《Soft Light》


 Prologue: Crossing

    The sea defies existence; its touch is death.


    Shimmering waves of vibrant impossibility roil and swell across an infinite horizon, marching inwards from beyond eternity to crash against reality¡¯s unstable edge. The water sings and gibbers as it churns, shouting flagrant lies and whispering dark secrets in a thousand languages no human tongue could ever imitate. The riotous waves fall silent only when they fall against the land.


    Matter begins with an open field of tightly rippled glass. This barren crystal plain forms a narrow shore between the calamitous waters and a land of deep shadow.


    Back from the edge, at a remove of ten long paces, the cool dark glass gives way to arid stone. Farther inward by another hundred steps, that dry rock leads into the ruins of a once-great city. The metropolis, what remains of it, barely stands. Its wind-worn, crumbled buildings hold themselves upright not in testament to their ancient strength, but merely for the lack of an opposing force.


    One solitary storm might collapse and wash away these desiccated bones of a civilization long decayed. Lucky, then, that water never falls here. Or, if not luck, perhaps design.


    By whatever mechanism, the old city endured just long enough to be reclaimed. Life has at last returned to one small corner of the dusty tomb, and now its ancient ruler watches over his new guests.


    At the center of a long-abandoned market square, a stone colossus carved in the likeness of a warrior king stands tall and proud. His decapitated head and the wreckage of a right arm which once gestured to the heavens both lie in rubble at his feet. Around his broken personage, a merchant caravan enjoys the pleasures of its own bustling camp.


    To the monument¡¯s left, a woman with a glowering jade face wrestles a shorter man with wide set lapis shoulders. Eager onlookers crowd the contenders in a tight ring, shouting their bets between calls of encouragement and playful insults. The game of dice with which this friendly contest had begun now lies abandoned beneath their shuffling feet.


    Farther along, an old man with twig-thin, triple-jointed fingers and four gnarled thumbs on each hand plays his thirty-stringed lyre to a small but appreciative audience. Other groups linger near enough to hear him, but not so close as to cause disruption with their chatter. While his lilting bardsong drifts beneath their words, the relaxing workers take turns recounting stories with which every member of their tightly gathered cohort is already well familiar.


    To the statue¡¯s right, laughter echoes constantly around a haphazard arrangement of soup kettles as cooks trade gossip for a ladled meal. Behind the kitchen, a ring of five inebriated heat-binders collaborates to maintain a small vortex of twirling sand. They drink every time it falls, and so imbibe with increasing frequency as the game progresses.


    Here and there, the odd laborer who still has tasks to complete darts amidst the night¡¯s momentary revelry. In most places, there is calm. In all, there is contentment.


    From a vantage high above, perched atop the towering shoulders of a headless king, one solitary man monitors the lively camp with a fond smile. His pleased expression runs opposed to dour lines that mar the dark skin of his aging face. Those subtle wrinkles speak of a youth given away to obligation, of a life half-passed yet only just begun. Bliss is clearly something new to him, or rather something long since set aside and only recently recovered.


    Tonight, the man has managed to recapture that untroubled sense of joy, if only in modest measure. For the most part, he simply feels relieved to find his people in such fine spirits and good health. Their long journey to this city taxed them, as always, and it pleases him to see how much energy and passion yet remains.


    Two years of repeated expeditions have ground away all traces of the apprehension and fatigue which had defined their early visits. Gone are the days of speaking in hushed tones for fear of waking vengeful ghosts. This ancient city, or at least the small part of it they occupy, finally feels alive.


    Satisfied with the condition of his camp, the watcher turns to glance back over his shoulder. His keen eyes drink the wane glow of a perpetually setting sun to scour the army of long shadows its distant radiance failed to banish. Amidst that lingering dark, he sees what he expected.


    Behind his perch, the rest of the ruined city stands silent and empty, lifeless per nature¡¯s decree. The vacant settlement¡¯s somber veil of deathly quiet causes most visitors to feel like trespassers within a tomb. The watcher felt that same guilt, when first he traveled here. And he felt it again, more keenly, when he cleared a path for his caravan through these deserted buildings.


    However, the practicalities of commerce have long since smothered his romantic superstitions. There is no trade route more vital or lucrative than his bridge across the sea of chaos, and his people have begun to rely upon its wealth. He will oblige the city¡¯s ghosts to hold their complaints, assuming any souls yet linger here.


    With nothing left to see, the man turns forward again and looks down once more to the lights and motion of his camp. He locates the members of his company who will join him for the opening ceremony and notes that they have already prepared themselves to depart. If their employer does not join them soon, he is at risk of being late.


    The tall man slips off his cloak, revealing a network of faded scars across his right arm and the matching side of his chest. He drapes the chlamys over one shoulder and holds its end tightly in his right hand.


    He rolls his neck and stretches an inhuman left arm, limbering its ageless joints more out of habit than necessity. The black, leathery prosthesis hangs nearly six feet from shoulder to nail, with its elbow bending just below his hip. Three clawed fingers dangling at its end curl and flex above his ankle as he readies himself to wield the power it contains.


    Then, without further hesitation or concern, he steps off the statue¡¯s neck and plummets toward the ground.


    Cold wind buffets him as the earth rushes closer. Brass ornaments sewn into the hems of his knee-length chiton and its over-kilt stop the garments from billowing as he falls. His long cloak whips behind him over his right shoulder, its fabric unburdened and out of the way. Nothing blocks his view of the oncoming stone.


    With mere seconds to spare before impact, the falling man sets his birthright authority against gravity¡¯s hold and tears governance of his own inertia from nature¡¯s hands. In wielding this dominion, he gains an immediate and intimate awareness of the physical laws controlling his fall. Comprehension conjoined with authority siphons into his body through his skeletal left arm and pools inside the bones that share its ink-black color.


    With a minor exertion of will, he erases the thought of his descent from the world, and his momentum vanishes as if it had never been. For a moment afterward, he hangs motionless.


    In the next instant, he relaxes his hold. Gravity restores its touch with a tentative caress, yet he does not permit it to grasp him fully. Instead of dropping like an eager stone, he gently drifts to Earth in the unhurried manner of a feather. He falls this way for a breath and a half before his leather sandals touch softly upon the stone, and he settles with the quiet poise of a fallen leaf.


    Wasting no further time, he returns his weight to nature¡¯s stewardship, pulls the cloak back on, then strides forward through his camp. His people nod or call to him in passing, but otherwise continue with their business and their games. He returns their nods but does not stop to join them; his work for the night will soon begin.


    First, he must collect his spear. He¡¯d left it lying on the ground at the edge of camp, next to an unassuming three-legged stool. His long gait crosses the ground swiftly, detouring as necessary around the cavorters and their hangers on, and soon he finds both seat and weapon sitting precisely where he discarded them.


    The man bends to grab the spear in his right hand while lifting the stool with his left. With both necessary objects now in hand, he exits camp through a decluttered avenue which leads toward the incomprehensible sea. He hears additional footfalls as five of his subordinates fall in behind him, each of them carrying a pack stuffed with cloth padding. Their contingent walks the stone path together, matching his pace, and soon they pass beyond the city¡¯s final crumbling wall.


    Only a hundred paces of stone and ten of glass lie before them now. Beyond those narrow surfaces waits a brilliant void of violent nothing that might conjure any dream at every moment. None of them look at it directly. For reasons beyond man¡¯s comprehension, they won¡¯t hear the water¡¯s voices so long as they pretend it isn¡¯t there.


    Even while averting their eyes, however, they feel the wrongness, the un-nature of that impossible ocean. Its wild influence wafts over them like a hot sea breeze. The false wind carries a thousand half-formed thoughts that vanish before their minds have time to understand.


    To their leader, it is a familiar discomfort. His gait never falters, and his people follow steadily in his wake. They stop only when they reach the line of glass. Here, their leader sets his stool upon the ground and settles in to loiter. It won¡¯t be long now. He shuts his eyes, awaiting the telltale scent of stale air.


    With calm, steady breaths, he meditates through the next few minutes. Without looking, he knows that each of his subordinates has turned their back to the sea. None of them care to face infinity, even with their eyes closed. Their leader cannot fault them for cowardice, as their choice shows more wisdom than his own. Still, he won¡¯t turn away in imitation. No worldly experience compares to the magic which awaits.


    It always starts slowly.


    Through closed eyes, he begins to see. A soft light shimmers faintly in the darkness of his blinded sight. The weak, distant glow brightens slowly as it nears, carrying with it a stream of sound, scent, sensation. A trickle of faint impressions slowly builds into a surge of feelings and experiences.


    The man feels upon his skin the false-familiar heat of a blistering noonday sun. He tastes the pleasant tang of foreign wines, breathes the subtle fragrance of exotic flowers, hears the bubbling giggles of a young child, and feels the soft brush of a woman¡¯s hand against his cheek. He catches a glimpse of his coastal homeland from the eyes of a hawk flying high beneath low clouds. From the bottom of a crystalline river, he watches strange quadrupedal giants as they bend their slender necks to drink.


    He hears chanting and song in a dozen languages unknown to his people. Tender caresses, rough blows, blood, perfume, long roads, narrow alleys, dark waters, cold mountains, and endless skies trapped in eternal nights. All these things and hundreds more crash into him in waves.


    The man holds tight to his identity against the mounting pressure. His long left arm grinds its claws against the stone, careful not to touch the glass, and his human right arm presses a strong thumb against his thigh. Through these feelings, he reminds himself of what is real, of what is here.


    With the rest of his attention, he revels in the discordant chorus of alien worlds singing their existence into the void. He allows their stories to wash over his soul, drinking in as much of their wisdom and wonder as his consciousness can swallow. When the flow at last begins to ebb and his awareness gradually resurfaces, he feels both relief and loss. He has outlasted the flood and returned to his empty desert.


    The man breathes deep, expecting and finding the familiar musk of an acrid and windless plain. That signal means the time has come. Knowing that the sea no longer threatens him, he opens his eyes. Before him, a great wall of liquid night rises upward to the stars. Its dark presence looms endlessly above, featureless and unknowable.


    The watcher hefts his spear and stabs its golden point into the infinite black curtain. Viscous shadow pushes back against him, resisting his strength by clinging to its own substance like pitch. He sets his feet and engages the muscles of his back, then drives the spear deeper. He knows without doubt that the wall between worlds has grown thin enough to pierce, and he will not be denied.


    ¡°Open,¡± he commands. His deep voice casts a ripple across the barrier¡¯s surface. An iridescent wave comprising a thousand effervescent colors surges outward from his spear tip like water yielding to a plunging stone. He quickly steps forward into that depression, maintaining force. Then, at the point of his thrust, the curtain splits at last, and the liquid void pulls open like a parting veil.


    The dark, desolate world waiting on its other side holds even less life than the ancient city at his back. No sun or stars shed their light upon its surface. In heaven¡¯s place, it has a lid.


