“Blackwing.” His whispered name spreads across the crowded space like wildfire.

  As Ashti’s grip on the room fades, more and more of the eyes she’d captured turn towards the merchant prince. He meets their disbelieving stares with a calm regard, straight-backed and forward facing. With his long graft and foreign clothing so prominently displayed, little doubt can remain as to his identity.

  Throughout the bazaar, whispers and murmurings build into a low drone interspersed by scattered shouts. Raised voices grow steadily in number as questions, exclamations, denials, and greetings drown the great hall in cacophonous noise. The disorder soon reaches a point at which Lamp is no longer able to discern any individual phrase.

  When several nearby vendors begin to stand, the Select who had accompanied their trio from outside tears free her falsemask and floods the air with palpable disapproval. Elsewhere throughout the spacious room, Lamp sees scattered handfuls of other Select acting in concert.

  “SILENCE!” She commands. “ACCOUNTS WILL BE PROVIDED AT A LATER TIME AS DETERMINED BY OUR ELDERS. FOR THE MOMENT, THIS MATTER DOES NOT CONCERN ANY OF YOU. RETURN TO YOUR CUSTOM AND MIND YOUR OWN AFFAIRS.”

  The entire room waits quieted and immobile beneath the combined pressure exerted by overlapping soulmasks. Sensing an opportunity to mark himself out as a welder of magic- and thus, he hopes, a person of higher station- Lamp impulsively leans on the same trick he’d discovered earlier. Reaching for the light stored in his left hand, he braces against the magic instead of calling it forth.

  The scholar finds resistance marginally easier than before, perhaps because the compulsion was directed away from him this time, or perhaps because it was spread across a much larger audience. Experience and conviction surely make some difference also. Regardless, Lamp still struggles. He steps forward in an abrupt lurch before deciding not to risk his balance on a second stride.

  “Lady Ashti.” His voice cuts without opposition through the room’s deathly silence. The soreness of his throat forces him into a lower register and softer tone while his struggle against the Select’s manipulation adds a stony element he otherwise would not include. “I expect the gentleman would like his table back.”

  Stiffly turning her neck, Ashti glances down at the perfume seller whose station she’d commandeered for her announcement. The man’s concerned eyes turn up to meet her own, though his fully-bearded head remains locked into its prior orientation. Quietly, the girl murmurs to him. “Sorry if I kicked your stuff.”

  She takes a halting step toward the edge of his cluttered table, then adopts a dubious expression as she regards the ground. Although other Select throughout the hall have already begun to mask themselves again, their guide leaves her own power unveiled. That ongoing immobilization presents a challenge for Ashti’s dismount.

  Blackwing resolves the issue by smoothly stepping forward and raising his human hand towards hers. Ashti accepts the offered aid, placing her palm over his before floating into the air as he lifts her up and off the table. The merchant prince sets her down at his side a moment later.

  Then, staring into their attendant aristocrat’s exposed soulmask, he remarks. “I question whether that’s still necessary.”

  Lamp twists the words in translation as he softly conveys. “Lord Blackwing believes your point has been made.”

  The Select takes a moment to pan her gaze across the nearby crowd before nodding and replacing her mask. Once the accessory is reaffixed, she waves her hands to form an enlarged sign for silence, broadly exaggerating the movements to make them clear to all onlookers. Hierarchical taboo or no, some simple words are apparently known to the general public. Even Lamp had encountered this sign before Ashti began his training.

  Regardless of whether the nearby merchants all comprehend her gestures, they seem to take the lady’s point. None of them so much as whisper in the wake of her compulsion, though their eyes retain clear interest as they regard the foreign presence at their fore. Further away, in sectors of the market which had been released by their proximate Select far sooner, a low drone of hushed conversations maintains a steady volume.

  Gesturing for her guests to follow, the escorting noblewoman sharply turns to resume her brisk walk towards a quiet side hall. Ashti pivots as if to follow, only to hesitate an instant later when she notices that both of her companions still linger by the perfume stall.

  She and the scholar both look on curiously while Blackwing turns a small clay pot in his hand. He raises the glazed vessel near his face to sniff at its lid, then sets it down again with an approving expression.

  Meeting the seller’s gaze, the visiting merchant bestows a compliment. “You offer fine wares.”

  When Lamp interprets that phrase into the local tongue, the perfume seller’s hairy face splits into an exuberant grin. His overjoyed, wide-toothed, soft-eyed smile would look perfectly at home on a young father holding his newborn child for the first time. If any doubt existed as to his gracious sentiments, he resolves them by performing a shallow bow.

  “Your kindness honors me, high one.” He murmurs respectfully. Then, with a furtive glance towards Ashti, he adds. “In answer to the question, Her Highness- five blessings upon her- passed through this hall perhaps an hour ago. She claimed private rooms in the western wing for her own use after examining the granary. I know nothing further.”

  Blackwing and Ashti nod and offer thanks in turn. The perfume seller bows to both of them before settling his hands on the table and lowering his gaze. Taking his change in posture as their final cue to exit, the trio at last turns from the stall and strolls after their waiting guide.

  Judging by the noblewoman’s ramrod stiffness and the subtly displeased expression on her falsemask, she’s not happy with anything that just transpired. Whatever sentiments she harbors remain unexpressed, however, as she turns on her heel and resumes her departure at a brisk pace.

  Lamp nearly accelerates to follow her before Blackwing gently pats a hand against his arm. Duly reminded of the importance he should place on appearances, the scholar falls in line behind his employer as the taller man strolls forward with a measured stride. Ashti imitates their speed as well, and the three of them pursue just fast enough to look purposeful without rushing to catch up. Soon enough, their guide slows her own ambulation to accommodate.

