Birdsong, piercing and clear, rouses Lamp from his slumber the next morning. Lacking a strong motivation to rise, he lies still in his bed for a time and listens to the sound. After a minute or so of careful analysis, he tallies two distinct songs from three persistent singers and identifies a fourth, lazier voice who only joins intermittently.

  Though he cannot speak the language of birds, Lamp manages to translate a single phrase from their chorus.

  “We won’t let you fall back asleep.” They seem to taunt.

  The bleary-eyed scholar grumbles an equally rude reply then shuffles his way out of bed. He washes and dresses himself without much urgency while mentally shoving down all of his anxieties from the night prior. Once physically and psychologically prepared for the world, he exits his room and meanders downstairs in search of breakfast.

  The dining room sits empty, so Lamp decides to check the veranda next. Stepping out, he spots Blackwing and Ashti standing side-by-side on the garden’s gravel path. Seeing the two of them together prompts a twinge of conflicted guilt which Lamp promptly rationalizes away.

  After all, it’s not as if the outlander was relying on his assistance to navigate her own culture. If Lamp had raised his concerns regarding her kingdom’s response to the introduction of grafts, then she’d just have told him she already considered and dismissed that issue.

  Everything’s fine.

  Lamp shakes his head as if to clear it of cobwebs before descending from the porch. As he draws closer to the others, he overhears his employer slowly enunciating the name of a nearby tree as he lifts his human hand to rest a palm upon its bark. Ashti carefully repeats the word, and smiles happily when her host grants a nod of approval.

  Both of them turn to face Lamp as he reaches their position. The scholar receives a polite nod from Blackwing, a grin from Ashti, and a verbal “good morning” from both, all of which he cheerily returns. As Lamp comes to a stop, the outlander turns back towards the tree and excitedly waves a hand at its branches.

  “This tree, this ‘Juniper,’ does not grow in my homeland. I would like to bring its berries home with us to feed the icon of growth. Please suggest to Lord Blackwing that he should offer them to Lady Jaleh upon our arrival in Baghdokhtaran. They would make a worthy gift.”

  Lamp relays the request, and Blackwing agrees to fulfil it, promising to have his gardener prepare a small bag for them. The merchant notes that his Juniper’s green, unripe berries are not yet fit for consumption, but Ashti assures him that the icon can absorb them just as they are.

  With that matter settled, the three of them continue their tour of the garden. Blackwing continues to steer Ashti’s botanical instruction, naming each tree, bush, or flower as they reach it and relying on Lamp to answer any questions the outlander poses regarding the properties and uses of each plant.

  The exercise serves to keep them engaged and entertained as they wait for Candlewire to come downstairs so they can begin breakfast. To their surprise, however, the first interruption issues from the outer gate instead.

  Loud knocking, three quick strikes of wood against wood, cut through their quiet discussion. Blackwing immediately waves the others to silence, listening intently as a mature, masculine voice with a slight rasp calls from beyond the entrance to his manor.

  “I know you’re home, Blackwing, and I know you’re awake by this hour. I’m here on my mother’s orders. Let me inside. We need to speak.”

  Turning to Lamp, the merchant quietly orders. “Take the girl inside and tell her to stay on the second floor until he leaves. Then wake Candlewire. Say that Rosehalf is paying us a visit and he claims Oaktusk sent him. Move with haste.”

  Lamp nods and complies without question, shepherding an anxious and confused Ashti back inside while explaining that he doesn’t know what’s happening or who the intruder is. Once she agrees to remain hidden, Lamp leaves the outlander behind and briskly walks through the interior of the house to Blackwing’s bedroom, where he knocks loudly and repeatedly until Candlewire finally responds with an aggrieved plea for him to stop.

  Now that she’s awake and he has her ear, Lamp relays Blackwing’s message through the closed door. He hears a softly muttered swear in response, followed by the rustling of cloth. A moment later, the hastily-dressed overseer pulls back her bedroom door and asks Lamp how long ago their guest arrived.

  “A few minutes.”

  “Is he inside yet? Has he seen you?”

  “I’m not sure, and no.”

  She nods. “Where’s Ashti?”

  “Hiding in the guest room.”

  “Good.” Candlewire slips past him and closes the door behind herself. “Did Wing say he needed me?”

  “No. Just that I should wake you.”

  “Then let’s all stay out of sight.” She strides off in the direction from which Lamp came and speaks without looking back. “Rosehalf’s not the sort to make social calls. He almost certainly came here because he knows about the stolen grafts, and Wing will have to let him see inside the boxes before he agrees to leave. He’ll sense Ashti if they’re on the same side of the building, so we’re moving her across to the opposite wing.”