    High above black sand dunes, but well below the elevation of clouds, a dull metal sky floats unbuoyed and unmoored. The slag ceiling stretches outward beyond sight, seeming either a reflection of the desert below or the surface of a second world. Looming so close, it appears mere seconds removed from calamitous impact, yet it does not fall. Some unseen force holds its endless bulk aloft and steady, as if it rests upon the shoulders of a god.


    Metal spines hanging from the underside of that smelted mass reveal its contours in flashes of crimson light. The stalagmites flare and dim in an asynchronous dance, flickering like torchbugs. Too dim and discordant to illuminate the world below their perch, they shine just bright enough to glint upon the desert¡¯s black sand.


    If not for their pale clothing and pallid skin, the dozen slim figures waiting on the far side would blend completely into their native gloom. Even given the stark contrast between their bodies and land, they still nearly fade into the all-encompassing shadow.


    Though he can barely discern their features under the present lighting, the man knows from prior exchanges that every member of the opposing contingent is female. The reason behind this custom remains a mystery to him, one of many peculiarities which he now accepts as a matter of course.


    Two of the pale women, the obvious leaders of their band, hide their faces beneath painted wooden masks. Inscriptions he cannot read adorn their foreheads. The long, tubular sleeves of their tunics drape loose at the wrist. Beneath those tunics¡¯ knee-length skirts, strange garments wrap their legs in additional tubes.


    Soft conical hats with forward-tucked points lightly perch atop their onyx-black hair. Brass hooks sewn along the caps¡¯ forward brims pass through boreholes at the masks¡¯ upper edge, allowing the thin wooden faceplates to hang freely.


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    Apart from their headgear, the servants lurking farther from the portal dress after a similar fashion. However, while the laborers come clad in linen, their masters wear silk.


    The long-armed man regards that leading pair with a wary respect, and their bearing implies a matching attitude towards him and his inhuman limb. With the portal between them, neither party should fear the other¡¯s treachery, but both sides have seen the strange magics their opposites wield. Caution is only natural, but it also wastes time.


    Breaking the needless standoff, the tall man lifts the golden spear in his right hand to salute his opposites. He calls a simple greeting in their foreign tongue, speaking one of the few phrases he knows from that archaic language.


    One of the masked women, the older of the two by considerable margin, repays his salutation. She responds not through speech but with motion. Her arms wave and fingers dance in a complex sequence of graceful gestures. A bare-faced servant standing at the old woman¡¯s side translates the message into spoken words. Her intonation carries a thick accent, betraying her lack of fluency, but her voice travels clearly through the still night air.


    ¡°Gods keep you, Prince of Merchants. May the Artisan favor our meeting.¡±


    The self-styled prince nods his agreement and steps back before turning to signal his subordinates. All five have already set their packs on the ground and pulled open the lids, patiently waiting to unload the wares stored within. At their leader¡¯s signal, one of their number approaches the portal and unrolls a brightly patterned rug across the stone. Once the mat is ready, the others approach and begin to arrange their goods upon the fabric.


    On the portal¡¯s far side, the two masked women direct their inferiors to prepare a similar display. As before, the foreign leaders communicate using only their hands and arms, speaking nothing aloud. The same servant who spoke previously continues her service by softly translating orders for the uncomprehending laborers.


    In short order, both contingents have arranged their offerings before the gate. The merchant hands his golden spear to a subordinate before the five withdraw again. Then he steps onto the rug and strolls forward towards the portal. He walks a narrow path between the goods until he reaches the edge, where, in a deliberate show of boldness, he stops only one pace before crossing.


    On the other side, the masked crone advances to an equivalent point. She places herself slightly to the man¡¯s left. Offset by a single stride, the two leaders stand almost shoulder to shoulder. From these positions, they examine the curious goods arrayed before them.


    Their meetings always begin with small items. Most of these trinkets carry little value or importance, but this practice gives them something to barter over before they progress to the prearranged exchange of bulk materials. The opening event functions as something between a social nicety and a game. It might even qualify as tradition, given that their first trade consisted of nothing but the expendable objects they happened to have on hand.


    In any case, this is simply how they start.


    After a brief moment of assessment, both of them begin to pick out the novelties and relics they find most fascinating. Rather than conversing through an intermediary, they communicate by assembling two groups of matching goods. After a few minutes of pointing and rearranging, they share a nod to seal the deal.


    Both leaders step back then, and two of their subordinates move forward to replace them. The old woman¡¯s servant and the tall man¡¯s employee carefully stack the chosen objects into otherwise empty packs. When the goods are well arranged, the two leaders step forward again. The man effortlessly lifts his parcel with his inhuman arm. Like everything else, it feels weightless in his claws. The old woman, for her part, merely rests a hand upon her pack as a younger and stronger woman hefts it for her.


    Carefully, with keen awareness of positioning, they pass their bundles through the portal. First the merchant receives the grandmother¡¯s pack with his human arm, then he passes his own bundle into the servant¡¯s waiting hands. Throughout the exchange, the three of them move with deliberate caution to ensure that no portion of their living flesh brushes against the unseen wall between their worlds.


    Steady hands make safe work, and the transfer completes without issue. When the ritualized pleasantry concludes, both leaders withdraw once more, allowing their subordinates to gather up the remaining trinkets and remove the rugs. Once they¡¯ve cleared the ground before the portal, the time for real business has arrived.


    The man turns back to face the abandoned metropolis and the road his people carved through it. As expected, he sees a small train of heavily-laden wagons rolling towards him from the ancient city. The trundling vehicles carry crates of smoked meat, stacks of tanned hides, glazed amphorae filled with garum, and small boxes of ambergris. All according to his wizened counterpart¡¯s commission.


    Satisfied, he returns his attention to the other world to watch the pale foreigners haul their wooden sleds across a field of coarse, black sand. As the laborers drag their platforms forward in two parallel columns, a woman walks before both groups to douse their paths with water, creating slick tracks of mud to ease the desert¡¯s grip.


    The amphora from which she pours seems bottomless, disgorging far more liquid than the vessel could possibly contain. What¡¯s more, it almost appears as if the mud beneath their feet flows forward in a slow current, pushing the sleds just slightly faster. The merchant knows these bare-faced working women command no magic of their own, so one of their masked masters must have conjured that irrational jug into being before handing it off.


    He isn¡¯t sure which of the two, the young woman or her elder, possesses that ability. Given what he¡¯s seen of the crone¡¯s dominion, he would judge her the less likely source, but the applications and limits of their power seems far more arbitrary than his own. Either way, it''s a pity such artifacts can¡¯t cross between worlds. The merchant would pay handsomely for a portable wellspring, but since the gate won¡¯t allow that transfer, he¡¯ll settle for the riches of the earth.


    Per longstanding agreement, the approaching sand-sleds carry crates of unrefined silver ore, small chests of uncut topaz, and stacked spools of tightly-wound silk thread. These raw materials will route to his refiners, jewelers, and weavers, respectively. Under the full light of day, the gemstones will glint in a dozen subtle shades of black while the fabric shimmers with the gloss of pearl. All three products should generate good profits after processing.


    The first sled reaches the portal ahead of the first wagon, and the pale women push their burden halfway through the gate before the merchant steps forward to relieve them. His left hand touches the platform without him needing to bend, and he digs his claws into the wood.


    With an errant thought, he consumes the sled¡¯s weight and easily pulls it through the rift between worlds. He carefully drags the top-heavy vehicle out of the way, then leaves it for his subordinates to unload and returns to the portal to assist with the next transfer.


    His wagons arrive shortly thereafter, and the other members of his group labor alongside him, applying muscle and magic in whatever measures each one can. The merchant banters with some of them, paying special attention to those few who had never seen the edge of their world before tonight. Even the new joiners seem to take the unearthly sight in stride, and he feels a measure of pride at their easy focus.


    He chose his people well.


    Working efficiently and with practiced coordination, the merchant and his company quickly intake and unload all of the outworlder¡¯s sleds. As each platform becomes available, they pack it with goods from the wagons and push it back through the gate.


    The women on the other side work slightly slower. Their shoes of tightly-woven bark sink into the black desert with every step, and the runners of their sand-sleds encounter heavy friction after pulling aside from the mud trail. All the same, they move with sufficient haste to keep the portal clear, and the night¡¯s work progresses swiftly. Soon enough, they finish the exchange.


    With their task completed, the caravans immediately ready themselves to leave. As the laborers withdraw, the merchant and his counterpart meet once more at the gate, where the old woman carefully passes a sheaf of papyrus through the portal. On its surface, a tabulated list of pictures and numbers communicates her desired goods and her offered payment. The values haven¡¯t changed since their last meeting, so the merchant records his assent with an ink-pressed claw mark.


    He passes the page back and they exchange a quick round of half-understood pleasantries, then their business concludes. With a parting nod, the merchant turns his back on the other world and walks away. One of his employees returns his golden spear, which he accepts with a word of thanks despite having no further use for the sacred implement. The gate will close of its own accord soon enough.


    The merchant¡¯s mind turns to the ports in which he¡¯ll sell his new goods, and he trails distractedly at the rear of his convoy. He travels only a dozen steps across the stone before a startled cry draws his attention back to the other side.


    In the black desert, a bare-faced young woman has broken away from her station and sprinted for the gate. Her fellows shout surprised objections, and some briefly try to catch her, but none pursue far. The younger of the masked noblewomen attempts to act more decisively. She grabs her mask and nearly pulls it free, but stops when her elder lays a gentle hand upon her arm. Understanding the silent order, she stands down, and the masters take no action as their fleeing servant rushes to her doom.


    The merchant, for his part, raises a hand in warning and commands the running woman to stop. Given the frantic look on her face, he expects to be ignored.


    Her panicked footfalls toss up sand as she swiftly closes the gap. Then, with a final leaping stride, she crosses the threshold. At least, her body does. The woman¡¯s mind, her soul, her breath of life, or whatever energy it is that animates the human form, that stays behind. All that passes through the portal is an empty corpse.


    A dead woman crashes into the rock and tumbles briefly as momentum carries her body forward. She stops face up, staring blankly at an alien sky. Her pale skin, deathly even when she lived, somehow seems ethereal beneath the golden glow of a sunlit world.


    Poor girl.


    The merchant wonders if this is the ending she had wanted, or if she had believed her masters lied about the danger. He isn¡¯t sure which possibility would pain him more, but that¡¯s a subject for later rumination. In this moment, he needs to act.


    He schools his expression then turns to check the reactions of his people. Writ upon their faces he sees pity, frustration, and hurt. A few of them mutter prayers. A few others mutter curses. One softly chides, ¡°Idiot.¡±


    The merchant silently agrees but holds his tongue. None of his employees seem confused by what occurred, so he has no need to explain. In that case, he doesn¡¯t feel like speaking at all. He walks forward to the corpse in grim silence and gently touches a single claw to her shoulder. With a wordless command, he lifts her body into the air.


    She might have preferred a burial in his world, considering what she risked to reach it. In the absence of her final testament, however, he¡¯d rather return the woman¡¯s flesh to the home of her soul. The merchant wouldn¡¯t know what rites to perform for her funeral anyway.