  As they proceed, the handmaiden glances about at passing servants. She briefly seems inclined to recruit a messenger of her own, but an expression of indecisive doubt plays across her face, and she delays the attempt. A guilty glance towards Blackwing suggests the desire to avoid causing further incidents. He notices the look and nods back to her impassively.

  Taking that gesture as permission, she angles her path to intercept a young woman hurrying in the opposite direction with a stack of thin clay tablets swaddled in her arms. Just as Ashti opens her mouth to speak, however, another sudden hush washes over the great hall.

  This new silence isn’t borne by magic. Rather than falling like a hammer blow across the entire room at once, it sweeps from one end of the market to the other, following in the wake of a whispered wave. Reasoning that the first portion to fall quiet must be closest to whichever event prompted this change, Lamp tracks the ripple to its source.

  The scholar squints towards a hallway aperture in the middle of the wall ahead of them. In that gap, he spies an encroaching group of seven richly dressed Select followed by an entourage of at least a dozen attendants. A white-haired woman leads their group, marching with an air of authority and leaning slightly against her tall wooden cane with every step.

  Lamp initially assumes that Lady Jaleh has arrived faster than expected to receive them, only to immediately doubt his own conclusion. The tall figure walking at the party’s head strides too quickly for an elder; this and other subtle details shift his perception.

  Her waist-long hair, though fully colorless, retains a glossy sheen rarely possessed by the very old. Her stiff, upright posture and energetic stride speak of youthful vigor, while the aristocrats clustering around her person carry themselves more like suitors than subordinates. Each of the other Select seem to vie for her attention, rushing to keep pace while gracefully blocking each other out to be the closest at her side.

  Most telling, however, is Lamp’s realization that although the woman at their center wears a painted mask like all the others, hers is the only one with holes cut for its eyes and nostrils- the only mask which bears its inscription in gold. On top of all that, she stands inches taller than every woman around her and wears the highest conical hat.

  This can only be one person.

  As the murmuring tide which had drawn Lamp’s attention passes deeper into the market, and as the approaching group fully exits their hallway, the scholar manages to catch the leading woman’s voice at the midpoint of her sentence. “… the source of this disturbance, then I want to investigate a strange report I just received of three people tumbling down the godsmount. The details seem nonsensical, but multiple eyewitnesses…”

  Lamp turns his head toward Ashti, expecting her to provide the proof of his assumption by calling out to her beloved. Instead, he finds the girl restrained and muffled by her own emotions. Tears well in silver eyes. Her tilted chin and parted lips suggest the beginnings of a shout, but the stubborn lump quivering in her throat shows where the handmaiden’s voice choked on sentiments too thick with meaning to express.

  This was the worst possible moment for her to be stricken speechless, but Lamp fully understands. So, in deference to her plight and without a second’s hesitation, he intervenes.

  Raising his left hand, the scholar sets his graft ablaze. For a dozen feet around him, every surface floods with rich color. Even the pale stone floor grows vibrant as subtle contrasts in its surface deepen and intensify. The closest merchants stumble backwards with widened eyes, gawking at the scholar before staring down at their own bodies, enraptured by the truth his light reveals.

  Lamp feels Ashti’s graft activate at his side a startled moment later, but he doubts her addition was necessary. The entire room was already turning to face him, and he can’t imagine those heads swiveling or eyes snapping any faster.

  Lamp maintains the effect long enough so that vendors scrambling on top of tables elsewhere in the room have time to witness it, then he lowers his arm and dims his light. Heavy silence lingers while the colors leech away. No one moves or speaks as the native monochrome quickly reasserts its presence.

  Unlike when Ashti revealed Blackwing’s arrival, the room remains quiet even in the aftermath of Lamp’s display. However, the scholar takes no credit for that persistent hush,, as all eyes throughout the plaza seem to turn from him in unison back toward the princess.

  The room awaits her response with respectful silence.

  Although, given the furtive glances several shop keepers cast towards the largest concentrations of Select throughout the room, perhaps that atmosphere is as much- or more- a matter of wariness. Regardless of motivations, consensus forms without discussion that no one in the room will interrupt the scene playing out before them.

  As for Her Highness, the young woman can’t tear her gaze away from the barely-younger girl silently weeping at Lamp’s side. The pair of them lock eyes as Ashti’s face splits into a wet-cheeked grin.

  “I came home.” She softly calls.

  The princess turns to the nobleman closest by her side and delivers a meaningful glance. In response, he lifts the bottom of his falsemask away from his chin. A tiny ribbon of brickwork immediately spills out through the gap, dropping from the flat pane of his true face towards the floor. The construct’s leading edge enlarges as it snakes away from its source, spreading into a narrow lane by the time it meets the ground.

  The road begins creeping soundlessly forward. Her Highness nimbly steps aboard as it winds past, tapping her cane against the hardened clay on her ascent. A few of her noble hangers-on attempt to follow, but others in their cohort restrain them.

  The Select gentleman responsible for the conjured road then replaces his mask, clipping the construct’s tail and halting the growth of its final segments so they fall to the earth in miniature form. The greater manifestation departs unaffected, continuing its steady progress around the market’s perimeter and gradually building speed to a jogging pace.

  Ashti responds to that absurd sight with a tearful laugh. Then- too impatient to await her sweetheart’s arrival- the girl breaks into a run. Dashing off from a dead start, she weaves recklessly close around the masked patrolwoman who’d brought them inside, forcing the lady to step aside while she barrels past.

  Ashti’s progress only slows again as she approaches the plaza’s corner. The princess’s magical road likewise crawls to a halt before rapidly sinking into the ground. Her Highness almost seems not to notice its disappearance as she strides from the mobile platform without a moment’s delay. When Ashti pulls to a halt slightly outside arm’s reach, the princess carries forward at full walking speed, dropping her cane to the side at the last second.

