throwing off angry purplish sparks. Cursing, Yule recoiled from the bowl as Mirk snatched the lead-plated cover off the table and smacked it down on top of the potion bowl to stop the reaction and contain the flames.


    Though Mirk knew it wasn''t a laughing matter, he couldn''t keep himself from chuckling at the way Yule frantically checked himself over. He slid his fingers over his eyebrows first, then down his long, curling forelocks. Finally, he smoothed his hands over the front of his robes. The first two had made it out unscathed. But the front of his robes were covered with tiny, singed holes. "Fuck! These were brand new..."


    Mirk sighed, the smile dying on his lips. "I''m very sorry, Yule. I didn''t mean to..."


    Yule waved him off. "It''s not your fault. I''m the idiot for leaning over it. But...you can do me one favor, I suppose," he said, casting an appraising look in Mirk''s direction.


    "Anything, of course."


    "Give me your robes."


    Puzzled, Mirk looked down at his own robes. If he''d been taking care of them on his own, they would have been in awful condition. Not a day went by where Mirk didn''t spill something down the front of them, or trail the sleeves through blood, or accidentally sit in something unidentifiable and nasty that the aides hadn''t yet cleaned up. Mirk had done his best to wash them himself, but he was as bad at that as he was at potions. The servants had always taken care of his clothes, and he''d always chosen kitchen duty over the laundry at the abbey. When Mirk tried to do his own washing, his robes always came out of the soapy water looking just as grimy as when he''d started.


    As of late, however, there had been a stack of fresh robes waiting for him on top of his dresser when he got back from the infirmary every Monday, his old, dirty robes still scattered on the floor where he''d left them. And they truly were fresh: the robes from the Supply Corps were always wrinkled and smelled a bit musty. The ones that appeared on his dresser were perfect, almost brand new. It all would have unnerved Mirk, if he didn''t have a good idea where they were coming from. Genesis¡¯s horrified reaction to the results of Mirk''s efforts at cleaning his own robes would have been funny, had the commander also not instantly vanished through the shadows after taking a closer look at them. Mirk suspected it had something to do with the commander''s odd "disease motes" superstition.


    Ever since then, Mirk hadn''t needed to worry about having things to wear. It all made him feel simultaneously cared for and useless. But there was no arguing with Genesis when he''d set his mind on something, so Mirk had accepted the robes while trying to think of some way he could repay the commander, yet again.


    Mirk smoothed his hand over the front of his robes. It was only ten o¡¯clock. He''d managed not to spill anything on them yet. They were as immaculate as when he''d unfolded them that morning, pressed and lightly scented and softer than a set of work clothes really had any right to be. Shrugging, Mirk took his few everyday possessions out of the pockets of his robes and pulled them off over his head, continuing to apologize to Yule.


    "Like I said, Yule, I''m very sorry. I suppose I just must not have a head for this sort of thing. I hope these are nice enough..."


    Rather than taking off his own robes to switch, Yule was staring at him, eyebrows arched in suspicion.


    "Alors...so I do get yours instead, non?"


    The other healer nodded, slowly. "Yeah. You just...I mean, I didn''t realize..."


    Mirk looked down at himself again, confusion growing. It wasn''t as if he was naked. True, he''d stopped bothering with a chemise, since he was now being given pristine clothing every week, but that hadn''t stopped him from wearing braies. And unfashionably long and loose ones at that. They had a bit of lace on them, and were made of linen finer than the rough weave of the Supply Corps''s, but Mirk didn''t think they were that flashy.


    If his wounds hadn''t long since healed, Mirk supposed things might have been different. But all that was left were five long scars that snaked down the length of his chest and another ten pockmarks across his shoulders, all of them already faded into whiteness, the healing process helped along by daily conditioning. With more mental effort on his part, Mirk was certain they¡¯d go away completely in a year or two "Ah, I''m sorry...I didn''t know undressing like this was strange. There aren¡¯t ladies here, and everything considered...everyone seems very, euh, familiar here? Methinks that''s the right word..."


    "No," Yule said. "You just surprised me. No one cares about being naked, we¡¯re healers. It''s just that I didn''t think you were actually religious." The older healer made a vague gesture at the rosary hanging around his neck, unable to keep a hint of distaste off his face.


    "Oh," Mirk said, reaching for it, curling his fingers around the crucifix at its end. Dark red beads, strung on a silver chain. One of the few things that he''d received from his mother before the end. "I thought it was obvious."


    Yule snorted as he wriggled out of his own robes. "It''s not. For one thing, you''re not an asshole."


    Mirk understood how Yule could have easily gotten that impression -- his tentative ventures outside the walls of the City of Glass in search of a church to attend, to better honor the memory of his mother and perhaps find some comfort in the familiar rituals, had been more upsetting than helpful.


    He knew there weren''t any Catholics in that part of England, but he''d been hoping that he''d be able to find something similar. In the end, all he''d found in the mage quarter of London were Anglican churches full of people who gave him sideways looks as soon as they detected he was a foreigner. And then there were the other Protestant churches sprinkled here and there at the edges of the quarter, where Mass was a grim, protracted affair conducted in plain meetinghouses by people all dressed in tidy, dark clothes.


    At first, Mirk had taken this as a good sign: weren''t all the K''maneda the same way, black-clad and dour, but well-meaning underneath? He''d only had to listen to one hours-long homily from the sour priest to realize that his hopes were misplaced again. It''d all involved a lot of talk of the elect, and predestination, and about how the congregation was the only thing standing between England and brutal takeover by the forces of the papal antichrist. "There are some very...strange churches here," Mirk finally said, the weight of Yule''s stare making him curl in on himself. "But we''re not all like that."


    Yule shook his head, balling up his robe and holding it out to Mirk. "Whatever. It doesn''t matter. Here. I need to get going."


    Mirk mustered up a smile as he shook out Yule''s robes. "Oh, so you do have somewhere to go..."


    Ignoring his comment, Yule struggled into his borrowed robes. He straightened them out meticulously, tugging on the sleeves and shoulders to make sure they were sitting right, then smoothing one hand down the front of them and frowning, his nose wrinkling.


    "Anyway, I hope they''re not too short for you," Mirk said, as he put on the robes Yule had given him. They weren¡¯t overlong, though all the robes that came from the Supply Corps weren''t particularly well tailored. And Yule¡¯s robes had an odd, but not unpleasant smell to them, something like cinnamon.


    "They''re not," Yule said, though he continued to pick at the front of them. "Where the hell did you get these?"


    "Hmm?"


    "They''re so...perfect. I can''t get all the wrinkles out of these things even if I get them fresh from the warehouse." Yule paused, sniffing at the sleeve of them. "And they smell like oranges."


    "Oh, methinks Genesis has been leaving them for me. He didn''t say anything about it, of course, but you know how particular he is about things being clean. I can''t think of anyone else who''d bother."


    Yule cringed backward in shock. "Him?"


    "Euh...yes?" Mirk didn''t understand what was so odd about the notion.


    "Are you sure it''s him?" Yule asked.


    "Well, it''s not you or Danu. And I don''t think it could be anyone else here, we''re all too busy to be worried about clean robes. And it can''t be Niv or anyone else from the Seventh, you know how they are. So..."


    Yule shook his head. "That''s the strangest thing I''ve heard in months."


    Laughing, Mirk waved off the older healer''s concern. "Oh, methinks it''s just because you only ever see Genesis in here. He''s really not so bad. He''s like...hmm...it''s like a strange relative, maybe. Most people think they''re odd or mean, but since they''re family, you just think they''re...euh, what is it...adorable? That''s the same thing in English, non?"


    Yule made a choking sound, expression aghast. Mirk took him by the arm, hoping to shake him out of it. "Are you all right, Yule?"


    "Adorable? Him? You''ve been huffing fumes."


    "Euh, maybe I just have the wrong word...I never remember the right ones for feelings. What is it when someone does something strange, but it doesn''t bother you because they''re a friend?"


    "I don''t know," Yule said. "Tolerate? Maybe?"


    "Hmm¡­no, that¡¯s not it. Methinks that''s closer to what he does with me. Tolerate feels too cold. This is like something you laugh and shake your head about."


    Yule looked like he was getting a headache. "Endearing?"


    "What was that one again...endearing...euh, methinks that might be closer."


    "If I had to choose a word to describe that miserable ass, endearing would be the last one I''d pick."


    Mirk gave a helpless shrug. "Maybe I have been breathing too many fumes?"


    Yule sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. "I hope so. Otherwise we''ll have to lock you up in a room on third with the rest of the lunatics."


    Unable to do anything other than shrug again and laugh away Yule''s bewilderment, Mirk elected to change the subject. "Anyway, are the robes all right? Really?"


    "They''ll do," Yule said. "I''ll get them back to you tomorrow."


    Mirk waved him off, turning his attention back to the remains of his potion. It''d gone black and thick, like pitch. "No, keep them. They''ll just get thrown out at the end of the week anyway."


    Yule turned to contemplate the potion as well, sighing. "Sometimes I think the lunatics are lucky to be locked up. It has to be better than dealing with this shit all day."


    -  -  -


    He almost had it. Mirk was certain of it.


    Once Yule had left, Mirk had decided to keep working at the potion instead of wandering down to the ground floor to see if anyone needed help. He had an idea about what he needed to do to make the potion work. And if he was going to do it, he needed to be away from prying and critical eyes, no matter how well-intentioned.


    Mirk had given up trying to make sense of all the strange English measurements in the potions grimoire. No matter how many double and triple-checks he made of the list, the potion still came out wrong. Instead, he uncorked all the bottles and unfolded all the packets full of the components listed in the grimoire and spread them out on the table before him, in no particular order. Then Mirk closed his eyes, lowered his mental shielding, and listened.


    It took time for him to sort out the sound of the components, to separate them from the background hum of anxiety and fatigue and pain that permeated the infirmary, even on the upper levels, where the patients were less concentrated. What he was left with, once he''d dismissed the errant emotions, sounded to Mirk like a room full of people whispering, all of their voices overlapping, none of them conversing but all of them wanting to be heard.


    Mirk didn''t remember what order he''d placed the components in. He built blindly, adding components slowly to the bowl that he felt for with the fingertips of his free hand. He started with the lowest voice, a serious one, one that put him in mind of one of the elderly priests at the abbey who they all called on to keep the peace among the more opinionated residents when the bishop rode in from Nantes to scold them about how they were putting their share of the tithes to use. Then he added a softer voice, one that was warm and encouraging -- he added a good bit of that one, its voice was closest to what the potion felt like once it was complete. And then he mixed in another. And another. Until the voices stopped talking over each other, until they combined and grew louder, a chorus all working together to recite one life-giving psalm --


    "I didn''t ask for your opinion, Tschida."


    The sudden raised voice from out in the hall broke Mirk''s concentration. He shifted his focus, searching for any stronger emotions that rose above the usual feel of the infirmary. There weren''t any. Whoever it was, they had to be thickly shielded.


    "It is not an opinion, Comrade Commander. It is a fact. If we don''t take the collar off of him for at least a day, he will get sicker. And die. Those wounds are too deep and they''ve been festering too long."


    That voice, Mirk recognized. Eva. Which meant that she had to be with Cyrus -- Mirk would have recognized Emir''s voice. There was the sound of footsteps growing closer. Mirk huddled over the potion bowl, trying to look busy in case either of them glanced into the room as they passed.


    "Then he dies," Cyrus snapped. "There''s more where he came from."


    Eva sighed. For a moment, Mirk could feel her frustration as well as hear it in the tone of her voice. "It is wasteful to do surgery and then allow such a trivial thing to kill him. And he is particularly strong."


    "I''m giving you an order. Leave him alone. Either he''ll pull through, or he won''t. It''s none of your concern. I''ve got a mage down on second that needs your attention. Can''t go buy another one of them."


    "Yes, Comrade Commander."


    It stung to hear the resignation in Eva''s tone. It wasn''t like her to give in like that, at least from what Mirk knew of the surgeon. But Mirk was beginning to understand how things worked among the K''maneda: when a commander gave an order, it was final. At least in the more noble divisions.


    He waited for the pair of footsteps to fade, felt for the spark of chaos that signaled they''d passed through the floor barrier and down onto third. Then Mirk got up and went out into the hall, casting out his senses further, that time searching for the sharpest feeling of pain amidst the din of the rest. It didn''t take long for him to find the thread of it. A persistent aching, a throbbing that never ceased, burning, accompanied by a deep weariness. Mirk followed it to a room in the middle of the floor, one of the smaller patient rooms without any windows. Its door was shut. Out of habit, Mirk knocked before pushing it open, though he didn''t wait for a response.


    There was a djinn on the bed inside. Someone had bothered to put a sheet over his lower half, leaving his torso and the raw wound that stretched from sternum to navel bare. No one had bandaged it. Or, rather, no one had been allowed to bandage it, considering the conversation he''d overheard between Eva and Cyrus. Mirk slipped inside, shutting the door behind himself after taking a quick glance up and down the hall. No one was around. Their patient load was light; the floors above third were mostly empty. "Hello?" Mirk called out to the djinn.


    He didn''t reply. Mirk went to his bedside, scanning his features. Maybe the djinn couldn''t hear him at all, or maybe he couldn''t reply. All around the thick, black collar welded to his neck were open sores, oozing with puss and serum and blood. All the skin around them was inflamed and swollen. It was obvious from the way the djinn¡¯s mouth opened wider with each breath, though his chest didn''t rise further than the width of a finger, that the collar was keeping him from getting enough air. The swelling had made it too tight, and there was no way to adjust it to compensate. "Can you hear me?" Mirk asked, waving a hand over the djinn''s face to catch his attention.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    It took a moment. But the djinn''s dark eyes grew more focused and darted in Mirk''s direction. They were glassy, and he only seemed to be able to focus on him for a few seconds before he lapsed back into agony. It was strange, Mirk thought -- the pain should have felt worse, considering the state the djinn was in. Maybe the collar did something that blocked off emotion. If that was the case, considering the amount of pain Mirk could feel despite drawing his shields back up as he¡¯d entered the room, the djinn had to truly be suffering.


    Eva was right. If someone didn''t do anything to heal the wounds around the djinn''s neck, he would die.


    Wringing his hands and biting at his lip, Mirk considered his options. After a moment, he reached out and placed two fingers lightly on the djinn''s neck, right above the collar. He lowered his shields and called to his healing potential, tried to shunt some of his extra life energy off into the djinn. Nothing focused, just enough to see if his body would accept it. It didn''t. Either there was a trick to healing djinn, some compensation that needed to be made to account for their non-human bodies and magic, or the collar was blocking him.


    Mirk got the impression it was the latter. When he tried again, that time deliberately feeling for what was out of place, what needed to be called together and made whole, it was like some kind of glass barrier was stopping him from connecting. It also explained why his suffering wasn¡¯t as acute as it should have been, even with shields lowered. Mirk could look, but not touch.


    He withdrew his hand. If he couldn''t use his magic on the djinn directly, then he''d have to approach the problem in a more roundabout way. Mirk reached out to the djinn again, clasping his hand briefly, unable to keep himself from offering him some small encouraging word, despite the misery of his situation. The djinn''s hand was clammy and cold. "I''ll be back," Mirk said in a near whisper. "I need to fetch some things."


    And he had to hurry. There was no one around on fourth at present, but there was no telling when things would change. If the wrong person found him at the djinn''s bedside, he could cause Emir and the rest trouble. Mirk ran back to the potions room, flipping through the book until he came to a useful-looking balm, scanning the ingredients list. He shoved the ones that matched into his work bag and mumbled the rest under his breath as he bolted for the fourth floor supply closet. There was still no one around; he could afford to run.


    Mirk fumbled the keyring he''d borrowed from Yule out of his pocket, undoing the physical locks on the door with shaking hands, then sweeping through the arcane gestures that disengaged the room''s wards. It took him two tries to get them all correct. Mirk yanked on the handle, dismayed when it refused to turn.


    He made himself pause, take a few deep breaths, and consider the issue more calmly. Mirk turned the handle again, watching the door''s frame with his mind''s eye. There was another spell on it that shouldn''t have been there, one that seemed vaguely familiar, though Mirk couldn''t quite place it. It wasn''t very complicated or strong. Once Mirk knew what he was dealing with, it only took a focused burst of potential and a counter-clockwise gesture of waning potency to break it and open the door.


    The instant Mirk opened the door, he was overwhelmed by emotions: a heady mixture of pleasure and lust. It made Mirk stumble backward, left him reaching instinctively for his stomach to ward off a wave of nausea that, to his surprise, never quite came. By the time Mirk had gotten ahold of himself, his eyes had adjusted enough for him to see some of what was going on inside the darkened supply closet. Mirk only caught a glimpse of things, but it was plenty: a taller, muscular man in infantry blacks bracing Yule against the back wall of the room, mouthing at his neck and trying to work his hands up under Yule''s robes. Yelping, Mirk batted the door shut, thinking at the very last moment to catch the handle and ease it the rest of the way closed rather than letting it slam.


    Mirk wondered if he should lock the door. Probably. But he didn''t have time, not to process what he''d seen or to linger long enough outside the door to engage all the locks again. He ran for the barrier to the fifth floor, hoping that the supply closet there wouldn''t be occupied. Thankfully, it wasn''t.


    He had to slow his pace once he returned to the fourth floor. There was a group of aides on the floor, near the barrier to third, arguing over that afternoon''s meal cart. Though Mirk suspected they wouldn''t have bothered sending up dinner for the injured djinn, it still meant he had to be quick. Once Mirk turned the corner onto the hall the djinn''s room was on, he broke back into a run, skidding into the room and grabbing for the washbasin atop the room''s tiny supply cabinet. Behind him, he could hear the djinn still struggling to breathe. Mirk tried to put it out of mind and began dumping potion components into the basin.


    His crafting was instinctive, hurried and inexact. Mirk didn''t even check the bottles and packets to see what all he was mixing in. And he''d forgotten to bring the stirrer; he was forced to mix it bare-handed. It stung a bit at first, but wasn''t as worrying as the djinn¡¯s labored breathing. Mirk tried to tune it out and focus on the mental sound of the potion.


    The more components he added, the less discordant it got. After a few minutes, Mirk thought he had it right: that potion, a healing salve, sounded to him like someone singing underwater, the voices indistinct, but still strong enough to create a feeling of cool numbness in the back of his head. Mirk wiped his hands on the front of his borrowed robes and picked up the basin, turning back to face the djinn. The man was watching him that time. His lips had started to turn blue.


    "It...it''ll be all right, monsieur. One moment, please," Mirk stammered. He turned away to scan the components he''d left scattered across the supply cabinet. Mirk knew from working on Genesis that the potions in the master grimoires were meant strictly for humans. He always had to tinker with them a bit before they''d work properly on Genesis. Mirk grabbed up a few components that he''d likely need more of and went to the djinn''s bedside, balancing the basin full of salve against his hip as he dipped his free hand in to scoop up some of the lumpy, greenish-yellow paste. "This might hurt a bit at first," Mirk warned. "But I''ll do my best."


    For once, his best worked. As he''d anticipated, Mirk had needed to pause and remix the salve a few times to get the balance of components right. Witch hazel, apparently, was especially potent on djinn. Though the salve wasn''t enough to close all the djinn''s sores completely, it brought the swelling around and beneath the djinn''s black iron collar down far enough for him to suck in more air. The blue faded from the djinn¡¯s lips as his breathing evened and the pain radiating off him faded, the remnants of it trapped behind whatever magic kept Mirk from healing him with his own magic. "How are you feeling, monsieur?" Mirk asked him, once he''d caught his breath.


    "Better," the djinn said after a moment, his voice croaking and raspy. "My...thanks. Master...?"


    Mirk shook his head, flashing the djinn a weak smile. Now that Mirk wasn''t in such a rush and overwhelmed with panic, he could take a harder look at him. The djinn looked familiar in a way that Mirk couldn''t place, some combination of his flat nose and long face making Mirk think he might have met him before, either in the infirmary or elsewhere. "No, no. Just Mirk."


    The djinn shot him a puzzled look. But then he began to cough, raising one hand to tug at the collar welded around his neck. The djinn snapped his hand away the instant his fingers brushed against it. "...water?" he worked out, blinking rapidly.


    "Oh! Oh, of course, yes...let''s see..."


    Mirk traded the washbasin for the ewer that''d been beside it atop the supply cabinet, returning to the djinn''s bedside and helping him sit up. The djinn tried to take the ewer, but the weight of it was too much for him. Mirk had to support it as he raised it to his lips and drank for a long time. Once he was finished, the djinn sighed, turning his attention back to Mirk. "Did Ravensdale send you?" he asked, speaking the name in a whisper, as if he was afraid some terrible thing might happen to him if he said it too loudly.


    "Euh...no, monsieur. I just...well. You needed help. So I helped."


    The djinn''s eyes narrowed a fraction, and he took a harder look at Mirk. "Then you should leave."


    "Ah, you''re right, monsieur. I just wanted to make sure you''re all right. Doesn''t that hurt?" Mirk asked, gesturing to the stitched-together wound running down the length of his torso.


    The djinn ignored the question. "What does that word mean? I''ve never heard it. Mon..."


    "Oh! Euh, sorry, mon...ah. It''s only what we call djinn we don''t know the proper name of where I''m from," Mirk said. Well. It was what his grandfather had always told him to call djinn. The other nobles didn''t bother, for the most part, aside from the ones who employed freed djinn. It seemed only right to be respectful, in Mirk¡¯s opinion. The djinn were as powerful as any noble mage; they deserved the same degree of deference. Regardless of what their actual station was. And it never hurt to be polite. "I don''t mean to insult you."


    "I...see." The djinn looked deeply confused by all this, feeling at his neck again, though he was careful not to touch his collar that time.


    "If there¡¯s a better word that the English use, it would be good for me to know it, methinks. Or if there is some other word you prefer."


    The djinn laughed, then coughed again. "I am Am-Gulat."


    That was his kinship name, Mirk knew. Djinn guarded their personal names closely. They only ever spoke them to those they trusted the most. Or to masters who were particularly cruel and forced them out of them by threatening to release their souls to the ether. "Monsieur Am-Gulat, then."


    "You should leave," Am-Gulat repeated, though he continued to stare at him, in that slightly unnerving way that djinn always did. Though Mirk knew it was only because their senses extended further than those of humans, it always made Mirk feel like they were reading his thoughts, in a way.


    "I know," Mirk said. "I just...you needed help. The woman who was here before wanted to, but the commander wouldn''t let her. I...well." Mirk gave a helpless shrug. "It seemed wrong not to. You are our patient, after all."


    "Is that so?" the djinn said, in a way that made it feel more like a statement than a question.


    "Tiens. Let me help you lay back down. That wound really should be healed a bit more..."


    "It is done," the djinn replied, though he did accept Mirk''s help in lying back down. Before Mirk could question him any further, Am-Gulat closed his eyes. Whether he passed out of consciousness or not was unclear to Mirk, but it was evident enough that he didn''t want to talk any more. Rubbing his forehead, Mirk took the ewer back to the cabinet, stacked all the remaining bottles inside the basin still half-full of salve and pocketed the packets of dry components, then left.


    -   -   -


    Mirk should have gone down to the ground floor and made himself useful. Instead, he shut himself back in the potions room and tried his hand at making a different concoction from the few components he had left over.


    He still wasn''t getting very far. Despite his earnest attempts at focusing, despite resorting back to using the scale to measure out components initially before using his senses to adjust the amounts, he was too overwhelmed to do things right. The incident with the djinn, Am-Gulat, had rattled him.


    He wasn''t like any other djinn Mirk had met, though that was probably because of the poor condition he was in. Most of the djinn he had encountered in the foyers of noble houses and standing attentively beside carriages had a distinguished, composed air about them. The fact that Am-Gulat hadn''t been able to keep that composure bothered Mirk. Not because he wanted to be treated with the distant courtesy that was the hallmark of a djinn servant, but because he got the feeling that it would have upset any of the other djinn he''d met to be seen while in such emotional and physical disarray. It made him wonder what all had been done to Am-Gulat to make his expressions so open.


    And then there was what had happened with the supply closet on fourth. That was weighing on him too, but in a much less unpleasant way. Mirk was surprised how well he''d handled the emotions. The familiar rush of terror and sickness hadn''t overwhelmed him at the touch of unshielded lust that time. It came as a relief. It had to mean he was finally, truly getting better.


    Mirk knew that he wouldn''t be able to avoid the emotion forever: he''d felt glimmers of it through the shields of the other healers on occasion, and he tried to sidestep it at the taverns the healers and the members of the Seventh favored, using the excuse of needing a bit of fresh air to run away as soon as he started picking up too much of it amongst the emotions of the other patrons. Now that he knew he could handle it, he wouldn''t have to hide in his room so often for fear of feeling more than he could handle. The thought cheered him, despite the situation with Am-Gulat -- he''d been feeling guilty as of late for turning down offers to go out after his work was over for the day. Mirk wasn''t unsociable. It was just that his shields could only hold back so much.


    Mirk forced himself to focus on the potion again. Just as he''d started in on a potential use for his remaining components and had begun mixing them, he heard the door to the workroom behind him creak open.


    He waved a hand distractedly in the direction of it, not looking up from the grimoire. "Euh, attendez, s''il vous pla?t...hmm, maybe...methinks I could do it without the lye if I used orange..."


    Slow, deliberate footsteps. A cough. "Well?"


    Blinking, Mirk finally turned and looked. Yule was leaning against the wall some distance away, his face uncharacteristically emotionless, his mental shielding held so high and so tight that Mirk couldn''t detect a trace of his presence. Mirk felt the heat rising on his cheeks and whipped back around to face the table. "I''m so sorry, Yule. I didn''t mean to interrupt you. It''s only that the shields on that room are so strong...and I didn''t...I wasn''t expecting..."


    Mirk snuck a glance over his shoulder at the other healer when he didn¡¯t respond. A hint of skepticism had broken through Yule¡¯s blank mask. "What? You think the only deviants in this place are the ones who go around killing people?"


    "I...well, it''s none of my business, really."


    "Is that just your way of saying ''I don''t want to upset anyone, so I''ll keep my damn religion to myself?''"


    His embarrassment shifting to dismay, Mirk turned on his stool to face Yule fully. Though Yule''s shields were still thick, Mirk thought he could detect a hint of annoyance in the way one corner of his lips was twitching. "No, I really am very sorry, Yule...but...does any of it really matter?"


    Yule laughed, incredulously. "You tell me. Does it matter?"


    Mirk shook his head, hard. "Of course not! Why would it? You''re my friend." He tried to swallow down the panic that was threatening to overcome him at the thought of having made Yule truly angry. He couldn''t bear the thought of it: having to work close beside him every day, knowing full well that Yule was full of nothing but simmering resentment toward him. Mirk had seen what Yule''s wrath was like. He didn''t cherish the thought of having to bear the brunt of it.


    Though Mirk was trying his best to conceal his reaction, he knew he had to be as transparent as air to Yule. With a heavy sigh, Yule¡¯s cold facade cracked. He trudged over to the worktable and sat down on the other stool beside Mirk. "All right, all right. I''m sorry."


    "Oh, no. You don''t have to apologize. This is all my fault, really."


    Yule was silent for a time, tugging at a lock of his hair, trying to work out something to say back to Mirk. "Most of you people are bastards about this. Hell, almost everyone is. Why do you think I''m K''maneda? This is where all the criminals end up, one way or another." Yule paused again, then laughed, his bitterness seeping through his shields. "Hard to judge someone when you''ve just spent all day stabbing people in the back. Though it doesn''t seem to stop anyone."


    Mirk understood well enough what Yule was getting at, though he was avoiding the exact words usually directed toward those with his inclinations. Mirk shrugged, helplessly, turning the potions grimoire face down on the table so that he wouldn''t be tempted to go back to studying it in order to avoid the conversation. "Honestly, all of...that never really came up much. Not where I was, anyway."


    Snorting, Yule knocked Mirk in the shoulder. The older healer seemed surprised by his response, as if he''d expected more of a reaction out of him than a shrug. "Are you actually religious, or are you just faking it?"


    "Bien s?r, I was at the abbey for years. I was going to become a priest, you know."


    Yule gave him a disbelieving once-over. "You? A priest?"


    "That''s what''s done with sons who won''t inherit," Mirk mumbled.


    "Didn¡¯t you get any say in it?"


    "Well, yes, but...it''s just what''s done. Since my magic came so late, everyone thought it''d skipped me. So I wouldn''t have been welcome in any of the guilds. But I still wanted to be useful. Everyone''s family needs someone in the Church, it makes things easier...anyway, that''s not important now, I suppose."


    "If it''s not important, then why do you bother? Messing about with all that religious hocus pocus, I mean."


    Mirk stared down at the table, picking at the hems of his sleeves. He tried not to think of walking the stations of the cross with his mother. Or sitting in the pew behind his grandfather''s in the family chapel, the space beside his grandfather as empty as it had been ever since Mirk could first remember. "Everyone has their reasons."


    Yule shot him a tired look. "And the reason why you don''t think I''m a sex-crazed lunatic is...?"


    Mirk tried to think of how someone more clever than him would explain it, what Father Jean would have said when presented with the same situation. The priest would have led him step by step to the right conclusion, asking gentle, open-ended questions that helped him think things through. It was hard for Mirk to do it on his own. And he was certain he wasn''t going to do it right. But he had to say something.


    "Ah...enfin...it only really matters what you think about it all, doesn''t it? It''s...I never really thought about that sort of thing, really. After Uncle Marc died, I was supposed to be thinking about getting married, but I''d been hoping maman would give me a brother. Or my sister Kae would have a son, and I could go back to the abbey and not have to think about being the Seigneur. I''m not suited to that kind of thing. You have to be a little...hmm...cold? Practical, maybe. I wouldn''t have been able to make anyone in my family do something they didn''t want to, and grandp¨¨re had to do a lot of that. I just want to help. And that''s most of what I did at the abbey. I liked helping the sick the best. And, well, here I am. Helping the sick."


    He couldn''t bring himself to look over at Yule, staring down at the overturned potions grimoire and his restless hands instead. Mirk was completely out of ways to explain. It was obvious enough to Mirk that someone had to have been very cruel to Yule and used their faith as a justification. But that wasn''t what faith was about, neither the soft kind that Father Jean had guided him toward or the adamant devotion he''d seen his mother practice.


    To Father Jean, faith had been a puzzle, a constant stream of questions with uncertain answers, with no guiding principles other than that the poor spoke the Word more clearly than scripture, and that serving was the best way to reach an understanding of God''s design. And to his mother, it''d been a beacon, a blessing, assurance that if she trusted God with her life, then He wouldn''t give her anything she wasn''t strong enough to bear. And that He''d reward her faith with protection and prosperity, both in that life and in the next. It hadn''t worked out that way for either of them. But that was how things were supposed to end, if Providence held true. It was his place to bear up under it and make do the best he could.


    Eventually, Yule sighed, saving Mirk from spiraling deeper into his troubled thoughts. "You honestly don''t care?"


    Mirk shook his head again. "No. Everyone follows their own conscience. It doesn''t matter to me. All I care about is that you''re happy. And if that''s what makes you happy, then...c''est ?a."


    He snuck a glance over at Yule again. The older healer seemed dissatisfied, like he was at as much of a loss as Mirk was. "Well. It does make me happy. In the moment, anyways. Afterwards is where everything goes to hell. Makes you wonder if the sex is worth the rest of the bullshit."


    "I wouldn''t know much about that, I''m afraid."


    "What? Come on. Every priest I knew was always on about sex. Probably because they weren''t getting any."


    Mirk shrugged, trying not to think about where the conversation might be headed. He had to redirect it before it strayed further. Even though he was able to feel lust again without wanting to be sick, he didn''t particularly want to dwell on the subject. "Methinks maybe I''m not meant for that either."


    He was relieved when, with a wistful sort of sigh, Yule put an arm around his shoulders, just like he always did when waxing on about a subject he felt strongly about. "You''re either extremely lucky or extremely unfortunate. Hard to say which."


    Trying for a joke to lighten the atmosphere, Mirk pulled a smile up onto his face. "Of course I''m lucky. I''m here, non?"


    Yule squeezed his shoulders, scolding. "The K''maneda is no place for someone who''d say something like that."


    Mirk relaxed under Yule''s arm, relieved to be back on more solid ground. "Methinks I''ve heard that before, somewhere...something about being too sentimental..."


    "Whatever. I suppose if you don''t care, then you don''t care. Might as well leave it at that."


    "Yes, let''s." Mirk paused, thinking for a moment. "Though...was he from the Fourteenth or the Fifth? I didn''t get a very good look."


    "What?"


    "Methinks I''d have to worry if you were getting involved with someone from the Fourteenth. They can be cruel, I''ve heard. I''d have to look into it."


    With a rueful shake, Yule released him. "What would you do? Throw rolls at him?"


    Mirk turned to Yule with a renewed, sunnier smile. "Me? I couldn''t do anything. But Niv is much bigger than him, and he does like that fruit brandy Eva''s uncle makes. He''ll do just about anything for a friend, but it helps to bring a bottle..."


    Shaking his head, Yule leaned over to examine the potion Mirk had been mixing when he''d come in. "You know, I''m starting to think you only call yourself useless all the time to hide that you can do whatever you damn well please. Anyway. What''s this for? It doesn''t look like a blood regen."


    "Euh...let''s see..." Mirk turned the grimoire back over, consulting the page he''d been working from. "For...cleaning wounds?"


    Yule glanced at the page. "Oh. We never use that one," Yule said. "Hardly ever makes a difference. Just means that they scream themselves hoarse and catch a fever by the end."


    "Should I not waste the components, then?"


    "Well, you''ve come this far. Might as well finish it off."


    Mirk considered the list of components and measures, then shut the grimoire. He reached across the table for the small vial of orange essential oil: not a common component, nor a terribly expensive one, at least compared to the rest. It wouldn''t matter if he added it in just to see if the hunch he''d had earlier would lead to anything worthwhile.


    Closing his eyes, Mirk listened to the sound of the oil as he tapped drops of it into the bowl. He didn''t stop until the potion sounded like something useful: a strident chorus, like a shield made of a dozen uplifted and defiant voices. Then Mirk blinked his eyes open and set the vial aside. "There. Euh...I''m not sure how to test it, though..."


    Yule didn''t seem to be listening. Cautiously, he bent over closer to the bowl, fanning a hand over it to waft up its scent. If nothing else, the orange had made the potion less pungent. Without it, the potion was enough to make Mirk''s eyes water if he breathed it in too deeply.


    "Does it smell right?" Mirk asked.


    Rather than wafting the bowl again, Yule sniffed at the shoulder of the robes he¡¯d borrowed from Mirk earlier. "Apparently it works better on clothes than wounds. Smells exactly the same. That explains how he gets them so soft."


    Sighing, Mirk propped an elbow on the edge of the table, leaning his head against his hand. "I suppose I don''t have much of an excuse not to do my own washing now, if that''s what Gen''s secret to getting things clean is."


    "Look on the bright side," Yule said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now you won''t have some creep sneaking in your room without telling you."


    Mirk shrugged. "It''s really not that bad. He always made the bed too. I never did learn how to get the corners right."


    Yule folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head as he stared down into the potion bowl. The cleanser had begun to percolate. A sign of its potency, Mirk supposed. "Only you could get that miserable bastard to do your housework for you."

 Chapter 8

    "Quelle horreur..."


    Mirk paused just outside the front doors of the infirmary, pushing his back up against them to stay under the protection of the roof''s narrow overhang and out of the pouring rain. He hadn''t thought to bring his cloak with him that morning. It had been lovely outside, sunny and warm for the first week of September. He should have known better. English weather was much more mercurial than what he was accustomed to.


    The other healers, though, had been quick to inform Mirk that the weather in the City of Glass was worst of all, always too hot or too cold, all of them cursed to alternately burn or freeze due to the influence of the chaotic magic that powered the City. And the rain in the City, somehow, was even more constant than in the rest of England. After checking to make sure his work bag was buttoned up tight, Mirk hiked it up on his shoulder and plunged out into the downpour.


    It was cold. Mirk would have thought it was autumn, had the Earth not still been murmuring late-summer sentiments at him. He was too exhausted to run. His last patient had been particularly worrying, a fighter from the First who had nearly had his arm ripped off at the elbow and was lost in a state of semi-awareness Mirk couldn¡¯t shake him from, no matter what he did. Trying to feel his way through the loss and despair that had wreathed the man¡¯s mind had taken up as much energy as beginning to heal his wounded arm.


    Despite his fatigue, Mirk kept his pace brisk, focusing on the close-yet-distant lights of the healers dormitory. While his body remained out in the street, his head was already up in his room, imagining how nice it''d be to huddle under his quilts with a warm mug of tea helped along by a liberal splash of brandy.


    Which was how Mirk overlooked the body lying in the middle of the road. The body that he tripped over the legs of, his momentum tumbling him head over heels into a particularly deep puddle. Rubbing at the shoulder he''d landed on, Mirk sat up and peered over at the body. His spinning head made it hard for him to tell if that really was what he''d stumbled over, or if he''d spent too long in the infirmary and was starting to see potential patients everywhere.


    It was a body. A large, spindly body, its face obscured by a drenched snarl of long black hair. Mirk didn''t need to see its face. The long white fingers twitching at the body''s sides were enough for Mirk to tell exactly who it was.


    "Messire!"


    Mirk scrabbled over to Genesis''s side. Digging his fingers into Genesis''s arm to get a good grip on him, he heaved the commander over onto his back. It was hard to tell for certain in the dark, but Mirk didn''t think Genesis was wounded. His limbs were all at the proper angles, anyway, though his head flopped lifelessly to one side instead of staying forward. Lowering his mental shielding and casting out his senses, Mirk felt for any sparks of pain that might give him some clue as to what was wrong with Genesis. There weren¡¯t any strong enough to escape Genesis¡¯s chaotic magic. Mirk took his face gently in both hands and turned it upright, leaning over him to keep off the rain.


    "Oh dear...what''s happened to you now...Genesis? Genesis, can you hear me? Blink if you can."


    There was no response. Genesis''s eyes were open, but they were filmed over black, making it impossible to tell whether they were responsive or not. Mirk leaned in closer, just in time to hear the commander draw a shallow, hissing breath. There were  bruises on his face, though they were hard to make out in the gloom, and his long nose seemed out of line. Mirk did his best to clamp down on his worry -- if Genesis had fallen flat on his face in the middle of the street, something had to be wrong, wounds or no wounds. In an attempt to reassure himself, Mirk mumbled an Ave Maria under his breath as he checked Genesis''s pulse on his neck.


    Faint, steady, but a touch faster than normal. The opposite of what usually happened when he came in injured. Mindful of the bruises, Mirk pressed the back of his hand to Genesis¡¯s forehead. They were the same temperature. He couldn¡¯t remember Genesis ever feeling that warm before.


    Mirk wondered how long Genesis had been lying out in the rain. How many passers-by had simply averted their eyes and counted their blessings instead of stopping to help him? How many had stepped right over him? Mirk decided to try to get through to Genesis again, returning his hands to the sides of his face.  "Messire? Genesis, I can''t read you, you have to tell me what happened."


    Genesis''s mouth twitched, but no sound escaped. Mirk glanced back at the infirmary, debating whether it''d be better to drag him there or take him somewhere else. Before he''d left, Mirk had put the man with the injured arm in their last empty recovery bed. There were always the overflow cots up in the anatomical theater on the sixth floor, if necessary. However, he doubted Genesis would be pleased to to wake up and find himself in the middle of a room full of dazed infantry fighters still in uniforms that reeked of vomit and rotting blood.


    While Mirk had been thinking, Genesis''s twitching had turned into something almost like purposeful movement. He was slapping at the cobbles with one hand, as if he was trying to brace himself and sit up. Mirk knew he''d be the one who''d end up tending to the commander anyway, no matter where he took him. Better to take him somewhere comfortable. Then maybe Genesis would stay put long enough for Mirk to get to the bottom of what had happened. And the healers dormitory was just a hair closer. Mirk took hold of Genesis''s shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position.


    "All right, messire, let''s go inside. Can you get up? Genesis? I don''t think I can carry you..."


    Mirk had to shoulder most of Genesis''s weight in order to haul him back onto his feet. It would have been so much easier to move Genesis if the commander wasn¡¯t so much taller than him. Genesis wasn''t that heavy, at least not in comparison to the muscle-bound fighters he helped the aides lug from room to room, but the clumsiness of Genesis''s overlong limbs made the commander difficult to maneuver.


    As Mirk guided him down the road toward the dormitory, Genesis began to come back to himself. He stumbled along beside Mirk instead of being dragged, blinking owlishly, first giving the ground a puzzled look, then turning an equally confused one in his direction.


    "Genesis?" Mirk prompted. "What happened to you? Why aren''t you inside?"


    After a moment, Genesis¡¯s darkened eyes narrowed into a squint. Then his expression shifted into one Mirk didn''t recognize, something between apprehension and one of his odd, defensive, humorless grins. How badly had Genesis hit his head when he''d fallen over? Mirk didn''t think he''d ever seen Genesis that addled before. "It''s me, Genesis. Mirk. Do you remember?"


    Genesis''s voice came out in a hoarse croak, difficult to understand, though any response was better than nothing. "Mirk..."


    "Yes, that''s right. It''s me. What were you doing out in the rain? You know you''ll get sick if you stay outside for too long in this weather. You really should tell someone you need help before things get this bad, messire. It''s much easier for everyone if you come in right away. Or, well, easier for me, anyway."


    Mirk was well aware of the fact that he was babbling. Not that it mattered. When Genesis tried to speak again, all that came out were hisses and clicks, his unintelligible native language. Mirk squeezed the commander¡¯s midsection a little, trying to be reassuring. "It''s all right. Everything will be all right. Just a little further..."


    It took Mirk a few tries to open the dormitory''s front door without either dropping Genesis or hitting him in the face with it. Mirk nudged him inside, then propped him up against the far wall of the vestibule. It was a relief to have his weight off his shoulders, but if he couldn''t get Genesis moving better on his own, Mirk feared the worst of his troubles were still ahead of him. His room was up on the fourth floor.


    After waiting to make sure Genesis wouldn''t collapse again if left on his own, Mirk crossed the vestibule and poked at the control board for the enchanted dryer built into the ceiling. Mirk was sure he knew the right combination of runes to tap at to get it to start. And yet, nothing happened. He tried banging it into life. Still nothing. In a last-ditch effort, apologetically crossing himself first, Mirk tried cursing at it. It seemed to be what everyone else in the K''maneda did to get things to work. The dryer above him sparked a bit, but its magic didn''t fully engage. Dismissing it with a frustrated wave of his hands, Mirk turned back to Genesis.


    Genesis''s eyes had gone back to normal. Mirk wished they hadn''t. It was easier now for him to tell that the commander couldn''t focus them. Could such a slight fever cause that much delirium in someone like Genesis? He couldn''t be certain. Just like everything else about him, Genesis''s body temperature and what it implied bore little relation to those of normal patients. Sighing, Mirk put an arm around Genesis''s waist again and began the arduous process of getting him up to his room.


    Every flight was a struggle; Genesis tripped again and again and Mirk wasn''t strong enough to keep hold of him each time. All he could do was put his body in the way and hope that they wouldn''t both fall over and slide down the stairs, all the way back to the bottom. Talking at Genesis didn''t seem to be helping the commander focus, but it made Mirk feel a little better. Though Genesis did respond on occasion, it was never in a language Mirk understood.


    They struggled up one last stairwell. Then it was down the hall, Genesis weaving this way and that, pulling Mirk along with. His door was locked. Mirk propped Genesis against the wall again until he fumbled it open and slapped on the magelights. Heaving a sigh of relief, Mirk guided Genesis inside.


    Genesis''s boot caught on the slight step up over the threshold. Mirk lost his hold on him and Genesis fell flat on his face again, not even having the presence of mind to throw out his hands to cushion the blow. Wincing, Mirk nudged Genesis''s feet in past the sill and sidled into the room, pulling the door shut behind himself. Mirk thought for a moment about the bottle of brandy in the bottom drawer of his dresser. A gift to himself for another long week spent tending to the sick and injured. Mirk quickly dismissed the idea, dropped his bag beside the door, and got to work.


    Mirk tried to do as he was told: distance oneself from the patient, focus on their body, separate the parts from the whole. He could never manage it. Especially not with Genesis, whose complex internal workings and magic only made sense when viewed all together. At least Mirk was accustomed by then to seeing him like that, unconscious, likely to be mistaken for dead by a casual observer. Maybe that was why no one had helped Genesis out in the street. Mirk knelt down beside Genesis and turned him back over, checking his face again. The bruising was worse. And so was the fever. First things first, then. Mirk had to get him out of his wet clothes and into something dry and warm.


    That was another thing Mirk had grown oddly accustomed to, laboriously pulling off layer after layer of the clothes Genesis clad himself in like the other fighters did armor. It was worse when Genesis was sopping wet. It made all the buckles and buttons hard to navigate with numb fingers; it stiffened the leather of all the sheaths and scabbards he wore to keep his bewildering and unnecessary array of weaponry always at the ready. By the time Mirk was done, he was left with a pile of things that he knew he should probably pause to fold and stack neatly. But he was too tired and worried to bother with it. As soon as the last layers were stripped off of him, Genesis began to shiver, violently.


    "Oh dear...let''s see what I have...I''m afraid that I don''t have much that might fit you, but there has to be something..." Mirk mumbled to himself, as got back to his feet. His legs had gone numb from kneeling for so long. He braced himself against the top of the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. All the robes he had on hand at the moment were grimy and splattered with blood. He''d been putting off laundry now that he had successfully managed to do it on his own once or twice to Genesis¡¯s grudging satisfaction. The only other thing he had that was robelike was his nightshirt, and that was a bit short even on him. No matter what he did, it shrunk a little more with every washing. It''d be useless on someone as tall as Genesis. Distractedly, Mirk clawed his way out of all of his own wet clothes and pulled on the nightshirt as he continued his search.


    Three piece suits with all the trappings, a relic of his past life that he''d salvaged from his mother''s ruined carriage but hadn''t yet let go of. They were tailored exactly to his own measurements with little room to spare. Impossible. Chemises, also fine, with a good deal of lace. One of those might help, even if it didn''t fit exactly right. And the braies might work out the same. Mirk was certain Genesis wouldn''t be pleased to wake up wearing someone else''s smallclothes, but if he woke up in dirty robes, it would undoubtedly be worse.


    Muttering under his breath at his own uselessness, Mirk went about dressing the commander.. As he¡¯d anticipated, the sleeves and the legs were too short. The chemise looked uncomfortably tight about the shoulders and ended over a hand''s width above the waist of the braies. But at least everything was big enough around, aside from the shoulders. If Mirk was honest about it, everything else was a bit loose. Evidently, whatever Genesis had been doing to get himself in such a predicament hadn''t involved eating. He wasn''t as skeletal as he''d been when Mirk had needed to challenge the Death for Genesis''s life, but he''d lost much of what he''d regained since then.


    There was nothing left to do other than to heal his face and try to get Genesis up into bed. Mirk decided to go for the bed first. There would be no sense in healing all the bruises if he ended up accidentally dropping Genesis on his face again. Mirk stood, stretching his back. A wave of exhaustion passed over him, but he forced himself to continue. Though he let himself babble again, a paltry comfort.


    "I''m too tired for all this. I''m sorry, messire, I''m just no good at being tidy. You understand. Or, well, I suppose you don''t. We''ll think of something when you''re better."


    Mirk tried lifting Genesis under the shoulders first. Though he could get the top half of Genesis''s limp, gangly body off the floor, he came up just short of being able to lift him high enough to get him partway onto the bed. Mirk tried again from the other end. He pushed the commander''s body over closer to the bed, then tried manhandling his legs onto it. They stayed put. Mirk stepped back and surveyed the results, considering his options. It was useless. And ridiculous.


    "I''m so sorry, Genesis...this really isn''t very good, is it? I''d try levitating you, but you know I can''t get chaotic things up very high. I just...I wish I could do something. But wishes aren''t good for much of anything. At least, that''s what you always say."


    Gathering the dregs of his strength, Mirk tried lifting him under the shoulders again anyway. He got further that time with Genesis''s legs already on the bed, but it still wasn''t enough. His arms were shaking with the effort, but Mirk kept trying. There was nothing else he could do. Other than let Genesis sleep on the floor.


    It happened so quickly it startled Mirk into dropping him -- Genesis came back to himself, just a little, coughing and swinging his legs off the bed. Hissing something to himself, the commander tried to stand up on his own.


    "Oh, no, messire, you can''t do that! Be careful! Here, stop, let me help, you can''t fall over again..."


    Genesis did fall over again, once he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Thankfully, he fell sideways, ending up mostly on the bed. A stroke of luck, for once. Mirk looked to the ceiling for a moment, mumbling his thanks to God for finally having a bit of mercy on him, and lifted the rest of Genesis''s unresisting body onto the bed. He worked Genesis''s body this way and that, until he was more or less straight.


    Though, Genesis¡¯s legs still hung a foot or two off the end of it. Mirk scanned his cramped room for something that might help. His trunk, the one he''d scavenged from his mother''s carriage. He flipped open the lid and pulled out all the quilts and pillows he''d stuffed in it, keeping a few of the latter to tuck under Genesis''s feet as he slid the trunk up flush with the end of the bed. It looked awkward, uncomfortable, but it was the best Mirk had to offer. And better than the cold stone floor.


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    He wrapped Genesis in all the quilts he''d set aside atop the commander¡¯s barely moving chest, bundling him up tightly, though he left the side closest to the edge of the bed a bit looser, so that he had easy access to his arm if he needed it. At least all the activity had warmed Mirk up some. He wouldn''t have to prod at Genesis''s injured face with icy fingers in order to heal it. Not that the commander was in much of a position to complain.


    Again, Mirk tried to concentrate less on how it always made his heart sink to see Genesis bruised and broken and unconscious and more on what he was doing. First he healed his nose, careful to keep it straight. Then Mirk felt along the rest of the bones of his face, delicately, searching for more breaks. The damage was minimal; only one was cracked, below and to the right of the eye nearest him. It didn''t take as much concentration to heal.


    All that was left was the slow task of handling the bruises, better done by hand instead of going through the trouble of mixing up a fresh batch of balm that only worked some of the time, even though Mirk was starting to feel ill himself. His extra life-giving potential was running low. Mirk massaged the swelling away, pressing blood back to where it belonged, coaxing the tiny tears in the capillaries closed by feel until no more could escape. As he worked, Mirk found himself rambling again. There was no one to listen; it didn¡¯t matter.


    "I really don''t know what happened, messire. You''re always so careful about not getting sick. Were you working on something? Did something happen? I suppose you''d rather not tell. But keeping secrets isn''t good for you, you know. It''s always better to ask for help when you need it. Telling someone else your problems always makes them easier to solve. You know we wouldn''t send you away."


    All things considered, Genesis probably didn''t. Sighing, Mirk smoothed away the last of the bruises and stood back, nudging away the few weak tendrils of shadow that had curled out from under the bed to prod at his bare calves. "Well. That''s that. Well. One more thing..."


    Mirk returned to his side, pressing the back of his hand to Genesis''s forehead for a minute, then checking his pulse on the side of his neck. Stronger, but still too quick for Mirk''s liking. And Genesis was too warm, almost warmer than he was now that the commander had been inside a while. Mirk sighed and stepped away again.


    "Methinks it might be best to leave well enough alone, messire. Potions only make you more ill  half the time, and you¡¯ve never had a fever before. I don¡¯t know the right balance¡­though, maybe it might be a good idea to have all the components ready for later¡­"


    Mirk turned to walk away, to head out down the hall and knock on doors until he found another healer who was still awake. But an icy cold, shaking hand caught hold of Mirk''s wrist, whiplash fast, and stopped him. Confused, Mirk glanced back at Genesis. A second ago, he''d been completely dead to the world. Now he was staring up at the ceiling, intently, his hold on Mirk''s wrist growing tighter as he searched for words.


    "Cold...s''kkrasn...no...come. Come back."


    As quickly as he''d returned to himself, Genesis was gone again, his eyes closing as his hand went limp. Mirk was puzzled, torn. Genesis hated having people close to him. Was the commander simply too sick to care? Or too delirious to realize what he was asking for, so desperate for warmth that the cost no longer mattered? Mirk vacillated between the bed and the door, trying to decide what Genesis had meant when he''d asked for him to come back.


    The commander''s shivering had grown so severe that it was making the bedframe clack against the wall. Mirk only knew of one way to warm someone who was that far gone without any enchanted items or magic he didn¡¯t possess. And he had a feeling Genesis wouldn''t like it. But which was worse: leaving Genesis alone to shiver pathetically through the night, or risk offending the commander''s sensibilities?


    "Well, it can''t hurt...not too much..."


    After elbowing off the magelights, Mirk returned to the bed, doing his best to climb over Genesis onto the other side of it without putting any weight on him. Gingerly, he plucked up the edge of the pile of quilts Genesis was buried under and slid underneath them. Whatever trepidation Mirk felt was soon overwhelmed by concern. Genesis''s arm was dead cold. He supposed it made sense ¡ª no matter how many quilts you put a person under, if they didn''t generate much body heat to begin with, even with a fever, they''d never get any warmer. Mirk pressed himself close against Genesis''s side, taking hold of his hand, trying to press some heat back into it.


    It didn''t help much. Making sure to keep Genesis¡¯s hand tucked in tight between them in the hopes that it might eventually warm up, Mirk shifted over closer still, wrapping his arms around Genesis''s shivering body. He half expected Genesis to snap out of his delirium and pry himself out of his grasp. Instead, to Mirk''s surprise, the commander seemed to relax some, his violent shaking beginning to ease.


    Mirk wondered how disgruntled Genesis would be when he came to his senses and found himself in someone else''s bed, wearing their clothes and sharing their warmth. Sighing, Mirk allowed his head to rest on Genesis''s shoulder. It''d be better not to worry about it. Not yet.


    He had been frazzled and exhausted by the time he escaped the infirmary, worn down by hours of having so many emotions pressing against his shields. Of having no choice but to pay witness to endless small tragedies in the often futile hope of being able to avert a few major ones. Mirk was still exhausted, but despite the situation, he felt more and more at ease lying beside Genesis in the dark, the only remaining light cast by the small, dim magelight under his desk.


    The commander wasn''t a warm bedmate, nor a particularly soft one, but his presence comforted him, somehow. Mirk didn''t have to bother with holding up shields until the instant he fell asleep. No matter how upset Genesis got, Mirk knew he''d never be able to feel anything from him besides the occasional flash of pain when Genesis was truly hurting. Most of the other healers found it unnerving. Mirk thought it was a relief.


    Genesis was safe. It came at the cost of not being able to understand him, most of the time, but Mirk thought he was getting better at that. Though his odd request that evening had thrown Mirk a little off balance. Perhaps Genesis wasn''t as distant as he seemed. Maybe it was just that he didn''t know how to ask for closeness without some sort of pretext.


    Assured that he was at least doing Genesis the small favor of keeping him warm, even if the commander wouldn''t like his methods, Mirk closed his eyes and let himself be lulled to sleep by the slow, slight feel of his breathing.


    -   -   -


    Mirk was certain he was dreaming.


    His dreams could be vivid like that, so real that he woke up feeling hands and hearing voices that were never there. Usually it only happened in the spring, which his magic was stronger and hard to contain. But it was almost autumn, and the life was fading from the world as everything went dormant for winter. It wasn''t even particularly warm even.


    ...wasn''t particularly warm, but wasn''t exactly cold either...


    It really wasn''t warm, at least not strictly in terms of temperature. But the feeling was warm, that lovely degree of closeness where Mirk couldn''t be entirely sure where he ended and everything else began. There wasn''t any pain. Which meant he had to be dreaming. It was impossible to be that close and not feel pain lurking beneath the surface, buried in some memory yearning to express itself.


    And there wasn''t anyone left that he could trust to come so close. Maman was dead. And he was alone. And he couldn''t let anyone that close, couldn''t bear the thought of them understanding what had been done to him, of them seeing the dark things that lived for good in the back of his mind, waiting to roar back to life at the sound of drizzle hissing on stone or the wrong kind of laugh or the sight of that horrible glint in someone''s eyes¡ª


    No. He was safe. Safe and warm and at peace. He had to be dreaming.


    Dream or not, it was still wonderful. Mirk let himself bask in it. Like floating in a saltwater sea warmed by the sun, weightless and formless, every part of him gone except for the one bathed in sublime contentment. No past. No future. Nothing but an omnipresent now, thick and golden and never ending. Mirk hoped some magic would let it go on forever. That he would be able to stay that way. Safe.


    He''d spoiled it for himself. The feeling faded away, the connection. Though he still felt warmer than he was accustomed to. The dormitory was always cold.


    Even if part of the feeling was gone, Mirk still wasn''t willing to throw off the bedclothes and subject himself to the chill of his room yet. He stretched out his limbs instead, trying to ease himself back into the real world slowly rather than shaking it off without savoring any of the afterglow. It was rare that he had good dreams. It''d be better to take full advantage of the gift he''d been given.


    Mirk held the stretch to the count of five, then ten. He wasn''t so stiff that morning, his arms and legs sure and steady instead of weak and aching. He must have slept hard. Harder than he had since he''d been ill, and even then, he''d been trapped in a vortex of shame and guilt that had never allowed him true peace. Sighing, Mirk let the stretch go, allowing his arm and leg to flop back to where they''d been before.


    Which was on top of someone. Mirk thought that''d been part of the dream; it should have vanished with the rest of it. Puzzled, he blinked open his eyes.


    His forehead was pressed against a long neck, its skin cool and pale. Underneath his arm and leg, he could feel hard muscle, along with the bones beneath it. His hand was resting on a hem, half on fraying lace and half on more smooth, cold skin. There was a thin arm pinned underneath him.


    "...Mirk."


    Drawing in a sharp breath, Mirk shoved himself up onto his elbow, shaking off the dregs of sleep. The voice was familiar. The tone didn''t fit the situation. It was flat, unemotional. Genesis.


    "Oh, you''re awake, Gen..."


    That did the trick. Mirk cringed in anticipation of a scolding. Aside from the fact that he''d been clinging to the commander like a limpet in his sleep, he''d used the one name on him that he detested almost as much as messire. Even though they all called him Gen behind his back, they mostly avoided calling him that to his face. He had a proper name; he expected others to use it, despite its strangeness. Well. K''aekniv and some of the older members of the Seventh could get away with it, but they were all cheerfully indifferent to Genesis''s scowling and complaining.


    "To be...entirely honest, I would prefer it if you used that one over the...other. If you are determined not to use my proper name." Genesis paused, glancing down at him for a moment. "Though it would appear the other has lost its...original meaning. To an extent."


    Mirk shook his head again, just to be certain he wasn''t still dreaming. Rather than annoyed, Genesis seemed resigned to the position he was in. He must have been aware of the futility of trying to keep some semblance of proper distance, given the situation. It was either cling to Genesis or cling to the wall, and even though the commander wasn''t exactly warm and soft, the wall was still worse.


    That aside, Mirk wondered if he had been able to somehow manage to achieve some sort of empathic transference in his sleep that had made Genesis more agreeable than usual. Or maybe Genesis was just too tired to work up a good frown. It was probably that. Giving up on trying to make sense of it, Mirk shrugged. "It''s only that you surprised me. I expected to wake up before you, considering how sick you were."


    Genesis did frown at the mention of the state he''d been in last night. "How much time has passed?"


    Straining to read the roman numerals on the clock on his desk, Mirk did a bit of mental math. "Euh...seven hours. Almost."


    The commander shifted as if to get up. Mirk instinctively pressed down on him with the arm he still had draped over his midsection. Genesis stopped. The commander really did have to be sick yet for such a small amount of force to be able to stop him. "No, not yet. Voyons..." Reluctantly lifting his arm, Mirk pressed his hand to Genesis''s forehead, then to his cheek. There, at least, they were still nearly the same temperature. "Hmph. You''re not going anywhere, messire. Your fever hasn''t gone down."


    Mirk thought about getting up, but only for a moment. There was no sense in hurrying out of bed if Genesis wasn''t protesting his continued presence against his side, was there? The thought made Mirk feel less like he''d done something odd, sleeping beside him rather than making up a bed for himself on the floor. It wasn''t odd, Mirk reassured himself. It was sensible. The heat of one body was the best way to temper that of another.


    He lowered himself back onto his side, his head inevitably coming to rest on Genesis''s shoulder again. There wasn''t any room in the small bed for it to go anywhere else without Mirk turning his back to Genesis. Mirk drew the quilts up until they were tucked under Genesis''s chin. It left his own head completely buried, but Mirk didn''t mind. Despite having been drenched to the bone, the commander still smelled of the soap he religiously scrubbed himself with. Fresh lilies. Before they got strong and sickly sweet. Mirk paused for a time to collect his thoughts, debating where to begin. "What were you doing out in the rain like that? Lying in the middle of the street? You aren''t hurt, I checked. But you''re not very well either."


    After a long spell of silence and a heavy sigh, Genesis replied. "I was...very tired."


    "Tired? I know you don''t like to sleep, but methinks even you wouldn''t let things get that bad. How long were you awake?"


    "...seven days."


    Mirk grimaced, clucking in disapproval. Just the thought of being awake for that long made him feel ill. "Why?"


    "K''aekniv has found...a woman."


    "Oh?"


    "Thus, I have been...evicted. So to speak."


    That, Mirk was willing to admit, was a good enough reason to stay out of one''s proper bed. He''d always wondered how Genesis and K''aekniv had managed that through all the years they''d shared a room. Mirk had always assumed it involved an inn and a lot of unintelligible notes and bribe money. "Oh."


    Genesis''s tone grew more annoyed. "He appears to be fixed on this one."


    "So he just threw you out? For a week?" K''aekniv could be single-minded, especially when the prospects of intimate relations were involved, but it wasn''t like K''aekniv to be so unkind to Genesis.


    "He...did and didn''t. He said to give him a week to find the woman some other place to stay. But I am done with this...madness. I had been hoping to obtain...alternate quarters before this all occurred again. However, as you are aware, housing in the City is...scarce."


    Mirk sighed. "And so, instead of asking for help, you wandered around until you nearly drowned yourself in the street."


    Though Mirk couldn''t see it, he could practically hear the frown that had to be on Genesis''s face. "I had not intended for things to go so far."


    Mirk drummed his fingers against Genesis''s ribcage as he thought. A small part of him noted, with pleased surprise, that even this wasn''t enough to annoy the commander into shaking him off. Genesis had to be more troubled about the situation than he was letting on. K''aekniv and Genesis had been friends for decades. Mirk had assumed it was fueled by the usual kind of grudging tolerance one got from Genesis that passed for friendship and that the commander would be glad to be given a good excuse to go his own way. But perhaps he¡¯d judged Genesis too harshly. "I''ll go have a talk with Niv. But you''re staying here. If that fever turns into a cold, we''ll all be miserable for a while, messire."


    Genesis''s response was more delayed than usual. "I will...find other quarters."


    "Where? In the infirmary?"


    Mirk felt Genesis shudder. "...elsewhere."


    Reluctantly, Mirk pushed back the bedclothes and sat up. If Genesis was dead set on going elsewhere, Mirk supposed he could ask around the infirmary for a place to stay until things had been patched up between the commander and K''aekniv. But why bother? To all external appearances, Genesis seemed content enough bundled in his careworn quilts.


    Not that external appearances were always helpful with Genesis. But Mirk thought that his attempts at running off that time had been particularly half-hearted. Genesis was still trying to give him that deadpan look of his, the one that was supposed to imply dissatisfaction, boredom. Mirk didn''t find it intimidating. Though it was hard for anyone to be particularly menacing when wrapped in a yellow quilt speckled with tiny blue flowers. Even Genesis. "No, it would be better if you stayed here for now. I need to watch that fever. I don¡¯t know how you react to them. It really does seem to be worse than when you¡¯re injured. Even when you¡¯ve lost half your blood, you never get as delirious as you were last night."


    Genesis only sighed instead of trying to get up again. "I see you are...unwilling to listen to reason."


    Mirk couldn''t resist needling him a little, prodding him in the side and smiling down at him. "Methinks I could say the same to you."


    Before Genesis had time to protest, Mirk forced himself fully out from under the blankets. It had been pleasant ¡ª Mirk wasn''t going to be silly and try to deny that. But it was bound to be ephemeral, just like the dream had been. The whole thing felt like a dream, backwards and too good to be true. Genesis didn''t like people touching him even when it was the difference between life and death. He put up with the more gregarious members of the Seventh inflicting gestures of their good will on him, but the whole time he endured it, Genesis looked like he was about to have a fit.


    Mirk gingerly slid down the length of the bed and got up, gathering the things he needed to go out ¡ª the robes he''d been wearing yesterday, now dry, his bag, Genesis''s discarded clothes. He would have to go see K''aekniv anyway, to retrieve enough of the commander''s clothes and cleaning supplies to keep him in bed. Even if it meant wearing someone else''s smallclothes, Mirk knew Genesis would refuse to wear his old uniform again. Perhaps Mirk could stop on his way there to donate them to the Supply Corps for rags. It seemed a waste to just throw them down the incinerator.


    Shuffling into his clogs, Mirk looked back at Genesis. The commander hadn''t moved. Once again, Mirk felt an odd yearning in his stomach, begging him to go back to bed. It had been warmer there. Comfortable. Safe.


    Mirk dismissed the thought as laziness. He had his shift at the infirmary to go to. Though, considering the situation, he should probably stop to find K''aekniv first, before the half-angel got sent off to some unknown realm to hack at other mercenaries. Danu and Yule would probably be too amused by the tale of Genesis''s current woes to fuss much over him arriving late. "I''ll be back in a while," Mirk said over his shoulder to Genesis. "You should try to go back to sleep."


    "I appear to have no...choice in the matter."


    Mirk found himself grinning as he turned the handle of his door.


    "Like you always say, messire, there is always a choice. But sometimes it''s easier when you just listen."

 Chapter 9

    K''aekniv had to go find a sack to put all of Genesis''s things in. Even his giant arms weren''t broad enough to hold all the changes of clothes and dozens of bottles of tinctures and tonics and soaps that Genesis used to keep himself clean.


    "Eh...maybe it''s not everything...but it should be good enough," K''aekniv said, as he clumped down the front steps of the ramshackle building that the fighters of the Seventh slept in, along with the rest of the low-born foreigners. "If he bitches at you," the half-angel added, as he held the bag out to Mirk, "tell him to get better so that he can come bitch at me instead. I''m the one who should get it."


    Mirk''s instincts had been right. Even though K''aekniv felt hopelessly enamored of the woman he''d set his heart on, his worry and regret over Genesis''s leaving was pressing hard against Mirk''s mental shielding, competing with the more positive emotions. K''aekniv had said he should have known Genesis would go off and do something stupid when he didn''t yield the room to the commander upon deciding he needed to spend more than a few nights here and there with the current object of his affections. And K¡¯aekniv felt terrible about it. The care with which the half angel had attempted to fold Genesis''s clothes confirmed it to Mirk upon taking a peek in the sack. "I''m sure he''s not really mad at you, Niv. You know how he is."


    K''aekniv sighed, puffing up his feathers in frustration and running his hands back through the hair that had fallen out of his high ponytail. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that both were much more orderly and clean than usual. So was his uniform. The sleeves had still been completely ripped off, but there weren''t many stains or holes in it otherwise. "I know! That''s why I needed to not be such an idiot."


    Trying his best to reassure him, Mirk reached out and patted K¡¯aekniv on the arm, projecting a touch of sympathy that he hoped his weak and untrained angelic empathy would pick up on. "I''ll talk to him for you. Don''t worry too much. Everyone makes mistakes."


    ¡°You said he¡¯s sick? What kind of sick?¡±


    ¡°Only a fever for now, methinks.¡±


    ¡°Ah, then you¡¯re really in for it,¡± K¡¯aekniv said with a sigh, shaking his head. ¡°You stab him ten times, it does nothing. But when he gets that kind of sick, you know, fever or cough or stomach, it gets real bad. His tricks don¡¯t work on that kind of shit. He feels it three times worse than the rest of us.¡±


    That would explain some of Genesis¡¯s compliance, Mirk supposed. And the extents Genesis went to in order to avoid illness, all his cleaning and scrubbing. Mirk still couldn¡¯t see the connection between the two. It was probably some kind of superstition from the way he¡¯d been raised, the same as the things K¡¯aekniv did to grant himself luck, and his own praying and crossing himself. ¡°He has been acting a little odd. He barely tried to run away this morning.¡±


    K¡¯aekniv nodded. ¡°When he gets like this, he¡¯ll do anything. Shit, he¡¯ll even come hide under my wing to not be so cold. He bitches the whole time, but still.¡± The thought of it made K¡¯aekniv¡¯s guilt spike again ¡ª he thought he should be the one taking care of Genesis, not him.


    ¡°I really don¡¯t mind, K¡¯aekniv. He¡¯ll forgive you. And it¡¯s easy to make mistakes when you¡¯re distracted.¡±


    "You''re right about that," K''aekniv said, ducking one wing and glancing over his shoulder back at the steps to the dormitory, unable to help himself. Mirk had noticed the woman idling around nearby. While K''aekniv had been inside, she''d been pacing a bit, looking dissatisfied and picking at her long, curly dark hair that was covered by only a scrap of a kerchief. She was dressed like one of the washerwomen from the Supply Corps. But she''d tugged the front of her dress down as far as good manners allowed, and Mirk noted that her stays were pulled especially tight, the better to display her ample chest and wide, full hips. Mirk could see why K¡¯aekniv had fallen for her. The half-angel always rambled on about the benefits of "someone with more to hold onto'''' when he was drinking.


    "Is that her?" Mirk asked.


    "Who else? Lina!" K''aekniv called out to her. "Come! You should meet my friend."


    Mirk got the impression that K''aekniv wanted to show the woman off. She grinned back at K''aekniv, drawing up her skirts and coming over. As soon as K''aekniv''s eyes were off her and his arm was wrapped around her shoulders ¡ª a bold move, but K''aekniv had never been one to concern himself with propriety, in private or in public ¡ª her eyes fixed on Mirk. He thought her eyes grew a little colder. "Your friend? I hope he''s not as bad as that other one."


    K''aekniv laughed. "Snegurochka loves us, even if he beats the shit out of us too. Anyway, this is Mirk. Mirk, this is Lina."


    Reacting instinctively, Mirk bowed to Lina. She returned the favor with as much of curtsey as she could manage with K¡¯aekniv holding onto her, but her expression went even colder upon hearing K''aekniv''s evaluation of Genesis. Mirk supposed he couldn''t quite blame her. From the way K¡¯aekniv had explained the argument he and Genesis had gotten into, it had started with Genesis walking in on something the commander found mortifying. ¡°It''s a pleasure to meet you, ma dame," Mirk said.


    ¡°At least this one knows how to respect a lady,¡± she grumbled, though she worked up a better smile for Mirk.


    ¡°Mirk? He knows all the rules for women. You know, rich people.¡±


    Lina snorted. ¡°You mean to tell me he taught you all you know?¡±


    K¡¯aekniv chuckled as well, squeezing her shoulders. ¡°Eh, maybe about how to do some fancy things, but the rest is all me,¡± he said, his grin going a bit more pointed. It made Lina laugh again.


    Mirk¡¯s curiosity got the better of him. As K''aekniv turned to look down at Lina, and she looked up to him, Mirk lowered his mental shielding and cast out his senses toward Lina, just a little. Not enough to pry, but enough to pick up on stronger emotions. She did feel quite warmly toward K¡¯aekniv, but there was an undercurrent to it that didn¡¯t quite match K¡¯aekniv¡¯s heartfelt and reckless exuberance.


    Mirk recognized the feeling. It was the one half the noble ladies he¡¯d run into at every ball radiated, that of a woman who was on her way up and proud that she¡¯d had the looks and the cunning to hook a man who was both handsome and matched her ambition. Sometimes it was a good thing, a bonus that made love grow further as they ascended, arm and arm, to the upper reaches of mage society. But other times it led to bitterness, especially if the man decided he was content with the mundane pleasures of an ordinary life.


    "Ah, isn''t she wonderful?¡± K¡¯aekniv said, giving Lina another squeeze. ¡°You don''t meet a woman like Lina every day."


    Mirk pulled his shields back up as he nodded. He didn¡¯t need to be so suspicious. Mirk was beginning to realize that relationships were different among the low-born K¡¯maneda than what he was accustomed to. There were no months or years spent plotting and planning ahead of time, no careful calculation of what concessions were bearable in the name of the family¡¯s position. The low-born K¡¯maneda simply threw themselves into things, following their passion. In a way, it was refreshing. But it took some getting used to. "Yes...I''m very happy for you, Niv. Methinks you deserve to be happy too," Mirk added, turning his smile on Lina. She returned it with equal warmth that time. K¡¯aekniv¡¯s assurances that Mirk had manners seemed to have won her over.


    "Everyone should be happy! Even bastards should get a little. But, you know, about being happy, I''ll do you a favor too and go look for some closet you can put Gen in once he¡¯s better," K''aekniv said to Mirk. "You won''t stay happy if you have to share with him all the time. Me, it''s fine, I can handle whatever. You''re too soft, Mirk. He only bites sometimes, but it''s still not fun. And he''s not soft at all. You lay on him and you end up feeling like you went to sleep on the floor at the bar."


    Mirk laughed at the thought of it, lifting his hand to cover his mouth. "It''s not that bad, methinks..."


    "See! You''re too nice." K''aekniv said.


    Lina nodded firmly in confirmation. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t put up with it.¡±


    "Honestly, he''s too ill to be much trouble," Mirk said. Though he quickly added more, once he felt K''aekniv''s worry spike again at the mention of it. "It''s not your fault, Niv. And I''m sure he''ll be better in a day or two. Until, then...well, as I said, it''s not too bad. A little...cross, but not like how he can get."


    Mirk''s words reassured K''aekniv enough to allow him to devote all his attention to Lina again. "Eh, maybe you''re right. A man likes someone with a little fire to them," K''aekniv said.


    Lina snickered, nudging K¡¯aekniv in the ribs. "Oh, stop it...you''re too much..."


    "Am I?" K''aekniv teased back.


    ¡°Well, maybe not¡­you might be able to convince me¡­¡±


    Mirk was beginning to get the impression he was overstaying his welcome. He hefted the bag K¡¯aekniv had given him over his shoulder. "Thank you again, Niv. But I really need to get to the infirmary. Yule and Danu must be worried by now."


    "It''s nothing," K''aekniv said, waving him off. But Lina had sucked in so much of his attention he barely noticed Mirk heading off. "You, though..." he continued, as Mirk turned and threw himself into the throng of people crowding the street.


    K¡¯aekniv really could be single-minded about things. Part of Mirk wished he could understand that passion. But most of him was just relieved that feeling it second-hand didn¡¯t bother him anymore.


    -   -   -


    Mirk stared at the brass key in the lock intently, biting the inside of his cheek. It rattled, but didn''t turn. Brass. He always had trouble getting alloys to listen when he was tired.


    "Allez, allez..."


    He was almost at the point of giving up, ready to put the pile of books he was carrying and the tray from the dining hall balanced on top of it down and turn the key by hand, when the discordant voices of copper and zinc in the back of his mind finally came to an agreement. The key snicked, the knob turned, the door creaked open. Relieved, Mirk rushed in, elbowing at the wall blindly until he hit the activation rune for the magelights.


    It surprised him so much that he almost tripped over the pile of Genesis''s things that was still jumbled in front of the door: the man himself was still there as well, exactly where Mirk had left him more than eight hours ago, mummified in quilts and staring up at the ceiling, expression dead blank. True, Mirk had gone through the trouble of fetching books from the library Genesis might read, along with some food from the dining hall and his things from K''aekniv, but, in his heart, he hadn''t expected the commander to still be there. Mirk shifted his stumble into a lunge for his dresser, sliding the books and tray onto it before they could go spilling all over the floor.


    Genesis didn''t stir. Was he asleep with his eyes open again? Mirk dropped both his bag and the one K''aekniv had handed off to him, wondering if the noise would draw Genesis''s attention. Still nothing. Sighing, Mirk gestured the door shut before going to examine him. Oak, he could always make listen. Trees were less stubborn.


    Clearing his throat, Mirk spoke up. "Well? Are you feeling any better, messire?"


    Eventually, Genesis did reply. Though he didn''t move otherwise. "I was...fine when you left."


    Mirk laughed -- that sort of response was typical, though Genesis''s compliance wasn''t. Pulling out the chair from under his desk, Mirk drew it over to the bedside and sat down, lifting the edge of the quilts and drawing out Genesis''s arm. Mirk searched out Genesis''s pulse on his wrist. It was always harder to find there than on his neck, but it felt more or less normal, steady, though just a touch elevated. That meant his fever most likely hadn''t broken. Rather than poking at Genesis''s face right away to check, Mirk asked him a question. "Do you still feel cold?"


    "I am...accustomed to the cold."


    That wasn''t very helpful. But Mirk thought Genesis''s continued presence told the story well enough. If Genesis had been feeling well, Mirk knew he would never have wasted a whole day in bed hiding under the blankets.


    Mirk had mixed up a fever reducing potion that would probably work on Genesis''s backward systems while he''d been at the infirmary; they were best taken with food, if at all possible. But making Genesis eat anything was about as difficult as getting a fussy child to have some vegetables. Only children generally couldn''t turn you inside out and reduce you to dust if they decided they were fed up with things. "Well, it doesn''t seem like you''re all the way better. Can you sit up?"


    Genesis''s face remained blank, but the sparks of pain that escaped the commander''s chaotic aura as he forced himself upright also told their own story. Though Mirk couldn''t be sure if the stiffness was from wandering around for a week without resting or from his lumpy mattress. As Genesis meticulously folded down the quilts and tucked them in around his lap, Mirk turned to look back at the tray he''d left on top of the stack of books on his dresser. Maybe if he tricked Genesis into thinking he''d been dutifully practicing his non-healing magic like the commander was always reminding him to, it''d put Genesis in a better mood. Mirk raised one hand and called to the wood of the tray. Pine was also generally agreeable.


    Having to concentrate hard to keep the tray even, Mirk called it to himself, making it float slowly over so that there was less chance of spilling the mug full of the odd, punch-like drink the English favored at the edge of it. It''d taken a lot of gestures and emphatic shakes of his head to get one of the cooks to bring him a serving with no alcohol and extra sugar. Most of the low-born Englishmen in the City spoke some kind of sing-song dialect Mirk couldn''t understand.


    Mirk let out the breath he''d been holding as soon as the tray was within reach. Along with the punch, Mirk had brought the best selection of foods he could find that wouldn''t make Genesis ill: a halfway decent cut of beef, left almost entirely raw, some unidentifiable fruit that was probably melon, strawberries, pear. He''d needed to bribe one of the other cooks with less of an accent a goodly sum to go take most of it from the officers dining hall.


    While most of the other members of the Seventh Mirk knew spent all their spare money on liquor and companionship, Genesis spent all his on extra uniforms, the materials to make his arsenal of cleaning potions, and food that wouldn''t leave him hunched over in a corner clutching his stomach for hours. No breads, no pies, no porridge, no cheese, no vegetables, no meat that had even a sliver of fat on it. And, though Genesis could eat eggs, he considered them a food of last resort. Mirk had sat at a table in the corner of the dining hall cutting all the imperfections out of everything for a quarter hour before heading back to the dormitory. From the way Genesis eyeballed the tray''s contents, Mirk thought he had to have done a halfway decent job of cutting the remains into uniform pieces and choosing things the commander could stomach. "Tiens. You really need to eat something," Mirk said, transferring the tray to Genesis''s lap. "It''s not much, but every little bit helps, non?"


    Reluctantly, Genesis picked the fork up off the tray with the barest tips of his fingers and examined it critically, turning it this way and that as he checked it for dirt. Maybe if Mirk pretended not to be watching him eat and distracted Genesis a little, it would work out better. "I went to see Niv. He gave me your things."


    Genesis shot Mirk a dark look -- whether it was because K''aekniv had gone through his things, or because he was displeased by the fact of K''aekniv''s continued existence was unclear. Genesis stabbed one of the pieces of beef, deliberately, but didn''t yet eat it. "...yes?"


    "He''s very sorry. He wasn''t thinking right when he told you to leave. Love can make a person forget themselves a little, I''m afraid."


    "Love," Genesis muttered, with something approaching a laugh but without a trace of good humor, a sharp, hissing sound. Though he did eat the beef. That didn''t seem to go over well either.


    "Niv cares for Lina very much. You don''t have to be an empath to see it," Mirk said..


    Genesis thought about this statement for a long time, forcing himself to continue to eat, though he still subjected each cube of fruit or meat to intense scrutiny before taking a bite. About a third didn''t pass inspection and got carefully lined up on the barest edge of the plate instead. When he did speak again, Genesis did so slowly, with a hint of something like confusion on his face. "I had...assumed K''aekniv only cared for the more...carnal aspects of this manner of...engagement."


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Well...sometimes a person can want only that part of things, yes." Mirk continued quickly, not allowing his mind to dwell long enough on the issue for things to go wrong. "But it does go together with love too."


    Genesis''s confusion grew. Like Mirk had suggested that he join the priesthood, or a traveling carnival, or something else he despised. "...right."


    Mirk fidgeted with the sleeves of his robes, trying to think of a way to explain. It would probably be a futile endeavor -- Mirk never doubted that Genesis could feel all the same emotions everyone else did, it was whether he understood them the same way that was questionable -- but the subject seemed too important to gloss over. "It''s a different feeling when they do. It''s...a very warm feeling. A close feeling."


    Genesis showed no signs of recognition. Mirk tried to think of things he could compare the feeling to, the unending brilliance that always hovered between his mother and father, the life that came into his grandfather''s eyes when he reminisced on all of Mirk''s long-dead grandmother''s odd habits. "It''s like..." Organizing a drawer? Too mundane.


    "...it''s almost a..." Finishing a complicated assignment? Mirk didn''t think it was quite right to compare the shining light of love and acceptance to the feeling someone got when looking down at the corpse of a man they''d just garroted.


    "...maybe like a bath, to you?" That was warm, at least. Peaceful. "That doesn''t seem quite right, but I can''t think of how else to explain it. It''s warm. Happy. Together." A lot like the dream he''d had last night, but Mirk thought that had to be different too. He''d only ever felt romance second-hand. But his dreaming mind was nothing if not creative.


    Genesis didn''t seem convinced by Mirk''s explanation. For a moment, it looked like he was going to give his own opinion on the matter. Instead, Genesis put down his fork and nudged away the tray on his lap. He''d eaten less than half of what Mirk had brought him, though he had decided that all the strawberries passed muster. Mirk would have to remember that in the future. Since Genesis was finished, Mirk leaned over and pressed the back of his hand to the commander''s forehead.


    They were still the same temperature. Mirk adjusted his hand a few times, but the warmth stayed the same. Mirk got to his feet and leaned in closer to Genesis, taking a close look at each of his eyes. Genesis submitted to the examination warily, but had been through the procedure enough times to know it was better to just get it over and done with. Both of Genesis''s eyes were focusing and reacting properly, no longer twitching or tracking Mirk as if he was moving even though he was standing still like they had last night. A good sign: combined with his odd behavior, Mirk had been worried that Genesis¡¯s inability to focus his eyes properly earlier meant that either the fall that''d left Genesis splayed in the street or the fever might have damaged something inside the commander''s head.


    Mirk drew back, sighing. "Your fever still hasn''t gone down. You need a potion."


    "I...suspected that was the meaning of this," Genesis said, gesturing at the plate.


    Mirk picked up the tray and set it aside on his desk, bending down to rummage in his bag for the fever reducing potion, laughing to himself. "You really are very clever, messire...too clever for me..."


    "Cleverness has nothing to do with it."


    After finding the fever reducer, Mirk paused to pour a mug of water from the kettle on the edge of the desk before presenting Genesis with the potion. "Here you are, then."


    Genesis handled the potion vial the same way he had the fork, with the barest tips of his fingers, as if he expected it to sprout fangs and bite him. He shook it, checking to see how reactive it was. The golden lights caused by the plant-based portions of the potion knocking against its dissolved mineral powders made Genesis more suspicious. "It is not...exactly the same as the last one."


    "No two potions are ever alike," Mirk said. "Well. Not when I make them. But that''s because I have to keep changing them to work on you. Go on. Take it. You''ll feel better."


    Though he was still leery of it, Genesis uncorked the potion and threw it back. The look on his face was strangled. For a moment, Mirk was worried Genesis was going to throw up his dinner, or, worse, choke himself by trying to down the mug of water Mirk pressed into his searching hand while still coughing and gagging.


    Mirk took the mug back from him, pouring him some more water from the kettle. "I suppose that one isn''t very nice."


    Genesis grabbed the mug without hesitation when Mirk returned to the bedside, despite his usual reluctance to drink water that he hadn''t boiled himself first. That time he drank more slowly, his distress fading with the taste of the potion. Though his resentment didn''t seem to fade any. "No...it is not."


    Sighing, Mirk lifted the potion vial and the mug from Genesis''s hands before the commander''s shadowy magic could get the better of him and destroy both of them. Mirk was very much aware of the shadows that were slinking out from under the bed to investigate who had upset their master, but, as always seemed to be the case lately, they looked more menacing than they felt. Sort of like Genesis himself. Mirk turned away to put the mug back beside the kettle and tuck the vial back in his bag, before he forgot about it and it ended up rolling around on the floor under his desk for weeks before it finally made it back to the infirmary.


    While his back was turned, Mirk felt a bevy of sharp pinpricks of pain from behind him. Mirk turned to look. Genesis was trying to lie back down again, but more pain escaped his chaotic aura the closer he got to horizontal. In an instant, Mirk was back beside him, looping an arm around him to help him sit back up. Mirk moved his hand upwards, pressing lightly at the commander''s back. Unsurprisingly, the muscles there were hard and stiff. They¡¯d probably been hurting all along. It was changing position that made their aching too unbearable for his chaotic aura to contain.


    "You''re all knots, Genesis. You didn''t lie down at all the whole time you were awake, did you?"


    "Customarily, the sole purpose of that position is sleep."


    Why did Genesis feel the constant need to make things difficult for himself? Maybe he was just that stubborn. Or maybe it was some sort of reflexive guilt, a self-imposed punishment. "Well, you have a choice to make, then, messire,¡± Mirk said. ¡°I don''t have a salve for muscles that will work on you. You can either stay like that until tomorrow, or I''ll have to do it by hand."


    Mirk expected Genesis to refuse the offer and stew in misery for the rest of the night. Instead, he nodded, albeit slowly.


    "Are you feeling all right otherwise? The potion isn''t making you feel sick?" Mirk asked. He felt guilty for being so suspicious, but it was truly out of character for Genesis to be so...willing. K¡¯aekniv had said that Genesis¡¯s intolerance for the way fevers and colds made him feel drove the commander to extremes he wouldn¡¯t otherwise go to, but it was still odd.


    "This is the...rational choice. I cannot obtain alternate quarters without being in a certain...physical condition. Thus, it is more expedient."


    Mirk supposed he should have been more worried about what the statement meant for the continued health of whoever Genesis intended to get his new lodgings from, but Mirk found himself more disappointed instead. He knew there had to be logical reasons behind his complacency. Assuming that the commander was beginning to feel more comfortable around him had been too much sentimentality on his own part. "Lie down, then. On your front. It shouldn''t hurt as much. And you''ll need to take off the chemise, but Niv gave me your own nightshirt. That should make it a little better, non?"


    Genesis didn''t comment. But he did comply, neatly folding the chemise and handing it to Mirk before lying down as instructed. Mirk put the chemise on the top of his dresser beside the books he''d brought Genesis rather than stuffing it in one of the drawers. If he did that, Genesis would probably fish it out and wash it along with the rest of the clothes it might have touched the instant he could find the strength to do so.


    By the time Mirk approached the bed again, rubbing his hands together briskly to warm them, Genesis was shivering. It spurred Mirk into hurrying. He''d only need to summon a fragment of his healing potential into his hands to sort things out, even with Genesis''s magic working against him. With muscles that were only stiff instead of bruised and torn, touch did more of the work than magic.


    Mirk started at the top, at the nape of his neck, pressing down lightly. Genesis hissed as a flurry of pain escaped his chaotic aura again. Mirk cringed. "I''m sorry, messire, it''s...just a little worse than I thought. I''ll be more careful."


    Genesis twitched a dismissive hand at him rather than moving far enough to shoot him a pointed look over his shoulder. Biting his lip, Mirk continued, this time only smoothing his hands across his shoulders and letting his magic help take the edge off rather than pressing down straight away. At least Genesis wasn''t horrifically cold, though he still felt a little chilly, considering his fever. Mirk drew up a little extra life energy into his hands as he went, using it to warm them further. He was certain Genesis had to be making all kinds of pained and horrified expressions into the pillow over being touched so much. The least Mirk could do was leave him warmer for all the trouble.


    The clock ticking on the desk sounded particularly loud to Mirk that night. And the hall beyond the door was silent, with no sign of the usual drunk or two making a wavering pilgrimage to the privy. It was customary to strike up a conversation with the patient when doing that kind of soothing procedure, but Mirk had no idea where to begin. The safe topics he used with other patients -- aren''t the commanders too demanding, did you hear about so-and-so and so-and-so, a pity you''re here, but is there anything you''re looking forward to doing after -- didn''t feel right. Genesis hated small talk. Mirk supposed it''d be better just to stay quiet.


    He decided to distract himself from the weight of the silence by studying the commander, checking for injuries he might have missed earlier, his sore back aside. Mirk didn''t see any. Really, Genesis''s skin was a marvel. He''d known noble ladies who''d never exposed an inch of skin to the sun for years and had commissioned salves and poultices from every potionmaster on the Continent to try to achieve the degree of unnatural paleness and smoothness that came to Genesis naturally. Maybe it had something to do with all the baths he took. Or his magic, or his parentage, which Mirk still wasn''t entirely sure of. Mirk tried pressing his hands down more firmly now that the worst of the soreness had been magicked away, glancing up at Genesis''s head.


    Genesis had turned it to the side, though his eyes were still closed. The commander probably couldn''t bear the way Mirk''s pillows smelled. Still, he didn''t look tense or annoyed, like he wanted to bolt and go scrub off any trace of dirt Mirk''s hands might have left on him.


    He was making an odd expression, though, one Mirk had never seen before. Lips pursed, but eyebrows raised. Curious, Mirk worked at an area he''d been avoiding because he thought it might be too tender, a knot below his shoulder blade. It didn''t seem to cause Genesis any pain. Instead, it made his eyebrows shoot up higher.


    Was he smiling? Or, at least, doing what was the equivalent of smiling for him? He¡¯d seen the commander try to manage them before when the situation called for it, but they always came out looking either like he was about to rip out someone¡¯s throat or as if he was about to sneeze. And the commander had always grumbled about everyone¡¯s snickers or concern, something about it being nonsense that baring one¡¯s teeth could be taken as a sign of approval.


    That was what it had to be. There were other small signs too, Mirk noticed, now that he knew that there was something to look for, more involuntary reactions. Genesis''s fingers were twitching at his sides. And the tips of his ears looked a bit red.


    Though Genesis¡¯s smile was backwards, Mirk found himself smiling too. If Mirk didn''t know better, about how much that kind of sickness wore on Genesis, he would have almost thought that Genesis was truly comfortable with him. That he was grateful for a friend''s concern for once instead of warding it off.


    Mirk had always assumed that Genesis tolerated him out of some sense of obligation. Or out of guilt, or for some roundabout practical reason that he wasn''t clever enough to decipher. He thought of the commander as a good friend, true, but Yule was always scolding him for being too forgiving of people. But maybe he''d been judginging Genesis too harshly, just like everyone else always did.


    After all, if Genesis¡¯s version of a smile was an expression most people would consider a sign of disapproval, how could they expect him to be friendly in the same way as everyone else? For all they knew, he could constantly be showing them kindness. It was just that he did it in a way that no one understood and Genesis never bothered to explain, his method of showing affection just another relic of the dead culture he''d been raised in, the same as his odd code of honor and his hissing and clicking native tongue.


    Regardless of whether he was imagining things or not, Mirk had finished smoothing away most of the soreness in Genesis''s back. It''d be best to quit while he was ahead. Mirk stepped back from the bed, closing his eyes to wait for the dizziness that came with pulling his healing magic back in close to his core to fade. By the time the feeling had passed and Mirk opened his eyes again, Genesis had turned back over. He still seemed disoriented, almost dazed. Rather than snatching up the quilts to ward off the cold, Genesis was hunched in on himself with his arms crossed tightly across his thin chest.


    "Better?" Mirk asked, unable to keep from laughing a little.


    The sound of Mirk¡¯s voice brought Genesis back to himself. His usual frown reappeared full force. "The shirt."


    "Oh, yes," Mirk said, stooping over and hunting through all the shapeless black clothes inside the bag K''aekniv had given him. Mirk kept digging until he found a shirt that matched the style he hazily remembered Genesis sleeping in while the commander had been stuck in the infirmary for a week after he''d nearly died ¡ª it was longer than a uniform blouse, with no collar, but still cut so that it left little of the wearer''s neck showing. Though Mirk hadn¡¯t remembered that its sleeves were wide like those of the robes the healers wore. "This one, non?"


    "The one will...suffice. For now."


    Mirk should have known that Genesis slept in more than one shirt. He didn''t remember that detail from the commander''s week in the infirmary either, but K''aekniv had been the one to give him Genesis''s clothes that time as well. "Are you cold?" Mirk asked Genesis, as he passed him the shirt.


    Genesis sat up and put the shirt on before answering, making certain the neck was even and tying the sleeves back with bits of black cord that had been hidden in their folds. Why even bother with wide sleeves if they were always bound away? Mirk thought Genesis wouldn''t have been one to waste money on extra adornment when it wasn''t needed. "...it is tolerable."


    "Well, you have all the quilts I own already, messire. I''m afraid I can''t do more than that. I''ll leave you alone so you can get some rest. The potion will work better if you do," Mirk said.


    The commander''s frown deepened, but he didn''t reply otherwise.


    Looking toward the door, Mirk considered his options, talking to himself as he thought things through. "Let''s see...Yule''s no good, methinks he said he was having a friend over tonight...maybe Danu has some room...it looks bad, but everyone knows about Mordecai, and she''d be better than Eva or Sh¡ª"


    "No."


    The unexpected response startled Mirk enough that he jumped. Genesis was on his back again, the quilts drawn up to his chin. He was staring up at the ceiling, his face now expressionless. "What?" Mirk asked.


    "I believe the cause of all this trouble was...removing people from their rightful places. I will not continue the pattern."


    It hardly sounded like enough of a reason for Genesis to ward off the hassle of having to share his space with another person. "Euh...that''s true, but I know you have trouble sleeping, messire. I wouldn''t want to make things any harder. You need rest."


    "Once a man becomes...accustomed to sharing a bed with K''aekniv, he can sleep through any...adversity. If determined enough."


    The commander did have a point. Mirk had seen how K¡¯aekniv slept while they were all traveling together in France. The half-angel was capable of sleeping standing up or tied to the top of a carriage, but he preferred to sleep on his stomach, the same as most people with wings, sprawled out over anything and anyone within reach. And he snored incessantly. "I¡¯m surprised you didn¡¯t have bunks like the men who have to share four to a room.¡±


    Genesis sighed. ¡°It is better to let K¡¯aekniv sleep as he prefers. Even if it is¡­odious. As I¡¯m certain you¡¯re aware, those who inherit more¡­angelic traits are most effective when well rested.¡±


    Mirk knew what the commander meant. His mother was always rolling her eyes and huffing over his father sleeping as often as a cat, usually in some sunny place, soaking in the slight magical benefit of the sunlight. And waking him up, unless he could sense some threatening magic nearby in his sleep, usually took two or three valets working together. Mirk himself felt better after having a good ten hours, though circumstances rarely allowed for it. But at least he didn¡¯t get testy when he didn¡¯t have it. His father would sulk all morning if they got him up before sunrise. ¡°That¡¯s kind of you.¡±


    "A practical consideration. An advantage worth any...adversity.¡± Genesis shuddered at the thought of it. Or perhaps he was still cold, despite all the quilts.


    "Then I imagine you''d appreciate the peace, now that you don¡¯t have to bear it."


    Closing his eyes, Genesis dismissed him. "Do...as you will."


    Mirk took a step closer to the bed, looking down at Genesis''s motionless, quilt-encased form. Whatever Genesis meant by the offer, Mirk didn''t see the harm in it. Mirk doubted Genesis was doing it simply to spare his feelings. Perhaps Genesis really did miss K''aekniv''s company. Or maybe he felt much worse than he looked.


    That thought banished the last of Mirk''s will to leave. Mirk picked his nightshirt off the floor where he''d left it that morning, crossing the room to turn off the magelights. "You''re very strange sometimes, messire," Mirk said, mostly to himself, as he changed out of his robes.


    "It is the rest of you who are strange. Your sleeping customs are very...involved."


    Laughing, Mirk considered how he was supposed to get into bed with Genesis in the way. The same way he''d gotten out that morning, Mirk supposed. Crawling over Genesis while he wasn''t delirious with fatigue and fever seemed like a bad idea. It was more awkward getting in than getting out had been, but Mirk made do. Though he didn''t know quite how to manage things once he got there.


    Genesis wasn''t very wide, but the beds the Supply Corps gave the healers were quite narrow. And Genesis did have broad shoulders. Mirk was worried that if he tried to sleep on his back that he''d shove the commander off onto the floor in the middle of the night. That left him with the wall. Which wouldn''t be awful. But most of his spare pillows were under Genesis''s feet to keep the trunk at the end of the bed that his legs were propped up on from being too uncomfortable. And he''d put all his bedclothes on top of Genesis. Mirk was already getting cold. He''d only come to the City of Glass with his summer nightshirt. He needed to have a new one made up for the coming winter.


    Beside him, Genesis sighed. "As I said. Do...as you will."


    Hesitantly, Mirk lifted up the edge of the pile of quilts, drawing underneath them. Genesis didn''t stir. Then Mirk turned onto his side, facing the commander rather than the wall. Still, nothing. And nothing when Mirk let his body relax a little, leaning against Genesis''s side to better keep away from the cold stone wall at his back. The smile returned to Mirk¡¯s face.


    "It really isn''t so terrible, is it? Being close?"


    Genesis sighed again. The room was illuminated only faintly. But as far as Mirk could tell, the commander''s expression didn''t look any more troubled than it usually did. He was staring up at the ceiling again. "I am not...bothered unduly." Genesis paused for a moment. "It is preferable to the infirmary beds."


    "That''s very generous of you, messire," Mirk joked. From the looks of things, Genesis didn''t catch on.


    "If sleep is your intention, then continuing to talk would be counter to it."


    "You''re always so sensible," Mirk said, drawing up the quilts further, so that they were back under Genesis''s chin. It left him completely covered by them, just like last night, but Mirk didn''t mind. It was warmer that way. And that was how he felt then -- warm, despite the stone at his back and Genesis''s unnaturally still and cool body at his front. Mirk let himself fully relax, one arm straying across Genesis''s barely moving chest. The commander had nothing to say, either about that or his compliment, such as it was.


    Such a small thing wouldn''t be notable from anyone else. But coming from Genesis, that subtle acceptance, on top of all of the rest of the concessions the commander had made, even if he¡¯d only made them to cope with his sickness, really meant something.

 Chapter 10

    "Oh dear...not again, Comrade Kali."


    The woman, ignoring the blood seeping through her fingers as she pressed her hand harder against her abdomen, shot him a sour look. "Look. I didn''t come here to get lectured at. I came here to get healed. Think you can manage that?"


    Mirk sighed, rolling up the sleeves of his robes in preparation as he elbowed the door to the exam room shut. "I don''t mean to be a bother, comrade, it''s only that I worry about you. If you keep getting hurt there--"


    "Zere will be none of ze baybees, and zen we will all be so sad," she cut in, speaking with what Mirk thought to be a particularly half-hearted attempt at his accent. "I get it. I heard you the first time. All right?"


    His polite smile didn''t waver. Mirk knew Kali had to be trying her best to be stubborn and defiant, the better not to show the weakness she felt over being injured yet again. But Kali didn''t know that he was accustomed to dealing with much more intractable patients than her. "All that aside, methinks it can''t be good for you to be in here twice a month, non? It would seem to me that it might be proving a point to someone."


    Kali''s glare intensified as she dragged herself around and lay down properly on the table. Really, for a wound like the one Kali was hiding, they should have been in one of the surgical rooms rather than an exam room. But the Tenth had claimed them all that morning, even though they didn''t have any casualties yet. A large contingent of the Third Mage Division was heading out to engage in close combat. And Cyrus wouldn''t risk losing any high-born mages just because some woman who had decided to try her hand at fighting had gotten herself sliced up again. High-born or not. "It''s none of her business," Kali grumbled. "She should mind her own division. I''m sure there''s needlework that needs her attention more than I do."


    "You''re her daughter," Mirk said, patiently. "Comrade Commander Margaret surely only wants the best for you. Even if you did everything she wanted, she''d still worry. Mothers always do."


    Kali refused to reply. There was no point in arguing with her, Mirk supposed. And her tenseness was probably making the wound she was still clutching worse. After fetching a flesh regeneration potion, needle, and a spool of enchanted wound-binding thread from the supply cabinet, Mirk returned to her side. "Let me see, Comrade Kali," he said, lowering his voice so it came out more like a request than a demand.


    Though she still said nothing, Kali let her hands fall to her sides. Carefully, Mirk lifted up the thin enchanted maille that had, once again, failed to hold up against a blade with better enchantments, along with the blood-soaked tunic underneath it. It was a bad wound, but nothing terrible ¡ª it''d gone deep enough to cause a good deal of pain and bleeding, but not so deep that it''d nicked anything vital. Not like the wounds that had left behind all the scars above and below the current gash in Kali¡¯s midsection.


    The last had been lower, much deeper, and had left Kali sweating and pale and unable to speak. She''d needed to be kept in the infirmary for five days after that one. And it''d been the one that had spurred Mirk to have the conversation with Kali that had put her in such a bad mood that morning. Mirk had known that the issue of children was going to be a touchy one with her, but he''d thought it was only right that she knew what the limits of healing were. Kali had ordered him out of her room in response. And had refused to speak with him again until the day she''d left.


    "Well...at least it''s not as bad as it could have been, Comrade Kali," Mirk said, gently pushing her sword belt and the odd, half-trousers, half-skirt garment she always wore down a hair further.


    "I am capable of learning from my mistakes, you know."


    "Bien s?r." Mirk paused, glancing up the length of her torso. Besides the maille, all she had for armor was a leather cuirass with enchantments so faded Mirk could barely feel them, even with his shields half-lowered. It had obviously belonged to a man before she''d taken it, and a much shorter and narrower man than Kali at that. And it was made to be worn with maille of much higher quality than what Kali owned. "But methinks you wouldn''t have to learn so often if someone made you your own set of armor."


    "What do you think I''m fighting for? Fun? I just haven¡¯t killed anyone with armor worth taking yet."


    "I know your mother and father don''t want to, euh, encourage you in all this...but, well...there are always friends..."


    Kali''s voice went cold. "I can take care of myself."


    Sighing, Mirk shook his head, turning his attention back to the wound. He hadn''t settled yet on what he was going to do about it. Standard procedure would be tending to the severed blood vessels with magic, then slathering the flesh regeneration potion -- a goopy, yellowy mess that bore an unfortunate resemblance to snot and smelled strongly of marigold and yarrow -- all over the wound. Then he¡¯d sew it up so that the potion stayed inside and sped healing. That was how several of the other wounds on Kali''s midsection had been treated.


    Mirk decided to set his supplies aside. He pressed his fingertips down into the wound, closing his eyes and drawing on more of the hazy, pulsing core of healing potential at his center than was needed to just handle the bleeding. The least he could do for Kali, if she wouldn''t let him help her with the armor, was heal at least one wound properly for her.


    It was draining, but not difficult. Mirk was accustomed to dealing with patients whose magic stood in stark opposition to his -- fire mages, dark mages, mages with the strongest kind of chaotic orientation. As Yule had said would happen, the older and higher-ranking healers had noticed he had a knack for managing complicated patients. They had started calling for Mirk every time there was a difficult or fussy low-born patient no one else felt like arguing with.


    Kali was easy. Dark, but ordered. And, sad though it was, Mirk had meddled about in her innards enough times that the patterns of her innermost workings came to him like the words of a nursery song. Simple, lilting, repetitive. He knew just where to direct his magic to draw the severed pieces back together, to pick up the tune that the injury had interrupted.


    Once everything was flowing like it needed to be, Mirk withdrew his hands and his magic, stepping away from the table. The familiar dizziness overwhelmed him, and he bumbled gracelessly backwards into the supply cabinet. The dizzy feeling morphed into a slight headache and a momentary sting in his own midsection as Mirk blinked the wavering from the edges of his vision.


    "You didn''t have to do that," Kali grumbled.


    Mirk went to rub his forehead, but caught himself just in time -- both his hands were full of blood. He glanced into the ewer on top of the cabinet behind him and found it empty. Settling for wiping them off on the front of his robes instead, Mirk returned to the table to double-check his work. "No, I didn''t. But I wanted to."


    But Kali was already sitting up, jerking her slashed maille and tunic down over where the wound had been. "I don''t need your pity."


    Fixing a smile on his face, Mirk shrugged. "I don''t pity you, Comrade Kali. I admire you. And shouldn''t friends help each other when they can?"


    Kali looked uncomfortable, torn, as she swung her legs off the table. "There''s something wrong with you."


    "Oh, probably," Mirk said, nodding agreeably. "But I can''t help it. You remind me of my sister."


    Which was the truth. The resemblance had struck him the first time Mirk had been led to a patient room where Kali was waiting, trying to keep sitting upright and arguing with another lady who looked very sheepish about everything. Kali and Kae didn''t look much alike. Kali was tall for a woman, but Kae had inherited their father''s inhuman height and wings. Where Kali was ruddy-faced and lively, Kae had been ivory pale and stoic in that angelic way that Mirk had never been able to cultivate in himself. But everything else was the same. It made Mirk want to grab Kali by the shoulders and plead with her to stop fighting, to go back up to her mother''s doman in the Glass Tower and do something safer.


    But it was just as futile doing that to Kali as it would have been with Kae. They had their pride, their determination, their ideals, and no task would satiate their need for victory like fighting could. Some people were meant to fight. Others were meant to wait for the dust to settle so that they could pick up the pieces and pray for the dead. Mirk only wished that God would stop making war the purpose of the people he grew attached to.


    Kali was searching for a response, fiddling with her slashed maille and prodding at the healed wound beneath it. Mirk was about to say something breezy and casual, something to ease the frustration he could feel welling up in Kali, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.


    "Mirk! Messenger for Comrade Kali!"


    It was Sheila, the head of one of the Twentieth''s oddest, but most versatile three healer teams, the fully inhuman one. Sheila herself was an Earth-born vampire, more a fiend for gossip than blood, unless someone tried to pester her about her age. She sounded far too intrigued for her own good. Scowling, Kali yanked her tunic and the remains of her maille down further and hopped down off the table, adjusting her sword belt and trousers. Taking up a defensive, cross-armed stance, she grumbled to herself rather than responding to the summons. "If it''s about that ugly lecher from up north again, I''ll gut whatever damn djinn they''ve sent after me."


    Doing his best to ignore his headache and project a sense of calm, supportive concern, Mirk went to Kali¡¯s side. Mostly so that he''d be in a good position to intervene should Kali decide to follow through on her threat. "Come in!" Mirk called out, since Kali showed no sign of caving and doing it herself.


    As Kali had predicted, Sheila ushered in a tall, immaculately dressed djinn messenger. Sheila remained lurking in the doorway behind him rather than going about her business, too fascinated by the situation to walk away from it. Kali was so fixated on glaring at her, and Sheila in grinning back, that neither of them realized the djinn wasn''t for Kali until he''d glided to Mirk''s side and given a polite cough to draw Mirk''s attention. Once he had it, the djinn performed a deferential bow and spoke. "Seigneur d''Avignon."


    Both Sheila and Kali''s heads whipped in his direction. Mirk could feel himself going red. He supposed that technically was him, now. Though it seemed silly to call someone seigneur when they no longer had a family to be lord of. And he hated the whole seigneur business besides ¡ª an Earthly lord had no business taunting the Most High by stealing His title. "Euh...yes?"


    The djinn didn''t respond aloud. But he bowed again, that time offering out an envelope of fine parchment that he summoned out of the ether with a twitch of his fingers. Mirk plucked it out of his hand with a nod, trying to ignore the way Kali and Sheila were still staring at him. The djinn, as was only professional, had straightened up and was politely looking away to give Mirk some modicum of privacy while he opened and read the letter, his hands clasped behind his back. Since the djinn hadn''t whisked off immediately, Mirk knew he must have been told to wait for a response.


    Biting his lip, Mirk looked down at the envelope. There was nothing on the front. On the back was a wax seal, light blue, with a willow tree stamped in its center. Mirk''s breath caught in his throat.


    "Madame Beaumont," Mirk mumbled under his breath, as he fumbled to break the seal. He''d entirely given up hope on hearing from anyone from his past life, aside maybe from his grandfather''s creditors once they realized they had a way of recouping their losses. If anyone who cared for him had known he was alive, Mirk couldn''t fathom why they hadn''t sent a letter earlier. Most of all his godmother. Mirk unfolded the letter. It took him a moment to be able to read her fine, flowing French script.


    My dear, cherished godson,


    I have only recently been made aware of where you''ve gone off to, so please forgive my delay in writing. It warms my heart that the grace of God has preserved you, despite the misfortune you''ve had to endure. I wish I''d known sooner, so that I could have better supported you in your time of need. Nevertheless, past misfortune is best forgotten in light of future potential, and I wish to show my support to you now. Much has come to pass since your abrupt departure, far too much for one letter. (If rumor proves correct, I assume the K''maneda grant their members too little time for even such paltry luxuries as good correspondence, though perhaps you should consider speaking to your superiors about such matters.) Please come visit for afternoon tea whenever your situation allows. I''ll be holding the offer open indefinitely, as I''ll be passing the winter season in London, though I do hope to hear from you sooner than later. Please tell M. Am-Hazek what day would be most convenient. (Don''t hesitate to speak frankly with him -- he has been in the service of my house for ages, and can be trusted with all matters.)


    Remember: God protects those who protect themselves, and you are never alone as you think you are.


    With warmest sentiments, your godmother and constant friend,


    <ol>


    <li> Beaumont</li>


    </ol>


    Mirk read the letter twice, trying to absorb every nuance of it while he did his best to ignore Kali and Sheila''s expectant stares. Hesitantly, Mirk looked up at the djinn. It would be foolish of him to assume that every djinn with the same kinship title was related, like happening upon a Martin at one party and assuming they had to be some nephew or cousin of the one he met at the next. But the longer Mirk looked up at the djinn, the more he thought he could spot similarities between Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat. They had the same long face, though Mirk didn''t feel confident in comparing the rest of their features, considering how starved and ill Am-Gulat had been when Mirk had seen him.


    In comparison, Am-Hazek was very muscular, in the lithe way that djinn usually were, his fine coat and the fall of lace at its collar and sleeves softening the angular lines of the well-trained body beneath. The clothes were telling in themselves. It was clear they''d been made especially with Am-Hazek in mind, without the marks of alteration that came with even the best hand-me-downs. And he had a single, blue teardrop earring dangling from his left ear. Not a gem, precisely, but a vessel for his soul.


    Clearing his throat, Mirk lowered the letter and spoke up, in French rather than English. Sheila would probably find a way to sort out what he was saying, but at least he could avoid having Kali eavesdrop on the conversation as well. "Monsieur...Am-Hazek, is it?"


    The djinn didn''t look at him, but gave a slight nod.


    "Would it be possible to take tea with Madame Beaumont this afternoon?"


    Am-Hazek nodded again. "Madame has left every afternoon from now until All Saint''s at your disposal, seigneur."


    "Is one too early? I...I wouldn''t want to be a bother, but..."


    But he had to see her. He had to see her.


    "If I could make a suggestion, perhaps, seigneur?"


    Mirk focused back in on the djinn -- he''d gone off a little even considering the prospects of suddenly coming face to face again with his godmother. Mirk had tried to push all the thoughts of his past life so far into the back of his mind that he had trouble remembering the contours of Madame Beaumont¡¯s smile. What came immediately to mind instead, was the less heartfelt memory of the tall, elaborate hats she was fond of. It might have been a trick of the light, but Mirk got the distinct impression that the djinn was smiling at him. "Oh. Of course, monsieur."


    "Your choice of day is well considered. As I couldn''t help but notice that the atmosphere in this place will soon be turning a bit...hectic. However, it is eleven already, and it will take time to prepare the carriage. Perhaps you might consider taking advantage of an extra hour to retire to your quarters and refresh yourself?" The djinn gestured with his chin, ever so slightly, at the bloody handprints smeared down the front of Mirk''s robes. "I assure you that madame would welcome you warmly no matter how you choose to attire yourself, but your present choice may raise undue concern."


    "Oh! Oh, yes, of course, she''ll think something has happened, right...ah, I apologize, Monsieur Am-Hazek. You''re right. This is all just a bit much. Two, then. Could I make one request?"


    "I am at your service, seingeur."


    "If she''s sending a carriage, could you please have it sent two streets over from the East Gate? By the artificer''s next to the park." Mirk snuck a glance over at Kali and Sheila -- they were both still staring at him. "Things can be a bit, well, delicate here."


    The djinn nodded again. "The carriage will be there at two."


    Mirk folded the letter and stuffed it haphazardly into its envelope. Then he tucked it into the pocket in the sleeve of his robes, trying to calm himself by taking deep breaths in through his mouth and out through his nose. He had to get himself together. Gossip spread like wildfire in the infirmary. It was bad enough that someone had seen a djinn of Am-Hazek''s station visit him first hand. If it got out that the djinn had brought him a letter that had sent him into fits, the talk would bury him alive. And, if he was unlucky, attract the wrong kind of attention. Or maybe he was just becoming paranoid due to spending too much time around people like Genesis.


    Am-Hazek cleared his throat. "At your leave, seigneur?"


    I really am a mess, Mirk thought to himself. After being away for only half a year, he''d already forgotten half the rules of polite society. "Oh! Oh, right, that''s all, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I''ll be at the spot right at two."


    Mirk thought he saw Am-Hazek smirk as he performed a deeper bow before turning on his heel and leaving. It wasn''t a derisive one -- more like sympathetic, like he knew what the contents of the letter were instead of simply being a messenger. Sheila popped her head out into the hall to look after the djinn for a second, before turning back to Mirk, a particularly toothy grin spread across her narrow, pale face. "Well. What was that all about?" she asked.


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Feigning a casual laugh, Mirk waved Sheila off. "Oh, just an old friend of the family. She''s very fond of letters."


    "And money," Kali said, as she pulled down on her cuirass. Crossing her arms had made it ride up and dig into her ribs.


    If even Kali was intrigued, Mirk knew he was in trouble. "Really, it''s not as interesting as it looks. Just gossip from back home. Methinks she just pities me, that''s all," Mirk concluded, shrugging, his mind spinning with half-truths and excuses, anything to satiate the two womens'' curiosity long enough for him to escape the infirmary without kicking up too much of a fuss.


    Am-Hazek was right: the wave of potential incoming casualties from the Third would give him excellent cover. All of the high-ranking healers and most of the Tenth would be up to their elbows in screaming mages the whole afternoon, and probably most of the evening besides. One missing healer, who was barely as good as a trainee, would be easy to overlook in the chaos. Provided no one who was accustomed to his presence said anything about it, and Danu and Yule could easily be bought off with sympathy and whiskey respectively.


    Sheila hummed skeptically to herself, leaning against the doorframe. "I do wonder about that..."


    "It...really, it''s only a little thing. It''s nothing important."


    There was the sound of running footsteps from out in the hall. Then cursing and yelling, though it sounded further away than the footsteps. Without looking into it, Sheila lashed her foot sideways out into the hall, faster than thought, tripping a black-clad figure that had been trying to escape toward the ground floor. She ignored the meaty thump of a body hitting the floor as she continued to mull over Mirk''s excuses. "Fine. You can go. But you''re helping me deal with this one first," she said, gesturing out into the hall. Two of the burlier aides trudged past just then, griping to each other about how the commanders needed to do something to the floor barriers to make it easier to keep the mages who¡¯d gone mad from overextending their potential trapped in the long-term ward.


    It seemed like a small price to pay for peace. Mirk nodded, rolling up his sleeves once more. "I''m sure it''ll be easy if we work together, Shiela," Mirk said.


    The vampire flashed him another toothy grin before following after the aides. "Besides, I hear you''re great with lunatics."


    Kali snorted, tramping out ahead of Mirk now that Sheila was no longer blocking her way. "For once, you''re right about something."


    -   -   -


    "Seigneur d''Avignon, madame."


    Mirk wanted to bolt through the heavy French doors Am-Hazek had opened before him and embrace the small, elderly woman seated beside the bay window. But he restrained himself. This was not the City of Glass, where people went about half-naked and weren''t afraid of either effusively kissing or punching each other in the middle of the street. This was the world Mirk thought he''d left behind. This was a noble lady''s parlor, even if said lady was his godmother. There was propriety. There was decorum. There were rules.


    Madame Beaumont set down her teacup, a wry smile coming onto her face. "Well, don''t we look handsome? Here I was expecting you to come wearing one of those awful uniforms of theirs..."


    Sneaking a sideways look at Am-Hazek, who was ghosting out past him to close the doors and leave, Mirk found that the djinn had a more obvious smile on his face that time. Mirk laughed outright, his gaze returning to Madame Beaumont. "I thought it would be terribly insulting to come dressed in healers robes. A lady of your standing deserves better than that. Besides, I didn''t want to get blood all over your carriage."


    Once the doors were closed behind him, Mirk allowed himself to rush to Madame Beaumont''s side, though he tried not to run outright. Mirk performed the necessary bow, albeit a hasty one. Madame Beaumont gripped the sides of her chair and rose from her seat, not curtseying or holding out her hand, but rather taking him firmly by the shoulders and pulling his face low enough to give him kisses on both cheeks. "It''s good to see you, my boy."


    "As it is you, madame."


    Madame Beaumont snorted, releasing him and lowering herself back into her chair with grace unexpected from a woman her age. Well over one hundred, maybe nearing two. "What? I know I haven''t seen you in over a year, but I would think you''d still have a bit of warmth left in your heart for your godmother."


    Slumping in relief, Mirk let himself collapse into the chair beside hers. "I''m sorry. I just...this is such a shock. A good one, but..."


    She reached out and took one of his hands, clasping it tightly in both of hers. Madame Beaumont was warm, very much alive. It made Mirk smile. "I hate to sound dramatic, but I really thought the whole family was lost. We all did. I should have known better. Jean-Luc always had something up his sleeve."


    As quickly as he''d recovered, Mirk sank back into worry, though he hid it as best he could. He struggled to think of where to begin, scanning the table they were seated at. Tea had already been served, long before he''d arrived, from the look of things. Whatever news Madame Beaumont had to share with him had to be especially sensitive, if she was willing to let her guest''s tea go cold rather than risk the servants overhearing. "I...don''t mean to be rude, madame, but...why did it take you so long to write? I know we hadn''t seen each other recently before...everything, but you''ve always been very resourceful."


    "That would be Jean-Luc as well," Madame Beaumont sighed, her expression going a touch vacant. "Of course, we all heard the terrible news within days, even in Lyon. I was going to start making inquiries, considering how suspicious the circumstances were and how disinclined the guilds seemed toward doing the work themselves. But I received a package a fortnight after it all happened. And a visitor. Mademoiselle Polignac, an old friend of Jean-Luc''s. Older than myself, even. It had a letter from him. He said that if anything came to pass, I was to wait until I received correspondence from the ghosts in Paris that someone had drawn from the family ledger to try to investigate."


    "Oh..."


    "He also said that if anything happened, you would be the one to survive. And if that was the case, I was to give you this." Reluctantly, Madame Beaumont released his hand, reaching for something that had been tucked in among the cookies and cakes laid out for tea. A book, small, blue, and cloth-bound. She offered it to Mirk with both hands.


    "What is this?" Mirk asked. He turned it over in his hands, putting off opening it, half in caution and half in dread. There were no markings of any sort on its outside, and the feel of the pages at the sides under his fingertips was rough, hand-cut.


    "I don''t know," Madame Beaumont replied. "I didn''t open it. Out of respect for Jean-Luc, God bless him."


    Biting his lip, Mirk held the book in one hand, carefully opening it. Upon seeing the hand-written script inside, faded with age, Mirk¡¯s heart leapt into his throat. But the anticipation died the moment his eyes traced down the first page and he found that he couldn''t make sense of a single word. The journal was written in Latin script, with the right accents hovering above the letters at intervals, but it wasn''t French. Nor was it any other language Mirk even vaguely recognized. "Can you understand any of this?" Mirk asked, holding the book out to Madame Beaumont.


    Madame Beaumont leaned in close to the book. She brought with her the smell of the same perfume she''d worn since Mirk was a child, rose and chamomile. It made the uncertainty more bearable. "No, I''m afraid I don''t recognize it all. It might be some kind of code. Jean-Luc was terribly clever like that."


    Mirk sighed. His grandfather was terribly clever, always three steps ahead of everyone. Until he suddenly wasn''t. Which was why his grandfather should have known, Mirk thought, that he wasn''t suited to puzzles and codes. Perhaps Jean-Luc, much like everyone else, had more faith in him than he merited. "Was there anything in the letter that looked like this?" Mirk asked. "Anything at all?"


    Madame Beaumont settled back in her chair, shaking her head. "I''m afraid the letter was...very to the point. I fear Jean-Luc might have taken caution too far."


    But not far enough to save himself, Mirk thought, paging through the journal. There was more that was odd to the journal than just the script, Mirk realized. No matter how many of the thick pages he turned, the stack of remaining pages on the right hand side didn''t seem to decrease any. At a glance, there was no telling how long the journal was. If it''d been something his grandfather had kept since he was young, there could be thousands upon thousands of pages. And every last one was written in the same mysterious language. The language that looked so similar at first glance to the one Mirk had shared with him, but was nothing like it underneath. "I have time to study it, I suppose,¡± Mirk said. ¡°I do work often, but that''s all, really."


    "Do you?" Madame Beaumont asked. "There are many rumors about the K''maneda, but few of them mention anything pleasant. I was shocked when I heard you''d found your way to them. I wouldn''t have had the faintest idea where to start looking into things if it hadn''t been for Monsieur Am-Hazek. I asked him for his advice on the matter and he suggested that we attempt to locate that strange Englishman you had in your employ the last we saw you. Apparently he is quite notorious around the mage quarter''s book shops."


    Closing the book in his lap, Mirk shrugged. "He does like to read..."


    Lowering her voice a hair, Madame Beaumont leaned closer to Mirk. "You''re not having some sort of difficulty that''s keeping you with them, are you?"


    "Oh, not at all! They''re the ones who saved me. Anyway, I think I''m doing good work there. Or, I will be, once I get better at healing."


    "But is it what you want to be doing, Mirk, dear?" Madame Beaumont asked, looking closely at him again.


    "It...they saved me, like I said. Not that I don''t think you wouldn''t have tried, madame, not if you¡¯d known what was happening, but...well. It''s done and over with, now. There isn''t much sense in going home, is there? I feel awful for leaving how I did, but one person doesn''t make for much of a family, you aside. I wouldn''t want to depend on the charity of others to make my way when there''s something helpful I can be doing here. That and...well, the rest of it. I''m not sure how much you know."


    And Mirk wasn''t sure how much he should tell her. It was a terrible, dark thought, that the whole meeting with his godmother had been a trap. But, after months with the K''maneda, Mirk found himself seeing plots everywhere. Really, he was lucky that Genesis hadn''t been lurking in his room when he''d gone back to change into his least formal three-piece suit. The commander most likely would have wanted to launch an investigation himself before allowing Mirk to leave, lingering illness or not.


    In an instant, Madame Beaumont''s expression changed. Her furrowed brow and worried frown shifted to a smile as she reached for her tea cup, taking a sip to smooth the rasp from her voice before replying. Mirk hoped that was a good sign, not one that he''d been cornered yet again. "What makes you think you''re the only one left?"


    Before he could contain himself, Mirk sat up stock straight in his chair and grabbed for Madame Beaumont''s arm. "Someone else survived?"


    As she patted his hand to attempt to comfort him, Madame Beaumont nodded. "Your Aunt Christine got wind that something was going on, God bless her. Her and Isabelle put their heads together and decided to send all their children off to that bizarre workshop of Henri''s down in Bordeaux along with him. They didn''t even know what was going to happen, not when Henri left, but they knew that he and the children were unlikely to be missed, in any case. For once, it seems to have done someone a bit of good to marry a man of no consequence."


    "Are...they''re still alive?" Mirk asked, his voice coming out in a croak.


    "Yes, Henri and the five children. But they''ve been trapped in that workshop of his ever since. Some kind of pocket realm, or illusion, or some such. Demons are involved. House Rose, but that doesn''t narrow things down much, there''s dozens of branches to that one. That''s all they were able to sort out. Aside from how to get Armel out with a letter. Henri wanted to go himself, but, well. The teleporting gift skipped Henri. Armel was the obvious choice. He tried every estate before coming to me. Everything else is gone. Burned to the foundations."


    Mirk struggled to his feet, only keping enough of his manners about himself not to shove off Madame Beaumont''s hand. He could barely hear himself speak over the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. "Armel''s here? Where is he?"


    "Still sleeping," Madame Beaumont said. "He had a terrible time getting here, all sorts of things chasing him the whole way. He only just arrived four days ago, besides."


    "But the rest--"


    "Taken care of. You''re not the only one with terrible friends. Sit down, dear, before you fall."


    Madame Beaumont had noticed the dizziness that had come along with his shock and panic before Mirk had even noticed it himself. He thumped back down into the chair and forced himself to take deep breaths and focus. Mirk reached down into himself, then down further, through to the faint murmur of the ground beneath him that he could still hear if he held still and ignored the rumbling voices of oak and stone that separated him from the Earth. Once the world stopped spinning, Mirk looked back to Madame Beaumont. There was a certain melancholy in her eyes, a feeling of remorse and longing that was strong enough for Mirk to feel through his mental shielding. "I...what?"


    "I called in a favor with my nephew Servais. You know, the rake. The one in Black Banner. He owes me for that business with the Forbin girl last Christmas. I got a djinn from him this morning saying they''re well on their way to handling it. And that he owes me nothing ever again for the rest of his life, but I''m sure he''ll do something dreadful and call on me again soon enough."


    "I...I''ll repay you someday, madame," Mirk mumbled, fighting against the urge to rub his forehead or clutch his stomach. It was so much at once, Mirk felt as if he''d been struck over the head. Though his dizziness had cleared, an aching remained, and his thoughts were spinning so quickly it almost didn''t seem to matter that the room wasn''t doing it any longer.


    "Nonsense," Madame Beaumont said, with a firm shake of her head. "Though there is one thing you can do for me, my dear."


    "Anything."


    "Jean-Luc''s letter. As I said, it was very to the point. All instructions, no explanation. The last of them..." Madame Beaumont paused, her apprehension coming across so clearly it was as if Mirk had no shielding left at all. "He said, above all else, not to trust Serge Montigny. The guilds did do some investigating, of course. Jean-Luc had sat on the Circle since the Edict. And he and Seigneur d''Aumont from the Beacon had been friends for decades before that. All they concluded was that Jean-Luc must have finally stretched himself too thin and cast some spell that even he couldn''t control. Is that what happened? That Henri and the children were sent away seems evidence enough to me that..." She trailed off, staring at him, squeezing his arm a little. Whether it was to reassure him or herself, Mirk couldn''t be certain.


    Slowly, Mirk nodded. "Yes. Serge did it."


    He tried to hold them back, but the images still came to Mirk. His mother and her sisters linking arms, being dragged screaming back toward the inferno. His sister behind them, already half-consumed, her wings aflame. His father wrapped in chains on the floor, Serge standing over him with sword raised, grinning, a dozen pillars of tangled darkness and fire bearing witness. Father Jean''s arms wrapping around him, pulling him out into the foyer. His grandfather pressing the staff into his hands. Running. Running for what felt like an eternity. Falling. And then the hiss of drizzle on stone, the sound of laughter, and the feel of claws digging into his shoulders.


    For the first time in his life, Mirk heard Madame Beaumont curse. It drew Mirk back to the present, spurred him to cover her hand with his own. "The fiend," Madame Beaumont hissed, as she tried to compose herself. "The absolute fiend. After all Jean-Luc did for us, all he made possible, this is what he does."


    "I...I''m sorry, Madame. I don''t know much more than that. We didn''t understand what was happening until..."


    Madame Beaumont''s eyes darted away from Mirk''s face, to the book on his lap. "It''ll be in there. It must be."


    "You may be right." Mirk''s eyes fell on the book as well. "Though...it may take some time." If it was just him working through it, it would take an eternity. But Mirk had a good idea of who might know better how to decode the journal than he would.


    "We don''t have much time. Of course, I won''t tell you what to do, but...well. With Henri and the children coming up soon, we need to do something about Serge. He''s walking around as if he did nothing. The scoundrel even had the nerve to speak up at the funeral."


    "There...was a funeral?" Mirk''s heart sank at the knowledge that he hadn''t been there, though he knew there was no possible way he could have known that there had even been one.


    "We held a Mass for everyone. But there wasn''t anything to bury," Madame Beaumont added, in a softer voice. "In any case. The longer you wait to do anything about this, the more time Serge has to come up with some ruse to save himself. You''re the only one who was there. It''ll be your word against his."


    His word against Serge Montigny''s. Him, a child in comparison, who had no personal connections of his own, against Serge Montigny, the lord of one of the most sprawling and storied families in French magecraft, head of the Firestarters Guild and confidante to who knew how many other guild masters. If it had been his grandfather speaking against Serge, the others would have at least considered his accusation, though Mirk was certain opinion would still be divided. But who was he? "It...I''m sorry, madame,¡± Mirk stammered. ¡°But I don''t know what I could possibly do."


    "All you can do. Plead your case before the Circle and pray to God that there''s still sense in half of them. They haven''t filled Jean-Luc''s seat yet. I doubt Seigneur Rouzet will listen, but with the rest..."


    He didn''t stand a chance. Mirk knew Madame Beaumont had to have traveled in those circles long enough to know that. But it wasn¡¯t enough to deter her. The fire in her eyes, the way he could tell that her teeth were clenched behind her lips, the tightness of her hold on him, all of it told the story so clearly that Mirk didn''t need a shred of empathy to understand what she was feeling. Vengeance.


    Mirk didn¡¯t feel it burning within himself. Providence made no mistakes. What was done was done, and it wasn¡¯t his place to judge. It was his place to accept what had happened to him and have faith that, in the long run, the pain would make him a stronger, better person. But unless Mirk did something, the remains of his family, Henri and the children, would have no place left in France. They would have to start over again. Like he had. And even then, there was no telling if Serge might one day decide to finish what he¡¯d started. He had a duty to protect them. That was what the head of the family did. Protected. Provided.


    Mirk drew a deep, shuddering breath. "How? When is the Circle meeting next?"


    "God only knows. I haven''t heard from anyone that they''re planning on convening any time soon. But I have an idea."


    "What is it, madame?"


    "I''ve offered to host the first ball of the season. Not everyone will come, of course, since I''ve gone to London, but most will. If need be, I can call in more favors and imply that something worth seeing is bound to happen. That way, there''ll be families there besides the members of the Circle. If you plead your case to the Circle in front of everyone, they''ll be forced to at least listen. The Circle can afford to be cold in politics. But the rest of them, I think, could be moved to sympathy. And apply some pressure."


    It sounded like a nightmare to Mirk. He worried at his lip, turning things over in his mind. A small, cunning part of himself that had grown louder as of late, one that saw all the broken men hauled through the field transporter and heard all the murmured tales of hopeless charges and neverending sieges and understood, at least a little, remarked that it would be easier and less risky to hunt Serge down and have him dealt with rather than stand against him in front of everyone. He ignored the suggestion.


    Mirk knew himself. No matter how loud and insistent that cunning part grew, he couldn''t bear to kill anyone, to plunge them into the same pit of agony he''d struggled out of. No matter what they''d done. No matter how triumphant and bloody Serge''s smile had been as he''d held up his father''s head in offering to the pillars of flame.


    "When will it be?" Mirk asked, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.


    "The weekend after the Equinox. The same as every year." Madame Beaumont turned her hand over, taking his and clasping it. "You''re not alone, Mirk. I''ll be there with you. And so will all the friends Jean-Luc made in his lifetime. If they want to honor his memory, they''ll listen to you."


    Mirk forced a smile onto his face, squeezing her hand. "I know, madame. It''s...it''s like you said. We''re never alone as we think we are."


    "Exactly, my boy," Madame Beaumont said, straightening her posture and patting at her hair to ensure that it hadn''t fallen out of place. "Well! In any case. It does us no good to dwell on the negative, does it? A cheerful heart is good medicine, after all. But I imagine they don''t teach you that part of healing in the K''maneda. Not that it''s my place as someone without the gift to say."


    Slowly, Mirk¡¯s smile turned more genuine. The longer he looked at Madame Beaumont, the more he remembered: her astonishment over how he''d grown when he''d first been to see her in Lyon after his time at the abbey, the way she always had such a strong sense of purpose about herself, the time that her and his mother had conspired to make it so that his sister had to barge into the pond behind the Feulaines¡¯ manse and beat its many-limbed occupant into spitting Paul-Marie Toucy out into her waiting arms. Paul-Marie hadn''t exactly been as smitten with Kae as they''d hoped after that, but he had begged her for sword fighting lessons. "No, not really. They''re very...hmm...stern in the K''maneda. Well, other than the low-borns. They''re great fun, for the most part."


    "Tell me all about it," Madame Beaumont said, releasing his hand with a final squeeze. "I must know more about these people you''ve decided to go live with. That dour Englishmen and all his foreign hangers-on did make for good gossip, but I can''t imagine staying around them all the time. And have a madeleine too, Mirk. You''re looking a bit too thin in the face for my liking. I''ll have the girl bring in a fresh pot of tea."


    "Yes, madame," Mirk said, dipping his head and taking one off the tray in front of them. It had a light, lemony taste.


    And it was, indisputably, the best thing he''d eaten in over half a year. The grizzled ex-fighters who passed for cooks at the dining hall just couldn''t compete.

 Chapter 11

    "No, no, that won''t do. Sober. Sober..."


    Mirk knew he wasn''t just thinking the words. Which wasn''t a very sober act, in and of itself. But it helped to keep the world from spinning, and that kept him from stumbling across the street from gutter to gutter and making a fool of himself. He tried to draw up his chin instead of staying hunched and hidden under the hood of his cloak.


    "A little fresh air and it''ll be just fine. The same as Niv always says."


    He hadn''t meant to get drunk. Mirk had only stopped in at the tavern all the foreign members of the Seventh frequented to have a drink to settle his nerves. Nothing strong, maybe watered down whiskey, or, if nothing else was available, a tiny glass of that pungent liquor some of the members of the Seventh made themselves in one of the dormitory baths.


    But K''aekniv and Mordecai had been there, slumped over the bar and looking miserable because neither of them could drink as much as they wanted, owing to their present romantic pursuits. Mirk had felt bad for them, so he''d bought them both a drink. And then another, because K''aekniv started telling some story about the last wedding he''d been to back where he was from, and it would have been rude of them all to sit at the bar with nothing. And then Mordecai had started in, and Mirk had obliged them all with another...


    "Focus. Just have to focus..."


    K''aekniv''s silly plans were hard to say no to once Mirk had a few drinks in him. Which was why he''d agreed to let K''aekniv put him in that night''s drinking bout, and why he''d given Mordecai money to bet on him, and, at that point, it would have been wasteful not to win. K''aekniv could never compete himself, of course -- everyone knew him there, so as soon as he threw his name in, the rest of the contenders quit while they were ahead.


    Mirk had been lucky that none of the really experienced drunks were there that night. It was a rowdy crowd, and the sort of tired men who had more gin than blood in them tended to retreat to less hectic climes when things started getting loud. Mirk had only just begun to get dizzy by the time the final contestant, a mountain of a man, a Bavarian from the First who Mirk couldn''t understand even with a translation charm, had fallen backwards off his chair. Mirk had been cheered by all the members of the Seventh, keeping his cloak drawn tightly about himself so that his gray three piece wouldn''t attract even more undue attention.


    "Ah...there it is. It''s not so bad. Ben, allons-y, allons ¨¤ la maison, alors..."


    But it hadn''t quite done the trick. Though the Seventh and the First were usually on good terms, the First had a certain pride in their drinking skills. They insisted K''aekniv had to have cheated, somehow. Which he had. No one who didn''t know Mirk well would have suspected he had angelic blood.


    The fighting had started soon after. At which point Mirk had decided it''d be better to duck out before he ended up staying at the tavern all night to heal everyone involved. It didn''t seem too serious; the nighttime healers at the infirmary would be able to handle things if the fight got out of hand. Though, things had gotten nasty in the infirmary over the last week or so. Some big contract was ending, though the Seventh wasn''t involved yet. Mirk needed to go back to his quarters and sleep if he was going to be any use at all in the morning.


    And as for the journal that was tugging the breast pocket of his justacorps out of line underneath his cloak, he''d deal with that in the morning too.


    Sucking in a deep breath, Mirk forced himself to stop watching the road and look up at the facade of the healers dormitory. Not many lights were on. That was for the best. Though the fighters at the bar had been either too drunk or too distracted by the ladies to take note of his odd dress, Mirk had no doubt that his fellow healers would notice it instantly. He''d be hearing about it if one of them spotted him. Summoning the least tipsy smile he could muster, Mirk went inside.


    The front vestibule was empty. So were the stairs, all the way up to the fourth floor. Mirk thought he caught a glimpse of something at the end of his hall, but when he shook his head and looked more closely, it was empty again. Trying to ignore the way his mind and senses were fizzing, Mirk hurried down the hall to his door. He fumbled a bit with his key, but didn''t drop it. And he got it in the lock on the first try. Perhaps the walk out in the cold from the tavern to the dormitory had sobered him up a little, at least physically. As Mirk opened the door and stepped inside, he let out a sigh of relief, elbowing at the rune for the magelights.


    "I see...you have been occupied this evening."


    Mirk yelped, stumbling backward into the doorframe. Genesis was standing at the far end of the room, a thick reddish grimoire in hand, in the process of adding another line of symbols to the long strip of parchment that he''d tacked to the wall with a bit of magic. Laughing to himself, Mirk edged back inside and shut the door. "Oh, you surprised me, messire. I wasn''t expecting you to be here in the dark."


    The commander didn''t turn to look at him -- he was intent on finishing whatever he was working on. "The magelight beneath the desk...generates adequate light to work by."


    He was still confused by Genesis''s presence. The commander''s condition had improved over the three days since Mirk had found him lying out in the street. When Mirk had checked his temperature that morning, it''d been more or less normal again, for him. He''d told Genesis he should keep being gentle with himself, but that there was no longer any need for him to stay in bed. Genesis had been up and out, a fresh set of clothes and his potions and tinctures in hand, before Mirk could even sort out where he''d put his own work bag down the night before. And Genesis hadn''t been there that afternoon when he''d come in to change. Though the bloodied robes he''d thrown distractedly over one shoulder as he tried to decide which suit to wear to Madame Beaumont''s were now gone, Mirk noticed.


    "Euh...are you working on something important?" Mirk asked, as he made his way to the bed and sat down. He''d have an easier time hiding that he was tipsy if he wasn''t standing and swaying from side to side.


    "A minor issue," Genesis said, closing his book. He finally turned to look at Mirk again, scanning his attire with a slight frown. "Why are you wearing your...royalist finery again?"


    Mirk smoothed the front of his justacorps, sighing. There was no point in not telling him. He''d need Genesis''s help if he was going to ever make sense of his grandfather''s journal. But Mirk had been hoping they could have a more pleasant conversation first, so that Mirk could ease his way into things instead of immediately banishing the good cheer he''d built up over the course of the night. "Do you remember Madame Beaumont?"


    "No."


    "My godmother." When Genesis still showed no signs of recognition, Mirk continued. "Elderly, the head of her own house, fond of large hats? You and her met at that ball in Lyon..."


    The hats did it. Genesis set the book down on Mirk''s desk, folding his arms. "Ah. Her."


    "I thought that since she never wrote that she might have been...anyway, she sent her djinn to the infirmary this morning with a letter. I went and had tea with her this afternoon."


    "And?"


    It was difficult to tell what Genesis was feeling. He''d shifted back to his usual blankness, his arms still folded, looking over at the spell pinned to the wall rather than down at him. The question had been nagging at Mirk ever since he''d received word from Madame Beaumont. He supposed he might as well ask it and get the worst part of things over with. "Did you know, Genesis? That she was looking for me? That my uncle Henri and my cousins are alive?"


    Genesis didn''t seem surprised by this revelation. Mirk''s heart sank. But after a moment, Genesis shook his head. "No. I had thought the matter was¡­concluded. Your grandfather gave no indication of the...extent of the situation to me personally. If he had, perhaps things would have...resolved differently."


    There was a certain note of bitterness in Genesis''s tone that made Mirk believe him. He knew Genesis. He had trouble enough conveying his genuine feelings to the rest of them, not to even think of creating false ones to cover them. That aside, Mirk didn''t think, knowing what he did of the commander, that Genesis would have let what had happened to Mirk and his family come to pass without getting himself killed in the process, had someone told him what was brewing.


    Slowly, Mirk nodded. "I think I might have a way for us to find out why he did that." He drew the journal out of the breast pocket of his justacorps and held it out to Genesis.


    The commander took the book, turning it over delicately in his hands and studying it from every angle before finally opening it. Mirk had no idea how Genesis could read it in such dim light. Mirk had barely been able to follow the lines of age-worn script in the full light of Madame Beaumont''s parlor. "This language is...strange," Genesis said, as he turned a page.


    "Madame Beaumont thought it might be in code."


    "Not...precisely. A code retains, in certain aspects, traces of the original in its structure. Unless one is particularly cautious. Your grandfather does not seem the type, despite his...secrets. One must be very methodical."


    Mirk wasn''t sure whether the statement was meant as an insult or not. Either way, Mirk did agree with Genesis. Jean-Luc had been many things, but methodical wasn''t one of them. The number of times his grandfather had walked halfway down the drive on his morning constitutional without remembering to put his wig on before stepping out spoke to that. "Then what is it?"


    Genesis was silent for a long time, turning page after page. The shadows were deepening behind the commander, Mirk noticed. Maybe they were as intrigued as Genesis was. "A question. Where was your grandfather born?"


    "Euh...hmm. Well, he never said exactly where. It was in the mountains. Near Bayonne, methinks. Why?"


    "Every search must begin somewhere. It is best...to start at the beginning. That way, no detail is overlooked."


    Though Mirk didn''t feel much better about the whole situation, he found himself smiling. Maybe it was the liquor. Or maybe it was just that it always made him feel warm, for some reason, to see Genesis so interested in something. So often it seemed like Genesis treated most parts of life as a chore, as an obligation to be suffered through. Even when he was reading, half the time the commander seemed to be just forcing himself through things. But the way Genesis was staring so intently down at the journal, as if nothing else in the world existed at that moment, made him seem more vibrant. More alive instead of only existing.


    Mirk regretted having to interrupt. But he thought Genesis should hear everything, even if it was obvious that the journal had captured most of his attention. "Madame Beaumont said Henri and the children have been trapped in his workshop in Bordeaux all this time. But you don''t need to worry about that. She has a nephew in Black Banner who''s bringing them up to London at the end of the month."


    Genesis tore himself away from the book, blinking a few times. "Trapped how?"


    "Euh...they don''t know, really. House Rose demons like the rest, though. Maybe a pocket realm? I don''t know much about that kind of magic. One of Henri''s children, my cousin Armel, managed to escape with a letter. That''s how Madame Beaumont found out about them."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "And how did she know your location?"


    Again, Mirk couldn''t keep himself from smiling. "Grandp¨¨re arranged to have a letter sent to her when someone drew on the family ledger. Her djinn, Monsieur Am-Hazek, came up with what to do after that. What was it...finding the strange Englishman I''d employed and starting there...the Englishman with the reputation among the booksellers..."


    Sighing, Genesis shut the book. For the time being. "That kinship line is known for their...strategic ability."


    "I''m lucky you''re so distinctive, messire. Otherwise I wouldn''t know a thing about all this."


    Ignoring this, Genesis put the book down on Mirk''s desk, precisely atop the center of the book he''d been working from earlier. "The ledger. I should have...anticipated this. The wealthy are always concerned with their gold."


    Mirk shrugged. "Methinks I may have forgotten all about it if you hadn''t reminded me of it."


    "You are not...typical of your rank," Genesis said slowly, as if the discrepancy puzzled him.


    Mirk laughed. "Thank you?"


    "Nevertheless. It resulted in lost time. Though it was...inadvisable for you to leave the City before that point. I had not yet determined the best course of action regarding Aeli."


    "Aeli..." The name sounded familiar, but Mirk couldn''t quite place it.


    "The assassin."


    The one who''d Genesis nearly killed himself beheading. Mirk sighed. "What did he want with me? You never said. The name doesn''t sound familiar at all. And no one hated my father that much. Not that I knew about."


    "He wished to...return to the Empire''s service. Doubtlessly, the elimination of anyone who...may have been of some benefit to me would raise his esteem with Imanael."


    "I don''t know who that is either, messire." All Mirk knew about the Empire of Heaven was that it called his father away from home at least once a fortnight. He couldn''t even recall the name of the Emperor, despite both his father and the messengers who summoned him always exchanging some salute invoking the Emperor''s name and the Light Eternal each time they parted. He''d always been too distracted by the worry that his father might not return from whatever mission he was being sent on to pay close attention. It was something with an ae, but nearly every angelic name had at least one of those. Mirk had no chance of ever even visiting Heaven, so none of his tutors had thought it worthwhile to teach him anything about it. Teleportation spells alone always made Mirk so ill he could barely stand once he reached the other side. No one thought it was a good idea to test things further by trying to send him off-realm.


    "It is irrelevant. For the time being." Genesis moved on quickly, picking an invisible speck of lint or dirt off his shirtsleeve. "What are you intending to do with your relations once they are here? Provided Black Banner is not so...incompetent they fail to retrieve them."


    Mirk shrugged. "I''m not certain. Madame Beaumont...well. We''re trying to think of a way to manage Serge. No one suspects that he''s done anything. We have to put the evidence in front of the Circle. If they decide to do something, then methinks maybe Henri can go back home with the children once it''s over."


    Genesis shot Mirk an incredulous look, as if he was fumbling around searching for a grimoire or a bottle that was right in front of him. Before the commander could open his mouth to speak, Mirk managed to put things together and cut him off. He really had drank too much that evening, overlooking something so obvious.


    "I''m not having him killed, Genesis. It''s not my place to judge. The Circle will know better what to do with him. Methinks they might put some kind of restraint on his magic, or at least replace him in the Firestarters and the Circle."


    Genesis''s expression hardened a little. "Better to...die free than be bound."


    "Well, either way, it''s not up to me. And not up to you either, I hope. Think of all the trouble it will cause." Genesis didn''t reply, but Mirk hoped he''d gotten his point across. Mirk continued, undoing the clasp at the front of his cloak and letting it fall from his shoulders. Now that everything was out in the open, all the worst parts of the truth laid bare, Mirk found the urge to curl up in bed fully dressed almost overwhelming. "We''ll just have to wait and see, methinks. Madame Beaumont is hosting the first ball of the season on the last Saturday of the month. I''m sure if we all work together, we can sort out what to do by then. Even if it doesn''t go well, it''ll be nice to see Henri and my cousins again. I hope all this hasn''t made any of them ill...it must be terrible, trapped in such a small place for so long..."


    "Being...inebriated is not conducive to productive thought," Genesis said, as he picked up Jean-Luc''s journal again.


    Mirk sighed. He thought he''d done a good job of hiding that he was a little drunk yet. What had given him away? Some change in his speech, probably, or maybe the smell of the tavern had clung to his clothes. A small thing, something only someone like Genesis would notice. "I''m sorry, messire. It was a long afternoon. Niv says hello, by the way. He hopes you''re feeling better. And he said something about being called out on contract soon."


    Genesis made a dismissive gesture, opening the journal once again as he made for the door. The commander was instantly engrossed in it. So much so that rather than opening the door and leaving properly, he continued walking on through the shadows in the corner and vanished without raising his head.


    It took Mirk every ounce of strength he had not to let himself tumble backward and pass out. But he only had so many good suits left. They really needed to be hung rather than folded, but, considering how small the rooms were in the healers dormitory, a proper armoire was out of the question.


    Mirk forced himself to his feet and got undressed, doing his best to fold all the pieces of the suit neatly, along with all the small trappings of proper attire that went along with it. It really was exhausting. How he''d managed to do it every day before was beyond him. Perhaps that was why all the guild masters Mirk had ever met had at least a dozen servants constantly hovering around them to tend to their every need. Though, the fact that most of them didn''t also end up chasing mad patients all over the infirmary day in and day out before getting all dressed up also probably had something to do with how tiring Mirk all found it compared to all the others.


    Once he was in his nightshirt, Mirk dove into bed, wrapping himself in the unnecessary amount of quilts still piled on it and closing his eyes. There was more room to stretch out, now that he was alone again. Mirk had been expecting to pass immediately into unconsciousness. Yet, sleep wasn''t coming, despite the combined effects of the liquor and his fatigue. Mirk rolled over onto his other side, facing away from the wall and fussing with the pillow under his head.


    Just in time to see Genesis walk back into the room through the shadows, still studying the journal. "Did you forget something?" Mirk asked, voice muffled by the quilts.


    "...no."


    Mirk took a second look at the commander. He hadn''t noticed it right away because all of Genesis''s clothes were oversized and black, but he wasn''t dressed in his uniform. He was wearing his sleeping clothes, the odd high-cut black shirt with the tied-back sleeves and the trousers that were as voluminous as the ones the more martially inclined K''maneda ladies wore to hide that they weren''t wearing a dress. And he was barefoot. "Euh...you''re...staying here?"


    "Would you prefer I leave?" Genesis asked, his tone flat.


    "No! No, of course you can stay, messire," Mirk said, quickly, before Genesis could get the wrong idea. Mirk shoved off half the blankets and scooted over close to the wall. "I''m only a little surprised. Niv said that you don''t like sleeping every night. And...well, I thought you would have wanted to go somewhere else. An inn, maybe. There are some nice ones over by the East Gate."


    Genesis shook his head, drawing over to the side of the bed, considering it. Mirk must have lost track of time while trying to fall asleep. Even though Mirk hadn''t seen Genesis take anything with him other than Jean-Luc''s journal, it was obvious that the commander had just washed. The faint smell of lilies hanging about him was more pronounced than usual. "A waste of resources," Genesis eventually concluded.


    Mirk sighed, throwing off more of the blankets and shuffling further away from the edge, until his back was pressed against the stone wall beside the other side of the bed. "I don''t mind you staying, Genesis, not at all, but if you''re going to lie down, methinks it would be better if you did it right away. Unless you want to work at the desk. I don''t mind."


    Genesis''s expression took on a puzzled cast. He looked back at the tiny chair tucked under Mirk''s desk, then turned his consideration back toward the bed.


    In his tipsy, tired state, Mirk had forgotten who he was dealing with. Not to mention how easily he''d shifted back into the usual layers of politeness and indirectness that was common among the noble French mages, though he''d stumbled a little at first because of the emotions involved. It was ten times easier to retreat back into that indirect way of speaking, all nuance and suggestion, than it was to put himself back into the literal K''maneda frame of mind. "I''m very tired, messire. I''d like to go to sleep. You don''t have to go to sleep even if you want to stay, but methinks I''d have an easier time getting to sleep if you decided where you''re going to work for the night. You know once I''m asleep nothing will wake me up."


    "An angelic trait. I am...familiar with it," Genesis said, though it was obvious to Mirk the commander''s mind was elsewhere. He could practically see the gears turning in Genesis''s head. Like the issue of whether or not to get in bed necessitated as much careful consideration and delicacy as the journal still dangling from his hand did. Mirk didn''t know why Genesis was being so indecisive. It wasn''t like him to hesitate or reconsider once he''d settled on a course of action. Just as Mirk was about to speak up again, Genesis made his decision. Gingerly, he got into bed beside Mirk.


    It wasn''t a terribly graceful maneuver. The bed was low, and there really wasn''t any dignified way to mess about with bedclothes, especially ones in such a rumpled and tangled state as the pile of quilts Mirk had buried himself in. But somehow, Genesis managed to accomplish it without too much flailing or accidentally smacking Mirk in his efforts to rearrange the quilts.


    The commander refused to settle until they were all perfectly in line again, with one or two positioned lower on the bed, to make up for the fact that most of them were too short to reach from Genesis''s chest to his feet. Mirk should have asked K''aekniv if Genesis had his own blanket somewhere in the room they¡¯d shared, something that was sewn to his scale. But Mirk hadn''t anticipated that Genesis would be staying. He thought, like usual, the commander would vanish the instant he was feeling better.


    Mirk was glad that Genesis had decided to stay. There was a certain comfort in not being all alone in his room, but also not having to worry over being able to sleep due to another person''s emotions. Before Mirk had come to the K''maneda, there''d always been his hellhound, Tournesol, to keep him company while he drifted off, either sleeping at the foot end of his bed or curled up beside him. Tournesol had been soft. Warm, no matter the weather. And only a little smaller than a pony. Mirk had ridden him around the family estate like one when he was a child, much to the chagrin of his father and his guardsmen. Tournesol, like the rest of his closest family, hadn''t survived the flames that had swallowed the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re.


    But some had survived. And he wasn''t alone. Though, rather than staring motionlessly up at the ceiling as usual -- whether or not the commander ever actually slept aside from when he was terribly ill was still a mystery to Mirk -- Genesis still had the open journal in hand, though he hadn''t returned to reading, not yet. He was waiting for something.


    With a deep sigh, Genesis glanced toward Mirk. "As I said previously. Do...as you will."


    Laughing, Mirk settled in on his side again, pulling the stack of quilts up to his own chin and making sure they were tucked in around his back, to ward off the chill from the stone wall. Which still meant that Genesis wasn''t completely covered, but, apparently, he was no longer so cold that the commander felt it was required. It was probably back to the usual way he slept in the infirmary: on his back, with the bedclothes at the level of the middle of his chest, both arms outside of them. Ready to respond in an instant to any threat.


    The drink got the better of him; Mirk let himself tease Genesis a little rather than keeping quiet. "You know, messire, if I need to be so direct to get you to listen, methinks it''s only fair that you be a little more direct yourself."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Do as you will is a little vague, non? You could just ask for help keeping warm."


    Frowning, Genesis lifted the journal and began to scan its pages. "I don''t require that."


    "But do you want it?"


    Genesis was silent for a long time. "I would prefer it if you...went to sleep. As I said, being inebriated is not conducive to¡­productive thought."


    Mirk laughed again, harder. "Well, it''s a start, I suppose." Closing his eyes, Mirk leaned his head against the commander''s arm. "Good night, Genesis. Don''t stay up too late. I''d prefer it if you don''t make yourself sick again."


    "On that...we are agreed."


    It wasn''t exactly the same as Tournesol. Genesis wasn''t warm. Or soft. And he didn''t shed on the bedclothes, or purr in his sleep, or lick his face when he wouldn''t wake up. But Mirk appreciated the feeling of safety and comfort Genesis''s presence beside him brought nevertheless.

 Chapter 12

    "Ah...I''m still no good at this..."


    Yule smirked at Mirk from across the bed as he folded down, then tucked in the corners of his side of the sheets with a few practiced movements. "Well, soon you''ll have your servants to do things for you again, won''t you, seigneur?"


    Sighing, Mirk stood back from the edge of the bed with his hands on his hips, staring down at his own lumpy corners. He''d watched Yule and Danu make up patient beds dozens of times. He''d watched Genesis do the same to his own bed again and again, though studying the commander was less helpful, seeing as how Genesis did everything with that uncanny quickness of his. No matter what Mirk did, no matter how closely he followed the others¡¯ techniques, his results weren¡¯t quite right. "I''m not hiring any servants, Yule," Mirk said, slowly, reminding himself to be patient with the other healer rather than let his frustration over all the gossip overtake his common sense. Yule was just teasing him, the same as everyone else. He didn''t mean anything by it. Not truly.


    "Why not?" Yule asked, making a token attempt at fluffing the bed''s stained and worn pillow. Mirk glanced up at the older healer¡¯s face. Yule was being serious for once. The smirk that had accompanied Yule¡¯s goading all that morning had vanished, replaced by something more wary, something that reminded Mirk of the conversation they''d had weeks ago in the potions room. The air wasn''t quite so emotionally charged at the moment, but it was obvious to Mirk that Yule expected bad news from him.


    "Because I''m not leaving the City. And only the noble commanders have quarters big enough to house servants, non?"


    "But why?" Yule paused his work to stare across the bed at Mirk, mirroring his posture. "You have the gold. Some of your family''s around. Your friends asked you to come back. Why are you staying here?"


    Unable to keep bearing up under the force of Yule''s disbelieving stare, Mirk turned toward the window overlooking the parade grounds. A company was assembling out in front of the transporter. It was the men from the Seventh, the ones under Genesis''s and K''aekniv''s command.


    The half-angel was there at the head of them, trying to reassure Lina and send her off about her own work in the laundry. She didn''t seem pleased by K¡¯aekniv¡¯s efforts to get back to his men instead of taking the time to comfort her. The men themselves, on the other hand, seemed to find the whole scene highly amusing, passing around bottles and bits of currency. Genesis was nowhere to be seen.


    "It''s not just about gold,¡± Mirk said. ¡°You have to be a certain kind of person to do any good with the noble mages. I''m not that kind of person. I can do more good here, methinks."


    Mirk didn''t know how to explain it to Yule, to anyone who hadn''t sat for hours in noble parlors, gossiping indirectly the whole while about the guilds¡¯ and other families incessant mechanizations, who hadn''t circulated noble ballrooms all while watching and waiting and trying to keep everything in balance. His mother and grandfather had done it with grace, had made it look easier than breathing. But Mirk wasn''t married to an angel high up in an Imperial host, nor did he have a legion of long-time friends and acquaintances to draw on. And Mirk had never performed the kind of magic his grandfather was rumored to have mastered, magic that put the rest of the nobles in his debt, or at least made them wary of crossing him.


    Mirk only shared their blood. Though he had Jean-Luc''s staff to help now too, he supposed, magicked down to the length of a wand and tucked away up the sleeve of his robes. Both of them weighed on him. Genesis had told Mirk that it''d be better if he started carrying the staff with him instead of leaving it hidden in the bottom of the trunk at the foot end of his bed. Mirk didn''t see the point. His grandfather had never really explained to him how to use it, and the commander hadn''t yet made much sense out of the journal, despite his constant efforts.


    "How did your family get all that gold, anyway?" Yule asked. Mirk didn''t have the nerve to look back at him yet. "Land? The guilds?''


    Mirk shook his head. "Grand-p¨¨re wasn''t a guild mage. And he didn''t own any land other than, well, the houses. Grand-m¨¨re had land, it was sold over to the Church for her as soon as they were married. He..." Mirk sighed, again lost on how to explain. He barely understood any of it. "...grand-p¨¨re wasn''t a normal mage, methinks. When there was some problem no one else could fix, the others always sent for him. And he fixed things. Everyone must have paid him a lot for it, I suppose."


    "That''s bizarre. You never thought to ask?"


    "It wasn''t any of my business, really. I never thought I''d have to worry." Mirk watched through the window as K''aekniv took Lina by both shoulders, kissing her effusively all over her face, first her forehead, then both cheeks, then on the mouth, lingering there for a bit. He could tell that K''aekniv wanted to do more for her, but his men, now all laughing outright at him, were waiting. Lina turned and walked off, finally, looking troubled. K''aekniv turned back to the men of the Seventh, shrugging helplessly before walking over and delivering a smack to Slava, then to Mordecai. The two men who could talk the least about romantic troubles, Mirk thought.


    "Your grandfather had to have been some mage."


    Summoning his nerve, Mirk turned back toward Yule. The older healer looked deeply suspicious. Though less of him now, and more of the situation in general, Mirk thought. "My grandfather was amazing. I could never be half of what he was. So, like I said, Yule, I''m better suited to working here. It doesn''t take much magic to clean rooms. It''s smaller, but still important, methinks. It¡¯s always nice to have a clean bed at the end of the day."


    Scoffing, Yule went to the bucket they''d been taking turns hauling from room to room, snatching the rag off its side and dunking it in the water filling it. Water tinged with a shot of the cleaning potion Mirk had come closer to mastering. Completely unnecessary, Yule had told him, but he¡¯d tolerated Mirk dumping it in after Mirk had at least gotten the older healer to admit that it did smell nice, as long as one added more orange essential oil than the recipe required. "You''ve been spending too much time with Genesis. No one gives a damn about how clean the rooms are. We''re just killing time."


    Mirk chuckled, joining Yule at the bucket and wetting a rag of his own. His version of the cleaning potion, aside from smelling better, also didn''t sting his hands as much as Genesis''s did. "It''s nice having a tidy room. I never noticed how much easier things are when everything¡¯s in its right place, but methinks it really is better that way. I just never remember to clean on my own."


    Yule''s suspicion was focused back on Mirk in an instant. "What do you mean by that? You''re not having that creep clean your room for you again, are you?"


    Mirk started working on wiping down the room''s wood surfaces, going to the chair by the window and passing the cloth over the arms. It was a good thing they were cleaning the rooms, even if it was just to kill time until things went wrong with one of the low-born divisions out on contract and they were called down to emergency. The chair was full of dried blood. Too much. Mirk tried not to think about it as he cleaned. "Mais non! But¡­well. You can''t really stop Genesis from cleaning. It''s bad enough that he has to put up with me. Methinks if he had me and a messy room to deal with, it''d be too much for him."


    Yule paused. "He''s not staying with you, is he?"


    "I told him he could leave whenever he wanted," Mirk said, shrugging. "But he decided to stay."


    "Stay where? Do you just prop him up in the corner like a broom when you''re done with him?"


    "Don''t be mean, Yule," Mirk said, though he did it with a laugh. "He''s as normal as anyone else."


    "You didn''t answer my question."


    "Well...the bed is a little small, but he really doesn''t take up that much space. And he only stays a few hours. It''s hard to say."


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


    There was a thunk as Yule dropped his rag back in the bucket. Mirk looked up from the chair. Yule was staring across the room at him like Mirk had just suggested they all take a few unpaid turns on the night shift. "That''s insane."


    "Euh...methinks I don''t understand, Yule."


    "That terrible bastard won''t put up with anyone a second longer than he has to. I''ve heard the stories. You have to smack him over the head if you want him to sleep. And now he''s doing it for fun? Are you sure that fever didn''t wreck something? Or that he didn¡¯t scramble his brains falling on his face?" Yule shook his head, flabbergasted. And still suspicious. Mirk could feel the older healer''s mingled concern and disbelief pressing against his shields.


    All Mirk could do was shrug again. "He does say he needs to do, euh, something to get himself a new room. And he''ll need his strength for that, and for the end of these bad contracts." Mirk had been doing his best not to think about what Genesis had planned for whoever he wanted to steal a room from. Doubtlessly, it wouldn''t be pleasant. Mirk could only hope that the man Genesis had set his sights on was equally unpleasant.


    "Still."


    Mirk thought for a moment, wringing the rag in his hands, though there wasn''t much water left to get out of it and he was nowhere near the bucket. The droplets of blood-tinged water ended up dripping down the front of his robes instead. "Methinks maybe he might be lonely."


    "Lonely? Did you hit your head on something too?"


    "Let''s think about it a little," Mirk said, trying to approach things the way Father Jean would have, a puzzle with a clear answer that could be arrived at by going carefully from step to step, conclusion to conclusion. "Has Genesis ever lived alone since he''s been with the K''maneda?"


    Yule folded his arms and leaned against the room''s supply cabinet, thinking, a scowl still twisting up the bottom of his face. "No. I suppose not. I think he must have lived at first with that bastard Senkov for a while. Senkov was the one who first brought him to the infirmary and made me try to heal him. Gen and Niv showed up together for the first time a couple months after that."


    The older healer¡¯s scowl contorted his face further at the memory of it. "Gen dragged Niv in because Niv had some kind of fungus growing under his toenails and he couldn''t stand to be in the same bed as him unless someone did something about it. That someone being me, of course. The one time that ass and I ever agreed on anything. It was all downhill from there.¡±


    "Who''s Senkov?¡± Mirk asked. ¡°It''s a little strange I''ve never met someone who''d been so close to everyone..."


    Yule sighed. "Dead. Got executed for starting something with Ravensdale." He paused, thinking. "About a week before the Easterners showed up with you, actually."


    "Oh...I''m sorry, Yule. I didn''t mean to bring up anything bad," Mirk said, projecting a bit of sympathy, though he knew Yule never felt reassured or comforted by the press of another person''s care like most of the other healers did.


    Yule waved him off. "Doesn''t matter. I just thought Senkov was annoying. So did Genesis and the rest, but, you know how they are. I think he was from whatever miserable village the rest of them are from too. Though, as far as I could tell, Senkov had to have been with the K''maneda for at least two hundred years before I got here. He had the weirdest ideas. And he knew about all that ancient K''maneda bullshit Genesis is always droning on about, somehow. Which explains why Gen was willing to put up with him."


    Mirk leaned against the wall beside the window, reflecting on what Yule had told him. It was odd no one, not even K''aekniv, had mentioned Senkov to him. His passing had to have hurt everyone who knew him so badly that no one felt comfortable talking about him yet. In a way, it made Mirk feel selfish to have been so focused on his own loss and pain when he''d first woken up from the kindling sickness. The other men must have been hurting too. But he''d been too wrapped up in himself to notice.


    "Anyway, I don''t see what any of that has to do with your current problem," Yule continued. "Gen only ever stayed with them because he had no other option. And they had to beat him into it. It doesn''t make sense that he''d just...change. Genesis never changes."


    Mirk was willing to admit that Yule had a point. But what did any of them know about Genesis, truly, other than what little he decided to explain to them openly? Genesis never discussed anything other than the matter directly at hand, or magic. And Mirk didn¡¯t like to pry into things. It was one thing asking after the past of someone who was always open with their feelings, but doing it to someone as private as Genesis made Mirk feel like he was disrespecting him, somehow. "It really isn''t a problem,¡± Mirk said, deciding to shift the direction of the conversation away from that troubling point. ¡°You hardly ever notice he''s there, since he''s so quiet. And I like the company, even if Gen¡¯s just being practical."


    Yule scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You''d appreciate the company of an undead. Even if it was trying to bite your throat out."


    "I do appreciate your company too, Yule," Mirk said, returning Yule''s sour look with a warm smile.


    "Whatever," Yule said, shoving off against the cabinet and retrieving the rag he''d dropped back in the bucket. "It''s not my problem. But if I didn''t know better, I''d think the bastard actually likes you. Unlike everyone else in the City."


    "Methinks that might be a bit much," Mirk said, glancing out the window again at the members of the Seventh mustered in front of the transporter. A mage from the Third had appeared, weary and battle-worn, his robes shredded and his cloak half-burned away. He was trying to negotiate something with K''aekniv, but the half-angel was having none of it. Mirk was too far away, and the shields on the infirmary walls were too thick for him to tell if K''aekniv was angry or frustrated underneath his wide grin.


    All that changed when, with a flicker of shadow, Genesis appeared behind the mage. The two men exchanged a quick word before the mage backed off, looking more relieved than startled by Genesis''s sudden appearance. Not exactly a promising sign, Mirk thought.


    Then the commander turned his attention to K''aekniv. They exchanged words ¡ª more talking was done on K''aekniv''s part than Genesis''s. The longer K''aekniv talked, the less annoyed Genesis looked. Eventually, Genesis unfolded his arms and said something curt to K''aekniv, making a dismissive gesture. Just in time for K''aekniv to lunge forward and wrap Genesis in a tight hug, one that the commander didn''t struggle against, though it did take him a long time to relent and return the gesture with a precise pat on the arm in order to get K''aekniv to release him.


    Before backing away, K''aekniv reached up and pinched one of Genesis''s cheeks, too abruptly for the commander to snatch K¡¯aekniv¡¯s arm out of the air and do something to it. Then K''aekniv went to address the rest of the men, now with more cheer and confidence than before. Genesis remained by the transporter, pulling a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and scrubbing at his cheek where K''aekniv had touched him, skin on skin.


    "Are you actually going to work, or are you going to stare out the window all day?" Yule asked from behind Mirk. "Not that I mind. You should start slacking off some more, before people get the wrong idea."


    Mirk glanced over his shoulder at Yule, shrugging, then went back to looking out the window. Despite the better spirits the company of men from the Seventh seemed to be in, Mirk still had an uneasy feeling about it all. The mage from the Third returned to confer with Genesis again, handing him a map that Genesis took hold of with the handkerchief rather than his bare fingers. "Methinks maybe we both should take a little rest, Yule."


    "Why?"


    "Genesis and Niv made up, finally. But if he''s going out with the rest of them today..."


    Yule joined Mirk at the window, nudging him aside so that he could take a better look. Yule had been with the K''maneda long enough to guess at what was going to happen by looking at the kind of men assembled before the transporter, by their gear and the specialties of the mages the fighters were taking with them. "You''re right. That mage from the Third is totally drained. Shaking like someone having a fit. Two companies from the Fourteenth and one from the First already went out this morning. Even brought along twenty mages from the Third and five of Ravendale¡¯s djinn for support. And now they''re throwing the Easterners and Gen on top of it? We''re fucked," Yule concluded, stepping away from the window.


    "Will it really be so bad?" Mirk asked.


    He didn''t have to, not really ¡ª the tired, resigned air that had come over Yule answered the question well enough. "We''re getting Danu and stealing the best bottle from the break room in advance," Yule said. "And we probably should quit it with this cleaning. We need to be down by the field transporter for when the Tenth decides they''ve done all they want to."


    Despite all his complaining, Mirk had noticed that Yule was always one of the first healers to go running for the field transporter as soon as badly injured men started coming through it regardless of what division they were from, ones whose lives would be either saved or lost within minutes. Yule said it was just because he liked having something interesting to do for a change. The near fistfights he got into with the Tenth''s officers to try to bully his way past them and start healing, Mirk thought, said otherwise.


    "It''s only a shame that it took something this bad to get Gen and Niv to talk again," Mirk said, as he turned away from the window himself. "Methinks everyone would have been happier if they''d made up sooner."


    "Maybe that means you won''t have to share your bed with a corpse anymore."


    Mirk shrugged. "Only God knows."


    Yule shot him a dark look. "God has nothing to do with whatever Genesis does."


    For once, Mirk was inclined to agree with him. If there was one thing Yule and Genesis had in common, other than their magical orientation, it was their firm opinion that God had no hand in anything.

 Chapter 13

    "I need you."


    Mirk looked up from Ilya''s shoulder. Many of the men from the Seventh had returned, most of them only lightly injured, like Ilya. Someone had taken a downward swing at his shoulder with their sword, but hadn''t been able to do much more than put a deep gash in it. When Mirk had asked him about it, Ilya had simply shrugged his good shoulder and said that the metal their enemy was using on that realm was practically shouting at him to be melted. Mirk was halfway through stitching it shut when he was interrupted by a curt knock on the doorframe and the exhausted voice from out in the hall. It was Eva. The smock she wore over her robes was splattered with blood. And all of her surgical tools bundled together in the pockets of her smock were streaked with it.


    "What''s wrong, Comrade Eva?" Mirk asked.


    Eva frowned at his use of the title, but waved at him to follow her back into the hall. "It''s one of the djinn. He''s almost gone."


    Before Mirk could start apologizing to Ilya, the fighter shooed him away, taking the needle and thread from Mirk and starting to poke at his wound himself. Sighing, Mirk went to Eva, following her out of the room and down the hall, toward the emergency surgical rooms close to the field transporter. "I don''t mean to be rude, but...euh...why are you asking me for help? Comrade Emir says that the Twentieth isn''t allowed to work on the djinn."


    "I don''t care what Cyrus has to say," Eva said, a touch of frustration escaping her shields and brushing against Mirk''s. "I''ve sewn this one together two dozen times. I''m not losing him. Besides, Cyrus is off kissing the boots of the mages," she added, with a derisive snort.


    "I''m not sure what I can do..."


    "You''ve healed past magic before. And on more difficult patients than a djinn." Eva paused, glancing down at him as she pushed open the door to the room. "You''ve also healed this djinn before."


    Blood was smeared all over the surgical room. A heap of torn-up robes and uniforms festered in one corner of it. And strapped to the wooden table at its center was the djinn Mirk had healed weeks ago, Am-Gulat, writhing in pain, his chest ripped open. Mirk rushed to the djinn''s side, surveying the wound in his chest and hardly knowing where to begin. He heard Eva close the door and join him on the other side of the table. "Can''t you give him laudanum for the pain?" Mirk asked her, without looking up. Whatever magic the djinn''s collar produced that blocked off the worst of his pain must have been reinforced. Mirk could hardly feel anything coming from him.


    "We''re not allowed to," Eva said, in a near whisper. "And you know the officers keep a close eye on them. And the rest of the pain blockers."


    "What''s...what can we do?"


    "We can use enchanted items on them. They are only partially effective. Cyrus and Ravensdale prefer that we use manual techniques."


    His eyes watering with unshed tears, Mirk looked up at Eva. The surgeon had slipped into that other place that he saw the older healers escape into often, where the pain of their patients was a distant thing and their bodies became nothing but clockwork machines made of flesh. "Why did you ask for me? If I can''t use magic..."


    Eva''s eyes regained some of her focus as she shifted her gaze from the djinn''s broken body back to Mirk. "I require assistance in connecting to him, for my tools to work. You healed Genesis. He doesn''t have this," she said, touching the collar around the djinn''s neck, "but I think he has something similar. And he isn''t human either. You may be able to get past both his magic and the collar¡¯s."


    The surgeon pursed her lips, sorting through the tools in her smock by feel as she continued to stare down at him. "There''s something else, isn''t there?" Mirk asked.


    "I have heard the rumors. You are someone. Even if you are from the Twentieth, the commanders will respect that. You have more room to negotiate than I do. My father may be someone, but I am..."


    Eva didn''t need to elaborate. Mirk understood ¡ª the K''maneda, for all its strangeness, was much like the world Mirk thought he''d left behind. A noble woman was granted some latitude due to her powers, but, in the final calculus, she was still a woman. Expected to listen to her father, her husband, her commander.


    Mirk pushed the thought aside and took a closer look at Am-Gulat, resting his hands gently on either side of the wound in his chest, banishing his mental shielding and trying to project his magic down into his body. Like the last time, he came across a barrier of some kind, something that he could see through, that he could feel through, if he listened closely and used his physical eyes along with his magic, but that kept him from touching the djinn''s body with his magic. "I can''t feel much of him," Mirk said. "Can you tell me what you can''t fix?"


    "The right lung. It has been punctured. I can drain and fill, but...my tools are not exact enough to close it through his magic. And the magic from the collar isn''t helping."


    Again, Mirk tried to reach through the barrier separating him from Am-Gulat. He felt more flickers of his pain, the horrible feeling of drowning, but he couldn''t hear or feel enough to make sense of the djinn''s unique makeup. Biting his lip, Mirk looked to the collar around Am-Gulat''s neck. Keeping his eyes trained on it, forcing himself not to look into the djinn''s face, contorted in agony, Mirk worked his fingers under the collar. Am-Gulat''s pain surged up in him. Instead of recoiling from it, Mirk followed it down, trying to reach his body through it. Though it was almost impossible to make sense of what he saw through the pain, he had a connection. He kept his eyes squeezed shut tight, fumbling blindly with his other hand.


    "I...I can...reach...but can''t hear...see...heal...hand. Give me your hand."


    Distantly, through the maelstrom of pain Mirk had plunged himself into, Mirk felt a pressure on his hand. A cold one. Eva might have replied; Mirk couldn''t hear her. But he could hear something in the pain, something rhythmic, repeating over and over. It reminded Mirk of the sound of prayer, from a great distance. "Do...heal..." Mirk choked out. Though he wasn''t sure whether the words came out in English.


    The longer Mirk remained in the pain, the more the world beyond it faded away. The chanting grew louder. And before his mind''s eye, he began to see flickers of something, impressions. Red and green twisting together. A blue circle. Something that glinted like diamonds. He was hallucinating, Mirk was certain, though he didn''t know what his mind was grasping for. Very faintly, he heard a second voice join in the prayer. A higher voice, fair, clearer. Though Mirk couldn''t understand the words, they seemed closer, somehow. Familiar. Like if he could just focus, like if the pain would clear, only for a moment, he might understand¡ª


    Abruptly, it stopped. Mirk blinked his eyes open. Dizziness and nausea and an overwhelming burning in his chest sent Mirk reeling away from the table. He would have fallen over, had Eva not grabbed hold of his wrist with both hands. "Mirk! Focus!"


    He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, finding his feet again. Mirk looked down at Am-Gulat''s chest. Although the wound in it was still raw and seeping, it''d been sewn completely shut while he''d been away. Mirk recognized Eva''s tidy, perfectly even stitches. "Did it work?" Mirk asked Eva, though it was hard to speak. His throat felt scratchy and raw.


    Eva said nothing. Mirk glanced across the table at her, confused. The surgeon looked as if she''d just been startled out of a nightmare. "Eva?"


    "I...yes," she finally said, letting go of Mirk''s arm. "It worked. We''ll have to see¡ª"


    "I''ll be fine."


    Together, Mirk and Eva turned toward Am-Gulat. The djinn¡¯s struggles had ceased, though Mirk was certain he still had to be in tremendous pain. Though Am-Gulat was pale and drenched in sweat, Mirk thought he looked triumphant, a wide grin spread across his face. One with a hungry edge. "Are you certain?" Eva asked the djinn.


    Am-Gulat''s grin faded as his breathing began to even out. "It is done."


    Mirk fumbled for Am-Gulat''s hand. It was slick with blood, but Mirk squeezed it tightly regardless. "I''m sorry I couldn''t do more, Monsieur Am-Gulat."


    Eva snorted. "Have you taken all your blockers yet?" she asked Mirk.


    "Hmm? No...methinks I have one or two left..." Mirk replied, distractedly. Am-Gulat''s attention had shifted to him, and a frown had replaced his prior grin. Mirk wondered if djinn culture didn''t make accommodations for touch. Despite having seen dozens of them in his life, and having spoken with many, Mirk didn''t know how djinn lived in private. And he suddenly felt ashamed for never having asked.


    "I''ll get you them. You look unwell." Eva paused, taking a bottle out of her pocket, uncorking it and handing it across the table to Mirk. "Have the last of mine as well."


    Mirk took it with his free hand. He knew he should probably let Am-Gulat go, but he didn¡¯t feel ready to do it. "Thank you, Eva."


    She sighed, but didn''t reply otherwise. Mirk turned his attention back to Am-Gulat as he listened to Eva leave ¡ª he did feel unwell, his head throbbing and chest still burning, though both of those felt like petty annoyances in comparison to the pain he''d shoved himself down into in order to help Eva heal Am-Gulat. Maybe she was right to give up her last potion for his sake. If Eva was anything, it was practical. Without lifting his eyes from Am-Gulat, Mirk drank the potion, wincing at its bitter taste as he swallowed it and tucked the bottle away in the side pocket of his robes. Am-Gulat cleared his throat, his free hand rising to his collar, though he caught himself before he could touch it. "Euh...is there something I can do to help?" Mirk asked, moving to release the djinn''s hand.


    "No," Am-Gulat said. And he gripped Mirk''s hand, with surprising strength, before Mirk could let him go. "Not yet. But perhaps..."


    "I-I''m afraid I don''t understand, monsieur."


    "You have been with the Destroyer," Am-Gulat said, continuing to stare up at him with that odd closeness, like he was looking past Mirk instead of at him. "Your aura has him in it."


    "I...what?"


    "The old word...what was it...k''ams...no." Am-Gulat paused, looking annoyed. "A majinn would know."


    Mirk shook his head. He didn''t understand either word, and he didn''t have his translation charm on. He''d left it with Danu. But the first word had a certain familiar sound to it. "What can I do for you, monsieur?" Mirk asked again, at a loss for how else to respond.


    "Tell him that we are ready. And we will do what''s needed," Am-Gulat said, his eyes drifting closed as he let out a slow breath through his nose. "It is done." Then his hand went limp in Mirk''s, as he passed out of consciousness.


    Mirk shook his head. He instantly regretted it. Instead of clearing the pain, it only made things worse. Am-Gulat''s hand was too cold for Mirk''s liking, too much like holding onto a corpse than a living person''s, and not in the peculiar way that Mirk was more accustomed to.


    Setting Am-Gulat''s hand down gently at the djinn''s side, Mirk stepped away from the table and looked around for something to cover him with. The supply cabinet at the back of the room had been completely emptied, all its doors and drawers left hanging open. It would probably be for the best if no one caught him lingering in the room. But Mirk didn''t think anyone would have more than a cross word or two to say to him if he fetched a blanket or a sheet and came back with it.


    It was hard walking a straight line. Mirk did the best he could, though he paused for a moment in the doorway to lean against its frame. Then he moved to turn right out of the room, toward the surgical and exam rooms further away from the field transporter, ones that might not be completely emptied. Before he could go very far, a watery cough from off to his left caught his attention. He turned, putting a hand out against the wall to brace himself, just in case the dizziness overcame him again.


    "Monsieur Am-Gu...oh..."


    Though the field transporter at the far end of the hall was disengaged at the moment, another patient had arrived from the field. Mirk hadn''t heard it activate, but he doubted the man in the tattered remains of a mage''s loose-fitting combat uniform could have been there long. Mirk didn''t think Eva would have left a patient on their own when she''d left, even if she''d been distracted. Especially not one in the mage''s condition.


    The mage was leaning against the wall beside the transporter, almost like someone had propped him there. He was shivering and crying, silently, one hand clenched tightly over the shoulder of his other arm. That half of his tunic had been completely burned away, the visible skin blistered and turned the blue-black color that came with a magical injury. As Mirk stood frozen in front of Am-Gulat''s door, the mage lost his grip on his shoulder, his eyes rolling back in his head. His whole arm shifted downward at an impossible angle, blood flowing down it in rivulets.


    Before Mirk could dash off to help the mage, the field transporter crackled to life at the end of the hall, the metal along its perimeter flashing with black sparks. Another patient hurled themselves through, as if he''d been running for the field transporter from the other side. He didn''t stay upright for long, collapsing onto his side, groaning, both arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. Mirk recognized him. A giant of a man, broad and thick and tall, with a mop of grayish hair that looked like it''d last been trimmed with a knife rather than shears. Slava, one of the Easterners, the fighter responsible for wrangling K''aekniv back into line when the half-angel got too drunk.


    Mirk was glad Eva had handed over her potion. If he hadn''t taken it, he had no doubt that Slava and the mage''s combined pain would have been too much for him to bear up under. Dragging up his shields as far as he could, Mirk stumbled down the hall to Slava''s side, kneeling down in the puddle of blood that was growing around him, worryingly fast.


    The fighter''s strength had given out, and he''d slumped over onto his front. It took all of Mirk''s weight and strength to heave Slava over onto his back. Slava was delirious with pain. He''d been knocked over the head, a jagged gash running across the width of his forehead. But more concerning was his stomach. Mirk gently moved Slava¡¯s arm ¡ª underneath was a mess of a wound, gaping wide. If Mirk had to guess, his viscera had fallen out once already, and Slava had jammed it back in so that he could make a run for the transporter. It was a miracle Slava had made it through. A weaker man, one with less magic and experience and brute strength, would have fallen over dead on the way there.


    "Slava! Slava, what happened?" Though Mirk knew he should be focused on Slava alone, he couldn''t help but glance back at the field transporter. Most of the men from the Seventh were back, but a handful were still missing. Mirk barely stood a chance of keeping Slava alive. If four or five more fighters staggered through, they''d all be lost, unless another healer came to help. "Where is everyone else?"


    Slava moaned and gasped out a response, but Mirk couldn''t understand it. Mirk lowered his shields just far enough to place a hand near the hole in his stomach and try to get a sense of how severe the injury was. From the glimpse Mirk caught with his mind''s eye, Slava''s innards were a mangled mess, the flow of his magic and body nothing but disjointed fragments of their former whole. Then Slava''s pain, along with that of the mage still sobbing by the transporter, overwhelmed Mirk, and he was forced to pull his shields back up before he was left half-conscious on the floor alongside the others. Mirk tried to shout for help, his vision darkening around the edges. But his voice came out too soft to draw any attention.


    Then, as rapidly as the pain had overwhelmed him, it cleared with the touch of another person''s magic. Cool magic. Ordered magic. Eva had returned and was kneeling on the floor opposite him, Slava''s head held between her hands. She said something to Slava in a language the fighter understood. It made Slava give a watery laugh.


    Gulping, Mirk tried again to find his voice. "He needs¡ª"


    "I already sent for the nurses," she replied, without looking up. With Eva''s magic around him, shielding off Slava and the injured mage¡¯s pain, Mirk realized that his mind had to be so close to the surgeon¡¯s that she must have known what he was thinking.


    But he couldn''t feel her in return. All the pain, first from Am-Gulat and now from the two injured men bleeding out in front of the field transporter, was starting to make Mirk¡¯s mind descend into a feedback loop of helplessness and suffering that was too familiar, that made him nauseous and shaky. Eva was shaking too, Mirk realized, her eyes fixed on Slava''s. Without breaking eye contact, she jammed a hand into the pocket of her smock and took out another bottle, tossing it to Mirk. He barely had the coordination left to catch it.


    "Take it," Eva said. "You''ll be fine."


    Mirk glanced at the label of the bottle. It wasn''t a normal pain blocker. It was the strongest they had. The kind that healers were only allowed to ever take one of, without any further assistance from laudanum or liquor, before the start of a terrible wave of casualties. And even then, a dedicated nurse was supposed to watch the healers who took them at all times, to make sure they didn''t mistakenly draw magic from their own core of life energy because they were too far gone to realize they were doing it. "Are you..."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "You''ll be fine," Eva repeated, still not looking away from Slava.


    Bracing himself, Mirk uncorked the bottle and drank.


    The blocker felt like it claimed him even before he swallowed. For a moment, Mirk felt like he was falling, the darkness at the edges of his vision turning golden. Then Mirk refocused on Slava¡¯s body, suddenly able to think again. The pain was a distant thing, a faint pulsing at the back of his mind, easily ignored. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing to be concerned over.


    Nor was the wound a cause for concern. With his physical eyes, it looked like a shredded mess. Yet as the blockers took hold, Mirk could see the structures that had once made up Slava¡¯s midsection like a yellowy cobweb that¡¯d been draped across the fighter¡¯s stomach, guidelines showing him how to make what was tangled and ruptured whole once more. Not a problem. Everything could be fixed. Mirk dipped his hands into the mess, pleased instead of worried by the warmth of blood on his hands.


    Mirk reached for his healing magic, the bright core of warmth and life at his center. With the blockers casting their glow over everything, it was hard to tell how much he had left, how much he could draw up and give away without disturbing the shimmering center that his own body drew strength from. But it''d be all right. The wound was nothing to worry about, and his core was nothing to worry about, there was plenty, everything was so small and inconsequential and so easy to¡ª


    When the anger hit Mirk, it was like a punch in the gut, the sudden beauty and ease of the world dropping away into a terrible, cold reality that was hideous. Mirk searched for its source.


    Cyrus. He must have been talking for some time before his anger finally reached through the blockers to Mirk''s mind and knocked him out of his healing trance. The commander of the Tenth was glaring down at Eva with venom in his eyes. Eva refused to take her eyes off of Slava, even when Cyrus reached out and struck her upside the head. That, Mirk thought, was uncalled for. He needed to do something about this. Eva felt afraid. Mirk forced himself to concentrate hard enough to hear what Cyrus was ranting about.


    "¡ªlook, I don''t care who you think needs it the most. I am your commander. There are priorities. That mage needs healing before he loses his arm, what''s the use of a mage with only one arm, for Christ''s sake? Be reasonable for once, woman. Come back to the brute when¡ª"


    "Cyrus."


    Mirk was only half aware that it was now him doing the talking. He really shouldn''t have been saying anything in that state. At least, that was what the last shred of reason the blockers hadn''t drowned out was shouting at him. But the rest of Mirk couldn''t look beyond the fact that Cyrus was making Eva, poor always-steady Eva, into a mess, and he was looking down at Slava, poor kind-hearted Slava, like he was some sort of insect that deserved to be squashed underfoot. And he''d robbed Mirk of the peaceful certainty, the beautiful clarity that came along with the blocker that he''d only just begun to savor, and it all was making Mirk incredibly upset.


    "You should leave her alone,¡± Mirk heard himself say. ¡°Now."


    Mirk couldn''t help but feel a touch of self-satisfaction as Cyrus, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, beat a hasty retreat off down the hall. He must have sounded more authoritative than he usually did. Maybe the blockers were permitting him to channel that imperious attitude Yule and the rest were always saying he should have found instinctual, considering his lineage. But it was probably just his imagination, Mirk thought to himself, as he turned back to the problem of Slava''s ruined insides.


    There was a strange smell in the air too, a mixture of burning coal and damp stone, but Mirk immediately dismissed it as he scanned Slava''s torso. A smidge of Mirk¡¯s earlier contentment returned when he saw that, while he''d been distracted, all of Slava''s inner bits had been put back in their proper places. Though the wound was still half-open, raw and oozing blood under his fingers.


    "Deo gratias," Mirk mumbled, instinctively lifting a hand to cross himself, looking up at Eva. Something made a hollow thunk against the stone floor of the hall when he raised his arm, but Mirk was too distracted by the way Eva was staring at him to think to look. The surgeon seemed a little afraid still, but Mirk couldn''t place why. Mirk suddenly got the impression that something important had happened, but the blockers were making him too foggy to either notice or care. Maybe that was why Emir had never allowed him to take the strong blockers before, even when there was a nurse nearby to mind him. "Euh...is something wrong, Eva?" Mirk asked her.


    Before she could reply, several things happened at once, too quickly for Mirk to keep track of them. A team of fresh nurses and aides barreled up the hall with a pile of stretchers in hand. The transporter was crackling to life again. Through the blockers, Mirk felt the faintest touch of pain from its direction. He turned to look. The mage who''d been propped against the wall had sunk down to his knees.


    "Stupid...accursed..."


    Genesis stepped out of the transporter, its black sparks jumping off both the ring of metal around it and the tendrils of shadow the commander still had wrapped about himself. He was dragging along another mage with his magic. The mage seemed fine enough, aside from something wrong with his legs that Mirk couldn''t quite put his finger on. Once he was fully through into the infirmary, Genesis dropped the mage ¡ª a tall, elegant-looking blond man whose ordered magic wasn''t taking well to being manhandled by Genesis''s chaos ¡ª with an annoyed flick of his hand. In his other hand, Genesis was carrying one of the long, magicked flintlock rifles that the low-born officers from the artillery division were always trying to force on the commander. It looked like Genesis had been beating someone with it instead of using it in its intended fashion.


    "...rifles...mages...useless..."


    Mirk struggled up onto his feet to make room for the nurses and aides. Only one, a friend of Eva''s if Mirk remembered correctly, remained by Slava''s side. Together, they were using their combined magic and physical strength to transfer him to a stretcher. The rest of them headed for the end of the hall, shouting for someone named Percival, though they drew up short once they got a better look at Genesis. That was probably a good idea, Mirk thought to himself, distantly. Genesis seemed to be in one of his moods. Mostly because of the rifle.


    "...waste of magic, both of them..."


    The glow was returning to the world, and Mirk found it hard to worry too much about any of it. Cyrus''s interruption had been troublesome, but apparently even the caustic mental feel of Cyrus¡¯s blustering and cruelty wasn''t enough to completely negate the blockers. There was another crackle of magic from the transporter, along with a smell of ozone, as a gray-clad, masked fighter who was armed with a sword came stumbling through.


    With a hiss of frustration, Genesis took the rifle in both hands and swung it mercilessly down on the fighter''s head. Before the fighter could fall, and before the pain of the blow could seep through the blockers'' golden haze, Genesis shoved the fighter back through the transporter with a kick to the midsection that somehow came across as disdainful. Almost like the commander was worried he''d get something nasty stuck to the bottom of his boot if he kicked the fighter too hard. After a moment''s deliberation, Genesis chucked the rifle through after him.


    "Hmph. Modern weaponry indeed."


    Shaking his head, Mirk turned back toward Eva, only to find that she and the nurse had loaded Slava up onto the stretcher and had hurried off with him, leaving only a coagulating puddle of blood in their wake. Which he was kneeling in.


    Mirk tried to get to his feet without getting any more of it on himself. It was then that he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that his grandfather''s staff must have fallen out of the pocket in the sleeve of his robe. It''d been shrunk down to the size of a wand when he''d tucked it away that morning, but now it was back at full quarterstaff length. Odd. Mirk picked it up, deciding to use it to lean on rather than putting it away again. He might not have been able to use it much for magic, but he could certainly use it for its more mundane purpose.


    Everything still seemed to be happening around him at an odd distance. As soon as Genesis started down the hall toward Mirk, the nurses and aides squeezed past Genesis to tend to the mage that he''d brought through the teleporter, all of them shouting at one another. Their yelling sounded worried, but Mirk couldn''t feel the emotion through the blockers. And Genesis didn''t seem concerned, so it couldn''t be anything that bad. Someone yelled back at them, and Mirk glanced over his shoulder to look ¡ª Cyrus was back, a goodly distance down the hall, near the doorway leading to the steps down to the basement. For some reason, Cyrus refused to come any closer.


    "I do...hope you intend on bathing."


    Mirk turned back around. Genesis had noticed him, though Mirk noticed that he was making it a point to stay well out of arm''s reach. Rather than looking at him, exactly, Genesis was staring at the blood that had saturated the front of his robes.


    "Oh. Well, if you insist, messire," Mirk said, laughing. Now that he was closer to Genesis, looking at him head-on, Mirk saw that his left cheek was singed and oozing. That must have been why he''d been so annoyed at the rifle. Reflexively, Mirk stepped closer to him, leaning hard on the staff as he reached up to him with one hand. "Oh, your face...come here..."


    Aghast, Genesis made a warding gesture at Mirk''s hand. "No."


    "Don''t be stubborn, Gene¡ª"


    "You''re covered in things."


    Mirk drew back his hand,  blinking a few times to help himself focus before looking down at it. There was more on it than just blood. Strange. He didn''t remember putting his hands in anything else. "I suppose I am a mess," Mirk mumbled, wiping his hand ineffectively on his dirty robes.


    Without prompting, Genesis snatched a handkerchief out of the never-ending supply in his overcoat''s breast pocket. The commander held it out to Mirk with only his thumb and forefinger. Mirk reached for it, but after getting a second look at his hands, Genesis took it back.


    "No. No, it needs water...hot water...soap..."


    Still muttering to himself under his breath, Genesis stalked off down the hall, ducking into a room midway between the transporter and the steps to the basement. Mirk laughed to himself. Of course Genesis would know which of the emergency rooms had the magicked taps in it. Mirk hobbled to the side of the hall to let another team of nurses and aides pass him, destined for the second mage, the one who''d been waiting at the transporter the longest. They all diverted around a spot in the middle of the floor, close to the puddle of Slava''s blood, where the stone had gone shiny and dark around a cluster of jagged protrusions. Like the floor had grown teeth. Mirk laughed again at the thought of it and continued on, counting his steps in an effort to reel in his wandering mind. Even with the lower-grade blockers, Danu always said that if you needed to focus better, counting things always helped.


    Eleven reeling steps to the room Genesis had hidden in. The commander was waiting for him, damp handkerchief in hand. "Oh...je vous remercie, messire, c''e¡ª"


    Again, Genesis cut off Mirk''s attempts at reaching for the handkerchief. "No. There is a...process. One you are too...intoxicated to understand."


    Mirk shrugged, shifting his hold on the staff. "I...I needed to help Slava. Messire."


    For only a second, Genesis''s eyes darted in the direction of the staff. Then he was focused back on cleaning, debating the best way to begin. "Have you...made use of the staff?"


    "Hmm? Oh, no...it must have fallen out of my pocket..."


    Genesis started with his face, his forehead and cheeks, on smears of blood that Mirk supposed had to be there, but that he couldn''t remember having touched with his bloodied hands. The handkerchief was warm from the water, soft, as fine as any noble lady''s. And faintly scented, more with Genesis''s soap than the cleaning potion he used on his laundry. It didn''t surprise Mirk that Genesis carried his soap with him wherever he went, but the thought of it still made Mirk laugh. "I''m honored, messire...wasting a whole handkerchief just on me..."


    Frowning, Genesis dabbed harder at Mirk''s forehead, at some spot that wouldn''t lift. "Stop talking. It makes this more...difficult."


    Swallowing another laugh, Mirk tried to stay still. The blocker was making it difficult. Aside from being dizzy again, Mirk now felt a strange compulsion to lean into the commander''s touch as well. Eva really must have handed him the strongest pain blocker they had. Only the ones that they put the harsh mixtures of highly-refined opium and mushrooms and all sorts of other strange, expensive things in had the enchanting ability to make pain distant and pleasure close. Usually the pain those kinds of blockers were made to dispel was so intense that the dual effect didn''t matter. Eva must have been more frightened by the thought of Slava dying than Mirk had been able to feel.


    Which reminded him. "What happened? With Slava?" Mirk asked Genesis, doing his best to move as little as possible as he spoke.


    "The mages were...captured. Again. I have told Hauke to...convey to Ravensdale the importance of improved combat training for the mages, but, I am, as always, ignored. The Third''s mages are...useless for most things." Genesis paused, moving his attention back to Mirk''s cheeks. "I should have refused. If they won''t train to protect themselves, the...idiots should bear the consequences of their oversight. A single fighter of Stanislav''s capacities is worth ten of them, magic aside."


    Mirk couldn''t keep the laugh in that time. Though, he didn''t try very hard to suppress it. It covered up the gasp that escaped him as Genesis shifted down to his neck, moving the handkerchief in curt, firm strokes. The commander was being entirely business-like. Proper. But it felt different, more like how Mirk imagined a dog or a cat felt like while being petted. Satisfying.


    It was nearly embarrassing. Nearly. It was too pleasant for Mirk to be properly embarrassed. Like basking in the sun during summer and a hot drink and and embrace all at once. Intoxicating. Like the potion he''d drank. The emotion wasn''t worth ruining with embarrassment. Besides, it wasn''t as if Genesis knew how to properly read expressions anyway.


    Genesis was still muttering to himself. He sounded annoyed. It detracted from things a bit, but, really, it made it all seem less like a hallucination. Mirk couldn''t imagine the commander not being annoyed by anything that involved dirt.


    Then, too soon, Genesis stopped, straightening up and presenting Mirk with the handkerchief. Mirk was alarmed by how he needed to bite down on his lip to keep a whine from escaping him at the absence of his touch. He was really beginning to appreciate now why only the highest-ranking healers had the keys to the cabinet where they kept the high-potency blockers. "Now," Genesis said. "The rest of it."


    Mirk took the handkerchief from him, laughing to himself again. "So demanding, messire...it isn''t like you..."


    With a hiss of frustration, Genesis was gone again. The commander had retreated back into the room with the taps, hitting the activation rune for it with his elbow before hurriedly setting in on scrubbing his hands. Mirk wiped half-heartedly at his own hand with the handkerchief, surprised to see that most of the blood was coming off without any struggle, despite the fact that it''d begun to dry. The handkerchief had to have been magicked for optimum cleaning efficiency.


    Mirk finished cleaning his own hands long before Genesis finished washing his. So Mirk leaned on the staff again and watched Genesis, struggling against all the nonsense thoughts spinning around in his head. Everything looked lovely. The floor looked lovely. The room¡¯s table, still smeared with blood from the last patient who¡¯d been strapped to it, looked lovely. Genesis, despite his determined grimace and his ugly overcoat and the burn on his cheek, looked lovely. Sort of. More like not so stern, or cold. Mirk shook his head, trying to clear it before the commander noticed that he was staring at him.


    Mirk had started to come back to himself by the time Genesis finished, having chased away some of the influence of the blockers by concentrating and counting the stones in the floor. Genesis shot a resentful look at the handkerchief Mirk still had clasped in one hand and reduced it to nothing. The feel of the commander¡¯s staticky magic against Mirk¡¯s hand was like being brushed all up and down his arm with feathers. So much for coming back to himself. Mirk swallowed hard, trying to make his smile look less dazed. "...I''m sorry for ruining it, messire...I''ll have new ones made for you..."


    "Don¡¯t waste your gold," the commander said, as he sidled past Mirk out the door. Genesis was thin enough that he didn''t come close to touching him on the way past, but, judging by the expression on Genesis¡¯s face, the mere potential of it was enough to make him twitchy. "And do not think this...absolves you of a proper washing."


    "I wouldn''t dream of it, messire...absolution without penance is just sinning again..." And if Genesis''s religion was cleanliness, then Mirk supposed taking a bath had to be akin to Mass, with cleaning meticulously under each fingernail counting as an Ave Maria.


    "Your papist superstitions have nothing to do with it."


    Mirk stumbled back into the hall after Genesis, the staff the only thing keeping him from collapsing in another doorway and giving up on things. His legs felt like they belonged to another person, distant and wobbly. The commander paused, waiting for Mirk to catch up. Mirk tried to hurry, but it only made the dizziness worse. His foot caught on the edge of a stone and he pitched forward. Even with the staff to help, he had to grab hold of Genesis''s arm to keep from falling flat on his face. Though Genesis went tense, he didn''t try to pry him off. Maybe only because doing so would have meant touching him.


    "I...I should find a place to lie down..." Mirk mumbled, scanning the length of the hall. All the doorways were shimmering as if they were enchanted.


    The tension didn''t leave Genesis. But he did shake his head. "You will be...incapable of maintaining your own shielding once those things are finished with you. It would be...prudent to get things over with. As it were."


    "It didn''t feel like I used that much magic..."


    Genesis paused, thinking. Mirk felt Genesis¡¯s magic sweep over him again, tickling and teasing, and a giggle escaped Mirk¡¯s slackened lips. Genesis either didn¡¯t notice or care. ¡°No. You did not. The potential to heal Stanislav must have come from¡­elsewhere. A lack of proper control...drawing from what magic is present...perhaps..."


    "Methinks you''ll have to slow down a little, messire. I can''t really follow..."


    Genesis looked over his shoulder, back down the hall toward the field transporter and the odd spot of blackened and twisted stone. Then he reached out over Mirk''s head with his free arm, touching the tip of the staff with just the pad of his forefinger. Though Mirk couldn''t see or feel the staff react in any way, it must have. Genesis drew his hand back quickly, rubbing his fingers together.


    The commander looked troubled. Mirk didn''t understand why. Everything was wonderful, tinged golden and warm. As long as Mirk didn''t move too quickly, at least. "As always, you may choose to do as you will. However, I would be willing to...accompany you back to the dormitory. K''aekniv has been advised to see to the others. And divert any attempts at sending the companies out after more...incompetents from the Third."


    "I saw Niv come back! Poor Pavel was so upset at being carried upside down..."


    "Pavel is more...reasonable than the rest."


    "Well, if it''s not too much trouble, messire, I would take my own bed over the ones up on third. I only don''t want to make things hard for you...you''ve had a long day..."


    Genesis sighed. "I would prefer it if you applied yourself to walking rather than apologizing."


    "I''m at your service, as always, messire," Mirk mumbled, laughing to himself again. He wasn''t certain if everything came out in English. But none of it, somehow, was enough to make Genesis cross enough with him to vanish. Mirk was intensely grateful. Even though he did have the staff to help, it was easier with Genesis there too, somehow. Or maybe his mind was just that addled. Either way, Genesis kept deliberate pace with him as Mirk hauled himself down the hall toward the front of the infirmary, unable to keep from humming to himself as he went.


    It probably would have saved them both time and trouble if Genesis had just picked him up and carried him. But some things were just too much for Genesis to bear, no matter the situation.

 Chapter 14

    "Ah, come in!"


    A mid-morning knock at Mirk¡¯s door was unusual to begin with. The fact that, though he gave permission, the door didn''t open, made things all the more stranger. Mirk turned and shot the door a puzzled look, putting down his quill. He searched for who it could be and came up blank. If it was someone from the Seventh looking for Genesis, they wouldn''t have knocked, or would have only paused a second before barging in. And if it was another healer, they would have waited a few moments longer for him to pull his shields up, then entered. That left very few options, none of them reassuring. Sighing, Mirk got up and answered, checking his shields before opening the door.


    He was presented with a broad chest, hung with the lapels of a quality gray wool overcoat, that of a man of means who was uninterested in making an impression. Mirk looked up just in time for the figure on his doorstep to bend into a low, formal bow. Madame Beaumont''s djinn, Am-Hazek. Startled, Mirk took a step back from the threshold. "Um...euh...Monsieur Am-Hazek, my apologies," Mirk said, switching into French after a halting start. It was odd how little time it''d taken for his knee-jerk responses to start coming out in English rather than his native tongue.


    "Seigneur d''Avignon," Am-Hazek murmured, as he straightened up. Then he folded his arms behind his back; there was no letter for Mirk that time. Which made everything even more confusing.


    "Is something wrong?" Mirk asked. Instantly, panic made his throat so tight he could barely get any words out. ¡°Did something happen to Henri? Or Armel?¡±


    The djinn shook his head instantly. But he gave Mirk a few moments¡¯ pause to recover and compose himself again before continuing. "Forgive me for interrupting your work, seigneur. Especially if you were in the process of attending to the matter that brought me here," Am-Hazek said, nodding at the piles of paper on Mirk''s desk. The majority of them were in precise, ordered stacks ¡ª Genesis''s. The mess in front of them, a few dogeared bits of salvaged parchment and a pile of opened correspondence, was Mirk''s.


    "Oh, no! You''re not interrupting anything," Mirk said, once he¡¯d found his voice again, trying to ignore the mounting flush of embarrassment he could feel on the sides of his face. "I was seeing to the accounts, that¡¯s all."


    To his surprise, rather than being ambushed by a dozen djinn from other noble families that Mirk¡¯s grandfather had owed money to, Mirk had been met just after dawn that morning by one ghost from the London counting house with a stack of reports on how well his grandfather''s ¡ª his own, now, Mirk supposed ¡ª investments had been doing. He hadn¡¯t yet been able to make heads from tails of the long columns of numbers and references to obliquely named business concerns, and he¡¯d been at it all morning. But discussing such a matter in front of another noble''s djinn was the height of impropriety, even if Am-Hazek''s advice on the matter would have been worth its weight in gold.


    "Then I am glad that I haven''t disturbed you unnecessarily, seigneur. I''ve been sent by Madame Beaumont to inquire as to your response to her invitation to her upcoming ball."


    Mirk laughed, nervously, as he felt his face go even redder. "Oh! Oh, of course, I...I know that having spoken with her previously about it doesn''t excuse me from giving a proper reply, I just..."


    He hadn''t had the time, energy, or inclination to find good enough stationary to write his reply on. Or to find the right color wax for his family''s seal, or to make the trek to the Teleporters Guild hall to have his reply sent off. Despite Genesis''s continual grumbling over the legions of aides and officers that trailed after the K''maneda''s commanders like so many ducklings after their mother, Mirk really was starting to understand why they kept so many retainers, if the life of a commander was anything like that of the head of a noble household. Ordering a valet to fetch the necessaries for a letter, dictating it to another, then sending it off with a third took a fraction of the time than it did to complete all the sundry tasks oneself.


    "You are in a difficult situation for a man of your station, seigneur. Though I mean you no offense, of course." Am-Hazek said, with a deferential dip of his head.


    Mirk deflated, giving a helpless shrug. "We all have our cross to bear, monsieur. I''m thankful mine''s so light."


    "Madame has inquired after your health, incidentally. I trust all is well?"


    "Yes, of course, I''m very well. It''s...well, it''s an adjustment, and the summer contracts all seem to be ending at the same time, but, well. This is the life I''ve chosen."


    "If I can be of any assistance, seigneur, do not hesitate. Madame is well aware of your situation. Until you are more established here, she has given me the latitude to assist you in any small matters that may arise."


    Mirk was torn. There was no slight in the offer on Madame Beaumont''s part, Mirk knew. Such a gesture could be a show of subtle disdain for his unwillingness to drop everything and hire on the necessary household servants the moment he''d learned of his family''s situation and the necessity for him, as the head of it, to take on responsibility for their well-being. But he knew Madame Beaumont better than that. She wanted to help him, genuinely.


    Even though her sympathy only made Mirk more embarrassed, Madame Beaumont had a point. Spending that morning trying to make sense of the accounts on his own had already given him a terrible headache. And he''d only had the morning free to give himself one because Emir had told his team last night not to come in until the afternoon, when the worst of the casualties from the final battle of some contract or another were anticipated to arrive. "Euh...do you have a moment right now, monsieur? I don''t mean to be a bother, but..."


    The djinn bowed again. "As I said, seigneur. I am at your service."


    "I''m coming to the ball, of course. Please do tell Madame that I''m looking forward to it and thank her for thinking of me. It''s just...well. I''ll need new suits for this season, and I''m sure my measurements have changed. I kept meaning to go to the tailors and have my measurements sent off to the Nasiris in Paris, but..."


    But just the thought of standing in the middle of a tailor¡¯s shop and being prodded at for a half hour or more, then heading off to the infirmary for a full day''s work was exhausting. Am-Hazek nodded. "I am familiar with the requirements. If I may?" the djinn asked, gesturing at the room beyond.


    "Of course. Please, come in," Mirk said, stepping to the side and fitting himself into the narrow gap between the trunk at the end of his bed and the wall to make room for Am-Hazek to enter. Mirk was suddenly acutely aware of how shabby his quarters were, their stone walls pockmarked with age and all the furniture plain and scratched and dinged from use and being, for the most part, second hand. It was a good thing that Genesis had decided to stay instead of running off to go hide himself in a disused room somewhere else in the City. If the commander hadn''t been there to see that all the laundry was managed and that the bed was always made, it''d have made an even more abysmal impression on Am-Hazek.


    The djinn slid past him, considering the small space for a moment before pushing in the chair at Mirk''s desk and extracting a tape measure from the pocket of his waistcoat. Mirk wondered if that was the sort of thing a djinn servant was always expected to keep on hand, or if Am-Hazek had anticipated Mirk''s lack of foresight. Either way, Mirk''s face was still burning up as he shuffled over to the center of the room and stood with his back to Am-Hazek.


    "I see you have decided to pursue a rigorous course of study," Am-Hazek said.


    Mirk laughed to himself, holding out his arms at his sides. "Oh, no. Those grimoires aren''t mine. I''m sharing the room at the moment. I really don''t have much luck with doing magic that way, I''m afraid."


    Am-Hazek gave a polite cough, as he looped the tape measure around Mirk''s chest. "You are...sharing this room with another person, seigneur?"


    If even a djinn was shocked by it, Mirk supposed he really had sunk to new lows. It only didn''t feel like he was that bad off, considering what he''d heard of the dormitory the members of the Seventh lived in, though he''d never dared to venture inside. "Ah...finding a place to stay in the City is very difficult. But this isn''t permanent. I''m sure he''ll be leaving soon. This is the sort of room that all the healers have, other than the officers or the ones with family money."


    Mirk heard Am-Hazek sigh. "You must take your former vows of poverty very seriously, seigneur."


    He was undecided whether the djinn meant this as a compliment, or a very thickly veiled insult about him being too miserly to spend the gold necessary to maintain a proper residence. But before Mirk could comment on it, the feel of the tape measure being secured lightly around his neck drew his mind down a different path. "Monsieur Am-Hazek, would it be rude if I asked you a question about the djinn home realm?"


    The djinn chuckled. "Strange, but not rude."


    "What is a majinn?"


    The word gave Am-Hazek pause. "Ah...within every kinship line, there are certain families who are dedicated to scholarly pursuits related to the penchants of that line. Those who have become a master of all our recorded knowledge on a certain subject are considered a majinn."


    "Oh. Hmm...well, I supposed it had to mean something like a scholar...but that doesn''t really help..."


    Am-Hazek was silent as he measured the lengths of each of Mirk¡¯s arms. Once it became clear to Mirk that the djinn wasn''t going to inquire further unless prompted, Mirk spoke up again. "I only ask because I helped heal a member of your kinship line the other day, and he mentioned it in passing. I...well. I probably shouldn''t say, but I don''t think Madame Beaumont or any of the others would ever have a real interest in the K''maneda. But the way the English nobles treat their djinn is terrible. Even worse than the way that some of the guild masters in France treat theirs."


    "I am well aware of the privileges Madame grants me, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. He sounded profoundly tired, though Mirk couldn''t sense any emotion through his mental shielding. A djinn, after all, was meant to be nearly invisible, simply another bit of finery moving about in a household full of gilded extravagance. It made Mirk feel even worse about pressing the matter further. But it was clear to Mirk by then that the odds of him ever being able to have a frank conversation with any of the djinn kept by the noble divisions were low to the point of impossibility.


    "I know it''s probably insulting to ask, since your kinship lines are probably much bigger than our houses...but do you know of a djinn named Am-Gulat?"


    Am-Hazek froze, for just a second, before continuing on smoothly to measure the length of Mirk''s other arm. "Yes. He was a child of a very martial inclination. The Am-Djinn are trained to be strategists, not fighters. But one''s personal inclinations may not necessarily align with the circumstances of one''s birth. As is the case on your own realm, seigneur."


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "He''s here," Mirk said, after a moment. "And he''s...having a very difficult time of things."


    The djinn''s tone remained pleasant, but had no trace of genuine emotion in it. "I am sorry to hear that, seigneur."


    "I''m doing my best to help him and the rest. But I...well. I''m only a trainee healer here, monsieur. I can only do so much. But the man staying with me at present has plenty of ideas. I think Am-Gulat was asking after him when we last spoke. I can''t be sure, though. Am-Gulat said that a majinn would have known better."


    For a long time, as he worked his way lower and lower down the length of Mirk''s body, Am-Hazek was silent. When he did speak, he seemed to do so with great reluctance. "Before I entered Madame''s service, I was a majinn."


    "I don''t mean to bring up a hard subject, Monsieur Am-Hazek..."


    "Be at ease, seigneur. I only had not thought of it for many years."


    Since he couldn''t feel anything from Am-Hazek, Mirk was uncertain whether the djinn was truly unbothered, or if he was only being polite. Mirk forced himself to press on regardless. Both their discomfort, Mirk thought, paled in comparison to the suffering the K¡¯maneda¡¯s djinn were being put through daily. Though Mirk felt ashamed at having to put Am-Hazek through any at all. "He said that my friend is a Destroyer. Do you know what he meant by that?"


    Am-Hazek''s voice took on a note of surprise. "A thing known across all realms, though they are called different names in different places. Along with their counterparts, mages who have exceptional powers to create. There have been three creating mages of note on the djinn realm, and all have been highly revered, as artificing is the special interest of the strongest kinship lines. I believe one was instrumental in the founding of the empire your father served as well."


    "Oh...yes, you''re right. I only had never thought of the Aelina as anything other than the...well, the Aelina."


    "The humans seem to not have specific traditions relating to these manner of mages. As the realm as a whole is not magically inclined. Comparatively speaking, of course. They have not had occasion to need a very descriptive word for them."


    "That''s exactly it," Mirk said, as he heard Am-Hazek kneel down behind him to get at his legs, delicately feeling for the limits of them through his robes. "Am-Gulat tried to use another word for it instead of Destroyer, but he couldn''t remember it. He said a majinn would know."


    "There is no history of that kind of mage being born within the djinn. But in the very distant past, certain lines were assisted by one from off-realm. The k''amskec. I am surprised that your friend hasn''t told you of him, if assisting the djinn is a matter of special importance to him. And if the friend who is currently residing with you is the one I am thinking of, seigneur. The commander. I can''t be certain that he''s also a mage whose potential makes him inclined toward destruction, but it would seem a likely possibility."


    The word Am-Hazek spoke, the one that Am-Gulat had been unable to remember, had a certain familiar tone to it, though it was heavily accented. "Yes, Genesis."


    "Perhaps the knowledge was never passed to him," Am-Hazek said. "The k''amskec was involved on our realm ten millennia ago. And the K''maneda as described in our records bears little resemblance to the one that you currently have chosen to be employed by."


    Mirk sighed. "Genesis always is telling me that the K''maneda isn¡¯t the way it''s meant to be."


    After a long pause, as Am-Hazek shifted from his left leg to his right, the djinn spoke again, hesitantly. "If I may be frank, seigneur, I guessed that your friend was a member of the K''maneda from the first time I saw him in Lyon. They have a certain bearing that is mentioned in the records. And a certain accompanying¡­personality. The difference between the present organization and the one in our records is stark, however, so I couldn''t be certain. That and I thought pursuing the matter of the commander''s penchant for books to be the more reliable course of action in ascertaining your location."


    "He says that he was raised in the K''maneda''s old traditions. Though no one here seems to have any idea what he''s talking about most of the time," Mirk said.


    "That would appear to be evident, seigneur."


    He heard Am-Hazek get back to his feet after finishing with the last of the measurements. Mirk turned to face him, hoping that he might be able to get a better sense of how badly the conversation had disturbed Am-Hazek with the help of being able to see his expressions. But the djinn was as composed as ever, with the same slightly pleasant but distant expression Mirk was familiar with from all the noble djinn servants. Mirk wrung his hands, debating how to reply. "I...thank you, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I don''t want to detain you further than I already have. I only asked because I do really want to help the djinn here. And elsewhere. I know it must sound like I''m patronizing you, monsieur, but the way things are has never sat well with me. Living in the City has only made it that much clearer to me."


    Am-Hazek nodded, slowly, glancing around Mirk''s cramped quarters again as he did so. "I do not doubt the genuineness of your sentiments, seigneur. I have been in Madame''s employ for three decades now, and her house''s for four. I haven''t before encountered a man of your present means subjecting himself to such conditions.¡±


    Mirk laughed, shrugging helplessly. ¡°It really isn¡¯t so bad.¡±


    Am-Hazek seemed unconvinced, though there was nothing but the barest hint of disapproval on his face as he continued to survey Mirk¡¯s room. ¡°Some of the magic of the K''maneda does appear to have endured, despite the culture being lost. The records made note of a certain scrupulosity in cleanliness. The streets in this City are in much better condition than the mages'', even. And this room even moreso."


    All Mirk could do was shrug and laugh again. "That''s more Genesis''s doing than mine, I''m afraid. But, you''re right, things outside are because of the City''s magic. The commander explained it to me once, but I''m afraid I wasn''t paying terribly close attention."


    "You said you wished for me to send the measurements to the Nasiri brothers in Paris, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked, as he pocketed the tape measure. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that Am-Hazek hadn''t taken notes of any of the measurements he''d made. But if he''d been a master scholar before being brought to Earth, Mirk supposed, remembering a few numbers would be nothing more than a trifle to him. It made a wave of dismay rise up in Mirk, one that he shoved back down before it could escape out onto his face. Things were already uncomfortable enough as they were.


    "Ah, if it isn''t too much trouble, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I haven''t had much chance to go to the Teleporters hall here, but I did tell the ghost who brought me the ledger tallies to open a line of credit with them for letters. Just send the measurements along and tell the Nasiris to use their own judgment on what style and color would suit me best. I don''t have any idea what the fashion is this season."


    "As you wish, seigneur. I could, however, recommend several suitable tailors that are more local, if it would make things more expedient for you."


    Mirk shook his head. ''It''s a little more trouble, but, well. They''re the only ones my mother ever went to for anything. And they''ve been so kind to us, since I''m sure having to make so many alterations to account for my father and sister''s wings had to be much more trouble than they''re used to."


    The faintest smile crossed the djinn''s lips as he gave a shallow bow. "I will send a letter immediately, seigneur."


    "Thank you again, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, as he once again shuffled over into the space between the trunk and the wall at the end of his bed to give Am-Hazek room to pass by. "For everything. Though...I don''t want to detain you further, but would you happen to know how my cousin Armel is doing? Has he woken up since I last visited?"


    "He is well, seigneur. Though he''s been awake only occasionally. We have received word from Madame''s nephew that the efforts to free Monsieur Henri and the children are continuing apace. They are expected to arrive in London three days prior to the ball. However, I think it would be wise to delay any visit until the day of the event. Monsieur Servais''s men have reported unusual activity nearby. There is no threat to you in London, but exercising some caution would be prudent."


    Mirk nodded, slowly. Am-Hazek remained in his doorway, his hands folded behind his back one more, waiting for Mirk to dismiss him. Again, Mirk hesitated. Knowing more of the details would do nothing but make more worry for himself, but Mirk felt compelled to question Am-Hazek further. "Has Monsieur Servais said anything more about who''s responsible for this? Is it..."


    "At the moment, they are uncertain of the precise details. All that is known is that your family is trapped in a pocket realm. However, the delay is simply a matter of the complexity that manner of magic brings with it. They have been meeting comparatively little resistance to their efforts to break in. Although they suspect they are being watched closely while they work." Am-Hazek paused, leaning out into the hall for a time before resuming. "If you wish to know more, seigneur, I would recommend drawing on the resources granted to you by your position here. Black Banner is not known for their finesse. The K''maneda, even in its present state, is much better suited to collecting information. Your current guest, I believe, is particularly skilled at this."


    "He is?" Mirk asked, his eyebrows shooting up.


    Am-Hazek nodded. "I hope you''ll forgive my intrusion into your personal matters, but Madame remains concerned by your wish to remain in the City. She requested that I look into the commander''s activities. He is a mage of some renown in London. I have been told by many knowledgeable sources that if one wishes for an enemy to be dealt with discreetly, or if one is in search of information on their movements, the commander¡¯s skill in dispatching the matter quickly is without comparison. The issue of his morals notwithstanding."


    "Oh. I...didn''t know," Mirk mumbled, glancing over at Genesis''s stacks of books on the desk. "I suppose it only makes sense."


    He really shouldn¡¯t have been surprised at all that Genesis dealt in secrets along with murder, even though the commander didn¡¯t speak much of what work he did independent of the rest of the Easterners in order to supplement their meager pay. If anyone in the world was suited to hanging around in dark corners, watching and listening and waiting for the most opportune time to strike, it was Genesis. The man was so quiet and still that Mirk tended to forget that he was there sometimes, even within the cramped confines of his dormitory room. The thought that Genesis used that uncanny stillness of his for killing always discomforted Mirk, even though he knew full well that it was part of how Genesis made his living. It made Mirk feel oddly guilty for finding it so comforting.


    "I have been told by many that their ambitions have been frequently thwarted by the commander. But that he is too indispensable to be dispatched with."


    "I see..."


    Mirk must have looked as troubled as he felt. Am-Hazek allowed his polite and indifferent mask to lower long enough to flash Mirk a tight-lipped smile. "There is nothing to concern yourself over, seigneur. I was not surprised to hear of this, considering what I had observed of him. The fact that Am-Gulat considered it worthwhile to attempt to speak with him through you is indication enough that, despite the nature of his dealings, the commander¡¯s heart is in the right place, so to speak. According to the records, the last Destroyer assisted my people greatly the last time they found themselves in a situation similar to that of the present. If the commander is following the old ways, as you say, he is doing us all a great service, in his own way."


    "The commander does always say that the K''maneda''s present work doesn''t align with what he was taught as a child," Mirk said. He forced himself to square his shoulders and push the thought away. There was no sense in brooding over what Genesis decided to do to make a living. There were worse things a person could be than an assassin or a spy. Mirk had seen plenty of evidence of that in the infirmary exam rooms. "Anyway. Thank you very much for all your help, Monsieur Am-Hazek. Please send Madame Beaumont my apologies for not getting a letter to her sooner. Tell her she should be expecting a letter from me within the week. I very much want to hear more of her opinions on how best to handle the matter of the ball."


    That time, Am-Hazek laughed instead of only smiling. "Madame does have a certain reputation for her shrewdness in these matters. At your leave, seigneur?"


    "Oh, yes, please, monsieur. Don''t let me detain you any longer."


    The djinn bowed again, not quite as low as before, and departed. Am-Hazek moved so smoothly, so lightly, that Mirk couldn''t hear his footsteps out in the hall. The only other person he''d met who could manage that was Genesis. Mirk pulled the door to, then trudged back to the desk and pulled out the chair again, flopping down into it with an exhausted huff.


    He hadn''t gotten anywhere with the accounts. And it was nearing noon. Mirk pushed all the papers and envelopes aside, drawing out a fresh sheet of parchment and refreshing his quill in the jar of ink he''d borrowed from Genesis.


    Mirk didn''t have a head for numbers. Or for magic. But he thought he could manage writing the letter he''d promised to Madame Beaumont. With any luck, he''d be able to compose something halfway comprehensible before he needed to head off for his shift at the infirmary.

 Chapter 15

    "One more left...ah, c''est trop..."


    It was just as bad as Emir had warned. Mirk had been hauling patients from the rooms nearest the transporters over to the aides waiting by the barrier to the second floor since the moment he''d come in. For the moment, the healers from the Tenth were capable of doing the real work, though they needed the assistance of all the available nurses and aides to handle the waves of casualties. Mirk hadn''t had a spare second to ask what was happening, where all the moaning and half-conscious men were coming from and why exactly the Seventh or the First hadn''t been sent out along with them to cushion the blow. All Mirk had time to do was choke down the blocker Danu had pressed into his hands along with a bun to take away some of the bitterness of the potion before getting back to work.


    They''d been working so hard that Yule hadn''t once taken a break to complain or gossip with them about the reason why so many men were coming in shredded, as all the other healers referred to wounds that were so terrible that they''d have been deadly if not for the support of the combat healers that had ferried the fighters back to the infirmary. Danu and Yule were already far off down the hall ahead of him, while Mirk was still back by the field transporter, leaning against the wall with one hand and catching his breath. Mirk had been hoping that all his work at the infirmary had been making him more resilient. But his head was still pounding, despite the blockers, and his back was tense and aching.


    Another five years, Danu always reassured him, and it wouldn''t be so bad. Yule never hesitated to tell her she was delusional.


    Just as Mirk willed himself to push off the wall and hurry after Danu and Yule, something crashed into him from behind. The blow sent Mirk reeling back into the wall as he flailed around to see what had nearly knocked him off his feet. It was an infantryman, stumbling down the hall from the transporter. Mirk recognized him. The man that he''d been tending to the night he''d found Genesis unconscious in the street.


    He was worse off than the last time Mirk had seen him. The infantryman was stumbling about in a daze, his eyes glassy and distant. He was clutching his forearm, severed completely at the elbow that time, to his chest with his uninjured hand.


    Mirk rushed to the infantryman''s side, all his fatigue and aching banished by panic. "Oh dear! Oh, no, not again, here, let me help¡ª"


    A stream of blood trickled down the infantryman''s face from the corner of his delirious smile. He didn''t seem to hear Mirk. Instead, he laughed to himself, weakly, as he looked down at his mangled forearm, petting at it like an old noblewoman did her toy dog. "Hell of a day..." the man slurred, his forearm slipping from his bloodied fingers.


    Before Mirk could get a good hold on his remaining arm, the man collapsed, falling flat on his face with a crunch that made Mirk wince backward, the infantryman¡¯s pain cutting through Mirk''s shielding like he had none at all. The infantryman''s back was a skinned and bloody mess, muscles sheared away to reveal the bones underneath, shards of metal sticking out of his back in a line along his spine. Mirk''s stomach lurched, but he still knelt down beside the infantryman, reaching out to him with the smallest tendril of magic he could pass over his shields without lowering them fully. If he wasn''t careful, the man''s pain would overwhelm him completely. Mirk wasn''t on strong enough blockers to heal that kind of wound.


    "Comrade?" Mirk called out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Comrade, can you hear me?"


    The infantryman didn''t respond. Distantly, Mirk heard the transporter engage, spitting out another casualty. Mirk ignored it, focusing all his attention on the infantryman, reaching out to the man''s life energy, that spark of warmth and purpose buried deep within everyone. There was the sound of moaning. Gagging. Staggering footsteps. Another healer would have to tend to the new arrival.


    "It''ll be all right, comrade, it''ll be just fine, just focus on the sound of my voice and breathe, breathe in, breathe..."


    The body splayed on the floor in front of Mirk began to convulse. Mirk felt the warm fluttering of the man''s soul brush against his own magic, just for a second. Then it was gone and the infantryman went limp, a growing pool of blood fanning out across the stones around him. Frozen, Mirk stared down at the mangled remains, struggling to pull his shields back up into place. They were coming apart at the edges from the combined force of his own horror and the pain battering against them from the outside.


    As Mirk stared helplessly down at the infantryman¡¯s body, he heard the transporter crackle to life again and again. Though he couldn''t bring himself to look up and see with his physical eyes how badly wounded the fighters reeling out of the transporter were, he could feel their amassed agony towering over him, a wave seconds away from crashing down on him.


    Then Mirk felt hands under his shoulders, hauling him back up to his feet. Yule. And Danu. She was pressing another potion into his hand. Mirk recognized the label on the bottle. It was the same strength blocker that Eva had given him when he''d needed to heal Slava. Shaking his head, Mirk forced himself back to the present, lifting his arm and gulping down the blocker. Instantly, the pain around Mirk dimmed. But that time, there was too much of it for the world to take on the glow that he remembered. It only blunted the pain enough to allow Mirk to find his feet again.


    "Sorry, so sorry, Danu, Yule...what''s happening?"


    "The Tenth''s calling it. You''re in," Yule said, taking the empty bottle from Mirk and slapping another one into his hand. Weaker than the first, but still terribly strong. Mirk glanced up at Yule. The older healer was grinning at him, humorlessly. Unbidden, Mirk remembered the smile that''d been on the face of the infantryman now lying dead at his feet. "Guess you''re rich enough to be first up."


    The blockers still didn''t feel strong enough, somehow. He needed Danu and Yule''s help to make it down the hall to the surgical room that''d been readied for them. The other members of his team both set to work assisting Mirk, fetching supplies from aides and sending them back off with fresh orders. Mirk¡¯s legs were trembling. He wished that Danu and Yule would come back. He didn''t understand ¡ª they had both been in the infirmary for over a decade; why was he being called to heal before them? But it wasn''t his place to question. It was his place to endure, to work, to save as many men as he could. A few seconds after Yule and Danu returned to his side, two aides swung their first patient up onto the table smeared with blood that Mirk was bracing himself against.


    It was a blast injury. Like the one that''d killed the infantryman Mirk had left behind out in the hall. The man''s uniform and skin were all seared off from neck to navel and a twist of metal was buried in his chest. The man was barely breathing. He had a head injury of some kind too, but Mirk could only do one thing at a time. Danu pressed her hands to either side of the unconscious man''s bruised face, taking command of his soul. Someone barked a curse at them from the doorway, but Yule handled it, hurling a curse back, saying something about how if they wanted to burn Mirk''s potential, they had to deal with the rest of his team supporting him.


    Sucking in a deep breath and banishing his shields, Mirk plunged into the barely-human gore laid out before him.


    He called to the metal fragment stuck in the man''s chest, drawing it out of him as carefully as he could as he channeled his magic down into space where it once was, tugging together flesh so that more blood couldn''t leak into the man''s punctured lung. But that didn''t fix the disturbance Mirk could feel in his other lung, didn''t stop the blood that was seeping out of his ears. The man died.


    Without fanfare, his body was dragged aside and another replaced him. A leg severed at the knee, and a wound on the inside of the other leg that was causing blood to pour out of it. Not so bad; Mirk healed the wound without much trouble, following instinct rather than his lessons, doing his best to make whole what had been broken. There wasn''t much he could do for the missing part of the infantryman''s leg other than seal off veins and arteries oozing blood onto the table. That man was still groaning when he was taken away and replaced by another.


    More bodies, one after one, Danu holding their souls steady while Yule passed him all the potions and powders he could bully out of the aides and gave Mirk terse recommendations about which wounds he needed to pour his life-giving potential into first for the men to have even a passing chance at survival. Fractured skulls, exposed and shredded innards, skin charred blue-black from magic burns, all of it passed under Mirk¡¯s hands and before his eyes in an unrelenting torrent of human suffering. He was too dazed and afraid to fully comprehend all of it.


    Mirk reached the blocker limit before he ran out of potential. He was switched to laudanum. Its euphoria was a distant thing; it barely did him any good. The next man who was loaded onto the table in front of him was gone below the knees.


    Why did they keep bringing these men to him, more wound than body, more dead than alive? Did they think he was some kind of saint, capable of calling down miracles to spare the men they brought to him final judgment? Did they think the well of life inside him was bottomless? Mirk was too shocked to do anything more than ask the questions in the spare moments he had between bodies. He did his best to ignore all of it and focus on his work. Some questions were the providence of God alone.


    As it dragged on and on, Mirk did everything he could not to think. Not to feel. But the pain was wrapping around him so tightly it felt like he could barely breathe, and tears were streaming down his face along with sweat, and he couldn''t speak any more, he had to keep biting down on his lip to keep from breaking down into sobs. Even though he tried not to feel, every so often he''d catch part of it, when Danu''s strength faltered and she lost her hold on the mens'' souls. Visions of women with vibrant smiles and warm eyes, the feel of the strong grip of a father''s hand on a shoulder, the calling and laughing of children in languages Mirk couldn''t understand.


    The laudanum limit came too soon. Then there was no relief but the haziness of alcohol, which the senior healers had decided Mirk could process almost indefinitely without risk of injury, something about a healer''s constitution, about regeneration, about having an angel for a father. None of it mattered. No amount of gin would be enough to wash the blood off his hands.


    Still, Mirk forced himself onward ¡ª he healed one artery only to have the patient bleed out from another, saved one leg but lost an arm, squeezed the life back into a heart while the brain faded and died. Another. And another. Dead, dead, alive, but just barely, dead, alive yet maimed so badly that magic promised the man only the ghost of the life he''d once had.


    Yule was the one who stopped the parade of dying men. Two aides tried to swing yet another body up onto the table, but Yule shoved himself in front of it, warding them off with a warning that if they wanted to save more of their own, they''d get Cyrus to cave and let the Twentieth take charge of the rest. It must have worked. The two nurses Danu called in from the hall to help carry Mirk off to the third floor had to step aside at the doorway to let Emir slide past and take Mirk''s place beside the table.


    Emir''s robes were soaked in blood up to their elbows. If the commander looked that bad, Mirk could only imagine what he had to look like.


    -   -   -


    Even though he was overwhelmingly, bone-achingly tired, Mirk couldn''t make himself fall asleep.


    His mind was too busy for it, or perhaps it was that the four hours he''d spent passed out up on the third floor had granted him just enough energy to ruminate on what had happened that afternoon. Mirk probably wouldn''t have woken up on his own if he''d been left in peace, but the bed the nurses had dropped him in was needed for a patient.


    After struggling into a fresh set of robes that weren¡¯t stiff with dried blood, Mirk had attempted to shuffle back downstairs and help with the remainder of the patients however he could, fetching supplies or stitching, but Sheila had caught sight of him on her way upstairs and had put a stop to that. The pain from the injured men didn''t impact her as badly; she fed on it rather than withering underneath the weight of it. She had more than enough energy left to accompany Mirk down to second, where she''d pried Yule out of a room where he was arguing with a healer from the Tenth and sent them both off back to the dormitory.


    Yule had tried to talk Mirk into going to the tavern instead of back to the dormitory. Though he''d felt guilty about it, Mirk had turned him down. Yule was always good company, even when he was in a mood, and since the Seventh hadn''t been involved in that day''s fighting, K''aekniv and the rest were bound to be there, ready with a bawdy story or joke to help take the edge off all the things Mirk had witnessed. There wasn''t a doubt in Mirk''s mind that they were all masters of the best way to forget about dead men by the score and the numbed or sobbing comrades they left behind.


    But Mirk wasn''t strong enough for any of it. The laughter and singing spilling out into the street from the tavern''s open doors, along with the rowdy amusement that went along with them, had been too overpowering for Mirk to bear in his weakened state. So he''d left the drinking to Yule and had returned to the dormitory alone.


    It''d taken all his remaining strength to haul himself up the four flights of stairs to his room, strip off his robes and use them to clean off the worst of the blood still left on his body, and collapse onto the bed in nothing but his braies. Mirk had been hoping he''d pass out right away, just like when the nurses had thrown him into the bed on third. Emir had said to both him and Yule as they¡¯d left that he expected them to both be in as early as possible the next morning. The infirmary was packed; they needed every last set of hands they could get, even if they weren''t recovered enough to heal.


    Instead, Mirk was left staring at the wall his bed was pushed up against, trying and failing not to think about anything. An impossible task, but Mirk felt he had to try. He counted his breaths, holding each a bit longer than the last, hoping to calm himself. All it did was leave him feeling dizzy.


    There was a barely audible click. Mirk had been concentrating so hard on his breathing that he''d forgotten about the fact that his room wasn''t entirely his own, at least at the moment. It had surprised Mirk, but he''d come to realize that it was surprisingly easy to not notice Genesis''s comings and goings, mostly because the commander did everything so silently and quickly that he was easy to miss unless Mirk was making a point to watch and feel for the tell-tale signs of Genesis''s magic.


    Though he didn''t hear any footsteps, Mirk could guess at what Genesis was doing behind him. It had to be after midnight by then, which meant that Genesis had most likely just finished with all of his nightly cleaning rituals. He''d be putting away all his potions and tonics, meticulously ordering them all in the top drawer of Mirk''s dresser.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Mirk hated to bother Genesis. But he hated the thought of having to get out of bed even more.  Even lifting one hand and waving it to catch the commander''s attention was a trial.


    "Would you put out the light, please? I...forgot about it. And I don''t have enough magic..."


    Genesis didn''t respond, but the magelights went out nevertheless. The dimness was a relief. The tiny magelight under the desk was just enough to make the room seem warmer, like it was lit by firelight instead of by magic.


    "Thank you, messire."


    Again, no reply. Mirk wasn''t expecting one. If Genesis had started exchanging the common pleasantries of everyday sociability with him, Mirk would have been forced to sit up and give the commander a once-over for head injuries. Mirk couldn¡¯t hear Genesis approaching, but he shifted over flush against the wall regardless. Reflexively, Mirk tensed, trying to raise shields that were no longer there as he felt Genesis''s weight on the mattress beside him. Then he let it go along with a sigh.


    That was another thing that it was harder to get accustomed to than Mirk was anticipating. He always braced himself for the press of emotions when Genesis was nearby like he needed to with most other people. But none ever came. All Mirk could ever feel was the staticky touch of Genesis''s magic, and that was only if he made it a point to search it out.


    It was cold against the wall. Mirk hadn''t bothered to get under the blankets before crawling into bed; just taking off his robes had felt like too much to bear. It would be warmer under the bedclothes, at least a little, though the difference between curling up against the wall or turning and doing the same to Genesis felt negligible, at least in terms of temperature.


    But there was a certain comfort in hiding under a pile of blankets, using them as a shield against the harsh and unfeeling world beyond. Especially when he was drained, when his mind was raw and vulnerable, half of him wanting company to help distract from the aching in his head, and half of him unable to bear even the thought of another person''s presence. And a small voice in the back of Mirk¡¯s mind whispered that he didn''t deserve comfort, that he''d done nothing to earn it.


    The rest of him was too desperate to take the voice seriously. Mirk clawed his way under the quilts.


    Mirk knew he should have left Genesis alone. The commander had tolerated his closeness up until then, but he hadn''t felt like he did now before, at least not while Genesis had been present. Hurt, afraid, alone, emotional. Genesis always seemed uneasy with people who were emotional. Tears and rages only ever seemed to bring out a distant sort of perplexity in Genesis, as if he was watching some kind of foreign ritual he didn''t understand and wanted nothing to do with. That and Mirk knew he still had to be filthy, despite his token attempt at cleaning himself before crawling into bed.


    Still, Mirk couldn''t help but want to turn over to face Genesis. If he wanted the comfort of closeness without the pain of another''s emotions, who better to go to than someone who felt like nothing at all? The small voice in the back of Mirk¡¯s mind snapped at him again: forcing someone into comforting you? Pathetic. Selfish. Desperate.


    Desperate. He was desperate. Mirk heaved himself over onto his other side. A moment later and he was clinging to Genesis, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin frame and his head buried against his chest.


    Though he''d been prepared for Genesis trying to push him away, extracting himself from the unprompted embrace, Genesis was still. The same unnatural, yet oddly comforting kind of still he always was. Genesis was always the same, always nearly cold enough to mistake for dead, always faintly smelling of all his potions and soaps that he used to scrub himself mercilessly, impeccably clean. No matter how badly beaten Genesis was, no matter how close he got to becoming nothing more than a shattered wreck of a body, like all those men Mirk had felt slip away from him that afternoon, Genesis always came back the same. As if nothing had happened. As if nothing would ever happen.


    Mirk suddenly felt foolish for having accosted Genesis so. But it still wasn''t enough to make him apologize and let go. A testament to his weakness. None of the other healers were reduced to such theatrics after a hard day. Most of the injured fighters themselves bore up under it better than he was at present. Though his mind felt cloudy and the right words were slow in coming, Mirk felt he should cough up some kind of explanation for himself.


    "I''m sorry, messire. It''s just..."


    Just what? Was awful? Was unbearable? Was inhumane, was terrifying, was nonsensical, was cruel to the point of madness? What amount of gold was worth all that agony, all those ruined and lost lives? Mirk was certain Genesis had to have seen worse. Genesis went through the transporter with the rest of the men instead of idling around on the other side, waiting for the dead to be brought back through.


    To Mirk''s surprise, Genesis answered him. "It would...concern me more if this did not upset you. I heard word of how...brutal this contract was. K''aekniv and I discussed assisting them. However, their...pride would not allow even North to accept the help of poor foreigners in obtaining their final victory on that particular realm."


    Was Genesis only humoring him? Mirk didn''t think it was likely. Genesis was sympathetic to his friends'' plights, Mirk thought, but he was always honest and practical in his response to them. Perhaps Genesis thought he had some sort of responsibility to tolerate Mirk''s clinging, some misplaced sense of obligation or duty due to Mirk being willing to share his room with him.


    It was pointless to wonder. Genesis wasn''t one to divulge his inner thoughts, and Mirk couldn''t sense a single one of them. Mirk sighed, making himself loosen his death grip on the commander''s midsection. But he couldn''t make himself let go entirely. Or look up into his face. Not yet. "Still. It''s...I should be able to take care of myself by now."


    Genesis was silent. Just as Mirk was about to apologize again and let him go, the commander carefully worked one hand out from underneath Mirk''s trembling body and patted him on the back. Three times. Three mechanical, laboriously precise and calculated times, as if Genesis expected Mirk to crack into a million pieces if he did it wrong.


    It wasn''t nice. Mirk knew it wasn''t. He should have said something encouraging, something supportive. Instead, Mirk burst into laughter, his face still pressed against Genesis''s chest. It was just so ridiculous that a man who didn''t hesitate to throw himself into the worst fights, who challenged the most cunning opponents without batting an eye, would be so apprehensive about something as simple as a pat on the back.


    But in a way, he shouldn''t have been so surprised. Everything had to be exact with Genesis. Precise. Even things that were meant to be instinctual, like comforting someone.


    "...what?"


    Though Mirk tried to stop, Genesis''s tone of voice made him laugh harder. The commander sounded bemused, as if he couldn''t fathom why his textbook response was anything out of the ordinary. The fact that Genesis started muttering to himself not long afterwards, in hisses and clicks rather than English, only made things worse.


    "Oh, no, it''s all right, Gen, it''s just...you..." Mirk wanted to reassure Genesis that his efforts were appreciated, that his strange response made Mirk feel better than any heartfelt embrace or sentimental words of condolence. But the thought of how bemused that explanation would inevitably make the commander only made Mirk keep laughing.


    "I don¡¯t understand," Genesis said, his frustration finally escaping in words Mirk recognized.


    After a few more gasps, Mirk found his composure again. It wouldn''t do to leave Genesis with the impression that his efforts weren''t appreciated. Otherwise the commander might not have dared to be friendly to anyone ever again. Genesis couldn''t stand being wrong once he''d made the leap and done something. Even if it was on a subject he couldn''t be expected to know much about. "No, it''s fine, messire. You did it right. It''s...well. You''re a bit stiff."


    "Stiff?"


    "It''s more like this," Mirk said, lifting a hand to the commander''s shoulder, rubbing it in the way that was as instinctual to him as blinking. The kind, supportive but not too close gesture he used whenever he saw someone in the infirmary who he thought would be better helped with touch than with a few encouraging or sympathetic words.


    "I...see."


    "You don''t have to be so...proper? Correct? Sais pas. I''m grateful either way, of course. You''ve made me feel much better already."


    After deliberating for a time, Genesis raised his hand to Mirk''s back again. He repeated with eerie exactness the same motion Mirk had just made against the commander''s shoulder. It was fully correct, a perfect copy. Which was what made Mirk dissolve into laughter once more. Genesis sighed, pulling away from him.


    "No, no! You were right!"


    "Then why do you laugh?"


    Because it was all hopelessly, impossibly endearing, in the odd way that only Genesis could manage. It was honest. Heartfelt, in its own peculiar way. If Genesis was willing to try, then it had to mean he really wanted to help comfort him. And that earnestness made it all the more effective.


    Genesis¡¯s support, strange as it was, really had made Mirk feel much better. More like himself, achy and tired still, but not so lost, so hopeless. Mirk didn''t know if Genesis would understand that kind of explanation, though. The commander preferred reason over sentiment, an exact chain of rational cause and effect that left room for no other conclusions. So Mirk settled for a half-truth. "You''re just being silly, that''s all."


    "...silly." Genesis sounded almost offended to have the word applied to him.


    "Not that you aren''t smart, messire. You''re the most clever person I know. It''s only that you can''t really do this kind of thing wrong. You don''t have to worry about offending me. You aren''t going to hurt my feelings by being kind. Or by patting me on the back. I know you''d never hurt me on purpose."


    Genesis didn''t respond. Which made Mirk feel inclined to encourage the commander further. He nudged Genesis with his knee, letting his arm slide back to where it''d been before, around Genesis''s narrow waist. "What is it you''re always telling me? You should do as you will?"


    Mirk thought Genesis was going to do nothing more than lie still beneath his arm. Then, after a long time, the commander cautiously lifted his hand again, that time to the back of Mirk''s head. He began to stroke Mirk¡¯s hair, almost too lightly to be felt.


    It wasn''t what Mirk had been expecting. He''d expected something less familiar, more like his precise pats on the back. But it would be better not to tell Genesis that, lest he get the impression that he''d done something wrong again. Mirk had told Genesis to do what came most naturally to him. And it wasn''t as if Mirk didn''t like it. No one had been so tender toward him in a long time. Not since his mother had passed. And this felt different than when his mother would press him to her breast and console him, somehow, less like he was being treated like a blubbering child. There was no pity in the gesture, no condescension. Only understanding.


    "See? Nothing bad is going to happen," Mirk said, squeezing Genesis a bit with both arms to emphasize his point, lest his words not get through to the commander. "It isn''t such a terrible thing, being close now and then. Didn''t you ever have someone you were close to, before you came here?"


    "No."


    Though Genesis didn''t sound troubled by this fact, Mirk couldn''t help but reflexively reach up to rub his shoulder again. As if companionship in the present could make up for a joyless, empty past.


    Of course, Genesis had never said that was what life had been like for him as a child. But Mirk couldn''t picture it having been any other way, considering how hard the commander found it to trust other people. It was all probably something terrible and cruel, something that would have seemed too awful to be real if it hadn''t left marks on Genesis¡¯s character to serve as evidence. It had to be something like the terrible punishments from fairy stories: abandoned in the woods and left to fend for himself, locked in a cage in a dark cellar, or forced to slave away cleaning an enchanted palace every night while an evil king and queen slept peacefully in their chambers.


    Only no hero had come to save Genesis, probably. Knowing the commander, he most likely had killed and magicked his way out, freeing himself, but ending up just as alone as he had been before. No happy ending.


    "I''m sorry," Mirk said, softly, when Genesis didn''t choose to share anything further.


    "For what?"


    "It isn''t fair for anyone to have to be alone like that."


    "Fairness...is not an essential quality of existence."


    Mirk wanted to protest, to tell Genesis that some things were just too much for one person to bear, too painful a burden to be carried alone. But just as he was about to say something, Mirk let out a yelp of surprise as something cold ran down the back of his neck. Genesis immediately went tense. It had only been one of the commander''s fingers, still ice cold.


    "Oh, it''s all right," Mirk said. "I just forget how cold you are sometimes." Mirk took hold of Genesis''s other hand, pressing it tightly between his own in an attempt to warm it. He hoped the contact would be enough to convince Genesis he''d done nothing wrong. Yet the commander remained silent and still beside him. Mirk looked up at him, smiling. Genesis¡¯s face was blank. "Go on," Mirk said. "I didn''t say I wanted you to stop."


    Grumbling, Genesis resumed stroking his hair. Mirk had been honest ¡ª despite Genesis''s coldness, he had no desire to pull away from him. There was something soothing in Genesis¡¯s touch, something in his purposeful and careful movements that undid the knots that tightened in Mirk¡¯s stomach hour after hour in the infirmary. It left Mirk feeling relaxed and wobbly in a way he didn''t quite understand.


    Mirk returned to rubbing at Genesis''s long, delicate fingers. He had no idea how someone who did so much swordwork kept his hands so perfect and smooth. Even the best noble ladies'' hands that he''d bowed over and clasped couldn''t compare to how fine and delicate Genesis''s hand was between his own perpetually stained and stumpy ones. Genesis¡¯s hands were a marvel, truly. And they weren''t getting any warmer, despite Mirk''s best efforts. Sighing, Mirk gave it up, though he kept one of his own hands clasped over Genesis¡¯s, in the hopes that the commander at least wouldn''t get any colder.


    As he propped his head back against Genesis''s chest, Mirk noticed that the commander had begun to shake. Not violently, like Genesis had when he''d been ill. It was barely perceptible, would have been easily overlooked if the commander wasn''t usually so still. Mirk shifted his head, looking up at Genesis''s face again, studying him. He didn''t look upset. But that didn''t necessarily mean that he wasn''t.


    "What is it?" Mirk asked.


    Genesis frowned, his eyebrows arching. The yellowy glow of the magelight underneath the desk cast faint shadows across his face, softening Genesis''s angular features along with the frown. "I did not¡­say anything."


    "You''re shaking."


    The commander glanced down at himself, thinking. "So...I am," he said, slowly, as if he was as surprised by it as Mirk was.


    Mirk pressed the back of his hand to Genesis''s forehead. Cool, normal. So was the side of the commander''s face. For a moment, Mirk felt an urge to leave his hand there to warm him. But that would undoubtedly press Genesis''s tolerance for physical touch too far. "You don''t have a fever," Mirk said. "That''s strange."


    Mirk lowered his hand, tucking his arms around Genesis''s narrow body once more. The shaking was worrisome, but he couldn''t feel any pain coming from Genesis, and in his weakened state, Mirk knew he would have picked up anything severe. He tried to help himself dismiss it by shifting into a more comfortable position, scooting up further against Genesis''s side, finding that certain place on his shoulder that wasn''t too bony, above the clavicle and close to his neck. Mirk had always thought Genesis would find this too intrusive, but the commander had never commented on it thus far.


    And he was still stroking Mirk''s hair, every touch the exact same length and pressure. Mirk smiled. No one else could compare to that exactness. Or in any of a dozen other ways.


    "You should go to sleep, Genesis," Mirk said.


    "It is not that simple."


    "I know. But it doesn''t hurt to try." Not that Mirk had to put any effort into it himself ¡ª he''d been exhausted to begin with, and now that he didn''t feel so hopeless and alone, he was fading fast. "Just close your eyes and think of better things."


    Better things. Like a warm bed, a soft quilt, and a friend to share both with. A friend who warded off all the fear and guilt simply by being himself: not exactly warm and sentimental, but there for him nevertheless. And full of hidden eccentricities that made being around someone as unchanging and steadfast as Genesis less dull than it properly should have been. Mirk still wasn''t certain whether Genesis was comfortable with him being so close. But Mirk liked to think that he wasn''t a total burden to Genesis, at least. Not anymore.


    It was a silly train of thought, certainly one more imagined than it was real. But Mirk felt entitled to a few pleasant thoughts as he drifted off. Especially after such a horrible day.

 Chapter 16

    "Oh, look. Seigneur d''Avignon has finally decided to get out of bed and join the rest of us peasants."


    Mirk skidded into the common room buried at the heart of the first floor of the infirmary, nearly sliding into the table and sending it crashing into the liquor cabinet as he hurried to Yule''s side. He was already bowing and waving his apologies to Yule before he came to a complete halt.


    "I''m so sorry, Yule! Really, I am, I just, well, the alarm wasn''t set, and after yesterday I was so tired, and...and I''m sorry, Yule. And Danu. What can I do? I''m sure you all must have¡ª"


    "How many times have I told you not to listen to this ass?" Danu cut in, smacking Yule in the side. The older healer was laughing into his sleeve, though he stopped the instant Danu''s elbow connected with his ribs. "It''s all right, Mirk. Everyone sleeps in now and again. At least you''re not late because you were out being a menace, unlike some people who feel the need to drink themselves stupid after every battle."


    "I wasn''t that drunk! Besides, the getting''s good when the infantry''s drunk off their ass. Battles are best for that," Yule added, lowering his voice at the end.


    Danu rolled her eyes. "Like I said. A menace."


    "Yes, we all know you''re too heartstruck by that ugly gnome of a teleporter of yours to be fun any more, but some of us have stan¡ª"


    "Don''t hurt him, Danu," Mirk said, still gasping for breath. "He''s probably just tired...cross from doing too much yesterday..."


    Reluctantly, Danu stopped smacking at Yule, despite how the other healer was still laughing. "You''re the one who''s no fun," she said to Mirk. "Men like him need a good punch in the gut now and then to keep them in line."


    "Why are you late, anyway?" Yule asked, as he stopped laughing and picked up rubbing at his side instead. "It''s not like you. Did something interesting happen for once?"


    Mirk shook his head, fixing a smile on his face that he hoped didn''t look too rigid. "Oh, it was nothing, really. I just didn''t set my clock right. Thankfully a djinn came with my letters at nine, otherwise methinks I might have missed the whole day..."


    It wasn''t entirely a lie. He hadn''t set his clock right. Mirk hadn''t been setting it at all, not since Genesis had started staying with him. The commander operated like clockwork, and every morning he took tea exactly at eight, even if he got up in the middle of the night only returned to the room just long enough to swallow down a mug filled with an obscene amount of sugar. An effort to mitigate the fact that he felt too ill for breakfast most days, Genesis had explained.


    But that morning there''d been no tea, and no Genesis. After Mirk had taken his correspondence from the djinn sent by the Teleporters Guild, he''d checked the top drawer of his dresser. It was empty. And all of Genesis''s books and parchment were gone. He hadn''t left a note.


    It upset Mirk, but he was doing his best to ignore it. That was just the way Genesis was. It probably didn''t even occur to him that Mirk would have appreciated knowing he was planning on leaving. Maybe Genesis had been intending to tell him last night, but Mirk''s whining and clinging had distracted him. Or maybe the whining and clinging was what had made Genesis leave in the first place.


    There wasn''t any reason to be upset. Mirk was certain he was imagining things, making a coincidence into a disaster with pointless conjecture. But still, there was a certain aching in his stomach, all the knots there redoubled, like he''d spent the night lost in bad dreams.


    At least Mirk could be sure his shielding was recovering apace from being spent yesterday. Yule and Danu were satisfied by his explanation. Instead of lingering on Mirk¡¯s tardiness, they picked up the thread of whatever they''d been gossiping about before Mirk had come running in. Much to his dismay, Mirk had been the central topic of that as well.


    "Do you think the Tenth will try to steal him again today?" Danu asked Yule, gesturing at Mirk.


    "Doubtful," Yule said. "Even if they have figured out he''s not normal, they''re all self-righteous bastards. None of us foreigners are good enough to bandage their mages, not unless letting them die is the only other option."


    Mirk sat down at the table, grabbing a bun out of the basket. Always buns. He was sick to death of them, but it was all the Supply Corps ever brought to the infirmary. "What do you mean?"


    "Yule overheard some of them talking when he came in this morning," Danu said. "One of them was trying to convince Cyrus''s second to go to Emir and tell him he''s taking you for the Tenth."


    "Me?" Mirk asked, the bun halfway to his mouth.


    "It doesn''t matter," Yule said. "Cyrus will never go for it. Noble blood or not, you''re still not one of them."


    Danu took a bun as well, tossing it up and down in her hand, thinking. "I''m not so sure. Maybe they''ll think he''s so fresh still that they can win him over."


    "I wouldn''t go anywhere without either of you," Mirk said, staring down at his bun. Suddenly, he''d lost his appetite. The thought of being thrown in with a new group of healers was unbearable. And though Eva was from the Tenth, and she was kind enough, Mirk had seen how she was treated. And how the Tenth regarded their non-human patients.


    "See? That''s exactly why they won''t take him," Yule said to Danu, pointedly, as she began to eat. "Even if they did take him, they''d look at where he was putting his effort and kick him back down to us within the week."


    "He is too nice," Danu admitted, through a mouth full of bread.


    "I don''t know what the hell they put in the wine in France, but it makes for weird nobles," Yule muttered to himself. Apparently he wasn''t hungry either. Rather than reaching for the basket of buns, Yule was eyeing up the liquor cabinet.


    "I''ve never felt right with all of them either," Mirk admitted, forcing himself to eat. The bun was stale, somehow, even though he knew for a fact it had to have been made that morning. Every time Mirk subjected himself to the food from the kitchens lately, he found himself thinking back to the cakes and sandwiches he''d had at Madame Beaumont''s, not without a bit of longing. But having a taste for rich food wasn''t exactly a distinguishing feature of a man possessed of the natural grace that came with noble birth. Despite how portly most of the old guildmasters at home were. Maybe he''d just been listening to Genesis complain about the food for too long to give it a fair try.


    Thinking of Genesis only made Mirk feel more melancholy and confused the longer he let his mind linger on it. Instead, Mirk refocused himself on the present, and on the matter of the troubling gossip Yule had overheard. His teammates were debating it again, as Yule caved and went to the liquor cabinet, taking down a bottle of gin. "Honestly, we should be glad that they''re a bunch of bastards," he said, as he debated between drinking straight from the bottle or fetching a glass. "If all they cared about was talent, there''d be no one left in the Twentieth but people who don''t know their ear from their ass."


    Danu made a thoughtful noise, gesturing to the sideboard at the other end of the room and calling a mug of tea that''d been cooling beside the warming plate into her hand. "You think they''d ever accept you?" she teased, as she tore off a chunk of her roll and dipped it in the tea.


    Yule snorted. Danu''s comment made him opt for the bottle, and he took a long drink before replying. "Never. But I can''t run a whole division myself. The only reason the Twentieth hasn''t been disbanded is because the Bavarians like Emir. But more of those quit for the guilds or go back home every year."


    "Why are there so many people from there in the K¡¯maneda?" Mirk asked. "Eva is, isn''t she?"


    "Somewhere over there," Yule said. He sat down beside Danu, propping the bottle of gin on the arm of his chair. "Not from as far east as all of the lunatics from the Seventh, but not close enough to be civilized. She''s pushing the limits. Grew up close enough to all of them to know some language that the Easterners sort of understand without a translation charm."


    Danu nodded. "The City used to be in Bavaria. Where was it...near some city that began with an M. Morty said his family was all in the K''maneda back when it was over there. But then the plague came, and all the mortals and the mages ganged up on them and they left. Morty¡¯s people moved further east. The City went west. It moved to England forty or fifty years after that. Because the high-borns got involved in all the politics going on with the mortals and needed to run away before they were all killed."


    "Nowhere left for them to run now," Yule said. "Only place further west they can move it to is to Ireland, and we know they don''t want to live there. And there''s no chance of them getting enough magic to be able to make the jump across the ocean. From what I heard from Sheila, they barely made it across from the Continent. They had to send everyone with any chaotic potential up the Glass Tower to put together enough potential to clear it. Went so far as to let the washerwomen up there."


    Mirk nearly dropped his torn-up roll in surprise. "Sheila was here that long ago?"


    "Don''t tell her we told you," Danu said, quickly, her eyes darting toward the door.


    Yule rolled his eyes. "Come on, you should be used to this by now," he said to Mirk. "Angels live for thousands of years and they still look perfect by the time someone finally kills them off. Why should they be the only ones in all the realms who get to cheat like that? Demons are the same. It''s only us humans who are cursed to look like prunes after a century or two."


    "I suppose," Mirk said. The bitterness in Yule''s voice made Mirk shrink in on himself a little. "It''s only that she doesn''t, euh, act her age, really. Aena wasn''t even four hundred when...anyway, he was very serious."


    Yule took another long pull off the bottle of gin. "She''s always been that way, as far as I know. Eva''s grandfather was the one who recruited her. Lots of vamps out in the wild in the east. Ones who got left behind when most of them went off to the Moonlit Land so that they didn''t have to live around the mortals. Rumor has it that there was something going on between him and Sheila." That comment earned Yule another backhand smack from Danu.


    "Euh...hmm..."


    "He was still alive when I joined," Yule added, thoughtfully, ignoring both the punch in the arm and the daggers Danu was glaring at him. "Terrible bastard. Ugly goatee. Wonder if Sheila was just putting up with him because he was an easy meal ticket. Drippy little twerp, not an ounce of muscle on him, though he was¡ª"


    There was a high titter of a laugh from the doorway behind them all. "Like you''ve never bedded a man to get a free meal. Well, no. With you, it''s always a bottle."


    "I told you to watch it," Danu hissed at Yule.


    Yule turned in his chair, just far enough to shoot Sheila a cool look over one shoulder. Mirk was beginning to wonder if demons had a sixth sense for when they were being talked about. The same thing seemed to happen whenever Genesis''s name came up in conversation. Mirk pushed the thought away quickly, turning and waving a greeting to Sheila. "Oh, good morning, Comrade Sheila. I''m sorry, it''s my fault we were gossiping. Yule and Danu were just telling me about when the City was on the Continent."


    Sheila returned his nervous smile with one that struck Mirk as genuine, though it was accompanied by the glint of fangs between her lips. The latter were thinner than usual. She was still drained from helping with the casualties from yesterday, most likely. "Better times, most definitely. There were more interesting people around then. Everyone these days is so dull. Humans, humans, and more humans¡­with a few exceptions. Including the one that''s waiting for you three."


    "What is it now?" Yule groaned, snatching up his bottle, taking another long drink in anticipation of bad news.


    "Who do you think?" Sheila asked with a laugh. "I found everyone''s favorite bastard hiding in the supply closet again."


    "For Christ¡¯s sake," Yule grumbled.


    "The Seventh isn''t even on contract again!" Danu shoved her mug of tea aside in disgust.


    Mirk pushed his chair back without comment, dragging himself up onto his feet. His limbs were still aching from yesterday. But the sinking feeling in his chest was even worse than the burning in his thighs. Genesis was the only person who they ever found hiding in closets and disused rooms. Mirk couldn''t help but wonder what kind of trouble the commander could have gotten into between last night and that morning that would have driven him to go looking for healing supplies. And whether or not he was somehow the cause of it.


    Together, they all made their way up to the fourth floor, where Sheila had corralled Genesis into an exam room by threatening to start poking and prodding at him herself if he didn''t settle down and wait for proper healing. The whole way there Yule muttered curses under his breath, making cross predictions about what kind of nonsense Genesis had gotten himself into. He''d brought the bottle of gin along with him. Mirk decided to follow the older healer at a judicious distance, alongside Danu. When they got to the room Genesis was waiting in, Yule paused to stuff the bottle into the side pocket of his robes and square his shoulders before banging the door open. What Yule saw inside made him let out a string of even filthier curses.


    Biting his lip, Mirk approached, leaning to one side to see around Yule into the room. Genesis seemed as displeased by the whole situation as Yule. Though the commander was being less vocal about it, settling for continuing to stare resentfully into the ewer of water atop the room''s supply cabinet.


    Mirk let out an involuntary sigh of relief once he sorted out what had brought Genesis to the infirmary ¡ª his left arm was hanging limply at his side, most likely dislocated at the shoulder, the hand on that side bloodied and bruised. Genesis''s shoulders were a nightmare; Yule was the only one who knew the right trick to get them working again. And if Genesis had broken any of his fingers, he liked to have a healer assist him in straightening and splinting them, so that they ended up healing perfectly straight again.


    "Sit your bony ass down already," Yule grumbled, as he sidled into the room. Genesis''s magic came to life as soon as Yule entered, a few tendrils of shadow creeping out from underneath the exam table in preparation for a fight. "I''ll fix your shoulder, but I''m not touching your fingers."


    "I would also...prefer if you left them alone," Genesis replied. Though he did protest less than he usually did, sitting down sideways on the edge of the table, so that Yule could get at his dislocated shoulder without having to draw so close to him.


    "It''s all right, Yule," Mirk said, following him inside. Danu shut the door after them, just in case Genesis''s magic got out of hand. "Methinks that it''s only fair that I do the rest, since I came in late."


    For some reason Mirk couldn''t pinpoint, Yule''s growing frustration and annoyance spiked in response to his comment. "Funny how that happened," Yule said, as he sized up Genesis''s shoulder. "But you''re not healing him. You were drained to next to nothing yesterday. He can deal with being bruised for a couple of days."


    Mirk wedged himself in between Genesis and Yule, holding his hands up in apology, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his face. "It''s only a small thing, Yule. It won''t take much magic."


    "Neither of you ever listen," Yule muttered. Before Mirk could react, Yule reached around him, took hold of Genesis''s injured arm with both hands, and gave it a hard, twisting yank. There was a sick-sounding pop as the commander''s joint snapped back into place. Though the shadows lashed out at Yule from underneath the table, Danu was there to distract them, dropping her shields and projecting her Deathly aura to lure them away from Yule''s ankles.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    The shadows swarmed over Danu for a few seconds, then subsided, along with the pinpricks of pain that escaped Genesis''s chaotic aura as he turned on the table so that he was facing them. The commander crossed his arms defensively over his chest, frowning when he realized that his left hand was still too broken to fully comply. Trying to flex it into obedience only caused more pain to leak through to Mirk. And made the shadows squeeze more tightly around Danu.


    "Let me see your hand, messire," Mirk said, nudging Yule away from the table, hoping it might settle Genesis''s magic some. "Maybe it''s worse than it looks."


    "What happened to you, anyway?" Yule asked. Usually, Yule was the first person to leave Genesis to fend for himself. But, for some reason, he was still lingering in the doorway that morning, his eyes darting back and forth between Genesis and Mirk, his brow furrowed in thought.


    "It is irrelevant," Genesis said, though he uncrossed his arms, holding the left out in Mirk''s direction. Mirk decided to only look at it until the shadows loosened their hold on Danu. Once they did, she edged toward the door, sharing none of Yule''s reluctance to leave Mirk to fend for himself. The only thing that kept her from beating a hasty retreat down the hall was the fact that Yule was standing in her way.


    "So irrelevant that you decided to run off without waking him up for his shift?" Yule asked.


    Genesis''s frown deepened. "I had not considered that."


    "It''s really all my fault. I shouldn''t have stopped setting an alarm to begin with. You know how people with angelic blood tend to oversleep," Mirk said, drawing closer to Genesis''s hand. It had the intended effect; the shadows stopped creeping after Danu. They went for Mirk instead, coiling about his ankles. But there was no threat in them, not then. Mirk was familiar enough with them that he could sense when they meant business. At the moment, they felt more clingy than threatening.


    "A...pressing matter came up," Genesis offered in explanation, as Yule continued to refuse to budge from the doorway and quit glowering at the commander.


    "Did it?" Yule asked, his voice laced with enough sarcasm that it made Mirk wince.


    "Yes."


    Mirk knew there wasn''t going to be any end to the standoff unless he was a bit more forceful. Sighing, he turned his attention away from Genesis''s hand, just long enough to lower his shields a fraction and project a feeling of reassurance at Yule. "It''s really no bother, Yule. Methinks Genesis has every right to do as he wishes. And you''re the one who''s always telling me that I need to look out for myself more, non? Sometimes we need to make a mistake to learn a lesson."


    Yule was undeterred. He leaned against the door frame, folding his arms and settling in for the long haul. Danu took advantage of the gap it created to step around him and leave, shooting Yule a particularly pointed look before departing. He scowled back at her for a second before returning to subjecting Genesis to the full force of his disapproval."Tell me, exactly what sort of pressing matter was so urgent that you couldn''t be bothered to tell the one person here who''ll put up with your shit what was going on?"


    Genesis had begun to twitch in annoyance. It made it difficult to examine the commander''s broken hand by sight alone. Mirk reached out and took hold of it at the wrist, preparing to be scolded for not making up a batch of Genesis''s strange poisoned water to clean himself with first. None came. Instead, Genesis forced himself to respond to Yule''s provocation. "If I had not...responded immediately, the room would have been gone. As it was, I was still required to...negotiate for it. As should be evident."


    "Oh! You found somewhere to stay, messire?"


    "In the low-born officers dormitory."


    "That''s wonderful news! Methinks you''ve earned a better place to stay, after all this time." Which was the truth ¡ª even though Genesis had been officially demoted, Mirk thought he did more than enough work for the K''maneda to merit something better than a sliver of either his or K''aekniv''s bed, at least in Mirk''s opinion. Though something in Mirk felt a bit worried by the prospects of Genesis being left to live on his own. Genesis was more than capable of managing men and magic, but it''d become clear to Mirk over the past few weeks that the commander wasn''t attentive to some of the more basic necessities of everyday life.


    "It is...besides the point," Genesis said, slowly. The commander still seemed oddly troubled. Like he was searching for something more to say, but couldn''t find the proper words.


    Yule butted in again to prompt him. "The point being?"


    Genesis''s face had gone blank, despite the flickers of pain that escaped his magic as Mirk delicately tested each of his fingers with both magic and touch. The index and middle finger were broken, the other two and the thumb only badly bruised. "I have...imposed myself on you for much longer than I had anticipated. Mirk. Thus, I am in...your debt."


    "Oh, pas du tout, messire. I''m just glad I could help." Mirk tried applying a bit of magic to Genesis''s broken forefinger, but was dismayed to find that Yule was right about still being too drained to be useful. Trying to draw enough healing potential away from his core to convince Genesis''s body to mend itself in a way that wasn''t backwards and painful made a wave of dizziness almost immediately overwhelm Mirk. He''d have to go get supplies for splints to help cover the gap.


    "I am in your debt. Regardless of your...sentiments."


    "I can''t even heal your hand right. Methinks leaving you with nothing but splints has to make us a little bit even, doesn''t it?"


    Genesis heaved a sigh. "You must understand. Once a debt has been offered, it cannot be refused. It is a matter of...principle. Among the old K''maneda. How you feel on the matter is irrelevant."


    Mirk glanced back over at Yule, who was still lurking in the doorway. All the older healer had to offer Mirk was a shrug. "Well, I suppose it would be rude of me to refuse, in that case."


    "You are not...required to collect immediately," Genesis added.


    And yet, Mirk felt uncomfortable letting it linger between them, a dark cloud of obligation that needed to be dispelled before everything could be made right again. Impulsively, Mirk made another attempt at healing Genesis''s index finger. He managed to make sense of the constantly shifting patterns of Genesis''s body long enough to get the bones close to his knuckle half-fused, though he needed to throw out a hand of his own and grip the edge of the exam table to steady himself as he waited for the dizziness that came with healing while nearly drained to pass. "I just don''t know what I could ever ask of you that you don''t already give on your own. At least, I can''t think of anything that wouldn''t trouble you too badly."


    "You are not required to...collect at all." Genesis appeared more troubled by not being able to find the right words than by Mirk''s continued nudging at his injured hand. "It is...only the appropriate gesture to make. When one has been...given a benefit that they feel...merits it. As I have. The collection is not the significant action. The offer is."


    Though Mirk was listening, he was having trouble making sense of it all, of a strange duty that only went one way. Despite what he''d heard countless nobles say to their betters, and what every priest intoned at the altar, Mirk knew from feel that there was almost always an expectation of return when one offered themselves over to anything or anyone else, in ways both large or small. Even if that return was nothing more than the satisfaction of having done what was right. There was nothing wrong or underhanded in it; it was simply the glue that kept things together. The rare times Mirk had felt pure dedication, devotion with no desire for having it mirrored back, hadn''t ended well. And the present situation was completely removed from what had happened back then. Or, at least, Mirk hoped it was. If Genesis still felt guilty for having not been able to protect his family, Mirk didn''t think there was anything he could possibly do to banish it.


    As usual, Mirk quickly tried to shunt the memories back to the depths of his mind, to be turned over in private. But, for once, they weren''t entirely a burden. The thought of the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re and its elegant oak-floored and paneled ballroom that had so readily caught flame reminded him of the equally elegant letter atop the pile the djinn from the Teleporters Guild had delivered to him that morning. Madame Beaumont''s correspondence, as speedy and detailed as ever.


    Mirk hadn''t had time to do more than skim the letter to see if she anticipated an equally speedy response from him, but what he had read had been worrying. Everyone who was anyone had already reserved their place at her ball. Apparently its foreign venue had intrigued more of the invitees than it had deterred them from making the jump over from the Continent. At the bottom of the letter, which Mirk had rushed to in order to gauge how quick he''d need to be in responding, had been a short list of unmarried ladies who Madame Beaumont thought Mirk should consider writing to. It would be better to not let most people know that he was still alive, she had said, but having a lady from the right family on his arm, supporting his cause, would be better than going alone.


    The names had all been familiar, but daunting. None of them had been anyone that Mirk or his family had been particularly close to. And Mirk didn''t like the expectations that came along with deciding to favor one lady above the rest. Yet Mirk saw the reasonableness in not taking his stand alone. But he couldn''t have things both ways. Unless...


    "I suppose there is one thing, messire," Mirk said, as he tried to focus back on Genesis¡¯s fingers. Healing the bones of his forefinger, and not even all the way, had been a trial. Though Mirk tried to summon his magic again, just to take away some of the bruising, it put too much strain on his limited potential to bear. He was going to have to give up on it and settle for splints, despite how guilty it made him feel.


    Genesis still seemed too preoccupied by whatever unspoken implications his offering of a debt held to him to be paying Mirk much attention. "...what?"


    "You remember me telling you about Madame Beaumont''s ball, non?"


    Mirk let go of Genesis''s hand. The commander nodded, trying to flex it, wincing when his fingers still refused to obey.


    "Well, I just got a letter from her this morning. She seems to think it''d be best if I didn''t arrive alone. People are always more willing to listen to someone who has their friends behind them, don''t you think?"


    If Genesis had picked up on where the conversation was headed, he gave no indication of it. But Yule had, judging by the snort Mirk heard from the doorway behind him. "I believe that the...social aspect is not my...particular expertise. Her advice would be more accurate."


    "Then would you be willing to go along with me? She''d suggested some ladies related to the mage grandees, but methinks that having someone along from the K''maneda would be just as good. And you do cut a very imposing figure, messire."


    Abruptly, Genesis let his hand drop. It took Genesis a few seconds more to fully process this turn of events. When he spoke again, it was after a heavy sigh. "I...see."


    "You don''t have to, of course," Mirk said, quickly. "It''s only that it would help me so much."


    The commander nodded, very slowly, though he had one of his odd expressions on his face, something like a grin but with his brows furrowed instead of raised. It was the same one that always came up whenever he took too hard of a look at K''aekniv''s wings. "I am...in your debt. But it will be repaid in full after that. And then some," Genesis added, shooting a cross look over Mirk''s shoulder. Yule was laughing at him outright now.


    "Oh! Excellent! You do still have the suit we had made up for you in Paris for last season, don''t you?"


    "I burned them."


    Mirk sighed, waving a scolding finger at the commander before he could think to stop himself. "Those were very expensive, you know. Monsieur Mahir spent hours getting your measurements just right."


    "That is none of my concern."


    "But you can''t go in this," Mirk said, gesturing at Genesis''s bloodied and rumpled uniform. It was covered, as always, with his ill-fitting, brown-black coat. Even if it all meant making Genesis uncomfortable, Mirk couldn''t help but be relieved that the situation might provide him with a good excuse to replace it for the commander. Genesis didn''t care one bit about appearances, but the coat had been bothering Mirk ever since he''d first laid eyes on it in Nantes over a year ago. "Methinks your old measurements will still work fine enough, though I''ll have to put a rush on it for it to be done in time. And your complexion does make it hard to find a good color for you, but I suppose some things can''t be hel¡ª"


    Genesis lifted his uninjured hand, putting a stop to Mirk''s babbling. "A...proposition."


    "Hmm?"


    "Though Ravensdale did...remove me from the position that required it, I still do...possess the formal uniform. I believe that should be...sufficiently proper for the occasion." Genesis spat the last two words out in a hiss, like they left a bad taste in his mouth.


    Mirk had seen plenty of his fellow nobles wearing the uniforms of the guild guards at the balls he''d attended. And some of the younger mages, men with limited magic who came from lesser families and had been forced to do service for the King in order to raise their station, wore their fighting finery to formal events to show that, even if they couldn''t advance in the guilds, they''d been able to put their natural talents for leadership and bravery to good use. Mirk didn''t have any idea what sort of formal uniform the K''maneda favored, but, even though it doubtlessly would be black, it would still be better than nothing. And wearing it might make Genesis a little less dour about the whole affair. "I suppose. But only if you''ll go to a tailor and have it fitted. I know you, Genesis. Even if it is nice enough, it''s probably hanging off you like this is," Mirk said, gesturing at his coat.


    Genesis sighed again. His distraught expression had faded, replaced with one of resignation. "...fine."


    "Would you like me to find you one in the mage quarter? Or I suppose you could go down to the Nasiris on your own, since teleportation isn''t a problem for you like it is for me."


    "I would prefer...the ones I am familiar with."


    "Well! That''s settled then," Mirk said, clapping his hands and smiling up at Genesis, exaggerating a little to be certain that Genesis picked up on the expression. "I''m really very grateful, messire. I don''t know what I''d do without you."


    "Wake up two hours late for your shifts, apparently," Yule commented, his voice low and heavy with sarcasm. Genesis glared over Mirk''s shoulder at him again.


    Before things could get too out of hand, Mirk distracted Genesis with a calculated pat on his knee. "Tiens, let me go fetch some splints for your fingers from the closet. And methinks that I should be able to make up some bruise balm that will help with the rest. Will you help me carry it all, Yule? You know how clumsy I can be."


    Mirk''s actions, however, left Yule little room for escape. As he went to the door, Mirk took hold of the older healer''s arm and tugged on it, drawing him out into the hall. He didn''t like being so pushy, but no one would benefit from Yule and Genesis continuing to snipe at each other. And, as far as Mirk was concerned, Yule had gotten all the gossip that was worthwhile out of their exchange already.


    As they stepped out into the hall, Mirk thought he caught a glimpse of the retreating backside of someone else who''d been eavesdropping. Sheila, most likely, considering how she''d been the one to alert them to Genesis''s presence to begin with. "You don''t have to be so mean to him, Yule," Mirk said to him, as he started off for the closet at the end of the hall. "He doesn''t understand that you''re just teasing him."


    "I think he understands more than you give him credit for," Yule retorted. The older healer had a contemplative look on his face, no longer resisting Mirk''s efforts to hurry him off. And there was the beginnings of a smile on it too, one that Mirk didn''t like the looks of.


    "What do you mean by that?"


    "You were right. He didn''t mean to be an ass to you. He''s just an idiot when it comes to acting like a normal person."


    "Bien s?r," Mirk said, as they arrived at the closet. Before Mirk could start fumbling for his keys, Yule whipped out his own, starting in on the tedious process of unlocking the door. The older healer¡¯s smile had grown into something like a knowing smirk. "I''ve been telling you all along, he''s not as bad as you all think he is. He just doesn''t understand things like we do."


    "He''s still a miserable bastard, but there''s more than that. There''s not a single doubt left in my mind."


    "Euh...doubt of what?"


    "You, my poor, innocent little friend," Yule said, turning and poking Mirk in the chest, his smile now a grin, "have an admirer."


    When Mirk only stared at Yule in response, completely lost, the older healer huffed and rolled his eyes, giving him another poke. Though, that one was closer to a smack. "He fancies you, Mirk. I''m sure of it."


    "Fancies...?"


    "You know. Wants to take you to bed and have his way with you. Or whatever weird ritual his kind does with people they like."


    All Mirk could do was laugh. Though he was acutely aware of his face going red at the idea of it, even if it was absurd. "Methinks you must be mistaken, Yule. I''m...I''m really not even sure he understands all of that, to be honest."


    "Oh, come on," Yule said, throwing the door to the closet open. That time, he was the one dragging Mirk onward instead of it being the other way around. "You can''t share a room with Niv for two decades and not figure the basics out. Besides, it''s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would he be so damn nice to you? He''d never go to some ball with anyone, not even if he owed them a debt, or whatever his excuse was."


    "If everyone was a little more patient with him, methinks he wouldn''t be so cold to the rest of you," Mirk said.


    "You don''t think we''ve all tried? No, I''m sure of it. Explains the whole room thing too. I''ve seen it a dozen times. Some idiot going through life convinced that he''s just too busy or too particular to find a woman, then realizing that it''s all because it''s actually men he really wants, once he finds the right one. They always turn into even bigger idiots and go running away at the sight of you once they figure it out. It''s the first normal reaction I''ve ever seen that bastard have to anything."


    Mirk shook his head, elbowing on the closet''s magelights. "Methinks you''re imagining things, Yule. Though I am sure that you know more about all of that than I do. But you don''t know Genesis. He really is very nice, if you take the time to understand what he means by things. It''s only that his way of doing things is different than everyone else''s. And he really was trying to get his hands on that room the whole while. He mentioned it days and days ago."


    Yule shook his head right back at Mirk. And wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a bracing squeeze. "Believe what you want, Mirk. I''m convinced. Maybe it''s not some grand romance or whatever drippy nonsense people like you and Danu believe in, but it''s fancying all the same. Just know that if he ever decides to make a move on you, I''m here to give you advice. I''ve handled every kind of man there is to handle. Whether you want him to leave you alone or fuck him, I can tell you how to do it."


    "Yule!" Mirk gasped, half laughing and half choking, hunching over on himself underneath the older healer''s arm. "That''s...it''s not..."


    "Ah, I know. Devoted your life to the Lord, or whatever the hell it is you believe in. I''m only saying, I''m here for you. We healers need to stick together. Especially when it comes to men. And if you ever do decide you fancy them, there''s a lot better on offer out there than him. You just have to know where to look," Yule concluded, giving Mirk¡¯s shoulders a final squeeze before letting him go. "Anyway, let''s get him his splints before he runs off and makes an even bigger mess of things for you."


    Mirk nodded emphatically, hurrying across the room to where all the potion supplies and the bruise balm was kept, trying to ignore the way his face was still burning. "Yes, let''s."

 Chapter 17

    "Looks like Morty and the rest had a hard time staking their claim tonight."


    Mirk picked up his pace and beat Danu to the door to the training hall behind the K''maneda''s Academy building, opening it for her and inclining his head the appropriate measure as she passed. He didn''t even realize he''d done it, that the manners scolded and coaxed into him over years spent running at his mother''s heels had once again eclipsed his growing familiarity with what counted as proper among the low-born members of the K''maneda. Not until Danu laughed at him. While Mirk looked down and sighed, she reached out a hand to ruffle his hair as she passed him by. "You''re too good for us, Mirk," she said over her shoulder.


    He wasn''t. At least, he didn''t feel that way. But before he could say so, Mordecai had spotted them both and was bounding over to shower Danu with his usual stream of effusive greetings. The teleporting mage was a little dusty and bruised, but not as badly as the men out front had been. They were all newer members of the Seventh, ones Mirk didn''t recognize, who laughed and waved off his offers of healing before Mirk could even properly make them. He wished they hadn''t. It was easier healing glancing cuts from daggers and swords early, before they turned foul and stirred up a fever that it took bottle after bottle of potion to manage. But maintaining a certain aura of physical toughness was key to getting along in the infantry divisions, Mirk had noticed.


    That, at least, was familiar enough to Mirk. The men in his father''s guard had been the same way. And Mirk''s own inclination toward cringing and fretting over their wounds as well as his own had given him away instantly as not having inherited the stern, warlike disposition necessary to succeed as a commander of men. Unlike his sister. Kae had never backed down from a beating, no matter whether she was on the giving or the receiving end.


    "Come take a look, Danny," Mordecai was saying once Mirk focused back in on him, tugging at Danu''s elbow. "You''re an earth mage, you can tell them that me and Niv got them a good deal. They look like junk, but the metal''s still good!"


    "I keep telling you, my elemental magic''s not that strong," Danu protested. She didn¡¯t resist Mordecai as he dragged her to the back of the training hall, though, past the other members of the Seventh sprawled out on the benches on either side of it, toward a heap of dinged and rusted metal that had been hauled in through the back door. K''aekniv was there, watching with a self-satisfied grin as Ilya poked through the pile of armor. The fire mage was holding the front part of a breastplate up close to his face when Mordecai and Danu got there, the plainly eager grin of a child on his face.


    "From the eastern mines," Ilya said, his grin taking on a delighted cast when the rust covering the top half of the breastplate fell away with a touch of his magic. "Eastern iron has the best echo."


    "If Ilya says it''s good, then it has to be good," Mordecai confirmed, with an adamant nod of his head.


    Danu folded her arms, looking tired. "Then what do you need me for?"


    "Ilya''s a little weird," Mordecai whispered at her, loud enough for anyone within ten feet to hear him. "Besides, they''re still not convinced," he added, gesturing at the group of men sitting on the floor against the back wall. More new recruits, less beat-up than those out front. But whereas the ones in front of the training hall had been tanned and muscular, the ones inside looked lost, afraid. And cold despite how warm the building was from having the sun beat down on it all day. Even though autumn was nearly upon them, the afternoons were still as hot as they had been in summertime, or at least they had been for the past three days. Mirk had been in the City long enough by then to know it wouldn''t last much longer.


    Mirk drifted over closer to the new men, lowering his shields and casting out his senses to see if they were truly ill, or if they just looked sick. It was the latter. Though their minds felt oddly distant and their bodies ached, it was the kind of hurt that came from too much use for too long, not from an injury healing magic could easily repair. "Where did they come from?" Mirk asked no one in particular.


    "Leto''s train," Pavel said, soundlessly appearing behind him. His quiet voice startled Mirk; he turned to look at him. The aching of the men against the back wall had cloaked the familiar touch of Pavel¡¯s melancholy presence drawing closer. But from what Mirk could feel, the Seer was more gloomy than usual. He was spinning one of his twin polearms around his wrist, catching it for a moment after every spin. There was a special word for the weapon, which made Mirk think of a cleaver someone had strapped to a quarterstaff, but he was perpetually forgetting it. "They''ll be better in a couple of weeks. Just soon enough to go on contract, probably. But they already know how to fight."


    "Smart ones," K''aekniv confirmed. "But they''re the last we''ll be able to steal, I think. Them and all the metal made the trip. We''re good for up to the spring contracts. Everyone''s happy." K''aekniv was talking even louder than usual, but his voice was colored with a note of worry. Mirk followed the half-angel''s gaze to the other side of the training hall. Lina was there, doing a bit of mending and pretending not to hear K¡¯aekniv. Even without turning his empathy on her, he could tell she was annoyed.


    Mirk hardly knew where to begin. Things were always chaotic around the Seventh, and it wasn''t just due to Genesis always lurking somewhere nearby, close enough to be called for if he was needed to settle something, but far enough away to avoid being drawn into most of the Easterners'' perpetual debates and fisticuffs. But Mirk could tell that the commander wasn''t there, not then. All of the growing shadows cast by the dregs of the evening sun through the training hall''s tall, drafty windows were lifeless and flat.


    Mirk had been half-expecting Genesis¡¯s absence, but he was still a bit dismayed by it. The commander had been avoiding him ever since Mirk had asked him to attend Madame Beaumont''s ball. Though Genesis had been doing an uncharacteristically poor job of it, observing Mirk working with the rest of the healers and fighters from some obvious corner instead of remaining completely hidden until someone either spoke ill of him or demanded his presence. Every time, Mirk thought Genesis looked more cold and disapproving than the last time he''d seen him. And every time Mirk got it into his head to go and speak with him, Genesis truly did vanish. Mirk was uncertain whether he was imagining things, that he was ascribing some emotional cast to Genesis''s distance that was better accounted for by the irregular and complex nature of the commander''s work, or if the whole matter of the ball and Genesis''s attendant trip to Paris to be prodded at by the Nasiri twins really had upset him.


    Again, Pavel''s soft voice interrupted Mirk''s thoughts. "Genesis said that if you want to train with him instead of me that you need to go to the low-born officers quarters out by the West Gate. It''s the one old building over there. Third floor. He didn''t say which room, but you''ll probably be able to guess by the magic."


    Mirk laughed, his relief at the second-hand invitation draining all the tension from his shoulders. If Genesis was willing to go so far as to ask for him in particular, he couldn''t be too upset. That or he disapproved of what kind of bad habits training with Pavel instead of him had been adding to all the rest of the faults in his form. "Methinks you''re right," Mirk said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder just before it could fall off. "But is there anything I can do here to help first? Those men seem a little...hmm, sais pas..."


    "They''ll be fine now that they''re here. Anything is better than the train, even the City," Pavel said. Before Mirk could question him further, the Seer was called off by Ilya, who''d said something to him about the head on one of his polearms sounding off.


    Mirk watched as the two men sat down on the floor of the training hall and conferred together, Pavel passing the weapon over and starting some conversation with him in their native tongue as Ilya ran his hands over the weapon''s cleaver head, petting it fondly as if it were a kitten rather than an instrument of death. Whatever they were discussing seemed to help with Pavel''s mood. Soon they were both laughing, though, as always, Ilya''s delight had a more genuine cast to it than Pavel''s, which still bore its characteristic hint of anxiety, as if something terrible was bound to pounce upon them the moment he stopped being watchful.


    Everyone was falling into their usual routines all around him in the training hall. The older recruits partnered up to show the new men seated along the perimeter of the hall the basic techniques needed to keep themselves alive in the heat of battle, purposefully mismatching themselves to better show how to work at an inevitable disadvantage. Tall went with short, stocky went with slender, those with higher magical potential went with ones who leaned harder on their technical skill to compensate for their limited magic.


    But Danu always fought Mordecai, both as an excuse for them to stay close together, and as an extension of Mordecai''s philosophy that nothing could be learned well unless one enjoyed themselves in the process. Danu had no interest in fighting; she knew enough to handle combative patients, and had no intention of joining the Seventh as a combat medic, even though her empathic ability was weak enough for her to try. Mirk could tell from the flush it put on her face, redness that could easily be mistaken for exertion, if one wasn''t familiar with the effect her Deathly magic had on her body, that she delighted in hurling Mordecai about the room, just for the fun of it. And even in getting pinned or thrown herself when Mordecai managed to outmaneuver her with a technique that put his quick wit and even quicker limbs to good use.


    Pavel and Ilya were another constant pair, their contrasting physiques and different weapons of choice making them good instructors. And there was a little of the same joy in it that there was in the fighting between Danu and Mordecai, though it was mostly on Ilya''s end. Mirk was still uncertain whether to believe Yule''s evaluation that there was more than friendship between them. Considering what conclusion Yule had come to upon dissecting Genesis¡¯s recent moodiness, Mirk was inclined to believe that Yule tended to read more into the friendly relations among men than was truly there. But even he had to admit that reaching that same conclusion upon watching Pavel and Ilya fight wasn''t so much of a wild leap. They read each other like they''d been fighting together for centuries, not decades. And Ilya was always gentle when he managed to land a blow, even though the outsized fighter seemed to have trouble remembering to focus on nearly everything else that came his way.


    Something was amiss that night, however. It took Mirk a moment to pinpoint it in the emotional din of the room, amidst flares of frustration and triumph and the ever-present fatigue. Lina. The one person in the room who felt out of place, who was still working at her mending on her own, despite the efforts of both K''aekniv and some of the other men to either engage her in conversation or coax her into trying her hand at some of the lessons. Not only was her own frustration more snarled and deep than that of the men who were struggling against bodies that didn''t want to bend certain ways and hands that were clumsy on unfamiliar weapons, but it was coupled with a lingering feeling of worry from K''aekniv, which kept the half-angel¡¯s usual relish of a good fight from permeating the room and overshadowing the tangled emotions of the rest of the Seventh.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Mirk hesitated. It wasn''t his place to get involved in whatever was going on between them. He was well aware of the unwelcome reputation the healers had for being meddling gossips and busybodies. But a friend''s happiness was at stake. If a simple misunderstanding had soured things, either K''aekniv being unfamiliar with the trials that came with not having the same kind of latitude he did, or Lina not recognizing the intent behind one of K''aekniv''s foreign habits, then Mirk thought that he was in a good position to put the matter to rest without it causing any more trouble to anyone. If the problem went deeper than that, Mirk resolved, as he crossed the room to speak with her, he would leave it rightly to them.


    That aside, he couldn''t linger too long, even if he wanted to. Genesis was expecting him, most likely. And the commander never liked to waste time waiting.


    "Hello, Comrade Lina," Mirk said, nodding to her, stopping just short of a bow when he felt her annoyance rise up against his shields. His instincts told him to project his sympathy to her, but he held back, only smiling instead.


    "Mirk, is it?" she asked him, her voice clipped and polite. As if she was well aware of who he was, and didn''t welcome the intrusion by someone of his noble lineage and magic.


    "Yes...do you work with the Supply Corps tailors? I only ask because that''s an awful lot of mending..."


    She glanced down at the uniform blouse scrunched up on her lap, its half-torn sleeve almost completely joined again. "I''m only a washerwoman," she said, a note of resentment seeping into her tone. "But the tailors will let us take home infantry uniforms to mend for a farthing a piece."


    "It seems too little for such fine work," Mirk said, taking a closer look at the blouse, though he didn''t draw any nearer to her. "I''m certain the men appreciate it when they pick them up from the depot. Half the robes I get need to be mended even before I put them on. And my stitching isn''t much better than whoever sewed them up before me."


    Lina didn''t reply. But Mirk thought he could sense her softening, just a little. He gestured to the bench beside her. "May I sit down?"


    Though she returned to her work without giving him a second glance, she nodded. Mirk eased himself down onto the bench, swinging his bag onto his lap. "I see why everyone avoids the empaths now," she said, her tone conversational. "Or did I miss Niv begging you to come talk with me?"


    Mirk sighed. It was best to be forward with her, then. No matter how much it pained Mirk to be blunt. "No, you didn''t miss anything. And I apologize, comrade. I...I really don''t mean to pry. It''s only easy to feel you''re both upset. I thought maybe you might like someone to listen. You don''t have to say anything, of course, I''d understand. But methinks it must be a little hard, fitting yourself into all of this," Mirk said, gesturing at the fighters locking and smacking weapons before them. The demonstrations had ended, and now the old fighters who''d been leading them were winding their way among the rest who were trying out the techniques for themselves, correcting positions and offering advice.


    "There''s room for no one extra in it. Except for the gaps left by all the ones who don''t come home," Lina said.


    "That''s why they do this every night. At least, that''s what Gen and the others tell me. The training they''re given when they first join isn''t very good."


    "I''ve heard the same. Again. And again."


    Catching himself before he could reach out a hand to her, Mirk worried at the straps of his work bag instead. Those could also use mending, or replacing. He settled for cloth rather than leather, and often paid the price in wet supplies and ripped straps. Of course, his picking at it every time he needed to think a little didn''t help anything. "You''re welcome to learn too, I''m sure. Danu does very well for herself, methinks."


    "I know enough to do what I have to," Lina said, curtly. "And I''m not interested in wasting my time on more. Even if they let the women go on contract, the pay isn''t worth the risk. The only point to it is getting good enough so that you don''t have to be the idiot at the front anymore."


    Mirk sighed. "What happened, Lina?"


    She set her mending down, though she didn''t lift her head. "A whole month I worked at Dauid''s third trying to get that idiot a spot in the Scots," she said, making a sharp gesture in the direction of K''aekniv. "Double the work, since I couldn''t just go straight to Dauid¡¯s second since he''s a buggerer. And what do I get for it? Some nonsense about needing to look after this lot. As if they''re nothing but a bunch of great big children. Which they are," she added, crossly, as she picked up stitching again.


    It was a thornier issue than Mirk had been anticipating. He knew better than to offer any more advice to her. All there was left was sympathy, which he was certain now he shouldn''t project. "You did work very hard, Lina," Mirk said. "I''m sorry it didn''t work out the way you''d planned it to."


    "All he did was pull that stupid grin of his and say it was a perfect job for one of the other blockheads. It''s not right. He''s the captain, he should have taken the spot himself. Not given it to some sergeant who''s only been in two years. So what if he went to school for a few years? School''s got nothing to do with doing well at this work. Niv says it himself all the time."


    "I...well. Niv is very attached to all the men, not to make an excuse for him."


    "There''s a better life out there for him. All he has to do is stand up and take what''s his instead of just handing everything he gets away to these idiots. Not that he isn''t one himself, half the time.¡±


    The resentment she felt toward the men arrayed before them, oblivious to Lina and Mirk on the bench against the wall, didn''t bode well, Mirk thought. He couldn''t fault Lina for feeling what she did. At the same time, Mirk knew from having spent over a year with K''aekniv and the Seventh by then that his men meant the world to K¡¯aekniv. He would do anything for them. And that didn''t bode well for either Lina or K''aekniv''s continued happiness.


    A familiar sense of unease stole over Mirk. It was all too familiar, the quiet tenseness in Lina''s shoulders and the way that K''aekniv was carrying on, distracted at the moment by one of the newer men asking him how better to defend against the advances of a spearman with his sword. Mirk had sensed that same frustration in his mother, both when he was too young to be able to feel the emotion that went with her pursed-lip frown, and once he was old enough to feel exactly what she meant by it.


    His mother had a place she retreated to every time his father disrupted her plans with an impassive report that he''d been summoned by the Empire, and that whatever thing she''d wanted him to see to would have to wait. The front drawing room, the one positioned near the front of the manor to take advantage of as many hours of sunlight as possible, where she did her sewing and the minor enchantments that went into each of her invisible stitches. Her work would sit idle in her lap, much like Lina''s was, in fits and starts, as she watched his father prepare his guard for leaving out on the front lawn.


    Though K''aekniv''s manner with the men of the Seventh was much more warm and friendly, the resolve was the same. His father, perfectly composed in his armor, all the feet of gleaming silver making him appear like more of a fantasy than he already did, would pace among his angels, searching for every last fault and meticulously correcting them. Not out of disapproval or fastidiousness, but because any small error, any poorly buckled plate or askew flight feather, could spell all of their doom. K''aekniv was much less stern in his admonitions. But, at its heart, the scene was the same. The fighter and the one left behind.


    Only it wasn¡¯t truly the same, Mirk realized, the longer he stewed on it. Not there, in the City of Glass''s echoing training hall. Lina had no noble father''s laurels to rest upon, to grant her the opportunity to launch her own campaigns. And K''aekniv wasn''t the only son of a former Host commander, his oddity granted latitude due to his family line''s unwavering service for millenia. Neither of them had the same room to maneuver, to bend, to compromise. Nor did they have the gold to ever tell their superiors no.


    It made Mirk ache for them both. For how much brighter, how much simpler their lives could be, if only gold wasn''t such an unyielding master. Though, the same could be said for most of the people in the training hall that evening, most likely, if Mirk considered their troubles long enough. It made him want to go search out this Ravensdale person he seemed to have heard every imaginable horror attributed to over the past few months and shove all his family''s gold at him, just to let the Seventh and the Twentieth live in peace.


    Something told him that wouldn''t solve a thing, however. Not in the long run. The wealthy were always looking to add more pages to their ledgers. Mirk wondered if that was yet another sign that he''d been lifting too many pages from Genesis''s book.


    Mirk was drawn back to the present by a frustrated hiss beside him. Lina had finished one shirt and was in the process of digging another out of her basket. "If only he wasn''t so damn handsome. Good-looking men will be the death of us all, I swear to God."


    That time, Mirk didn''t manage to catch himself. He reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Lina¡¯s shoulder, not halting the laugh that bubbled up in him at her words either before it escaped past his lips. "I''m sorry, Comrade Lina. If there is anything I can do for you..."


    Lina didn''t try to smack his hand away. But Mirk withdrew it quickly nevertheless. "There''s not." She paused, glancing over at the pile of finished shirts to her left. A bit beyond them on the bench was a garment that hadn''t needed mending, one of the red cloaks that were so popular among the low-born ladies of the K''maneda for a reason Mirk couldn''t pinpoint. "At least he was smart enough not to throw away all the money he''d saved on that ugly heap of scrap. Paid my rooms up for the month, and got the cloak besides. I just don''t understand why he''ll pay up for people he doesn''t know just the same as he does for the ones he says he loves. You can''t go around treating everyone in life the same, no matter what the Gospel says."


    Mirk didn''t even know where to begin on that topic. And he felt that he''d be in an even worse position to help with that matter than he was with the matter of men who put their work ahead of everything else in their lives. Instead, Mirk shrugged and got back to his feet, wincing at how something in his back protested the motion. He''d been assured that the aching would let up the more he practiced fighting, but near-daily practice ever since hearing from Madame Beaumont had yet to help his stiffness any. "If you do need help with anything, please don''t hesitate to ask. I...well. I may have a bit more means than the rest of the men to help if a small thing comes up."


    Lina didn''t look up at him, smirking to herself as she started in on her new piece ¡ª a pair of trousers spit at the back and bottom. "Oh, yes. I''ve heard about that. Don''t see what''s in it for you, but if you''re making the offer, I''m not too good to take you up on it. But money can''t fix stupid."


    Mirk sighed. "I''m afraid not, no. Be well, Lina. And...well. I''ll think of you," Mirk added. He''d learned quickly enough that many of the low-born K''maneda didn''t appreciate being prayed for, even among those who weren''t as adamantly opposed to faith as people like Yule and Genesis were.


    "If you''re going to leave, you need to run before their nonsense sucks you back in," Lina said. But she said it with a smile that both looked and felt a bit more genuine. And, as if to emphasize the point, Mirk heard one of the new fighters let out a roar of an expletive from somewhere behind him, coupled with a flare of pain.


    "Methinks you''re right about that."

 Chapter 18

    As Mirk eyed the runes cast along the edges of the room''s door frame, he was possessed by a sudden urge to turn around and hurry back the way he''d come. He shook his head hard, blinking his eyes a few times, rapidly. The feeling cleared away soon after. And the runes had vanished, Mirk couldn''t help but notice.


    The door was now the same as every other one that lined the hallway, visually speaking. The low-born officers dormitory was a bit more spacious than the healers¡¯, but it had the same dark and dismal plainness about it. And it didn''t have the benefit of heavy empathic shielding, which meant that the hall was permeated with the emotions of the other tenants ¡ª the sense of fatigue that haunted Mirk wherever he went in the City, along with a good deal of anxiety and pain, hung thick down the length of it, invisible but omnipresent to his mind¡¯s eye.


    Mirk couldn''t sense anything from behind the door he was presently vacillating in front of, however. Mostly because the collection of wards and shields on it, though not designed specifically to contain or repel emotion, were so intricate and chaotic that Mirk doubted even the air from out in the hall could get past them.


    Really, he shouldn''t have expected anything less from Genesis.


    Hesitantly, Mirk raised a hand to knock. Before his knuckles could touch the wood, the door clicked open, swinging inward a few inches on silent hinges.


    "You don''t have to be so dramatic, messire," Mirk mumbled under his breath. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and went inside.


    The room beyond was large. Or perhaps that was only an illusion created by how dim and empty it was. The only illumination came from the sole magelight placed above the door, tinted an odd blue-green color that made the room feel colder than it already was. There was no sofa, no armchairs, no bed. There wasn''t even a rug on the floor, aside from a small, coarse one right inside the door.


    Instead, there were only bookshelves, all of them full, strictly of books, without a single trinket or memento in sight. They lined every wall of the room, aside from a bit of space grudgingly set aside for a second door in the middle of the right-hand wall, along with an uninviting wooden bench shoved against the wall directly opposite it. It might have doubled as a desk, if one was tall enough and not opposed to sitting on the floor. The second door was covered with so many protective sigils that its surface almost appeared to be crawling in the half-light. Mirk tried to put it out of mind as he fixed a smile on his face and called out.


    "Genesis? Are you here? Niv said you went back..."


    There was no reply. However, as if in response to a phantom breeze, the door slammed shut behind him. Mirk jumped and gave a pathetic squeak, clutching his bag to his chest.


    "I apologize. The door seems to have a certain...unwelcome disposition. I am working on correcting it. Additionally, please leave your shoes on the mat. I have...only just cleaned the floor properly."


    One moment Mirk had been alone in the room, the next Genesis was there with him, sliding a book back onto one of the shelves as casually as if he''d been there the whole while. Had he? Mirk thought he would have noticed the commander, even if he''d been lurking in one of the more shadowy corners of the room.