    With a gentle push, he returns her body through the gate. His influence fades slowly as she drifts through the air. Rather than dropping like a stone as soon as she crosses, the woman floats forward and down until she settles softly on the onyx sand. The footprints left behind by her mad dash draw a vibrant line beneath her static form.


    When the corpse lies still, the masked women approach. The younger of them bends to lift the body from the desert. She nods her head to the merchant, and he nods back. He gestures at the dead woman and asks for her name. The older woman understands his meaning and answers through her translator. Committing the foreign sound to memory, he resolves to transcribe it in his record of this meeting.


    He nods again to the matron. ¡°Thank you, Lady Jaleh.¡±


    The old woman bows her head and sends a reply through her translator¡¯s voice.


    ¡°We thank you also, Lord Blackwing.¡±


    The masked women turn and walk away. The younger of them places the corpse on a sled while the elder gathers their workers. A few of the common women have begun weeping. One in particular seems inconsolable.


    The grandmother positions herself between the portal and her servants. Facing away from the gate, she lifts a hand to her face and removes the wooden mask. That simple action unleashes a swell of magic like nothing from the merchant¡¯s own world. Her sentiments and wishes pour into every mind around her, carried atop the gentle flood of her personal dominion.


    Even through the gate, with several paces between them and her back turned, Blackwing still feels the strength in the old woman¡¯s serenity. Her intention weaves throughout the mental current, and her magic almost seems to whisper in his mind. Though the message holds no words, he understands.


    ¡°Death is perfect peace. The dead should cry for us. You need not mourn for them.¡±


    Her magic instantly persuades its intended audience. The women who had begun to weep wipe dry their eyes, and all distress fades from their expressions. Collecting themselves, they look to their master with calm acceptance and thank her in subdued tones. With this accomplished, the old woman replaces her mask, and the surge recedes.


    Blackwing mentally shakes himself from the trance and shouts at his workers to rouse them from its effect. Under his direction, they continue their withdrawal to the city. Behind them, the gateway finally begins to close. The merchant feels the returning ocean¡¯s manifold lights, sounds, and scents as they softly intensify. He would normally pause to appreciate the change, but this no longer seems an apt time for wonderment.


    Three months will pass before their worlds draw near again. He hopes for a happier conclusion on that next meeting. He can bask in the experience then.


    ¡°No!¡±


    His heart nearly skips a beat when he hears another shout of alarm. He almost whirls back around before realizing the call came from his own side. He finds the one who yelled and sees her pointing back to the portal. What is it now?


    Blackwing turns back to the gate, averting his eyes from the encroaching sea. For a moment he sees nothing on the empty stone. Then, like a mirage, something flickers into view. He sees an unfamiliar waifish woman with pale skin and a painted wooden mask stumble towards him from the tatters of a shredded illusion.


    She¡¯s clearly a member of the other world¡¯s ruling caste, yet she stands on his side of the gate. She survived the crossing. How? Before Blackwing has time to comprehend, the woman clutches at her masked face and screams in pain.


    Understanding nothing about this stranger apart from her sudden need, he rushes to the traveler¡¯s side. He reaches the woman as she throws aside her mask and presses both palms against her eyes. To Blackwing¡¯s surprise, her young face looks fully human. He had expected stranger mysteries beneath the outworlders¡¯ constant fa?ade, but he puts those thoughts aside.


    The girl begins to collapse as he reaches her, so he catches her body with his human arm. As he gently lowers her to the ground, she begins to convulse. He shouts for assistance, but his people are already at his side. Someone drops by the girl¡¯s feet to restrain their thrashing kicks. Another person pulls her hands away from her eyes, revealing red marks on her face where she had dug her nails into the skin. A third helper arrives a moment later to force a strip of leather between her teeth before she can bite off her own tongue.


    Throughout it all, Blackwing watches helplessly. Only his human arm could be of any use, and its hand must continue cradling the girl¡¯s head to protect her skull from the unforgiving stone. All he can do is stare down at the painful metamorphosis occurring beneath her skin.


    Silver lines writhe beneath the surface, growing and forking in a rootlike network. He catches a brief glimpse of her eyes before she shuts them tight again, and he sees her irises and sclera shimmer with the same silver glint.


    With that, he thinks he understands what happened. The girl¡¯s magic must have changed when she crossed between worlds. She¡¯s growing her graft now, all at once, and the process is clearly excruciating. Having no other way to help, Blackwing tries to speak soothing words, promising that soon the pain will end. He could say anything at all; she won¡¯t understand him even if she¡¯s still aware of a world beyond the pain.


    Looking down at her face, he notices with dim distraction that the skin above her graft is also changing. He watches in fascination as pale alabaster slowly darkens to an olive tone. The transition makes her seem less otherworldly. Blackwing had assumed the foreigners lacked pigment because they had no sun, but their coloration must instead result from their native magic. With that realization, their homeland seems even stranger to him.


    While he muses, the girl falls silent, having finally fainted. As her graft finishes its development and the painful changes stop, her breathing gradually calms. After another minute of slowly weakening shivers, she eventually looks like she¡¯s peacefully dreaming. Blackwing sighs in relief at the sight of her placid face. The exhale releases more tension than he¡¯d known his body held.


    The girl will live. For the first time, someone actually survived the crossing.


    Blackwing glances towards the portal then quickly looks away. The dark curtain between worlds has disappeared, and the sea of change has returned to its rightful place. Absorbed as he was by the adolescent outworlder¡¯s difficult arrival, the merchant hadn¡¯t noticed when the gate closed. He¡¯ll need to wait three months to learn Jaleh¡¯s response to this development.


    In the here and now, one of his subordinates retrieves the leather strip from the girl¡¯s mouth and wipes the spittle off her face. Another hand gently turns her head skyward and brushes her hair aside, revealing the full extent of her new graft. On seeing it, they gasp in shock.


    The silver markings on her face no longer resemble roots. With their pattern complete, Blackwing recognizes the outline of feathers. He stares at the intricate design in quiet stupefaction. After a moment, he confirms that no member of his group has ever seen the like.


    Grafts don¡¯t draw pictures on their host¡¯s skin. This change isn¡¯t natural.


    What did this to her?

 Chapter 1: Reason

    A dark stone statuette rotates slowly beneath a scholar¡¯s watchful eye. The monstrous figurine depicts a creature with roughly human proportions, grotesquely assembled from a mesh of interwoven arms and hands. In a few, seemingly random locations, stray limbs break free from the body¡¯s central form to writhe about and claw at the air. The figure¡¯s lurching pose suggests the motion of a forward lunge. Near the base of its misshapen head, the imprint of a mouth hangs open in a silent roar.


    Sculpted glass fingers click softly against the grim carving as the scholar turns his object of study for a final time. Then, with an unconscious furrowing of his brow, he gently lays the fearsome creature flat upon his crystalline palm and ignites the delicate bones of his hand with a minor exertion of will. The light stored within his glass-hewn graft shines brightly through its transparent casing to illuminate the carving from beneath. The scholar squints against the overbright light for a brief moment before an absent thought dampens the output to a more comfortable glow.


    Relaxing his squint and unfurrowing his brow, the thirty-something year old man stares down with a contemplative expression at the strange item balanced in his palm. Fully oblivious to his surroundings, he leans further forward in his wicker chair, stooping over a square wooden table which spans just large enough that it might comfortably seat four people were it not shoved into the corner of a small, windowless room. Instead, it seats two.


    The chamber¡¯s only other occupant sits primly in a chair to the scholar¡¯s left, at the table¡¯s sole remaining edge. A clay-bodied oil lamp burns gently at her side, providing an independent and consistent source of illumination for her scribe work. Before her rests a finely crafted papyrus sheet, half-covered in cleanly written script. She presses the drying nib of her reed pen against the tail of an abandoned sentence while observing the scholar with a neutral expression.


    The young woman lifts the pen toward her mouth as if to chew it, then taps its end against her chin. The reed produces a dull click as it bounces against warm stone. Vertical striations of dark green jade drape across her lower face, covering her bottom lip, jaw, and neck. The living rock moves like flesh as she speaks.


    ¡°Sir.¡± The scribe prompts her enraptured coworker; when the older man fails to respond, she tries again at louder volume. ¡°Docent Lamphand, may I hear the remainder of your analysis?¡±


    ¡°Just Lamp, please.¡± The scholar replies, finally looking up. ¡°How long have we known each other? Almost two years? And could you remind me when I stopped speaking?¡±


    She waves at the black statuette with her pen and patiently replies. ¡°You were commenting on its arms.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Thank you, Emerald. I¡¯ll resume my ramblings, then.¡±


    Lamp holds up the figurine and taps a crystal finger against one of the monster¡¯s twenty-seven fully defined arms. As he continues speaking, the young woman transcribes a condensed summation of his words.


    ¡°The limbs seem to sprout from its body like branches from a tree. Some of them even grow as secondary or tertiary extensions from the primary shoots. Most interestingly, you can see three isolated arms growing directly from the terrain at the figure¡¯s base, suggesting this creature can either conjure its appendages at range or burrow them underground like roots.¡±


    Lamp gently sets the statuette on the table but keeps his graft active to see it better. After a pause, he continues.


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to judge through the mess of arms, but I think the sculptor tried to indicate a womanly silhouette for the central body. The limbs themselves also appear somewhat feminine to my eye, or at least slender. If the creature is female, then I believe we¡¯ve encountered references to her in prior readings. This could be our first visual representation for the Icon of Manslaughter.¡±


    Emerald nods in recognition without looking up from her page. Lamp waits for the scribe to finish writing. When her pen falls silent, he gently taps the black idol with a glass finger and listens attentively to the clink.


    ¡°Lastly, the material. The figure appears to be carved from black quartz. That stone, to my knowledge, is found nowhere inside the caldera or even on the rim. I have, however, heard recent rumors of a silver mine located somewhere in the wasteland that also produces black topaz. If I recall correctly, topaz, silver, and quartz may all be found in granite, so the base material might have come from that site. Of course, my supposition only holds true if this piece is of both local manufacture and fairly recent origin.¡±


    Across the table, Emerald scribbles down everything he says, or at least an abbreviation of it. After a few moments, she lifts her pin and looks up at him expectantly. In response, Lamp hands the figurine back to her. She accepts the item in one hand while pushing her notes out of the way with the other. Then she lifts her satchel from the floor, retrieves a small wooden box lined with cloth padding, and carefully tucks away the statuette.


    Lamp briefly hopes she¡¯ll pull another object from the bag, but instead she stows her notes and closes the flap. It appears their work has concluded for the day. That¡¯s a pity. Lamp had wanted to crack another translation. Feeling slightly disappointed but overall content, the scholar pushes his chair back from the table and all but jumps to his feet. He indulges his stiff body with a few minor stretches while waiting for his partner to stand.


    ¡°Are we meeting again next month?¡± He asks the young woman as she exits her seat with considerably more grace and composure than he had bothered to attempt himself.