  Their subsequent collision seems more like an attempted tackle than a hug. The shorter girl even stumbles backwards slightly, and they both lean against each for a moment afterwards to restore balance. After a few unsteady seconds, their embrace shifts into a more affectionate form.

  One hand wraps behind Ashti’s shoulders while another cradles the back of her head. The two of them stare into each other's eyes for a long moment before the princess bends forward at the waist. Bringing her mask next to the shorter girl’s ear, she whispers something pitched too quiet to reach eavesdroppers like Lamp.

  Still, he hears Ashti giggle in response.

  The princess’s next words issue loud enough for Lamp to catch them above the room’s pervasive silence. He can even hear the smile in her voice as she says. “Welcome home, my darling wings. I knew you lived and would return to me. I knew it.”

  “Never doubt.” The outlander sets her head against her lover’s collarbone and mumbles. “Even if I died, I would always come back to you.”

  “Too morbid!” The princess primly rejoins. “I strongly prefer not to receive proof of that claim. Please refrain from all heroics and acts of daring until further notice. I swear to Regent, if you run off into peril again without notifying me first… Frankly, I have no idea what I would do. You can expect the second half of my ultimatum at a later time, so watch out! For now, you must excuse me a brief moment; I have important guests to greet.”

  Disentangling herself and smoothing out her colorful, stately clothing, the king’s daughter steps away from her handmaiden to finally acknowledge the two gawking foreigners lingering at a polite remove. She deeply bows her head- not her back- to the merchant prince before offering a shallower nod to Lamp. Once both men return that gesture, her eyes return to the visiting dignitary.

  “I am greatly pleased to finally meet you, Lord Blackwing; I have long hoped for this encounter.” The young woman’s clear-toned voice carries far even at moderate volume, enhanced by the precise elocution of a practiced speaker. “We will exchange proper introductions after withdrawing from public scrutiny. Before that, I must state my deepest gratitude for the incredible favor you have done me by keeping Lady Ashti in your care and escorting her home.”

  The princess nods to him again- about as deeply as she can manage without tipping into an actual bow- then turns away from the man to face a room full of eavesdropping purveyors. If she’s at all abashed by their amassed attention, she suppresses such feelings seamlessly.

  “Sorry about the interruption, everyone!” Her Highness cheerily calls. “Thank you all for allowing me a moment of quiet to greet my returning friend. Our distractions are at an end now, so please carry on with business!”

  She claps her hands to punctuate those closing words, and the room turns away from her as if a spell had broken. Muttered conversations spring up while normal commerce resumes. With remarkable speed, the volume and variety of noise returns to its standard level.

  With that increased level of sound precluding distant conversations, the princess moves closer. Behind her, Ashti scrambles to retrieve the young woman’s discarded cane from the floor, hastily stooping to recover the item and rushing it back into its owner’s hand after she’s taken only a few graceful strides without support.

  Blackwing reciprocates his counterpart’s advance with greater velocity, his long strides swiftly crossing the distance between them. The pace he sets nearly forces Lamp to jog as the scholar strains to keep abreast with enough serenity of motion that he doesn’t undermine their presumed air of mystique.

  The Select who’d brought Blackwing’s group into the temple advances as well, meeting the princess slightly ahead of them and pausing to wait with her there. Blackwing arrives shortly afterwards and draws to a halt as Lamp closes last. With their separation removed, the scholar confirms that Ashti’s partner is indeed a fair bit taller than himself. She takes after her aunt in that regard, though he struggles to imagine Clearheart’s muscles on the princess’s willowy frame.

  “Let us adjourn to a private room.” The royal daughter suggests in a cordial tone. “I expect we all have much to discuss, and this is not the proper venue.”

  Her primary guest replies with a nod. “Please lead on.”

  Before they can execute that decision, however, their escorting Select steps forward and lightly bows to the princess. Communicating through hand signs, she reports that she’d already sent word to Lady Jaleh requesting her presence in the temple’s south western wing.

  The princess declares that location agreeable then turns back the way she’d come, gliding off while the others fall in behind her. As they draw close to the far wall where she’d abandoned her retinue of sycophants, the masked group of six finally steps beyond their hallway on a course to intercept.

  Her Highness addresses the lot before any of its members have time to issue greetings or attach themselves to her new contingent. Speaking with eloquent rapidity, she assigns important-sounding duties to five out of the six. Lamp initially feels impressed by her quick improvisation, but halfway through the list he begins to suspect that their ‘new’ assignments are actually just the tasks they were meant to be performing before they started following her around.

  The princess addresses the gentleman who’d leant her a road from his soulmask last. When she hesitates to send him off, he resolves her indecision by suggesting a suitably urgent errand for himself and begging her permission to depart at once. She graciously permits his absence, and he immediately leaves.

  With her orders delivered- or perhaps reiterated- the princess tactfully excuses herself from the remaining nobles. Claiming that Lady Jaleh will desire a private audience with Lord Blackwing, she volunteers herself to entertain their guest pending the governess’s arrival.

  Most of her courtiers seem displeased, but not-a-one issues objections. Their contingent shatters into six pieces, with most of the attending servants splitting off to follow one aristocrat or another. Only three of the lesser-ranked individuals remain behind.

  The first two of those servants are young women whom Lamp takes to be a secretary and maid, respectively. The last is a burly fellow armed with a wooden baton. He’s clearly a bodyguard, though Lamp questions why the princess would entrust her safety to a warrior who can neither wield or withstand magic.

  Now that Lamp considers it, Her Highness just dismissed every Select in her vicinity apart from the patrolwoman who’d waylaid their group during Blackwing’s rooftop dash across the city. The aristocracy’s sole remaining representative stays silently attached as their group finally exits the grand market and hurries down a broad hallway. If she feels any concern around being the only one left, she says nothing on the subject.