    Mirk shuffled out of his clogs, careful not to let them stray off the edges of the mat in front of the door. He still hadn''t sorted out why Genesis was so particular about shoes touching certain things ¡ª a floor was meant to be walked on, after all, and the streets of the City of Glass were unnaturally clean ¡ª but Mirk suspected it had something to do with the commander¡¯s disease motes superstition. "It''s all right," Mirk said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Though, I don''t understand how you plan on having me practice anything here, messire. The training hall would be much easier, methinks."


    The commander was still studying the spines of his grimoire collection. And Mirk was absolutely certain they all had to be books of magic: Genesis had no patience for reading anything but books whose subject matter could be put to productive use. "The...original magic on this building seems much more...amenable to the manipulation it was built to accommodate. I believe creating adequate space will not be an issue."


    Mirk snuck a quick glance around the room. Though it was much bigger than his own quarters, he couldn''t imagine being able to swing his staff inside without wreaking havoc on all of Genesis''s perfectly ordered grimoires. "I...methinks I''m not understanding you, messire," he said. "Is there somewhere you''d like for me to put the rest of my things?"


    Genesis made a dismissive gesture in the direction of the bench pushed against the wall, his attention shifting seamlessly from his books to whatever magic he had in mind to make the room better to fight in, skipping over Mirk entirely. Mirk sighed. Being avoided while out in public was one thing, but being treated that way when alone with Genesis stung. Trying to convince himself, once again, that he was only overthinking things, Mirk went to set his bag down and dig his grandfather''s staff out of it. As always, it''d somehow managed to sink down to the very bottom of it. He needed to unload and repack almost everything else in the bag to be able to find it.


    When Mirk turned to face the commander once more, the room had changed. It startled him, made him jump just like the door slamming behind him had. Rather than standing two or three paces away, Genesis was nearly forty feet away. There was no indication of how Genesis had managed that trick. Nor were there any unexplained gaps in the bookshelves, although there did suddenly seem to be many more of them. Mirk wondered if they''d been there the whole while. "Oh! That''s a clever trick."


    "As I said. This building is much more...amenable to channeling the Abyss than the rest. Although it would have been easily possible to accomplish this in any of them, at the beginning. The buildings you are¡­more familiar with included."


    Mirk elected not to question the commander further on the issue. Whatever magic had caused the change was obviously beyond his own capabilities. Not to mention that it didn''t seem to take any visible amount of effort on Genesis''s part to maintain it. Tapping his grandfather''s staff a few times against the palm of his hand to coax it out to its full length, Mirk approached Genesis across the sudden gap between them. "I hope I''m not getting in the way of anything important you had to do. It looks like you''ve been, euh...busy."


    The commander had returned to surveying his bookshelves. "It would be...imprudent of me to discourage your interest in putting your time to good use."


    Mirk laughed. "Sometimes miracles do happen."


    Genesis finally glanced in his direction. The slight, predictable frown that came onto his face at the mention of miracles was reassuring, at least. "I believe you know my position on this manner of superstition."


    "Well, yes. But it''s not a miracle anyway. I really do need the practice. I don''t want to be caught unprepared..."


    "Are you...anticipating fighting someone?" Genesis asked, his frown taking on a skeptical slant.


    "Oh, no. The other way around."


    That was enough to get Genesis''s full attention, whatever imperfections that were nestled among his bookshelves forgotten in favor of this new development. "I was not aware of anyone being interested in...challenging you in this fashion."


    "It''s no one from the K''maneda. Madame Beaumont''s ball is in only a few days. I''m going to do my best to keep things civil, but, well. When you make the kind of accusation I''m planning on, tempers do tend to get hot. And dueling is very much in fashion among the people who Serge counts as his friends, his own family aside. I''d rather be ready for it than make a fool of myself."


    Mirk was uncertain whether Genesis was concerned by this revelation, or extremely annoyed. "You...plan to fight a duel."


    "Not if I can avoid it. If it was only my honor at stake, I''d take the insult. But it''s for my family, not me."


    "I don¡¯t understand. If they wished to¡­eliminate you, there are much less inconvenient ways. And, despite your knowledge of certain events, you are no true threat to them. Considering your¡­pacifist attitude."


    Inexorably, Mirk''s eyes fell once more on the staff in his hands. He still didn''t think of it as his own, not really. In his mind''s eye, he could only ever truly picture it in his grandfather''s hands. The easy way he carried it, as if it was nothing more than an unfashionable country gentleman''s walking stick, something that was carried along more out of habit than for any real purpose. But Mirk knew better. He''d seen the sidelong glances that the other noble mages had cast in its direction, the way that his grandfather deciding to gesture at someone with it in an offhand way could draw winces and make hands creep toward swords, depending on the topic of conversation. There was power there, a power that Mirk still didn''t understand how to reach. The wood underneath his fingers felt ordinary, if only a bit warmer than normal. Maybe the power was less in the staff itself and more in the person who carried it.


    If that was the case, Mirk was doomed, no matter how often he practiced his fighting. But he had to try. He''d received word that morning that Henri and the children had been freed from the pocket realm and were on their way north, very much the worse for wear, but also very much alive. It was his duty to care for them, as the new head of the family. Considering everything they had lost, fighting a duel against any of Serge Montigny''s allies or family members seemed like the least he could do.


    Mirk''s only hope was that it wouldn''t mean dueling Serge himself. The man wasn''t a notorious dueler, unlike some of the others close to him, but Mirk knew that if it came down to a battle of wills between the two of them, he didn''t stand a chance. "It''s hard to explain, messire," Mirk said, after a long pause, looking back up at the commander. "But hopefully it won''t come to it."


    "As you will," Genesis said, nodding, though he still seemed befuddled by the entire conversation. "It would be...prudent for you to...stretch, first, however. I will wait."


    Mirk laughed to himself, nodding in agreement, stepping off to one side to prop the staff against one of the bookcases. "Were you waiting for me long, then? You''re already set?"


    "One would be well advised to always be prepared to fight."


    Genesis always was ready to fight, Mirk supposed. It was one of the reasons it''d surprised Mirk so much that the commander had been willing to train him in the first place. He was all too familiar with the way that the kind of men who fought for a living tended to view him: hopelessly soft, never watchful, always ready to either run or try to talk his way into a compromise rather than draw steel. Most of his tutors, his father included, had viewed it with exasperation.


    Genesis had other ideas. Upon witnessing Mirk''s weekly struggle with Captain Aei, the member of his father''s flight tasked to be his personal guard and tutor in the art of combat, Genesis had informed Aei that Mirk''s approach was the only reasonable one, and had offered to take over for the captain. At first, Mirk had been dismayed to find that Genesis''s evaluation of his skills had been identical to that of his other tutors. As the commander was always saying, it was impossible to be anything other than what one was, and Mirk was not, and would never be, a fighter. But Genesis had followed it with the caveat that there was utility in being able to defend oneself only long enough to either run or wait for reinforcements, and that such an approach required a different set of techniques than standard fighting. Then Genesis had presented him with a quarterstaff rather than a practice sword and had set him to work.


    And he''d been working ever since. Mostly fruitlessly, Mirk thought, but Genesis hadn''t given up on him yet. He was uncertain whether it was because the commander saw some sort of hidden potential in him, or if it was simply because Genesis was impossibly stubborn.


    As Mirk got down on the cold wooden floor and worked at easing the stiffness out of his limbs, he couldn''t help but look up at intervals and study the commander. Genesis didn¡¯t seem preoccupied by his presence. The commander had summoned his sword and had set to ignoring Mirk again. He spun the hilt of it around his thin wrist, again and again, catching it perfectly in his palm each time. It seemed more like an absent-minded sort of fiddling on the commander''s part rather than a dedicated exercise. That this could be the case was a true testament to Genesis''s skill and inhuman strength.


    Of all the items in Genesis''s collection of uncanny accessories, the sword was undoubtedly the worst. The thing was the stuff of nightmares. It was only a foot and a few hands shorter than Mirk stood tall, broad and heavy-looking, yet so sharp that its blade seemed to blur to nothing at its edges. And it seemed to be capable of passing in and out of existence at will, slipping as easily into the shadows and vanishing as Genesis himself did. Mirk often wondered whether Genesis wielded the sword or if, much like the shadows themselves, the blade and the commander were two separate entities that just happened to often have the same goal in mind.


    Though he knew how much Genesis disliked idle chatter, Mirk found himself talking as he ran through his stretches. "Alors...do you like it here, messire?"


    Genesis nodded, once, slightly. And he only glanced Mirk¡¯s way for a fraction of a second, his eyes snapping back fast to the edge of his blade. "It has¡­several merits."


    Mirk considered this, as he stretched his arms out over his legs as far as he could reach. The commander really was acting odd. The longer Mirk watched him, the more he got the impression that Genesis was truly having to work at ignoring him. Usually, the act was as instinctual as breathing for Genesis. Since reading his emotions was impossible, and a direct question was likely to lead nowhere, Mirk tried a different approach. "It''s only that I worry about you a little, being all alone. I don''t mean to be rude, but methinks you might do better with someone to keep you company from time to time."


    Again, a sideways look that only lasted for a second, as Mirk switched to stretching his arms. "I am fine."


    "Are you, though? I may just be imagining things, but you''ve seemed a little out of sorts lately. Did something bad happen with one of the Seventh''s contracts? Or with your work?"


    "No."


    "It isn''t the ball, is it? I didn''t mean to force you into something awful, messire, it was just the only thing I could think of that you might be able to help me with. If it''s too much, you really don''t have to come wi¡ª"


    "No." As if it was physically painful, Genesis forced himself to truly look down at him, for more than the length of just one flip of his sword. "Regardless. Once one has...offered a debt, withdrawing is considered...dishonorable. Unless the request itself is dishonorable."


    "And the ball isn''t?"


    Genesis shook his head, after the sword''s hilt had made a few more circles of his wrist. "It is inconvenient. But not...dishonorable."


    Though he knew that Genesis wouldn''t be able to feel it, it was impossible for Mirk not to project reassurance along with the smile he flashed him. "As long as you''re sure."


    The commander gave a dismissive nod, then turned his attention back to his sword. Mirk pushed himself back up onto his feet, giving his knuckles a crack for good measure before retrieving his staff. Maybe the sparring would be enough to knock Genesis out of whatever mood he was in. Of the very limited range of things in life Genesis relished, fighting and making things perfectly to his liking were at the top of the list. And Mirk had no doubt that Genesis would find plenty of errors to correct in his fighting. He always did.


    Mirk edged in front of Genesis, the appropriate distance away. "Tiens, allons-y, messire?"


    The commander shot him a sour look, catching his sword a final time. "As...you will."


    Genesis never attacked first. It was some manner of assertiveness exercise, Mirk supposed. Or perhaps it was meant to give him a leg up, though it never did. No matter how clever Mirk thought he was, his blow was always neatly dodged or countered.


    That time was no different. Mirk knew he had to be getting better at feinting, but his quick shift from an obvious sideways swing to an inward jab was knocked away effortlessly. Before Mirk could reorient himself, Genesis had slipped within range, and he felt a tap on his upper shoulder, a move that would have likely severed his arm turned at the last possible moment into nothing but a pat with the flat of the sword.


    It would have been terrifying, fighting against an actual blade rather than a wooden practice sword, if Genesis didn''t have such immaculate control. Mirk could never tell whether all the pats he gave him with it were meant to be scolding, mocking, or merely instructional. Genesis had to have been annoyed by all his silly mistakes by then. If that was the case, however, there was no indication of it on Genesis''s face. Genesis was impassive as ever as he took a few steps back and gestured at Mirk to try again.


    So he did. Again. And again.


    Mirk was warding away the blows now, at least, though he couldn''t get many of his own in. Every time he started to get the hang of things, started to find a workable rhythm, Genesis would increase his speed and manage to catch him off guard, tapping him on the side, chest, arm, "killing" him a dozen times over. Mirk gritted his teeth and forced himself onward, straining to keep up. How was he supposed to defend against someone who was capable of moving from place to place without ever seeming to need to occupy the space between? No one could do that, inhuman or otherwise. At least not physically.


    The thought struck Mirk so suddenly that he got pushed off-balance, only saving himself at the very last moment by turning his stumble into a roll, one that thankfully took him out of the sword''s range. If Genesis wasn''t actually moving, that meant he had to be using some kind of magic.


    Sucking in a deep breath, Mirk threw himself back into the fray. This time, instead of watching Genesis''s movements with his eyes, trying to judge where he was moving by how he shifted his weight, Mirk looked with his mind. He could never feel Genesis''s emotions, but that didn''t mean he couldn''t use his senses to pick up on the commander¡¯s magic. Instead of straining to pick up on Genesis intentions with his empathy, he searched for nothingness, spots where the barely audible murmuring of the wood of the floor and the stone of the walls was momentarily cut off.


    It worked. Somewhat. Mirk was beginning to get a sense of what Genesis was doing with his magic that allowed him to move so quickly, to sense the pattern within the chaos. It was almost the same as making sense of the discordant mess inside Genesis''s body, where the static eventually became the song, if only one listened closely. Watching Genesis''s movements with his physical eyes was becoming more distracting than helpful, dividing Mirk''s attention so that half of him was still straining to read Genesis''s stance while the rest of him was trying to watch the advancing and retreating edges of Genesis''s magic.


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    Mirk didn''t know whether what he had in mind would help him, or mean getting another smack in the side. But what was the harm in trying? Focusing entirely on his mental senses, Mirk closed his eyes.


    It was disorienting at first. Mirk could still tell where everything was by listening and feeling for his surroundings and the staticky gap caused in them by Genesis''s magic. And yet, there was a note of panic welling up inside Mirk¡¯s stomach, some voice of logic clamoring at him to give up and be sensible and open his eyes again.


    It reminded him of the few times his sister had tried to share her love of flying with him. She''d grab him under the arms and be up off the ground in an instant with a tremendous flap of her wings and a bolt of her magic, swooping him up over the manor''s gables and skimming him over the tops of trees, laughing the whole while, until Mirk''s panicked yelping and pleading got her to relent and put him back on the front lawn.  It felt he should have been failing to keep Genesis at bay with his eyes squeezed shut, just like it felt like he should have been falling, despite knowing full well that Kae was strong enough even as a girl to fly a full-grown man all the way from Nantes to Tours without even getting winded.


    But when Mirk raised the staff to block, he could hear the clack of wood on metal to match what he saw and heard with his magical senses, the reassuring hum and glow of his grandfather''s staff banging into a hissing nothingness that had momentarily separated from its main source and lashed out to strike at him. Slowly, after a half dozen more parries and successfully shoved off locks, Mirk began to grow more comfortable with it. Which allowed him to take a harder look at Genesis''s magic.


    The nothingness didn''t move instantly, or, at least, not as suddenly as Genesis seemed to. The chaos would fade right and left, forward and back, spreading out in multiple directions at once before it focused in on one and the bulk of it moved. That explained how Genesis always dodged his blows, no matter how well Mirk feinted ¡ª he always had at least two other avenues of retreat open to him, and could slide down any of them more quickly than Mirk could swing at him, since some small part of himself or his magic was already there. The more Mirk watched, the more he began to be able to spot which direction Genesis was planning on dodging in, how one particular fade always seemed a bit thicker than the rest. Mirk made an attempt at a feint again, that time only using it as a way to gain momentum and swing in the direction he thought Genesis was most likely to dodge in.


    There was a crack.


    A sharp flare of pain broke Mirk''s concentration. He yelped, his eyes flying open as he reeled backward, overwhelmed by the dizziness and disorientation that came with shifting his attention back to the physical world alone. Once Mirk was able to focus again, he realized that the room had snapped back to its normal dimensions. And Genesis was stalking off toward the bench, one hand pressed against his side and hissing curses to himself. He released the sword''s hilt, surrendering it to the shadows, which dragged it off under the bench as Genesis lowered himself carefully down onto it.


    "I''m so sorry, Gen!" Mirk blurted out, scrambling over to him, leaving his staff behind where he''d dropped it on the floor. "I just...I''ve never...I can''t believe..."


    "Congratulations," the commander said, flatly, looking up at Mirk fretting and wringing his hands with a blank expression. Though Genesis did wince a little when he experimentally prodded himself in the side, and a bolt of pain escaped through his chaotic aura.


    Mirk winced as well. "I didn''t mean to¡ª"


    Genesis cut him off with a dismissive flick of his hand as he settled back on the bench, leaning against the wall, though he kept his back ramrod straight. "It is of little importance. However, do be...mindful of your force the next time. The staff appears to disagree with me. Somewhat."


    Cautiously, Mirk sat down on the bench beside Genesis, pushing aside his bag to make room. Mirk wasn''t afraid of the commander lashing out at him. Rather, he was worried that the shadows might not take kindly to someone having hit their master. For the time being, they remained lurking in their usual corners, restless, but no more threatening toward him than usual. "May I help you?"


    "It will heal on its own."


    Mirk eyed the spot on Genesis''s side the commander had been poking at earlier. If the blow had hurt Genesis badly enough for his pain to felt empathically, it had to be severe, more than Genesis''s body''s ability to fix itself could manage. A broken rib or two, most likely. "I don''t mind helping."


    "I will...manage."


    "I know you''ll manage, messire," Mirk said, unable to keep the frustration out of his tone. "But methinks you won''t be happy when they have to be re-broken. Don''t you remember what happened the last time you did get help with a broken rib?"


    The broken rib in question, rather than healing itself cleanly back together, had started to knit itself into strange and contorted shapes, breaking other ribs as it went along, sprouting a dozen sharp edges. Genesis had ignored the pain and had kept working until even he, with all his inhuman talents and tricks for surviving, was too dizzy and weak from want of air to continue any longer. The mass of bone had been so twisted that they''d needed to cut multiple ribs entirely out of Genesis, regrow new ones in a potion solution, and then fuse them back in with the rest.


    The procedure had taken nearly four hours of constant attention and magical support, and even then, it''d only been successful because Genesis had passed out on the exam table before they''d even started their work, so his magic wasn''t as much of a terror as it usually was. Mirk could distinctly remember waking up on the floor of his room after that operation, having been too tired to make it all the way into bed, instead sleeping for a full ten hours curled up beneath his desk.


    "I believe that was a...unique situation," Genesis said.


    The commander was digging in for one of his more protracted arguments, obviously. Mirk summoned the best concerned expression he could ¡ª not that he wasn''t concerned, but most people didn''t need to see a grimace fit for a tragic play to understand the sentiment ¡ª and took hold of Genesis''s elbow to draw his attention. "This might be even worse. That was only one rib. This could be two or three. And I won''t know unless you at least let me look."


    Genesis didn''t reply, looking determinedly away from Mirk, off at his interminable walls of books.


    "Please, messire," Mirk said, tugging on his elbow again. "If you''re too upset at me to let me look, at least come to the infirmary. Someone there will be able to manage it, if I help them with your magic. I wouldn''t insist, but you were hurt so badly last time..."


    "I am not...upset."


    Though his tone didn''t shift, Genesis''s expression did. His blank facade cracked with the words, revealing an unfamiliar expression underneath, a tired one, some mixture of resignation and guilt. Which was cause for concern in and of itself. Mirk couldn''t recall Genesis ever having been guilty about something, despite all the horrible rumors that were constantly floating about regarding the nature of Genesis''s work and magic. Perhaps it was only that a guilty expression didn''t mean the same thing coming from Genesis as it did other people. If his smiles were so backward as to be incomprehensible, there was no telling which other expressions he might not be able to get right.


    "You look upset," Mirk prompted, when Genesis declined to explain further.


    Rather than explaining, Genesis shifted his arm out of the way, deliberately leaving room open for Mirk to put his hands over the injured spot on his side. Mirk did so, biting his lip and closing his eyes as he concentrated.


    It was no use. With most other people, Mirk could get a sense of what was wrong through their clothes, even if he couldn''t heal through them. But the strange, twisting nature of Genesis''s body and magic made the faint sound of his insides too indistinct through the layers of fabric Genesis armored himself in for Mirk to get a lock on anything. Mirk withdrew with a sigh, reaching to untuck the commander''s shirt and lift it without thinking.


    Instantly, Genesis scooted to the far end of the bench, out of reach.


    "What is it?" Mirk asked. "I can''t heal through clothes, you know. It''s going to have to come unbuttoned, at the very least."


    Genesis said nothing, but continued to eye Mirk warily, folding his arms over his chest despite the pain it caused him.


    Mirk should have known that the struggle wasn''t over. He huffed, mirroring the commander''s posture. Two could be stubborn, if it came to that. "Methinks it''s a little silly for you to be embarrassed over things, messire. It''s only your chest and your arms."


    That got Genesis to glare at him. "I am not...embarrassed."


    "You shouldn''t be. I''ve already seen all of you dozens of times. Who do you think dresses you whenever you come in? Everyone else is too afraid of being thrown against the ceiling to bother. You''d wake up naked every time you''re in if it wasn''t for me."


    Aghast, Genesis pushed himself further away, to the very edge of the bench.


    A laugh escaped him before Mirk could clamp a hand over his mouth to stop it. "You''re acting like I''m going to do something awful to you, Genesis. It''s really only a little thing. Methinks the rational thing to do would be to get it done and over with. And aren''t you always telling me to be more rational?"


    Appealing to his rationality finally burst the dam. Grumbling to himself, Genesis set to undoing all the tiny buttons down the front of his shirt. "One...never knows when you healers are going to do something...awful."


    "It''s always for the greater good," Mirk said. Which was the truth. Most of the time. Even if the greater good entailed drinking a potion that''d make someone see tiny imps scaling up and down the walls for hours, or a poultice that temporarily turned a man''s privates blue in an effort to turn the tide in the constant battle against Cupid''s various diseases.


    Again, Genesis refused to dignify this with a response. But he did peel off all his layers, not drawing close enough for Mirk to touch him again until all his shirts were perfectly folded. Mirk always felt a little bad for the commander whenever he was without him. No matter the season, their lack always left Genesis looking cold and a bit pathetic.


    The bruise spreading across Genesis''s side only made Mirk feel even worse. It was bigger than both of Mirk''s hands put together. He pressed just his fingertips to it as he closed his eyes and called to his healing magic once more. Delicately, Mirk traced the lines of each of Genesis''s ribs. Two were broken, the fourth and the fifth, close to their angles. Though that didn''t explain how the bruising had spread so rapidly and so far. Though Genesis''s heart was beating faster than usual, it wasn''t enough to account for so much bleeding beneath the skin.


    "Methinks it shouldn''t take too long to heal them. Very clean breaks. The bruising will take a little work, though," Mirk said, pausing to glance up at Genesis. He was holding himself eerily still under Mirk''s hands and gaze, not even breathing. Mirk wondered if it was because it pained him, or if the commander was so tense he was forgetting to.


    "How...fortunate," Genesis finally said.


    The sarcasm wasn''t lost on Mirk. But he set to work nevertheless ¡ª if one was searching after praise and thanks, being a healer wasn''t the way to get it, Mirk had found. Especially when wrangling patients cut from the same, standoffish cloth that Genesis was. Though the commander really was being more difficult than usual that night. Mirk didn''t know how to account for it.


    And that difficulty wasn''t going to make healing him any easier. Especially since working at the commander from the side the broken ribs were on was making Mirk¡¯s wrists cramp as he tried to press them flat against Genesis''s side. Sighing, Mirk drew his magic back and got to his feet, standing squarely in front of Genesis, meeting the commander''s eyes.


    "What?" Genesis asked. He hunched in on himself, as if trying to protect himself from the chill in the room. Which only made his broken ribs grind together.


    Mirk winced. "You''re not going to like this. I''ll have to sit on the other side if it''s going to get done."


    Before Genesis could protest, Mirk thunked down on the bench beside Genesis, opposite his broken ribs, and wrapped his arms loosely around him, to rest his palms flat against his side. Really, Mirk was surprised he was able to do it quickly enough for Genesis not to dodge him. But Mirk had discovered over the course of the year he''d been with Genesis that, while the commander could respond to a kick or a punch in an instant with that uncanny speed of his, when it came to warding off closeness, the gentle gestures made Genesis freeze up instead. Mirk could feel the shadows coiling about his ankles.


    But the squeeze or the yank that usually followed never came. Instead, Genesis remained stock still and silent. Not breathing. Mirk sighed, allowing his dismay to escape onto his face only now that he was certain Genesis couldn''t see it. "I''m sorry, messire."


    Genesis didn''t respond.


    "Did I do something wrong?" Mirk asked. "Before? It''s only...you haven''t been yourself. And you know I can''t read you. So if something is bothering you, you need to tell me. If it''s...I know I''ve been closer than you like, and I''m sorry I was so..."


    It had been bothering Mirk ever since he''d woken up and found that Genesis and all his things had vanished from his room in the middle of the night. Mirk couldn''t help but wonder if his clinging the night before the commander had left had pushed Genesis over some unspoken edge, had offended his sensibilities too much for Genesis to continue to bear. Genesis usually didn''t spare others'' feelings when it came to making his preferences known. Perhaps Mirk was just so pathetic that even a man as blunt and practical as Genesis was reluctant to hurt his feelings, thinking him too fragile to bear up under his coldness instead of taking it in stride like K''aekniv did.


    "No," Genesis replied, just as Mirk was about to start apologizing again.


    "Then what is it?"


    Another agonizing pause. Mirk snuck a glance up at him. Genesis''s face wasn''t closed off, not exactly. But it did have a different sort of blankness, not one that was forced, but one that meant Genesis was concentrating so hard that he couldn''t spare a single bit of effort on something as trivial as smiling or frowning. It was the eyes that gave it away. Though the rest of Genesis was still, his eyes flickered back and forth as he searched for what to say, as if he was reading a grimoire that only he could see.


    Rather than subjecting himself to waiting idly, Mirk searched for Genesis''s broken ribs again with his hands and magic, drawing up enough to sense the injuries, but not enough to heal them. Mirk forced his racing mind to focus, to slow and attune itself to the staticky touch of Genesis''s magic, the peculiar structures and rhythms of his body. It calmed him some. Though Genesis''s behavior toward him had taken an inexplicable turn, the commander''s shadow and form were exactly the same as they''d always been. Mirk would never be able to tell what Genesis was feeling. But he''d always know how he felt, know where cartilage transitioned to bone, how his blood worked its way slowly from his heart to capillaries spread out in fractal patterns that made no sense until they were brushed against from just the right angle.


    Finally, Genesis spoke. "I find new...environs somewhat...unsettling. Regardless of who or what motivated the change. It has a tendency to make one...more erratic. Instinctively. It is not a...conscious decision. It renders one...fatigued. Unable to...discern the...appropriate mechanisms of...acceptable interaction. For which I apologize."


    A wave of relief washed over Mirk. He let himself lean against Genesis''s side then, just as he''d wanted to from the start. It felt right, somehow. Better. Though the touch of Genesis''s unnaturally cool skin made Mirk suddenly aware of how badly he was flushing. "Oh. Well, I''m sorry if I was any trouble, Genesis. I just...well, I worry."


    "So you have said." From the tone of his voice, Mirk got the impression that Genesis still didn''t understand this, as if the term lost all meaning once it was applied to himself.


    "Bien s?r! Like I said, I can''t tell what you''re thinking."


    "I do not understand why this would...be of any interest."


    "It means I can''t tell if I''ve hurt your feelings or not. It''s not as simple as this," Mirk said, drawing his healing potential out from his core and into his hands. Genesis had finally relaxed enough that Mirk could be certain he wouldn''t inadvertently heal his broken ribs at the wrong angle. "You do know that I''d never want to hurt you, non? Though I suppose doing this to you might not make it seem that way..."


    Genesis made a low hissing noise, some bad approximation of a laugh, one that thankfully didn''t involve much inhaling or exhaling. "You...overestimate yourself. At present, you are still...incapable of causing me much harm."


    "Broken bones still aren''t very nice, even if you don''t think they hurt that much."


    "I would be more concerned if you had been able to...accomplish that when I was moving...at full force and speed."


    Mirk wilted a bit. He should have known better than to think that he''d been able to actually measure up to a fighter of Genesis''s skill. "How far away am I?"


    "That was close to half speed."


    "Oh."


    "...right-handed half speed, to be more precise."


    "Right-handed?" Mirk had never thought to take notice of which of Genesis''s hands was the dominant one. He broke them both continually, in any case. And was capable of writing with both at once. Watching it always gave Mirk a headache.


    "One would be well-advised to...develop some degree of proficiency with both hands. A matter for you to consider once you''ve...mastered the one."


    "Of course," Mirk mumbled, turning his attention back to healing. Even if he was useless for fighting, even though he had finally managed to land one blow, there was always healing. Healing that was instinctual in a way that fighting would never be, though Yule was always commenting on how Mirk¡¯s technique didn''t match up with the standard practices. Mirk allowed his magic to pass from his body into Genesis''s, working it in slowly through his chaotic magic and down into flesh and bone. With Genesis''s body, it always felt less like he was restoring a broken harmony and more like he was convincing quarreling parties to sit down at one table and have a conversation. "I''m glad you''re not upset, though, Genesis. But you can tell me if I ever do. It''d upset me more to keep doing it without knowing."


    Mirk hadn''t been expecting Genesis to respond. After all, the commander was silent the full ten minutes it took to heal his broken ribs, leaving Mirk with only the bruise left to attend to. Just as he''d begun to rub the blood back into its proper places, allowing his magic to search out all the ruptured capillaries and venules by feel without thinking about it hard, he felt Genesis shift in his hold. He''d been expecting another one of Genesis''s awkward, exact pats on the back or shoulder.


    Instead, he got an awkward, exact attempt at ruffling his hair. The commander couldn''t bring himself to brush it out of order, however. He turned it into something like a single pat on the crown of his head, his hand remaining there rather than drawing back, as if Genesis wasn''t quite sure what more he was to do with it.


    It was strange, admittedly. Genesis must have seen K''aekniv and Danu do it to him before, and had decided it was the called for gesture, despite how Yule was always complaining to them that just because they weren''t tall didn''t mean that their more outsized comrades had the right to pat them on the head like a child. It had never bothered Mirk. It''d only comforted him to be treated with such warmth and familiarity.


    And even though the gesture was different coming from Genesis, just like everything about the commander was different, it made Mirk feel warm in the same way. Something in Genesis''s precise, deliberate nature turned the mundane gesture into something heavy with care, with sentiment that Genesis seemed incapable of finding the proper words for. The weight of his hand and the feel of his cool fingertips on Mirk''s forehead made him feel special, somehow. Valued. If Genesis ever seized another person like that, doubtlessly he''d be about to do something terrible to their skull. The mere fact that it meant something else in that moment, something careful and gentle instead of vicious, made the touch all the more meaningful.


    Genesis treated everything in life outside of his control as if it was ephemeral, as if it was best to grow accustomed to nothing, lest its absence upset all of his meticulous routines. But he was holding onto him, even if he didn''t know how to show it best. And he wasn''t letting go.


    Laughter, as usual, wasn''t the best response to one of Genesis''s strange attempts at friendliness. Yet it bubbled up past Mirk''s lips all the same. "That''s not quite how you do that, messire. But methinks I like your version better anyway."


    Though Genesis didn''t recoil from him, he didn''t sound reassured either. "I...see."


    Mirk doubted there was anything he could say to Genesis to make him feel more at ease. He let the matter drop instead, hoping that the commander might be able to discern from the way Mirk leaned against his side again as he worked away the bruising that his odd way of doing things didn''t bother him. That he found Genesis''s efforts at being close all the more genuine in their backwardness.


    It must have gotten through to Genesis, at least a little. He didn''t hold himself quite so still, didn''t make every effort to touch Mirk as little as possible. Yet, something still felt off. Mirk cast out his senses again, taking stock of Genesis''s body and magic. Genesis had said the staff disagreed with him, though Mirk hadn''t seen any magic pass from it to the commander. Mirk searched for traces of it and came up with nothing.


    But he did notice, as he rubbed away the last of the bruise, that Genesis''s heart was still beating more quickly than usual. A small thing, not one worth remarking on, especially considering how most people''s hearts accelerated when they were healing or had just been hurt. Genesis''s body didn''t respond to pain that way, however. Pain made all his systems slow, both his heart and his breath, until he was all but dead. Frowning, Mirk counted the beats, comparing them to his own. Usually, there were three for every one of his; their hearts were mismatched at the same rate that their steps were. At present, though, it was more like two and a half.


    Mirk thought about commenting on it, but decided against it, straightening up and releasing Genesis instead. Just as Mirk had been expecting, the instant he was freed, Genesis snatched his pile of shirts off the bench beside Mirk and began bundling himself back up again. Perhaps that was it. Genesis did act a little like a turtle that''d been knocked onto its back when he was forced to endure healing, always anxious to pull himself back into his shell and sulk a bit once he''d been righted. Even if Mirk couldn''t feel the emotions like he could from any other patient, and even if Genesis didn''t express them outwardly, that didn''t mean they weren''t there.


    It would be best to let things be. There was no sense in disturbing what had just been made right again. Even if it left some things a mystery.

 Chapter 19

    Everything was a mess.


    Mirk had never thought about every step of the process so intensely, had never been forced to do every last bit of it himself. There had always been someone there to help, a valet or a maid or even his mother as a last resort, if something went wrong on the carriage ride to whichever noble house he was expected to put in an appearance at. And the tools needed to make himself presentable had always been at the ready, maintained and restocked by someone else, in a little chest of drawers beside the vanity in the corner of his room. Powder and rouge and perfume and curlers and all manner of combs and tweezers to discipline unruly hairs, all on their own velour cushions inside the modest white box with hand-painted blue flowers.


    The sad selection of devices Mirk had been able to scare up that morning before his shift were arranged around the rim of one of the chipped and stained washbasins in the fourth floor bath rather than on delicate cushions. A set of clay curlers with poor enchantments on them that Yule was glad to be rid of. A pan of rouge from Sheila, who wore it more to fit in when she wandered among the mortals of London than out of vanity. A blackened pair of tweezers that Ilya had needed to bend back into shape before handing them over with a best-of-luck sort of shrug.


    None of them made Mirk feel more put together. Nor had his own additions to his arsenal helped much: an ivory hairbrush that had lost a quarter of its bristles over the months he''d been in the City, and a perfume he''d concocted himself out of the best-smelling potion components from the infirmary supply closet. But at least it was the nerves making him feel nauseous, Mirk thought, rather than his poor perfumery skills.


    Squaring his shoulders, Mirk lifted his head and confronted the sight of himself in the small, dingy mirror hung above the magicked taps. He didn''t know whether to be grateful or dismayed by how smudged the glass was. It at least let him cultivate the delusion that he''d managed to make himself look regal. His new suit was doing most of the heavy lifting. It''d arrived in the nick of time that morning, just before he''d left for the infirmary, along with a new shirt and stockings and fresh lace for the falls at his neck and wrists.


    Mirk didn''t regret leaving the choice of color and cut to the Nasiri twins. The note that''d been sent along with the garments, written in Asim''s undulating hand, reassured Mirk that the suit''s color was all the rage that season and that everyone who was anyone was wearing it, whether it suited them or not. French lilac, a light purplish color with the faintest undertone of gray. Thankfully, it matched his features much better than last season''s, an orangey-red color that he thought made him look like a pumpkin that''d been left in the fields to rot. It brought out the purple hidden in his eyes. Though whether the visual reminder that he wasn''t fully human would work in his benefit or not remained to be seen.


    As for the cut, Asim had felt the need to apologize for it a bit, but Mirk thought it needed no defense. Every year it seemed like the tilt toward more ornamentation ¡ª wider sleeves and voluminous coats, more embroidery with beads strung into it, thicker layers of lace and extra splashes of color ¡ª slid further afield from what his short stature could bear up under. Asim and his twin brother Mahir always took the more sensible approach, in Mirk''s opinion, and kept things simple. Just enough swish to the justacorps to make it flatter his dancing, and a subtle silver embroidery, done vertically rather than across, to help him look taller. The heels that''d been sent along with the clothes probably helped to cultivate that impression more than the stitching.


    But beyond the suit, everything else was hopeless. His hair was the worst of it, but Mirk had already resigned himself to looking out of fashion. He didn¡¯t have the time or patience for maintaining a good wig. Nor was he inclined to shave his head like his grandfather had. Before everything had happened, a maid had always come to weave in extensions on the most formal occasions. His natural hair was unmanageable when it got past his shoulders, mostly because he had a bad habit of sleeping hard and forgetting to brush it.


    The clay curlers had been as useless as Yule had said they were, though Mirk didn''t see what Yule needed them for. The older healer''s hair had a natural, full curl to it that Mirk envied a little, since it was so much in fashion. All the curlers had done was give Mirk¡¯s own half-curls a touch more life, which really didn''t compensate much for the rest.


    The rest. Mirk hadn''t thought that the morning walks to the infirmary had given him much color, but his neck and hands looked dingy in comparison to the lace that framed them. Mirk looked away from the mirror, picking up the bottle of homemade perfume and applying a touch to both wrists. He was so tanned that there wasn''t a trace of blue visible there, where his veins were closest to the surface. His mother would have been appalled. Just like she''d been when he''d returned from the abbey. After she''d crushed all the wind out of him with a hug, she''d stepped back, looked him over, and had said that all his honest work in the gardens would doubtlessly be noticed by both the Savior and the women who''d be attending luncheon with them the next afternoon.


    Mirk batted the memory away as he set the bottle back down, unable to keep himself from picking at his suit, triple-checking that he hadn''t skipped over any buttons. It felt profoundly uncomfortable after so many months of forgiving robes. A good thing, Mirk tried to remind himself. If he came in looking too thin, everyone would think that he''d squandered his grandfather''s fortune. He smoothed his hands over the yards of silk, trying to glean some hope from the way the fabric shimmered even in the yellowy and faint magelights of the bath. Under those of Madame Beaumont''s ballroom, his new suit would look like it''d been enchanted.


    If only he felt like he halfway deserved such finery. Like it wasn''t just a farce.


    There was no time left to brood over things. He had to be at the far edge of London''s mage quarter by half six. Genesis had said he''d meet him there, and the commander wasn''t one to tolerate lateness. And his uncle and cousins were waiting for him besides. He had to put on a brave face. A cheerful face. At least until he was forced to raise the ugly specter of what Serge Montigny had done and present it to the other noble mages. Mirk had been searching for the right words, the right approach ever since he''d left Madame Beaumont''s parlor weeks ago. And he still felt like the whole plan ¡ª to stand before all the assembled mages and make some kind of bold declaration ¡ª was hopeless.


    But he had to try.


    It was too late to turn back then. Dwelling on the matter in the bathroom wasn''t going to do anyone any good. All that aside, Mirk really needed to get going before someone else needed to use the baths or privy. Word of who he truly was had spread fast around the infirmary, but Mirk knew it was one thing to hear a rumor, and another thing entirely to see it in the flesh. There wasn''t much risk of anyone trying to rob him in the healer''s dormitory, at least. Though, to be entirely honest, the thought of having a knife pulled on him worried Mirk less than the prospects of the gossip the sight of him in such finery would spark.


    He gathered up his things, tucking them into his work bag, which he''d be leaving behind in his room as he went past on the way to the stairs. Instead, all he''d have to work with was whatever he could secret away inside the pockets of his justacorps and cloak. Mirk went to the latter, which he''d carefully draped on a drying rack beside one of the baths, giving the dark gray wool a quick brush-down before draping it over his shoulders and clipping it at the front to hide his new suit. Then he drew over beside the washbasins once more, to take a final look in the mirror.


    Already, things were out of place. He had no pomade for his hair; his curls had shifted into his face, and doubtlessly the wind would only fling them further afield. His nervousness and all his bustling around before the wash basins had put more color in his cheeks than the rouge had. Mirk squared his shoulders yet again, flashing himself the best smile he could muster.


    He tried to shove some warmth into it, tried to summon the self-assured kindness that had always made the wrinkles that lined his grandfather''s cheeks look more welcoming than homely, the sharp wit that had made his mother''s eyes glimmer and her even teeth dazzle anyone she turned them on. Mirk didn''t think any of it covered his fear in the slightest. He deflated, shoulders hunching and eyes drifting downward.


    But before he could fully look away from the mirror, Mirk caught a glimpse of a flicker of movement off in the gloom behind him, between the narrow metal baths. And he heard the distant tinkling of bells.


    Mirk whirled around, his hands flailing for something, anything. They only found his heaving chest. He''d been alone in the baths moments before. Now there was a towering figure, clad from head to toe in blackened bronze armor, its wings curled in tightly around its broad shoulders, braced against the wall opposite the washbasins.


    "It''s...olaein..."


    "Good. You''re here. I thought the damn City was going to eat me."


    An angel. Towering taller than K''aekniv, or even his father, his features dark rather than flawlessly white. He lifted his head and smiled at Mirk. The genuine warmth in the expression, which Mirk had just been fruitlessly trying to draw up in himself, took away some of the shock that welled up in Mirk''s chest at seeing the droplets of blood arced across the angel''s cheeks. Mirk bolted across the bathroom and flung himself at his godfather, throwing his arms around him, ignoring whatever muck might get on his fine new cloak from embracing him.


    "Aker! Aker, what happened?"


    Aker laughed, lifting one arm and giving him a few solid pats on the back. Mirk''s alarm grew when he felt that Aker was shaking, just enough to make his armor rattle. His olaein, who would speak for him before the Light Eternal at the end of time, had never been one to be easily frightened. "No time, riaebah,¡± his godfather said. His English sounded more natural than his own did, making the lone angelic word in the Southern dialect stand out. Some unknowable and timeless Imperial magic, no doubt. ¡°You''ve chosen a hell of a place to hide in, you know. Could barely wedge my way in."


    Mirk drew back, trying to compose himself a little, tucking his hair back behind his ears. "It''s only...I thought you''d forgotten about me."


    Aker snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile without any of the warmth of his last. "Impossible. But you know how things are with us. Everything moves so fast with you people...never understood how Mikael could put up with it..."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Now that his shock had faded a little, Mirk gave his godfather a proper once-over. He wasn''t injured, not that Mirk could see. Although there was more blood on him, spattered on the lower half of his armor which, thankfully, Mirk hadn''t touched. Despite that, Mirk thought Aker looked haggard, somehow. Worn thin, too hollow about the cheeks for Mirk''s liking.


    Aker wasn''t the same as the rest of the Imperial angels, fair and marble-stoic, ever-graceful, the more pure-blooded among them so fine and uniform that it was difficult to tell the men apart from the women. He was a Southern angel, the only one Mirk had ever seen. A dying breed, Aker had always said, with an expression Mirk could never be certain of, something between bitterness and fondness. They were more bulky than the Western angels, everything about them rich and vibrant browns and golds, more decidedly masculine. And their eyes had a tendency to shift colors with their moods, Aker¡¯s ranging from deep sapphire with rage to glimmering seafoam when delighted. At the moment, they were a muddy turquoise. Mirk didn''t know what it meant.


    "I had to see you," Aker said, jerking Mirk up out of his thoughts. "These belong to you. I thought I''d be better off bringing them right here instead of trying to catch you when you left the City."


    Aker nudged at a chest beside him on the floor with the toe of his boot. Mirk hadn''t noticed it before in his shock. But now that he saw it, Mirk recognized it in an instant. White leather with silver bands, the latter inscribed with runes that were already soaking in the dim light cast by the magelights up near the ceiling and glowing faintly. It''d almost always sat empty at the foot of his parents'' bed. His father''s armor chest. "I...I don''t know..."


    "I know," Aker said, waving Mirk off. "You''re no fighter. And I still think there''s nothing wrong with that. But it''s owed to you. Father to son, and then on until the end of time, all that rubbish. And before you start complaining, there''s no one else I can shove it off on. You''re the last of the Western shields. Whether the Emperor likes it or not."


    Aker said the last of it with a deep sigh, looking Mirk over with that intensity of his that had always made Mirk feel chagrined, like he''d done something wrong. But there was a painful edge to it then, a deep and frustrated sadness that Mirk could feel whispering against his mental shielding. "Light Eternal, what have the realms come to? Babies having babies...it''s enough to make you feel like you''ve gone mad..."


    "I...methinks I don''t understand, olaein. What happened?"


    Aker shook his head. "Nothing for you to worry about. That''s the other reason why I had to come myself." Aker reached out to him again, taking him by both shoulders and staring down at him. "There really is nothing for you to worry about. It took a lot of work, but I made them promise. You don''t ever have to think about her again. I have the Emperor''s word. They wouldn''t let me kill her for it like she deserves, but it''s done. You can walk free."


    The bottom fell out of Mirk''s stomach and he could no longer bear to look up into his godfather''s face. His eyes fell on the trunk instead, as he searched for a response. The shame-filled bile that was rising up in his throat made it impossible for Mirk to spit out even a word of thanks. He hadn''t thought of it in days. Weeks. But all it took was a vague allusion for it to come rushing back to him, the hiss of drizzle on stone and the sound of snarled demands and the feel of thinner and crueler hands weighing down his shoulders.


    "Chin up, riaebah," Aker said, bodily shaking Mirk out of his memories with a solid clap on his shoulders. "We''ll get her. Give it time. Everything takes time with us."


    Mirk dragged a smile onto his face as he lifted his head again and forced himself to meet Aker''s eyes. There was comfort there, reassurance, despite the sadness Mirk could still feel radiating from Aker through his mental shielding. Not reassurance that the figure that''d stalked his nightmares for months would finally be banished, but that he wasn''t alone. That he hadn''t been forgotten. "I''m glad you came."


    "And now, I''d best be going, before this place really does eat me," Aker said, releasing Mirk''s shoulder and taking a quick glance around the bath. Mirk didn''t understand what his godfather was talking about. He couldn''t sense any magical presence in the baths beyond what was usually there: the wards against errant emotions that were on all the rooms in the healers dormitory, the faint hum of the chaos that powered the City''s wandering, which Mirk only ever noticed because it made it more difficult for him to connect to the Earth beyond it.


    "Will you come back?" Mirk hoped his tone didn''t sound too desperate.


    "Of course. Can''t say when, of course, you humans run on too fast a clock, but I know how to find you. You should get out of this place more, Mirk. A place like this is bad for your health unless you''re built for it. That reminds me, everything in here is yours," Aker said, delivering a curt sideways kick to the side of Mirk''s father''s trunk without glancing down at it. "Don''t let any of your friends get their bony hands on it. Not for now, anyway. There''s work that needs doing before then."


    "I...if you say so, oaelin..it''s only that I don''t know what good I could do with..."


    Before Mirk could finish, Aker vanished, as suddenly as he''d arrived, with the same odd, distant tinkling of bells. And then he was alone in the baths again.


    Mirk took a minute to ground himself first, struggling to reach through the stone and magic separating himself from the Earth, drawing in three slow, deep breaths and holding each to the count of eight before releasing them. Once he felt more certain of himself, Mirk stooped down beside the trunk, his fingers searching for its latch. He flipped it up, then lifted the lid. The bile rose up in Mirk''s throat again at what was inside.


    Sheets of hammered steel, every inch of it covered with enchantments that glowed more brightly than the room''s fading magelights. It made something in Mirk crumple to see his father''s armor like that, a jumble of pieces that had been pulled off and crammed inside the chest without an ounce of care. His father had always cared for it with the same deliberate patience that he used when he spoke to him, thinking hard before every motion and word, deliberating each choice like it was a matter of life and death.


    His father would always polish each and every piece himself as he took them off, ignoring the valets that his mother sent to help him, hanging them on the stand in the corner of the bedchamber he shared with his mother rather than putting them back in the trunk. That way his armor would always be ready to be summoned in an instant. Mirk had always thought of the armor as a strange afterimage of his father, a second imposing wall of metal and magic that stood guard over their manor even while his father dozed away in the solarium.


    All the pieces were still streaked with his father''s blood. Mirk didn''t know why Aker hadn''t taken the time to clean it and put it away properly before coming to find him. Doubtlessly, there had to be a good reason. For all of the ways that Aker was different from all the other angels Mirk had met, his father and the members of his personal guard, Aker had always shown the same undue respect to his weaponry that the rest had. They were important in a way that Mirk had never quite understood.


    Mirk had always assumed that the armor would pass to his sister rather than him, though there was no doubt in his mind that his father would protest. But his mother had a way of overriding each and every one of his father¡¯s complaints, at least when it came to him and his sister. His father had always said that angelic armor was capable of adapting to the needs of its inheritor, but Mirk couldn''t imagine that even the best enchantments would be enough to make it suitable for his needs. Mirk could only imagine someone like Kae, imposing and unyielding, being fit to fill it once his father decided it was time to put it aside.


    Mindful of the blood smeared all over it, dried brown-black and flaking, Mirk traced the symbol carved into the center of the armor''s breastplate. A six-pointed star, encircled by the fine angelic runes that it hurt Mirk''s head to try to decipher. He didn''t need to read them to know what they said. A rock against the ocean, a light against the dark, the left hand shield. From beginning to end.


    His father never spoke much of his own family, but he had told him and Kae what purpose they would serve in the Empire, should either of them choose to devote themselves to it. His great-grandfather had been the commander of the Western Imperial Host, the Emperor¡¯s shield bearer. The position had passed to another after some horrible battle his father would never speak of, other than in reference to its ultimate result.


    Mirk tore his eyes away from the chest full of armor, searching the bath for something to protect himself with. He stumbled back to the basins on the far side of the room, just long enough to snatch up the towel he''d used to wash his face. Biting his lip, he wound the towel around his hand and lifted aside the breastplate, searching his way through the armor underneath it until he found what he''d been dreading, lurking like a snake at the bottom of the trunk. A sword in its scabbard, nearly as long as the trunk itself. Its hilt was silver and completely unadorned, as plain as its white leather and wood scabbard. Like the sight of it burned him, Mirk hurried to let the armor fall back into place on top of it. Then he straightened up, twisting the towel between his hands as he struggled to think of what to do.


    The sword wasn''t his father''s, not truly. It had been entrusted to his father by his grandfather, who had been given it by the Emperor. It was the reason why the Dishoael line had been dismissed from the Western Host and been permitted to do as they pleased, his father had told him and his sister, on a rainy October evening when he''d called them both into his library after their respective training had ended for the day. His father''s face had been impassive as he''d stared across the room at it, just like his sister''s had. But she''d kept her wing curled around Mirk¡¯s shoulders once she''d noticed how badly the chill in the room had been making Mirk shake.


    Their great-grandfather had been one of the most respected angels in the Empire, his father had told him. A man beyond reproach, who had trained for thousands of years to harden his mind against magical influence and had completely eschewed the pleasures and foibles of his physical form. A man who was dedicated without exception to the Empire. A man who lived only to serve. Which was why the sword taken from the traitor, the last angel to have ever stood against the Empire, had been entrusted to him. Whatever magic had corrupted the traitor wouldn''t have an effect on such a man, Mirk''s father had told them, even if his skin brushed against its hilt. He would never seek to use its power to advance himself. But they were young, still growing, their minds soft and impressionable. They were to never touch the sword bare-handed.


    Mirk''s father never had either. He had centuries yet to train, he had said. It wasn''t something for either of them to be worried about, he''d concluded, turning back around to face them, a slight smile coming onto his face. All they had to know was that the sword was better off left alone. And that they all lived to serve something, though what that would be remained a mystery of the Light Eternal.


    Abruptly, Mirk reached out and slammed the lid of the trunk shut. A shiver ran through him, making him hug himself as he vacillated in the middle of the bath, not knowing what to do with himself. Even if Aker had brought him his father''s things, Mirk didn''t feel as if any of it belonged to him. He''d done nothing to earn it, to deserve it. He wasn''t a warrior. He wasn''t even good at the one thing that he''d been raised to do, to navigate the world with grace and assurance, making a way for his family with the right words and gestures rather than with a sword and shield.


    Hiding in the bathroom wasn''t helping anything. There wasn''t a clock in the bath, but Mirk was sure he had to be running late by then. He made himself look away from the trunk, returning to the sink and gathering up the last of his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Before hurrying away, Mirk paused to look at himself in the mirror again. Everything was still in its proper place. And although he didn''t look fine enough to match his new clothes, warm and soft rather than regal and imposing, Mirk supposed it''d have to do.


    Just like dragging the trunk full of armor back to his room would have to do rather than carrying it properly. It was so heavily enchanted that Mirk''s magic couldn''t do anything to it, the fact that it was made of wood and metal and leather from off-realm aside. And he was far too weak to grasp it by the handles on its side and pick it up. The trunk had been meant for people three times his size, people who could lift boulders and cleave apart trees with a well-aimed kick. Mirk was left dragging it by one handle, having to pause every few feet to catch his breath and compose himself, lest he start to sweat and ruin the makeup or deflate the smidgen of extra height the clay curlers had put in his hair.


    Mirk was glad Aker had finally come to see him. But he thought it was an inauspicious beginning to his first evening back in polite society nevertheless.

 Chapter 20

    The bell of the Artificers Guild¡¯s clock tower tolled twice as Mirk hurried down the street, keeping to the middle to avoid the mess at its edges. Living in the City of Glass had spoiled him. Even though the mage quarter was far cleaner than the mortal neighborhoods of London, the filth in the gutters still made something inside Mirk cringe. Or maybe he''d just been spending too much time with Genesis.


    "Half six...it has to be half six by now...where is he?" Mirk mumbled to himself, scanning the darker alleyways between the walled-off townhouses that lined the winding, cobbled road. He couldn''t have been a whole hour late. And Genesis was always on time. More likely the commander was waiting for him closer to Madame Beaumont''s townhouse, if Genesis had even left the City at all yet. Genesis was always exactly on time, not a second late or early. And he didn¡¯t have to tolerate the nuisance of walking anywhere if he wished to avoid it.


    Mirk was always conspicuously early, especially when he was nervous. Despite the time it took to drag his father''s trunk back to his room and compose himself, Mirk had still left through the east gate of the City over an hour earlier than he''d strictly needed to. He tried to cobble together excuses for himself to explain it, anything other than nerves. The teleportation spell on the gate, the one that moved passers-through seamlessly from the City''s confines to the mage quarter, a gap of forty some miles, always left Mirk feeling queasy. It''d be better not to appear at Madame Beaumont''s doorstep looking green around the edges. And Madame Beaumont''s townhouse was at the far end of the mage quarter, near where it blended into a wealthy mortal neighborhood, so it''d take time to get there. But even though Mirk was strolling rather than walking purposefully, being mindful not to splash his stockings in any puddles or scuff his shoes by tripping over loose cobbles, he knew it wouldn''t take an entire hour to get there.


    It took only three quarters of an hour, at most, if the church bell was anything to go by. Once he arrived, Mirk was dismayed to find that, though the gate to Madame Beaumont''s townhouse was standing open and the lamps hung above and beside it were all blazing, there wasn''t a single carriage or portal to be seen past the gap in the high stone wall that surrounded its front garden. He must have sorely misjudged what degree of lateness was considered fashionable.


    The invitation had said the ball was to start at six sharp, but, of course, anyone who showed up right on time would look like an over-eager newcomer to polite society. Mirk had thought that arriving a half hour later would put him at Madame Beaumont''s doorstep late enough that a few of the more elderly attendees, who might wish to depart for the night earlier than their younger relations, might have arrived. They would have granted him some cover as he slipped around to the rear of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse, where Am-Hazek would be waiting at the servants¡¯ entrance to take him up to see Henri and the children. But his bad luck apparently knew no bounds that night.


    Sighing, Mirk turned and peered up through the fog at the illuminated clock tower, back near the center of the mage quarter. It was too distant for him to make out the time. There was nothing to do but wait, Mirk supposed. In an alley somewhere, to keep himself hidden from any guests that might arrive in the meantime. Madame Beaumont had suggested that Mirk make a show of his entrance. Bumbling into the first guest to arrive outside the gates, idling about like a fool, wasn''t exactly the best way to make a good first impression.


    That and he''d be more likely to sort out where Genesis had hidden himself if he stuck to the shadows. Even though it was the sensible course of action, shuffling off toward the nearest alley made Mirk feel like a coward. Too frightened of Serge Montigny''s influence to stand up for his murdered family. Too graceless to command the respect of those who were unaligned. Too weak to do anything to support poor Henri and the children, who''d been through so much and would have nothing to show for their struggle unless he found it in himself to be something better than¡ª


    "Though I believe this isn''t the most...specious neighborhood, you would still be well-advised to be more aware of your surroundings. Mirk."


    Yelping, Mirk whirled about to face the low, tired voice that''d spoken up from directly behind him. He tripped over a loose cobblestone and lost his balance. Mirk would have ended up flat on his face if firm hands hadn''t lashed out, quicker than thought, and seized him by the shoulders, righting him at the very last moment. Genesis. As Mirk laughed to himself and tried to get his bearings, Genesis released him. Though the commander''s fussiness didn''t allow him to let Mirk go without first plucking some invisible speck of lint off Mirk''s cloak.


    "Oh, I''m so sorry, messire. Really, I didn''t mean to cause you any trouble, methinks I just get, euh, distracted sometimes, and...ah...well..."


    Mirk''s conciliatory gibbering petered out as he fully processed the sight before him. Genesis so rarely wore anything other than his oversized uniform blacks ¡ª cut extra-large so that they could be forced on K''aekniv if the half-angel ruined his ¡ª and his ugly brown-black overcoat that the sight of him in anything else was odd.


    Though, Mirk didn''t think odd was quite the right word. The Nasiri twins had gone above and beyond that time. Mirk didn''t know what he''d expected the K''maneda''s formal uniform to look like, aside from being black like everything else in the City, but he hadn''t anticipated that it¡¯d look so arresting. At least on Genesis.


    It was cut close. Or maybe it just seemed that way because everything Genesis usually wore wasn''t tailored at all. Most of it was black, like Mirk had been expecting. But it wasn''t the usual brownish black that came with a thousand of Genesis''s exhaustive washings ¡ª it seemed to be a strange sort of ultra-black instead, one so deep that it sucked in the lamplight and extinguished it. Or perhaps that was just an illusion created by its thin silver trim, which lined all the edges of its coat, from its lower hem that fell somewhere between proper doublet and justacorps length, up to its high standing collar by way of an offset placket that closed the coat in a crisp line three quarters of the way across Genesis''s chest.


    All of its adornments were silver: the buttons, etched with the K''maneda¡¯s pentagram seal, the various campaign medals arranged in perfectly even rows across the wider half of the coat, the insignia markings on its collar. The tall riding boots were the same, spotless and laced tight, though Genesis had scrubbed the blacking off their buckles and polished their silver back to an immaculate sheen. The trousers that went with it were snug, folded and tucked neatly into the tops of the boots.


    Mirk couldn''t put his finger on what it was about the uniform that made it so striking. Maybe it really was just the tailoring, streamlined and utilitarian, creating a lithe silhouette that made the most of the commander''s long legs and broad shoulders and left Genesis looking imposing rather than skeletal. Or it could have simply been the contrast between the uniform and the suits that were in fashion among the rest of the nobility, all clean, long lines instead of lace and baubles that blended in with the baroque decor of a finely appointed ballroom. The ensemble was a bit gauche, to be certain, but it invited the eye to linger in an appealing way. Though, what exactly he was meant to linger on remained a mystery to Mirk. The legs had a certain draw, though the combination of the uniform and the boots drew Mirk¡¯s attention higher than the customary sticking point of a well-muscled calf...


    "...is this unsatisfactory?"


    Coughing, Mirk broke off his stare, hoping that his redness would be obscured by the gloom. "Nothing! Euh...nothing, really. It suits you very well, Genesis. Methinks it''d be good for you to wear something tailored more often."


    ¡°I¡­see.¡±


    Though the outfit was different, the frown that came onto Genesis''s face was the same, as the commander dipped a hand into the shadow cast by the gate and drew out his overcoat. At least, it bore a passing similarity to the ugly, flapping brown-black thing the commander armored himself in. His new overcoat was properly black, and had been given a bit of shaping, though it still was a bit too loose to be fashionable. Genesis pulled it on over his uniform, adjusting its lapels with a dissatisfied air. Somehow, it made the whole ensemble even more imposing. "It is...passable. You didn''t have to waste the gold on a new coat. The other was more than satisfactory. Although this is...warmer."


    Mirk flashed Genesis a reassuring smile. "Does that mean you''ll be keeping this one? It really does look nice...an officer really should dress up a little. Methinks it might make the others listen more."


    "I am undecided." Genesis paused, only seeming to have noticed that he wasn''t the only one dressed for the occasion right then. Judging by the way his frown deepened, the commander found Mirk''s new suit much less appealing than Mirk found the uniform. "I fail to see why a new set of clothing is necessary for every occasion. One...set of finery would seem adequate."


    "Oh, it isn''t at all, messire," Mirk said, shaking his head. "If I came wearing something from last season, everyone would think I''d thrown away all of grand-p¨¨re''s money. Didn''t the Nasiris suggest something for your hair?" That was completely the same, without even a subdued bow or clip that matched the uniform to better highlight its smooth length.


    Now Genesis''s frown had transitioned to a proper scowl, as the commander checked the pockets of his overcoat to ensure that all his cunning instruments were still in their proper places. "They...wanted to curl it."


    "Bien s?r! That''s the fashion now, you know. You could pull off the King''s look without a wig, even, since your hair''s so long. And a little bit of rouge would have helped, though you don''t need any powder. You''re really pale enough to put all the noble ladies to shame, messire..."


    At the mention of royalty, Genesis gave up on Mirk entirely, turning his attention toward Madame Beaumont''s townhouse beyond the open gates. "Where are the rest of your...countrymen?"


    "Oh. Well, methinks I must have misjudged the time. We''re the first here. But I suppose it''ll make it easier to get around to the back without anyone seeing us."


    Genesis cast a momentary look back in Mirk''s direction, his raised brows giving away his befuddlement. "The invitation claimed this...event was to commence at six. It is six thirty-three."


    "No one comes on time, Genesis. It would be terribly rude. I suppose everyone must be coming an hour late now instead of just a half..."


    "If they are meant to arrive at seven...why did the invitation not indicate it?"


    "Because then everyone would come at eight." When Genesis didn''t reply other than to scowl at him, Mirk shook his head, taking hold of Genesis''s elbow. "Tiens, let''s go meet Monsieur Am-Hazek. I''m sure he''ll be waiting on time, even if no one else is."


    Though Mirk was the one who took Genesis''s arm, he let the commander lead the way. Doubtlessly, Genesis was more suited to charting a course around to the back of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse in the dark without drawing the attention of the two human valets positioned on either side of the grand front steps than he was. The way that Genesis navigated through the gardens, moving quickly down its wandering paths in such a way that they were almost always obscured by either a tree or a bush that was tall enough to conceal Genesis¡¯s height made Mirk think that the commander must have surveilled the place sometime earlier that week. They made it to the back of the townhouse without anyone calling out to them. As Mirk had suspected, Am-Hazek was waiting for them by the servants¡¯ entrance near the stable, reading by the glow cast by a yellowy magelight hung beside the door.


    The djinn was dressed for the occasion as well, in the best fashion permitted for a servant rather than a noble, a red doublet shot through with golden thread that brought out the warmth of his skin. Am-Hazek closed his book with a snap as they approached, bowing. Mirk noticed that the djinn seemed more fascinated by Genesis''s appearance than Mirk''s. Though that might have been due to the disapproving look that came onto Genesis''s impassive face at being bowed at. "Seigneur d''Avignon, Comrade Genesis. You are exactly on time. Monsieur Henri and the children are waiting upstairs."


    The severity of Genesis''s frown lessened over being addressed by the proper K''maneda term rather than having some mortal translation murmured at him. When the commander didn''t speak or bow, Mirk did both for him, returning Am-Hazek''s polite gesture. "Oh, that''s a relief, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I was worried. Is it the fashion for everyone to arrive so late now?"


    Am-Hazek shook his head as he stepped aside to hold the door open for them. It led straight on to a narrow, steep staircase. "An irregularly due to the foreign location, seigneur. There are always a great number of debates over who goes first through the carriage portal."


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "Right, of course." Mirk looked up the stairs into the dimness above, his nerves suddenly returning to him at the prospect of coming face to face with the remains of his family. Mirk mounted the steps, forcing himself not to scramble up them like a child rushing to meet his parents after a long absence. Though he knew that Henri and the children must have been hoping for a better knight to come to their rescue than him, and Mirk knew he''d disappoint, his concern eclipsed his embarrassment for the time being. Behind him, Mirk could hear Am-Hazek and Genesis exchanging words about who was to go last up the stairs. The thudding of his own heart in Mirk''s ears was too loud, and both their footfalls too quiet, for him to tell who''d won out.


    Mirk could feel his family as clearly as if they''d been surrounding him before he made it to the top step. Madame Beaumont''s townhouse had adequate wards in place, but all of them were against offensive magic rather than empathy. His family¡¯s fatigue and worry drew Mirk like a lighthouse beacon and he stepped up his pace, knocking the door at the top of the stairs aside and hurrying through. The servants'' stairs let out into their quarters ¡ª cramped, but clean and tidy. The fatigue was coming from somewhere near the middle of the townhouse, past the door that separated the servants¡¯ rooms from the rest of the house.


    "They''re all together in the largest guest bedchamber, seigneur," Am-Hazek called out. "The third door on the right once you enter the main house."


    Mirk called out a thanks, though he didn''t need the guidance. He was very nearly running by the time he passed into the main house. Even the thick rug down the middle of the hall did barely anything to muffle his footsteps. It was a good thing none of the other guests had arrived yet. They''d have thought someone had let a horse up onto the second floor as a joke. Mirk stopped in front of the door the fatigue was emanating from, pausing to compose himself and search for what to say. He felt he should apologize. Though, for what, exactly, Mirk was uncertain. He caught himself a second before he could reach for the door handle, knocking instead.


    There was no response, other than a wave of fear from inside the room behind the door. Just as Mirk was about to open it, the door creaked open. But only far enough for someone to brandish a sword at him. A long, thin blade, its edge dancing with activated runes.


    It took Mirk two attempts to get the words out. And a third to shift his mind to the proper language. "It''s just me. Mirk. I promise."


    The door swung the rest of the way open. Claire, the older of Henri''s two daughters, was on the other side, sheepishly lowering her sword. One of Henri''s infamous arming swords, a bit too heavy for her spindly and shaking arms. "I''m sorry, cousin," she said, her voice cracking with disuse.


    "Oh, no, it''s all right. You''re just being careful." Mirk lingered in the doorway, his eyes falling upon one hollowed-out and upturned face after another. Behind Claire, Armel was sprawled out across a divan, one leg still in a splint. In¨¨s, Henri''s youngest, hovered beside the room''s sole bed, hunched protectively over his Aunt Christine''s two children, Edm¨¦ and Honor¨¦, wide-eyed young boys who were hugging each other atop an ottoman that''d been drawn up next to the bedside. They couldn''t have been older than four and five. Armel was the oldest of all his cousins, fourteen or fifteen, just old enough to seem disappointed that the work of defending the remains of their family had been left to Claire instead of him. With a groan of effort, the lump on the bed that''d been buried in quilts sat up.


    It was Henri. Pale, even more emaciated than his cousins, but still capable of finding enough energy for a weak attempt at a smile. "Thank God," he rasped. "You really are alive."


    His uncle''s words set everything in motion. Claire dropped her sword, instead wrapping Mirk in a rib-cracking hug. She was soon joined by the two youngest boys who, for lack of anywhere else to go, each grabbed hold of one of Mirk''s legs and hid their faces in the folds of his justacorps. Even In¨¨s, who was painfully shy, and Armel, who had to hobble along on his one good leg, bolted for him, burying Mirk in a mass of trembling limbs and enough mingled grief and relief to set Mirk''s eyes streaming, despite his best efforts to keep his composure.


    All of it was overwhelming. But Mirk wasn''t about to draw his shields up to hide from them. He needed to feel the press of their feelings as much as he did their arms.


    Unable to extract his own arms from their collective embrace, Mirk projected what little comfort he could summon out from underneath his own conflicted feelings at them in place of a hug. It was impossible to keep traces of his guilt over having left them out of the emotion.


    "I''m so sorry. It...I''m here to help now, anything I can do. Anything and everything," Mirk said, only able to halt his crying and steady his voice by drawing on a bit of his life-giving potential to push warmth and strength into his own limbs. The feel of the magic made Mirk feel slightly less useless.


    His words were met with a jumble of muffled replies, most of them corresponding apologies and requests not to worry about them. A small, distant part of Mirk found this darkly amusing: all the strong d''Avignons, the ones who stood fearless and proud before any foe, had been wiped out. All that remained were the meek, the cautious, the gentle. The ones who posed no threat to anyone.


    Mirk wasn''t certain how much time passed before his cousins finally retreated far enough for him to slip past them to his uncle''s bedside. Though Henri didn''t have the strength to do much more than reach over and squeeze his hand, the relief radiating off him more than made up for it.


    "Uncle Henri, what happened?" Mirk asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him.


    Henri let out a sigh that devolved into a coughing fit. Mirk reached over and pressed a hand to his uncle''s chest, using a spark of magic to quiet it and help Henri catch his breath. He didn''t look deeply into the inner workings of Henri''s body, but from the sound of things, his uncle must have caught some illness during his ordeal that had led to a case of pleurisy. Shaking his head, Henri sat up a bit straighter, trying to reaffix his smile. "You''ve gotten better at that."


    Mirk nodded. But he didn''t press the issue further, waiting for Henri to answer the question in his own time. His cousins all drifted over, forming a half-circle of concerned faces around their family''s new elder. Mirk was struck by the notion that Henri should have become the head of their house rather than him. But Henri had very little magic, and he''d married into the family rather than sharing the d''Avignon blood. Henri was a Dufort, a fine enough family, but one that his uncle had been more or less pushed to the edges of once it became clear that he hadn''t inherited the teleporting gift. Instead, he only had enough earth magic to be good at artificing a few small things every week rather than cracking the ground apart in advance of cavalry charges. His children bore his name, at least for the time being. Though his former wife, Isabelle, had never taken her maiden name off her calling cards.


    Mirk was letting his worry get out of hand. Catching the look of fear in Edm¨¦''s eyes ¡ª they all thought he might have the empathic gift, he was too sensitive to the world around him, even for a child ¡ª Mirk picked the boy up under the arms and set him on the edge of the bed beside himself. Edm¨¦ pressed against Mirk''s side as they waited for Henri''s answer, and Mirk began to stroke the boy''s hair, hoping to soothe him some with touch, since he didn''t trust himself projecting anything useful to him while he was such a mess inside.


    "It isn''t as bad as it looks," Henri finally said. "I just need to eat more and rest. But I''ll be fine. Everyone''s fussing so much that I''ll be fat by Christmas."


    The unsaid half of the story made shame, choking and dark, wash over Mirk. While he had been comfortable and safe inside the City of Glass, Henri had been starving himself for the sake of his cousins. Though the children were thin, they were nowhere near as fragile as Henri, who''d been reduced to little more than a skeleton. Mirk shook his head to refocus himself on the matter at hand. "I''ll have you brought to the infirmary tomorrow. All of you," Mirk added, looking around at his cousins. Though In¨¨s and Claire were doing a good job of trying to hide it, Mirk could sense how much of their magic they''d drained in an effort to protect their father. Their presence had an indistinct, shifting feel to it that Mirk recognized from mages who''d drained too much of their potential in battle. A day or two more in Henri''s workshop and they''d have drained themselves to the point of irreversible madness.


    There were a few silent nods. "That''s very kind of you," In¨¨s said, in her customary near-whisper. She''d been a wincing, pale wisp of a girl before her ordeal; now she was practically a ghost.


    "It''s the least I can do," Mirk said. "It won''t be as comfortable as here to start with, I''m afraid, but the City of Glass is the safest place on the realm. And I wouldn''t want to impose on Madame Beaumont more than I already have. But I''ll do everything I can to help you all go home as soon as possible."


    Henri looked troubled. "This isn''t over?"


    Mirk bit his lip. He didn''t like the prospects of discussing that kind of matter in front of his young cousins, but he assumed they couldn''t be entirely in the dark. And Henri had always been more discreet than his wife, Isabelle, who had been as direct as a noblewoman could be without completely burning all her bridges. Her sisters had always needed to run themselves ragged doing repairs to her reputation with the other ladies, ever since they''d been children. One good reason why his mother had never been impressed by his father''s bluntness, Mirk supposed. "What has madame told you about what happened?"


    To his relief, Henri waved Mirk off. "That''s not important. I just want to know the children are safe. I...have a responsibility."


    And it was crushing. Mirk could feel it in the exhaustion radiating off his uncle, in the lost way he searched the faces of his own children and those who''d been pressed upon him without his knowing that it''d be up to him alone to raise them all. Without lifting his hand from Edm¨¦''s head, Mirk took Henri''s hand in his other, squeezing it tightly. "We do. It...well, I think it''s more or less over, but it''d be best to be careful. Like I said, the City of Glass is the safest place there is."


    "The City of Glass?" Claire asked.


    Mirk nodded. "It''s where the K''maneda live here in England. I know they don''t have the best reputation..."


    Henri shook his head. "If you think it''s safer, that''s all that matters."


    "I can assure you that...given your present situation, it is much safer than...amongst the royalists."


    Mirk had forgotten all about Genesis and Am-Hazek, too distracted by his family''s whirling emotions to keep track of either of them. Am-Hazek was nowhere to be seen. But Genesis had stolen in after Mirk and had shut the door to the bedchamber, stationing himself in the corner of the room beside its window so silently that no one had noticed him. It worried Mirk how Armel startled and ducked his head at the unexpected sound of Genesis''s voice. It reminded him uncomfortably of the men on the long-term ward, the ones who would bolt and hide themselves in cupboards or under beds at the sound of thunder.


    "Oh, I''m sorry, everyone,¡± Mirk said. ¡°Henri, you might remember the commander? He and his men were serving as our guard while my father was away."


    Henri made an effort at looking like he remembered, tried to give the pleased nod of recognition that one gave to a long-absent acquaintance. He needn''t have bothered. Even if Genesis had cared about that sort of thing, Mirk doubted that the commander could make out what an expression so nuanced was attempting to convey. "Yes, yes. Commander...er, ah..."


    Genesis was too distracted to notice Henri''s verbal fumbling. He twitched aside the heavy red and gold damask curtains over the window to examine its casing, tracing one one long, slender white finger along its edge. Mirk was uncertain whether Genesis disapproved more of the dust he found there, or the runes that flared at the proximity of his magic. "This...residence has sufficient wards, but it would be...prudent to reinforce them." He tested the ward, frown deepening as the shadows curled around his hand. "Hmph, not even elemental specific...purely order-based...one would think someone of such means could bribe better work..."


    His cousins, Mirk realized, were all staring at Genesis as if he was some ghoul newly arisen from the grave to rip bloody vengeance from those still living. Henri wasn''t doing much better, his attempt at a smile faltering on his lips. Mirk couldn''t blame them for being troubled. Despite his bias in the commander''s favor, Mirk had to admit that anyone who''d been stalked by demons and their constructs for months would be rightfully wary of someone with Genesis''s magic and attitude. Mirk did his best to smooth things over. "Comrade Genesis has been kind enough to look after me these past few months. Really, I think I''d have been completely lost without his help. He''s been very gracious."


    The fact that Genesis turned his frown on Mirk when confronted with this display of gratitude didn''t help to cultivate the positive impression Mirk was trying to make for him. "You have...done your own work."


    "Modest, too, even," Mirk added, with a laugh.


    Henri recovered a little then, his smile growing. "Well, it''s a pleasure to make your acquaintance again...comrade, is it?"


    Genesis''s frown didn''t lift. "If you...must call me something other than my name, that will...suffice."


    "As you wish, mo...er, comrade." Henri''s smile wavered again, that time with pain as he moved to gesture at each of the children gathered around the bed. "Armel, my oldest. And my daughters, In¨¨s and Claire. And these are Edm¨¦ and Honor¨¦, they''re my wife''s sister Christine''s boys, God bless her."


    Once Henri had finished introducing them, the children, in near unison, gave a muted, cautious sort of enchant¨¦. Mirk pulled an exaggerated grin onto his face, nodding encouragingly at Genesis, hoping he might recognize the cue to smile and greet the children in return.


    It took the commander a moment to notice. But he did make a token effort at being cordial. As if someone was holding a knife to his throat, Genesis lifted his chin and contorted his frown into one of his tortured attempts at a smile. It looked more like he was about to sneeze. The effect wasn''t improved by him somehow managing to hold his eyebrows at two different levels. "Yes. I...noticed them," he said, flatly, in place of a proper greeting.


    The somber air that had dominated the room since Mirk had entered broke, the two youngest boys laughing openly at Genesis''s strained expression. Claire, at least, had the sense to cover her grin with one hand, while her sister abruptly lowered her head so that her hair would fall over her face, though neither gesture stifled their giggling much. Which made Armel snicker. Henri kept it together the longest, though a few wheezing chuckles leaked through when Genesis dropped his force smile in an instant, an exasperated frown reappearing in its place.


    That was enough to set Mirk off. And soon the whole family was in fits, consumed by the sort of uncontrollable laughter brought on by grieving for too long. They all pressed close together, the children speaking in fits and starts to one another, their words hard to make out through their giggling as they snuck sideways glances back at Genesis. Genesis who was staring at them all as if they''d succumbed to some sort of unexpected communal madness.


    Mirk couldn''t help but feel a little bad for the flummoxed commander. So he switched back to English, just long enough to give Genesis some encouragement without his cousins catching on. "They don''t mean anything by it, Genesis. You''re just...very unique."


    Muttering darkly to himself about nonsensical French custom and the irrationality of children, Genesis dismissed them all with a shake of his head and went about laying his own ward atop the one Madame Beaumont had doubtlessly spent a whole purse full of gold to have put on the windowsill.

 Chapter 21

    "Everyone really is here."


    Madame Beaumont had met Mirk outside the bedchamber his family was secreted away in nearly a half hour ago. The first guests had begun to arrive: after a heated debate, a few blustery younger mages had finally sorted out who''d be stuck with the undistinguished position of being first to arrive. The rest had fallen in line soon after.


    She had a few suggestions for him in regard to how to best proceed. Mirk could descend the grand staircase at the end of the hall immediately, though that would give away the fact that he''d arrived early. And possibly alert anyone in attendance who might wish the remains of his family harm to the fact that they were hiding upstairs. But it¡¯d allow him to slip into the ballroom ahead of the most important mages and grant Mirk the opportunity to evaluate their reactions to his sudden reappearance one by one as they arrived.


    Or he could head downstairs later, once all the grandees had arrived. A much more shocking entrance, and the one that his godmother preferred. It would put the others on the backfoot, left to flail for an appropriate response to his sudden reappearance, one that would leave a good impression both on Mirk and their fellows. Those who wished him and his family well, no doubt, would rush to welcome Mirk back and offer their condolences. As for the ones who didn''t, they''d have to do the same eventually, but Madame Beaumont thought that he might be able to empathically sort the fakers out from those who were genuinely perplexed and needed a moment to collect their thoughts, despite the fact that everyone at mage balls usually maintained some kind of shielding meant to ward off prying empathic eyes.


    Mirk wasn''t surprised that Madame Beaumont favored that approach. She''d always had a penchant for theatrics. A necessity due to her refusal to do her duty and remarry, allowing her grandee line to diminish after losing both her children and her husband to the same terrible fever rather than submitting to the rule of another man, but also in line with her bold personality.


    He had decided not to take her advice. It was sound, of course. Madame Beaumont had made her way in society alone for two hundred years by then; she knew every trick there was. But he was nothing like her, at the end of the day. He wasn''t proud, wasn''t quick-witted and demanding. Even if he tried to put up a front, for the good of his family, Mirk knew he wasn¡¯t capable of keeping it up.


    Instead, Mirk went with a third option, one proposed by Monsieur Am-Hazek. Sneak back outside and arrive on foot, inconspicuously. The better to get a feel for the moods the others were in and gauge the best time for a subdued arrival. That was more suited to him, Mirk thought. And Genesis had seemed to approve of it as well, in his own muted way. It was in line with his nature as much as it was Mirk¡¯s: the impulsive and brash assassins, the ones who didn¡¯t spend long hours watching and waiting for the best time to strike, were the ones who soon ended up in the infirmary basement.


    Mirk wasn''t there to demand vengeance for what had happened for his family, after all. He was there to protect them, along with anyone else who might have crossed Serge Montigny, either deliberately or accidentally. That could be accomplished without risking making a fool of himself by putting on airs he could never hope to uphold.


    "I don¡¯t understand why they are using carriages," Genesis said, flipping up the collar of his new overcoat against the damp, unhealthy night air. ¡°The gate is only¡­two hundred and twenty feet from the portal.¡±


    Mirk laughed a little, wringing his hands nervously behind his back. He''d thought of taking his grandfather''s staff out of his pocket, but had decided against it. That wouldn''t make the right impression either. Jean-Luc had always carried the staff in an off-hand way, like an old man''s walking stick, unfashionable but reliable, a conceit to the old age that eventually came for them all. But there was a threat in it too, an unspoken word of caution: remember who I am. He couldn''t keep up that kind of air either. Mirk had decided to leave things be, unless the situation grew so grave that the staff was needed to prove his claim. "Methinks you would say that, messire..."


    He''d cajoled Genesis into spiriting them off into the nearest alleyway across the street from Madame Beaumont''s townhouse, where they could keep out of sight but still take stock of the newest arrivals. Despite the anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach, Mirk knew he''d have to leave the safety of the shadows soon. It eased Mirk''s mind that he could still bring some of the shadows with him, albeit in a different form.


    The grandees who''d decided to make the trip across the Channel were starting to arrive. Mirk could see a few of the more prominent families'' carriages back by the portal at the end of the road that''d been summoned for the guests¡¯ convenience. Most of the ball''s attendees had gone inside immediately upon arriving, save for those who had traveled separately from their companions for the evening. The night was growing colder by the second. Mirk swore he could feel the Earth beginning to wane underneath his feet, curling in on itself like a cat against the chill as winter approached. For an instant, the image of himself freezing solid in the middle of the inevitable confrontation with the grandees and the members of the Circle in attendance that night flashed through Mirk''s mind. Shuddering, he dismissed it and refocused on trying to decide when to make his entrance.


    He struggled to recall all the nuances of livery and charges as he studied the next few carriages in line. The one pulling up to the gates looked familiar, a deep forest green with a Roman-styled face on its side. It came to Mirk the instant the valet opened its door and laughter spilled out into the street. It was the Massons. The son, Rory, instead of his father the seigneur. Mirk smiled to himself. He''d always liked Rory. Eight or so years his senior, a formidable mage who had double the potential of his already imposing parents, but who''d inherited his foreign-born mother''s boisterous personality rather than his father''s stoicism. One time when Mirk and his mother had gone to visit them, Rory had animated half of the family''s collection of Classical statues to sneak up on the seigneur in the middle of dinner as a joke. It''d have earned them both lashes, had their mothers not found it terribly amusing.


    Rory hopped out of the carriage, ignoring the valet''s hand, holding out both his own to its other passenger. His wife, D¨¦sir¨¦e, the eldest daughter of the Taubert family. She was as cool and aloof as Rory was sociable and jolly, a chaotic air mage who had mastered weather divination and manipulation. They were a good pair to slip in after. If Mirk cut things close and came in too quickly after them, Rory wouldn''t hold it against them. Rory¡¯s good nature aside, Seigneur Masson and his grandfather had been old friends.


    And the carriage in line after the Massons'' wasn''t anything to worry about either, if Mirk remembered things right. Heavily ornamented, burnt orange, with a raven charge. A bit on the gaudy side, surely not something belonging to an old family, despite the fact that its color meant that its owner had to be related to the fire mages guild in some way. Not all of its members could be counted on to rally around Serge Montigny as its Grand Master. He''d held power over it for so long that surely an upstart like the owner of the carriage would welcome seeing Serge taken down a peg. Mirk wished he could remember who among the fire mages would choose a raven as a charge, but it''d have to do.


    Straightening up, Mirk smoothed his hands over his suit underneath his cloak and sucked in a deep breath. Then he turned and gave Genesis an encouraging smile. "Well, on y va, messire?"


    Genesis sighed. "Yes...let''s."


    Mirk walked out of the alley as briskly as he could without looking like he was in a rush, fighting to keep his head even and his smile composed despite the way his heart was pounding in his ears. He must have looked no better than a scurrying mouse, with none of the natural grace that a man of his station was supposed to find as easy as breathing. Mirk hoped that the combination of Genesis lurking off to his left, doubtlessly making no attempt to look friendly, and the shock of his own reappearance would compensate for it.


    The Massons were at the door to Madame Beaumont''s townhouse, Am-Hazek greeting them and taking their cloaks, by the time Mirk made it to the gate. Just as the orange carriage was pulling up, but with plenty of time for whoever was in it to notice him and wait for Mirk to head up the walk before disembarking.


    Behind them, there was a crash of metal against wood as the carriage''s door was flung open. Along with a familiar shout.


    "My goodness! Is that Mirk? Mirk d''Avignon?"


    His smile freezing on his face, Mirk slowly turned to face the carriage. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Genesis had tensed, possibly debating whether or not to pull a knife on the woman scrambling out of the carriage, tripping over her extravagant skirts and ignoring the hands held out to her by her valet. A small woman, her dark hair piled atop her head in an elegant mass of curls that her exuberance was already knocking askew, her eyes wide and grinning. Yvette Feulaine.


    "It is you! Oh, what a relief! It''s so good to see you!"


    Before Mirk could stammer out a reply, Yvette had flounced across the gap between them and wrapped him up in a hug more befitting a drunk old infantryman at the tavern rather than a young lady on the rise. The Feulaines had long been trying to break into the uppermost ranks of the fire mages guild. Their most recent maneuvering, more accidental than intentional, had been Yvette''s engagement to Serge Montigny''s great grand-nephew, Laurent. One of society''s most middling mages, but its most notorious dueler. As Mirk worked an arm out of Yvette''s grasp and patted her gingerly on the back, he searched the open carriage behind her for another passenger. There was none.


    "Ah, it''s good to see you too, Yvette," Mirk said, returning her embrace with more ease now that he was confident he wasn''t about to be ambushed by Laurent. There was nothing to be afraid of out in the street. Other than Genesis, who still hadn''t fully emerged into the light cast by the lanterns beside the gate, his arms folded across his chest as he eyed Yvette with suspicion and distaste. And Genesis was only a potential threat to the others, not him.


    Yvette clung to Mirk, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I''m so sorry about everything, dear friend! So sorry! If there''s anything I can do, anything at all, or if there''s something mother or father could help with, only ask. Oh, I''m sorry, it''s just so shocking...like coming across a ghost..." Abruptly, Yvette pulled back, just far enough to look him over without letting go. "You''re not a ghost, are you? You always did have a strong bond with the Earth..."


    Mirk shook his head. "I''m sorry for being away so long. I was ill, and then there was¡­¡±


    There was everything. Mirk didn''t even know where to begin. He decided to leave things be, for now. ¡°Anyway, it''s not important. But I am very sorry for making everyone worry." That, at least, was genuine. And he¡¯d always liked Yvette, her terrifying choice in husband material aside. Then again, Mirk supposed he had no room to criticize someone else''s choice in companions, in light of Genesis still sulking out in the street, with an expression on his face like he was contemplating either forsaking his debt and vanishing or throttling the first noble who spoke to him.


    Drawing in a deep breath, Yvette finally released Mirk, patting her coiffure as she composed herself. "Oh, you''ve always been too kind. Always apologizing to everyone for everything, no thought for yourself, just like your mother, God bless her. Sorry, I''m rambling. And I''m being terribly dark, aren''t I? But, really, Mirk, what have you been doing, and where have you been hiding from all of us? Have you moved to England? It''s so far away! How can we come visit with you? Really, I never would have expected you to decide to go off and live with these uncivilized English folk. Terrible weather, worse food, and everyone''s so dour! It''s no place for a man as bright as you are."


    It had to have cost Genesis the whole of his limited remaining reserves of patience to restrain himself from stalking out of the gloom and hissing something derisive in reply. Not that Genesis had much love for England, but he''d made his distaste for Continental sentimentality clear on many occasions to anyone who''d listen. Mirk decided it''d be best to let the commander emerge on his own time, offering Yvette an arm. She took it with one of her brilliant, unhesitating smiles, and Mirk led her up the front walk toward the door. "Like I said, I''ve been ill. I came here to recover with some friends who knew a good healer. Where''s Laurent, by the way? Have you been married yet?"


    "Oh, heavens no!" Yvette chortled, yanking off her cloak before either Mirk or Am-Hazek, who seemed deeply amused, could help her with it. "We''ve decided to wait until spring. A wedding in autumn? Who gets married when it''s so cold outside? It kills the whole mood. You can''t have a garden reception in autumn, and I''m absolutely set on one. The one the spring before last for Marie and Denis''s wedding was so lovely, wasn''t it? With all those blossoming trees the earth mages summoned? I couldn''t resist! I have to have one! Oh, is that a new suit? You must have sent for it from Paris, it''s too handsome to be from here. Everything these English people make is black this, black, that. Unbearable!"


    Laughing despite himself, Mirk passed his cloak to Am-Hazek. The djinn nodded, tilting his head slightly in the direction that Genesis had to be standing in with a questioning tic of his eyebrows. Mirk shook his head ¡ª even if Genesis wasn''t fond of his new overcoat, Mirk knew the commander would rather spend the night outside in the damp than hand it over to a stranger, only to be tucked away in a cloakroom, nestled amongst other strangers¡¯ doubtlessly unclean garments. Bowing, Am-Hazek stepped aside, gesturing across the foyer to a wide, mirrored hall. It was a new addition to the front of the house, grander and brighter than the unassuming corridor that¡¯d been there the last time Mirk had visited. An enchantment to make the passage through to the ballroom at the center of the townhouse more appealing. "Ah, thank you. It''s really only a little something, nothing too special."


    Before Mirk could think to ask about Laurent again, Yvette was already off on another tangent, gazing about at the mirrors and gilding with an appreciative murmur as she linked arms with him once more. "Isn''t this a lovely house? Madame Beaumont has the best taste in everything. I swear, she must have a diviner working for her to plan out such marvelous enchantments! She''s always so in style! It''s too bad that it has to be in this dreary country, though. Think of how wonderful this would look with some sun in it! Do you even get sunshine up here? All the people are so pale and pinched, I can''t think you get much."


    "Allow me to...reassure you that we would...much prefer it if you kept your useless nobles and their...hideous finery on the Continent. We have...sufficient royalists here as it is."


    If Genesis had kept quiet, he most likely could have ghosted in behind them and gone unnoticed for a while longer. Am-Hazek had noticed him, of course, but that was why everyone employed a djinn: to notice things. But three insults that just happened to paint a perfect picture of Genesis and his tastes was apparently too much for the commander to bear. Yvette turned to face Genesis, dragging Mirk along with, her face lighting up in delight despite Genesis''s scowl.


    "Oh! And Monsieur Genesis too! What a wonderful surprise! We really have missed your jokes, commander, they always make a dance so much more interesting!"


    Genesis''s expression shifted fast from disdain to horror as Yvette reached forward and grabbed hold of him by the elbow. Thus properly accompanied on both sides, Yvette continued on through the foyer. Thankfully, Genesis''s tendency to freeze up when touched without warning kept him from lashing out at Yvette before the commander could think the situation through.


    For his part, Mirk had to struggle to keep from laughing. He had always privately wondered if Yvette was as oblivious as she seemed. It wasn''t as if he''d never played the fool on occasion, and Yvette had a suspicious affinity for imposing her effervescent self on the dourest and most prickly men she could find. With that in mind, it really shouldn''t have come as a surprise that she''d decided to marry Laurent.


    "I''m so fortunate to have met you two!" Yvette enthused at them as they walked on down the mirrored hall. "It really is unbearably awkward to come in alone, don''t you think? But Laurent''s in one of his moods again, something with that beastly family of his and not getting invited to their autumn hunt, and I didn''t want to miss the ball. That man...such a dear, but so serious! It really is more fun to be happy instead, don''t you think?"


    "Oh, so that''s where he is?" Mirk asked. It''d probably be best to keep the conversation moving too quickly for Genesis to get a word in edgewise. "Well, we''re glad to have you nevertheless. And I hope he feels better soon.


    Cackling, Yvette elbowed Mirk in the ribs, hard enough to send him into a coughing fit. Yvette had never been a good judge of her strength. Last winter she''d thrown Louis Bellerose out a window trying out a new dance step. "Mirk, dear, I said he was in a mood, not coming down with the plague! Though I do appreciate the sentiment all the same. The poor dear does get himself so worked up over things. Sometimes he just needs to have a rest, for the good of his soul."


    "Yes...I understand..." Mirk wheezed.


    "And, anyway, with Laurent busy, I got to try out the new carriage father had made for me! Isn''t it the most handsome thing? He really outdid himself this time."


    "Handsome...like a putrefied pumpkin..." Genesis muttered to himself.


    "What was that, commander?"


    Just barely, Mirk gulped in enough breath to cut Genesis off. "It''s lovely!"


    Yvette beamed around at both of them, supremely satisfied. "Why, thank you! I''ll have to tell father you like it, he''s here you know. He''ll be glad to hear it praised by a man of such refined taste."


    Genesis hissed to himself, but the noise was lost in the din of the ballroom they were fast approaching. Mirk covered for him again, trying to get a better sense of who all was there. The ballroom ahead was already half full, though the music hadn''t started yet. "Oh, your father came? I''m glad to hear that. I''d been hoping to speak with Seigneur Feulaine..."


    Antoine Feulaine, though more than two centuries Jean-Luc''s junior, had been close friends with Mirk''s grandfather. Which was why he knew Yvette so well, and why Mirk supposed he was as good of a person to start with as any. In the aftermath of what had happened to his family, his grandfather''s efforts to make ties with Seigneur Feulaine all made sense.


    The Feulaines were at the head of the mages rivaling against the Montignys for control of the fire mages guild. Even if they''d tried to make amends with Serge by marrying Yvette off to Laurent, Mirk thought the seigneur would be more open to hearing his story than most. Laurent, after all, wasn''t from the best branch of the Montignys. The fact that they''d snubbed him and he was off licking his wounds instead of attending Madame Beaumont''s ball was testament enough to that. And that little detail made Mirk think he¡¯d have the chance to discuss matters with the grandees and the Circle without Serge Montigny cutting in to make his own defense. Madame Beaumont said she¡¯d invited him, but had never received a response.


    "Yes, father said he wouldn''t miss it for the world! Madame Beaumont always holds the best balls. I''m certain I can find him, just give me...oh, is that Madame Lemaire? It is! I''m so sorry, Mirk, commander, but you must excuse me. I''ve been looking for her for ages and ages, she has a brooch of mine I insisted she borrow, but I''ll be back right away, I promise! If I don''t get a dance from both of you, I''ll simply die of disappointment! Madame Lemaire!"


    As suddenly as she''d flounced in, Yvette was off again, vanishing among the clusters of chatting guests. Mirk let out a heavy sigh, gingerly prodding at his elbowed ribs. "She''s nice really," he said to Genesis, switching back to English for the time being to lessen their odds of being overheard. "She''s just a little, um, energetic."


    "She is an...unbearable harpy," Genesis replied, giving the direction Yvette had gone in a dark look.


    "Oh, don''t be dramatic, messire. You shouldn''t take her and the others so seriously. They''re just...euh...entertaining themselves? Sort of like how Niv and Mordecai do."


    "I have been told that...assaulting another person is not...traditionally considered entertaining."


    Which was debatable, given the way everyone in the K''maneda acted, but that was an opinion Mirk thought it best to keep to himself. Instead, Mirk took a harder look at the nobles who''d arrived before them. Mirk recognized most of them, though he could only put names to the mages closer to his own age and the ladies his mother had been close to. Thankfully, there were plenty of both in attendance. And, even better, no one seemed to have noticed his arrival, though Mirk knew he was working on borrowed time. He was good at slipping through crowds unnoticed, projecting an unassuming and unforgettable air for as long as he needed to in order to collect his thoughts. So was Genesis, in his own way. Though Mirk wasn¡¯t certain how Genesis¡¯s usual tactics would hold up in a place like Madame Beaumont''s ballroom.


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    Mirk glanced back at the commander. He had grudgingly taken off his overcoat, probably to keep himself from making use of any of the cunning instruments in its pockets. Even with it on, Mirk had thought Genesis looked striking. Without it, he cut an even better figure. There really was something about that uniform that worked with Genesis''s tall, thin frame rather than against it. And the stark contrast between its somber simplicity and the great velour bell sleeves and sweeping silk skirts on display in the ballroom made it all the better.


    "...what?"


    Genesis''s low, annoyed voice jolted Mirk out of his thoughts. He really was overwhelmed. It''d been so long since he''d been to a ball that he''d forgotten what an assault on the senses they could be. Everyone in the room was a mage, most of them strong. It put a certain spark in the air that tended to give Mirk a headache, along with all the strong perfume worn by both women and men. "Ah, nothing, messire. Sorry."


    "I was...under the impression that it is...customary to remove one''s overcoat. A...measure to assure them you are not a threat, I imagine."


    That wasn''t it at all, but Mirk didn''t feel the need to correct him. Instead, he only nodded. "Let''s go find Yvette''s father. Seigneur Feulaine is an old friend of the family. And much less, euh, cheerful than she is," Mirk added, at the sight of the scowl that came onto Genesis''s face at the mention of Yvette.


    Mirk tried to cut through the crowd unnoticed, but didn¡¯t have much luck. He was stopped again and again by both friends of his family and acquaintances he''d been raised alongside once he returned from the abbey and entered polite society instead, each one more startled by his appearance than the last. Although he accepted their condolences and danced around their questions as gracefully as he could, Mirk could sense that he wasn''t doing a good job of setting anyone''s mind at ease. Perhaps it was jarring seeing him in the flesh when it''d been common knowledge that he was dead.


    Or perhaps it was Genesis looming behind him the whole while, responding to greetings and questions only ever with curt nods or a single shake of his head, that was unnerving. Mirk had wanted to make an impression by bringing him along, but he was beginning to think he was making the wrong one. Maybe if he could get the commander to speak up a little more, it wouldn''t be so bad.


    The string orchestra was assembling in the corner of the ballroom by the time Mirk found Seigneur Feulaine. The sight of his plain, smiling face made relief swell up in Mirk¡¯s chest. At least, it did until Mirk saw who he was surrounded by. He was flanked on one side by Madame Beaumont and a mage as elderly and dignified as she was, a man in a conservative gold-embroidered justacorps and a curled and powdered gray wig tall enough to rival Madame Beaumont''s hat. And on his other side, returning Seigneur Feulaine¡¯s smile with one that had none of its warmth, was the only other man in the ballroom that night who''d decided to wear black beside Genesis. Seigneur Lazare Rouzet, Grand Master of the dark mages guild. Seeing two of the five remaining members of the Circle and the mage who was second in line for the fire mages¡¯ seat all clustered together made a stab of worry cut off Mirk¡¯s breath.


    The elderly mage beside his godmother noticed Mirk first. Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont, the Grand Master of Le Phare, the largest and oldest guild in France, its members primarily light mages. Friend and advisor to the King and all his closest councilors, though he wasn''t exactly a bosom friend of Jean-Luc''s. Seigneur d¡¯Aumont locked eyes with Mirk for a second and nodded slightly, before turning to look at Madame Beaumont. She inclined her head slightly in Mirk''s direction, narrowing her eyes a fraction to be certain her point got across. Clearing his throat, Seigneur d''Aumont approached, leaning hard on his cane. It had a golden falcon''s head, with diamond inset eyes. "Seigneur d''Avignon. I see you have returned."


    Something inside Mirk went cold at hearing a man of Seigneur d''Aumont''s age and rank call him by the same title as his own. He instantly lowered himself into the deepest bow he could think of that didn''t go so far as to count as groveling outright. "Seigneur d''Aumont. I apologize for my absence, sincerely. I didn''t know I''d be welcomed back. I thought...well. I thought all was lost."


    Thankfully, Seigneur Feulaine soon came to his rescue, approaching as well with Seigneur Rouzet in tow. "You''re always welcome here, Mirk. I''m glad to see you''re well."


    "More than well, I''d say," Seigneur Rouzet said, smirking. He wasn''t looking at Mirk. Instead, he was staring off over his head, at Genesis.


    To Mirk''s relief, the other two members of the Circle ignored Seigneur Rouzet. And he didn''t seem to mind one bit that the others snubbed him, strolling over to take a closer look at Genesis instead. Although Mirk felt anxious leaving Genesis to fend for himself, he had to trust the commander. He couldn''t pay attention to two conversations at once. Not when the one he was bound to have with the other two seigneurs was so important.


    "I¡¯m glad to see you¡¯re well too, Seigneur Feulaine," Mirk said, bowing to him. Almost as low as he had to Seigneur d''Aumont, but not quite. The guildmaster wouldn''t feel snubbed, Mirk knew. Seigneur Feulaine understood as well as anyone else how things were. Rank counted more than friendship, at least when it came to being polite. "I met Mademoiselle on the way in."


    Despite the gravity of the situation, Seigneur Feulaine still chuckled and shook his head. "Thank you for accompanying her. Since Laurent..." he trailed off then, his smile fading. An obvious tell as to what the subject of conversation among them had been before Mirk had arrived.


    All business, as always, Seigneur d''Aumont took over seamlessly. "We have been told by Madame Beaumont that you have some business with the Circle."


    For just a moment, Mirk glanced Madame Beaumont''s way. She was stone faced, but her eyes were gleaming, focused and filled with the same fire of vengeance Mirk had seen in them when they''d last spoke of what had happened to the rest of his family. If anything, it might have been burning even more brightly then, after seeing firsthand what condition Henri and the children were in. "Would you prefer to speak about the matter in private, Seigneur d''Aumont?"


    "No need," Seigneur d¡¯Aumont replied, shaking his head and leaning harder on his cane. "As Seigneur Montigny won''t be attending this evening, nothing can be settled here. Though I''m sympathetic to your plight, Seigneur d''Avignon, there are certain procedural matters that need to be observed when leveling this kind of accusation against a member of the Circle. A more thorough investigation will be done, of course. But I don''t think there''s any need for public discussion at this time. Especially as the Comte and Marquise are both absent as well."


    "Of course, Seigneur d''Aumont," Mirk said with another, less deferential bow, trying to ignore the way he could feel his cheeks burning. And the way he could feel Madame Beaumont''s stare boring into him. "If you would like for me to give an account..."


    Seigneur d''Aumont shook his head again. "Madame Beaumont has given us some indication of the gravity of the situation. I believe rehashing it at this time would only serve to inflame passions further. You can speak on the subject at the next meeting of the Circle."


    Mirk wavered. Part of him knew that he should press the matter. He had a responsibility to his grandfather, to his mother, to his uncle and cousins out of sight upstairs to ensure that justice was done. But that voice wasn''t strong enough to overcome the one that was clamoring at him to submit. That insisted there was no use in standing against a man of Seigneur d''Aumont''s reputation when it was already so clear that he''d made up his mind. At least, not openly.


    As Mirk bowed again, to buy time as he groped for a response, a different voice began to mutter in the back of his mind. It was the voice that always had a cynical remark to make about the way the Seventh and the djinn were treated, the one that balked at the minor slights given to the healers of the Twentieth by the high-born healers of the Tenth. The one that knew the right way to do things was hardly ever the most effective. And the one that knew full well what men like Genesis did in the dead of night and, knowing by now the strange contours of the commander''s foreign and bloody beliefs, slept all the better for it.


    For the most part, Mirk tried not to listen to its demands, its cunning suggestions about how things could be made better. But if ever there was a time to lend an ear to its counsel instead of insisting on honest and forthright methods, Mirk was sure it had to be then. Mirk fixed a grateful smile on his face that was at odds with the discomfort weighing on his chest as he righted himself. "Of course, seigneur. You have much more experience in handling these things than I do. I''m grateful you''re willing to listen. I don''t mean to press, but do you know when the Circle will be meeting next? It''s only that travel can wear on me. And I need to make preparations to be away from my work here."


    Seigneur d''Aumont, Mirk knew, wasn''t an empath. Nor was Madame Beaumont fuming beside him, nor was Seigneur Feulaine, whose uncertainty was as plain to be read on his face as it was to be felt, despite how he kept his mind clouded with his magic in the same way that most noble mages did. But Seigneur d¡¯Aumont had to be an expert at reading all the subtleties of another''s body, all the minor tells, accustomed to scanning for minor slights and signs of disobedience. Though the head of Le Phare wasn''t using his magic on him, Mirk could feel his ordered light magic stray away from him as he scanned Mirk for signs of discomfort, ones he most likely thought ought to be there, considering the way that Madame Beaumont had reacted to his verdict. Mirk made sure there was none. He let his instinctive reactions guide his body, the parts of him trained over years of service at the abbey and at his mother''s heels to be agreeable and yielding, while he allowed the cunning voice to guide his mind.


    His instincts provided good enough cover for the rest of him. Seigneur d''Aumont nodded, his posture relaxing a hair as he allowed himself to transfer even more of his weight to his cane. He''d judged Mirk a nobody. Nothing like Jean-Luc, nothing like Madam Beaumont or his mother. Nothing to be worried about, not a person he needed to scrupulously uphold a powerful and noble bearing in front of. Blood could only carry one so far, even in a world like the one Mirk thought he''d left behind, where one''s family line held more power than one''s magical potential. "The Circle will be holding its autumn public meeting at the Paris Forum at the end of October. I will send along a formal invitation in due time. And the Circle will be willing to provide teleportation for you, considering your situation. Are you planning on staying here with Madame Beaumont?"


    It was Mirk''s turn to shake his head. "Oh, no. It wouldn''t be right of me to impose on her when I have no means to return the favor. My family and I will be staying in the City of Glass until this is all settled."


    Seigneur d''Aumont''s eyebrows raised slightly, as Mirk saw his gaze shift off to his right. Where Genesis had to be standing, no doubt. From the way the seigneur''s lips pursed, Mirk could assume that whatever the commander was doing with Seigneur Rouzet made him suspicious. But it wasn''t bad enough to spur him into intervening. "Ah. I was aware that your family had sought out assistance from some party in the past in matters of defense. I thought it was Black Banner."


    Mirk shrugged. "I live to serve, Seigneur d''Aumont. And God always guides us to where there''s the most need, doesn''t He? For the time being, I can do the most good with the K''maneda."


    The seigneur''s eyebrows raised even further. "You are...employed by them?"


    "Employed might not be the best word, seigneur. It''s more like...hmm. A calling. There are always dozens of mages with healing potential ready to serve at the guild and Church hospitals, aren''t there? Almost no one wants to help the K''maneda. Not that I blame anyone, given their reputation. But we can''t control where God calls us to, can we? And it''d be wrong to ignore a calling."


    "I suppose you have a point," Seigneur d''Aumont murmured, his brow furrowing. "Nevertheless. I will write to you there."


    Again, Mirk bowed. "Thank you very much for your consideration, seigneur."


    Seigneur d''Aumont turned his attention back to Madame Beaumont as the string quartet in the corner began to play the first song of the evening, dismissing Mirk. "If you''d be so kind as to direct me to the card room, Madame? I''d prefer to leave the dancing to the youth."


    Madame Beaumont was still seething, Mirk could tell. He decided to step in before she could say something cross to Seigneur d''Aumont on his behalf. Using just enough potential to be certain he could cut through the bubbling emotions of the other mages in the ballroom, Mirk projected a spark of reassurance to her. Hopefully all his time spent at the infirmary over the past months, communicating his concerns and impressions to Yule and Danu by feel rather than aloud to keep from worrying their patients, would pay off.


    It did. Madame Beaumont glanced Mirk¡¯s way only for a second, and she didn''t let her surprise at the touch of his mind show on her face. That or she was still so annoyed by the situation that no amount of empathy could dispel the worst of her ill humor. She pursed her lips and gave a grudging, slight curtsey to Seigneur d''Aumont before heading off with him in the direction of the card room, through a small door off to their right, opposite where the quartet was now playing.


    The departure of Seigneur d''Aumont and his godmother left an opening, finally, for Seigneur Feulaine to say his piece. The instant they left, Seigneur Feulaine drew closer, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on Mirk''s shoulder, just for a moment. "I''m sorry about all of that," he said, withdrawing his hand and absentmindedly running it pack through his thick chestnut hair, disturbing the style it had meticulously been coaxed into with pomade. "I don''t know what he''s thinking. He probably just doesn''t want to cross Serge. Not that I can blame him. The man has a horrible temper. I''ve been on the wrong side of it enough times to know."


    "It''ll be all right, Seigneur Feulaine," Mirk said, smiling up at him. "I''m sure you''ll do your best when the time comes."


    Seigneur Feulaine sighed, frowning down at the pomade streaked across his hand. "You can call me Antoine, Mirk. I don''t mind. We''re...well, you''re no better than me now, anyway. I''m so sorry for your loss. Serge really is terrible."


    Mirk could tell by the dark look that came onto Seigneur Feulaine''s face at the mention of Serge Montigny that he truly meant the insult, without reservations. Which didn''t come as a surprise, all things considered. If Serge Montigny had been willing to do something so awful to his own family, which posed no immediate threat to him, given his grandfather''s disinterest in becoming the Grand Master of any of the guilds, there was no telling what he could do to someone who would challenge him openly.


    Though, now that Mirk thought of that, it did help to explain Seigneur Feulaine''s worry. If Serge got away with what he''d done to the d''Avignons, it was practically an invitation for him to do the same to whoever he chose as his next target. Mirk let his facade fall some, letting his own worry seep through. "I''m sure there''s nothing to worry about," he said. "Yvette is so excited about things with Laurent. She couldn''t stop talking about it. I''m sure Serge wouldn''t do something to upset one of his own. Even if Laurent isn''t his favorite."


    "You''re probably right," Seigneur Feulaine said, as he took out his handkerchief and scrubbed the pomade off his hand. "Still. It doesn''t reflect well on any of us, letting someone get away with doing something so awful. And there''s no doubt in my mind that he did it, no matter what the rest say about evidence. Not that I don''t trust either Madame Beaumont or your word," he added, quickly.


    Mirk shrugged. "God provides."


    Seigneur Feulaine''s expression grew a bit troubled. "But He also helps those who help themselves, you know."


    "Of course. I''m not going to do nothing," Mirk said, fixing a smile on his face that was three times more confident than the way he felt.


    Though Seigneur Feulaine looked like he wanted to question Mirk on what exactly it was that he intended to do, he was distracted by something behind Mirk. Two somethings, Mirk realized, when he turned to look. One of them was Yvette careening across ballroom with her first partner of the evening, Denis Rochefort, who was looking a bit green about the edges due to being hurled around so vigorously while Yvette chattered away at him.


    The other had to be Genesis. Seigneur Rouzet was still trying to have a conversation with him, despite the commander''s clear disinclination to humor him. Disinclination that was signaled to any observant onlooker by the way that the shadow Genesis''s tall, slender form cast on the dance floor was growing unnaturally thick and dark. "I think it might be best if you did something more immediately about your friend. I''m not familiar with the K''maneda''s customs but, well...even though I''m sure we''ve all wished Lazare would keep to himself a bit more at times..."


    Mirk laughed a little. "You''re probably right, seigneur. Though no one here has anything to worry about from Genesis. I promise, he looks more imposing than he really is."


    "If you say so..." Yvette drew the seigneur''s attention again as the first song of the night began to wind down and Yvette spun Denis extra hard in time with its last crescendos. Seigneur Feulaine winced, cramming his handkerchief back in his pocket and straightening his justacorps. "If you''ll excuse me, I think it''d be best if I took the next dance with my daughter."


    "Thank you for your kind words, seigneur," Mirk said, bowing to him. Though only slightly, in consideration of his insistence that he and Mirk were equal now, a thought that troubled Mirk more than it reassured him. It was difficult for him to think of himself as the equal to anyone at the ball besides those he¡¯d grown up with. "I''ll keep them in mind."


    As Seigneur Feulaine rushed off to intercept Yvette before she could cajole Denis into dancing the next number with her as well, Mirk turned all of his attention back to Genesis. He was in luck. Seigneur Rouzet, though he still seemed fascinated by the oddity that was Genesis, had been presented with a much more appealing target for his prodding. Lizette Delacourt, the daughter of another man high up in the dark mages guild, an enticing prospect for an unmarried man. Though she was pretending to only be half interested, Mirk could tell that the door was wide open for Seigneur Rouzet to sweep in and claim her hand for the next number. It was the swaying of her lace fan at her neck, the way she was allowing her magic to pool about herself in a way that made her shadow lean a bit closer to where Seigneur Rouzet was interrogating Genesis at the edge of the dance floor. Seigneur Rouzet gave a slight, ironic bow and hurried off. Genesis didn''t return the gesture.


    Again, Mirk switched back to English, half to lessen the chances of being overheard and half to put Genesis in a better mood. "Messire? I hope Seigneur Rouzet didn''t trouble you too much..."


    Despite the fact that Seigneur Rouzet had left, Genesis was still bristling. It was in the way he kept adjusting the cuffs of his uniform coat, dissatisfied by how much of his pale and slender wrists they left bare. A tell as evident as Mademoiselle Delacourt''s fan, but with a much more sinister bent, provided one knew what the commander was capable of. "He is an...idiot."


    "Oh, of course. In comparison to you, most people are," Mirk said, still smiling despite Genesis''s sourness. For some reason, it was a relief speaking with him again, even when compared to the friendly concern that Seigneur Feulaine had shown him. There was no double-meaning to Genesis''s words, no hesitation in them. He said what he meant, always, with that unflinching exactness that comforted Mirk, in an odd way. "What did he ask you about?"


    "He knows of certain commanders who had...previously been employed by the English guilds." Genesis gave up on his cuffs, clenching his fists at his sides again. "He appeared to be...very interested in their personal lives."


    Mirk chuckled. "Well, then he must not have been able to get much gossip out of you."


    "I fail to see the...relevance of who that lot are...passing their evenings with," Genesis said, confirming Mirk''s suspicion.


    "No, I don''t think you would. That''s probably for the best, though, messire. He''s not a very nice man, or so I''ve heard."


    Genesis paused before continuing, scanning the edges of the ballroom above Mirk''s head for a time before fixing his attention back down on him. "You do not seem...displeased by your conversation with the rest. Will they be...dealing with Montigny?"


    Mirk shook his head. "Not right away, no."


    His words drew a deeper frown onto Genesis''s face. "You said that was the...purpose of this event."


    "Sometimes you can''t do things the direct way," Mirk said with a shrug. "Really, I should have known that Seigneur d''Aumont wouldn''t be ready to drop everything and call on Serge. But there''s still plenty I can do to help."


    "I...do not understand. Your...relation appeared...adamant that you insist that he be dealt with."


    Mirk flashed Genesis a reassuring smile. It only seemed to puzzle the commander further. "Oh, yes, I imagine that Madame Beaumont had quite a few choice words to say to Seigneur d''Aumont. And will have some to say to me too, maybe. It''s...hmm. Madame Beaumont is a very forceful person. A lot like you, really. You''re used to getting your way from people. Or fighting them for it, if you think you''re in the right."


    "This is the sensible course of action."


    "For both of you, maybe. But not for me. I''m afraid I''m not nearly as forceful. What is it you''re always saying, messire...you can''t be anything other than what you are?"


    Genesis nodded, slightly.


    "Then all I can do is be what I am," Mirk said. "I''m not good at making demands. But I am good at listening. And when you listen to other people well, they''ll listen to you too."


    "I see¡­"


    The discussion wasn''t getting him anywhere, Mirk knew. Just like the inevitable one that he''d be having with Madame Beaumont, once she returned from the card room, wouldn''t get him very far either. What was more important at the moment was that he began to implement his plan, such as it was. It would take time, and patience, and a good deal of dancing. And that he did something to set Genesis more at ease, before his crossness over being waylaid by Seigneur Rouzet made even more work for him. "It''s not important, Genesis. But I am taking care of things. Anyway, since we''re here, methinks I know something you can do. Unless you feel like dancing with any of the ladies?" Mirk asked, gesturing off at the dance floor behind the commander.


    Genesis couldn''t keep from twitching at the mere thought of it. "...no."


    "Then why don''t you go have a talk with Monsieur Am-Hazek? He''ll be busy, but I''m sure he''ll be able to spare a minute. I had a talk with him the other day that should interest you. He was a majinn, you know. Before he came to Earth. He said he read about what happened the last time the K''maneda was involved on his realm. Talking about that seems like something you¡¯d enjoy more than dancing, methinks."


    It was as if all the rest of the ballroom had suddenly disappeared for Genesis. His eyes focused and the unsatisfactory cut of his dress uniform immediately ceased to be a matter of concern. Mirk couldn''t keep himself from smiling at it. "A...majinn?¡±


    "He should be somewhere in the back of the house overseeing dinner preparations, methinks. I''m sure you''ll be able to find him."


    Mirk didn''t have to make the offer more than once. Without pause or a word of thanks, Genesis was off, stalking to the edge of the ballroom, from which he''d inevitably sort out the way to the kitchens. Mirk looked after him for a moment, admiring the way that the passed-over men clustered along the fringes of the room stepped aside to make way for him, instinctively, without ever looking Genesis''s way.


    People in the City of Glass tended to do that as well, Mirk had noticed. He didn''t know whether others could sense Genesis''s magic as well as he could, or if, in the City of Glass, at least, it was a matter of Genesis''s reputation speaking for him. Instead of being repulsed by Genesis''s strange, chaotic aura, Mirk found himself drawn to the commander. Even among the other black-clad denizens of the City, Genesis was one of a kind. And rather than taking that as a sign to stay away, it made Mirk want to lean in and study him more. Just like his new uniform did, for some unknowable reason.


    Sighing, Mirk turned back around to face the dance floor, his eyes skipping over the partners twirling across it. There were enough familiar faces there among the rest for his plan to at least stand a chance of working, he thought. Now that he was alone at the edge of the floor, more of the ladies he was familiar with from earlier seasons were sizing him up, along with fewer of the men. Even if only the ladies were willing to engage him, Mirk thought it might be enough. He''d spent nearly half a decade at his mother''s side, after all. He knew how women talked. And what an impression they could make on their husbands and fiancees, provided they were moved deeply.


    Fixing a smile on his face and folding his hands behind his back, Mirk settled in to wait for the song to change.

 Chapter 22

    Judging by the clock tucked between the ballroom''s tall, arching windows, overlooking a moonlit garden in full bloom that was at odds with the dead, drizzly flowerbeds that he knew lay beyond them, Mirk had three dances left before the servants started circulating with their trays of hors d''oeuvres. He planned to make the most of them.


    It had started slow, with Odette Le Moyne, the daughter of one of Le Phare''s leading families, her aunt an old friend of his mother¡¯s. She was a tall and sturdy woman, with long reddish hair and an equally rosy complexion, whose shyness was at odds with her imposing frame. Odette had been eager to dance with Mirk, to learn more about what had become of him and his family once they''d exchanged the usual pleasantries. And her ordered light magic had been easy to handle, once it became clear to Mrik that mage dancing was her aim. Though, thankfully, the maneuver was meant less to test their compatibility than it was to reassure herself that Mirk was really doing as well as he claimed he was.


    Mirk had danced twice with Odette, since no one else showed any interest in her. That and he owed it to Odette, Mirk felt, for breaking the ice. After that, he''d been passed seamlessly from partner to partner with only a few gaps. It strained his empathy to have to handle the press of so much concern and worry. But it was worth it. It meant his plan was working.


    He''d insisted on a pause just then, both to get his bearings and because Rory Masson was finally free, leaning against the wall of the ballroom near the door to the card room, finishing a terse discussion with his father. Seigneur Masson had left by the time Mirk crossed the room. But Rory was both happy to see him and more than willing to chat about what his father had just come to him to discuss.


    The seigneur had wanted to know whether Mirk''s reappearance in polite society meant that he should be trying to find some position for Mirk in the preeminent guild of earth mages that the seigneur was the Grand Master of, Les Casse-pierres. Mirk was quick to reassure Rory that he wasn''t interested. He had dedicated himself to healing, wouldn¡¯t be following the path of an earth mage like his grandfather or his Aunt Christine had before him. And he had no plans to leave the K''maneda.


    Which led to the usual questions. How had he come to England, why was he staying with the K''maneda, what had become of the rest of his family. Mirk knew what to say to each of them so well by now ¡ª with minor alterations, depending on the personality of the listener ¡ª that he barely needed to think of what to say next. He could speak reflexively, and instead devote the rest of his energy to reading the mood of the room and the person he was conversing with.


    Rory was deeply concerned, always circling back to the matter of Mirk''s family despite his polite efforts to redirect the conversation toward less serious topics. And rather than leaving Mirk to choose from among the ladies that strayed in their direction once one dance ended, he handed him directly off to his wife D¨¦sir¨¦e, who''d come over to make her own inquiries. With whispered instructions for her to check on his magic, ones that Mirk felt more than heard, Rory left him with D¨¦sir¨¦e and went to go speak to some of the other young journeyman mages in his father''s guild.


    They exchanged the usual pleasantries as they crossed the ballroom. Then they took up positions across from each other near the center of it, the part of it laced with spells to ease and enhance mage dancing. Mirk returned D¨¦sir¨¦e''s smile warmly as he watched her magic engage, taking the shape it usually did: small currents of wind that carried on it illusions that gave the impression of dancing autumn leaves, a subtle symbol of the union of her air magic and her husband¡¯s earth. Generally, it was considered a bit gauche for a married woman to use her magic while dancing with a man other than her husband. But the fact that Rory had pressed D¨¦sir¨¦e to dance with Mirk himself left no room for any curious onlookers to doubt that her husband must have either told her to use it, or had granted her latitude to amuse herself however she wished.


    Mirk let his magic seep out from himself as he crossed the gap between them and took D¨¦sir¨¦e''s offered hands. He had never been fond of guiding his magic in a planned ornamental spell, one carefully crafted to impress on those who glanced their way that his magic was powerful and commanding, that it was more than capable of taking control of the magic of his dancing partner. Instead, Mirk preferred to let it drift, to work along with his emotions and take whatever form best complimented the form his partner had settled on. At present, all it did was radiate around him in a warm, greenish-gold glow. A glow that was mirrored on the ghostly pink blossoms that appeared at the center of each of D¨¦sir¨¦e''s illusory leaves.


    "I am glad to see you''re well, seigneur," D¨¦sir¨¦e said, as Mirk guided her through the first few steps. He wouldn''t have to think too hard about what he was doing. D¨¦sir¨¦e was a fine dancer. If he''d still been entertaining his last partner, Chantal Tremblay ¡ª a cheerful and pleasant woman who had the misfortune of not being able to move to a beat even if spelled to ¡ª he would have needed to concentrate hard on not getting tripped instead.


    "I''m glad to see you''re doing well too, madame," Mirk replied. Though they were almost equal in age, and, in Mirk''s opinion, well-acquainted enough through her husband not to need to stick to the usual titles, D¨¦sir¨¦e was the sort of woman who favored formalities long past when they ceased to be necessary. Mirk couldn''t fault her for it. He was the same way, more or less. Better to be too polite than overly familiar. "Rory said that you''ve been called upon to handle a great number of storms off the Mediterranean for the Marquise this past summer."


    D¨¦sir¨¦e hummed and nodded in polite agreement, though Mirk could tell that she wasn''t fully focused on the conversation. Rory hadn''t had the chance to examine his magic. She was doing it in his stead, albeit subtly, testing its strength by feeding more of her own into the spells in the dance floor that made the dancers'' potential manifest visually. It made her currents of air stronger, made them twist themselves into braids. Mirk allowed his own to be swept up into it, watching out of the corner of his eye how it decided to react when he fed enough potential to match D¨¦sir¨¦e''s into the floor. His green-gold magic seemed to be making D¨¦sir¨¦e''s darker in contrast, turning it from bluish white to a stormy gray as it drew out the chaos in it. It didn''t surprise him that his magic would be inclined to seek out D¨¦sir¨¦e''s chaotic orientation rather than her elemental magic, considering who he''d been spending most of his time with as of late.


    "Have you been occupied with work yourself?" D¨¦sir¨¦e asked him, apparently dissatisfied with what she sensed in his magic. "I''ve heard you''re conducting business in England now."


    Mirk laughed as he led her into a spin much more sedate than the ones the more spirited mages around them were twirling themselves into, the better to make their magic flash and spark. "I have been busy, I suppose. Too busy to see to visiting as much as I should. Though I''m sure I''ll be in the south soon enough. My uncle Henri does his business there."


    "I''m certain everyone has offered their condolences to you a dozen times already tonight," D¨¦sir¨¦e said, her voice so soft it was difficult to hear over the music. But Mirk could feel her worry easily enough, despite the amused and delighted emotions of the other dancers whirling around them. "But I would like to offer my own as well, seigneur. Your mother and her sisters were always so kind to us, God bless them. And Seigneur Jean-Luc as well."


    There was a touch of something else in D¨¦sir¨¦e''s worry, Mirk thought. Something he''d caught glimpses of in others that night, but hadn''t felt so strongly from anyone other than the most forthright and opinionated young mages. Which was why it surprised Mirk to feel a spark of anger brush against his mind. D¨¦sir¨¦e had always been known for her composure and level headedness. The talk had to have been spreading more quickly among the young mages than Mirk had anticipated. He''d only passed on a few choice details about what had happened to his family to the most insistent questioners. Mirk couldn''t fathom D¨¦sir¨¦e being that upset unless she''d heard the worst of them.


    "Thank you very much for your sympathy, madame," Mirk said, unable to keep from bowing slightly to D¨¦sir¨¦e, though the present dance didn''t call for it. "I''m sure that things will be settled in time. We must be patient, yes? And God always provides."


    D¨¦sir¨¦e paused. For a moment, Mirk thought that she was going to be bold enough to tell him that some things required more than patience. Then Mirk noticed that she was no longer staring either at him or his magic, but rather past both of them. With a slight frown, though Mirk couldn''t feel anything other than worry and sympathy in her emotions.


    "Is the K''maneda a strange guild?" she asked.


    That answered the question for him. Mirk had been too occupied for the past half hour to keep track of where Genesis had gone, whether he was still ghosting about the back of the townhouse after Am-Hazek, or whether he''d returned to the dance floor. Considering D¨¦sir¨¦e''s expression, he must have. And was doing something strange, at least in the minds of those more accustomed to polite society. As Mirk answered, he thought about how to reposition them so that he could get a look at where D¨¦sir¨¦e was staring. "They are a little...different than the sellswords on the Continent, yes."


    "I see," D¨¦sir¨¦e sniffed, while Mirk led her in a half turn. As subtly as possible, Mirk snuck a glance at where D¨¦sir¨¦e had been staring.


    Mirk was willing to admit that the rules of noble mage society could be confusing, especially to those who hadn''t been raised in it. But even a poor K''maneda raised in a distant village like the other members of the Seventh would have had enough sense to tell that he had made a wrong turn. Genesis, however, was not most men.


    At present, Genesis was cornered by three curious ladies of chaotic orientation, none of whom Mirk was familiar with. But he could read the expressions on their faces, the tilts to their heads and the forthright postures of their bodies, well enough to know that they were competing to see which of them would be the first to coax Genesis onto the dance floor. They were all practically bashing Genesis in the chest with their fans, each growing increasingly more bold and daring in the face of the commander''s continued indifference.


    Indifference was different than an outright rejection. A lady could do nothing in the face of a mumbled excuse or a man rushing off with a different partner other than gather up her skirts and move on. However, Genesis''s particular brand of deliberate indifference was nothing more than an invitation to try harder, to put one''s fine words and coy looks on display in an attempt to win his attention. Mirk suspected that if Genesis didn''t get the hint soon and either refuse them or grudgingly offer out a hand, one of the ladies was going to come straight out and attempt to magic him into making an invitation. Which, needless to say, wouldn''t go well for anyone involved.


    D¨¦sir¨¦e cleared her throat, adjusting her hold on Mirk¡¯s hands. "You really must do something about the poor man, seigneur. He''s making a complete fool of himself."


    She had a point. All the work he''d done over the past few hours would be for nothing, if all the idle gossip that night turned toward debates over what Mirk meant to accomplish by bringing such a strange man along with him to the ball, instead of remaining on the fate of his family. Biting his lip, Mirk considered his options as he led D¨¦sir¨¦e in a quick double-step pattern that brought them closer to Genesis, outside the range of the spells cast on the dance floor that drew out their magic. D¨¦sir¨¦e''s extinguished with a final gust of wind that ruffled the hair and skirts of all the dance partners surrounding them.


    "I''m afraid, madame, that the only way to help him may mean doing something...er, drastic."


    With another sniff, conjuring a touch of a breeze on her own to right a curl that had fallen out of place, D¨¦sir¨¦e raised a single delicate eyebrow at him. "I hope you aren''t planning on doing anything too shocking."


    Mirk surveyed his options, dancing with D¨¦sir¨¦e in a reflexive way that the lady was kind enough to tolerate. As he led her through the steps, he caught glimpses of the scene going on in the corner. More than a few intrigued gazes were drawn by the mounting spectacle. Even if the only option Mirk could think of for handling it might be taken the wrong way, it would doubtlessly be better than what would happen if Mirk allowed things to come to their natural conclusion. "May I be so inconsiderate as to ask you to entertain a small favor for me, madame?" Mirk asked D¨¦sir¨¦e.


    Though it was slight, D¨¦sir¨¦e did smile at him. "Perhaps."


    "If this doesn''t go well, please take the liberty of telling some story about me being rude to you and running off. I would feel terrible if your good reputation was challenged because of me."


    D¨¦sir¨¦e''s smile grew a fraction, pleased, as the current song came to an end and Mirk stepped back into a low bow. "You''ve always been so considerate, seigneur. I''m sure that won''t be necessary. But I''ll keep it in mind."


    Mirk laughed, releasing her hand. "Thank you, madame. You''re always a pleasure to dance with. Be sure to give my regards to Rory."


    D¨¦sir¨¦e nodded, performing a demure curtsy. "Good luck," she added as she scanned the ballroom, disappearing off into the shifting crowds. Bracing himself for the worst, Mirk pulled himself up to his full height and started off toward Genesis.


    Mirk took care to keep his pace brisk, locking his eyes on Genesis in an attempt to make his intentions clear. Nevertheless, on his way to the corner, he was aware of Yvette Feulaine trying to bully her way through the other dancers to intercept him. Mirk ignored her. It was unfortunate ¡ª he''d been hoping to dance with her before the food came out, to get a sense of how well his plan was working ¡ª but Mirk knew that if he offered his hand to Yvette, there''d be no chance of his returning to Genesis for at least two more dances. And by then, it might have been too late to salvage anything.


    As he drew closer and trained his senses on Genesis, he could hear the voices of the women surrounding Genesis over the din of the ballroom. One of them, a tall wisp of a lady, stepped closer to Genesis than the others, her head cocked to one side, black lace fan moving rapidly at her neck. "I''ve heard so much about the K''maneda...are you from one of their noble families? I don''t mean to be so forward, commander, but it''s only that your aura is so distinctive..."


    Genesis shot the woman a cross look, backing as far into the corner as he could. "...no."


    Another woman spoke up, this one shorter, familiar in a way that Mirk couldn''t quite identify, with intricately styled black curls gracing the sides of her face, highlighting the curves of her cheeks in the same way that her tightly laced bodice highlighted the curves of her body to the greatest extent that current fashion and propriety allowed. She looked demurely away from Genesis while still leaning in his direction. "Is that so? I can''t believe a mage like you wouldn''t have a title...forgive me if I''m being too familiar, but it seems impossible to me that the K''maneda wouldn''t want to honor a gentleman with such obvious talent..."


    Though the ladies paid the shadows gathering around Genesis little heed, perhaps thinking it to be some kind of flashy parlor trick, Mirk instantly recognized them for what they were. Genesis was reaching a state of critical annoyance. "I would...rather be killed."


    The group of ladies gave an enthusiastic titter of laughter. Evidentially, they thought the statement too odd to be serious. Which, considering the setting, was a reasonable assumption, despite it being dead wrong. Before the third woman, an innocent-looking blonde with a correspondingly delicate dress, could comment, Mirk sidestepped into the narrow gap between the trio of ladies and the commander. Lifting his hands in a conciliatory gesture, Mirk flashed Genesis a strained grin. "Commander! There you are! I''ve been looking all over for you."


    This got the shadows to recede a little, at least, as Genesis''s expression went blank. "You know...perfectly well where I''ve been."


    It would be best to get it over with. After a shrug that Mirk hoped appeared casual, he bowed as deeply as the limited space allowed, lowering his head a fraction and lifting out a hand to Genesis. "Take my hand," Mirk hissed through his grin, just above a whisper.


    His gambit worked. There were no irritated comments or scornful tisks from behind Mirk; the ladies must not have been able to hear him over the chatter of the other dancers. But Genesis must have as, after weighing Mirk against the three women, he took Mirk''s hand, delicately, with the barest tips of his fingers. Though Mirk couldn''t see what was going on behind him, he could guess, judging by how the tension in Genesis''s shoulders eased.


    None of the women would be happy, of course. But it was a sign of weakness to linger after being passed over. It wasn''t, however, considered weak to go have a heated conversation with a sister or cousin about the person who''d been chosen instead. Which meant it was imperative for Mirk to implement the second half of his plan post haste.


    Two men dancing together wasn''t strange, not in mage society. There were so many extra men at mages'' balls that if they didn''t ever dance together, half of the attendees would spend the whole night standing about staring at the floor. Most times when two men danced, it was done as an excuse to show off fine dancing skills, or to put powerful ornamental spells on display, ones deemed too taxing for a lady''s sensibilities. A man choosing one of his fellows over three impatient women, however, wasn''t the sort of thing that would escape notice, especially if said women decided to voice their grievances as soon as they''d recovered from the slight.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Unless it became immediately clear to them that, rather than being passed over, they''d just been gallantly and expertly saved from total humiliation.


    "I hate to be rude, messire," Mirk said, as he performed another slight bow for the sake of appearances, "but are you still terrible at dancing?"


    -   -   -


    All things considered, Mirk thought it''d turned out better than anticipated.


    It took some work to learn how Genesis turned each dance backwards, but once Mirk had seen each step mangled two or three times, there was no guesswork left in it any more. It wasn''t that Genesis was incapable of learning the sequence of movements. Mirk knew from having run the commander through the basic steps before the first ball he and his mother had coaxed him into attending that Genesis could perform each step alone with perfect timing and exact precision.


    But as soon as he was thrown together with a partner, no matter how expert, everything fell apart. Something about having to coordinate with another person''s motions, accommodating for their peculiarities and faults and inability to be as exactly in time to the music as he could be, on top of being forced into holding hands, killed off all of Genesis''s natural grace.


    Fortunately for his toes, Mirk knew the commander well enough by then to anticipate how Genesis would drift off-course. The commander was nothing if not a creature of habit. Though the current topic of conversation between them vexed Genesis so thoroughly that Mirk needed to keep an eye on things, as both Genesis''s magic and movements grew more restless the more flummoxed he became.


    "They...what?"


    "They wanted to dance," Mirk said simply, pressing himself forward a bit to avoid straying into the path of another pair of dancers. Just as Mirk had anticipated, Genesis backed away a measure equal to the amount Mirk advanced.


    "If they...wished to dance, why did they not...request it directly?"


    Mirk shrugged. "Would you have said yes?"


    Genesis cringed, like Mirk had just suggested that he go outside and roll around in the gutter. "...no."


    "Then methinks it''s for the best that you didn''t understand, messire."


    "The whole lot of you...miserable nobles make no sense," Genesis grumbled, as Mirk pressed him back another few steps.


    On the whole, Mirk thought his plan was going well. All the pairs they strayed close to, the ladies especially, were side-eying Genesis''s backward brand of dancing with mingled amusement and dismay. But it''d be better to be absolutely sure that everyone who was watching was assured that they''d avoided catastrophe by not asking Genesis to take them on a turn about the floor, to keep anyone else from trying again for the remainder of the night.


    "Do you remember what I told you about magicked dance floors?" Mirk asked Genesis, turning his attention away from the other dancers and up toward the commander''s face. He was scanning the edges of the room rather than looking down at him. Though whether there was any real threat lurking there, or if Genesis was only doing it to avoid thinking too hard about dancing wasn''t clear to Mirk.


    "A...pointless exercise in draining potential," Genesis replied.


    That evaluation, coming from Genesis, didn''t surprise Mirk in the slightest. "Let''s dance the next song there."


    Genesis glanced down at him. "...why?"


    "Do you want to be left alone for the rest of the night?"


    "I would...prefer that."


    "Then we should show them all a little of your magic, messire." Genesis seemed discomforted by the prospects. Mirk thought of a way to put him at ease as the song ended and Mirk backed away the appropriate half step. "You don''t have to worry about anything. Just let a little out and I''ll do the rest. Methinks I''ve handled your magic enough times by now to understand what to do."


    Though Genesis didn''t know what to do with himself when the music paused, standing rigid and still while returning to sizing up the ballroom''s doorways and windows, it wasn''t strictly necessary for the commander to do anything to keep Mirk as his partner for the next number. By staying within a pace of him, facing Genesis directly, Mirk could both ensure that their claim on each other remained clear and take stock of the new couplings for the next song without having to crane his neck and bend awkwardly to the side to see past Genesis''s frame.


    Mirk caught sight of the dark-haired woman in the fitted dress who''d been badgering Genesis earlier. She was edging through the crowd in their direction, Christian Voclain on her arm. Not a bad choice, but clearly one of expedience. Rather than being attentive to whatever Christian was talking about, she was glancing back and forth between them and Yvette Feulaine, who was currently hauling a miserable-looking Louis Bellrose toward the center of the dance floor, where the wood was magicked. As all the dancers stepped into position, ready to bow and curtsey when the music resumed, both women turned their grins on Mirk.


    "Oh dear..." Mirk mumbled under his breath. Apparently his efforts at putting Genesis''s lackluster skills on display hadn''t been flashy enough yet to discourage either woman from trying to get back at them both for being passed over. He''d have to really make a show of things with Genesis''s magic to ensure that things didn''t get worse.


    The next song began: a modified quadrille that was done closer than usual, danced with one partner rather than a group. Mirk bowed with a proper degree of deference while Genesis looked on, still perplexed and annoyed by the gesture. That was another reason why Mirk was glad Genesis hadn''t accepted any of the ladies'' hands: the only way anyone could get Genesis to bow was to hack his legs off at the knee.


    "I believe...we are being watched," Genesis said, as Mirk stepped forward and took hold of his hands.


    "Yvette means well. She wouldn''t do anything that bad." She was still grinning at them, not paying any attention at all to Louis, who she finally managed to nudge inside the limit of the spells inscribed on the floor that allowed for mage dancing. Yvette''s magic manifested itself in a spiral of blue flames so powerful that they almost completely enshrouded her. The gaps between its coils were just wide enough for Mirk to see that she¡¯d set the pomade on Louis''s hair alight. Though she apologized profusely and patted it out, the breaks in the flame also still allowed Mirk to see how her grin never wavered. "Tiens, messire, you have to let up on your magic a little for the floor to work. It''s all right. I''ve practiced this kind of dancing since I could first walk. You don''t have to worry," Mirk said, nudging Genesis¡¯s hands, hoping that something involving magic might distract the commander.


    "They taught you dancing...and nothing practical...unsurprising..." Genesis muttered to himself under his breath, as his gaze went distant for a time, his eyes focused on a spot well above Mirk''s head.


    Just when Mirk was about to nudge him again, Genesis finally managed to surrender enough control over his magic to allow the spells on the dance floor to engage. Even though Mirk could tell that Genesis was allowing the spells to only access a sliver of his potential, the shadows rose up in a wall around them, twisting and thick, their edges grasping outwards at the other dancers. They were more vicious than usual, owing to their master''s sour mood.


    But Mirk had seen them in a worse state before. He poured his own magic into the floor, more than would be necessary to dance with the average partner, making sure to add in a touch of his healing potential rather than depending on his elemental magic and orientation. The shadows were, as always, drawn to the life in it. It helped Mirk corral them into something close to the usual ornamental display, each band of shadow mirrored by one of greenish-gold light. But he was careful not to be too tidy about things, to allow the other dancers around them to get the impression that the commander''s magic was pressing him in an unkind way. Which they would have, had Genesis not been dancing with someone who was accustomed to his magic.


    Once Genesis''s magic had been sorted, Mirk could catch glimpses of the other dancers past it again. Yvette and Louis were still spiraling off to their left. To their right was the woman in the fitted dress and Christian. She was another fire mage, hers a bright red that manifested in a flurry of sparks around them that looked like diving sparrows carried on the near-translucent streams of Christian''s air magic. Mirk wasn''t the only person having trouble containing his partner''s magic. The dark-haired woman was making no effort at properly channeling her magic and coordinating it with Christian''s. Every so often, one of the fiery sparrows would make a pointed dive at Christian''s cravat. Not a good sign, Mirk thought.


    "They are still...watching," Genesis said, flatly.


    A spin, a series of backwards steps, a turn in a circle. Mirk nudged Genesis a step to the left, to keep the shadows from going after the light magic one of the pairs closest to them was wrapped up in. Genesis was bad enough at dancing to begin with. Genesis trying to dance while distracted was a hazard to the health of everyone within a ten-foot radius. "Yvette''s like Niv," Mirk offered, in an attempt to reassure the commander. "She just likes to play jokes. Niv never really hurts anyone, does he?"


    "Does she also throw tables at people?"


    Mirk laughed, half at the idea of Yvette flipping tables and half at Genesis''s sour tone. "That''s not something a proper lady does in polite company, messire."


    "I...see."


    He had to push Genesis into a sudden forward spin and tug on his shadows to keep him from crashing into the magic surrounding the pair of dancers immediately behind him. In an effort to get Genesis''s mind off of Yvette and back on dancing, Mirk edged further into Genesis''s personal space. Nothing brought the commander''s attention back from more abstract thoughts quite like the threat of being touched.


    Not that Mirk wasn''t already touching him, both with his hands and magic. Despite having held onto Genesis''s hands for the past quarter hour, they were still chilly. Mirk didn''t mind, not really. He was as accustomed to their coldness as he was to the staticky feel of Genesis''s shadows around him, curling close and grasping at Mirk and his magic. Both Genesis''s hands and magic would have posed an immediate threat to anyone else. But Mirk only found the brush of both against him comforting rather than unsettling, distracting in a pleasant way. It reminded Mirk that even if things went poorly with Serge, there was always Genesis and the K''maneda. Somewhere to go back to. Safety.


    The notion took Mirk by surprise. Had it really only taken half a year for him to think of the cramped dormitory and the winding corridors of the infirmary as home, to think of the healers and the infantrymen of the Seventh as family? He still cared for the things he had left behind in France and missed all the people he''d grown up beside, and still often thought of the sun-drenched fields surrounding his family''s manor, of the faint smell of the sea carried in on the breeze. But it was just too painful to think of maman and Aena and Kae and grand-p¨¨re when he was caught in an onslaught of dead and dying men and needed to think of something pleasant to warm his heart, to help him bear up and carry on.


    Mostly, when Mirk was hard-pressed and searching for something to hold onto, he thought of Genesis.


    Mirk was so caught up in the realization of it, in the dizzying, unrecognizable emotions it triggered, that he almost missed it. He caught glimpses of it happening as he kept an absent eye on his and Genesis''s conflicting magics, even thought about it in an idle way as he devoted most of his mind to the puzzle of why, even though it wasn''t much fun and it had already bruised both his insteps, he found dancing with Genesis preferable to dancing with any of the others. Yvette and the dark-haired woman in the fitted dress, who Mirk only then placed as one of Yvette''s cousins on her mother''s side, were dancing around him and Genesis in a particularly pointed way. One that he recognized.


    They were edging out the other pairs around them, circling them in ever tightening spirals. At the same time, they were kicking a metal ingot to one another through the haze of competing magics that filled enchanted heart of the dance floor, using tiny, sharp motions that would have been easy to miss if one hadn''t seen Yvette play the same trick at least twice a season on someone who she thought needed to be gotten back at, albeit in her usual, playful way. The women''s fire magic was very slowly melting the ingot, drawing it out into yard after yard of fine gossamer wire. The wire ended up in a nearly-invisible web of loops and snares on the floor, ready to be pulled taught around unsuspecting limbs at a particular gesture from Yvette. Her cat''s cradle trick.


    Before Mirk could open his mouth to warn Genesis, he realized that the commander was already handling it. His shadows were eroding the wire, though Mirk could tell he needed to focus hard in order not to catch the floor or the enchantments on it in his magic. Odd. Usually Genesis didn''t need to spend more than a fraction of his intense concentration to manipulate his magic as precisely as Eva controlled all her strange enchanted surgical tools.


    And usually Genesis would have been the first to notice that Yvette had added a new element to her signature parlor trick since Mirk had last seen it deployed. It was only when Yvette smirked at Mirk, and her cousin lifted her hand off Christian''s to make a sharp, downward gesture, that Mirk realized why they had chosen Christian and Louis in particular as their partners for that dance. They''d both been manipulating the two men''s air magic with their fire to hold a second ingot aloft high above his and Genesis''s head, drawing it out into an even denser web of wire. One that Mirk couldn''t warn Genesis of before it was too late.


    Even then, Mirk thought Genesis should have been able to avoid it with his uncanny quickness. But the first loops of wire that fell upon them cinched them tight together, causing Genesis to freeze. Then Genesis tried to backpedal, which, of course, only caused Mirk to trip and go tumbling over, taking Genesis along with him. For an instant, everything around Mirk was a blur of color and light, the tinging of the wires still tightening around them barely audible over the hum of the music and the gasps of the crowd.


    Then Mirk found himself on the floor on top of Genesis, face to face.


    By all rights, Mirk should have been ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. But the look of horror on Genesis''s face was too much for him to bear. Mirk collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, which only doubled once he heard Yvette''s distinctive gasping, hiccuping chortle rising above the general murmur of the other dancers. At least Mirk was able to move enough within the grasp of the wire to hide his face against Genesis''s chest as he laughed himself to tears.


    Part of him was bracing for the inevitable shame. All the effort of that evening, all the conversations he''d had with the other mages to try to convince them to rally to his family''s banner, paled in comparison to the humiliation of being caught up in a lady''s parlor trick. Or, at least, it should have. Instead, all Mirk felt was a familiar sort of warmth, an easy contentment that was distinctly out-of-place, considering the situation, coupled with an urge to shake Genesis by the shoulders until the commander finally felt it too and laughed along with the rest of them.


    Mirk had almost regained his composure by the time Genesis recovered and reduced the wires binding them together to dust. Rather than seeing the commander''s magic, Mirk felt it, the cool whisper of the shadows against his skin making Mirk suddenly aware of how red he had to be. Taking care not to stumble again, Mirk carefully eased himself off Genesis''s thin frame and got to his feet, drawing in a deep and shaky breath as took stock of the attitudes of the other noble mages.


    The music had stopped along with the dancing. Reaction was varied ¡ª the younger nobles were still hiding snickers and grins behind fans and raised hands, and the oldest among them were laughing aloud, unguarded and without a hint of trepidation. Only a handful of faces were blank or disapproving; Mirk recognized none of them. Thankfully, Seigneur d''Aumont and his godmother were still nowhere to be seen, and Seigneur Feulaine was only shaking his head over his daughter''s actions rather than being dismayed by them. As for Seigneur Rouzet, he still merely seemed fascinated. Not by Mirk, but by the way the spells on the dance floor were causing Genesis''s shadows to fan out around him, looking very much like they were on the hunt for unsuspecting ankles to crush. It''d be best for Mirk to get the situation back in hand.


    Mirk let the light, almost relieved amusement of the younger nobles buoy him onward and keep a grin on his face as he performed a showman-like bow. The gesture drew applause out of some of the more sporting nobles, while Mirk turned to Genesis and offered a hand out toward him. The commander was still flat on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling.


    "You can''t lie there all night, messire," Mirk said, unable to keep from giggling again.


    "I am...aware of that."


    "Well, I suppose you could, But it''d be terribly rude to make everyone else dance around you, don''t you think?"


    Miserably, without taking Mirk''s offered hand, Genesis rolled back to his feet. As the commander grimaced and prodded at the back of his head, his shadows gradually retreating back closer to him, another round of applause rippled through the crowd, along with a fresh chorus of snickers and chuckles. Before Genesis could get annoyed by it, Mirk took him by the elbow and guided him out of reach of the spells at the center of the dance floor that made magic manifest. "Why don''t we get a bit of air, messire?"


    Genesis was staring at the merry faces around them, the gears in his head visibly turning. "Why are you not...upset?"


    "Hmm?"


    "I was...under the impression that the aim of this...endeavor was to gain respect."


    Mirk thought about this for a moment, surveying the emotions filling the room as he led Genesis to the edge of the ballroom, toward the arching entryway to the hallway that led on to the foyer and the front doors. To his surprise, the disdain tucked away amongst the amusement and sympathy was barely tangible. That was half of the warm feeling that had overcome him while he was splayed on top of Genesis''s rigid form and consumed by laughter ¡ª there was little ill-will toward him in the ballroom, only fondness and relief, doubled in strength when he took Yvette''s trick in stride rather than being paralyzed by it. "There''s more than one way to get people on your side, messire."


    "I don''t understand."


    "Think of it this way. Who do you feel more sympathy for? A powerful mage who''s been crossed, or a harmless one who''s been targeted because everyone knows he won''t raise a hand to stop anyone?"


    Mirk glanced up at Genesis. The commander was frowning, puzzling over the question like it was a difficult spell he couldn''t pick apart. "I fail...to see the connection."


    "Then it''ll have to stay a mystery, methinks. Anyway, did you get a chance to speak with Monsieur Am-Hazek? I was meaning to ask you about the Destroyer thing, but things just kept coming u¡ª"


    "d''Avignon!"


    Abruptly, the hazy and warm emotions that had been cradling Mirk''s mind were dispelled with the bang of a teleportation spell and a burst of rage and grief so strong that it made Mirk stagger backwards from the entryway to the mirrored hall, clinging to Genesis''s arm for support. The hall had been empty a moment ago. Now there was a man in the middle of it, short and wiry and panting, his fists balled at his sides. And his disheveled hunting outfit and riding boots were sprayed with blood. Mirk''s heart seized up in his chest.


    Laurent Montigny had arrived.

 Chapter 23

    It took Laurent a moment to realize the man he''d come in search of was right in front of him, just as it took Mirk a moment to start breathing again and feed enough potential into his mental shielding to ward off the worst of Laurent''s seething rage. Then he stormed down the hall, stopping a few paces away from Mirk. Laurent fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat for something as he began to rant at him.


    "How dare you? You coward! Not even willing to do such a vile deed with your own hand!"


    Though Mirk couldn''t tear his eyes from Laurent, he could feel Genesis''s arm go tense under his hand. Laurent''s emotions were so thick that it was impossible for Mirk to focus on anything else, but he was certain the tenseness would be coupled with Genesis summoning his magic. Mirk released the commander''s arm and put himself between the two men, bowing low and beginning to stammer out his apologies. "Monsieur Laurent, please, calm down. What''s happened? Are you hurt?"


    "You damn well know what''s happened! Don''t play the fool with me!"


    Mirk could hear the others gathering in the entryway behind him, though he still couldn''t feel anything beyond Laurent''s rage. While Laurent continued to dig in his pockets and Mirk searched for words, Am-Hazek arrived on the scene. The djinn''s expression was polite and distant; he was completely unruffled by Laurent''s sudden appearance. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that Am-Hazek''s posture was a bit more upright than usual, however, as he took up a position to the side of both him and Laurent, bowing slightly. "Monsieur Montigny. We were not told to expect your arrival," Am-Hazek said.


    Laurent ignored the djinn, stomping onward into the ballroom proper. Mirk backed off instinctively, dragging Genesis along with him. "It''s fine," Mirk hissed at Genesis, before the commander could get any ideas. "Just...let me sort this out."


    There was a grave, offended voice from behind them, cutting through the intrigued whispers of the other guests like red-hot steel through butter. "What''s all this?"


    Mirk glanced over his shoulder. Seigneur d''Aumont had arrived on the scene as well, Madame Beaumont close at his heels, trying to cut off an alarmed-looking Yvette. The Grand Master closed the gap between them, unhurried but grave. Though Seigneur d''Aumont was prepared to get more involved as well, Mirk thought, should the need arise. He wasn''t leaning on his cane in the slightest.


    "This man is a murderer!" Laurent bellowed, finally grasping what he''d been searching for in his pockets. A glass orb, small enough to be easily be hidden in the palm of a hand.


    "I...I''m sorry, Monsieur Laurent, but I don''t understand..." Mirk mumbled, trying to clutch at his stomach as subtly as possible. The grief that was mixed into Laurent''s rage was starting to affect him, making his eyes water as Mirk''s insides churned.


    "I have it all here!" Laurent said, holding the orb aloft for a moment. Mirk knew from the gossip that surrounded Laurent and his constant quarreling with the other mages what the orb had to be. A memorial stone, an expensive device that was usually used to keep a visual record of important contracts and meetings, one that couldn''t easily be tampered with through magic. Laurent always kept one near at hand, to capture slights made toward him and his family so that no one could second-guess any of his grievances. Or the motivation behind his constant dueling. "If you won''t tell the truth, the stone will."


    "Monsieur Am-Hazek," Madam Beaumont said quietly, nodding to the djinn. Her and Yvette had come within arm''s reach as well, though Madame Beaumont was keeping a tight hold on Yvette''s hand, to keep her from rushing to Laurent''s side.


    Am-Hazek held out a hand to Laurent. The wiry fire mage slapped the orb down in the djinn''s hand without ripping his gaze away from Mirk across from him. It took a substantial amount of potential to replay the scene captured by a memorial stone. And Laurent wasn''t about to waste a sliver of his own on it.


    As one, the assembled noble mages edged backward, forming a loose circle at the edge of the ballroom. Mirk and Laurent stood on opposite ends while Am-Hazek moved to the middle, so that no one could miss any detail of the record trapped inside the stone. Anxiously, Mirk snuck a look over at Genesis. The commander seemed as perplexed by the sudden turn of events as the rest of them, though it was only evidenced by the slightest furrowing of his brow. Mirk didn''t know whether to be reassured or worried by it.


    "May I, Seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked Seigneur d''Aumont, holding the memorial stone out in front of himself.


    "Please do," Seigneur d''Aumont replied, nodding. Though Seigneur d''Aumont''s emotions were too subtle for Mirk to pick up on over the clamoring of Laurent''s anger and despair, the slight frown of disapproval on his face said enough. Settling one of Laurent''s endless grievances was a waste of magic, even if that magic was a servant''s instead of his own. Doubtlessly, Serge Montigny would be hearing of Laurent''s blustering, along with Mirk''s own accusations. Mirk couldn''t help but wonder whether Seigneur d''Aumont lumped both their protests together as symptoms of the same disease: young mages who thought too highly of themselves and felt the need to trouble all the guild masters with unreasonable demands.


    Mirk watched with trepidation as Am-Hazek fed his potential into the memorial stone. Though his mind was whirling in five directions at once, torn asunder by Laurent''s rage and Yvette''s worry and Seigneur d''Aumont''s cool indifference, Mirk noticed that Am-Hazek''s magic looked different than that of Ravensdale''s djinn. He had only caught glimpses of it before from the infirmary steps, when the djinn were called on to attend to the human fighters'' armor in advance of a battle, but it always had a pale, sickly cast to it, thin and translucent like air magic, though it often had the same effect on metal as a fire mage''s. Am-Hazek''s magic was much stronger, a flurry of multicolored tendrils that reminded Mirk of his godfather''s. But before Mirk had time to dwell on the meaning of this, the memorial stone engaged, creating a ghostly afterimage of the events Laurent had bore witness to above Am-Hazek''s head.


    The scene took place in a wood. Not a natural one, thick with undergrowth and full of trees that varied in age and species, but the sort that was found on noble estates, the trees immaculately tended and spaced, betraying a lack of true wildness. The trees thinned further as the memorial stone was carried through it, toward its edge, where it butted up against a well-manicured lawn. Across it was a country house, regal and imposing. Just like the figures clustered near the steps leading up to its front entrance. Tall, white, gleaming figures. Figures with wings.


    The figures sharpened and clarified as the memorial stone''s focus shifted toward them. Angels. Mirk hugged himself tightly as the image grew more detailed, as sounds began to emanate from the memory stone in Am-Hazek''s hand along with the vision. Mirk was uncertain whether any of the other assembled nobles could understand spoken angelic. He struggled a little with it himself -- the angel who was speaking currently, the only one not in armor, had an accent Mirk had never heard before.


    But words weren''t necessary to understand that something had gone deeply, horribly wrong at the manor. There were humans arrayed on the front steps as well as angels. Each man was restrained by an angel in a kind of armor Mirk had never seen before, plain and utilitarian, their faces obscured by silver masks that had impassive expressions etched into them. The humans among the crowd on the steps all looked dazed, their coats and shirts disheveled, the magicked rifles they''d been hunting with stacked in a messy pile at the base of the steps like cast-off logs for a fire.


    Only one of the angels wasn''t armored. He was tall, even for an angel, and broad across the shoulders and hips, wearing a plain, heavy gray robe meant to ward off the chill of being separated from the Light Eternal that full-blood angels always complained of when visiting Earth. He had a long knife in hand rather than a sword, flipping it absently as he paced the top of the steps leading up to the manor. "Time''s wasting!" he called out, ducking one wing so that he could look over his shoulder back through the manor''s open front doors. "Samael! Focus!"


    "Leave the child alone," a rough, snarling voice replied from inside the manner, distant but quickly coming closer. A familiar voice, the sound of which made Mirk hug himself even more tightly. "You want something done right, you should do it yourself."


    Aker emerged out onto the front steps, dragging Serge Montigny along with him. Although Mirk could tell from the red-black haze surrounding Serge, from the way that he was flailing and screaming, that the Grand Master had to be fighting with all his might against Aker''s restraining hand. But it was all fruitless. Aker was able to haul the man who''d stalked Mirk''s dreams for the past half year down the steps easily, as if Serge was as inconsequential as a child having a tantrum.


    "You''re not doing anything yourself," the angel wielding the knife said with a snort, as he watched Aker haul Serge in front of him. The masked angels were all mostly ignoring Serge and their human charges, Mirk noticed, their heads swiveled toward the angel with the knife. Who was smirking at his godfather. And his godfather was glowering back at him. "There''s a process."


    "Attempted flight," a different voice said, its accent similar to that of the unarmored angel. Yet another angel emerged from the manor''s open front doors. That one was armored like the rest, and though he wasn''t wearing a mask, his flesh-and-blood face looked just as indifferent. To his right was another angel in gray robes, his wings hunched and expression troubled. The second angel was as tall as a full-grown human man, but Mirk knew enough to tell that the difference in height between him and the others meant that he was a child. That and his flight feathers hadn''t yet fully grown in. "Technically, that would add another charge."


    "What took you so long?" the older angel with the knife asked the boy as the two angels took up positions beside him, only Aker and Serge left standing in front of them, with their backs to the memorial stone''s perspective. "Where was he headed?"


    The child stared at Serge. His glance made Serge scream, his legs giving out. Only Aker''s hold on Serge''s arm keeping him from falling. The boy turned his gaze back toward the angel wielding the knife, and Serge''s pain appeared to lessen some. "The demonic realm, Lord Imanael."


    The older robed angel, Imanael, flipped his knife yet again and snorted. "The demons are all idiots for indulging these creatures. Don''t they know it''s bad manners to play with your food?"


    Aker released Serge''s arm with a disgusted huff, his feathers all standing on end. Mirk wasn''t sure whether the disgust was directed at Serge, who collapsed onto his knees before the ranks of angels and the other slack-jawed humans, or Imanael. "Like you can talk about that."


    Though Imanael kept grinning at Aker, he didn''t reply to him. Instead, he spoke to the child wavering beside him. "Confirm the charges. We don''t have all night."


    The child stared intently down at Serge. Again, Serge burst into screams. Mirk could hear whispered curses too then, much more clearly than he was able to hear all the angels'' voices. It had to be Laurent, who was holding the memorial stone aloft in the recording to bear witness to what was being done to his family. Mirk wasn''t certain whether all the men who''d been restrained by the angels were Montignys, but, judging from what Yvette had told Mirk as they''d walked her inside that night, and the fact that at least half of the men on the manor''s front steps bore a passing resemblance to Serge, Mirk assumed that must be the case.


    "He killed Mikael Dishoael and his human wife''s kin," the child said slowly, turning his anxious gaze from Serge back to Imanael beside him. "Would you like the details, my Lord? He has been associating closely with the demonic realm."


    Imanael considered this for a moment. "Not Melor, though?"


    The boy shook his head. "No. Not Melor."


    "Then you can save the rest for the report you''ll write for the Emperor when we get back," Imanael sighed, turning his attention to the older, unmasked armored angel. "Is that confirmation enough for you?"


    The unmasked angel nodded. "You did not lie, Lord Aker."


    Aker''s feathers stood further on end as he shifted and crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course I didn''t. Why do you think I''d come to you if I didn''t have this kind of case? Otherwise I''d have done it on my own. Should have done it on my own," Mirk''s godfather added to himself, in a voice so low that the memorial stone almost didn''t record it.


    Imanael turned his grin on the unmasked angel. "Well? Are you going to get on with it, or are you going to let the barbarian have his blood debt?"


    The unmasked angel was the only one on the steps who didn''t appear invested in the horrible scene playing out on the manor''s front steps. His response to Imanael''s goading was as flat as his reaction to Serge''s renewed screaming when the Grand Master caught sight of the sword the unmasked angel drew from the scabbard at his waist. "There is a process, Lord Imanael. We are nothing if we don''t follow it."


    "Then hurry up with it," Imanael said, tucking his knife away up the sleeve of his robes. "Time''s wasting. And the boy needs to be taken back to Heaven before he catches a cold. That''s an extra moon of endurance training for you when we get back. I thought you were better than this," he added to the boy beside him, who didn''t reply other than to hang his head.


    Aker remained by Serge''s side as the unmasked angel approached, his sword held delicately in both hands. It was larger than any Mirk had ever seen before. Heavy. And yet, the angel lifted it as if it weighed nothing. He stood across from Aker, with Serge sprawled on the stones of the front walk between them, murmuring to the blade as he turned it ins his hands. Though the unmasked angel was focused on his sword, his magic was working on Serge. Serge remained down on his knees, but he sat back on him, bands of golden magic manipulating both the Grand Master''s body and the haze of reddish black magic still swirling around him into an upright position. Faintly, Mirk heard Laurent curse to himself in the recording again.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "You stand accused of murdering an angel outside of honorable combat, through falsity and collaboration with enemies of the Empire," the unmasked angel said, holding the sword out above Serge''s twisting and struggling body. "And your mind has been proven guilty. Do you confirm this judgment, Lord High Examiner Imanael?"


    Imanael nodded, looking impatient. "Yes, right."


    "The punishment for this crime is death. I, Uriel Olraelin, in the name of the Silver Host and serving as the sword hand of Emperor Aetilaein, the first of his name, bear the responsibility to carry out his justice."


    As the angel continued to speak, shifting his grip on his giant, two-handed sword and holding it up close to his lips, Imanael rolled his eyes. Aker continued to bristle; the humans swayed on their feet, dazed and lost. One of the masked angels made a counterclockwise gesture, muffling Serge''s increasingly loud screaming. And the Laurent in the memorial stone''s recording stalked closer to the edge of the forest, the image shaking with his footsteps and emotions.


    There was no fanfare to it. One moment, Uriel, the bearer of the Emperor''s justice, was still speaking his rituals to his sword. The next he was swinging it. It was a clean, calculated swing. Serge''s head slid from his neck, bounced off the cobbles of the front walk, and landed at Aker''s feet. The rest of Serge''s lifeless body soon followed, his limp shoulders knocking dully against Aker''s greaves. Uriel flicked the blood from his sword, then set to cleaning it properly. Imanael laughed outright at whatever face Mirk''s godfather was making.


    "Well, go ahead. Kick it, you animal," Imanael goaded. "I know you want to."


    "It is done," Aker hissed. Then he vanished, the bell-like tinkling of his magic barely audible over the wind among the trees.


    "Justice has been served," Uriel agreed, as he sheathed his sword. With a sweeping rightward gesture of his hand, both him and the masked angels vanished as well, the bang of their departure rolling through the forest like thunder. Most of the dazed human men arranged along the front steps fell without their masked guardians there to keep them upright, groaning.


    Imanael quickly surveyed the living, making a slight, circular gesture with his knife. The men''s bodies, as one, gave a violent twitch. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Imanael tucked the knife away up his sleeve and held out his hand to the boy beside him. The young angel was shaking, staring down at Serge''s head. "Come. Your work is only beginning."


    "Yes, my Lord," the boy murmured, taking Imanael''s hand. Then they were gone as well, soundlessly, their passing obscured by a bright flash of light.


    Mirk heard the Laurent in the recording curse. The magic-fueled scene hovering above their heads vanished with a curt gesture from Am-Hazek. Mirk was certain the recording continued -- Laurent was always sure to document every aspect of the ways he was slighted. But Am-Hazek thought it better to both spare the ladies in attendance from witnessing more of the bloodshed up close, and Laurent the aggravation of having to listen to himself curse and cry.


    A wave of murmured conversations rose from the assembled mages. Mirk searched all the familiar faces for their impressions of the gruesome scene, still hugging himself against the constant press of Laurent''s rage and grief. Most of the women had the lower halves of their faces hidden with their fans, making it impossible for Mirk to gauge their reactions. The exceptions were Yvette, who was, for the first time in Mirk''s memory of her, too shocked to say or do anything, and Madame Beaumont, who looked grimly satisfied. Much like his godfather had, before Aker had turned his back to the memorial stone. As for the men, they were controlling their reactions well, speaking in low voices to one another, save for Seigneur Feulaine, whose whole attention was focused on his daughter.


    And Laurent. Who, evidentially, was so appalled by the lack of immediate response from the other mages that he thought it best to see to things himself. He shoved Am-Hazek out of the way so that he could face Mirk directly, ripping something else out of the pocket of his waistcoat. A pair of cold-weather gloves. Sneering, he cast them down at Mirk''s feet.


    "Justice. You monsters call that justice? Then I''ll have my own justice as well. I demand satisfaction for what your people have done. Outside. A half hour. In the road, to spare the lady of the house any further embarrassment."


    The challenge leveled, Laurent spun on his heel and stormed out of the ballroom and back down the hall. A few moments later, Mirk heard the front doors to the townhouse slam open and shut. Though he tried to control his reactions, Mirk still jumped at the bang. And then the emotions of the rest of the mages rushed in on him, filling the mental space that had been occupied by the weight of Laurent''s rage.


    Confusion. Fright. Horror. Mirk bore up under all of it, making himself lower his arms to his sides and steep in the consequences of the actions of his father''s people.


    Seigneur d''Aumont''s voice broke through the hushed conversations filling the ballroom, as the head of Le Phare rapped the end of his cane against the polished floor to put an end to all of them. "Seigneur d''Avignon," he said, meeting Mirk''s eyes with a level and composed gaze. It startled Mirk to realize for the first time that they were the same height, Seigneur d''Aumont''s advanced age bringing him down to Mirk''s level. "Did you call upon the Empire to do this?"


    Mirk shook his head, instantly. "No,  Seigneur d''Aumont. Never. I...I don''t even know how to reach anyone in the Empire. I was never close with the angels, aside from the ones who served under my father. It''s...they''d never have me, seigneur. Even if I''d wanted to be a part of it. Angels are a very...proud people. Many aren''t fond of half-bloods."


    Seigneur d''Aumont mused on this for a time, turning his cane in his hand. "This aligns with what I know of the Empire. Which begs the question, what provoked them into doing this?"


    Another mage stepped forward out of the crowd to speak ¡ª Seigneur Rouzet. His expression was grim. However, what little Mirk could feel of the dark mage''s emotions didn''t align with his seriousness. Seigneur Rouzet almost felt relieved. "I don''t think this turn of events is odd at all," he said. "Think of how we handle this sort of thing. If a foreign mage does harm to one of us in our lands, aren''t we allowed to carry out our justice on them? Of course, their home guild might protest, but it''s a settled matter that where the crime was done is where the law is applied. Though, of course, we didn''t yet have time to evaluate whether or not Seigneur Montigny was responsible for anything before all of this," he concluded, making a vague gesture at where Laurent had been fuming away minutes ago.


    "We...had been investigating. To an extent," Seigneur d''Aumont said after a time. "There was some credible evidence that Seigneur Montigny had a hand in what happened to Jean-Luc d''Avignon and his family. Badly damaged evidence, however."


    "If I may provide some additional information, seigneurs?" Am-Hazek asked into the silence that lingered after Seigneur d''Aumont spoke, performing a deferential bow to no one in particular.


    Both Seigneur Rouzet and Seigneur d''Aumont looked surprised. It wasn''t common for a djinn servant to interject himself into such a serious matter. But Seigneur d''Aumont did nod, after first glancing at Madame Beaumont for confirmation that she permitted such forward behavior from her servants. "Yes, all right."


    "I do have some knowledge of the ways of the Empire, passed along in the historical records of my people. I believe what we saw in this," Am-Hazek said, lifting the memorial stone he still had cupped in his hand, "confirms that Seigneur Montigny had to bear responsibility for the death of Mikael Dishoael at the very least."


    "How so?" Seigneur d''Aumont asked.


    "Angels are empathic, almost without exception. Their most powerful mages have some of the strongest mind magic ever recorded by my people. When a conflict arises, it is customary for them to employ a mage specializing in the reading of minds and memories to confirm accusations. A High Examiner. Which is what the older angel in the recording in the gray robes was called by the rest. He gave his word that Seigneur Montigny''s mind betrayed his guilt."


    Seigneur d''Aumont frowned. "I do not speak angelic. Perhaps we need to play it again and have someone listen in with a translation charm. Though it will take time to find one that''s been enchanted to translate angelic."


    It took all the strength of will Mirk could summon to make himself speak up. The slight nod of acquiescence that Am-Hazek gave in response to Seigneur d''Aumont''s judgment gave Mirk strength. Although Am-Hazek''s expression remained composed, blankly polite, something in the tone of Seigneur d''Aumont''s voice reminded Mirk uncomfortably of the way that the senior healers in the Tenth spoke about the djinn, as if every instance of them crying out in pain or asking for water or clothes was unbearably aggravating. As if the djinn were mere tools and, like, tools, needed to be silent and still unless reached for. "I understand angelic, seigneur. Monsieur Am-Hazek heard right. And I did hear some talk from my father about this being the way that they do things in the Empire."


    Although Seigneur d''Aumont seemed dissatisfied with this, he nodded nevertheless. "Then tell me, please. What caused them to act like this?"


    Mirk struggled to calm his racing mind and heart enough to think back to what little he''d been able to glean from his father''s discussions with his men about the workings of justice within the Empire. "The Emperor is responsible for dispensing with justice, like the King is among the mortals. But, like with the King, it''s delegated. The Silver Host is like the guild guards. I do remember my father speaking about them. The...angels with the masks. The Thrones. They''re a little like watchmen. It''s custom among the angels for anyone responsible for giving out punishment other than the Emperor and the commander of the Silver Host to hide their faces. Since they give up all their family ties by joining the Host. They become an extension of the Emperor. Sort of."


    In truth, the longer Mirk thought about it and the more he calmed, the more he remembered. In particular, he remembered how bitterly his father spoke of the Thrones. Dogs and cowards, he had called them. Mirk got the impression that several of his father''s guardsmen had run afoul of them and their Host commander, which was why many of them had decided to join his father on Earth. It was either that, or undergo some process called purification, which all the men in his father''s service spoke of only obliquely, and always with a look of distaste.


    The other mages were settling as well. Mirk could tell by the cast of their emotions. As horror and shock faded, it was replaced by quieter, more pensive emotions ¡ª pity, worry, caution. Though it was hard, with so many emotions pressing up against one another from so many people, to tell exactly who felt what. Seigneur d''Aumont sighed, dipping one hand into his waistcoat and consulting his pocket watch rather than trusting the time on the clock hung on the wall between the windows. "I''m afraid I have another obligation this evening," he said, replacing his pocket watch. "However, for the time being, we''ll consider the matter settled. But I will be in contact with you, Seigneur d''Avignon." Seigneur d''Aumont paused, his eyes falling upon Laurent''s discarded gloves at Mirk''s feet. "As for Laurent Montigny, I leave it for you to decide what to do about that. I disapprove of dueling, but it''s a matter of private honor. I trust you may be able to put the mind magic granted to you by your father to good use."


    His verdict handed down, Seigneur d''Aumont made his way sedately out of the ballroom. After casting a meaningful look at Mirk, Madame Beaumont gathered up her skirts and went after him. Am-Hazek followed a moment later, after bowing slightly to Mirk with a meaningful look as well, though his was less obvious.


    The conversation in the ballroom resumed the instant Seigneur d''Aumont was out the door. Mirk deflated, though he did his best to keep some of the upright bearing expected from a man of his station. None of the other mages, friend or foe alike, seemed eager to engage him. There was a gap of five or so paces between him and the rest of the ball''s attendees, Mirk noticed, like someone had cast a ward around him that allowed the rest to look, to talk about, but not with.


    That was, until Yvette Feulaine finally escaped her father''s hold. There were tears in her eyes as she rushed over in front of Mirk, dropping into a curtsey low enough to send her nearly flat on the floor before she bounded back up again and snatched up both of Mirk''s hands, grasping them tightly as all the words she''d forced herself to keep back throughout the confrontation between Mirk and her fianc¨¦ poured out of her. "Oh, Mirk, I''m so sorry! Really! I''m sure I''ll be able to talk some sense into Laurent, you know how defensive he is about his family, though I haven''t a clue why. But he has to be sensible! Everyone knows that Serge hated Laurent, and father, and almost everyone else, and, anyway, I''m sure you would never lie about anything! I''m just...it''s all so terrible, isn''t it? You can''t fix fighting with more fighting! I swear to God and all the Saints, Mirk, I...I..."


    "It''s all right, Yvette," Mirk said, once she started to stumble over her words, giving him space to reply. He squeezed both her hands gently, pressing a bit of sympathy at her along with the gesture. He''d been friendly with Yvette long enough to know that she wouldn''t view the projection as some kind of imposition. "I...well. I can''t really blame Laurent, not at all. But I would appreciate if you would have a word with him on my behalf. I promise, I had no idea any of the this was going to happen. No idea at all."


    "I''m sure you didn''t!" Yvette insisted, pressing his hands so hard Mirk was worried for a moment that something in them might snap. "You''d never hurt an ant, never ever! That''s why Laurent has to listen! I just...you know how angry Laurent can get. I forget all about it, always, he''s always so gentle and understanding with me. I don''t know why he can''t be the same with everyone else."


    Even though Yvette had to be shielding her mind at least a little, Mirk could feel her emotions as clearly as if she''d been projecting them at him, since they were touching skin to skin. Worry, mingled together with shock and frustration. Mirk inclined his head to her, squeezing her hands again. Though it was hard to manage it, considering how tightly she was holding onto him. "Laurent has every right to be upset. I can''t believe Seigneur Montigny..."


    Only Mirk could believe half of it. He''d seen himself what Serge Montigny was capable of. What he couldn''t believe was that the man was dead. Mirk pushed his mind quickly away from it, lest his emotions inadvertently pass through to Yvette, somehow. "Please, go to Laurent. He needs you. I''ll sort something out. And I won''t hurt him, I promise."


    Mirk carefully extracted himself from Yvette''s hold. Then he bowed to her, as low as he could without having to get down on his knees. Yvette was too distracted, too overcome with worry to notice it. By the time Mirk straightened back up, Yvette had already hiked up her skirts and rushed down the hall after Laurent. As Mirk watched her go, the lingering traces of her emotions cleared from his mind. The other mages around Mirk were keeping a more careful hold on their emotions, with the reminder from Seigneur d''Aumont that Mirk was an empath fresh in their minds. Which left Mirk, for the first time since he''d heard Laurent yelling his name, mostly alone with his thoughts. And what Mirk felt in his own heart, now that there was nothing standing between him and what had happened, wasn''t what he''d been expecting.


    He was worried about Laurent. And he didn''t know what to expect from Seigneur d''Aumont, once the Grand Master had time to debate with the other members of the Circle about the events that he''d seen recorded on Laurent''s memorial stone. And then there was all the confusion he felt over what the recording had shown, his uncertainty over what had happened to the other men that''d been surrounding Serge, dazed and weak, but not dead.


    Dead. Above all else, Mirk was glad Serge Montigny was dead.


    Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from visibly gagging, Mirk turned around to face the rest of the mages. Most of them were caught up in their own discussions, but they were all watching him. Waiting to see how he''d respond to Laurent''s challenge, unwilling to engage until the die had been cast. All the work Mirk had done that night, to try to cultivate a better image for himself, was all but ruined. No one was eager to approach him.


    Other than Genesis. Who, after seeing that Mirk wasn''t about to hurry off to speak to the others, shifted out of the shadowy corner near the entrance to the ballroom that he''d sunk back into to observe the confrontation between Laurent and Mirk from. The commander''s expression was cold. But Mirk got the impression, from the cast of the shadows that trailed after him and the way he was still staring off over Mirk''s head, deep in thought, that none of that coldness was directed at him.


    "I believe it...may be prudent to retreat for the time being," Genesis said. Only when Mirk didn''t reply right away did the commander look down at him, some of the cold edge to his frown fading. "I am also familiar with...the way the Empire conducts itself. I can explain. Somewhat."


    Mirk nodded, gesturing toward the rear of the ballroom, at the door that led to the card room and the less ornate one beside it that lead to the servants hall. "I''d very much appreciate that, messire. Please."


    Without further comment, Genesis turned and left. That time, Mirk wasn''t certain whether the crowd parted more for the commander, or for him.

 Chapter 24

    It had started to rain properly since Mirk had been outside last, hard and ice cold. The younger men who''d gathered outside the front gate to serve as witnesses were all wrapped up tight in their coats and cloaks, their hats glistening in the dim light cast by the lanterns. The older mages, the guild masters and heads of families, were too respectable to put themselves forward as witnesses to a duel that neither they nor their kin were directly involved in. But that didn''t mean that they wouldn''t idle about in the front garden beyond the gate to see how everything played out. Mirk was acutely aware of all of them watching, though he was using a great deal of his potential to keep his mind shielded from whatever emotions might slip past their control.


    Mirk had done his best. After conferring with Genesis, Mirk had gone to speak with Laurent in the front garden. But at the first sight of him, Laurent had stormed off once more without deigning to say a single word, not stopping until he was out in the middle of the street in front of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse. There, Laurent had drawn his sword and settled in to wait, ignoring the rain seeping into his already drenched hunting outfit. The young mage was steaming from how his magic was heating his body in preparation for the duel. He¡¯d been pacing about restlessly in anticipation of the designated hour ever since, flipping his arming sword in his hand. The weapon itself was less imposing than most of the others Mirk had ended up on the wrong side of, short and thin, its hilt bearing one large ruby set in the center of its pommel, but the wielder more than made up for what the blade lacked.


    He had to look silly in comparison, Mirk thought, huddled deep in his cloak and shaking from a combination of nerves and chills. Mirk had been so desperate for warmth and a way to further hide himself from the gauntlet of eyes locked on him and Laurent that he''d gone so far as to ask Genesis if he could borrow his hat. The commander had handed it over ¡ª an ugly, flat-brimmed black thing that was intensely practical but not at all fashionable ¡ª without comment, flipping up the collar of his new overcoat to make up for its loss.


    "I don''t want to hurt him," Mirk said into the gloom, keeping his voice so low he could barely hear it in his own ears over the sound of the rain on the cobbled street. A small blessing. If he¡¯d been met out in the street with the hiss drizzle on stone rather than the drumming patter of a downpour, Mirk didn¡¯t think he would have been able to keep himself together.


    Nevertheless, Genesis heard him and responded, his voice also low, his sibilant accent making it difficult to make out his words over the rain. "I believe it would be...inadvisable for a mage of your inclinations to deploy a terminal strategy, regardless of circumstance."


    Mirk glanced over his shoulder. Though Genesis wasn''t visible, tucked away in some forgotten corner or particularly deep patch of shadows along the street behind Mirk, he knew the commander had to be there. Close. It was the tickle at the edge of Mirk''s senses that gave it away, the familiar staticky brush of Genesis''s chaotic aura against his mental shields. Genesis¡¯s magic was more restless than usual. Mirk didn''t know whether it was because Genesis was concerned for him, or due to some other calculation that he wasn''t clever enough to understand. Though they''d exchanged words about what the best course of action would be, Genesis hadn''t offered to explain the finer details of the gruesome scene Laurent had recorded on his memorial stone. One problem at a time, Genesis had insisted. The Empire and the rest of the men on the steps were a less pressing concern.


    Whether Laurent or any of the other assembled noblemen had noticed Genesis''s continued presence was unclear to him. Perhaps his presence was assumed, to be expected. Mirk wasn''t familiar with the finer points of dueling order ¡ª any time there''d been one at a ball or a party he''d attended, Mirk had stayed inside with the women ¡ª but he thought that a second was involved in it somewhere. Laurent was alone in the street across from him, however. Dueling etiquette was probably another thing it was better not to worry too much about.


    Especially when there was the thought of Laurent turning his constantly fidgeting sword on him for Mirk to dwell on instead. Though Genesis was never one for small talk, Mirk found himself resorting to it in a feeble attempt to calm his nerves. "I suppose it might not matter, messsire. Methinks I might not be able to defend well enough to even try to attack."


    Genesis made an odd clicking noise. His rough approximation of a laugh. "Are you...implying this man possesses...some skill greater than mine?"


    "Pride never got anyone far in life, Genesis," Mirk replied, with a heavy sigh.


    "It is not...pride. It is a matter of...demonstrable fact."


    That was fair enough. Mirk couldn''t think of anyone capable of challenging Genesis to a duel with any confidence, except perhaps K''aekniv. That still didn''t mean it was considerate of Genesis to bring that point up, considering the situation. Laurent was hurting; there was no sense in twisting the knife. Mirk held on to the trickle of annoyance that passed through his mind over Genesis''s usual lack of tact like he was clinging to the tail end of a kite caught in a gale.


    Annoyance was fine. It was uncalled for, since Mirk knew full well that Genesis didn''t mean anything by it, but he still let himself feel the emotion deeply. It was an acceptable impulse. Tolerable. Anything was better than the sick gladness lurking in the back of his mind that Mirk was trying desperately to ignore.


    He was disturbed from his thoughts by the sound of Laurent''s approach. The young mage¡¯s fury radiated out ahead of him, pulsing in time with his stomping. And his eyes were glowing dark red with his barely contained magic. "That''s the half hour. Draw your weapon, d''Avignon."


    Mirk swallowed hard, trying in vain to clear his head by shaking it. The motion sent a cascade of icy water pouring off the brim of his borrowed hat and down the back of his neck. "I feel it''s only right to parley with you first, monsieur. It...I don''t want anyone else to get hurt. What is this going to solve? If you''d like something in compensation, anything at all¡ª"


    "I want nothing other than the satisfaction that''s due to me," Laurent snapped. "Your chance at parley ended the moment you sent angels to my family''s doorstep."


    Mirk couldn''t think of a response to this, any way to soothe Laurent''s rage without drawing on his empathy. And even then, Mirk wasn''t good at fighting against others'' emotions and trying to shift them. He could only make suggestions; it was up to the other person to decide to follow them. Laurent was far past that point. Mirk doubted anything would deter Laurent other than someone coming out into the street and hauling the fire mage bodily away.


    He looked to the side, to the crowd of men gathered before the gate and behind it, searching for help. None was forthcoming. Some rules were too important to bend. Dueling was one of them, despite all the missives the guilds and the Church handed down that expounded on the practice¡¯s immorality. All of the men who''d gathered to watch had their own honor. And Mirk knew they would rather stand by and bear witness to an unjust match than open the door to some interloper stepping in during a future duel of their own. Mirk refocused on Laurent, unable to keep from wincing as he met his defiant glare. "What satisfaction do you require, monsieur?"


    "No magic. No running. I won''t have satisfaction until you can''t stand. And then some," Laurent added in a mutter as he stalked away again, back past the line someone had marked in the middle of the street in front of Madame Beaumont''s gate.


    No magic meant that there were lower odds of Mirk getting burnt to cinders, at least. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself first, Mirk nodded and drew his grandfather''s staff from the inner pocket of his cloak, tapping it against his palm a few times until the magic in it responded to his calling and the staff grew from the length of a wand to a quarterstaff. Laurent scoffed at the sight of it, the fire in his eyes burning more brightly.


    "Where''s your sword, d''Avignon? I''m sure your beast of a father had to have given you one."


    Again, Mirk cringed, though he willed himself not to take a step backwards. "I''m a healer, monsieur. We don''t use blades except to heal."


    Laurent scoffed. "Don''t play innocent with me."


    "This is the only weapon I have." Which wasn''t entirely the truth, but Mirk couldn''t have wielded the sword Aker had brought to him that night if he''d tried. For a second, Mirk wondered if his godfather had foreseen the duel, somehow, and he''d been meant to bring the traitor''s sword to the ball to defend himself with, but Mirk quickly pushed the thought out of mind.


    "If you''re going to kill a man who can''t fight, then you should be ready to kill one who is," Laurent sneered.


    Behind him, he heard Genesis make his odd clicking noise again. Mirk couldn''t see anything funny in the situation at all. "If you won''t fight me like this, Monsieur Laurent, then we can still talk instead."


    Mirk had been hoping the offer and his lack of a blade might put Laurent off the duel. Instead, it had the opposite effect. The fire mage stepped up to the line, lifting his sword to a ready position. "One of you call the count."


    He should have kept his eyes locked on Laurent. Instead, Mirk looked to the assembled nobles once more, searching for someone willing to be reasonable about things. There was still no one, nothing but forcibly blank faces and half-shielded minds.


    Save for one. That of Seigneur Feulaine, whose worry was plain to be seen on his face as he hovered behind Yvette in the open door to Madame Beaumont''s townhouse. He was tense, ready to lunge in an instant for Yvette if her emotions got the better of her. Even from such a great distance, Mirk could tell that Yvette was on the brink of tears.


    It was impossible for Mirk to tell which of the men in the crowd called the count. The words rang out in the empty street, echoing hollowly against the walls and the cobbles, to the counterpoint of the unceasing rain. As soon as it was over, Laurent sprang into action, leaping across the line between them that Mirk was unwilling to approach. Laurent circled him expertly, his footing sure despite the rain-slick cobbles, searching for his first opening.


    Mirk remained still. From all the stories he''d heard the other young noblemen tell of Laurent''s prowess, Mirk had imagined that he would have been beaten in an instant. Hadn''t everyone always said, in quiet whispers full of awe, that Laurent was as quick as thought and as silent as death? That he swooped down on his opponent like a falcon, striking and then streaking away, only to dive again and again, relishing in humiliating the man who''d sparked his ire before dealing the final, devastating blow? Laurent was moving so slowly and loudly that Mirk could hear his boots squeaking against the cobbles with every step. He didn¡¯t need to turn and watch the mage''s progress with his eyes to tell exactly where he was. When Laurent finally did make his move, Mirk sidestepped it without raising his staff to counter.


    Then Laurent was in front of him again, cursing. Feinting left, then dancing back right, Laurent swung his arming sword again. It all felt like a dream; Mirk thought his nerves had to have somehow brought on hallucinations. Laurent''s swing was dead accurate. But it was so slow, so obvious that Mirk dodged again instead of raising his staff to protect himself.


    That was enough to trigger the full extent of Laurent''s barely contained rage. The fire mage quit testing Mirk, pursuing him instead with his full, unguarded strength and speed. Even Laurent¡¯s finest moves were sluggish, like he was jabbing and slashing through water rather than air, every one of his motions exaggerated and labored. Mirk decided to start blocking the blows with his grandfather''s staff rather than simply avoiding them all, making each of his blocks and locks more dramatic and sweeping than they needed to be, hoping that Laurent might be tricked into thinking that he was trying his hardest, that he was stunned by Laurent''s prowess.


    It didn¡¯t make any sense. Mirk knew he was terrible. He''d always been useless at fighting, had been reminded of it at every turn by the caustic comments of his tutors and his father''s sighs. How could he be besting a man with Laurent''s reputation? Was Laurent toying with him, biding his time and hoping to catch him off-guard before truly setting in on him?


    The answer came to Mirk through a strange sound from behind him, a low, inhuman hissing and rumbling that he hoped Laurent wouldn''t be able to hear over the clack of wood on steel and the constant drumming of the rain. Genesis was laughing. Genuinely, rather than doing his best to mimic what a human sounded like.


    He had been comparing two different things while still expecting them to be exactly the same.


    The words of all the other young noble mages who were fond of swordplay made Laurent seem indomitable. And, surely he was: to the other nobles, who treated swordsmanship like a hobby rather than a basic necessity of their existence. And though they were all formidable mages, they were human to the very last. Mirk had never fought anyone who wasn''t at least half non-human ¡ª his father''s guard, his sister, Pavel, who wasn''t quite human in a vague way that Mirk hadn''t yet been able to put his finger on. And Genesis. Genesis whose whole life was fighting and magic, who trained ceaselessly with the other members of the Seventh. Because, to all of them, to the poor and forgotten men Mirk had come to see as his second family, one mistake with a sword or a spear or a fist could mean death rather than nothing but a black mark on their honor.


    Mirk tried to focus back on the fight, watching Laurent''s motions more closely. Laurent was good. Quick-witted, determined, with more stamina than most. But Laurent never had practiced with an inhuman force of nature as a sparring partner. It left Mirk with the uncomfortable realization that all his tiny improvements against Genesis had really been leaps and bounds that had placed him, unknowingly, at a level that could only be matched by someone who wasn''t fully human.


    He should have been relieved; his confidence should have surged. Instead, Mirk was crushed by a sudden wave of shame. It wasn''t a fair fight. And Mirk couldn''t bear the thought of adding insult to injury, to trouncing a man whose family had just been stolen from him just like his own had been, even if Serge had been one of the two beasts stalking his dreams for months. Frantically, Mirk tried to think up a way to end the fight without further injuring Laurent''s pride.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Could he take a blow to the side or the leg, somewhere painful but not fatal, and concede the fight? Mirk dismissed the idea almost as soon as he thought of it. Mirk had seen plenty of glancing blows fester and kill and, that aside, the rage boiling off Laurent was spiking higher and higher with each blow Mirk blocked or spun away from. If he ended up on the ground, Mirk knew Laurent would go in for the killing strike, the consequences be damned. Biting his lip, Mirk continued to ward off Laurent''s strikes in a way that only made the young mage more frustrated as he struggled to find a solution.


    It was only once Laurent''s magic started to escape his control, flickering down the blade of his arming sword in showers of reddish black sparks, that Mirk forced himself to move. Laurent''s rage was eroding his mastery, making his movements wider, sloppier. Mirk ducked under a reckless, fully-extended swing and aimed for Laurent''s exposed left side.


    Mirk didn''t think he swung that hard. But the pain of his grandfather''s staff connecting with Laurent''s ribs was like being hit by a cannonball. They both staggered backwards. Mirk shook it off first; though he''d never struck someone before who didn''t have the ability to temper or ignore their pain, the pain of one person, Mirk realized, could only spiral so high in comparison to the pain of a whole floor full of mangled and dying infantrymen crushing in on him all at once. Backing away further, Mirk waited for Laurent to trip, to falter. He didn''t. Laurent reeled back toward Mirk instead, his magic flaring, wreathing him in flames. Mirk would have to hit him again.


    Laurent''s magic lashed out at Mirk as he plunged back into the thick of the fight. But they weren''t nearly as fast as the shadows, not capable of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. Mirk avoided them neatly and swiped at Laurent''s legs, hoping to only knock him off his feet and stun some sense into him. Instead, Mirk felt warmth flare under his hands as his grandfather''s staff connected with Laurent''s knee. There was a scream of fury and crack of bone as Laurent crumpled.


    Mirk felt the blow mirrored in himself, just like he''d felt the strike to Laurent''s side in his own ribs, though it felt cushioned somehow, distant. It hurt, but it was bearable. Mirk limped to Laurent''s side. "Are you all right, Monsieur Laurent? Please, let me¡ª"


    Before Mirk could lay a hand on Laurent to evaluate his injuries, the fire mage shoved himself up onto his uninjured knee and took a final, desperate jab at him. Part of Mirk wanted to take it head on. But his muscles defeated his emotions, forcing Mirk to the side fast enough for Laurent''s blade to do little more than put a slash through his new cloak and suit, only scratching Mirk¡¯s side. Mirk couldn¡¯t feel the pain of it over the agony haloing Laurent more brightly than his fire magic. Momentum threw Laurent onto his stomach. But Laurent was determined to fight to the end, forcing himself back up onto his knees for a second lunge.


    All Mirk wanted was for it to stop. Laurent had drawn blood; he hadn''t been utterly trounced. But it was clear enough to Mirk that the young mage wasn''t going to stop until he was disarmed. Before Mirk could try to call to the metal of the blade and jerk it out of Laurent¡¯s hand, he suddenly found himself inches away from being engulfed by a burst of blue flame so powerful it audibly crackled through the air.


    "Laurent, stop! Please! Just stop!"


    Yvette had escaped the restraining hands and magic of the other ladies and her father. She''d run to the open gate and pushed her way through the crowd of young noblemen, to the front of the crowd. Though Laurent''s reddish black flames struggled against Yvette''s blue, they had as much effect on it as a bucket of water on a raging wildfire. Laurent was trapped. Mirk both physically and mentally recoiled from Laurent''s anguish. It was so intense that he could hear whispers of Laurent¡¯s desperate thoughts: no, this can''t be, no, bested by a healer and a woman, God no, this can''t be it, Serge is dead and I''m as useless as he always said and, no, no, I can''t stop, I won''t stop, not until --


    "Get away from me!" Laurent shrieked aloud as he continued to fight against Yvette''s stronger magic. "Let me go, God damn¡ª"


    Laurent''s words were choked off by a sudden sob. It made the sick feeling of mingled shame and horror and guilt rise up in Mirk, leaving him gagging and wavering on his feet.


    "I won''t let you kill yourself over your beastly uncle!" Yvette shouted back at Laurent, her flames growing thicker. They coiled around Laurent, pinning his hands behind his back and leaving him writhing on his stomach in the middle of the street. "I won''t let him take you away too!"


    Mirk and Yvette''s eyes met, only for a moment. But it was long enough for Mirk to know what he had to do. He couldn''t bear to simply turn and walk away, however. Instead, Mirk reached a trembling hand into the pocket of his cloak and drew out his purse, tossing the whole of it at Yvette''s feet. She was too distressed to notice it.


    "Please, make sure he''s healed. The healers with the artificers are the best. And the dark mages have the best mind healers..." Mirk trailed off, staring down at Laurent flopping around in the puddles like a fish out of water. He couldn''t bear to lift his head and witness the sobs he could hear Yvette choking back.


    "Go to hell!" Laurent spat. "The both of you!"


    Shuddering, Mirk slipped off into the night. He leaned hard on his staff, drawing himself up straight as he tried to walk away with the grace befitting a man of his station, a young warrior who was grimly satisfied with his handiwork instead of a lost healer flagging under the weight of the dark bile of his shame.


    After everything that happened, the least he could do was try to give Laurent back the pride of having been brought down by an honorable man instead of a wincing coward.


    -   -   -


    Mirk had only limped along on his own for a few minutes, heading back toward the hidden east gate of the City of Glass through the silent streets full of upper-class townhouses, before Genesis chose to reappear. Mirk stumbled to a halt, breathing hard, and braced himself on his grandfather''s staff as he looked up at the commander. It was hard to tell what Genesis was thinking. He had that forcibly blank look on his face again, the one that had become so common as of late. Mirk forced himself to smile to reassure Genesis that he was all right, struggling to switch his mind and mouth back to English.


    "I suppose your lessons paid off, messire. Although methinks I was a bit silly about things at the end."


    Genesis stared down at Mirk in silence for a time. Then his blank expression fell away to reveal the tiredness underneath.


    Mirk heaved himself into a shrug. It was a bad idea; the motion made his aching head bob too much. Mirk winced, his smile faltering at the pain that stabbed back through his eyes, an ache that he hadn''t felt in a long time, but that was still familiar enough. It wasn''t as bad as it had been after his flight from the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re, but Mirk still had enough sense left to recognize that he was caught in the same emotional whirlpool. His own shame and horror at having felt nothing but satisfaction at the news of Serge Montigny''s death was feeding off all the rage and pain that had been radiating off of Laurent for the past hour, turning into a horrible vortex of negative emotions that continued to spiral deeper and wider in his chest instead of fading. It was called the kindling sickness, Mirk now knew. Once an empath had suffered it once, it was easy to get pulled back down into its black depths again and again, unless one prepared for painful situations in advance by taking adequate pain-blockers.


    Finally, Genesis spoke. "You are...shaking."


    Mirk tried to push his face back into a smile. It didn''t work. "It''s cold, messire."


    His head ached too much for Mirk to be able to follow exactly what was happening. The kindling sickness made his mind terribly sensitive, so attuned to emotions both within and without that he could feel the everyday emotions of the people in the townhouses that lined the street as if he was touching them skin to skin. Fatigue. Flickers of amusement, too faint to take the edge off the pain stabbing the breath out of his lungs. Boredom. Annoyance. The next thing Mirk was aware of was Genesis draping his overcoat around his shoulders, wrapping him up in it like it was a blanket.


    "Oh, no, Genesis, you don''t have to...it''s all right, really..."


    Ignoring him, Genesis tugged at the coat until it was even and flat enough in the shoulders for his liking. Then, before Mirk could come up with another protest, Genesis picked him up. Once the dizziness that came with being moved had cleared, Mirk realized that, though Genesis had picked him up, he hadn''t started walking again. The commander was staring down his long nose at Mirk, thinking.


    "This is...similar to the Tours incident," Genesis said, slowly.


    Though Mirk wanted to deny it, wanted to smile and wave the commander off, he didn''t have the strength. All he could do was nod. It made his borrowed hat dribble water into his eyes. Genesis took it back from him, using a curl of shadow to lift it from his head and put it on his own rather than shifting Mirk in his arms.


    "I have...developed a remedy for such a...situation. If you would look in the coat''s front pocket, it will provide you with the necessary materials."


    Mirk''s fingers were so cold from the damp and chill that it took him a few tries to find the pocket and slip his hand inside. It felt like its contents met him halfway; a piece of paper was pressed into the palm of his hand before his fingers could find the bottom. Mirk pulled it out, examining it the best he could by the faint light cast by the magelights hung beside the gates of the townhouses. The piece of parchment was long and thin, covered with markings so tiny that Mirk doubted he could read them, even if his head hadn¡¯t been pounding and the light wasn''t so dim. "What is it?"


    "A manner of...draining spell. It extracts any imbalance or foreign substance from whichever...relatively closed system it is placed on. I have not had the opportunity to test it properly for this specific purpose, as you are the only empath I am...familiar with, but I believe it will alleviate your¡­condition. If you wrap it around a limb, it should draw out excess emotion. It isn''t a perfect solution. But it did remove a minor seasonal illness from K''aekniv."


    Mirk laughed, weakly, struggling to wrap the slip of paper around his wrist, like a bracelet. "Was that what you really made it for? To keep Niv from sneezing on you?"


    Grumbling, Genesis shifted Mirk''s weight onto one arm, plucking the paper out of Mirk''s grasp with his freed hand and neatly securing it around his wrist. "I see no reason not to use the same spell for two purposes if it is...effective in both cases." He settled Mirk back across both his arms, then set off down the street in the direction of the east gate, taking care not to jostle Mirk as he walked.


    It was a subtle effect. But as Mirk lay with eyes closed, listening to the sudden silence in the street, one that was only disturbed by dripping water and the faint sound of laughter from a tavern somewhere far off ahead of them, he could feel the choking mixture of negative emotions that''d been whirling inside him begin to drain away. Once he felt well enough to open his eyes again, the first thing Mirk saw was snow spiraling down on him from the starless sky above. That explained the silence. Mirk didn''t remember when exactly the rain had lightened and shifted to snow.


    "Is it winter already?" Mirk mumbled to himself.


    Genesis must have heard him. "No. It is...only just autumn."


    "Mmph, you''re right...everything''s still too awake...too warm...not winter yet..."


    Though the pain had faded, the sudden lack of emotions came with a certain vagueness, a feeling of distance that Mirk found disconcerting. He tried to focus in on his surroundings. While Mirk hadn''t been watching, Genesis had called to his shadows, gathering them up around himself up to the level of his shoulders. It served as a kind of barrier: when Mirk tried to cast his mind outward, he was met with nothing but the comforting touch of Genesis''s ever-shifting chaos. Mirk glanced up at the commander. Genesis looked down at the same instant; he must have felt Mirk shifting in his arms.


    That time, it wasn''t so hard for Mirk to find a smile for him. "Thank you for thinking of me, messire."


    Genesis made a dismissive noise, looking away, returning to scanning the street ahead of them.


    "You''re always thinking of me..."


    "I would rather suggest that I have a...practical preference for keeping you well."


    Laughing, Mirk leaned his head against Genesis''s chest and closed his eyes once more. That was the best declaration of friendship one could hope to get from Genesis. If the commander ever did set his heart on someone, Mirk suspected that Genesis would elect to convey his affections by presenting them with a meticulous list of the logical reasons he''d come up with to prefer them over others rather than professing his love on bended knee or with ardent kisses.


    Mirk didn''t know what caused it. Genesis''s subtle compliment? The coldness Mirk could feel stealing over him, starting at his fingers and toes and moving in slow toward his heart, whisking away what little comfort he''d regained? The spell clearing his mind of the night''s accumulated pain and worry, even easing away some of the shame? Perhaps the sudden void in Mirk''s mind had given all the fragmented musings and observations he''d collected over the past months room to fit themselves into a picture he could finally understand. As autumn claimed him, the idea did as well, turning the last full breath he''d draw until his seasonal affliction passed into a hiccuping gasp.


    The way that he''d found himself sneaking sideways glances at Genesis the whole night, not just to make sure the commander wasn''t having troubles, but also to study his tall, slim frame, outlined so well by the silver trim of his new uniform. The unfamiliar, dizzying emotions that came with every small gesture of care and concern Genesis showed him. The warmth that came with them, blossoming in his chest before rising fast to his cheeks. The way his heart had sank when he''d woken up and found Genesis had left. The relief and satisfaction that''d welled up in him when Genesis had rested the cool, reassuring weight of his hand atop his head, telling Mirk without words that he wasn''t upset with him. That he valued him, in his own, peculiar way.


    Mirk needn''t have ever concerned himself with the absurd possibility that Genesis, in an act contrary to his solitary nature, fancied him, as Yule so strangely put it.


    He felt as if his mind had decided to rebel against him, sending him jumbled emotions and impulses that belonged to someone else, that he''d never felt rise up on their own inside of himself. It was a thing Mirk had only ever felt second-hand, that wanting. That feeling that could be a smoldering coal or a towering inferno, that could be as playful as a breeze or as brilliant and strong as diamond.


    He''d only ever begun to understand its meaning once he''d returned from the abbey and had felt it radiating from the minds of the young noble mages he''d been torn away from by his dedication to the Church, then plunged back in among just as abruptly with the death of his uncle Marc, his namesake, the one who should have carried the staff now propped as an afterthought against his chest. Mirk had always thought himself incapable of it, had thought that some accidental combination of his magic and his lineage had made that all-too-human emotion pass him over. And the horror that had stalked him down the streets of Tours had only confirmed it to him, reminded him that there was just as much potential in it to hurt as there was to save.


    He wasn''t supposed to feel want like that. He couldn''t be feeling it, not in that way, in a quivering in his stomach and a tingling up the length of his spine. It had to be some cold-induced hallucination, an illusion created by his desperate need to escape the other, worse feelings he''d been steeped in all night. He''d never felt that urgency in himself the same way the other young nobles had, a sudden tightness in his chest and an unmistakable churning in his stomach.


    But Mirk felt it then all the same, the sudden and irrepressible urge to wrap his arms around Genesis and cling to him. The impulse to lose all of that evening¡¯s painful uncertainty in the reassurance that came with the touch of the commander''s cold, flawless skin against his own and the feel of his unwavering and inhumanly slow pulse under his fingertips. The irrepressible need to clear away all of his worries with the overwhelming rush of desire.


    If he could have moved, Mirk would have slapped himself in the face. Or buried his face against Genesis''s neck. Or both, one after the other.


    Instead, all Mirk could do was stare up into the falling snow and stew in his own sudden, inexplicable madness.

 Chapter 25

    Most years, Mirk''s autumnal illness was a minor inconvenience. That year, it was bound to be nothing short of torturous.


    On the inside, he was a panicked mess. Mirk¡¯s instincts were clamoring at him to bolt, to secret himself away in one of the places in the City of Glass that Genesis hated visiting, the long-term ward or the Seventh''s favorite tavern, until he understood what had happened. He needed a distraction. Some idle task to occupy his hands while his mind churned through all of that evening''s shock and confusion. He needed to pray over it. He needed a drink.


    Instead, Mirk was trapped in his motionless body, unable to do so much as blink. His motionless body that was, at present, being carried off to the healers dormitory by Genesis with an uncharacteristic degree of delicacy and care. Which was doing nothing to help stem the flow of bewildering, alien thoughts coursing through Mirk''s head.


    Though he was stuck staring straight up into the clouded-over night sky, Mirk knew they''d reached the dormitory by the way Genesis shifted his hold on his limp body, transferring his weight over to one arm as he smoothly ascended the front stairs. Mirk heard the snick of the front door''s latch, the creak of its hinges. He wondered if Genesis had even noticed that autumn had overtaken him yet, or if he just assumed Mirk had fallen asleep. He hoped for the latter. If the commander remained oblivious, then the odds were good that he''d tuck Mirk in and leave him be for at least half a day.


    But if Genesis noticed he''d fallen ill, he might get it into his head that he had a responsibility to look after him. And Mirk didn''t think he could bear day after day spent silently witnessing Genesis''s jumbled attempts at kindness. It had always made Mirk feel warm inside to be cared for, made him feel like he was valued, special. He''d never suspected that there was such a sinister second motive hidden in his delight.


    He was carried inside. Though the wind stopped, the chill that consumed Mirk didn''t lessen. If anything, it grew worse as Genesis walked through the vestibule and began his silent ascent of the stairs. How did Genesis always manage to move so quietly, even in sodden boots and while carting around his boneless body? How did he never show any signs of exertion, how did he always keep everything so even and smooth? And why was some small part of his mind, the dark, amorous twin of the part that kept offering Mirk the most underhanded solutions to his problems at the worst moments, so transfixed by it? Mirk forced himself to ignore all the questions, instead focusing on his surroundings as best he could without turning his head.


    Up one flight of stairs. Then a second, a third, a fourth. Down the hall, and from the hall into his room. Mirk was certain he''d locked his door before he''d left ¡ª he''d even done it twice, too nervous about the ball and the trunk full of bloodied armor he''d shoved against the end of his bed to leave anything to chance. The lock didn''t keep Genesis from entering without breaking stride. It was an unsettling reminder of how far Mirk had opened his life to him. True, he''d never seen a locked door stop Genesis before, but the commander wasn''t in the habit of using his uncanny ability to move through the shadows to barge into other people''s rooms. Not unless he''d already been scolded dozens of times before about being welcome at all hours. And reminded, again and again, that Mirk could usually feel him coming.


    How could I have missed it? Mirk thought to himself, miserably, as he felt Genesis pause. Waiting up like a lovesick girl watching the road for lanterns...


    "Ah. I see it is...that time," he heard Genesis say. A moment later, the commander leaned over far enough for his face to come within range of Mirk''s limited vision, looking down at him with an academic sort of interest that would have made Mirk shiver, had he been capable of it. "I was informed that this...seasonal illness would recur. I¡¯ve made the necessary¡­preparations."


    Though Mirk knew he couldn''t move, it felt like his stomach flipped. Ordinarily, he would have been cheered to learn that Genesis had been thinking of him. Now that everything had become clear, Mirk found the attentiveness alarming. Genesis never kept such small, personal details in mind. And yet, there he was, being set down gingerly on his bed, like Genesis was taking into careful consideration how very fragile the change in seasons left his body, how being jarred too hard or dropped too suddenly could break bones or rip open skin that refused to heal until the illness had passed.


    Genesis seemed oddly proud of this action, judging by the few glimpses Mirk caught of his face. After setting him down on the bed, Genesis peeled off the coat he''d bundled Mirk up in, then undid his cloak, moving away for a time as he undoubtedly brushed both down and put them properly away. Then Mirk felt him take off his shoes. Though Mirk couldn''t see it happening, and his limbs were so cold and distant he could barely feel it, something inside him squirmed at the mental image of it.


    Once those were set aside, Genesis paused, doubtlessly evaluating his "royalist finery", as the commander so often put it, considering what was to be done about it. Thankfully, rather than going for the buttons of his justacorps, Mirk heard Genesis begin to rifle through the stack of quilts at the end of his bed. "I believe it would be better to leave the outside clothes on. As your...nightclothes are inadequate for the weather," the commander offered in explanation, as he shook out one quilt and tucked it in carefully around him.


    Mirk was glad that his body couldn''t betray how all the fuss made him feel, wobbly and scrambled, simultaneously pleased and guilty. Once Mirk was wrapped up in every quilt from the pile, Genesis leaned over him again, a blank look on his face. The one that always came over Genesis when he was thinking hard, his eyes twitching back and forth as he scanned the imaginary rulebook that ordered his life in search of guidance. Though the fondness that welled up in Mirk''s chest at the sight of it was the same as always, it had a sick, cutting edge to it, now that Mirk could put the feelings into their proper context.


    Though Mirk knew it was pointless, even if it hadn''t been autumn, he tried to project his will. He''d never been able to do it even with a cooperative, empathic partner. Even the strongest mind mage in all the realms probably couldn¡¯t coax Genesis into an empathic suggestion. ...go away...go away...please, just go away....


    The commander made a pensive noise, frowning.


    ...please, for once just go away...you always want to go away...every single other time...


    "What was it that...accursed woman said..."


    Desperate, Mirk resorted to prayer. Holy Mary, Mother of God, please, I know I don''t deserve your help, but please, please make him leave...


    Genesis''s voice took on an odd, flat tone, as he began to recite from memory, still staring down at Mirk lying motionless on the bed. "He''s entirely awake, even if he doesn''t look it...now, I know that...you...wouldn''t mind being left on your own for a week...but..." The commander''s frown deepened.


    It was odd enough hearing him repeat word for word advice Genesis had been given by his mother. But it was worse hearing Genesis give a resigned sigh as he backed out of Mirk''s line of sight. A moment later, Mirk heard the scrape of wood against stone as Genesis pulled out the chair at the desk across from Mirk''s bed. The commander didn''t move back into view. Instead, Mirk heard the chair crack in protest when Genesis sat down in it. Mirk was almost grateful to have something mundane to feel guilty over, if only for a moment ¡ª getting a spare chair for his room, one more suited to the tall frames of most of his friends, had been something he''d been putting off for months.


    Mirk''s stomach lurched. Tall. Tall. That was part of it, wasn''t it? Part of what made those horrible feelings surge up in him? Mirk had always chuckled to himself and paid no mind to Yule and Danu''s constant bickering over the merits of having a taller man over a shorter one for a lover. He''d never anticipated picking a side himself. But there was something so inherently appealing about it, at least when it came to Genesis.


    It was one of those things, a part that completed the whole, a part that the whole wouldn''t make any sense without, just like Genesis''s long limbs and delicate fingers. Before Mirk could banish the thoughts, Genesis leaned over into his line of sight again. The look of annoyance on his face only made the prickling along Mirk''s spine worse. There was truly no sensible reason for anyone to find Genesis''s scowls appealing ¡ª more often than not, they only ever preceded the commander making some unintentionally cutting remark or sulking off in a huff ¡ª yet, there he was, his thoughts reduced to nothing but incoherent gibbering from just a glimpse of one.


    "If I must stay...then I will stay. To an extent. One must attend to their duties. Though I will...endeavor to put aside any potentially...hazardous work. For the time being. That aside..." Genesis''s face drew back, but Mirk could still hear him muttering to himself. "What did she do...aside from making those...horrid lace tablecloths..."


    The mental image of Genesis tatting lace by his bedside, gossiping all the while about who the men from the Seventh had decided to court, would have been enough to make Mirk laugh, had he been able to. Instead, there was nothing but a lengthy pause, followed by Genesis reaching out a hand and carefully turning Mirk''s head to the side, so that he was no longer left flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. It was another thing Genesis remembered from what Mirk''s mother had said the last time he''d endured the autumn sickness: Mirk hated being left with nothing concrete to look at but a wall, preferring to either look out the window, or at least at the rest of the room, even if it was empty.


    It wasn''t empty. Despite having to fold himself in half to do so, Genesis was still sitting in the chair at his bedside, a thick black book in hand. The last detail of the scene wasn''t at all surprising, at least, even if Genesis''s continued presence was. "If you are to be...abed for some time, I believe you would be...best served by putting the hours to a constructive purpose. I recall that you have been having...difficulty calling to objects. This is easily corrected, once a...proper understanding of the magical theory behind the process is achieved. Dreher has been considered the expert on the topic for two centuries. Although I...disagree with him on several points, I believe his explanations will be...satisfactory, for a novice."


    Leaning back as far as he could in the chair, Genesis opened the book and began to read.


    "If one seeks to call objects to themselves with the greatest precision, one must begin by understanding the composition of the smallest structures of the smallest things, no matter which element and orientation one wishes to call with. Invisible to the human eye, there exist small particles that are unbalanced in the following distribution: three percent chaotic air, five percent chaotic water..."


    Internally, Mirk sighed.


    He could only hope that the dull subject matter would be enough to put him to sleep soon. Unconsciousness would spare him the sight of Genesis deep in thought, his eyes fixed on the pages of his grimoire, his fingers already twitching at the corner of the next page. More importantly, it would spare Mirk from getting caught up in thoughts of exactly what kind of better uses those slender, delicate fingers could be put towards. Though he couldn''t close his eyes, Mirk tried to let his vision blur, focusing on the sound of the commander''s voice.


    His reading voice was different than his speaking voice. Different, but no less appealing. When Genesis read aloud, his speech became even and clear, unbroken by his characteristic pauses. The best qualities of it came through instead: the low, precise tones, the cadence that was somehow both commanding and comforting, the faint hissing at the ends of all his words that Genesis could never quite control.


    Mirk could listen to Genesis read forever, even if all he ever chose to read to him were grimoires.


    -   -   -


    He wasn''t certain how much time had passed. The light in the room was unchanging, always nothing more than the yellowy glow of the magelight underneath his desk. Everything was silent, still, cold. If Genesis hadn''t left the spell paper wrapped around his wrist from when he''d first brought him to bed, Mirk was certain the dullness combined with his churning thoughts would have reignited the kindling sickness.


    It all reminded him too much of when he''d first come to the City, even if he wasn''t mired in nightmares and constantly trembling and stiff in turns from the pain whenever he woke up. Mirk was still trapped in his room again, alone with the knowledge of what he''d done wrong. He tried to make the best of it, as far that was possible without being able to do so much as blink.


    Mirk tried to be sensible. He tried to think everything through, piece by piece and step by step, just like Father Jean had instructed him to do whenever Mirk was upset from having made the Abbess cross, or from receiving bad news from home. It was impossible to fight your feelings, Father Jean always had said, just like it was impossible to avoid whatever path Providence had sent him down. But what he did in response to both was completely within his control. The thing that counted, at the end of everything, was making the best of what you¡¯d been given.


    There was nothing good in either of the subjects plaguing Mirk. The memory of Serge Montigny screaming and writhing against the spell the avenging angel with the great, unadorned sword had put on him was less unsettling to Mirk than the fact that he felt no pity for the man, no remorse. Something dark inside him found Serge''s fate fitting. An echo of Exodus, a head for a head rather than an eye for an eye. The image of Serge holding aloft his father''s severed head before his pillars of flame had haunted Mirk nearly as often as the memories of what had come after. That Serge had lost his head before a flight of angels was only right.


    But was it truly? Mirk still didn''t fully understand the explanation that Genesis had offered him when he''d asked the commander why such a thing would happen. Genesis had been vague, as always, and Mirk had been too preoccupied by Laurent to think to question further. All Genesis had said was that angels valued their own above all else and would inevitably seek revenge on anyone who took the life of an angel outside of battle, even if the angel in question was something of an outcast, like his father had been.


    The rule held especially true in the case of the older robed angel with the knife, Imanael. The name had sounded familiar to Mirk then, and it still did now, though Mirk couldn''t remember where he''d heard it. The expression that hissing out Imanael''s name had left on Genesis''s face ¡ª something cold, something close to hatred and disgust ¡ª convinced Mirk that Genesis had to know the angel, somehow.


    Mirk hadn''t had the sense or the time to press Genesis on the matter then. And he didn''t have the ability to do so now, stuck motionless in bed. Which left him with nothing but the vain hope that there was reason behind what had happened to Serge Montigny, some justification that could quiet the disgust Mirk felt toward himself at how satisfied he was knowing that Serge would never hurt anyone else ever again.


    And yet, the disgust he felt at himself over Serge felt like a trifle in comparison to Mirk¡¯s horror at his other problem. With Serge, Mirk could at least imagine that he was no better or worse than an average man for not feeling any regret over his passing. Men were executed for far lesser crimes every day by mortal kings and guild Grand Masters. But when it came to his feelings about Genesis...


    He wished that Father Jean was still there to offer him guidance. There were hundreds of priests who were experts on Scripture in the world, but Mirk wouldn''t dare breathe a word to them about any of the dark thoughts that''d possessed him. It would have been hard admitting them to Father Jean, but Mirk thought he could have managed it. Father Jean never seemed to be surprised by anything, never even batted an eye at the most sinister news, rumors of the bishops embezzling tithes or keeping women or ordering the murder of their rivals. In comparison, Mirk''s problem was hardly even worth thinking about.


    But Serge had taken Father Jean from him too, along with the rest of his family, Henri and his cousins aside. Mirk had to make sense of them on his own.


    Was it simply that he''d never been close to a man before like had been with Genesis? That explanation fell apart in an instant. Mirk had always been close to others, the first to make friends and never stingy with an embrace or a kiss when someone was hurting. He''d never had those strange, twisted feelings toward any of them like he had toward Genesis, a desire to press even closer to them.


    But he''d never felt them toward the ladies his mother discussed with him either, no matter how beseeching and imploring his mother''s grin became when she passed along the news that she''d heard one of them speaking highly of him. Thankfully, she''d never pressed Mirk too hard on the matter of marriage. Nor had she bothered his sister with it. They were both half-angels, his father always reminded her. And angelic children matured five times as slowly as humans did.


    Mirk had always taken comfort in that knowledge. Though he lacked grace and lordly poise in the present, he still had time to grow, centuries more than the other mages. He¡¯d always hoped that on some distant spring morning, five or ten or twenty years in the future, he might look in the mirror only to find himself fully unfurled just like the trees outside his window, strong and sturdy and brimming with confidence and potential that would show in his easy smile rather than with leaves green and tender.


    Instead, he had...this.


    It might only be a passing madness. After all, it was impossible to tell from just a bud what shape a flower would open into. There also weren''t many eligible ladies around him in the infirmary who could have awakened those feelings in Genesis''s stead. Danu was hopelessly in love with Mordecai, and Eva was much older than him, thirty years at least, and felt something for Slava besides. And as for Sheila, she was older than his grandfather had been when he''d passed, if Yule''s gossip was anything to go by. Mirk was inclined to believe it. Though her face was unblemished and her long, stick-straight black hair was thick and lustrous, there was a certain tired edge to her voice at times that Mirk recognized from the older members of his father''s guard.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    On the other hand, Madame Beaumont''s ball had been brimming with eligible young ladies on the rise. And Mirk had danced with nearly a third of them, eager to drop choice hints of what he''d been through into their conversations, enough to rouse their concern and sympathy but not so much that he made himself look pitiful. If his family''s fate hadn''t ended up on everyone''s lips, surely his lack of discernment would have: a man who offered a hand to every last lady who glanced his way, without favoring any one type, was judged to either be desperate or a rake.


    The more Mirk¡¯s mind lingered on the ball, the more he realized how different dancing with them had been in comparison to dancing with Genesis. He hadn''t felt compelled to keep sneaking glances at any of their figures, though he had made careful note of each of their dresses to gauge how well their fathers were doing and what sort of impression they were looking to make with the others. The touch of their magic against his own when they''d strayed onto the spelled center of the dance floor had sparked Mirk¡¯s curiosity too. He was surprised by how much better he''d unintentionally become at mage dancing due to having to mix his magic with that of so many other mages of different elements and orientations every day at the infirmary.


    Dancing with Genesis had been completely different. Even though he''d been distracted, both by Genesis''s poor dancing and Yvette''s grinning at him, part of Mirk had been committing every moment of it to memory. The way Genesis''s long fingers had curled delicately around his hands, chilly and smooth and twice as long as his own. How elegant and fluid Genesis¡¯s movements had been, even if they weren''t done to the right beat. His long limbs, his broad shoulders. And how Genesis''s magic moved with equal grace alongside his own, the staticky, cold touch of the shadows all around them making something hot and impatient race up Mirk''s spine.


    Even then, part of Mirk had wanted to see what more those ever-shifting, ever-present shadows could do. Things more appealing than just fetching grimoires and putting out magelights.


    He had to stop dwelling on it. Every time Mirk passed back into consciousness, he always ended up musing on what different kinds of closeness he could coax Genesis into. The present instance was no different. To stem the tide, Mirk resorted to the same tactic he used in the infirmary when trying to ignore the press of the patients'' pain and weariness: counting stones. Mirk knew full well by then that the wall facing his bed was fifty-five stones long by twenty-five high. But he started counting them again all the same.


    Mirk hadn''t even made it to thirty-seven when a knock at his door broke his concentration. At first, it was hesitant, little more than a tap that could have been mistaken for a tipsy passer-by bumping into his doorframe. But when no one responded, it grew more insistent. Then the visitor tried the handle. It couldn''t be Genesis ¡ª he''d been coming and going without any regard to the door, and Mirk doubted such a creature of habit would bother to change tack. That aside, he knew full well that Mirk was incapable of getting out of bed to answer. It did bother Mirk that the commander had left the door locked, though. If the building had caught flame, he''d have roasted along with everything in it.


    The lock, however, was no match for the determination of whoever was on the other side. Mirk heard muffled cursing and saw a few dim flickers of green-gray magic spark off the handle before the door popped open. It was Yule.


    The instant the older healer spotted him on the bed, Yule cursed again and bolted for his side, shoving aside the chair and dropping to his knees beside him. Yule¡¯s panic smashed into Mirk, as painful and insistent as the way that Yule pinched at his cheeks to try to wake him. When Mirk didn''t so much as blink in response, Yule pressed his head against Mirk''s chest to listen to his breathing, his hands fumbling at his neck for his pulse. He must have heard or felt something; his panic subsided, shifting to the determined, focused sort of calmness that Mirk was accustomed to feeling when Yule was setting in on a critical patient.


    Yule got back to his feet. His pinching and prodding had left Mirk staring at the ceiling, but he felt the rush of coldness as Yule ripped off his protective quilts and slid his arms under his shoulder blades and thighs in preparation to lift him. Dismay washed over him along with the chill. It''d taken days for Mirk to get even a little warm, and Yule yanking away the bedclothes had dispelled all of his paltry heat.


    "...what...are you doing?"


    Instantly, Yule''s calmness switched to anger that hit Mirk like a punch to the stomach. Genesis must have arrived. No one else spoke the way the commander did, deliberate and sibilant. Yule''s arms withdrew and, though Mirk couldn''t see either of them, he was willing to guess that the older healer had to glaring at Genesis from his bedside, refusing to let Genesis get between them.


    "What the hell do you mean, what am I doing? He''s dying! Put the damn water flasks down and help me get him to the infirmary."


    "...no."


    The rage in Yule¡¯s voice would have made Mirk wince, had he been able to. "I didn''t ask for your fucking opinion!"


    "He is...ill, yes. But this is not an emergency."


    "Since when did you become a healer?"


    "If you would...calm yourself, I will explain. I believe your...temper is causing him more harm than anything else."


    Genesis''s words only made Yule''s anger spike. Mirk caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, a glimpse of Yule''s auburn curls as he turned to look at Mirk. "I can''t feel anything from him. He feels like nothing. Like you. What the hell did you do to him?"


    Yule must have made some kind of threatening gesture. But Genesis wasn''t deterred. Mirk heard something clack against the wood of his dresser. "Fighting would not be productive. You will lose."


    That didn''t soothe Yule''s frustration either. But the older healer did huff and shuffle aside. Though Mirk didn''t hear Genesis approach, he felt a sudden surge of warmth underneath his feet, then two more beneath each of his hands.


    Yule tisked. "That''s not how you use those. You have to warm his chest, not his fingers and toes."


    "It is not similar to a person who is frozen. It is closer to a...plant." Genesis began to cover him back up. Four quilts arranged across his lifeless body in a criss-cross pattern, then all of them bundled together and tucked in with a fifth, always the same.


    "All right, doctor. What''s wrong with him?"


    "He is very...closely connected to the Earth. When the seasons shift, he goes...dormant along with it. For a time. Like a plant, as I said."


    "That doesn''t make any sense. We all get a bit fat and slow when it''s winter, but it''s never like this," Yule said. "This is insane."


    "Agreed. However, it is what happens. Annually. I am...endeavoring to better understand the phenomena."


    Rather than being reassured by Genesis''s concern, it made Yule more suspicious. The emotion felt like prickles all along Mirk¡¯s arms, like someone was pinching at the bridge of his nose. Being bombarded by Yule''s emotions when he didn''t have the strength to shield his mind wasn''t as painful as emotions had been when he''d been in the throes of the kindling sickness, but it was still unpleasant. "Whatever. We still should take him to the infirmary. How are you going to sort anything out? You''re not a healer. You have no idea what you''re doing."


    "I...disagree. The...emotional climate in the building will be...detrimental to him. He can still feel everything. I believe...like the last time...this leaves me most suited to his care. As I feel like...nothing. Or so I''ve been told."


    Again, Yule huffed. "Right. Freak of nature and everything."


    Mirk felt an unexpected brush of cold fingers against his cheek, then an odd warmth on one of his ears. Genesis leaned into his field of vision, his expression blank, still composed despite all of Yule''s insults. "I have been...considering the problem of the ears. This may provide a solution. A man in the engineers was...induced to make these." Genesis held up a strange device that looked like an oversized earthenware earring in front of Mirk''s eyes for a moment, then attached it to his ear somehow, bringing with it a soft warmth. "Clay discs. With...a warming spell."


    "Can he even hear you?" Yule asked, his skeptical tone matching the timbre of his emotions, though he was halfheartedly trying to shield now that Genesis had warned him that Mirk''s empathy was still intact.


    "Yes. He is...entirely aware of his surroundings." Before withdrawing, Genesis nudged Mirk¡¯s head back to one side so that he was no longer stuck staring at the ceiling. Yule was staring down at him, something between a snarl of frustration and a scowl of distaste on his face. He was sallow and fidgety, the dark rings around his eyes that he usually hid under a layer of powder laid bare. Yule must have come to look for him either right before or after going to bed.


    "Why the hell didn''t you say anything about this?" Yule asked Genesis.


    "I was not aware it was...protocol."


    That didn''t surprise Mirk. Just as it never occurred to Genesis that people might miss and worry about him when he vanished, Genesis must have thought Mirk''s absence at the infirmary would be equally unremarkable. Yule made an attempt at smacking Genesis in the arm, though the commander managed to back out of range just before Yule''s blow could connect. "It is. We thought the nobles had kidnapped him. Or that he''d just finally decided to go back with them where he belongs."


    "He has given me no indication that he plans to rejoin his...countrymen."


    "You''re both mad," Yule grumbled, his attention drifting back to Mirk. "Maybe you are the one best suited to taking care of him. What else have you been doing to help, other than scaring the engineers into making trinkets for you?"


    "I have been...seeing to him," Genesis said. It was odd having both of them stare down at him and debate his condition in such a fashion, like he was a cut of meat two rival cooks were arguing over at the market. But it shouldn¡¯t have surprised him that it would come to that. Neither of them were very polite, even when they were in a good mood.


    "What, you just stand here and stare at him? You¡¯ll give him nightmares doing that."


    A frown crossed Genesis''s face as he unfolded his arms and reached inside the breast pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out the same thick black book he''d been reading to Mirk every time he came to visit, rambling on endlessly until the sound of his voice put Mirk back to sleep. How Genesis knew he''d passed into unconsciousness when he couldn''t close his eyes, Mirk didn''t know. It was probably some shift in his heartbeat or his breath that only a person with Genesis''s finely attuned senses would notice.


    Yule craned his neck to the side to read the title on the grimoire''s front. "The Physics and Theory of Summoning Magicks? Christ, I''d play dead too if the alternative was having to listen to you drone on about that."


    "He was having difficulties calling objects. Knowledge of theory is an...important co¡ª"


    "That''s not important," Yule said, cutting Genesis off with a wave of his hand. "Would you like him coming in and reading you poems when you''re sick?"


    "...no."


    "Exactly. You should be reading him something he''d like listening to, even if you don''t like it. Common sense. Though, clearly you''ve never had any of that." Yule thought for a moment, then reached up the sleeve of his robes for the pocket hidden in its folds, producing a thin volume bound in blue paper. "If you¡¯re going to insist on sitting here reading to him instead of talking with him like a normal person, you should use something like this."


    A sinking feeling of dread washed over Mirk. He was well acquainted with the kind of things Yule favored reading when he wasn''t mocking the latest grimoires on healing magic that he stole from the Tenth''s library up on the fifth floor of the infirmary. The prose in Yule''s little blue books was thicker and more elevated than that of the broadsides the infantrymen would cluster around at the tavern, the few among them who could read fumbling through the inscriptions while the rest gawked at the prints of ladies in various compromising positions and forms of undress, but the content was essentially the same. Although the ones Yule favored didn''t have any ladies. There was a hot trade in them among men of a certain predilection, of which there was a high concentration within the ranks of the K''maneda''s educated mages, according to Yule.


    A high concentration that Mirk himself was included in. He immediately shoved the thought to the back of his mind, instead focusing on Genesis''s face. The commander''s expression soured as he read the title written by hand on the booklet¡¯s front cover. "An Honest Man''s Conceit? Is this a...political tract?"


    Yule snorted. "No. It''s got a duke in it, though. That''s sort of political."


    When Genesis shook his head and edged further away from Yule and his spurious booklet, the knot that''d suddenly formed in the pit of Mirk''s stomach dissolved. "I have...something else." Genesis returned his black-bound grimoire to his pocket, instead taking out a blue book of his own. A slim, small hardbound volume. It took Mirk a moment to place it, but when he did, the knot instantly returned. His grandfather''s journal.


    The blue cover of the book mase Yule''s eyebrows shoot up. "They make ones with hard covers? Didn''t think you''d enjoy that kind of thing...though I''d always wondered..."


    "No. This is not...some...story. This is his grandfather''s journal."


    The feeling of mounting amusement in Yule winked out like a pinched candle''s flame. "Oh. What are you doing with it?"


    "It is written in an...obscure language. I have only now found time to investigate it. I...needed to travel to find someone who speaks it. Though they were illiterate. And it required some...assistance from K''aekniv to communicate with them."


    "So that''s where that giant oaf has been all week," Yule grumbled. "Should have known that you had something to do with it."


    "Nevertheless. This should provide...adequate interest. I did not intend to share it with him until I had...translated the work entirely, but it is...slow. His grandfather was...only slightly more literate than the rest of his people. At least in his native tongue." Genesis considered the journal for a time, rifling through its first pages. "Though, perhaps it would be...helpful to dedicate more of my time to the project. I suspect that his grandfather knew more about his...circumstances than he shared with anyone else. He may have an explanation for this illness. Among other things."


    Yule sighed. "Well, anything has to be better than physics. I have work to get to. Let me know if you do find anything useful in there before he''s well again and can tell us in the infirmary about it himself. Unlike some people, he doesn''t go hiding away every secret he gets his hands on like a squirrel with a nut," Yule added, looking directly down into Mirk''s face.


    Internally, Mirk cringed at the comment. A week ago, he wouldn''t have ever thought of hiding anything important from Yule and the other healers. But now everything had gone wrong. Though, Mirk supposed that if he wanted to discuss his current predicament with anyone, Yule would be the best person to go to. Yule wouldn''t recoil in horror, wouldn''t laugh or scowl or gape, at least not once he''d recovered from his initial surprise. Mirk knew he''d be sympathetic. Encouraging.


    Which was the exact downside of taking his troubles to Yule. Mirk had a feeling that Yule''s counsel would focus less on how to ignore the strange feelings that''d possessed him and more on the best way to indulge him. Not that Mirk thought less of Yule for indulging ¡ª as far as he could tell, everyone around him did, though some were more loud about it than others, and it didn''t carry the same consequences among the low-born men as it did the high-born women he''d been best acquainted with.


    Everyone wanted companionship, closeness, someone to cling to. Other than Genesis. Mirk couldn''t decide whether that made his predicament better or worse.


    The sound of Yule pulling the door shut behind himself, hard, brought Mirk back to the present before he could start brooding on the subject again. Genesis folded himself back down onto the chair beside Mirk''s bed, stretching his legs out underneath it in an attempt to make the low seat less stressful on his outsized body, his finicky knees and ankles that were always getting bruised and torn. The commander opened the book, holding it in one hand and carefully turning the pages with the thin fingers of the other. There were slips of paper tucked in amongst the pages now, Mirk noticed. Not at all surprising. Genesis never wrote in his own grimoires directly, always copying his thoughts onto separate sheets of parchment and sliding them in between the relevant pages.


    "The translation is not perfect," Genesis said to him without looking up, his fingers tracing over his notes, as if he could read them just as easily by feel as by sight. "Your grandfather''s native language is not...difficult. However, it is very...regional. There are many dialects. And he appears to have made up a certain number of words to express concepts...unique to Western magecraft. Although inventive, I fail to see...what utility there is in writing things down in such a fashion. If there is no one who can read..."


    The commander trailed off, frowning. With a curt shake of his head, he reached out to adjust Mirk''s head slightly, using just the barest tips of his fingers. Even such a slight, clinical touch was enough to make Mirk''s stomach clench. He really was hopeless. "In any case. I will...inform you of the portions I am not entirely sure of. The entries are not dated. But it begins...thus.


    "My name is Aritz. My house is the one with vines beside the river. Its body was destroyed, but its spirit lives in me. This book is for you, the next stone in its foundation. Listen to my story and rebuild our house strong."


    Genesis paused, frowning down at the book and drumming his fingers along its spine in a quick staccato pattern. "This does not make any sense to me. But I was assured by K''aekniv that this is what the man said. I assume it is in relation to some manner of¡­cultural practice I am unfamiliar with. There are very few books on the topic of your grandfather''s people. And they have all been written by...outsiders. It is always unwise to trust the words...of conquerors."


    Mirk was just as lost as Genesis. Jean-Luc had never spoken much of where he came from, of his family. It was as if he had sprung fully-formed from the Earth one day, with no past and an endless future ahead of him. Until it had come to an abrupt end. Though he was confused, part of Mirk felt reassured by the fact that his grandfather had a family just like everyone else.


    "I was nearly a man when the sickness came," Genesis continued, turning the page. "I was working the fields with my uncles and cousins. The next day, they were all sick. My mother was the village medicine woman. I do not know if she had true magic or not, but her medicine could bring most back to life. It did not work on this sickness. In two weeks, everyone was dead. I almost died as well. Lightning struck our house. A bad omen, though I never did and never will believe in gods. I was able to leave before it burned.


    "I tried to walk to the next village, though I was weak and with fever. It made me confused. I do not know where I found the tree. An oak, but not an oak, an oak with branches that were too wide and roots that went too deep. I fell down among them. And then I passed into the dream world. In it, a woman came to me. But not a woman. Too strong, and too beautiful. She frightened me. She asked me what had brought me there. What I wanted. I said I wanted my house to stand again. Then the dream took me again, and when I woke up next, I was by the bank of the river that ran behind where my house once stood. There were only a few stones left. The staff had been left across my chest. And so, everything began again."


    Genesis fell silent for a time, pondering over the next passage, his fingers again tapping down the length of the journal''s spine. The commander closed the book, first making sure that the page with his translation was tucked neatly in among its pages. "A...curious story. I was inclined to think of it as a story your grandfather invented to explain how he came to be. When human mages grow as old as he was, their...understanding shifts, I have noticed. K''aekniv told me otherwise. He...told me that I don''t understand the ways of people like your grandfather. The staff is very real," Genesis said, glancing at where he''d placed it across his father''s trunk at the end of the bed, stacked atop the one Mirk had taken from his mother''s ruined carriage. "The...work of a spirit, K''aekniv claimed. A common occurrence, according to him. His swords were left to his oldest relation by one. Although the things he calls spirits are...quite varied. I told him to make his own inquiries among the people your grandfather was raised with. He understands their...thinking better than I do. And they appear to be less frightened of him."


    Sighing, Genesis slid the book back into the front pocket of his coat, rising to his feet, the joints of his knees and ankles snapping as he stood. Although Genesis frowned, he didn''t comment on either them or the chair. He was distracted now, Mirk could tell. Preoccupied by some thought that had come to him as he''d read the translation, maybe. He was thinking hard, his eyes flicking back and forth as he tugged at the sleeves of his coat, picking at them, as if they were too tight, or as if its wool was too scratchy. "K''aekniv has the people. I...have the book. We will...come to an understanding together. I must see if he''s returned again."


    Without saying anything more, Genesis sunk back into the shadows and vanished. The impulse to sigh rose in Mirk''s chest, but his body still refused to move. For a moment, however, his eyes listened to his mind¡¯s commands, allowing him to look toward the staff atop the trunk. Then he was stuck again, alone and left with nothing to think of or look at but his inheritance. A trunk full of blood-stained armor, a sword he couldn''t touch, and a staff he didn''t know the purpose of. His grandfather had never told anyone how he''d gotten it, not his mother, not him. Now that Mirk knew, he didn''t feel any less lost than he had before.


    But he''d have another few days to think about it. And hopefully when Genesis returned, it''d be with more of the journal instead of another one of his endless, headache-inducing grimoires.

 Chapter 26

    Genesis had been missing for the final three days of Mirk¡¯s illness. The whole while that his senses were coming back to him, his body responding in fits and starts to his mind¡¯s commands, he¡¯d been possessed by the thought that something terrible had happened. As usual, his instincts were right.


    He''d been able to feel the faintest edges of the pain from out on the infirmary steps. Though he''d hoped for a time that it was a figment of his imagination, some sort of sensitivity caused by his autumnal illness, the further he ventured down the building''s winding halls in search of the source of the pain, the more clear it became to Mirk that something was wrong.


    He expected to find the long-term ward, where the worst of the unrelenting suffering was coming from, stacked floor to ceiling with dying men. By the time he passed through the barrier onto the third floor, Mirk was breathing hard and wobbling on his feet. He braced himself for the smell of blood, the sight of the half-dead walking wounded. But the ward, like the majority of the floors below, was empty.


    Mirk ducked into the first patient room he could stagger to, expecting to be able to reel to the bed and pause for a time to collect his thoughts. But that particular room, unlike th rest of the building, wasn¡¯t empty. He¡¯d inadvertently found where a cluster of healers from the Twentieth had hidden themselves from the pain. Yule, Emir, and Sheila were all huddled together on the room''s bed, each of them looking troubled in their own way. Danu stood at the head of it behind a combat healer from the Seventh who Mirk only vaguely recognized. The combat healer had cast a shield over the area around the bed, thick and unwavering, though the man was red in the face from the strain.


    Yule, from his place on the bed beside Emir, waved Mirk over. The combat healer weakened the furthest edge of the shield around the bed, just enough for Mirk to slip past. Nevertheless, everyone underneath it twitched or shivered or cursed at the sudden touch of the agony beyond the shield. "What the hell are you doing here?" Yule asked, scowling at Mirk as he collapsed beside him on the bed.


    It was nothing personal, Mirk knew. He was still recovering from his autumnal illness, too weak to be anything more than a burden to the other healers in such an empathically-charged situation. Mirk knew he probably should have turned around and gone back to the healers dormitory once he''d felt the pain out on the front steps. But his curiosity, as always, had gotten the better of him.


    "I felt better, so I came to see what I could do to help. I hadn''t thought..." Mirk trailed off, at a loss for words.


    "There''s nothing any of us can do," Danu said with a sigh, her arms folded over her chest as she shifted restlessly from foot to foot behind the combat healer. She was supporting him as best she could, allowing him to borrow her potential through a hand on her shoulder. Danu was the weakest empath in the Twentieth, but her lack of skill at summoning shields like the one stretched over the bed, along with the unique abilities granted to her by her Deathly magic, kept her from going out on contract with the men even more than being a woman did. "It''s too bad for Dima and I to get close. And it''s blacked Sheila out twice."


    Sheila shrugged as she modestly studied her fingernails. Or, rather, claws. Thick and black and curved. "At least I won''t have to feed for weeks."


    "Lucky you," Yule grumbled.


    "What''s causing all this?" Mirk asked, gesturing off in the gesture the mental agony was radiating from, somewhere near the back of the long-term ward.


    "We can''t be completely certain, since none of us have been able to get close enough to see the patient. But we did get a note from a friend," Emir said, pulling it out of the pocket in the sleeve of his robe and passing it to Mirk.


    Mirk''s eyes widened as he unfolded the sheet of mage parchment. The letter was written in angelic, of the everyday, workable sort that angels used for day-to-day correspondence rather than the runes used for Imperial missives. It took Mirk a good five minutes to struggle through the undulating script. Once he got to the end, Mirk felt almost as ill as he had out beyond Dima''s shield. "Two angelic children? A boy and his sister? And Un...euh...Aker let them in?"


    Emir nodded, grimly. "On the run from Imanael. Which I don''t blame them for, though I wish they would have chosen to hide somewhere other than my infirmary. We''re treating two thirds of our patients over in the armory because so many of the healers can''t stand to be in here with him. Cyrus will be sending Ravensdale and the djinn in to finish the boy off if we don''t do something about this mess soon."


    The look of disgust on Emir''s face when he spoke Imanael''s name was the same as the one that overcame his restraint every time he spoke of Ravensdale. Which made sense, considering what Mirk had seen Imanel and his fellows doing on the front steps of Serge Montigny¡¯s manor. Mirk couldn¡¯t help but wonder whether the sick boy down the hall was the same one who¡¯d stood beside Imanael while Serge had been executed. "But the letter doesn''t say what''s wrong. Is it both of them? Or just the boy?" Mirk asked.


    "Just the boy, apparently. But we have no idea what''s causing it."


    Yule flicked one of his curls back over his shoulder, tilting his head up to stare at the room''s pockmarked and stained ceiling, like he always did when he was trying to keep himself from reaching a terminal stage of annoyance. "So much for angels being brilliant. What''s the point in writing a whole damn letter if you''re not going to even tell us who¡¯s sick? We''re not mind readers."


    "We make do," Emir replied, his tone flat as he stared across the room at the supply cabinet. The same technique as the one Yule was employing, only with a different focus.


    Yule gave a humorless snort. "Oh, right. I forgot. It''s standard practice to make us work three times harder than anyone else."


    "Complaining won''t fix anything," Emir retorted.


    "Don''t give me that virtuous commander act," Yule said. "You''re just as bad as the rest of us."


    "How long has this been going on?" Mirk cut in, before the pair could really get going and make the emotional atmosphere under the shield any heavier than it already was.


    "Three days," Danu said. "Good thing the Seventh isn''t on contract again yet. We''re really glad you came to help," she added, uncrossing her arms and patting Dima''s hand, reassuring.


    Dima''s shield strengthened a hair at her touch. "I''d rather be getting shot at," he said, smirking. His English was much better than the majority of the Seventh''s. Mirk wondered which English woman he''d settled himself on. It seemed to be the only thing capable of getting most of the men to devote any serious time to learning English.


    "That''s a long time to be feeling like this," Mirk said, thinking. Three days, unsurprisingly, was also how long it''d been since Genesis had last come to check in on him. Which answered his other question, though he asked it nevertheless. "How do we know it''s not an emergency? Full-blood angels are very...euh...determined, but still..."


    Yule turned his scowl back on Mirk. "All we have on that is your friend''s word. And you know how good of a judge he is for when things are an emergency."


    "That''s not very nice, Yule."


    "...I...did not expect any...gratitude from you."


    Mirk''s heart leapt into his throat at the sound of the low, hissing voice from the doorway. Genesis. Mirk fixed his eyes down on the floor and started counting the stones to keep himself from looking up at the commander, worried that he might start staring if he so much as chanced a glance at Genesis.


    Beside him, Yule groaned and flopped back against the wall behind the bed. "What the hell is wrong with you? Standing behind corners waiting for people to talk about you so that you can jump out at them like the monster under the bed..."


    "There would be no point in that. You are all simply...unobservant."


    "Even I can''t hear him coming with this in the way," Sheila said, nudging the shield separating them from the rest of the long-term ward with the tip of her shoe.


    Though he couldn''t see it, Mirk could hear it in Genesis''s tone ¡ª his characteristic pauses were just a touch lengthier than usual, all his words possessing slightly more of a hissing, snapping edge. Genesis had to be frowning at all of them. And he would be deeply, profoundly tired.


    Mirk hugged himself, hoping none of the other empaths hiding under the shield would pick up on the guilt that washed over him. How had he not noticed it before then? It wasn''t normal to pay so much attention to someone that every nuance of their voice spoke volumes, even if their words remained vague. Yet he was always doing it with Genesis, always searching his blank expressions and precise words for clues to what the commander was feeling. Mirk had been doing it for so long that he''d memorized the meaning hidden in every one of Genesis''s different hissing inflections, in every twitch of his thin lips. He thought he did it only to compensate for not being able to feel Genesis''s emotions.


    Now he knew better.


    "Mirk?"


    Snapping back to attention, Mirk laughed and looked over at Yule. He must have drifted off while the argument between Yule and Genesis had continued. The older healer was staring back at him with a puzzled expression. "Oh, yes, Yule? Methinks I must still be a little tired..."


    "Do you have any idea how we could use him to get the kid to stop projecting for an hour or so?" Yule asked, jerking his head in the direction of the door, where Genesis was doubtlessly still lurking. Mirk didn''t feel prepared to look over at him yet.


    "Euh...what have you tried so far?"


    "Nothing really. He just closed up most of the wounds for us. Supposedly."


    "There is no...supposedly involved," Genesis said. His annoyance had grown worse. But he paused before continuing, choosing his words even more deliberately than usual. "The...child does cough blood on occasion. But it has done no harm...save to the sheets."


    A heavy silence filled the room. Then all the healers started to talk at once.


    "The kid''s hacking up blood and all you care about are the goddamn sheets?" Yule asked, clenching his fists at his sides.


    "This could be very serious," Emir added.


    Danu''s voice was cold. Mirk could feel her Deathly magic rising up in her within the confines of the shield. "Why can''t you ever tell us anything?"


    "Even you have to know that''s trouble, Genesis," Dima said.


    "You have to help us heal him," Mirk protested, unable to keep himself from looking up at Genesis any longer. The commander was as worn down as he¡¯d sounded, much worse off than he''d been when Mirk had last seen him. His already thin frame had somehow been whittled down even further. And there were black bandages wrapped around his palms, continuing up over his wrists and further on underneath his shirtsleeves. "Is the boy the one that was with Imanael? In Laurent''s memory stone?"


    A strange expression crossed Genesis''s face, something between a rigid smile and a grimace as he nodded and picked, business-like, at some invisible speck of lint clinging to the bandages covering his left palm. Mirk had never seen that expression before. He didn''t know what to make of it. It made his worry deepen, both for Genesis and the angelic boy.


    "Messire, you have to have some idea of how to help him. You always do," Mirk said, once it was clear Genesis was unwilling to comment further.


    "You shouldn''t humor him," Yule muttered.


    "Stop it," Mirk hissed back at Yule under his breath, despite knowing full well that Genesis would hear him, even with the shield between them.


    After a long pause, Genesis sighed. "There is...one thing."


    "What is it?" Emir asked, before any of the rest of them could.


    From the tenseness in his shoulders, it looked like it was difficult for Genesis to force the words past his lips. "I...may be...capable of...temporarily binding back the...child''s magic."


    Danu sighed. "It''s harsh, but it might work."


    "It''s less risky than anything else I''ve thought of," Emir confirmed.


    "There is more risk in it than either of you appreciate," Genesis said, the unfamiliar half-smile, half-grimace expression coming onto his face again for a moment, though he quickly forced himself back into his customary blankness. "I will only...bind him for an hour. And I will...require K''aekniv."


    Yule scoffed. "K''aekniv? What''s he got to do with anything?"


    "What, you need him to hold the boy down? I can do that," Dima said.


    "I require his...feathers. Fortunately, he...appears to have a near...infinite supply. Due to his...lack of grooming," Genesis said, mostly to himself. Even though Genesis seemed to not like their plan, he was considering it deeply, Mirk knew, by the way his eyes were twitching back and forth as he thought. ¡°Perhaps you will have...more success in removing him from the bar than I have. Mirk."


    Something fluttered in Mirk''s chest at hearing Genesis speak his name. "Is something wrong with Niv too?"


    Genesis snorted. "A...minor complication. In his current...amorous pursuits."


    "Oh. I hope it''s nothing serious," Mirk said. "Niv really does like Miss Lina very much."


    "He has done this...several times. I do not see any difference in the way he...conducts himself with any of these women."


    Mirk sighed. If Genesis couldn''t understand K''aekniv''s relationship with Lina, which the half-angel expounded on in great detail at the slightest prompting, there was little chance of him understanding the thing writhing in Mirk''s stomach as he stared across the room at him. Nevertheless, Mirk nodded. None of this was about him. Hopefully. Though the fact that the young angel who had examined Serge Montigny''s mind before the commander of the Silver Host had executed him had suddenly appeared in the City wasn''t a promising sign. Nor was the fact that Aker had something to do with his appearance, somehow. "I''ll talk to him. Methinks if I explain what''s happening, he''ll come right away."


    "I have...attempted to do so on several occasions. K''aekniv seems...determined to continue...drinking."


    Yule teetered to his feet, pausing to summon up his own mental shielding before trudging out from under the protection of Dima''s shield. He made a pointed, vaguely offensive gesture at Genesis as he pushed his way past the commander and out into the hall. "That''s why you''re going," Yule said back at Mirk over his shoulder. "You''re not an ass."


    Mirk felt like he could make a good argument to the contrary. But, considering who he was being compared to, Mirk supposed Yule had a point.


    -   -   -


    "We...must be quick."


    They were all gathered at the end of the hall that ran down the center of the third floor of the infirmary, just before the junction with the cross-hall that the injured angelic child''s room was down. Dima''s shields were still holding, but only just. And only because Genesis had constructed part of his spell in advance, which involved sticking a number of K''aekniv''s feathers to the walls. The feathers were held in place with long, thin needles that had curled with Genesis''s dark magic as the commander had put each in place. Vessels for absorbing the negative emotions, Genesis had explained. The feathers were slowly turning gray. But there were also thin white lines of magic connecting them all, forming a sort of railing that held back the absolute worst of the boy''s pain.


    "No shit," Yule mumbled from somewhere behind Mirk. No one replied to him.


    Genesis was at the front of their huddled and wincing group, out beyond Dima''s shield, staring at something around the corner. Much like Genesis''s emotions were always hidden from the empathic healers, the boy''s emotions didn''t reach through to Genesis in the slightest. In contrast, even K''aekniv, with his weak and disorganized empathy that hardly ever picked up on anything beyond the racket of his own emotions, had taken shelter under Dima''s shield.


    "I will...require only one of you to complete the bindings. The rest will remain here."


    Without even turning to look at him, Yule and Danu elbowed Mirk forward. But Emir, at least, was polite enough to ask for his thoughts on the matter. "Do you feel well enough for this, Mirk?"


    Not at all. The hour he¡¯d spent away from the infirmary to collect K''aekniv from the tavern hadn''t felt like much of a reprieve. Mirk had been expecting K¡¯aekniv to fight him over being dragged away from the bar. But though the half-angel had complained a little, and had first felt the need to expound on the matter of his and Lina''s latest disagreement until Mirk had reassured him he¡¯d done nothing wrong, K¡¯aekniv had finished his bottle and thrown a handful of coins at the bartender to cover his tab without hesitation once Mirk had voiced his own worries about Genesis''s condition. Altogether, Mirk had only been in the infirmary for a half hour that morning. But he already felt unsteady and achy, like he''d been tending to patients for a full twelve.


    Only the way Genesis was picking at the bandages wrapped around the palm of his left hand, clinically, paying no heed to the fact that he''d started tugging off bits of skin as well as lint, made Mirk nod. The boy wasn''t the only one who was suffering. Mirk had a feeling that whatever was wrong with the boy was somehow connected to whatever was troubling Genesis. "I''ll be fine, Comrade Commander. And methinks it won''t be so bad as long as you project something to cover up the rest, Niv."


    K''aekniv let out a string of curses, his pain momentarily filling the area underneath the shield and making the healers give a collective wince. Genesis had reached back and pulled a feather off his nearest wing, though he was still staring fixedly around the corner. "You bastard!" K''aekniv shouted at Genesis, making the healers all wince again. "That one was new!"


    Genesis didn''t reply, disappearing around the corner. Mirk went to K''aekniv''s side, shooing away the hand K''aekniv had clamped over the outside edge of his wing. K''aekniv''s wings were so poorly tended that it took Mirk a moment to find the shaft of the pin feather Genesis had broken off despite its bleeding. He pulled the remains of the feather out and pressed two fingers over its follicle while it clotted. "You need to take better care of your wings when they molt, Niv. Has anyone ever taught you how to preen yourself?"


    "No! He needs to stop pulling out my feathers!"


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    There was a muffled, hissing reply from around the corner. "The spell...requires four more blood feathers."


    Before K''aekniv could get too worked up reciting his litany of foreign curses at Genesis, Danu joined Mirk at the front of the group. "Do they have to bleed so much?" she called out to Genesis.


    "...preferably."


    "You bitch!"


    "You''re the one crying like one," Yule said, snickering despite the flare of pain caused by Danu carefully breaking off another of K''aekniv''s new feathers. She waved it around the corner and a thin, spindly white hand reached out to take it, mindful of the blood on its broken tip.


    "Let''s pull out your fingernails and see how you like it!" K''aekniv shot back, ducking his other wing so that he could glare over his shoulder at Yule.


    Yule rolled his eyes. "Don''t be so dramatic."


    Grumbling to himself, K''aekniv folded his thick arms over his chest and tried to look stoic as Danu broke off three more of his developing feathers. "It''s very kind of you to do this," Mirk offered, in an attempt to cheer him.


    "Hah! You think I have a choice."


    "There is...always a choice. Some are merely more...rational than others." Again, Genesis extended one hand around the corner. "Your right arm."


    Miserably, K''aekniv shuffled within Genesis''s reach, allowing the commander to take hold of his arm and pull him off around the corner. Mirk moved up to the very edge of Dima''s shield, waiting.


    "Euh...let me know when I should come out, messire," Mirk said, after a few minutes of silence had passed.


    Mirk could sense when K''aekniv started to project, even with the shield still between them. Whenever an empath asked K''aekniv to project an emotion on command, to make use of the half-angel''s already loud feelings to cover up or deflect worse ones, he always thought of the same thing. A song that was simple and catchy and that every one of the fighters from the Seventh knew, no matter where they''d come from.


    Mirk didn''t understand the words. But the emotion attached to the song was clear and striking, a warm nostalgia that always made Mirk smell salt on the air and think of the bright blue line on the horizon that he could see out his window at home in fine weather. The feeling was reassuring. It helped Mirk keep his mind at a safe distance from whatever terrible thing was happening all around him. After taking a deep breath to center himself, Mirk slipped out past Dima''s shield and went around the corner.


    Beyond it was a gruesome scene. The walls of the hallway were covered with a maze of symbols written in blood, growing thicker and darker around the doorway to the injured boy''s room. There the sigils and runes twisted into shapes that made Mirk''s stomach heave. The feathers plucked from K''aekniv''s wing were pinned around the doorframe, connected by lines of luminescent white magic to form a five-point star that stood as a barrier between the hallway and the room beyond in place of the open door. Mirk got the impression the white magic wasn''t Genesis''s. But he also got the impression, somehow, that Genesis''s shadowy magic was what was holding the bright magic in place. Mirk had no idea what to make of it.


    "It''s fine. It does not...bind you. Come...tell me how...close this...angel...child...is to dying."


    Only the force of K''aekniv''s emotions were keeping Mirk from fainting at the unrelenting press of the agony crushing in on him harder and harder the longer he stood beyond the protection of Dima''s shield. The nostalgia wrapped around him like a thick blanket, keeping him warm and safe. Mirk took a few steps closer to the door, though he didn''t yet step through.


    The angelic boy on the bed was the same one he''d seen in the recording made by Laurent''s memorial stone. In his sickness, he looked even more like a child than a man in spite of his height, pale and shivering and worn down to skin and bones. Mirk had no idea what kind of illness could have caused the boy to waste away to nothing in the span of only a few weeks.


    Despite that, Genesis gave the impression of being even sicker. His expression was utterly blank as he waited beside the boy''s bed, staring down at him, unblinking. He''d neatly folded back his shirtsleeves and unwrapped the bandages from around his forearms. Mirk recognized the odd scars twined around them ¡ª he''d sewn them shut enough times by then to have their shapes all but memorized, though he still had no idea what they said or where they''d come from. Mirk had never seen them like they were now. All of them were ripped open and oozing blood, their edges pulled back as if an invisible force was trying to rip off the unbroken skin surrounding them. They had to be terribly painful.


    Genesis was unconcerned by them. The boy was the sole focus of his attention, though his constant wheezing and gasping was more an object of fascination for Genesis than a source of worry or sympathy. Mirk noticed then that K''aekniv, who was standing close beside Genesis, wasn''t looking at the boy at all. Instead, he was staring at the wounds encircling Genesis''s arms, watching them closely, almost as if he expected them to slither off and make a run for the doorway. Somehow, it didn''t seem like that strange of a notion.


    Trying to control his sudden shaking, Mirk stepped through the doorway. The bands of white magic felt cold as he passed through them but, just like Genesis had said, they were completely harmless. He hurried to the boy''s bedside, forcing himself to look away from Genesis and concentrate on his new patient.


    Now that he was right beside the child, Mirk spotted more concerning details. His breaths were coming too fast for a full-blood angel, each one too shallow to fill the boy''s oversized lungs. And his feathers had lost their luster, now as gray and dingy as K''aekniv''s. Mirk could tell that Genesis had been telling the truth about having done his best to help him, though. His superficial wounds had been neatly bandaged, a long gash across his forehead sewn shut with precise, even sutures. Mirk also realized that the boy was younger than he''d thought from what he''d seen of him on the memory stone''s recording. He couldn''t have been more than a forty-year, the equivalent of a human boy of eleven or twelve. His primaries were barely developed. No wonder the pervasive chill of being separated from the Light Eternal had affected him so strongly. Full-blood angels weren''t supposed to leave Heaven until they were eighty-years.


    Bracing himself for the pain, Mirk reached out and placed a hand on the boy''s chest. The force of his agony was piercing, but now that Mirk was touching him, he could tell exactly where it was coming from. Mirk shifted aside the open-front robe Genesis had dressed him in, feeling his way over the bones of his chest. It felt like there was something wrong there, something extra. Something lodged under his sternum, perhaps. Mirk struggled to think through the pain, trying to remember every last scrap of rumor and gossip he''d heard about Imperial angels.


    The words of one of the oldest members of his father''s guard, Easil, came to Mirk, along with his tired frown. Talk of being brought to a healer in the Imperial Capital, of cold white rooms and gleaming metal and a healer who had a grin that stretched too wide across his face. The healer had a small chip of glass in a jar that he''d rattled at Easil, as he''d spoken softly of marriage and duty and the importance of providing a good influence for the next generation. Easil had joined Mirk''s father on Earth the next day. Better to be forever cast out from the Light Eternal, Easil had said, than undergo purification. Mirk lowered his mental shields as far as he could bear, feeling at the child''s sternum again. Underneath bone and flesh, there was a faint dark spot, something that Mirk couldn''t hear the voice of. An object, but not one made of any Earthly material.


    Mirk coughed as he drew his shields back up and withdrew his hand, hunching over on himself as he glanced over at Genesis. The commander was still staring at the child with an unsettling indifference. And K''aekniv was still staring at the wounds on Genesis''s forearms.


    "I...he''s not meaning to project, messire. There''s something stuck in his chest that''s making him feel all of this. Methinks...maybe...he was going through purification when his sister brought him here."


    K''aekniv tore his eyes away from Genesis''s arms for a second, his magic flashing in his eyes as an unfamiliar hardness came onto his face. Genesis, however, was unmoved. "Ah. How...elaborate," Genesis said, with the slightest of frowns.


    Though K''aekniv''s projection was as strong as when Mirk had first emerged from underneath Dima''s shield out in the hall, the force of the boy''s misery was pushing Mirk away from his bedside. It was starting to work its way through the nostalgia, shifting it, making Mirk remember things he would have rather left forgotten. In his memory, the bright blue line of the sea turned black. Black like the water had been in the fountain, while the drizzle had been hissing on the cobbles. Mirk shook his head and refocused himself on the present, on Genesis. "We''ll have to do surgery, once we can stop him from feeling so much."


    Genesis considered this with something that looked like bored, academic interest. As he thought, Genesis picked at one of the sigils on his left arm, making its bleeding worse. Blood had dripped onto the floor all around him, but it was as if Genesis was completely blind to it. Mirk searched out reassurance from K''aekniv, waving to catch his attention. "Will...euh...will he be all right?"


    "I''m fine," Genesis said, without hesitation or inflection.


    K''aekniv debated Mirk''s question, looking back and forth between Genesis and the boy still gasping and wheezing on the bed. "If I''m here, it''ll be fine. But you need to go."


    "Why?" Mirk asked.


    "No," Genesis said, before K''aekniv could reply. "His...presence is required as well. With two sources of angelic potential...hmph. I will be unbound...long enough...perhaps..." Genesis trailed off, thinking. His eyes had gone black. It was all Mirk could do to keep himself from reaching out to Genesis, from trying to shake him out of the strange otherness he''d drifted off into.


    K''aekniv growled something at Genesis in Russian, smacking him in the shoulder with his right hand. Yellowy sparks jumped off K''aekniv''s arm. Genesis didn''t respond. K''aekniv circled around the commander instead, so that he was standing in between Genesis and Mirk. "Don''t listen to him when he gets like this," K''aekniv said to Mirk. For the first time, his projection faltered, replaced by a serious feeling, a tenseness that Mirk had never felt from the half-angel before. "I''ll deal with this. You stay back."


    "I will...require one hand each," Genesis said, still ignoring K''aekniv, unconcerned by him. Unconcerned with everything.


    Cursing, K''aekniv wagged a scolding, warning finger at Mirk. He would have thought the gesture comical, had the situation not been so grave. "You listen to me, Mirk! Me, I''ll tell you what to do. Him, forget him. He has no...no stopping when he''s like this."


    Mirk swallowed hard. "What''s happening, Niv?"


    "Nothing," Genesis said.


    "He''s...he''s going to have one of his...his..." Mirk was uncertain whether K''aekniv was having trouble finding the right English word to describe what was happening, or if he was at a loss for words altogether. "...his things. This is easy for me to stop. But you stay away. Don''t listen to him. Not a word!"


    The timbre of K''aekniv''s emotions more than his words made Mirk decide to step back and nod rather than pressing further. K''aekniv was thinking hard, his emotions so unrestrained and intense that Mirk could only feel a fraction of the boy''s pain beyond them. He could even feel twinges of what K''aekniv was doing with his body through his emotions, tensing each of his muscles from shoulders to legs, hard, as if he was checking to make sure they all worked. It made Mirk worried. He had felt K''aekniv''s emotions when he was fighting before. They were like that now, only more focused. More real. Like, for the first time since Mirk had met him, K''aekniv was facing an enemy that could truly rival his inhuman strength. One more dangerous than all the rest.


    "Go do it!" K''aekniv snapped at Genesis, taking a reluctant step back so that the commander could reach both of them.


    "...two angels...hmm..."


    Before K''aekniv could bark another order at Genesis, the commander had moved. Too quickly to be stopped, too fluidly to have physically walked around K''aekniv and positioned himself between them. Genesis reached out with one of his overlong arms and seized hold of Mirk''s right hand, business-like, pulling him closer.


    Something hurt. Something physical instead of mental. Mirk looked down at his hand in Genesis''s. The sharp points of the claw-like fingernails that Genesis usually kept spelled away, the one sure sign of his demonic lineage that Mirk had ever glimpsed, were inadvertently digging into Mirk''s palm.


    Fear boiled up from Mirk''s stomach and into his throat. Not a fear of Genesis, but fear for him. This wasn''t the Genesis he knew. Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. And though Mirk couldn''t feel any of it, some instinctive part of him understood that the only thing that could have plunged Genesis into such utter disarray was suffering that rivaled the pain the angelic boy was still projecting.


    The prayer was as reflexive as the deep breath Mirk took to steady himself. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, pray for him, you wouldn''t let this happen, you couldn''t¡ª


    "Mikael. And...Gaebriel. Stc, it''ll do."


    Mirk focused on his own pain, the stinging in his palm as Genesis gripped his hand more tightly, to drag himself back to the present. Had Genesis just called him by his father''s name? Or was all the uncertainty and pain addling his mind? Mirk didn''t have time to think about it. Genesis''s spell began quickly, with one hissed and clicked command, and it roared to its full power in seconds. Genesis let go of his hand.


    It was like holding onto a rope made of magic, one that was running through Mirk''s hands fast enough to rub them raw. Instinctively, Mirk clenched his fists around the feel of the magic. He looked down at his hands with his mind''s eye, blinking to clear away reality and highlight the unseen. Mirk was holding onto a rope, a thicker strand of the white magic that had been stretched into a star across the doorway and held in place with K''aekniv''s feathers and Genesis''s shadows. The magic was fighting against his hold. Mirk gripped it with all his strength, both mental and physical, searching for the end of it.


    At its end was Genesis. One loop of the white magic remained around each of the commander''s wrists. K''aekniv was holding on to the rope of magic bound to Genesis''s other arm, looking down at it with a disgusted expression. It was odd: though the wounds covering Genesis''s forearms had been gaping and raw the last time Mirk had looked at him, they had now vanished, save for a band around each of his wrists, underneath where the white magic wrapped around him.


    Genesis''s voice was even, though his hissing accent had grown so strong it was difficult to make out exactly what he was saying. "Some...slack please. Five hands will be sufficient."


    The rope of magic was yanked through Mirk''s hands at Genesis''s command, burning his palms until Mirk could catch hold of it again. Mirk could barely sense them, but he thought he could see ghostly hands poised over his, gripping the rope along with him. Hands much larger and stronger than his own.


    Genesis made a trilling, clicking noise, one that made Mirk shudder. "Better. And...now, the...bindings..."


    With a gesture of one hand, Genesis''s shadowy magic appeared, great thick tendrils of it, so dark that they sucked in the glow of the room''s magelights and the rope of magic clenched in Mirk''s hands. Genesis made another gesture with his other hand and the tendrils of shadow swarmed over the injured boy on the bed, obscuring him fully from view. Mirk heard the young angel give a muffled gasp.


    Genesis leaned over the bed and held out his hands. Without flinching, he used his claws to slice deep cuts into both of his wrists, just above where the bands of white magic were wrapped around them. Blood ran freely from the gashes, dripping onto the mass of shadows covering the child. The shadows consumed it with a staticky noise that hurt Mirk''s ears and made his eyes water. Genesis began to speak in a language that made Mirk taste bile. Though Mirk had never heard such a cursed tongue before, he could still understand it. Maybe that was the point.


    "By my blood, your light will be bound by darkness. By my blood, your order will be bound by chaos. By my blood, you will obey."


    The injured boy whined ¡ª underneath the blanket of Genesis''s magic, he was crying.


    "You will feel nothing. You will think nothing. You will obey."


    Abruptly, the press of the boy''s emotions against Mirk¡¯s mind, which had nearly eroded all the protections he had assembled against them, his weak mental shields and the force of K''aekniv''s intense focus that was now spiked with frustration, vanished. Their sudden absence left Mirk reeling. The rope of white magic slipped through Mirk''s hands, passing upwards and clear through them instead of being yanked out of his grasp.


    Tears blurred Mirk''s sight. As he tried to blink them clear, Mirk heard another voice, that one distant and amused. And vaguely familiar. It spoke in high angelic.


    By my blade, your darkness will be bound by light. By my blade, your chaos will be bound by order. By my blade, you will obey.


    K''aekniv was yelling. Mirk was too transfixed by the melodic sound of the other voice to hear what he said.


    Destroy them.


    "Mirk! Leave!"


    You will obey.


    Mirk finally thought to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve to clear them. K''aekniv was trying to shove himself between him and Genesis again. Though K''aekniv beat at them with his right fist, the shadows were too thick and alive with potential for him to break through. They''d released the injured child and had surrounded Genesis again. And the ropes of white magic had disappeared. All of the terrible wounds down the length of Genesis''s arms had reopened, so deep and so many that his forearms were completely skinned. The commander''s body was stiff, all his muscles straining. He snarled at the amused voice, clenching at the sides of his head, hissing his own command back at it. "Get out!"


    You will obey!


    The strength left Genesis''s body, just for a moment. But he caught himself before he could fall, his inhuman grace returning to him. Genesis''s head snapped around. His eyes had gone black again, but Mirk felt like they were fixed on him. He seemed pleased by Mirk¡¯s presence, as if his being there had spared him a great inconvenience.


    "Yes, you''re right...the only way...to keep..." he muttered, gathering his shadows close around himself.


    "Gen? Are...euh...are you..." Mirk stammered.


    Genesis straightened up, brushing at some speck of dust on the front of his shirt. The gesture only succeeded in smearing blood all over it. "Mirk. Won''t you...come here?"


    "I..." Mirk looked past Genesis at K''aekniv. He''d drawn one of his swords, the one with the golden hilt that spit flame and order, and was hacking away at the shadows keeping him from reaching both Genesis and Mirk. Though Mirk knew K''aekniv wasn''t more than a few paces away, he felt very distant. Mirk couldn''t feel any of K¡¯aekniv¡¯s emotions through the interference generated by the shadows.


    Genesis raised his arms, sighing and looking them over before fixing his attention back on Mirk. He was trying to smile ¡ª as always, it seemed more like Genesis was just baring his teeth. Something had changed about those too, but Mirk couldn''t pinpoint what it was. "A healer...is best suited to...tending to this manner of wound. Mirk. Come here."


    "What''s happening, Gen? What''s wrong?¡±


    Genesis ignored Mirk¡¯s questions. "They have...ached...for so long. Won''t you...heal them?"


    "It''s...messire, this isn''t like you..."


    Genesis''s attempt at a smile vanished, replaced by a puzzled expression. "Are you...afraid?"


    "I...well, no. I''m just worried..."


    It didn''t seem as if Genesis believed him. The commander looked back down at his bleeding arms, at a loss for what to do with them. It made Mirk''s heart ache. Despite all of K''aekniv''s warnings and continued slashing at the shadows beside them, Mirk took a step toward Genesis. If he could calm Genesis some, Mirk hoped he could get to the bottom of things before the situation spiraled even further out of control.


    "It''s all right, messire. I don''t have any bandages, but I''ll make do with the sheets, don''t be upset¡ª"


    "Damn you!"


    K''aekniv finally broke through the shadows, hurling his sword aside and lunging forward to strike Genesis with his clenched right fist. Genesis''s confusion disappeared, an annoyed look coming onto his face as he made one of his odd hissing noises, one almost like laughter. Genesis neatly sidestepped K''aekniv''s fist and lashed out at him, swiping at his neck with his claws.


    Genesis gouged K''aekniv''s neck, but missed the vital mark. K''aekniv knocked Genesis off-balance by smacking him with his wing, holding it out wide to cut off any avenue for Genesis to draw closer to Mirk. That distracted Genesis enough for K''aekniv to deliver a solid kick to his knee and grab hold of Genesis''s neck with his right hand, his whole arm crackling with flames. "Stop fighting!" K''aekniv bellowed.


    "No!" Genesis hissed back.


    "Yes!"


    K''aekniv tightened his hand around Genesis¡¯s neck as he knocked him across the face with his left, now coated in ice. Though Mirk thought for a moment that Genesis might recover and strike back or kick K''aekniv aside, K''aekniv hit Genesis again before he could launch an attack. Genesis''s eyes rolled back in his head, the darkness clearing from them, and his body went limp.


    The shadows disappeared in a rush. Cursing, K''aekniv gave Genesis a hard shake before letting his unconscious body drop to the floor. "Why do you do this? Every fucking time!" K''aekniv groaned, exasperated and breathless.


    All Mirk could do was stare at them both. After a few seconds, K''aekniv got a hold of himself again. He turned to Mirk, crossing the distance between them in one long stride and taking him by both shoulders, gently. Very much unlike how he''d been manhandling Genesis moments ago.


    "I said not to listen to him," K''aekniv said. His tone was more relieved than scolding.


    "...sorry..."


    K''aekniv gave his shoulders a careful squeeze. "Next time, you listen to me. He''ll kill you."


    The way K''aekniv said it, with total certainty, made Mirk''s heart swell with an emotion he couldn''t quite place. A mixture of worry and fear and sympathy. "What was that? What''s happened to him?"


    Shrugging both his shoulders and wings, K''aekniv looked back at Genesis''s lifeless body. "The Destroyer. He comes sometimes. And then I beat him until he goes away again. If I get to him before he kills too much, anyway."


    Mirk''s eyes also fell on Genesis''s body. It was hard for Mirk to believe that what had just happened wasn''t some pain-induced hallucination. Genesis looked so fragile then, curled on his side and still bleeding profusely from his arms. And now he had a ring of blisters around his neck from where K''aekniv had half-strangled him as well. "I don''t understand, Niv."


    K''aekniv sighed. "He told you none of this?"


    "No, not really..."


    "Come. We''ll take him to a bed and then we''ll talk. The other healers, they can help the little angel."


    Too bewildered to protest, Mirk nodded.


    "And you," K''aekniv said, turning and glaring down at Genesis, "you owe me a drink. Why can''t you tell anyone things¡­terrible, people-stupid bastard..." K''aekniv stooped down and picked Genesis up, unceremoniously plunking him across one shoulder like a sack full of laundry, then trudged off toward the door. The wood of its frame was blackened. Like it''d been burned.


    "What? Are you coming?" K''aekniv asked when Mirk didn''t move, still staring at the blood smeared all over the floor from the wounds on Genesis''s arms.


    Mirk turned away from the blood and the injured boy still whimpering and sniffling on the bed, following K''aekniv to the door. There didn''t seem to be any other option. He didn''t have enough magic left to help remove the thing stuck in the boy''s chest. And he needed to face whatever terrible secret Genesis was hiding from him eventually. No matter what the cost of that was.


    "Let me tell Emir what he needs to do to heal the boy. Then I''ll...I''ll come help with Gen."


    K''aekniv snorted. "Why try? There''s no helping him. Better off helping someone who gives a shit."


    Mirk wanted to protest. But the dull ache in his chest kept him quiet.

 Chapter 27

    "What happened?"


    Mirk only found the courage to prompt K''aekniv once he¡¯d been waiting in silence for minutes. They were in a patient room up on the fifth floor, standing vigil on either side of the bed K''aekniv had dropped Genesis''s lifeless body on. Mirk had done all the little things he could think of to make Genesis more comfortable ¡ª he¡¯d loosened the laces of his boots, carefully cut away the sleeves of his shirt at the elbows, wiped most of the blood off his hands with a rag from the room''s washbasin. It hadn''t made Mirk feel any better.


    After a few fitful starts and stops, K''aekniv finally spat out something. "It''s his Destroyer shit," he said, waving a dismissive hand at Genesis''s motionless body before looking away from the commander, turning to face the room''s tall, narrow window that overlooked the parade grounds. The oppressive feeling of mingled frustration and resignation radiating off K''aekniv''s restless mind was giving Mirk a headache. Mirk didn''t have either the strength or the will to shield his mind from it.


    "Methinks you''ll have to explain a little more, Niv."


    Anger rose up in K''aekniv, white-hot and impatient. Mirk did his best not to wince. "He''s told you nothing? The bindings? Gaebriel?"


    "Nothing," Mirk said, looking down at the mess that''d been made of Genesis''s forearms. He reached down to touch the one nearest his side of the bed, searching for a pulse on Genesis¡¯s wrist amidst the gore. He couldn''t find one. "Is that what these cuts are? A...binding spell? I don''t know anything about that..."


    K''aekniv didn''t respond. Giving up on Genesis''s arm, Mirk felt for his pulse on the side of his neck instead, mindful of the oozing ring of blisters that marred it. His heartbeat was slow, weak, but not dangerously so. Mirk was relieved to feel Genesis draw a shallow breath just before he pulled his hand away.


    Lost on what else to do while K¡¯aekniv stewed, Mirk returned to fussing with the wounds on Genesis¡¯s arm. Mirk didn''t even know where to start with them; there was so little skin left among all the cuts that Mirk didn''t think he could place any stitches to help close them. He''d have to use magic. And he was too tired for it then. Mirk settled for picking bits of lint out of the wounds that''d been left behind by the bandages Genesis had been hiding them with.


    The weight of K¡¯aekniv¡¯s emotions was quickly becoming unbearable. "Please, Niv," Mirk said. "I need to know what¡¯s going on if I''m going to help you. And you know how he is..."


    Mirk looked up from Genesis''s arm. K''aekniv had turned back toward the bed, his expression torn. Cursing, K''aekniv waved Mirk off as dragged the room''s chair over beside the bed. "I hate this bastard," K''aekniv muttered under his breath.


    K''aekniv''s emotions said otherwise. Concern was plain to be felt there, taking the edge off his frustration. Mirk''s heart ached for him almost as much as it did for Genesis. But Mirk knew it wouldn''t be diplomatic to mention either fact. He sat down on the edge of the bed as K''aekniv thunked down onto the chair on its other side. K¡¯aekniv ignored the alarming crack it gave, swinging his legs up and propping them on the end of the bed as he leaned back and knit his hands behind his head, searching for where to begin.


    The least he could do was give K''aekniv a place to start. "Every time I asked him what the cuts were, he told me they were...what was it...irrelevant?"


    Sparks jumped off K¡¯aekniv¡¯s right arm with the force of his frustration. Thankfully, the chair didn¡¯t catch. "He would! Someone tries to help him, and all he does is spit in his face."


    "But you know where they came from, don''t you?"


    "Only because I made him tell me," K''aekniv replied. "I almost killed him when he...he went off. Once."


    "Went off?"


    "Off! Like now." K''aekniv gave Genesis''s legs a pointed jab with the heel of his boot. "Always some shit with you..."


    "Methinks I don''t understand, Niv."


    "He told me that when he was a boy, some demon took care of him. Another Destroyer."


    Mirk nodded. "I know about those, now...sort of...mages who take things apart?"


    "I don''t fucking know," K''aekniv grumbled. "He has to kill things or he goes all weird, that''s all I know. Anyway. Some demon took care of him. What was the name...ken...nacky...whatever, some demon. Not one of the flower ones from the Moonlit Land. Some old demon from some other place. He stole Snegurochka from the angels and his mama and taught him all his stupid cleaning things and his click clack language. And about what the Empire does to make people do what they want."


    Part of Mirk felt better hearing K''aekniv call Genesis by the odd nickname he''d always used for the commander. More of him felt worried by the mention of the Empire of Heaven. He''d always thought he''d have nothing to do with the Empire now that his father was gone, his godfather aside. Yet, ever since Madame Beaumont''s ball, Mirk had felt the weight of it bearing down on him, making him regret that he''d paid so little attention to all the things his father and his guard spoke of.


    "What happened to him? The demon?" Mirk asked.


    "Imanael killed him. Or maybe not killed. Maybe he just made him go away. Either way, Imanael beat him. Once he had Snegurochka alone, he made that bitch Gaebriel put those things on his arms," K''aekniv said, jerking his chin at the wounds covering Genesis¡¯s forearms.


    His arms. Mirk''s eyes were continually drawn back to them, to the problem of what to do with them. He didn''t have the strength to heal them with magic, but if he was patient and went slowly, he might be able to mix a flesh regeneration potion that could help. Unless he somehow regenerated some more skin between the cuts, he¡¯d never be able to put in any stitches that would take. "What do they do? The cuts?"


    "It''s like...like one of those chains. You know, like on a dog. When he does something his master doesn''t like, the chains bite him. When he tries to kill the wrong thing or do the wrong magic, they make him bleed. Or if he won''t kill something his master wants gone, the chains bite him until he does. They make him crazy. You saw," K''aekniv said, meeting his eyes across the bed.


    Mirk nodded slowly in response, willing himself not to grimace at the force of the hurt K''aekniv was doing his best to hide underneath his frustration. "That''s awful," he whispered.


    "And they don''t even work! Not all the time. If they worked all the time, he''d have killed all of us a long time ago. His magic is made for breaking things. It''s stupid to put a chain on that."


    He didn''t know what to think of K''aekniv''s claims that Genesis would kill them, not now, and not right after the commander had gone distant and wrong. The Genesis Mirk knew was always so deliberate, so careful, so controlled. Mirk thought of all the times he''d sparred with Genesis, all the false strikes he''d rained on him, taps to the neck and chest and side that were always so light that Mirk barely felt them. How could Genesis do that one day and try to claw K''aekniv''s neck out the next? Had Mirk been inches from disaster the whole while, one slip of Genesis''s immaculate control away from death? "I didn''t know," Mirk finally said. "He never said anything..."


    "Of course!" K''aekniv said, rolling his eyes. "He hates this. So he won''t talk about it. Asking for help, that would just make him someone else''s dog. That''s what he thinks, anyway. These chains make him crazy. They make him someone he wants no one else to see. So he tries to fight them alone. And he always loses, just like the rest of us."


    Mirk couldn''t hold himself back any longer. He settled the fingertips of both hands along one of the deep cuts near Genesis''s elbow, calling to his healing potential and opening his mind to the shifting not-patterns of Genesis''s body and magic. The usual hissing of his shadows was subdued, distant. The spell Genesis had put on the young angel must have drained him of most of his potential. And though Mirk listened hard, tried to feel for a magic other than Genesis''s own lurking in the depths of his body, there was none. There was nothing but Genesis on the bed, his presence cold and distant. At least right then. "That''s not fair," Mirk mumbled to himself.


    K''aekniv laughed. It was a bitter, tired sound. "Fair? No one wants to be fair. Everyone wants to win, and that''s it."


    "He doesn''t deserve this."


    "Doesn''t matter. It is what it is. And what are we supposed to do, huh? If he can''t fix them, how is an idiot like me supposed to? And even though you''re smart, your magic isn''t right for it. This isn''t the kind of sick you can fix."


    Though Mirk wanted to protest, he knew that arguing wouldn''t do him any good. Not with K''aekniv, who had been carrying the burden of Genesis''s past alongside the commander for years. And not with Genesis''s lifeless body between them, a testament to how powerless all three of them were. Something in Mirk rebelled against that powerlessness. He tugged hard on the life-giving potential within himself and pressed it into the cut his fingers were poised on, fitting it seamlessly into the shifting patterns of Genesis''s magic that, much like the runes cut into his arms, he''d memorized but still didn''t understand. Not all of his healing magic made it through. It never did. But Genesis''s body accepted just enough to close the wound, though an angry, raised purple scar remained.


    Mirk heard K''aekniv sigh. "Ah, Mirk. You care too much about this bastard."


    Despite himself, Mirk laughed. Just a little. "And you don''t care at all?"


    "It''s not the same! At least I get to beat him for being stupid. You, all you get to do is try to fix him. And there''s no fixing stupid. I should know."


    "God gives each of us a different purpose," Mirk said, shrugging. "And you''re not stupid, Niv."


    That got K''aekniv to laugh again. That time, the sound was more genuine. "See! You''re too good for us."


    Mirk moved his fingers to another one of the cuts. But when he tried to draw on his magic, it burned. He was too weak. Too close to draining the core of his own life energy to help. "I''m no better than anyone else," Mirk said, as he let his hands fall limply to his sides.


    "Anyway, now you know," K''aekniv continued. "As much as I do, but I''m sure that''s not the whole story. He never tells anyone a whole story."


    After thinking for a moment, Mirk looked back across the bed at K''aekniv. The half-angel was staring down at Genesis, more pensive than Mirk thought he''d ever seen him before. "One more thing, though..."


    K''aekniv shrugged his wings. "What? That''s it. I said, that''s all I know."


    Mirk''s eyes lingered on his wings, their disordered and tarnished feathers. He knew how things worked when angels and other peoples had children. The angelic line had to be strong for their offspring to have wings. "It''s...when Gen was...off, he called me by my father''s name."


    "So?"


    "He called you Gaebriel."


    K''aekniv''s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. "What do you think, huh?"


    "I don''t mean to pry. I just...is that your...?"


    Snorting, K''aekniv leaned back further in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and flexing his wings. "If I get the chance? I''m killing that bastard. Him and all his angels. So what if some bastard gave me half his blood? Doesn''t matter. My father, he''s already dead. His name was Sergei Ilyich. And so, my name is K''aekniv Sergeivich. That''s how it is."


    Mirk didn''t understand, not truly, but he nodded all the same. "What was he like?"


    "Father Sergei? He was a good man. A little weird, and he liked to drink and fuck around, but he knew a lot. Not book-learning, real things. How to talk to spirits, how to make the best samogon, that kind of thing. Things you use."


    As K''aekniv spoke, some of the anger faded from his emotions, replaced with a warmth that reminded Mirk of the song K''aekniv always thought of in his projections. Mirk smiled, reaching across the bed and patting K''aekniv on the knee. "Methinks you take after him more than any angel I''ve ever met, Niv."


    "Of course! Those bastards didn''t teach me anything. Everything good I learned, I learned from Father Sergei. The only thing that bastard Gaebriel gave me were these fucking wings that get in the way of everything," K''aekniv said, flicking them, casting an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "And everyone knows that angels are hard to kill, so I got that too, I guess. Too bad for them I''m using it to kill them instead of doing what they say."


    "Who is Gaebriel? And Imanael? I''ve heard their names, but I don''t really know..."


    K''aekniv shrugged. "Some bastards. Who cares what they''re doing up in Heaven? All I want to know is how to kill them. If you want to know all the rest of the shit, you''d have to ask him." K''aekniv flashed Mirk a humorless grin. "Good luck beating it out of him. I couldn''t. Maybe being nice will work better."


    It hadn''t thus far. But Mirk felt like he had to at least give Genesis a chance. That and he suspected Aker wouldn''t be able to help him much, judging by the letter the injured boy''s sister had shoved at the other healers before locking herself in a room down the hall from where they''d brought Genesis. The letter hadn''t been clear on how Aker was involved in the two young angels'' arrival. Mirk suspected that if Imanael was as powerful as he seemed, helping the two children escape had cost his godfather dearly. "I suppose we''ll find out when Gen wakes up," Mirk said.


    Stretching out his wings and rocking further back in the chair, K''aekniv let out a deep, world-weary sigh. The chair groaned and creaked under his weight. "Whatever. Today is the day everyone''s secrets get told. Genesis, he''s crazy. Me, I have a bastard who gave me half my blood. So what''s your secret, eh? Make things fair, since you like that so much,."


    K''aekniv was smiling at him. Joking. Still, a cold wave of fear washed over Mirk. Hugging himself to steady his nerves, Mirk managed to cough up a weak laugh. "Methinks I don''t have any worth knowing, Niv. But you can ask me anything you''d like, if it''d make you feel better."


    The half-angel''s expression went alarmingly pensive as he squinted across the bed at Mirk. Instinctively, Mirk began to pray again. Holy Mary, mother of God, not now, not now¡ª


    "What do you think about all of this shit, huh?"


    Mirk shook his head, blinking hard. "About what?"


    "I always wondered. What did you get told about Heaven when you were a little boy? You loved your angel father. So what did he tell you to explain all the shit the Empire does? Did he want you to be the Empire''s dog too?"


    It was a hard question. But not as hard as the one Mirk feared K¡¯aekniv was going to ask. "Oh, me? No, I can''t even leave Earth. I wouldn''t have done the Empire any good. And I don''t look anything like the other angels, and you know how they all are about that. My sister was the one that my father thought might be able to join his flight. Kae loved to fight. And she looked more like an angel than I do. Tall...wings...serious..."


    "No fun," K''aekniv finished for him, the grin coming back onto his face more easily.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    It drew a chuckle out of Mirk. "A little. But I wasn''t being trained to serve the Empire, so I didn''t learn much about it. Just that it took my father away often. It''s...complicated. Nothing''s all good or all bad, non? Even the K''maneda."


    That got K''aekniv to laugh as well. "The K''maneda has as many bastards in it as the Empire does."


    "So it makes sense that there''d be both in the Empire too. It''s...well. It''s not something I ever worried about. And it doesn''t matter now. I''m a healer. I take care of my patients. No matter where they come from."


    K''aekniv smacked Genesis again, this time leaning forward and cuffing him in the shoulder with one of his giant palms. "Even if they don''t deserve it."


    If anyone deserved looking after, it was the people that no one ever thought to look after. And Genesis was the first among those, at least in Mirk''s opinion. But it was an argument Mirk was too tired to have with K''aekniv again. He settled for giving his head a rueful shake as he went to the room''s supply cabinet to dig out a sheet to drape over Genesis. The commander wouldn''t appreciate having people staring at his bloody arms, even if it was only him and K''aekniv. "Even then."


    -   -   -


    "Mirk?"


    The voice from out in the hall was tired, but curious. Mirk could barely hear it over the drone of K''aekniv''s snoring.


    "Attendez, j''arrive..." Mirk called out, most of his attention still focused on Genesis''s arm. He''d tried three different potions on it, each one fractionally more effective than the last. The bowl at his elbow contained the last of the components he''d stolen from the fourth floor supply closet. Mirk didn''t know if he could bear the strain of walking all the way down to the one on the ground floor to get more powdered arrowroot. It had to work.


    Holding his breath, Mirk let a few droplets of the potion fall from the glass mixing rod onto one of the nastiest wounds. The potion sizzled, giving off a few faint, black sparks. Rather than beading on top of Genesis''s raw flesh, the potion vanished. And though it couldn''t be seen with the naked eye, Mirk knew that meant the wound had healed, by only the barest sliver.


    Only once he''d put the mixing rod back in the bowl did Mirk allow himself to exhale, fixing a smile on his face as he turned around to face the open door behind him. "Yes?"


    It was Sheila. She was leaning against the door frame, her neck craned to one side so that she could peer at Genesis still lying motionless on the bed, and at K''aekniv snoring away in the chair on its far side. Making a thoughtful noise, she straightened up and looked back at Mirk. "The angel girl wants to talk to you. The boy''s sister."


    "Me?"


    "She asked for you by name."


    "Strange..." Mirk moved the bowl full of potion to the top of the supply cabinet, then continued on to the door, brushing down the front of his robes as he went. They were smeared with blood. There was no helping that, he supposed. Hopefully it wouldn''t upset the girl too badly.


    As he started off down the hall, Sheila took hold of his arm. Mirk felt the heat rise on his face. He had to be faring poorly, for Sheila to offer out her support. She had the worst bedside habits of any of the Twentieth''s healers, aside from Yule. Though she tended to get sweeter when she was hungry. "She''s refused to talk to anyone yet,¡± Sheila said. ¡°Well. Other than to yell out the door that she demanded the right to parley with the heir to the shield-bearer of the Western Host. You''re the only one here that comes close to fitting the bill."


    Mirk let himself lean hard on Sheila''s arm as he thought. He didn''t feel ready to face the boy''s sister. What could he say to comfort her? What answers could he give? All he knew about what had brought her and her brother to the City of the Glass had come from her letter. And even when he was fresh, Mirk knew he wasn''t terribly clever. Now, worn down by shock and magic, he was practically useless. He''d been seriously considering joining K''aekniv in taking a nap once he''d confirmed that his newest potion worked. But if someone else needed him...someone who needed him badly enough to practically ask for him by name...


    "Here we are," Sheila said, tugging on his arm to guide him. The door she led him to was closed, unlike all the others up on the fifth floor. Though the agony of the injured boy''s suffering had cleared, most of the patients hadn''t yet returned to the infirmary, as far as Mirk could feel. "Do you want help? You smell awful. Your body''s eating itself, you haven''t fed in so long. I''d offer you a snack, but...well..."


    Mirk sighed. Most of the other healers were turned off by Sheila''s glib sense of humor, but it''d never bothered Mirk. A sure sign of the worrying degree to which he enjoyed strangeness rather than being repelled by it. "No, thank you. Methinks it''d be easier if she only had to talk to one person at a time. That and, euh...well...Imperial angels..."


    "You don''t have to tell me," Sheila said with a snort, reluctantly releasing her hold on his arm. Mirk was uncertain whether the reluctance was due to concern, or because she''d been hoping to sneak a glimpse of the girl and eavesdrop on what news she''d brought from the Empire.


    Waving Sheila off with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Mirk nodded. "If I need something, you''ll be the first person I come to."


    "I''m the only one here," she retorted, glancing down the hall in the direction they''d come from. "Getting that piece of glass out of that boy''s chest took everything Emir had. Even with Yule and Danu helping him."


    Mirk wasn''t comforted by that bit of news. But he went up to the door nevertheless, as soon as Sheila had stalked off to investigate whatever it was her inhuman senses had heard, drawing himself up to his full height before knocking. "Hello? Miss...Sharael, is it?"


    There was no reply. Mirk eased the door open, just a crack. Not that it would open any further, even if Mirk had wanted to barge in. Someone had jammed a chair up under the handle. "Miss Sharael? May I come in?"


    The response was muffled, barely intelligible ¡ª Mirk''s angelic was still rusty, and the fact that the room''s occupant sounded as if they were talking into a pillow didn''t help. "Does it matter if I say no?"


    Mirk considered answering her in angelic, but dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. Better to stick to English, the shaky middle ground between them. That aside, Mirk was embarrassed to realize he''d completely forgotten the polite angelic female form of address. "Of course it does, Miss Sharael. But Comrade Sheila said something about you looking for me..."


    The bed in the room beyond creaked. Mirk heard the rustling of feathers. That time, when the voice came again, it spoke in English. "Oh. You''re...Mikael''s son. You don''t feel like an angel at all."


    "I take after my mother, I''m afraid. May I come in?"


    Mirk didn''t hear her cross the room to the door. But he did hear the chair clank. And the door eased open a few more inches. Mirk sidled inside, shutting the door carefully behind himself as he entered. At first, all he could see of the girl were her wings. She''d returned to the bed and was facing away from him, holding her thick, brilliant-white wings tight against her back in a guarded gesture. They were much larger and more developed than her brother''s, or even those of the other fully-grown winged angels he''d met. Mirk cleared his throat to catch her attention. "Methinks it was very brave of you, coming all this way...it must be terribly cold here for you..."


    The girl hopped off the bed and whirled around to face him. Her features were full-blood angelic to the last: high cheekbones, narrow face, lilac eyes that were as cold and unyielding as her flawless white skin. A kind of beauty that was more unnerving than it was appealing, though all Mirk felt toward her was sympathy. Even though his sister hadn''t been quite so fair, and her eyes darker, he''d seen that haughty expression on Kae''s face enough times to know the young girl was more frightened than she was angry. "I''m not a child," she growled at him.


    Mirk ducked his head. "Bien s?r. You''re older than I am, Miss Sharael. I didn''t mean to offend you."


    She spent a minute or so scrutinizing him before she replied, giving Mirk a once-over both with her eyes and magic. Mirk didn''t attempt to shield away either his magic or the emotions he was dragging himself through: fatigue, compassion, worry. Sharael''s expression softened, just a touch. "I expected you to be more..."


    He laughed. "Serious? Big? Winged?"


    "...yes."


    "My sister was all of those. Like I said, I take after my mother."


    "A human."


    "I know most full-bloods think it''s...strange that an angel would prefer them," Mirk said. "But my father did."


    The girl''s expression softened further at this, for a reason Mirk couldn''t pinpoint. She didn''t have the same kind of empathy her brother did, terribly wild and strong, but she did have enough mind magic to keep her emotions hidden from him.


    "How can I help you, Miss Sharael?" Mirk asked.


    "You already must have," she said as she sat back down on the bed, taking care to first shake out her wings and spread them out behind herself, to avoid bending any of her feathers. "I can''t feel Sam hurting any more."


    "Well...methinks he isn''t healed all the way yet, but we''ll be able to help him, yes. Comrade Commander Emir just did surgery on him to take out the thing in his chest that was making him hurt so badly." Mirk hesitated, but pressed on. The girl did seem annoyed by people trying to spare her feelings. It¡¯d be better to be direct.. "Was it a part of purification?"


    Sharael nodded, slowly. "He...we needed..." She shook her head, her eyes hardening once more. "Yes. But it won''t happen now. Thank you."


    "You don''t need to thank us, Miss Sharael. We''re here to help."


    "Us..." She glanced around the room, frowning at the shabby wooden furniture, at the used rags that were littered atop the supply cabinet, at the wall beside the window that still had scorch marks on it from a prior unruly patient. "The K''maneda?"


    "Yes, that''s right."


    Sharael sighed again, tugging at the sleeves of her long, thick, heavily-embroidered robes. There were crystals worked into the pattern. She and her brother had to be from a family of means, though not from the uppermost echelons of Imperial society. Otherwise Mirk doubted she would have been able to flee Heaven relatively unscathed, even with his godfather''s help. "They still tell us nursery stories about all of you. Monsters who ate up half of the Light Eternal then ran away like cowards."


    Mirk gave an awkward laugh. "I wouldn''t know much about that, Miss Sharael. I''ve only been here a little while."


    "You don''t look very scary."


    "I''ve never been very good at that. But they tell me I''ll learn if I stay here long enough."


    Sharael gave him a harder once-over with her magic and eyes, her skepticism growing. "You''re about as scary as my nursemaid was."


    With a helpless shrug, Mirk edged a few steps closer to her. Sharael didn''t react. "Well, I am a healer. Which is sort of like a nursemaid. Though methinks I don''t count for a maid, exactly."


    "Like there are spare women in Heaven to keep around to raise children," Sharael said, rolling her eyes.


    "Ah, well...may I sit down, Miss Sharael? I''m a little tired..."


    "I don''t care," she said, making a dismissive gesture at the chair she''d pulled out from underneath the door handle. "And stop calling me Miss. I''m not some kind of lady. That''s the whole point."


    "Is it?"


    "Yes," she said, sitting up straighter on the bed. "I''m never going to be one. That''s why I''m here. And to help Sam. But you know that part already."


    "Sort of," Mirk said, going to the chair. Though he tried to lower himself down into it with some semblance of grace, the motion ended up as more of a flop. "Everyone has told me a little something. But I''d rather hear your side of the story. If you want to talk about it?"


    "You''re the only person here who''d understand, anyway," she muttered to herself as she thought the proposition over, folding her arms over her chest. That was another sure sign of Northern blood ¡ª she wasn''t entirely flat-chested, not like the Western women Mirk had heard his father''s guard speak of, who were so androgynous that the men and women could barely be told apart.


    "Oh?"


    Again, Sharael hesitated. "Your father really was Mikael? Son of Mivael? Grandson of Midael Shield-Bearer?"


    "I...well, I must be. I was supposed to be Milael. But my mother made my father compromise a little on the name."


    "Commander Aker said that you were a great mage."


    "Aker sent you? He''s my olaein. How do you know him?"


    "I didn''t. He just...showed up. I''d never seen him before. But everyone knows there''s only one Southern angel left who they let wear Imperial armor." Sharael seemed to be drawing on some inner well of strength, concentrating on it for a time before she continued. "He appeared in my room in the middle of the night. The one after Sam was taken away to be purified. He said that he owed it to us to get us away from Lord Imanael. You can tell we''re not from his line, can''t you?"


    Mirk nodded. "You do look a bit too...Northern."


    "Sam was just born with empathy that''s like Lord Imanael''s. Just like I was born with next to nothing. But I can shield hard, thank the Light Eternal. I''d hate to be able to feel others. You people always seem miserable."


    "A blessing and a curse," Mirk said, sighing. As much as he disliked all the trouble his empathy put him through, Mirk was glad for it. Navigating the world without it would feel like walking around blind and deaf, he imagined.


    "Lord Imanael has been bothering Sam for as long as I can remember. He''s just...always been there. Aena said that Lord Imanael came to visit right after Sam was born and offered to be his tutor. Said he could feel Sam''s magic all the way across the realm, and that if he was trained like he was that Sam could be just as powerful. Some garbage like that. I don''t blame Aena for saying yes. Laea had just...she...anyway, you don''t say no when Lord Imanael offers to train your only son, not when you''re some nobody from the Northern Delegation."


    "Yes, of course." Mirk knew just enough about what life was like for full-blooded angels to hear what Sharael was leaving unsaid. Her father had been upset. And her mother, most likely, had died in childbirth with her brother. Birthing full-blooded angels was dangerous. Mirk could imagine that Sharael''s father must have wanted to do everything in his power to ensure that the child his wife had died bringing into the warmth of the Light Eternal succeeded in life. That aside, there was no turning away someone like Imanael, if all the things Mirk had seen and heard about him were true. Anyone who could put a binding spell on Genesis''s magic, no matter how successful it was, had to be terribly strong.


    "Right. It..." Sharael hesitated, looking down at the floor. Mirk could see her anger in the way her lips were twitching, though her emotions didn¡¯t leak past her mental shielding. "...opened doors. We moved to the Capital. And it made me...marriageable." She spat out the last word like a curse, now hugging herself to keep back her rage.


    "That must have been hard," Mirk said, quietly.


    "I don''t want to die! I''m half-Northern, the Citadel shouldn''t have wanted me! But I was supposed to be dedicated in ten years. And after that, it''d only be another hundred, and I''d be married. And after that, you have children, and then you die. Everyone knows that''s how it works. And everyone else thinks that''s the way it should be."


    Everything Sharael said was true, as far as Mirk understood. He''d heard his father''s men speak bitterly of the Citadel, where the Western women lived, apart from the rest. To be closer to the warmth of the Light Eternal, to steel their bodies against the trials of childbirth. Western men waited in line for centuries for their chance to enter the Citadel and be judged worthy of continuing their family line through marriage. Things were less strict in the North and the East, but even more women died there, like Sharael''s mother had. He''d overheard his tutors talking once about how insane his father must have been, to forsake the spot in line granted to him by his lineage and marry a human woman instead. Mirk hadn''t been insulted by it. All the gossip only confirmed the depth of the love he could always feel between his parents.


    And he couldn''t fault Sharael for wanting to escape it all either, not in the slightest. It was another act of love. Love for her brother, and herself.


    "They''re going to come looking for us," Sharael said in a near whisper, drawing her wings in close against her back again. "They''ll send the Thrones after us for disobeying. They''ll lock me up. They''ll purify Sam."


    Mirk didn''t have the heart to lie to her. "I''m sure they''ll look for you, yes."


    "If you give me back to them, fine. Just...just don''t give them Sam. I''ve seen what purification does. There won''t be any Sam left after Imanael''s done with him. He''ll just...he''ll just be another sword in the Emperor''s armory, and I''ll be..."


    Though he wanted to get up and go to her side, wanted to comfort her, Mirk held himself back. Angels weren''t affectionate, not like humans were. They didn''t take any comfort from the small gestures of care he used so often. All they saw in it was shame. Which meant all he could give her were words. "We won''t give up either of you."


    Sharael snorted. "Don''t make promises you can''t keep. Commander Aker said you were strong, but he lied. You couldn''t fight off one Throne. A whole flight would rip you to pieces."


    "Maybe. But I''ll still do everything I can to keep you safe."


    "You and what army?"


    "Euh...well, you are in the City of Glass. With the K''maneda. We are an army. And the City is a fortress, I''ve been told."


    "The fortress part is right. Commander Aker had to perform some spell for us to get in. But none of the mages I''ve seen here so far have been very strong. You included."


    "Oh, you wouldn''t see those kind of mages here. We''re all healers in the infirmary. They keep all the scary monsters out on contract." More like they keep themselves out on contract, Mirk thought to himself, unable to keep from thinking of Genesis''s motionless and mangled body secreted away in the room down the hall.


    "I guess you did fix Sam. Somehow," Sharael said, grudgingly. "But healing magic isn''t going to keep Lord Imanael and the Thrones away. And all the stories say that the K''maneda are sell-swords. That means they''ll give up anything if the price is right."


    "Hmm...some would, maybe. But not us healers, and not my friends. And I promise, I have very scary friends."


    Sharael didn''t look convinced. But she gave up on arguing with a wave of her hand, pulling her legs up onto the bed before turning onto her stomach and lying down. With wings that big, Mirk knew it was the only comfortable position to sleep in. "It doesn''t matter. Either you''ll help me, or you won''t. Nothing I say can make it change."


    "That''s one way to look at things, I suppose..."


    "Go to sleep," Sharael said, without lifting her head. "You look half-dead. If you''re going to protect us, you need to be stronger."


    Mirk chuckled to himself as he levered himself up out of the chair. Even though Sharael resented the Empire''s brand of nobility, she''d evidentially picked up on some of their imperious attitude over the years and made it her own. "Thank you, Sharael. I''ll be by to check on you and your brother as soon as I''m feeling better."


