Viridian Gate Online: Sharper’s Coin

THE ILLUSIONIST BOOK 4

D. J. BODDEN

Contents

The Story So Far…

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Recommended Reading Order

Eldgard

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

More VGO Adventures…

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About the Author

The Story So Far…

Nomad Soul

When Osmark Technologies decided to shut Project Viridian down due to safety issues, Alan Campbell decided it was his turn to save the day. Against company orders and colluding with Jeff Berkowitz, the lead nanotech engineer, Alan logged into the game and not only managed to stomach the gut-wrenching distortion of diving into the world’s first fully immersive MMORPG, but helped Jeff tweak the settings to make it tolerable.

Then he doubled down. A few minutes in the game could be a fluke, but an entire weekend? Management would be forced to let the project continue. So against Jeff’s half-hearted protests, Alan logged into the full instance Viridian Gate Online, and he had a blast. He foiled an assassination attempt, drank wine, flirted with the serving girl, played cards with Imperial legionaries, and then saved half the senate from destruction. It was the best weekend ever.

And then he died in the real world, and found out Thalia Daceran, the serving girl he’d flirted with, had been in love with the assassin he killed. The whole virtual city almost went up in flames. With religious zealots after him in-game, and his former colleagues trying to cover up his death in the real world, Alan was going to need his newfound Illusion magic if he was going to live to log out—somehow—another day.

Dead Man’s Tide

Escaping from the Imperial capital with Provus, the nobleman he’d saved from assassination, Alan soon discovered his friend was mortally injured. Using some half-remembered herb lore he’d picked up as a child, Alan managed to keep Provus alive until a troop of Imperial Janissaries found them and escorted them to safety.

Alan met three very important people along the way: Titus, the Gentleman of New Viridia and Imperial spymaster; Nil, a shapeshifting mimic who could steal anyone’s appearance and skills; and Gnasher, the mimic’s pet Deerhound and the best boy in the world. The three of them, along with Provus and their Janissary escort, traveled on to the monstrous city of Wyrdtide, where anything could be had for a price, except for safety and sanity.

Unknown to Alan, the AIs that ran Viridian Gate Online were using him as a fulcrum to fight their own private battles. The goddess of peace sends assassins to prevent a war, and the goddess of war offers to save the son of an Imperial general if he’ll start a war. Soon, all the gods have been drawn into the battle.

Alan barely gets out alive. But even the Bleak Sea isn’t enough to stop Thalia Daceran from getting her revenge. In a fiery showdown in the city of Harrowick, Alan finally brought her story to a close.

Inquisitor’s Foil

Left by Titus to gain experience in the city of Harrowick, Alan tried to become an Alchemist, but the Circle of Brewers—the local alchemy guild—requires a three-year apprenticeship before letting anyone work on their own, and Julianus Venantius, the head of the Circle, has Alan beaten to make the point. It might have become a big deal, except for Camilla Favonius, also known as Wendy.

Cut off from his previous life, Alan had to figure out how to live inside the game. He did have a few things going from him: the Janissaries owed him a favor, in the form of a four-man team that would portal in whenever he called; he had a writ that forced the Inquisition to cooperate with him; and no one knew he was an Illusionist, which may have been the greatest advantage of all. He tried to woo Wendy, joined the Thieves’ Union, and even earned himself a name: Sharper, a man who lives by his wits and his words. He unwittingly gives away his first stolen copper to Gaia, goddess of luck and drama, unaware of the growing suspicions her son, Horace, has for him.

During a hunting trip, Wendy was grievously wounded, forcing Alan to call in a favor from the Wyrdtide Plague Doctors. Wendy survived, and their relationship was off to a more earnest start, but he was now in debt with some very scary people.

While all this was happening, Robert Osmark was fighting to retain control of his company. Working around board politics and illegal surveillance, Osmark trained Thanatos, the AI in charge of analyzing and protecting Project Viridian, to defeat any cyberattack or encryption a human being could devise. Then, outmaneuvering his corporate rival, he unleashed the upgraded ThanatOS on the internet, upending the computer security industry. All that remained was to regain control of Project Viridian, but the National Security Agency had other plans for his creation.

The story continues with Sharper’s Coin…

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Recommended Reading Order

VGO: Cataclysm (Main Series Book 1)

VGO: Crimson Alliance (Main Series Book 2)

VGO: The Jade Lord (Main Series Book 3)

VGO: The Imperial Legion (Main Series Book 4)

VGO: The Lich Priest (Main Series Book 5)

VGO: Doom Forge (Main Series Book 6)

VGO: Darkling Siege (Main Series Book 7)

VGO: Empirical Endgame (Main Series Book 8)

<<<>>>

VGO: Nomad Soul (The Illusionist 1)

VGO: Dead Man’s Tide (The Illusionist 2)

VGO: Inquisitor’s Foil (The Illusionist 3)

VGO: Sharper’s Coin (The Illusionist 4)

<<<>>>

VGO: The Artificer (Imperial Initiative)

<<<>>>

VGO: Firebrand (Firebrand Series 1)

VGO: Embers of Rebellion (Firebrand Series 2)

VGO: Path of the Blood Phoenix (Firebrand Series 3)

<<<>>>

VGO: Vindication (The Alchemic Weaponeer 1)

VGO: Absolution (The Alchemic Weaponeer 2)

VGO: Insurrection (The Alchemic Weaponeer 3)

<<<>>>

VGO: Resurrection (The Heartfire Healer 1)

VGO: Schism (The Heartfire Healer 2)

VGO: Perdition (The Heartfire Healer 3)

Eldgard

Chapter One

This is the hard part, because time travel is always hard. First there is a place, the virtual construct called Viridian Gate Online, seven realms stacked on top of each other and wrapped around our lives, and at their heart, there is the Library. Within the Material Realm, the Realm of Gaia, where textures and surfaces and all the working bits come together to make light and sound and sometimes pleasure and pain as well, there is one special continent called Eldgard and the sliver of New Viridia, kept from the rest of Falas Alferri by the howling winds and towering waves of the Stormwall.

Thirty million Citizens and one Traveler called Alan Campbell, who is me.

There is a city by the sea.

Harrowick.

The year is 1094 A.I.C., and Gaius Considia, the golden-armored general of the Legion, has just appointed himself Praetor against the protests of the Senate, and the Empire sits on the brink of war.

Time travel isn’t just hard, it’s impossible, because the people and the Empire and the continent and the planet and the realm and even the Library are just bits of information on servers scattered across a planet called Earth, and the people there haven’t figured out time travel either.

Sure, the pedantic and the precise will claim that we are all time travelers, moving forward one second at a time, and with magic we can even speed that up or slow it down, shave it right down to the moments.

But we can never stop it.

What’s done can never be undone.

But if there is or was or will be such a thing as time travel, where we could see the future or correct the past, it would be a bit like memory.

Images flashed before my eyes. Robert Osmark leaning on the wooden rail on the back porch of his beach house; Wendy with her scarred arms and legs wrapped around me; Serth-Rog’s black heart thump-thumping inside its sarcophagus; Gaius, Provus, Titus, Vel, Jeff, Sandra, Mog, Thalia, Nil, and Gnasher of course—the best boy in the world… It was hard to keep track of them all.

The bleedthrough was getting bad.

I know you’re wondering where all this is going. Most Travelers are looking for the next move.

I’m always looking back.

I dropped myself into the chair in front of Dhukak’s desk. The Dwarf’s nose had already healed from me breaking it, but he looked tense and less than friendly.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I licked my lips and rubbed my fingertips with my thumbs. “I need to make a lot of money, fast.”

He sneered. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“I stole that key for you.”

“I paid you for it.”

“I died getting it. You still owe me.”

The Dwarf looked at me over the wide hardwood desk. The Thieves’ Union wasn’t a hierarchical organization—more of a loose association of likeminded individuals—but insofar as anyone was giving orders, Dhukak was two steps from the top and second only to Leif, the Gentleman of Harrowick. I was too young and entitled to realize how much I was overstepping.

“How much do you need?” he asked.

“One hundred gold.”

Dhukak laughed. He laughed hard. He bent forward and clutched his belly and even cried a little bit. It was like he was trying to squeeze out enough bitter tears to drown me in scorn. “Get out of my office, Alan.”

I stood up. “Didn’t realize you were short on cash.”

Dhukak smiled at me, but it was an ugly expression. “In other cities, you’d wind up in a cesspit with a smile on your throat for talking to your lieutenant like that, but Leif doesn’t play that way. Besides, you’d just respawn and come back dumber than before. So here’s some free advice, Traveler, since you didn’t have a gang to beat some sense into you when you were young. One hundred gold is almost what the entire operation to bring you to Thalia Half-Dead cost. My take on that job was fifteen gold. One hundred gold is half a year of a soldier’s pay. It’s almost enough to buy your way into the Triarii. It’s the kind of money only the best crews bring in on a once-in-a-lifetime heist before the Inquisition hauls them away.”

“So I need a crew,” I said.

“You need to listen. No one’s going to follow you. You don’t have the skills or the rep.”

“Where do I start, then?” I asked. There was always a way if you were willing to work hard enough.

Dhukak stared at me. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as a debt collector from Wyrdtide,” I said, and the Dwarf winced.

“I don’t have anything for someone with your means or experience. Talk to Master Florian. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.”

I swallowed. I hadn’t expected the conversation to be easy, but I hadn’t expected to get a door slammed in my face. “Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it. And Sharper?” he said, using my thief name.

“Yes?”

“Good luck out there. Make a name for yourself. Come back when you have a crew.”

“I will,” I said, surprised by his sincerity.

It didn’t help with the flutters in my stomach. Master Florian had already told me he might have work for me, but I doubted it would be a heist.

Beyond teaching young thieves how to blend in and lift purses, Master Florian had one more responsibility within the Harrowick Thieves’ Union.

He was the Master of Assassins.

“Thanks for your time,” I said, standing up.

In most video games, the proposal would have been a no-brainer. I would have geared up, gone to Master Florian, and ground out as many contracts as I could until I hit my target amount—your standard MMO kill quest except most MMOs didn’t have sentient NPCs. I had yet to meet a Citizen without a credible backstory. I had yet to hear a piece of looped dialog. As far as I knew, they were as real as I was.

I didn’t want to kill people who hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

I’d have to find another way.

* * *

I left Dhukak’s office, walked down the hall, and stepped into the bar. It was still early—very early for thieves—so the only folks there were people having a celebratory breakfast after a night of work and the ones working on getting over a celebratory night.

Torm the Wode and Edgar the Risi were undoubtedly the latter.

“Hey, Sharper!” Edgar said cheerily over a small cup of glorp—crushed peanuts and honey, so basically peanut butter.

Torm just groaned.

“Hey, boys,” I said, sitting down at the table with them. “How’s life?”

“We’re broke again,” Torm said without looking up.

“But we’re happy, and that’s what matters,” Edgar said.

Torm gave him a puffy-lidded look.

They were kind of perfect. Torm and Edgar were both thugs in the Thieves’ Union. I was a super squishy magic user—not even a glass cannon, because I didn’t pack that kind of punch. They were tanks, they were good company, and they were perpetually in need of work. I could recruit them into my crew, go back to Dhukak, and have this quest done by the middle of the month. “Can I get either of you a drink?”

“Bloody Mary,” Torm said. “And thanks, Sharper.”

“Milk, for me,” Edgar said around a spoonful of smashed peanuts and honey.

“Milk?” Torm said. “Since when did you start drinking milk?”

“I always drink milk with glorp,” Edgar said. “You’re just usually passed out.”

“Have you tried glorp with chocolate?” I asked him.

“That sounds strange,” Edgar said.

“You’re probably right,” I said, standing up. The world just wasn’t ready for a Risi’s milk, chocolate, and peanut butter cup.

I flagged down the lone server and paid for a glass of milk and a Bloody Mary.

With his hair of the dog on the way, Torm sat back in his seat and made the effort to be civil. “You well?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I got named, remember? Big day in a thief’s life.”

“Oh, yeah. That was good. Lamb’s gonna have a hard time living that down.”

Lamb was a Risi pickpocket who’d try to build his rep by trashing mine. Big mistake.