    She shrugs in response to his question. ¡°We¡¯ve processed every item stored onsite, so our schedule will depend on what we receive from the excavation. If there¡¯s no need for the next regular meeting, we¡¯ll send you a cancellation notice at least a week in advance.¡±


    When Emerald mentions ¡°the excavation¡± the corner of Lamp¡¯s mouth twitches, but he stifles his reaction before it can grow. Instead of smirking or shaking his head, he simply nods along in feigned belief.


    The scholar knows his clients are lying, and by now they must appreciate that he¡¯s intelligent enough to realize it, but the accusation remains unspoken. Lamp can easily pretend that every artifact he examines was plucked from the ancient, half-buried ruins of a city discovered by chance on some hitherto-unexplored island. Never mind that some of the objects Emerald brings him were clearly painted less than a month ago, and that none of her supposedly-ancient relics resemble the old-world artifacts he saw back in his cult years.


    Despite his silence, Lamp can¡¯t help but speculate, and he can only imagine two plausible motives for the ruse. Firstly, that his anonymous clients are using him to screen and legitimize a trove of counterfeits for sale to gullible collectors. Or, second and more striking, that they¡¯ve made contact with another world-tile and want to keep that massive revelation to themselves. Lamp isn¡¯t certain which outcome would annoy him most, but learning the truth of either might get him killed, so he¡¯s willing to play along.


    Or he was, at least. Lately he¡¯s started getting bold.


    ¡°Has the boss declined my latest request for a personal copy of your notes?¡± He asks.


    ¡°He did, unless you¡¯ve reconsidered our offer for a transfer?¡±


    That¡¯s the answer Lamp expected, so it hardly stings. He opens his mouth to decline Emerald¡¯s counter-proposal, responding mostly by reflex, but something makes him hesitate. Lamp realizes, numbly, that this is the first offer tendered since he passed the second anniversary of his¡­ change in lifestyle.


    The scholar shuts his mouth and pauses to think. He unconsciously taps his right thumb against its adjacent index finger. The twitch produces a dull clink. He barely notices the noise as he weighs Emerald¡¯s offer, considering the proposition more seriously than during any prior meeting. After a few moments of internal struggle, he reverts to his usual caution.


    ¡°That depends.¡± He answers. ¡°Are you ready to tell me who we work for?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Emerald shakes her head with a small frown. ¡°I¡¯m still not authorized to divulge that in advance.¡±


    ¡°Then I suppose our respective positions haven¡¯t changed.¡±


    She nods in agreement and plucks up her oil lamp, which the scholar takes as his queue to get the door. He leads their way out through the room¡¯s only exit, and the two of them step into a narrow hallway. Thin, vertical slits on the outer wall admit enough light for the scribe to extinguish her burning wick with a quick puff of air. Once that¡¯s done, she looks up with a politely impersonal smile.


    ¡°Thank you for your time, Lamp.¡±


    ¡°Likewise, Emerald. Please take care on your walk home.¡±


    ¡°I will, and you also.¡±


    They share a nod then turn opposite ways down the hall. Emerald takes their work with her, entrusting Lamp with the possession of nothing besides his memories of secrets he can¡¯t share, findings he can¡¯t publish, and credit he can¡¯t claim.


    Well. To be fair, he has both the memories and a good bit of money. At least rent isn¡¯t an issue for him anymore. That¡¯s probably worth the smothering of his only meaningful legacy.


    At any rate, there¡¯s nothing he can do about the policy of secrecy. His anonymous employer is clearly someone powerful, rich, and paranoid. Lamp doesn¡¯t want to make an enemy of such a person, so he¡¯ll stay well inside the lines they drew up in his contract. He does hope, however, that his contributions are attributed to him in the organization¡¯s private records.


    So long as his work is properly credited, the world might someday understand and appreciate the little bit of good he did for it. No one would sing his praises in the streets, of course, but it would be nice to have his name listed somewhere in the citations and footnotes of future treatises. Lamp smiles ruefully at the unambitious thought and pushes the matter from his mind.


    His measured pace soon brings him to the building¡¯s exit, and, after exchanging nods with the watchman, he pushes the door open and steps out onto a brick-paved street. The afternoon sun shines warmly through humid air, but a brisk sea breeze offsets the late day heat. Lamp pauses for a moment to enjoy the salt-scented wind. A deep inhalation transforms into a yawn, and he raises a forearm to cover his mouth.


    It¡¯s a cumbersome gesture. Lamp would normally prefer to use his hand for this, regardless of its unfavorable opacity, but the office he just exited happens to sit in one of his city¡¯s most esteemed neighborhoods. Lamp would hate to seem like a ruffian, traipsing about on their fine streets and yawning everywhere without the decency to fully obscure his mouth from high society¡¯s view.


    He could never be so debauched.


    With a private and short-lived smile, Lamp turns down the clean-swept avenue and begins walking home. The sunlit stroll quickly elevates his mood, and he decides on impulse to spend a little more time drinking in the day. At the next intersection, he detours towards the beach. Walking home along the seafront will make for a less efficient path, but there¡¯s nowhere else he needs to be tonight. He can take an hour to enjoy his afternoon.


    As Lamp walks downhill, he pulls sunlight into his grafts to replenish what he expended during the workday. His translucent bones flash black, and the surrounding air darkens slightly to create little pockets of gloom. The effect draws a few idle glances from passersby, but of course no one cares enough to stare. Lamp deactivates his magic less than a minute later, restoring his hands to their default appearance.


    Despite his initial intentions of a leisurely stroll, Lamp finds himself maintaining a purposeful stride that quickly brings him near the waterfront. As the elevation lowers and the smell of salt grows stronger, the district metamorphosizes around him. Fine stone houses with their beautiful courtyard gardens gradually transition into more modest assemblages of brick. A few minutes later, brick is joined by wood.


    Despite the declining wealth of each subsequent subdivision, the boulevard itself retains a high-class quality. Lamp would see a more pronounced decline in standards if he traveled just a block in either direction, but the road he chose for his afternoon stroll serves as the main route linking the docks and their imports to a community of high paying customers. Consequently, trip hazards such as mud puddles or broken pavers cannot be tolerated, lest they induce expensive falls.


    Naturally, the porters for whom this road is so carefully maintained comprise a minority of its traffic. Most pedestrians are either commuters like Lamp or customers on their way to visit the throng of merchant stalls that line the lower section of the avenue. The first examples of those humble little shops already dot the wayside, and it doesn¡¯t take much longer before Lamp begins to see them everywhere.


    At that point, the steady flow of foot traffic which he had followed downhill rapidly condenses into a crowd. The sudden press of bodies slows Lamp¡¯s progress, but not by much. With a sense of timing honed by decades of experience, he deftly weaves his way between stately palanquins, over-laden carts, and the implausibly massive backpacks of obvious weight-binders.


    He takes care to avoid bumping into workers, preemptively sidesteps potential thieves, and gives a wide berth to the most obviously wealthy visitors, acting less out of deference than caution. Most of all, he tries to avoid the Glassblood guards.


    Their red-and-gray patterned uniforms make them easy to pick out among the crowd, as do their large and ostentatious grafts. The puffed-up soldiers of fortune meander through the avenue and its surrounding alleyways in leisurely patrols, exchanging pleasantries with the well-to-do and keeping a watchful eye on everyone else. Lamp checks their positions periodically but restrains himself from staring, lest he seem suspicious.


    The scholar fully understands that his worries are overblown. He knows these foot patrols mostly serve as a deterrent, and he expects no real trouble from them. Despite that, he can¡¯t lay eyes on a Glassblood mercenary without dredging up painful memories.


    The sight of them pokes at his oldest wound, a mental scar inflicted by the week-long war in which their leader claimed this territory from its former master. Most of the company¡¯s current rank-and-file look too young to have participated in that fight, but they still take their orders from veterans who did, so Lamp feels disinclined to extend his trust.


    As a minor consolation, at least the flaxen-haired monster herself isn¡¯t present today. Lamp took a long detour the last time he spotted Clearheart on this street, and he¡¯s prepared to do so again. For all that she cultivates an atmosphere of peace and welcome within her district, and in spite of how long that atmosphere has persevered, he still doesn¡¯t trust the woman. Some childhood fears never fade.


    Lamp breathes easier once he finally reaches the waterfront and breaks away from the main thoroughfare. He maintains a brisk stride until the busiest cluster of docks falls behind him, then slows his pace to the leisurely walk he had imagined when setting out. With a restored calm, the scholar begins his stroll along the seawall, relishing the sensations of wind and sun once more.


    Seeking distraction, he turns his head toward the bay and attends to the haphazard fleet of fishing vessels and merchant ships therein. Innumerable boats of endless variety bob gently in the harbor¡¯s sheltered water, attracting seagulls whenever they pull a fish from the waves or throw waste over the side.


    Their drifting dance seems serenely intricate from the shore, but even through appreciative eyes, the boats can only hold his attention so long. Eventually, Lamp moves his gaze from the water of the bay to its curving coastline. His city hugs the edge of a crescent-shaped inlet, and his current position offers a beautiful view of the opposite bank. He recognizes a scant few locations he¡¯s visited over the years, but most of that vista only seems familiar from a distance. There are some zones he would never dare to visit, some districts he¡¯s no longer allowed to enter, and several boroughs outside those categories which he simply hasn¡¯t made the time to see.


    Lamp reflects that, despite having lived in this city all his life, he¡¯s walked through less than half of it. Recently, he hasn¡¯t traveled anywhere beyond four locations: his house, his market, the manor in which he tutors his clients¡¯ children, and the office where he meets Emerald to examine her monthly handful of curios. That static tendency hasn¡¯t troubled him much over the past few weeks, but maybe it ought to.


    On a sudden surge of whimsy, the scholar begins concocting rough plans for a relaxed day trip, giving little consideration to effort or expense. Entertaining idle fantasies of vineyard tours and fishing trips, he strolls carelessly along until a stone border-idol crosses his peripheral sight. The windworn, salt-pocked bust of a faceless, hooded figure returns his thoughts to the present with the realization that he¡¯s almost home.


    Taking note of the sun¡¯s position, he considers his schedule for the remainder of the afternoon. He has tomorrow off from his main job, and with no lectures to deliver or debates to judge in the morning, his options for tonight are wide open. He might as well get-


    ¡°Help!¡±


    A startled cry breaks Lamp¡¯s concentration. He thinks it came from behind and to his left, beyond the seawall and likely under one of the piers. The voice sounded male and old, though it¡¯s difficult to judge from just one word. For a moment, Lamp stands frozen, caught by indecision as he weighs compassion against prudence. In the very next heartbeat, he finds his body moving.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    The scholar clambers down from the sea wall to the beach. The familiar descent isn¡¯t quite as easy or as smooth as it used to be in his younger years, but he still knows the right technique, and he manages to find his footing in the sand without injuring or embarrassing himself. From that vantage, he can finally see what¡¯s going on.


    Under the shade of a nearby pier, he spies six young men standing around a hunched and disheveled figure. The late-adolescents taunt their apparent victim as he weakly pleads for them to let him go. Having witnessed more than enough, Lamp commits to his choice and calls for their attention.