    "I can take care of myself. Look after Sam. He''s the one that needs the empath."


    Sighing, Mirk shuffled back to the door and left. Even if having the two young angels hidden in the City did cause problems, at the very least it''d give him something to do other than brood over Genesis.

 Chapter 28

    Mirk had wanted to check in on them as soon as the chill of autumn released him. He''d been on his way there, in fact, when he''d felt the first twinges of pain radiating from Samael at the back end of the long-term ward. After that, everything had gotten so confused and painful that the duty of tending to the remains of his family had completely slipped from his mind.


    But the first thing he¡¯d seen when he¡¯d stumbled out of the heavily-shielded long-term ward room he¡¯d collapsed in after speaking with Sharael was Armel filching lunch trays from the cart at the end of the hall. His cousin was still limping, but was much improved from when he''d last seen him. To his relief, Armel wasn¡¯t bothered by his neglect of them during his illness. He had even been agreeable enough to put the trays back before leading Mirk up to the room on the fourth floor where Emir had stashed Henri and his cousins.


    His family was in one of the larger rooms on the floor, used for managing the aftermath of particularly bloody battles, the dozen beds in each one separated by curtains whenever the aides had a spare moment to hang them once things settled down. There was no need for them then. His cousins had clustered all the beds close together at one end of the room, leaving the other half free to serve as a makeshift sitting room, the open windows bathing the cobbled together spare chairs and nightstands with sunlight and allowing a cool breeze to clear out some of the infirmary''s perpetual stuffiness.


    At present, no one was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. All of Mirk''s cousins were clustered around the bed Henri was propped up in, as if none of them could stand the thought of being out of arm''s reach for too long. Henri was still much thinner than he''d been before everything had happened, his cheeks still sunken and covered with the beginnings of a beard, but his color had improved. He, along with the rest of the d¡¯Avignons, was coming back to life. Against all odds.


    Which made the matter of how Mirk was supposed to help his family make their way in the world again all the more pressing.


    "I''m so sorry for being away, Uncle Henri," Mirk said, sitting down beside him on the side of his bed. "I''d meant to come right away, but I got sick, and then..."


    The sympathetic smile Henri flashed him had some of its old spark in it too, the shy charm that he''d heard his Aunt Isabelle wax on to her sisters for hours about. "Yes, the healers who moved us here from Madame Beaumont''s mentioned that. Are you well now?"


    Mirk nodded, smiling in return. He didn''t feel well, not at all. But it''d be better if Henri and his cousins didn''t know that. And they didn''t have the empathy to tell how hollow and confused he still felt. "Oh, yes. It was nothing bad, something that happens every year. How are you all settling in? I know this isn¡¯t as comfortable as you''re all used to. And it must be dull not having much to do."


    Henri shrugged. "At least we can open the windows here. And it''s been a great boon to the children, being around so many different kinds of mages to help them learn their crafts. You know I wasn''t blessed with much potential. I''m no use in teaching them," he said, gesturing vaguely around at the cobbled remains of their family. His Aunt Christine''s young children were on the floor beside Henri''s bed, the sad collection of toys the healers had brought them lying neglected between them, while Claire and In¨¨s sat listening on the edge of the nearest bed, their heads held down. Armel was the only one willing to be further away, in a chair where he could both listen and keep a close watch on the door.


    "Who''s been helping?"


    Henri''s pleasant smile went brittle. "They found a water mage for In¨¨s. And though Armel and Claire don''t have the healing gift, the Earth mages have still found lessons for them to work on. And...well. They''ve both been on a...martial streak."


    Claire spoke then, lifting her head and staring at her father with a grim determination that was out of place on her round, girlish face. "We want to be able to help protect you, Papa."


    "It''s my responsibility now," Armel added. "I want to be able to do more than just teleport away the next time something happens."


    "Apparently, my children have decided I''m completely defenseless," Henri joked, though there was a certain note of guilt in his voice. Mirk felt for Henri, for how trying a situation his uncle had found himself in, suddenly the sole protector of five children overflowing with magical potential while he had little to offer in return. That aside, Mirk doubted Henri had ever considered the tact and the effort it took to raise children on his own. His uncle had always been preoccupied by this work and his ledgers, leaving the task of training his children on how to behave in polite society to their mother.


    In a way, Mirk felt the same. Although he''d spent years shadowing his mother, he felt ill-prepared for the task of restoring their family. It may have been better if their positions had been reversed, and he''d been left to tend to the children while Henri nurtured the remaining connections their family had with the other noble mages. Henri had never been a social man, but he was a man of business, with a sound and reasonable head on his shoulders that was unswayed by sentiment when gold was on the table. As much as the older nobles complained about business not being a respectable hobby for a man of rank, their disdainful commentary also made it clear that commerce was quickly overtaking fighting and magecraft as a path to accumulating influence in society. Henri would have been able to do much more with that gift of his than Mirk could do with empathy and instinct alone.


    The thought sparked an idea, something Mirk could offer to his uncle to make him feel a little less useless. "Speaking of fighting, uncle, there might be a way you can help with that, even if you can''t do it yourself. And maybe it might make your spending some time in the City worthwhile. For all of us."


    Henri shot him a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"


    "The K''maneda is an army. They go through weapons like water. From what I''ve seen, half the swords they give the men when they join are useless. Unless you come with your own sword, you''re left with nothing. The men Genesis oversees have swords without any enchantments on them at all."


    "Common practice," Henri said, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap over his blanket. "Artificers and enchanters aren''t cheap. Neither are the raw materials."


    "No, I''m sure they''re not. But, honestly, even the swords I see half the infantrymen carrying in the noble divisions don''t have the basic enchantments you put on all of your weapons on them. It might be because the noble K''maneda don''t get on well with the English guilds."


    "Maybe. The guilds are jealous. Every year, the artificers want more dues from me. And the enchanters are even worse," Henri said with a sigh.


    "But I imagine that they wouldn''t have as many problems getting supplies if they were asking for them from someone outside of the English guilds. And if you weren''t selling only to the French guilds, they might leave you to do what you like. I know that you prefer to make bespoke weapons, not common ones, but..."


    Henri laughed, weakly, though it triggered a coughing fit that it took him a minute to overcome. "Isabelle spoiled me so much, God bless her. Let me dabble and do whatever I wanted. But...well. I suppose it wouldn''t hurt for me to start trying to make real money with the business, since Is...since there''s no one to scold me over how unfitting it is for a Dufort to be messing about in it. It''d take time to change the workshop to accommodate it, of course. And my mages won''t be happy doing more tedious work. But as long as I can keep my noble clients, they shouldn''t be too upset. I''ll need more smiths to handle the mundane work. Then there''s the materials..."


    Mirk could practically see the tallies of numbers running through his uncle''s head. He smiled, reaching out and patting Henri''s clasped hands. "So things might not be so bad, yes?"


    Henri nodded. But midway through the gesture, he thought of something else, something that made him clench his hands together. "My mages. I had to put them all on furlough. I have enough from Isabelle to keep paying them for another three months. And since I have the post now, I suppose I can start trying to commission them new orders and they can do the work in their own ateliers. But the workshop will need repairs, and I don''t know how many..."


    Mirk pressed his uncle''s hands more tightly, projecting the faintest spark of sympathy to him along with the gesture. "I have Jean-Luc''s accounts. You don''t have to worry."


    "But that''s not my money, Mirk," Henri said, his expression turning grave. "I...I should go to my own family. They won''t want to keep the shop up. They always wanted me working the Teleporters Guild''s ledgers instead. But...it''s...now that Isabelle..."


    Adamant, Mirk shook his head. "You''ll always be my uncle, Henri. Jean-Luc would have wanted you to have it. He always looked so happy, when he saw all of us together..."


    Mirk wished he hadn''t evoked the memory. The night before everything had gone wrong, the first dinner where all the d''Avignons had gathered together under the same roof without exception since before Mirk had been sent to the abbey. Even his father had been there, looking ill-at-ease and out-of-place in the giant chair the servants had to haul in from the cellar to accommodate him. Mirk had ended up at his grandfather''s right hand side, at the head of the table, first in line among his younger cousins.


    He hadn''t felt right there. But it was where the servants had led him, where his grandfather had been waiting for him, surveying all the children and Mirk''s aunts and uncles with a quiet, thoughtful smile. And then Jean-Luc had turned that smile on Mirk, as he leaned his staff against the side of the table in favor of picking up his fork and knife, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I never would have thought we''d come this far, he''d said, leaning in close to be certain Mirk heard him. But you, my boy, you''ll take them even farther. I can feel it.


    In the space of less than a full day''s time, half of those seated at the table, Jean-Luc included, had been dead.


    The touch of Henri''s hand on his own startled Mirk out of the memory. His uncle looked as lost as Mirk felt. "I won''t drain the ledgers, Mirk. I promise. We''ll...we''ll sort something out. I''ll get the workshop up and running as soon as I''m well. Though..."


    "Though?"


    "The men Madame Beaumont sent to rescue us, Black Banner. They got us out, but we were running all the way until we crossed the Loire. Those...things that were hunting us might still be there. It won''t be safe for the children and I to go back on our own."


    Mirk thought this over, chewing on his lip. "It may cost us a little, but someone here should be able to help."


    "Can''t you just call in a favor? These are your friends. I thought."


    "Things are different here than they are at home. There are different rules," Mirk said, shaking his head. "Asking them to do it for free would be taking advantage of them, and I wouldn''t want to ruin my reputation here. They were paid to protect us before, after all."


    "Ah. I suppose you have a point," Henri said. "It''s...everything used to sort itself out on its own, before. At least, it felt that way."


    It had. Whenever he''d needed something before coming to the K''maneda, a servant had appeared with it a few days later, the gold and the means through which the need had been satisfied going entirely unmentioned. New clothes replaced last season''s in his wardrobe without Mirk needing to request them. Meals made of the freshest ingredients arrived at the appointed hour without Mirk ever having to ask. The coach was ready within the hour whenever he or his mother wished to go somewhere, and their lodgings were always secure by the time they''d reached their destination. Everything just...happened.


    And he''d been too oblivious and spoiled to think of all the work needed to make his life so gentle, so carefree. He''d been too preoccupied by the lessons his mother and tutors were trying to drill into him to think of anything but himself. Now he had to do both halves at once. Alone. Again, Mirk mustered up a smile for Henri and his cousins. "I''ll take care of everything. None of you have to worry. The K''maneda...well, they''re a little rough, but if I''d ever wanted good tutors in politics and money, there''s no one more suited to it than they are."


    Henri returned his strained smile with a rueful one of his own. "I mean you no offense, Mirk, but I think you''d make a rather poor mercenary."


    The comment startled Mirk into a genuine laugh. "Oh, of course. But if there''s one thing Jean-Luc and mother taught me well, what you know isn''t nearly as important as who. And there are many helpful people in the K''maneda. Provided you approach them in the right way."


    "I''ll have to take your word on that," Henri said. "I''m stuck in bed for another month at least, or so the healers tell me. And they''re all worried about how much of their potential Claire and In¨¨s drained. And...oh, I remember now, that was the other thing I wanted to tell you. The healers tested Edme and Honor¨¦ for magic when they were checking for other illnesses. We were right. Honor¨¦ has the empathic gift. Still growing, so we don''t know how strong it''ll be yet, but it''s there."


    Mirk looked down at the boy, who''d stopped his listless playing about with a wooden train at the sound of his name. He wasn''t sure whether to be glad or feel sorry for him. As of late, his own empathy had brought him much more pain than it had joy. Curious, Mirk reached down and pressed the back of his hand to Honor¨¦''s cheek, projecting a spark of reassurance and good cheer to him. The boy''s eyes lit up and he eagerly grabbed Mirk''s hand with both of his own. What Honor¨¦ projected in return was jumbled and indistinct, but was positive nevertheless. "Yes, I can feel it," Mirk said to Henri. "What about Edme?"


    "Chaotic fire magic. Like his father." Henri said the words with a touch of sadness that made both Mirk and Honor¨¦''s smiles fade. It would have been better if Edme had been blessed with earth magic like his mother, to make it easier to forget what had happened. But Providence made no mistakes. "It makes us better rounded, I suppose. And at least Armel got the teleporting gift from my side. There hasn''t been a teleporting mage in the family before, has there? Though your father and sister..."


    With their wings and their ability to move through the light in the same way that Genesis could move through the shadows, provided they had enough potential, the teleporting gift was almost irrelevant to angels. Mirk refused to dwell on either the missing members of his family or Genesis, instead watching as Honor¨¦ continued to squeeze his hand and make half-formed projections at him as he spoke with Henri. "God has blessed us all. Despite everything."


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "If I do my best, and you do yours, I think we''ll be all right," Henri said. More than trying to comfort him, it sounded like his uncle was trying to convince himself not to be upset.


    "Is there anything else I can bring you, uncle? Are they feeding you well?"


    Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk caught Claire and In¨¨s exchanging a pointed look. "It''s fine," Henri insisted, before either of them could speak. "It''s better than what we had in the workshop. But they do seem determined to keep us on soft and bland food. That''s fine for me, considering, but the children are still growing. Though I wouldn''t mind a cup of coffee myself. But I gather that might be a rare treat around here. Expensive habits die hard, I suppose."


    Mirk knew what Henri meant better than his uncle probably knew. If things ever stopped going wrong one after another, Mirk was determined to set himself to the task of learning to cook. He''d had enough stale buns and boiled vegetables for a lifetime. "I understand completely. Really, I''m glad you''re all here. You''ll make me do a little work for once. It''s hard to be productive when you have no one to work for but yourself."


    Which wasn''t entirely true. He did have someone else to look after. Again, Mirk made himself focus in on the warm faces of his family instead of brooding on the lifeless one still waiting for him up on the fifth floor.


    "Maybe some books would be nice too," Henri continued. "If there are any here, that is. The healers brought some grimoires from somewhere for the children to learn from, but magical theory all goes straight over my head."


    "Yes, I can go down to the library and find something. What do you like to read?"


    Henri laughed, sheepishly. "Oh, absolute garbage. Adventures, comedies, poems...anything other than magic, really."


    "The library here is bigger than you¡¯d think. It shouldn''t be too hard," Mirk said as he got up from the side of the bed, carefully detaching Honor¨¦''s hand from his with a final projection of encouragement. But before he could begin to say his goodbyes and move to leave, to tend to all his family''s needs before the needs of the infirmary sucked him back in, Claire spoke up.


    "You said you''d ask, Papa," she insisted, glaring at her father.


    "Your cousin''s already doing a lot for us," Henri replied, shrinking away from his daughter''s scowl.


    "But you said!" Armel interjected from across the room.


    "What is it, Claire?" Mirk asked. "It¡¯s really no trouble."


    "Papa said that he''d ask you to find a sword master here to train us," Claire said, focusing her gleaming eyes on Mirk. "This whole place is full of fighters. That''s what the healers kept saying when I asked. There has to be someone here who can train me and Armel. At least until we get back to Bordeaux and I can start with Master Claudio again."


    "Master Claudio?" Henri gave a choked-off gasp. "You''ve been training with him?"


    "Where do you think I learned enough to fight off those demons from?" Claire rolled her eyes, scornfully. "You really don''t pay attention to anything other than your artificing and your ledgers. Mama had been giving me gold for lessons ever since I was five."


    Henri wilted a little under her scrutiny, his head thunking against the stone wall behind the bed as he leaned back to stare at the ceiling. "I really am a fool..."


    "Can you get me a lady sword master?" Claire asked Mirk, some excitement coming back onto her face. "You can get whoever for Armel, but I want a woman. The healers said that they teach all the women here to fight too."


    "Ah...well...sort of," Mirk said, thinking. He hated going against his uncle''s wishes, but his time in the K''maneda had taught him the utility of everyone learning to fight a little, even women. And he could think of more than a handful of women that could rival a man in combat, though most of them used their fists and their wits rather than blades. "I''ll see what I can do, Claire. But I won''t make any promises."


    "But you can promise that you''ll try, at least? Yes?" Claire goaded him.


    "I suppose I can do that much. But only if you promise to listen to your father from now on."


    Claire gave an eager nod, though Mirk suspected she''d wriggle her way out of her end of the bargain at the earliest opportunity. Claire had always been the most headstrong of all his cousins, the complete opposite of her sister In¨¨s, who was still hugging herself and looking down at her swinging feet on the edge of the bed beside her sister. It was strange, Mirk thought, how it always seemed to be the case that gifts were never equally distributed among siblings. "The rest of you should too," Mirk said, taking a final look around at his family. "Remember, things are easier when we all work together instead of against each other, yes?"


    That earned him murmured replies from everyone, deferential and thoughtful nods. Even though the remaining members of his family were staying close physically, Mirk felt as if their ordeal had put an insurmountable gap between their hearts. Every one of them seemed lost in their own guilt, their own worries, unable to trust themselves to lean fully on one another. Mirk did what he could. He bent down and pressed his hand to Honor¨¦''s cheek again for a moment, projecting a sense of reassurance and calmness along with the touch. His young cousin''s face lit up and he began to giggle. "I''m sorry to have to run off again right away," Mirk said to them all. "They''ll be expecting me downstairs again soon. I''ve already been away much longer than is usually tolerated."


    Henri sat up straighter in bed. Mirk''s presence seemed to have granted him a kind of reprieve, one that would come to an end as soon as he stepped back out in the hall. It made Mirk regret leaving them. "The K''maneda don''t seem like the sort of people who make much time for pleasantries and sociability."


    Mirk forced out a laugh. "Not even a bit. But I''ll come back soon, I promise. With books. And coffee, and better food. And news on your training," he added, when he saw the pout forming on Claire''s face. "Everyone take care."


    Again, all the members of his family gave their own murmured pleasantries in response, most of them attempting to put on a brave face as well. As Mirk went to the door, he paused to squeeze Armel''s arm, a small show of thanks for being diligent keeping watch on the door while the rest of them had been preoccupied. Only once he was alone back out in the hall did Mirk allow himself to deflate, hunching over and wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to find some manner of comfort.


    He wasn''t meant for any of it. His mother and grandfather had done their best to teach him how to be the head of a family, how to be proud and graceful and clever, but it was all too little, too late. All he had to work with was instinct, instinct that didn''t always serve him and his family well, unschooled as it was. But did he have any choice other than to continue? He''d been so overjoyed at first to learn that he wasn''t alone, that he hadn''t been the only d''Avignon to survive, that he hadn''t considered the consequences of it. They were all becoming dreadfully clear now that he was faced with the concrete duties that came along with being the head of the family. How to keep the ledgers from becoming depleted, how to send his uncle and cousins home, how to rebuild their reputation...


    "Mirk! There you are!"


    It was Yule. Mirk cleared his throat and made himself straighten back up. The older healer didn''t look annoyed for once. Instead, he was grinning. The reason for his smile was walking silently down the hall toward him in Yule''s wake, a pace behind and to the right. A djinn, his bearing regal and upright, his hands held primly behind his back.


    "Ah, Yule...I''m so sorry for leaving you all alone again...you must be so busy getting everyone settled in downstairs again..." Mirk mumbled as he studied the djinn in his peripheral vision. He seemed to be of a different sort from the ones the K''maneda kept. Rather than being lithe and narrow, that djinn was muscular and big about the shoulders, with darker skin and thicker hair. He''d have given even the bigger men of the Seventh a run for their money in a fight.


    Impatiently, Yule waved Mirk off. "He says he''s here for you. Letter. Insisted on delivering it by hand instead of leaving it down in the waiting room."


    Without further prompting, the djinn approached Mirk, dropping into a deferential bow with a grace that was at odds with his bulky frame, holding out a letter. Swallowing hard, Mirk took it from him with a nod and flipped the envelope over, his eyes going immediately to its seal. He didn''t recognize it: a cross with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. Mirk had been hoping against hope that it''d be another letter from Madame Beaumont, sent by a guild djinn due to Monsieur Am-Hazek being otherwise occupied. He should have known better. The djinn before him was too finely appointed, in silk and velvet with touches of silver, to be a dedicated messenger. The largest piece of silver on him was his collar, as wide and thick as those of Ravensdale''s djinn, but not so tight and ugly.


    Mirk opened the letter. It was in French, which didn''t come as a surprise. Though the handwriting was so ornate and flowing that it took Mirk a few tries to make sense of the words.


    Most Respected Seigneur,


    I wish to once more convey my deepest sympathy, on behalf of all the member guilds of the Circle, for the loss of your grandfather. It is clear to us all now, after more investigation and conversation with other members of Serge Montigny''s retinue, that your family was grievously wronged. We wish, above all else, to put this unfortunate incident behind us.


    In that spirit, we request your presence at a private meeting of the Circle, to be held a fortnight from now. Although I am certain you personally had nothing to do with it, an alarming spell has been placed on several leading members of the Montigny family by Imperial servants. We have exhausted all our means to contact the Empire, to no avail. No recourse remains open to us to resolve this matter other than to turn to you for aid.


    On behalf of the remaining members of the Montigny household, I humbly request your assistance in this matter at the next meeting. Laurent Montigny has agreed that all ill will between your families will be undone, should you be able to lift the spell. In the spirit of cooperation, he has sent along his memorial stone, along with the family''s personal healer''s report on the mark that has been left on each of his uncles'' chests, which I have been assured is key to undoing the spell that plagues them.


    The meeting will take place at noon at Mme. Polignac''s residence in Limoges, to preserve the dignity of those affected by the spell. Owing to your condition, all travel will, of course, be arranged for you and your two attendants.


    On behalf of all the members of the Circle, and personally, I wish to again extend to my condolences.


    Respectfully,


    Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont, Grand Master, Le Phare de la Prosp¨¦rit¨¦


    Mirk did his best to keep his hands steady as he read the letter over again. His memories of the recording trapped in Laurent''s memorial stone were hazy, but he did remember thinking that the other members of the Montigny family who''d been forced to bear witness to Serge''s execution had all seemed ill, somehow. Something must have been done to them all before Laurent had begun recording the events. Something that he was now being called upon to undo, despite having no knowledge of that terrible brand of magic. Doing his best to compose himself, Mirk looked up at the djinn, who was patiently awaiting his response, his head held down.


    "Ah, Monsieur...?"


    The djinn''s polite mask budged, momentarily betraying his puzzlement at being asked his name. "Er-Izat, seigneur. At your service."


    That explained why the djinn looked so different from all the others, Am-Hazek included. He was from a different kinship line. "Ah...will Seigneur d''Aumont be expecting an immediate reply, Monsieur Er-Izat?"


    "You may reply at your leisure, seigneur. However, you would need to send your reply by your own courier, if you wish to consider the matter further."


    It wasn''t exactly a barb ¡ª djinn weren''t the sort of people who dealt in scorn for another person''s circumstances, owing to the varied and subjugated nature of their own. Moreover, Mirk got the impression that Er-Izat was less disdainful of him and more perplexed by his mannerisms. Being Seigneur d''Aumont''s personal djinn meant that Er-Izat mostly had to mostly deal with haughty Grand Masters and other grandees rather than wincing healers who''d been wearing the same rumpled and blood-stained robes for the past three days. Nevertheless, the point stood: Mirk would have to decide then and there what to do. He didn''t want to waste either the gold or the time on hiring a djinn of his own to send his response, one of a fine enough caliber to not be insulting to someone of Seigneur d''Aumont''s rank. Mirk sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought.


    He needed to help his family. It was his responsibility. Just as he was the one who''d been responsible for their downfall. Mending ties with the Montignys would guarantee his family''s safety. And it stood a good chance of raising the Circle''s opinion of him and his skills. There was only the matter of whatever magic the Imperial angels had put on the Montignys standing in the way, but Mirk had a good idea of who might be able to help him with that. Another thing that he didn''t want to face. But he needed to, for the good of everyone involved.


    "Please inform Seigneur d''Aumont that I''ll be in attendance, monsieur. And tell him that I''ll do my best to undo whatever magic is on the Montignys."


    "As you wish, seigneur," Er-Izat replied, performing another low bow. As he straightened up, he summoned another letter and a small leather purse into existence with a twist of his hand, holding them out to Mirk. "The stone and the report, as the master promised."


    Mirk took them from Er-Izat, not reacting fast enough to hide the dismay that came onto his face at the djinn''s words. He knew that some nobles made their djinn address them in such a fashion, but he hadn''t thought that Seigneur d''Aumont would be one of them. That was the way that Mirk imagined a man like Ravensdale, who he''d still yet to actually see in person, forced his dozens of battle-weary and sickly djinn to address him. "Thank you, Monsieur Er-Izat. Don''t let me delay you any longer."


    Again, confusion marred Er-Izat''s composure as he performed another bow and turned to depart. Mirk hoped that he wouldn''t report on his strangeness to Seigneur d''Aumont. Or on the way that Yule gave the djinn a very particular, appraising sort of once-over as he passed. The djinn had the sort of build that Mirk knew Yule favored, even if Er-Izat was more put together than most of the men Yule made off-color comments about to Mirk and Danu at the tavern. But, as Yule always said, there wasn''t any harm in looking. Apparently.


    "What was that all about?" Yule asked, once Er-Izat was out of earshot.


    It felt like it took even more effort than usual for Mirk to get his mind to find the right English words again. "It''s...the Imperial angels put a spell on the family of the lord who hurt mine. The Circle wants me to take it off them."


    "The Circle?"


    "I''m not sure if there''s one in England. All the Grand Masters of the leading elemental guilds in France sit on it. They...manage things. Sort of. Between the guilds, and between the mages and the mortals. Like how the commanders of all the divisions sit on the Command Council here."


    Yule snorted. "Are they also useless?"


    "I...it''s not my business, Yule. I never paid much attention to politics before." Mirk looked down at the two letters and the purse in his hands. "Grand-p¨¨re used to be a member, even though he wasn''t the head of the earth mages¡¯ guild. It was something to do with the staff." Which he was also acutely aware of in that moment, though he couldn''t feel its weight in the magicked pocket in his sleeve.


    Yule''s eyebrows shot up. "So are they asking you to take his place?"


    "I''m not sure. But I''m sure they wouldn''t want me if they could avoid it. I have the staff, but I don''t know how to use it. And not everyone in the Circle was friends with grand-p¨¨re. They just needed him and the staff, in a way. Like they need me now," Mirk added to himself, biting his lip.


    "Well, they''re not the only ones. I''d offer you a drink, but you''ve got other business first."


    Mirk felt weary, even worse than he had when he''d first levered himself out of the long-term ward bed he''d taken refuge in last night. "What¡¯s happened now?"


    "Nothing terrible. That angel girl wants to talk to you again. Her brother''s up and she''s pitching a fit."


    "Over what?"


    "The boy doesn''t speak English and she won''t give him one of our translation charms. Won''t let anyone in to check on his incision either. Something about all of us being too terrible for him to be around. She says he hasn''t eaten or slept since he woke up."


    In comparison to the rest of his problems, the situation with the angel boy seemed almost easy to manage. Which really said something about the web of predicaments he''d found himself caught in as of late. Mirk nodded to Yul, as he headed off in the direction of the long-term wing. He hadn''t been able to feel any pain from the boy when he''d woken up himself, so hopefully it was nothing pressing. "I''ll see what I can do. I''m sure it can''t be as bad as this," Mirk added, as he tucked the two letters and the purse away in his pockets to be dealt with later.


    Yule flashed him a grin. "Keep writing letters to whatever rich bastard is in charge of that djinn, though, even if you decide to let the other ones hang. Or, better yet, get your pet monster to free him. I wouldn''t say no to seeing him around more often."


    Mirk sighed. "Methinks you would say that..."


    Clapping him on the shoulder, Yule fell into step beside Mirk as they made their way down to the third floor.

 Chapter 29

    "Mi...euh...Sharael, what''s wrong?"


    It was a chaotic sight. All the furniture in the room had been pushed into one corner. The angel boy was hidden somewhere behind it all, pressed up against the walls, the tops and ends of his wings the only parts of him visible beyond the jumble of bed and table legs. His pain, though, radiated from him like a beacon, reaching all the way past Mirk and down the hall at the far end of the long-term ward. The boy¡¯s aching wasn''t as severe as it had been when he had first arrived, but if Sharael hadn''t let another one of the healers close enough to put up a ward against the emotion at the end of the hall, Mirk would have felt it instantly upon leaving the room he''d spent the night in at the other end of the floor.


    Sharael paced around the perimeter of the pile of furniture like a guard dog, her feathers standing on end and her fists clenched at her sides. "Can''t you shield any better than the rest of these idiots?" she snapped at him, putting herself squarely between Mirk and her brother. "If I''d known you were so useless even when you were rested, I''d have never let you in."


    "I can try," Mirk said, offering her a weak smile. It only seemed to make the girl angrier that he wasn''t deterred or annoyed by her insult. Mirk closed his eyes and focused, taking a few deep breaths to center himself before shifting all the magical potential he had to his mental shielding. It would drain him fast to keep his shields held so high, but if it meant being allowed closer to the boy, he was willing.


    Though he couldn''t be certain without speaking to Samael or looking further into his mind, Mirk thought he recognized the powerless, desperate slant to his despair. It was the same way Mirk had felt when he''d been in the throes of the kindling sickness.And when he¡¯d been sick, the thing he¡¯d wanted the most was someone to talk to, even if it was painful..


    "How do I feel now?" he asked Sharael, blinking his eyes open.


    Sharael scowled at him. But she turned to consult with her brother, ducking one of her wings so that she could peer over her shoulder at the pile of furniture behind her. "What do you think, Sam?" she asked him in angelic.


    "It''s...it''s all right, I...I suppose..."


    Turning back to face Mirk, Sharael gave him a wary visual once-over. Checking for weapons. Mirk would have laughed, if the situation hadn¡¯t been so tense. "Come in and shut the door."


    Mirk nodded and complied, though he kept his distance from the pile of furniture, not wanting to strain Samael further until he invited him to approach. He remembered how even the gentlest emotions had felt like white-hot agony against his mind when he''d had the kindling sickness. And how powerless he''d been to keep them out of his head, even when he¡¯d done his best to shield. It was important for him to stay calm. Focused. Even. Mirk''s eyes flicked to Sharael. "The shields on the room aren''t good enough to help him, non?"


    Sharael snorted. "What gave it away?"


    It was curious that her emotions had no effect on her brother. Then again, her shields were particularly good. Some combination of that, shared blood, and common suffering made her presence uniquely bearable. "I was sick like him, before," Mirk said. "They tried to keep me in one of these rooms at first. It was awful."


    Sharael didn''t reply, continuing to stare him down in that uncanny, unblinking way common to full-blood angels, the one that made it feel as if something was about to lance out of the sky and strike him dead. Her fists were still clenched at her sides. Someone really should have gone to the armory and fetched her a sword. Perhaps having a weapon in hand would make her feel more at ease. "Can I look at him?" Mirk asked, once it became evident that Sharael wasn''t going to break the silence. "Methinks I remember enough angelic to get by..."


    After a long pause, Sharael stepped off to the side. "Ask him first. And get away the second he tells you to. Otherwise I''ll throw you out."


    Considering Sharael''s barely-concealed disdain, Mirk assumed that he''d be leaving through the window rather than the door, should he cross her. If it hadn''t been for her attitude, the way her emotions almost always made it onto her face, it would have been hard for Mirk to keep in mind that she was only a girl and not a woman fully-grown, despite her towering over him and her giant wings that could have filled the whole when room fully outspread. His cousin Claire was a third of Sharael''s size and decades younger, but they were the same age, mentally. And if Claire had been over six feet tall and capable of hurling boulders, Mirk could only imagine the trouble it''d cause.


    Mirk approached the pile of furniture, cautiously. He fumbled with the conjugations, but called out to Samael in the most polite angelic he could remember. "Samael? I''m a friend. I want to look at you. Can I come?"


    "If...if you have to..."


    He pushed the bed aside, just far enough to see more of Samael than the tips of his wings. The boy had turned to face him, his back pressed into the corner. His chin and cheeks were slicked with tears and mucus from his running nose and brimming eyes. And his eyes glowed a bright lavender Mirk had only ever seen a flicker of when his father let his anger get out of hand. Mirk worked up a smile for Samael as he crouched down to speak with him at his level. "Body...leg...no, chest. Your chest. Can I see?"


    The boy obeyed, immediately. It worried Mirk. Samael worked his robes out from underneath himself and pulled them up to the level of his shoulders. The wound that divided his chest from his collar bones to just above his navel was healing well. Half of the stitches had fallen out, though the incision was still weeping, a line of blood and serum trailing down his front and saturating the waistband of the tight, knee-length braies that angels wore beneath their robes. If the boy''s mind hadn''t been in such turmoil, the wound would have been nothing but a scar. Angels healed at an astonishing rate, provided they had access to enough light magic.


    "You are healthy," Mirk said, trying his best to both feel and sound encouraging. But as he took in more of the details of Samael''s body, his optimism faltered. The boy was painfully thin, his wings starting to go bald in places. "But hungry," Mirk offered in explanation, knowing full well that Samael would be able to feel his dismay, despite his thick mental shields.


    The boy nodded as he pulled his robes back down. "The food they brought made me sick."


    "What do you like to eat?"


    "Fruit...vegetables...everything they brought me had...had animals. I could feel the pain..."


    The light in Samael''s eyes flared more brightly at the memory of it. Mirk sighed. He was familiar enough with what was bothering him ¡ª he''d been able to continue to eat meat for a few months after his empathy had first manifested, but, slowly, the mere thought of eating something that''d once been alive, that''d rolled happily in the sunlight and had cuddled up with its brothers and sisters and mate, was enough to turn Mirk''s stomach. In his case, it was due to the strength of his empathy combined with his deep connection to the Earth. In Samael''s case, it had to be from empathy alone.


    It was easy enough to avoid meat at the dining hall, though it left him with nothing but potatoes and rolls half the time. But Mirk suspected that Samael wouldn''t be able to stomach butter or eggs or milk either. Getting the cooks to make something edible that didn''t involve any of that would take a hefty bribe.


    "I understand," Mirk said, resisting the impulse to reach out to the boy to comfort him. "I will bring you good food."


    Samael''s eyes were still constantly leaking tears. But their glow faded the longer Mirk looked at him, his posture stiff with pain, but less afraid. "Has Lord Imanael come?" Samael asked in a whisper, as if afraid that they¡¯d be overheard.


    Mirk shook his head. "You are safe here."


    The boy looked away from him. A moment later, Mirk heard his voice inside his mind, faint and ringing. He still wants me. I know he still wants me. He will come for me.


    Though he didn''t lower his shields, Mirk tried speaking back to him mentally. He wasn''t blessed with the gift of telepathy, but Samael''s magic was so strong, Mirk doubted that it was strictly necessary. We won''t let him take you. But I know it''s hard not to be afraid. You''ll feel less afraid eventually. Healing the mind takes twice as long as healing the body, even for angels.


    There was no time to react. Samael''s presence slipped fully past his shields, filling Mirk''s mind, rifling through it like it was a box of oddities someone had left out for the rag men. Samael saw everything. And he lingered on the worst of it, drawing it up into Mirk''s conscious mind.


    The feelings raced through Mirk, as fresh as if it''d all happened days ago: terror, heat, the press of hands three times as strong as his own pinning his shoulders to the cobbles, claws piercing vulnerable flesh and a hissing voice as smooth as velvet, darkened with rage. Stop fighting and enjoy it. You''re a man. Now be a man and give me my child!


    Then the boy''s presence was gone and Mirk found himself down on his knees, breathing hard and clutching the sides of his head. Mirk could still hear Samael''s voice through his mental shielding, clearer than before. You do understand.


    Mirk lifted his head to stare at Samael. The boy was at ease now, no longer pressed back into the corner, only leaning against it instead, his legs crossed. His eyes were still steaming tears due to the pain of Mirk''s mind being so close, but they weren¡¯t causing him any distress. Mirk hesitated. Did Imanael...?


    Samael shook his head. But it was like that, in a way.


    I would have told you if you''d asked, Samael. It''s not nice to go into other people''s heads without asking first. It makes them feel afraid, even if it makes you feel better to know.


    The young angel looked ashamed, fidgeting his wings. I''m sorry. It''s habit. Lord Imanael made me do it to everyone who came to serve him. I would look first, then he would check to make sure I found everything. And then...then it was everyone I met...


    It doesn''t hurt you to look? You had to be able to feel how painful...


    Samael shrugged both his shoulders and wings. It''s different when I''m in control.


    All right...


    I really am safe here, aren''t I? I could see. There''s a monster here who protected you when you were sick like me. Will he protect me too?


    Mirk couldn''t help but laugh at this, just a little. If I ask him to, he will.


    He took care of me while I was sick too, I remember now. Was that because you asked him to? I can¡¯t remember feeling anything from him...


    Mirk nodded. But he''s not unkind. He just doesn''t think of things like that. He''s not like us.


    Samael looked up, leaning to one side to peer past Mirk and the wall of furniture, wincing in anticipation. They''re trying to bring us food again. I...you should go. Sharael is going to get angry soon. I don''t think I can handle your mind and hers at once.


    I''ll do my best to help you, Mirk thought to Samael, as he backed out of the pile of furniture and got to his feet. I''ll talk to the other healers. We''ll find food you can eat. And I promise I''ll find you a place to stay where it¡¯s quiet soon.


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    The boy nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest again and wrapping both his arms and wings around himself. Put the furniture back, please? It...helps.


    As Mirk moved the bed back into place, blocking Samael from view, he thought the problem over. There wasn''t anywhere in the infirmary fit to put a child with such a sensitive and damaged mind. The only place he could think of that stood a chance of providing Samael with enough peace to recover was his own room in the healers dormitory. Emir had put weeks worth of effort into its shields and wards and Mirk had added his own on top of them once he was well enough to get out of bed. It was a fortress against stray emotions.


    Giving it over to Samael would leave him with nowhere to go. But that was a secondary problem. The two young angels had given up so much to come to the City of Glass, and so had his godfather. Being unwilling to sacrifice anything in return didn''t feel right.


    "Get back! Roll it!"


    Mirk looked up. Sharael had gone out into the hall, standing in the middle of it with her fists on her hips and her wings outspread so that she filled the entire width of it. Sighing, Mirk went to the door and poked his head out past its frame. Two of the long-term ward nurses were at the far end of the hallway with their cart full of trays, debating with each other what to do about the furious angel blocking their way.


    "It''s all right, Sharael. I''ll take care of it." Mirk nudged aside one of her wings and slipped past her, ignoring her bristling at being touched as he headed toward the cart at the end of the hall. He took two trays off it and sent the nurses back on their rounds with reassurances that they wouldn''t have to check in on the two young angels again unless an officer ordered them to. When Mirk turned back around, Sharael was still blocking the hall, scowling at him.


    "I''ve told them twenty times he won''t eat that garbage. Are all humans idiots?"


    Laughing to himself and shaking his head, Mirk crouched down, setting the two trays on the floor to pick through their contents. Meat stew, potatoes swimming in butter, rolls that were likely to be as edible as stones without dipping them in the stew to soften them first, a pair of bruised, misshapen apples. Standard fare. Mirk shuffled the dishes around, putting both bowls of stew and the apples on one tray and the potatoes and rolls on the other. Picking up the tray with the stew, Mirk got back to his feet and presented it to Sharael. "Tiens. Stew for you, the apples for him. It''s not much for your brother, but it''s a start. Methinks it''d be better if he didn''t eat too much to begin with anyway."


    Sharael took the tray from Mirk, her nose wrinkling as she stared down at the stew. "This smells worse than the privies."


    Though he agreed with her, Mirk tried to sell her on it anyway. A growing angel needed three times the food a working man did, and he had an inkling that Sharael had another half a foot of growth left in her. "That''s one of the cooks'' best. And it''s from a fresh pot too. There''s still meat in it."


    "You people are barbarians," Sharael muttered.


    "I''ll find something more for your brother later. But methinks you''ll both need to do a little adjusting. This isn''t like the Empire. Life is harder here."


    "I suppose it''s better to be free and hungry than a fat slave," Sharael said, though her disdain at the stew showed no sign of lifting.


    Mirk chuckled. "That sounds exactly like something a true K''maneda would say. Or so I''ve been told."


    After a long pause, Sharael turned her downward glare on him. "Thank you."


    Waving her off, Mirk shrugged. "It''s the least I can do. I have an idea about a better place for you both to stay, though it''ll take a few days. In the meantime, hold on just a little longer. You''re both at the end, I promise."


    Sharael snorted, turning away and pulling her wings in against her back to clear the doorway back into her brother''s room. "The end will only come once Lord Imanael is dead."


    Such a bleak statement coming from such a young girl should have horrified him. Instead, all Mirk could do was laugh again. The pervasive bloodthirstiness of the average K''maneda was making that kind of sentiment mundane. "Yes, you''ll do well in the K''maneda, if you decide to stay...but be kind to the other healers, Sharael, please. Methinks causing trouble will only make more of them come bother you."


    Sharael didn''t reply, though she did shut and lock the door to Samael''s room after herself. Mirk returned to the second tray at the end of the hall, picking it up and sighing at the way the butter had already congealed on top of the split potatoes.


    There was much to be done. But there was one final stop Mirk needed to make before he could get back to work with a clear conscience. Despite the worry churned up in the pit of his stomach by the last two visits, Mirk had a feeling the final one was going to be the worst.


    Steeling himself and affixing a protective sort of smile on his face, Mirk headed off in search of Genesis.


    -   -   -


    "Well...you''re looking a little better, messire..."


    It was a partial truth. In some ways the commander had improved. Though Genesis bruised easily, the marks faded as quickly as they came. The ring of blisters left behind by K''aekniv''s burning right hand had all healed, nothing left but a few patches of redness where his fingers had dug into the little extra flesh there was on Genesis¡¯s thin neck. And Mirk had checked his knee already ¡ª all the bones and tendons were in their proper places, the bruising on it faded to yellow.


    But Genesis''s arms were completely shredded still, the open wounds weeping pink onto the bedsheets, the skin between all the cuts purple and dead-looking. No one had tried using the potion Mirk had mixed on the binding runes. It was exactly where he''d left it atop the supply cabinet. Mirk hoped it hadn''t spoiled.


    The wounds weren''t his greatest worry, however. Regeneration took energy, and Genesis didn''t have much to spare. The commander had already been on one of his thinner fluctuations before everything had gone wrong. If Genesis didn''t wake up soon and start eating again, his body would eat itself down to the bone in an effort to repair itself. The healing process had already hollowed out Genesis''s cheeks, making his features even sharper and more angular than they already were. Mirk had been hoping that seeing Genesis in such a state would trigger his sympathy, but not the rest of it.


    It wasn''t working. A small part of Mirk wanted to kiss one of those hollowed cheeks, to comfort Genesis in a way that he''d never accept as his waking self. Mirk banished the thought with a shake of his head, sitting down in the chair at Genesis''s bedside that K''aekniv had long since vacated and picking at his lunch. Healing someone else took double the amount of energy that it took a body to heal itself. He''d need his own strength if he was ever going to get the wounds on Genesis''s arms closed.


    The butter on top of the potatoes he''d taken off Sharael and her brother''s trays had gone completely solid. Mirk scraped at it, half-heartedly, in an effort to get at the vegetable underneath. It didn''t help keep his mind off of Genesis''s lifeless body on the bed before him.


    He¡¯d hoped that Genesis would have woken up by then, but would still be too weak to get up and run off to some hidden corner of the City to nurse his wounds and prepare for his next assault. It was always constant activity with him: the complicated mechanizations of his dozens of plans were unceasing, and when they relented a little, Genesis was always quick to stuff the gaps with extra assignments from the assassins and his dogged pursuit of arcane mysteries Mirk never understood the point of. The open wounds on Genesis''s arms made it all clear to him, finally. It was the only explanation that made sense. Genesis never did anything without a clear and immediate purpose. And the purpose behind his endless shelves of grimoires, of his reams of notes, was escaping the magic on his arms.


    It made Mirk feel foolish, thinking he had a difficult life in comparison. Still, he wished he had even a fraction of Genesis''s focus. To Genesis, the tasks piling up before him would probably seem like nothing. Which was half of the reason why he''d made himself return to Genesis''s room. He needed Genesis''s advice. The magic that was on the rest of the Montignys was probably from Imanael, and no one knew his magic quite as intimately as Genesis. Unless there were whole legions of bound fighters tucked away in all the realms the Empire had dealings on. Mirk didn''t want to think about it. Not about binding magic, not about what had been done to the Montignys in his name, not about Samael''s suffering, not about making things right with his family, not about any of it.


    Most of all, Mirk didn''t want to think about the other reason why he''d come to Genesis''s room. Despite everything, he still found Genesis''s presence comforting, even when his magic was so faint that it did nothing to dim the constant patter of foreign emotions against his mental shielding. And at that moment, he needed at least a little comfort.


    He made a token attempt at eating one of the rolls. As he''d anticipated, they were completely inedible without dipping them in something to soften them up first. Mirk wondered if they were even worth pocketing to take out to the birds that congregated on the parade grounds in front of the infirmary when the transporter wasn''t in use.


    Mirk had given up on the potatoes as well and was deliberating between setting to work on Genesis''s arms or trudging back to the ground floor to see if his help was needed elsewhere when he noticed it. Genesis''s breathing had grown faster, from the near-death slowness of sleep to the merely unnatural slowness of consciousness. Mirk sat up in his chair, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Genesis''s face. He was staring up at the ceiling, expression blank.


    "How are you feeling, messire?" Mirk asked, quietly, sinking back into his chair.


    "I am...fine. At present."


    "I''m glad. You were very...sick. For a while."


    "I believe...sickness is not the...proper term. For what occurred."


    Part of Mirk had already forgotten the finer details of that. Maybe it was willful, maybe he was just overwhelmed by so many things happening at once. Nevertheless, Mirk shook his head. "Niv told me about that. Imanael, and what those do," he said, gesturing at Genesis''s shredded arms. "None of that was your fault."


    "I refuse to not take...responsibility for the...things I have done."


    Mirk sighed. "It wasn''t really you doing them. You didn''t have a choice."


    "There is always...a choice."


    "Not when there''s that kind of magic involved. Besides, I know you, Genesis. You''d never hurt me. Or Niv. At least not badly."


    "And yet."


    There really was no arguing with Genesis when he had his mind set on something. Mirk decided to shift his approach. "I''ll admit, I would have liked to know more about this before something happened. Why didn''t you tell me about the bindings? Maybe there''s something we can all do to help, you can''t be¡ª"


    "There is nothing. There is only...this."


    Mirk bit his lip, debating whether it''d be better to leave Genesis alone, to get up and leave, or keep trying. It was clear being alone was what Genesis wanted. But something in Mirk protested the thought of leaving the commander alone to do battle with his thoughts. If he was honest with himself, Mirk had to admit that Genesis was right, that none of them were likely to be any help in managing the bindings. Mirk didn''t know the first thing about that kind of magic, and he doubted any of the men of the Seventh could do much better. The only thing he could do was stay. And attempt to fix the wreckage the binding spell had left behind on Genesis''s arms.


    Mirk set his uneaten lunch aside on the nightstand, clasping his hands awkwardly in his lap instead. "You really did do a good thing, though. That boy and his sister will be getting better soon. And it''s all thanks to you."


    "You would all be...better served by staying...away."


    Mirk''s first impulse was to keep holding on, to reach out and take Genesis''s hand. He held himself back from it. But he did stand up so that he could see Genesis''s face clearly ¡ª he was still staring up at the ceiling, his face still blank. Yet there was a sort of emptiness about him that made Mirk want to cling to him even more tightly, even if only in spirit. "Methinks you''ll have to try harder than this to get me to go away, messire."


    Finally, Genesis''s blank mask cracked. He frowned as he glanced over at Mirk waffling beside his bed. "And they call me...mad."


    Mirk laughed, shrugging. "You don''t abandon your friends when things get hard. And I''m your friend, Genesis."


    That wasn''t the half of it. But Genesis didn''t have to know the other half. In time, perhaps both their madness would pass. Mirk should have been grateful that his was so trivial in comparison. And yet, keeping himself from taking Genesis''s hand, from pressing his cheek to it, so that Genesis could sense some of his concern and care through touch since his magic warded off all attempts at empathic closeness, was taking all the restraint Mirk could find.


    Sighing, Genesis fixed his eyes back on the ceiling. "There will be no...talking sense into you, will there?"


    "I''m afraid not."


    "Then you continue...at your own peril."


    "Let''s not be so dramatic. It''s not like you. Besides, I have to fix the cuts on your arms. I mixed that potion hours and hours ago. Methinks it''d be a waste if I let it sit any longer and it went bad. And you don''t like wastefulness."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But he did flick a hand at Mirk, an unspoken show of his assent. Mirk went to fetch the bowl of potion from the top of the supply cabinet, bringing a rag along with to help apply it. "And I need your help with something too. You remember how sick all the Montigny men looked in the recording Laurent showed us? The Circle wrote to me. There''s some sort of magic on them, and they expect me to take it off. How about a trade? I''ll fix your arms, and you can take a look at the healer''s notes and try to sort out what''s wrong? You know I''m not nearly clever enough to sort it all out on my own."


    For some reason, Genesis seemed skeptical. But he nodded all the same. "...explain."


    So he did. And as he did, working at closing all the cuts down the length of Genesis''s arms the whole while, Mirk began to feel better. The situation with the Circle was still worrisome, but Genesis''s black mood seemed to lighten at the prospects of undoing some of Imanael''s work, even if he was powerless to lift the spell that he was trapped in. Mirk liked to think that having his arms back to normal helped cheer Genesis some too, though none of his healing magic could do anything to the magic imbued in the scars that remained once he had finished.


    There was still tension between them, an uncertain strain, but Mirk hoped that, with time, that would fade away. Just as the sickly purple scars around Genesis''s wrists would fade back into whiteness.

 Chapter 30

    "No...no, hurt..."


    Sharael curled both a wing and an arm around Samael, shaking her head. "Not good enough. Tell her to go away."


    It was horrible, every last bit of it: the unrelenting and all-too-familiar pain Samael was sunk in, Mirk''s inability to do anything to help, the mere fact that the only words that Samael could work out were no and hurt and stop. Sharael was cross to begin with over how much pain Mirk¡¯s presence caused Samael, despite her brother''s agreement to bear it, as long as it meant none of the other healers had to come close. Their experimentation with ways to get Samael to the healers dormitory, no matter how careful, were pushing her to her limit. Even though her mental shielding was thick enough to keep her anger hidden, Mirk could see it just as plainly in the number of feathers she was shedding.


    Sighing, Mirk stepped back out into the hall, looking for Sheila. She had made it closer to the room that time, but not nearly close enough for their plan to work. Mirk thought that if he worked together with another healer, they might be able to cast shields strong enough to protect Samael all the way to the healers dormitory if they ran. Sheila had been the only volunteer on hand to try it with Mirk that day. He¡¯d already tried every other angle that could have solved the problem without asking for help. Sharael''s ability to cast her thick shielding beyond her own mind was lacking. And she steadfastly refused to use a teleportation spell paper, adamant that Imanael would nab her brother while in the odd in-between space teleportation took a mage through.


    Even if Samael had been able to bear Sheila''s presence once she¡¯d come close enough to help, Mirk was beginning to doubt that Sheila herself could have kept her senses for long under the force of Samael¡¯s constant pain. Though she''d backed off as soon as she''d seen Mirk enter the hall, Sheila¡¯s eyes were glassy and fully black, her breath coming as fast as a human''s. Pain had the inverse effect on her demonic empathy that it did on the other healers. Sheila had explained its effects to him by comparing it to the spicy food that Emir favored: it burned, but it was still tasty. She could feed on it much like she could blood. Too much pain, however, could either make her lunge for someone''s throat or leave her flat on her back on the floor in a daze, too lost in the emotion to do anything helpful. Which was what she had to be getting close to at present, judging by the color of her eyes.


    "What now?" she called out to him, once she''d caught her breath.


    "I...well...maybe we could clear out all the rooms between here and the field transporter? Methinks Sharael might feel better about using those than a teleportation spell..."


    Sheila gave a curt hiss of a laugh. Now that she had moved outside the wards that''d been put up to hold back Samael''s pain, she was quickly returning to normal. "You think Cyrus is going to put up with us moving dozens of patients for one child? He already wants to drug him. Or kill him. Whichever frees up the back half of the long-term ward quicker."


    Mirk knew Sheila was right. But he was running out of ideas. He only had one real plan left. But Mirk knew it''d be profoundly uncomfortable for everyone involved. Best to avoid it unless the worst came to pass.


    Sheila noticed before he did. Though Genesis''s silence was absolute to most, there was no hiding the sound of a beating heart from a vampire, no matter how slow. "Oh? Finally come to put us all out of our misery?" Sheila asked the commander, as he slipped out of an empty room midway between the end of the hall and Samael''s room.


    Genesis frowned at her ¡ª whether it was the sarcasm or the fact that she''d heard him coming that annoyed him was unclear. "This is...pointless."


    "Yes. It is," Sheila said, shifting her scrutiny from Genesis to Mirk.


    He cringed. Mirk had hoped that all the other healers had forgotten about Genesis''s immunity to empathy from both ends, that perhaps it only jumped so readily to the forefront of Mirk''s mind because he relied on it so often. It''d been a foolish hope, one that made Mirk wonder why the others hadn''t been pressing him to pester Genesis into helping right from the start.


    Mirk had his reasons for not asking for Genesis''s help. To all external appearances, Genesis stabbed and broke his way through the world without any particular remorse for the havoc he left in his wake. That wasn''t true, in Mirk''s opinion. What Genesis had done to Samael in order to let the others come close enough to heal him was causing Genesis an uncharacteristic amount of distress. Maybe the other healers hadn¡¯t asked him to go to Genesis for help yet because the commander¡¯s discomfort with Samael¡¯s situation was so severe that Mirk wasn''t the only person who could tell Genesis was upset, for once.


    It was in how Genesis''s face went forcibly blank every time Mirk updated him on how Samael was doing, how he refused to give his opinion whenever Mirk asked him whether or not Sharael''s fear of Imanael snatching the boy out of thin air was unfounded. Coupled with whatever guilt was plaguing Genesis over what had happened when he''d called upon Mirk and K''aekniv to help him tug his own bindings loose enough to bind Samael, it made for a tense atmosphere in the infirmary that Mirk couldn''t find a way to alleviate. There was no projecting to Genesis how he felt on the matter, or empathically impressing on him how grateful Samael had been to avoid purification. Genesis had to process his emotions on his own. Unsurprisingly, it wasn''t the commander''s strong suit.


    Seeing Samael in pain would only make it worse, Mirk feared. But he''d stalled for as long as he could. There was no choice left but to turn to Genesis. Still, Mirk made a token attempt at discouraging Genesis from slinking off down the hall to Samael''s room. "You don''t have to worry, messire. You''re still recovering yourself. I''m sure I''ll think of something eventually..."


    Genesis neither looked down at Mirk nor commented as he slipped past him and entered Samael''s room. Sheila shot Mirk a knowing look before turning and walking away. He''d always told the other healers to leave the problem of Genesis to him. Now all those months of scolding were turning on Mirk when he least wanted them to. Defeated, Mirk followed the commander into Samael''s room, already struggling to think up some way to smooth Genesis and the boy''s first conscious interaction.


    Samael¡¯s pain was tinged with surprise. It had to be completely foreign to him, not being able to sense another living being''s presence well before they came within sight. But Samael was unafraid, or at least no hint of fear disturbed his continual suffering. Sharael was a whole other matter. She immediately put herself between Genesis and her brother, her feathers lifting in anger as she spread her wings to hide Samael from sight. "It''s all right, Sharael," Samael said to her in angelic from somewhere behind her bristling wings. "I can''t feel anything."


    "What?" Sharael ducked one wing, just far enough to peek over her shoulder.


    "Mirk was telling the truth. He feels like...nothing."


    Mirk sighed, shutting the door to the room before going to Sharael''s side. Perhaps she''d feel less threatened if it looked like they were standing together as a united front against any potential threat posed by Genesis. The commander''s expression was completely closed off, cold. It wasn''t helping matters one bit. "He will not hurt you," he said, following Samael''s lead and speaking in his halting, rusty angelic. "He will help."


    "He''s one of those things. From the stories. A Destroyer," she said, still not budging. "And he did blood magic on Sam."


    He snuck a glance back at Genesis. No reaction. None that was visible, in any case. "We had to. To help Samael."


    "Why not let the monster speak for himself?" Sharael asked, switching back to English to be certain Genesis understood. Despite her anger, Mirk thought he could detect a hint of fear buried underneath it. It was in the way her wings were trembling, her feathers standing up so far that it would have been comical in a different situation. Mirk knew that angels puffed up like that both when they were angry and when they were afraid.


    Samael must have sensed it as well. He forced himself up onto his feet, taking hold of Sharael''s arm for support. "I''m not afraid. And we need his help again."


    "You are...correct. I bound him...against his will. It is unacceptable. In one sense...I have paid the price. But it is not enough."


    Both of the young angels were surprised by Genesis''s words ¡ª his angelic was stiff and very formal, but precise. Better than Mirk''s was, in any case. After a pause, Genesis shifted his attention from Sharael to Samael. "For what I have done to you...I am in your debt. I will remain so...until such time...as the harm I''ve done is outbalanced."


    Samael only stared up at Genesis. Mirk could sense the young angel''s confusion. It had to be strange, not being able to read another person and respond directly to whatever they were keeping hidden behind expressions and words that could always lie. When Samael did speak, his words were halting, uncertain. "You didn''t hurt me. You made the pain stop. And you took care of me while I was sick. You don''t owe me anything."


    An emotion finally crossed Genesis''s face, one that it took Mirk a moment to sort out: the commander was just as puzzled as Samael was. "Nevertheless. Some things...cannot be dismissed. I am in your debt."


    Samael''s eyes darted to Mirk. He felt the young angel''s mind slide past his shields, a wave of his constant pain coming with it. Mirk couldn''t keep himself from wincing. What does he mean? I''m in his debt? I...I think it must be something important, but I can''t feel him...


    I don''t know exactly what it means either, Mirk thought back to him. But it is something important, yes. It must be some form of sincere apology, to him. He hardly ever says that kind of thing to anyone. It''d be better if you just accepted it, for now. He''s very stubborn when it comes to this kind of thing.


    Nodding, Samael looked back up at Genesis. "I accept your debt, Lord Genesis."


    This startled Genesis enough to knock him out of whatever emotional distance he''d been imposing on himself. He frowned. "I am no lord. Nor will I...ever be one."


    Samael looked back and forth between Mirk and Genesis, curious. "Then why does he call you lord in his language when he thinks of you?"


    The tension in the room shattered. Mirk couldn''t keep himself from chuckling into his sleeve, and Genesis gave a tired sigh. "It is a...royalist habit I am...unable to convince him to break," Genesis said.


    I don''t really mean it, now, Mirk thought to Samael. He could still sense the boy in his mind, using his emotions to help him gauge how he should react to Genesis''s strangeness. It''s more like a...term of affection. It annoys him, but much less than a nickname would.


    Samael smiled, finally seeming to understand. Like how I can''t stop Sharael from calling me Sam. I hate it, but she won''t listen.


    Sharael, for her part, still was wary. Instead of holding her wings out to shield Samael completely from Genesis, she now had the one nearer to her brother wrapped around him. To ward off unwelcome emotions along with the chill of being apart from the Light Eternal. "It''s all right, Sharael," Samael said to her, squeezing her arm. "We''re going to go somewhere better now. Right?" he asked Genesis.


    "Correct." Genesis considered the boy for a moment, thinking. "Your empathy is...very strong. Though Imanael is...no threat to you in the Abyss, I believe the thoughts of the creatures will...disturb you. Thus, we must...walk."


    It was a strange walk. Genesis had to keep a veil of shadows around Samael to keep the emotions of the crowds out on the streets of the City of Glass from reaching him, but Samael refused to be separated from his sister, or her from him. He cast his magic over them all instead, Mirk included, and they made the walk from the infirmary to the healers dormitory completely blind. Mirk wondered whether Genesis could see through the shadows, somehow, or if he''d memorized the number of steps between each of the City''s main buildings. He wouldn''t have put it past him.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    As soon as Mirk had unlocked the door to his room, Samael bolted into it, turning in a slow circle in its middle, dazed. The continual streaming from his eyes stopped, as did his constant trembling. He threw himself onto the leftmost of the two narrow beds Mirk had asked K''aekniv to bring upstairs for him days ago in preparation, buried his head in his arms, and went still. Rather than going to the second bed, Sharael scooted her brother''s body over and curled up beside him, wrapping both her arms and wings around him. With assurances that he''d be back to check up on them later and bring them supper, Mirk left his key on the dresser and withdrew, waving the shields on his old room up to full strength as he shut the door.


    Genesis had remained out in the hall. Mirk was surprised Genesis hadn''t taken advantage of his distraction to slip off unnoticed. He may not have had the energy to yet, even if he''d wanted to ¡ª Mirk had noticed on the walk over that Genesis''s magic, though it was strong enough to hold off the emotions of passers-by, was less restless and seeking than usual. And by the time they''d reached the healers dormitory, Genesis looked much more pale and drawn than he had before. He must have used more of his magic to bind Samael than Mirk had been able to perceive. That or fighting against his own bindings exhausted Genesis in a way that no other kind of magic did.


    Mirk flashed him a reassuring smile, leaning against his door and savoring the warm touch of its shielding spells. "See? Everything''s fine, messire. Methinks I might have been worried over nothing...."


    "There is a certain...pressing matter you have neglected. I believe."


    "Oh?"


    "You are...homeless. As it were."


    "I suppose I am, aren''t I?" Mirk ran his hands over the spells on the door to his room a final time before forcing himself to stand up straight. He''d miss them, but he''d make do. Samael was the one who needed them now. "It''s no trouble, really. I''ll find somewhere else. Emir said that the dormitory is full right now, but I can draw on grand-p¨¨re''s accounts to stay at an inn in the meantime."


    Genesis disapproved of this plan, considering how his frown deepened. "There are numerous...hazards outside the City. Moving through London and remaining in it are two different things. The fact that you require...shielding to rest properly aside."


    Mirk shook his head, though part of him was touched by Genesis''s concern. A matter of practicality rather than sentiment, no doubt, but it was concern all the same. "I''ll be fine. Methinks you''ve taught me well enough to avoid thieves."


    "There are...worse things than thieves."


    "Worse than the Fourteenth? Or the assassins?"


    "That is not the point."


    "Do you have a better idea, messire?"


    For once, Genesis had nothing to offer aside from his glowering. "I will investigate the matter. As I am currently too...indisposed to do anything else."


    "Well, I appreciate the help. Since I know it won''t do any good to tell you not to trouble yourself."


    Mirk had meant to tease him, to joke a little to lighten the mood. Genesis missed the cue and nodded gravely, as if they were discussing a matter of life and death rather than his not having a room for the night. "Correct."


    Trying to ignore the sudden fluttering in his chest, Mirk laughed and shook his head. He really was doomed if something as simple as polite concern was enough to set his mind running down the wrong path. It was all nonsense. He needed to be sensible. Like Genesis. He was, after all, a valuable asset in the commander''s plans, despite how he felt like nothing more than a fumbling, half-trained healer. An asset needed to be protected. Sentiment didn''t factor into it in the slightest.


    -   -   -


    "Ah...I suppose it''s not so bad..."


    Mirk was lying to himself again. A reoccuring vice, as of late.


    The inn wasn''t bad, per se. But it wasn''t home. The room he''d bought for the night was dark, musty, and cramped. It had a window that overlooked the street, but it didn''t brighten the room any, perhaps because it was well after sunset. Mirk had grown accustomed to the bright magelights that lined the main thoroughfares of the City of Glass. They illuminated the spotless cobbled streets of the City with a cool, blue-white light all through the night.


    In mortal London, everything was consumed by gloom and fog. Picking his way through it to the inn had been a trial. More than the absence of auras cast by mages in the townhouses and shops around him, the street itself had told Mirk when he''d crossed from the mage quarter into mortal London. The street had become filthy over the span of a dozen yards, strewn with refuse and waste Mirk was glad he couldn''t see well enough in the dark to identify.


    Mirk couldn''t recall ever having been so bothered by the filth of mortal Paris. Then again, he''d never had to walk there. Even the shortest trip was made by the family coach. He''d always been fully removed from the destitution of the city poor, either by magic or gold. The rural poor he''d worked among at the abbey at least had the benefit of fresh air and clear running water from streams and rivers to make their lives a little less dismal.


    And he never would have spent the night at an inn at home, not even one for mages. It wasn''t the done thing; it tarnished both your own reputation and those of your friends. Who was so insignificant that they couldn''t depend on an acquaintance for lodging? And who would be so haughty as to refuse their hospitality? Even the poorest nobles were always willing to accommodate a friend, even if only to prove that they hadn''t fallen so far that they could no longer fill a table for a guest.


    Looking at it that way, Mirk supposed he could have gone to Madame Beaumont. But he felt as if he''d be imposing on her. For one thing, he had no place of his own at the moment where he could return the courtesy, should his godmother ever be in need. For another, she''d already housed his uncle and cousins for weeks already, the matter of her using her connections to rescue them from Henri''s workshop in Bordeaux aside. Even though Mirk knew she would most likely relish having her godson available to gossip and plot with at dinner, he couldn''t bring himself to ask. It was the principle of it all. He had been taking for too long. He wasn''t willing to snatch up any more until he had something to give.


    Things were different now. His family and his grandfather''s ledgers weren''t gone, but he was still a K''maneda. And, as K''aekniv and the other men of the Seventh always said in the face of any misery or inconvenience, a K''maneda made do. It wouldn''t hurt him to start to come to terms with it.


    Mirk distracted himself by putting up shields and wards. A mage inn would have offered them as a basic amenity, but he''d decided a mortal inn would be safer. No one would think to look for him there, among the long-suffering mortals. Though he had caved and paid for one of the finer establishments among those close to the mage quarter. The first one he''d paused outside had been radiating so much unbridled lust and misery that it''d turned his stomach. Genesis probably would have made some dismissive comment about his royalist habits and finery if he¡¯d been there. Mirk felt he could just as easily ask the commander whether he would have tolerated sleeping on a mattress that was home to whole colonies of insects, even if they weren''t so numerous as to be audible from a distance. He could have used his magic to check the bed he was vacillating in front of for pests, but something in Mirk recoiled from knowing.


    ...maybe he was a bit spoiled.


    Once he finished the wards and shields, Mirk lowered his personal mental shielding to check the quality of his work. He winced. Someone a few rooms over was having a severe bout of cramps. He could feel the twisting in their gut just as easily as if he''d been holding their hand as they emptied their body yet again. That would make getting any sleep difficult. An empath couldn''t keep up their mental shielding while they were unconscious, even if they were so accustomed to holding them up during their waking life that they hardly ever had to think twice about maintaining them any more.


    He could pour hours into strengthening the shields and wards around the room until he could steal a few hours of sleep, though it would drain him so badly that he''d be completely useless in the morning. A sleep-deprived healer could still be useful in a pinch. A drained one was only good for making bandages and potions. If he was going to be staying at the inn for a week or two, it might still have been worth it.


    But his resolution to tolerate the inconveniences of the non-noble mortal world was quickly weakening. A more pious and conscientious man would have borne it with grace and used it as a reminder to be thankful for the gifts God had bestowed upon him, motivation to be more charitable and understanding of others in the future. He really was spoiled. And as for pious...


    Mirk''s estimation of that quality within himself had always been low. But with recent events taken into consideration, if he was the final Judge, Mirk would have placed himself among the ranks of the unrepentant murderers when it came to sinfulness rather than among those who were prone to falling asleep during Mass on sunny days.


    "Brooding''s not going to do you any good," Mirk mumbled to himself, to try to bolster his resolve. Before getting into bed, he double-checked the locks on the windows. Flimsy things ¡ª a stout stick jammed in the frame would have been a better deterrent. Mirk drew his grandfather''s staff out of the pocket of his waistcoat and magicked it to fighting length. Maybe its faint warmth and reassurance would help to ease his mind. The mattress certainly wouldn''t. Despite the chill and the damp, Mirk couldn''t bring himself to wrap himself in the worn bedclothes after blowing out the candle on the nightstand and lying down, fully clothed.


    He tried closing his eyes, expecting the residual fatigue of the past few days to roll over him and drag him down into slumber. Nothing. He tried a centering technique Danu had taught him, slowing his breathing until each inhale and exhale was deliberate and controlled, tensing and relaxing all the muscles from his toes to his shoulders in turn. It helped a little. But he was still acutely aware of the life stirring in the mattress beneath him and the poor person down the hall still suffering through their indigestion.


    Unwillingly, Mirk''s eyes drifted open. It was dark, but it wasn''t the absolute, magicked kind of shadows that always brought him the most comfort. No. No, he wasn''t going to let his mind go there. He fumbled at his neck for his mother''s rosary.


    That didn''t help either. The familiar prayers, instead of lulling him into a more peaceful frame of mind, ignited a war in it, conscience against nature, guilt against longing. Mirk kept fighting, hoping all the thinking would wear him out some. Then he heard it: a faint rattling at the window. He cast out his senses; there wasn''t a trace of magic beyond his room. Sighing, he rolled out of bed, staff in hand, and went to open it.


    Mirk had hoped his slapdash attempt at a disguise would have made him a less appealing target. Even his shabbiest suit was leagues better than that of an average traveler, so he''d gone to Mordecai for another option. Yule was close enough to his size, but he suspected that the clothes Yule favored when he left the City were bound to attract attention rather than deter it. Mordecai had presented him with the suit of a decent, middling sort of mortal man, its fabric rough despite its excellent craftsmanship. The teleporting mage had gotten them as a parting gift from his uncle, a tailor. Mirk had promised to take good care of them. He could feel how much Mordecai valued them, even though Mirk planned on wearing them to convince any curious mortals that he didn''t have anything of value worth robbing him for.


    The thief dangling from the windowsill was young, more a boy than a man. At first, the thief was shocked by his appearance on the other side. Now he seemed to be debating what odds he stood of standing against Mirk in a fight. Mirk shook his head at the boy, offering him a tired smile.


    "I would try somewhere else, sir. Methinks I don''t have much of anything you''d be interested in," Mirk said.


    The boy growled something in response. Mirk couldn''t understand a word of it. The thief might have been speaking English, but his accent was too thick and strange for Mirk to make sense of. Sighing again, Mirk resorted to sticking his grandfather''s staff out the window and gently rapping on the boy''s knuckles. The boy cursed him and scrambled down the drainpipe beside his window, vanishing into the dark and the fog.


    Was it even worth shutting and locking the window again? Probably not. But leaving it open would let in the damp and the stench of the street. Mirk shut it again before returning to bed, but he didn''t bother locking it.


    After staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, watching the spiders move in the cobwebs between the rafters, Mirk tried to clear his mind again. He should have brought a drink with him. It''d mean he''d be too defenseless to put up much of a fight if someone more than a desperate boy came after him, but at least he might have been able to get some sleep first. As he debated the merits of going downstairs and seeing if there was someone still awake who could pour him enough ale to take the edge off things, Mirk noticed that the spiders had gone still. And he was having trouble picking them out of the gloom. It was a subtle change in the quality of the darkness above him, but one that he recognized nevertheless. Someone was trying to call the darkness down on him and pin him to the bed.


    Miserably, Mirk hauled himself out of bed yet again and returned to the window. There was a man out in the lane below, just barely visible by the light of the lanterns in front of a raucous establishment down the street. Taller than the average mortal Englishman, he was pacing restlessly as he cast his magic up into Mirk''s room. Despite the bulky overcoat he was wearing and the hat pulled low over his face, Mirk could tell with a glance that he had to be some kind of demon. It was his legs. They moved too smoothly, too fluidly, with an animal''s grace. Mirk reached out his senses again, testing how strong the dark magic above him was growing. Nothing to be afraid of. Genesis summoned stronger palls of shadow unconsciously when he got annoyed by a particularly stubborn stain.


    The man''s face turned toward the window, confused. Mirk didn''t feel like getting into a physical altercation. Instead, he touched the wall beside the window, disabling the shields and wards he''d cast over the room and projecting his annoyance at being preyed upon down at the man, full force. The man''s reaction was easy for Mirk to sense ¡ª shock, followed by a combined rush of fear and embarrassment as he jammed his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and hurried away. Mirk must not have felt like much of a mage through his wards and shields.


    And he didn''t feel like much of one even once he was fully exposed either. His wards had been so poorly constructed that even a weaker demon had been able to cast straight through them.


    "Juste ciel¡­¡± Mirk muttered under his breath. Shoving the annoyance out of his mind and heaping it on someone else hadn''t made it dissipate, though now all Mirk was left with was annoyance at himself rather than at the interloping demon. He didn''t bother to reactivate the wards or shields as he turned away from the window.Instead, he picked up his traveling bag from the foot end of the bed, unlocked the door, and left.


    Obviously, he didn''t have the necessary wits to pass the night alone in a mortal inn. It was pathetic. And he shouldn''t have even tried. It was time for him to go back to where he belonged, the City of Glass, along with all the other wayward and maladjusted mages in England. It''d be a cot in the long-term ward for him that night. And probably the next. And the one after that, and on and on until he came up with a more reasonable plan or broke down and went groveling to his godmother for aid, once again.


    But first, he needed a drink.

 Chapter 31

    Mirk watched his tankard of ale percolate to itself on the bar in front of him, brooding. He didn''t quite understand how the bubbles got in the drink, nor if he should be worried about their quantity, but it didn''t seem to be doing the rest of the patrons any harm.


    He had stumbled into the first tavern he''d found upon returning to the City of Glass ¡ª he''d had to walk some distance, since the area nearest the gate that connected with the mage quarter of London was the preserve of the wealthier K''maneda, the disgraced nobles and former guildmasters. He¡¯d found the usual merry crowd awaiting him inside, even if none of the men or working women looked familiar. The language in that particular tavern was mostly English, though of a dialect he didn''t understand. The haunt of the low-born members of the Fifth and the Fourteenth, perhaps. Or maybe that of the Irish and Scottish members of the Seventh, with whom the Easterners had an odd, pitying camaraderie.


    The not-quite-familiarity reminded Mirk of how fragile his position was. Everything at home had been about connections. Once he''d returned from the abbey, he''d been flung into his mother''s complex web of friends and acquaintances, which seemed to skip over no region or city, no matter how provincial. She knew everyone; everyone knew her.


    And if they somehow didn''t know her, they''d heard of his grandfather, the lord of House d''Avignon. The man who''d once saved the entire country from ruin by renewing the grain harvest three years in a row against the sabotage of cunning Spanish mages. Who''d cured a distant dauphin of some terrible illness, who''d freed the French mages from being ground under the heel of the ancient Church mages, a bit of history Mirk had stumbled upon in the abbey''s old chronicles. But Jean-Luc had also been no one, once upon a time, if Genesis''s translation of his journal was correct. A peasant who''d lost his home and his family, who''d had to claw his way up from nothing with naught but the staff to help him on his way.


    If Jean-Luc could rise up from nothing with only the staff to help him, then there was no reason he couldn''t do the same. No reason beyond his own weakness of will.


    Mirk looked over at the staff propped against the bar beside him, which he''d leaned hard on the whole way back to the City. Then his attention drifted out further, to the throngs of strangers cackling and cursing over a game of dice. Jean-Luc had known no one once. Mirk felt much better about his ability to make new friends among the K''maneda than he did about mastering whatever power was hidden within the staff. He''d been complacent thus far, sticking only to the familiar, the Easterners and the infirmary healers and the unfortunate frequent patients. Mirk still didn''t even know what Ravensdale, the K''maneda''s ostensible head, looked like.


    He''d have to start putting in real effort if he ever wanted his family to prosper again. But he wasn''t starting tonight.


    The sound of a giant hand slapping down on the bar a few yards away jolted Mirk out of his woolgathering. He turned to look. What he saw made his shoulders, which had been drawn up high and tense ever since he''d first left the City hours ago, droop in relief. It was K''aekniv.


    "Bar boy! Yes, you! Spirit! The good shit! You English bastards owe me!"


    The half-angel was a wreck. His boots and trousers were caked up to the knees in muck, the burned away patches of his uniform revealing an assortment of bruises and scrapes, half of them still bleeding. And his leftmost wing was almost entirely red with blood, though Mirk doubted it was K''aekniv''s. The only clean thing on him were three patches on his face, down his chin and beneath his eyes. K''aekniv had been crying.


    And he was exhausted. K¡¯aekniv must have burned through almost all his strength for whatever emotional turmoil he was caught in not to have alerted Mirk to his presence the instant he entered the tavern. Mirk lowered his mental shielding a little. The pain was there, albeit fainter than it usually was coming from K''aekniv. Not a physical injury, but a deep aching in K''aekniv''s chest that was making it hard for the half-angel to keep upright. Though perhaps the extreme state of inebriation he was in contributed to that.


    "Niv?" Mirk called out, hesitantly.


    "Mirk! What are you doing in this shithole, eh? You like the English more than you like us now too?"


    K''aekniv was trying to joke with him, Mirk knew. But there was a note of pain in the question that troubled Mirk, as he stood and shuffled down a half dozen stools to where K''aekniv was standing. The barman didn''t seem to know what to do in response to K''aekniv''s bellowed demand. Mirk fished his purse out of the pocket of his waistcoat and passed a generous sum to the skeptical man, cupping his hand so that K''aekniv wouldn''t see the amount. Not that K¡¯aekniv was paying much attention to anything beside his own heartache. The barman nodded and left without comment. "What happened to you, Niv? You feel...not yourself."


    "It''s over," K''aekniv said, collapsing onto the two stools nearest Mirk, burying his head in his hands. "She''s done with me."


    It didn''t explain the mud and the blood, but it did clear up the reason why K''aekniv had been crying. Mirk propped the staff against the bar again and reached out to lay a hand on K''aekniv''s arm for a moment. "Would you like to tell me about it? Methinks I can''t change anything, but I can at least listen."


    "It starts with me being an idiot," K''aekniv grumbled, leaning his head on one hand as he awaited the barman''s return. "You see, we''re hurting for work, yes? It''s always some shit, someone pissing someone else off, I don''t know. Politics. What do I care? I just go where I''m told. Anyway, this man from the Scots in the Seventh comes to me and says, we''re in shit, the Fifth is in shit, I don''t care what horse-fucker says, you need to go get the commanders and their officers out of it. I''ll pay you whatever and smooth things over. You just get this contract done and make sure they don''t get killed."


    Mirk could only follow the vaguest contours of the politics involved, but what he''d woken up to at the infirmary once he¡¯d finished making his personal rounds helped some. They had been taking a lot of casualties from the Fifth, men coated in a greenish-black mud much like the stuff on K''aekniv''s lower half, all of them looking like they''d rolled around in bins full of the blades they used to do surgery. The mud caused horrible infections. Dozens had been sent to the basement. Mirk nodded, gesturing for K''aekniv to continue as the barman reappeared with a full bottle of spirit and two grimy glasses.


    "It was a shit contract. They have weird bombs full of knives on that realm. Anyway, I go over and figure things out. Those men...not the best fighters, but they''re poor like us, so they''ll listen once they stop saying shit about angels. It wasn''t terrible. But what was terrible was that horse-fucker''s second and third got themselves captured along with Paul from the Fifth and some of his. Bitch officers will kill us all someday..." K''aekniv paused, considering the bottle that''d appeared at his elbow.


    Mirk took it, scanning the label as he uncorked it. Gin. Not his favorite, but, from the smell of it, not the terrible bootleg kind that landed at least two men a week in the infirmary. He poured himself a glass, then offered the rest of the bottle to K''aekniv. "That sounds dangerous."


    "Eh, it wouldn''t have been so bad, but horse-fucker decided he had to come with me."


    "Ah...I''m sorry, Niv, but I don''t know who..."


    "Dauid! The commander. Horse-fucker. Bastard cares more about his twenty horses than he does about his wife or any of his men. And he can''t fight for shit himself, though he does know how to talk to Ravensdale and his people to get them to give us things. So, an officer. Anyway, I have to have him getting in the way all the time, but we make it through to this prison, yes? Terrible fight. More of those bombs and a lot of magic. But we made it through. The third, though, he didn''t make it. Not a good man, but no one should get it like he did. Would have been able to save him if horse-fucker hadn''t got in the way." K''aekniv glanced over at his left wing, flexing it, causing the dried blood stuck to its feathers to come off in flakes.


    Mirk decided he''d be better off not knowing the specifics. "That''s terrible, Niv. I''m sorry."


    "It''s whatever. Happens all the time. Two out of three''s not bad, since I had to save horse-fucker''s stupid ass too. And I got all the other little people out on the way, you know, the poor people that the big mages on that realm had decided to lock up for being poor. Anyway, horse-fucker, he''s all happy, even though his third got it. You know, you get carried away and say weird things when you almost die. He says to me, you know, I should put you in Adie''s ¡ª that was his third, Adie ¡ª place. You get things done. And I just shake my head and tell him, no, leave me with my men, I just want my money. I don''t want to be some officer sitting around all day writing notes and yelling at people."


    "I see..."


    "I thought that was that. Over. Done. Enough gold to make up for horse-fucker not sending us out much, and a promise from him that he''ll put us on the next good contract because I saved him and that piece of shit Poppy. But that wasn''t it. It got worse."


    K''aekniv paused to drink from the bottle. He drained a full third of it without batting an eye. He was approaching the crux of his story. The aching in K¡¯aekniv¡¯s chest had grown so intense that it felt like the half-angel was suffocating under it. "I get back here, I spread out the money, everything should be fine, yes? I go to tell Lina the good news. No. See, she hears from one of the other girls that that fucker Paul went talking about what happened at the prison. Because, you know, he always goes right to the women when he gets back, since it makes him feel more alive or some shit. I walk in the door, and she starts yelling at me right away! You could have been third! An officer! Good pay! Almost the head of everything! And you say no? That was too much for her. She says we''re done. And here I am."


    Slumping over the bar and sniffling, K''aekniv took another long draw from the bottle. The misery radiating from him at the memory of it was enough to make Mirk cringe. He dragged his stool closer, putting an arm around as much of K''aekniv''s broad shoulders as he could embrace. "I''m sorry Niv. You didn''t do anything wrong. Sometimes things just...don''t work out."


    K''aekniv scoffed. But he didn''t attempt to throw off Mirk''s arm either. Instead he leaned into it, burying his face in one arm. Mirk couldn''t tell whether K''aekniv was crying again or not from his muffled voice. "She''s right. I''m an idiot."


    "You''re not an idiot."


    "What kind of idiot wouldn''t take an extra fifty gold a contract? For sitting in the back where it''s safe?"


    "Someone who loves his men," Mirk said, giving K''aekniv''s shoulders a squeeze. "I can feel how much you care about them. You don''t want to abandon them."


    K''aekniv didn''t seem to hear him. "This is how it always is. I do something stupid, then this happens. I should have known, Lina, she''s too smart and good for a bastard like me."


    Mirk thought this over, making himself sit still and steep in K''aekniv''s pain rather than pulling back to a safe distance. "I don''t think anyone did anything wrong, Niv. Neither you nor her. Sometimes people just want different things from life. But methinks it''s not such a bad thing that you got to be happy for a little while, at least."


    The half-angel''s voice broke when he next spoke, though it was hard to hear him over the din of laughter that filled the tavern. But even if he hadn''t been able to hear his voice, Mirk still would have been able to feel the breaking of his heart, no matter how strong his shields were. "No one wants me."


    "That''s not true, Niv." Mirk paused. Trying to reason with something like that, he knew, was all but impossible, no matter how unfounded the idea was. Mirk had seen how devoted the Easterners were to K''aekniv. Even Genesis liked him, in his own, strange way. Mirk knew they''d all be lost without him. But that wasn''t the kind of love that K''aekniv was mourning, not right then. The best he could do, Mirk thought, was try to cheer him some with a distraction. "Methinks you''re lucky you get to be happy at all, even if you end up not being a good match. Things are the opposite where I grew up."


    K''aekniv lifted his head, just far enough to peek one red eye out over the sleeve of his dingy overcoat. "What do you mean?"


    "How did you decide to be with Lina, hmm?"


    He shrugged his wings a little. "I liked her. She liked me. That''s how it goes."


    "Not with nobles."


    "Huh?"


    "Well. Let''s say I wanted to start a family," Mirk said. It bothered him to think of it, but he buried his discomfort with the complications involved in such a scenario underneath K''aekniv''s heartache. "I wouldn''t be able to just walk around the City and talk to people until I found someone who I liked. There are rules. First, maman would have taken out her address book. And we''d go through it, looking for families with daughters who want to marry and talking about how our families could help each other. Then she''d write a letter to her mother, and I''d have to take the coach all the way across the country to have dinner with her family. Of course, that''d just be the beginning. The best ladies are wanted by the most gentlemen, you know. So there''d be at least three balls, and maybe we''d get to dance a few times, and then her father would have to meet with grand-p¨¨re. And then I''m sure there''d have to be a ghost from the counting houses and a few guildmasters involved..."


    K''aekniv lifted his head fully, only to drain the rest of the bottle and give Mirk a confused look. "What? You can''t just...you know," he said, making a rather pointed hand gesture.


    Mirk shook his head. "Men do, of course, but I was raised in the Church. It''s not about what you want. It''s for God and family," Mirk said, scrambling to think of some joke he could lighten the mood with, before he thought too hard about what he was saying. "You know, before everything happened, maman had her heart set on Lisle Chalon for me. She''d have never forced me, but still."


    "Was she good looking, at least?" K''aekniv asked, skeptical.


    "Oh, a very handsome woman, yes," Mirk nodded. "The gossip was that she could hurl a dish a full mile if her cook made the wrong entree for dinner, and she''s not even an air mage. Maman always thought that someone more strong-willed would suit me best. She''s gotten engaged to Hector Montfort since, methinks. And she''s only broken his foot dancing twice."


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    The comment finally drew a chuckle out of K''aekniv, as he scrubbed his filthy coat sleeve across his equally filthy face. "That sounds like the kind of woman for me, not for you."


    "What I mean to say, Niv, is that things always work out in the end. Hector does love her, methinks. And I''m here with you."


    K''aekniv snorted, spinning the bottle on the top of the bar. Somehow, despite having drunk it all, his coordination wasn''t failing nearly as bad as his own would have had he done the same. "What are you doing here, huh? This is an English bar. I just came because you people should be giving me free drinks for all the work I''m doing for you," K''aekniv said, raising his voice and giving the bartender a pointed look at the end. Which the bartender deliberately ignored.


    "I, euh, have a little problem," Mirk said, as he set in on his own drink. Not very good, but decidedly better than the ale. And not enough to take the edge off things, considering how K''aekniv had polished off the bottle already. "I gave my room to a patient. You remember the angel boy and his sister, non? Samael and Sharael?"


    "Like I''d forget that! My wings still hurt. How long?"


    "For good," Mirk said with a sigh. "He''s even more fragile than I was after everything. He wouldn''t get any better in a normal room. And methinks his empathy is too strong for him to go without even after he''s better."


    K''aekniv shook his head, ruefully, jabbing at him with the bottom of the bottle. "Stop being so good. You make the rest of us look like bastards. So what will you do, huh?"


    "I...well, I thought I''d try taking a room somewhere outside the City, but that didn''t work out. I suppose I''ll be staying back on the long-term ward until something opens up in the healers dormitory again."


    "Those beds are shit," K''aekniv said with a grimace.


    Mirk shrugged, helplessly. "There''s nowhere else for me to go, really. At least for tonight. I wouldn''t want to wake anyone up on my account."


    K''aekniv turned the matter over in his head for a time, drumming his fingers on the bottle as he thought. "Listen. I''ve got no one. And you''ve got no place. My bed''s shit too, but I''ll give you the half that''s less shit."


    Straightening up on his stool in surprise, Mirk shook his head. "You don''t have to do that. And, euh, I''m not sure how it''ll work, really...there''s always a lot happening in the infantry dorms, I''ve heard..." They usually got a handful of stabbed or beaten patients first thing in the morning to prove it.


    "This, we can work with," K''aekniv said. "I know a trick. Come. Unless you want to stay here all night with the English?"


    K''aekniv never would have said it. But Mirk could feel it, the loneliness stirring back up in his chest again, a feeling like the icy half of his magic was spiraling out of control and creeping across his entire body. It decided things for him. Mirk threw back the rest of his drink, cringing at its sour aftertaste. The amount of alcohol in it probably wouldn''t help him much, considering how accustomed he was becoming to it due to the officers being stingy with the pain blockers, but it was better than nothing. And leaving it behind would have been a waste. Certain men scrimped and saved the whole week for a glass of comfort. Men like K''aekniv.


    "I''ll try. But if it causes you any trouble, you don''t owe me anything."


    A grin sprung to life on K''aekniv''s face as he reached over and ruffled Mirk¡¯s hair. "Owe you? No! You''ll be saving me money! But you always do. Nu, davai. Before these English bastards decide to come steal some more."


    -   -   -


    "Euh...well, it''s...ah..."


    "Shit," K''aekniv deadpanned, from out in the hall behind Mirk.


    Mirk knew he wouldn¡¯t find luxury hidden within the infantry dormitory all the members of the Seventh lived in, but he hadn''t expected it to be quite that miserable. The outside was a bit run down, but its facade was no worse than any of the other newer buildings on the fringes of the City of Glass. But the inside was a whole other mess.


    If he was brutally honest, it may have been a step down from the mortal inn, the lack of insects aside. Mirk could sense the wards Genesis had left on the room from back when he''d shared the room with K''aekniv, still terribly strong despite Genesis not having tended to them in months. No insects, no rodents, no living thing or magic could slip past them once they were engaged. They were a small comfort. Even if they kept out the rats that''d fled before them as they''d descended into the basement, the wards would do nothing to keep out stray emotions.


    Every other building he''d been in within the confines of the City of Glass, Mirk had noticed, was built to accommodate non-humans, people the same absurd size as K''aekniv and Genesis. The ceilings were higher, in any case, even if the doorways had been rebuilt over the years. Even though the healers dormitory was notoriously cramped, K''aekniv still had room in most places to stretch out his wings without doing more than brushing his primaries against the walls. The infantry dormitory felt less like a place to live in and more like the infirmary basement: a warehouse for bodies.


    The building was made of sturdy enough stone, but the walls had no plaster over them, and the doors were all flimsy, offhand things. Several of the rooms they''d passed on their way down to the basement had been missing doors entirely or had holes punched clear through them, the evidence of past drunken brawls. And the general dimensions were terrible for a person of K''aekniv''s stature. His head had skimmed the ceiling all the way down the long hall that ran through the middle of the narrow basement. He''d have to bend over to get through the doorway he was presently leaning by. K¡¯aekniv had one arm braced against the wall above it, putting as much weight on it as he dared as he ducked his head down far enough to look inside and gauge Mirk''s reaction.


    "Why is everything so...euh...small?" Mirk asked.


    "Ah. The other dormitories, they''re not so bad. This is the new one they made for us and the other poor bastards from wherever. They got more poor English and Germans, so they decided to kick the rest of us out. A whole dormitory! Just for you! Bring more of your friends and be happy! They''re just lucky we''re used to getting the worst shit back at home. Anyone else would have turned around and left when they saw this shit."


    "I suppose..." Mirk said, turning around a few times himself to fully take in the room, thinking.


    It was bigger than his room in the healers dormitory had been. K¡¯aekniv had claimed on the walk over that his room was the biggest in the whole building that wasn''t meant for a half dozen men at once. But it really only was just big enough to cram a giant bed ¡ª a necessity, considering its present and past occupants ¡ª and a dresser inside.


    K''aekniv could have gotten rid of it to free up more space. His uniforms, both worn and clean, were piled in heaps on the floor, along with a few dozen empty bottles he hadn''t hauled back to the Supply Corps yet for the half-pennies they gave out to those generous enough to return them. The bed itself was as depressing as the rest of it; it only had three flattened pillows and a singed sheet for bedclothes. One side of the bed had clearly seen much more use than the other, though the crushed down section was spreading, now that there wasn''t someone vicious enough to stab anyone who encroached on his personal space occupying the other half.


    "Like I said, it''s shit. But you get used to it," K''aekniv said. "Make yourself at home. I have to go fight the bastard who took the bath upstairs."


    "Euh...do you have a blanket? It''s a little cold for just a sheet..."


    "Oh! Yes, of course. I don''t need one, but you will, I think." K''aekniv crammed himself through the door and went to go paw through the dresser in search of it. Mirk had to press himself flat against the wall to give K''aekniv enough room to maneuver. "Let''s see...ah! Here. Blanket."


    The blanket K''aekniv passed to him was much finer than he''d been expecting: gray, thick, tightly woven. K''aekniv must have noticed his surprise. "It was Gen''s. He said something got on it and he wanted to turn it into dust, but I told him it was stupid to waste something so nice."


    "He can be particular about things," Mirk mumbled, running his hands over the blanket. He hated that the first thought that entered his mind was whether or not the blanket still smelled of Genesis''s cleaning potion and soap. If it did, he might have an easier time getting to sleep.


    K''aekniv laughed, shoving himself back out the door. "If anyone knocks, don''t let them in," he warned, before shutting the door behind himself. The wards on the room engaged, cutting off the snoring and coughing coming from the dormitory''s other residents. Mirk didn''t know whether to be grateful or worried over the sudden silence. He didn''t particularly want to spend the night listening to someone spitting up their insides, but the silence was also unsettling. He associated the unnatural stillness with Genesis just as much as he did the scent of oranges and lilies.


    Mirk did his best to settle in. He cast a few rudimentary spells against emotions ¡ª he hoped that the pre-existing wards would help to strengthen them some, since he was too tried to cast his own with any accuracy or extra potential. Then he took off the clothes Mordecai had loaned him, folding them and placing them atop the dresser along with his cloak and traveling bag. K''aekniv had been right about him needing a blanket. In nothing but his braies and chemise, Mirk instantly began to shiver. He shook out the blanket and wrapped himself up in it, lying down on the less-flatted half of the bed with one of the sad, deflated pillows folded in half and tucked under his head.


    The blanket did smell like Genesis. Mirk did his best to put it out of mind.


    As soon as he''d closed his eyes, Mirk became more acutely aware of the emotions seeping past his shoddy spellcraft. It was mostly pain, both physical and mental, though he could also detect a hint of arousal from a thankfully further distance. They both nagged at him, keeping him from drifting off. Mirk knew that as soon as he lost consciousness, the emotions would become strong enough to keep him from staying asleep. And the damp and the chill in the basement of the Easterners dormitory was constant, no matter how tightly he curled in on himself.


    He hadn''t managed to fall asleep by the time K''aekniv returned. Mirk could tell the half-angel was doing his best to be quiet, but K''aekniv couldn''t avoid bumping into things. Or keep from humming to himself, low under his breath. Mirk smiled. All the sounds were just like K''aekniv''s emotions, just like his size. Everything was exaggerated.


    Even if K''aekniv had managed to enter the room silently, the riot of creaks and snaps the bed made when he thudded down onto it would have woken Mirk up. Though Mirk had kept to the edge of the bed, K''aekniv still took up over three-quarters of it, especially once he shook out his wings and resettled them. His leftmost one ended up draped partway over Mirk. The feathers were warm enough, and mostly clean now from the bath. Sighing, Mirk gave up on trying to feign sleep and opened his eyes, turning to look over at K''aekniv. He moved just in time to see K''aekniv make a vague gesture that extinguished the room''s sole, yellowy magelight.


    Yet the room didn''t go dark. It surprised Mirk for a moment, before he remembered that K''aekniv''s wings threw off winglight like those of a full-blooded angel''s, despite K''aekniv''s lack of light magic. It comforted Mirk, somewhat. It reminded him of home. Though neither Kae nor his father would have tolerated sleeping in such a dismal and damp place, especially not without a blanket and wearing only a garment that was vaguely like braies, though rougher and shorter and black, like everything in the K''maneda. Mirk suspected that K''aekniv was only bothering with them out of consideration for him, the same as the bath he¡¯d taken before collapsing into bed.


    "Thank you, Niv. Again," Mirk said, softly.


    "It''s not so bad, yes?" K''aekniv asked, turning his head to look at him. Like most winged people, K''aekniv slept on his stomach, so as not to accidentally bend or pinch his wings in his sleep, his chin propped up on his folded arms.


    "Well...at least no one is going to try to rob or kill me here, methinks."


    K''aekniv snorted, burying his head back in his arms and worn-out pillow. "That happens here too. But they know better than to try with me."


    Mirk closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. K''aekniv''s presence helped. The feeling of K''aekniv''s weariness against his shields was strong enough to drown out the emotions of the other infantrymen stuffed in the basement, so pervasive that Mirk was finally starting to feel drowsy himself. But it didn''t last.


    The first time, it was a sudden spike of terror that roused Mirk from a doze. Someone down the hall having a nightmare, Mirk realized, once he came fully awake again and searched out the source of the feeling. The second time, Mirk felt like he''d managed a half hour or so of sleep before he was roused by a heady mix of desire and pleasure. Mutual, but still something Mirk would have rather not been privy to.


    The cold didn''t help things either. Mirk had begun to shake from it. As he shifted position and drew the blanket tight around himself at the level of his ears, Mirk lifted his hands to his mouth and tried to warm them with his breath. His fingers felt like ice.


    "Ah, Mirgosha. You''re not right for a place like this. Here. Let''s try this."


    Mirk assumed K''aekniv had fallen asleep. But he hadn''t. The half-angel heaved himself up onto his elbows, then further up onto his knees, the bed groaning under his weight. Then K''aekniv reached over to Mirk, taking hold of his shoulder and dragging him over to the other side of the bed before flopping back down onto his stomach. Mirk was certain that would have finally broken something important in the bed, but it held up. K''aekniv threw both an arm and a wing over Mirk that time, pressing him close against his side.


    "Ah...euh..."


    "You were on the cold side."


    "Oh. Right." He''d been to K''aekniv''s left before. Now that he was to the right of him, pressed against his side, the inhuman heat generated by K''aekniv''s fire magic stirring restlessly within him was impossible to ignore. Even the pervasive chill of the dormitory, that Mirk thought had settled into his bones for good, didn''t stand a chance against it. "What does Mirgosha mean?" Mirk asked.


    "Ah! Yes. You know, I told you I''d find a little name for you sometime. But it''s hard with your kind of name. Everyone from home, there''s the usual...Pavel to Pasha, Ilya to Iliusha, and so on...your kind of name doesn''t make them easy. But this new mage from back home who came and joined us last week, he was bitching the other day about how sad he was to leave his Margosha at home. That one, I''d never heard. It''s for Margarita, he said."


    "It''s the same in French. Well, a little. Marguerite. Does it mean daisy for you too?"


    Mirk felt K''aekniv nod. "So, I think to myself, it''s close, yes? And you have that kind of feeling to you, a sunny happy flower. It''d work, but it still needed a little something. So Mirgosha instead of Margosha. And mir is a happy word for us."


    "I like it," Mirk said, after he''d thought it over for a time, tugging K''aekniv''s wing a little higher, so that his face was hidden in it as well. His other wing hadn''t been cold, exactly, but his right wing radiated heat like a magicked blanket.


    "Good. Because it took real thinking to come up with that one. I''m not...what do you say...making things up out of nothing..."


    "Creative?"


    "Yes! That."


    "I don''t know about that," Mirk said, as he began to relax further against K''aekniv''s side. "Methinks you''re as good as anyone else. You tell the best stories, too."


    "Ah, you''re too nice for all us bastards," K''aekniv said, a touch of ruefulness in both his tone and emotions. "Now, let''s see if I can think of something good..."


    After flipping through a few half-formed impressions, things K''aekniv remembered, then tossed away, he began to project. A feeling of contentment and fullness and warmth, a faint impression of being bundled up in furs beside a bonfire that leaped high up into the air and illuminated the whole of a clearing in the midst of a darkened pine forest. It was a homey feeling, somehow, despite the wildness of the setting. And thinking of it seemed to help ease K''aekniv''s residual weariness and sadness over everything he''d been through recently. Mirk closed his eyes again, smiling.


    His own relief was twofold. First, there was the reassurance that he could let his shields fall away and sleep, knowing that as long as K''aekniv kept projecting, his emotions would be strong enough to drown out the rest of the world. The second part, Mirk was less certain of. He had been worried about it in a distant, off-hand way ever since he''d fallen ill. That he''d begin to have the same strange thoughts about every man he came close to, that he''d never again have access to the comfort of touch without the thoughts that he tried so hard to push from his mind ruining everything. He hadn''t felt them toward anyone else yet, but he also hadn''t been this close to anyone since it had all begun.


    But there he was, pressed up tight against K''aekniv''s half-naked body, and the thoughts hadn''t come slinking out of the dark recesses of his mind. There was only comfort, comfort and warmth and safety, untainted by the rest. Which didn''t make things entirely better ¡ª why was it that Genesis awakened those thoughts in him? And what did that mean? ¡ª but it was a small blessing nevertheless.


    It was pointless to speculate. Better to savor what he could before anything else went wrong. Mirk opened his mind to K''aekniv''s projections, to the tiredness lurking behind them, and let himself spiral downward into sleep.

 Chapter 32

    "Hmm...well, it might work. Maybe..."


    Mirk surveyed his possessions, brushing a few cobwebs off the spare crate he''d stuffed his wardrobe into. The spiders in the basement of the healers dormitory were nothing if not ambitious. He''d packed his things quickly to make room for Samael and Sharael, cramming his things into whatever crates and sacks he could bribe out of the Supply Corps men and the washerwomen. There had been room for his things down in the basement, even if there hadn''t been any room for him ¡ª most of the healers didn''t own enough to need the extra space. It wasn''t a place to live, dark and stuffy and completely unshielded. But Mirk was trying his best to find a way to fix that.


    Staying with K''aekniv wasn''t going to work out, not in the long-term. Only a week had passed, and they were already both nearing their limits. K''aekniv could keep projecting even after he fell asleep, but the comforting, homey images always crumbled away as soon as he began to dream, leaving Mirk open to the emotions beyond the half-angel''s room and rousing him from his sleep. Mirk would stay awake then, trying to ignore the emotions and remain still, but something would always happen that''d wake K''aekniv: Mirk would jump at a sudden flash of panic from another man waking from a nightmare, or would start to press harder against K''aekniv to better ignore the dormitory''s chill. Then the whole cycle would begin again.


    It''d repeat the whole night through, leaving them barely rested, functional, but only just. Mirk knew that it wasn''t good for either of them. They both had angelic blood; they both needed more than a few hours of sleep every night to do their work and help those they cared for. K''aekniv was too kind to throw him out and leave him to the misery of the long-term ward beds. It was up to Mirk to leave and find a solution. He could have tried putting better wards and shields against emotion on K''aekniv''s room, but he knew he was imposing on the half-angel in other ways. The City''s working women were starting to shoot Mirk dirty looks when he passed them in the streets and at the tavern.


    Which left him with the closet in the basement, and at a loss for what else to do.


    "Ah...Mirk. I see we are...considering a similar issue."


    Mirk sat up on the crate he''d tried to make a bed out of, blinking. It took him a moment to spot him: Genesis had appeared in the shadow cast by one of the magicked water tanks that supplied the dormitory''s baths, his arms full of books and scrolls, expression skeptical. Genesis didn''t have to say another word to make his point clear. He knew from a glance what Mirk was planning ¡ª the quilts all stacked at one end of the crates probably gave him away ¡ª and thought it was absurd. Mirk couldn''t help but feel chagrined by how transparent he was, even to someone like Genesis.


    "Hello, messire," Mirk said. There was little sense in dodging the issue. And Genesis hated it when people wasted his time. "It''s...well. You''re right. I''m not getting very far in fixing things, methinks. But at least Samael is doing much better up in my old room. His primaries are even starting to come in..."


    Genesis stared at Mirk''s jumbled heaps of possessions a moment longer, then turned his attention toward the books in his arms. "I believe...I may have found a solution."


    "You have?" Mirk sincerely hoped it didn''t involve killing anyone, which was the usual way the better rooms exchanged hands in the K''maneda outside of the healers dormitory.


    The shadows reached out to Mirk. He didn''t resist them as they tugged him into the cold, fathomless place that connected them to one another. When the darkness lifted, Mirk found himself up in Genesis''s quarters, in the larger of the two rooms that comprised them. Mirk distracted himself from the nausea that came with being moved by surveying the changes that''d been made since he''d seen Genesis¡¯s quarters last. The bench that''d been against the wall was gone, replaced by a worktable and a black wingback chair that had a certain sinister, almost resentful air about it. And a gap had been made in the bookshelves that lined the wall facing the door out into the hall. The exposed stones were covered by a complex snarl of runes and sigils sketched out in charcoal. It almost looked like a doorway. One to somewhere Mirk would rather not visit.


    Genesis went to the worktable without comment, putting down his books and scrolls. He selected one of the latter, clearing space on the table to unroll it, delicately. "As I have been...indisposed as of late, I have had time to consider a matter that has been...concerning me for some time."


    "Oh?"


    "The City is ancient. Older than Earth by...several millennia. The K''maneda traveled the realms in it for longer than...Earth''s existence. However, since it fell to this realm, it has also fallen into disrepair. Much like the organization itself."


    "I see..." Mirk drew over to the worktable, looking at the scroll Genesis was weighing down the corners of with books. A sketch of a building, done in red, the details of its interior filled in with black ink and notated in a language Mirk couldn''t read.


    "The humans have altered it. For the...worse, in most cases. I would prefer to see it restored. A...long-term project, but one that I thought it would be prudent to begin work on. As it may offer a...solution to your problem."


    "What do you mean?"


    "The...outer dimensions of this specific building and its...inner measurements are incongruent. Thus logic, as well as what evidence I could locate in the library, suggests there are more rooms available than are currently in use."


    Mirk found himself smiling. It was rare to see Genesis being so talkative. It only ever happened when someone expressed interest (usually unintentionally and with immediate regret) in the subject of his most recent studies. Nevertheless, it always made Mirk feel better to see Genesis being less distant and cold. Complex problems and puzzles injected a certain spark of life into Genesis. And this time, the solution didn''t appear to involve death. "So you think there might be another room over there?" Mirk asked, gesturing at the sketch on the wall.


    Genesis nodded. "The records give little indication of what manner of room, but, considering the floor it is on and its position in relation to the outer walls, I believe it may be...empty."


    "Methinks taking a look would be the only way to be sure, then."


    "Yes. Disassembling the wall is not an issue per se, but there is the matter of the resulting...dust. If you could see to it, I would be...appreciative."


    Mirk hesitated. He knew how Genesis felt about dust ¡ª and that he wouldn''t do a satisfactory job of collecting it all, even with his magic to help. It was difficult to capture the small particles, to separate their low voices from the distant rumble of the rest of the stone and plaster that ringed the room. Mirk still felt he had to try, considering the importance of what Genesis was offering him, albeit in an indirect fashion. Lending a spare room to a friend would be a small courtesy to most people, but allotting a fraction of the space he''d fought and killed for was something much different, coming from Genesis. "I can''t make you any promises, messire, but I''ll do my best."


    If Genesis heard the concern in Mirk''s voice, he gave no indication of it. He set to work straight away, going to the doorway outlined in charcoal and activating the spell surrounding it with light touches and arcane gestures. As the magic came to life, a low rumbling filled the room. Genesis backed out of the spell''s range to wait for it to finish, folding his arms with an air of impatience.


    Tendrils of shadow rose up from every corner of the room ¡ª snaking out from behind bookcases, unfurling from beneath the worktable and armchair ¡ª and set to work on the wall. Brick by brick they tore it apart, neatly stacking the spare stones off to one side. Mirk lifted his arms and called to the dust created by the displaced mortar, gathering it into a growing ball of powder between his outstretched hands. He missed a good deal of it, but Genesis didn''t seem to notice, his attention riveted on the wall. Each brick revealed further inches of a real door hidden behind the stone. It was made of a dark material, its surface flat, either wood or more stone. There wasn''t a handle. And Mirk couldn''t hear its voice. It had to be made of off-realm materials.


    Mirk worked the ball of dust he''d collected together, compacting it between his hands physically and with magic until it was a chunk of porous stone. He held onto it awkwardly for a moment, then decided to set it aside atop the pile of bricks the shadows had built. "I''m sorry I couldn''t get all of it," Mirk said. "But it''s better than nothing, non?"


    Genesis didn''t respond. It was as if Mirk had passed out of existence, as if there was nothing in Genesis''s quarters besides the commander and the door he''d uncovered. Genesis went to it, running his hands down its sides as he thought, muttering to himself under his breath. "Hmph, yes...as I thought...spelled to the last owner...a small thing..."


    Setting his hands flat against the door, near where its handle would have been, Genesis raised the shadows once more. He grimaced at the effort, but destroyed whatever magical lock was on the door in short order, and it swung ajar. Without pause, he pushed it all the way open and slipped inside.


    Genesis inhaled, sharply, a curt hiss. Concerned, Mirk approached the door. "Is everything all right, Genesis?"


    "It''s..."


    Mirk peered inside. The darkness was absolute. "What?"


    "A bath."


    Curious, Mirk tapped on the tiny magelight he''d taken to wearing around his wrist like a bracelet after so many times being caught in the dark with people whose vision was much better than his own. It didn''t illuminate the room fully, but it was good enough for him to get an impression of its layout. Everything inside was either stone or glass, all the fixtures and devices melded directly onto the walls or floor, leaving no room for dust or dirt to accumulate either behind or underneath them, though disuse had caused a layer of it to accumulate on all the flat surfaces. There was a long, deep bath across from the door. To its left was a strange glass cubicle, large enough for someone of K''aekniv stature to stand inside with his wings flared out. To the bath''s right was a sink, wide and deep, and beside that a cube of stone large enough to sit on, though its purpose wasn''t immediately clear to Mirk. Some manner of privy?


    It was altogether strange to Mirk. But stranger still was Genesis''s reaction to it.


    The expression on Genesis¡¯s face was completely foreign to Mirk. It looked almost vicious, teeth bared and eyes wide. But Mirk didn''t think its meaning was negative. It put him in mind, vaguely, of the oddly endearing, strained smile that had come onto Genesis''s face when he''d worked the kinks out of the commander''s back when he''d been ill months ago. After a few minutes spent watching Genesis''s eyes dart around the room, Mirk was certain: Genesis was both in awe of and delighted by what he''d found behind the hidden door.


    "Everything is here," Genesis said to himself, voice low and his hissing accent thick as he studied the room. "Exactly as...K¡¯anak said. Extraordinary. Perfection..."


    Mirk stifled his laughter in his sleeve. It wouldn''t have mattered if he''d started cackling. If Genesis registered him at all in that moment, it was as an afterthought, a witness to what the commander viewed as unparalleled glory. Genesis hastily exited the bathroom, counting the stones beside the door before producing a stick of charcoal from the pocket of his overcoat and sketching out another spell. Mirk followed after him, listening to Genesis mutter to himself as he worked.


    "Yes...it has to be here...it has to work...all the spells are connected to the core, it will work...it must work..."


    Genesis gave Mirk no warning before he activated the spell scrawled across the stone. Dust flew everywhere as the shadows ripped them aside and flung them haphazardly atop the pile in the middle of the main room. Genesis ignored it. Instead, he pulled the door to the bathroom shut with a gesture, then traced a rune on the metal plate that had been hidden behind the stone. A low rumbling filled Genesis''s quarters again, and there was a drawn-out hiss from behind the bathroom door. The moment it faded away, Genesis pushed the door back open. That time, the commander activated the room''s magelights as he entered. They were bright and steady, despite their age, filling the bathroom with a cold, white light that left no detail or speck of dirt hidden. Mirk ducked his head back inside, hesitant to ruin Genesis''s moment of triumph.


    All the dust was gone. The bathroom was perfectly, immaculately clean, so clean that the glass that made up the cubicle off to the left was almost invisible. Mirk noted, with a bit of alarm, that Genesis''s hands were shaking as he sat down on the edge of the giant stone bath and felt along the lip at its right side. Runes flared to life under his fingertips. Something in the wall of the bath squealed in protest, the noise followed by the sound of running water. Mirk drew closer, too fascinated to resist. The bath had begun to fill from some source near its bottom. Genesis reached down and trailed his hand through it, sighing. Not in resignation, but in relief.


    "Yes. Still hot. Perfect."


    Mirk was at a loss. "It...um, it''s all very interesting, messire. I''m...glad you''re happy with it?"


    Genesis drew in a deep breath, attempting to compose himself. No matter how hard Genesis tried, he couldn''t force his expression back into its usual blankness. It was astonishing, Mirk thought to himself. Genesis wasn''t merely satisfied with what he''d found: he was happy about it.


    "This...is the City. This is what it is, underneath what all these...idiots have done to it. Everything is...planned. Every inch. Every detail. Thousands of years of K''maneda, knowledge and skill from hundreds of realms...this is the result. Perfection." Genesis paused, searching for just the right words. "Not the¡­City of Glass. K''atc''ayet."


    Perfection wasn''t quite the word Mirk would have chosen to describe the bathroom. Clever, perhaps. Neat. Impressive. Perfection was what Mirk imagined a lost soul felt when gazing upon the face of the Virgin in a vision. But it was obvious to Mirk that the bathroom was the same thing to Genesis, in a strange way: the room really meant something to him, was a glimpse of something close to eternal salvation. Even if that salvation was from dirt and disorder rather than sin. "Methinks I''ll have to take your word for it, messire. I don''t know much about the old K''maneda."


    Genesis turned away, looking down into the slowly filling bath. "This...one day...could be a proper...home."


    The words made it all make sense to Mirk, in a rush that left him edging closer to Genesis, debating putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. Genesis had probably never had a place he could call home before, somewhere he felt at peace. If the strange bathroom was part of what made up a proper home to Genesis, who was he to judge? "It''s a start, at least," Mirk said, finding himself smiling once more.


    Again, Genesis tried to scrape himself together. He managed it better that time, touching another rune on the lip of the bath that, from the sound of things, shut off the water and set the bath to drain. Genesis rose to his feet, looking off at the featureless wall on the right-hand side of the room above the sink, where a mirror ordinarily would have hung. "Every room on this side of the floor must have one of these. I...doubt it will be appreciated by the others, but I find it...reassuring. That the structure remains intact."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Everyone likes a hot bath at the end of a long day," Mirk said, in an attempt to be encouraging, as Genesis grudgingly left the bathroom after taking a final look around. Mirk suspected no one would feel as strongly as Genesis did about a good bath, but, in comparison to the stained and leaky communal baths that everyone but the topmost officers shared, the bathroom hidden behind the wall of Genesis''s quarters was a vast improvement.


    Genesis snorted. "You are...too charitable to others."


    "It doesn''t hurt anything," Mirk said as he stepped back out into the main room of Genesis''s quarters. "Anyway, it was kind of you to offer me a place to stay, messire, but methinks a bathroom isn''t the best place to sleep. Maybe there''s some other place? If there are hidden rooms like this all over the City, like you said..."


    It was only when Mirk mentioned needing a place to sleep that Genesis seemed to remember the original purpose of Mirk''s visit. His expression fell back into its usual blankness, though Mirk thought that a hint of his prior excitement was still tucked away underneath his slight, flattened frown. "Further investigation would require...negotiation with parties...not favorably disposed toward me."


    Mirk had been around the commander long enough by then to know what Genesis meant by negotiation. Namely, someone getting hit over the head and stuffed in a closet until Genesis had finished his work. "Oh. Well, I''m sure I''ll sort something out. And I''m glad you thought of me, anyway. It''s very kind of you."


    Genesis sighed. "...no. This...foolishness needs to end. I am not...blind. Both you and K''aekniv have been...substantially less productive since you have elected to...share a space. You will both be...inefficient soon if you continue. I believe I still have adequate space for you elsewhere. If that is...acceptable to you, that is."


    Mirk didn''t know whether to be heartened by the fact that Genesis cared so much for the both of them, or dismayed by the way he could feel his cheeks burning. "I couldn''t, Genesis. It wouldn''t be right, considering."


    The commander made a dismissive gesture. "As I have said before. Once one has lived with K''aekniv, one can...tolerate anyone."


    Laughing, Mirk wrung his hands together behind his back to hide his nerves. "It really isn''t so bad. I wouldn''t mind if all the emotions in the dormitory weren''t such a problem. And, well. The women."


    A dark look crossed Genesis''s face. "That among...other things."


    "I suppose we can give it a try, if you insist. But you''re welcome to tell me to leave any time you''d like. And I owe you a favor. Methinks it wouldn''t be right of me to call it a debt like you do, but I''ll help you with anything you need."


    Some of Genesis''s prior cheer ¡ª if it could be called that ¡ª returned, as he turned and glanced back into the bathroom. "In that case..."


    "Yes? I really mean it, anything at all."


    "Bring your potions kit in before the rest of your things. I require some...specific materials. I had no use for them before, but..."


    Mirk didn''t understand what Genesis could possibly want from his kit, but shrugged and nodded in agreement. "Bien s?r, messire. Whatever you need."


    As if pulled to it by an unseen force, Genesis stalked back into the bathroom. For a time, Mirk idled about the main room of Genesis''s quarters, biting his lip and fussing with the pile of spare stones stacked in the middle of it as he thought things over. He had a feeling things weren''t going to go well, for more than one reason. Perhaps once Genesis had calmed down, he''d reconsider his offer. But until then, Mirk supposed it''d be rude to refuse. He went to the main door and left, its lock snicking back into place behind him as he headed down the hallway toward the stairs.


    Even though he still felt uneasy about everything, there was work to be done.


    - - -


    Mirk sat on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs in an attempt to ease his discomfort as he wondered exactly what it was he was supposed to be doing with himself.


    Moving in had been unsettling in its ease. Mirk had thought it would be difficult, that it would involve a lot of cajoling and compromise. But Genesis had been uncharacteristically easy-going about it all. He hadn''t even complained about the racket K''aekniv made every time he came up with another trunk or crate, though Genesis had forbidden the half-angel from tramping into his new bathroom to get the drink of water Mirk scolded him into, pouring it himself and telling K''aekniv to keep the glass he passed to him with the barest tips of his fingers.


    The only other sticking point had been the bed. Mirk had been reassured in an odd way by Genesis''s reluctance to disengage the countless locks and spells on the bedroom door, the critical look he cast in Mirk''s direction before opening it and stepping aside so that Mirk could see in. It must have been Genesis''s inner sanctum, a place meant for no one other than himself. Mirk had been unsurprised by how sparse and plain it was ¡ª two dressers and a table bought from the Supply Corps, along with a bed as large as K''aekniv''s, but far less careworn. And just like K''aekniv''s, it took up the majority of the small space.


    It simply wouldn''t do. Mirk had offered to buy Genesis a smaller one of similar quality instead, and pick up a second from the Supply Corps for himself. It was the only logical option. Though K''aekniv truly needed a monstrosity of a bed, owing to his wide, heavily muscled frame and his wings, Genesis didn''t. It would need to be longer than most, but didn''t need to be terribly wide. Genesis had refused his offer without a moment''s hesitation.


    It wasn''t a matter of Genesis not accepting charity, for once. Though the bed appeared to be mundane, aside from its size, it was heavily magicked. Self-cleaning, repellent to pests of all kinds, impervious to deformation. And designed to meet exact dimensional requirements, though Mirk didn''t know if that aspect served some larger arcane purpose, or was merely something Genesis had demanded in order to confirm to his strange superstitions about odd and even numbers. The bed had cost Genesis all of his savings, along with the resentful wingback out in the main room. Though it wouldn''t have, had Genesis not refused delivery of two previous beds due to their not meeting his exacting standards.


    So, the bed would stay. The indignity of having to share was, apparently, less troublesome than acquiring a new one. Mirk didn''t know whether to be cheered by this development, or worried.


    The rest of Mirk''s things had been handled perfunctorily: Genesis had remained entrenched at his worktable while Mirk had fussed over where to put everything, occasionally offering guidance when Mirk asked the commander a direct question. There''d been no need to get another dresser from the Supply Corps. One of the two dressers had been devoted entirely to Genesis''s cleaning potions and various soaps and tinctures, and Genesis had cleared them out without complaint, instead secreting them away in various cupboards and arranging them meticulously on ledges that he had coaxed out of the bathroom''s featureless walls. Where they rightly should have been to begin with, Genesis had said. It was more efficient to have every label readily visible from a distance. Of course.


    And there was room at the end of the bed for Mirk''s two trunks, the one containing his cherished mementos from home and his quilts, and the other full of his father''s still-bloodied armor. His small collection of books had gone on a shelf in the main room that Genesis hadn''t yet filled, though Mirk had insisted on rearranging things so that his shelf was closer to the ground, owing to their difference in height. Genesis had no complaints about his potions kit and magicked warming plate staying permanently on the worktable, provided that Mirk kept both in good order. Mirk suspected that no matter how hard he tried, Genesis would be the one tidying it more often than him.


    Which left nothing but a few odds and ends, sentimental items that Mirk banished to his trunk for good. He knew Genesis wouldn''t appreciate having his mother''s portrait of the Virgin and the Holy Infant overseeing his work or watching him while he slept. Then again, Mirk had found their gaze more unsettling than comforting lately as well. Their eyes seemed to have taken on a scornful cast, their warm smiles reminding Mirk less of his mother and more of how her smile would have evaporated, had she known of the dark turn his idle musings had recently taken.


    And that had been it. He''d moved. After that, Mirk had tried to keep himself occupied by assembling wards and shields against emotion on the bedroom, though he was mindful not to disturb the far more intricate ones Genesis had already placed around it. Mirk worked at them steadily until he felt drained, trusting that the proximity of Genesis''s shadowy magic would cover the gap between his skills and what he needed to rest. He''d keep working on them when he had the time and the potential ¡ª a useful task to keep him occupied and in the bedroom. Out of Genesis''s hair, as it was.


    All the while Mirk had been working, Genesis had been tinkering with things in the bathroom, ignoring him, to all external appearances. At least, he had until nightfall. Genesis, to Mirk''s combined worry and embarrassment, remembered exactly when Mirk tended to fall asleep. The commander had stopped his work then, instead shifting his attention to teaching Mirk how to use all of the bathroom''s strange devices and magic. Unspoken was the assumption that Mirk would give himself a good scrubbing before retiring to bed. He had been spending the past week sleeping curled up against K''aekniv, after all. Genesis could probably smell the half-angel on him.


    The bathroom''s myriad functions had, thankfully, been less complicated than he''d anticipated. It was mostly a matter of memorizing where all the hidden activation runes were. The glass cubicle in the corner was some manner of standing bath, which, Genesis claimed, was much more sanitary than the ones Mirk was accustomed to.


    Using it had been an awkward affair. It was meant for someone much taller than him, and Mirk kept getting soap in his eyes. That and the water was too hot, even when Mirk tapped the rune that controlled its temperature down to its lowest setting. The bathroom''s taps had to be connected to the core of magic that kept the City wandering much better than the ones in the infirmary.


    Mirk hadn''t mentioned the issue to Genesis. The commander was doing him a great and intimate favor, allowing him into his hard-won domain. The least he could do was take a bath in exchange, no matter how odd.


    That was what had been eating at him all afternoon, what was gnawing at him presently, as he sat on the end of Genesis''s bed in his smallclothes and and kept churning through the scenes again and again in his mind. Genesis allowing him to stay, even going so far as to share his bed, no matter the reason, meant that the commander cared for him, in his own, understated way. The thought should have cheered him. And it probably would have still, had it not been for the rest of it.


    He felt like his mere presence there was sinful. Underhanded. Self-gratifying. If Genesis had known about the sort of thoughts that''d been haunting him lately, he never would have allowed Mirk to share his quarters, not to even think of sharing the same bed, even if it was wide enough for two of each of them to fit in it without touching. Most likely, Genesis would have been so horrified by the revelation that he would have vanished and never spoken to Mirk again for weeks, if ever. The right thing to do would be to confess and accept the consequences.


    But he was weak. He couldn''t bear the thought of losing Genesis, even if only as a friend.


    So, there he was. And there he''d stay. Until he could find some pretext, any pretext, for leaving. Or until the strain of having to share the space with Genesis got rid of his unnatural fondness for the man. True, they''d shared a much smaller space for a time, but Mirk thought things were different now. His own desires aside, Genesis wasn''t ill and out of options that time. That time, he was entering into Genesis''s space, would be forced to follow his rules. And if there was anything Genesis had in abundance beside grimoires, it was rules, all of them unspoken and strange. Hopefully, having to be polite and follow them would exhaust Mirk so badly that he''d want nothing to do with Genesis after a month or so.


    "I...believe I told you there was no need to...wait."


    Startled, Mirk jumped, looking up toward the door. Genesis had concluded whatever bathing ritual had occupied him for the past hour. Whatever it was, it seemed to have refreshed him. Genesis didn''t look as sickly as usual, the skin of his face and hands still pale, but not deathly white like someone had caked him in powder. The water was hot enough to overcome even Genesis''s poor circulation. Something in the back of Mirk''s mind mused on whether or not all the mystery potions the commander had spent the afternoon making in preparation for his inaugural bath would have made his skin any softer.


    Mirk banished the thought with a shake of his head. "Oh! No, I was planning on going to bed, but I must have gotten distracted. You know how I always lose track of time, messire."


    "I am...well aware." Genesis looked at him for a moment longer, an odd expression on his face that Mirk didn''t quite recognize, before dismissing him and resuming his evening routine. Unless Mirk was mistaken, he thought the commander was beginning to look a touch uncomfortable. As if he''d been so consumed by thoughts of taking his first "proper bath" in ages that he hadn''t considered the full implications of allowing Mirk to stay with him until that moment.


    It launched Mirk into action. He hopped off the end of the bed, going to the side of it further away from the door and plucking at the tidy, doubtlessly expensive bedclothes. Genesis hadn''t mentioned spending any of his savings on them, but he was all too familiar by then with what passed for bedding from the Supply Corps. The sheets and blankets they sent in heaping baskets to the infirmary each morning were rough enough to leave rashes on even the most weathered infantrymen. Genesis''s bedclothes were as fine and smooth as the ones Mirk had been accustomed to in his noble household, though they were black, just like everything else the commander owned. A bit dramatic, in Mirk''s opinion, but he''d take any color bedclothes over the Supply Corps'' offerings. They probably even kept themselves clean, somehow, just like the bed did. Not that it would keep Genesis from washing them at least three times a week.


    "I did want to ask you before I went to sleep, though...do you have any, euh, rules? About the bed? I don''t mean to pry, but you are very particular about things, messire. And I wouldn''t want to cause any more trouble than I already am."


    Mirk forced himself to look up, meeting Genesis''s eyes across the bed. The commander seemed deeply puzzled by Mirk''s question. "It is a bed. Its use is...self-explanatory."


    "Ah...right, of course."


    There were more blankets piled on top of the bed than Mirk was accustomed to, of varying thicknesses and textures, their particular use unclear to him. Mirk settled for pulling all of them back before sliding in underneath them. Though Genesis''s quarters weren''t damp like K''aekniv''s had been, the low-born officers dormitory was still quite cold, even on the upper levels. Mirk would need all the heat he could get, especially without K''aekniv''s inhuman warmth beside him to help things along. Before Mirk could find a comfortable position on the far end of the bed, Genesis extinguished the magelights. The darkness in the windowless room was absolute. Mirk would miss K''aekniv''s winglight, pulsing with each of his drawn-out snores, almost as much as his warmth.


    He curled up on the very edge of the bed, hugging himself for both comfort and warmth. The bed was firmer than he liked, but it wasn''t uncomfortable, not exactly. What was unsettling was the knowledge that, though he couldn''t see or hear him, Genesis was only a few arm''s lengths away. Mirk found himself thinking back to the time he''d spent sharing his undersized bed with Genesis back when he''d been ill, before things had gone wrong. Part of Mirk longed to return to that place, for the comfort of Genesis''s physical presence, of his body that was all sinew and bone but pleasant to lean against nevertheless, of his slow breathing that was soothing in its immaculate regularity. But he knew he could never have that again. Not unless God took mercy on him and lifted whatever madness had consumed him.


    Mirk didn''t feel as if he deserved that much.


    He tried to ignore the thoughts. Dwelling on them wouldn''t fix anything. Instead, Mirk stretched out his mind, searching for any errant emotions that might have slipped past the room''s protections. There were none. The room was completely silent and still, save for the rise and fall of his own chest with his own, faintly rasping breath. Despite that, Mirk was acutely aware of the fact that he wasn''t alone. He couldn''t feel Genesis''s emotions, but he could feel his presence, his magic. A gentle static against his mind, a living void, shadows that shifted and curled regardless of whether Genesis commanded them to or not, moved instead by some minute fluctuations in their master''s moods that were unknowable to him. Mirk didn''t know whether it was a blessing or a curse that he''d never be able to feel them.


    Just as Mirk was about to reach for the rosary around his neck, to start thinking his way through the familiar prayers in an effort to put himself to sleep, he heard Genesis sigh. "You are...disturbed."


    "Hmm?" Mirk shifted, glancing over his shoulder on instinct. He couldn''t see a thing.


    "You are disturbed," Genesis repeated, with more certainty this time. "Unless there is some...other reason why you have not fallen asleep."


    "Oh, no," Mirk said, pressing his hand to his breastbone rather than grasping the rosary. His heart was beating faster than usual, Mirk supposed. He hadn''t considered the fact that Genesis, with his inhuman senses, would notice it. "It''s just...I can''t feel you, messire. I know this has to be terribly inconvenient for you. And it bothers me to be a burden, especially when you worked so hard to have a place to be alone."


    Genesis considered this for a time, the press of his magic growing even more faint. Mirk couldn''t see enough to hazard a guess as to why that was. "This was...unexpected. But it is not burdensome. Per se."


    "It isn''t?"


    "No." Genesis sighed again. Mirk thought he could detect a hint of frustration in it, more of a hiss than usual. "Is there some manner of...ritual involved in sleeping I am unaware of?"


    At a loss, Mirk turned over onto his other side, facing the darkness, thinking. He felt desperate for thinking of it, pathetic. But it was the only way he could be sure of things, with the darkness and Genesis''s magic obscuring all his other faculties. "Tiens. Give me your hand, please."


    "...what?"


    "Like I said, I can''t feel you. And though I''m getting better at telling what you mean, methinks your expressions are a little, euh...different, from most people''s. But your body makes sense to me. At least, it does now."


    Mirk didn''t hear Genesis move. But after a few seconds, he felt the back of Genesis''s hand knock against his arm. Mirk fumbled in the dark for it, feeling his way to Genesis''s wrist underneath the commander''s thick, foreign sleeping clothes, pressing two fingers to the pulse there. "This is the same as what you do, non? Only I can''t hear it from across the room like you can."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But his body told the story well enough for Mirk to be certain. His pulse was the same as ever, deathly slow and even. Though it felt a touch faster than usual, and his skin a bit warmer, Mirk was certain the difference had to be from the bath. He would have been pouring sweat and on the verge of fainting if he''d spent as long in the scalding water as Genesis had. Even a body that was resilient as Genesis''s would have to feel its effects, somehow. And there was no tension in his body, no unsettled tinge to Genesis''s magic, beyond the usual vicissitudes of the chaos.


    For once, Genesis spoke before he did. "This does...comfort you. Somehow."


    Nodding, Mirk released his wrist, after giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You''re always the same, Genesis. It makes it easy to tell if something''s wrong. Not that I don''t think you''d tell me the truth, of course."


    "I...see."


    Mirk couldn''t tell whether Genesis found his own regularity annoying or reassuring. But it did make one thing clear to Mirk: if there was someone who was made uncomfortable by his new home, it was him, not Genesis.


    He needed to be practical. Sensible. Rational. Otherwise he''d never get any sleep. Mirk knew there was no getting rid of the thoughts that plagued him, no amount of force or reason he could apply to them to banish them back to the dark hole in his mind that they''d crawled out of. All he could do was accept what was, watch, but not engage, and wait for them to pass. Just like he''d seen the attraction between so many noble ladies and their husbands wither on the vine once the novelty of marriage had passed and their true natures became clear to each other.


    All he could do was hope that Genesis wouldn''t be disgusted by him once the commander finally sorted out the true colors of his nature.


    "It''s fine, messire," Mirk said, as he settled back in on his side facing away from him, snagging one of the two pillows Genesis had deliberately set aside for him out from underneath his head and hugging it to his chest instead. "Try to get some sleep? You don''t do well without it either, you know. Even if you don''t like it."


    "...right."


    In another act of petty self-indulgence, Mirk sought out the feel of Genesis''s magic with his mind. It wasn''t as good as the press of his body, but it was still soothing, in a way. Mirk knew that as long as it was there, as long as Genesis stayed nearby, he wouldn''t be woken up by a dagger of pain or the oppressive, choking feel of second-hand lust. And he found the odd not-patterns of it, the ones he''d memorized by heart, as lulling as the decades of the rosary. Familiar. Dependable. Steady. Strong. A song with words in a language that he knew but didn''t quite understand, just like the Latin of Matins and Vespers.


    Mirk didn''t know what that comparison said about him. But he had no choice other than to accept it, or spend the whole night keeping them both awake.

 Chapter 33

    "Well, you''re looking better today."


    Mirk laughed, breathlessly, as he hurried in out of the hall and took a seat at the break room table beside Yule, meeting the older healer''s unimpressed scoff with a smile. He wasn''t late, but Mirk couldn''t help but feel embarrassed by how he always seemed to be the last one to arrive at the infirmary, regardless of whether his team''s shift started just after dawn or had been bumped back to the afternoon. Though his embarrassment was never quite enough to overcome his desire to sleep late. "I did sleep well, I suppose..."


    He hadn''t been expecting to. Even if there hadn''t been any stray emotions to wake him in Genesis''s quarters, Mirk had been expecting his conscience to startle him awake at least once with some half-formed, confusing, guilt-colored dream. But he''d slept straight through the night and well into the morning, until he was woken up by an alarm that he didn''t remember setting. The commander was gone when Mirk rolled over to look for him, his half of the bed neatly made, leaving no trace of Genesis ever having been there. It made the odd situation feel more like a dream than it already did.


    The alarm had to have been Genesis''s doing. Mirk always set his alarm for a bare half hour before his shifts started, just enough time to make himself infirmary-presentable and rush over. The alarm that Mirk had staggered out of bed to shut off had been set a full two hours before his shift began. The extra time spoke to the morning routine of someone who paid much more attention to ironing and washing than he did. Mirk didn''t know whether to be reassured by the gesture or concerned. Mostly by the fact that Genesis had somehow known that he''d been put on the afternoon shift that day without asking him.


    Yule''s skepticism deepened as he passed that day''s plate of buns over to Mirk. "What? Did Niv spend all night passed out at the bar?"


    Mirk took a bun, nodding to Danu, who was making tea at the magicked hot plate beside the liquor cabinet. She poured an extra mug for Mirk, setting it down in front of him before taking a seat on Yule''s opposite side. She knew better than to make one for Yule; the infirmary tea was so tasteless that there wasn''t a point to drinking it unless one was cold or needed it to soften a bun that''d been sitting out since morning. And Yule never ate the buns. "No, that''s not it," Mirk said. "I''ve found a new place to stay."


    Rather than tea, Yule was nursing a glass of liquor, which he took a contemplative sip from as he looked Mirk over. "You did? Didn''t hear about anyone moving out of the dormitory."


    He knew Yule was bound to have something pointed to say about his staying with Genesis. Mirk thought it best to get it done and over with. "I''m...ah...staying with Genesis. For now."


    Yule nearly spat out his mouthful of drink. "You what?"


    "He had a spare room!" Mirk protested, hating the way he could feel his face and neck going red as he tore a chunk off his bun. "Well, he thought he had one. It ended up being a bathroom, not a bedroom. But methinks he decided it''d be cruel to send me away after promising it to me. I''m sure he''ll get tired of sharing soon enough. So if you could both let me know if you hear of an opening in the dormitory, I''d be very grateful. If it isn''t too much trouble."


    His explanation must not have been very convincing, despite it being the truth. Yule was still gaping at Mirk like he''d grown an extra set of arms. "I don''t believe it."


    Mirk shrugged off Yule''s concern, deciding to deploy the same excuse Genesis had given for his uncharacteristic hospitality. "He said that he can put up with living with anyone after spending all those years sharing with Niv."


    "That''s a fair point," Danu said as she took a bite out of her bun. Mirk was relieved that she was far less alarmed by his new living situation than Yule was. Then again, she''d never harbored the same resentment toward Genesis that Yule did. The fact that she''d never been the one responsible for healing the commander before Mirk had joined the K''maneda probably helped. "And if he keeps Mirk in his quarters, that means he''ll be around to bother the rest of us less."


    Yule remained unconvinced, pouring himself another half glass to replace the one he''d downed to blunt the shock of Mirk¡¯s revelation. "No, this is too much. Too far. That bastard would never give up his space unless he had some other motive. Especially considering who he had to kill to get those rooms to begin with. Francis''s goons are still trying to get back at him. Eva says she gets at least one of them in with chaos magic injuries every week."


    Mirk hadn''t known that the rooms had cost Genesis so much. It made him feel worse about accepting Genesis''s offer than he already did. And made him wonder just how long the list of enemies Genesis had accumulated over the years had to be by then. Yet he felt the need to defend Genesis''s reasoning to Yule nevertheless. "Methinks maybe that just means that Gen''s not as mean as you think he is, Yule.¡±


    "I won''t believe that until I see proof of him giving a damn about anyone other than you," Yule shot back. "No, this settles it. There''s not a single doubt left in my mind. You, my poor, innocent friend," Yule said, putting an arm around Mirk''s shoulder that was half-conciliatory and half-conniving, "have the man completely smitten."


    Yet again, Mirk felt the blood rush to his face. He really had to go digging in the library to see if he could find some sort of spell that would keep it at bay. If magic could do countless wonders, why couldn''t it do something as small as sparing him a bit of extra embarrassment? Hopefully Yule wouldn''t take his flush as evidence of a guilty conscience. "You''re just being silly, Yule. Being nice to someone doesn''t have to mean...that."


    "Also a fair point," Danu said, elbowing Yule in the ribs. "Just because you want to take every man with a pulse to bed doesn''t mean everyone else feels the same way."


    Yule scowled and elbowed her back. Though he didn''t release Mirk''s shoulders either. "I''m not some kind of whore. But I''ll admit that I have more experience in the area than either of you. So you should trust me when I say I know the signs. Even with an ass like him."


    Danu shook her head. "Maybe the kind of men you favor play games like that, but most of them don''t. It isn''t as if he''s buying him gifts or anything. He''s not even making excuses to spend time with him. He¡¯s being paranoid," Danu concluded, leaning forward to meet Mirk''s eyes and emphasize her point. "You don''t have to listen to him."


    Yule let go of Mirk''s shoulders with a huff. "You''re not dealing with a normal man either. That little weasel of a teleporter thinks he''s god''s gift to women. It''s like something out of a rubbish poem. Only you can''t close the book when you''ve had enough of him."


    Danu didn''t rise to the provocation, dipping a bit of bun in her tea with a self-satisfied air. "You''re just jealous no man''s ever seen fit to put that kind of effort into you."


    "Hard to do that when you''ll get beat for showing you fancy someone," Yule grumbled. And not without a trace of bitterness, Mirk thought. The sort of people one encountered within the walls of the City of Glass were leagues more permissive than the mages and mortals on the outside, but Mirk had seen enough evidence that people like Yule weren''t treated with kindness in the City either.


    Mirk reached out to him reflexively, putting a hand on his arm and shaking his head. "It''s all right, Yule. I know you mean well. I just don''t think you know him like I do, that''s all."


    Yule shook his head, sighing. "Whatever. It doesn''t matter. Though it does mean you''ll never have to worry about anyone bothering you ever again with him hanging around all the time. Not that bothering you would be worthwhile to begin with."


    "See? It pays to be nice," Danu teased, elbowing Yule again.


    "Only if you decide to go out of your way to make the most terrifying people in the City your friends. Otherwise you just end up half-dead in an alley with all your things pawned off to the rag men." Yule considered this for a moment, sipping at his drink. "Was that your plan all along? Protection?"


    "Mais non! I''m not very good at plans, anyway...that''s more Gen''s thing..."


    Yule glanced up at the clock crammed in among the lesser-used bottles at the top of the liquor cabinet. "It doesn''t look like today will be that bad, at least. Emir''s got us cleaning out the rubbish from the waiting room again. No assaults scheduled for any of our divisions until later this week. It''ll just be idiots and assassins until then."


    Before Mirk could reply, he was cut off by the sound of running and shouting from out in the hall. Danu got up, taking her mug of tea with her, poking her head out of the break room door and squinting off down the hall toward where it joined the larger one that led to the field transporter. Though Mirk couldn¡¯t see it, he felt the emergency shielding that could isolate the hall right around the field transporter engage. It was like a dark spot in his mental field of view, and, like a dark spot, was always a bad sign. The officers usually didn¡¯t pull down the shields unless the amount of wounded coming through could upset every empath in the building.


    "Looks like the Fourteenth is back," Danu said, leaning against the doorframe and sipping at her tea. In the distance, there was a muffled scream, followed by a bolt of pain that was dampened by the shielding and a bang that rattled the bottles in the cabinets. "Third too. Well, it''s the Tenth''s problem, not ours. Unless they get desperate and start to go slumming."


    "Depends on who they shipped out from the Fourteenth," Yule said, as he gulped down the remains of his drink and stood up. "If it''s the lowborn crowd, they''ll let us lend a hand."


    It was never good news when one of the fighting divisions was taking casualties, regardless of whether they were high-born or low. Still, Mirk found a ghost of a smile on his lips as Yule headed off to go take a closer look down the field transporter hall. As much as Yule complained about being overworked and underpaid, about having nothing but ingrates and bastards for patients, he was always the first healer from the Twentieth to throw himself at a fresh wave of casualties. Mirk was undecided on whether it was because Yule truly did care about the men, no matter how ungrateful they were, or because he couldn''t stand being bored. Most likely, it was a little of both.


    They made their way together to the end of the hall. Mirk had shored up his mental shielding in preparation on the walk down, but the pain radiating from the emergency rooms near the field transporter still made his eyes sting, despite the emergency shield. He wasn''t familiar with many of the healers from the Tenth, aside from Eva and her ladies. But all the healers he recognized on sight from the division were there, dashing from room to room on the order of one of Cyrus''s highest-ranking officers. The commander himself was nowhere to be seen.


    A dwindling line of healers were leaning against the wall at the end of the emergency hallway beside the field transporter, awaiting further casualties. A group of two or three peeled off to accompany every patient the combat healers'' aides dragged through, until there was only a single three-person team left, two men and a women. Their faces were drawn and pale, aside from the woman, who had gone into the glassy-eyed trance that came with the best blockers. Things had to be grim on the other side, if they were that spent so soon after the wave began. That or they¡¯d been running for hours beforehand, and Mirk had arrived at the infirmary during a lull in the casualties.


    "Not good," Danu said. Her eyes were closed, her skin as pale as that of the three remaining healers. Not from exhaustion, but because she was drawing on her Deathly magic to survey the struggling souls in the nearby rooms. "A lot of critical."


    "Don''t need your magic to tell that," Yule grumbled, frowning and leaning out further into the hall once the officer''s back was turned. "The whole lot of them are terrified. Even Gerlach. What the hell was Cyrus thinking, leaving that idiot in charge? Cyrus is an ass, but at least he knows what he''s doing. Better than Gerlach, anyway."


    The field transporter crackled to life, and a team of four infantrymen trooped out, all of them wounded. They were ignoring their own gashes and bruises in favor of making sure the man they were carrying was kept as even and still as possible. All Mirk could see of him was a shredded cloak and a troubling amount of ripped and bleeding flesh. The three remaining healers met the team without hesitation, ushering them all into the room closest to the field transporter. "That''s S''kanyk hellspawn for sure," Yule said, stepping further out into the emergency hallway. "No one else would be stupid enough to go to battle in a mink cloak. Gerlach''s getting his ass handed to him if he mucks this up. Wonder if they sent Cyrus out to attend to Ravendale one on one, since they''re getting shredded so badly."


    "Should we go help?" Danu asked as she blinked her eyes open, clearing the black from them. "We might end up just getting in trouble, even if they need it."


    "Let''s see what else they drag in."


    And so, they waited. The healers of the Tenth were keeping up, but just barely. A blood-spattered pair exited a room closer to where Mirk¡¯s team was watching the onslaught just in time to take the next casualty. The officer in charge of handling the aftermath of the assault ¡ª Gerlach, apparently ¡ª took the next patient on himself for lack of free healers. Gerlach didn''t resurface from the room he hustled into, but the lower-ranking healers picked up the slack fine enough without him. Whatever was happening on the other side of the field transporter had to be brutal. The infantrymen coming through were in progressively worsening condition: missing limbs, hanging viscera, magical injuries so severe that blue-black auras hung around their mangled bodies. The hallway before the field transporter was slick with blood.


    The two remaining free healers beside the transporter were at their limit, panting and shaking and haunted. Shaking his head, Yule fished around in the pockets of his robes until he came up with a bottle of high-potency pain blockers for each of them. "I''m not going down there without taking something, even if it''s just to look," he said, pressing the bottles on them.


    "It''d be wrong to waste them," Mirk said, turning the bottle over in his hands. Yule and Danu were already drinking theirs.


    The field transporter sizzled again. A giant of an infantryman came through, wounded in the leg, but not so badly he could no longer walk, a small body cradled to his chest. The two healers beside the transporter drew in close to examine the man the infantryman was pleading with them to save. In unison, the healers backed away and shook their heads. Yule nudged Mirk in the side. "Little man''s getting it if we don''t go look. If they won''t help him, it''s up to us."


    Nodding and swallowing hard, Mirk uncorked the pain blocker and threw it back.


    The sweet floral taste, the accompanying burn, was familiar by then. It triggered a reflexive kind of relief in Mirk. Within seconds of drinking the pain blocker, he felt his muscles begin to loosen and the world took on a golden haze, one that made the pain of slipping through the emergency shield a distant and unimportant sort of thing. Yule led their charge, going up to the giant infantryman and tapping his arm to get his attention ¡ª he was so caught up in arguing with the other two healers about the small man''s fate that he didn''t notice their arrival. "Come on, let''s see it," Yule said.


    The infantryman hesitated, but relented after taking another good look at the man draped across his arms. "It''s Mister Elijah," the infantryman said, voice shaking. "Hurt bad."


    All three members of Mirk''s team pressed in close to examine him. The man was dressed in leathers with ornamental velvets draped on top, a strange mixture of low-born infantryman and high-born noble. He had a proper breastplate, though, made of an intricately designed silver metal that''d been blackened by a magic blast. Mirk couldn''t feel or hear its metal with its magic, meaning it had to come from off-realm.


    But the man¡¯s one decent piece of armor hadn''t done him much good. An arrow had pierced it, sunk so deep in his chest that it was a wonder he hadn''t been skewered all the way through. Though it hadn''t hit him in the heart, and he wasn''t bleeding too badly, Mirk could tell by the look on Danu''s face that the man had to be at death''s door.


    Frowning and shaking his head, Yule sighed. "How did this happen? He''s a mage, right? No robes, but only an idiot mage would go out looking like this."


    The infantryman nodded. "Wasn''t supposed to end up at the front. But them big wooden magic fellas they have over there got the better of us. Some archer in red came tearing through on one of their bird horses and got him."


    Yule reached out and touched the shaft of the arrow, gingerly, pulling back after less than a second. He glanced over at Mirk. "Feel that and tell me what you think."


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Hesitantly, Mirk put a hand out and touched the arrow as well, lowering his mental shielding just far enough to get a vague impression of whatever magic had to be on it. The pain didn''t make it through the blockers, but the arrow''s magic still did. It was steeped in a dark, hissing, twisting sort of magic that was as familiar to Mirk by then as his own reflection. Mirk lowered his shields a bit more, listening more closely to the arrow''s magic. "It...it feels like Gen. But not quite. Like he had a cousin, or a brother..."


    Yule confirmed his suspicion with a nod. "Same kind of magic. Dead sure of it. We''re the ones who should deal with this," he said, turning to the two healers from the Tenth. "We''re the only team used to managing this kind of magic."


    One of the two healers spoke up, shaking his head. "Impossible. Don''t you know who this is?"


    "Does it matter?" Yule retorted with a snort. "He''s dying."


    "Comrade Lieutenant Commander Elijah Oliver. Ravensdale''s personal mage,¡± the healer said, slowly, as if he expected the name to carry some weight.


    It didn¡¯t, not with Yule. "I don''t see Ravensdale coming through to take care of it. Do you want him to live, or not?"


    The two healers exchanged worried looks. "It...as long as it doesn''t come back that we''re the ones who let you take him," the one who hadn''t spoken said. "I suppose him living is more important, but still."


    Yule''s annoyance showed on his face, though it didn¡¯t make it through the blockers. He shooed the pair aside, his voice taking on a mocking edge. "I invite Comrade Commander Cyrus to come to us with his concerns. I''m sure Genesis will be extremely interested, should anything happen to us."


    The healer who''d spoken first sighed. "Fair enough. Well, best of luck." Without so much as a backwards glance, the pair hurried off to assist in another room, where panicked shrieking had begun.


    Muttering to himself, Yule gestured at the infantryman to follow as he stalked down the hall in search of an empty room. "...hmph...try to play politics with me...bastard''s only good for one thing, and that''s scaring the shit out of the high-borns..."


    They found a room at the end of the hall, near where they''d been standing and watching earlier. The infantryman set the mage down on the blood-slicked table at its center with care, even though he was already looking back out into the hall. "Need to be going back," he said. "''S all going to shit out there. Got to have all hands."


    "Go on," Yule said. "You''re not good for anything here." He pushed the infantryman aside to encourage him to hurry up and leave, all of his attention already fixed on their new patient. The giant man left without further comment. "First things first, we need to get this armor off of him. No buckles or backpiece, it¡¯s one of those ones you have to magick yourself out of. No time for that, we''ll need the clippers. Danu?"


    Instead of following them to the table, Danu had veered off toward the supply cabinet, rummaging around in its drawers. "Got it," she said a moment later, waving a pair of shears at them. She hurried to the table and Yule took them from her, making an attempt at cutting away the armor from the direction of the arm hole nearest the arrow. The metal let off a shower of reddish-black sparks in protest, the shears squealing, but not making so much as a dent in the armor. Yule cursed. "What the hell is this stuff?"


    Mirk thought quickly ¡ª it was easier for him to reason with the blockers in him, their glow granting him a sort of easy flow that took away his usual hesitation and doubt. "Methinks maybe we can use the arrow to help."


    "How''s that?" Yule asked.


    He had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing. Mirk knew all Destroyer magic couldn''t be the same; he had no guarantee that what worked on Genesis''s shadows would work on those of another. But the blockers gave him the confidence to try to manipulate them. Mirk put his hand on Yule''s and reached out to the older healer''s magic. He used the same trick that he did when Genesis''s magic was being difficult and curled protectively around a wound instead of allowing him to help, projecting a feeling of lightness, of life imbued with a carefree gentleness. It caused the chaotic part of Yule''s magic to rise up in him. It drew the arrow¡¯s magic to attention as well. A long tendril of shadow snaked out of it, wrapping around both of their hands.


    "Try to ch...channel it with your chaos," Mirk said to Yule, struggling to find the words other mages used to describe what he was imagining.


    Yule frowned. "Right. Let''s see..."


    The pain of channeling the foreign magic made Yule curse. But the shears gripped in Yule''s hands started to work, slicing through the mage''s breastplate with the same discordant hissing Genesis''s magic made when eating its way through something resistant to being destroyed. It took a lot of effort on both their parts, Mirk projecting just enough to lure the arrow''s magic out, yet not so much that they were spurred into attacking, while Yule forced it into the shears. But they made it work. The bottom half of the mage''s armor fell away, revealing a fine linen shirt underneath once Danu stepped in to pull the breastplate down as far as the mage''s hips allowed.


    Blood had been pooling inside the armor the whole time they''d been hacking away at the breastplate, spilling out over the table and rolling onto the floor. Still, Mirk didn''t think it was so much that they needed to be worried about the mage dying of blood loss, as long as the arrow was still in him.


    The arrow. Its head was buried in the mage''s barely moving chest.  Tossing the shears aside, Yule waved Danu closer. "We need to figure out what this thing is doing to him. Can you feel his soul?"


    Danu nodded, closing her eyes and spreading her hands across the mage''s chest. She felt around on him, pulling his shirt up so that she could touch him skin to skin, frowning as she searched for his soul. She went pale again as she drew on more of her magic. "It''s...hmm...maybe..." Danu shifted one of her hands to the shaft of the arrow. "Oh. He''s in here. Sort of. The magic is trying to pull his soul out of him and¡­eat it? Destroy it, maybe. The Deathwatch wouldn¡¯t be happy to hear this kind of thing is floating around¡­"


    Yule sighed. "Can you get a hold on it?"


    Making an arcane gesture with her left hand, Danu winced and shook her head. "No. He should be dead by now, honestly. The only thing saving him is how much magic he has. And he''s a chaotic orientation. But the arrow''s burning through all of it. Fast."


    Biting his lip, Mirk reached out and grasped the shaft of the arrow. "Tiens. Let me try...euh...talking to it."


    Yule said something ¡ª profane, judging by his tone ¡ª but Mirk was concentrating too hard to hear him. He was running on instinct, on assumptions he had no grounds to be making. Were all the shadows connected somehow, no matter which realm they came from or which Destroyer commanded them? Would the ones hidden inside the arrow listen to him like Genesis''s did?


    He tested his theory with caution, biting down harder on his lip, enough to draw blood. Mirk projected the pain of it out through his hands, waiting to see if the shadows would take the bait. The mage had a lot of potential, true, but it was all fire and chaos. Mirk knew from experience that nothing got the shadows'' attention faster than a fresh well of life-giving potential.


    To Mirk''s relief, they did. He didn''t know what it was about physical pain, and his in particular, that summoned them, whether they were drawn to protect him or if they were like some great predator that had scented blood in the air, eager to come running and devour him. More coils of shadow unfurled from the shaft of the arrow, wrapping around Mirk''s hand and arm.


    "Try pulling his soul back," Mirk said. "Fast. I...I don''t know if they want to eat me or not...methinks..."


    Danu tried to grab hold of the mage''s soul caught inside the arrow once more. It drew the shadows'' attention back toward its vessel, the prey it had already ensnared. Mirk bit down harder on his cut lip, aggravating the wound, making the pain even sharper by grinding his teeth back and forth over it. It would have worked better if he hadn''t been on blockers, but the shadows still returned to him. They wrapped further up Mirk''s arm the more pain he caused himself, more and more of them, until Danu was able to pry the man''s soul from the arrow.


    She held it between her hands instead of putting it back into the mage''s chest straight away, looking down at it with eyes gone black and curious. Unlike most souls Mirk had seen her handle, the mage''s soul wasn''t pliant, a ball of light tinged the color of the person''s magic that Danu could squeeze and prod into whatever shape she liked. The mage''s soul looked spiky, somehow, resisting her touch, casting out glimmers of reddish black magic that matched the color of the light at its center. "Oh, that¡¯s new," she said, eyebrows shooting upwards. "He''s got some charm on it to ward off Deaths. That''s probably why the arrow couldn''t finish him off."


    Mirk had let go of the arrow the instant Danu had the mage''s soul in her hands, unwilling to test his luck with the shadows a moment more than he had to. Even Genesis''s shadows could get annoyed by him at times, and their master didn''t actively wish him any harm. The shadows grudgingly released Mirk''s arm as soon as he drew his shields back up and stopped projecting, settling back down into the arrow. Now that he wasn''t focusing so intensely, Mirk became aware of the fact that he was shaking and breathing hard. The blockers could do that; it was why it was important to never heal alone while on blockers. It was easy for their glow to hide the strain of healing, to make the line between the hot core of life within and the extra surrounding it that could be passed to another blur.


    Yule glanced over at him. "You all right?"


    Mirk nodded. "Ah...but methinks it might be best if you did the rest of it, Yule..."


    The older healer shrugged, shifting his attention back to the arrow. "Leave the hard work to me, like always," he joked. But there was no spite in his voice, no wavering in his attention. Yule didn''t need any encouragement to get to work. Mirk got the impression that the older healer felt better when he was on the brink of a crisis, more alive, struggling to search out gushing arteries and veins amidst the gore, racing to heal them together or closed before both his and his patient''s time ran out. A trait that it was impossible to miss, no matter how much Yule complained to try to disguise it.


    Mirk watched as Yule cast a containment spell to keep the vital parts the arrow had severed from bleeding out once it was removed, the spell tracing across the mage''s skin in delicate gray-green spirals. Then Yule took hold of the arrow, firmly, and eased it inch by inch out of the mage''s chest. He set it aside, not without a bit of caution, then proceeded to examine the wound left behind, probing it with both his fingertips and magic.


    "Hmph, got an artery," he mumbled under his breath. "Not bad, though. Any idiot could fix this...and those asses from the Tenth were going to give up on him..."


    "What the hell do you people think you''re doing?"


    Mirk looked up at the sound of the low, growling voice coming from the doorway. His vision swam for a moment; he needed to brace himself on the edge of the table to keep from losing his balance. Another healer had arrived.


    He was a tall man, with a fighter''s build that contrasted his delicate cheekbones and full lips that were drawn tight in a grimace. Mirk wouldn''t have assumed he was a healer at all, had it not been for the green armband with the Fourteenth''s insignia on it that he had wrapped around the sleeve of his gray robes. Plain, but the cut and the luster to the fabric gave away their price. Danu''s reaction was instant ¡ª she turned away from the man to look at Yule, pressing her hands together tight around the mage''s soul, making it spark in protest.


    Yule didn''t so much as look up. He kept working away at the wound in the mage''s chest as he replied, his tone flat. "I''m saving his life."


    "Well, you''re done with whatever it is. I''ll handle the rest."


    "Suit yourself," Yule raised his bloody hands, lifting the containment spell off the mage with the same gesture. Judging by the amount of blood that began to seep from the wound, Yule had taken care of the artery, but hadn''t yet seen to the minor vessels that''d been severed by the Destroyer-enchanted arrow. Yule was still staring fixedly down at the wound, unwilling to meet the eyes of the healer in the doorway.


    Tisking, the healer swept into the room. Mirk didn''t know why he did it, but before the man could come close enough to get a good look at what was on the table, he snatched up the arrow and tucked it away up one of his sleeves. Though Mirk could feel the shadows stirring against his skin, they didn''t move to attack him. Sated by the harm they''d already caused, perhaps.


    When Mirk looked up, he found the unfamiliar healer across the table from him, studying him rather than the patient he''d demanded to take from them. "So this is who they''ve given you to replace me," he said, voice heavy with disdain, though his expression remained composed.


    Mirk mustered up a smile, offering his free hand out across the table for a shake. He was finally beginning to grow accustomed to the K''maneda''s dislike of bowing. "Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon. Your servant, Comrade...?"


    The healer ignored both Mirk''s words and his hand, glancing back at Yule. "Which leaves you in charge. Emir really is scraping the bottom of the barrel."


    "Just take your mage and go," Yule snapped. Though he still refused to look up.


    Sighing, the healer cast a quick containment spell of his own over the mage''s open wound before bending to slide his arms under his shoulders and knees. He lifted the mage with just as much ease as the giant infantryman had. He was the strongest healer Mirk had ever seen, aside from those in the Twentieth who weren''t fully human. He wondered if that was also the case with the stranger, though there was no cast to his features that gave away any hint of inhuman ancestry.


    The healer surveyed the wound in the mage''s chest, grimacing. "Well, it doesn''t look like you''ve butchered him, at least. I''ll do you a favor and not pass along news of this to Ravensdale. But that''s the limit of my charity. Quit playing and put his soul back, Danny."


    She nodded, releasing her hold on the mage''s soul, allowing it to drift across the space between her and the mage and sink back into place. The mage drew in a long, shuddering breath, his pain returning sharp and insistent even through the blockers. The arrow must have caused some other damage that wasn''t immediately visible from his physical wound. Without further comment, the healer left.


    None of the members of Mirk''s team said anything either. Mirk looked to Danu, questioning. She shook her head, then tilted it in Yule''s direction. Only then did Mirk notice that the older healer had lowered his hands, clenching them on the edge of the table. Yule''s whole body was shaking.


    Yule broke the silence. "Whatever," he said with a sigh, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension left him. "I don''t know about you all, but I need a drink. Since the rest of these bastards don''t want our help, we might as well go up to the long-term ward. The blockers will be good for another hour. The nurses will be glad to have us, even if the rest of them aren''t." Yule left then, moving fast, his head still held down.


    Once Mirk was sure Yule was out of earshot, he spoke up. "Danu, who was...?"


    "Ambras." Danu said, as she went to the supply cabinet and fetched a rag to sop up the mage''s blood all over the table and floor. "He was our third before you came."


    "Did something happen?"


    "It''s...complicated."


    "I understand completely if you don''t want to tell...methinks that should be up to Yule, really..."


    She shook her head, tossing a second cloth across the table to Mirk before beginning to tackle the blood on the side nearest her. "He''s not going to say anything. Not unless you get him stupid drunk, and that''ll be a disaster. Him and Ambras were...together. Sort of."


    Mirk began to clean, mulling Danu''s words over. That did explain Yule''s shaking and his refusal to meet the man''s eyes. From what little he knew of Yule''s habits with men, he never parted ways with any of them on good terms. Mirk started with wiping the blood from the top of the table, saving the sides and the floor for last, in case his cleaning made more drip down. "Sort of?" Mirk prompted.


    "It was going pretty well for a while. But...Ambras wanted something different than this," Danu said, gesturing vaguely around at the room and its careworn contents. "Out of the Twentieth, on to bigger and better things. He was put with us because he''s Irish, you know. Not the same kind as me and Yule, Ambras''s family got along well enough with the English, but Irish is Irish to Cyrus. The high-borns all think we''re going to knife them in the back the first time they turn their back on any of us. But Ambras still found a way out. A woman he knew from back home, an English guild mage''s daughter, took a liking to him. Rich. Ambras decided he''d marry her and try to move up that way. When he told Yule...well,  it didn''t go well. He told Yule that he wanted to keep being with him, but they''d have to keep it a secret. Yule had some choice words to say about Ambras''s character because of that. You know how Yule gets when he''s crossed."


    Mirk nodded. He couldn''t blame Yule for being cross, given the situation. It was a common enough arrangement for noble men, having a wife for land or power or an heir and keeping a mistress for love. Some women caught in that situation were happy to accept; sometimes mistresses received better treatment than wives, and got their own power out of the arrangement.


    But with Yule, Mirk could understand why that would never be acceptable. Yule had his pride. Sometimes it seemed like it was the only thing he had. "That must have been hard for him."


    Danu laughed, low and humorlessly. "He was drunk off his ass for three weeks straight. Anyway, all that happened...oh...three or so months before Morty and the rest brought you back to the City. Ever since then, Ambras has been climbing. Rumor has it he''s made it into Ravensdale''s inner circle in the Third, even though he''s a personal healer for the officers in the Fourteenth. And we''re...well. The Twentieth."


    Mirk sighed. "Methinks I don''t understand how anything works here yet. I''ve never even seen this...Ravensdale."


    "Be glad you haven''t," Danu said. "He only ever comes to the infirmary if he has it out for someone. But he usually just has Cyrus do his dirty work for him. More important things to do, being the Comrade and all, I suppose."


    Danu was probably right. But Mirk felt as if he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle, never having seen the man that''d caused so much misery, both to all the djinn who the Tenth ferried silently from room to room, bleeding and trembling, and to the men of the Seventh, albeit in a more roundabout fashion. Every wrong he saw on the streets of the City seemed to trace back to Ravensdale, somehow, even if he wasn''t the sole person responsible. Mirk wondered what such a terrible man could look like, if he was hunched over and homely or tall and proud. Or, worst of all, so ordinary that he had already passed him by out in the street without noticing him.


    Either way, it was too thorny an issue for Mirk to contemplate right then, not with the blockers still turning everything soft and hazy. All he could truly focus on was Yule. The way he''d refused to lift his head, trembling with rage, made Mirk ache for him. He''d never known Yule to back down from anyone, no matter how high-ranking or powerful. Seeing him refuse to engage was just as heartbreaking as if he''d burst into tears instead.


    It seemed wrong to let Yule suffer in silence, even if that was his choice. But raising the issue and trying to talk things through with him wouldn''t be much help either. The desire in him to speak, to explain, to ramble was a holdover from years of confession, Mirk supposed. Only once the truth had been said, once all the mistakes and hurt had been voiced aloud to God''s intermediary, would forgiveness and peace come to replace it.


    Then again, he was in no position to cast stones against those who decided to stay quiet.


    "We should get going," Danu said as she finished with her side of the table. "Letting Yule have a go at the liquor cabinet when he''s in a mood without anyone there to keep him an eye on him is asking for trouble."


    "Bien s?r," Mirk said, nodding. "And maybe they''ll let us help with the others once things calm down a little?" He gestured out at the hall, where healers and aides were still yelling at each other over the moans and curses of their patients.


    "Don''t count on it. Though I''m guessing we haven''t seen the last of this. You know how it is. If the high-borns muck up a contract, they''ll send the low-borns out soon enough to fix it."


    Mirk sighed. Work never ended in the infirmary. One way or the other.

 Chapter 34

    Mirk looked down at the key in his hand, then back up at the door before him. He''d noticed the key waiting for him beside the alarm that''d been set for him that morning. Genesis hadn''t left a note, nor had he mentioned the evening before that he''d made a key for him, but Mirk couldn''t think of any other reason why it''d be there. Genesis wasn''t one to forget his key on the dresser while hurrying to get to work.


    Something about the key bothered him. It had a certain weight to it. Like there were multiple keys in his hand, a whole ring of them stacked atop one another instead of one thin, unremarkable skeleton key. It was probably the magic on it. If the arrow he''d pulled out of the mage''s chest that morning hadn''t still been in his bag, or if his grandfather''s staff hadn''t been tucked into the pocket in his sleeve, the key would have been the most magical thing he''d ever held. Though the shadows were loath to emerge into even the dim lights of the hall, Mirk could sense them pulsing within it. It unnerved Mirk, in a way. As if the key was a weapon instead of a tool to open the door to his ostensible new home.


    He was woolgathering again, searching for an excuse not to go in. Mirk had gone to the tavern nearest the infirmary with Yule after Emir had dismissed them for the day, but the older healer had been in one of his moods. Yule had hurried off back to his own quarters in the healers dormitory to sulk after only a few drinks. Mirk suspected that his cheerfulness, such as it was, grated on Yule''s nerves. Though he had considered lingering after Yule had gone, he''d decided against it. It wouldn''t do to come back to Genesis¡¯s quarters tipsy that early in his stay with him. And Mirk knew that if he stayed at the tavern and started drinking alone, he''d imbibe far more than he''d planned as a way to avoid his worrying.


    It wasn''t terribly late. That meant there were good odds Genesis wasn''t there, even if he was following healer''s orders for once and taking things easy, more or less. There was no sense in continuing to stall. Mirk moved the key toward the lock.


    Before he could slide it into the lock, the door creaked open on its own. It startled a laugh out of Mirk.


    Yes, Genesis was there.


    "Bon soir, messire," Mirk called out as he entered. It wasn''t a greeting as much as it was a warning to Genesis that he was about to enter his domain.


    As usual, Genesis didn''t reply. He was sitting in his resentful wing-back in the furthest corner of the room, intently focused on a thick red grimoire, which had as sinister of an air to it as the chair did. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that Genesis had recruited an ottoman to go along with it while he''d been out. Purchased didn''t seem like an apt term for how Genesis had probably acquired the thing. Its clawed feet were made of a darker wood than those of the chair, its leather upholstery glinting, somehow, in the dim glow of the bluish-green magelight above the door that''d illuminated when Mirk had entered. Mirk could easily picture it trundling out into the hall on its own volition in the dead of night, in search of fat rats and unsuspecting drunks.


    Mirk shut the door behind himself. Its lock snicked shut and its wards engaged without any effort on Mirk''s part. Only once the magic surrounding the rooms they now shared engaged did Genesis care to acknowledge him, twitching a hand in his direction as he turned a page. The gesture triggered the room¡¯s standard magelights, an addition that¡¯d appeared unexpectedly while he¡¯d been unpacking his things the night before.


    It was as good of a greeting as Mirk could expect to get from the commander, he supposed. He knew better than to pester Genesis with the usual pleasantries. But, for once, he had something useful to offer Genesis instead. "I, euh, have something for you, actually. Not a gift, technically, but it seemed dangerous to leave it in the infirmary. And methinks you''ll find it interesting."


    Again, Genesis didn''t respond immediately. Mirk debated whether it''d be better to go find something else to tend to while he waited for the commander to finish whatever he was reading. He''d almost stepped off the mat in front of the door and headed to the bedroom when he remembered: no shoes. Mirk set his bag aside and bent down to take them off, placing them at the edge of the mat. By the time he''d finished, Genesis was closing his grimoire. Mirk searched through his bag as he crossed the room to his side, grimacing at how cold the wood was underfoot, even through his socks. "Where is it...allez, allez, donnez-moi...ah!" His fingers finally closed on the arrow''s shaft and Mirk drew it out, presenting it to Genesis with a dip of his head.


    Genesis''s interest was piqued. Mirk could tell by the way his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed, ever so slightly, as he plucked the arrow from Mirk''s hand. "Where did this...come from?" the commander asked, as he began to examine it.


    "A patient came in today with it stuck in his chest. What was his name...euh...Elijah? Elijah Oliver."


    Genesis made a low, derisive noise. "I assume you...spared him."


    Mirk shrugged. "We all have our duties, messire."


    The commander ran one finger along the flat side of the arrow''s head. His touch drew the shadows out of it in long coils, which seemed to be examining Genesis just as closely as he was them. "This is a...Destroyer''s weapon."


    "I thought it might be. It felt like you. Well, different, but close enough." Mirk paused, considering the way the shadows were moving over Genesis''s hand, searching. Like kittens that had lost their mother, almost. Oddly forlorn. "Honestly, the only reason we were able to save Elijah was because I''m so accustomed to your magic by now. Are they all connected, somehow? The shadows?"


    "A...complicated matter," Genesis said. His tone made it clear enough to Mirk that, for once, the commander was too distracted to indulge in a lecture on magical theory. The arrow had to be more important than Mirk had assumed.


    "Anyway, I''m glad I could help. Both you and him."


    "I am...surprised you were allowed to touch that mage," Genesis said, without looking up.


    "We weren''t supposed to," Mirk said, watching as Genesis continued to manipulate the arrow''s magic. His own shadows, unbidden, were slinking out to investigate, curling out from underneath Genesis''s armchair and creeping up his leg toward the arrow''s point. If Genesis noticed his own magic responding to the arrow''s, he didn''t comment on it. "But the two healers from the Tenth who were supposed to see to him didn''t know how to help him. So we stepped in. You know how forceful Yule can be when he sets his mind to something."


    "I am...well aware."


    "Though, we did get scolded afterward by another healer from the Fourteenth. Yule said he was one of...oh, what''s the commander''s name...it''s one of your click-words..."


    "S''kanyk," Genesis said, being deliberate to pronounce the name correctly. Or, at least, that was why Mirk assumed that the name only bore a passing resemblance to the one that he¡¯d heard the other healers whisper to each other, that countless members of the other divisions had bellowed curses at in the tavern. Despite the hissing inflection Genesis gave the name, his tone held in it the sort of disdain that the commander reserved strictly for the nobility. Another mysterious enemy of Genesis''s, then, one that Mirk had somehow still never caught a glimpse of. It made him wonder whether the commanders of the high-born divisions ever came to the City at all.


    "Yes, that''s right.One of his personal healers. But he said that he wouldn''t mention to his commander that we worked on him."


    "An...opportunity for him to gather acclaim for himself instead."


    Mirk hadn''t thought of it that way. Perhaps it was a bit of both: whatever kindness Ambras had left in his heart for Yule, mixed with his own desire to advance. But Mirk had always been too optimistic about other people, as everyone constantly reminded him. And he hadn''t been able to get a sense for Ambras''s genuine feelings beyond the blockers he''d been sunk in. "What do you think of it?" Mirk asked. "The arrow?"


    "I suspect its owner will want it back. This is not the kind of arrow that is shot once and left behind. The spellcraft involved in its making is...quite advanced. And the components are also rare."


    Mirk tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched. "Do you mean another Destroyer will come looking for it?"


    After debating for a moment, Genesis shook his head. "If a Destroyer made this weapon for themselves, they have been dead for some time. A Destroyer''s weapon has a certain...personality. It is connected to its wielder. A Destroyer would have been able to call this arrow back to themselves. And it would have...finished the job. As it were."


    "I''m glad it didn''t," Mirk said, giving an involuntary shudder at the thought of it. He didn''t know the mage the arrow had nearly killed, but he didn''t think anyone deserved the kind of end that arrow meted out, total destruction of the soul rather than being ferried by a Death to an unknowable eternity.


    Genesis, however, had other reasons for nodding in agreement. "If Ravensdale...encountered another Destroyer, he would...doubtlessly attempt to enslave it. In the same manner he uses with his djinn. Thus, I would become¡­superfluous. To him."


    Mirk couldn''t keep himself from glancing at Genesis''s forearms. His shirtsleeves were buttoned up tight at the wrist, but Mirk had caught glimpses of the binding runes since the incident with Samael. They had closed, finally, though they hadn''t yet faded away into whiteness. "Would that kind of spell work on a Destroyer?"


    "No. But I suspect...he might be willing to go to a...better mage than himself for assistance. Perhaps with an...offering in hand."


    The knot in Mirk''s stomach grew tighter. "...Samael? Sharael?"


    Genesis nodded. "A...mind-breaker in exchange for a Destroyer. A fair trade for Imanael. Since he...is of the opinion he already possesses...enough destruction to suit his ends." The commander''s words took on a bitter tone, as he rolled the arrow¡¯s shaft between his fingers. "It was...prudent of you not to leave this elsewhere. If Ravensdale learned of it, he would...undoubtedly attempt to locate the Destroyer that made it. Fortunately, I believe that Oliver is too...frivolous to have known what struck him."


    "Is he a cruel mage? Elijah?"


    "No. He is merely...unsuited to combat. He is a mage that specializes in theory over...application."


    If Genesis was willing to grant the mage a pass, despite his seeming alliance with Ravensdale and the other high-borns, then he must have been a good person at his core. Mirk sighed, fiddling with the straps of his bag as he shifted worriedly from foot to foot before Genesis. "Well, all''s well that ends well, I suppose."


    Genesis was silent for a time, watching the shadows curl off the edge of the arrow''s point. When he spoke once more, he didn''t glance over at Mirk. "This could...prove useful. Perhaps. In any case, I have...a matter that might be of some interest to you as well."


    "You do?"


    "You had a visitor. Am-Hazek."


    The news jolted Mirk out of the worried thoughts that were quickly overtaking him. "Oh! Monsieur Am-Hazek! Are he and Madame well?"


    "He brought some...correspondence," Genesis said, making a dismissive gesture in the direction of the bedroom. "However, he also brought some...news of his kin among the K''maneda. We exchanged words during that...party, you''ll recall."


    That fact had completely escaped Mirk''s mind in the midst of all the chaos that had unfolded between when Laurent had thrown down his gloves and the present. Although Madame Beaumont''s ball felt like it had happened months ago, only a little over one had passed. "Oh? Did you?"


    "Yes. You...told Am-Hazek of a djinn named Am-Gulat. Who requested to speak with me. Am-Hazek has been...attempting to find a way for this to occur. He believes he has found a way to allow Am-Gulat to...pass an hour outside of the barracks where Ravensdale keeps them, owing to their...shared kinship line. It will only work once. But...I believe it may be useful to all of us."


    Mirk''s eyes flitted back and forth between Genesis''s expressionless face and the arrow he was still turning between his fingers. "You think you can help them? The djinn?"


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


    "All the djinn the humans have enslaved," Genesis said, without hesitation. "And all K''maneda who are...worthy of the name."


    Electing not to ask Genesis to elaborate on what, exactly, made a K''maneda worthy in his eyes, Mirk nodded. "May I do anything to help?"


    Genesis sighed, finally releasing the arrow, allowing the shadows curling about his thin frame to spirit it off to wherever it was in the Abyss that Genesis kept all his most private things. "I am aware of my...deficiency in communicating with others. It is especially acute when dealing with those who have traditions I am...unfamiliar with. I would request your presence when I go speak with him."


    "Bien s?r, messire. It won''t be a problem."


    A deeper frown came onto Genesis''s face as he watched the shadows play about his legs, outstretched atop the sullen ottoman. Mirk would have thought that the commander was avoiding looking at him, if he wasn''t so familiar with his habits. It rarely occurred to Genesis to look another person in the eyes when speaking to them, save for when he was trying to make sense of their expressions. "Am-Gulat also....mentioned wishing to convey his...gratitude for your aid personally. Thus it would satisfy two matters."


    "Did he? I was only doing my work. I would have done the same for anyone."


    "I believe that is...exactly the point."


    Mirk sighed. "Everything really is a mess, isn''t it? I hope this business with the djinn and the arrow don''t cause you any more trouble. You were just starting to be well again," he said, making a vague gesture down the length of Genesis''s thin frame. Though Mirk couldn''t be absolutely certain how Genesis passed his waking hours, it hadn''t involved anything too dangerous since the incident with Samael, or so he thought. Genesis hadn''t shown up at the infirmary since then, at least. And Mirk thought he looked a little less pinched and drawn, though that also could have been the lingering effects of his long-awaited bath.


    "This is...how it is," Genesis said, after a lengthy pause. "This is what I am."


    "What you are?"


    "I will never be able to...stop. And remain well, as you say it. Some are made to...put together. And others...break apart. Fighting against it will only cause greater harm." Genesis paused again, sending the grimoire he''d been reading back off to its proper shelf with a flick of his hand. Then he exchanged it for another that he called to himself from the pocket of his overcoat hung beside the door. A thin volume bound in blue cloth. Jean-Luc''s journal. "Incidentally, I have reviewed the materials you have given me on the...men who were bound rather than killed as retribution. I believe I have found a way for you to¡­dispel the bindings on them. Though it required further research. As it will require you to...break apart. In a sense."


    "You translated more of the journal?"


    Genesis nodded, opening the journal and turning past page after page, more than it should have been possible for the book to contain. "I wished to translate it in a more...linear fashion, but the present situation required...searching for the most relevant excerpts. And further...expeditions to the south with K''aekniv''s assistance," Genesis added, his frown deepening.


    That explained why K''aekniv had been back late several nights during the week he''d passed with him. And why the half-angel hadn''t thumped down beside him on those nights with any more injuries than he acquired on a usual day spent ambling about the City rather than out fighting. Mirk looked about the room, at its unadorned shelves and the tidy worktable, his eyes returning to the sullen ottoman only once he''d considered all his other options. "May I sit?" he asked, gesturing at it, unsure of whether he was making the request to Genesis or the ottoman itself.


    "Do...as you will," Genesis replied, without looking up.


    Mirk sat down on the barest edge of the ottoman, trying to avoid aggravating both it and Genesis by not putting too much weight on the former or drawing too close to the latter''s bare feet. How could Genesis stand to go about without any socks or slippers on, even when he covered every other inch of himself with interminable layers? Perhaps it was something cultural. Mirk couldn''t see a practical reason for it.


    Neither party seemed aggrieved by Mirk¡¯s presence, thankfully. The ottoman due to the proximity of its master, and Genesis because he was already too engrossed by the journal to be paying him much heed. The commander plucked a sheet of mage parchment out from between the journal''s rough-cut pages, skimming it before he began to read. "The King and his advisors are quite...upset that the staff is not an instrument of war." Genesis paused, his eyes flicking toward Mirk perched on the far end of the ottoman. "I have been told that...upset is not the proper word. However, I find K''aekniv''s...alternative suggestions to be rather too...colorful. And particular to his own native language."


    Mirk smiled and shrugged, gesturing at him to continue. "It''s fine, messire. Methinks you got the spirit right."


    Genesis didn''t seem to be comforted by his reassurances, but he began to read again. "The other mages who came at this King''s orders were happy to use their staves and swords and butcher''s sticks...I believe he is referencing some manner of polearm...nevertheless...to subdue these foreigners from the north. They call great balls of flame and bolts of lightning to kill the mages the foreign king has sent. But I have learned from listening to the lady that this is not the way of her weapon. And it makes the other rich mages moan and roll their eyes. I do not care what they think of me. I can crawl on the ground before them, and I will still be a lucky nobody to them, because I don''t speak their church language and their thinking man''s language and I won''t put on powder and dance in circles throwing sparks like an idiot."


    He could tell that Genesis was dissatisfied by his translation of whatever "colorful" words his grandfather had favored. But the subject matter of the passage was calming him some, Mirk thought. Genesis''s voice had taken on the evenness and flow that it only ever did when he was reading, his pauses evaporating, replaced with something emotional, though Mirk couldn''t pinpoint what that emotion was. It was curious ¡ª Mirk had never thought of his grandfather as being particularly rebellious, or ever as an object of scorn from the other nobles. But it was clear that the Jean-Luc Mirk had known was nothing like the Jean-Luc contained within the journal''s pages.


    "I learned how much the lady hates war for mortal kings when I marched out with them one morning, to keep them from biting my back. I was not going to fight for anyone. I did not care about this king or that other one, none of those foreign mages had done anything to me. But one still came to me and fought me like we were in a bout for the honor of both our homes. I used all the tricks my cousins had taught me in our bouts, but my cousins had no magic. It wasn''t enough. I called to the power in the staff to save my life.


    ¡°But it nearly cost me it. The earth split and the man was crushed to pulp like wine grapes inside its mouth. And something came out of the staff and crushed me too, chewed me up and put gray in my hair and took all the power out of my arms and legs. I fell asleep, or maybe fell dead, I don''t know. But I was back in that place beside the river, by my house. It was only a few stones high, but better than it was.


    "I did not see the lady come to me. But I heard her voice, terrible and beautiful. Don''t be stupid, she said. This is not my way. This is not my war. If you want to pay this price, you can. But it will cost you your house. I grow. I do not cut down. But growing can also be deadly, if you are smart instead of stupid. If you want to throw stones, you must gather them first before I''ll help you hurl them. Learn your lesson, and don''t come back here soon. Don''t make me regret showing you my mercy.


    "Then I was awake again, and there were other mages who spoke with rocks and trees all around me, asking me how I did such a thing. I said it was my secret to keep and that they should be grateful. But I''m telling my secret to you, my son, you who''ll build our house back strong. The lady likes clever men more than strong men. And her wrath is worse than that of any king or noble mage."


    Genesis fell silent then, contemplative, holding one long finger in among the pages to keep his place as he shut Jean-Luc''s journal. While the commander had been reading the passage, Mirk had drawn the staff out of the pocket in his sleeve and held it in his hands, shrunk down to the size of an unassuming wand like it always was when he wasn''t leaning on it or drawing on its strength.


    The story Genesis had told him made him more reluctant than ever to draw on its power again. Mirk couldn''t recall ever hearing anything when he leaned on it. The staff had always seemed oddly silent to him ¡ª though he could see it in his mind''s eye, its magic golden and hazy, close to the glow that pain-blockers draped over the world, it didn''t have a voice, not like every other bit of earth-grown wood did, if he held still and listened close. He must not have done anything foolish enough with it yet to earn a rebuke from whatever power resided within it.


    "How can I grow men out of bindings?" Mirk asked Genesis, when the commander seemed disinclined to speak up. "Methinks it doesn''t work that way...though, you''d know more than I do..."


    "It is not strictly...growing, per se," Genesis said, after turning the matter over in his mind for a minute or two. "Your grandfather has a very...poetic way of putting things. He either was never taught the proper magical terms for things, or...refused to use them. Nevertheless, I believe I may have some idea of where that came from," he said, nodding toward the staff in Mirk''s hands.


    "You do?"


    "It is my...opinion that a...creating mage assisted him when he was ill. The inverse of what I am. A mage that is...more order than anything else."


    Mirk was reminded of his own conversation with Am-Hazek then, when the djinn had helped to take the measurements for Mirk''s new suit for Madame Beaumont''s ball. "Like the Aelina."


    Though Genesis frowned at the name, he nodded. "Correct. They are...rarer but more...well-known things. The worst of them tend to think of themselves as something akin to...deities. Much like the one that was...influential on the angelic realm. This one appears to be no different, though...less ambitious."


    As he worried at his scabbed-over lip, Mirk rolled the staff forwards and back in his palms. Genesis would know better than him about that kind of magic. But something didn''t feel right to him about the commander''s evaluation. His grandfather''s journal had shown well enough how little Mirk truly knew Jean-Luc. But he had trouble imagining his grandfather deferring to anything short of a saint in the way that he did the lady who''d bestowed the staff on him. Then again, perhaps Jean-Luc simply hadn''t had enough of his wits about him every time he encountered her to truly evaluate what he was dealing with. "Will I still be able to help the Montignys with it?"


    "It will take some...time to construct a suitable technique. As mine are...the inverse. However, the bindings are one of Imanael''s...less complex spells. It is not impossible."


    "The Circle is meeting soon. It''s less than a week away. I''m lucky I got extra time, since the fire mages wouldn''t come until they''d sorted out who''d replace Serge..." A boon delivered to him by a standard runner from the Teleporters Guild rather than Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont''s personal djinn, which made Mirk believe the matter was more serious than the letter let on. Appearances were everything to men like Seigneur d''Aumont. And the fact that he couldn''t have Er-Izat deliver the news on his behalf either meant that Er-Izat was needed elsewhere, or that Mirk had suddenly become nothing more than an afterthought to the lords and ladies of the Circle. He was hoping it was the former rather than the latter, even though it would have been a relief to be forgotten. Henri and his cousins were depending on him to remake their fortune. And being forgotten would make that task even more impossible.


    "I...recall. It will be handled by then. I have...very few other matters to tend to at the moment. I suspect that will remain the case until Ravensdale...elects to call on the Seventh to manage the mage who possessed that arrow."


    Mirk sighed. "Will it be bad?"


    "No worse...than anything else."


    That wasn''t a reassuring evaluation, coming from Genesis. Mirk got back to his feet, tucking the staff away up his sleeve and stretching. His back and arms ached from leaning over wounded patients, from letting them lean on him as he walked alongside them down the infirmary''s long hallways to keep their blood flowing. "I suppose we both have some work to do before then. I have to find two attendants to come with me. It''d be much easier if I could get Niv and one of the others to come with, but methinks they''d be a little too much for the other nobles. And it''d be wrong to leave Comrade Commander Emir short three healers instead of just one..."


    "I do not understand the...necessity of this. Are you expected to be prepared to defend yourself from your...fellow royalists?"


    Mirk shrugged. "It''s tradition. Maybe that was the point long ago. You''d have to tell me, messire. I can''t read grand-p¨¨re''s journal."


    "Be...grateful for that," Genesis grumbled, as he banished the journal back to his overcoat with a wave of his hand. "The man is...unduly concerned with...his tomatoes. And cattle. And...worse things."


    "It''s nice to know that''s always been the same," Mirk replied, meeting the commander''s frown with a smile. Some of his fondest memories of Jean-Luc had been the time they''d spent in his garden, Jean-Luc having Mirk eavesdrop on the attitude of his beans toward the nearby squash. Despite being an earth mage, his grandfather had never been good at hearing his vegetables'' backbiting.


    "Am-Hazek has informed me that his plan will come into effect tomorrow evening."


    "Then I''d best be off to bed early," Mirk said, shouldering his bag. "Though I''ll take a bath first, I suppose. It''s only fair, since you''re letting me stay."


    Genesis called the red grimoire back to himself without looking up at Mirk, opening it to where he''d left off. "You are always...free to do as you will."


    "I''m sure I am, messire. But it''s better when you''re not grumpy. You''ll need your rest too."


    That got a frown out of Genesis, though he still refused to meet Mirk¡¯s eyes. "I am not...grumpy."


    "No? I''ll have to remember that the next time you have words to say about my fingernails first thing in the morning," Mirk said, exaggerating the laugh that bubbled out of him to be certain Genesis understood that he was teasing him. The commander waved him off, recrossing his legs and focusing in more intently on his book. Mirk had the feeling that Genesis was bound to be entrenched behind it until midnight at the very least. But he didn''t get the impression Genesis was cross with him either ¡ª his expression remained neutral behind his book, and not forcibly so. Resigned might have been a better word to describe things.


    Mirk took that as his cue to go about his business. He could only assume that partaking of Genesis''s charity also meant partaking of standing baths in his odd, enchanted bathroom every night rather than washing the most important parts and leaving the rest for when he felt more ambitious. Not unless he wanted to be subject to the same relentless tidying and badgering that K''aekniv had complained about. All things considered, it was a small price to pay for a good night''s rest, safe from the stray emotions of his fellow K''maneda.


    He would have to ask Yule for the recipes to his personal arsenal of soaps, mixed to encourage good coloration and softness rather than cleanliness, and to the lotion he insisted on slathering himself with at every opportunity to ward off wrinkles. Mirk didn''t share the older healer''s opinions on the unsightliness of dry skin and an uneven complexion, but washing so thoroughly and so frequently was bound to leave him itching if he kept using the standard stuff from the Supply Corps. Borrowing Genesis''s soap was out of the question; it was far too harsh. He''d used it by mistake to wash his face that morning and his skin had been numb for a good half hour afterwards.


    ...though it had left the scent of lilies wafting after him all day as well. But it''d be better not to dwell on that sort of nonsense if he could avoid it.

 Chapter 35

    It was part of the City of Glass Mirk had never ventured into before. It wasn¡¯t like the grim and imposing central district, dominated by the Glass Tower and the ancient buildings and filled with the constant tramping of feet in boots that were more hole than leather. Nor was it similar to the southern edge, always noisy and full of life even at midnight, which flowed in fits and starts from the workshops of middling mages and the dormitories of the low-born officers out to ramshackle clapboard buildings where the Supply Corps workers and most of the infantry lived.


    Mirk was pacing in front of a smithy that¡¯d been shuttered for the night, midway between the East and North Gates, right past the curve in the outermost ring road where the domain of the high-born fighters and mages shifted into that of the Supply Corps. The Corps only dealt in practical structures, greenhouses and tanneries and muddy pens where livestock were teleported into the City and held until they met their end in the form of a butcher''s boy and a low-ranking mage on the hunt for extra potential, regardless of source.


    No one was around at that hour, at least not in that part of the City. The dormitory the Easterners lived in was tucked away somewhere in that liminal space between north and center, albeit within a better walking distance from the furthest-out taverns and the dining hall. Their bulding had to be further to the west and north, Mirk thought. The high-borns wouldn¡¯t countenance having so many foreigners within shouting distance of their dormitories, not even the plainer ones that housed the youngest officers, men who had enough money to live elsewhere but chose to live in the City to better sow their wild oats.


    But it made sense that the djinn would be kept there. Far enough away not to be an eyesore, but close enough that a motivated mage could keep an eye on them, if he felt inclined to turn and look. The djinn were warehoused, just like the uniforms and ammunition and spare furniture, but not at the far north end with the seasonal and specialized gear. They were in constant use, after all. Whether they wanted to be or not.


    Genesis had declined to walk with him. But Monsieur Am-Hazek had, both of them huddled under a concealment spell crafted by Pavel, Mirk clutching one of Ilya¡¯s clockwork contraptions meant to create a loud bang and a lot of smoke and a flurry of magic that would conceal his and Am-Hazek''s auras if they needed to bolt. While Mirk had been dreadfully nervous, Am-Hazek had been in good spirits, occupying himself on the walk over by studying the City and remarking on how very mundane all the buildings were in comparison to the magic he could sense thrumming away beneath the City''s cobbled streets. Mirk had done his best to entertain the djinn a little, keeping up enough conversation to be polite, but he''d been too anxious to do much more.


    They''d parted ways two streets over, outside the last tavern. A tidy and neat affair, more so than the ones the infantry and the healers frequented, its business nothing but a trickle at eleven in the evening on a Wednesday. Am-Hazek had bowed slightly to Mirk, offered him a few words of encouragement, and vanished soundlessly among the nearby workshops. Mirk hadn''t felt any traces of pain from Am-Hazek on his way to the final meeting spot, though he¡¯d been keeping his mental shielding only half-raised. But he could feel something close to pain now that he''d arrived, its source uncertain.


    Djinn had a different way of approaching suffering than humans, Mirk had noticed, after spending so much time inside empty patient rooms near where they were being kept, listening and feeling and thinking. Their pain wasn''t as all-consuming as that of their human patients, not so desperate. An effect caused by their collars, no doubt. But their emotional reaction to pain was what had struck him the most. Instead of generating fear in them, or panic, pain seemed to only ever elicit a grim, single-minded determination. Mirk wasn''t certain whether that was due to whatever philosophy they adhered to, or if it was the product of long years spent under lock and key.


    The longer Mirk stood outside the smithy, the more he was certain: a djinn, or perhaps more than one, was suffering nearby. He tried to put it out of mind. One thing at a time. Once they''d spoken with Am-Gulat, Mirk would search for Am-Hazek straight away. Though that didn''t do Ravensdale''s djinn any good.


    The place where the djinn were kept was nearby, a low barracks made of scrap wood ringed with enough magic to make up for its flimsiness. Mirk had stopped well out of view of it. They had to be careful, Genesis had said. If the commander came too close to any of Ravensdale¡¯s djinn, the magic on their collars would raise an alarm with the man himself. But Genesis knew the City better than any of its other inhabitants. Regardless of what magic was on Am-Gulat''s dull, heavy black collar, the chaotic magic beneath the streets would obscure Genesis''s own well enough that the alarm spell wouldn''t be tripped, as long as he kept a judicious distance. He''d have met with them long ago, Genesis had said, if only they were ever allowed anywhere other than their barracks, the infirmary, or the battlefield. Or within arm''s reach of Ravensdale or one of his officers.


    "...Mirk."


    He jumped, clutching Ilya''s device to his chest, fingers scrabbling for the trigger on its side. Then his senses came back to him and Mirk looked down, scanning the gutter. There were two grates nearby. One that had the remains of someone''s dinner splattered on it, though the metal of the grate seemed to be absorbing it, somehow, and a much narrower one, out of reach of any potential refuse. Hedging his bets, Mirk went to the second and crouched down beside it. "Messire?" he called out.


    "...I thought it...prudent to take thorough measures against being seen."


    Even at a distance, Mirk could hear the frown in Genesis''s voice. Mirk thought he was being sensible for once by not calling him by his proper name. No one would ever think to associate Genesis with a fussy term for foreign nobility that was already a century out of date. "Euh, how do I..." Mirk tucked Ilya''s device up the sleeve of his robes, where he heard it clank against his grandfather''s staff. He felt at the edges of the grate for some kind of lever, or a groove wide and deep enough to fit his fingertips into.


    A moment later, the grate creaked open, pushed from the inside and swinging outward. Mirk laughed to himself, nervously, as he sat down on the cobbles before it. Not for the first time, he was glad that the City''s streets were unnaturally tidy. "Thank you, messire."


    Getting through the grate took a lot of wriggling around and holding his breath. Mirk wasn''t broad in the shoulders, not like Genesis was, but he was too wide in the other direction. Only a person as thin and flexible as the commander could have slipped through the grate with little effort. By the time Mirk dropped down inside the tunnel, he was sweating, despite it being cold enough for his breath to hang in the air. At least, it had up on the street. It was pitch black underneath it. Disoriented, Mirk reeled to his right, coming perilously close to tumbling face-first into whatever he could hear his clogs splashing about in.


    A spindly, inhumanly strong hand on his shoulder put an end to his stumbling. Mirk groped at his wrist for his magelight. When it winked on, all it illuminated were featureless, curved stone walls and Genesis''s equally expressionless face. "Sorry. I don''t have the best balance...and it''s further down than I thought..."


    "The djinn prison is this way," Genesis said, without indicating any direction. But he headed off toward Mirk''s left. He hurried after the commander, sticking closer than Genesis probably would have liked to keep from losing sight of his black-clad form in the darkness.


    It didn''t help that the shadows were curling around Genesis, protecting him from Mirk''s weak magelight. It took all the composure Mirk could muster not to start babbling at him, asking questions about the tunnel they were headed down. And they were headed down: the floor of the tunnel slanted, just enough to make the water run along it rather than pooling in any one place. But the tunnel wasn''t part of the sewers, Mirk didn''t think. It was too clean. And the shadows in it were too thick. Mirk caught sideways glimpses of runes flaring to life on the walls at intervals as they continued onward.


    The further they went beneath the City, the thicker the shadows grew. Mirk struggled to keep up with Genesis, half due to the limited range of his magelight, and half because he was having trouble picking the feel of Genesis''s presence, that familiar, comforting static, out from the rest of the chaos. Experimentally, Mirk put a hand over one of his ears. The static wasn''t only in his mind. It was a real thing, as audible as the trickling of water running along the groove in the middle of the tunnel. Though that sound was fading fast. From what little Mirk could see by the glow near his wrist, the runoff was evaporating somehow. It dissolved into more shadows rather than steam.


    "Is this what makes all the City''s magic work?" Mirk mumbled, more to himself than Genesis.


    "In...various forms," the commander replied, from somewhere up ahead. "The magic is very...complex. Hundreds of generations of K''maneda offered their bodies and magic to the City. When they...tired of their lives."


    Mirk swallowed hard. He''d thought the infirmary basement to be a macabre, though practical, K''maneda oddity. But it got worse. The whole City wandered on the power of the dead; all its wondrous magic that kept it unnaturally clean and practically impenetrable was fueled by thousands upon thousands of lost souls. He forced himself to ask the question, in the hope that Genesis¡¯s answer might not be as bleak as the one in his own imagination. "They...euh...passed on without..."


    "A soul is¡­not necessarily tied to its magic. The ancient K''maneda came from many realms. I assume some had beliefs that...bore a passing resemblance to your papist superstitions."


    Hunching over on himself, Mirk nodded and trudged onward, hurrying his pace to keep up with Genesis as he offered a prayer for the legions of departed K''maneda under his breath. Even though Mirk knew the commander had to be walking slowly to accommodate him, his height and unnaturally long legs still made it hard for Mirk to match his stride. He was concentrating so hard on walking fast ¡ª and on not thinking of the source of the shadows curling around him ¡ª that he ran headlong into Genesis when, soundlessly, the commander came to a stop at some unmarked junction in the tunnels. Once again, Mirk was steadied by a thin hand on his shoulder before he ended up face-down on the stones. The shadows were so thick that Mirk gave up on his magelight and extinguished it, laughing off his unease.


    "I''m sorry, messire...it''s just that you''re so quiet..."


    "We are now...underneath the djinn prison. Roughly." The commander paused. When he spoke again, it wasn''t in English. The shadows came alive at his sibilant command, the ground trembling under Mirk''s feet. The darkness around them seemed to lighten, just a hair. "You may...illuminate your magelight again, if you prefer not to be in the...dark," Genesis added.


    Curious despite himself, Mirk tapped it on. Though the light didn''t travel far, it was strong enough to reveal a break in the shadows around them, a clearing a few paces wide. Genesis was standing closer than Mirk thought. He couldn''t see the walls of the tunnel beyond the constantly twitching and writhing shades, but the floor was now bone dry, the stone a faint pinkish color rather than a dull gray. Genesis was ignoring him, looking up at where Mirk presumed the roof of the tunnel was instead. "Thank you, messire," Mirk said, speaking in a whisper, though he doubted anyone other than Genesis would overhear him.


    "It is...fortunate that the djinn are kept near the...northeastern core. Though it does also pose...further questions."


    "How many K''maneda know about this place?"


    "The...Watch. And the Engineers. However, it is...impossible to draw this close to any of the cores without...understanding the chaos magic that created the City. I doubt any of them have gone further than the last cross-tunnel. Without some ability to...negotiate with the chaos, it becomes...hazardous."


    Without thinking, Mirk shuffled closer to Genesis''s side. "Monsieur Am-Hazek said he would start the spell to switch places with Monsieur Am-Gulat at midnight."


    "It¡¯s five past the hour," Genesis said. He didn''t look at his pocket watch. Then again, Mirk didn''t even know if he carried one.


    "No wonder you''re always on time," Mirk mumbled under his breath. Then he raised his voice to ask Genesis another question, though it seemed like he was growing tired of them. "Will Monsieur Am-Gulat be able to come here without getting hurt? Or did you explain to Monsieur Am-Hazek how this place works?"


    "I have made a path."


    They fell into silence, one that was more comfortable than Mirk had been expecting. The longer they stood still in the clearing amidst the shadows, the more the shades settled. Rather than feeling menacing, they were more like a thick blanket pulled up around Mirk''s senses, muffling everything aside from the static of Genesis''s presence and the faint hum of the staff tucked up his sleeve. With everything else so quiet, it was easy for Mirk to hear it. Whatever power lay within it seemed as comfortable with the shadows as Genesis was.


    Abruptly, Genesis looked off to his right. A moment later, the shadows parted. Am-Gulat appeared, panting and shaking, clutching at the collar around his neck. It was glowing red; he had his fingers shoved underneath it to keep it from scalding his neck any more than it already had. His pain filled the gap in the shadows they¡¯d been waiting for him in, making Mirk cringe. The pain was intense. But the feeling of grim determination underneath it was even stronger. "K''amskec," Am-Gulat growled, reeling within arm''s length of them both. "We must be quick."


    For once, Genesis had enough sense not to correct Am-Gulat''s pronunciation, though Mirk noticed that the commander had to catch himself and pause before answering. "Yes. It would be better if...you retreated. The collars are..."


    "You don''t have to tell me about the damn things," Am-Gulat hissed as he backed away a few paces, to the very edge of the ring of shadows around them all. "It hates you. He hates you."


    "Are you all right, Monsieur Am-Gulat?" Mirk asked, resisting the impulse to follow after him, to see what he could do about the pain the collar was causing him.


    The djinn coughed, drawing himself up straighter and forcing the grimace off his face. "How will you help us, k''amskec? Where will you send us? He is not our first master. If we are released, the first will claim us again. And he holds all our souls still."


    Genesis''s eyes had gone black. Still, Mirk could tell he was thinking, fast, his eyes twitching back and forth as he searched his invisible rulebook for guidance on where to begin. The seconds stretched out long; Am-Gulat''s rasping pants echoed off the shadows and the floor. Mustering his courage, Mirk stepped closer and spoke up. "Where are your bottles, monsieur?"


    "Impossible for us to know. Beat it out of his mage."


    The question broke whatever paralyzing indecision had overwhelmed Genesis. His question came fast on the heels of Am-Gulat''s reply. "Which one?"


    "Erv. The wild mage. From back before, when we were with our last master." Am-Gulat spat out the final word, as if disgusted with himself for uttering it. It was the most animated Mirk had ever seen Am-Gulat, had ever seen a djinn, for that matter. Mirk''s eyes fixed on his collar. It was scorching both the flesh of his neck and his fingertips. Was that the price of being honest, for a djinn who hadn¡¯t been freed? "We have not seen him since then. Master does not allow it. He has probably changed his shape, like master has."


    "This...Erv made the collars," Genesis said.


    "Yes and no. Our first master on this dogshit realm forged them, the wild mage blackened them. He does all of master''s thinking. The worm turns too slow to handle djinn." At Am-Gulat''s use of the epithet, the collar sparked. Mirk''s senses were overpowered with the smell of burnt flesh. Am-Gulat didn''t wince.


    "You will have no orders from me," Genesis said. There was a certain tenseness about his shoulders that betrayed the commander''s anger, Mirk thought, though his expression remained flat. "I will...find a method...to remove a collar. Only one. After that, you will do...as you will."


    Am-Gulat''s brow furrowed. "As we will?"


    "A K''maneda...has no master. And a K''maneda...will never be a master of anyone but themselves."


    Mirk cut in again, before Genesis could start to get too vague. "If one of you is freed, will he have the strength to free the rest?"


    Am-Gulat nodded, slowly. "This will be our part. We will find a way. You find a way to destroy this collar, k''amskec,¡± he said, jerking on it for emphasis. ¡°That is your kin''s purpose. Don''t go against it as I¡¯ve gone against mine."


    "We are...in agreement," Genesis said. "However, if you could...tell-"


    "It is done," Am-Gulat said, tugging on his collar again, fiercely. His expression had shifted. The last Mirk saw of the djinn, as he stumbled backwards and was lost in the shadows, was the same hungry grin of triumph that had come over his face the second time Mirk had healed him. Am-Gulat¡¯s footsteps and his ragged breathing cut off a second later, before Mirk had a chance to call after him and ask if there was anything more he could do to help.


    "The poor man," Mirk said, wringing his hands together at his waist for lack of anything useful to do with them. Though Am-Gulat''s pain had vanished along with him, it left a kind of emotional echo in the gap among the shadows, like a bitter taste in his mouth that no amount of swallowing could dispel. "He gave so much to come and say so little...do you know who he was talking about? I can''t remember ever hearing about an Erv..."


    Genesis shook his head, once. "This name is...unfamiliar. It¡¯s likely that mage took on a different...name along with a new form. The same as Ravensdale." The scorn Genesis hissed the name out with rivaled the disdain that¡¯d been in Am-Gulat¡¯s voice.


    "What did he mean by changing shape? Is it some sort of glamor?" Mirk had seen a few noble ladies choose to make use of illusion spells to brighten their eyes and fill out their cheeks, but it wasn''t the done thing, broadly speaking. A sign of a family having fallen on hard times, or of mages who worked too many hours in their studies and ateliers instead of spending adequate time cultivating their appearance. That and keeping them up took a great deal of potential. Holding one that changed a person¡¯s body completely for more than an hour or so would take more magical potential than any but the strongest mages could devote to the task.


    "Of a...sort. Another waste of potential that is...not his own." Genesis gave a frustrated hiss, flicking a hand at the shadows. They collapsed inward, leaving Mirk in a darkness so thick he couldn''t even see the faintest outline of Genesis''s thin form through it. "We must go. Doubtlessly...Am-Hazek is not well."


    The magelight at Mirk''s wrist winked out. He spun around in the dark, searching fruitlessly for the way they''d come until he felt a hand take firm hold of his elbow. Genesis had to be more upset than his expression gave away. He was so cold that Mirk could feel it through his robes. "This way. I will...attempt to locate a larger grate."


    Mirk let out a huff of a sigh, letting Genesis drag him along rather than trying to navigate on his own through the darkness. "Think of Monsieur Am-Hazek first. I''ll be fine."


    "...as you say."


    - - -


    "Just a little further, monsieur. Please, lean on me a little. It''s all right. It''ll be all right..."


    Mirk had found Am-Hazek collapsed in an alleyway a few buildings away from the djinn barracks. He''d been down on all fours, paying no heed to the fact that he was fouling his fine overcoat and shirt, struggling to drag himself further away from the other djinn, lest he be caught by Ravensdale or his mages and imprisoned along with them. It had taken all Mirk''s strength to right him ¡ª even if he''d been strong enough to fully carry Am-Hazek''s lithe frame, the djinn would have probably refused it, as a matter of personal pride. Genesis wasn''t there to help. It was too risky for him to draw close to the other djinn; he told Mirk he''d wait for them near the tavern where Mirk and Am-Hazek had first parted ways. Mirk hoped the commander wouldn''t get it into his head to pull one of his disappearing acts.


    "I...apologize, seigneur," Am-Hazek gasped, trying once more to stop leaning on Mirk''s shoulder. It made him stumble. Mirk only managed to keep him from falling to all fours again by shoving his grandfather''s staff in between Am-Hazek and the ground, making both of them cough and wince when it struck Am-Hazek in the chest.


    "Did you tell Madame you were going?"


    "Not...quite. I only said...I had...a personal errand..."


    Mirk bit his lip, reopening the scab he hadn''t yet bothered to properly heal. He focused on the coppery taste of blood as he staggered onward rather than letting his mind linger on the thought of how horrified his godmother would be when her most indispensable servant turned up half-dead on her doorstep. Am-Hazek had a raw, weeping ring of burns around his neck, that conformed to the same dimensions as the collars the other djinn were forced into. And half his hair had been burned short, somehow, in an arc over his left ear. The ear that the blue, gem-like vessel containing his soul hung from.


    Though Am-Hazek¡¯s physical injuries weren''t enough to impede a djinn, the spell that had allowed Am-Gulat to escape his fellows, even if only for a span of ten meager minutes, had drained him badly. And burned him on the inside, where healing magic was difficult to direct.


    "It''s only a little further," Mirk said, trying to bolster Am-Hazek''s failing strength. "Gen said he''d be waiting..."


    Before Mirk could finish his thought, Am-Hazek''s weight was lifted off his shoulders. Coils of shadow had looped around the djinn, strong and sure. Genesis emerged a second later out from between the gap between two workshops that were little better than lean-tos. The tension returned to the commander¡¯s shoulders at the sight of Am-Hazek, though his expression remained blank. "You...wish to return to the...noblewoman''s house, correct?" Genesis asked Am-Hazek.


    Am-Hazek couldn''t find words; all he did was nod, though the motion aggravated the blisters around his neck. Genesis turned his attention toward Mirk. "And I assume...you intend to accompany him?"


    Now that Am-Hazek wasn¡¯t leaning on him, he didn¡¯t need his grandfather¡¯s staff. Mirk magicked it back down to quarter size, and tucked it away up the sleeve of his robes as he nodded. "Yes, of course. I...I need to explain to Madame..."


    Genesis didn''t wait for him to finish. He approached them, laying a business-like hand on each of their shoulders. In an instant, they had passed into the dark, cold in-between place that connected the shadows. When the darkness cleared, they were in the middle of the quiet lane in front of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse. Precisely on the spot where Mirk had dueled Laurent.


    Mirk put it out of mind, instead checking on how well Am-Hazek had tolerated being manhandled by Genesis''s magic. The djinn was pale, shaking, reflexively checking at his left ear to make sure his soul hadn¡¯t been lost in the Abyss. But not much worse off than before.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    "The...servants entrance, commander..." Am-Hazek croaked out.


    Genesis ignored him. And he ignored Mirk''s protests as well, instead setting out for the front walk, moving at a fast clip as the shadows hauled Am-Hazek along behind him. With a gesture, twin arms of shadow ripped the gate between the lane and the front garden open, the defensive enchantments on it sparking yellow-white in protest. The valet manning the door in Am-Hazek''s absence made an undignified noise somewhere between a yelp and a shriek as Genesis appeared out of the gloom of the front garden, fumbling for the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Genesis frowned, his hands twitching at his sides. "I would...advise against it."


    "They''re with me, Pascal. Open the door...please," Am-Hazek said to the stunned valet in French, his tone betraying how appalled he was by the impropriety of the situation, in spite of how badly he was aching and how much effort it took for him to steady his voice. "And send Claudette to wake Madame. With my...apologies."


    The valet, white as bone and trembling, only nodded, throwing the door wide before hopping off the side of the front steps to make way for Genesis and his trailing shadows that were still supporting Am-Hazek. Madame Beaumont''s foyer had been rearranged again. Instead of the wide, brightly-lit room that had been there the last time Mirk had visited, it''d reverted to the state it''d been in when he''d first met with her in England. The mirrored hall was gone, replaced with a narrow one to the left of the steep stairs that led to the upper floors. Genesis disregarded it, scanning the foyer with one turn of his head before settling on stalking off to the left, into Madame Beaumont''s parlor.


    Am-Hazek sighed in dismay, but was powerless to overrule Genesis''s decision, at least at the moment. Genesis hauled the djinn into the darkened parlor, his shadows depositing Am-Hazek on the first bit of suitable furniture he encountered, a chaise lounge tucked into the corner of the room, with curtains hung around it so that the lady of the house could have a place to rest in private without throwing her bedchambers upstairs into disarray. Mirk scurried in after Genesis, trying the magelight on his wrist again, not knowing the trick to illuminate the ones in Madame Beaumont''s parlor. Unlike in the tunnel beneath the City, it worked that time.


    "How can I help you, monsieur?" Mirk asked Am-Hazek, dropping to his knees beside the chaise. Once Mirk had lowered his mental shielding to examine him, he immediately could feel the difference between Am-Hazek''s magic and that of Ravensdale''s djinn. Am -Hazek¡¯s magic was an uncertain and diaphanous thing, at the moment full of a coolness that reminded Mirk of ordered water magic, one that was fighting against whatever magic had scalded his insides. When Mirk reached out to him to unbutton his shirt, he felt another magic rise up in Am-Hazek, something earthy and damp that felt closer to his own, albeit much weaker.


    "It may be quicker for you to...only lend me your potential, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. "Djinn are...skilled at regulating themselves. When there is nothing in the way..."


    Though his physical voice faded, Mirk could hear the ghosts of a dozen more in Am-Hazek¡¯s mind, high and low, all of them hoarse and tense. Mirk couldn''t understand their words, but the emotions came through clear. Shock, confusion, shame. With it came a glimpse of a miserable tableau: blood-streaked walls, stinking reed mats on a stone floor, huddled and shivering bodies. All with thick black collars around their necks. Mirk paused, one palm pressed flat against Am-Hazek''s heaving chest.


    Am-Hazek cleared his throat, and all traces of the distraught memory vanished, replaced by the cool sense of distance that Mirk was more accustomed to feeling from djinn. It was strained, but holding, for the time being. "I...apologize, seigneur. Your hand, if you will. I will...take as little as possible."


    Mirk lifted his hand from his chest, wrapping Am-Hazek¡¯s hand in both of his own. The djinn¡¯s eyes fluttered closed and Mirk felt a slight tug on the core of life-giving potential at his center. Am-Hazek was true to his word. Mirk only felt him draw off enough healing potential to heal a few minor bruises. But the burning he could sense inside Am-Hazek faded, the cool feeling like water magic rising inside him to quench the flames. After drawing a few deeper breaths, Am-Hazek released both his physical and magical hold on Mirk, blinking his eyes open. "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek said, as he moved to sit up. "Allow me to fix the magelights, I''ll-"


    "You''ll do no such thing!"


    The magelights ¡ª tastefully arranged around the room atop ornamental candlesticks and clustered near a crystal fixture in the center of its ceiling ¡ª flashed on, bathing the room in a golden light that was at odds with the sudden disorder that''d been visited upon it. Cringing, lifting his mental shielding to block off the sudden rage that¡¯d filled the room along with the light, Mirk looked over his shoulder towards the door. He''d never heard his godmother''s tongue click so sharply before. Nor had he ever seen her in a dressing gown and shift, her hair half-hanging from her nightcap. She wielded a candelabra in one shaking hand, its mortal candles burnt low. For a second, Mirk was convinced she was going to hurl it across the room at Genesis, who was standing by the front windows, keeping an eye on the front walk.


    She composed herself just in time, prompted by a fit of coughing from Am-Hazek. Clasping her dressing gown tight up around her neck with her free hand, she stormed over to the chaise, expression caught somewhere between concern and frustration.


    "Pardonnez-moi, Madame, je suis navr¨¦..." Mirk''s body sprung into action to make up for his fumbling at the proper words; he jumped to his feet, then instantly lowered himself into the humblest bow he knew.


    His godmother ignored his continued mumbled apologies, lifting the candelabra to peer more closely at Am-Hazek''s blistered neck. "My dear friend," she said, continuing to speak in English to be certain Genesis understood her, the concern finally overwhelming the anger in her voice. "What''s happened to you? Who did this?"


    Am-Hazek forced himself up onto elbows, but couldn''t find the strength to lift himself any further. Mirk did what he could for him, snagging the pillows off both ends of the chaise and stuffing them underneath the djinn''s back as Am-Hazek began to explain. "I...beg your forgiveness, Madame. I did not mean to cause you any alarm. This is a personal matter. You need not trouble yourself with it. I¡¯ll be well enough to see to my duties by morning."


    "I do not believe that in the slightest, monsieur," Madame Beaumont said, turning and casting a glare back at Genesis fit to freeze the blood of the boldest of men. The fact that Genesis was unmoved by it only served to annoy her further. "Have you been unable to teach this scoundrel any manners at all, mon filleul?"


    "The commander did not cause this, Madame. It was my own doing. Please, sit down. Claudette," Am-Hazek raised his voice, eying a shadowy figure waffling about in the doorway to the parlor. He shifted back to French, only for the purpose of issuing an order to the other servant. "The herbal tea, if you would. And shut the door. Madame will call for it when she''s ready."


    The figure curtsied, then scurried off, the french doors banging shut in its wake. Am-Hazek, though mindful of his station as always, was a practiced hand in dealing with his godmother. He busied himself with straightening the pillows Mirk had hastily crammed underneath him until Madame Beaumont relented and sat down at the end of the chaise, setting the candelabra down on the sideboard. Only then did Am-Hazek began to explain, his voice still bearing a tell-tale rasp, though it was much improved from before. "I have learned that some of my kin are laboring under duress within the K''maneda''s city. I requested the commander and the seigneur''s assistance in doing what I could to better their situation."


    Madame Beaumont arched a skeptical eyebrow at the djinn, tucking the thinning gray curls that had fallen out of her nightcap back underneath its lace trim. "Forgive me for being so blunt, monsieur, but I was under the impression that most of your kin on this realm labor under duress, as you so put it."


    "Very true, Madame. However, their situation is exceptionally dire. They are being used as instruments of war. In the service of a mage who has been causing the seigneur and his associates a great amount of difficulty."


    "Is that so?" Madame Beaumont asked, turning her cool gaze on Mirk, as he shuffled awkwardly through the pillows at the head of the chaise.


    "Yes, Madame," Mirk replied, fighting the urge to bow to her again. It all felt too much like he was a boy again, not even breeched, getting the silent treatment from his angelic magic tutor, Ilae Lei, when he failed yet again to manifest even a spark of potential. If anyone could challenge Ilae Lei ¡ª notoriously dour, catty Ilae Lei, with a thousand snide comments for everyone, his parents included ¡ª for scowls, it''d be Madame Beaumont when she was crossed.


    At the moment, she turned said scowl on Genesis, who was still staring out the window as if deaf to the drama unfolding behind him. "I would think a man of your renowned expertise wouldn''t feel the need to coerce a God-fearing boy and an honest djinn into participating in your nonsense, commander," she said, her low tone making it perfectly clear to all those assembled exactly what she thought of Genesis''s supposed expertise. Except perhaps the man it was directed at. Picking up on sarcasm had never been one of Genesis''s strengths.


    The expression on the commander''s face when he turned to face them confirmed it. He had taken Madame Beaumont''s statement to heart, as a genuine accusation leveled against his strange sense of K''maneda honor. Genesis''s scowl was good enough to join the ranks of experts like Mirk''s godmother and Ilae Lei. "I have...told them both several times...that they are under no...obligation to me."


    "He has been very adamant, Madame," Am-Hazek agreed, after muffling another cough. "And the plan that caused me this...distress was not the commander¡¯s idea. I proposed it. Although the commander did facilitate, to a degree."


    "And what did you get for your efforts?" Madame Beaumont retorted, voice still sharp. But her eyes were softening, Mirk thought, in the face of Am-Hazek''s weary determination.


    "Information. I have not yet heard from the seigneur and the commander what news they have from my kinsman Am-Gulat, but I did find something interesting myself."


    "You should let me heal your burns before you hurt yourself talking," Mirk cut in, kneeling down beside the chaise again and reaching out to settle his fingers on the djinn''s neck. What he felt from Am-Hazek once he''d banished his shields was odd. Though his godmother''s simmering disapproval was distracting, the fact that Am-Hazek''s magic was resonating with his own so well, like the imbalances of their elements and orientations were perfectly aligned, was startling. His magic hadn''t felt like that five minutes ago.


    Am-Hazek, even in his weakened state, noticed everything. He flashed Mirk a slight, tight-lipped smile and nodded. "As I said, seigneur, we are skilled at regulating ourselves. We''ll discuss it another time. A small measure of your potential will do the trick."


    Mirk let a touch of his healing potential sink into Am-Hazek''s blistered neck as if he was going to begin to heal it himself, though he kept its exact purpose indistinct, not trying to listen close to the soft murmuring of the patterns of Am-Hazek''s body. It had an odd sound to it, a ringing note, like someone running their finger along the rim of a glass. He felt Am-Hazek meet him, and a small portion of Mirk¡¯s potential was drawn off, far less than it would have taken him to heal a similar wound. The blisters around Am-Hazek''s neck didn''t fade, not completely, but they dried some and their swelling decreased. Enough for his voice to no longer sound labored, and for him to hold his head up without strain. "Thank you, seigneur. As for the information...ah, paper would better suit the task..."


    Though Am-Hazek tried to get up, Madame Beaumont put a restraining hand on his knees. She shot a critical look across the room at Genesis. "Bring an envelope from the table," she said to him, indicating the table where she''d taken tea with Mirk months ago with a jerk of her chin. "Preferably one without something still in it, if you would. Commander."


    Madame Beaumont''s mood was settling; Mirk could feel that she meant no genuine ill-will toward Genesis, at least not any more. But his godmother was still a noblewoman, and one who''d decided to make her own way in the world once her husband had passed. Putting an imperious note in her tone, one that commanded respect, was as second-nature to her as keeping the neck of her dressing gown tightly closed.


    Genesis bristled at being ordered about under the best circumstances. That night, he was in the blackest mood Mirk had ever seen him in. The shadows trailed thick behind him as he selected an envelope from the tidy stacks atop the table. And when he crossed the room to hand it to Am-Hazek, along with a piece of charcoal that he drew out of his own overcoat pocket, Mirk could feel the cold radiating off of him much in the same way that he had down in the tunnels beneath the City of Glass.


    Mirk wasn''t sure if Am-Hazek was able to sense it as well, or if he was just too tired and sore to keep up his usual displays of respect. His nod toward Genesis was perfunctory rather than tending toward a bow. "Thank you, comrade. You were correct in your assessment of the magic that was put around the...place the djinn are kept in. Powerful, but not complex. That was not the case with the collars. I was able to work around it, but I needed to touch it to make my magic take on imbalances to match lijinn Am-Gulat''s. When I did, I felt a mark on its side. Perhaps you will be familiar with it already, Madame."


    Am-Hazek folded the envelope over, bracing it against his thigh as he sketched out a symbol on it, taking care to be precise as possible. Once he''d concluded, he held it out for all to see, turning it so that they could each take a look, beginning with Genesis and ending with Madame Beaumont. When she saw it, Mirk felt outrage rise up sharp in her chest along with a gasp. Mirk drew his mental shields up higher against it, worrying at his still-bleeding lip.


    He''d recognized it as well, though it made a wave of dread wash over him rather than spurring him to anger. It was a cross, with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. The same symbol that had been pressed into the seal on the reverse of the letter he''d received weeks ago from the Circle.


    "That bastard!" his godmother hissed, her fists clenching. "Him too?"


    "I am...unfamiliar with this," Genesis said, flatly. Though Mirk could tell by the way his teeth were slightly bared that he was put out by not recognizing the symbol when it was clear everyone else in the room knew it.


    Mirk asked the question, despite already knowing from the fury radiating off Madame Beaumont what the answer had to be. "Is that the Circle''s seal? Or is it..."


    "Herbert," she confirmed, with a hard shake of her head. "I can''t believe it! Parading around as an honorable man all these years...lecturing me on morality...propriety..."


    Genesis turned his gaze expectantly on Mirk. "Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont," Mirk explained, in a low voice, so as to not further aggravate his godmother''s fuming. "The Grand Master of the light mages guild. And the head of the Circle, though there''s no, euh, official rule saying he is."


    "I knew I refused him for a good reason," Madame Beaumont muttered, forsaking propriety in favor of folding her arms across her chest. To better hide the way her hands were trembling. "Being married to two horrid men in a row would be too much for God to put on anyone."


    "You have always shown great discernment in your choice of companions, Madame," Am-Hazek said, with a cough that was more politeness than distress that time. "But perhaps we should not rush to total judgment. I have not seen any evidence of Seigneur d¡¯Aumont visiting London with any frequency. And there is no one in the K''maneda''s city who has any ties to French magecraft, the seigneur excepted. Though..."


    "Though?" Madame Beaumont prompted.


    "It was difficult for me to...converse with my kin, while I was in the barracks, but they were able to tell me a little of what they remembered about the place they were first sent to when they were sold onto Earth by the Ra-Djinn. They were kept underground. There was the sound of water, always. But they could not smell it. They said the wind howled somewhere. And it was never as cold or as hot as it is in the City, in their opinion."


    "That is not...precise," Genesis said.


    "I knew it! That has to be his country estate in Dordogne. It''s by a river. And that whole place is riddled with caves," Madame Beaumont interjected, snapping her fingers to herself to spur her thoughts on faster.


    "I attempted to speak some French to them, to see if they recognized it. But human tongues all sound similar to us. Was Am-Gulat able to tell you anything, comrades?" Am-Hazek asked, turning his focus toward Genesis and Mirk. He truly had to be concerned about Genesis''s mood, Mirk thought, to address them both with such a common title in an attempt to soothe the commander in the same way he was working at subtly calming Madame Beaumont.


    "He told us that a...wild mage is responsible for the djinn''s collars. A certain...Erv."


    "I''ve never heard that name before," Mirk added.


    There was a moment of silence. Then Madame Beaumont slapped her knees, her usual composure and propriety completely forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Herv¨¦! It must be Herv¨¦! You said it yourself, Am-Hazek, human languages sound the same to djinn. It''d be easy for them to mistake Herv¨¦ for Erv," she said, the consonant in the middle of the name turning into a growl as she tried to mimic an English accent.


    Genesis frowned. "That is not...precise either. Erving is also a...common enough name."


    "Does Seigneur d''Aumont have any family by that name? A cousin? Or a nephew?" Mirk asked his godmother.


    She shook her head. "No. But that doesn''t mean anything."


    "Nor does your...supposition," Genesis countered. "I am...familiar with all of the mages closest to Ravensdale. None of them are French. Aside from the Bavarians...foreign mages are not tolerated."


    "Would you know a Bavarian from a Frenchman, commander?"


    Mirk decided to step in before tempers could get any more heated than they already were. "Methinks we should be a little patient, everyone. Tiens. I have to meet with the Circle soon to help with the Montignys. While I''m there, I can see if I can find anything else out. We''re meeting at Mademoiselle Polignac''s chateau, but it''s a good enough place to start as any."


    To Mirk''s relief, Am-Hazek came to his aid before either Madame Beaumont or Genesis could get a word in edgewise. "A prudent choice. I assure you, Madame, comrade, that I am as anxious as both of you are to see that justice is done. However, we must be careful. Both the K''maneda and the Circle have resources greater than any we could draw upon. We most likely will only have one chance to strike. We must be certain we strike true when we do."


    Together, their words had enough weight to put a temporary halt to Madame Beaumont and Genesis''s protests. Though Mirk could tell they were both dissatisfied with their suggestions in their own way, Genesis with all the conjecture, and Madame Beaumont with the lack of immediate action. Mirk used checking on Am-Hazek''s neck as an excuse to meet his eyes, shooting him a pointed look. He nodded, ever so slightly. "I''m afraid that this evening''s events have taxed me. I haven''t had cause to use so much of my magic at once in many decades. Perhaps we could reconvene at a later time?"


    "It''s nearly two in the morning," Mirk added. "I''m sure that we all have things we need to see to tomorrow. And though I''m not an expert on djinn, methinks that it would be better if we let Monsieur Am-Hazek get some rest. Healing takes energy too."


    Madame Beaumont stood then, picking up her candelabra. "No more going behind my back, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I wish to be consulted every step of the way, now that the Circle is involved."


    "As you wish, Madame," Am-Hazek said, with a differential bob of his head. Then he lifted his voice, calling out for the maid once more in French. "Claudette, please bring in Madame''s tea. And I''ll have one as well, if you are willing to share, Madame. My throat is still a bit sore."


    Mirk knew that was their cue to depart. He stood, bowing to his godmother and reassuring her that he''d write as soon as he learned anything pressing, then took hold of Genesis''s elbow, tugging on it until the commander relented and followed him back out into the hall. They passed by the maid on their way to the door. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that she made the sign of protection against the evil eye underneath the tray she carried as she turned to the side to better avoid them. She kept her head down, but her suspicious sideways glances were always directed at Genesis.


    The valet didn''t offer to open the front door for them as they left. But Mirk did hear him bar the front gate behind them as they emerged back onto the street, muttering to himself about the grace of the Virgin and all the saints. Mirk sighed, staring down at the spot in the middle of the lane where he''d dueled Laruent. The mark had long since been washed away by the rain and the feet of human and animal passers-by, but Mirk felt like he could still see it, somehow, in his mind''s eye. "Is there something I can do to help you, messire? You seem...upset."


    Genesis didn''t reply, not right away. Nor did he move to sweep them both through the shadows right back to the City. He chose to walk in the direction of the East Gate instead, his hands in his pockets, sticking to the very edge of the road, his black-clad form lost in the shadows that cluttered underneath the walls that hid the neighboring townhouses from view. "I...do not understand why that...woman wishes to involve herself in this."


    "What do you mean?" Mirk asked, as he fell in beside the commander. He was walking very slowly now, each step calculated, precise. Mirk didn''t have to take any pains to keep up.


    "If she is...so concerned with the fate of Ravensdale''s djinn...so...annoyed by the...injustice of it...why does she keep a djinn of her own?"


    Mirk considered this for a time, folding his arms against the chill. He should have planned ahead and brought his cloak. But he only had the one, and he''d been worried that venturing beneath the City would soil it too badly for him to use it for formal occasions. "Methinks she doesn''t think of herself as Monsieur Am-Hazek''s, euh...master. Not in the same way that most nobles who have djinn servants do. He''s been freed for as long as I''ve been alive. She employs him, she doesn''t keep him."


    "A lighter chain...is a chain nevertheless."


    Mirk sighed. "I know you feel very strongly about these things, messire...but I promise, Madame Beaumont isn''t a bad person."


    "She...keeps five human servants. And Am-Hazek. To do...such trivial things as bring her tea. It is a waste of potential. And she...thinks herself superior to them."


    There was no denying that, Mirk thought. But he couldn''t think of a way to explain it to Genesis, not in a way that the commander could understand. Madame Beaumont was centuries old, had never spent any time outside the world she was born into, where there was a maid to dress her in the morning, a cook to make the porridge and cakes that she''d use to break her fast, a valet to fetch her cloak, a coachman or a teleporting mage to whisk her off to wherever she needed to go without having to subject herself to the sights and the smells of the poor. But she was also still a woman, despite being a noble one. He couldn''t think of how to describe to Genesis what that felt like, even for the ones who were better off, widows like Madame Beaumont or ladies who had been granted nearly scandalous amounts of latitude by sympathetic husbands like his mother.


    Mirk didn''t think Genesis would have any way to understand what that kind of life was like, trapped inside a prison of gold and marble and silk instead of bound by blood and violence like he was. Noble ladies were trapped just like he was, even if their captivity wasn¡¯t so severe and their bindings didn¡¯t cut so deep. They were birds of paradise meant to sing on command, who were expected to be quiet once the cover was draped back over their cages.


    Granting latitude to everyone, being generous and humble and dirtying one''s own hands with tasks better left to the servants, was a fast and sure way for a woman to earn the scorn of the other noble ladies. And the sympathy and friendship of the other ladies was the only balm many of them had against the domineering hand of a tyrannical husband or sneering guild mages who were willing to let them do ornamental enchantments and call up pleasant weather for a garden party, but never anything serious. Some women were able to do more, those with astounding potential or who had inherited spots in the guilds or a business from a husband or a father who had passed. But even those noble ladies would feel the bite of the bars of their cages, if they tried to spread their wings and take flight.


    More than that, though, Mirk knew from attending countless lunches and teas at his mother''s side that such a life grew a certain bitterness in one''s heart. One that Mirk couldn''t blame anyone for venting on the undeserving on occasion, especially when vexed by circumstance. He hadn''t looked too deeply into Madame Beamount''s emotions that night, but he could imagine well enough what she''d thought upon seeing them all huddled in her parlor: once again, all the men had gone off and done something stupid, something she could have helped them avoid, if only she hadn''t been asleep under the covers inside her golden cage.


    "It''s difficult to explain, messire. But please, trust me. She doesn''t treat her servants badly. And she views Monsieur Am-Hazek more as a friend than a servant. But it''s...relationships are complicated, especially for noble ladies. They''re really never simple at all, not for anyone."


    "I have...noticed this."


    "We need her help. I know a little about how things are back in France, but Madame knows more than I ever will. If Seigneur d''Aumont is involved with what''s happening with Ravensdale, and I''m not saying he is, she''ll be able to tell us how best to handle things."


    Genesis made a cross, hissing noise, but didn''t comment otherwise.


    "She is a, euh, very spirited woman, you know. I doubt you''ll get any protests from her about whatever you plan to do about things." He, on the other hand, would be doing as much talking and consoling as possible to avoid any of the more dire outcomes he could think of. But Mirk knew well enough by then how things worked, both in the K''maneda and among the nobles. The sword was drawn first, then the rest was settled once it became clear who''d survive to bicker over whatever remained.


    "My choice...would be to...end the nobility altogether," Genesis said, adjusting the sleeves of his overcoat, then flipping its collar up against the chilly night air.


    Mirk sighed. "Would you end me too, then?"


    "...would you...give up your gold? Your...power?"


    "I never wanted it to begin with. But I couldn''t decide that for the rest of my family. Or any of the others. Like you always say, messire, it''s important that everyone gets a choice."


    Genesis was silent for a time. But he was starting to walk faster. Perhaps some of his annoyance at the situation was subsiding. It was difficult for Mirk to tell, with the shadows still hanging thick around them, hiding the angular planes of Genesis¡¯s face from view. "I have...attempted to read your...scripture on several occasions to better understand the reasoning of those who are...preoccupied by it. You seem to have...taken a different approach to it than your...co-religionists."


    Mirk shrugged. "God calls to everyone in a different way, messire. All we can do is our best to listen. And confess and try again when we misunderstand."


    "I...see."


    "Will we be walking the whole way back to the City?" Mirk asked, to change the subject. "It''s a little cold..."


    Genesis sighed, coming to an abrupt halt. He glanced down at Mirk, taking in the sight of his hunched shoulders and the sleeves of his robes pulled up over his hands for warmth. Genesis extracted one hand from the pocket of his overcoat, placing it gingerly on Mirk''s shoulder. "There is...work to be done. The arrow. And...the journal."


    Mirk nodded. "Grand-p¨¨re might have written something about Seigneur d''Aumont. Madame said that he''d known him since the Edict with the Church mages. But methinks you should also think about getting some sleep, Genesis. No one can work well when they''re tired, not even you."


    After considering the matter for a time, Genesis shook his head, the shadows rising up around them both in advance of their plunge back through the Abyss. "...the arrow first. I have had enough...noble simpering for one night."

 Chapter 36

    Mirk stared up at the Glass Tower from the base of the infirmary steps, thinking. It all seemed very improper, dropping in on Comrade Commander Margaret unannounced. But from what little he''d been able to learn about the manners of the high-born K''maneda by eavesdropping on the members of the Tenth, calling cards and sending along servants with letters before visiting was not the done thing. A holdover from ancient K''maneda habits, maybe.


    He wasn''t even sure whether it was right to refer to her by her title and given name. It was the pattern the healers of the Twentieth followed, and what Genesis favored when he was forced to be polite, but was it what the high-borns themselves used? There was something tricky involved there, Mirk suspected, involving the way in which the English guild mages who''d demanded ceremonial titles from their mortal king and the K''maneda who¡¯d moved there with the City had intermarried. Margaret, he¡¯d found out through more eavesdropping, was the third daughter of a poorly regarded English Grand Master. Left with no options in English mage society, she¡¯d married into an old K''maneda line, the Rak''sen family, that had been in a position of authority within the mercenaries since before the City had been moved further west into Habsburg lands.


    Her husband, Casyn, was the head of the Fourth Cavalry. It was a middling sort of command position, if Sheila was to be believed, rewarded to Casyn because of his blood more than due to any merit on his part. The Fourth was half teleporting mages and half horsemen, the latter being a holdover from simpler times. Those days, the horsemen were only deployed when a contract involved work on a realm the teleporting mages hadn''t sorted out a good way of using their magic on. Even if the division wasn''t one of the K''maneda''s finest, it felt odd to Mirk not to call a lady so much older than himself and so further above him in station by her family name, given its storied past.


    But everyone around the infirmary called her Comrade Commander Margaret, including her daughter Kali. It''d be best to follow suit, no matter how odd it felt. Just like it''d be best for him to be off across the parade grounds to the Glass Tower before he wasted the whole of the morning shift he''d begged for Sheila to cover for him woolgathering on the front steps. Sighing, Mirk smoothed his hands down the front of his justacorps to double-check that he hadn''t missed any buttons while hastily dressing in the supply closet. Then he drew his grandfather''s staff out of his breast pocket, tapped it up to its full size, and set out.


    The Twelfth was as reasonable a place as any to start to wind his way into an understanding of the high-born side of the K''maneda hierarchy. If Casyn''s command was middling, then Margaret''s was entirely ornamental: the Twelfth was the home of all the high-born K''maneda women who wanted to actively participate in the organization, the infirmary healers aside. Their main duties were Seeing for potential complications in the other divisions'' contracts and enchanting swords and wands for the men to use while they were out fighting. Though, if Kali''s griping was to be believed, most of what the women did up in the Glass Tower all day was limited to needlework. However, very few women in the K''maneda had as martial a disposition as Kali Rak''sen.


    Most other noblemen, Mirk knew, wouldn''t think twice about how they presented themselves in front of a gaggle of women, none of whom he was looking to court. Mirk had to concentrate hard to keep his worry from seeping through onto his face as he walked across the parade grounds to the great ebony double doors at the foot of the Glass Tower. He felt woefully underdressed in his gray traveling suit, plain and conservatively cut, the usual falls of lace forsaken in favor of a shirt with good pearl buttons to highlight his wrists and collar.


    But if there was one piece of gossip about the high-born English that he remembered from his time in French society, it was that they were a dour, depressing, and joyless lot. No dancing that pushed the limits of acceptability, no bright and lively silks or extravagant patterns, no witty repartee. They had taken the dictates of Calvin and his ilk far too much to heart, in the opinion of most French nobles. If Mirk had come to Comrade Commander Margaret''s doorstep dressed in one of his more fashionable suits, she most likely would have thought him a worthless fop and sent him away. He couldn''t be sure that the better off among the K''maneda held the same views as the rest of the English, but considering the prevailing tendency toward wearing all black, Mirk assumed that, if anything, the K''maneda were even worse about taking life too seriously.


    The two women guarding the doors were wearing black, in any case. Their dresses had high standing collars and were buttoned up tight, their skirts lacking the usual frills and voluminous petticoats that were in favor with the French noble ladies the past few seasons. Though they had no insignia on them, Mirk still thought their dresses still had a certain martial air to them. And both ladies had wands in holsters around their narrow waists in place of swords. Once he drew within speaking distance, Mirk greeted them with a deep, deferential bow. Neither woman moved to curtsey in return.


    "Good morning, comrades," Mirk said, putting on his warmest, most inoffensive smile. And he made sure to adjust his grip on his grandfather''s staff so that it was clear he had no intention of taking a swing at either of them if they let their guard down. "I apologize for bothering you. May I inquire as to whether Comrade Commander Margaret is available?"


    The words all sounded clunky to Mirk''s ears. He''d tried looking up the right words in the dictionary to convey the precise degree of politeness he would have shown a noble lady in French, but, as always, English had come up lacking. The two women exchanged questioning looks. "Who are you?" the one to the right of the door asked.


    Mirk bowed again. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon, comrades. Your servant."


    The look of puzzlement on their faces deepened. The same woman who''d greeted him continued the questioning. "Comrade Commander Margaret didn''t say she was expecting a visitor from abroad."


    "Ah, it''s a little confusing...I am from abroad originally, comrades, but I''ve since joined the Twentieth and moved to the City."


    They both frowned at the mention of the Twentieth. "What do you wish to speak to her about?"


    "That''s a little confusing as well. But I promise, I''m not here to waste her time. It concerns her daughters. Perhaps Kali may have mentioned me to the Comrade Commander? I have healed her several times..."


    Their expressions shifted again at the mention of Kali''s name. Though, from what Mirk could sense of their emotions, the exasperated slant their frowns took on was related to some ill-will they held toward Kali, not toward him. At least it got one of them to budge, finally. The woman to the left of the doors dipped into a utilitarian curtsy before turning away from him to open one of the giant ebony doors and slip inside, as the other kept her gaze fixed on Mirk. "We''ll ask if she has time to meet with you, seigneur."


    "My thanks, comrade."


    Mirk didn''t know what to do with himself while he waited. It didn''t feel right, treating what was most likely a noble lady like a common valet, ignoring her until he heard word from Margaret. The polite thing to do would have been to make pleasant conversation, to discuss the cold turn the City''s weather had taken, or ask about the lady''s work up in the Glass Tower. But even the more gregarious K''maneda, Mirk had noticed, weren''t fond of small-talk. At least not outside of the healers.


    He settled for leaning on his staff and keeping an eye on the field transporter. No one had been sent out that day, according to what he''d seen and heard at the infirmary. He didn''t know whether it meant that the terrible battle that had brought in Elijah Oliver and the Destroyer''s arrow had put an end to that contract, or if the high-born officers were simply taking the time to re-calibrate their strategy before sending in the low-born fighters from the Seventh.


    After five or so minutes, the other woman returned. Rather than coming out to retake her position, she held the door open, nodding to Mirk. Her expression was lighter now, Mirk thought, more curious than skeptical. A good sign. Though he couldn''t imagine that Kali would have had anything nice to say about him to her mother. "Comrade Commander Margaret will see you, seigneur. This way."


    Flashing both women another smile and ducking his head in thanks, Mirk entered the Glass Tower. Though its outside appeared to be made entirely of glass, the inside was mostly stone, of the same featureless, impossibly regular sort that all the original buildings in the City were made of. Aside from a lone pillar of solid glass that stretched from down beneath the ground floor all the way up to the tower''s pinnacle. Mirk wondered if its ultimate bottom was buried somewhere in the mess of tunnels Genesis had led him through to meet with Am-Gulat. It would make sense ¡ª Genesis had told him once that the Glass Tower regulated the chaotic magic that kept the City wandering, somehow.


    As much as Mirk hadn''t enjoyed creeping around the tunnels, he would have endured the experience again and again to avoid what lay ahead of him. Rather than by stairs, the upper levels of the Glass Tower were accessed by a levitating platform built around the pillar of glass, controlled by runes and levers. Those floors were made of stone as well; Mirk only assumed that the pillar must extend all the way to the roof. But the platform itself, like the outside of the tower and its central pillar, was made entirely of glass, though someone had been considerate enough to install an iron railing around its outer edge. The guardswoman opened an ornamental gate in the railing, holding it to one side, waiting for Mirk to enter before her.


    "Ah...euh..."


    "Is something wrong, seigneur?¡±


    "Oh! No, nothing. I''m sorry. It''s just that I''m not used to the K''maneda way of doing things yet, methinks," he said, shuffling over to the platform, forcing himself to keep smiling and, more importantly, keep staring straight ahead. "I only feel a little rude, getting on ahead of you."


    The guardswoman didn''t comment, but she did look pleased, in a quiet, subtle way. Mirk would have been more reassured by it, had she not bustled on after him and immediately thrown the platform into life. It rose soundlessly, powered by some sort of chaotic magic that Mirk could feel brushing against his mental shielding but couldn''t see a single shadowy trace of. Though his vision was growing dark around the edges, he was certain it wasn''t from the chaos.


    Mirk had always hated heights. He had to bite down hard to keep from vomiting. Thankfully, he''d remembered to ask Yule to heal the scab on his lip for him before he''d left the infirmary. Otherwise he''d have ended up bleeding all over the front of his justacorps.


    He tried to focus on the floors gliding silently past them rather than down at the growing gap between his feet and the earth. Mirk was only able to catch the barest glimpses of them, but most of them seemed empty, all bare stone floors and walls made of clouded-over glass. Very few noble ladies in the K''maneda elected to work, Mirk supposed, if they could handle all their business on just one floor. That or the real work of managing the K''maneda''s legions of menfolk went on in other places, in out of the way parlors and kitchens, rather than in the heart of the City.


    The instant the platform arrived at the topmost floor, Mirk was off it in a flash, his manners forgotten in his rush to have stone beneath his feet again. He thought he heard the guardswoman stifle a laugh from behind him. Though he felt himself go red, he couldn''t exactly blame her for it. Considering the temperaments of the men the K''maneda ladies were more accustomed to, he had to be a spectacle. The women up on the top floor were polite enough not to make a show of it, but he could feel all their eyes on him as he tried to gather his wits and catch his breath.


    The topmost floor of the Glass Tower was one large room, each side of it devoted to different tasks, the divisions marked by furniture and rugs rather than walls or screens. To his left, a pair of women were standing on either side of a long table, one of them reading from a grimoire while the other worked at casting enchantments on a sword. And on his right, there were even more tables full of books, pushed flush against the wall, though there were gaps in between the tables where mirrors were hung for scrying, divination spells written directly on the cloudy glass around them in wax pencil.


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    But the majority of the women were straight ahead of him, seated on a circle of unforgiving straight-backed wooden chairs, chatting with one another as they occupied themselves with their embroidery and other handicrafts while waiting for their magical potential to recover after bouts of casting. One of the women stood at his arrival, passing the wand she''d been adorning with tiny gemstones off to another lady to finish. Mirk reapplied his smile, hoping it looked genuine enough to conceal the fact that he still felt like he was about to throw up.


    He was relieved when she greeted him with a curtsy. That, he knew what to do with, though she didn''t offer her hand out afterward for the customary kiss. Mirk returned the gesture with a bow. "Comrade Commander Margaret. I apologize for coming unannounced."


    "It''s no trouble, seigneur. Please, come sit."


    Margaret led him past the sewing circle to a second small sitting area near the wall. It must have served as something like a private parlor for the commander of the Twelfth, or some kind of informal office. The chairs there were more ornate and plush than the ones the other women were sitting at, and there was a small worktable off to one side, atop an ornate Oriental rug with the K''maneda seal woven in among its flowers and birds of paradise. Margaret gestured him to one and Mirk sat down, studying her as she took the chair across from him.


    The resemblance between Margaret and Kali was faint, though Mirk could detect flickers of it in the determined focus of her dark eyes and the firm set to her rounded chin. Everything else about Margaret was different. Kali was tall and wide about both shoulders and hips, her complexion dark. Every part of her was laced with scars that stood out bold against it, scars she never tried to hide with powder or distracting finery. Her mother was a small, narrow, fragile woman, the skin of her face and hands immaculately white. And though her dress was plain black like that of the other K''maneda high-born ladies, it was speckled with small, personalized details that made her rank clear to anyone who cared to take notice. The fabric was of better quality, not silk but just as smooth and lustrous, its fastenings silver and intricately carved, just like the buckles on her shoes and the brooch at her neck. The latter had a garnet the size of a Louis d''or set in its center. Most likely enchanted.


    "I believe I owe you my thanks, seigneur," Margaret said as she smoothed out her skirts. "You''ve done excellent work on Kali. So many of the other healers that handle women''s matters are butchers. I would have never thought there''d be someone so skilled in the Twentieth. But I see it must be because you had the benefit of a proper education before coming here."


    Mirk didn''t know how to respond to that. She was testing him, no doubt, gauging his opinion on the other healers, both high and low-born. He decided it''d be best to sidestep the matter, at least for now. "Children are always getting into something, aren''t they? Both daughters and sons. But I do admire Miss Kali¡¯s strength, even if it causes some trouble from time to time."


    "Has she been causing you trouble?" A frown came onto Margaret''s face, like she was bracing herself for bad news.


    "Oh, pas du tout, Comrade Commander. She''s a bit...rough, yes, but she''s always kind, in her own way. Actually, I came to speak to you about her. Methinks she might be able to help me with a small problem I''ve run into. Along with her sister, if it wouldn''t be too much trouble."


    "Is that so?"


    "Have you heard of the Circle? A society of French mages..."


    Margaret''s eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly. Her gaze shifted from him to the wall to their right as she thought. The cloudiness had been scraped off a section of the glass, creating a sort of window to the outside. Mirk had been doing his best to avoid looking out it ever since he''d sat down, lest his nausea flare up again. "Yes, the Circle of Friends. The French have always had a talent for that kind of humor."


    Mirk chuckled, shrugging. "The Grand Masters are all friends, sort of. Friends don''t always get along, after all."


    "Why do you ask, seigneur?"


    "My grandfather sat on the Circle for many decades before he passed last winter."


    "My condolences." The sentiment was genuine, Mirk thought, but clouded with a certain suspicion of what a person with that kind of lineage would be doing among K''maneda healers. And he couldn''t exactly fault her for that, though he wasn''t about to go into the details. Namely, that he''d happened to make friends with what were widely considered to be some of the worst people the K''maneda had to offer.


    "Thank you, Comrade Commander. I''ve been invited to one of their meetings in a few days. Nothing too serious, mostly attending to a few things that were left undone after my grandfather''s death. I don''t expect to inherit his position, that''s not how the Circle works, but I''m expected to follow the same traditions that a member would. When the Circle meets, it''s expected that each member brings along two attendants. Methinks maybe they were meant to be guards, long ago, but it''s mostly ceremonial now. They''re more like...friends of friends? People you think the others might be interested in knowing, or who can speak to some problem you''re having. I don''t have many close ties with the French guilds, so I couldn''t think of anyone to bring with me right away. But since I''m part of the K''maneda now, it makes sense to introduce you all to them, non? The only problem is that I''m a healer. Comrade Commander Emir is always in need of more hands, so I wouldn''t feel right taking any of the other healers away, even if it''s only for an afternoon. That and, well. The other members of the Twentieth are bit...euh...rough."


    It was enough context for Margaret to put the pieces together. Her eyebrows lifted further as she met his eyes once more. "If you need someone with manners to go with you, I''m not certain Kali would make the best impression either."


    Mirk met her skepticism with a smile. "Mais non! Methinks she''d be perfect. You know how we are on the Continent, Comrade Commander. We''re all fascinated by different types of people. And nothing is more fascinating than a woman warrior. It''s not a common thing. That and I really do think Miss Kali shows some of the best parts of the K''maneda spirit. She''s very bold."


    "I''ll agree that she¡¯s bold," Margaret said, with a smile that didn''t have a trace of good humor in it.


    "And we don''t expect guests to follow all the same rules that we do. A misstep from someone who knows is one thing, but one from a stranger is just even more fascinating. Besides, as I said, the role is mostly ceremonial. All Miss Kali and her sister would have to do is stand behind my chair and look distinctive. And methinks you can agree that Miss Kali cuts a very distinctive figure."


    "She takes after her father in that way."


    Though Margaret said the words in an offhand sort of way, already deliberating the merits of Mirk''s proposal rather than continuing to dwell on what she perceived as her daughter''s troublesome nature, Mirk thought he heard a bit of bitterness in them. Bitterness that made him wonder what sort of man Casyn Rak''sen was, aside from a middling cavalry commander. "I suppose it wouldn''t hurt to introduce her to a more liberal-minded society,¡± Margaret said after a long pause. ¡°She''s already offended all the English mages so badly she isn''t welcome with anyone aside from the K''maneda and the fae. And I''d rather she didn''t get involved with either."


    Margaret wasn''t being direct, Mirk thought he could tell what she was thinking of. Though English and French mage society differed in several ways, the principal concern of noble mothers with unmarried daughters was something of a universal. That and every time Kali came in to the infirmary, she always had something cross to say about her mother''s constant efforts to find her a suitable husband.


    He had no intentions of trying to play matchmaker along with Margaret, but he was willing to allow her to assume he was, if it meant not having to go to the Circle with a pair like K''aekniv and Slava in tow. French mages could be more accommodating of strangeness than the English, but there were limits. That and Mirk was worried the Grand Masters would get the impression he wanted a fight if he brought along two men who looked like they could rip trees out of the ground. Kali and her sister would be just interesting enough to take the attention off him and let him make his observations more or less in peace, once the matter of the Montigny men was settled. Mirk smiled and nodded. "I''d be willing to compensate Miss Kali and her sister for their time, of course. I understand that they both must be busy."


    "The K''maneda ladies are not nearly as...mercenary as the men. The introduction will suffice. How am I to prepare them? I''m aware that your countrymen have certain opinions about what constitutes proper attire.¡± She gave his justacorps a closer look, her brow furrowing.


    "Oh, I wouldn''t expect them to follow our fashions," Mirk said, laughing. "Actually...everyone seemed rather taken with the K''maneda way of dressing the last time they saw it. Forgive me for not knowing, but do the women also have a dress uniform, of sorts? The men''s uniform went over very well." More due to the amusement all the other nobles got out of tormenting Genesis than the outfit itself, but the point still stood. And Kali and Genesis were fairly similar in that aspect.


    "It''s rarely used. But my daughters both have one, I believe. If not, it wouldn''t be dear to have something tailored to fit."


    "I''m willing to pay, like I said. I''m very grateful, Comrade Commander. You and your daughters would save me the embarrassment of having to go alone."


    Margaret shifted forward in her chair, her intense gaze focusing tightly on him. Somehow, the determination in it was worse coming from her than Kali, although Mirk got the impression that her mother was much less likely to hit him upside the head if he had something to say that she found distasteful. "I do have to ask, however...how did you come here, seigneur? And how has it not become common knowledge that there''s a man of your distinction languishing in the Twentieth? Did Comrade Commander Emir claim you for himself due to your lineage?"


    "Beg pardon, Comrade Commander?"


    "You''re a half-blood too, are you not?"


    "Ah, yes, well..."


    "I had assumed you were in the Twentieth due to your foreign birth. Kali did mention that you were French. But she never mentioned that you are the head of a noble family. Or that you are half-angel. Dishoael...that''s the name of the Empire''s Cathedral Guard, isn''t it?"


    Mirk was taken aback. But he nodded all the same, doing his best not to start fiddling with the staff across his knees to distract himself from his discomfort. The title of Cathedral Guard was a human invention, one that his father had always chafed at but had never had the patience to argue with anyone about. His father always saw himself as the descendant of the Western shields, a brave sentry on the edge of the Empire''s domain. What the humans decided to call him was unimportant. Save for the one human whose opinion he valued more than anything. And the worst she ever called him was grumpy, when he hadn''t been getting enough naps in. "Yes, that was my father. I''m surprised you know of him, Comrade Commander."


    "An old tutor of mine had dealings with the angels. He said the Cathedral Guard was quite uninterested in his opinions on what sort of impression the servants of the Empire were making on the mortals."


    "Yes, that does sound like him," Mirk said with a sigh. "He, ah, has passed as well."


    "My condolences." If anything, that bit of news made Margaret''s gaze even more intense, somehow. "I don''t mean to pry, seigneur, but it''s very curious that a person of your line has ended up in the City."


    Mirk decided to be as truthful as he could without raising any more suspicions, shrugging. "Euh...it was a...complex situation. I fell very ill when my family passed. Since we''d hired a group of K''maneda to defend us right before it happened, the one who led them decided to bring me back here for treatment instead of trying to find a French healer who understood how to treat the kindling sickness. Since there was nothing left for me back home, I thought it might be better to start again here. I was raised in the Church as a child, but the orders that accept mages are well enough off without another healer. I thought this would be a little like serving the Church, since so many of the men here are poor. But I¡¯ve received news that part of my family survived after all. So...well. Now my duty is to both them and the low-born men."


    After a long pause, Margaret relented, smoothing an imperceptible wrinkle out of her skirts and leaning back in her chair. "An¡­interesting choice, seigneur. Apparently the French fondness for oddities extends further than I''d heard."


    Margaret flashed him another smile. But this time, Mirk thought, the smile was friendlier, more open. He wasn''t sure whether it was from pity over his circumstances or something else entirely. Either way, he wasn''t going to question it. He''d passed whatever evaluation that Margaret held men to, and that was fine enough, regardless of her reasoning.


    Margaret lifted a hand and one of her ladies came to her. "Would you bring the seigneur and I tea, Comrade Elizabeth? I have a few more questions about this Circle of yours," she added to Mirk, as the woman nodded and headed off. "I''m interested to hear how your way of managing the guilds differs from ours here in England. If you have the time to stay for tea, that is."


    Since he''d resolved all the worst questions Margaret could hurl at him, Mirk was finally able to relax some, leaning back in his chair as well, mirroring Margaret''s pose. With the difficult matter of his reason for being in the City out of the way, Mirk felt more at home in the Glass Tower, despite being leagues away from the comforting murmur of the earth. Though the trappings were different, it really wasn¡¯t much different than what he''d been accustomed to at home, before everything had gone wrong. It was just another mid-morning tea passed in the parlor of a noble lady, whose ambitions and concerns made more sense to him than the dire and bloody mechanizations of great men, of generals and Grand Masters. For the first time since he''d set out from the infirmary, Mirk felt like he knew what he was doing.


    And he hoped it came through to Margaret, as he smiled and nodded. "Of course, Comrade Commander. I''d be happy to stay."

 Chapter 37

    It was a complicated potion, one Mirk had been picking away at in lulls in between patients for the past two afternoons. They were all waiting for other shoe to drop, for the low-born infantry to finally be sent through the transporter to handle the mess that''d been made of the contract on the realm the Destroyer''s arrow had come from. Mirk had found the grimoire shelved in the wrong place at the library, while searching out the recipe for a flesh-regeneration potion simple enough for him not to almost immediately forget. Tucked in between its onion-skin pages had been a fertility potion, written in Latin. Thankfully, it wasn¡¯t too far off from the Latin he''d been forced to spend hours untangling at the Abbess''s elbow, upon his mother''s insistence that he be given a noble education instead of spending his days accompanying Father Jean in his wandering about the abbey''s gardens and the village in the valley below.


    He had no use for it himself. But everyone could see how things were going between Danu and Mordecai. Even Yule, with his constant pessimism and dismissive comments about Mordecai''s character, was making preparations for their inevitable wedding, fighting against his instinctive distaste for everything related to his homeland and trying to find a way to bully or seduce a magicked horseshoe out of a cavalry officer. Though Mirk had only known Danu for half a year, he felt the need to make a good showing. And not by purchasing her something extravagant, which would only serve as a reminder of his odd position as a high-born son among the struggling and outcast men and women of the Twentieth.


    Danu deserved something better than pearls or silver. She''d always been there for him, always ready with a kind word to counter Yule''s sourness or a bit of fresh gossip to distract him from whatever was troubling him. Mirk knew how worried Danu was about not being able to conceive, though she didn''t speak of it openly. It was in the way she watched the high-born women get spirited off by the nurses when they came in looking ill, half-apprehensive and half-envious. And it showed in her eagerness to help out whenever one of the washerwomen or maids snuck in the back door with an unruly child in tow who needed an arm set or a cut stitched, though they technically were only supposed to heal enlisted K''maneda. Full Deaths couldn''t bear children with one another, and the odds of a union between a Death and any other person producing offspring were slim. Even though Danu was only half-Death, the product of one such marriage, he could tell that she wasn''t thrilled about the prospects her lineage gave her.


    Mirk wasn''t thrilled by the prospects of his potion staying together. But he was blessed with the gift of fecundity. If he could direct it toward someone who''d welcome it instead of feeling sick at the mention of it, he''d feel better about things. And maybe if he shunted some of that fertile potential away from himself, no one would ever be tempted to take it from him by force again.


    Shaking his head to keep his mind away from those thoughts, he reapplied himself to mixing the potion. It was a time-consuming, fiddly affair. All the components required laborious preparation, grinding and boiling and sifting. He''d needed to go to Ilya to find some of them, since he was the one most familiar with where to get uncommon and somewhat illegal materials. Currently, Mirk was trying to get a powder made of a stone from somewhere in the far east to dissolve into a tincture made principally of birch wood ash and water drawn from a well near a crossroads. The voices of all three ingredients were discordant, quarrelsome, none of them familiar with one another and unwilling to even try to make friends. Mirk could feel his eyes starting to go crossed as he held the glass he was stirring the mixture in up to the light, to see if he was making any progress despite how annoyed all the components sounded.


    "You!"


    Mirk saved the potion at the very last second, so startled by the door smashing open behind him that he nearly flung the glass aside in favor of taking cover underneath the workbench. He probably should have. The fury that came along with his unannounced visitor made it instantly clear that the only thing that''d saved him from getting decked was how pathetic his fright was. Fixing a poor, cringing excuse for a smile on his face, Mirk turned on his stool to face the door.


    "I''m sorry, Kali...please, let me explain..."


    Kali was furious, just as expected. Though he was a little surprised that she hadn''t come for him sooner. He''d spoken with Comrade Commander Margaret a day and a half ago. She must have decided to put off telling her daughter about her trip to the Continent until the day before to make sure that Kali didn''t have time to run off somewhere and avoid it. Kali glared at him down the length of her nose, now crooked from having been broken and not properly set, folding her arms tightly across her chest. To keep herself from deciding to change her mind and punch him, Mirk guessed.


    "What is there to explain?" she snarled, drawing a few steps closer. But she didn''t finish the job, didn''t lunge forward and seize him by the collar of his robes and hurl him across the workbench.


    "I had to tell Comrade Commander Margaret about it all in a certain way. Otherwise methinks she''d have never let me hire you. I''m not planning on introducing you to anyone. Honest."


    Kali scoffed. "Hire me? I''m not getting paid for any of this! All I''m getting is that stupid dress uniform and nagged to the end of my wits!"


    Mirk shrugged. Since his smile and conciliatory words weren''t doing anything, money was the next best option. As was fitting, for handling an angry K''maneda.  "Your mother said it wasn''t necessary, but I''d be happy to pay you myself. What would you like?"


    Like he''d been hoping, the offer gave Kali pause. Though she didn''t step back from him, she unfolded her arms, her hands falling open at her sides. "What is your plan, if it isn''t helping Margaret marry me off?"


    "I do need to go see the Circle. It''d be rude if I didn''t come with attendants. That and it would...hmm, prove a point to them all if I came alone, maybe? Not everyone in it was friends with my grandfather, and there was that duel I had to fight a month or so ago-"


    Kali cuffed him in the shoulder, as if trying to knock some sense into him. "You were in a duel?"


    "Euh...it''s a little hard to explain, but yes. That''s half of why I need to go. I need to fix what happened after. So, really, it''d be good if I brought along someone who could fight if need be. But also someone who knows the rules, more or less. Methinks that coming with people like Niv and Gen wouldn''t go over well. I don''t think Niv would fit in the carriage, for one thing...we had to have him sit on top when he was with us back at home..."


    Though Kali''s eyes were narrowed, the tension was flowing out of her ¡ª Mirk wasn''t sure whether it was the prospects of getting into a fight with the other nobles that was calming her, or his reassurance that he didn''t plan to set her up with any of them. He decided to press the latter point, so as not to get her hopes up too high.


    "I mean it, Comrade Kali. I''m not trying to play matchmaker. Besides, no one other than Seigneur Rouzet isn''t married, and he''s got much better marriage prospects in France. It''s the same with everyone else''s grandsons and nephews. There are dozens of ladies lining up for each of them. You and your sister will just be something interesting for them to gossip about over tea. And I know how you feel about marriage, even though you think I''m on your mother''s side. You should be able to choose your own path in life. That''s the K''maneda way, non? At least, that''s what Genesis always says."


    Kali deflated, yanking out the stool beside him and thunking gracelessly down onto it. "I wish she''d quit all this. She has Catherine, she¡¯s twenty-five this spring. She''ll spit out a baby for her soon enough. Why can''t she just leave me alone?"


    "Do you never want to get married?" Kali tensed at his words. Mirk rushed to explain, before she could begin to rant at him. "I don''t either, and I really should. My family has no one left other than Uncle Henri and the children. And Henri married into the d''Avignons, so he doesn¡¯t really count."


    Shrugging, Kali began fussing with her cuirass, as she always did when she was uncomfortable, trying in vain to get it to stop digging into her ribs. "It''s not that I never want to get married. It''s just...I don''t want to end up locked in some tower like the rest of the women. I want to fight. I want to do things. And you can''t do things with a husband nagging you and a bunch of brats clinging to your skirts."


    "Methinks there has to be someone in the K''maneda who''d rather have a fighter for a wife than a mage. I don''t think any of the Easterners would mind. A lot of them like women with...euh...fire to them? That''s the word they use for it, anyway."


    "Me? Marry one of those idiots? I''ll pass."


    "They''re really not so bad, once you get to know them...anyway, you''re still so young, Comrade Kali. There''s no need to rush into things when you''re a mage. Methinks your mother should know that."


    "I''m thirty this year," she said with a sigh, giving up on tugging her cuirass down and settling for picking at a bit of loose stitching instead. "Practically dead, as far as Margaret is concerned. She was already married for a decade by the time she was my age."


    Mirk reached over to pat her on the shoulder, reflexively projecting a spark of sympathy along with the gesture, though he knew Kali wouldn''t be able to feel it. "It''ll be all right. I''m sure you''ll make your way somehow. Maybe it''ll be like you''re thinking, and things will settle once your sister''s married."


    "You healers are all too optimistic," she grumbled.


    "Have you met Yule?"


    "He''s not normal. He should be a combat healer."


    "What would you like for coming with me, hmm? It''s really not fair of me to keep you from your work without paying you for your time. There has to be something I can do for you..."


    Again, Kali shrugged in response, her frown deepening as the thread she was picking at came off, taking a bit of crumbling leather with it. It gave Mirk an idea, presented him with the opportunity to manage two problems that had been weighing on his mind at once. "How would you like some real armor? You''d be doing me a favor there too, actually..."


    "What do you mean?"


    "My Uncle Henri is an armorer. Well, he makes swords too, but methinks you already have one of those. Anyway, he''s been cooped up here in the infirmary with nothing to do for weeks and weeks now. I''m sure having a project to work on would make him feel better. You know how some men are...always need to be proving their worth..." Kali felt the same, Mirk thought, but it wouldn''t be diplomatic to mention it.


    Kali shot him a skeptical look. "And you''ll pay for that?"


    Mirk shrugged. "Henri will do it for free, methinks. Not that his work is so poor that he has to give things away, but...well. We d''Avignons like to help people, even if he wasn''t born one of us. It rubs off, I suppose..."


    She stared down at her fraying, undersized cuirass for a time, shifting awkwardly on the stool. Kali was always like that, Mirk had noticed ¡ª one of those never-sit-still types, always striving, never resting. "You''ll probably just nag me until I say yes, won''t you?"


    "Look at it this way. You won''t have to come visit me so often if you have better armor," Mirk suggested, flashing her an encouraging smile.


    Throwing up her hands in defeat, Kali shoved her stool back and rose to her feet. "If it''s rubbish, I can pawn it off on one of the other girls. What floor is he on? I assume he''ll want measurements."


    "Up on the far end of fifth," Mirk said. "He''ll be the one with five children worrying over him. Did your mother tell you where we''ll be meeting Seigneur d''Aumont''s carriage?"


    "Yes. Hopefully I won''t be seeing you before then," she muttered to herself, as she turned on her heel and tramped out the door.


    Mirk listened to her walk down the hall, chuckling to himself. He had been honest with Kali about not wanting to find her a husband, but he hadn''t been entirely truthful about why he''d sent her upstairs to talk to Henri. His uncle would be happy to have something productive to do, of course, but Claire had been seeking him out at least once a day ever since he''d first visited to ask him if he''d found a lady sword master to give her lessons yet. Mirk got the impression that Kali wasn''t fond of children, but he thought her distaste might waver a little if presented with someone who could remind her of herself at an earlier age, an eager young girl who''d rather fight than hide and endure. Henri wouldn''t be happy if Kali agreed, but hopefully putting together her new armor would keep him occupied enough not to complain.


    ¡­maybe Yule did have a point about him being underhanded at times. Mirk dismissed the thought and set in on trying to cobble together the fertility potion again, with renewed optimism about his odds of getting all its components to finally start agreeing with each other.


    He was just about to combine the three mixtures he''d painstakingly assembled into the largest potion bowl he could find when he was interrupted again. That time, his visitor knocked on the door behind him instead of throwing it open and barging in. Mirk gingerly set down the second jar he''d been about to dump in the bowl ¡ª its contents were still blue, he had time ¡ª and turned on his stool to face the door once more. "Euh...can I help you?"


    Mirk almost didn''t recognize him, upright and smiling and dressed in the casual-looking yet expensive blacks that the richer K''maneda favored. It was the mage he''d pulled the Destroyer''s arrow out of. Mirk did his best to return the mage¡¯s smile, despite how startled he was by his unannounced appearance up in the infirmary''s workrooms.


    "You''re a hard man to track down!" the mage enthused at him.


    "Euh...I''m sorry, Comrade...ah..."


    "Elijah. Elijah Oliver. But please, no comrade. Having a title hurled at you all day gets old, doesn''t it? I see why you healers don''t bother with them."


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    Doing his best to keep himself from cringing over having forgotten the mage''s name, Mirk nodded. "Yes, Elijah. That''s it. How can I help you? Are you not feeling well?" he asked, looking the mage over. Mirk didn''t feel certain enough about things to prod at Elijah with his magic.


    There was something disarming about him. Perhaps it was his offhand friendliness, the way he spoke with the same offhand lightness that the low-born infantrymen and healers did. Mirk had spent enough afternoons in noble parlors to know that sort of thing could go one of two ways: either Elijah was genuinely happy to see him, or he was looking for something. Information, or a concession, or simply to catch him unawares. Knowing the K''maneda, Mirk was hesitant to accept Elijah''s smile as genuine, though he couldn''t sense any immediate threat in him.


    Elijah sat down, unprompted, on the stool to his left that Kali had vacated less than an hour ago. "Oh, no, I feel great! Thanks to you, ah..."


    "Mirk."


    "Right! Mirk. Like I said, I had a devil of a time finding you. Ambras insisted that he was the one who''d healed me, but I knew it couldn''t have been him. I felt what kind of magic was in that arrow before I passed out. Ambras is very good, one of the best, but that arrow...it felt like it was eating me alive."


    Mirk shrugged, helplessly. At a loss for what else to do, he allowed his shields to lower, just a hair, not enough to make it obvious that he was searching Elijah¡¯s emotions rather than relaxing after being startled by his sudden appearance. He couldn''t feel a thing from him beyond a strange, restless sort of curiosity. Either Elijah was skilled in handling empaths and was using the emotion to conceal his real intentions, or he truly was as happy as he seemed. "It was a little complicated, yes."


    "No one was willing to tell me outright who healed me for some reason. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that arrow had to be a Destroyer''s doing. So I asked Emir where the healer who takes care of Genesis was, and he sent me up to see you." Elijah leaned in closer toward him, looking Mirk over with keen interest. The mage didn''t even try to be subtle about how he prodded him with his magic, but Mirk couldn''t sense anything in it beyond curiosity. And he didn''t detect a hint of mind-magic in him besides. "Interesting. I would have thought you''d have to be chaotic to do it."


    If Emir had told Elijah where to find him, then the mage couldn''t pose that much of a threat. Emir had been with the K''maneda for over a hundred years; he was well-versed in the City''s politics, as all commanders needed to be. But it still didn''t set Mirk completely at ease. He tried to remain casual nevertheless, shrugging again. "It isn''t so hard, once you know the trick to it. Methinks anyone could do it, if they took the time to learn."


    Elijah laughed. "Ah, and modest too!"


    "Euh...well, it''s never very good to be prideful."


    "Tell that to my officers," Elijah said, rolling his eyes. "Everyone is always going on about something...which Grand Master they trained with, who their father is...it''s exhausting. Same as the titles."


    "I''m sorry it causes you so much trouble."


    "Ah, well. I chose this life. And so, I pay the price."


    The comment, thrown out as a casual aside, piqued Mirk''s interest. That was one of Genesis''s sayings, almost word for word. Though when Genesis said it, it almost always had to do with something much more grim than having to deal with polite society. "Are you from one of the old K''maneda families? Your name doesn''t sound like one, but I''m still not quite sure how all that works..."


    Elijah pressed an incredulous hand to his breast. "Me? Oh, Lord no. I''m just another no one from nowhere. Brighton, if that matters."


    Mirk shook his head. "Sorry. I''m still not very familiar with English cities."


    "That''s right! You''re not from here, are you? French, is it? Or was it Italian..."


    "French," Mirk confirmed. "Nantes, if that matters."


    "Then we''re both lost. I couldn''t even tell you where Paris is. In the middle, somewhere, I think."


    It wasn''t quite right, but Mirk had no desire to correct him. "Methinks that''s close enough."


    "I really am wondering, though, what''s a healer like you doing in the Twentieth? I know some of the commanders have a bee in their bonnet about wherever it is people are from, but usually they snap up talent fast. And you have to be talented, if you figured out how to heal the Destroyer. Seen him hurl healers clear out the front windows before when things are really nasty."


    "That''s exactly it, methinks," Mirk said, debating how much he wanted to expose, how far he wanted to press his luck. It''d be better to be honest. If Elijah was putting on an act, trying to woo him over to the Tenth or attempting to recruit him to serve as a personal healer for one of the noble commanders, the mage was going to be disappointed.


    And if he had been sent to gather information instead, he''d gone to the wrong person. It wasn''t as if Genesis had ever sat him down and explained the intricacies of his plans; Mirk doubted he knew much more than a keen observer with a bit of common sense could have sorted out on their own, their trip to visit Am-Gulat aside. "Genesis is my friend. What''s it called...guilt by association? And I''m a half-blood too. Methinks some commanders feel even more strongly about that than they do about foreign born men. Just look at how much Comrade Commander Emir has to deal with."


    A wistful look came onto Elijah''s face as he leaned his head on one hand and looked off into the middle distance. "Ah, you''re lucky. What I wouldn''t give to just listen to him talk for an hour or so...now there''s a man a mage could be proud to say he trained under. Genesis."


    Mirk allowed his shields to slip lower still. It was the oddest reaction Mirk had ever seen anyone give in response to Genesis''s name being brought up in conversation. At best, speaking kindly of the commander usually earned him a frown, and at the worst, the other party would go on ranting and cursing for a good ten minutes, since ranting at Genesis himself usually didn''t do much good. Never before had he seen someone talk about Genesis with a dreamy look on their face, like a young lady waxing poetic about a handsome man who refused to look her way.


    Though Mirk didn¡¯t detect a hint of that kind of fascination in Elijah. He wished he could have said the same about himself. "Euh...really? Most of the mages from the high-born divisions aren''t very kind to him..."


    "Oh, of course they despise him. Someone who came from nowhere, who''d never even think of setting foot in a lecture or a guild circle, besting all of them without breaking a sweat? They''re all dying of jealousy. I certainly am. But they just roll their eyes and complain instead of really looking at what he''s doing. I''ve watched him work. It was that one time...ah, I forget which contract it was, somewhere off-realm. The Fourteenth was laying siege to a city. Burned through their men in a hurry and hauled in the Seventh to finish the job. Genesis wasn''t having it. So he said he''d break the gates himself and then it''d be over and done with.


    "I''d been working on them for a week. A week! And I had half the other mages from the Third supporting me besides. Genesis walked right up to it, arrows flying off left and right all around him, took a hard look, and then...ah, it was beautiful! Like watching a master conductor. No wand, no channeling devices, no charge stones or enchanted ink. Just a bit of charcoal. The spell he wrote on that gate was magnificent! Took it apart like it was nothing. A half hour, and the whole wall fell to dust."


    While Elijah rambled, Mirk listened to his emotions rather than his words. And by the end of it all, Mirk was convinced: there was no artifice in the mage, no cunning flattery or hidden desires. His wonder and excitement were pure, almost childlike. Even if Mirk hadn''t been an empath, the way Elijah was grinning at nothing and punctuating the high parts of his story with great sweeps of his free hand would have given him away to anyone with eyes to see.


    But Mirk still wasn''t entirely certain what to do with the realization that the one mage in the whole City who would have gladly sat and listened to one of Genesis''s lectures for hours without complaint had found him. A mage who was firmly on the side of the high-born commanders. At least, for the time being.


    Mirk felt too guilty about it all to lead Elijah into things directly. He settled for buying himself more time with a non-committal response. "He is very...euh, intelligent, yes. He''s up all night reading."


    "Have you seen his library?" Elijah asked, leaning in closer to Mirk again. His gray eyes were bright with curiosity and eagerness. "It must be astonishing! How many grimoires does he have?"


    He''d never given Genesis''s bookcases a second thought, knowing full well that everything there wasn''t suitable to his magic. And probably written in some ancient, incomprehensible nightmare language besides. "I''m...methinks I haven''t seen all of it, not really. But there''s at least two or three hundred."


    "Three hundred! I''ve been collecting for thirty years, and I''ve only just made it over one hundred!" Elijah sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Why does Alistair have to hate him? We could learn so much from him! The things we could do!"


    "Why does everyone dislike him so much?" Mirk asked. He knew plenty about why Genesis hated the rest of the commanders, but why the feeling was so mutual was something of a mystery. Though Mirk could make a few assumptions, most of them relating to Genesis never tempering his opinions. "I know he can be...euh...a little particular, but it doesn''t seem like enough..."


    "I don''t know, politics or something," Elijah said, waving him off. "Ideas about this and that, I''ve never been able to follow it. I''m a mage. I do magic. Everything else doesn''t matter."


    "Politics mean a lot to Genesis. I don''t really understand much of them either...but methinks it mostly has to do with how the infantry is treated. And the djinn."


    At the mention of the djinn, some of Elijah''s enthusiasm dimmed. "A shame about the djinn. I''ve read a few books on them. Alistair doesn''t let me hang around them too much, and they don''t want to talk to me when I do get close, but I know that most of them are Am-Djinn. Can you believe it, making Am-Djinn fight hand-to-hand? That kinship line''s all scholars and strategists. They probably have as much to teach us about magic as Genesis, if only Alistair would take his head out of his ass...but what can I do? The teleporters take me where I''m needed, I call up a bit of fire or enchant some canons, then they send me back. That arrow was the first time I''d ever gotten a scratch on me, believe it or not."


    Considering the derisive way Yule had talked about Elijah''s armor, the solid enchanted breastplate he''d been skewered in and the useless leathers, Mirk could believe it. But he only nodded, sighing, letting the worry he always felt when the topic of the djinn came up show through on his face. "I don''t really know if there''s anything we can do. But methinks Genesis has some ideas, maybe."


    They shared a moment of troubled silence. Then, without warning, Elijah straightened up out of his slouch, slapping the workbench. "Say, I''ve just had one too! Why don''t we do a trade? I''ll listen to a politics lecture from him, and I get to ask him a few questions about his magic. We''d have to make sure Alistair didn''t find out, but what could a bit of talking hurt? I''ve really just about had it with him, you know. Alistair. I thought he had to really appreciate magic, bringing a person like me along with him¡­but apparently I was wrong.¡±


    Mirk had a hard time picturing anyone being mad at Elijah, if his sunny disposition was as constant as it seemed. ¡°A person like you?¡±


    Elijah nodded. ¡°Blacklisted by all the guilds, no permit to practice magic. Persona non grata. I was stuck running a bookshop for the mortals, you know. Awful! Then, one day, Alistair shows up and says I can do as much magic as I want, and he''ll give me every grimoire they find out on contract, as long as I help him out now and then. Even gave me a copy of Hirscher''s Mysteries of the Immortal Flame as a token of good faith! I''d been looking for it for years! I thought, a man who knows that Hirscher''s worth more than a whole ledger of gold has to be a real mage. But here I am, casting spells anyone could do. And Genesis and the djinn just get the same. Even you," he added, with a pointed gesture at the workroom''s careworn selection of enchanted materials and three-quarters empty potion bottles. "If you can sort out how to heal the Destroyer with just this junk, think of what you could do with real tools!"


    It was far too convenient, Mirk thought, a man of Elijah''s station waltzing into the infirmary and offering him another way to worm his way in amongst the high-born K''maneda on a silver platter. From what he''d heard around the infirmary, the mere thought of protesting any of Ravensdale''s actions could be enough to get someone killed, depending on the situation.


    By all means, Mirk should have been more suspicious. But he could sense Elijah''s enthusiasm as clearly as he could see the grin on his face. The mage felt as incapable of guile as K''aekniv did. An open book. It made Mirk wonder exactly what sort of arcane knowledge he possessed, what hidden power he''d mastered that was fearsome enough to grant him the privilege of living such a carefree life.


    "Euh...I don''t mean to be so blunt, Elijah, but what exactly are you asking for?"


    Again, Elijah leaned in closer to him, grinning. "I''d give anything to learn even just a little from the likes of Genesis. Any grimoire, any armor, anything!"


    "No, methinks that wouldn''t be the sort of thing he''d want..." Genesis would want something much more dear, something dark and cunning. Something more dangerous. Though the commander always was adamant about people having a choice in things.


    "Can you ask him if he''d speak to me anyway? Please? I''m sure we can work out some way to keep Alistair from noticing. I just...I don''t know. I thought there''d be more to the K''maneda than this," Elijah said, with another vague gesture at the workroom''s sparse implements.


    "Tiens, let''s do this, then," Mirk said, after a long pause. "I''ll tell him what you''ve told me. And we''ll let him decide things. It''s impossible to get him to do much of anything he doesn''t want to." Unless one had hold of Genesis''s bindings, and Mirk was almost certain that Elijah didn''t. If they were too difficult for Genesis himself to master, he doubted Elijah could, no matter how much enthusiasm he had for magic.


    Elijah couldn''t contain himself any longer. He bounced to his feet, grasping Mirk by the shoulders. "Would you? Would you really?"


    Mirk smiled, unable to keep from laughing as he nodded. "Methinks no one would notice you coming to the infirmary now and then. And you can trust the Twentieth completely."


    "Of course! Mum''s the word! Lips sealed! Oh, I could just kiss you!" Elijah caught himself just before he did, releasing Mirk''s shoulders and rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. "I won''t! Though, don''t the French do that? Or is that the Spanish..."


    "It''s no trouble," Mirk reassured him. "And since it''s such an important thing to you, methinks it wouldn''t be fair for me not to help. But you have to be patient with Genesis. Give him a week to think about things, maybe? Then come back here and we''ll talk again. I''ll have good news for you, hopefully."


    "You healers are too kind. Well. I always get the feeling Ambras is working at something, but it''s hard to tell with him," Elijah said, his eyes falling on Mirk''s half-assembled potion. "I should let you get back to work. I don''t know much about potions, never had the knack for it, but that looks complicated."


    "It''s a little tricky, yes."


    Again, Elijah clapped him on the shoulders, treating Mirk to a grin that looked like it belonged on the face of a child who''d been given an extra dessert rather than on a mercenary mage. "Well! In a week, then? Be well, Mirk."


    "You too. If you need anything else..."


    But before Mirk could finish his thought, Elijah was already hurrying off, humming to himself happily and no doubt already wracking his brain for what sort of things he''d like to ask Genesis.


    Mirk sighed, rubbing at his forehead and drawing his shields back up. He was getting a headache. Not from the strength of Elijah''s emotions, but from his own over-thinking. No wonder Emir and Genesis and all the other serious, long-time K''maneda were always in such a mood. Mirk had always thought that the French noble mages were the foremost masters of plots and counterplots. The mechanizations of the K''maneda put them all to shame.


    He still felt adrift, lost in a way that he never had back at home when having to deal with personalities and politics. Everything made sense there; everyone knew one another, and even the highest grandees were still cordial enough to the rest of them. Above all else, the French mages didn''t normally kill each other. The fate that had befallen his family was an exception to the rule. But there was little sense in worrying over whether or not Elijah had just outwitted him, somehow. Genesis would know how to handle it. One way or the other.


    Trying to put it all out of mind, Mirk turned back to his potion. The second jar full of potion was still blue, but it''d be turning any moment. He dumped it in the bowl, where the first third of the potion was still percolating away.


    Much to his dismay, rather than turning the bright, sparkling purple he''d been hoping for, the potion turned dark brown and big, congealed chunks of it rose to the bowl¡¯s surface. He must have let the three parts sit too long before combining them. There was nothing to be done other than start over again. Wearily, Mirk got up from his stool and went to empty the ruined potion into the slop bucket beside the workroom''s sink.


    Apparently, his luck only went so far.

 Chapter 38

    "Well? What do you think?"


    Genesis glanced up from his book, just for a moment. Then he frowned and turned a page. "You look as if you are going to a...social gathering of the mage nobility."


    Mirk laughed, smoothing his hands down the front of his justacorps. "That''s very direct of you, messire."


    "You asked my opinion. I gave it."


    He''d commissioned that suit at the same time as the one he''d worn to Madame Beaumont''s ball, but it¡¯d taken longer to arrive, owing to his request for a specific color and style of embroidery that weren''t quite fashionable anymore. Sapphire blue silk, with silver stitching in the shape of vines and lilies and buttons to match. Mirk had felt guilty for ordering something so extravagant. But it wasn''t just for himself, not exactly. It was more like a replacement for the grave his mother would never have.


    The suit wasn''t the exact same color as his mother''s favorite dress, the one she''d sewn herself and wore when she was at her lowest, when she needed to bolster her spirits and carry on with head held high. But it was close enough for Mirk to feel a little better wearing it. As if she was with him still. She would have been elated to hear of him being invited to visit the Circle, despite the grimness of the circumstances that necessitated it. He tried to cling to that idea, that image in his mind, of her eyes, dark and flashing, and her wry grin. It was a lot more encouraging than Genesis''s dismissive response, in any case. Though Mirk couldn''t really blame him for being in a mood.


    "Are you sure the spell will still work? I did have to use a lot of potential..."


    Genesis turned his book upside-down, setting it aside on the bed. It was late morning, well past the time that the commander ordinarily would have been up and about, ghosting around the City and seeing to whatever tasks filled his overlong days. But he''d dragged himself into the infirmary in shambles around dinner last night, just after Mirk had started grinding a fresh batch of components for the fertility potion. All of Genesis¡¯s ribs had been broken and his left leg had been hacked open down to the bone in several places.


    The mage dressed all in red had been the one behind it, the same archer that had shot the Destroyer''s arrow through Elijah Oliver''s chest. As they''d all been expecting, the noble commanders had caved to necessity and summoned Genesis to get rid of the mage, lest the Third lose any more of its top mages. In his panic, Mirk had forgotten all about his appointment to break the bindings on the Montignys and had sunk the lion''s share of his healing potential into putting Genesis back together again. The commander hadn''t been lucid enough to remind him of his obligations until it''d been too late.


    "This manner of binding is not responsive to force. It is a matter of...technique. That is why the nobles were incapable of breaking it themselves, presumably." Genesis slid one hand under the mound of pillows he was propped up against, pulling out a sheet of mage parchment that Mirk hadn''t seen him tuck away there to begin with. A trick of the shadows, maybe. He leaned forward and offered it to Mirk, a corner of his mouth twitching in response to a flare of pain that skittered across his shields, sharp, but not strong enough to really sink in.


    "You will stay in bed, won''t you?" Mirk asked, as he took the parchment. That was the only reason why Genesis still wasn''t locked up in the infirmary: Mirk had gotten some of the Easterners to carry him back to their quarters in exchange for Genesis''s agreement that he''d stay in bed for at least two days, and do his best to eat the meal trays that were brought up and left outside the door. All things considered, Mirk thought the commander would do better healing in his own quarters, where he wasn''t likely to be intruded upon by delirious patients that''d escaped the long-term ward or nosy aides. If, and only if, he actually listened for once and stayed put instead of pushing himself to recover faster than even a person with his inhuman anatomy could.


    Genesis didn''t respond. But Mirk refused to look away from him and consider the spell written on the parchment until Genesis gave a slight, grudging nod. Mirk returned it with a smile, scanning the notes Genesis had made for him. Mirk didn''t understand at all what the meticulous list of gestures and Latin invocations were supposed to do. It all read like gibberish to him, words that made no sense juxtaposed with certain runes he was meant to trace over the Montigny men with the end of his staff. "Euh...methinks I won''t be able to memorize this in time..."


    "That is not necessary. I trust you can...put on enough of a show for it to be irrelevant."


    "Is my Latin that bad?" Mirk mumbled to himself, reading the words over again. "I thought that was supposed to take the acc...euh...or was it the gena...hmm..."


    "The words are meaningless in themselves. You would not be able to pronounce them in c''ayetnak. Thus the Latin."


    Sighing, Mirk folded the paper in half and slipped it into his breast pocket. It''d give him something to focus on while he recovered from being teleported, though he doubted he''d be able to make much sense of it with his head pounding and his stomach in knots.


    "Have you thought about what I told you about Elijah?" Mirk asked, double-checking his buttons one last time.


    Genesis settled back against the pillows ¡ª a concession to his unwillingness to spend time flat on his back and unproductive, even if it would have been better for his healing ribs ¡ª staring off at the far wall of the bedroom rather than meeting Mirk''s eyes. "I have¡­concerns."


    "Bien s?r. It is a little strange. But I looked at his mind as best I could without being rude. There wasn''t anything there. He really only seems to be interested in magic."


    "Magic for what purpose?"


    "Do you learn all the magic you can just for the sake of politics?" Mirk asked. "Methinks you two might be more alike than you think, messire. He made the guilds angry enough for them to take away his permit to practice magic. And if what you say about them is true, they only do that to people who want everyone to be able to study."


    "Or he did something...truly heinous."


    Mirk shook his head, picking up his grandfather''s staff from where he''d left it leaning against the dresser. He really should have polished it last night, but he didn''t even know what wax was best to use. Genesis surely would have, but he''d been in no condition to occupy himself with instructions on how to properly clean things. "I know you have good reasons to be careful most of the time, but, really, methinks you might be overdoing it. He felt as honest as Niv does. And don''t you think I''m a good judge of character?"


    Genesis seemed unconvinced. If anything, Mirk''s comparison of Elijah to K''aekniv only deepened his suspicion. "You...seem to accept everyone...without reservations."


    "Just because I''m polite to people doesn''t mean I agree with them. Or even like them all. It''s about getting along. You, euh..."


    "Don''t. Get along. As you say," Genesis said, flatly. Something about the notion upset him, Mirk thought. Genesis''s face had taken on that certain blankness that always arose whenever he was struggling with some emotion, though it was impossible for Mirk to tell what it was.


    "I''m not saying you should trust everyone. Even I''m not like that. But it wouldn''t hurt to have a few more friends, non? Not all friends agree on everything all of the time. We all have to compromise sometimes to get anything done."


    "A man who would...assist Ravensdale in exchange for something as trivial as grimoires is making too great of a compromise."


    Mirk mulled this over, adjusting the falls of lace at his wrists. He knew they weren''t completely even, and no amount of fussing on his part would fix it, but it was something to occupy himself with other than the fact that something about writing Elijah off entirely didn''t sit well with him. "I don''t think Elijah understood what he was getting into. And methinks now that he does, at least a little...he''d rather not think about it than try to fix what he did. Maybe he doesn''t think he can do anything to change things."


    "Willful ignorance is...worse than plain ignorance."


    Mirk nodded. "But most people try to avoid pain. I know what it feels like, Genesis. To see things that are wrong but feel like you can''t do anything. Like...you''re too small. Methinks it might be hard for you to understand, since you''ve always had no choice other than to try. But not everyone is as strong as you are."


    "Flattery...will get you further with the nobles than me." Although Genesis''s words were harsh, Mirk could tell he was getting somewhere ¡ª the commander''s frown had deepened again, and he was rearranging his meticulous piles of blankets for the third or fourth time. "A...compromise, then. If you wish for me to speak with him, tell him that he must let you look into his mind. If his intentions are as innocent as you assume, he should have nothing to hide."


    Mirk had been worried Genesis would make that sort of demand. "It''s not very nice to do that, you know."


    "As I said. It should not matter if he has nothing to hide."


    "I won''t do it against his will-"


    "I didn¡¯t say you should."


    "-but I will ask him if he''ll let me look. Is that fair?"


    Genesis picked his book up once more, dismissing Mirk with a wave of his hand. "Then the plot is in your hands. So to speak."


    "I''ll ask him about it soon. Anyway, I''d best be going. The carriage from the Circle will be here soon." Again, Mirk paused to check his outfit, to reassure himself that he''d tucked everything important away in one of his vest or justacorps pockets. He always felt a little out of sorts without his bag, but arriving at a meeting of the Circle, even a private one, with a blood-stained healer''s bag slung over his shoulder wouldn''t make a very good impression. "Please try to rest a little? I know you don''t like being idle, but thinking too hard all day isn''t going to help you get back to work any sooner. And try to eat at least a little of what gets brought to you for lunch."


    Genesis didn''t lift his attention from his book. "You''d be better advised to...concern yourself with the nobles rather than me."


    Sighing, Mirk turned on his heel and left, shutting the bedroom door behind himself as he went. Compared to dealing with Genesis when he was in a mood, handling the members of the Circle was bound to be a piece of cake.


    - - -


    "Ah! You both look lovely..."


    Kali glowered at Mirk, her arms folded tightly over her chest, as if the gesture could hide the ruffled black shirt she''d been forced into wearing underneath the close-tailored coat that went over the long, gathered black dress of the women''s uniform. "This isn''t a uniform. You don''t wear a damn corset when you''re going to fight someone."


    "Think of it like a cuirass," Mirk said, trying to reassure her. "It''s extra padding, non?"


    "I can''t breathe!" Kali snapped back.


    "If you calmed down and centered yourself, it wouldn''t be a problem," Catherine said. Whereas her sister looked out-of-place and miserable in the uniform, Catherine looked composed and graceful, having gone so far as to add ebony hair pins to the ensemble along with a matching brooch to make the uniform a little less drab. It was another way that Catherine took after her mother, Mirk supposed ¡ª they looked very much alike, with the same fine features, slender frame, pale, unblemished skin and controlled, proper movements. Mirk thought he should make it a point to seek out Comrade Commander Casyn sometime. If he was small and pale too, he''d really have no choice but to wonder where Kali came from.


    "It''s nice to finally meet you, Comrade Catherine," Mirk said to her, with a friendly, easy bow. Much like her mother had, Catherine responded in kind with a curtsey of matching casualness. "Thank you both for coming with me today. Especially you, seeing as how we''ve never met."


    Catherine smiled. Hers was wider, more heartfelt than her mother''s had been. "Oh, no, thank you, seigneur. I''ve always wanted to travel abroad more. And I''m very interested to see what the French mages are like. We don''t get to mingle much, considering how the mortals are always at odds."


    "I hope we don''t disappoint," Mirk said. "I''m afraid there won''t be much for you both to do besides stand and listen."


    "Typical women''s role," Kali grumbled under her breath.


    Mirk chose to pretend that he hadn''t heard her, instead gesturing for them both to follow along after him. The carriage that was to take them to Mademoiselle Polignac''s chateau would be arriving in one of the small lanes that branched off the main street leading out into the mage quarter of London beyond the East Gate of the City of Glass. Out of sight, out of mind. Carriages with the ability to teleport were a real rarity, owned only by the guilds or a few rare nobles who had enough gold to own one for personal use. It''d be better if no one caught sight of him hopping into one with a pair of commanders'' daughters in tow. There was enough troubling gossip about him floating around at the infirmary already.


    Mirk poked his head around the corner and glanced down the lane. The carriage was already there waiting for them, Seigneur d¡¯Aumont''s personal djinn, Er-Izat, standing beside it, glancing at a pocket watch. At least the carriage had the Circle''s colors on it rather than Seigneur d''Aumont''s. Inconveniencing the Circle with tardiness was one thing, but holding up a Grand Master''s personal carriage was another. That and, though Mirk didn''t like to think of it, he felt vaguely uncomfortable with the notion of riding in Seigneur d''Aumont''s carriage, considering the suspicions about the Grand Master that their conversation with Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat had revealed. Mirk hurried down the lane to meet Er-Izat, his staff clacking against the cobbles.


    "Monsieur Er-Izat? Are we late? I''m terribly sorry..."


    The djinn turned to look at him, replacing his watch, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. "Of course not, seigneur. We make it a habit to be early."


    Mirk laughed, awkwardly. Though he tried not to stare too much, Mirk studied the djinn''s collar as best he could, comparing it with the ones that he''d seen on Am-Gulat. Er-Izat''s collar was heavier than the standard, but it was gleaming silver rather than black, intricately carved to match the embroidery on his coat. And the skin around it showed no sign of irritation. If the magic inside it was potent and biting, Er-Izat either rarely did anything to aggravate it, or had learned from experience that the consequences of struggling weren''t worth whatever reward might come of it. The thought was discomforting. "Oh, yes...right..."


    Er-Izat opened the door of the carriage, stepping aside with a deferential bow. Mirk ushered Kali and Catherine in first, then grabbed hold of the handle beside the carriage''s door and hauled himself up, sitting down on the bench across from them inside the cramped space. Kali had unclipped her sword from the belt around her waist and held it across her lap, fiddling with it. She seemed wary, though Mirk couldn''t sense why. "Is everything alright, Kali?" he asked her, mirroring her pose, albeit with his grandfather¡¯s staff rather than a sword in its scabbard.


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    "Fine."


    "I''ve never been in a teleporting carriage," Catherine commented, looking around with interest. The interior wasn''t richly appointed, but it wasn''t plain either ¡ª the windows had velvet curtains hung beside them that could be drawn for extra privacy, and the seats were covered in black leather rather than being bare wood. "It''s interesting. If I try, I can feel the magical potential..."


    Mirk shrugged. "I''ve never been in one either. But...um. Methinks it''s not going to be good."


    "What do you mean?" Kali asked, shoulders tensing.


    "Ah...well...teleportation spells tend to make me ill...and I haven''t been put through one in a while, especially one that''ll take us so far..."


    Catherine leaned forward on the bench. "Is there anything I can do?"


    Mirk shook his head. "I''ll manage. Though, maybe talking would help a bit. After the jump, though." The carriage had begun to move, with the crack of a whip from outside. Mirk gripped his staff tightly in his lap, closing his eyes and bracing himself.


    The carriage didn''t so much as shudder as the teleportation spell on it engaged. He doubted either Kali or Catherine noticed the jump, unless they were feeling for it. But it hit Mirk like a punch to the sternum, bile rising up in his throat, head instantly beginning to throb. He gagged and hunched over, trying his best to keep his breathing even through his nose as he waited for the worst of the nausea to subside. Once it did, he forced himself upright, blinking rapidly. His vision remained blurred for a few seconds, but eventually the two women across from him came into focus, Catherine concerned and Kali looking puzzled.


    "Are you all right?" Catherine asked.


    "Yes, fine...fine...it''ll be a little while until we make it to Mademoiselle Polignac''s, at least. Her chateaux are all very magical, you see, so there''s no teleporting to them directly."


    "Is she a member of this Circle we''re meeting?" Kali asked.


    Mirk shook his head, instantly regretting it. It made his vision swim again. "No...she''s a close friend of one of the members, though. The Circle started holding its private meetings at her residences because of something that happened a few hundred years ago...grand-p¨¨re told me about it once, methinks, but I''ve forgotten about it all. It''s not important, I suppose. She''s a m¨¦lusine and an expert in illusions. Which is why her chateaux are all very safe."


    Catherine leaned forward again, this time more intrigued than worried. "A m¨¦lusine?"


    "Euh...they''re from up north...a little like mermaids, I suppose? Only they have wings and two tails instead of just one. They used to be very common there, or so I''ve been told. But now there are only a few left."


    Kali frowned. "Who''d she get married off to?"


    "Oh, no one. She''s very independent. For as long as grand-p¨¨re knew her, she made her own way. It''s their way of life. And she has enough magic and money of her own not to need to marry, besides."


    "Lucky," Kali muttered.


    "Is she friends with the man whose carriage this is?" Catherine asked, ignoring her sister¡¯s aside.


    Mirk managed to catch himself before shaking his head that time. "It''s the Circle''s, not any one person''s. But she''s really only good friends with the Marquise, though her and my grandfather were also closer than she was with the rest. Which only makes sense, really. The Marquise is a water mage, and grand-p¨¨re was always fond of interesting people."


    Kali sighed. "This is getting confusing. Start at the beginning instead of jumping around. Who are these people, and what do they do? Margaret didn''t tell us anything other than to be on our best behavior," she added, voice heavy with sarcasm. Catherine frowned at Kali''s use of their mother''s given name rather than using a more affectionate term, but didn''t comment. Mirk imagined that over two decades spent dealing with Kali''s intransigence had taught Catherine to pick her battles.


    Drawing in a deep breath, Mirk made himself sit up a little straighter. His head and his stomach protested, so he closed his eyes again as he began to explain, in the hopes that it might help him feel better more quickly. "The Circle started as a council that managed relations between the mortal nobility and the magical ones. But it''s gotten less formal since then. Now it''s mostly a way for all the guilds to coordinate with one another and smooth out their differences, though it''s still involved with the mortals too. It has six members, one mage of each element. The head has been Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont since grand-p¨¨re was invited to join. Seigneur d''Aumont is the Grand Master of the light mages'' guild and a close friend to many generations of royal advisors. That''s how he met my grandfather and asked him to join. Grand-p¨¨re was very involved with the mortals."


    "Somehow that doesn''t surprise me," Kali said.


    "Hmm?"


    "If he was anything like you, it makes sense. A lack of pretension and all."


    "Ah, well," Mirk shrugged, laughing weakly. "I suppose that does run in the family. Anyway. Seigneur d''Aumont is the head. The second oldest member would be the Comte de Coudrey, he''s the Grand Master of the French Guild of Teleporters and sits on the council of the air mages'' guild as well. They''re both very serious, though the Comte doesn''t have much to do with the mortals. Then there''s Marquise Bachelot, she''s the one who''s close with Mademoiselle Polignac. A water mage, though she''s not very close to either of the water guilds. She''s from an old merchant family in Lyon. They''ve handled trade between the European mages and the foreign mages around the Mediterranean for ages.


    ¡°The other two members are much younger. There''s Seigneur Feulaine, who''s a close friend of my family. He was just chosen to be the Grand Master of the fire mages guild. Very friendly and easy to get along with. And then there''s Seigneur Rouzet. He was a bit...euh...controversial? His father was the Grand Master of the dark mages guild and sat on the Circle of Friends as their representative for a long time. He and Seigneur d''Aumont had a bit of a falling out before Seigneur Rouzet''s father passed thirty or so years ago. Which was why he ordered their guild not to send a new representative to the Circle until his son came of age and could take his place. He wanted that to be his memory. And there''s the rumors that the Rouzets practice necromancy beside all of that. They have close ties to the demonic houses too, which doesn''t sit well with most everyone else."


    The roiling in his stomach had calmed as he''d recited what little he knew of the inner workings of the Circle, gossip he''d gleaned from his mother and grandfather and his running correspondence with Madame Beaumont. Mirk blinked his eyes open, relieved that the interior of the carriage was no longer spinning, and that one of the two ladies had been considerate enough to draw the curtains. Catherine was watching him intently, deep in thought. Kali, on the other hand, was fiddling with her sword across her bouncing knees, impatient to arrive at their destination.


    "It all sounds very complicated," Catherine said, with an encouraging nod.


    "It is. Aside from Seigneur Feulaine, everyone else who sits on the Circle has been, euh, dealing with each other for decades and decades. And I''m sure you both know how noble mages never forget any arguments they''ve gotten into, even if it happened a long time ago."


    "Vividly," Kali said with a snort.


    Catherine ignored her. "Will we be expected to take part in anything? Are the manners mostly the same?"


    "Yes, for the most part. Methinks they won''t ask you much. I don''t mean either of you any offense, but you''re more, euh...curiosities than anything else. I''m not really sure why they''re having me sit in on a private meeting and not just having me take care of the Montignys and be sent home again." Mirk paused, looking down at the staff across his knees. Its wood was warm under his palms, though he wasn''t certain whether that was because he''d been gripping it tight to help struggle through his nausea, or if the magic inside it could sense his distress and was trying to comfort him, in its own way.


    "That''s a good point," Kali said. "We do know how the nobles work. Anyone under a hundred is just some idiot child to them. And what are you? Twenty?"


    "Twenty-five in February," Mirk replied.


    Catherine had shot her sister a cross look at her interjection. But she smiled as soon as she turned her attention back to Mirk and tried to soften Kali''s words a little with friendliness. Another way that she was different from her mother. As much as Kali and Margaret disagreed, they both were the sort of ladies who didn''t spare feelings for the sake of appearances. "Is that so? I''ll be twenty-five in March. Do the French mages have their debut at that age as well? Though I suppose it''s not quite the same for men..."


    "You''re right. It''s not as important for men either in France. But...well. I''m the head of my family, and most men don''t become that until they''re at least seventy or eighty. Which makes things even more different for me, I suppose."


    Catherine nodded, though she picked up on his troubled air, and chose her next words carefully. "A man so young being the head of his family is...ah, attractive."


    "But you don''t have a mother breathing down your neck, at least," Kali said.


    More than anything else, Mirk wished that his mother was beside him on the constantly rocking and jostling bench, rubbing his back and telling him idle bits of gossip and anecdotes about whoever they were going to visit to ease the discomfort he always felt when traveling by carriage. But he did his best to smile through the nausea he could still feel threatening to rise up in his stomach and not make an already tense situation even more troublesome by drawing attention to his private troubles. "Methinks that''s not why they want me to stay to speak with them after, though. It''s probably this," Mirk said, lifting the staff off his lap for a moment.


    "What about it?" Kali asked. "It''s a walking stick."


    "It''s very powerful," Catherine said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. "You really should pay more attention to things, Kali. If you did, maybe you wouldn''t get stabbed so often."


    Mirk cut in before the two could start to bicker, shrugging. "It''s all right. I make an effort to make it not look like anything special. It''s...well. If someone wanted to try to take it from me in the City, I''m sure most people could best me. And I''m not really sure how to use it well. Maybe that''s why they want me to look at the Montignys first. To see if I can use it at all."