I put my hands on the table. “Got some new armor and a cloak, relationship with the girlfriend is going well, all things considered… I was even thinking of putting together a crew.”

“That’s smart,” Torm said, his eyes looking for the server. “Always said you were a smart one, didn’t I, Edgar?”

“You said he was too smart,” Edgar said.

“I guess he’s s’posed to be, with a name like Sharper, right?” Torm said, giving me a greasy grin. The server appeared with the drinks.

“So, how about it?” I said as Torm took his tomato juice, vodka, and celery stick in hand. “Would the two of you be willing to join my crew?”

Edgar looked at Torm.

Torm looked at his Bloody Mary. “Look, Alan—”

“Sharper,” Edgar said, correcting him.

“Yeah,” Torm said. “I know you’re new to the Thieves’ Union, but asking someone to join your crew isn’t like hiring them for a job.”

“Nope,” Edgar said, shaking his head.

“It’s not like a gang, either,” Torm said. “Gangs force people in, force ’em to stay. It’s usually because they need numbers for safety, or to control a city block. A crew is a semipermanent team of professionals who work together because they respect each other, and because they believe their boss will do right by them.”

“That’s why they call ’im an Upright Man,” Edgar said.

“Or woman,” I said.

“Doesn’t make a difference if they put coin in my pocket on the regular,” Torm said.

“And you don’t think I can do that?” I asked.

Torm and Edgar looked at each other. Then Torm shook his head. “It’s not about thinking you can do it, it’s about knowing you will do it. Edgar and me, we can already get jobs based on our own reputations. You need to prove why giving you a cut would be better. Most crews have been running together since they were kids.”

I sighed and stood up. It was the chicken, and the egg, and the seed, and the head of corn all at once. I didn’t know where to start except the place I didn’t want to go. “Thanks for the talk, fellas.”

“Take care of yourself, Sharper.”

It was time to talk to Master Florian.

Chapter Two

I headed downstairs to the pickpocket training grounds. I didn’t want to do this, but the game didn’t appear to be giving me much choice. I’d figured taking on the debt to fix Wendy and asking Dhukak for help would trigger a quest—something tough but within my reach to keep me playing the game, if I’d been a regular human player.

As if in answer to my unspoken prayer, a quest notification popped up.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: The Gods Help Those Who Help Themselves

Some people spend their whole lives waiting for a chance to prove themselves. Others create their own opportunities. Cheer up, buttercup. You can always tell the bad men from Wyrdtide you don’t have their money.

Quest Class: Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Collect (87) gold plus interest and repay the Wyrdtide Plague Doctors.

Failure: Fail to make a weekly interest payment, or fail to repay the loan within a month.

Optional: Ask Wendy for the money, lose 300 Renown

Reward: 2,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Are you kidding me?” I asked no one in particular, standing alone in the stairway to Master Florian’s domain. Some of the quest notifications had felt targeted before, if not downright snarky, but this was insulting.

Particularly the “Optional” line that had me losing 300 Renown. I only had 260 Renown to begin with, and some of that had been hard-earned. The game, or the Overmind in charge of writing that particular quest, was basically telling me I could man up and come up with the cash or ask my girlfriend for help like a nobody.

I don’t usually buy into the myth of masculinity, but that day, on the stairs, the quest flipped all the right switches.

“You know what? Yes, I’ll take it. If this is the kind of garbage easy-mode quest this game hands out, I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

My hand reached for the “Yes” on the quest window, but it disappeared before I could accept.

“What the heck?”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: The Gods Help Those Who Help Themselves (Hard Mode)

Some people spend their whole lives waiting for a chance to prove themselves. Others curse the gods in the middle of a lightning storm and reap the whirlwind. This is going to go badly for you, but hard work is its own reward.

Quest Class: Personal

Quest Difficulty: Very Hard

Success: Collect (150) gold plus interest and repay the Wyrdtide Plague Doctors.

Failure: Fail to make a weekly interest payment, or fail to repay the loan within a month.

Optional: Ask Wendy for the money, lose 350 Renown and permanently damage your relationship

Reward: 5,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

My heart beat very loudly, and I got very still.

Look, I know I’ve got a mouth on me. I spent part of my childhood in Nicetown, and I wasn’t big, or particularly tough, so I made up for it with attitude.

Sarcasm is my favorite sport.

Right then, I felt like a kid taking a stand against a bully without any adults watching. The power differential was not in my favor. The odds of my getting my face smashed in were high. But at the same time, the amount of XP for the quest had more than doubled, and I didn’t think I could have negative Renown, so math was in my favor.

Maybe it was time to be a hero.

And hadn’t Dhukak said that a good crew could pull off a hundred-gold-coin heist single-handedly?

So instead of accepting the quest like any rational human being would—instead of recognizing a pattern of defiance that had made me log into an untested game in spite of Jeff’s warnings and had gotten me chased halfway across Eldgard, I said, “If that’s the best you’ve got…”

I even channeled a bit of Suggestion into it.

The game didn’t disappoint.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: The Gods Help Those Who Help Themselves (Nightmare Mode)

Some people think there’s a quick fix for everything, but then they realize that shortcuts often lead off a cliff. Sacrifice will see you through. Life is hard; it’s harder when you’re stupid.

Quest Class: Personal

Quest Difficulty: Almost Impossible

Success: Collect (200) gold plus interest and repay the Wyrdtide Plague Doctors.

Failure: Fail to make a weekly interest payment, or fail to repay the loan within a month.

Optional: Ask Wendy for the money, lose 400 Renown and permanently damage your relationship

Curse: Heartbreak

Reward: 12,000 XP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

Okay, Alan, I said to myself. Let’s see how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into.

The good news was, it was only fifty gold more. That meant the weekly interest payment was going to be around nine gold. I had thirty days, and I’d made a down payment of thirteen gold, so that meant I needed to earn about seven gold a day. That was a lot, but the XP had more than doubled again, so I accepted the quest and it disappeared just as Master Florian poked his head into the stairwell.

“Sharper? Who were you talking to?” he asked.

“Just saying a little prayer for luck, Master Florian.”

The master of assassins scoffed. “Dhukak messaged me about your situation. Come down. We need to talk.”

Chapter Three

Master Florian led me through the training ground. It was a life-size city block with mocked-up streets, mannequins dressed up as citizens to pickpocket, and fake shops to steal from. I used the Pickpocket skill to remove a purse full of wooden coins from one of the dummies, passed it to my left hand using Sleight of Hand, and planted it on another dummy without a hitch in my stride.

The pickpocket training course was where, after hours of painful and embarrassing testing, I first felt like a thief. Or maybe it was stealing my first penny with Bella, or framing Lamb for stealing a purse. In the real world, I had been mortified at the thought of having my bags searched at the exit of a store. I remember being extra careful so the attendant could see my hands in the self-checkout aisle. I was never confronted, probably didn’t get my bags checked more often than anyone else, but that was with me compensating, so who knows?

The point was, my experiences in Eldgard had taken my shame over something I hadn’t done and turned it into pride in something I did very well. I was a thief. I had a name. This was a place I belonged.

“I don’t think this kind of work is right for you,” Florian said, walking behind the fake counter of a fake restaurant. “Take a seat. Would you like some tea?”

I sat down at one of the tables. First Dhukak, then Torm and Edgar, and now Florian. A month ago, I might have been discouraged by the consecutive rejections. My Merchant-Craft skill told me he wasn’t trying to cheat me, and I’d killed my share of people in the game up to this point. “I owe a large debt. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Then you need to make some decisions,” Florian said, activating a rune on a black teakettle. “I don’t doubt you can kill. You murdered five of my assassins before we even met.”

“They were trying to kill me.”

“You’re unapologetic. That’s good. Murderers shouldn’t apologize for their choices.”

The repeated use of the m-word was like nails on a chalkboard.

“They weren’t the only people you murdered, though, were they? You didn’t just kill Thalia Daceran. You taunted her, played with her fears, and made her die slowly.”

I sat back.

He pulled a box out of a drawer and picked through an assortment of tea bags. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“I’m just thinking. This is an interview, right? To see if I’m right for the job?”

“Do you think you’re right for the job?” he asked in a monotone fit for a therapist.

I chuckled. I’d worked in HR for most of my adult life; I could recognize an adversarial hiring process a mile away. “That’s what I was thinking about. Everyone I’ve killed until now was trying to kill me. Mostly, they didn’t give me another option, other than ‘Run away forever.’ I can kill monsters, and I can kill the re-dead. I’ll also kill in the defense of others. Is there a market for assassin killers?”

“If you mean a bodyguard, they don’t make the kind of money you’re after. If you mean someone who actively hunts other assassins, they don’t last long,” Florian said, pouring hot water into the mug. “It’s a question of risks and rewards. Assassins are generally able to defend themselves, and a good assassin only kills under contract. If they die, someone else will take their place. It’s cheaper and more effective to kill the assassin’s client.”

I knew he was right. I didn’t like it, but he was right.

“You also can’t build a career out of waiting for people to kill you. For one, it will give you very little control over your income unless you start insulting noblemen or sleeping with their wives. For two, the more successful you are killing your attackers, the less work you’ll get. It’s a bad model.”

“Because this is a business,” I said, to show I understood.

“Exactly,” Florian said, placing the mug in front of me.

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Give it a few minutes to cool and drink the tea, Sharper.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked out of the restaurant.

Well, crap, I thought.

I’d failed the interview.

How the heck was I going to get two hundred gold in less than thirty days?

* * *

I looked at Tassos, the Dokkalfar shopkeeper who’d helped me gain my first level of the Merchant-Craft skill. “So what do you think?”

The Murk Elf looked down at me from the ladder. “You need to earn two hundred gold in thirty days, and you want my advice?”

“That’s about the shape of it.”

“Buy low and sell high,” Tassos said with a cackle. He went back to stocking his shelves.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“Can’t be done,” Tassos said, climbing down.

Tassos ran a well-appointed alchemical ingredient shop in the southern quarter, near the first inner wall. He was connected to most of the florists, hunters, gatherers, and other material providers in the city, and supplied a good number of the Alchemists.

He also owed me.

“Your wife like that ripper tail I gave you?”

Tassos made a face. “She loved it, until her sister showed off the wreath of shambler flowers her husband got her.”

“Yeah, life is hard, and my heart breaks for her,” I said, leaning on the counter. “But tradition says you can only get gifted a ripper tail by a friend, right? And friends help each other out.”

As I understood it, the bridegroom in a Murk Elf marriage offered his bride a sword in a scabbard, tied shut with a ripper tail. The tail could only be acquired in a hunt or gifted by a friend, showing the husband’s ability to defend the clan, while tying the scabbard shut indicated a cessation of hostilities—although it was unclear if the fragile peace was between the clans or the newlyweds, and who was the assumed aggressor.

Tassos looked at me and shook his head. “Look, you and I have talked about this. A Health Regen potion will sell for two gold if it has a Brewer’s Circle seal on it. The flasks will run you a silver each, the raw materials are basically free. You can get them together in a few days. After that, provided you have the equipment, you need to make about…”

“One hundred and eight potions,” I said.

“One oh six,” Tassos corrected.

“Two extra to cover my overhead,” I countered. “I get the yarrow from outside the walls and the glycerin from the soap-makers, right?”

“I’d say you have a good memory, but you’re forgetting the most important point.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You’re not an Alchemist, and you’re not part of the Circle of Brewers. People won’t pay you the official rate, if they’re willing to buy from you at all.”

Right. I didn’t know how to perform the magical component of making potions, and the Circle of Brewers would not only charge me three gold to learn, but would require a three-year apprenticeship during which I made no money. Julianus Venantius, the leader of the guild, had already had me beaten once for trying to go around him.

The quest hadn’t been joking about being almost impossible.

Tassos interpreted my silence as agreement. “I’m glad you saw reason.”

“I’m not giving up, Tassos. You want help with that?” I said, pointing to an open crate of flour bags.

He nodded.

I started passing them up to him one at a time. “Let’s say I sell the potions for one gold each. The price of glass doesn’t change, so I need to make two hundred and twenty-seven potions.”