    ¡°Bold of you to do this in broad daylight!¡± He shouts with a false bravado.


    All eyes turn to him, and he pushes down his fear before it shows. Remaining under the sun and within view of the public, he points towards the old man cowering in the sand.


    ¡°Whatever lesson you were trying to teach him, I think he¡¯s learned it! Let him go before someone crosses a line.¡±


    The six bullies assess Lamp with varied expressions. Three of them seem wary, two look confused, and the last one smirks but remains silent. None of the six offer an immediate response, and none step aside to let their captive escape.


    Lamp¡¯s options at this point are limited. He could shine a bright light in their eyes to make them uncomfortable, but that would give away his energy-type and thereby weaken his bluff. For now, the youths don¡¯t know what nature of power he commands, and, with his himation draped to cover his left arm above the wrist, they also can¡¯t judge the true size of his grafts.


    The ruffians can safely assume that Lamp isn¡¯t a magical heavyweight, else they would have recognized him. However, he can still present himself as a credible threat. A middling graft wielded by a determined opponent could cause this gang a lot of pain, so now they have to calculate whether their twisted fun is worth starting a real fight. The only question is whether the boys take their challenger seriously.


    The quality of Lamp¡¯s clothing works to his advantage in the mind game. Both he and the old man he¡¯s attempting to rescue are lucky this altercation occurred today, because the scholar always dresses up for his archeological gig.


    From a distance, the vibrant madder-dyed red of his himation wrap passes for a far more expensive kermes scarlet. That color suggests a wealth he doesn¡¯t actually possess, and his illusory refinement carries implications. If he¡¯s well-off but walking around without a bodyguard, then he must be either strong or crazy, right? Either way, he¡¯s probably dangerous.


    Lamp¡¯s fairly confident of his opening psychological edge, but it won¡¯t hold long. The faster he resolves this situation and disengages, the less scrutiny his fa?ade will need to endure. Thankfully, the old man finally spots his moment and springs away through a gap in his encirclement. One of his tormentors tries to trip the vagrant as he makes a hobbling dash for freedom, but the rest of them permit his escape without protest.


    All eyes then return to Lamp. The two confused-looking thugs glance towards the smirking one, and their apparent leader shakes his head in response. His keen eyes never leave Lamp¡¯s face, and his expression seems too knowing. Lamp doesn¡¯t like the look of that boy, so he figures it¡¯s time to make his own escape. Not wanting to chance a footrace through the sand against six youthful opponents, he decides to exit like he entered.


    ¡°Well done!¡± He calls to them with insincere approval. ¡°May the gods grant you mercy as you have bestowed it to others!¡±


    Hoping to pass himself off as a priest, he recites a phrase in the old tongue and draws a holy symbol in the air with perfect form. Even the boldest gangs tend not to cause trouble for the cult, so this added layer of bluff gives them another reason to let him go. Now he needs to make good on that illusion before they realize he¡¯s wearing the wrong color.


    Lamp calmly turns around as if he¡¯s unconcerned by the gang¡¯s response, then casually walks away. Rather than climbing back up the seawall, he heads for the nearest stairway up. He doesn¡¯t hear anyone pursuing him, so his tension gradually declines until he finally climbs back up to street level and resumes his journey home.


    He likewise hadn¡¯t heard the young men chasing after the old transient, so the situation seems neatly resolved. Given how easily the group gave up, they might actually have been close to abandoning their brutish sport before he intervened. Lamp won¡¯t count his actions as a waste, however. Even if he only prevented a moderate amount of pain or humiliation, that¡¯s still a good deed done.


    Now then, what was he thinking about before that interruption? Ah. He had been trying to plan the rest of his day. He was considering an outing, but after the excitement of his brief detour, he just wants to get home and rest. He can have his night of revelry some other evening.


    The rest of Lamp¡¯s seaside walk passes far more pleasantly, and soon enough the placid stroll leads him back into his own part of town. It¡¯s a significantly cheaper neighborhood than he¡¯d find around either of his workplaces, and it smells a lot better than most other districts in its price range. It isn¡¯t fully odorless, of course, but the mild stench is tolerable.


    As an additional point in its favor, this region has no true equivalent to the Glassbloods. In place of ostentatiously uniformed mercenaries, charcoal graffiti proclaims this territory¡¯s ownership. Crudely drawn portraits of Bronzemane, better-drawn depictions of his personal crest, and a few stylized spellings of his name intermingle with a myriad of other tags and images. Some of those markings are older than Lamp, refreshed as needed by the local youth in a quaint display of hoodlum tradition. He¡¯s not sure anyone knows what all of them mean.


    Observations and musings of a similar nature distract him for the short remainder of his journey. Not long after, the stroll finally reaches its conclusion, and Lamp finds himself climbing the narrow stairs of his crowded and cacophonous dormitory. He greets his neighbors, whom he knows to various degrees, and avoids interacting with the roving packs of playing children.


    Reaching his door with only minor inconvenience, Lamp quietly admits himself into his cramped and empty home. He quickly scans the single room to verify that no one stole anything while he was out, and he¡¯s relieved to find all his furniture and loose possessions still lying where he left them. Most importantly, the shelf he uses as his larder remains just as well-stocked as it was this morning.


    Feeling hungry, Lamp unwraps his himation then gets to work preparing an early dinner. His pantry contains slightly too few ingredients, just enough cookware, and precisely twice as many dishes as he needs. His least-used spares have gathered dust again, but he can¡¯t be bothered to clean them tonight.


    Wearing only his chiton, Lamp ducks back downstairs to utilize the shared kitchen. Having long neglected his study of culinary art, he only knows a few quick and simple recipes, the benefit of which is that it never takes him very long to produce a meal. Once it¡¯s ready, he hurries back to his room, serves himself a modest portion, stows the rest in a pot for tomorrow¡¯s breakfast, then settles at his table to eat alone.


    After the first bite, he nods in satisfaction. The quality has noticeably improved over this past year, and it¡¯s dramatically better than anything he could produce when he started cooking a little more than two years back. He has this whole thing figured out.


    The scholar contentedly chews a second mouthful and makes an effort to relax in the limited silence of an empty room with too-thin walls and over-loud neighbors. Muted shouts and laughter drift in from the adjacent units in a ceaseless chorus of domestic noise.


    Juxtaposed against those sounds, the silence hanging in the air of Lamp¡¯s small and sparse apartment feels increasingly lifeless. By the time he finishes eating, the quiet has grown far too sullen. So, with a sign, he decides he will go back out after all.


    That leaves the question. What shall he do this evening?


    Brothels remain out of the question for as long as he retains any degree of self-respect, but a bar might do the trick. Lamp can¡¯t remember how long it¡¯s been since he last went out drinking. After a moment of contemplation, he decides to keep the streak going. One night¡¯s indulgence could easily become every night¡¯s vice, and he¡¯s seen where that leads.


    A new thought occurs. Rather than wasting the night numbing his mind, why not do something to enrich it? He knows just the place, too. Selecting that destination will subject him to another long walk, but it¡¯s really not that far, and he knows the area fairly well. It will be good for him.


    Mind made up, Lamp washes his dishes, wraps himself in an older and less colorful cloak, then heads back downstairs again. He bids farewell to a few people in passing but doesn¡¯t mention his plans or ask for theirs. Then he¡¯s back out on the street.


    With more than an hour remaining before sunset, Lamp begins the trek uphill. Every few blocks, the character of the city changes slightly. Each little community manages its own repairs, handles its own waste disposal, and replaces its own paving. Half of those neighborhoods barely seem to bother looking after themselves, but it¡¯s nothing a little rain and a few days of work couldn¡¯t fix. Bronzemane wouldn¡¯t let any section of his territory get too rundown, after all.


    As for the people who dwell in this part of town, they walk quickly and avoid eye contact with strangers. Lamp does the same. Nobody causes trouble for anyone else, and he nears his destination without issue. The sky begins to darken by the time he¡¯s getting close, the walk having taken a little longer than he remembered. Even if he turned around now and went directly home, there¡¯s little chance he¡¯d reach his apartment before nightfall. Lucky, then, that he carries his daylight with him.


    Continuing onward is an easy choice. Lamp crosses a few more intersections, rounds one final corner, and at last slows his pace as he arrives.


    With a pleasant mix of reverence and nostalgia, he approaches the curving, carved-stone walls of an ancient, windworn ruin. This sprawling, single-story, roofless structure proudly stands between two rows of much taller brick apartments. The ruin¡¯s vaguely circular footprint interrupts the course of multiple streets and alleys, although a few wide holes blasted through its edifice prove that right-of-way isn¡¯t always yielded.


    Despite its long neglect, its injuries, and its primitive constriction, the complex still impresses with its rigid strength. The rough fa?ade almost seems to beckon Lamp with whispered promises of lost and unknowable history. He gladly obliges that invitation.


    Disdaining the modern, destructive openings, Lamp crosses through one of the ruin¡¯s original sculpted archways and steps inside with a sense of fond familiarity. He resists the urge to trace his fingers along the stone, fearing that he might scratch its already weathered surface. His restraint is patently futile; other visitors to this place have already shown it far less concern. Most of the ruin¡¯s edifice is marred by etchings and charcoal marks.


    Lamp skims disapproving eyes over affirmations of love, vulgar insults, and declarations of allegiance to leaders long since dead. He ¡®tsks¡¯ at the vandalism. Few in this city treat their common history with the respect it¡¯s due. He can only assume they don¡¯t understand what they¡¯re defacing.


    This compound is one of the few old-world structures left standing on the isle. There are a handful of others like it deeper inland, hidden beneath the cool mists and canopies of the temperate jungle, but most of the accessible sites along the coast were dismantled long ago so that their stones could be reused for modern projects.


    This old building was spared that fate largely because it isn¡¯t worth the effort required to deconstruct it. Rather than a stacked assemblage of rocks, the complex was carved as a single piece from the stone of a hilltop it no longer occupies. The ruin would have lain at the bottom of an excavated pit for most of its history, until the rupture plucked it from the earth and dropped it in a new location along with all of its terrified inhabitants.


    The site¡¯s history after that point is a sad story of slow abandonment. In the dawning years of the new age, it served as a shelter and a storehouse. Two generations or so afterwards, once settlers had constructed enough surrounding infrastructure, the ruin was repurposed as an early center of worship, potentially returning the building to its original, unconfirmed purpose. The complex maintained that role for more than a century afterwards, but Its significance gradually diminished as grander temples were erected elsewhere around the bay. The last official rituals were held about a hundred fifty years ago.


    Lamp was never able to get a straight answer as to precisely when or how the site was fully abandoned by the cult, but he knows that local gangs started using this location for their initiation ceremonies around the start of the current century. The formerly-sacred ground must have lent an air of consecration to their blood oaths. In a bittersweet twist, even that profane tradition died out a few decades back when Bronzemane¡¯s predecessor took over the area.