    "Who are the Montignys?" Catherine asked. "That''s not one of the families on the Circle, from what you said."


    "They were on the Circle, until recently. Serge Montigny was the Grand Master of the fire mages guild before Seigneur Feulaine. But...ah...well, Serge and my grandfather got into a disagreement, and it caused everyone a lot of trouble. A mage from the Empire put a spell on the Montignys because of it. They want me to take it off."


    Catherine was sharp enough to hear what Mirk left unsaid, thankfully. She moved the conversation on to another subject before Kali could question Mirk further. He did his best to keep up with the conversation, answering questions and trying to lighten the mood. But it was hard for him to keep track of things, with his attention being pulled in what felt like a dozen directions at once, his worry over whether or not he''d be able to lift the spell on the Montignys warring with Madame Beaumont''s instructions to take careful note of every last hint of deception he could get out of Seigneur d''Aumont, all of it overlaid with the constant churning in his stomach due to the carriage''s incessant bouncing. When the carriage came to a halt, with the sound of stomping hooves and a barked command from the driver outside, Mirk was relieved enough at finally being still for the rest of it to not seem so awful, if only for a moment.


    Then he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel outside the carriage, and he was scrambling to compose himself, pressing the back of a hand to each of his cheeks in turn. He didn''t feel flushed; his nausea and headache had subsided enough that he could manage to draw himself upright and make a proper entrance. Mirk checked his hair one final time, smoothing his hand over half-curls that he hoped looked more artful than bedraggled, and forced a smile onto his face as the door to the carriage opened.


    Er-Izat was there again, bowing as he held the door aside. Mirk hopped out, as gracefully as he could considering how tall the carriage stood. It was much warmer on Mademoiselle Polignac''s estate than it had been in the City. The illusion spell that concealed her chateau''s location from nosy passers-by included alterations to the weather. She preferred to live in a perpetual early summer day rather than enduring the chill and rains of winter.


    The chateau itself, straight on ahead from where the carriage had drawn to a halt, was much more fantastical than the ones favored by the other noble mages. It had countless turrets, their tops clad in bronze, and rows of wide windows on every level, the stuff of a children''s storybook princess. Which made sense, considering the lady herself was something out of the fairy stories his mother had told him.


    Mirk looked back over his shoulder at Catherine and Kali. The sisters had disembarked after him, Catherine wide-eyed and delighted by the change in scenery, while Kali was ignoring it all in favor of sizing up the guards posted on either side of the chateau''s double doors. They were dressed in Mademoiselle Polignac''s white and gold livery, armed with swords made of either glass or crystal, obviously heavily enchanted. Kali grumbled to herself about the impracticality of it all as she clipped her sword back into place at her waist.


    Er-Izat bowed again after shutting the door, gesturing off down the brick pathway that led from the circle in front of the chateau up to its front entrance. "If you will follow me, seigneur, comrades?"


    "Yes, of course, monsieur. We''re very glad to be here."


    Just as he had the last time, Er-Izat looked slightly disarmed by Mirk''s use of the title on him. But he recovered fast, nodding and leading them up the path. Mirk studied the djinn''s back as he followed Er-Izat, searching for signs of discomfort, the lingering signs of old injuries. There were none. But, again, Mirk was struck by how different his build was compared to that of the other djinn he''d seen, broad and thick rather than lithe and graceful. He''d have to remember to ask Am-Hazek to tell him more about Er-Izat''s kinship line.


    When they reached the doors, the guards opened them and stood to the side, not giving any of them a second glance. Beyond the doors, Mademoiselle Polignac herself was waiting, wearing a voluminous and extravagant gown, its silk a light seafoam color that matched the inhuman hue of her eyes and that of her diaphanous wings, positioned so low on her back that they almost seemed like no more than an extra layer to her skirts. Mirk wasn¡¯t certain whether she moved on land by magic, her tails concealed by her heaps of petticoats, or if she was able to shapeshift into a more fully human form. She met them at the threshold, bobbing a curtsey before reaching out and taking Mirk by the hand. Though she was smiling, Mirk thought that her eyes had a worried cast to them. But he could feel no emotions from her when they touched skin to skin. Hers was as cold as Genesis¡¯s, though it was surprisingly rough rather than flawlessly smooth.


    "Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon," she said, her voice a soft, burbling near-whisper. "I''m glad to see you''re well. You look like Jean-Luc when he was younger...it''s like seeing a ghost, almost..."


    Mirk laughed to hide his embarrassment. He knew he was nothing like Jean-Luc, that he didn''t possess a shred of his grandfather''s self-assured and confident yet open air. But he still took the compliment with a smile and a half-bow. "I''m pleased to meet you as well, mademoiselle. You''re as lovely as the stories."


    Her smile took on a rueful cast. "Ah, but you''re polite. Jean-Luc never cared to flatter a lady. At least not until he met Enora. Please, walk with me, seigneur. There have been some changes you should know about."


    Mirk took her elbow and fell into step beside her, Er-Izat walking ahead of them through the light stonework foyer with high, arching ceilings and down the grand hall that followed it, Catherine and Kali trailing behind. Like the outside of her chateau, the interior was full of illusions, making the space appear grander and larger than it had to be underneath all the magic. Mirk would have liked to have stopped and studied it. But he was finally starting to feel an emotion from the m¨¦lusine, fainter than that of a human''s, and colored with a sort of polite distance that reminded him of the djinn.


    Mademoiselle Polignac was deeply worried.


    "What''s wrong, mademoiselle? Is it the Montignys?" Mirk asked, keeping his voice low.


    She nodded. "They''re worse now. Herbert asked that I keep them here with me, to make sure that no one took advantage of them. But someone has. There are more marks on their chests now. And they''ve all fallen asleep. Caught in their dreams. A specialty of mine, but I can''t reach them through the magic that''s on them." She paused, her lips pursing. "Herbert is not pleased by it."


    She didn''t have to explain any further for Mirk to catch the implication in the statement. Seigneur Herbert d''Aumont had never succeeded in negotiating with the Imperial angels for good reason: he was suspicious and domineering toward non-humans. Doubtlessly, the Grand Master suspected that Mademoiselle Polignac was behind the Montignys'' worsening condition. Mirk didn''t know what reason she could have for wanting to harm the Montignys. But considering how she''d been the one that Jean-Luc had entrusted his journal to, Mirk suspected that Seigneur d''Aumont assumed she was working against the Montignys just like his grandfather had, continuing whatever unknowable grudge had led to his family''s passing.


    Which made it even more imperative than before that he lift the bindings on the Montignys, lest the m¨¦lusine also be consumed by the intrigue that had swelled in the wake of his grandfather''s passing.


    Mirk squeezed Mademoiselle Polignac''s arm, projecting reassurance that was more aspirational than genuine along with the gesture. "It''s all right, mademoiselle. I...I''ve been told that the binding spell isn''t as bad as it seems. And I''m sure you had nothing to do with it. The angel that put it on them isn''t a pleasant man."


    She turned her sad smile on him, an iridescent sheen passing over her eyes for a moment in lieu of her blinking her more human set of eyelids. But she wasn''t looking at him, not exactly. She was looking at the staff in his other hand. "I do hope you''re right, seigneur. And that the lady favors you as much as she did Jean-Luc. Everyone is waiting for you in the solarium. We''ve been keeping the men there, to make sure they stay warm."


    Ahead of them, Er-Izat had paused before a set of French doors inlaid with a glass mosaic depicting a scene of a m¨¦lusine holding court in the middle of a pond, creatures of every possible description ringing the deep blue waters, fixed on her every word. A flicker of gold magic raced around the topmost edge of the djinn''s collar. Then he nodded and pulled the doors open. Mademoiselle Polignac released Mirk¡¯s arm and stepped away from him, head lowered, her silvery hair falling over her face and hiding her expression.


    "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon," Er-Izat said, bowing low beside the doors. "And his attendants."


    Mustering the dregs of his courage and drawing himself up to his full height, Mirk entered the solarium to confront the Circle and the men who''d been struck down in his family¡¯s name.

 Chapter 39

    Mirk didn''t know what he''d been expecting.


    The Montigny men had looked disheveled and stunned on the recording projected from Laurent''s memorial stone, but more or less themselves, from what little he remembered of them. His family had always run in different circles;  he didn''t know many of them personally. But his heart still ached for the men strapped to the line of cots at the far end of Mademoiselle Polignac''s solarium. A half dozen writhing and whimpering men dressed only in braies, their chests covered in blood-soaked bandages, their hair and beards shaggy from weeks of neglect. A far cry from the imposing, well-dressed men he''d caught glimpses of at the edges of countless noble balls.


    Not all of the members of the Circle were in attendance. Only Seigneurs d''Aumont and Feulaine and Rouzet, clustered together in the shade of an orange tree in a pot as big around as a cartwheel. The two men who had a personal investment in the affair, and Seigneur Rouzet, who seemed to naturally appear whenever there was trouble. Seigneur Feulaine offered Mirk a strained smile as he approached. Seigneur Rouzet''s grin was far less comforting, and focused largely on Catherine and Kali still following along behind him. Seigneur d''Aumont, on the other hand, was stone-faced. Mirk wasn''t sure if that was a good sign or not.


    "Seigneurs," Mirk said, bowing to them all, though he found it difficult to turn away from the Montigny men, even for a moment. "Thank you for inviting me."


    "We didn''t have any other choice, really," Seigneur Rouzet said, breaking the silence that followed Mirk¡¯s arrival. "Nasty business, this curse. No one in my guild could make any sense of it."


    A flicker of distaste crossed Seigneur Feulaine''s face at Rouzet''s words, but he soon refocused on Mirk. "Can you do anything for them? It''s...I never imagined something like this could happen..."


    Mirk nodded, drawing the sheet of mage parchment Genesis had given him that morning out of the breast pocket of his justacorps. "It isn''t a curse, not really. It''s a binding spell."


    Seigneur d''Aumont''s frown deepened. "A binding spell? What reason would the Empire have to bind them? And to whose will?"


    "Lord Imanael is...ah...peculiar. It''s a form of punishment among the angels. Not as bad as execution, but..."


    Mirk approached the cots the Montigny men were arrayed on, scanning the sheet of mage parchment. Genesis''s instructions didn''t make any more sense to him with the trembling men in front of him than they had back in the quarters he shared with the commander. He tried examining the men instead. Only once his attention had shifted fully to them did Mirk realize that their emotions were muted, dulled down to a faint, ebbing pain. "Is there a shield on them? Or a ward? They feel odd..."


    "A courtesy to the lady of the house," Seigneur Rouzet said, stepping up beside Mirk in front of the half dozen men. "She said their nightmares were crossing into her dreams. Do you need it banished?"


    Mirk nodded. "And I''ll need to see their wounds..." Rather than wait for one of the others to do it, or for Seigneur d''Aumont to give a pointed aside to Er-Izat, Mirk went to one of the men and began to carefully peel away the bandages that''d been wrapped around his chest. They must have called in a healer. The bandages were done up as well as if they''d been wrapped by one of the longest-serving infirmary nurses.


    It took Mirk a few minutes to uncover all the wounds. As he did so, he felt Seigneur Rouzet begin to pick apart his shielding spell ¡ª the men''s agony grew in a wave until it crested at a peak that left Mirk''s eyes watering. Not as severe as a rush of casualties, but he didn''t have the benefit of blockers or alcohol to take the edge off of things.


    The notes that had been sent to him from the Montignys'' private healer had described a singular wound in the center of each man''s chest, one rune cut deep enough to scar, but not severe enough to interfere with the working of the muscles of their chests. A wound that refused to heal, no matter what poultices were applied to it. Now there were seven wounds on each man¡¯s chest: the original rune, square over the heart, with six smaller runes arrayed around it, connected by bands of inflammation to make a six-pointed star. A sure sign of an angelic spell. The six point star was everywhere on things related to the Empire: on armor and shields, on the scrolls from the Emperor that Mirk had peeked at when his father wasn''t looking, in the spells that Sae Lei had tried and failed to teach him. Mirk consulted Genesis''s notes again, blinking his eyes a few times to counteract how they were still watering.


    He hardly needed to. Genesis favored print over proper handwriting, for a reason that Mirk didn''t quite understand. And his hand was precise, every line perfectly straight, every circle as balanced as if it''d been made with a compass. The whole of the spell, the entire process of unbinding, revolved around the center rune. Biting his lip, Mirk tucked the notes back into his pocket for the time being. If he took a harder look at them, if he listened to their pain, he might be able to find a way to modify the spell.


    He tried to approach the problem the same way he would an injured patient at the infirmary, studying the men with his eyes and magic, feeling his way through rather than trying to remember the details of the lessons the older healers had taught him. The men''s pain was mental more than it was physical. As Mademoiselle Polignac had said, they were trapped in their dreams, unable to either wake and recover or truly rest. That was what had worn their bodies down to the bone, what was making their muscles tense and causing them to shiver. They didn''t have fevers, and none of the cuts on their chests had become infected, despite their inability to heal. Their dreaming was draining their bodies dry.


    Curious, Mirk placed his hand on the forehead of the youngest-looking man, whose name Mirk had a feeling he must have known at some point. He was only a little older than himself, judging by the sparseness of his mustache. A cousin of Laurent''s, perhaps. Bracing himself against the pain, Mirk lowered his mental shielding just far enough to see if he could pick up on any of the young man¡¯s emotions.


    Guilt. Fear. Dread. And a few images. It was as if Mirk was wrist-deep in the man''s chest and fumbling for his soul rather than simply resting his hand on his forehead. He''d never been able to sense so much from such a great distance, never clear images, only vague impressions.


    In his mind''s eye, Mirk saw a woman weeping. Or a girl, really ¡ª she was dressed in the clothes of a common mortal, her dress rough-spun and green, her white bonnet hiding the parts of her face her long, straight black hair didn''t cover. Then there was a flash, and all Mirk could see was the face of an older man, bearded and grim, his eyes flickering with his reddish magic. Though he could still hear the girl¡¯s crying.


    If you''re old enough to make a man''s mistakes, you¡¯re old enough to do a man''s work.


    There was the sound of metal on leather. The feeling of something wet and hot on his hands. The crying stopped. And then came a surge of heartache, of loss, of shame...


    Mirk drew his hand back and pressed it to his own heaving chest as he gasped for breath, hauling his shields back up. Steeling himself, Mirk looked down the row of cots. The bearded man was there too, shaking away on the second cot from the end.


    Cautiously, Mirk went to the bearded man and set his hand on his forehead, lowering his shields once more. He saw flames, heard the screaming of horses. And a familiar voice laughing, each gale of it colored by a high, warbling hysteria that was all too familiar. It was the same laugh he¡¯d heard as he¡¯d run from the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re. Shaking his head and trying to compose himself some, Mirk stepped back from the Montigny men.


    "I...I understand now. I think."


    "Considering how many notes you''ve taken, I''d have thought you already understood a great deal," Seigneur Rouzet quipped, with a low chuckle.


    Seigneur d''Aumont cleared his throat. "Can you help them?"


    Again, Mirk drew out the parchment Genesis had given him, turning his staff in his free hand. It made sense with what little he''d learned of Imanael from Samael, and from seeing the cruel way that the bindings on Genesis changed him into what he hated the most, stripping away the control he worked so diligently to cultivate, robbing him of the lodestar of his odd, ancient K''maneda morals. "I''ll do my best, seigneur. Though they''ll all need the mind healers if they do wake up. I¡¯m not good enough with mind magic to help them through this."


    "I promise, the guild will give them the best," Seigneur Feulaine said, his voice low and full of emotion. Mirk felt for him. Although he couldn''t feel anything from the other two Grand Masters, who had come prepared for their meeting with the best shields against empathy that a non-mind mage could craft or buy, Seigneur Feulaine''s distraught at the sight of the struggling men was plain to be felt, a soft and keening counterpoint to the constant low thrum of their pain.


    After skimming through Genesis''s notes one last time, Mirk raised his grandfather¡¯s staff and began.


    He followed the spell as Genesis had written it, at least at first. Maybe the commander had foreseen the change that had taken place and had accounted for it. By the time he was midway through all the gestures and nonsense Latin, Mirk knew that wasn''t the case. The central rune on each man''s chest had begun to glow with the golden green color of his own magic, the ends of each cut slowly growing less raw and inflamed. But the rest weren''t impacted by the spell at all. Nevertheless, Mirk slogged through to the end, his mind half on getting the words right and half on what else he could do.


    The staff was warming against his skin, more and more with every sweep he made with it over the Montignys'' twitching bodies. Once Mirk gave the last command written on the parchment, he released it, letting it fall to the floor and instead taking the staff in both hands. The central rune on each man''s chest was glowing brightly, but another magic was struggling against it. Six lines of pure, white light that passed over the central rune like a net, keeping it from being lifted. The magic had the same cold sheen as the white magic Genesis had gone to such lengths to try to shove off of himself, until the effort of fighting against it had driven him near to madness.


    Mirk shuffled down the row of cots until he was standing over the young man whose dreams he''d intruded on. Biting his lip, Mirk held the staff out over his heaving chest, then closed his eyes and fully lowered his shields.


    The Montignys'' emotions were an invisible maelstrom around him, a vortex that his shields and his preoccupation with Genesis''s notes had kept him from being pulled down into. But in his mind''s eye, they were the color of bruises, dark purples and blues and greens, obscuring the glow of his grandfather''s staff in his hands. If he listened closely, Mirk could hear snatches of phantom conversations ¡ª sharp commands to know his place, pleas to stop that fell on deaf ears, whispered threats. He focused harder, trying to hear the staff through the chaos.


    The staff was always quiet, oddly distant despite it allowing him to draw on its strength, from time to time. He tried speaking to it as he listened, in a desperate attempt to wake it, his hands going tight around it.


    They don''t deserve this. Reliving it, again and again.


    Though he could only catch the barest glimpses of their nightmares, fragmented voices and images, Mirk knew the men had done terrible things. The young man beneath his staff included, whose own worst memory was close to the dark inverse of his own. Their own judgment, Mirk felt, had to be worse than any that could be levied upon them. And even if the men were unrepentant before for what they''d done, then surely they had to feel the drive now, after being caught in the nightmares of their past for days. Or maybe they wouldn¡¯t; maybe he was too naive. Either way, it didn¡¯t feel right not to give them the chance to start again.


    It wasn''t Imanael''s place to judge them. No matter what Serge did to Aena. And Kae. And maman. And grand-p¨¨re¡­


    He shook his head, hard. Now wasn¡¯t the time to think of it, to feel sorry for himself for what had happened. That was what had brought all of it crashing down on them, generation after generation, each one seeking revenge in the wrong way for a wrong that never should have been done in the first place. Mirk refocused on the feel of the wood under his palms, warm and unyielding.


    Please, help me. Help me make it stop. Can you hear me?


    Still, Mirk heard nothing from the staff.


    He scrunched his eyes shut even tighter. Then he moved on instinct, on impulse. He dropped to his knees at the head of the young man''s bed, the staff resting along the length of his shoulders. Mirk felt better, more certain of things, down on his level and closer to the earth. Even beyond all the men''s tortured memories and the faint, crystalline ring of Imanael''s magic, he could still hear the stone beneath all of it, a gravelly, murmuring voice. Indifferent to the chaos above, fainter than usual because of all the illusions coating Madame Polignac''s home, but always there. Mirk focused on it, his hands tightening on the staff once more.


    Give me strength. Give me the strength to forgive them. It''s not my place to say what they deserve.


    The voice of the earth grew louder. A grumbling, rumbling digression, like an old dog that''d been warming itself beside a fire, stirred to its feet by a loyal impulse that never faded, despite the aching in its bones. And in it, very faintly, Mirk heard another voice, high and fair and ringing, speaking too softly for Mirk to understand it. He reached down further into the earth, ignoring the tears he could feel streaming down his face as he was buffeted by the Montigny men¡¯s emotions, gritting his teeth.


    They aren''t dead yet. It''s not our place to judge. None of ours. Please, take what you need from me.


    There was a sound like a laugh, half-delighted and half-scornful. Mirk barely heard it. Warmth surged up in him, like an inverse bolt of lightning, lancing out of the ground and into his chest. Then everything went black and silent.


    Mirk couldn''t be completely sure what happened. But the next thing he was aware of was Seigneur Feulaine shaking him by the shoulders and yelling for someone to go find the healers.


    Shaking himself awake, Mirk blinked his eyes open. Everything had changed. Most importantly, the Montigny men had stopped aching, leaving space enough in Mirk''s mind to think again. The sunlight that''d filled the room previously seemed dimmer, greener, though his vision was too blurry for him to make out why. As Mirk rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, he became aware of a solid, constant thwacking and grunting going on behind him.


    He was still on his knees on the floor at the head of the youngest man''s cot. Not through any choice of his own ¡ª doubtlessly, he should have collapsed onto his side, considering how weak he felt. But the lower half of his body was, for some reason, tangled in vines.


    That was why the light in the room was so different. It was as if twenty years had passed, and all of Mademoiselle Polignac''s plants had been left to do whatever they wanted for the duration. Ornamental trees had surged upward and sprouted branches so thick they blocked out most of the sun, along with enough roots to burst their pots and make the floor nothing but a shattered ruin of broken tiles as the trees searched for space to sprawl and earth to draw life from. The dainty pots of violets and orchids had become masses of flowers, all in full bloom. The orange tree that the three Grand Masters had greeted Mirk from the shade of was heavy with fruit.


    "It''s...I''m all right, seigneur," Mirk croaked, finally having enough sense to try to put an end to Seigneur Feulaine''s panic. "Are they..."


    "Bravo!" Seigneur Rouzet cheered from beneath the orange tree that had tripled in size, giving a few sarcastic claps for emphasis. "You''ve freed the Montignys. Really, you shouldn''t be so concerned about Seigneur d''Avignon, Antoine. You have competition again in the Briquets."


    None of the Montigny men were awake. Rather, they were solidly asleep, for what was probably the first time in weeks. The weeping, raw wounds that had marred their chests had all closed, leaving behind scars as white as ones that''d been healed for months. Mirk sighed, drawing the staff back off the shoulders of the youngest man, looking down at it. As unremarkable and silent as ever. And yet...


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Get off, damn it!"


    Mirk looked over his shoulder. Kali had sprung to his defense, not against the other members of the Circle, but against Mademoiselle Polignac''s plants. For each vine or root she hacked away with her sword, it seemed like three more rose to take its place. Clearing his throat, Mirk waved to catch her attention, struggling to find the right English words. Doubtlessly, the opportunity to get into a fight had caught her attention before she could think to activate her translation charm. "It''s all right, Comrade Kali. They''re not hurting me. They''re just...euh...enthusiastic?"


    Kali whirled to face him, sword still drawn and streaked with sap. "What?"


    "It''s fine. Where''s Comrade Catherine?"


    "Went to go get the healers or something," Kali said, noticing the sap and trying to wipe it off on her skirts. All it did was tear them, when her sword stuck to the fabric and refused to budge any further. "Damn it!"


    "Is it all right, Mirk?" Seigneur Feulaine asked him in French. The Grand Master of the fire mages¡¯ guild looked bewildered by everything that had happened, unable to decide what to gape at first. But as Mirk gently untangled himself from the mass of vines that had curled around his lower half and braced the end of the staff on the floor for support, Seigneur Feulaine reflexively offered out a hand up, which Mirk gladly took.


    "Yes, I suppose it is. The Montignys are better, anyway. Although..." Mirk took a slow look around the room, taking in all the small details: the cracked windows, the shattered pots, the ruined floors. And Seigneur d''Aumont looking on in silence, frowning slightly, Er-Izat beside him.


    The djinn''s collar was flickering gold again, as his magic stirred restlessly within him. No doubt Seigneur d¡¯Aumont had called on his servant to defend him from any plants that might have gotten the wrong idea about who was an appropriate target. Mirk''s eyes were drawn to a spot on the side of Er-Izat''s collar that remained illuminated well after the light had faded from the rest of it. It was trapped in a symbol engraved deep in the metal. A cross, with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. Mirk forced himself to look away, back down into the face of the young man he was standing over.


    ¡°Although?¡± Seigneur Feulaine prompted.


    "...I''ll be needing to speak to the ghosts once everything is done here. I''ve ruined poor Mademoiselle Polignac''s solarium."


    -   -   -


    "I must thank you, Seigneur d''Avignon. This is the most fun I''ve had at a meeting of the Circle yet."


    From across Mademoiselle Polignac''s parlor, Seigneur d''Aumont shot Seigneur Rouzet a dark look. It had taken a good hour for the three of them to recover from what had happened in the solarium, Mirk waving off the trio of healers recruited by Catherine and Mademoiselle Polignac, reassuring them that the Montigny men needed them more than he did. The Montignys were exhausted, weak, steadfastly unconscious, but their pulse and breathing were stable. One of the healers had made an attempt at lifting the scar off the eldest''s chest, to no avail. Mirk wasn''t surprised, considering the state of Genesis''s arms.


    Mirk hadn''t been prepared to do anything more after freeing the Montignys. He''d been hoping that the fiasco would put the other members of the Circle off him entirely. Although Seigneur Rouzet was highly amused by the whole affair, and Seigneur Feulaine was mostly relieved, it was clear to Mirk that Seigneur d''Aumont was skeptical of his usefulness, at best. Or perhaps all of his suspicious frowning was motivated by something else entirely. Mirk didn''t allow his mind to linger on it, lest he lose track of the conversation going on around him.


    "Are you well, seigneur?" the woman seated across from him asked, her arched eyebrows betraying her own skepticism, though her voice was warm and friendly. Marquise Bachelot, the Circle''s water mage. Not the head of a guild, but of a mercantile enterprise she''d inherited from her husband and revitalized after his passing. Her attendants, two burly men tanned so deeply that they almost looked like djinn, spoke to that. Mirk supposed they must have felt as out of sorts in that noble parlor as he did, albeit for a different reason.


    "Ah, yes, thank you, madame la marquise. A little tired, but I''ll be fine."


    Seigneur Rouzet, despite having already been scolded indirectly by Seigneur d''Aumont, wasn''t about to let things go. "A shame about your suit, though. The Nasiri twins, yes?"


    Mirk nodded. But before he could answer, Rouzet was carrying on.


    "You d''Avignons do have a taste for oddities, don''t you? Marrying with angels, mystic tailors, women for guards. Are these the infamous women warriors of the K''maneda that we''ve all heard so much about? I have to say, that was some fine swordsmanship, Mademoiselle...?"


    Seigneur Rouzet had turned in his chair and was eyeing up Kali. Her sister and Mademoiselle Polignac had done quick repairs on her torn dress, but the only thread they''d managed to scrounge up had been white. Kali had been in a mood ever since, though Mirk wasn''t sure which of a dozen things was keeping her ire high at the moment. He decided to cut in and answer for her, lest Rouzet start trying to goad her into drawing her blade again. "Comrade Kali, seigneur. And her sister, Comrade Catherine. They''re the daughters of two of the divisional commanders."


    Mirk gestured to each of them in turn; while Catherine performed a deep curtsey and bowed her head, Kali remained stock still, glaring down at Seigneur Rouzet. The dark mage wasn''t fazed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs as he studied Kali, drumming his fingers on his kneecap. When he spoke again, it was in flawless, though heavily accented English. "Remarkable. I''ve seen women carry swords now and then, but never with so much...intent. Comrade Kali, is it? Forgive me, but I''m not familiar with your terms of address."


    Kali managed a grudging nod. "Some women fight. Others are mages. Like Catherine."


    "Ah, yes, I see that...an interesting wand...and carried like a sword as well? My, you all really are a fierce lot..."


    Catherine dipped into another modest curtsy. "Thank you, seigneur. We''re honored to be here."


    Rouzet chuckled. "I certainly hope so! I''d hate to make a poor impression on you ladies. I quite like my head where it is."


    Seigneur d''Aumont cut in then, clearing his throat and shooting Seigneur Rouzet another disapproving look that the dark mage ignored in favor of continuing to attempt to stare down Kali. "Seigneur Rouzet is correct on that point. We were hoping that you could speak to us about some K''maneda matters, Seigneur d''Avignon," he said, turning his attention to Mirk.


    Mirk had to fight not to fidget with the staff across his knees, as the eyes of all the remaining members of the Circle and their attendants, Seigneur Rouzet excepted, turned back on him. "Ah...yes? I''m at your service, of course, seigneur."


    The Comte de Coudray chose to finally speak then, making a show of noisily clearing his throat. One of his two attendants ¡ª both older men in heavy robes, light gray and stitched with enchantments in silver thread ¡ª produced a handkerchief for him, should he need it. "The whole country is overrun with brigands. It''s impossible to get anything done. The light of the Sun King is only bright enough to scare off the mortals, apparently."


    The Comte was cut from the same formal, reserved cloth as Seigneur d''Aumont, though the Comte''s mannerisms pressed the image past propriety and into something close to parody. His wig was nearly as grand and voluminous as his godmother''s hats, but the Comte didn''t have bold enough features to balance its weight. On the whole, the wig looked as if it was wearing the Comte rather than it being the other way around.


    "Ah...is that so, monsieur le comte? I''m afraid I haven''t kept up well with the situation here..."


    "He does have a point," the Marquise said, smoothing some minor imperfection out of her wide, cerulean skirts. "I''ve lost seven ships this year. The Artificers Guild is threatening to go to the Low Countries for supplies. Though, really, they''re not much better off."


    Seigneur Rouzet saw a new wound to poke at in her words, his gaze finally shifting from Kali back to the members of the Circle. "And would that be such a terrible thing, madame la marquise? It isn''t as if the Dutch are barbarians pounding at the gates, whatever the mortals think of them aside."


    "That isn''t the point, seigneur" the Marquise countered smoothly, turning Seigneur Rouzet¡¯s title into a barb just like he had hers, though she didn¡¯t bother to look at him. "The point is, Black Banner is falling short. And the guild guards aren''t manned well enough to pick up the slack. We''ve been discussing hiring from abroad."


    "It isn''t the fault of the guilds themselves," Seigneur Feulaine said. Though he could tell Seigneur Feulaine was trying to keep up his usual cheerful, friendly attitude, more for Mirk¡¯s benefit than to put on a brave face for the other members of the Circle, his worry was constantly overwhelming him. First it had been the matter of the Montignys, now it was something else. Something different, but just as dire, if Mirk was reading his expression right. "I''ve been spending a lot of time reviewing the Briquets¡¯ ledgers since being elected as Grand Master. We''ve been losing at least fifty strong mages a year to war, at least in my guild."


    The Comte nodded, his wig coming perilously close to sliding off his head. "Your predecessor was at the forefront of defending the honor of French magecraft. We''ve never been very combative in the Quatrevents, since the weather isn''t a thing easily confined to one territory..."


    "In short," Seigneur d''Aumont said, as the Comte fell into a coughing fit, making use of the handkerchief he''d been handed by his attendant, "the current state of affairs is untenable."


    "Just because the mortals decide to go to war every decade doesn''t mean the mages need to follow suit," Seigneur Feulaine agreed.


    "It''s bad business," the Marquise added.


    "Depends on what your business is," Seigneur Rouzet joked, though he nodded along.


    Mirk was at a loss. But he had to say something, had to do something more than just smile at them and wish he could sink into the floor. "Ah...yes. War is never kind. I''ve...seen that. Working with the K''maneda healers. But what can I do to help? If you''d like to present a united front, perhaps you should speak to the Duc de Saint-Simon, if he''s still Grand Master of the Briseurs..."


    "A patriot to the very end, the Duc de Saint-Simon," Seigneur Rouzet said. "Impossible."


    Though it could have been a trick of the light, Mirk thought he saw Seigneur d''Aumont''s eyes narrow. "The K''maneda has become...very formidable under the guidance of its most recent leader. And connected to English magecraft, in some ways."


    But he didn''t have time to consider Seigneur d''Aumont''s words for long, as the Marquise was quick on his heels. "Yes. My associates in England have been doing quite well with the K''maneda looking after their ships. They haven''t lost a single one in five years."


    "And not for a lack of effort on the barbarians'' part," the Comte interjected, after stifling another cough.


    "Have you made any friends among the English yet?" Seigneur Feulaine prompted.


    "Ah...well. I''ve been occupied...but..."


    "I''m certain a man with your potential wouldn''t have any issues," Seigneur Rouzet said, eyeing the staff across Mirk''s knees. "Such a curious thing, that staff...that aside, a man who''s the head of his own family at such a young age is something to be envied. Not only for his ledgers." His eyes drifted back toward Kali lurking behind Mirk¡¯s chair.


    "I''ll see what I can do, of course," Mirk said, hoping to draw Seigneur Rouzet¡¯s attention back. "But I can''t make any promises."


    "And the K''maneda," the Marquise said, locking eyes with him across the parlor once more. "As I said, I''ve been very dissatisfied with Black Banner as of late."


    "An arm of the King, incompetent rabble," the Comte said, dismissively.


    "Of course, they have their excuses," the Marquise continued. "Bad weather, overladen boats, strange magic from foreign mages. Perhaps there''s some truth to all of it, but I''d still be very interested in an alternative."


    Mirk nodded. Protecting a noble''s wares wasn''t the sort of work that Genesis would favor, he knew. But perhaps he could connect the Marquise to another division, or K''aekniv and the other Easterners could convince Genesis that not every contract needed to be part of some existential struggle for liberation. It would certainly be safer riding boats across the Mediterranean than getting involved in wars on other realms, which truly said something about how grim the majority of the K¡¯maneda¡¯s contracts were. Provided Ravensdale allowed the Seventh to take on a contract that offered them halfway decent pay without making them endure the worst of the fighting.


    Ravensdale. The thought of him drew Mirk''s eyes back to Seigneur d''Aumont, and to Er-Izat, standing motionlessly behind him with his hands clasped behind his back. Seigneur d''Aumont''s other attendant was a high-ranking guild mage, politely disinterested in the current proceedings, but Er-Izat was at full attention. Mirk was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him, but Seigneur d''Aumont''s expression seemed to darken every time the K''maneda was mentioned. It was less the lord''s own face that gave him away than it was Er-Izat''s. The djinn''s focus shifted to Seigneur d''Aumont whenever someone spoke the K''maneda''s name, as if anticipating some unspoken request from the lord.


    "I can''t promise you anything from the K¡¯maneda either, madame la marquise," Mirk said, slowly, once it became clear that he wasn''t going to be spared having to reply by another one of Seigneur Rouzet''s asides. "I''m only a healer, after all. But I''d be happy to speak to whoever I can."


    She nodded, grudgingly satisfied. But one of her two attendants spoke up in her stead. "What mages do the K¡¯maneda have? All dark, like them?" he asked, nodding at Kali and Catherine behind Mirk''s chair.


    "Oh, no. There''s all kinds. They...well, they seem to accept anyone who''s willing to fight, no matter their element."


    "It''s mostly fire and water mages who''ve been giving us trouble," the Marquise''s other attendant said. "And the usual monsters."


    Mirk nodded. "They''re used to that sort of thing as well, from what I''ve seen. Since they work off-realm so much. But, as I said, I don''t know very many of the specifics."


    "Anyone would do a better job of handling them than Black Banner," the Marquise muttered under her breath, seeming to grow more annoyed the longer the conversation lingered on her business troubles. It had to be worse than she''d described aloud to the rest of the Circle, Mirk thought. He didn''t think a lady of her standing would be so easily agitated otherwise.


    "In the meantime, you know House Hyacinth is always willing to help, Delphine," Seigneur Rouzet said. "I know you''ve taken on help from House Rose in the past, but I''m aware that things are...difficult with them, at the moment," he added, glancing Mirk''s way. Though his continual, smirking sort of grin didn''t waver.


    Mirk made a conscious effort to keep his own pleasant smile fixed on his face, electing not to step into the conversation. But Seigneur Rouzet pressed the issue, turning in his chair again so that he was facing Mirk directly. "I''d like to offer you my sincerest apologies, Seigneur d''Avignon. Both on my behalf, and on behalf of House Rose, since I''m sure Seigneur Feulaine has already extended condolences on behalf of his guild. With so many different kinds of demons and factions in the House, they''ve been having a terrible time keeping everyone on the same page. But I''ve been assured that those connected to Serge have been cast out."


    It was a total, bald-faced lie. Mirk didn''t have to know anything specific about the demonic houses to know that. And he suspected the other nobles gathered in the parlor knew that as well, especially considering the pained expression that had come onto Seigneur Feulaine''s face. But none of the other members of the Circle chose to step in, and Mirk knew he had nothing to gain by protesting.


    Who was he but the unfortunate remnant of a once noble family, only relevant now because he could further the other members'' ambitions by knowing the right people? Who was he to spit on their charity by protesting the lie? Mirk nodded, hoping his smile was still holding up well enough to come across as genuine. "Thank you, seigneur. It will take time to recover, but God doesn''t give us any burden too heavy to bear."


    "A full investigation will be made of the other Montignys once they''ve recovered," Seigneur d''Aumont said. "Though the Empire saw to it in their own way, I promise we will undertake our own measures to ensure that such a thing doesn''t happen in the future to another family."


    "Despicable behavior. Befitting only savages," the Comte added, dabbing at his nose. Though it wasn''t clear to Mirk whether the Comte was referring to the Montignys or the angels.


    Seigneur Feulaine leaned forward in his chair, looking like he wished he could reach across the gap between them and take Mirk''s hands. He was the only lord who seemed genuine in his condolences ¡ª the rest, Mirk assumed, were less concerned with him, and more with maintaining order among the nobles, to ensure that the fate that''d befallen Mirk''s family wouldn''t come for their own. "You have nothing to fear from them ever again, Mirk. And my son-in-law wishes to send his condolences as well. He was...upset by what happened to Serge and the others, but he''s come to understand that it was all out of your hands."


    Thinking of Laurent, of his impotent and unending rage, and of the Montigny men writhing under the spell Imanael had put on them, only made Mirk feel worse. But he made himself keep smiling, made himself nod as agreeably as if they''d been discussing how pleasant the weather was outside Mademoiselle Polignac''s parlor windows. "Of course, seigneur. I trust you completely."


    "Perhaps it would be proper for House Rose to send their own emissaries to the next meeting Seigneur d''Avignon attends to offer their formal apologies," Seigneur d''Aumont said. He was ignoring Mirk at the moment, instead eyeing Seigneur Rouzet and his two attendants ¡ª not fully human, if Mirk''s time working at the infirmary had taught him anything about demonic physiology ¡ª with a disapproving frown.


    Seigneur Rouzet made a helpless gesture with his hands, returning Seigneur d''Aumont''s disdain with a sort of contriteness that Mirk could tell was completely manufactured, though he couldn''t feel a trace of the dark mage''s genuine emotions. It seemed to convince the others, though. Or they simply didn''t feel inclined toward getting into a dispute with Rouzet at the moment. "Of course, Herbert. They''d very much like to. Unfortunately, they may still be in mourning then. I''m unfamiliar with their particular customs, but that was the reason they gave when they said no one could come this month."


    "Mourning?" Seigneur d''Aumont asked. Both he and the Comte seemed to doubt the notion of demons having any customs related to mourning.


    "Yes. I''m afraid Lady Karin lost a child two months ago. A boy. Days away from being born, I was told. The same would be painful for one of our own ladies too, of course, but apparently that business is considered a particular tragedy among her kind of demon."


    It was as if all the world stopped, the sound of the continued conversation among the members of the Circle fading away and  his vision blurring until Mirk was caught in an indistinct haze of fright. His blood pounded in his ears; his breath caught in his throat. Mirk hoped that his outer facade wasn''t collapsing as rapidly as his insides. He clenched his grandfather''s staff tight in his hands and focused hard on its distant warmth, the faint hum of its magic, in an attempt to compose himself.


    There was no hope in following the conversation any more. Thankfully, the Circle seemed finished with him and his potential connections, and with the nasty business of what had happened to his family. But the latter was all Mirk could think of.


    The longer he sat still, the more he thought he could hear drizzle hissing against the side of Madame Polignac''s chateau, despite the sun streaming through the windows. The more he thought he could feel claws pressing deep into his flesh.


    He needed to get back to the City and talk with Genesis.

 Chapter 40

    Part of Mirk hoped that Genesis had elected to run off again, that he''d chosen to ignore his pleas to stay still and rest for once and had gone back to relentlessly driving himself onward in search of a way out of the terrible circumstances he and the rest of the Seventh had found themselves in. But it was hard to think, even of something as pressing and constant as that, with the emotions consuming him. It was always worse when his own feelings overwhelmed him. Mirk felt so dizzy, so nauseous from the roiling mixture of dread and humiliation and anger boiling in his gut that he needed to lean hard on his grandfather''s staff all the way back to the low-born officers dormitory.


    He almost fell flat on his face three times struggling up the steps. The only thing that saved him was the pot he had clutched to his chest with his free arm ¡ª he didn''t have enough space left in his head to think of exactly how the violets were helping him stay upright, but he was grateful nevertheless. If he''d gone down, Mirk had the feeling he would have stayed that way, until one of the Supply Corps women stumbled over his body while going about her mopping and sent for a healer.


    The door to the rooms he shared with Genesis came open at his touch, sparing him the trouble of having to search for his key and argue with the lock. Genesis hadn''t disappeared. He wasn''t quite where he''d left him ¡ª he''d hauled himself out to his sullen armchair in the common room ¡ª but he was still mulling over the same book, with the same critical frown on his face, like the grimoire had personally offended him. Mirk stumbled in and slammed the door, the pot of violets tumbling from his hold but not breaking, lurching over to Genesis''s chair. The commander glanced over at him: doubtlessly, he''d been intending to say something about not leaving his shoes on the mat, but he must have looked so distraught that even a man as blind to the nuances of smiles and scowls as Genesis knew that''d be a step too far. "Mirk. You appear...unwell."


    Mirk swallowed, tried to speak, then swallowed again. It was as if he could feel burning fingers closing around his throat, cutting off his air, silencing his voice. "You never told me about Karin."


    Slowly, Genesis closed his book, looking away from Mirk. "...no. I did not."


    "Did you?"


    "Did...I?"


    Something inside Mirk snapped. For a second, his vision went white, and he heard a distant, half-grinding, half-cracking noise. "Did you kill him?"


    Genesis replied without hesitation. "No. I had nothing to do with it. And it would not be...my decision to make, even if it had come to that."


    Mirk blinked a few times, hard. Genesis was watching him closely, though his focus was on his hands rather than his face. "You swear?"


    "I would not lie about that. To you."


    Mirk searched his features, calling on everything he knew to read them, all the minute variations in Genesis''s strange expressions that he''d brooded over and lingered on countless times in better circumstances. There was no lie there, not even any discomfort or awkwardness that might have indicated some kind of half-truth. There was only a distant weariness, and perhaps something approaching an academic sort of concern.


    All the nervous energy flowed out of Mirk in a rush and he slumped down, supporting himself heavily on his grandfather''s staff, trying to catch his breath and compose himself. Genesis stiffly withdrew one leg from the ottoman, leaving only the one that''d been sliced open to the bone last night propped up. Genesis gestured to the space left behind. "You would be...well advised to sit."


    He staggered over and collapsed down onto it, sitting face to face with Genesis. Only once he was off his feet did Mirk realize how badly he was shaking. He took a few more deep breaths in an attempt to quiet his nerves. It didn''t help any. "Why didn''t you tell me about it?" Mirk asked Genesis.


    "I was told by Emir that you were in no condition to hear it. Initially. And I thought learning of it afterwards would only lead to...further trouble."


    "Were you ever going to tell me?"


    Genesis thought for a long time, deeply, no longer looking at him. "If the child lived, yes. Perhaps not immediately, but soon enough to attempt to prevent the...damage being reared in that environment could cause."


    "I don''t even know what I would have done. It''s just...I thought..."


    "It would have been...complex. Doubtlessly, she would have kept the child on the demonic realm. As...neither you nor I can enter it. Nevertheless. There is little point in conjecture. It¡¯s over."


    "I had a son," Mirk said, voice barely rising above a whisper.


    "To be precise, the odds are more around five si..." Genesis trailed off, catching some hint in his expression that must have made it clear, even to him, that now wasn''t the time for precision and technicalities. Instead, Genesis leaned forward and extended a hand out to Mirk, placing it on his shoulder.


    Impulsively, Mirk reached up and grasped it in both of his own, letting the staff clatter to the floor. He drew Genesis''s hand down into his lap and clung to it. The static feel of Genesis''s chaotic magic still comforted him, somehow. As always. Mirk only became aware of the fact that he''d begun to cry once he''d held on to Genesis for a few minutes, long enough for the calming effect that the commander''s magic had on him to take the edge off his own emotions. "I''m sorry, messire," Mirk said. "This all must be very strange to you."


    Genesis sighed. "I have been told that these things are...important. To most people."


    "It...well. It just took me by surprise, that''s all. That''s what she said she wanted, but I..." Mirk shook his head, hard, refusing to let himself think back to that night, to let the hiss of drizzle on stone replace the comforting static of Genesis''s magic ghosting around his shields. "I suppose it doesn''t matter now, does it? Why or why not..."


    Silence fell between them. But after a long pause, Genesis spoke again. Not to offer comfort, but to tackle the question Mirk had decided would be better left unexamined. "I...do wonder about this. I have been studying Jean-Luc''s journal. I believe there may be some explanation there. Not one that is sufficient to explain every aspect, but..." Genesis sighed, his tone taking on a hint of frustration. "It is like searching an...archive with no guide. His observations make no sense to me. Why they are arranged...forward and backwards in time, always...I cannot work on it for as long as is necessary. It gives me..." Genesis trailed off, struggling to put into words what it was about Jean-Luc''s narrative that made it impossible for him to apply himself to the translation the way he wanted to, in the same way he could tear through arcane grimoires written in maddening tongues at lighting speed. Instead, he was stuck laboring for hours over a single page of Jean-Luc''s memories.


    Mirk didn''t need words. He''d watched Genesis struggle with it often enough by then, hissing curses under his breath and turning sheet after sheet of mage parchment to dust as he discarded his initial translations and tried for another. And, more importantly, Mirk had seen how much it pained Genesis that he couldn''t master the task with ease, and how uneasy that frustration made him. Genesis was hesitant to do anything that made his magic become unruly, that threatened to break his iron control over it. And over himself. Mirk didn''t know why, but he had enough material to speculate on, enough to know better than to push. He mustered up the ghost of a smile, squeezing Genesis''s hand. "It''s fine, messire. You''re doing the best you can. And I appreciate that. God only knows how little I''d be able to do on my own."


    Genesis''s expression only grew darker. "I assume one of these...nobles informed you of what had happened."


    He didn¡¯t feel up to the challenge of revisiting the finer details of that afternoon¡¯s meeting. But at the very least, it might help to take his mind off the more personal aspects of it. Mirk nodded as he replied. "Yes, Seigneur Rouzet. Methinks he didn''t know...anyway, he was playing with Seigneur d''Aumont then, not me. He just happens to be the only member of the Circle who knows anything about the demonic realm. But other than that, everything went well enough. They all are very interested in me. Well, not in me, but in who I know, if that makes any sense. They were eager to hear more about the K''maneda."


    "Are they?" Genesis didn''t seem enthused by this news.


    "You must know about Black Banner, non? Methinks that''s what the English call it..."


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The look of distaste on Genesis''s face at the mention of them rivaled that of the Marquise. "I am...aware of them."


    "Well, some of the other nobles aren''t very happy with the way they''ve been handling things. They''re looking for other options beside them and the guild guards."


    "The K''maneda is not...and will never be a tool of the nobility to...oppress their slaves. Mortal or otherwise."


    "That''s exactly what I thought you''d say..." Mirk shook his head, with a tired laugh. He let go of Genesis''s hand, just long enough to wipe away the tears that had rolled down to his chin before they could go even further afield. "But it''s not what you''re thinking. Not exactly, anyway. One of the members of the Circle runs ships across the Mediterranean. She''s looking for men to help guard them."


    Genesis didn''t like the idea of guarding noble provisions much more than he did that of guarding nobles themselves, judging by the depth of his frown. "We also do not exist to make money for the nobility. Money that they will...no doubt use to further their own interests. Against those of the poor."


    "Yes, yes, I know how you feel about it. But think of it from the other side. You''re always saying that the commanders won''t give the Seventh any contracts that pay well. But a commander can still take on their own contracts independent of the ones the Council hands out as long as it doesn''t go against anyone else''s, non?"


    "...technically."


    "Then maybe this will give you all a way to make more dependable money. And make your commander like you a little more. Besides, methinks handling a few pirates would be much less dangerous than the sort of contracts they''re always putting you and Niv and the rest on right now. You might even make new friends. Euh, Niv and the rest, I mean, not you," Mirk added, before Genesis could get the wrong idea.


    "It is not proper to subsist on...royalist blood money. It is antithetical to our cause."


    Mirk smiled, just a little. "Our cause? Or yours? Methinks raising enough money to get the Seventh a better place to live would be worth it. Their building is awful. It''s a wonder they''re not getting sick more often..."


    "...nevertheless."


    "Well. it¡¯s something to think about, messire," Mirk said. "There was more, though...they wanted to know more about the English mage nobility too. Do you happen to know any of them? I did have a nice talk the other day with Comrade Commander Margaret..."


    ¡°I know that they are as¡­worthless as the French.¡±


    Mirk supposed he shouldn¡¯t have been surprised by that response. He should have known better than to try to get into arguing with Genesis about the nobles when they were both in a mood. ¡°Well, anyways, they want to know more about them. Though I didn¡¯t learn much else about Seigneur d¡¯Aumont while I was there. I hope that¡¯s not disappointing for everyone. He did seem a little uncomfortable with the talk of the K¡¯maneda. And I saw something on Er-Izat¡¯s collar¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°The same symbol that Monsieur Am-Hazek saw on Monsieur Am-Gulat¡¯s was there as well. The cross with the rose.¡±


    Genesis debated this for a time, some of his disapproval fading as he sunk into his thoughts. ¡°It is insufficient to determine whether your godmother¡¯s suspicions are correct. They could have both simply¡­purchased them from the same individual. Who is not necessarily d¡¯Aumont.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try harder to find out more next time.¡± Mirk slumped even further at the thought of it, shaking his head. ¡°They want me to come back. They¡¯d never put me on the Circle formally, methinks, though most of them aren¡¯t fond of the Grand Master of the earth mages¡¯ guild, and the head of the healers is devoted to the Church, but, for right now¡­I suppose I know the right people. I¡¯m convenient.¡±


    ¡°I¡­see.¡±


    Mirk worried at his lip, trying and failing at not getting mired in thoughts of facing the other nobles again, with no support beyond his own wits and Seigneur Feulaine¡¯s tentative offers of encouragement. ¡°This is all getting to be a little too much for me. I really hadn¡¯t been planning on all of this. Honestly, I liked things much better when I was just a healer that no one thought twice about.¡±


    ¡°There is nothing preventing you from returning to that life. Your path forward is¡­your own.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t go back. It would be easier for me, but it wouldn¡¯t help anyone else. I have my family to think of. And everyone here. I know I¡¯m not very powerful, but I¡¯d like to think I could help the djinn and everyone in the Seventh a little. And you.¡±


    Judging by the slight crease between his eyebrows, Mirk¡¯s offer must have surprised Genesis. ¡°You are¡­under no obligation to me.¡±


    Again, Mirk did his best to smile, to reassure Genesis. ¡°It¡¯s not an obligation. I want to. Even if it is hard. Anyway, maybe we can talk about it another time, messire? I know it¡¯s only half six, but methinks it¡¯d be better if I went to bed early. I¡¯m not feeling terribly well. Do you mind?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need my permission to sleep. And you are the one¡­detaining me. As it were.¡±


    It was only then that Mirk realized that he was still clinging to Genesis¡¯s hand. He released it with a startled laugh, the heat instantly rising to his cheeks. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, messire. I just¡­I forgot¡­¡±


    The commander waved the hand he¡¯d just let go of dismissively, picking up his book again. ¡°It is of little importance.¡±


    "Still. I know you don''t like that sort of thing."


    Genesis spoke slowly from behind his book, as if he was choosing his words with even more care than he usually did, the pauses scattered among them drawn out to treble length. "You were...unwell. I am not incapable of...learning your...customs. If some manner of...touch...is the appropriate gesture to make in this...situation, then I believe it would be...unkind of me to refuse."


    His words were a small thing, in light of everything else that had happened, in comparison to the nightmare of managing the Montignys and the news of Karin''s child. But it buoyed Mirk''s mood nevertheless, filling him with a sudden relief that made it easier for him to regain his feet than he''d been anticipating. Genesis really did care for him, in his own, strange way. It was just a matter of learning to spot how he decided to show it. Though some small, dark voice in the back of Mirk''s mind muttered comments about him taking advantage of the commander''s goodwill, he did his best to ignore it. "Then I should leave you to your work. You do still need to rest, after all. Maybe it''s for the best that you decided to come out here instead of staying in bed..."


    "Perhaps...when you are improved...you could consider repairing the floor."


    Midway to picking up the staff, which had rolled off against the bookcases, Mirk paused. "Euh...what?"


    "The floor."


    Mirk snatched up the staff, then considered his shoes. He''d forgotten to take them off on the mat, true, but he didn''t think there was anything on them that could have marred Genesis''s perfect floors. Out of undue caution, Mirk lifted one and peeked at its underside. The trip through the City back and forth to the mage quarter and his time at Mademoiselle Polignac''s had done nothing to them. They were as pristine as they had been when they''d been delivered weeks ago by the runner from the cobbler the Nasiri twins favored. "I''m afraid I don''t understand, messire..."


    Without lifting his eyes from his reading, Genesis made a vague gesture at where Mirk had been standing before he''d collapsed onto the ottoman. Mirk drew closer once more to try to puzzle out what the commander was getting at. They weren''t easy to see in the dim lights Genesis favored, even once he¡¯d put up proper ones rather than forcing Mirk to depend on the singular blue-green magelight above the door to be able to navigate the room, but he was able to glimpse the edges of them when he tilted his head in just the right angle. A fine network of cracks in the floor, radiating out from the spot where he''d been standing when he''d asked Genesis about the dead child.


    He was at a loss for words. But he scraped some up anyway, as he scuffed at the cracks with the toe of his shoe. "It...I did that?"


    "Yes. Thus, you should be capable of repairing it."


    Mirk sighed, muttering to himself as he backtracked to the door to take off his shoes. "...that''s the second time today..."


    "The second?"


    "This time wasn''t as bad. I wrecked poor Mademoiselle Polignac''s sunroom with the last one. Well. Sort of. I had a little help, I suppose," Mirk said, picking up the pot of violets he''d dropped beside the door. In retrospect, it was odd that it hadn''t shattered when he''d dropped it. But it was just as whole as it had been when Madame Polignac had met him with it at her front door, pressing it into his hands with a murmured aside about the violets seeming to have taken a liking to him. He''d tried to refuse them, insisting that it was too much in light of all the damage he¡¯d caused, but she''d only smiled her quiet, enigmatic smile at him and continued to press them into his arms. With another cryptic aside about much preferring Mirk''s mode of gardening to her own.


    Genesis sighed. "Be more clear. If you will."


    "Your spell to help the Montignys was very good, it worked perfectly on that big rune the healers wrote about. But the spell...euh...grew? In between when they sent their notes and I saw them. I had to give it a little push to break the binding at the end. But I also broke Mademoiselle Polignac''s sunroom. Everything was fine when I started, but by the end...well. The plants got a little excited."


    At the mention of plants, Genesis cast a wary glance at the pot of violets in Mirk''s hands. "I don¡¯t favor indoor plants."


    "Mademoiselle Polignac insisted. And I couldn''t really say no, since I wrecked her garden, could I? I''ll try to find a place for it at the infirmary. Maybe up by Uncle Henri and the children? Methinks it wouldn''t do well here anyway, since there aren''t any windows..."


    As he spoke, Mirk studied the violets in the pot. They were still in full bloom, the blossoms thick and vibrant, almost glowing in comparison to the masses of fuzzy dark green leaves that spilled over the edges of the pot. He couldn''t keep himself from taking one of the leaves between his fingers and rubbing at it. They had a pleasant texture, better even than the finest quality velvet. It was the only sign that magic had touched the flowers ¡ª whereas the other plants in Mademoiselle Polignac''s solarium had doubled or tripled in size, the violets seemed content enough in their original pot. Though there was an odd feeling of restlessness about the plant that Mirk wasn''t accustomed to feeling in growing things, something closer to the stirring of a cat that couldn''t find just the right position to curl up in.


    "You would be well advised to work on your control," Genesis said, as he returned to his reading. "I doubt everyone will be as charitable as this...Polignac individual."


    "Yes, you''re right, of course. Well. Is there somewhere I should put them for now? Maybe in the bath...that cleans itself, sort of..."


    "No," Genesis replied, flatly. "Leave it on the table. I would prefer not to let it...get ideas alone in the dark."


    Mirk didn''t understand what Genesis meant by that. But he complied nevertheless, after hanging up his good cloak beside the door and making sure his shoes were square on the mat. Exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm him again, now that his emotions had settled and he was within the safety provided by Genesis''s chaotic aura. He didn''t feel good about any of it, not what he''d seen in the Montigny men''s nightmares, or what had happened at the Circle after, but at least it was over and done with. And Genesis hadn''t betrayed his trust, not like he''d feared.


    Fortunately, Mirk had anticipated that it was going to be a tiring day. He''d stolen a bottle of brandy from the infirmary in preparation, leaving it behind in his work bag, the one thing he was certain Genesis wouldn''t get it into his head to tidy in search of something productive to do while lying about their shared quarters. It wasn''t the best quality liquor, but it was better than most of the drink the infirmary kept on hand. After having a few measures, Mirk was certain he''d be able to stop worrying and get some rest. It was self-indulgent, the sort of thing that Genesis would frown over and make some terse comment about, but that wasn''t going to stop Mirk. Not that evening.


    He''d earned it.

 Chapter 41

    He should have used his bag. Instead, Mirk hurried along the main hallway of the infirmary''s fourth floor with the stack of books tucked tight under his chin, only one hand on the bottom of it, propping up the other half with his wrist due to the sack of coffee clenched in his other hand. Though he could hear the chatter of his cousins as he rounded the corner into his family''s room, Mirk couldn¡¯t see anything beside potential places to drop his burden. He dashed for the nearest unoccupied bed as he felt the stack of books begin to shift.


    "Uncle Henri! I brought you all more books!" he called out, making it to the bed just in time to dump the books all over it rather than all across the floor.


    Henri''s response was delayed; he sounded distracted. "Oh, Mirk! How thoughtful of you..."


    After attempting to put the books in some form of order, he turned toward the sound of Henri''s voice. Instead of being in bed, as usual, he was standing beside the window, the better to inspect a new breastplate that gleamed in the sunshine pouring through the cloudy glass. A breastplate currently worn by Kali, who was standing stiffly upright, trying to ignore both Henri prodding at some speck in the metal and the cluster of curious children who''d assembled on the nearest bed to watch their father work.


    Mirk stifled a laugh with the sleeve of his robes as he crossed the room to greet them all properly, in English that Kali could understand. "Hello, Kali! Is this your new armor?"


    "Supposedly," Kali muttered, refusing to look down at him. She was doing her best not to fidget, but Henri''s constant poking and mumbling seemed to put her ill-at-ease. That was typical of his uncle: when Henri was focused on his work, things like propriety completely escaped him.


    "It''s beautiful," Mirk said, drawing closer still to better admire his uncle''s craftsmanship. The breastplate was made of steel, buffed to a radiant sheen, with small, delicate brass ornaments welded onto it near its collar. Though most of the breastplates Mirk had ever seen were angular, bulky things, Kali''s was somehow more graceful, with allowances made so that it wouldn''t either constrict her hips or ride up and bite at her ribs, unlike her old cuirass. And it had a strange sort of fluidity to it, something more suited to a lady''s tastes, though Mirk had no doubt that the metal was as impenetrable as the rest of Henri''s work. Nor did he doubt that Kali wouldn''t care about the styling, as long as it kept her innards on the inside.


    Henri sounded pleased with himself, at least, though he didn''t look up from his work just yet. "I haven''t made much armor for women. It posed some interesting challenges...some structural issues, but I think I''ve magicked it well enough not to be a problem...really, the main challenge was getting the defensive spells to align with the mademoiselle''s magic...not many dark mages commission work from me...get it all from Rouzet''s fellows..."


    "You didn''t have to make it so fancy," Kali said. "I''m fighting in it, not going to a party."


    Finally straightening up, Henri took a few steps backward and admired the way his work glimmered in the sun, his hands on his hips. His uncle looked almost entirely recovered, Mirk thought, his cheeks rosy and his body filled out to its usual dimensions, although Henri had always been a bit on the thin and reedy side. "I''m afraid it''s a matter of professional pride, mademoiselle. Armor must, above all else, be useful, but armor that''s both useful and pleasing to the eye is the mark of true craftsmanship."


    Kali, for her part, at least only rolled her eyes a little. "...right..."


    "I''d like to thank you again, Mademoiselle Kali," Henri said, returning her skepticism with a warm smile. "You''ve helped a useless man feel a little more himself again."


    Ignoring the subtle compliment, Kali turned her sour expression back on Mirk. "I see where you get it from." She paused to toss her hair over one shoulder, doing a rather poor impression of his accent and what Mirk recognized as his own slouched posture, her head tilted innocently to one side. "Oh, madame, but I can do no-ting! I am onlee ze poor little ''ealer!" She straightened up, muttering to herself. "And then you go and do something insane, like ripping a whole sunroom to bits."


    Mirk continued to smile at her, shrugging, which seemed to only annoy her more. "Henri and I aren''t related by blood. You''re just not used to people who weren''t raised in the K''maneda, methinks."


    "Whatever," she grumbled, tugging at the bottom of the breastplate. It wasn''t necessary any more, but the gesture had been ingrained among Kali''s habits after years of dealing with her old, undersized cuirass. "I''ll be going. I''m sure you have business."


    Claire spoke up then, hopping off the edge of the bed she''d been perched on beside her sister I¨¨es to watch her father work, disturbing the play of her young cousins who''d been building a tower of blocks together at the end of it. "But Mademoiselle Kali! You promised you''d give me another lesson today!"


    Kali sighed. "I suppose I did."


    "I''ve been practicing hard all week," Claire continued, drawing the arming sword from the scabbard at her waist to prove her point. She hadn''t taken it off ever since Mirk had first been reunited with her back in Madame Beaumont''s guest bedroom. "Armel''s not very good, but it''s fun getting to beat him. Unless he cheats and teleports away."


    "I was going easy on you!" Armel shot back from across the room, where he was sprawled in his usual chair midway between the beds and the door.


    Henri reached out and put a restraining hand on Claire''s shoulder. "I''m so glad you''ve helped Claire too, mademoiselle. She''s been in much better spirits ever since you started visiting."


    "I didn''t have anything useful to do before," Claire agreed, looking up at her father with a bit of a pout. "I''ve always said, I don''t need to know more spells. Your swords can do it for me."


    "Has she been visiting you all often?" Mirk cut in to ask.


    "For the armor," Kali said, a defensive edge to her tone. "I guess magic armor needs more adjusting than mortal."


    Henri nodded agreeably. "We all know you must be very busy here with your work. You''ll be missed, of course, but it''s probably best that we all get back to our rightful places. You agree, Mirk, that we''re fit to travel again?"


    "Yes, of course. The long-term nurses say you''re all in good health now. There''s just the...euh..."


    "The vampires," Armel said from across the room. "And not that weird one that hangs around in the hall gossiping with the nurses."


    "Vampires?" Kali asked. "I thought Shelia was the only one here?"


    "Ah, right..." Henri sighed, running his hands back through his ruddy hair. It was getting rather long ¡ª Mirk needed to make an appointment for someone to come to the City and trim it before his uncle left, otherwise it''d doubtlessly be longer than K''aekniv''s or Genesis''s by the time he saw Henri again. "The ones Serge hired. They''re still set on getting rid of us, it seems, even though Serge has...well. I''ve been exchanging letters with my artificers back at the workshop, and they''ve sensed them checking in every night. They don''t seem to care about my mages, but I doubt they''ll show the same restraint when they see us there again."


    "I''ll need to hire on someone to make sure you''re safe. Methinks the guild guard won''t know what to do with them..." An idea came to Mirk as he watched Kali correct Claire''s grip on her sword, her passion for fighting momentarily overcoming her desire to stomp off. It wouldn''t earn him any favors with Kali, at least not at first, but Mirk liked it nevertheless.


    Kali was as good of a fighter as anyone else in the K''maneda, wasn''t she? Her and her ladies had an impressive track record, as far as Mirk could tell. Granted, the commanders were reluctant to hand any meaningful contracts over to a rogue band of women but, as much as Kali probably hated it, her cachet as the daughter of two divisional commanders opened doors for her. And though Kali would resent being hauled away from the City at first, Mirk thought it''d be good for both Kali and her mother Margaret to have some space. A letter created far less tension than someone coming into your room first thing in the morning with an army of maids to force you into trying on dresses for the upcoming season. Or watching someone knee the man you''d just pulled all the strings you had left to coax into coming over for tea in the stomach.


    That and he trusted Kali completely. Mirk didn''t know many others in the City yet he could say the same about, his fellow healers and the men of the Seventh aside. It was obvious to Mirk that his uncle and cousins felt the same. Henri smiled on benevolently as Kali argued against Claire''s stubborn insistence that her grip was just as good as the one Kali used, and even shy In¨¨s wasn''t hiding behind her hair, instead laughing at the way her two young cousins were play-arguing in a mirror of her sister and Kali. Armel wasn''t as stiff in his chair either, his guard duty forgotten in light of the show going on over by the window.


    Mirk cleared his throat to catch their attention. "Kali, would you like the job?"


    Kali recoiled in surprise. "Me? What do you want to hire me for? I''m not some kind of bodyguard. I go out, I find people who need beating, and I deal with them. That''s it."


    "It''s the same thing, really," Mirk replied, waving off her concern. "You''d just need to find all the House Rose vampires who are still following them and let them know that the situation has changed. It''d be easier than your usual work, methinks. They''ll all come right to you once they see that Uncle Henri has returned."


    Sensing that convincing Mirk to drop the subject was a lost cause, especially in light of the enraptured grin on Claire''s face, Kali turned to argue her case with Henri instead. "Surely a noble doesn''t want to have only a bunch of women standing between his family and death."


    Mirk was surprised that Kali would stoop so low as to undervalue her own skills in an attempt to wriggle out of it. But Henri was unfazed, simply shrugging and continuing to grin at her, albeit with less unabashed enthusiasm as Claire. "Not at all, mademoiselle. Your physique is as good as any of the men I''ve armored. And I have no doubt that you hold the rest of your ladies to the same standard."


    Claire''s excitement overcame her manners and she lunged forward, grabbing hold of Kali''s hand. "Please, Mademoiselle Kali? I want to keep learning! And you''re so much better than stuffy old Master Claudio!"


    Kali sighed, catching herself just before she could shake off Claire''s hand. She didn''t know what else to do with her hanging off her, but just letting her hand be held, even if she didn''t return the gesture, was an improvement from Kali''s usual prickliness. "What''s the pay?" she asked Mirk.


    Mirk shrugged. "What''s a fair price?"


    Kali thought for a time, looking down at her new breastplate. When she threw out a number, Mirk could sense her apprehension ¡ª she was high-balling him, expecting him to either refuse or try to argue her down. He decided not to rise to the challenge. "That sounds fine."


    "More than reasonable," Henri concurred.


    Judging by the frown that came onto Kali''s face, she hadn''t been expecting them to roll over so easily. "I''ll have to talk it over with my team. We don''t often go on longer contracts. They might not want to do it."


    "Of course," Mirk said. "There''s no hurry, is there, Henri?"


    Henri shook his head. "These aren''t the best quarters, but...well. The children are having a good time here. And it''d be nice to spend the holidays together before we go back."


    Claire beamed up at Kali, so excited that she was bouncing on the balls of her feet and clutching Kali''s hand so tightly that it made even the seasoned fighter grimace. "Please come with us, mademoiselle! Even if it''s just for a little while. I''m getting better every day!"


    Chuckling to himself, Henri reached down and gently peeled Claire off Kali. "Remember your manners, ma petite. Mademoiselle Kali isn''t a nursemaid."


    "Mais non! Nursemaids don''t know how to fight!" Claire replied, though she relented and took a few steps backward, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.


    "Guess you and I had different nursemaids," Kali muttered under her breath.


    "What, mademoiselle?" Claire asked.


    "I wish you lot would stop calling me that," Kali said in favor of clarifying, folding her arms over her chest.


    Henri looked puzzled. "Pardon?"


    "Mademoiselle. I''m not some kind of noblewoman."


    "Ah, my apologies, then," Henri said, ducking his head. "We''re all accustomed to addressing others by titles that suit their station. But if that''s not fitting for a K''maneda, what would you prefer?"


    Kali was doing her best not to let her frustration show. And was doing better than usual, in Mirk''s opinion. "If you absolutely must call me something other than my name, comrade is fine enough."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Comrade Kali, then," Henri replied. "Though, I must admit, ma...euh...comrade, it is a little, hmm...it feels insulting to address someone like you by such a common title."


    "Who has he been telling you I am?" Kali asked, making a sharp gesture at Mirk. "I''m not some kind of commander."


    Mirk gave another modest shrug. Every time he or another member of his family met her protests or a cutting remark with one ¡ª a shrug, after all, was the only proper way to respond to such hostility, as if it wasn¡¯t a matter of great importance ¡ª Kali¡¯s expression darkened further. "I only mentioned Comrade Commander Margaret in passing...and your sister''s a famous mage already, you know...it''s normal for us to talk about our friends'' families."


    Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Kali turned her glare out the window, lest it fall otherwise on Claire, who was still beaming up at her. "All of you healers are gossips. The second one of you finds something out, the whole City knows about it." After taking a moment to compose herself, she turned back to Henri, squaring her shoulders. "I don''t expect any special treatment. I don''t want any special treatment. I''m a fighter, and I''m working for you. That''s all."


    Henri was making an effort at keeping the amusement off his face, but was doing a poor job of it ¡ª his uncle had always been the type of man whose emotions were painfully transparent, even to those without the empathic gift. "Of course, comrade. I wouldn''t want to make you uncomfortable. You''re doing us a great service, after all."


    "Are you done with the armor? Because I have work to do," Kali said. When Claire began to protest, she quickly added, "I''ll come back later to give you your lessons."


    Claire fixed Kali in a shy, wide-eyed stare, her hands ¡ª and sword ¡ª held behind her back. Mirk had to fight to keep himself from laughing. Claire wasn''t shy in the slightest, not like her sister, but she knew exactly how to get what she wanted out of people. That was a family trait too, Mirk supposed. "You''re not mad at us, are you, Comrade Kali?"


    Kali sighed, rubbing her forehead. "...no. It''s just that you people are strange. Normal people get mad and make demands and push you around. You''re all...you''re all like him," she finished, pointing an accusing finger at Mirk again.


    "Perhaps it is only a cultural difference, comrade," Henri suggested. "Being courteous is the polite thing to do where we come from."


    "No wonder you people are all getting killed," Kali hissed under her breath as she headed for the door. "Thank you for the armor," she grudgingly added over one shoulder. "It''s...very good."


    Henri''s face lit up. "Oh! Thank you very much, comrade. That''s high praise, coming from a fighter like you."


    Not knowing what to say in response to this, Kali hurried out, brushing past Armel on the way, who pulled a face at her retreating back, a mockery of the sour expression Kali used every time she ran into people who didn''t behave the way she thought they should. Laughing to himself, Mirk went to Henri''s side, presenting his uncle with the bag of coffee he''d bought from the new cafe at the edge of the mage quarter of London. "I''m glad you''re all getting along, Uncle Henri. Kali can be a little...euh, much for some people," he said, switching back to French now that their visitor had gone.


    "Ah, no," Henri said, taking the bag. His expression went distant for a moment as he unrolled the top of it. "Isabelle always said that I''d put up with anyone, God bless her. Lord only knows that the children will never learn to be strong if they only ever have me as an example."


    Mirk didn''t know quite what to make of this remark, but filed it away in the back of his mind to mull over later. "Anyway, do you want me to put water on for the coffee? I think the floor''s heating plate is in the supply closet down the hall."


    Henri lifted the bag to his nose, breathing in deep, closing his eyes and smiling. "If you would, Mirk. And would you like to stay for a cup? We haven''t seen-"


    Claire perked up again, brandishing her sword and interjecting before her father could finish his invitation. "Yes, Mirk, stay! I want to show you what mademoiselle taught me!"


    Mirk couldn''t stop himself. He reached out and patted his cousin on the head. Rather than shaking him off, she grinned up at him, giggling through her teeth and prodding him delicately in the stomach with the flat of her sword in return. "I''d be happy to."


    It was important to spend time with his family whenever he could while they were still in the City. There was no telling when Mirk would get to see them again once they returned to Bordeaux. He''d miss the warm familiarity of being with them, of spending time with people who knew all the right words, who knew just the right ways to comfort and please, even if they each went about it in their own way. In general, K''maneda were rough, harsh. His family was gentle and easy. At least, that was what the parts of it who''d made it out of the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re alive were all like.


    Hopefully, it''d be a boon for them rather than a hurdle they''d all have to change their ways to overcome.


    -   -   -


    "Seigneur d''Avignon?"


    Mirk had just left his family''s room, after tucking his youngest cousins in for a nap while Henri and the older children sifted through the books he''d brought them. And yet, he hadn''t made it even halfway to the barrier to the fourth floor before someone else was calling for him, from off down the hall behind him. The voice was so quiet Mirk didn''t recognize it. But if they were calling him seigneur, it couldn''t be anything good. Dragging a smile back onto his face, Mirk turned to face it.


    "Monsieur! What happened?"


    It was Am-Hazek. It''d been more than a week since they''d tried to contact Ravensdale''s djinn, but Am-Hazek''s neck was as raw and blistered again as it had been on the night of their expedition. Mirk hurried to Am-Hazek¡¯s side, putting a supportive arm around the djinn''s midsection. His composed facade was mostly intact, despite his clothes being drenched with sweat. He gave a dismayed sigh at Mirk''s concern, but didn''t attempt to escape his hold. Possibly because his sigh did nothing more than make him start to cough.


    Mirk didn''t wait for an answer. He led Am-Hazek to the nearest open room, not letting go of him until he was lying down on the bed. As Mirk rushed to the room''s supply cabinet to retrieve a salve and bandages, Am-Hazek managed to catch his breath and respond to his earlier question. "I am not certain. Madame sent me with a letter for you. I fell ill as soon as I passed through the East Gate."


    "Euh...how did you end up..."


    Am-Hazek flashed him a wan, pained smile. "I thought it...unwise for a djinn to walk the streets in this condition. I decided to make use of the rooftops."


    Clucking in dismay, Mirk launched himself into his work, uncorking the bottle of salve and shaking out half its contents onto a rag. He dabbed at Am-Hazek''s neck with it. The blisters on his neck, if anything, only swelled up further. Before he could toss the rag aside and move straight on to drawing on his healing potential, Am-Hazek lifted his hand from his side and took hold of Mirk''s wrist.


    "It would cause you less trouble for me to handle this, seigneur. If you''d lower your shielding, I''ll do the same as the last time. And then we can discuss things."


    Nodding, Mirk banished his mental shields, clasping Am-Hazek''s hand in both his own. Without his shields in the way, Mirk could feel that the situation wasn''t as dire as the last time: the burning in Am-Hazek''s body was superficial, confined to his neck rather than running bone deep. Tentatively, Mirk pressed a small measure of his healing potential out into his hands. Am-Hazek''s magic, with the same, odd ringing sound as before, rose up to meet it.


    If it hadn''t been for the sound, Mirk didn''t know whether he would have been able to sense Am-Hazek''s magic at all. But it wasn''t because Am-Hazek was weakened. While his magic had been similar to Mirk''s own before, woody and lush and glimmering, though with more of a mossy and damp feel to it, it now was almost exactly the same.


    Mirk held his tongue. Though the elemental aspect of Am-Hazek''s magic was nearly identical to his own, the longer Mirk studied it, feeling it tug a thin tendril of life-giving potential from his core with an almost reverent air, the more he could sense the slight differences between them. There was less warmth to Am-Hazek''s magic; it felt wavery, thin. Not in a way that betrayed a lack of power, but in a way that made it clear that his connection to the earth was more a passing familiarity rather than an unbreakable bond. Mirk wondered if it would feel more certain on the djinn home realm.


    Am-Hazek''s chest rose with a deep inhale. Then he coughed. It was less pained that time, more a clearing of his throat than the rattling sound of someone struggling to breathe. Mirk felt Am-Hazek gently withdraw his magic as he began to sit up. "My thanks, seigneur."


    "Please," Mirk said, gripping Am-Hazek''s hand tightly again. "Rest. Don''t strain yourself. You''re my friend, monsieur, and a patient too. You don''t have to worry about appearances here."


    Am-Hazek turned his head to meet Mirk''s eyes. Something shifted in the depth of the djinn''s ¡ª there was a flare of color in their darkness, a spark of a deep blue, or something close to it. Then he sighed, trying to make himself comfortable on the lumpy infirmary mattress rather than forcing himself to sit up. He lifted his free hand to feel at his neck. The blisters were gone, though a faint redness remained. "Yes...you are very...earnest. In that way. Seigneur."


    "Your magic is very...euh...interesting? I''ve never really examined a djinn before...not without a collar in the way...and I''m afraid I''m not much of a reader. At least, not in the same way Gen is. Do you have more than one element?"


    "You''re correct, seigneur," Am-Hazek replied, nodding to test how well his neck had healed. Mirk didn''t feel any pain in him. Or much of anything else, for that matter. As always, Am-Hazek was quick to regain his composure, his emotions settling into a distant calmness that made it hard for Mirk to tell if he was still upset by the situation he found himself in. "All djinn are born with an affinity to all four of the elements. Which one is strongest varies and how we train them depends on one''s kinship line."


    "Four? I thought there were six..."


    "Among humans, yes. But there are no light or dark mages among the djinn, per se. Though nothing is ever impossible. But I suspect that is the reason why we''re so vulnerable to those elements when they are...pressed on us by outsiders."


    Mirk''s eyes were drawn back to the lingering redness that ringed Am-Hazek''s neck. "And orientation...?"


    "We are uniformly ordered. That is why our strength lies in artificing, and how we can regulate our body-halves without direct intervention from healers. We can change the balance of our elemental potential at will to help heal ourselves and mimic others. And it¡¯s why your associate''s magic disagrees with me so strongly, I suppose." An uncharacteristic look of distaste passed over the djinn''s face ¡ª he was thinking back to Genesis manhandling him through the Abyss to Madame Beaumont''s, Mirk suspected. It had to have felt truly awful for Am-Hazek to remember it with such an emotional reaction, Mirk thought.


    "You all really are amazing, monsieur," Mirk said, only then thinking to release Am-Hazek''s hand. Though he did squeeze it a bit before he let go. It was the best way Mirk could think of to impress on him that he meant what he said, that he wasn''t only being polite. Not without projecting at him, and Mirk was uncertain how much of that Am-Hazek could feel, considering how faint his emotions were most of the time.


    "Every people has its strengths," Am-Hazek said. "And its weaknesses. Yours seem to have found a...distinct way to target ours." He sighed, reaching in the breast pocket of his coat for the letter he''d been on his way to deliver. "Despite your reluctance to pass judgment, I''m afraid your observations at the last meeting of the Circle have only confirmed Madame''s. I''m not wholly in agreement with her, but she has known Seigneur d''Aumont since they were children. She would be familiar with his ways, even if that familiarity has only bred contempt, such as it is. And his position at the head of Le Phare would indicate that he has a particular ability in using light magic, which is one of our weaknesses. I suspect the gold light you saw on Monsieur Er-Izat''s collar might be a sign of it being used on him."


    Mirk took the letter from Am-Hazek, picking up the edge of the seal and sliding out the parchment inside. He tried to scan its contents, but his godmother''s hand was as flowery and expansive as ever. She''d filled ten full sheets, doubtlessly needing the extra space to vent the full extent of her wrath toward Seigneur d''Aumont. He''d read it later. While Am-Hazek was there, he was better off asking him things directly. "I''ve noticed that Monsieur Er-Izat is very different from you and Monsieur Am-Gulat."


    Am-Hazek nodded. "The Er-Djinn are a warrior kinship line. A very...noble line, servants and seconds to the Ra-Djinn. It has always struck me as peculiar that they would sell an Er-Djinn to a human. He must have angered the wrong person," Am-Hazek said, sinking down into his thoughts, his hands folded primly on his stomach.


    "That''s another count against Seigneur d''Aumont," Mirk mumbled, sighing. "If it was possible to...euh..."


    "Purchase," Am-Hazek said, echoing his sigh. "I am very much aware of my people''s predicament, seigneur. Though I do appreciate your tact."


    Mirk did his best to ignore the heat blossoming on the sides of his face instead of trying to press it away with the backs of his hands. "...anyway, if there were many Er-Djinn on Earth, I''m sure Ravensdale would have them instead of Am-Djinn."


    "No doubt, seigneur. We Am-Djinn are capable of defending ourselves, but we are much less suited to fighting than Er-Djinn. Historically, we have been tacticians and advisors. When we are called upon to wage war, we mostly serve as rear-line officers. Strategists, like we are in every other art. I do wonder whether this Ravensdale individual knows what talent he is wasting by having them perform an Er-Djinn''s tasks. Though I am unsurprised that is the one element of his captivity that Monsieur Am-Gulat doesn''t find disagreeable. He has always had a...martial mindset."


    The question had been nagging at Mirk ever since Am-Hazek had revealed that he knew of Am-Gulat, but Mirk had never had the courage to ask. It seemed uncouth to ask a djinn, normally so private and reserved, to dredge up the details of his past. But Am-Hazek had told him flat out not to be delicate with him. Still, Mirk fetched a chair from beside the supply cabinet and sat down at Am-Hazek''s bedside before asking it. "You said you knew Monsieur Am-Gulat? Or knew of him, at least? Before?"


    Am-Hazek nodded. "He was very young when I left. But his unwillingness to compromise was well known to all of us even then. I''m not entirely surprised to find that he was sold off-realm."


    "You left? You weren''t...euh...sold?"


    The ghost of a smile crossed Am-Hazek''s face. "Like recognizes like, seigneur. I was also unruly, in my own way."


    Again, Mirk hesitated. "I see..."


    "My vice isn''t combativeness. It''s curiosity. I was...displeased with the role I was assigned. I had been hoping to be sent to the Tel-Sum, to study the scrolls of the other kinship lines and draft new ones. Instead, it was decided that I would be an accountant, of sorts. Your realm had always interested me. And I assumed correctly that it would be easy enough to blend in here, if I undertook certain precautions. So I left. I entered the employ of Madame''s late husband a few months after I arrived. Her choice to free me was more a gesture than a fact."


    "Do you know much about how the djinn come to this realm? How the..."


    "Unfortunately, no. Beyond the fact that the Ra-Djinn are responsible for the trade, I don''t know what parties they sell us to. I simply put myself in the right place at the right time. And made myself appealing to the proper buyer. Both Madame and her late husband were very...forthright in their mannerisms, even if I''d only read a few scrolls on human gestures before coming here. I judged Madame''s late husband to be the sort to lose interest in his novel purchases quickly. Which he was. And I judged Madame to be spirited, but fair-minded and determined. Which she is. My captivity, such as it was, was far lighter than that of the other djinn bought by the guilds and nobles. As soon as Madame''s late husband tired of me, Madame put me straight to work gathering information for her using whichever means suited me best."


    Though it didn''t feel right, a chuckle escaped Mirk at the thought of Am-Hazek''s ploy. "You are very clever, monsieur."


    "It''s kind of you to say that, seigneur. Though I prefer to think of it as simply being observant. And capable of adapting to the needs of my circumstances, when necessary." Am-Hazek paused, lifting a hand to his throat again, probing it first with his fingers, then testing it with the back of his hand. "That adaptability is not serving me well at the moment, however."


    "What do you mean?" Mirk leaned in to peer at Am-Hazek''s neck. It was difficult to perceive in the dim magelights of the patient room, but the skin of his neck, around where his collar would be, if he still had one, was growing redder once more.


    "I suspect it has something to do with the spell I used to exchange places with Am-Gulat. As I mentioned before, we have the ability to shift our elemental balance to mimic that of one another. Something of Monsieur Am-Gulat''s pattern must have lingered in mine. And the spell on his collar is responding as if he has escaped." With a sharp inhale of breath, Am-Hazek sat up. "It would be best if I go, then. To not cause Monsieur Am-Hazek any unnecessary suffering. Until this problem is dealt with, perhaps it would be best if you and I met outside the City''s walls, seigneur. I''ve already been caught once on this visit," he added, with a twitch of a smirk.


    "You have?" Reflexively, Mirk cast out his senses toward the hallway ¡ª no one there, other than the usual nurses and aides making their rounds, along with the faint, familiar feel of his family''s presence at the other end of the floor.


    "Perhaps if you were to set your associate to work on this problem," Am-Hazek said, touching his neck again, "it would keep him from causing more difficulties for himself. I crossed paths with him up on the roof of the library building. He wasn''t inclined toward having a conversation at the time, but as far as I could tell, he was...ah...surveilling one of the K''maneda mages. He vanished at the same time that the mage had an unfortunate run-in with a cart out in the street. Incidentally, you might wish to go downstairs and check to see if you''re needed, seigneur. There were many terrible burns. The mage in question included. No malice, from what I could see. Rather an...excess of enthusiasm."


    Mirk sighed. That could only be one person: Elijah Oliver, the mage who had come to him begging for an audience with Genesis, as if the commander was a visiting foreign king with a packed schedule rather than a disreputable mage who everyone else in the K''maneda went out of their way to avoid. Mirk had told Genesis that he''d ask Elijah to look in his mind when they met again in a day or two, but apparently Genesis wanted to launch his own investigation as well. Mirk didn''t know whether to be reassured by Genesis''s thoroughness, or dismayed that he trusted his judgment so little that he had to see for himself that Elijah was harmless. "I''ll take your advice, monsieur. But, you''re right, we''d both best be going. Is there something more I can do to help?"


    Am-Hazek shook his head, with a barely visible wince as he turned his neck. "I''ll depart the same way I came. The path is easy enough if you have air magic. Or are...otherwise gifted," a thoughtful look came onto Am-Hazek''s face as he stood. "Your associate truly is remarkable. I would have thought he''d depend on his magic to get everywhere, but he''s surprisingly athletic. A potential-conserving measure, no doubt. It¡¯s a pity that the K''maneda seems determined to use people for tasks they aren''t suited to, at least at present."


    "That''s what he''s always saying too, yes," Mirk said. "The next time you have a letter for me from Madame, please send the response with the usual messengers. I can pay for it. You shouldn''t put yourself through so much trouble. And I''m sure Madame would be happy to have me there for tea more often."


    "She would," Am-Hazek replied, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. "I would be grateful for it as well. You seem to have a moderating effect on strong personalities, seigneur. And it would benefit you, I think, to pass more time among polite company when you can spare an hour or two," he added, looking around at the patient room Mirk had hauled him into. It hadn''t been cleaned in some time ¡ª there was dust everywhere, and the last healer to use the room had done a half-hearted job at cleaning up the last patient''s blood from the floor and the wall, not to even mention the chamberpot peeking out from under the bed. It all made Mirk wonder even more about the sort of life Am-Hazek had led before coming to Earth. He seemed as put off by grimy and cramped and plain surroundings as his godmother did. Or perhaps all the time he''d spent with her had colored his opinions.


    "Well. Thank you for coming with this, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, gesturing at him with the letter. "I''ll do what I can on my end."


    That time, Am-Hazek caught himself before he could nod. He bowed instead, sweeping out the door and back into the hall at a brisk pace, the faint feeling of his presence vanishing the moment he was out of sight. Mirk nudged the chamberpot back fully under the bed, then tucked Madame Beaumont''s letter up his sleeve and headed off as well, in the opposite direction that Am-Hazek had gone, presumably.


    Am-Hazek was a master of understatement. If even he was willing to say that the accident Elijah had caused was terrible, then doubtlessly he''d be needed downstairs, regardless of whether the victims of the mage¡¯s enthusiasm were low-born or high.

 Chapter 42

    "This is a rough part of town," Elijah commented, sticking close to Mirk''s side as they walked together along the outermost ring road of the City, toward the South Gate. It was raining that night. Or maybe it was snow ¡ª either way, it was a miserable, wet evening, and Mirk had the hood of his good cloak up, the sides of it wrapped tightly around himself. Elijah, true to his elemental imbalance, appeared completely impervious to both the cold and damp. He hadn''t even bothered with a cloak, electing to let his fire magic keep him warm instead.


    Mirk got the impression that Elijah was regretting that decision. He cringed at every sour or intrigued look cast in their direction, his hands jammed in his pockets. It was curious; Elijah didn''t strike him as the sort of man who gave much weight to the opinion of others. Perhaps he''d been bellowed at by the washerwomen for ruining his clothes too many times to overlook their cutting gazes. Or had rubbish thrown at him by too many infantrymen who were dissatisfied with his spells.


    In an effort to set Elijah at ease, Mirk took hold of his elbow, making it especially clear to those that passed that he was with him, plausibly his friend. "It''s safe here," Mirk said, when this didn''t ease the strain across Elijah''s hunched shoulders. "Most of the people here know not to do anything to people who are friends with the Easterners."


    "If you say so..."


    Elijah had, much to Mirk''s surprise, instantly agreed to having his mind examined that afternoon at their arranged meeting in one of the infirmary''s workrooms. When Mirk had lowered his shields and taken a hard look at his emotions, Mirk had realized that Elijah was too enthralled by the mere prospect of getting the chance to speak with Genesis to care about having any of his secrets exposed. Mirk wasn''t the sort of mind-mage who could pry secrets and memories out of the unwilling ¡ª and he had flatly refused Yule''s suggestion to ask Samael to look into Elijah''s mind for him if he wanted to make extra certain he wasn''t hiding anything ¡ª but he was a good enough judge of emotions to be able to sense duplicity and nervousness unless a person was working hard at concealing them. And it had been immediately clear to Mirk that Elijah didn''t have the patience or skill required to put on a good enough front to fool him.


    Elijah''s mind had been vibrant and chaotic. Not in the cold, staticky way that Genesis''s aura was chaotic, but chaotic in a way similar to Mordecai''s, a dozen thoughts running through his head all at once, every one of them jockeying for a place at the front of Elijah''s mind. However, instead of being a random collection of schemes and jokes, the uniting element of all of Elijah''s riotous thoughts were magic. Mirk couldn''t understand most of them. Elijah''s mind was constantly abuzz with the names of what Mirk assumed had to be powerful, well-regarded mages and their theories. And flashes of diagrams and charts that it gave Mirk a headache to think about for too long.


    The strand focused on Genesis had been particularly pronounced, which was understandable, given the purpose of Mirk''s investigation. It had amused him to feel what Genesis seemed like from Elijah''s perspective: a dark, mysterious figure, full of intrigue and secrets and potential, a sort of icon, almost an idol, a figure deserving a sort of trembling, excited reverence. Mirk wondered what Elijah would think of the commander if he found out that rather than devoting the last hours of his day to the rigorous study of magic, Genesis elected to pass them precisely ironing two fresh sets of uniform blacks (one to wear, and one to keep ready at hand in case the first got ruined) and soaking in a bath full of floral-smelling salts and tinctures.


    "It surprises me that a fellow like you has so many rough friends," Elijah said, cutting into Mirk¡¯s thoughts, continuing to sneak furtive glances at passers-by. A war between his natural curiosity and his desire not to attract too much attention to himself, Mirk imagined.


    "Do you know many infantry fighters?" Mirk asked.


    Elijah shook his head. "I mean, I see them. And they yell at me now and then. But I mostly just talk to the officers to make sure the infantry doesn''t get in the way of our spells. What would I even talk to them about? I''m a mage. An intellectual. Most of them don''t even know how to read or write their name, do they?" The mage lowered his voice on the final question, not wanting to be overheard.


    "That doesn''t mean that they''re not smart, in their own way. And some of them do know their letters."


    Mirk smiled to himself at the memory of it: going searching for Genesis on a Wednesday and coming across him holding school in the back room of the Easterners'' favorite tavern. K''aekniv had explained, with a roll of his eyes and emphatic jabs of one of the magicked pens the commander had passed out along with parchment, that Genesis insisted that everyone who wanted to hold some sort of command position among the Easterners learned to read and write a little in their native language. While Genesis conjured first letters, and then sentences on to the back wall with his shadows, the men mostly ignored him in favor of getting drunk and bullying each other in the strange, friendly way they were all fond of. Save for when Genesis pronounced some word in a way the Easterners could jeer at him about.


    "Still, they can''t be big readers." Elijah said. "I mean...I just...what do you talk to them about, then?"


    "The same things you''d talk to anyone about. Their families, their work, what they''re looking forward to..."


    Elijah hesitated. "That''s nearly as bad as the high-borns with their Grand Masters and their weddings...is that really what everyone talks about? Things like that? Maybe that''s why they all avoid me..."


    "What do you mean?" Mirk asked, tightening his hold on Elijah''s elbow. The turn the conversation had taken had left the mage so distracted, so puzzled, that he wasn''t paying attention to his surroundings any longer. Elijah nearly bumbled square into a mountainous Bavarian infantryman Mirk remembered from the tavern, one it''d be best not to cross when he wasn''t half-drunk.


    "I just want to talk about my research. You know, tell people my ideas, see if they have any better ones. It...well, it''s interesting. The rest of it isn''t."


    Mirk laughed. If Genesis knew how to explain himself better, he thought the commander might have said the same thing when asked why he had trouble making polite conversation. "Methinks you might get along with Genesis after all..."


    "Really?"


    Mirk did his best to keep Elijah''s enthusiasm in check as they neared the South Gate. The buildings were a solid mass on either side of them there, lean-tos made of spare lumber closing the gaps between the larger stone buildings. Dormitories for the Supply Corps workers and some of the low-born infantry, with taverns and shops sprinkled in between. The latter were still doing a brisk business, despite the late hour. So were the enterprising infantrymen who''d brought back goods from their contracts, their collections of oddities spread out on blankets along the roadside.


    He tried to keep Elijah away from them as well. The infantrymen knew a good mark when they saw one. If Elijah had been left to pick at the trinkets on his own, distracted from his surroundings by his search for overlooked magical artifacts amongst the junk, he''d have been robbed of both his purse and his better bits of clothing within ten minutes. And perhaps his life, depending on whether or not Elijah had been inadvertently responsible for getting any of the infantrymen''s fighting companions killed out on contract.


    They passed through the South Gate without incident. The Watch men there were much more interested in collecting bribes from the people trying to get in than in checking on why people had a reason to leave the City late at night. The flicker of teleportation magic that came with passing underneath the stone arch set Mirk off-balance, but he recovered quickly. The teleporting magic that anchored the City''s gates to the world beyond its walls bore enough of a resemblance to the chaotic sort that Genesis used to pass through the shadows that his body and magic didn''t fight it as hard as the spells of the average teleporting mage.


    Whereas the East Gate connected to an alley near the heart of the mage quarter of London, the South Gate opened onto a crowded street elsewhere in the city on the Thames, a less prestigious and more informal mage neighborhood that didn''t have the same protective wards on it against mortal incursions that the mage quarter proper did. The residents had to be careful about not letting too much of their magic show, lest a mortal take note of it.


    Not that many of the residents had much magic to speak of. They were mostly low-ranking K''maneda who had scraped together enough gold to live outside the City, but not enough to afford rents in the mage quarter. Fighters who''d started families, for the most part, and most often with Supply Corps women. Mirk scanned the street, searching for the proper building. It was right where Genesis had said it would be, immediately to the left of the narrow, moldering alley the gate spat them out into. A two story half-timber structure that wouldn''t have been remarkable, aside from the colorful magelights hung across the front of it and the clusters of working women gathered in the street near its entrance. Mirk led Elijah over, still keeping a firm hold on his elbow.


    One of the ladies came to greet them, a tall woman in a dramatic red and gold dress. Her hair was uncovered and styled in a fantastic up-do, the shawl about her shoulders doing more to highlight her figure than to ward off the cold. It didn''t escape Mirk''s notice that her arms were much more thickly muscled than one would expect from a lady of her profession. Elijah''s attention, however, was elsewhere. Mirk would have attempted to distract him again, had the woman not already noticed the focus of his gaze and only smirked in response to Elijah''s gaping. "Who are you two?" she asked Mirk, judging him to be the more sensible of the pair. "Here for the night?"


    Genesis hadn''t told Mirk to lie about why he and Elijah had come. All he¡¯d said was that they needed to go to the building with the colorful magelights, and that someone would find them and send them in to him once they''d arrived. The commander had also neglected to tell Mirk that the place he preferred to conduct his clandestine meetings in was a bordello. On the whole, Mirk wasn''t terribly surprised that Genesis hadn''t considered that detail to be relevant to the scheme. "We''re here to see Comrade Genesis."


    "Oh! The healer and the fancy mage. Fatima said to be looking out for you lot. Well, come in. Starting to really come down now, isn''t it?" She squinted up at the sky as she gathered up her skirts and led them to the entrance, her nose wrinkling. "Going have to go get the parasols."


    Elijah leaned in close to Mirk, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "Mirk? Is this...er..."


    "Hmm?"


    "Is this a whorehouse?"


    One of the men loitering just inside the front door opened it for the woman in the red and gold dress, performing a clumsy bow that earned him a smack in the chest. Mirk scanned the room as he hurried in out the rain, dragging Elijah along with. It was a parlor, of sorts, full of plush couches and armchairs across which were draped more women and their prospective customers. There was a counter at the back of the room, where one woman was fixing drinks and an older woman was scribbling down notes on a ledger before directing women and their charges off down either of a pair of halls that flanked it. Mirk shrugged. "Yes, methinks that''s the, euh, impolite way of saying it..."


    "What is Genesis doing here? Is he...does he..."


    "Oh, no!" Mirk said, laughing. "It''s that no one would expect to find either you or him here, non? It''s safe."


    Elijah froze in the middle of the parlor, gaping around at the women and men shooting him curious looks, deeply puzzled and distinctly ill-at-ease. "I mean, that is clever, I suppose, but...I...whatever. As long as I get to meet him, even if it''s strange, it''s fine."


    "He''s back here," the woman in the red and gold dress called back to them after conferring with the older woman behind the counter. Catching sight of the flush and the gape on Elijah''s face, she cackled. "Don''t worry, little man. No one here''s going to mess with you. Just follow along."


    Elijah put his head down and hurried after her, jerking his arm out of Mirk¡¯s hold only so that he could hug himself protectively as they made their way toward the back of the building. On their way, they passed several doors, most of them closed and warded. The sort reserved for paying customers, Mirk supposed, judging by the plain beds in the few open rooms. The women had to have a good mage at their head. Mirk couldn''t feel even a twinge of what was going on inside the closed-up rooms. Or hear anything, for that matter. It came as a relief. He was confident now in his ability to cope with fleeting feelings of lust, but he still didn''t like his odds of being able to successfully endure being trapped in a building suffused with it for the duration of Elijah and Genesis''s mutual interrogation.


    At the end of the hall was a thick red mock-velour curtain, which the woman in the red and gold dress pulled aside. It hid a larger room, full of racks of dresses and other costumes, along with a long table where a handful of women were taking turns peering into a small communal mirror as they put on their powder and rouge for the night. She led them around the racks of clothes to an inconspicuous door on the room''s far side.


    "Here you are, lads. Don''t get into too much trouble now," she joked as she held the door open for them, unable to resist dropping Elijah a wink and a pointed, toothy grin. Elijah gave an unbecoming yelp and quickly looked away from her bare collarbones, hugging himself more tightly. Mirk took the initiative, latching onto the mage''s arm once more and tugging him through the doorway. The woman shut and locked it behind them.


    It was a curious room to find in that sort of establishment ¡ª it was something between a library and a workroom, all of its walls lined with shelves overflowing with books and various mortal and mage contraptions, a large table at its center, ringed with uncomfortable-looking straight-back wooden chairs. Something that looked like a crossbow was partway assembled in the center of it. There were a few more comfortable-looking chairs tucked away in the far corner of the room, cast-offs from the parlor out front, judging by their worn condition.


    Predictably, Genesis had chosen to bring his own sullen armchair with him rather than take his chances with the checkered history of any of the chairs that''d been left for them. He looked up from the grimoire he''d been reading when the door opened, shunting the book away into the shadows before Elijah could get a look at the title on its spine. The commander gave Elijah a quick and critical once-over. Checking for weapons, doubtlessly. Once Elijah spotted Genesis lurking in the corner, his prior enthusiasm reignited and he rushed across the study to greet the commander, his hand outstretched to shake. "Comrade Genesis! Thank you so much for meeting with me! It''s an honor, sir."


    Genesis looked down at Elijah''s hand, frowning. Mirk cleared his throat. When Genesis chanced a glance his way, Mirk inclined his head toward Elijah''s hand, with a nod and an encouraging smile. Grudgingly, Genesis reached out and shook the mage''s hand, though he did his best to touch him for as short a time as possible. He really was getting better, Mirk thought. Even though he could tell by the way Genesis flicked his hand once he withdrew it that he wanted to whip out his handkerchief, he didn''t. "You are...Elijah Oliver," Genesis said.


    "The one and only!" Elijah replied, with a nervous laugh. "Can I sit?"


    "If you...would prefer."


    Elijah sat in the chair nearest Genesis, though he perched on the barest edge of it, the better to lean in and not miss a single nuance of Genesis''s mannerisms. Genesis was unsettled by being stared at so fixedly, but, again, managed not to comment. Laughing under his breath, Mirk sat down on Genesis''s other side. He had a feeling his presence in the room would soon be forgotten by both of them, but he didn''t mind. He was only there to mediate, to clear up any misunderstandings between them before things could get out of hand.


    After Genesis refused to say anything more for a good three minutes, Elijah began to babble, unable to contain his excitement a moment more. "There''s so much I could ask you, sir, I don''t even know where to start-"


    "I am not a sir."


    "Oh! Oh, yes, of course, sorry. Habit. It''s...you''re just...you''re the greatest mage in England! Maybe in all of Europe, even! It feels wrong to call you comrade like everyone else."


    A nerve in Genesis''s forehead had begun to twitch. "That is the...entire point."


    "Is it? Funny, I just thought it was because the guilds would get mad at us siring and lording when we never got a grant from the mortals. That or it was some Bavarian custom. Anyway, like I said, there''s so much I want to ask you...I made notes..."


    As Elijah rummaged in the front pocket of his coat for something, Genesis looked to Mirk again for guidance. That strange reversal always made Mirk feel like laughing, though he caught himself before he could that time. No matter how many times he saw it happen, part of Mirk simply couldn''t fathom that a man who could undo spells in countless languages without a second thought didn''t understand how to hold a polite conversation with a stranger. "Genesis has been looking into your work as well," Mirk offered, as a place for Genesis to begin.


    "It is...creative," Genesis worked out, after another pause.


    "Really? You think so? I''m honored! I really don''t have as much time as I''d like for my studies, what with Alistair always dragging me off here and there, but I do the best I can. The worst is that I don''t have the time to travel on my own. Are these your books? Is this your library?" Elijah asked, gesturing around at the shelves.


    "No. This is the...proprietor''s library. Mine is...elsewhere."


    "Oh, right. You probably need it somewhere more secure. Anyway, like I said, I made some notes." Elijah raised the crumpled bundle of mage parchment he''d pulled out of his pocket, grinning. "Can we start with binding magic? I''ve heard stories that-"


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    "In a moment," Genesis said, raising a hand to cut off Elijah''s rambling before he could work himself up to full speed. The commander was finding his footing, Mirk thought. Genesis had agreed to their meeting with his own purpose in mind. And Genesis always handled business first. "A...question for you."


    Elijah blinked, then coughed. "For me? Er...what do you want to know?"


    "For what reason do you continue to work for Ravensdale?"


    A wave of confusion and disappointment rose off Elijah, strong enough for Mirk to need to feed more potential to his mental shielding not to be distracted by it. "I...well...he hired me?"


    "Is that the sole reason?"


    The disappointment shifted fast to embarrassment, as Elijah''s face went red and he folded his notes over in his lap, slumping backward in his chair. "Alistair''s the only one who''ll have me. The Torches took away my permit. If I want to do magic at all in England any more, I have to do it for him."


    Though Mirk suspected Genesis already knew the answer to the question he asked next, the commander posed it all the same. "Why?"


    "It...it''s stupid, really," Elijah said with a sigh, running a hand back through his hair. "The only room I could get was clear on the other side of London from the guild hall. And they throw you out of the guild library at five on the dot every day, and they won''t even let you in on Sundays! So I...er...decided to make some copies of their grimoires. For personal use! I wasn''t going to make any gold off them or anything. Though I did lend that copy I made of Sir Wilberforce''s treatise on combining Orblatt''s Fire of the Seventh Seal with Gracus''s Perpetual Sulfur Summoning Circle to that Italian fellow, but I swear, I thought he was just curious, I didn''t think he was going to sell it to the French guilds...sure they must have their own copy of Sir Wilberforce somewhere anyway, it''s basic stuff, it''s just that no one can keep all his charts memorized at once..."


    Elijah trailed off, bright red in the face. Genesis''s eyes were narrowed, flicking back and forth as he tried to piece Elijah''s story together. Looking for crosses and double-crosses, Mirk thought, trying to remember what he''d memorized as a liar''s most common tells. It would be better if he stepped in again. There was a shared sentiment between them, Mirk knew, it just needed to be put into words they could both understand. "Do you think it''s a good thing for the guilds to keep their own libraries?"


    "What? Oh, I mean, well, the grimoires all have to go somewhere, I suppose, but I hate how stupid they are about things. We''re all scholars, aren''t we? And, anyway, it''s not the books themselves, it''s what you do with them. It''s not fair to keep them all locked up like that and not lend them out. That''s the only reason why I made the copies in the first place. Five hours a day isn''t enough to get anything done if you''re really trying to put things together."


    "Knowledge should be...free to all those who are interested," Genesis said, a fraction of his suspicion fading.


    "Exactly! And, anyway, if they really didn''t want us making copies, they should have put better spells against it on the grimoires. Just made things tedious. And don''t even get me started on the whole permit thing, why do I need a permit to just do experiments? It''s not like I can turn my magic off. And how are we supposed to have the time to really discover anything if we''re stuck making magelights and fire-starting spell papers for the guild for hours every day just to pay the fees?"


    Genesis nodded, slowly. "On this...we are agreed."


    "So, you see, I didn''t have any choice but to come work for Alistair. The Torches blacklisted me all the way to Austria! I could have gone to China or somewhere, but, honestly, the last time I was there I was sick for months and the healers told me I nearly threw up my spleen...anyway, that''s why I''m here. Alistair said that I could have all the grimoires I wanted as long as I helped him out on contract. And I could go in the K''maneda library whenever I wanted, no limits. He didn''t mention that it''s a total mess, but, well. There''s a lot of things Alistair never mentioned."


    "...such as?"


    "Oh, I don''t know, small things. Like the whole thing with the djinn, and with everyone being so...er...mercenary. Though I suppose that one''s on me. Since it''s sort of in the title."


    "The djinn are not a...small thing," Genesis said. It was a misstep on Elijah''s part. Genesis''s expression had hardened again.


    "Well, no, you''re right, I suppose it''s not, but it''s...it''s part of a pattern, right? The same as you. And him," Elijah said, waving a hand in Mirk''s direction, though he continued to stare down at his lap as he searched for the right words to explain. "I guess I really shouldn''t be surprised, should I? We''re mercenaries. It''s about the gold and that''s that, same as the guilds."


    Genesis leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs, debating where to begin. Mirk knew that posture well: Elijah was in for a lecture. "What do you know of the...history and purpose of the K''maneda?"


    Elijah glanced up, confused. "Nothing, really. Like I said, mercenaries and gold and all that. Been doing it since the Hundred Years War at least. That''s what North''s always going on about, anyway."


    "You are partially correct. The K''maneda have always been...mercenaries. However, our purpose was not...and never should be understood as...mere pursuit of gold. This is a recent...corruption of our purpose."


    "Is it?"


    "The purpose of the K''maneda is to aid the dispossessed. To hold the sword of those who are too weak to carry it, until they can...rise again." Genesis''s voice had taken on that odd, distant tone, the one that sharpened his accent. The one he used when reciting a text he''d long since learned by heart.


    Judging by the strength of the confusion pressing against Mirk''s mental shielding, Elijah wasn''t quite following him. "Is it? I really need to pay better attention..."


    It was as if Genesis didn''t hear Elijah at all. He carried on without glancing in the mage''s direction. "The K''maneda has traveled the realms in the City of Glass for millennia. Joined by...purpose, not blood. To destroy empires. Kings. Profiteers. Slavers. Until the last chain is broken." Genesis paused, sighing, his tone shifting again. Once he ran out of text to recite, his bitterness over the present state of the K''maneda returned to him. "Until the City was trapped in the angels'' domain. And we also became...slaves."


    Elijah leaned forward in his chair again, his curiosity overcoming his embarrassment at not knowing. "Really? I didn''t know that the City was ever moored in Heaven. How long ago was that?"


    "Thousands of years ago. Humans were barely...sentient at the time."


    "Ah. Well, I guess I shouldn''t feel too bad about not knowing then," Elijah said, with a sheepish laugh.


    Again, Genesis fixed Elijah in a disapproving frown, and Elijah''s smile turned to a cringe. "This is knowledge that should be taught to every trainee. This is our history. Our...purpose. However, it has not befitted those in...command for us to know for many centuries. In any case. After several centuries, a...portion of the angels and the K''maneda joined in revolt. The Empire did not fall. But the City fell to Earth. And so, the¡­corruption began. It did not happen overnight. Yet as the City lost its ability to truly wander, and Earth-born commanders replaced the ones old enough to remember, our purpose was...obscured. Deliberately forgotten. The commanders pursued their own¡­interests. Wealth. Power. Allegiances with...mage and mortal kings. To rob others of their freedom. It is our duty to reverse this. The realms have no need for more profiteers and masters. But the need for the old K''maneda is constant."


    Mirk got the impression from the way Genesis was choosing his words, slowly, his eyes always roving back and forth for answers in all the crumbling grimoires he''d committed to memory, that he was leaving a great many details that he wished he could include out of the story. But his passion came through all the same. It was as strong as Elijah''s excitement for magic, though it showed itself in quiet deliberation rather than constant motion and noise. And there was something appealing to it, transfixing, that made Mirk lose track of Genesis''s words at times in favor of studying the rise and fall of his voice. It was the closest Mirk had ever come to being able to sense his emotions, even if there was nothing but the same low static of his chaotic magic against his mind when Mirk reached out to him with his empathy.


    Elijah broke the spell with a clearing of his throat. "I didn''t know any of this. And, well, er...it''s all very interesting, si...er...comrade, but what does that have to do with us and the here and now? You don''t mean to start some revolution or something, do you?" he asked, leaning in closer still to Genesis as he spoke the word revolution, as if worried of being overheard. It was reassuring, Mirk thought, to see that Elijah had some common sense tucked in amongst his enthusiasm.


    "Revolution is our true purpose," Genesis replied, without hesitation.


    "But that could get people killed," Elijah countered.


    "Yes. Such is the...inevitable price. But it is better to fight than submit. Death...will come for us regardless."


    "Er..."


    Again, Mirk felt drawn to cut in. "It really is wrong how Ravensdale treats the djinn, isn''t it? Methinks you said it yourself, Elijah. No one should be locked up and only used as weapons. And the low-born infantry isn''t much better off."


    With the conversation drawn down from abstracts to something more concrete, a bit of Elijah''s alarm faded, though his worry was still pricking against Mirk''s shields. "Oh, right. Yes, I agree, the Am-Djinn are scholars. They should be in the library, not out getting shot at."


    "Individuals can do as they choose," Genesis said. "But...they are in no position to choose. At present. Everything Ravensdale does is to increase his own power. The contracts he favors are unacceptable. But tyrants...possess the most gold. If he was only to engage his...fellows who choose to follow this impulse along with him in these contracts, it would be...their own doing. The others could make an effort to...dissuade him. If the Council was more than...useless. But there is no Council. He decides everything. And instead of sending his...fellow profiteers to fight...he sends the djinn. And us. The poor. The foreign. The non-humans. While his...human men of high English birth...take the contracts with the least threat...the rest of us die. Because we are...replaceable. There will always be more poor. More...undesirables. Ravensdale sees no need to preserve us, or the djinn. This is intolerable. He must be...dealt with."


    "Is it really so bad?" Elijah asked. Suddenly he seemed very small and uncertain, his boundless enthusiasm dimmed by doubt. "I...I''ve never really thought...I thought maybe he''d stop it with the djinn after a while...and I''ve never really seen..."


    "No. You would not. You are of both...English birth and human lineage, correct?"


    "Well...yes..."


    "And you are useful to him. He orders you to break a wall...or enchant his cannon...and you do it. And that is all."


    "Right. I suppose I do." Elijah shook his head hard, seeming to come back to himself a little. "I''m sorry, comrade. I''ve just...I didn''t know. And I''ve never really thought about these things. I''m a mage. I do magic. Politics are for other people."


    "Some of us do not have the...option of ignoring it."


    The pair were reaching an impasse again. Mirk could sense it in the deepening of Genesis''s frown and the snarled feel of Elijah''s bewilderment. There had to be a middle ground there somewhere, Mirk thought. But it was enough for a man like Elijah to process for one night. He stepped in again, lowering his shields and projecting just enough sympathy at Elijah to catch his attention, since Mirk couldn''t reach far enough across Genesis between them to comfort the mage with a hand on the shoulder. "This is all a little overwhelming, methinks, non? But you''ll think about what Genesis had to say, hmm?"


    Elijah nodded, encouraged to see Genesis nodding along with him. "It is important to...understand before making a decision," Genesis conceded.


    "Right! That''s exactly it. I''ll...I''ll try to look at things a bit more. But you''re not, um, asking me to do anything, are you? Comrade? You don''t expect me to kill anyone, do you? I mean, I''m not very good at that kind of magic, and Alistair is powerful, even if it''s all that brute-force nonsense..."


    "That''s right," Mirk cut in, before Genesis could interject a cross word or two about Elijah''s evident shock at the thought of murder. "Just think about things. As friends. Anyway, methinks you had some questions that you wanted to ask too, Elijah? Fair is fair," Mirk added, giving Genesis a pointed look.


    Genesis sighed. "That was the...agreement."


    Elijah perked up immediately, too distracted by the thought of getting to unload all of his own questions to notice the resignation in Genesis''s tone. "Right! There''s so much I wanted to ask you...um...let''s see..." He rifled through his notes, scanning them until he fixed on one point. "That''s it! I need to ask you, I don''t understand how you overcame Turner''s Paradox when you did that one spell, you know, on that big gate back on that one realm? You know, the one we''d been working at for weeks. I sort of see how you managed to balance out the ordered half of it, but what did you do with the excess elemental parts? Was it some chaos magic technique? Or can any mage do it?"


    Mirk lost track of the conversation within minutes. But he was relieved to see that it helped to ease the tension that had welled up between Genesis and Elijah. It was heartening to watch, really: the more questions Elijah asked, and the more Elijah''s curiosity and excitement grew, the more Genesis seemed to warm to him. There really weren''t many mages like Elijah among the Easterners and the other members of the Seventh. Most of them were trained only in combat, in using their power like a hammer to put an end to fights and as shields to protect the others who didn''t have deep wells of magical potential to draw on. Elijah practiced a different kind of magic, one closer to the sort that Mirk was familiar with from working beside healers like Eva and Yule. Magic that was logic and figures and spells decoded from moldering grimoires. If Genesis didn''t press his ideals on Elijah too much, Mirk thought, the two of them might even become friends.


    The thought comforted Mirk. Genesis would have never admitted it, but Mirk thought that the commander was a lonely person, someone who too often felt out-of-place and at odds with the world. It would be good for Genesis to have someone to talk to, someone who understood his work, even if the two of them didn''t exactly see eye-to-eye on much else. Or perhaps Mirk was being as naive as Elijah, in his own way.


    It was Genesis''s expression as he spoke with Elijah that made Mirk wish for it. The more convoluted their discussion grew, the more Genesis''s eyes sharpened. It wasn''t as profound as the peace Genesis had found when he''d uncovered his strange magicked bathroom, but it made Mirk feel better to see Genesis even a fraction less cold and distant than usual.


    That and Mirk thought the commander to be much more handsome when his attention was riveted on something fascinating. But that was beside the point.


    "Oh! Drat, half one already?" Elijah said, head abruptly whipping around as he looked at a clock tucked in among the jumble of parts and books on the shelves that ringed the room. It had begun to play a cheerful, tinny tune that sounded vaguely familiar. "I have to be at a meeting with Alistair at seven. And if I don''t get at least five hours of sleep, my magic''s a nightmare." He paused, a sheepish smile crossing his face. "Thank you again for speaking with me, Comrade Genesis. It''s been a pleasure. Really a pleasure. Do you think we can do it again? Sometime? It''s just that there''s a book I think you''d be interested in, one of the lost works of Flemming, found it in a tomb the other day. Has some good ideas in it, though I don''t know how they''d work in practice."


    Genesis stared at Elijah for a time, then nodded slowly. Now that the discussion of magic had ceased, the commander looked overwhelmed, as tired as if he''d been out for days fighting. Which was to be expected. Mirk felt a little exhausted himself when confronted with Elijah''s boundless energy; he could only imagine what speaking with him was like for someone as reserved at Genesis. "It would be advisable for you to discuss that matter with Mirk. Conversing directly may...raise suspicions."


    "Oh. Right. Alistair and all that, I promise I''ll think about that too. I can see why a man like you needs to take precautions. I''ll let you know when I''ve found that book and you can help set things up," Elijah said, turning his wide grin on Mirk. "So! Um. Do I just...go?"


    Mirk nodded. "One of the ladies will see you out, methinks."


    "Oh...right." Bringing Alistair up again hadn''t been enough to dim Elijah''s good mood, but the mere thought of the women going about their business beyond the workroom door was enough to put a touch of red back in Elijah''s cheeks. "Well...um, I suppose it''ll be fine...anyway, take care! Mirk, Genesis," he nodded to each of them in turn before going to the door and slipping out. He didn''t close the door quickly enough to muffle the sound of the woman in the red and gold dress calling out a chipper, off-color greeting to him.


    Mirk turned back to Genesis. His arms were folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the crossbow-like weapon being assembled on the table across the room. Genesis had been tense the whole time Elijah had been in the room, a barely perceptible thing, a suggestion of constant readiness to spring up with a knife or a coil in shadow in hand. As soon as Elijah was gone, he''d started to relax some. Though he still had an uneasy air about him, something that made the shadows stir restlessly beneath his chair. "See?" Mirk prompted. "That wasn''t so bad, was it, messire?"


    "I...suppose not. I''m unconvinced of his sincerity, but...he appears harmless. On the whole."


    "I told you, Elijah''s not a bad person," Mirk said. "He''s just...euh..."


    Genesis stood, making his sullen armchair disappear into the shadows gathered in the furthest corner of the workroom with a sweep of his hand. "Very naive. This is the...only thing that has convinced me this is not yet some...ploy on his part. Throughout all my observation of him over the past three days he has remained...oblivious to most everything."


    "You''re right about that.¡± Mirk sighed at the thought of the two dozen burned and angry Supply Corps men Elijah had sent to the infirmary with his last absent-minded misstep the day he¡¯d spoken with Am-Hazek.


    "A...strange life."


    "People only know about what they live around. And...well. That''s all he''s around. Magic."


    Genesis paused for a moment. "He is a combat mage in a mercenary army. One would think that such a position would make one aware of the...realities of life."


    Mirk shook his head. "Most people try not to look at the bad things in life, even if they''re around them all the time. It hurts. People avoid things that hurt them."


    "Such...is the life of privilege."


    "I suppose you''re right," Mirk said. "Do you think I''m like Elijah, then? Too rich and too safe to understand?"


    After a long pause, Genesis finally met his eyes. "No. You are...very much aware. But for some reason...you remain convinced that there are...half-measures. That conflict can be avoided through discussion."


    "I''m not as naive as Elijah, messire. I know people can be cruel. And some cruel people''s minds can''t be changed by talking," Mirk said. "But everyone needs friends. You can''t take on the whole world at once. And not everyone who disagrees with you on one or two things needs to be your enemy. Methinks it''s easier to fight the very cruel ones when you have more friends on your side, non?"


    "I remain...unconvinced."


    "Then maybe you should give things a bit more time just like Elijah," Mirk said, fastening his cloak at his neck, standing as well. "I''m sure you must be tired of talking by now. And I have to be at the infirmary in five hours. I don''t do much better with little sleep than Elijah."


    "You have...never lit five carts in a row on fire due to...falling down the stairs."


    Mirk sighed again, inadvertently thinking back to the mess he''d made of Mademoiselle Polignac''s solarium. "Honestly, I''m not much better than that half the time, methinks. Anyway. Should we go ho...euh...back?" He couldn''t start calling their quarters home. It sounded too familiar to him, though he doubted Genesis would have cared either way. And it implied a domestic sort of life that Mirk didn''t want to begin to delude himself into believing. They were just two people who happened to share a set of rooms at the moment, due to circumstance. "Unless you have other work to do tonight. I can walk back on my own."


    "No. I have...had enough of this for one evening."


    After a moment, Genesis unfolded his arms, holding one out slightly to his side, expectant. Mirk had grown accustomed to Genesis moving him through the shadows, but it was still easier on both of them if Mirk held onto him while Genesis did it. As he took Genesis''s arm, he snuck a glance up at his face. It had bothered Genesis at first, having him hanging off his arm. Now the commander didn''t even notice it. It''d become routine.


    Mirk felt a bit of comfort at that. Even if Genesis didn''t trust his instincts, he at least trusted him enough not to flinch or draw back when he touched him any more. Though, perhaps that trust was a bit misplaced, considering the quiet thrill of happiness that surged up Mirk''s spine at the realization that Genesis didn''t mind his presence. That he could relax in it instead of being ready at a moment''s notice to defend himself. If Genesis knew some of the more worrying thoughts that¡¯d passed through his head recently, Mirk had no doubt that ease would vanish in an instant.


    He did his best to put it out of mind as Genesis lifted his other hand and the shadows rose around them both, enveloping Mirk''s senses in their comforting static. It''d be better if he took his own advice and dealt with his problems one at a time instead of trying to fight them all at once. After all, if executing Genesis''s plans meant making more social calls, the commander was going to need his help as much as Mirk needed Genesis''s.

 Chapter 43

    Mirk had been hoping Christmas Eve Mass would bolster his spirits. It hadn''t quite done the trick.


    The small church tucked away at the very edge of the mage quarter, warded thickly with distraction spells to divert attention away from it, had a different feel to it than those at home. Both the soaring, echoing cathedrals he and his mother would visit on seasonal pilgrimages and the tiny family chapels where their daily prayers were recited had a certain emotional resonance to them. A glow that tempered the low, grumbling voices of their stones with a lighter, airy sound that Mirk couldn''t ever find the exact source of. The remnants of thousands upon thousands of earnest prayers, his father had told him, on one of the rare occasions that he chose to accompany them plainly, cramming himself into a pew not built to accommodate a man of his stature. Or someone with wings.


    Usually he haunted the rafters, as he had since he''d first ventured out of Heaven. Not participating, but observing, basking in the unconscious magic performed by the believers. A prayer was such a small spell, especially when performed by a mortal, that its power couldn''t be felt by even the most sensitive mind-mage. But centuries of them, cried out in alarm or whispered with the utmost devotion, added up.


    That same power lingered around all places humans considered holy, his father had explained. Though he''d made it a point to never comment on whether they attracted the attention of a benevolent Savior as well as that of angels seeking refuge from the elemental chaos and chill of Earth. Mirk suspected that was a conversation his mother had told his father not to have with Mirk until he''d finished his time at the abbey. But he had never taken his vows. And he never would.


    The family that surrounded Mirk at Mass that night had been missing its most important members. Instead, he''d taken the place of the family patriarch at the end of the pew, beside his uncle, who''d seemed ill-at-ease with the whole affair. Mirk thought that Henri must have decided to accept his invitation mostly out of sympathy for him instead of out of a real desire to celebrate Mass, the children coming along too simply because Henri had told them to. Henri had never been a fervent believer, nor had his wife, Isabelle. Mirk''s mother had been the only one among Jean-Luc''s children who''d truly inherited their mother''s faith. His grandmother Enora had passed long before Mirk was born, but both Jean-Luc and Mirk¡¯s aunts had always spoken of her fondly, albeit with a strange note of almost fearful respect. Mirk''s mother had inherited Enora¡¯s faith and her determination, but none of her sternness, his grandfather had always said.


    Apparently, the inheritance decreased a measure with each passing generation. All Mirk had to defend himself with was faith. There was no iron in his blood like there was in his mother''s and grandmother''s. Aside from the sort that was in everyone''s, according to the medical grimoires Mirk still tried on occasion to teach himself from.


    The words of the Mass had been the same, though the Irish priest''s accent gave the Latin an unfamiliar timbre. The gestures, the incense, the song, all of it corresponded with what had been the daily ritual of his life for years. Steady and quiet and sure. But none of the usual certainty that came with listening to Mass made it to Mirk that night. Just the uncomfortable feeling that something was lacking, that he was lacking, the absence of a warm embrace that Mirk had never known he''d been wrapped up in until it was gone. He couldn''t be sure whether the absence was his family or God. Or what had caused him to be cast out of that comfort: the sin that had been pressed upon him, that he''d been powerless to fight away, or the one that he willingly let further into his heart with each passing day, in slow inches, in glances held too long and hands clasped too tightly.


    Either way, Mirk was certain of one thing, once he parted ways with his uncle and cousins at the infirmary steps: he needed a drink. If the Blood of Christ wouldn''t take the memories from him, the Supply Corps'' latest batch of homebrew liquor surely would.


    Though the Easterners'' favorite tavern was packed with infantrymen seated shoulder-to-shoulder alongside working women, huddled bodies massed along the tavern''s tables and benches and the bar against its back wall, it was less boisterous than Mirk had been expecting on a holiday. Maybe more of the men had found families than Mirk thought. Brushing the thought aside with a shake of his head, Mirk sidled through the crowd to the bar, taking care to keep his good cloak wrapped tightly around himself to hide the formal and somber gray three-piece suit he''d worn to Mass.


    It didn''t take him long to spot potential companions for the evening. Mordecai and K''aekniv were at their usual spot at the end of the bar nearest the heat stove. Mordecai was moping over a single half-empty tankard of ale, while K''aekniv pontificated at him on some subject Mordecai didn''t seem terribly interested in, gesturing expansively with his quarter-full bottle as he spoke.


    Mirk yanked the hood of his cloak back and dragged a stool over from the opposite end of the bar to join them, squeezing himself in between the half-angel and the barely-conscious infantryman slumped over the bar beside him. "Hello Niv, Morty," Mirk said, trying his best to force some cheer into his voice. It''d be easier once he had a drink or two in him. "Happy Christmas! Or is it merry..."


    "Mirgosha!" K''aekniv cheered, pivoting on his stool to face him. He nearly knocked Mordecai off his perch with one of his wings in the process. K''aekniv had to have already been drinking for some time. "What do you mean, Christmas? It''s not Christmas for weeks yet."


    "Euh...no? That would explain why it''s not as crowded as I thought it''d be, I suppose..." Mirk caught the bartender''s eye, gesturing at K''aekniv''s half-empty bottle and flashing the man a three with his fingers. "Do the K''maneda celebrate it on a different day?"


    K''aekniv shook his head. "You westerners do it early, like the Poles do. But the last of them went back home three contracts ago. So I didn''t remember. Whatever! We''ll celebrate two times! Bar boy!" he shouted at the barman, not seeming to notice the three bottles he already had in hand. "Drink for my friends! For Christmas!"


    The barman looked to Mirk for guidance, but all he could do was shrug in reply. Assured that someone would be paying eventually, the barman left the bottles on the edge of the bar and hurried off before he could get wrapped up in conversation with any of them. Mordecai perked up at the arrival of fresh drink, leaning across the bar and snatching up a bottle, pulling the cork out with his teeth. "I''ll celebrate anything as long as Niv is buying," he said.


    "You don''t celebrate Christmas?" Mirk asked.


    "Jewish," the teleporting mage replied, by way of explanation.


    K''aekniv nodded, chugging the remains of his first bottle so he could set in on his second along with the rest of them. "We celebrated ha...he..."


    "Hanukkah," Mordecai finished for him, rolling his eyes.


    "Yes! That. We did that the week before last. Eight days! You Jews have it good," K''aekniv paused, his second bottle halfway to his lips, considering. "Well, not really. But eight days of parties? It''s nice."


    "Easy for you to say," Mordecai scoffed, poking K''aekniv in the shoulder with his bottle. "All you had to do was eat all the leftovers I stole. I had to work all day, teleport back home every night, and then get through prayer without passing out. But bubbe only caught me once this year," he said, waving a hand that was bandaged across all four fingers at Mirk. He looked at them with a warm, wistful expression, one that only took on a wincing edge when he tried to clench his fist. "She really is special. Even Danny can''t figure out how to heal her bruises."


    Mirk was a touch lost on how to reply to this. "Euh...the religion isn''t the important part for you, is it?"


    Both men shook their heads in unison. "I''d feast for Vesna if someone bought me a drink first," Mordecai said with a laugh.


    "...better Vesna than Leto..."


    Mirk hadn''t noticed Pavel, pressed up against the wall on the far side of Mordecai, gloomily nursing a bottle of his own. Mirk leaned forward and waved to him, hoping a friendly smile might cheer him some, despite knowing full well that next to nothing ever did. His visions had been tending toward the negative as of late, judging by how often Mirk had caught Pavel trying to sneak sleeping draughts out of the supply closet whenever he stopped by the infirmary to have minor cuts and bruises treated. Mirk had told him that all he had to do was ask for them, but Pavel had insisted that stealing them was the price that he needed to pay for indulging his bad habit, for some strange, half-arcane, half-superstitious reason. "Sorry, I didn¡¯t see you, Pavel! Are you well?" Mirk shouted over the din of the tavern.


    The Seer shrugged, wearily. "More of the same."


    "Who''s Vesna?" Mirk asked, turning his attention back to K''aekniv.


    "The goddess of springtime," K''aekniv said. "Well, maybe goddess is too big. More like really big spirit. Anyway, she''s around then."


    Pavel shook his head. "Vesna''s a man now. Sort of. And Osen''s always been one, more or less." He paused, considering the amount of liquor left in his bottle before taking another long drink and continuing. "Always been an asshole too."


    K''aekniv waved him off. "Ah, whatever. His and Iliusha''s people knew all of them, the season gods."


    "Technically, so did yours," Pavel said, a spark of life coming into him now that he had something to contribute to the conversation. "You got the worse end of it. Zima and Leto are both bastards."


    "I know!" K''aekniv groaned, glancing down at the quantity of liquor left in his fresh bottle. He''d already drained a third of it. The next sip he took was deep nevertheless ¡ª Mirk could feel the annoyance welling up in K¡¯aekniv at the mere mention of the names of the two seasonal deities he was supposedly aligned with. Mirk wasn''t quite certain what Pavel meant by "his people." As far as Mirk knew, K''aekniv had been something of an orphan, raised by a priest and a few aging nuns out in the middle of a forest near some icy, unending sea. And Pavel couldn''t possibly be referring to K¡¯aekniv''s technical father. Mirk didn''t know much about Gaebriel, aside from that he was aligned with Imanael, but he knew well enough what most angels thought about powers that could possibly stand higher than themselves, the Light Eternal excepted. "Zima''s a terrible bastard. Leto''s worse, but I got to stay on the other side of him."


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    "I''m sure he would have found something terrible for someone like you to do," Pavel said, some of his characteristic moroseness returning at the thought of it. "Just having Ilya was enough for him to almost..."


    K''aekniv was the one who broke the silence that fell over the three men, as they all pondered the Seer''s judgment. He slammed back the rest of his bottle, gesturing to the barman for another. "Fuck them! We''re celebrating! If we''re going to talk about them, we should at least talk about a fun part. Did I ever tell you about what happened with Zima and Genesis, Mirgosha?"


    Mirk shook his head. K''aekniv leaned back on his stool, flaring his wings out for balance as he caught the fresh bottle the barman tossed to him. Which the barman followed by shooting Mirk a pointed look, one that made it clear to him that he''d be the one covering K''aekniv''s tab, should the half-angel outdrink the contents of his pockets.


    The mingled frustration and annoyance that had passed over K''aekniv''s emotions, like a rogue cloud on a sunny afternoon, cleared. Left behind was only warm good-humor that matched his wistful expression, the grin that came onto K''aekniv''s face whenever he recounted one of his off-color exploits that was particularly close to his heart. "So! I came here from up north, yes? Far away, in the east. Father Sergei and the sisters gave me all they could to make the going easy, but we were just some poor people in the forest. There wasn''t much. I was out of all the nuts and dried elk and fruit by the time winter caught up to me, and I was shit at finding my own things back then. I was fucked.


    "I was still in the forest somewhere then. Sister Nadia gave me a map to take with, but what do I know about maps? I was just walking. If I kept walking west, I was sure I''d find something. Anyway, it was cold as shit. And I was starving. So I thought to myself, some sleep helps make hungry better, yes? You forget about it a little. And just when I was thinking this, what did I see? Some big stone table in the middle of a clearing. Which is an unlucky thing, now that I know better, but I was a real idiot back then, not a normal idiot like I am now. And I was tired, so I thought, what could it hurt? There''s nothing here. So I laid down on it and wrapped up in all my firs and went to sleep.


    "Then, just before dawn, I wake up. I''m all ice. It''s so cold breathing hurts. And there''s this thing standing over me. I thought I still had to be dreaming, but then he poked me in the face to make sure I was still alive. Holy Mother, was he ugly! A big skeleton man with long black hair full of burrs and black holes for eyes and big bloody teeth. I thought to myself, shit, if this is Koschei, you''re finished. Dead. But, no. It was worse. He started talking to me. He said, little angel, you''re dying, but I''ll spare you and show you back to the road if you make a deal with me. A bad idea, making a deal with someone like him, but what choice did I have? I said, okay, let''s hear it.


    "He tells me he''s Zima, the winter god. He''s looking for his granddaughter. See, that''s why I thought Vesna was still a woman," K''aekniv said as an aside to Pavel, who had become as transfixed as Mordecai was by K''akneiv''s story, despite his better judgment. "He said his granddaughter was from some son he had with Vesna. Anyway, this granddaughter of his, he never learned her real name. He''d never met her. Just that the people called her Snegurochka. The snow maiden, who comes to say goodbye to winter and hello to spring. He wanted to find her and keep her because he was lonely. He had to marry her off to Leto for some bargain they had too, but Zima meant to double-cross him in the end and keep Snegurochka for himself. He told me that he''d heard she was somewhere out west, close enough but too far away for him to go get her himself. I''m going west anyway, so he told me I needed to go find her for him and bring her back. Fine, I could probably find someone like that, and he said I had three years to do it, and three years sounds like forever when you''re thirteen. I said yes, it''s a deal. So Zima did something to warm me up and he sent me off.


    "It took, what, three more months to get here?" K''aekniv looked to Mordecai for a moment, who nodded in confirmation. "It was easy once I found Mordka''s village, since he could jump us ahead for miles even when he didn''t know where he was going. Anyway, once we all got to the City, there were so many things happening that I forgot all about Zima and his granddaughter.


    ¡°But then, one winter, we''re all out on the parade grounds doing practice and all these skeleton things come at us out of the snow. Smelled terrible! And had big claws and teeth. And then there was this big fat gray goose once we got rid of them, with a note tied to its neck. It''s Zima. He wants his granddaughter. Either I bring her to the forest in a week, or he sends ten times as many skeletons to eat me.


    "What was I supposed to do? There¡¯s no Snegurochka in England. Even if she''d gone west, no one comes this far whose magic is part of the forest and the sea and whatever back home. And I don''t have time to go back home and really look around for her. So Mordka and I came up with a plan. Genesis, he looks a little like Zima, you know, a skeleton with black hair who has magic that feels like it''s going to tear you apart. We can make this work. Zima had never seen his Snegurochka anyway. He couldn''t know whether she looked like him or like Vesna. So we went and talked to the girls and borrowed one of the skinniest one¡¯s dresses and that paint they put on their faces and stole something from the kitchen to give him tits and when we''re done...eh, Gen almost looks like a woman."


    Mirk laughed into his drink, shaking his head. "Methinks it must have been hard to get Gen to agree to that..."


    K''aekniv shrugged. "We promised him we''d do some work...anyway, that''s not the fun part. So we had Mordka take all five of us back east, to where Pasha said he could feel Zima. But Leto was there too, with all his poludnitsi and big burning men, ready to get married to Zima''s granddaughter. Now, we didn''t tell Gen about that part, so he was pretty mad at all of us. But it''s fine, we tell him we''ll just do the wedding and then we''ll run away before Leto can do anything.


    "But Leto''s not an idiot. Zima, he thought to himself, this woman...it could be my granddaughter. I''ve never seen her. But Leto, he took one look at Gen and said to Zima, since when does your granddaughter have a dick, huh?"


    K''aekniv and Mordecai both collapsed into gales of laughter at the memory of it. Even Pavel smiled some, though it seemed like all the talk of Leto and Zima had put him on edge. Their mirth was infectious. Mirk had to put down his bottle so he didn''t drop it with all his snickering. "Anyway," K''aekniv continued. "It was shit. We had to fight our way out. But that was the last time I ever saw Zima. And that," he concluded, grinning at Mirk and taking a sip from his bottle with a self-satisfied air, "is why we call Genesis Snegurochka."


    "I''d always wondered why you call him that," Mirk said, once he''d caught his breath and composed himself a little.


    "Even without the story, it''s good. He''s a cold bitch, she''s the snow maiden...it works."


    "That''s a little mean, Niv..."


    "Ah, he doesn''t mind, not really. The bigger the story behind the nickname, the more it means you love them. Anyone could come up with Gena or Gesha, but Snegurochka, it''s something special. Close to our hearts."


    "Speak for yourself," Pavel said with a snort, though he was still smiling.


    "Besides, you know me. I could have come up with something worse. In the K''maneda, you take what you can get."


    Mirk sighed, spinning his bottle on the edge of the bar as he thought, appreciating the feel of the other men''s nostalgia against his shields ¡ª K''aekniv''s hot and strong, Mordecai''s lighter and energetic, Pavel''s still tinged with a hint of sadness. K''aekniv did have a point. Mirk had heard plenty of the nicknames he''d come up with for the officers he truly disliked. Generally, they were vulgar. And they always captured some element of the man in question that he hated about himself, even if he never spoke it aloud. "Do you know where Gen went? He hasn''t been back for a few days. Methinks it''s a little sad, being all alone on Christmas. Though I suppose he must not celebrate it."


    Really, it wasn¡¯t Genesis who¡¯d be sad to be alone on Christmas. He was the one who felt a little disheartened every time that he came back to empty quarters. But Mirk elected not to explain that part. And the three Easterners had enough liquor in them by then not to notice.


    Mordecai laughed. "You can''t twist his arm into celebrating anything but the Festival of Shades. And even then, all he does is give us some lecture and then goes off to read a book once the real party starts."


    "What about his birthday?¡± Mirk asked. ¡°Though, I suppose that''s probably even worse than a holiday that everyone celebrates together..."


    The men all shot each other confused looks. "Who knows what day they''re born on?" K''aekniv asked him. "You celebrate your saint''s day. And he has none."


    Mirk hadn''t considered that. Everyone he knew from at home knew when they were born; birthdays were always a suitable, lighthearted excuse for a party or a ball without necessarily having to go to devotions beforehand. But he supposed things had to be different for the Easterners, closer to the traditions of the poor in the countryside that he''d served alongside Father Jean. They only celebrated their name days, and only when there wasn''t too much other work to be done. "None of you know what day you were born on?" Mirk asked. Most of the peasants around the abbey knew, though that was more Sister Louise''s doing than anything else. She had a certain madness for records. And was the best midwife for miles.


    Mordecai mulled the question over, drumming his fingers on his bottle. "I was born in summer, I think..."


    Pavel shrugged. "Spring."


    "Ah, I do know, now that I think about it," K''aekniv said. "Mother Vera counted days back so she could put better curses on me. But I always forget the number...January...twenty-fifth? The twenty-eighth? Whatever, it''s not important. But all you rich people know for sure. The officers always want to do something stupid for themselves."


    Mirk nodded, unable to keep from feeling a little guilty about having brought the subject up. And about how readily he knew his own number. "February twenty-second."


    "But Gen, he needs to know. Because it''s important for some big spells...what was it, Pasha? October....no, November..."


    "First!" Mordecai blurted out, grinning, since he''d beaten Pavel for once.


    "Oh...so we just missed it," Mirk said, mostly to himself. That knowledge only made the guilt worse, though he knew the feeling was misplaced. Genesis, like the others had said, wasn''t the sort of man who liked to draw attention to himself, even if it was for a happy occasion. But if Mirk had known it was the commander''s birthday, he would have done a small something for him, just to take the edge off the mundane trials of life that came along with being a K''maneda. Perhaps he could have bought him fresh meat from the market, or found extra components for Genesis to make all his cleaning potions and tinctures and soaps with. "I suppose I''ll just have to settle for doing something for Christmas then, even if he doesn''t celebrate. And since yours isn''t for a while yet, I still have time to find something for all of you too."


    K''aekniv sighed, the mental warmth of his friendly affection growing as he reached out and put an arm around Mirk''s shoulders. "Ah, you''re too good for all of us, Mirgosha."


    Mirk smiled, leaning against him for a moment, enjoying the feel of the inhuman heat that always radiated off that side of his body coupled with the warmth of his emotions. Even if it did come along with the smell of musty feathers and dried blood. "It''s what friends do. And since I have so much...well, it''s only fair."


    "Oh...everyone''s already here..."


    K''aekniv ducked one wing, peering over his shoulder at the sound of the quiet voice from behind them. Mirk couldn''t have looked even if he wanted to ¡ª the weight of K''aekniv''s arm made it impossible to move much. "Iliusha! You came!"


    The final member of the group had arrived. He shuffled over to Mirk''s other side, prodding at the now unconscious infantryman who was snoring away on the stool beside him, collapsed over the bar. When the man didn''t so much as twitch, Ilya shrugged and lifted him up under the arms, setting the infantryman down on the floor, propped up against the bar, and took his place. There was an intense smell of sulfur coming from Ilya''s clothes, which were singed in places and smeared with different color powders. "I finished the supplies for next week. They can send as many mages as they want...they won''t be able to get every shell...the most beautiful ones yet..."


    K''aekniv let go of Mirk''s shoulders, shoving himself fully upright on his stool and flexing his wings. "Since everyone''s here now, why don''t we do some music, eh? I''ll teach you the Christmas dance," he said to Mirk, nudging him in the side. "So you''re ready for when it comes."


    Mirk smiled and nodded, motioning for the barman to bring over a bottle for Ilya as well. If things descended into singing and dancing at the tavern, usually that meant the tab was bound to triple. But Mirk didn''t mind. And he wasn''t about to let K''aekniv foot the bill.


    It was a small price to pay to not have to spend the rest of Christmas Eve alone.

 Chapter 44

    It was well after three in the morning by the time Mirk stumbled back to the quarters he shared with Genesis. He paused outside the door for a moment, looking hopefully to the lock. But it showed no signs of budging, no wisps of shadows played around it, hinting that the door might be inclined to open on its own. Sighing, Mirk leaned against the wall as he searched his pockets for his keys.


    Genesis was still gone. And it was silly of him to hope otherwise. He was too old to be thinking of Christmas miracles.


    Once he''d finally dug his key out of the very last pocket he checked, Mirk let himself in and waved on the magelights. Everything was exactly where it''d been when he''d left; there was no sign that Genesis had returned. Nevertheless, he still found himself going to Genesis¡¯s desk to check its contents once he''d toed off his shoes. All the things there were in order ¡ª the same books were piled off to one side, the same sheets of mage parchment and pen and inkwell and bits of pencil, perfectly sharpened, were on the opposite. And his own potions kit was still in the middle, at the rear edge of the desk, all the bottles and vials filled evenly to the top. Just as Mirk had been expecting, he wasn''t the one who''d been keeping the kit stocked. Before Mirk could ever remember to pick up a fresh bottle of this or that from the infirmary or the apothecary, the components were replenished, without comment.


    The desk wouldn''t have given him any hints regardless, Mirk knew. Genesis was the sort of man who always left time before he went out to tidy things, so that everything would be to his liking when he returned. And Mirk did his best not to disturb anything while Genesis was away. It made him feel like a part of Genesis was still there, to keep everything in its meticulous rows. Sighing again and shaking his head, Mirk waved off the magelights and shuffled off to the bedroom.


    K''aekniv really had talked him into having too much to drink. He was being especially silly that night.


    At least he wouldn''t have to fumble through the magic bath''s array of control runes half-drunk if Genesis still wasn''t there. Mirk had done his best to remember to wash thoroughly every night before bed, even when Genesis wasn''t there, but his old habits were catching up with him. Mirk only ever bothered now when the infirmary made such a mess of him that he was likely to leave blood or other, worse things, behind on the blankets if he wasn''t careful to scrub every last inch of himself.


    Mirk undid the clasp on his cloak, tugging it off his shoulders and tossing it aside across his trunk before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Only his mother''s trunk remained at the foot of the bed. He''d tried edging his father''s trunk underneath it so many times, to put it out of sight and out of mind, that the bed grudgingly decided to accept it into the shadows lurking around its underside even though it logically shouldn¡¯t have fit. The fact that all of Genesis''s personal possessions tended to develop a certain disgruntled personality after a few weeks had concerned Mirk at first, but he was growing accustomed to it. As long as he took a firm hand with them, they seemed inclined, for the most part, to listen to him. Mirk didn''t know what that said about their owner''s opinion of him.


    Fatigue washed over him now that he was off his feet. He really needed to change out of his good clothes, lest he wrinkle them beyond salvaging. But his night at the tavern with the Easterners, though more enjoyable than one spent alone in the empty quarters, had drained him. Their merriment grew stronger the more they drank, leaving no room in his head for him to dwell on his own thoughts, especially once he was half-drunk as well. Now that he was alone, Mirk''s worries were creeping back up on him, just like the shadows curling out from underneath the bed, playing about his ankles, testing him, confirming he was who he seemed.


    What kind of gift could Genesis possibly want? The Easterners were easy enough to handle ¡ª drinks all around, an extra pair of boots, a second warm coat for Ilya who kept burning holes through his and who really needed the protection from the cold, unlike K''aekniv. And he''d promised K¡¯aekniv that he''d go with him to the market in London on the best day off they had near Eastern Christmas to buy enough food for the half-angel to cook all the special dishes that the men would be missing from home. But Genesis? It couldn''t be anything pricey; he''d surely have something to say about putting his "royalist blood money" to better use if he did that. And Genesis wasn''t fond of food, and he made all his own cleaning potions, and he bought all his uniforms in bulk as soon as the Seventh got paid from their contracts.


    Despite being fully dressed, Mirk found himself shivering. Being drunk always made him feel cold, though his cheeks were always hot and flushed when he pressed his hands against them. And winter had truly come to the City by then. It wasn¡¯t unbearably cold, but it was much worse than the weather on the other side of its walls. Mirk blew on his hands a few times, then rubbed them together fast. It was no use. He wished he had something decent to wear still, one of the special sets of gloves or socks or shirts that he''d had at home with magic woven in among their fibers to make them self-warming.


    The thought of them sparked a memory. Mirk scooted down to the foot end of the bed, pushing his cloak off the top of his mother¡¯s trunk and opening it. There was nothing in it but odds and ends, sentimental things that Genesis wouldn''t appreciate cluttering his immaculate quarters. And all of his spare quilts. Mirk dug through them, down to the very bottom of the trunk, until he found it.


    It was, admittedly, a fairly ugly blanket. He''d sewn it himself out of scrap ends of this and that, to pass the time when a particularly nasty winter had cut the social season short. He''d been saving its special qualities for the dead of winter, though he¡¯d already been tempted several times to use it.  Mirk searched the border of the quilt, turning it around and around in his lap, until he found the activation rune stitched in yellow thread near one of its corners. Mirk pressed it. With a few sparks of reddish gold magic, the blanket began to warm itself. He hadn''t made the spell himself, of course ¡ª that was the kind of thing one purchased, provided one knew who to ask ¡ª and it was nearly five years old by then. Nearing the end of its potency. He disengaged the spell, balling the quilt up in his lap and thinking.


    A mage like K''aekniv or Ilya, who didn''t have any formal training, wouldn''t know the right spells to renew its potential. But to a mage like Elijah, it would be as simple as breathing. And now that they were good enough friends...and now that he knew where all the better fabric shops in mortal London were, from talking with Madame Beaumont...


    Smiling to himself, Mirk wrapped himself up in the blanket and slouched sideways on the bed. He needed to undress. But the will to bother was leaving him fast. Surely Genesis would be able to get the wrinkles out of his suit, if it came to that. And as long as he was wrapped up in his own blanket, there was no risk of dirtying Genesis''s bedclothes. Instead of getting up, Mirk swung his legs up onto the bed and waved off the magelights with the same gesture and settled in to sleep.


    Having one less thing to worry about made it ten times easier, even if he wasn''t going to waste the blanket''s last bit of warming potential on himself.


    -   -   -


    Mirk had thought he would need to be cunning about things. There was nowhere in their quarters he could leave the half-finished blanket without Genesis taking note of it, even if the commander didn''t guess the ultimate aim of his sewing. He''d thought he might have to take it to the infirmary, stashing it in the room his family had vacated two days after Christmas, when they''d set off back to Bordeaux with Kali and a group of ten ladies in tow, all of whom were much more excited and intrigued by their assignment than Kali herself.


    He needn''t have worried. Genesis was well and truly gone, and K''aekniv had no idea when the commander would return. All K¡¯aekniv knew about where Genesis had gone was that Comrade Commander North of the First Infantry had been hounding Genesis lately about some favor he owed him. Mirk had been a little put out by the fact that Genesis had forgotten to tell anyone he was leaving, yet again, his melancholy compounded by not having his family''s company any longer, but he tried to look on the bright side of things. He could work on the blanket out in the open, without fear of being discovered. And if it took him past Eastern Christmas to finish it, there were good odds that Genesis still wouldn''t be back in time to notice he was late.


    The quilt got left in plain view atop the bed while Mirk was off working his shifts at the infirmary. He had struggled to remember the spells, but a bit of trial and error had done the trick. Making self-sewing charms continue to run at a distance was a boon to anyone working on a large project. A small convenience his mother had taught him, the only way to get basic needlework done while maintaining a busy social calendar. Every morning Mirk laid out the next batch of blue, gray and black pieces he''d cut out the night before at the bottom edge of the blanket, then set the charm to work and hurried off. When he came back, the blanket was a foot or so further along. It was turning out better than he''d expected. He only needed to redo a few sections of it where the stitching had veered slightly off-center.


    If he was going to sew something for Genesis, it was imperative that the stitches be perfectly aligned. Otherwise Genesis would undoubtedly pick them all out and try to fix them himself. And Genesis was terrible at sewing.


    Mirk finished the blanket right on time, the night before when the Easterners had decided to celebrate their Christmas. All that was left to do was stitch the renewed warming spell into its corner. Elijah, as he''d expected, had been happy to fill it near to combusting with his magic without asking for anything in return other than answers to more of his odd questions about Genesis''s opinion on things. The part of Mirk that was spending too much time listening to the other healers of the Twentieth gossip in low tones about K''maneda ruthlessness warned him to be suspicious, to suspect plots and backstabbing. But his empathy convinced him to ignore it. The degree of enthusiasm Elijah had over what brand of mage parchment Genesis favored would have taken a master mind-mage to fake.


    Once he had the spell sewn back into place, all that remained was to fold it as square as he could and wrap it up in brown paper ¡ª Genesis would protest anything prettier, as unwarranted finery ¡ª and set it aside for when the commander returned.


    He was even more drunk the evening of Eastern Christmas, finally reeling back from the tavern nearly at dawn, than he''d been on his own. But that time, the door to his quarters had come open on its own the instant his fingers closed around the knob. Cheered by this, Mirk stumbled in, doing his best to compose himself. "Genesis?" he called out into the darkness past the threshold. "Are you back?"


    "One would think that to be...evident."


    Mirk elected to wave on the magelights rather than slapping about on the wall for their control rune. What he saw when their yellow glow filled the room made him give a hiccuping gasp.


    "Gen! What''s happened to you?"


    Genesis was too distracted to comment on his shortening of his proper name. He was seated in his armchair, his attention focused on his entirely bruised and broken left hand, fiddling his index finger this way and that in an attempt to straighten it. That wasn''t even the most concerning of his injuries. Genesis''s neck was wrapped up from collarbones to chin in thick black bandages that had been so saturated with blood for so long that Mirk could smell it from across the room. From the sparks of pain escaping through his hissing, chaotic aura, Mirk judged that the commander had done absolutely nothing to treat either the wound on his neck or his injured hand other than the bare minimum. "A minor inconvenience," Genesis said, without looking over at him.


    Mirk hastily pried off his shoes and whipped off his cloak before going to him. Something about the sight of Genesis in shambles always had a sobering effect on him ¡ª Mirk didn''t feel entirely himself, but he no longer felt like he was capable of doing nothing more than stumbling to bed and collapsing. He didn''t even have to concentrate too hard to keep moving in a straight line as he crossed the room to Genesis''s side. "How are you always breaking your hands, messire? It doesn''t seem possible..."


    "Attempted disarming spells. They can be deflected, but there are...consequences."


    "Tiens, let me look at it."


    Genesis finally looked away from his hand, regarding Mirk with one of his odd, bared-teeth frowns. "You''re drunk."


    Mirk brushed aside Genesis¡¯s concern, using a bit of magic to call his work bag over to himself from the desk across the room. He got it on the first try; that should be proof enough for Genesis that he was still capable enough, even if he was tipsy. Then he sat down on the edge of the malevolent ottoman in front of Genesis. The commander had to be badly drained. The ottoman didn''t even try to dodge out from underneath him. "I need to be like this to heal most of the time anyway," Mirk said, when Genesis didn''t extend his hand out to him. "Please, let me see it? You know how hard it is to break your bones again once they''ve settled crooked."


    Sighing, Genesis finally held out his hand. Mirk took hold of his wrist and pulled his hand closer, though he didn''t manage to catch himself before he could roll his eyes over Genesis''s intransigence. The shadows curled weakly about Mirk¡¯s ankles, ready to squeeze or jerk should they decide his meddling with their master became intolerable. Though they weren''t strong enough that night to be much more than an annoyance. If he was honest with himself, Mirk barely even noticed them any more, even when they had the power to whip him off his feet.


    Starting with the littlest finger, Mirk began to work at straightening the bones of Genesis¡¯s hand and healing them back into place. Thankfully, the past few days at the infirmary had been easy. And healing Genesis had become so commonplace for him, so depressingly mundane, that it didn''t take nearly as much of his life-giving potential as it once had.


    "I do hope you are...not so intoxicated you can''t keep them straight," Genesis said, crossly, as he watched Mirk work. But he didn''t try to pull his hand back either.


    "Don''t worry about it," Mirk said. "Where have you been? You were gone almost a whole month this time. Niv said something about Comrade Commander North..."


    "A certain mage on North''s present contract had been causing him...undue trouble."


    "Oh? We haven''t been getting many men from the First at the infirmary."


    "They are not living long enough to be transported back. Nor are there sufficient...remains to be returned to the basement."


    Mirk swallowed hard, trying to put the thought of it out of mind. "It''s a good thing you went to help him, then."


    "A...tactical decision. North can only hold on for so long. And after he fails, it will be the Seventh that is sent out. Though I suspect...we will be sent regardless. We avoided being involved in the last contract spoiled by...noble idiocy. It is only a matter of time."


    "Well, hopefully it makes things easier for everyone at least," Mirk said, not lifting his eyes from Genesis''s hand. His middle finger was crushed, its bones jumbled and nearly poking through his skin in places. Probably because Genesis had forced himself to keep using it as if nothing was wrong until he''d been able to return. "Though I would appreciate it if you''d tell someone when you''re going to be gone for a long time. I always wonder if you''re trapped somewhere..."


    Genesis''s voice was puzzled. "You can''t leave Earth. It''s...irrelevant."


    "Still. Methinks it wouldn''t be hard to get one of the combat healers to find you and bring you back to the infirmary, even if they can''t heal you."


    "There''s no reason for concern. If I am too injured to return, then there are...little odds of the healers returning either. It''s pointless to waste them."


    The brandy in his veins made it easier to push the dark implications of Genesis''s statement out of his mind before they could settle and ruin the pleasant afterglow of the Easterners'' Christmas party. But Mirk still didn''t appreciate it. "I just worry about you, messire. I''d feel better knowing where you are, even if I can''t do anything."


    "I...see."


    From the lengthy pause between the two words, it was clear to Mirk that Genesis didn¡¯t.


    Silence fell between them, punctuated only by the crunching of bone. Mirk worked through all four of Genesis''s fingers slowly, his mind growing more focused and the world growing less golden the longer he worked at them. Genesis''s hands were such fragile things, when the magic they could wield was taken out of the equation. It really shouldn''t have come as a shock that he broke them so often. There was barely any flesh on them to offer them protection. Just sinewy muscle and tender cold, white skin. Genesis¡¯s fingers were delicate, finer than the best eastern porcelain. And yet they were capable of so much force, much more than his own sturdy, stumpy warm fingers could manage.


    It took a good half hour, but Mirk got all of Genesis¡¯s fingers straightened out to his satisfaction. He held onto his hand for a minute or two in a futile attempt to warm it before releasing him. "Does everything feel right?"


    Genesis lifted his hand, flexing his fingers in an arcane gesture and peering at it critically. "Fully restored."


    "Good. Now, come here so I can take a look at your neck."


    Though Genesis shifted his armchair closer, Mirk found that he couldn''t reach the commander''s neck without making him hunch over. He decided to stand instead, reassured by how easy it was to lever himself to his feet. Mirk picked at the end of the bandages around Genesis''s neck, doing his best not to disturb any clots that''d formed beneath them. The bandages were wrapped tight, so tight it was a marvel Genesis could breathe. Did he even need to? The fact that Genesis drew in a deep, watery breath as soon as the tightest coils were undone made Mirk suspect that he did.


    Once all the bandages were undone, Mirk could see the breath in Genesis''s ruined neck as well as hear it. It had been viciously slashed open, weeping blood and serum now that the bandages had been removed, though Mirk had succeeded in not breaking any of the major clots. Upon closer inspection, Mirk realized the wound been open long enough for Genesis''s body to attempt to heal it on its own. The blow had been deep enough to sever vital arteries and veins, but Genesis''s body had repaired them to the point that they were no longer at risk of gushing open. It''d done it in its usual backwards, fractal, disjointed wy. That explained why his pulse was so quick ¡ª not from pain, but from Genesis''s heart compensating for the extra kinks and turns it now had to force blood through to get it to his head.


    Mirk sighed. "How long has this been open?"


    "A day. Perhaps ten hours more."


    "You could have bled to death just leaving it open like this," Mirk tisked, resisting the urge to put his hands on his hips, knowing that Genesis would balk at him touching his neck afterwards. "You should have come back as soon as this happened."


    "The work wasn''t finished."


    "You can''t do more work if you''re dead, Genesis."


    "It''s fine. I...appreciate my limitations."


    Mirk sincerely doubted that. But it was pointless to argue. Better to get the wound healed and get Genesis to bed than debate the finer points of the commander''s limitations, as he so put it. He set to work, beginning with the delicate and complicated task of healing anew the parts of him that had healed themselves wrong. It was tricky undoing the damage without creating fresh holes that would have released all the spare blood Genesis''s body had managed to regenerate all over them both. But Mirk made do. With Genesis''s magic so weak and cooperative, even though Genesis himself was as intransigent as always, it wasn''t as much of a nightmare as it''d seemed at first glance.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He was starting to feel weak once he''d set all the internal structures straight and could turn to the task of closing the wound. That took more potential, but less concentration. By the time Genesis''s neck was fully whole again, Mirk didn''t have the strength left to deal with the resulting scar with his own magic. Instead, he rummaged around in his work bag for the jar of scar fading balm he''d tailored to Genesis''s strange magic and body after the incident with Samael and the binding spell on Genesis''s forearms. It hadn''t worked on those scars, but it got the job done everywhere else.


    On most patients, leaving a scar behind for later, or never attending to it all, was a given. But Genesis''s magic worked on scars too, albeit with the ones on his forearms excepted. His body would turn the scar into an ugly, purple, raised and twisted thing. Genesis wasn''t the sort to be bothered by being disfigured ¡ª vanity was the least of his vices ¡ª but Mirk knew that his hatred of unevenness would eventually make Genesis start picking at it, trying to make it level and straight until the wound was perpetually half-open again. It''d be better to get rid of it now, with the balm, before his body could wreak havoc on it.


    Mirk scooped a generous amount of it out of the jar, rubbing his hands together to activate and warm it before setting in on Genesis''s neck. He worked it into the scar that stretched from ear to ear slowly, pressing the balm into it in smooth, deliberate circles until it faded. After another fifteen minutes, Genesis''s neck had returned to normal: slender, pale, long, just like the rest of him. Mirk did his best not to dwell too long on the appeal of any of it, though he couldn''t keep himself from lingering a little, marveling at how soft his skin grew back, and how little difference there was between the fresh parts and the rest of it, kept conditioned by Genesis''s ritual baths. Drawing in a deep breath, Mirk forced himself to take a step back, crossing his arms now that he wouldn''t be touching Genesis''s skin again. "There. Does everything feel right? Can you breathe well? Heart beating better?"


    Genesis nodded. "You have corrected things fully. As...always."


    "Thank you for the praise, messire," Mirk replied with a chuckle.


    "I am being honest. Not...praising you."


    "Oh, I know. But it ends up the same, non?" As Mirk turned his thoughts to the problem of forcing Genesis to go to bed instead of letting the commander use his recovery as an excuse to stay up until dawn at his desk, the memory of the blanket he''d left wrapped in brown paper atop his trunk in the bedroom came to him. "Stay there," Mirk said, as he left to go fetch it. "I have something for you."


    Though Genesis seemed confused, he stayed put. The commander''s confusion only deepened when Mirk returned from the bedroom and presented him with the package. He turned it over slowly in his hands, face going blank as he studied it. "What is this?"


    "A Christmas present! I know you don''t celebrate, but it felt a little rude to get something for everyone else but you. And I missed your birthday already. Why didn''t you mention it?"


    "I was not aware knowing my exact date of birth was...important to your spells."


    Mirk caught himself before he could roll his eyes that time, though he wrung his hands together behind his back instead. "It''s not. But it''s nice to have a day where you get to feel special, isn''t it?"


    Genesis shook his head, his frown returning at the thought of it. "I would rather not."


    He supposed he should have anticipated that sort of response. Another thing not worth arguing over. "Alors, go ahead and open it."


    Rather than ripping it open, Genesis carefully undid each of the bits of tack Mirk had used to close the wrapping, unfolding the brown paper as if he expected it to explode if he handled it too roughly. Mirk thought the blanket had turned out well. It wasn''t the work of a professional, and not even half as good as his mother''s, but all the stitches were straight and equal. And he felt like he''d arranged the different colored fragments into a pleasing design, balanced half-curves of the two lighter colors against black. Though Genesis probably would have preferred for it to be all black, like everything else he owned, Mirk knew his vision would have gone permanently crossed from staring at nothing but black thread on black fabric for hours on end.


    Just as carefully as he''d unfolded the paper, Genesis did the same with the blanket, spreading it out across the top of the ottoman Mirk had vacated. "This is magicked," he said, after studying it a moment longer.


    "It''s self-warming." Mirk leaned down and pressed the corner of the blanket where the activation rune was stitched, worked into the motif so that it wouldn''t stand out too much. "Can you feel it?"


    Genesis slid his fingertips between the folds of the blanket, his frown lightening, just a fraction. "Yes. It is...warm."


    "So? What do you think?"


    He considered the question with more seriousness than it deserved, choosing his words carefully. "I...own several blankets."


    "But do you own a warming blanket? I know a normal blanket doesn''t do much for you, since you aren''t very warm to begin with. This should help more. And it''s always so cold in here..."


    Genesis deactivated the warming spell and folded the blanket back into a compact square, one that was much more even than what Mirk had managed. "Exactly how much gold did you spend on this?"


    "Not that much. Honest! I had the warming spell on an old quilt of mine, so I just needed to take it out and have a mage renew it. And the fabric...well, I know how you are, messire. I knew you wouldn''t like anything fancy. It isn''t as if those are the most fashionable colors. And I did all of the sewing myself."


    Genesis had moved on to folding the brown paper, after first using the dregs of his magic to get rid of the spots of tack left on it. But the last bit of Mirk''s rambling gave him pause. "You...made this?"


    Mirk nodded. "I did cheat a little with magic to keep the straight stitching going while I was at the infirmary, but the rest I did by hand."


    "I wasn''t aware you knew this skill."


    "Maman would have rather taught Kae to sew, I''m sure, but Kae could never sit still long enough. I can sew...embroider...tat...knit..."


    Glancing back at the blanket, Genesis ran one finger over a line of its stitching, as if testing its regularity. Mirk wasn''t certain whether the pursed-lip expression he made was a sign of approval or not. "It seems...frivolous to teach such things to an individual with so many servants."


    Mirk shrugged. "What else are noble ladies to do? Enchanting and needlework is really all there is. I suppose I should have been taught to fight instead, or ride better, but you know how that went. My father and his guard couldn''t get even the basics into me. And I was too gentle on the horses to do well at riding, at least, that''s what my tutors said. So I learned this instead. Even you have to admit, Genesis, that being able to mend your own clothes is a useful skill to have. You''re always saying it''s not good to be wasteful."


    The commander didn''t seem to know what to do with this information, or with the blanket, or even with the brown paper, which he''d fiddled into a perfect square and placed exactly atop the center of the folded blanket. "Thank you," he finally said, after a lengthy pause.


    Smiling, Mirk ducked his head. He knew he''d get a thanks out of Genesis eventually ¡ª it was just a matter of him taking the time to first understand what he had to thank Mirk for. "De rien. Happy Christmas. Or, well, everyone says it''s the Festival of Shades that you do celebrate, so consider it a gift for that, if it makes things easier."


    "I assume this exchange implies that I...owe you some future debt."


    Mirk laughed. "Pas de tout! It''s a gift, Genesis. The whole point is to give something to someone to show you were thinking of them, not to get something in return."


    "You would understand this tradition better than I do." Nevertheless, Genesis still looked deeply uncomfortable with the whole exchange, uneasy. It wasn''t the reaction Mirk had been hoping for, but he assumed Genesis would get over his hesitation eventually. Probably once he felt how nice it was not to be freezing half to death the whole night.


    "Well, I should take a bath," Mirk said, picking his work bag off the floor beside Genesis''s chair and hooking it over his shoulder. "You know how it is whenever you go out to the tavern with Niv and the rest. No matter how careful you are, you always end up a mess by the end of the night."


    "...vividly."


    Yet he lingered beside Genesis still, his eyes drifting from the frown that''d come onto his face at the mention of the tavern down over his healed neck. "Try to sleep a little tonight, messire? I may have healed all your wounds, but your body still needs rest. You don''t want to catch a cold."


    "I will...endeavor to make an attempt."


    It was the best Mirk could do, short of physically hauling the commander to bed and tying him down. But Mirk had a feeling Genesis would go along with things for once. As he headed off toward the bedroom to collect his towel and nightshirt, Mirk saw Genesis lean forward in his chair again to fuss with the blanket again, tugging at one of its corners. It wasn''t much, really, but Mirk was accustomed to getting only the most muted displays of approval from Genesis. And even if it was only a slight acknowledgement, he had given his thanks and praise. And that meant a lot, coming from Genesis.


    At least, it did to him. And it made all the pricked fingers and the crick in his neck from the hours of stitching worth it.


    -  -  -


    It was cold.


    It wasn''t the normal sort of cold, the lingering, cloying kind Mirk had grown accustomed to over his months spent in the City. That night''s cold was bitter and hard, bone-deep and demanding. The spells on the infirmary meant to keep the heat in hadn''t done much to ward it off all evening. And what little comfort he''d found hidden in its depths, shut up in a workroom far from any outside windows or doors until long after when he was supposed to have left, had been ripped away the moment he was down the front steps. By the time he''d made it back to the low-born officers'' dormitory, Mirk''s hands and feet had gone numb.


    How could it be so terribly, impossibly cold, only two weeks after the new year? Mirk knew the logical explanation for it: the City''s chaotic magic warped the weather that passed over it, making both hot and cold snaps and dampness in every form worse than it was beyond its walls. But that didn''t make it feel right. Or fair. Or bearable.


    All those things had been in short supply around the City for the past week. Genesis''s efforts to help the men of the First hadn''t been in vain, but they hadn''t exactly fixed anything either: before he''d locked himself in the workroom, Mirk had spent the whole afternoon up to his elbows in innards, filled to the brim with blockers and alcohol that didn''t really help take the edge off. Mirk tried to convince himself that it was better than before. Men were making it back, even if half of them still died on the table. But that didn''t change the fact that all he saw when he closed his eyes was blood and ripped flesh and Danu releasing another man''s soul to eternity, shaking her head.


    His patients'' pain lingered in his mind even once he¡¯d collapsed into bed, working at him steadily, leaving him staring into the pitch blackness of the bedroom rather than drifting off to sleep. With the cold on top of all that, Mirk didn''t know how he could be expected to be up and ready to help with the aftermath of yesterday''s wounded at dawn. Mirk had already tried all the tricks he knew to get to sleep. He''d piled on all the spare quilts from his trunk, had an extra nip of brandy, recited a few passes of his mother''s rosary. None of it helped. Which meant he was still freezing and wide awake when Genesis finally appeared, at some ungodly hour of the morning, to try to get some sleep as well.


    Rather than turning over to greet him, Mirk elected to stay still under his pile of blankets, listening. There wasn''t much to hear. He''d only noticed that Genesis had returned in the first place due to the feel of his magic playing at the edges of his senses, the chaos''s cold static practically feeling warm in comparison to the chill in the bedroom. There was the muted sound of the commander double-checking the lock on the door. Then there was nothing but absolute silence and stillness, until he felt the other side of the bed give slightly under Genesis''s weight.


    Part of Mirk wanted to turn then, to ask Genesis where he''d been and if the First''s contract was as bad as it seemed from the infirmary. But he''d decided against it. If Genesis had wanted to talk, he would have. Mirk had no doubt that Genesis knew he was still awake, still able to hear the cadence of his breathing and the tempo of his heartbeat despite being mummified in quilts.


    More stillness. More silence. Mirk squeezed his eyes shut tight against the dark. Though he tried to quiet his mind, Mirk still found himself wondering. Did his being awake keep Genesis from falling asleep? Despite having shared a bed with him for weeks now, he''d never actually seen Genesis sleep. The commander''s ritual was to come to bed early in the morning and leave a scant few hours later, before Mirk woke up. If he''d been the kind of person who woke up in the middle of the night, Mirk supposed, he might have glimpsed it once or twice. But he''d always been a solid sleeper. Once he fell asleep, that was.


    Which still wasn''t happening. Lifting his hands to his mouth, Mirk blew on them as quietly as he could in an attempt to warm them. It did nothing. The room was so cold that Mirk had no doubt he''d have been able to see his breath hanging in the air, had it not been so impossibly dark. Miserably, Mirk double-checked to make sure there weren''t any gaps in his armor of blankets, then clasped a pillow over his head in frustration. And in search of every bit of spare heat he could conserve.


    "...Mirk."


    He startled at the sound of Genesis''s voice, uncurling a little, but unwilling to throw back the blankets and flop over to look at him. Not that Genesis needed his face to be bared to the cold to be able to hear him. "Euh...yes?"


    "You''re shaking."


    Mirk hadn''t noticed it. Curious, Mirk tapped the magelight around his wrist and held a hand out in front of his face to check, wondering if it was something anyone could perceive, or if it was yet another trick of Genesis''s inhuman senses. His hand wavered in front of his nose, no matter how hard he tried to keep it still. Sighing, he tapped the magelight off, clutching his pillow to his chest instead, hugging himself. "I''m sorry, messire. It''s just so cold..."


    "It is...worse than usual."


    If Genesis was willing to admit it, then it had to be truly awful. "I suppose I can go somewhere, if it''s bothering you. Methinks I''m not going to fall asleep here anyway, I''ve been trying for hours. The infirmary is at least a little warmer...and there''s the spare cots in the anatomical theater..."


    Genesis made a hissing noise through his teeth after a long pause, a frustrated approximation of a sigh. "...come here."


    That was enough to get Mirk to flip over and throw the blankets off his face. He tapped his magelight on again; he needed to be able to see Genesis''s face to tell what he meant. Despite the cold, Genesis was positioned exactly the same way he always was when he attempted to sleep, his blanket folded neatly across the midpoint of his chest, leaving both his arms and his face exposed. Mirk didn''t know how he could stand it. "Euh...pardon?"


    Genesis glanced in his direction without moving his head. He''d illuminated his magelight for nothing. The commander had that forcibly blank expression on his face again, the one that could mean dozens of things, depending on the context. But, for once, Genesis elected to explain himself rather than simply continue to stare at him. "Though you meant well with this blanket, there are...limitations on its effectiveness. However, I believe it may be of some use in this situation were it...employed by someone who is...generally warmer than I am."


    Mirk propped himself up on one elbow, shaking his head. "No, you keep it. I''ll fall asleep eventually. You''d freeze to death without it."


    Another strange, drawn-out hissing noise. "That is not what I am...proposing."


    "Hmm?"


    His blank expression unwavering, Genesis lifted the edge of the blanket nearest Mirk. "Come...here."


    Realization washed over Mirk in a wave of heat that was more imagined than real. Could a person get so cold that they lost the ability to red in the face? He hoped so. "Ah...are you sure?"


    "Yes."


    Still, Mirk hesitated. There were a few ways he could approach things. He could stay cocooned in his stack of blankets, but draw over closer to Genesis. That defeated the whole purpose, though. None of his warmth would reach Genesis, and none of the magicked warmth of the blanket would get through to him. And the self-warming blanket was too narrow for the arrangement to work. Mirk had purposefully made the blanket suited for one person rather than a whole bed, both to make the sewing go faster and because of the dark voice murmuring in the back of his head the whole while he was making it about how nice it''d be to curl up next to Genesis underneath it.


    Apparently, his efforts at avoiding it had been for naught. Making the blanket smaller only meant that he''d have to practically lie on top of Genesis for them both to fit underneath it. Mirk reluctantly peeled back all his blankets and slid across the wide gap between them.


    "How do you...?"


    Genesis was no longer looking his way, staring up at the ceiling instead. "However is most practical."


    The sensible thing to do, Mirk knew, was to press close against his side, pull up all of the blankets, and be done with it. Nevertheless, he spent a good ten minutes fussing with things, trying to get his head in order along with the quilts. He shook them out one by one, layering them on top of the self-warming blanket to help keep in the heat, then settled in beside Genesis. At first, Mirk tried to keep some space between them. But it left his whole back hanging out from underneath the stack of quilts, letting in such a draft that his teeth soon began to chatter. Ready to pull back at the first sign of resistance, Mirk turned onto his side facing the commander and tried rearranging the blankets again.


    He had to plaster himself against Genesis''s side to tuck them both in fully. All the while, Genesis didn''t stir. But there wasn''t any tenseness in his body either, none of the rigidity that usually seized him whenever someone touched him with more than just their hands. There was still something there, though, something slightly off. Mirk pressed the back of one hand to Genesis''s chest. He was also shivering, albeit to a degree that wasn''t so easy to see or hear.


    Mirk sighed. "You''re freezing, messire."


    "...it''s cold."


    "Here," Mirk said, tugging on the arm that Genesis had slid out from underneath the pile of blankets, despite all of Mirk''s rearranging. "Cover up all the way. No one''s going to come for you in the middle of the night, methinks. Even if someone did, you wouldn''t have to get up to deal with them anyway."


    Genesis pulled his arm under the blankets, reluctantly. As for the other one, Mirk was practically laying on top of it. It couldn''t be comfortable, but Mirk decided to let Genesis do as he wanted with it, as long as it stayed tucked in. At least it''d be warm underneath him, even if his weight pressing down on it put it to sleep.


    Once that was sorted, Mirk scooted up against Genesis''s side, resting his head on that one particular spot on his shoulder, the one that he''d found the first time they''d shared a bed and that he thought of often with mingled wistfulness and regret. The only spot on Genesis''s bony frame that was comfortable enough to sleep on, short of rolling on top of him and cushioning his head with own folded arms against Genesis''s chest. Mirk dismissed the thought instantly. Things were already bad enough as they were.


    Extinguishing his magelight, Mirk pulled all the blankets up over his head, both hiding himself from view and covering Genesis all the way to his chin. "It''d be warmer if you covered your face too, but methinks that''d be a bit much for you..."


    "Correct," came Genesis''s muffled, flat reply from beyond the barrier of the blankets.


    Mirk knew what he had to do. It was what he''d wanted to do ¡ª what he''d longed to do ¡ª ever since he''d started sharing a bed with Genesis again. It was only practical, he reminded himself. It was a simple matter of keeping warm, and nothing more. Mirk wrapped one arm around Genesis''s narrow frame and took hold of his hand. It was like ice. "You''re still so cold," Mirk murmured.


    "It''s like this every winter."


    "That''s a little sad..."


    Genesis had nothing to say in response. But after a moment, he shifted the arm pinned underneath Mirk, sliding it out and wrapping it around him in turn. It was just more comfortable like that, Mirk insisted to himself. No more, no less. There was no good in seeing anything more in it than practicality, in constructing elaborate fantasies that had no resonance with reality, in trying to see something more in it beyond two friends trying to keep warm on a brutally cold night.


    Mirk could feel the chill of Genesis''s hand on his back through his nightshirt. The words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them. He was too tired, both physically and mentally, to resist any longer. "You can put your other hand where it''s warmer if it''d help you get to sleep. I don''t mind."


    It took Genesis some time to process this, to puzzle out what Mirk meant by it. He wasn''t even certain what he meant by it. Slowly, Genesis slid his hand up his back. A moment later, Mirk felt thin, cold fingers slip under his hair, curling around the back of his neck. An involuntary shiver raced through Mirk. Not from the cold, but from the implication of it.


    That hand, so often broken and bloodied and wielding magic that could rip men limb from limb, was curled so lightly around his neck that Mirk wouldn''t have even felt it, had Genesis not been so cold. There wasn''t a single ounce of strength in his hand then, the slightest hint of a threat. Or of possession. Instead, it only felt...protective. Safe.


    Mirk felt like it would have been enough to undo him, if only he''d had the energy left for it.


    He let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes and allowing his forehead to rest against the curve of Genesis''s neck. "Do you feel better now?"


    "...marginally."


    "Then try to sleep. At least a little."


    "I will...make an attempt."


    It was as if some switch had been flipped in Mirk¡¯s mind. All the hours he''d spent struggling to sleep, all the pain still lingering in his mind, all of it drained out of him easily as water through netting. It wasn''t terribly warm under the blankets, even with both of them wrapped up in them. Genesis''s body was still cold beside him, limp and unnaturally still. But it was enough. Genesis was enough. The cold could do nothing to Mirk''s body, not when his heart suddenly felt so warm and full. "Thank you," Mirk whispered, not expecting a response.


    But it came nevertheless. "It is...no trouble."


    In less than a minute, Mirk was asleep, lulled into darkness by the feel of Genesis''s slow, immaculately even pulse against his forehead. And the touch of his hand around his neck.

 Chapter 45

    His lips were warm.


    He hadn''t been expecting that. He''d been expecting the same perpetual coldness that he''d grown accustomed to, that''d he''d been willing and prepared to embrace. Apparently want was enough to draw out the heat in him, even when everything else, every spell and potion, wasn''t enough.


    And there was want there, desire. Though it came through in that particular, deliberate way of his. In precision kisses, their exactness not stripping them of their passion. He chose his spots carefully, for maximum impact. Neck, chest, wrists. Lips. It was overwhelming. His head was spinning and his stomach was in knots and his chest felt like it was going to burst. He couldn''t match that carefulness, that modicum of self-control. He threw himself at him in return.


    He touched everything he could reach, he pressed himself tightly against him. He wished he could be closer still, somehow, wished he could sink down inside of him until there was nothing left between them, not skin or bone or even magic, until he could finally feel his mind instead of only wondering at it, guessing at it, studying every last gesture and pause just to catch a glimpse of what lay in his heart. He thought it might have been too much. Too close. Too much for a man who was so accustomed to distance.


    But he didn''t draw back from him. He leaned in. Kept leaning, kept pressing, that immaculate control of his faltering, then breaking as his hands began to shake. And then he was rolling on top of him, overcome by need, and then¡ª


    And then Mirk jolted awake, so disoriented that he squeezed his eyes shut tight again until the roiling in his stomach settled.


    It''d been a dream. Yet another of those impassioned dreams that had consumed him so often as of late, especially when he was exhausted. He didn''t even know where his mind was getting the fodder for them. He didn''t know the first thing about that, aside from glimpses of the impulses of others and the vagueness of poems and songs. Mirk didn''t count Tours in among his experience. Tours had been nothing like that. There had been no want then, not for him. And especially not from him.


    It didn''t matter. They were just dreams, thoughts. Despite what he''d been told about the sort of people whose minds churned up dark thoughts at the least provocation, Mirk knew from being close to countless minds that people had as much control over their unconscious thoughts as they did over whether the sun rose in the east. Dreams were a minor thing to repent for. As long as he didn''t do anything, it''d be fine.


    Then Mirk came back to himself fully and realized that instead of lying in his usual spot at the far end of the bed, curled up around a pillow, he was curled up around Genesis.


    Terror seized him as he searched his body with his senses rather than moving. There was nothing there, no physical evidence to pay testament to what he''d been dreaming of, thank God. Though God really had nothing to do with it. Bracing himself, Mirk lifted his head from where it''d been propped against Genesis''s neck and snaked a hand out from underneath the blankets to unbury his head, tapping on the magelight on his wrist along the way. Predictably, Genesis was already awake, staring blankly up at the ceiling, as if he''d never fallen asleep at all.


    For once, Genesis managed to find words before Mirk could. "I see...you have recovered."


    "Ah...yes, of course..." Mirk hurried to compose himself. The cold snap that had gripped the City had broken while he''d been asleep ¡ª the air beyond the blankets was chilly, but not unbearably, bone-achingly cold. He sat up, pushing back the blankets. Genesis''s hand trailed down his back, as the commander let it fall away from where it''d been before, his fingers still gently wrapped around his neck. It surprised Mirk that Genesis hadn''t quit indulging him the moment he''d fallen asleep, resorting to his usual corpse-like sleeping position instead. He tried not to think about it too hard. "What time is it?"


    "Half ten. In the morning."


    A fresh surge of panic welled up in Mirk''s chest and he threw back the rest of the bedclothes. Only belatedly did he realize how inconsiderate it was of him to subject Genesis needlessly to the cold. Mirk tucked Genesis back in as he babbled his apologies at him. "I''m so sorry, messire, I know you''re busy, I didn''t mean to keep you in so late. I was supposed to be gone by now too, I must have forgotten to set the alarm¡ª"


    "You didn''t," Genesis said. He hadn''t moved, but at least he was looking at him now instead of staring straight upwards. Though his expression was as inscrutable as always. Mirk thought the darkness under his eyes was worse than usual. Apparently he''d been the only one to get a good night''s sleep out of their arrangement.


    "Euh...what?"


    "It went off. However, you did not...react to it. I stopped it."


    "Oh..."


    Genesis sighed. "You are always...scolding me for not resting enough. I assumed your lack of response indicated you required more."


    Mirk laughed weakly, helplessly, halting his frantic efforts at getting himself up and out the door, instead sitting in a defeated lump beside Genesis on the bed. "You were probably right. Methinks it might have done you a little good to rest too, even if you didn''t get much more sleep."


    "So you say."


    It wasn''t like Genesis to be so flexible, Mirk thought. When it came to things like routines, once Genesis had found one, he followed it precisely and without exception. Perhaps there was something unseen at play, some lull in his work or an upcoming assignment at an unusual time that meant there was no need for Genesis to vanish from the bedroom before dawn. Mirk doubted that Genesis had decided to stay abed just to keep from waking him. Genesis was perceptive enough in his own way, good at recognizing patterns. And he''d lived with K''aekniv for decades. He should have known by then that when someone with angelic blood was well and truly asleep, it took much more than being rolled off to the side to wake them.


    Either way, Mirk didn''t have time to dwell on it. He was supposed to start work at dawn. They still had four full floors of men who needed tending to after yesterday''s battle. That aside, every time he rushed in late, someone had a sarcastic comment to make about it, a muttered aside about his servants being late with his breakfast, or needing extra time to choose between the silk and the velvet shirt to wear underneath his robes. Mirk knew they didn''t mean anything cruel by it ¡ª everyone got their fair share of needling ¡ª but it still bothered Mirk that any of the other healers might assume that he thought he was too rich to have to follow rules and put in a full day''s work like the rest of them.


    Yet part of Mirk didn''t want to get up. No, most of him didn''t: it was still chilly in the bedroom, and it was warm under the blankets, and if Genesis wasn''t in a hurry, then what harm was there in detaining him further? It wasn''t as if he really could stop Genesis from leaving, if he truly wanted to. Which made him wonder exactly why it was that Genesis had decided to put up with all his nonsense.


    It made it all the more imperative that he leave. Mirk scooted over to his proper place in bed, swinging his legs off the edge of it and stretching the kinks out of his limbs. He glanced back over his shoulder at Genesis ¡ª he was still watching him. And not making any move to get up himself. "Is something wrong, messire?"


    "...no." Genesis looked away, resuming his customary staring contest with the ceiling. "It will have snowed a considerable amount since you last went out. You may wish to consider...making preparations."


    "Has it? I thought it would have been too cold...well, thank you for letting me know. I''m not used to this strange weather yet."


    Mirk forced himself up and onto his feet, pausing to put the quilts more or less in order before going to his dresser. If it had snowed, that meant that he''d need his thickest socks. They made the slog through the City less miserable in the damp, when it wasn''t practical for the healers to wear boots to the infirmary. Once Mirk had gathered up all his things, he moved to leave. But something made him pause at the door before opening it, looking back over his shoulder, lifting his hand to both tuck an errant lock of hair back behind his ear and direct more of the faint glow from the magelight around his wrist at Genesis. He still hadn''t moved. But he obviously wasn''t asleep either. "Euh...do you need anything, messire? The magelights? Tea? Though I suppose you can do all that yourself without getting up..."


    "Yes. I can."


    "It''s only a little odd, shutting someone up alone in a dark room. But if you''re going to try to sleep, it''d be better not to make things bright." Not that Genesis ever wanted things bright, save for when he was cleaning. "Well, have a good day, Genesis. Maybe I''ll see you later on?"


    "...perhaps."


    He sidled out the door, waiting until it was shut behind him before waving on the magelights out in the common room. Mirk paused again before heading onward to the bathroom. What was Genesis planning on doing? It wasn''t like him to stay in bed when there were so many other productive things he could be doing. Maybe he was feeling ill. Mirk hadn''t sensed any outward disturbances in Genesis''s body or magic, but, then again, the commander was very good at hiding any signs of weakness.


    It all left Mirk with a strange feeling, a certain uneasiness, like he was overlooking something crucial that should have been obvious. It was probably just his imagination. Genesis always had a reason for the things he did. And, when it came down to it, if Genesis suddenly decided to spend a morning lounging in bed instead of ghosting about the City''s dark corners and rooftops in search of someone to stab, it was none of Mirk''s business. He hurried off to the bathroom.


    At the infirmary, there was no such thing as a free morning.


    -   -   -


    Genesis was right. It had snowed overnight. It was still snowing, though it felt more like icy sand whipped into his face by the wind rather than the soft, wet snowflakes they were treated to on occasion back in Nantes. Mirk tried to hurry, tried to be efficient, but slid on the ice coating the dormitory''s front steps and ended up flat on his back at the bottom of them before he could even properly set out.


    It was only a month and a half into winter proper in the City, and already Mirk felt like he''d had enough of it to last him a decade.


    The streets of the City had been partially cleared by the horse-drawn carts with spades lashed to their fronts manned by the Supply Corps. But they only pushed the snow from the center of the streets, making just enough room for the Corps to haul goods to and fro, or for the fighting men to haul themselves and their cannon off to the parade grounds transporter. Regular pedestrians were stuck wading through the piles left behind on either side of the main throughway. Low-level fighters and even more Supply Corps workers were working at clearing paths up to the fronts of the main buildings, bundled up tight against the wind, digging with mortal shovels rather than magic.


    Mirk thought it odd the officers were unwilling to call up a mage to get the work over and done with more quickly. It was a waste of time, left people who already labored all day at equally thankless physical tasks with one more difficult thing to do. Perhaps it was because of the conversations he''d been having with Genesis as of late, but Mirk was noticing more and more things like that around the City as the weeks passed, petty slights and injustices. It would have taken a fire mage like Elijah only a sliver of his potential to clear the whole street, especially if he used a spell to help things along. And yet, there were none to be seen.


    It took Mirk an extra half hour to get to the infirmary. When he arrived, nurses and aides were hurrying to clear the steps rather than tending to their patients inside. He drew to a halt a few feet away, wondering if it would do him any good to stop and offer to help. He was already late, wasn''t he? And he had so little life-giving potential left after yesterday''s patients that a seasoned aide would be more useful to their patients than he was.


    "Mirk! Mirk, come! Come look!"


    He hadn''t noticed him before, another burly black-clad figure battling against the snow near the infirmary''s front steps. But now that he was waving his arms and yelling, Mirk recognized him. Slava, one of K''aekniv''s close friends. Once Slava saw that he''d caught Mirk''s attention, he went back to what he''d been doing before ¡ª serving as a windbreak for someone working on the ground to the side of the steps. Mirk hurried over, half-running, half-jumping through the snow. "Slava? What is it?"


    "She is hurt," Slava said, moving aside so that Mirk could better see what was going on. The infantryman looked like he wanted to say more, but couldn''t find the right English words to express his frustration about the scene unfolding on the ground. Eva, the head of surgery for the Tenth, was kneeling beside a woman lying in a frozen pool of her own blood. After a moment, Mirk recognized her too, more from her vibrant red and gold dress than her face. She was the woman who''d ushered him and Elijah inside the bordello just beyond the South Gate when they''d gone to meet with Genesis.


    Mirk knelt down in the snow across from Eva, swinging his work bag off his shoulder. "How can I help?"


    Eva glanced up at him, expression flat and distant. "She''s been out here for a long time. It''s the only thing that saved her. The cold slows things down."


    He searched for the woman''s wound. It was deep, stretching diagonally across her stomach from above her hip to the bottom of her rib cage. Deep, but narrow. Nothing vital had spilled out of her other than blood. Lost blood, they could work with. Lost innards were a whole other matter. "What do you think?" Mirk asked Eva.


    "She needs to be warmed up if I''m going to save her. Fast. She''s barely alive."


    Mirk reached for the woman''s neck to confirm it: her pulse was fluttery and weak, and she was only drawing shallow, sporadic breaths. "Then let''s take her in."


    "That''s the problem," Eva said. She pressed her hands to the wound across the woman''s stomach, trying to use a combination of the warmth of her own body and that of her ordered magic to clear some of the ice away. The surgeon''s expression was as hardened as the snow all around them. "She''s not K''maneda. We''re not permitted."


    Mirk shook his head. "She''ll die out here. We have to take her in."


    "If an outsider wants healing, they need to pay."


    "How much?"


    Eva hesitated, her fingers splaying wider over the woman''s wound. When she named the price, a near-curse escaped Mirk, and he crossed himself reflexively. It was more than an expertly tailored suit, made to the latest fashion. "Even the guild healers don''t charge that much!"


    "It''s so that no one ever tries."


    Despite the wind, Mirk suddenly felt hot, as if he needed to take off his cloak. He decided to, nudging aside Eva''s hands and tucking it in around the shaking woman. "Tiens, we''ll bring her in anyway. I''ll pay for it," Mirk said, looking back at Slava, gesturing for him to come lift the dying woman out of the snow.


    Eva stared at Mirk, her brow furrowed in confusion. "They''ll want it up front."


    Mirk got back to his feet to make way for Slava, shouldering his bag once more. "They¡¯ll have to wait. Besides, do you think anyone''s going to stop Slava if he looks at them the right way?"


    Eva sighed, glancing up at Slava, who had taken Mirk''s place on the other side of the woman, squatting down and working his hands underneath her, though he was waiting for Eva to confirm before he lifted her. After another few moments of hesitation, she did, speaking to him in a language that sounded different from the one the Easterners all spoke to each other, but that Slava seemed to understand better than English nevertheless. He nodded and picked the dying woman up, cradling her against his broad chest.


    Slava led the charge up the front steps, Mirk and Eva flanking him on either side. The giant fighter took the steps three at a time, as if there wasn''t any ice on them at all. Eva and Mirk struggled to keep up, using the path Slava made through the remaining piles of snow to climb up after him. Then it was on through the front doors, though he paused halfway across the waiting room to ask Eva something over one shoulder. She made a gesture toward the hall to the left of the desk at the rear of the waiting room, the one that led to the field transporter. Slava set off again with a snort, moving fast, with the sort of authoritative air that could only be summoned by men of either great size or wealth.


    But he was intercepted: Cyrus emerged out of the hall right as they reached it, on his way to scold the aides tending the rosters at the desk. Slava''s appearance diverted his ire. The head of the Tenth planted himself squarely in Slava''s path, between the desk and the hall, not letting him advance past it. "What do you think you''re doing?" he snapped, his eyes falling on the woman in Slava''s arms. "If you decided to gut a whore, that''s your problem. Get out of my infirmary."


    It was for the best that Cyrus spoke too quickly for Slava to pick up on the finer details of what he said. His tone alone was enough to annoy Slava, who shifted the dying woman''s weight to one arm and moved to knock Cyrus aside. Eva caught up just in time to restrain him, taking hold of his arm. Had Slava been able to complete his swing, he''d have smashed Cyrus clear through the front desk. "This is an emergency," Eva said to Cyrus. "She needs a bed."


    Cyrus was unimpressed by the two of them, his hands on his hips. His annoyance at having to look up at both Eva and Slava rather than down his nose at them was even stronger than how irritated Slava had been at Cyrus''s tone.  "The last I checked, the whores aren''t taking their pay from us. Officially."


    "I''ll pay for it," Mirk said, stepping out from behind Slava. "Please, Comrade Commander. She''s dying."


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Hmph. The little prince is here too," Cyrus said with a snort. "Well, even princes pay here. So take out your purse."


    Cyrus''s indifference to the woman in Slava''s arms, bleeding out all over herself and Slava and the floor now that she''d been brought out of the cold, made the heat rise in Mirk''s chest again. "No one carries that much gold with them, Comrade Commander. You should know that. Please, we need to get her¡ª"


    "Like I said. Even princes pay in the K''maneda. Come back with the gold and I''ll let you try your hand at it."


    Something in Cyrus''s tone, something about the sneer on his face, the delight he took in finding someone he could finally look down on rather than up at, made the heat overwhelm Mirk. He took hold of Slava''s uniform blouse and dragged him along with as he tried to push past Cyrus. "Let''s go, Slava. It''s fine. I''ll take care of it."


    Mirk was uncertain of what happened next. He thought he''d barely brushed past Cyrus, small enough to slip past him rather than being forced to barrel through him like Slava would have. But the head of the Tenth reeled backward into the corner of the desk like he''d been shoved hard. Maybe Slava had done something while he''d been distracted? Either way, Cyrus stayed out of their way as Eva caught up, directing Slava to an empty room halfway down the hall.


    Slava set the woman down on the exam table carefully, then went to the door to keep watch as Mirk and Eva set to work. She took her magicked instruments out of the roll she always carried in the smock she wore over her robes while Mirk snatched basic supplies from the cabinet in the corner. Blood regenerating potion, needle and thread, bandages and rags and a second potion to warm her, always kept near at hand now that the weather had turned. Mirk wedged an arm under the woman''s shoulders, propping her up so that he could dump the potions down her throat while Eva pushed aside the cloak he¡¯d tucked around her and cut away her dress to take a better look at her wound.


    It looked worse without the pattern on her dress to distract from it. Her skin was bluish white from cold and blood loss, the edges of the wound blistered, a sure sign that the knife that''d sliced her open had been enchanted. Once Mirk made sure the potions had ended up down her throat rather than in her lungs and eased her back onto the table, Eva set to work, using one device to hold the wound open further so that she could see what parts of her insides had been slashed with the knife. Mirk could do little more than watch, helpless, as Eva sorted through her insides with a second tool, a rod with a hook at its end. His life-giving potential wouldn''t have regenerated enough overnight for him to heal more than one or two small parts of the wound. As long as they hadn''t been shredded too badly.


    Even if he couldn''t help heal, he could help sort out what was broken. Mirk put his hands on the woman''s stomach, on either side of the wound, and cast his senses out into her body. He made mental note of everything that felt wrong ¡ª a coil of intestines leaking its contents, an artery severed, muscles separated. And...


    They must have found it at the same instant, Eva with her tools and Mirk with his mind. Mirk looked up, startled. Eva met his eyes and nodded, a wary expression on her face.


    "Can we save it?" Mirk asked her in a whisper.


    "I don''t know," Eva said, looking back down into the wound. "That''s not something my magic can do anything for. It might not matter. The damage..."


    Mirk glanced at the woman''s face. Somehow, through some combination of the potions and being brought in out of the cold, she was barely conscious. Not enough to speak, not enough for her eyes to focus or for her to make more than a few, uncoordinated twitches. But it was enough for her to feel. Maybe because it had been at the front of her mind, maybe because it was what had driven her to stagger all the way to the infirmary rather than staying where she''d been struck down. Mirk could sense flickers of desperation amidst her pain. Determination. And dread. That she''d been too late.


    Mirk thought of Tours. Of the child that''d been lost without him even knowing it. A voice circled around the memory, velvety and choking.


    Be a man and give it to me!


    He withdrew his hands from the woman''s stomach, reaching into the sleeve of his robes for his grandfather''s staff. "You do what you can for the rest," Mirk said as his fingers closed around it. As always, it felt warmer than it should have. "I''ll see what I can do about that."


    Mirk pressed the staff, the size of a wand, to his chest with one hand as he slid the other back into the woman''s wound, off to the side, to give Eva as much room as possible. This wasn''t the kind of thing that could be healed with touch, with stitches and pinches and wrapping things together tight. He wasn''t sure there was anything he could do. But with his hand inside of her, the woman''s fear was a clarion call carried on waves of pain, an insistence like the tolling of a bell, counting away the seconds.


    He had to try.


    Mirk knew by then that his grandfather''s staff, and whatever force guided it, was a mercurial thing. Something that didn''t take into consideration matters as inconsequential as human wants and needs. All he could do was present it with what was wrong.


    It wasn''t the sort of thing that could be forced, that he could argue with it about, like the bindings on the Montigny men. Mirk allowed his magic to seep into the wood of the staff, to mingle with its potential, as he did when he wanted to draw on its strength. But rather than forcing that potential out and shunting it off into the woman through his body, Mirk only opened a conduit, hoping that whatever controlled the staff could sense through him what he could feel ¡ª the woman''s desperation, her failing body, the part of her potential that had been rising inside her.


    The presence in the staff felt closer than it ever had before, more interested, intrigued. Like a gardener who had found an unexpected flower budding among her household''s staple crops. Something that could be left to flourish, or could be ripped away. Irrelevant, but interesting enough to linger on.


    Mirk couldn''t put his thoughts into words. Instead, he projected his emotions at the staff, mixing them with what he could feel radiating from the woman ¡ª his disgust and anger at her being left on the steps to die, the injustice of it. And the black uncertainty and sickness he felt when he thought back to Seigneur Rouzet''s offhand comment in Mademoiselle Polignac''s parlor about why House Rose had sent no emissary to apologize to him.


    Nothing happened. There was no ringing voice, no swell of golden warmth within him. The staff must have made its decision.


    Just as Mirk was about to pull his hand back and tell Eva he''d done what he could, everything went black. In the darkness came a rush of heat. And a distant voice, singing or laughing, with words that were familiar but still just out of reach, resonant with a beauty that was terrifying in its strength.


    When Mirk''s vision returned, it was blurry. And his head and chest felt like they''d been squeezed in a vise for hours.


    "...what did you do?"


    Mirk blinked a few times, focusing on the sound of Eva''s voice across from him. When his vision cleared, he saw that her mouth was hanging open, her hands upheld at the level of her shoulders, both them and her instruments streaked with blood and shaking. Eva¡¯s shock was hot and insistent in Mirk''s mind, as clear as if his mind was completely unshielded.


    Which it was, he realized. It felt like all his magic had been ripped from him, save for the hot core of his own life energy at his center. Mirk looked down at the woman between them on the table. He should have been overwhelmed by her pain. And yet...


    The wound across her stomach was gone, his hand shoved out of it. Instead, it was resting on the bulging stomach of someone days from birth. Mirk staggered backwards away from the bed, coughing. He tried to speak, but found that there was something in his mouth, along with the coppery taste of blood. Reflexively, he lifted his free hand and spat it out. One of his back teeth.


    Only then did Mirk become aware of how achingly cold he was. His body felt wan, too light, like it did when autumn claimed him. The only warmth he could feel near to him was the staff clenched in his other hand, still pressed to his chest. Though it''d grown to its full size while he''d been focusing on healing the woman. Mirk looked from the tooth in his hand back at the woman on the table between him and Eva. The side of her body that he''d been standing closer to was strewn with clumps of his hair.


    "What are you?" he heard Eva ask, from a great distance. Now she wasn''t just shocked. She was afraid as well.


    "I...it''s...the staff..."


    The woman sat up between them, letting out a strangled noise of mixed panic and confusion as she grabbed for her stomach. Though her wounds had been healed, the pain radiating off her was acute, the aftereffects of having her organs and bones shoved aside to accommodate the growth in her stomach. But the pain was tempered by the relief that blossomed in her once she woke up enough to realize what had happened. "The baby," she said, looking to Eva. "Is...is it all right?"


    Eva tucked her tools away in the pockets of her smock, wiping her hands on it before cautiously reaching out to the woman with her hands and magic. After a pause, she nodded. "You''re healed. He..." At a loss for words, Eva could only stare across the table at Mirk.


    The woman finally noticed Mirk wavering on his feet beside the table. Though she was even more shocked than Eva, there was no fear in her. A small blessing, Mirk thought. "You saved it," she said.


    "Her," Mirk corrected, without thinking. He didn''t know how he knew, but he knew. The same way he knew now, deep in the pit of his stomach, that whatever power coiled within the staff was also a her.


    Letting out a weak laugh, the woman looked back down at her stomach, her palms smoothing over its new contours. "It''s a girl?"


    "Yes. I...well...methinks...I don''t know..."


    Abruptly, she reached out to Mirk, grabbing hold of him and dragging him close enough that she could wrap him in a crushing embrace. Her thickly-muscled arms were even stronger than they looked. "I thought...I thought that bastard had..."


    Mirk felt he should have returned the embrace, but he didn''t have the strength for it. He settled for leaning against her. Not that he had much choice in the matter. "It''s nothing."


    It wasn''t nothing. It was something beyond magic, something impossible and terrifying. A miracle. His grandfather had always told him the staff was capable of great things, but this...all Mirk could do in the face of it was try to keep himself upright and steady, his mind too exhausted and jumbled with other people''s emotions for him to have any coherent thoughts of his own.


    Eva circled around the table to his side, pressing her fingertips to Mirk''s temple. Her magic was a warm, welcome presence against his raw mind, despite the way her emotions were still pounding at him. "You''re completely drained. What day is it?"


    "Euh...Tuesday..."


    "Where are we?"


    "The infirmary?"


    "Who am I?"


    "Comrade Eva...is...am I missing something?"


    The surgeon shook her head as she locked him in a stern look. "This is unheard of. Drained like this, so quickly, you should be dead."


    Unspoken was the implication that the woman on the table, who still had her arms wrapped around him, should be dead as well. "I''m fine, really, though...methinks I should sit down..." Mirk could feel the strength in his limbs failing; the only thing keeping him upright was the strength and insistence of the woman''s embrace.


    Eva crammed both her hands back in the front pockets of her smock, muttering to herself in her native language as she hurried to the door, snapping something at Slava that made him laugh and get out of her way after flipping her a clumsy salute. He left as well, coming back a minute or two later with a chair. When Slava saw that Mirk wasn''t in a position to move, he brought the chair to his side. Whereas both Eva and the woman had felt shocked by the sudden reversal of events, Slava was completely unfazed by both Mirk''s condition and the fact that the woman he''d carried in less than fifteen minutes ago was suddenly days away from giving birth.


    All Mirk could feel from him was sympathy, as he nudged the woman in the arm until she let go of Mirk, helping him sit down. "Rest," he said, patting him on the shoulder in the measured, controlled way that he''d mastered but that K''aekniv, who was even more oversized than him, never quite remembered to use until it was too late. Slava paused, then plucked at a lock of Mirk''s hair. It came away in his fingers. "You look like shit."


    Mirk laughed, though he quickly regretted it ¡ª it made pain lance through the muscles of his stomach. "I wonder if this is why grand-p¨¨re always kept his head shaved..."


    Things happened quickly. Eva reappeared with Yule and Danu in tow. Eva and Yule joined together to prod at him and argue over what must have happened, while Danu tended to the woman, asking her questions and feeling at her stomach as she listened to her replies. Meanwhile, Slava went back to guarding the door, warding off healers from the Tenth who''d been sent by Cyrus to investigate, then fending off Cyrus himself. Slava planted himself in the middle of the doorway and crossed his arms against all of Cyrus''s threats and insults, putting on the usual "speak no English" act that the Easterners all employed when dealing with officers they weren''t inclined to listen to.


    All the commotion was making Mirk feel even more out-of-sorts, like he was drowning in everyone¡¯s emotions, choking on them, still unable to string together any coherent thoughts of his own with all the foreign feelings jostling for position in his mind. Eventually, Emir appeared to handle Cyrus, their mutual disgust and anger temporarily blotting out all the other emotions. The pregnant woman had laid back down on Danu''s orders, as she continued her exam. Her emotions were the one positive spark amongst all the anger and confusion and frustration that otherwise filled the room, her pain distant in light of it.


    Someone new came to challenge Slava at the doorway a few minutes after Emir and Cyrus left. Though Mirk could hear their low, rough voice, he couldn''t feel their emotions. "Move, Stanislav. You know why I''m here. I have business."


    Slava shook his head. "No one in. Eva says."


    "I''m the exception. Quit it with the idiot infantryman act and let me in before I beat you."


    The pregnant woman sat up over Danu''s protests, running her hands over her hair and trying to compose herself a little even before Slava grudgingly stepped aside. A slip of a woman in men''s infantry blacks squeezed past him into the room. She was leaning heavily on a cane and had a severe look about her, at least that was the impression he got from the slice of her face that wasn''t covered by her curtain of straight, uncovered shoulder-length black hair. Her features reminded her of Emir''s ¡ª they were both from across the Mediterranean, maybe, though he didn''t think the woman had any angelic blood.


    The pregnant woman nodded to her. "Got your gossip still. Come and take it before I lose it. Been a long morning, huh?" she joked. Mirk couldn''t tell whether she was trying to make herself or the new visitor feel better with it.


    The new woman in infantry blacks pulled a round metal device out of her pocket and tossed it to her. They both remained silent as the pregnant woman clasped the device between her hands and closed her eyes. Though the new woman was ignoring everyone else in the room, Mirk could feel all of his fellow healers'' attention fixed on her. Their emotions were varying shades of distrust and suspicion, though Yule''s had a different, more resigned timbre to it.


    "I should have known you were behind this," Yule grumbled. The new woman shushed him, raising a hand to wave him off without looking away from her pregnant friend.


    She was putting something in the device, Mirk thought. Not magic, exactly, but something close to it. Once she''d finished and offered the device back to the other woman, both of them relaxed. Only then did the woman in infantry blacks see fit to comment on the change in her friend''s body. "You didn''t say you were pregnant."


    The woman in the red and gold dress shrugged. "I was going to tell you once I was further along. But no sense in stopping work till you get there."


    "Well, you''re too far gone to work now. Good thing we got him before this happened. He''s an animal, but I don''t think even he would go after someone in your state."


    Eva finally asked the question that was on everyone else''s mind. It was the lack of emotions that was making all of them even more suspicious. Mirk could sense Eva trying to puzzle through it, in the way her mind went cold as she concentrated. There were no signs of shields around the woman in infantry blacks, nor the feel of any other magic. In his present condition, Mirk should have been able to tell at a glance what element and orientation she was, but she was as magically neutral as a mortal. Moreso, even. Mortals still had slight imbalances in their auras, though they weren''t large enough to generate magical potential. The woman in infantry blacks was so magically neutral that she barely registered in Mirk''s mind. "Who are you? Do you know what''s going on?"


    When the woman didn''t answer, Yule did it for her. "Fatima. The murdering madam."


    The woman in black, Fatima, shot Yule a sour look. "Accurate, but rude. Typical." Her attention shifted to Mirk, eyes narrowing. "I''m guessing you''re the one responsible for this," she said, gesturing at the other woman''s stomach.


    "Euh...well...sort of...I''m very sorry, she was dying, and I asked the staff...well, I didn''t ask, it was more like showed...and..." He babbled to a halt, too tired and overwhelmed to explain what he meant, what negotiating with the staff''s presence was like. Despite being mages, Mirk knew they''d all think his story unbelievable. Except for Danu, perhaps, who was accustomed to dealing with mysterious forces ten times more powerful than herself.


    Fatima snorted, propping both her hands on the head of her cane as she leaned on it. "You''re more powerful than Genesis let on."


    "I didn''t do...I mean, I didn''t know I could..."


    "I don''t know what to think of it either," Yule said. "Your core''s fine, though everything else is gone. To do something like this, you should have had to kill yourself. And even then, it probably wouldn''t have worked."


    "Maybe this thing used him as some kind of conduit," Eva said, gesturing at the staff. Mirk still had it grasped tightly in his lap, along with his tooth.


    Yule shook his head. "Speculation''s not going to get us anywhere. Someone needs to go pull Gen out of whatever corner he''s hiding in and ask him what he knows. He always knows something."


    "He owes me an explanation too. This wasn''t part of the plan," Fatima said. She looked back at Slava, who was still guarding the door. "Take her back to the house, Stanislav. I trust you won''t get into any trouble while you''re there?"


    Slava nodded, saying something to her in another language that made Fatima roll her eyes and Eva suddenly go red. Mirk couldn''t tell if she was embarrassed or flattered, but her reaction was enough to earn her sideways glances from Danu and Yule. Mirk decided to speak up before either of them could and change the subject. He felt for Eva; she''d been through enough for one day. "Methinks it''d be better if she stayed here with us," he said to Fatima, nodding in the direction of the pregnant woman. "She''s still in pain. And she''s due any day now, maybe..."


    Fatima shook her head, dismissively. "We have more than enough midwives to handle it ourselves. Or are you offering to pay for all this?"


    "It''s only a small thing," Mirk replied. Even though none of it was, not the sum Cyrus had sneered at him, nor the sudden change in the woman in the red and gold dress.


    "You really must be as rich as he says. Well, thanks, but no thanks. We can take care of it. Besides, your gold is put to better use elsewhere."


    Mirk wasn''t certain what she meant by that. Really, he was uncertain of everything when it came to Fatima. It was disorienting, being in the same room as someone and not being able to feel anything from them. Even if he couldn''t feel Genesis''s emotions, he could always sense his magic.


    The woman in the red and gold dress looked back at Mirk as Fatima helped her down off the table, flashing him a smile. "What''s your name again? I''m sure someone told me once, but I''m..."


    Tired. Overwhelmed, even if it was in a good way. "Mirk," he said, returning her smile as best he could. When he did, he felt something hard fall into his lap. Another one of his teeth, a front one that time.


    "Mirk, that''s it. Funny name for a Frenchie. I''m Alice. Come by and see us again. I''d like it if you could meet her," she added, her hands again going involuntarily to her stomach.


    "Only reason he''d ever have to go visit you," Yule said. Though the target of his frown made it clear his current cross mood was more directed at Fatima than Alice.


    Fatima ignored him, walking beside Alice and letting her lean on the shoulder opposite her weaker leg as she led her to the door. Only once Fatima was between Alice and Slava did Mirk appreciate how short she was, smaller than him by far, and a good hand shorter than his godmother. Even though Alice was on the tall and muscular side, Slava picked her up easily, making her laugh.


    Once the pair were gone, Fatima turned back to the healers, giving them all a critical once-over. "Well. It''s sooner than I was counting on. And it''s a motley crew. But it''ll have to do, for now. I''ll deal with finding our esteemed comrade," she said with another derisive snort, as she turned and left.


    "I wouldn''t mind lying down," Mirk said into the silence that followed her departure. The atmosphere in the room was doubly oppressive now without Alice''s relief and wonder to temper things. He picked the second tooth that''d fallen from his mouth off his lap with shaking fingers. But he kept the staff gripped in his other hand. "And, euh...does anyone here do teeth healing? Methinks I''d like to have them put back before I lose them, if it''s not any trouble."


    "I''ll find someone," Eva said, trying to get some of her usual detached composure back. straightening her smock and rolling her head to work the stiffness out of her neck. "You two, take him upstairs to the long-term ward. Move the other patients around if you must. He needs the shielding. I''ll go make some excuse for Cyrus and tell Emir to come up so that he doesn''t need to be told things second-hand. I think this is proof of why we all need to talk more directly instead of being so secretive."


    Mirk watched her leave, trying to ignore the growing numbness in his limbs and the aching in the pit of his stomach. How could he keep something that he didn''t even know he could do a secret? He had his secrets, just like everyone else. His magic wasn''t one of them. At least not when it came to the other healers, with Cyrus and his followers excepted.


    But what did Genesis know?

 Chapter 46

    They put him in the largest room they could clear up on the long-term ward, recruiting a team of aides to shuffle the three grumbling and sore men they evicted off down the hall. It was all right, Danu assured him, when she saw Mirk try to muster the will to protest. Their injuries were physical, a broken leg and some bruised ribs and a shrapnel wound to the back. They didn''t need the shielding on the room like he did. The explanation didn''t make Mirk feel any better, but he didn''t have the strength to argue with her.


    Or with Yule. Or Emir, or Eva, who arrived along with a healer she knew from the Tenth to deal with his missing teeth. A cheerful woman named Polly, who chatted with him the whole while she was digging around in his mouth with her fingers, unbothered by how this meant that he couldn''t reply. Once she''d come and gone, Yule took her place in the chair nearest his bedside, finger-combing his hair to evaluate whether there was anything that could be done to help it.


    By the time Yule had finished, bald patches covered a third of Mirk''s head, and all the older healer could do was sigh and tell him he might have a soap that could make it grow back faster. Mirk did his best to nod and smile, with the excuse that he really needed to invest in a good wig anyway, but his heart wasn''t in it. He was too worried. Worried by the ring of concerned and frustrated faces surrounding his bed, and by how his grandfather''s staff was still warm against his palms.


    When Genesis appeared, it was without warning: one moment there was no one beside the supply cabinet in the corner of the room, then he was there, Fatima holding onto his arm with the barest tips of her fingers. She moved away from him the second the shadows cleared, shuddering and making a hand gesture Mirk recognized from Ilae Kasim in his father''s guard. Protection against the evil eye. "I hate your magic," Fatima muttered, as she limped over to the only vacant chair left, at the foot end of his bed, beside Eva. "Like scorpions made of ice..."


    Genesis didn''t reply. He was deep in thought, rifling through a book he pulled from the breast pocket of his overcoat. Mirk''s stomach sank. It was Jean-Luc''s journal. There was now a whole collection of papers tucked in among its pages, more than just Genesis''s usual mage parchment.


    Even though Fatima sat down, she still leaned forward in her chair, staring at Mirk intently, her hands folded on the head of her cane like she was prepared to jump up at the slightest provocation. "This is all you''ve got?" she asked Genesis, ignoring his attempts at ignoring her. "Good work getting the commander, but the rest of them? I suppose he''s as good as three or four normal healers, but I was still expecting better out of you," she said, with a wave of her hand in Mirk''s direction.


    When Genesis finally responded, he didn''t look up from Jean-Luc''s journal. "I believe they will be...adequate for your purposes. At the present moment."


    "And what are your purposes, exactly?" Emir interjected. He looked more put out by Genesis''s mere presence than he was by Fatima''s dismissal of him and the other healers. "Who did you bring me? And what are you planning on doing with him? I want all of it this time. I need to know what I''m dealing with."


    "He will make his own decisions," Genesis said, closing the book with a snap. Something about Emir¡¯s questioning bothered him, Mirk thought. It was in the way the shadows thickened behind him, the way his face shifted into one of his defensive, humorless not-quite-smiles, only for as long as it took Genesis to force it back to its customary blankness.


    "Tell us," Emir insisted. "That stunt should have been impossible."


    Genesis settled back on his heels, turning Jean-Luc''s journal over in his hands. Though he was looking down at the book, Mirk suspected he wasn''t seeing it. His eyes were flicking back and forth, reading a different book in his mind. When he spoke, the unnatural pauses that littered his speech were longer than usual, his accent thicker, low and hissing and heavy with some emotion that Mirk couldn''t identify.


    "It is a...complicated matter. I have needed to consult several sources to confirm my suspicions. His family was not...forthcoming with information about the staff. Or about the rest of it. Nor was...anyone else."


    When no one replied, Genesis made himself continue, the shadows growing darker behind him. "I cannot promise absolute accuracy. His magic involves the convergence of several...elements. There is the...angelic blood. And then there is the staff. I have no...conclusive answers as to what controls it. Or its definite origin, or the limits of its potential. Jean-Luc d''Avignon, according to his own...recollections, performed several otherwise impossible feats with it, ranging from healing to...growing. This was the typical result. A week to several months of incapacity. As well as minor physical ailments."


    Mirk didn''t exactly think of the effects of the staff as minor, but Genesis wasn''t an empath. He couldn''t feel the piercing cold, the terrible, wan thinness of everything like the other healers could. And Genesis was accustomed to ignoring pain, even if he could have felt it, through some miracle. Mirk decided not to interrupt him, lest he break the momentum Genesis was gathering the longer he spoke.


    "Jean-Luc was not clear on what power controls it. Only that it is a...woman of some sort. And that it came from a certain tree in a...certain forest. That I have been unable to locate despite searching extensively. On its own, this is a...considerable asset. But there is a third part. The...matter of the stewards of the realm."


    "Stewards of the realm?" Fatima prompted, when Genesis fell silent, staring back down at the book in his hands and reading the one in his head again. "Never heard of them."


    "A...manner of mage that is very rare. And...limited, in some manner that I cannot account for. When one dies, another appears. I have only been able to locate a few records of their existence. They are...folk tales, mainly. And the word of Jan Komor."


    Emir was the only one present who frowned at the name. "Jan Komor? I thought he was dead. He hasn''t been around since the City moved to England."


    "He was alive until...recently. Living on the Continent under the name of Jean Moineau."


    Mirk coughed, propping himself up higher in bed. "Father Jean?"


    Slowly, Genesis nodded. "He had...many names. And ways of presenting himself."


    "But Father Jean was from Marseilles. And he''d never heard of the K''maneda before..."


    "He lied."


    All the strength drained from Mirk, as he flopped back into the nest of pillows Danu had made around him to help him sit up. He stared up at the ceiling, at a loss for words. But he heard Genesis hiss to himself in frustration. And heard Emir shift in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.


    Emir spoke before Genesis could. "Senkov is involved in this too, isn''t he? I should have known we''d never get rid of that lunatic..."


    "Yes," Genesis said. "But it is not...relevant to the matter at hand. Jan was the one who knew of the stewards. And it is his term. Thus its...inexactness. Other terms have been suggested, but they are largely connected to individuals. As it was thought to be an individual phenomenon rather than any sort of...general classification. But I believe it must not be limited to one individual in one locality."


    "Get to the point already," Yule said. Mirk wearily let his head fall to the right, so that he could see him seated across the bed from Genesis. Both his arms and legs were crossed. Everyone in the room looked frustrated, he noticed, as he scanned as many of their faces as he could without moving. Which matched the emotions he could feel radiating from his fellow healers. He wished they''d strengthen their shields, but didn''t have the will to ask for it.


    "These mages have a...particularly strong connection to the realm. There is a certain range of similarities among them, which he has demonstrated. They react...violently to teleportation. And they have other illnesses that correspond to seasons, in relation to the place they consider their...primary residence. Moreso than the average earth mage. But this is where the similarities among them end, aside from them...each being a specialist in a certain area of magic relating to the...manipulation of the Earth or its...inhabitants. The one that Jan Komor knew of was a smith. Other accounts speak of...a cavalryman with an unexplainable empathy with horses. Another of a gardener. A cook."


    "Good thing we didn''t end up with that one," Fatima interjected with a snort into the pause that followed as Genesis searched for how to proceed.


    As before, Genesis ignored her. "His is...healing. Presumably. Though it may relate to a certain...sub-type we are not aware of yet. These things develop over time. According to the sources. Jan Komor came to the conclusion he is one from...observing that he felt similar to the smith. And learning that said...blacksmith had died the same day he was born. The smith had a different temperament, however. The...potential carries, but the personality does not.


    "As is evident, it is a rare convergence to have one of these individuals also possess a tool like the staff. According to Jean-Luc d''Avignon''s writing, he was...not magically inclined before coming into its possession, though that may have been a lack of training rather than a lack of potential. Afterwards, he was a...middling mage. But the staff allowed him to perform certain minor miracles. At a cost. I don''t believe we can wholly trust his word, as he was an expert at...self-promotion, but I believe the majority of his accomplishments were genuine. Nevertheless, I believe that had he not been killed, continuing to use the staff would have killed him. His potential and the staff''s were not...remotely equivalent. But this situation is different."


    Across the room, Eva sighed. "That explains a lot. How he could heal the djinn through their collars. And what happened with Slava. We can''t let Cyrus learn about this. Or Ravensdale."


    "Agreed," Genesis said.


    "But I think he already suspects," Eva continued. She leaned forward, across the footboard of the bed, and put a hand on Mirk''s leg, meeting his eyes. Even if he hadn''t been able to feel how serious she was, it would have been clear in the intense focus of her narrowed gaze. "You should leave the City."


    Mirk shook his head, though he instantly regretted it. He waited to speak until the room stopped spinning. "No. I won''t leave everyone. I want to help. You, the djinn, the Easterners. And there''s really nothing for me back home, even if Henri''s there."


    "Knowing Senkov and the company he kept, you were tricked into coming here," Emir said. He wasn''t looking at Mirk. He was glaring at Genesis. "That''s what this was all about, wasn''t it? You''re just finishing what Senkov started. He''d been raving for centuries about getting rid of the nobles. Him and Jan."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But he slipped Jean-Luc''s journal back into the pocket of his overcoat, straightening its shoulders. Preparing himself. Like a man facing the sword, or the noose.


    The sight of it made something in Mirk''s chest ache. And it compelled him to speak up again. "Providence doesn''t make mistakes. I''m here now. And I won''t leave. Methinks it wouldn''t be right, no matter..."


    "Enough of this," Fatima said, tapping her cane on the stone floor. "I want to know about your promise to help me," she said to Genesis. "You lot can argue over the rest of it on your own time."


    "Yes, I would like to know why you''re here, Fatima," Emir said.


    "Simple. Converging interests. I have women who want work fighting and enchanting but your commanders won''t let them. He wants information and more bodies. And has promised us a place, if he ever manages to take control of anything. The problem is that we''re all getting hacked to bits and don''t have any healers of our own. And you saw what happened to Alice when she tried to come here for help. So we''ll have to work outside the infirmary."


    Emir pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I don''t have the healers."


    "He says you do." Fatima shifted her annoyance back to Genesis, who was still staring off into the middle distance, shoulders squared, as if expecting something terrible to come crashing down on him any moment. "I told you, I want healers at the house from sundown to sunup at least four nights a week. You can''t do it with just them, not without making it obvious they''re doing healing on the side somewhere else. It''ll raise even more suspicions. I''m sure that bastard from the Tenth will be seeing plots everywhere with the stunt he just pulled."


    Fatima looked to Mirk with a mixture of suspicion and frustration. When he met her eyes, cringing back into the pillows at the exasperated face she made, she sighed and shook her head. "Of course, I''m grateful for your help. Alice is one of my best spies. And well on her way to becoming a decent assassin. The baby will make it harder, but she''ll see it through. My point is that you didn''t have to be so flashy about everything."


    "I didn''t know what was going to happen," Mirk said. "I just showed the staff what was wrong. And then it..."


    "That''s what you get for playing with divine magic. Unpredictable, unreliable, unsustainable."


    Her words finally seemed to bring Genesis back to the present. "There is no proof of any...god in the staff."


    Fatima waved Genesis off. "Yes, yes, I know. No gods, no lords, whatever. But I know what I saw. Anyway, you seem like a decent practical healer besides, so we can work with that," she continued, refocusing on Mirk. "So we''ve got you, a surgeon, the half-Death, and Yule. It''s a start, but it''s not going to cover everything that comes up. Or all the shifts."


    "Who said we''re going along with this plan of yours anyway?" Yule shot back. He''d always been a bit prickly about his position in the division, about how he had to lean hard on practice and study to do his work while the rest of them could rely on their inborn magical talents. Fatima''s comment hadn''t helped convince Yule to be agreeable. Mirk got the impression that she''d known full well that it wouldn''t earn her any favors with him, but hadn''t cared enough to choose her words more carefully.


    "Fine," Fatima said with a shrug. "Let''s take roll. Who''s in, who''s out?"


    Eva was the first to reply. "In. I''m done with Cyrus."


    "I''m inclined to agree," Emir said. "He wants me gone, the same as his friends among the other commanders. If helping you means he might finally leave, I''ll do what I can. I want to stay alive."


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    "In," Danu said, after a moment, offering no explanation.


    Yule offered one for her. "I''m not surprised. Not wanting to be dead is a fine enough reason. And both of you have fallen head over heels for one of his useless Russians," he said, focusing his scrutiny on Danu and Eva. When neither of them rose to his provocation, Yule rolled his eyes and shook his hair back over his shoulders. "You want them to stay alive, Gen wants them to stay alive, it makes sense. What I''m saying is, there''s nothing in it for me."


    "Is that a no, then?" Fatima asked.


    Yule did his best to spit out the word. But in the end, he sighed and shook his head. "I''m in. But I''d appreciate being paid for my time, at least. You all get something out of this, so I don''t see why I shouldn''t too. We''re mercenary healers, after all."


    "Healers for mercenaries," Danu corrected.


    "Same difference."


    "That''s his problem," Fatima said, gesturing to Genesis.


    Genesis frowned across the bed at Yule. Yule returned the favor. "In time...your service will be to your benefit."


    "Charity doesn''t pay my tab." He paused, his eyes flicking toward Mirk. "And before either of you try it, don''t go shaking Mirk down for gold again. Just because he''s the only one here who isn''t one bad day away from the gutter doesn''t mean you two have the right to rob him for your revolution."


    "No one''s ever asked me for money," Mirk said.


    "That''s because no one has to. All they have to do is tell you the saddest story they can think of and out comes the purse."


    Before Mirk could reply, Emir cut in, shaking his head. "Yule does have a point about pay. I could convince more people to help if I could tell them they''d be getting paid for it. Half of our people are healing on their off-hours already to pay for things."


    Fatima shot Genesis a look. Without being able to feel her emotions to help things along, Mirk wasn''t quite sure what she meant by it. "Take more contracts off the assassins'' boards. I''ll pass them around to the girls who are ready for it. But keep to the one and two stars. Your perfect average will go away, but you''ll get enough gold to pay everyone, especially if any of the marks are holding anything that we can pawn."


    Genesis sighed. "If I must...then so be it."


    "Nice to see you being sensible about money for once," Fatima said as she pulled herself to her feet. She leaned hard on her cane with one hand and dug in her pocket with the other, coming up with a handful of what looked like brass buttons. "It''s settled then. Until we''ve got more people, you lot will have to do. No set shifts until then, just these. When it rattles, you''ve got work to do. It''ll stop once someone comes, and only then."


    She did a circuit of the room, handing one to each healer, pausing in front of Emir. "Not you. Your job is to bring me more healers. Someone like you showing up at the house would draw too much attention."


    "Aye, Comrade Commander," Emir said, with a tired smirk at the way Fatima scowled in response to the title. "You''re right. I''m being watched as it is. Cyrus will have convinced Alistair to put another three spies on me by nightfall, I''m sure."


    Fatima crossed to Mirk''s bedside, one last button held in her free hand. She laughed to herself as she tossed it onto Mirk''s lap. "We never asked you whether you were in or out. But I''m guessing you''re in."


    Mirk picked up the button ¡ª it looked and felt like an ordinary overcoat button, aside from the faint trace of magic he could feel in it, along with the ticking of some kind of clockwork mechanism. "If people are getting hurt, methinks it wouldn''t be right for me not to help."


    Flashing another pointed look at Genesis on the way, Fatima headed for the door. "You better have trained him well. A man who''d say something like that is as good as dead if he crosses the wrong person. God-magic or no god-magic."


    "He is...capable of defending himself," Genesis replied, without looking after her. He was staring into the middle-distance again, with the same troubling, blank expression.


    "It''s our funeral if he''s not."


    -   -   -


    "I''m sorry, messire."


    Though he''d been apprehensive about it, Emir had agreed to let Mirk go back to the quarters he shared with Genesis rather than stay up on the long-term ward for monitoring. He hadn''t been able to pick up much from the head of the Twentieth''s emotions ¡ª his angelic lineage was evident there, he''d mastered the same empathic restraint that all angelic children were taught, though Emir didn''t often feel the need to make use of it ¡ª but what Mirk was able to feel bothered him. Emir wasn¡¯t concerned by the thought of not being able to keep an eye on him at the infirmary. He was hesitant to let him leave with Genesis.


    It wasn''t that Emir didn''t trust Genesis, not exactly, if what Mirk could feel was true. It was that he thought Genesis was taking advantage of him in some way. Danu had similar reservations, but not as strong. Yule had his own ideas about what was going on. Ideas that were more in line with what was actually happening, though Yule had the situation reversed. Genesis wasn''t harboring unspoken feelings for him, feelings that wouldn''t allow him to exploit Mirk''s position unduly. He was the one with the feelings. And all the troubles that went along with them.


    Genesis didn''t respond to his apology right away. He''d magicked them both back to the dormitory and had helped Mirk back to bed, allowing him to hang off his arm for support as he''d shuffled from the common room to the bedroom. At present, the commander was helping him pile on his collection of quilts, the magicked warming quilt that he''d made for Genesis included. Even though the weather wasn''t horribly cold, Mirk felt just as chilled as he had last night from having his magic drained away. Only once the last quilt was folded around Mirk to Genesis''s satisfaction did he choose to reply, looking off over his head rather than meeting his eyes.


    "There is no reason for you to...apologize to me."


    "I shouldn''t have done it. Asking the staff..."


    "You have no control over what it does. In particular."


    "That''s exactly why I shouldn''t have depended on it to fix things," Mirk said, sighing as he settled back into his pile of pillows. Genesis hadn''t protested his claiming all of them. A sure sign that he had no intentions of coming to bed any time soon, even if it was only early afternoon at present. Mirk smoothed his numb fingertips over the stitching on the self-warming blanket, wishing that more of its heat would sink into them. The price he paid for playing God with the staff, he supposed.


    The question had been nagging him ever since Genesis had finally cracked and explained everything to them. Mirk still wasn''t sure he wanted to know the answer. It would make things difficult between them, more difficult than they already were. But he had to know. Like all painful things, it''d be best to get it done and over with, Mirk supposed. Not knowing wouldn''t change anything. "How long did you know, Genesis? That Father Jean wasn''t...Father Jean."


    Genesis took a step back from the bed, making a frustrated noise somewhere between a hiss and a sigh as he folded his arms. "I was not...advised about any of this. Senkov only told us that there was a good contract in France. A favor for what he called...an old friend. I did not know that friend was Jan Komor. In truth...it took me several weeks to recognize him. Disguises and...related trickery was one of his interests. And I had only met him once before. Once I understood who he was, things had...advanced too far."


    "Who was Senkov? Everyone here seems to know him..."


    "A man who had...similar ideas to myself. But who did not hesitate to manipulate the truth to serve our cause. That is not c''ayet," Genesis said, hitting the word in his native language hard, making it snap and hiss. "But he did not follow it. As none are forced to. There is always a choice. But yours was...taken from you. For that, I am in your debt."


    "What do you mean?"


    For minutes, Genesis wrestled with how to explain himself. Mirk waited, mindful to not look at him, knowing it''d only make things worse. He could feel the shadows stirring beneath the bed, making it feel as if he was resting more on static than batting and boards. "Senkov died before he could...explain himself. Jan did not. He was...very adamant that you must not be allowed to remain with the nobles in your country. He insisted that you must be brought to the City. And join us. At all costs. As he had been...planning this outcome for some time. Not what happened to your...relations. And you. That was a...turn of events he had not anticipated. But he thought your...magic, and the staff''s...was too powerful to remain in the hands of the noble mages."


    Mirk stared up at the ceiling, searching his memory for signs. Father Jean had never struck him as dishonest. He spoke his mind to the Abbess, to his father and his angelic tutors, to bishops and dukes, all without exception. Even when it meant putting his position at risk. And Mirk had never felt any malice from him, not directed at him.


    Father Jean had been transparent. He''d only learned how to shield his mind as a way to comfort him, when his empathy had first begun to manifest and even the most gentle emotions had weighed on him like so many stones grinding him down into earth, which was suddenly alive and loud and restless in a way he didn''t understand. Or so Father Jean had said. If it had all been a facade, it was the best Mirk had ever seen. Through a throat that had gone bone dry, Mirk made himself ask the next question. "When did he tell..."


    "The night that...everything occurred."


    "Oh..."


    "Afterwards...I was determined to take you to the guild healers. K''aekniv and Mordecai protested. They convinced me that...your condition...could only be handled by a healer with the skills possessed by Emir, who has...experience with these things. In those with angelic blood. And that leaving you with the nobles would...jeopardize your safety. Provided one is not targeted by a K''maneda, the City is...safe from external interference."


    That knowledge stung as much as the news of Father Jean did. But for an entirely different reason. Mirk didn''t try to hide the wince. He didn''t have the strength. And he didn''t think Genesis would understand why he did it.


    But, for once, he seemed to. The commander let out a long sigh, unfolding his arms and letting them hang at his sides as he squared his shoulders. The same way he had back in the infirmary, when he''d first tried to explain. As if he was expecting some kind of punishment. "It was...not a matter of...dislike. You were lied to. You had no...choice. They had been taking it from you since you were a child. This I only learned recently. Upon...finding a fraction of Senkov¡¯s papers."


    "What do you mean?"


    Genesis struggled even longer that time to find the proper words. "I came to the City when I was...eleven years, ten months. Senkov replaced my...nis''yk. Guide. Mentor. I did not question why he made me do...the assignments he did. This is how things are. A syk''ca...student...will come to understand the purpose through doing. And if the purpose is objectionable, the syk''ca can refuse. There is...always a choice."


    He paused for a time, thinking. Though Mirk did his best not to look at him, knowing full well it''d only make it harder for Genesis to continue, he couldn''t help but notice that, despite his best efforts, Genesis could no longer keep the shadows from coming to him. They curled out from under the bed, spreading across the wall behind him in deepening spirals. The fact that Genesis hadn''t let them do as they wanted right from the start, Mirk thought, spoke to how hard Genesis had been fighting to contain any sign of his emotions.


    "After....everything, I...recalled an assignment Senkov gave me soon after I came. A...riddle. It was his usual method. He was aware of my...interest in binding magic. My...understanding of the assignment was that he wished to know how much I had learned through my own efforts. He asked me how I would make a spell to bind a piece of the earth away from itself without removing it. A...useful exercise, he said at the conclusion...because my own bindings...are a way of binding part of me...from myself...without removal. And negotiating them would be...key to my development.


    "With the...new information from Jan...I was suspicious. But I had no way to...confirm. Until I took back some of Senkov''s papers from the mage in the...Third who stole them after his...execution. This spell was not an...exercise. He...modified it...with information from Jan...to conceal your magic. I don''t understand the full purpose of this. But I....do understand the implications. I am responsible, in some part, for this...deception. The removal of your choice. And for that...I am in your debt."


    The laugh escaped Mirk before he could catch it. Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk saw the shadows tense along the wall behind Genesis. Not to rush outward, but to collapse inward, on Genesis himself. But before they could, Mirk managed to say something more sensible, something Genesis could understand. At least a little. "Oh, pas du tout. Then I''m in your debt, messire."


    "...explain."


    "The years before I had my magic were happy. They stopped trying to teach me anything very soon, you know. I just...well. I spent time with my mother. And the servants. Of course, being sent to the abbey was awful at first, but it''s what''s done. All children have to be sent away for a while to learn how to act without their parents guiding them. My sister was sent to the Empire to learn with the other half-angel girls from a few ladies from the Citadel. And I was sent to the abbey. That was a different kind of happy than when I was with my family, but it was...sais pas. It was nice. Just...serving."


    Mirk tried to never let himself think about his time at the abbey too hard, just like he tried not to think of the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re in flames. But not because his time with the sisters and brothers was a black pit he felt he''d fall into and never escape if he dwelled on it. The years he had spent there ¡ª tending the garden and humming to Vespers and stirring stew in the kitchen and even staring at the wall of his cell, propped up against Tournesol''s side ¡ª were the last time he''d felt at peace. He had thought that was what life would be like forever, even if his family called on him to serve the Church in a higher position. A life of quiet routine, and thoughtfulness, and small wonders. His magic''s appearance and the death of his uncle Marc had put an end to it. Knowing that it was Genesis who had made that peace possible, even if it hadn''t been intentional, didn''t ruin it at all. In a way, it only made everything make more sense.


    The only times he''d felt glimmers of that same peace since he''d come to the City had been when he''d been wrapped inside the safety of Genesis''s magic.


    "But it was...a deception," Genesis said, interrupting Mirk''s thoughts.


    "That''s true. But methinks Father Jean must have meant well, in his own way," Mirk said. He couldn''t bring himself to call Father Jean by the name the others used, the one that sounded like that of a stranger. "I...I don''t think he could have lied about caring for me. I would have felt it. And in the end..."


    And in the end, when he could have run, when he should have run, Father Jean had taken him into his arms, shoved him out into the foyer and away from the fire in the ballroom, the roar of the flames echoed by the hysterical gasping of Serge Montigny''s laughter. Then Father Jean had picked him up and carried him to the front doors, hurling them open and dropping him on the front steps. He had told him to run, to run without stopping, without looking back. Father Jean had told him that God would guide and protect him. And then he''d turned back around to face the towering pillar of darkness, solid and creeping and reeking of mingled camphor and rose, that had stalked out into the foyer after him, casting the rings he always wore on each of his fingers to the floor in preparation.


    Mirk thought of those rings often. If he should have stopped before running away to pick up the one that''d gone rolling out the open front doors and bouncing off down the steps. As if somehow having one of them to hold onto might have given him the presence of mind to fight as well.


    He cleared the thought away fast, pressing his hands down hard on the blanket, trying to focus on the distant feel of its warmth. "...anyway, it''s...it''s over now. It doesn''t matter how I came here. I''m here for a reason. And even if I might have chosen different before, now I''m choosing to stay. So you don''t owe me anything, Gen. Though I wish you''d have told me about Father Jean sooner instead of trying to understand how everything fit together first."


    "I...see."


    He snuck a glance at Genesis''s face. He was as confused as Mirk had ever seen him, judging by the defensive baring of his teeth behind his lips and how high his eyebrows were arched. It made Mirk laugh again, as he pulled the blankets up to his chin. Genesis had tucked him in the way that he himself preferred to sleep instead of thinking strictly of warmth and comfort: blanket at mid-chest, arms exposed. Ready to fight. A similar miscalculation was behind the confusion, Mirk thought. A man like Genesis, with his single-minded devotion to resistance and freedom, couldn''t ever fathom yielding to providence without protest. "But if you insist on doing me a favor, I''d be glad if you stayed. I know you must be busy, but I don''t have any shields. And I always feel a little better with your magic between me and everything else."


    Genesis deliberated for a moment. Then, with a wave of his hand, his sullen armchair appeared, the space between the bedside and the wall just wide enough for it to fit. He didn''t say anything more to Mirk, instead summoning another of his endless, thick black grimoires and settling in to read. Mirk didn''t mind. The fact that Genesis listened, that he stayed, was good enough. When Mirk closed his eyes, exhaustion overwhelmed him fast, and sleep was quick on its heels.


    His last thought as he drifted off, was that even if Genesis was taking advantage of him in some way he wasn''t clever enough to see, it didn''t matter. It kept them both in the City, in those quarters. And as long as he was there, Mirk could entertain his own delusions. And keep his own secret. In light of that, if Genesis was keeping any of his own, it was only fair.


    No one was completely innocent. It was just a matter of knowing where to look for their sins.

 Chapter 47

    "Oh dear...what''s all this?"


    Mirk had been away from the infirmary for a week. His potential had been slow in returning, almost as slow as his recovery from the kindling sickness had been. That morning was the first since the incident with Alice that he¡¯d woken up feeling as if he had the strength to be more than a drain on the other healers, capable of mixing potions and rolling bandages and helping injured men eat and bathe, even if he wouldn¡¯t be of much use for proper healing. But the chaos in the waiting room gave Mirk the impression he''d be needed to do much more than just roll bandages.


    No major offensives had been scheduled for overnight. At least, that was what Danu had told him when she''d stopped by yesterday afternoon to visit. Yet the waiting room was completely full, so full that men were huddled together on the floor for want of chairs and benches, most of them coughing and all of them miserable. Their collective suffering and fatigue pressed hard against Mirk''s weak mental shielding, making him consider turning around and heading back to the dormitory, just for a second. Then he heard a louder cough, followed by a familiar voice calling his name.


    "Mirgosha...please, come be nice...give us the papers...or they''ll send us out..."


    He searched for the source of the croaking, congested voice, and found that it was coming from much closer to the floor than he''d been expecting. K''aekniv and practically every other man from the Seventh Mirk could recognize were lined up against the wall near the hallway back to the field transporter, too weak to stand, huddled together for warmth. Ilya and Pavel were pressed up against either of K''aekniv''s sides, and Mordecai had gone so far as to sit in K''aekniv''s lap in an attempt to keep warm. They were all staring up at Mirk, expectant and desperate. And he didn''t have the slightest idea what to do.


    Mirk decided to start with the basics. Though K''aekniv wasn''t looming above him like usual, he still didn''t need to kneel down in order to press the back of his hand against the half-angel''s forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, more than it usually was. If it wasn''t for his angelic blood, his fever would have long since made him lapse into unconsciousness. "What''s happened?" Mirk asked him, as he moved on to check his pulse at his neck. Fast, but hard and steady.


    "Everyone''s sick," Mordecai answered for the half-angel, reluctantly pulling back the blanket over his head. "Something from off-realm."


    "They wouldn''t send you out like this, would they?"


    K¡¯aekniv sniffled hard. "Bastards want their money...don''t care if we all d...di..."


    Before K''aekniv could finish, he let out a massive sneeze. All the men around him jumped and pulled their cloaks and furs over their heads for protection. The force of the sneeze made K''aekniv lose his grip on his magic. At least it had only made a dusting of snow appear on everyone within a few feet of him, Mirk included. Though it''d also sprayed snot and spit all over the front of his freshly ironed robes. Pavel dug a handkerchief out of his pocket for him. Mirk took it with a grateful bob of his head and did his best to clean himself off, even though he knew the handkerchief wasn''t going to be much help. It''d been used well past the point when it should have been switched out for one that wasn''t sticky and clammy with mucus.


    "The only way we can get out of it is if we have permission from the healers," Pavel explained, taking the handkerchief back from Mirk. "We''ve been here since two in the morning."


    "How long until we''re supposed to be at the transporter?" Mordecai asked Ilya.


    Ilya dug around in his layers ¡ª it seemed like they''d all piled on every last scrap of fabric they owned to help keep warm ¡ª coming up with a pocketwatch that looked like he had made it himself out of bits of scrap metal. "Hour," he said, sighing and drawing his firs back up over his head.


    "Help us, Mirgosha," K''aekniv groaned, throwing both his arms around Mirk in desperation. His grip lacked its usual inhuman strength, but it was still tight enough to nearly squeeze Mordecai half to death trapped between them.


    "Let me talk to Emir," Mirk replied, as he worked his way out of K''aekniv''s embrace. "I''ll come right back. I promise."


    Though all four of the Easterners protested against it, none of them had the strength to keep Mirk from hurrying off. Things were worse the deeper he traveled into the infirmary. Nurses and aides were rushing to and fro down the halls, carrying trays of potions and hauling buckets of water from each hall¡¯s magicked taps. There were men lying prone on the floor along either side of the hall for want of rooms, shivering away under thin infirmary blankets, most of them delirious with fever and many of them covered in snot and vomit and other, worse things. With how much suffering was packed into the infirmary that morning, Mirk knew that trying to use his magical senses to find Danu or Yule would be hopeless. And despite his reassurances, he knew Emir would be too busy to listen to him.


    He eventually found the rest of his team by process of elimination, sticking his head into every room he passed and scanning the faces of the exhausted healers overseeing the chaos. Yule and Danu were up on the second floor, tending to a mage still in full battle robes, with enchanted armor strapped to his arms and legs that was still weakly sparking with his out-of-control magic. Things had to be serious if the officers from the Tenth were willing to let them handle a patient like that, a member of one of the high-born divisions, judging by the quality of the enchanted armor. Danu was holding the mage''s soul out as far as she could from his body in an effort to keep his magic from striking them all down, while Yule hurried to slap spell papers all over him and pour potions down his throat. Mirk joined in without comment to help however he could, holding the man upright on the exam table so that Yule could work faster. Once the mage had gone fully unconscious from some combination of the sickness and the potions, Yule and Danu stepped back from the table to speak with Mirk, Yule breathing hard and Danu much paler than usual.


    "What''s going on?" Mirk asked.


    "This happens at least twice a year," Danu said. "The infantry gets sick off-realm with something, then somehow everyone in the City ends up half-dead. We''ve got all the potionmasters working on it, but it never helps. It''s usually gone again by the time they come up with something that can really make a difference."


    Yule shook his head, propping his hands on his hips as he watched the mage gurgle away to himself on the exam table. "Honestly, it''s not that bad this time. They don''t have sores and blood coming out of them everywhere. Though the ones who have it worst are coughing some up. But it''s nothing terrifying. They''ll be fine waiting it out. It''s just a matter of keeping the mages from blowing us all up."


    "Mordecai and the rest are out in the waiting room," Mirk said to Danu. "Niv says that if we don''t give them some kind of paper, they''ll get sent out again. But they''re really not in any condition to..."


    Mirk trailed off as Danu cursed to herself in the native language her and Yule shared, not waiting for him to finish before heading off in search of the Easterners. Yule snorted, elbowing him in the ribs. "That''s why every low-born man here is after his own healer to take to bed. All you have to do is make eyes at the right person and it''s straight to the front of the line. I''d accuse the little gnome of taking advantage of it, but he''s not that smart."


    "Mordecai really loves Danu," Mirk said with a sigh. "Everyone can feel it, methinks."


    "I know, I know. Well, let''s go see what we can do for the rest of them. They really do have a great racket going. It just takes one of them coming here and telling you or her some story about whatever pathetic, idiot thing they''ve done and then we get stuck with the whole lot of them. And none of them even have to go through the effort of taking you to bed to get you to drop everything."


    "You wouldn''t do the same for your friends?"


    "I''d have to have friends for that to work," Yule shot back, smirking. "Ones who aren''t healers, anyway."


    Laughing under his breath, Mirk led Yule back down to the ground floor. The Easterners were exactly where he''d left them, near the hallway leading to the field transporter. Danu had pried Mordecai out of K''aekniv''s arms and was fussing over him, her head pressed against his chest as she listened to his breathing, tapping at places on it to help tell how full of phlegm his lungs were. In spite of the difficult situation, Mordecai looked happy about this turn of events, in a delirious, edge-of-consciousness sort of way.


    "It''s bad," Danu said, looking over her shoulder at them as she sensed them approaching. Though she didn''t quit stroking back Mordecai''s sweat-soaked hair. "But it''s not awful. They''ll make it through. They could all do with fever reducers and potions to clear out their lungs. Especially him." She nodded at K''aekniv, who was blearily muttering to himself about the injustice of only Mordecai having someone to comfort him.


    "Maybe you could be nice, Yu...Yul..." Before K''aekniv could work out his request, he sneezed again. That time when his magic slipped his control, it ignited the fringe on one of Ilya''s blankets. The other man patted the flames out bare-handed and without comment.


    "Get it together before you burn the whole place down," Yule grumbled, surveying the line of prospective patients.


    "It''d be easier if someone pet my hair and said nice things..."


    Yule scowled at him, catching himself just before he could kick the half-angel in the leg. Better not to risk making him sneeze again, Mirk supposed. "Not on your life."


    They all set to work, checking the pulse and the breathing of all the Easterners lined up against the wall. Mirk noticed that, despite his cursing and scolding, Yule wasn''t limiting his survey to those who could be counted among their closer acquaintances. All three of them joined together to check on K''aekniv, Mirk and Yule taking one side each while Danu stood ready to intervene with her Deathly magic, should the half-angel have a proper sneezing fit. Once Yule was satisfied that K''aekniv wasn''t about to drown in his own fluids, they all took a collective step backwards to debate their best path forward.


    "We''re going to have to do something about Niv''s magic," Yule said. "Knock him out, probably. Somehow."


    "Put me to sleep, I don''t care," K''aekniv cut in, scrubbing at his raw, reddened nose with the back of his hand. "Just give me something warm. Or drink. All you healers always have drink."


    Yule rolled his eyes. "Not for you, I don''t."


    "We''ve got the jump in fifteen, lads! Up and at ''em!"


    A collective groan arose from the Easterners. Mirk glanced up and saw that a tallish, barrel-chested man with a thick red beard was headed for them, fast, a shorter, smaller man trailing behind him and trying his best to match the other''s long strides. Really, the bearded man was quite tall ¡ª much taller than he was, anyway ¡ª but a lifetime spent among angels and half-bloods had unduly colored Mirk''s opinion on what counted as big.


    "Go away, horse-fucker," K''aekniv said under his breath as he drew his wings tightly in around his shoulders as a makeshift blanket. It dragged Ilya and Pavel on either side of him closer, shoving them into the gap Mordecai had left behind in K''aekniv''s lap. Both men were too cold and miserable to fight it.


    "What was that?" the smaller man snapped. He nearly crashed into the back of the bearded man as he came to a sudden halt in front of K''aekniv.


    "Go away," K''aekniv repeated, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the waiting room. Notably, he decided to leave off the epithet he''d used earlier. "We''re sick."


    "Ah, come on, Fluffy! It''s not that bad! You''ll feel better once you''re up." The man bent down to clap K''aekniv on the shoulder, but reconsidered when he noticed the half-angel was on the brink of another sneeze. Pavel reached up and pinched K''aekniv''s nose until the urge passed, grimacing and wiping his hand on the front of K''aekniv''s uniform blouse before settling back in under the protection of his wing.


    "They really are very sick," Mirk said, since neither Danu or Yule moved to intervene. Danu was too busy fussing over Mordecai still, and all of Yule''s focus was being spent on glaring daggers at the shorter man still lurking behind the bearded one''s bulk. "Methinks you won''t be able to win any battles with them, even if you do take them through the transporter."


    The bearded man peered down at Mirk, only seeming to notice his presence just then. "Oh! You''re a new one. What''s an honest woman like you doing with this Teague?" he asked, flipping an offhand wave at Yule.


    "They''re not going," Yule snapped, his ire refocusing on the bearded man. Mirk wasn''t certain what the word he''d used on Yule meant, but judging by the older healer''s reaction, it couldn''t be anything good. "Healer''s orders."


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The man ignored Yule, inclining his head toward Mirk instead, treating him to what was meant to be a winning grin. The remnants of breakfast caught in his beard detracted from the effect. "Comrade Commander Dauid Craig. Be a good lass and get my men up for me, all right?"


    Mirk sighed. If he hadn''t been so tired and his mental shielding so weak, he would have been able to put things together more quickly. He''d heard plenty about the commander of the Seventh, most of it bitter complaints from Genesis and profanity-riddled rants at the bar from the Easterners. Mirk didn''t think there was any genuine malice in what he''d said ¡ª at least, he couldn''t feel any coming from Dauid over the emotions of the sick men all around them. Rather, Dauid struck him as the bravado-filled, rough sort of man who prided himself on his honesty and lack of airs, which mostly consisted of casual insults and a disdain for the hassle of manners and appearances.


    Or perhaps he''d been spending too much time listening to Genesis as of late.


    Since they were resorting to full names, Mirk didn''t feel quite so bad about falling back on his own titles. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon, Comrade Commander. I''m glad to be of service to you and your men. But methinks none of us would be served well by taking them out fighting in this condition. You''d be lucky not to lose any."


    Dauid squinted at him for a time, then a light of realization came over his features. "Oh! Apologies. You''re Bonesy''s pet noble, aren''t you? I was expecting you to be bigger. Manly. Half-angel and all."


    "Not all of us are like K''aekniv," Mirk replied, mustering up a polite smile and half-bow. He wasn''t exactly happy about being called Genesis''s "pet", but he understood how an outside observer could get that impression. And the odds were good that Genesis detested being called "Bonesy" even more.


    "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we need all of them. If they can walk, it''s good enough. If I don''t put someone up on that wall, we''ll be overrun. And Ravensdale and the Pappy will have my head."


    It was curious, Mirk thought, that Dauid had a dismissive name for everyone but the current head of the K''maneda. Maybe there was something to Genesis''s supposition that there was a curse on the man''s name.


    "They''re barely able to stand," Danu said, finally joining the conversation, though she only lifted her gaze from Mordecai long enough to shoot Dauid one of her ominous, black-eyed glares.


    "Fine. We''ll prop them up against the wall and call it a day. Come on, you lot! On your feet! Sooner you start, sooner you''re finished," Dauid said, turning to face the crowd of Easterners with his hands on his hips.


    Despite the more serious tone Dauid took with them that time, none of the Easterners budged. The smaller man emerged out of Dauid''s shadow, scoffing and giving K''aekniv a sharp kick in the leg. "You heard Comrade Commander! Up, you lazy scum!"


    K''aekniv''s only response was to sneeze again. That time, Pavel made no effort to stop it. Perhaps because he''d Seen that K''aekniv''s magic would lash out only at the small man in particular, encasing the foot he''d just kicked K''aekniv with in a solid block of ice. Low, congested laughter percolated among the Easterners, along with coughs and what Mirk assumed to be insults in their native language.


    Dauid joined in, guffawing and slapping the smaller man on the back. "That''s what you get for being a little bitch, Squeaky. Show the man some respect. Else he''ll put you on your ass the next time."


    "Methinks it''d be too dangerous to have K''aekniv out in this condition. God only knows what might happen if he sneezes at the wrong time. If it''d gone only a little more to the right..."Mirk made a vague gesture at Dauid¡¯s bulky frame, letting the commander draw his own conclusions as to which part of his anatomy K¡¯aekniv¡¯s magic might have targeted.


    "Got a point there," Dauid conceded, repositioning his stance a hair to protect his more vital interests. "But I still need someone or something up there to hold our position. Ideas?" he asked, surveying the Easterners once more.


    All he got was silence. But after a lengthy pause, Ilya extracted something from his mess of blankets and offered it to Dauid. It was a perfect sphere, cobbled together out of bits of metal fused together by Ilya''s fire magic. Dauid took it, tossing it up and down in one hand to test its weight.


    "Don''t do that!" Pavel snapped, his eyes flashing white. "It''s a bomb. You can go put it on that bridge halfway to the outpost. Cast a timed disintegration spell on it and run. That should slow them down long enough." As he stared up at Dauid, Pavel''s eyes filmed over white once more. Mirk wasn''t certain whether he was truly Seeing something, or just putting on a show to make his point more convincing.


    As soon as Pavel said the word bomb, Dauid passed the orb over to his second, who took it with the barest tips of his fingers. "Might work. But how do we get it on the bridge? The way''s filthy with those ghost-mages of theirs."


    "Get Gen to do it," K''aekniv said. "He never gets sick."


    "You''re sure?"


    "I saw him an hour or two ago," Mirk said. "He''s...well. As well as he ever is."


    Dauid hesitated for a long moment, his eyes trailing over the exhausted and snotty faces of the Easterners. "It''s worth a shot. But even if it works, it''ll only give us a few days. Bonesy''s good, but he''s not that good. Those ghost-mages are the worst I''ve fought in fifty years. And is he even ready to bust up again? He just did it when you all were off wasting my gold in France."


    Mirk stiffened at the mention of France, but Dauid and the Easterners were too busy squaring off against one another to notice him. K''aekniv shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. You know him. He tells no one nothing."


    "I want my men back in fighting shape in five days," Dauid concluded, glancing at Yule and Mirk. "Otherwise I''m coming back with the Scots and taking them through the transporter whether they want to go or not."


    Without giving any of the healers or the Easterners a chance to reply, Dauid turned and left, falling into conversation with his second. Who was still limping along on his frozen foot, despite asking his commander for assistance.


    Mirk deflated, hugging himself for comfort as he watched the Easterners settle back in against the bit of wall they''d claimed for themselves. "I can see why Gen and everyone else doesn''t like him."


    "He''s an ass," Yule said, flatly. "Not a malicious ass, but still an ass. His second''s worse."


    "Oh?"


    "Keeps stealing all the men," Yule replied, his voice heavy with disdain. "Oh, but he''s a second! Like that matters. Elias is a little bitch, just like Dauid said. What can he do for you? Maybe get you a promotion if you get on your knees often enough? A healer''s useful, at least."


    Mirk couldn''t keep himself from laughing, though he covered his mouth to muffle his snickers and turned the conversation fast back to the problem of the Easterners. "Where should we start with them, Yule? Are there any rooms left?"


    "I don''t care if there''s high-borns in all of them, we''re kicking someone out to get him behind a shield," Yule said, gesturing at K''aekniv. "And if we can''t fight or bribe our way into one, we''re going to have to knock him out. It''s not safe. Danu, go put your beloved gnome to bed and get us some sleeping draughts. The strong ones, as many as you can carry. Mirk, you''re with me. Think any of you can help us drag him up to third?" Yule asked the men nearest K''aekniv.


    Ilya shrugged. "Beds for us if we get him one?"


    "No promises, but I''ll do my best."


    Leaning on K''aekniv for support, Pavel and Ilya struggled to their feet, a few other men joining them after arguing for a bit in their native tongue. It''d have to be a group effort, Mirk knew. Hauling K''aekniv anywhere was next to impossible, even when he was half-conscious and able to help a little. And at present K¡¯aekniv was making no move to get up, having lapsed into a half-conscious daze, his wings puffed up for warmth and his face streaming.


    "Should be enough if we work together," Yule said, rolling up his sleeves after surveying his volunteers. "Two on the body and one on each limb. Wings too. Let''s get to work."


    -   -   -


    By the time he dragged himself back to his quarters just after midnight, Mirk felt like he''d been drained to nothing again, despite not having touched his magic, aside from using it to keep up his shields and identify a few potions missing their labels. It''d been a long day of hauling unresponsive men double his size all over the infirmary, getting sneezed and coughed and vomited on as he tried to force the right potions into them. He was an absolute wreck. Usually he viewed his evening standing bath with weary resignation. That night, he was looking forward to it for once.


    Mirk''s mood brightened when the door to his quarters swung open before he could touch a finger to the doorknob. Whatever trials Dauid had put Genesis through that day in place of the Easterners must not have been as terrible as everyone had feared. He glanced around the common room as he crossed the threshold, fumbling through taking off his shoes and putting away his things. Genesis was nowhere to be seen. Mirk hoped he wasn''t already soaking in his overlarge tub. Genesis''s baths never lasted less than an hour. After particularly bad days, the commander could pass the whole night sullenly steeping in his steaming brew of potions and cleansers.


    "What...did they do to you?"


    Genesis had been out. Sort of. When Mirk looked up at the sound of his voice, he saw Genesis sidling back into the room through the shadows cast by the bookshelves into the corner nearest his desk. Though he had a whole bundle of scrolls in hand, Genesis¡¯s attention was wholly fixed on Mirk, his expression caught somewhere between disapproval and what Mirk thought might be horror. He¡¯d never seen it before. Genesis had faced down whole hoards of demonic constructs and Abyssal horrors without batting an eye. That a set of dirty robes would be what finally brought a look of terror onto Genesis¡¯s face was peculiar, though predictable. "Oh, hello, messire," Mirk said. "Did everything go well on that realm Niv and the rest were supposed to go to? Everyone''s been worr¡ª"


    "The bath. Immediately."


    The words startled a laugh out of Mirk, even though Genesis''s tone was dead serious. He looked down at himself, idly passing a hand down the front of his robes before he could think better of it. They''d been the usual gray-green when he''d set out that morning, but a full day''s work tending to the sick had left the front of them darkened and encrusted with filth. "I suppose it is worse than usual..."


    "As I said. The bath."


    "I was headed right there, Genesis. Honest."


    Genesis set the scrolls down on his desk, so distracted by Mirk''s condition that he didn''t even look away from him long enough to ensure they were stacked evenly. "You will require specific materials. And that..."


    Though he debated the matter for a moment, Genesis''s horror of disease won out over his stuffy, ancient K''maneda sense of propriety. With a disgusted flick of Genesis''s hand, Mirk''s robes fell away into shadow and dust, leaving him in nothing but his braies and chemise. Mirk felt extremely fortunate at the moment that Genesis had such expert control of his magic. And that the commander had no empathy to speak of. Mirk knew full well that the action was one of desperation on Genesis''s part, but the part of him that was constantly murmuring dark thoughts to him about the curve of the commander''s neck and the chill of his fingers didn''t hesitate to speculate further on what that particular bit of magic might be like in a different scenario.


    "Do not bring robes in...that condition in here again," Genesis said, his voice knocking Mirk out of his thoughts.


    Mirk moved to cross his arms against the chill in the room, though he managed to catch himself that time before he could touch his cleaner smallclothes with his dirty hands. "Euh...what am I supposed to do, then?"


    "Change at the infirmary. And then...change again in the hall."


    "Messire, that''s a little much, even from you," Mirk said. He knew that Genesis wasn''t looking at him like that ¡ª he was scanning his smallclothes for any telltale stain that might hint at him carrying his work back with him. But Mirk still felt himself going red. His last informal chemise was getting very thin, and it was quite cold in the common room.


    Genesis shook his head, adamant. "I will not get sick."


    "But I''m not sick. And the air''s not bad in the dormitories. If I do catch it, I suppose I can make a bed on the floor out here..."


    "The disease clings to you. Even if you...remain well...you carry the potential with you. Everything you touch. Every time you breathe..."


    The longer Genesis thought about the possibility of getting sick, the more agitated he became, his hissing accent growing more prominent, the shadows rising up thick behind him. Mirk needed to stop things before he got truly upset. "If it''s too much, I can go stay somewhere else until it passes. Since Niv''s not well, I suppose I can go stay in his room until he''s better..."


    "No. Doubtlessly more...infected...will remain in that building. Who cannot or will not go to the infirmary. You will be at the same...risk."


    "But you won''t."


    "Irrelevant," Genesis hissed, abruptly turning away from him and sifting through the top drawer of his desk. "You will...take a shower bath first. Use the hottest water you can stand. I will have the...necessary potions for the proper bath made by then."


    "It''s not like you to be so demanding," Mirk muttered, as he shuffled off in the direction of the bathroom. And did his best to ignore the dark voice''s aside that it wasn''t such an unappealing change of pace. There was a certain passion in Genesis¡¯s insistence, even if it was a matter of self-preservation, that made the heat spread down the sides of his neck.


    Genesis didn''t seem to hear him. He''d found what he was looking for in the drawer ¡ª a blackened bottle, which he shook the contents out of into a pair of handkerchiefs he snatched out of his shirtsleeve. He cut off Mirk''s way to the bathroom, holding the two soaked handkerchiefs rigidly out in front of himself. "Hands. If you would," he added, when they weren''t forthcoming.


    "I was on my way to the bath already, Genesis."


    "If you...touch the runes with them, you''ll...contaminate them."


    Biting his lip, Mirk held out his hands. He was glad the pain blockers he''d taken that afternoon had worn off. No amount of reminding himself that it was all strictly business, that Genesis was just being thorough and methodical as always, could keep his stomach from tying itself into knots as Genesis cleaned his hands.


    If the commander hadn''t been so delicate about it, so gentle and careful, it wouldn''t have been so trying. Or if the intensity of his focus didn¡¯t bring out the blue in his eyes. Or if he hadn''t started touching him bare-handed once he''d cleaned his wrists to his satisfaction. The way Genesis''s long, slender fingers could close fully around them made something inside of Mirk crumple.


    It ended too soon. Or not soon enough. Genesis withdrew without noticing anything was off, though Mirk was absolutely certain he would have been able to hear how fast his heart was pounding, if only he hadn¡¯t been so distracted. "Proceed. I will...return with the potions momentarily," Genesis said, dismissing him as he rifled through Mirk''s potions kit for the necessary components.


    On unsteady legs, Mirk hurried to the bathroom and shut the door behind himself, pausing in the dark to calm himself for a time before waving on the magelights. It''d be better if he got to work before Genesis could stick his head in to check on him to ensure he hadn¡¯t gotten distracted. And was more thorough than usual with his washing. Despite Genesis¡¯s admonition to use the hottest water he could stand, Mirk opted to tap the cold water rune.


    If Genesis judged his efforts inferior and tried cleaning any more of his body himself, Mirk didn''t think he could bear it. They''d have to clear a bed for him in the infirmary alongside all the other sick men.

 Chapter 48

    It''d been three days since the sickness had descended on the infirmary. Things were not going well.


    The span of the illness varied. Some of the men who''d come in on the first day, like Mordecai, were on the mend, no longer spiking fevers and hacking up lungs. Instead they were only nursing sore throats and sniffles as they trudged around the infirmary helping the healers with their more basic chores, if they were charitably inclined. Others, like K''aekniv, had only gotten worse. Most of those patients were delirious with fever and needed to be administered a constant stream of potions so that their brains didn''t boil and their lungs didn''t fill. When they found the strength to cough, there was always blood in their spittle.


    K''aekniv was the worst of them, even though he hadn''t progressed to the blood stage. No matter how many potions they fed him, his fever refused to break. And he''d incinerated four full patient rooms worth of furniture and supplies.


    Mirk and his team were gathered outside the fifth room, near the back of the long-term ward, preparing themselves to go in. It had taken all of Mirk''s charm and multiple references to his noble grandfather, but he''d convinced Gerlach, one of the leading officers of the Tenth, to send a mage over from the Eleventh to put wards on the room sufficient to keep K''aekniv''s magic from torching more doors. A full three weeks of his infirmary wages had been required to bribe a miserly veteran officer from the Supply Corps into providing them with a metal table from the artificers'' workshop that was resistant to magic. Paired with a sufficient number of spare mattresses, they were able to cobble together a makeshift bed for K''aekniv that wouldn¡¯t be reduced to ash with one bad sneeze. Mirk didn''t mind the cost. It was a small price to pay for the comfort of a friend.


    "He''s not going to die if we don''t feed him," Yule said, taking the lid off the pot Mirk had just brought up from the ground floor, his nose wrinkling at the mess inside. Nothing more exotic than the usual stew ¡ª the only reason why Mirk had been able to cajole a whole pot of it out of the cooks was because so much of the infantry wasn¡¯t eating. The same had been true for the three loaves of bread Mirk dropped on the metal cart facing K''aekniv''s door. They sounded like bricks clanging off its surface, despite the cook he''d bartered with claiming they''d been baked fresh that morning.


    Mirk braced his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. "He says he''s not sleeping well. Angels can only do one or the other. If they don''t sleep, they have to eat. More than they usually do, even, methinks."


    "He''s only half," Yule replied, replacing the lid.


    "So am I, but it''s still the same. At least a little. I only need to sleep so much because the food here is...euh..." It seemed wrong of him to excuse his bad habit of napping in spare patient rooms on his blood, but it served his purpose at the moment.


    "I suppose you''d be the expert," Danu said, tapping a fingernail on the crust of one of the loaves of bread with a resigned sigh. "And it does match what Morty says about how he acts on contract. The best part about going out is that Niv cooks for everyone. Aside from the pay."


    Yule had more complaints to voice, but Mirk was distracted by a rattling at his waist. It was time to wash his hands again. He uncorked the odd jug Genesis had left for him the morning after the sickness had started ¡ª a bulbous vessel made easier to carry by being attached to what had once been a sword belt ¡ª and dumped a measure of its contents onto his hands. It smelled the same as Genesis''s standard cleaning potion, harsh, with a dash of orange to take the sting out, but Genesis had thickened it to make it stretch further and keep it from burning his hands.


    It still left them terribly dry. Or perhaps that was due to him reapplying it every hour, on the hour. If Mirk tried to ignore the jug, it kept rattling at him until he complied. Mirk had an uncanny feeling that if he neglected it for too long, a long, slender, black-clad arm would reach out of the nearest shadowy corner and clean his hands for him.


    "Are you still messing about with that nonsense?" Danu asked him, when she noticed Mirk had dropped out of the conversation.


    "Absolute rubbish," Yule agreed.


    "It''s...well, it isn''t hurting anything, not really," Mirk said, as he worked the potion into his hands. "And it only takes a little time. Methinks it''d be better if I kept Gen in a good mood. He''s doing all of the Easterners'' work right now. If he wasn''t, Dauid would be trying to make everyone go out again."


    "Some of them are probably fine to fight," Yule said. "Your beloved gnome included."


    "He''s still very weak," Danu replied, as she toed the anchoring spell on the wheels of the cart off. The product of another bit of high-priced bargaining with the Eleventh. Yule insisted they wouldn''t be giving back once the sickness had ended. "They''d all be killed in a day or two without Niv there to help. Morty says that the mages on that realm are the most powerful he''s ever seen."


    Yule rolled his eyes. "How convenient. Whatever. Let''s get this over with before he burns through another door. Danu, you open it. Mirk, you''re on point. I''ve got the cart. Shields up," Yule said, slapping his own on before steeling himself and gripping the handle of the cart. Danu and Mirk each activated theirs as well before taking their positions.


    The shields had been the product of a different bit of bribery, that time of Genesis rather than anyone from the Eleventh. They were costly, delicate devices, individual shields that the most wealthy mages wore into battle to protect themselves without draining their magical potential. Mirk had convinced Genesis to procure them by suggesting that their anti-arcane properties might also protect against disease. Genesis had seemed skeptical, but the shields appeared atop his trunk at the foot end of the bed one morning nevertheless. Mirk knew better than to ask what Genesis had done to obtain them.


    Once they were all shielded and in position, Danu disengaged the wards on K''aekniv''s door and pulled it open, hiding behind it for protection as Mirk led the way through. Yule was quick on his heels with the cart when there was no hint of magic or sneezing from inside. Danu slid in after him, closing the door and waving the wards back up as soon as its lock snicked.


    "Finally! I''m dying...so cold..."


    K''aekniv was still in the exact same position Mirk had seen him in last: sprawled out across the whole length of the metal table, propped upright with a mass of singed and sweat-stained pillows to ensure that he didn''t drown in the mess of fluids constantly streaming from his face and draped with every last fur and blanket the Easterners could find. His makeshift bed was surrounded by empty bottles and used handkerchiefs, all of the latter full of holes from his magic. There would have been whole mountains of them, had K¡¯aekniv¡¯s magic not incinerated all the handkerchiefs on a regular basis.


    "Are you feeling any better?" Mirk asked K¡¯aekniv, taking the cart from Yule and pushing it within the half-angel''s reach. Danu and Yule stayed back by the door. Only healer at a time was supposed to get close to K''aekniv so that the others had more room to maneuver and support in case he had a sudden sneezing fit.


    "I hurt. And I''m cold. But I''m not dying, not really. It''s just a bitch sleeping on my back like this." K''aekniv took the lid off the pot of stew, examining that afternoon''s offerings. He shrugged and picked up the pot, ignoring both the ladle and the bowl and spoon that Mirk had brought along with it, drinking straight from the source instead. "Bring me more food next time, eh, Mirgosha? A man needs more than a bite to get better, you know."


    "I''ll do my best," Mirk said. While K''aekniv was distracted by the stew, Mirk took the opportunity to lean in and check his pulse and his breathing. The former was fast and hard as ever, and the latter rattling, but not to an alarming degree. The worst of K''aekniv''s symptoms was his fever. Mirk could only keep the back of his hand pressed against K''aekniv''s forehead for a few seconds before needing to pull away. Mirk sighed, handing over one of the loaves of bread, lest K''aekniv chug all the stew so fast there was none left to soften them with. "You''re not getting any better, Niv..."


    K''aekniv shrugged, accepting the bread and chomping straight into it without dunking it in the stew. It made something in his mouth crack, but since K''aekniv didn¡¯t seem troubled by it, Mirk decided to let things be. There weren¡¯t good odds of him being able to poke around in his mouth without being burned or frozen to death anyway.  "Maybe it goes today, maybe it goes in a week. What can you do? All you healers never know what to do when I get sick."


    "Hasn''t anyone ever studied you?" Mirk asked. "There was a plaster my mother used to make for my father when he got ill...maybe that would help a little..."


    "Too dangerous," Yule replied. "Nothing to do but lock him in a room and wait it out."


    "Eh, it''s not so bad, as long as you keep bringing me food. But it is lonely. If you have a break, you like to spend it with someone," K''aekniv said, sniffling. As one, the healers recoiled, hands lifted and ready to summon their best defensive magic. K''aekniv paused and shot them all a curious look, scrubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. "What?"


    "Every time you sneeze, all hell breaks loose," Yule said.


    "I can''t help it!"


    Danu let her hands fall to her hips, her voice taking on the same, patient tone she used on Mordecai when he got particularly worked up over something, so agitated he started teleporting in place. "Have you tried controlling it?"


    K''aekniv shook his head, tearing another hunk off the loaf of bread. "Doesn''t work."


    "What do you mean?" Yule asked.


    "You can''t think when you sneeze! Your eyes just close and then shit happens."


    Yule sighed. "I guess you have a point."


    As soon as K''aekniv was distracted by getting the last of the stew out of the pot with the heel of his first loaf of bread, Mirk decided to take a chance and lean in close to him again. He lowered both his borrowed shield and his mental ones, examining K''aekniv with his magic. What he saw was strange: being ill didn''t seem to have lessened the strength of K''aekniv''s magic at all. If anything, his illness had doubled it. And beneath K''aekniv''s shifting fire and ice, Mirk could feel the bright core of his life force, still vibrant and steady despite the fact that anyone else with his symptoms would have been on the verge of death.


    "It''s very strange," Mirk said, as he withdrew and pulled up both sets of shields. "He really is fine. Just...very hot. And congested."


    Yule shook his head, looking like he wanted to smack Mirk in the arm. But he wasn''t willing to risk drawing close enough to act on the impulse. "That was a risky move."


    "Well, someone has to help him. Methinks it''s not right to just let things happen without trying to make them less painful."


    K''aekniv smiled at Mirk, reaching over and ruffling his hair with one of his giant, burning palms. It was a wonder K''aekniv hadn''t set his blankets on fire with the heat radiating off his body alone. "Ah, Mirgosha...you''re the only one who really cares..."


    "Considering who else he likes to meddle with, I''d say it''s more like he''s suicidal," Yule grumbled.


    Before he could reply, K''aekniv abruptly shut his mouth, blinking rapidly. He sniffled. Then he shook his head, gesturing urgently at the door. Mirk and his team scrambled to get out, just managing to engage the wards on the door the instant before another of K''aekniv''s massive sneezes made it rattle on its hinges. A pool of water seeped out from underneath it a moment later. K''aekniv''s ice magic must have slipped out of his grasp that time instead of his fire.


    "If it was ice, at least it probably didn''t wreck anything for good," Yule said with a sigh, shooting a resentful look down at the puddle. "I am not losing that cart."


    Mirk shrugged. "I''ll go in the next time he falls asleep and get it. He can''t sneeze while he''s sleeping. And you can hear him snoring through the door."


    "Mirk! Mirk, there you are!"


    He turned toward the sound of the voice. Sheila was rushing down the hall toward them, from the direction of the fourth floor. "What''s wrong?" he asked, bracing himself for the worst.


    "Genesis. You''ve got to come stop him, he''s gone mad. No one can talk any sense into him."


    "What do you mean?"


    "He''s...just come look," Sheila said, grabbing hold of his arm and hauling at him. And there was no resisting a vampire when she was determined. "He''s not hurting anyone. But..."


    Sheila continued dragging him down the hall, Yule and Danu following behind them at a judicious distance. Sheila was silent as she led him onward. And onward. Up past the fourth floor barrier, and through to the fifth, all the way to the very end of the main hallway that wound its way to the top of the infirmary. A crowd was gathered there, healers mixed with a sprinkling of the more ambulatory and curious mage patients. Though Mirk couldn''t see Genesis beyond them, he could both feel and see his magic.


    Tendrils of shadow were working their way all across the blank white plaster wall at the end of the hallway, curled around sticks of charcoal, sketching the outline of a sinister figure along with countless runes. Mirk shouldered through the crowd along with Sheila, calling out enough apologies for the both of them as he made his way to the front.


    Genesis wasn''t the sort of man who showed much skin. But he''d taken his usual precautions against being touched to a new extreme that afternoon. Mirk wouldn''t have been able to identify him, had it not been for his magic and the fact that no one else among the K''maneda''s mages and fighters had the same distinctive, upright bearing that Genesis did. Or such a lithe, tall frame. Or such shapely calves. Mirk shook his head hard. Now wasn¡¯t the time for woolgathering.


    Beyond his usual uniform, overcoat, and riding boots, Genesis was wearing his flat black hat, a particularly ugly accessory that reminded Mirk of the severest kind of Protestant preachers that frequented the streets of mortal London. At present, he''d coiled up his long ponytail and crammed it up inside of the hat. He''d also donned black gloves and a long black scarf that he''d wrapped all around his face and neck, leaving only the barest slit for his eyes. But even those were covered ¡ª he was wearing some manner of shield over them, something like the hand-held spectacles he''d seen elderly mages and nobles use. Only Genesis''s were tinted black like everything else he owned, and they had little bits attached to their sides so that no air could circulate behind them.


    All things considered, it was a frightful ensemble. Mirk could understand why everyone who''d gathered to watch was hesitant to get too close to Genesis, his magic aside. He stepped forward out of the crowd.


    In actuality, it was more like the crowd pushed him forward, a sacrificial offering to whatever malevolent power had possessed Genesis and set him to work on the wall. Mirk cleared his throat to get the commander''s attention, though the odds were good that Genesis was already fully aware of his presence. "Messire, what are you doing here? You''re making everyone worried."


    Genesis didn¡¯t look back at him, his attention fixed on the bevy of scrolls and grimoires his shadows were holding up for him. "I am finished with this...nonsense. This building has better facilities for handling this situation."


    Mirk studied the figure the shadows were sketching on the wall. It had a familiar shape to it, albeit wider and taller. Like a doorway. "Is this like the bathroom?"


    "Correct," Genesis said, taking a pointed back stone out of the breast pocket of his coat and passing it to a coil of shadow. The shadow carried it off to the wall, jamming it hard into the plaster at what Mirk assumed was the focal point of the spell. "It will be more...complex to reveal it, but it is there. The ward is referenced several times in the histories."


    "The ward?"


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    "The...plague ward."


    "Euh...well, methinks it''s not right to call this sickness a plague, messire...no one has any boils..."


    "Nevertheless. It has the proper...equipment to contain it."


    "Did you at least let Comrade Commander Emir know about this before you started?"


    "No, he did not," Emir said, wading through the crowd. Though he stayed back at the frontmost fringes of it, well out of reach of the shadows. "It''s common courtesy to let command know before you start demolishing their buildings, Genesis."


    Genesis didn''t look back at Emir either. "I did not think you would...protest having additional room."


    The head of the Twentieth sighed deeply, rubbing at his temples with the tips of his index fingers. "Everyone knows that the plague ward is a myth. I''ve been on the roof. There''s no glass up there. And magic beds that can cure the sick on their own? Without healers? I thought you had more sense than this."


    He could hear the frown in Genesis''s voice, even if it was hidden behind his scarf. Just like he could sense the narrowing of Genesis''s eyes as he finally glanced over his shoulder at the crowd, even though his odd spectacles hid them from view. "The records do not lie."


    Emir wasn''t impressed. He stood his ground, folding his arms over his chest, refusing to be intimidated by Genesis''s cold, staticky magic. "If you blow a hole in the wall of my infirmary, you''re fixing it yourself. Or paying the Supply Corps to do it. And that looks like a summoning spell, not something to break a wall down."


    "It contains aspects of many magicks. The ward must be...summoned from the void your...predecessors cast it into."


    "What predecessors? I''ve been here for two hundred years!"


    Before Genesis could reply, Emir turned away from him, muttering under his breath as he debated how to handle the steadily growing crowd. Word traveled fast in the infirmary, even among patients. And there was little else for the recovering mages to do there other than come and gawk. "Everyone get back to work! Or your rooms! Do any of you really want to get caught up in this nonsense? No healer''s going to be able to put you back together again after those shadows are done with you."


    "It''s not nonsense! It''s magnificent!"


    Mirk recognized the voice despite not being able to see the man himself. That aside, he could think of only one person who''d react to the creeping monstrosity sprawling across the wall with excitement rather than unease. Elijah. He heard the mage apologizing and coughing as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd, not stopping at the fringes like Emir had, but drawing up beside Mirk to get a better look.


    Elijah''s presence didn''t escape the shadows'' notice, though Genesis refused to acknowledge him. A few tendrils of Genesis''s magic passed off their books and charcoal and wrapped themselves around Elijah''s limbs, tight enough to restrain but not fierce enough to injure. Elijah watched this with curiosity rather than fear, sniffling hard to keep the snot from running down his face for lack of a free arm to use his handkerchief with. "Would you mind calling them off, comrade?" Elijah asked Genesis. "I promise I won''t touch anything! I just want to get a better look."


    Genesis continued to ignore him.


    Though he was overwhelmed by a coughing fit for a minute or two, Elijah was undeterred by Genesis''s cool reception. "Is that the spell De Jong used to summon the djinn Malik of the North? I''ve never seen it used like that before! Really, you''re a creative genius, comrade, I never would have thought to connect it up to Huber''s Five-Point Intensifier like that. Does that get you double power? Triple?"


    The shadows released Elijah then, going back to their work. But Genesis still refused to acknowledge him. Elijah stumbled over closer to Mirk, greeting him with a bob of his head and a sheepish smile. "How''ve you been keeping, Mirk?"


    Mirk ducked his head in return. "It''s been a little busy as of late."


    "Well, I''m sorry to have added to your work. But my magic''s been going completely mad! I nearly burned down a whole bookcase this morning. Had to throw my couch into the blast to save it."


    "I''m sorry to hear that."


    Elijah shrugged. "You can always buy a new couch. I''d torch a whole legion of couches to save one grimoire. Speaking of grimoires, is that Caravalho''s treatise on the demons of the void, Comrade Genesis? I thought the Inquisition burned all the copies of that! Though they were the ones who made him write it in the first place..."


    Finally, Genesis deigned to speak to Elijah. "The Vatican...retained a single copy."


    "How the hell did you get your hands on it, then?"


    "...I...disposed of the bishop who kept it."


    Rather than being appalled by Genesis''s answer, Elijah only laughed, shaking a handkerchief out of his sleeve and dabbing at his nose. "Ah, I can''t compete with you. I can only get books from estates. Or out in the wild, if someone hides one poorly."


    "If one is interested in rarities, the...application of force is often necessary."


    Mirk lost track of the conversation at that point. Genesis mostly ignored Elijah''s constant stream of comments, though he was willing to engage if Elijah asked him a direct question. The mage''s excitement grew with every new line of runes the shadows added to the spell taking shape on the wall, but it only made his physical condition worse. Elijah''s fever was bad enough to leave him pouring sweat, which he wiped away with the same handkerchief he was using on his nose.


    It was a marvel the handkerchief hadn''t combusted yet. Every so often, clusters of dark red sparks would crackle off Elijah¡¯s head and hands. Whenever it happened, Genesis''s magic responded instantly, the shadows ghosting about Elijah until his flames settled. If Genesis''s magic was capable of restraining that of the sick mages, Mirk thought, it was worth looking into. Though how they''d convince Genesis to stay in the infirmary long enough to test the phenomena was a whole other matter.


    The crowd behind them had swelled rather than dissipated at Emir''s command. Every mage patient they had who could lever themselves out of bed must have decided to come watch. They debated the spell hotly, matters of divisional affiliation and magical orientation forgotten in light of the spell that stretched from floor to ceiling before them. Popular opinion seemed to be torn between horror and fascination at the spell, at its use of orthodox magical theory applied in a twisted and backwards fashion.


    If Genesis heard any of their comments, he gave no indication of it. He continued to work as if he was alone in the hall until the wall was completely covered with runes and figures. Then he dismissed his shadows and books with a wave of his hand, reluctantly pulling off one glove as he approached the wall.


    "Excellent work, comrade," Elijah chirped, pursuing the commander as closely as he dared. "Perfect structure, as always. A little beyond me, but I see what you''re getting at."


    Genesis didn''t reply. Instead he summoned something, calling it to himself and banishing back into the shadows too quickly for Mirk to spot what it was. It must have been some kind of blade. A long, narrow cut had opened across the width of Genesis''s palm. He stepped up within reach of the wall, pressing the blood trickling from the cut to the black stone at the focal point of the spell.


    A rush of cold air flowed out from around the edges of the wall, the floor of the hallway trembling. The crowd of onlookers beat a hasty retreat, Mirk included. Only Elijah and Genesis remained close to the wall. Though Genesis''s attention remained riveted on the spell, as its charcoal lines began to pulse with living shadow, he did snatch a bit of bandage from his pocket and wrap it around his palm before tugging his glove back on.


    Elijah hummed and nodded to himself, shifting to the side to look at one section of the spell in particular. "Strange. It should be working. Well. It is working, but it looks like it''s caught on something."


    Slowly, Genesis nodded. "There is an...unknown element at work." The commander scanned the wall as well, taking a single step closer to where Elijah stood. "...there. The...upper left quadrant. In the release hexagram. I believe the pipes supplying the...sanitation spells must have accumulated ice."


    Squinting up at the place Genesis had indicated, Elijah grunted his agreement before blowing his nose. The small concession Genesis had made to Elijah evaporated as Genesis darted out of range of any potential contamination. But Elijah seemed as oblivious as always. "Could be. Hard to tell whether it''s earth or water jamming it with the rest in the way, though."


    "A...minor application of fire to the...second control line would be sufficient to balance it."


    "That''d probably do the trick, you''re right. If it is ice that''s making it stick, anyway."


    Silence fell in the hall for a moment, aside from the grinding of stone against stone as the spell continued to try to complete itself. Genesis sighed. "I would be...appreciative of your...assistance in the matter."


    "What? Me?" Elijah turned toward Genesis, staring up at him with a mixture of shock and excitement that was strong enough to make the empaths closer to the pair twitch, Mirk included. "You want me to do it?"


    "You are a fire elemental. And have...chaotic orientation. Your magic will not...interfere with the rest of the spell."


    "I...well, all right, if you say so. Only a touch, right? No structure, just a little heat?"


    "Correct. To the...second control line."


    Nodding, Elijah blew his nose again to ensure he wouldn''t sneeze in the middle of his casting. Genesis plucked at the scarf wrapped around his face to double-check that there was no threat of contamination, no sliver of skin left exposed. Elijah was too excited to notice. He reached out his right hand in the direction of the wall. A moment later, a certain point in it glowed red.


    The rumbling intensified and shadows washed over the whole of the wall, covering it like a pall of smoke, smoke that boiled and writhed like hundreds of snakes coiling around one another. Then all of it vanished ¡ª the shadows, the rumbling, the cold ¡ª revealing what had been hidden behind the plaster on the wall at the end of the hallway. The wall was now bare stone, like that of the basement, great flat gray blocks fitted together so closely that no mortar was required to keep them firm. Set in the middle of it was a towering set of double doors made of black metal and glass. The glass was tempered so that the room beyond wasn''t clearly visible through it, though sunlight did filter through it into the hall. Above the doors, words were carved into the stone, in an unnatural, jagged script that seemed to crawl in place. Mirk couldn''t read it, but was familiar with it as one that Genesis used often in his notes and spells.


    There was another moment of silence. Elijah broke it, letting out a whoop of excitement as he went to Genesis''s side and slapped him jovially on the back. Genesis was too distracted by the door to notice it coming. "Huzzah! We did it! Well, you did it, mostly. Not that I doubted you for a second, of course."


    Genesis hissed in surprise, his body going rigid at Elijah''s touch. Then he sidestepped out of the mage''s reach, going to a metal plate set into the stone beside the double doors. "It will require cleaning after such a period of...disuse." He traced a rune on the plate. There was a metallic screeching noise and the doors'' glass went black. Once the darkness cleared, Genesis stepped back to study his work, nodding to himself in satisfaction. "There. It is restored."


    "At least you didn''t blow anything up," Emir said, resurfacing from the crowd to take charge of the situation. The mages were murmuring to each other again, huddled in twos and threes, casting furtive glances at the wall like young boys trying to work up the courage to talk to a particularly striking girl. "Let''s see what you did. Do the honors yourself, since you feel so strongly about it."


    Without hesitation, Genesis threw open the double doors and led the way inside. The room beyond was astonishing, second only to the room atop the Glass Tower where the lady K¡¯maneda did their sewing and enchanting. The ceiling was made entirely of glass, a single sheet of it that arced from one side of the long, wide room to the other without any metal supports or ornamentation. Some enchantment on the glass negated the gloom outside, filling the space with a thick golden light that warmed it better than the heating spells buried in the infirmary''s walls ever could.


    To the left and right of the doors, lining the walls, were at least four dozen beds. Each was large enough to accommodate the tallest angel or demon Mirk had ever met with wings outspread. Attached to the side of each bed was a glass dome on metal hinges that could be lowered on top of it, sealing off the patient inside like a plant inside a cloche. Genesis didn''t pause in the doorway. He was unfazed by the marvelous room, as if it looked exactly like he''d expected, and continued down the passageway between the two rows of beds until he reached one, seemingly at random, and stopped to examine it. Elijah was close behind, his eyes wide with awe as enthused over the room''s construction and magic.


    Emir, on the other hand, had frozen in the doorway. Mirk had to nudge him aside so that he could slip past him and enter. "This is impossible! There wasn''t any glass on the roof! I''ve been there!"


    Genesis flashed the head of the Twentieth one of his toothy, humorless, defensive grins. Although there was a note of triumph in his voice that hadn''t been there before, Mirk thought. "This is...K''atc''ayet. The true form of what you know as the...City of Glass. Before it was ruined by Earth-born mages."


    "Ki...kake...what? Can you say that again?" Elijah asked.


    "K''atc''ayet," Genesis repeated, his hissing and clicking accent growing thick. Mirk couldn''t make sense of most of the words Genesis ever singled out and pronounced carefully for him in his native tongue, but the old word for the City of Glass was particularly troublesome. He would have needed to have an extra tongue and half his teeth removed to ever stand a chance of saying it right.


    Elijah made an attempt at saying it, his eyes crossing as he stared down the length of his nose. What came out sounded more like someone blowing a raspberry than a word. "Er...maybe if you wrote it down phonetically..."


    "I have yet to meet a K''maneda who can...speak their own language. Or, rather, a K''maneda," Genesis said, adding the proper emphasis and clicks to the word, something he usually only did when he was feeling particularly spiteful. At least that word had a passing resemblance to the way that people pronounced it in everyday speech.


    "How are you even doing that?"


    Genesis was warming to the subject ¡ª if someone didn''t put a stop to things shortly, they''d all be in for a full lecture on ancient K''maneda customs. "Many things are...corruptions of the original terms. Comrade was once...k''mrkad. Honor...was once c''ayet. Even the old families, though they have kept the...transliterations of them, cannot speak their own names."


    "Fascinating," Elijah said, torn between staring at the bed or at Genesis. "No wonder they were able to make this place. Even their language was made for magic. You can feel the potential in it."


    "Enough grammar lessons," Emir said, finally coming back to himself and bustling into the room, standing across the bed from Genesis. Now that Mirk took a closer look at it, he noticed that the bed worked much in the same way as the devices in the bathroom did, with runes that only appeared when one brushed a hand across them. "If these don''t heal patients on their own, what do they actually do?"


    "They...function to separate the healer from the patient. Observe." Genesis pressed a rune on the side of the bed and the glass cover lowered itself, making a hissing noise as the enchantments on it engaged. "Now the bed is...entirely sealed. No disease can pass from patient to healer. Potions can be...administered through the glass in forms that can be inhaled. Here, and here," Genesis said, indicating two small depressions in the bed''s headboard. "There are more...elements, but I believe they would be...challenging to implement on a human. The means of crafting the...potions that made these perfect has been...lost. Unfortunately. I have searched."


    "So what good are they, then? Aside from giving us an extra ward to put patients on?"


    "The patients...shedding the most motes of disease can be kept here. Under glass. It will not stop it...entirely, but it will be an improvement. And it may solve the...difficulty with the mages. The glass is...impervious to magic."


    Emir shook his head. But he was considering the merits of Genesis''s proposal, Mirk could tell, by the way he absently tapped the tip of each of his tattoos that rose above the collar of his robes. A half-angel meditation practice from beyond the Mediterranean, Mirk knew, from watching Ilae Kasim in his father''s guard.  "It may be worth an attempt...the disease motes nonsense is useless, but the magic..."


    "We''ve got someone you can try it out on," Yule said, finally rejoining Mirk along with Danu now that the odds of Genesis causing a catastrophe had lessened. And now that he''d spotted an opportunity to rid himself of their most troublesome patient.


    "...K''aekniv," Genesis said, a nerve in his forehead twitching as he spoke his name. Mirk knew now from personal experience that the stress and frustration of dealing with K''aekniv when he was sick wasn''t an exaggeration on Genesis''s part.


    "Exactly," Yule said. "Bring him up here, and I''ll keep him locked up as long as you''d like."


    Genesis sighed, checking the wrappings covering his face and tugging up his gloves. "I suppose...it is a small price to pay."


    With that, the commander vanished into the shadows cast on the floor by the glass cover of one of the nearby beds. They all exchanged worried looks, aside from Elijah, who was still distracted by the magical potential of the beds. A few minutes later, with a rush of heat and congested curses, Genesis reappeared. He had K''aekniv and all his furs and blankets wrapped up in coils of shadow. Before K''aekniv could get out the sneeze he was working himself up to, Genesis raised and lowered the glass dome over the bed and shoved K''aekniv inside with a flurry of motions too quick for Mirk to track.


    Genesis managed it just in time. K''aekniv sneezed, fire boiling inside the glass dome. When it cleared, both the glass and the bed beneath it were unscathed. A confused expression crossed K''aekniv''s face and he tried to sit up, only to crack his head against the dome. He cursed and sneezed again ¡ª that time frost crawled over the glass, obscuring the half-angel, until it disappeared as quickly as it''d formed.


    "That''s a good trick," Emir said, grudgingly impressed by the demonstration of the glass dome''s effectiveness.


    But Genesis didn''t reply to the praise, faint as it was. He was too distracted by the snot and spit that K''aekniv''s two sneezes had left splattered on the inside of the glass dome. Shuddering, Genesis vanished without a word.


    Mirk laughed to himself under his breath as he leaned over the bed to check on K''aekniv. Honestly, he was surprised Genesis had lingered as long as he had after uncovering the ward. The mage patients who''d come to gawk at Genesis''s performance had shuffled into the room once they were certain it wasn''t going to do anything terrible to them, examining the beds and opining to one another on how they worked through coughs and sniffles. Being around one sick person was hard enough for Genesis. A whole room full of them was a nightmare beyond words. "Are you all right, Niv?" Mirk asked him, tapping lightly on the glass to catch his attention.


    "What the hell is this shit?" K''aekniv asked in return, his voice muffled by the dome.


    "Protection," Yule said, joining Mirk beside the bed. "And where you''ll be staying until you stop trying to kill all of us."


    K''aekniv sighed, squirming around on the bed until his wings were fanned out properly beneath him, pulling his collection of furs and blankets up to his chin. "Terrible. But at least it''s not cold as a witch''s tit here."


    "Let''s start getting patients moved," Emir cut in, ignoring K''aekniv''s commentary. He paused, then nodded to Mirk. "Let Genesis know that if he knows any more secrets like this, he''s free to share them. But he should come to me first next time. I''m not ungrateful. I just don''t like surprises. He should understand that."


    Mirk smiled back at the commander of the Twentieth, nodding. "I''m sure he''ll be happy to know that he was able to help everyone."


    He wouldn''t be happy, Mirk knew. But hopefully it meant Genesis would be a little less strict about the cleaning rituals he put him through from then on.

 Chapter 49

    "I can''t believe they''re making them go."


    Mirk squeezed Danu''s arm, projecting a bit of sympathy along with the gesture. If she was able to feel it, she didn''t say anything. All of her attention was riveted on the parade grounds across the street. Dauid had arrived at dawn, flanked by a pair of officers from the noble divisions, to collect his men. It''d been chaos ever since.


    "I did everything I could," Emir said, from his position beside them out on the front steps. The commander of the Twentieth was nearly as distraught as Danu was, in his own, subdued way. It was the pipe that gave him away. Though Emir''s face was hardened, and his shields even thicker than usual, he was sucking on the stem of a long, slender pipe, its contents too pungent to be smoked indoors. Mirk had only seen one of those once, tucked into the corner of Ilae Kasim''s mouth, when his father''s men had lost one of their own on assignment for the Emperor. His father had frowned over it, but hadn''t had the heart to tell Kasim to stop.


    Between them, the doors to the infirmary burst open. A pair of fighters from the Fourteenth emerged, dragging out one of the last of the Easterners, still in patient robes and clutching a bucket half-full of his own vomit to his chest. Yule was right behind them, shouting his protests. "Get back here! He hasn''t eaten in three days! You can''t be fucking serious!"


    "Comrade Ravensdale''s orders," one of the two fighters replied, his voice deadpan, not sparing a glance back at Yule. Or pausing in his descent.


    "Son of a bitch," Yule hissed, making an obscene gesture at the fighters'' retreating backs as they hauled the Easterner across the street to the parade grounds. If it''d been one of the larger men, Mirk thought, he might have stood a chance of being spared simply due to the inability of the Fourteenth''s fighters to carry him. But it was one of the smaller men, either Yasha or Grisha, he couldn''t be sure. His face was hidden by his bucket, as he hacked and coughed bile up into it again.


    For a lack of anyone else, Yule vented his frustration on Emir. "How can you just stand there? You''re the commander! Do something!"


    Emir''s expression didn''t shift. Though he did take a lengthy draw off his pipe. "Command Council decided it. I wasn''t invited to the meeting."


    "Fuck them! This is insane! Do they want them all to be killed?"


    "That''s exactly the point," Emir replied. "And you know it."


    Yule cursed again, tearing a flask from his side pocket and downing its contents. Once he had, he was at least able to stop shouting. Though the frustrated rage radiating off of him was enough to make Mirk''s eyes water. "Fucking Ravensdale. If he wants this to happen, he should at least drag his useless ass out to put them through himself."


    "I suspect he doesn''t want to fight K''aekniv," Emir said, gesturing with his pipe at the scene unfolding out on the parade grounds in front of the transporter.


    The two fighters from the Fourteenth dumped the sick man on the frozen ground near the rest, indifferent to both how he fell or if he''d be able to get up again. Two of the other Easterners were quick to help him, Mordecai and a bigger man Mirk didn''t recognize. They were two of the handful of men who were in near-fighting condition.


    That contingent had stood their ground in the waiting room against Dauid and his lackeys earlier that morning, trying to convince him that they alone would be enough to handle whatever needed to be done on the realm with the ghost-mages the Easterners kept discussing in hushed and unnaturally grave tones. Dauid had felt concerned, but hadn''t yielded. Mirk wasn¡¯t sure whether the concern he''d felt coming from the commander of the Seventh was more for his men, or for his own reputation and position, should they not be able to fulfill their contract.


    K''aekniv had been the leader of the group that''d tried to protect the rest. And he was the leader now out in front of the transporter rather than Dauid, who was chatting with a pair of mages from one of the noble divisions off on the sidelines. K''aekniv fussed over each and every man hauled out of the infirmary, bustling around like a mother hen who''d lost half her feathers, checking their condition with slaps on the cheeks prods to their backs, redistributing their paltry stock of armor and spare coats to the worst off men.


    Mirk had thought that Dauid and K''aekniv were going to come to blows back in the infirmary, but K''aekniv had caught himself just before he could drive his knee into Dauid''s gut and his fist into his face. The half-angel had frozen in place mid-swing, looking off in the direction of the doors to the infirmary. When Mirk had looked, there was nothing there. K''aekniv still had some choice words for Dauid, but he''d yielded. And he was still looking over his shoulder in the direction of the transporter whenever he had a spare moment now, a half hour later.


    Danu must have noticed Mirk watching K''aekniv. "Do you think Niv has a plan?" she asked, finally squeezing his arm in return. "He wouldn''t just...just let Morty and the rest go, would he? He can''t think he''s strong enough yet to fight those mages off on his own. We just let him out of the plague ward four hours ago."


    The day had dawned overcast and cold, but the dampening of Yule''s rage made it feel even colder. They all looked over to him, only to find him staring at the transporter, the same as K¡¯aekniv across the street. "Niv''s an idiot, but he''s not that much of an idiot," Yule said. His body had gone stiff; he''d drawn up his shields, tight. And his magic was crackling off the ends of his hair. "He''s not going to take all those mages himself. He is."


    Before Mirk could turn to look at the transporter, a horrible screeching sound rolled across the parade grounds at the center of the City, making all the men still capable of it duck and clap their hands over their ears. The transporter''s two support columns bowed outward ¡ª for a split second, Mirk thought they were going to snap, dropping the crossbeam above them to the ground. Instead, the transporter spat out a lone figure in a cascade of black sparks. Genesis.


    Something was terribly wrong with him. Mirk realized it the moment the shadows trying to jerk him back through the transporter cleared away. He might not have been able to feel Genesis''s magic in the same way Yule could, but he could hear it. The chaotic potential hanging around him created a constant, staticky noise, though the shadows remained mostly still, once the transporter had spat Genesis out. It made something in Mirk''s chest seize up.


    He hadn''t felt such a disturbance in Genesis''s magic since the incident with Samael. There were a dozen other, smaller things that were off about him too, things that only someone familiar with Genesis''s meticulousness would have noticed ¡ª a few locks of hair had escaped his ponytail and he''d neglected to fix them, the collar of his overcoat was pulled up instead of lying flat, the laces of his boots weren''t perfectly even. And then there were the black bandages on his arms. All Mirk could see of them was the bottom, wrapped all the way down to his fingers. He had a feeling they went all the way up to his elbows, at the very least.


    "I hope he knows what he''s doing," Emir said, after taking another pull off his pipe. The head of the Twentieth seemed uneasy, but less grim than he had before Genesis had appeared. "It hasn''t been that long since the last time."


    "What do you mean?" Mirk asked him, trying to ignore the yawning pit in his stomach.


    "I assume you must know about the binding spell on him."


    "Yes..."


    "He won''t tell any of us what it means, of course. But as far as we can tell, whenever he wants to use all of his magic, he has to do something to work around it. Like what happened when you all were dealing with Samael. That was the first time I''d ever seen him resort to getting other people involved." Emir paused, puffing at his pipe once more. "I hope that doesn''t mean he''s running out of tricks."


    Genesis had been working at something furiously when Mirk had left before dawn, summoned back by Emir to help handle the sick infantrymen. The commander hadn''t even reminded him to make hourly use of the bottle of cleaning potion, too lost in a mound of grimoires and scrolls to bother looking up at Mirk as he''d shuffled through the common room. That extra bit of knowledge didn''t make Mirk feel any better about things.


    K''aekniv rushed to meet Genesis, but he raised a warning hand as the half-angel approached, keeping him from drawing close to speak with him. Danu let go of Mirk''s arm, just long enough to pull up the hood of her cloak. "He doesn''t feel well, no," Danu said. "But I can''t see anything worse than usual. That has to count for something. And at least it''ll keep Morty from killing himself trying to protect the others. Hopefully."


    Shaking his head, Yule patted down the curls that''d gone wild with his magic, grumbling to himself. "You''re not chaotic. He feels like a trap spell. Pulling in all the chaos around him." The older healer paused, rattling his canteen and still finding it empty. When he glanced over at Emir, Mirk noticed that Yule¡¯s gaze fixed on his pipe, not without a bit of envy. "Do you have anything useful to add?"