  Lamp trails the overseer all the way back to the threshold of the women’s guest room then waits at the entrance while she proceeds inside without him. Given a moment to himself, he risks approaching a nearby window overlooking the central courtyard and peaks through its shutters. From that vantage, he catches a glimpse of Blackwing returning from the oikos gate with a stranger walking at his side.

  Richly dressed, dark-skinned, gray haired, and with perfect posture, the newcomer cuts a lordly figure, though the relatively meager size of his graft diminishes that effect.

  A rose quartz mask divides the man’s face into vertical halves, with the left portion seemingly carved from a single block of pale-pink crystal. Although the graft itself bears no wrinkles, the right side of his face reveals his true age, marking him as more than ten years Blackwing’s senior. In contrast to his wizened flesh, the living stone provides a record of the handsome face he wore in his youth, for all that its expression still carries the weariness and wisdom of an elder.

  Lamp stares a moment too long, however, or perhaps too intently, as the stranger’s face suddenly snaps in his direction. The man points toward the scholar’s location with a wooden rod held in his left hand and begins speaking something to Blackwing. Lamp doesn’t wait to see how the merchant responds, hurriedly backing away from the window as his stomach drops.

  The door to the women’s room opens a moment later as Candlewire emerges with Ashti in tow. The overseer glances at Lamp, takes in his nervous expression and position in the hall, then looks toward the interior window with a neutral expression.

  “He saw you?” She asks in a polite tone.

  “Yes.” Lamp admits with shame.

  Candlewire turns back to him and smiles reassuringly. “Whichever sailor told him about the grafts probably mentioned you anyway, so no harm done. My only concern is that he’ll ask to speak to one of you. In the interest of avoiding that, let’s get moving.”

  She leads the way again, with her worried companions following close behind. Ashti balks when they reach the door to Blackwing’s bed chamber but agrees to proceed through it after Candlewire explains that the downstairs office is always locked. Still, the girl makes an effort to avoid looking at any objects inside the room as they cross it, not that there’s much to see.

  As they briskly cross the room, Candlewire glances at her unmade bed and mutters. “This mess is my fault. If we had pressed through the mountain last night like Wing wanted…”

  She sighs and shakes her head, then ushers her companions out through the exit on the room’s opposite side. Once the door shuts behind them, she asks the pair whether they’ve eaten yet. Lamp answers that they had been waiting for her to wake, to which she responds that they’ll wait no longer.

  The overseer confirms that Lamp knows the location of Blackwing’s “art room” before telling him to wait there while she pops downstairs to procure their breakfast from the kitchen. Lamp agrees and leads Ashti back toward the study in which they had played Senet on the night of the storm. Crossing swiftly through the building’s interconnected rooms, the scholar and handmaiden soon arrive at their destination and settle in as much as their nerves will allow.

  Shortly thereafter, their hostess rejoins them with a food-carrying servant in tow. The employee lays out their breakfast before departing, and they arrange their seats to access the meal. Once all three are comfortably reclined with warm morsels in hand, Ashti finally broaches the obvious subject.

  “Who was that man?” She asks cautiously. “He must be someone of great import to call upon Lord Blackwing in such a manner.”

  “Rosehalf.” Candlewire answers wearily. “He’s the eldest living son of Trembleheel’s basileus. His mother has governed this town since before either of you were born.”

  “I see. Is he her heir?” Ashti inquires.

  “No.” The overseer’s copper face scrunches disapprovingly before she smooths her expression. “Rosehalf isn’t likely to succeed Oaktusk when she dies; he doesn’t have sufficient backing or personal strength.”

  After completing his translation, Lamp interjects with a question of his own. “Will they interfere?”

  “I doubt it.” She sighs. “Oaktusk’s always been ornery sort; she and Wing have butted heads plenty of times, but she respects him and understands his value. I’m not saying this city would fall to abject poverty and ruin without our commerce, but it would certainly lose a fair bit of luster, and she knows that. We’ll probably breeze right through this issue so long as Rosehalf doesn’t raise a stink.

  “But enough about that.” Candlewire shakes her head before turning to Ashti. “We wanted your help deciding on appropriate gifts for Wing’s debut at court. He said you’d briefly talked about dyed wool before we left the big city. He’s leaning towards that option because it’s one of the few processed materials unique to our world-tile that we can source from Trembleheel’s Landing on a day’s notice.”