    These days, the ruins are used for nothing. It¡¯s just a place to write your name and toss your refuse, and even the homeless have better places to sleep. Lamp shakes his head in scornful dejection. What a mess humans make of their own heritage.


    And what a mess he¡¯s making of his own mood. He didn¡¯t come out here to rant at himself. The scholar shakes his head again in a self-directed rebuke and draws in a slow breath. Then, to compensate for the darkening sky, he activates his graft. Navigating by the dim glow, he turns through a doorway that he remembers leading into a larger chamber. It was probably used-


    The scholar stops dead. He hears a voice.


    ¡°I told you it wasn¡¯t anything to worry about.¡± A young man says snidely.


    Lamp can¡¯t see the speaker, but now that he¡¯s paying attention, he notices the soft rasp of multiple footfalls. A group of friends must have come here to explore the ruin after dark, probably as a test of courage. Lamp doesn¡¯t mind sharing the space, he just hopes they don¡¯t plan to chisel any new messages into the rock.


    He hears one of them stumble and curse softly.


    ¡°How old is this thing?¡± Another voice asks.


    ¡°At least seven centuries!¡± Lamp calls back helpfully. ¡°Though it¡¯s likely far older. These rooms were carved from bedrock with stone tools, which the ancients had largely stopped employing on large infrastructure projects by the time of the first revelation. As I just alluded, this complex was actually underground prior to-¡±


    His lecture falters as the boys walk around a corner and enter his view. After a moment of confused familiarity, Lamp recognizes them as the same gang of adolescents he encountered on his walk home. That realization drains the blood from his face. What are they doing here?


    Their evident leader, the smug one with keen eyes, chuckles at Lamp¡¯s expression.


    ¡°What are the odds, huh?¡± He asks with a mocking tone.


    Lamp answers with as much confidence as he can fake. ¡°Paltry, unless you followed me.¡±


    ¡°Seems that way, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    The gang leader pulls a thin reed pipe from a pouch on his belt and holds it out toward one of his subordinates. The lackey pinches two cobalt-plated fingertips above the bowl, and a bright spark starts the leaves burning.


    The leader takes the stem between his lips and pulls in a deep breath of smoke. He holds it in his lungs for a long pause, delaying the exhale. Lamp starts to back away during the silence, and the other thugs quietly fan out to begin encircling him. That won¡¯t do.


    ¡°Well,¡± the scholar says with false cheer, ¡°it was lovely running into all of you again, but the hour is late, and I need to be going. Enjoy your tour.¡±


    Their leader exhales a pale cloud when he speaks. ¡°No use hiding your fear behind that mask, friend. I can taste it in the air.¡±


    Lamp immediately understands the implication. This melodramatic young man has a fear graft, like Clearheart. That must be the reason this group was harassing a homeless man under the pier; their leader wanted energy to fill his reserves.


    Is he burning that fuel now? Lamp can¡¯t tell whether the emotions he¡¯s feeling go beyond natural terror.


    If these bullies are playing the same game they were engaged in at the beach, they might let their victim escape once they¡¯ve heightened his emotions long enough. In that case, should Lamp play along? Pride doesn¡¯t matter here. He just wants to go home without injury.


    As Lamp considers whether to run or cower, the gang leader slips a hand under his hunter¡¯s cloak and draws a long knife from a concealed wooden sheath. The ruffian then waves his bronze blade through the air in a sloppy pattern, and Lamp recognizes a crude imitation of the same holy symbol he drew for them that afternoon.


    ¡°Back on the beach,¡± the leader speaks in a casual tone, ¡°while you were drawing fancy symbols in our faces, your left sleeve rode up a bit, and I happened to notice that both your grafts end at the wrist.¡±


    He pauses for another long pull on his pipe. His eyes, faintly lit by the smoldering leaf, display a cunning sadism. Despite the malice in his gaze, he continues speaking in the same lackadaisical manner.


    ¡°Do you happen to know how rare it is to find a matching set of grafts that perfectly replace both hands?¡± He asks nonchalantly. ¡°You have any idea what those can fetch at market?¡±


    Whatever blood was left in Lamp¡¯s face drops down into his racing heart. That question was about the worst thing the gang leader could have uttered. Lamp answers in a voice that he can no longer manage to hold steady.


    ¡°Bronzemane forbids graft theft on penalty of death. You won¡¯t enjoy your profits long.¡±


    The thug offers him a smile sharper than his knife. ¡°And how¡¯s he gonna know? Who¡¯s gonna tell ¡®im?¡±


    The young man takes a step forward. From the sneer on his face, and from every horrible thing he¡¯s said thus far, it¡¯s obvious that this situation won¡¯t end with Lamp going home. That leaves the scholar with only one option, so he stops hesitating to use it.


    Lamp shuts his eyes and flares all the light trapped in his right hand. For a brief moment, the dark room burns bright as the noonday sun. The thugs shout in surprise at the sudden burst, and Lamp takes advantage of their blindness to break and run.


    He hears them cursing and stumbling after him even as they struggle to see through the restored darkness. His mind can¡¯t focus on the words, but their angered and determined voices promise him they won¡¯t give up on account of one interruption. Lamp needs to cut their line of sight and disappear. If they catch him, they will kill him, and if he doesn¡¯t shake them soon, he will be caught.


    Lamp sprints out of the ruin and rushes down the city streets. He had hoped to find other people around to help, or at least a crowd for him to blend with, but he¡¯s not that lucky. This is a neighborhood too poor to afford public way-lighters, so its foot traffic disappeared with the sun. People are probably still awake all around him, but they won¡¯t step outside their homes to get involved in a stranger¡¯s problem.


    So, he runs. Lamp sprints for all he¡¯s worth, darting down alleyways to break sightlines and making as little sound as possible without compromising speed. For a brief window of time, he entertains a fantasy of escape. It doesn¡¯t last.


    The six men pursuing him are all younger, and some of them have longer legs. The scholar soon hears a pair of rapid footsteps catching up behind him, and he prepares to flare his other graft, but he mistimes the moment. Before he can blind his pursuers, one of the boys tackles him and drives their bodies to the ground.


    Lamp frantically hopes the thug who crashed into him isn¡¯t the one with a knife. His only option is to hope, because he doesn¡¯t know if his body would feel a stab wound through all the panic. It might not matter either way. His frantic struggles aren¡¯t making any progress to break himself free.


    ¡°Help!¡± He shouts into the merciless night. ¡°Graft hunters!¡±


    The young mugger on his back laughs with cruel humor. ¡°No one¡¯s comin¡¯ outside after hearing that!¡±


    Lamp doesn¡¯t bother shouting again; he knows the bastard¡¯s right. No one would take that risk to save a stranger.


    He mutters a brief prayer to the Mother in vain hope of divine salvation, but when he hears approaching footfalls, he knows better than to hope for rescue. It¡¯s just the other thugs catching up with their faster friend. One by one, the boys gather around, breathing heavily but still finding enough air to make insults and threats. One of them even tries to stamp on Lamp¡¯s hand before their leader slaps the idiot away.


    ¡°Don¡¯t fucking touch the merchandise!¡± He castigates. ¡°Do you understand how valuable-¡±


    ¡°Excuse me.¡± A smooth, deep, commanding male voice cuts through the noise from further down the alley. ¡°I have business with that man on the ground. Leave us.¡±


    The gang leader draws his knife again and angrily turns to face the interloper. ¡°This is Bronzemane work. Who the fuck are you?¡±


    ¡°A man with a tight schedule and no patience for repetition.¡± The stranger answers coldly. ¡°You need to leave. Now.¡±


    The leader steps forward aggressively. ¡°I don¡¯t need-¡±


    A long black arm rises swiftly from the shadows and taps a clawed finger to the hoodlum¡¯s chest. At the very moment of contact, the graft hunter¡¯s body instantly slams into the ground. He collapses flat in the blink of an eye, crumpling into the dirt as if he¡¯d fallen there from a great height. The crunch of shattering bones, the wet thump of contorted flesh, and the sudden wellspring of blood bubbling out from his misshapen skull communicate to the onlookers that he isn¡¯t getting up again.


    The gang¡¯s bravado evaporates. Without a word exchanged, each boy turns and runs. Lamp almost scrambles to follow them out of the same fear, but a blend of hope and fatalism holds him in place. Instead of wasting his time trying to get away, he rolls onto his back and props himself up into a sitting position.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± He asks uncertainly while bracing his hand against the wall and rising to his feet.


    ¡°I hope so, Lamphand.¡± The smooth voice answers him. ¡°I¡¯m the anonymous client you¡¯ve been working for these past few years. I¡¯ve come to make my recruiting pitch in person. I¡¯ll pay ten times what I offered previously, but I need you to leave with me tonight.¡±

 Chapter 2: Trust

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


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


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


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


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


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


    Whichever attitude the stranger infers, he at least won¡¯t view Lamp as frightened and helpless. That false front should provide an advantage in whatever dialogue follows, and maybe the scholar can sell the same lie to himself while he¡¯s at it.


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


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


    ¡°Shall we move a street over before exchanging introductions?¡± He asks in a conversational tone.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Lamp agrees with conviction. ¡°Let¡¯s.¡±


    Although tonight wasn¡¯t his first time witnessing a violent death, Lamp isn¡¯t so inured to the proximity of corpses that he can calmly discuss job offers while a dead body lingers in his peripheral vision. Granted, he isn¡¯t any more accustomed to bargaining with a recruiter in the immediate aftermath of an attempt on his life, but circumstances dictate, he supposes.


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Thank you for saving me from the graft hunters, Blackwing.¡± He states earnestly. ¡°I appreciated your timing.¡±


    The merchant nods. ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Are you injured?¡±


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


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± His voice trails off as an overdue thought finally occurs. ¡°Say, how did you find me?¡±


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


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


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


    No. Even considering that Lamp turned down Emerald¡¯s previous recruitment offers, it doesn¡¯t make sense for Blackwing¡¯s next resort to be anything aside from a face-to-face meeting and an offered pay raise. Dissatisfied with his own conspiracy, Lamp mentally sets it aside even as his rescuer finally responds. The merchant had paused a moment before answering, yet his voice betrays no hesitancy when he replies.


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


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


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


    ¡°She followed- That¡¯s- She¡¯s supposed to be a scribe!¡± Lamp sputters, his voice rising. ¡°Who have you-¡±


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


    ¡°Oh? Was it a one-time thing? That makes it perfectly ethical!¡±


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


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


    Lamp can¡¯t offer a polite answer to that statement in his current mood, so he holds his tongue. After an awkward moment of silence, Blackwing progresses the conversation.


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


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


    Even though this situation doesn¡¯t feel right, the payout seems like too much to turn down.


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


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


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


    Slightly intrigued, but still mostly suspicious, Lamp frowns. ¡°You won¡¯t divulge what the main job is until after I¡¯ve agreed to do it?¡±


    The merchant shakes his head. ¡°The deal isn¡¯t that restrictive. I¡¯ll reveal the details of my preferred assignment after we sign our contract. If you decline the first role, I¡¯ll find another position that suits your experience and preferences. Bear in mind, those alternatives won¡¯t incur the ten-times multiplication of your salary. The full bonus only comes with my first offer.¡±


    Blackwing gives the scholar an assessing glance. ¡°Given everything I¡¯ve heard about you, I can¡¯t imagine you¡¯ll want to turn the big job down once you know what it is.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh.¡± Lamp mumbles while averting his gaze.