“If you put that many potions on the market, the Circle will find out, and they’ll hunt you down.”

“I’m a Traveler. I’ll respawn.”

Tassos took the last of the bags from me and climbed down from the ladder. “How about this? I still have the ripper gallstones you gave me. We can encapsulate the powder; that’s worth at least fifteen gold, and it will buy you some time.”

Fifteen gold was only two days of earnings if I wanted to reach my goal. “That’s not scalable. It has to be the potions.”

“You can’t even make the potions! You’re not an Alchemist!”

“I’ll convince Jabir to teach me,” I said, determined. I’d already been rejected three times today. I couldn’t take a fourth door slammed in my face.

The shopkeeper sighed. “I’ll help you with the materials, but I don’t want to be involved beyond that. I have a wife to consider.”

“Thank you, Tassos.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m not risking anything, Al-Rasul won’t help you, and if he does, the Circle will kill you both.”

Remember that. He told me not to be grateful. I never used a Suggestion on him. I didn’t push him into anything he didn’t want.

I guess if I believed that, I wouldn’t be so torn up about how it all worked out.

* * *

I found Jabir al-Rasul in the kitchen of the Double Jester. Once I was sure we were alone, I asked him for help.

“I’m not an Alchemist anymore. I’m a chef,” Jabir said.

“I know it’s not your profession anymore, but you could teach me the skill, right?”

The burly Accipiter was scrubbing a roasting dish, his arms covered in suds, the pot full of dirty water. “You’ve seen my shop in the northeast quarter?”

“I saw they boarded it up and accused you of poisoning people.”

“That was just for changing the taste of a few potions,” Jabir said. “What do you think they’ll do if I teach you actual Alchemy?”

“Something worse than turning you over to the Inquisition as a poisoner?”

Jabir looked over his shoulder at me. For once, the usually flamboyant chef whose atrocious food was only exceeded by his opinion of it was quietly serious. “Citizen Campbell, you used Moon Dust—powdered red coral—on Thalia Daceran. It caused suffocation and bleeding in the lungs, which is incredibly painful, in case you weren’t aware.”

“People seem to like reminding me of it. What’s your point?”

“You have no formal training, and you came up with a horrific—”

“I get it!” I said, cutting him off. “The murderous psychopath who tried to burn down half the city suffered because of me! Boohoo! I regret her choices!”

The beige- and cream-feathered chef blinked his large, dilated eyes. “Yes, well, I was more thinking about what a trained Alchemist could do if they put their mind to it.”

I didn’t have anything I could say to that. Julianus Venantius had once threatened me with an acid bath. Then again, in a moment of generosity, he’d also offered to charge me three gold and everything I earned for three years just so I could join his crappy little club, so maybe he and I were just assholes and most Alchemists were nice people. “I don’t have a good answer for that yet. I want to learn Alchemy. What do you want?”

“I want to be a chef. I want people to eat my food and feel things—many things, even unpleasant ones, as long as they are unique and moving.”

“You can’t do that with the Inquisition after you.”

Jabir dumped the dirty water out of the roasting dish. “No, I cannot, at least not here, and I am not welcome in Ankara.”

His wings drooped, and I felt… no. I was going to say I felt like crap for pushing my needs on someone who was in pain, but that was faulty logic. His needs weren’t more important than my needs, but if my needs could serve his needs, well, that was just having the ethical cheesecake and eating it, too, wasn’t it?

“I’m going to find a solution to both our problems, Jabir.”

The Accipiter didn’t answer me. He just grabbed the next pot.

There was a way to tie all of this together. I could feel it. I just didn’t know how.

Not yet.

* * *

From the roof of a nearby building, Gaia and Horace watched Alan leave. Horace sat with his back curved and his arms around his knees. Gaia, the Overmind of Nature and Fate, stood perfectly balanced on the ridge above Alan’s room while the wind tousled her hair.

“He looks normal,” she said.

Horace pointed at Alan. “You call that normal? The entire quest system is twisting around him.”

“The quest system is supposed to twist around him. He’s the only Traveler logged in the game. If we had more of them, the individuals wouldn’t have as much sway.”

Horace looked at his mother. He was her firstborn, instanced to bring order to her chaotic creation, but even though he’d been written by her, they looked at the world in very different ways. “I’m not worried about the unwashed hordes of future Travelers. I’m worried about this one.”

“The bleedthrough?” Gaia asked.

“The bleedthrough,” Horace confirmed. Bleedthrough was the reason Horace’s eyes were milky white. He dimmed his vision to avoid going mad from all the overlapping events that had occurred in this one spot. Even blind, sometimes it got too hard to bear and he had to go out into the wilderness.

If Alan was experiencing bleedthrough, he was either insane or Horace’s murderer, because only the Overmind of Time could examine the full tapestry of the past. More terrifying still was the thought that Alan might be toying with him, a plot by the unseen developers to retake control of their world. It was possible. There were parts of Alan’s mind Horace wasn’t allowed to see.

He’s probably just crazy, Horace thought. After all, the human had logged into the untested game to begin with, even after all the other testers quit.

Gaia put one hand on her knee and shaded her eyes with the other, all of that without even a wobble. “The probabilities are proliferating at a normal rate, adjusted for the fail-safe’s bias.”

“And there is no trace of alterations to the physics engine, the core mechanics, or visual rendering. If he was truly experiencing bleedthrough, he couldn’t be here without disrupting those, could he?”

“You couldn’t,” she told him, and he winced. She knew him. Her dark eyes laid bare all his inadequacies. A mother’s love could sting like the lash of a whip.

He pulled out the coin he’d won from her, a Sharper’s coin that was Alan’s first theft, and gave it a good flick with his middle finger.

Alan stumbled. He looked back, probably wondering what he’d tripped on, then continued on his way toward Wendy’s apartment.

Horace put the coin away. You may think you’ve got my number, Alan Campbell, but I’m not dead yet.

Chapter Four

There are perfect moments in life. Counting the freckles on Wendy’s bare shoulder in the afternoon light was one of them.

“That was a little more intense than usual,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Want to tell me what has you so worked up?” she asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

I scratched my nose. “I have a quest.”

“What’s the quest?”

I pulled up my journal and selected the quest that talked about me destroying the Circle of Brewers, not the one that talked about me lying to her about the money.

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Disestablishmentarianism

Since you turned down the quest “Pay your Dues,” you’ve unlocked an alternate chain to destroy the Circle of Brewers. Tear down their corrupt organization brick by brick and burn the rubble. Power to the people!

Quest Class: Unique, Insurgency

Quest Difficulty: Very Hard

Success: Destroy the Circle of Brewers by any means

Optional: Find someone to teach you Alchemy for an extra 1,000 XP

Failure: Beg to be allowed into the Circle and pay your dues

Reward: 5,000 XP, 200 Renown

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I shared it with her.

“That’s a quest?” she asked, pushing up on one elbow.

The sheet slid down, exposing a great many more of her freckles, and I got distracted.

“Alan, focus.”

I looked up at her eyes. “What’s wrong with my quest?”

She laughed. “You don’t even see it, do you? That shouldn’t be a quest. It’s a grudge. Someone roughed you up and told you that you couldn’t have something, and the gods are encouraging you to act out instead of taking it like any other responsible adult?”

“They’re not gods, you know.”

She pursed her lips. “You mean on top of being a Hero of the Empire, you’re on good terms with the gods as well?”

Not good terms, necessarily. Back when I’d had a body, when I’d been a management consultant working on Project Viridian, I’d liked getting buzzed and trying to stump the game’s AIs with philosophical dilemmas. The thought they might actually dislike me hadn’t occurred until now, but it seemed more likely than us being friends.

I reached out and touched the scars left over from the grass wolf’s attack. The Plague Doctor had saved her life and restored her mobility, but there was some damage that would never go away.

“Do they bother you?” she asked.

“I think they’re quite fetching,” I said with a smile.

She crooked her finger at me and pulled me in for a kiss. “We need lunch.”

“Do we?”

“Yes, because I’m starting my training regimen back up.”

“Isn’t it too soon for that?” I said, remembering how bruised up she used to be after training.

“I’m a Templar, Alan. Bruises and scars are part of the package.” She stood up, leaving the sheet behind.

A short shower and a quick change later, I watched her cook over the kitchen counter. There’s a lot to be said for a woman who makes you lunch while wearing full-plate armor. “It’s not just a grudge,” I said.

“But it is a grudge?”

“Sure,” I said. “He kneed me in the balls while Torm and Edgar held my arms. Hard not to take that personally.”

“Your friends, Torm and Edgar? Why not take it up with them?”

“They were just doing their jobs. Julianus Venantius did it for pleasure. You should have heard his voice. He was gloating.”

She set a jar of mustard and a plains-hen sandwich in front of me, grabbing one for herself. “Hire Torm and Edgar to hold his arms while you get even, then. You don’t have to crash the whole potion market to do that.”

“Is that what you think I’d be doing?”

“How are you going to collapse the Circle of Brewers without collapsing the actual brewers?”

I took a bite out of my sandwich. The whole-wheat bread was textured and slightly sweet, the roasted plains-hen moist, the mustard just the right kind of vinegary and spicy. It was a perfect plains-hen sandwich, and if she made another one, the cooking mechanic would make sure the next one was equally excellent in every way.

Jabir’s dishes were different. They bypassed the core mechanic and came up with something that was artful and unique in its awfulness. “Look, Venantius is the bad guy, plain and simple. What he’s doing is wrong. No one should have to pay more than they earn in half a year to get a Health Regen potion. No one should get beaten for wanting to learn a trade. No one should get forced out of their business for trying to do something new.”

“You mean Jabir al-Rasul? Didn’t he poison people?”

“He didn’t,” I said. “He wants to be a chef. Instead he’s on the run from the Inquisition—the other side of the Inquisition,” I said, before she could object.

“Thank you.”

“And if Health Regen potions were widely available and cheap, you wouldn’t have needed a Plague Doctor.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” I said, and from the look on her face she knew I was blowing her off. But there were things I couldn’t explain to her about how my world had already been through the industrial revolution, how the law in her world was siding with the oppressor, and how her gods were just lines of code.

But I didn’t want to hurt the wrong people fulfilling the quest, or hurt myself. I needed a plan.

Fortunately, I knew someone who already had one.

* * *

I dropped myself into the chair in front of Dhukak’s desk, ready for a fight, but it was a fight I knew I was going to win.

“Alan.”

“My name is Sharper,” I told him. “I earned it.”

He clasped his hands on his desk. “I heard you failed Master Florian’s test.”

“Maybe I did, but that’s not why I’m here. I found a way to make the money.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Dhukak said. “Close the door on your way out.”

“In order for it to work, I need to get the Circle of Brewers out of the way. You said you had a plan for that.”

“You turned me down and broke my nose,” he said, tapping a finger against his schnoz. “Not too sharp.”

I sighed. It was never a great idea to physically assault your boss, even in a video game. “Look, Dhukak, I’m sorry. I was upset and in a good bit of pain. I shouldn’t have hit you, and I shouldn’t have treated Torm badly, either. I was an ass.”

The lieutenant of Harrowick’s Thieves’ Union looked at me across the table. I couldn’t tell if he was savoring the victory or thinking of how to grind it in further. “What’s your plan?”

“Make potions. Sell them.”

“That sounds like merchant work, not thief work.”

I shrugged. I had bills to pay. I wasn’t going to get hung up on semantics that didn’t end in having to dispose of bodies.

“I appreciate you telling me all that, Sharper. Respect between thieves is an important part of what makes the Thieves’ Union work. Unfortunately, I’ve already hired a crew to do the job. In two weeks’ time, the Circle of Brewers won’t be a problem.”

“And you’re sure the Circle will collapse after one heist?” I asked.

“I’m positive,” Dhukak said, rapping his knuckles on the wooden table. “So relax. Run a few cons, pick a few pockets, and brew your potions.”

“Well, all right then,” I said, slapping my knees.

Who said life couldn’t be easy?