  She gestures at Ashti’s outerwear then plucks at the neckline of her own dress. “Wool is the fabric your cloak’s made from. People living at elevation make their chitons from it too. It’s a great insulator and resists soaking; I’d be surprised if you have any fibers quite like it back home. So, what’s your feeling on the material after wearing it around for a while? Do you think your king would get any use from it on a chilly day?”

  The outlander smiles wanly in response. “Are you trying to use His Highness to drive demand for your products? Lord Blackwing made a similar attempt by feeding me the meat of fish on our prior visit to his home.”

  “Perhaps.” Candlewire admits unabashedly. “Would such implications be apparent to your people? Are we likely to cause offense?”

  “Only if it is done blatantly, or else if the fabric has an inferior quality. Also, I would advise you not to present purchasable materials as the only component of your offering. You should give His Highness something unique as well.”

  The overseer nods with a contemplative expression. “He already possesses gold, silver, and jewels aplenty, does he not? Hmm. Your pottery’s just as fine as ours, and I’ll admit your jewelry’s somewhat finer. So… what else could we present to him that we haven’t already sent along through the portal? What might a wanax want?”

  She drums her fingers on the table as she considers the quandary. After a few moments, she sets the matter aside and asks Ashti to recommend dye colors for House Caution and the royal family, respectively.

  The outlander nods, swallows a bite of food, then begins her explanation. “Each of the great houses claims a color linked to the true icon they directly oversee. White and green are the colors of our royal family. True white represents Judgement, while dark green is associated with Growth. House Caution naturally shares in possession of the latter color, so you have the option of bringing green fabric for both His Majesty and Lady Jaleh.”

  Candlewire nods, absorbing the information, then begins muttering price and yardage figures to herself.

  While she’s busy running numbers, Lamp turns to Ashti and asks. “Does Lady Jaleh oversee both Growth and Manslaughter, then?”

  “Ah. No.” The girl fidgets. “I see how you would reach that assumption- considering that she meets with your contingent at the edge of Manslaughter’s territory- but her House bears no direct responsibility for that icon.”

  “Then why does Blackwing meet with her rather than a representative from another family?”

  “That…” Ashti turns her head away before answering woodenly. “As our city’s duly appointed ruler, she has the right to lead negotiations with outside powers. Her authority in such matters also applies to our dealings with you.”

  Candlewire, after requesting and receiving a translation of their exchange, responds with a knowing smirk. “How precious. She pulled rank just to keep us to herself. I suppose we should be flattered, Hand.”

  After a long pause in which she meets no one’s eyes, Ashti eventually admits. “Your characterization is not inaccurate.”

  Letting the matter drop without further teasing, Candlewire returns their discussion to textiles, seeking to narrow in on a precise shade of green. After a brief discussion, the overseer summons and dispatches a servant to pluck leaves from Blackwing’s garden, then arranges them across the table for Ashti’s perusal. The pair of them manage to narrow their selection down to two samples by the time the door to the study reopens and Blackwing walks in alone.

  Candlewire swiftly rises to her feet and leans to check the hallway behind him before asking with a touch of humor. “He’s not back there, right.”

  Blackwing shakes his head. “Our guest has departed.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  The merchant drops into a wicker seat at the edge of the room and briefly rubs his face as he explains. “One of our sailors visited his mother’s home before dawn today. The man delivered a ‘concerning report’ regarding the contents of last night’s shipment, after which Oaktusk felt obliged to investigate and dispatched her son. Rosehalf wanted to see the grafts for himself- which he’s done now- and also to question me about my reasons for bringing them here.”

  “How much did you tell him?”

  “Nearly everything. He and his mother know enough already to deduce where the grafts are going, so revealing the charitable reason behind it was my best option. The only major details I withheld are Clearheart’s secret and the fact that we smuggled an outlander inside the city without telling them.”

  Looking up to catch Lamp’s gaze, Blackwing adds. “He also wanted to interrogate the ‘priests’ I brought along from New Carcosa, but I managed to dissuade him on that account. Still, I’d rather the two of you stay indoors until we leave. On that note…”

  The merchant turns back to Candlewire. “Oaktusk doesn’t want us moving our stockpile through the city during the day, and I agree. We’re to move after dark as soon as the streets clear. In the meantime, she’s already begun suppressing rumors. Word will likely spread by the time we return, but we should still be able to leave quietly tonight.”

  Candlewire nods slowly. “We still need to buy something to offer as tribute to Ashti’s king. I assume you want me staying here to guard the grafts, and it sounds like the other two are under house arrest, so will you go shopping alone?”