  Choosing one doorway out of several arranged along both walls, the princess directs her guests into a comfortably furnished room. As they step inside, she dispatches her more bookish servant to send an updated message to Lady Jaleh informing her of their current whereabouts. With that accomplished, she waves the others inside. Blackwing and Lamp enter first at her insistence, pursued by their masked escort. Her Highness and Ashti follow next; the former signals her guard to close the door behind himself as he and her remaining maid enter last.

  The princess invites everyone to seat themselves on cushioned chairs before excusing herself for a brief moment. Walking to a corner of the room and facing away from inquisitive eyes, she leans her cane against the wall before detaching her falsemask. She hooks the face covering onto her belt, then draws a sheer white veil from a pouch inside her thigh-length jacket. Her remaining female attendant assists in securing this new garment to hidden attachment points under the princess’s tall, bent-tipped cone of a hat.

  The room’s other occupants loiter on their feet throughout this process. Their library-faced Select doesn’t so much as glance at a chair while she waits with perfect posture for her princess to sit first. Blackwing follows the local’s lead, and the scholar imitates his employer.

  Observing through his peripheral vision so as to avoid staring, Lamp considers this intriguing revelation that their hostess requires some level of facial covering even when out of public view. He idly wonders how close of a relationship her subjects are required to achieve before they’re finally allowed to meet without obstruction. Clearly he and Blackwing fall short of that threshold, though it’s interesting that they’ve immediately progressed beyond the mask.

  Distracted by his musings, Lamp almost fails to notice when Ashti crosses her forearms behind her back and waggles her fingers for his attention. Immediately after he looks- without meeting his eyes or glancing his way- she forms three signs in rapid succession. The speed and awkward positioning of her movements nearly baffles the interpreter, but he manages to decipher her intent once the phrase completes.

  “Bag. Floor. Hidden.”

  Not much of a puzzle; there’s only one bag she could be talking about: the one on Blackwing’s shoulders. It holds nearly everything they brought into this city, including their precious and as-of-yet undisclosed cargo.

  Lamp considers the delicate matter while mentally tallying which other individuals in the room might have seen Ashti’s signal. The ‘changing’ princess, her maid, and the masked patrolwoman all stand ahead and face away. None of those three saw it.

  Blackwing might have noticed, given his position near Lamp’s side, but Lamp didn’t see the man glance in their direction, so it isn’t clear. Lastly, the princess’s bodyguard almost certainly witnessed Ashti’s instructions from his vantage standing behind them at the door. Neither man could have understood the content of her message, but absolutely anyone who saw it would comprehend the intention behind its surreptitious delivery.

  For the moment, both men hold their tongues. That silence means this tiny choice of massive consequence falls to Lamp. Since the message came from Ashti and needs to be delivered to Blackwing, he could easily tell himself that his only role is to serve as a bridge between them. He knows, however, that whatever outcomes follow will result in small part from his next words, so he will bear a measure of responsibility, however slight.

  Therefore, Lamp won’t do this because it’s his job. He’ll do it because he wants to help.

  Quietly, nonchalantly, the scholar asks Blackwing to set his bag down against the wall and points behind a table that will partially obscure the pack to anyone standing in the doorway. The merchant gives Lamp a level stare in response, then does as his translator asked without comment.

  A few moments later, the princess stops fussing with her hat, reclaims her cane, and turns around smartly. The thin white veil now draped over her face hangs to the base of her neck. For all that coverage, its translucent fabric scarcely obscures her features. This garment obviously isn’t intended to stop anyone from realizing what she looks like.

  As for the face revealed through that veil, Lamp sees a young woman with kind eyes and an ineffable smile. She pans that gentle expression across the room before settling her fond regard on Ashti.

  “We should begin with introductions.” She remarks to her handmaiden. “Have you told them my name yet?”

  “No, Your Highness. I followed protocol.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Ever dutiful.” The princess smiles indulgently before turning to meet Blackwing and Lamp’s eyes in turn.

  “I am called Kimia.” She tells them casually. “Centuries-old tradition dictates that royal names are never to be spoken by people outside my household, but everyone in our kingdom knows mine anyway. Now you do also.

  “To avoid offending local sensibilities, I request that you address me by either my title or my House. Since I am not of your monarchy, however, I feel we can relax standards somewhat more than usual. For today, I propose that you simply call me Princess Sacrifice.”

  Ashti makes a choking noise while the patrolwoman twitches slightly. Kimia ignores both responses and retains her calm expression, though a slight adjustment to her eyes betrays a hint of humor. Blackwing takes a moment to consider her attitude before commenting in deadpan.

  “Rather on the nose.”

  The royal’s mouth curves ever-so-slightly upwards, surrendering the game. “You must forgive me such jests, Your Lordship; I feel duly entitled to them. If you prefer, ‘Princess’ alone will suffice for my name. As for yours, Lord Blackwing, we are all quite familiar already, but who is your associate?”

  The merchant waves an expository hand towards Lamp while introducing the scholar as his translator and ‘advisor on various matters.’ The princess formally welcomes both men into her kingdom before she finally takes a seat.

  Blackwing, Lamp, and Ashti do likewise while her two servants and the Select remain standing. The maid takes up a station behind the princess’s left shoulder while the patrolwoman maneuvers behind her right. The burly man keeps his position near the door.

  Paying the standing trio no heed, Her Highness attempts to move their conversation forward. Almost as soon as she begins, however, Ashti apologetically interrupts to request that a soothing tea be prepared for Lamp’s sore throat.