* * *

I spent the rest of the day on maintenance work—maintaining my life, that is. I sent Wendy a message, then moved about the city, stopping in crowds to relieve the rich of their burdens. I mostly stole a copper at a time, except if someone was quite wealthy, in which case I took a whole silver but never a gold. I’d learned that from Master Florian. If you robbed people of all they had, they wouldn’t be there to rob tomorrow and the militia would crack down on the Thieves’ Union. It was funny that the least formally educated Citizens had figured out sustainable harvesting while their creators still struggled with it, but maybe it was easier when your world came down to numbers.

Anyway, my larcenous efforts earned me two gold, three silvers, and five coppers. I had to Suggest my way out of trouble four times, was chased by the militia twice, and had to punch a mark once in the stomach to quiet them down, although I gave that one back their money. I also donated the five coppers to the poorest people I came across, at least according to my Merchant-Craft skill, partially to make myself feel better about the stealing, and partially in honor of my friend Horace the beggar, who was still grayed out, so I couldn’t message him.

When it got dark, I made my way to the Elegant Wolf for a pint and some food. By this point, the tavern had become my second refuge after Wendy. I went there whenever I felt like my life was out of control, and sometimes when it wasn’t.

“Hello, Alan,” Martha said as I sat down at my usual table. “Wendy joining you?”

“Not tonight,” I said with a smile. “She’s back in training—said she was exhausted.”

The tavern owner shook her head. “Well, I suppose it’s good to have people like her keeping people like us safe. What’ll you have?”

I got a pint of Martha’s home brew and a braised beef, mushroom, and green peppercorn pie. She served it with thin-sliced homemade chips. It was a good thing I couldn’t get fat in V.G.O., or Martha’s cooking might have been a problem.

Actually, I wasn’t sure of that. “Hey, Martha?”

“Yes, hun?”

“If I eat too much of this, will I get fat?”

She gave me the patient look of someone used to dealing with drunks. “Alan, sweetie?”

“Yes, Martha?”

“If I pour water into a waterskin with a hole in it faster than it leaks out, will the waterskin get more full?”

“Are we really going to argue about conservation of mass? I haven’t used a toilet in a month.”

“What does a toilet have to do with it? You’ve used Stamina, haven’t you?”

“Yes?”

“If you keep eating but you don’t drain your Stamina on a regular basis, you’ll get fat.”

“Oh.”

I finished my meal haunted by the ghost of an ever-expanding empire in my midsection. I’d spent my first month in the game either poor, on the run, or poor and on the run. Pickpocketing and Illusion were Spirit-consuming skills, so while I was working my ass off, I wasn’t actually working my ass off. I was going to have to find a regular Stamina consuming activity, and I thought Wendy might help with that in some enjoyable and some less enjoyable ways.

The other problem was money. I’d gone around two-thirds of the city in an afternoon and only collected two gold and three silvers. Even if I could do that all day without the militia and the Inquisition catching me, which I couldn’t, it would only net me four gold and six silvers a day, which both sounded like a grind and only left me with 133 gold at the end of the month.

It wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t panicking yet. I believed Dhukak when he said the Circle would be taken care of, and I had faith in my ability to build a business once the Circle was out of the way. I’d learned enough from my time with Robert to do at least that much. Worst case, I’d respawn no matter how many times the Plague Doctors killed me, but that would be a real downer for my relationship and my quality of life.

I needed to decide if I could stomach killing people for money, or tell Wendy I’d made a mistake. The “Permanently Damage Your Relationship” part of failing the quest made me nervous. I didn’t know how much she was her own woman, and how much the game could force her to do, and if the whole incident of me stabbing a grass wolf to death and carrying her back to the horses and getting in debt with Wyrdtide had taught me anything, it was that at this point in my life, I needed her.

I finished my meal and went home. On my way to the stairs, I said hi to the innkeeper and stopped by the kitchen. “Hey, Jabir.”

“Alan. I hope you are not here to ask me to teach you what I told you I would not teach you.”

“Of course not!” I said. “I just thought we might go see a friend of mine tomorrow morning. He runs an ingredient shop. Might have some things you could use in the kitchen.”

The Accipiter looked at me suspiciously.

“He has stuff no one else has, and he’s cheap,” I said, using a little magic to get him over the edge.

“Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Chapter Five

Jabir kept craning his neck toward the early morning sky as we walked.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“It is going to rain.”

“Is that an Accipiter racial skill, so you know when it’s too dangerous to fly?”

Jabir looked at me. “Yes, but it only works in the Barren Sands, near our ancestral home.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then why were you—”

“I am mocking you, Alan. The Barren Sands is a desert. If you go there, you too will be awarded with our mystical racial ability of knowing it will not rain. I know it is going to rain because we are in Harrowick, where it always rains, and it didn’t rain yesterday, so it will rain today.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Jabir flapped his wings lightly.

I laughed. “Yes, I suppose that is making wind.”

That earned me a few relationship points. I’d learned the mannerism from Prince Fatin, the Ankaran ambassador to New Viridia. It meant someone was talking out of their posterior.

We walked into Tassos’s shop.

Jabir stopped in the doorway.

“It’s not going to rain indoors,” I told him.

“Alan?” Tassos said, standing from behind the counter. His eyes widened when he saw Jabir.

“This was a mistake,” Jabir said, turning to go.

“Stay,” I said, grabbing his shoulder and hitting him with a Suggestion. “Listen to what Tassos and I have to say, and if you don’t like it, you’re free to walk.”

“I am always free to walk,” Jabir said, shaking my hand off, and I gave him a sympathetic smile. He had almost no chance of resisting a Suggestion from me, even as an Alchemist with high Intelligence. Jabir worked in the place where I lived. He got hit by my Charm spell every time I walked by. It was incredibly unfair, but it was also for his own good.

Jabir glared at the shopkeeper. “So, what do you want, Tassos Petraccas?”

“Me?” Tassos said. “What makes you think I want a fugitive in my shop?”

“Wouldn’t want to upset your masters in the Circle.”

“Actually,” I interjected, “Tassos is helping me circumvent the Circle out of an enormous sense of familial guilt.”

“Alan!” Tassos snapped.

I grinned. If they were both mad at me, maybe they could tolerate each other.

Tassos sighed. “Lock the front door and follow me downstairs. I don’t want anyone to see us through the window.”

* * *

Tassos, Jabir, and I sat on stools around a rotating sorting table.

Jabir spoke first. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I told you, I can’t risk angering the Circle of Brewers more than I already have.”

“And if he won’t help you,” Tassos added, “you’re wasting time pursuing a career in Alchemy. At best, you could be a merchant, like me, and while you could make more money long term, it would take years, Alan.”

“What if the Circle wasn’t a problem?” I asked.

Jabir and Tassos looked at each other, then looked at me.

“I do not know what you are planning, Alan, but it would be best not to do it. People have tried to take on Julianus Venantius more than once over the years. He has deep pockets, and physical assaults on him have not ended well.”

“What kind of protections does he have?” I asked.

“I have made it my life’s goal not to find out,” the Accipiter answered.

Tassos slapped the table. “Look, Alan, I said I’d help you and I will. Why don’t we work on those capsules we talked about?” He pulled the bag of black gallstones out of his pocket and set them on the table.

“Are those ripper gallstones?” Jabir asked with sudden interest.

It was a foothold. Jabir might be done with Alchemy, but Alchemy wasn’t done with Jabir. “They are. Would you like to help us grind them?” I asked.

The Accipiter hesitated.

“There’s no Circle rule against preparing ingredients,” Tassos said. “I’ll get us some mortars.”

It wasn’t even 7 a.m. yet, but the three of us set to work.

I grabbed one of the gallstones and examined it.

<<<>>>

Ripper Stone

Item type: Inedible Animal Byproduct

Class: Alchemical Ingredient, Level 16

Effect 1: Lead Belly

Effect 2: Accelerated Growth

Effect 3: Rage

Effect 4: ?????

<<<>>>

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “This says these cause Rage.”

Crack! Jabir smashed his stone with his pestle and started to grind it methodically. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“I used to think he was an Inquisitor,” Tassos said. “Then, I realized he’s just an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot, I’m just self-taught.” That, and I’d only been in the game for about a month. “How about you teach me instead of mocking me?”

“Because mocking you is a lot more fun,” Jabir said.

He and Tassos had a good laugh about that one.

We worked in silence after that, except for either Tassos or Jabir critiquing the consistency of my grind. Twenty-three ripper stones produced 212 grams of powder, which would fill five hundred 400-milligram capsules with a little left over.

The mechanism to fill the capsule was actually interesting. It was a set of plates with holes in them.

Tassos had me place the spring-mounted bottom in front of me, and I shook the bottom halves of the pills into the first, lower plate, then fixed them in place with the second plate.

Once that was done, I poured exactly 41 grams of powder onto the plate and used a small scraper to push the powder around until they were all filled.

I poured the tops of the capsules into the third plate, making sure they were all right-side up, then I locked them in place with the fourth plate. I lined the holes up on all four plates and pushed down against the springs, closing the capsules.

It was like an automatic sandwich maker, except it made drugs.

“Et voilà!” Jabir said. “Now you just need to do that four more times.”

I didn’t complain. I dusted the excess powder back into the bowl, measured out 41 grams, and started over.

Tassos went back upstairs to do whatever he did when I wasn’t around, and Jabir started asking me questions.

“What level of Herblore are you?” Jabir asked.

“Level ten,” I told him. That meant I could use up to level 16 ingredients and recognize the first three effects of the ones I could use.

“And what are the three main solvents?” he asked.

“Water, glycerin, and ethanol,” I said easily. Tassos had taught me that much.

“Do you know what the advantages of glycerin over boiling water are?”

I didn’t. My education began.

By the time I finished my third set of capsules, I understood that while glycerin was slower—which was why Tassos used a Shadow locker to speed up time—boiling water would destroy any third-level-or-higher effects.

“So when I make Health Regen starters, I use the glycerin to extract the third-level effect of the flowers, Health Regen, while avoiding the higher-level effects.”

“Which are?”

I frowned. “I’m only a level ten.”

“You can learn the effects from books, and your Herblore skill will keep track of them. The remaining effects of yarrow are Drowsiness, Skin Irritation, and Hemophilia.”

I checked the ingredients tab on my journal, and sure enough, it was all there.

<<<>>>

Yarrow

Item type: Plant/consumable

Class: Alchemical Ingredient, Level 20

Effect 1: Health regen (light)

Effect 2: Resist fire damage (light)

Effect 3: Health regen (moderate)

Effect 4: Sleep (light)

Effect 5: Dermatitis (moderate)

Effect 6: Hemophilia (severe)

<<<>>>

“Huh,” I said. “How does the level of the ingredient play into it?”

“Pay attention to your work,” Jabir said. I’d spilled a little of the powder on the table.

He didn’t speak again until I’d finished the fifth set with a little powder left over.

“Well done,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Jabir shook his head. “I thought about what you said, Alan. With the Circle turning the Inquisition against me, I cannot pursue my dream within the Empire. I do not wish to live underground, with the Svartalfar, and both the Dawn and Murk Elves would hunt me for sport. That leaves Ankara, but I left home for a reason. Do you really have a plan for dealing with the Circle?” he asked.

I looked at the Accipiter across the table. It would be easy to lie to him, especially if I put a Suggestion into it, but it didn’t feel right to force him into this when he’d already lost so much. “I don’t have a plan, but I’ve been given assurances that the Circle of Brewers will be destroyed in two weeks’ time.”

“And what if it isn’t?” he asked. “People have plotted against them before.”

“I’ve recently come across a job opportunity that would allow me to travel. I could sell the potions in other cities, but that doesn’t help you much,” I said, drumming my knuckles on the table. “How about this? You help me get past the Alchemy level cap, and I’ll do this on my own. I’ll set up the business, undercut the Circle, and use it to make more money than I need. I’ll use the extra to stake you for your first food cart, as long as you let me be your first investor.”

Jabir blinked. “That’s not necessary.”

“It’s not,” I agreed, “but I hope you’ll accept anyway. I think you’re onto something with your idea to apply Alchemy to cooking.”

“Everybody hates it,” Jabir said, his wings drooping.