  “That seems like the best option.”

  The copper-leafed woman nods, then plucks an oleander leaf from the table and holds it out. Her partner reaches across the room with his graft arm and pinches it between his claws.

  “Wool will work as a base gift, though we’ll need a sweetener on top.” She tells him while waving towards the leaf. “That’s the color we’re looking for. Unless you can find something closer to a magical pear tree.”

  Blackwing nods, then leans forward to set the poisonous foliage back on the table. Rising from his chair, he bids them all farewell for the time being, declines an offer from his second-in-command to share in her breakfast, and departs from the room.

  After he’s gone, Candlewire arranges for the disposal of her botanical collection and the removal of their plates. Once the room is cleared and the three of them are restored to privacy, she rises from her seat and gestures for Ashti to join her. The outlander obliges with a questioning expression but dutifully follows her hostess to the shelves along the wall.

  “I understand that your princess made some of these.” Candlewire softly speaks as her unfocused eyes traverse the objects before her. “Could you point those items out for me?”

  “Regretully, I cannot.” The handmaiden calmly replies. “None of the artwork in this room was made by her hand. Some appear similar, but none are hers.”

  “Oh. Well, I can’t see too keenly, so I would have asked you to describe them anyway. Please pretend for me. What has she made?”

  A wide grin spreads across Ashti’s face, and she happily obliges the request. Taking the pieces before them as inspiration, she references similar objects she recalls from her beloved’s workshop. Each description lasts minutes, beginning with an account of the artwork’s physical features but continuing into elaborate stories about the history, intentions, and techniques behind each item.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Lamp can almost picture every object she describes, and he finds himself carried along by her passion. Indeed, all three of them grow increasingly invested in each account as Ashti slowly works her way across the room. Lamp feels so enamored by her storytelling that he almost protests when she suddenly stops. However, upon leaning sideways to glance around her, he understands.

  “Oh.” The girl murmurs. “This little one again.”

  She reaches toward the shelf and taps a finger against a small figurine carved from milky white quartz into the shape of a robin. A wistful smile plays across her face as the bird rocks back and forth beneath her touch.

  “Are you happy in your roost?” She inquires quietly.

  When the bird doesn’t answer, she retracts her hand. Candlewire looks aside at Lamp and softly asks whether he knows the statuette’s significance. He answers in the affirmative and summarizes what he recalls from Ashti’s previous comments on the object. Once appraised of the bird’s history, the overseer pats a comforting hand against the outlander’s shoulder to draw her attention.

  “Would you like to take that one back home with you?” She offers with a warm smile. “I don’t think it’s one of Wing’s favorites. We can ask him when he’s back.”

  “Are you sure?” Ashti hesitantly asks. “Reclaiming a gift in that manner feels highly improper.”

  Candlewire shrugs. “Yeah it is, but I bet you’d get away with it, and I really don’t think he’ll care that much. Tell you what, I’ll ask him for you if that’s easier.”

  “It would be, but I still feel-”

  The copper woman interrupts with a wave of her hand. “I’ve already made up my mind. You’re taking the bird. I’ll steal it for you if I have to.”

  “Very well.” Ashti concedes with an awkward smile. “I suppose I am helpless in this matter.”

  Candlewire nods. “Absolutely nothing you can do about it. Now- Has your princess made anything like this?”

  She points to the next object on the shelf, prompting their self-styled curator to resume her tour of a workshop none of them can see. The exercise quickly settles back into its previous groove, and the three of them happily pass several additional minutes working their way across the room.

  After they eventually reach the far side, Candlewire calls for refreshments and ushers her guests back into their chairs. They pause to wet their throats, with Lamp himself in considerable need. When their beverages are half emptied, their ever-lively hostess proposes another engaging subject to the younger of her guests.

  “Tell us more about your princess.” She says while leaning forward in her chair. “I half-feel like we know her already, but what is she really like?”

  Ashti smiles fondly but doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, she settles back, closes her eyes, and draws a deep breath in through her nose before releasing a gentle sigh.

  “Her Highness is someone with whom anyone could fall in love. Bright, endlessly optimistic, hard working, perceptive, and kind.” A slow grin ruffles the silver feathers on Ashti’s face as mirth enters her voice. “She says deliberately dumb things in the cutest way, and her laugh is like the scent of orchids- if that makes any sense. I lack the language to describe it properly. You must simply take me at my word that the world seems better every time she smiles.