    Emir shrugged. "It was out of our hands before. Now it really is."


    "Wonderful. Watch and wait, then. The same as always."


    K''aekniv and Genesis spoke for a few minutes. The snatches of K''aekniv''s questioning Mirk could hear over the wind didn''t make sense to him, and Genesis''s responses were so low that Mirk couldn''t hear even a hint of them. K''aekniv hadn''t been in a good mood before. After speaking with Genesis, all traces of the brave front he¡¯d been trying to put on for the other Easterners vanished, replaced with a focused intensity that reminded Mirk, again, of how the half-angel had felt the last time Genesis had gone off.


    He rushed from man to man, doing another rough evaluation of each of them, double-checking their eyes and the sturdiness of their shoulders as he asked them quick questions. Once he''d finished, a group of thirty Easterners mustered together closer to the transporter. Among them were the strongest physically, Slava and Ilya and the other giants, and their best mages, like Mordecai and Pavel. The rest of the men began to trudge back toward the infirmary, after first stripping off any extra armor or coats they''d been given and passing them off to the thirty who''d been selected.


    Dauid had been distracted throughout the process by something urgent the mage from the Third had to tell him. When he noticed that the bulk of his men were leaving, he stormed over, barking orders at the retreating men. "Hey! Where do you lot think you''re going? We jump in five minutes! Don''t make me call the lads from the Fourteenth back!"


    "They''re not going," K''aekniv said, once again putting himself between Dauid and the rest of his men. "We''re doing this."


    Dauid scanned the group of men left in front of the transporter. "Are you mad, Fluffy? We can''t take those mages with two dozen..." The commander of the Seventh trailed off as he noticed Genesis lurking beside the transporter. He must have been so engrossed in his conversation that he hadn''t had the presence of mind to investigate where the screech from earlier had come from. But when he saw Genesis, the situation became clear to him. The color drained from Dauid''s face as he nodded. Then he turned on his heel and left without another word, taking the officers from the noble divisions with him.


    "Coward," Yule said with a snort.


    "I hope Niv and Gen know what they''re doing," Danu said, as she headed off down the steps to meet the returning Easterners, to help the weakest among them up into the infirmary and back to bed.


    "Won''t know until it''s over," Yule replied, following after her. "The only thing I can promise you is that when the rest come back, it''s going to be a mess."


    Mirk moved to follow along after them. Emir stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "No magic from you. Not even a little. Not until they come back. You''re still weak from Fatima''s woman."


    Though he wanted to protest, Mirk thought better of it. "Methinks I can at least help the men back to bed, though, non?"


    Warily, Emir let him go. "Don''t let any of them beg you into healing anything. You''ll be needed," he added, as he tapped the contents of his pipe out on the infirmary steps and headed back inside.


    Sighing, Mirk turned back to the parade grounds, just as the sound of Genesis''s magic, a constant hissing counterpoint to the wind, cut off. Genesis had vanished. All that was left in front of the transporter was K''aekniv and his thirty men, huddled together to strategize as they prepared to make the jump.


    Mirk tried to put it out of mind as he hurried down the steps to meet the returning Easterners, his eyes locking on the one with the bucket. Yasha. He must have hacked up all that was left in his lungs and stomach; he was clutching the bucket to his chest rather than keeping his head stuck in it. Mirk went to him and put a supportive arm around his waist as he helped him limp up the steps. Though Yasha said something to him, it wasn''t in English. All he could pick out of it was Mirgosha, the name K''aekniv had started calling him by. The others had started to favor it as well.


    "It''s all right. Everything''s going to be fine," Mirk said, catching himself before he could project reassurance at Yasha. No magic. Not even a little. Projecting to non-empaths counted, he supposed.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Mirk hoped his rationing would pay off. And that whatever Genesis had planned wouldn''t be so violent and impossible that it''d get either him or any of the other men killed.


    - - -


    Over the next three days, the infirmary grew more and more quiet. Though none of the potionmasters from the Tenth made a breakthrough with their research, the sickness resolved on its own. All that was left for the Twentieth was a trickle of fighters coming in from some other contract the noble divisions were out on, one that wasn''t bad enough for the Tenth to need their assistance with more than the low-born men from the First who''d been assisting them.


    On the third day, Cyrus, who''d gone out personally with the noble divisions to oversee their combat healers rather than subjecting himself to the indignity of dealing with vomiting and snotty men, returned. He only stayed long enough to walk from the field transporter to the front doors. The high-born officers and commanders took their Shade''s Holiday leave earlier than the rest of the men, Eva had explained to Mirk in passing. And Cyrus had always been more interested in commanding than healing.


    Which was why it shocked Mirk when, four or so hours after Cyrus had left, the djinn made their appearance. Even more shocking was that most of them weren''t on the brink of death. And they weren''t accompanied by a whole phalanx of Ravensdale''s men ¡ª only one mage was with them, a tired-looking man with a good fur-lined cloak but worn-out boots. The mage ordered them all up to the third floor to be kept in the shielded rooms there until he''d received word from Ravensdale himself about what to do with them.


    Mirk observed all of this from his post in the common room, where he''d been mending infirmary bedsheets and patient robes the whole afternoon, along with Danu, Sheila, and the vampire''s two teammates. Sabina, a chipper young woman who shared both Sheila''s place of birth and her Earth-born demonic lineage, and Luca, a morose man who Mirk suspected was some kind of undead. The little magic he could sense coming from Luca reminded him of Danu''s. And his skin had a grayish cast to it, and he''d been wearing gloves and a high-necked shirt every time Mirk had crossed paths with him, that afternoon included. But Mirk didn''t think it polite to ask Luca about it, if he wasn''t willing to offer the details up himself.


    The other healers were doing more useful tasks ¡ª enchanting bandages, checking their stock of old potions for potency, adding sparks of potential to suturing needles to make their stitches hold true. Technically, the Supply Corps women were the ones who were supposed to do the mending. Mirk suspected he''d been set to that task alongside them rather than being sent up with Yule to the workrooms to mix potions because Emir doubted his self-restraint when it came to using his magic.


    "This is all a little odd, non?" Mirk asked Sheila, as the sound of the djinn trooping up the hall faded. If anyone would know what was going on, it''d be her.


    "Ravensdale and the djinn weren''t on the same realm for once, apparently," she replied, eager to have something interesting to discuss over their work. "He''s got two or three with him for his personal guard, but the rest were off on the same realm as your boys in the Seventh."


    Sabina put down the set of bandages she was enchanting, leaning across the table and lowering her voice. "That''s because that contract''s too dangerous. Ravensdale just wants the gold, he doesn''t want to get shot. And I heard he''s been after other things on the Orloum contract the rest of the big divisions are all off on."


    "Other things?" Mirk asked.


    "Ladies," Luca said, wincing at the smell of the potion he''d just uncorked to sniff, setting it aside to be poured down the sink. "Going back to his roots."


    Hissing, Sabina backhanded Luca hard enough to nearly fling him out of his chair. "We''re not supposed to talk about that! Sheila said!"


    "Everyone important has already left for Shade''s Holiday. Where''s the harm?" Luca asked as he rubbed his shoulder. Mirk thought he heard a pop ¡ª maybe Sabina had knocked his shoulder out of its socket. Or maybe all the stress was making Mirk''s mind play tricks on him. Either way, he didn¡¯t feel any pain from Luca, either when he was hit or afterwards.


    "Easy for you to say," Sabina retorted.


    Sheila leaned her head in the direction of the hall, listening close. "Another time. Maybe ask your friend about it if he comes back in one piece."


    "That''s the part I don''t understand, methinks," Mirk said, putting down his mending. "If that contract is so...euh...big, why did they bring the djinn back? Not many of them were hurt that badly."


    Sheila''s eyebrows raised, and a smirk came onto her face. "Sounds to me like you''re going to go find out for us. Report back and I won''t snitch on you if you use a little magic."


    Danu sighed. "Don''t encourage him..."


    Before Mirk could ask Sheila what she meant, Eva appeared in the doorway to the common room, knocking on the frame before entering, oblivious to the fact that Sheila had either heard or smelled her coming. "I need Mirk," she said, her eyes flickering over the crowd gathered around the table. "Not for healing," she added, before Danu could protest. "I made him swear."


    "Him?"


    Eva lowered her voice, mouthing the name. "Am-Gulat."


    Danu grabbed hold of the sleeve of Mirk''s robes as he rose to his feet, alarmed. "Think of Morty and the rest," she said, ignoring the way Sheila and Sabina rolled their eyes.


    "I know," Mirk said. She was an empath, even if her empathy was weaker than most of the other healers. Projecting at Danu wouldn¡¯t count. He pressed a bit of his own concern at her as he touched her hand on his sleeve. Though he made an effort not to let who in particular he was most concerned for pass over to her. "I won''t do anything foolish, Danu. I promise. On God.¡±


    Rather than feeling miffed by the oath like the rest of the healers at the common room table, Danu took it as a sign of his seriousness and let him go. "Ask him if he''s seen them, if you have the chance," she concluded, as she returned to her work. To quell her own worry, Mirk suspected. He left his work bag behind as further evidence of his dedication to restraint as he went to join Eva out in the hall.


    "He is wounded," Eva said, setting off quick for the third floor. Mirk almost had to run to keep up with her faster, longer strides. "But he claims it isn''t as severe as it appears. Several wounds. They appear to be from bites."


    "Bites?"


    "The rest have them as well. Perhaps he''ll be more inclined to tell you than he was me."


    "But what about that mage?"


    "Asleep," Eva said, with a derisive scoff. "Ravensdale is stretched thin. I believe even his own officers have left him to go on their holidays."


    Mirk let the matter drop, focusing instead on matching her pace, lowering his shields and letting his senses furl outward as they hurried along. The djinn always felt fainter to Mirk than humans did. With the room shields on top of that, he knew he didn''t stand much of a chance of picking up on anything. But he felt he had to try nevertheless. When they reached the third floor, they were met with near silence. Nothing but a distant coughing from one of the patients still battling the sickness, a mage from the Eleventh who''d been struck down particularly hard.


    "They''re all at the back," Eva said, pausing at the room the nurses and aides took their break in, near where second flowed onto third. She ducked into it, returning with a tray with a basin of water and a rag on it, along with a roll of bandages, pushing it into Mirk''s hands. "Am-Gulat is nearest the barrier. Attempt to be inconspicuous," she concluded, shooting him a meaningful look as she stepped back into the nurses'' room and shut the door behind herself.


    Swallowing hard, Mirk braced the tray against his chest as he headed down the hall. The infirmary really was dead, for lack of a better term. If he remembered Genesis''s commentary on the matter, the Festival of Shades wasn''t for another three weeks. Right before his own birthday. But the infirmary hadn''t cleared out much for the normal mortal holiday season ¡ª Christmas and Epiphany and New Years. Everyone saved their free days for the Shade''s Festival, apparently. Mirk kept his steps light as he continued down the hall, looking neither left nor right, trying to convince himself he was just another young healer, too poor and too junior to have his own holidays, tending to regular healer business.


    Mirk felt like he should knock before entering Am-Gulat''s room. But he resisted the urge, shifting the tray to one hand and making use of the runes on the doorframe rather than waving the room shield down like he ordinarily would have. He''d sworn on God that he wouldn''t use his magic. And every little bit counted.


    Eva wasn''t the sort of woman who was prone to exaggeration, and she hadn''t that time either. Rather than clinging to life by a thread, or being in the throes of some spasm as he struggled against the magic on his collar, Am-Gulat appeared to be at peace when Mirk entered, leaning against the wall rather than lying flat in bed. He didn''t even tense when Mirk slipped inside. It made Mirk wonder exactly how much good the shields on the rooms would have done, had any of the djinn been determined to try something. "Monsieur Am-Gulat?" Mirk called out, not yet approaching the bed. "Comrade Eva said you asked for me."


    "I am in your debt," the djinn said, without opening his eyes. "We all are."


    It puzzled Mirk to hear one of Genesis''s usual phrases coming from him. He crossed to Am-Gulat''s bedside, putting the tray down on the table there and going about wetting a rag, as if he truly was only there to tend to his wounds. "Methinks I don''t understand, monsieur..."


    "I''m passing along a message," he replied, eyes finally opening. Mirk could see his magic circling in them, a flickering mixture of blues and reds. It reminded Mirk too much of his godfather Aker for comfort. "Somewhat."


    "May I?" Mirk lifted his wrung-out rag.


    "If you insist." Am-Gulat shifted on the bed, untying the front of his robes, baring his chest to him. Just like Eva had said, his only wounds appeared to be bites. Not those of a wild animal, but of something closer to human, raw and red and weeping a dark green substance that wasn''t blood. Only one had been exposed before, on Am-Gulat¡¯s neck, though his thick black collar had protected the places where his veins were most vulnerable. Mirk began dabbing the green muck away as he spoke, mindful to keep his voice low.


    "What''s happening, monsieur? They tried to send all the Easterners out..."


    "I am sure that master would have also ordered us to fight to the death," Am-Gulat said, closing his eyes. As always, he spat the word master like a curse, his disgust at it strong enough to reach through both his own control and the commanding magic on his collar. "But the other worm wrote to him that it was too dangerous for both us and Genesis to be on the same realm."


    "Too dangerous?"


    "He has lost his balance. In this state, he wouldn''t need some magic arrow to free us."


    Mirk didn''t know whether to be worried or relieved by that news. "It...will it be all right?"


    "My kin''s gift is not Foresight, no matter what the damn majinn''s scrolls say," Am-Gulat said, opening his eyes once more. "Only the future knows."


    He must have made a face. Am-Gulat didn''t smile at him. But he did lift his arm and touch two fingers to the back of Mirk''s hand. "Your gift is weak. Don''t waste it on us. We can still regulate ourselves, even with these collars."


    Mirk nodded, but he didn''t draw back from Am-Gulat''s bed. "Am-Hazek explained to me a little. But it doesn''t take magic to clean wounds. And methinks you should have that much for all you do for us, monsieur."


    The djinn fell silent again, though he didn''t close his eyes. Instead, he watched, unblinking, as Mirk dabbed the mingled blood and green sludge from his wounds. The green stuff was sticky, enough that Mirk wished he could use his magic after all. Scrubbing at it would cause Am-Gulat too much pain. Though if it was corrosive, some kind of poison, it didn''t seem to be causing Am-Gulat¡¯s skin any harm.


    "I have no Foresight," Am-Gulat finally said, as Mirk hesitantly started in on the bite near his collar. "But I''ve fought long enough for him to see how these things happen. With us, your people would have won. Without us, the odds are on either side."


    "I was afraid of that, monsieur," Mirk said with a sigh, trying not to look too crestfallen. "But...well. We all have our burdens to bear, non? And Genesis and Niv did what they could to spare the others."


    "We''ve talked it over. We want to pass you an offering."


    "An offering?"


    "You are an earth mage, yes?"


    "Yes, monsieur."


    "Our magic is not of this realm. But it flows. And strength is the same no matter which realm," Am-Gulat lifted his arm again, pressing Mirk''s hand tight against his neck, just below his collar. "The worm forces us to do this every day for his own benefit. Better it goes to you than him."


    It was like dipping his hand in honey, warm and clinging. It took Mirk a moment to realize it was the feel of Am-Gulat''s magic. It was weaker than Am-Hazek''s, and hotter, and softer. Mirk hadn''t expected the last part. Though he didn''t will it to, Mirk felt his own magic stir in him, rising up to meet Am-Gulat''s before he could try to pull his hand back. "Monsieur," Mirk said, uncertain. "I can''t ta¡ª"


    "Spare us your modesty. It''s worse coming from a man with noble kin than one only pretending at it," Am-Gulat said, his voice rising a little, though there was a note of humor in it still. Albeit of a darker, tired kind. Mirk had heard that tone before from men coming back exhausted, but alive, through the field transporter. "We''ve heard you''re the only one who can heal the Destroyer. And he''s the only one willing to help to free us. Repay us by making sure he lives to finish what he started."


    Mirk swallowed hard, nodding. It was impossible for him to tell without drawing on his own magic how much of his potential Am-Gulat passed to him. Even if he''d tried, Mirk was uncertain how sound his judgment of it would have been with the collar between them. Am-Gulat only stopped when his collar began to burn him, drawing his hand away from Mirk¡¯s to slide three fingers beneath his collar instead, in an attempt to ease the strain. "It is done," Am-Gulat said, closing his eyes again. "Visit the others before that idiot mage wakes up."


    "Thank you, monsieur," Mirk said, dropping into the lowest bow he could think of, his forehead smacking into the mattress of the bed as he threw himself down and back up again. It made Mirk feel a little better to hear the djinn laugh under his breath at his clumsiness. "I''ll do everything I can. For all of you. I promise. On God and the Blessed Virgin and all the saints."


    "Then be quick."


    Mirk tried. With all of his borrowed strength, he tried to make the circuit of the djinn''s rooms as efficiently and quietly as he could. In each one, he was met with another thin face with eyes that were still sharp, each pair shifting with a slightly different color of magic. Though Mirk felt it was rude to not stop and talk to them, to not tend to their wounds, he kept his visits brief. All he could offer the djinn in exchange for their potential was a mumbled prayer for them and their gift, which earned him little more than confusion in return. But Mirk did it all the same.


    By the time he''d finished, half an hour later, Mirk was brimming with the djinn''s potential, the mass of life-giving energy at his center near to bursting. Though he used a sliver of it to try to shore up his shields, the feel of him walking past was still enough to rouse the mage who''d been left to guard the djinn from his slumber outside the door of the last djinn Mirk had visited. Thankfully, the man didn''t really seem to see him as he passed by with his barely-used tray of supplies. The mage only raised a hand to wipe the drool from his chin before leaning back in his chair and going back to sleep.


    Once he was certain the mage had passed out of consciousness again, the press of his mental presence growing soft against his shields, Mirk ran back down the hall to Eva, spilling water all over the tray in the process. For want of hands, Mirk kicked at the bottom of the door rather than knocking, though he was careful not to do it hard enough to risk waking the mage. A moment later, Eva opened it. A look of grim satisfaction spread across her face as she took the tray from him.


    "Thank you for your assistance. Go back to your mending, comrade healer," she said.


    "Bien s?r, Comrade Eva. My apologies for bothering you."


    "Is everything all right?" she asked, shooting him a meaningful look.


    "I''m not sure. But methinks it''s a little better than before."

 Chapter 50

    The next day, the noble divisions'' contract ended. Mirk didn''t know whether to be worried or relieved.


    All the remaining healers from the Tenth were in high spirits, despite the number of casualties. Once that final wave of injured men was bandaged up and sent off, they were all free to go until after the Festival of Shades. If any officers or high-born fighters needed healing before then, most of them had private family or guild healers to meet their needs.


    It was the Twentieth''s lot to tend to the needs of the less fortunate during the gap between the end of the winter contracts and the start of the spring ones. Though they still had to do a little work, most of his fellow healers thought of that liminal gap as a fine enough holiday. Most of them had no family or home to go to beyond the City anyway. Himself included.


    Eva was the only healer from the Tenth who was going to stay on through it. She claimed it was because her high-born relatives were insufferable. But the rest of them could tell that was only partly true. Mirk doubted she would have left before Slava came back, even if her relatives had tried to force her into it.


    Though there were a lot of them, the men sent through the field transporter at the conclusion of the noble divisions¡¯ contract weren''t horribly mangled. The combat healers must have had either the time or the potential to properly see to their wounds. The Tenth¡¯s last spell of work would be light. Or so Mirk had thought.


    He was entrenched once more at the table in the common room, still working at his interminable pile of mending. After discussing it with Emir and the rest, they all agreed that it would be wrong to waste any of the potential the djinn had given him before the Easterners returned. Which meant there was little for Mirk to do aside from mending and scrubbing. He preferred the mending. Cleaning reminded him too much of things that he''d rather not think of.


    Both Yule and Danu were beside him that night, Yule flipping through a grimoire with a cross expression while Danu picked at the lunch she''d forgotten to eat with a melancholy air. At the sound of the field transporter crackling to life at the end of the emergency hall, all three of them tensed.


    "Gerlach! Gerlach, get over here!" The voice was loud and brash and amplified by a spell to make it carry as if the man yelling Gerlach''s name was in the middle of every room in the building.


    Danu slumped, spitefully ripping at the bun she''d been trying to work up the will to eat, and Yule went back to reading, muttering under his breath about the Tenth''s uselessness. There were running footsteps out in the hall; a figure whisked past the common room doorway. Then there was more yelling, a lot of stamping and banging, and the feel of an enormous magical potential that resonated so strongly with Mirk''s own that he was drawn involuntarily up onto his feet.


    He ran a hand down the front of his chest, listening and feeling around inside of himself, ignoring the curious looks Yule and Danu shot at him. It wasn''t his own potential the magic down the hall was resonating with. It was the djinn''s. His own potential didn''t have that eerie, shifting quality to it.


    "Something''s happened," Mirk said, heading for the door.


    "It''s the nobles. Not our problem," Yule called after him.


    "I''m not going to do anything. I just...I need to go see."


    He arrived at the juncture of the field transporter hallway and the one that connected the two first floor wards too late to catch the beginning of the commotion. A cluster of combat healers and fighters clustered tightly around someone or something, spiriting it off to the front entrance, Gerlach at their head. Mirk could just make out the officer¡¯s sputtered apologies over the sound of wet boots squeaking on the floor. But he arrived just in time to see the rest of it.


    Am-Gulat had said that two or three djinn had been kept behind to serve Ravensdale. And they''d served him to the end. Two pairs of soot-streaked and weary fighters were carrying the limp bodies of two djinn down the hall. Mirk didn''t have to wait around to see them make the turn to know they were hauling them to the basement rather than up to the second or third floor for treatment. Crossing himself and mumbling a prayer under his breath, Mirk pressed his back against the wall of the hallway, just out of sight of the basement steps, waiting for the sound of the fighters'' footsteps to fade before starting off back toward the common room. He knew it was a mark of his cowardice, but he couldn¡¯t bear to catch even a glimpse of the dead djinn¡¯s faces.


    He was halfway back to the common room when he caught sight of Eva hurrying in the opposite direction. Mirk paused and waited to meet her, fingers still lingering on the shape of the crucifix of his mother''s rosary underneath his robes. "You aren''t needed this time," she called out to him, stopping at the doorway to the common room. She made a pointed gesture at Danu and Yule inside, then carried on.


    "What''s happening?" Mirk asked her.


    "That mage didn''t project his whole report," Eva explained. "Ravensdale''s group was ambushed on the way back to the transporter after meeting with the king who contracted him. There''s more wounded coming through."


    "Who?"


    "The mage didn''t think it was important enough to name names. Not with Ravensdale wounded." Eva frowned as she walked past him. Mirk could hear the transporter engaging again off in the distance. "Just a scratch from the sound of things. Ravensdale, not the rest."


    Danu and Yule emerged from the common room, both of them rolling up their sleeves. "At least we have something to do now," Yule said, in a tired attempt at lightening the mood.


    "And it won''t be Morty or the rest," Danu replied, nodding in agreement.


    Mirk fell in behind them, offering his explanation before either of them could protest his involvement. "I''m just coming to see what happened. And methinks there has to be something I can do to help. Bandage, or suture, or..."


    His explanation sounded hollow even to himself. But neither of the other members of his team ordered him back to the common room. By the time they''d reached the field transporter hallway, a second group of men were on their way to the front of the building ¡ª mages, mostly, none of them so badly injured that they couldn''t walk. And not so badly injured that they had to subject themselves to the care of a woman or the Twentieth rather than their own healers. Save for one unlucky man, carried on a stretcher by two fighters who waited for Eva beside the transporter rather than meeting her halfway. The horrible, sick weight on Mirk''s chest grew when he realized who it was. Elijah.


    "Did all the other healers go with Ravensdale?" one of the fighters asked Eva, side-eying Mirk''s team trailing along behind her.


    Eva nodded. "If he wants to be healed, then he''ll have to make do with us."


    "Don''t mind in the slightest," Elijah said, weakly raising a hand to the fighters. "A healer''s a healer. God, this stings..."


    Elijah''s injuries were bad enough to make it difficult for him to walk, but not so severe that Mirk thought they had to fear losing him. A magical blast injury, which had caught him in a glancing blow to his side and hip. His skin was blistered and bleeding but not cooked straight off his bones like it could have been. One of the combat healers must have given Elijah pain blockers. The feel of his magic and mind were faint, cloudy. And he wasn''t screaming and moaning like a man of Elijah''s delicate sensibilities would have been without blockers to take the edge off.


    They all held their tongues until Elijah was hauled into the room nearest the transporter and the fighters had left. Yule was the first to set in on him, both with questions and shears to cut off the parts of his shirt and trousers that had fused with the burn. "What happened? Someone tried to take Ravensdale out?"


    Elijah nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling. And he pinched his nose, no longer able to bear the smell of his own scorched flesh now that he was indoors. "Came at us from all sides, they did. Too fast for me to follow, anyway. Before I knew what was happening..."


    "I was told this morning that the contract was done," Eva said. She''d unrolled her tools and was using one that was a cross between a pair of scissors and a tweezer to remove the bits of fused fabric and flesh Yule left behind.


    "It was. But the winners weren''t happy about the price they paid, I suppose." Elijah had begun to shiver; Danu put her hands on his temples and steadied his soul, though she didn''t lift it away. Elijah was too close to consciousness for that to be better than the pain. "Oh...the half-Death again...sorry, I''ve forgotten everyone''s names...these magic burns hurt like hell...worse when someone else does it to you instead of you doing it to yourself, somehow..."


    "Would you like us to put you to sleep?" Mirk asked him. Privately, he wished Elijah would stay with them, keep talking. But fetching potions was all he was good for at the moment.


    "Oh, hello Mirk...didn''t see you...no, I''ll be fine. Honestly, I don''t really like the blockers. They give me a sort of spooky feeling. Like I''m half-dead. No offense, Miss...er..."


    "Danu," she said, gingerly patting the mage''s temples to reassure him.


    "Right! That''s it. Danu, Eva, Mirk...and..."


    Rather than giving Elijah his name, Yule asked him another question. "Must have overcharged them by a lot for them to go through the trouble of coming after you while you were leaving."


    "And kill two djinn," Mirk added, softly. All his fellow healers shot him a pointed look.


    "Oh, hell, don''t remind me," Elijah groaned, twisting away from Eva''s tools and Yule''s magic. Danu''s hands shifted down to his shoulders, keeping him pressed down flat on the table. "Sorry, sorry...it''s just...it was the worst thing I''d ever seen. Ravensdale must not have thought they were moving fast enough. He just...he...he sucked everything out of them. They wailed, and then they crumpled, and then..."


    Danu winced ¡ª Elijah''s soul lashed out at the strength of the memory, at the pain of it. Mirk put a hand on the mage¡¯s arm to comfort him and draw his attention back to the present. "I''m sorry, Comrade Elijah. We''ll do everything we can to make up for it."


    Touch alone wasn''t enough to draw Elijah out of his bitter memories. Though the tenor of them shifted from distress to anger. "I didn''t feel bad at all about letting those foreign mages have it. I...I tried to pay attention this time, just like Comrade Genesis told me to. I watched the hand-off. King was this big ugly brute covered in silver and pearls. Thanked Ravensdale for dealing with the savages, and hoped he enjoyed his pick of the...the...ladies..." Elijah gasped, either in disgust at the memory or in pain from Eva digging deep to clear all the injured flesh from his wounds. "Ravensdale was so...so smug. So happy. And so was that awful king. Got him with a fireball myself. First time I''d ever seen someone take my magic..."


    Elijah was trying to put on a brave face, Mirk knew. And he could sense how much he hated what he''d seen and heard. Still, having seen the impact of his combat magic for the first time, person to person, made Elijah¡¯s gaze go distant for a time, haunted. He really was too soft for the K''maneda, Mirk thought. Not suited for fighting at all. Danu elbowed Mirk in the side again, shooting him a meaningful look. If he was going to be taking up space around the table, the least he could do was keep Elijah distracted and talking so that the other healers could do their work.


    Mirk took hold of Elijah''s hand, squeezing it until the mage''s eyes focused on him again. "It''ll be all right. The contract''s over, non? You''re not going back?"


    "Oh, Lord no. I bet they''ll blast anyone in black on sight from now until they forget about us. And we do have a break now for the Shade''s Festival. Though I don''t much feel like celebrating this year." Elijah paused, his nose wrinkling. "You feel funny, Mirk. Am I dreaming? You almost feel like the dj¡ª"


    He hushed Elijah before he could finish, nodding. Even though the remnants of the Tenth, Eva aside, had all left with Ravensdale and his men, it never hurt to be careful. Or perhaps being around Genesis was making him paranoid. "You''re right. I...well. They gave me a gift once they were sent back. Since Genesis and the others are still gone."


    "They''re on contract?" Elijah''s brow furrowed in concern. "I thought they were all sick still? Tal-Hatha''s nasty business, there''s no handling those ghost-mages without a djinn or two, especially if you''re not well. Or is that why Richard left?"


    "Ravensdale sent the djinn back. But Genesis and the others are still gone. Genesis, he...euh..."


    "He''s gone off," Yule said, flatly.


    "He''s gone...oh. Off."


    "What''s our potions stock look like?" Yule asked Mirk, while Elijah was thinking over the news. "I made at least two dozen flesh regens yesterday."


    "Gerlach took ten for Ravensdale and his," Eva said, without looking up from her work.


    Yule scoffed. "Ten? Lazy bastard..."


    Silence fell over the room. Elijah was the one who broke it, in a small, uncertain voice. "I could go by Tal-Hatha and see how they''re doing.¡±


    "Your right side''s mincemeat," Yule replied, immediately. "Once those blockers wear off, you''re not going anywhere."


    But Yule wasn''t quick enough to dash Danu''s hopes. His warning to Elijah didn''t seem to reach her ¡ª she leaned over Elijah''s twitching body, staring down into his wide, puzzled eyes. Hers had gone black. "You could? Wouldn''t Ravensdale be suspicious?"


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Elijah tried to shrug, but Danu''s grip on his shoulders was so strong he couldn''t budge an inch. "I''m friends with Heine in the Fifteenth Cavalry. His hobby''s exploring for relics and rarities to sell to the guilds. He won''t say a word. And Ravensdale hardly ever speaks to him anyway, since Heine won''t talk about anything other than pottery."


    "Not a good idea," Yule said.


    Eva nodded. "Agreed."


    "I wouldn''t do anything. Just keep an eye on things," Elijah said. "And I have nothing to do here. Ravensdale doesn''t have the Third out on contract until March. I was going to go back down to Brighton to see some old friends, but...well. This seems more important."


    Danu knew who she had to argue with. Her attention shifted from Elijah to Yule and Eva, who''d both paused their work on the mage''s injuries to stare her down. "We need to know what''s going on if we''re going to be ready to help."


    Yule shook his head. "When do we ever know what''s going on?"


    "That''s exactly why we lose so many," Danu insisted. "There won''t be any more casualties coming in from the field, since everyone''s back besides the Seventh. Just assassins and babies, the same as every Shade''s Holiday. We have the potential to fix him," she added, pressing down on Elijah¡¯s shoulders.


    Eva''s body seemed to outpace her mind. She nodded even as she voiced her protests. "If Elijah gets caught, things will go poorly."


    "Who''s going to report back to Ravensdale on it? Morty and the others won''t. And all of Ravensdale''s goons will be gathered around his bedside for the next week, even if all he got was a scratch."


    Yule shook his head. "Not a chance."


    "The Festival balls begin this week," Eva said. "If the nobles are not with Ravensdale, they''ll be occupied by those."


    Mirk looked across the table at Yule, allowing some of his own desperate concern to seep out past his mental shielding. "If we''re prepared, then there''s less chance that we''ll lose anyone. And you won''t even go talk to them, will you, Comrade Elijah? Just look?"


    "On my honor," Elijah said, nodding. "Consider me a ghost. Comrade Genesis will notice for sure, but...well...I imagine that if he''s gone, er, off, he''ll be distracted."


    Yule drew his hands and magic back from Elijah''s wound, cursing under his breath. "You''re all hopeless. If I ever turn into a drippy idiot over a gnome, an ogre, and a skeleton, one of you needs to put me out of my misery." Nevertheless, Yule was already cracking his knuckles, something he always did before a bout of intense healing.


    "I can spare five flesh regeneration potions from upstairs," Eva said.


    "I''m not lifting a finger until they''re back if I do this," Yule said. "And if you get yourself in trouble, you''re on your own," he added to Elijah.


    Elijah nodded. Whereas everyone else was still mired in their private worries, torn between duty and need, Elijah seemed to have drifted off a bit, through some combination of the blockers and the force of Danu''s stabilizing hold on his soul. "I''ve always wanted to see what he can do when he''s off. Ravensdale never lets us get anywhere near him when he''s like that. I wonder if he keeps to his spellcraft, or if he starts really using his own potential..."


    Yule took up his work on Elijah''s side again, this time making liberal use of his magic. It stung enough to draw Elijah''s attention over to him. "You go to this Tal-Hatha place, you check up on them, and you report back. No standing around taking notes. You fuck it up, it''s your own problem. Understood?"


    Elijah mustered a weak smile for Yule as he nodded. "Yes, sir. I''m yours to command, sir."


    Huffing and rolling his eyes, Yule made an offhand gesture at Mirk. "Go make yourself useful. Get those potions and come back. The rest of you, focus back on your work. I can''t believe I''m doing this..."


    Yule ignored the bevy of thanks given to him from all sides. But he stepped up his healing nevertheless.


    -   -   -


    "You two need to go home."


    Danu and Mirk looked up at the sound of Yule''s voice. He''d gone and collected his cloak from the closet attached to the common room, but hadn''t yet put it on, leaving it draped over his forearm as he leaned against the common room door frame.


    "We need to stay ready. We told Elijah we would," Danu said, sipping from the bottle of specious gin they were splitting. A gift from Fatima, who''d stopped in that morning to badger Emir about his progress on recruiting more healers for her ladies.


    ¡°Elijah said he was going to look and come right back,¡± Yule countered.


    "Something must have happened," Mirk said, taking the bottle from Danu. The gin really was terrible, but he kept drinking it all the same. It made him less aware of the djinn potential still circling inside of him, though his own magic had begun to work on it, making it harder for Mirk to feel the difference between it and his own.


    "Elijah''s a flake," Yule said. "You''re all worried over nothing. He probably got distracted by a shiny rock, or some rubbish. He''ll show up when he shows up."


    Danu glared across the common room at Yule, but didn''t have the energy to put much venom in it. She was worn thin with worry, pale and huddled under her cloak despite being indoors. Her eyes had gone black yesterday afternoon, and not a hint of their usual warmth had returned to them since. "I want to be here when he does."


    Yule shoved off against the doorframe and crossed the room to them, holding his hand out for the bottle. "What are you going to do in this condition if he does come back with bad news? You need rest. Both of you."


    "My magic''s fine," Danu replied. Though she did pass him the bottle.


    She wasn''t lying, not exactly. They''d all been conserving their strength ever since they''d sent Elijah off two days ago, doing the best they could with potions and spell papers and handiwork rather than leaning on their magic, like they ordinarily would have during such a slow spell. It was just as Eva had said ¡ª nothing but assassins and Supply Corps women coming in with babies, with the results of a few lost fights at the taverns sprinkled in between. In the long gaps between patients, they made preparations for the Easterners'' return. Which meant mixing a lot of potions, at least for Mirk.


    He''d found that, even without leaning too much on his magic, he had a knack for flesh regeneration potions. Mirk didn''t follow the recipe in the potions grimoire, but he was still able to hear the components without needing to listen too hard. Something about how the potion required more plants than minerals, about the way they harmonized with each other easily, making a melody that it always made Mirk feel a little better to hear. Their chorus reminded him of the sound of the chimes his mother had strung up above the kitchen doorway when they stirred in the afternoon breeze rolling in off the distant sea.


    Yule sat down with the bottle, taking a long sip. "God, this is terrible. I hate gin."


    Mirk shrugged. "I''ll bring in something nice for both of you once things are settled."


    "I don''t need you buying me presents to motivate me to keep doing my job." Yule paused, then flashed Mirk a humorless smile. "But I''m not too good to refuse a gift from the seigneur, if his purse is already open."


    Their conversation died then, all of them taking listless drinks from their communal bottle, lost in their own thoughts. Mirk glanced at the clock nestled in amongst the bottles in the liquor cabinet. One in the morning.


    "Tiens," he said, lightly touching Danu''s arm before she could take another drink. "Let''s take a few hours. I finished cleaning the plague ward this afternoon, we can rest there so we''re close if something happens. The beds up there are much nicer than the ones on third."


    Not as nice as the bed in his quarters, of course, but at least the plague ward beds weren''t so lumpy that Mirk felt like he''d fallen asleep on a pile of rocks. And there wasn''t the same unpleasant emptiness up on the plague ward that there was in his quarters. He''d tried going back and sleeping there once, but the absence on the far side of the bed had weighed too heavily on Mirk''s mind for him to be able to get any sleep.


    Danu ignored his suggestion. "I hate this," she said, shaking off Mirk''s hand and taking another drink. "But it''s always going to be like this, isn''t it? Left sitting here with nothing to do but wait while the rest of them are off..."


    Mirk sighed. "Yes. It was the same for maman with my father. But it''s worth it, non?"


    "I suppose. I just..." Danu struggled to find words, but came up empty. And so was the bottle.


    It was enough to crack Yule. He took hold of Danu¡¯s other arm and tugged on it. "Come on. The cooks sent us too many meat pies today. They''re up on third. One of those and your stomach will hurt so bad you''ll have to lie down."


    Danu was about to protest when the distant sound of a cry for help from the waiting room made her mouth snap shut, her eyes going wide. Shaking both of them off, she shot out of her chair and bolted for the front of the infirmary. Yule cursed, Mirk crossed himself, and they both scrambled to catch up.


    Elijah had returned. He was uninjured, but the two men he''d dragged through the front doors along with himself could barely stay on their feet. Two of the Easterners, whose names Mirk completely forgot in his panic. Elijah spotted the three healers coming, jerking his head at the man to his right in a silent plea for help. He was so winded all his words came out in gasps. "More...coming...bad..."


    Before any of them could make it across the waiting room to help Elijah and the wounded Easterners, Mordecai appeared in the doorway behind him, the bang of displaced air his teleportation magic left in his wake making all the benches and chairs rattle. He''d brought in two men as well, oversized fighters who were using him as an ambulatory crutch. Mordecai was wounded himself, from a vicious bite to his neck, but judging by the amount of blood oozing from it, he''d been too quick for whatever it was to latch on and cause severe damage. Though Mordecai was pale and shaking from the strain of supporting two men double his size, he seemed to find a fresh well of strength within himself when his eyes locked on Danu across the room.


    "It''s okay, Danny," he said, forcing out a smile for her. There was blood on his teeth. "I''m fine. Help them first." He shoved one of the two men at her ¡ª the fighter''s eyes had rolled back in his head, and it took all of Danu''s inhuman strength to keep him from fainting dead away onto the floor.


    "What happened?" Mirk asked Elijah, as he rushed to take one of the casualties from him. Yule had taken one look at all the chaos and had rushed back into the depths of the infirmary to round up reinforcements.


    "It...I''ll explain later," Elijah said. "Just get them inside. I think they''ll be fine? Otherwise they wouldn''t be walking, right? The rest, though..."


    "The rest?"


    The worst off of the two men nodded and replied for Elijah, though his response wasn''t in English. Mirk shoved himself under the man''s searching hands to help support him as he slapped on his translation charm.


    "...did it...we''ll be...he said...bring us home, at least...better dead...at home..."


    The other healers on duty that night ¡ª all newer people from the Twentieth, who didn''t have enough seniority or gold to avoid the overnight watch ¡ª began to trickle into the waiting room to help. Mirk didn''t recognize any of them; he rarely worked overnights. A man and a woman swooped in to take the other man from Elijah. Mirk began to help his own patient toward the hall that led to the critical rooms, but Elijah stopped him, taking the man back from Mirk before he could go more than a few steps. "No. You need to stay here."


    "What?"


    "Comrade Genesis. He..."


    Another pair of healers arrived, taking the second wounded man from Elijah before he could make it very far either. The mage straightened up and tried to compose himself, running his hands down the front of his shirt before swiping them back through his hair. It didn''t help much. Every stitch of his clothing was saturated with blood ¡ª trousers, cloak, shirt ¡ª and now it was streaked through his hair too. Mirk lowered his shields just enough to check Elijah for injuries. Despite the blood, he was unharmed, physically. But the emotions radiating off him were a bitter mixture of fear and panic. Elijah gestured for Mirk to follow him outside.


    It was dark out on the street. All the lamps that lined the road in front of the infirmary were out, from the library to the south all the way to the Third Mage''s headquarters to the north. And it was snowing, hard, a thick and undisturbed blanket of it coating everything in sight. It made the City unnaturally quiet. Though there was something beyond the snow adding to the silence, Mirk thought, the same something that was keeping the magelights in the lamps from illuminating. A familiar cold, staticky something.


    "He said he''d bring the rest of them back," Elijah said, his voice lowered to a whisper, as if he was afraid to break the silence that reigned beyond the infirmary doors. "I don''t know what he meant, but..."


    Then the darkness below the infirmary steps unfurled. Long tendrils of shadow crept up from the street, slowly, the hissing of their chaotic potential filling Mirk''s senses. He pulled up his shields against them so that he could keep his bearings. A large mass of shadows collected in front of Elijah and Mirk. Something in them shifted, a yawning emptiness expanded in their depths, and a body emerged out onto the steps below them. In the span of only a few seconds, the curls of shadow offered them five more men who were barely more than corpses.


    Mirk dropped to his knees beside the nearest one ¡ª Grisha, it was Grisha, a mage whose chaotic light magic would have been struggling against the shadows, if he''d only had enough potential left to fight. Though the shadows had brought him back, they didn''t release him, even as Mirk prodded at the band coiled around Grisha''s neck. There was one tendril lingering there, and a second, thicker one around his midsection. Elijah was gibbering something at him, but all Mirk could make out was his fear. He was too focused on Grisha to keep track of Elijah''s stammering.


    He sought out Grisha''s pulse on his wrist instead of fighting the shadows. Faint, uneven, but there. Mirk cast his magic out into his body, just far enough to feel for his injuries. One on his neck, and one across his stomach. Both of them severe, mortal wounds. Mirk realized what the shadows were doing. Grisha would have bled out by then, had the shadows not been forming some sort of hissing barrier atop his wounds. They were applying just enough pressure in just the right places to keep Grisha from hemorrhaging.


    Pulling his magic back, Mirk refocused on his surroundings, searching for someone to tell about the shadows. Another three men had appeared on the steps while he''d been working on Grisha, all of them wrapped up tight in a few spare tendrils of shadow. Behind him, Mirk heard someone curse. He looked over his shoulder, only to find a cluster of healers frozen in the infirmary doorway, not knowing what to do with all the broken and dying men the shadows had brought to them.


    "It''s all right," Mirk said, trying to project a sense of calm, despite the way his own fear was boiling inside of him. Not fear of the shadows themselves, but fear of what they meant. "They won''t hurt you. They¡¯re...euh...helping them. Once you''ve closed the wounds under them, methinks they''ll go away."


    "How can you be sure?" one of the healers asked, a spindly woman whose eyes were fixed on the shadows rather than Mirk.


    "I know what''s causing them. It''s the injuries. Once they''re helped, they''ll go away," He waved her closer, but she refused to budge. Only once Mirk slid his hand underneath the band of shadows on Grisha''s neck, and it yielded for him, was the woman convinced enough of her safety to get down on her knees beside Mirk. "Try feeling for the wound on his neck," he told her. "It''s on his left side, right by my hand."


    Hesitantly, she slid her hand underneath the shadows beside Mirk''s. Though she grimaced at the feel of the dark magic against her skin, the shadows didn''t attack her. She began to heal the wound beneath them, drawing together the tears in the delicate arteries. As soon as the wound was half-closed, the shadows fell apart and retreated back into the night.


    The healer looked back up at Mirk, uncertain. She''d had to draw hard on her potential to stop the bleeding, so much that her shielding had crumbled, leaving her apprehension and fear plain to be felt, even through Mirk''s own. "It''s all right," he said again, this time brushing a hand across her shoulders and projecting a spark of reassurance along with the words. "Please, help them. I''ll take care of the rest."


    Once the other healers had seen proof that the shadows weren''t going to attack them, a steady stream began to emerge from the infirmary, venturing out into the cold and dark just long enough to collect one of the fallen men and carry them back inside in teams of two and three. Though the shadows didn''t release the injured men completely, the tendrils connecting them back to the waiting darkness across the street out on the parade grounds grew thin, little more than cobwebs. Mirk looked back at Elijah, who was still leaning, shellshocked and limp, beside the infirmary''s front doors. "Where''s Genesis?"


    Elijah jerked his chin in the direction of the parade grounds, confirming Mirk''s suspicions. "Out there. Somewhere. I...I don''t really know...I didn''t want to get...too close..."


    Mirk went to him, taking him by the shoulders and looking up into his eyes."Du calme. It''s fine. I''ll take care of things. Thank you so much for your help."


    Without waiting for Elijah to reply, Mirk headed off down the steps and into the night.

 Chapter 51

    Out in the street, the snow was up to his shins, as thick and heavy as the unnatural darkness that hung in the air. Genesis had to be out there somewhere, secreted away in the heart of the shadows. And yet, Mirk couldn¡¯t feel even a hint of his presence. Despite the chaotic nature of his magic, there was still usually a strange sort of order to Genesis¡¯s shadows, a subtle pattern buried in their static. There wasn''t any that night. Genesis had to be badly injured. Badly injured, or more upset than Mirk had ever seen him before.


    The light from the open infirmary doors felt like it was miles away, though Mirk knew he hadn''t ventured more than a few feet beyond the bottommost step. The darkness that covered the parade grounds, dense enough to obscure the faintest suggestion of the Glass Tower looming at its far end, troubled Mirk. It wasn''t ordinary darkness, darkness that hung like a veil and settled and pooled atop the snow like a second blanket. The darkness filling the parade grounds curled. Shifted. Breathed. Mirk had a feeling it''d be better if he didn''t venture out into it. He decided to wait for Genesis out in the street instead. If Genesis was out in the darkness, he¡¯d be able to sense his presence. And he would hopefully have enough sense left to know Mirk was there to help, not hurt.


    He didn''t have to wait long. A figure rose out of the darkness smothering the parade grounds. Two figures, Mirk realized ¡ª the shadows were wrapped so tightly around Genesis and K''aekniv that their bodies formed one solid mass in the gloom. But the shadows fell away from K''aekniv as soon as he and Genesis passed fully out of the Abyss and arrived back on Earth. Though K''aekniv was broken and bleeding, his winglight was still bright enough to dispel some of the darkness. With K''aekniv there, Mirk felt confident going to meet them. Genesis''s magic felt more familiar now that the commander was physically present, its potency fading by the second. It must have taken all of Genesis¡¯s remaining strength to bring the Easterners back to the City.


    "Messire! Messire, hold on!" Mirk called out to him, running toward him even as he looked back over his shoulder toward the infirmary for help. Bodies still littered the steps, every last one of them an urgent, life-or-death case. He was on his own, for the moment.


    Gritting his teeth against the pain radiating off K''aekniv, Mirk lowered his shields far enough to take stock of his injuries. The half-angel wasn''t badly injured, wasn''t bleeding out, though he was covered in bites and scratches. Something else was making K''aekniv feel like he was on fire, delirious and weak. Mirk concentrated harder, lowering his shields as far as he dared. There was a trace of foreign magic in K''aekniv. He thought of the green gunk that''d leaked from Am-Gulat''s wounds. Poison. The mages hadn''t been able to tear K¡¯aekniv to bits like they had the others, but they''d bitten him so many times that their venom was strong enough to overwhelm the strength of his angelic blood.


    That wasn''t something Mirk could fix and still have enough potential left to help Genesis. But a vampire like Sheila could, and so could the Tenth''s blood filtering machine. Mirk yelled and waved at a pair of fresh, bewildered healers who''d just stumbled out onto the steps. "Come take him! He''s been poisoned! Either Sheila or the blood filter, please!"


    The two healers exchanged a look, the feel of their fear sharp and acrid over K''aekniv''s pain. It took Mirk a moment to realize that they were too afraid of getting close to Genesis to come help with K''aekniv. Mirk waved at them again, urgently. "It''s fine! I''ll distract him."


    They didn''t budge. To reassure them, Mirk went to Genesis''s side and took hold of his free arm, to prove that he wasn''t a threat. The shadows barely responded to Mirk''s touch; Genesis didn''t at all. He was too focused on controlling the shadows keeping all the Easterners together, and on not collapsing from having to bear even a fraction of K''aekniv''s weight. But the tactic worked. The pair of healers bounded down the steps and snatched K''aekniv away from Genesis, barely able to keep the half-angel on his feet. They had to flag down another team to help maneuver him up the steps.


    As soon as K''aekniv''s weight lifted from Genesis''s shoulders, the commander collapsed. Mirk did his best to break Genesis''s fall, catching hold of his shoulders and trying to ease him down slowly, making sure he didn''t crack his head on the cobbles buried beneath the snow. Once Genesis was flat on his back, Mirk scanned his rail-thin body for injuries. The space between the bottom of his ribs and the top of his hips was a mess, his innards held in place by a faltering web of shadows. The broken-off blade of a knife was lodged in his chest ¡ª from the sound of Genesis¡¯s breathing and the feel of his presence, Mirk guessed that it''d punctured one of his lungs, but had missed his heart. And there were no bites on Genesis, no scratches, not like there''d been on everyone else. That didn''t surprise Mirk in the slightest.


    "Messire? Genesis, can you hear me?" Mirk pressed Genesis¡¯s face between his palms. He was dead cold, his eyes wide open and filmed over black. But the skin-on-skin touch was enough to focus him. For the first time since he''d arrived, Mirk was certain Genesis was aware of his presence.


    "...the...rest..." Genesis hissed through clenched teeth.


    "They''ll be fine," Mirk reassured him. He lowered one of his hands to the wound in Genesis''s chest, feeling his way through the parts of him that the blade had pierced. Pulling the bit of metal out would make his bleeding worse, but Mirk had learned that, as always, the best treatment for Genesis was the opposite of the best treatment for anyone else. If the blade was left inside him much longer, his body would start trying to regrow around it, all his arteries and veins curling around it like a vine''s creeping tendrils, and it''d take more magic than Mirk could spare to put things right again before his heart gave out. Readying his magic to help stem the bleeding, Mirk jerked the blade out and cast it aside, then plunged his fingers back deep inside the wound.


    Though Genesis''s shadows were giving Mirk less trouble than they usually did, his body wasn''t responding right to the touch of his magic. It was because Genesis was still using so much of his own, Mirk realized. No matter how much of his healing potential he fed into Genesis, his body wouldn''t heal unless Genesis''s own magic met him halfway and latched onto him, using that guiding potential to regrow itself into the right shapes and structures.


    It was impossible to heal a corpse, something with no further life-giving potential of its own. Genesis was draining away his own life force in order to keep his shadows held tight over the Easterners'' wounds. There was increasingly little of it left inside his body for him.


    "Genesis?" Mirk tapped his cheek with his free hand, trying to make him focus. "Genesis, you need to stop. Let them go. They''ll be fine."


    Despite the touch, Genesis didn''t respond. His gaze was fixed on the dark sky above, on the snow falling down onto them both. Genesis was concentrating so hard that he couldn''t even spare enough thought to blink away the flakes that fell into his eyes. Mirk stroked his cheek with his fingers, hoping that might catch his attention more than a tap. It worked. Genesis blinked, refocusing on Mirk. "I can''t heal you like this," Mirk explained. "You need to let them go."


    "...no. They will...not be fine."


    Mirk tore his eyes away from Genesis, looking back at the bodies out on the steps. There were seven or eight left, waiting to be taken inside. If he was honest with himself, if he let go of hope and was objective, Mirk knew Genesis was right: most of the Easterners'' injuries were so severe that, without the shadows there to help, they would bleed out in minutes. Calling back the shadows without a healer ready and willing to cover the gap would mean death for most of them. Something had to give: either Genesis, or them.


    The words escaped Mirk, unbidden. "You''ll die if you don''t let go."


    "Then...I die."


    He knew there was nothing he could say to Genesis that would change his mind ¡ª no plea, no begging, no prayer or desperate confession would convince Genesis to give up on the men he''d promised to save. Mirk swallowed down his horror and desperation and forced himself to think. There was the staff tucked up his sleeve, but Mirk dismissed that idea instantly. Even though the rules that governed the staff were still a mystery to him, something in his gut told Mirk that using it to save Genesis would cost him far more than half his hair and a handful of teeth. Instead, Mirk tried healing Genesis again, drawing hard on his own core of life-giving potential instead of only making use of the extra that the djinn had given to him, the magic that was close to, but not quite his own.


    It helped. Somewhat. Though Mirk wasn''t able to completely heal the tear in the artery close to Genesis''s heart that the broken blade had almost severed, he was able to close it partway, stemming the worst of the bleeding. Mirk pulled his magic away, breathing hard and sitting back on his knees. He had to spool the magic from his own core out slowly, applying just enough now and then to keep Genesis from dying. He didn''t have enough to heal the wound completely, not while Genesis was still spending so much of his own potential on keeping the Easterners wrapped up tight in his shadows.


    Now it was only a matter of which would give out first: his magic, or Genesis''s.


    Genesis let out a shuddering, hissing breath. Maybe it was a sigh. Or perhaps a bitter, strained laugh. Mirk couldn''t be certain. "...I...will not die."


    Mirk nodded. "No. You won''t."


    It was a far from certain thing. Genesis had to know that. But, for some reason, the commander trusted him, had faith in either his deep well of magic or his determination. Genesis''s eyes went distant again, his focus returning to his men and controlling the shadows holding them together. Mirk''s legs were going numb from kneeling in the snow beside him. He barely felt it. Just as Genesis''s attention was fixed on the Easterners, Mirk''s was focused on Genesis¡¯s body.


    Every few minutes, Mirk drew on his core and fed more magic into the wound in his chest to slow the bleeding again as the strain of using his magic tore Genesis''s body apart. After three cycles, Mirk began to feel himself growing distant, his body going cold, the fear and focus and dread radiating from the healers out on the steps fading away. He could go one more time, Mirk thought. Once more wouldn''t completely drain him, but he had to reserve some of his own magic, not the potential given to him from the djinn, if he was going to be able to heal that one, deadly wound fully once Genesis stopped using his own magic. Mirk didn''t understand why, but the commander''s body could tell the difference between their magic, somehow. And it only seemed to truly listen if there was a measure of himself mixed in.


    While Mirk kept his mind and his magic focused on Genesis, he lifted his head and looked down the length of the darkened street, deserted and covered in unbroken snow. He''d never forget what had happened the last time things had been this dire. Death had come for Genesis. That tall, white-clad figure had stalked into the infirmary, unstoppable, and had tried to lift Genesis''s soul from his grasp. Mirk had held Death off that time, but he''d had the rest of his team to help him. That time, if Death came, he''d face it alone. Mirk couldn''t help but watch for it, in some vain attempt to prepare himself for that desperate fight.


    He had been concentrating so intently on the inner workings of Genesis''s body and on scanning the street for any movement that Mirk didn''t notice Genesis stirring beneath him. Not until he felt Genesis''s long, ice-cold fingers wrap around the hand he didn''t have buried inside his chest. Mirk looked down into Genesis''s face. The commander wasn''t looking at him, his expression still blank as he stared up into the starless sky. Genesis was truly struggling to keep hold of his magic, Mirk sensed, drawing on the very last of his potential. There was no sign that Genesis was aware of Mirk¡¯s presence, of anything beyond his own magic. Other than the hand wrapped around his own.


    Somehow, Mirk found the strength to work up a smile for him. "I''m here, messire. I have you."


    Both his words and his smile only served as a way for Mirk to reassure himself. He was sure Genesis couldn''t hear him. But Genesis''s hold on him remained tight, insistent. Until, just as Mirk was preparing to use the last of his own strength to heal his wound one final time, Genesis released both the shadows and his hand, letting out a long, rattling breath. Mirk remained frozen beside him for a moment, disbelieving.


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    Then he scrambled into action, pouring healing magic into the wound in Genesis''s chest without restraint. That time, the sparse remains of Genesis''s magic worked with his own rather than against it. Mirk had the potential within him, both from his own core of life-energy and the depleted remains of that given to him by the djinn, to heal that critical wound fully, along with a few scraps of leftover potential to feed into the wound in Genesis''s midsection that was now gaping fully open without the commander''s shadows there to keep it together.


    That wound was messy, alarming, but there was only one severe bleed, which Mirk had just enough potential left to stop. Anyone else would have still died from that kind of wound, but Mirk knew Genesis''s body better than his own by then. As long as Genesis had enough blood left in him for his heart to keep beating, as long as his lungs weren''t so shredded that they completely deflated, he''d live. His body would fix itself. And even if Mirk would eventually have to break and heal those misshapen parts again later, Genesis would survive.


    Mirk swung his head around to look back at the infirmary steps. The motion made spots dance in front of his eyes, made his stomach heave. He took a few deep, steadying breaths as he searched for help. The only person still outside was Elijah, staring across the street at both of them as if he expected something terrible to happen any moment. Mirk suspected they didn''t have any other healers left to spare, the rest either occupied with saving the Easterners or too afraid of Genesis to come close enough to help. Mirk couldn''t blame them. But he''d need help getting Genesis inside, considering the severity of the wound in his stomach and how heavy he was, even if his recent ordeal had worn him down to little more than skin and bones.


    "Elijah?" Mirk called out. "Elijah, I need help carrying him in."


    Though Elijah nodded, he didn''t move to descend the steps. Not yet. "Is he...?"


    "He''ll be fine. He doesn''t have enough magic left to hurt anyone."


    Elijah stumbled down the steps and over to Mirk''s side. He went pale as he stared down at Genesis''s shredded body. "You...will he....?"


    "It looks worse than it is," Mirk reassured him. "He''s...euh...different than most."


    "I bloody well know that now," Elijah sighed. He paused to collect himself, then circled around to the other side of Genesis''s body. "Right. What do you need me to do?"


    "One arm under his shoulders, one under his hips. Don''t worry about the rest of him. Just keep his stomach from...euh..."


    For the first time, Elijah seemed to really see just how deep the split in Genesis''s midsection was. Abruptly, the mage squeezed his eyes shut, even as he crouched down and shoved his arms underneath Genesis''s limp body. "Oh God, his...it''s all right there..."


    Mirk tottered up onto his feet, pausing just long enough to be sure his legs would hold before sliding his arms under Genesis as well. "Like I said, it looks worse than it is. Just keep him steady. We''ll go to the nearest open room. On three..."


    He called the count. Together, Mirk and Elijah were just strong enough to lift Genesis''s broken body. Something in Mirk''s chest crumpled at the sight of the wide swath of darkened snow that remained behind once they''d lifted him ¡ª Genesis really had been minutes from death, having lost so much blood. He made himself refocus on his work, not allowing himself to linger on what might have been.


    They shuffled Genesis across the street and up the steps, both of them stumbling and staggering the whole way there, but never badly enough to drop him. They had to slog nearly all the way to the field transporter to find an empty room. Everything in the critical ward was chaos, despite the Easterners being out of the woods, for the most part. Almost every healer left in the building had to be there, shouting for potions and spell-papers and aides.


    Once they''d set Genesis down on the table at the center of the room, Elijah quickly backed away from them both, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Do...do you need anything else? Otherwise I think I''d better be going. I''m just in the way..."


    Mirk reached out to Elijah, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze, hoping the gesture would be enough to convince him of his gratitude, since he had no magic left to project with. "No, we''ll all be fine. Thank you, Elijah. You''ve already helped so much."


    Elijah hesitated, then forced himself to look at Genesis''s body again, in the full force of the bright white magelights hung above the table. "I''ll come by when I hear everyone''s up again. I...I''ll..."


    He lost his nerve. And his stomach. Clapping one hand to his mouth, Elijah bolted from the room. Mirk sighed, turning back to Genesis''s broken body.


    Was it really that grotesque? Had he become that numbed to the sight of it, of Genesis reduced to something closer to a slurry of parts than a living, breathing body? Better not to waste time pondering it. He had to get to work. Even if he didn''t have much magic left, and even if most of their potions and papers had to go to the Easterners, there was nothing keeping Mirk from making use of needle and thread.


    Before going to fetch supplies, Mirk did a quick survey of Genesis¡¯s body, searching for other injuries he might have not seen or felt in the gloom and chaos out in the street. He reached out to Genesis''s closer arm, gingerly pulling back the sleeve of his overcoat. To Mirk''s surprise, his shirtsleeve wasn''t saturated with blood, though the bandages Genesis had wrapped around his forearms before he''d left were missing. A mystery, but one that Mirk was glad he wouldn''t have to deal with that night.


    "Ah, messire," Mirk sighed, drawing his hand back, his eyes drifting up to Genesis''s face. Lifeless, eyes closed. A corpse, to all external appearances. "I''m sorry. I wish there was more I could do for you."


    He wasn''t a strategist, wasn''t a great mage, wasn''t the sort of person who could do much to keep the horror that''d crushed down on them that night from reoccurring. All he could do was pick up the pieces.


    Which was what he needed to be doing then instead of woolgathering. Mirk turned away from the table, going to the supply cabinet in the corner. Thankfully, none of the other healers had raided it yet. Mirk collected all the supplies he''d need to put Genesis together the best he could until more of his magic returned: pads to soak up the blood and clean, a scalpel to cut away the parts of Genesis''s body that had somehow already started to heal themselves wrong, needle and thread to close, bandages to cover the mess until he had the strength to put things fully right once more. There wasn''t any point to trying the potions and papers on Genesis ¡ª his body always rejected them. It always came back to Mirk doing it himself. Genesis''s body showed no mercy. Not to those who stood against him, not to those who tried to fix him. Not even to itself.


    Just as Mirk was about to drag himself back to the operating table, he was startled by a sudden hiss and the sound of limbs beating against wood. Mirk spun around, his collection of tools clutched to his chest. Genesis was having some kind of fit. All his limbs had tensed, his back arched off the operating table, his body shaking with the strain. It lasted only a few seconds; his body went limp once more.


    Mirk dropped all his supplies in his haste, rushing to the table and searching out Genesis''s pulse on his neck. As he felt for it, he cast his senses out into Genesis''s body, trying to make sense of what had caused the fit. Genesis''s heartbeat had gone fluttery and faint, and as Mirk tried to count the beats, track the rhythm, it suddenly stopped. His chest heaved with one last rattling breath, then went still. And then Mirk heard something dripping on the floor.


    At first, Mirk thought it must have been something from the wound across his stomach. Then he saw that Genesis''s hands were slicked with blood. His arms. They''d been whole a minute ago, but now the sleeve Mirk had pulled back was soaked with blood, more of it pouring out from underneath it in an impossible rush. He snapped the button that held his uniform blouse tight against Genesis''s wrist and yanked the sleeve up to his elbow.


    There was something deeply wrong there. The binding spell on his arm had come open, the white, flat scars shifted to ragged gashes. But there was more. The runes of the binding spell had been cut into him carefully, so that no matter how deep and bloody they got, they wouldn''t sever any vital part of him. There were dozens of extra cuts on his arms now, ones that had been placed without any care for what they might interfere with. Both of the big arteries in his arms had been severed in two or more places, both horizontally and vertically.


    Mirk had to close them. But some magic was working on the cuts, driving them deeper, splitting them wider. It was as if some invisible force was sucking the blood out of Genesis, draining him of what little he had left. That was why his heart had stopped. If he didn''t stop the bleeding immediately, there''d be no starting it again.


    Sutures wouldn''t work. Things were moving too fast; Mirk didn''t understand what magic was forcing Genesis to bleed. He''d have to meet force with force. He closed his hand around one of the deepest cuts, forcing all the magic he could into it. The spell working on Genesis''s arm repelled it. Desperate, Mirk snatched his grandfather''s staff from the pocket in his sleeve.


    Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk glimpsed movement across the operating table. He looked up. Death had finally come for Genesis again. The tall, white-robed figure loomed over them both, pale and gaunt, his eyes black, unblinking holes into eternity. Mirk threw himself across Genesis''s body, his left hand on his heart, the right wrapped tightly around the staff.


    "No," Mirk gasped. "No, you can''t."


    The Death only stared down at him, his head tilted to one side, perplexed.


    Mirk moved on instinct. First, he tried to force the staff''s magic directly into Genesis. Nothing. Genesis''s body, his magic, the very nature of his being repulsed the staff''s magic like the two were opposite poles of a magnet. Just like Mirk knew it would, if only he''d spared a moment to think about things. He tried again, that time drawing the staff''s magic deep inside himself, mixing it with the last shreds of his own potential, then pouring it into Genesis''s body. It accepted the staff''s magic that time, just as it accepted his own. It was working. It would work. It had to work.


    And yet, the Death remained.


    The Death reached out one slender arm, over and down. Mirk felt it pass through him, an icy, uncanny feeling, like fingernails raking down his insides. The Death reached further, deep into Genesis''s motionless chest. When the Death drew his hand back, something black and fluttery was trapped inside of it. Mirk lashed out and grabbed hold of the Death''s hand, trying to wrest Genesis''s soul from it. Mirk could feel his soul beating against his hand, cold and feather-light, like a moth against a windowpane.


    Again, the Death gave him a bemused look, baring his impossible number of jagged teeth in an expression that was unsettlingly close to one of Genesis¡¯s defensive grins.


    "He''s mine," Mirk hissed at the Death through clenched teeth, still funneling all the life-giving magic he could into Genesis''s body. Distantly, as if from several rooms over, Mirk heard a high, ringing voice laugh. The staff in his other hand burned, like he was grasping an open flame.


    The Death considered this. And he unclenched his hand as he spoke, choosing every word with slow, deliberate care. For a moment, Mirk recognized the melodic cadence of the Breton his grandfather mumbled to himself at his grandmother''s memorial in the family chapel before the Death''s magic made his words shift into a language he could understand. The sound echoed in Mirk''s mind, making something deep within him shrivel and curl up in fear.


    "Death cannot take what life claims for itself. But all things have a price." The Death paused, meeting Mirk''s eyes. "The cost of love runs high."


    Again, Mirk heard the strange voice that spoke to him when he pulled hard on the staff''s potential. Feminine, ringing, as hot as the Death''s voice was cold. We''ll pay it three times over. You''re not stealing another one from us. Ankou.


    Then the Death vanished. Shaking, Mirk forced himself back upright and released Genesis''s soul. It quivered above Genesis''s body for a moment, darting over Genesis''s bloodied shirt and the wound in his chest, before sinking back down into him. The staff in his right hand kept right on burning as Mirk set his other hand atop the injury. The staff¡¯s potential flowed through him, draining into Genesis until his chest rose once more with a shuddering, shallow breath.


    Mirk''s legs gave out. He collapsed half atop Genesis, panting and trembling, blind to the blood and gore, focused only on the fact that he could feel Genesis''s heart beating under his free hand again. Then the strain of drawing so much power from the staff hit him. It was like his whole body was set aflame, filling him with agony that made his vision go white and drew a whimper from his slack mouth.


    But the pain was an almost secondary thing, a distant annoyance, an acceptable consequence of his madness. The Death''s words had triggered a sudden awareness in Mirk. Had put words to a feeling deep in his chest, one that made all the hurt bearable. One that he''d suspected for weeks, but had been too frightened of to dare to put a name to, to call anything but delusion, impulse, a passing illusion.


    Mirk had felt it from countless others; a common but not commonplace thing. It was the warmth that skipped across his shields when he saw Mordecai and Danu together, huddled close, unable to keep from grinning at each other. It was the dogged persistence he''d felt in his grandfather the night before Jean-Luc had died, as they''d all prayed together in the family chapel, his eyes fixed on the portrait of his grandmother Enora at the side of the room rather than on the crucifix above the altar. It was the radiant glow that had emanated from his mother whenever she stood beside his father, a combination of the fire of her will and the iron of her complete, unquestioning faith. The feeling in Mirk''s chest was both all and none of those things, similar, but tinged with its own distinct color: his own softness, all-embracing, like a sun-warmed blanket, mixed with devotion, as steadfast as the oak in his family''s front garden against all the storms that had ever rolled in off the sea.


    He and the spirit inside the staff were in total agreement. He would stand against anyone, would pay any price, if only to keep Genesis safe. He loved him.


    A moment after the realization struck Mirk, so did the rest of the staff''s backlash. His vision went dark and he collapsed fully across Genesis''s shivering body, the ringing voice of the spirit still whispering in the dark confines of his mind.


    Nothing will take our love from us again. Nothing.

 Chapter 52

    When Mirk woke up, he was alone.


    Someone had carried him to one of the heavily-shielded long-term ward rooms and had done their best to make the lumpy bed comfortable for him with stolen blankets and pillows. The room''s magelights were out, but the same person who''d put him to bed had left the one he wore around his wrist illuminated. Its faint glow was just bright enough for Mirk to make out the faint shapes of a collection of bottles that''d been left on his bedside. Two mid-strength pain blockers, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a plate with a few doubtlessly stale sweet buns on it.


    The whiskey had to be Yule''s doing ¡ª there were very few good things the older healer was willing to grant his homeland, but its liquor was one of them. The blockers and buns must have been Danu''s work. Yule never thought of eating on his own, and he always favored toughing things out with alcohol first before resorting to potions.


    It made Mirk feel less cold and empty to know that they''d both thought of him. He fixed his mind on the feeling, on the warm comfort of being cared for, as he took the blockers in quick succession. There were other things to think about, of course. Like the staff propped up against the foot end of the bed. But he wasn''t ready for it. Not yet.


    If he was honest with himself, Mirk didn''t feel terrible, even after all the things that had happened. He''d expected to wake up feeling utterly lifeless, drained down to his core and unable to do much more than sit up in bed for a few minutes. He did feel tired, but it wasn''t the same, aching, freezing sort of tired he''d been after he''d accidentally asked the staff to intervene on Alice¡¯s behalf. Cautiously, Mirk passed a hand over his hair before reaching for the plate of sweet buns. No missing clumps of hair, though it still was an uneven length from the last time he¡¯d made use of his grandfather¡¯s staff. And a sweep of his tongue confirmed that all his teeth were still firmly anchored in his jaw.


    He tried not to think of any of it. But pieces came back to him despite his best efforts to ignore it, to concentrate on his breathing and the burn of the whiskey and the tough, gritty sweetness of the buns. How the Easterners had looked like nothing but corpses, the terror of the other healers as the shadows offered out more and more of them. The way K''aekniv had lurched and reeled from side to side as if drunk, overflowing with pain and bleeding from dozens of bites. How Genesis''s insides had been warm, but the fingers that had wrapped around his hand had been ice cold.


    Mirk shook his head, hard. "Du calme," he mumbled to himself, before mechanically forcing himself to take another bite of the bun. The same words he''d said to Elijah, who''d received as little comfort from them in the past as he felt in the present. As Mirk forced himself to keep eating, he tested the strength of his magic. Enough to summon weak mental shielding, but not enough to do much else. Combined with the blockers, it''d allow him to go check on the Easterners, even if he wouldn''t be able to heal anyone properly.


    He had to start moving. He had to get working. Otherwise he''d be left alone with the enormity of what he''d done with his grandfather''s staff. And the weight of the words the Death had spoken to him before he had vanished back into the ether.


    Once he''d chomped his way through the bun and downed the last of the liquor, Mirk changed out of the patient robes he''d been put in and back into the clean set of work robes that had been left draped across the foot end of the bed. Thankfully, whoever had changed him hadn''t decided to throw the bloodied chemise and braies he''d been wearing underneath his robes down the incinerator chute. Mirk hesitated, but took hold of the staff and banged on it a few times until it shrunk down small enough for him to cram it into the pocket in his sleeve. It was too dangerous to leave the staff lying around, even if it made Mirk feel sick to touch it.


    It didn''t take Mirk long to find the Easterners. The overnight healers had done the only sensible thing and clustered them all together on one floor once they were stable, as far away from the general patients as was practical. They occupied the whole back half of the fourth floor, both the ones who had come in wounded from the field and the handful who were still recovering from their illness. While the long-term ward had been dead silent and empty save for a few patients locked up behind shielded doors, the atmosphere up on the fourth floor put Mirk more in mind of a festival. All the doors along either side of the hall were propped open with bedpans and buckets and bits of armor. The men who could walk wandered from room to room to pester their bedridden friends. And there wasn¡¯t a nurse or an aide in sight.


    The warmth of their relief and good cheer buoyed Mirk down the hall, helped him ignore the darker undertones of their still-recovering bodies. Most of the snatches of conversation that Mirk could understand ¡ª whoever had left him the new robes had forgotten to switch over his translation charm ¡ª were mostly about what they were going to spend the gold from their last bloody contract on. The popular consensus seemed to be that the best course of action was getting as drunk as possible as often as possible in the company of the finest women they could find, at least until the Festival of Shades ended and they were sent back through the transporter to fight again.


    "Mirgosha! Come join us!"


    Mirk turned toward the sound of the booming voice, letting out a sigh of relief. K''aekniv was among those who were alive and well, more or less. Though he was propped up across two beds rather than wandering the halls with the other men. Now that Mirk had a chance to really look at him, in the bright lights of the infirmary, he noticed that most of K¡¯aekniv¡¯s feathers had regrown while he was off fighting. But they''d grown in purple and strange rather than soft and grayish-white. K''aekniv''s bare chest was covered with bits of tacked on bandage, and he was much thinner about the shoulders and the middle than he usually was, but he was in high spirits nevertheless. He ushered Mirk into his room with an easy grin and a pointed gesture with a half-full bottle.


    The half-angel was surrounded by his closest friends, Slava and Ilya and Pavel. Mordecai was doubtlessly off with Danu instead. There was a new man there as well, one Mirk didn''t recognize, as tall and broad as Slava, who he was sitting on the floor beside. Mirk didn''t allow his mind to linger on thoughts of the other notable absence. Not that Genesis would ever tolerate a drunken infirmary party, even if he''d been physically capable of joining in with the other men of the Seventh.


    Mirk took a moment to shore up his shielding before coming in. "Are you all right, Niv?"


    "Eh, could be worse," K''aekniv replied, shrugging his wings. "Those mages were terrible. I was so sick I was seeing four of everyone by the end. But! It''s over. Nothing else until after Shade''s Festival. I made horse-fucker promise us."


    Sidling his way through the fighters clustered around K''aekniv, Mirk went to his bedside and touched one of the purplish feathers dotting his wings. It felt as wrong as it looked, oily and jagged rather than smooth and dry. "What are these from?"


    "The poison. The first time they got me, it was...what? The second day? So it was in me for a while and did something weird. They''ll fall out, same as the rest. I''ll just look like an idiot for a month or two."


    "You look like an idiot all the time," Slava said, grinning up and over at K''aekniv from his spot seated against the wall.


    "Ah, fuck you," K''aekniv said with a laugh. "At least nothing came close to biting my dick off."


    Slava reached up to smack K''aekniv in the side. "That''s because Mordka pushed me!"


    "Did he drop your sword for you too?" K''aekniv waggled a scolding finger at Slava, too high for the fighter to reach.


    "It''s amazing any of us came back alive," Pavel interjected. He was sitting on the foot of K''aekniv''s bed, on the sliver of mattress not taken up by K''aekniv''s giant legs. Mirk thought the aside might dampen the mood, but the other men''s cheer was unwavering. They were accustomed to Pavel making those kinds of remarks, Mirk supposed. Just another thing to be tuned out, the same as everyone else''s faults, except for when spirits were high and someone was due a good ribbing.


    "It''s not selling you good, seeing you all like this," the man Mirk didn''t recognize said. His voice had the same echoey tone to it that one being run through a translation charm did, though it was hard to make it out over his thick accent. That''s because it was being translated, Mirk realized ¡ª the man was using the Easterners'' sole vocal translator, a magicked stone that could be clipped to a collar or sleeve that shifted the speaker''s voice to the listener''s native tongue rather than the other way around. An expensive bit of artificing, one that the Easterners only owned due to Genesis''s penny pinching and constant exasperation with trying to translate elaborate, vulgar insults back and forth among the men.


    Mirk didn''t allow himself to dwell on the memory of it ¡ª on how the men had all snickered and goaded one another into ever-more convoluted chains of debauchery just to watch Genesis get more and more frustrated by the physical impossibility of most of their finest insults, how the tips of Genesis¡¯s ears had started to grow red and his long fingers had started to twitch at his sides as he struggled to conjugate very, very descriptive verbs ¡ª redirecting his attention toward studying the finer details of the newcomer''s appearance.


    Like most of the Easterners when they''d first arrived, the new man sitting on the floor next to Slava had a full beard, albeit one that was tidy and close-cropped instead of wild and curling. His clothes were also the usual newcomer mishmash of homespun wool and well-worn leather, with the only notable addition being a tall, round fur hat resting in his lap. There was a friendly, jovial spark in his eyes that intrigued Mirk. Most of the newer Easterners tended to be wary and withdrawn until they got a better handle on how things worked in the City. The man beside Slava seemed right at home, despite the reservations he''d just voiced to K''aekniv.


    And K''aekniv was quick to counter them, offering the man his half-empty bottle to sweeten his words. "But you know what you''re getting into now. Anyway, it''s not like this all the time. This is the worst we''ve had in ten years. And look! We all made it back. Because we''ve got Mirgosha here to help."


    The man looked to Mirk as he took the bottle from K''aekniv, his heavy brows furrowing in thought. "Mirgosha? What? Do you have so many Mykhilos you''re just making things up?"


    Mirk laughed, smiling and dipping his head to the man in acknowledgement. He got the feeling that he wasn''t the sort who''d be either impressed or satisfied by a full bow. "Mirk. Your servant, Mister...?"


    "Orest," the man replied, nodding back at him and taking a long drink from the bottle. "Mister? Servant? This place is as fancy as it looks."


    K''aekniv waved Orest off. "Mirgosha, he''s from some fancy place down south. Even this place can''t beat home out of you."


    "Good." Orest sighed, leaning his head back against the wall and looking to the ceiling for a moment. "If I turned into a city person, I''d never be able to show my face back home again."


    Anticipating Mirk''s question before he could ask it, K''aekniv began to enthuse at them all about the newcomer''s lineage. "That''s right! A tame Cossack is no good for anyone. All horses and wild women and good drink. I''m surprised one of you came! You all still make good enough money fighting for whoever back at home, yes? So why come here to do it?"


    Pavel heaved a sigh, looking like he wanted to say something, but he ultimately decided against it. Ilya spoke up on his behalf instead, softly, his usual smile taking on a brittle edge. A strange emotion skittered across Mirk''s mental shielding as well, but it was too fleeting and faint when compared to the rest of the men''s good cheer for Mirk to tell what it was. "Leto came for you."


    Orest took another long drink from the bottle. "You can only cross him once. So here I am."


    "Well, if you came here to get away from him, you''re safe," K''aekniv reassured him. "They never send us out east for work. Did you get on his bad side alone, or are there more?"


    "Alone. But the Host has its own problems. There''s only one real magic one left. Everyone used to have their magic people, but now they''re all put together in the same Host. Same as everywhere. All the city and army mages want everyone in a guild or want them gone. There''s only so far to run."


    K''aekniv nodded. "Terrible. Everything is going to shit these days. It used to be that if you looked poor and stupid enough people would leave you alone."


    "But it''s hard to hide your magic if you''re always fighting," Slava interjected. "You go beating people, and everyone pays attention."


    Orest shrugged. "I''d rather live in your big ugly city and keep fighting than become some farmer. Maybe some of the rest will feel the same."


    "All you Cossacks are welcome here," K''aekniv said. "The more the better, I think. We won''t have to work so hard to train you. You can look around here and think about things for a while, then Mordka will take you back east if you want to tell your friends about it when he goes home next week to talk to his deda. He''ll be trying to sell Danny to him for at least a week, I''m sure. You''ll have time to talk to your people."


    "Mordecai''s going home?" Mirk asked, curious. Though the teleporting mage had the magic to go home more often than he did, he usually limited his trips to holidays and emergencies. He loved to wax poetic about his grandmother''s cooking and how much more fun he could be having with his cousins if he went home every chance he got, but he admitted that going back too often only made his homesickness worse. The matter of him wanting to spend the majority of his free time talking to Danu aside.


    K''aekniv nodded, taking the bottle back from Orest ¡ª his willingness to share was a sure sign of the newcomer''s good nature. "Things are looking good! This shit was terrible, but we got some gold out of it. Mordka has enough money to ask Danny to marry him now. But he has to go ask his deda if it''s all right first. He''ll still do it even if he says no, but if his deda''s happy, that means we all get to go to Mordka''s village and have a real party instead of just sitting around here getting drunk for a few days."


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    "Oh...I didn''t know," Mirk said, as he tried to remember what Danu had told him about Mordecai''s traditions. But he was too tired to come up with more than her constant complaints about how she couldn''t ever remember how anyone in Mordecai''s extended family was related.


    "His people, they throw the best wedding parties," K''aekniv said. "Theirs are even better than ours, and ours last a week at least."


    "At least," Slava confirmed.


    "Am I supposed to keep it a secret?" Mirk asked. Not that the inevitability of Mordecai asking Danu to marry him wasn''t obvious to everyone. The only matter of debate among the infirmary healers was when Mordecai would summon the nerve to ask. Yule was of the opinion that Mordecai''s desire to consummate the marriage would keep him from holding out much longer, while Sheila was convinced that he was too flighty to commit without something drastic happening first.


    Mirk thought they were both being too cynical. They had to be able to feel the earnestness of Mordecai''s love as well as he could. It was mostly a matter of money: some reverse dowry that was traditional among Mordecai''s people, something that was important to him, though Mirk could tell Danu would accept his proposal even if Mordecai didn''t have a penny to his name. A luxury that Mirk often thought of wistfully, despite their situation not being anywhere close to his own.


    K''aekniv laughed. "We''re too late for that. When one healer knows something, all the healers know. Besides, Danu will know he''s gone to ask his deda the first time he doesn''t come to bother her for lunch."


    Mirk laughed as well, though he felt he did a poor job of it. Despite the light atmosphere in the room, there was a weight still tugging at his chest, one that he was finding it harder and harder to ignore. "You could set the clocks by him now, methinks."


    K''aekniv gave a wistful sigh, the two pushed-together beds creaking under his weight as he tried to find a more comfortable position. "Like I said, things are good now. We have a little money...no work until after Shade''s Festival...a wedding after that...who could complain?"


    "You''ve always been easy to please," Pavel said, shaking his head as he tried not to get knocked off the end of the bed by K''aekniv re-crossing his legs.


    "And you''re always bitching," K''aekniv teased, nudging Pavel in the side with the heel of his boot. "We should all get a break with Gen gone! Instead we just get you bitching at us."


    Orest perked up at the mention of Genesis. "Where is this big leader of yours, huh? If I''m going to join, I want to meet him first. I''m not trading one bastard for another."


    "Ah, he''s not so bad, you just have to bitch about everyone a little. You know it is," K''aekniv said. "But they never put him by us when he''s sick. It would make him mad to wake up with so many people around. And he gets weird when he''s sick, so it''s better to keep him a little happy." The half-angel turned his attention back to Mirk, who was trying to will himself not to listen too closely to the men''s discussion of their missing commander. "What happened with him, Mirgosha? We heard they found you in his room all full of blood when it was safe to go looking."


    Mirk knew he couldn''t avoid the topic forever. He sighed, unable to offer much of an explanation to the curious men beside a defeated shrug. "I don''t know. Methinks he put a spell on himself, over the, euh, old one on his arms, but I fixed that. He''ll be fine. He always is."


    Genesis very nearly hadn''t been fine. But Mirk was uncertain of whether he''d be sharing the details of how close Genesis had come to death with anyone other than with Genesis himself, once he woke up.


    But K''aekniv was smart ¡ª and had been dealing with Genesis for decades longer than he had. He wasn''t thrown off the trail so easily, keeping his tone casual despite shooting Mirk a pointed look. "It was close this time, yes? That bastard needs to be more careful. We won''t make it if we don''t have him around."


    "I''ll talk to him about it once he''s awake," Mirk said. "At least he should tell us more about what magic he''s putting on himself so that we can help him once it''s over."


    "If he''ll listen to anyone, it''ll be you, Mirgosha. I don''t know how you do it. Me, I try everything. I do him favors. I yell at him. I try to do his stupid book learning puzzles. And I get nothing! Just the same old you see to your business and I''ll see to mine," K''aekniv said, doing his best to mimic Genesis''s accent and dour expression as he repeated one of the commander''s adages for the other men. His impersonation was so bad that it got a laugh out of them, Orest included, even though he didn''t have the original to compare it to.


    Again, all Mirk could do was shrug. "He is a little, euh, stubborn."


    "Anyway, are you going to see him?" K''aekniv asked. "Or will you stay and have a drink with us?"


    Most of Mirk wanted to stay and drink, drink until he couldn''t get up and needed to be carried back down to the long-term ward to sober up. But he shook his head instead. "I should go see what the others did to help him, methinks. Even if I don''t have the magic to start fixing him yet."


    Orest reached out to take the bottle back; K''aekniv handed it over. "Will he be awake?"


    "No, methinks it''ll be a little while yet. He was very...sick."


    "Then I''ll stay with you lot," Orest said, grinning at Slava. "You promised me you''d tell me about all the women here."


    "Don''t talk to Slava about them," K''aekniv said, goading the fighter by jabbing his shoulder with one thick finger, leering down at him. "He''s already given his heart to some Prussian."


    Slava slapped his hand away. "Fuck you! You''re too terrible for any woman to want to be with. Besides, her father was normal. It''s just her mother that was Prussian."


    "A Prussian?" Orest looked deeply skeptical, but his grin still had an eager edge.


    Mirk took the exchange as his cue to leave. Despite the siren call of the Easterners'' rough banter, their terrible jokes and their scrounged up bottles of liquor, he knew he had duties elsewhere. Waving and nodding rather than cutting into their conversation again, Mirk headed back out into the hall. Only Pavel seemed to notice his departure, returning his nod. The rest were already too caught up in debating the merits of Prussian womanhood to have noticed anything short of a bomb going off underneath K''aekniv''s pushed together beds.


    He shuffled down the fourth floor''s main hallway, his hands tucked into his side pockets to stave off the chill. Every so often, he paused to check in on one of the more weary and aching patients, but no one else paid him much heed, beyond the occasional nod or bottle half-raised in his general direction in a sort of comradely salute. Mirk returned their greetings, but didn''t linger.


    The Easterners'' voices cut off abruptly as he passed the barrier at the end of the hall that separated the fourth and fifth floors. On the other side of it, the hallway was dead silent. Though Mirk couldn''t be certain how long he was asleep, enough time must have elapsed for the upper floors of the infirmary to have emptied out in preparation for the Festival of Shades. Aside from the one patient that the healers, with good reason, thought might pose a threat to the others. Mirk let his mental shielding fall away, searching for any traces of Genesis''s magic.


    He felt him at the far end of the floor, near where it transitioned to the sixth. Someone had tacked a note to the outside of the door to his room, a check-in log. Genesis had been checked near dawn, but not since then. The commander''s condition had simply been jotted down as alive. Mirk paused in front of the door, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. Then he pushed the door open.


    Mirk had been put to bed gently, with care and thoughtfulness, changed into clean clothes then swaddled in extra blankets to protect against the chill of having his magic drained. Genesis had been dumped on the bed in the middle of the room with less dignity than a corpse. He was still in the clothes he''d been wearing when he''d stumbled out of the shadows covering the parade grounds, though the front half of his shirt had been cut away to provide easier access to his wounds. The one across his stomach had been stitched together haphazardly, just well enough to keep his innards from spilling out onto the floor. His chest wound had a square of bandage tacked over it. No one had thought to cover him with a sheet. One of his arms was hanging off the side of the bed, unmarked by the magic that had nearly killed him.


    At least someone had been considerate enough to close his eyes, even if they¡¯d ignored the rest.


    Something inside Mirk broke. It was all the tiny details, all the minor slights that added up to a cold indifference to Genesis''s life. They crushed down on Mirk with the weight of a thousand leagues of water, making him burst into tears. He stumbled to Genesis''s bedside and took hold of his arm, putting it back beside his rail-thin body on the bed as he continued to sob.


    "Oh, messire...I''m so sorry, messire..."


    Mirk peeled back the edge of the bandage over the wound in his chest. Nothing had been done to it. Genesis''s depleted body and magic didn''t have the strength to cover the gap, leaving it as an oozing, crusted mess rather than a snarl of misshapen arteries and flesh. Mirk tacked the bandage back down, squinting his eyes shut tight and biting his lip as he tried to compose himself. Crying over Genesis''s broken body wouldn''t do anyone any good. He needed to be sensible. He needed to help him, since no one else saw fit to.


    He wasn''t able to stop himself from crying completely, but at least Mirk was able to restrain himself to silent tears as he continued his inventory of Genesis''s injuries. Only the occasional choked-off gasp escaped him when he saw some other detail that overwhelmed him. Like how Genesis was still covered in his own dried blood, his torso streaked with wide swaths of it, smaller dabs coloring his neck and cheeks and his one exposed wrist. Mirk couldn''t remember whether the dabs were his fault, or the work of the healer who''d come after him. The healer who''d done the bare minimum to put Genesis back together, then shoved him off into a distant corner of the fifth floor where he could easily be put out of mind.


    It took all of Mirk''s strength to pry himself away from Genesis''s bedside long enough to fetch a basin of hot water and a rag from down the hall. Then he set to the task of scrubbing all the dried blood off of him. Mirk tried to do it mechanically, tried to separate himself from who it was he was washing. He was a healer, and the body on the bed was that of a patient. No more, no less.


    It was impossible. Every time Mirk thought he''d finally gotten a handle on the despair churning inside of him, some small part of it would set him off again ¡ª how cold Genesis was, how little flesh was left on his bones, how the pulse he checked on his neck was so slow and faint. Genesis''s chest only rose once every other minute. It hardly seemed like enough air to keep even his body, so hardened and fragile all at once, alive. Mirk gave up on maintaining his composure and resigned himself to crying over him like a child as he scrubbed at all the swirls and streaks of dried blood. It had to have been there for over a day now. For some reason. Genesis''s blood always went sticky and black when exposed to the air for so long.


    Once he''d cleaned Genesis as best he could ¡ª there were horrible knots in his hair, and Mirk knew Genesis wouldn''t consider washing with naught but hot water sufficient ¡ª he went digging in the room''s supply cupboard for a spare set of patient robes. They wouldn''t fit right, Mirk knew, but it was better than leaving him to steep in clothes that stank of rotting blood. He tried to distance his mind from his work again as he manhandled Genesis''s unresisting, gangly limbs out of their layers, throwing away the bits that were ruined and folding and setting aside the magicked parts that had already cleaned themselves, somehow. His overcoat, his boots, his weapons.


    "I know you don''t like these, messire," Mirk said as he wrapped the robe around his body, debating whether it was worthwhile to knot all the ties along its front. Maybe talking might force him into composing himself. Genesis would never have tolerated him crying and snotting everywhere had he been awake. "I''ll get your normal clothes for you when I go back to the dormitory. Until then, methinks this has to be better than that uniform..."


    Mirk stepped back to study him. Even now that he was mostly clean and his limbs were in order, Genesis didn''t look much better. Somehow, he looked even more like a dead body than when he''d first came in. Properly composed and prepared for his funeral, but dead nevertheless. Reflexively, Mirk leaned in and felt for Genesis''s pulse on his neck once more. It took five seconds for his heartbeat to flutter against his fingertips.


    Again, Mirk was left on the cusp of tears.


    Focus. He needed to focus. There was more left for him to do, even if he didn''t have his magic. Mirk couldn''t heal the terrible gash in Genesis''s midsection, but at least he could pick out the old sutures and put in fresh ones, ones that were even and secure. Genesis always hated messy stitches.


    Mirk fetched the supplies from the cabinet ¡ª needle, thread, pan, tweezers, scissors ¡ª and set to work. He pulled open the robe he''d just put on Genesis''s unresponsive body, then found two sheets to drape over the rest of him. To preserve Genesis''s sense of modesty, even if the commander wouldn''t be awake to complain any time soon. He arranged his tools on the half of the bed Genesis''s thin body left empty and set in on the crooked, provisional sutures with tweezers and scissors.


    His hands were shaking too badly to grab hold of the first stitch. Mirk bit back a curse as he dropped his tools and stalked away from the bed, dragging the room''s chair over to Genesis''s bedside and collapsing into it with a huff, boneless and defeated. Mirk stared at Genesis''s lifeless body for a moment. Then he snatched up his hand, grasping it tightly in both of his own as a fresh wave of tears rolled down his cheeks.


    "I''m so sorry, messire. I''m sorry. I''m¡­"


    He was sorry he was weak. He was sorry he was wrong, sorry he felt so much he couldn''t do his job. He was sorry he loved him.


    "What the hell is going on?"


    Mirk was so lost in his own misery that he barely registered the voice from behind him. Still, he turned toward it obediently, trying to compose himself a little by swiping his face against his robes to clear all the mess off it. Yule was standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed and critical. The older healer glared at him for a moment, then sighed, one hand shifting to his forehead to rub at his temple. Suddenly, Yule looked exhausted.


    "It''s fine, Yule," Mirk said, sniffling and moving to get up. "I''m sure you all did your best. I just...I''m not good at this sort of thing yet, I suppose. Methinks I should be well enough to start healing him once I''ve had another nap, but for now, I can¡ª"


    "For Christ''s sake, stop babbling," Yule barked, though he cringed the second the words were out of his mouth. Mirk must have made a face. Yule sighed again. "You''re not fooling anyone."


    Mirk fell silent, looking back at Genesis''s body. He was still holding on to his hand. "I..."


    "You need a drink. And we need to talk," Yule said, as he joined Mirk at Genesis''s bedside. He took a cursory look at the wound Mirk had been picking at, then jerked the lower sheet up over it. "He''ll be fine."


    Abruptly, Mirk let go of Genesis''s hand. Though he made it a point to put it back by his side rather than leaving it dangling off the edge of the bed. Yule was right. He wasn''t fooling anyone. At least no one that was awake to notice things. His mind still wasn''t shielded. And Mirk didn''t think there was much point to starting, considering what Yule must have already felt. "I don''t think I could do much for him right now anyway. I''m too tired."


    Yule shot Mirk an appraising, sideways look. "Too tired to go to the bar?"


    Mirk tried to summon his mental shielding. It didn''t do much more than take the barest edge off the tired concern radiating off Yule, despite the older healer''s own shielding. Mirk shook his head. "I...well, as long as no one can feel me, I suppose..."


    "I''ve got another spare blocker or two. And I''ll shield you the best I can." Yule glanced back down at Genesis. "If I''m ever going to talk sense into you, we need to get you out of this hellhole for a couple hours."


    Though Mirk wasn''t entirely certain what Yule meant by this, he nodded along anyway. "You''d know best, Yule."


    "The hell I do. But I know better than you, though that''s not saying much." Yule took him by the elbow and tugged him back toward the door. Mirk refused to go until he''d double checked that Genesis was tucked in, and until he''d turned off the magelights. Genesis hated sleeping with the lights on. Even if he wasn''t likely to wake up before Mirk returned, it was the thought that counted. At least, that was what Mirk told himself.


    With any luck, Yule would be right, and being away from the infirmary for a few hours would put things back into their proper perspective.

 Chapter 53

    "Don''t you have anything other than gin?"


    The bartender looked back and forth between Mirk and Yule, his eyebrows arched skeptically. They had to be a terrible sight: two exhausted healers, poorly washed, both clearly in a mood. Mirk dug around in the pockets of his cloak until he came up with his purse, slapping a handful of whatever currency his fingers closed around first down onto the sticky surface of the bar. His stony expression becoming much more agreeable, the bartender swept the coins off the bar and into the front pocket of his apron before retreating into the back room without a word to either of them.


    Yule smacked Mirk in the shoulder, shooting him a disgusted look. "That was a whole two weeks'' pay, you know."


    "Does it matter?"


    Yule sighed. "To you? No. But it''s the principle of the thing." The older healer propped his elbows up on the edge of the bar, resting his chin on his palm. "Bastard better bring back something decent. Otherwise I''m leaving with half his teeth."


    He could feel that Yule meant every word he said, but Mirk still laughed, just a little. In order to keep the turbulent pre-Festival atmosphere of the tavern from overwhelming him, Yule had cast his own mental shielding out over Mirk as they''d entered. It kept the emotions of the other patrons at bay, but left Mirk stewing in Yule''s instead. Yule was in a sour, black mood. Mirk was accustomed to feeling it from him. He was more concerned with what Yule could feel oozing past his own pathetic attempts at mental shielding. The blockers were keeping Mirk from spiraling down into a pit of self-loathing and guilt, but not even the high potency ones would have been enough to make him a pleasant companion that night.


    Even though neither of them were in the best mood, Mirk appreciated the subtle feeling of intimacy Yule''s shields created. An island of calm within all the shouting and laughing, a sense that it was them together against the world. Which was more accurate than Mirk wanted to admit to himself. He had a feeling their shared inclinations were the reason why Yule had decided to take him out that night. However, neither of them were willing to broach the topic lying heavy between them until drinks arrived.


    The bartender returned a few minutes later with a bottle for each of them. Yule snatched up the bartender''s thick wrist in one hand before he could drop the bottles and backstep out of range, holding the man captive until he finished evaluating the quality of the drink he''d brought. To the bartender''s credit, he didn''t attempt to twist out of Yule''s grasp. He must have worked in the City long enough to know that it wasn''t wise to cross a healer in a bad mood, no matter how small and soft they looked.


    "Is this local?" Yule asked, as he squinted at the label.


    The bartender shook his head. "Spare import from the Third''s place. Spanish."


    Grudgingly, Yule released his wrist. "Better than gin, at least."


    Mirk''s curiosity was piqued, in spite of the painful emotions still roiling in the back of his mind. He reached for his own bottle, spinning it around to read the label. Mirk didn¡¯t understand all the words, but he could pick out enough to know what he was dealing with ¡ª brandy, not aged for long, but from a good region. "It''s worth the price, Yule. Methinks it''ll be fine enough."


    Pulling the cork out of the bottle, Mirk took a sip directly from its mouth. It was sweeter than he''d been expecting. He didn''t feel like he deserved anything better than a drink that tasted the same way Genesis''s omnipresent cleaning potion smelled. The fact that was the first comparison that sprung to Mirk''s mind made him take a second, longer drink, hoping to banish the thought back to the dark recesses of his mind.


    All Mirk''s hopes were dashed once Yule had taken his own prospecting sip to confirm his appraisal. The older healer pivoted on his stool to face him, looking Mirk over with another tired sigh. "Tell me what happened."


    "Hmm? You were there, Yule. It was the same as always. Everyone was hurt. But we took care of things."


    Yule gave him a nudge of a kick on the shin as he took another sip from his bottle. "Bullshit. Something happened. I''m an empath too, you know. A small thing can blow up in a second when you''ve got everyone else''s rubbish in your head constantly,"


    There wasn''t much sense in trying to hide from him. But Mirk didn''t know how to put into words what he was feeling; he barely understood what was happening himself. The emotions lurking underneath the pain and fatigue were foreign to him, something he''d always felt from the outside instead of a heat that welled up from deep within his own chest, provoked by the slightest, most inconsequential things. "It''s...he nearly died again. That Death came for Genesis. Danu''s...what was it? Uncle?"


    Yule frowned, picking at some imperfection in the weave of his robes as he thought. "Something like that. I didn''t know that it was that bad. There was blood everywhere when we came to check on you, but that''s normal for him. We all thought he had to be fine, considering that stunt he pulled with his magic. Everyone was sure he was going to lose it and strangle every last person in the building."


    "Methinks that was part of it. He had to do something to himself to use so much of his magic at once. It hurts him to do that. He..." Mirk thought back to the cuts that had appeared on Genesis''s arms atop the runes of the binding spell, at how deep they''d been, how merciless. The binding magic on Genesis was cruel, but not as cruel as those horrible gashes. And the thought of Genesis inflicting them on himself, carving up his own flesh to escape the chains scarred into it, without regard for his own survival, put a lump in Mirk''s throat. The brandy he chugged before continuing didn''t help to clear it. "He didn''t care if he lived or died. All that mattered was that he could reach enough magic to help everyone else."


    "I didn''t know he could be that short-sighted.¡±


    "It wasn''t that. It was just...well...methinks he didn''t see any other way to help. Other than hurting..."


    "Well. I''d say you were being too soft on the bastard, but the Easterners agree with you. They all said that it was close this time. A death contract. But they made it. And Gen helped with that, I suppose." Yule''s frown and the way he was tugging at one of his forelocks betrayed how uncomfortable he was with giving Genesis even that small amount of credit. The frustration pressing against Mirk¡¯s mind was only confirmation.


    "Why don''t you like him, Yule?" Mirk asked. "I know he can be, euh, difficult sometimes, but..."


    "Because he''s an ass," the older healer replied, without hesitation. "Thinks he knows better than everyone else. And thinks he''s always the one in the right. For someone who''s supposedly so hung up on free will, he spends a lot of time trying to force everyone else into agreeing with him." For a moment, Yule looked like he wanted to continue. But he shook his head, reeling in his annoyance and turning it on Mirk. "That''s not why we''re here. We''re here because you like him. For some godforsaken reason."


    Mirk shrugged, looking away from Yule, back at his bottle on the edge of the bar. The temptation to slam through it in order to make the conversation easier was there, but Mirk knew he had to ignore it. For a little while longer, at least. "It''s...I don''t know. It''s nothing important, really. It''s like you always say, I like everyone."


    "That''s not what I''m talking about, and you know it." Yule made a frustrated noise, taking a long swig from his bottle. "I never should have started joking about it with you. Maybe this is my own doing."


    "What do you mean?"


    "I didn''t think you actually fancied men. I was just being an ass. Besides, your mind doesn''t respond to things the way a normal man''s does. I''d never felt that kind of thing from you before."


    Mirk was at as much of a loss to explain as Yule was. Nevertheless, he felt the need to try, if only to keep Yule from blaming himself. It was difficult to tell whether Yule was joking then, with the blockers and the press of Yule''s exasperation at the situation in the way. "I...I really don''t. Feel those things. I hadn''t, anyway. Not until...I thought they''d go away eventually. I''ve felt how other people are. Those feelings can start strong, but they go away after a time, as long as nothing, euh, happens."


    Yule snorted. "You haven''t been looking very closely. That''s not how it works when there''s real feelings involved. It''s one thing to look a man over and think you''d fancy taking him to bed, but when you like him as a person too, that''s a whole other thing."


    "I thought it was just the first one. I really didn''t think..."


    Yule shot Mirk another pointed look as he sipped at his bottle ¡ª so close to Yule, huddled together under the same mental shielding, Yule''s skepticism was as clear as if they''d been touching skin-to-skin. "Really? You thought you didn''t have any feelings for him? You fuss over him like a hen over a chick. I just didn''t think it went any further than that."


    Mirk slumped over the bar, ignoring the way the sleeves of his robes stuck to its surface, staring at his bottle rather than subjecting himself to the expectant look he could feel Yule giving him. "I didn''t either. It''s...like I said, I''d never had those thoughts before. I thought I couldn''t have them."


    "Couldn''t? Why wouldn''t you? You''re human the same as the rest of us. Well. Half, but obviously angelic blood doesn''t keep a man from lust. Look at Niv."


    His stomach twisted and churned as he let his mind brush up against the memories just long enough to spit out a reply that might half-satisfy Yule, that would allow him to put together the pieces on his own. "Do...did Emir ever tell you what happened? Why I had the kindling sickness when I came here?"


    Yule both sounded and felt puzzled. "Yeah. Some demons killed your family because Gen fouled up the contract. And then..." Yule trailed off, thinking hard. Then he sighed. "Oh. Right. Emir only gestured at it, but we all got the idea, considering who he went to for advice. Something involving a succubus?"


    Mirk nodded, biting his lip. He was bound to chew a hole clear through it if they lingered on the topic any longer when he was already so upset. Mirk needed to move things along, even if the matter of Genesis was also uncomfortable. Anything was better than those memories. "I didn''t want anything to do with those feelings after that. Even if it''s not the same, not really. I see that now. I...I didn''t then."


    Yule''s sympathy brushed against Mirk''s mind, though he didn''t reach out physically to comfort him. "You''ve got a point. But, like you said, what''s happening now isn''t at all like that. You''re not broken, or some rubbish."


    Broken. More than anything else, that was exactly what Mirk felt like ¡ª like everything that had happened, some combination of her and his own weakness, had ruined him, changed him into something he didn''t recognize anymore. But talking about it was too painful. There were other things he could say, other excuses he could make. "I took vows. And even after that, I''d been hoping..."


    "Vows? You said you never actually became a priest," Yule said. Despite his sympathy, Mirk could also feel Yule''s reflexive disgust at the mere thought of him as a priest rather than a healer.


    Mirk shrugged. "No, I didn''t. But...I thought I would keep them anyway. Or at least try to. If my family ever needed me to, I''d do my duty as the heir, of course, but I was hoping...well, maybe Kae would get married, and that would be good enough, or maman and aena would have another child...I just never liked the thought of getting married."


    "Why? Because of those vows of yours, or because you can''t see yourself with a woman?"


    Mirk shifted uncomfortably on his stool, still gnawing at his lip and staring at his bottle. He needed to save the brandy. Until it became too unbearable to talk without its help loosening his tongue. "I spent years learning with maman. It...well. It let me see things from the other side. All the other young men went with their fathers to train in the guilds, to learn to be masters. But, well. Grand-p¨¨re was never a member of a guild, and none of my uncles were in one suited to my magic, and my father was a fighter. Maman thought that I could learn more with her than with any of them, and aena didn''t protest, since Kae was more suited to learning from him. It..."


    He caved, taking as shallow a sip as he could manage from the bottle of brandy before continuing. "I know it must sound silly to you, Yule, but the life of a noblewoman can be very...cruel. So many of maman''s friends were unhappy. Either their husbands wouldn''t allow them to work with the guilds, or they ignored them and kept mistresses, or kept making them have children past when their bodies were too hurt for it. And some were just...monsters. There were some women who were lucky, like maman and her sisters, but so many weren''t. I couldn''t ever imagine doing that to someone. If I was going to get married, I wanted it to be like how it was for my parents. Even if I wasn''t cruel, a marriage without love...it just felt unbearable to me. I always thought it''d just take time to find someone. It''d be like how it was with maman. Or grand-p¨¨re. They both said, it was like...like a coup de foudre. It''s...thunderbolt, methinks? Vous savez, I don''t know how to explain."


    And it had been for him too, as much as Mirk hated to think of it. He''d always marveled at his mother and grandfather''s descriptions of it, when they''d found the one they wanted to devote their lives to. How glimpsing his grandmother Enora in front of the marvel at Mont-Saint-Michel had touched Jean-Luc so deeply that he''d started going to Mass every day just to see her again. How his father had come to his mother in the big church in Nantes when she''d struggled to reach its side door, bleeding out from a wound in her side, in search of a priest to give her last confession. Instead an angel had come, had pressed his hand to the wound. In that instant, his mother had known that his father would be the one she''d marry, she¡¯d told Mirk. Though getting the message through to his father had taken a bit of work.


    Mirk had never felt bolt from the blue with any of the dozens of women his mother had taken him to visit, to give them both an opportunity to test each other''s wits and temperaments across the dinner table. Mostly, Mirk had only felt sympathy for them, or interest in the hobbies they put on display to set themselves apart from the other eligible ladies of his generation. But when Genesis had lifted him into his arms after his duel with Laurent...or when he''d watched Genesis''s soul sink back into his chest after fighting away the Death...


    That sudden awareness, the desire and devotion so fierce that Mirk almost felt like he''d been possessed, was exactly like how his mother and grandfather had described their coup de foudre. Love.


    "You''re not answering my question," Yule said, his tone a bit harsh, blunt, despite the sympathy Mirk could still feel in him. "Did you ever feel the same way about a woman as you do him?"


    "I never knew a woman like I do him. Other than maman and my sister, I suppose, and that''s not the same."


    "Well. Tell yourself whatever lies you want, but I know what I felt in that room. You have a problem you need to deal with, one way or the other. Dodging the question isn''t going to fix it."


    Mirk slumped over his drink, closing his eyes. Of course he was dodging the question; he didn''t want to think about it. Didn''t want to think about what he''d felt at Genesis''s bedside, or about any of the things that had come before that moment: the dreams, the insistent clamoring in the pit of his stomach every night that made him want to fall asleep curled around Genesis rather than a pillow on the far edge of the bed they shared, the dozens of passing observations that plagued him that he tried to let flow through his mind like water in a river. Only glimpsed, never lingered upon.


    But it was hard not to linger when he spent so much time in Genesis''s presence. The devil hiding in all the small details of Genesis''s appearance and mannerisms felt like it could overwhelm Mirk at any moment. How strangely appealing so many aspects of his body were: his slender neck, his delicate fingers, his long legs, all muscle that would twitch and tense at the slightest brush. His eyes that could cut with knowledge as sharp and dark as obsidian one second and be blank with puzzlement over something as simple as a pat on the shoulder the next. His eyes that illuminated, so very rarely, with wonder. And how much Mirk wished that, just once, they''d illuminate that way for him.


    Mirk heard Yule sigh and shift closer. The older healer must have been able to catch the edges of his emotions as he had searched for the right words. Mirk wondered which of them had come through the clearest. "You really are hopeless. I should know. I remember the first time I felt all that." Yule paused, his bottle thudding against the top of the bar. "That''s when I knew I was damned too."


    He turned to look at Yule. His elbow was still propped on the edge of the bar, his chin resting in his hand as he drummed his fingers against his cheek. Yule was trying to keep his emotions to himself, but Mirk could still sense a dark, hot rage burning with him. "Damned?"


    Yule hesitated, but answered, only after taking another drink. "My family was like yours. Rich. Noble. Catholic. When they found out what I am, they tried to kill me for it. Well. They were going to have me exorcized, but you should know how that ends. That''s how I ended up in this shithole," he said, with a vague gesture around at the overcrowded and overheating tavern surrounding them. "They already thought I was useless before they found out. But after? Better off dead and sanctified."


    Mirk had suspected something along those lines must have happened to Yule. No one ever came to the K''maneda for a happy reason. They were always driven to the City by death, disaster, poverty, or simply not fitting in anywhere else, cast aside by mage and mortal society alike. Unlike the rest of the world, the K''maneda would accept anyone. Albeit for a price.


    It was his turn to project sympathy to Yule, though Mirk didn''t know if it''d be strong enough to pierce through the dark emotions shrouding Yule''s mind. "I''m sorry, Yule. Family should help each other, no matter what."


    "You think your family would accept you if they knew? Truly?"


    He didn''t want to think about it. And so the words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them, with a shrug and a shake of his head. "They''re all dead. It''s...not important. And methinks Uncle Henri and the rest don''t have much of a choice, really."


    Yule snorted. "That''s one way to avoid it. Wish I could say the same about mine. Though, maybe they¡¯re dead too. I''ve been gone for more than twenty years. One can only hope, I suppose."


    "I''m sorry they were so terrible to you, Yule. You didn''t deserve that." Mirk took a drink to shore up his nerves before continuing. "Methinks my family wouldn''t have been that awful. I would have been sent back to the abbey to take my vows, maybe. Or just allowed not to marry, if there wasn''t any need for an heir."


    "What if you decided to act on things instead? Be who you are?"


    "I''d never do that," Mirk replied in an instant.


    "Why not?"


    "It''s...it''s not right. Not right for me, anyway. You''re different, Yule."


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


    "That doesn''t make any sense," Yule said, his frustration escaping his control and pressing hard against Mirk''s mind. "Why should different rules apply to me? You just don''t want to look like a bastard."


    "You didn''t take any vows. You don''t believe. So...you follow the rules of your own faith."


    Shooting him a disgusted look, Yule jabbed Mirk in the shoulder with his bottle. "I don''t have any faith."


    "Pas du tout," Mirk said, returning Yule''s scowl with the most earnest look he could muster. "You might not believe in the Church, but you still believe in something. And as long as you do what you believe is right, then...c''est ?a."


    "That doesn''t make any sense. I sat through Mass three times a week, the same as you. I''m damned to perdition. Because I''m not repenting for who I am. And I''m not going to go groveling to some bastard in the sky for help with anything either."


    Mirk sighed. He understood why Yule was so upset, but he had a hard time reconciling the anger and frustration radiating from the older healer with what he''d learned, what he''d lived at the abbey. There''d been little talk of damnation and sin. There''d only been the work ¡ª tending the garden, the washing, the cleaning, delivering aid to the poor and the sick ¡ª and the same unadorned Mass and short homilies that repeated with the rhythm of the seasons. The birth, the crucifixion, the resurrection.


    And through it all, Father Jean had always been beside him, there to unravel every mystery with a wry smile and a few pointed questions. Mirk tried to think of how he would explain things to Yule as he answered. "If you don''t believe, you don''t get the rewards of believing. But you aren''t punished either. Like I said, everyone believes in something. And it''s not my place to tell you what you should believe."


    Rolling his eyes, Yule jabbed him with the bottle again. "Fine. If you''re going to not follow the rules about all the unbelievers being damned, why do you have to follow the rules about the sex bits?"


    "It''s...I just..." Mirk gave up on explaining before even giving it a proper try, taking a long drink from his bottle instead. Father Jean had always said arguing theology with a non-believer was like trying to teach Latin to a goose. It didn''t help either you or the goose. Better to find common ground, to lead by example. To show with good acts and kindness that the Church wasn''t a mallet to crush people with, but a light to guide the way, an outstretched hand to the lost.


    Not that Mirk ever thought Yule would believe. Or that he wanted him to. "That''s not the only thing, anyway. There''s...well. What happened before. And I''m the head of the family now. I''m expected to have an heir. We need to think about our future. There''s so few of us left...if we don''t marry into stronger families, there''s a chance we could be lost after all. If it was only me, I wouldn''t care. But my cousins deserve a future. And so does Uncle Henri, for everything he''s done for us."


    "You can still get married and have a mistress,¡± Yule countered. ¡°Practically all of you nobles do. Hell, you can be a priest and have a mistress too. I''ve seen bishops, you know."


    "But I wouldn''t do that, Yule. I know how much that hurts."


    For a moment, the older healer''s eyes narrowed. But Yule elected to let the matter drop rather than revisiting his own foray into noble marital politics, his trouble with that healer from the Fourteenth, Ambras. He sighed instead, putting an arm around Mirk''s shoulders. "Then you''re fucked, I''m afraid. Same as the rest of us. Even if I think your reasons are nonsense."


    Mirk nodded, allowing himself to lean against Yule''s side. There was a comfort in their communal misery, even if they each had different ways of coping with it. Mirk didn''t think he was strong enough to do as Yule did, all the rest of it aside. He''d always been weak. The scorn of others always stung him, made him curl in on himself and wish he could disappear. Scorn only ever seemed to make Yule that much more defiant. "I''m sorry, Yule. I didn''t mean to make any of this your problem. I''ll try not to let too much of it, euh, get through. When we''re working."


    Shaking him a little, Yule let his shoulders go, the better to peer skeptically down into his face. "No, you need to do something about this. Get it done and over with."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Go on and tell him. Best way to sort everything out."


    Mirk couldn''t force down the wave of horror that rose up in him at the thought of it, not before Yule could feel enough of it to wince. "Oh, no! I can''t do that. I''m...I''m not going to do anything. I''ll pray on it. And it''ll pass eventually, I''m sure."


    "You think this will just pass? Like a bad cough?" Yule reached out, only to shake him by the shoulder again. "I told you, Mirk. I felt it. You love him. That''s not the kind of thing that passes in a month or two. Not coming from someone as drippy as you are."


    "Everything fades with time," Mirk said. Even to himself, he didn''t sound very convincing. "It has to. And if it doesn''t..."


    When Mirk couldn''t find anything else to say on the matter, anything to reassure both Yule and himself that things would be fine, the older healer prompted him again. "Well? You''ll what?"


    "Providence doesn''t give us any burden we can''t bear," Mirk mumbled into his bottle.


    "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"


    "If we''re given a test, then we''re strong enough to bear it. God wouldn''t be so cruel that He''d give us something we couldn''t work through. That wouldn''t be fair."


    Yule gave an incredulous bark of a laugh, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Do we work for the same people? We see people come in hacked to bits every day! What''s fair about any of that? What did they do to deserve to get shredded? To get killed just because some bastard wants more gold?"


    All Mirk could do in response was shrug again, helplessly. "It''s a matter of faith, I suppose. It''s not a thinking thing. It''s a feeling."


    "You''ve got a feeling problem, and you need to start thinking about it rationally," Yule said, elbowing him to emphasize his point before taking another drink. "Pining for an eternity is just going to make you a wreck, and you and I both know it. You need to get things over and done with. Tell him how you feel, get rejected, and move on with your life." He paused, thinking. "Or not get rejected. I still think there''s something going on there. I''ve never seen that bastard tolerate anyone the way he tolerates you, and I''ve known him since he was a boy."


    Mirk shook his head. "I''m not even sure he understands this sort of thing. It''s...not like him."


    "What do you mean, doesn''t understand it? He lived with Niv for twenty years, for Christ''s sake. You don''t spend two decades around Niv and not learn the basics. In detail, knowing him."


    He did have a point. Mirk had spent long enough around the half-angel himself to learn more about intimate matters than he particularly wanted to. And he''d felt how antsy K''aekniv was getting after only a few weeks of not having a bedroom to himself. If he''d stayed a week or two longer, Mirk had no doubt that he would have bumbled into something. "It''s complicated. Methinks it''s...Gen thinks that''s something other people do, not him. It''s different."


    "You said the same exact thing about yourself."


    "I...well. Methinks it''s not that he likes me in particular, it''s that no one''s ever tried with him before. You''re all kind enough, and so are Niv and the Easterners, but...like I said, it''s different. You have to be patient. And listen. And sort of...euh...put everything you know and think to one side. Everything he learned about how people act is different from what we learned. Smiling, shaking hands, it all means something else to him."


    "That or he''s just a bastard."


    Mirk sighed. "He''s not a bastard. He''s trying. It''s just that everything we do doesn''t make sense to him, just like everything he does doesn''t make sense to us. At least, not to begin with. But once you start talking to him in a way he understands, you start to see a little of it. And Providence gave him a burden I know I couldn''t bear. Wouldn''t you be a little cold to people too, if everyone either laughed at you or was afraid of you?"


    "Excuses," Yule said, with a wave of his bottle. It was starting to run low, and their conversation wasn''t making it easy for the older healer to restrain himself from finishing it off. "Easy enough to make those when you''re in love with someone, for whatever insane reason."


    Cringing at Yule''s words, Mirk felt the heat rise up the sides of his neck. And not just from the half bottle of brandy he''d sucked down. "I''m not going to do anything, Yule. It''ll pass. And until then...well. Thoughts are a problem, but actions can''t be taken back. I''ll manage. And I''ll try not to let you feel too much of the thinking part of it."


    "But why?" Yule asked, knocking him with the butt of his bottle yet again. He was going to have a bruise there soon if they didn''t hash things out soon. Despite it, Mirk could feel a different emotion rising up amidst Yule''s frustration, something like concern. Or perhaps pity. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"


    Mirk blinked his eyes fast, to clear away the wavering that came from the mere thought of the worst that could happen. "If...if he said no...he might not want to speak to me ever again. And I can''t bear that, Yule. I know it''s silly, like you say. But I''d rather have him as a friend than nothing at all."


    "But what if he said yes?"


    "I couldn''t do anything if he did. And...well. That might make him leave too. So it''s better this way, non? It''ll go away eventually. It has to."


    "If you''re going to spend all your time loving a bastard, the least you could get is some in return. Weird as it is."


    "God loves me," Mirk said, his voice nearly too faint to be heard above the laughter and shouting surrounding them, beyond their small, shielded-off bubble of peace. "That has to be enough."


    In the pit of his stomach, Mirk knew it wasn''t enough. It should have been, but it wasn''t. Not if he was honest with himself. That knowledge only made him feel even worse. It made him feel selfish, ungrateful, even sicker than he already was. He didn''t feel loved by God. He felt forsaken.


    Yule scooted his stool closer to him, wrapping Mirk up in a half-embrace once again. "Nothing I say is going to convince you to give up this nonsense, is it?"


    Mirk shook his head.


    "Fine. But at least think about what I''ve said, all right? And if you change your mind or have any questions, I''ll be here. I had to go through this hell alone. I''ll be damned if I make anyone else suffer though it without someone there to tell them what not to do. Though, according to you, I''m damned anyway."


    "That''s not true, Yu¡ª"


    "I know, I know. Talking in circles isn''t getting us anywhere. You need to go back to sleep instead of going back and fussing over your pet skeleton. In a proper bed, not one of those slabs up on the long-term ward." Yule gulped down half of the remains of his bottle, thinking. "You should at least find somewhere else to stay, even if you''re not going to tell him. I know you had problems finding a place, but you can''t keep living with him now. I''ll ask around to see if someone''s thinking of moving out. Or maybe if you lend me some of the family fortune, I can bribe someone from the Tenth to move."


    "Oh, no. It''s fine. I don''t want to move again. Besides, methinks it''s better if someone stays with him."


    Yule cuffed him in the shoulder with the back of his hand, though he didn''t release him. "He''s not a child. A man needs to learn to take care of himself. And you need space."


    "Has he ever lived alone before?"


    "I don''t think so," Yule said. His attention was divided for a moment, eyeing up a half-empty bottle left behind by a fall-down drunk infantryman a few seats over. But the bartender scooped it up before Yule could try calling the bottle over to himself. "Before he started living with Niv and the rest in the trainees dormitory, I think he stayed with that lunatic Senkov. And who knows what happened before that. I''d say it''s nonsense to think a boy of ten could fend for himself, but who knows with him. Though it''s hard to picture there being some nursery for baby weirdlings in the Abyss."


    Mirk had to cut himself off before he started to defend Genesis against Yule''s criticism again. There was no changing the older healer''s opinion on anything, not unless he came to his own conclusions first. "Well, it''s not good for him to be alone, anyway. He needs someone to remind him of things. Like eating and sleeping." And, if he was honest, even with someone there to remind Genesis, it was an uphill battle getting the commander to do anything other than work. Or soak in his bath.


    "Let him learn on his own. Once he drops like a rock in the middle of a fight from starving himself, he''ll figure things out."


    "Euh...that''s already happened once. Remember late this past summer? I had to take care of him for a week."


    "So you''re going to just hang around and be a man''s nursemaid since you can''t be his lover?"


    Putting it that way did make it sound silly. And made the heat on his cheeks grow worse. "It''s not like that! Wouldn''t you like someone to help you? Or even just keep you company?"


    "Not a chance. When I''m done at the infirmary, I want to be left alone. To sleep, anyway. Having to feel someone else all night long sounds like a nightmare to me."


    "Gen doesn''t feel like anything. You hardly even notice he''s there unless you''re paying attention."


    And he did pay attention, more than he rightly should have. Mirk had only been sharing Genesis''s quarters for a few months, but he''d already memorized all the tell-tale signs that the commander was near: the way that the shadows cast by everyday objects darkened, just a little, how the silence took on an unnatural depth, the staticky feel of Genesis''s chaotic magic dampening all the small sounds of the old building, the heating spells crackling in the walls and the creak of wood underfoot. When he was preoccupied, Mirk didn''t notice them. But if he was wondering where Genesis had gone, or if he wanted to know if Genesis was working out in the common room in the mornings, Mirk always thought to look for them. And was always oddly comforted when he noticed them and knew that Genesis had to be nearby.


    Yule must have been able to feel the edges of his emotions, the fondness and warmth that swelled in his chest whenever he thought of Genesis''s oddly endearing habits. He sighed, shaking his head. "You really are hopeless."


    Glumly spinning his bottle on the bar, Mirk nodded. "It''s just the way I am, methinks."


    "You''re wasted on that miserable bastard," Yule grumbled. "I know dozens of men who''d murder for a man who''d look after him like that. You could do a lot better than him if you ever change your mind about all your religious garbage. I''d be happy to make an introduction."


    "I don''t want anyone else. I don''t even want him. Not like that, anyway."


    Yule didn''t seem to have heard him. "Hell, I''d take that offer, if you were my type. The men here are terrible. Overgrown children who can''t even wash themselves. Didn''t any of them have a mother? Mine hated me, but even she had the sense to teach me to look after myself. Though I suppose my brothers never had to."


    Mirk''s curiosity was piqued by the mention of brothers, but he decided not to make Yule suffer through any more bad memories than he already had that night. "Gen is very tidy," he said instead, after a moment. "Methinks he''d never go out looking like the other Easterners."


    "I suppose he does have that one thing going for him." Yule grudgingly admitted. "But it doesn''t make up for the rest. I mean, look at him. He''s a goddamn skeleton with a bad wig on. Personality aside, I don''t know what the hell you see in him."


    Mirk didn''t want to dwell on it. But it was better than arguing with Yule over faith, or over why he shouldn''t put Genesis behind him like a bad mistake. He allowed himself to consider Yule''s question seriously, turning it over in his mind as he mulled over all the things that drew him to Genesis. "It''s...vous savez, everyone else is so...euh...normal? The same? Even handsome men are all alike, in a way. I''ve never met someone like Gen before."


    "So you''re saying if I go out on the moors and drag something else creepy and weird out of a bush, you''ll set your heart on it instead?"


    Despite himself, Mirk chuckled. "That''s a bit much, Yule."


    "Consider," Yule said, turning to one side on his stool, dragging Mirk along with. He gestured with his nearly empty bottle out at the men still packed in shoulder-to-shoulder along the benches that filled the tavern. "A fine selection of eligible men. Low-born, so you''re working with raw materials, but I''ve learned to see potential. It''s easier than getting a man with gold to give you a second look. And you have to take into consideration that they might not be like us. But men are more flexible than you''d expect, even if it''s only because they''ve drank themselves half to death."


    Though part of Mirk recoiled from the turn the conversation had taken, he decided to go along with it. Yule was just trying to make him feel better, distracting him from the depths of his own worries by putting one of his pettier complaints on display. It reminded Mirk of how K''aekniv tried to cheer people up, by telling them endless stories of his own blunders to make theirs not look so grave. That and Mirk supposed Yule didn''t have many people to talk to about his thoughts on other men, even if he didn''t exactly keep his tastes a secret.


    So he indulged Yule, surveying the men who''d gathered at the tavern that night. It was the usual sort of crowd one got at K''maneda taverns, rough men who paid little attention to their appearance, save for making sure that they were intimidating enough to scare off anyone who might want to challenge them to a fight. Mirk wouldn''t have called any of the faces his eyes flitted across fine. But he already suspected he and Yule had very different opinions on that sort of thing. Mirk searched for something pleasant to say. "Euh...is that so? They''re...hmm..."


    "We''ve even got a few intellectuals tonight. That combat mage in the corner isn''t half bad," Yule said, indicating a man at one of the tavern''s long tables who was leaning back against the wall.


    Once Mirk took a closer look at him, Mirk understood how Yule picked him out as a mage without having to lower the shields around them both and use his mind magic. He was less of a giant mass of muscle and leather that the others, with the smooth face of a man who had either the money for potions to keep his beard from growing in or the skill to make them on his own.


    When Mirk didn''t reply, Yule continued on, unprompted. "He''d be a good choice if you were in the mood for a bit of conversation first. Though most of the low-born mages have the worst egos. The poorer they are, the bigger the chip on the shoulder. Which can be good or bad, depending. It makes them easier to rope into things. A bit of flattery...enough smart talk to catch his attention..."


    "We''re all lucky you didn''t stay in noble circles," Mirk said. "You''d have everyone working for you."


    Yule shot him a dark look. "Social climbing is a waste of time. This is purely practical."


    "If you say so..."


    "Now, if you''re looking for something simple, I''d go for the infantryman over there. The better type of working K''maneda. Rough, but not hideous." Yule directed his attention to a man a few seats down from the combat mage. He was nursing a tankard of ale, only half-listening to whatever story his fellow fighters were wrapped up in, instead peering down into the depths of his drink with a certain serious, brooding air. As if he was lost in memories that the tavern''s weak, cheap drink didn''t stand a chance of blurring. He was one of the biggest men in the room, at least double Yule¡¯s size. And he was still more put together than the less muscular fighters. He looked like he''d shaved recently, and his dark hair, though it''d been trimmed with a knife rather than shears, was messy, but clean.


    "I see," Mirk said, still unsure of how best to comment on Yule''s taste in men.


    "What?" Yule''s eyes narrowed as he swiveled back around to face him. "Come on! You can''t honestly say he''s not handsome."


    "Well, he is..."


    "But?"


    But Mirk felt nothing looking at him, other than a vague curiosity about what he had to look so melancholy about. He didn''t feel any rush of heat when he considered him, no distant longing, no irrepressible desire to press close to him. It reassured Mirk, in an odd way. If he could just force himself past whatever impulse drove him toward Genesis, Mirk thought that particular vice of his would bother him less than the rest of them. "Methinks I must just have...euh, different tastes than you."


    "You won''t get far in life being so picky," Yule scolded him, as he threw his head back and finished off his bottle. "You''ve been here, what, almost a year now? You should know better. In the K''maneda, you take what you can get."


    "I''ll leave that to you," Mirk said, mirroring the older healer, though he didn''t quite drain his own bottle. The liquor was finally starting to make him feel sleepy, despite the worry and guilt still circling his mind. It helped to make his troubles vague, more bearable. And kept him from probing too far into the depths of his own heart.


    "There''s no harm in looking, you know. Well, whatever. You can''t say I didn''t try. If you want to make yourself miserable mooning after a freak, then there''s nothing more I can do about it. But just know, there''s more out there than your pet skeleton. I won''t lie and tell you it''s a good life. Most people hate us. And there''s always the risk of letting the wrong person know and getting beat. But it''s bearable. Better than sitting around hating yourself, anyway. Enough people hate us as it is. Why do it to yourself too?"


    "Methinks no one would hate you if they got to know you, Yule," Mirk said.


    "The world doesn''t work like that, and you know it."


    "I suppose..."


    "Like I said, it''s all up to you. But if you ever want to talk, I''ll listen. Even if I don''t understand. Like has to stick together. It''s the only way we''ll survive."


    Mirk reached out to Yule, setting a hand on his arm, though he tried to keep his emotions in check, so as not to bother the older healer too unduly with them. "I¡¯m here to help too, Yule. Whenever you need to talk."


    Yule rolled his eyes again, but Mirk sensed a twinge of relief in him, in the timbre of his emotions and the way his shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. "You''ll listen to anyone who comes to you with a sad enough story."


    "I like you, Yule. You''re a good friend."


    "I''d be more flattered by that if I didn''t know the quality of the other people you consider good friends," Yule said, leaning back and rapping his bottle on the edge of the bar, to catch the attention of the barkeep. "Let''s get you back to bed before you can''t walk back on your own. You know how liquor hits when the blockers start to go."


    "Do you want the rest?" Mirk asked, holding out his own bottle.


    Yule didn''t hesitate, snatching it from him and swallowing the rest of its contents in one long gulp. "You really are a charity case," he said, setting the bottle down next to his own. Then he projected a bit of impatience, snapping his fingers until the bartender shuffled over to collect their bottles and toss Yule the two pennies for the exchange. "Can I keep it?" Yule asked, holding the coins out to Mirk.


    "Bien s?r. Methinks you¡¯ve earned it."


    Smirking, Yule tucked the coins away in the pocket in the sleeve of his robes. "Free drinks and I get to keep the bottle exchange. I should go out with you every night."


    "I won''t say no."


    "And have Gen haunting me for turning you into a drunk? I''ll pass."


    As Yule led him out of the tavern by the elbow, still keeping his mental shields thick and high around both their minds, Mirk dwelled on this comment, reflexively sidestepping drunk infantrymen and keeping his gaze held down. He understood why Yule didn''t think highly of Genesis, but his own words betrayed that the older healer understood that Genesis was capable of caring for others. Even if Yule probably would have said it was out of self-interest rather than genuine concern.


    Mirk knew better. Genesis did care. He was always there for him, in his own strange, reserved way. And that was exactly why he was never going to take Yule''s advice and confess. Even though the arm Yule put around his shoulders as he guided him out into the night was warm, protective, it didn''t fill him with the same sense of security and relief that the touch of Genesis''s chaotic magic closing around his mind did. And despite their conversation that night, Mirk still didn''t understand why. It was a mystery. Like faith.


    And just like faith, perhaps it''d be better not to question it.

 Chapter 54

    For a moment, Mirk thought something terrible must have happened.


    The infirmary was empty. He checked the clock on the wall as he pulled the double doors shut behind himself ¡ª just past one in the afternoon. The waiting room should have been bustling, its benches full from end to end with fighters who''d returned from the morning and overnight contracts, beaten, but not so badly injured that they needed to be sent through the field transporter. Instead, all the benches and chairs were vacant, aside from a few assassins bleeding silently to themselves or nursing broken fingers and twisted ankles. Mirk wondered why no one had seen to them yet.


    "Mirk! There you are. I was just going to send an aide over for you."


    He turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Sheila, gliding down the field transporter hallway and into the waiting room, her two teammates trailing after her with their heads bent together over a ledger. Luca and Sabina went to one of the waiting assassins while Sheila crossed the room to his side, looking him over with an approving grin and a wrinkle of her nose. Though it didn''t feel that way to Mirk, he must have improved some overnight. The vampire always claimed she could smell when a person was out of sorts. "What''s the matter?" he asked her.


    "It''s a bit of a mystery, really..."


    Instantly, Mirk''s mind leapt to there being something wrong with Genesis. He did his best to keep his polite smile firmly affixed, and his shields up as far as he could hold them, so that Sheila might not feel how his stomach had twisted itself into knots. "What do you mean?"


    "It''d be easier if I showed you. He''s up on second."


    Though a bit of the tension drained from him ¡ª it couldn''t be Genesis, they''d never move him down from fifth ¡ª Mirk still felt uneasy as he hurried after Sheila down the hall to the right of the front desk, the one that led up to the second floor, lined on either side with simple examination rooms. He glanced in all of them as they passed, in search of other healers and patients, but didn''t encounter many. Only more sulking assassins and exasperated younger healers from the Twentieth, dutifully telling their patients how best to manage their wounds, despite the fact that the sullen black-clad figures would doubtlessly ignore them and go straight back out into the field. Well before they reached the floor barrier, Mirk''s curiosity got the better of him. "Where is everyone? Did something happen?"


    "It''s the Festival of Shades in two weeks, remember? It''s dead in here once the final winter contracts are over. It took a bit longer than usual for the lazybones to clear out this year because of that sickness from off-realm, that''s all. Once most of the patients are gone, Emir lets most of us come and go as we want too. No sense in keeping everyone here if there''s no one to treat but babies and assassins."


    The Festival of Shades. It was a testament to how hectic the last few days had been that one night of solid sleep in a proper bed had made him forget all about it. That and he had more pressing matters on his mind. "Oh..."


    "My team leads up the Festival shifts. You know, non-humans. Everyone else likes to go home, since we don''t get any time off for the mortal holidays. Command wouldn''t even give us a break for the Festival, probably, if the infantry wouldn''t riot over it."


    Mirk trotted after Sheila to keep up as she ghosted down hall after hall, her toothsome smile as unbothered as ever. But Mirk thought he could still detect a hint of bitterness in her tone, a rueful sort of resignation. He elected to let it go rather than bother her over it, focusing on the task at hand instead. Anything to distract from the eerie feel of the empty infirmary ¡ª it was like the building had been abandoned in the midst of a crisis and forgotten in the aftermath, with notes still tacked beside exam rooms and carts left idle and half-empty along the sides of the hallway. "Can you tell me a little bit about what''s wrong?"


    "Strangest thing. We don''t know exactly when it happened, but three patients who were left over from the high-born contract had all their magic drained. We''ve given them a few days to recover, but there''s no sign of their potential coming back. No mental or physical injuries otherwise, and no curse marks or potion aftertaste in their blood. Like I said, strange."


    The sinking feeling in Mirk''s stomach returned, as nauseatingly strong as if it''d never left. "You...euh...have no idea when this happened? Or why?"


    "The check ledgers say they were all fine at shift change on the night the Easterners came back. Since things were so busy, they all got ignored until the morning after. And by then their magic was gone."


    The Death''s words echoed in Mirk''s head ¡ª all things have a price. He swallowed hard, continuing to hurry along in Sheila''s wake. She was only half a hand taller than he was, but she had the same unnatural quickness about her that most demons did. And she tended to forget it when she was fascinated with something. Just like Genesis.


    As soon as they passed through the barrier between first and second, Mirk was slapped in the gut with a wave of pain and frustration. It was radiating from a room a few doors down. A low, fine voice was bellowing curses, and Yule was yelling back.


    "Get away from me!" the low voice cried out.


    "If you don''t stop moving, I''m going to sew your goddamn arm to your side! Stop being a baby," Yule growled.


    "Just kill me outright and be done with it, you stinking Teague!"


    Shelia hesitated beside the door, pausing to compose herself and double-check her mental shielding. While the pain made the churning in Mirk''s stomach worse, made him squint his eyes against tears and clench his fists, he knew it must be doing the opposite to Sheila. He could feel the faintest edges of it underneath the pain, a faint hunger like that of a mischievous child eyeing up a tray of madeleines fresh out of the oven. Both of them took a few deep breaths, even though Sheila didn''t strictly need to. Then the vampire pressed on, pushing open the half-closed door to the patient room the yelling was coming from. "Do you need help?" she called out.


    "Come kill me, you bloodsucking bitch!" the low voice snarled. "I know you want to!"


    Both Sheila and Yule ignored this. "Take his legs," Yule said. "Kicking and screaming like a goddamn child..."


    Mirk rounded the corner of the doorframe as Sheila entered. A mage draped in bloodied combat robes was thrashing around on the room''s bed, one of his arms and his torso pinned down by Danu. She needed to press the whole weight of her body and magic on the man to keep him from struggling off the bed. Sheila joined her, taking one of his legs in each hand, keeping them held flat against the bed with comparatively less effort. Yule was tending to the mage''s other arm, trying to stitch together a long, ragged cut down the whole length of the inside of his forearm. The mage would have bled out by then, perhaps, if Danu hadn''t been working to keep his blood from flowing freely to his arms.


    "Euh...can I do something to help too?" Mirk asked, raising his voice to be heard over the mage''s continued shouting.


    "Go get a sedative from the potions closet," Yule replied without looking up. "Strongest you can find."


    "No! No, don''t you dare! Alistair will hear about this! He''ll have all of you papists hanging from the gallows by nightfall!"


    Nodding, Mirk did as he was told. Luckily, the potions closet had been restocked since the winter contracts had ended. He found one of the strongest sedative potions tucked away in its back corner, the kind that needed to be put into a vein with a hollow needle and a funnel rather than poured down an unruly patient''s mouth. It took Mirk a bit longer to find a needle ¡ª they were an expensive rarity, since a well-trained earth and fire mage had to work together to artifice them ¡ª but he finally found a sleeve of them locked up in the pain-blocker cabinet, along with the awkward funnel attachment needed to run potion through them.


    With all the necessary supplies gathered, Mirk trudged back down the hall to the room where his team and Sheila were battling the mage. He took his time getting there, trying to even out his emotions so that none of his fellow healers might catch a glimpse of how distressing he found the mage''s pain. Or his guilt.


    Again, the Death''s words echoed in his head. It couldn''t be a coincidence. The Death had said that everything cost something. Was one man''s life equal to the magical potential of three others? Mirk tried not to think of what condition the other men had to be in as he slipped back into the mage¡¯s room. He was still thrashing on the bed despite Sheila and Danu''s best efforts. Yule hadn''t managed to put in more than a handful of stitches, all of them crooked and ill-spaced, the wound still oozing blood.


    Keeping his head down, Mirk went to the side of the bed opposite Yule, quickly preparing the needle to receive the potion. Fortunately for all of them, the mage didn''t have the best grasp of anatomy. Though the two cuts on his other arm were deep, he''d missed both of the larger arteries in it. It was a simple matter for Mirk to find a good spot to insert the needle. The potion took effect as soon as he began to pour it down the funnel. The mage''s struggles grew uncoordinated, then stopped.


    "About time," Yule grumbled, picking up his pace, his stitches even and small now that the mage had stopped fighting him.


    "I''m sorry I was late, Yule," Mirk mumbled, his head still held down. "Methinks I should have set an alarm, but I forgot..."


    "I''m the one who fouled it up," Yule replied. "I should have known that he''d try something like this the second I took my eyes off of him. Good thing the bastard was too stupid to kill himself right."


    Mirk forced himself to look down into the mage''s face. The sedative had turned the mage''s fine features comical, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed and unseeing. He looked familiar, somehow, but Mirk couldn''t put his finger on where he''d seen him before. Somehow, the fact that he didn''t recognize him made Mirk both relieved and more ashamed all at once. Confronting a man face to face before doing such a terrible thing to him would have been the honorable thing to do. But there was no honor in the staff''s logic, Mirk was beginning to realize. Only its own odd sense of righteousness.


    Fighting to keep the shake out of his hand, Mirk brushed the man''s long, straight blond hair back out of his face and nudged his eyes closed. "Who is he?" he asked no one in particular.


    "The Honorable Lord Percival Owens of the Third Mage Division," Yule answered. He was incapable of keeping the disdain out of his voice, his frustration flaring against Mirk''s still-fragile mental shields. "One of Ravensdale''s head lackeys. Friend of the Light Guild and the Crown."


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "And horrible bastard," Danu muttered, as she eased some of her weight off of the mage''s shoulders. If she was willing to say such a thing, Mirk knew, the man had to be truly awful.


    "Those other two men who got cursed didn''t deserve it, but he did," Yule continued. "We''re all better off with him not having magic. The bastard only joined the K''maneda because he liked putting Irish heads on stakes even more than the rest of the English. As he was sure to remind us all. Several times."


    The knowledge of the mage''s checkered past didn''t do anything to ease the guilt gnawing at Mirk''s stomach. If anything, it only made it worse. He didn''t dare examine Percival more closely then, to try to sort out whether or not the staff had left some trace of its magic on him. But if anyone who was aligned with the high-born mages sorted out that he was behind everything, Mirk shuddered to think of what the consequences might be. All that aside, Percival was still a person. It wasn''t his place to judge him, or to rip away his magic in retribution.


    "How are the other men doing?" Mirk asked, hazarding a glance around at his fellow healers. All were sunk in their own private disgust and frustration, none of them happy at all to be passing their afternoon tending to Percival''s self-inflicted wounds. "Were they from the Third too?"


    Danu shook her head. "Two infantrymen. One from the First, and the other from the Fourteenth. The one from the Fourteenth is a little bent out of shape, but the one from the First is fine."


    It didn''t ease Mirk''s conscience to hear that, just as hearing about Percival''s history hadn''t. But at least it gave Mirk some ideas to test out later about why the staff had chosen to do what it had. Though he didn''t want to ask the question, he made himself speak up again. "Do you know how this happened, Yule?"


    "Completely stumped." Mirk heard him leave Percival''s side. Most likely to swap his suturing tools for bandages. "Not a trace of foreign magic on him. It''s like he never had any magical potential to begin with. Elements and orientation completely balanced. More than the average mortal, even. Never seen anything like it before."


    "It seems like a very odd thing to happen," Mirk said. "But methinks I don''t know as much about this sort of magic as you do." Yule was one of the most clever mages Mirk knew in terms of formal magic, oddities like Genesis and Elijah aside. If Yule didn''t have any ideas, it wasn''t likely Ravensdale''s fellows would either. At least, not any time soon.


    "Emir thinks it might be some kind of curse, so I''m stuck with it for now. But once Cyrus gets back from whatever hole he crawled into for the Festival and goes tattling back to Ravensdale about all this, none of us will be allowed in the same room with him, I''d bet. And then we''ll all be in for it."


    Mirk snuck another glance across the bed at Yule. He was wrapping Percival''s arm in magicked bandages from wrist to elbow. And not making any effort to be gentle about it. The older healer looked haggard, ill-at-ease. "Why do you say that?"


    "They''re going to think Genesis did it. I''m sure of it. Percival would probably like to blame an Irishman, but I''m sure he thinks we''re all too stupid to do this kind of magic. Only a mage like Genesis could pull off this kind of trick. Even though that''s impossible. He hasn''t woken up once since he dragged his bony ass back here. I even went and checked on him this morning to be sure," Yule added, shooting Mirk a pointed look.


    "I see..." Percival was drooling now. Sighing, Mirk reached over and nudged his mouth closed, just like he had his eyes. "But that doesn''t make any sense. Genesis''s magic isn''t so...sais pas...plain? You can always feel if he''s used it on something. I can, anyway. And he''d never do something like this. He doesn''t believe in being cruel. If he wanted to hurt someone, he''d...euh...not leave things like this."


    Yule mulled his words over as he finished with Percival''s arm. He snipped off the end of the roll of bandages and tossed them across the bed to Danu rather than wrapping up Percival''s other wound himself. "You do have a point. When that ass gets annoyed with someone, they end up dead, not cursed."


    "It''s against his morals to do something like this," Mirk said, nodding in agreement.


    Danu snorted. "Good luck convincing anyone in command that Genesis has morals."


    "Methinks there has to be someone here who''s sensible enough not to jump to conclusions."


    "It doesn''t matter," Sheila said. "When something monstrous happens, they blame the monsters."


    Yule scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at Percival''s limp body. "If anyone''s a monster here, it''s him. They called him the Butcher of Donegal back in Ireland. There wasn''t a single mage left in the north once he got done there."


    "Da said it was the worst he''d ever seen," Danu said, softly, as she finished wrapping his other arm. Her work was tidy, but Mirk noticed she didn''t make it a point to put his arm back neatly by his side, or give it a little pat once she was done, like she did with most patients. "It was the only time he''d seen Morr¨ªgu come close to stepping in. The whole Unseelie Court had to join in to stop her."


    Sheila shook her head, folding her arms tightly across her chest as she paced around at the end of Percival''s bed. Mirk didn''t find her intimidating, not usually, but something in the situation had put a certain tenseness in her body and a fire in her eyes that made Mirk go tense as well, despite knowing well enough that she wasn''t the kind of demon that haunted his memories. "It doesn''t matter. We''re all nothing to them. I''m just some monster from the east. You''re both Irish. Good for nothing, in their eyes. And you''re..."


    Mirk managed to smile for Sheila as he returned her pensive stare, projecting a touch of sympathy to make up for his instinctual fright at seeing more of her demonic heritage put on display than usual. "I''m your friend. Methinks I''ve been here long enough to know how things work."


    "You might be our only chance," she admitted, her arms falling to her sides as she took a few deep breaths, trying to rein in her emotions. "Even if you''re friends with us, you''re still normal. Sort of."


    "He can put on a good act, anyway," Danu tried to joke, nudging Mirk in the side.


    "Rich is the word all of you are looking for," Yule said, forcing himself to look away from Percival and fix his narrow-eyed stare on Mirk. He got the impression that, had it just been Yule and Percival in the room, Yule might have given his limp body a smack before backing away from the bed. "Nobles get listened to. They might not agree with you, and you might still get the noose in the end, but it has consequences if they do it to you."


    Mirk shrugged, helplessly. "I don''t have much of a family anymore. Methinks none of the high-born commanders think highly of me."


    Despite his words, part of Mirk¡¯s mind was already working at the problem, underneath all his discomfort and guilt. It was the small, cunning part of himself that he tried to ignore rather than cultivate, the part that had drifted through dozens of noble balls at his mother''s side, silent but always observing how her lessons played out among those of his rank. He wasn''t a member of the Circle, not like his grandfather, but it was clear they still wanted something from him. And although not every member of the Circle was the Grand Master of a guild, they all had their connections. Which was what had put them on the Circle in the first place.


    They''d all mastered that subtle art his mother had tried to school him in, the ability to say just the right off-hand comment to just the right people. People who would pick up his opinion and make it their own. And so his opinion would carry, until it became a cause c¨¦l¨¨bre strong enough to send factions to war against one another or rip troublesome families apart.


    As much as it seemed like most of the members of the Circle wanted to end the infighting within European magecraft, build alliances that could help them exist safely apart from the mortals who viewed them with mixed dread and distrust, English mages taking retribution on one of their own would have consequences. The five members of the Circle would be off to their networks straight away upon hearing the news, ready to spread all the most gruesome rumors about how unjustly he''d been struck down. And to gather together adequate forces to teach the English mages that French magecraft was still a force to be reckoned with, despite their debonair and relaxed facade.


    That didn¡¯t change the fact that he actually was the one responsible for what had happened to Percival. But that was a debt Mirk would have to repay once everything else was sorted. And that he needed to not think about too hard at the moment, lest any of his fellow healers gathered around the unfortunate mage''s bed pick up on his guilt. Put that way, it all made sense that he should be the one who handled the problem of Percival, even if he never made it common knowledge that it was the staff that''d taken his magic from him. He was the one who''d started things. It was up to him to put things right, somehow.


    "Whatever," Yule said, going to rummage in the supply cabinet in the corner of the room. When he turned back around to face them, he had a set of restraints in hand. The cruel leather and metal ones designed to handle unruly mages, even though Percival had no magic left to strike at them with. "We''ll sort it out later. Let''s get him strapped down before he wakes up and tries something else."


    - - -


    Mirk felt like he was walking the Stations of the Cross. He made his way slowly to the other two mages'' rooms, prepared to pay the price for what he''d done to them. But the price wasn''t so high. Not in comparison to what he''d taken from them.


    He kept his weakened shields lowered, to force himself to feel the full weight of the pain he''d caused. Instead, what he got from the first of the two men was nothing worse than a bit of sourness. The fighter from the Fourteenth, a man named Thom, was mostly just annoyed by the fact that he''d have to have an artificer recalibrate his weapons for him.


    Thom wasn''t a rich man, but he''d proven his usefulness to the high-born officers of the Fourteenth with skills beyond his vanished ordered darkness magic. He was an expert on tearing down fortifications, a sort of rough-and-ready mathematician. And he was the division''s foremost marksman with a kind of rifle that''d been developed by the Engineers, more accurate and powerful than the standard type that the same men from the Engineers were always trying to coax Genesis into using. His canon and rifles made their own magic. The fact that he suddenly had none wasn''t a grievous thing, as long as he could bully one of the Fourteenth¡¯s combat mages into shielding him when he was forced up to the front.


    What Mirk found waiting for him at the other end of the second floor was even less painful. Erhart, the fighter from the First, was perched on the edge of his bed, bouncing his knees impatiently as he waited for a nurse to come back on their rounds and clear him to leave. There was no frustration in him, no regret, no feeling of loss. The young man felt eager, relieved. The disappearance of his magic was more a blessing than a curse.


    Erhart had never wanted to join the K''maneda to begin with, Mirk soon found out. He hated fighting, hated how his chaotic fire magic had never responded to any of the exercises he''d been given to learn to tame his potential. And, most of all, he hated that all he seemed capable of doing with it was hurting people. He¡¯d caused so many accidents in his village as a child that he¡¯d been exiled. Comrade Commander North of the First happened to be a friend of one of the elders of his village, and had been willing to accept the risk of taking Erhart under his wing.


    His magic was well-suited for fighting, but battles always gave him terrible nightmares. And he hated the jocular way the other fighters in his company viewed the death and destruction they brought to the realms they traveled to. Now that he had no magic, there was no reason for the elders not to let him come home and take up being a smith like his father and grandfather before him. It''d make his work more time consuming, but it was a small price to pay to finally be safe for others to be around. Mirk got the impression that if he''d told Erhart that he was the one responsible for stealing away his magic, the man would have given him a hug and a kiss and promised to make him his firstborn''s godfather.


    Once Mirk had shut Erhart''s door, reassuring him that he''d run down to the nurses'' room and make sure that someone was on their way with a paper confirming that he was now as free of magic as a mortal, he paused to slump against the wall beside it, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath. He felt like he needed a nap. Or, better yet, a drink, and then a nap.


    But he wasn''t going to allow himself either. There was no reason for him to take a break; he''d done nothing to merit it. So what if the staff hadn''t caused as much suffering as he''d been expecting? It didn''t change what he''d done. That he''d taken something from those three men without their permission. And he''d done it solely to fulfill his own dark desires.


    The Easterners needed Genesis. But not in the same way he did. And when Mirk had called on the staff to stop the Death from tearing away Genesis''s soul, the interests of the Easterners had been the furthest thing from his mind.


    Again, Mirk heard the Death¡¯s voice echoing in his mind. The cost of love runs high.


    Sighing, Mirk pushed off against the wall and carried on. Even if he didn''t intend on confessing all of his sins, he had to tell someone about what the staff had done. He wasn''t a clever enough mage to understand it. And he had to sort out how to keep it from doing it again.


    He needed to speak with Genesis.

 Chapter 55

    Mirk met no one on his way from the second floor up to fifth. He didn''t know what''d become of the Easterners, but he found the hallway on fourth they''d all been clustered on empty. Their rooms had that same, eerie feeling to them that the rest of the infirmary did: no one had been by to tidy up, and discarded blankets and patient robes and dishes and bottles were scattered everywhere. Perhaps they''d been ushered out by aides and nurses who''d grown tired of managing the chaos that came with their loitering about. Or maybe they''d collectively decided they''d had enough of being cooped up in the infirmary and had shambled en masse, the still-recovering leaning on the strong, to the nearest and cheapest tavern to take full advantage of their Shade''s Festival holiday and the windfall from their last contract.


    He missed the heady, devil-may-care feel of their presence. Especially K''aekniv''s. The half-angel probably wouldn''t have had any practical solutions to the quandary with Percival, but K''aekniv wasn''t fazed by even the worst turn of events. His steadfast and cheerful nature was always reassuring. That and Mirk knew he wouldn''t be able to stay sober for long around K''aekniv and his friends. Passing the bottle was a sacred act to the Easterners, in a way. Their company would have made him feel less guilty about indulging his weakness.


    After passing through the barrier between the fourth and fifth floors, Mirk paused, lowering his mental shielding and casting out his senses. He could feel Genesis''s presence at the end of the hall. It was a faint thing, the barest tickling of the commander''s chaotic aura against his own ordered magic. The familiar cold, staticky feel made Mirk¡¯s magic stir restlessly within him, like a dog perking up at the sound of distant footsteps too faint for human ears to perceive. Mirk let out a sigh of relief as he hurried to Genesis''s room.


    The commander would be all right. His magic was returning. It''d be weeks before it was back to normal, but it meant nothing was irreparably wrong with Genesis. Considering what he¡¯d done to keep the Death from taking him, it was reassuring to know that it hadn''t all been for naught.


    The log tacked outside his room hadn''t been updated since the last time Mirk had been there. Not surprising ¡ª if Yule had been the only one keeping an eye on Genesis, no doubt the older healer felt he had more important things to do than document his condition. It still left a bitter taste in Mirk''s mouth as he pushed the door open.


    Genesis was exactly where he''d left him. Again, Mirk was struck by the thought that he might as well have been a corpse, for all the consideration that was being given to him and the lifeless way he was arranged on the bed in the center of the room. He shoved the thought away and went to Genesis''s side, pulling down the sheet covering his thin body and nudging open the front of the robes he''d wrapped him in.


    His body was regenerating along with his magic. The wound in Genesis''s chest had scabbed over, and the one across his stomach had knitted itself together into an angry, misshapen, crooked purple line the width of three fingers across the whole of his midsection. His body had decided to reject the sutures that''d closed the wound that time instead of absorbing them. Absently, Mirk gathered up the errant bits of string, sweeping them off Genesis''s stomach and into his palm like crumbs off a tabletop.


    "...I...see you are not...well."


    Mirk jumped at the unexpected voice, his head snapping toward it. Genesis was awake. Sort of. His eyes were only opened into slits, and what little Mirk could see of them was pitch black. He waved down the brightness of the room''s magelights as he shuffled up to the head of the bed, reaching for the pulse on Genesis''s neck. "Messire? Messire, are you all right?"


    There was a horrible, watery grating noise in Genesis''s chest as he tried to suck in enough breath to speak again. Genesis''s pulse was still very slow, but stronger than it''d been the last time Mirk had felt for it. Mirk shifted his hand down to his chest, casting his mind''s eye out into Genesis''s body as he examined one lung, then the other. The left was clear, but the right one, the one near the wound in his chest, was obstructed.


    Closing his eyes, Mirk cast out more of his meager reserves of magic, slipping through the gaps in Genesis''s chaotic aura and feeling for disruptions in the strange, not-patterns of his body. The wound in his chest had healed itself in such a twisted, backwards way that his lung had fused to the muscles of his chest, keeping him from drawing deeper breaths. Mirk blinked a few times, then looked over into Genesis''s face. If he was in pain, it didn''t show in his expression. And it wasn''t acute enough for Mirk to be able to feel it through his shadowy magic.


    "I need to fix your chest, Genesis. Your body''s healed itself wrong again. Would you rather I cut it open to fix things, or use magic? Methinks I don''t have enough magic to fix all of it, but I can do my best. Euh...nod if you''d rather I use magic."


    Genesis shook his head once.


    Sighing, Mirk cast a glance at the room''s supply cabinet. No one had been in it since he''d last been there. "If that''s what you want, then..."


    He''d been hoping that Genesis might choose magic for once. Healing him with magic would have drained Mirk to the bone, but it would have made him feel better to be as drained and weak as the three men he''d sacrificed on the commander¡¯s behalf. A fitting form of atonement, even if his own magic would eventually recover. Unlike that of Percival and the others.


    But it was Genesis''s body, Genesis''s decision. And whenever the commander was lucid enough to choose how he was healed, Genesis always chose the bloody and painful way. Mirk wondered whether Genesis always chose it out of consideration for him, or because he saw it as his own form of atonement. Or maybe it was pure practicality ¡ª no point in wasting magic when a knife worked just as well.


    "Again. You are...not well," Genesis hissed. The grating in his chest was worse when he tried to speak.


    Returning to the bed with the necessary instruments ¡ª scalpel, tweezers, pan, needle and thread, pads to soak up the blood, a numbing potion, despite those barely ever doing anything to ease Genesis¡¯s pain ¡ª Mirk shook his head. "Not really, no. But neither are you, messire."


    "One...would expect that."


    "Stop talking, please. Just for a little, until I get this fixed."


    For once, Genesis obeyed without argument. Mirk worked quickly nevertheless. There was so much to be said, so much confusion that needed clearing. And if Genesis passed out of consciousness again, there was no telling when he''d wake up next.


    Mirk reopened the wound as shallowly as possible after drenching it in the numbing potion. He''d told Genesis he would use the scalpel rather than his magic, but there was still looking and prodding that needed to be done with his mind''s eye rather than his physical ones. It kept Mirk from needing to brighten the room''s magelights again. And looking at the ways Genesis''s body healed itself into strange and painful shapes with his physical eyes wasn''t the best way to make sense of it all.


    He let his awareness drift down into Genesis''s body, feeling for which extra growths could be cut away and which needed to be redirected, trained like vines around a trellis. Once they were cleared and the flesh of his lung was no longer attached by a tangle of sinew and capillaries to the wall of his chest, Mirk finished things with the dregs of his magic, making certain his lung wouldn''t seep air and smoothing the muscles of his chest back into their clean, uniform lines. Genesis must have felt him using his magic. But he didn''t comment, not yet. Mirk sewed the wound in his chest shut again instead of using the last shreds of his magic, though he knew full well he''d just have to cut it open and heal it again when the flesh scarred over wrong.


    Once he''d put a fresh bandage on the wound, Mirk lifted his hands from Genesis¡¯s painfully thin body and sidestepped back up to the level of his head. Genesis had remained awake through it all, expression blank, his eyes fully open now that the lights were dimmed. They were still pure black. He was thinking about something, hard.


    "What happened, Genesis?" Mirk asked, keeping his voice low. Genesis¡¯s ears were as sensitive as his eyes, he knew, though Genesis complained less often about voices being too loud. "Everything was fine, then something happened with your arms...all those cuts..."


    Genesis frowned, slightly. "Ah. In order to draw out enough potential to complete the contract, I was required to...push off the bindings. Temporarily. I had assumed I would be restored enough to attend to the backlash of that spell. I...miscalculated."


    The way Genesis spoke about it, like it was some equation written on parchment that he''d placed the wrong symbol in rather than him maiming his own flesh so badly he''d almost bled to death, made Mirk go cold with fear. "You nearly died, Genesis."


    "So...I did."


    "I don''t like to tell people what to do, messire, but you can''t keep doing things like that. Not without telling people what you''re doing first. Though I''d rather you didn''t do it at all."


    "Not every problem...has a gentle solution."


    Mirk bit his lip, looking away from his face, down at his arms. His arms that the staff had healed completely, leaving no trace of the wounds he''d gouged into them. Though the faint white scars of the binding runes remained. "I had to use the staff to save you."


    "In what sense?"


    "That Death came for you again. I got him to leave, but...well..."


    "It''s pointless to hesitate," Genesis said, sighing. At least there wasn''t any grating or popping in his chest that time. "I made the initial miscalculation. Thus, I have some part in the...consequences. Tell me what happened."


    "I thought the staff would just take from me again, like it did with Alice. But something about this time was¡­euh, different. Worse. It stole the magic of three other patients."


    Mirk knew what the difference between healing Alice and healing Genesis had been, but hoped that the commander might be able to make sense of things without having to know the finer details of it. How he''d hunched over Genesis''s body and fought the Death for his soul, the spirit in the staff laughing when Mirk insisted that Genesis was his to keep. Mirk didn''t think Genesis was the sort of man who''d appreciate being claimed by anyone. Especially not by him.


    "Stole?" Genesis asked, his frown deepening.


    "It took their magic away. They all feel like mortals now. Even less magical than an average person, Yule said."


    Mirk must have sounded even more troubled than he felt if Genesis was able to pick up on it. "It...took the magic of someone...consequential?"


    "A fighter from the First and a rifleman from the Fourteenth. And Lord Percival Owens. From the Third."


    Genesis let out another sigh, deeper that time. Deep enough to make the wound in his chest weep through the bandage. "This makes things...complex."


    "Who is he, really? All anyone would tell me about him was that he''s important. And Danu and Yule said that he did terrible things in Ireland."


    "He slaughtered more than a hundred mages. And a...number of mortals besides," Genesis said. Though the commander didn''t offer any further details on the incident either, it had to have been horrifying if even Genesis was disgusted by it. The bloody requirements of his magic had numbed him to violence, to a certain degree. "This is why he was...forced to become K''maneda. He served his purpose for the mortals and the Light Guild. However, none of them could...countenance working beside him afterwards. Thus, he came to us."


    "I see..."


    "He is also one of Ravensdale''s strongest supporters. Perhaps not the most talented mage in...terms of technique. But he has a great deal of potential. And the will to use it indiscriminately." Genesis paused, thinking. "Had the potential."


    "Will Ravensdale be upset over what happened to him?"


    "Upset is not the...precise term. He will feel exposed. Percival was his...executioner, of a sort. Those who crossed Ravensdale...who challenged him directly...met with Percival. Deprived of him, Ravensdale will seek to defend himself in other ways. Or he will move to...eliminate those he thinks of as his greatest threats before they can...rise against him."


    Mirk felt like he should do something to apologize to Genesis, like he should have bowed, or at least lowered his head further. But he knew how much Genesis detested bowing and scraping. And begging for forgiveness. "This means trouble for everyone, doesn''t it?"


    "Again. Trouble is not the precise term. I believe it will require a...shift in tactics, however."


    "Shift?"


    "I had wished to have further time to...study the arrow. And conduct research. But this makes things more...difficult. Ravensdale will be on guard. Timing will be crucial. As will locating an appropriate venue. I suspect he will keep the djinn even closer than before." Though it didn''t show on his face, Genesis sounded profoundly tired. And yet, his long, delicate fingers twitched restlessly at his sides.


    The words were out of Mirk''s mouth before he could think better of them that time. "I''m sorry, messire. I didn''t mean to cause so much trouble. I thought the staff would take from me again. I...grand-p¨¨re never mentioned it taking so much from someone else...I thought when he told me to be careful, it was because if I used too much, I might..."


    His guilt over it all, at having maimed three men and put the djinn in further danger, washed over Mirk, and all his other questions and apologies died in his throat. For the hundredth time since he''d arrived at the infirmary that afternoon, Mirk wished the staff would have taken from him. His magic, or even his life. It would have made things difficult for the others for a time, but he had no doubt they''d recover more quickly without him than from the current mess he''d put them all in.


    Mirk had to have been stewing for longer than he thought. For once, Genesis broke the heavy silence that''d fallen between them. "If this situation arises again, I would advise you to...let things pass. As it were."


    "What?" Mirk shifted his attention back to Genesis''s face. The frown had cleared from it, along with every other outward trace of emotion. He''d gone blank again. "Genesis, I couldn''t just..let you go."


    "When one miscalculates, one suffers the consequences."


    "It wouldn''t have just been you," Mirk said, instinctively reaching for his hand, stopping just short of it and clutching the edge of the bed instead. "We need you, Genesis. What would we do without you?"


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    An emotion rose onto Genesis''s face ¡ª eyebrows arched, a slight baring of his teeth. Some sort of confusion. "You would...continue."


    "Yes, but how? No one else can do what you do. Even with how strong Niv and the rest are, they would have all died if they''d gone to that last realm without you. What would happen the next time? If you left, what would they do? Go back home? So many of them say they can''t. And the whole City is full of people just like them, who don''t have anywhere else to go. Methinks...well...the K''maneda will never be an easy life, but at least you''re trying to make things better for everyone."


    Genesis considered this, his face shifting back to its typical blankness. Mirk hesitated. Was it worth saying anything more? Would the emotion in it only push Genesis further away from being reasonable? Before he could consider the full ramifications, his resolve crumbled, and Mirk took hold of Genesis''s hand. It was cold enough to make Mirk wince. "You''re my friend, Genesis. I don''t want to think of what life would be like here without you."


    Finally, Genesis glanced over at him. His eyes were still pitch black. "I...see."


    "Please. Just be careful. I can''t do that again. Not unless I find some way to keep the staff from taking things from other people."


    "I will endeavor to...communicate my strategy more clearly," Genesis finally said. "However, I would...make one request of my own in exchange."


    "Yes?"


    "I...make the same request of you. Do not attempt to use the staff in a way that brings...undue harm to yourself. Regardless of the situation."


    "What do you mean, messire?"


    "You are as...essential to all of this as I am. If not more so. We cannot stand against Ravensdale alone. Or against...who comes after him. We will need the assistance of some of the other commanders. Few will listen to me. Given time...I believe they will listen to you."


    "Me? But I''m no one here."


    "As I said. Given time. You are skilled at...convincing others. I don''t understand it. It''s...K''aekniv''s business. He speaks to the fighters and they listen. You can speak...to the rest. And they will listen, I believe." Genesis paused, his eyebrows pulled down slightly. He had to be struggling to think of what to say, Mirk thought. Though it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking with his eyes gone black, Mirk was certain they must be flicking back and forth as Genesis scanned whatever mental notes he kept of how best to speak to others. "You are also my...friend. As it were. Things have been much less...difficult since you came to the City. In certain aspects."


    Mirk couldn''t help himself. He beamed down at Genesis, nodding his approval and squeezing his hand. "I''m glad I could help. And that I''m not being too much of a bother anymore, most of the time."


    Very slowly, deliberately, Genesis turned his hand over, grasping Mirk''s in return, wrapping it up in his slender fingers. They were long enough to close around his hand a time and a half. "You are not a bother."


    Laughing, Mirk squeezed his hand again instead of throwing himself down on top of him and embracing him like he wished he could. The guilt and the shame over everything that''d happened wasn''t enough to dim the joy that swelled in his chest at Genesis''s words, to keep the grin off his face. Those sort of words could mean next to nothing, coming from anyone else. From Genesis, they meant more than any ardent embrace or tearful declaration. When Genesis was moved enough to say something so sentimental and honest, he had to truly mean it. Without any caveats or reservations. "I''m glad you think so, messire."


    The frown returned to Genesis''s face at Mirk''s use of his habitual nickname, but before Genesis could scold him, there was a sharp rap on the doorframe behind Mirk. Instantly, Mirk let go of Genesis''s hand and turned to look.


    It was Comrade Commander Dauid, a smirk on his face and a spring in his step as he shouldered his way into the room without waiting for permission to enter. Mirk pulled up on his shields. The feeling of smug self-satisfaction radiating from Dauid was overpowering. He really must have been completely transfixed by Genesis to have missed the feel of Dauid coming down the hall.


    "Bonesy! You''re alive!" Dauid crowed, as he circled around Genesis''s bed to its other side.


    Genesis let out a slow sigh through gritted teeth. "...yes. I am."


    "Excellent! Great work with the Tal-Hatha contract. Healers told me you didn''t lose a single man. And you wiped out all those bastard ghost-mages too."


    "...yes. I did."


    Dauid only noticed Genesis¡¯s wounds when Mirk hastily pulled the sheet back over his body to hide the nasty, twisted scar across his stomach and the bloodied bandage tacked to his chest. "Nearly got you though, did they? Healers said you were in bad shape when you hauled ass back."


    "I managed."


    "Well, I guess keeping your own healer is working out for you, then," Dauid said, glancing across the bed at Mirk. "My thanks, Seigneur...ah..."


    "d''Avignon, Comrade Commander."


    "Right! That''s it. Apologies, foreign names all sound the same to me. Don''t mean anything by it. We''re glad to have you, seigneur. Great help. We''d all be right fucked without Bonesy."


    Genesis was growing more suspicious by the second, his frown deepening into a proper scowl. Mirk couldn''t blame him, though he didn''t think Genesis had any grounds for it. Even with his shields up, weak though they were, Mirk couldn''t sense any deception in Dauid, any sort of conniving. That aside, the commander of the Seventh struck Mirk as the sort of man who was both too blunt and too wealthy to ever bother with it. "You aren''t expecting him to do any work soon, Comrade Commander? Methinks he needs a full month off contract, at the very least."


    "Ah, it''s Shade''s Festival soon," Dauid said, waving Mirk off. "Alistair won''t have us out again until after that and then some. No rush! Besides, the gold we made off that contract, Bonesy! I can finally go get that stallion they''ve been holding for me down south."


    Genesis didn''t reply. Apparently he''d learned enough about people to understand that it was sometimes better for him to say nothing and seem rude than say something that would be undeniably offensive. At least when it came to his superiors.


    Fortunately for Genesis, Dauid was in such a good mood that his silence went unnoticed. Instead, Dauid went digging in the pocket of his long, black cloak for something. It was a new one, or at least a different and finer cloak than the one Mirk had seen him wear last. That one had been made of brown fur dyed black rather than black fur proper. Dauid fished out something small and silver, which he deliberately pressed into the pillow beside Genesis''s head. "Congratulations, Major Bonesy. You''ve earned your place back."


    Dauid coming closer made Genesis twitch. "That was not my...rank prior to...demotion."


    "You''ve been double promoted. Jenks decided he''s had it. Took his gold and his mistress and fucked off back to York or wherever the hell he''s from. I''m giving you the Irish company. You did good getting those Russians in shape, even if half of it is just making Fluffy get off his ass and do some work. Do the same with Jenks''s lads, and we''ll really be in business."


    "I...see."


    Carefully, Genesis extracted the hand Mirk had been clutching out from underneath the sheet he''d draped over him and picked up the bit of silver beside his head. A pin in the shape of a pentagram, with a triangle around its outer circle.


    "C''mon, Bonesy," Dauid chided him, smacking Genesis in the shoulder before Mirk could stop him. Genesis didn''t so much as wince, though Mirk felt a flicker of pain escape his chaotic aura. "Cheer up! Things are going good for us! With what happened to that bitch Percy, we might finally get a leg up in this shithole! I''m betting Alistair takes Cutch from the Eleventh to replace him. And without Cutch, Richard''s got nothing going for him. We''ll show those English bastards that the Lunatic Seventh has earned a place at the table."


    "What do you mean, Comrade Commander?" Mirk asked. The way Dauid spoke of what had happened to Percival, like it was a boon to the Seventh rather than a grave misfortune, confused him. The impression Mirk had received from both his fellow healers and Genesis was that Percival was a man whose undoing would cause dire consequences.


    "Warm''s a Scotsman''s heart to see Percy the Plague finally get what he had coming to him," Dauid replied. "If we hadn''t given in right away when the English came knocking, we''d have ended up the same way as the Teagues. There''s no love in my heart for a man who kisses the ring with so much spit. Rumor has it Percy''s been taking odd jobs to settle things in the north for the mortals yet too, despite all the guilds telling him to leave things be. Don''t know whether it''s the gold, or if some Highlander fucked his mum behind his da''s back, or what. Anyway, you''re an assassin, Bonesy. Who do you think did him in? It couldn''t have been anyone bright. That curse was smart, but sucking the magic out of those other two poor lads on top of it for cover? A trainee can think up a better plan than that."


    "I...do not have an opinion on the matter," Genesis said, after a long pause.


    "Ah, fine, keep your secrets. I don''t give a shit. As long as he''s out of the way, I don''t care who did it. Though I wouldn''t mind buying him a pint if it ever does come out."


    Mirk debated for a moment over whether or not it''d be wise to press Dauid for more information, but decided to chance it. The head of the Seventh was in too jolly of a mood to see any cleverness in it, Mirk thought. "I''d heard rumors that Ravensdale was bound to think someone from the Seventh might be behind it," he said, keeping his tone light and unconcerned. "But that''s healers¡¯ talk. Methinks a man in your position might know better, Comrade Commander."


    Dauid rocked back on his heels, thinking. "Aye, some of the English will think it was one of us, true. Bavarians couldn''t care less, but they don''t give a shit about anything other than themselves. Someone hired an assassin from the Sellswords Guild to have a go at Percy a few months back already, and it sure as hell wasn''t us. Who in the Seventh has the gold to waste on that? Had to be someone who was gunning for his position. Maybe it was Cutch. Or maybe Richard got tired of listening to Percy bitching and ended up fucking himself. Fucking idiot could never think more than two steps ahead of himself. Anyone with half a brain could figure out Alistair would take Cutch if Percy went."


    "That all sounds very complicated," Mirk said, shaking his head. It wasn''t that complex, truly, but he thought it best that Dauid assumed the finer details of the situation had gone over his head.


    He was right. Dauid reached across the bed and gave Mirk a bracing pat on the shoulder. The physical touch made Dauid''s good humor, which was now mingled with a bit of pity and disdain for him, come through to Mirk as clear as if he''d been inside Dauid''s head. "Don''t you worry about it, seigneur. You mind your own business here with the rest of the ladies and let us menfolk take care of it. I''m sure everything will turn out all right."


    Mirk nodded, pulling a warm and relieved smile up onto his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a nerve in Genesis''s forehead twitching as he glared up at the ceiling. "Bien s?r, Comrade Commander. This sort of thing is just too much for me, I''m afraid. I''ll leave it with the officers where it belongs."


    "There you go! Now if we could only convince old Bonesy here to keep his big nose out of everything," Dauid said with a laugh, giving Genesis a dismissive pat on the shoulder as well before heading for the door. "Keep your ass in bed and get better. We''ll need you fresh for the spring contracts if we want to keep our luck hot."


    "I''ll make sure he gets plenty of rest, Comrade Commander," Mirk replied, as Genesis continued to simmer in his resentment in silence.


    Once Mirk felt Dauid''s presence disappear past the barrier spell between the fifth and fourth floors, he let his posture relax, laughing at the way Genesis was still scowling up at nothing. "Congratulations, messire."


    Genesis sighed, holding up the pin Dauid had bestowed upon him, examining it anew. "This was...unexpected."


    "Maybe things won''t be so bad after all."


    "Dauid is incompetent. One would be well-advised not to rely on his assessment of the...political situation."


    "You might be right. But methinks it''s worth looking into anyway. I''ll see what I can do. It would be better if I took some time away from work to get my strength back anyway. And you need rest too," Mirk added, as Genesis searched for somewhere to put the pin.


    "I am well aware of my current...limitations," Genesis said, experimentally trying to summon a tendril of shadow. He managed to call up the smallest coil of it, just enough to slip the pin off safely into the Abyss. It took much more of his strength than it usually did. His arm flopped back onto the bed beside him as he turned his attention back toward Mirk. "This is what I meant by your...skill with people."


    "Oh?"


    "The...idiot act."


    Mirk shrugged. "Sometimes it''s better to let people think one thing about you, even if it isn''t exactly true. If Dauid wants to think I''m nothing but some silly young noble, there''s nothing wrong with that. It means he''ll pay less attention to me."


    Genesis considered this, his confusion evident in his furrowed brows. "I had never considered the...benefit to allowing another person to think that you''re incompetent."


    "Methinks you couldn''t do it even if you tried, messire. Everyone knows you''re smart just from looking at you. And if they don''t pick up on it then, they''ll know as soon as they speak with you." They''d also know within minutes that Genesis''s knowledge was limited strictly to magic and tactics and the other kinds of things it was possible to learn from books, and that he was completely hopeless with everything else. But Mirk thought it better not to mention that.


    "I can be nothing other than what I am," Genesis said, shifting his gaze back to the ceiling.


    "That''s not a bad thing. I like it."


    "...explain."


    "Most people pretend to be someone they''re not, at least some of the time. They want to make people think they''re a certain way. Clever, or powerful, or something else that they think can help them get what they want from others. Or they pretend they''re friendly when they don''t really mean it just to get along. But you never do. You''re just...sais pas. Yourself. You don''t care whether people like you or not."


    Genesis snorted. "They will...dislike me nevertheless."


    "That''s not true. People do like you, Genesis. They just have to take the time to get to know you first," Mirk said as he pulled the sheet covering Genesis''s wounded midsection back down, contemplating his injuries. He knew he didn''t have the magic to do much else to help Genesis; he felt like he''d been running on fumes since he''d healed Alice. If he was sensible about things, it was because that was the truth. Mirk needed rest badly, lest he start having to draw from the hot, bright core of his own life''s potential to help heal in an emergency. But he felt bad leaving Genesis in such a state, barely healed and probably in pain, though the commander was too stubborn to let it show.


    Mirk reached out his hands and settled them on the wound across his stomach, feeling for abnormalities with his fingers first before tugging on his magic. There were hard knots of flesh that weren''t supposed to be there underneath his skin, evidence that his innards hadn''t healed themselves right. He touched them with the barest edge of his magic. There was nothing grave there, only extra twists and growths and sinew that meant Genesis would get a terrible stomachache once he tried eating and drinking. Which was how things were most of the time for Genesis anyway, as depressing as the thought was.


    All the while Mirk was examining him, Genesis remained silent, his eyes closed. Mirk wondered what he was thinking of. Was he dwelling on the implications of what he''d done with the staff? Trying to make sense of all the talk of appearances and reality? Or was it something more mundane, was he only remembering some book he''d memorized long ago to make up for the fact that he didn''t have any on hand? Whatever it was, Mirk was certain Genesis wasn''t sleeping. His body still had that rigidness to it that rarely went away, that sense of watchful self-control that never eased except for when he was deeply asleep. "Is everything all right?" Mirk asked him, as he pulled the sheet back up to Genesis''s shoulders.


    "That is not the...precise term I''d choose to describe this situation."


    He should have expected that kind of unhelpful response. But it made a wave of exhaustion wash over Mirk nevertheless. "How are you feeling? Does anything hurt? Your stomach¡¯s healed itself wrong, but if it''s not hurting you too badly, methinks I''d rather leave it for later. I''ll have to do most of it by hand. And, well. I''m tired, even if you''re not."


    "A proposition, then."


    "Yes?"


    "I don''t object to being healed at a later time. However, I would prefer to rest in my own quarters. This place is...too much. I will return when you are less strained."


    It was selfish of him. Genesis was better off staying in the infirmary, in case his condition took a sudden turn for the worse. But Mirk felt bad for the commander, isolated up on the fifth floor, alone with his thoughts and with none of his projects and his books to distract him. And if he let Genesis return home, that meant both of them would be recovering in comfort. Genesis''s quarters ¡ª their quarters, Mirk supposed ¡ª were as good as any heavily shielded room on the long-term ward, and even better if Genesis himself was nearby. Though Genesis''s chaotic aura wasn''t so strong at the moment that it''d ward off the clamorous emotions of passers-by, Mirk always felt more at peace with him close at hand. Like nothing could hurt him, even if Genesis was so weak that he couldn''t draw a weapon or summon a wave of shadows.


    He really was useless, clinging to Genesis like a boy to his nursemaid. Though his reasons for staying close to Genesis were far from innocent. "I suppose it can''t hurt,¡± Mirk said. ¡°I don''t know how we''d get you there, though. Do you feel strong enough to walk? Methinks Mordecai''s already gone home. And you shouldn''t be using that much of your magic."


    "I am." Genesis paused, opening his eyes into the barest slits again as he glanced toward Mirk. Their color had returned to normal. "Though I may require some...assistance."


    Mirk smiled, dipping his head. "I''ll go with you, of course. Like I said, I could use the rest too. Though, euh...we need to find you something to wear. It''s still cold, even if you have your coat. Methinks we might have some robes made up for Niv and Slava around somewhere. They''ll be a little too big around, but they should be long enough."


    A look of distaste crossed Genesis''s face, but he nodded. "A...small price to pay for a proper bath."


    "Then I''ll go and get things ready."


    Despite everything that had happened over the last few days, Mirk felt a strange sense of calmness descend on him as he hurried off to go find the robes. Things were complicated, troubling and dark, but he felt like he''d manage to get through it somehow. Genesis was all right. And though it''d cost a great deal to save him, Mirk felt certain he''d be able to fix what he''d broken. As long as he had Genesis beside him.

 Chapter 56

    "Euh...is everything all right? Genesis?"


    "I have no complaints."


    Mirk straightened out the shoulders of his robes, tapping the magelight on his wrist to make sure he didn''t trip over any of the meticulous piles of books crowding out all the free space in the common room of their quarters in the gloom. None of them had been there when he''d stumbled back to the bedroom from the bath twenty minutes ago, Genesis included. He''d been worried Genesis had finally found his constant reminders to take care of himself too burdensome and had pulled one of his usual vanishing acts. Apparently, he''d been worried for nothing.


    They had settled into an oddly domestic routine, once Mirk had healed all of Genesis''s wounds properly and had given the commander permission to leave bed for anything other than his lengthy spells in the bathroom. When not occupied by either divisional or assassination contracts, Genesis preferred to follow a routine so rigid Mirk could have set his clock by him. The commander always spent exactly five hours in bed, from midnight until five in the morning, though whether or not he actually slept during them was still a mystery to Mirk. After that, it was all grimoires and spell diagrams for sixteen hours straight ¡ª or at least Genesis always seemed to be at his desk for the duration, though Mirk came and went, taking a few shifts at the nearly-empty infirmary and seeing to social obligations with his godmother and few of her noble friends. Genesis claimed he left for a few hours each day to "ensure the maintenance of his physical conditioning", whatever that meant. Though he''d also reassured Mirk that it was nothing strenuous enough to pose him any bodily harm. And that it didn''t involve the use of his magic.


    Aside from that, the only breaks Genesis ever took from his studies were to clean their quarters, take care of his befuddling array of cunning devices ¡ª daggers and garrotes and magicked balls of blades Mirk didn''t want to know the purpose of ¡ª and to take his nightly bath. Always for exactly fifty five minutes, since that was the length required to receive the optimum benefit from all the potions and salts he steeped himself in, according to Genesis. It was odd, but Mirk wasn''t about to complain. It suffused their quarters perpetually with the faint smell of lilies and oranges, the scent getting stronger the closer he drew to Genesis. Mirk did his best not to dwell on how much he savored that smell.


    Genesis had even been eating, though whether that was out of genuine hunger or a desire to keep Mirk from fussing over him. Which was what he was doing now, picking at the food as he kept reading, perhaps because being distracted throughout the process made it less tedious. It was always the same meal: a perfectly square cut of beef, trimmed of all its fat and mostly raw, along with half a melon and an apple without its peel, each cut into five precise wedges. It hardly seemed like enough to Mirk, but Genesis wasn''t as alarmingly thin as he had been when he''d returned from his last bloody contract. It probably had to do with the vast quantities of sugar-filled tea he consumed, with the explanation that he didn''t trust even the City''s water unless it''d been boiled first.


    "Did you go out?" Mirk asked, despite knowing full well that Genesis had, sidestepping through the piles of books to his side to see what he was working on. It was hard to see the script in his grimoire with the aid of nothing but the dim blue-green magelight above the door and the one tied to his wrist, but what little he could make out made Mirk''s eyes swim. Some forgotten demonic language, probably, well-suited to cunning and destructive magic.


    "You.instructed me to eat. Thus, I needed to procure¡­adequate provisions."


    "You do look better for it, messire."


    Genesis finally glanced up from his book, only to frown at him. "I am unconcerned with aesthetics."


    Mirk was well aware of that fact. And yet, the part of him that was intent on cataloging all the small details of Genesis''s appearance always had some troubling aside to add. At present, it was fixed on how Genesis¡¯s efforts to take regular meals for a change was adding a pleasing smidgen of bulk to his shoulders and backside and calves. "I meant healthier. You were so thin when you came back..."


    "I found the food on Tal-Hatha disagreeable. Other...issues aside."


    "Did you go to the library too?" Mirk asked, gesturing at the piles of books that had sprung up on the floor while he''d been getting dressed, clustered together like mushrooms after a spell of damp weather.


    "I had...set them aside in the Abyss previously for this purpose. It was only a matter of retrieving them."


    Mirk knew it''d be better if he didn''t ask the question, but his curiosity overcame his better judgment as he scanned the titles of the books piled to Genesis''s left. The only ones he could read were in an unfamiliar, scholarly sort of Latin. "What are you working on?"


    "The matter of the arrow. At present. Though I am...constrained by not knowing the exact magical properties of the djinn''s collars."


    Mirk sighed. "Do you have any idea how to learn more about them? I''ve been working on things from my end, but Monsieur Am-Hazek doesn''t have any good ideas either."


    "Perhaps...your relation''s hypothesis about the...French Grand Master could be worth pursuing. Or Am-Gulat''s proposal of investigating this...Erv person."


    He''d been worried that Genesis might suggest that. It only served to remind Mirk that he had a letter from Seigneur Feulaine to reply to. Apparently Seigneur d''Aumont had decided Mirk wasn''t important enough to correspond with himself, and had delegated the task to its newest member. The Circle would be meeting again at the beginning of March, in advance of the spring social season and the renewal of the Sun King''s perpetual casting about for someone to fight with. And Mirk had been invited once again, despite there being no indication that he was either going to be invited to join as a constant member or of the others having chosen someone else to represent the interests of France''s Earth mages.


    Mirk didn''t know what to make of it, and neither did Seigneur Feulaine. Or Madame Beaumont, though Mirk tried not to talk about it much with her. Even the most indirect mention of Seigneur d''Aumont was enough to send her off on a half-hour rant about how glad she was that she''d refused his marriage proposal over a century ago.


    "I''ll see what else I can learn about Seigneur d''Aumont. Though methinks I won''t be able to find out much more until the next meeting of the Circle. And I''ll keep listening for this Erv, though I haven''t heard anything yet. Maybe you might have better luck?"


    The suggestion was intriguing enough to make Genesis put down his book. ¡°Is this a¡­formal request to return to work?"


    Mirk looked Genesis over, lowering his shields and taking stock of the strength of his chaotic aura while he surveyed his body with his eyes. Nothing seemed out of place, though his magic still wasn''t strong enough for Mirk''s liking. The shadows underneath his worktable remained still rather than eagerly unfurling outwards at the prospects of a fresh challenge. "Methinks maybe it''d be better if you kept resting, messire. But you are going out and doing some exercises already, non?"


    "Yes. But none involving magic. As¡­instructed."


    "Then keep doing that. But more, euh, focused. You can use your magic for listening and looking, but not for fighting."


    It was hard to tell whether Genesis was disappointed or encouraged by his verdict. But rather than hurrying to put on his coat and leave, Genesis picked up his book once more. "It will...doubtlessly yield less useful results than a full assault. But it is better than doing...nothing."


    "Methinks you couldn''t do nothing if you tried, Genesis."


    The commander waved a dismissive hand at him, going back to his reading and picking at his meal. Mirk left Genesis with a dip of his head and a bevy of well wishes, stepping carefully over the piles of books as he went to the door to collect his cloak and work bag. Neither his nod nor his encouraging words were returned. But Mirk found himself smiling nevertheless.


    Then it was down the steps, out the dormitory''s double doors, and into the cold. Mirk paused atop the outside steps overlooking the street, looking up to the sullen, cloud-filled sky. Another cloudy day in an endless series of miserable, blustery, cloudy days ¡ª ever since England had tumbled headlong into autumn, the sun had been scarce, save for on rare occasions, which were usually marked by brutal cold.


    It fit the tone of things. Autumn was when everything had fallen apart for him, when a pall as heavy and featureless as the leaden clouds above had descended upon his life. And just like the weather, it showed no signs of breaking. Perhaps with spring, with the return of warmth and sunshine to the City and England beyond, the same life would return to him. Mirk clung to the thought, to the faint encouragement it brought him, and headed off toward the infirmary.


    Mirk was halfway there when he was knocked out of his woolgathering by someone falling into step beside him, the sound of the hard soles of their shoes clacking on the cobbles accompanied by the faint press of their hesitation and dark magic against his mental shielding. He didn''t recognize the woman at first. She was wearing the plain, mismatched garb of one of the Supply Corps maids, her face and hair obscured by a long gray shawl. Then she looked over at him, and Mirk realized Comrade Commander Margaret, Kali and Catherine''s mother, had joined him on his walk.


    Startled, Mirk forgot himself and greeted her like he would have any other noble lady rather than a K''maneda commander, stopping dead in his tracks and dropping into a bow. "Pardonnez-moi, madame, I didn''t recognize you...is something wrong? I''m at your service, as always."


    Rather than returning his bow, Margaret pulled her shawl lower over her face. "We''ll discuss this at the infirmary."


    "Of course, ma...euh...Comrade Co¡ª"


    "At the present moment, I''d prefer it if you refrained from titles, seigneur."


    "Of course, of course. Anything you need, of course."


    He had to bite his lip to keep himself from babbling on at her, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as he stepped up his pace. Margaret matched him without any difficulty. Though Mirk didn''t allow himself to pry out in the middle of the street, he did lower his shields further to see if he could catch any clue in her emotions that could explain her disguise and sudden appearance. The feel of her hesitation grew stronger, colored by a faint hint of frustration. But without any other context, his empathy wasn''t good for anything besides telling Mirk that whatever had brought Margaret to him that morning had put her in a black mood.


    They continued on together in strained silence until they reached the infirmary. Mirk held one of the front doors open for her, stepping aside to let her enter before him. He caught himself before he could bow, though he did end up giving her a deep nod as she passed.


    "Take me to one of your shielded rooms," she said in a low voice, without looking over at him. "I would prefer that our discussion remains private."


    "Bien s?r, madame. Follow me please."


    The empty infirmary was a blessing and a curse. It meant that there weren''t many people around to spy them walking together up to the second floor. But it also meant that those who were hanging around, the lower-ranking aides and nurses, inevitably spotted them and had to wonder what he was doing taking an uninjured common woman to one of the containment rooms that were usually reserved for mages who were too badly hurt to keep hold of their magic. Thankfully, Mirk recognized none of them other than as passing acquaintances, and no one called out any greetings to him or stopped to question him.


    Mirk had come back to his senses a little more by the time they made it to second ¡ª he didn''t hold the room door open for her, instead going in ahead of her and waiting inside to close it behind her. He let out a deep sigh of relief as he engaged both the physical locks on it and the room''s shields against prying magic.


    "No one will bother us here, Comrade Commander," Mirk said as he turned back to face her. Margaret was a woman on a mission; she knew exactly what she was after, though she hadn''t yet shared that information with him. Rather than vacillating in the middle of the room, she went straight to the exam table, climbing up onto it as gracefully as possible, given the circumstances, and pulling her shawl down to her shoulders. Her expression was cold, a touch distant. "What can I do to help? Is something wrong?"


    Margaret hesitated before answering, her expression hardening further. "I have heard rumors from the lower-born ladies in my division that you are something of an expert in women''s matters. Is this true?"


    He did his best to hide his apprehension behind a polite smile. "Methinks I''m not an expert, Comrade Commander, but they''ve been training me on them now that the winter contracts are over."


    It had all started after the incident with Alice, and it''d been troubling Mirk for a number of reasons. Cyrus had coldly informed him that if he was going to be making it his business to rescue every woman who showed up on the infirmary''s front steps, the least he could do was spend his energy on worthy women rather than whores. In the spare moments of calm they''d had since then, Mirk had been pulled away from his usual work with Yule and Danu to be trained on "women''s matters", the politely vague term used around the infirmary to discuss pregnancy and childbirth.


    The most senior of the healers he''d been working with, a graying and businesslike man named William who had to be nearly three centuries old, told him that it was fortunate Mirk had been sent to them when he had. As everyone kept saying, there was no healing to be done in the infirmary during the weeks leading up to the Festival of Shades other than the occasional messy assassin case and babies.


    Babies, it turned out, were a messy, painful business. Even worse than the assassins, in many respects. Mirk wasn''t permitted yet to use his magic on any of the women he''d helped see to ¡ª all officers'' wives, as the wives of low-born soldiers and the Supply Corps women were left to fend for themselves among the midwives of London. But he''d spent a great deal of time holding hands, projecting reassurance, and observing. What he''d seen thus far hadn''t exactly reassured him about the promise of the new field of man-midwifery.


    His concern for the ladies and his constant hand-holding had only earned him eye-rolls and sighs from the other healers who handled women''s matters, though the men were all too aware of his social position to openly scold him about his sentimentality. It''d come as a surprise to Mirk that all the healers who dealt with women''s matters at the infirmary were men. He knew very little about how that sort of thing was handled in other places, but his mother had never said anything about man-midwives. Nor had any man been permitted to enter the room of a laboring woman when he''d been at the abbey, including the priests, though they were always called on in advance of difficult labors. They were scolded out of the way until the very last moment, until one of the sweat and blood streaked midwives called Father Jean in to either administer the final sacrament or a first blessing.


    The rough and dismissive way that the man-midwives handled their patients shocked Mirk even more than the fact that they were men. While all the healers were always on pain blockers during labor, the screaming and writhing women weren''t allowed so much as a drop. The most modern theories regarding the influence of a mother''s magic on her child dictated that putting any magical barrier between them could result in a lower transference of magical potential, William had informed him. Thus, potions of all kinds were forbidden. Instead, the women¡¯s arms and shoulders were strapped down to the birthing tables to make things easier on the healers, and they were encouraged all the while to keep a cheerful attitude as they bore up under the pain for the good of English magecraft.


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    It horrified Mirk. But he didn''t have a high enough rank among the infirmary healers to do anything about it. Other than hold hands and pray as he tried to think of a better way to handle things.


    "Regardless. I would prefer to discuss the matter with you first," Margaret said, drawing Mirk back to the present.


    "Euh...and what would that matter be, Comrade Commander?"


    Margaret''s expression remained distant and cold. "My husband is lacking a son. I''m certain you know well enough how this business goes."


    Mirk sighed as he went to her side, setting his bag down on the nearby supply cabinet. He did know plenty well how "that business" went, at least at home. A noble lady with magical potential had much more latitude than a mortal noblewoman, and magically gifted daughters were far from useless, but only sons could inherit. "I see...are things going well with Kali and Catherine, though?"


    Her expression softened a fraction, though her back remained ramrod straight, her shoulders level and composed. "No, that''s not an issue. Catherine is doing well with her training. I believe things will be easy for her when she makes her debut this spring. And Kali...well. She doesn''t write often, but when she does, there''s much more talk of lessons and children than murdering. That''s some progress."


    Mirk was glad to hear it. Uncle Henri was a terrible letter writer ¡ª all dull rambling about business and ideas for new enchantments he''d like to try out rather than news of his cousins or Kali. He''d been expecting to have to wait until he met with Kali and Catherine for the next meeting of the Circle to hear any news about how things were going in Bordeaux. "I''m happy they¡¯re both doing well, Comrade Commander."


    "However, Catherine was a difficult birth. I was ill for most of the pregnancy, and the labor itself was an...ordeal. I was told by the healers here and the ones my husband hired afterwards that having further children would be challenging. They advised me to wait twenty years before trying again. I have been trying for the past five. There has been no success. And every healer I''ve seen hasn''t had any useful recommendations."


    Margaret was keeping a very careful hold on her feelings, well aware that he''d be able to sense them, despite both his shields against emotions and hers against magic. But Mirk could tell from the subtleties of her expression and her vague choice of words that the trying hadn''t been a joyful experience. He resisted his instinctual urge to comfort and reassure her, only nodding instead, his hands clasped tightly behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting. "Has anyone examined your husband? Just to be certain?"


    "Of course not," Margaret said, her expression somehow hardening even further. "He provided adequately for two daughters. The issue must be mine."


    Mirk wasn''t so certain about that, considering her husband''s position as a cavalry commander, but he let the matter drop. "I''m sorry, Comrade Commander. I can look and see how things are, but I can''t promise I''ll be able to help."


    Grimly, Margaret scooted further back on the table, trying to keep as much of her dignity about herself as possible as she lay back and began drawing up her skirts. Although she''d donned the outer dress of a common woman, her underskirts bore the lace of a woman of her position. Mirk hurried to stop her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, no, that''s not necessary, Comrade Commander. Please, sit up."


    Margaret''s expression wavered; she frowned as she glanced over at him. "I''ve been through this often enough, seigneur."


    "Of course. But...well. It''s preferred by some, but it''s not necessary. There are other ways of knowing how things are. Though it will mean lowering both our shields."


    That was another thing about his work among the English men-midwives that had bothered Mirk. Instead of using their magic to conduct exams, they universally forced their patients into compromising positions and went prodding about with an array of magical instruments that Mirk was still unsure of the usefulness of. Considering the already delicate situation, Mirk thought the men would have done everything in their power to keep things from being even more distressing. But the men seemed to write off his discomfort with the standard procedures as more sentimentality, more Catholic fussiness that hadn''t yet been beaten back by enlightened science.


    That didn''t surprise Mirk, considering how hard the women tried to conceal their discomfort and how many blockers the men-midwives took before doing their rounds. If their empathy hadn''t been dulled, Mirk thought that even the weak empaths among the high-born healers of the Tenth would have had more sympathy for their patients. Depending on the age of the woman and the problem that brought them to the infirmary, they tolerated the healers'' cold treatment with resignation at best and near-terror at worst. Mirk had felt the edges of too many memories and emotions that were similar to those he''d endured firsthand to be willing to do any exams the same way the other healers did, and they''d told him to get out or only observe when he''d suggested doing them with magic instead.


    It annoyed Mirk, but he held his tongue. He supposed very few men, especially among the higher-ranking sort that dominated the Tenth, would have ever gone through something that could make them sympathetic toward a woman¡¯s fear of having an unfamiliar healer prodding around in her private space.


    "The Twentieth keeps its reputation for strangeness," Margaret mumbled under her breath as she sat back up on the edge of the table and rearranged her skirts. Despite her words, Mirk felt the slightest twinge of relief in her.


    "You''ll have to lower your shields, like I said, but...well. Methinks that might be better than the other way." Holding oneself open to a strong empath could also feel like an invasion of privacy, but Mirk imagined it wasn''t nearly as bad as having something that looked like a tatting hook jammed up inside of you.


    Margaret nodded, closing her eyes as she drew her magic back into herself and lowered her shields against foreign magic, a basic precaution that most high-potential and formally trained mages used, especially in the presence of empaths. They didn''t work quite as well as an empath''s shields against emotion, but some protection was better than none, Mirk had been told. She took a few slow, deep breaths to center herself, trying to bury her anxiety and frustration under intense focus on her own breathing. Mirk didn''t know whether she''d appreciate a bit of projected sympathy, or feel patronized by it. He decided against it, saying and projecting nothing as he settled one hand on her back and the other on her lower abdomen. Then he closed his eyes and drew on his magic.


    Her tactic of focusing on her breathing helped Mirk align himself with her body and the flow of her magic within it. He slipped easily into the stream, his ordered orientation meeting no resistance from her similar one. Her darkness element was a bit trickier to navigate, but after nearly a year of dealing with Genesis''s shadows, it wasn''t much of a burden. Gradually, his breathing slowed until it matched Margaret''s. He let his magic drift along through her systems, pushed through narrow capillaries and wide arteries by a heart that was stronger than what he''d been expecting to find inside a woman with Margaret''s slight frame. And with a sound that reminded Mirk of the steady thrumming of a cello setting the deliberate tempo of a solemn requiem. He let his mind float lower on the currents of it, toward where she''d said the problem lay.


    She was right: her last pregnancy had been difficult, had left its lasting marks on her body. There were hardened knots of tissue from scarring, slight shifts in the set of her pelvis and ribs that had never corrected, alterations in the flow of her magic through her body that kept her potential from permeating every part of her like it should have. Mirk examined the last of these disturbances closely, gently touching the missing connections with his magic, seeing if he could use his to encourage Margaret''s to bridge the gaps.


    It didn''t work. It felt a little like maneuvering around an imprinted scar, a dead spot in her body, stubbornly resistant to the touch of healing magic. It made sense why she couldn''t conceive. If there was no way for her magic to fill every part of her, the odds of it being able to concentrate and swell in just the right way to create a new spark of potential were low, though not impossible. Mirk pulled his mind and his magic back into himself slowly, carefully disengaging the parts of Margaret''s magic that had latched onto him ¡ª something that didn''t seem to happen to most other healers, but that was always happening to him ¡ª before opening his eyes and drawing his shields back up.


    "I''m finished, Comrade Commander. You can go back to shielding now, if you''d like."


    Margaret shook her head a few times to help refocus on the world outside of herself, looking over at Mirk with a puzzled expression as he lifted his hands off her. "That''s all?"


    He nodded, deciding to broach the less comfortable of the two issues he''d spotted first. "Catherine is very powerful, non?"


    "Yes. She has at least three times her father''s potential, and double my own."


    "And her orientation? It''s opposite yours, isn''t it?"


    "Chaotic, yes. Like her father''s. But our elements are the same."


    "There''s always some strain when a mother''s orientation doesn''t match her child''s. It gets a little worse when the child''s potential is greater as well. You...well, you should be more careful when things are like that. It''s important that the labor be as easy as possible so that things can sort themselves out on their own. But...euh..."


    A bitter expression crossed Margaret''s face. "Catherine was not born. She was removed."


    "I...yes, I thought that might have been the case. It caused some damage. Everything has healed, but there are still scars, of a sort. Both physical and magical."


    "I am well aware of that," Margaret said. Her frustration flared against his shields ¡ª Mirk could tell that it wasn''t directed at him, and only partially at herself. It was the small things that told the story, as always. Her steadfast refusal to refer to her husband by name, the grim way she spoke of her efforts to conceive, the location of the physical scars he''d been able to sense on her body, her very decision to come to him rather than the men-midwives of the Tenth.


    Mirk sighed. "It''s all complex, Comrade Commander. Not that I don''t think you can''t understand. Everything is connected. But I''ll see what I can do."


    He paused for a moment, deliberating whether or not revealing his opinions would do more harm than good. He decided to speak his mind. Margaret seemed more open toward him now than she had before the examination. Perhaps it was because he''d done it without embarrassing her, or maybe it was just an aftereffect of holding his mind so close to hers, even if he''d made it a point to keep his fixed on her body rather than prying into her emotions. "None of this is your fault. And you aren''t doing anything wrong. Methinks that anyone who would say that sort of thing doesn''t understand how complicated birth is. No matter what some of the other healers think, the body isn''t a machine. There are still some mysteries in the world, Comrade Commander. Maybe I''m...hmm, old-fashioned? Sentimental? But methinks some of them won''t ever be solved by grimoire magic."


    Margaret looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. They were small, delicate, perfectly white. One of a noble lady''s finest assets, and a mage''s as well. "Sentimental, perhaps. But the sentiment is appreciated."


    He flashed her a smile, having to resist the urge to project his sympathy to her again. "Methinks there isn''t enough of it in the world, really."


    When Margaret finally looked up at him, she was smiling as well, albeit only slightly. "You will make some woman an excellent husband one day, seigneur. Have you considered visiting English mage society? I think there are plenty of ladies here who would be willing to overlook your heritage in order to pass an evening in the company of a man of culture."


    It took all of Mirk''s self-control to keep his expression open and warm, laughing and shaking his head rather than recoiling from her comment about his marriage prospects. "Ah, methinks I''m not quite that promising yet, Comrade Commander. My family''s not known here. And we''re still recovering besides. It...euh...well. Methinks being all the way here in the City makes me a poor head, but there isn''t anyone else close to being of age."


    Margaret turned on the bed to face him properly, giving him the sort of critical once-over that only a mother with two unwed daughters could manage. "How old are you, seigneur? If it''s not too familiar a question."


    "Euh...twenty-four. Twenty-five soon."


    Her interest only sharpened at the news. "You have the air of a man at least twice that. It must be an angelic trait."


    "Oh, pas du tout. In angelic society, I''d still be considered a child. My father was over three hundred when he married my mother, and that was considered a very young marriage."


    "Three hundred? Angelic men must have much more restraint than humans."


    The slow way that Margaret said restraint, the pointed look she shot him while speaking the word, made it abundantly clear to Mirk what she meant by it, despite her having drawn her shielding back up. Again, Mirk laughed, hoping that it would come across as light and breezy rather than nervous. "Their...euh, tempers are much more even, yes."


    "It gives one the impression that you are a man who can be trusted with the welfare of a young woman looking to make her way in the world," Margaret concluded with a nod. "Which brings me to a much less difficult issue I''d like to request your assistance with, though it is more immediate."


    "Oh?"


    "Since Catherine turned twenty-five a few weeks ago, she will be expected to make her debut this spring. I had intended to have my brother accompany her, but he''s been called away unexpectedly on guild business. Would you be willing to accompany her in his place? I trust an entry into English society would make it worth the trouble. Catherine told me that your Circle is looking to mend ties between English and French magecraft now that there''s a pause in the interminable warring."


    Mirk was blindsided by the offer. A mother entrusting a near stranger with the future prospects of her more eligible daughter wasn''t a trifling thing. Part of him, the one that had picked up too many sinister ideas from listening to Genesis''s constant complaints of plots and backstabbing, thought there must be something more to it beyond Margaret simply having no other man in her life to call on. Could she be one of Ravensdale''s countless eyes and ears in the City, looking to wring him for information on Genesis and the Easterners?


    Or maybe she thought that if he spent more time with Catherine he would warm to her, and something might develop between them. He was technically of marriageable age, but women usually looked for a man who was well established, a guildmaster at the very least, or a Grand Master at best. Though he did have something that very few men under the age of two hundred possessed: access to the whole of his family''s ledgers, and free reign over how they were spent. Most ladies settled for marrying someone who might stand a chance of inheriting in a century or two, willing to bide their time alongside their husbands in hope of a prosperous life. And some, even ladies as young as Catherine, married men hundreds of years their senior to gain access to the security of coffers full of mage gold.


    Either way, the offer troubled Mirk. But the determination in Margaret''s stare, and all her veiled comments about her husband, were too much for Mirk to fight against.


    "I''m honored, Comrade Commander. Yes, I''d be willing to accompany her. Though if you find someone more suitable before then, I wouldn''t be bothered at all if you changed your mind."


    The commander of the Twelfth gave him another appraising once-over. Mirk did his best to keep his smile firmly affixed. "I had questioned your discernment," she said, "considering some of the company you keep. However, I see now that it''s due to your mild temperament. You seem to be very much aware of the manly qualities that best benefit a woman in search of a husband. I trust that you''ll make sure Catherine doesn''t get involved with anyone too disreputable." After a moment, she spoke again, in a quiet voice and mostly to herself. "I would rather that I had been accompanied by a man with such discernment when I made my debut."


    A faint emotion whispered against Mirk''s mental shielding, almost too quickly for him to notice ¡ª a sort of gnawing loneliness coupled with regret. He didn''t catch himself fast enough that time. He reached out to Margaret, putting a hand on her shoulder, though he didn''t project anything along with the touch. "It''ll be all right, Comrade Commander. It''s...difficult to find men who appreciate the things ladies find important. But it''s not impossible."


    She glanced over at him again, nodding. "Then it''s settled. I''ll have the schedule sent over to you along with the necessary invitations. Where are you staying, seigneur? In the mage quarter, or the healers dormitory?"


    "Euh...neither. In the low-born officers dormitory on the second eastern ring. The house matron will hold it for me with the rest of my letters."


    Margaret''s surprise pressed hard against his sheilds, just for an instant. "The officers dormitory? And the low-born one?"


    "I...euh...have had some trouble finding a place to stay recently. It''s difficult with so much empathy. I gave my room in the healers dormitory over to someone who needed the shielding more. Methinks I''ll get it back eventually, but I''m staying with a friend for now."


    "One of your more questionable ones?" she asked, her finely manicured eyebrows arching skeptically.


    "Well...sort of." Mirk shifted the topic quickly. at a loss for how to best handle her continued interrogation. He wouldn''t lie to her flat-out if she asked him directly who he was staying with, but he would rather avoid trying to explain how he found sharing cramped quarters with a man as notoriously difficult and disreputable as Genesis preferable to drawing on his family''s funds to rent a townhome in the mage quarters. "But thank you for trusting me with this, Comrade Commander. I really am honored. And, euh, as to your other issue, I''ll do what I can. Methinks I have a few ideas. Nothing too invasive. Potions, mostly. I''m sure you''ve taken most of the obvious ones, but I have been working on a new one to manage this kind of problem recently." Namely, he''d still been trying to master that fertility potion he''d found in the library to give to Danu for her wedding. In comparison to coaxing a woman who was half-Death into bearing children, even Margaret''s issue seemed manageable.


    Nodding, Margaret slid off the end of the table. She straightened her skirts and drew the shawl back up over her head, adjusting her posture to be just a fraction more upright as she headed for the door. "There''ll be no need to see me out, seigneur. It may raise even more suspicions."


    "Please take care, Comrade Commander," Mirk said, bowing reflexively to her retreating back. "And if you need anything else, I''m always at your service."


    Mirk waited until he heard the clacking of her shoes fade down the length of the second floor corridor before he allowed himself to relax, slumping against the supply cabinet and staring up at the room''s featureless ceiling. Well. It should have been featureless. Blood had sprayed across it and dried there, leaving a pinprick mosaic arced above the bed. Mirk supposed it was impossible to spot every place that needed cleaning in the infirmary. Unless there was someone with Genesis''s fastidiousness looking after things.


    Genesis. Margaret''s words remained stuck at the front of his mind, unwilling to vanish no matter how hard he tried to think of something else to replace them with. You will make some woman an excellent husband one day, seigneur.


    He''d be no one''s husband. Ever. And he''d do everything in his power to avoid it.

 Chapter 57

    The building just outside the South Gate was running a brisk business that night. A crowd of men loitered just outside the doors, some passing around a bottle, the rest speaking in low tones with the ranks of Fatima''s ladies who weren''t currently engaged. The women were mostly sizing up their prospective clients'' purses while the men, predictably, were contemplating the variation among the ladies'' figures. Extra mage lanterns dangled from the building¡¯s eaves, advertising services and discounts that Mirk would prefer not to learn the details of. He was there on business, after all.


    When all their buttons had begun to rattle that night, they¡¯d been gathered at the usual tavern after a long shift of doing a lot of nothing. Danu had been listening intently to one of Mordecai''s stories about what new kinds of trouble he''d gotten himself into during his latest trip back to his home village, while Yule had been goaded into drinking nearly three times his standard measure by the Easterners. Yule had quickly gotten fall-down drunk off of free drinks and launched into a debate with Pavel about fate and the technicalities of divination, much to the Seer''s displeasure. Pavel could barely get a word in edgewise, cradling his head in his hands and doing his best not to listen, while the rest of the Easterners enjoyed the show and matched Yule drink for drink. Since no one else seemed fit to answer the call, Mirk had headed off himself after reassuring Danu that he''d have the buttons set off again if the situation at the bordello was dire.


    Mirk didn''t recognize the woman guarding the front door, but she recognized him. Or perhaps she¡¯d been at her business long enough to know that he wasn''t a prospective customer, despite his robes being hidden underneath his cloak. Another woman stepped up to take her spot and she waved at Mirk to follow along closely as she led him inside.


    Together, they dodged and weaved through the rowdy crowd in the parlor toward the rear of the building, to the common room where the ladies gathered to prepare themselves for the night''s business. A cluster of women had gathered there, Fatima among them. She looked up as he entered, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him. "Finally decided to put some work in, seigneur?"


    Shrugging off her critical reception, Mirk drew over to the rest of the ladies to see why he''d been called. A wounded woman was propped up in a chair, tended to by two others. They were pressing a rag to an injury on her chest, one trying to comfort her by rubbing her back while the other held her hand and murmured encouragement, her voice too low for anyone other than his panting and glassy-eyed patient to hear. It almost felt rude to intrude upon them, like they shared some kind of private pain he could never understand, empathy or not. Mirk bowed to them both and cleared his throat to catch their attention. "Euh...can I see, mademoiselles?"


    The two women shot him curious looks, but nodded and shifted aside, the one pressing the rag to her chest lifting it so that Mirk could examine the wound underneath. It wasn''t bleeding too badly, but the pressure seemed to have been alleviating some of its pain. Only a few trickles of blood escaped the strange symbol carved over her right breast, but the wave of hurt that emanated from her once the wound was exposed made Mirk wince.


    He knelt down beside her, slinging his bag off his shoulder and searching in it for clotting powder. "This is a magical injury...I don''t recognize the rune, but methinks I can do something for the bleeding..."


    While he dug in his bag, Fatima came up behind him, snorting. "It''s some bastardization of thurisaz. Leave it to a European not to know his own people''s magic."


    That didn''t help much ¡ª Mirk was as ignorant to the rune''s properties as whoever had carved it into the woman''s clammy chest. Unable to find the bottle of powder, Mirk settled for going straight to his slowly regenerating magic. He pressed the fingers of both hands firmly to the edges of the wound, allowing his magic to seep down into her as he searched for the source of the pain.


    The wound had begun to fester, though not so badly that it was reeking and dripping pus. Mirk handled that part of things quickly, drawing hard on his magic to call to the foreign presence in her body, taking one hand off her chest just long enough to gesture to the woman off to his right for the rag. He pressed the oozing yellow sludge he tugged out of the wound into the rag and set it down on the floor, then paused to consider how best to handle the remainder of it.


    He called to a different aspect of his magic, the life-giving part that could grow and mend, and tried to press the wound closed. The woman¡¯s body didn''t respond fully, though the cuts that made up the rune narrowed a little. Mirk closed his eyes, listening close. The woman¡¯s presence sounded faintly like crackling embers, like someone tapping their fingers lightly atop a drum. But there was something else inside her, something dark and twisted and creaking, like ropes straining under a heavy load. There was an ordered dark magic attached to it that was quickly unraveling what little of his healing magic had stuck.


    "Euh...hmm. Methinks it might be a curse? Mada¡ª"


    Fatima cut him off with a sharp tisk. "Spare me your titles. Can you fix it?"


    "I''m not very good at breaking curses, I''m afraid," Mirk said with a sigh. He thought for a moment back to when he''d lifted the bindings on the Montigny men through sheer force of will. He''d needed to draw on the staff¡¯s potential to manage that. And he wasn''t prepared to risk using it again, not when there still might be some other way. "This is the sort of thing Yule is best at."


    "And where is he?"


    The last he''d seen of Yule, the older healer had been shoving an accusing finger into Pavel''s face as he ranted about how life was futile if everything was preordained. "Euh...methinks he won''t be able to help us tonight. He''s a little...euh..."


    "Typical," Fatima said, her eyes narrowing so far they became nothing but slits.


    "I can still heal it, methinks. It''ll just take me more time." Mirk looked up into the injured woman''s face. She was completely exhausted. He wondered how long the rune had been affecting her, sapping her magic and repelling any efforts to heal its damage.


    Fatima answered his unspoken question. "She was locked up in a closet at Lorenz''s for hours. Apparently a noble party is unbearable without a plaything to distract you. She needs this gone right away. Before she forgets what she got out of him."


    There was a sudden bang of displaced air from across the room, a snatch of conversation and music that was out-of-place in the rear of the bordello. Lina had teleported into the room, breathless and flushed. And dressed in a fine gown that was far above her status as a washerwoman for the Supply Corps, a smooth gray silk cut rather too conservatively for what Mirk knew of her tastes.


    Then again, it was unlikely she''d chosen it for herself. Mirk hadn''t seen her around the taverns or the training hall or the infirmary since her and K''aekniv had ended things, but he doubted she''d come into enough gold to afford that style of dress between then and now. "Oh, thank God," she said, collapsing into one of the chairs arrayed in front of the changing room''s counter full of mirrors. "She already made it back."


    "Took you long enough," Fatima retorted, pivoting on her good leg to face Lina, jabbing her cane accusingly back at the woman Mirk was doing his best to heal. "What happened to breaking Joan out, huh? I''ve told you a dozen times, Lina, you need to keep your eye on the prize."


    Lina ignored Fatima, staring across the room at the wounded woman, the muscles in her neck working as she extracted a fan from down the front of her dress and flicked it open. "I have your information. Dick talked, even if Lorenz didn''t. Christ above, someone needs to kill that ugly bastard..."


    Fatima limped over to the counter, leaning her weight on it so she could fiddle with her cane, spinning it methodically around her wrist in a fluid, practiced motion. It was the same motion Genesis used when he spun the hilt of his sword around his wrist, waiting for his training partners to stop dawdling and spar with him. "Dick talked? You sure are pumping a lot out of him lately."


    "He''s an idiot," Lina said, though her frown turned worried. "Or maybe just weak. None of the other commanders or guildfolk like him much, and he doesn''t have any luck with the girls. He''s lonely. Spills to anyone if you''re willing to sit and listen and smile right."


    "If everyone hates him, how does he know anything?"


    Lina shrugged. "He''s actually good at magic, I suppose. That and Alistair has something on him, though I still don''t know what. That''s how I got out, Alistair called Dick off to go do something back in the City. Dick gave me my own teleportation paper because I couldn''t be let to see where he was going."


    Though Fatima''s suspicion only deepened, judging by how her cane spun around her wrist faster with every flick, she didn''t comment on that part of it when she spoke next. "What did you get?"


    "Everyone thinks Dick''s the one who fucked Percy. Never agreed on anything, Dick''s got the know-how to suck someone¡¯s magic out, all that. Alistair doesn''t think so, but the other commanders do, and it looks like Alistair is willing to let them keep thinking that if it keeps everyone angry at Dick instead of paying too much attention to what he''s doing. Dick kept saying something about not liking being pushed around like that, even if Alistair lets him protect himself. Don''t know what he meant by that either. Anyway, about Lorenz, North and Ansel are sick to death of him, so I think he''ll be on the outs if they can get Ksyr to back their move. Got some other little Bavarian weasel to put in his spot. Didn''t catch his name, but at least he wasn''t locking anyone in a closet," Lina concluded, her eyes drifting back toward Joan''s pained face.


    Joan was biting her lip to keep from whimpering as Mirk tried to break the curse carved into her chest again. He tried bombarding it with his life-giving potential, overloading its ability to tear apart by feeding it more healing than it could handle. It only made her wound gush blood. One of the other ladies produced her own handkerchief to help mop it up.


    Fatima seemed only grudgingly satisfied with Lina''s explanation, turning her attention back toward Joan as well. "It''s a start, but we still need Joan¡¯s report. Lorenz''s side of things might give us more details. Are you getting anywhere?" she asked, shifting her disapproval toward Mirk.


    "Euh...no...but maybe if I give her a pain blocker, it''ll give the curse something less to work with...I''m not sure..." Mirk lifted his hands from Joan''s chest and dug through his bag again, hoping he might actually have a spare blocker left.


    "Are you willing to let your patient out of his cage?" Fatima asked.


    "Euh...pardon? Methinks I don''t un¡ª"


    "Genesis. Is he allowed to use his magic yet?"


    Mirk looked back at the rune, still oozing blood down the front of Joan''s unlaced bodice. A mage with Genesis''s knowledge and skill could handle the curse keeping her entombed in misery in seconds with very little effort. On the other hand, it would take him a few hours of trying and failing at different approaches to help. Mirk sighed, dabbing at the blood again, for lack of anything more useful to do. "Of course. Methinks I couldn''t keep him from doing anything he wanted to anyway, ma...euh...Fatima. He always does what he wants."


    "That''s not what I''ve heard," Fatima said. Nevertheless, she limped away again, going to a table in the far corner of the room. She scribbled something on a piece of paper and shut it in a plain wooden box set in the center of the table. Then she folded her arms and settled in to wait as Mirk went back to work. Luckily, he had a single pain blocker left. He passed it to one of the two ladies still hovering anxiously around Joan, their faces white and drawn with concern, telling them both to help Joan drink it.


    She''d just finished choking it down when Genesis appeared. As usual, Mirk had felt him coming before he actually arrived, his approaching presence creating a vague sort of restlessness in the shadows hanging about the dimly lit back room. There were no proper magelights there, only half-shaded oil lamps that filled the room with an odd, cloying perfume.


    Genesis stepped out of the shadows near Fatima, nose immediately wrinkling in distaste at the perfume in the air. His hair was a touch damp, Mirk noticed. It was getting late; perhaps Fatima''s message had interrupted his evening bath. "...yes?"


    "Don''t yes me. You can read. There she is," Fatima said, not looking up from the paperwork she''d started in on while waiting for Genesis. She waved a dismissive hand in the direction of Joan, whose breathing and heartbeat were finally starting to slow as the pain blocker took hold.


    Genesis crossed the room, looming behind Mirk and surveying the rune cut into Joan''s chest. "This is...not entirely physical," he said, after studying her for what felt like an interminably long time.


    "No, messire. It''s a curse, maybe? Though it doesn''t feel very complicated. It''s just that one rune. But I don''t know much about those, I''m afraid."


    "I will be...certain to provide you with an adequate beginner''s text on the subject."


    Whereas Mirk''s first instinct when dealing with a person under the sway of foreign magic was to reach out and touch them, Genesis kept his distance. But he could sense Genesis''s magic on Joan as he continued to study the rune. It manifested itself in the faintest tendrils of shadow that prodded at the wound in place of the commander''s fingers, making its bleeding worsen once more. Mirk reached up with his borrowed handkerchief to dab the blood away, even though there was no saving Joan''s dress by that point.


    It was curious: none of the women were bothered by Genesis''s magic or scrutiny. In fact, the two women who''d been helping him with Joan felt more relieved than anything else. It was far from the usual reaction that Genesis elicited in others.


    After another long pause, Genesis sighed. "From a commander, one would...expect better spellcraft."


    Genesis leaned down, reaching over Mirk''s shoulder to press the tips of all five fingers of his left hand to the central line of the rune. As Mirk had suspected, it took very little effort on Genesis''s part to destroy the magic that had been keeping Joan locked in her private suffering. The dark ordered magic connected to the rune dissolved under the force of Genesis''s chaos and Joan took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking rapidly.


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    Then she looked up at Genesis, managing a weak smile. "Thank you, comrade."


    "You would be...well advised to invest more time on strengthening your...defensive capacities," Genesis said, drawing his hand back the instant it was clear the curse had been broken, producing a bottle and a handkerchief out of the shadows. When he opened the bottle and shook a measure of its contents onto the handkerchief, Mirk caught the barest hint of the scent of oranges over the heavy perfume from the oil lamps. The commander¡¯s usual cleaning potion.


    "Thank you too, mister...?"


    Mirk glanced up. Joan''s eyes had fixed on him, her smile growing warmer and stronger by the second. He returned it, reaching out his hand and touching the rune carved into her breast, closing it easily now that there wasn''t any magic attached to it to work against his healing potential. "Just Mirk, mademoiselle."


    "Are you new?"


    "Sort of. Is anything else troubling you?"


    "My dagger''s losing its enchantment," one of the two women who''d been helping him with Joan said. She wasn''t speaking to him. Rather, she was looking at Genesis. The commander debated things for a moment before relenting, holding his hand out to her, though Mirk noticed he kept his handkerchief at the ready in the other. The woman hiked up her skirts without the slightest hesitation, revealing a dagger strapped to her upper thigh with some kind of garter belt. She pulled it free and held it out to Genesis, hilt first.


    Genesis took it with his handkerchief rather than his bare hand, setting to cleaning the whole of it as he stalked back toward the table Fatima was working at to take a closer look at the weapon''s enchantments. The two women who''d been helping with Joan laughed and shared a knowing look before the one whose dagger needed re-enchanting followed after Genesis.


    It was all very curious indeed, Mirk thought. After he¡¯d healed a set of blisters that Joan¡¯s ill-fitting dance shoes had left on her heels, she got to her feet with the help of her remaining friend and went over to Fatima to give her report. Mirk expected Joan to at least be a little put out by Fatima''s indifference to her condition, but she was soon laughing and chatting with the madam like old friends, with no hard feelings between them. Just like the woman whose knife Genesis was working on leaned over his shoulder and pestered him about what he was doing, entirely unbothered by the commander¡¯s brusqueness and obvious discomfort at having her perilously close to being pressed up against his back.


    Mirk did his best to blot up the last of Joan''s blood that''d ended up on the chair and the floor, debating what he should do now that his business was concluded. Everyone at the bordello seemed very familiar with one another, old friends who were working to the rhythm of some routine he was unfamiliar with. Lina had also joined the rest, sitting down beside Joan and adding bits of corroborating information to her tale as Fatima interrogated her. There seemed to be no hard feelings among any of them, each of their habits and temperaments accounted for by one another without comment. It reminded Mirk a little of the way the healers of the Twentieth worked, comrades through and through against the madness of the K''maneda and the Tenth despite their differences.


    He didn''t feel right intruding on it, though no one had been anything but friendly to him. As Mirk gathered up his things and prepared to leave, he noticed more ladies had started to arrive. All of them formed a disorderly line behind the woman who was still badgering Genesis, pulling out knives of their own as they gossiped about the night''s happenings.


    "Oh! Mirk! It''s so good to finally see you again!"


    Alice, the woman who the staff had helped him save, had arrived along with the others, her infant child bound tight to her chest with a sling made of wide strips of multi-colored fabric, the repurposed remains of a dress that had become so worn that it couldn''t take any more mending. Mirk went over to meet her, smiling at the press of her happiness against his mental shielding. She felt like she was doing well, despite the difficult circumstances she''d found herself in. "Hello, Alice. Who''s this?"


    She beamed down at the baby pressed tight against her chest. "Ella. Like my mother."


    Mirk stood beside her, leaning in to peek at the infant''s face. She had wide, dark eyes, and a good smattering of patches of equally dark hair around the crown of her head. The baby girl wriggled in closer against her mother, her hands grabbing at the laces of Alice''s bodice as she began to fuss. "Ella''s a lovely name. I''m glad to see you''re both doing well, mademoiselle." He hesitated a little at the title ¡ª though she was a mother now, Mirk had the impression that Alice was as of yet unmarried.


    Alice gave a tittering laugh as she began to untie the front of her bodice. "Oh, you foreign sorts are so funny! All with your titles and fancy names. But it''s all thanks to you that we get to laugh any more," she added, as she adjusted her baby''s position to allow her to nurse. Mirk looked away, turning his attention back toward the strange goings-on at the back room''s work table. Two women were now leaning over each of Genesis''s shoulders, arguing over something he was doing. Meanwhile, Fatima had finished her interrogation of Susie and had set in on Genesis as well, shoving a paper at him and poking accusingly at something written on it.


    The scene reminded him of when the three noble ladies had accosted Genesis at Madame Beaumont''s ball. There was the same tenseness in the commander''s shoulders, the same rigid set to his jaw. And, just like at the ball, none of the women gathered around Genesis that night were deterred in the slightest by his visible discomfort.


    "I do feel a little useless, though," Alice continued. "I''m mostly dead weight around here for now. I can work on my arms and do some cooking and tidying, but none of that brings in any money."


    "I''m sure no one minds," Mirk reassured her.


    "At least I''ve been able to keep doing my training, like I said. We have a few older ladies with us who know what they''re doing with a baby who can look after Ella in the meanwhile. Though she wails like a banshee every time I let her go! Mummy''s daughter, I suppose, just like I was."


    "Training?"


    Alice''s voice took on a more hopeful tone, closer to the one she used while speaking of the infant nursing at her breast than the one she had used while discussing the rest of her work. "Oh, yes! Sparring and daggers and all that. But Miss Fatima''s given me some special work, since I''m so big in the shoulders. She''s having a couple of us work on training to be archers! Can you imagine that? I thought, what with rifles being all the lads will talk about these days, what good is an old bow and arrow? But Miss Fatima says that they''re better for magic than guns are. I''m glad Miss Fatima''s not coddling me, what with Ella and all. I worked hard on these," she joked, flexing the arm at him that she wasn''t using to support her baby''s head.


    She did have quite substantial biceps and heavy shoulders, some of the largest he''d ever seen on a human woman. The only human woman he could think of who could measure up was Kali, and her whole life would be fighting from sunup to sundown, if she had her way. "You''re much stronger than I am," Mirk said, with an encouraging smile. "You could probably pick me up and throw me..."


    "You''d be easy! I can throw most of the infantrymen now, except for the really big ones."


    Mirk was taken aback. "You train with the infantry?"


    "The weird blokes from out east," Alice replied with a nod. "You know, the ones who work with Comrade Genesis. They''re great fun! And they mostly keep their hands to themselves, unless they want Niv to beat them. If they want that, they''ve got to pay like everyone else."


    "I see..."


    "Are the ones who went home back yet? It''s the busiest time of year, so we''re not hurting for gold, but you always know what you''re getting into with them. With the rest of the infantry, you never know." Alice laughed to herself, bouncing on the balls of her feet to soothe her nursing infant. "I heard they made out like bandits on that last contract of theirs. Niv will pay for new dresses and daggers for everyone all by himself, now that Lina''s decided she likes Dickey more."


    "Who is this, euh, Dickey? Did she...?"


    "Comrade Commander Richard Blacke of the Esteemed Eleventh Mage." Alice pitched her voice higher as she rattled off the title and honors, doing her best at mimicking the smooth accent of the upper-class English ladies, though she couldn''t quite get her r''s right. "Drippy little guy, dunno what she sees in him. I would have stuck with Niv. At least he''s fun. But she likes him, for whatever reason. She won''t say anything, but I''m sure it''s not just the work. No one takes five assignments in a row on the same bloke unless there''s something there or Miss Fatima''s got you on a long-term mission."


    Though Alice couldn''t put the pieces together, Mirk spotted the difference instantly ¡ª their looks aside, anyone who was determined enough to become a divisional commander had to be exactly the sort of ambitious, cunning man that K''aekniv decidedly wasn''t. And that was Lina¡¯s main complaint with the half-angel, from what Mirk could remember of K''aekniv''s rambling and sniffling explanations for the loss of the most recent love of his life. Mirk didn''t know whether to be happy for Lina or worried for her.


    He glanced across the room at where she was seated beside Fatima. If there were any hard feelings, none were on display. Then again, Mirk suspected that Genesis didn''t understand the difference between K''aekniv''s more casual liaisons and his great love affairs well enough to harbor any resentment toward Lina for breaking K''aekniv''s heart. That and he was too resentful of the closeness of all the ladies to have enough energy left over to be cross with any one of them in particular.


    "Does this mean Comrade Genesis is back too?" Alice asked. Mirk hoped she asked the question to sate her own curiosity rather than picking up on how he was staring at him. "I''d heard he''d been sick after that last contract, and that was why he hadn''t come by."


    Mirk sighed. "Well, he was ill, but I never told him he couldn''t go out. If I''d known that you all needed his help, I''d have told him to come. I just didn''t know he was so, euh, involved with things here. I thought he must just meet Miss Fatima from time to time. Since she seems more his...type."


    Alice cackled. "Him? His only type''s got two bits of leather and a lot of paper in between. It''s fun teasing him, though. The faces he makes when you explain jokes to him! And it''s even worse if you give him a pat on the back."


    With that bit of information taken into consideration, Mirk could understand why Genesis had taken advantage of his suggestion to rest to avoid coming to the bordello. "Most people are too afraid of him to go that far, methinks."


    Her laughter subsiding, Alice shook her head. "Him? Scary? We meet a lot of beastly men here, but he''s not one of them. Comrade Genesis doesn''t want anything from us that we don''t want ourselves."


    "Oh?"


    "We''re going to have our own division for the girls who want to fight. And for the rest of us, the same stuff the Supply Corps maids get, places to live and healing and steady pay no matter what." Some of Alice''s good cheer faded into pensiveness then, as Mirk watched her stroke her infant''s patchy hair out of the corner of his eye. "Comrade Genesis is really a gentleman when it comes down to it. None of the fancy bowing and titles men like you use, but he never tries anything with you, and you can''t say that about most of the noble mages. And he never thinks you can''t do something just because you''re a woman. That''s rare even with decent blokes. It''s like he doesn''t even notice that you''re a woman at all. Which can be good and bad, but it''s mostly good."


    Mirk didn''t know exactly what to make of Alice''s evaluation of Genesis. He elected to shift the topic instead, albeit only slightly. "How did all of...euh, this start? Miss Fatima and you ladies working with the Easterners? Genesis never said."


    Alice smirked. "It started with Niv, of course."


    That wasn''t surprising in the slightest. Mirk nodded, gesturing at Alice to continue.


    "Well, back maybe...fifteen years ago? Ten? I don''t know, I wasn''t around, though I heard the stories. Anyway, there was a real bastard running things back then. Would buy girls up from wherever and use them and throw them in the gutter when they couldn''t work anymore. He was Ravensdale''s father, did you know that?"


    That, Mirk was surprised by. "No. I thought Ravensdale had to be from a noble family, considering..."


    "He''s low-born like the rest of us. Just has enough magic from his djinn to hide it. And to keep people from finding out that he wasn''t always all high and mighty. It''s why you can''t say his real name, you know. Anyway, Miss Fatima was just a girl back then. Ravensdale''s father bought her off some slaver and was putting her out as a djinn. That''s where Niv came into it. Back in those days, if you were poor, you got the bad end both ways. The lads would just get shown a room with whoever and us women would just get put in any which one until time was up. Unless someone requested you, which is what happened to Miss Fatima because of the djinn scam, until one of the bastards beat her and messed up her leg. Then she got put in the maze with the others."


    "That''s terrible," Mirk mumbled, shivering at the thought of it, despite the fact that Alice didn''t seem overly bothered. A testament to how grim her life was, Mirk supposed.


    "So the thing that happened was, Niv heard round the taverns about us, and decided he''d throw in a couple of gold and see what was going on. Too bad for Ravensdale and his father that they shut Niv in a room with Miss Fatima. Lord, was he angry! Putting a young girl out to work with a broken leg, he couldn''t stand it. So he beat the tar out of Ravensdale, since he was running the maze back then, stole his gold, and carted Miss Fatima off to the healers. That pretty man, Yule, I think.


    "Things just sort of went from there. Niv was mad, and he got Comrade Genesis in on it because Niv knew he''d be mad too if he heard about what was going on right outside the gate. Miss Fatima saw her chance to get even. Took her a year or two, since Ravensdale''s dad had an in with some of the commanders, but eventually she had the father dead and Ravensdale gone and she took over. Ever since then, things have been run right around here. No more buying girls off whoever, deciding yourself who you want to go with, keeping most of your pay, all that. But you know Miss Fatima, she wanted more than just that. We all do. She found out what Comrade Genesis was up to and said she''d help him out if he helped us. And here we are."


    "And here we are," Mirk echoed, watching Fatima and the other women continue to pester Genesis around the table across the room. "I didn''t know about any of that."


    Alice shrugged. "You know how Comrade Genesis is, you''ve got to badger him if you want him to fess up anything. Otherwise he just does what he has to and runs off into all those shadows of his. We only know what''s going on half the time because Niv never stops talking. Weird pair, those two. But it shows you where comrade''s heart is. If you''re good to him, he''ll at least be decent to you."


    "He is good," Mirk agreed, without hesitation. "You just need to be patient."


    Alice mulled this over as she adjusted her bodice, lacing it back up against the chill once her child had finished nursing and had gone back to sleep. "He really is a funny man. Never once looked at anyone, and we''ve got every kind you could fancy here these days. Even got a few men kicking around. Wonder what it takes to crack him. We''ve got a pool going on it, you know, bit of fun. Think it''s up to thirty gold these days. My penny''s on it being some weird magic thing. Like a love curse or something. You have any ideas?"


    Mirk hoped his laugh didn''t come out sounding bitter. "Not a single one."


    "Well, I''m sure someone will figure it out eventually. A man''s a man, after all, even if he''s a funny one."


    "I suppose you have a point," Mirk mumbled, considering the long line of women waiting for Genesis''s advice. It was steadily growing longer as word got around the bordello that he''d arrived. Genesis really must have been avoiding coming there for a while now, if so many ladies were willing to pass up work just to get to sit in line and wait instead. Perhaps he could also do something to help make it a little more worthwhile for them, even if he didn''t know how to enchant weapons. After excusing himself with Alice and telling her to come to the infirmary if she had any problems with her child, he went over to the line, taking his bag back off his shoulder.


    "Pardon, mademoiselles. If any of you happen to be having any troubles, I''d be glad to help with them while you''re waiting for Comrade Genesis. Even taking care of a blister or a cough can make life a little easier, non?"


    A few of the women waiting in line perked up at his offer and began unlacing bodices and taking down stockings right where they stood. Meanwhile, Genesis cast a dark look over his shoulder back at Mirk. Though he had to bend sideways around the pair of women currently scrutinizing his work in order to do so. "I see you have decided to...make a night of this."


    Mirk smiled and gave a helpless shrug, as a woman with a nasty scrape down the outside of her leg butted a few of the others aside in the hopes of catching Mirk''s attention first. "Methinks it''s the least I can do. Besides, look at how much everyone likes you here, messire! You never told me you were so popular with the ladies."


    The crowd of ladies around them burst into cackles and snickers and guffaws, Fatima included. Hissing something to himself in his native language, Genesis went back to work, summoning a handful of shadows and coiling it around the dagger on the table in front of him. Mirk drew over a chair and set to work, digging a skin regenerating potion out of his bag. He supposed it wasn''t kind to tease Genesis, but he couldn''t help it sometimes. Nor could he blame the ladies for finding their own amusement in it. If he could bring a little light to their dark corner of the world, Mirk didn''t see any harm in it.


    Though Genesis might have thought differently. Especially if the ladies didn''t stop crooning the word messire at one another soon.

 Chapter 58

    Roots. Mirk tried to think of roots.


    Roots stretching far into the cold, hard ground, curled around rocks and intertwined with those of neighboring trees, holding strong against wind and snow. Drawing up life despite the death behind and before him. The tree he¡¯d wrapped his around was solid. Alive, its warm core drawn down deep until spring returned and coaxed it back out again into buds and blooms. Mirk pressed his cheek against its bark, trying to ground himself by studying its rough texture against his numbed skin.


    It didn''t work. His arms fell from around the tree''s trunk and he reeled off to one side of it, heaving again. But he''d already thrown up everything left in his stomach. He''d been stumbling around gagging and coughing ever since he''d first stepped through the parade grounds transporter back in the City of Glass and reemerged in the middle of the thick, silent forest unfathomable miles away.


    "You didn''t have to come, Mirk. Yule didn''t."


    Mirk did his best to compose himself before turning to face the tired voice from behind him. Emir. The commander of the Twentieth stepped off the iced-over dirt track that connected the transporter to the distant funeral pyre, curling an arm around him. He supported most of Mirk''s weight for him until the latest wave of nausea passed.


    "I wanted..." Mirk trailed off, swallowing down another heave that brought up nothing. Though he hadn''t been working alongside the other K''maneda, he was breathing hard, the sweat freezing on his face from the icy wind. Mirk scrubbed it off with the sleeve of his robes as he searched for a way to explain. "I wanted to see the Festival with everyone else."


    "Not many people from the Twentieth ever come. Living or dead."


    Mirk had seen that himself when he''d first come through the transporter. The sole division that''d gone through the transporter ahead of them, the Twenty-First Assassins, had dragged two sledges full of bodies to build the base of the pyre deep in the heart of the woods. The Twentieth Medical, on the other hand, only contributed six bodies, unidentifiable under the heavy white sheets they bundled all the dead in before sealing them away in the basement. They were healers who¡¯d gone to practice for the guilds decades ago, Emir explained. They¡¯d returned to the K''maneda at the end only because they had no family to mourn them and no gold for a grave that''d be safe from looting by necromancers.


    Though Mirk was doing his best not to lean too hard on Emir, the solid feel of his mental presence and the security of his arm and the faint, familiar smell of whatever the head of the Twentieth smoked in his pipe was hard for him to resist. "I know I didn''t have to come. But...methinks I owe it to everyone, at least once."


    "Why didn''t you have Genesis bring you?" Emir asked, as Mirk finally summoned the will to straighten up and politely duck out from underneath Emir''s arm. "You seem to have less trouble with his magic than you do the transporter or the teleporting mages'' spells."


    Mirk shrugged. "He was busy with his men. I didn''t want to be a burden to him."


    Emir''s pity came through clear to Mirk despite both their shielding, as the head healer repacked his pipe for what seemed like the tenth time that morning. A true testament to the strength of it ¡ª very little emotion ever made it through the thick walls around Emir''s mind, honed and strengthened by angelic training. "You really don''t belong here."


    "Hmm?"


    "Nothing." Emir glanced back toward the grim procession shuffling through the transporter. A dozen men were struggling with an overloaded sledge, half of them too drunk to know what they were doing and the other half too tired or indifferent. "The rest of your friends should be coming through soon. That''s Eighth Cannon now. You''d think that lot would have a better grasp of physics..."


    "Should we go help?"


    "Save your strength," Emir said as he walked away, lighting his pipe with a flint fished out of the sleeve pocket of his robes. "I''m sure the Seventh''s sledges won''t be much better."


    If the Eighth was coming through, that meant Mirk had been wandering around the forest near the transporter for hours, hugging trees and sniffling in the cold. It was hard to tell what time it was out there. The canopy overhead was thick, mostly pine, and what snatches of sky Mirk had glimpsed were clouded over so thickly not a hint of sunlight made it through to the ground. K''aekniv had said that the sun rose a few hours later in the forest than it did in the City that time of year. When Mirk had left the parade grounds with the Twentieth''s sledge, it had been well before dawn, around four in the morning.


    K''aekniv had drawn him a map of the site where the K''maneda''s dead were burned each year, but Mirk hadn''t grasped how distant it was until he''d gone through the transporter and felt it in his bones. The rough sketch K''aekniv had made with a bit of charcoal on the back of the torn apart remains of a spell paper had England and the City of glass at one edge, the Festival site on the other, and a lot of empty space between. The only definite place K''aekniv had known from memory was the position of his home, to the north of both the City and the Festival site and sort of in between them, on the edge of an ocean neither he nor K''aekniv knew the proper name of. But the half-angel had been able to provide Mirk with his own rough brand of measurements. If you walked from London to Kamenka, the place he was born in, K''aekniv had said, you''d be about a third of the way to the forest, which was near a river called the Lena. Mentioning it had only set K''aekniv off on reminiscing about Lina, and another girl who shared the name of the river that he''d known from the nearest village to Kamenka.


    It all made Mirk feel very small and alone. He''d thought the gap between Nantes and London was vast, insurmountable. But now he was halfway around the world, or at least that''s what it felt like. Only instead of crossing an ocean of salt water, like the mages who were off exploring the new world across the sea to the west of England, he''d crossed an ocean of trees.


    He might as well have been in a new world. The forest around him was ancient, Mirk could feel, untouched by the hands of either mortal or mage, the voice of it unfamiliar and wild when compared to the ones he''d been in at home. And above it all was a silence that was more unnerving than peaceful, though perhaps that was due to everything being blanketed in snow that rose to the level of his knees the instant he strayed from the track connecting the transporter to the pyre.


    No one else seemed particularly bothered by the distance or the silence. Then again, he supposed that new places must not have been so disorienting to those who weren''t connected so strongly to the Earth. And all the other K¡¯maneda went off on contract every week too, roving about realms Mirk would never set foot on to do their bloody work. It all must have seemed mundane to them, a hassle due to the cold and the ice, but nothing special. To Mirk, it felt like he''d been uprooted. If he ever tried to cross onto another realm, he''d surely die the instant he arrived.


    Even though he was still on Earth, it still felt like he was dying. Mirk coughed, squaring his shoulders and following after Emir. He needed to stop being so dramatic. He joined Emir on the edge of the track to watch the procession of sledges and grumbling fighters, flashing the head healer a smile to reassure him that he was doing all right, despite his doubtlessly bedraggled appearance. "Thank you for looking after me, Comrade Commander Emir. I''m very grateful. If there''s anything I can do for you at the infirmary when we get back, please let me know."


    Emir managed a faint smile in return around the stem of his pipe, though his pity for him was still a gray pall against Mirk''s mental shielding. "You can stay out of trouble, for starters."


    Laughing weakly, Mirk gave another helpless shrug. "Well...methinks I can try my best, but..."


    Abruptly, the hushed forest air was pierced by the sound of singing. The Easterners had arrived.


    Their sledge was piled high with dead men, just like those of the Eighth, but the Easterners had the sense to lash them all down with ropes to keep them from rolling off. Three of the strongest men in their company, Slava at their lead, were hauling on a rope attached to the right edge of the sledge. And on the left was K''aekniv alone. He was the one singing, the only man able to suck in enough air to carry a tune while towing the sledge. A wave of relief washed over Mirk at the sight of them. There was something reassuring in their presence; it brought life into the forest, somehow, despite the pile of dead men they brought along with them.


    Mirk hurried over, sliding in his useless clogs on the packed-down ice covering the road as he went. Luckily, he''d recovered enough of his strength not to fall on his face like he had several other times that morning. "Niv!" he called out, waving to catch the half-angel''s attention.


    K''aekniv perked up at the sound of his voice, his song cutting off mid-refrain. "Oh! Mirgosha! Where are all your healer friends, huh?"


    "Comrade Commander Emir said not many come since we don''t have so many...euh...people," Mirk replied, gesturing at the sledge. They continued down the track that''d been cut through the forest as they talked, K''aekniv adjusting the rope on his broad shoulder, wings flared out for balance.


    "We brought enough to make up for it," K''aekniv joked, without looking back. "Not so bad this year. Forty-five. Some years we need to go steal another sledge from the Supply Corps."


    The mound of half-frozen, sheet-wrapped bodies was nothing more than the quiet, mundane sort of tragedy that haunted everyday life among the K''maneda, at least for the men of the Seventh. Mirk wondered how many of them K''aekniv had personally recruited from their villages and brought to the City. Mirk tried to put it out of mind, focusing on the living instead. "Where''s Genesis?"


    "With his new people," K''aekniv said. "That bastard Jenks fucked off all the way. Didn''t even come back to help them carry their people. So, Gen''s doing it." The half-angel heaved a great sigh, looking up into the branches of the pines that formed a canopy over the track for guidance. "I feel sorry for them. Everything is so cold with Snegurochka. Dying for duty and honor and all that shit. Those people had families. That''s the kind of thing you need to think of when you talk to them today. But Gen doesn''t know what family is."


    Mirk fell into step beside K''aekniv ¡ª for once, he didn''t have to struggle to keep up. K¡¯aekniv had a point. Even if a man wasn''t married with children, he might still have parents, along with a whole host of brothers and sisters and cousins. Genesis had none of that, though presumably he must have come from someone, even if he didn''t ever speak of his kin. Genesis only had himself and his fighters and the sparse handful of others he let into his austere life. For the most part, Genesis was alone. Alone against the war machine and the steady march of time.


    When looked at from another perspective, though, that also meant that the K''maneda was the only thing approaching a family that Genesis had. In that way, every dead fighter was a lost brother. Mirk shook his head. It was hard not to brood over that kind of thing, considering the situation, but he needed to put a stop to it. It was making his headache and the churning in his stomach worse. "What''s the Irish company like? I haven¡¯t spent much time with the rest of the Seventh¡­"


    "Eh, they''re all right. Good people, all poor men from Ireland and up north. But they need some training. All skinny and sick, you know, from not eating right. But they''re used to hard work. I''m sure Gen will have them going soon enough."


    They were approaching the clearing in the pines where the pyre was being constructed, lifeless body by lifeless body. The quiet was broken by the sound of men calling back and forth to one another as they stacked the dead atop one another. When the unlit pyre came into sight, Mirk felt like vomiting again. The pyre had been nothing more than a wide circle of dead men on the ground when he''d gone there with Emir to arrange the Twentieth''s dead, a ring of assassins with their bodies crossed over one another, all linked together in death in a way they would have resented while alive. It''d grown since then to a narrowing pile that was twice Mirk''s height.


    It was easy to forget how many K''maneda died over the course of a year with the bodies all hidden in the infirmary basement. The place was a giant warren of cubicles cut into the stone blockwork of the building''s foundations, the air damp and heavy, lit only by dim grayish magelights that prevented the living visitors to the basement from fully appreciating the vastness of the network of passageways. Mirk always kept his visits short, scrambling back upstairs the instant he''d finished confirming the death of some unfortunate former patient. With fourteen divisions'' worth of dead dragged out and stacked, the amount of suffering the K''maneda had endured over the past year was impossible to avoid.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "Mordka!" K''aekniv shouted back at the train of Easterners who''d been following their sledge. "Quit trying to get your dick hard and get up here!"


    A minute later, Mordecai appeared, looking a little annoyed, though Mirk could feel the remains of lighter emotions clinging to him. "You shouldn''t talk about my wife that way," he grumbled, as he scrambled to help the others untie the ropes securing the bodies to their sledge.


    "She''s not your wife yet," K''aekniv countered, leering down at Mordecai.


    "Shut up and do your own work, you asshole."


    Mirk shook his head, laughing under his breath. There was no ill intent in K''aekniv''s goading. It was simply the way things were among the Easterners: everyone who came into a bit of good luck had to be given a hard time about it at every turn. Not out of malice, but to ensure that they didn''t lose their luck along the way, somehow. Mirk watched them add the first bodies to the pile ¡ª K''aekniv was the only man tall and strong enough to stack them directly, the rest having to depend on Slava and the other strong men to unload, while Mordecai used his teleportation magic to help boost the bodies high enough. Then he went off toward the rear, in search of Danu.


    She had to be there, considering K''aekniv''s comment. He found her near the edge of the clearing, a large pack slung over one thin shoulder that a woman without her inhuman strength wouldn''t have been able to carry for more than a few feet. Mirk greeted her with a smile and a wave, which she returned with a breathless nod. "Can I help you, Danu?" Mirk asked.


    Danu shook her head, adjusting the pack on her shoulder. "I didn''t expect you to come."


    "I didn''t know you were coming either." It was technically true, Mirk supposed, though it was increasingly rare to encounter Mordecai without Danu lingering somewhere nearby, even while at work in the infirmary.


    "It''s not much, but the Festival is as close as we get to a holiday. And Morty felt like celebrating," Danu said, smiling to herself. Her hope was a faint warmth among the tired and melancholy minds of the fighters, a spark of light ghosting past Mirk''s shields. "He made me haul out a whole kitchen set, practically..."


    "I didn''t know Mordecai liked to cook."


    Danu laughed. "Morty? No, he''s useless at it. It''s all up to me and Niv. Morty says it''s tradition where he''s from to have a feast for all your family and friends when you announce your wedding. We decided the Festival is as good of a time as any."


    Mirk glanced around the clearing and the woods beyond, at all the tired and dismal faces. He avoided looking back at the growing pile of bodies. "...really?"


    "It''s only like this before the ceremony. Afterwards, it''s...well, it''s the K''maneda. Everyone gets drunk all night, or at least the fighters do. And usually all of Fatima''s girls sneak through the transporter. You can sort out the rest."


    "At least they get to have fun once a year, I suppose," Mirk said. Though it seemed like a grim occasion to celebrate.


    "Emir will probably send a half dozen teams through tonight to handle all the fights. There''s no hard feelings, though, it''s just how K''maneda are when they get drunk. You patch them up and they''re right back at it like nothing happened."


    "That''s as good of a reason as any to stay," Mirk mumbled, mostly to himself.


    "But why did you come in the first place?" Danu asked. "I know traveling is hard for you, especially this far."


    "Methinks it''s only right for me to learn more about you all," Mirk said. "It''s no trouble, really."


    Danu stared at him for a moment. Then she looked away, back off toward the Easterners, chuckling under her breath. "Genesis will be through the transporter with his new company soon. He might already be here. He was out on the parade grounds giving the captain and his second an earful about the best way to stack bodies when I left. Not the best way to start things off, but at least the lads will know what to expect from him now."


    Mirk felt himself go red in the face, though he pulled up the hood of his cloak fast to try to hide it. Was he really so transparent? Yule had sworn himself to secrecy about everything they''d discussed when Genesis had nearly died in the wake of the Easterners'' last contract, and Mirk trusted him. But it was hard to hide something so emotionally charged from another empath, especially one who he worked close beside every day. Mirk decided to let it go, telling Danu to come look for him if she needed help preparing for her wedding feast before trudging off down the track back toward the transporter.


    There was no one there, not at the moment. Just as Mirk was about to go find a tree to lean against while he waited, the transporter crackled to life.


    It was all very fitting, Mirk thought, dramatic and dark, though doubtlessly Genesis hadn''t intended for things to be that way. The commander led the next group of men through the transporter empty-handed, long tendrils of shadow trailing behind him. Though the men following him with their sledge were all pulling hard, five on either side, the strain plain to be seen on their faces, the shadows were hauling along most of its weight. The pile on Genesis''s new company''s sledge wasn''t as high as the Easterners'' had been, but a moment later, a second sledge came through the transporter, the shadows helping that one along as well. The men of the Seventh''s Irish company had suffered that year much more than the Easterners had.


    For a moment, Mirk debated whether or not it''d be a good idea to join them. He ultimately decided to give it a try. The worst Genesis could do was ignore him. "Messire!" Mirk called out, as he headed down the track toward him. "Can I help? Is everything all right?"


    Genesis didn''t look down at him. But he did nod. "You didn''t need to come here."


    "I felt like I should." Mirk decided to change the subject right away ¡ª the last thing he needed was to get in some sort of philosophical argument with Genesis. "Are these your new fighters?" K''aekniv had been right. The men trudging along behind Genesis were much smaller than most of the Easterners, sickly and pale, half of them coughing into their sleeves. While everyone in the K''maneda had technically been through a war recently, the men Genesis led really looked it.


    Genesis sighed. "Yes. But they are not...mine. They are no one''s but their own."


    "Their last commander must not have been very kind to them, methinks."


    "Jenks was unconcerned with anything other than his pay. And...purchasing higher ranks with it."


    "Are all the other companies in the Seventh like this?"


    Genesis shook his head, once. "Predictably...Dauid gave me responsibility for the...ones he values the least. But they will recover. In time and with effort."


    Mirk glanced back over his shoulder at the Irish fighters. While everyone who''d come to the forest that day was a little downcast, the Irish fighters looked truly miserable. They''d piled on every sweater and cloak and overcoat they''d owned, but most of them were still shaking from the unrelenting cold. "Maybe once all the...euh, people from the basement are taken care of, I can help some of them feel a little better. There''s not much else for me to do here."


    "It is not...necessary."


    "No, but it can''t hurt either. I''ve been resting for a few weeks now. Besides, messire, I could say the same thing to you," Mirk said, nudging at one of the tendrils of shadow that''d come to investigate who was disturbing their master. It was wrapped around his arm, probing his magic, though it wasn¡¯t squeezing him. Perhaps it recognized him, somehow. That person who was always annoying Genesis, but who didn''t pose him any threat. As soon as Genesis looked down at him, the band of shadow retreated. "It''s kind of you to help them all," Mirk added, to emphasize his point.


    "They would have preferred to handle it themselves. However, it would have...strained them unduly."


    "I suppose these are all their old friends. They must feel like they owe them this much."


    "These bodies are merely...shells. To be returned to the chaos from which they came. It does not matter who carries them."


    Mirk wasn''t surprised Genesis had that kind of cold perspective on the dead. But he also suspected that if the body in question was that of one of his oldest friends, K''aekniv or Pavel, he''d be carrying them to the unlit funeral pyre by hand. Mirk quickly pushed the thought from his mind, refocusing on the track ahead of them. Though the silence of the forest pressed in thick around him, it felt more bearable now that Genesis had arrived. The commander''s own, deliberate sort of silence helped. And so did the hissing feel of his magic against Mirk''s mind.


    Once they reached the clearing, Genesis''s new band of fighters were granted a reprieve as they waited their turn to heap their dead upon the pyre. Part of it had become unbalanced while Mirk had been down by the transporter, and K''aekniv and the rest were scrambling to put things right before the whole thing could topple over. Genesis joined in without prompting, lecturing the Easterners on proper technique as he used his shadows to nudge the stiff, sheet-wrapped forms this way and that atop the pyre. Mirk took it as his sign to withdraw, falling back among the men of the Irish company as they watched the arguing going on at the base of the pyre with blank expressions and unseeing eyes.


    Bracing himself against the inevitable pain, Mirk lowered his mental shielding partway, examining the men with his magical senses rather than turning around and staring at them. His initial thoughts had been right: most of the men''s magic felt unsteady, weakened, their life-giving cores wavering under the strain of coughs and infections or sheer exhaustion. Though he didn''t turn all the way, Mirk surveyed them out of the corner of his eyes, to try to get a sense of their ranks. Most of them all wore the same things, the standard issue Supply Corps black uniforms and overcoats, although most had woolen sweaters and hats and mitts as well, handmade and adorned with thick cabling by a left-behind wife or mother. But two of the men, standing near the front, had better boots than the rest. Mirk got the impression that they''d chosen to put themselves between the others and the Easterners, just in case. And between the rest and Genesis.


    Mirk went over to the pair, going to the nearer and taller of the two. He had a ruddy beard, much like Dauid''s, though his was tidy and clean despite the appalling condition of most of his clothing. And the horrible infection Mirk could feel brewing in some injury that was hidden by his shirtsleeve. He stepped into the man''s line of sight, dipping his head rather than performing a full bow. "Excuse me, comrade. I couldn''t help but feel that your arm is hurt...if it''s no trouble to you, I can heal it for you, if you''d like."


    The bearded man stared at Mirk for a moment, then turned to look at his friend. All the other man did was shrug, still watching the chaos happening at the base of the pyre. K''aekniv was scolding Mordecai for "thinking about his dick too hard instead of his work", while Genesis was meticulously straightening every last body on the pile, brows pulled down in concentration. Now that Genesis had arrived, most of the Easterners and other fighters still working on the pyre took it as their cue to rest, knowing full well that no matter how careful they were, their work wouldn''t be nearly as meticulous as Genesis''s. Though the commander still allowed the men to unload each of the bodies from their sledge and offer them to the shadows themselves, Mirk noticed.


    Mirk knew it might be better to leave well enough alone. But he tried a different tactic instead of withdrawing. He took his bag off his shoulder and rummaged inside it, finding a fresh roll of magicked bandages and a potion that was good against infection, though it wouldn''t be nearly as effective compared to Mirk pulling the sickness out himself with his own magic. He offered them both out to the bearded man, that time with a proper bow. "Please, comrade," he said. "It''s important that you look after yourself. Your wound is infected, and in this cold, methinks it might only get worse if it isn''t seen to..."


    Again, the bearded man looked to his fellow. But that time, he spoke to him as well, in a lilting language that Mirk didn''t understand, though he recognized it from when Danu and Yule got into particularly heated arguments. His fellow ¡ª shorter, thinner, bare-faced, with pale hair and eyes ¡ª sighed, finally acknowledging Mirk standing in front of them. "We don''t need your pity, comrade healer," he said, in a low, heavily-accented voice. Mirk should have brought his translation charm.


    "It''s not pity, comrades," Mirk said, with an apologetic dip of his head. "I''m only doing my work, just like you are. And I also know Comrade Genesis. Methinks you''ll all find him less...euh, troublesome if you''re well. He''s...hmm. Well, methinks he isn''t the most understanding man on the best of days. And today is hard for him, just like it is for all of you. I only want to help make it easier however I can, if it''s not a bother." Mirk paused, then offered out the bandages again. "And there''s no price to you, of course."


    The two men both relaxed then, though what caused it ¡ª his mention of Genesis or the assurance that he wouldn''t try to pry any gold from them ¡ª was unclear to Mirk. The shorter, pale man squinted at Mirk as the bearded one unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeve, revealing an angry, oozing cut down the length of his forearm. "Oh. You''re Genesis''s healer, aren''t you? The foreign one? I''ve heard about you ''round the tavern. Mark something," the pale man said.


    Mirk smiled and nodded. "Mirk, yes."


    "Sorry about that. Didn''t know. Thought you were some noble bastard trying to scam us out of our gold." The pale man worked up an attempt at a smile as he extended his hand. "Sean, I''m the captain. And that''s Conall, my second. Doesn''t do English too good yet, same as most of us. Why bother, right?"


    He shook Sean''s and Conall''s hands in turn, trying not to be too put out by how easily they''d recognized him as high-born. He hadn''t worn his nice cloak, even, though that one was warmer. But he supposed that they were as good as reading the small signs of rank and privilege as he was. And he''d recognized both of them as officers by their boots. "It''s a pleasure, comrades. I''d be more than happy to help everyone who needs a little healing while you wait your turn," he said, glancing back at the pyre. Things were in full swing now, with Genesis and K''aekniv doing the majority of the work, the commander with his magic and the half-angel with his inhuman strength and height. "Though, euh...well, methinks you''ll get a little help now that Genesis is here. He''s very...euh, particular."


    Now that their leaders had relaxed, some of the other men were drifting closer too, especially the worst off among them, the ones who were coughing and limping. Mirk gestured to Conall''s arm with an encouraging smile, and he held it out to be healed rather than taking the bandages and potion from Mirk. Which made him feel a little better about things.


    "I don''t need any healing, but I''d appreciate you telling me what you know about him," Sean said, jerking his chin at something behind Mirk. Presumably Genesis. "Tough nut to crack, that one. Can''t decide if wants to kill us all or help us. Need to make sure the lads are protected."


    Mirk nodded as he put down his supplies and started work on the cut, taking Conall''s hand in his own and pressing the other down on the cut as lightly as he could. "Bien s?r, Comrade Captain Sean. I''d be happy to answer all of your questions. Though methinks you really have nothing to worry about. Genesis really does care. It''s just...hard to tell, sometimes."


    That and he was unfairly biased toward being more forgiving of Genesis¡¯s oddity than anyone else. But no one needed to know about that half of things.

 Chapter 59

    It was past dusk when the Festival began. The pyre had long since been built, the bodies piled fifteen feet high, freezing together solid under the light snow that''d begun to fall just past the brightest part of the day. But all the poor men, the fighters and the hedge mages and a smattering of riflemen, needed to wait for their commanders and their officers to arrive before they were allowed to honor their dead. And the commanders, as always, were late.


    It had been a strange afternoon. Mirk had passed the first half of it chatting with Sean as he saw to the needs of the Irish company, the captain seated beside him on a fallen log as Mirk healed his men. After a time, Danu had joined him, which had made things easier. Mirk didn''t know what made them more receptive to taking healing from her than him: that she was more familiar to them than he was, capable of speaking to them in their native tongue, or the fact that many of the men looked upon her with a sort of wistful regret. A good third of them had tried their luck with her before, she''d explained to Mirk in hushed tones in between patients. But Mordecai had set his sights on her more than a decade ago, and had been working hard ever since. Mirk knew full well, both from Danu''s words and the occasional flickers of happiness that pressed against his mind whenever Mordecai wandered over to ask her a question about her preferences for this or that dish, that she found his energetic, playful charm more irresistible than any set of well-muscled shoulders or soulful eyes.


    After the wounded had been seen to, Mirk had gone along with her to where the Easterners had set up camp in a nearby clearing to help prepare dishes for the anticipated feast. Both K''aekniv and Danu had been shocked by how much Mirk could help, though he left the trimming and stuffing of the various cuts of meat to them. He supposed it made sense ¡ª why would a noble son know how best to scrub potatoes and dice onions? But he''d done his time in the abbey''s kitchens, the same as the other brothers and sisters. Father Jean had always been adamant that he never let other people do his work for him just because his family contributed more gold to the abbey''s coffers than any other. In retrospect, Mirk understood why he¡¯d been so adamant.


    Then the interminable waiting for the commanders had begun.


    The K''maneda''s low-born fighting men assembled in the clearing before the unlit pyre by division, each group cut off from one another, though there was a bit of mingling between the divisions where men shared a common tongue. The Bavarians of the First and the Second stuck together, as did the English of the Fifth and Fourteenth. Everyone avoided the Easterners without exception, and the Irish too.


    The only commander who¡¯d come through the transporter in the pre-dawn hours and remained with the men until nightfall was Emir. Mirk considered joining him and seeking out his fellow healers, but ultimately decided against it. Mirk hadn''t seen any other healers there yet, himself and Danu excepted. And the head of the Twentieth was in a black mood, sucking constantly on his pipe and avoiding everyone, though he kept a watchful eye out for arguments that could escalate to blows. If he hadn''t been constrained by his rank, Mirk thought, Emir probably would have retreated up one of the countless pine trees surrounding the clearing to be alone with his thoughts. Even if he was only a half-angel, the impulse to seek the high ground was hard to overcome. Provided one wasn''t tied so strongly to the Earth like he was.


    Emir''s mood lightened once the first of the other commanders arrived ¡ª an imposing dark-haired man in well-made but simple, functional clothing that¡¯d seen hard use. He came alone, without the requisite crowd of high-born officers who¡¯d purchased their command skulking along behind him. The men from the First straightened up and saluted him when he appeared at the end of the gloomy track connecting the transporter to the clearing, but he waved them off instantly. After pausing to exchange words with one of his low-born officers, he went to stand beside Emir close to the pyre.


    The imposing man had a pipe of his own, though it wasn''t thin and long like Emir''s. Mirk wondered if they''d acquired the habit independently of each other, or had fallen into it together. Considering which group of fighters had saluted him, Mirk assumed the man had to be North, the First''s commander. Mirk hadn''t known that Emir was close to him. Or perhaps Emir was simply the least troublesome commander on offer that night. Mirk had learned over the past few months that it was never good to face things alone in the K¡¯maneda, if it could be avoided.


    More commanders arrived shortly thereafter, in twos and threes, all of them with gangs of officers trailing behind them. It made it difficult for Mirk to tell which division each of them belonged to. And he felt too awkward disturbing the strained silence that had fallen over the Easterners and the rest of the fighting men to ask Danu, who was standing beside Mordecai near the front of their group, to explain. Asking Genesis or K''aekniv was out of the question. Though Genesis was always silent and withdrawn, Mirk got the impression that it was due to his worsening mood that night more than it was his usual disdain for idle chatter. The lengthening shadows clustered close to him, rose and fell and curled with the unspoken fluctuations in his thoughts. K''aekniv was keeping a careful eye on him. Though he didn''t turn down any of the communal bottles that were passed his way.


    The commanders gathered around the front of the pyre in a second half-circle, each more or less close to their division, Mirk assumed, though the specialized divisions, the ones that involved a good deal of magecraft and training, had nearly no one in attendance that night besides their highest officers and commander. He''d noticed that morning that there were very few bodies from the Eleventh and Third mage brought to the pyre. It was beneath a noble mage, cast out of the guilds but not robbed of guild knowledge, to be burned along with the commoners.


    Though he didn''t know enough to match faces with names, Mirk could tell which of the commanders had to be nobles. They were the ones whose cloaks were closed with clasps made of gold and silver, who wore their swords on their backs rather than at their sides. Whose gestures, though marked by the roughness common to all K''maneda, bore the grace of having been trained in dancing and riding, even if those particular lessons had been long forgotten. The rest relied on their bulk and their magical auras to bully the other commanders into respecting them. Dauid was among this group, though Mirk noticed that he and his second stayed far away from Genesis and K''aekniv, instead favoring a group of fighters that had arrived shortly after the Irish company. Dauid had been through this all countless times before. He must have known what sort of mood the Festival put Genesis in.


    Comrade Commander Margaret wasn''t in attendance. Nor was Cyrus from the Tenth. And neither division had brought any bodies for the pyre.


    The last of the commanders and their officers didn''t arrive by the transporter and the road through the forest. Instead, they appeared together in the middle of the mass of officers closest to the pyre, their arrival marked by the bang of a teleportation spell. Four men in heavy black furs and velvets stitched with silver and leathers unmarred by use, flanked by their fellow officers. And accompanied by a half dozen djinn in their rough-spun, baggy black robes and their thick iron collars. The entire crowd snapped to attention, the low-born fighters saluting, the other commanders giving nods of varying degrees of deference. Mirk fumbled through a salute of his own, though he still hadn''t mastered the crisp way the K''maneda custom was performed. K''aekniv had to smack Genesis in the ribs before he''d make a gesture even approaching a salute.


    One of the men who''d just arrived had to be Ravensdale. Mirk was embarrassed to realize that he didn''t have a clue which of the four commanders Ravensdale was, despite how many heated conversations he''d had with Genesis and the others about how to deal with him. Two djinn stayed close to the group, the rest fanning out at some unspoken signal to put themselves between the commanders and the fighting men at judicious intervals. Am-Gulat wasn''t among them. Mirk wondered if that was a bad sign, or if he should be relieved.


    After all the waiting, Mirk was surprised by how perfunctory the start of the ceremony was. There was no fanfare, no parade or ritual gestures beyond that one salute. Instead, one of the four newly arrived commanders stepped forward, the two djinn who''d remained with the group flanking him close on either side. Without any further introduction, the man began to speak into the hush that''d fallen over the fighters and their commanders, his smile tight and cold and his voice kept low so that everyone needed to hold still and lean close to hear him.


    "Welcome, comrades, to the Festival of Shades. We gather each year on the third Sunday of February to honor the dead and see them off to better lives in the world beyond. This year is no different. Except, perhaps, for the number of dead."


    The man who''d spoken up, who was still speaking, though Mirk had quit listening close enough to hear him, wasn''t physically remarkable. He was of middling height and build, with close-cut dark hair and a bare face. Mirk could spot that he''d enchanted himself to look more handsome, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and altering the set of his jaw to make it more square and masculine. But it wasn''t an exaggerated, obvious glamor. It was enough to make him better than most, but not enough to make him striking.


    Everything about Ravensdale was average. Mirk had expected more from a man whose name was always spoken in hushed, frightened tones, or spat out with venom. And the others had mentioned that he invested a great deal of potential in changing his appearance. It was almost disheartening to see that the man he''d heard so much about was so...unremarkable.


    But the longer Mirk studied him with his mind''s eye rather than his physical ones, the more he felt there was something deeply wrong with the man. It was his magic, Mirk realized with a start, as one of the djinn flanking Ravensdale flinched and reached for his collar, though his fingers stopped just short of seizing on it. The cloud of magic surrounding Ravensdale''s mind, cloaking his emotions, wasn''t his own.


    If he hadn''t once been filled with djinn potential himself, Mirk wasn''t certain he would have recognized it. All of the magic surrounding Ravensdale was air-based, ordered, flowing seamlessly into the perpetual breeze that ghosted about that forest at the edge of the world. But every so often, Mirk caught glimpses of a different element in it: water that fluttered on the currents of air like the softly falling snow, or earth that called out to his own magic, albeit more weakly than a true earth mage''s did. And there was a hint of chaos in it that didn''t belong there, a glimmer of something that wasn''t djinn. Though the chaos might not have been Ravensdale¡¯s true magic slipping through his haze of djinn potential either.


    The longer Ravensdale spoke, the harder it was for Mirk to keep his mind fixed on him. While he''d been ignoring his speech, Genesis hadn''t. Whatever Ravensdale had to say about those who''d passed that year was troubling Genesis deeply. Mirk couldn''t see the commander''s face, but he could tell from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tense way his arms hung at his sides that he was furious. That and the shadows that had drifted closer to Genesis over the course of Ravensdale''s speech were so thick and dark that Mirk was surprised no one else could hear their hissing. Or maybe they could. K''aekniv was on high alert, in any case, his feathers standing on end and his body tensed in a way different from Genesis''s. The half-angel ready to step in if things got out of hand.


    Mirk made himself focus back on Ravensdale''s words, to see if he was close to concluding. He wasn''t. Instead, he''d shifted to a different purpose: honoring the living rather than the dead.


    "Before we help our comrades pass, I''d like to take this opportunity to congratulate those among us who''ve worked the hardest and sacrificed the most to make this year a success," Ravensdale said, turning to face the ranks of commanders arrayed before the unlit funeral pyre. The djinn moved with him, facing outward toward the low-born fighting men, a warning that no one should be so foolish as to try to take a shot at the Comrade while his back was turned. "The highest honors, of course, have to go to Ksyr of the Fourteenth. Your tireless efforts to go beyond mere duty are apparent to everyone gathered here tonight. To you, I bow especially," Ravensdale concluded, with a stiff bow to one of the other commanders, a gesture that bore none of the grace of noble training.


    "A fucking S''kanyk, of course," one of the Easterners nearest Mirk muttered. He''d scared up a translation charm since that afternoon ¡ª the hushed voice bore the hallmark ringing of being run through it.


    "Should have killed them all when we had the chance."


    "There''s time yet."


    The man Ravensdale had bowed to didn''t look any happier about it than the men of the Seventh. He was a tall, grave man, who wore his hair in the traditional K''maneda fashion, long and held back with a plain tie that didn''t match the fine silver stitching on his well-tailored overcoat. He only gave the slightest of nods in response to Ravensdale''s rigid bow, refusing to meet his superior''s gaze for more than a second before he went back to gazing out at the crowd with a bored air.


    It took Mirk a moment to match his name with the gossip he''d heard about him. Ksyr S''kanyk, commander of the Fourteenth Infantry, brother to a man Genesis and the oldest of the Easterners had murdered over something that''d been done to them as children. They''d been in a wary truce ever since Ravensdale had returned to the City, their hatred of each other held in check by their shared resentment towards Ravensdale. Mirk did his best to commit the man''s cold, rounded features to memory as Ravensdale moved on, strolling along before the commanders with his hands held behind his back, his djinn mirroring his every move.


    "And then there''s Comrade Lorenz. Your men have always been some of our best fighters. And you''ve maintained your reputation well this year. Your loyalty and dedication is, as always, beyond reproach," Ravensdale said, rewarding another man with a shallower bow. Unlike Ksyr, Lorenz returned the gesture, a wide grin spreading across his face beneath an oiled and curled mustache. He was, much like Fatima''s ladies had said, a small, soft, weaselly sort of man. Ordinarily, Mirk wasn''t one to judge on appearances, but the pain Lorenz had caused by carving his mark into Joan''s chest was still fresh in his memory. He felt justified in that judgment, though he knew he shouldn''t have.


    Ravensdale didn''t linger on Lorenz long. Next he seized on one of the men he''d arrived with, a portly man who was wearing mages¡¯ robes underneath his velvet cloak. He''d had them tailored to make himself look wider about the shoulders and narrower in the hips. "Of course, without our mages to support our fighters, all our contracts would fail. You''ve done good work this year, Paul. Despite working at a disadvantage, as is sadly so often the case."


    The portly man returned Ravensdale''s slight bow with an equally slight nod ¡ª he seemed profoundly uncomfortable, the same as the other mage, who was as tall and spindly as Paul was wide and solid. Ravensdale ignored the other mage, instead giving the last remaining man in the group that had arrived along with him an offhanded pat on the shoulder. He was as middling as Ravensdale, though there was a certain eager liveliness in his eyes that Ravensdale lacked, and he wore his hair long in the traditional K''maneda style, like Kysr of the Fourteenth. "And you''ve done the same, of course, Casyn. Our strategy would be impossible without your impeccable coordination."


    Ravensdale gave the compliment in an offhand way, one tMirk could tell was entirely disingenuous without help from his empathy. But Casyn beamed and nodded nevertheless, preening like a child who''d been told he''d done well on his lessons by his strictest tutor. Suddenly, all of the pent up frustration and bitterness he''d felt from Margaret was understandable. Having a husband who was so focused on praise that he couldn''t spot the insult in a backhanded compliment had to be unbearable for a woman as keen and intelligent as Margaret. Not to mention the way Casyn was intent on keeping his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared as Ravensdale moved along, while the two mages beside him were rightly chagrined.


    "And last, but certainly not least...there is Comrade Commander North."


    Despite all his confidence and the djinn at his back, Ravensdale was smart enough not to get too close to North, giving the imposing, surly man his kudos at a judicious distance. Though Emir kept his eyes away from Ravensdale, his arms folded and fingers ticking like he was desperate to get back to the solace of his pipe, North returned Ravensdale''s cold smile with a scowl.


    Ravensdale was undeterred by it, continuing with his hands folded primly on his stomach and leaning back on his heels. There was a certain deliberateness in that pose that was as menacing as North''s scowl. Everyone gathered around the pyre knew those small, unblemished hands just above Ravensdale''s belt were capable of more bloodshed with a flick of a finger than a whole company bristling with swords and rifles. "Your willingness to take on the most difficult contracts and to assist other divisions in need is commendable. And is greatly appreciated, along with your perceptiveness and tact."


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    There was a long, heavy silence. But eventually even North cracked, giving Ravensdale a curt nod as he fixed his gaze back on his men out in the crowd. Ravensdale smirked to himself as he turned to face the low-born fighting men as well, satisfied with how that year''s accolades and dressing-downs had been received. Now that his commanders had been handled, there was only the rabble to be dealt with. As an afterthought.


    "But we''ve all worked hard this year, haven''t we? Things are changing, gentlemen. For the better. The guilds are investing all their gold into business and nothing into protecting what they''ve grown. And beyond our realm, mages from rim to rim have begun to realize that the K''maneda is the most reliable fighting force on offer. Far more reliable than their own people, in any case.


    ¡°The K''maneda is impartial. Dependable. There to do work, not settle ancient scores. Both the guilds and the off-realm mages need us to keep their enterprises afloat. Because of that, I think we can all expect that the coming decades will bring us and the City prosperity beyond measure. These men did not die in vain," Ravensdale concluded, with a vague, off-hand gesture at the pile of bodies looming behind him. "They died so that we can all have a better life."


    If Genesis''s chaotic aura hadn''t been so impenetrable, every person with empathy in attendance would have been left clutching their heads from the force of his rage. But Mirk didn''t need to feel his emotions, or even see his face to be able to tell he was seething. It was in a dozen small things: his precisely balanced posture, the one he shifted into the instant before a fight began, the involuntary twitching of his fingers at his sides, reflexively wishing for a knife or a sword. The way the shadows near him all warped and curled, eager to rip the object of Genesis''s scorn to pieces at the slightest hint of permission. Genesis''s precise, unforgiving control only wavered for a second. But it was enough, Mirk thought, for anyone who''d been watching to know that the true threat to Ravensdale''s power didn''t lie among the commanders gathered around the pyre.


    The leaden hopelessness of the other low-born fighters, the fatigue and the emptiness that had hung above them all like an invisible storm cloud all afternoon, was unaffected by Ravensdale''s words. They''d probably heard better speeches over the years, and worse ones too. None of it mattered. None of it did anything to take away the crushing weight of the bodies stacked like cordwood behind Ravensdale. Mirk wished one of the Easterners would be kind enough to pass him a bottle. But they''d all fallen still over the last few minutes, sinking into their own thoughts as they mostly ignored the Comrade and stared up at the unlit pyre behind him instead.


    Ravensdale paused for an appropriate minute or two to honor the dead. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the group of commanders and officers who had teleported in alongside him and his djinn. "Comrade Lieutenant Commander Elijah. Will you do the honors?"


    Mirk hadn''t noticed Elijah hidden among the crowd of other officers. He stepped forward at Ravensdale''s command, shuffling up close beside the pyre. Even if Elijah had been standing at the front, Mirk might not have recognized him. All of his characteristic exuberance, his implacable curiosity and excitement, was missing that night. Instead, Elijah looked more like a boy who''d somehow gotten mixed up in men''s business and was being scolded for it, in a set of subdued black mages¡¯ robes and a cloak that were both far too big for his slight frame. He only summoned the nerve to look up at the pile of dead for an instant before he let his head fall. He lifted his hand, calling to his magic.


    It was a simple bit of magic, feeling and power and instinct rather than the meticulously crafted spells Mirk knew Elijah savored. Flames spread from Elijah''s hand in a circle around the pile of bodies, then sucked inward toward it in one fluid motion, setting the pyre ablaze.


    Mirk braced for the sick, meaty odor of charred flesh. But it never came. He hadn''t seen Elijah cast any second component to the spell, something that would have blunted the stench. It must have been set beforehand, while the pyre was still being built, and the touch of the flames had activated it.


    Like Elijah, Mirk could only bear to look closely at the pyre for a moment. Though the spell bore none of the hallmarks of Elijah''s elaborate spellcraft, he''d still chosen what sort of fire to call to carefully. The flames burned so bright and pure that they looked like something pulled forth by ordered light magic, honeyed and gleaming gold, rather than the dark, chaotic sort of fire Elijah usually leaned on. It was hard to see the burning bodies past them. After the moment had passed, Mirk shifted his attention back to Elijah. He still hadn''t lifted his head, both of his arms hanging limply at his sides. It was difficult to pick out through the haze of melancholy that filled the clearing in place of smoke, but Mirk was just close enough to the mage to sense the regret in him. It was the same sick feeling that had filled Mirk when he''d first seen the tower of bodies completed.


    The fact that Ravensdale gave Elijah an approving pat on the shoulder as he walked past on his way toward the track through the forest only made the feeling of regret deepen. And the gesture put a note of fear in Elijah, the desperate panic of a trapped animal. But the fire mage followed after Ravensdale nevertheless, the same as the other commanders. Ravensdale hadn''t insisted on pomp for his entrance, but he did for his exit. Without speaking, the crowd of shivering fighters stepped aside to clear a path for Ravensdale and the other commanders, saluting them as they passed.


    Most of the commanders left with Ravensdale. There were only three exceptions. Kysr, the commander of the Fourteenth, stopped to speak some encouraging words to his officers before leaving along with the majority of the fighting men from his division. Then there was only Emir and North left watching the bodies burn. Both of them had produced their pipes from their pockets the instant Ravensdale was out of sight. Mirk focused on them rather than on the pyre, studying their postures for lack of any emotions to feel.


    They were mirrors of each other, two sides of the same coin. North¡¯s scowl had deepened now that Ravensdale was gone, while Emir¡¯s expression had hardened into the cold mask of a man who¡¯d been taught by angels how best to show disdain. They both stewed in their annoyance as they stared up at the pyre. Then the moment was over and North knocked Emir in the shoulder, jerking his head at the crowd of fighting men. The two commanders filed back down the track without speaking, neither to each other, nor to any of the men who saluted them as they passed.


    With a communal exhale, life came back to the crowd of low-born fighting men. Bottles were pulled out of coats along with pipes, as old friends smacked each other in the side with admonitions not to be so serious. Most of the men followed their commanders'' examples, heading off back down the track through the woods to the transporter and more hospitable lodging. But a portion of the crowd ¡ª the lowest of the low-borns, who had no families to go back to and no spare gold to throw at the City''s legion of eager innkeepers ¡ª headed off toward the second clearing instead. To celebrate having survived another year in the forest alongside the dead.


    The Easterners lingered near the pyre for a few minutes, to pay some additional tribute to their own dead that they''d cobbled together from their various customs. It mostly involved passing around a single bottle of a better liquor, a tiny measure poured out onto the ground between each sip. Mordecai and Danu were the first to leave the glow of the burning funeral pyre, huddled together and discussing in low tones what had yet to be done to prepare for the feast. But Danu''s call from the second clearing a moment later that some kind of roast was done got the other men moving fast. Mirk was soon alone in the clearing, aside from K''aekniv and Genesis.


    The half-angel had one of his thick, giant arms wrapped tight around Genesis''s shoulders, talking to him in a low voice that Mirk couldn''t pick words out of over the snapping and popping of the flames eating away at that year''s dead. Genesis was tense from having K''aekniv so close, but he didn''t attempt to throw K''aekniv off either, like he usually did when the half-angel tried to catch him in embrace. K''aekniv refused to release Genesis until the commander gave him a single, grudging pat on the back in return. Laughing, K''aekniv gave Genesis a good-natured smack of a kiss on the cheek, releasing him and stepping away before Genesis could collect himself enough to backhand him in the face.


    K''aekniv''s found Mirk lingering in the shadows near the treeline as he headed off after the rest of his men, a sympathetic smile coming onto his face as he fished a bottle out of the inside pocket of his greatcoat. "It gets better," the half-angel said, after pulling the bottle''s cork from its mouth with his teeth and spitting it aside. "The first year, it''s the worst for everyone. Come have a drink with us, eh? You''ve done your duty."


    Mirk returned K''aekniv''s smile as best he could, accepting his own drink from the bottle K''aekniv offered him. "I know, but..." Unwillingly, he found himself glancing over at Genesis.


    K''aekniv sighed as he took the bottle back from him. "You should leave him alone, Mirgosha. He''s always in a shit mood after this. At least until someone can sneak some drink into him. Then it''s really a good time. Come with us until then."


    He supposed K''aekniv would best know how to handle whatever dark mood the ceremony had thrown Genesis into. He¡¯d been the one who''d managed all of Genesis''s oddities for the last twenty-some years, after all. But Mirk couldn''t force himself to leave Genesis alone with the dead.


    Mirk shrugged, pulling his cloak tight around himself and swallowing down hard the aftertaste of the Easterners'' pungent home-brew liquor. "Methinks having someone to listen might make him feel a little better though, non?"


    Shooting him an incredulous look, K''aekniv snorted. "You want to listen to him yell about the old K''maneda for hours? Go ahead. Me, I''ve heard it all twenty times already. When you get sick of it, you know where to find us. But I''ll make sure they save you some food. A man who''ll put up with his bullshit deserves something a little special." The half-angel reached out and ruffled Mirk''s hair as he trudged past him toward the second clearing, humming one of his old songs to himself as he went.


    Which left Mirk alone with Genesis. The still-burning dead aside.


    He went to Genesis cautiously, eyeing the shadows still gathered thick around him. They ignored Mirk as he approached, too fixed on whatever mood Genesis was sunk in to pay him any heed. The commander''s expression was as blank as ever, his eyes locked on the flames. They''d gone black.


    There was nothing he could say that''d comfort him, Mirk knew. So he settled for an apology instead. "I''m sorry, messire. I can see why you dislike him so much now. Or, at least I understand a little more than I did before."


    Genesis was silent for a long time before he finally spat out a response. "The dead deserve the proper rights. Not this...farce. Cayet, all of it. All of them."


    For a moment, Mirk thought Genesis had adopted the Easterners'' favorite curse ¡ª everything was shit to them, from the weather to the food to the boots they got twice a year from the Supply Corps. But there was something different in the word, in the way Genesis hurled it like a dagger through his teeth. It had to be from his native language, the one no one understood other than him. "What does that mean?"


    "It is not a word...in itself. It is everything c''ayet is not."


    Mirk sighed. The second word sounded a little like the first, only with a snapping click at its front rather than a hiss. "I''m afraid I don''t remember that one either, messire."


    "C''ayet is...complex. It is an approach to life. A perspective. A...philosophy, perhaps. Akin to your religion. But there are no gods in c''ayet. C''ayet serves no one and nothing. C''ayet never bows."


    That didn''t surprise Mirk. And it explained why all the commanders'' bows and nods to one another had bothered Genesis so much. "Methinks I must not be a very good K''maneda, then."


    Genesis considered this for a time, before finally breaking his unblinking stare at the fire and looking down at Mirk. The darkness had cleared from his eyes. A good sign, though the shadows were still stirring restlessly about both their knees. "C''ayet, like all things, is a choice. One can be K''maneda without accepting c''ayet. However, there are certain things that are...too cayet not to invoke a consequence," he concluded, with a sharp gesture in the direction of the burning pyre.


    K''aekniv was right. Genesis was in one of his strange moods, fixated on ideas no one had the context to understand. When Genesis became vague like that, he could sink down into that vagueness and brood on things for hours. Mirk tried to think up something more concrete to direct Genesis toward. "How is the ceremony supposed to go?" he asked.


    "It is...involved. Without every K''maneda present and without the...efforts of all the commanders, it is incomplete."


    "Oh. Well..."


    After a moment, Genesis sighed, drawing his sword from his back in one fluid, uncannily quick motion. "But. There is a...small thing that can improve this...attempt."


    "Would it make you feel better?"


    "My feelings are irrelevant. There is a...certain honor due to the dead."


    "I see..."


    "Burning alone was not the...preferred method of disposal. Chaos magic was always used along with it. To be certain they are returned entirely to dust."


    "For you are dust, and to dust you will return," Mirk mumbled to himself, unable to keep from smiling wistfully to himself.


    "I am not familiar with that expression," Genesis said, dismissively, as he held his sword out in front of himself with both hands, point down. The shadows curled around the blade, eager to finally have a task to attend to. Just like Genesis.


    "Methinks you should recognize it, messire. The Book of Genesis."


    Genesis only frowned.


    "Maybe we aren''t so different after all," Mirk said. "God aside."


    "You religion appears to have infinite interpretations. The¡­intent of your papist overseers aside."


    Mirk shrugged and nodded. "Like you always say, messire, everyone always has a choice. God never tells us His plans. And you can work against grace if you try. Even if you''re a bishop."


    Genesis shook his head, refocusing on his sword. Mirk was glad. The last thing he wanted was to get sucked into a theological debate with the commander, one that would undoubtedly leave them both more frustrated and confused than better off for it. Genesis said a few words in his harsh, clicking and snapping mother tongue. The shadows crept outward from the point of his sword, completely encircling the pyre like the dark mirror of Elijah''s fire that had come before. The pyre dimmed, every tendril of flame intertwined with a curl of shadow, dancing across the backs of the dead together.


    His words shifted to English as Genesis drove the point of his sword into the frozen ground. "No chains to bind us, no masters to serve. Resist, and be free."


    Then he stepped back from the sword, making a sharp, cutting gesture that was half salute and half wave over its hilt. The clearing went dark, just for a moment. Afterwards, only fire remained within the pyre.


    Before he could think better of it, Mirk crossed himself. Thankfully, Genesis was too preoccupied with his makeshift ritual to notice. Once the shadows had released the sword''s blade, Genesis pulled it out of the ground and returned it to the sheath on his back. "Do you feel better now, Genesis?" Mirk asked.


    "I have...done what I can."


    "Then why not come back with Niv and the rest? They''re having a party for Danu and Mordecai''s engagement. It''d be nice if you stopped by to congratulate them." Mirk paused, looking back over his shoulder into the woods, at the cheerful glow of several fires that''d been lit in the second clearing shining through the trees. Somehow, the glow from those fires was much warmer than the light cast by the funeral pyre. "I helped put everything together. There should be a few foods you can have without getting sick."


    "...every day...another excuse for some miserable...folk celebration..." Genesis grumbled to himself. With a final, long look at the topmost bodies stacked atop the pyre, Genesis turned away from it.


    "They just like to have a good time. And can you really blame them? It''s been a hard year for everyone, methinks. Mordecai really would be happy to know you approve of his engagement. He respects you, you know. All of them do."


    "I have no opinion on his choice of marriage partner. Though it would be beneficial to have another person keeping him from doing...inadvisable things. I am tired of having to...extricate him from the guild authorities."


    Mirk laughed. "I know Danu. She''ll take care of him. You know how healers can be."


    "Extremely...persistent," Genesis said flatly, as he stalked off toward the second clearing with the air of a man doomed to the gallows.


    "Only with the most stubborn patients," Mirk countered, following after him.


    He tried his best to keep up with Genesis, but the snow that''d been packed down into ice by hundreds of feet was slick. Mirk stumbled and slid as he chased after Genesis, and he braced himself for ending up flat on his back for what felt like the tenth time that day. To his surprise, before he could either find his balance or go tumbling backwards, he found himself being dragged upright and steadied by a hand on his shoulder. In an instant, faster than Mirk could track with his eyes, Genesis had come to his aid.


    Mirk laughed awkwardly as he continued onward, shuffling that time to lessen his chances of falling. "Ah, I didn''t mean to be an inconvenience, messire..."


    "A matter of practicality. If you...become incapacitated, there will be no one to heal the Easterners once the fighting bouts begin. I assume the other healers will be...occupied elsewhere."


    As always, Genesis had a rational explanation for all his actions. There was no room in him for sentimentality, for frivolousness. But the fact that he kept a steadying hand on his shoulder all the way to the second clearing made a spark of warmth ignite in Mirk¡¯s chest for the first time that evening.

 Chapter 60

    "You are more...foul than the Perstat carrion lizards. They at least have the carrion sparrows to pick their teeth clean."


    A roar of laughter went up from around the fire. Despite the fact that it was his teeth Genesis was criticizing, K''aekniv guffawed along with everyone else, shaking his head and ignoring the rude gestures the other Easterners made in his direction. "But you didn''t answer my question! Come, Snegurockha. Tell us. Whose tent do you like sharing the most?"


    "And why, that''s the important part," Slava added, elbowing K''aekniv and grinning.


    Genesis was an interesting drunk.


    It was the oddest thing Mirk had ever seen. Once they''d finished feasting, the Easterners had all assembled for a second toast to honor both Danu and Mordecai''s engagement and that year''s dead. Glasses were pulled out of coats and packs for the occasion, along with bottles to fill them. But rather than abstaining like he had for the previous toast, that time Genesis had silently summoned a glass of his own out of the shadows. It was the one time of year Genesis drank, K''aekniv had informed Mirk. He felt the need to show some respect for the dead in the way that the Easterners¡¯ customs required.


    When the bottle had reached Genesis, he''d poured himself a half-measure of the Easterners'' pungent liquor, staring down into his glass with a strained expression as K''aekniv gave his rambling eulogy for the dead. And when everyone threw back their drink at K''aekniv''s shout for good health and good luck, Genesis did the same. That was where their common ceremony ended ¡ª while the rest of the Easterners went in for another round, Genesis had meticulously cleaned his glass with a handkerchief and tucked it back into the shadows. Mirk assumed that so little liquor would do nothing to him, the same way that no pain blocker or sleeping draught ever seemed to touch Genesis''s aches and fatigue.


    And it didn''t appear to, at least not immediately. Genesis had retired to the far end of one of the logs the Easterners had dragged over close to their fire, extracting one of his endless, black-bound grimoires from his coat pocket, and had settled in to read. But the Easterners had kept an eye on him, had kept asking him his opinion of this or that thing. Genesis dismissed every question with one word answers and a wave of his hand. Then, abruptly, upon being asked what he thought of the Cossacks Orest had brought back with him from the east, Genesis had closed his book and given the question an undue amount of serious consideration, blinking slowly down at his boots as he thought.


    The blinking was what gave it away, K''aekniv had whispered to Mirk. The half-angel had invited Mirk to come sit against his inhumanly warm right side after noticing him shivering away back by Mordecai and Danu, who were wrapped up together under the same fur cloak. After another minute or two of silence, Genesis had finally said, without any trace of spite or malice, that the Cossacks smelled of horse no matter how often they bathed and were even worse drunks than the rest of the Easterners. But Genesis was willing to concede that they were serviceable fighters.


    Everyone had laughed. Especially the Cossacks, who seemed to accept Genesis''s judgment as a testament to their dedication to their traditions. Then the true interrogation had begun.


    It wasn''t as if Genesis was a habitual liar. He was always truthful, never one to lie to save face or spare feelings. But he''d learned over the years to be somewhat diplomatic, leaving out his more critical opinions, lest he get in a fight with every braggadocious man he came across. However, when Genesis was drunk ¡ª and how anyone Genesis''s size could get drunk off a half-measure of liquor, Mirk hadn''t the faintest idea ¡ª everything was laid bare. He spat up all of his opinions without reservation as he blinked owlishly against the light of the fire and drummed his long fingers against the cover of his book propped in his lap.


    The Easterners were never mean about it. They never asked him any questions that were too personal, nor any that could reveal any of the men''s more painful secrets. It all felt like an extension of their usual practice of hurling insults at one another when they got drunk to strengthen morale, with no one spared or treated any more harshly than the rest. Usually, Genesis considered it to be too frivolous of a custom to waste his time on. Now the commander was at the center of it all, everyone leaning forward and grinning as they awaited Genesis''s verdict.


    "What about Pasha?" K''aekniv prompted, when an answer to the question about the tent wasn''t forthcoming. "He''s pretty clean. Maybe you like sharing with him best?"


    Genesis snorted. "He talks to himself all night. And clings to you...like a leech."


    Snickers percolated among those who''d gathered around the fire as Pavel heaved a shrug and went red in the face. "I See things all night. Dreams make it worse."


    "You once...informed me of the weather forecast for the...next five months. Day by day. For the entire night." Genesis considered this for a moment, frowning. "You were mostly incorrect. And you...clung more tightly every time you predicted rain."


    "I hate the damp," Pavel grumbled, as those nearest him turned and grinned at him.


    "How about Ilyusha?" Slava suggested.


    Genesis shook his head without hesitation. "He smells strongly of cabbage and...takes my socks. I tire of it."


    "Socks?" Pavel asked, trying to redeem himself by shooting Ilya a cool, skeptical look. "For what?"


    But Ilya was unbothered, his usual pleasant demeanor unwavering. "He''s got magic in them. The thread''s so shiny...you can make so many things..."


    Slava, sitting on K''aekniv''s other side, gave him a pointed jab in the ribs. The half-angel cleared his throat and pestered Genesis again, though he didn''t look over at the commander. Instead, he was leering at Mordecai. "So then it must be Mordka, eh? He''s the only one left."


    The hopeful expression that''d appeared on Mordecai''s face vanished as soon as Genesis answered, with another curt shake of his head. "No. He is...possibly the worst. He either moans for his...grandmother all night while crying...or begs you to embrace him like his wife. Also while crying." Genesis paused. "Future wife. However, he decided she would take this position in his life...ten years and seven months ago, and has not relented since. It is a matter of...intense preoccupation for him. That manifests in constant chatter and an...undue amount of self-obligation while asleep. It is intolerable. I am hopeful all of it will cease now that the issue is settled. As it were."


    Mirk clapped a hand over his mouth, unable to keep from laughing despite how crude the revelation was. The Easterners all stared at him, confused. Apparently the euphemism Genesis had tactfully chosen wasn''t familiar to them. Since Danu only looked and felt mildly annoyed, her exasperation tempered by the revelation that Mordecai had been steadfastly devoted to the cause of winning her affections for a full decade, Mirk elected to satisfy the Easterners'' curiosity. He looked away from the crowd as he raised his hand, making an obscene gesture that was fairly universal.


    The Easterners exploded into laughter. Mordecai went alarmingly red, turning to face Danu with a frantic, apologetic wave of his arms. "I''m sorry, Danny! I''m a man! You don''t get to say when that happens! And at least it was you?"


    "You''re hopeless," Danu replied, shaking her head. But she didn''t move to get up either, even though there were now other healers from the Twentieth around she could have abandoned Mordecai in favor of. A fight had broken out between the men of the First and the Second and Emir had dispatched a team to handle the aftermath.


    K''aekniv decided to have mercy on Mordecai too, turning the focus of Genesis''s annoyance back on himself. "If it''s none of them, then it has to be me, yes?"


    Genesis brooded over this for a time, continuing to drum his fingers on the cover of his book. The shadows moved along with them, dancing and leaping behind the commander at the very edge of the ring of light cast by the fire they were all gathered around. "You are terrible. Your feathers are...filthy. You never remove your boots. You snore. You...manhandle me in your sleep. However. Tactically speaking, you are the best line of defense against a...surprise assault. Were I to...drag you on top of me in the event of an...unexpected engagement, doubtlessly no one would find me. Thus, from a strategic perspective, you are the most rational preferred choice."


    The commander paused, frowning. He did that more often when he was intoxicated, Mirk noticed, just as he seemed to lose the ability to shorten his words. Usually the opinion he chose to divulge after a lengthier pause was particularly sensitive. "Additionally, you are quite warm. Which is also essential in...adverse conditions."


    All of Genesis''s criticisms and the snickers they drew out of his comrades meant nothing to K''aekniv in light of Genesis''s admission that he preferred his company over that of the rest of his officers. K''aekniv heaved a wistful sigh, draining the remainder of the bottle he''d been working on for the last half hour as a smile spread across his face. "Ah, you''re my favorite too, Snegurockha. You''re a bony bastard, true, and maybe you only want me to stay warm, but that''s a kind of love, yes?"


    Scowling across the fire at K''aekniv, Genesis crossed his legs, shifting his book onto his knee. "I do not understand your reasoning."


    "Never mind. Too bad for you, I''m not giving you my wing to hide under tonight," K''aekniv said, catching sight of a cluster of shapely figures making their way into the second clearing from the direction of the track through the woods. As Danu had predicted, a group of Fatima''s ladies had snuck through the transporter, there to offer the K''maneda''s fighting men entertainment and companionship. For a reasonable price. K''aekniv, Mirk could sense, was determined to get a sleeping partner that night who wasn''t liable to knife him between the ribs if he tried to embrace them.


    "Are you good, Mirgosha?" K''aekniv asked him, putting one giant palm on the crown of his head for a moment to grab his attention. "You should go back to the City, I think. A place like this isn''t so good for someone with your kind of head magic at night."


    Mirk nodded. "Things seem to be ending anyway. But thank you for having me, Niv."


    K''aekniv patted his head a final time before hauling himself to his feet, stretching his arms high above his head and shaking out his wings. "You''re always welcome with us. You make things more fun! And anyway, none of us would know half the shit Snegurochka says without someone here to tell us what he means with all his stupid long words." He ambled off toward the women who were setting up shop at the edge of the clearing, making a show of forcing more of his magic back into his wings to make them glow more brightly than usual. The extra light more or less made up for the dismal condition of his feathers.


    Sighing, Mirk took a sip from his own nearly empty bottle. The Easterners were fun to be around, even if they were also a little strange. They had a way of approaching life that appealed to Mirk. Though they were always ready to complain about the difficult life they''d chosen, they also never hesitated to take full advantage of all the small delights they could find within the drudgery of mercenary life. Mirk wished he could take such a clear-headed approach to his troubles; he longed to be able to let go of all of his responsibilities and enjoy himself without always thinking of his family''s reputation and what sort of impression he was making. His family''s ledgers seemed far less appealing than the freedoms of a simple life. But Mirk supposed that was easy for someone who had always had those ledgers to draw on to say, and much harder to live out in fact.


    K''aekniv did have a point about him being better off in the City, however. It was bitterly cold in the forest. Not as cold as it''d been in the City a few weeks ago, but at least he''d had thick stone walls between himself and the elements then. Even if the trip back through the transporter to the City made Mirk throw up the feast he''d had with the rest in honor of Danu and Mordecai''s wedding, it was better than freezing solid out in the woods and coming down with a cold. Mirk got to his feet, finishing his bottle before going to set it down by the rest of that evening''s empties. Then he pulled his cloak tight around himself and started making his way through the gloom and the dispersing crowd around the fire toward the path to the transporter.


    "...Mirk. A moment."


    Surprised, Mirk lifted his head and looked back at Genesis. He was still perched on the end of the log furthest from the fire, staring at him, blinking slowly as he thought. The blinking really was disconcerting. Genesis hardly ever blinked, not when he was in a normal mood. Now he was doing it constantly, like a contented cat. Mirk pushed the association quickly out of mind. "Yes, messire?"


    "It would be...a trouble for you to return to the City, correct? Being transported so many miles in a...short span of time will...make you ill."


    Mirk shrugged. "It''s not too bad, messire. Methinks it''d be better if I got used to it. Besides, I didn''t bring anything to sleep in. And...well." Mirk gestured off at the Easterners ¡ª most of the ones he would have felt comfortable sharing a tent and a sleeping roll with were well on their way to finding more pleasurable companions for the evening than him.


    Genesis seemed disapproving of the Easterners'' tastes, but evidently didn''t find them worth commenting on. "I would take you back myself, however, it is...disrespectful to leave the dead before the bodies are...fully consumed. Also, I am...indisposed. At present."


    Unable to keep from chuckling under his breath, Mirk shrugged again. "It''s kind of you to let them have a little fun with you. You know it''s just their way of showing they appreciate you, non?"


    "Irrelevant," Genesis said with a sweeping gesture of his left hand, while he tucked his book back inside the breast pocket of his coat with his right. "In any case. I anticipated this turn of events and made efforts to...prepare for them. Should you be...positively disposed toward it, you may pass the night with me. If you prefer."


    Mirk knew he shouldn''t. The temptation to see what he could get away with, to indulge his dark thoughts, would be high in such cramped quarters, especially when Genesis was being so much more open than he usually was."It''s very kind of you to offer, messire, but I don''t want to be a bother."


    Genesis considered this for a long time, like he seemed to do in response to everything when he was drunk. He rose to his feet in an uncannily quick rush of blackness that put a lump in Mirk''s throat. "I am...unbothered."


    "Euh...well...if you''re sure..."