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°I¡¯ll at least hear your terms.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Will you accompany me to my ship?¡±


    ¡°If that¡¯s required, sure.¡±


    ¡°It is. Please follow closely.¡±


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


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


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


    ¡°About the thug you flattened.¡± He says to the merchant¡¯s back. ¡°He implied he was one of Bronzemane¡¯s people. That might have been a lie, but if it wasn¡¯t, then you¡¯ve killed the soldier of a basileus inside his own territory. He has to answer that infraction.¡±


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


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


    ¡°While I don¡¯t claim Bronzemane as a personal acquaintance, I¡¯ve lived inside his territory for years now. I know what he¡¯s like. He has firm rules, he¡¯s petty, and he¡¯ll gladly act instead of talk whenever his enemy is someone weaker than himself. If I stay here and he learns I was involved, then he might decide to make an example out of me just to compensate for his inability to get to you.¡±


    Blackwing glances over with an inscrutable expression. ¡°He won¡¯t touch you if you¡¯re one of mine.¡±


    That¡¯s a conclusion Lamp had already reached on his own, and he isn¡¯t thrilled by it. He doubts the idea came as a revelation to Blackwing either. The only question is whether the merchant realized what this situation could mean for Lamp before or after he maneuvered him into it.


    A reckless impulse presses Lamp to accuse the merchant of deliberately backing him into a corner, of setting him up so that he¡¯d have no choice but to accept the deal. He nearly acts on that urge to reproach his rescuer, but the words won¡¯t leak out through a clenched jaw. So, instead of making a stand, he abandons their dialogue, slows his step, and falls behind again.


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


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


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


    Reaching those two conclusions doesn¡¯t make Lamp feel better, precisely, but they at least calm him down. It¡¯s decent timing on his part, because they seem to be getting close to Blackwing¡¯s ship. Intersections and entire neighborhoods had rolled past at a steady rate while Lamp was mulling his way back towards an emotional baseline. Now, at the end of that process, he and Blackwing finally reach the waterfront.


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


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


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


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


    ¡°Welcome aboard, Sir. Has he agreed to join?¡±


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


    ¡°I¡¯d offer directions,¡± Lamp interjects sourly, ¡°but I understand you already know the way to my apartment.¡±


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


    ¡°I¡¯m familiar.¡± Emerald softly answers his implied accusation.


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


    ¡°Please.¡± The merchant speaks in a gentle tone. ¡°Blame me alone for that intrusion. I should have either directed her to request your address outright or else accepted my ignorance. Emerald isn¡¯t to blame for my indiscretion.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do blame you.¡± Lamp replies with hushed acrimony, bitter-voiced but mindful of the sleeping sailors. ¡°And since we¡¯re getting into this, I don¡¯t see how I can trust a man who¡¯s demonstrated nothing but mistrust towards me for our entire working relationship. I didn¡¯t even know who you were until less than an hour ago! Now you want me to drop everything and sail off with you for the sake of a job you¡¯ll hardly tell me about? Would you trust someone who hid as much from you as you¡¯ve hidden from me?¡±


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


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


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


    This ¡®last job¡¯ feels like a trap, like bait on a fishhook. Whatever bit of mystery they¡¯ve got waiting for him in Blackwing¡¯s cabin, they clearly think it¡¯s too enticing for him to refuse their offer after he¡¯s seen it. So, if Lamp¡¯s going to back out at all, maybe he should do it now. Maybe he shouldn¡¯t let them tempt him.


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


    Lamp knows he won¡¯t feel safe in Bronzemane¡¯s territory anymore, but he could relocate almost anywhere else in the city within a week. That means the man before him isn¡¯t his only option for protection. Lamp can afford to walk away.


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


    ¡°Yes.¡±


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


    The problem is that he doesn¡¯t know which way to run.


    A familiar path waits before him, darker and more dangerous than it ever seemed before, but still something he knows. Behind him, there lies a road he can¡¯t look down, one which might lead him anywhere. He only has fragments of a map, so how can he know which route to choose? How does he judge if the risk of change is worth it?


    After a long moment of fruitless dithering, Lamp hears careful footsteps on the plank behind him as Emerald descends to join her coworker on the jetty. He wonders: did Blackwing send her, or did she follow on her own initiative? After a breath, he decides it doesn¡¯t matter. She¡¯s acting on a professional basis either way. Whatever they discuss next, this conversation is a recruiting pitch.


    Lamp doesn¡¯t acknowledge the scribe¡¯s arrival, but he also doesn¡¯t leave. Instead, the two of them stand near each other for a quiet moment, staring out together toward the dim contours of the sprawling slum which Lamp has spent the last decade calling home. As seconds slip past without decision, Emerald¡¯s silent presence persistently whispers for his attention. Eventually, he relents, turning over his shoulder to meet her patient gaze.


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


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


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


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


    ¡°I am.¡± She answers at the same volume.


    ¡°Even when he makes you stalk strangers across the city?¡±


    ¡°Lamp¡­¡± She breathes out slowly, draws a sharp breath in, and then confesses. ¡°Blackwing never directly ordered me to trail you. He wasn¡¯t in the city on the day of our interview, or even during that same week. I received my instructions in writing, and his last missive before our meeting directed me to investigate your current and former affiliations. The letter made no specific mention of following you to your home; I chose to do that on my own initiative. At the time, I considered it due diligence.¡±


    As Emerald speaks, Lamp¡¯s initial expression of incredulity gradually morphs into one of betrayal. He anticipates a surge of anger after she falls silent, but the emotion barely stirs. Having already settled his displeasure towards Blackwing, Lamp finds that he can¡¯t rile it anew against a substituted target.


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


    ¡°If that¡¯s true, then why did he lie?¡± Lamp mutters before shaking his head. ¡°Actually, I don¡¯t think he ever said he gave the order, so I suppose he technically never fibbed. Still, why would he allow me to misassign blame in the middle of a recruiting pitch?¡±


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


    Lamp nods, but offers no reply. The two of them stand together silently for another minute, listening as gentle waves lap against the galley¡¯s wooden hull. Eventually, the scholar has to admit that he isn¡¯t ready to leave. So, while he¡¯s standing here, and while he has Emerald¡¯s company, he might as well dig into Blackwing¡¯s offer.


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


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


    Lamp nods along with a neutral expression. Plenty of employers dictate worse terms, but his current placement as a tutor offers better. He can leave that job whenever he wants with no consequences. Most businesses in Clearheart¡¯s territory operate the same way, following the model of her bizarrely permissive mercenary group. Wouldn¡¯t Lamp be a fool to sacrifice that freedom?


    ¡°How much is the fee?¡± He inquires for some reason.


    ¡°One month¡¯s salary, not including room and board.¡±


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


    Emerald clears her throat then softly replies. ¡°Probably.¡±


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


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


    ¡°That¡¯s all? He won¡¯t track you down to get his money back?¡±


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


    ¡°Then why would anyone pay the fine?¡± Lamp asks bemusedly.


    ¡°Because it guarantees transit back to civilization.¡± Emerald responds in a patient tone. ¡°Some of Blackwing¡¯s outposts are located in remote areas that would be difficult for anyone to leave on their own. Sailors and urban employees like me have a simple exit strategy, but you probably won¡¯t share our easy way out.¡±


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


    She nods. ¡°I do, especially if I¡¯ve guessed correctly about the project he wants you to work on.¡±


    ¡°The project you couldn¡¯t ever talk about.¡±


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


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


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


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


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


    She hesitates before concluding. ¡°I can¡¯t believe he played any part in creating the situation you experienced tonight, and I¡¯m sorry that happened to you.¡±


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


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


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


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


    So, what will that verdict be? What does Lamphand really want? Does he prefer to stay where he¡¯s always been, leading the same unbalanced existence he¡¯s maintained these past two years? His original plans for the future fell apart when his partner walked out on him, and now the biggest remaining source of joy in his life is the work he does on Blackwing¡¯s credit. Will he have to abandon that labor if he doesn¡¯t take the new deal? Even if they let him continue, would the old arrangement still satisfy him now that he¡¯s tasted a chance for more?


    What does he really want?


    What does he want?


    He knows what he wants. He wants to take his research further. He wants to uncover the truth. He wants to run away from his empty home. He wants to nurture his soul with all the purpose and joy he can¡¯t access by staying rooted in Bronzemane¡¯s poor soil. He wants his life to feel meaningful again, like it hasn¡¯t in years.


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


    ¡°Fine.¡± He tells Emerald quietly. ¡°I¡¯ll take a look at that artifact. Then we¡¯ll see.¡±


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Thank you, Lamphand.¡± His host acknowledges the graft light while drawing a curtain over the windows, supporting Lamp¡¯s suspicion. ¡°Please, take a seat.¡±


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


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


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


    ¡°A falsemask.¡± He whispers reverently before looking up to Blackwing. ¡°May I hold it?¡±


    ¡°One moment.¡±


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


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


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


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


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


    He turns the object back over to examine its front.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Based on what I¡¯ve read about masks like this- and it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve seen a clear mention, so I¡¯m a little hazy- they belong exclusively to the main branches of noble families. The example we have with us now obviously wasn¡¯t made to be worn by a living owner, so did it come from a tomb? Did you, perhaps, pry a burial mask off a skeleton¡¯s face?¡±


    The object didn¡¯t feel or look old enough to have come from a tomb, but the scholar can¡¯t think of another point of origin within his own world that would adequately explain Blackwing¡¯s excitement. If the story Lamp was fed about a dig site is actually true, and the merchant company really had been raiding rooms full of trinkets, then the recent discovery of their first body might justify Blackwing¡¯s decision to finally visit his temp-hired archeologist.


    The alternative, that Blackwing received this mask from a living person, is even more enticing. Lamp searches the merchant¡¯s stoic expression for any slight reactions, but he fails to pick up on any tells. That¡¯s a shame, because he doesn¡¯t expect to get a straight answer either. A moment later, he¡¯s proven right.


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


    Well. There¡¯s the ultimatum.


    ¡°If I agreed, would we leave tomorrow?¡± Lamp asks. ¡°Where would we sail?¡±


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


    Lamp narrows his eyes suspiciously. ¡°Our first stop is at the edge of the world?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only the edge of the livable portion. I¡¯ll say no more.¡±


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


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


    Lamp nods with a flat expression. ¡°That isn¡¯t surprising, but I¡¯m still a little sorry I asked.¡±


    Blackwing smiles slightly. ¡°Would you prefer for me to be less candid?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The scholar shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯d rather hear impolite honesty than a flattering lie.¡±


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


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


    ¡°Show me the contract.¡±

 Chapter 3: Departure

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


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


    The pair of them sit alone at Blackwing¡¯s table, their host having exited his pavilion some time ago to deal with ambiguous matters outside. Lamp imagines that both the merchant and his scribe are keen to get on with their respective evenings, but he won¡¯t rush this decision any more than he has to. The deadline of a single night is onerous enough.