  “I have spent the better half of my life in her company, and each day she showed me something new. Wherever she goes, I have followed. Whatever I have asked, she freely gave. There was little we did not share, and nothing we would not express, except her secret that she wished to live, and mine that I would die to save her.”

  Lamp feels the soft pressure of tears welling beneath his eyes as the young lover falls silent. Glancing to the side at Candlewire, he finds the older woman gently rubbing at her cheeks to wick away two glimmering trails. The overseer thanks Ashti for sharing her words and receives a silent, wet-eyed nod in response.

  Then the handmaiden turns to Lamp and addresses him in a slightly nervous tone. “Since you will likely meet her soon, I suppose I should also mention one other, physical feature of note… Her Highness was born with a slight deformity in her spine. It bends to the side in a strange way, so she wears a brace to correct her posture. Please avoid making comments or staring when you see her.”

  “Of course.” Lamp agrees. “Doing otherwise would be rude among my own people as well.”

  Ashti expresses gratitude, and the conversation lapses. The quiet only lingers for a moment before Candlewire, seemingly averse to long pauses, slaps a hand against her thigh and jumps up from her chair. She asks the others whether they’d like to test their skill at any suggested game from a list comprising lightly athletic quasi-sports in the vein of foot races and handball.

  In response, Ashti suggests a circuit around Blackwing’s veranda with a suspicious degree of enthusiasm. A few minutes later, the outlander proves herself the fastest of their trio by some considerable margin. Lamp credits his loss to her youth; Candlwire makes the same excuse for placing third while requesting additional consideration for her height, nearsightedness, and general sense of fair play.

  They continue onward from that point by engaging in a sequence of similarly active frivolities. By the time their host returns home with a large bundle of cloth balanced over his graft arm, he finds the three of them chasing each other and a few of his servants around the garden while fighting for possession of a leather ball. Candlewire, who had performed abysmally up to now, immediately invites the merchant to join her team. With no delay, he smoothly suggests they break for lunch instead.

  The associates retreat back upstairs to Blackwing’s study at Candlewire’s suggestion. Blackwing joins them a minute later after depositing his newly purchased fabric in the same converted store room containing his flying contraption and the grafts.

  Immediately after the merchant settles into his seat, his business partner prompts him with a hopeful tone. “Did you find an individual gift for Ashti’s king? I’m sure you understand how important that could turn out to be, but it didn’t look like you brought anything else but the cloth back.”

  “No.” Blackwing calmly shakes his head. “But I did think of something else. I still have my father’s armor in a box somewhere. We should have time to get that knocked into shape and polished, so I sent someone to dig around for the thing and convey it to a smith.”

  “You did not!” Though her tone remains even, Candlewire’s face betrays exasperation as she stage-whispers. “The objective was to offer him presents, not to pawn off junk we inherited from our estranged parents.”

  “Is it junk?” The merchant shrugs. “To me, its worth barely exceeds the bronze from which it’s made. To them, it’s a relic of a violent and storied past. They might appreciate it as a novelty.”

  “Well…” The overseer’s expression turns half-convinced. “I suppose it does seem like the sort of thing a king with no conquests might like to prop up for his guests. Maybe it’s not completely ridiculous after all.”

  A single corner of Blackwing’s mouth turns upward. “From you? High praise.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” Candlewire answers with an affectionate smile. Then, shifting in her chair, she turns toward the display shelves and extends a finger to point at the crystalline robin that had arrested their attention earlier that morning. “By the way, it turns out Ashti was rather taken with that little bird sculpture before you cruelly yoinked it away in one of your trade deals. The poor girl’s too polite to ask for it back, so I offered to steal it for her. Is that fine with you?”

  Blackwing nods. “She may reclaim the object so long as she promises to provide another piece in exchange. We can peruse my options once we reach her city.”

  Grinning in triumph, Candlwire waves for Lamp to forward the good news to Ashti, a task which he had already begun. The girl’s face lights up a moment later, and she thanks both of her hosts profusely and promises to buy them two gifts apiece in recompense. Candlewire swiftly holds up three fingers, but Blackwing pushes her arm back down.

  Their food arrives soon afterwards. As they begin to eat, Candlewire regales her partner with a half-remembered and half-fabricated retelling of Ashti’s earlier tour. Once Lamp lets the outlander in on the overseer’s joke, the girl whole-heartedly plays along. At one point, she nearly convinces Blackwing that her princess spent the last few months organizing a team of masons to carve the merchant’s own face into a hillside and had set plans in motion to chisel it out and cart it across the desert.