  The princess’s maid sets off to complete that order after receiving confirmation from her mistress, leaving the room with a subdued promise to return quickly. Her Highness then asks with a tone of genuine concern whether Lamp feels well enough to continue translating. He assures her that he does, and insists that their conversation shouldn’t wait on the arrival of his brew.

  Accepting his decision, Kimia returns to her interrupted opening topic. She chooses to begin their dialogue by apologizing for the rough deployment of magic they’d witnessed in the central market. Her Highness solemnly promises to visit the consortium later today to ensure that none of their vendors were adversely impacted; she always does so in the wake of similar incidents.

  “Please be assured that mass suppressions of that nature do not occur here with any regularity. Everyone in the temple is somewhat high strung at the moment on account of a recent incident of arson, and potential unrest is better handled quickly. I want you to know that our Select operate under strict restrictions as to the circumstances, duration, and frequency with which they can expose civilians to their authority. Furthermore, most of them demonstrate restraint far in excess of official limitations.”

  Blackwing nods and thanks the princess for her assurances while downplaying any concerns he might harbor over the application of psychic power. He also neglects to mention that their lingering Select escort herself attempted to suborn him and his companions before they reached the temple. A single glance towards Ashti seems to indicate that he will leave the telling and timing of that anecdote to her discretion.

  The handmaiden, for her part, shoots an anxious glance towards the door, then prompts her princess with a question about the damaged granary.

  Kimia waves a dismissive hand. “Our investigation quickly determined that the culprits only targeted rare stocks intended for export to noble houses. The kingdom’s food supply is secure, and we expect to recover our rarities within a few days. Those fruits never spend much time on the shelf to begin with.

  “But that matter has nothing to do with Lord Blackwing’s business in our city, nor with your purpose in bringing him here. To that point, as glad as I am to host our esteemed guest, I hope you did not imperil yourself merely to facilitate this introduction.”

  The serious look she directs towards Ashti communicates a genuine concern on that subject. The girl shakes her head with a tiny laugh.

  “I had to fetch something.” Ashti smiles disarmingly. “Do you remember the crystal bird you promised to buy for me if Lord Blackwing relinquished it? Well, I got it back! And I also grabbed a few souvenirs for you.”

  She nods towards the bulging pack tucked behind a table against the wall. “I know how much it bothers you to have a few of their coins missing from your collection, so we tracked down the missing denominations. I ventured abroad merely to satisfy the wish I saw in your eyes every time you looked at them. You will at last be restored by what we carried home.”

  A brief moment of confusion morphs into stunned silence at Ashti’s closing words. Then Kimia bursts into remarkably genuine laughter. Tension appears to drain out of her body as she forces her shoulders to relax, and she holds her eyes off both the bag and the Select standing at her side.

  The convincing chuckles die away smoothly before she turns towards Blackwing with an expression of wary interest. Her Highness starts to speak, but a light tapping against the door interrupts whatever she meant to say next.

  “Ah.” She remarks to Lamp. “That must be your tea.”

  She waves for her bodyguard to open the room’s only entryway. He does so, then steps out of the way while inclining his head. Contrary to the princess’s prediction, the woman waiting outside carries no kettle.

  Although the new arrival wears no falsemask, she adorns herself in splendid finery of such quality and ostentation that her outfit puts to shame all the garments worn by every other noble Lamp has yet encountered. She sweeps the room with sharp eyes before settling her gaze on Blackwing.

  “I serve as voice to Lady Jaleh of House Caution.” The woman introduces herself without mentioning her own name. “My lady has taken a room across the hall for your requested meeting. Please accompany me there.”

  Blackwing nods and leisurely rises from his seat, prompting the table’s other three occupants to vacate their chairs as well. Lamp wonders aloud in their own language why the grand dame wouldn’t simply meet them where they’ve already settled. In response, his employer murmurs. “Lest we forget who called upon whom.”

  While the pair of them exchange a glance, their Select escort steps around the table and addresses the new arrival. Signing quickly, the patrolwoman explains in brief that she was the one who discovered Blackwing and his cohort crossing the city, who then escorted them inside the palace, and who sent an initial messenger to inform Lady Jaleh of this development. After delivering her abbreviated report, the Select asks whether she should accompany their visitors across the hall to deliver her account in greater detail.

  “Your presence was not requested.” Jaleh’s voice responds via hand signs. “You may remain here until summoned.”

  Speaking up from behind her table, the princess interjects with a tone of mild concern. “You met the three of them while on patrol, correct? Is anyone covering your route?”

  “No, Your Highness.” The Select turns back to face her. “I thought it best to bring the outlanders to Lady Jaleh immediately, so I undertook no detours on our way here."

  Nodding to Kimia in recognition of her point, Jaleh’s voice signs an updated reply. “The foreigners are delivered now. You may return to your duties.”

  The masked noblewoman stiffly nods, then salutes her apparent superior by tapping three fingertips against the forehead of her mask. Turning towards the princess, she performs a swift bow, straightens, then spins on her heel and briskly exits the room without another word.

  Watching the patrolwoman go before turning back to Jaleh’s voice, Her Highness remarks. “I would enjoy some time alone with Ashti to discuss her travels. Does Lady Jaleh desire her presence or my own?”

  “Not at present, though I am certain both of you would be welcome to attend.” The voice responds evenly.

  “In due time.” Kimia turns to smile politely at Blackwing. “We shall adjourn our discussion for now, Your Lordship, but I look forward to lengthier conversations once other matters are addressed.”

  The merchant inclines his head to her, and a wordless understanding seems to pass between them. Then Blackwing turns and smoothly exits the room, pursued closely by Lamp and trailed at a polite remove by the richly dressed translator who’d come to fetch them.