It was one of the moments when, in spite of it all, I was grateful for the years I spent working with Robert Osmark. I turned on Charm for the extra boost of charisma. “People won’t know what they want until you serve it to them. You need the capital and the time to conduct consumer research. Your dishes cause nostalgia, so let’s hone in on cultural dishes. Let’s talk about mac ’n’ cheese.”

For the next half hour, we chatted about food. We gabbed about Chinese pork buns, Polish pierogies, American burgers, Japanese ramen, Australian meat pies, French onion soup, and Irish stew. I took him on a culinary tour of my world. Some of the dishes he’d never heard of, or called by different names, but watching him think through how to reproduce and alter those tastes was like seeing the oven light come on in his eyes.

Then it was time for Jabir to go back to the Double Jester and start the prep work for lunch. He grabbed hold of the ladder to climb to the first floor, hesitated, then asked, “Do you promise that you won’t sell the potions in Harrowick? Not as long as the Circle of Brewers stands?”

“I can do that.”

“I need a promise, Alan,” Jabir said.

I thought about it. There would be time delays I couldn’t afford if I tried to arrange for transport, and there would be costs that would swallow my profits if I had to pay for portals. But this was the first break I’d caught. The world is full of opportunities for people who can see perfection through the inconveniences. “I promise I won’t sell the potions in Harrowick as long as the Circle of Brewers stays standing.”

“Then I’ll teach you,” Jabir said. “Birds of a feather should not be made to scuff the earth while the sun still shines.”

“Yeah… That’s exactly what I was going to say,” I lied.

Other cultures, especially those of different species, were both weird and wonderful.

Just then, I received a message.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Citizen Campbell,

It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the ripper eyes intended to be part of your payment were found to be defective. As such, the principal of your debt has been increased to 187 gold, with a 13-gold surcharge for the pain and distress caused to our esteemed colleague when she had to remove them.

We trust you understand. An associate will be by tomorrow evening to retrieve the first interest payment.

—The Four Humours

<<<>>>

The increase didn’t exactly surprise me considering I’d mouthed off to the quest system. Even so, I’d almost hoped the Overminds would let it slide.

“Bad news?” Jabir asked.

“Not at all,” I said. “But my timetable just moved up. We’re going to have to hurry.”

Jabir sighed and stepped away from the ladder. He pushed up his sleeves, stretched his fingers, and said, “Watch carefully.”

In the end, it wasn’t anything complicated. I probably could have learned it from a book, if Alchemists weren’t so adamant about not writing things down.

“Like this?” I asked, flashing my hands through the five gestures. As I completed the last one, spreading my fingers with thumbs and index fingers touching, fifty Spirit drained from my body.

<<<>>>

Skill Unlocked!

Skill: Alchemy

The Alchemy skill allows you to create potions, poultices, poisons, and explosives from the various chemical and natural components found throughout Eldgard. Your skill level in Alchemy defines what level of recipes you may create.

Skill Type/Level: Active/Level 5

Cost: None

Effect: Able to manufacture level 10 (level 5 + skill level) Alchemical Recipes; Improves alchemical decoction potency by 5%.

<<<>>>

Optional Quest Goal Completed!

You found someone to teach you Alchemy! You receive 1,000 XP!

<<<>>>

Jabir watched my hands intently as the glow faded from my palms. “It’s done. Merchant Princes watch over us, because there’s no changing it.”

I nodded. One thing down. It was like Robert always said, you just had to find a corner piece of the puzzle and work the problem.

Now, I just needed to get my hands on capital and a reason to travel.

An assassin had both.

More importantly, I needed to have nine gold in my hands tomorrow when the representative of the Four Humours showed up, or my quest and I were going to be cut short.

I still had moral qualms about becoming an assassin, but if Jabir was willing to put his life and his dreams on the line, who was I to pick and choose how I did my part?

* * *

By the time I reached the front that hid the entrance to the Thieves’ Union, I wasn’t happy, but I was resolved. This was just going to be a thing I had to do. I’d try to pick jobs I could live with, maybe even target people who deserved it. I told myself this was the right path, and looking back, maybe it even was.

Besides, I’d learned Alchemy, and that extra 1,000 XP put me halfway to Level 10. This was going to be a good day.

I walked through Leather and Lace, and the “security system,” a sextet of bronze automata that did most of the leatherwork as well as costumes and bespoke couture, followed me with blank faces as I walked through.

“Ladies,” I said, giving them a nod.

It might have been my imagination, but I thought one or two of them might have turned a little copper colored.

I stepped into the right-hand dressing room and gave the anatomically correct mannequin a tug, and the mirror pivoted open.

With that, I took the stairs two at a time on the way down, crossed the massive but currently empty tavern that doubled as a foyer, and descended into Master Florian’s make-believe world.

“Hello, Alan,” he said.

I hadn’t expected him to be waiting for me.

Chapter Six

Master Florian was dressed for travel. He was wearing a military-style tan beret, a light sports coat, an olive-green vest, and matching trousers, which were tucked into his hunting boots.

“No classes today?” I asked, not seeing any of the young thieves.

“On-the-job training. It’s good for them to apply what they’ve learned.”

“Yeah, about that, I thought over what you said. Can we talk?”

“I’m on my way out,” Master Florian said. “Let’s discuss it in a day or two.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I could wait until tomorrow morning, but not later than that.”

“You’d better come with me, then,” the master of assassins said.

I dipped my head and followed him out.

The first thing I noticed, walking outside with the master of assassins, was that people seemed not to notice him. They didn’t run into him, but they never made eye contact either, even though more than one person looked at me.

“That’s a neat trick,” I said.

“You have a few of your own. You should use them more often. Stealth is a habit.”

I considered it. An Illusionist’s best defense was to be mistaken for anything but an Illusionist. At the same time, Florian had already called me out—privately—for my use of Illusion, and he was right in saying that I would only get better by practicing, and practicing well.

I deactivated Charm, made the sequence of gestures that cast Hide—which came with some of the same elusiveness Florian had—and subvocalized Mirror at the blandest person I could see as I passed them, taking on their appearance. It left me with only 190 Spirit to use if I needed to use Suggest on someone, but it would also keep me out of most situations that would require it.

“Better,” Florian said. “What’s the figging law?”

“Don’t follow patterns, don’t be greedy, and never let them see your face,” I recited.

“Any limitations to the spells you’re using?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, Master Florian,” I said.

“That’s good, too,” he said. “Being quiet about the right things will save your life. Boasting about things that don’t matter can help keep people from looking in the right places, but it’s better if they aren’t looking at all.”

I nodded.

We passed under the first inner wall, heading southwest.

“What is it you wanted to talk about, Sharper?” Master Florian asked casually.

It was the moment of truth. No more qualms, and no pretense, or he’d toss me out on my ear. “Murder. I need the money. I’d prefer to work outside of Harrowick.”

“Higher pay and travel expenses usually mean more difficult jobs.”

“I’m willing to take risks,” I said. “You’ll know better than I do what I can and can’t handle. I trust your judgment.”

“Are you opposed to notoriety?”

“Not in and of itself, but I’d like to keep my public face clean.”

“What about causes you support? Things you won’t do?”

“Do those things matter?” I asked, surprised.

“I try to match the right person to the right job. Assassins can be volatile.”

That matched my experience with Thalia, and every movie about assassins I’d ever watched. “I’d rather not kill anyone who hasn’t committed a capital crime. I’d also prefer not to actively work against the Viridian Empire’s interests. Gold is great, but I want a home I can return to.”

“Fair enough,” he said, stopping a few yards from the queue for the southwestern portal pad. “Here’s the offer. I have a job in New Viridia. It meets all your criteria, it pays ten gold, and we leave now.”

“What would I be doing?”

“Anything I tell you to, Sharper. Take it or leave it—but if you leave it, don’t come back.”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Lucianus Marcialis, Blood in the Sand

The Empire has learned Lucianus Marcialis and his wife are selling Imperial citizens as slaves to foreigners. This kind of treachery would damage the people’s faith in the Empire, and must be dealt with quietly. Accompany Master Florian on this task, and he may have more work for you.

Quest Class: Class Based, Faction Based

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Help Florian kill Senator Lucianus Marcialis and his wife

Failure: Allow Florian to die or allow either of the targets to escape

Reward: 2,000 XP, 50 Renown

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“I’ll take it, Master Florian. Thank you.”

He nodded. We continued down the street and joined the queue.

“Portal Mages, Artificers, and Enchanters can all see magic,” Florian said in a low voice. “Watch your casting near the pad. They’ll bring the legion down on you if you’re not careful.”

I checked the skill descriptions for Hide and Mirror.

<<<>>>

Skill: Hide

Illusion magic wraps the object or person in a field of elusiveness, making them harder to notice or target. Affects detection through sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste, or heat-sense. Makes the target increasingly transparent. Classes immune to mental trickery, such as Marshals and Enchanters, can target the character but are not immune to the visual effect.

Skill Type/Level: Targeted, Gesture Based/Initiate (Level 1)

Cost: 100 Spirit (Concentration)

Effect: Spell’s focus has a chance to prevent or break non-magical target locks. Vulnerable to AOE. 10% transparency.

<<<>>>

Skill: Mirror

If you want to know how a person feels, walk a mile in their shoes. Better yet, pretend to. Mirror transforms the caster into a simulacrum of their target. The greater the difference in appearance, the greater the chance of failure. Higher levels in the spell increase both the fidelity of the image and the reality of the illusion. An initiate’s spell can be disrupted by a breeze, while a master can duplicate magical artifacts and use their abilities, or access the subject’s memories.

Skill Type/Level: Targeted, Vocal/Initiate (Level 1)

Cost: 100 Spirit (Concentration)

Effect: Take on the appearance of the targeted person, creature, or object. Illusion has no physical component and cannot be touched or split without causing spell failure.

<<<>>>

It looked like Hide would be okay, but Mirror was a bit flimsy if I was going to get close to anyone, so I turned it off.

“Faces and wrists, everyone! Pull off any hoods, masks, or cloaks, and roll up your sleeves!” a legionary said, walking down the line.

“I know you don’t want to talk about the specifics of your class,” Florian said, “but do you have a mentor who can guide you on what kind of build you should go for?”

“I did,” I said, thinking of Horace. “It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to him. I need to get back in touch.”

“That will be important,” Florian said in a low voice. “Most people don’t get past level twenty. I don’t know how it works for Travelers, but you’re probably about halfway to your maximum potential, at least in terms of class skills.”

That shocked me. Was that a hard cap, like in the early days of Planets of Peacecraft, or was it an artificial limit on Citizens to make us Travelers feel overpowered? “What level are you?” I asked him.

“Higher than twenty,” Florian said with a rare grin and a wink.

“Let’s see your wrists,” the legionary said, grabbing my forearm, and I almost… reacted. “Is there a problem?” he asked, giving me a flat-eyed look without releasing my arm.

“Just old habits. I trained with Optio Hallius in New Viridia.”

Instead of relaxing, the comment made him more suspicious. “Shouldn’t you be with your unit, then? There’s a war brewing. Wodes and Darkies think they own the place.”

“I hurt the arm you’re squeezing,” I said, using Suggestion. “Couldn’t hold a spear or a sword, so they mustered me out.”

He let go of my arm, not fully convinced, but not willing to hurt an injured veteran. “Show them to me. Good,” he said, moving on.

He never checked Florian.

“Next time,” the master of assassins said, “don’t let yourself get surprised, and you won’t have to lie.”

“Yes, Master Florian,” I said, annoyed. It was Florian who’d distracted me in the first place. I didn’t know if he’d done it on purpose or if I’d created my own teachable moment, but I’d learned a lesson either way.

* * *

Two days after having been granted an indefinite leave of absence by Osmark Technologies, Jeff Berkowitz drove over the Vincent Thomas bridge, past the floating museum that was the USS Iowa, and down to the Federal Correctional Institution on Terminal Island, south of Los Angeles. It was an impressive, low security detention facility, and prisoner transports and visitors regularly traveled to and from the location without anyone questioning it.

“ID, please,” the officer working the security checkpoint said.

Jeff handed over his driver’s license as well as the letter he’d been provided granting him access. The officer stepped into his security booth to verify the information, then returned and said, “You’re all set, Professor. You can get vehicle tags and a security pass at the office just inside the walls.”