    That said, he can only weigh his options so many times before admitting that he has nothing left to consider. His interests and motivations remain precisely what they were when he chose to march back up that gangway; the risks and rewards of his dilemma haven¡¯t changed since he stepped inside this room. He made his choice in those moments, and he knew it then.


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


    With that action complete, Lamp has officially signed away one year of his life. Despite his lengthy deliberation, it still feels quite sudden. He hopes he doesn¡¯t regret this brash decision more than he would have regretted walking away. At least by joining, he¡¯ll never have to wonder if he made the right decision. He¡¯ll get to find out.


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


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


    Lamp startles and swears when a man he hadn¡¯t noticed suddenly rocks forward from his reclined lean against the outer wall of Blackwing¡¯s pavilion. Neither his employer nor Emerald seem startled by the new arrival, so the scholar forces himself to take a calming breath as the stranger trots across the deck to meet Emerald en route to the gangway.


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


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


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


    Most of the crewmates show at least a passing interest in Lamp, with a few even throwing sullen glares his way before getting on with their tasks. He honestly can¡¯t fault the latter group¡¯s resentment, considering that he¡¯s the reason their boss forced them awake at this unfortunate hour. He just hopes everyone managed to catch enough sleep while the ship was docked, otherwise their passage out of the harbor might get interesting.


    Lamp shakes his head and pushes those anxieties aside with a resolution to trust Blackwing¡¯s judgment on maritime matters. Surely the man wouldn¡¯t risk shipwrecking his new employee after going through so much trouble to collect him. For all Lamp knows, this isn¡¯t even the same barge Blackwing sailed in on, or maybe it is but he refreshed the crew. Either way, worry performs him no favors.


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


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


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


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


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


    Well.


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


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


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


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


    ¡°One year.¡± He whispers.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°I can be.¡± Blackwing answers. ¡°Does this relate to your assignment?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


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


    Ambient silver starlight mingles with the scattered graft-glow bouncing off the waves beneath their prow. The gentle blend of blue-white luminance pours into Blackwing¡¯s pavilion through its open doorway, casting an ethereal sheen over every surface within. The air glows just brightly enough that Lamp doesn¡¯t bother expending his own reserves to create a third source of light.


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


    ¡°You said before that we would sail to a town at the base of the caldera¡¯s rim, but we aren¡¯t stopping there. Where is our actual destination?¡±


    ¡°Farther down the line.¡± Blackwing points to the South. ¡°I have a compound beyond the rim, at the foot of the outer slope. I¡¯m taking you to meet someone there.¡±


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


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


    ¡°Emerald didn¡¯t need to tell me. It was obvious. I¡¯ve seen hundreds of genuine old-world artifacts, and Regent knows those aren¡¯t what you¡¯ve been sending me these past two years.¡± The scholar leans forward. ¡°Your company found another world-tile, didn¡¯t it? And now somebody¡¯s passed through to our side, so you need a translator in a hurry. Am I right?¡±


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


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


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


    Blackwing nods. ¡°I¡¯m aware. They raised and educated you. From what I understand, that relationship terminated long ago.¡±


    ¡°It did.¡± Lamp responds with an uncharacteristically leaden tone. His voice resets as he continues. ¡°On a related subject: You wouldn¡¯t need me if you had even a half-trained priest at your disposal, and absolutely any temple would loan someone out for what you¡¯re paying. I take it you¡¯re hiding your ¡®excavation¡¯ from all representatives of the central cult?¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


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


    ¡°We don¡¯t.¡± Blackwing absently taps a claw against the floor while shaking his head. ¡°All attempts by the unified order to establish missions near our main settlement are rebuffed. Their agents occasionally deliver translations of sanctioned scripture, but we tolerate no permanent presence or sermonizing.¡±


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


    ¡°Yes.¡±


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


    ¡°Roughly.¡±


    ¡°I see. Can you-¡±


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


    ¡°You¡¯ve had a difficult night, Lamphand, and I feel overtaxed myself. Would you care to resume this conversation in the morning?¡±


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


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you to your quarters, then.¡±


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


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


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


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


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


    While he can¡¯t judge the hour from below deck, he doesn¡¯t feel as though he could easily fall back asleep, so he might as well head up top. With the decision made, he activates his graft for light before shambling to his feet and converting his himation back from a pillow into a cloak. Taking stock of himself, he affirms that most of his body feels at least slightly sore, and that his chiton smells in patches, but at least he survived his first night at sea without drowning!


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


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


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


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


    The crew must have stowed away their paddles and returned to slumber after they entered open water and the wind picked up. Indeed, their box-shaped mainsail still pulls taught against its rigging, and they seem to be moving at a good speed. If only it wasn¡¯t so cold.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


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


    Shaking his head in self-recrimination, Lamp crosses his arms across his chest to preserve warmth and meanders over to the portside railing near the stern. Judging by the faint red glow on the eastern horizon, it won¡¯t be much longer before sunrise.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The scholar closes his eyes and breathes deep, affirming to himself that this is a better place to be. The rocking deck and spraying surf almost feel natural, in a strange way, but he supposes that shouldn¡¯t surprise him. After all, his people are and always have been of the sea.


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


    A solid band of green topped by jagged white peaks divides the southerly waters from their hazy sky. The caldera¡¯s mountainous rim dominates its entire horizon like a dark brushstroke across an endless canvas. The earthen stripe stretches from farthest southeast beyond furthest southwest. Lamp isn¡¯t sure whether the coastline¡¯s inward curve should be visible from this distance, but the wall looks flat to him.


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


    Now, after decades of mere imagining, he finally beholds the functional end of his world. Later today he¡¯ll set foot upon that shore, and sometime today or tomorrow he¡¯ll even walk beyond it. What an incredible thought. Lamp hasn¡¯t felt so much giddiness in a rather long time; he spends a while relishing the emotion.


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


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


    ¡°Good morning.¡± The two men greet each other simultaneously.


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


    ¡°Have you eaten?¡± He asks.


    ¡°No. I didn¡¯t know where to find food.¡±


    ¡°We store jerky near the base of the stairs, though I can offer you tea and a finer breakfast if you¡¯d care to join me.¡±


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


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


    ¡°Have you made contact with another world-tile?¡± The scholar asks in a soft voice that shouldn¡¯t carry beyond this room.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Blackwing answers at a similar volume.


    ¡°How?¡±


    The merchant shakes his head. ¡°Only a handful within the caldera know the answer to that question. I¡¯m still not ready to make you one of them.¡±


    Lamp understands the value of that secret, so he doesn¡¯t press his luck. Instead, he asks. ¡°Can you describe the outworlders to me?¡±


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


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


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Tourists?¡± Lamp asks over a raised teacup.


    ¡°I expect so.¡±


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


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


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


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


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


    The merchant nods in response. ¡°Only those who cover their faces possess the gift.¡±


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Can you guess what they¡¯re hiding under those masks?¡± The merchant asks before biting into a pear.


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


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


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


    ¡°We don¡¯t have time.¡± Blackwing responds lightly. ¡°Besides, we¡¯ll have a direct answer soon enough. Changing subjects: Every member of the outworlder delegation is always a woman. Do you have any notion of why?¡±


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


    ¡°Certain icons behave differently towards women and men. For instance, if the other end of the bridge was situated inside Manslaughter¡¯s territory, then men couldn¡¯t safely travel near it.¡± Lamp pauses before adding. ¡°That assumes icons are real, though. I¡¯ve never been sure.¡±


    Blackwing finishes a sip of tea before replying. ¡°You¡¯ll need to remind me what an icon is.¡±


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


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


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


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


    ¡°Yet you remain skeptical. Why?¡±


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


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


    ¡°In any case, returning to your earlier question about Manslaughter, that icon is described as a¡­¡± He hesitates before saying: female. ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t call it feminine, and I don¡¯t know whether any icon has a biological sex, but it supposedly looks somewhat like a woman. Also, the texts I¡¯ve read sometimes described it as a guardian of women. The icon apparently performs that guardianship by dismembering any man who trespasses inside its territory. Manslaughter¡¯s name is therefore something of a pun.¡±


    Lamp refills his teacup while he continues speaking.


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


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


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Blackwing murmurs after a moment. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have guessed. I thought perhaps the conditions of travel across the desert somehow necessitated clothing that men couldn¡¯t wear¡­ No matter.¡±


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


    ¡°I assume you haven¡¯t seen any of the icons yourself, then?¡±


    ¡°No. I haven¡¯t had the fortune, for good or ill.¡±


    ¡°Definitely for good, if I¡¯m right about which one¡¯s closest to you.¡±


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


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


    ¡°Ah. Don¡¯t fault yourself for that. ¡± Blackwing glances away with mild chagrin. ¡°We exchange trinkets and scrolls at the start of every trade. Since I can¡¯t read their language, I tend to select items with evocative illustrations or carvings. That¡¯s likely how we obtained a disproportionate number of artifacts related to mythical beings. Your blindspots on other subjects are my own fault. I should have chosen more of the unassuming items, but I was too focused on building an appealing collection.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Blackwing¡¯s final sentence recontextualizes Lamp¡¯s previous contract work. The merchant prince was apparently assembling an exhibition, and Lamp had simply provided its catalog. That job was never the sort of high-minded archeological study he had envisioned. At least, it wasn¡¯t like that to anyone but him. And maybe to Emerald.


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


    On the subject of that encounter, Lamp asks. ¡°Can you tell me anything more about the guest you¡¯re taking me to meet?¡±


    Blackwing nods. ¡°I¡¯ll share the rest of what I know about her, but that¡¯s a dwindling list. The guest is a young woman, a girl really, who somehow smuggled herself into our world during the last trade meeting. She wasn¡¯t the first person to attempt that crossing, but she¡¯s the first survivor. She knows three languages, none of which I share with her, but one of which you do. I need you to interpret for us so I can learn who she is and why she came here.¡±


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


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


    Blackwing nods. ¡°As I recall, the mask also called her a ¡®stalker of shadow¡¯ or something to that effect.¡±


    ¡°That might be a poetic description of her abilities, or maybe it¡¯s a moniker of her noble house.¡±


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


    ¡°Interesting. I doubt she¡¯s illiterate. Do you think she wants to control her audience?¡±


    ¡°Likely.¡±


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


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


    ¡°Shall we?¡±


    Lamp stands to join him, and they step outside.


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


    The most arresting feature is a long, dark scar left by a massive landslide. It must have happened fairly recently, judging by the apparent lack of regrowth. Lamp hadn¡¯t known storms could get that violent this far from the center, and he feels renewed appreciation for the peaceful seas and clear skies they¡¯ve enjoyed on their voyage thus far. Holding that thought, he takes a moment to glance in all directions to confirm that no storm clouds are churning in.


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


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


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


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


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


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