  Jaleh’s representative directs them slightly down the hall to an identical doorway. Then, stepping to the fore, she gently knocks against its surface. It opens from within a moment later, pulled inward by the princess’s missing maid. Kimia’s lost secretary, dispatched minutes prior, waits just behind her. The former attendant nods to Lamp as their eyes meet, gesturing inside to indicate a steaming cup of tea waiting on a table within.

  The scholar thanks her quietly as he follows his employer into the room. Jaleh’s voice quietly pads after them before moving aside to permit the servants’ exit. With deft curtsies, Kimia’s departing attendants shut the door behind themselves as they leave, reducing the room’s occupancy from six to only four.

  Blackwing, Lamp, and the voice stand on one end. Across from them, a woman with regal bearing waits in calm repose. An excessive quantity of gem-set rings decorate her wizened fingers. Even her falsemask seems to hide behind an abundance of draped medallions and fine chains. Beyond that ostentation, the mask’s surface displays its wearer’s age. Wrinkles in the wood imitate the texture of an elder’s face, contrasting starkly with the ageless, ethereal beauty of every other falsemask Lamp had hitherto encountered.

  If the scholar had to guess, he’d say the woman seated across from them is well past seventy. He would also wager that she ranks among the wealthiest individuals he’s ever met. That’s all Lamp has time to observe before his work resumes.

  “Lady Jaleh.” Blackwing offers in her language. The merchant’s deep voice carries a tone of familiarity even as his mouth works stiffly over foreign words. “I request your hospitality.”

  Turning to regard him, she signs. “Granted. But good gods man, put a shirt on. Do your people not feel cold?”

  Maintaining a straight face, her attendant translates the matron’s words as follows: “Lady Jaleh greets Lord Blackwing and inquires after his comfort in her house.”

  Lamp conveys only the latter statement, struggling to pretend ignorance of its predecessor and repressing his impulse to defend the humble chlamys. Blackwing seems to catch the slight hitch in his employee’s demeanor, but hopefully the others miss it. Regardless, the merchant takes Jaleh’s response as invitation to approach, so he steps forward, pulls back a chair, and sits before offering a bland answer to her supposed question.

  Lamp takes his own position at the merchant’s side a moment later, then they collectively wait for the matriarch’s voice to walk around the table and settle in beside her mistress. Once all four are off their feet, Jaleh shoots a glance at Lamp and signs to Blackwing. “So you had access to a translator but never bothered bringing him along, did you? Were our little pantomimes so enjoyable, or is the man simply shy?”

  “My lady requests to know how recently you acquired the service of a translator.” The voice interprets.

  “I’ve retained him in his current capacity for two weeks.” Blackwing smoothly deflects.

  Jaleh cocks her head slightly at his phrasing but lets the matter pass. Turning towards her attendant, she signs a short message directly to the younger woman. “This relay between opposing voices is already growing tedious. I remember asking you to study up on Greek some time back. Did you ever bother?”

  Shrinking in on herself slightly, Lamp’s counterpart shakes her head and begins an effusive apology strewn with valid excuses. Her mistress promptly interrupts by drawing a sharp line through the air with her hand.

  “Translate into our own language for a moment longer and allow the other voice to relay my words.” She calmly directs. “I want to propose something untoward.”

  Returning her attention to Blackwing, the lady espouses. “I passed through the temple market while en route to this meeting and received intriguing reports along my way. Multiple Select claim the two of you were able to resist compulsion from an unsealed soulmask at close range. You in particular, Lord Blackwing, seemed entirely unaffected. If you would pardon my impropriety, I would like to validate those accounts.”

  She waits for the translators to complete their work before concluding. “Do you object to me removing my falsemask? It will enhance the speed of our conversation tremendously.”

  “That’s fine.” Blackwing answers before glancing at his assistant. “Lamp?”

  Turning towards the old woman, the scholar nods. “We agree.”

  Jaleh signs one final message to her interpreter, granting the attendant permission to flee the room if she so desires. The lady declines, and her master makes no further attempt to dissuade her voice before reaching up to lift her wooden face away from its bronze hooks.

  Power floods the room.

  After Lamp’s two prior experiences with this world-tile’s native magic- one of which subjected him to overlapping influence from multiple sources- he’d imagined himself prepared for an enhanced onslaught of psychic pressure. He’d imagined wrong.

  Fully unlike the mental battering ram which had been wielded against him previously, Jaleh’s influence creeps into the scholar’s mind with an insidious ease. Where the patrolwoman’s magic had drowned his will in the brutish manner of a wave crashing against his face, this new influx lulls him under its surface like a heavy drunkard falling asleep inside the bath.

  The delicate potency of her influence immediately places Lamp halfway into a trance. Even remembering that his mind faces an assault requires constant concentration. Thankfully, the Select sitting across from him wears a potent warning sign in the region where her face ought to be.

  A darkly beautiful painting occupies the flat front of the elder’s skull. Within that image, a young woman hangs dead from a barren tree. Her serene face and the odd angle of her neck prove the completion of her demise. The absence of other figures, combined with the pristine dusting of snow around her body, conveys the impression of a successful suicide.

  Staring defiantly into that macabre vision, Lamp tries to brace his mind against his own magic, but his power seems to answer lethargically that he doesn’t need it anymore. After all, why would he want to summon light when this is such a perfect time for rest? Why not lie down forever?

  Even those questions fade away when Jaleh speaks.

  “Do you understand me?” Her voice- dry, thin, and stiff- whispers in their minds like a pen scratching against parchment. When Blackwing offers confirmation, the dame nods slowly. A long pause stretches between them before she softly adds. “I wonder if you might permit another impropriety, Lord Blackwing. I am an old woman with little remaining tolerance for life’s great mysteries. I like to know things. I prefer to base my understanding of the world on proof over presumption, and I feel compelled to establish important matters beyond all doubt.”