  Ashti fails to suppress a smirk while describing how inaccurate and unfortunate his likeness was turning out when she last saw it, at which point he calmly accuses her of spinning a deception. Candlewire pretends surprise and indignation on Blackwing’s behalf, though the man looks even less convinced by that act. Last of all, he turns to Lamp and mutters with feigned injury that he’d expected more loyal service from his translator. The scholar apologies and claims that he was also taken in, which earns an amused snort.

  After the mid-day meal eventually concludes, the two business partners bid their guests farewell and retreat to Blackwing’s office to read the day’s most recent reports and to draft the orders which will become their final dictates before departure.

  Left to their own devices, Lamp and Ashti resume their language practice, though a more serious matter weighs on the former’s mind. Finally granted his first private moment with the outlander since the day began, the scholar recognizes an opportunity to broach the subject Blackwing had declared taboo the evening prior. He quickly pushes that temptation from his thoughts, but, to his shame and annoyance, he fails to quash it fully.

  Each time he dismisses the impulse, it subsides for only minutes at a time before popping up again, intermittently and incessantly interrupting his practice with its blended clamor of apprehensive curiosity. Lamp’s internal conflict eventually grows so apparent that his study partner asks him to share his troubles. He begrudgingly refuses, and she politely lets the matter drop.

  From there, a pattern of instruction and reinforcement mostly keeps them engaged until the sun finally begins to set amidst a rosy band of clouds. They only break from practice when their hosts invite them to reassemble for a quick, light dinner. Lamp departs for the dining room immediately while Ashti detours to her quarters to pack away her reclaimed robin statuette.

  An hour later, after the city has grown quiet and its streets hold little traffic, they prepare to leave Blackwing’s house.

  The merchant quickly orchestrates the removal of all cargo from his home, having arranged for a team of weightbinders to gather outside his gate at the appropriate time. Lamp isn’t quite sure how the man plans to haul everything down the mountain, but clearly none of it will remain behind in Trembleheel.

  Lamp, Ashti, and Candlewire only exit after every crate and bundle is removed. They intend to press onward at once, but the precise moment the first of them steps outside, a familiar figure strolls around the corner of the nearest lane, synchronizing his arrival with their departure as if by happenstance.

  Straight backed, well groomed, with a face half-wrinkled and half carved from rosy stone, the son of Trembleheel’s basileus strides forward with an easy gait. At his side, held loosely in his hand, swings a narrow wooden rod. He grips the object in the same casual manner as one might carry an interesting stick randomly discovered on the ground. Lamp tries to identify the implement from a distance but can’t quite make out its detail in the dark.

  Lamp returns his attention to the stranger’s face in time to catch its two incongruous halves twisting into a bitter smile. Following the man’s gaze over his own shoulder, Lamp sees Candlewire emerging through the gate of Blackwing’s garden. The woman seems not to notice Rosehalf’s attention or approach as she brushes past Lamp’s arm and navigates the gloom to join with Blackwing at the heart of their contingent. As for the merchant himself, Lamp finds him staring toward the interloper with a controlled expression.

  Blackwing wastes no further time on silent tension, calling out over the night’s stillness at a volume meant to carry only as far as it must. “Thank you for joining us, Rosehalf. You might have sent word.”

  When the newcomer speaks in reply, his voice carries neither hostility nor warmth, but rather the calm banality with which one might comment upon yesterday’s weather. “Blackwing, if I should ever fail to turn up when and where I am not wanted, you must assume I died in my sleep. Good evening, by the way.”

  “Good evening.” The merchant wearily replies.

  Candlewire echos him a moment later, speaking without enthusiasm. Rosehalf inclines his head to each in turn, then turns his body to face Lamp.

  “And to you…”

  With an obvious ease of practice, the old man raises his free hand and draws a sign of greeting in the air, perfectly imitating the manner of priests. Casually performed, yet perfectly executed, the gesture seems natural in a way that marks it as genuine. Lamp’s old tutors performed it in much the same way.

  The scholar hesitates in response to the symbol’s unexpected appearance, unsure of a proper course. He nearly looks to his employer for guidance before electing on impulse to make his own decision. Tentatively, he returns the sacred gesture, prompting a neutral-faced nod from his opposite. Then Rosehalf returns his gaze to Blackwing.

  “Do please forgive my interruption here- I promise not to hold you overlong- but that man…” He points towards Lamp with his carved stick. “Is he not one of the two priests you brought along from New Carcosa? And that girl lurking behind him- the one who charmingly thinks herself veiled by a dollop of magic- she is the second of them, true?”