    Mirk waffled about uselessly as, without further comment, Genesis went about assembling the tent he dragged out of the shadows. It wasn''t terribly big, at least from the outside. Genesis chose a place far away from the others¡¯ tents to pitch it, at the very edge of the clearing, beside a giant pine with thick boughs that''d prevented the snow from piling too deep beneath it. As Mirk had anticipated, Genesis completed the whole process without lifting a finger. Instead, he stood back and watched fixedly as the shadows did it for him. They seemed off that night, just like their master. Usually, the shadows had a creeping, deliberate air about them. That night, they did their work with playful flourishes that weren''t ordinarily a part of their deadly repertoire.


    Once the tent was assembled, Genesis went to its front flap ¡ª he''d practically have to crawl to get into it ¡ª and began the laborious process of taking off his boots. Despite being drunk, Genesis was capable of standing on one leg indefinitely once he''d removed the right one and had moved on to the left. Mirk would have fallen over in a second or two, even if he hadn''t been tipsy. Genesis didn''t look back at Mirk once he''d unlaced and unbuckled his lefthand boot and moved to enter the tent, to have something clean and dry to put his stockinged foot down on. "If you decide to remain...remove your shoes. The interior is clean."


    With his final missive delivered, Genesis disappeared into the tent. Mostly. His left leg hung outside just long enough for him to remove his second boot. And for him to arrange them neatly beside the flap.


    Mirk wrung his hands behind his back, staring at Genesis''s boots. It was the point of no return. He could open the flap just long enough to call out an apology, then hurry off back through the woods to the transporter and his own bed. Or he could venture into the tent and come face to face once more with the challenges and opportunities posed by his unnatural desires. The sensible thing to do would be to go back. Two drunk men sharing such a small space hardly ever ended well, even in the best of circumstances.


    Quickly, Mirk worked his way out of his shoes, leaving them in a heap beside Genesis''s immaculate boots, and ducked into the tent. It was pitch black inside. He fumbled for the magelight strung on the cord around his wrist.


    Just as Mirk had suspected, the tent was larger on the inside than it should have been. It wasn''t palatial, but at least its roof was pitched high enough that Genesis wouldn''t have to crawl around on his hands and knees inside, long enough to accommodate Genesis''s height when lying down and wide enough not to cramp K''aekniv''s wings. Mirk imagined that was the whole point of the tent: if Genesis was going to be forced to share a space with K''aekniv, at least he''d be doing it in a tidy, well-magicked place rather than underneath whatever cast off bit of sackcloth K''aekniv deemed good enough to serve as shelter in the wilderness.


    There was something on the floor that could pass for a rug, though its pile was thin and unforgiving. But there was little else inside the tent other than a small trunk that doubtlessly contained Genesis''s collection of cleaning supplies and spare uniforms. The uniform Genesis had worn to the ceremony and his coat were neatly folded on top of it. Though it hadn¡¯t felt like Mirk had spent a long time dithering outside the tent, Genesis had already changed into his odd, heavy sleeping clothes and tucked himself into his bedroll. He was lying in the same position he always did when he tried and failed to sleep: flat on his back, the blanket pulled up only to the midpoint of his chest, his arms and hands left exposed and rigid at his sides. Ready to leap back to his feet, but hardly ready to get a good night''s rest. Though he was still blinking too much for Mirk''s liking.


    Mirk hesitated. He hadn''t brought anything to sleep in; he hadn''t been planning on spending the night in the forest. "Euh...I didn''t..."


    For once, Genesis was perceptive enough to pick up on things without having them explained to him. He lifted one hand to make a slight, dismissive gesture. "Removal of your outermost garments will...suffice." He paused, frowning up at nothing. "It is better than K''aekniv. Anything...is better than K''aekniv."


    Despite the situation, Mirk couldn''t keep from laughing as he unfastened his cloak and did his best to fold it, leaving it near the flap rather than putting it near Genesis''s still-pristine clothes atop the trunk. "You said he never takes off his boots."


    "And yet...he removes everything else."


    That drew a real laugh out of Mirk, some of the tension going out of him as he pulled his robes off over his head, leaving himself in nothing but his braies and chemise. His unnatural longings aside, Mirk doubted he''d ever work up the nerve to do anything as shocking as lying on top of Genesis naked like K''aekniv probably did. "But you still said he was the best to share a tent with, messire."


    Genesis mulled this over as Mirk hunched beside Genesis''s bedroll, considering his own options. There was only one pillow, one blanket. But Genesis was so thin that he took up less than half of each, his broad shoulders aside. K''aekniv must have brought his own things when he and Genesis were forced to share. That or K''aekniv was always so hot he never bothered carrying around blankets.


    "I am accustomed to him," Genesis finally said, while Mirk was still battling with himself over what to do. "I only had...five months and two weeks to myself before K''aekniv and the others came to the City. Then Senkov forced me to be with him. K''aekniv has always been the same. He is...odious, but predictable."


    "I''m sure he''s just trying to be nice. You''re always so cold, after all. And he¡¯s very, euh, warm."


    "All of your...touching rituals were foreign to me. At the time. I responded to them by attempting to take back my space with force. K''aekniv told me this was unacceptable. So he...made me learn to accept them. To a degree. He claimed that if I was more...normal...others would listen to me with less reluctance. They would not...be afraid. I believe he was incorrect."


    Sighing, Mirk got down on his knees and lifted the edge of Genesis''s blanket, then eased down onto his side next to him, leaving Genesis as much space as he could. Then he tapped off his magelight, blinking hard against the dark. "Methinks it just takes people a little longer to get to know you than it does everyone else, messire. No one''s afraid of you. I''m not, anyway."


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Despite the rug on the floor, the ground beneath it was hard and cold. Mirk wouldn''t be getting much sleep, even though he''d drunk enough of the Easterners'' homebrew liquor to have ordinarily made him pass out the instant he settled down.


    Behind him, Mirk heard Genesis sigh again. "You will not...sleep in that position."


    "It''s fine, messire. I don''t--"


    "As I said. I am unbothered." Again, Genesis paused. "Come¡­here. If you wish."


    Hesitantly, Mirk turned onto his back, leaving them pressed shoulder to shoulder. "I don''t mean to be cold. It''s only hard to tell with you, since I can''t feel anything."


    "I am making the appropriate gesture. No one...is ever perceptive enough to notice."


    Mirk shoved himself up onto one elbow, tapping his magelight on again and looking down at Genesis. He didn''t have the faintest clue what the commander was talking about. Genesis looked the same as always: blanket neatly folded up, his arms still stiff at his sides, staring up at the ceiling. Well. Staring at him, now that he''d noticed Mirk looking at him. "I''m afraid I don''t really see anything different..."


    Genesis sighed, adjusting his posture slightly. He made it a point to lay his hands perfectly flat on the blanket, palms up, then craned his neck to one side.


    Mirk still felt lost. "I don''t know what that means, Genesis."


    "This is...c''ktac position. One leaves all...critical points exposed to convey that one is....not a threat. And accepting of closeness."


    That was why it didn''t make any sense. The "appropriate gesture" was yet another relic of Genesis''s strange birth culture, the one nobody understood but him. And that Genesis never felt the need to explain. On top of that, Genesis had been making the gesture subtly before, the turn to his neck and wrists too slight to notice. "It would help me if you explained your gestures instead of just doing them and assuming I''ll know what you mean. You know I can''t feel you, messire."


    "I thought the meaning of this one was obvious. Apparently I was...incorrect."


    "I suppose it does make sense," Mirk said, as he tapped his magelight back off and settled in to try to sleep once more. "In an...euh...combative sort of way."


    He really should leave Genesis alone and try to sleep. But since the commander was being so much more talkative than usual, Mirk felt the urge to question him a little longer. Genesis hardly ever revealed anything about the way he''d been raised. Perhaps if he understood more of it, they could all get along better. There wasn''t anything underhanded in that. It was a matter of trying to understand a friend better, just like he''d questioned K''aekniv and the other Easterners on all of their odd traditions. "Are all of our gestures so strange to you?" Mirk asked Genesis. "Do your people not hug? Or kiss?"


    The second question was out of his mouth before he could think to stop his curiosity from going too far. Mirk cringed at the darkness above him, scolding himself mentally as he waited for Genesis to reply.


    "Those are not foreign gestures. The...process and context are different, however. One does not...simply walk up to any person and embrace them without question."


    "People don''t do that here either. Methinks maybe you just don''t understand how they ask. Just like I didn''t know you were doing...euh...ca..."


    "C''ktac position."


    "Yes, that."


    Genesis was silent for a time. But he continued before Mirk muster up the courage to ask him anything further. "The gestures you named are...reserved for one''s c''aytka. Or someone who has...returned c''ktac and been negotiated with. Once the arrangement has been...agreed upon, a second negotiation is not necessary. But it is still...polite to perform c''ktac first to confirm that they are...inclined toward closeness at the present moment."


    Mirk was losing track of Genesis¡¯s explanation ¡ª he really was too tipsy to be navigating the finer details of Genesis''s complex birth culture. But Mirk felt it''d be rude to dismiss him when he was being so open about how he understood the world for once. That aside, Mirk had his own reasons to be curious about the way Genesis understood relationships. Selfish ones. "C''a...euh...is that first word what you call the person you''re married to in your language?"


    "Marriage...as you people practice it...did not exist in the ancient K''maneda. But it would be the closest concept you are familiar with."


    "No one got married? How did you all have children? Or start a household?"


    "All of the K''maneda lived in the City. You are...aware of housing operates there. You simply...shared a space and your possessions. Upon negotiation. As for children...they did not live with those who birthed them. They lived in the children''s home and were...cared for by those who were to old to go on contract. Or not inclined toward it. Those who birthed a child...were not as important to them as their nis''yk. One cannot choose...who one is born of. One chooses their nis''yk."


    Mirk struggled to wrap his head around the details, all the words he couldn''t pronounce and could only tell apart by whether they began with a hiss or a click. "So...these kay...euh..kay-ka..."


    "C''aytka."


    "They aren''t like husband and wife? They didn''t have children together?"


    "C''aytka...is separate from children. C''aytka can be negotiated with whomever one wishes. Children may or may not be a part. As...children are not a necessary part of the arrangement, unlike your...marriages. Reproduction...in the strict sense...may be impossible between c''aytka. But that does not make it...not c''aytka."


    Mirk''s heart leapt into his throat. It was difficult for him to keep track of the conversation, but he had an inkling of what Genesis was getting at. Still, he felt the need to be careful. To not jump to conclusions that could reveal the darkness lurking inside of him. "Really? I hadn''t expected your people to be so forgiving. Barren women here have such a hard time of things..."


    Genesis made a hissing noise ¡ª Mirk thought it might be one of frustration. "Women and men...as you understand it...did not exist in the ancient K''amenda either. There always were...differences in physical form. But these were irrelevant. Both in terms of...what tasks one could perform, and who could be one''s c''aytka."


    "Then...euh...how did one decide...?"


    "You negotiated," Genesis said, simply. "With...whomever was open to it. Although there was a preference for...a t''ksyn to be with a cys''kat."


    "Euh...um..."


    "They are dispositions. Roughly translated...one who attacks, and one who defends. Or one who moves, and one who thinks, when...translated on the second level. The third and fourth are too...abstract to explain in English. Regardless. One''s physical form is irrelevant to one''s...disposition."


    Mirk still felt like he had to be missing something important, something that Genesis considered too elementary to explain. But if he had understood things correctly, Mirk got the distinct impression that Genesis would be more offended by someone who chose not to take off their shoes indoors than by the thought of a man who preferred the company of other men. "I see..."


    Genesis sighed again. That time, Mirk was certain: the commander was frustrated. Though it seemed like it was more at himself than anything else. "One''s disposition is a...process. I was told by my nis''yk that it is better for someone with our particular magic to be...balanced. Neither t''ksyn nor cys''kat. Yet he could never overcome his...inclination toward t''ksyn. Nor can I...the tendency toward cys''kat."


    That Genesis would call himself that made sense to Mirk, if he remembered the commander''s explanation of the foreign words the right way around. Genesis was always thinking, always watching, always waiting for some unspoken signal to move. "Is it a bad thing to be one or the other?"


    "No. There are strengths and weaknesses to both. They are merely...different approaches toward living. But balance is essential. When everything else is¡­chaos."


    "It all sounds very complicated, messire. Methinks I couldn''t make sense out of all of it. And I''m not sure what way I''d take, really. There''s good things to both, like you said."


    That time, Genesis responded without hesitation. "You are t''ksyn."


    "I...what?"


    "When there is a decision...you do not think. You move. You have...your belief in what is the correct path to take. No amount of thinking...will convince you otherwise."


    Mirk sighed, lifting his hands and pressing the heels of them into his eyes, trying to force the certainty Genesis claimed he possessed into his skull. At that moment, he didn''t feel certain of anything, least of all what he was doing discussing philosophy half-drunk after a day spent mourning the men he and the other healers couldn''t save. Or of what bearing Genesis''s strange beliefs had on the problem that''d been plaguing him ever since he''d plunged headlong into autumn and damnation. They shouldn''t have any bearing on what he did, rightly. Genesis had his beliefs, and he had his. And his said that turning over in the bedroll and embracing Genesis like he wanted to wasn''t the correct path to take, as Genesis put it.


    Before Mirk could find any words to explain himself, Genesis spoke again. "Nevertheless, this is all...irrelevant. My nis''yk prepared me for a world that no longer exists. I must adapt to your way of thinking. Regardless of my...opinions on the matter."


    Despite his own racing thoughts, Mirk couldn''t help but feel bad for Genesis. He still felt out-of-sorts trying to navigate all the customs the English favored. And the English were far closer to the French than they were to the ancient K''maneda. Genesis must have felt impossibly lost as a child, cast out into a world he didn''t understand. "I''m sorry, Genesis. Methinks there isn''t much I can do to help."


    Genesis was silent for a few long moments. Then he spoke again, in a voice that was low and hissing and dark. "...teach me."


    "Euh...what?"


    "I...care little for what most people think of my ideas. However. I wish...to learn. To be a better...friend. If that is the proper term. K''aekniv and the rest are...transparent. They always demand what they want of you. I will not always comply, as I have...every right to refuse. But in situations where it is...crucial to show support, I wish to be able to do so. I suspect there are some...touching rituals involved that I do not understand."


    Mirk struggled to think of a response, fighting against all the dark thoughts that instantly sprung to the front of his mind. Genesis had no context to understand what was right and wrong, aside from what he''d observed from the Easterners. And though they were always fighting with one another, they were also much more ready to embrace and kiss than the restrained way that the English mages he''d met behaved. Especially K''aekniv, who seemed to communicate only through touch when he was upset or trying to help someone else who was having a hard time.


    With that in mind, Genesis probably wouldn''t think it odd to embrace someone who was struggling, even if they were a man. K''aekniv did it, after all, showering kisses on all his friends he hadn''t seen in a long time, despite their complaining about K''aekniv being too old-fashioned. But it wouldn''t mean the same thing coming from him as it did coming from K¡¯aekniv.


    That aside, the smacking, forceful kisses K''aekniv inflicted on his friends wasn''t the sort Mirk had in mind. He wanted tenderness, gentleness paired with the deliberateness that characterized everything Genesis did. That careful precision that still put a tremble in Mirk for some reason, especially when it was directed toward him.


    Squeezing his eyes shut against the dark, Mirk bit his lip. He had to stop. He had to be honest. At least as honest as he could be. It wasn''t as if he was going to act on his impulses anyway, no matter what Genesis''s customs said about them. And no matter what Genesis thought about two men being together theoretically, Mirk knew that he was likely to be dumbfounded by the proposition if he was confronted with it in real life. Especially coming from him. "You already are a good friend, messire," Mirk said, quietly. "You don''t have to do anything else."


    "...is that so?"


    "I wouldn''t want you to be any different. Besides, I know you don''t like it when people touch you. Methinks it''s only right to respect that. You respect all my things, even when you think they''re silly."


    Again, Genesis fell silent as he mulled this over. "I...do not dislike closeness, if it is from an appropriate person. I am only unaccustomed to it. These¡­touching rituals weren''t common between a nis''yk and their syk''ca. Regardless, I only met with my nis''yk every fifth day, once I became capable of caring for myself. And there was no one else. In my rooms."


    "Oh? When was that?" Mirk thought Genesis had said that he¡¯d come to the City when he was young. But he wasn''t certain what Genesis considered young.


    "Once one is...able to read the old script, one can care for themselves. As one can then learn anything they need themselves, if they are provided with the...proper materials. I was...four years, seven months when I mastered the old script."


    Instinctively, Mirk tapped his magelight back on as he rose up onto his elbow again, looking down into Genesis''s face. His expression was blank, without any hint of strain that always came over Genesis when he was trying to keep some strong emotion to himself. But Mirk was certain that even Genesis would recognize the appalled look on his own face. "That''s horrible!"


    Genesis sighed. "This is what I knew."


    "Who would do that to a child? Leaving them alone for days when they''re only five...how long were you kept like that? Locked up alone?"


    "Until I was...nine years, ten months."


    Mirk couldn''t help himself. He flopped back down on his side, facing Genesis that time, and wrapped his arms around him, embracing him tightly. "That''s not right, Genesis. I''m so sorry."


    Judging by the tone of his voice, Genesis was genuinely confused by his reaction. "I was not harmed. The rooms were comfortable. I had...many books. I wished to return there for a long time after I left."


    "But you were all alone!"


    "There are...worse things."


    Reflexively, Mirk rubbed at Genesis''s back with the hand he''d shoved underneath his thin frame, despite the commander showing no sign of distress. What could be worse than being left utterly alone for days, expected to carry on without the help of a mother''s warmth or a father''s guiding hand? He''d sobbed for weeks after his mother had left him at the abbey, even with all the brothers and sisters there to support him and his hellhound Tournesol to wallow in bed with. And he''d been nine then, as old as Genesis was when he''d left whatever prison he''d been in. Mirk shuddered to think of what Genesis must have endured afterwards to make being shut up alone preferable to being around other people. "I''m sorry, messire," Mirk said, his face pressed against his bony shoulder. "This is silly. I''m more upset over it than you are..."


    "Yes. You are upset. This is...exactly my point. I am supposed to be doing something about it. Some...touching ritual. Like you''re doing."


    Mirk''s hand froze on Genesis''s back. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "It''s fine. But I suppose, if it''d make you feel better..."


    He allowed himself to think back to when things had been simpler, easier. When he''d assumed that his desire to be close to Genesis was nothing more than the instinctual urge to help a friend who was lost and bewildered by the world. "Do you remember when you were sick? Before the ball at Madame Beaumont''s? We''ve sort of been through this already."


    "I was uncertain whether or not those gestures were...specific to times of illness."


    "They''re not. The...euh, hair petting was nice. But, really, you can do whatever you want, Genesis. I''m not like you. But not in a way that''s good or bad. Just different, like those, euh, dispositions you were talking about before. You can do whatever you want and I won''t mind." More than not mind: he would savor the memory of any shred of closeness he got, would keep it locked up tight in his heart to remember with fondness when he felt lost and alone.


    "...anywhere."


    Mirk nodded against his shoulder. "Really, I should be the one asking you what''s best. Isn''t that what you said your people did? Some kind of negotiation? Methinks that''s the word you used..."


    "Technically, you did not...return c''ktac. But I assumed you agreed. Considering."


    "I do."


    Genesis paused yet again to think the matter over. Mirk lifted his head just far enough to be able to see his expression in the glow of the magelight around his wrist. While Genesis had been completely blank while recounting the story of his childhood, the question of what sort of touching he''d prefer to allow seemed to be causing him more trouble. His expression was strained, his eyebrows lowered. And he was still blinking more often than he usually did. "You may...also touch me however you prefer. If there is something...objectionable, I assume you would not be opposed to renegotiation."


    "Bien s?r, messire."


    Genesis made a hissing noise through his teeth, low and tinged with something like a growl. "I am still unfamiliar with how...friends touch. Beyond K''aekniv''s customs."


    Mirk let his head fall back on Genesis''s shoulder, laughing softly. "He is a little friendlier than most people, maybe. But it''s mostly the same."


    "I do appreciate the warmth," Genesis said, after another pause. "Although you are not as...overwhelming as he is. And you do not smell. In an...objectionable way."


    "But I do smell, though?" Mirk asked, despite knowing full well he probably wouldn''t like Genesis¡¯s answer, considering what an excruciatingly honest mood the commander was in.


    "Everything smells. Everyone...smells. Some are tolerable, others are not. You smell of camomile and liquor. Whichever...sweet smelling one you prefer, not the one K''aekniv and the rest drink. That is foul."


    Mirk had to resist the urge to sniff his chemise to confirm Genesis''s judgment. "Well, as long as it doesn''t bother you, I suppose it doesn''t matter. If everything smells."


    "However, I would be...appreciative if you dispensed with the magelight. I cannot focus long enough to...compensate for the brightness."


    That explained the blinking. Mirk lifted his hand to tap the magelight off. Under the cover of darkness, Mirk found it easier to settle his hand back down where he wanted to, in the middle of Genesis''s chest. Over his heart. There was nothing untoward in that, was there?


    That aside, all the talk of Genesis''s grim childhood had chased most of the dark thoughts from Mirk''s mind. All Mirk wanted to offer Genesis then was comfort. Reassurance that there were things out in the world worth enduring its trials for, even if a solitary life consisting of nothing but silence and books might have been easier. "You did good work today, Genesis. With your new company, and with the rest. I can see why it''s hard for you to be...hmm, understanding? Warm? But you''ve been very kind to everyone. And methinks they can all tell you mean well."


    "I do not require your reassurance."


    "I''m sure you don''t. But I like it when someone notices that I''ve been working hard at something difficult."


    "I...see."


    "Tiens," Mirk said as he pressed himself closer against Genesis''s side, to make sure he wasn''t leaving any gaps in the bedclothes that cold air could get through. And to better savor the comfort of being close to him. "Try to get some sleep. This isn''t too much, is it?"


    "...no."


    Mirk considered his position, weighing his desire to comfort Genesis against his own longing to be close to him. He settled for a half measure. Mirk shifted his cheek on Genesis''s shoulder so that he could rest his forehead against the cool curve of his neck. It was probably his imagination, some delusion brought on by a combination of drink and desperation, but Mirk felt like his head fit perfectly there. And it made it easier for him to fully appreciate the steadiness of Genesis''s body under his hand and against his forehead, his inhumanly slow heartbeat and his even slower breathing.


    He hadn''t been expecting Genesis to do anything in return. But he felt Genesis shift, sliding the arm that Mirk had ended up lying on top of out from underneath him. A moment later, Mirk felt his fingers in his hair, stroking it lightly. Deliberately. Genesis was always so careful. Like he was convinced that a gesture he made out of a desire to comfort someone could easily turn into something that''d hurt them instead.


    It made Mirk want to reassure him. He lifted the hand he''d placed over his heart, feeling around at Genesis''s side until he found his other hand where it always was, down at his side. Mirk clasped it in his own, trying to press some extra warmth into his slender, icy fingers. But, as always, his efforts didn''t seem to do much good.


    For once, Genesis didn''t keep quiet at this. He remarked on it in a voice that Mirk thought had a bit of warmth to it, even if his fingers didn''t. Or maybe the liquor was playing tricks on him. "This," Genesis said, squeezing Mirk''s hand, slightly, "was also a common gesture among the K''maneda. But it was not as...easily given. As it has the potential to spread disease. But...among the ancient K''maneda, there were three forms. Not one. With...three words."


    First, Genesis held Mirk''s hand loosely in his own. "Clasp."


    Then his hand shifted, and he laced their fingers together. "Treaty."


    Finally, very slowly, Genesis moved his thumb lightly over Mirk''s knuckles. "Sweep. As...one does a floor. Roughly translated."


    Mirk sighed, relaxing further against Genesis''s side. "That''s nice. At least your...euh, person held your hand when he visited."


    "He did not. I...read of it in the book of gestures."


    Though Mirk''s heart ached at this, at knowing Genesis understood closeness from reading about it in books instead of experiencing it himself, he was too tired and distracted to dwell on it for long. The combination of feelings, of having Genesis both stroking his hair and the back of his hand, made something inside Mirk feel wobbly, like the frozen ground beneath him was churning. He could feel himself starting to drift off under its influence. "What is touching hair called?"


    "There is no specific word for...this," Genesis said, moving his hand more firmly through Mirk''s hair. "The book said that hair touching was...not preferred. As hair is more difficult to keep clean than one''s hands."


    "I don''t mind it."


    "I...see that."


    What did Genesis see, truly? What did he understand, and how did he understand it? How was he slotted into the complex web of relations Genesis had described to them, with all their clacking names that Mirk was already forgetting? Was there some relationship in that long-forgotten world of his that fit theirs better than the paltry selection Mirk knew of? Something more complex than friends, something closer, but not as close as lovers?


    Mirk had half a mind to ask Genesis while the commander was still under the influence of that paltry half-shot of liquor he''d drank earlier in the night.  But Mirk decided to let it go, instead yielding to the sleepiness that being touched in such a gentle way was dragging him fast down into.


    Whatever they had, it was better than nothing. And that was good enough for him.

 Chapter 61

    "Are you all right? It''s not too much?"


    Samael nodded, staring up at the infirmary from the base of the front steps, his feathers puffed up against the cold. "It hurts, but not as much as before. It''s almost...good. My mind''s been feeling wrong lately. Cold...too quiet..."


    "Don''t overdo it," Sharael cautioned him as she fussed with his wings, plucking a few loose feathers out of them.


    "You don''t overdo it either." Samael shot her a pointed look, mirrored by an emotion too subtle and fleeting for Mirk to pick up with his own empathy. It made Sharael scowl down at her brother. "We didn''t escape just so that you could end up in the basement on your first day of school."


    Mirk had done his best to prepare both of them for navigating the City. He''d found them suitable clothes ¡ª healers'' robes for Samael, with an extra inner set to protect him from the cold, and the same altered version of uniform blacks the more combative ladies of the Twelfth favored for Sharael, with trousers so voluminous they were hardly distinguishable from skirts. And he''d found suitable places for each of them to work at their own ambitions, preparing those they were likely to work for their arrival by explaining away in advance the angelic customs humans found objectionable. Yet somehow, Mirk still felt like he was throwing both of them to the wolves.


    "I''m sure it''ll all be fine," Mirk said, looking back over his shoulder at the pair and flashing them the most reassuring smile he could muster. Though their emotions were muted, both by angelic training and their mental shields, they both felt sad in their own respective ways. Samael''s melancholy reached Mirk alongside a twinge of bitterness over who he was and what he was expected to do, while Sharael''s sadness was colored with frustration at being sent off to school like a child. They both had their broad shoulders hunched and their wings drawn in tight around themselves like second cloaks. As if they could stop passers-by from staring at them if they just made themselves small enough.


    It was odd to see two full-blood angels out and about on the City''s streets. Most K¡¯maneda had become accustomed to K''aekniv, but the two children were closer to the image cultivated by the rumors passed around mage society about Imperial angels, that they were cold and closed-off and haughty. Neither Samael nor Sharael were trying to project that image. But there was something about the chiseled, inhumanly perfect countenance and strong magical aura of a full-blood angel that made them cut a stark, striking figure no matter how worried or melancholy they might feel. Or whether or not they were still children rather than adults who''d lived more years than humans could ever dream of.


    "You''re always saying that," Sharael said, knocking Mirk out of his woolgathering. "And it''s never all fine. Almost."


    Mirk shrugged her criticism off, keeping his smile firmly affixed as he turned to face them fully. "But there has to be a first time for everything, non? Maybe today will be the day."


    Samael sighed. "Go on, Sharael. You''ll be late for school."


    She grumbled, shifting her sachel on her shoulder and casting a resentful look back at the Academy building across the parade grounds from the infirmary. "Going to school like a twenty-year...this all had better be worth it."


    "Gen talked to you about that. The Academy''s not only good for learning magic. It''s about making new friends. Connections," Mirk said, focusing his reassuring smile on her. Sharael seemed skeptical nevertheless.


    She had wanted to try joining a division right away. Only Samael begging her to stay with him during a particularly severe flare-up of the kindling sickness had kept her from storming up the Glass Tower and ordering Comrade Commander Margaret to let her join the Twelfth. Mirk had needed to go to Genesis to convince her to try the Academy instead. Genesis had gone through the Academy when he''d been young, and he''d needed whatever education the school offered even less than Sharael did.


    Mirk had coaxed her into visiting the commander by telling her a few stories about Genesis''s extensive collection of weaponry. But instead of giving her a primer on his myriad cunning devices, Genesis had subjected Sharael to one of his long, pause-filled lectures on ancient K''maneda history and politics. He had ranted at her for nearly an hour, piling books pulled from his shelves and the Abyss into her arms at intervals to provide her with the magical knowledge the instructors at the Academy overlooked. Sharael had tucked only a fraction of them into the satchel hung on her broad shoulder in preparation for her first day of class. They''d be useless for learning, Sharael claimed, but might be useful if she needed to beat any student who insulted her ancestry.


    She frowned at both Mirk and Samael''s beseeching looks, adjusting her satchel once more. "I don''t want to make friends. I want to do something." Despite her protests, she turned her back on them and headed off across the parade grounds, feathers still bristling.


    Samael sighed. "Are you sure I shouldn''t go with her? I don''t understand why you think I belong here. I don''t have any healing potential."


    Nudging Samael in the side to encourage him onward, Mirk started up the infirmary steps. "Not for healing bodies, no. But you don''t have to use what Imanael taught you about mind magic to hurt people. You can use it to help people whose minds have been hurt instead. Once you know how to take apart, you''re halfway to learning how to mend."


    Though he hesitated, Samael eventually gave in and followed Mirk. The closer they drew to the infirmary doors, the more potential Samael fed into his shields, until his mental presence beside Mirk was more a chilly void of absence rather than the aura of a living mage. "I don''t think that makes any sense."


    "Well, I''m not a mind healer, but I''ve talked to the one we have. Comrade Aysel said she''s sure you''ll be able to learn to heal minds too. She''s looking forward to finally having an apprentice," Mirk said, holding one of the double doors open for Samael. Even though Aysel ¡ª an old fae woman with an office up on the fourth floor that she rarely left, save for when the wives of high-ranking officers demanded she stop their husbands from waking up in the middle of the night screaming ¡ª had indeed said that she thought Samael had promise, Mirk knew not to take her entirely at her word. She''d been trying to retire to the countryside with her human husband for ages according to the infirmary gossip. But Cyrus refused to grant her leave until she''d trained a replacement. The only healer who hated dealing with officers'' wives more than Aysel was Cyrus.


    "You''re not telling the whole truth," Samael said, frowning at him, pausing at the threshold.


    "Well...it''s a little complicated. Politics. But it''ll be fine! And anyway, methinks you''ll like it much better here than at the Academy."


    "If you say so." Samael sighed, shuffling inside after drawing his cloak more tightly around himself as a physical shield to mirror the one around his mind. But he paused after only a few steps, ignoring the fighters and assassins scattered along the waiting room''s benches and staring up at the ceiling instead. "You already have someone here whose mind has been broken."


    "Hmm?"


    "He''s half mad. With being useless. He wants to kill everyone for it. Or himself."


    Mirk''s heart sank down into his stomach, a chill washing over him. Samael''s description could have fit a few current patients, but Mirk suspected he knew which one the young angel could feel all the way down on the ground floor. Percival, the noble officer whose magic had been stolen from him by his grandfather''s staff. "Yes. He''s a...euh...difficult case."


    Samael glanced around the waiting room, at all the sullen men staring back at him with open contempt. Then he focused back on the ceiling. "Take me to him."


    "Are you sure? Maybe we should wait for Comrade Aysel..."


    "No. I''m not wanted here. And I''ve felt worse."


    Against his better judgment, Mirk led Samael into the depths of the infirmary, past the mostly empty critical rooms, through the second floor patient rooms and onto the long-term ward on third. From the sound of things, someone else was already trying their hand at helping Percival. Which was probably why Samael had been able to sense the former mage''s distress through his mental shielding. Percival was shouting at someone about refusing to eat any maggoty stew unless it was rotten enough to kill him outright. Mirk approached Percival''s room with caution, knocking on the door''s frame just loud enough to be heard over all the bellowing.


    "Did you bring that sedative?" a terse voice answered from the other side. Mirk felt a little better when he recognized the voice. Danu was the unlucky healer who''d been burdened with the arduous task of trying to feed Percival that morning.


    "Euh...no, sorry Danu. Would you like for me to go get some?"


    Danu slipped out of the room a moment later, ignoring Percival''s continued ranting as she shut the door and engaged the wards on his room. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Samael trying to unsuccessfully keep out of sight behind Mirk. "What''s he doing here?"


    "Samael''s starting his training with Comrade Aysel today," Mirk said. "But he could feel how much Percival was hurting down in the waiting room and said that he wanted to see him."


    "You think you can help him?" she asked Samael, her eyebrows raised in counterpoint to her deepening frown.


    "No," Samael responded, without hesitation. "But if I look into his mind, I can tell you how it''s broken."


    "It can''t hurt anything, I suppose. Though, just so you know, he was a horrible, ungrateful bastard even before he lost his magic," Danu said as she stalked off down the hall. "I''ll be back. Impossible to get anything down his worthless throat without sedative..."


    "I remember her," Samael said to Mirk once Danu had rounded the corner and passed out of sight. "Something happened to her. She feels different now. Happier."


    "She''s engaged to be married in the spring," Mirk replied, only half-listening to Samael. Most of his attention was fixed on what was going on in Percival''s room. There was clanking and cursing, the sound of the former mage fighting his restraints. Before venturing inside, Mirk set down his bag and took off his cloak, motioning for Samael to do the same. They needed to be ready, in case Percival managed to escape. Even though he was no longer a mage, Percival was still a veteran fighter.


    As he watched Samael get tangled in his cloak, his wings flapping gracelessly as he struggled to take it off, it occurred to Mirk that Samael probably had absolutely no hand-to-hand combat training. Angels were particular about who they taught what to. Teaching Samael to use his fists had probably been considered a waste of time. Not when Samael was perfectly capable of striking an enemy down with his mind alone.


    But Mirk was determined not to force Samael into using his magic that way any longer. He needed to bring additional protection. Before Mirk pushed the door open and led Samael inside, he paused to take his grandfather''s staff out of his bag and tuck it into the pocket in the sleeve of his robe. He''d often wondered if there wasn''t some way to convince the spirit connected to it to return Percival''s magic to him, but Mirk pushed all thoughts of it out of mind. It was better not to try it, not when everything was still so fragile. Not when Genesis still hadn''t found any more clues about how the staff worked in Jean-Luc''s journal. Drawing a defensive smile onto his face, Mirk banished the room''s wards and pushed the door open.


    The scene inside was even more depressing than Mirk had anticipated. He had to shove the lion''s share of his potential into his mental shielding to fend off the wave of rage and frustration that rose up in Percival at the sight of him in the doorway. The former mage was strapped down to his bed with two sets of thick belts wrapped around each of his limbs and three more down the length of his torso. He was dressed in nothing but braies, his chest bare, heaving, and splattered with bits of the stew Danu had been trying to force into him.


    "Hello Percival," Mirk called out as he sidled into the room, sticking close to the wall but sidestepping far enough away from the door that Samael could enter after him. "How are you doing this morning?"


    "Lord Percival," the former mage spat back. "You should know how to address your betters, you sniveling little papist."


    Mirk sighed. He was accustomed enough by then to being called a papist at every turn, but few people were capable of hurling the word with such venom. Percival said it like he meant to follow the insult up by putting his head on a stake for his blasphemy, like he had that of every Irish priest he''d encountered on his rampage across the north country, according to Yule and Danu.


    "What''s a papist?" Samael asked him, as Mirk shut the door and fumbled through engaging its wards.


    "Earth religions. It''s not important."


    Percival''s reaction to Samael was a bit odd, Mirk thought. He''d expected the former mage to be even more enraged by the fact that he''d let a child in to work on him. Then again, Mirk supposed that only people who were accustomed to angels would be able to tell that Samael ¡ª nearly six feet tall and still growing ¡ª was still a boy. To someone who only knew of angels in passing, from rumors and stories, Samael must have looked like a full grown man. And yet, Mirk felt a flicker of recognition in Percival, along with a touch of fear that percolated up through the former mage''s anger.


    Samael tilted his head to one side as he approached Percival''s bed. The young angel was unconcerned by the rage Percival radiated like a hot coal. Mirk supposed he must have seen far worse under Imanael''s tutelage, if the grisly scene he''d glimpsed through Laurent Montigny''s memorial stone was anything to go by. "You met my master...no, Lord...no. No, you met Imanael before," Samael said, slowly, as he studied Percival''s grimacing face. "But he wasn''t the one who did this to you. You''re doing it to yourself."


    "Imanael? What, did he send you here to finish me off? I knew that brat Richard had an in with the guild, I should have¡ª"


    "No. Imanael is not my master. Or my lord." Samael paused, eyes closing as he searched for the right words. Mirk was tempted to jump in, to see what more he could learn about this Richard and what he knew about the Imperial angels and the English guilds, but held his tongue. Samael was working through things. And cutting him off to interrogate Percival himself would only make the young angel even less confident in his ability to do good with his magic. "I am here to help," Samael said, as he opened his eyes.


    "Help?" Percival scoffed at the notion, fidgeting against his restraints. The former mage had been weakened by his ordeal, but he was still well-muscled. Not like K''aekniv and the other Easterners from the Seventh who''d gotten their strength through hard labor, but more like Genesis, whose spare, lean muscles were all from combat. The restraints creaked as Percival shifted around underneath them. "Can you give me my magic back? Unlike the rest of these useless healers?"


    Samael shook his head. "No. Your magic is never coming back."


    Percival tried to lunge at the young angel, enraged by his blunt statement of fact, but the restraints held. All he was able to do was jab his chin at Samael, accusingly. "What do you know? I''ll have it back or I''ll die! Simple!"


    "Oh. Hmm. Thinking like that does make a mind-break worse. All or nothing. This or that. Your mind wasn''t flexible before it was broken, but it''s worse now."


    "Shut up and get out," Percival hissed at both of them.


    Samael was completely unruffled by Percival''s rage and scorn, as unmoved by it as Genesis was when people hurled insults at him. But whereas Genesis''s lack of response came from not understanding what he''d done to merit it, or from viewing their insults as nothing more than statements of fact, Samael was numb to having those kinds of emotions heaped on him. The boy really had recovered well. That or, like the commander, Samael moved into a different kind of mental state while he was working, one where everything was logic instead of feeling. An odd notion, considering Samael''s specialty, but Mirk had seen it in other angels. Emotions were things to be observed, to be managed, used like tools. Not things to be felt.


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    The young angel stepped closer to Percival''s bed. "I''ve never seen someone who broke their own mind. Humans really are fragile creatures. Just like Imanael said."


    "Can you help him? Mirk asked.


    "I don''t know how. I''ve only ever tried to put minds back together a little when I missed something and Lo...Imanael wanted me to go looking again." That thought, the memory of what he''d done under Imanael''s guidance, did bother Samael, unlike Percival''s vitriol. Mirk couldn''t feel it through the haze of Percival''s rage and the thick walls of Samael''s mental shielding, but he could tell from the torn expression on Samael''s face that he regretted what Imanael had made him do.


    "Maybe we''d be better off coming back with Comrade Aysel, then."


    Samael shook his head. "I want to understand. I need to look to help." He walked to the head of the bed, reaching out a hand and putting it on Percival''s forehead. Percival thrashed himself to the side as much as his restraints allowed, but Samael''s hold on him remained firm. Even an untrained full-blood angelic child had twice the strength of a practiced human man. Before Mirk could step in to remind Samael that it wasn''t kind to go in another person''s head without asking their permission, the young angel was gone. Samael''s eyes were distant, unseeing, the chilly feel of his heavily shielded mind fading as he sunk down into Percival''s.


    Percival threw all his weight against the restraints, bellowing curses at Samael. "Get out! Get out, you...you fucking freak!"


    Samael either didn''t hear him or didn''t care. He stroked Percival''s forehead, like he was trying to use touch to coax the former mage''s mind out for easier viewing. When he spoke, Samael''s voice was flat, coldly fascinated. It frightened Mirk to hear that tone coming from a boy. "When your magic went away, it left gaps. It made it easy for your mind to break. Though you were fragile to begin with. Anyone who''s obsessed with one thing is easy to send down the spiral. And what you''re obsessed with is gone now. You have nothing. I see why you want to die. But these people are soft. They won''t do it to you, or let you do it to yourself. You will have to make a new meaning for yourself. Or...be this. Until time comes for you."


    The horror and disgust that rose up in Percival forced Mirk away from the bed. With a burst of anger strong enough to make Mirk wince and clutch at the sides of his head, a rush of golden light ran down the length of Samael''s body. In the same instant, Samael choked, all his feathers standing on end as his distant expression was replaced with one of confusion. The light snapped the restraints on Percival''s limbs and torso. Before either Mirk or Samael could move, Percival rolled off the bed and stumbled toward the door.


    It opened. Danu had found her potions, had an armful of them clutched to her chest as she used her free hand to turn the door''s handle. When Percival reeled into her, they all went crashing to the floor, the bottles shattering and the potions smoking as they mingled together. Percival got the better of her too, shoving past her into the hall as Danu froze up in shock.


    Then she was pivoting on her heel and rolling up her sleeves as she stormed into the hall after him. "Get back here! I''ll beat the tar out of you if you make a run for second again!"


    Mirk was still frozen, staring at Samael. The golden light couldn''t have been Percival''s own magic returning. But Mirk still groped for the staff in his sleeve, checking it to be sure it hadn''t done anything without his noticing. Its wood was cool under his fingers, the voice and magic hidden within it silent and still. Samael rubbed at his chest, his wings trembling. He looked to Mirk with wide eyes. "You have to go stop him," he whispered. "He''ll kill someone. Or himself."


    Nodding, Mirk snatched the staff out of his sleeve, magicking it to fighting length before dashing out into the hall after Percival.


    He got there just in time to see Danu grab hold of one of Percival''s arms. Percival threw a blind punch back at her. It hit Danu square in the face, making something in it crack. Danu cried out and let go of him, her hands flying to her face as Percival bolted again for the common room between the front and back halves of the ward. Danu''s prediction was right ¡ª he was making for the second floor rather than the hall that led up to fourth. Though Percival''s movements were clumsy, like those of a foal trying to find its stride for the first time, he was determined to escape. Biting his lip, Mirk ran after the former mage, forcing himself to ignore Danu bracing herself against the doorframe of an empty room, spitting up a mouthful of blood onto the floor.


    Mirk didn''t know how to stop him. He''d only ever fought human mages and angels, not mortals. He didn''t know how much magic he could use without hurting Percival gravely. But he had to stop Percival before he hurt himself or someone else, someone who wasn''t capable of taking such a vicious blow like Danu was. Mirk could already hear her recovering and running down the hall after him. He had to get in front of Percival somehow, Mirk decided. If he and Danu closed in on him from either side, they stood a chance of restraining him without causing anyone else too much harm.


    Percival struck again before Mirk could catch up. Another healer, her attention drawn by all the yelling and banging, had stuck her head out into the hall to see what was happening, casting arm raised. She didn''t have time to call to her magic. Percival decked her too, with a single hard punch to the face that made the healer collapse like she''d been struck down with an arrow. Percival gave a curt laugh of triumph as he skidded into the common room.


    That was his chance. Mirk ran as fast as he could after Percival into the common room. Percival reeled to the right around the large table at its center. Mirk darted to the left, to cut him off on the other side. He got there just in time to block Percival''s escape route down the hall that led to the second floor barrier, lifting his staff to block any punches Percival might throw as he came face to face with the stunned and furious former mage.


    "Get out of my way," Percival spat, drawing an arm back to strike.


    Mirk reacted on instinct. The staff could heal as well as it could break; he did his best to use both potentials at once. He diverted Percival''s blow and smacked him in the side with a combined sweep and strike, tempering his blow with enough healing magic that even if he''d swung too hard, the hit wouldn''t cause too much damage. He misjudged things, used too much healing potential. Percival staggered back a step, but recovered quickly and pressed his attack again, that time going for Mirk''s weaker left side.


    Even if the staff had stolen away Percival''s magic, neither it nor the weeks spent strapped to a bed had robbed the former mage of his combat sense. Mirk had to take a few steps back toward the hall to sweep Percival''s next attack off target. Surely Genesis would have sighed and shaken his head over him being so pressed by an unarmed man, Mirk thought, as he tried to decide how best to proceed.


    Danu had caught up by then, shoving the table aside to make it easier to keep Percival pinned between them. Although blood still poured from her nose, Danu''s eyes had gone black and her skin stark white. She was drawing on the Deathly half of her magic. Which left both her and Mirk facing the same predicament: they had all their potential at their disposal, enough power to lay out a mage taken off-guard. Or kill a mortal, if they weren''t careful with how they used it. That went double for Danu, whose touch alone could knock a mage''s soul halfway out of their body.


    Mirk felt the cold press of Danu''s mind against his own. Neither of them were true telepaths, but they''d worked together enough, their minds and magic intermingling, to communicate their rough intentions to one another. She was going to try to grab hold of Percival''s arms; she was strong enough while channeling her Deathly magic to keep them pinned behind his back despite their difference in size. Then it''d be up to Mirk to incapacitate him.


    His mind spun with possibilities. Mirk had practiced the right combination of physical and magical force needed to deliver a knockout strike with Genesis countless times. But he''d only ever tried it on mages, whose bodies and minds were more resilient than those of mortals. And Percival was mortal now, despite the trick he''d pulled to escape his room. Mirk couldn''t be sure he could knock Percival unconscious without killing him.


    He didn''t have much time to think. Percival had seized on the opportunity presented by Mirk''s hesitance to launch his own attack. He aimed for Mirk''s left side again, twisting his body to add as much strength to his blow as he could. That twist gave Danu an opening. While Mirk moved to block Percival''s punch, Danu grabbed hold of his other arm, twisting it behind his back and straining to grasp the other one, to get him pinned, immobilized.


    But something strange happened when Danu touched Percival. Another flicker of magic sped down Percival''s body, that time a deep green, nearly black. It shocked Danu, made her lose her grip. Percival refocused on Mirk and swung at him again, throwing a wild punch in his direction, more forceful than focused, the black-green magic cascading off of him ahead of his fist.


    All Mirk could do again was move on instinct. He could feel the potential in the magic, and though he didn''t know how Percival had summoned it, he recognized it as Danu''s, charged with Deathly intent. He''d need to use the staff''s life-giving potential to divert it. Mirk shifted his hold on the staff, calling to the life within it that was mirrored in his own core, drawing it out to counter the Deathly magic Percival had stolen. Mirk batted aside the magic, the rest of the black-green light vanishing as the staff connected with Percival''s elbow.


    Percival screamed in rage and pain as the joint gave out with a sick, wet crack that echoed in Mirk''s mind and made him wince. The former mage curled around his wound, leaving his opposite side open. Mirk would just have to trust that the staff wouldn''t take more from Percival than it already had. He swung for Percival''s open side, letting his magic flow into the staff to cushion the blow.


    Before Mirk could check himself, Danu was in the way. They''d lost touch with each other''s minds in the scuffle. She went for Percival''s exposed side at the same instant Mirk swung. Instead of connecting with Percival, the staff hit Danu square in her midsection. She let out a muffled cry and doubled over on herself as the staff''s greenish-yellow magic crackled down her body. Mirk yelped at the pain that flared up in her, but pressed onward.


    Things were getting out of hand. He was fouling up the first and most important lesson Genesis had tried to drill into him: never allow a fight to last a second longer than it needed to. Mirk would have to trust the staff not to kill Percival before the former mage could hurt anyone else ¡ª or himself ¡ª even more.


    Mirk fell back into the patterns Genesis had forced him to repeat so many times he could perform them without thinking: block the blow, sweep the legs, pin the neck. Mirk pushed on the staff''s life-giving potential, trying to match his force with it as he took Percival down. Before Mirk could even fully register what his body had done, Percival was in a heap on the floor with the end of the staff resting on his windpipe.


    That last bit wasn''t ultimately necessary. Percival had cracked his head on the floor when he fell, knocking him unconscious. Mirk reached out to him with his mind, his body flooding with relief when he felt that Percival''s life-giving core of energy was quiet and stable, showing no signs of fading any further than it had after the loss of his magic.


    "Ugh...what the hell was that..."


    Mirk cringed. Danu had recovered, mostly, though she was still leaking blood from her nose and rubbing at her midsection where Mirk had struck her. The pain stung, but wasn''t unbearable. "I''m sorry, Danu...methinks I should have just done that to begin with..."


    Danu drew herself back up to her full height, sucking in a deep breath and shaking herself all over, like a dog crawling out of a pond. "Never mind. Just help me get him back to his room. And never hit me with that thing ever again."


    Sighing, Mirk magicked the staff back down to the size of a wand and tucked it away in his pocket. Its wood was warm now, though the strange voice that came from it sometimes was silent. Its weight in his sleeve was more accusatory than reassuring. Danu lifted Percival under the arms while Mirk took his legs, and together they dragged him back to his room.


    Samael was waiting for them out in the hall, lost and nervous. Mirk put the young angel out of mind until they had wrangled Percival into bed. Danu tied a few of the broken restraints around him as a stopgap measure before trudging off to fetch a new set from the supply closet.


    "I''ve never seen someone do that before," Mirk heard Samael say from the doorway, as he remained beside Percival and checked on his side and elbow. The blow from his grandfather''s staff had shattered the joint. It''d take a good chunk of his healing potential to set it right. But Mirk felt like he owed the man that much, no matter how awful Percival was.


    "He stole your magic?" Mirk asked Samael without looking up, as he wrapped both his hands around the former mage''s elbow.


    "Stole isn''t the right word. Borrowed, maybe. I don''t think he could have done it if I wasn''t using it on him. It''s like he...redirected it? Made it do something I wasn''t asking it to."


    "He did it to Danu too," Mirk replied. "But not to me. Does this mean he still has some potential of his own left?" It wouldn''t do any of them any good in the long term to have Percival the mage back, but it would help to fix Percival''s broken mind. And soothe his own guilty conscience.


    "No. I think maybe...maybe since he used so much magic for so long, there''s channels worn into his body and mind from it. And he can...I don''t know...wick magic into them and redirect it. With the force of his will, or something like that. I''m not sure."


    Mirk didn''t reply, focusing his attention on healing Percival''s arm. Percival¡¯s body responded to Mirk''s healing magic as seamlessly as a mage''s would have, his body open and willing to use Mirk''s potential to mend itself. Mirk didn''t feel any strange force within Percival tugging at his magic, trying to manipulate it into doing anything. All he felt was the familiar dizziness and coldness that came with using a good measure of his healing potential all at once. Mirk waited for the feeling to subside before looking up at Samael, who was pacing on the other side of Percival''s bed.


    The young angel was deeply troubled. Almost frightened, though it was hard to tell anything for sure through Samael''s thick mental shielding. Mirk wondered if any of the people whose minds he''d manipulated before had ever struck him for going inside them without their permission. Knowing Imanael''s reputation, it wasn''t likely anyone Samael had used his magic on before had been in a position to resist him.


    "You still helped us, even if everything didn''t go exactly right," Mirk reassured him. "Now we have a place to start, at least. And we know to put him to sleep before we use any magic on him next time."


    Samael refused to meet his eyes. "I''m prepared to receive punishment for being careless," he said, his tone flat, withdrawn.


    "That''s not how things work here, Samael. We all make mistakes. We''ll learn from it and do better next time."


    Samael didn''t trust his judgment, Mirk thought. He''d been too close to his mind, Mirk supposed, to think that any punishment for what had happened would come from him. And the boy was perceptive aside from what he could sense with his magic; he knew Mirk wasn''t in charge at the infirmary. Samael didn''t reply to him, eyeing the door to the room instead, waiting.


    When Danu returned, she had a set of magicked leather straps reinforced with enchanted chains in hand. She passed two of them to Samael, paying him no heed other than to tell him to make sure he pulled them tight around Percival''s arm. She handed Mirk another two before going to work on strapping down Percival''s legs. While she''d been gone, she''d stopped to stuff bits of spare bandage up her nose to keep it from bleeding all over everything.


    "Is this my punishment?" Samael asked her, only finding the nerve to look over at her once he''d finished strapping down Percival''s arm.


    Danu was distracted by the fussy buckles on the straps; she didn''t meet Samael''s eyes. "What?"


    "My punishment. For letting him escape. And what he did to you."


    "I''m not your mother," Danu scolded him, shaking her head. "I''m not going to send you back to your room with no breakfast or some rubbish. We have too much work to do to lose any hands. Speaking of, since you and him seem to be on such good terms, you can go ahead and take care of feeding him once he wakes up. Just put those shields of yours to good use and make sure he doesn''t get at your magic. And then once you''re done with that, you can give him his bath. Since I''m sure he''ll just get more food all over himself."


    Samael nodded, slowly, glancing down at the tray on the bedside table, which had a few crusts of bread and the cold stew on it. "You don''t have a way of feeding patients with magic? Through their skin? Or blood?"


    Danu snorted. "If we could do that, do you think I''d be wasting my time up here trying to feed this ungrateful bastard like a baby?"


    "Oh. Then...what happens to people who are asleep for a long time?"


    "They die," Danu said flatly, as she secured the last of the new straps along the length of Percival''s motionless body. "With mages, it takes longer. Could be months, depending on if they''re human or not. A mage like him would have lasted a month or two, at least."


    Samael looked appalled by this, but nodded again, drawing over a chair from the corner of the room and sitting down beside Percival''s bed. "I accept my punishment, Healer...?"


    "Danu." She finally had the presence of mind to really look at Samael then, instead of just talking at him like she would any other nurse or aide. Her expression softened. Samael looked much more like the boy he was then, instead of radiating the coldly self-assured air granted to him by his angelic features. He was slumped down in his chair as far as his wings hooked over its back would allow, his feathers puffed up in embarrassment and worry. Sighing, Danu leaned over and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Don''t worry about it. This sort of thing happens all the time around here. You''ll get used to it."


    Samael nodded, but didn''t have the nerve to meet her eyes, staring at Percival''s slack-jawed face instead. Mirk decided to cut in, leaning across the bed and patting Samael on the shoulder too, to emphasize Danu''s point. "I''ll tell Comrade Aysel where to find you. You two can get acquainted while you wait for him to wake up."


    Danu shot Mirk a questioning look when all Samael did in response was give another nod. Mirk shrugged and gestured for her to follow him back out into the hall. "Tiens, let me look at your nose. It''s the least I can do, considering."


    "It is," she replied, though she flashed him a tired smile as she pulled the door to Percival''s room shut and waved up its wards. "Though the nose isn''t half as bad as whatever you did to my stomach. It doesn''t hurt, really, it just feels...strange. Like there''s something in there. Bugs."


    Mirk put a hand on Danu''s midsection where he''d struck her with his grandfather''s staff. He let his mental shielding dip, extending his magic out to Danu''s. It naturally repulsed his own at first, but yielded after a moment, revealing the delicate inner workings of her body to his mind''s eye. There was nothing out of place inside her, no disturbance in the odd way her core of life-giving potential and her Deathly magic danced around one another. And there was no trace of his own or the staff''s magic lingering in her abdomen either.


    He pulled back, shaking his head to clear away the after-image of Danu¡¯s insides as he drew his shields back up. "I don''t see anything different. Methinks it just must be because our magic is so different." Mirk paused, thinking. "...but bugs?"


    Danu laughed, then winced at how it jarred her broken nose. "Da took me with him to settle a ghost once. We ended up in this crypt, and the ghost ran away...anyway, Da had to run after to banish him, and I got left alone for a few days. You know I don''t need to eat as much as everyone else, but, well. I was just a babe. Hungry and all. So I ate what was there."


    Mirk cringed. "Euh...I suppose..."


    "Da called me his little beetle cruncher for a while after that," she said, a fond, wistful sort of smile crossing her swollen face.


    "I''m glad it brought you closer?" It wasn''t exactly the heart-warming tale of familial closeness that one expected, but in the K''maneda, things always tended toward the macabre. The healers were no different from the infantry in that respect.


    "Come on and heal my nose before Morty finds an excuse to show up," Danu said, refocusing on the present. "The last thing I need is him picking a fight with Percy over something stupid. Elsa''s already got poor Lilia," she added, gesturing at a healer further on down the hall who was tending to the one Percival had knocked out on his way to the common room.


    "That¡¯s a good idea. Methinks we''ve had enough excitement for one morning..."


    Mirk couldn''t empathize with eating beetles out of desperation. But he could more than relate to the troubles that came along with being subject to the tempers of overprotective fighters who were ready to knife anyone who looked at him wrong.

 Chapter 62

    "Oh, hello, messire. I hope I''m not interrupting..."


    When Mirk walked into the quarters he shared with Genesis that night, well past sundown, he was greeted by the sight of the common room floor full of even, precise rows of gleaming and deadly cunning devices. He''d hoped that passing the evening with Danu and Yule at the tavern, discussing the way Percival had escaped his restraints that morning and throwing around ideas about how to deal with it, would have meant that Genesis would be settled for the night by the time he returned to the dormitory. But evidentially, Genesis had other plans.


    The commander was seated cross-legged on the floor in the midst of all his weaponry, intently focused on polishing a knife with a blade as long as Mirk''s forearm. For some reason, Mirk found the sight of him down on the floor more arresting than all the knives. It seemed improper, too casual, despite the fact that he knew full well Genesis had no qualms about it if he was working at a project too big for his work table. If he was honest with himself, it was mostly because it was disconcerting seeing him unfold his tall frame and regain his feet whenever Genesis was finished with his business. It reminded Mirk a little of a spider scrambling out of its hole, though he found the action more endearing than eerie.


    "You are not. At present. However...if you would mind your step, I would be...appreciative," Genesis said, without looking away from the blade.


    Mirk considered his options as he toed off his shoes. It''d be hard to make it to either the bedroom or the bath without stepping on anything, even if he hadn''t been tipsy. There were dozens and dozens of things arrayed all across the floor ¡ª knives both long and short, odd clusters of blades held together with bits of pitch black metal meant for hurling at things, other nameless gadgets without a visible edge that would doubtlessly cause him or the finish on the floor grievous harm if he stepped on them. And there was the sword too, always close to Genesis''s side. Though Mirk wasn''t certain that blade even needed polishing. Much like the commander''s overcoat and boots, his two-handed greatsword was overflowing with personality and more than capable of taking care of itself.


    Usually Genesis did this pre-contract ritual of his in the dead of night while Mirk was sleeping. He''d only seen it in passing on his way to the bathroom, and it was easy enough to skirt around the edge of the common room to the bath from the bedroom, provided the magelight he now always wore around his wrist was in a cooperative mood. Genesis preferred to take care of his weapons in the dark. He claimed it was more difficult to make them cooperate when the lights were on, that even the dim blue-green one above the door made them too restless, not to mention the yellowy overheads Mirk had waved on as he¡¯d entered. But Mirk knew better by then. Genesis did everything in near-blackness whenever he could get away with it.


    "Euh...do you maybe have a suggestion about the best way to get past?" Mirk asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot on the doormat.


    Genesis didn''t respond for a time. Not until he was satisfied with the sheen on the dagger''s edge. When he did look up at Mirk, it was only to frown at him. "I see you have been...out."


    "Just with Yule and Danu. It''s been a long day. Problems with Percival..."


    For once, Genesis didn''t jump on the chance to learn more gossip about his long-standing enemy. Instead, he went back to work. "A moment, then. I am...nearly done."


    Mirk busied himself with hanging up his work bag and cloak, then settled into wait, folding his arms against the chill in the room generated by the magical potential radiating off Genesis''s arsenal. It really was nonsense, all those knives. He never went out on contract with the others, but he''d sparred with Genesis often enough to know full well that Genesis could dispatch almost any imaginable enemy with only his sword and his legion of shadows. Mirk wondered if Genesis had a fondness for blades, or if they were simply another manifestation of his compulsive need to have five backups for everything.


    "You''re doing this a little earlier than usual, non?" Mirk asked, unable to keep himself from babbling, as usual. Though he knew things would go faster if he didn''t bother the commander.


    "Our turn at the transporter is at four in the morning," Genesis said. "And I have been scolded enough times about...acquiring adequate sleep before contracts to reconsider my schedule."


    Mirk chuckled and shrugged. "Either it''ll be me or Niv scolding you. Methinks it might be easier if you listened to me first." K''aekniv''s usual solution to Genesis not having gotten enough sleep to keep from being short with the rest of the men was to hit him over the head and force him to rest, whether Genesis wanted to or not.


    "I presume that our...impending contract is the reason why you are not...even more intoxicated."


    "Hmm?"


    "It¡¯s your birthday in three hours, I believe. I am...aware of how the Easterners prefer to celebrate them."


    Mirk was surprised Genesis remembered. The commander wasn''t one for that kind of sentimentality. A birthday, to Genesis, was a purely practical bit of knowledge, something that it was only useful to keep in mind when timing particularly complex spells. "Oh. Yes, it is. But Niv said it''s bad luck to celebrate your birthday early. Or your name day, depending."


    The half-angel had reassured Mirk of this several times, so that he didn''t get the impression that the Easterners disliked him so much that they weren''t willing to capitalize on the occasion as an excuse to get fall-down drunk. The first thing they''d do when they all got back, K''aekniv told him, was treat Mirk to the customary rounds. A drink for every year you''d lived was crucial to securing luck in the coming one. Mirk wondered how K''aekniv was going to afford to keep up that tradition further on down the line. Full-blood angels could live upwards of three thousand years if they were mindful. Presumably K''aekniv would make it to at least the halfway mark, provided his luck held. Which put him in the same position, Mirk supposed, but his human side always seemed to win out over his angelic half. That and he had a good deal more gold to spare than K''aekniv.


    Genesis snorted, making the cloth he was using to polish his dagger vanish with a flick of his wrist. "Everything with them is...luck. I have told them several times that it is advisable to invest in adequate planning instead."


    "But a little extra luck can''t hurt, non?"


    "Irrelevant," Genesis said, making an arcane gesture over his rows of weapons. One by one they vanished as well, either back into the Abyss or into the pockets of his overcoat, judging by the muted clanks coming from where it was hung by the door next to Mirk''s cloak. Then he got to his feet in one fluid motion, without any fumbling or support from his hands, rising from the floor in a smooth rush of darkness, just like the shadows he could call to himself with a single twitch of his fingers. Something about the uncanny speed of it, the silence, made Mirk''s mouth go dry. But not in an unappealing way. He did his best to ignore it. "However, there is...one thing."


    "Hmm?"


    Genesis didn''t reply directly, instead retreating back into the bedroom. That was strange, Mirk thought to himself, as he edged further into the common room off the mat, now that the floor was clear. What could Genesis have to offer him that he couldn''t call to himself with a wave of his hand, without having to resort to the humdrum, human tedium of walking from room to room? The question was answered soon enough. When Genesis returned, he had a slim green cloth-bound book in hand and a forcibly blank expression on his face. He crossed the room and held the book out to Mirk without comment.


    "What''s this?" Mirk asked, taking the book from him. He misjudged his grab in his tipsiness and he grasped Genesis''s cold, slender fingers for a moment along with it. Genesis had nothing to say about that either.


    It didn''t look like the kind of book the commander usually favored. It was stamped down its spine and front cover with gold foil adornments in a repeating pattern of blossoming flowers and creeping vines. And though Mirk could sense traces of Genesis''s magic on it, the book didn''t have the same ominous heft to it that most of his grimoires did. Most of Genesis¡¯s personal books gave Mirk the unnerving feeling that they¡¯d snap shut on his nose if he perused their pages too closely. Delicately, Mirk opened the cover and leafed through the first few pages. All of them were blank, made of a thick, fine, cream-colored paper. That wasn''t like Genesis either. He preferred his paper to be as bone white as possible.


    "Your present age is when you are considered an adult by your county''s mages. Correct?"


    Mirk nodded. It only mattered to the ladies, truly ¡ª the debutante balls would be starting in France in the spring, the same as they would be in England. A man was judged more marriageable the closer he got to inheritance, or to gaining the rank of master in his element''s guild, and that happened well after the age at which he could manage his own affairs. He was an aberration, a man who had inherited before he reached the age at which he could formally contract with the other mages. And in that sense, he was just as much of an appealing option as a young lady who''d just come of age. Though Mirk tried to avoid thinking of that fact as much as he could. "Yes, that''s true. Why?"


    All he got in response was more silence. Mirk looked up from the book. Genesis''s expression was still blank, though Mirk could tell the commander was thinking hard about his response. His eyes were flicking back and forth, searching his mental guidebook on managing friendships for guidance. Judging by the slight frown that came onto his face and the sigh that preceded his words, Genesis came up empty. "Among the...old K''amenda, one was given their...personal grimoire upon reaching adulthood."


    The book felt too thin to be a grimoire proper, unless it had some kind of magic on it like there was on Jean-Luc''s journal. And the pages were too fine, meant for making a quill glide across the page rather than for preservation or absorbing magical potential. Perhaps Genesis had taken his slapdash approach to spellcraft into consideration when he''d chosen the book, knowing that he wouldn''t have much in the way of formal spells to copy into it. Despite this, Mirk felt the heat creep up the sides of his neck as he thumbed through the book''s pages. "You didn''t have to, messire. You know I don''t have a head for formal magic..."


    "Grimoire is....perhaps not the best translation," Genesis said with another sigh. "It is a ta''kakk. A record of...important things. They are kept so that other K''maneda can learn from your life''s experiences after your passing. And not repeat unnecessary mistakes. What is¡­considered important enough to record is left to the judgment of its writer."


    Mirk laughed as he closed the book, feeling himself go even redder. "Oh. Well, I do make plenty of mistakes."


    "I have read...thirty-seven of them. They varied greatly in tone and style. Some were concerned with magic. Others were more...personal."


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    Mustering his courage, Mirk met Genesis''s eyes. Or, at least, he tried to. The commander was staring off fixedly over his head. The book had to be a very important thing in the strange culture Genesis had been raised in, if offering it to him was making him so uncomfortable. Which only made Mirk''s stomach tie itself in knots. "Thank you, Genesis. It really does mean a lot to me that you''d give me something so important."


    "You have no nis''yk to give you one. And I have observed that you are...fond of recording your thoughts for others. This is a trait your people and mine share."


    Genesis had to be thinking of the ledger he''d been given when he first came to the City, that he wrote the clunky English words that gave him the most trouble down in, along with names and places and ideas he didn''t want to forget and be forced to look up again. Or maybe he was thinking of the letters he wrote to his uncle and Madame Beaumont and the few mages from home who''d thought to reach out to him, Seigneur Feulaine and his daughter Yvette and Mademoiselle Polignac, who wanted constant advice about how to make her indoor gardens more elaborate. Genesis was right about the French being fond of letters. Though doubtlessly Genesis would find the contents of his ledger and letters to be too frivolous to be worth the paper and ink they consumed. "Euh, that''s right. We do. Though I never did ask you, messire, what''s a ni...nisi..."


    "Nis''yk."


    "Yes, that. I have such a hard time with all the clicking noises..."


    "A nis''yk is a teacher. Of sorts. Perhaps...mentor would be the more accurate term. When one wishes to begin training, one...comes to an agreement with an older K''amenda who is agreeable to it and becomes their syk''ca. Their...student. The giving of a ta''kakk symbolizes that one is capable of becoming another person''s nis''yk. A full adult." Genesis paused, thinking. "I was given mine before I reached that state. However, my nis''yk knew he would not be...present at the appropriate time. And that I...would have no syk''ca of my own. Perhaps."


    "What was he like? Your nis''yk?"


    Genesis''s expression somehow grew even more distant, his eyes flickering with his magic. He shifted his stance, folding his arms across his chest. Mirk couldn¡¯t sort out whether the gesture was defensive or not. "K''anak...was also...what you call a Destroyer. A...k''amskec. He liberated the City from the Imperial angels. I believe he...hoped I would do the same. In a sense. In that way, he was a suitable nis''yk. For one of my magical abilities. Although I did not choose him in particular, as is¡­customary."


    "He must have been terribly old," Mirk said, trying to remember what he could of the history of the ancient K''maneda that Genesis had rambled at him about over the past year. "The City fell from Heaven thousands of years ago."


    "He was a demon from a...distant realm. In terms of lineage. He was born under bondage. In the City."


    Mirk knew he shouldn''t pry. But the look on Genesis''s face, though his lips were pursed and his eyebrows lowered, held some trace of sentiment, of affection, that Mirk had hardly ever seen in him before. "Is he...?"


    "Dead," Genesis said, flatly. Despite the grim finality of the word, the certainty with which it passed his lips, his expression didn''t change. The bare hint of fondness didn¡¯t leave it. "But he ensured that I would have...some degree of freedom. A debt that will never be repaid. Other than by doing the same for others who are kept from being free."


    As was the case so often around Genesis, it felt like Mirk¡¯s body decided what to do before he could even begin to think of the right response, something reassuring, yet respectful. Mirk closed the gap between them, wrapping his arms tight around Genesis''s thin frame and burying his face in his shirtfront. The scent of his cleaning potions and soaps, of oranges and lilies, filled Mirk''s senses. "I''m sorry, Genesis."


    Genesis was frozen in his grasp. Puzzled, no doubt, by his sudden display of emotion. "There is no need. K''anak died...the best death possible. I wish to do the same."


    Involuntarily, Mirk squeezed him harder. A good thing Genesis didn''t need to breathe as often as a human. Or a half-blood as fragile as himself. "Still. I...methinks I understand what it''s like to lose your family too soon. And I wouldn''t wish it on anyone, no matter how they died."


    It took Genesis time to respond, to move. But after a minute or two, Mirk felt him uncross his arms. And then he felt the weight of his hand atop his head. "The K''amenda...also believed that family was not a...set thing, determined by blood. It could be subtracted from. But it also could be added to. Without limit."


    Something about the touch made Mirk able to finally get a hold of himself. He released the commander, though he didn''t back out of reach. And though Genesis drew his hand back, he didn''t fold his arms again. Mirk glanced back down at the book in his hands, which he''d almost dropped in his rush to embrace the commander. "Since you gave me this...ta..."


    "Ta''kakk."


    "Does that make you my nis''yk?"


    Genesis shook his head, instantly. "No. You did not choose to join us. Not entirely of your...own free will, in any case. Regardless, I have...little to teach you that would be of value to you."


    "That''s not true," Mirk said. "You''ve taught me enough about fighting to fill at least three grimoires."


    "A practical matter," Genesis said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He paused to think again, his expression slipping back into the guarded blankness that''d been fixed on it when he''d left the bedroom. "A nis''yk...trains a child in their specialty until they become equals. Roughly. You are knowledgeable in things I will never understand. And you were that way...from the start. There are different kinds of equals. There are those who...share your potential. You become equals once they have taught you all they know. Then there are those...with differing potentials. Who understand magic you can never learn. These people can be equals as well. Despite their differences. And in this sense...the equality between them is more even than the equality between individuals who have similar magic. In certain aspects."


    Mirk was too overwhelmed by the whole exchange to catch the finer details of it, all the nuance Genesis was fighting to explain in that deliberate, pause-filled way of his. But he understood what Genesis was trying to say, somehow, though the chaos twined around his mind was as impenetrable to Mirk''s empathy as it ever was. For some unfathomable reason, Genesis considered him his equal. Which, as best as Mirk could understand, was the basis of all lasting relationships, according to Genesis''s odd beliefs. His body got the better of him once more and he hugged the commander again, albeit a bit less ardently than before. "Thank you, Genesis. It means so much that you''d think of me like this," Mirk said, his voice muffled against Genesis''s chest.


    It took Genesis some time to sort out how to alter his response. That time, he elected to give him a few rigid, precise pats on the back. When Mirk couldn''t bear to release him straight away, he chose to simply rest his hand there, in the center of his back, until Mirk scraped himself together and let Genesis go with an embarrassed, flustered laugh. Mirk didn''t know what it was about the book, about Genesis''s words, about everything that made his heart feel like it was about to burst. It wasn''t as if Genesis had come to him and gotten down on his knees to profess his undying affection. But somehow, coming from Genesis, who was loath to do anything impractical, anything sentimental, the book Mirk clutched to his chest in place of Genesis''s thin body felt like a similar symbol of devotion.


    Or maybe he was just imagining things. Or maybe he''d had one too many glasses from Yule''s bottle of whiskey. It was probably that. "Ah, I''m sorry for getting so carried away, messire. I suppose it''s just been a long day."


    Genesis frowned down at him. "One would think that, with this additional gesture, you could...dispense with that."


    "With what?"


    "The lord business."


    Mirk shrugged, unable to keep from grinning to himself. "If you were a real lord, I''d have to call you seigneur."


    "Nevertheless. The...feudal spirit remains."


    "Hmm...think of it a little like that name Niv calls you sometimes. What was it....sneg...sno..."


    "Snegurochka," Genesis said, his frown deepening.


    "Yes! That''s it. Messire doesn''t mean lord anymore, just like that other name doesn''t mean...what was it? Snow queen? It''s just something nice to show you''re friends."


    "I see." Despite the concession, Genesis still seemed thoroughly unconvinced. And dissatisfied.


    "I suppose I could think up a different one, if messire bothers you so much," Mirk said. "Let''s see...euh...chaton?"


    Genesis grimaced.


    "Or maybe you''re more of a loulou..."


    "I..."


    "Or chouchou? That could work..."


    "Are they all...miserable sing-song nonsense?"


    "Well, no. But a lot of them are."


    With a tired sigh, Genesis turned on his heel and beat a hasty retreat toward the bathroom. "Considering the alternatives, I will...tolerate the original. As it were."


    Mirk laughed to himself as he watched the bathroom door close, then heard it lock. That had all been a bit silly on his part, Mirk thought. He could have at least offered up something like mon raleur, which at least fit Genesis''s dour personality better. But Mirk knew he never could have kept the names switched around, no matter if he''d thought of one that Genesis found less bothersome than messire.


    Genesis had been messire ever since the morning after he''d first met him, in a disreputable inn on the port side of Nantes. He and his mother had put their heads together on the matter over breakfast, searching for a proper title for the mysterious sellsword and his band of jovial foreigners that they''d hired to deal with the problem of the House Rose demons in his father''s absence. Genesis wasn''t the head of a family, and he''d been quick to inform them that he''d never been given a title by the English guilds, despite his already apparent mastery of the thaumaturgical arts.


    But a polite monsieur ¡ª the title reserved for any mage of substance ¡ª seemed beneath a man of Genesis¡¯s station, who had three dozen hulking fighters at his beck and call, though they did grumble a little about his orders. Genesis hadn''t yet been willing to divulge that he and his men were K''maneda. Otherwise Mirk was certain Genesis would have told him that comrade was the only acceptable title, without any extra flourishes or concessions to his higher rank.


    They''d tried commander, but Genesis had rejected it straight away, without any explanation, though the word still stuck in Mirk''s mind as a description of him, even though he knew now why Genesis had refused it. In the end, messire was the only option left. It seemed a fitting compromise between politeness and accuracy, at least to Mirk and his mother: better than a plain monsieur, but not as lofty and weighty as a full seigneur. A term that was a little fussy and antiquated. Just like Genesis.


    As he''d told Genesis, even though it''d started as a way to be polite, it had shifted into something more than that. Something complex, something layered, something beyond what an entry in a dictionary or a rough translation could convey. Something that held a mixture of fondness and respect. Friends and equals. Mirk stroked the front cover of the journal Genesis had given him as went to the bedroom, tracing its delicate gold foil design with his fingertips.


    Messire. A compromise that had evolved over time into something different, something strong and real. It was the same way Mirk liked to think of the connection between them. And the book in his hands was clear evidence that Genesis felt the same, even if he had trouble putting into words exactly what he meant.


    If only he could have kept his heart from fluttering like a man awaiting his first dance with his betrothed, the moment would have been perfect.

 Chapter 63

    "What a wonderful dress, Mademoiselle Catherine! It''s very fashionable. And gray really is your color."


    Catherine gathered up her voluminous skirts and dropped into a curtsey as Mirk hurried to meet her, his grandfather''s staff clacking on the cobbles of the plaza in front of the East Gate. He had done everything he could not to be late. He wasn''t, at least not according to the clock above the gate''s high stone archway. But Catherine had bested him nevertheless.


    Mirk couldn''t fault her for that. The English had a reputation for punctuality. And though Catherine had mastered the ladylike art of keeping her composure under the worst circumstances, Mirk was certain the young woman was terribly nervous.


    He really shouldn''t have been thinking of her as young. They were the same age, after all perhaps only two or three weeks apart at most. Yet she seemed young to Mirk that night, buttoned up in a dress he thought to be far too conservative for a debut season. It had a high collar, much like the ladies'' uniform, and though the skirts were large, the bodice was plain, with none of the extravagant lace edging and jeweled stitching he was accustomed to seeing on young women. Gray also seemed an odd choice of color to him, though he''d been honest when he''d said the color suited her, with her dark hair and eyes. All the women at home preferred something livelier for the debut season, something that would mirror the brightness of their personality. And none of them wore such tiny, plain hats, felt rather than silk and with only a single black feather tucked into its band, though Catherine did wear it cocked to one side rather than straight.


    All of it made Mirk wonder if he hadn''t misjudged things when choosing his own outfit for the evening. He''d gone with the same lilac three-piece suit he''d worn to Madame Beaumont''s ball, though he''d remembered to order a set of silvery stockings to go with it, since everyone who was anyone was wearing stockings with a metallic sheen enchanted into their weave for the upcoming season. Mirk had wanted to wear the blue one he''d worn to the meeting of the Circle to bolster his courage, but good manners deemed wearing the same suit on the two occasions he''d gone out with a particular lady a minor insult. He should have worn the same conservative gray suit he''d worn to meet Maragaret for the first time. At present, he almost felt like he outshone Catherine, with all his falls of lace and delicate embroidery.


    "Good evening, seigneur," Catherine said, her eyes cast down, drawing her cloak close around herself as she straightened up. Another item that was far too plain for a debutante, in Mirk''s opinion ¡ª there wasn''t even any fur on it, and its lining was black silk rather than an eye-catching brilliant red or rich violet. "Father said he''d meet us with the coach at half past, but...well."


    "The invitation said that the ball doesn''t start until seven. Is it far away?"


    Catherine looked puzzled for a moment, though she soon sunk back down into her worries. "We wouldn''t want to be late."


    Mirk was starting to feel concerned too. The grim dress, the punctuality, it all spoke to a social scene that he felt woefully unprepared for. "I didn''t know that your father would be joining us. Methinks it''s only proper, but..."


    "He''ll be off with the others the second we''re in past the doors," Catherine replied. "Mother said that it''d be better to have someone more...attentive on hand as well."


    "Is everything all right?" Mirk asked her, when Catherine made no effort to keep the conversation going. "I know that your sister didn¡¯t enjoy balls..."


    "I had been hoping mother would join us as well. She said that her and the others from the division are working on a particular divination spell tonight, but..."


    Despite his mental shielding, it was impossible for Mirk not to feel a tinge of Catherine''s discontent. "It is hard to go on your debut without your mother. Or your sister. They''ve both been through this before. Even if things didn''t, euh, go the best for Mademoiselle Kali."


    The mention of her sister got a smile to ghost across Catherine''s face, at least. "She broke Edmund Drewell''s foot five minutes into the first dance."


    Mirk laughed, going to her side, passing his grandfather''s staff to his left hand so he could take her elbow with his right to reassure her. "Methinks I might not understand everything, but I know how hard it can be. I only ever had my mother with me. She knew what she was doing, of course, but it was hard not having my father there too. It was hard for me to...hmm, have the right attitude? Maybe? I already never went to the academies or any of the guild lectures with the other men. And I was terrible at riding and hunting."


    At the mention of riding, Catherine brightened a little more. "Is that so? Most of the earth mages I''ve met have had a talent for riding. Father''s different among the rest for not being one, even if he has a bit of the teleporting gift."


    "Angels don''t ride. Most of our carriage horses were terrified of my father and his guard. Maman found me a human tutor, but, well. I wasn''t stern enough, I suppose. I was more interested in seeing where the horse wanted to go than I was in directing him."


    "I''ve always loved riding. But past a certain age...well. I only have a good excuse when mother wants someone to keep an eye on Kali."


    At first, Mirk thought his nerves had to be playing tricks on him. As Catherine looked off into the evening fog that was rising up from between the cobbles, Mirk thought he could hear the distant sound of hoofbeats. Then he felt it ¡ª a faint stirring in the street beneath him, like the slumbering stones were begrudgingly rising to attention, turning over and shifting position before returning to rest. "Is your father coming from the City? Or the mage quarter?" Mirk asked Catherine, lowering his voice and edging closer to her. Not that he''d be of much help if there was genuine trouble brewing.


    "It''s someone else," she replied, also in a whisper. "Father never rides his horses that hard. Or uses that kind of magic."


    They didn''t have long to wait to find out. A sharp yip pierced the silence that had fallen over the plaza, the Watch men beside the gates leaping to attention and grabbing at their swords. A moment later, a lone rider on a bay horse thundered past along the City''s outermost ring road, hunched low over the saddle. Everything seemed to split to grant them passage: the fog, the cobbles, the cluster of high-born officers who''d been crossing the plaza, headed for the East Gate and their homes beyond. Mirk anticipated feeling a rush of exhaustion against his shields, sparks of pain and uncertainty. But instead, he felt the giddy excitement of a foal that''d finally found its footing, along with the intense focus of the rider.


    "Oy! The fuck''s the matter with you!" one of the officers barked.


    "Watch where you''re going, you bastard!" another cried out.


    But the rider was already gone.


    Beside him, Catherine laughed. Once the rider had passed, Mirk could catch a hint of her delight percolating on the other side of his mental shields. "What a talented rider! To manage a bracing charm and fleetness spell at the same time...I wonder what division he''s in?"


    That answer soon arrived. The hoofbeats returned, albeit at a slower pace. The rider circled back to the plaza, the stones once again vibrating strangely beneath their feet at his approach. Thankfully, the officers had hurried off rather than hanging around to berate the rider who''d nearly run them down. It was the head of the new group of Easterners who''d come back with Mordecai to join the Seventh. Whose foreign name Mirk completely forgot in his surprise.


    The bay snorted and reared its head, and the Easterner reached down to calm it, giving it a few friendly pats on the neck. The horse ¡ª a stallion, much larger up close than Mirk had appreciated as it had streaked past ¡ª didn''t feel nervous, exhausted. It felt curious, just like its rider. He slid off its back easily, bouncing a little on his feet before sweeping his circular fur hat off his head and performing an awkward bow. Mirk got the impression it was directed more toward Catherine than him.


    Mirk released Catherine''s elbow and returned the bow, as she dipped down into a curtsey beside him. "Bon soir, Monsieur...euh...Ou..."


    "Orest!" The Easterner cheered, grinning at Catherine. Mirk nudged on the translation charm pinned to the inside of his sleeve. But rather than speaking in his native tongue, Orest struggled on in English. Unlike when Mirk had first met him at the infirmary, he wasn''t prepared with the Easterners'' vocal translator. "And you! You...Ma...Mis..."


    "Mirk."


    Orest slapped his thigh and nodded, grin growing even wider. He hadn''t yet sacrificed his beard in the fashion of the English mages, but he hadn''t let it grow wild either. "Yes! Mirgosha, yes."


    "And this is Mademoiselle Catherine," Mirk said, sweeping an arm in her direction. "Comrade Commander Margaret''s daughter."


    "A pleasure, my lady," Orest replied as he bowed again. In his native tongue, judging by the echoey tone his voice took on, just for a moment. K''aekniv had been at work there, Mirk thought. Whenever one of the new men asked him about the best way to approach Englishwomen, K''aekniv said that bows were a must. But K¡¯aekniv had an awkward, stiff way of doing them, owing to his wings, which was evident in Orest''s gestures.


    "Monsieur Orest has just joined the Seventh. He''s from the east, like K''aekniv. His people are renowned for their skill with horses," Mirk explained to her.


    "I''d agree. Your control really is remarkable, Mister Orest. He''s barely even out of breath," Catherine said, marveling at both the stallion and its rider.


    Orest kept grinning, but Mirk could tell by the way that his dark eyes darted in his direction that he hadn''t a clue what Catherine had just said. Mirk did his best to simplify, to make clear with gestures. "The stones," Mirk said, waving down at them and tapping at the cobbles with his grandfather''s staff. "You used your magic? I could feel the stones moving," he added, tipping one hand from side to side, then gesturing at the stallion''s hooves.


    "Yes! Ah! Need help right now. Make soft. For Mitya," he said. "But soon, strong. Ride more."


    "Very few men in the cavalry show such consideration to their horses," Catherine said, smiling up at the both of them. "Is he yours? He''s lovely, really..."


    Orest shook his head. "Dauid. My horse? Zirochka? In spring," he explained, haltingly, pointing down at the cobbles to try to emphasize his point. Though he turned back toward the bay stallion a moment later, stroking its face and speaking to it in a soft voice, though the way it echoed off the buildings ringing the plaza and the fog made his words just loud enough for Mirk''s translation charm to pick them up. "But I won''t forget about you, big boy. I''ll still find you a good pasture, I promise. All the grass you can eat. And we''ll run and we''ll jump and life will be just like a foal''s for you, and that bastard Dauid won''t keep you in that piece of shit barn of his."


    Catherine turned her head toward Mirk, ever so slightly, cocking a curious eyebrow. Mirk flashed her a smile, gesturing for her to wait and see. "Are you working for Dauid, Monsieur Orest? Training his horses now?" Mirk asked, turning back toward the Easterner, making a gesture like he was clutching reins.


    "Huh?"


    "You''re helping with his horses?" Mirk said, slowly, gesturing at the bay.


    Orest caught the drift of things then, nodding again. "Yes! All five!"


    "Your skills must be as impressive as they look, to have a commander entrust his horses to you," Catherine said.


    Mirk wasn''t certain Orest understood her. But certain things were universal. Such as the slight, warm smile Catherine treated Orest to, the color rising to her cheeks as she shifted her gaze away from Orest back to the bay stallion stamping its feet impatiently behind him. Mirk could feel its desire to set out again, the trickle of simmering excitement almost too faint to reach his mental shielding ¡ª the emotions of animals didn''t reach him as precisely and as strongly as those of humans, but Mirk had always been able to sense them all the same. Though all the other empaths he''d spoken with about it seemed to think he was imagining things.


    Orest laughed, looking like he wanted to reach out to Catherine. But he held himself back, sensing through some combination of her dress and whatever K''aekniv and the other men had told him about Englishwoman that such a forward gesture wouldn''t be taken the way he intended it to. Instead, he bowed again, though that time he added his own flair to it: a click of his heels, a sleight-of-hand trick that involved sweeping his hat off his head in such a way that it rolled down the length of his arm into his hand. Catherine hid a giggle of her own behind one lace-gloved hand. "Thank you, Ma...Ma..."


    "Miss will suffice, Mister Orest."


    "Miss Catherine! Yes! But now, we ride! Work to do." Orest scrambled back up into the saddle, as easily as a man sitting down in his favorite armchair. At some unseen signal given with his thighs or knees, the stallion wheeled around and was off again, Orest''s magic engaging to make its way more certain and swift. Behind him, Mirk heard the Watch men grumbling to one another, though not loudly or distinctly enough for their words to reach him and Catherine.


    "What an interesting man," Catherine said, turning back to face Mirk. "You know him from your work with the Seventh?"


    Mirk nodded. Though she was doing her best to be politely attentive, Catherine''s eyes kept drifting in the direction Orest had gone, around the ring road. At the speed he was riding, doubtlessly he''d be around again soon. It was simply a matter of who would arrive first: Orest, or Catherine''s father, Casyn, with the family coach. "I don''t know him well, since he only just arrived. But he seems much more friendly than the others." Mirk paused, then added, with a smile. "Methinks he''ll get the hang of English soon enough. All the Easterners seem to be quick learners."


    She hid it well, but Mirk could tell Catherine was a bit disappointed when the sound of hooves ¡ª too numerous for one horse and rider, and accompanied by the creaking of wood ¡ªreturned, from the direction of the East Gate. A sleek black carriage pulled up just inside it, and a man hopped down from the bench beside the coachman. Casyn, as middling and plain as when Mirk had last seen him at the Festival of Shades, despite the fact that they were headed for a much more formal occasion. He was still in uniform rather than wearing a suit, and though his long black fur cloak had kept off the worst of the streets'' muck and dust, Mirk still thought his uniform looked too shabby for a debutante ball. At least in comparison to what he and Catherine were wearing.


    Casyn approached, only noticing Mirk once he was within arm''s reach of his daughter. Who he declined to even greet, his narrowed eyes fixed on Mirk instead. "Are you the foreigner Margaret invited along with?" he asked, sizing Mirk up. They were roughly the same height. Though Casyn was a good deal broader, his face pockmarked by at least a century of living.


    "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon, Comrade Commander. Your servant," Mirk said, bowing to him. It was returned with only a nod, as was custom among the less well-mannered K''maneda, no matter how high-born. "I''m honored to accompany both you and Mademoiselle Catherine tonight on Comrade Commander Margaret''s invitation, yes."


    "Kali and I accompanied the seigneur on a visit to his home lately," Catherine elaborated. "And Kali''s still with his uncle, Monsieur Henri."


    "Oh, right," Casyn said, nodding along, expending the effort to force a smile onto his face. "Haven''t seen you around at the dining hall or anything. But you''re a healer, right? They all keep to themselves."


    "Yes, Comrade Commander. In the Twentieth."


    Casyn''s eyebrows lifted, but he didn''t comment. "Well, let''s be off. It''s a bit of a hike to Lord Emerson''s but we should make it five minutes early still, as long as the horses cooperate." Something in Casyn''s tone, in the deliberate way that he retreated to the carriage, made Mirk glad that he''d be inside rather than out on the bench to witness his horsemanship. Though Casyn hadn''t thought to offer Catherine an arm, Mirk did, with a deferential half-bow.


    She took it, mustering a brittle smile. Mirk didn''t have to feel even a hint of Catherine''s emotions to tell that she''d suffered such off-hand treatment from her father often enough for it to have taxed her nerves. And if it was pressing her, Mirk could only imagine how Kali would have reacted to it. Mirk patted her hand, lightly, then headed off for the carriage.


    Hopefully Comrade Commander Margaret and her daughters were a better example of what English magecraft was like rather than her father. Otherwise, Mirk had the impression it''d be a very long night.


    -   -   -


    The English way of doing things, Mirk soon realized, was the polar opposite of what he was accustomed to. And not in a way that made him think very charitably of it.


    After a tense and silent carriage ride, during which Mirk had been too distracted by the churning in his stomach to even attempt to make polite conversation, and a jump from a teleportation spell that only made the ache three times worse, they arrived at the manor house of that evening''s hosts. A certain Lord Emerson and his wife, Lady Elanor. It was a towering, somber affair, its facade all clean, plain lines. And even though its garden had been left to go dormant rather than being kept going by enchantments and earth magic, Mirk could tell at a glance that it was an equally regimented, plain affair.


    The grim style continued on in the manor house''s foyer, a boxy room with none of the mirrors and velvet wall hangings and forgiving, yellowy magelights that were a must inside any respectable family''s foyer in France. It was cold and gray, just like the country it was situated in. A little like the style favored in Brittany, which Mirk had visited only on occasion to meet with distant relatives of his grandmother, but even more depressing in its orderliness as opposed to the northern province''s wild, casual flair.


    Rather than mingling all together and chatting, the mages waited their turn to enter the ballroom in a pair of long lines, only the couples who''d arrived together speaking with one another in hushed tones. Mirk hung back behind Casyn and Catherine, feeling a bit lost for lack of a partner. Instead, all he could do was struggle against the dregs of his nausea and observe in silence.


    Things seemed to loosen up some once the pairs entered the ballroom proper. But first, all the pairs needed to be introduced to the room by a djinn footman and, from what Mirk could sense and see, it seemed the other guests paused their conversations to pay attention to the titles and names of those who''d just arrived. Another odd English custom, Mirk supposed. A French mage would be insulted by having to be introduced by a servant at a party. Anyone who¡¯d put any work into their reputation at all expected to be recognized by most in attendance on sight. Or, if they were new to the scene, they made an effort to simply be so striking that the other guests couldn''t resist coming over to introduce themselves and sate their curiosity.


    Not that many of the guests had particularly striking attire, from what Mirk could see. He wondered if their host for the evening wasn''t attached to the K''maneda somehow, considering how much black was on display. The ladies favored muted pastels and high necklines, with only soft touches of lace and wide skirts that weren''t balanced out by cinched bodices. The men were three times as severe. Rather than representing their guild colors properly in their suits, the men preferred to accessorize with them, with pins in their cravats and accents on the inner linings of their justacorps and on their hat bands. And there were a good deal of hats on display that night among the men rather than wigs. Mirk hoped he hadn''t miscalculated by choosing not to wear one.


    As he neared the front of the line, Mirk paid more attention to the names of those being introduced. Not that he doubted Catherine wouldn''t be kind enough to show him around the room. But there was little else to do in line, since a stony silence had fallen between Catherine and Casyn ahead of him, and the pair behind him, a severe young woman and what had to be her grandfather, were having a conversation Mirk knew would upset him more than being helpful. Scripture. But in the English style, with a lot of talk about how excessive and wasteful the mages had grown as of late. If they thought the drab line of mages ahead of them was too frivolous to gain entry to the Lord''s Kingdom, Mirk didn''t want to know what they thought of him.


    "Master Lord Wainwright of the Potioners Guild," the djinn said, with a slight bow, as he held out an arm toward the pair ahead of Catherine and her father. A middle-aged man in a navy suit, rail-thin, with fingertips stained a faint purple color. The dress of the young woman on his arm matched the blotches on his hands, lilac like his own suit, albeit a bit more muted. Mirk wondered if the lady had made an intentional choice to match her father, or if it''d just been an unfortunate coincidence. "And his daughter, Miss Abigail."


    The pair bowed and curtseyed, then entered. Mirk was close enough now to the doors to hear the faint strains of a four piece ensemble accompanied by harpsichord, playing a light enough tune that the music wouldn''t drown out the introductions. He didn''t recognize the song. Casyn and Catherine stepped up to the threshold, Casyn running a hand quickly over his hair to check that any locks of it that might have been tugged out of his ponytail were at least slicked down. The djinn bowed in greeting to them. But Mirk thought that the djinn''s expression grew even more closed than was customary upon being presented with a K''maneda commander and his daughter. Servants always talked, Mirk knew. The djinn were no exception.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    "Comrade Commander Casyn Rak''sen of the K''maneda''s Fourth Cavalry Division," the djinn said. "And his daughter, Miss Catherine."


    Casyn made a haphazard attempt at a bow, as Catherine dipped down at his side. Mirk took advantage of it to peek past them into the ballroom. He didn''t think the crowd''s reception of a K''maneda commander was any less cool than it''d been to any of the guests who''d come before them. Casyn headed straight for a particular group of men clustered near the string ensemble as soon as he was unburdened of his daughter. Mirk recognized the portly mage and his spindly counterpart who''d arrived at the Festival of Shades alongside Ravensdale in that particular cluster. They had to be the other K''maneda officers, unburdened of their blacks now that they''d been let loose on polite society. For a change of pace, they were wearing more lively colors than the rest of the crowd, Casyn excepted.


    "Good evening, sir," the djinn said to Mirk, as he turned to introduce him next. His eyes ran down Mirk''s suit, lingering for a moment on his grandfather''s staff. "Would you happen to be the foreign guest of Comrade Commander Casyn?"


    Mirk smiled, nodding. "Yes, that''s right."


    "And a relation of a certain Madame Beaumont, I believe. Visiting for the season in London," the djinn said. His face remained impassive. But Mirk thought he glimpsed the faintest traces of a reddish magic circling in his eyes.


    "My godmother, yes." He pressed his smile wider, allowing a soft empathic projection of reassurance to slip past his shields. If the djinn manning the door was anywhere near as perceptive as the others he''d met, Mirk was sure he''d pick up on it.


    The djinn didn''t comment. But a smile played along his thin lips in return, just for a second, before he turned to introduce him to the ballroom. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon," the djinn said, as he bowed. "Of the Circle of French Guildmasters."


    Mirk bowed along with him. But he was too alarmed by all the cutting glances turned in his direction to check his nerves. He reflexively moved into the most differential bow he knew. One that was low enough to convey a proper degree of politeness, but that was far too elaborate and beseeching for the somber nobility before him. Internally, Mirk cringed. But he managed, barely, to keep his discomfort off his face.


    The djinn had done him a favor, even, which Mirk was determined to repay, either that night or after. Technically, the Circle''s official title was as he''d recited it. But everyone knew it better as the Circle of Friends. A far less prestigious title in the eyes of the English mages, no doubt, even though the opposite held true at home. Anyone with enough grimoires and potential could become a Grand Master. But only a mage of exceptional grace and wit could claim those who sat on the Circle as friends.


    That question was on Catherine''s lips as she moved to join him. She''d been put into a subdued mood from having to spend the last half hour beside her father. Luckily for her, it fit the prevailing attitude in the ballroom better than her usual spirited curiosity. "Did the djinn introduce you properly, seigneur?"


    "Oh, yes. Nothing to worry about," Mirk said. He lowered his voice further, as he took her elbow and led her to the outskirts of the crowds for the time being, a fitting place to better gauge the mood of the party and observe those in attendance. "The party is a little quiet for a debutante ball, non?"


    "It''s because we''re at Lord Emerson''s," Catherine said, inclining her head slightly toward a man near the room''s bank of floor to ceiling windows. There was no enchantment playing beyond them, as was customary at French mage balls. Instead they opened on the dormant gardens at the back of the house, as boxy and prim as the ones out front. "The head of the ordered light mages. A very pious man."


    Mirk could believe that. He wore black, much like a K''maneda, only his suit was meant for study, not for fighting in. And his hat put Mirk in mind of the ugly, flat-brimmed one that Genesis wore in bad weather. It was a shame that the commander detested social gatherings, Mirk thought to himself. He would have fit in very well among the English mages. At least in terms of restrained propriety. "Euh...it seems an odd choice to pick him as the host for the first ball of the debutante season, methinks. But perhaps I''m misunderstanding things."


    "His granddaughter is making her debut this spring," Catherine explained, indicating a waiflike blond woman drowning in an equally plain black dress and white bonnet near him. "Esther. Since Lord Emerson refuses to come to any other balls, he hosted one instead to keep an eye on her. Things are usually a bit more lively than this. Though probably not exactly like what you''re accustomed to, if what I''ve heard about the French is true."


    None of the younger men who''d arrived, Mirk noticed, had yet dared to venture close to Esther or her grandfather. And Mirk could understand why. No matter how grand a lady''s lineage was, if said lineage was a particularly severe one, Mirk could see why a young man who was looking to enjoy himself a little before settling down would stay far away. Mirk sighed. "Methinks that must be hard for her. Hopefully he lets her dance a little, at least."


    "Only to check on the menfolk''s magic, I''m sure," Catherine said. From her tone, it was clear to Mirk that she pitied Esther just as much as he did.


    "Do the English mage dance too?"


    "At least at this sort of party. I''m surprised the show-offs haven''t started yet."


    She indicated said show-offs with another nod of her head. A group of young men who were involved in a spirited debate over something near the harpsichord. And who were all staring at them. "Ah, I see..."


    "I''m undecided on what to do with them," Catherine said, turning her head to face Mirk, just in case one of the men might be trying to make out the topic of their discussion from across the room. "I''m not sure what you''re accustomed to, but in England, the only eligible men who are nearer our age are very focused on their studies. A dedicated student from the right family can be a master by thirty, if he devotes himself to nothing else. And a master is always a good match, if he comes from the right family. But so much focus on magic tends to make a man a little more...inexperienced in other areas."


    Catherine didn''t have to say anything else. Mirk knew the type all too well. If Elijah hadn''t been low-born, he''d have been right there arguing with the others. Oblivious to the ladies, despite that being the ostensible reason for the ball to begin with. "At least studying is peaceful work," Mirk said, doing his best to convey his sympathy to Catherine by tone while keeping his words more composed. "Who else is here for the debutante season?"


    "I have no doubt father would prefer for me to favor one of the K''maneda men," Catherine said, though she avoided looking over at the officers. "Mother is of the opposite opinion. She would prefer I settle on one of the English mages. Not one of the young men, someone more established. She thinks it''d be better for me and Kali to move beyond K''maneda circles. And she holds a low opinion of K''maneda men in general."


    The slight, dissatisfied frown on Catherine''s face made Mirk suspect Catherine agreed with her mother. But the next bit of information she had to share with him was even more worrisome. "An exception could be made for a dignified man of means within the K''amaneda who isn''t quite so warlike, though. But I think the only man who''d fit that description in attendance tonight would be you."


    "I, ah..."


    She flashed him a tight-lipped smile. "You don''t need to worry, seigneur. You''re very pleasant company, and I''m glad for the help that an empath can give in this kind of situation. But I have other prospects in mind."


    At the mention of other prospects, Catherine''s gaze went distant. Which meant that she completely missed the group of young scholars near the harpsichord collectively deciding to strike out across the ballroom to introduce themselves. They were led by the least awkward of their number, a short, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit. A dark elemental mage, like Catherine, if the English propensity to wear colors that matched their element held true. Mirk squeezed Catherine''s elbow lightly to bring her back to the present, then let go of her to bow to the crowd of oncoming young mages. "Bon soir, monsieurs," Mirk murmured, as he lowered his head. They either hadn''t picked up on his empathy yet, or didn''t view him as someone worth attempting to shield out. Though he couldn''t tell whether their skepticism was directed more toward him or toward Catherine.


    "Good evening," Catherine echoed, as she hastily curtseyed to the group, which surrounded them in a half-circle.


    "Good evening Miss Catherine, Mister..." The man in the gray suit frowned. "My apologies. The djinn didn''t name your guild. Only that you''re on the French''s guild council." Mirk caught him staring at his suit, perhaps trying to puzzle out what sort of magic lilac could indicate.


    "This is Seigneur d''Avignon," Catherine said. She recovered remarkably quick, Mirk noticed. And had much better social graces than her sister. Her smile was warm and pleasant, despite how the man had slighted her by fixing on Mirk in favor of her. Kali doubtlessly would have had a cross word or two to say about that. "Seigneur d''Avignon, this is Master Atticus Greene. Of the Guild of Chaotic Dark Mages."


    "Enchant¨¦, Monsieur Greene," Mirk said, with another deferential dip of his head.


    "Are you with the Briseurs?" Atticus asked, squinting across the gap between them. Mirk could feel his magic pressing against his mental shielding, though the mage was trying to be at least a little subtle with his probing. "I thought that someone else was the head of that, but we don''t get news often from the Continent."


    "Ah, no, I''m not a member of any of the French guilds, I''m afraid. I''m a member of the K''maneda, like Miss Catherine," Mirk said, in an effort to draw her into the conversation. "Though I''m a much less talented mage than she is. I''m only a healer. Methinks you''d probably find my work very dull."


    Atticus, however, didn''t have the grace to follow the conversation. He remained fixed on Mirk, now squinting at his grandfather''s staff rather than directly at him. "But you''re on the Circle? I thought only Grand Masters were allowed."


    "Not quite, monsieur. And I haven''t been formally accepted. I''m only holding my grandfather''s spot at present."


    "Your grandfather?"


    "Jean-Luc d''Avignon."


    "d''Avignon...d''Avignon..." Atticus muttered under his breath.


    "Did you pay any attention at all during your history lessons, Greene?" one of the other men butted in. A fire mage, judging by the ruddy color of the lining of his justacorps. "He''s the one that broke the Church mages."


    The light of realization sprung onto Atticus''s face. "Oh. That d''Avignon."


    "Then you''re the only one that might stand a chance with Miss Esther," the second man quipped. "Provided you''re as strongly against Rome as the rest of your family."


    Mirk chuckled politely, but tried again to shift the focus of the conversation back to Catherine. The last thing he wanted to explain to as pious and somber of a crowd as the one gathered in Lord Emerson''s ballroom was that his grandfather had struck out at the Church more out of personal pride rather than religious sincerity. Or that Jean-Luc had enthusiastically become a regular attendee at Mass later in life, even if it was only to appeal to his grandmother''s convictions rather than out of personal faith. "Are you and Miss Catherine''s family members of the same guild? I couldn''t help but notice that you have similar elements..."


    "My grandfather was the head of the Dark Mages Guild before they split by orientation, yes," Catherine said, nodding. "Though I wouldn''t presume to join, of course."


    "It really is wonderful how much room the K''maneda gives the ladies to learn the arts, methinks," Mirk said. "Every time I come to the Glass Tower, you''re all hard at your studies. I''m learning so many new things here in England."


    None of the men were taking the bait. They all were all still fixed on Mirk. Or, rather, on Jean-Luc''s staff, a few of the men at the back of the group whispering to one another in hushed tones about what manner of enchantment had to be on it.


    It was taking all of Mirk''s manners not to say something provocative. He sincerely hoped that not all of English magecraft was as dense as the young men who''d ambushed them. It made Mirk wonder if their parents invested in giving any of them proper education in the courtly arts at all, or if they focused solely on the magical potential of their sons. It all only further convinced Mirk that Genesis would fit right in among them, if only he could hold his tongue about his hatred of the guilds and their monopoly on magic.


    "Are you familiar with the Rouzets?" Atticus asked Mirk. "They''re the only name in French dark magic I know of that''s current."


    "Necromancers," a man at the back grumbled.


    "Esoterics," another spat.


    "The theory on that wouldn''t hold up for a second."


    Mirk ignored them, nodding. "I''ve met Seigneur Lazare a few times, though I''m afraid our families didn''t socialize much. But isn''t this a lovely chance to get to know each other? Though methinks our balls at home are a bit more lively than yours. Are we waiting for everyone to arrive before the dancing starts? And I''m very excited to see what kind of refreshments you all favor. I do enjoy a good glass of wine, but I''m sure that the English standard must be just as lovely."


    "What? Dancing?" Atticus asked. The mention of it had finally succeeded in knocking him out of his study of the staff. Though it didn''t draw his attention to Catherine, a lady who''d come for the express purpose of dancing, and whose magic would doubtlessly be compatible with his, still waiting patiently beside him. "Oh, yes, we wait until everyone''s arrived."


    "But there''s no refreshments, not tonight," another man piped up. "Lord Emerson''s opposed to drink."


    Mirk fought not to let his dismay rise onto his face. The prospect of an entire evening stretching out before him, dodging questions about his family and faith and negotiating with men who didn''t have the slightest sense for good manners, made something inside Mirk shrivel up in protest. "Oh, well, that''s understandable, but still too bad. The next ball, then. Your debutante season goes well into the spring, non? Almost to summer, really."


    "Yes," Atticus said. Though his tone made it clear to Mirk that he found the prospect of further balls more of a burden than a boon.


    Mirk cast a sideways glance toward the door. The line that''d stretched out into the foyer beyond was depleted. At the very least, there''d be dancing soon. Though Mirk hated to think of what sort of grim shuffling counted as permissible in Lord Emerson''s opinion.


    Catherine was also getting desperate, Mirk sensed. As they''d been talking, the group of Kamenda mages had been drifting in their direction. Mirk didn''t know if it was because the men felt the need to keep Catherine among themselves, or if Casyn had urged the younger men among them to stake their claim before any of the other English mages could ask for Catherine''s first dance.


    Mirk knew from experience that Catherine had an interest in magic, but it was far less single-minded than those of the young men gathered near them. However, out of necessity, she decided to engage Atticus on a topic he doubtlessly found more interesting than the cheerful company of a pleasant woman. "Has the new work by Vinke on chaotic illusions arrived at the guild library yet, Master Atticus? Our copy just arrived last week. I was wondering if you''d perhaps seen it already and could tell me if it would be worth my time to pursue it."


    For the first time that night, Atticus finally seemed to see Catherine. His dark eyes fixed on her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "The K''maneda already has Vinke''s exhibition manuscript? No, we don''t have it. But I read the pamphlet he based it off of. I..."


    Atticus had been on the brink of holding out his hand to Catherine. But movement back by the door caught his attention, dragging it away from Catherine once more. Though Mirk couldn''t feel it, Mirk could hear the apprehension in the djinn footman''s voice as he announced that night¡¯s final guest. "Lord Alistair Ravensdale," the djinn said. "Grand Master of the K''maneda."


    It was as if the whole room gave a collective inhale. The few sparks of unshielded magic Mirk had been able to pick up around the room winked out, though traces of emotion remained: wariness, skepticism, along with a few flickers of interest and disdain. Mirk snuck a glance back over his shoulder toward the door.


    Ravensdale appeared to be far more relaxed in the ballroom than he had been beside the funeral pyre during the Festival of Shades. Unlike at the Festival, he''d put more effort into his appearance. He''d worked hard to try to disguise the glamors he wore over his features, but Mirk knew where to look for them, having seen him already in a more natural state. His features were even sharper that night, the artificial cut of his jaw even more square, more masculine. And Mirk thought he''d added a good half hand worth of height to himself. Though he''d elected to wear the K''maneda black, he''d chosen much finer materials for his suit that night than the other commanders and most of the English. Silk, embroidered with silver thread and buttons. With a crimson lining that didn''t align with what Mirk knew of his natural elemental magic.


    But the way he sauntered into the room, head held high and wide smile firmly in place, betrayed how he didn''t belong there. The other English mages, though they were much stiffer and utilitarian than the noble mages at home, still had mastered the sort of upright, controlled bearing that spoke of self-restraint and good manners. Ravensdale''s bearing telegraphed his rough beginnings more than any poorly cut suit ever could. He moved like a street brawler, with the same squared shoulders and aggressive swagger that the low-born infantrymen used to convey to each other that they weren''t afraid to throw a punch if need be. And even though none of his djinn had accompanied Ravensdale that night, he didn''t try to shield away the magic he''d stolen from him. The skirts and coats of the nobles he passed on his way to the other officers stirred in the phantom breeze generated by his windswept aura, ready to fling aside anyone who got in his way.


    "Oh...I didn''t know that Comrade Ravensdale would be coming," Mirk babbled into the silence that¡¯d fallen over their group upon Ravensdale''s arrival. "How...euh..."


    "Interesting," Atticus finished, flatly. Rather than resuming his conversation with Catherine, he abruptly excused himself and hurried back to his previous post beside the harpsichord, the rest of the young intellectuals heading off after him without even bothering to bid either him or Catherine a good evening.


    "I had been hoping to get Mister Greene''s attention before this happened," Catherine said with a sigh, though her warm smile didn''t falter.


    "You were nearly there," Mirk reassured her, resisting the urge to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder. "Though...well...he does seem like a bit of a single-minded sort. But mages often are."


    Catherine scanned the room, pausing on a mixed group of men and women across from the windows. The more lighthearted of that evening''s attendees, if Mirk had to guess, the older and more well-established families. They all seemed well-acquainted with each other. And the few single men in attendance ¡ª older than the mages, but not so old that a debutante would only consider them if pressed by the needs of her family ¡ª already seemed to be taking their pick of the young ladies among the crowd, conferring with their fathers and grandfathers to get an introduction before engaging the ladies themselves.


    "Methinks I might have better luck with them too," Mirk said, following Catherine¡¯s gaze. "They seem more like what I''m accustomed to, anyway. Shall we go over?"


    She nodded, taking his arm. "Mother was right. You don''t give off the air of a K''maneda. I think we have good odds. At least better than I would with father. You are very interesting, after all, seigneur. To those who are inclined toward making conversation, in any case."


    Though almost everything else was different about that strange English ball, the musicians followed the same traditions. The timbre of the next song was more somber than he was accustomed to, but Mirk recognized the sprightly beat to it. That night''s dancing would commence with the next number; this was the unspoken signal for the men to choose their ladies. Or square off against each other, if they couldn''t attract one.


    Which would be the case for many that night, Mirk suspected, judging by the size of the crowd. There were only forty or so young debutantes in attendance, if Mirk had to guess, and nearly twice that number of men without a wife hovering nearby. He allowed Catherine to guide him indirectly rather than taking the lead, as they strolled across the ballroom in the direction of a pair of middle-aged men in plain brown suits. Artificers, if Mirk had to guess, judging by the detail of the metalwork on their buckles and buttons.


    But they were intercepted before they could make it across the ballroom, by Casyn calling out to Catherine from somewhere behind him. Both he and Catherine cringed at his raised voice, uncalled for in a setting that wasn''t solely populated by battle-hardened mages and fighters who wouldn''t respond to anything other than a yell or a smack upside the head.


    "Catherine! Catherine, there you are! I lost track of you," Casyn said, voice thankfully lowering the closer he got. Unfortunately, he wasn''t alone. Ravensdale and his two mismatched right-hand mages were trailing after him, all of them exchanging questioning looks. "Has anyone asked for your first dance yet?"


    "No, father," Catherine said, pausing for a moment to gather her wits before turning to face her father fully, Mirk still holding on to her elbow. "I was just about to introduce Seigneur d''Avignon to Masters Blake and White from the Artificers."


    Casyn opened his mouth to reply. But he was cut off by Ravensdale, who stepped out ahead of him, giving both Mirk and Catherine a once-over with his eyes and magic. It was the gaze of a man who was more accustomed to taking stock of his possessions than of people. "Seigneur d''Avignon? Are you that new recruit from the Twentieth? Cyrus said something about a Frenchman...but he implied that you weren''t much of a noble anymore..."


    Mirk let practice take the lead while his mind scrambled to catch up with the sudden turn of events, leaning into a bow that was deeper than strictly necessary. "Yes, Comrade Ravensdale. I joined the Twentieth this past summer."


    Behind him, the portly mage exchanged a skeptical look with Casyn, who shrugged him off without comment. Meanwhile, the spindly mage was staring determinedly down at the floor, as if he wished the boards would part and swallow him whole. "I''ll have to have a word with Cyrus," Ravensdale said, with an off-hand, dismissive gesture. He wasn''t looking at him, Mirk noticed. Much like the young mages before him, he found Jean-Luc''s staff far more interesting. "It''s a waste to have a noble in the Twentieth, even if you aren''t from England. You know we don''t discriminate in the K''maneda."


    "Of course, Comrade Ravensdale. That''s very considerate of you," Mirk replied.


    "Margaret says that all the women love him," Casyn piped up. "Best healer they''ve all been with in ages."


    "And it''s paramount that we keep our women happy," Ravensdale said, nodding along. Mirk felt like he was going to be sick. He knew full well, from all the horrible stories told to him by Fatima''s ladies, that Ravensdale had about as much interest in the health and happiness of the K''maneda''s women as he did his djinn. "Speaking of," Ravensdale continued, as his gaze shifted to Catherine. "I didn''t know that your younger daughter was making her debut this season, Casyn. Catherine, is it?"


    Catherine dipped into a curtsey, her eyes lowered. "Yes, Comrade. Catherine Rak''sen. It''s nice to see you again."


    "She''s the smart one," Casyn said. "Best enchantress we have. Though I may be a bit biased."


    Something in Casyn''s tone grated on Mirk. They were cut from the same cloth, Casyn and Ravensdale, though Ravensdale had at least mastered the art of speaking gently, even if the rest of his manners were lacking. They both acted like all of the people around them were nothing but tools, things to be shuffled about and rearranged and discarded at will. "Do you share Comrade Commander Margaret''s element and orientation?" Ravensdale asked Catherine.


    "Element, yes. But I''m a chaotic dark mage, not ordered."


    Ravensdale''s eyebrows lifted further. "I''d be interested in seeing a demonstration. Would you care to accompany me on the first dance? I promise I won''t keep you for long," he said, offering out his hand.


    The smile didn''t leave Catherine''s face. But Mirk felt dread rise up in her, hidden underneath a subdued display of her magical potential, which made the shadows cast by her petite frame and wide skirts darken and lengthen. Something he''d seen Genesis do often enough, though Catherine''s magic didn''t have the same coldness to it that the commander''s did, the same uncanny intelligence and destructive intent. She nodded and took Ravensdale''s hand as the notes of the night''s first proper dance wafted across the ballroom, along with several debutantes and the men they''d chosen to test the compatibility of their magic with. "I''d be honored, Comrade Ravensdale."


    The pair headed off toward the area at the center of the ballroom that had the necessary enchantments for mage dancing inscribed upon it. Casyn watched with smugly folded arms, beaming from ear to ear, mostly over the way the other K''maneda officers on the far side of the room were watching his daughter and their leader. Though the trio of commanders didn''t stay right beside Ravensdale, they kept close to him, lest he forget about them while being entertained by Catherine''s charm.


    As soon as the officers had moved off, Mirk allowed his smile to fade. He''d never thought of himself as a combative person before. But something about the conversation that''d just gone on in front of him made him want to knock the lot of them upside their heads with the staff. Mirk glanced over at it, spinning it between his fingers. The wood was warm against his skin. Though he decided it''d be better not to take any chances by reaching out to the staff''s magic, Mirk got the distinct impression that whatever energy resided within the wood was as annoyed by the whole display as he was. And that it was the staff that wanted to inflict itself upon the officers rather than him.


    Hopefully Ravensdale would be true to his word and not keep Catherine for more than one dance. In the meantime, Mirk thought it best to do his duty as her makeshift ward and try to secure a dance for her with someone more agreeable than Ravensdale. He wasn''t about to try with the young scholars, though those were the men Catherine seemed most amenable to. Mirk turned on his heel and set out toward the pair of artificers instead. No other lady had attracted their attention. And he thought he''d have much better luck maintaining a pleasant conversation with them than he would any of the other mages in attendance that night, K''maneda included.


    He couldn''t listen to the staff. It might favor smacking some sense into the officers. But for him, the war was always going to be waged with words.

 Chapter 64

    "Mirk! Mirk, thank God you''re here."


    Mirk scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands as he looked up from his book. Elijah was cutting across the common room at the back of the bordello, his cloak wrapped tight around himself. Behind the mage, just inside the curtain that separated the common room from the rest of the building, one of Fatima''s ladies lingered with arms folded, smirking at Elijah''s hunched shoulders and bright red face. "Oh, Comrade Elijah. I''m glad you got my letter."


    But not nearly as glad as Elijah was to see him waiting at the bordello. Elijah collapsed into the chair next to Mirk¡¯s, at the far end of a table that''d been hauled into the back room for the purpose of that night''s meeting. He was panting, sweating despite how cold it was, both inside the bordello and beyond. March had long since arrived, but winter showed no signs of breaking. And Mirk was feeling it, in a constant sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him any time he wasn''t up and moving.


    "Oh, no problems with that. I get so many that no one has time to sort through them. Not even me, to be honest." Though Elijah was speaking with him, his eyes still darted back toward the lady just inside the curtain, who was determined to get as much entertainment out of Elijah''s nervousness as she could before heading back to work. Mirk couldn''t blame her for it. It really was a rarity to see a K¡¯maneda man reduced to shambles by the mere presence of a lady who didn''t have any qualms about flashing a bare shoulder or a bit of collarbone.


    "It was kind of you to be watching for it, then," Mirk said as he closed his book. He was as relieved by Elijah''s presence as the mage was. It gave him an excuse to stop studying.


    Elijah fixed on the book, to try to distract himself from the lady by the curtain. "What are you working on? Anything I might know?"


    Mirk turned the book around so Elijah could read the title. "Not unless you have an interest in anatomy, methinks."


    "A Comprehensive Treatise on the Problems Concerning Women..." Though Elijah''s shoulders tensed further, his fanaticism for books got the better of him. He opened it, leafing through its pages until he got to the first diagram. Then he went white and slammed it shut, scooting the book as far away as he could reach across the table. "I say, is this even legal?"


    Mirk shrugged. "It''s for healers. We, euh...see it in person every day. Methinks a drawing isn''t too shocking for us."


    "Every day?" Elijah shook his head, rewrapping his cloak, stopping just short of pulling its hood over his head to hide his face. Across the room, Mirk heard the lady who''d shown him in laugh to herself. "You healers really are the bravest men in the City, I swear."


    "Half of the diagrams aren''t even right. Methinks maybe I could try to make better ones, if it meant helping everyone heal better..."


    Much to his alarm, Ravensdale had been true to his word when he''d said he''d speak to Cyrus on the matter of him being banished to the Twentieth. But Cyrus had taken his own latitude in deciding how to respond to Ravensdale''s judgment that a nobleman was wasted on the low-born fighters and mages. Instead of transferring him to the Tenth ¡ª and Mirk was glad he hadn''t ¡ª he''d simply assigned all the most difficult officers'' wives to his care. The ladies the other healers of the Tenth were sick of seeing, both the men-midwives and everyone else.


    He''d been spending all his time at the infirmary ever since sorting through them, aside from when he was granted a reprieve by the arrival of fresh casualties through the field transporter. Mirk desperately wanted to help the ladies, most of whom had been suffering through their ailments for months, if not years. But he felt woefully unprepared to handle any healing that didn''t involve drawing together stab wounds or scraping the charred flesh off of magic burns.


    It was all very depressing, almost too depressing for him to bear up under. If the women hadn''t been so grateful to find a healer who was willing to listen to their concerns rather than telling them there was nothing they could do for them other than a bit of bloodletting and a written order to stay away from the chaotic aura of the City, Mirk would have cracked under the weight of all of it. Though he was as lost as the Tenth''s healers on what to do about their complaints, they seemed grateful to hear that he''d try working up potions for them, even if he couldn''t guarantee their success. Which was depressing in its own way too, but not unbearably so.


    And then there were all the rumors he''d been collecting ever since the ladies had started seeking him out. But that was a whole other problem entirely.


    "I''ve written a dozen or so grimoires myself, but I don''t think I can give you much help in this area," Elijah said, giving the book a final, furtive look, before locking his eyes back on Mirk. "Best of luck, though. My master in the guild always said, if you want to make a name for yourself, go do research on a subject no one else has dared to study yet."


    "I''m not very interested in becoming a great mage," Mirk said with a shrug, tucking the book back into his work bag. Better to give Elijah one less thing in the room to be terrified of.


    But the second the book was put away, a new problem arrived to accost Elijah. Fatima shoved aside the curtain, limping into the room after scolding the woman who''d been lingering nearby to get back to work. Her eyes skimmed over Mirk, locking on Elijah instead, as she thumped down into the chair across the table from him. "So you''ve decided you''re not going to be useless after all?" she questioned, jabbing at him with her cane.


    Elijah shrunk away from it, the shield against offensive magic around him tightening, as if he expected her to unleash a spell on him. "Er...beg pardon? I don''t recognize you, I''m afraid..."


    "I''ve been writing you for a whole goddamn month! Have you found out anything more about Richard and Paul yet?"


    "Er...ah...I haven''t gotten any letters..."


    "I tried sending some girls too, but you ran away every time one got near you."


    The light of realization crept over Elijah''s face. That time, he did cave to his insecurities, drawing the hood of his cloak up and tugging it down low over his forehead. "You sent them? I thought maybe they were just looking for money..."


    "They don''t need to go begging for work. You officers will pay any price to not have to actually talk to a woman before getting off," Fatima scoffed. "Except for you. Apparently. Should I send a man next time? We''ve got a couple of those too."


    "No! No, no, that won''t be necessary," Elijah quickly reassured her. "It''s just...I...what''s your name, again? Maybe I just thought the letters were more warnings from the guilds..."


    "No names. Never any names. That''s your first lesson," Fatima finally turned to address Mirk, her frown deepening. "And you. Where''s Genesis and the rest of his layabouts? He won''t return my letters either. And he¡¯s the one who ordered this meeting to begin with."


    "Gen''s never been very good with correspondence," Mirk sighed. There was a stack of letters a full foot tall that Genesis had been avoiding ever since they''d moved in to the low-born officers'' dormitory. At the start, Mirk had collected them and brought them up along with his own. Somehow, they all returned back to the matron''s desk on the ground floor by the next time he checked in. The matron herself was growing very annoyed by it all. "And he''s been off-realm with the other Easterners on contract for the last two weeks."


    "Then why the hell did he tell us all to meet tonight?"


    "He must be planning on coming back," Mirk said with a helpless shrug. "But you''re more than welcome to write to me instead of him, Mada¡ª"


    "Fatima. You actually know my name; you don''t have any excuse."


    "Euh...yes, Fatima. Sorry. But methinks it really might be better if you write to me instead of him. I might not be able to tell you everything he has planned, but I do open my letters every day. Or you could send one of the ladies to me. I''m sure they''d appreciate being healed too, if someone''s not feeling well."


    Fatima sighed, throwing her head back to glare at the ceiling as she heaved her stiff leg up onto the chair beside her. "Why does the only useful one of you lot have to be a healer?"


    Mirk resisted the urge to offer her a sympathetic hand or smile, left only with the option of shrugging once more. "Maybe if I knew more about what you had planned I could help more? Gen said something about the arrow in his note..."


    "Not until I''m sure this one is on board," Fatima said, turning her glare back at Elijah. "Genesis already gave you the talk, right? About his old K''maneda nonsense?"


    Elijah nodded. "It...I...well. I wasn''t sure about things at first, but now that I''ve been looking around more..."


    "Looking around?"


    "I''m just a mage," Elijah said. "I only joined because I got blacklisted from the guilds. And Alistair promised me all the grimoires I wanted and decent pay if I came to work for the K''maneda. And...well. I''ll be honest, doing combat magic to earn my keep sounded a lot more interesting than making firestarting spell papers and magelights to fill my guild quotas. At least it did at the time," he added in a low voice, his mouth screwing up in a troubled expression. His eyes remained hidden in the shadow cast by his hood.


    "Did it?"


    "He tries to keep most of us strong mages at the rear, unless we need to tackle a fortification. Or unless someone actually wants to go to the front and fight that way. I...well...I sort of volunteered for one of those spots on our last contract. That combined with how he acted at the Festival...I can''t just stand by and do nothing any more."


    Fatima''s eyes narrowed. She leaned across the table, whipping out a hand and yanking back Elijah''s hood before he could protest. Or raise his casting arm to attempt to stop her. "He let you go to the front? How did you make it back alive?"


    "I almost didn''t," Elijah said, too distressed by the memory of it to have enough space left in his head to worry about Fatima glowering at him across the table. "He sent two of the djinn and one of the older front magicians to keep an eye on me. It...wasn''t good. We all came back, but the other three had to spend a lot of time with the healers..."


    "Ravensdale really is an idiot," Fatima said, settling back into her chair and folding her arms. "Anyone can tell just from looking at you that you don''t belong at the front."


    For the first time since she''d entered, Elijah lifted his head and looked Fatima straight in the eyes, without cringing away. A long moment passed. Then a spark of Elijah''s usual excitement returned as he leaned further across the table, squinting at her. "Oh! Is that what you are? I had been wondering..."


    "If you say djinn, I swear¡ª"


    "Of course not," Elijah said. "You''re not like a djinn at all. You''re a sensitive, aren''t you?"


    Fatima only scowled at him in response.


    "Euh...methinks I haven''t ever heard of those before," Mirk babbled into the uncomfortable silence that''d fallen over the table.


    "A sensitive," Elijah said, leaning back and blinking rapidly. He must have been using his magical senses to peer across the table at Fatmia rather than his physical eyes alone. "Very rare! I''ve never actually met one in person, I''ve just read about them in books. A sensitive''s elements and orientation are perfectly balanced. So they can''t do magic, but because they''re so even, they can feel how others use theirs. Or at least, that''s what Mancini theorized when he went to do research on that remote island in¡ª"


    "Whether or not I have any potential has nothing to do with the fact that you''re still an idiot," Fatima cut in. "Besides. Who needs potential of their own when you people go stuffing it into every last thing you make?"


    Mirk studied Fatima as well, though he at least had the sense to be less obvious about it than Elijah. "Is that why I can''t feel you? I don''t mean to be rude, but you do feel a little, euh, different than most people."


    "It''s part of the reason," Fatima admitted, snatching her cane off the table, spinning it over her wrist instead as she leaned back further in her chair. "The other reason being that I take precautions against empaths, unlike everyone else in this place. I''d rather keep my thoughts to myself."


    Mirk mulled this over, wringing his hands in his lap as he watched Fatima and Elijah stare each other down across the table. The mage was nearly fit to burst from all the unasked questions he doubtlessly wanted to ask her, while Fatima, Mirk assumed, was already thinking up ways to avoid them. Rather than allowing the situation to come to a head, Mirk elected to present them both with a question that rose to the front of his mind and that immediately troubled him. "If a person with balanced elements and orientation can''t be read well with empathy, why can we all feel Percival''s emotions from two floors away? Yule said that Percival''s are the most balanced he''s ever seen. Well. They are now, at least."


    Elijah dug in the pocket of his cloak for something, coming up with a dogeared ledger scrawled with notes too illegible for Mirk to read. He dropped it on the table, flipping through it with one hand while rubbing at the back of his neck with the other. "I''ve been looking into him, like you asked me to. But that''s an interesting observation, Mirk...hmm, well, if we take what Werner has to say about the effects of his draining experiments at face value, then even once a mage has his¡ª"


    Fatima couldn''t help herself. She leaned forward across the table again, that time pointing an accusing finger at Elijah rather than her cane. "Werner is a hack. The conditions of his experiments make all his results worthless. You can''t test on a starved mage and expect him to react the same as a healthy one. Bozkurt proved that when he put those mages he found in the¡ª"


    "Oh! You''ve read Bozkurt? I only managed to get a copy when I was shipwrecked that one time...but you know, you might have a point. Though I still think Werner has a point too. At least as far as his claim that age has to be factored in, you know, with the channel theory he borrows from¡ª"


    "Olsson? Don''t get me started on him. His whole theory was bought and paid for. Swedish potioners'' guild wanted to be able to gouge people for their new defense tinctures."


    "Er, really? How did you...?"


    "Because he spent half his fee at Lord Wilcock''s gambling house. And the rest of it at the Gardens," Fatima said.


    "Well, I suppose that does put a different spin on things," Elijah admitted, going a bit red around the edges as he flipped through his ledger again. "Though you can''t deny the part that''s backed up by Axton''s Push-Pull Factor. Everyone agrees on that."


    "And he was sexless as a doornail. So if we keep Axton in, and then add in Al-Khatib''s Draining Quotient, you might be able to get somewhere. Though you''ve probably never heard of him."


    "Of course I''ve read Al-Khatib! Only in translation, but I got my hands on the one Lennox commissioned from the Porte instead of the one from Isles. Isles barely even knows English, judging by all the errors..."


    Mirk lost track of the conversation then ¡ª in reality, he''d lost the main thread of it at the first name Fatima had turned around on Elijah and brandished at him in place of her cane. But he didn''t need to understand any of the barbs they threw at each other, or be able to sense their emotions, to follow what was being left unsaid. For the first time since he''d first met Elijah, he wasn''t petrified by a woman, his excitement and enthusiasm for magecraft shining through in its place. And for Fatima''s part, though she seemed a bit disgusted by Elijah, she was still talking with him rather than at him. And with each foreign name Elijah recognized, the less tense her shoulders grew.


    "Mirgosha! I''ve come to save you!"


    He was startled out of his wistful appreciation of the pair''s debate by a booming voice from the curtained hallway. K''aekniv had arrived, his wings still streaked with muck and soot from the field, though his overcoat had spared his uniform the worst of it. And though he had one of Genesis''s countless black handkerchiefs tied around a fresh cut on the back of one of his giant hands, he didn''t seem bothered in the slightest by it.


    "Save him from what?" Fatima asked, hauling her leg down off the chair it''d been propped across and shoving it back from the table with her cane. "And you''re late."


    Grinning, K''aekniv waggled a knowing finger at the madam. "When your voice goes soft like that, it means someone''s got you talking about big mage things. And it''s not Mirgosha for sure. He likes to talk about fun things, like a normal person. So it''s this one? You look a little familiar..."


    Elijah had clammed up again, grasping the edge of the table like he expected K''aekniv to flap his wings and blow him into the wall. Though that might have been because Alice was fast on the half-angel''s heels, her baby bound to her chest with the same salvaged wrapping as the last time Mirk had seen them. The pair sat down on either side of the table, Alice beside Elijah, while K''aekniv sprawled out in the chair Fatima had pushed away from the table. Neither Elijah nor Fatima seemed particularly enthusiastic about who''d chosen to sit beside them.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Hello, Mademoiselle Alice," Mirk said, waving to her. "Is Ella well?"


    "Getting big!" Alice replied, cheerfully, as the baby tugged on the strings to her bodice. "She''ll suck me dry and be the size of a horse by May, I''m sure."


    "Er...ah...um...why are we..." Elijah stammered, determinedly looking at everyone and everything other than Alice and K¡¯aekniv.


    "If a baby eats good, then it''s all easy from there," K''aekniv said, nodding across the table at Alice. "She''ll be as strong as you! Look at those arms!"


    "I''d hate to think of how much you ate. Your poor mother," Alice joked back at him. Though Mirk noticed that she reflexively tensed the muscles in her arms at K''aekniv''s mention of them. They were, indeed, even thicker than they''d been the last time Mirk had seen her.


    "Well, you know, Father Sergei, he didn''t put out much. He said he had to go looking in three different villages to find enough women to help."


    "I don''t want to hear about your wet nurses," Fatima said, rapping K''aekniv''s leg with her cane. "Where''s your creepy little friend? He''s the one who dragged us all out here."


    "...I was...delayed. Being in your debt, I will...endeavor to keep things brief."


    As always, Genesis neglected to use the door like the others seated around the table had. Instead, he stepped out of the shadows cast by the chair at the table¡¯s head, frowning down at it for a moment before pulling it out and joining them. He was much worse for wear than K''aekniv. Though the commander wasn''t bleeding, he''d wrapped one knee and its opposite elbow up in the remnants of a shredded uniform for extra support. And there was a ring of bruises blossoming around his neck.


    "Are you all right, messire?" Mirk asked, snatching up his work bag from the floor beside his chair, preparing to get up and help.


    But Genesis waved him off with his uninjured arm. "It would be more...expedient to discuss business matters first. Fatima. What is your appraisal of the current...state of affairs among the commanders sympathetic to Ravensdale''s aims?"


    "They all want to murder each other," Fatima replied, flatly. "But that''s always the case. Lina says Richard is convinced that he''s next. But my gold''s on Lorenz."


    "According to Lina, Richard''s thought he''s next for the last ten years," Alice chuckled, as she gave into her baby''s tugging and began to unlace her bodice. Across the table, K¡¯aekniv sighed wistfully at the mention of Lina¡¯s name, but didn¡¯t comment otherwise. "I bet it depends on who Percy blames for what happened to him."


    "Has anyone come to see him yet at the infirmary?" Fatima asked Mirk.


    "Not yet," Mirk said. "No one other than Cyrus, anyway. But..."


    "But?"


    "Cyrus told Ravensdale about me," Mirk said. "Though I''m not exactly sure what he said. I ran into him at the ball I chaperoned Comrade Commander Margaret''s daughter to last week. Ravensdale, not Cyrus."


    There was a moment of silence. Then the interrogation began.


    "That is...difficult," Genesis said.


    "We train the girls for months before letting them at the commanders," Fatima insisted. "You''re not ready for undercover work. Is he on to you? Which of the other commanders were there? We need to make sure the girls are warned ahead of time, they need to know what to say if they see you, and..." she trailed off, grabbing for her own notepad in the side pocket of her trousers.


    K''aekniv was more optimistic, flaring his wings out for balance as he rocked back in his chair. "Eh, well, maybe if it''s just the rich ones, and not the ones that want to beat you for looking at them wrong it''s not so bad. It could work."


    "You are a little too honest for that kind of thing," Alice said. Though at least she paired her criticism with a smile instead of horror.


    "I don''t know," Elijah said. "You seem to know what you''re doing. With people, anyway..."


    "Coming from you? That''s just proof he''s not ready," Fatima snapped.


    "I didn''t know that Ravensdale would be there," Mirk cut in, when everyone quit their arguing just long enough to catch their breaths. "I didn''t even know Casyn would be there until he arrived with the carriage."


    "Oh, well, with him, you''re good. He just wants to beat people, but he''s such a big idiot it doesn''t matter. And it''s me saying that," K''aekniv said.


    "Who all was there?" Fatima asked again, scrawling something on a fresh page of her notepad, with an odd device that was halfway between a quill and a pencil. "We didn''t have anyone at that ball. It must have been the debutante one, right? That''s why we didn''t send anyone, all the officers who''d go to that kind of ball are looking for an honest woman, not one of us."


    Mirk nodded. "At Lord Emerson''s. There were a dozen officers there, maybe...but for commanders, there was Casyn, Ravensdale, and...euh...the big and small mages who go places with Ravensdale. Methinks they''re commanders, though I don''t remember..."


    "Fat one''s Paul. Mage, but they put him in charge of Fifth Infantry. Skinny one''s Richard. Eleventh Mage." Fatima frowned. "Didn''t know either one of them was looking for a wife. Lina claims she has Richard totally hooked. Could just be there to keep an eye on Ravensdale."


    "Methinks that''s the case," Mirk confirmed, noting that K¡¯aekniv sighed again at the mention of Lina¡¯s name. His emotions ¡ª even louder for the fact that everyone else¡¯s were quiet or shielded, with the exception of Alice ¡ª  betrayed no hint of jealousy, or feelings of betrayal. Only regret. "Neither of them danced with anyone. And Ravensdale didn''t bring any of his djinn along with. Ravensdale danced with Miss Catherine twice, once with Miss Abigail, Lord Wainright''s daughter, once with Miss Jane, Grand Master Abbot''s granddaughter, and twice with Miss Paulina, Grand Master Greene''s niece by way of his brother Phillip. Methinks he danced with Miss Abigail only because she''s so sociable and he didn''t want to be impolite, though. Miss Paulina or Miss Catherine are his choices for the season, though methinks Miss Jane has a temperament more suited to him. Not that I''d recommend him to any young lady, but methinks she''d be less troubled by his indiscretions. Her heart lies with her studies, not the menfolk."


    Fatima''s marker froze over her paper, as she slowly pivoted to face him. "You remember all that right off the top of your head, do you? But you can''t remember the difference between Paul and Richard?"


    "Bien s?r," Mirk replied with a shrug. "I was listening for what they all thought of the commanders, but methinks the English way is to ignore people you dislike instead of gossiping about them. Freezing is what Miss Esther called it. I wish there was more I could do for her. But I could only stand to listen to her grandfather talk about papistry long enough for him to let me dance with her once. Methinks he wants to try to convert me...saving souls is a very honorable thing in his faith..."


    Fatima glanced down the length of the table at Genesis. "Is he always like this?"


    Genesis nodded. "The only...requirement is meeting an individual once."


    "But it is much harder with K''maneda," Mirk explained. "No one here ever introduces themselves properly. They come up and start talking to you right away. I''d know much more about the officers who''d gone if they''d bothered with it."


    "Maybe this isn''t a total disaster," Fatima said, grudgingly, as she picked up writing again. "What did you tell them about why you''re there?"


    "I was honest," Mirk said. "The Circle wants to make amends with the English. Miss Catherine is my introduction. And the English mages didn''t need to be told that Miss Catherine needs a better chaperone than her father. They didn''t seem fond of my manners, but they did seem to be glad that Miss Catherine wasn''t left on her own. Methinks it''s a bit strange for it to be an unmarried foreign mage chaperoning instead of one of Comrade Commander Margaret''s relations, but anything is better than nothing."


    "Well, you''re there to get information for us too, now," Fatima said. "Though don''t go telling anyone that. They weren''t suspicious about there being another K''maneda there? Not the English, or the officers?"


    Mirk shook his head. "The English understand that I''m not like the officers. And methinks the officers think I''m no one. Other than Ravensdale, maybe, depending on what Cyrus told him. Though..."


    "Though?"


    "All that''s changed since the ball at the infirmary is Cyrus has assigned more of the officers'' wives to me. H and the other officers had never liked dealing with them. Methinks they might think they''re punishing me more than helping me. Comrade Eva was always willing to help before, but the ladies weren''t fond of her. Not because she was cruel, but..." But Eva had the worst bedside manner of nearly all the healers in the infirmary, perhaps with the exception of Yule. It was better to deal with either of them when half-delirious with pain, not when wide awake and capable of being bombarded by their constant questions and thoughtless asides.


    "I''ll have the girls keep an ear out," Fatima concluded. "In the meantime, you need to be careful. These people aren''t like your rich friends. None of the commanders would pause a second before knifing you if they thought you were coming for their position."


    "Euh...but I''m not. Am I? Other than Ravensdale, but that''s different."


    "They all must be...dealt with," Genesis said. "Once Ravensdale falls, the rest will...follow. With certain concessions."


    "You want to get rid of all the commanders?" Elijah blurted out, his horror escaping his mage shielding and pressing hard against Mirk''s own. "Just Ravensdale is almost impossible! But if you add on Paul and Richard and K''syr and North¡ª"


    "Certain individuals can be...reasoned with," Genesis interjected, lifting his good hand to cut off Elijah''s rambling. "North among them. K''syr is...another matter entirely. But. In regards to our present issue...I have concluded my study of the Destroyer''s arrow."


    "And?"


    Genesis paused, dipping a hand into his coat pocket and drawing something wrapped in a handkerchief out of it. It was only the arrow''s head, a bit of metal that fit comfortably in the palm of Genesis''s hand. But the commander handled it delicately, with the barest tips of his fingers, keeping them well away from its edges. Mirk knew Genesis must have fastidiously polished it clean dozens of times by then, but it sucked in the light cast by the back room''s dim oil lamps rather than reflecting it. "It will be adequate to serve our purposes. The Destroyer who crafted it is...deceased. It can be negotiated with to break the magic on the djinn''s collars. However. Aside from...understanding that said magic has been crafted to be resistant to my own, I have no further information on the collars¡¯ mechanisms."


    Fatima sighed. "None of the girls have managed to get anywhere near the djinn. Can''t you brute force it?"


    Immediately, Genesis shook his head. "It is not that manner of magic. Our information from Am-Gulat and Am-Hazek suggests that Ravensdale employed a...competent mage in crafting them. Perhaps if the Destroyer attached to this was alive, it would be...theoretically possible. However, we would be unable to use the arrow for anything, in that case."


    "What do you mean?" Fatima asked. "A blade is a blade. Or an arrowhead, in this case."


    "Destroyer magic doesn''t work like that," Elijah said. "I''ve only read a little bit about it, since they don''t want to record their own weaknesses but it''s...well, it doesn''t follow the normal rules. It can''t be repurposed or redirected. There was that one book I got off-realm that talks about the time the Great Mirror Mage tried to stop a Destroyer from taking their realm...though that might have been a parable more than something that actually happened..."


    "I do not know of a...mirror mage," Genesis said. "And it is...incorrect to state that it cannot be redirected in any instance. The chaos allows for infinite possibilities. However. The destructive capacity of a Destroyer''s weapon is connected to their will. If a Destroyer does not will their weapon to destroy, it will...only be as effective as a mortal weapon made of similar materials. And this arrow, though made of a...certain metal with excellent conductive powers, is insufficient to sever the djinn''s collars. After studying this device, I have concluded that there is sufficient undifferentiated destructive potential remaining inside of the arrowhead for a...single shot. We will have one attempt to sever a single djinn''s collar. If we fail the first, there will be no second."


    Silence fell over the table once more. Fatima shifted in her chair, fixing her attention across the table on Alice. Though she''d been listening to the conversation, her eyes were trained down on the infant nursing at her breast. "I''ve done the best I can with the bow. Crossbow, composite. It cost a fortune. But we need someone to shoot it. Someone who can pick up the slack if something goes wrong with the lever."


    Alice was clever enough to put all the pieces together without being told the plan outright. "I''m sure one of them has to be stronger than I am," she said, glancing up just long enough to nod across the table at K''aekniv. "Him, for starters."


    "Look at me, Aliska. I can''t hide. If I get close to those djinn, Ravensdale will know something''s going on. And everyone else is a little the same. Even Pasha and Mordka are no good, and they''re strong in the wrong way."


    "I was...under the impression that you''d been preparing for this eventuality. Fatima," Genesis said.


    "We have been. All of us," Fatima said, her voice lowered. She''d cast aside her marker and picked up her cane instead, spinning it thoughtlessly around her wrist as she stared across the table at Alice. Her infant daughter had gone back to sleep. Rather than lacing her bodice once more, Alice was stroking her hair. It''d grown in fully by then, black and curling. "You weren''t supposed to have a kid."


    "No. But here she is."


    "I can see if Rebecca can do it."


    "Rebecca''s got two boys."


    "But they''re not babies," Fatima protested.


    "We''ll make sure we''ve got five, six men on you. And we don''t know where we''ll get our shot," K''aekniv said, heaving his giant frame forward and staring intently at Alice, bracing his elbows on the edge of the table as he leaned down so that he was speaking at her rather than the air over her head. "If it''s out in the City, it''s good. Me and the old folks have lived here twenty years now. We know all the best places."


    "An...assault in the City is inadvisable," Genesis said. "He will have had time to...prepare for contingencies."


    Alice finally looked up again. To Mirk''s dismay, it was at him rather than the others. "What is it you''re always saying? Something about providence..."


    "Providence makes no mistakes," Mirk sighed, staring at the baby in Alice''s arms.


    "If we all do this, let the djinn go, get rid of Ravensdale, will she have more than this?" Alice asked, turning to look at Genesis. "Will things really be different?"


    Genesis didn''t reply for a long time. When he did, he forced himself to meet Alice''s eyes. "Nothing will...ever be certain. But I...have given my word that I will change...this. A K''maneda holds to their words, or they die. There is no third way."


    Alice laughed to herself, shifting the child in her arms, pressing her closer to her neck. "Well, if the Lord and you both want it, who am I to say no?"


    "That is not what I was implying."


    "Oh, I know, Comrade Genesis. But if Miss Fatima thinks I''m the best, then I''m the best. Give me the bow, and I''ll start work right away."


    "You''ll train at least six hours a day," Fatima said, stabbing at the table with one finger to accent her words. "No more jobs. This is your job now. And you need to give me the details on that arrow so I can make a mock-up, Genesis. Won''t exactly be able to replicate whatever interference its magic causes, but I''ll fix the bow to compensate."


    "I can help with the maths?" Elijah offered, in a small voice.


    "I can do maths myself. You need to start paying attention more to what''s going on around you. Find out who''s planning on making their move next. Even if they''re not insane enough to go for Ravensdale, we can use whatever plan they''re working on to hide ours. And find out which one of Ravensdale''s goons came up with the magic on the djinn''s collars. You said that Am-Gulat said something about some bastard named Erv?"


    "Yes, Erv," Mirk confirmed.


    "Right. We know every commander''s background except for Ansel, Paul, Richard, and Victor in the Sixth, but I doubt it''s him. My money''s on Ansel. So keep an eye on him in particular. Could be some high-ranking officer instead, but if Ravensdale tapped him for something as important as controlling the djinn, he''ll have wanted something big in return. And Ravensdale will want to keep him close."


    "Ansel''s an assassin, I can''t..." Elijah trailed off for a moment, sneaking a sideways glimpse at Alice and her child, then nodded. "Right. Ansel, Paul, Richard, Victor. I can keep track of them. Paul and Richard will be the easiest, but I can do the other two too."


    "I am...familiar with Ansel," Genesis said. "I will attempt to monitor him as well."


    "I''d tell you to keep your giant nose in your own business, but that''s pointless," Fatima said. "You need to get your spells straight. We need more information about those collars. Elijah will work at it from his end. Which means you need to work at it from the other side," she added, finally turning toward Mirk. "Get those wives who''ve decided they like you to cough up what they know. And see if you can''t get your rich djinn friend to help out. He said that some relative of yours has some idea?" Fatima asked, waving at hand at Genesis, though she didn''t look at him.


    "My godmother," Mirk said, nodding. "I''ll go visit her soon. Monsieur Am-Hazek is in her employ, so I can speak with him too."


    "I want a copy of the debutante ball schedule. If Ravensdale''s decided he needs a woman now, he''ll be likely to show up to at least some of them. You can never count on him to show up to everything, but since you''ll be there anyway, it doesn''t matter. But I''ll see if I can sneak some girls in the backdoor if the right bastard is hosting. We''ve got no in with Lord Emerson, so that one was going to be a loss no matter what. But not all of the other lords keep their vows, even if they claim they''ve bought in to whatever religious nonsense the English are all obsessed with."


    "Yes, right away," Mirk said, ducking his head, though he caught himself before he could fall forward into a proper seated bow. "I''ll follow everything, Mademoiselle Fatima."


    Fatima rolled her eyes. "There''s no beating the titles out of you rich folk, is there?"


    Genesis sighed. "...no."


    "But what about the rest of us, huh?" K''aekniv asked Fatima, prodding her in the shoulder. "Are we just here to look good?"


    "I don''t need to tell you what to do," Fatima replied, jabbing K''aekniv in the leg with her cane in return. "For one thing, you can''t plan your way out of an empty bottle. All the infantry''s the same. You drill them and beat them until they bark on command. And you''ll do that whether I ask you to or not, because you all want to live to fuck around another day."


    If Fatima had been hoping K''aekniv would be chastised by her scolding, it was hopeless. Both K''aekniv and Alice broke out into gales of laughter, K''aekniv low and rumbling, Alice snorting and higher. Her child wriggled against her chest, but didn''t wake. Fatima crammed her notepad back into her trousers, then levered herself to her feet, scowling at the both of them. "Are we done here? I''ve got work to do."


    Genesis nodded. "I will...inform you all when I have...progressed further on the required magic."


    "You''ll all report back as soon as you hear anything," she said. Though she paused before limping off to narrow her eyes at Elijah one last time. "And you''ll be checking your letters from now on. Or else I''ll have to find you a minder, and you won''t like her nearly as much as Big Nose likes his, I can promise you that."


    Elijah managed a poor attempt at a salute, swallowing hard. "Yes, Miss Fatima. Well, wait. Er. Comrade? Maybe Comrade Lieutenant..."


    "How the hell this army wins a single contract with idiots like you in charge..." she muttered to herself, just loud enough to hear, as she made her way to the curtain across the room and passed out of sight.


    All the people Genesis had gathered for the meeting cleared out soon after Fatima made it clear they''d adjourned: Elijah vanished with a disheartened round of apologies and vague well-wishes and a ripped teleportation spell paper, while Alice and K''aekniv put their heads together over baby Ella and headed off for the front of the house, to confer about how best to train for combat and what songs worked best to quiet a restless infant.


    Which left Mirk alone across the table from Genesis.


    "Big Nose?" Mirk said into the silence, managing to find a smile for the way that Genesis refused to tuck the arrowhead back into his coat without first checking to make sure it was well polished. "Methinks it isn''t nearly that bad, messire." Though he was admittedly biased in Geensis¡¯s favor.


    "A name is...inevitable with Fatima. As appears to be the case with all people. She is...useful enough for it to be tolerable," Genesis said, as he finally put the arrowhead away. He tried to stand up. But his injured knee refused to comply with his demands.


    Mirk did get up, however, already rummaging through his bag for a potion that might help with some of the commander''s bruising. He was making an effort to be more mindful of his potential ever since the incident with the staff. And he knew that it''d be best to save what he had left to heal the ring around Genesis''s neck, lest he try to scrub them away himself with one of his cleaning potions. "Methinks we''ll just have to heal you here. You don''t mind, do you? All of the ladies seem to have gone out for the night."


    "I believe my opinion on the issue...matters as little as my opinion on all your names."


    "I''m only your minder, apparently," Mirk said. "Though methinks I''m not quite sure what she meant by that."


    "More...nonsense. I assume."


    Mirk decided it¡¯d be better not to share that he was more preoccupied with what Fatima had said about Genesis liking his minding than he was by her judgment about what role he had to play in their plans. He¡¯d had a difficult enough day already. And from the looks of things, Genesis had as well.

 Chapter 65

    "Good evening, madame. Thank you for meeting with me over dinner."


    Madame Beaumont rolled her eyes, dabbing primly at her mouth with her napkin before casting it aside onto the table beside her picked-at dinner. "I¡¯m just glad to finally have decent company in this terrible country again. Come sit down and maybe I''ll get my appetite back for once."


    Mirk followed the maid into Madame Beaumont''s parlor, thanking her perhaps a bit too effusively for pulling out his chair for him before bowing to his godmother and sitting down beside her. Though he''d been venturing back into polite society as of late, and he did his best to keep up with his letters, Mirk had begun to feel out-of-sorts whenever he was confronted with the contrast between his life in the City and the one he''d left behind in France. There was no one waiting to tend to all the minor trivialities of life for him in the City, no holding doors and pulling out chairs and dinner waiting on the table. With the minor exception of his laundry and cleaning, though Genesis saw to those tasks less out of a need to serve him, and more because he only remembered to do them himself occasionally at best. And never up to the commander''s exacting standards.


    "Chef pitched a fit when I told him that the haddock was out for tonight," Madame Beaumont said dryly, once the maid had retreated back out into the hall. "He started off on a tear to Monsieur Am-Hazek about cursing whatever priest I''d decided to invite over for dinner. I hope it didn¡¯t make him too spiteful with the salt in the gratin."


    "It looks lovely, madame," Mirk said, as he shook out his napkin and draped it over his lap. The gray suit again, which was getting more use as of late than he''d hoped. "And I promise you, even if he poured the whole cellar in, it''d be better than the food at the dining hall. Or what I can make myself."


    "You''ve been cooking?" Madame Beaumont asked, her eyebrows arching so high they disappeared under her bonnet. "Next you''re going to tell me you''ve been digging ditches."


    "The cooks really are awful in the City," Mirk said, picking up his fork and knife. "Even the ones they assign to the officers'' dining hall. And though it''s Lent, no one seems to observe it very closely. So I often have to make do for myself if I''d like something without meat in it."


    What Mirk left unsaid was that he''d started to get marginally better at cooking meat too, even if handling the raw beef made him feel like he was working on a patient in the infirmary. Now that Genesis had been unleashed on City once more after his period of recovery before the Festival of Shades, the commander had slipped back into his old habit of never eating unless presented with a plate warm and waiting for him. Luckily, the strictness of his bathing rituals made it easy for Mirk to predict when he''d appear every night. He could always convince Genesis to choke down a bit of beef or some of whatever fruit the Supply Corps had growing in their greenhouses if doing so meant he could go hide in his bath for an hour afterwards undisturbed.


    It was a strange arrangement, but it made Mirk feel better about all the laundry and the cleaning. It also meant that when Genesis inevitably dragged himself into the infirmary injured, Mirk had to fight less with his magic and body to convince it to heal itself. The fact that it also added an appealing sliver of bulk to his backside and legs was entirely irrelevant, but welcome all the same. And he definitely wasn''t going to be informing his godmother ¡ª or anyone else ¡ª of that.


    "I really hope you''ll reconsider your decision to live with those brutes once this is all over and done with, Mirk," Madame Beaumont said, replacing her napkin as well, though she didn''t yet have the stomach to pick up her utensils. "That city of yours sounds dreadful. It''s no place for a man with sensibilities as refined as yours. Even if you must continue to labor for the organization, there''s no need for you to subject yourself to all that nonsense when you''re not doing your work. Monsieur Am-Hazek says that the family ledgers are all in good order."


    "Will he be joining us tonight, madame? I''d been hoping to have the chance to speak with him before...euh..."


    "He said he''ll be with us for coffee. Though I am curious what you''ll be doing with him tonight, my boy. It''ll be terribly dull this evening with no one to talk to. If I didn''t care for you so much, I''d have gone back to Lyon already. Now that the spring season has started at home, no one''s interested in coming up here, despite all their talk of finding the English mages so fascinating."


    Mirk had a feeling that Madame Beaumont wouldn''t appreciate how Am-Hazek had agreed to pass the remainder of the evening, so he elected to focus on the back half of his godmother''s gossiping over the front. But he took a bite of the gratin that''d been left for him first, some amalgam of cheese and potatoes and other vegetables, all well-roasted, to show appreciation for her hospitality. It was hard for Mirk to pause after just the one. It was the best food he''d eaten since he''d been able to partake of K''aekniv''s cooking after the Festival of Shades. "Is that so? I haven''t heard mention of it from anyone other than Yvette Feulaine. And I got the impression the English were a personal interest of hers, not something she shared with the seigneur or anyone else."


    "Oh, yes. All the people in my circle are talking about it, anyway. Marquise Bachelot especially, though I imagine it''s because she''s had a terrible time at sea as of late. Black Banner and her late husband''s guild mages have been absolutely no use to her. I''ve spoken to my nephew about it time and again, but nephews are useless in nearly every case. Especially ones who are rakes."


    "Perhaps it''s only a trend among the older generation. Not to be impolite, madame," Mirk quickly added.


    "I prefer to think of myself as well-seasoned," she quipped back at him, finally picking up her fork and knife, edging the barest shred of a potato onto the former. "Unlike Chef''s gratin."


    "No, it''s excellent! Not too salty for my tastes, anyway..."


    "And your tastes have been ruined as of late by keeping poor company. Which returns us to my original question, my dear. What are you doing with Monsieur Am-Hazek this evening? I hope you''re not planning to sacrifice him to any of your more disreputable friends. Good help is hard to come by these days," she said, grimacing theatrically at her bite of gratin to highlight her point.


    Mirk sighed, setting down his fork and knife and picking up his napkin in an attempt to buy himself time to think of the best way to answer her. But his godmother was needling him again before he had time to dab at his lips.


    "Your horrible friends have dulled your wits, Mirk. If you''re going to play the game with a master, you''d best be well practiced," she said with a chuckle. "The English nobles aren''t much help there either, in my opinion. They either use too many words to say nothing at all, or come barreling at you like a horse running at full tilt. And there isn''t a single shred of good humor to be found in any of them."


    "You''re right about the lack of good humor," Mirk said, as he set back in on the gratin to try to buoy his spirits. "Even the more sociable ones don''t know how to carry a conversation." He was tempted to try to divert her attention again, but sensed that it''d be fruitless. It''d be better to get things done and over with. "Monsieur Am-Hazek is going with me to speak with commander Genesis.  He''s trying to sort out the magic on the other djinn''s collars. The last time Monsieur Am-Hazek came to see me, he...euh, began to react, a little. From when he switched places with Monsieur Am-Gulat. Genesis is hoping it will happen again so that it might give him some clue about how the magic on Am-Gulat''s collar works."


    Madame Beaumont''s expression turned cross as she deliberately set down her fork and knife. "You''re taking Monsieur Am-Hazek away to be tortured all evening? Things are worse with you than I thought..."


    "Monsieur Am-Hazek was the one who suggested it," Mirk said. "I made Genesis promise that we''d do it near the City walls, so that we can send him back out if he started reacting badly. They''re both very concerned about what''s being done to the K''maneda djinn. And I haven''t been able to find out anything useful on my own. So...really, we don''t have much choice."


    "That''s because you need to listen to me, Mirk," Madame Beaumont insisted. "Everything goes back to it. Your dulled wits, not knowing any of the news, how skinny you are. You need to go back to France. Herbert is behind all of this, I''m sure of it. And you won''t find out anything about him hiding up here in this terrible country with these terrible people."


    "Have you been able to find out anything more about things, madame?" Mirk countered. Though he felt a pang of regret doing so.


    But Madame Beaumont wasn''t ruffled in the slightest by it. Instead, she picked up her utensils again, a self-satisfied smirk coming onto her face. "Like I said. You''ve come to the master. Men really are terribly predictable, aren''t they? I knew he wouldn''t be able to resist the prospects of finally conquering the one lady who''s ever refused him. A lonely old widow, separated from good company in a foreign land, what else would she have to do other than write letters all day? And who would she write to other than the only other well-seasoned unmarried man left in the country? Honestly, to believe I''d be getting up to that nonsense at my age. You must promise me, Mirk, that you''ll never let yourself become so easily moved."


    "Really?" It gave Mirk pause, made him reach for the breadbasket for something tougher to chew on along with that bit of fresh information. Though he doubted Madame Beaumont''s chef, no matter how bad she claimed he was, would be able to produce rolls that could be used for cobbles like the ones the K''maneda cooks churned out. "I thought he was a more, euh, reserved man than that."


    "It''s not as if he''s propositioning me outright, of course," Madame Beaumont said. "But I''ve known him for nearly three centuries. I can read that man as plainly as I can the guild bulletins. And I have given in to the appeal of a sympathetic ear before, in my younger days," she admitted after a pause, jabbing the gratin with a bit of particular spitefulness.


    "There''s no weakness in wanting to have friends, madame. No one likes to be alone. And it must have been very difficult for a woman of your standing to be left without family."


    A tired laugh escaped her before she forced herself into trying to eat again. Mirk wasn''t certain whether the bitter screw of her mouth was from the gratin or whatever memories assailed her in that moment. "Just you wait. The vultures are already circling you too, I''m certain. You''re just too kind to notice them."


    "What do you mean?"


    "A fortune never likes to rest in one pair of hands alone," she said. "Especially if those hands aren''t grasping. I don''t hear from the younger crowd often these days, since my niece''s circle is all married and my nephew is a scoundrel, but I''m certain there are plenty of eyes on you already. You must exercise good judgment, my dear. Everyone has something terrible in their past. Something that can excite the sensibilities of a tender-hearted individual. Holding strong to your convictions is the only way not to end up in something terrible yourself."


    Mirk tore apart his roll, cramming a quarter of it hastily into his mouth. Poor manners. And it didn''t grant him the reprieve he''d been hoping for, time to consider and reconsider. Unlike the rolls on the basket in the infirmary common room, the ones made by Madame Beaumont''s chef fell apart easily after only a few chews. "Our situations are similar, yes,¡± Mirk said. ¡°But also not. Whether it''s fair or not, a man has more room for discretion."


    "I''d agree with you, if you''d ever been halfway decent at exercising manly discretion," Madame Beaumont said.


    Mirk cringed, but couldn''t think of anything to say to that. She had a point. And he knew it.


    Madame Beaumont finally gave up on her dinner, leaving her utensils on her plate and casting aside her napkin once more. "Your mother had her heart in the right place, God bless her. I loved her like my own flesh and blood. But she should have found a man to guide you, once your Uncle Marc passed. Maybe she felt a bit put out because your sister and father were so much alike. It must not have seemed fair to her, letting him have her and someone else take you. And though Jean-Luc had more iron in him, I''m sure she could tell as well as I that he''d never be a suitable model for you to follow.¡±


    She leaned back in her chair, considering him deeply for a moment, her eyes tracing the cut of Mirk¡¯s suit before continuing. ¡°I could have seen you growing more stern, if you''d had a different sort of upbringing. But nothing could have made you as pig-headed as that man. He would have cut off his own hand just because someone he disliked told him that he looked better with two. And he was never very sociable. Before Enora came along, we''d have to practically come and beg him to leave that manor of his. Wanted nothing to do with any of us. Though...have his journeys come up in that journal of his yet?"


    "Journeys? No, I don''t think so. Although I''m not the one translating it."


    "We always assumed that he was locked away inside whenever we didn''t see him for months. But he''d been putting on disguises and going out right under all our noses! Dressed like a beggar or a peasant, roaming wherever his mood took him. I understand that Jean-Luc didn''t come from money, so it must have been hard for him to adjust to having proper manners, but some things are just too much. That''s how he met most of the strange people he did, you know. Just shaking the bushes and seeing what sort of weird things fell out."


    Mirk laughed, toying with the last of his roll. "That does sound like something grandfather would do."


    "I suppose you are like him, in a way. Isn''t that what happened here with all your terrible mercenary friends? You were making the best of a bad situation instead of seeking it out, but it ended up the same."


    "It was easier," Mirk said, after a time. "Before all of this. No one expected anything of me when I was no one. So...yes, I can see why he did it."


    "Maybe it will still work out for the best. It''s never too late to learn. And Monsieur Am-Hazek has informed me that you are often in the company of men now, even if they''re not the best sort. If they won''t teach you manners, they''ll at least teach you how to look after your own interests. Which you absolutely must do. Do not, under any circumstances, take the offer of the first girl some miser sends after you with a story about how her family''s in peril and you''re the most charitable man she''s ever met. Women can be vultures just as much as men can."


    It was unfortunate, Mirk thought. Despite all of Madame Beaumont''s criticism, her own agitation and lack of appetite, he''d been honest when he''d said the gratin was excellent. But with the sudden turn toward the topic of marriage, Mirk found he''d lost his own appetite as well. And he had the impression that Madame Beaumont would have a pointed word to say on the matter if he asked for some leftovers from the kitchen to take back with him to eat when he was feeling less overwhelmed. "I promise, madame, I have no intention of getting married any time soon. No matter how much it might help someone else."


    The statement gave Madame Beaumont pause. For an instant, Mirk felt like he was going to spit the dinner he''d just shoveled down back up into the planter behind his godmother''s chair. "Maybe Annette''s decision to send you off to that abbey was for the best. I''ve never been the most pious woman, but if the Lord gives you the strength to refuse all the scroungers, then at least it''s been good for something."Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Thankfully, before Mirk could dwell on the statement for too long ¡ª or on the fact that the only person he would consider marrying was the furthest thing from a scrounger there was ¡ª he was saved by a rap on the parlor''s French doors. Madame Beaumont straightened up in her chair, checking her bonnet before ordering the visitor to enter. Monsieur Am-Hazek slipped inside, still wearing his overcoat, beaded with moisture from the fog that had descended on London sometime in November and hadn''t lifted since. He bowed to them both, hands clasped behind his back. "Madame, seigneur. Should I tell Claudette to bring the coffee?"


    "Yes, please," Madame Beaumont said, pushing away her plate. "Just have her bring the tray, we can leave the dinner service for after you''ve gone."


    A restless silence fell over the room as the coffee was brought in. Am-Hazek removed his overcoat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair as the maid who''d shown Mirk to the parlor stalked silently back into the room, a tray laden with sweets and an urn of coffee in hand. Mirk couldn''t help but appreciate her strength, how she carried the heavy tray with such skill and grace, even if she did still seem a bit suspicious of him. Once she''d left and closed the doors, Madame Beaumont set in on Am-Hazek right away, as he lowered himself down into the chair across from them at the round table.


    "Monsieur, why didn''t you inform me of this little plan of yours?" she scolded him, ignoring the coffee and cake the maid had served her. Mirk had thought his appetite had gone, but the sight of fresh meringue brought it roaring back. He tried not to devour his own slice outright as he settled in to watch his godmother and Am-Hazek spar over their own untouched desserts. "Is it perhaps because you knew that I''d inform you straight away that you''re a fool for letting that terrible man experiment on you like you''re some kind of frog?"


    Am-Hazek ducked his head. "I apologize, madame. I thought it best not to worry you."


    "What? Because of my advanced age?"


    "Because, knowing your temperament, I anticipated you might insist on coming with, despite the late hour," Am-Hazek countered.


    "No one should be creeping about at this hour other than rats and beetles. And you are neither. Nor are you, though I might argue otherwise about your friend," Madame Beaumont added, casting a skeptical glance in Mirk''s direction before fixing her attention back on Am-Hazek.


    "We must be discreet, madame. And you are well aware that the seigneur¡¯s associate can offer us more protection in the nighttime than he can during the day."


    "Protection? The last time you went to see him, you were laid up for a full day recovering afterwards. And it happened a second time already? You did not inform me of the way entering into the K''maneda''s city effects you now. Was that because you thought my heart might give out if I learned of it?"


    Am-Hazek ducked his head. "Of course not, madame. But you know I dislike ignoring your wishes. I prefer for there to be a meeting of the minds on matters that concern everyone."


    "How noble of you," Madame Beaumont muttered, as she picked up her coffee cup. "I would advise you to quit the servile attitude, monsieur. It does not suit you."


    A slight smile ghosted across Am-Hazek''s face. "I can fight my nature as well as you can fight yours, madame."


    "And since your strength is strategy, according to what you have decided to tell me, exactly what is the strategic perspective on this little gambit of yours tonight?"


    "A simple matter of gathering the most knowledge we can about the other djinn''s collars," Am-Hazek said. "I have been promised by both the commander and the seigneur that there will be no real risk to me, as long as we are not noticed and we stay close to the City''s walls. I cannot say the same about most of the other avenues open to us. Namely, either confronting Ravensdale or Seigneur d''Aumont."


    "At least you''re willing to take Herbert seriously, I suppose. Everyone else recognizes that he''s powerful, of course, but no one wants to accept the notion that he could do something as beastly as deal in the sale of djinn."


    "I have always gotten the impression that Seigneur d''Aumont is a man who has no qualms about doing what is necessary to achieve his ends. Whether or not he enjoys doing what is necessary is another matter entirely," Am-Hazek said. Though he peered down into his own cup of coffee, he didn''t move to sample it.


    "Whether he enjoys it or not is irrelevant," Madame Beaumont said. "He does it all the same. And he absolutely must be stopped."


    Am-Hazek and Mirk exchanged a sideways look. Mirk chose to take the brunt of his godmother''s ill temper in Am-Hazek''s place. "I can''t help but wonder, madame, if your previous experience with Seigneur d''Aumont has colored your opinion of him."


    "Of course it has! I can''t be blamed for him still having everyone else fooled. And I have experience in handling snakes, you know."


    Mirk sighed. "If it wasn''t so late, I''d almost suggest that you come with, madame. I think sitting here and not being able to do anything would be taxing on anyone''s nerves. Maybe more than, euh, seeing the process. As it were." Not to mention the fact that Genesis had told him to meet him in a shed beside the East Gate''s watch station, and he had trouble picturing his godmother taking well to cramming herself inside a glorified lean-to alongside himself, Am-Hazek, and Genesis.


    "Who says I''m doing nothing? I''ll finish writing my letters. All that remains is for me to find a reason to invite him up to see me and an excuse to get him mingling with your mercenary friends. I can''t exactly invite everyone to a party, considering how the last one turned out. Not that it was your doing, Mirk. Everyone agrees that you handled the situation with Laurent as gracefully as possible, given Laurent''s attitude on the manner. And I''ve been assured by several people that the remaining Montignys intend on presenting you with their formal apology and thanks at the public meeting of the Circle on the equinox."


    "I''m supposed to attend the public meeting as well?" The cake that he''d just polished off sank like a rock in Mirk¡¯s stomach. "Seigneur Feulaine only said I needed to attend the private one the day before..."


    "As a strategist, I''d warn you against introducing Seigneur d''Aumont into K''maneda society on a whim, madame," Am-Hazek said, his expression growing more earnest and open as he pushed aside his untouched coffee. Though Mirk couldn''t feel much from him, as always, it seemed to him that it strained the djinn to have to converse with his godmother so openly. That he had to focus to make the right impression on her instead of remaining aloof and reserved. It reminded him of Genesis, in a way. Only Am-Hazek was much better at convincing his face to make the right expressions. He understood what they were supposed to look like, at the very least, instead of only hazarding his best guess.


    However, Madame Beaumont wasn''t backing down. "This is not a whim. If you want a snake to strike, you have to provoke it."


    "I fear that the strike will be too much for anyone to bear, if it happens in a room full of K''maneda," Am-Hazek said. "They have a notable propensity toward violence. Regardless of whether or not it might offend the sensibilities of those present."


    "Your warning has been noted, monsieur. In the meantime, you''d best be off about your business. I have letters to write. And I expect you not to be out all night."


    Am-Hazek dipped his head and rose to his feet, perhaps judging that it''d be better to debate the matter with his godmother after he''d returned safely rather than before. Which only made Mirk glad that he''d decided to ration his potential that day in the infirmary, as much as it pained him to do so, with the spring contracts starting to accelerate. If Am-Hazek returned to his godmother¡¯s townhouse with a ring of blisters around his neck, they¡¯d all pay for it. "Then we''ll be going, seigneur. I''ll have Pascal fetch your cloak while you finish."


    "Thank you, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, as the djinn glided across the parlor and slipped back out into the hall. "And thank you for having me for dinner, madame." Mirk turned to face his godmother, putting on his most earnest smile. "It really was lovely. Give my complements to your chef."


    "I see no need to encourage him," Madame Beaumont replied with a scoff. Then she sighed, bracing herself on the arms of her chair to lever herself to her feet. "Indulge an old woman and give me a hug instead of bowing at me, my dear."


    Mirk did as he was told. And for the first time in his memory, his godmother''s frame felt frail against his own rather than reassuring. "Please, listen to Monsieur Am-Hazek, madame," Mirk said beside her ear. "Give me some time to think of something to do with Seigneur d''Aumont. Wait until after I see him next week for the meeting before doing anything yourself, at least."


    The strength returned to his godmother''s arms, just long enough to add a hint of warning to her words. "Until then, Mirk. And I expect a letter with your thoughts on what happens tonight. I trust Monsieur Am-Hazek completely, of course. But I don''t like this new tendency of his to try to spare my feelings."


    His godmother''s words resting heavy on his shoulders, just like the dinner sinking like a rock in stomach, Mirk at least left her with a proper bow. But he caved to his exhaustion and shuffled out into the hall rather than keeping his step poised and graceful on the way out. The aforementioned Pascal was waiting there for him with his cloak. Mirk couldn''t help but notice that it''d been brushed and warmed for him as the valet swung it over his shoulders. "Ah, thank you, Monsieur Pascal...you didn''t have to go through all that trouble..."


    "It is my duty, Seigneur d''Avignon," the valet murmured. He was watching the shadowy edges of the hall rather than looking at him. And there was a very suspicious, poorly crafted enchantment pulling Mirk''s eyes away from a knife-sized blur at his waist. Apparently Genesis''s last visit had left a poor impression on more than just Madame Beaumont. "And monsieur isn''t necessary. I am not like Monsieur Am-Hazek."


    "I have high hopes for you yet, Pascal," Am-Hazek said, as he stepped out of a door further down the hallway, closer to the center of the townhouse. He''d put his coat back on and had a plain, secondhand wooden box in hand. "Forgive the seigneur his indulgences. I assure you, he means no disrespect with his titles. I''ve noticed that religiosity brings out a propensity toward giving them to everyone in humans."


    Pascal''s hand had flown toward the blur at his waist at Am-Hazek''s voice, but he relaxed again almost immediately, looking bashful. "Yes, of course, Monsieur."


    "No need to see us out or call the carriage. I think a walk is in order. Wouldn''t you agree, seigneur?"


    Mirk nodded. "The East Gate isn''t very far away." And hopefully by the time he''d gotten there, his dinner would have settled well enough that whatever plan Genesis had in mind wouldn''t have him coughing it back up onto anyone.


    The night beyond Madame Beaumont''s doorstep was just as cold and miserable and foggy as it''d been on his walk over. But Mirk didn''t feel the need to illuminate the magelight on his wrist again to help find his way. It was clear from the purposeful spring in Am-Hazek''s step that the djinn had no difficulty seeing through the fog.


    "Have you been well, Monsieur Am-Hazek?" Mirk asked him. In French. It¡¯d be better to continue the conversation in the same way it¡¯d begun, Mirk thought, not to mention it being more convenient if they came across others out in the fog on their walk to the gate. And being polite enough to converse properly with a man like Am-Hazek was much easier in French than in English. "I apologize for madame''s mood. I''m afraid I must have soured her over dinner."


    "Madame has been particularly...disquieted as of late," Am-Hazek replied. "I believe she feels out-of-sorts so removed from the others in Lyon. A woman''s position is constrained in your society to begin with, so I believe that she feels the pain of not being able to reach her own circle directly more than you or I would in a similar predicament."


    "I tell her every letter that there''s no need for her to stay up here," Mirk said with a sigh. As guilty as he felt about being waited on hand and foot again, he had to admit that having his cloak warmed for him was making the walk back to the City much easier than the walk to Madame Beaumont''s townhome had been, Am-Hazek''s company aside. "She''s missing the whole spring season. Even if she doesn''t know many of the young people, I''m sure she misses the entertainment of the debutante season. The whole issue of Seigneur d''Aumont aside."


    "When madame begins something, she likes to see it through to the end.¡± Another faint smile crossed the djinn¡¯s face. It was easier for Am-Hazek to permit himself one out in the street than it had been in Madame Beaumont''s parlor. "And one never knows when an opportunity for action might present itself. I do believe that her strategy of convincing Seigneur d''Aumont to pay a visit to London is better than facing him in France, though I disagree with her impulse to pit him and the K''maneda against each other."


    "I don''t have a head for any of this...plotting," Mirk said. "Thinking about who will do what when. All of it seems to fall apart in an instant, anyway."


    Am-Hazek considered this for a time, tapping his forefingers on the sides of his box. "There are two modes of strategy that we were taught in the Tel-Sek. The little school, the one in my kinship line''s home. Some majinn are more suited to the hekaz, the long strategy. Drafting proposals, planning the opening moves of an assault and setting up the supply lines, organizing the yearly trade caravans. Others are better at the pazinn. Being an arbitrator, planning the counter-attack, making the bargain on the side of the road with a mind to what cities lie ahead. The short strategy. I think, perhaps, you are better suited to the pazinn than the hekaz."


    "Which were you better at?"


    "The pazinn, seigneur. Owing to my unruly nature. I never mastered the art of patience as well as my kin."


    "You could have fooled me," Mirk mumbled, drawing the hood of his cloak up over his head. They were approaching the edge of the core of the mage district, where all the potioners and artificers and guilds had their storefronts and the inns and taverns catering to mages ran through the night. Though it was late, Mirk didn''t want to risk anyone he knew catching sight of him. Especially with a djinn that wasn''t in his direct employ, if he came across a high-ranking K''maneda officer. They were, after all, the sort of person most likely to be rambling around in the damp near midnight.


    "If you knew what djinn are like on their home realm, perhaps you wouldn''t think me so composed, seigneur."


    Mirk considered this, chewing on his lip as he stared down at the cobbles, watching out for loose ones. The streets in the mage quarter were well-maintained when compared to those in mortal London, but they still were a far cry from the unnatural orderliness of the streets of the City of Glass. "What is the djinn home realm like, monsieur? And who is selling all the djinn into captivity on Earth? Is there some war happening?"


    "It''s not altogether unlike your own, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. "Of course, the most interesting parts of it are different. The mannerisms, the dress, the food. And magic. But as on every realm, there is a certain hierarchy that must be obeyed. Whether that is viewed as proper or something to be fought against changes over time, as does whether or not people are willing to speak of it openly and glorify it. At present, the Ra-Djinn are at the top of the heirarchy. Craftsmen, but there are many kinds on our realm, as that''s the djinn''s specialty. The Ra-Djinn are the kinship line that has mastered all things made with fire. Foodstuffs, since the djinn prefer not to eat anything that hasn''t been cooked. And metalworks. Their swords won them their position at the top of the hierarchy nearly three hundred years ago. And have kept them there ever since."


    "I see..."


    "It is customary among the djinn not to kill fellow djinn. There are comparatively few of us, and we have children very infrequently. Much like the angels. Instead, when a djinn commits a crime, or one group defeats another in war, the defeated djinn are taken prisoner and become Li-Djinn for as long as is seen fit. Serving djinn. Technically, all of us here on Earth are Li-Djinn. But since humans don''t show much interest in our ways, we prefer to keep our given kinship titles. Especially because this practice of selling Li-Djinn to others on different realms is unprecedented."


    "Why did it start?"


    "I do not have any direct knowledge of the matter, but I can make a reasonable guess. The Ra-Djinn simply made more enemies than they could handle. Having one or two conquered Li-Djinn in the richest households is not such a bad thing. But fifty or more serving in every household is an understandably discomforting thought, especially if many of them come from the same place and kinship line."


    "No one protested against this?"


    "Our hierarchy is very stable. It''s as old as the angels'' Empire. But I suspect that if the djinn remaining on the home realm learned that the people the Ra-Djinn are selling the Li-Djinn to don''t have the same respect for djinn life as we all do, their opinion may begin to shift."


    "I certainly hope so," Mirk said. "I don''t mean to be rude, Monsieur Am-Hazek, but none of this sounds very fair."


    Mirk snuck a glance over at the djinn. Rather than being upset over discussing his realm''s history, rather than drifting into the melancholy of homesickness or anger at his kin having been betrayed, Am-Hazek only seemed thoughtful. And perhaps a bit hopeful, as he surveyed the street ahead of them. "Humans are a very...interesting people. I don''t mean to be rude either, seigneur, but your passions are five times as intense as those of most djinn I''ve met. And many of you seem to have a certain fanatic desire for independence that I find invigorating. Though I wouldn''t push things nearly as far as some of your new associates do."


    "I don''t think many humans would push things as far as most of them," Mirk said, unable to keep from laughing a little. They were very close to the East Gate now, only five minutes away, even with Am-Hazek walking at a leisurely pace so that Mirk could keep up without straining. "Did Genesis tell you exactly what he plans on doing?"


    Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk saw Am-Hazek shake his head. "No. But he did assure me that no harm would come to me that you couldn¡¯t undo."


    "That''s not exactly reassuring."


    "Do you not trust him, seigneur?"


    "Of course I trust him. Genesis wouldn''t lie about something so serious. What I don''t trust is his judgment when it comes to injuries. He seems to often forget that not everyone is as unbothered by pain as he is."


    "A wise caveat, seigneur." Am-Hazek said, laughing as well. "But I''m afraid we have no other choice than to hope that the commander hasn''t misjudged things."

 Chapter 66

    He had anticipated needing to bargain. He''d expected the men of the Watch to be clustered thick around the East Gate, just as they were most nights, ensuring that none of the low-born fighters stumbled out into the mage quarter in their drunkenness instead of going out the South Gate where they belonged. When Mirk slipped through the magical barrier at the end of the alleyway that connected the City of Glass to London, what he found waiting for him on the other side puzzled him so badly he thought he must have taken the wrong passage.


    The plaza just within the gate was empty. Mirk stumbled forward a few steps, rubbing at the aching in his midsection that came along with being moved by magical means. Cautiously, he drifted over nearer the Watch station, peering past its open door, wondering if the men had decided to take refuge inside from the cold and damp. The lamps were lit. But the wedge of table Mirk could glimpse without venturing fully inside was unoccupied, a game of cards lying abandoned at its center.


    He lowered his shields and searched for the missing men with his empathy. There was no pain, nor the peaceful, fuzzy feeling of anyone dozing just out of sight. But Mirk did feel the touch of a familiar, cold, staticky magic nearby. Sighing, he pulled his shields up and went back through the gate to the mage quarter without pursuing its source.


    Am-Hazek was right where he''d left him in the next alley over, beside a closed apothecary. The djinn was watching something at the far end of the alley through the fog, though he didn''t seem disturbed by whatever it was. Only curious. "Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk whispered to him, waving a hand to catch his attention. "Did you and Genesis have some sort of plan?"


    "Pardon, seigneur?"


    "All the Watch men are, euh, gone."


    Am-Hazek laughed, shifting his hold on his box. Mirk wondered if that was part of whatever ruse he and Genesis were playing at. "No, we didn''t have a prior arrangement. But I do believe you''re correct in assuming that the commander has done something with them. I suggest we trust him for the time being. Personally, I''d much prefer walking through the gate to having to climb over the wall."


    Mirk led Am-Hazek back to the gate, hugging himself against the cold and the inevitable sting of passing through the magical barrier between the City and the mage quarter once more. It wasn''t quite as bad as a standard teleportation spell, but much stronger than the floor barriers in the infirmary. He should have guessed that Genesis would do something like this and spared himself the trouble by bringing Am-Hazek along with the first time through.


    Am-Hazek looked uncomfortable as well, his face thrown into shadow by the dim light cast from the magelights above the gate, but his curiosity seemed stronger than his discomfort. At least for the moment. "The commander mentioned a lean-to...?" Am-Hazek asked into the unnatural silence.


    "Over here," Mirk said, gesturing him toward the Watch station. The lean-to ¡ª more like a shack ¡ª was on its far side. A place for storing extra armor and equipment in the event of an attack on the City''s walls, Genesis had told him that morning. It looked the same as it had when Mirk had passed by on his way to Madame Beaumont''s a few hours ago, dark and padlocked. Mirk approached first, reaching out to tug on the lock. It fell open without any resistance.


    "Messire?" Mirk hissed, tapping hesitantly on the door. It took him a moment to switch back to English. "Are you there?"


    There was no response. But the staticky magic Mirk had felt earlier was more intense there, strong enough for Mirk to be able to feel it clear through his mental shielding. He tapped on the magelight around his wrist and pushed the door open.


    All things considered, it wasn''t as gruesome as Mirk had been expecting.


    Late at night, there were upwards of two dozen Watch men stationed at every gate, half of them always in a state of coming or going to support the patrols tasked with roaming the City''s taverns and backstreets in search of fights to break up. There were only two unconscious guardsmen stashed in the lean-to, propped up against its far wall, as motionless as the extra armor and polearms they were nestled among. They had no stab wounds, no limbs knocked akimbo by blows that had pushed joints out of line. There were only faint rings of bruises around their necks, ones Mirk wouldn''t have spotted if he hadn''t seen that handiwork before. On other low-level fighters and Watch men who dragged themselves into the infirmary before dawn with scrapes on their palms and goose-eggs on their heads and no idea what had caused them. He''d always had his suspicions about what had happened to the men, though most of the other healers were quick to dismiss them as nothing more than the usual drunks. But having it confirmed still made something in the middle of Mirk''s chest ache.


    Genesis was waiting for them in the lean-to, just as he''d promised he would be. In the dark. Beside a table that''d been cleared of its supplies, aside from a collection of thaumaturgical instruments Mirk didn''t know the purpose of lined up precisely along its edge.


    "Did you have to, Genesis?" Mirk asked, gesturing at the unconscious men. In his heart, he already knew the answer. But he had to raise the question nevertheless.


    The commander nodded, once. "At all times...two men must remain at the gate. This is the first thing they are trained in. No means are adequate to remove them beyond a...direct application of force."


    Am-Hazek sidestepped around Mirk and slipped inside the lean-to ¡ª he didn''t seem very comfortable inside, but evidently preferred his odds there, in a cramped space suffused by Genesis''s chaotic aura, than out on the street where any passer-by could spot him. "What must I do, Comrade Genesis?"


    "I was unable to accommodate a chair. You''ll have to lie on the table."


    While Genesis and Am-Hazek got situated, Mirk went to check on the two Watch men. The rest of their team hadn''t left their strongest defenders behind to watch the gate. A young man ¡ª boy, really ¡ª of fifteen at most, and another whose mustache and hair had gone white with age, though his face bore more scars than wrinkles. Mirk felt for their heartbeats and checked their breathing one after the other. Even and slow in both cases, and the bruises around their necks were superficial, doing no damage to the bones and tendons. He sensed very little magical potential in either of them. Just enough to make it difficult to lead a mortal life, Mirk guessed, but not enough to make a decent living as anything more than a laborer for a guild. Or as a Watch man in the K''maneda, if their past was too checkered or their personality too difficult for the guild mages to tolerate.


    At least neither of them had gotten scraped or banged up, Mirk supposed. A small blessing.


    When he turned back to face the table, Am-Hazek had laid down on it as instructed, keeping as much of his dignity about himself as he could by folding his coat and using it as a makeshift pillow, his hands clasped primly atop his stomach, just like the last time Mirk had healed him. Genesis was tending to his devices, twisting dials and setting levers as he arranged them in an odd, clockwork halo around Am-Hazek''s head. "What do those all do?" Mirk asked him.


    "Fatima requested...concrete measurements of his responses. As she could not attend, she provided me with these instead."


    That surprised Mirk. "She made all those?"


    "A specialty of hers." Genesis frowned, as he toggled a switch on one of the devices. A blue-tinted magelight illuminated on its side. "I am of the opinion that...exact measurements are less useful in this case, owing to the...variability in djinn magic. An observation of generalities would perhaps leave open more avenues for consideration."


    Am-Hazek had no opinion of his own to offer on the matter. He was beginning to look pale, though his mastery over his expressions still held. Mirk couldn''t tell if the remaining resonance between his magic and Am-Gulat''s was paining Am-Hazek, or if he was hurting because Genesis''s chaotic aura grew more intense the more annoyed he became at something. And it was clear to Mirk that all the devices were testing the commander''s patience. Knowing that there were good odds of him not being able to understand any of Genesis''s responses even if he kept questioning him, Mirk chose to focus on Am-Hazek instead, standing beside him and putting a reassuring hand on his arm, just for a moment. "How are you feeling, monsieur?"


    "It''s tolerable, seigneur," Am-Hazek replied. "Though the burning has begun."


    With all the devices set up, Genesis turned his attention toward Am-Hazek as well. It was hard to make out his exact expression in the dim glow of the magelight around his wrist, but Mirk got the impression he was more fascinated by Am-Hazek than concerned with his well-being. The one thing Mirk could be certain of was that his eyes had gone black. Genesis lifted one hand, calling a coil of shadow around it.


    Am-Hazek winced. There was a definite redness around Am-Hazek''s neck now, though no blisters had erupted just yet.


    Genesis frowned, calling more shadows to himself. "This is...unexpected. Djinn are uniformly ordered, correct?"


    "Correct, comrade," Am-Hazek replied, his voice wavering a little on the second word.


    "But the universal chaos precludes no possibilities entirely," Genesis said, mostly to himself.


    "I''m afraid I couldn''t say. Comrade."


    "A question. Did you experience...difficulty in mimicking Am-Gulat''s patterns? An...inability to be precise?"


    It took a few moments for Am-Hazek to collect his thoughts, to remember and put them into words. "Yes. Am-Gulat is much younger than I am. Young djinn are less skilled at mastering all four elements in a balance that suits them. I suggested that it may be better for him to give his message to one of the other djinn and send him to the sewers in his place. But they all insisted that Am-Gulat got the opportunity to speak to you himself. He has survived the longest of all the djinn presently in the City. They are loyal to him."


    "Why has he survived? In your opinion?"


    "Temperament, perhaps," Am-Hazek said. But before he could continue, he had to pause and catch his breath, bite his lip. The blistering had begun.


    Mirk lowered the shields around his mind, to better keep an eye on Am-Hazek¡¯s magic and the odd, shifting core of his life''s energy. The fiery part of him was being drawn up by something Mirk couldn''t make out, pushed out of his control, wounding him in the process just as badly as the aftereffects of whatever spell he''d used to switch places with Am-Gulat. The unease caused by the presence of Genesis''s chaotic potential wasn''t helping. It was destabilizing Am-Hazek''s mastery of his elements, drawing the fire out of his core to join the remnants of the spell on his neck. The last time this had happened, Mirk was sure it was just the spell working on him, not his own magic. "Or maybe he has learned to work around the magic in his collar by testing it constantly,¡± Am-Hazek concluded, his voice low and strained. ¡°The others said his neck is almost always swollen."


    "It¡¯s meant to...repulse my magic. In a sense. Resist it. Can you still feel this?"


    "...yes. Very clearly."


    "Do you feel anything else?"


    Am-Hazek closed his eyes as he thought. His hands were no longer clasped on his stomach. They were clenched at his sides, his knuckles as pale as his face above the angry red welts rising in a band around his neck. "I don''t know. As I said, Am-Gulat''s magic was very unsettled. I am surprised my own has remembered how to mimic his patterns for this long."


    "It is...difficult to bind something that is always changing," Genesis said. He wasn''t looking at Am-Hazek, not anymore. He was picking a few invisible specks of lint off the sleeve of his overcoat. "Even a mage who is skilled at binding magic would have limited success."


    "That would be the basic principle, comrade." Am-Hazek swallowed hard. "Are you nearly through? I am feeling quite unwell."


    Genesis scanned all the ticking, whirring devices around Am-Hazek''s head. The blue magelight on the device closest to Am-Hazek''s head winked out. "The devices have recorded what they need."You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Mirk set in on Am-Hazek straight away, helping him sit up as he reached for the djinn''s neck. To give him the control granted by regaining his dignity, even if Genesis''s magic was still unsettling him. The instant Mirk''s fingers closed around his neck, he heard the odd ringing of Am-Hazek''s magic as it rushed to meet him. Every time Mirk touched Am-Hazek''s magic, it felt like healing him became easier. Like he was healing himself, somehow, his own element and orientation mirrored exactly by Am-Hazek''s. In some ways, healing Am-Hazek was the opposite of healing Genesis. His was always resistant, needed arguing with, no matter how agreeable the commander himself was feeling. It took much less of his potential than Mirk expected to make the blisters around Am-Hazek''s neck fade away, though his skin remained reddened.


    "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek said, after letting out a deep, relieved sigh.


    "De rien, monsieur," Mirk replied, helping him swing his legs off the side of the table and stand.


    He wanted to spirit Am-Hazek away from the lean-to and back through the gate as soon as possible. But now that his neck had been healed and he didn''t have the examination looming over him, Am-Hazek''s curiosity was drawn by all the devices Genesis was loading back into his overcoat, only after recording certain numbers and figures on a pad of paper with one of his strange self-filling quills. "Did you learn anything, comrade?" Am-Hazek asked him.


    "More about Am-Gulat than the collars themselves. However, there may be a...conclusion to be drawn from that." Genesis paused, thinking. "I suspect that the original spell used to craft them involved a good deal of light magic. Ordered."


    Am-Hazek and Mirk exchanged a look. Mirk thought he could see worry in it. Or maybe resignation. "Seigneur d''Aumont is an ordered light mage," Mirk said, voicing their concern for the benefit of Genesis, who was too preoccupied by Fatima¡¯s devices to catch on to what they''d left unsaid.


    "Then the logical next step would be to...investigate the exact signature of d''Aumont''s magic," Genesis said.


    "I''ll see what I can do. Methinks maybe at the next meeting of the Circle...well, I''ll do my best, in any case. It''d be better if you went now, monsieur," Mirk said to Am-Hazek. "I''ll be sure to write you and Madame Beaumont right away once we find out anything more about the collars."


    "Please do, seigneur." Am-Hazek paused, seeming to suddenly remember something. The box he''d brought with him, which he''d set down atop a crate near the door. "And do..."


    Am-Hazek paused halfway to the door, his hand raised to seize the box, but stopping just short of it. He quickly backtracked away from the door, cramming himself into the furthest corner of the lean-to instead. "Comrade, I believe we¡ª"


    "I am aware," Genesis said, frowning. Suddenly his voice had taken on a hissing edge. "I told them to take Pavel with them. They didn''t listen. Thus...the consequences."


    Mirk felt the approaching Watch men before he could open his mouth to ask what was happening. His shields were still half-lowered, to keep a watchful mental eye on Am-Hazek until he was free of the City''s magic. He heard the two men almost as soon as he felt them. Their magical potential was as slight as those of the two other guards still sleeping amidst the equipment. Though their emotions were fairly loud, once Mirk thought to look for them. Frustration. Anger. Fatigue.


    The emotions helped Mirk make sense of their words through the thin wood of the lean-to, since they both spoke in that sing-song London accent he still had trouble understanding. "Fucking Bavarians, picking a fight with them Russians. And all officers too!"


    "Fucking officers got less sense than a pisspot."


    "Pisspot''s at least good to piss in, innit?"


    The two men shared a laugh as the door to the lean-to swung open. In the same instant, something across the plaza outside gave a terrible bang. Their heads snapped around instantly, their hands reaching for their swords. But they were looking in the wrong direction.


    Mirk hadn''t felt the magic Genesis used to cause the distraction. But he did feel the shadows he used to launch his attack, fat tendrils of it that curled past Mirk''s ankles, their staticky potential hissing against Mirk''s half-shielded mind like the snakes they resembled. Before either man knew what was happening, a coil had wrapped itself around each of their throats.


    He should have drawn his shielding back up. But something inside Mirk demanded that he feel what happened to the pair as well as witnessing it. The men''s terrified helplessness echoed in Mirk''s mind, making him gag and clench at the sides of his head. It only lasted a few seconds, until they both slumped into unconsciousness, just like the last two Watch guardsmen who had previously interrupted Genesis''s work. But a few seconds was enough.


    The shadows lowered their limp bodies to the ground carefully. Mirk wondered if that was only because he and Am-Hazek were there to witness everything.


    Mirk went to them on instinct, protesting the whole way, though he at least managed to keep his voice low. "Genesis! They were leaving! You didn''t have to..."


    To strangle them? To blindside them? To use such terribly strong magic on men who didn''t stand a chance of fighting against it?  Mirk had thought Genesis was more honorable than that. Though one of the men had a thick beard, their heartbeats were easy to find on their necks. Slow and steady, as if they were only sleeping. Mirk hoped they would think of what had happened to them as nothing but a bad dream once they woke up. Both for their own sake, and so that they wouldn''t know who to blame for what had been done to them.


    Genesis didn''t answer him. But Am-Hazek did, as he joined him in the doorway, stooping down to grab one of the men under the arms and drag him properly inside the lean-to. "Such things  often happen when one challenges the hierarchy, seigneur. It''s a regrettable necessity that those who challenge it must never fight fair. In a fair fight, the hierarchy always wins."


    Mirk bit back the rest of his protests, instead helping Am-Hazek by dragging the other unconscious man inside. He did his best to put him down in a comfortable place, making sure neither his legs nor his arms were bent at an uncomfortable angle that might pain him when he woke up. When he straightened up again, Am-Hazek had already finished, wiping his hands primly with a handkerchief before picking up his box and presenting it to Mirk.


    "The rest of this evening''s gratin. And half of the cake. Since madame already voiced her dislike of both of them, I thought they''d be better off with you. I mean you no offense, seigneur, but her observation that you''re looking thin was not unfounded."


    Glumly, Mirk took the box, bowing to Am-Hazek. He didn''t feel like he deserved anything as nice as that gratin, even if Madame Beaumont thought it was only fit for the dogs. "Thank you, monsieur. You''d best be going. Please, take care on your way home."


    Am-Hazek bowed in return. Mirk thought the djinn looked like he pitied him. And not just for his apparent thinness, which no one he met in the City ever saw fit to comment on. Though it might have been an illusion created by his own guilt. Am-Hazek''s emotions were too well-hidden to be felt, the same as always. "I wish the same to you, seigneur. Comrade."


    Genesis didn''t reply to Am-Hazek. But he did follow him to the door, the better to keep track of him as he was swallowed up in the fog. Mumbling the closest things he could think of to curses, Mirk shooed Genesis back out into the street, shutting the door on the four unconscious men and pulling the padlock to, though he didn''t snap it locked.


    The commander remained near the lean-to instead of hurrying off like Mirk expected him to, until he caught sight of something through the fog with his inhuman senses and he finally turned to face Mirk. He''d run out of things to do by then to distract himself. He¡¯d already pulled up the hood of his cloak so that his face was hidden and adjusted its front so no passer-by could see his fine suit, had peeked in the box to confirm that Am-Hazek had given him the leftovers and nothing else.


    "You are...upset," Genesis said, staring down at him. The darkness had cleared from his eyes.


    "Of course I''m upset! Those men were terrified! I...it''s..."


    "I am aware. But this is...what I am." Genesis paused, his brows pulled down in thought, one of his odd, defensive smiles that didn''t have a trace of humor in it stuck on his face. "I cannot keep from...destroying things. It is only a matter of degree. I thought you were aware of that. I was incorrect. Apparently."


    Mirk sighed, biting his lip as he tried to get a hold of himself, tried to think rationally. It was hard with the Watch men''s terror fresh in his memory. "I just hate that we have to do this. That you have to do this. Methinks if it''d been left up to me, we''d have all ended up in jail."


    "No. You are a noble. They would have...looked the other way. Or accepted a handful of gold to do so." Genesis considered things for a time as he started off along the road that led from the plaza in front of the East Gate inward toward the heart of the City. "Only if you were alone, however. I have...little doubt that they would have attempted to fight me if they had seen me. Or would have run and reported on my presence to their officers. Which would have resulted in a more...difficult situation."


    Mirk hurried to keep up with him, the box clutched tight against his chest. He knew he had nothing worthwhile to say, nothing that could change the truth of what both Am-Hazek and Genesis had said. But he babbled on nevertheless. "I know things are different for me than they are for you. And it''s not fair. Your magic''s not all you are, messire. I...methinks I understand what you mean when you say you can''t keep from destroying things, but there''s more to you than that. You''re kind, and careful, and you mean well, it''s just...not fair. That people have to always hurt each other like this."


    "Fairness...is not an essential quality of existence."


    "I know," Mirk said with a heavy sigh, deflating, hugging the box for a lack of anything else to anchor himself to. "I wish things weren''t this way. But wishes don''t get any of us anywhere, non? Methinks you''ve said something like that before, anyway. I can''t remember. I''m not clever like you are."


    He was so lost in his own twisted, conflicting thoughts that he didn''t notice Genesis moving. Not until he placed his hand carefully on Mirk''s shoulder. "You are not stupid. You merely...have not been forced into this aspect of the world. You can leave at any time. You have no debt to any of us. You are always...free to do as you will."


    Genesis''s face had returned to its usual blankness. But the shadows had bunched up thick around him, as if it was taking all his concentration not to slip into them and vanish. Mirk tried to manage a smile as he released his death grip on the box and patted the back of Genesis''s hand. "I won''t let you do this alone, messire. And I want to help everyone, besides. Maybe I''m just better off staying in the parts of it I''m suited to rather than the, euh, rest of it."


    The commander drew his hand away, looking off down the street ahead of them, his frown returning. "On this...we are agreed."


    That time, Mirk sensed the men coming as soon as Genesis did. Not because he was paying better attention, but because K''aekniv was irrepressibly loud, both in his manners and his emotions. But he still felt the half-angel''s amusement, mingled with twinges of pain and triumph, before he heard him ranting at someone else out in the street.


    "And these people call me an idiot! Hah! All it takes to get any of those Bavarians going is making fun of whatever shit village they come from."


    Another voice, equally low and marked by a painful wheeze, countered with a laugh. "The same trick works on half of us."


    "It''s not the same, Slavka! We all know our villages are shit. When you say the village is full of idiots, that''s when things get hot with us. But these Bavarians, they all think they''re from some palace. Like they''re rich bastards, when they''re really from the same shit we are."


    "At least we don''t drink that pine samogon shit. Them and the English are the same about that."


    "Terrible! Five gold for half a bottle! Bastards deserved it for robbing us."


    Genesis''s frown grew deeper as the oncoming footsteps drew closer. K''aekniv''s winglight set the fog aglow as he stumbled into view. He had his arm wrapped around Slava''s shoulders, while the other burly fighter had a tight hold on K''aekniv''s midsection. They were both bleeding and bruised, Slava hobbling along on one leg and clutching his ribs with his free hand, while K''aekniv was steadier on his feet, but had a chunk gouged out of his chest. And half of the feathers on K''aekniv''s left-hand wing had been burnt off.


    "Snegurochka!" K''aekniv called out, treating them to a grin that was missing one of its front teeth. "And Mirgosha too! You missed all the fun!"


    A nerve in Genesis''s forehead began to tick. "It was not part of the...agreement for you both to become intoxicated. You were to create a distraction."


    "But the drinks were half price! They would have known some shit was going on if we said no."


    "Lower...your voice."


    "Mirgosha, will you be nice to us?" K''aekniv asked, turning his grin on him alone. "The teeth healers take forever. And I''ve got a girl to see this weekend."


    "You''re paying a girl to see you this weekend," Slava said.


    "All the best things in life cost a little money. Yes? Mirgosha? He would know, he has more gold than God."


    "I suppose this is the part I''m suited to, messire," Mirk said to Genesis, unable to keep from smiling. He hadn''t forgotten about the terror of the men he''d likely be he healing as soon as the rest of their Watch patrol found them. But it was impossible to keep K''aekniv''s tipsy good humor from coloring his own expressions, no matter how thick his mental shielding was.


    "You are...better at understanding their nonsense than I am," Genesis said. He scowled at the rude gesture K''aekniv made at him in response, then stepped back into the shadows and vanished.


    Laughing to himself, Mirk shifted the box Am-Hazek had given him to one hand, taking hold of K''aekniv''s free arm and guiding him around in a wobbly circle, so that he was pointed back toward the infirmary. If this was his penance for what had happened that night, the four knocked-out guardsmen and all the men it must have taken to put K''aekniv and Slava in their present condition, the Lord was being charitable toward him for a change. "What happened, Niv? Are there others?"


    "We were going to go easy on them! But, you see, it all started off with that bastard Johannes and his fucking cross-eyed cousin..."


    Mirk didn¡¯t listen to K¡¯aekniv¡¯s rambling explanation. But he did take in his emotions, his righteous indignation and satisfaction at giving a sound beating to people he thought deserved it. K¡¯aekniv was a good judge of character, as long as he wasn¡¯t trying to bed the person in question. That meant that everything was justified.


    At least, that was what Mirk told himself to make the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach hurt a little less.

 Chapter 67

    "Look up. Over. No, the other way."


    There was a knock at the door. Yule turned back toward it, where an aide was waiting for him, scowling. He returned her glare, waving her off with the hand he had Mirk''s powder brush clenched in. The way he grasped it made the delicate, ivory and gilt thing look like a serious weapon. Like how a great mage wielded his wand. "I told you, I''ll be there in a minute. Find someone else to take the curse off your pet dimwit for you..." he muttered to himself, turning his frown back toward Mirk.


    Getting dressed at the infirmary had been a bad idea.


    It was one Mirk had turned to out of practicality, after several tries at doing himself up and always feeling shabby when he arrived at his destination. If he''d been headed to another English ball, where most of the men disdained any effort at cultivating a graceful air, Mirk wouldn''t have worried himself over it. But he was returning to France for another meeting of the Circle, that time at Mademoiselle Polignac''s southernmost enclave near Nice, on the shore of the Mediterranean. A welcome reprieve from the lingering grayness of winter in the north, and one that Yvette Feulaine had been raving at him about for her last two letters. Seigneur Feulaine was bringing her and Laurent along with him to Nice to make up for all the strife and heartache their family had endured over the last year.


    Mirk was meeting her for dinner at a distant cousin''s estate after he was done with the Circle. Which was why it was absolutely essential that he not look like a wreck when he arrived. And why he''d turned to Yule for help.


    "This is a hell of a lot easier with decent powder, I''ll admit," Yule said as he set back to work, stabbing at a fresh pan of it. Mirk had no idea which of the mage quarter''s countless shops had the supplies he needed. But Yule did, despite not being willing to waste his own drink money on goods he was capable of making himself, provided he could borrow the right supplies from the infirmary. Mirk had sent him off to the mage quarter with a purse after yesterday''s shift, encouraging him to get a little something for himself while he was out for his trouble. Thankfully, Yule hadn''t shown up drunk that morning. Though his hair did have a richer luster to it.


    "I hope I''m not causing you too much trouble, Yule," Mirk said. He was watching the doorway as well, whenever he could get away with it. There had been two ladies in the waiting room when he''d come in that morning, their somber but finely appointed dresses and oversized bonnets that kept their faces out of view starkly out of place in comparison to the filthy uniforms of all the other prospective patients. Mirk knew well enough by then that they were most likely there to present him with another problem. So he''d snatched up the least surly-looking infantryman from the bench nearest the door and had used him as a shield to get through the waiting room unaccosted, transferring him to the care of a weary nurse he''d apologized profusely to before bolting for the safety of the infirmary''s upper floors.


    But there was no hiding from an upper-class woman on a mission. It was only a matter of time before the pair bullied their way to the back. He needed to escape before he could get wrapped up in their troubles.


    "You''re not. I''ve taken that curse off Marta''s beloved three times this month already," Yule grumbled, as he swiped another measure of powder down the length of Mirk''s nose. Mirk had to tense all his muscles to fight off a sneeze. "He needs to stop gambling and do some actual work."


    "Are the curlers done?" Mirk asked. They were high-quality, made of some foreign clay that Yule claimed was capable of holding heat exceptionally well. But they were also three times heavier than the set his valet had used on him at home. He could feel the beginnings of a headache brewing at his temples.


    Yule unclipped one of them, sending a loose curl bouncing down over Mirk''s forehead. "Good enough. It won''t go flat, but your hair will never hold those curls you''re after. Too fine. Soft. Besides, those kind of curls are hideous. You''d look like one of those ugly little dogs the Bavarians keep."


    "They''re the fashion now," Mirk mumbled, some of the tension flowing out of him as Yule put down the powder brush and started taking out the rest of the curlers. He''d only ever been able to match the hairstyles popular among the men of the Royal Court, extravagant masses of curls that towered high over their foreheads and ran down the full length of their backs, by having extensions put in. And he wasn''t about to burden Yule with such an arduous task.


    "Just because something''s fashionable doesn''t mean it''s not ugly," Yule said. "Save yourself the hassle and stick with what suits you. Fashion changes every year. But your features won''t. Not unless you''ve got the potential for perpetual glamors, anyway."


    The bitterness in Yule''s tone was strong enough to make Mirk wince, but he decided not to comment on it. At least not directly. "Your hair would be perfect for it. And it looks very nice today."


    "Don''t humor me," Yule snapped, cuffing him in the shoulder. Though Mirk thought there was a sudden self-satisfied edge to his scowl. "Right. You''re as curly and pale as you''re going to get. It''s not your look, but it''s what you asked for."


    Mirk groped at the sheets of the patient bed he was perched on the edge of for his hand mirror, bracing himself for disappointment. As Yule moved on to the curlers at the back of his head, Mirk found the mirror and lifted it to his face. Yule was right. The older healer had done exactly what he''d asked him to, with the skill of someone who''d been preening themself for years instead of leaning on others to do it for him. The usual rosiness was banished from his complexion, save for a few strategic spots, where it was further accented by rouge. And his hair had a pleasing curl to it, better than anything he''d ever been able to manage on his own. But it didn''t suit him at all. Instead of highlighting what natural grace he''d been blessed with, all the potions and powders and primping only made him look like a ghost of himself. Too orderly, too prim. Lifeless.


    "Thank you for trying," Mirk said with a sigh, letting both his hands and the mirror fall limply in his lap. "Methinks you''re right, Yule. What''s fashionable now just doesn''t suit me."


    "The suit does, at least." After undoing the last of the curlers, Yule stepped back to take a harder look at one of the new suits he''d picked up for Mirk at the Teleporters'' guild hall. Three lighter ones for spring and summer, an extravagance Mirk wouldn''t have indulged himself in if all his other summer suits hadn''t been incinerated along with the rest of his life. It was too cold in England for them yet, but the trip to Nice provided him with the perfect excuse to test one out. He''d decided to wear the cream-colored one down to Nice. More on the conservative side, but the golden sunburst motif stitched into it and the crystal buttons the Nasiri twins had suggested added a certain joyful flair to it that made Mirk feel less like a boy pretending to be a lord and more like himself. "Going to be a pain in the ass keeping that thing clean, though."


    "Oh, bien s?r. I''ll have stained it by noon, I''m sure. But...well. Methinks I''ll find a way to manage."


    "What you mean is that you''re going to get your murdering skeleton of a sweetheart to clean up your mess for you, the same as always," Yule said as he went about stashing the curlers back in their velvet case.


    "I never ask!" Mirk protested, hopping off the edge of the bed. At least with all the powder caked to his face, his constant flushing wouldn''t give him away. If only he had some sort of charm to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "He just...does it. I couldn''t stop him if I tried."


    "That doesn''t make it any better."


    "At least he''s started letting me handle his letters for him. I told him that people would be less likely to bother him if he at least let me respond to the more important ones with a promise that he''d see to things soon. And there''s dinner too. Though that''s not very hard when he only ever eats the same thing every day," Mirk said, checking the buckles on his shoes. A lighter leather than usual to compliment the suit and the metallic stockings that were so popular.


    "How''s that working out for you?"


    "It''s fine," Mirk reassured him, as he straightened back up. Yule looked thoroughly unconvinced, however. His eyes were narrowed and his arms crossed, his lips pressed into a thin, skeptical line. "What? It is, Yule. I...methinks we still have some things we disagree on, but it''s nothing that bad."


    "So, what? You''re just going to keep going on forever being each other''s maids and pretending nothing else is going on? You need to plan ahead. One or two years of that, fine. I could see someone being able to put up with it. But neither of you are human. You''re just going to put up with it for, what? Fifty years? A hundred?"


    "You know, I never do remember to ask him what exactly he is. Demonic, yes, but methinks there must be something else...if only it wasn''t such a hard thing for him to talk about..."


    "Don''t go changing the subject. That''s not my point, and you know it," Yule said, uncrossing his arms, only to jab an accusing finger at him. "This is all going to blow up in your face sooner or later if you don''t do something. And if it happens at the wrong time, we''ll all suffer for it, not just you two idiots."


    Mirk shook his head, adamantly. "It''s only my problem. And I won''t ever let it keep me from helping everyone. I promise, Yule."


    "You know my opinion on the matter. I don''t think it''s only your problem. Well, whatever. But mark my words, if this nonsense ends up killing all of the rest of us normal people, I''ll haunt you until the sun goes out. And you know earth mages make the strongest ghosts." The older healer paused, midway toward making his escape back out into the hall. "Maybe that''ll finally be what does it. I''m rubbish at all that plants and babies bullshit, and it even hits me like a rock upside the head. It''s going to be hell for you."


    "Euh...pardon?"


    "Come back to me in a couple of weeks," Yule said, waving a dismissive hand at him and offering no further explanation as he swept out of the room. A moment later, Mirk heard him calling out down the hall for the aide who needed the curse lifted off her beau.


    Confused and unsettled, Mirk packed up his things and headed off to face his own troubles. With any luck, they wouldn''t be nearly as bad as he was dreading. Or as bad as those of the noble ladies whose path he''d inevitably cross on his way out.


    -   -  -


    "You didn''t have to come all the way up here to meet us, Comrade Kali. You got my letter last week, non? The one that had the trick to getting to Mademoiselle Polignac''s estate in it?"


    "I''ll take any excuse I can get to escape your relatives for an extra couple of hours," she replied crossly, swiping with her sleeve at some smudge on the front of her breastplate. "At least there''s only one of you here instead of half a dozen."The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Mirk knew that Kali had to be exaggerating things, despite the sour look on her face. For one thing, she seemed much more at ease now than she had in the City, less on edge. If his younger cousins were constantly harassing her like she claimed, she found their constant needling much less troublesome than her mother''s. And her complexion spoke to much more time out of doors as of late, even if the weather in Bordeaux that time of year was nowhere near as pleasant as Nice. It was difficult to find a more inhospitable place than the City, barring traveling to the great desert across the Mediterranean or the untouched forest the Festival of Shades was held in. "Are you doing well, Kali? You and Henri aren''t very good letter writers, since you''re so busy. Have you managed the problem with the demons?"


    Her expression softened as the topic shifted from herself to her work. "We had it handled more than a month ago. Me and the others were beating a dozen every day back when we first arrived, but there hasn''t been a sign of them for weeks. Either they''re waiting for us to leave, or they''ve given up. I told your uncle the only way to be sure would be for us to leave and see what happens, but he doesn''t want to risk it."


    "What have you been doing instead?"


    "Nothing worth the gold Henri keeps shoving at us," Kali said. Though there wasn''t any resentment in her tone, Mirk thought. Only confusion. "Going to guild halls and asking around for things Henri wants. Cutting off spies before they can get in. Recruiting other artificers. Everyone is taken off-guard by women coming to them. I don''t think Henri intended for that. He''s just too lost in his work to pay attention."


    Mirk laughed to himself. "That very much sounds like Henri. Are the children well?"


    "They''re always paying attention. And they never leave any of us alone. But they don''t expect us to take care of them either, so I suppose it''s all right. I didn''t train for twenty years to be a nursemaid."


    "Of course not, Comrade Kali. But it does sound as if things are going well."


    The fighter gave a noncommittal shrug. A sensitive topic, Mirk suspected, since she changed it immediately. "Where''s Catherine? She''s never late. She hates being late."


    Mirk looked up at the clock set above the front door of the Teleporters'' guild hall. Ten minutes to eleven, and the carriage the Circle was sending for them was supposed to arrive on the hour. He''d written to Seigneur Feulaine that it''d be better if the carriage met them further from the City than the last time he''d been summoned to speak with France''s most storied mages. There had been many more prying eyes on him as he went about the City as of late, ever since he''d accompanied Catherine to the first ball of the debutante season. Apparently even in plain healer''s robes streaked with a full day¡¯s worth of mess, he was distinctive enough that the higher-born members of the K''maneda could spot him in the crowd. Mirk didn''t like it one bit. "She does have ten minutes left. But it is a little odd that she didn''t arrange to meet me at the East Gate, methinks."


    "Right. She''s a proper lady. And proper ladies don''t wander across the mage quarter without an escort. That''s fine in the City, but not out here." Despite the scowl on her face and the disdain in her voice, Mirk could tell Kali was concerned for her sister. It was the small things ¡ª how tense she was, how she restlessly shifted from foot to foot and glared at passers-by, as if she thought any one of them might be the person responsible for delaying her sister.


    "If she''s not here by eleven, we''ll tell the coach to wait for us and head toward the City to find her," Mirk reassured Kali. Though he couldn''t resist teasing her a little too, in an attempt to keep her from reaching such a critical state of annoyance that she seized the next journeyman who skirted past them by the collar and started spitting questions at him. "You''ll be properly escorted, even. Like a lady of your standing."


    "Who''s escorting who?" she shot back. But her worry didn''t lift, not even a fraction.


    A tense five minutes passed. Then the common-use portal in the alleyway beside the guild hall spun to life and spat out a gale of excited laughter and a ruckus of stamping hooves.


    They both whirled to look, Mirk wincing and putting the staff between himself and the portal as a defensive measure, while Kali''s hand flew to the hilt of her sword. But the exhausted delight that struck Mirk''s shielded mind a moment after all the noise put him at ease right away. On the other hand, Kali''s hand rested firm on the hilt of her sword.


    Catherine had arrived on time. It was just that she hadn''t come from the direction they''d been expecting her from.


    She hadn''t arrived unaccompanied either. Catherine was perched side-saddle atop a massive black stallion with a white blaze in the middle of its forehead. Beside her was Orest, on the same bay stallion from the night of the ball, laughing at the annoyed way the black horse sneezed and whickered at being teleported. Mirk was no expert in horses, but he could tell that the horse Catherine was riding was exceptionally well trained, despite its distaste for teleportation magic. There was an unflappable feel to its mental presence, coupled with a certain keen brightness that the bay stallion lacked. The bay stallion would reach that level eventually, Mirk was certain. It already felt more alert than before, more confident. Stronger, just like Orest had said his goal was the last time they''d met.


    "Catherine!" Kali barked. "What are you doing?"


    It took a moment for Catherine to respond to her sister, to remember her manners and regain her composure. She did her best to turn her giddy grin down to a proper prim smile as she brushed the grass and dust from her long black cloak and pulled back its hood. But she didn''t try to dismount until Orest had slid off the bay''s back and reached her side, offering out a hand to her with a theatrical bow.


    Kali snapped her next barrage of questions at Mirk, since her sister wasn''t being forthcoming. And her hand didn''t stir from her sword. "What''s going on? Do you know him?"


    "One of the Easterners in Comrade Commander Dauid''s division," Mirk replied, though he had the sense to keep his voice low. Not that Orest would have cared about what he had to say about him. Or Catherine, for that matter. She was doing her best to be restrained, to reassemble the mask that all ladies who wished to advance in polite society put on every morning along with their dresses and powder, but she was struggling. It wasn''t just the London chill that was turning her cheeks rosy as she took Orest''s hand and dismounted. "He''s been put in charge of the Comrade Commander''s horses, methinks."


    "My apologies for arriving late, seigneur, Kali," Catherine said as she walked over to them. Only after first giving her stallion a reassuring pat on the nose and sneaking a sideways glance at Orest, who was hastily trying to make himself presentable for both Kali and Mirk. "Mister Orest inquired about the best pasturing lands within portal range of the guild hall. As he''s working on Comrade Commander Dauid''s orders and father didn''t see fit to respond to his letters, I thought it would be the comradely thing to do to assist him."


    "It''s no trouble at all," Mirk cut in, before Kali could lay into her sister. He strongly suspected that Orest hadn''t been the one to write to Casyn, if there was any letter at all. The explanation for her going with a strange man unaccompanied spoke strongly of the usual half-baked schemes the Easterners were always cooking up over their bottles. Plausible enough on the surface to avoid questions from a casual observer, but not firm enough to hold up against serious scrutiny.


    Which was what Kali subjected both the ruse and Orest to as she turned her scowl on him. She had the whole of the carriage ride to the coast to interrogate her sister. Orest, on the other hand, was already looking to make good his escape. Though he was torn between lingering to pay his proper respects to Catherine and avoiding the obvious threat Kali posed. "Let''s see your orders from Dauid."


    Orest tried the first tactic in the foreign-born infantryman''s rulebook. He raised both hands, innocently, sweeping a finger over the vocal translation charm pinned to the underside of his collar in the process. Unfortunately for him, he wasn''t very practiced at sleight of hand. "No writing. Only talk. I not read¡ª"


    "Don''t try it with me, comrade," Kali snapped, taking a single step toward him. She knew how to leverage her position. With boots and breastplate on, she cut an intimidating figure, nearly the same height as Orest. Who was completely unarmed. "Turn your translator back on and explain yourself."


    Sighing, Orest flicked the charm back on. "I have to pasture the horses somewhere. The pen in the City won''t work. You can''t raise a strong horse in a cage. Dauid said I could take them anywhere as long as I get them in shape, but I don''t know any places around here. And we need our teleporting mage''s potential for the contracts."


    "They do only have one," Mirk said. "Two, if you count Comrade Genesis. But methinks the horses wouldn''t appreciate his magic."


    "Hate it," Orest confirmed, with a nod of his head and a grateful smile.


    "Then you should have asked someone in the Fourth for help. They''re the teleporters. And the cavalry, for that matter."


    "As I''m sure you''re aware, Kali, the Fourth doesn''t have the most welcoming reputation," Catherine said, stepping up beside her sister. A study in opposites ¡ª whereas Kali''s intimidation was all brawn and blade, Catherine''s was in her composure and wits. She was directing it at her sister rather than at Orest. "Especially towards foreign-born fighters."


    "It''s not your job to make up for it," Kali retorted, though she didn''t take her eyes off Orest.


    "No, but it is the comradely thing to do, as I said. In any case, I''d have thought you''d have more faith in your training, Kali. Or do you think it so insufficient that I still require a chaperone at all times to protect myself?"


    Years of experience had taught Catherine exactly how to press her sister. Kali finally looked away from Orest, balking at Catherine''s words. "You''re the one who was always scolding me for not taking one!"


    "That''s because you''re always picking fights. Regardless, our carriage to Nice will be arriving shortly, and I''d like to take a moment to refresh myself. And I believe Mister Orest has his own engagements? It would be rude of us to detain him further."


    Orest nodded again, more vigorously, already backtracking to the safety of his horses. "Yes, yes. Need to get them back and groomed before dinner."


    Kali couldn''t keep herself from getting in a parting blow. "Now that you know where your damn pasture is, I expect you to mind your own business."


    He saluted Kali in return instead of just nodding that time, doing a better job of sharpening it up and adding a bit of a serious cast to it. But just as Kali couldn''t restrain herself, neither could Orest, not with Catherine''s attentive gaze still ghosting after him. Rather than leading the horses off on foot, he scrambled up onto the black stallion''s back, clucking at it as he went. "Zirochka, Mitya, let''s do a trick. See how you''re getting along, eh? Hop!"


    Orest didn''t settle himself in the saddle. He only stayed there for a second, just long enough to get the bay''s attention and convey something to it by some combination of magic and a tug on its reins. Mirk got the impression that the black stallion was managing the bay''s reactions more than Orest was, as he stood first in the saddle, then atop the black stallion''s back, before shifting one foot over so that he had a foot on each of them. The bay snorted and flicked its head, but settled at a noise from the black. For a second, Mirk perceived a flash of sweetness, a flicker of remembered warmth and relaxation ¡ª the black stallion knew from long practice that they''d be amply rewarded for tolerating Orest''s theatrics, even if they were a bother in the present.


    At a twitch of the reins and a yip from Orest, the horses trotted off, headed back toward the City down the mage quarter''s main street. Both serious guild mages and casual laborers alike turned to marvel at the rider and his horses as they passed, Orest striking up a jaunty tune as he bounced along on their backs to keep their rhythm steady and calm their nerves. Kali was the only person who didn''t turn to look, instead glaring down at her sister and the way she was gawking along with the rest of the pedestrians, a delighted smile on her lips and a spark of admiration in her eyes.


    "Is that all it takes to get your attention? Some stupid pony tricks?" Kali asked, nudging her sister in the arm.


    "You don''t understand, Kali! He''s only been working with Mitya for a month! To already have him trained so well..."


    "The carriage will be here any minute," Mirk butted in, intervening before the sisters could fully set in on each other. "I''d be glad to have a word with whoever they send with the coach to wait for you if you''d like to visit the guild hall before we leave, Mademoiselle Catherine."


    "That''s very considerate of you, seigneur," Catherine replied, coming back to herself as Orest and the horses disappeared around a bend in the street. "I''ll be back momentarily."


    As her sister gathered her skirts and retreated into the guild hall, Kali folded her arms over her chest and stewed. "Whose side are you on, anyway?" she asked, glowering down at Mirk for lack of another target for her ire. "I thought mother decided to let you tag along after Catherine so that you''d look out for her, not so that you could pawn her off on one of your shady friends."


    "You''re right to be concerned, Comrade Kali," Mirk said, with a differential bob of his head. "But look at it this way. How many of the suitors your mother sent to you were kind enough that their animals would have listened to them without any whipping or kicking? Or kind enough that any animal wanted to come near them at all? Methinks you should know that it''s easy enough to lie to people with a smile. A horse is much harder to keep convinced."


    "That''s rich, coming from an empath. And an earth mage," Kali said. But she didn''t press the issue any further. Instead she settled in to wait, scanning the crowd. Still bristling.


    It was going to be a long ride down to Nice.

 Chapter 68

    "Are you sure I can''t help you with anything, seigneur?"


    "No, no. I''ll be fine. Methinks I just need some air. Though you''re welcome to come with if you''d like to enjoy the sun, mademoiselles."


    Both Catherine and Kali lingered in the solarium doorway, exchanging a questioning look. Mademoiselle Polignac¡¯s estate near Nice was peculiar, an odd mirror of the one in Limoges. The main difference being a lack of doors and windows that could be closed, leaving every room open to the breeze off the Mediterranean and the sharp bite of salt it carried with it. The solarium was no exception. The plants there had a decidedly more foreign, tropical flavor than her collection in Limoges, with more orange and lemon trees and scores of pink and yellow flowers as big as serving platters nestled among palms that grew up straight out of gaps in the tiles rather than in pots. The ladies would be suffering in their blacks that day whether they decided to venture outside or not. Kali doubly so, owing to the breastplate she refused to take off, the same as the battered leather cuirass that''d come before it. Mirk was glad he''d opted for one of his summer suits.


    Kali answered first. "I''d rather not," she said, folding her arms as a shield against scrutiny, as usual. Though she added a grumbled thank you at a pointed look from her sister.


    "As long as Monsieur Er-Izat can stay with you, I''d prefer to stay inside as well," Catherine said, eyeing up the djinn who was currently bearing most of Mirk''s weight for him. Er-Izat had needed to practically carry him up the front steps. Even though the coachman had assured Mirk as he''d climbed into the Circle''s teleporting carriage that if he''d been fine enough from London to Limoges, then the second jump to Nice wouldn''t be that bad, Mirk had nearly ended up throwing up in Kali''s lap from the strain. If they''d lingered for a half hour or so before the second jump, Mirk thought he could have borne up under it. But the coachman had a schedule to keep. And a noble taskmaster waiting for him in Nice who was far more intimidating than Mirk and his two lady guards.


    "Is it all right, Monsieur Er-Izat?" Mirk asked the djinn, switching back to French. Mirk was trying to support his own weight, making periodic attempts to shift it over onto his grandfather''s staff rather than clinging to Er-Izat¡¯s side. But his body, covered with sweat under his fine new suit and crawling with gooseflesh, refused to cooperate. "I''m sure Seigneur d''Aumont will be needing you..."


    Er-Izat looked out the solarium door, out over the beach. Two figures in suits, one black and the other gold, were standing at the end of a stone path that cut from the solarium¡¯s back door down to the waterfront. Beyond them, down the length of a weathered jetty, two ladies had ventured even further out. The Marquise and Mademoiselle Polignac, if Mirk had to hazard a guess. But the world was still spinning too badly for him to look very hard.


    A moment later, Er-Izat looked back down at Mirk, a flicker of golden light circling around the upper and lower edges of his collar. "Master has private business with Seigneur Rouzet. I will help you to the water, Seigneur d''Avignon. If this is to your liking."


    Mirk wasn''t sure whether being further assaulted by the smell of seaweed and salt would settle the churning in his stomach. But at the very least, it would give him time to speak with Er-Izat more or less in private. Sneaking a sideways glance at Er-Izat''s collar, Mirk nodded, taking a tentative step past the doorway and onto the path down to the beach. All visible traces of magic had faded from Er-Izat¡¯s collar, but it''d be prudent to assume that Seigneur d''Aumont could hear everything his servant could through it, if he was so inclined. He''d have to choose his words carefully. A trial Mirk was almost too exhausted to contemplate, considering the throbbing in his temples.


    "You''re quite strong, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said, trying to force the wavering out of his voice. He gave up on his struggle to stand on his own, leaning fully against the djinn''s heavily muscled side. The forearm that was bearing most of his weight, straining underneath Er-Izat''s finely embroidered gambeson, had to be nearly half as big around as one of Mirk''s thighs. "For which I''m very grateful."


    "My thanks, seigneur," the djinn replied. Despite his size, Er-Izat had a much softer voice than either Am-Hazek or Am-Gulat. It reminded Mirk a little of Ilya, whose pleasant, cheerful tone didn''t match at all with his hulking frame. But Er-Izat''s voice had none of the lightness and wonder in it that Ilya''s did. Er-Izat''s voice was toneless. As if he wanted to make himself as invisible as all the rest of the djinn servants, but couldn''t manage it due to his size, no matter how hard he tried at all the usual tactics.


    "I haven''t been to a beach like this since I was a boy," Mirk said, deciding to keep up the conversation for him by letting himself babble. Both to distract himself from his body''s aching, and to see if he could stumble across a topic that might make Er-Izat show a few of his cards. "I''m from the north, you know. We went to the beach all the time, but the ones on the Atlantic are very different from the ones here on the C?te d''Azur."


    "I have heard, seigneur."


    "Can we walk on the sand a bit? It might make me feel a little more, euh, grounded. But I wouldn''t want to be even more of a burden to you than I already am, Monsieur Er-Izat."


    "As you wish, seigneur."


    Mirk edged off the stone walkway and onto the sand. As they were still far from the water, the sand was deep, thick, warm. Mirk could feel it sneaking in over the low sides of his shoes. And though it did make him feel less out-of-sorts to be welcomed into the Earth''s embrace, it also made him useless on his feet, unable to walk for more than a few steps without needing to pause and catch his breath. "I suppose this isn''t very proper," Mirk mumbled to himself, with a winded laugh.


    Er-Izat remained silent. But he looked back over in the direction of the mismatched gold and black figures at the end of the walk. They were both facing the sea, their backs to them. One slender and one curved with age, but both proudly upright. Although the smaller, gold-clad figure required the assistance of a cane to manage it.


    "Do they have many beaches like this on the djinn homeworld?" Mirk asked, as he stumbled to a halt and closed his eyes. The better to center himself as he tried to will the beating of his heart to match the slow roll of the waves against the shore further ahead of them. It didn''t work well. To his addled senses, the water felt like a giant churning well of uncertainty ahead of him, as restless and unruly as the sloshing of his stomach. "I''d always pictured it as being sandy. But that might just be because you all bear such a resemblance to the half-angels from across the sea. You know, who live in the great desert. My father employed a few."


    "No," Er-Izat said, after a long pause. "They are stone, seigneur."


    Mirk forced his eyes back open. Er-Izat was staring out over the water, his face the same expressionless mask that most well-trained djinn wore when they were called upon to make themselves presentable. But something in the question had unsettled him, Mirk thought. Maybe it was only because he''d felt Am-Hazek''s magic without a collar between them, but Mirk thought he could feel Er-Izat''s magic moving in him too, underneath the iron of his collar and fabric and skin and muscle. Still wavery and indistinct, but with a definite, gravelly note to it that both Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat lacked. Am-Hazek had said that djinn favored different elements, kept them in different balances as required by circumstance and temperament.


    "I apologize if I''ve touched on a sensitive topic, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said, ducking his head as much as he dared. His stomach still felt like it was on the verge of creeping up his throat. "I''m afraid I don''t have good manners like most of the men you must meet. And I have a tendency to babble, as I''m sure you''ve noticed."


    "I do not know how to answer your questions, seigneur," Er-Izat said, nudging Mirk along. Or more like picked him up and carried him, though he didn''t subject Mirk to the indignity of being slung over a shoulder or cradled against his chest. Mirk wouldn¡¯t have minded the latter at the moment, even if it was improper. He always had an easier time quieting his own body if he could match its rhythms to those of another, calmer, more sensible person. "No one asks me questions."


    "That''s a shame, Monsieur Er-Izat. I get the impression that you''d have a lot to say, if only someone was there to listen."


    The djinn made a faint sound of discomfort as he continued to half-walk, half-carry Mirk down to the shore. The closer they got to the water, the more firm the sand grew underneath Mirk''s feet. But Mirk didn''t truly find his footing again until they were nearly close enough to come within range of the waves lapping at the shore.


    Mirk didn''t know whether the Mediterranean was supposed to be calm or not at that time of year, on that particular shoreline. But he had a feeling that even if it usually was more wild, there was no chance of a rogue wave hurling itself up unexpectedly and soaking both him and Er-Izat. There were two water mages tending to it at the moment, after all.


    Rather than staring off over the waves like Er-Izat, Mirk shifted his attention to the jetty stretching out into the water. The waves were rougher out there, smacking into the wooden support beams and throwing up spray nearly as high as the two figures standing at the end of it were tall. But both ladies'' dresses remained clean and dry, as far as Mirk could tell.


    He didn''t know whether it was intentional, but Mademoiselle Polignac and the Marquise had chosen outfits that complimented one another that day. The Marquise''s dress was a dark grayish blue, the same color as the sea out where it crashed into the sky. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Polignac''s was a brighter cerulean, like the water nearer the shore. While the m¨¦lusine kept herself shaded from the sun with a white lace parasol, the Marquise was basking in it, bare-headed. Not a common sight, considering the lady''s position, but Mirk supposed anyone who might have been looking would be willing to grant her that liberty. A mage in the midst of her element couldn''t be blamed for wanting to relish it.


    Though Mirk couldn''t see either of their lips moving, he got the impression they were chatting, somehow. It was in the way the Marquise''s shoulders jumped up every so often, as if she was biting back a laugh. And the way that something that was decidedly more solid than a breeze, something seafoam-green and scaly, flicked at the back of Mademoiselle Polignac''s skirts.


    "What a lovely day," Mirk mumbled to himself, as he stared across the water at the two ladies. They were too far away for him to feel any true emotion from either of them. But he thought there was a certain warmth floating between them, something close to the way the sea would feel on bare skin three or four months hence, once the sun had been given more time to work its magic on it. It reminded him of his parents.


    "It was supposed to rain, seigneur." Er-Izat said, flatly. "The Marquise honored the Mademoiselle''s request to drive it away."


    "How very kind of her," Mirk replied. Only then did he realize he was still leaning hard on Er-Izat''s arm, and made himself stand up a little straighter. Mustering the whole of what little composure he''d been able to regain, he turned to the side and looked back toward shore, where the two male figures were still standing by the end of the walkway that joined with the jetty further on. Seigneur d''Aumont and Rouzet, as Mirk had expected. They were deep in conversation, ignoring the sunshine and the sea breeze and him and Er-Izat. Mirk got the impression that their conversation was much less pleasant than that of the two ladies at the end of the jetty. "Has Seigneur d''Aumont made up with Seigneur Rouzet, then?" Mirk asked the djinn. "I''d heard they hadn''t been getting on well as of late. Not since Seigneur Rouzet''s father passed."


    "This is not something I know, seigneur." Er-Izat turned to look back toward the pair as well. Another glimmer of golden light raced around his collar. And lingered in the mark on its side, the cross with the rose in bloom wrapped around it.


    "Ah, right. It''d be better if I asked him myself, I suppose. I didn''t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position, Monsieur. You''ve already been so considerate toward me today."


    Er-Izat ducked his head, not meeting his eyes. "I live to serve, seigneur."


    Mirk had heard that phrase hundreds of times, murmured by brothers and sisters at the abbey, by his father as he thumped his fist over his chest and nodded down at an Imperial messenger, from himself. It didn''t feel right coming from Er-Izat. It made a shiver race down Mirk''s spine, made him hastily look away from the two lords on the walkway and back out at the sea. Yet Mirk had to say something, in case Seigneur d''Aumont was listening.


    "I suppose we all do, in a way, Monsieur Er-Izat."


    -   -   -


    "Isn''t this absolutely stunning?" Yvette crowed, hauling hard on Mirk''s arm. "Worth all the gold and the time, I''d say. They''ve been building it for two hundred years, did you know?"


    Yvette used both her own boundless energy and the permission granted by having a lord by her side to bully her way through the throngs of journeymen mages gathered just inside the front doors to the Circle''s meeting hall. Mirk supposed that the great glass dome that the hall had for a roof would be much more impressive if he hadn''t spent so much time in the City of Glass by then. Although few places in the City still had its namesake windows and roofs, he''d been spoiled by sneaking naps whenever he could up in the plague ward. While the dome hanging above him presently was a massive undertaking, Mirk knew, it paled in comparison to the infirmary''s. The glass dome of the meeting hall was split every foot or so by iron support lattices, whereas the plague ward''s roof was a clear expanse of glass, as unbroken as if one was standing out in the open.


    No one had seen fit to put an enchantment on the other side of the glass, or convinced a mage from the air or water guilds to conjure up a spell of fine weather. The sky beyond the glass was as oppressive and gray as a stone ceiling would have been. Another way in which the guilds¡¯ attempt at matching what the ancient K''maneda had mastered fell short. It was always sunny up in the plague ward, no matter what the weather was like outside. But Mirk decided it''d be better not to spoil Yvette''s cheerful mood with undue criticism.


    All in all, it''d been a miserable trip.


    The private meeting of the Circle in Nice had been as grim and confusing as Mirk had expected. Nothing but constant sniping between Seigneur Rouzet and Seigneur d''Aumont, with the Comte making caustic asides about youthful frivolity every few minutes, always with a wary glance across Mademoiselle Polignac''s parlor at the younger members, Seigneurs Feulaine and Rouzet. The Marquise struggled to represent her own interests in the gaps, pressing Mirk on whether or not any of the K''maneda were willing to help with her shipping concerns, which were mounting with the coming spring. Mirk had done his best to reassure everyone in attendance, trying to smooth tempers alongside Seigneur Feulaine. But it was hard to get anywhere with a selection of nobles who were all so intransigent and invested in their own points of view.


    Although Seigneurs Rouzet and d''Aumont were perpetually at each other''s throats, Mirk thought they must have come to some kind of agreement on the largest issue facing French magecraft at the moment. They agreed that if the mages were going to advance, keep turning tidy profits and bolstering the strength of the guilds, they needed to start reaching beyond the Sun King''s borders and start making alliances with other countries'' mages instead of being continually used as cudgels against one another by the mortals. What they disagreed on was the best approach to take in forging new alliances. Understandably, Seigneur d''Aumont was more interested in reaching out to the more established noble families, the ones who''d intermarried at times with mortal nobility and were more interested in keeping things steady than trying to launch some grand new movement. The ones who knew the mortals as well as he did, who respected them well enough to reason with them about what was an appropriate and honorable degree of warring and what was too much.


    Mirk got the impression that Seigneur Rouzet had a much different perspective on the matter. He had a great deal of quips to make about mortal nobility. And about how senseless it was for mages to let a people who only lived a sparse six or seven decades and reproduced an unseemly amount to dictate the actions of men like themselves who were capable of truly perceiving where the world was headed. It was clear to Mirk where he thought the world was headed: in the direction of men of commerce and cunning. Which was why he claimed he was so interested in the K''maneda and the English, Mirk gathered. Whether that claim was the whole truth of Seigneur Rouzet''s opinions was a whole other matter entirely.


    It had all given Mirk a terrible headache. When he''d gone out with Seigneur Feulaine to meet his daughter at the family coach, he''d wanted nothing more than to retreat back to the City and curl up in his own bed instead of going and being sociable with Yvette. But the prospects of another long carriage ride back to the City of Glass had been too galling for Mirk to bear. He''d accepted Yvette''s invitation to spend the night at the family estate instead of returning to the City and coming back again to Paris in the morning for the public meeting of the Circle. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    It meant he''d needed to send Catherine and Kali off alone, Kali back to Bordeaux and Catherine with instructions to find K''aekniv and get him to let her into his quarters to retrieve his gray suit and have it sent down to him in time for the public meeting. Kali hadn''t been happy about that. But Catherine''s insistence that she could take care of herself, and Mirk''s warning that Catherine appearing unannounced and unaccompanied at his quarters could perhaps result in her triggering whatever maze of defensive magic Genesis had on his rooms had won Kali over, grudgingly. That or she was simply too tired from having to put up with Seigneur Rouzet eyeballing her all afternoon to put up much of a fight.


    That afternoon wasn''t shaping up much better. He was an honored guest of the Circle, there to receive the Montigny men''s apologies for what had happened to his family and reassure all the guild mages in attendance that there was no bad blood on either side. Most likely, he''d be called upon to make some kind of speech. Mirk didn''t know which he was dreading more, having to watch as all the men who the Empire had irreparably scarred on his behalf groveled to him, or having the scrutiny of all the other mages turned on him. All the serious guild men would be watching to judge whether or not he was a fitting heir to Jean-Luc''s legacy. Someone to be followed with interest, or dismissed as a bumbling fool.


    Of all the Montigny men, Mirk dreaded meeting Laurent again most of all. Yvette had reassured him all night that there was no bad blood remaining between them, that Laurent would have come to Nice for dinner if only he hadn''t been so busy with his family''s guild work. Laurent had been tasked with negotiating the shift in responsibilities within the Briquet from the mages close to the Montignys to those more closely aligned with Seigneur Feulaine''s interests. A boon, Yvette had reassured him, making both Laurent''s position in the guild and their marriage all the stronger. Mirk had a hard time imagining Laurent engaging in tactful diplomacy. But perhaps past events were making him judge the man too harshly.


    Mirk spotted Laurent right away as they came into the meeting hall proper, seated beside Seigneur Feulaine at the head of the wedge of chairs dedicated to the fire mages. All those in attendance were dressed in their most somber attire, only the masters in robes of varying shades of red that were embroidered with arcane sigils and runes that invoked whatever spell they''d crafted to earn their position. There were at least two guilds that served France''s fire mages, probably more, though the Briquets had been the foremost one for ages, as far as Mirk knew. Mirk didn''t know what Seigneur Feulaine''s masterwork spell had been. But whatever it was, Mirk suspected that it involved something delicate and persistent, slow and cautious like himself, judging by the impression the stitching on his robes gave. Most of the other masters seated behind him had much flashier, striking spells. Combat magic, if the French fire mages were anything like the English ones Mirk had heard of from Elijah.


    Once Seigneur d''Aumont entered, Mirk knew from having attended in the past, all the other members of the Circle would leave their positions at the head of their respective wedges and join him in the six chairs arrayed at the front of the hall, on a raised platform. Mirk would be watching the meeting from the furthest away seats alongside the women and the foreigners, as he always had. Though women could gain access to the guild halls and libraries through their husbands and fathers, none of them ever were included as formal members. Which made for an awkward situation when a woman rose as high as the Marquise, all the way onto the Circle but not to the top of any particular guild. She was seated in a chair much better than those that the rest of them would be consigned to, at the head of the general seats, her two usual burly attendants flanking her and showing her ledgers and charts to pass the time as they waited for the others to arrive.


    Yvette ushered Mirk into a seat nearer than front than the back, close to the aisle so that he could escape the crowd easily when it came time for him to accept the Montignys'' formal apology. He was glad he''d called for his gray suit. In all his preoccupation with how the English mages presented themselves, he''d ordered all his new suits, the cream one excepted, to have touches of green hidden in them. But there was an unspoken rule among the French mages that at formal meetings only those who''d been admitted into a guild were permitted to wear the color of their element.


    He probably should have worn something black. He was a K''maneda now, after all. But gray would have to do.


    "Oh, but it always is so terribly stuffy in here, don''t you think?" Yvette said to him, tugging on his arm to make sure she got his attention. She''d been talking at him the whole while, but Mirk hadn''t been listening closely. "With all this glass everywhere, you''d at least think they''d open one of the windows to let a breeze through. I''m sure none of the men would admit it, but they must be as warm as we are with all those extra layers."


    "A bit of air would be nice," Mirk said, nodding agreeably and fixing the best smile he could muster on his face. "And it''s not raining. At least not yet. A very dreary day, though." He stared up through the latticed glass, watching the clouds creep and sulk overhead. "I''d been hoping for better weather. It''s always terribly gray in England."


    "Another reason for you to quit and come back to us," Yvette needled him, as she flicked open her fan. "You''re not thinking of marrying one of those awful Englishwomen, are you? If you aren''t, you''d better start thinking of at least spending the spring season down here. Otherwise you''ll be stuck with the dregs when it comes time. And a pleasant man like you deserves someone better.¡±


    Mirk made a polite, inquisitive noise, hoping Yvette might catch the hint and turn the conversation in a different direction. She didn¡¯t.


    ¡°A man of your rank absolutely must have someone better than one of those drippy English girls. Though I am curious to see whether there are any shining lights hiding up there. That one woman you brought with you, the small one, she seemed a decent sort. A bit too serious for my tastes, but Laurent says everyone is too serious for my tastes," she added with a snicker, casting a fond look over at her fianc¨¦. Laurent looked like he was fit to combust, his fists clenched on his knees as he stared dead ahead and waited beside Seigneur Feulaine.


    "You always did like a bit of excitement," Mirk said, matching her laughter.


    "If you''re ever in need of someone with a sense of humor to go with you to one of those English balls, I''d be more than happy to make the right introduction for you. I think that your company would make it worth the trip for anyone, curiosity aside. That is, if you can get me and Laurent an invitation too," Yvette teased, turning her grin back on him.


    "I''ll...euh, consider it."


    Mirk was spared from having to make more polite conversation by the arrival of Seigneur d''Aumont. Rather than entering through the door the rest of them had filtered through, he stepped out of a hallway near the front of the room, looking neither left nor right as mounted the platform the Circle''s high-backed, gilt-laden chairs were arrayed down the length of. As if no one else in the room was worth paying attention to, at least not yet. The golden, ermine-lined train of his robes was as long as he was tall. But he carried the same cane as always, Mirk noticed, the one with the golden falcon''s head and diamond eyes.


    Once he''d taken his seat, the third in from the end, the other members of the Circle went up one by one. In order of long they''d sat on the Circle rather than by age or any other marker of rank. The Comte, the Marquise, Seigneur Rouzet, and finally Seigneur Feulaine. The last chair on the podium, the one reserved for a mage who''d represent one of the guilds frequented by earth elementals, remained empty.


    At a rap of Seigneur d''Aumont''s cane against the floor, everyone in the room rose to their feet. They all bowed and curtseyed to the greatest among them. Then, once everyone was seated again, the meeting began.


    The first matter up for discussion was the empty chair at the end of the podium. Mirk hadn''t made too many inquiries as to who the Circle was thinking of calling upon to replace his grandfather, but he assumed competition would be fierce. There were a great number of guilds that admitted earth mages, ranging from healers to artificers to more combat-minded mages. It made for a lot of jealous Grand Masters who all had their eyes set on the ultimate prize. If Mirk had to hazard a guess, he expected the Circle to give the seat to either the Duc de Saint-Simon, the head of the most military-minded of the earth-aligned guilds, the Briseurs, or Seigneur Francois de Lesseps from the artificers. It''d be the Duc if Seigneur d''Aumont got his way, Mirk supposed, and Seigneur de Lesseps if Rouzet got his.


    Instead, it was neither. Mirk hadn''t been paying attention to the speech going on at the front of the room, each member of the Circle saying their own agreed upon part of it. He''d been watching the wedge of the hall delegated to the earth mages instead. It was larger than the rest, owing to the number of guilds sheltered under the guiding hand of the combat-focused earth mages¡¯ guilds.


    Mirk hadn''t been watching any of the Grand Masters in specific. He''d let his physical eyes go unfocused, watching the proceedings with his mind¡¯s eye over the edge of the shields he''d built thick around himself in preparation for his confrontation with the Montignys. All of the Grand Masters had their own shields, of course, too thick for an empath to pierce, even if none of the Grand Masters were empaths themselves. Mirk listed and watched for the emotions of the men around them instead. The Briseurs seemed confident, but so did the artificers. And the rest of the lesser guilds mostly just seemed worried, preoccupied by what the advance of either of the pair would mean for the standing of their own organization. Especially the few empaths within the wedge, sitting near the back with the healing guilds. Their minds were warmer, but also more concerned than those of the others.


    Mirk only just registered Seigneur Feulaine''s words as he spoke them, the mental outcry over the Circle''s decision overshadowing Seigneur Feulaine''s soft-spoken acknowledgement of the Casse-pierres and its Grand Master, Seigneur Flaubert Masson. Though the Seigneur was a serious sort, as steady as his element, his hair close-cropped and expression grave just like the busts of Caesar he collected, his son Rory wasn''t. The young mage Mirk had grown up visiting and playing with had to check an open-mouthed gape as his father rose from the seat in front of him and waited for Seigneur Feulaine to descend the platform and lead him up to the open seat. But Rory''s shock was soon lost in the confusion of the others, an audible murmur rising from all in attendance.


    Including Yvette Feulaine, who leaned forward to peek around the other ladies in their row and wave with her fan at Rory''s wife D¨¦sir¨¦e down at the far end. "Congratulations, D¨¦sir¨¦e! Oh, I''m so happy for you!" Yvette gushed. A bit too loudly, considering the cross looks shot her way by the other ladies. D¨¦sir¨¦e only nodded, her expression still as measured as that of her father-in-law''s as Seigneur Feulaine escorted him up onto the platform. But Mirk thought he spied a hint of satisfaction playing around the corners of her mouth.


    The newest member of the Circle would at least keep his remarks brief, Mirk was certain. To the point, without any gloating or grandstanding. Seigneur Masson scanned the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood before his chair. He was an interesting choice, to be sure. Seigneur Masson was of the same generation as Seigneurs Rouzet and Feulaine. A bit older than both of them, but not by more than three or four decades. And a great deal younger than the other members. Mirk wondered what Seigneur Rouzet had offered Seigneur d''Aumont to help make his case for choosing Seigneur Masson over the two elder Grand Masters within the earth contingent.


    "My thanks to you all," Seigneur Masson said, with a bow first to the crowd, and then to the other members of the Circle. "I will serve the realm to the best of my ability. With honor and honesty. And with respect to the legacy of my predecessor, Seigneur Jean-Luc d''Avignon. I hope to also one day forge a better future for us all."


    At the mention of his grandfather''s name, Mirk had to fight not to slump down in his seat to hide himself among the women. Luckily, everyone was still too shocked by the unexpected choice to be paying him much heed. That changed the second Seigneur Masson sat and Seigneur Rouzet rose, while the assembled mages clapped the last of their approval.


    "Speaking of the legacy of the late Seigneur d''Avignon," Seigneur Rouzet said, grinning down at the crowd as he waited for them to settle. "Before we move on to more mundane business, the Circle would also like to pay its respects to our former member. And offer an apology for the tragedy that struck both him and his house. If the present Seigneur could come up...?"


    Mirk hadn''t been expecting to be called on so soon. He thought the apology would have been an afterthought, something tacked on to the tail end of the meeting, when everyone was preoccupied with leaving and discussing what had transpired with their friends. That would have been the sensible choice, both owing to his family''s lack of remaining influence and to spare the Montignys any further humiliation. It took a violent nudge in the side from Yvette to spur Mirk up out of his chair and onto his feet. He squared his shoulders and made his way down the aisle to the front of the room, neither too slow nor too quick, making an effort to keep his expression open and pleasant and not to lean too hard on his grandfather''s staff. Its wood was cold underneath his fingers.


    He stopped in front of the platform, before Seigneur Rouzet, and performed the lowest bow he could think of. "I am at your service, Seigneurs. Comte. Marquise," he said, having to strain to speak loud enough to be heard. There weren''t any amplification charms on the floor; those were only up on the platform proper.


    "As we are at yours, Seigneur d''Avignon," Rouzet replied, returning his bow. There was a certain edge in the dark mage''s tone that Mirk didn''t like. One of mingled triumph and amusement. "Please, come all the way up."


    It was all Mirk could do to not either turn around and run or call on the power of his grandfather''s staff to open a chasm in the floorboards that would swallow him up. The apology had been talked about at the private meeting like an offhand thing, something of no real importance, a mere formality. Surely, a formality didn''t necessitate him coming up on the platform itself? He was no Grand Master, not even a journeyman.


    Mirk forced himself to circle around to the side of the platform and ascend the three short steps nevertheless, crossing it until he was beside Seigneur Rouzet at its middle. The seigneur reached up the sleeve of his robes and drew out a scroll of mage parchment, which he presented to Mirk with a flourish. "No representative from the demonic realm was able to attend today, unfortunately. But I was given this to pass along to you. With regards from the Lady of House Rose."


    His body took the scroll. But Mirk¡¯s mind had already left.


    It was as he was in two places at once, half of him still smiling and bowing and murmuring his thanks atop the platform at the head of the grand meeting hall that hundreds of mages had toiled over for years, while the other half of him vanished into the ether to escape the horror of what had just been pressed into his hand. With regards from the Lady of House Rose. Mirk''s head was filled with a static that made listening to Seigneur Rouzet impossible. A sound like the clouds looming over the glass dome had surrendered to the inevitable, just like he had, and a drizzle had begun to fall.


    With regards from the Lady of House Rose.


    What regards could she possibly have to send to him? What more could she ask from him that she hadn''t already stolen?


    He hadn''t even known her name. Not until after. And it had never felt, either when it had happened, or during the brief, dark moments where Mirk found himself incapable of avoiding the memories, like she''d ever bothered to learn his. He wondered who the message clenched in his fist would be addressed to. Him? Jean-Luc? No one?


    For a moment, Mirk thought he''d lost himself entirely. The rage was back. Hot and choking. Then Mirk realized that there wasn''t any lust forced along with it, detached from any kindness or affection and wielded as a tool meant to pry what was needed from him. Mirk blinked hard and found the Montigny men arrayed before him on the floor below the platform, all of their heads lowered in a bow that he needed to respond to. The rage was percolating up from all of them. They''d accepted their chastisement and his aid. But they hadn''t forgotten what the Empire had done to them.


    "I...thank you, monsieurs, seigneur," Mirk said, as he fumbled through a bow in return. He only realized as he spoke the word that he didn''t know which of the remaining men of the family actually was the seigneur, now. Maybe the one at the furthest end, the one who the youngest with the thin mustache had dreamed of with such terror. "I promise you all, there''s no bad blood left between us. We''ve all suffered enough. I''m sorry for everything that''s happened. There''s no need for any more pain."


    None of the Montignys, once they''d straightened up and begun to file back to their seats, looked very impressed by his weak apologies. Aside from Laurent. For some reason, rather than sneering at him with disdain or shaking with repressed anger, Laurent was the sole man among the Montignys who side-eyed him with some modicum of grudging respect. Yvette must have truly meant it when she''d said she''d been hard at work on his behalf.


    Once the Montignys were all seated once more, Mirk moved to excuse himself and make good his escape. Yvette would be mad, but he needed to be outside. Needed to feel the cold on his face, needed to go find some out of the way corner to kneel in and touch stone. But, once again, Seigneur Rouzet decided to step forward and disarm him, taking hold of his elbow.


    "Your late grandfather truly was a gift to us all," Seigneur Rouzet said. He must have been referring back to something that''d been said earlier, something that Mirk had missed. "And we hope that you might continue his tradition of service, seigneur. As the Marquise said, the Circle has decided the time has come for us to end our isolation and warring. The Circle invites you, Seigneur d''Avignon, to be one of our official ambassadors."


    "I...euh...pardon, seigneur?" Mirk asked with an undignified cough, as he felt all the blood rush to his face.


    "Along with Madame Masson to the Holy Roman Guilds and the Low Countries, Seigneur Marbot to Spain, and Monsieur Estienne to the Italian states. You, of course, would be tending to our friends to the north. The English. More will come later, but we thought these would be the best places to start."


    It all felt like some kind of ruse. Some trick Seigneur Rouzet was playing on him, to further his embarrassment. But as he spoke each of the names, a figure rose from the crowd, each of them nodding their assent. The whole arrangement must have been discussed ahead of time, either while his mind had been gone or in some letter that had been lost by the Teleporters or the house matron at the dormitory. Mirk followed their lead and nodded, shifting into yet another bow when that alone didn''t seem like quite enough to convey his gratitude. "Yes, of course, seigneur. I''d be honored to serve the Circle however I can."


    "Excellent, well done. We''ll speak soon, Seigneur d''Avignon." Seigneur Rouzet made a subtle waning potency gesture with his free hand, as he gave Mirk''s elbow a reassuring squeeze, leaning closer to him, just for a second. Just long enough for him to whisper a suggestion to him, one that Mirk was thankfully recovered enough to recognize the command in. "Perhaps in the rear hall once the meeting is concluded? As long as you don''t have pressing matters elsewhere."


    Mirk nodded, flashing both Seigneur Rouzet and the other members of the Circle the best smile he could muster. Then, with a final bow, he fled back to the safety of the crowd.


    On the way, he banished the scroll from House Rose to the inside pocket of his justacorps. He''d had enough shocks for one day. Whatever poor excuse for an apology the House Rose demons had to offer him could wait.

 Chapter 69

    Mirk looked up into Jean-Luc''s face and wondered what his grandfather would have done, had he found himself in the same uncomfortable position he''d gotten himself stuck in.


    Thankfully, it hadn''t been Seigneur Rouzet who''d wanted to accost him after the public meeting. Rouzet had been there, of course, drifting among the Grand Masters and other figureheads who''d been invited into the back hall, a smirking, ominous presence that most of the older mages had the sense to avoid but that the younger ones actively sought out. The Marquise was the one who''d insisted on speaking to Mirk again. She''d had time between the private and public meetings to return to her holdings in Marseilles and collect a whole stack of ledgers. Dumping them in Mirk''s arms, she¡¯d made a request that sounded more like an instruction, an order to ask his superiors in the K''maneda if any of the divisions would be able to do guard contracts on any of the caravan and shipping routes outlined in their dusty pages. At least she¡¯d suggested a high price for their services to soften her demand. Mirk had promised to look into it.


    The Marquise had hurried off then. Her attention had been caught by the arrival of the new prospective delegate to the Italian states, and she¡¯d glided over to badger him about the piracy that had compelled her to seek Mirk out in the first place. Which had left him alone in the back hallway, surrounded by mages three times his age and importance, lost on what to do next. Most of him wanted to slip out the side door and get back to the City as soon as possible. But the part of him that his mother had attempted to train up well, to school in matters of social grace and intrigue, said that the opportunity to rub elbows with French magecraft''s best and brightest was not something to be discarded simply because the scroll from House Rose was still burning a hole in his justacorps pocket.


    He had a reputation to rebuild. The question was, of course, whether there was anyone present he could speak with who might help advance his family''s cause. Or at least help him understand why he''d been singled out by the Circle for a post that rightfully belonged to a much more experienced man.


    There weren''t many ladies in the back hall, the Marquise excepted, which left him with few avenues to pursue. As Mirk had scanned the crowd in search of a friendly face, perhaps a young man on the rise who might have also found himself thrust into a position he felt unprepared for, his eyes had fallen on a collection of portraits hung on the inside wall of the hallway. The present members of the Circle, commissioned when they¡¯d first joined, judging by how both the Comte de Coudray and Seigneur d''Aumont had their own hair in them. There was no portrait of Seigneur Masson. The painting of the former representative of the earth elementals, his grandfather, remained.


    He''d never seen his grandfather depicted like that before. All Mirk had ever known of Jean-Luc was the sprightly, wrinkled old man, stout and gnarled with age, who''d greeted him at every family gathering with a wink and some offhand joke about how he looked more and more like his father, that sometime soon he''d sprout wings and fly away from them all. Mirk looked nothing like his father. And he looked nothing like Jean-Luc either, even when he''d been in his prime.


    It was impossible to tell how much his grandfather had shrunk over the centuries, since he stood alone in the portrait. But now Mirk at least knew where his mother and sister had gotten their dark hair from. He had only known his grandfather well after he¡¯d started shaving his head. In the portrait, Jean-Luc''s hair was still jet black, hanging wild and curly about his shoulders in a fashion that was not in line with the shorter, straight cuts favored by the other men of his generation lining the back wall. In contrast with his hair, his clothes were decidedly more plain than those of the Comte or Seigneur d''Aumont. A forest-green doublet with little trimming or ornamentation over a simple tan linen shirt and gray hose. The most notable thing about his attire were his shoes, taller and suited to either riding or rambling rather than padding about a guild hall. That and his smirking grin. And the staff, which Mirk now carried instead of him.


    Jean-Luc had been painted in a dynamic pose, reflecting either his reputation as a man of action or his desire to be perceived as one, unrestrained and unconcerned with finery and propriety. He had the staff flung backward, pointing at some spot on a map of France that only halfway resembled the one Mirk knew. Obviously, this was supposed to mean something significant, though Mirk couldn''t tell what it was. As far as he knew, his grandfather had done nothing of note in Alsace.


    "Jean-Luc always had more enthusiasm than sense. I trust that you will at least remember enough of your schooling to be able to find Avignon on a map, oblate."


    Mirk jumped and whirled around at the sudden voice from behind him, instinct and memory preparing him for a scolding. But though the woman looming behind him was stern, as always, there was no reprimand forthcoming. Only a tight-lipped smile and a nod, her hands still clasped firmly at her waist rather than wielding a crozier that would inevitably be either jabbed at some detail he''d overlooked or used to deliver a gentle rap to his shoulder.


    "Reverend Mother!" Mirk yelped, fumbling to press his hands together and bow to her. Which was difficult, considering he was the one carrying a staff at present, along with all of the Marquise''s ledgers. "My apologies. I didn''t know that you were here. Otherwise I would have come to greet you right away."


    "I was delayed," the Abbess said, her gaze drifting back toward the portrait of Jean-Luc behind him. "Brother Matthieu said the horses were especially disagreeable this morning. Then again, he always says that."


    "I had been meaning to visit, once I found my bearings, I just...things have..."


    "There is no need to explain," the Abbess said, with a single shake of her head. "We are not wholly cut off from the world. I have heard much news of your family''s difficulties."


    Mirk sighed, though he checked himself before he could slump over in chagrin like he usually did when confronted with one of the Abbess''s many opinions. Although seeing her again unannounced was startling, especially in such a gilded milieu, there was something reassuring about her presence. She was the stark inverse of all the finery around them, dressed in the slate gray habit of her order, the Little Sisters of Sainte-Blandine. The only trace of wealth she allowed herself was her crucifix, though even that was plain silver, far smaller and less intricate than those of the other high-ranking members of the clergy he''d spied in passing while at the abbey.


    Though he¡¯d long since grown accustomed to being talked down at by massive half-bloods and full angels, there was still something intimidating about the Abbess peering down her nose at him. She was the tallest woman he''d ever met, his sister excepted. And possibly the strongest, though he only knew that from seeing her get frustrated by the aforementioned Brother Matthieu''s coach and hauling it out of a ditch herself once, single-handed. A heavy habit could hide many secrets. Mirk had always privately wondered whether or not a half-blood lineage was one of them, but he''d had enough sense never to ask.


    But he did muster the courage to ask the Abbess a different question, once he''d regained his bearings. "Why have you come to visit Paris, Reverend Mother? Is something wrong?"


    "No more than customary. A small matter of the Cardinal being tardy with his paperwork. But this has been a perpetual issue with His Eminence."


    He knew full well what the Abbess meant by paperwork. Mirk ducked his head again, thinking fast. "Did the ghosts stop sending the yearly donation? Since I''m here, I can go to their counting house to check..."


    "No need. It''s well in hand. In any case, I would be understanding if a pause was necessary in order for you to put your house back in order. Though perhaps you''ll have more latitude once your uncle stops paying for mercenaries who are no longer needed."


    "Euh...pardon, Reverend Mother?"


    The Abbess sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, as if offering up a silent plea for the Lord to grant her patience. Then she spoke again, her tone sharper than before. "Sister Orsolya."


    One moment, the Abbess was alone before him. The next, a second sister had joined her, stepping out from behind the Abbess as casually as if she''d been there the whole while. Mirk had always assumed Sister Orsolya must have been a teleporting mage of some kind. But now that he was more familiar with Mordecai, a dark mage with a teleporting gift, and much more familiar with demons, Mirk suspected he''d misjudged things.


    Mirk didn''t think Sister Orsolya used the exact same trick to get from place to place as Genesis did ¡ª he hadn''t felt the familiar static brush against his mind in advance of her arrival, nor did the shadow pooled behind the Abbess seem any livelier than normal ¡ª but he thought it must be related. That aside, after working elbow to elbow with Sheila for months, the clues were harder to miss. Her quickness. How her pupils were reduced to pinpoints even in the dim, yellowy light of the meeting hall''s back corridor. There were more, possibly, but the habit she wore hid all of Sister Orsolya''s features other than the graceful moon of her face and her pale, long-fingered hands.


    "At your service, Reverend Mother," Sister Orsolya said, pressing her hands together and dipping her head to the Abbess. There was a familiar warmth in her tone, a trace of good humor that Mirk had always appreciated. Whenever the Abbess was accompanied by Sister Orsolya, the odds of her criticism being too harsh always diminished. Mostly because the Abbess could only manage to focus her annoyance on one person at a time.


    "The situation in Bordeaux has been resolved, yes?"


    Sister Orsolya spread her hands. A book bound in gray leather appeared in them, already open to the page the sister needed. "Oh, yes, Reverend Mother," she said, smiling down at her notes. "No speck of darkness could linger where you''ve stepped, of course. But further measures have been taken to ensure that the matter has been resolved to your satisfaction. No unaccounted for portals have been seen south of the Loire and west of the Rh?ne in months."


    "No record of constructs or thralls arriving on foot or by wing either?"


    "An unregistered pair were sighted two weeks ago near Toulouse, but that was an unrelated incident. Also resolved to your satisfaction, promptly," Sister Orsolya said, turning a page. "Other activities of note...three Imperial angels stopped to rest at Rocamadour on their usual patrol across the realm. The Pyrenees werewolves met for their consecration of the full moon near Saint Engrace two weeks ago, and they''ll be joining their cousins in the Alps shortly for the equinox. And then there''s the matter of the Jordanne gorge..."


    "Another business for another time," the Abbess said tersely.


    "Yes, Reverend Mother." Once dismissed, Sister Orsolya turned her attention toward Mirk, though she didn''t yet close her book. "It''s good to see you well, Seigneur d''Avignon! We''ve all missed you around the abbey, even if you''ve been almost ten years gone. A spot of the Lord''s light in a world gone gray and grave," the sister opined with a wistful sigh. "Though I trust you''ve carried that spirit on to your new home in the north. Much needed, if rumor proves correct. I have quite a few records from the City of Glass, though, and I''ve been wondering¡ª"


    The Abbess touched her crucifix, briefly, to grant her further restraint. "Another time, Sister Orsolya."


    "Yes, yes. Of course, Reverend Mother. At your service, as always."


    "To return to your first question," the Abbess continued. "We also came to speak with the healing guilds. A matter of the transfer of brothers and sisters from our wards to the Paris hospitals. But as you''re here, I do also have a bit of better news to give you, Ob¡ª"


    "Seigneur, technically," Sister Orsolya interjected. "The mage rank supersedes the order''s."


    A vein had begun to tick at the Abbess''s temple. But she didn''t turn to address Sister Orsolya grinning up at her from her side. Always a study in opposites, Mirk thought to himself ¡ª whereas the sister overflowed with good cheer and merriment, more than even her broad frame could hold, the Abbess remained as cold as ice. Strange, how often such people ended up working together. "Seigneur d''Avignon. Brother Pierre was particularly touched by the news of your family''s passing."


    "The Lord bless them," Sister Orsolya added, when the Abbess didn''t immediately.


    Again, the Abbess refused to comment. But she conveyed the blessing with a wave of her hand, an extra display of her goodwill and a signal that she would have come to that point, if only the sister had given her time.


    "Was he? I''ll have to write to him," Mirk said. Brother Pierre was one of the abbey''s empaths who''d helped him when his magic had first started to manifest, spending long hours in adoration of the Eucharist kneeling beside him. It¡¯d been more an exercise in tempering his own emotions and learning to focus himself than a strictly religious devotion.


    "As you''ll remember, he was the one who painted the wedding portrait for your mother on commission from Jean-Luc. And your sister''s debut portrait."


    Mirk glanced back over his shoulder at the portrait of his grandfather. It had to be at least two hundred years old. And Brother Pierre had never struck him as being particularly potent, or a member of the abbey''s only somewhat human contingent, unlike the two sisters before him.


    "That''s his mentor''s doing, Brother Thiou," Sister Orsolya explained. "I do wish he''d come back from the east one of these days...he always told such funny stories...and very pious too, of course," she added, at a particularly cutting look from the Abbess. "Beyond reproach."


    "Since he''s painted your sister and parents before¡ª"


    "The Lord bless them."


    "¡ªhe offered to do another portrait of you four for you to remember them by. Since we''ve learned that all of your family''s mementos were lost in the fire."


    "Fires. Mostly," Sister Orsolya said, eyeballing the staff in Mirk''s hand.


    "I...I don''t know what to say, Reverend Mother," Mirk said, as he shifted the stack of ledgers around in his arms. They were terribly heavy; he wished he''d brought his work bag. Though such a shabby, cast-off item would have certainly been frowned upon by the others who''d attended the meeting. "I''m honored by the offer. If Brother Pierre insists, I wouldn''t say no. It''d be nice to have something to remember them by."


    It was a half-truth, like so many of the things he''d been forced to spit out over the past two days. He did miss his family, but seeing Jean-Luc''s portrait, along with the faces of all the mages he''d grown up among, only ever served to pour salt in the wound. Having his parents and sister look down on him in physical form day in and day out felt like an unbearable weight. Then again, Mirk knew well enough how quickly the years passed. And once time erased their smiles from his memory, there''d be nothing left of them.


    Not to mention the odds weren''t good that Genesis would sacrifice one of his bookcases just so that the commander could have his family staring holes into his back while he worked. But he wouldn''t live with Genesis forever. He needed to think of the future instead of wallowing in the past, even if the portrait would only be yet another reminder of it.Stolen story; please report.


    "It must be terribly lonely up in London," Sister Orsolya said, drawing Mirk up out of his thoughts. "Without friends or a proper church to attend Mass at. Though I suspect a man who''s been blessed with such a pleasant personality must have made a few new friends already. I''ve heard stories about¡ª"


    For once, the Abbess didn''t cut the sister off directly. Instead, her eyes, as gray and as cold as her habit, had locked on someone a few paces behind and to Mirk''s right. "Seigneur d''Aumont. A word, please."


    Again, Mirk had to fight the urge to shrink in on himself. His nerves were quickly nearing their limit. After two days spent among his fellow nobles, he didn''t think he could stand much more politicking and diplomacy. Once he finally managed to escape back to the City, Mirk was determined to shut himself in his bedroom and not come out unless one of his fellow healers or one of the more gregarious members of the Seventh came around to accost him to go to the tavern.


    The Abbess had used the same tone on Seigneur d''Aumont that she had when calling upon Sister Orsolya. And, like the sister, the Grand Master of Le Phare seemed compelled to obey, even if he didn''t seem exactly pleased by the summons. "Reverend Mother," he said, drawing over beside Mirk and bowing to her, though he kept a prudent distance from all of them. "I trust all is well?"


    "As well as can be expected, seigneur," the Abbess replied. "A question for you."


    "I''m at your service, of course."


    "What is the Circle intending on doing with Jean-Luc''s portrait?"


    Seigneur d''Aumont didn''t look back at the portrait on the wall behind him. "To be honest, Reverend Mother, I had not yet given it much thought. The tradition is to transfer the portraits back to the guild the past members represented. But I suppose that will not be possible with Jean-Luc''s."


    Sister Orsolya''s aside was particularly pointed, as she turned a few pages of her book. "The Lord bless him."


    Rather than being perturbed that time, the Abbess nodded. "Indeed. The Lord bless all of the d''Avignons."


    "Of course, yes. A terrible tragedy, bless them."


    "If I may make a suggestion, Seigneur d''Aumont?" Though the seigneur opened his mouth to reply, the Abbess didn''t give him the time to. "As Seigneur d''Avignon has already lost so much, perhaps it would be fitting for him to take possession of it."


    Seigneur d''Aumont didn''t seem enthusiastic about the notion. But he nodded nevertheless. "I will consult with the other members, but I doubt any will protest. They may wish to leave the portrait hanging until Seigneur Masson''s has been completed, however. As is also tradition."


    "There''s no rush, seigneur," Mirk said into the stony silence that fell between the Grand Master and the Abbess, bowing his thanks to him. There was something going on between the two of them, Mirk was sure of it. But he was too exhausted, too weighed down by Jean-Luc''s eyes on his back and the Marquise''s ledgers in his arms and the scroll still tugging at the pocket of his justacorps to make sense of it. He''d have to write a letter to his godmother asking about it. If he could even remember to do that much.


    "I will tell Seigneur Feulaine to write to you on the matter when we next have a Circle matter to discuss,¡± Seigneur d¡¯Aumont said.


    "My thanks," Mirk said, bowing again. "It...really would be a blessing, to me. To have something to remember my grandfather by. He did so much for me. And everyone."


    "Speaking of other matters to discuss," Sister Orsolya cut in, though she kept her attention fixed on the Abbess rather than speaking to Seigneur d''Aumont directly. Apparently her willingness to press the boundaries of polite society only extended so far. "I think, Reverend Mother, since we have the seigneur''s attention, it might be worth speaking about the Jordanne gorge incident, as he has holdings in that region..."


    It was his chance. Before the Abbess and Seigneur d''Aumont set in on each other again, Mirk bowed his apologies and made his excuses before making good his escape. Yvette would surely berate him for it in her next letter, but he didn''t have the strength left to return to the main hall and find her. Better to seek out Seigneur Feulaine in the back hall, give his apologies to him, and beg for another measure of pity along with a way to get back to the City.


    As he turned away from the Abbess and sought out Seigneur Feulaine, Mirk¡¯s eyes fell once more on Jean-Luc''s portrait. For a moment, he stared up into his grandfather''s steady gaze, at his confident, self-satisfied half-smile. The expression of a man who was sure of himself and his place in the world. And who knew how to use the staff he wielded to get what he needed. Even if his grasp of geography wasn''t the best.


    For what felt like the hundredth time since the staff had passed to him, Mirk wished that Jean-Luc had been able to pass a bit of his cunning along with it.


    - - -


    Mirk had restrained himself, at least until he was through the door to the low-born officers'' dormitory. But the hour was late, and he hadn''t managed to escape the guild mages and their noble hangers-on until he was well past his limit. For the past two hours, even the well-hidden emotions of the guildmasters had been pounding at his mental shielding like intruders at the gates, demanding entrance into his addled and weary mind.


    He couldn''t take it any longer. Rather than keeping his composure and gliding up the stairs at a measured pace, he bolted up them like a startled hare, fumbling at the rail. The sack Seigneur Feulaine had found for him to put the Marquise''s ledgers bounced on his shoulder, their sharp corners poking their accusations into his back. Mirk didn''t care. A problem for another day.


    More than anything, he needed a drink.


    His stomach was still cramping from being teleported back, his whole body burning and freezing in turns. Mirk wove his way up the steps, grateful that all of the dormitory''s other residents were either out on contract or at the tavern. If he''d come across someone else as he staggered up to his quarters, the odds were good he''d have plowed straight into them, even if he made a last-ditch effort at avoiding them. Which would have left him with a lot of explaining to do. Both for striking them, and for why someone draped in even the subdued finery he''d retrieved for the public meeting was reeling about like a drunk in the low-born officers'' dormitory.


    As he slogged down the hallway to his quarters, Mirk dug in the pocket of his justacorps for his keys. The outside one, thankfully. He didn''t think he could bear poking at the scroll in his inside pocket in his present condition. Ultimately, it didn''t prove necessary. Before he could pause for more than a moment before his door, it creaked open on its own.


    Mirk froze, his heart skipping a beat before he felt the familiar static brush against his mind. He sighed, pushing the door open and venturing into the darkness within.


    "Can I turn on the magelights, messire? I''m not feeling well enough to do all this in the dark..."


    Rather than responding directly, Genesis waved them on himself. He was entrenched in his sullen armchair, his feet propped up on the equally disgruntled ottoman, book in hand. It was well before when he indulged in his usual soak in the bath, but his hair was still damp. Whatever work the commander had been up to, it must have been too dirty for him to bear to wait. And exhausting enough to make him return to their quarters earlier than usual. Genesis surveyed Mirk with eyes narrowed into slits against the yellowy glow of the magelights, hooking a slender finger between the pages of his book to keep his place.


    "You are...indisposed."


    As soon as he shut the door behind himself, Mirk let the barriers around his mind fall, stopping for just a moment to savor the silence. Aside from the faint, hissing feel of Genesis''s presence. Even though the last two days had been difficult, they hadn''t been so bad that even Genesis''s magic was too much to put up with. It was a kind of not-noise, an anti-presence, something that faded into the background easily because its pitch rarely changed and its frequency hardly wavered. "I just got back from meeting with the Circle. I wish the Teleporters would learn to be more gentle...the Paris portal isn''t so bad, but the journeyman working in London gave me the worst spell paper to get to the gate..."


    "I see."


    Mirk wanted nothing more than to drop all his burdens right where he stood, but he forced himself to be mindful. He pried his stuffy dress shoes off onto the mat, hung his cloak up beside the door instead of casting it aside as an afterthought. Though he unbuttoned his justacorps and waistcoat, he decided not to shed either of them. Spring was well on its way by then, even in London, but it was always chilly up in the dormitories. Something about the magic that''d made them. And certainly all of Genesis''s magic laced around the room on top of it didn''t help things.


    He elected to take his final burden directly to its final destination. Mirk slung the sack full of ledgers off his shoulder as he crossed the room to Genesis''s chair. "These are for you. Sort of. The Marquise is very insistent about me finding someone to do guard work for her ships. I didn''t promise her help, but I did promise that I''d show someone in command her routes. If nothing there is to your liking, I''d be very grateful if you could tell me which other division needs the work the most. And is the least awful."


    Rather than taking the sack from him with his hands, Genesis summoned the shadows to do his work for him. Though they seemed thinner than usual, they still were strong enough to handle the task of unpacking the ledgers from the bag and arranging them in a neat stack on Genesis''s desk. The commander paid them little heed. "I have told you that the...aim of the K''maneda is not to preserve the gains of the nobility."


    "I know. But would it be so terrible to do easy work for once? Methinks the Easterners wouldn''t mind the rest. The other sellswords and guild guards are having trouble with it, but I''m sure Niv would be able to think of something."


    Genesis began to speak, but something made him hold his tongue. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he let them fall open wider. They were focused on him. "You are...shaking."


    Now that there was no one left to judge his posture, to comment behind his back on what it meant about the strength of his will or the dignity of his family, Mirk let himself slump over. Though he did hug himself in an attempt to stop the shaking he hadn''t even realized was there. "It''s been a very long day, messire. Well. Days."


    Judging by his furrowed brow and drawn-together eyebrows, the commander was having trouble discerning what would make two days sitting in parlors and meeting halls difficult. But Mirk didn''t have the strength left to explain, not fully. "I''ll tell you about the parts of it that matter to you later. Methinks it might be better if I just go to sleep. I just..."


    "...you just?"


    There was one burden left weighing on him, one he neither had the will to deal with himself nor the ability to push far enough out of mind for it not to nag at him all night as he fitfully tried to rest. Mirk slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his justacorps and drew out the scroll Lazare Rouzet had passed to him, holding it out to Genesis. "Seigneur Rouzet, the dark mage on the Circle, said this is an apology from House Rose. I...I don''t want to read it. But methinks someone should check to make sure there isn''t anything important in it."


    Delicately, with only the tips of his fingers, Genesis took the scroll from him. Finished with the ledgers, his shadows returned to him and curled around it, just for a moment. Checking for any sort of trap, no doubt. But he used one of his own fingernails to pry the seal off the scroll¡¯s side before unrolling it. Mirk looked away as Genesis read its contents. Even if Genesis''s expressions were confusing, Mirk recognized enough of them by then to tell if the scroll''s contents were even worse than he''d been expecting.


    And he didn''t want to know. He didn''t want to think about House Rose, about his family, about any of it. Least of all did he want to hear some half-hearted apology, one that he could never accept but would still inevitably feel like he should at least nod to, in the Savior''s spirit of forgiveness.


    "It is...a formality, I believe. The language is diplomatic. Although the translation into French is inaccurate."


    Mirk nodded, sneaking a glance back at Genesis. His expression had smoothed, though there was a certain note of coldness to it that Mirk didn''t quite understand. "You can get rid of it, then. Unless you think it''s important to keep. You know I''m not clever enough to understand why..."


    Genesis released the parchment. Before it could float down onto his lap, across his closed book, the shadows devoured it, not leaving even dust behind. "I...may be able to offer some fragmentary explanation from Jean-Luc''s writings now. If this would be of assistance to you."


    Grimacing, Mirk shook his head. "I...maybe later, messire. I know I need to, and I will, I just..."


    He just couldn''t. Mirk couldn''t fathom any explanation for what had happened, nothing that could explain why that needed to be taken from him. When he was forced to think of it, he liked to remember the trials of the ancient martyrs, the ones torn apart by beasts and crushed on the wheel and beheaded. Only their trials had ended with their deaths; they''d been rewarded after all their pain with the peace of being granted the right to sit at the Lord''s side in eternity. His own pain lingered, ruined so many moments that should have been joyful or warm.


    Mirk hadn''t offered himself up for the faith like the martyrs, hadn''t done anything nearly so noble or selfless. He''d only ever existed. But he must have done something, either in the past or future, to make God deem it necessary to put that burden on him. There had to be some lesson in it, some reason, some test he needed to pass. Otherwise there was no making sense of it.


    He could only think of one lesson it might have been meant to teach him. But the thought that all of that had been done to him just so that he''d feel sick at the sight of Genesis rather than be comforted by his presence was even more unbearable than the thought that there was no reason behind it at all.


    "You are upset."


    Mirk looked up again. It wasn''t a question, for once. Genesis seemed to know full well why Mirk had refused his explanation, or at least understood enough not to force him to explain. Rather than staring expectantly at him, the commander shifted over in his chair. It was large enough, and Genesis thin enough, for his hips and midsection to only take up half the cushion if he moved himself flush against its side. "I have...observed that you prefer not to be alone when you are upset," he said, as he picked up his book. "If that is the case in this instance, you are...welcome. The ottoman is another choice. Or the floor. However, you appear...fatigued."


    He hesitated only for a moment. Then exhaustion and confusion and weakness got the better of him and, with a bit lip and a shaky nod, Mirk shoved himself into the gap beside Genesis. Genesis was just thin enough for it not to leave him sitting square in his lap, like some sort of whining child who was looking to feel better after being scolded. Not that he would have objected to that position either, though he had no doubt that the chair''s cushion was more plush than Genesis''s legs. "I''m sorry, Genesis."


    "There is no need. You''ve made no error. In this instance."


    Mirk coughed up a weak laugh as he swung his legs a bit, eyeing the ottoman Genesis had his feet propped up on. How the commander could stand to go about in bare feet in the cold was a mystery to him. The chair was a hair too tall for his own stockinged feet to rest comfortably on the floor, and the ottoman was even further away. Genesis was more limbs than torso. "I must be doing better than I thought for you to say that, messire."


    Genesis sighed, turning a page in his book as he took up his reading once more. "Errors can only be corrected if you have knowledge of them." He paused as he turned a page. "I will...inform you if you make one."


    It was as good of an invitation as he was ever going to get out of Genesis. Rather than drawing his legs up onto the seat, Mirk pivoted to the side, draping his legs across the commander''s and pressing his face into the side of his chest. As always, his uniform shirt smelled like his cleaning potions, like bitter orange. And the faint smell of his soap lingered beneath it, lilies freshly bloomed.


    Even if Genesis was being more accommodating than usual that night, some things never changed.


    "It is a little cold out here, though," Mirk said, his voice muffled. "I don''t know how you can stand it..."


    A moment later, a weight fell over Mirk''s lap, and he turned his head. One of his own careworn quilts had appeared, still neatly folded from when Genesis must have made up the bed. Laughing again, Mirk shook it out over both of them, drawing it up to the level of his own chin and tucking it in on Genesis''s far side. The commander hadn''t asked for it, but Mirk thought he might appreciate the warmth nevertheless, even if he wouldn''t seek it out himself. And Genesis did prefer for things to be as tidy as possible. "Not the self-warming one?" Mirk asked.


    "You are still wearing outside clothes," Genesis offered in explanation, though he didn''t look down at him. "Fire enchantments become...disagreeable after being washed."


    "Oh. Well, I wouldn''t want to ruin it for you. Methinks I''ll never be able to get stitches even like that again. Or else I''ll go blind looking at all the black."


    "Your efforts are appreciated."


    Rather than drawing his arm back, Mirk let it curl around Genesis''s midsection as he settled back in against his chest and closed his eyes. Again, Genesis didn''t protest. Both his heart and his breathing were steady underneath Mirk''s cheek. Inhumanly slow, unwaveringly precise. It made it easier for Mirk to center himself, to swallow down the discomfort left behind from the scroll and the strain of being teleported so far over the span of two days.


    "Thank you, Genesis."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But a moment later, he felt a gentle pressure on the back of his head. He was predictable enough in his own way, Mirk supposed. Genesis could make sense of things, as long as there was a pattern to follow. He''d remembered that he hadn''t protested having his hair stroked the first time they''d ended up in a similar, equally odd position. And that he''d invited it the times that had followed.


    It made Mirk wonder what other patterns Genesis''s uncanny senses and steel-trap memory had picked up on. But he''d had enough dark and confused musings for one day. Instead, Mirk let himself fall asleep, coaxed down into unconsciousness by the feeling of finally, after two days worth of apprehension and strain, being safe.

 Chapter 70

    "Methinks it turned out very well, Comrade Mary. I can hardly tell you''re wearing it."


    She turned in a slow circle in front of the mirror Ilya had stolen for the purpose of that morning''s meeting, frowning as she critiqued the flow and cut of her dress and tugged primly at her bodice. Then she shifted her narrowed gaze to Ilya looming behind the mirror, who was holding it steady as he smiled and nodded at her in encouragement.


    Mary had been skeptical of Mirk''s assurances that he could help her when she''d first visited a few weeks ago. She''d already been to the best artificers and healers in London, and none of the devices they''d cobbled together had helped ease the pain in her back and or decrease the size of the unappealing lump just above her shoulder blades. Some of the devices had a marginal effect, but they were too unsightly for a lady of her fine sensibilities to bear. There was no sense in trading in one deformity for another, she''d told Mirk. Better to accept that God had given her that burden for a good reason.


    The comment had made Mirk''s heart ache for her. As had his familiarity with her husband, a dour mage from the Eleventh who never had a kind word for anyone, his wife included. So he''d enlisted the help of Ilya and a stack of medical grimoires on the spine and had set to work.  Mirk had far more confidence in Ilya''s metalworking skills than he did in his own ability to ease Mary''s suffering, but he''d done his best.


    It was undeniable that Ilya had succeeded in his efforts. What was more difficult was telling whether or not her pain had lessened any, as Mirk couldn¡¯t feel much of anything from her beyond her apprehension at having Ilya in the room with them.


    "It''s a good deal better than what the artificers came up with," she finally conceded, with a final sweep of her hands down the length of her bodice.


    "And it''ll be even less noticeable once winter comes again," Mirk reassured her. "But how is your pain? I don''t want to pry, comrade..."


    Mary let her hands fall to her sides, rolling her shoulders back. Then she paced the room a few times, concentrating hard on making her steps graceful and measured. She still lingered a little long on her right foot, but it was far better than the state she''d been in when she''d first visited, hunched low over a cane that was now lying forgotten on the room''s bed.


    "It''s more bearable than before. But how long will the enchantments last?" Mary asked. "Will I have to come in to have them renewed every week?"


    Ilya shook his head. He propped the mirror against the wall, pulling a spare bit of metal out of his pocket to demonstrate on. Mary had been expecting something much worse from him, judging by the way she''d flinched and clenched her fists at her sides. "It''s special metal," the fighter explained, feeding a spark of his fire magic into it to prove his point. The orange-red glow lingered on it, circled from end to end rather than flaring up fast and then vanishing. "Iron and carbon and copper and one from off-realm. Stronger together, and they make a song circle. Around and around."


    The fighter''s voice had gone vague and dreamy, like it always did when he spoke of his creations, regardless of whether they were made to support a lady''s back or reduce a city wall to rubble. That didn''t improve his first impression with Mary any. But she accepted his explanation with a nod, though Mirk thought that it was Ilya¡¯s demonstration of the metal''s effects that convinced her more than his words.


    "I''d still like you to come back next week so we can check to make sure you''re feeling well," Mirk said. "And keep taking those pain blockers I made up for you and doing your stretches, please. But after that, methinks you won''t have to visit unless you start to feel like it isn''t helping like it should."


    Mary fetched her cloak from the bed, along with her cane. Mirk wondered if she''d be casting aside the heavy wool garment for a lighter one now that spring was on its way and she had less to hide. "Thank you, Seigneur d''Avignon. You have...certainly done much more work to help than the guild mages did. And you, Comrade..."


    Ilya pocketed the bit of metal and bowed in one fluid motion, still smiling to himself. "Ilya Solntskov, your servant, my lady," he said.


    Mirk was absolutely certain Ilya had no interest in Mary beyond her health concerns being a good excuse for him to tinker with metal, but he still dutifully employed K''aekniv''s rules for making a good impression on English ladies. Mirk stifled a laugh with his hand as Mary goggled at Ilya for a moment before turning her attention back toward him.


    "I know of other ladies with conditions similar to mine among the mages," she said. "Would you be willing to see them as well? They aren''t K''maneda, but I believe they''d be willing to pay if you''re willing to do house calls."


    Mirk nodded. "Bien s?r, Comrade Mary. I''d be more than happy to help anyone who needs it. Though methinks it''d be better to make sure the brace holds for you first. I wouldn''t want to disappoint anyone. And they''d be welcome to have their gold back if it doesn''t work for them like it has you, of course."


    This gave Mary pause again, as she fastened the pin on her cloak. "That¡¯s very considerate of you, seigneur."


    "It''s no trouble for me." Mirk paused at the feel of a sudden spark of pain glancing off his shields. It wasn''t coming from inside the room, from Ilya or Mary. It''d snuck past the room''s wards. Mirk went to the door to investigate. "A moment, please, comrade. And it might be better if you drew up your hood, for the time being."


    Bracing himself, Mirk opened the door, just a crack. The pain beyond slapped him like an open palm across his face, making his eyes water. He blinked the wavering away as he ventured further out, just enough to peer around the corner of the doorframe. They had taken Mary up to the fifth floor; it was strange for someone who was in so much pain to be there. Usually anyone suffering that badly had either passed on or had pain blockers poured down their throat by then.


    The reason became clear to Mirk once he''d spotted the source of the pain. It almost made him duck back into the room and lock the door. At the far end of the hall, fumbling with a whole squad''s worth of spell papers, was the tall, spindly mage who was always trailing after Ravensdale. The one Lina had been tasked with seeing to, Richard, the commander of the Eleventh. As Mirk watched, the mage selected a spell-paper at random and ripped it in two. A bolt of lightning ricocheted down the hall before being absorbed by the floor barrier at its far end.


    Richard dropped the ripped halves of the paper in disgust, reeling backward and spitting at them for good measure. There was blood flowing from both his ears, Mirk realized. And a worrying weakness in his legs. "Putain de merde...encule toi-meme..."


    Mirk clapped his hand to his mouth. It was remarkably foul language, coming from a mild-mannered mage. And from a supposedly English one, at that. Worried, Mirk ducked back into the patient room and looked to Ilya.


    "Euh...Ilya? Could you help me out in the hall? It should be just a second, Comrade Mary," Mirk said, doing his best to muster up a smile for her. She seemed as unconvinced by it as she''d been of Ilya''s explanation of how her new brace worked.


    Ilya shrugged, joining him in the doorway. Mirk hadn''t needed to tell him about what was happening, hadn''t needed to project a warning at him. Ilya had been a fighter long enough to have a feel for things. He followed the same process Mirk had of cracking open the door and taking a glance around, though he didn''t feel alarmed by the state Richard was in. It mostly amused him, aside from a tinge of pity. "Big mages can''t take hits," he said to Mirk in explanation, though he kept his voice low so as to not further upset Mary.


    "What do we do with him?" Mirk whispered back. "If he''s hurt his head already, we don''t want to make it worse."


    "Two choices," Ilya said, after studying the mage a minute or two more. The reason for the spell papers was becoming more obvious the longer Richard reeled in circles at the end of the hall. Whatever was wrong with his head was keeping him from reaching his own magical potential, and he''d turned to his stock of spell papers to cover the gap. Unfortunately, he was too addled to make good use of them either. He kept trying and cursing, casting a freezing spell on one wall with one, then putting a crack in another that would undoubtedly give Emir a headache for days before it got repaired. The curses, Mirk couldn''t help but notice, were uniformly in French. "Chokeout, or break his legs."


    Neither prospect sounded appealing. Mirk thought hard as he squinted down the length of the hall. The supply closet was near where Richard was pacing. The dosage on sedatives could be touchy with mages, but it seemed less violent to Mirk. Less uncertain. That and the memory of Genesis choking out the Watch men, one after the other, all without a moment''s hesitation, still haunted him whenever he saw one of their patrols out on the street. It made him feel a little better to know it was common practice among the fighters to use such methods when dealing with a person who''d made themselves a problem, but not by much. "You have a belt, non?"


    Ilya nodded. Mirk looked the fighter over, weighing his thick waist against Richard''s scrawny frame. "If you could restrain him for a minute or two, I could put a potion down his throat instead."


    The fighter frowned over Mirk¡¯s alternative. But he gave up on his more direct solutions with a shrug, cracking his knuckles. "Don''t need a belt. But if he hurts us, he''s going to sleep."


    For the first time in what felt like ages, both of them had a stroke of luck. The next spell paper Richard ripped was one that generated a cloud of blue-black smoke. Without a word between them, Mirk and Ilya moved in to capitalize on the confusion. Mirk drew Jean-Luc''s staff out of his sleeve and tapped it up to quarterstaff length, creeping along the wall the supply closet was set into as Ilya eased along the opposite side, listening and feeling for where Richard was within the haze of smoke rather than relying on his physical sight. As soon as Mirk heard Richard cry out a startled curse, he ran for the closet, fumbling with both its magical and physical locks until he was inside.


    By the time Mirk had found a sedative potion, the smoke out in the hall had settled down to waist level. Only Ilya''s head was visible above it, along with one of Richard''s wrists, his fingers twitching as the mage cried plaintively for his aunt somewhere out of sight beneath the blanket of smoke. All Ilya could do was shrug. "Easy. Some big mages can''t fight either."


    Sighing, Mirk hurried down the hall to them, waving away as much of the smoke as he could with his arm and the staff to get a better sense for what he was dealing with. Richard was face-down on the floor, Ilya kneeling on his arm and back. Not hard enough to crush him, but enough to keep him from flailing around too much. The pain from whatever Ilya was doing to the mage''s wrist was far greater than that of Ilya¡¯s weight on his back.


    Even if Richard''s head was addled, apparently he hated discomfort enough not to try to force his way out of the hold. Mirk knelt down beside him, atop the staff so that Richard couldn''t make a grab for it, and wrangled the mage''s head to one side so that he could get at his mouth. It was hard to do with him still conscious and struggling, but an extra yank on his arm from Ilya did the trick.


    "Methinks I won''t have to get any of it down his throat," Mirk said, as he focused on the potion bottle just long enough to call the cork out of its neck and send it rolling off down the hall. "This is a strong one. And he''s so thin..."


    "Worse than Gen," Ilya confirmed with a nod. "No muscle."


    At least Mirk had a little time to work with now. Mirk sensed that Ilya could hold Richard there all morning if he needed to, as long as the mage couldn''t get at his magic. He was trying, but the best he could summon were a few cold white sparks of light that singed a sprinkling of holes down the front of Ilya''s uniform shirt. If it wasn''t enough to worry him, Mirk trusted that it was nothing to be concerned about. Ilya knew what he was doing.


    And Mirk had learned from dealing with his own fair share of recalcitrant patients how to get one to open their mouth. Mirk flailed the open potion bottle at Ilya and the fighter took it without comment. It was trickier to find the right pressure points on a patient lying face-down, with their head turned to the side, but Ilya had truly meant it when he''d said Richard didn''t have much in the way of strength. Before Mirk could tell Ilya to, he crammed the potion bottle into the mage''s mouth and dumped the contents inside. It took a few anxious, whimpering seconds, but Richard''s body finally went limp.


    "Roll him back over," Mirk said, backing away with a tired sigh. He magicked the staff back down to a manageable length and tucked it away again. Mirk was glad he didn''t have to resort to using it, considering what had happened with Percival. Danu still said she felt off sometimes, like bugs were creeping around her insides. Mirk didn''t know what the staff would have done to someone like Ilya. Or Richard.


    Richard. He wasn''t taking well to the potion ¡ª his breathing had grown shallow, his body wracked with shivers. Mirk felt for the pulse at his neck and found that it had gone slow, too slow for a full-blooded human. He''d need to feed him a bit of his life-giving energy to even things out. Mirk focused down on his slack-jawed face as he drew a tendril of his healing potential from his core, watching for when he''d given him enough.


    While he was staring, Mirk noticed that Richard had a tattoo on the side of his neck, usually covered by the high collar of the shirts he preferred to wear underneath his robes. Its lines were uncertain and faint, worn with time, but still black enough for Mirk to get the general idea of it. A cross, with the words "c''est la vie" above it. Only the last word was misspelled.


    It was all adding up to something troubling. Once Richard had stabilized, Mirk drew his hand away, looking up at Ilya. The mage was distracted by something down the hall. Mary. She''d grown tired of waiting in the room, despite all the commotion beyond, and had donned her cloak and come out to join them. Though she''d pulled the hood of it up to hide her face. "I''m sorry for all the trouble, Comrade Mary," Mirk said as he scrambled back to his feet. "Methinks you should be fine to leave now. He''s...euh..."


    "Worthless," Mary sniffed, pausing beside Richard''s limp body in the middle of the hall. "I have no interest in seeing Charles made commander, but nearly any other officer would be better suited."


    "Euh...is he cruel?" Mirk asked. He didn''t want to come off as if he was pressing her for information, but if Mary was in a complaining mood, he''d take all the gossip he could get.


    "Worse. A coward," Mary said, tugging once more on her bodice before moving off. "Don''t rush yourself sending him back to the division."


    Mirk turned to look back at Ilya, kneeling across from him beside Richard''s body. The fighter shrugged and nodded. "Always runs when he can''t use magic from far away. Gives up right away when you say no. Cries to Ravensdale."This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "Then how did he get made commander?" Even if the commanders were, on the whole, disliked by the fighting men, most of them had needed to earn their position. Either with cunning, or with strength. Neither of which Richard seemed to have a tendency toward.


    "Ravensdale," Ilya repeated, with a tired sigh.


    All of it was very curious. Fortunately, Mirk had a good idea about who he could go to for more information.


    -   -   -


    The bordello wasn''t doing very brisk business that night, unlike every other time Mirk had visited. The spring contracts were in full swing; most of the fighters were off-realm or too exhausted to go out carousing. With the exception of Easterners, who never seemed to be too tired to enjoy themselves. However, Mirk didn''t see or feel any of them hanging around the bordello that night. That or they''d already gone inside to the back rooms.


    The lady at the front told him to stay outside and circle around to the back of the building when he went to the door and asked to speak with Fatima. A curious request ¡ª the buildings just beyond the South Gate were stacked one on top of the other, with very little space left between or behind them for any sort of garden or courtyard. But as Mirk shuffled along the side of the building, the bottom of his robes gathered in one hand and held up to the level of his knees to avoid trailing it in muck, he felt a familiar, staticky presence ahead of him. Faint. Which meant it probably wasn''t Genesis himself, but rather a spell that he''d personally crafted and set.


    It proved to be one of his usual space-altering spells, like the one he used on the common room of their quarters when Mirk gave in to his idle comments about practice being essential and agreed to spar with him. Mirk had always thought that those only worked on the buildings within the walls of the City, on stones that had been suffused with chaotic energy for countless centuries. Apparently, he''d been mistaken.


    At the end of the close between the bordello and the building beside it, Mirk passed through something that felt like the floor barriers in the infirmary. Only the chaotic magic there was thicker, more defensive. Mirk got the distinct impression that he wouldn''t have been able to pass through, had Genesis''s magic not recognized him, somehow. Beyond it was a yard too big for the real gap between the bordello and the building behind it. It was as large as the training hall back in the City, sheltered by a swath of canvas strung up overhead through some intricate system of winches and pullies. Fatima''s contribution to the space, no doubt. And much like the City''s training hall, the yard was full from end to end with laughing and smacking and groans.


    That was where the Easterners had gone. It wasn''t all of them. Mostly the older men, the ones who knew their business well and had survived years worth of contracts. Presently, they were teaching said business to the more enterprising of Fatima''s ladies.


    K''aekniv was leading a whole group of them through a lesson on taking an opponent to the ground, waxing on at them about how it didn''t matter how big or strong a person was, as long as they used what they had to their best advantage. Slava was right there beside him, to caution them against lingering too long after they''d gotten the better of their opponent. Take a shot at stamping on a hand or a neck or the fork of the legs if there was an opportunity, but better to run.


    The ladies were trying the techniques out on each other while they waited their turn at trying to tackle Ilya. None of them seemed particularly intimidated by him. Most were trying to goad K''aekniv into joining the fray. Mirk got the impression that flipping K''aekniv was considered the true test of one''s mettle.


    On the other side of the yard, Pavel was leading a lesson on knifework. He was the same size as most of the fascinated women around him, had the same reach and strength. The Seer wasn''t taking any chances with his students, even if his gift meant that he had a better sense for impending danger than most. He''d donned a set of padded armor that covered all his limbs and chest and had thick gloves on his hands.


    Fatima was at the far end of the yard, beyond a wall of fine netting had been strung up from the canopy. She was overseeing Alice''s training herself, one-on-one. Though an older, buxom woman was sitting nearby, bouncing baby Ella on her lap, cooing at her as she kept her distracted with a careworn stuffed bear that she wiggled just beyond her grasp. Mirk sorted out the purpose of the netting soon enough. She was training Alice on a crossbow, urging her to reload, aim, and fire at a target a good twenty yards away at a blistering pace.


    But Lina was nowhere to be seen.


    Mirk made his way over to Fatima and Alice, giving all the brawling ladies and fighters a wide berth, lest he get drawn into the fray. He called out a greeting, though the only person to nod to him was the older lady looking after Alice''s child. Fatima and Alice were wrapped up in an argument, continually interrupted by Alice pausing to aim and fire.


    "It''s not...supposed to be fast," Alice protested, as she cranked the lever on the top of the crossbow down to pull back its string. There had to be incredible tension on it. It took all of the strength in Alice''s heavily-muscled arms to manage it. "''s why...it''s a crossbow. Gives you time. Read the book and all."


    Alice was a decent shot, though Mirk was glad for the netting. The dummy at the end of the practice area, roughly the height and build of the average djinn, only got caught by the first of any of Alice¡¯s barrages of bolts, the ones she had longer to concentrate on. At least most of the ones that hit ended up near the dummy¡¯s red ring.


    "You have to be prepared for anything," Fatima snapped back. From the looks of things, she wasn''t satisfied at all by Alice''s hard work. She was flipping her cane around her wrist as she leaned her weight against the wall at the rear end of the garden, frowning as Alice levered, loaded, and fired yet again. "We have no idea how much time you''ll actually get. Could be five minutes, could be five seconds."


    The latest bolt came close to the red ring, landing just a hair too low. In a spot that would have shattered the djinn''s collarbone rather than freeing him. Alice let her arms fall limp at her sides, panting as she turned her head toward the rippling canvas above and tried to compose herself. It was still chilly outside at night in London, even within the confines of Genesis''s space-altering spell. Alice''s body was steaming. And not from magic.


    It was as good of a time as any to cut in, Mirk thought. Best to give Alice a reprieve, even if it meant bearing the brunt of Fatima''s ire himself. "Miss...euh, Comrade Fatima?" Mirk called out to her, restraining himself to a half-bow as she shifted her glare over toward him. "May I have a word, please?"


    Grudgingly, Fatima shoved off against the wall and limped over toward him. Though not before jabbing a finger at Alice and telling her not to start slacking off. "What do you want? No one called for a healer. Did someone turn up at the infirmary?"


    "Euh...not exactly," Mirk replied. "I was looking for Lina."


    "Lina?"


    "Comrade Commander Richard came to the infirmary today. She''s the one, euh, working with him now, non?"


    Fatima frowned at his use of the mage''s rank, but nodded nevertheless. "What did that idiot get himself into? Did someone finally get fed up and knife him?"


    "No. I didn''t get the whole story before the healers from the Tenth crowded me out, but methinks he got caught in an ambush. A head injury. He''ll be fine in a few days, methinks, but he had all the sense knocked out of him."