  Leaning forward, she grows intent. “I expect both of us are wondering how the full might of my magic measures against yours. The lesser members of my house are similarly curious, though we have no need to inform them of anything we discover. Are you curious as well?”

  She awaits the merchant’s answer. To Lamp’s numb shock, Blackwing nods.

  “Then we proceed. I will attempt a single, simple command, and I vow upon the honor of my house to ensure your safety if it takes hold. Do I have your consent?”

  The stoic man glances down at his nervous translator and receives a hesitant nod of agreement before he turns to the old woman and declares himself ready.

  “Very well.” The pale corpse hanging from a branch inside the painting of her soul opens its eyes and bellows. “GO HOME!”

  Lamp finds himself halfway through an open doorway before he realizes he’d moved. Only the pressure of Blackwing’s claws digging into his shoulder restore the scholar to his senses. Stepping back, softly closing the door, and turning towards a table he can’t remember leaving, Lamp finds his employer’s skin fading from gray to white.

  The merchant releases Lamp’s shoulder and lowers himself back into his own seat before he answers Jaleh’s command with quiet resolve. “I have business yet unfinished.”

  Swallowing roughly, Lamp translates that message in the most level tone he can manage. The others wait passively while he reclaims his seat and composes himself. Jaleh’s interpreter looks at him in sympathy; he nods to her in thanks. The matriarch herself offers no apologies or explanations, though she does allow her guest a long moment to drain his tea and seek calm.

  That effort requires several sips. Even having woken from his brief trance, Lamp still feels its pull. The thought of returning home- of not simply fleeing this room but traveling all the way to his birth city- permeates his mind so subtly and completely that it almost seems natural.

  Lamp realizes with cold certainty that if Lady Jaleh ordered him to slit his own throat, then whether he obeyed her or not, the command would feel like his idea. Our scholar numbly wonders whether he’d try to stop the old woman if she started strangling him. Could he even push her away?

  Blackwing’s stable presence at his side provides Lamp’s sole measure of reassurance. He clings fiercely to that surety, bracing against it in the same way he leans atop his magic. Those two factors slowly buoy him against the downward current of Jaleh’s dreadful authority.

  Though the scholar would prefer more time to restore his confidence- perhaps as much as an hour- he soon decides that his recovery has consumed all the seconds which it might reasonably command. Setting down his cup, he softly tells his employer that he feels better now and can resume his work. The other man accepts Lamp at his word.

  Once Jaleh receives their invitation to resume speaking, she carries forward to the next topic without any sign of disappointment or lingering curiosity regarding her experiment.

  “I began investigating Lady Ashti’s recent activity after she hurled herself through your portal.” The elder informs them plainly. “Her parents were quite keen to assist my efforts, and it required little time for the three of us to discover she had conducted quite a thorough investigation into our decades-missing princess during the interstice immediately prior to her departure.”

  Jaleh rests her hands on the table and leans forward with keen interest. “Tell me, merchant lord. Did that restless girl find her target in just two weeks? Is the king’s sister still alive?”

  “Yes.” Blackwing answers without reservation. “We met the woman and confirmed her identity to Ashti’s satisfaction. She calls herself ‘Clearheart’ now.”

  “How does she fare?”

  “Tremendously. She wields magic on par with my own, and for the past twenty years, she has ruled one of the most prosperous districts in our world-tile’s greatest city. She answers to no one; an army answers to her.”

  “Good.” Lamp feels the impression of a proud smile in Jaleh’s thoughts, or something akin to a cat’s purr. “I would expect nothing less from a woman of her caliber. She was always a force! The only surprise is that she laid claim to a mere fraction of her polis.”

  “That alone is a rare achievement. New Carcosa is a score of cities packed into one. No basileus has ever ruled its entirety.”

  “Bah!” The old woman waves an unimpressed hand. “One district, you said. She should aim higher.”

  Lamp expends considerable effort remaining perfectly composed. Jaleh seems not to notice the tension in his hands as she carries on.

  “Quite obviously, the missing princess did not return with you; I could have predicted that outcome before you arrived. Has our runaway child accepted her failure, then, or were you forced to drag her home before she caused trouble?”

  “Neither.”

  “Oh?”

  The merchant pauses to weigh his words, then gestures towards Lamp with his human hand. “My ‘voice’ proposed that disembodied grafts might serve as sustenance for your icon of growth, negating its reliance on living hosts. We left several crates of them at the far border of Manslaughter's territory beside the wall. Investigators dispatched in response to the icon’s agitation may have discovered those by now.”

  Jaleh leans back as Blackwing speaks, slowly reeling from his words. A slight current of displeasure wafts through her soulmask, brushing lightly against their minds before it quickly evaporates. The foreign pair waits several seconds for their host to absorb the momentous news before Blackwing asks if she’s willing to attempt his experiment.

  Tilting her faceless head between Lamp’s glass hands and his employer’s inhuman left arm, she answers cautiously. “I will not attempt to measure the metaphysical value of divinely-forged limbs against the life of our king’s only daughter, so questions of quantity are irrelevant. However, I suspect the two of you are attempting to purchase longevity with an incompatible form of currency. In the cycle of Growth, life pays for life, and those-” she waves at their inorganic appendages- “seem more like tools to me. If they could sustain an icon, then so could soulmasks!”

  “Which I presume you’ve tried.” Blackwing comments with a nod. “But if you anticipate no outcome, is there any harm in the attempt?”

  “You misinterpret me.” She psychically huffs. “I do not claim your donations will do nothing. In fact, they could cause immense harm if they do work. Our population eats the fruit that falls from Growth’s arms and the wheat that springs from its footsteps. Where will we turn for sustenance if our icon absorbs these grafts only to start dropping stones and growing crystals instead of food? Multiple cities would starve!