  Blackwing’s eyes narrow, but his tone remains level and polite. “As I told you this morning, neither of them owes allegiance to the central cult. The man received training in his youth but exited their fold a decade ago. The girl was never affiliated.”

  “Yet she speaks their tongue, does she not? In fact, according to the report we received this morning, she speaks nothing else. I must say, that’s a rather strange habit for one who lacks affiliation.”

  “She’s his student.” The merchant answers flatly.

  “Hmm. Three confident statements with unambiguous phrasing, followed by a half-truth.” Rosehalf mutters while taping the rod against his leg. Then, raising his volume back to a conversational level, he asks. “How certain are you of your man’s story? The Blessed Order has sent agents to us in disguises before. He could still be one of them.”

  Blackwing shakes his head. “He entered my employ two years ago and has provided discrete and faithful service ever since. I vouch for him with full confidence.”

  “Two years proves hardly anything.” The older man tuts before glancing back toward the object of his inquiries with an impassive expression. “Excuse me a moment.”

  Without awaiting Blackwing’s leave, Rosehalf advances toward the gate. As the official approaches, Lamp breaks eye contact to examine the rod carried loosely in his hand. The strange thing seems too delicate to serve as a weapon, yet its bearer makes no special effort to present the object as an emblem of his office.

  Lamp half-expects to identify the rod as a half-finished whittling project, so he feels a slight moment of shock when he at last recognizes the features of a holy symbol.

  The thin wooden cylinder transitions into three flat planes at its head. Each surface bears a face, a single likeness repeated thrice. Each visage depicts the same bearded man in three states of emotion. Of the two faces oriented upward, one appears stern, and the other calm. The last points toward the ground, but although Lamp cannot see it, he knows what it depicts. The third face always weeps.

  This symbol identifies its owner as a sworn acolyte of Regent. A confessor. While the Blessed Order might not be welcomed here, it seems the gods and old traditions retain their influence.

  Lamp tries not to let his nerves show too clearly as the realization hits, but that isn’t an easy feat. If the rod is to be believed, then he’s dealing with someone whose graft reveals deception, though the exact energy type remains difficult to guess. It might feed on stress or focus but could also possess the much rarer ability to absorb a complex emotion like shame. In any case, Lamp will need to speak and think carefully for the next few minutes.

  He has no more time to brace himself as the interloper languidly draws to a halt at a distance slightly too close to feel comfortable. Before Lamp can decide how to greet the man, his interrogation begins.

  “Are you a spy?” Rosehalf asks with an almost bored tone.

  “Ah... No, sir.” Lamp answers after a startled moment.

  The confessor nods. “Have you had any degree of contact with the Blessed Order of the Second Covenant within the past two years?”

  “I haven’t. They-”

  “Not even to attend sermons?”

  “Correct.”

  The older man nods again, then proceeds to ask a series of simple, yes-or-no questions regarding Lamp’s prior connection to the central cult. Lamp answers honestly in every case and avoids prevarication wherever possible. Blackwing and Candlewire watch attentively from nearby but never interject. After a minute or two of this, the Rosehalf seems content.

  “I can tell you’re hiding something.” He declares with disinterest. “But more so from me than your employer, and I’ve already questioned him to my approximate satisfaction. Thank you for your time.”

  Rosehalf then turns his head to Ashti, flippantly ignoring the handmaiden’s efforts to absorb any attention paid to her. With an awkward, unpracticed elocution, he poses a one-word question in the old tongue.

  “Traveler?”

  “... Yes.” She cautiously answers in the same. “I am.”

  He nods, seeming unsurprised. “Far home?”

  “Very much so. Judging by your questions, I suspect you already know from whence I came.”

  Rosehalf nods again and smiles gently, showing the first hints of warmth since his arrival. “Welcome here. Welcome traveler.”

  He points a finger back toward Blackwing while keeping his eyes on the girl. “True? Him?”

  “To you? I would not know. I believe he has been forthright with me, however.”

  The confessor nods, then drops his voice almost to a whisper as he asks. “You safe? Choice travel? Choice here?”

  “I-” She seems surprised for a moment, then her face softens, and she smiles fondly. “Yes. I feel quite safe with them, and I entered your lands willingly. Thank you.”

  Rosehalf offers her one last, kindly smile then steps away, turning back to face Blackwing with his neutral mien restored. In measured tones, he declares himself satisfied with the results of his questioning.