    "Too bad," Fatima said with a snort. "We''d all be better off if that bastard died, Lina too. Girl keeps getting her heart set on idiots," she added, casting a sideways look at K''aekniv, who''d finally given in and let the ladies start practicing on him. A plump girl had come close to putting him on his back, but he just barely managed to save himself with an awkward flap of his wings.


    "Methinks maybe it might be important for a little while that she stays on his good side," Mirk said. "I might have an idea. Did Genesis tell you about the mage who made the djinn''s collars? The one called Erv?"


    "What of it?"


    "My godmother thought that Erv might be short for Herv¨¦, not Irving. Since she thinks that Seigneur d''Aumont, the head of the light mages'' guild in Paris, is the one who''s been...euh, buying and selling the djinn." Mirk felt odd speaking of people in that way, as things to be bought and sold, at the best of times. But it was even worse speaking about it to a woman like Fatima, considering her history and line of work.


    "I remember," Fatima said, her frown deepening. "You think Richard might be the one? But he''s English. From Coventry, Lina said. Knows all the local lowlifes there like cousins, Lina went and checked."


    "Like I said, Comrade Fatima, Richard had a head injury when he was brought in. I caught him talking to himself, and it was all in French." Mirk paused, sighing. He couldn''t help feeling like he was stepping on Lina''s toes somehow, like he was tattling on her. But the djinn¡¯s freedom was at stake. "Hasn''t Lina mentioned the tattoo on his neck? The one of the cross, with the writing?"


    "She said he has a cross tattoo. Some Latin inscription, like God wills it, or something. Richard told her all the kids he hung around with who were working outside the guilds had it. Some half-assed gang."


    "It''s not Latin," Mirk said. "It''s French. Euh, if I translated it...something like that''s life? The sort of thing you say when something bad happens that you can''t do anything about. Which is a little like God wills it, methinks," Mirk added, as Fatima''s eyes narrowed, her frown deepening from one of annoyance into something that looked like genuine anger. Anger so strong that Mirk thought he could feel the barest edge of it, despite the madam''s lack of magic.


    "I told her not to take his word for anything!" Fatima hissed to herself as she dug in the side pocket of her trousers for something. A button, much like the ones she''d given all the healers. She flicked a lever on its side and it started rattling. "If she thinks she''s going to double-cross me, she''s got another thing coming. Bitch can''t even read, apparently..."


    "I''m sure it''s just a misunderstanding," Mirk reassured her, bowing reflexively in an attempt to appease her. But it only made her more angry. "Please, don''t be upset with her."


    "You don''t get to tell me what to do," Fatima growled, hauling her weight all to one side so that she could jab at him with her cane. Luckily, Mirk was just out of range. "Maybe that works on everyone else in your life, but not us."


    "I didn''t mean to be rude, Mi, euh, Comrade Fatima," Mirk said, catching himself before he could bow again. "Methinks that being angry won''t make it any easier for us to find out what''s going on. Miss Lina is the one who Richard trusts. He wouldn''t tell a thing to you or me."


    "There''s ways around that," Fatima said, as she shifted her weight back to her cane.


    Just then, Lina arrived in the yard from the alleyway, wrapped up in the bright red cloak that K''aekniv had given her while they''d been together. Apparently she wasn''t the sort of woman to throw away a gift just because she wasn''t fond of the person who''d given it to her anymore. She skirted around the sparring the same as Mirk had.


    But when she saw the look on Fatima''s face, she abruptly let go of the edges of her cloak, letting her hands fall open at her sides. To show she didn''t have any weapons. The whole front of her fraying gray dress was soaked through. She must have come right from the laundry where she worked when she wasn''t doing business on the side for Fatima. "Is something wrong?" Lina called out to the madam, her expression guarded. Though she was doing her best to shield off her emotions with her weak magic, she wasn''t practiced enough at it to keep an empath from catching the drift of them. Worry. Panic.


    "Your new squeeze has been selling you a line of shit," Fatima said. She took hold of Lina by the arm, pulling her over to a secluded corner of the yard. After waffling for a moment, Mirk pursued them, just fast enough to hear Fatima continue. "Mister High and Mighty over there says Richard is French. What do you know about that?"


    Lina turned on Fatima with narrowed eyes, clutching her cloak around herself once more. "Nothing. I wouldn''t hold out on you, Fatima, you know that."


    "Is that so? Then why''d you sell me that line of shit about the tattoo? It''s not Latin, it''s French. Mirk saw it. And I''m sure he knows how to read better than someone like you."


    Her face going as red as her cloak, Lina glared at Mirk over Fatima''s shoulder. "Richard said it was Latin! I didn''t think he''d lie about something that stupid."


    "He would if he''s trying to hide where he''s from! I swear, if you''re letting yourself get played because you can''t stop yourself from being a climber just like your mother, I''ll¡ª"


    Mirk knew it was likely to make both women mad. And that it didn''t stand much of a chance of working on Fatima. Mirk banished his shields and projected as much calmness and reassurance as he could muster while wedging himself in between the two women, before they could come to blows. It didn''t make either of them any calmer. But at least it redirected their anger at him.


    "Methinks that being angry at each other is only going to make things worse," Mirk said, easing off on the projection and dragging his shields back up. "Maybe starting at the beginning would be better? And let''s not accuse each other of anything. That doesn''t help anyone either."


    "I want the commanders gone as much as you do," Lina said, once it was clear Mirk wasn''t going to budge from in between them. "Do you think I want to slave away in some laundry instead of getting to learn magic? I just didn''t think that little weasel was capable of lying so much. He''s the one who''s a climber. He''s just too spineless to get anywhere on his own."


    Fatima snorted, her eyes narrowing at Lina''s final judgment of Richard''s character. There was more going on there, Mirk felt, some shared history that Mirk couldn''t begin to understand. But there was no time, no point to prying.


    "Well, he played you good," Fatima said with a sigh, taking a step backwards as a counterpoint to her own harsh judgment, propping both hands on the head of her cane and leaning forward against it. "So maybe he''s more capable than you think. Either way, we need to figure out what his angle is. We know Ravensdale''s got him in his pocket, but all he''s ever told you is some rubbish about them being old friends."


    "That''s what I''ve been trying to do!" Lina protested. "But all he ever wants to do is complain about how mean all the other commanders are to him. Got us plenty of dirt on the rest of them, but nothing about him."


    "I don''t trust some nob to do my work for me either," Fatima said, waving a dismissive hand at Mirk, "but he''s got better information than we do on this. We''ve got ins with the English and the Holy Roman guilds, but we''ve got nothing good on the French except for what he''s told us. Long and short of it is, it''s time to put the screws to your precious Dicky. Find out for ourselves."


    Lina both looked and felt crestfallen at the prospect of it, her disappointment pressing against Mirk''s shields as she rubbed the edge of her cloak between her fingers and mulled over her options. "He really is spineless, even if he''s managed to hide his background from us,¡± she finally said. ¡°It shouldn''t take much pressure to get him to crack. He doesn''t have any friends other than Ravensdale. And me. I think he''d give Ravensdale up before he turns on me. Ravensdale''s a beast to him, same as the others, even if Richard''s loyal to him. I''m the only one who''s not."


    "Got to wonder why that is. You''ve got a week. Otherwise I''m cracking him," Fatima said in conclusion, limping back off toward Alice, who''d paused her training to coo at her child through the netting strung between them.


    Mirk went to Lina instead of following after Fatima, offering her a smile of encouragement and an apologetic bow, though he didn''t couple it with any empathic projections. "I didn''t mean to put you in an uncomfortable position, Miss Lina. I didn''t know she''d be so upset. I just thought someone should know. About Richard."


    "Not going after me on behalf of your friends?" she asked, her eyes darting toward K''aekniv, who''d only just withstood another onslaught by a particularly determined lady.


    Adamantly, Mirk shook his head. "That wasn''t a good match. I...well. Methinks I couldn''t ever understand, but I do know how many ladies struggle when their husband''s desires are at odds with their own. And I''ve seen how hard the alternative is, striking out on your own."


    Lina stared at him long and hard. Then she sighed, tossing her hair back over her shoulders as she shook her head. She had to be terribly cold. Her thick curls were as soaked as the front of her dress, though Mirk wasn''t certain if it was with sweat or laundry water. "Richard''s a decent man. He just doubts himself. Takes everyone¡¯s insults to heart. And he''s a baby when it comes to pain, unlike some other meatheads," she added, with another pointed look at K''aekniv, who was now enduring a lady''s attempt at twisting his wrist much like Ilya had Richard''s with gales of laughter. And encouragement to press him harder, assurances that he wouldn''t break.


    "Methinks we might be able to use that to our advantage," Mirk said. "I wasn''t able to stay with him long once the healers from the Tenth got there, but he''ll need to be in the infirmary for at least three days. Maybe now is the best time to press him a little, while he''s not able to use his magic. If you come by at night, methinks I can make sure no one bothers you. And I can see if I can get him moved to one of the shielded rooms. They''re the most comfortable ones, after all."


    At the mention of the shielded room, Lina''s brow furrowed. "You don''t want to crack him, do you?"


    Again, Mirk shook his head. "I much favor convincing people when I can. And I''d be happy to tell you all I know about Seigneur d''Aumont and his dealings."


    Though she still seemed wary, Lina nodded. "I''ll wait to see if he tries to send someone round to get me to visit. Otherwise, we''ll have a go two nights from now. I have off then. Too many girls, not enough work. Since everyone''s off-realm."


    Mirk''s eyes lingered on Lina''s red cloak, on her shivering and the defeated misery she couldn''t keep hidden behind her magic. "Have you had supper yet, Miss Lina? I''d be more than happy to join you at an inn on the way back to the dormitory. Methinks it''d be much nicer to talk this all over somewhere warm."


    She let out a bitter laugh, drawing up the hood of her cloak. "If the nob''s buying, I''ll take what I can get."

 Chapter 71

    "Are you sure about this?" Lina hissed at him as he ushered her past the second floor barrier and up onto third.


    "N''inqui¨¦tez pas, mademoiselle," Mirk murmured at her, craning his neck to see down the length of the main corridor, past the common room and on down the hall to where that night''s cluster of long-term patients were all soundly asleep. There were no aides doing their rounds, no nurses tending to the messy and tedious business of chamber pots and late suppers. It''d taken days of footwork and several subtle handfuls of coin to clear off the ward. Fortunately, all the patients left on the ward that night were low-borns, and so were the nurses and aides who''d been tasked with keeping vigil over them. With the notable exception of Richard.


    "Save the frog-talk for the bastard," Lina grumbled, shifting uncomfortably under her cloak, a borrowed one that was much finer than the red cloak she''d received from K''aekniv. Gray wool, lined with white fox fur. It was a piece from Catherine''s wardrobe that the lady mage had only grudgingly parted with that afternoon. Though the reluctance had left her as soon as Orest had appeared with Dauid''s horses and an offer to lend her one of his furs during that evening¡¯s ride.


    Even if someone unexpected did encounter them out in the hall, no one would think Mirk could be guiding a washerwoman up to a commander''s room underneath a cloak like that. Catherine and Lina were far from the same size, but that didn''t matter. What mattered was that it wouldn''t be out of place at all for Richard to have a noble lady visitor, nor would it be terribly out of character for Mirk to be leading a lady to him, as long as they walked fast. No one important from the Tenth was tending to patients overnight, just like on most nights, save for when one of the divisions packed with high-borns was expected back from a contract. Any passer-by was bound to be low-born and would know to look away and not ask questions at the sight of two high-borns ghosting about the halls.


    Mirk tugged on Lina¡¯s elbow, leading her toward the common room. "Methinks it''d be better if you tried your hand at things first, mademoiselle."


    "What if he doesn''t spill?" Lina asked as he hustled her around the common room table. "Smack him around?"


    "Euh...we''ll see." He''d planned for that too. But he hadn''t shared the details of that part with Lina, in the hope that things wouldn''t come to that.


    The four other patients on the ward that night ¡ª a mage and three fighters, the mage regrowing his skin overnight after suffering magic burns over the entire top half of his body, and the three fighters men who''d been there for weeks, hearing voices and staring off into the middle distance for days at a time, unaccepting and unwanting of comfort ¡ª were all locked up tight in their rooms. Mirk had slipped them all a dose of sedative before heading downstairs to collect Lina just in case.


    Richard''s room was at the very end of the hall, the same one they''d reinforced weeks ago to make sure that Percival didn''t try to escape again. He''d been carted off by a cluster of officers last week, however, and Mirk hadn''t heard a thing about him since. A troubling development, but at least that meant he¡¯d had an especially secure and comfortable room to transfer Richard to that afternoon.


    Mirk paused before Richard¡¯s door, to double-check that no one had followed them up onto the ward. And to catch his breath, and to summon his courage for the grim affair ahead of them both. Lina felt none of the same apprehension he did. Her frustration was a warm weight against his mental shielding, taut and trembling, the same as her arm underneath his hand. There was no sense in delaying things further. Mirk waved down the wards on the room and disengaged the locks, then pressed Lina inside.


    Richard was fast asleep, his arms and legs sprawled out across the whole of the room''s oversized bed, just like he had been when Mirk had checked in on him fifteen minutes ago. It had made it easier to put Percival''s old restraints on his limbs. Mirk had considered sedating him too, just to make sure that he wouldn''t wake up while he was strapping him down, but the one Richard had been given that afternoon to keep him from trying to summon his magic hadn''t yet worn off fully. If they couldn''t wake him once Lina arrived, all Mirk¡¯s frantic planning would have been for naught.


    He''d just waved the wards back into place and locked the door when Lina set in on her work, not needing any encouragement to cross to the room to Richard''s bedside and give him a hard, open-handed smack across the face to wake him. Mirk cringed. "Euh...methinks it''d be better if you kept away from his head, Miss Lina," Mirk said as Richard coughed and struggled back to wakefulness. "He''s still badly hurt there."


    "See if I give a damn," Lina spat. But she restrained herself, settling for taking hold of Richard¡¯s hand and giving the mage a hard pinch on the thin flesh between his forefinger and thumb.


    Richard yelped, the sleep finally clearing from his eyes as he groaned and turned his head toward Lina. "Oy! Linnie!" he yelled, a gap-toothed smile spreading across his face. "Who brought you up? Money bag''s got to be around here somewhere. Ben..."


    The mage moved to slap at his empty pockets, but came up short when he met resistance from the straps around his forearms. Mirk wasn''t sure whether Lina had noticed it, but he''d heard the slip. Richard had made a mistake again in his bleariness, letting a word in his native tongue sneak in among his affected English high-born accent. Though it was only a small one, unnoticeable if one hadn''t been listening closely and been very familiar with the way the French spoke. Another measure of focus returned to Richard''s eyes as he tugged hard on the restraints.


    "I''m not here for your gold, you bastard," Lina hissed, giving him another hard pinch for good measure. Mirk didn¡¯t sense an undue measure of malice in it. Lina had been raised harshly, with smacks and curses sprinkled in alongside genuine love, and didn¡¯t see the harm in doling them out to the deserving herself.


    "Could have fooled me," Richard said, looking back and forth between Lina and the bonds on his limbs. "You want to do something different this time? I''ve never tri¡ª"


    That time, Lina brought her fist down into Richard''s exposed stomach. Not terribly hard, judging by the slackness in Lina''s posture. The mage whimpered and tried to curl in on himself, like someone the size of K''aekniv had drove their fist down into him at full force. But he found himself stuck, completely vulnerable to Lina''s whims. By the feel of Richard¡¯s addled mind against his mental shields, Mirk couldn''t tell whether the vulnerability terrified or excited him. "Wh-what do you¡ª"


    "Information," Lina said, clawing at the clasp of her borrowed cloak and whipping it off so that she could subject Richard to the full force of her anger. Mirk cringed at how she let the fine garment fall to the floor without minding what it might land in, but held his tongue. "You lied to me."


    "I did?" Richard asked with a gulp.


    "This ain''t Latin," she said, seizing on the high collar of the shirt Richard''s subordinates had brought him, ripping it away so that she could jab a finger into the tattoo on its side. Richard whimpered, tears already leaking from the corners of his eyes. "It''s French. C''est la vie," Lina recited, the words coming out strangled and backwards due to the force of her frustration.


    A nervous laugh trickled through Richard''s clenched teeth. "N-no, no it''s not, ho-honey biscuit, I swear, you must be reading the letters wrong, it''s La¡ª"


    The insinuation that she couldn''t read threw Lina into a genuine rage, something much deeper and more wounded than the simmering resentment she felt over being lied to. Lina caught herself an instant before she could smack him across the face again, her rage driving her to punch him in the privates that time instead of the stomach. The mage howled and went pale, useless sparks of his white magic sputtering from his fingertips. "I''m not stupid, you yellow bastard!" Lina bellowed at him over his moaning. "C''est la vie! That''s life! What''ve you got some frog words on your neck for, huh? Thought you were from Coventry."


    "I can explain!" Richard blurted out through his sobs. Mirk tore his eyes away from him just long enough to double-check the wards on the room, to lean his ear against the door. There weren''t any sounds of movement from outside. Though the room''s shadows seemed to inhale and shift inward at the first signs of Richard beginning to crack. Their uncanny motions reassured Mirk more than they worried him. He knew exactly what was going on with those. And knew that if anyone was eavesdropping out in the hall, they''d be managed. Even if he wasn''t fond of their master''s methods.


    "Then talk," Lina spat, one hand still raised as a reminder to Richard about what he had coming if he decided to lie again.


    "I...I didn''t want to lie to you, honey biscuit, I promise," Richard gibbered. "I just didn''t want you to get hurt! This is nasty business, all of it, and I can''t remember every last¡ª"


    "You''d better remember all of it," Lina threatened, clenching her fist. "Or the other frog''s got ways to make you talk," she added, jerking her chin at Mirk still hanging back by the door.


    It was as good of an excuse as any for him to step in and try to quiet tempers a little. Mirk approached the bed, making it a point to leave his hands hanging free at his sides. The mage''s eyes widened and he struggled harder against his restraints. "Oh fuck, no, you...you...I swear, I paid Jean-Luc back for that one time, I didn''t want to scam him, that was..." he trailed off, torn between the dual threats posed by Mirk and Lina.


    Mirk didn''t have the slightest idea what Richard was talking about. But he played along, raising his empty hands to emphasize that he wasn''t a threat, accompanying the gesture with a press of reassurance against Richard''s unshielded mind. Lowering his own shields far enough to do so let in a sliver of the agony Richard was in, pain completely incommensurate with the blows he''d been dealt so far. "Du calme, du calme," Mirk said. "I''m not here for my family. Or for Seigneur d''Aumont," Mirk hazarded, to gauge Richard''s reaction. His head slumped to one side in relief.


    "We''re here about the djinn," Lina said.


    Instantly, the tension returned to him. "Wh-what do you mean?"


    "You know that frog name," Lina said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Richard was so spindly, and the bed so wide, that there was ample room for her, despite all of the mage''s limbs being outspread and strapped down. "Tell us about it, and maybe I''ll think about forgiving you."


    Mirk couldn''t help but be impressed by Lina''s perceptiveness. Despite Fatima''s criticism, he could see why Lina was one of the madam''s best spies. And her change in tack, from open hostility to a tinge of softness, one that wasn''t matched by the anger still pulsing against Mirk¡¯s mental shielding, also helped to ease the tension. Richard started babbling again straight away.


    "Right. All right. You have to know some of it, if you brought him here¡ª"


    "I want you to tell it all. Right from the start."


    Richard complied with a gulp and a nod, his eyes still streaming. "I used to work for d''Aumont, back down in Rocamadour. Running slaves for him from the djinn home realm. I...I never had the money for the guilds, I did work in the underground stealing things for another lord''s racket instead. Lock picking, breaking wards, that kind of thing. When the seigneur caught me trying to make off with one of his djinn, he hired me on to work for him instead of turning me over to the guilds. To make it so no one else could rob a djinn from him, and so that they couldn''t make a run for it themselves either."


    The mage paused, eyeing the room''s shadows. Mirk felt the mage reach reflexively for his magic, to search for unseen observers. But it still didn''t respond to his commands, though more sparks danced among his outstretched fingertips that time than the last. If they''d waited another day to question Richard, their situation would have been much more difficult. Lina poked him in the side, that time gently, to bring his attention back to her. Richard still flinched like he''d been struck despite Lina''s care. "You made their collars?"


    Swallowing hard, Richard nodded. "Me and the seigneur. Worst five months of my life. That cane..." the mage trailed off, a tremor starting along his outspread arms, like he wanted to brace himself against the memory.


    "So you know how to get them off, right?"


    Richard whipped his head back and forth in an adamant no. "He fucked with my head, he did. Wouldn''t let me remember all the parts of the spell. Said I''d get paid back for it, but all I''ve gotten is work and grief and all this non¡ª"


    "The frog fucked with your head?" Lina interrupted. "Or Ra¡ª"


    "No!" Richard yelled, trying to hurl himself up off the bed, though the restraints brought him up short. Again, his eyes darted toward the more shadowy corners of the room. "Don''t say it! He''s always listening!"


    Lina frowned down at him, then turned her narrow-eyed scowl up at Mirk, looking for confirmation. All he could do was shrug. He wasn''t entirely certain whether the rumors of a curse on Ravensdale''s name were genuine or merely rumors the man himself had cultivated, but considering how even Genesis refused to call Ravensdale by his true name, Mirk suspected there had to be some truth behind the tales. "How''d he get mixed up in this?" Lina asked Richard, fixing her eyes back on his tear-streaked face.


    "Joined the crew down in Rocamadour, couple of years after me. Got kicked out of some scam the Rouzets were running, went to the next best thing. Said we should start our own thing, since there was no room to move up in France, what with the guilds being tighter down there than up here. There''s the usual gangs, Black Banner and all, but nothing like the K''maneda."


    "So how''d it play out?"


    "Not too hard. Had to go up here first, to go dig up his uh...son daron," Richard said, sniffling hard. Though Lina hadn''t struck him again, not once he''d begun to pour out all his secrets, some combination of the earlier blows and the stress of the situation was affecting Richard strongly. Or perhaps there was magic involved. Either way, the more he talked, the more distant and frightened his expression grew, eyes and nose both streaming. Lina drew a handkerchief out of the bodice of her dress and dabbed at the mess on his face as she once again looked to Mirk for explanation.


    "His father. Euh, not Richard''s, but..."


    "What did you need the body for?" Lina asked.


    "Some magic...keep the other monster from stealing his slaves...he killed old Jackson, you know. The other one, won''t say a word about him either. Starting to think...I chose the wrong monster..." Again, Richard''s eyes sought out the shadows. Admittedly, he had just cause for alarm that time, though the shadows didn''t loom any higher at his mumbled words.


    "Focus," Lina said, her voice even despite her simmering resentment. She reached out and took hold of Richard''s chin, adjusting the set of his head, so that he couldn''t look anywhere other than at her. "The spell."


    "I don''t remember," Richard said, his tone desperate. "I only messed with the spell me and d''Aumont came up with just enough to keep him from crossing us back. And to make it easier to keep the brutes in line. I can remember those bits better...came up with it all on my own...but the rest, it''s all messed up...putain de merde, he had that fuck Aeli do his head magic on me once we were in the clear...never been right since..."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Aeli?" Mirk asked, looking across the bed at Lina.


    "The old head of the assassins," Lina said. "Your friend killed him last year without asking us."


    "I''ve tried every head mage in England," Richard said, his voice wavering and despondent as more tears leaked from his eyes. "None of ''em can get me right."


    "Methinks I might have something we can try," Mirk murmured, after spending a tense few seconds chewing at his lower lip. He''d been hoping it wouldn''t come to this. But at the very least, his reason to go next door was less grim than the one he''d been anticipating.


    Lina''s eyebrows shot up, some of her anger cleared away, both by curiosity and a growing sense of pity for Richard''s pathetic state. "You think you''re that good of a head mage?"


    Mirk shook his head. "I...one moment. Try to keep him calm, please."


    He returned to the door, lowering his shields and waiting until he felt Richard''s panic and pain start to fade as Lina spoke to him at his bedside. He couldn''t make out her words, but whatever she was doing, it was helping to calm him. As soon as Richard¡¯s emotions dimmed to a manageable level, one that wouldn''t draw any untoward attention if an empath happened to be passing through the ward, Mirk disengaged the wards and slipped back out into the hall. He went to the room beside Richard''s, tapping at the door. Its wards were still firmly in place, and Mirk didn''t feel right waving them back down without permission. A second later, they lowered as the door opened, just a crack.


    Samael. The boy seemed resigned to his fate, his expression cold and impassive. Though that could also mean he was trying to master his apprehension. Most Imperial angels were trained from a young age not to show when they were upset with their faces, but rather with their empathy. Samael''s mind was still closed to him, though, and Mirk didn''t yet know his habits well enough to be able to spot the difference.


    "He won''t talk?" Samael asked. His feathers were lifted slightly, making Mirk think that he might be masking his fear rather than not feeling it at all.


    Mirk shook his head. "No. I haven''t looked at his mind, but he''s saying another angel has already, euh, done something to him."


    The boy''s head tilted to one side as he slipped out into the hall. "Imanael said there was an Impure one in the City. But I haven''t felt anyone."


    "He''s dead."


    Samael''s feathers settled, the tension going out of his wings and shoulders. "If he''s dead and Impure, it won''t be difficult to see."


    Mirk didn''t know exactly what the young angel meant by impure. But he nodded and led him into the next room over nevertheless after taking a quick look around. There was still no sign of anyone stirring out on the ward. Though the shadows down the hall at the end nearer the common room were a bit blacker than normal.


    The instant Richard caught sight of Samael in the doorway, he flew into a fresh panic, pulling harder at his restraints and gibbering for mercy in French as he flailed his head from side to side, looking at anything but the young angel. Mirk hurried Samael into the room, fumbling through getting the wards and locks on the door engaged once more as fast as he could. Rather than being disturbed by Richard''s reaction, Samael seemed bemused.


    "Humans are fragile," he said, his voice tinged with the same coldness that had stolen over him when he''d looked into Percival''s mind. "But this one is glass."


    "Please, please," Richard begged, forcing himself back into something approaching English. "I''ll tell you everything! Everything I remember! Just don''t...not again...s¡¯il vous pla?t, ¨¦pargnez-moi..."


    Lina suddenly looked worried, her anger fading in the face of Samael looming across the bed from her. Mirk often forgot how imposing full-blood angels were to those unaccustomed to them. To Lina, Samael must have looked like a towering man in his prime rather than a young boy who was still showing the signs of poor eating and not enough sunlight. "You''re going to break his mind?"


    Samael cringed at her words, his grimace and raised feathers betraying his youth to her in a way his size couldn''t. "There is nothing to break," Samael said.


    Mirk stepped in to offer an explanation, before the two could misunderstand each other any more. "No, no. Methinks it''d be better if Comrade Samael only looked. I don''t think there''d be any good in forcing things..."


    Before either Lina or Mirk could say anything more, Samael reached out and took hold of Richard''s head, grasping his temples between his ring finger and thumb. Even if he was weakened, he had strength enough to manage a human as spindly as Richard with ease. "Be calm," Samael said as his eyes went distant and turned even colder.


    Richard''s flailing and pleading faded before Samael could finish speaking the words. The young angel''s expression hardened further, one corner of his mouth curling up in scorn. His mind was too thickly shielded, too distant for Mirk to sense whether or not the emotion was genuine. Or who it was directed at. "Yes...this is an Impure''s work. Like a hammer, not a knife..."


    "What does he mean?" Lina hissed at Mirk, reaching to take hold of Richard''s hand. The mage didn''t respond to her touch.


    "It''ll be fine," Mirk reassured her, trying not to let his own worry creep onto his face. There was something different about Samael then, compared to what he''d been like when rifling through Percival''s mind. Both his distance and disdain had deepened. Mirk hoped it was the last angel''s rough work that was drawing the disgust out of him, not whatever he saw inside Richard''s head.


    "He didn''t even take the spell out," Samael muttered. "Just fouled it. Wasteful...thinking only one step ahead..."


    "Can you see any of it?" Mirk asked. When the young angel didn''t respond, Mirk resorted to tugging on the sleeve of his free arm.


    "Only parts. Give me paper. And charcoal."


    Mirk hurried to comply, digging through the pockets of his robes. He hadn''t planned for this, hadn''t brought his bag. But his forgetfulness might also be useful, for once. He''d been wearing that set for the last three days, and he never remembered to empty his pockets at night unless he was sure the robes were going to be missing in the morning. There had to be something to write with in them somewhere.


    But his search was cut short by a ledger made of mage parchment and a stick of charcoal appearing atop Richard''s chest. Samael didn''t question it, picking up the charcoal, and beginning to sketch the outlines of some sort of arcane diagram in the center of the topmost page. Lina shot Mirk an expectant look, her frown deepening. All Mirk could do was give a helpless shrug.


    "Better him than your friend," Lina muttered, her eyes tacking back to Samael. He wasn''t watching what he was writing, still staring off into the middle-distance, his sneer of distaste deeping the longer he sketched. "Maybe."


    Mirk let the matter drop, left with nothing to do but wring his hands and wait for Samael to finish. The young angel filled five full pages, never once looking down at the parchment, not even to check his work. Though Mirk wasn''t trained well in formal magic, the stuff of grimoires and spell circles, all of the figures Samael drew looked incomplete, somehow.


    Even magical figures that hadn''t had potential drawn into them, or that had been left purposefully incomplete so that they wouldn''t accidentally engage, had a certain balance to them, a certain artfulness. Samael''s sketches looked more like what a mortal would scribble down if told to draw what they expected a magician''s spell to look like. Once he was finished, Samael set the charcoal aside, taking Richard''s head between both his hands, finally deigning to look down into his face.


    "He said that the magic''s mucked up his head," Lina said, looking down into Richard''s face along with the young angel. "Can you do anything to help?"


    "No," Samael said, without hesitation. "And there''s no reason for you to care whether he suffers or not."


    Lina tensed, clutching Richard''s hand more fiercely. "What do you mean by that?"


    Samael declined to answer her. "The blow made things worse. His magic will recover. But it will be less powerful than it was before. He doesn''t have the force of will to compensate."


    "Is there anything I can do to help?" Mirk asked Samael, unable to stay silent in the face of Lina''s torn expression. She didn''t trust Samael''s judgment, not entirely. But something in it swayed her conviction, the one she''d repeated again and again to Fatima and anyone who would listen, that Richard was a good man at heart, despite his checkered background and his inability to withstand pain and fear.


    "There is no life in this building worth trading for this one''s." Samael frowned, his eyes narrowing, as if he was peering through a thick haze. "The last one had nothing but conviction. And the will to pursue it. It made his mind easy to break, but kept him living. The conviction fades, but the will remains. This one has no desire but comfort. And he lacks the will to push past pain to reach it. A better mind would have fared better under an Impure''s smashing. Pathetic."


    Lina''s grasp on Richard''s hand weakened, but she didn''t fully let go. Biting his lip, Mirk reached up and shook Samael by the shoulder. When that didn''t work, he resorted to tugging on one of his feathers. A pin feather, half-grown and still tender. Blinking his eyes, Samael took his hands off the sides of Richard''s head. Suddenly, the self-assured, contemptuous air was gone from him, replaced by a look of pain. Confusion. As his eyes wandered across the bed to Lina, he winced.


    "What?" Lina asked. "Think I''m another pathetic human, do you?"


    "I''m sorry, Mae...ah, comrade," the young angel mumbled, looking much more his age then, color rising on the sides of his neck. "It''s hard for me to forget some things."


    Lina didn''t feel appeased by this in the slightest. Samael took a different tack, as he tried to ease the aching out of his head by rubbing at his own temples this time. "If it makes it any better, he does care for you deeply. And your mind is much stronger than his."


    "Seems to be my lot in life to end up with boneheads," Lina muttered to herself.


    "A worthy mind stands alone," Samael said, without any enthusiasm. He pressed harder at the sides of his head, beginning to shiver. "That''s what Lord Imanael always said. But his mind was a nightmare. I''d rather be with the unworthy."


    "You would be...well advised not to give weight to an Imperialist''s definition of worthiness."


    All three of them jumped at the sudden voice from the far corner of the room, behind Samael. Mirk had forgotten all about the lurking shadows in all the half-said drama surrounding Richard''s bedside. Genesis crossed the room to join them, lifting the pad of mage parchment off Richard''s chest, though he took great care not to touch the mage otherwise. Neither Samael nor Lina seemed pleased by the commander''s unannounced arrival.


    If Genesis noticed their discomfort, Samael''s caution or the way Lina hunched over Richard''s prone body, he didn''t comment on it. Instead, he flipped through the diagrams Samael had pulled from Richard''s head, pausing for a long time on the one scrawled over the third page, one that involved a combination of a six point star and some sort of crescent. "These are...incomplete."


    Samael nodded. "The Im...Aeli broke his memories of the spell. These are the only parts that were left behind."


    "It is an...adequate start," Genesis concluded, after studying the pages for a few more tense, silent minutes. "If I could have access to a collar...either from the djinn in the City or from the French slaver...it would be sufficient to understand the best technique for breaking them."


    "You''re never going to get your hands on one of his djinn''s collars," Lina said.


    Genesis nodded. "It would be inadvisable. Which leaves...the rest."


    Both of them shifted, their eyes falling on Mirk. He sighed, joining Samael in rubbing at his own forehead. Even though he couldn''t feel either Samael or Genesis''s emotions, and couldn''t feel much from Richard, lost as he was in sleep, the tension in the room was still oppressive. "I''ll do my best," Mirk said, after a moment. "Methinks I''ll only need a little time to think of something. And maybe some help from you at the end, messire."


    Mirk winced at a flicker of pain from Richard. Whatever spell Samael had used to calm him seemed to be fading. His sleep had turned restless, his hand clenching around Lina''s as he fidgeted against his restraints. "You better scram before he comes to," Lina said.


    For the first time, Genesis seemed to properly take stock of Richard strapped down on the bed. He frowned over it as he slid the pad of mage parchment into the breast pocket of his overcoat. "He is a...liability."


    "I can make him forget," Samael said. He looked sick at the thought of it, his hands dropping from the sides of his own head and balling into fists at his sides. "It''ll make his mind even worse, though. But I''ll be more careful than Aeli was."


    Genesis considered the young angel for a moment, then nodded. "If we are in agreement. The other remaining option would be...removal."


    Though Genesis didn''t offer any further details, they all knew well enough what he meant by removal. Sighing, Lina nodded. "He''s too much of a pushover to let him run around knowing. Mess his head again, whatever. I can deal with it."


    It took Samael much less time to make the mage forget than it had to force him to remember. And required only the touch of two fingers in the middle of the mage''s forehead, which set Richard snoring away as if he''d been put into a deep and dreamless sleep. Expending the magic wore on Samael, however, made him hunch over on himself and made his winglight, already faint in the competing glow the magelight set in the center of the ceiling above them, dwindle to almost nothing. Mirk moved to support him, putting an arm around his midsection, though he was careful to shield his mind as best he could before he touched him. "Should I call Sharael?" Mirk asked him.


    Samael shook his head, drawing his wings in tight against his back, like a makeshift cloak. "Just put me back in the other room. I brought some apples. I...I just want to be alone."


    Although Mirk didn''t question Lina on it, he could tell by the cold expression on her face, the way that she didn''t budge from Richard''s bedside, that she wanted the same."Methinks it''d be better if you left within the half hour, Miss Lina," Mirk said to her, as he helped Samael stumble toward the door. "I''ll be waiting for you in the common room at the end of the hall. And please remember the cloak."


    Lina didn''t have anything else to say to him. Nor did Samael, after he''d shuffled him out of the room and into the one next door, waving up its wards and locking the door for him, since all the young angel had eyes for was bed and the pile of quilts Mirk had brought him earlier in the night in anticipation of such a situation.


    Which left him only with Genesis. Who, for whatever reason, had decided to remain out in the hall instead of vanishing along with his pad full of notes off into the shadows.


    "I''m sorry if that didn''t go the way you were expecting," Mirk said to him with a sigh, tucking his hands into the pockets in his sleeves. The better to keep himself from wringing them, as the commander stared off at the common room and the floor barrier beyond it.


    "There is...no reason to apologize. You did nothing."


    For some reason, the comment stung him rather than granting him relief. Mirk snuck a sideways glance at the door to Richard''s room. The wards on it were impenetrable, even better than the ones on the room that he''d just tucked Samael away in. He couldn''t pick up on any hint of what Richard and Lina were saying to one another, or what Lina was feeling, if Richard hadn''t woken up. "I know that you can¡¯t make everyone happy," Mirk said. "And I know that Richard has done terrible things to the other men and the djinn. I just find it hard to fault Lina for caring for him despite all that. And I feel even worse about Samael."


    Genesis weighed his words, picking at some invisible speck of lint on the sleeve of his overcoat as he thought. "Samael¡¯s magic can be used in¡­several ways. There is no need for him to continue to do as he was taught. If that...is his free choice."


    The fact that they could agree at least on one thing made Mirk feel a little better as he headed down the hall toward the common room, toward its rickety chairs that had been hurled countless times into walls by unruly patients and its temperamental hotplate. A hot cup of tea sounded pleasant. And the measure of brandy he planned to pour in it sounded even better. "I know having someone with magic like his makes all of this easier, but..."


    "Freedom of choice is not a matter that can be compromised on," Genesis said. He matched his pace rather than racing ahead at his usual punishing rate, or hanging behind to continue pondering over his notes and what had just transpired. "I will...endeavor to not place him in such a position in the future."


    "If we hadn''t had him, we might have needed to do something even worse to Richard."


    "Richard made his choice. He chose to deal in the traffic of djinn against their will. Thus...the consequences."


    "I know it''s sentimental of me," Mirk said, going to the hot plate and twisting the knob on its side to activate its heating spell. The careworn device sputtered, throwing off a few sparks, then settled into a steady hum. "But I hate being so unforgiving."


    "This has not escaped my notice."


    As he waited for the hot plate to warm, he turned around to face Genesis once more. He was still keeping an eye on the floor barrier beyond the common room doors. But Mirk got the impression that he was watching him as well, somehow. With some sense that wasn''t so obvious to the naked eye. "I''d invite you to have a cup of tea, messire, but methinks that''d be a bit too risky."


    Genesis nodded, once. "There is...activity on the second floor. No strong mages. Patients."


    "Are you planning on going out tonight yet? Or will you be up still once Lina''s sent back?"


    "The spell requires¡­analysis. I have the necessary grimoires on hand," Genesis said by way of answer.


    "Like I said, I''ll try to think of a way to find a djinn to help. Maybe I''ll have thought of something by the time I get back..."


    "Ensure that no one makes note of you when you leave," Genesis said. Then he was off through the floor barrier ¡ª doubtlessly, rather than passing through down onto second, the commander used it as a way to slip off through the shadows and return to the safety of his quarters.


    Mirk sighed, turning back to the hotplate, rattling the kettle left beside it. At least half-empty. More than enough for a single cup of tea, especially one that was likely to be half brandy, considering his mood. He''d try his best to show restraint, but he didn''t trust himself not to use a heavy hand. Not after that night¡¯s nasty business.


    He didn''t know who his heart hurt for more: Samael, too pained to bear the mild relief of the company of his sister, or Lina, caught in the position of caring for a man no one else saw the good in. Empathizing with both their situations was easy, though he didn''t want to trouble anyone with his own worries. He could always pray on the matter, Mirk supposed, on how to better serve his friends, yet not serve them in the wrong way, the selfish one that had more to do with comforting himself with clasped hands and stroked hair instead of doing any practical good. As of late, praying over his troubles made him feel worse by the end than when he¡¯d first started.


    God had given him His answer. He just refused to listen.

 Chapter 72

    Yet another drizzly London evening had saturated his cloak before he''d gone more than twenty steps past the East Gate. Though the steadier rain that¡¯d just started back in the City hadn''t helped things. Mirk hurried down the narrow close that led to the gate on the London side, clutching his stomach and wishing the churning there was good enough reason to turn back. But neither the weather nor the ache of being transported was a fitting excuse. The djinn''s freedom was on the line.


    It had taken him a full week to cobble together a plan, one that came together through a combination of circumstance and the right connections rather than due to any deliberate effort on his part. Madame Beaumont had been eager to have something meaningful to do, impatient with having to spend more long weeks cooped up in her townhouse, torn between returning to Lyon and remaining in London to support him. Not to mention how glad she''d been to have her fears about Seigneur d''Aumont confirmed. And Seigneur Feulaine had only been doing his due diligence with the Circle when he''d written to tell him that the portrait of Jean-Luc that''d hung in the meeting hall was his for the taking, provided he either paid to have it shipped to London with the Teleporters or came to retrieve it himself.


    Mirk had proposed a third option. One that his godmother had helped come to fruition by mentioning to Seigneur d''Aumont how happy she''d be to have him visit her in London. And how glad she''d be to see Mirk, her only godson, happy. Even if she thought poorly of Jean-Luc.


    The whole scheme was still something of a gamble. There was no telling whether or not Seigneur d''Aumont would decide to bring Er-Izat with him to London along with the painting. But Mirk suspected, considering how Am-Hazek confirmed to him that Seigneur d''Aumont never traveled out of his strongholds without Er-Izat nearby, that he''d find both of them waiting for him at the Teleporters'' hall instead of just d''Aumont and one of his human servants.


    Mirk rushed to the guild hall as fast as the weather and his burning thighs allowed. He was to meet Seigneur d''Aumont at six in the evening. And he suspected the Grand Master would be on time, even if he arrived fashionably late to balls, the same as all the other high-born French mages. By the time Mirk made it to the square in front of the Teleporters'' hall, beside the Artificers'' clocktower at the heart of the quarter, he was wheezing and dripping. He hated to present himself to Seigneur d''Aumont looking like a drowned rat, but it was unavoidable. The wheezing, however, he could do something about.


    Rather than heading straight on into the Teleporters'' hall once he reached the square, Mirk dashed into the alleyway between it and the arcane goods shop on its far side, avoiding the common use portal that was tucked away between it and the Artificers'' hall next door. He braced himself against the wall of the shop, sucking down deep breath after deep breath as he willed his heart to slow, his limbs to loosen and allow for an upright and graceful posture. He didn''t manage to compose himself in time. Before Mirk could draw himself up to his full height and stroll out of the alleyway, the doors to the Teleporters'' hall burst open.


    Er-Izat stumbled out first, struggling to both balance the canvas-wrapped portrait on his shoulder and properly hold the door open ahead of Seigneur d''Aumont. The Grand Master looked none too pleased by the djinn''s efforts. Or by the drizzle and oppressive, foul-smelling London fog waiting for him out in the square. Seigneur d''Aumont adjusted the brim of his tall, wide-brimmed hat to keep the rain off his freshly powdered face and wig, considering his options.


    Mirk froze. Would it be better to run out to meet d¡¯Aumont straight away? Or to see what he could pick up first from afar before leisurely making his entrance? Doubtlessly, Er-Izat would be able to sense his presence nearby if Mirk made use of his magic in any way. But only if Er-Izat had enough spare room left in his mind to focus on anything other than his ill-tempered master. The reflexive shudder that ran down Mirk''s spine at the thought of it ¡ª of Seigneur d''Aumont hidden in some moldering cave, surrounded by bruised and frightened djinn, tallying and kicking at them like so many barrels of brandy ¡ª kept him hidden in the alleyway.


    "That brat should be here by now," d''Aumont said to Er-Izat as he consulted his pocket watch, either not trusting or unable to see the time on the Artificers'' clocktower high above the square. Mirk could only just hear him over the sound of the wind and the rain on the cobbles. But at least the effort of focusing kept Mirk from being sucked down into the memories that the hiss of a gentle rain falling on stone streets always brought to mind. "None of them have ever been on time. Ever."


    "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat murmured, taking up his usual position behind and to the right of the lord, shifting the painting on his broad shoulder. The portrait of Jean-Luc wouldn''t be heavy, not for a djinn of Er-Izat''s size, but it didn''t keep it from being awkward. And the wind blowing hard against it didn¡¯t help any.


    "I told Charlotte I''d be there at seven. How far away is the townhouse?"


    "A half hour at a brisk pace, seigneur," Er-Izat said, ducking his head.


    "I should have brought the coach. I despise this city," d''Aumont said, holding one hand out expectantly to his side. After a bit of juggling and digging in waistcoat pockets, Er-Izat pressed a lace-trimmed handkerchief into it. The lord shook the handkerchief out and held it over his nose and mouth to keep out the bad air, making his voice even harder to hear. "The mages here are just as foul as the mortals. Swine, all of them."


    "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat blandly repeated. The djinn had to be accustomed to this sort of exchange by now, Mirk supposed, though he felt odd hearing Seigneur d''Aumont speak so plainly. Without his usual artful discretion and domineering poise in the way, listening to the Grand Master ramble on about his opinions didn''t make the same fear of making a mistake rise up in Mirk. Instead, it dredged up a different fear. The horror that came with the realization that, underneath his typical cool remove, Seigneur d''Aumont was no less crude and disdainful than the rough high-born K''maneda officers. But d¡¯Aumont had five times their power and influence.


    "Does the boy have a communication rune?" Seigneur d''Aumont asked Er-Izat.


    "I have none recorded for him, seigneur."


    As the pair stood waiting for him out in the square, the rain increased from a drizzle to a steady, soaking downpour. Though he seemed loath to waste his magical potential, d''Aumont spun his eagle-headed cane around his wrist and conjured a shielding spell out of it, a shimmering bubble that kept away the rain and fog. Er-Izat remained exposed to the elements, without even a cloak to keep the rain from saturating his waistcoat and gambeson. The djinn did his best to use his bulky body to shield the painting of Jean-Luc from the elements. Mirk could see a haze of magic around it, something that wavered like heat rising off a ripening field of wheat in mid-summer. Seigneur Feulaine''s work, most likely. Mirk couldn''t imagine Seigneur d''Aumont wasting any of his potential on preserving a portrait of Jean-Luc.


    "I don''t have time for this," Seigneur d''Aumont said crossly as he readjusted his hat once more, annoyed by its weight and how its brim fell down over his line of sight. A concession to Madame Beaumont¡¯s tastes, probably. Hats like that weren¡¯t in fashion among men any more. "Wait for him here. If he doesn¡¯t show within the half hour, you are at liberty to pitch that thing and go about your own business. I¡¯m sure you have the good sense not to get yourself into any trouble."


    A note of alarm stole across Er-Izat''s impassive face. "You do not wish for me to accompany you to Madame Beaumont''s residence, seigneur?"


    "I have nothing to fear from her or any of the English rabble," Seigneur d''Aumont said. "And I''d rather not have that djinn of hers anywhere near you, so keep to the human servants¡¯ places if you decide to go out. That brute has no business being on this realm. Only to be expected when you buy on the cheap. It''s a wonder the animal hasn''t murdered her in her sleep."


    "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat said, ducking his head in deference. Though Mirk could tell the djinn was still concerned by the seigneur''s decision to venture off on his own. It was in the tenseness that pinched his shoulders, the way a glimmer of golden magic raced around the collar encircling his neck.


    "If I''m not back by midnight and you haven''t received further instructions, only then may you come to join me. But hopefully, I¡¯ll have occasion to spend the night. In that case, you¡¯re on your own. Do not return to the house. Otherwise, amuse yourself as you wish. As long as you take care not to sully my name. I am in a charitable mood, Li-Izat. Do not spoil it," Seigneur d¡¯Aumont concluded, adjusting his hat once more with a private smile as he set off across the plaza.


    The djinn¡¯s expression had fallen back into blankness, his mouth not so much as twitching at d¡¯Aumont¡¯s use of the slave kinship title rather Er-Izat¡¯s true one. "Yes, seigneur."


    The Grand Master hurried off, rain cascading off the sides of his shield, making him look like a very concentrated, ambulatory waterfall. Er-Izat remained beside the front doors to the guild hall, watching Seigneur d''Aumont until he was out of sight. Then he returned to trying to sort out the best way to keep the rain off the canvas-wrapped portrait of Jean-Luc.


    It was a depressing sight, one Mirk couldn''t bear to witness a second longer than he needed to. Once he was certain Seigneur d''Aumont wasn''t coming back, Mirk rushed out of the alleyway to Er-Izat''s side, calling out to him. "Monsieur Er-Izat! Monsieur! I''m so sorry I''m late! Please, go back inside! You''ll catch your death of cold!"


    Er-Izat stared down at him for a time, caught between obeying d''Aumont''s orders and the ones Mirk gibbered at him as he approached. When no flicker of magic circled around his collar, the djinn nodded, juggling the painting over into one arm once more so that he could open the door for Mirk. He beat Er-Izat to the chase, holding the door open for him instead. "After you, monsieur," Mirk said, ducking his head reflexively as he stood off to one side to let Er-Izat in ahead of him. "It''s my fault you were left standing out in the rain to begin with."


    Er-Izat elected to go inside rather than debate the matter with him. But Mirk still got the impression that his politeness unnerved the djinn in some way. As if he needed to be careful, needed to be watching for some trap that would be sprung on him the instant he showed the slightest sign of lacking proper deference. Though he felt guilty about it, Mirk hoped that he could use that knowledge to make things easier on the both of them, as far as such a thing was possible.


    "I''m so sorry I''m late," Mirk continued, letting the door fall shut behind them once Er-Izat had wedged the portrait in past the door. "Did I miss Seigneur d''Aumont? Or did he decide not to come?"


    "Master had other business to attend to in London," Er-Izat replied, scanning the empty foyer of the Teleporters'' hall. It was well after when most of the guild mages quit work for the day, the hallway leading back to the guild hall''s lecture rooms and library blocked off with a chain that was without a doubt heavily enchanted. Only a sleepy journeyman teleporting mage remained at the lobby''s scheduling desk, to tend to unexpected mages who had somewhere urgent to go.


    "I hope he didn''t end up late on my account," Mirk said, letting some of his worry escape his mental shielding. "Please do give him my apologies."


    "Yes, seigneur."


    "Is that the portrait?" Mirk asked him, gesturing to the canvas-wrapped parcel Er-Izat had leaned against the wall beside the front doors. "It''s much larger close up. I should have brought one of the infantrymen along with..."


    Mirk had broached the problem with the whole scenario indirectly, but it dawned on Er-Izat then nevertheless, the djinn''s eyes shifting back and forth between Mirk ¡ª slight and soft, without the benefit of overlong limbs or a workman''s grip ¡ª and the portrait. Mirk decided to emphasize the issue by making an attempt at picking the thing up. Though the span of his arms was wide enough to hold the opposite edges of the portrait, it was nearly as tall as he was.


    As Mirk had suspected, the portrait was more awkward than it was heavy, but he still made a show of struggling to keep it up off the ground, craning his neck unsuccessfully from side to side to attempt to see around its edges. "Oh dear...I never have been very good at planning ahead..." Mirk mumbled under his breath, knowing full well Er-Izat would be able to hear him, no matter how low he kept his voice.


    He could no longer see Er-Izat around the painting, but he heard the djinn give a polite cough. "Perhaps levitation magic would help in this situation, seigneur."


    "What a good idea! Let''s see..."


    His failure to keep a firm grasp on the painting with his magic, calling to the oak of its frame in a vague way that sent the portrait hurtling off toward the ceiling, showed well enough to Er-Izat that magic wasn''t going to help them out of the situation either. Mirk glimpsed a flicker of gold magic on Er-Izat''s collar as he used his own magic to call out to the frame and prevent disaster, lowering it back to the floor. Mirk hung his head, not fighting against the heat he felt rising on his cheeks. Even though his incompetence was mostly an act in that rare instance, the way Er-Izat''s eyes widened, as if incredulous that a man of Mirk''s rank and element couldn''t perform a basic levitation spell, still made Mirk feel a bit chagrined.


    "I''m afraid I''ve never been very good at calling to inert materials," Mirk explained with a sigh. "Plants and animals and bodies are best for me."


    "I see, seigneur."


    Mirk propped his hands on his hips as he stared at the portrait. "It''s a half hour''s walk back to the East Gate, and at least twenty more to the dormitory besides. But I suppose there''s nothing else I can do..."


    Er-Izat hesitated, beginning to speak, but cutting himself off before any words could slip past his lips. Lips that were chapped from the cold and wind, Mirk couldn''t help but notice. Mirk would have thought that d''Aumont wouldn''t tolerate such unsightliness on one of his servants. Then again, no one ever looked very hard at djinn, Mirk supposed. And Er-Izat was constantly trying to make himself invisible, save for when d''Aumont called on him to intimidate. "May I suggest making use of the teleporting mages, seigneur?" Er-Izat performed a tidy half-bow, gesturing back at the journeyman mage who''d lapsed into an open-mouthed snore behind the desk.


    "Oh! That''s a better idea, yes. Though that''ll only get me to the gate, I''m afraid. The K''maneda won''t let the guild in on the secret to getting into the City. Basic defense, you know. So I''ll still have to walk through the City itself."


    Er-Izat made a noise of discomfort. He was dripping steadily onto the marble floor, shivering despite his best efforts to stay still, his hair an unsightly black snarl atop his head. Mirk drew a handkerchief out of his sleeve and offered it to the djinn with an encouraging smile. "I wish I had a warming spell to offer you, monsieur, but I''m afraid that''s outside my specialty. Do you not have any fire magic like the other djinn? I only don''t want to see you fall ill on my account. It''d be better if you could dry off a bit."Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    It was phrased as nothing more than an idle suggestion, but it was really a veiled attempt at probing the restrictions carved into Er-Izat''s collar. With the help of a bit more information coaxed out of Richard, Genesis had been able to decipher the basic parameters of the binding magic inscribed into the collar.


    Seigneur d''Aumont had full control, of course. But only when he was paying attention to what was going on with any particular djinn. Out of d''Aumont''s sight, the basic parameters took over. Protect high-born life at all costs. Obey high-born orders. Mirk couldn''t wrap his head around how the magic determined any of that, how it recognized a noble from a low-born, but he''d drifted off midway through Genesis''s lecture on the subject. Something to do with sensing magical potential, with tapping into the djinn''s understanding of the world.


    Er-Izat hesitated once more. But he submitted to Mirk''s suggestion, bowing low to him as he accepted Mirk''s handkerchief and let his fire magic flicker down both their bodies, making the dampness vanish into a cloud of steam. Er-Izat''s fire magic felt different than that of Am-Gulat and Am-Hazek. Stronger, but also tinged with a steady, patient feel. Like a brick of peat left burning in a stove overnight to ward off a persistent chill. "My deepest gratitude, seigneur," Er-Izat said as he used Mirk''s handkerchief to delicately wipe the rain off his collar, the one thing on his body his magic couldn''t reach.


    "Oh, it''s no trouble at all, monsieur." Mirk smiled up at the djinn and took the handkerchief back from him. "And thank you for drying me off.¡±


    While Mirk turned to study the painting once more, he made a point to tuck his hair back behind his ear, revealing a bruise on his temple. Makeup, not genuine. No one had been willing to give him a knock about the head just for show. "I suppose I¡¯ll just have to do my best to get it home myself. I''m sure someone will mug me for it half a dozen times on the way there, but I''ll fight for this. I don''t mind giving my gold and my clothes away, but I don''t have anything else to remember my grandfather by. Other than the staff, I suppose."


    Again, Er-Izat coughed. "You are in danger, seigneur?"


    "Oh, it''s nothing that bad. They never come close to killing me. Just a knock over the head and a broken arm or two, so they can go through my pockets. I wish they''d just ask instead, I''d hand over whatever they''d like. But I suppose even thieves have their pride."


    "I did not know the K''maneda''s City was so dangerous," Er-Izat said, the look of discomfort on his face deepening.


    "I don''t feel like I''m in danger," Mirk reassured him. "It''s only an inconvenience, really. I''ve had five suits ruined since the start of the year from the blood stains. Anyway, let''s go wake up the journeyman, hmm? Better to get it done and over with. God helps those who help themselves, after all."


    Mirk made a move to head over toward the scheduling desk, but Er-Izat shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him with a gesture, though he didn''t touch him outright. "I will help you take the portrait to your residence," he said. Then paused, feeling for any signs of protest from his collar. But its metal remained cold, its edges free from the tell-tale glimmer of d''Aumont''s magic. "If that is acceptable to you, seigneur," Er-Izat finished, bowing to him once more.


    He did his best to look shocked and pleased all at once. "Would you, monsieur? I don''t want to inconvenience you, of course. But it would help me out a great deal. I don''t think anyone would try anything with a man like you beside me. You are very striking, after all, monsieur."


    "I live to serve, seigneur," Er-Izat said as he went to pick up the portrait once more. He hefted it up onto his shoulder without any difficulty, his grip certain and his arms long enough to manage the task with ease.


    "Would you mind walking with me to the gate? You remember how ill teleportation spells make me."


    "As you wish, seigneur."


    They set out at once back into the rain, Mirk holding the door for Er-Izat before the djinn could sidestep past Mirk to do it for him. Although Er-Izat still seemed unsettled by this helpful proclivity of his, Mirk thought the djinn was beginning to resign himself to the fact that Mirk refused most of the small dignities that the other noble mages expected from him.


    Though what opinion Er-Izat held of him due to that strangeness, Mirk hadn''t a clue. No matter how many times he tried to engage the djinn in conversation as they made their way back through the rain to the East Gate, Er-Izat always demurred, every polite question and observation bouncing off him and trailing away into nothing but another distant "yes, seigneur" or "as you wish, seigneur." It was galling. And it made Mirk feel worse about the trap he was luring Er-Izat into.


    Er-Izat¡¯s polite, subdued demeanor shifted once they were past the East Gate. Mirk thought it had to be something to do with his collar, that it was somehow resonating with those of Ravensdale''s djinn just like Am-Hazek''s magic had ever since he''d switched places with Am-Gulat. But he couldn''t see any tell-tale sign of golden magic on the collar once they passed beyond the glow of the mage lanterns hung over the gate and slipped into the characteristic gloom that pooled between the City''s street lamps.


    Mirk had to ask. "Is something wrong, monsieur? Would you like to go back?"


    Er-Izat shook his head. He was standing up straighter now, his shoulders squared, holding the painting with only one arm as the other hung ready at his side. And his head was up, his eyes roving over the hunched-over forms of the other K''maneda scuttling from tavern to tavern and workshop to dormitory. As always, it was colder in the City than it was in London, the rain on the verge of shifting over to sleet. No one was out on the street beside those who absolutely needed to be there. "It is worse than you said, seigneur."


    "Euh...is it?"


    "This place is beneath a man of your station. Seigneur."


    Puzzled, Mirk looked around once more. True, they''d soon passed out of the wealthier area near the East Gate, following the outermost ring road south in the direction of the Easterners'' dormitory, their final destination. But the streets were tidy as ever, free of the usual muck and rubbish that cluttered even the best streets back in the mage quarter. The buildings were a bit ramshackle, true. There were more improvised structures in that part of the City than nearer its center, everything bits of spare wood and metal and a lot of haphazard, make-do brickwork that''d been put up by infantrymen rather than proper masons. Mirk turned his attention back to Er-Izat. In the gloom, he could see a greenish light flickering in his eyes, tinged with the faintest flecks of red and blue. "Is it really that bad? It''s very clean, at least. On the outside, anyway."


    "I am no longer surprised to hear that you have often been robbed here."


    Despite the situation, Mirk chuckled to himself as he hurried onward. He glimpsed a familiar face loitering near one of the cross-streets ahead, but he let his eyes skim past the Easterner as if he paid him no particular note. The infantrymen from the Seventh stationed every few streets along the route were a precautionary measure Genesis had insisted on, in case either Er-Izat became aware of the ruse or a Watch patrol stopped to ask Mirk what he was doing in the City with a djinn of Er-Izat''s stature.


    Judging by Er-Izat''s reaction, how he didn''t seem to know what black-clad figure to glare at first, the Easterners were no more suspicious to him than any of the other men going about their business that evening. "It''s really not so bad. They¡¯re mostly quite kind. I''ve healed many of them by now, and they do show some consideration to those who''ve helped them in the past. The thieves aside."


    "You must take your vows very seriously, seigneur."


    Mirk laughed outright that time. It was the same thing Am-Hazek had said to him when he''d come to visit him in the healers'' dormitory. Mirk doubted the two djinn shared the same opinions on most things ¡ª comfortable surroundings had to be a thing that all djinn cherished. "You''re not going to be very happy with where I''m staying, then, monsieur. But it''s very cozy, in its own way. Everyone''s a family here. Even if they do come to blows over their disagreements."


    They continued on in strained silence for another ten minutes. The uncertainty of their surroundings must have been wearing on Er-Izat; he was losing his perfect control over his stride, and Mirk had to nearly run to keep him from passing on ahead of him. Luckily, Mirk was accustomed to having to struggle to match the pace of outsized half-bloods and non-humans. Mirk gestured him down the side street that the Easterners'' dormitory was at the end of. Er-Izat paused at the intersection, head swiveling back and forth as he studied their surroundings once more. Looking for traps, perhaps.


    But he didn''t spot the one that was actually waiting for him: instead of settling on Slava, who was nursing a bottle on the front steps of a shuttered supply house, his gaze fixed on another infantrymen who was reeling across the street ahead from gutter to gutter with his own bottle in hand, slurring a tipsy tune to himself. A Bavarian, from the sound of things.


    "Should I do something about him, seigneur?"


    Mirk shook his head. "He''s not hurting anyone. The men live a hard enough life as it is. There''s no need to trouble them when they''re trying to relax."


    "Very well, seigneur."


    Still, Er-Izat made it a point to put his giant frame between Mirk and the Bavarian as they walked past him, down to the end of the street. The Easterners'' dormitory was dark, save for the sole mage lantern hung above the door to make sure no one tripped heading up the front steps. The front steps where Pavel was sitting and keeping watch, bundled up underneath a fur he''d borrowed from Ilya, none of him showing but a hand gripping a bottle and his boots. He budged over obligingly to the far edge of the steps as they approached, but didn''t say anything or look up at them. That time, Er-Izat made certain to take point rather than letting Mirk bumble on ahead.


    "It''s really not as bad as it looks," Mirk said. Like K''aekniv and Slava, Er-Izat needed to duck to make it through the doorway. The portrait made things even more difficult. But Er-Izat was unwilling to leave Mirk until both he and the portrait were somewhere safe. Mirk noticed that, just like Genesis, Er-Izat refused to touch the door''s handle bare-handed, flicking out a handkerchief to keep himself free of the dormitory''s filth.


    It really wasn''t as bad as it looked among the Easterners, for once. Genesis had been ghosting around the building the past two days, lacing it with the proper spells and forcing every last Easterner he crossed paths with to recite their part in the plan. The commander had tidied up as he''d woven his web of trap spells. Although the dormitory still wasn''t glamorous, all its common areas, its hallways and vestibule and two common baths, were all spotlessly clean. A handful of the men had seen fit to stop Mirk in the halls as he''d shuttled back and forth from the low-born officers'' dormitory, bringing Genesis the things he needed, sharing that they were glad to have gotten something tangible out of the whole affair. Apparently the matter of who would be responsible for cleaning the baths on a monthly basis was hotly contested. And one that often came to blows.


    "Are your quarters warded, at least, seigneur?" Er-Izat asked, pausing in the vestibule to look back over his shoulder at Mirk.


    "Of course, monsieur. I am still an empath. Without proper wards, I''d never get a minute of sleep. They''re down in the basement, even, so no one can climb in a window."


    "I will check them before I leave," Er-Izat said, turning back around and shuffling grimly off toward the basement steps at the end of the vestibule. Mirk smiled to himself. There was no question in the statement, no pause to either deliberate or make sure Mirk approved. It made him feel guilty about what was coming, but it still cheered him to see Er-Izat revealing a bit more of his personality instead of constantly ducking his head as if waiting for a blow. Perhaps from an eagle-headed cane.


    The basement steps groaned under Er-Izat''s bulk, just like they always did under K''aekniv''s. Mirk''s part in preparing the ruse had been freshening up the usual wards and shields against emotions that he''d placed on K''aekniv''s basement room back when he''d stayed with him during autumn. The better to hide Genesis''s trap spell beneath them, the one that would keep Er-Izat from escaping. It''d often meant working around K''aekniv dozing on the bed, but the half-angel hadn''t complained. He was glad for the company, for how homey having both their magic everywhere made the room feel. A true testament to his sentimentality. To anyone else, being caught in the snarl of Genesis''s magic would probably make them feel like they''d been cursed.


    "Is your door solid and warded as well?" Er-Izat asked, not looking back that time. But Mirk could hear the disapproval in his voice as he sidled down the hallway. The fact that several of the doors along the hall had holes knocked through them in places or were missing their handles had not escaped Er-Izat¡¯s notice.


    "Yes, yes. It''s the one all the way at the end. They gave me the biggest quarters, even, and I don''t have to pay any extra. Isn''t that kind of them?"


    Er-Izat didn''t reply. There was no one hanging around in the basement. Not anyone visible. K''aekniv would be at the end of the hall waiting for them, as long as things were still going to plan, but Genesis had stuffed him into the shadows. K''aekniv had complained that he hated being stuck in the Abyss, but had consented for the good of their plan. There was no hiding K''aekniv otherwise. And no one other than K''aekniv would stand a chance in a physical fight against Er-Izat, except maybe Genesis. The commander had done good work hiding him. Mirk couldn''t detect a trace of the half-angel''s presence.


    Mirk had feared that Er-Izat would hesitate when it came to entering his supposed quarters, that he would drop the portrait and abandon Mirk to his fate. But the djinn''s resolve was unwavering. Instead, he only stepped aside just far enough to let Mirk use the key it''d taken K''aekniv a full three days to find to open the door and disengage the shields and wards he''d put on the room. Then he was muscling past Mirk again, slinging the portrait down off his shoulder once he was in past the door, carrying it more like a shield than the antique it was.


    "It''s really all right, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said as he waved on the room''s sole magelight. It was in dire need of renewing. Which made the gloom inside the room less conspicuous, though Er-Izat still scanned every last corner of it before the tenseness went out of his shoulders. Only once he was certain there was no lingering threat did the djinn stop to consider the appalling sparseness of the room ¡ª although Genesis had cleaned it thoroughly, over K''aekniv''s protests, the bed still looked like it was about to collapse, the dresser jammed in the corner dinged and singed and the walls badly in need of fresh plaster and paint.


    "You live here," Er-Izat said, his tone flat with disbelief.


    "I spend a lot of time at the infirmary, so there''s no need for anything special. But the room will look so much more cheerful with the painting now, don''t you think? I can hang it over that crumbling bit on the wall."


    All the stress of the walk through the City, of subtly disobeying Seigneur d''Aumont and having to be on constant guard against attack, had worn down Er-Izat''s composure far enough to loose his tongue. "Your kin will come to haunt the K¡¯maneda once they hear about this."


    It would have been enough to make Mirk laugh, had K''aekniv not chosen that moment to spring his attack. For such a large man, the half-angel could move quickly when he wanted to, though he still inevitably had trouble moving in deliberate silence. The sound of his feathers brushing against the doorframe flung Er-Izat back into readiness. Mirk threw himself off to one side, taking cover near the dresser and calling the door shut behind K''aekniv as the pair squared off against one another.


    Mirk barely had time to pull the door to before Er-Izat hurled himself at K''aekniv, not bothering to even attempt attacking his body, going for a direct blow to his face with the heel of his palm. The sudden, unexpected appearance of someone even larger than he was had trapped so much of Er-Izat''s attention that he didn''t notice the shadows snaking out from underneath the bed behind him.


    They didn''t move to join the brawl. Instead, as K''aekniv threw up an arm to divert the strike and try to grab hold of Er-Izat, the shadows coiled around Er-Izat''s neck. Not to choke him, but to slip between the collar and his skin, disrupting Er-Izat''s connection to the magic within it. As Genesis''s trap spell engaged in a rush of shadows that crept over the room''s walls and twined around the djinn¡¯s legs, Er-Izat''s hands flew toward the collar.


    "Relax," K''aekniv said, holding his empty hands up in a sign of goodwill. "We''re not here to rob anyone. We want to help."


    Genesis¡¯s voice emanated from one of the room¡¯s darker corners. "Do not...touch the collar. That will make this more difficult."


    Er-Izat ignored both of them, still trying to grab at his collar, though more bands of shadow shot out from under the bed to wrap around his elbows, keeping his hands away from the metal that was now flickering golden as the magic within it tried to engage. He could tell the shadows were hurting Er-Izat by how pale he¡¯d gone, though he refused to cry out in pain. Mirk sighed, knowing full well what he had to do. "Don''t fight it, monsieur. I''ll explain everything. Please stop."


    Er-Izat kept struggling. K''aekniv shrugged at Mirk, gesturing for him to go on. Staggering back to his feet, Mirk made himself say the words, though he cringed at the wavering in his voice. At least he had an excuse to say them in his native tongue, instead of one K''aekniv could understand. Genesis, emerging out of where he''d been hidden back in the shadows, understood everything. Both his own reluctance to speak and the look of anguish on Er-Izat¡¯s face. "I order you to stop, Monsieur Er-Izat."


    There should have been nothing forcing Er-Izat to obey. Not then, not with the spell Genesis had labored on non-stop for the past week separating Er-Izat from the collar''s control. But Er-Izat''s arms fell limply to his sides nevertheless.


    "Yes, seigneur. I submit."

 Chapter 73

    For a moment, everything was silent and still as Er-Izat bore up under the twisting mechanizations of Genesis''s trap spell, refusing to dignify his distress with any sound of pain. Then Mirk rushed to his side, taking his arm and trying to comfort him, despite the harsh order he''d just issued. And that Er-Izat had obeyed, not because he¡¯d been forced to by the magic in his collar, but due to some inner turmoil Mirk could only guess at. Just as the commander had spoken to Er-Izat in English, Mirk spoke back to Genesis in it, to be certain he understood. "Is there any way you can make things easier for him, messire? It looks so painful..."


    Genesis drew a step closer, watching the shadows work at the collar and Er-Izat''s neck with a certain cold blankness that Mirk knew well by then. Genesis was moved by Er-Izat''s suffering, but, much like the djinn himself, found refuge in restraint rather than putting his emotions on full display for all to see. Unlike K''aekniv, who was rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck and struggling to find something more to do with himself now that his part in the plan was finished, his puffed-out feathers further betraying his discomfort. "The spell will be effective for...one hour. It is adequate time to gain the necessary information. The less you resist, the less it will...hurt. To a degree."


    "Why don''t you lie down, monsieur?" Mirk said to Er-Izat, shifting back into French to speak with him. "The bedclothes have just been cleaned, I promise. And I''ll do my best to explain what''s going on."


    Er-Izat obeyed without comment, backing up until his knees hit the edge of K''aekniv''s bed. Then he lay back onto the pair of deflated pillows that Mirk had snatched up to support his head and neck. The shadows weren''t causing Er-Izat''s skin to peel and blister like Am-Hazek''s neck had under the force of the magic on the collars on Ravensdale''s djinn, but they were pressing hard enough to bruise. Though it was hard to distinguish the bruising from the tendrils of darkness creeping between the collar and Er-Izat''s neck. While Mirk was doing his best to make Er-Izat comfortable, Genesis extracted a ledger and a bit of charcoal from his overcoat pocket, scratching out notes on how the collar reacted to his shadows'' prodding.


    "We didn''t want to hurt you, monsieur," Mirk said. K''aekniv slapped on the translation charm pinned to his shirtfront, which Mirk had loaned him in anticipation of this situation. "These aren''t thieves. They''re my friends. We want to help."


    "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat said through teeth gritted against the pain in his neck, his eyes flicking toward Genesis. Mirk was certain Er-Izat must have recognized him from the handful of balls Mirk and his family had bribed the commander into attending. Djinn rarely forgot a face, according to Am-Hazek. And Genesis¡¯s was particularly distinctive.


    Er-Izat''s sideways look didn''t escape Genesis''s notice. He made one of his odd backwards gestures, an upward tilt of his chin when a contrite duck of his head would have been better suited to the situation. "I am in your debt," he said, in English.


    Mirk was certain Er-Izat understood English, but he chose to keep speaking to him in French, just as the djinn continued to choose that language to speak in. He would have opted for djinn, if only he''d known more than a few jumbled, useless words of it. "That''s his way of apologizing, monsieur. The commander feels very strongly about seeing that you and the other djinn no longer are kept in bondage. That''s why we''re doing all of this."


    Genesis¡¯s trap spell snapped tight around Er-Izat''s legs and midsection to keep him from bolting upright. Er-Izat''s restraint crumpled, his greenish magic flickering in his eyes as a glimmer of gold magic circled around the collar underneath the coils of shadow. When he spoke, his voice was rougher, with none of the cool politeness and precision that usually colored his speech. "No! They¡¯ve got my kin. I¡¯m not trading my freedom for theirs."


    "Who does?" Mirk asked, putting a hand on his arm once more and projecting his concern to him, trying to soothe him.


    Er-Izat hesitated. But some combination of desperation and pain forced the words past his chapped lips as his body went slack once more, his deliberate politeness returning to him. "The Ra-Djinn. I became Li-Djinn so that they would not take anyone else from my kinship circle. They needed someone on the human realm to make sure the process went smoothly with the Am-Djinn. I was given to Seigneur d''Aumont with the promise I would keep the Am-Djinn from killing him. And keep his human competitors from doing the same."


    Mirk cast a wary look up at Genesis. The commander didn''t offer him any guidance. He kept scratching away at his ledger, watching and listening in blank-faced silence. "We''re more interested in freeing the Am-Djinn who''ve been enslaved here in the City than doing anything to Seigneur d''Aumont. How did they get here? Did you play some part in that?" Mirk asked.


    Letting out a raspy sigh, Er-Izat shook his head. His hands twitched at his sides, wanting to touch his collar in an attempt to grant himself some relief from all the magic working on him. But he managed to resist the impulse. "Too many Am-Djinn at once. I could not watch all of them while also watching Seigneur d''Aumont''s human slaves. And the seigneur wished for me to guard him personally most times as well."


    "Did the Am-Djinn help themselves be taken?"


    Again, Er-Izat shook his head. "No. But they did not resist either. This is something I knew they would do. Am-Djinn always favor the risk of new pain over the pain they know."


    "They made a shit choice," K''aekniv said with a heavy sigh. He was pacing at the foot end of the bed, still searching for some way to make himself useful and coming up short. Though Mirk could tell from the half-angel''s unguarded emotions that he felt bad about not being able to speak with him in French, he didn''t have Easterners'' vocal translator. And all K''aekniv knew in French was how to ask after wine and companionship. "Or maybe not. You¡¯re a fighting djinn, yes? The one that bastard here has are all thinking djinn."


    "Yes," Er-Izat said, looking up at K''aekniv. He seemed less troubled by the half-angel¡¯s presence than either Mirk¡¯s or Genesis¡¯s. Like there was some unspoken understanding between them, a matter of like recognizing like. Of knowing how things were supposed to go. "The Er-Djinn have always been warriors who serve whichever kinship line is in power."


    "Does that mean your collar is different than the ones on the rest of the djinn d''Aumont deals with?" Mirk asked him.


    "No. An Am-Djinn is more difficult to control than an Er-Djinn. What will bind them will bind me."


    "I...have noticed," Genesis said, pausing in his writing at a pointed clearing of Mirk''s throat. Mirk mouthed the suggestion to try French rather than stubbornly sticking to English at the commander, to put Er-Izat more at ease. For once, Genesis complied, though his words were even more stilted and cold in French than they were in English. "You possess a...great deal of power. But have less precision in the control of your magic than the other djinn I have seen."


    "Yes, monsieur. The Er-Djinn have never been craft djinn. But I am the best at it among my kin. That is why my circle chose me to offer to the Ra-Djinn. A human would say I have mastered my magic better than the rest of my kin. But that is not true. I only favor a less direct way of fighting."


    "Why have the Ra-Djinn chosen to do all of this to the Am-Djinn?" Mirk asked. "Are they at war?"


    "In a sense, seigneur. The Am-Djinn have always been the strongest supporters of the hierarchy. And the largest threat, when they are angered."


    Er-Izat paused for a time to catch his breath. To master his pain. Much like Am-Hazek, Er-Izat appeared to be strongly affected by the touch of Genesis''s chaotic magic, even if it wasn''t deliberately trying to hurt him. His arms twitched constantly at his sides, as if he wanted nothing more than to claw the shadows away. Though Mirk also got the impression that having Genesis''s magic crammed between Er-Izat''s own and Seigneur d''Aumont''s captured in the collar gave him more latitude to speak freely than he usually had. "I have heard rumors of what happened to the Am-Djinn that the Englishman stole. They are not being used in a way that suits their nature. They are dying."


    Genesis nodded. "There was once...more than fifty. Now twenty-two remain."


    Er-Izat winced. But not from the press of the magic coiling around his neck. Again, his polite mask slipped as he was overwhelmed with emotion, one Mirk could neither feel nor read well from his subdued expressions. "That¡¯s more than the Ra-Djinn killed in a hundred years."


    "The...individual...who took them will not stop until they are all dead. He cannot be...reasoned with. This is why we have done this to you, against your will. We must free them."


    K''aekniv nodded, vigorously, as he stopped his pacing and leaned down to clap Er-Izat on the shoulders. Again, Mirk felt like there was some understanding between them, some common point of recognition. All of his own clinging at Er-Izat''s arm hadn''t comforted the djinn any. But K''aekniv''s rough gesture was something Er-Izat recognized. And drew strength from, judging by how his twitching stilled and his expression smoothed. "They need to go home to their people," K''aekniv said. "You too. A man like you, holding doors and dressing some rich bastard like you''re his mama? It''s no good."


    Er-Izat sighed again, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. "They have my kin."


    "Then take them back!" K''aekniv insisted, shaking his shoulders.


    Er-Izat had no response for this. Other than to keep staring upward, his greenish magic circling constantly in his eyes.


    "Do you remember a certain djinn...by the name of Am-Gulat?" Genesis asked into the tense silence.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "Yes," Er-Izat said. "I am not surprised the Englishman took him. He is different from the rest of his kin. The Am-Djinn offered him to the Ra-Djinn instead of the Ra-Djinn taking him." Er-Izat paused, as if he was reluctant to speak his next piece aloud, even with Genesis''s magic keeping his collar from picking up on his words. "He was a threat to the hierarchy. The same as Am-Hazek. But in a different way."


    "You knew Monsieur Am-Hazek?" Mirk asked. "Back when you were at home?"


    "The Ra-Djinn were very concerned about him," Er-Izat said. "Am-Hazek has always served nothing but himself. But he had no ambition, not when he lived among us. I sense that has changed now. That is why I cautioned master not to go alone to Madame Beaumont''s. If the Ra-Djinn knew Am-Hazek has changed his mind...and that he still holds his own soul..." Er-Izat trailed off, brow furrowing.


    "An...important point," Genesis interjected. "Where is your soul?"


    "With master. In the left-hand gem on his cane." Er-Izat made himself focus again, meeting Genesis''s eyes. "Master put the other djinn''s souls in old human bottles. The same ones he keeps his liquor in. The souls of the djinn the Englishmen took should still be in them, since they were missing when the Am-Djinn were discovered to be gone. This is the one mistake master insists on. He won''t waste even your flawed earthly gems on their souls."


    Genesis looked up from his ledger, his eyes narrowing. "You are...implying that if their collars are removed, their souls will return to them?"


    Er-Izat nodded, as much as the collar and the shadows allowed him to. "Yes. If I understand why you have done this to me correctly, you must have other vessels for their souls ready when you free them. A djinn whose soul is loose cannot use their magic well. This will take a great deal of preparation. An Am-Djinn''s soul requires a vessel of very high quality for their magic to connect to it well."


    "Am-Hazek might be able to help," Mirk suggested. "He''s very knowledgeable about all sorts of things. And he must have a vessel that works well for his own soul, considering."


    Er-Izat gave a curt, humorless laugh. "He stole his from the vault of his kinship circle when he ran. A story that became legend. And warning."


    "I had no idea he was so famous," Mirk murmured. It was hard for him to picture Am-Hazek, always clever, but also always polite and considerate, as some sort of cunning rogue, a man of infamy on his home realm.


    "As I said, seigneur. If the Ra-Djinn knew of what Am-Hazek was doing on this realm, I am sure they would have ordered me to kill him by now. And this is not a thing the djinn do to their own, not without very good reason. Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat are the two greatest threats to the hierarchy there is at present. The only ones who show either the desire or the power to reorder it."


    "And what about you, huh?" K''aekniv asked, giving up on pacing and sitting down on the edge of the bed, between Er-Izat and Genesis. "What do you think about all of this?"


    Er-Izat seemed disarmed by the question, but not overly surprised. He sighed once more, closing his eyes. "An Er-Djinn''s opinion is not important, monsieur. The Er-Djinn have always served."


    "We all end up serving something," K''aekniv replied, shrugging his wings. "Even bastards like him," he added, gesturing at Genesis, who had picked up his notetaking once more. Though he paused to shoot K''aekniv a dark look at his words. "The big thing is getting to pick."


    Er-Izat was silent for a long time, the shadows hissing as they drifted lower on his body, pressing lightly against parts of him to check the way that the collar responded to their agitation of his magic. When he opened his eyes and spoke again, his voice was distant. Tired. "I¡¯m no better than Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat. I¡¯ve never served well. I...only want to fight no more and go home. Monsieurs. Seigneur."


    "Don''t waste your fancy names on me," K''aekniv joked, cuffing Er-Izat in the shoulder. "For you? I''m just Niv. We''ll do what we can for you too. You''ve taken too much shit from all these rich bastards already. Here and at home."


    "My kin," Er-Izat insisted. "I won''t give up my kin."


    "This is...beyond what we can do," Genesis said. "However. I believe both Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat may be able to assist you, should they no longer be...constrained. If that is your choice. I will not force you to do anything more than this against your will."


    Er-Izat sighed. The shadows around him had begun to thin, letting his collar, constantly circling with Seigneur d''Aumont''s golden magic, sink down closer to his skin. "I will think about it, monsieur. When the time comes, I know how to speak with them."


    Genesis nodded, slowly. Then he made an arcane gesture at the shadows and the ones around Er-Izat¡¯s legs thinned further, releasing him from their grasp. Still, Er-Izat didn''t seem to have the will to sit up.


    K''aekniv turned toward Genesis, his mingled sympathy and frustration shifting to alarm, the feel of his mind going focused, like before he threw himself into a fight. When he spoke, it was in his native tongue, one that neither Mirk nor Er-Izat understood. Though Mirk couldn''t feel it, he saw the alarm mirrored in Er-Izat''s expression, in the way his mouth drew into a tight line and his own greenish magic flared up in the depths of his dark eyes.


    Mirk reached out to him, clasping his arm and projecting a bit of reassurance. "No one is going to hurt you, monsieur," he said. Though he could feel as little from Genesis as he could from Er-Izat, there was a note of finality the commander¡¯s his tone, conveying an impression that Genesis had made up his mind, that nothing K''aekniv had to say to him would get him to change his approach. And the shadows that trapped Er-Izat in the room were all fading away, unwrapping from around his bulky frame and creeping down off the walls, slinking back under the bed and behind the dresser.


    "You should, seigneur," Er-Izat said, glancing his way. "I can only be honest with you now because the collar isn''t touching me. You have seen how it is. I have been trained to obey. And the collar makes it so that I must, even if I resist. If master should ask me..."


    "Then we will fight him as well," Genesis said, shifting back into French. Though he didn''t offer to explain what he and K''aekniv had been arguing over, Mirk got the impression that K''aekniv shared the same concern as Er-Izat. "One who keeps slaves has made his choice. Thus...the consequences. It is merely a matter of...when he must face them."


    Mirk mulled this over, pulling his hand away from Er-Izat''s arm before he could start fussing with his gambeson. "I don''t think he''ll give you any trouble, monsieur. From what my godmother told me, she plans on keeping his attention focused elsewhere. And...well. I don''t mean to insult you any, Monsieur Er-Izat, but even though Seigneur d''Aumont is cunning, he has the same prejudices as the rest of us. As far as I can feel, you have done good work at being a proper servant in the seigneur''s eyes. And the best servant is one that a lord doesn''t ever need to think twice about. He becomes invisible, in a way. Taken entirely for granted."


    Er-Izat, rather than being offended, relaxed a little, a wry hint of a smile coming onto his face as the shadows began to release his collar. "A djinn would have a different opinion. But you may be right, seigneur. It troubles me that you noticed me. But..." His eyes shifted toward the walls of K''aekniv''s room, their flaking and hopelessly stained plaster. "...I have noticed that you are different from the other human nobles."


    Sighing, Mirk got up from the bed, backing away lest his closeness to Er-Izat trigger some magic in his collar once the shadows fully released it. "I''m not as different as I should be. I''ll walk you back to the Teleporters'' hall."


    K''aekniv got up as well, going to his dresser and pulling out its topmost drawer. "You look too fancy to be walking around the City. Those Watch bastards will be looking harder now that it''s late." He found what he was searching for ¡ª his overcoat, which, though it had been neatly folded and put away rather than left in a heap at his bedside, still smelled strongly of sweat and liquor and gunpowder. A fine dusting of the latter rose off it as K''aekniv tossed it over to Er-Izat, hitting the djinn square in the chest.


    Although the djinn''s nose twitched, he didn''t shove the overcoat away. "I cannot take this from you, Monsieur Niv."


    "Eh, it''s nothing big. Winter''s over now. And this bitch will just want me to get a new one for next year," K''aekniv added, with a pointed leer at Genesis, who missed the exchange entirely, focused as he was on carefully extracting the last of the shadows out from underneath Er-Izat''s collar without causing him any more harm than he already had. "The holes in the back will be weird on you, but it''s dark."


    Now that most of the shadows had receded, Mirk could see the full extent of the bruising they''d left on Er-Izat''s neck. They almost looked like tattoos, dark and deliberate. "Attendez, messire," Mirk said to Genesis, reaching out to settle his hands on Er-Izat''s neck, close to, but never touching the collar. It was difficult feeding his healing potential into Er-Izat with the collar and Genesis''s magic in the way, but, as Mirk had expected, the djinn''s magic responded even better to the touch of his own than either Am-Gulat''s and Am-Hazek''s had.


    Though he wasn''t accustomed to the rhythms of Er-Izat''s body and magic, the damp, earthy parts of it took hold of Mirk''s magic easily, clinging to the order in it as a welcome balm to soothe away the marks Genesis¡¯s chaos had left on his neck. Rather than directing his magic, Mirk let Er-Izat''s potential do what it wanted with his own. A distant ringing filled Mirk''s ears for a moment as the bruises on Er-Izat''s neck faded away.


    Er-Izat''s thick eyebrows twitched up in surprise. "You have healed djinn before, seigneur."


    Mirk nodded. "On a few occasions. How do you feel?"


    The djinn took advantage of his last moments of partial freedom to speak his mind once more. "Tired. But willing."


    As Mirk drew his hands away, Genesis called back the last of his shadows. He waited to check how the magic in Er-Izat''s collar responded to being released before tucking his ledger and charcoal away ¡ª although the golden magic raced around the collar''s edges a few times, it soon faded. And there was no lingering trace of alarm on Er-Izat''s face as it settled back into its usual composure.


    "It is done," Genesis said. Then, stiffly, he performed a gesture that was unfamiliar to Mirk, something between a salute and a sweep of two fingers across his neck, like a knife, speaking something in a language that sounded even more unnatural coming out of him than either English or French.


    Again, a look of surprise flickered across Er-Izat''s sharp features, though it was less pronounced than before. As he sat up, he returned the gesture to Genesis, replying in the same guttural, yet melodic language, full of odd hums and stops. Without saying anything further, Genesis sunk back into the shadows and vanished.


    "What did he say, monsieur?" Mirk asked Er-Izat.


    "He wished for my kin to have good dealings and fine linens," Er-Izat said. "A way of saying goodbye among the djinn. Only my grandmother was old enough to use that expression."


    K''aekniv snorted. "That''s what you get when you learn to talk to people from books." He offered Er-Izat a hand as the djinn moved to get back to his feet. After a moment''s hesitation, Er-Izat took it. Though Mirk got the impression that neither man leaned much on the other as Er-Izat rose off the edge of the bed. "Maybe I''ll see you around, huh? Spit in your master''s drink for me," K''aekniv concluded with a grin. Then he was barging back out into the hall, his wings catching on the doorframe as he went and ripping out clumps of loose feathers, calling out orders to the men of the Seventh who''d been stationed in nearby rooms in case something went wrong.


    Er-Izat busied himself with dusting off K''aekniv''s overcoat before putting it on ¡ª it fit well across the shoulders and in the arms, hanging properly to his knees, but Er-Izat was less thick around the barrel of his chest and in the waist than the half-angel. "You have very strange friends, Seigneur d''Avignon," he said, as he flipped up the overcoat¡¯s collar to hide the iron one around his neck.


    Mirk mustered up a smile and a helpless shrug for him as he gestured toward the door. "You may be right, Monsieur Er-Izat. After you, please. Just this one last time, I promise."


    Sighing, Er-Izat obeyed.

 Chapter 74

    By the time Mirk returned to the City, the rain had stopped and the cold had lifted, leaving its streets full of deep, silent puddles rather than slush and ice. He was glad for it. If the cobbles had been slick, he¡¯d have never made it back to the dormitory without falling on his face a half dozen times. Though the cold west wind had died, Mirk kept himself wrapped up tight in K''aekniv''s old overcoat. He was far too short for it; it dragged through all the puddles. Er-Izat had insisted that he take it back with him when they''d parted ways at the Teleporters'' hall, even if it ended up being fed to the shadows rather than returned to its original owner.


    Mirk found its bulk reassuring, the same as the smells that clung to it. Though it was buried beneath smoke and liquor and sweat, there was the faintest scent of feathers on it, a musty, sweet aroma that tickled his nose in a familiar way. It reminded him of riding on his father''s shoulders long after he was old enough to walk from the front drive to the back garden on his own. Of dragging one of his sister''s wings over himself during a long winter carriage ride in place of a proper blanket, to block out all the jostling and the cold.


    Even if they were both gone, he still had K''aekniv. K''aekniv who was always ready with a smack on the back or a hug, whichever the situation required, an island of honesty and plainness in a sea of people Mirk felt like he still only half-knew. The other healers and men of the Seventh poked fun at K¡¯aekniv for his direct way of thinking and his lack of shame in letting his emotions show, both with tears and gales of laughter. Mirk appreciated it more than words could say. In a confusing world, K¡¯aekniv was easy to understand.


    He was halfway tempted to seek out that comfort, to carry on around the ring road and backtrack to the Easterners'' dormitory rather than cutting inward toward the center of the City and his own quarters. At the moment, Mirk wanted nothing more than reassurance, comfort, understanding.


    But there was work to be done, plans to be hatched and results to be discussed. That and Mirk knew full well that if he tried to avoid reporting in on what had happened with Er-Izat to Genesis for too long, the commander would come and find both of them in short order, no matter what tavern he and K''aekniv hid themselves in.


    There was no need to go looking for Genesis that night. He was right where Mirk expected him to be, once he''d trudged up the four flights of stairs to the quarters he shared with him: entrenched at his desk, buried in books and pieces of parchment. He''d tacked the pages of notes he''d taken that night up on the wall above the desk, underneath the arcane figures Samael had pried from Richard''s mind. That was a sure sign the magic the commander was crafting was complex ¡ª with simple spells, Genesis could hold all the necessary ideas in his steel-trap memory without having to resort to the mundane rituals of notetaking and recordkeeping.


    "Sorry for disturbing you, messire," Mirk said as he pried his feet out of his good shoes. A shame to do so much walking in them, but no high-born man of means would be caught dead traipsing around the mage quarter in the wooden clogs favored at the infirmary, no matter how inclement the weather. "Would it be a bother if I turned on the magelights?"


    As always, Genesis was working only by the glow of that singular, blue-green magelight near the door. The commander waved a dismissive hand over one shoulder at him in assent, though he didn''t yet turn away from his work. Mirk waved the brighter magelights on, shouldering off K''aekniv''s bulky overcoat. As he considered what to do with it, Mirk caught sight of something new in their quarters: the portrait that''d been the centerpiece of that night''s ruse, propped against the wall underneath the hooks where Mirk had been scolded into hanging his bag and cloak. "Oh! Has Niv already been by?"


    "...yes. He was on his way to¡­an establishment to get drunk at. I believe. A ceremonial matter after a successful mission."


    "That''s too bad," Mirk said, settling for hanging up K''aekniv''s overcoat first, then taking off his own cloak and draping it on top of the overcoat by its hood. "I would have liked to give him his coat back. It''s really in good shape...only burned a little at the edges..."


    "There is nothing preventing you from accompanying him. As it were."


    Mirk sighed. "It''d be better if I didn''t. They''re all expecting me early at the infirmary tomorrow. I''ll be there until midnight to make up for having to go to that ball the day after." His eyes lingered on the canvas-wrapped portrait. Mirk knew the sensible thing to do would be to leave it until morning and go straight to bed. After a pass through the bathroom, of course, though Mirk was certain Genesis had no plans on going to bed that night. Not when there was so much magic to be pondered over.


    "Methinks I''ll make sure the portrait made it in one piece," Mirk said, mostly to himself, as he hefted it up off the ground, shuffling it to the left and leaning it carefully against one of Genesis''s interminable rows of bookcases. "I don''t plan on hanging it up, of course," he added. "It''s nice to have, but I...well. Having grand-p¨¨re staring at me all night would be a bit much."


    Genesis didn''t comment. But he did finally quit his studies and turn to look at him just as Mirk finished undoing all the knots holding the canvas in place, letting both the ropes and the rough fabric fall away into a heap on the floor. There was no damage on the portrait from the rain or from being hauled across the mage quarter and the City. Up close, it was easier to see how much care had gone into the painting. The brushstrokes were so fine, and the blending of colors so subtle, that it was like looking at an image captured by a memorial stone, a projection, rather than a mundane work of oil. Jean-Luc''s grin remained triumphant, confident, imbued with the air of a personal secret shared between himself and the viewer.


    "I do not recall Jean-Luc doing anything remarkable in Alsace," Genesis said.


    Mirk laughed. "The Abbess said he never could read a map well."


    "The...quality of his writing is consistently poor," Genesis said. "I suspect he never had an interest in pursuing education."


    "No, never," Mirk confirmed. "Maman said that Oncle Marc always came to her for help with his studies instead of ever trying withgrand-p¨¨re. That''s when he bothered to do them to begin with. She said that she learned more from his tutors than Oncle Marc ever did."


    "I see."


    Mirk turned with a shrug, offering Genesis a sheepish smile. "I suppose it must be a pattern among the men in my family."


    Genesis wasn''t looking at him. He was staring at the portrait, his brow lowered, thinking. "I haven''t neglected his journal. It is only not providing answers to any...useful questions. Not directly."


    "Oh?"


    "Unless the reason for the animosity between your grandfather and the Montignys is a continuing issue. I...appreciate that this is a delicate matter for you, however."


    Wincing, Mirk crossed his arms tightly over his chest, overcome by a sudden chill. "Is it just the Montignys? Seigneur d''Aumont isn''t involved too, is he?"


    "No. He has spoken of d''Aumont, but mostly in passing. His evaluation of him was not¡­charitable. But he was not concerned with whatever dealings d''Aumont had with the mortals or the mages. The two individuals he appears to have had the strongest feelings toward among the mages were Serge Montigny and a certain Romain Rouzet."


    The cold grew worse at the mention of the two great mages. Suddenly, Mirk wished he hadn''t taken off K''aekniv''s overcoat. His gray suit seemed like a poor defense against whatever information Genesis had extracted from Jean-Luc¡¯s journal. "I''m not sure the Montignys will ever be strong in the guilds again after everything that''s happened. But Seigneur Rouzet is still on the Circle. He''s Romain''s oldest son, methinks."


    "Correct."


    "Was Romain...?"


    Genesis considered this for a time, slipping a hand into the topmost drawer of his desk. He pulled out the journal, opening it and paging through nearer to its end. There were many more slips of paper tucked in among its pages than when Mirk had last seen it. "Indirectly. The chain of events that led to their...ultimate disagreement is convoluted. And is colored by Jean-Luc''s opinions. It is impossible to be certain that he is being truthful. I have noticed that, even in his private thoughts, Jean-Luc was more concerned with recording his...sentiments rather than facts."


    "That''s how most people use diaries, methinks," Mirk said. "They''re not like your...euh...ta..."


    "Ta''kakk."


    "Yes. But not in a bad way. Just different. When people want to write about magic, they write a grimoire. When they want to write about themselves and their feelings, they do what grand-p¨¨re did. Even though it might have been more useful to us if he''d stuck to magic."


    Genesis found the page he was looking for, extracting a sheet of parchment from the journal and unfolding it. Even from a distance, the contrast between Jean-Luc''s expansive and scrawling hand and Genesis''s tidy notes and translations was striking. "I have...compiled a chain of events. If you would like to hear it."


    "Just...just give me a moment, please, messire."


    Mirk retreated to the bedroom, locking himself in and stripping off his fine gray suit. He left it in a heap atop the trunk at the foot end of the bed rather than folding it properly away. Instead, he pulled on a clean set of robes over his braies and chemise. But he wasn''t quite finished. He wrapped himself up in his most careworn quilt as well, the very first he''d ever sewn under the tutelage of his mother and her closest maid. And poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle he had secreted away among his fine court suits.


    Genesis would undoubtedly have opinions about that, but he hoped the commander would have enough sense not to be too critical about it for once. He''d chosen to face his demons rather than running away to the tavern, after all. And it was only one glass, not the whole bottle. He shuffled back into the common room, where Genesis was still staring at the portrait of Jean-Luc, journal in hand.


    "Do you mind if I sit in your chair, messire? There, euh, isn''t really anywhere else to sit."


    Genesis nodded. And though he made note of how he was huddled underneath a quilt and the glass clenched in his hand, he didn''t comment on either of them.


    "Methinks maybe once all this is settled, I should think about buying something else," Mirk said as he sat down, curling up in the wide seat rather than dragging the ottoman close enough that his feet could reach it. "But I wouldn''t want to buy anything without your advice, messire. I know I don''t spend too much time here, but it''d be nice to have a second seat. Maybe a divan, or a chaise? I know you don''t like visitors, but it just seems...hmm, sais pas. And I do feel a little bad about using your things all the time. It''s your bed too, after all."The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He was babbling. Genesis didn''t acknowledge it directly, or perhaps didn''t even notice. Either way, all he did was nod in response, waiting for Mirk to give word that he was ready to hear what Jean-Luc had to say about the Montignys and Rouzet. After taking a shallower sip than he would have liked from the glass, Mirk sighed. "Alors¡­what happened? Between grand-p¨¨re and the Montignys."


    "It...concerned your grandmother, to a degree, I believe. Enora."


    Mirk nodded. No one had ever insinuated that the whole affair with the Montignys involved her, but hearing that it did wasn¡¯t surprising. His mother and all of his aunts had always said that Enora was a difficult woman. A good one, a mother that they all cherished, but one that was hard to deal with nevertheless. At least compared to their indulgent, carefree father. Jean-Luc, of course, only spoke of her with the highest reverence. More reverantly than he spoke of God or any other authority, either earthly or from the unknowable beyond. "Yes, that was her name. Enora. She was a very...hmm, devoted woman. She was dedicated to the Church too, before she met grand-p¨¨re. Her aunt was the last abbess before the one I knew."


    "Yes. Jean-Luc commented often on her...religious sentiments. This appears to have been part of the disagreements between her and the other mages. The majority of your fellow nobles appear to have been less concerned with genuine adherence to religious principles and more concerned with the...appearance of being sufficiently devoted."


    "Methinks that might be a little cynical, messire. It''s...it''s more like most people are willing to make allowances. From what maman said, grand-m¨¨re always insisted on true faith without exceptions."


    "Yes. This was a matter of...concern for Jean-Luc as well. From the earlier entries, he appears to have held no strong religious beliefs. This changed when he met Enora."


    A wistful smile crept across Mirk¡¯s face as he stared across the room at the portrait of his grandfather, raising his glass to his lips. "Oh, yes. From what he said, he was a rake before he met grand-m¨¨re. But she showed him what good could come from having faith."


    "Jean-Luc appears to have persisted in his...skepticism on the benefits of holding any religious convictions. However, holding them did give him the benefit of Enora''s approval. This was sufficient enough reason for him to pursue them."


    "I suppose she was as much a gift from God as anything else," Mirk said, shrugging. "Sometimes people need things they can touch to believe in, not just ideas."


    "...nevertheless." Genesis consulted his notes, to be certain he was speaking correctly. "Her beliefs brought her into conflict with Romain Rouzet in particular. You are aware that he had dealings with the Moonlit Land, yes?"


    Mirk nodded. "That''s why Seigneur Rouzet has all those connections to House Rose, methinks."


    "As Jean-Luc described it...Romain was the first among the French mages to ascertain that the superstitions surrounding demons and the demonic realm were incorrect. Enora was of the opinion that the superstitions still contained a truthful aspect. Namely that demons are...naturally inclined toward sin and that dealing with them darkens one''s soul."


    Mirk sighed, swirling the brandy in his glass. "Everyone has their prejudices, I suppose."


    "Jean Luc suspected both Romain Rouzet and Serge Montigny of being interested in necromancy. Not for the purpose of...resurrecting the dead, but for prolonging their own lives. Rouzet appeared to be of the belief that certain demonic houses had specialized knowledge in this area. Considering their...substantial lifespans.


    ¡°Montigny associated with Rouzet in order to gain access to this information. Though Jean-Luc suspected he would have difficulty performing the necessary magic, owing to his...particular element and orientation. In Jean-Luc''s words," Genesis paused, running one long, thin finger over a line in his notes, "the dark arts are best practiced by a dark mage."


    "Is that true?" Mirk asked.


    "That is irrelevant to the...present circumstances. In any case. As Montigny did not possess dark magic, he pursued other avenues to draw...the potential for extended life to himself. Namely a sort of...sexual magic practiced by certain kinds of demons."


    Genesis said the words with care and delicacy. But Mirk''s heart still jumped up into his throat. He took a long drink from the glass of brandy to swallow it back down. "Is that how Serge...?"


    "I suspect that to be the case. Jean-Luc was not clear on this point. As you can imagine, these rumors offended Enora''s morals, such as they were. Though Jean-Luc gives no indication of being concerned by this...interest of Montigny''s. However, in the interests of keeping...sound relations among the nobility, Jean-Luc convinced Enora not to discuss her opinions on the matter with anyone. As long as these were rumors instead of evidenced fact, this agreement held.


    "The difficulty arose...when Enora made a social call to Montigny''s sister. She was also a pious individual, according to Jean-Luc."


    Mirk nodded. "She joined the Little Sisters of Sainte-Blandine instead of marrying, just like grand-m¨¨re was going to."


    "Evidently, Enora found the woman afflicted with...some manner of delirium. She attempted to use a combination of her...ordered light magic and religious superstition to determine the cause of it, as the healers had been unsuccessful in identifying it. Instead she uncovered Serge Montigny in the midst of practicing a certain...ceremonial magic related to his interests that offended her. She called for the light guild''s guard and had the sister taken away to the abbey of her order. And was determined to make a case to the guilds that Montigny¡¯s practice of the¡­unholy arts, to use her words, was responsible for the illness."


    For once, Mirk was grateful for Genesis''s unwillingness to be direct when it came to matters that he didn''t quite understand. Mirk took another sip from the glass. He was quickly coming to regret that he hadn''t brought the bottle with him. But it was too late to get up and retrieve it. "And then what happened?" Mirk prompted, when Genesis didn''t continue straight away.


    "Serge Montigny was unwilling to be involved in this kind of scandal, according to Jean-Luc. He convinced one of the House Rose demons he had been working with to go to the abbey and murder his sister. Enora was there keeping vigil when the demon arrived. Both were killed."


    Mirk let out a deep, slow breath. No one in his family had ever spoken directly about how his grandmother had died. He''d always imagined it to be some sort of illness, too long and too painful to ever want to speak of. Or too sudden and unexpected to ever be explained. That she had been murdered, the same as the rest of his family, through the mechanizations of one man, made something inside him run cold. Setting the drink aside on the arm of the chair for a moment, Mirk drew the blanket more tightly around himself. "That''s terrible," he mumbled, crossing himself reflexively before picking the glass back up.


    "Jean-Luc recorded in the journal that he never told any of his children what caused the death of their mother. Is this correct?"


    "It may be. My mother and aunts never spoke of it, anyway. They only said that grand-m¨¨re had died when Isabelle was very young. They...they had to find a wet nurse for her, since..."


    Genesis nodded to himself, turning over his page of notes. "Understandably, Jean-Luc was...angered by this. He made use of the staff''s powers to seek revenge. He told it...he was willing to pay any price. That...since this demon and Serge Montigny had taken the most important thing in his life from him, he wished to...take the most important thing in their lives from them in response. He wished for them to suffer as he did. And the staff...in its own way...obliged. Jean-Luc was uncertain of what the staff took from each of them, once he managed to...locate them together. Or what it took from him to perform the magic. But, from that point forward, Serge Montigny began to age as quickly as a mortal. Aside from certain minor deviations"


    Mirk downed the rest of his drink in one desperate swallow. Genesis didn''t have to tell him what the staff took from the demon Serge Montigny had been consorting with. Those words still haunted him at every turn, the same as the sound of drizzle hissing against stone and the feel of claws piercing his shoulders. More than a year had passed, but those scars hadn''t ever faded. Though Mirk did his best to never look at them while he was bathing or dressing.


    He had been stripped. Searched, desperately, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, every inch of the finery his mother had wrapped him up in burned away, leaving him bare and shivering. Exposed. Powerless to do anything. The staff had gone rolling out of his hand when he''d fallen face-first on the cobbles, clattering off into the darkness of the alleyway and out of sight.


    She hadn''t been able to find it. Not in the darkness, not on him. Which meant the power she sought had to be hidden inside of him. There for the taking. Because his terror, his confusion, the cold and the pain, left him unable to do anything other than cry. And submit.


    Be a man and give it back!


    Mirk tried to drink from the glass again, but it was already empty. And yet, the words kept echoing around and around inside his head. One glass of brandy, no matter how tall, wasn''t enough to keep them away. Not that night. Not ever.


    I knew you''d come around. All men want it. Some of you just take more convincing.


    He didn''t want it. He''d never want it. Not like that, not from her, not even if it meant freeing his family from the curse that''d haunted them since his grandmother had taken her stand. In that way, Mirk supposed he was no better than her. He still had the staff; he hadn''t made amends, hadn''t done nearly enough penance to make up for all the wrong that¡¯d been done. But at least Enora, from all the things Jean-Luc had said, both in his journal and in person, had been a good woman. A holy woman. Firm in her faith and unyielding in her convictions. She had died rather than submitting to those of another.


    He hadn''t put up a fight. And so he was alive, while she and the rest of his family, his mother and grandfather, his sister and father and all his aunts, were dead.


    Mirk didn''t know if it was a blessing, a sign of God''s divine plan for him, or just more evidence that he''d forsaken His word.


    At the very edge of his senses, Mirk became aware of a feeling of static. Of coldness. But rather than reminding him of lying in the middle of the street, freezing and bleeding and sobbing, it made him think of a salve. A balm. Something that made the cloud of memories that''d closed over his mind dissipate, just a little, offering him a way back to the present.


    He looked over his shoulder. Genesis had closed Jean-Luc''s journal and risen to his feet, drawing over beside the wingback chair. But he kept a respectful distance, one of his confusing expressions on his face, teeth bared but eyebrows arched, his eyes flicking from side to side as he tried to remember what he should do in such a situation.


    A tired sigh, tinged with a bitter laugh, snuck past Mirk''s lips. "It''s...it''s all right, Genesis. You didn''t do anything wrong. I...it''s better that I know. It helps. A little."


    "Would you...prefer to be left alone?"


    Mirk immediately shook his head, his gaze falling back on Jean-Luc''s portrait across the room. "Methinks I''ll sleep here, if you don''t mind."


    He didn''t hear Genesis move. But he felt his chaos draw closer, smelled the faint scent of all his cleaning potions as he came near. Mirk looked back up at him. He had his free hand raised, slightly, though he still hadn''t settled on what to do with it.


    "It''s fine, messire. I know you only want to help. But you shouldn''t feel like you have to take care of me either. You were working."


    Genesis settled for resting his hand atop the crown of his head. For stroking his hair a few times, with that deliberate care of his, always cautious, always mindful, always a bit distant even when he was doing his best to be reassuring. The gesture was comforting in just the right way, pleasant, but not overwhelming. Some of the tension flowed out of Mirk''s shoulders as he tucked the glass away in one corner of the chair''s wide cushion and pressed himself into the opposite side, his head resting against one of its wings.


    "I...am in your debt," Genesis said, his voice dark and hissing, full of some emotion that Mirk would never be able to feel, never be able to pluck out of the ether and identify. Somehow, that was just right too. Just as Genesis was always careful never to press too hard on him with his body, he could never force his emotions on him, not even by accident.


    "It''s not your fault, Genesis. But if you could think of somewhere I could put the painting, that''d help. Methinks it''s too big for the trunk."


    "There is...space underneath the bed."


    Mirk mustered up a smile as he nodded his assent. "It won''t even get dusty under there, knowing you."


    Genesis didn''t reply. But he did cross the room to the painting, wrapping it carefully back up in the canvas it''d come in, using his hands for once instead of calling to the shadows. Trapping Er-Izat and studying his collar must have used more of his potential than it¡¯d felt like. That or the commander was being prudent for once, reluctant to spend his magic on idle conveniences with the threat of Ravensdale and d''Aumont hanging over all of them. Genesis still had the painting wrapped back up in a quarter of the time it would have taken him.


    And then he crossed back out of sight with the painting in hand, heading to the bedroom. A tinge of guilt lanced through Mirk over how much better he felt without Jean-Luc grinning at him. Shoving the thought aside, he pulled the quilt up over his head and closed his eyes.


    He didn''t hear Genesis return to his work, just like he hadn''t heard him rise from his chair. But Mirk could still feel when he was near, that he was in the room with him rather than having hid himself in the bedroom or the bathroom to avoid his presence and his emotions, which had to make as little sense to Genesis as Genesis''s did to him. It made Mirk smile again, just a little, as he willed himself to go to sleep.

 Chapter 75

    "What a delightful garden! Laurent, dear, we absolutely must ask the lady of the house what enchantment she used to make those trees blossom again and again. They''re even better than the trees Marie and Denis had at their reception!"


    Mirk was glad that the host for that evening''s ball had a more cheerful approach to decor than Lord Emerson. But that was about the only thing that he was glad for that night.


    He''d been hoping that Yvette would decide to bring along one of her cousins as a companion rather than her fianc¨¦, but Laurent had insisted on coming with. Or so Yvette had told him in a whisper just before the man had hopped down out of Yvette''s new pumpkin-orange coach and glowered at him. Mirk hadn''t had a moment alone with her since. At least she was keeping herself between him and Laurent instead of forcing him to march up the front walk alongside him.


    Attempting to avoid the awkwardness of the last ball had only been half of Mirk''s motivation behind inviting Yvette and Seigneur Feulaine to the next ball of the English debutante season. In his capacity as the Circle''s ambassador to the English guilds, it was imperative that he at least make a token attempt at coaxing the two societies together. And he could think of no pair better suited to the task than Seigneur Feulaine ¡ª polite, knowledgeable in many forms of magic, the sort of man that the guild masters and higher-ranking journeymen would recognize as an industrious and serious man who would talk with them rather than at ¡ª and Yvette, who, though she''d doubtlessly overwhelm the restrained sensibilities of the English mages, was capable of holding a spirited conversation with absolutely anyone. Their respective spouses left a bit to be desired, but Madame Feulaine, a refined air mage who was as quiet and proper as her daughter was loud and unconventional, would fit in well among the English, at least.


    Mirk hadn''t made any plans for how to compensate for Laurent''s blustery and domineering personality. He hadn''t anticipated his attendance at all. But at the very least, keeping Laurent from dueling anyone would be as good of an excuse as any for him to escape any uncomfortable conversations he might get drawn into.


    He''d have a good while to mull over his plans, from the looks of things. Lord Kinross, the host for that evening, had been charitable enough to have a mage coax a spell of fine weather over his estate, further driving away the early spring chill with great braziers that''d been set out on either side of the path to his manor''s front steps. The mages had begun their queuing outside rather than indoors, the better to admire the gold the lord had invested in his gardens while they waited to be announced into the ballroom.


    "Are there a great many ladies up for the season this year?" Yvette asked him, tugging on Mirk¡¯s arm to draw his attention back to her. "There''s such a crowd! Or is there some delay? We''re early yet, I suppose. As you insisted."


    "This is just how the English do things," Mirk replied. "All the guests are introduced one by one into the ballroom instead of arriving as they please."


    "All of them?" Yvette''s thin, meticulously plucked eyebrows ¡ª blackened with kohl, shaped into high arches, very much in fashion that spring ¡ª shot up. "How strange. Terrible for the people who get here at the very start, I''d say. What would be the point if there''s no one to see you come in?"


    "No point to any of it to begin with," Laurnet grumbled, from somewhere behind Yvette''s towering coiffure. Another turn in the fashion, opposed to the natural look that had dominated the winter and fall.


    Yvette elected to ignore her fianc¨¦. "Well, I''m happy to see that you haven''t subjected yourself to all the English habits, Mirk," she said, rubbing the sleeve of his new justacorps between her fingers, admiring its quality. "This color suits your features so well. And so bold! I wish I could get a certain someone to be a bit more adventurous."


    That Yvette of all people would call the second of his new summer suits bold troubled Mirk more than it reassured him. Although she used the word in the positive, Mirk suspected the English might view things differently. He''d always been fond of shades of blue and violet, the better to bring out the color of his eyes, but he''d never before decided to go with a shade so vibrant. Darker than his usual light lavenders and lilacs, but brighter than a sober navy, not as reddish as the shade favored by those of truly noble blood.


    It didn''t match his eyes perfectly, but it was the closest a suit had ever come to it. The elder of the two Nasiri brothers had returned his extra tip for having done such fine dye work on the silk with the insistence that his offering, though greatly appreciated, would pale in comparison to the orders they''d get for further pieces in the shade if Mirk took care to wear the suit in the right places.


    An English ball, Mirk was beginning to suspect, was not the right place, if the cool backwards glances of the somber guild mages ahead of him were anything to go by. Or perhaps they were more bothered by Yvette''s characteristic unwillingness to moderate the volume of her voice unless strictly necessary.


    Catherine and Casyn were not among the mages coolly judging the dress and posturing of that night''s foreign contingent. Casyn had managed to be on time that evening, and less disheveled, though his uniform still had a frumpy, second-hand hang to it. He''d been in a foul mood when he''d picked him and Catherine up from the plaza before the East Gate, disgruntled over having been strong-armed into going to another ball when there were more enjoyable activities afoot that evening. Especially considering how his role as chaperone was purely ceremonial. Catherine had borne up under his bluster and criticism with her characteristic even temper and tight-lipped smile. But there was an impatient edge to it that''d been missing before, an open air of resentment that would have been more at home on her sister''s lips than on hers.


    Hopefully, having Yvette along would make things easier on Catherine too, even if they made things harder for him. Mirk got the distinct impression that Catherine was even less interested in that season''s offering of young guildsmen than she''d been at the outset. An impression that was bolstered by all the insults he''d heard the Easterners hurling at Orest as of late for having adopted such a ¡°fancy¡± taste in women.


    The line began to move then; Yvette was stepping on down the garden path instantly, itching to see more of Lord Kinross''s manor and the English nobles ahead of them. Her mingled curiosity and frustration was pressing hard against his shields, making it hard to pick up anything beyond it, aside from Laurent''s simmering resentment. For once, Mirk didn''t get the impression that it was directed at him. Laurent flicked at one of the braziers as they passed, grumbling to himself about how using ordered fire after sunset for such a task was a waste of potential.


    "Where''s her mother?" Yvette asked, bobbing her head slightly in Catherine''s direction. She made a token attempt at lowering her voice too, though anyone within twenty feet still could have heard everything she said. But as she was sticking to French for the moment, it did the job well enough. "Or do English mothers not go with their daughters to the debutante balls?"


    Mirk sighed. "Comrade Catherine''s mother and father are not on the best terms as of late."


    "That bad?"


    "That bad," Mirk confirmed. Comrade Commander Margaret had only been by the infirmary to check in with him once since they''d made their initial agreement. She''d accepted the potion he''d prepared for her like he''d handed her a poison rather than a fertility tincture. No one had tried to initiate contact with her or Casyn after the first ball other than a handful of K''maneda officers. And in response to that disappointing news, all Casyn had said to her on the matter was that he didn''t particularly care which of them his younger daughter ended up with, as long as it was a K''maneda man rather than an English mage. Since his future son would be the one to carry on his line''s glory among the K¡¯maneda rather than Catherine. He hadn''t bothered to ask after Kali¡¯s well-being once ever since she''d left for France, Margaret had informed him with a frown of distaste.


    "The poor dear," Yvette murmured, leaning forward with interest to see if she could eavesdrop on Casyn and Catherine, dragging both Mirk and Laurent along with. "I''ll help you keep an eye on her. Us ladies need to stick together."


    Behind them, he heard Seigneur Feulaine give a polite cough. Though Yvette pretended not to hear, Mirk turned to glance at him, shrugging helplessly and offering him a wan smile, to impress on Seigneur Feulaine and his wife that he took no offense. Madame Feulaine, if she noticed the exchange, gave no indication of it. Her attention was turned skyward, fixed on the magic keeping the night from turning cold and overcast. Judging by the furrow in her well-powdered brow, she had as much skepticism about the English air mages'' handiwork as Laurent had about the fire mages''.


    Lord Kinross, unlike Lord Emerson, took great delight in playing the gracious host. He''d stationed himself at the door to his country estate, exchanging pleasantries with each pair of guests as they stepped past the threshold. He was a portly older man, as tall and broad in the shoulders as Slava. He''d opted to wear a bright red waistcoat underneath his more formal charcoal coat, complete with a watch chain strung with diamonds. Diamonds that matched those dangling from the ears and wrist of the young lady at his side, Miss Martha. Mirk couldn¡¯t recall whether she was the lord''s granddaughter or some other relation.


    Though he felt a bit chagrined about it, Mirk made a note to himself to remember those diamonds. As they approached the door, he could see that all the gems were flawless, oversized. And if the chip of diamond in Seigneur d''Aumont''s cane was sound enough to house Er-Izat''s soul, ones that big had to be good enough for the souls of the djinn under Ravensdale''s control. Or maybe they could even be split to accommodate more than one.


    Lord Kinross was a jolly, jovial host. But that good humor died when it came to Casyn. When he and Catherine reached the threshold, the warmth in his eyes vanished, though his smile remained firmly affixed. He skipped over Casyn completely, instead bowing slightly to Catherine, who responded in kind with a low curtsey. Miss Martha''s greeting had a bit more life to it but, much like her relative, whatever goodwill she had for the pair was directed solely at Catherine.


    Part of him had been expecting Casyn to take offense to such an open snubbing. But nothing happened. Casyn walked onward without dignifying that night''s host and the lady of honor with so much as a glance. As if they were no more important than the potted evergreens on either side of the front door. It surprised Mirk to see Casyn return like with like for once instead of rising to the provocation. Which made him wonder just how powerful and well-connected Lord Kinross had to be.


    The warmth returned to the lord as Mirk advanced alongside Yvette and Laurent, accompanied by an open curiosity that was much more welcome than the skepticism and vague disdain Mirk was accustomed to receiving from high-born English mages. "Hello! Merry met and good tidings and all that," Lord Kinross said, as he performed a flourishing bow, one that made Miss Martha curtseying beside him blanch. Mirk wasn''t sure whether it was an attempt to mirror the French custom, or a subtle mockery of it. "You must be the foreign contingent, yes? Dear Martha said that there was a half-blood at the head of it..."


    "Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon. Your servant, Lord Kinross," Mirk said, returning the bow. "You''re very perceptive. Most people can''t tell that from looking at me."


    "The eyes are a dead giveaway," the lord replied, tapping a notably calloused finger beside his own. "Don''t get such a bright violet in full humans."


    "Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Yvette Feulaine," Mirk said, gesturing to her. She was mostly ignoring the lord in favor of eyeing up Miss Martha''s earrings. "And her fianc¨¦, Monsieur Laurent Montigny."


    "A propitious match!" Lord Kinross crowed, leaning back a little to take stock of Laurent, who was still hidden behind Yvette''s gown and coiffure. "The two greatest names in French fire magic under one roof. I can only hope that dear Martha is as lucky as you are, Miss Yvette."


    Like Laurent, Yvette had a vocal translator hidden in a garnet brooch pinned to the front of her dress. But she elected not to use it, doing her best in her own imperfect English instead. "Yes, I am so lucky, seigneur. I hope the same for your daughter? Niece?"


    The lord gave a laugh from deep in his belly as he squeezed Miss Martha''s arm affectionately. "You French really are flatterers! Great-granddaughter."


    "Then perhaps you have had the chance to meet Seigneur Feulaine before?" Mirk asked, before Laurent got the opportunity to mutter anything cross about the lord''s comment. "He and Madame Feulaine are right behind us."


    The lord squinted off over the crowd, smiling to himself. "No, but I''ve written him a letter or two. Seigneur Feulaine!" he called out. Though Mirk didn''t see it, he felt Seigneur Feulaine startle, the faint touch of his surprise brushing against his mental shielding. It was hard to feel over Yvette¡¯s intense fascination with the decor of the foyer ahead.


    Mirk knew well enough that it was his cue to move along. He tugged gently on Yvette''s arm, leading her along into the manor''s foyer. She didn''t bother to lower her voice as she spoke to him, but he did notice that she brushed at the gold embellishments on her translator, making sure it was off before speaking to him in French. "That was better than I expected from an Englishman! But he must be a man of the world, to know all the ways a half-angel can look."


    He nodded his agreement. "A very good sign. You would have been bored to tears at the last ball. Lord Emerson is the strictest kind of Calvinist."


    Yvette covered a theatrical gasp, though it was shot through with a giggle. "Oh no! But at least we won''t have to suffer him paying us a visit, then. And look at this foyer! Laurent, we must find out who does the lord¡¯s decorating for him. To make such an ugly, square place look so graceful! Those tapestries have the best enchantments on them, making the fish jump in the river like so..."


    Mirk stopped listening to Yvette''s raving about the lord''s choice in decor, though he was largely in agreement with her. Kinross''s country estate was built along the same blocky lines as Lord Emerson''s, but rather than leaving them cold and bare, there were ample rugs and tapestries and mirrors to distract from them. The ballroom at the end of the wide hall that connected the foyer to the rear of the manor was a grand and glamorous affair, full of windows that overlooked the lord''s gardens, enchanted to be in full bloom despite it only being early spring. All the colors were light, airy. And it was lit by an elaborate flock of floating magelights that drifted around the room in time with the tune being played by the string quartet in the corner. The work of whichever one of the lord''s relations was an air rather than a fire mage, no doubt.


    Whereas only the bare minimum had attended the last ball, the families of the ladies making their debut and the men who wished to court them, the crowd at the second ball of the season was much thicker and more varied. The young intellectuals were still there, hovering around the room''s harpsichord like they had at the last ball. And so was the small group of K''maneda, which Casyn was making a beeline for after abandoning Catherine at the door.


    But there were others there too, men and women whose tastes were closer to those in fashion back at home. Though none of the ladies showed quite as much collar as Yvette, Mirk noticed. And the men, without exception, were wearing the same grim coats in various shades of gray, navy, and brown, short in the skirts and tight at the sleeves. At least a few of them favored flashier accessories, so he didn¡¯t feel entirely out of place. Lord Kinross wasn''t the only man in attendance who''d chosen to represent his guild colors with a bright or heavily embroidered waistcoat.


    As Yvette marveled to Laurent over the floating magelights, Mirk let go of her arm with a polite excuse that went completely ignored. He drifted over to Catherine, calling out to her in English. "Miss Catherine? Is everything all right?"


    She sighed, but a relieved smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she turned to greet him. "It''s always to be expected with some people. But that never makes it any easier, does it?"


    Mirk shook his head. "But this is a much nicer atmosphere than the last ball, non? There''s more people to talk with too," he said, gesturing around the ballroom with the end of his grandfather''s staff. There were still couples left to be introduced, so the crowd was still subdued, though even good manners couldn''t keep the chattier noble mages from getting spirited. "And a few more men, methinks? I recognize the, euh, young masters from the last time, but I didn''t get a chance to take note of everyone else who''d attended beside them..."


    Catherine surveyed the crowd, her smile fading. "Yes, a few more have come out tonight. That''s not surprising, considering."


    "Considering?"


    "Lord Kinross is a much more approachable man than Lord Emerson. Even if a man has no intention of asking a lady to dance, there''s utility in attending one of Lord Kinross''s balls."


    "He¡¯s an interesting man," Mirk said, turning to glance back at the doorway to the ballroom. Not the least because, Mirk now noticed, Lord Kinross was making no effort at all to shield his emotions, to protect his magic from interference by meddling outsiders. It was easier to sense it now without either Yvette and Laurent''s loud emotions or interference from the natural world to distract him. Mirk didn''t sense any other empaths in attendance that night, but it seemed almost like Kinross''s good mood was infectious. There was much more open laughter echoing back in the foyer than Mirk would have expected from the usually subdued ranks of English magecraft. "Methinks he must be very old if Miss Martha is his great-grandaughter. That or he had children earlier than mages usually do."


    Catherine lowered her voice, turning slightly away from the door. "No one knows for certain, of course, but I''ve heard rumors that he was in the room at the signing of Magna Carta. In 1215," she added, at the look of polite confusion on Mirk''s face.


    "Five hundred years, almost," Mirk mumbled, glancing back at the door as a hush fell over the ballroom. The last visiting couple had just been announced. Now all that remained was for Kinross''s djinn ¡ª shorter and more slender than most he¡¯d met, which made Mirk wonder which kinship line the man was from ¡ª to announce the lord of the manor. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Lord Kinross strode confidently into the doorway and grinned around at everyone, his great-grandaughter looking demurely downward as Kinross indulged in a bit of preening. Mirk couldn''t think of any other human mages who''d lived that long. His grandfather was from the oldest living generation of human mages in France, the one shared he had shared with the likes of Seigneur d''Aumont and the Comte de Coudrey. Even then, Jean-Luc had been nearly two hundred years younger than Kinross when he''d been killed, if the rumors were true. And that was with the benefit of wielding a staff that could perform magic akin to miracles.


    "Masters and Ladies," the djinn called out, bowing low and sweeping one arm out to the side. "Lord Barclay Kinross, Grand Master of the Eternal Flame. And his great-granddaughter, Miss Martha Hastings."


    A more enthusiastic smattering of applause than Mirk had been expecting circulated around the ballroom as the lord and his great-granddaughter bowed and curtseyed, though Kinross was quick to straighten up and chuckle to himself, making a show of modestly waving off all the other mages'' approval. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yvette flick out her fan, concealing the lower half of her face. But he could still feel her mingled amusement and disbelief well enough. Once the other guests began to circulate and the quartet started the next song, Yvette darted over to his side, leaving Laurent alone to go sulk in one of the ballroom''s less populated corners.


    "These English!" she hissed at Mirk, not yet bothering with her translator brooch. "Can you believe it? Making such a show of yourself at your own party! Even the mortal kings don''t kick up such a fuss about themselves!"


    "Their customs can be a little strange at times, I''ll admit. Yv¡ª"


    "So dramatic! You''d think we were at the theater! And they have the nerve to call us flashy!"


    Mirk cleared his throat, switching into English for the benefit of Catherine. She didn''t look put out by Yvette''s gushing, at least. If anything, she seemed delighted to have something to focus on beside her own troubles. Though it was hard to feel anything from her over Yvette. "Yvette, this is my friend from the K''maneda, Comrade Catherine Rak''sen. Catherine, this is Mademoiselle Yvette Feulaine."


    Yvette finally caved and flicked on her translator with the edge of her fan as she dipped into a cursory curtsey. "Oh! I''m sorry if I was rude. It''s only that most of the K''maneda I''ve met have been so depressing you can''t ignore them for all the gloom hanging around! I''m so happy to see that Mirk has finally found civilized company among the English. We were all so worried about him, you know, being up here alone."


    "It''s a pleasure to meet you as well, mademoiselle," Catherine replied, returning the curtsey, her smile growing.


    "Please! Among us ladies, there''s no need for titles. We don''t need to puff ourselves up all the time like the men, do we? Or is that too rude for the English?"


    "I''d prefer to leave them, actually. Have you known Mirk for some time?"


    "Since we were children! We were all so glad when he came back from that dusty old church his mother put him in, God bless her. Not that it''s a bad thing to want to serve the Lord, not at all, very noble, but even among us French, a man who''s so much fun is rare. Are any of them any fun?" Yvette asked, once again making an attempt at lowering her voice as she sidled over closer to Catherine, flicking her fan at the group of young masters by the harpsichord as she went. "They all look a little...hmm...serious?"


    "Those ones in particular are a bit serious, yes," Catherine said. Just barely, Mirk caught a hint of her relief underneath the thrum of Yvette''s insatiable need to gossip. "The gentlemen by the windows might be a bit more to your liking, if you''re interested in meeting more of the English."


    The group Catherine mentioned was a mixed bag ¡ª a few younger men who were still toiling away as journeymen, judging by their reluctance to proudly display their guild colors in their accessories, and some older ones who were more invested in the business side of their guilds, judging by their especially somber clothes, popular among the industrious set. There were a few others who fell somewhere in between, masters or journeymen from the more practical guilds, the Artificers and Potionmasters and Teleporters, the personalized touches to their attire putting unique craftsmanship on display rather than elemental colors.


    Yvette surveyed them coolly, but apparently found them tolerable, at least when compared to the young masters and the K''maneda in the furthest corner of the room. The K¡¯maneda had been first in line to avail themselves of the trays of drinks the servants were circulating. Most of them had taken a glass for both hands rather than settling for just the one.


    "I''m more worried about you," Yvette concluded after she''d passed judgment on the men, taking hold of Catherine''s arm. "I''ve already found a good husband. But dear Laurent proves looks can be deceiving, no? Though it''d be so much easier on us all if more men chose to be bold and wear something a little more exciting to show that they''re not a terrible bore, don''t you think? Like dear Mirk! Anyway, let''s go see..."


    Catherine didn''t object to being hauled off, instead giving in, like he so often did in the most taxing social situations, to the ease of being towed around by a woman who knew exactly what she wanted out of life and never hesitated to pursue it. Mirk spun Jean-Luc''s staff against his palm, debating whether it''d be better to follow after them or strike out on his own.


    Having Yvette present to help him watch over Catherine left him with more room to maneuver than he''d had at Lord Emerson''s ball. He recognized a few of the men at the fringes of the group the ladies were approaching, ones he''d spoken with at the last ball who were more open-minded to conversing with a foreigner and a K''maneda, though he didn''t fit neatly into either category.


    However, there was still the matter of Laurent to deal with ¡ª though Yvette had implied in her letters that there was no need for him to seek Laurent out and apologize for what had happened at Madame Beaumont''s, he still felt that it''d be the right thing to do. And Mirk suspected it''d be a good idea to head in his direction nevertheless, to try to find Laurent an acceptable conversation partner before the young K''ameneda officers spotted an easy target and went to goad him into dropping his glove.


    The decision was made for him when the djinn watching the door made a late announcement over the hum of the quartet. More guests had arrived. Though none of them were exactly welcome, judging by how no one stopped their conversations to pay them any attention.


    "Masters and Ladies, Lord Percival Owens, Lieutenant Comrade Commander of the K''maneda''s Third Mage Division. And Lady Elanor Emerson and Miss Esther Emerson."


    Mirk wanted to dash across the ballroom and hide himself in the thickest part of the crowd. Instead, all he did was shift Jean-Luc''s staff to his right hand, watching as Percival scanned the ballroom with a frown of distaste, refusing to bow, while both Miss Esther and her mother curtseyed primly on either side of him. Percial¡¯s eyes met his, just for a moment, and a frown crossed the former mage''s face, mirrored by a flare of disgust. Then he was moving on, striding into the room without comment, the two ladies following a step behind.


    Catherine was right about Lord Emerson not being willing to attend any of the other balls that season. But judging by the pinched and sad expression on Esther''s face and the prim, cold one on her mother''s, the lord had already found his daughter a suitable match. Mirk''s heart ached for the poor woman, though he wasn''t surprised that a man as devout as Lord Emerson would choose a fellow member of his sect to be his daughter''s husband. What he was surprised by, however, was the fact that the Grand Master of the ordered light mages was willing to give her away to a man who''d lost all his magical potential.


    As delicately as possible, Mirk lowered his shields and cast out his senses in the direction of Percival''s retreating back. Though he could feel his emotions ¡ª frustration at having to put up with the nonsense of a ball, annoyance at how sloppy his fellow K''maneda looked ¡ª he couldn''t feel a bit of magic coming from him. There was only the ordered light magic of the two ladies, mirrored faintly in the subdued silver stitchwork on the long, plain black mage robes he wore.


    "Masters and Ladies, Lord Alistair Ravensdale, Grand Master of the K''maneda."


    Mirk wished he could use the staff to wedge the floorboards apart and crawl underneath them. Ravensdale had put even more work into his outfit and his glamors that night than he had at the last ball. He''d bumped his height up a full extra hand and had added some bulk to his shoulders, further squaring off his jaw until he was nearly a caricature of himself. And rather than letting his magical aura tell the whole room about his power that time, Ravensdale had added a sword into the mix, worn openly on his back. The hilt was nothing but carved enchantments. And it had a black opal the size of a goose egg set into its pommel.


    Rather than letting himself be cowed by the appearance of two of the worst men the K''maneda had to offer, Mirk sucked in a deep breath and tried to be rational about things. Tried to put every piece in order, rationally, without giving in to the tension in his shoulders and the worry gnawing at his stomach, considering the situation the way someone like Genesis would have.


    Neither man would try anything at a public ball, surely. And though Percival had reason to despise him for having been one of the healers who''d tended to him during his illness, he''d only been doing his job. Percival had no reason to suspect that the staff in his right hand had been responsible for ripping away his magic. Just like Ravensdale had no reason to suspect that he''d been plotting to free his djinn, aside from guilt by association. Provided Ravensdale had even bothered to look into who he chose to associate with other than his fellow healers and Catherine.


    Ravensdale had decided to bring a sword with him that time, true. But despite its enchantments and gemstone, how detailed and expensive they both had to be, it had probably never seen real battle, Mirk thought. Genesis would have scowled at it and made some comment about impracticality. And the commander knew a thing or two about weapons. Compared to the cold, staticky aura that always hovered around Genesis''s sword, charged with destructive potential, Ravensdale''s sword wasn''t all that impressive. It was closer to a piece of jewelry than a weapon. And it wasn''t as if he''d come to the ball unarmed himself, though Mirk was determined to do nearly anything to avoid a repeat of the duel that''d happened at Madame Beaumont''s.


    The thought made him glance back over at Laurent. Without a conversation partner or Yvette to distract him, Laurent had nothing to do other than size up the two mages who''d just entered. From the looks of things, Ravensdale''s sword had caught Laurent¡¯s attention as well. But what made him square his shoulders and stalk away from where he''d been lurking since he''d first came in was that, rather than joining the other K''maneda, Ravensdale was heading right for Catherine. And, by extension, Yvette, who was in the middle of trying to talk a journeyman mage from one of the dark magicians'' guilds into asking Catherine to dance. Mirk rushed after both Ravensdale and Laurent, the staff clacking against the ballroom floor, hoping he could get to the ladies in time to avert disaster.


    Fortunately, he had a clever ally in Yvette. And there was nothing that she disdained more than a man who resorted to glamors to impress rather than taking up a bold choice in fashion or learning to carry himself with grace. She''d never pass along a friend, no matter how new, to a man who wore glamors. Both he and Laurent arrived just in time to hear her give her apologies to Ravensdale.


    "Ah, I am so sorry, monsieur," Yvette said. She''d flicked off her translator, the better to make use of her inexpert English to cover any overt rudeness. "Miss Catherine, she has already been asked to dance by Monsieur Jerry, non?"


    Said Jerry, the blood draining from his face as he caught sight of the three oncoming mages, nodded reflexively before he could think better of it.


    "Has she?" Ravensdale asked, a brittle grin creeping across his face as he ignored Catherine in favor of staring down the journeyman mage.


    Catherine dipped into a curtsey of apology, though she held her ground. "It would be rude of me to go back on my word, Comrade Ravensdale," she said, her tone still light and pleasant despite the situation. "Perhaps we could dance the second number instead?"


    For a moment, Ravensdale looked like he was going to object. Then he noticed Laurent, shouldering his way in between him and Yvette, and Mirk, circling around to Catherine''s other side. "The second number, then. In the meantime, why don''t you introduce me to the friends you''ve decided to bring along with you this time, Comrade d''Avignon?"


    Mirk saw the slight in Ravensdale''s decision to address him by his K''maneda title rather than the one he held among the French mages. But he didn''t rise to the provocation, nodding agreeably as the journeyman mage took hold of Catherine''s elbow and hurried off with her toward the part of the ballroom that''d been spelled for mage dancing. "Of course, Comrade Ravensdale. This is Monsieur Laurent Montigny of the fire mages'' guild. And his fianc¨¦e, Yvette Feulaine. Her father the seigneur is over there," he said, nodding to Seigneur Feulaine across the room, who looked as if he''d been on the brink of joining the fray himself, his face scrunched up in alarm. "He''s the Grand Master."


    "I never knew that you had such influential friends," Ravensdale remarked, giving both Laurent and Yvette a slow, deliberate once-over. More in the manner of a fighter surveying an opponent before taking a swing at them rather than a high-born mage politely expressing his indifference to a rival.


    "But of course, monsieur," Yvette said, before either Mirk or Laurent could get a word in edgewise, flicking her fan slowly. "Seigneur d''Avignon is with one of the greatest houses in all of France! And he is such a kind, beautiful man too. How could we not be his friend?"


    Ravensdale didn''t respond to her, looking to Laurent instead for confirmation. Luckily for him, Ravensdale''s coldness toward his fianc¨¦e forced Laurent''s hand. Laurent might not have liked Mirk, or his family, but anyone who would look askance at Yvette was the greater foe. "The d''Avignons have performed many grand services in duty to France," he said, slowly. He refused to use his translator either, lest Ravensdale think him a lesser man for not being able to speak English.


    "And he is doing the same," Yvette added with a firm nod. "He is our ambassador to you English."


    Ravensdale considered this for a moment, turning his attention back to Mirk. He seemed to be looking at him for the first time, not just at the staff. "And you have chosen to work in the K''maneda''s infirmary when you''re not performing your duties as ambassador, comrade?"


    The words flowed out of him on instinct, just as he reflexively ducked his head. "I live to serve, Comrade Ravensdale. If I was not with the healers, I would be with the Church. But the Church has much greater resources than the infirmary. I can help best in the City."


    "How charitable of you," Ravensdale said, his smile growing even more wan. It was clear from his tone that he didn''t mean it as a compliment, though Ravensdale¡¯s mind was too well-shielded by stolen djinn potential for Mirk to feel a thing from him.


    It was as if Ravensdale had thrown up a signal beacon. The shift in his mood summoned his fellow officers, with the exception of Percival, who was occupied by dancing with Esther. Thankfully. They arrived in a mob, the same as the low-born officers Mirk knew better, with the same swagger and squared shoulders. Though Richard looked as if he wanted nothing more than to vanish, but he wa hurried along by both Paul and Casyn.


    None of them were true high-born mages, Mirk suspected, though they played at being nobles. They were invited to attend the English balls by grace of being close with Ravensdale. "Anything wrong, Comrade Ravensdale?" one of the officers Mirk didn''t recognize asked, as he drew up alongside Ravensdale and shot a nasty look at Laurent.


    "Nothing important, Hugh."


    "Frogs giving you trouble?" another officer asked, coming up on Ravensdale''s other side. They were both younger, lower ranking, eager to prove themselves. The ones who knew better hung back, though Paul and Casyn shot each other troubled looks behind Richard''s back.


    "Look at these cretins," Yvette said to Laurent, shifting back to French. "These little boys shouldn''t be playing a man''s game."


    "Not unless they want to have their honor taken from them," Laurent replied.


    Mirk tore his eyes away from Ravensdale just long enough to find Seigneur Feulaine in the crowd, locking eyes with him. He decided to risk projecting to him, lowering his shields just far enough to convey his discomfort. Though Yvette was hardly ever troubled by insults directed at her, she couldn''t stand having Laurent threatened, especially by those she considered to be beneath her. And when two fire mages'' ire was spiked, the situation could easily get out of hand.


    "Don''t you have a translator charm in all your big stones?" the officer on Ravensdale''s right, Hugh, asked, jerking his chin pointedly at Yvette''s chest.


    "Too bad you never had a tutor to teach you French," Yvette countered, with a deliberate flick of her fan. An insult to the man''s lack of familial wealth, one he was probably not familiar enough with the customs of high-born mages to understand. But he was sharp enough to catch the pitying slant to her tone.


    Seigneur Feulaine quickly excused himself from the conversation he was having, making a fast break across the ballroom. But it wasn''t fast enough. The officer to Ravensdale''s left decided to take things a step further, feigning a cough and flicking the contents of his glass of wine at Yvette''s pale blue dress.


    Mirk always thought of himself as slow and clumsy, graceless and easily stunned. But apparently something from all his hours in the infirmary handling unruly patients and Genesis''s defensive training had stuck. He managed to sidestep in front of Yvette just in time. The wine splashed all over the front of his new suit rather than hitting Yvette''s dress. Mirk made it a point to keep his grip on his grandfather''s staff loose, in the manner of a simple walking stick rather than a quarterstaff.


    Behind him, he heard Laurent fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for his gloves. "Incroyable!" he growled.


    "Quel toupet!" Yvette hissed. Mirk could feel the heat rising off of her against his back.


    "Alistair!" a booming voice rang out from across the ballroom, over the sprightly sound of the string quartet. In an instant, as if he''d teleported rather than walked, Lord Kinross arrived on the scene. All of the officers behind Ravensdale froze ¡ª Richard in particular looked like he was about to faint. Ravensdale himself, on the other hand, only seemed annoyed. "Is something the matter?" Lord Kinross asked.


    Mirk thought fast. Here was a chance to both appear as an ally to Ravensdale and make a good impression on the English mages. Rather than letting his dismay over his ruined suit show, Mirk fixed a smile on his face, holding his free hand up in a gesture of concession. And just in case Lord Kinross was a better judge of expressions than the others surrounding him, he let his shields slip lower for an instant, projecting genuine good humor and cheer. An infirmary trick he''d been taught by Sheila, thinking hard about a cherished memory, just for a second, to make his emotions ring true to a wary patient. When he needed cheerfulness, laughter, he always thought of Genesis''s strained attempts at mimicking a normal human smile.


    "Nothing at all, Lord Kinross. Just an accident," Mirk said, bowing slightly to both Kinross and Ravensdale. "No harm done."


    Kinross shot Laurent and Yvette, who were still seething away behind Mirk, a skeptical look. Yvette got a hold of herself faster than her fianc¨¦, waving her fan a few times to clear the heat from her face. "Yes! No harm. That little one has a cold, he sneezed," she said, indicating the officer who''d hurled his wine at her. The officer bristled at the veiled insult, but knew better than to say anything to the contrary with Kinross looming off to the side.


    For a moment, the lord''s displeasure eclipsed his jovial facade, in the form of a narrow-eyed glare at Ravensdale. One that Mirk recognized from the countless disagreements among young noblemen he''d borne witness to: Ravensdale needed to know his place. Then Kinross was giving one of his snorting laughs, whipping a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and offering it out to Mirk. "Oh no! That''s a shame! To have such a brilliant coat all mucked up."


    Again, Mirk didn''t know whether to accept the lord''s words as genuine or a mockery, despite the goodwill he could sense pressing against his mental shielding. "It''s only a coat, Lord Kinross. I''m sure it can be cleaned."


    "You know, that''s a splendid idea, seigneur," Lord Kinross said, lifting a hand up to the level of his head and snapping his fingers as he took a quick look around the ballroom. The djinn servant standing guard beside the door came instantly at his summons, striding across the room with his hands clasped primly behind his back. "Renly, take Seigneur d''Avignon to the powder room and help him with his coat. He''s a genius with stains," Kinross added to Mirk, as the djinn bowed his agreement.


    "As you wish, Lord Kinross."


    "In the meantime, I had a matter I wished to discuss with you, Alistair. So if you happen to have a moment..."


    Mirk exchanged another meaningful look with Seigneur Feulaine after bowing once more to Lord Kinross and nodding to the djinn. All Seigneur Feulaine could do was give a helpless shrug as he took his daughter by the arm and guided her away from the mob of K''maneda, Laurent grudgingly shuffling along with. But only after giving the officer who''d thrown his drink at Yvette a final glare, slapping his gloves meaningfully against his palm.


    "The powder room is through the side door, seigneur," the djinn said, with a sweep of his arm to show the way.


    Mirk let himself lean on Jean-Luc''s staff only a little as he hurried off, letting a long, tired sigh sneak through his teeth. French magecraft hadn''t made the best first impression on the English. But it could have gone much worse.

 Chapter 76

    The back hallways of Lord Kinross''s country estate were as grandiose as the more public ones. Wallpaper dominated behind the door set into the side of the ballroom, but it was almost thick and detailed enough to be counted as yet another tapestry. The only real difference was that the wallpaper didn''t move. A gaggle of men burdened down with trays of delicate amuse-gueule shuffled up against the wall to make way for Mirk and Renly, Kinross''s djinn servant. They were all very particular about not brushing against the wallpaper.


    "Right this way, seigneur," Renly said, stopping just past a set of double doors wide enough to accommodate a lady''s skirts without mussing them. They came open at the touch of a rune worked into the wallpaper''s firebird and peacock motif.


    "Thank you, monsieur," Mirk said, nodding to him as he passed. The powder room of a high-born mage''s country estate bore only a passing resemblance to those of mortal noblemen. As, with mages, refreshing powdered faces and wigs was usually the least of their worries. A slipping glamor or misfiring enchantment could have much more catastrophic results both to one¡¯s reputation and the host¡¯s household decor.


    There were several padded benches in the room, arranged before a wide mirror. A counter hung beneath it, on which every conceivable magical device for primping and prodding jostled for position alongside helpful potions and spell papers. There were even a few healing ones, Mirk noticed, potions to settle excited nerves and balms to ease blisters and chafing. It oddly put him very much in mind of the back room in Fatima¡¯s bordello. Mirk sat down on the bench closest to the room''s taps ¡ª magicked, without question ¡ª and, for the first time, seriously considered the state of his new suit.


    He''d seen worse. The wine and the suit''s original color wasn''t terribly far off from one another. Though it''d be a nightmare getting the stain off the gold embroidery. It would have been a much greater disaster if the officer had hurled his glass all over his new cream-colored summer suit. Then again, no stain could challenge the will of a determined Destroyer. And Mirk had no doubt Genesis would rise to the challenge out of sheer annoyance once he noticed it.


    Renly, on the other hand, seemed deeply troubled. He studied the stain from a distance for a time, hands still clasped behind his back, then set to work at the taps, drawing a shallow bowl full of steaming water that he added judicious amounts of various powders and potions to. Rather than wearing a collar around his neck, Renly was burdened with heavy bracelets on both wrists. More like pieces of armor, really, extending up underneath the sleeves of his coat. They were made of a brassy metal rather than the iron favored by Seigneur d''Aumont.


    "You don''t need to trouble yourself too much on my behalf, monsieur," Mirk said to Renly, propping the staff up against the edge of the bench. "Just getting the sticky bits off will be fine, methinks."


    "As you wish, seigneur," Renly replied. But it didn''t keep him from tinkering with the concoction in the potion bowl for another five minutes. Mirk lowered his mental shielding as he watched him work. He could feel very little from Renly, as was the case with most djinn who weren''t in terrible pain, but he did notice that Renly periodically used his magic to warm the water in the bowl by pressing a palm flat against its side.


    "You''re very distinctive, monsieur," Mirk said, trying to keep his tone light, conversational. "Methinks you must not be an Am-Djinn like most of the others I''ve met. Thoug I don''t mean to pry, of course."


    Renly paused, staring down into his bowl of cleaning potion, gripping by its sides. Then he abruptly whisked a clean handkerchief off the counter and hurried over with the bowl. His stride was so even, so measured, the water inside barely rippled. "It''s no trouble, seigneur."


    Mirk hated to press. But he was too curious, too concerned for the man who knelt beside him and began to dab at his justacorps, to hold his tongue. "And methinks you can''t be an Er-Djinn either. Unless that kinship doesn¡¯t look so much the same like the Am-Djinn do."


    "What I was on the home realm isn''t important, seigneur," Renly demurred, continuing to work at the stain. He was using his magic on that too, Mirk noticed. Just a touch. And though he was making use of water more than any of his other elements, at least as far as Mirk could tell, his magic felt much hotter than that of Er-Izat and Am-Hazek. Much less ephemeral. As if he was accustomed to using it for making and doing rather than abstract magic or for bolstering his physical strength.


    "I suppose not. But it feels rude not to call you by your real name. Unless you chose Renly for yourself?"


    Renly didn''t argue the point. He frowned, pressing harder at the stain. "I am Li-Darat, seigneur."


    "For now, yes. But I thought being a Li-Djinn was only a temporary thing. Or that was the way things used to be, methinks. Though I could be mistaken."


    The djinn froze. Then, with a sharp inhale, he lifted his head and met Mirk¡¯s eyes rather than looking properly off to the side or at his forehead. "Did Seigneur d''Aumont send you?"


    Mirk smiled at him, shaking his head. It was a gamble. But considering everything else he''d taken a chance on that night, this seemed to be the most important. "No, not at all. I''m a friend of Monsieur Am-Hazek. If you know any of the djinn staying in London currently."


    For a second, a reddish gold light flared within the depths of his dark eyes. "Am-Hazek. That..." He sighed, wetting the handkerchief once more, after pressing the side of the bowl to warm it again. "...is not surprising. Seigneur."


    Mirk struggled to remember all the things Er-Izat and Am-Hazek had told him, the tangle of kinship lines and rivalries that made up djinn society. Again, he felt the warm, deeply ordered press of the djinn''s magic brush against his chest. Fire. Making. "Are you a Ra-Djinn?"


    The djinn¡¯s whole body stiffened, tensed, as if he was preparing to jump up and bolt. Then he let a sigh of resignation escape through his nose and closed his eyes. "Yes, seigneur. I...was once Ra-Darat."


    It only posed more questions than it gave answers. If Mirk was remembering everything correctly, it was the Ra-Djinn who were in control on the djinn home realm currently, the ones who had begun selling Li-Djinn to the humans to keep them from causing trouble. The ones who all the other djinn he''d met were opposed to, because they found it intolerable that the Ra-Djinn would sell their fellows off to humans who showed such little respect for djinn life.


    So what was a Ra-Djinn doing as a servant to an English lord, burdened with a different kind of binding magic than the kind used by Seigneur d''Aumont? It was plausible enough that the Ra-Djinn might not only sell to d''Aumont, Mirk supposed. But that raised the horrible question of whether or not the whole world was riddled with d''Aumonts, men embedded in every mage society who had no qualms against selling djinn to whoever had the necessary gold. Without asking any questions about what their ultimate fate might be. Or if the practice was even right to begin with.


    "Monsieur Ra-Darat, then," Mirk said, dipping his head. "I''m sorry for being so rude. Maybe it''s because I only learned English a little while ago, but...well. A name like Renly doesn''t seem right for a djinn. And methinks it''s better to call people by the names they like instead of the ones other people give them. I don''t exactly get the impression Lord Kinross gave you that one out of any respect or affection, though I could be mistaken."


    "There are much worse masters than Lord Kinross," Ra-Darat said, his expressions precisely controlled. Mirk thought he caught a glimpse of a reddish glow circling about the ends of his bracelets.


    "I have to agree with you, monsieur. I''m sure you''ve heard of what the K''maneda''s djinn are going through."


    Ra-Darat paused, as if waiting for something, settling back on his knees as he evaluated the results of his efforts to remove the wine stain from the front of Mirk¡¯s justacorps. "Indirectly, seigneur, I have heard of this."


    "It''s terrible. If I can feel all the magic that''s been stolen from them hanging around...euh, him, I''m sure it must be even worse for you. And he doesn''t dare bring them out into society, otherwise there''d be a scandal over how thin and hurt they are. Though I''ve been trying to do what I can for them every time he lets one of them come to the infirmary."


    Again, Ra-Darat hesitated. Then he continued, as he picked up dabbing at his coat, unsatisfied by the reddish stain still clinging to its embroidery. "He once did. Several years ago, at this point. When he was feuding with Lord Kinross. It was a show of force, I believe. Or that is what the result of it was."


    Mirk leaned forward, reflexively, though he immediately apologized for crowding into Ra-Darat''s space and sat back. "I got the impression that there was something between them. But I didn''t know it went that far."


    Ra-Darat nodded. "He was not invited into English society. He forced his way in. I hesitate to spread rumors, but I think in this case it''s appropriate, seeing as how you are new to English society, seigneur. The English were on cordial terms with the K''maneda when their representatives were men such as Lord Ksyr and Lord Percival. Although Lord Ksyr was not from among the English originally, like Lord Percival, he...understood. Lord Ksyr was a man of a certain grace. He knew his place. The present representatives, Lord Percival excepted, have no sense of where they belong."


    Though Ra-Darat was leaving much unsaid, French and English mage society were similar enough for Mirk to close the gaps. And he''d seen the point of contention arise on its own himself, out in the ballroom. None of the K''maneda who trailed after Ravensdale, who cluttered around him, always searching for an opening or an advantage, were of noble birth. They might have found wealth by sticking close to Ravensdale, by mercilessly cutting down their opponents, but gold alone was not what determined one''s standing in mage society. It could open most doors, but it left a few locked. He''d seen himself the proper way to pry those last few open. It took generations. It took service, honorable and selfless deeds that the others would benefit the most from. And it took grace.


    His grandfather had undone the first lock with all he''d done for the good of French magecraft, never asking directly for compensation, merely doing what needed to be done. Then he''d turned the key in the second with his marriage to Enora, who came from a family that was beyond reproach. It was up to him, Jean-Luc¡¯s grandson, to undo the final lock. With the benefit of further service and another propitious marriage, alongside more decades of study in courtly grace ¡ª in how to submit but never be cowed, in how to control, but never dominate ¡ª  Mirk could push open the door to high-born society for generations of d''Avignons to come.


    Ravensdale had skipped the hard work. He''d battered down the door that stood between him and high society with brute force and stolen djinn. And once he''d barged into the noble balls and parlors, rather than respecting the people he found there, he lorded over them with a brutish swagger that no amount of glamors or proper speech could conceal. Though Ravensdale was too useful to the English mages in some way that Mirk didn''t understand for them to get rid of him outright, he got the impression that none of the high-born English would raise a finger to stop anyone who might decide to rid them of their little problem. And put a K¡¯maneda who understood back in Ravensdale''s place.


    "I''m afraid that''s the best I can do, seigneur. I apologize for my incompleteness," Ra-Darat said, drawing Mirk up out of his thoughts as he rose onto his feet and stepped back to study where the stain had been from a distance. Mirk looked down at his chest. Unless one knew exactly where the stain had been, it was hard to see the remnants of it. He was certain the lighting in the ballroom, forgiving and warm, would hide them well enough.


    "Thank you so much, Monsieur Ra-Darat," Mirk said, bowing to the djinn once he''d grabbed Jean-Luc''s staff and used it to help lever himself back to his feet. "It''s a much better job than I could have ever done."Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    "Perhaps if you were willing to remove your coat, I could do more for it. But it would also take a half hour or more for the treatment to work, and I would not want to keep you away from the ball that long. I''m certain the man who accosted you doesn''t have the means to offer compensation for ruining a suit of this quality. I will speak with Lord Kinross."


    Mirk shrugged, offering Ra-Darat a warm smile accompanied by a faint projection of good-humor, reassurance. "There''ll be no need for that, methinks. I have a friend back in the City who''s even better with stains than you are. Not because you aren''t skilled, of course, but because he has an unfair advantage." He peered down into the cloudy bowl of potion water, breathing in deep. Ra-Darat''s magic had kept it steaming the whole while. Though there were all kinds of unfamiliar scents in it, there was enough bitter orange for Mirk to guess that Ra-Darat and Genesis''s knowledge of cleaning potions were at a similar level.


    "Very well, seigneur."


    "Though...please do give Lord Kinross my warm regards. I''ll do my best to thank him myself, but you know how hard it can be to get a word in with a busy man like him. And...hmm, I don''t want to be presumptuous, but let him know that if he ever wants an invitation into French society, I''d be happy to make the arrangements. Or if there''s anything else he''d like to discuss. I have a feeling we might share the same opinion on some matters."


    Not on the morality of keeping a man like Ra-Darat under the influence of binding spells, to be sure. But if striking up a friendship with Lord Kinross could make it easier for them to deal with Ravensdale, Mirk was willing to make concessions. Temporarily.


    "As you wish, seigneur."


    "If he has anything to say in return, methinks it might be best if you looked for Monsieur Am-Hazek in the London mage quarter rather than sending anything through the City of Glass''s post. He''s employed by my godmother, Madame Beaumont. Both of them can be trusted without exception."


    A troubled furrow creased Ra-Darat''s brow, just for a moment. Then his expression smoothed and he bowed again. "Of course, Seigneur d''Avignon. I will keep it all in mind."


    -   -   -


    Mirk was heartened to see that no one had challenged anyone else to a duel while he''d been away from the ballroom. But things were still not going terribly well.


    Seigneur Feulaine was a smart man; he''d made it a point to keep Laurent and Yvette well away from the K''maneda contingent still loitering in the far corner of the ballroom. But Mirk suspected that Yvette had still been hard at work undermining Ravendale''s romantic ambitions while he''d been out nevertheless.


    At the last ball, Ravensdale had danced with almost no one but Catherine, coming back to her again and again every second or third dance. At present, Catherine was being handed off from the young master from the dark magicians'' guild who had stopped to speak with them at Lord Emerson''s ball to one of the older unmarried gentlemen from the crafting guilds. Not one who had any particular interest in Catherine¡¯s hand in marriage, Mirk thought, but one who was meek enough to be bowled over by a woman as insistent as Yvette.


    She was still working at arranging more dances for Catherine, circulating among the young eligible mages with Laurent on her arm, to make it clear to them that she had no untoward intentions. To Mirk''s surprise, most of the men she floated among didn''t seem opposed to chatting with her. Either her game wasn''t as transparent to them as it was to him, or the distaste among the English for Ravensdale had to run deeper than even Ra-Darat had implied.


    Ravensdale himself was sulking over by the windows, putting on a good show of ignoring the cheerful cavorting out on the dance floor, highlighted by ornamental spells that were much flashier than those Mirk had seen the English mages put on display at Lord Emerson''s ball. Although Ravensdale had a drink in hand, he wasn''t sipping from it. Not like the other K''maneda, who were surreptitiously topping off their glasses with flasks when the servants failed to make the rounds fast enough for their liking. Instead, he was staring at Catherine, the resentment plain to be read on his face as kept track of each and every new man he had a score to settle with.


    Mirk had no desire to join the others on Ravensdale''s list. It''d be a gamble, but with Lord Kinross still keeping a close eye on Ravensdale from across the room, where he was trading quips with a group of the oldest mages in attendance, Mirk knew Ravensdale wouldn''t try anything too violent. The ball was the best chance he''d have at speaking with Ravensdale safely. And of allaying any suspicions Ravensdale might have about his motives. Fixing a cheerful smile on his face, Mirk walked across the room to Ravensdale¡¯s side, careful to keep his posture graceful, but not threatening, his grip on Jean-Luc''s staff loose. "Comrade Ravensdale? May I have a word, please?"


    Ravensdale turned his sullen gaze on Mirk, frowning down at him from a glamour-conjured height that was a good hand and a half above his own head. Mirk let the man think he was intimidated, allowing his smile to dim. "It''s not as if I can stop you. For now," Ravensdale said, flatly.


    "I''m afraid we got off on the wrong foot. You must forgive the Feulaines. They''re very...hmm, spirited? Methinks that¡¯s the word the English use¡­"


    "You seem to enjoy keeping spirited company, as you say," Ravensdale countered. "You''re the Seventh¡¯s personal healer, according to Cyrus. You¡¯ve learned to heal its monster."


    Mirk knew very well who Ravensdale meant by monster. Mirk sighed, resisting the urge to fuss with the pockets of his justacorps. Putting on a show of uselessness was one thing, but letting the genuine worry he felt show was a whole other matter entirely. "I''m a Christian, comrade. And the Lord told us to first help those who others turn away from."


    "A papist," Ravensdale said,\ with a curt laugh, his eyes flicking to something going on over Mirk''s shoulder. Percival, perhaps, considering Ravensdale''s words. "I don''t care either way, but plenty of others do. It''ll be hard going for you with the English unless you convert."


    He gave a casual shrug, turning to the side a fraction so that he could keep an eye on both Ravensdale and the ballroom. Percival was indeed glaring daggers at him over Esther''s shoulder, who also looked like she would have rather bolted than suffered through another dance with her probable fianc¨¦. "Methinks the others would take back my position if I converted," Mirk said. "Besides, I''m here to...hmm, make friends? Not become English."


    "Make friends, is it? Is that what you people call what you''re doing with Catherine?"


    The rest of Ravensdale''s barbs, Mirk had been expecting. But this new one took him by surprise, so much so that he didn''t manage to check his expression in time. "Euh...methinks I must not understand, Comrade Ravensdale. She was kind enough to get me an invitation. I''m only returning the favor by being a support to her."


    "I''ve seen how she looks at you," Ravensdale said, his voice lowering. "All smiles for you, she is. And not those nice ones she gives to the guild mages. Or those fake ones she gives us."


    Ravensdale was genuinely upset by it. Mirk could feel the leading edge of the emotion through the haze of stolen magic around his mind. And he could hear it in how his affected high-born accent slipped back into the sort that Mirk was accustomed to hearing among the English low-born fighters. When Ravensdale made threats, Mirk thought, he still had the impulse to make them in the language he best understood, even if the situation didn''t call for it. "I promise, Comrade Ravensdale, there''s nothing between us at all. My family wouldn''t benefit from marrying into a K''maneda or an English line. We''re only acquaintances."


    The coupling of two truths, one of much greater importance to Mirk than the other, seemed to grudgingly satisfy Ravensdale, for the time being. He scoffed and took a sip of his drink as he looked back out over the ballroom. "She''d be wasted on a man like you anyway," he said. "The most potential of any woman on offer this year. Best in a whole decade. She''s wasted on all of them. You need to stack like potential if you want a good son. She belongs with a chaotic dark mage."


    Mirk hardly knew what to say to this, what to make of such unabashed judgment. Did Ravensdale really think him so unimportant that he was willing to be so cruel in front of him without hesitation? Or was it some kind of threat? Either way, it made Mirk''s stomach churn to hear Ravensdale speak of Catherine in such a way, with such a domineering and proprietary air. It was clear to Mirk that Catherine''s own opinion of Ravensdale and his ambitions didn''t matter to Ravensdale in the slightest. And the fact that Casyn treated his wife and daughters in such a similar fashion didn''t bode well for any of them.


    He was spared the awkwardness of having to come up with something to say by the quartet drawing out the final strains of the present song, the couples out on the dance floor parting as the music faded. Mirk could feel Ravensdale''s resentment spike again as Catherine was led by her current partner over to the next. And he caught sight of Yvette throwing a spark of her magic onto her fan to catch his attention as she waved it leisurely at the curve of her neck.


    Mirk sighed, turning back to face Ravensdale fully as he bowed to him -- low, but not groveling. "I''ll have a word with Mademoiselle Feulaine, Comrade Ravensdale," he demurred, as he lifted his head. "I''m sure Comrade Catherine will be free soon."


    Ravensdale didn''t reply to him other than with a nod. But from the way his glamour-sharpened jaw was set, Mirk could tell it would be to his benefit to be true to his word. Mirk retreated across the ballroom, doing his best to walk to Yvette''s side at a slow and graceful pace rather than scuttling like he wanted to. Laurent was still by her side; he was so fed up with being hauled around the ballroom by Yvette that he didn''t even have the energy to scowl at Mirk as he approached. Mirk didn''t want to hope that Laurent had had a change of heart about him.


    "What did the brute say?" Yvette asked him in French, as she flicked off her translation charm. "He doesn''t look happy."


    "Good," Laurent grumbled, snatching a glass of wine off the tray of a passing servant who was doing quick rounds before the next song began.


    "It''s...not good, not really," Mirk admitted, though he did his best to keep his air of defeat from seeping into his posture, in case anyone else was watching him at the moment.


    "Dear," Yvette said, turning to her fiance with a sweet smile, her fan still undulating in her free hand. "Do you have something you''d like to say to Seigneur d''Avignon?"


    Before replying, Laurent downed the whole of his drink, making Yvette give a throaty laugh. "You handled that bastard well enough. Though I''d have handled him differently, the dress got saved all the same," he concluded with a deep sigh, as if spitting up the words had put him under great strain. "Will you dance the next number with Yvette? I need to step out. Alone," he added, quickly, when Yvette shot him a skeptical look. "Just for air."


    "Of course, Monsieur Laurent," Mirk said, bowing to both of them as Yvette held out her hand.


    "Yes! I have so much to tell you, Mirk! You were away for too long. Though that djinn did excellent work on your coat."


    They went off to the middle of the ballroom together, keeping close to the edge of the crowd of couples preparing to dance, away from the part of the floor enchanted for mage dancing. Yvette tucked her fan away into her skirts, backing away and performing a hasty curtsey to him as the song began, eager to come back close so that they could gossip. "Mademoiselle Catherine is a delight! All the men want to dance with her, even though having that brute glaring at them all night has been scaring off the shy ones. She could have her pick of them, I think, as long as they are bold enough to try."


    Mirk nodded as the dance began ¡ª a slow number, too slow to match Yvette''s usual enthusiasm, but well suited for talking. "It really is a shame that she''s K''maneda,¡± Mirk said. ¡°It''s been a trial finding men willing to take a chance on her. I''m in your debt for setting her up so well tonight. You''ve done far better than I did at the last ball. Though I''ll have to ask you to leave a few numbers at the end for Ravensdale. She''ll have a worse time if he doesn''t get a few more dances from her."


    Yvette shot Mirk a skeptical look as he led her into a sedate turn. "Are all the men you spend time with now such terrible people? It would break my heart to see you turn into one of them."


    "Oh, no, not at all. It¡¯s just this particular group, really. I''ve made excellent friends otherwise." Granted, they were all low-born fighters and healers, most of them foreigners who might be too strange even for Yvette. But she didn''t need to know the finer details of what circles he''d been moving in.


    "What you really need to do, Mirk, is to go make more excellent friends among the ladies," she retorted, flashing him one of her pointed, toothy grins. "I''d like it better if you chose a good French woman for yourself, of course, but you''ve been turning heads all night! Strike while the iron is hot. Or come back to France before our season is over."


    Mirk paused, scanning the ballroom as surreptitiously as he could. There were a few people watching the current selection of dancers at the moment, Ravensdale aside, but Mirk couldn''t tell in the hubbub of conflicting potentials and emotions if anyone was watching him in particular. "I have?"


    "Oh, yes! The ladies are very impressed. To save one of us from embarrassment with such grace instead of making a scene! And that suit of yours is catching all the eyes. But that¡¯s not hard with how dull the men here dress. Though, if you ask my opinion, whatever they have you slaving away at in that terrible City of yours is doing wonders for your stature. Your arms! And your calves! You should tell me what you''re doing so that I can make Laurent do it too."


    Mirk sighed, forcing a smile onto his face. In light of all the other troubles he''d had that night, catching the eyes of any of that season''s debutantes should have been the least of his worries. But the knowledge of where his affections truly lay made the news trouble him all the same. "I don''t think Laurent would much enjoy giving patients their weekly baths. Though the calves are mostly from a lot of walking."


    Yvette chortled, shaking her head. "But I''m serious, Mirk. You need to take advantage of things while you can. What other man here can say they hold their family''s ledgers at such a marriageable age? And who else among all these tedious Englishmen does it with such style? Most ladies would jump at one or the other. But both? You could have your pick of any of these Englishwomen. It''s a pity that men don''t get their own debuts. It''d make it all so much easier. Though I do have a few recommendations for you, if you''re interested..."


    He wasn''t. But saying so, Mirk felt, would be a bridge too far. And he might be able to learn a bit more about the web of friendships and animosity that made up English mage society in the process. That aside, if it weren''t for the fact that his heart was already set on an impossible other, gossip about potential fianc¨¦es made for a much lighter topic of conversation than dwelling on Catherine''s plight or Ravensdale still glowering away in the corner. "If you''re so inclined, I''d be glad to hear all about it."

 Chapter 77

    The dance was different from those he''d grown up with. But it was a dance all the same.


    "Report," Yule snapped, hiking up his sleeves as he backed away from the operating table. Two aides heaved a groaning man up onto it, fighting through their fatigue to keep the man steady, to keep his insides from spilling out. Yule wasn''t angry with the aides. He was eager to begin.


    "Combat healer said he got hit by the same kind of bomb as the last three. Didn''t get to him for twenty minutes. Lost more blood than the rest."


    "That''s right," Danu confirmed. She stepped into her place at the end of the operating table, reaching out to settle her hands on the man''s temples and confirm her intuition. She was a beacon of calm amidst all the pain, all the yelling. As self-assured as Yule, but not in a rush. Once her eyes shifted to black, she knew exactly how much time they had. "Get more regen potions from the cart," she said to the aides, and they both shuffled out.


    Yule set in on the gash across the fighter''s midsection like a man possessed. Not by a spirit, but by a need to know, to understand. Their patient''s innards weren''t a terrifying mess of gore to Yule. They were a puzzle waiting to be put back together. He sifted through them with his fingers rather than reaching straight away for his magic. "Bleed here, and here," he said to Mirk across the table, without looking up at him. He dug deeper, only resorting to magic once touch refused to reveal the secrets of the fighter''s body to him. "There''s one more in there somewhere. Probably further up, nicked the iliac maybe. You''re up. I''ll put make-dos on the ones I can see."


    Mirk could never keep the names of all the arteries and bones and muscles straight. But he didn''t need to. He knew what Yule meant, could feel his frustration at not being able to reach further up into the man''s midsection. He glanced over at Danu. "Only halfway, please," he said to her, before joining the dance. "It''ll be easier if he can still respond a little."


    She nodded, reaching down and pressing one hand over their patient''s heart while she kept the other against the side of his head. His groaning faded to whimpers. Danu''s emotions were faint, subtle. Especially when she drew on her Deathly magic. But Mirk still caught the edge of the feeling of relief that washed over her as she let her magic possess her, as she stepped into the half of herself that she usually kept locked up tight, so as to not frighten anyone. She balanced their patient''s soul in the space between her hands, keeping it pinned down inside of him while drawing his awareness and the flow of his blood away from his injury.


    Then it was his turn to dance.


    Mirk pressed his hands to the blood-smeared but unbroken flesh above the wound across their patient¡¯s stomach, closing his eyes and letting his mental shielding fall away. It let in all the man''s pain, but it allowed Mirk to hear him. The singing of his blood, slowed to a muddled murmur, the discordant parts of his flesh that''d been ripped apart and didn''t know how to align themselves again, though they still kept searching. Talking over one another, a jumble of half-formed tunes.


    He couldn''t name all the countless paths the man¡¯s remaining blood flowed through down the center line of his body, but he could see them. Intertwined rivers of gold and blue as clear as the edge of the sea on the horizon, grown faint and confused because of the man''s pain. Their patient was an ordered water mage; he could feel the man''s memory of his own sea in him, the smell of salt and the reek of fish, a father''s patient shouts to hold the line.


    There was something that didn''t belong mixed up in it all. A scraping, plinking sound like a shovel hitting stone, and a warmth that was too intense for the amount of golden ordered potential Mirk could sense in him. Mirk moved himself closer, hunching over the ghostly after-image of the man''s body that he could see in his mind''s eye, until his cheek was almost pressed against where his chest must be. The foreign thing was buried deep. Forced far away from the man''s major wound, worked up deep inside him, nestled in close to one kidney. It had cut a quiet and subtle path of destruction through him as it had come to rest. A shard of some kind of metal that didn''t budge at Mirk''s efforts to call to it, though he could still hear it, faintly.


    Mirk bit his lip. "Can you pull back a little, Yule? Methinks this''ll be a little tricky..."


    Yule didn''t ask any questions. He lifted his hands ¡ª though Mirk''s eyes were still closed, he could see them in his mind''s eye, the drawing away of the pool of greenish black magic hovering over the place where the man''s insides were the most snarled. It was going to take a lot of potential to reach that shard. Hopefully, this was the last of the worst-off men.


    He slipped his hand into their patient''s wound. The warmth reassured him, the hot feel of a man who was still very much alive, still fighting. Mirk allowed his mind to drift further down into the man''s body, allowed his healing potential to seep into the bleeding well of his midsection. But he didn''t draw flesh together, not yet. Instead, he only tugged on the flesh with his potential as if to begin to heal, engaging muscles that didn''t like to move on their own, making all the glowing lines of the man''s body twitch and squirm.


    Mirk needed to pulse his magic several times. But, eventually, the piece of foreign material worked itself low enough for his fingers, deep inside the man''s stomach, to grab hold of it. Carefully, Mirk disentangled himself from all the bits of the man''s body that using his magic had called close to him and set the piece of metal ¡ª from off-realm, it had to be, since he couldn''t hear it so well and couldn¡¯t call it to himself ¡ª beside his body on the operating table.


    "There," Mirk said, letting out a deep sigh of relief, as he drew most of his magical potential, healing and growing combined, back into himself and blinked open his eyes. "Can you finish up the make-dos, please?" Mirk asked Yule. "I''ll take care of the ones further up."


    They fell back into the dance. They each had their own part to play. Yule liked to put things together with needle and thread first, then made everything sure with his magic, closing the last of the gaps. A potential-saving technique, so that he could save his magic for things that couldn''t be fixed with mundane measures. That and part of Yule always cringed away from mingling his potential with that of a stranger, even if that was the nature of the healing part of his magic.


    Danu loosened her grip on the man''s soul, lifting her hand off his chest so that she could put the potions the aides had brought down his throat and into the wound in his stomach. She must have been holding his soul for twenty minutes now; it was no longer struggling in her grasp. He''d healed enough not to be in danger of dying. And this man in particular seemed not to be bothered by her Deathly presence.


    And Mirk danced too. He pressed both hands against the man''s midsection, closing his eyes once more. It was easier for him than it was for either Danu or Yule to heal injuries that couldn''t be seen, couldn''t be pinched at or sewn. It felt natural to him to dip into another person''s body with his mind and magic, comforting, everything becoming soft, yet clear. Mirk ran his potential down into his hands once more and used it to draw together what had been separated. To tie together the brightening threads of his magic coursing through his body, to help all the discordant sounds of the man''s parts join together in the chorus of life.


    Everyone sounded different on the inside, Mirk had come to realize. There was a slow and steady beat to the sound of this man''s body. His flesh hummed a steady, workable melody, one that was both solemn and tinged with hope. It reminded Mirk a little of the Easterners'' marching songs. A tune to keep the pace.


    He dragged his magic back into himself, drawing in a deep breath and straightening up. "I''ll close," Yule said, as Mirk opened his eyes. It took a moment for Mirk to chase away the dizziness that came with healing like that, to draw his mental shields back up. The pain they separated him from now was much less intense. But aching remained, a steady throbbing at the backs of the eyes that reminded him he was due for another shot of whatever drink the aides had on offer. He''d gone through his allotment of pain blockers hours ago. But the reward of helping, of doing good, was enough to make up for going to bed sore in mind and body most days. As long as whatever battle they were cleaning up after hadn''t been a total rout.


    "One from back home," Danu mumbled to herself, as she blinked the darkness from her eyes after sweeping her palm down over the man¡¯s eyelids. He''d drifted off once the worst of his injuries had been healed, though she''d probably helped ease him into unconsciousness with the touch of her Deathly magic. A trick that could be risky, but one that she was so practiced at that she did it now as an afterthought, a common courtesy.


    "What gave it away?" Yule asked, his tone dry as he put the last stitches into the wound snaking across their patient''s stomach. He retreated from the table, hands raised and bloody, and Danu slid into his place, to put on the necessary flesh regenerating paste and bandage him up. Another part of their dance; Danu was the best at bandaging. Yule lacked the patience for it, and Mirk lacked the practice.


    "Socks," Danu said, nodding down at the man''s feet. Sticking out over the tops of his boots were a thick pair of white socks, pulled up over the hems of his trousers to keep the damp and muck from getting up inside of them. Neither the man''s handiwork, nor the Supply Corps, considering the meticulous detail put into the cables in them. "That and he didn''t fight me as much. I don''t know how they can always tell, but they can tell."


    They worked in silence for a few minutes ¡ª Danu bandaging, Yule taking inventory of the supplies left scattered atop the cabinet, Mirk bracing himself against the edge of the operating table and reciting a decade of the rosary without the benefit of beads to center himself, rest up for the next round of the dance. Once Danu had tied off the last of the bandage, Yule began it again.


    "Who''s next?" Yule shouted out into the hall, looking over toward the door.


    Instead of getting an aide or a nurse, he got another fighter, this one only lightly wounded, a cut across one cheek and an arm in a sling made out of a torn-apart shirt. A shorter, thin man, pale in the face and the eyes. Sean, the captain of the Irish company that Genesis had been given command of right before the Festival of Shades.


    "That''s all the ones who made it," Sean said as he limped into the room, betraying some injury to his right leg that wasn''t plain to be seen through his clothes. "Five for the basement, two dozen for healers, and that bastard wants us out again at dawn. Thought we were done with him."


    "Who does?" Yule asked. "Dauid?"


    Sean shook his head. "Worse. Percy''s back. We''re doing support for the Third."


    "He''s back?" Mirk wiped his hands off on the front of his robes as he went to Sean''s side, lowering his shields to take better stock of his injuries. The pain in his leg and arm was nothing compared to the frustration pounding in his chest. Like something inside him, a spirit contrary to his plain and reserved exterior, was aching to burst out and rip the object of his ire to shreds. "I just saw him. He didn''t have any magic."


    "None of his own, anyway. But he''s figured out some trick so that he can nick it off other people. Got two or three of Ravensdale''s djinn with him to fill him up."


    Behind him, both Danu and Yule cursed. But Sean shrugged it off, fixing his attention on Mirk. "It''s a load of shit, but we''ll be alright. Came to tell you to leave the grunt work to this lot," he said, jerking his head at the other members of his team. "Gen came to give us a hand at the end. Took one of those exploding things to the arm. Said he''d be with us from the start tomorrow, so we''ll want him fresh, and you''re the one who knows how to fix him. Percy''s not happy about that, but a done contract''s a done contract. And we''re Gen¡¯s men first, Percy''s second. Way it works when there''s two divisions out together."


    Mirk swallowed hard, then sighed. "Where is he?"


    "Dunno," the captain replied, shrugging his good shoulder. "Off trying to get us in a better position for sunup, probably. You know how he is. Banged up arm doesn''t bother him any."


    "I''ll take the grunt work over that any day," Yule said with a snort, as two aides shuffled in past Sean with a stretcher to collect their patient and take him up to a recovery room.


    Sean nodded in agreement. "Gen said he''d try to get some of those Easterners to come with, but from what I''ve seen, half of them have been drunk off their ass or gone all last week. Any of you know where they went?"


    "Ask her," Yule said, smirking as he jabbed a still-bloody hand at Danu.


    Danu rolled her eyes, taking a rag to the blood their patient had left behind on the table while the aides carried him out of the room. "First we got stuck healing the whole lot of them at once the week before because they took that extra contract to make sure they''d all be off, and now this...it had better be some party..."


    "Didn''t answer my question," Sean said, though Mirk thought he could see the barest edge of a smile playing at his lips.


    "Danu''s going to be married this coming Sunday," Mirk said, when Danu refused to answer, despite Yule grinning expectantly at her. "Methinks it''s a very important thing for the Easterners that it...hmm, goes well? They have a lot of traditions surrounding it."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Sean cracked a full smile at that, at the way Danu rolled her eyes again and how Yule snickered. "And you didn''t invite us, Danny? Who''s going to fight for your honor against those knuckleheads if you don''t bring the lads from back home? The healers?"


    Yule made a show of deliberately wiping the blood from his hands, while Danu nodded and smirked, black flashing across her eyes. "Fancy trying your luck against us, Sean?"


    The captain chuckled, raising his good arm in defeat. "Forget I said anything." There was the sound of yelling out in the hall, followed by laughter that was out of place in the aftermath of a battle. Sean retreated halfway out the door, ducking his head past the frame. "And forget about the grunt work," he said over his shoulder, as he turned to leave, now grinning outright. "You all have bigger problems."


    Mirk did his best to keep the mood light, to surrender to the wave of good cheer he could feel advancing down the hall in the direction of the room they''d been working in all morning, mirrored by the gentle press of Danu''s happiness against his shields from behind him. But it was hard to give in, considering he''d probably need to go spend his afternoon first hunting down Genesis and then putting him back together again. And the news that Percival was back on contract, putting both the djinn and the Seventh into harm''s way, made that ten times worse.


    None of them were surprised when K''aekniv wedged his way through the doorway a minute later. Slava was right on his heels, though he remained out in the hall to keep watch rather than following the half-angel in, a bundle of spellpapers in hand. Weak elemental spells, to create the kind of magical interference that teleporting mages found it hard to work around. Danu made an exasperated noise, going to collect her things from the corner of the room, her cloak and a bag of mending that she''d taken to carrying with her everywhere since the Easterners had come back from their last contract.


    "I''m sorry!" K''aekniv said without any prompting, though the cloud of good humor didn''t lift from around him. "It''s bad luck not to do it!"


    While Yule had gone easy on Sean owing to his injuries, K''aekniv had no such defenses. Yule stormed up to him, jabbing a pair of fingers that still had blood caked under their nails at his chest. "What did I tell you about this bullshit? We don''t have time!"


    "All emergency wounded handled," came a cool voice from out in the hall. "Three fresh reserve teams are handling the leftovers."


    Emir was gone, his face buried in a collection of notes from the mages out in the field, before Yule could get a word in edgewise. The older healer threw up his hands in exasperation, though he kept his glare fixed on K''aekniv. "If I''m stuck working until midnight again because of this nonsense, you''re paying my tab for the next month."


    "There''ll be enough drink at the wedding for even you to get drunk," K''aekniv joked back at Yule, unfazed by his bad mood, as he crossed the room to Danu. "Which arm?" he asked her.


    "Left," she said, as she fastened her cloak around her shoulders. "If it takes him a while to find you, then I might be able to get this mending done in the meantime."


    While Slava ripped a few preparatory papers out in the hall to make up for the delay, causing a few passing nurses to scowl and curse at the haze of discordant magics zipping around the hall, K''aekniv scooped Danu up into his left arm. She braced herself against his nearest wing, trying to keep as much of her dignity about herself as possible, though she couldn''t quite keep a smile off her face. Though Mirk got the impression that smile was at the sudden breeze that ran through the operating room, a faint voice complaining about fire spells being the worst carried with it, rather than K''aekniv.


    As K''aekniv headed out, he waved to Mirk, who was hiding a laugh behind the sleeve of his robe. "Mirgosha! Make sure Gen gets put back together by Friday morning, huh? We need him for that contract thing Mordka''s people do."


    ¡°I''ll make sure of it, Niv."


    The half-angel clumped back out into the hall, making sparks rain off his right arm as he went, as another ghostly jumble of curses echoed through the operating room. Yule grumbled his own curses at K''aekniv''s retreating back, snatching a fresh rag off the stack on the room''s supply cabinet. He wetted it in the ewer and set in viciously on the blood left under his fingernails. "Bride stealing...what, is it still the year twelve-hundred where they''re all from?"


    Mirk shrugged. "Methinks it isn''t hurting anyone to let them have a little fun, Yule. Things are hard for everyone right now."


    "Whatever. But I''ll tell you one thing, I''d never put up with all that crap. Weddings and babies and every goddamn relative out to five degrees...I''d rather be stabbed. It''s the only good thing about being one of us," he added, shooting Mirk a pointed look from across the room. "Aside from the obvious, that is."


    "Everyone likes different things," Mirk said with a sigh, unable to keep meeting Yule''s eyes, feeling the heat rising on his neck. "Will you take care of the room? Methinks I should start looking..."


    "Go on," Yule said, giving up on his nails and dropping the rag on the floor, using his foot to swipe it over the blood underneath the operating table instead. "I wouldn''t want to keep you from your beloved pet skeleton."


    Mirk didn''t know what to say about that. He left instead, rubbing at his temples. The unyielding pace and grotesqueness of the sudden rush of wounded had been upsetting, but it had also been a distraction from how unsettled he''d felt for the past few days. It was as if every minor problem felt like a calamity, while at the same time, every spark of good fortune was touching enough to move him to tears. He didn''t know what to blame it on ¡ª the impossible knot of problems he could feel drawing tight around him, the contrast between daily life in the infirmary and all his recent forays back into high-born society, or the temperamental English weather.


    As he wove his way around aides carrying groaning patients and nurses and healers consulting over bins full of potions and dogeared ledgers, Mirk tried to make himself focus on the matter at hand. He''d check the supply closets first. Unless he was so badly hurt he couldn''t move through the shadows any longer, Genesis always tried to patch himself up. And for an injury as severe as the one Sean had described, the odds and ends Mirk kept in their quarters wouldn''t be enough to fix things. Mirk was on his way up to the fourth floor ¡ª Genesis always went to the lesser-used closets before resorting to the ones on the lower levels ¡ª when he was stopped by a sudden hand on his arm.


    "Euh, pardon, did I..." he trailed off, looking down at the person who''d drawn him to a halt. A woman in a plain brown dress and a tightly laced gray bodice, a black shawl hiding her hair and face. But the trailing edges of her underskirt were adorned with fine white lace. And her shoes had carved silver buckles.


    "If you have a moment, seigneur, I''d like to have a word."


    "Bien s?r, madame. Please, let''s go up to the fourth floor. I was just on my way there."


    Mirk let Comrade Commander Margaret continue to keep a tight hold on his arm, as if she was leaning on him for support, to give them both better cover for their ruse. There wasn''t much need for it at the moment; all the other healers and helpers were too busy to pay much heed to him or the common woman clinging to him. But it was better to be safe than draw undue attention from an accidental sideways glance. A tense silence hung between them all the way up to fourth, until Mirk had shown Margaret into an empty overflow long-term patient room, engaged its wards, and locked the door.


    Margaret pulled back her shawl, facing Mirk on her feet instead of going for either the room''s chair or bed. She looked haggard, Mirk thought. Haunted. Only his fatigue kept him from reaching out to her with his senses, though the impulse rose up in him nevertheless. "What''s happened, Comrade Commander? Is something wrong with the potion I gave you?"


    She shook her head, once. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, as if she''d been crying. Or yelling. "No. It''s Catherine."


    "Catherine?"


    "I received a formal letter of courtship today," she said. "The third since the last ball. The first two were from a journeyman and a master in my father''s former guild. But the last..."


    Mirk didn''t prompt her. He simply waited, watching her expression harden as she clasped her hands tight at her waist. To keep herself from doing what, he couldn''t be certain.


    "Casyn brought it himself. The first real interest he''s shown in either Catherine or Kali in months." Margaret lowered her voice even further. "It was from the Comrade."


    He was familiar enough with the K''maneda by then to know what that meant. The letter of interest had been from Ravensdale. But even Margaret, in that tense situation, in the heart of the City, didn''t feel safe speaking his name. "I...I''m sorry, Comrade Commander," Mirk said, dipping his head into something that wasn''t quite a bow. "This is my fault. I should have been more¡ª"


    "No," she snapped, with a sharp shake of her head. "I knew this was coming. I was a fool for thinking I could avoid it."


    "What do you mean?"


    "The man set his sights on her before she was even sixteen," Margaret said as she abruptly crossed the room, going to its chair and sitting down in it. She maintained her grace even while in such distress, Mirk noticed, lowering herself into it properly and neatly arranging her skirts before speaking again. "The K''maneda offers girls some training at the Academy, out of tradition. A formality. Catherine had more potential than most of the boys. They were all pleased to see her leave for the Glass Tower. That was when he became aware of her. And he has been watching ever since."


    "He said something about her potential at the last ball," Mirk said, sitting down on the foot end of the bed to keep from standing over Margaret.


    "Her magic is well-suited to his. His own magic, not the magic he takes from the djinn." Margaret clenched her fists in her lap, unable to look up at him. "A prime opportunity for him to make himself a few new officers. Sons obey without question."


    "What can I do to help, Comrade Commander? Is there someone I can speak to on her behalf? One of the Grand Masters, or the other commanders..."


    "The only way out for her is a different marriage. To a more powerful man. One with more magic, or more resources." Steeling herself, she glanced over at him, just for a moment. "I''ve heard that the present Grand Master of the French dark magicians'' guild has yet to wed."


    "That''s true," Mirk said, slowly. For some reason, trying to arrange something between Catherine and Lazare Rouzet was as galling as the thought of her being tied to Ravensdale. Perhaps because of what had happened with his family, or because of the way Seigneur Rouzet had looked at Kali during the meetings of the Circle her and Catherine had accompanied him to. Or because he knew full well that Catherine had no desire to wed a high-born mage at all.


    "Anything has to be better than that beast," Maragaret said, cutting into his thoughts. "Anyone. He''s worse than Casyn, even."


    Mirk hesitated. He knew that Margaret would refuse him, but something in him still wanted to speak up for Catherine¡¯s genuine interests. He felt like he would be betraying her, somehow, if he didn''t give voice to them. Mirk knew that Margaret had no reason to respect or trust him, and that the suggestion might ruin what little of either he¡¯d gained over the past few months. But the look in Margaret''s eyes, the powerless rage, was so close to the frustrated way that Catherine had surveyed her prospects at the last ball that he couldn''t remain silent. "There''s...another man I know of."


    "What? From the Circle? I thought the other members were too old. Even for circumstances like this."


    "No. Has...Catherine been going out more lately? Helping with her father''s horses more than usual?"


    Warily, Margaret nodded. "Yes, she''s been at the stables often. To avoid her father, perhaps. He doesn¡¯t care about his horses unless he¡¯s looking to run one in a race."


    "Methinks she''s...made a new acquaintance there. Who shares her interest in riding."


    The anger flared up in Margaret again. For the first time, Mirk saw what tied her to Kali, despite all their other differences and disagreements ¡ª he''d been on the receiving end of that dark glare enough times to know it by heart. "Is this man from the Fourth?"


    Mirk shook his head. "No, the Seventh."


    "The Seventh?"


    "The man who takes care of Comrade Commander Dauid¡¯s horses."


    Mirk couldn''t tell whether this was better or worse than Catherine speaking with a man from her father''s division. "He must be an officer, then."


    "Ah...no, not yet. Though I''m sure he''ll climb quickly. He comes from a place where much of their training in magic has to do with mastering horses. I''ve heard that Comrade Commander Dauid is very pleased with him."


    Margaret''s eyes narrowed further. "He''s not even Scottish? A Scots I could reason with..."


    "I''m afraid not. He''s never been very clear about where it is...what was the word..."


    "He''s a Russian," Margaret said, flatly.


    Mirk winced. "No, he''s very, euh, clear about not being that. He was part of something called a host, like the angels. A...Cossack? Methinks that''s the word..."


    "And what crime did he commit to make him come here?"


    "None, Comrade Commander. From what I''ve heard, it was because he didn''t want to become a farmer."


    This news didn''t lighten Margaret''s frown any. "Farming, at least, is an honest living, despite it being a very poor one. No, I would very much prefer if you''d speak to Seigneur Rouzet about attending the next ball instead. I will not let that man ruin her life. Even if going with this...stranger would keep her from him, her life would be ruined all the same."


    Mirk knew better than to argue with Margaret further. Not then, not with the news of Ravensdale''s plans for Catherine and Casyn¡¯s satisfaction with them fresh in her mind. Though he couldn''t feel any of her emotions beyond the protective haze of defensive magic she kept around her mind, Mirk understood her position.


    Even a noble lady could only reach so far, so high. And making sure that her daughters married well, were spared whatever hardships she herself had gone through, was the one power within easiest reach. To have that hope, that small measure of power threatened was unbearable.


    "I''ll write to my friend in the Circle as soon as I leave here for the night, Comrade Commander,¡± Mirk said, that time with a full bow, as he got up off the end of the bed. ¡°I had been thinking of other ways to bring the French and the English together. I suppose inviting Seigneur Rouzet would be part of that. He''s shown great interest in the English. Methinks I won''t have to ask him more than once."


    "Very good," Margaret said, rising back to her feet. One corner of her mouth cricked up in a grimace and her hands twitched at her side, but she refused to press at her pain. Something in her back or her leg, from the little Mirk could feel beyond her magic and through his mental shielding.


    "Is everything well with you, though, Comrade Commander? The potion?"


    "Everything will be fine as soon as Catherine is rid of that horrible man."


    She walked out on him then, without either saying a formal goodbye or waiting long enough for Mirk to dash ahead of her and open the door. Rather than protesting, Mirk let her go. As he listened to her head off down the hall, Mirk lifted his hands to rub at his temples again. There was dampness welling in the corners of his eyes, tears drawn up out of frustration at the impossible situation Margaret had presented him with. At least there was no one there to see him so embarrassingly upset over it. He really needed to get more rest. Or at least sort out what was causing his emotions to be so overwhelming as of late.


    There had to be a way to make Margaret see reason. Though Mirk had the uncomfortable feeling he''d have better luck getting rid of Ravensdale than he would changing a mother''s mind on who was a man fit to marry her daughter.

 Chapter 78

    A cold hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into it, letting out a sigh of relief it felt like he''d been holding in for months.


    Long, delicate fingers slid backwards, cradling his head. It seemed impossible that there could be so much care in them, that such a small gesture could mean so much. But that was what set him apart from the rest, what always made him feel so cherished whenever he touched him ¡ª he never did anything lightly. Everything was deliberate. And that made it so easy to read his intentions that it didn¡¯t matter that he could feel nothing other than static, other than the press of skin on skin. He didn''t need to feel his emotions. There was no missing what those lips pressed against his own meant. Though they were softer than he''d been expecting.


    He''d been expecting to feel terror. Horror at being left so exposed, with all his clothes stripped away again, so that he could be evaluated, inch by inch, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He''d thought the weight pressing down on him would make him panic. But it didn''t.


    It was because there was no taking in it, he realized, as the lips moved lower, to the side of his neck. No demand. There was only giving. The unblinking stare that accompanied it, the one that felt five times heavier than the body pressing down on him, wasn''t searching him for faults, for weaknesses. He was only watching to see which touches provoked which responses. Memorizing cause and effect, like he always did.


    That knowledge made it easier to succumb to the heat rising up the length of his spine, the delight that put a shake in his hands and made his toes curl. Being ashamed, hesitation, showing proper restraint, none of it would get him what he wanted. Though he could feel his cheeks burning, he let the sighs and gasps that bubbled up in him slip past his lips freely. He voiced all of his approval, mirrored it with desperate hands pressing down hard on his back, keeping him from pulling away. A gesture to show that closeness was everything he''d always wanted.


    The lips moved lower still. Searching, testing. Tracing clavicle and sternum, seizing on the soft vulnerability of a nipple before skipping down every rib. It was strange that those words that so often eluded him came to him then, when every other last bit of sense had already left him. Maybe it was some unspoken communication between them, the knowledge that those had to be the words he was thinking of when he inventoried his responses. Not out of coldness, but out of accuracy. It was important, after all, to remember exactly which bone he needed to kiss over to draw the first groan up out of his chest.


    He cursed how short his arms were, how much less of him he could reach the lower he moved against him. He made up for it by wrapping his legs around him, by arching up against him. Encouraging. Pleading, the sounds that escaped him growing more desperate as his inexorable descent continued. There was salvation hidden in this, somewhere in between the way he grasped his hips to keep them steady and how carefully, how deliberately, he mouthed at the inside of his thighs. There was a way to forget. A way to begin again.


    An ardent declaration of love would have made his heart race. But the question, almost teasing in its flatness and practicality, made it feel fit to burst. Maddening.


    I assume you¡¯ve washed?


    Yes. Of course. Always, in the delusional hope that something like this might happen every time he crawled into bed alone but woke up in the middle of the night aware of that faint, motionless presence beside him.


    A sharp inhale. Ah. You made use of the good soap.


    Part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, that any man could be in such a position and be thinking of soap instead of a more urgent matter. But most of him wanted to seize him by that senselessly long ponytail of his, somehow still impossibly neat, despite all the pawing he''d done at it, and guide him to what he wanted.


    Diligence...will be rewarded.


    And he was rewarded. Rewarded with what he''d been aching for, what he''d been dreaming of, what he''d tried so hard never to think of but found himself returning to again and again when his mind was left too idle for his own good. It was better than he''d been expecting. He''d been expecting the guilt to overtake him, the shamefulness making it impossible to enjoy what was freely given.


    But instead, there was only relief. Joy in that surrender, of finally letting go. An ecstasy he''d only ever felt before in those who came weeping with gratitude to throw themselves to the floor before the altar in the abbey''s church, in awe of the forgiveness, the grace they''d been given by the unknowable.


    Again, he felt a cold hand cup his cheek.


    Wake...up.


    That''s what was happening, wasn''t it? What had been happening, ever since that cold night in October, when he''d first realized the way things were between them. He was waking up from some slumber he hadn''t ever realized he''d been caught in, a blindness to possibilities that had always seemed too distant to be real. He''d never really understood all the emotions he''d felt pass between people before then, carried along by an ardent press of their hands or a certain lingering glance. He''d felt them, but he''d always thought there was something wrong in him, something missing that meant he''d be able to feel those things in others, but never in himself.


    It wasn''t that. He''d only been looking in the wrong places. Awake, but still asleep. Eyes closed to where real beauty lay.


    Wake up.


    Beauty was in the unexpected places. In the immaculate regularity of a body he''d memorized every sharp line of, every subtle contour, both inside and out. In the unnaturally slow beat of a heart that opened agonizingly slow, revealing a complexity he knew he''d never be able to completely understand. In a stack of freshly ironed robes and a precisely made bed and a note in a hand so steady and sure it was like print instead of script, laying out for him exactly what needed to be done. There was beauty in all of it. Care in all of it. Though, admittedly, the beauty before him at that very moment, drawing gasps out of him with every press and slide, was much more visceral.


    Now his cheek was being pinched, ever so slightly. It made a grin spread across his lips. Though...weren''t there three hands now? Was it some kind of magic?


    Wake up. There are...only eighty minutes.


    Eighty minutes was more than enough time. At least for now. But he was sure they''d find a routine. Certain they''d come back to it. It''d be penciled in, just like the bath and the tea and everything else. It was a little galling for it to be scheduled like that...but if he got eighty minutes, that made up for it well enough.


    Another pinch. I do not wish to resort to magic. Wake...up.


    But if he wasn''t using magic, where was the third hand coming from? It had to be the shadows. But it all felt too solid to be the shadows, too real, he could smell his soap as if his body was nearer to his face...


    And then Mirk woke up, just as Genesis asked him to for the fifth time that morning.


    He bolted upright in bed with a sharp gasp, both hands slapping at his own chest. Genesis took a quick three steps back from the bed, frowning. "Are you...well?" he asked Mirk.


    As instantly as the strength had come to Mirk, it flowed back out of him and he flopped backward into the nest of pillows he''d been curled up in. A strange, hazy sort of dizziness lingered, however. He felt distinctly out of sorts as he stared up at the unblemished ceiling of the bedroom. Not just because of the dream, not just because of who had woken him up, but because of something else on top of all that. That same nagging pressure that had been nudging his emotions to their extremes for the past few days.


    Mirk heard the whisper of a single, cautious footstep. "Do you require assistance from the other healers?"


    Mustering his resolve along with the most unconcerned smile he could manage in his half-awake state, Mirk made himself look back over at Genesis. He instantly regretted it. For some reason, Genesis wasn''t wearing his ubiquitous bag of a high-collared uniform shirt and loose trousers, or even his odd, foreign sleeping clothes. Instead, he was wearing the same formal uniform ¡ª precisely tailored to his thin frame, every irresistible angle and curve of it outlined in silver piping, long legs left fully exposed by its short coat and highlighted in agonizing detail by its tall boots, laced painfully tight and polished to a perfect gleam ¡ª that had awakened all this madness in him to begin with.


    Mirk''s throat went so dry at the sight of it that his attempt at an excuse came out in a croak rather than with a breezy, unconcerned laugh. "Euh...no, I''m fine, methinks I must have just been very tired...are...is something happening today, messire?"


    Genesis stared down at him from the bedside, confusion plain to be seen in the blankness of his expression. "Yes. It is...the wedding. I am to deliver the guests to the village by ten. In...eighty minutes."


    The wedding. How could he have forgotten? It''d been all anyone had been talking about all week. He really must have been exhausted to have slept so hard that it escaped his mind. Though, it wasn''t as if there was much space left in it at that precise moment for anything other than an insistent voice clamoring for him to turn his gaze lower instead of forcing himself to keep it fixed on the slight frown that''d come onto Genesis''s face. "Oh! Right...I''d set an alarm..."


    "Yes. You slept through it. Three times."


    "I''ll be there in a minute. The clothes should..."


    "Are prepared. As are your usual...materials. The powders and curlers."


    Mirk tried to think back to last night. He''d spent it at the tavern, entrenched at the bar beside Sheila, Yule, and Danu, trying to settle Danu''s nerves. Not over the prospects of being married to the love of her life, but over meeting Mordecai''s legion of family members for the first time. As the only healer in the Twentieth who had experience with family matters, it''d been up to him to reassure her that Mordecai''s relatives would be so happy to have him wed to someone he cared so deeply for that the care would transfer to her as a matter of course. His explanations hadn''t quite worked on their own. By the time they''d all parted ways after midnight, even Sheila, whose vampiric metabolism was barely affected by plain liquor, was tipsy.


    Which partially explained the fizzing in his mind. But didn''t explain the feeling of tension that was stealing over him, of untapped energy, a need to do and make and, most importantly, cling, despite still being so dizzy that he didn''t trust himself to sit up again yet. "Did I...?"


    "No. I thought it prudent to arrange them for you when you ignored your alarm. As we only have...eighty minutes."


    There wasn''t any reason for Genesis to be so concerned with punctuality, really. Mirk thought he should have known by then that any time the Easterners gave was the vaguest estimate rather than a definite starting point. But there was no taking that concern out of Genesis. When he was asked to be somewhere, he was always precisely on time, regardless of whether the person who asked him cared whether he was ten minutes or even an hour late.


    It was hopelessly endearing. The same way that there was something marvelously tender in his thinking to arrange his things for him, even if it was only because Genesis hated being late and he''d watched Mirk ready himself for enough meetings and balls to know that he tended to dawdle and forget where he''d put things.


    "Methinks I won''t need everything...Danu said it''s supposed to be casual...so, euh, methinks you really don''t need to, euh, wear that either...if it''s too much trouble..." he said, hazarding the barest sideways glance at Genesis and his formal uniform. Mirk felt like if he had to spend all day staring at him in it, he''d combust before the vows were exchanged.


    "K''aekniv told me that it would be...inappropriate for me to wear my normal clothes. This is the only alternative."


    Genesis was right, of course. Mirk cursed himself, silently. He should have seen this coming, should have acted high-handed for once and had the London mage quarter tailor he''d stopped by on Wednesday put together something decent for Genesis to wear too. Something that wasn''t grim and black, completely out of place at a wedding. And that was looser.


    "Oh. Well...I suppose..."


    "I must continue taking the others to the village," Genesis said, while Mirk was still grasping for something sensible to reply with. "Will you be prepared in an hour?"


    "Yes! Yes, of course," Mirk said. He sat up, to prove to Genesis that he was serious. "I''m getting up. I just...euh..."


    His body felt all wrong. He could feel the flush burning up his cheeks, his hands were shaking underneath the bedclothes. And though he wasn''t about to check outright, not with Genesis still looming over him, he got the impression that it would be a bad idea to throw himself out of bed at that exact moment.


    "The weather is warm," Genesis said, flatly. "If you are already...overheated, I would advise for you to take that into consideration. K''aekniv has voiced his complaints about it. And you share certain...constitutional similarities."


    Mirk wanted nothing more than to disappear down into the mattress, the burning in his face growing worse. "Thank you, messire..."


    Though the commander still seemed wary of his claim that he was about to get up, his dedication to timeliness didn''t allow him to linger. "I will return in an hour. I would...prefer if you were ready by then."


    Then he turned on his heel and left. Walking out the door for once, instead of vanishing into the room''s shadows. Rather than prudently looking away, Mirk watched him, and was subjected once again to a fine display of Genesis''s inhuman grace and proportions, highlighted by that uniform that''d been both the bane and greatest highlight of his existence ever since he''d first set eyes on it. Once Genesis had shut the door behind himself, Mirk groaned and let himself flop backwards into the pillows once more.


    It all made sense now, with the mention of the unseasonably warm weather. It was so obvious that Mirk felt like an idiot for having missed it the past few days. Spring had finally arrived, fully, without any chance of it backsliding into winter once again. And with it had arrived his springtime illness, the inverse of the one that came every autumn and left him trapped in bed for a week.


    The springtime illness had always bothered him much less than the autumnal one. He wasn''t left frozen and nearly dead; he was possessed by the earth''s energy, overflowing with it, capable of doing and feeling more during that too-short span of a week or two than he was any other time of the year. He was always insufferably hot instead of freezing to death. He could barely sit still, at least once that long first sleep that always started things had passed.


    And then...there was the rest of it.


    That part had never bothered him before, not really. It''d concerned him the first few times, when he''d been younger and unaccustomed to feeling emotions besides his own, and then only those of the older brothers and sisters who''d surrounded him at the abbey. But his first forays into the village closest to the abbey, followed by his return to polite society, had helped illuminate things well enough. Along with Father Jean, who had noticed his worry and had explained what he could away with his usual simple reasonableness.


    God had commanded the Earth and everything on it to be fruitful; humans were no exception. But God had made human bodies long before humans had settled on rules to best manage that command, so the two weren''t always necessarily in alignment. A boy of fourteen was far too young for the sober responsibility of a wife and children. There was no harm in expending that excess potential when needed ¡ª better to take care of it responsibly, on one''s own, than convincing a similarly afflicted girl who was also far too young for those responsibilities to bear them before the time was right.


    It hadn''t troubled him then. Mirk had always viewed it as a minor inconvenience, a passing trouble that was more than worth having the ability to get a full month''s work done at his studies within the span of a few days or not risk falling asleep in the middle of the endless luncheons and parties that went along with the spring social seasons. It was like having a cold and needing to excuse himself on occasion to blow his nose, or having a stubborn blister that needed to bandaged fresh every morning. Nothing to fret over or feel guilty about. A fact of life, an extra burden for which he''d been amply rewarded by being able to feel both the Earth and others more clearly.


    But things had changed. It didn''t feel like something pushed on him from the outside now, like having to lean into a strong wind to make headway or hunching his shoulders against a strong rain. That energy, that insatiable need, was coming from within. And every bit of it, every fiber of his being, was fixed on the attraction he already spent so much of his energy denying. Ignoring. Forcing down, for the good of a place in the world that would allow his family to prosper and a friendship that he couldn''t stand the thought of losing.


    Mirk stared up at the ceiling, the burning on his cheeks and in his chest unrelenting, and sighed.


    Providence made no mistakes. This was just another test he''d have to endure as best he could. Meant to teach him something, meant to make him atone for his mistakes. He could get through it. He needed to get through it.


    And he needed to get out of bed and manage himself, before Genesis came back and left him with no choice but to shuffle to the bath wrapped up in half a dozen quilts to hide the condition he was in.


    - - -


    He made it in fifty-five minutes by the time on the clock in the common room bookshelf. Which left him with five spare minutes to try to compose himself further, to try to do something with his hair and double-check the supplies in the satchel he''d bought along with the new coat and breeches and boots. A bag less careworn than what he carried them in when in the City, but not so extravagant that Mirk thought anyone would give it a second glance.


    Exactly five minutes later, Genesis reappeared, right while he was in the middle of refilling his bottle of potion against stomach cramps from the kit on the desk. He managed not to spill it everywhere when he inevitably jumped at the click of the door and the flicker of black and silver in the corner of his eye. Instead, he only laughed, tiredly, as he recorked both bottles and tucked the smaller one back into his bag. "I know, sixty minutes. I''m nearly ready. Methinks this will come in handy for something, anyway..."


    For once, Genesis didn''t argue with him. Instead, he surveyed the labels on the other bottles scattered across the desk that Mirk hurriedly piled back into the satchel. "On this, we are...in agreement. I have been informed that there is some manner of...traditional fighting that is involved in all of this. After the ceremonial aspect."


    "Is there? I''ve never been to this kind of wedding."


    All the weddings Mirk had ever been to were extravagant, sprawling affairs, ones that started in a church and ended with the most luxurious balls he''d ever attended. A prime chance for the new couple to show off exactly what their combined familial wealth could afford. If it hadn''t been for the matter of his springtime illness, he would have been looking forward to something more subdued, more heartfelt. More intimate.


    "Nor have I. Mordecai is the first of them. And the last for some time, I anticipate."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "Oh?"


    "I am only obligated, by tradition, to attend those of my...k''asrat. The basic unit of battle formations. Pavel and Ilya seem disinclined toward engaging in this practice. And K''aekniv is...K''aekniv."


    Mirk couldn''t help but laugh again as he turned to face Genesis, slinging his new satchel over one shoulder. "Methinks he''d be more than happy to get married, but...well. Only God knows when the right person will come along."


    Genesis frowned as he surveyed Mirk''s new outfit. "That is not your usual finery."


    "Danu said that it wasn''t supposed to be formal," Mirk said, smoothing a hand down the front of his waistcoat. He''d borrowed it from the violet suit he''d worn to Lord Kinross''s ball. It went well with the casual, short dark green coat he''d chosen from the pile of ready-mades at the tailor''s. Most likely the common attire of some guild''s servants or apprentices. But a fresh set of crystal buttons ¡ª Mirk found he enjoyed them better than metal, watching the light pass through them while trying to think of what to say or listening to a conversation he had no role to play in ¡ª and a few alterations said tailor had been more than happy to put in on the spot for a sizeable tip, made it look a little less common, in his opinion.


    Then there was nothing left but finding suitable breeches, a wonderful warm golden brown, and a trip down the street to find the pair of boots he''d meant to buy back in winter, and his casual outfit was settled. Mirk wasn''t certain whether the fact that Genesis had noticed the step down and was frowning over it was a good or bad sign.


    "It suits you."


    Mirk''s head jerked back up in surprise. The frown hadn''t gone, despite Genesis''s words. And he was still surveying him, as if searching his coat and breeches for some thread or button that was out of place. Odd. Mirk laughed it off with a shrug, adjusting his satchel on his shoulder. "Methinks if even you like it, messire, then I must have chosen well."


    Breaking off his critical gaze with a dismissive wave of his hand, Genesis headed for the door. "We''re meeting the remainder at the South Gate."


    He hurried to catch up, not wanting to be left in the uncomfortable position once more of watching Genesis walk away from him. As he hurried along at the commander''s side through the streets of the City, quiet on a Sunday morning, Mirk couldn''t help but notice that they were attracting attention. Not that it surprised him any. Genesis usually managed to avoid attention from others by sticking to the shadows and by wearing the clothes of a common fighter. Despite his inhuman height and uncanny grace, as long as he didn''t put on any airs, he was more than capable of moving about the City unseen even when he did skirt into the daylight, provided his magic wasn''t playing about him in a threatening manner.


    But in the City, like everywhere else, a good set of clothes could do wonders for a man. And Genesis was in too much of a hurry, too distracted by whatever tasks Mordecai and the others had set him to, to bother with keeping himself mostly out of sight. It was probably a good thing that Genesis was too distracted to notice all the men touching their hats as they hurried to get out of his way, or all the women turning a curious eye after him, wondering at who this decidedly arresting Comrade Major could be. After the third time a man swept his hat clean off his head and bowed his apologies to Genesis as he jumped out of his way, Mirk could hold it in no longer. He burst into laughter.


    "...what?" Genesis asked tersely, sparing him only the barest glance.


    "You¡¯re very striking in that outfit, messire. Methinks everyone will be wondering where that handsome officer they all saw on Sunday went when you go back to wearing your usual clothes."


    Genesis hissed his frustration, moving reflexively to draw the shadows to himself. But he cut himself off before he could call them over from the City''s alleys and lean-tos, settling for giving one of his snapping and clicking curses instead as he doubled his pace.


    "Is there a reason you can''t use your magic?" Mirk asked, now forced to jog alongside him to keep up. Thankfully, spring did wonders for his stamina in areas other than the most inconvenient ones.


    "I''ve taken two-hundred fifteen people to the village already this morning," he said. "And...several sledges of material besides."


    "But aren''t Mordecai''s family all teleporting mages? They must have someone they could spare to help."


    "He is testing me," Genesis grumbled. "As if...my dedication is in question..."


    "Mordecai is?" It didn''t seem very much like the Mordecai he knew, all jokes and schemes and good cheer.


    "No. His...grandfather."


    Before Mirk could question Genesis further, they''d rounded the last bend before the South Gate. Apparently the danger of invoking Genesis''s wrath was enough to make everyone arrive on time for the final transport. There were only Danu''s guests left, the other healers, though the lady of honor herself was nowhere to be seen.


    Mirk found himself grinning again at the sight of the trio, out-of-place among the other pedestrians in their wedding finery, such as it was. It was odd seeing any of them in anything but robes and smocks. But what they''d chosen suited them each perfectly ¡ª Eva in a plain gray dress and matching bodice, her hands tucked in the pockets sewn into its voluminous sides rather than hidden in the front of her smock like usual, Sheila in a long, belted white garment that was half dress and half shirt, stitched all over with intricate designs in cheerful primary colors. And Yule in the finest set of dark green dress robes Mirk had ever seen him in, tailored tight at the waist.


    He called out a greeting as they approached, breathlessly, scrounging for all the air he could as Genesis came to a sudden halt and scanned the plaza in front of the South Gate, his frown deepening. "Where is...K''aekniv?" the commander asked.


    "How the hell are we supposed to know?" Yule asked, as he crossly tossed his hair, freshly curled and full of a fragrant pomade Mirk could smell even from a distance, over his shoulders. "He''s your problem."


    "I thought Niv would have been the first one through," Mirk said, as he managed to get some of his breath back. K''aekniv had been in the thick of the preparations from the very beginning, coordinating supplies and people in every spare moment he could get.


    "He has...been through several times. But he told me he had one more task." Genesis said. He was listening intently. Mirk could tell by the slight tilt to his head that he was opening himself further to his inhuman senses than usual. He and Sheila moved at the same time, turning toward the ring road that ran into the plaza from the east. A few seconds later, K''aekniv appeared, a barrel braced on each giant shoulder, bright red in the face and running at full tilt. A Watch patrol was less than a dozen paces behind, swords drawn.


    "Typical," Yule said with a scoff.


    Genesis sighed. "If you would all...move closer, there will be less chance of you falling into the Abyss."


    "What are the exact odds of that?" Eva asked, as she grudgingly moved close enough to the commander to take hold of his coat sleeve. Both Sheila and Yule followed suit, grabbing onto the barest edges of his fine dress uniform that they could bear. Mirk knew better from experience. He took hold of Genesis''s free arm outright.


    "With K''aekniv involved, below five percent. The Abyssals are always...interested in him."


    "Get ready!" K''aekniv shouted out, not slowing down at all as he drew closer. If anything, he found a fresh burst of energy upon seeing them waiting for him and stepped up his pace.


    It seemed to Mirk like Genesis had been through this ordeal several times before. Rather than calling back to K''aekniv, Genesis shifted his stance, pressing it lower and wider, as if preparing to jump. Or bracing for impact.


    That was exactly what happened. K''aekniv barreled across the plaza and straight into Genesis, head on. Before the shock of the impact hit Mirk through the commander''s thin body, the world around him dissolved into shadow. There were a few moments of coldness, a familiar hissing static pressing hard against Mirk''s mental shields. Then all of it cleared away, leaving them somewhere completely different. A vale full of green and dappled sunlight.


    Mirk was too distracted by what followed their passage through the Abyss to take it all in ¡ª the arm he was clinging to went tense, and Genesis stumbled back a few paces, coughing and brushing an annoyed hand down the front of his uniform coat. Eva, like the other healers, had let go of him the instant their safety was assured on the other side of the Abyss.


    "See!" K''aekniv crowed with a triumphant laugh, dropping both his barrels to the ground. "I told you I''d be on time! No problem!"


    "You were...two minutes late," Genesis hissed. He was rubbing at his chest, where K''aekniv had ran headlong into him. Reluctantly, Mirk forced himself to let go of his arm. He always wanted to cling to Genesis a little after the commander moved him through the shadows, leaning against his body and magic to settle his nerves. But that wouldn¡¯t do, not with his springtime affliction making him want to do much more than cling.


    K''aekniv ignored Genesis, instead grinning around at Mirk and his fellow healers. "Look at you! I told Danny it wouldn''t matter if she only had five or six people. You healers always look so good that you make all the rest of us count less."


    "I don''t need flattery from you," Yule replied with a snort.


    The half-angel ignored him too. Apparently K''aekniv was in such high spirits that every negative comment directed his way bounced off him, just like he had off Genesis''s chest. But Mirk decided to at least preserve some semblance of good manners on behalf of the rest of the startled and sullen crowd around him, meeting K''aekniv''s enthusiasm with like. That aside, he always found K''aekniv''s cheerfulness hard to resist. "You look very nice too, Niv," Mirk said, returning his grin.


    "Ah, this is nothing," K''aekniv said. He was wearing the same sort of uniform as Genesis, something that had most likely come along with him moving into the commander''s old position in the division when Genesis had been promoted to major. Only K''aekniv hadn''t bothered to take his to the tailor, or hadn''t had the spare money for it. His coat was hanging open, too narrow in the chest to accommodate the muscles there, overdeveloped from carrying the weight of his wings. And his breeches were bound to split before the day was over, too small around to contain the thickness of his legs. His boots had already come untied. "For a village wedding, I should have a good kosovorotka. But where am I supposed to get something like that in the City? You make do."


    "It is...supposed to be worn closed," Genesis said, frowning down at K''aekniv''s untied bootlaces.


    "It doesn''t fit! Next time, get me to whatever mage you got to make his look good, Mirgosha," K''aekniv joked at him, his grin growing wider. "If they can make even him look like he has an ass, then everyone will be coming for me once it fits right."


    Mirk¡¯s awareness of his springtime affliction came surging back at K''aekniv''s offhand comment, the heat rising fast on the sides of his face. But K''aekniv was already distracted by a yell from behind him. It was a short man in clothing that put Mirk in mind of the male variant of what Sheila was wearing, albeit looser, more practical and less finely embroidered. He and K''aekniv fell into conversation in a language Mirk didn''t understand, debating over the barrels K''aekniv had brought along with him. But the half-angel paused for a second, to give them all orders, before Mirk could activate the vocal translator pinned to the collar of his coat or the standard one he''d put on the inside of his sleeve.


    "Abram says you need to finish moving the benches," he said to Genesis. "And Danny should be over there somewhere, in that big red tent. You should all go see her, I think. She''s not used to all this. It''d be nice for her to see more people she knows. We can''t go help. Tradition."


    Genesis was moving off, clicking curses to himself under his breath, before K''aekniv even finished speaking. The half-angel and the newcomer followed after him, still arguing over the barrels that K''aekniv had hefted back up onto his shoulders. Which left Mirk and the other healers alone, in a strange valley in the woods, with very little guidance.


    "You come from this part of the world. What do we do?" Eva asked Sheila with a sigh, after casting a reluctant look around at the vale. Its thick vegetation had been beaten back to accommodate the wedding festivities from the look and the feel of things. Mirk had the impression that it''d all be overgrown once more within a week or two. The air was thick with the scent of unseen flowers, tinged with the distant aroma of cooking. And magical potential. Something that blocked the vale off from the rest of the world and encouraged the life within its confines to flourish. It didn''t help make the flush that''d come over Mirk¡¯s face fade any faster.


    "I don''t know what the teleporting mages do," Sheila said, her nose wrinkling at all the sunlight. She lifted a shawl that was pinned around her shoulders, using it to hide her face and head from it. "They''ve always been separate. Like us, but not like us. Even the ones who worked in the City back when it was over here didn''t live in it."


    "Niv said something about a tent?" Mirk suggested, looking around the clearing Genesis had pulled them into through the shadows. There was a narrow track through the forest that crowded the edges off the vale off to their left. "We should go look, methinks. Danu was so nervous about coming here..."


    "Better than the alternative," Yule said. There was yelling off in the distance in the direction that K''aekniv and Genesis had gone in.


    Together, they squeezed themselves down the narrow path through the woods, Mirk reluctantly taking the lead, as he and Eva were the only ones with vocal translators. And the others agreed, Eva included, that he''d be better at negotiating with whoever they found at the end of it than she would.


    After a walk of only a few minutes, they came to a second clearing, in which a giant red tent had been raised. Though calling it a tent might have been too generous ¡ª it was more like a canopy, only its top made of a sturdy canvas, its sides consisting of some kind of light linen that let most of the light and air through. Mirk could hear conversation from inside, though it was much more subdued than he''d been expecting, considering the high spirits the Easterners always got into whenever an opportunity to celebrate presented itself to them. Then again, all the Easterners Mirk had met thus far had been men.


    Mirk approached the narrow opening in the front of the tent, debating how to present himself. There was no door to knock on, no one standing nearby, ready to receive visitors. Would it be right to bow? None of the Easterners seemed to know what to make of bows, not until one of the ones who''d been in the City longer told them it was what you needed to do to impress ladies or get officers to stop bothering them. A smile couldn''t hurt, Mirk supposed. And he''d have to trust the vocal translator to morph whatever polite terms of address he used into something Mordecai''s family and friends could understand.


    A few feet from the door, a tall woman appeared in front of him. Not from within the tent. She''d teleported in, with that characteristic slap of air Mirk was accustomed to. Although hers was much more subdued than Mordecai''s. She folded her arms and blocked the way into the tent, frowning down at him in a way Mirk suspected was meant to intimidate just as much as the cleaver tucked into her apron did.


    But Mirk kept his wits about himself that time ¡ª he''d been subjected to enough disapproving frowns to last a lifetime by then, and from people with things much worse than a cleaver to use on him. He thought he could feel Danu from somewhere behind her inside the tent, though her mind felt different than usual. More subdued. Worried. "Pardon my rudeness, madame," Mirk said, flicking the vocal translator on as he dipped into a modest bow out of habit. And he switched into French, trusting the translator to make better sense of his deference in his native language than it did his English, in situations where it paid to be polite. "But could we see Mademoiselle Danu, please?"


    The woman studied all of the healers for a moment, then fixed her attention back on Mirk. "Who are you?"


    "We''re Mademoiselle Danu''s guests, from where she works. Healers. If you''d like introductions, I''d be more than happy to give them."


    "No men are allowed," she said, surveying them all again. There was a note of hesitation in her voice, as if she couldn''t decide whether any of the four of them were men to begin with. Thankfully, Yule either didn''t catch the slight, or decided not to rise to it, for once.


    "I''m sorry to trouble you," Mirk said, deciding to bow again to try to curry some goodwill, since she hadn''t reacted badly to the first. "But Mademoiselle Danu doesn''t have much family of her own to support her in this time. We''re the closest thing, though we''re not all women. I promise, we don''t mean any harm. And we''re all healers. We know how to respect a woman''s modesty."


    The woman opened her mouth to reply, her frown deepening. But before she could, an uncharacteristically weak voice called out from inside the tent, echoing as if it was run through a translator. "Please, Aunt Hannah? Until my mother comes, at least?"


    Her expression softening, the woman looked back into the tent over her shoulder. Another voice from within made the frown vanish, with a tired laugh. An older, lower voice, wheezing slightly. "The boy has a point. It''s not her fault she''s been given men instead of sisters to heal with. Let them be."


    Grudgingly, the woman stepped aside. Mirk bowed to her a final time before entering, pushing aside the flimsy linen wall to make way.


    Mirk only went a few steps before he was drawn up short by the marvels inside the tent. A multitude of chaises and benches filled it, of all colors and description, some familiar, some doubtlessly from foreign places that only a teleporting mage could get to easily. Most of them were vacant at the moment, but it''d clear they''d once been filled with people. Their handiwork remained in their wake ¡ª mounds of sewing, clothes and daily linens, a table full of the enchanted goods necessary for a mage of worth to start a household.


    There was a whole table full of baked goods laid out to rest, covered by more thin fabric to keep off any rogue flies. The product of the stove that''d been hauled into the far corner of the tent, though Mirk wasn''t sure how the smoke from it was vented, since he hadn''t seen or smelled any outside. All he could smell inside the tent was the baking, the warm odors of cinnamon and nutmeg.


    Danu was at the center of it all, standing as a pair of older women sat in chairs on either side of her worked at the final modifications to the dress she''d been put in. And it did feel more like something she''d been put in, not something she''d chosen. Danu preferred practical things, with only light touches of whimsy. The red gown she wore was crawling with enchantments and spells, all stitched in white, in patterns that bore a passing resemblance to those on Sheila''s dress. The main difference being that Sheila''s didn''t have any magic worked into it. Danu flashed them all a relieved smile, some of the tension going out of her shoulders as the color returned to her face and eyes. The older women adjusted their stitching to compensate.


    "You look wonderful!" Mirk said, snapping out of his daze and going to meet her. He''d have embraced her, if only the women weren''t still sewing away on either side. Or if the woman who''d teleported in to block their way hadn''t followed them into the tent. She''d doubtlessly disapprove of a man other than Danu''s future husband hugging her on her wedding day, no matter what the older woman who had granted them permission thought.


    She wasn''t one of the two working on the dress, Mirk realized, when she spoke up again. She was tatting lace in a chair nearby, her plain black clothes standing out amidst all the gaily colored finery in the tent. Mirk was surprised he hadn''t noticed her before. Then again, there was so much to look at inside, it was hard to take it all in at a glance. "Hard to believe our Mordka could get someone like her, isn''t it? Good thing there''s no reason to go to England these days. I''ve had enough ugliness for five lifetimes."


    Two older women laughed to themselves, but didn''t quit their work. Danu sighed, but it seemed to Mirk that she''d grown accustomed to comments like this. Though they still made her a little uncomfortable, Mirk could tell, from the way her face paled and her eyes darkened. At least Danu didn''t have to worry about any of them taking offense, though Mirk didn''t see how the old woman who was tatting could tell none of them were English.


    Yule approached next, surveying Danu''s wedding splendor with his usual critical eye, though there was a softness in his expression that wasn''t usually there. "Is everything all right?" he asked Danu.


    She nodded, checking to make sure her hands were free before tapping off the vocal translator worked into the heavy silver necklace she wore. None of the ladies seemed to take offense at her attempt at making some privacy for herself. Mirk was certain they must have noticed. "It''s just a lot all at once. I haven''t seen Morty or anyone else I know at all yet. Some sort of tradition. Niv brought me before sunup, and I''ve been in here since."


    "Your parents aren''t here yet?" Sheila asked. She was looking at the stitching on Danu''s gown ¡ª with her inhuman senses and her knowledge of that part of the world, she probably knew what some of the magic was for.


    Danu shook her head. "I wrote a letter to my mother telling her about how to get in. But...well. Da''s work is complicated. And Deaths run on their own sense of time."


    At the mention of death, all the women in the tent made some kind of arcane, warding gesture. Danu rolled her eyes, but none of the other ladies seemed to take offense.


    "Death comes for everyone," Yule said, both in an attempt to lighten the mood and in defiance of all the superstition on display. "You''re no exception. Unless Mirk''s scared him off."


    "I''m sure they''ll come," Mirk said, offering her a reassuring smile. "Methinks this place is just hard to get to. It''s even been wearing Gen out."


    Danu tried to manage a smile in return. But it came out wan and tired. "I suppose..."


    "Is all of this yours?" Eva asked. She was studying the household utensils on a table nearby, pans and ladles and needles, fascinated by whatever enchantments she could sense on them.


    "It''s the household''s," Danu said. "That''s how things work with Morty''s family, I think. When a man gets married, his family gives his wife everything she''d need in advance. Some sort of dower? I don''t know. I didn''t grow up with any of this. When my parents got married, they just decided, and that was that."


    "Very generous," Eva said, leaning in closer to get a better look at the needles.


    Eva wasn''t trying to hurt Danu''s feelings, Mirk could tell. She was just a weaker empath, and one who was easily distracted from emotions by arcane matters. But Danu sighed all the same, a quiet, lost sound, as if she didn''t know what to do with all the fine things that she''d been burdened with by practical strangers.


    Sheila stepped into the gap, offering her a toothy smile that the two women working on Danu''s dress looked askance at. "We''ll keep the pretty things and sell the rest off to the washerwomen and the Supply Corps. You''ll have enough gold to start your own division."


    The comment startled a laugh out of Danu, brought the life back into her. "The first round will be on me when we get back, then."


    Abruptly, the old woman who''d been tatting in the corner set down her hook, hopping down out of her chair and sweeping the stray fibers off her dress with a few firm pats of her gnarled hands. She was quite short, Mirk noticed, unlike the woman who''d been guarding the door. Or the two women working on Danu''s dress. Maybe she was a more direct relative of Mordecai''s than the others. Or he took after her more. "You can do what you want now," she said to Danu, as she went over to the fire in the stove to stoke it. "That''s your part of the rites. Fair is fair. Half and half."


    A confused look crossed Danu''s face. But it cleared away instantly at a sudden crash from the little clearing outside the tent, an out-of-place thunderclap on a warm, sunny spring day. It was followed by a hollow, rattling racket and the jangling of chains, along with a command in a low, haunting voice that made the translation charm on his wrist smoke. Though the words and the tone they were said in were at odds with the shiver that ran, unbidden, down Mirk''s spine. "Easy! Take out the tent and you won''t get your apple, Gwenn! Be a good lass for uncle, will you?"


    "I don''t see the point in all this fuss, Donn," a higher, tired voice retorted. One that the charm didn''t resist nearly as much. "We''re hours late."


    "I''m always on time! Besides, we have to kick up a fuss, snapdragon! We only get the one chance to impress."


    Forgetting the two women working at her dress, Danu bolted for the door, her face gone white and her eyes gone pitch black. With delight rather than worry that time, her happiness impossible for Mirk not get swept up in for a moment, despite his shields and the weakness of Danu''s empathy. "A Dheaid¨ªn!" she yelled, ripping her way out of the tent,


    "Sweetpea!"


    Mirk shot a questioning look at Yule. The older healer shrugged, adjusting the shoulders of his robes while the women gathered in the tent all made their usual wards against bad luck, the one in the corner laughing to herself as she kept poking at the fire. "Guess her father found the place after all."


    Curious despite the odd sense of foreboding radiating from out in the clearing, Mirk followed Yule out of the tent to greet Danu''s parents.

 Chapter 79

    Danu''s parents were an interesting pair.


    Mirk was accustomed to mismatched couples. His own father had towered over both he and his mother, taller even than K''aekniv, though he hadn''t been as broad in the shoulders and had much larger, thicker, brilliant white wings. He had radiated angelic composure and determination, with a face as fine and hard as a marble sculpture, always either in a wall of gleaming silver armor or the skin-tight undersuit he wore beneath it, which made it clear to anyone who saw him in such a state of undress that his whole life had been devoted to serving the Empire as a fighter. Meanwhile, his mother had been just like he was, though a bit more delicate ¡ª small and warm, always laughing or teasing, save for on the rare occasion someone aggravated her temper. Usually his father, with his stubbornness. The main trait they shared, along with their confidence.


    In certain aspects, Danu''s parents weren''t as far off from each other, at least physically speaking. They were both tall and arresting, her mother as broad as her father was narrow. But her mother was grand on a merely human scale, whereas her father eclipsed the bounds of the human form. The skeletal giant, towering at least two heads above what Mirk could remember of his own father, would have come across as something out of a nightmare, his eyes dark pits into eternity, his grin having far too many teeth, had he not been sniffling to hold back tears as he marveled down at Danu in her wedding gown. His emotions finally getting the better of him, her father reached out and wrapped Danu into an embrace, ignoring the way the magic sewn into her dress sparked and hissed at his Deathly touch.


    "I can''t believe it!" he crowed as Danu squeezed him tight in return, also ignoring the magic crackling between them. "My sweetpea''s getting married!"


    "Deaid¨ªn, don''t be so mushy," she scolded back at him, though she kept clinging to him nevertheless.


    Though her mother''s smile was warm, there was also a hint of exasperation in it. Mostly over the magic and how it was making the grass start to smoke. As if she was long accustomed to this sort of trouble, she lifted the hem of her wispy gray robes and stamped the beginnings of a fire out with the sturdy boots that''d been hidden beneath it while her daughter and husband continued to gush at one another.


    "That dress! Your hair! You''ve gotten so big! Oh, I can hardly stand it!"


    "I missed you too, Deaid¨ªn."


    Behind them, a pair of skeletal creatures that might have once been horses looked on resentfully, one of them leaning over and nipping at the back of Danu''s father''s rough-spun black robes. Her mother, ever mindful, conjured an apple with a flick of her wrist and fed it to the thing to bribe it into settling. Though the beast clearly ate the fruit, Mirk couldn''t tell where it went. If he looked too hard at the creatures, or at the buggy they were hitched to that was also made entirely of bones, Mirk''s eyes started to water.


    Danu''s father finally released her, if only so that he could continue to gape at her dress. "I''ve never been so happy." He pressed a thin hand over his mouth, overwhelmed with joy. Mirk wasn''t surprised he couldn''t feel a trace of it pressing up against his shields, but the warm adoration of both Danu and her mother more than made up for its absence. "My little garden together again," he choked out, once he trusted himself to speak once more, turning an admiring eye toward his wife, who was finally getting a chance to take a look at Danu for herself.


    "That''s excellent runework." She leaned down, plucking at one of Danu''s trailing sleeves and peering at the embroidery on its cuff. "I''ll have to give my regards to your husband''s family."


    Mirk could clearly see both their influences in Danu. Her mother had Danu''s same ruddy, curly hair, freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose atop an equally rosy complexion. And she had the same air of calm sensibleness that served Danu so well with her patients in the infirmary. But Danu had her father''s narrowness too, not to mention the darkness and pallor that came over her when she reached for the Deathly part of her magic. Her inability to resist the endearing charm of things she found to her liking seemed to come from her father too.


    At the mention of Mordecai and his kin, Danu glanced back over her shoulder at the tent. They''d all filed out of it, the ladies of Mordecai''s family included, though the woman in black was only emerging just then. None of Mordecai¡¯s kin felt terribly surprised by Danu''s parents, or the skeletal coach behind them. Though none of them looked like they wanted to draw too close to it either. Instead, Danu met them halfway, stepping out of reach of her father, who was on the verge of sweeping her up into his arms again. "Everyone, these are my parents, Donn and Laoise."


    Danu''s father surveyed them all with curiosity, head tilting to one side, though he made no other move to acknowledge them. Her mother bridged the gap, making a gesture that fell somewhere between a bow and a curtsey. "I''m sorry we were late. Thank you for helping Danu."


    "Death comes on his own time," the old woman in black said, with a dismissive wave of her gnarled hand.


    The comment made Laoise sigh and Donn perk up. "Exactly!" he said, beaming down at them all. It was an odd expression coming from someone with so many teeth, both unsettling and charming all at once. "That''s what I keep telling everyone, anyway. Are you all related to Danu''s husband? The living really do come in such wonderful variety..."


    Danu shook her head, looking up at her father. It put an edge of giddiness in her smile to see him so approving, even if not everyone gathered outside the tent had received her parents as warmly as she had. "No, my friends from the City are here too. The ones who work at the infirmary, anyway. But there''s..."


    "Her husband''s grandmother," the woman in black cut in, before Danu could tell her father her name. "And that''s what it''s important for you to know."


    The other women who''d been helping Danu prepare for the wedding followed the first''s lead. "His grandmother''s sister," the shorter of the two women who''d been embroidering Danu''s dress said.


    "And her cousin," the other one said, at least trying to pull a smile onto her face.


    The woman with the knife tucked into her apron wasn''t so accommodating. Her arms were folded again, her frown back in place. "Her husband''s aunt."


    Donn wasn''t put out by any of this in the slightest. He laughed. Or rather giggled, as he brushed his long snarl of uncombed, stringy black hair off over one shoulder. "I should have known you''d marry into a family full of clever people!"


    "At least the women are," Yule muttered under his breath. Mirk nudged him in the side, but the older healer only rolled his eyes. All the sentiment flying around the little clearing in front of the tent had to be wearing on Yule¡¯s nerves. It wasn''t his favorite sort of emotional atmosphere. At least when he wasn''t two bottles deep at the tavern.


    If Donn had heard Yule, he didn''t mention it. He rambled on instead, peering closely at the older women. "Don''t give Death your name so that he can look you up in his book, yes? You wouldn''t be in mine anyway...had a run in with old Veles on the way here...such a spoilsport, getting all puffed up because I didn''t let him know I was dropping by..."


    Thankfully, Danu was too cheered and relieved by the arrival of her parents to pay either Yule or the older women much heed either. She moved on smoothly, indicating each of Mirk''s fellow healers with a face-splitting grin. If it hadn¡¯t been for Donn¡¯s extra teeth, it would have been identical to her father¡¯s "And the rest are healers. Eva, Sheila, Yule, and Mirk."


    Eva scraped together a stiff curtsey; Sheila only grinned back at Danu, with the benefit of the teeth Danu lacked. Yule nodded, grudgingly, as if he didn''t want to attract too much attention to himself. Mirk performed the proper bow and decided to take the lead again, speaking for all of them, since none of the others seemed inclined. "Enchant¨¦, seigneur, madame. I''m sorry if the translation charm doesn''t give the right titles. I''ve never had the honor of meeting such an impressive family before."


    "Mirk''s the only one with any manners," Danu explained, over a renewed bout of her father''s giggling. Though it had a certain nervous tone to it that hadn''t been there before.


    "I''m glad to hear the rumors aren''t as bad as I''d heard. You all are so lovely for helping! I''m sure Laoise would have been able to help with the dress, but I would have messed it all up. Oh! That reminds me, sweetpea..."


    Donn turned back to the skeletal carriage, rummaging around underneath its front seat. It was made of curved, broken-apart rib cages arranged to be as yielding to a traveler''s seat as possible. Though extra comfort was added by a pair of cheerful red and yellow cushions that had flowers stitched onto them by a clumsy, inexpert needle. "Ah! Here it is! I''ve been working on it for weeks!"


    When Donn turned back around, he had a crown in hand. Of sorts. Like the carriage and its restless beasts of burden, it was made of bone. Though at least the ones in the crown weren¡¯t from former humans, its centerpiece the skull of some kind of fox or cat. All the pieces were tied together with bits of vine and grass, and bright yellow dandelions had been worked into the design, to fill in all the gaps. Reverently, though he couldn''t keep the grin off his face, Donn placed it atop his daughter''s head.


    Mirk found himself grinning too, his eyes watering at the force of Danu''s tenderness as she adjusted the crown. "Deaid¨ªn, you shouldn''t have..."


    "It''s perfect! Now we can match!" With an arcane gesture, Donn lifted his hands to his own head. A much greater, more menacing crown of bone appeared on it, its centerpiece the skull of some sort of beast, a wolf or a bear. There weren''t any flowers in it. Though Mirk did notice then that Donn had a few dandelions strung around his wrist in the manner of a bracelet.


    Laoise wasn''t as oblivious to the stone-faced reaction this new addition to Danu''s wedding finery provoked from Mordecai''s kin. She offered them an apologetic shrug. "I''d be happy to help where I can with the preparations," she said. "I''m grateful for everything you''ve done. I would have come earlier, but the teleporting magic I know doesn''t reach past ¨¦riu. And Donn..."


    "Death can''t be concerned with the things of the living, I know," the woman in black said. "Doesn''t matter. Our Mordka is getting married anyway. And once they make their first jump together, you have the same duty to him as we do to her. So the duty started a day before it had to. What''s a day, anyway?"


    "It depends on who you ask, I suppose," Laoise replied, watching with a distant sort of warmness as Donn fussed with Danu''s crown.


    The old woman in black snorted. "But if you want to work, I''ll put you to work. The baking''s done, but the cooking isn''t. How many of you people are good for that?" she asked, turning a skeptical eye on the healers.


    Mirk once again was forced into taking the initiative, as the rest of Danu''s guests exchanged equally skeptical looks among themselves. "We''d be happy to help however we can, madame," he said. "Though you might have to give us some instructions, we''d be glad to learn."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Speak for yourself," Yule grumbled.


    "Come on, then. Not Danu. She stays. And she can keep her daddy too," Mordecai''s grandmother said under her breath to herself, as she began to walk, stiff and slow, down a path through the undergrowth opposite the one they''d all come down to reach the red tent in the small clearing.


    "You''re right, Mirk. The K''maneda already have a reputation as freeloaders," Eva said, following after the woman in black. "If all their cookware is enchanted like the things they''re giving Danu, even the worst of us should be able to do something." As she passed Yule, she knocked him in the shoulder, to emphasize her point.


    "I can do the garlic trick," Shelia said, grinning at Eva''s back. Eva''s shoulders stiffened at the mention of it and she hurried to catch up with Mordecai''s grandmother. "Everyone likes the garlic trick."


    Though Mirk had been the one to offer up their help in the first place, he hesitated. The joy radiating off Danu, mirrored in her father''s excited rambling about how he''d collected the dandelions in her crown from all their favorite graveyards, including the one where Danu had picked the ones that made up the bracelet on his wrist as a girl, was unmistakable. Yet there was something in it that made his chest ache. And made him feel very alone, despite having come with all the infirmary healers he was closest to and the Easterners besides.


    He was knocked out of his thoughts by Danu''s mother, who paused as she passed by him, looking down at him with unconcealed curiosity. "So this is Mirk d''Avignon. I''d have thought you''d be bigger..."


    "Euh, pardon, madame?"


    "Nothing. We should go before the others do anything terrible. I''ve already had enough of it for one day," she said. Then she flashed him a smile that didn''t quite reach her eyes before slipping off down the path through the vale''s overgrown forest.


    Rubbing at the steadily growing ache in his chest, Mirk hurried to catch up.


    - - -


    "I shouldn''t have bothered with the good robes."


    They were all seated at the front of the rightmost legion of benches that''d been piled into the vale''s largest clearing, close to the canopy under which the wedding ceremony was going to take place. It was made of fabric similar to that of the red tent in the smaller clearing where they''d last seen Danu, breezy and light, though the bridal canopy was white underneath more of the ever-present red embroidery. Mirk had been relegated to the seat furthest from the aisle, beside Yule, to keep him away from Donn. Though Danu''s father refused to say anything directly about it, Mirk was able to sense from both his nervousness whenever he addressed him and the worried looks his wife shot him that their magicks were too incompatible for Donn¡¯s comfort.


    Mirk leaned over to look at what Yule was still picking at, nearly an hour later ¡ª a sauce stain on the front of his dress robes. "Methinks I might have some cleaning potion in my bag..."


    "Don''t bother," Yule huffed, even as Mirk reached under the bench for his satchel. "It''s not like I have anyone to impress anyway. Whoever decided the beard makes the man deserves the rope."


    The older healer was glaring off at Mordecai''s side of the clearing. All of the men seated there, crammed in shoulder to shoulder across the benches in front of the women, had beards, aside from those who were just approaching the gap between boyhood and manhood. They were traditional among eastern teleporting mages, K''aekniv had explained, during one of his many trips over to the cooking fire to sneak bites from the platters all the women were assembling.


    A young man was only allowed to start growing a beard once he''d teleported around the whole of the Earth, along one of their countless smuggling passageways kept hidden from the guilds. Since no one wanted to be mistaken for a failure at the familial art, no one forsaked the beard. Mordecai was the rare exception ¡ª he''d left his family before he''d had a chance to go on his circuit, and after joining the K''maneda, he''d done most of his teleporting off-realm. That aside, the thick beards the men of his family favored, some reaching nearly to the waist, weren''t to the tastes of the ladies in England.


    Or Yule¡¯s, apparently. Sheila smacked him in the shoulder as she teased him, grinning. She¡¯d been in unnaturally high spirits the whole morning, which had only served to keep most of Mordecai¡¯s kin from coming close to any of the healers. "More for me, then."


    "You like hair in your dinner?" Yule retorted.


    "There are other places to bite, you know..."


    "I think it''d be a wiser choice to limit yourself to the K''maneda," Eva said, leaning over so that they could hear her without her needing to raise her voice above a low whisper. Even then, it was hard to hear her over the crowd. ¡°We are already making a poor impression.¡±


    Not that Eva had helped. Her constant questions about the enchantments on the pots and pans they¡¯d been set to work over had made most of the women they¡¯d spent the morning working beside clam up. But Mirk couldn¡¯t fault her for trying to find common ground in her usual fashion, by showing interest in foreign magic that could be put to use on her own surgical tools.


    Yule turned to look over his shoulder ¡ª while most of the K''maneda in attendance were technically more Mordecai''s friends than Danu''s, they''d been put on her side of the aisle for the sake of trying to balance the two sides out. Yule shook his head as he turned back around, folding his arms over his chest, conveniently hiding the stain. "Nothing but Easterners. Thanks, but no thanks."


    The exceptions to that unspoken compromise were seated on the frontmost bench on the opposite side of the clearing, second in from the aisle. K''aekniv, Ilya, Pavel, and Genesis. K''aekniv was fighting to button his uniform coat, complaining the whole while about it being too small and too hot. And about Ilya and Pavel being bastards for not telling him that they knew where to get their hands on better clothes. Pavel was trying to help him, despite complaining right back at him, though Ilya had drifted off, preoccupied by something off in the trees behind the bridal canopy. They were both wearing clothes closer to those favored by Mordecai and his family, though the embroidery and the placement of the front fastenings on their shirts were different, offset to one side, like on the K¡¯maneda¡¯s formal uniform. Pavel forced the coat closed across K''aekniv''s broad chest only for a second. Once K''aekniv let out his breath, it sprung back open, its silver buttons popping off and rolling away into the grass.


    Genesis was the only one of the four K''maneda on the other side of the aisle who was silent and still. However, it wasn''t in the commander''s nature not to stand out. The benches were built to human scale. He was stuck in the undignified position of sitting with his knees up close to his chest, unwilling to sprawl into the space of his neighbors like K''aekniv. And his attempt to keep himself from reaching a terminal state of annoyance by reading a book was probably making the men behind him even more curious and confused than the others'' griping. The men were constantly shuffling places to take a closer look at Genesis, though none of them were reckless enough to slide into the open spots that were within arm''s reach directly behind him.


    Mirk couldn''t blame Mordecai¡¯s kin for not getting close. He thought it''d be best for him to keep his own distance as well. Albeit for a much different reason.


    A summons from a horn called the guests to attention, blown by a man standing beside an older man beneath the bridal canopy, a priest or an elder, judging by the embroidered shawl over his shoulders and the towering red hat on his head. Mordecai''s grandparents got up, his grandfather leaning on the shoulder of his grandmother, shuffling off down the aisle back to the rear of the clearing. Danu''s parents followed their lead. A hush fell over the clearing, broken only by birdsong and the sound of the wind through the trees.


    It really was pleasant, Mirk thought, having a wedding outdoors, especially on a such a fine day. He turned his face up toward the sun hanging high above the clearing, closing his eyes. A church was the proper venue, of course, and he''d been to plenty of fine weddings in them. The done thing among the French mages was enchanting their stained-glass windows with illusions that shifted the usual depictions of the saints into those of the bride and groom.


    But the clearing had a holy feeling all its own. One that was much more earthy and much less orderly, but suffused with the same steady thrumming of tradition, of belief. Of faith in something grander, which the wedding was a small, but crucial part of. When the band hidden behind the canopy began to play at a signal from the elder, filling the clearing with the melancholy strain of fiddles and the beat of a single drum, Mirk decided to turn off the translation charm pinned to his sleeve.


    The words weren''t important, not then. Everything that needed to be understood could be felt.


    Mirk didn''t banish his shields. But he did lower them most of the way, letting the hundreds of pinpricks of emotion from his fellow guests into his mind, allowing himself to be buoyed along in their flow. Affection, excitement, impatience, a few faint traces of boredom and discomfort. A harmony that rose and fell in its own rhythms, an intricate dance that mirrored back each part of the ceremony.


    A rush of pride swelled Mirk''s chest when Mordecai first appeared, teleporting underneath the grand canopy at the front of the clearing with a slap of displaced air that rattled the benches. His grandfather appeared beside him, a firm hand on his shoulder, and a moment later Donn snapped back into existence as well, reeling and bewildered but still perpetually amused, holding on to the back of Mordecai''s shirt. White embroidered with red, the inverse of Danu''s gown. An aching tenderness forced the air right back out of his lungs as Danu went to the canopy on foot, her head crowned with bones and flowers held high, arm in arm with Laoise and Mordecai''s grandmother.


    Then came the lull of the rite itself. Mirk coasted on the emotions of the guests nearest him as they each took their own meaning from the words the elder read from a book as big as a cartwheel. Eva was fascinated by how the book''s pages turned themselves; Yule was chafing at the mere whiff of religiosity. Sheila was distracted by how the warmth was making the scents of those around her stronger. And from all the way across the clearing, Mirk could feel the drone of K''aekniv''s boredom, echoing those of the more experienced wedding-goers in the crowd, making his own eyelids heavy.


    The sun beating down on him, the warm security of so much happiness and so little bitterness, didn''t help Mirk stay awake. Only the earth rioting beneath him helped balance out the relief he felt at knowing his prediction had been true, that all of Mordecai''s kin were so overjoyed to see him married that they didn''t mind that Danu wasn''t at all what they¡¯d been expecting.


    His spell of drowsiness vanished when the ceremony reached its high point. The first jump. Mordecai took hold of Danu''s hands, eagerly, and with a slap of displaced air somehow even louder than the one he''d arrived with, teleported them both back out into the sunlight. Though Mirk didn''t know it was what was called for, he found himself jumping to his feet along with all the other guests, clapping along to a jaunty tune the band behind the canopy launched into.


    The guests poured out into the aisle, young and old, K''maneda and teleporting mage alike, the strongest young men coming together to lift the couple up onto their shoulders. Danu and Mordecai didn''t walk to the next clearing over, to their reception. They were carried together on a wave of love so strong that Mirk found himself clutching his chest and pulling his shields back up against the force of it.


    And in the wake of that love, inside the quiet of his own mind, Mirk was horrified to find that he didn''t find his own gladness, his own excitement waiting for him. Instead, there was a biting coldness, a hollow gap where some light had gone out. It made him gag and reel, until Yule took him by the shoulders and asked him what the hell was going on. It brought a glimmer of warmth came back to him, grounding Mirk well enough for him to cough and muster up a smile and give the excuse that it hadn''t been a good idea to lower his mental shielding so far in the first place.


    Yule didn''t seem convinced. But he was too distracted by the mad rush after the happy couple toward where a feast was waiting in the next clearing over for everyone to interrogate him. His fellow healers were carried with the rest of the crowd toward it, while Mirk thumped back down onto the bench and tried to sort out what was wrong with himself.


    Mirk wasn''t certain how much time passed while he sat with his eyes closed, head turned toward the sun again to coax more warmth back into himself, trying to understand. Of course he was happy for Danu. He was glad to be there, to see how everything and everyone had come together. Mirk knew it in his head, but didn''t feel it in his heart. Something was in the way. But what could cause such a disconnect, could cut so wide of a gap?


    From somewhere behind him, Mirk heard a frustrated sigh. Shaking his head to clear it, Mirk turned to look.


    Most everyone had left the clearing by then. Genesis, as always, was the exception. The commander was a few benches away from him, standing with arms folded, glaring at the tail end of a long line of people snaking through the woods over that stretched all the way to the bridal canopy. Or maybe he wasn''t glaring. Genesis wasn''t fond of bright light, and he hadn''t dragged out a hat yet to protect himself from the sun.


    "Is something wrong, messire?" Mirk asked him.


    "This will take...an hour. At least."


    "What will?"


    Genesis glanced down at him. "If you are not otherwise occupied...I would prefer your assistance with this task."


    Rubbing his eyes, Mirk surveyed the clearing. There was no sign of the other healers, or of any of the Easterners Mirk knew. Most of the people standing in line were Mordecai''s kin. Elderly couples, leaning on one another and talking in low voices. "Euh...of course, messire. But what¡¯s the task?"


    "...negotiation."

 Chapter 80

    Even when it came to a social custom Genesis didn''t understand, the commander''s internal sense of time was infallible. Judging by the angle of the sun overhead and how drunk the young men on the other side of the second large clearing were, they''d been waiting in a line a full hour before they had the opportunity to convey their well-wishes to the happy couple. And give them their wedding gifts.


    "Would you like me to go first, messire?" Mirk asked him in a voice too low for any eavesdropping human to hear, already unbuckling the flap on his satchel.


    Genesis only nodded, looking down his nose at the elderly couple ahead of them. They''d been chatting with Mordecai''s grandparents for a good ten minutes. Mirk recognized the old woman who was currently browbeating Mordecai''s grandfather as one of the pair from the bridal tent, his grandmother''s sister. Mirk hadn''t yet turned his translation charm back on, but he understood by feel what was going on.


    He could feel the chagrin bubbling off Mordecai, mirrored to a much less obvious degree by his grandfather. Though centuries must have passed since Mordecai''s grandparents'' wedding day, his grandmother''s sister still hadn''t come to terms with the fact that she''d settled for what she considered a reprobate.


    At least his grandmother didn''t seem bothered by any of it. She laughed along with her sister¡¯s jabs while grinning pointedly at her husband. "What are their names, again?" Mirk asked Genesis, in the same low voice. "Mordecai''s grandparents?"


    "The grandmother is...Zora. The man is Abram."


    It was probably a futile endeavor, but Mirk felt he had to ask. "What are their titles?"


    Genesis adjusted his odd spectacles on the bridge of his nose as he thought. The commander had caved to circumstance after spending a half hour baking underneath the unrelenting sun. He¡¯d made use of his magic just long enough to pull his ugly, flat-brimmed hat and darkened spectacles with the side-baffles out of the shadows. Mirk wished he''d just stuck to the hat. With the spectacles hiding his eyes and half his brow, it was more difficult than usual to judge what Genesis was thinking by his jumbled-up expressions.


    At least having Genesis¡¯s eyes out of sight meant that the restless heat still gnawing at the back of Mirk''s mind had abated a little. There was something about being locked in his clear-eyed gaze that put Mirk''s heart in his throat under the best of circumstances. The exuberant springtime that reigned in the teleporting mages'' vale would make it all but unbearable.


    "It has been...several centuries. But they were both once officers in the Fourth. I believe comrade will suffice."


    "Both?" Mirk took a harder look at Zora, who had finally stepped in to mediate things between her sister and her husband, drawing the quilt she''d brought as a wedding gift across the table and encouraging Abram to admire it. Mirk had assumed Zora must be a powerful mage, but he''d thought that women had always been barred from all the divisions other than the Twelfth.


    "Opinion has...changed regarding women since the City moved from east to west. With the ancient K''maneda, there was no distinction between men and women. Not as you understand it, in any case."


    "Methinks you''ll have to tell me a little more about all of this sometime," Mirk said, as he went back to digging in his satchel for the potion he''d crafted for Danu. The fertility potion he''d been meaning to craft had exploded on him so many times that he''d given up on it, save for as the base for a different potion meant to help Comrade Commander Margaret. He''d settled for a luck potion instead. Most mages regarded them as little more than superstition, but they were much more forgiving than a fertility potion, though their components were much more expensive.


    Mirk felt uncomfortable giving Danu something so trivial when he had the means to give her so much more, something that reflected how much he valued her friendship and wanted to see her and Mordecai happy. But he sensed that it''d be a slight to the other guests to outdo them. And he''d already impressed on Danu a dozen times that he''d be happy to help her and Mordecai overcome any obstacles they might face that a bit of gold could take away.


    Genesis made a non-committal noise in response, his nose wrinkling, just slightly, as the couple ahead of them both tore large chunks from a braided loaf of bread in the center of the table that separated the happy couple from their guests. Dozens of them had been made for the occasion. As each guest departed the table and the canopy above it to join the feast on the other side of the clearing, it seemed to be tradition to take a bite of the bread and a drink from a common cup that had been refilled several times from the barrels of wine K''aekniv had come running with back in the City. Mirk wondered how Genesis was planning on navigating that custom, but decided it''d be better not to ask until the critical moment. The longer one argued with Genesis, the more likely he was to dig in his heels.


    Mirk didn''t have to work at all to find a smile for the happy couple once the last guests ahead of them climbed to their feet and headed off. Danu''s relief at seeing a familiar face was more than enough to buoy Mirk''s spirits. At least she had her parents beside her to keep her company now too, along with Mordecai. Laosie returned his smile, but Donn hunched over at the sight of him and Genesis standing just beyond the shade provided by the canopy over the gift-laden table, his crown of bone nearly sliding clear off his head.


    The reception from the other half of the bridal table was odd. Mordecai looked exceptionally nervous. And beside him, his grandparents both stared up at Genesis with hardened faces like Mirk wasn''t even there. Mirk did his best to smooth things over, sliding into one of the pair of chairs in front of the table and offering everyone seated on the other side individual, polite seated bows, tapping on both the translation charm on his sleeve and his vocal translator as he addressed them each by their title and what he knew of their full names. Both of Mordecai''s grandparents turned their skepticism on him when he made the choice to address them both as comrade, as Genesis had recommended.


    "I''m so happy for you both," Mirk said, refocusing on Danu and Mordecai. "It''s not much, but..." He paused, eyeing Danu''s crown of bone, threaded with dozens of dandelions. "...could I have one of your flowers, Danu? If it isn''t too much. I''d never ask for such a precious thing, unless I thought it could help..."


    Shrugging, Danu plucked one from the rear of the crown, offering it out to him across the table. Mirk took it with effusive thanks ¡ª much more effusive than if they''d been at the infirmary, which made Danu chuckle ¡ª and plucked the silk-wrapped potion off the pile of other bottles inside his satchel.


    He talked as he unwrapped the potion, which he''d put into the prettiest bottle the Potionmasters Guild shop had on offer. Cut crystal, with a stopper that had a small silver bird attached to it. "I''d been trying to make a different kind of potion for you, but methinks this one is still good enough. Though, of course, if either of you ever need anything, I''m more than happy to help."


    "Mirk''s a real noble," Mordecai said to his grandparents, hoping it might lighten their mood. "From his family, not from the guilds."


    "That explains the manners," Zora said with a snort.


    "Doesn''t explain the rest of it," Abram added. He''d gone back to staring at Genesis after acknowledging Mirk with the slightest of nods.


    Mordecai gave an awkward laugh, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. "Well, that''s a long story...not a great one for a wedding either..."


    The smell that wafted out of the potion bolstered Mirk''s spirits ¡ª rosewater and mint, with the earthy undertone of a certain kind of lichen he''d needed to pay one of the men from the Irish company to teleport back home to fetch for him. It took him a moment to put the emotions of the revelers across the clearing out of mind once he lowered his shields, but once he felt the ringing melody of the potion, he calmed.


    The potion had taken hours at the desk in his quarters to craft, long nights spent stirring it while deep in meditation, half reciting the decades of the rosary under his breath and half thinking of all the things he wished for Danu and Mordecai, safety and happiness and prosperity. Mirk did nothing to the dandelion other than push it in past the bottle''s neck, with a wish that the love her father put into her bridal crown would infuse itself into the potion. A prismatic glimmer flickered around the potion as the dandelion sank, then both the glow and the flower vanished.


    Coming back to himself and drawing his shields back up, Mirk gathered the silk around the base of the bottle and passed it across the table to Danu. "For good luck," he said. "If you each drink half, methinks that''ll work best."


    Donn cringed away from the potion like it was a serpent preparing to strike, making an arcane gesture in its direction, though he still determinedly flashed Mirk a weak, toothy smile. "Very strong, to be expected. So much potential!"


    Laoise leaned over him, uncorking the bottle and wafting a bit of its scent over to herself. Her eyebrows arched, and she cast a cutting, sideways look over at Mirk. "Did you mix this with the branch?"


    "Euh...no? The usual stirrer...does something about it smell wrong?"


    After a long pause, she recorked the potion. "No. But that''s interesting..."


    After cinching the silk bag tight, Danu reached across the table and took both of Mirk''s hands, the warmth of her appreciation a good antidote to the badly-masked fear on her father''s face. "It''s lovely, Mirk. Thank you so much for everything you''ve done for us."


    "I''m always here," Mirk replied, squeezing her hands. "Anything you need, all you have to do is ask. Methinks I can''t do much for magical things, but if you and Mordecai are ever in need...or your families..."


    Donn gave a weak laugh, still leaning as far away as he could from the potion between Danu''s arms. Laoise rolled her eyes. "Don''t be a baby," she said to him in a low voice, elbowing Donn in the side. "Neither of their names are in your book. We already know that."


    "...Kou was so put out he hid in that cave for a week after the second time..." Donn mumbled under his breath as he forced himself to straighten up and reapplied his smile.


    It all came together then ¡ª Donn''s anxiousness, the way he''d avoided so much as looking askance at Genesis, how he''d treated him all afternoon, half terrified and half in awe, like an oblate who''d been called on to assist at the Abbess''s Masses on their first week at the abbey. Mirk turned his smile on Donn. The Death winced away, but smiled back at him.


    "I apologize if I''ve caused you and your family any trouble, Seigneur Donn. It...it was all very complicated. I''m doing my best to make sure it doesn''t happen again. And I don''t have any bad feelings toward you and your brother, of course. We''re all just doing our best."


    Zora cuffed Mordecai on the shoulder with an expectant tisk. "He beat up Danny''s uncle," Mordecai explained, trying to keep his voice low and failing. "Twice. When he tried to come for Gen."


    Even if Mordecai had managed through some miracle to keep his voice low, the secret was ruined when Zora cackled. Donn hunched miserably in his chair and offered a jumbled attempt at reassurances, while Abram cast a wary look in Mirk''s direction. It was the first time Mirk felt like the old man had even seen him across the table.


    The best way to ease an awkward situation, Mirk knew, was to carry on fast. That and he was sure that Genesis''s gift and the expectation attached would make everyone forget about Donn and what Mirk had done to his brother in an instant. Mirk nudged the commander underneath the table, the signal they''d agreed upon earlier to mean that it was time to offer out the wedding present he''d brought for Mordecai. Though that gift wasn''t entirely of Genesis''s making.


    Reluctantly, Genesis took off his hat and spectacles, laying them down on the table, though he couldn''t help himself from first making sure there weren''t any errant crumbs or wine or dirt on it. Another recommendation of his that Genesis had wearily accepted ¡ª when discussing important matters with someone else, it was important to meet them openly, bare-headed, as a sign of respect. The commander summoned a small silver button into his hand from the shadows with a twist of this wrist, sliding it across the table to Mordecai.


    "While you were...otherwise occupied, I organized the election to determine who the men of your company would prefer to take K''aekniv''s position. As he was chosen to replace me as captain. You have been voted in as his lieutenant."


    Genesis paused, thinking, as Mordecai excitedly showed the button first to his grandfather, then his grandmother. "The vote was conclusive. Of note was your ability to coordinate and plan. And your...agreeable personality. Additionally, as you are now the only...married individual among the company, it was thought that you would most benefit from the increase in contractual benefits. You were voted one and a half shares. The same as K''aekniv."


    Genesis didn''t avoid Mordecai''s embrace when he lunged across the table and wrapped him an effusive, back-slapping hug. But he did close his eyes, as if that made it easier to bear up under Mordecai''s enthusiasm. "I''ll do everything I can, Gen, you can count on me. I''m serious! No more weekends in the Watch brig or the guild lockup from now on, I swear! I''m a married man," he added, turning a lovestruck eye toward Danu as he released Genesis from his embrace. "Thank you. I¡¯m honored."


    "You are not in my debt,¡± Genesis said. ¡°This was the result of a fair election. Your responsibility and...thanks is owed to the others."


    "Is this common practice now?" Abram asked, finally deigning to address Genesis outright. "Voting on officers?"


    Genesis shook his head. "The other divisions do not conform to the proper practices. However, the commander of the Seventh is...uninterested in how we manage our own affairs, as long as the contracts are filled. Thus, I have returned to the proper practice rather than continuing to select officers based on...payment or favors."


    "And what would you do if it was up to you across the board?" Abram asked, propping his elbows on the edge of the table and leaning across it, staring hard up at Genesis. "Give the people what they want, eh?"


    The intensity of Abram''s stare, the weight of his words, the tension in his shoulders, all of it was undeniable. Mirk would have wilted under that much scrutiny. But Genesis answered the question without pause in the same methodical way he handled everything, his face blank as he met Abram''s gaze.


    "There are...essential agreements one enters into when joining the K''maneda. Included in this are...certain rights. One has the right to change divisions freely. One has no right to force another K''maneda out, unless they have...infringed upon the freedom of another. In violation of the Five Laws. And in that instance...it is my belief that it should be made public what has been done. So that those who see clearly can...counterbalance any personal grievances."


    "Fancy words," Zora said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. "Don''t mean anything at the end of the day, though, do they?"


    "Correct. Words are...immaterial when there are actions contrary to them. This is why I took the vote rather than handing your grandson the position. And this is why Mordecai has been chosen by his comrades as lieutenant. He has earned his rank through merit and loyalty to the others. Even from those who...initially had doubts about his capacities."


    Abram turned his head, watching the party that was growing more rambunctious by the minute on the other side of the clearing as he thought. The K''maneda who''d come from the City had initially kept their distance from Mordecai''s kin. But good food and drink, as always, tended to blur the lines between people.


    That and K''aekniv''s enthusiasm for everything and everyone, as long as there was fun to be had. The half-angel had been the first one to go up to one of Mordecai''s cousins or uncles and offer them a drink, along with asking a question about some dish or song. Since then the lines had collapsed further, and all the men had gathered together to take part in some competition to see who could hurl a rock past the magicked boundaries of the teleporting mages'' vale. Most of them were already too drunk to put on a good showing, but that didn''t seem to matter.


    "Always knew that boy would end up a terror," Zora said with a sigh, following Abram''s gaze. K¡¯aekniv was taking his turn at the game, hurling himself in dramatic circles as he wound up to throw. "But he gets people to go along. Like most angels do," she added, her eyes flicking back toward Mirk.


    Abram shook his head, focusing back across the table on Genesis. "Noticed there aren''t any Bavarians around. Couldn''t talk any of them into joining your little experiment?"


    "Eva''s half!" Mordecai butted in, pointing across the clearing at where Eva was interrogating the aunt who''d stood guard outside Danu''s bridal tent. Not about the meat that¡¯d been turning on a spit over the open fire, but about the knife she was using to carve it.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    His grandfather ignored Mordecai. "And the only English one here is you. Sort of. Don''t think you really count as coming from anywhere, to be honest."


    "I was not involved in recruitment for this event," Genesis said, still refusing to flinch away from Abram''s judgment. "I was told by the others that it was a matter of...closeness. As for in the City...headway is being made with North. Or...Nitzsch, as you may have known him. I believe he favors the former name for ease with the English."


    Abram''s expression hardened. "That bastard didn''t lift a finger to help anyone when the cards were down the last time."


    "I will not...speculate on that matter. As I was not present. However, I...understand your distrust. I do not fully trust him either. But the position of those who wish to stand against the direction the K''maneda has taken since you left is growing in strength. Others are beginning to understand that this is not the way things have been. Or must always be."


    "Not due to much help from you, I''d imagine," Zora cut in. "Maybe for the magic half, but the rest of it, that''s people like our Mordka. And your half-angels."


    "We''re always the ones who pay the price. Not people like him," Abram said, still staring fixedly across the table at Genesis.


    Mirk knew it wasn''t his place to intervene, that this was a conversation that really ought to have taken place in private. Donn looked profoundly uncomfortable, his grin frozen on his face, looking very much like he wanted to dive behind his wife for cover, while Mordecai opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water, eventually turning hopelessly to Danu for guidance. All she could do was shrug, shifting her hand over on the tabletop to clasp his.


    He couldn''t stand it. And the press of the rioting springtime that filled the vale against his mental shielding set the small part of him that always rankled when others judged Genesis for his blank expressions and cold words aflame. The words were tumbling out of him unabated, in French, so at least the translation charm on his sleeve might make him sound more polite than he really was.


    "No one can be everything for everyone, comrades. From what I understand of Comrade Genesis''s people, that''s why they liked to do everything together instead of alone. That aside, Comrade Genesis has given everything for the good of all the people he looks after. I fought death twice so that he could stay, like Mordecai said. Without him, everyone would be lost. And because of that, we''re all more than happy to trust his judgment on the things he knows best. Like he trusts Mordecai and K''aekniv with things that they know better."


    Abram continued to stare across the table at Genesis, both of their expressions unreadable. But Zora softened a little, a wry smile coming onto her face as she shrugged off Mirk''s words. And their tone, which had come out far harsher than Mirk had intended. "I suppose if you''re convincing enough to get this rich boy hot, there has to be something there."


    "When that half-angel came the first time, I said I''d give the K''maneda one more try. Just one. Your rank pins and your Russians aren''t enough. What''s in it for me to help you? When our family¡¯s already given the K¡¯maneda so many sons and daughters for nothing in return?"


    Genesis''s brow pulled down as he grimaced in confusion. "I don¡¯t want any more people from you."


    Abram leaned further across the table. "Bullshit."


    "A K''maneda must join of their own free will. Not due to...obligation," Genesis said. "If I were to ask you to...order any of your people to join, I would be no better than the ones who have corrupted the K''maneda. This is the First Law. Make a slave of no one."


    "Then why are you here?"


    "He''s my friend, papa," Mordecai interjected, finally seeing an opening. The translation charm on Mirk''s wrist gave Mordecai''s words a strained tone, though Mirk could feel that the emotion behind them was genuine. "I''d never not invite him."


    Abram cast a tired eye toward his grandson, sighing. "You''ve always been soft. Just like your father. That''s what got us into this to begin with," he added, expression hardening once more as he turned back toward Genesis. "If you didn''t come to take more of us, what did you come for? You''re the hardest bastard I''ve ever seen. You didn''t come out of love for any of us."


    Mirk wanted to protest again, but managed to bite his tongue that time. Genesis didn''t seem bothered by Abram''s accusation. If anything, he only seemed more deeply puzzled than before. "The book," Genesis said. "You were the last caretaker. You must have the T''akakk Ras''kesk."


    The translation charm on Mirk''s wrist couldn''t make sense of the title Genesis named; from the look of confusion on Abram''s face, he wasn''t familiar with it either. "What?"


    "The...caretakers'' book. Perhaps you know it by a different title. It will have many diagrams. And...narratives discussing the maintenance of the City of Glass''s magic."


    Zora''s eyes flashed with recognition. "Oh? That thing with all the chicken-scratch writing in it and the pictures? You''ve been using it as a doorstop, Aby."


    Abram shot Genesis an incredulous look. "That thing? No one''s written in it for centuries. No one''s even been able to read it since we took it. It''s useless."


    Genesis looked aghast in his own way at the thought of one of his precious books being used as a doorstop, his face still blank but his fingers twitching on the edge of the table. "I will return it to you. But...allow me to take it to make a copy. The knowledge in it is priceless. I have been attempting to understand the magic channels for fifteen years. All of the scrolls left in the library have been...inadequate. As have experimentation in the channels themselves."


    "You can read it?"


    "C''ayetnak was my...first language."


    "Would he really do all this for some book?" Abram asked, turning to Mordecai.


    Mordecai''s worry and panic was soothed by the fact that his grandfather finally saw fit to turn to him for advice. "Oh, yeah. Gen''s always stabbing someone for some book. Takes half his contract loot in books and gives the gold to us. Not that he''d do that to you, papa! He''s asking and everything."


    Genesis nodded. "I believe knowledge should be free to all. However, if you do not consider it an appropriate offer, I am willing to...negotiate for a further exchange of information or material."


    For a moment, Mirk saw a glimmer in Abram''s eyes, one not all that dissimilar from the one that came into Mordecai''s whenever he came to visit Danu at the infirmary and saw that one of the aides had left a supply closet open and unattended. But he nodded, warily, as he gave out one further caveat. "You''re serious about not coming here to recruit?"


    "No. I...do not believe the K''maneda is an organization that should be...recruited for. One should join of their own free will. Because they believe in the mission. Anything else is...exploitation of another''s vulnerabilities."


    "And what is the mission, huh?" Zora asked, leaning forward, her eyes shining with that same look of focused interest that Mordecai shared with his grandparents.


    "Liberation."


    Silence fell over the table. Mordecai couldn''t let it stand. He talked into the gap, trying to smooth things over, letting his enthusiasm flow into the tension between his grandparents and Genesis. "It''s really been great, papa! The K''maneda is the best thing that ever happened to me! Of course I miss everyone, you and granny and all my aunties, but I''ve seen so many things I never would have seen before! Even when it gets hard, I don''t regret it. Besides. If I hadn¡¯t gone with Niv, I never would have met Danny," he added, turning back to Danu, squeezing her hand.


    Zora laughed again, getting up from the table with a dismissive wave of her hand. "That''s the only thing that ever gets men going. If you really want to get more people to join, Comrade Genesis, you''ll be smart and let the women back in."


    The pointed slant to her comment, predictably, sailed clear over Genesis''s head. "You are correct. Women belong in every division. I do not understand the...emphasis on the current distinction. I assume it must be an Earth-based custom."


    "You would say that," Zora said, shooting Mirk a pointed look before she turned and walked away, toward a path through the woods behind the canopy under which the table full of gifts was situated. "Stop dragging your feet, Abram," she called back over one shoulder. "Give him the book and we can be done with it."


    "Break bread, drink, and it''ll be done," Abram said, making a dismissive gesture at the half loaf of braided bread in the middle of the table between them.


    The bread was a formality. The sort of offhand, traditional gesture that most people didn''t even think twice about. But it was the sticking point for Genesis. The commander looked down at the bread and the common cup, his disgust plain to be seen in his rigid, defensive grin.


    Abram took Genesis''s backward gesture the wrong way, as an expression of triumph. He muttered something under his breath about how he should have made Genesis give him more, that he didn''t deserve to break bread to begin with. Before Genesis could accept that backhanded offer he wasn''t meant to hear, Mirk nudged him underneath the table to draw his attention, murmuring his own aside to the commander in a voice low enough that only someone with inhuman senses would be able to pick out his words


    "These things are important, messire. I brought the stomach potion that works on you."


    Which was a bit too high of an estimation of his potion crafting skills ¡ª at best, it worked one time out of ten, and it mostly only served to make Genesis ill in a way that he found somewhat less objectionable than the agony that came over him when he ate something that disagreed with him. Inhuman senses weren''t required to hear Genesis grinding his teeth as he delicately took a ghost of a sip from the common cup.


    "Go on, finish it. There''s a whole barrel left," Abram said, as Genesis moved to put down the cup.


    Genesis choked his way through nearly a full glass, in one long gulp ¡ª the common cup had just been refilled from the barrel for the guests two places in line ahead of them. But the worst of it, the bread, remained. Genesis separated the barest morsel of bread from the loaf with the very tips of his fingers. At another pointed nudge underneath the table, he tripled the portion to a satisfactory mouthful, then shoved it into his mouth before he could talk himself out of it.


    Mirk felt a shudder go through Genesis as he swallowed. Though he managed to keep his disgust from reaching his face, Mirk could feel it in Genesis''s magic, in how the shadows underneath the table thickened and seethed on a wave of static that pressed hard against Mirk''s shields. Instinctively, Mirk reached out to him, putting a hand on his knee for lack of other options, as Genesis''s hands were still clenched atop the table, to prove he wasn''t doing anything deliberately with his magic.


    "It''ll be all right, Genesis," Mirk said in a low murmur. "Do you want the potion now? Methinks it might work better in advance..."


    Laughing to himself, Abram got up from the table and headed off after his wife. Mordecai and Danu exchanged an anxious look ¡ª they both knew very well how Genesis reacted to alcohol and food he was unaccustomed to. Usually, someone got hurt if the right preparations weren''t taken in advance, even if it was only someone''s feelings rather than their body. Though usually the commander himself was in too much pain or too oblivious to those around him, sunk in his own misery and thoughts, to do that much harm.


    "No," Genesis said, letting out a deep, shuddering breath as he stood. "I cannot waste time. If the wine has its...intended effect before Abram is dealt with, I am certain I will not have anything charitable to say."


    "Do you want me to go with?" Mordecai asked, as Genesis circled around the table.


    Genesis didn''t reply. He vanished down the path through the forest without another word.


    "Don''t worry about it, Mordecai," Mirk said, offering the teleporting mage an encouraging smile. "This is your day, after all. I''ll take care of him. Methinks if that book is as important as he says it is, he might be too distracted to pay attention to anything else."


    Mordecai slumped over, unabashedly leaning against Danu''s side. "At least it''s over..."


    "I think it all went well," Danu said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "And you got promoted!"


    As quick as Mordecai was to wilt, he bounced back again. He straightened up with a grin, but didn''t push his way out of Danu''s half-embrace. "That''s right! And now that this bullshit is done with, we can actually go have fun!" He looked across the clearing, perking up at the sight of K''aekniv and his aunt arguing over a dozen skewers of meat fresh off the fire. "Let''s go eat before Niv takes everything."


    Mordecai was out of his seat and dragging Danu off toward the party on the other side of the clearing before she could get a word in edgewise. Donn and Laoise followed suit, after exchanging a knowing look and a laugh. Mirk couldn''t help but get the impression that Donn was as relieved as Mordecai that the ceremonial part of the wedding seemed to be over, if only so that he had a better excuse to stay away from Mirk and his magic. Mirk wasn''t put out by it. It was understandable, all things considered.


    Before Mirk rose to join the others, he decided to sample the bread for himself, to see what he might be dealing with whenever Genesis returned to the clearing. Or what he might find waiting for him in his quarters, if the commander elected to abandon the party, now that his obligations were fulfilled. He tore off a hunk and popped it into his mouth.


    Mirk was accustomed to Genesis making a lot of fuss over nothing when it came to food. He grinned and hissed and complained over perfectly good food all the time, cutting the slightest imperfection out of everything he ate before grudgingly forcing it down. The bread was a rare exception.


    It tasted as if every spice that''d ever been discovered, both on Earth and the nearest realms, had been thrown into the dough, spicy and bitter and sour all at once. Reflexively, Mirk reached for the common cup and raised it to his lips before he remembered it was empty. Instead, he dug in his satchel for the flask of brandy he''d taken to carrying with his potions and healing supplies, just in case he stumbled into an emergency and he needed something to take the harshest edge off an unexpected patient''s pain.


    "Quelle horreur," Mirk mumbled, crossing himself before putting the cover back on the flask and tucking it back into his satchel. If even his mouth was still burning from the bread after sucking down three measures of brandy, he could only imagine how terrible the experience must be for someone with Genesis''s delicate sensibilities.


    But there was nothing to be done for it, not then. Genesis would come to him in his own time, once his and Abram''s business was settled. And in the meantime, there was a party to enjoy.


    Mirk got up from his seat underneath the canopy, surveying the gift-laden table a final time, smiling to himself. Mordecai''s kin seemed to be a bit better established than most of the Easterners who came to the City. The gifts arrayed at either end of the table, there for guests to come and admire, were better than the plain odds and ends that the Easterners offered each other on saint''s days. But they were also a far cry from what he was accustomed to seeing offered to new couples at noble weddings.


    Among the French noble mages, the occasion of offering a wedding gift wasn''t only a chance to show one''s affection for the bride and groom. It was a chance to display to the other nobles what means one had to make those affections matter beyond the private realm of the household. An opportunity to pledge one''s loyalty, or to remind the families behind the happy couple to who they owed their prosperity.


    Enchanted items were the done thing, along with precious metals, fabrics, and gems. Jewel-studded hairpins that could keep a towering coiffure in place for hours, brooches and buckles that could add fleetness or glamours or defensive magic to the wearer. Linens that cleaned and repaired themselves, little gilt boxes to keep one''s daily spell papers safe. Picture frames that incorporated memorial stones, exotic plants that had been tended to for months by an earth mage so that they were guaranteed to flower for months, little porcelain figures that danced on their own across bookcases. Grimoires or wands were especially bold gifts, an open display of the transfer of power from one family to another.


    Most of the gifts on Danu and Mordecai''s wedding table were enchanted as well. But they weren''t enchanted to impress the newlyweds or their family, or to posture to the other guests. All the gifts on the table were intensely practical, the same as those that''d been laid out in the bridal tent. The magic on them wasn''t meant to catch the eye, to perform for others. Mirk didn''t know most of the spells stitched onto the linens, or those engraved on the cookware and little boxes, but he could feel it. Old magic. Patient magic. Imbued with love and dedication, crafted with the memory of long-ago weddings and brides and bridegrooms who¡¯d already passed.


    There was so much hope there, Mirk thought. So much honesty, so much affection. So much love. Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat and wandered over toward where the other guests were now feasting, letting the barrier around his mind slip lower as he went.


    All those emotions were amplified the closer he drew to the other guests. Now that the bride and groom had arrived, the party really seemed to have kicked off. No one was excluded ¡ª while Danu and Mordecai tucked into their meal, with scores of helpful aunts and cousins at the ready to scold them both for being too thin and bring extra delicacies to their heaping plates, the younger crowd, most of it already fed and well on their way to drunkeness, set to dancing. To amuse themselves, and to entertain the couple, along with those too old or too full to join in.


    The band that had been hidden behind the bridal canopy had shuffled over from the larger clearing struck up a sprightly tune. Finally the men and the women were allowed to mix, even though they only seemed to come together at certain parts of the song. In between, the men showed off their prowess with acrobatics, with dance steps that involved jumping high or moving in fast circles low to the ground. And the women matched them point by point, with steps meant to highlight their grace, their fine sense of rhythm. Not to mention the numerous flashes of stockinged ankle and plump calf they put on display.


    Around it all hovered a sense of oneness, of unbridled joy and excitement that Mirk had never seen at a wedding before. Noble weddings were much more restrained. Calculated. Preening. There was none of that in the clearing in the teleporting mages'' hidden vale. There was only warmth. Acceptance.


    Again, a stab of coldness pierced deep into Mirk''s chest, hard enough to take his breath away.


    He knew what it was now. Mirk hadn''t felt that sort of warmth, that tender solidarity and unconditional acceptance, since the night his family had been murdered.


    They''d joined hands at the dinner table after the servants had brought the platters and had been dismissed, to say a prayer of thanks. A humble request for health, for good fortune. Mirk remembered thinking at the time that their circle around Jean-Luc''s table had some sort of unspoken magic in it. It so rarely happened that all of his family gathered together without exception, that no one was called away on war or business. And that unity, that concentration of all the d''Avignons into one room, had nearly meant the death of all of them. Now no one was left from that gathering other than Uncle Henri and his young cousins. And him.


    His family would never be together like that again. His grandfather would never smile benevolently at him from the sidelines like Abram was then, returned from his meeting with Genesis and leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing, unwilling to interrupt his grandson''s moment of happiness, content to observe from a distance and marvel at what had become of his kin. Kae would never huff and roll her eyes at his silliness, the way Mordecai''s serious hoard of aunts did, or Danu''s mother. His father would never beam down at him the way Donn did Danu, fit to bursting again with pride and affection. His mother would never scold him and tuck an errant curl behind his ear again, the way Zora did Mordecai, as she smiled and offered him and Danu a fresh loaf of bread to split.


    Not to mention the fact that he''d never marry anyone. Not like this, not surrounded by affection and care and support. He could only imagine horror. And disappointment. If anyone even chose to attend to begin with.


    Mirk did all he could to battle back the aching in his chest. He pulled his shields back up but instantly regretted it, the coldness in his mind intensifying as soon as he was separated from the warmth of the other guests across the clearing. In the end, he allowed himself to steep in it, to mourn that closeness, as he crossed over to the party just long enough to find one of the bottles of liquor the Easterners had brought with them and cram it in his satchel.


    Then, before anyone could notice him or try to stop him, Mirk hurried down the first path out of the clearing he could find and vanished into the forest, as the tears he''d been battling against finally spilled down his cheeks.

 Chapter 81

    It wasn''t the most foolish thing Mirk had ever done, but it was high on the list.


    He could have blamed it on springtime. On the riotous green surrounding him, clawing at his arms and cheeks as he pushed his way through the forest. Underneath his own turbulent emotions and the fading joy of the party behind him, Mirk could sense the earth pulsing with life beneath his feet. Life wasn''t always restorative, he''d come to realize. It could be as violent as it was healing, saplings bursting up through stone and vines prying apart clapboards and roof tiles. That violence was behind the heaviness in his chest, the aching need to do something, anything. But he wasn''t that sort of person, the kind that liked to inflict his emotions on others. He''d had enough of that for one lifetime. Seen the other side of the coin.


    Instead, Mirk sought out his own private clearing to cry in.


    The end of the path he''d chosen blindly didn''t end in another tent or canopy, thankfully. It was empty, small, its purpose unclear. As he swept into it, Mirk clawed off his satchel and let it fall to the ground, then ripped off his new emerald coat and threw it aside into the undergrowth. It was swallowed up by the forest, lost in it. If he never was able to find it again, Mirk didn''t give a damn.


    He took things one step further. With shaking hands, he pried off his boots and stockings, burying his feet in the carpet of clover and weeds that filled the clearing, his toes hooking into the damp earth beneath them. Mirk reached out to it with his mind, tried to anchor himself in it, find the steadiness that he relied on when his emotions ranged too far up and down their scale. But there was no comfort there that time, no security. The earth was as turbulent as he was. For an instant, it felt like there was no safety left anywhere, nothing that could steady him, nothing but a howling, evergreen gloom that threatened to swallow him whole and suck him back down into the kindling sickness.


    Mirk cursed aloud that time. Then slapped himself. Then collapsed in a heap in the clover, fumbling at his side for his satchel and the bottle he''d crammed into it after crossing himself in apology for the curse.


    It wasn''t the first time he''d missed his family, that he''d felt like raging and sobbing in protest at what had been done to them. But the ache of their absence was usually a quiet thing, something that surfaced only for a flash and then was subsumed again by all the things in the City that kept him preoccupied. All that aside, he was painfully aware of how pathetic he was when he was this upset.


    What did he have to cry for? Unspeakable tragedies filtered into the infirmary every day -- mangled fighters hauled through the field transporter by their bruised and broken comrades, mages who''d pushed themselves so hard to make enough gold to escape the City that they''d driven themselves mad, the constant stream of pale-faced, tight lipped officers'' wives who refused to speak to him about what had happened but nevertheless bore the marks of it on their bodies, barren wombs and twisted spines and bruises in the shape of handprints. With all that kept in mind, it was easier to have a sensible perspective on things. What had happened to his family was terrible, but it was a much more mundane tragedy than Mirk had thought possible before he''d come to the City of Glass.


    As for what had happened to him...he refused to think of it at all. At least not when he was awake.


    For some reason he didn''t understand, it was harder to ignore all of it in the teleporting mages'' vale, in the face of so much love and acceptance. It wasn''t that he was jealous, not really. He didn''t envy Mordecai his mob of meddling relations, nor Danu her mismatched parents who came and went to an unpredictable rhythm that had left her afraid and surrounded by strangers in her bridal tent. He didn''t want a replacement family.


    He wanted his own needling aunts back, his own implacable, unfathomable father and his headstrong, teasing mother. His own sister who most definitely wouldn''t have just glowered at whoever he decided to marry, but drawn her sword and challenged him in combat, to make sure that he was worthy, no matter what he had to say about him being a better judge of character than she was. And most of all, he wanted grand-p¨¨re back, if only for an hour, just so that he could ask him what he''d given up to curse the Montignys and House Rose for taking grand-m¨¨re from him. So that he could repay that debt and move on with his life.


    At least he was able to stop crying by the time he''d drained the bottle halfway. The Easterners did brew a potent spirit, even though it had a foul aftertaste. Healing magic hadn''t yet concocted a potion that could rival liquor for blocking pain rising up from the inside rather than radiating from others. Mirk made himself cork the bottle then, purposefully rolling it out of reach so that he wouldn''t be tempted to return to it. He was certain he''d be fall-down drunk by the end of the night, but it''d be better if he did it with his friends from the Seventh and the infirmary rather than alone.


    He needed to go back before anyone noticed he was gone and came looking. He couldn''t live with himself if he ruined Danu''s wedding by moping.


    Mirk tried a different tack then, tried to put all his excess potential to good use. It''d be tricky, channeling energy that was determined to grow, to split and sprout and seed, into a shield. But even if it didn''t yield results, at least the trying would help calm him some. Draping an arm over his face to block out the afternoon sun, Mirk focused on his breathing, on reassembling his shielding and building it stronger with the benefits of the earth''s bounty. Maybe if he put limits on it, tried to shield out anything that wasn''t the earth while still letting the earth in. Maybe then he wouldn''t feel so alone.


    "...you appear...unwell."


    The sudden voice knocked Mirk out of his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and making the shields he''d tried to cobble together fall apart once more. Had he really been concentrating so hard that he''d missed it? The way the forest around him had quieted, how the gold-green energy he could feel pulsing off everything had dimmed. The static hissing just beyond his shields. Feeling the heat rising on his face, he cracked one eye open.


    Genesis was standing at the edge of the small clearing, near the end of the path that led back to the feasting and dancing. A perfectly composed pillar of darkness amidst all the exuberant greenery, expression once more hidden by his odd spectacles and ugly hat. Mirk sat up, scrubbing at his face with his shirtsleeve and trying to plaster an unconcerned smile on his face.


    "I''m fine, messire," Mirk said, hating the way that the words came out in a croak rather than light and reassuring. "Did you find that book?"


    The commander only nodded in response, drawing a few steps closer, out into the sunlight. Genesis was frowning, but it was impossible to tell what sort of frown it was without his eyes and brows there to help Mirk decipher the expression. His magic didn''t feel particularly unsettled, at least, which meant that at least the drink and the bread hadn''t already made Genesis ill. Part of Mirk wanted to roll to his feet and bolt for his side. But he restrained himself. "I''m...certain you''re unwell," Genesis said, after a long pause.


    The laugh that escaped Mirk was more bitter than he''d intended. The instant it was out of his mouth, he winced. "I...well. I don''t want to trouble you, Genesis. But it''s kind of you to think of me."


    Genesis drew within arm''s reach. But he didn''t close the gap entirely, instead looming over him, still trying to puzzle out what had happened. Apparently, he was as incapable of deciphering the meaning of the strained smile on his face as Mirk was trying to sort out the meaning of Genesis''s frown without his eyes to give him hints. "I was...told that a wedding is typically a positive event. Was I misinformed?"


    "Oh, pas du tout! Of course I''m happy. It''s nice for everyone to get a break. All that dancing and food..."


    Though the corner of Genesis''s mouth ticked at the mention of food, he didn''t voice his opinion on the matter. Instead, he took things one step further, crouching down beside him so that he wasn''t so far out of reach. Mirk didn''t know if it was an invitation, one of his subtle gestures of acceptance, or simply a matter of needing to come closer to try to sort out what was happening. "You cannot eat meat. And you do not appear to be happy. I have...come to be able to see the difference."


    It surprised Mirk. Either he had to look even worse than he expected, or Genesis must have been studying him especially often over the past few months. Mirk didn''t know whether to be flattered by the attention or worried by it. With a helpless shrug, Mirk sighed. "It''s hard to explain, messire."


    The gesture was subtle. If Mirk hadn''t been watching him so closely, too closely, studying his posture and his magic to try to make up for not being able to see his eyes, he might have missed it. But Genesis turned his hands outward, so that his wrists were exposed, his head tilting slightly back and to the left. Mirk had long since forgotten the word for the gesture, but he remembered it from the night they''d shared in the woods on the Festival of Shades, the last time Genesis had submitted to drinking alcohol. It was the gesture for being accepting of closeness, as the commander put it.


    "I will listen." He paused, twisting his wrists out a hair further. How the cuffs of his uniform coat were still black and pristine after hauling countless loads of people and supplies through the Abyss that morning, Mirk didn''t know. "You are always willing to listen to me. It''s an...equivalent exchange."


    In the face of that degree of forthrightness, with the earth and all its verdant bounty clamoring at him to cling and press, Mirk couldn''t hold back any longer. "Can you take off that hat, messire? Or at least the spectacles. I can''t tell what you''re thinking with all that on. You know I can''t feel you. Your face is all I have to help."


    Genesis considered him, still sitting in the middle of the sun-dappled grove he''d decided to sulk in. Then he gestured at an expansive oak that towered over the back half of the clearing. "A proposition. You...move to the shade."


    That was another thing Mirk remembered from the last time Genesis had drank -- whenever he imbibed, he had an even harder time than usual compensating for bright light. Nodding, Mirk hauled himself to his feet and trudged over to the oak. His eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle still lying in the grass, but Mirk walked past it. Instead, in an attempt to save himself, to quiet the gnawing sense of urgency that rose up sharp in him at seeing Genesis rise back to his feet out of the corner of his eye, he made a sweeping gesture with his right hand at the thin patch of weeds at the base of the oak tree, giving his magic free rein.


    His potential eclipsed his physical senses for a second, turning everything into a mess of green and gold, intersecting lines that mirrored the reach of every plant in the clearing, his mind filled with the discordant voices of dozens of living things aching to stretch, to curl, to bloom. When his vision cleared, Mirk saw that the clover had overtaken the bare earth beneath the tree, mixed in with some kind of softer, longer field grass. And a vine pockmarked with tiny white flowers had latched on to the potential Mirk had flung at the tree and used it to scale halfway up the oak''s trunk. Despite everything, Mirk gave a tired laugh as he collapsed into a heap at the base of the oak, leaning back against it.


    "Maybe that was a bit much..."


    Genesis didn''t comment. But he did take off his hat and spectacles, reaching through the shadows cast by the oak and retrieving his overcoat. He tucked them into its breast pocket, then spread the coat out over the clover and grass Mirk had grown before sitting down beside him.


    "Are you feeling all right?" Mirk asked him, studying his face. The only tell Mirk had noticed from the last time Genesis had drank was that strange, owlish blinking. That and his willingness to be more open than usual. The latter was there, but he couldn''t spot the difference in his eyes. His pupils were always smaller than an average person''s, save for when it was very dark. Mirk had never decided which he liked more -- having more of that inhumanly clear blue on display, or the intimacy of darkness. "I tried some of that bread after you left. It was spicy even for me."


    Genesis made one of his grimacing grins at the memory of it. But he nodded. "I...believe the wine is counteracting the effects. For now."


    That left Mirk with no avenue of escape, no way to babble his way out of the conversation he''d agreed to. A foolish decision on his part, but the whole day had been full of those. Mirk sighed, leaning his head back against the tree again, trying to find some balance in the feel of its roots stretching out deep beneath him. And trying to avoid thinking about how he''d rather find that balance by leaning against Genesis instead. "I miss my family."


    Genesis''s brows ¡ª long, elegant, just like the rest of him ¡ª arched at this. "I''m aware of this."


    Mirk hated the way that tears prickled at the corners of his eyes all over again as he tried to think of how to explain. "It''s easier not to think about them when I''m in the City. Even being around the other French mages isn''t so hard. Or, at least, it''s not hard in the same way. It''s just..."


    "...just?"


    He didn''t dare look over at Genesis again. If he did, Mirk knew he''d lose what little momentum he''d found. "I never planned on getting married. I was dedicated to the Church, you know. And even when Oncle Marc passed, God bless him, I was trying my best to think of some way I could avoid it. So it isn''t as if I''m missing something I thought I''d ever have. Besides, I''ve been to dozens of weddings. Most of the ladies I was acquainted with were older than me because of the circles maman moved in. And the men I got along best with were all a few years older, more your age. I''m too soft for most of the things the younger men like. You know, riding, hunting, fencing."


    "That is less a matter of weakness and more one of...magical circumstance."


    "It doesn''t matter," Mirk said with a sigh. "It all ends up the same. Anyway, the point is, I wasn''t expecting something like this. I was expecting something...hmm, harder, maybe? Sais pas. The whole point of noble weddings isn''t love. It''s politics. Half of the marriages are love matches these days, but even then. Everything is power. Show. Paying debts. I know that''s going on here too, in a way, but it feels different. It''s so...warm. Everyone''s so happy."


    Genesis thought this through for a time in silence, motionless beside him. But Mirk could feel his magic shifting, as it always did ¡ª while Genesis always disciplined his body into perfect stillness, save for when he was upset, he compensated by allowing the shadows freer rein. They curled. Searched. Ebbed and flowed with all the emotions Mirk would never be able to feel, and that Genesis worked so hard to master. At present, it was twice as shady underneath the oak''s branches than it ought to have been. Mirk wasn''t certain what to make of it.


    "I...understand that Mordecai''s being married was an important matter to his family. Owing to the death of his parents. A...bitter loss, as Abram''s first family was killed by plague. To lose nearly all of the second due to some...confrontation with the guilds was considered by many in his profession a sign that all those related to him directly were cursed. Superstition. But...many people are superstitious."


    Surprised, Mirk glanced over at Genesis. Even without the terrible spectacles and hat in the way, his expression was still hard to read. Blank, emotionless. Though his eyes were ticking back and forth as he thought, as they often did. "Really? So many? Are none of the people here related to him?"


    "Primarily through Zora. Regardless. I believe that does not...directly relate to your present concerns."


    Laughing, Mirk let his head fall back against the tree, watching the blanket of leaves above him dance and flash in the breeze. "I suppose not. You''re getting too clever for me, messire. Even at this."


    "No. I still...do not entirely understand why this is a cause for distress."


    Mirk knew he''d end up sounding pathetic. That he shouldn''t expect any sympathy, especially from someone who''d led as hard and desolate a life as Genesis. But it would be better to get it over and done with, even if Genesis thought him a fool once he''d admitted it. "If I was to marry one day, it...makes me sad that my family won''t be there to share it. I''d thought they''d always be there. And even if I never did marry, there were other things I wanted to share with them. I can''t help but think...well. That they died while I was still a disappointment. Someone better than me should have survived."


    Again, Genesis was silent for a long time. When he did speak, it was slowly, with that certain precision that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "This, I...may understand. To an extent. I lost the first fight I went into alongside my nis''yk and his c''aytka. And we will never have the opportunity to fight together again."


    That time, when Mirk looked over toward Genesis, he was thinking even harder than last time. Searching fruitlessly in that imaginary book of his for the right way to proceed. Mirk decided to let him think. To let him say his whole piece, instead of trying once more to draw attention away from himself by latching on to the strangeness of the customs Genesis had grown up with and asking him to explain.


    "There are...two further points that may offer you comfort," Genesis finally said. "First, your family is not...gone, as you say. Perhaps in a technical sense, but the K''maneda had a...different perspective on family. It is not a determined thing. Those who...birthed you are only one part. The most important members were those who are chosen. As...freedom is the aspect that gives things value. From that perspective, your family has not come to an end. It is only beginning. As now...you may choose your family. Of your own free will. Second..."


    Genesis quit looking for answers in his steel-trap memory then, turning to what was in front of him. Down at him, searching his expression as he spoke. "...you are not a disappointment. In my estimation. I have...witnessed your efforts at supporting your remaining blood relations. I do not understand the purpose of many of them, but the effort involved appears to be...considerable. I believe they will result in more success now that you are...acting true to your nature more often again."


    Despite his confusion, a smile stole over Mirk''s face. He didn''t fight to suppress it or the feeling of gladness that accompanied it. Or the heat that rose to his face again. Genesis really had been watching him closely, observing him even when Mirk thought the commander had put him entirely out of mind. "True to my nature?"


    "You are t''ksyn. First in action. First in conviction. The one who attacks. We all must...balance our nature. To a degree. But your actions are the most true when you act on your conviction." Genesis paused, hissing in frustration as he tried to explain the things that seemed evident to him, but that no one still living understood. "It...is in several things. When you speak your mind, without hesitation, others listen. As...Mordecai''s grandparents did this afternoon. And it is in this," Genesis said, waving a vague hand at the remains of the casual outfit Mirk had cobbled together.


    Mirk looked down at himself, smoothing a hand over his rumpled waistcoat, looking at the matching crystal buttons he''d had added to the cuffs of his shirt and the faint beginnings of grass stains on the knees of his breeches from all his wallowing around in the grass. "This? But it''s just any old thing, really. Nothing special."


    "I have observed that among the royalist mages, your clothing is like armor. It is intended to produce certain effects. Those effects are...much more striking when you choose something that you prefer. Regardless of whatever cost or fashion that may also be involved."


    He felt the heat double on his cheeks, felt his smile widening into a grin. "I''m glad you think so, messire."Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Hissing in frustration again, Genesis looked away. His gaze had wandered lower again as soon as he''d realized he hadn''t offended him, Mirk noticed, once again tracing the edge of his frame, as if searching for something that had fallen out of place, that needed correcting. "I do not know if any of this has been of use to you. But these are my opinions. If they are unsatisfactory...so be it."


    Mirk hesitated. He knew that he shouldn''t. Knew that acting on the nagging urge to press closer that had been burning in the back of his mind all day was the path to ruin. But hadn''t Genesis said that he preferred him when he acted on his convictions? And Mirk knew full well what he wanted, even if his desires weren''t right. "Thank you, Genesis. It has. But..."


    It was an awkward gesture. Unnatural, like holding a pose for a portrait that put his best features on display despite the position being entirely artificial. But Genesis had done his best to put his thoughts into words Mirk could understand. The least he could do in return was try to force his own impulses into a form Genesis could understand without having to search that invisible rulebook of his. Mirk twisted his palms around so that his wrists were showing and craned his neck to one side. Genesis turned to look at him at the motion, brow lowering in confusion.


    "...may I? If it''s no trouble."


    "It''s not."


    It felt like easing out of a too-tight coat, kicking off shoes that had pinching his toes all morning. Mirk shoved himself to the right and pressed himself against Genesis''s side, wrapping his arms around him and leaning his head against his chest. He abandoned his poor attempt at rebuilt mental shielding, closing his eyes and basking in the peace that came with being so close to Genesis''s chaotic magic. There was safety in that, security. No matter how much energy the earth bled into him, no matter how frustrated and useless and overwhelmed he felt, that darkness that surrounded Genesis''s mind would always be limitless. Bottomless. A nothingness that was capable of everything.


    For a long time, Mirk was silent and still, reassured by the slow rise and fall of Genesis''s breathing as he tried to will his own heart to stop pounding against his ribs, to slow nearer to the rhythm of the inhumanly slow beating of the heart beneath his cheek. Then he sighed, savoring how the damp, earthy smell of the fresh growth beneath them complemented the faint scent of Genesis''s cleaning potions and soaps. "You''re really being very patient, messire," Mirk said, without opening his eyes. "I''d have thought that all this wedding business would have put you in a mood."


    "It did," he said, flatly. A moment later, Mirk felt him shift in his hold, then felt the light press of his fingertips on his hair as he stroked it. "But this is more...agreeable."


    Curious, Mirk lifted his head from Genesis''s chest and looked up at him. There wasn''t any trace of strain in his expression, though Mirk did think he saw some confusion there, in the way one corner of his mouth was twitching and the way his brows were still pulled down. It made his chest ache, but in a way that warmed him as much as his realization back at the wedding party had chilled him to the bone. "I always thought you didn''t like people hanging off you."


    "I don''t," he said, tone still flat. "But it is...less the touch I dislike, as I have said before, and more...the lack of warning. You made an attempt."


    Mirk laughed outright, but didn''t pull away from him. "What''s that gesture called again? Ces...or was it ka..."


    "C''ktac."


    "That''s it. I''m afraid I''ll never get it right...methinks my teeth don''t work that way..."


    "As I said. You...made an attempt."


    "I''ll try to remember from now on," Mirk said, leaning his head against his chest again. "I...well. Sometimes I get a little ahead of myself and forget."


    "It is...simple to tell when it''s coming. Regardless of your efforts."


    Mirk didn''t know whether to be ashamed over being so transparent, or concerned by the intensity with which Genesis must have been studying him to be able to sort things out without guidance. "Is it?"


    "Your heart accelerates. And your...eyes take on a certain...sheen."


    Mirk sighed. "Methinks I can''t compete with that. Like I said, I can''t feel you at all."


    "I have been told by other empaths that they find this...unsettling."


    "I don''t think so," Mirk replied, without any hesitation. Then he pressed things a step further. If Genesis was being open with him, even if it was mostly due to having drink forced on him again, the least he could do was reciprocate. "Honestly, it''s a relief."


    "...explain."


    "I have to hold my shields up all day, if I''m not around mages who like to keep to themselves. Sometimes I''d rather just rest. And...hmm. Methinks people don''t mean to do it most of the time, but being able to feel so much makes it easier for people to hurt you, if they want to. People can''t help being sad or being angry. But I feel it all the same. Besides, it makes you more interesting."


    "I...see."


    Mirk hesitated. "But...well. It does mean that I can''t tell whether or not I''m bothering you. Like this. I...can''t tell whether you''re just tolerating me or not. It..."