  “Even worse- from an immediate standpoint- consider that your foreign magic might somehow weaken or destroy the icon. Without Growth to shield us, Heartbreak will descend upon the men of this city before we can evacuate them, rendering our entire male population impotent! When the seducer grows bored and leaves us, Manslaughter itself might advance to slaughter every victim the previous icon had neutered!” She shakes her head. “As steward of this great city, I cannot tolerate that risk.”

  “I respect your priorities and acknowledge your apprehensions, but are icons truly so mutable?” Blackwing calmly inquires. “Would Growth’s nature change on the basis of a meal? If that outcome was possible, then shouldn’t it be growing princess meat by now?”

  “We do not- and cannot- know what might occur!” Jaleh raises her hands in frustration before pointing a gnarled, ring-strewn finger at Lamp. “Neither do you, boy! This wild scheme was your idea, was it not? You blindly seek to play alchemist with two forms of magic that were never meant to mix. There is no precedent for this twisting of rules you want to attempt, and the consequences of an inaccurate prediction could be catastrophic!”

  She snaps her head back to Blackwing. “Two weeks! You said you hired him two weeks ago! And I have known you, Lord Blackwing, barely more than two years. Hardly that, considering today marks our first real conversation. You place far too much credence in untested bonds.”

  Lamp- unhappily dragged into their conversation and perhaps feeling a touch resentful for being puppetted by Jaleh’s magic a few minutes prior- softly interjects with his own thoughts. He makes a pretense of propriety by turning to address his counterpart interpreter in her own language.

  “Perhaps I mistranslated before. I thought your mistress claimed she likes to know things and prefers to establish important matters with clarity. I apologize if I garbled her sentiments.”

  The elderly Select in question turns from Blackwing to stare at him, but Lamp ignores her deathly regard while he awaits the voice’s reply. After a moment of consideration, Jaleh also seems to take interest in that response, shifting to look away from Lamp towards her own assistant. The younger noblewoman shoots him an aggrieved glance before she answers honestly.

  “Your translation was accurate to her statements at the time.”

  “Oh, such loyalty. Would you like to drive a dagger into my back as well, or do you think that single blow suffices?” The old woman gripes at her attendant without much heat or conviction. “You know I keep you around to make me sound better. Bend the truth a little.”

  Turning calmly to face her mistress, the voice replies. “I assumed my services were no longer required after you removed your mask.”

  “Fine.” The Select plucks her falsemask from the table and secures it against her head before signing. “Talk for me again. A more delicate touch should be applied from this point forward.”

  With Jaleh’s mask reinstalled, the suppressive force of her magic lifts away from Lamp’s mind. The scholar slowly exhales as he collects himself; across the table, his counterpart does the same thing to a more subtle extent. Lady Jaleh allows both of them a moment to find composure before continuing.

  Led by a short sequence of subdued gestures, Jaleh’s voice addresses Blackwing. “I trust the two of you have good intentions. You came to our kingdom to save a person you had never met on behalf of someone you barely know. You appear to me as honorable, generous men who doubtless possess great expertise on the subject of your own world-tile’s magic. However, you are neophytes on the subject of our magic, and none save the gods could claim expertise on the way those systems mix.”

  Blackwing nods in acknowledgement of that point, then contemplatively taps one of his claws against the floor. The click provokes a twitch from Jaleh’s noble translator; the merchant mutters an apology to her before offering his suggestion.

  “Could we experiment on another icon first? I understand you keep others in captivity, but Growth is the only one you actively preserve.”

  “Perhaps, though we host no suitable candidates in our own city.” Lady Jaleh tilts her head back in consideration; her voice watches impassively until the woman resumes signing. “Our king maintains a prison for false icons, closer to Nagharehdad. We could request his permission to borrow some of them. The journey would only require a few days, in addition to whatever length of time we are obliged to wait at court.”

  The merchant nods. “That schedule poses no risk. From what Lady Ashti told us, your princess has seven years remaining before her date of sacrifice.”

  “Six to nine, depending on the icon’s degradation.” The voice of Jaleh corrects. “We plan to delay as long as we can. Irrespective of that timeline, I will not pursue your proposal without my king’s express approval. He should hear of this matter immediately, along with news of your arrival, and he will likely desire to speak with both of us soon. We may expect swift summons from Taj Jacpehan if we fail to arrive unbidden.

  “We must also confer with Her Highness before arranging our departure. I expect Lady Ashti has already shared news of your ambitions, so there would be no point in withholding this plan to preserve her feelings in the probable case of failure.”

  Jaleh stands from the table, and the other three do likewise. Glancing between her visitors, she adds through her voice. “The two of you may remain as honored guests in my home for as long as need be. Should you wish to tour the city, I will assign escorts from among my Select. We will wait for House Courage to drag your crates in from the wall before preparing our entourage for departure.”

  “There’s no need to delay.” Blackwing comments innocently. “We brought a sample of grafts across the desert with us. They can be used at any time.”

  Jaleh stiffens. Her next question barely requires translation. “Where did you leave those?”

  “In the other room.”

  Bursting into motion, the old woman rushes around their table with surprising alacrity. Her richly dressed voice follows closely on the lady’s heels while the merchant and his translator trail at a more sedate pace.

  Seconds later, Lamp exits their meeting room behind Blackwing, emerging just in time to see Jaleh reach the closed entrance to the lounge where they’d left Ashti and her princess. The grand dame throws its door open without knocking. The clatter of wood against stucco to reveal an empty room.

  Walking closer, Lamp confirms that the princess, her handmaiden, and their servants have all disappeared. Glancing towards a table set against the wall, he notes that the pack containing their sacrificial grafts is also gone.

  It seems Kimia made her own decision.