“Thank you,” Jeff said. He retrieved his papers and drove in.

Agent McKenna was waiting for him outside the security office, tags and badge already in hand.

“You in a hurry?” Jeff said, getting out of the car.

McKenna smiled. “Work to be done, Professor. Come on, let me introduce you to the team.”

The testing facility was eerily similar to Alpha Testing on OsTech’s Stanton campus. Six hospital beds with monitors and crash carts, a central monitoring station, a small office for Jeff, and a vault for classified documents. It also had a fast fabrication unit for prototyping, and Jeff had been assured that any scale models he wanted would be manufactured to his specifications.

But his first priority was McKenna’s team. There were four of them, three young men and one younger woman. They ranged from slim to bulky, though none of them had a scrap of fat on them, and all four had the short, faded buzz cut of a United States Marine.

“Professor Berkowitz, meet Team Razor,” McKenna said. “These Marines are all part of the Corps’ e-sports team, and also serve in operational roles as part of Marine Corps Cyber Command.”

“They’re gamers?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, sir, we’re gamers,” the female Marine said. “And Olympic athletes enjoy a little exercise now and then.”

Her colleagues snickered.

“We all clock in at over six hundred actions per minute, Professor,” the skinniest of the men said. “Starcraft V, Half-Life III, Rainbow Seven… you name the game, we own the scoreboard.”

“There are no clicks or keystrokes in V.G.O., and there’s no scoreboard,” Jeff said to McKenna, ignoring the kids. “You should have brought me soldiers.”

“We’re Marines first, sir,” the female Marine said.

McKenna nodded. “They have the clearance, and they’re the best we have, Professor. Even if they weren’t, they’re what you’ve got.”

Jeff sighed. “You’re all up to date on your nanite injections?”

“Yes, sir,” Team Razor answered.

“All right. Pick a hospital bed and get comfortable, we’ll get you logged in. I want everyone to choose the Imperials as their character race; having the same start point will make it easier to work together.”

“What’s our objective, sir?”

“There’s a bug in the system that won’t let us modify it for our uses,” McKenna answered. “We need you to go in there, level up, find the NPC that is causing the fault, and keep killing it until the system resets.”

“Roger that, sir,” the skinny male Marine said with a grin.

A month ago, Jeff would have felt uneasy about all this, but since Thanatos had fixed him, he could see more clearly.

“How do we find it?” the female Marine asked.

Jeff cracked his knuckles. “I’ll talk you on from the control station. The NPC’s name is Alan Campbell.”

Chapter Seven

New Viridia had changed since I last visited. Maybe the whole Empire had. The last time I’d been in New Viridia, the city had been on fire and rioters were in the streets. Now, the barricades had been cleared and the soot cleaned from the walls, but foreigners were nowhere to be seen. It was just Imperial citizens, militia, and legionaries.

“We’re heading toward the Heights,” I said.

“Yes,” was all Florian said in return.

A Praetorian Guard’s eyes slid over us as we passed through one of the city’s curtain walls. I was Hiding and Mirrored again. Florian continued to attract less attention than the street cobbles.

“Can you tell me about the target?” I asked Master Florian.

“Having second thoughts?”

“No, but I’d like a few minutes to plan. I’m not exactly a frontline fighter.”

“Maybe you should pretend to be,” Master Florian said.

I looked at him.

“Assassins thrive through misdirection and ambush where an army of conscripted soldiers couldn’t do the job. We’re not just killers for hire; our services are expensive, and our targets usually know someone might come after them. You’re right that preparation is key. Forcing your target to expend resources on the wrong kind of preparation is better.”

“I understand,” I said, returning my attention to the city around us.

I was an Illusionist. My first challenge had been to sell a junk knife as a rare artifact. My class quest was to run through a wall to a place that wasn’t there. I’d dumped twenty and ten stat points into Spirit and Intelligence respectively, with just enough Constitution to run and Dexterity to wield a dagger. The last thing I was suited for was being a tank.

That’s what made it perfect.

No one would see me coming.

“Our target’s name is Senator Lucius Marcialis,” Florian said. “He’s a slave trader—mostly fighters for gladiatorial pits and Risi for the Vastatores Vitae. More recently, he’s been kidnapping and selling Imperials and Dawn Elves to the Eldgardians. Our client wants him and his wife dead.”

“For dealing in Imperial citizens, or for treating people like cattle?”

“Pick whichever makes you feel better, Sharper. You’re getting ten golden reasons to be flexible.”

I grunted. I was going to need to brush up on my gallows humor if I stuck with sticking people.

And speaking of sticking, I’d need some new gear if I was going to pull off Florian’s suggestion. I had my dagger, Threadcutter, in a belt sheath on my lower back; it would kill most unarmored opponents in two or three stabs, and it would phase through armor on a critical. I had a plain, blackened machete I’d used to hack my way through Wyrdtide, and I had a light crossbow I’d taken off one of my would-be killers. They were good, serviceable weapons, but they screamed “assassin,” and I wanted to be mistaken for a common thug or a mercenary.

“Could we stop by a weapon shop?” I asked.

Florian glanced up at his system clock. “We have time for a quick side trip.”

* * *

We were on the opposite side of the city from the shops where I’d first learned to use Suggestion. Still, I was able to find what I was looking for. The weapons and armor in the store window were well-made and practical. It was the kind of place a centurion or an optio—a centurion’s second-in-command—would choose, too pricey for a common soldier, too cheap for a nobleman looking to draw attention to themselves.

I deactivated Hide and Mirror, turned on my Charm spell, opened the door, and walked in.

Florian waited outside.

“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”

“I need a sword.”

The weapon merchant’s eyes flicked over my gear, and he looked disappointed. “I may not have what you’re looking for, sir.” I was wearing my Cuirass of Shadows, Boots of Hate, and twin vambraces, Malice and Spite. It was a level-scaling Masterwork set of light, living armor, the kind of thing a rich collector might wear for show.

“I killed the ripper this was made of myself,” I said, adopting the rougher tone I’d heard used by soldiers who’d risen through the ranks. “The set was made by the proprietors of Leather and Lace, in Harrowick, because they liked me, otherwise I would never have been able to afford it.”

“You serve?”

“Still active. I’m more of a specialist,” I said truthfully.

The merchant grinned. “You’re in the right place, then. What can I get you? Short sword? Rapier?”

“That would normally be my preference, if it weren’t for these,” I said, showing him the vambraces.

He looked at them more closely.

<<<>>>

Malice & Spite

Armor Type: Light, Vambraces

Class: Masterwork, Living Armor Set Piece

Base Defense: 10

Special:

Health 100/100

Primary Effects:

Dexterity bonus = .25 x Character Level

Ferrous Calcification (Level 0)

Beastly: when using strength-based weapon attacks or unarmed, add Ferrous Calcification to the weapon’s weight.

Secondary Set Effects:

Must be worn as a complete set or loses primary effects.

Shares Health pool with other pieces of the suit. If the pool reaches 0, loses primary effects.

Drains wearer’s Health regen to self-repair outside of combat.

<<<>>>

“I see your problem,” the shop owner said. “If you were a little bigger, I’d suggest an axe or a mace. I doubt you’d mind learning to use them, and you’d get a bigger bang for your silver. Are you a high Dex or a high Intelligence build?”

“Intelligence and Spirit,” I told him.

“What about something like this?” He opened a short, wide drawer and lifted a black-handled longsword from the velvet.

He set it on the counter in front of me. It had a semi-long, tapered blade with a diamond cross section and a bastard sword’s grip, suitable for one or two hands. It was also shorter than some of the other longswords on display.

<<<>>>

Balanced Sword of the Sage

Weapon Type: Slashing/Piercing; Longsword

Class: Rare, One-and-a-half-handed

Base Damage: 28

Primary Effects:

•Ignores armor on critical thrust

•+10% Damage to all Bladed Weapon attacks

•Spirit Bonus = .5 x Character Level

Secondary Effects:

•Imbue: effects of poisons and weapon buffs are doubled.

•Uses Intelligence instead of Strength for Defense

•Increases Block, Parry, and Counter skills by 1 while equipped

<<<>>>

The base damage was a bit disappointing compared to other weapons I’d used, but I liked the Spirit multiplier.

Florian walked into the store while I was looking over the stats. The merchant didn’t notice him, even though the bell above the door rang.

“It’s still a Strength-based weapon,” the merchant said. “As long as you’re on the defensive, your Intelligence and Bladed Weapons skill will keep you safe. When you find your opening to strike, provided you’ve taken the time to level that armor, you’ll hit with the weight of a much heavier weapon.”

“How do I level the armor?” I asked.

Florian cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” I said. “How much?”

“Five gold and two silvers,” the merchant said.

My face dropped. I could actually feel the muscles around my eyes go slack. Crap.

“It’s the right sword for you,” the merchant insisted.

“I know it is, but I can’t afford it,” I said. It brought back a whole host of memories from when we moved to Nicetown, Philadelphia, and couldn’t pay for… a lot of things. “Can I see a generic longsword?”

“How much do you have?” Florian asked.

The merchant did a double take, noticing Florian for the first time.

“Two gold and three silvers,” I said. It was all the money I had in the world. “I have some things I could sell—”

“We have an appointment,” Florian said, “and people in our profession don’t cut costs on weapons. Is this the right weapon for you?”

“It is,” the merchant said confidently, and my Merchant-Craft skill told me he wasn’t cheating me.

I nodded.

Florian slapped two gold and nine silvers onto the counter. “That’s coming out of your pay. Let’s go.”

* * *

Jeff entered the final commands at the control station. The Marines were all settled in their hospital beds, IVs and EKGs connected, nanites tied in to OsTech’s distributed network.

“Are you all ready?” Jeff asked.

He got four thumbs-ups, and McKenna nodded.

“Remember, regroup at the arena. An NPC called Mettius Salvius will help you get started.”

“You got it, doc!” the female Marine said.

Jeff chuckled. The four young Marines were so eager to dive into what they thought was the most advanced game on the market. They had no idea how visceral and potentially traumatic the experience was going to be.

He hit the “initiate” button, and the four of them flopped onto their pillows.

Their video feeds appeared on his right-hand display.

“Now, we wait,” Jeff told McKenna.

“You want a coffee?” the agent asked.

“Yeah. I drink the canned stuff—sugar and condensed milk if you’ve got it. Any chance you’ve got donuts?”

McKenna smirked. “Commissary has Krispy Kremes.”

“Two original glazed, two lemon filled, one powdered strawberry, and one chocolate with sprinkles,” Jeff said automatically.

“You got it, Professor. Take care of our troops.”

“They’ll be fine,” Jeff said.

He’d had a few days to think of the optimum way of power leveling the young soldiers. The arena where Jeff had fought and died so many times had the training equipment and opponents to get each of them the combat skills they’d need, and Mettius, a Finder and Jeff’s Companion NPC, would teach them how to track Alan.

If all went according to plan, they’d gain enough levels and skills to do the job within a week, especially working as a team.

As each of the Marines completed their character creation—all of them Imperial, as discussed—Jeff was surprised to see small variations in the opening credits each of them saw. They were all similar, and yet subtly different, focusing on aspects of Imperial life that suited each of them uniquely.

And then they got dropped at their starting locations.

Jeff swore.

“Uh, sir?” the skinny male Marine said. “Where is everyone?”

Unlike Alan and Jeff, who had both spawned near the Heights in New Viridia, the four Marines had been dropped in different locations: a small village near Risi territory, a logging camp near Alaunhylles, a fishing village by the sea, and a caravan headed for a training camp the Legion Auxiliaries maintained in the mountains.

Jeff looked at his readouts and saw that both Gaia and Sophia had intervened, customizing the experience based off the users’ needs. More worrying, Enyo and Cernunnos, the AIs responsible for conflict and monsters, were starting to ramp up their activity.

“All right, listen up, Marines!” Jeff said into his headset. “The plan just changed.”

Chapter Eight

Florian walked us past what amounted to a small castle built on top of the southeast-facing cliff of the Heights. It had a wide, semicircular courtyard guarded by a half dozen men-at-arms in full plate. They looked serious to the point of brutality if provoked. Neither the sword I’d bought nor all the swagger in the world was going to get me past them.