  “Then has your business concluded?” Blackwing asks politely.

  “Only this part of it.” The confessor temperately responds. “But we need dither by your threshold no longer. Let us be in motion! I shall accompany you to the gate.”

  The merchant nods with a blank expression, keeping his sentiments on this development to himself. He turns to his porters and softly orders them to take position and lift their cargo. For once, he does not join that effort with them. Tonight, at least for this segment of their journey, Blackwing carries nothing of his own.

  Once all loads are off the ground, Blackwing leads their way down Trembleheel’s dark and empty streets. Lamp warily watches their surroundings as they progress, concerned that sordid rumors might have leaked and that angry townspeople could emerge en masse from the alleyways to demand answers.

  No such crowd assembles, however. Here and there, a few faces peek out of windows, watching the procession with curious and concerned expressions, but no one steps out into the road to ask their business. No one calls to them or shouts accusations.

  The city seems to remain oblivious, for now, and what little attention they do receive appears largely uncomprehending. Lamp feels quite glad to be leaving while tonight’s peace holds. To be leaving before the plan he set in motion faces scrutiny and angry accusations from disgusted bystanders who see no virtue in one man’s choice to trade the dead for the living. To be leaving before anyone has time to look him in the eyes and see a heretic or a monster.

  At a certain point, Lamp stops watching the shadows; he has enough of them inside his head.

  The scholar only reengages with the world when their caravan slows as it reaches the back gate of Blackwing’s city. Looking up, he sees its great doors standing closed before them while the soldiers on the wall face inward. He worries for a moment before realizing that these sentries, like the townsfolk before them, appear more curious than scornful. They must not know yet what Blackwing carries.

  As the procession pulls to a gradual halt, their official escort continues ahead. Lamp sidesteps the body in front of him to get a better view of the departing man as he approaches the base of the wall. Only then does the scholar notice a pair of workers standing beside the gate with a long, cloth-wrapped bundle balanced across their arms.

  Rosehalf stops beside the men, then turns back to beckon Blackwing closer. As the merchant dutifully steps forward, the son-and-representative of his basileus rests a hand atop the bundle and explains.

  “To ensure that Trembleheel’s Landing is duly represented in foreign affairs, my mother felt it appropriate to send along an item of her own.”

  He pulls back one corner of the cloth wrap to reveal an elephant’s tusk beneath. Yellowed with age and covered in intricate carvings, the object steals Lamp’s breath away. It is, by far, the largest single piece of ivory he’s ever seen.

  Rosehalf continues, speaking loud enough for the full contingent to hear him. “Our clan has guarded this treasure since those halcyon days of yore before the rupture. Our ancestors clung to it as the gods plucked their ships from the waters of the old kingdom and delivered them to the gentle shores of our new homeland. It has passed from basileus to basileus in each generation since. Now we send it away, in your hands, to be delivered as a gift.”

  The confessor waves Blackwing forward to receive the tusk. The merchant gingerly accepts the object with his graft arm, lifting in one hand what two men had held in four.

  Then, looking up to meet Rosehalf’s eyes, he asks. “She was sure of this?”

  The older man nods with a tight smile. “We heard you planned to sacrifice an heirloom of your own, and you know how she hates to be outdone. Besides, legend holds that this tusk was originally cargo aboard a ship bound for the ancient royal court. This seems an opportune moment to complete its overdue voyage.

  “Lastly, Mother always felt a special kinship with this object, and she doesn’t care for the idea of it being sold or put in storage by whomever replaces her after she dies.” The man gives Blackwing a level stare that lingers for several seconds before he concludes. “We hope that, for at least the duration of its journey, it will remind you of your obligations to this town. That no matter where you venture whilst you’re traipsing among the stars, you must remember your true home. You will remember where you began.”

  “Always.” The prince of merchants answers solemnly.

  Rosehalf extends an arm, and Blackwing clasps it.

  “Gods keep you.” The confessor bids his counterpart farewell.

  “And you.” Blackwing returns.

  Then the city gates open before them, and their group proceeds through a high-walled courtyard and its second set of doors. They make quick progress up the gravel path leading to the hillside mine and soon approach the entrance to Blackwing’s tunnel through the caldera wall.

  As they near the end of the road, Lamp slows his pace to glance back at the sleepy city one last time. Ahead of him, he hears the merchant’s footsteps come to a halt as he also pauses. The two of them spend a long moment gazing back at their final waypoint of civilization before both at last turn their heads away.

  Advancing forward, they enter the mountain’s maw and vanish into darkness.