    It was pathetic. It was a path it was better not to go down, at the end of the day. But the other thing about Genesis when he was in that sort of mood, if Mirk was reading him correctly, was that he wouldn''t think to lie to spare his feelings, even if he wanted to. And perhaps if he learned the truth, then maybe it would dispel some of the unnatural desires that were clawing at the back of his mind even then, making his cheeks burn as he turned his head to look up at Genesis once more. "It does make me feel better. Being close like this. But I don''t want to take advantage of you."


    Genesis''s brows lowered once more, and he made an odd hissing noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "You are incapable of that."


    "Euh...pardon?"


    "I am not ignorant," he said, very slowly, once again choosing his words with care. "And I do not submit to things I do not wish to do. Not without...good reason. I am compelled often enough as it is to...submit. Due to the bindings. I will not do it otherwise."


    He was approaching dangerous territory, Mirk sensed. A place it would be hard to come back from. Yet, he continued to press. "Then why do you put up with all of this?"


    Genesis''s brows lowered further, as he struggled to explain. He hadn''t quit stroking his hair, and now he chose to draw attention to it, his hand momentarily closing over the crown of his head. "It is not...disagreeable to me. I do not understand why you are comforted by this. But I...find the texture...pleasing. So it would be incorrect to assume that there is no mutual benefit."


    An incredulous laugh slipped past Mirk''s lips. But he pressed closer against Genesis''s chest, lest the commander think he was offended or disgusted by what he''d said. It was just that it was almost impossible for Mirk to believe. "I suppose I''d never thought of things that way."


    "Humans have...different senses. I am told that things I find objectionable are not so on many occasions. It is only reasonable to assume that the inverse may also be true. That there are certain...textures I appreciate that others do not. Your hair is...not quite smooth. But also not rough. It is...interesting."


    "I''m glad we both like it, then, I suppose. I never thought of it as anything special. "


    Again, Genesis gaze shifted lower. Tracing down his side, like he was searching for something that was out of place. "I...do not dislike closeness. As I said. I...find...pressure to be...agreeable. Weight. It has a...calming effect. When it is not combined with some other thing that is objectionable."


    Mirk wasn''t certain what Genesis was suggesting to him, though it made the heat on the sides of his face become nearly unbearable. Not for the first time that afternoon, Mirk found himself cursing exactly what he found so appealing about Genesis -- his inability to tell what Genesis was feeling, to have presses of dismay or delight against his mind to nudge him toward what others required most in their time of need. There were no unspoken expectations pressing against his mind that encouraged him to shift against Genesis''s side, that made him press closer still, swinging his legs over so that they were draped across Genesis''s. There was only his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, his own longing clawing at his chest, making him give in to the idle desires that possessed him so often as of late. Desire that he let unfurl at Genesis''s vague grant of permission.


    Genesis didn''t push him away. Didn''t draw back. Instead, he looked down at his legs, left bare below the knee because he''d shoved off his boots and stockings in order to have direct contact with the earth, skin on soil. His mouth twisted into an odd, pursed-lip expression that gave way to one of his strained attempts at a smile. One that was similar to the expression that had crossed Genesis''s face what felt like ages ago, when Mirk had taken it upon himself to press the knots out of Genesis''s back by hand instead of trying to work them out with his healing magic.


    "Is it all right?" Mirk asked.


    "Your legs are...heavier than one would expect. From their dimensions."


    Again, Mirk laughed. "Is that supposed to be a compliment, messire?"


    "It is an...observation."


    Against his better instincts, Mirk pressed things one step further still. Ready to retreat at the first signs of refusal, he shoved himself over further, square into Genesis''s lap.


    There was no refusal. But Genesis did hold himself very still, the steady rise and fall of his breathing pausing for so long that Mirk would have been concerned, had he not been well aware of how infrequently the commander actually needed to breathe. Then, with another strange, hissing half-laugh, half-sigh, Genesis came unstuck, reaching with his free hand to adjust Mirk''s legs so that they were more properly straight.


    Mirk relaxed too, allowing his head to fall back against Genesis''s chest as he sunk down further into the static that washed over his mind at being so close to him. Surrendering to its coldness, letting all the accumulated frustration and upset that had wracked him all morning to flow out of him, into that darkness that surrounded Genesis''s mind. As he''d expected, Genesis''s lap, his thin legs that were all muscle and bone, weren''t as yielding and comfortable as a well-worn cushion or mattress. But Mirk savored the feel of them nevertheless.


    "This is not a...foreign gesture to me," Genesis said. "Somewhat. This is sitting t''cadek position. Save for the lack of precise alignment and the...arms. They are left at one''s sides."


    "What does it mean?"


    "It is...used in meditation. And spellcraft that requires the participation of more than one individual. To align oneself with another. Among other things. Gestures...can function on several levels."


    "Maybe things aren''t as different between the way your people did things and the way we do them after all," Mirk said, relaxing even further against Genesis''s thin chest. That wasn''t as comfortable as a mattress or a cushion either, technically speaking. But it was like a balm to Mirk''s frazzled nerves all the same. "This is...hmm. There''s no one name for this, I suppose. It just makes me feel better. That''s a little like meditation, non?"


    "There is...one thing I do not understand, however."


    "What?"


    "You have...said repeatedly that you never intend to engage in marriage. But I do not understand your reasoning. As this appears to be...a matter of some importance among most people. And a form of closeness that few people question."


    Mirk didn''t know how to answer that question. How to explain all the parts without giving himself away, without risking the comfort he found in leaning against Genesis''s chest and letting his mind be cradled against the forgiving static of his magic. But he did the best he could, if only to put the question to rest so that he could go back to ignoring the implications of the position he''d found himself in.


    "It''s like I said, messire. Marriage is different for nobles than it is for people like Danu and Mordecai. There are some people who have love marriages, like my parents did. But often nobles marry to secure their family''s wealth. Or their position in the guilds. Methinks if I hadn''t inherited, I might have been able to avoid that, but now it''s bound to be a given. Grand-p¨¨re left us with full ledgers and his staff. I''m sure that many other families are hoping that they could get an heir out a marriage who would have magic closer to grand-p¨¨re''s or my father''s than mine. And I''m certain they''d offer a rich dowry for that chance. But..."


    "But?"


    "It''s not right. It would make things easier for my uncle and cousins, but I can find another way. I won''t take away someone''s chance at a love marriage just to make things easier for myself."


    "I...see." Genesis shifted, picking up stroking his hair again as he thought. Perhaps he could sense how much his question unsettled him, had heard some change in his heartbeat or his breathing. "I think it strange that you find none of your fellow royalists desirable. You appear to...like most people."


    Mirk laughed, tiredly, pressing himself harder against Genesis''s chest. He hoped the laugh didn''t sound as bitter to Genesis as it did to his own ears. "There''s a difference between liking someone and loving them, Genesis. You are right, though. I like lots of people. But it''s not the same."


    "It''s...not the same," Genesis repeated, his flat tone conveying his lack of understanding as well as one of his jumbled expressions.


    "It''s hard to explain. It''s a feeling thing. And everyone feels love differently."


    "I will have to take your word on that. As I can feel...none of it."


    Mirk was beginning to wonder about that. How little Genesis felt, and how little he understood, as he continued to meticulously stroke his hair, arranging all the parts of it that always slipped out of place. Maybe it wasn''t an absence of sentiment, of understanding, but an inability to express or show those things in a way that made sense to other people. Or perhaps he was the one who was misunderstanding things, who was foolish enough to see tenderness and warmth in all of Genesis''s odd habits.


    Love could heighten perception, could highlight details that were easy to overlook. But it could also put meaning in things that ultimately meant nothing.


    "I know it''d be better if I went back soon," Mirk said. "But would you mind if I rested here? Just for a while? It''s been a long day."


    "I am...not opposed."


    With that grant of permission, Mirk let go of all the conflicting emotions raging in his body, the fear gnawing at his stomach and the desire coursing up his spine, and surrendered to the comfort of at least getting to be closer than usual to the man he knew, without a shred of doubt, that he loved.


    - - -


    It was near dusk by the time Mirk summoned the will to get up, to force himself back into the parts of his outfit that he''d discarded in his earlier fit of self-indulgent upset. Then he put on a pleasant expression that insinuated nothing had ever been wrong before returning to the larger clearing in the teleporters'' vale where the reception party was still in full swing. The shadows stretched long across the clearing when Mirk emerged out of the woods, Genesis following after him.


    The commander hadn''t needed any extra time to compose himself. Genesis never bothered with trying to put on a brave or pleasant face for others. And his clothing never looked bedraggled or unseemly, no matter what he did. He''d spent the afternoon reading the book that Mordecai''s grandfather had loaned him, more than happy to spend his time flipping through its crumbling pages rather than subjecting himself to the party. Mirk would have found the fact that Genesis preferred to pass his time with him draped across his lap more encouraging if he also hadn''t been so very aware of how much Genesis despised parties.


    Which was why it surprised Mirk that Genesis¡¯s arrival got noticed first. Mordecai came tearing out a crowd that''d gathered at the center of the clearing, a prudent distance from the cooking fire that''d been built up high to ward off the dusk. "Gen! Gen, there you are! You''ve got to come help!"


    When Genesis didn''t deign to reply to him, instead staring off at the crowd with a deepening frown, Mirk stepped in. "What''s wrong?" Only once Mordecai had come closer did Mirk notice how rumpled his wedding suit was, one of its arms half torn off. "Did something happen?"


    "Oh! Mirk! Good, I was looking for you too. You should go help Yule patch up the losers, or else he''s going to complain so much that Danny''s going to have to help." Before Mirk could ask him what he meant about patching up the losers, Mordecai had moved on, planting himself square in front of Genesis and clasping his hands together, pleading with him. "Please, Gen, just this once? Niv''s already beat Slava. No one else stands a chance! My cousin got drunk and bet half his loot from the last three caravans against Niv and zeyde will kill me if he loses it. I swear, I''ll talk him into giving you a quarter if you''ll just¡ª"


    Genesis raised one hand, cutting Mordecai off. "Enough."


    "Please?" Mordecai begged, one final time.


    Rather than saying anything, Genesis stalked over closer to the crowd, grimly unbuttoning his overcoat and the uniform jacket beneath it as he went. With a yell of mingled triumph and relief, along with some arcane gesture of thanks up to the sky, Mordecai ran after him.


    It took Mirk a moment to find Yule at the edge of the crowd. The older healer was working his way sullenly through a line of the biggest men among the Seventh and Mordecai''s kin. They were all the worse for wear, half of them bleeding from split lips and clutching aching ribs. They were all too drunk to be sullen, though, most of them chatting excitedly with one another and digging spare coins out of trouser pockets and boots. "What''s happening, Yule?" Mirk asked him.


    "About time you showed up," Yule said crossly, shoving a roll of bandages and a pot of bruise balm at him. "They''re doing one of their stupid village things again. Start from the back and work your way toward me. Since you decided to go take a nap while the rest of us were working, you can handle the worst."


    With a slow nod, Mirk went to the back of the line, where Eva was scolding Slava. The giant fighter was sprawled flat on his back on the ground, still breathing hard, one arm curled around his stomach and one eye half-swollen shut. Still, he was grinning, even in the face of both his injuries and Eva''s disapproval. "Help me sit up, Evashka," he said up at her, waving his free arm. "I want to see that bastard finally get it, even if I didn''t get to do it myself."


    In all his confusion and the chaos rippling through the crowd, Mirk had completely forgotten about Genesis. But his attention was dragged back to him now. Not because of the man himself, but because of an overwhelming wave of delight that sparked up at the center of the crowd. It was coming from K''aekniv.


    The half-angel had taken his own fair share of hits that evening, his bare chest and arms covered with scratches and bruises. But he showed no signs of slowing down. His feathers were puffed up in excitement, his face split in an eager grin. "Snegurochka! You want to try your luck too, huh?"


    The crowd was backtracking, leaving a wide circle around K''aekniv. And Genesis, who the crowd parted to make way for, as he finished the laborious process of properly folding back the sleeves of his shirt. The shadows of the fast approaching night gathered thick about him, making it look almost like he hadn''t taken off his overcoat, but merely replaced it with one that was even more alive and malevolent.


    "Luck...has nothing to do with it," Genesis replied. He didn''t raise his voice, but the crowd had fallen silent at his appearance, making him easy to hear all the way from its edge.


    "No! With this, luck is everything," K''aekniv countered. "It''s the rules. Whoever wins at the fights after a wedding is the one who''ll marry next. So you know I have to win."


    It became clear to Mirk then why so many men had come out to fight, even the ones who didn''t usually engage in casual fighting. Genesis paused. "Is there...some manner of contractual agreement?"


    "Contract! No! Like I said, it''s luck! All the old gods will smile on you if you win."


    Reassured, Genesis completed his preparations, making sure that the high collar of his shirt was fastened tight around his neck. "I will...disprove your superstition."


    "This is going to be good," Slava said in a too-loud whisper, grinning up at both him and Eva as the surgeon grabbed hold of his thick arm and pulled him up into a sitting position. "We can only ever get Gen to really go all out when he''s had a drink."


    He wasn''t going all out, as Slava put it. Mirk had seen the way that K''aekniv had shifted when he''d needed to fight Genesis for real, his loud emotions shifting to an unnerving, focused calmness. At present, K''aekniv was still grandstanding, waving his arms and wings and shouting encouragement to whip up the crowd. He got some shouts of agreement back, but most of the activity was focused on an intense exchange of fresh bets.


    Mirk could see why a casual observer might think a real fight was about to happen. The shadows were growing ever thicker around Genesis. But the commander didn''t have the unnatural, humorless grin on his face that came when he truly lost track of himself. Instead there was only his usual cold blankness, though his eyes had a focus to them that Mirk recognized. One that only usually came when he was genuinely fascinated by something or someone. Already invested.


    "Name your terms," Genesis said.


    "No magic! That''s as good as cheating with you. Just whatever you can do with that bony ass of yours."


    "I...will not require magic to handle the...likes of you."


    "You think you''re good shit, huh? Fine! I''ll make it a little harder. You''ll have to pin me five seconds instead of three."


    "This is stupid," Eva said, her palm pressed against one eye, tamping down on a growing headache.


    Mirk half agreed with her. But it was nice to see Genesis agreeing to the Easterners'' idea of fun for once instead of refusing to get involved. Especially since the cause for celebration was much less grim than at the Festival of Shades. "It''s fine, Eva. I''ll take care of both of them once it''s over."


    "Why must men be such idiots?" she asked no one in particular, looking down the long line of men who''d stopped pestering Yule for the exact opposite kind of attention than the one he favored, their focus fixed on the impending fight. "I thought Comrade Genesis was better than this."


    All Mirk could offer her in response to that was a helpless shrug. Though, really, he was no better than the rest. Rather than rolling his eyes and wincing like Eva, he found himself smiling along with the other men. And it was only partially because it was hard to shut K''aekniv''s excitement out of his mind.


    "Count!" K''aekniv bellowed.


    The crowd began a rowdy, jumbled countdown from five to one. Faster than thought, even without the help of his magic, Genesis was there the instant the one was past their lips, landing the first kick against K''aekniv''s side. The half-angel grunted, but laughed and rallied, almost managing to grab hold of Genesis''s leg on the next kick and bring him down.


    Mirk wasn''t looking forward to dealing with either of their injuries. And wasn''t invested in who won. But the fight did give him the chance to see Genesis''s fluid, inhuman grace in its finest form as he darted around K''aekniv, ducking punches and grabs and delivering spinning blows of his own. Because there was no real violence in it, no killing intent, Mirk could for once admire that beauty without regret. How smoothly Genesis moved, all long limbs and precision, always perfectly balanced, an extension of the living dark that lingered behind him. Untapped, but still restless.


    Healing a few cracked ribs and black eyes seemed like a small price to pay for such a wondrous show. Though Mirk sincerely doubted that Genesis would be the next to marry, even if he won.

 Chapter 82

    It was nearly noon when Mirk glimpsed what he''d been waiting for out the narrow window of a patient room up on the second floor. The fighters of the First and Fourteenth had been mustered in front of the parade grounds transporter since daybreak. But only now, after they''d had a leisurely morning and indulged in a hearty luncheon, did the mages and officers decide to join them.


    That was all an assumption on his part, Mirk supposed. He was letting his distaste for the K''maneda''s more powerful members color his opinions. Considering what he''d seen of them as of late, their abuse of the djinn and their grandstanding at noble balls, he was willing to give himself the benefit of the doubt for once instead of chiding himself for being judgmental.


    Mirk threw the rag he''d been wiping the room''s furniture down with into a bucket on the floor, scrambling to tug off his robes. Underneath it he wore his most formal and somber gray suit, the best thing he could think of confronting them all in short of finding a formal uniform like the ones K''aekniv and Genesis had. But that kind of show of force wouldn''t have fit his purposes anyway, no more than the formal uniform¡¯s harsh, unforgiving lines would have fit his soft, yielding frame. That aside, he''d done nothing to earn the right to wear K''maneda blacks.


    As Mirk hurried down the hall past the floor barrier, he double-checked his breast pocket for the sheaf of thick, lavender envelopes. Not the done thing with noble correspondence, usually. But there was something so final about the cream and bone white stationary the others favored, something that always made dread course down Mirk''s spine whenever he found one waiting for him at the house matron''s desk. It was impossible to tell from the envelope alone whether its contents were a warm letter from a friend or an imperious summons from the Circle.


    If he was going to take part in all of it, Mirk had decided, he wasn''t going to keep inflicting that same fear on everyone around him. The K¡¯maneda¡¯s commanders included.


    When he reached the waiting room, Mirk paused to smooth a hand over his hair, tamping down any unruly curls and tucking loose ends back into the gilt clip he''d used to pin it back. Then he took Jean-Luc''s staff out of the same breast pocket, twirled it up to an inconspicuous length, and headed out down the steps, a cheerful smile fixed on his face.


    It was easier to keep up the facade with the weather being so fine. If it''d been gloomy and drizzly like usual, the physical chill, coupled with the aching and worry of the fighters assembled out on the parade grounds, would have made it hard to put on a happy, friendly front. Mirk dodged the puddles left over from last night''s rain as he crossed the street, making a beeline for the officers and mages who were huddled together discussing strategy at the rear of the two infantry companies.


    Everyone he''d been hoping for was there. Percival, Richard, Casyn, Paul. And Ravensdale. The head of the K''maneda had brought five of the djinn with him for that contract, with two more flanking Percival, who was scowling down at a sword he was putting through its paces as he listened to the commanders bicker. Aside from the djinn, the others were keeping a prudent distance from Percival.


    "Are you sure you want to go out yourself, my Lord?" Paul, the stocky, balding mage who was always at Richard''s side asked Ravensdale, groveling in advance, should his superior not take kindly to his questioning. "You remember what happened the last time you went out. And this realm''s a hell of a lot more unsettled than the last."


    "I know what I''m doing," Ravensdale said back at him, frowning in distaste at Paul''s contrite bows. "Or should I be worried you lot won''t be willing to make the same sacrifice that Elijah Oliver, of all people, was willing to give?"


    A chorus of mumbled apologies rose from the commanders, while the officers arrayed behind them remained prudently silent. For a moment, Mirk thought it might have been best if he practiced the same caution. Ravensdale was in a terrible mood, judging by what little Mirk could feel through his haze of stolen magic and the cold, hard look on his face. But Mirk pressed onward. Playing the fool would be a key element of the plan they''d argued over all last night at Fatima''s back table.


    "Comrade Commanders!" Mirk called out as he closed the gap between them, trying to make the swinging of his staff as he walked more jaunty than threatening. "I know you all must be very busy, but would you have time for a quick word?"


    The bickering between the commanders died as their gazes all swung toward them. Without any words passing among them, they elected to let Ravensdale take the lead. "Comrade d''Avignon," Ravensdale said, looking him up and down. As always, his eyes lingered on the staff in Mirk''s left hand. "Is there some problem with the healers?"


    "Oh, pas du tout! Everything''s fine, we''re all ready for today. Though methinks with so many of you going along with, it''ll be a safe and speedy contract," Mirk said, with smaller, polite bows to each of the commanders staring down at him from behind Ravensdale. The djinn were the only men within the small group who didn''t react at all to Mirk''s arrival. Am-Gulat wasn''t among them. Mirk wasn''t certain whether to be heartened by that fact, or worried by it.


    "Easy as can be," Richard piped up, with a wide and nervous grin. Richard was always nervous. Mirk was sure none of the other commanders would see anything untoward in it.


    "I hate to distract you all from your business with something less important, comrades, but it''s so rare to see you all in one place, except for at balls," Mirk said, tucking his staff under one arm as he rifled through the invitations, finding the one addressed to Ravensdale. Mirk had written and rewritten it half a dozen times; he would have gone to Genesis for help, but he was certain Ravensdale would be able to sense the commander''s lingering magic on it. Or see evidence of him in the immaculate regularity of Genesis''s penmanship, even when badgered into using script instead of print. Holding the invitation by two corners, he offered it out to Ravensdale.


    "What''s this?" Ravensdale asked, grudgingly accepting the envelope, but making no move to open it.


    Mirk explained as he divvied out the rest of the invitations, with a polite nod to each commander as he passed them along. "I''m so grateful for the warm welcome you''ve all shown me, both here in the City and at the balls. Methinks it''s only right for me to repay the good fortune that God and you all have given me."


    Apparently, this was a bridge too far for Percival. With a derisive snort, he let his envelope flutter to the ground and stormed off toward the infirmary, jamming his new sword into a sheath clipped to a belt at his waist. Although Mirk knew Percival couldn''t be up to anything good, he forced himself to keep grinning at the remaining commanders. The fact that he''d left the djinn assigned to him behind was at least a little reassuring.


    "I asked around a bit and heard that there''s only three more balls left in the English spring season, with Lord Pendelton''s being cancelled in a fortnight,¡± Mirk explained. ¡°I thought I might be of service to everyone by hosting one in its place. And, well...methinks it''s a bit selfish of me, but I was a little sad that the Festival of Shades falls so close to my birthday. It would have been gauche to have a party for myself during the K''maneda''s special season. Anyway, spring is so much nicer for a party, non?"


    Paul had ripped open his invitation, none too gently, squinting down at the details scrawled across the stiff paper. "What? You got yourself some big townhouse out in the mage quarter now?"


    "Thought you were living in the dorms," Richard added, making an attempt at replicating Paul''s incredulous, sneering tone and failing badly.


    "My godmother has been kind enough to provide me with a space," Mirk said, not letting his smile waver in the face of the remaining commanders'' skepticism. "And she''s been kind enough to provide a private teleportation portal for the event. Which means I''ll be able to invite all my friends, not just the ones from here in England. The French mages really are very curious about the English, and the K''maneda especially. The Marquise has been talking my ear off looking to meet you all. She needs protection for her business and has been finding the French mercenaries lacking. She¡¯s the head of the Bachelot, family, you know. With their shipping concerns."


    It was clear to Mirk that none of them had heard of the Marquise, despite her ships being responsible for the majority of the mage commerce on the Mediterranean that had slipped out of Venetian and Genoan hands. But all the commanders made a show of nodding and considering the matter like real men of business. Mirk would have laughed, had he not been so concerned himself with making the right impression back at them.


    The rest of the commanders awaited Ravensdale''s judgment before giving their own. Mirk decided to sweeten the deal before Ravensdale could dismiss him out of hand, or give a non-committal response that was as good as a rejection.


    "Oh! Comrade Commander Casyn, I almost forgot." He pulled another envelope he''d been keeping in reserve for precisely this situation out of his justacorps pocket. "Would you be so kind as to pass this along to Comrade Commander Margaret? I''d really be so very happy if she could take time out of her busy schedule to come. It''d be so nice to speak with her personally instead of hearing about everything through Catherine. And since Seigneur Rouzet has already said that he''ll be attending, methinks it might be to Comrade Commander Margaret''s benefit to be there in person so that her and Catherine might...euh...address anything that might arise together at the right moment. What is it...strike while the iron is hot? Methinks the expression is the same in English..."


    Casyn had no idea what Mirk was talking about, accepting the second invitation with a shrug, crudely folding it in half along with the first and jamming it into his trouser pocket. Ravensdale, on the other hand, was immediately interested. His stolen djinn magic flared to cloud how much of his ire Mirk could sense, but the reaction of the nearby djinn made up for it. They''d long since learned to be mindful of shifts in Ravensdale''s mood. All of them tensed, shifting into defensive postures, as if preparing themselves for a blow. The sight of it, along with Ravensdale''s vicious grin, made something inside Mirk bubble and fizz with frustration.


    "Who is this Rouzet?" Ravensdale asked. Whether his poor pronunciation of the name was a deliberate slight or not was unclear. "I''ve never heard of him."


    "The Grand Master of the French dark magicians'' guild, Comrade Ravensdale. He only just inherited the role from his father a decade or two ago. He''s very interested in making amends between the French and the English. From what I''ve heard, he''s been writing letters about it to Comrade Catherine nearly as often as the Marquise has been writing me about the K''maneda." Mirk paused, letting a wistful, happy smile that he didn''t feel an ounce of to rise onto his face. He needed to tap into his memories of last weekend''s wedding, of resting safe in the embrace of Genesis''s chaotic aura as the Earth rioted around him, to make it come off as even a bit genuine. "It''s so much better when everyone gets along, non?"


    To Mirk''s astonishment, the gambit worked. Ravensdale really was hopelessly fixed on Catherine, on the potential that her magic offered him. So fixed that he was willing to throw caution to the wind and nod as he pocketed the invitation, albeit more gracefully than Casyn and the others had. "I''ll be there."


    The words came out sounding more like a threat than a grateful acceptance. But Mirk smiled on obliviously, nodding in satisfaction, forcing his grin wider as the other commanders murmured their agreement despite their own reservations. "Wonderful!" Mirk cheered. "I''m so happy there''s no bad blood between us. I promise, I''ll do everything to make this worth your time, Comrade Commanders, Comrade Ravensdale."


    Ravensdale didn''t see fit to respond to him. Instead he stormed past Mirk, calling out an order to one of the fighters loitering in front of the transporter. A low-born officer, judging by his sturdy boots and cuirass with crude enchantments scratched into its leather. Mirk let the slight sail straight past him, the same as Ravensdale''s obvious dismissal of him and his offer of friendship, such as it was, remaining where he stood until the other commanders and the djinn had moved off. Then, as fast as he dared, Mirk returned to the infirmary to see what horrible business Percival had decided to get himself into.


    He was greeted at the door by Emir. From the look of things, he''d been pacing the waiting room for some time by them, waiting for Mirk to come back inside. "I don''t know what he''s up to," Emir said to him in a low voice, inclining his head toward the hall leading back toward the exam rooms. And the floor barrier up onto second. "But he took Cyrus with him."


    "We''d best go look, methinks," Mirk sighed, shifting the staff from his left hand to his right, spinning it up to full fighting length as he passed it over. "I might have offended him."


    They''d just set foot onto the second floor when all the magelights along the main corridor dimmed, just for a second. In the distance, there was the sound of bellowing. Only half of it was in English. The other half, though too rapid for Mirk to follow, was unmistakable in its cold, ringing overtones.


    "Samael!" Mirk gasped, breaking into a run. "He should be up on the long-term ward..."


    It wasn''t hard to find him. All the patients who could walk had gathered outside the room at the end of the hall to watch as Percival and Cyrus faced off against Samael and Sharael across a patient bed in which another patient was slowly wasting away to nothing in his sleep, oblivious to the magic and tension crackling in the air. Both Percival and Sharael had their swords drawn. The sudden dimming of the lights must have been from Sharael using their magic to move herself from the Academy building across the parade grounds to the infirmary to come to her brother''s defense.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "What''s going on here?" Emir barked, shoving his way through the crowd of patients and into the room. Mirk took his time in following, pausing to encourage the patients to head back to their rooms. And to catch his breath before coming face to face with Percival.


    "The brat''s the one who started things," Percival said, without taking his eyes off Sharael or lowering his sword.


    "You have no right to even look at him, human," Sharael sneered back at him. "You don''t have any magic."


    "Shae, you''re not helping," Samael said weakly, rubbing at his temples.


    Cyrus, as always, was all business. And smugness, as he presented Emir with a piece of mage parchment. "Transfer order. Your angel''s getting reassigned to the Third."


    Emir scanned the sheet of parchment, his brows drawing closer and closer together the more he read. There was a tenseness in the head healer''s shoulders and back that Mirk recognized. Even though Emir had no wings to puff up in indignation, not like Sharael across the room, the instinct remained in his body, in his angelic blood. "This is nonsense. Comrade Samael has no training in combat magic."


    "Doesn''t matter," Cyrus said. "He''s useless as a healer too. The djinn don''t work as well with Lord Percival''s new magic as someone with his same element and orientation would. All the boy will be doing is serving as a well for Lord Percival to draw on."


    "Methinks it''d all be better if everyone calmed down a little," Mirk said, before Sharael could start ranting again. "Lord Percival, Sharael, would you please put your swords down? You''re upsetting the patients."


    Behind him, the patients were placing bets on who would win if things came to blows between the two, with rock hard infirmary rolls in place of coins. And the patient on the bed between them remained as lifeless as ever. But at a slight nod from Cyrus, and a whispered plea in angelic from Samael, the two lowered their swords. Though neither of them sheathed them.


    "What do you mean by serving as a well?" Emir asked, folding his arms, the transfer order half-crumpled in his hand.


    "My magic is not gone," Percival said, shooting Sharael a pointed look. "You all simply do not have either the knowledge or the senses to comprehend it. I have been granted the ability to make use of the magic of mages who are not striving to their highest potential. By redirecting it toward a more proper use."


    It made a little sense, Mirk supposed, considering what had happened the last time Percival and Samael had crossed paths. The young angel had said that it didn''t feel like Percival had drained his magic, more like he''d caught hold of it and channeled it through his body to purposes that were contrary to Samael''s wishes. Danu''s description of what it''d felt like when Percival had dodged her own magic was roughly similar. "Comrade Ravensdale has given you djinn to help, non?" Mirk asked.


    "If you''d been listening, you''d know I already spoke on that. Their magic is too inferior for me to reach my highest potential. I need light magic. Heavenly magic, like my own."


    "If you took one look into the Well of the Light Eternal, you''d turn to dust," Sharael spat.


    Samael had recovered enough by then, reassured that things wouldn''t actually come to blows, to offer a more rational defense. Though he was still distracted by all the anger and disgust in the room, Mirk could tell, by the way his wings were twitching. "My elemental magic is not strong," Samael said. "I¡¯m an empath."


    "That doesn''t matter," Percival countered. "What matters is potential. And you have five times the potential of the other brat," he said, with a dismissive wave at Sharael. "I''ve made use of your magic before. I will make use of it again. And in a much more worthy fashion than whatever it was you were doing here."


    "Can I see the letter, Comrade Commander Emir?" Mirk asked, stepping up beside him and holding out his hand. Emir handed it over, and Mirk busied himself with smoothing it out, to try to read the slanted, poorly formed handwriting scrawled across it.


    Mirk wasn''t much interested in the contents of the transfer order, though he did keep his eyes fixed on it, making note that it was signed by Ravensdale himself. Instead, after bracing himself for the full force of Percival and Sharael''s combined rage, which he could feel simmering beyond his shields, he banished the walls around his mind. And projected his own concern, very lightly, at a level that no one other than a very sensitive empath would pick up on.


    Samael took the opening. What do I do? he asked into Mirk''s mind, his mental voice strained with worry and confusion. Lor...Imanael never trained me in combat. Something else is going on, I''m sure. But I can''t read...


    Without raising his head, Mirk surveyed all the people crammed into the too-small room. Cyrus had barely any empathy, and Percival, of course, was completely blind to the emotions of others, his lack of empathy aside. Sharael''s empathy was tuned precisely to her brother''s, but Mirk could feel that she was too furious at Percival at the moment to be paying Samael much attention.


    All he had to work with was Emir who, though his empathy wasn''t as strong as his own, had the same precise control over his abilities that most angels did, even though he was only half. Although the half-bloods who''d abandoned the Empire in favor of living among the towering dunes of the great desert across the Mediterranean had eschewed most Imperial customs, they still trained their empathy as hard as any Imperial angel did.


    The fact that Emir was the only one who could help was a blessing and a curse ¡ª he was also likely to be the only one who sensed what was happening. As long as he was on board with the plan, which Mirk suspected he would be, if he could catch Mirk''s meaning, they stood a chance at putting a stop to things. "I''m afraid that everything does seem to be in order," Mirk said with a sigh, as he offered the paper back to Emir. "It''s very sad, methinks. Samael was just starting to make progress with Comrade Jonah," Mirk said, gesturing at the man on the bed.


    Emir shot him a skeptical look, only the slightest arch of his eyebrows. Mirk carried on. "The only problem is what Comrade Samael mentioned before, Lord Percival. His magic really is mostly empathy. If the gift transfers along with the potential, methinks it might...euh...be more painful than helpful to you."


    Percival scoffed. "Pain is only a distraction. Easily managed."


    Mirk flared his projection as he spoke again, that time making it align with his words, the genuine sadness he felt over the prospects of Samael being taken away from them. Though he''d probably have to draw on a deeper source at the crucial moment. It drew Emir''s attention, though the lead healer didn''t interrupt him. "Methinks we should try a small experiment, maybe? If you''d be willing, Samael."


    Lower your shields when you pass it, Mirk thought to himself, hoping Samael would hear. I''ll project as hard as I can. Emir too, maybe.


    Warily, Samael nodded. "I won''t give you a lot. Only a fragment. Otherwise it might break your mind again and you''ll be back in here," he said.


    Without comment, Percival held out his hand. Sharael kept herself between Samael and him, though she did duck one wing and look back over her shoulder at her brother, hissing something at him in angelic. Samael only nodded, then stepped up beside her, slowly raising his hand.


    Samael''s eyes didn''t waver from Percival. But Mirk felt him lower his shields all the same, the chilly void where Samael''s mind once had been replaced by an equally soft dread that pulsed with the young angel''s winglight, more prominent than usual under the diminished glow of the room''s magelights.


    The instant Samael¡¯s shields were down, Mirk began to project all the despair and horror he could bear to summon, making himself draw from all the scattered memories he usually did his best not to think about ¡ª the sight of the Lis de la Rivi¨¨re in flames, Father Jean turning his back on him and casting off his rings, the hiss of drizzle on stone as a voice laughed in the darkness, Genesis lying dead on an exam table with the pale-faced Death looming over him, his soul in hand. Mirk had to fight not to let his relief pass through as he felt Emir echo him, not with sadness, but with frustration and rage.


    Percival grew impatient with Samael''s hesitation, reaching across the bed and its comatose occupant, grabbing hold of Samael''s hand. He only managed to keep hold of it for a few seconds before he let out a distinctly un-Christian string of curses, his hand flying to the side of his head as he squeezed his eyes shut tight against the invisible emotions filling the room. "What the hell is that?" he snapped, glaring across the bed at Samael once he found his bearings.


    Samael only shrugged, looking over at Mirk and Emir. As soon as Percival had dropped Samael''s hand, they''d both stopped projecting, drawing their mental shielding back up. "That''s how it always feels," he said. "They''re not even that upset. It''s nothing to me."


    Whirling to face them, Percival searched Mirk and Emir¡¯s faces for visible signs of distress, for tears or bared teeth or clenched fists. Instead, he only got a pleasant smile and a helpless shrug from Mirk, along with a skeptically arched eyebrow from Emir. "They''ve all got to be lying," Percival snarled, looking to Cyrus for confirmation instead.


    But the commander of the Tenth hadn''t been expecting such a reaction. And, with his thick mental shields and weak empathy, Mirk was guessing Cyrus hadn''t felt anything else beyond Percival''s reaction to the touch of Samael''s magic. Much like K''aekniv¡¯s, Percival''s emotions got quite loud when he wasn''t being mindful of putting on a cool and disdainful front.


    "The boy does have an exceptional amount of empathy," Cyrus admitted. "But I''m sure you''ll get used to it."


    "We''ve got our own empaths," Percival grumbled, giving in and sheathing his sword. "I''ll speak with Ambras about making some kind of spell to compensate. He¡¯s a barbarian, he must know how these things operate. Then I''ll be back to collect."


    Without another word, Percival stormed out of the room, shoving his way past Mirk and Emir without looking at either of them. The patients out in the hall had already vanished. With a pointed look that made it clear things were far from resolved among them all, Cyrus followed the mage out, already offering suggestions as to which healers from the Tenth he could offer to help Ambras with the necessary spells to make empathy bearable for Percival.


    Mirk deflated, leaning against the room''s door frame, pausing to take a few deep breaths and try to clear the fog from his mind that came with so much directed use of his empathy. He wasn''t accustomed to projecting hard, trying to influence others directly. He preferred to take stock of the emotions of others instead, using them as a way to guide his actions. "Methinks that went as well as we could hope," Mirk said to no one in particular.


    "What do you mean?" Sharael said, finally sheathing her own sword as well. She''d made further modifications to the ladies'' uniform since the last time he''d run into her, Mirk noticed. She''d found a way to wrap the extra fabric of the dress-like trousers around her legs, to make them look more like the garments that angels wore under their armor. Like the clothes his father had always worn, save for when his mother goaded him into dressing up for a party or Mass. "You heard him. He''s going to come back for us." She looked back at Samael for confirmation.


    Samael nodded, going to the room''s chair and collapsing into it, rubbing at his temples as he thought. "He will. But not until he''s sure that he can stop the empathy from carrying with my potential. He really didn''t like feeling all of that."


    "Then methinks maybe it might be best if we found somewhere else for you both to stay for a while," Mirk said with a weary sigh, his mind already groping for possibilities.


    "I don''t need the shielding on my room as much as I used to," Samael offered.


    "Yes, you do," Sharael insisted. Samael''s feathers lifted in protest, but he didn''t say anything.


    Mirk smiled a little, despite himself. He was accustomed to the strain of an overbearing sister. And something in the way that Sharael paced in front of Samael''s chair as she tried to think up a solution, her feathers standing on end and her hand still on the hilt of the sword at her waist, reminded him of Kae''s reaction whenever he made the absurd suggestion that he could do something on his own, like walk down the road from his parents'' manor to the nearest village unattended. Though Kae had always had less of the Imperial haughtiness about her protests, and more of the rough-and-tumble grandstanding that was rampant among his father''s house guard.


    The thought of Kae, of her jet black hair and the proud upward tilt to her jaw, reminded Mirk of another strong-willed, dark-haired woman. "Methinks I might have an idea," Mirk said, brushing his hands absently down the front of his plain gray suit. His godmother would be sure to roll her eyes at him looking so formal, but it was better than showing up on her doorstep in infirmary robes. "My family stayed in London with my godmother for a time before they came to the infirmary. Maybe she''s left the wards on their room? They''re not as strong as the ones in the healers'' dormitory, but methinks I might be able to fix them up. They were meant for concealing rather than keeping out emotions, but hiding you both might be the most important thing, for now..."


    Sharael looked skeptical. But Samael nodded. "Anything to get out of the City. And I''m getting better at making my own wards, so I can help too."


    "It might be nice to be somewhere a little less cramped," Sharael said with a sigh. "But I''ll fall in the class rankings."


    Mirk smiled at that too, feeling a bit more sure of himself. "I can have Genesis or Monsieur Am-Hazek give you lessons instead. They''re both excellent mages."


    Sharael shuddered. "I''d rather not."


    Emir nodded in agreement, crumpling the order Cyrus had given him fully and tossing it in the room''s rubbish bin. "I''m sure Mordecai is wherever Danu is. Hopefully it takes him four or five jumps to get you out and he''ll be too tired to come back," he muttered to himself as he left the room to go looking.


    "And you can have your room back," Sharael said, once Emir had left. "At least for a while."


    Mirk laughed. "I''m happy where I am."


    "He is," Samael confirmed, when Sharael seemed at a loss for words.


    "Is your godmother as mad as everyone else in this Light-forsaken place?"


    All Mirk could do is shrug. "Her cook is wonderful, though. Methinks you''ll like his cooking much better than the cooks at the dining hall. He knows how to cook for me, so that¡¯s a start."


    Some of the gloom lifted from Samael at this and he shoved himself back up to his feet, shaking out his wings. "Let''s go, then."


    Sharael rolled her eyes. "You''re too easy."


    He said something to her softly in angelic as he went to the room''s bed and went to tend to the comatose patient he''d been working with before. From what little Mirk could catch, it sounded like a vow of thanks. For being strong for him.


    Although Sharael huffed again in disgust, she didn''t keep Samael from going about the small rituals that came so easily once a healer found the flow of infirmary life ¡ª arranging a patient''s limbs so that they wouldn''t wake up sore, checking the mattress to ensure it hadn''t been soiled, making sure they were tucked in well to keep any chill or bad air from claiming them. It made Mirk feel better to see that Samael was learning those rituals too. That he was finding his own place, in a way.


    It was only unfortunate that those quiet routines had to be broken so soon. But if Mirk had any say in things, Samael wouldn''t be away from the infirmary for long.

 Chapter 83

    "I believe now is the time to make the change, seigneur."


    Mirk edged over as close as he dared to the gutter before pausing to look around. The heart of the London mage quarter was crowded on Wednesday evening, just past sunset. The guild libraries and workshops had all closed for the evening, and the road was full of apprentice and journeymen mages fresh from their workbenches and desks, all of them packed in shoulder to shoulder as they rushed about tending to necessities before all the guild-run shops closed. The narrow gap in the middle of the road left for carriages and buggies was so thin at the moment that Mirk didn''t think traffic could have passed, had there been any. Not without a contingent of guild guardsmen running ahead to beat distracted mages out of the way.


    Am-Hazek''s presence at his side had been a boon ever since they''d entered the business part of the mage quarter. People always got out of a djinn''s way, as long as they were beside someone who could pass for a nobleman. Am-Hazek was still surprised by Mirk''s preference for walking. He spent so much time on foot in the City, it hadn''t even occurred to Mirk how odd it would be for a noble mage to arrive at the counting house on foot.


    It had ended up not mattering. Am-Hazek had taken him around to the back of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse anyway, to the stables, to show him Pascal''s efforts at swapping the blue and silver livery on her carriage for the burgundy and gold of Lord Kinross''s house. And though the footman was puffed up with pride at his hard work, Mirk knew anyone who had ever so much as glimpsed a noble carriage rumbling past in the street would be able to tell something was off. The hammer and anvil Pascal had painted on the carriage''s side crest to replace his godmother''s willow was particularly lumpy.


    Not wanting to hurt the footman''s feelings, Mirk had offered a polite excuse about feeling particularly ill in carriages during the springtime, due to his unbreakable connection to the Earth. Am-Hazek, ever perceptive, had gone along. Though he''d also dropped the caveat that not having the carriage to bolster the ruse would mean that the rest of it would have to proceed flawlessly, if it was to be believed.


    "Would that work?" Mirk asked Am-Hazek, gesturing with Jean-Luc''s staff toward a nearby alley, little more than a damp crack between a solicitor''s office and something like a tavern, crowded with men in somber black coats and broad hats that were folded up along the edges. Men of business, who favored the economy of mortal style rather than the flamboyance of mage fashion. It was probably one of those coffee houses his Uncle Henri was always raving about.


    Am-Hazek nodded, though he sighed with distaste at the rubbish crowding the bit of the alleyway visible from the street. "I am afraid there are few good options in any city, mortal or mage. The City of Glass excepted. If your comrades ever needed a more reputable way to make gold, I think they''d make themselves a tidy sum sharing their cleaning spells..."


    Mirk laughed, letting Am-Hazek take the lead as they headed for the alley, his tall, lanky frame parting the crowd better than swinging Jean-Luc''s staff ever could have. "I''ll let Gen know," he mumbled, clinging to that small bit of humor to try to settle the nerves churning in the pit of his stomach.


    After casting an offhand distraction glamor with a wave of his hand, Am-Hazek sidled into the alleyway, Mirk close at his heels. Thankfully, it wasn''t occupied, though the mounds of rubbish grew higher the further they continued down it. Near the midpoint, Am-Hazek came to a halt, looking down at the valise he''d carried all the way across the mage quarter, hefting it in his hand as he searched for the cleanest possible place to put it down.


    "Here," Mirk said, lifting his grandfather''s staff, flashing the djinn the warmest smile he could muster. "Since you''ve already helped so much, monsieur."


    It was tricky, wasted far more of his potential than he should have spent on a triviality, considering what they were on their way to do. Mirk called to the mounds of rubbish nearest them, his mind filled for a moment with the cacophony of decaying things and bits of metal and glass as he shoved it all further along the alley with his magic, clearing a relatively clean spot for Am-Hazek to work in.


    Mirk sucked in a deep breath as he drew his mental shielding back up, coughing at the stench that stirring all the muck had put in the air. Being around Genesis so much really had made him even more spoiled than he already was. "Better?" he asked Am-Hazek. "I know it''s not as good as the City. You could almost eat off the streets there."


    "Much better," Am-Hazek replied, with a tight-lipped, joyless smile. It didn¡¯t comfort Mirk to know that the djinn felt as uneasy about things as he did, in his own, subdued way.


    Am-Hazek flipped open the clasp on the valise, opening it just far enough to pull out a white tablecloth that had a wine stain soaked deep into its fibers. He spread it across the ground, atop the space Mirk had more or less cleared, toeing off his shoes before stepping over onto it.


    Mirk looked around the alley, searching for some bit of junk that might be tall enough to preserve Am-Hazek''s modesty. The djinn laughed as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his long fingers deftly tracing down the multitude of small pearl buttons. "As you are always reminding everyone, seigneur, you are a healer. But..."


    "But?"


    Am-Hazek sighed. "If you''d be willing to assist with my garments?" He lifted the valise, still hanging half-open in his other hand.


    It was strange, Mirk thought, that Am-Hazek''s cheeks darkened ever so slightly at the thought of someone helping him with his clothes for once instead of at the prospect of standing naked in front of him. It must have been a djinn custom. The rumors he''d been told by Er-Izat had made Mirk think that Am-Hazek''s deference toward rank had to be a show rather than his genuine feelings.


    But as Mirk accepted each of his pieces of clothing after Am-Hazek had neatly folded them, he was beginning to suspect that the rumors Er-Izat had heard weren''t entirely true, judging by the reluctance with which Am-Hazek handed the bundles over. That or Am-Hazek was a fantastic actor. Which was, admittedly, just what the situation required.


    Once he was stripped down to nothing, left shivering in the cool spring air, Am-Hazek paused to contemplate his valise and its contents. "I haven''t done this for nearly a century," he remarked, reluctantly setting the valise down on the tablecloth and crouching beside it. "It''s considered bad luck to change wearing another person''s clothes. But I suspect I won''t get the dimensions correct otherwise. I''ve only had the pleasure of meeting Lord Kinross on two occasions."


    "Can every djinn, euh, change?" Mirk asked as Am-Hazek shook out a pair of Lord Kinross''s silk drawers. They''d be little better than a laundry sack on Am-Hazek''s lithe frame.


    "To an extent, seigneur. The Ta-Djinn are best at it. But most djinn are proficient enough to fool a human. Or former human, as the case might be." Am-Hazek paused, frowning as the drawers fell clear off him when he stooped back down to pick out Lord Kinross''s shirt. He gave up on them, electing to put the shirt on first.


    Before he picked up the drawers again, he delicately took the teardrop earring out of his left ear, holding it for a moment in the palm of his hand. "But in order to change, one must hold their own soul. Thus, the others on this realm cannot do it. Whether their collars or other restraints might allow them to or not."


    In one fluid motion, Am-Hazek tilted his head back and swallowed the earring, along with his own soul trapped inside the gem. Magic flared in the depths of his eyes and he rolled his shoulders, loosening up. At least as much as he could while still holding the oversized drawers up with one hand. "It may be better if you avert your eyes now, seigneur. I''ve been told that watching the change is alarming for non-djinn."


    Nodding, Mirk averted his eyes, instead staring down at Am-Hazek''s clothes in his arms. Still warm from his body, they were folded almost as neatly as his own clothes were once Genesis had finished with them. Though Genesis had always been considerate enough to leave him to his own devices when it came to his smallclothes. Despite having had servants tend to him from birth, the thought of Genesis meticulously ironing and folding his braies was mortifying.


    Mirk was jerked out of his thoughts by a horrible grinding noise, like the noise a long bone made while two healers worked together to set it. He caught himself an instant before he could look up. Instead, he continued to listen, the narrow alley making the sound of the change clear, even over the din of people and horses back on the main thoroughfare. Along with the grinding and crunching, there was also the meaty, wet noise of rearranging flesh, the sound of a desperate healer sifting through a man''s innards in search of a bleed. Mirk was more appalled by how unbothered he was by those noises than he was by the sounds themselves.


    "It is done, seigneur. At least, this is as good as I can manage. With any luck, the clothes and the vial of potential will cover the gaps."


    Though he knew what to expect, more or less, Mirk was still startled by the sight of Lord Kinross standing in the middle of the filthy alleyway in his smallclothes, right where Am-Hazek had been a few minutes ago. "Amazing," Mirk murmured, reflexively crossing himself. "You look exactly like him, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I can hardly believe you''ve only seen him a few times."


    Only once Am-Hazek began to move, putting on the rest of Lord Kinross''s clothes, did the difference become apparent. Kinross was sprightly despite his age, but he was a bulky man, lumbering and inflexible and solid. Am-Hazek changed into Kinross still moved with deliberate djinn grace and speed. It was a little uncanny, but Mirk had no doubt that once they left the alleyway Am-Hazek would shift his mannerisms to match the lord whose face and clothes he''d borrowed.


    "A Ra-Djinn''s taste is always impeccable," Am-Hazek murmured, admiring the short burgundy coat that Ra-Darat had snuck him. It was close-cut, not the fashion presently, but it suited Lord Kinross''s burly frame much better than the voluminous justacorps that the French mages, along with many of the style-conscious English, favored. And the gold waistcoat underneath it spoke to what Mirk had observed of the lord''s dramatic flair.


    "Why do you think Monsieur Ra-Darat chose to help us?" Mirk asked, handing back Am-Hazek''s clothes. "Does he feel strongly about helping the djinn trapped in the City? Or is Lord Kinross..."


    "I cannot say, seigneur. There have always been two kinds of Ra-Djinn. The ones who hide none of their opinions, and the ones who hide all of them. Monsieur Ra-Darat is the latter."


    "But he really is taking a risk, giving you the means to steal from his vault with the ghosts." Mirk couldn''t help but worry that it might be some kind of trap, despite knowing full well that if it was, Am-Hazek would undoubtedly have seen it coming. Another consequence of spending too much time among the K''maneda, and Genesis in particular.


    "He gave what he could, but the plan would have most likely failed were it not for your own connections. Which I don''t believe Ra-Darat could have known about, no matter how good his intuition is. I believe he merely wanted to have a bit of hope for himself."


    "Hope?"


    "The Ra-Djinn would not sell off one of their own lightly. What he did to deserve that must have been unforgivable. His only chance at returning to the home realm, even if Lord Kinross was charitable enough to hand him back his soul and remove his bonds, would be for the Ra-Djinn to lose the hierarchy." Am-Hazek turned the vial of Lord Kinross''s potential between his fingers, a wistful expression on his face. "It''s strange, the impressions you can make on strangers without even knowing..."


    "Euh, pardon?"


    "I apologize, seigneur. Making the change always leaves me a bit out of sorts. There''s enough chaos mixed in this sample for me to mimic Lord Kinross''s magic for an hour at most. We will need to be quick once I take it. I believe it would be best if I waited until the very last moment."


    Mirk nodded. "Shall we go then, monsieur?"


    "Yes, seigneur." With great reluctance, Am-Hazek slipped into Kinross''s shoes, closed the valise, and wrapped it up tightly in the wine-stained tablecloth before hiding it in among the piles of refuse. A man of Lord Kinross''s rank would never carry his own bag. And neither would Mirk. Not in polite company when he wanted to make a strong impression, at least.


    The crowds back in the street had thinned since they''d sidled into the alley, but the heated conversation going on both within and outside the coffee house next door kept anyone from noticing them. From there, it was only ten minutes walk to the main London counting house. Although all the businesses near it ¡ª guild establishments to the last ¡ª were shuttered, the counting house''s lamps remained lit, a pair of burly human footmen standing guard at the door. The counting house never closed. Ghosts, after all, didn''t sleep.


    Am-Hazek had consumed the vial containing the sample of Lord Kinross''s potential just before they''d turned the corner onto the street the counting house stood in the middle of. By the time they reached the front door, it had taken full effect. Am-Hazek had abandoned his usual quietness and was using his own fire magic to augment the amount he''d swallowed, and now his presence felt very much like the man Mirk had met at the ball weeks ago, loud and jolly. And as Mirk had suspected, Am-Hazek also altered his gait to something more like that of an elderly human, albeit one who hadn''t lost all of his youthful spirit. Am-Hazek gave the footmen a booming and grinning greeting, and they moved aside for them without batting an eye.


    The pair of ghosts tending the long counter that ran across the far side of the counting house''s lobby were far more cautious. The counter served as an extra barrier between the human patrons of their counting house and the back of it, where all the riches of English magecraft were kept under lock and key.


    One of the ghosts, a woman dressed in ceremonial robes that Mirk didn''t recognize, looked up at their arrival. But she didn''t bother to make herself more than halfway solid, which meant that when Mirk tried to bow and smile in greeting to her, he ended up focusing more on the potted fern behind her than on the misty impression of her face.


    "Lord Kinross," the woman whispered. "And...?"


    "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d''Avignon, madame," Mirk pivoted, bowing to the ghostly man as well, who was already digging through the stack of reference ledgers piled atop the counter. His clothes were much more modern; he had to be more recently deceased. "Monsieur."


    "No need to go digging into the accounts, Billy," Am-Hazek said, waving an absent hand at the man. "I need to be taken to the back. The seigneur''s come with to help me evaluate those gems that just came in from the coast. Always easier with an earth mage around, right?"


    "The Brighton counting house confirmed their authenticity before passing them on to us, my lord," the woman said, staring hard up at Lord Kinross. It troubled Mirk that she didn''t need to consult any records to remember the jewels they''d come to steal. The London counting house had to have hundreds of visitors each day.


    "Oh, I''m not worried about them being paste, Gwynn. I want them tested for resonance. The seigneur here is an expert at that sort of thing. And a good deal better company than Rawls from the Artificers," Am-Hazek added with a knowing grin that was bursting at the seams with merriment. It was astonishing how well Am-Hazek could hide his true personality just as easily he could his face and form. Perhaps that was part of the magic that went along with putting on another person''s body and swallowing their potential.


    At the mention of Rawls, whose face Mirk couldn''t match with the name he''d overheard at several balls, both of the ghosts behind the counter relaxed. "Very good, my lord," the man said, taking a fat ring of keys off a hook on the wall behind the desk. There were dozens more there, all of them identical to Mirk''s eyes. It all made him wonder what happened to the ghosts who arrived at the counting house who didn''t have extraordinary memories. "If you''ll follow me, then."


    They were waved around to a locked bit of the counter near its end that flipped up at an arcane gesture from the ghost. Then it was on into a maze of hallways, all of them narrow and lined with iron doors. And full of spirits, all of them too busy or unwilling to bother with the hassle of fully manifesting. Instead, they flitted around them like so many chilly breezes as they headed deeper and deeper into the counting house, some of them carrying with them the scent of long-dead flowers or hot metal or cooking that''d been eaten up ages ago.


    Am-Hazek in Lord Kinross''s body made jolly but trivial conversation with Mirk the whole way, polite inquiries about his uncle''s business and the K''maneda''s use of spell papers. It was all Mirk could do to keep spitting up cheery answers without swallowing his tongue due to his nerves.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Which was, thankfully, not all that out of character for him. Mirk always felt uneasy whenever he ventured into any of the ghosts'' counting houses, embarrassed and still a little shocked by the thickness of the ledgers the ghosts watching the desk hauled up onto the counter at his wincing requests for yet another small measure of his family''s gold. None of it felt right; none of it felt like him. Mirk was always tempted to call in the whole ledger and go on a spree outside the South Gate of the City, pressing the gold into the eager palms of passers-by until he was relieved of his guilt.


    But that wasn''t the way things worked, K''aekniv had explained to him one night over drinks at the tavern. No amount of gold would make the commanders and the guildmasters stop beating people. At least, that was how Genesis had explained things to K¡¯aekniv when he had felt that same guilt when confronted with the gains of their first truly devastating contract. Their masters would never be happy no matter how much gold they were handed. Gold only did any good once all the masters were gone, K''aekniv had concluded with a shrug, as he had offered him another drink. Along with a joke that the only other thing gold was good for was keeping the night barman from throwing them out for never paying their tab.


    Mirk was jolted out of his thoughts by the ghost coming to a sudden halt in front of one of the identical iron doors ¡ª he almost walked straight through him, brought up short by Am-Hazek whipping out a thick arm and throwing it in his path. A bit too quick of a move for a man like Lord Kinross, but the ghost was too busy with his keyring to notice, thankfully. "Would you prefer privacy, my lord?" the ghost asked Am-Hazek.


    "Indeed I would, Billy. Lock it up after too. To engage the wards. The seigneur''s senses are very delicate. I''d rather not have the potential of any passers-by clouding his judgment."


    This had to be some sort of standard procedure. The ghost was already in the process of locking the door back up before him and Am-Hazek had gone past the threshold. Inside the small room beyond the iron door was an elegant gilt desk, a polished mahogany workbench with a selection of forging tools hung on the wall above it, and two dozen safes. Before Mirk had time to properly take it all in, the door was already clanging shut behind them, with the snick of the key in its lock. The wards on it engaged a moment later, blocking out the faint traces of the ghosts whispering past out in the hall Mirk could feel against his mental shielding.


    "Do you feel anything, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked him, switching smoothly back into French, into his usual soft cadence that neither demanded nor yielded. Perfect neutrality, the hallmark of a well-trained djinn servant whose master at least respected the power of the being they kept around to open their doors and oversee their human servants.


    Mirk shook his head. "Which safe are they in?"


    "Ra-Darat did not pass me that information, seigneur. However, I believe our friends should be suited to the task. Ra-Darat did say that Lord Kinross would undoubtedly have put his family spell on the safe, owing to how dear the jewels are."


    More uneasy than ever, Mirk drew the spell paper out of the breast pocket of his justacorps. The ghosts had put up wards on their counting house meant to keep out mages with uncanny magic like Genesis''s, invisible walls in the Abyss that could keep out demons and human chaotic dark mages strong enough to move through the shadows. But Genesis had a temporary solution. A combination of the magic he usually employed to move from place to place and something to bribe the creatures that inhabited the Abyss into attacking the wards. Genesis estimated the odds of the ghosts knowing that their attack was guided and not their usual capricious desire to consume and destroy was low enough for them to risk it. About thirty-five percent.


    It still felt awfully risky to Mirk. But they had no other option, not if they wanted gems clear enough to house the souls of Ravensdale''s djinn, that could allow their depleted magic to work well enough for them to make good their escape. The spell paper Genesis had given him had two lines drawn on it where it was meant to be ripped. Once to get Fatima and Elijah into the counting house, and once to send them back. Mirk and Am-Hazek would be leaving on foot. Provided the ghosts didn''t realize their domain had been intruded into.


    Biting his lip, Mirk ripped the top half of the spell paper.


    It was horrible to watch, like a great beast had slithered out of the shadows beneath the desk across the room and ripped a hole in the world with five hands full of claws as broad and sharp as the deadliest swords. But at least the press of chaotic magic against Mirk''s mind was the same, a rush of familiar hissing static and a rush of coldness. There was a burst of inhuman chittering and screeching. Then Fatima and Elijah were shoved into existence in the middle of the room.


    "Oh God! Don''t let me go, please, please don''t let them eat¡ª"


    The trip must have been as harrowing as it''d seemed from the other side. Elijah''s usual reticence around women was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had both arms wrapped tight around Fatima''s shoulders as he gibbered with fright, as if he was terrified that something would lash a wriggling appendage out from underneath the desk and drag him back into the Abyss if he let her go.


    Fatima was having none of it. She used her cane to push him away as she pried one of his arms off her shoulders. "Quit crying! And get to work. He said we have twenty minutes. Hope the abyssals eat your yellow ass the next time..."


    "Oh, hello, Mirk! And...um..."


    The small scrap of his usual exuberance Elijah had regained vanished at the sight of Am-Hazek wearing Lord Kinross''s shape looming back by the door. Elijah swallowed hard and laughed, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. "I know you''re not actually Kinross, but it still gives me the shivers..."


    "Don''t be alarmed, Comrade Oliver. I can assure you, if everything goes to plan, Lord Kinross will have no idea who took his jewels," Am-Hazek said, with a slight, graceful bow that was at odds with Kinross''s stocky build.


    "Ah, that''s almost as bad as the abyssals...last time I saw Kinross he was coming after me with a hammer..."


    "I said, get to work!" Fatima smacked Elijah across the back of his legs with her cane once more. "Tell me which one of these things has his family spell on it."


    Mirk couldn''t help but wonder what Elijah had done that was so awful that it''d made jolly Lord Kinross fly into a rage. That or his friendliness was even more of an act than Mirk had assumed it was. But there was no time to question Elijah on it, not then.


    At least redirecting his attention to a magical problem served to calm the mage some. He ran his hand over the safes lining the wall opposite the work bench, mumbling to himself until he came to one that sparked and hissed at his touch. "That''s it! Would recognize it anywhere. Put it on all the best grimoires so that no one could take as much as a peek without him breathing down your neck making sure you didn''t copy anything out..."


    "I thought you said you knew how to break his family spell?" Fatima asked, as she heaved the bag that''d been slung over her shoulder up onto the workbench. She''d already begun to pluck the necessary tools from it, cunning devices with lots of levers and screws.


    "Of course I do! Though I''m sure he tweaked it a little after I finally got into Zhao Jianyu''s Gunpowder Chronicles..."


    Fatima scoffed. "If you''ve read Gunpowder Chronicles, what did you have to drag me into all this for? To smack you when you lose your nerve?"


    "Never could get the intensity circles right. Took out half of the apprentices'' dorms with that one..."


    "Are they always like this, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked Mirk in a low voice, a much more subdued smile crossing his face than the one he''d used when pretending to be Kinross.


    "Mostly yes, monsieur."


    "Oh! I wouldn''t believe it if I hadn''t seen it myself! He did just what Comrade Genesis said he''d do with it. Added to the binding aspect with Dover''s four-point bracing array..."


    Elijah applied himself to the spell on the safe that''d sparked at him with gusto, taking a pot of ink and a brush out of his overcoat pocket and sketching arcane figures all over its front. As he worked, the spell that''d been cast on the safe, providing a layer of protection that artificed and enchanted metal alone couldn''t compete with, became clear. It manifested as chains looped around the safe, glowing white hot with fiery potential. Its glow reminded Mirk of the magic that had circled around Ra-Darat''s bracelets at the mention of Lord Kinross''s name. "Two minutes," Elijah said, his voice tight with excitement as he moved to activate the spells he''d painted on the surface of the safe.


    "We''ve got thirteen," Fatima countered, consulting a pocketwatch she''d slapped down on the workbench among the rest of her tools. The last item in her bag, she held out to Mirk ¡ª a burgundy velvet bag, closed with a golden cord. An insignia consisting of a galleon with sails unfurled, sails that bore three balanced crosses, was stamped on its side. The mark of the English Artificers Guild. "All made to order by a friend in the guild according to the djinn''s info," she explained. "Check them."


    Mirk crossed the room to the desk, propping his grandfather''s staff against its edge before shaking out the bag''s contents onto the blotter. Thirty diamonds of varying sizes, the smallest one among them still as big as a chicken egg. Banishing his shields fully, Mirk picked one up and reached out to it with his magical senses.


    It sounded very much like diamond, a tune that was somehow both airy and gravelly all at once, a delicate harmony of low and high intertwined. And the way the glow from the magelight on the wall in front of him got tangled up in it, how it fractured inside the gem''s depths, was the same as any diamond Mirk had ever seen.


    Yet, there was a certain artifice to it that Mirk didn''t know how to describe. Not in what he saw, but in what he heard. Like there was a second song hidden in the stone''s melody, one much higher and shriller than the dominant tune. A faint voice that wanted to make itself heard, but couldn''t pierce through the duet that made up the diamond it had been carved and broken into resembling. Though Mirk couldn''t think of any way to confirm it, he was certain that the diamond in his hand was made of a different kind of stone, clawed out of a very different kind of rift in the earth than the sort diamonds were pried out of.


    "It sounds a little off, methinks..."


    "Sounds?"


    "There''s a higher pitch in it. But it''s very faint. Methinks that no one would hear it unless they knew what they were listening for."


    Fatima paused her work at the bench, scowling over her shoulder at him. "Does it look all right, at least? Doubt even Kinross has someone like you on hand...sounds like...imagine having every grimoire you could want and still depending on wild magic..."


    Mirk only nodded in response to Fatima''s continued grumbling, scooping the false diamonds back into their velvet bag. A few moments later, the ghostly, glowing chains around the safe vanished with a shudder and a bang, one that Elijah hastily threw up a shield against, making it echo loud in the rear of the room rather than leaking out into the hall. "Done! Well! That was exhilarating! I knew I still had the knack!"


    "Took you three minutes, not two," Fatima said in passing, as she swept her tools up into her arms and got stiffly down onto her knees before the safe. Unlike Elijah, she worked quickly and quietly, with picks and levers and screws. Mirk had been expecting something more violent, something closer to all the curious ticking devices that Ilya was always making. But really, he shouldn''t have been surprised that Fatima opted instead for the precise and cautious route. Within five minutes ¡ª five minutes that Elijah spent making awkward conversation with Am-Hazek, torn between curiosity about how he''d managed to put on the Grand Master''s body and an instinctual sort of fear of it, even if Am-Hazek was making it perpetually clear that he wasn''t actually Lord Kinross ¡ª Fatima had pried off the safe''s door, leaving its lock untouched.


    "You''re up," she said to Am-Hazek, shuffling aside to make room instead of getting back to her feet. "Might be hidden trip spells. Take out the bag and make the swap."


    Nodding, Am-Hazek bent gracefully down beside the safe, taking out a velvet bag identical to the one Mirk handed over to him. But just to be certain, to leave nothing more to chance, Am-Hazek transferred all the real diamonds out of the original bag and replaced them with the fakes. It was the first thing that evening that made a slight, wry sliver of a smile cross Fatima¡¯s face.


    While Fatima was putting the door back on, with practiced ease, Am-Hazek drew back a few paces and examined one of the diamonds, his own multi-colored magic flaring in his eyes as he peered into the depths of the largest gem.


    "It goes further than I thought," he said to himself, softly, an expression that Mirk had never seen from him before crossing his face. A smile, bitter and hard rather than amused or wistful. And the magic in his eyes seemed so wild, just for a moment, that Mirk knew Lord Kinross''s fleshy, stocky body wouldn''t be enough to contain his magic if it escaped Am-Hazek''s control.


    "Is something wrong, monsieur?" Mirk asked him.


    "I''d very much like to speak to Comrade Genesis sometime soon, if that is at all possible. Preferably outside of the City."


    "You''re in luck," Fatima said with a grunt, as she used her cane to help lever herself back to her feet. "Big Nose wants you both at the house as soon as you get out of here."


    "I''m afraid I won''t be at my best this evening. It has been a long time since I''ve changed. But if that is the only option...then it is done."


    It made a chill run down Mirk''s spine to hear Am-Hazek use that djinn expression in such a final, determined tone, the same one Am-Gulat used every time they had a chance to speak to him. But Mirk scraped himself together, helping Fatima put her tools back in her bag over her protests. Then it was back through the shadows for her and Elijah: the fire mage''s dread was strong enough to make Mirk''s eyes water as Fatima grudgingly let him hold onto her shoulder with one white-knuckled hand as Mirk moved to rip the spell paper a second time. The shadows lashed out from underneath the desk once more and, with an undignified shriek from Elijah and a roll of Fatima''s eyes, the pair were dragged back into darkness.


    Am-Hazek was in motion the instant the others were gone, all business once more as he tided the small safe room, erasing any evidence of their thievery with his eye for detail. Mirk did what he could to help, though he felt more like he just got in the way rather than making things any easier for Am-Hazek. Once the room was to his satisfaction, Am-Hazek paused to compose himself, to put back on the Kinross act that went along with his changed body. A warm smile on his face, Am-Hazek held the velvet bag full of diamonds out to Mirk.


    "No, you keep it, monsieur," Mirk said, waving the bag away. "They''re your diamonds, after all. Euh, Kinross''s. But also yours. Really yours."


    "And soon they''ll be the lads'' gems. Until they get their proper ones back," Am-Hazek replied, in Kinross''s booming, cheerfully commanding voice, slipping the bag into the breast pocket of his borrowed waistcoat. "Shall we be off, seigneur?"


    Even though Am-Hazek''s Kinross impression was as flawless as it had been before, Mirk couldn''t help feeling that something had changed in him when he''d looked into the stolen diamond. As if all of Am-Hazek''s curiosity and the energy that came with it had been focused, concentrated into something hard and sharp, like the gems tucked away inside his waistcoat.


    "Yes, let''s."


    -   -   -


    The change back into Am-Hazek was even worse than the change into Lord Kinross had been, if the sounds were anything to go by. Once again, Am-Hazek had warned Mirk against looking, had waved off all of his many offers of aid. The meaty crunching and grinding that time was followed by the sound of retching. After five full minutes, Mirk could stand it no longer. He lifted his head and went to Am-Hazek''s side.


    He was back in his own naked body, shivering and braced against the wall of the alleyway, gagging and spitting bile into a growing puddle at his bare feet. Hesitantly, Mirk put an arm around Am-Hazek, shaking his handkerchief out of his justacorps pocket and offering it to him. "Please, take it. I don''t need it back."


    "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek croaked, spitting once more, that time into the handkerchief. With a grimace of disgust, he plucked his earring out of the mess. "I''d forgotten why I never do this..."


    "Let me get your clothes."


    That time, Am-Hazek was too weak and upset by his condition to protest. Mirk helped him back into his things, letting the djinn lean on him as much as he wished, helping him tug on sleeves and stockings. Then he knelt down on the now filthy wine-stained tablecloth to help him buckle his shoes, sparing Am-Hazek the dizziness Mirk could feel washing over him every time the djinn wasn''t perfectly upright. When he''d finished, Mirk looked up to ask him if there was anything else he needed, only to find Am-Hazek staring down at him, his mouth screwed up in a grimace.


    "Are you going to be sick again, monsieur?"


    The djinn shook his head. "It''s all very strange, seigneur."


    "What is?"


    "I''ve lived among the humans for decades now. Though you display wonderful variety, there''s one thing you all do that''s always reminded me of the home realm. You guard every inch you rise on your human hierarchy with your life, the same as most djinn. I understand the impulse. And yet..."


    "Yet?"


    "You have no sense of self-preservation, seigneur."


    The comment startled a laugh out of Mirk. But Am-Hazek was quick to apologize, holding out a hand to help Mirk up. Mirk accepted it, though he was careful to put as little weight as possible on Am-Hazek. The djinn''s hand was cold, clammy. And his magic felt more addled and weak than it had the last time Am-Hazek had been forced to venture into the City of Glass.


    "I apologize for my rudeness," Am-Hazek said, after a final fit of coughing. He''d taken out his own handkerchief and was polishing the teardrop gem hanging from his earring, though he refused to take it back out of his ear to check to see if his rubbing was doing any good. "I didn''t mean it as an insult."


    "I''m not offended at all," Mirk said, helping Am-Hazek pack up the valise to once again spare him the strain of bending over. "My sister was sure to tell me something like that every chance she could. But I am a little curious, monsieur. How did you mean it?"


    "There is a certain confidence in it that I feel most individuals of noble birth could benefit from," Am-Hazek said, after a long pause, as Mirk got back to his feet and picked up the valise.


    Mirk didn''t feel very confident, not at the moment. He mostly felt damp and tired. And cold. The weather had turned while they''d been in the counting house, and one of London''s perpetual fogs was rolling in, drifting over from the direction of the river that wound through the mortal part of the city and rising up thick from between the cobbles. He should have brought his cloak. "Thank you for the compliment, monsieur. It''d be better if you rested a bit longer, but you know how Gen is about waiting. If you''d like, you can lean on me as we walk. And if it''d help you feel less out of sorts, I can lower my shields so that you can use my potential to help recover."


    Though he hesitated again, Am-Hazek caved to necessity and nodded, keeping one hand tight on Mirk¡¯s shoulder as they shuffled out of the alleyway and back onto the street. The solicitor''s office was dark, but the coffee house next door was still overflowing with patrons, most of them growing louder and freer as the evening progressed. Mirk wondered if coffee was the only thing those sorts of places served. It radiated the same heady, rambunctious feel that drifted out of the taverns back in the City of Glass.


    As they headed off down the street, Mirk leaning on Jean-Luc''s staff and Am-Hazek leaning on him in turn, Mirk felt the djinn reach out to his healing potential, drawing from it carefully, taking as little as he needed to regain his bearings. Mirk didn''t mind the feel of it at all. Though he thought he could feel a change in Am-Hazek''s mind, much like the one he''d glimpsed in his expression back in the counting house. His magic felt more focused, sharper, just like his eyes had become.


    Mirk wondered what it was he''d seen inside those diamonds that had brought about the sudden change. But he suspected he''d be hearing about it as soon as they got to the bordello just beyond the South Gate. In the meantime, he thought it best to let Am-Hazek recover and collect his thoughts.


    That aside, Mirk also had a strong suspicion that whatever Am-Hazek had seen was not something that should be discussed openly in the middle of the London mage quarter. No matter how little heed any of the passers-by paid to the high-born mage who was, uncharacteristically, supporting a djinn rather than things being the other way around.

 Chapter 84

    "Oh dear...what''s happened now?"


    Mirk had expected to find the usual scene waiting for him when he trudged into the bordello''s back room with Am-Hazek still leaning hard on his shoulder ¡ª everyone gathered around the big table, talking and laughing and arguing over one another, passing around a bottle. Instead, there was nothing but the sound of crying and sniffling. And a very distant hissing.


    The crying was coming from Elijah, who was doing his best to put on a brave face as Yule cleaned a long, ragged gash down the length of his arm at the nearer end of the table. But the snot dripping from Elijah¡¯s nose and his red, brimming eyes were impossible to hide. At the far end, Fatima had plucked a few cunning devices out of her bag to make repairs to her cane, which had been snapped in two.


    Mirk decided to try Yule and Elijah first, when his question was met with nothing but silence. Am-Hazek didn''t comment either as Mirk led him to the chair on Elijah''s opposite side. Mirk helped him sit down before turning his attention to Yule.


    "I''ll be surprised if you all even make it to your little birthday party," Yule commented dryly, as he tossed the rag he''d been cleaning Elijah''s wound with aside and dug a suturing kit out of his bag. "This is just the first."


    "What happened?" Mirk asked again, that time to Elijah.


    "It...it was terrible. It had at least nine arms....and five mouths....no eyes..." Elijah''s own eyes grew glassy, and he shook his head to clear away the memory of whatever had slashed open his arm.


    "It wasn''t even a big one," Fatima replied curtly. "Could have been a lot worse."


    Mirk sighed. "Something in the Abyss hurt you, Elijah?"


    "No, it was Fatima," Yule replied for him, rolling his eyes. "You should know how dangerous that place is if you don''t bring along your own pet monster to fend off the rest. But he''s just as useless," the older healer added. Elijah gave a pained yelp as Yule put in the first stitch.


    "What do you mean?" Mirk asked, scanning the room. "Monsieur Am-Hazek and I would still be walking if he hadn''t helped..."


    Mirk trailed off, finally spotting the source of the hissing. The far corner of the room, furthest from its counter full of mirrors and the curtain separating the back room from the rest of the bordello, was particularly dark. Unnaturally dark. Mirk lowered his shields and focused. It was difficult to sense with Elijah''s bright, urgent pain clouding his mind, but Mirk thought he could pick up faint pinpricks of another aching that was much more subdued. But also much more alarming.


    He got up, crossing the room and going to the edge of the unnatural pool of darkness. A few weak tendrils of it reached out toward him. Not in a malevolent way, but a searching one. As if seeking balance, warmth. "Messire? Is something wrong?"


    The voice that issued from the darkness was full of more misplaced hisses and clicks than usual. "The...bread."


    Mirk ventured into the darkness, despite the warning Yule snapped about it not being worth it. It was as if he was suddenly enclosed within a small pocket of midnight. Genesis had propped himself up in the corner, his overlong arms wrapped tight around his midsection. The commander''s eyes were closed, his teeth clenched against the pain Mirk could only feel the faintest edges of, even with Elijah''s pain no longer distracting him. "What do you mean, the bread?" Mirk asked Genesis.


    "The...wedding bread."


    The wedding had been over a week ago. The glass of wine that Genesis had choked down had cleared from his system within a day. From the look of things, the bread was a whole other matter entirely. Mirk took a step closer. "May I feel?"


    "If you...must," Genesis hissed, after a lengthy pause. Mirk wasn''t sure what to make of the expression on his face. Brow lowered, eyes still shut tight, teeth and neck bared. Hesitantly, Mirk reached out and touched the back of one of Genesis''s hands.


    It was difficult to feel anything with all the chaos in the way, through the familiar static that swelled and ebbed along with each of Genesis''s deliberate, deep breaths. His heartbeat was faster, almost as fast as that of an ordinary human in good health. And the whole of his midsection, that unforgiving snarl of innards that refused all sustenance besides the choicest cuts of meat and tea that was more sugar than liquid, felt jumbled. As if it was trying to rearrange itself to work around the swelling and pain.


    Blinking his eyes to clear away the mental image of Genesis''s insides, the way the chaos curled and twisted within him and somehow kept him alive, Mirk sighed once more. "I suppose the stomach potion won''t do any good now, will it?"


    Somehow, Genesis went paler than his usual bone white at the mere thought of it.


    "What can I do? Would lying down help?"


    Mirk waited, patiently, for Genesis to crack. But just as he began to hiss the beginnings of a command through his teeth, the pocket of night they''d both been wrapped up in vanished, along with the tension in Genesis''s limbs and the look of strain on his face. The commander blinked a few times, prodding at his midsection with a long, delicate finger. The dark film that had lowered over his eyes cleared after a few more blinks, returning them to their usual piercing blue. "It has...passed. For now."


    "Methinks it''d be better if you explained, Genesis."


    "...explained."


    "I''ve seen you walk around a broken leg that''d have anyone else screaming for hours. Why is this...?" Mirk couldn''t think of a way to explain himself. At least, not in a way that didn''t sound patronizing. It was unfathomable to Mirk that Genesis could ignore wounds that should have made him faint dead away while an upset stomach immobilized him. But the pain Mirk had felt was real. And if it''d been able to seep through Genesis''s chaotic aura, it had to be severe.


    "It¡¯s not that I...do not feel the pain of wounds such as the one you mentioned. It is that they are isolated. A single point. Precise...cause and effect. This allows for a certain degree of focus. With concentration...the pain can be ignored. Injuries that are more...systemic cannot. Fevers. Infection. Poisoning."


    The bread had been a bit much, but Mirk wouldn''t have called it poison. Then again, he was at least half human, and angels were notable for their hardy constitutions. Mirk had seen his father eat a pat¨¦ that had been left sitting outside in the sun without any ill effect. Though he¡¯d brushed the flies off first. Genesis, on the other hand, was...Genesis. "What part of the bread made you ill?"


    Genesis shook his head. "All of it. Grain can be...tolerated, on occasion. As can egg. But spice..."


    The bread had been more spice than grain, if Mirk had to guess. He sighed, resisting the urge to reach out and comfort Genesis, to put a reassuring hand on his arm or pat his hand. "You should have said something, Genesis. If I''d known that spices could make you so ill, I would have said something to Mordecai''s grandparents."


    "The t''akakk is invaluable. One must...make sacrifices. When necessary."


    Or perhaps Genesis didn''t want to display his weaknesses so openly, to let it be known to anyone that cramming a spiced biscuit down his throat could cause him more damage than a blade. Either way, Mirk thought it best not to press the issue. Genesis appeared to have recovered, at least for the time being. And Mirk was aware of everyone back at the table staring at them, including Fatima, who''d finished fixing her cane, and Am-Hazek, who still seemed a bit green around the edges from having taken Lord Kinross''s form and being yanked halfway across London by an unexpected arm of shadow.


    "Monsieur Am-Hazek has come to speak with you," Mirk said, gesturing back at the table. "Methinks it''s something to do with the djinn..."


    After brushing off the lapels of his overcoat and correcting his posture, Genesis went to join the others at the table. Mirk followed, deciding to sit between Genesis and Am-Hazek, lest either of them need a healer. Yule still had his hands full trying to get Elijah to stop flinching away from his needle.


    "Feeling better, comrade?" Elijah greeted him, with an attempt at a smile that still held a hint of fear along with a more obvious wince.


    Genesis frowned at the mage. But after a pointed nudge from Mirk underneath the table, he spoke up as well. "I...am in your debt. My concentration lapsed. With the abyssals."


    "Don''t worry about it," Elijah said, trying to shrug and immediately regretting it. "You were absolutely right about Kinross''s family spell, by the way. Wish you could have been there to see how easy it was to take apart once you looked at it the right way."


    "You...obtained the gems?¡±


    Fatima nodded. "Good thing Kinross has so many of them he probably won''t notice they''re gone. Your minder says that the fakes sounded off," she said, her tone still a bit incredulous.


    Genesis turned to Am-Hazek next. "Will they be sufficient to...allow the djinn to recover their strength once they are freed?"


    "Yes, Comrade Genesis. They are much larger than the gems the Am-Djinn usually employ. But there is one thing I wish to speak with you about."


    Am-Hazek drew the velvet bag of gems out of his pocket, pulling its string free and dumping them onto the table. The noise drew Yule''s attention; his shock at the size of the diamonds wobbling on the table was so sharp that both Mirk and Elijah winced. Mirk at the feel of his surprise, and Elijah at him pulling the suture thread too tight.


    "You think he''s not going to miss that?" Yule asked, glaring down the length of the table at Fatima. "You''re delusional. I don''t care if Kinross owns the whole mage quarter, no one''s going to just ignore losing those. You could buy three mage quarters with that many."


    "You just don''t realize how rich these bastards actually are," Fatima countered. "Maybe working with the nob has made you blind."


    For once, Mirk didn''t need to step in to mediate. Am-Hazek did, picking up the largest of the diamonds and staring into it, watching the way the glow of the room''s yellow magelights seemed to pool in the center of the gem. "You both have made sound observations, comrades. However, my concern about Kinross is more particular."


    "Particular?" Fatima asked.


    "Here," Am-Hazek said, leaning a hair closer to Genesis and tapping at a certain point on the gem''s surface. "At first appraisal, the diamonds appear to have had their impurities removed and nothing more. But the most crucial shaping has already been done. This angled section. It accounts for the curious effect on the light. It is one of the sacred angles."


    His interest overwhelming his reluctance to stray into the personal space of others, Genesis leaned in as well. He squinted against the light caught in the stone''s center, but it wasn''t enough. Genesis''s eyes filmed over black, his head tilting to one side. "They have...already been prepared for djinn."


    "You are correct, comrade. For one of the crafting kinship lines, I believe, owing to their size. Ra-Djinn or Ir-Djinn."


    "Lord Kinross''s djinn is a Ra-Djinn," Mirk murmured, a chill like someone had just thrown open the back room''s alleyway door running down his back.


    "I don''t understand why the Ra-Djinn would be handing their kin over to a human. They must know about how the humans treat the djinn they send them, that they don''t understand the role of a Li-Djinn as we ourselves do. Either something has happened on the home realm and the Ra-Djinn have decided to remove the other crafting djinn from the hierarchy, or..."


    "Or?" Fatima prompted.


    "They no longer care that they''re condemning the djinn they send here to a slow and painful death."


    Mirk could feel tinges of that hardness in Am-Hazek now, that focus he''d only been able to assume was there before by the way all of Am-Hazek¡¯s attention had been captured by the diamonds, just as the gems were cut to capture the light. Am-Hazek slipped the diamond he was holding back into the velvet bag, then gathered up the rest. Delicately, deliberately. As if they cost ten times more than the fortune they were worth.


    Am-Hazek had gathered his wits while he''d been tending to the gems, and his polite mask was back in place as he offered the bag out to Genesis. But his words kept their edge. "Forgive me if I''m mistaken, Comrade Genesis. But I''m given to understand that one of your particular interests is revolution."


    Genesis, for once, managed to get the shape of a smile right. But the warmth wasn''t there. "Yes. But this is...your task. I am not a djinn."


    "Certainly, comrade. I understand that every situation is unique. But perhaps our interests might be in line, to an extent? Lord Kinross and Seigneur d''Aumont are humans, from what I''ve observed. I strongly suspect both of them are involved in this trade. And you are..."


    Decidedly not human, but also not anything else. Genesis nodded nevertheless. "Perhaps we could come to...an agreement."


    At the far end of the table, Fatima sighed. "Don''t get ahead of yourselves. First, we''ve got to get the collars off those djinn. And get rid of Ravensdale. I don''t give a damn what the rest of you people do afterwards, but until Ravensdale''s gone, none of us can get what we''re after. I''ve got the bow done, that was my part of the bargain. Where''s the arrow?"


    "It is nearly complete," Genesis said. "Another two days. Perhaps three."


    "That doesn''t give Alice a lot of time to get used to it, but it is what it is. Fine. What about your end?" Fatima asked Mirk, propping her elbows on the edge of the table and leaning over it, staring hard at him. "My girls haven''t heard anything about any party floating around. Are you sure he''ll come? He has to see it''s a trap."


    Mirk nodded. "Methinks I won''t ever get a proper response from him, but I''m sure he''ll be there. And it''s important that he thinks it''s a trap, Comrade Fatima. Otherwise he''d never bring one of the djinn with him."


    "How can you be sure he will?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.


    "He will," Mirk replied, with a helpless shrug.


    He knew he couldn''t give Fatima what she wanted, hard confirmation through overheard gossip or stolen letters. It was intuition. Ra-Darat''s comment about Ravensdale not bringing any djinn with him since he''d first forced his way into polite society had sparked the idea, but everything beyond that was nothing but an inkling, a feeling Mirk got from every time he''d watched how Ravensdale moved through the world. Only when Ravensdale felt the most secure, when he knew no one would challenge him, at the balls and at the Festival of Shades with all his most loyal commanders around him and the pile of dead to serve as a warning, did he go places without any djinn ghosting along behind him.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    But a ball half-full of strange mages, ones who had no reason to treat him with respect? Mirk had done his best to tell anyone who''d listen about who was coming ¡ª Lazare Rouzet, the strongest dark magician in all of France, who had his sights fixed on Casyn''s daughters, Lord Kinross, who''d sent a warm confirmation note before Mirk had robbed his vault at the ghosts'' counting house, Herbert d''Aumont, who''d fallen so easily under his godmother''s manufactured charms that he hadn''t even needed to prod Seigneur Feulaine into putting a bit of pressure on him. And, more discreetly, he''d made a show of being happy to report that all his dearest friends would be there besides, ones who would have otherwise never set foot in a noble ballroom.


    If Ravensdale had done any digging, which Mirk was sure he must have, he''d know who that meant. Genesis. He was the crux of Mirk''s plan, along with Seigneur Rouzet. Ravensdale would be so preoccupied with both of them, with making sure that Genesis didn''t stab him in the back and that Rouzet didn''t snatch Catherine out of his grasp, that he wouldn''t even consider that the weapon they''d all spent months working on wouldn''t be pointed at him. Ravensdale barely thought of his djinn at all, other than as sources of potential. They didn''t count as people to him, to most of the people beyond that bordello backroom.


    Mirk didn''t know how to put any of that intuition into words, into the sort of facts and figures that Fatima would trust. Which was why when she rolled her eyes and started muttering about contingencies, all he could do was shrug once more.


    But Genesis intervened on his behalf.


    "I believe there is no need to concern yourself with it. This is...his part," the commander said. In an offhand way, with a wave of his hand, still preoccupied with Am-Hazek''s request for aid. As if his comment was the self-evident truth. "He understands these things. If he believes Ravensdale will be there, he will be there. The question that remains is which djinn will accompany him."


    The conversation continued from there ¡ª some of the air of discontent cleared from Am-Hazek beside him at the prospect of a topic he could give advice on, and soon all the talk was sailing clear over Mirk¡¯s head, with Elijah joining the spirited debate over the magic on the djinn''s collars, his encounter with the abyssal forgotten in light of a new magic puzzle to chew on. Mirk didn''t mind. He let his mind drift, dwelling on the much more pleasurable feeling of the warmth spreading out slow from his center, his satisfaction at having Genesis''s confidence. His trust.


    At least, that worked until he noticed the pointed look Yule was shooting him from across the table as he continued to stitch away at Elijah''s arm. All Mirk could do in response to that was shrug as well. But he had a feeling that he''d be hearing from Yule later about that. It was just a matter of when.


    -   -   -


    When happened much sooner than Mirk had been suspecting.


    The meeting at the bordello had cleared up sooner than Mirk had been expecting too. Fatima and Elijah had both scurried off to their own collection of grimoires to prove their points in the debate over the djinn that had no clear winner, while Am-Hazek had gone off somewhere that was more to Genesis''s liking to discuss the matter of events on the djinn home realm and how best to handle them. Though Am-Hazek didn''t seem cheered by the prospect of having to get back to Madame Beaumont¡¯s through the Abyss, he was willing to bear it, if only to find out what information Genesis had to give him.


    Which left Mirk with Yule. And when he was with Yule, all roads led to the older healer''s favorite tavern, the least expensive one nearest the healers'' dormitory. Mirk was glad to go with. After all that had happened that evening, he needed a drink. Even if that meant getting needled by Yule the whole while.


    "You''re completely hopeless," Yule said as he hauled open the tavern''s door. It was heavy, reinforced with steel bars after being broken one too many times by a rowdy fighter. "Anyone who wasn''t a total idiot would have caught on already. And I''m halfway sure he has, even if he is a total idiot. Since when has he ever had a good word to say about anyone?"


    "Methinks you''re being a little harsh, Yule," Mirk said, drawing his cloak tight around himself to hide his fine gray suit as he followed him inside. Genesis had been considerate enough to fetch his cloak for him through the shadows before going off with Am-Hazek. Yet another thing that proved his point, in Yule''s opinion.


    The older healer was distracted for a moment as he did his customary survey of that night''s drinkers, his hands on his hips as he passed judgment on the subdued crowd of men. A cluster of the newer Easterners were having a drinking contest with a contingent of Bavarians who were very much the worse for wear. A group of low-born officers, judging by their better clothes and the maps they had spread out on the table, had claimed the best spot nearest the fire.


    Another grim-faced group of fighters ¡ª from the Irish company, considering how Yule dismissed them all without a second glance ¡ª were propped up along the tavern''s back wall, mud-splattered and dazed. They must have been shepherded to the tavern to have a bracing drink while their combat healers picked away at their lingering wounds. A few mages had claimed the bar, all of them lost in their cups and their books.


    Among them circulated merry barmaids and a few braver washerwomen. And there was a pair of women at a table in a corner who were without a doubt working for Fatima, judging by how they were arguing over a small bundle of papers. There was a man with him that night, in much better clothing than the others at the tavern, a waistcoat and breeches that were at least tailored well, even if the trim and the buttons on both were cheap.


    Yule heaved a sigh and trudged on toward the bar. "No one decent comes out in the middle of the week anymore."


    "Because you''ve already tried your luck with all the sots," retorted a barmaid who''d overheard him on her way back to the bar for fresh drinks. She returned Yule''s muttered curse and glare with a grin, giving him a pitying slap on the back. "Give the poor bastard one on the house to start with, Pete," she called out to the barman. "Since the nob''s with him, we can count on the tab no matter how deep he gets in his cups."


    "Aye, but if he stiffs us, you''re paying," the barman retorted, though he was already pulling down a bottle from a shelf.


    "You wouldn''t do that to us, would you?" the barmaid asked, turning her attention to Mirk. An older, familiar woman, ample in the chest and wide in the hips. One of the handful K''aekniv always tried his luck with and who always turned him down with a roll of her eyes and a motherly pat on the head.


    "Of course not, mademoiselle. It''s only right to repay your debts," Mirk said, returning her grin.


    "What a sweet little thing you are," she said with a chuckle, dropping a wink as she heaved her refilled tray up onto her shoulder and ventured back into the crowd. "Come back when you get a few years and a couple more stone on you."


    It was Mirk''s turn to sigh as he slid onto a stool at the end of the bar beside Yule. "Leave the bottle, please," Mirk said to the barman when he came over with the expected glasses. He hesitated, so Mirk fished out a few coins to reassure him. As always, it did the trick.


    "No one ever gets what they want in this hellhole," Yule grumbled, snatching up his glass and draining it. The second he only sipped at, crossing his legs at the knee as he brooded over that night''s events.


    Mirk elected to go slow from the start. There''d be a pile of letters a mile high waiting for him with the house matron, reservations for the upcoming ball. He''d never get through them if he was too tipsy to keep his penmanship even.


    "Do you seriously think this is all going to work?" Yule asked him, after a spell of companionable silence punctuated by the sound of arguing in languages Mirk didn''t understand from the direction of the drinking contest. "It''s too complicated. Everything has to go just right, otherwise it all falls apart."


    For what felt like the thousandth time that day, all Mirk could do was shrug. But at least he managed to stop himself before invoking the Holy Mother and all the saints like he wanted to, knowing full well that''d only worsen Yule''s already black mood. "I...well. Methinks it''d be better if we all didn''t think about that. I''m sure if one part goes wrong, we can find another way. But we can''t know what that''ll be until it happens."


    "Not thinking about it isn''t going to make it any more feasible. And what''s it all for, anyway?" Yule lowered his voice, leaning in close as he topped off Mirk''s glass. "No one''s following your pet skeleton anywhere other than you and the ones who already follow him anyway. And you and I both know that''s not enough to keep control."


    "You''re right, Yule. But it isn''t right, what''s happening to them. To any of them," he added, gesturing around at the tavern, packed to the rafters with the K''maneda''s worst off. No amount of raucous laughter could hide the deplorable state of the Easterners'' and the Bavarians'' clothes, the way half of them had open sores on their necks and on the backs of their hands. Or the pain of the men of the Irish company, a constant weight in the back of Mirk''s mind, making him feel guilty for sitting at the bar getting drunk with Yule instead of going over and helping the combat healers.


    Even the officers by the fire weren''t that well off. The boots on their stretched out feet were better than the average fighter''s, but not by much. And two of them had taken theirs off to give swollen ankles a bit of extra warmth and air.


    "Nothing good ever happens here. That''s never changing no matter who passes out the gold," Yule said crossly, swirling the drink in his glass. But he was looking off over Mirk''s head, at where the Irish company was propped against the back wall. Though the older healer had his shields up tight, Mirk got the impression that Yule¡¯s crossness was more at himself for thinking of healing when he wasn''t being paid for it rather than directed at him.


    "You should be helping them," a low voice said from off behind them. Yule went rigid, his fist clenching so tight around his glass that Mirk reflexively called it to himself, prying it from Yule''s hand before he could shatter it. "But if you''re not going to do that, at least you can look at this."


    Mirk looked over his shoulder. The man behind them looked familiar. He had a fighter¡¯s build, but wore a fine dark green cloak lined with gray fur. Mirk couldn''t place him until Yule hissed his name through his teeth, as the man eased down onto the stool on Yule''s other side. "What the hell do you want, Ambras?"


    Ambras. The healer who''d left the Twentieth to serve as the personal healer for the nobles in the Fourteenth. The one who''d come and taken Elijah from them when he''d been brought to the infirmary with the unknown Destroyer''s arrow in his chest.  And who''d broken Yule''s heart, though the older healer never would utter those words.


    "Information. And you''re the only one who''s got half-angel friends." Ambras drew a sheet of mage parchment that''d been folded into quarters out of the pocket of his cloak and slid it across the bar to Yule. "At least one of them should know how to read."


    Yule didn''t take the parchment. "Why should I help you?"


    "It''s not for me. And it''s not about you. As soon as the spring contracts are over, the Butcher''s going back to Donegal and finishing what he started. Asked me to figure out what this meant for him."


    Slowly, Yule looked down at the folded over parchment. But he still refused to speak.


    "Prove you''re better than those heathens, he said to me. You know what the English do to people they think are heathens."


    "I''m well aware," Yule finally replied, picking up the bottle to replace the glass Mirk had magicked out of his hand.


    "You''ve got family there. Do it for them."


    It was the wrong way to pull at Yule''s heartstrings. Either Ambras had forgotten what Yule''s family had done to him, or Yule had never told him. Extending one shaking finger, Yule pushed the folded over parchment back toward Ambras. "Fuck off, Ambras. The next time you speak to me, I''ll be the one putting your head above the infirmary doors."


    Hissing in frustration, Ambras shoved the paper back at Yule. "Fine! But at least look at those sorry bastards in the corner when you tell me no. You know they''ll be first. They''re already half dead as it is. And here you are having a cozy drink at the bar with your little lordling."


    Though he cursed himself as he did it, Yule put down the bottle and snatched up the piece of mage parchment, nearly ripping it in two as he unfolded it. He scanned the page with eyes gone dark with rage, then threw it back at Ambras. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I don''t read whatever the hell this is."


    "Fucking listen for once!" That time Ambras bypassed Yule, leaning back on his stool and shoving it at Mirk behind Yule''s back. "Like I said, you''re the only one with an angel who knows how to read."


    Cautiously, Mirk took the parchment, watching for Yule''s response. But the older healer was caught in such a fit of rage that it was like nothing in the world existed besides the burning Mirk could feel threatening to crack through his own mental shielding. It was so intense that even the combat healers tending to the Irish company stopped their work, though none of them dared to look over at the bar.


    Mirk read the parchment himself. It was full to the edges with a circular script that was familiar, but that Mirk had never mastered. High angelic, the sort only used in Imperial correspondence and records. The person who''d written it hadn''t practiced in a very long time. The oblong cast to the circles, the way the dividing lines that bisected them varied so much from letter to letter, all of it made it difficult for Mirk to pick out the words. It was very different from the immaculate, economical penmanship of the Imperial scribes. Or the steady hand of the artisan who''d crafted the family ledger in his father''s library.


    "Methinks I can understand a little..." Mirk said, pressing more of his potential into his mental shielding in an attempt to dim the force of Yule''s rage and focus. "Do you know what this is supposed to be? Is it a letter?"


    "A spell. I think."


    "Percy needed to go to you to sort that out?" Yule hissed, the venom in his tone making Mirk wince.


    "For all his gold, he''s as good as a wild mage. He can pay people to craft his spells for him. Everything he does himself is hack and smash."


    Before Yule could get in his retort, Mirk spoke again, shaking his head and blinking hard to clear all the dancing circles and loops from his vision as he held the parchment back out to Ambras behind Yule''s back. "I''m afraid I''m not much better at formal spells. Especially angelic ones. My magic isn''t suited to it."


    Ambras refused the paper, shoving it back at him, roughly. It was an act of desperation, Mirk could feel. But all Yule saw in it was a threat, one he responded to with a precise jab of his elbow into Ambras''s side, hard enough to make him curse and hunch over the bar. "If he says he can''t do it, he can''t do it. Take out your frustration on yourself for once."


    "All he''d need to do is change one word," Ambras wheezed, rubbing at his side. "No one would know how to fix it."


    Mirk could tell by the competing rage he felt rising up in Ambras, a patient, calculating darkness that rivaled Yule''s wild hatred in its strength, that he needed to do something soon, before the pair came to blows. He held the parchment up close to his nose, scanning for any word in it he might know. But most of what he knew were building block sorts of words. And the names he''d stared at as a boy in the family ledger, the ones he''d traced with his fingers as he''d laid on his stomach on the rug in front of the fire, imagining what the hundreds of inhumanly perfect and gleaming figures that''d produced his father must have looked like.


    At the bottom of the parchment, he saw something that looked familiar. Like a name. It had been erased again and again, one of the few words where all the letters were perfectly formed. Mirk mumbled his way through the letters, sounding them out one by one. "I...ma...n...ael..."


    His hands went slack; the parchment floated down onto the bar. Imanael. And Percival had stormed into the infirmary last week, demanding that they hand Samael and Sharael over to him...


    "Did you find something?" Ambras asked. While Mirk had been lost in thought, he''d left his stool and circled around to Mirk''s other side, to get further away from Yule.


    Mirk looked up at Ambras, letting his mental shields fade back to normal, trying to pick out anything through the cacophony of Ambras and Yule''s combined anger. He could feel nothing past it. A clever ruse, if Ambras wanted to make sure that no empath glimpsed his true intentions. And Mirk didn''t know the man well enough to tell if there was any hint of deception hidden in the scowl that screwed up his broad, full lips, or if there was anything abnormal in the coldness of his dark eyes.


    "Do you have something to write with?" Mirk asked him. "And something to take off the old markings? Even if I don''t understand the spell, methinks there''s one word I can replace."


    Ambras turned and looked down the length of the bar, snatching a half-eaten roll off the edge of a half-asleep drunk''s plate, handing it to Mirk without looking at him as he searched his robes for something to mark the parchment with. As Mirk made a show of tearing off a morsel of bread and wetting it, then carefully using it on the parchment to try to lift off the old markings, he struggled to think of what to do.


    By the time Ambras had come up with a bit of graphite, Mirk knew what his only option was. There were three names he could write in high angelic, the ones he''d looked at the longest, those on the last page of the family ledger. Where human letters, clumsy and plain, had been added alongside the angelic. Mikael, his father. And Kae, his sister. But naming them would do no good; not even the grandest high angelic spell could bring back the dead.


    It was a stroke of luck that his godfather''s name was so odd, that it took more letters to spell in high angelic than it did when written in human letters. It took the same space as Imanael''s. And Mirk had memorized it well, always wondering when he''d come back to visit again, with all his stories of how the Empire had been back when his father had been nothing but a twinkle off the ends of his great-grandfather''s feathers. Aker.


    Mirk wrote it as fast as he dared. Then he pushed the paper and the bit of graphite back at Ambras, shaking his head. "That''s all I can do. I¡¯m sorry."


    Ambras folded the parchment back up, tucking it away in the folds of his cloak along with the graphite. "Better than nothing," was all Ambras had to say, not even seeming to see Mirk. He glared off over Mirk''s head at Yule for a long, tense moment before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the tavern.


    Slumping over the bar, letting out a slow and shuddering breath, Mirk reached for the bottle. It was empty. Yule must have drained it while his attention had been fixed on the parchment. Wearily, Mirk lifted his hand to signal the barman for another.


    "Hope you did it wrong," Yule grumbled as he slumped over as well, glaring over at the barman, to add the weight of a threat to Mirk''s waving.


    Mirk desperately hoped that he hadn''t. But he knew Yule wasn''t the right person to tell about the incident. At least not then. Not when the slightest offense could send Yule running out of the bar after Ambras with murder in his heart. "Methinks this is it," Mirk sighed, propping his head up on one palm as the barman hurried over with a fresh bottle.


    "What is?"


    "You always ask me why I never take a chance. Why I don''t just get things over and done with between..." He trailed off, digging another coin out of his purse and trading it for the barman''s bottle.


    "Spit it out," Yule insisted, snatching the bottle from him as soon as Mirk had refilled his glass.


    Mirk sucked down half the glass, sighing again. "I couldn''t bear it, Yule. If Gen ever looked at me the way you look at Ambras."


    For a moment, Yule went tense again, the neck of the bottle clanking against the rim of Yule''s glass as it came a hair''s breadth away from overflowing. Then the older healer snorted and shifted over, topping Mirk''s glass off for him as well.


    "You are more clever than people give you credit for.¡± Yule threw back his glass and sighed before moving on to drink straight from the bottle. "Or maybe I''m the idiot."

 Chapter 85

    "Well, don''t you have lovely friends? I wish I could say the same about the men you choose to keep in your circle..."


    Catherine dipped into a polite curtsey in response to his godmother''s comment, a genuine smile crossing her lips as she smoothed her hands over the front of her skirts and straightened up. Kali, for her part, at least managed a nod. At her sister''s insistence, she''d removed her armor for their meeting with Madame Beaumont. It made Kali uncomfortable, incapable of standing still or not picking at the already fraying sleeve of her shirt, like she was some sort of turtle that''d been pried out of its shell against its will. All that considered, Mirk considered Kali deigning to give Madame Beaumont a nod to be something of a triumph.


    And Madame Beaumont also was prudent enough not to say anything about Kali''s decision to wear the odd trousers that were as wide and loose as a skirt to their suppertime meeting with Mirk''s godmother. Really, people were making concessions all around. It made Mirk feel much better than he rightly should have about the odds of their plan succeeding.


    Mirk rushed to get to the table first, pulling out Kali''s chair for her, since he knew Catherine would be polite enough to wait long enough to accept that small, ritual act of respect without Mirk needing to beat her to the chase. Though she rolled her eyes, Kali grudgingly sat down without commenting on it. "How are you related to Mirk, again?" she asked Madame Beaumont, as Catherine sat down beside her.


    "His godmother, dear," she said, sipping at a brimming cup of...something. It didn''t smell at all like her usual coffee. Nor did it smell like the kinds of tea Mirk knew she favored, chamomile and rose and orange. It almost smelled like a high-grade pain blocker. The scent was so familiar to Mirk by then that it made his senses perk up in anticipation of relief.  "I was close with his grandparents, once, God bless them."


    "It''s very nice to meet you, Madame Beaumont," Catherine said, smiling to herself as Mirk hustled around the table to take his own seat across the table from her and Kali. "Mirk always has such lovely things to say about you."


    Madame Beaumont snorted. "He''s always been a flatterer. Hopefully it won''t end up with him getting married to someone awful."


    A tense silence fell over the table, covered by the excuse of the maid coming in with her companions to set the table for dinner. If Madame Beaumont felt it, it didn''t show in her face as she frowned critically down at the dish the head maid presented her with. Some sort of wild game roasted to what Mirk assumed was golden perfection, vegetables swimming in butter, another gratin. Mirk suspected it was the gratin that had provoked his godmother''s displeasure.


    He was pleasantly surprised that the cook had come up with something for him besides the same dinner that was passed out to everyone else, minus the main dish. A wider range of roasted vegetables, accompanied by a selection of fresh ones that glistened with a vinaigrette. It had to be due to Samael still being locked away upstairs. And Mirk was grateful for the heavy hand Madame Beaumont''s chef had with the spices. More and more he found the smell of roasted flesh unbearable, especially in spring and summer. It reminded him too much of the infirmary. If Genesis didn''t prefer his food all but raw, Mirk didn''t know what he would have done with himself.


    "Now, tell me, girls, what''s your part in all this nonsense?" Madame Beaumont asked once the maids had left and the door into the servants'' hall had clicked shut. "I thought this was all the doing of my godson''s more disreputable friends, not the decent ones."


    "I''d like to know that myself," Kali said, stabbing viciously at the tangle of wild game on her plate. Catherine frowned over her sister''s table manners, but had enough manners herself not to bother her about it in front of Madame Beaumont. "I thought I was done with you and the rest of the nobles."


    "Comrade Kali and her ladies were the ones who went with Uncle Henri and the children back to Bordeaux," Mirk explained to Madame Beaumont.


    "Oh! Is that so? I knew Mirk had shoved some mercenary or other after his uncle, but I didn''t know it was a woman." Madame Beaumont gave Kali a harder look, but kept her comments to herself. For once.


    Mirk elected to change the topic before his godmother''s urge to needle overcame her momentary restraint. "You''ll be helping Comrade Fatima''s ladies keep an eye on Samael and Sharael," he said to Kali.


    "Why do I keep getting stuck babysitting? Can''t marry me off, but you''ll all stick me with brats anyway?" Kali huffed, continuing to hack at her dinner. A bone somewhere in the tangle of meat and cream cracked, and Mirk had to concentrate to swallow down the bit of carrot he''d only halfway chewed. "Whatever. It''s better than getting stuck going to another debut ball. I''d rather be stabbed."


    Kali did seem a little relieved not be assigned to the ball, despite her grumbling. But the mention of it made Catherine wilt beside her. Though Mirk suspected that was more due to marriage being dragged into things yet again rather than the prospects of a night spent dancing and being pleasant to people. "Catherine is...hmm. Methinks it''s a little hard to explain, madame. But the man who has control of the djinn we''re trying to help is very interested in her. Since Comrade Catherine is coming, then it''s more likely he''ll come. Has Seigneur d''Aumount said anything to you about anyone else important who might be coming? I''ve heard from Seigneurs Rouzet and Feulaine..."


    "Aside from those three, the Marquise is a maybe. It depends on whether her ships come in on time. The Comte prefers not to leave the continent these days, owing to his age. A poor excuse for bad manners, if you ask me," Madame Beaumont confided to all of them, taking a smug sip of her drink rather than continuing to pick at her dinner.


    "Is there anyone else?"


    "The Massons old and young, but I''m sure you must have heard from at least one of them by now. From what I gather, the rest are mostly younger folk, people Rory''s age. Old rivalries die hard, you know. Coming to England to visit a friend is one thing, but attending a ball with people you used to only meet on the other side of a crossbow or a sword is a different thing entirely."


    Mirk shrugged as he tried a different vegetable. Some type of root, hearty yet crisp. He''d be missing Madame Beaumont''s chef once she returned to Lyon, no matter what she thought of him. "That makes sense, I suppose. I only ask because the more people come, the easier this will all be. Though I doubt anyone who comes to this ball will ever come to one I host again."


    Other than the sort of people who delighted in chaos and mayhem, as long as they weren''t personally involved and things didn''t get too gruesome. People like Yvette Feulaine. If Yvette ever decided to leave polite society and France behind, she''d make an excellent K''maneda. But Mirk knew she wouldn''t leave the dances and luncheons and garden parties for all the gold in the world.


    "That awful?" Madame Beaumont asked, with a skeptical arch of her eyebrows. "Monsieur Am-Hazek assured me that no one would be getting killed in the ballroom, at least. Not that this would be the first time someone put a knife between someone else''s ribs at a party. You should have seen what things were like two centuries ago. Complete barbarity."


    "Rather go to one of those balls than the debuts," Kali muttered into her half-empty glass of wine.


    "It depends," Mirk said, smiling at the way Catherine hid a snicker with her napkin and rolled her eyes. "If everything goes well, the man who has control of the djinn will decide to leave without doing anything too awful. He doesn''t have enough magic to fight most of the nobles without a djinn nearby to draw on. But none of us can make any promises about how he''ll react. Or any of his friends who might come with him." None of the other commanders and officers Mirk had invited had replied to him, but he hadn''t been expecting them to. A K''maneda followed their own whims, frowned on things like polite correspondence.


    Madame Beaumont exuded skepticism, both in the press of her emotions against his mental shielding and the high arch of her thinning brows. "You expect these barbarians to be embarrassed at making a scene in front of us?"


    "Pas du tout, madame. That''s why I needed to come speak to you tonight."


    "Not because you just wanted to give a bored old woman some entertainment?"


    They shared a laugh, Catherine joining once she felt it was polite to. Kali continued to stab at her dinner without lifting her head. Mirk hadn''t seen her actually eat a single bite of it. "Of course, I''m always happy to see you, madame. But I needed to ask you for a favor, and it wouldn''t be right not to do it in person. Can you send your servants off ahead back to Lyon? I''m not sure how many you have, but methinks it''ll be enough..."


    "Send my servants away? Why? Monsieur Am-Hazek too?"


    "Not Monsieur Am-Hazek, no." Mirk hardly even thought of him as a servant anymore. More like his godmother''s friend, who also happened to help her with the more taxing aspects of running a household, the things she was too old to be bothered with herself anymore. The fact that he was the first person Madame Beaumont thought of when he brought the subject up made Mirk uneasy in a way he couldn''t put into words. "But the rest. How many are there?"


    "Nine, if you count Ren¨¦ in the stables. And that''s without Monsieur Am-Hazek."


    "How many women are there?"


    "Five women, four men."


    "Methinks that should be good enough...if we pick the right people..."


    "Mirk Alec Jean-Marie, stop mumbling into your wine glass and explain yourself."


    Clearing his throat, Mirk set down his glass. Across the table, both Catherine and Kali were grinning at him that time. The family resemblance, when both sisters were of the same mind about something, really was striking. "In case things get out of hand, it might be better to have some men and women around who are suited to fighting. I''m sure all the guests have the magic to defend themselves, of course, but methinks they aren''t used to the same kind of fighting that the K''maneda do. There aren''t so many rules."


    "You''re replacing my servants with a bunch of brutes?" With a tired sigh, Madame Beaumont took up a frustrated forkful of vegetables. From the look and the feel of things, it took all her willpower to force it down rather than spitting it up into her napkin. "I hope that at the very least you manage to find a replacement for Chef who actually knows his way around the kitchen."


    "That''s a very clever idea, madame. I know a brute who happens to be a very good cook," Mirk said, nodding. They''d all been wracking their brains for a way to have K''aekniv on hand, but he was so distinctive that if he ever ventured out of whatever backroom they stuffed him in, all the guests would know something was wrong in an instant, K''maneda or not. Putting him in the kitchen would keep him in communication with what was going on in the ballroom and give him something to preoccupy his mind so that he didn''t either fall asleep or start trouble.


    "And five women?" Madame Beaumont cast a cool glance in Kali''s direction. "Her friends?"


    "Euh...no, we have some other women who might be more suited." His godmother was fairly open-minded, considering her age, but he didn''t think it wise to tell her that they planned on replacing all her maids with Fatima''s ladies. Mirk was certain she''d sort it out soon enough, but the reason why half of his new friends, as Madame Beaumont put it, were particularly enterprising ladies was something he preferred to explain only when immediately necessary. "But I promise, I''ll look for people who''ll be able to suit both our needs. I wouldn''t leave you alone."


    "I am capable of managing my own affairs, my dear," Madame Beaumont said stiffly, taking a prim sip from her drink. "I just prefer to avoid things that are tedious. After nearly three hundred years, I''ve earned that much."


    "Three hundred years?" Kali asked, looking Madame Beaumont over. Though she was thinner still than the last time Mirk had visited, her cheeks still had a healthy redness to them. And her hair underneath her bonnet, though streaked with gray, was still mostly black. "Are you...?"


    "Entirely human. Simply burdened with more potential than most. As I said, I''ve earned the right to spend my time as I see fit."


    "And how do you see fit?" Catherine asked, with none of her sister''s brusqueness. She had cut all of her food before beginning to eat, but still kept her knife in hand, to be polite. Though Mirk noticed that she preferred to eat all the parts of her meal one by one, starting with the vegetables. "After so many years, you must be a great mage."


    Madame Beaumont laughed, bitterly. "A great mage? When I was your age, women weren''t allowed in the same room as a grimoire. And I believe many men still wish that was the case."


    An uncomfortable silence fell over the table once more. Before Mirk could break it, Madame Beaumont spoke again. Holding her cup improperly, in both hands rather than by the handle, to warm her hands with it. "It gets better every year. Did I think I''d live to have two women to dinner, in my own dining room, no husband in sight? One with a wand that could tear the house in two in her pocket, and the other free to bash anyone she hates in the face? I know things remain difficult for all of us. But...there is progress. Always progress. As long as we don''t stay satisfied with catching the scraps the men drop from their table."


    Both Catherine and Kali nodded, Kali still stabbing now and then at the mess she''d made of her dinner, while Catherine arranged her gratin into a precise square with the tines of her fork.


    "Present company excused, of course," Madame Beaumont added after a moment, shooting Mirk a sideways glance. "A good thing Jean-Luc let your mother raise you instead of sending you off to an academy, God bless them. I still think she should have found some sterner men to train you up in the manly qualities, but Annette''s work turned out better than some guild mage''s. If you''d gone to an academy, I''m certain you''d have turned out like Marc.


    "I think Jean-Luc always regretted that," she mused, turning the cup in her hands. "Only the best for little Marc. Annette was always the bright one. All of Jean-Luc''s scheming, and all of Enora''s willfulness. Isabelle was the strong one, Christine the gentle. And Marc. The boy. Very friendly with my nephew the rake, until Marc had that accident with his horse. God bless him."


    There wasn''t an ounce of joy in his godmother''s blessing.


    "Is everything all right, madame?" Mirk asked, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to her.


    Madame Beamount didn''t respond to him directly. Instead she set down her cup, just long enough to push aside her untouched plate. "My apologies, comrades, Mirk. As I said, I''ve lived quite a long time by now. I think that entitles me to a bit of babbling now and then, non? I really am looking forward to seeing if this cooking brute of yours is as good as you think he is, my boy. You do, after all, find Chef''s gratin bearable. But shall we see if he did any better with tonight''s tartines?"


    Without waiting for any of them to reply, she picked up the servants'' bell at her elbow and gave it two sharp rings, to summon in the maids to clear away dinner and bring out dessert. Across the table, both Kali and Catherine were watching Mirk warily, waiting to follow his lead. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    He decided to, as Madame Beamount had insisted, indulge her. If she considered the matter resolved, then it was resolved. Instead of persisting, instead of reaching out with his senses to try to root out the source of his godmother''s disquiet, he turned the conversation to trivial things as the maids filed in. Which quartet his godmother had hired for her ball last autumn, how much it would cost to put the same mirrored illusions on the walls of her townhouse that had made it look so grand and golden.


    But he knew that after dinner, at the first opportunity, he needed to speak with Am-Hazek.


    -   -   -


    As he''d been hoping, when he left the upstairs bedroom Samael and Sharael had been locked up in, Monsieur Am-Hazek was out in the hall waiting for him beside Catherine and Kali rather than Pascal, who had brought them up after dessert.


    "Are our guests doing as well as can be expected, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked him, bowing slightly in greeting. The sisters seemed lost on what to do with him; they''d both resorted to their own ways of passing the time rather than engaging him directly, Catherine producing a small book from her skirts while Kali paced restlessly from one end of the hall to the other, like a caged animal. Mirk couldn''t blame them. Even if Kali eschewed manners for the most part, they''d both been trained in them. And it was difficult to tell whether Am-Hazek expected to be treated in line with the servants'' clothes he wore, or like the great mage he was, without asking him outright.


    Mirk nodded, rattling the doorknob to the young angels'' room to be certain all the spells on it had fully engaged. "Thank you again for taking them in on short notice, monsieur. Do you have a moment?"


    He and Am-Hazek went to the end of the hall, the djinn matching Mirk''s pace. He didn''t have to announce that he was concerned to Am-Hazek, or tell him the subject of it. Either they shared the same worry, or Mirk was so transparent in his distress that it didn''t take any empathy to spot it. "What''s happened to Madame Beaumont?" Mirk asked. "Did something happen when Seigneur d''Aumont came to visit?"


    Am-Hazek sighed, staring off down the hallway toward the servants'' stairs as he clasped his hands behind his back. "Of course, Seigneur d''Aumont did nothing untoward. But I''m of the opinion that it took all of madame''s restraint to continue the ruse she elected to put on. It...troubled me. To see her in such a state again. I believe it taxed her, and she has not yet recovered her strength."


    "Again?"


    "I''m certain madame has made her opinions on her late husband known to you, to some extent." Once Am-Hazek was sure none of the household''s other servants were moving on the stairs, or in the hallway below, he turned his attention back to Mirk. Though there''d been only a hint of a question in Am-Hazek''s words, Mirk felt he was looking for an excuse, any excuse, to elaborate further. There was a heaviness in his posture Mirk hadn''t seen since Am-Hazek had visited Ravensdale''s djinn in the City. Like he''d been forced to bear witness to something unspeakable, but felt compelled to try to explain anyway, to lift just a sliver of the weight of that knowledge off his shoulders.


    "I got the impression they weren''t a good match. But I''m sure there must be more to it than that."


    Am-Hazek nodded. "If no children had come from it, I''m sure madame would have found it unbearable. And if her late husband hadn''t died along with them during the fever, I''m of the private belief that madame would not be with us still."


    Mirk steeled himself, debating whether to feed more potential to his mental shields once more or not. He decided not to. It wouldn''t be right, not sharing the full weight of Am-Hazek''s burden. "Was he...?"


    "No. I think the seigneur knew full well what he was getting into when he married madame. If he''d ever raised a hand to her, she would have murdered him. I believe she was attempting to provoke that opportunity, near the end," Am-Hazek added, after another heavy sigh.


    "In any case. It wore on madame to bring herself so low before that, for the sake of the children. Madame is a woman of strong opinions. And she does not tolerate men who underestimate her intelligence, even if she was never given the opportunity to learn magic in a formal way. Seigneur d''Aumont has a very low opinion of mages with high potential who do not educate themselves, no matter the reason. And though he was on his best behavior when he came to visit, madame is very sensitive to that sort of insult. It took a great strength of will for her to remain pleasant with him."


    Rubbing at his temples, Mirk looked down the hall ahead of them, toward the formal staircase that led down to the foyer, where his godmother would undoubtedly be waiting for them. "I didn''t want her to do this. But methinks she would have taken it as an insult if I''d told her not to. And that would have been much worse."


    "Agreed. I am of the opinion that madame has been waiting for many years for an opportunity such as this. Even if it pains her, this is the best possible resolution that she can see for herself."


    "What do you mean?"


    Am-Hazek rocked back on his heels, thinking. "I have not seen madame make use of her magic for many decades. Not in any serious way. I believe she has been avoiding drawing on it so as to prolong her life. To obtain the possibility that she sees in this whole ordeal. Even then, it has taken almost all of it for her to last this long. I believe that she is preparing to use it, and it is making her ill. And one she does make use of it..."


    He didn''t need to say any more for Mirk to understand. He''d already seen the beginning signs of it, decades before it was due to come, in both the mages and the fighters he tended to every day at the infirmary. Purely human bodies weren''t made for channeling and holding large amounts of magic forever, not like those of angels and demons and djinn. An angel''s body was made for magic, would die without it. Magic running though human flesh worked like a disease, albeit a slow one that careful management with healing magic and long periods of rest could keep in check. A wholly human mage burned out bright and fast, or lingered slow into a painful oblivion. The more potential a mage had, the greater the imbalance of their element and orientation, the worse the process was.


    Madame Beaumont, as she liked to remind those who underestimated her, who took her unwillingness to use and train up her magic as a lack of it, had been given a great deal of potential.


    "Is that what that tea she''s started drinking is?" Mirk asked. "Something to make it all bearable?"


    Am-Hazek nodded. "Poppy tea, with something else in it to strengthen the potential she''s saved until she sees fit to use it. I understand it''s not my place to ask it of you, seigneur, but I would be grateful if you could look to see how severe the illness is when you depart. There''s nothing you or I could do about it, but I''d feel better knowing. Human illness and healing is very different from that of djinn."


    "Of course, monsieur. Anything to set your mind at ease. And I''d very much like to know myself, besides."


    It was subtle. If Mirk hadn''t spent so much time watching djinn by then, if he hadn''t seen how they chose to bear up under things, he wouldn''t have caught it. But the way that Am-Hazek lowered his head as he thought, the way he brought his legs together, as if asking to be knocked off balance, spoke to the djinn''s guilt all the same. "Perhaps it is a blessing that she decided to use her potential now. I will be leaving soon. It would be a weight on my conscience I could never remove if I knew I was leaving her to pass her final years alone."


    Before Mirk could comment, Am-Hazek had moved on, his head lifting and eyes growing sharp once more. "Ah. They''re here early. I suspected there may be some overlap. Another small blessing."


    "Who''s here?" Mirk asked, shaking his head to throw off the lingering, vague impression of Am-Hazek''s guilt.


    "I anticipated this as well, but I didn''t have the opportunity to inform you before supper, seigneur. Monsieur Henri and the children have come to attend your debut. But, as I''m sure you know, Monsieur Henri is very forgetful when it comes to his letters."


    Am-Hazek was right. Mirk couldn''t hear what he could, but he could still feel his family out in the street, now that he knew what he was looking for. A cluster of tiny pinpricks of magic and excitement, none of them shielded in the slightest. "Traveling so far again? And right before summer, when his shop is the most busy? I''d told him about the party in my last letter, but I never thought Uncle Henri would..."


    "I believe he serves at the will of his children, seigneur." Am-Hazek said, with a tight-lipped smile. "And I also acted on my own to inform him that if he wished to thank madame for her help in person, he would be best served by attending your debut. I hope I haven''t offended you by acting without consulting you first on the matter. But you have been occupied by your own affairs."


    "Oh, it''s no bother at all, monsieur. I never would have remembered. We''d best be on our way down, then." Mirk switched back into English ¡ª it was always a bother, but it felt less like switching from bare toes in the grass to tight court shoes now and more like having to put on a cloak before going out in the cold ¡ª calling off down the hall to Catherine and Kali, who were presently arguing over something in Catherine''s book. "Comrades! Will you come downstairs with us? Methinks there''s someone here who''d like to see you, Kali."


    Kali''s head snapped to attention, her shoulders going tense. "What? Me?"


    They all headed down the front stairs, Kali plunging on ahead with her sister fast on her heels, Mirk lagging along behind with Am-Hazek. By the time they reached the front door, Pascal was already pulling it open from the outside. Kali ignored both him and Madame Beaumont coming out of her front parlor, storming down the front steps, the feel of her surprise a welcome change from her usual grudging annoyance.


    Mirk heard Claire''s voice from outside before he reached the door. "Comrade Kali! Comrade Kali, you came after all!"


    He stepped out onto his godmother''s front steps just in time to see Claire stop a few paces short of wrapping a befuddled Kali into a crushing hug. Instead, Claire composed herself, squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full height, sticking out her hand in a business-like way that looked more trained than natural.


    "Well met, Comrade Kali," Claire said in certain, but heavily accented English.


    With a heavy sigh, Kali gave in and stooped a little to take Claire''s hand, giving it two firm shakes. Despite the scowl on Kali''s face, Mirk could feel something bubbling underneath it at being greeted in such a backward fashion. Something almost like pride. "Well met, Comrade Claire."


    Behind her, Henri was laughing to himself as he headed up the walk, In¨¨s at his side. She had her two younger cousins in tow, one on either side, both their hands held tight so that they didn''t wander off. As far as Mirk could sense over the emotions of the rest, Armel was still back by the carriage that''d brought them to Madame Beaumont''s townhouse, pestering the coachman about how he got the horses not to balk at being teleported.


    "You''re starting your army young, Kali," Catherine said with a chuckle, as she came up beside her sister and looked down at Claire. "I''m happy you''ve finally found someone willing to play soldier with you."


    Claire ignored Catherine entirely, beaming up at Kali. "I''ve been practicing every day, just like you told me to," she said, in quick French that it looked like Kali still understood well enough. "But do we have time for a lesson tonight? You said you were going to teach me how to fight in the dark."


    In¨¨s, on the other hand, was more daunted by the well-dressed stranger beside Kali. She instinctively slipped behind Henri, dragging her cousins along with her. Henri greeted both Kali and Catherine with an afterthought of a bow, as pleased to see Kali again in his own, more absent way. Though if Mirk had to guess, there was something on Henri''s mind, something that seeing Kali in the flesh had reminded him of. "Hello, Comrade Kali. It''s a pleasure to see you again. I hadn''t planned on running into you so soon..."


    "Papa! You promised that we''d go see Kali as soon as we got here!" Claire protested, glaring over her shoulder at her father. All he could do was shrug, as Mirk headed down the front steps to greet him as well.


    "I hadn''t planned on seeing you again so soon either, uncle," Mirk said to him. He debated for a moment, then decided to bow to him instead of embracing him like he wanted to. Not out of coolness, but because Mirk suspected Henri had had enough of people clinging to him for one night, even if they were people he cherished. "But I am very happy you''ve come."


    "Oh! That''s right!" Henri didn''t even think to bow, a look of sudden realization coming onto his face. "I had meant to send a letter..."


    Mirk waved him off. "I''m not good at remembering either."


    Henri looked as if he was about to say something more, but Madame Beaumont had started her way down the steps by then, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak that Am-Hazek had fetched for her. Instead, he focused back on Kali, the feeling of confusion about him suddenly tinged with discomfort. "I honestly hadn''t expected you to be so eager, Comrade Kali...the letter hadn''t made it sound so urgent..."


    "This is a coincidence. We were here on other business," Kali said, with an offhand gesture at Catherine, though she didn''t bother to make any introductions. "What letter?"


    "Now that I think of it, it didn''t look like your penmanship. And it wasn''t signed by you. I was told that my nephew''s ball was meant to be part of the English debut season. His, but also..."


    Kali''s expression darkened. "But also?"


    Catherine still had her wits about her, even if Kali was blind to what was happening. She swooped in to intercept Claire, engaging her in warm but uncertain French, drawing both her and In¨¨s farther back down the front walk along with Mirk''s younger cousins, asking about how they''d all found the trip to London and if the carriage still parked outside Madame Beaumont''s front gates was their own and what the names of the horses were. Mirk felt like it''d be more polite for him to withdraw too, but his knowledge of Kali kept him rooted to the spot. When Kali was crossed, all the sparse shreds of her manners were thrown to the wind. And he didn''t feel like healing Henri''s jaw if things went poorly.


    "I was very confused by it, comrade," Henri said, awkwardly clasping his hands behind his back. "It was from your mother. It said that the past five seasons had gone poorly for you, but she was glad that you''d finally found a man as tolerant of your whims as I am. And since she''d be at the ball to see to your sister''s affairs..."


    "She what?" Kali bellowed, her body going stiff, fists clenching at her sides. "That...that..."


    "You didn''t know?" Henri asked, before Kali could find the right curse. His uncle slumped, his hands falling limp at his sides and a smile returning to his face, despite Kali''s unconcealed ire. "Oh, good, I''d been hoping this was all a misunderstanding. Maybe your mother posted it to the wrong Henri. My new English customers always tell me that French names all blend together for them."


    "I''m not getting married to anyone!" Kali sputtered. "Least of all you."


    Henri, thankfully, wasn''t put out by this, though Mirk heard Madame Beaumont gasp from somewhere behind him. "Of course not, comrade. You''ve always been very clear that you have no interest in these things. Neither do I. I''ll be wearing the black for the rest of my life, the same as you. Though for different reasons," he added, with a wave at his own traveling clothes, black and simple. "That''s why I was so confused."


    Mirk thought he could feel a hint of relief from Kali, though it was hard to sense it beyond her still-simmering frustration. "At least someone around here listens when people talk," Kali grumbled. "I''ll have her head for this...I can''t believe her nerve..."


    "Perhaps we could sort it out another time, comrade? Claire is very excited to see you again, of course, but it is rather late...oh, but my appointment book is back in the carriage...if you''d be willing to come set a time, I''ll be sure to remember..."


    Despite all the chaos, Mirk found himself smiling as Henri wandered back toward the carriage, still muttering to himself. With a roll of her eyes, Kali stomped off after him. But the smile died on Mirk¡¯s lips when Madame Beaumont shuffled up beside him, joining him in watching the shadowy figures of his family and the two sisters all talking over one another beside the carriage, poorly illuminated by the sole light above the townhouse gate.


    "Manners appear to be a lost art, both among the English and the French," she said, drawing her cloak tight around her dwindling frame. "I detest how much of a mess it makes of everything. But I suppose if no one has any manners, there''s no one left to miss it."


    "I apologize for leaving you with such a full house, madame," Mirk said, bowing to her slightly as he turned to face her. "I promise I''ll have Sharael and Samael moved when we change out the servants. And I''ll make sure that their expenses are taken care of if Henri forgets."


    Madame Beaumont smiled up at him. But it was brittle. Tired. "Of course you will, my dear. I mentioned manners to you because you''re the only one left who understands them."


    "Are you sure it''s not too much, madame? If you''d rather I found somewhere in the City for them again..."


    She shook her head. "I much prefer Henri''s children to those angels. I''ll never know what your mother saw in angels. Very cold. Human children make more pleasant company. And with Monsieur Am-Hazek running around seeing to your terrible friends, the house is a little too quiet for my liking."


    Am-Hazek was back by the front door, informing Pascal and a second valet on what all needed to be done to account for Henri and the children''s arrival. But Mirk thought the djinn was still keeping more than half an eye on what was going on out on the front walk. Mirk sighed, bowing again before holding out his arms. "Will you allow me to be rude too for a moment, madame?"


    Madame Beaumont laughed, then held out her arms in return and stepped into his embrace. "Since everyone''s doing it, I suppose. Although the front garden is not the place."


    Mirk knew from sight that she''d gotten thinner. But he hadn''t been prepared for how strongly the weakness he felt in her arms would affect him, like she''d had a dagger wrapped up in one of her shaking hands and plunged it into his back. He didn''t want to look. But he''d promised Am-Hazek. As he clung to her for a few moments longer than was proper, Mirk lowered his shields and studied her narrow form with his mind''s eye rather than his physical senses.


    It was exactly what he''d been dreading. The light inside Madame Beaumont, the spark of her potential, was tangled up inside a creeping darkness that was cutting off the flow of her magic through her body. That darkness was killing her. And it was far too advanced for any healing magic to cure. Even if he cut out all the tumors he could sense within her too-small form, nothing would restore all the parts of her they''d strangled and killed. Nothing short of intervention from Jean-Luc''s staff. And even then, Mirk couldn''t be certain.


    Reluctantly, Mirk let go of her, bowing one more time as he returned Madame Beaumont''s tight-lipped smile. "Thank you for indulging me, madame. I''ll see you again soon to discuss more of the preparations."


    She nodded, inclining her head, just a fraction. "I expect you will, my dear. But in the meantime, I''d appreciate it if you cleared your relations out of the street before one of the neighbors sends someone to complain about the racket."

 Chapter 86

    "Welcome, milord!"


    The woman watching the bordello''s door that night was in high spirits, her cheeks smeared with rouge and her eyelids speckled with golden dust, her lips painted so thoroughly red that streaks of it ended up on her teeth when she grinned at him For once, all the finery of Fatima''s ladies was an afterthought, there to keep up pretenses for the casual observer out on the street. Their real concern was their arsenal. Including the crossbow the woman barring his way had in hand, along with the rapier dangling from the silk sash around her waist.


    "Bonsoir," Mirk said, returning her smile, able to feel her eagerness pressing against his shields but unable to match it. As was so often the case before balls and meetings, Mirk felt like he was going to hack up his last meal onto the bordello''s front steps. "Is...euh, everything well?"


    "¡¯Course it is!" the woman replied with a firm nod. "Sent the girls who aren''t keen on getting in a dust up out to the bars to keep the menfolk distracted, and the rest of us are here waiting to show anyone who comes looking what for."


    She paused, looking Mirk over and propping her crossbow up on her shoulder. "Thought you were going to be getting all fancy, milord. Thought that was the whole point."


    "That''s why I''ve come here, mademoiselle. Euh...I''m not very good yet at putting on my own things, I''m afraid. Methinks it might be better to go to people who are very good at it if I want to make the best impression."


    The woman cackled. "Mademoiselle! Oh, you''re always great fun to have around, milord. Sure, come on in. Someone in the back will get you all shined up. Think Fatima''s still here, even, though she''s rubbish at painting faces."


    That bit of news startled Mirk. Fatima had gone along with the five ladies Mirk had delivered to Madame Beaumont''s in the dead of night yesterday, though she hadn''t bothered putting on servants'' clothes like the others. And had been quick to inform his godmother that she was no one''s servant, that she was only there to survey the townhouse''s back hallways and kitchens and storerooms for clever places to cram extra weapons.


    His godmother had been very disapproving of all of it. But she also hadn''t stopped anyone. Instead, she¡¯d sat in her front parlor with the curtains drawn, watching all the odd goings-on out in her foyer with a certain sharpness in her eyes that was at odds with the effects the poppy tea she continually sipped should have had on her. The tumors riddling her body must have been horribly painful for the poppy not to have put her to sleep or made her dizzy. That or she''d been drinking it longer than Am-Hazek thought she had.


    "I thought Comrade Fatima would be at the townhouse," Mirk said, shifting the laundry bag he''d done his best to fold his suit for that night up into without getting it horribly wrinkled. He hadn''t bothered bringing any of his other things, the temperamental curlers or the powder and rouge Yule had loaned him months ago. Though he had brought the wefts of hair. He¡¯d bought them on a whim and hadn''t yet settled on whether or not he''d put them in.


    "Alice came back to nurse Ella one last time before the party," the woman said, directing him off down the hall that led to the back room. There was no one around to take her place at the door. And there was no abandoning her post that night, not even for a second, and not even for a lord. "They''ll be in the back with the girls staying to watch those angels."


    After thanking the woman for her help, Mirk made his way to the back room. The atmosphere in the bordello that night was unnerving in its stillness. Usually it was full of laughter and shouting from the common rooms, pervaded with the smell of gin and ale and lusty, eager emotions Mirk was willing to sacrifice a large chunk of his potential to shield out, at least until he got to the safety of the back room.


    That night, there was nothing but murmurs and whispers. All of the doors to the private rooms, where the bordello''s main business went on, were standing open. Beds made, magelights off, shields unengaged. Save for the one that Samael and Sharael had to be hiding in. That one had a woman and a man standing guard on either side of it, the man an Easterner Mirk couldn''t recall the name of and the woman dressed plainly in the sort of working clothes Kali favored, large pantaloons and a plain leather vest over an equally plain tunic. She had a sword strapped across her chest.


    Mirk hesitated, wondering if it''d be right for him to check in on the children. He''d put them through a lot of trouble lately. And he hadn''t done much to assure their protection, like he''d promised he would. Genesis was sure that Imanael would appear in a bolt of light from Heaven at any moment, a whole flight of Thrones behind him, to reclaim the children for himself. Considering the bindings on Genesis¡¯s arms, Mirk couldn''t fault him for his caution.


    But he knew angels better than the commander. As people rather than as looming nightmares who never came to him aside from out of a desire to cause him pain. The Empire was never in a rush. That was their greatest strength, his father had always said, the one thing that kept the number of full-blooded angels from dwindling too low. Angels lived for millennia. If one chose to rebel against the Emperor, once the immediate threat was contained, the angels were happy to wait for their enemies to simply die rather than actively pursuing them. Time was on their side. In a way that it wasn''t for most other peoples scattered across the realms, with a few notable exceptions. Like the djinn.


    The threat to Samael and Sharael that night, Mirk knew in his gut, wouldn''t be coming from Heaven. It would be coming from inside the City of Glass. But he''d done all he could to guard against that and dwelling on it wouldn''t do him any good. He had a party to host. Mirk continued on past the young angels'' room with a smile and a dip of his head to the guards, through the curtain and into the back room.


    A half dozen women laden with weapons were gathered around the back table, plus Fatima and Alice at its head. Beside Alice, the older woman who often minded baby Ella for her was getting an earful. As Ella nursed, Alice rattled off her concerns to her, jumping from topic to topic as she tried to think up every last thing that could go wrong.


    "She doesn''t like those old Scots songs of yours, Peggy. Too rough for her sweet little ears. Pick something nice and soft. She likes hymns, doesn''t matter where from. Just nice and soft and low. Always goes right to sleep whenever I take her into a church to sit," Alice said, stroking her daughter''s hair as she talked away. It''d grown back in, as dark as it had been when she''d been a newborn infant. Perhaps even darker.


    "She goes right to sleep anyway, but I''ll mind you," the old woman said, shooting Mirk a sideways look as he waffled about near the table, not knowing where to begin or which of the ladies to bother with his needs. It seemed wrong to ask one of them to serve him, though he saw them help each other all the time.


    "Nob''s come, Fatima," the old woman said, since neither Fatima nor Alice turned to look at him when Mirk dared to clear his throat. Fatima was hunched over a ledger, checking and double checking some sort of schedule or roster written by hand in her cramped, tiny script.


    Fatima drew in a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at Mirk. "What are you doing here? The party starts in two hours. Get to the house."


    "I need to get dressed first, Comrade Fatima," Mirk said, lifting his sack as proof of his intentions. "I''d do it at madame''s townhouse, but methinks all your ladies there must be busy by now." That aside, it wasn''t as if the women left at his godmother''s were trained servants; they were only dressed like them. They knew how to apply rouge and do hair just as well as the weapon-laden ladies at the back table.


    "Well, get on with it," Fatima said, waving a dismissive hand as she went back to work. "Don''t have all night."


    No one needed to help him with his suit, Mirk supposed. It was cut close, but wasn''t so tight that it was hard to get over his shoulders without someone to help. He went to the end of the long counter lined with mirrors and drew out the pieces of the suit, laying them down along the edge of the counter after first checking for errant spots of kohl and rouge.


    That suit was a true extravagance, but Mirk knew it was imperative that he make the right impression at his own ball. Genesis''s comment about the nobles choosing and donning their three piece suits and gowns like how a fighter piled on armor had been weighing heavily on his mind ever since the wedding. If there was any truth in the commander''s words, then he needed the best armor money could buy that night, when so much was at stake.


    The suit was white. Partially. Not a common color among either the French or English nobles for the fabric of the suit itself, though a white shirt and falls of lace were a given. Mirk had elected to reverse the traditional pattern. The shirt he already had on underneath his robes was black, and so was the lace cravat that he plucked from the sack. As was the silk lining of the justacorps. An odd request that the Nasiri brothers had scrambled to accommodate with just two weeks'' notice, though Mirk had paid them well for it.


    The outside of the justacorps wasn''t pure white, though the breeches that went with it were. He''d need to be aware of everything he leaned against and every step he took to make sure they didn''t get dirty. Embroidered all across the justacorps was an intricate floral design, curling green stems and oval leaves, the stems dotted with sapphire flowers. At their centers were clusters of tiny crystal beads that matched the crystal buttons he favored.


    The flowers were mirrored in the silk of the waistcoat, which Mirk was planning to leave the justacorps open over for once. It was the closest color the Nasiris could find to that of his mother''s favorite gown. And the silver stitching on it was the same as the pattern that''d been on that dress. Mirk couldn''t have forgotten the pattern if he''d tried. He''d sketched a repeat of it at the bottom of the letter he''d sent to Paris with his other specifications.


    None of it followed the traditional language of colors that the English followed, everything matching up with the wearer''s element and guild ranking. Nor did it follow the French language, the one that shifted with the seasons and took the colors that were in fashion among the mortals at the Sun King''s court and elevated them to new heights. But all of it meant something to Mirk. White for his father and sister, blue for his mother. The flowers for himself, green and sprawling. And the black to show what he intended to make of himself ¡ª a dedicated K''maneda, despite his unwillingness to wield a sword.


    Mirk stripped off his cloak and his gray-green robe that was worn out at the hems and the elbows, half from being dragged through muck at the infirmary and half from all of Genesis''s scrubbing. He could feel some of the women at the table watching him dress, but Mirk didn''t mind their curiosity brushing against his mental shielding. They were experts in bodies as much as he was, albeit in a different fashion. There was nothing there for them to see that they hadn''t already seen hundreds of times before. That and he''d come prepared, wearing his good braies and his new black shirt underneath his robes.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    As always, the Nasiris didn''t disappoint. The suit was tailored perfectly, the justacorps drawn in at the waist and snug on the shoulders, but not so tight that it''d constrain his movements. All the rest of the parts were the same. And true to Genesis''s observation, Mirk did feel less nervous as soon as he had it on. Armored. Presentable.


    Aside from his windblown hair and his splotchy complexion. Mirk sighed as he peered into one of the many small mirrors arrayed along the counter. He didn''t look as sallow and wan as he had that winter, his cheeks filled out and rosy once more now that it was spring, but there were still bags under his eyes. He hadn''t had a decent night''s sleep since the night after the wedding, when he''d passed out for a solid twelve hours from exhaustion and too much drink. Mirk scanned the counter for the necessary materials. Fatima''s ladies used the same kind of powder and rouge that Yule did. It''d be better if the older healer didn''t know that.


    His hair was as flat as he remembered. Mirk took hold of the fistful of wefts on the counter ¡ª more or less the same color as his hair, a bit brighter, but not so much that it''d be hard to blend == and turned to look back toward the table. Alice was already getting to her feet, the bodice of the servants'' uniform she was wearing laced back up. Though Ella was still in the makeshift sling wrapped around her, pressed tight against her chest.


    Mirk raised his hands in protest, catching sight of Fatima glaring at him from her place at the head of the table. "Methinks you must have better things to do, Miss Al¡ª"


    "Aw, stop it," she said, shooing him toward one of the chairs that was only half pushed in against the counter. "I''m the best at hair, and you all know it," she added over her shoulder to Fatima. "Besides, nothing''s happening till he''s at the house anyway. Might as well keep my hands busy instead of just sitting around."


    Reluctantly, Mirk sat down in the chair. After rummaging around underneath the counter for a minute, Alice came up with a sheet, shaking it out to make sure there weren''t any wayward bits of rouge or kohl still clinging to it. "Fanciest thing I''ve ever seen," Alice said with a laugh, running a finger over the embroidery around the lapel of his justacorps before draping the sheet over him. "Must''ve cost all your golds and silvers."


    Mirk nodded agreeably, unwilling to divulge just how little of a dent the suit made in the family ledgers. Though he did turn for a moment to look back at Fatima while Alice sorted through the wefts, comparing them to the selection of clips and pins jammed into a bin among the ladies'' other supplies. "The ghosts at the London house didn''t say anything when I came in again. Methinks either Lord Kinross didn''t notice or he''s decided not to mention it to the ghosts."


    "My gold''s on the second," Fatima said, without looking up. "He''s coming, right?"


    "Yes, he should be."


    "Watch him," Fatima cautioned, making a mark in her book, her frown deepening. "If he doesn''t bring his djinn, we''ll know for sure. Unlike the rest of them, he doesn''t need one to fight."


    Mirk sighed, sinking down into his thoughts as Alice set in on his hair. She had a soft touch, sectioned and combed it without yanking on any tangles. "Got good hair for this," she commented idly. "Not too smooth, not too rough. Magic on the clips should stick for days."


    "So I''ve heard," Mirk said with a quiet laugh, remembering Genesis''s words, the touch of his cold, delicate fingers as he stroked his hair with that peculiar deliberateness of his. Though Mirk was tempted to sink down into the memory, retreating from the weight of where both he and Alice were headed that night, he fought against it. Instead, he did his best to strike up a cheerful conversation. "How is Ella doing? Methinks she''s much bigger than the last time I saw her..."


    It was the right topic to pick. Alice was happy to ramble on about her daughter without pause as she did his hair, recounting all the tiny things that a mother noticed but that the rest of the world was blind to ¡ª the way Ella smiled, the songs she cooed along to, how she perked up and grabbed at her fork whenever Alice ate fish. Because her own father had been a fisherman down near the mouth of the Thames, Alice explained. Some things carried through the blood more strongly than others. She hoped that Ella''s magic would be the same as her grandfather¡¯s rather than her own, if her daughter ever showed any potential.


    Mirk had never once heard Alice mention the child''s father, not in all the months he''d known her. And he knew better than to ask, though he did wonder. If he''d been in the same position, he likely wouldn''t have breathed a word about the child''s origin either.


    Then again, he nearly had been.


    "You want a wave in it?" Alice asked him, jerking Mirk out of his thoughts. She really was skilled. If he''d needed to clip in the extensions himself, he''d have been at the counter for hours. "Don''t think they''ll take a full curl like those wigs all you foreign nobs like so much. Not without more magic than I''ve got."


    Mirk nodded. "Just so that they match the rest," he said. The wefts were a few inches longer than his natural hair, meant to add a certain dramatic volume and flair that his own wasn''t suited to. Too thin, like his father''s and his sister''s.


    "Easy peasy," Alice said, fetching the ladies'' set of magicked clay curlers from the end of the counter. "We can do your face up while they set."


    "Methinks I''m all right at the rest, Miss Al¡ª"


    She cuffed Mirk in the shoulder as she returned with the wooden box of curlers. Runes were scratched into its side, to hold potential that could be run through the curlers to heat them. "I''ve seen your work. You don''t have a steady hand. Can''t have you looking bad in front of the other nobs."


    Mirk sighed, relenting. "You''re already doing so much tonight. It...methinks you deserve more time to rest, Miss Alice."


    She shrugged, activating the runes on the box, wrapping her arms around Ella as she rocked back on her heels and studied him. The infant clutched at her mother''s chest, and a smile came onto Alice''s face. "I don''t like just standing around. And that''s what they''ve got me doing over at the big house. Just watching and waiting for the nobs to call for more drinks. Besides. It''s not like I don''t owe you any."


    "That''s not the same," Mirk said, quietly.


    "If you feel so bad, get that fancy surgeon lass of yours to teach you to how to keep steady. Never seen hands like that. Could make a fortune crafting and painting faces, but I suppose being a healer for the nobs pays better," Alice said, plucking a heated curler out of the box by its ends with equally deft fingers, managing not to come even close to touching the hot part of it as she wound up a strand of Mirk''s hair.


    Mirk laughed, both at the thought of Eva hunched over one of Fatima''s ladies with a bit of kohl in hand and the way both Alice and her child giggled along with him. It was comforting being around Fatima''s ladies in a way Mirk hadn''t expected.


    It reminded him a little of the luncheons he sat through with his mother and her closest friends, how they spoke to one another without talking, even though none of them had the empathic gift. They always knew when to press, when someone wanted to divulge a secret but needed urging. And when to draw back, to change the topic to avoid something better left alone. The only other place he''d been in where he¡¯d been drawn into that dance was with the healers. It always made him feel relieved.


    That relief was shattered by the bang of a teleportation spell from out in the hall. Mirk heard all the ladies at the table behind him jump into ready positions with the clatter of knives and crossbows. By the time Mirk had turned to look, the new arrivals were already pushing their way through the curtain and into the back room. A woman wearing a fighter''s uniform, clutching her stomach to keep her innards from falling out on her feet.


    One of the Easterners was half-carrying her on one side and Danu was on the other, making use of her Deathly magic to give her the strength to keep the woman upright. As a group they hobbled over to the table, which the other ladies cleared off the far end of so that it could serve as a makeshift operating table. A moment later there was a second bang and Yule rushed in, dragged along by Mordecai.


    "Danny can''t do one this soon!" Mordecai was yelling at Yule, who was only making a token attempt at wresting his arm from Mordecai''s grasp. "You have more healing potential, see what you can do." With that order, the teleporting mage vanished again, leaving Yule cursing under his breath and rubbing his arm.


    Fatima was already up and out of her seat, stalking to the end of the table, completely ignoring the woman''s agony as she patted her on the cheek, sharply, to get her attention. "Did you get it?"


    The woman only groaned in response, her eyes rolling back in her head. Something fell out of the pouch buckled around her waist. An empty bottle.


    "Guess so," Fatima grumbled, backing away just far enough from the table for Danu and Yule to step up and examine the wound across her stomach. Waving away Alice''s protests, Mirk got up from his chair and approached the table. With a start, he recognized the woman''s slack face. She was the same one he''d been first called to the bordello to tend to, who''d had a curse carved into her chest.


    "She gave the djinn to Lina," the Easterner said, struggling to find the right words as he stared down at the injured woman. His fear was a hot, urgent thing against Mirk''s mind, nearly as strong as the woman''s pain. "Went to check like told. No Lina. No white rock. Just her and bottle."


    Mirk glanced down at the bottle. It was dusty, like it''d been locked away in some cellar. The label on it was written by hand, in French. Cabernet Sauvignon. Like the kind Seigneur d''Aumont''s less prosperous cousins made, a must-have at any ball or dinner party.


    "What''s going on?" Mirk asked as he tried to push himself into his usual place, beside Yule.


    Fatima cut him off, throwing up her cane to block his way as she braced herself against the table. "Not your problem. Your job''s getting Alice her shot. Don''t get distracted."


    "But she''s¡ª"


    "She''ll probably make it," Danu said, her voice as distant as her eyes, which were filmed over black with her Deathly magic. "It''d be better if we could take her to the infirmary..."


    Fatima shook her head, keeping her cane raised, lest Mirk try to slip over to Yule''s side. "You two dragging a half-dead girl into the infirmary at this time of night? Cyrus will be on it in a second. Can''t risk word getting out."


    "I''ll be burning a quarter of my potential keeping her with us if we stay here," Danu said.


    "More than that, maybe," Yule said as he examined the woman''s wound, blood already seeping into the sleeves of his robes. He''d forgotten to pull them up in his haste. "It''s bad. I need potions. Tools."


    Fatima turned to the Easterner, scowling. "Run your ass back to the infirmary and get it. It''s on you if she doesn''t make it."


    Without any further prompting, the Easterner bolted for the front of the bordello. With a warning glare at Mirk, Fatima finally lowered her cane, only to use it to hook a bag out from under the table. She dropped it on the table beside the dying woman. "These are all we managed to steal. Work fast. Neither of you burns more than a quarter of your potential. She might be the first, but she''s not going to be the last."


    "Comrade," Mirk begged, trying one last time to get to the table, already reaching in his justacorps pocket for his grandfather''s staff. "Fatima, please."


    "You''re the one who wanted a party. And the one who decided to wear white. Your job is to make sure Alice gets her shot. After it''s done, you can heal as much as you want."


    Fatima turned back to the woman on the table, looking down into her face. Mirk couldn''t feel a thing from Fatima. But the hard look on her face, her furrowed brow and the way she passed a hand over the woman''s eyes to fully close them, said enough for Mirk to understand. "This had better not all be for nothing," Fatima muttered, as she limped back to her seat at the head of the table.


    "She''s right," Yule said, sparing only a second to glance up at Mirk. "Do your part. Let us do ours. It''ll work out. As long as that idiot doesn''t get lost on his way to the infirmary."


    Aghast, Mirk could do nothing but stare down into the woman''s pale face pressed between Danu''s hands, at her blue lips, stewing in her pain without trying to strengthen his mental shielding against it.


    Joan. Her name was Joan.


    "Come on, love," Alice said, taking him by the shoulders and guiding him back toward the chair. Ella was still sleeping soundly against her chest, oblivious to the pain filling the back room. "Let''s get you finished. Then we can all head over to the big house together."


    Mirk let himself be guided along, let Alice finish putting the curlers in his hair and start in on his powder and rouge. But the easy, peaceful feeling that''d settled over him earlier had vanished.


    All he could do now was pray that he knew what he was doing. And that their plan would work, that none of the sacrifices that were being made on the table behind him would be in vain.

 Chapter 87

    "Methinks it might be better for me to step in..."


    Am-Hazek considered the two couples bristling at one another in the middle of Madame Beaumont''s front walk, then gave an elegant shrug. "I don''t believe it''ll come to blows, seigneur. It is a matter of what impression you wish to cultivate."


    The main thing Mirk had been hoping to achieve by writing different times on the invitations he¡¯d sent off to the English and French mages was coaxing them all into arriving together rather than hours apart. He had been to enough balls hosted by both parties by then to know their routines: the French custom was, out of politeness, to arrive at a host''s front gate at least an hour after the indicated hour, whereas the English took offense if guests weren''t already lining up to enter a half hour early. The thought of having only the English mages tapping their feet impatiently in the ballroom for hours before his friends from the Continent arrived was unbearable.


    So he''d played with the numbers. The English were told to arrive at eight, while the French were informed that the teleportation portal would be open by six. The result was currently sneering at each other underneath the floating lanterns he''d collected from the artificers'' that morning. Two young couples, one English and one French, trying to settle without exchanging words which of them would proceed to the front door first first. He had also decided against the English custom of lines and formal introductions. Mirk was beginning to get the impression that rather than creating a more welcoming atmosphere by forsaking it, he''d only set himself up for a headache.


    "I suppose no one will fault me for being friendly," Mirk mumbled, adjusting the lapels of his justacorps before setting off down the front walk. That aside, the two couples were no one important. A grand-nephew of the Marquise''s on her late husband''s side and his newcomer wife for the French contingent, and the son of a middling guildmaster who was friends with dour Lord Emerson and his unfortunate granddaughter on the English side. He¡¯d decided to invite the English mage for the sake of said unfortunate granddaughter. The woman shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot beside the guildmaster''s son was one of the few ladies Lord Emerson''s granddaughter was allowed to socialize with unsupervised. Miss Esther deserved a break from having to put up with Percival, who would undoubtedly come as long as Ravensdale did.


    "Bonsoir, messieurs, mesdames," Mirk called out as he approached. The greeting didn''t ease the tension hanging between the two couples, but at least it got them to quit glaring at one another, "Je vous en prie, come inside. Unless you''d like to admire the garden a while longer?"


    He''d put a lot of potential and gold into it. The gold had gone toward finding the right kind of blossoming trees and bushes, and the potential had gone toward making them grow large enough to make up for the fact that he hadn''t bought enough. That aside, it had settled his nerves that afternoon to have a project to work on, even if it was technically a waste of potential. It was spring. Mirk had more than enough to magic work with, contrary to the scolding of everyone who''d seen him up to his elbows in vines that afternoon rather than making himself busy with the preparations indoors.


    "Oh, we''d love to, seigneur," the wife of the Marquise''s grand-nephew said, her expression brightening at the mention of the garden. However, she refused to speak in English. Or turn on the translation brooch pinned to her bodice. "Such big hydrangeas! But these English..."


    "We arrived after this gentleman," the English mage said, casting a disapproving sideways glance at the grand-nephew. "However, they seem unwilling to proceed to the door."


    "Ah, I see. I''m afraid there''s been a misunderstanding," Mirk said with an apologetic bow to the English mage and his uncomfortable wife. "We do things a little differently on the Continent than you''re accustomed to, monsieur. There''s no line or introductions. You''re free to come and go as you wish."


    The English mage refocused his distaste on Mirk. "Is that so? Even among strangers?"


    Mirk nodded. "Please, feel free to introduce yourself. There''s no better way to make fast friends than having a conversation,  non? I believe Monsieur Leclerc and you may have some interests in common. Aren''t you involved with the light guild''s dealings with the artificers, Master Brown? Monsieur Leclerc has a similar role, only with the water mages..."


    Brown''s frown lightened just a hair when Leclerc nodded, producing a calling card from the breast pocket of his justacorps. It resolved entirely when Leclerc elected to address him in English rather than French, like his wife had. "You work with trade? Master Brown, is it?"


    Once the ice was broken, it was a simple matter of shepherding the men inside ¡ª although the English mage was reluctant to leave his wife behind, Leclerc''s mention of the recent troubles with piracy between the Continent and England convinced him to allow it. Since it would be improper to burden a woman with hearing about such violence, of course, even second-hand. Mirk got the impression that the two ladies shared a laugh over that as they ventured off together down one of the winding paths that led deeper into the front garden.


    Without needing to discuss the plan, Am-Hazek and Mirk fell into their respective roles. Mirk lingered under a tree midway up the walk, greeting new arrivals and heading off disagreements, assuring the French that he''d be inside soon and the English that the French were more than happy to be approached and conversed with. Meanwhile, Am-Hazek took the visitors'' cloaks and hats and led them down the mirrored hall toward the ballroom. As long as Am-Hazek didn''t try to get his attention, Mirk assumed things had to be going well enough inside.


    Mirk made a strategic retreat when one of the evening''s guests of honor arrived, with the bang of a teleportation spell and a startled curse that he muffled in the crook of his elbow. Ostensibly, he was one of Mirk''s most cherished new friends, a count from the far east, there to delight and amuse the other guests with his odd customs and costume. In reality, it was only Orest, stuffed into some manner of traditional fine dress that both he and Mordecai had assured him was befitting a man of means.


    He brushed on the translation charm pinned to the inside of his justacorps as he hurried down the walk, calling out a greeting to the bewildered fighter. The outfit the Easterners had cobbled together was more impressive than Mirk had expected. Tight breeches tucked into high riding boots that''d been polished to a sheen, a long red coat that was lined with jet black fur and had dramatic, conveniently voluminous sleeves. A collection of medals that were likely Ilya''s creative handiwork rather than actual laurels were pinned across the front of the tunic Orest wore underneath the coat. And atop his head was the same tall fur hat he always wore, freshly washed, made even more striking with the addition of a few long feathers that had been dyed to match the coat.


    "Mirk! Mirk, is she here?" Orest asked, rushing over to him. The echo of the translation charm didn¡¯t cover up the worry in his voice.


    Mirk shook his head. "Methinks she''ll be coming with her father. And Casyn is always late."


    Orest cursed, either too expressively or too low for the translation charm to pick it up. Offering him a reassuring smile, Mirk took Orest¡¯s arm, half to comfort him and half to keep him from bumbling into the pair of elderly English mages who''d just come through the teleportation portal. The only friends Madame Beaumont had managed to make since she''d arrived in the country, thankfully tolerant of strangeness. They only chuckled and shook their heads as they headed arm in arm up the front walk. "I knew I should have waited longer," Orest said, after clearing his throat.


    "It''ll be fine," Mirk said. "I''m sure you''ll be able to find some way to keep yourself busy."


    Orest sighed, but let himself be led up the walk. When he''d heard about the part of their plan involving Catherine, he''d insisted on being allowed to join the Easterners who''d be masquerading as servants. But the fact that he was new and unknown aside from around the stables presented them with the opportunity to have a fighter who was free to wander the ballroom without having to pretend to be a servant. It was plausible enough that a low-ranking foreign noble would choose to stay with the other Easterners rather than go to the Fourteenth. The fact that Dauid trusted him to train his stallions added another bit of credibility to the ruse.


    "This is one person''s house?" Orest asked, looking up at the facade of Madame Beaumont''s townhouse. "You really are as rich as everyone says."


    "Try not to look too impressed," Mirk replied, laughing. "You''re as rich as I am, you know. Even if things are different where you''re from."


    "No one who''s rich where I''m from wastes their gold on a big house," Orest said, making it a point not to look at Am-Hazek as they passed by him on the doorstep. "Horses. And things for spells."


    "Methinks your people might be more sensible." Mirk scanned the foyer, which had been enchanted with mirrors to match the hall connecting it to the ballroom, making sure things were still in order inside. Though he''d borrowed the mirrors from Madame Beaumont''s favored style, he''d added his own touch by bringing the outdoors in. More plants in gilt pots, mostly creeping vines that he''d coaxed into scaling the walls and sprawling across the ceiling, filling the entryway with the heady perfume from their purple and white flowers. Though the few English mages who''d chosen to linger in the hallway rather than heading straight for the ballroom seemed vaguely disapproving, a great number of ladies from the Continent had stopped to marvel over them and speculate whether they''d be able to recreate the effect in their own chateaux.


    The gossip shifted to Orest as soon as his guests caught sight of him in the reflection of the mirrors. Many of the younger ladies they passed whipped out their fans in preparation as he and Mirk walked by. Which reminded Mirk of one thing he''d forgotten to discuss with the fighter. "Euh, did anyone ever give you those dancing lessons, Monsieur Orest?"


    "Huh? Dancing lessons? I can dance just fine."


    Mirk sighed, thinking back to the sort of dancing he''d seen the other Easterners perform at Danu''s wedding. It was much more energetic than the type favored by English and French mages, entirely unsuited to the sort of music that the quartet he''d hired for the occasion knew. Even if it did earn him odd looks from his fellow high-born mages, he supposed the spectacle would at least keep most of his guests from noticing that anything else untoward was going on. "When you do ask Miss Catherine to dance, methinks it would be better if you followed her lead."


    "She knows how to do these rich people things," Orest replied with a shrug. He paused at the threshold to the ballroom, eyes widening as he looked around at the mages in all their finery and the broad expanse of the dance floor. The room''s ceiling, in actuality, was low and wood-paneled, but it''d been enchanted to appear as if it was made of high stone arches. An idea Mirk had borrowed from all the hours he''d spent daydreaming and staring up into cathedral rafters as a boy. "It''s even bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!"


    "It''s nothing but illusions," Mirk said, dismissively, though he gestured with his chin pointedly at one of the balconies that circled the dance floor, strung with magelights and covered in trailing vines. The illusion had been pricey, but even more troublesome had been managing to hide one real balcony among the false ones. It''d taken Elijah and Genesis the entirety of the afternoon once the illusionist from the dark magician''s guild had left to sort out first how the mage had cast the illusion, and then how to make the wooden platform that the Easterners had cobbled together and attach to the wall to appear to be one of them. Madame Beaumont had had plenty of cross asides on the matter of ruining the wallpaper in her ballroom with it, but she''d also been more than happy to provide the Easterners with gold enough to cook up a hearty supper for themselves in her kitchen after they''d all finished.


    All of it was risky business. But Alice would only get one shot. It was imperative that she have access to the best possible angle. Once the ball was in full swing, she''d shimmy through the portal Mordecai had set up to connect the platform to the servants'' hallway and await the best time to strike. There were extra illusions on that false platform to hide her, but the instant she took her shot, the spell would be ruined. She''d be fully exposed. With any luck, all the guests would be too distracted by the commotion to notice her before she could slip back through the portal.


    Mirk was still unclear on which of the djinn would be freed, which would start the chain reaction that would hopefully free all of them. Fatima and Genesis had disagreed strongly on the matter; for once, Genesis had refused to concede. He insisted that Am-Gulat be the one who started things, even if it meant taking extra risks to ensure that Ravensdale chose him. Thus the business with the bottle and the stolen diamond that had left Joan bleeding to death on the back room''s table.


    He sincerely hoped that Genesis was right. That it''d all be worth it, that it''d make a difference that Am-Gulat was the first.


    "So what do I do?" Orest asked Mirk, tugging on his arm and gesturing around at the steadily filling ballroom. Although it was to be expected, considering Orest''s odd dress and the fact that he was the host, it troubled Mirk that all eyes were on them, some openly, some only from the side or hidden by fans. "Go dance? This is bad music for dancing. Too quiet, too slow."


    Mirk shook his head. "The formal dancing won''t start until everyone''s arrived. You''re supposed to...euh...mingle."


    Orest''s brow furrowed, and he stroked distractedly at his freshly trimmed and combed beard. "Mingle?"


    "Walk around and talk to people. Or let people introduce themselves to you. Methinks one of the younger mages will try soon enough."


    "Bah, I need a drink," Orest muttered, tramping off after one of Fatima''s ladies who was circulating with a tray of wine glasses. She was every inch a proper lady that night, in a servant''s subdued navy dress and a white undershirt buttoned up to her chin, her hair pulled back into a chiffon underneath a bonnet. But there was still a certain swagger to her walk that Mirk hoped the other guests would overlook.


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    Mirk sighed, looking helplessly around the ballroom, wondering where to start. Madame Beaumont hadn''t descended from her upstairs chamber yet, nor had any of the young nobles he was closest to arrived. All of his friends tended to like to make an entrance, his godmother included. She''d told him to send someone up to fetch her once Seigneur d''Aumont had arrived.


    Ultimately, he decided it would be best if he went and got himself a drink as well, if only so that his nerves weren''t so transparent. One glass wouldn''t hurt. Not after nearly a full year spent starting his mornings with infirmary pain blockers.


    -   -   -


    "Mirk! Mirk, you  must  tell me which mage you hired to do these illusions! I didn''t think the English could think up something so beautiful!"


    "I''ll send along his guild card," Mirk replied, bowing to Yvette Feulaine as she swept into Madame Beaumont''s ballroom. But his eyes strayed to the doorway behind her, where her parents and Seigneur d''Aumont were making their arrival. The Grand Master of  Le Phare  looked rather put out that there was no particular grand welcome laid out for him. Considering how long d''Aumont had known his godmother, Mirk thought that he really shouldn''t have expected one, even if Madame Beaumont had been more accommodating than usual as of late.


    Yvette carried on enthusiastically, ignoring her fiance glowering around the room beside her. Instead she reached out and took both of Mirk''s hands so that she could get a better look at his new suit. "And this! Delightful! You almost have me convinced to switch over to the Nasiris from Marcel."


    "Monsieur Raynaud did do an excellent job with your gown, though," Mirk said, admiring the way that the stitching on Yvette''s long scarlet gown flashed in the comfortably dim light of the floating lanterns overhead. He wasn''t flattering her, not in the slightest ¡ª the gown was expertly fitted, and had enchantments sewn onto it to make the fabric throw off a subtle glow by drawing on Yvette''s overabundance of potential. Though it was rather low cut in comparison to those of the other French noblewomen, not to even touch on how it compared to those of the English ladies. It was even catching the eyes of Fatima''s women as they flitted around the room with that night''s first trays of  amuse bouches.


    "Oh, this old thing?" Yvette laughed, letting go of Mirk''s hands in favor of whipping a lace fan out of a pocket secreted away in the folds of her dress. "From last season, though I suppose you wouldn''t know, since you missed most of it. It''s not that I mean you any disrespect, Seigneur, it''s only that I didn''t want to have to spend a fortune having it cleaned if more of your beastly acquaintances decide to burden us with their presence tonight."


    "I don''t see any of them," Laurent commented from Yvette''s side. He stepped up and put a protective hand on her elbow nevertheless. "Though that doesn''t mean they can''t be hiding somewhere. The light''s rather dim."


    "But don''t you think it makes it so much more romantic, dear?" Yvette turned to look at her fiance, treating him to a broad and pointed grin that made Laurent scowl and abruptly look away. "Really, I think all the debut balls should be more like this. It really benefits us ladies, not having some ghastly chandelier making us all look like ghosts."


    "I thought the same thing," Mirk said with an agreeable nod. "The English are even worse."


    He hadn''t been thinking of what the bright white magelights the majority of the English mages favored did to the ladies'' complexions when arranging the ballroom. Primarily, he''d been thinking of the strengths of his friends, what they''d need to defend any of his guests against the ensuing chaos when Alice let the Destroyer''s arrow fly. Most of the Easterners and Fatima''s ladies weren''t strong mages, but they were accustomed to working in the shadows. Since their strongest mage, perhaps with the exception of K''aekniv, was most at home in them.


    Genesis hadn''t arrived yet, and he hadn''t mentioned to Mirk that morning when he was planning on making an appearance. But Mirk knew him; he trusted him. Genesis always arrived exactly on time, right when needed. He''d come eventually. Even if Mirk would have felt better with him lurking around the periphery of the room.


    "And what is this?" Yvette asked, as she accosted one of Fatima''s ladies who was carrying around trays of tood. The lady curtseyed and held it out to her, so that Yvette could better see the offerings. Something on toast, a bit less artful than usual, but not overly offensive, considering how Yvette didn''t hesitate to pluck one off the tray and take a delicate bite. The bottom of the toast, Mirk noticed, was perhaps a bit blacker than it should have been.


    But rather than complaining, Yvette made an exaggerated sound of delight, popping the rest into her mouth in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion that made Laurent blanch. "Amazing! I''ve never had fish this flavorful! I''d tell you that you need to try it, Mirk, but I know you''d refuse. You must give me the name of your cook. So bold! I''ll send my cook across the channel if I have to."


    Mirk laughed again, shrugging. Thankfully, Yvette usually forgot about her requests the second they were out of her mouth, unless they were particularly needful. He didn''t think she''d appreciate having her cook dragged into the basement of the infantry dormitory to find out how K''aekniv had managed to teach himself to cook on a sparking hotplate in the common bathroom. "He''s...euh, a bit eccentric, yes. But I''m glad you like it."


    "So! Tell me Mirk, who''s all coming? All the usual people from back home, of course, but what about these English? Will it be the same ones who attended the last ball?" A certain focused look came onto both their faces at the question that Mirk didn''t like the looks of.


    "Not everyone, of course. I haven''t made nearly as many friends as I would have liked among the English yet. But I invited all the ladies making their debut this year, along with anyone who mentioned they were interested in reconnecting with the French mages after all the trouble that''s passed between us. The ladies and their particular suitors will make up most of it, most likely."


    "You really do have an inventive streak, Mirk," Yvette said, snatching a glass of wine off another passing servant''s tray, that one an Easterner who looked particularly sullen over being crammed into a waistcoat and tight breeches and stockings. "To think, a debut ball for a man! Then again, most men fit to marry aren''t quite as young as you, unfortunately. I just happened to be lucky."


    "Luck had no part in it," Laurent grumbled. But he managed a tight-lipped smile when Yvette turned his way.


    "I see potential," Yvette countered with a grin. "Regardless of family situation. I hope the Lord will bless you the same, Mirk."


    Mirk didn''t feel particularly blessed at the moment. Mostly, he just felt worried.


    There weren''t to be any formal introductions that night. Yet a decided ripple of turned heads still moved across the room when Madame Beautmont chose that moment to appear, Am-Hazek at her side, though she refused to lean on the arm that he had at the ready for her. She''d outdone herself that time with her hat. It added nearly a foot to her short frame, laden with flowers and feathers that matched the ballroom''s decor, her gown voluminous and deep violet. Though it was impossible to tell from looking at it, Mirk knew the gown must have been padded to make up for all the flesh her illness had stolen from her.


    Seigneur d''Aumont wasted no time. He was across the room and bowing to her within a few minutes, having extricated himself rather rudely from the conversation he¡¯d been having with a few of the older, sterner French and English mages Seigneur Feulaine had guided him over towards, the rest of the members of the Circle, the Comte excepted, among them. Seigneur Rouzet smirked at d¡¯Aumont¡¯s retreating back. Meanwhile, Madame Beaumont treated the Grand Master to a warm smile, holding out one hand.


    It was a spectacle more befitting a young, unmarried mage who lacked the experience to maintain the proper social graces in the face of his desires. But Mirk supposed that Seigneur d''Aumont was accustomed to getting what he wanted. There was no reason for him to play the game of feigned disinterest and casual warmth. Although Am-Hazek bowed to the Grand Master and let him escort Madame Beaumont in, Mirk noticed that his gaze lingered on her, just for a moment. Then it shifted to the periphery of the ballroom, near the servants'' door back into the kitchen.


    He hadn''t entered alongside his master, but Seigneur d''Aumont had brought Er-Izat with him like he had the last time he''d come to England. The djinn was stationed near the door, his arms behind his back, waiting to be called upon. And Mirk noticed that Er-Izat was studiously avoiding looking at either him or Am-Hazek.


    A few of the other better off French nobles, the more senior ones, had brought their djinn with them too. Mirk had made silent note of each tall, well-dressed figure skirting around the edge of the room, moving with silence and grace between the front and the back of the house, seeing to the needs of those who held their souls without order or complaint. He wondered what would happen to them all once everything fell apart. But as Genesis said, it wasn''t up to any of them what the djinn would do. The Destroyer''s arrow could free only one of them. Everything else was in their own hands.


    Yvette had kept talking at him while he watched the exchange between Madame Beaumont and Seigneur d''Aumont, but all Mirk could manage to do was not appear rude, smiling and ducking his head in all the right places. Off in the corner of the ballroom, the string quartet kept humming pleasant, indistinct songs. They''d be looking to him for the signal to start that night''s dancing soon. The ballroom was filling up; everyone who wanted had a glass in hand, and the trays of food had made the rounds.


    And yet, no one from the K''maneda had arrived. No one other than the ones who''d been hiding there all along. The tension among the masquerading servants was palpable, especially among the ladies from Fatima, a thrumming undercurrent of anxiety and malaise that Mirk could only just feel through his mental shielding underneath the varied emotions of the other guests. He couldn''t wait forever. He had to do something.


    "Well, I suppose it''s time I got things started," Mirk said to Yvette, when she paused to snatch yet another delicacy off a passing tray. "Not everyone I hoped for has come, but the K''maneda do tend to arrive on their own time..."


    "Oh, yes!" Yvette said, just before she could take a bite of another piece of toast, her eyes lighting up. "Are you going to do a speech like the English? Otherwise I''d be delighted to show you over to Mademoiselle Tricot once you give the order to the quartet. She''s been asking around about you, you know. She¡¯s a good alternative, since that Englishwoman you came with last time doesn''t seem to have come. The only English mage worth socializing with, if you ask me."


    "I think I''d better say a little something," Mirk said, though he felt sick at the thought of it. "Since the occasion is so odd. I''ll be sure to speak with Mademoiselle Tricot once I''m through, though."


    He had no idea which of the bright, cheerful young ladies Mademoiselle Tricot was. There wasn''t any room left in his mind to keep track of distant friends of friends. Everything was only worry, worry that all their planning and preparation had been for nothing, that he''d failed at the one thing he''d been asked to do: get Ravensdale to the ball, along with one of the djinn. But there was nothing for it. The ball needed to proceed. It was up to him to manage things.


    And so he did, bowing to Yvette and Laurent before making his way across the ballroom, warding off polite inquiries and cheerful greetings with smiles and half-bows, until he made it to the corner where the quartet was still humming along. Mirk caught the violinist''s attention with a wave of his hand, nodding and making a lowering expression. He only had half a minute to collect his thoughts, to think of what to say as the quartet''s song trailed off and everyone in the ballroom turned expectantly toward him.


    Mirk couldn''t bear to look, the blankness in his mind overwhelming him. Instead, he stared down at his waistcoat. Sapphire blue, stitched with that pattern he''d traced over and over again as a boy with his finger while he waited for his mother to come up and dress for whatever outing she''d asked him to accompany her on. He tried to remember her words, her voice, the way she would take his arm before entering a parlor or ballroom and remind him of what they''d set out to accomplish.


    It''s as easy as breathing, mon petit, she always said when he wavered, pinching his cheeks one by one to put some color into them.  People are simple. Just show them what they want to see, and God will cover the rest.


    The quartet lowered their bows; a hush fell over the ballroom. Mirk straightened up as he drew all the air he could into his lungs and let the mental shielding around his mind fade away, to better gauge what his guests were expecting.


    Curiosity. Boredom. The push and pull of a dozen petty slights and satisfactions, lingering on even though the conversations that had sparked them had paused. A few quiet, cool spots where the strongest mages had clustered, those who had no empathy but had learned ways to shroud their emotions with their magic, well aware of how much could be gleaned from their minds by an empath if they left themselves open. The deepest well of that silence was along the far wall, by the door to the servant''s hall, where all the djinn were clustered. Most of them were only half-watching him, accustomed to keeping a constant eye on their masters. The only one who was looking his way was Am-Hazek, who nodded when their eyes met, offering him one of his barely-there smiles.


    He''d promised all his guests a worthwhile evening. A spectacle, a parade of oddities, a chance to forge new connections in a place that was just a bit unexpected for everyone involved. Now it was time to fulfill that promise.


    "Bonsoir, tout le monde," he began, with the bow that felt the most right to him in that moment, one lower than was called for but cultivated exactly the impression he wanted to make -- more than their host, he was their servant, ever grateful for their presence. "Thank you all for joining me. It''s more than a few weeks overdue, but I''m glad you all chose to come all this way to celebrate the season and my birthday. More than ever this year, I know what a dear thing it is to be surrounded by good friends and pleasant company."


    Mirk let his words hang for a moment as he studied the crowd, less with his eyes and more with his senses. A tinge of pity flitted through the crowd, mostly from those who knew him. Or rather knew Jean-Luc, and his mother ¡ª those guests knew that his words were more than platitudes. With that feeling pressing at the front of his mind, Mirk continued.


    "Life is so very short, isn''t it? Even for those of us who''ve been blessed with more years than most. So it''d be better to make the most of the ones we have, and the best way to do that, methinks, is by putting our differences aside and working together. How does it go in English...as iron sharpens iron, so one friend sharpens another? Methinks that''s what the point of this whole season is. We''re all better together,  non? And what better way to be together than to dance?"


    Mirk hadn''t planned on doing anything flashy. But the mood struck him then, spurred on by the quiet expectation of his guests, as those who had come to the ball to enjoy themselves more than play politics searched out the eyes of the first partner of the night across the room. He was standing at the very edge of the part of the ballroom that had been spelled for mage dancing.


    It was a small thing to feed the boundaries of the spell some of his potential, making the runes that marked it flare up bright and golden green in the dim light cast by the floating lanterns and by the illusion of a full moon past the ballroom''s windows. At the same time, he let his potential flow upwards as well, into the bits of true greenery strung up among the vines and blooms that were wholly an illusion. Those living parts descended, drawing on his magical potential to find the will to grow instead of reaching for the roots secreted away in handfuls of dirt crammed in among the rafters. Tendrils of vine and flat leaves stretching outward, great purple and white blossoms unfurled, just as the delight, both silent and spoken, of the guests who chose to watch filtered into Mirk''s mind.


    And at that same moment, before Mirk could pull the walls back up around his mind, two more feelings reached him. The first was the sharp sting of disapproval. A coincidence of either unfortunate or perfect timing had brought Ravensdale to the ballroom doorway at that very moment, just when everyone was distracted by the quartet raising their bows and flowers unfurling overhead. No one had a glance to spare for Ravensdale. Or for the djinn a step behind him and to his right, a man who was much smaller and paler than Am-Gulat, with a wincing demeanor at odds with Am-Gulat¡¯s characteristic stubborn defiance.


    The second was more subtle. And it wasn''t an emotion. It was a faint hissing in Mirk''s mind, something he felt more than heard, a familiar static. In that moment, Mirk felt his grin grow wider, more genuine, as he finished his speech and fed a bit more potential down into the spell encircling the dancefloor, its glow rising in a haze that cast shadows that were a bit darker than they rightly should have been.


    "On commence! Please, if there''s anything I can do for anyone, I''m your servant, as always."


    With his speech finished and the first dancers of the night joining hands and laughing as they stepped past the fading glow encircling the dancefloor, Mirk adjusted the hang of his justacorps on his shoulders and went to greet his final guests.

 Chapter 88

    "Good evening, Comrade Commander Margaret. It''s such a pleasure to finally meet you outside the City."


    Margaret did not return his smile as he bowed low to both her and Catherine. They''d been at the rear of the mob of K''maneda officers and commanders who''d rushed into the ballroom after Ravensdale. Mirk had no doubt that if Casyn had been accompanying Catherine alone that night, Ravensdale would already be escorting her by the hand to the dance floor. Instead, Ravensdale was sulking over in the corner of the ballroom at the center of a cluster of his followers, having a hushed conversation with his commanders while the lower-ranking officers fetched drinks for them from the still-circulating servants. As far as Mirk could tell, none of them had been recognized as Fatima''s ladies rather than common domestics.


    "The ballroom looks lovely," Catherine offered, when her mother refused to break the stony silence that had fallen between them. She matched Mirk¡¯s bow with an equally low curtsey. An unspoken apology for her mother''s refusal to so much as nod to him. "Are all the balls on the Continent this elaborate?"


    "No, not usually. Methinks I might have gotten a little, euh, carried away with all the plants. You couldn''t convince Miss Kali to attend?" Mirk asked Catherine, hoping to provoke Margaret into saying something. Anything to break the ice. Both he and Catherine already knew Kali was needed to help Fatima oversee things at the bordello. But Mirk had no doubt that Margaret would have attempted to pester her older daughter into attending along with Catherine now that she was back from Bordeaux.


    The ploy worked. "Of course I couldn''t," Margaret said, refusing to meet Mirk''s wan smile. Instead, she scanned the ballroom behind him. "A pity that the only man who could tolerate her appears to be as disinterested in marriage as she is."


    Mirk hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Henri had been helping mind the ballroom while Mirk had been receiving the guests out on the front walk, after having spent all afternoon convincing his younger cousins that they wouldn''t be missing out if they spent the evening upstairs instead of socializing with the adults. The last Mirk had seen of him, he had been at the edge of the group of serious older French mages, trying to get the attention of Seigneur Masson. Presently, he was still trailing after him on the other side of the ballroom.


    "We all have our own path to follow in life," Mirk said, with a contrite nod, turning back to Margaret. "I''m sure Miss Kali will find her own just like Miss Catherine."


    "Which one of them is Seigneur Rouzet?" Margret asked as she brushed past both Mirk and headed out into the ballroom. "I only met his father, once."


    "Euh..." Mirk surveyed the clusters of guests once more. Most of the older mages and the more serious young Englishmen hadn''t yet taken to the dance floor. The two men that Mirk had planned on rotating Catherine between, to better tempt Ravesdale into making a show of force, were among the guests who as of yet hadn¡¯t been asked to dance.


    Atticus Greene was with the young intellectuals who''d attended solely because that season''s debutantes were all there, discussing a rather unremarkable potted tree in the corner opposite the one the K''maneda officers had claimed for themselves. Said tree was cleverly concealing the well of potential that the illusions filling the room were drawing upon. Doubtlessly the mages were critiquing the spellcraft involved.


    As for Seigneur Rouzet, he was still lingering by the other Circle mages, driving Seigneur d''Aumont via caustic asides and quiet chuckles into a state of open annoyance that even Madame Beaumont''s presence at his side couldn''t dispel. He''d pass Catherine off to him first, then. If Seigneur d''Aumont got provoked into leaving the ballroom in disgust, Er-Izat would go with him. "The man with the dark hair over there, near my godmother. The lady in the violet dress and the tall hat."


    "I see the propensity for theatrics is a family trait," Margaret commented. Though her dour words were softened by the looks of Rouzet. He cut a dashing figure in his dark suit and had attracted the attention of several unattached ladies with elemental magic similar to his, both French and English. Apparently Rouzet found needling Seigneur d¡¯Aumont more entertaining.


    "Mother, please," Catherine said with a sigh, tugging at Margaret''s elbow. "The seigneur has been so kind to us these past few months."


    Mirk shrugged. "She does have a point, though. If you''ll come with us, Comrade Commander, maybe I can introduce you to some of the French ladies? Comrade Commander Casyn...euh..."


    Had been fast on Ravensdale''s heels when he''d entered, competing for his attention along with Richard and Paul, abandoning his wife and daughter without a second thought. At the moment, Casyn was cackling at something Ravensdale had said, bullying two glasses of wine at once out of one of the low-born officers who''d been dispatched to get the commanders refreshments. It was enough to make Percival and his meekly miserable fianc¨¦e Esther abandon Ravensdale for the dance floor. But only after Percival had whispered something in Ravensdale''s ear with a jerk of his head toward where Mirk and the ladies were still lingering in the doorway.


    "Is forever useless," Margaret said, smoothing her hands over the voluminous black skirts of the ladies'' dress uniform. "As he will be disinclined to do anything productive this evening, I think you have the right of it, seigneur. The French would be a welcome relief."


    "Follow me, then." Mirk took Catherine''s arm. He knew better than to offend Margaret''s pride by offering one out to her. She was accustomed to standing alone, just as much as Madame Beaumont was, even though Margaret''s husband was still very much alive. Mirk decided that she''d be the first person he''d introduce Margaret to, despite her comment about his godmother''s taste in hats. Like recognized like, after all. And perhaps having a comrade in arms nearby would keep Madame Beaumont from getting too cross with Seigneur d''Aumont.


    It was all wearing on Mirk, not even fifteen minutes after the first dance had begun. Maneuvering so many people into just the right places, drawing them into productive conversations, balancing personalities and quieting nerves. He could feel the tension biting at the back of his neck. But this was his part to play in their plan, the one thing he could do that no one else could. And judging by the way Ravensdale''s scowl deepened as Mirk led Catherine in the direction of the French mages rather than toward him, it was working.


    Aware of Margaret a few steps behind him, Mirk chose his words carefully. "Methinks this should be a good night for you, Miss Catherine. Seigneur Rouzet has already mentioned you, as has Master Greene over in the corner. And there are a few other French mages I could introduce you to, if you''re willing."


    Catherine didn''t reply. Her gaze was locked on a figure across the room, surrounded on all sides by young ladies with few prospects, both English and French. Orest, sheepishly trying to balance being proper with being himself, catching himself again and again before he could snatch his hat off his head and toss it around for the sake of having something to do with his hands. "And what of that man over there?" Catherine asked, pointing with her chin and disregarding the huff of distaste from her mother behind them.


    "Oh? Yes, that gentleman''s been causing quite a stir too. One of my friends from the Seventh, Monsieur Orest. Though methinks that might not be the right title or part of his name."


    Margaret''s voice radiated skepticism and distaste that was mirrored by the faint press of similar emotions against the walls around Mirk''s mind. "Since when has the Seventh been recruiting its own nobles? The Scots have always suited it just fine, ever since that do-nothing from the far east passed."


    "Monsieur Orest has magic that¡¯s good for training horses. And I''m sure you know how much Comrade Commander Dauid values his collection."


    "Men and their horses," Margaret muttered under her breath. "Wasteful."


    "I think I''d very much like to speak with him as well," Catherine said, firmly, still paying her mother no heed.


    "Of course, Miss Catherine. The dancing''s only just started. Though methinks it might be better if you saw to the more eager gentlemen first," Mirk said, lowering his shields just far enough to project a feeling of patience at her, of calm, that he hoped she''d catch the meaning of. Catherine''s unabashed desire to rescue Orest from his current social predicament might be more useful later on in the night, if Ravensdale proved to be harder to provoke than anticipated.


    Mirk''s efforts at introducing Margaret and her daughter to the French mages produced mixed results. As he''d expected, Seigneur Rouzet had been disappointed that Catherine was the daughter who''d decided to attend rather than Kali. His disinterest had been so open that it didn''t take a shred of empathy for any of the mages standing in that circle at the edge of the dance floor to pick up on it. Margaret had been dismayed, both by Rouzet''s frankness and Catherine''s indifference to the slight, but Catherine had still been gracious enough to take his hand and entertain his questions about her sister. Thankfully, Mirk had a fitting distraction on hand for Margaret.


    Both Madame Beaumont and the Marquise, who had arrived on the scene as soon as Margaret joined the group, were eager to speak with her. Mirk got the feeling his godmother was interested in her mainly because she was as good an opportunity as any to have a break from Seigneur d''Aumont. The Marquise, on the other hand, thought she''d have better luck arranging protection for her fleet from the K''maneda''s sole lady commander than continuing to try to press herself on the menfolk. She even said as much as she swooped in and took hold of Margaret''s arm to catch her attention, drawing Madame Beaumont into the conversation as well due to her knowledge of the reasons why Black Banner was sorely lacking through her nephew the rake.


    Which left Mirk in the uncomfortable position of being alone with Seigneur d''Aumont. Seigneur Feulaine had left the group soon after Mirk had headed over, summoned by his daughter to attend to some irresistible bit of drama on the other side of the dance floor. Mirk bowed to the Grand Master of  Le Phare  as deeply as he dared, fixing a warm smile on his face. "Thank you for coming all this way again, Seigneur d''Aumont. I know it can be a trial teleporting such a long distance," Mirk said, slipping back into the comfort of his native tongue. A small blessing, being able to return to the language he found it easiest to soothe and negotiate in.


    Seigneur d''Aumont returned his bow, albeit perfunctorily. He was mostly looking at Mirk, though he sensed that some portion of Seigneur d''Aumont''s attention was still fixed on Madame Beaumont as she obliged the two other senior ladies in giving them a tour of the enchantments and illusions that''d been cast on the ballroom and the hall connecting it to the front door. "You are taking your responsibilities as ambassador seriously. And have been more successful than the others the Circle sent out."


    "I''m honored to hear you say that, seigneur. I think the task suits me better than the sort of work that my grandfather did for the Circle, God bless him."


    He hadn''t yet drawn Jean-Luc''s staff out of his justacorps pocket that night. The whole point of the evening was to make his own first impression on the magical community, as a man in his own right rather than the person who''d taken on the task of settling Jean-Luc''s final affairs. Having the staff in hand would only serve to remind everyone of Jean-Luc and what he''d done rather than him and what he could do in the future. Mirk had no intention of drawing it out unless he needed it to defend himself.


    "I assume you had no difficulty retrieving his portrait from my djinn? He was much later in returning from the guild hall than I''d been expecting."


    "Oh, not at all. Monsieur Er-Izat was very helpful. And the portrait was in perfect condition."


    "This country is miserable for djinn," Seigneur d''Aumont said, his voice taking on a cross slant as he frowned across the room at Ravensdale. The djinn he''d brought, the one Mirk assumed had to be Am-Gulat wearing the shape of one of his comrades, was the only one not clustered with the rest against the wall near the door to the servants'' hallway and the kitchens. "An extension of the Calvinist mindset, I can only assume. A lack of appreciation for their place. A mere walk through London is enough to corrupt, if my djinn''s condition after his last visit is anything to judge by."


    Mirk made a non-committal noise, not knowing what else to say or do in response to such a cold, dismissive statement. He was spared from having to reply directly by the arrival of one of the people he least wished to talk to that night.


    "You''re half right, seigneur. The English serving djinn aren''t well off, especially the ones wasted on fools like Ravensdale. But that''s because the best of them are in the workhouses, doing what they''re better suited to. Making. Being industrious. Which might be Calvinist, depending on how you look at things."


    Pivoting on his heel, Mirk turned to bow toward Lord Kinross, who''d strolled over to them both with his usual jolly grin still affixed. He couldn''t tell if that same warmth was lost from his tone due to the vocal translator nestled in the folds of his cravat, or if he really was that appalled by both of them. "Lord Kinross," Mirk murmured. "Thank you for coming."


    Kinross followed his lead, shifting back into English, which earned them both a frown from Seigneur d''Aumont. "Wouldn''t have missed it for the world. I haven''t been to a French ball in almost a century. I''d almost forgotten how much better you all are at entertaining."


    "Did Miss Martha accompany you?"


    "Unfortunately, no. Spring cold. Don''t you think it''s strange how healers these days can fix almost anything but still can''t do a damn thing for the sniffles?"


    Lord Kinross grinned at him. Mirk couldn''t feel a thing from him beyond the lord¡¯s amusement at his own observation. He suspected that was intentional. Nagging at the back of Mirk''s mind the whole while was the reason he''d been caught off-guard by Kinross''s sudden appearance in the first place: Ra-Darat was not among the djinn servants clustered against the far wall of the ballroom.


    "It is a little strange, methinks. But I don''t do much of that kind of healing."


    "Yes, I imagine it''s mostly hacked off limbs and broken bones for you all in the K''maneda. Though I''ve heard around the way that you''ve taken a particular interest in the concerns of the womenfolk. About time someone gave them more than a passing thought. We''re all happier when the ladies are happy, wouldn''t you agree, Seigneur d''Aumont?"


    Seigneur d''Aumont gave a non-committal shrug. An art among the French mages, the one thing that Mirk could do as well as anyone else in the high circles his grandfather and mother had moved in. "It is better when no one is ill, yes."


    "Speaking of the ladies," Kinross said, turning back to Mirk. "What are you doing standing around with us, seigneur? Isn''t this your debut ball too? I''m sure there''s much more pleasant people you could be passing your night with instead of two of the oldest men in the house."


    Mirk knew when he was being told to leave. He laughed politely, bowing to both of them once more, ignoring the heat rising on the sides of his face. "Of course, you''re right. Methinks I should make sure all the guests are being seen to. Thank you both again for coming, Seigneur d''Aumont, Lord Kinross."


    Lord Kinross made a sweeping gesture, some half-hearted imitation of the usual K''maneda salute. Seigneur d''Aumont only nodded. And Mirk beat a hasty retreat. Not to circulate among that season''s debutantes, but to find Genesis.


    It took Mirk longer than he''d expected. Although he could sense the commander''s presence, the faint hissing of his shadowy magic there in the back of his mind if he focused and tried not to listen to the sound of the string quartet, Genesis was making it a point to not make his presence obvious to the other guests. Mirk didn''t know if that was because he wanted to avoid Ravensdale for the time being, or if it was an attempt to keep any of the more chaotically inclined ladies from asking him to dance like they had at the last ball.


    He found him near where the young English mages, the intellectually inclined ones who were still debating about the ballroom''s illusions as a more pleasant diversion between dances, were standing. Deep in the corner to the right of the potted tree that served as a potential well to generate the illusions. "I''m sure if you wanted to join the conversation, none of them would object,  messire ," Mirk said into the corner, in attempt to lighten the mood. And to calm himself some after the unsettling exchange between Kinross and d¡¯Aumont.


    Grudgingly, Genesis eased fully into existence, stepping out of the shadows shifting restlessly in the corner. He was wearing the same thing he always did when forced to attend a formal gathering, that well-tailored uniform that always made a shiver run down Mirk¡¯s spine. "I have...no interest in educating the royalists on the proper...application of illusion magic."


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Mirk edged closer to Genesis, lowering his voice to a whisper he was certain no one other than the commander would be able to hear. "Kinross is here."


    "I am aware."


    "Ra-Darat isn''t."


    "He is not...essential to this portion of the maneuver."


    "Yes, but..."


    But he''d done so much for them, for his kin already. And there was no telling whether his absence was due to some canniness on Lord Kinross''s part, or because he''d already paid the ultimate price for his disobedience.


    "This is a matter best left to the...djinn themselves. I am certain they are already aware of his absence."


    "Can you hear what they''re talking about?" Mirk asked, inclining his head in the direction of the djinn near the door to the servants'' hallway.


    "Djinn have...methods of communication that only they can perceive. If something has been noticed, then they are discussing things that way."


    "What about that djinn Ravensdale brought? Is it...?"


    "Yes. It is."


    Mirk wondered how Genesis could be so sure of it, that Am-Gulat was wearing another djinn''s form and that Ravensdale hadn''t just chosen a different djinn from his prison to accompany him. But the tone of Genesis¡¯s voice, flat and unwavering, left no room for doubt. "We need to get them both out onto the dance floor," Mirk said, watching Ravensdale out of the corner of his eye rather than staring like Genesis was. As far as Mirk could tell, Ravensdale hadn''t noticed Genesis''s presence yet. "Or at least out of that corner, nearer..."


    "I would prefer to avoid...the use of force. Immediately."


    Mirk nodded. "Bien s?r, messire. But I do have an idea about that."


    "...yes?"


    Flashing him a wan smile, Mirk gestured back at the ballroom, inviting him in. "You won''t like it, I''m sure. But everything for a good cause,  non ? And I know you skipped your dancing lessons, just like Monsieur Orest."


    Genesis sighed. "This was inevitable, I assume."


    "There are worse things, messire."


    Like the way that Ravensdale stiffened as Genesis took a few tentative steps out into the light cast by the floating lanterns overhead. The shadows all leaned in his direction, so slightly as to be almost imperceptible. But not if one was always watching and waiting for Genesis to seize on an opportunity to strike.


    "Tell me of this...plan."


    -   -   -


    Things were proceeding apace. But as the clock on the wall, hidden among the flowering vines, crept closer to midnight, Mirk knew they were running out of time.


    Some combination of Genesis''s presence and Catherine''s circulation among the other eligible men in attendance had forced Ravensdale from his own corner, out onto the dance floor and into the grudging hands of a few obliging ladies. Catherine included, despite Mirk¡¯s best efforts to keep her away from him. But Ravensdale hadn''t yet felt the need to bring Am-Gulat out along with him.


    The djinn was still back by the other K''maneda who weren''t interested in dancing, watched over by Casyn and Richard. The latter was too afraid of being recognized by the French, Mirk thought, to be willing to stray out onto the dance floor. Richard was making it a point to stay secreted in among the curtains that''d been pulled aside from the windows, which, in Mirk''s opinion, only made him stick out even more.


    "We''re not supposed to kill him," K''aekniv hissed at Mirk from behind the open door to the servants¡¯ hall, noticing who Mirk was staring at. "Lina said."


    "Did, euh, Miss Fatima and the others agree to that?"


    "No," K''aekniv replied with a shrug. Or, at least, he tried to. A group of three ladies had forced him into a wing corset at the start of the evening, for reasons that were unclear to Mirk. There was no hiding who K''aekniv was, even if his wings were kept out of sight.


    They wouldn''t be for long regardless if things went poorly. The instant he needed to draw his swords, K¡¯aekniv would snap the corset. Mirk had seen his father ruin at least a dozen of them during various trips he''d taken with them into Nantes over the years in response to the slightest threat, much to his mother''s dismay. "I said we''re not,¡± K¡¯aekniv said. ¡°So we''re not."


    Mirk let the matter drop, instead shifting his gaze to the dance floor. The quartet was taking a break and most of the mages were taking advantage of the gap in the dancing to sample the fresh array of items on toast and bits of cake that K''aekniv had just sent out on trays carried by all the masquerading servants. From the look and feel of things, his guests were as delighted by them as they were the illusions, despite the fact that they were far less ornate-looking than the usual dishes served at a ball.


    "Methinks we''ll have to do something more drastic," Mirk sighed, worrying at the cuffs of his justacorps, checking to make sure he still had all his crystal buttons. "Ravensdale has danced with Miss Catherine twice already."


    "Can I come out?" The hopefulness in K''aekniv''s tone was unmistakable, even if his eagerness to drive a fist into Ravensdale''s face hadn''t been battering against Mirk''s mental shielding.


    "Not yet. I think maybe..."


    He did a quick survey of his options, scattered all around the ballroom, pursuing their own interests. His godmother had returned to Seigneur d''Aumont''s side and they were chatting with Seigneur Masson and Rory, along with Uncle Henri and their new English artificer friends. Kinross had a glass of wine in hand and was guffawing at something Yvette had said, a remark so off-color that her father and Laurent had gone red and white respectively. Percival and Ravensdale were circling Catherine like vultures as she patiently endured some lecture on dark magic delivered by Master Atticus Greene, who''d been the one to win her hand for the last dance of the set.


    She was a convenient focal point for the pair, both of them alone at the moment, their prior partners banished to the periphery of the ballroom. Orest was nearby, entertaining a pair of older but as of yet unmarried English ladies with his odd mannerisms. But his eyes were locked on Catherine, who he hadn''t yet managed to capture for a dance that night.


    And then there was Genesis, also standing near Catherine. Mirk thought Greene might have maneuvered Catherine near him so that the commander might eavesdrop on whatever arcane topic he was pontificating on and decide to speak to him. The young intellectuals had identified Genesis as a magical oddity from the moment he stepped out onto the floor and were all itching to poke and prod at him.


    Mirk was unsure which crowd Genesis was trying to avoid the most ¡ª them, the curious ladies of chaotic orientation that had assailed him at the last ball, or the Marquise, who had unabashedly strongarmed him into dancing with her for the last set with the sort of self-confidence that only a widow with few appearances to keep up could manage. She was the one who had his ear at present, doubtlessly haranguing him about why he hadn''t yet responded to her requests for mercenary assistance.


    Genesis was ignoring her. All his attention was focused on Ravensdale. Anyone else would have found it unnerving. But Ravensdale had yet to engage him. Possibly because he knew that Genesis could do nothing to his ambulatory well of magical potential back in the corner, Am-Gulat masquerading as a different djinn. Or because he considered Catherine to be his true conquest that night. The same couldn''t be said for Percival, who Mirk suspected was reaching a terminal degree of annoyance at seeing Genesis walking around a noble ballroom like he belonged there.


    It was a delicate situation. Any one of his guests had the potential to light the spark to their plan, or to make things spiral out of control. But Mirk had a good idea about how he could draw things to a head. The only question was whether or not Ravensdale would call out Am-Gulat in order to impress on Catherine that he was the strongest mage in the ballroom that night, the only man suitable for her hand.


    "Go tell everyone back in the kitchen to be ready," Mirk whispered to K''aekniv as he straightened the shoulders of his justacorps. "Alice is up on the platform?"


    K''aekniv nodded. "For hours already."


    Which meant that there was nothing left to be done but for Mirk to nudge everyone into position.


    He started off across the ballroom, smiling around warmly at his guests but keeping his pace brisk to make it clear he wasn''t in the mood for entertaining offers for the first dance of the next set. The quartet in the corner was warming up again, rocking their bows softly, drawing people back to the floor. Mirk found Catherine''s eyes across the floor and lowered his shields a hair, projecting just enough concern to draw her attention.


    Mirk wasn''t the only one who had eyes on her as she gave an enthusiastic nod and a chuckle in response to something Master Green had said, dropping into a low curtsey of combined thanks and dismissal before he could launch into another rant. Margaret had designs on her daughter''s attention as well, shepherding a disinterested Seigneur Rouzet in Catherine''s direction for a second try. But Mirk reached her first, clearing his throat as he bowed beside her and held out his hand.


    "Miss Catherine," Mirk said, doing his best to put some stone into his voice, to keep Greene from cutting in. "I have a friend I''d like to introduce you to. If you''re free?"


    "Of course, seigneur. This has been a lovely discussion, Master Greene. If we could continue it some other time? Perhaps at the next break?"


    Greene grudgingly submitted. Less because he was intimidated by him, Mirk thought, but he must have been able to sense Margaret bristling at the edge of the dance floor. Despite her insistence on propriety, on knowing her place, Margaret''s magic was quite strong. Stronger than her daughter''s even. Greene took advantage of the interruption to go assault Rouzet with his theories, who was just as trapped as Margaret was, in his own way.


    "Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Catherine?" Mirk asked her, as he took her elbow.


    "Very much, seigneur."


    "I couldn''t help but notice that very few men seem to be able to draw out the best aspects of your potential," Mirk said, making it a point to speak loudly, as he guided her in the direction of where Genesis was still being accosted by the Marquise. "But methinks there might be someone new here tonight who''s very well suited to it."


    Ravensdale had to have some sort of listening charm. Or was using his stolen djinn magic to enhance his senses. But Mirk was firm, and there were too many couples circulating at the edge of the ring of spells that separated the part of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing from the mundane half for Ravensdale to get there in time. Mirk cleared his throat as he approached Genesis and the Marquise, bowing first to her, and then to him. " Madame la Marquise , if I could borrow the commander? For just once dance? I''d be glad to dance the first number of the next set with you instead if you''re willing."


    The Marquise took it all in with a quick sweep of her narrowed, dark eyes. Catherine at his side, Ravensdale trying to get to them, both of them in K''maneda black. She gave an elegant shrug and stepped back with a curtsey. "I had been meaning to have another word with your godmother, seigneur. Think about what I said, Commander Genesis," she added, as she swept away across the ballroom.


    Mirk could feel Ravensdale''s ire rising at her use of the incorrect title. And at Genesis''s unwillingness to correct her. Mirk dismissed it, turning a pleasant smile on Genesis, who looked down his nose at Catherine with a slight frown. Not of distaste, but of concentration. He was attempting to sort out what Mirk meant to do by bringing her to his side.


    Both Catherine and Genesis knew of each other, of the part each of them was to play in the plan. But their paths, as far as Mirk knew, had never truly crossed. Genesis never ventured into high-born circles and Catherine never strayed into the places the low-born officers went, the taverns and the bordello. "Miss Catherine, this is Comrade Major Genesis of the Seventh. Maybe you know of him?"


    "A little," Catherine said as she lowered herself into a polite curtsey. Genesis, of course, refused to bow. But at least he nodded. "It''s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, comrade major."


    It was a wonder the Marquise hadn''t resorted to beating Genesis, if he''d been as rude to her as he was to Catherine. But needing something from a person made it easier to overlook their faults, Mirk supposed. Rather than returning the proper greeting, Genesis nodded again, warily.


    "I couldn''t help but notice, comrade major, that no one has convinced you to try out the mage dancing enchantments tonight. Maybe Miss Catherine could be first? Methinks your elements and orientation are well suited to each other."


    "Chaotic dark," Catherine added, by way of explanation.


    "I...see."


    Mirk wasn''t sure whether Genesis did. So he made sure, as he felt Ravensdale continue to stew back behind him. "It''s custom in high-born circles for the debutantes to mage dance with the eligible menfolk," he explained. "To test the compatibility of their magic. Methinks Miss Catherine hasn''t yet found someone this season whose magic is strong enough to rival hers."


    "No, I haven''t," Catherine agreed. Ravensdale''s anger spiked. Mirk hoped that once he saw a sampling of the way Genesis''s and Catherine''s magic mingled, it might be enough to force him to call out Am-Gulat to better draw on his potential to increase his own.


    "Why don''t you give it a try, hmm? Methinks the first number is about to start," Mirk said, giving Genesis a pointed look.


    As the hum of the quartet''s music lowered, dwindling to the pause that signalled the dancers to move into position for the first song of the next set, Genesis reluctantly offered out his hand. He was already cringing against having to join hands with yet another strange woman that night. But at least he was making an effort.


    He must have caught on to the ruse Mirk had in mind for the both of them. It wasn''t as if Mirk could feel Genesis¡¯s emotions to be certain. The hiss of his magic was a low counterpoint to the silence that fell over the ballroom as everyone gathered in it anticipated the start of the next song. And to the steady drumbeat of Ravensdale''s anger.


    "I''d be delighted," Catherine said smoothly in response to the direct offer to dance that Genesis had failed to make. She reached out and took his hand. To both their benefit, neither of them cringed too badly, either Genesis at having his hand seized or Catherine at how deathly cold Genesis always was.


    "Let the enchantments take your magic. And remember you need to lead,  messire," Mirk said in a whisper only Genesis had good enough hearing to pick up on, as he retreated toward the edge of the ballroom, to keep an eye on Ravensdale.


    It was a recipe for disaster. Which was exactly the point. What remained to be seen was how Ravensdale would react to it, if he''d finally call Am-Gulat out to take back the woman he''d had designs on since she was a girl.


    Genesis was doing a poor job leading. But Mirk thought only an astute observer would be able to tell, since Catherine handled every one of his missteps with grace honed on dozens of other men who thought the dance of polite society to be beneath them, starting first with her father. When they reached the line of spells encircling the half of the ballroom floor dedicated to mage dancing, Catherine summoned her magic in advance, letting it curl out of herself in fanciful ribbons of darkness that were entirely within her control.


    The commander didn''t have the same knack. Or faith in the enchantments that''d been cast onto the floor. Genesis came to an abrupt halt, everything else in the room forgotten as he studied the magic on the floor. There was a tenseness across his shoulders, reluctance brought on not by the dozens of intrigued gazes turned in his direction but because of what he saw in the runes glimmering faintly against the light grain of the wood. But he let that hesitation go and crossed the line of runes. Either because he had no choice, or because he trusted Mirk. This was not his half of the plan.


    The effect was immediate and vicious. Genesis''s magic didn''t escape him in delicate spirals or curious curls. It was like a wave of black serpents swarming over one another as they coiled up to strike, all of them focused on Catherine''s similar magic. On consuming it.


    Mirk had seen foolhardy young mages with mismatched potentials have similar mishaps before when crossing the threshold without proper care, but he''d never seen an instance so violent, so alarming. So full of genuine threat. Mirk''s hand flew to the inside pocket of his justacorps, reaching for his grandfather''s staff. Catherine yelped as the leading tendrils of her own magic were seized by Genesis''s shadows.


    But he was too late. And so was Ravensdale, who got within ten paces of her before a man Mirk hadn''t accounted for stepped in with a reflexive bark of a command to protect Catherine. Orest. Even though he was new among the Easterners, he was already as unafraid of Genesis''s magic as the rest of the commander''s men. He crossed the line of enchantments just long enough to grab hold of Catherine''s wrist and pull her back to safety, sidestepping Genesis''s magic with an annoyed curse in his native tongue that his translation stone couldn''t manage.


    As Catherine coughed and pressed her free hand to her chest to quiet her fear, Orest rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. But he didn''t let go of her hand. "Ah, I''m sorry, Miss Catherine. Comrade. I''m being rude."


    Mirk closed the gap between them, wincing a little at the strength of Catherine''s reaction. Not fear at what might have happened, not anger at Genesis or him for putting her in such a situation. Relief at having the one man she actually wanted to dance with that evening finally beside her, a feeling like sinking into a warm bed at the end of a long day. That feeling didn''t last long. It was replaced by a tingling, electric tenseness that Mirk was all too familiar with, caused by Orest still gripping her hand in his.


    He added his apology to Orest''s, letting go of Jean-Luc''s staff without pulling it out of his pocket, bending into a low bow instead. "I''m so sorry, Miss Catherine. This is all my fault. Are you all right?"


    "Yes, of course, seigneur. I''m fine," she mumbled. The quartet had stopped at the commotion, and so had all the other dancers. All eyes were fixed on the four of them, waiting to see how Mirk would proceed.


    Genesis had slipped back across the line of runes as well, his magic vanished. For the most part. Mirk could still see it in how the shadows of the couples nearest them leaned uncannily in the commander''s direction, regardless of how they should have been cast by the lanterns overhead. "I am...in your debt," Genesis said, flatly. His discomfort at it all couldn''t be seen in his equally flat expression. It was in how he picked at some non-existent bit of lint on the cuff of his uniform jacket.


    "In your debt?" Catherine asked, though she didn''t look over at him. At the moment, she only had eyes for Orest.


    "That''s his way of saying sorry," Orest explained, staring down at Catherine''s hand in his, torn on what to do about it. That same tenseness was in him too, flaring against Mirk''s shields.


    They were still near enough to the part of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing for its spells to tug on the magic of those nearby. Orest and Catherine didn''t have similar magicks, not in the slightest ¡ª he was ordered earth, she chaotic dark. And yet, their magicks didn¡¯t clash with one another. They flowed together. Intertwined. Catherine''s was more powerful, backed by more potential, but Orest''s was more grounded. More stable. Dependable, just like the man himself.


    "Methinks maybe this is for the best," Mirk said, smiling encouragingly at the couple. "Monsieur Orest told me earlier that he wanted to learn how to mage dance. And you really are an expert, Miss Catherine. I''m sure he couldn''t find a better teacher than you."


    Both of them hesitated. But the grant of permission was too much for either of them to bear, for them to resist what they''d both been after from the outset. Orest made a vague gesture in the direction of the half of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing, leading her reflexively with the same confident, gentle strength Mirk had seen him use with Dauid¡¯s horses. Catherine dipped to him slightly and let herself be led along. Not because he had more power than she did, not because she was yielding to the command in his gestures. She followed only because she respected him.


    Mirk was well aware that the stress of the situation was making him vague, a little whimsical. He allowed his intuition to guide him nevertheless. Over all the confusion and the hushed gossiping, pinpricks of amusement and scorn bouncing off his shields, he could still feel Ravensdale''s anger smoldering behind him. The sight of Catherine being passed off to what he considered to be a lesser man, a foreigner with no great magical potential, was somehow even worse than seeing her with Genesis. The only problem was that Mirk knew Ravensdale would see no need to call on Am-Gulat to bolster his own strength to force Orest to give Catherine over to him once the first dance of the set ended.


    But he had a solution in mind to that. One that a gracious host would have turned to anyway as a matter of course, to save one of his guests from the humiliation of being recoiled away from after attempting to dance and being rejected for his strange magic.


    After signaling the quartet to start the song up again, Mirk approached Genesis with practiced ease and bowed to him, holding out one hand. At the same time he spoke, not making any effort to raise his voice to be heard over the music. "You didn''t do anything wrong,  messire. Methinks maybe you just need a partner who¡¯s used to fighting with your magic."


    Genesis didn''t seem to pick up on the humor in his words. But he took Mirk¡¯s hand nevertheless.

 Chapter 89

    When the shadows unfurled again, Mirk was prepared.


    They swarmed out of Genesis once he crossed the line of runes etched onto the ballroom floor, just like they had when he''d taken Catherine''s hand. But Mirk knew how to handle them. He''d been fighting them for more than a year now. Though their motions were angry and sharp, Mirk didn''t feel any threat in them.


    He let the mental shields around his mind fall away as he turned to face Genesis, closing his eyes for a moment as he held out his other hand. In the infirmary, Mirk rarely used his own magic to manage the shadows. He preferred to work around them, letting them rattle cupboards and toss rolls of bandages and empty potion bottles and curl about his ankles however they liked as long as they allowed him to heal Genesis. That wasn''t an option in his godmother''s ballroom, surrounded by curious mages. Many of his guests would almost welcome the shadows trying their luck with them or their dancing partners, if only to show off their own magical talents.


    Mirk wasn''t taking any more risks than he needed to. Catherine wasn''t a weak mage by any means and the shadows had nearly gotten the better of her. The key to managing them, Mirk had learned, wasn''t raw potential, wasn''t cleverness or a domineering attitude. It was a matter of listening. And patience.


    Their static was much louder than usual that night, especially with his mind laid bare. Mirk could sense what they were after without needing to open his eyes and look at them. Most were intent on making a break for Ravensdale, who was still fuming on the other side of the line of enchantments. But other shadows were after smaller, less crucial threats ¡ª a water mage whose potential flared as he gave a braying laugh at something his companion had said, an air mage whose spiraling potential carried on it the overbearing scent of her orange and sandalwood perfume.


    He cut them all off with practiced ease. Not by sending his own potential after them, but by giving them something more appealing to latch onto. Warmth to smother, life to wrap around and squeeze, a trellis of magic to climb. As always, Mirk got the uncanny feeling that the shadows recognized him, somehow. That they knew squeezing tighter wouldn''t make him panic, that if they satisfied themselves with the small amount of life-giving potential he allowed them to take, there''d be more forthcoming as long as they didn''t try anything underhanded. He wasn''t afraid of them, no matter what new trick they came up with. And so, they no longer tried.


    "Are we...going to dance?"


    Mirk blinked his eyes open with a cough, coming back to himself and nodding. "Yes, of course,  messire. I only needed a moment."


    As he nudged Genesis back a step, to account for the movement of the others and get the commander headed in the right direction, Mirk glanced around at what form his own magic had settled on that night. He rarely had a particular ornamental spell in mind when he mage danced, preferring to let his magic set its own course, adding in extra flourishes once he saw what suited his partner''s magic best. He''d mage danced with several other partners that night, his godmother and Yvette, a few old friends from back home and poor, long-suffering Miss Esther who was at her absolute wit''s end with Percival''s moping and sniping. So much so that he hadn''t even noticed someone else had claimed her for a dance while he was wrapped up in a heated discussion with Ravensdale, though her mother had. She''d grudgingly allowed it, only because Mirk was that night''s host.


    With that evening''s other partners, his magic had adopted one of its usual patterns ¡ª drifting flowers and leaves to better highlight the swirls of an air mage''s whirlwind, unfolding blooms to accommodate the glow of a light mage''s potential, strands of spun-out metal to showcase a fire mage''s warmth. Genesis''s magic called for something else entirely. Still accommodating, but firmer. A tall, ever-shifting latticework of branches in full bloom, matching the shadows turn for turn, constantly blossoming and dying away in a cycle that matched the swell and fade of the music. The only correction Mirk made was coaxing the flowers into shades of white and purple to match the decor rather than allowing them to manifest in every color of the rainbow.


    "I do not...understand the point of this," Genesis said, frowning down at his feet. He''d remembered the precise steps involved in the current dance, but he was just a hair off-beat. Genesis always said that it wasn''t because he was incapable of following a tune, but because the musicians'' tempo was always varying, speeding up and slowing in increments that no one who wasn''t precisely following a metronome could track. Few metronomes, even, were as immaculately regular as Genesis''s internal sense of time, as he put it.


    "It''s two things now," Mirk replied, as he let himself be nudged into a spin a hair faster than was called for by the music. There was no one in the way; it wouldn''t matter if they weren''t matching the pace of the other dancers. "He''ll be expecting that you''ll use this as a chance to set up a spell to throw at him without anyone suspecting anything. And he''ll be even more upset at how well Orest and Catherine dance together."


    Genesis''s frown deepened as he stared through the veil of intertwined shadows and branches, presumably at Ravensdale. "You think he would be...foolish enough to attempt something here?"


    "Lord Kinross mentioned that he''s done it once."


    "Because...Catherine chose to dance with...Orest."


    It was a hard thing for Genesis to understand, Mirk supposed, that sort of possessive jealousy that came so easily to most men, even if Ravensdale''s was worse than most. The best of men were prone to it. Mirk had even felt the faintest edges of it himself, once that part of him that had laid long dormant had been awakened by that cursed uniform of Genesis''s that he was wearing again that night, its silver ornaments flashing in the glow of the lanterns and the magic glimmering around them. At least all Mirk had to compete with was books instead of any other admirers.


    Genesis was different. Freedom was everything to him. And rather than keeping it stingily for himself, inflicting bonds on others so that he could be assured of his own freedom, Genesis was fixed on ensuring that everyone was as free as they wanted to be. The notion of keeping anyone for himself, demanding they stay with him against their will, was anathema to him.


    Orest and Catherine''s affection for each other was so plain that even someone who was as blind to love as Genesis would be able to pick up on it. To Ravensdale, who was ready to attack over the smallest slight, it was as good as a slap in the face. Mirk couldn''t see much of the pair beyond the magic that danced around them, but he could still feel the faintest touch of their emotions and magic. They must have been keeping near to them, either to protect themselves from Ravensdale''s frustration or to be ready to counter Genesis''s magic, if need be. Their care for one another was a distant warmth against Mirk''s mind, mirrored by the way their magics mingled together and matched each other press for press. A challenge they both enjoyed rather than felt stifled by.


    "Methinks he really is reaching the end of his patience with Catherine," Mirk continued, when Genesis didn''t reply. "If you challenged him now, with all of that on his mind, methinks he wouldn''t be able to stop himself." He paused, smiling a little. "Not everyone has the same self-control you do."


    It was hard to tell what Genesis was thinking, and impossible to tell what he was feeling, even with his mind wide open and Mirk¡¯s hands wrapped delicately in his cold, thin fingers. Mirk thought the shadows were the best clue he had. They darkened the longer Genesis stared through the haze of their magic at Ravensdale. Mirk doubted that it would slip out of Genesis''s control, even though he''d told the commander not to restrain himself any, to put on a better show.


    But Mirk was selfish. And he had so few chances to be like this, closer than usual, granted the length of a single song to dream. To imagine that, rather than dancing as a diversion, a ruse meant to deflect embarrassment from his other guests and draw the ire of Ravensdale, that they had been brought together out of genuine desire. Mirk drew his senses inward and let them focus entirely on Genesis.


    It wasn''t as if anyone would be watching them, anyway. They''d be watching the magic. At least, that''s what Mirk told himself. And even if his guests could spot them through the haze of green and black, Mirk didn''t think they''d see anything remarkable in the way they danced, bodies held at a proper distance, hands clasped only loosely, so that their magics would be drawn together rather than spinning apart under the force of the spells on the ballroom floor. The intimacy was all in Mirk''s mind, in what he made of the man across from him.


    No one else would probably notice Genesis''s lithe grace either, disguised as it was by his unwillingness to match his internal tempo to that of the quartet. How elegant he was, in his uniform that had not a stitch out of place, the silver trim along its edges exaggerating the length of his slender limbs, the sharp angles of his frame. And how considerate and gentle he was, despite the whip-like tendrils of magic that curled around them, shadows capable of tearing bodies and buildings and whole realms apart.


    Something deep in the pit of Mirk''s stomach wanted to upset that deliberate control Genesis always kept on himself. Not for the sake of humiliating him, or out of a desire to see him stumble. But to feel his hands shake with passion rather than frustration, to see that thick mass of dark hair he always managed to keep perfectly tamed hanging loose about his shoulders, suffused with that twisting, turning, seeking magic of his. Mirk had watched the commander long enough to be able to spot the subtle tells that showed that Genesis didn''t find dancing with him to be a burden, not any more. The way he clasped his hands more than kept grudging contact with them, the way he didn''t hiss in annoyance and slide backward when Mirk pressed a bit too close. But Mirk would have given anything in that moment to see something more obvious, something indisputable, that couldn¡¯t be written off as a hopeful figment of his imagination.


    He must have been daydreaming more deeply than he''d thought. The burst of magic from behind caught Mirk off-guard, made him lurch forward as if he''d been shoved. Despite Catherine''s supervision, Orest was still completely untrained in mage dancing. He''d let his magic spin out too far, then had yanked too hard on it to rein it in, upsetting the balance of all the other earth mages out on the floor whose magic his own had seeped out into. Gasps and yelps of surprise rose over the sound of the music as mages bumbled into each other, both their partners and other couples.


    The shadows spiraled higher around him as Genesis caught him, keeping him from crashing face-first onto the ballroom floor. "It''s fine, messire," Mirk reassured him, struggling to get his magic back under his own control before Genesis''s could go reaching out for targets. He fed more of his life-giving potential into the magic the enchantments drew out of him, to offer the shadows a more appealing target than the other mages. "It''s only Orest. He''s as bad at mage dancing as you are."


    He needn''t have worried about the shadows. Rather than lashing outward, they''d curled in, surrounding them both in a shroud of chaos that fully cut off the glow of the lanterns above and the emotions of the other mages surrounding them. Mirk let himself fall limp for a moment, leaning against Genesis''s chest, savoring feeling nothing against his mind but the familiar hiss of the commander''s magic.


    Then he became aware of Genesis''s hand still pressed hard in the center of his back, holding him close even though there was no longer any need for it. And his own arm still wrapped around Genesis''s waist. He didn''t have the excuse of being tied together by yards of wire that time for a reason to cling to him like that in the middle of a ball.


    Mirk gave an awkward laugh, feeling the blood rush to his face, though he couldn''t yet find the will to let go of Genesis. Not when Genesis hadn''t retreated either. When he looked up, he found Genesis making one of his odd, jumbled expressions at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. At the moment, Mirk couldn''t recall what it meant.


    "Is something wrong, Genesis?" Mirk asked, hesitant to break the silence that''d fallen between them.


    After a long pause, Genesis shook his head, his face resuming its usual blankness. But there was still something more there, Mirk thought, even as Genesis turned his attention back toward the world beyond the shadows, the veil only he could see through. There was greater focus in his gaze as he sought out Ravensdale once more. Less annoyance. As if he found his presence pressed up tight against him reassuring.


    "Can you thin them out a little? I can''t feel a thing. Though methinks it''d be better if you didn''t call your magic back in. The more he can see, the more he''ll think you''re planning something."


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


    Genesis humored him, forcing the shadows outward again, making them less dense without making them any less numerous. Mirk felt faint prickles of apprehension and worry from the nearest couples as they backed further away from them. Beyond it, there was the amusement of his more open guests as they reoriented themselves, stepping up their pace to match the quartet, which was rushing through the remainder of the song to try to get the thing over and done with. And there was the warm, rumbling feel of Orest''s mingled affection and laughter as he and Catherine spun on, oblivious to both the havoc he''d caused or the sharpening press of Ravensdale''s anger, now so fierce that it''d gone from burning to freezing.


    "We almost have him," Mirk said in an involuntary whisper, as he urged Genesis back into dancing. "Just a little more. Be a little more direct."


    The shadows lifted, detaching from the dance floor, gathering as a writhing, ominous mass above their heads. Mirk reluctantly pushed himself back to a more proper distance, a half-pace away, retaking the hand that had been pressed against his back. Now that he could hear and see fully, he took stock of the situation as he pressed Genesis backward a few steps, into the final turn of the song.


    None of his guests seemed particularly perturbed, either by the disturbance from Orest or the shadows looming over them all. Most of the mages, both spinning across the floor and watching from the fringes, felt Mirk had matters well in hand, though some of the the English mages were doubtful of the merits of engaging in such frivolous entertainment with magic as powerful as Genesis''s.


    It surprised him; it hadn''t been the impression he''d wanted to cultivate. Mirk had always assumed that he''d forever be trapped in the role of playing the benevolent fool, the harmless mage who''d inherited more magic than he''d ever know how to put to good use. Mirk studied the faces he recognized as he slid into the final steps of the song, focusing on the older French mages, the ones who''d known Jean-Luc and what he''d been capable of. They kept their minds obscured by clouds of their potential, masking their emotions. But it was plain to see from the grudging surprise on many of their faces, and the open delight on the faces of the younger mages, especially the unattached women, that even pretending to have some kind of control over Genesis''s magic had impressed them. Had convinced them that he had some power of his own.


    Then the song came to an end, with a final thrumming of strings, and a round of applause ¡ª some enthusiastic, some merely polite ¡ª filled the room. Along with the undisguised swell of Ravensdale''s anger as Orest pulled one of his usual tricks with Catherine, sweeping his hat off his head and rolling it down the length of his arm, catching it in hand as he dipped into a theatrical bow. Catherine covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. Ravensdale shouldered his way through the crowd waiting to have their turn about the half of the ballroom floor spelled for mage dancing, his face a twisted mask of fury as he stormed toward Catherine.


    But he still hadn''t called upon Am-Gulat.


    "He¡¯s still not there," Mirk hissed at Genesis, still holding on to one of his hands.


    Genesis considered Ravensdale for a moment, then glanced up at the mass of shadows still twisting above them, now fully within his own control rather than being influenced by the enchantments on the dance floor. "I may have an idea. It should be adequate...should he invoke the curse..."


    Without any further explanation, Genesis set off to intercept Ravensdale, making use of that uncanny quickness of his to get between him and Catherine before Ravensdale could close the gap. Mirk scrambled to catch up with him.


    Mirk didn''t reach his side fast enough to hear what Ravensdale had said to Genesis. But he did hear what Genesis said in response as he folded his hands behind his back. Mirk got the impression that was more of a threat coming from Genesis than it would have been had the commander approached Ravensdale with casting hand raised.


    "It is...evident that you are not wanted here. Leave. John Jackson."


    The effect was immediate. Ravensdale snarled and raised his casting hand high up in the air, bringing it down hard with an arcane twist that launched a bolt of air magic down on Genesis intended to knock him clear across the ballroom. Genesis didn''t so much as blink. Without needing to resort to any theatrics to summon them, the shadows descended, absorbing the blast before fading away. All around the ballroom both men and women shrieked, the more combative among them lifting their casting arms in turn, searching for the source of the disturbance.


    Still, Ravensdale didn''t call for Am-Gulat. Mirk decided to drive the point home, spotting what Genesis''s plan had been. He stepped up beside Genesis, giving Ravensdale a confused look instead of the fearful one the mage had been expecting, his own hands held loose at his sides rather than reaching for Jean-Luc''s staff in his breast pocket. "John Jackson?" Mirk asked Genesis, as loud as he could without shouting. "I''ve never heard that name before..."


    "The name he had before his present one. I believe...he presumes the present one to be the sort of name a...royalist mage would have."


    "Hmm. Methinks it really isn''t that bad, honestly. John Jackson. I''d always thought Alistair Ravensdale was a bit, euh, much."


    Ravensdale lifted his casting hand again, cursing when his second bolt of air proved to be weaker than the first, so narrow and fleeting that Genesis merely sidestepped it instead of calling to his magic to defend himself. Though the unfortunate water mage standing some distance behind him did need to hastily conjure a shield to ward it off.


    It was all too much for Ravensdale to bear. He closed his casting hand into a fist, jerking it hard toward himself and thumping it against his chest. "Fuck you! Fucking sods, you and your bitch nob. Paul! Li-Tarek! To me!"


    Across the room, Ravensdale''s men jumped to honor his command. Percival was already on his way across the room, though the crush of mages Henri was herding toward the exit kept him from coming to Ravensdale''s aid. Most of the mages wanted nothing to do with what was brewing. Save for the strongest among them and the ones most hungry for a spectacle, the younger and more headstrong mages with something to prove. But there was nothing between the other commanders and the djinn Ravensdale had brought with him other than the quickly emptying dance floor. Casyn and Paul grabbed the djinn by either arm and hustled him toward Ravensdale, his collar already glowing red hot with Ravensdale''s demand for more power.


    A clever man, Mirk thought, would have been suspicious that no one jumped to either his or Genesis''s aid. Orest and Catherine stayed well out of the way, though Orest shrugged off his fur-lined coat. Behind Ravensdale, Margaret didn''t respond to his command either. She was still beside Seigneur Rouzet, who was looking on with amusement. Even though she had no knowledge of their plan, she apparently saw no need to defend her superior. Not when her husband was already on the way. But Mirk decided to give the ruse a bit more weight, at least, finally drawing Jean-Luc''s staff out of his pocket, spinning it out to fighting length.


    Ravensdale lifted his casting hand a third time. For an instant, the connection between him and the djinn''s collar was clear, countless threads of multi-colored magic that grew brighter with the urgent arcane gestures Ravensdale made. Then, with a sharp crack and a rush of coldness, they all vanished.


    Alice had taken her shot. And it''d found its mark.


    The Destroyer''s arrow cut through the strands of magic that connected Ravensdale to the djinn¡¯s collar, striking near its center, right below his chin. Then the collar crumbled away into dust, along with the arrow.


    All Paul and Casyn heard was the twang of the bow and the screech of metal on metal. Rather than letting go of the djinn, they dragged him down into a crouch between them, taking cover from further bolts that never came. Mirk looked to the hidden platform just long enough to see that the illusions all around it had disappeared. But Alice hadn''t. She was stuck on the platform; the teleportation spell that''d been inscribed on the wall behind her had failed along with the illusions. Cursing, she dug in her skirts for extra bolts and the lever that''d help her reload.


    "To your right!" Percival bellowed from across the room at the others, powerless to do anything to Alice without any stolen magic to channel.


    It was too late for Paul. Casyn rolled to his left just in time to avoid the pillar of flame that rose where the djinn had fallen, but Paul got caught up in it. The illusions above them, the false stone arches and all the extra vines and blossoms, fell away. And so did the one on the djinn as he straightened back up to his full height with a roar of triumph and Paul''s charred and blistered body crumpled to the ground.


    Am-Gulat. Thin, haggard, his long hair loose and singed from the magic that he''d used to restore himself. But he held his head high, his raw and blistered neck free of the remnants of the collar. A mixture of bile and blood rolled down his chin and streaked down the remnants of the cheap servant''s uniform he wore. But his grin was unmistakable, more fearless and sharp than ever before. He lifted his right hand above his head, the gem containing his soul clenched in his fist.


    The djinn didn''t have a second to waste on Ravensdale or any of his men. Instead, Am-Gulat turned his attention toward the other djinn servants still clustered by the door to the servant''s hall.


    Something in Am-Gulat¡¯s magic, some determination or ferocity, made his words clear to Mirk. "I am Gulat Fal! And I will bow no longer! Who will stand with me? Claim your name! Take back your freedom!"


    A tense silence fell over the ballroom, just for a second. Then Am-Hazek stepped forward, his grin much more composed than his kinsman''s. But his eyes glimmered with his magic.


    "Hazek Par. Already freed."


    For a moment, Ravensdale was frozen in shock. Then he was searching his pockets for some cunning device that could save him, some secondary well of magic that could put Am-Gulat back in his place. But he found nothing, as more djinn stepped forward and more and more high-born officers rushed to Ravensdale''s side, to put themselves between him and Genesis, who Mirk knew was only holding back because of the promise he''d made to the djinn, that they would be the ones to finish off the man who''d held them in bondage for decades. And to keep from turning his godmother''s ballroom into a bloodbath in front of the remaining nobles.


    "Paret Lon!"


    "Zarek Ral!"


    Percival had finally managed to struggle through the crowd to Ravensdale''s side, along with Casyn and several of the other high-ranking officers. He smacked the cavalry commander hard upside the head, to try to jostle the magic out of him so that he could channel it himself. But Casyn wasn''t swayed. His eyes, wide with terror, were fixed on Alice high up on her platform, her crossbow reloaded and ready to fire. When her eyes met his, she froze.


    "No time!" Casyn shouted at Ravensdale, who''d finally resorted to drawing a dagger from his belt. He hadn''t brought along his sword that time, and, from the looks of things, he was deeply regretting it. Grabbing Ravensdale by one arm and Percival by the other, he teleported away just as a second, more mundane arrow pierced through the air where Casyn¡¯s head had been.


    As more and more djinn stepped forward and called out their names, Mirk searched the remaining mages for his godmother and Seigneur d''Aumont. The Grand Master of  Le Phare wasn''t scrambling, not like the other guests fleeing the ballroom. Instead, he was headed sedately, at a pace meant not to draw any attention, toward a mage Mirk recognized from the French Teleporters Guild, some distant cousin of his uncle Henri. Before d''Aumont could reach him, Madame Beaumont stepped into his path.


    Mirk was too far away to hear what she said to him. But he witnessed, along with anyone else who was looking, what she''d saved up the last dregs of her magical potential to do. Rather than striking Seigneur d''Aumont himself, she lashed out at the eagle-headed cane he held in his right hand, prying it from him with a burst of air magic that was nearly as fierce as the one Ravensdale had flung at Genesis. Though from where Mirk stood across the ballroom, it felt more like she ripped it from his hand with the sheer force of her rage more than via anything arcane.


    Madame Beaumont crumpled to her knees. Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Seigneur d''Aumont sidestepped around her and met up with the teleporting mage, who spirited them both away from the ballroom with a clap of displaced air that wasn''t loud enough to drown out the djinn still stepping forward and calling their names. Seigneur d''Aumont''s cane knocked into the wall, rolling to a stop at Er-Izat''s feet.


    The djinn was transfixed, both by the sight of his soul within his grasp and Am-Gulat still raging in the middle of the ballroom. Am-Gulat''s magic was ten times stronger unbound than it had been all the times Mirk had crossed paths with him before. It curled around him in multicolored tendrils, the majority of them red. Though it hurt to look at Am-Gulat, he was shining so brightly, Mirk thought he spied something strange in his magic. Something dark and familiar.


    Er-Izat stooped down and picked up the cane, wrenching its head off and clenching it in his hand.


    "Er-Izat Dur," he said, his voice much softer than that of the other djinn, whose usual chilly composure had been replaced with mingled rage and triumph, a heady mixture strong enough to bring tears to Mirk''s eyes. "I stand with you."


    The moment was diminished somewhat by K''aekniv charging out of the servant¡¯s hall behind the djinn, already reaching for his swords. "Shit! Where the fuck did he go?" he shouted across the ballroom at them.


    Genesis sighed. "The City. Most likely. A...mistake. On his part."


    "What do you mean?" Mirk asked him, rolling his grandfather''s staff anxiously between his palms. He felt like he needed to be in five places at once. Out front with his uncle, seeing to his frightened guests and trying to salvage the remnants of his reputation. At his godmother''s side, feeding her all the life-giving potential he could spare to lessen the blow of expending the remains of her magic. Beside Genesis, ready to help if any of the remains of Ravensdale''s cabal of officers decided to try to fight their way out of the ballroom.


    Genesis nodded across the ballroom floor at Am-Gulat, who was surveying his new djinn recruits with his blazing eyes. While Mirk had been distracted, the djinn''s posture had shifted. Though his fierce, triumphant grin hadn''t lessened any, he was beginning to hunch over as his magic dimmed, his free hand pressed against his stomach. There were more threads of black now in amongst his multicolored magic, making it easier to look at him. "Ravensdale will want to retake the other djinn before we can reach them. But Am-Gulat will be¡­stronger in the City. As will the rest of us."


    "Stronger? Why?"


    Am-Gulat tried to speak up again, but was wracked by a sudden fit of coughing. His magic flickered. And suddenly, instead of clenching the gem containing his soul in his hand, he was holding a long-handled war hammer, as pitch black as the odd, curling strands that had overtaken the parts of his multicolored magic that weren¡¯t red.


    "I had...suspected as much. It is how the universe balances itself. No realm can make nothing but  cas''kenk  . It often takes several...decades for a  k''amskec  to awaken to their potential."


    "A what?"


    "He is a Destroyer," Genesis said, one of his odd, vicious grins coming onto his face. "And in the City...his potential will fully awaken."


    With two Destroyers at the center of the ballroom and a horde of angry djinn along with K''aekniv standing between them and the rear exit, Mirk doubted that Genesis and the rest would need his help to deal with the remaining K''maneda who still had some loyalty to Ravensdale. His mind still reeling with shock and the reverberation of all the djinn¡¯s emotions, Mirk ran across the ballroom to his godmother''s side.

 Chapter 90

    "Madame! Madame, what can I do?"


    Mirk slid to a halt at his godmother''s side, dropping to his knees and letting Jean-Luc''s staff clatter to the floor so that he could grasp both her hands in his. She was painfully, deathly cold, trembling. On instinct, Mirk reached out to the well of life-giving potential within him, drawing it up into his hands to press it into hers.


    "No!" Madame Beaumont snapped, her head jerking up. At least nothing nightmarish had happened to her features. She looked exhausted, but her face still had flesh on it and her eyes were focused, as cutting as her voice.


    "But madame, your magic¡ª"


    "Has nothing to do with it, my boy. I don''t need healing. I''m past that. Though I will accept a hand up, I suppose."


    A wave of guilt rolled over Mirk as he looked across the emptying ballroom toward where Seigneur d''Aumont had disappeared. "I should have stepped in. I should have stopped him, we''ll never¡ª"


    Madame Beaumont cut him off again. "You wouldn''t have been able to do anything to him. But we''ve dealt him enough of a blow as it is. People will talk."


    They would, Mirk knew. Someone other than him must have seen his godmother confront Seigneur d''Aumont and pry Er-Izat''s soul from him. And a mob of fighters from the Seventh and Fatima''s ladies were trooping out of the kitchens after the fleeing high-born mages, to make sure that none of the ones who held the soul of a djinn who wished to be freed left without handing it over. Mirk didn''t know yet whether all the djinn Seigneur d''Aumont sold came with their souls in a bottle from his relations'' winery, but he suspected those who''d had their djinn taken from them would talk, would compare notes and complaints.


    And then there were the djinn themselves. They had drifted away from the wall, venturing into the center of the ballroom to meet with Am-Gulat. Even in their excitement, they were prudent: they kept their distance from Am-Gulat''s unsettled magic and the war hammer he''d summoned, the crowd pushing Er-Izat to the front. Mirk didn''t know if it was simply because Er-Izat was bigger than the rest of them, or because of what kinship line he was from. The Er-Djinn, the strongest fighters on their home realm. Er-Izat seemed too transfixed by the change that''d overcome Am-Gulat to care that he was being offered up in sacrifice, should Am-Gulat''s magic escape his control.


    Though perhaps they would have elected Am-Hazek, had he not decided to step away from his kinsmen to come to Madame Beaumont¡¯s aid. The satisfaction that''d been plain to see on his face minutes ago was gone, replaced by a pained sort of guilt that matched the feeling burning in Mirk''s stomach, though Am-Hazek had composed himself enough to hide most of his emotions from Mirk''s empathy.


    Am-Hazek crouched down in front of Madame Beaumont, offering out both his hands. "We all owe you our gratitude, madame. Without Monsieur Er-Izat and what he knows, I''m certain we would be lost."


    "I highly doubt that, monsieur. And now is not the time for you to turn into a flatterer. Having one in the house is plenty enough," she added, a half-hearted attempt at a joke that fell flat when she was struck by a sudden coughing fit that left her curled over on the floor, her towering hat sliding off her head. Underneath it, her hair, which had only been touched near her temples with gray before, had gone stark white.


    Mirk and Am-Hazek exchanged a worried look. "Please, Madame," Mirk begged, as he helped her sit back up. "I know I can''t heal you, not fully. But at least let me make things easier for you."


    "I will not leave you in this condition, madame," Am-Hazek insisted, as he tried once more to offer her his hands.


    "You must leave. Both of you. Consider that my final order to you, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Madame Beaumont said, firmly, picking up her hat and setting it back atop her head. That time she tied a pair of its multitude of ribbons tight underneath her chin to keep it in place.


    Am-Hazek''s face paled. "What?"


    "I am not ignorant to the activities of my servants, monsieur. You had every intention of leaving even before all this nonsense. Your books are gone. And so is that Moli¨¨re play from my library that you took a liking to, for whatever God-forsaken reason."


    "I hadn''t planned on..." Am-Hazek trailed off, staring down at Madame Beaumont¡¯s thin, shaking hands. Mirk recognized the distraught expression on his face. It was the same one that came over his father and all his men when confronted with the fragility of humans, the ephemeral span of their time among the living. But it lacked his father''s fierceness. Am-Hazek knew there was nothing that could be done to help Madame Beaumont, not really. There was nothing left but for time to take its toll.


    "Don''t be daft," Madame Beaumont said with a snort, stubbornly refusing both their aid in rising back to her feet. "It''s long since been my time. And I take great satisfaction in the fact that I was able to insult Herbert d''Aumont before I went."


    "What do you intend to do?" Am-Hazek asked her.


    "You should really go up to bed..." Mirk suggested, wondering if she''d even be able to make it up the stairs unassisted.


    "Nonsense. My house is in shambles and your guests are all bound to riot in the front garden when those brutes you replaced my staff with come out demanding they hand over their djinn. A stern hand is required. And, though I mean him no offense, your uncle is not suited to the task in the slightest, Mirk. That was always Isabelle''s work, God bless her. Silly that a man who''s devoted himself to banging out swords can''t look some second-rate guild mage in the eye."


    The reminder of his duties as host made his stomach twist up again. Mirk surveyed those left in the ballroom ¡ª no one but Ravensdale''s officers, who one of Fatima''s ladies had ordered onto their knees, other K''maneda disguised as servants, and djinn. Even the quartet had made a run for it with their instruments. From out in the foyer, Mirk could hear Henri pleading with someone, though it was hard to make out his words over the crosstalk and Yvette''s insistence that she thought guild mages weren''t supposed to be so spineless as to go running at the first flash of combat magic.


    "You don''t need to worry about it, madame," Mirk said, reflexively sweeping into a bow, to make it clear to her how contrite he felt. "I''ll take care of it before I leave."


    "I don''t think you have time for it," Madame Beaumont said, as she made sure her hat was standing proudly upright, trying and failing to pull herself into a similar position. "I believe your disagreeable friends are waiting. For both of you."


    Genesis was surveying the officers who''d been loyal to Ravensdale, debating with K''aekniv what to do with them. Though his attention was divided, partially by Am-Gulat staring befuddled at the war hammer in his hand, and partially by him. It was probably a good thing that the commander had too many things clamoring for his attention. If he''d been able to focus the entirety of his frustration on the officers, Mirk knew there was nothing K''aekniv could say to him that would convince Genesis that they shouldn''t be dealt with on the spot. In a terminal fashion.


    "If you''re determined to do this, madame, at least let me lend you some strength. It''s the least I can do," Am-Hazek said.


    Mirk nodded his agreement. "I can''t heal you, madame, but I can give you a little potential, at least."


    Madame Beaumont debated their offer, weighing it against the continued yelling out in her foyer. No one had resorted to magic, not yet. But if the French and English were left to their own devices to sort things out, surely there was at least one hothead in the crowd who would switch from throwing insults to throwing spells. "I suppose that is a sensible enough request. But no more than is strictly necessary, the both of you. I''m done with all of this, once this is sorted out," she added low under her breath as she grudgingly held out her hands.


    Exchanging another worried look, Mirk and Am-Hazek took one hand each. The act of passing along his life-giving potential was as easy as breathing to Mirk now, after over a year of practice. But holding back, not giving until the life inside himself was depleted and his patient was restored, wasn''t easy. Especially considering who it was he was healing.


    For a moment, Mirk thought of Jean-Luc''s staff on the floor. And then he thought better of it. The cost of restoring life to a woman Madame Beaumont''s age, whose exasperation with staying among the living was clear to Mirk, would undoubtedly be higher than he could bear alone.


    Am-Hazek had a harder time of things. He wasn''t a healer, and Madame Beaumont wasn''t a djinn, someone whose magic and body was flexible, a shifting constellation of many elements. And Am-Hazek was more upset than he appeared. Mirk could feel it in him as he pushed some of his potential into his godmother. A deep sense of duty betrayed, mixed with a pity so sharp Mirk wondered if Madame Beaumont would be able to feel it along with his magic, even though she didn''t possess a shred of the empathic gift.


    Something must have given Am-Hazek away regardless. Madame Beaumont let go of both their hands before either of them was satisfied, turning up her nose with a private smirk. A gesture of the defiance she so often forced herself to mask. "You pity me, monsieur? Why?" she asked Am-Hazek.


    "It...I only wish I could do more, madame," Am-Hazek insisted, with a deferential half-bow.


    "You are no longer my servant, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I release you. Though, really, you''ve always done whatever you wanted for as long as I''ve known you. You''re only very good at acting your part when people are watching."


    A small, tired laugh crossed Am-Hazek''s lips. "As are you, madame."


    "Be careful," Mirk said to her, as she gathered her skirts and headed off toward the ballroom doors and the foyer beyond. "Get Henri to take you upstairs as soon as everyone else is gone. And I''ll be back to help as soon as..."


    Mirk trailed off as his godmother waved a dismissive hand at him, not waiting to hear the last of his promises. She was much steadier on her feet now, no longer so trembling and hunched. But the hair beneath her hat, some of which had fallen out of its chignon, was still stark white.


    He supposed she had the right of things, not listening to his excuses. He didn''t know when he''d be back, if it''d take hours or days to see everything through. Fatima and Genesis and all the rest had hammered out all kinds of contingencies and plans at the bordello''s back table. But nothing was set in stone. Everything depended on where Ravensdale had gone. And what he had planned to try to escape the war hammer clenched in Am-Gulat''s hands.


    "You''ll be coming with us, Monsieur...euh...should I use that other name now? Hazek Par?" Mirk asked Am-Hazek, to try to draw him back to the present. He was still staring after his godmother''s retreating form, lost in thought.


    "No, Am-Hazek is preferable, seigneur. That other name is best kept private. I believe Monsieur Am-Gulat was just caught up in the heat of the moment."


    Across the room, still up on the one real platform that had been hidden among the vanished illusions, Alice gave up on trying to get the failed teleportation spell scrawled on the wall to engage. Throwing up her hands in disgust, she went to the edge of the platform, calling down to K''aekniv. "Niv! Get over here! We need to leave!"


    K''aekniv extricated himself from his argument with Genesis, going to the platform and holding up his arms. He was tall enough for his outstretched palms to reach the very edge of it. Trying to keep as much of her dignity about herself as she did so, wrapping her skirts tight about her legs, Alice sat down on the edge of the platform and shoved herself off of it, into K''aekniv''s waiting arms.


    The half-angel grinned at her as he swept her down onto her feet. "Alice! What a shot! We should take you for the infantry for sure."


    Alice didn''t seem to hear him. She was preoccupied with the crossbow she still had in hand, counting the bolts she had left. "I know where Jackson went," she said, to no one in particular. She seemed to relish saying the man''s real name aloud, just as Genesis had, though the relief granted by it was short-lived.


    K''aekniv''s wings puffed up in surprise. "Huh?"


    "Where?" Genesis demanded from across the ballroom.


    "I know where Casyn is headed, anyway. He recognized me. He''ll be taking everyone off to Fatima''s for sure. We need to get going."


    "Recognized you?" Mirk asked, as he led Am-Hazek over to join the conversation.


    "He''s..." a look of anguish crossed Alice''s face and her grip on the crossbow tightened. "He''s a right bastard, that''s what he is. And I want to get a second shot at him. But he''ll be at Fatima''s for sure. Good thing we were ready for that."


    "Percival is with them," Mirk said, his mind whirring with possibilities. He had an inkling of what Alice had left unsaid, but refused to linger on it. Now wasn''t the time. Not if Ravensdale had gone to Fatima''s. "Samael and Sharael. Percival wants them. If he can take their magic..."


    Not to mention the spell that Ambras had shoved at him from behind Yule''s back at the tavern. Mirk still had no idea what it did. But if it''d had Imanael''s name on it, that of the angel who held the binding spells on Genesis''s arms, it couldn''t be anything good.


    "Then let''s go," Niv said, knocking Genesis in the shoulder. "Leave these pieces of shit for later. We''ll keep Olezhka and Orest on them and the rest of us will go get Jackson."


    Genesis hesitated, his gaze flicking between the surrendered officers, Am-Gulat, and Alice. It settled on Am-Gulat and he crossed the gap between them, approaching with caution. With every step Genesis took toward Am-Gulat, the threads of darkness within Am-Gulat''s magic thickened, leaning toward Genesis. Like calling to like, Mirk supposed.


    "Ravesndale...Jackson...is yours. What is done with him...is yours to choose."


    Am-Gulat looked up and met Genesis''s eyes, unafraid of him. Unlike the other djinn, and very much unlike the K''maneda officers huddled on the floor. "I need to free the rest of them. He still has their souls. And their collars haven''t been broken." His gaze shifted to Richard, who had tried to hide himself in amongst the other officers on the floor, to try to divert attention away from himself. "Him. I''m taking him with me. He knows where everything is."


    K''aekniv waded into the cluster of officers, giving Richard a kick in the leg to grab his attention. None too gentle, but not vicious either. "Up. What''s your real name, huh? Since everyone is saying them now."


    "Euh...er...Herv¨¦, sir. I mean, comrade." he said, going bright red as he fussed with the voluminous mage robes he''d elected to wear that night instead of a uniform or a suit coat and breeches.


    "Maybe don''t kill him," K''aekniv said to Am-Gulat, as he took Herv¨¦ by the arm and marched him over toward the djinn. Herv¨¦ did very little walking, his face gone white in terror upon being confronted by the djinn he''d helped enslave. "I promised someone that he''d come out of it alive."


    "Why?" Am-Gulat asked, frowning.


    K''aekniv shrugged. "Because I''m an idiot. And he''s a coward. You know, too scared to say no to anyone who wants him to do something bad. Anyway, if something happens, something happens. I''ll deal with the shit. But it''d be nice if you waited until the end."


    "It is your choice," Genesis insisted, ignoring K''aekniv''s words. "If he has earned death through his actions...then so be it."


    "I suppose you already got Paul." K''aekniv stepped forward to examine the charred body on the ground a distance away from the djinn and the dejected K''maneda officers, giving it a much less gentle kick to check to see if Paul was still holding on. Mirk could have told him that Paul was no longer among the living. Considering the extent of his burns, if he''d still been alive, the pain would have been too much for Mirk to endure. As it stood, Mirk was appalled at himself, at how far he''d drifted from what he once had been. The smell of charred flesh was so familiar to him now from the infirmary that he''d forgotten all about what had happened to Paul until K''aekniv drew their attention to his body.


    Herv¨¦ didn''t say anything. Only swallowed hard and crossed himself, mumbling words that were as familiar to Mirk as that smell of charred flesh under his breath. A prayer for pity, for forgiveness.


    "Will that woman be able to take their souls back?" Am-Gulat asked, turning his attention to Mirk. "The one with the hat. You are kin."


    Mirk nodded. "I promise she will."


    "I have assisted madame for many decades," Am-Hazek said. "When she sets her mind to something, it is done."


    Am-Gulat shot Am-Hazek a strange look, but decided not to comment. "Then it is done."


    Cautiously, Am-Gulat hefted the war hammer in his hand. The gem that contained his soul had been absorbed into its handle, near where it connected to its massive head, flat on one end and pointed on the other.  Am-Gulat flipped it around to its pointed end, for greater precision, eyeing up the collar around the throat of the djinn nearest him.


    "You do not...need to be concerned with exact application of force," Genesis said, unprompted. "It is an extension of yourself. It will...break what you desire to be broken. As you are in full control of your potential. Now that your own bindings are gone."


    Am-Gulat turned and looked at the commander, just for a second. As if wanting to understand more. But he dismissed him with a nod and turned instead to the task at hand.


    It took little more than a tap from the war hammer to do away with each of the collars, to make them fall away into black dust that streaked down the djinn''s fine uniforms. Except for Er-Izat''s. Although Er-Izat met Am-Gulat''s eyes when he struck him with the hammer, throat bared to offer him a better target to aim at, it still took five swings of the hammer, each one harder than the last, for Er-Izat''s collar to break. And even then, it didn''t crumble to dust like the other djinn''s did. It only broke in two, the pieces falling to the floor with a dull thud. Er-Izat nodded his thanks and stared down at the broken halves, rubbing his neck, as if contemplating whether it''d be better for him to pick them up and pocket them or leave them behind.


    "It is done," Am-Gulat said to them, with a rightward wave of his war hammer. "You are free. Do what you will. Go help take back your souls, confront the ones who kept you. Or wait here. And once that''s done, you can go where you will, or you can help me free the rest of our kin. And kill the worm who did this," he finished, gesturing to the blisters still angry and red around his own neck.


    Am-Hazek stepped forward first. "I''ll go with you. Now that you have been freed, the City won''t disturb my magic."


    For some reason Mirk couldn''t pinpoint, Am-Gulat seemed wary of Am-Hazek. But Am-Gulat brushed his worry aside with a firm shake of his head, turning his gaze, still burning with his shifting magic, toward Er-Izat. "Will you come with me, Er-Djinn?"


    "They have my kin," Er-Izat said softly, his voice tinged with reluctance even as he stepped forward. "You won''t stop with your master, will you? You''re going back to the home realm."


    Am-Gulat lifted his chin once more, defiant. "The hierarchy must burn. Everywhere it reaches."


    Er-Izat flinched, his hands jammed in his pockets now that he no longer had a master to scold him for being improper. But he still didn''t back away. "The Ra-Djinn have my kin. They said I had to protect Seigneur d''Aumont. Or else..."


    "No more threats. No more cowardice," Am-Gulat hissed, his war hammer gripped tightly in his right hand. "No more being pushed around. Am-Djinn or Er-Djinn or Ta-Djinn, no matter what kinship we once had, we''re now together. Against them."


    Am-Hazek smiled at Am-Gulat, though Mirk thought he could detect a tired edge to it, something that wasn''t shared by the cautiously hopeful looks of the other djinn. "I would recommend having some caution yet...but I sense that would fall on deaf ears. For the time being."


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    "You''ve been saying things like that for decades," Am-Gulat grumbled. "Doing whatever you want while telling the rest of us to be quiet and do as we''re told."


    Am-Hazek shrugged. "Not the time. But I''ll admit I''ve been mistaken in the past. In any case, we must go to the City. I assume there is a teleporting mage...?"


    K''aekniv scanned the ballroom, shaking his head. "Mordka followed Jackson. Never came back. Some shit must really be happening."


    "We need to go," Alice insisted, checking her crossbow. "To Fatima''s first."


    "I''m going with too," Catherine said, stepping up beside Alice and taking her arm. She had her wand drawn and clasped in her other hand. "I know father best."


    Orest nodded, putting a hand on Catherine''s shoulder. It made Catherine''s expression a bit less pinched, dimmed the anger hidden in it that was so often plain to be seen on the faces of her sister and mother. "If she goes, I go too."


    K''aekniv sighed, but waved his assent, knowing better than to get between a lovestruck man and the focus of his heart''s intentions. "If these bastards get one over on Olezhka, you get to go hunt them down."


    All eyes ¡ª most of them wary, others resigned ¡ª then turned toward Genesis. The commander sighed, lifting his hand, but not yet calling to his magic. "Technically...you should also be capable of this," he said to Am-Gulat. "But it is better...not to attempt it until your potential has settled. In any case. It would be best...if you all came closer. As the presence of two Destroyers close together in the Abyss will cause certain...disturbances in the passage."


    K''aekniv was first to move, unabashedly going to Genesis''s side and putting an arm around his shoulders. At least until Genesis shoved him off with a few clever twists of his arms and magic, and K''aekniv resigned himself to keeping a hold on the back of his uniform coat instead with one hand, and a firm grip on Herv¨¦¡¯s arm with the other. Mirk took Genesis''s left arm, and Alice took the other, Catherine and Orest moving with her. Am-Hazek decided to take Mirk''s free arm rather than touching Genesis, the memory of what being manhandled by the commander''s chaotic magic still fresh in his mind. Er-Izat felt the same, apparently. He settled for taking hold of K''aekniv''s rightmost wing instead.


    Am-Gulat wasn¡¯t so reluctant. He stood face to face with Genesis, war hammer still gripped tight in his right hand, putting his left on Genesis''s shoulder in a particular way, gripping his thin frame tight with thumb and forefinger and leaving the other three fingers loose. A djinn gesture that had some meaning to it that was lost on the rest of them, Mirk assumed.


    To Genesis''s credit, he managed not to reflexively pull away from Am-Gulat. Though touching Genesis did make the darkness threaded through Am-Gulat''s unconstrained haze of magic rise again. "Show me how,  k''amskec. So that I can go on my own."


    Genesis said nothing. But an instant later, darkness swam over Mirk''s vision like it had countless times before. Usually, he found relief in it. A brief moment of solace, cold and disconnected from the Earth but also alone in his mind without needing to lean hard on his shields or drink down bottle after bottle of pain blockers or liquor. That time, it was different. He could still feel the emotions of the others, their fear and worry, surprise and anger. And beneath it, sparks of a familiar pain that made a wave of his own worry rise up sharp along the length of his spine.


    Then the darkness cleared and they were plunged into an even greater chaos.


    Alice had been right. Casyn had taken Ravensdale and Percival to Fatima''s. The bodies on the floor and the smoke in the air was proof enough of that.


    Genesis pulled them all back into existence in the bordello''s front room rather than the back room where they usually met. A pair of ladies were at the barred front door, shouting at one another about whether or not they should send a group into the City or stay where they were to guard the others. All the people Genesis had torn through the Abyss were reeling, unaccustomed to the shadows. Mirk and K''aekniv were the first to recover, being the most accustomed to it.


    K''aekniv went right for the ladies at the door, drawing his right-hand sword, the one that spat fire and order in preparation. "Where''d they go?"


    "Out," one of the ladies said, the hand that''d gone to her own sword relaxing once she identified the new mob of intruders. "To the City, probably. They got Rachel and Bori. Some others too, they fucked around a bit in the back first. Then they took those two kids and made a run for it."


    "Ella!" Alice shrieked, bolting for the back room. Mirk was fast on her heels, his eyes watering at the pain radiating from the back of the bordello.


    He didn''t make it all the way to the back room. He froze in the hallway before the door to the room Samael and Sharael had been locked in. The man and woman who''d been standing guard before it a few hours ago had both been cut down. Yule and Danu were on their knees beside the woman, who was whimpering at the pain in her legs, both of them reduced to heaps of mangled flesh by some kind of magic. There was nothing to be done for the man. From the size of the pool of blood beneath him and the absence of pain, Mirk knew he''d already passed.


    Mirk went to the other members of his team, already pushing up the sleeves of his justacorps after he tucked away Jean-Luc¡¯s staff, for the time being. "What can I do?" he asked, already finding it hard to suck in enough breath to speak from the force of the pain.


    He needed blockers. There were more wounded in the back room who needed help, but the woman was hovering on the brink of life and death. At least a dozen, considering the magnitude of the agony. It was as bad as the first rush of casualties through the field transporter after a contract that''d gone wrong.


    "Drink," Yule said without looking up, snatching a bottle out of the work bag on the floor beside him and throwing it blindly at the sound of Mirk''s voice.


    Mirk drank it down without question before speaking again. Only a moderate blocker, but that meant he''d be able to keep his wits about him, be capable of doing more than being pulled from patient to patient in a healing daze. The pain faded to a manageable level as it started to work its magic on his empathy, dulling it. "Should I go to the back?"


    Yule sighed, letting his hands fall away from the woman''s legs, rubbing his own temples with his bloodied fingers instead. Danu knew what the gesture meant. With a frustrated curse, she drew her own hands back, folding them and pressing them over her heart, watching with blackened eyes as the woman''s soul slipped away and her body went still. Mirk was glad the blockers were taking effect. He wasn''t able to sense her passing, the end of her pain. "We''ll take care of things here. Eva came, so did Sheila''s team. You need to take care of that."


    Mirk followed Yule''s pointed finger into the empty room. Sharael must have fought fiercely. All the furniture in the room had been reduced to splinters and ash, the walls splattered with blood and the floor littered with clumps of snow-white feathers, some of them with flesh still attached. Hesitantly, Mirk ventured into the room, lowering his shields just far enough to sense if Samael had managed to leave him some sort of empathic message. Instead, there was nothing but the residue of his terror.


    "Where did they take them?" he asked no one in particular, crouching down and picking up one of the feathers. He could feel that it was Samael''s, the terror growing so intense that he had to draw his shields back up once more.


    "You''re the best empath we have. And he''s ten times worse than you. You should be able to feel him, as long as things haven''t already gone to hell back in the City," Yule said. He got back to his feet and gathered up his things, searching for something to throw over both of the dead bodies outside the door. He came up empty.


    There was another scream from the back room. "Ella! Peggy, where''s Peggy?"


    After exchanging tired stares, Mirk and his team made their way to the back room. Just as Yule had said, Eva and Sheila''s team of healers were all hard at work on the wounded, Eva doing surgery atop the back table where Mirk had left Joan bleeding out hours ago while Sheila and her healers did their work on the long counter, all of its mirrors and boxes of makeup and curlers shoved to the floor. Already, three more lifeless bodies had been carried to the far side of the room, out of the way.


    Alice was fighting against Fatima near the bodies, trying to beat her way through Fatima''s restraining arms to search through the dead for her daughter. "She''s not there!" Fatima growled. "Rita snatched her and took off."


    As if something had swooped down out of the shadows gathered near the ceiling and stolen all the life from Alice, she went limp, cursing down at the floor as she stared at the bodies. "He got Peggy. That son of a bitch, I''ll kill him, him and all them¡ª"


    "Save it," Fatima said, reaching up and smacking Alice across the face, just hard enough to bring her back to the present. "I''m guessing since they found us so easily, Casyn''s the little secret you''ve been keeping from us?"


    Alice nodded wordlessly, tears rolling down her face. She pushed past Fatima and stared down at the bodies lined up against the wall. Mirk went to join her, keeping quiet, offering nothing but whatever paltry reassurance his presence could offer. Among the three dead was the old woman who Alice had entrusted her child to, stabbed through the chest Ella had been sleeping against hours ago.


    "''m sorry, Peggy," Alice mumbled. "You deserved better."


    "I''m sure one of them would have sorted it out soon enough," Fatima said, though she didn''t turn to look back at Peggy¡¯s body. "Casyn just made it faster. It was that job I gave you at the end of summer, wasn''t it?"


    Alice nodded again. "Took what he wanted and left me in a closet."


    "Gave you something in return, though."


    "I should have gone after him. Should have taken him out before..."


    "That''s not how this works," Fatima replied, limping across the room and going to a knocked-over table that had been laden with weapons and other supplies the last time Mirk had been in the bordello. Mirk noticed that Fatima''s cane had changed. Rather than leaning on a bit of dark-varnished wood, now Fatima was leaning on an unsheathed sword, though its hilt bore a striking similarity to the plain silver head of Fatima''s usual cane.


    "She will recover," Eva said, stepping back from the table, both hands bloody and raised, still gripping her surgical tools. She nodded at Slava, who was hovering beside the table. He''d been stabbed in the shoulder, but was too preoccupied to be troubled by the pain. "Take her to a room and bring in the next."


    "How many?" Mirk asked her, as he watched Slava shove his arms underneath the groaning woman on the table and haul her off to the rooms usually reserved for the bordello''s paying clients.


    "Eighteen left," Eva said, meeting his eyes only for a second. "Most will make it. It was Percival''s doing, mainly. He found a sword."


    "And doesn''t need magic to cause a mess," Sheila added. "Though he has it now. You need to go after him, Mirk."


    "What about Ravensdale?" Mirk asked.


    Fatima turned back to face them all with a vicious grin, her arms full of spare crossbow bolts. "Screamed and ran off when I got him in the leg. Jackson was a useless little bitch twenty years ago, and he''s still a useless little bitch now. Take your bolts and get going, Alice. Where''s your djinn army?"


    "Me?" Alice asked, as if she couldn''t believe her luck, crossing the room to take the arrows from Fatima. "What about you?"


    "We''ll clean things up here and follow after. You''re more useful in the vanguard." Fatima paused, frowning, turning around and scanning the far corners of the room. "I''m shocked Big Nose isn''t here telling us all what to do next. Did you lose him?" she asked Mirk, turning back to face him.


    "I''m...I''m not sure." Mirk swallowed down his guilt at leaving behind the wounded, at all of it, and went to help Alice with her arrows. "Methinks we should go look, Miss Alice."


    Nodding and cramming more arrows into every pocket and slit hidden in the folds of her servant''s uniform, Alice headed off back toward the front room. When they got there, Mirk wasn''t surprised by what they found waiting for them. Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat arguing, while the others looked on with worried expressions.


    "Angel children don''t matter a copper to me," Am-Gulat hissed, gripping his war hammer with a menacing air. "We need to free the others, before the worm takes them."


    "The worm, as you put it, will be with the children," Am-Hazek replied, his hands clasped behind his back. He was as unimpressed by Am-Gulat''s grimacing and seething as he was by any nobleman''s posturing threats, calm and polite as ever. "The most prudent way to proceed would be to find the children, Monsieur Am-Gulat."


    "Leave your human titles," Am-Gulat snapped. "Or have you been bowing to them for so long that you''ve forgotten your true nature?"


    Am-Hazek dipped his head in a conciliatory nod that only served to annoy Am-Gulat further. "My apologies. I have perhaps grown too accustomed to their ways,  wajinn."


    "You abandoned your kin ages ago. Servile idiots, was it? You want a servile idiot for your  wajinn?"


    Am-Hazek''s composure broke just long enough for him to rub a pair of fingers against an ache in his temple. "I was harsher on you all than I''d meant to be. But we all do foolish things when we''re upset. Which is why we must put the worm, as you call him, aside. And consider more practical things."


    It would have been prudent for Genesis to step in to mediate, Mirk thought. But the commander was nowhere to be seen. K''aekniv recognized the impasse as well, however, and shoved himself between the pair in his place. "Listen. Who knows which thing will fuck us harder in the end? Not me. We don''t need thinking now. We need fighting."


    Am-Hazek blinked at being pushed back a pace by the half angel, but didn''t bristle at it. Nor did Am-Gulat, who, despite his war hammer, was still a bit cowed by the sheer size of K''aekniv. Even though Am-Gulat wasn''t short, he was lean and wiry, even more than he ordinarily would have been, owing to Ravensdale¡¯s abuse and neglect. "But which should we fight first, Comrade K''aekniv?" Am-Hazek asked.


    "Simple. We do a little of both.¡± First, K¡¯aekniv turned to Am-Gulat. ¡°You and me and that bitch Richard, we''ll go get the other djinn. I can bust into that prison easy, and he can help with the collars.¡±


    Then, the half-angel turned back toward Am-Hazek. ¡°You and Mirgosha, you go look for the kids. Mirgosha''s head magic works with the little one. And since you know Mirgosha, you''ll fight better together if Jackson tries to fuck with you. Everyone else, you go where you want. Maybe you two take him since you''ll need a big person and Slava''s busy," K¡¯aekniv finished, waving Er-Izat over toward Am-Hazek.


    "How will we know where the worm is?" Am-Gulat asked him.


    "We don''t. When one of us finds him, we''ll give the signal. Some big magic we can see over all the buildings, or whatever."


    Am-Hazek sighed, dipping his head once more, though the gesture was closer to a bow when he did it toward K''aekniv. "It will have to do, I suppose."


    "Anything is better than wasting our time arguing," Am-Gulat admitted, grudgingly.


    "Good. I''ll get my people together and we''ll move out. Orest, you''re coming with too. The place they keep the djinn is close to the stables. There''ll be fighting in the streets once the sun comes. I want the horses."


    Mirk grabbed hold of K''aekniv''s arm as he hurried off toward the back to muster his men. "Where''s Gen?" he asked, still scanning the darker corners of the room for the commander. Even though the shadows lingered thick everywhere, the front room''s mage lanterns knocked over or broken from the struggle that had taken place there before they''d arrived, Mirk couldn''t see or sense Genesis anywhere nearby, even when he lowered his shields a fraction to take a harder look.


    "He ran away when you did," K''aekniv said, sighing. "He looked sick again, maybe. A shit time for it, but there''s nothing we can do. He''ll be under some bed somewhere, probably."


    "Sick?"


    "The bread Mordka''s people make has still been fucking with him. I hope that shit book was worth it. Otherwise we''ll be really fucked."


    K''aekniv had been putting on a confident face for the others, Mirk realized then. The worry Mirk felt press against his shields, just for a moment, before K''aekniv refocused on the task at hand, was just as sharp as the tension tying his own stomach in knots. After asking Am-Hazek to wait a moment, Mirk hurried off back into the warren of rooms that separated the front of the house from the back, lowering his shields to search out where Genesis had hidden himself rather than allowing the others to see his weakness.


    He found Genesis inside a room that''d been turned out for the night but never used. Or, rather, he found his magic. Even though the room''s magelights weren''t lit, Mirk could sense a certain restlessness in the darkness inside, the churning of the shadows matching the turmoil of their hidden master. Mirk ventured in, cautiously, electing to close the door behind him. "Genesis? Is something wrong?" he called out into the darkness.


    "...no."


    Sighing, Mirk rolled up the sleeve of his justacorps, illuminating the magelight on his wrist that he''d gotten so much in the habit of wearing that he hadn''t even considered taking it off, even though it didn''t match the rest of his outfit. It didn''t do much to push back the shadows. Mirk lowered his shields, navigating by feel to the far corner of the room. Genesis had pressed himself into it, his back to the wall, eyes closed and teeth bared in pain as he clutched his midsection.


    "You''re sick again," Mirk said as gently as he could, doing his best to ensure there was no hint of accusation in his tone. Though he knew full well Genesis probably wouldn''t have noticed any exasperation in his voice even if some had slipped in.


    "Moving...others through the Abyss...unsettles the chaos."


    "I can see that," Mirk mumbled. It was as if the shadows had decided to strangle their master for once instead of the object of his ire. They were wrapped as tight around Genesis as his own arms were, cloaking the pain that Mirk could only feel the vaguest pinpricks of. But it had to be severe, considering how pale Genesis had gone. And how there was sweat beaded on his brow. Mirk didn''t think he''d ever seen the commander sweat before, no matter how dire the situation or how hot the weather.


    "I will...recover in time."


    "We don''t have time," Mirk said, taking another step closer. "I know that potions don''t do anything to help, but methinks I might be able to do something about the swelling....or, euh, there''s another word...everything red and hot..."


    Genesis shook his head, once. Sharply. The shadows swelled between them, making it difficult to see him even with the help of the magelight around Mirk''s wrist.


    "Samael and Sharael are missing," Mirk said, after a long pause, when the shadows failed to subside. "I...methinks that spell that Yule''s friend showed me at the tavern..."


    The name coiled out of the darkness in a low hiss, like it was the most vile curse Genesis could think of. "Imanael."


    "I took his name out. But I don''t know what the spell does, Genesis. What if it wasn''t enough? If Ravensdale calls him, you''re the only person who¡¯ll know what to do. We''ll need you."


    The pain in Genesis''s voice, the resignation, made something deep inside Mirk''s chest ache. "I am as much his...slave as the djinn were Ravensdale''s."


    There was no potion, no salve, no amount of life-giving potential that could take that fact away. Not even Jean-Luc''s staff was able to do anything to the spells carved into Genesis''s arms. Mirk had never tried to ask the presence hidden inside the wood to free Genesis, but he had a feeling that if it could have broken the spell on Genesis, the commander would have asked for his help. Mirk took another tentative step forward, ignoring the way the shadows curled around his ankles, tensing as if they were fully prepared to hurl him through the door and back out into the hall if he came any closer. "Please, Genesis. There must be something I can do. Even if it''s only a small thing."


    The shadows drew tighter. Then released him, with the sound of a defeated, sibilant sigh from the corner. "Come...here."


    The shadows thinned a little as Mirk closed the gap between them, just enough so that Mirk could see Genesis again. He''d pried his arms off his midsection, his hands twitching at his signs with the desire to clutch once again at the aching in his stomach. His eyes were still closed, his face pointed up at the ceiling rather than down at him. Mirk called his healing magic into his hands in preparation, his attention divided between the disruptions in the flow of Genesis''s magic through his rail-thin body that he could see with his mind''s eye and the way the shadows writhed in anticipation at the prospects of life and warmth to devour.


    "That...will not be necessary," Genesis said through gritted teeth.


    "Euh...methinks I don''t understand,  messire," Mirk said. "I can''t heal you just by looking at you."


    "It is not a matter of healing. It is a matter of...settling." Mirk could hear the commander''s teeth grinding as his arms twitched at his sides. Upward, the slightest hair outspread. "If you wish to help...come here."


    Mirk only managed to take one more step closer. Then the shadows enveloped him, not to hurl him back out into the hall, but to press him tightly against Genesis''s trembling chest.


    It startled a laugh out of him. Above his head, Genesis hissed something. Whether it was a curse or a command, Mirk couldn''t be certain, but the shadows released him. A moment later, they were replaced with Genesis''s hands. Not embracing him, precisely, but keeping him pressed close, his palms flat against the middle of his back.


    The absurdity of it should have washed away all of Mirk''s worry. To think, what Genesis needed, the mysterious solution to his body''s desire to destroy itself, a conundrum no healing magic could touch, was a hug. But the way Genesis''s body shook against him, the way Mirk could feel all his muscles straining, the cold radiating from him still despite the sweat he''d seen beaded on his brow, made Mirk¡¯s heart ache almost as much as Genesis''s curt reminder that he was as much a slave as Ravensdale''s djinn had been.


    What had been done to Genesis, what had his magic done to others, to make something as simple as asking for an embrace, as much of an impossible struggle as trying to split the earth in two?


    Now wasn''t the time to ask that question, Mirk sensed. Instead, he immediately responded to Genesis''s unspoken request by wrapping his arms around him in turn.


    Genesis pressed him tighter. "Weight. Presence. Listen." he heard him hiss under his breath, as if reciting something from one of his crumbling grimoires, his voice barely audible over the hissing of his chaotic magic against Mirk''s mind.


    Mirk didn''t have the heart to bother him. To ask him why, precisely, this strange request of his helped. With his mind held open and his shields banished, Mirk could feel that it was helping the commander regain his usual inhuman control over his magic and body nevertheless. The flickers of pain didn''t cease brushing against Mirk''s mind, but the cold subsided. Genesis''s trembling faded. And though he couldn''t hear it, Mirk assumed that his heartbeat must have slowed, since the rise and fall of the chest he had his cheek pressed against had.


    He was sure his own heart had. Mirk hadn''t been aware of how close he''d been to breaking, how near he''d been to the edge of panic over seeing the bordello full of the dead and wounded and being unable to do anything about it. And beneath that fresh despair was all the tension and the worry that''d come with the ball: what all the other mages must have thought of him for involving them in his schemes, Seigneur d''Aumont''s disappearance, how frail and small his godmother had become once she''d spent the last of her magic.


    But there was something soothing in being so close to Genesis, despite the urgency of the situation. How his formal uniform smelled of the same cleaning potions the commander used on everything, how the presence of his staticky magic made the world silent in a way that was more peaceful than unnerving. The faint pleasure, even in that dark hour, of being alone in his mind while not being alone in body. Of not being forced to know, to understand, but to be able to come to it slowly, out of his own desire to comfort Genesis.


    For once, Genesis didn''t need to be forced into obliging him, once his magic and body had calmed, though the pain in his midsection remained. Mirk could sense it twisting against his chest, even though he couldn''t truly feel it, not like he could an ordinary person''s pain. "As I said...systemic issues are...difficult to manage. However, if one...focuses on an external presence and weight rather than the...internal pain...it becomes more manageable."


    "I can still feel it," Mirk said, softly. "Sort of. But it is a little better, methinks. You don''t feel as upset, anyway."


    Genesis let out a long, hissing sigh. But his breathing returned to its same, precise, deathly slow pace a moment later. "Are the others...well?"


    Mirk nodded against his chest. "Am-Gulat, Niv, and the rest are going to the barracks to free the other djinn. Monsieur Am-Hazek and I will look for Samael and Sharael."


    "I...see."


    "Will you come with?"


    "I will...go where needed."


    Mirk didn''t ask how the commander could possibly know where he was needed or when. Some trick of his magic, doubtlessly, his uncanny ability to always arrive precisely on time, not a moment sooner or later. But he did decide to speak his own mind, since Genesis had elected to be open with him about how he dealt with the pain coiling inside his midsection. "You don''t have to be afraid to ask for this,  messire. If it helps, then it helps. I don''t think any less of you for it." Unbidden, a smile came onto Mirk''s lips. "You know how I go clinging to everyone without even asking first."


    "It is...pathetic," Genesis said, after a long pause.


    "It''s not. It only means you''re just like everyone else. Even if it looks a little strange."


    A moment of silence passed between them. Mirk savored it, his eyes closed, relishing the strength in the hands pressed to his back and the coolness of the body against his own. Then Genesis dropped his hands.


    "If Imanael does come...I will know."


    Mirk took a few steps back, nodding. The commander''s face had assumed its usual blankness, though there was still more color high on his cheekbones than usual. And there was still that dampness on his brow, though the instant Mirk let him go, Genesis whipped out one of his innumerable handkerchiefs to blot it away. "Hopefully it won''t come to that,  messire ."


    "If it does...I am prepared. I have the t¡¯akakk. The City will listen."


    Genesis stepped around him, then vanished.


    Only not entirely. Mirk had no idea how the commander could still move so quickly while so indisposed, but he got the impression that rather than slipping into the shadows and crossing away into the Abyss like usual, Genesis was still in the room. Head tilted to one side, Mirk listened, surveying the room''s corners and shadowy places. He''d gone under the bed, if Mirk had to guess. Why that was helpful, or what he was doing under there, Mirk didn''t have the slightest idea.


    Chuckling to himself at the thought of it, of Genesis curled up under the room''s bed like a sullen cat that had put himself out of reach of a nosy human''s clumsy palms and sticky fingers, Mirk went to rejoin the others.

 Chapter 91

    The City loomed before them, dark and silent, and in the pit of his stomach, Mirk knew that something had gone terribly wrong.


    K''aekniv, Am-Gulat, and the others had rushed off through the South Gate together, the half-angel leading the way, his winglight casting an eerie glow on the damp cobbles and the shadowy side streets and the empty Watch post just inside the high stone arch of the gate. Am-Gulat was shoulder-to-shoulder beside him. Orest and Catherine brought up the rear, wand and sword already drawn.


    Mirk didn''t bother to ask anyone why the Watch wasn''t there that night, at the hour they usually had the most work to do, closing time for the taverns just within and beyond the gate. Ravensdale had gone before them, already bloodied and dragging two angelic children with him into the City''s depths. The Watch guardsmen had either decided it''d be safer to hide and pretend they''d seen nothing, or Ravensdale had ordered them to march into their doom alongside them.


    Though he knew it was the wiser decision to send most of their forces off to retrieve the other djinn, Mirk wished that either K¡¯aekniv or Fatima had been willing to assign a few spare fighters to their group. It was eerie being mostly alone in the City, which was usually teeming with people, even in the dead of night. The oppressive gloom wasn¡¯t helping Mirk feel any better, especially since he knew Genesis wasn¡¯t secreted away inside it. All of the mage lanterns that ringed the plaza had been extinguished. The magelight strung around Mirk¡¯s wrist was all they had to navigate with. And while it might have been adequate for poking around his quarters at two in the morning, it was woefully inadequate for traversing the City.


    "Can you feel anything, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked, his voice just above a whisper. One of the men from the Seventh had loaned Am-Hazek a sword, but Mirk could tell from the way he held it, like it was an adder that might strike him if he gripped its hilt too tightly, that he hadn''t fought in a long time. Er-Izat had refused a similar offer. The Er-Djinn preferred to fight bare-handed.


    Mirk sighed, clutching Jean-Luc''s staff tight in his hands as he allowed the walls around his mind to fade away. He''d been worried that taking the pain blocker from Yule might hinder him, might make it impossible for him to feel any emotion short of mortal fear or agony. He needn''t have wasted time fretting over it. All the taverns and Supply Corps shops clustered near the South Gate had either been vacated just like the Watch guardpost, or Samael''s horror was strong enough to drown out the subtler emotions of anyone hiding in the dark.


    "They''re somewhere along the ring road," Mirk said, drawing his mental shielding back up a hair, striking a balance between still being able to feel Samael and not being overwhelmed by his terror. "Heading toward the West Gate."


    The West Gate of the City of Glass wasn''t tethered to a particular endpoint. It had been used in the past, when the City roamed the German countryside rather than the English, as a secondary transporter connected to battlefields situated on Earth rather than on another realm, Genesis had told him. But there was nothing in its magic keeping it from leading to another realm. Like Heaven. Mirk didn''t know if Ravensdale or any of his followers had the knowledge or potential to perform that feat. He was hoping they didn''t.


    Though he was with two djinn, Mirk knew they wouldn''t stand a chance against a single flight of Imperial angels. Mirk had seen his father and his men train, knew what they were capable of. And his father''s flight had been made up of Imperial oddities, angels and half-angels who hadn''t been ruthlessly drilled for hundreds of years like the flights that made up the larger, stronger Hosts of the Imperial vanguard. If they were forced to fight Imperial angels, Mirk knew none of them would survive long enough to even realize what was happening.


    "Can you feel who is with him, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked, jolting Mirk out of his racing thoughts. He was turning his borrowed sword over and over in his grasp, gingerly. As if it hurt to touch it.


    Mirk shook his head. "Samael''s too afraid. We''ll only know once we see them."


    Er-Izat, for once, didn''t ask permission. He struck out ahead of Mirk and Am-Hazek, unbuttoning his waistcoat and justacorps and rolling his shoulders as he walked. Am-Hazek didn''t question this. Another djinn tradition, maybe, that an Er-Djinn should go before those who weren''t naturally skilled at combat.


    There were no signs of life along the ring road, not even once they were a good half mile away from the South Gate. No streetlamps glowed alongside the road, no pinpricks of emotion or magic brushed against Mirk''s mental shielding, he heard no whispers or frantic breathing. It was as if every K''maneda in the City had abandoned it all at once. And yet, there were no signs of a fight having taken place along their route either, no splashes of blood or scorch marks from wayward spells marred the cobbles. The other K¡¯maneda must have been so terrified that they''d fled or followed without any resistance.


    "Can you feel anything, Monsieur Am-Hazek? Hear anything?" For a moment, Mirk was again struck by how little he knew of djinn magic and senses, whether they were as blind and deaf to the City as he felt, or if they had the same uncanny perceptiveness that Genesis did, capable of hearing heartbeats five streets over or smelling the reek of someone sweating away in their hiding place down in a cellar or up in an attic.


    The answer had to be somewhere in between. A frown wrinkled the djinn''s forehead as he listened to the silence, continuing to restlessly flip his borrowed sword in his hand. Mirk felt the slightest tickle of unease against his mind. Not as strong as it would have been from a human, and only because their magic had mixed before, Mirk suspected. "I do not think we are alone, seigneur. But I suspect no one will help us either."


    "There''s at least fifty of them," Er-Izat said from ahead of them, unprompted. He didn''t look back at them either. "Bad quality boots."


    Am-Hazek offered him an explanation, in a low whisper, when none was forthcoming from Er-Izat. "The Er-Djinn are hunters as well as fighters, traditionally. Most kinship lines have two specialties."


    As they hurried along, Mirk tried to remember what the djinn had told him about what the Am-Djinn were best at. Strategists, planners. But those were mostly the same thing, Mirk supposed. And he also supposed now wasn''t the time to be demanding answers from Am-Hazek.


    When the crossroad that led from the Glass Tower out to the West Gate, intersecting the outermost ring road on the way, was only a few hundred yards away, Er-Izat came to a sharp halt. None of them spoke, but Am-Hazek gripped his sword with more determination, and Mirk lowered his mental shielding and cast out his senses, allowing more of Samael''s terror to reach him.


    Ravensdale and the children had to be just up ahead. Samael''s fright had been so overwhelming at first that Mirk didn''t think it could have gotten any stronger. Not unless he wielded it deliberately to disarm him, like a trained Imperial soldier would have. But it had grown as they¡¯d drawn closer to him. That proof wasn''t in the force of the emotion pounding against Mirk''s temples, but in the nuance of it. The clarity.


    Mirk wasn''t a telepath, but a strong enough empath could force other sensations along with their emotions if they were projecting hard, whether the projection was intentional or not. Sights. Smells. Memories. The harder Mirk concentrated, the more of them he was struck by, flashes of impressions from another life. A darkly amused voice murmuring at him that anger was the answer. His hair being ruffled in approval at the sight of an angel curled into a ball at his feet, bleeding from his ears, while Sharael gaped at him from the corner of a shadowy room. Her robes torn, her knuckles bloody and eyes wide.


    "He''s casting a spell," Mirk heard Er-Izat say from ahead of them, distantly. "Ordered light."


    The words brought Mirk back to the present, somewhat, cleared away enough of the terror for him to try to focus. Those were the opposite of Ravensdale''s orientation and element, as far as Mirk knew. He had to have stolen someone else''s magic. That or Percival was still with him. Somehow, the thought of the mage being with Ravensdale made Mirk even more anxious. Ravensdale was brutal, but as every healer and fighter in the City said, at least in private, he was a coward. Percival was afraid of nothing in his righteousness.


    Beside him, Am-Hazek sighed. "We shall manage, Monsieur Er-Izat."


    Mirk held Jean-Luc''s staff close to his chest, feeling for the odd, foreign presence within it. He could feel the staff''s potential, but the presence was still distant. As if it was peacefully asleep, undisturbed by what its wielder was going through. Mirk wasn''t sure if that was a good or ill omen of what awaited them beyond the pall of mist that had fallen over the street, illuminated from behind by a cold white glow.


    "I saw a spell some time ago," Mirk said, shifting his grip on the staff. Widening it to the fighting grip that Genesis and his father''s men before him had drilled into him. "I don''t know what it does, but...well. It might be the gate."


    Er-Izat chanced a glance over his shoulder, sizing up both of their stances. Without a master¡¯s presence to check him any longer, he let his disapproval show in a slight frown. "How long has it been since either of you have fought?"


    Am-Hazek sighed once more. "With a blade? Not for decades."


    "Now and then," Mirk mumbled. "I can...well. You don''t have to worry about me, Monsieur Er-Izat."


    Er-Izat turned back around, rolling his shoulders again. It wasn''t good enough. Despite the evening chill and the damp, he stripped off his justacorps and waistcoat, deliberately folding them and setting them aside near an unlit lamp post. Then he advanced into the fog, swallowed up by it without a sound. After exchanging a worried glance, Mirk and Am-Hazek followed after him.


    "They''re here! See? I told you they''d split up. You give that bastard Percy too much credit."


    One mystery was solved as they approached the West Gate. Mirk could only hear Casyn''s voice through the fog; he couldn''t see even a sliver of him past the wall of dented and rusting armor standing between them. Four dozen Watch guardsmen, clad in all the spare armor they could find on short notice, were arrayed in a tight arc before the gate. Ravensdale and Casyn must have ordered every fighting man they''d come across on the way to the West Gate, along with the patrols stationed at both it and the South Gate, to come to their defense.


    Mirk immediately knew there was something wrong with them. He''d seen countless men stare down death since he''d come to the infirmary. Each one did it in their own way, some with impossible rage, some with anguish, and even more with a long sigh of relief, with grateful tears welling in the corners of their eyes. All of the men before them, old and young alike, were emotionless. Mirk doubted it was because they were confident in their ability to stop them, or any faith in whatever cause Ravensdale was working at beyond the barrier of their bodies.


    It was a familiar expression. The same one that Samael took on when he moved into that other place in his mind, the one that was all coldness and logic even if it was where he went to manipulate the feelings of others. Though Mirk couldn''t feel the magic the boy was using on them, Mirk was certain the men weren''t there because they wanted to be. Samael had forced his will upon them. The fact that Samael still had enough empathic potential to spare to project so much fear while also controlling the minds of fifty men was evidence of the terrifying extent of his magic. And how well he''d been trained in combat empathy.


    When Mirk''s own empathy had awakened as a boy, his father had tested him to see if he had the knack for it. He''d utterly failed. Which made their present situation that much worse. Mirk doubted the djinn had enough empathy to train in such a strange form of combat.


    "There''s something wrong with them," Er-Izat said, lifting his voice so that Mirk and Am-Hazek could hear him, not caring if Ravensdale and Casyn did as well. "This isn''t what humans look like when they''re going to die. Magic?"


    The certainty in Er-Izat''s voice made a chill run through Mirk before he mustered the will to reply. "Yes, magic. They''re like puppets right now. I''ll...I''ll see what I can do. But I might not be able to do anything."


    Er-Izat nodded, but didn''t hesitate. He had no mercy for the Watch men, despite the fact that they''d been pressed into service against their will. There was work to be done. And Er-Izat set to it with a sort of ruthless efficiency that Mirk had only ever seen before in the most hardened infantrymen.


    Mirk only watched the fight long enough to confirm his suspicions about whether or not the guardsmen were under Samael¡¯s control. Watch guardsmen were used to handling drunken brawls in City alleys, and Mirk had seen enough of those by now to know how they usually went. The Watch fought dirty, went right for the neck and eyes and groin, wanting to inflict pain fast to get a tipsy fighter on the ground and convince him without words that it''d be pointless to try using his magic. The tools of their trade were knuckle dusters and truncheons, resorting to their swords only when there was no other choice, when a fighter did try his magic on them. The first guardsmen to face Er-Izat met him with drawn swords and the wide stances of men twice their height. Men who could launch themselves up into the air and fly away, if need be.


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    Samael was better at keeping minds in his thrall than making bodies fight the way they were best suited to. A small blessing that he hadn''t advanced to that stage of his training before he and his sister had fled the Empire. Wincing at the sound of cracking bone as Er-Izat stepped around a sloppy thrust and brought his fist square into a guardsman''s face, Mirk took a few fumbling steps backward and closed his eyes.


    Mirk knew he''d be more useful to them all with his empathy than he would be with jean-Luc''s staff. He struggled to tune out the agony of Samael''s fear and instead focus on the emotions he was using to control the guardsmen¡¯s minds. An empath who was well-trained in combat empathy could hide the source of the emotions they were using to control others, could bury it under distractions and diversions. Mirk didn''t doubt that Samael had been drilled hard. But he was a child, and he was terrified. That fear was the source of his control as much as it was what had driven him to force the Watch men into a wall between them and Ravensdale.


    It came to Mirk in a flash of images and feelings, horror that made his hair stand on end and put a metallic taste in his mouth. He saw a young angel sprawled on his back, in the center of a growing pool of blood. The boy had a sword in hand. A sword that he''d plunged deep into his own chest. The light was fading from his wings, just as his eyes lost the white film that came with using magic, his pupils wide and dark with fear and pain.


    A cloying, quiet voice in his mind. Hardened and merciless, despite its softness.  Would you rather it was you lying there? Your sister? Finish it.


    In the vision, whimpering and moaning, the boy pulled the sword out of his chest. And plunged it down again, that time aiming for his own neck.


    Mirk blinked his eyes open before the blade could hit, before he could be drawn into the thrall of Samael''s projection. Only once he had the ragged edges of his mental shielding back up did Mirk realize that he must have smacked himself in the side of the neck with his grandfather''s staff to jolt himself out of the emotions and the memory that went along with them. Not too hard, but he''d have a bruise to remember that night by once things were over. Somehow, it made Mirk feel a little better about things.


    He spared the briefest glance he dared at the Watch guardsmen, to ensure that Er-Izat and Am-Hazek were still standing. Am-Hazek wasn''t doing well, using his sword to parry blows but reluctant to return any, trying to use the flat side of it and his magic to stun the spelled guardsmen rather than leveling them with strikes that could end their lives. Er-Izat showed no such mercy. He''d gotten hit a few times, his shirt bloodied and ripped in places, but Mirk got the impression that the majority of the stains on it were from the guardsmen, not Er-Izat¡¯s own injuries. He''d leveled at least a dozen of them with fists that shone with a dull green magic. Most of those men weren''t moving, unlike those Am-Hazek had gotten the better of. Swallowing hard, Mirk lowered his mental shielding again, plunging back into the emotional maelstrom in front of the West Gate, into things felt rather than seen.


    Mirk only half-knew what he was doing. He hadn''t been trained at all in combat empathy, but he''d had the essential elements explained to him. Just enough to hopefully disrupt the hold Samael had on the men''s minds. Before letting himself be pulled under by his own feelings, his own memories, Mirk offered a silent prayer to the Holy Mother that Samael was young and frightened enough that his own instinctual efforts would be enough to spare the guardsmen Er-Izat''s fists.


    Samael must have been drawing on memories of his own training to control the Watch men, his conviction that he needed to obey in order to avoid a worse fate. Mirk decided to counter it with his own memories of his father testing his empathy. To try to convince Samael, with feelings rather than words, that there was still a way out.


    It had been sunny that day, the ewe unaware that there was anything ahead of her besides an afternoon spent grazing on the lush summer bounty in the pasture off to the west of their manor. The ewe was a concession to him, a sop to his frivolousness, something to keep him from missing the Abbey''s animals, their recalcitrant mule and the old cow who no longer gave any milk and the flock of geese that Mirk refused to let the brothers fatten up for Christmas. Now she''d serve a more productive purpose: if Mirk couldn''t impose his will on an ewe, there was no hope of him ever doing the same to a human, not to mention a full-blooded angel.


    It won''t hurt, his father reassured him, his hands on his shoulders, in the French that still sounded clumsy and strange in his mouth despite decades of speaking it with his mother and him.  It won''t even feel it. Animals do not have the minds to feel this.


    In the opinion of many angels, neither did humans.  Ilae  Lei had asked his father before they''d set out that afternoon why he was starting Mirk off with an animal, with such a trivial task.  Ilae  Lei thought his father was indulging him again, making things so easy that it was impossible for him to face the humiliating sting of failure. But  Ilae  Lei had never had a very charitable view of humans, despite living among them for over a century by then.


    Still, Mirk hesitated. His father''s palm was warm on his forehead.  Go on. Try. It won''t feel anything.


    But it would.  She  would, Mirk realized, as he lowered the shields around his mind and let his empathy stretch out to the ewe. The ewe''s mind was quiet, her concerns too fleeting and vague for someone like his father to feel. But Mirk felt them as he ordered her to lie down, to rest. A flash of hot, animal panic as his will pressed down on the ewe¡¯s haunches and she collapsed into the grass. A desperate yearning for the fresh clump of clover that was just out of reach, the painful certainty that if she didn''t eat it, if she didn''t keep eating everything good she could find, that the lamb who curled up against her belly every night would die alone and cold.


    Mirk recoiled from the metallic tang of her fear with all the apologies he could project. A yelp of fear and hurt as instinctual as the ewe''s bleat of alarm snuck past his lips as he stumbled back against his father''s chest. He could feel the tears already welling up at the corners of his eyes, unbidden.


    He was weak. Pathetic. But he couldn''t bear the burden of even that bare instant of panic he''d caused the ewe.


    He had been expecting to feel disappointment from his father, shame as he mumbled his excuses and swiped at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. Instead, he felt his father''s worry wrap around him a second before his arms did, as immovable as iron, faintly warm with his magic. A distant echo of the same panic the ewe had felt over the uncertain fate of her lamb, only on a vast, intricate scale that his own small mind couldn''t fully grasp.


    Let it go. You''ve done enough, he heard his father say, in his halting French. There was nothing but softness in his words. Softness that deepened as his affection and care washed over Mirk, his father pressing him close to his chest as he mumbled more words in an angelic that was so rapid he wouldn''t have understood them, had his mind not been fully open.


    You have enough of Annette in you not to be a monster like the rest of us. Thank the Light Eternal...


    He''d been worried over nothing. He wasn''t a failure. His weakness was, for once, something to be cherished rather than trained away.


    The feel of that relief, that love, was only strong enough to make Samael''s concentration waver for a few seconds. But it was all the guardsmen needed. Mirk awoke to the sound of slurred curses and clanking armor and a fresh wave of fear, that time echoing in his unshielded mind at two dozen pitches that accompanied the low thrum of Samael''s dread in a discordant crescendo.


    The Watch guardsmen who hadn''t yet been leveled by Er-Izat ran the moment Samael''s grip on their minds faltered. Er-Izat and Am-Hazek didn''t pursue any of the men who stumbled off into the night in ones and twos, most of them still too disoriented and hurt to think to drag the injured off along with them. It didn''t matter. As soon as it was clear to the two djinn that the magic that compelled the Watch men to stay had been broken, they both turned their attention to the group that''d been hiding behind them.


    Casyn, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet and reaching for his sword. Sharael lying motionless and bloodied on the cobbles at his feet, and Samael sitting beside her, his hands bound behind his back with a length of chain that sparked with dark magic. Ravensdale was a few paces away, finishing a summoning circle that he was drawing in front of the gate with a bowl full of clumpy, dark red paste after consulting a dogeared sheet of mage parchment one final time.


    "I was right! Just the two djinn and the nob," Casyn gibbered more to himself than Ravensdale, his sword rattling against his scabbard as he pulled it halfway free. As if trying to reassure himself that it wouldn''t be needed, that he wouldn''t actually have to fight Er-Izat or Am-Hazek, no matter how less impressive they both were than a whole horde of angry djinn.


    Ravensdale ignored Casyn, rising back to his feet and cramming both the bowl and the sheet of mage parchment into his pocket. "You''d better be worth this," he hissed at Samael as he stepped onto the outermost ring of the summoning circle and called to his magic. "Or I''ll take the bitch after all. And you  will watch."


    Samael said something back at him, but his voice was lost in the sudden groaning of the stone and iron arch above the West Gate. Whatever the summoning circle was doing to it was unnatural, not the sort of thing the City was made for. The gate didn''t crackle and spit black sparks like the field transporter did when it activated, nor did reality seem to blur at the edges of the arch, like it did when the mages channeled the City''s chaos up through the Glass Tower and used it to firm up one of the other gate''s anchoring spells. Instead, the stones of the West Gate''s arch rattled against one another, the iron glowing red hot as a ghostly set of white bars appeared across the gate. A second gate, one that wasn''t Earthly in the slightest.


    "What do we do?" Er-Izat shouted back at Mirk.


    Mirk firmed up his grip on his grandfather''s staff, stepping up to join the two djinn despite the fact that Samael''s fear was screaming at him to run like the Watch guardsmen had. "I don''t think there''s anything we can do, monsieur."


    "Would it be better if we ran?" Am-Hazek asked, his head flicking to one side as he looked after the guardsmen, though his feet stayed planted where they were.


    "An Am-Djinn can run," Er-Izat said, his voice flat as he stripped off his bloodied shirt. Its shredded sleeves and bloodied front was more a hindrance than any protection by then. "An Er-Djinn must fight."


    Am-Hazek sighed, giving his loaned sword an experimental, but more focused swing than before. "Then it is done."


    Er-Izat cracked his neck, then nodded. "It is done."


    The light radiating from the summoning circle faded and the phantom bars across the West Gate solidified. Ravensdale looked up at them with his hands on his hips, whatever triumph he felt at his accomplishment lost beneath the cold press of Samael''s dread. His voice was almost lost in the sound of the second gate swinging open as well. "If Percy fucked this, I''ll kill him."


    Mirk couldn''t hear Samael over the sound of the gate. But Mirk could see the desperation in his eyes, even if he couldn''t hear the words he chose to beg Mirk to save him from who Ravensdale had summoned with his circle.


    A faint white light grew within the void the West Gate opened out into, and it was all Mirk could do to keep himself from running like Am-Hazek had suggested. Then a single pinprick of blue light joined the white, and the knot in his stomach loosened.


    Red followed. Then green, then all the colors Mirk could imagine, the pure white of the Light Eternal run through the prismatic magic of an angel who all the others spurned as wrong, different, strange. His godfather Aker stepped up to the threshold of the West Gate, his odd, segmented armor gleaming with the glow of another realm''s setting sun, and surveyed the mayhem that''d been wrought on the other side of the gate with an appalled grimace.


    "Light Eternal, what a mess," Aker said into the silence that followed his arrival.


    Samael collapsed onto his front on the cobbles, weeping with relief so strong that Mirk found tears welling up in his own eyes. He loosened his grip on Jean-Luc''s staff just long enough to swipe them away on his sleeve as he drew his shielding back up around his mind. Something in him knew he wouldn''t see his godfather again for decades after this. Maybe even centuries. Mirk didn''t want his last glimpse of him to be blurred with tears.


    Ravensdale was too assured of his own triumph to notice Samael''s reaction. He bent in half at the waist, thumping his fist over his heart in an awkward attempt at the Imperial salute. "Lord Imanael," he said, as he lifted his head. "I have an offer for you."


    His  olaein''s weary frown deepened into a scowl. One that only the sight of him standing alongside Am-Hazek and Er-Izat behind Ravensdale was enough to lessen. It was replaced by another grimace as he locked eyes with Mirk. Despite having pulled his shields back up, Mirk could feel Aker''s regret as clearly in that moment as if they''d been clasping hands.


    Aker¡¯s voice was a whisper against Mirk''s shields.  Mikael would kill me for this. But he''d be proud of you.


    Then Aker stepped back from the threshold of the West Gate, calling one side of the second gate, gone pale and indistinct once more, into his hand with a flash of his prismatic magic.


    "For calling me by that name, you deserve whatever happens to you," Aker said to Ravensdale, flashing him a vicious, humorless grin before pulling the gate closed. Both he and the second gate vanished with the sound of distant, tinkling bells.


    "Wait! Wait, you didn''t even..."


    The light on the other side of the West Gate died, leaving nothing behind but the City''s usual shadows. Snarling in frustration, Ravensdale whirled around to face them. His displeasure only increased when, with a helpless shrug, Casyn shoved his sword back into its scabbard and vanished with the clap of a teleportation spell.


    "Fuck him. Fuck all of them," Ravensdale muttered, yanking back his sleeves. There were runes on both of his forearms, and he was too far away for Mirk to tell whether they were carved into his flesh or only written in blood. Ravensdale jerked his right arm upward and Samael bounced on the rain-slick cobblestones with a whimper of pain, the chains wrapped around his hands and arms sparking once more with dark-colored magic that was soon overpowered by the glow cast by Samael''s winglight. The chains were drawing Samael''s magic out of him just like the collars did out of Ravensdale''s djinn, Mirk realized. Readying it for Ravensdale''s use.


    Mirk looked first right at Er-Izat, then left at Am-Hazek. Both of them were standing firm. Though there was the beginnings of a smile on Am-Hazek''s face that Mirk couldn''t sense the meaning of.


    "Two djinn and a nob. You''ll do well enough until Percy gets here with the other djinn," Ravensdale muttered at Samael, pulling hard on the magic rising off his wings, forming it with arcane gestures into a bolt of potential fit to level everything in front of him, both Mirk and the two djinn and the few guardsmen who still had the strength to cling to life, but not enough left to crawl away.


    Mirk felt it before he saw it ¡ª a disturbance in the shadows that filled the West Gate behind Ravensdale. A familiar, staticky hissing against his mind. But one that didn''t carry with it the chill Mirk was accustomed to.


    "Three djinn, you useless, pathetic worm. John Jackson."


    Ravensdale whirled back around toward the West Gate. Then Am-Gulat lunged out of the shadows, bringing the pointed end of his war hammer down into Ravensdale''s face before he could release his bolt of stolen magic.