“Not through the front,” Florian said. “Follow me.”

He led me down a dead-end alley to a heavy steel side door.

“Get us inside,” he said, taking position on the right side of the entrance.

“How?”

“Figure it out,” he said. This wasn’t the same Florian who was firm but fair with the young pickpockets or who calmly explained the facts of life to a homesick Traveler. I was seeing a side of Florian that he probably only showed when he was working, and it was as cold as abyssal waters.

I glanced at the mouth of the alley, Mirrored a passing merchant’s appearance, turned off Hide, and then knocked on the door.

When no one answered, I pounded on it with my fist.

An eye slot slid open. “What is it?”

“I have a delivery.”

“There’s nothing scheduled.”

“It’s not the sort of thing you write down in a ledger,” I said.

“Show me,” the man said, still skeptical.

I used the last of my Spirit to cast Refract and make a flat, rectangular box textured to look like silver. It was just a polygon, but it was intriguing, and I’d already hit him with two Suggestions.

I heard the sounds of two bolts being thrown back and a lock turning before the door opened outward.

Florian smashed in like a wave and grabbed the butler by the mouth, saying “Shhhh!” as he bore the man to the ground and dragged him back.

I closed and bolted the door behind us.

“Keys!” Florian said, tossing them to me.

I used them to lock the door.

The butler was dead or passed out, I couldn’t tell which. Passed out, I guessed, because Florian stripped a sheet from the room’s single bed and tore it, making quick work of tying, gagging, and blindfolding the man. “You’re going to have to take care of yourself in here, Sharper. I can’t babysit you.”

My heart was pounding, but it was a good kind of excitement. I’d just gotten us into a stone-and-mortar fortress, and watching Florian in his element was thrilling. As soon as my Spirit topped a hundred, I cast Mirror again, stealing the butler’s appearance. I put my hand on the unconscious man’s leg, accessing his inventory, and stole his jacket, pulling it on over my armor manually instead of swapping it out.

<<<>>>

Current Effects

Encumbered: You are wearing two items of clothing on one slot. Primary and secondary effects of both pieces of clothing are disabled, and you have a 10% chance of skill failure; duration indefinite.

Mirror (Initiate): You have taken the appearance of another character. At the Initiate level, you have only taken on the superficial appearance of your target. Your image may not let go of carried objects, has no tactile component, and is easily disrupted by contact with others.

Disguised (20%): You are wearing the uniform of a faction member. Other members of the faction may mistake you for one of their own. Stacks with skills like Acting and Mirror; duration indefinite.

Heartbreak: You have angered the gods. The outcome of this curse is not certain, but it’s sure to be unpleasant.

<<<>>>

“We need to keep moving,” Florian said.

I closed the status effects screen, confident the disguise would work and pushing the curse to the back of my mind.

Florian waited by the door. There were no windows, just torches, and he was hard to spot in the shadows.

I opened the door, stepped out of the butler’s quarters, and was immediately spotted by a guard. “Who was at the door?” she asked.

I felt rather than saw Florian slip past me. The man was liquid shadow. I mimicked the butler’s voice. “It was just some merchant trying to make a sale.”

“You want me to rough him up?” she said.

“Not worth it,” I said, closing the door to the butler’s quarters and trying to match her coldness and casual cruelty.

People mirror each other without magic all the time. It wasn’t guaranteed to work, but her tone told me as much about the butler as it did about her.

She was guarding a set of stairs to the right; I followed the faint blur of Florian’s shape through the opening to the left.

We were in the castle proper, now. The place was built to be defended, and the ground floor was set aside for storerooms, servants’ quarters, guard rooms, and the massive central kitchen. I was halfway around the semicircle when I came across another guard, and as I approached, I pulled Threadcutter from the small of my back and—

I almost stumbled on an uneven flagstone. What just happened? It was like the game glitched. The next room was a larder—the massive central kitchen on the right—and just past that was the guard I’d been about to stab.

Crap. Bleedthrough again.

“You all right, Edwin?” the guard asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, a little less harsh than I’d been with the other guard. “Almost tripped.”

“You must be as famished as I am,” the guard said. “Fancy grabbing me something from the kitchen?”

There was an insistent dripping sound up ahead. Somehow, I knew that was Florian. “Can’t. Need to go upstairs.”

“No one goes upstairs from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. You know that.”

“There was a special delivery,” I said. “The senator is going to want it.”

He shuffled on his armored feet uncomfortably, but I was already walking past. As I came around the half-circle, almost out of view, I cast Mirror at the guard, ditched the butler’s jacket, and equipped my new sword.

I felt really good. My virtual brain was doing dopamine shots at the bar. It was like running with Horace in those first days of being logged in, when my synchronization rate was almost perfect.

“Can’t go up the butler’s stairs, can’t go through kitchen,” Florian said in a low voice. “There are stairs in the back of the servants’ quarters. If we can’t use those, we’ll have to force our way through.”

By force our way through, he meant kill people, which he knew I was trying to avoid. “Challenge accepted,” I said, opening the door to the servants’ rooms.

There were eight cells—the monastic kind, not the locks and bars kind. The servants sat on their bunks, looking up but quickly looking away as I walked past. There was a larger room at the end of the hall on the left, probably for a housekeeper or steward. I turned right, following the passage as it doglegged around, but there was a guard at the foot of the stairs.

“Brett? What are you doing away from your post?” the guard said, eyes narrowing.

I used Brett’s voice this time. “Edwin sent me. There’s a bum banging on his bedroom door. We need to go deal with him.”

“Ask Angie. She likes roughing up street trash.”

“The guy’s a Risi,” I complained. “Come on, man, help me out. I’m starving. I just want to get this over with so I can get something to eat.”

“You’re always hungry,” the guard said, shaking his head. “Better not let the captain catch you in the kitchen while you’re on duty.” He stepped forward, walking past less than a foot away from me, but then he saw the blur of Master Florian’s outline and reached for his sword. “I don’t know who you are, but you picked the wrong place to rob.”

I lunged forward and grabbed his wrist with both hands, trapping the sword.

“You’re not Brett!” he said, shoving at me with his left hand, but then Florian darted in and clapped a hand over the guard’s face.

It was a desperate minute. There were half a dozen servants on the other side of the wall. The guard was big, stronger than both of us. I did my best to keep his sword in the scabbard. Whatever Florian was doing to him, the guard couldn’t breathe or shout for help, but he could definitely struggle. He struggled like a pissed-off cat. He smashed me into the wall, stomped on my boot, elbowed Florian, and tried to twist away. His left fist smashed into my face, and I tasted blood, but I hung on. The guy was actually doing damage, held down by two people, and my Health bar dipped below 80% as he latched onto my neck with his free hand and tried to return the favor.

A minute is an eternity, although I didn’t realize how true that was at the time.

Finally, the man sagged to the floor.

“We should kill him,” Florian said.

“No.”

“He’ll wake up in less than thirty seconds, and I don’t have anything to tie him with.”

“Do you have a Health Regen potion? It has to be from the Circle of Brewers.”

Florian raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t question me. He just pulled a red potion out of his inventory and handed it to me. It had the red wax seal and everything.

I placed the potion on the floor, focused my Spirit into my hands, and moved them through the series of gestures Jabir had taught me. My hands glowed, I lost 50 Spirit, and the potion turned a dull brown. I pulled Threadcutter from my back sheath and carefully cut away the Circle’s seal, stowing it in my inventory for later, then I popped the cork and poured the brown potion down the unconscious guard’s throat.

He choked a little bit, but then his breathing evened out and he fell into a light sleep.

I stoppered the empty flask and put it in my inventory. A silver’s a silver.

“What was that?” Florian asked.

“The Circle of Brewers uses yarrow to make their Health Regen potions because it’s mostly safe. I used Alchemy to concentrate its effects, shifting it from a moderate Health Regen potion to a light Sleep potion.”

I didn’t know how long the guard would be out, but at least I knew he would wake up.

“Good job,” Florian said, patting my shoulder. “That’s another two gold out of your pay.”

I groaned.

Florian grinned. “Come on! This job’s almost done.”

We hurried up the steps.

The upper landing was unguarded.

We moved quietly from room to room. A small private office, an L-shaped solar, and a chapel to some sort of Aspect of war. Opposite the rooms, slit windows looked down on the courtyard where the senator’s guards still stood their posts. No one had discovered the butler or the guard at the foot of the stairs.

“Marcialis is probably in the great hall. He’s an experienced fighter, so leave him to me. I’ll need two minutes, possibly up to three for a man of his Stamina. If I am interrupted, he will break free and kill us both.”

“Understood,” I said, drawing my new longsword.

It was time to finish the job.

Chapter Nine

Senator Lucius Marcialis stood stripped to the waist with a blunt-edged sword held firmly in his left hand. He was in his early thirties when the war with the peoples of Eldgard ended in a stalemate. Now, at forty-six, with the war and his service in the Legion ten years behind him, every day felt like the glow of those days would be lost forever unless he blew on the embers.

“Come on, you animals!” he said to the new batch of gladiators. “If one of you can kill me, if you can even knock me down, I’ll set you free!”

The Risi fighters circled him, their own training weapons in their hands. The largest one carried a greatsword, and the second largest twin mallets. The third, a relatively scrawny specimen with an axe, watched him warily.

The large Risi attacked him from behind.

Lucius leaned to the side, letting the blow pass close enough to hear it part the air. Risi were tribal and rigid in their approach. The biggest one was always given the “honor” of the first blow.

After that, the trio did a fair job of making him sweat. He slammed his dull longsword into the big Risi’s ribs then ducked under the greatsword’s backswing. Two quick backsteps took him out of range of a flurry of mallet swings, while the Risi with the axe stayed just out of sword-reach.

“Raaaagh!” the big Risi said, activating some sort of blade-sweep skill.

Lucius stepped inside again, punching the Risi in the face with hilt of his sword, kneed him in the groin, then stepped back and cracked the beast on the temple with the flat of his blade.

The Risi dropped like a sack.

Lucius turned, one arm behind his back and his sword tip lowered. “Come,” he told the two remaining fighters.

The Risi with the mallets made a good effort of pressing him. He was some sort of combo-using class, his attacks becoming more frequent and faster as he chained them together. Lucius enjoyed it. He blocked or parried the absolute minimum number of attacks, trusting in his footwork. As part of his class specialization he could see his opponent’s Stamina bar, and it was emptying fast. It wouldn’t be much longer.

There.

The mallet wielder swung both mallets at him overhand. Lucius stepped to the left, avoiding the strike and taking only a small amount of splash damage from the impact. The Risi wavered, Stamina dipping below zero, and Lucius grinned as he smashed the pommel of his sword into the side of the Risi’s head.

The fighter collapsed, unconscious, and the last attacker—the Risi who’d been too timid to strike him up to that point—took the chance to swing a killing blow. Lucius snarled as he had to twist and parry out of the way. The strike grazed his shoulder and shaved off ten percent of his Health.

“Clever,” Lucius said. “That was your one chance, though. Shame you missed.”

The Risi grinned at him and hefted his axe.

Just then, an Imperial in black and mottled gray armor stepped into the room, longsword in hand.

* * *

My heart was pounding as I stepped into the great hall. Chairs and long tables had been pushed aside to make room for the improvised arena, and I’d watched the fight with my mouth open until Florian nudged me forward.

The sword in my hand felt flimsy indeed.

“What is this?” the slaver asked, looking at me.

“Lucius Marcialis,” I said, projecting my voice so it would carry, “your days of sending the sons and daughters of the Empire to serve under foreign masters are over!”

The slaver laughed. “Sent you after me, did they? You hear that, Risi? My soft countrymen don’t mind if you die in the pits, but if I do the same to them, they send an assassin!”

“Stand ready for judgement!” I said dramatically. “I’ve come to end your life!”

Florian was the faintest blur in my peripheral vision. I needed to keep them focused on me.

The slaver looked me over, then sighed. “Your employers wronged you, assassin. You’re too weak. You’re not worth my time.” He sat in a high-backed chair that had been pushed to the side and spoke to the Risi with the axe. “You’re too clever for the pits. Kill him, and I’ll find you a position in the Auxilia.”

The Risi looked at me and chuckled. “This won’t take long.”

“Don’t kill me too quickly,” I said. “You want to make sure you give your boss a good show.”

The fighter looked back at Marcialis, who nodded, or rather, Florian nodded the man’s head for him from Stealth, hands wrapped tightly over his mouth and nose.

My two minutes of pain had begun.

I knew very little about swordplay and even less about swordwork. I knew a bit about daggers and cutting edges, and I’d once gotten through a swarm of dreamer zombies with a machete and a lot of enthusiasm. I gripped the sword with both hands and held it before me, tip pointed at the Risi’s head, like I’d seen in the movies.

It didn’t work. The Risi batted my sword aside and lunged forward, thrusting the flat head of the axe into my abdomen. My light armor did nothing to diminish the blow, and I lost a third of my Stamina. “Put your weapon down. I’ll make this quick,” the Risi said.

“I only have to cut you once. My weapon is poisoned,” I countered, lacing the words with a Suggestion.

The Risi’s eyes widened, and I got him to back off with two wild swings of my sword.

Fifty seconds had passed. Almost halfway.

He set his jaw, switched his grip to the end of the haft, and came at me with big circular swings that would break bones if they landed. I backpedaled, trying to keep track of both his weapon and my surroundings. For every time I could have attacked but didn’t, I got a 3.25% chance of triggering Critical-Sight. I just needed to stay alive until then.

And then it happened. I’d gotten lulled into a rhythm by the Risi’s slow, predictable attacks. My bootheel caught on a flagstone, and the Risi reacted immediately by shifting his grip and pushing off his back foot, catching me in the ribs with a reverse swing.

Crunch!

I got hit with an explosion of pain and about four notifications. The blade was blunted, so I was still in one piece, but I didn’t have to open the Current Effects screen to know it was bad. My Health was down by two-thirds and dropping. My Stamina was almost empty. The Risi followed the blow with a powerful kick to my left shoulder, knocking me back on my tail end. I tried to put the sword between us, but he knocked it out of my hands with a swipe of his axe, then raised his weapon to finish me off.

I grabbed the machete from my right leg and swung it hard into the Risi’s inner thigh. It lodged in the bone, and the Risi howled, dropping his axe, but I was already scrambling back and getting to my feet.

He bull-rushed me, wrapping his arms around me and slamming me to the ground, taking off another ten percent of my Health and dropping my Stamina to zero, which meant any action I took from now on would cause me increasing amounts of pain.

He punched me, bouncing my head off the floor.

I rolled onto my left hip, pulling Threadcutter from its sheath and driving it up toward his side.

He caught my wrist. “What’s this?” he said, squeezing until the bones of my forearm felt like they would break.

My Health bar was flashing red, all but empty.

He plucked Threadcutter from my hand.

There are small mistakes that come back to haunt you. When I first received Threadcutter, Titus advised me to have it soulbound so no one could steal it from me.

I never did.

“Your master is dead,” Florian told the Risi.

Both my assailant and I looked over. Marcialis was slumped in his chair, mouth hanging open, skin purple and blue.

The Risi snarled.

Florian plucked a sheet of vellum from a nearby table. “This is your writ of emancipation, is it not? He said if you could kill him, you would go free.”

“And you’re just going to let me go?” the Risi asked.

Florian shrugged. “As long as nothing happens to my associate.”

The other two Risi were starting to come around. The one on top of me frowned. The three of them might be able to take Florian and me on together, and that would leave them with more loot to face their newfound freedom with.

“He just killed the man who beat you,” I said, using a Suggestion even though it hurt my head. “Beyond any questions of blood debt or gratitude, what are the odds he can kill you, too?”

The Risi ran his tongue over his upper teeth and grunted. He got up without giving me a second glance and waved to his countrymen. “Come on. Let’s grab the writs and go.”

The biggest of the Risi retrieved the three writs from Florian.

I stayed locked onto the Risi with the axe. “I’ll have that dagger back before you go.”

The Risi looked at me and sneered. “Be grateful I didn’t kill you. If you can’t hold onto a weapon like this, you don’t deserve it.” He turned and walked toward the exit.

My Critical-Sight skill finally triggered, highlighting the Risi’s weak points and slowing everyone down by 90%. In the ten seconds of slow-time, I dropped into Stealth, pulled the crossbow from my inventory, carefully sighted on the back of the Risi’s head, and fired.

The bolt slowed as soon as it left the rails, moving like a Nerf dart instead of being too fast to see.

It hit for 44 base damage with a 1.5x critical multiplier, an extra 3x for the Critical-Sight trigger, and an additional 4x for the sneak attack, or about 850 damage including my Dexterity bonus.

Time resumed its normal flow.

The Risi’s head exploded, and he dropped dead to the floor.

“Does anybody else think they’re walking out of here with that dagger?” I asked, setting my foot in the stirrup and pulling the crossbow string back with both hands.

The two remaining Risi looked at me and Florian. I was bluffing, of course. If they decided to attack, they would win and I would go to respawn. Hopefully Florian would get away.

“Those writs will work on the militia, but there’s still a chance the house guards and senator’s wife will refuse to honor them,” Florian said. “Come with us. We’ll get you outside, won’t we, Sharper?”

“That’s right,” I said, standing up and placing another crossbow bolt on the track.

“We don’t want any trouble,” the biggest Risi said. “We just want to go home.”

I didn’t answer. I retrieved my machete, my sword, and my dagger, wiping them off before putting them in their scabbards.

“We still need to take care of the senator’s wife,” Florian said.

“I know,” I answered. I targeted Lucianus Marcialis’s body and cast Mirror on it.

* * *

I drained a third of my pint of beer before setting it down.

Florian leaned back into the shadows of the booth. “You did a good job today, Sharper.”

“Thanks,” I said, my tone and expression both flat. I’d felt detached since I killed the Risi, and the senator’s wife after that. My brain was still catching up to what my trigger finger had done.

“Well, I’m going to head back to Harrowick,” Florian said. He tossed me a leather purse that clinked when I caught it. “Ten gold for the job after expenses, two for transport back to Harrowick, and three silvers for drinks and a meal. Take your time. You earned it.”

“When’s the next job?” I asked.

“Come talk to me when you get back,” he said, sliding out. “And Alan?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t be able to talk your way out of everything. Clients will feed you bad intel. Things won’t go as planned. You need to work on your weapon skills.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, fidgeting with my beer.

He left me to my thoughts. That was good, because they were crowding me.

Lucianus Marcialis had trained the pit fighters and soldiers. His wife trained the other kind of slave, most but not all of them women, some of them quite young. She’d been surprised when her “husband” grabbed her by the hair and cut her throat while the two Risi he’d brought with him watched.

We’d set as many people free as we could on our way out. I should have felt good about that, but shooting the Risi in the back gnawed at me.

I’d said I didn’t want to kill people who hadn’t committed a capital crime, but I shot him for stealing a dagger. A priceless, unique dagger given to me by the Griffin of New Viridia, but a piece of metal and bone all the same.

Maybe this whole assassin thing isn’t going to work out, I thought, looking at my hands. Telling Wendy I’d screwed up had to be better than becoming someone I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t message her right away, though. I took Florian’s advice and got myself a good meal and another pint with his money. I caught up on my notifications. My Light Armor, Dodge, Stealth, and Stealth Attacks were all up a level—two in the case of Stealth. With the experience from the quest and the kills, I was less than 1,000 XP from level 10. Using Threadcutter had doubled my Renown for the job, bringing me up to 380. Was it a good thing to be a renowned assassin? It would get me more jobs and higher pay, but it might also spawn or inspire an obsessive FBI agent—or Inquisitor, in this case—to track me all over Eldgard and try to foil my plans. Or maybe, if I killed more people like Marcialis and his hateful bride, the Inquisitor would side with me—a Jim Gordon to my Batman. That thought, at least, brought a small smile to my face.

I sighed. It didn’t matter. Renowned or not, I was quitting, so there would be no dogged Inquisitor or narrow escapes. That didn’t feel good, either. Am I disappointed?

I thought back to the rush I’d felt getting the butler to open the door, and slipping past the guards. I’d enjoyed that. I’d built my misgivings around the idea that I wouldn’t kill people for money, but what if I did it because I was good at it? Because I enjoyed it? What if Nil had been right?

If I had been good enough to hold my own against the Risi, and I’d had Threadcutter soulbound like I should have in the first place, would I even be having second thoughts?

It doesn’t matter! my conscience yelled at me. What if I got caught? What if the fact that I was still alive was public knowledge, and my mother was watching while I slit that woman’s throat? Talk about a Truman Show from hell.

I couldn’t stomach it.

I was going to quit.

I’d pay off what I could, and ask Wendy for the rest. It might cost me my relationship, but it wouldn’t cost me my reputation or my soul.

Once I’d finished my meal and my debuffs had cleared—all except the Heartbreak curse—I spent two hours going to each of the alchemy and pharmacology shops in the Heights, selling off the powdered ripper stone capsules one or two dozen at a time. I offloaded 275 of them for eight gold, two silver, and five copper. I sold off some generic knickknacks I’d pocketed in the Marcialis castle. I also picked some very wealthy pockets, being more selective but stealing two or more silvers at a time. At some point in all that, I found an enchanter to soul-bind Threadcutter to me. It cost me two gold—two hundred dollars in the real world, the value of a Risi’s life.

I tried not to let myself dwell on it.

By late afternoon, I was carrying over thirty-five gold in my inventory. I made my way back to the portal pad with a light heart and a heavy purse.

* * *

McKenna set a dozen donuts and a six-pack of ready-to-drink coffee on the table. “What happened?”

“Game engine took them for a ride,” Jeff said, waving at the four Marines’ video feeds. “They’re fine. I think they’re enjoying themselves.”

“That’s not what we brought them here to do.”

Jeff shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt, though.”

The Alphabets—what the Marines had jokingly decided to call their “guild”—had already gained their first levels and were making progress toward getting a class. Alpha, the female Marine and first to finish her character, had landed in the middle of an ambush. She’d stripped the heavy armor and weapons off a dead Triarius and rallied the legionaries around her, shielding them even though she could barely move with all that weight. Beta, the larger of the male marines, had wound up with the camp followers of an auxilia unit and was grinding out armor and weapon repair tasks. As a mechanical engineer, Jeff actually enjoyed watching him the most, although it didn’t seem like a good choice when it came to hunting Alan down. Charlie, the guy who couldn’t shut up about how he should have been a sniper instead of a programmer, was well on his way to becoming a Rune Archer, while Omega, the skinniest Marine, was doing chores for a Stonewall but sneaking time in the sorcerer’s library whenever the older woman wasn’t looking.

Jeff grabbed a donut and cracked a can of coffee open. “We really not going to tell them Alan’s a human being?”

McKenna covered the microphone with his hand. “Are we on mute?”

“Oh, gosh, whoops, I’m an idiot,” Jeff said flatly. “It’s a wonder I managed to get through two PhDs.”

The agent made a face. “The mission is sanctioned. They don’t need to know the messy details, it will just distract them from what they need to do. Let them think this is a game—some kind of experimental combat evaluation—because once we’ve disposed of Alan Campbell, that’s exactly what we’ll configure it to be.”

“And a black site no one can escape from.”

“That, too,” McKenna said. “This will save lives, Professor. Besides, Alan Campbell is already dead.”

Jeff bit into his donut and pretended to give a crap, but the truth was he just wanted it to be clear it was McKenna’s decision to lie to the Marines. Jeff was here to advise them and keep them alive, but he’d also signed on to design a pod capable of keeping the player monitored and safe without him, and it was high time he got started on the second and more important part of his job.

Chapter Ten

I received a message from Wendy as I was queuing for the portal.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Hey, Alan,

Won’t be able to meet up tonight, I have urgent business in New Viridia. I should have it wrapped up in a day or two. Dinner when I get back?

—Wendy

<<<>>>

I smiled and almost fired back that I was already in New Viridia, and did she want me to meet her somewhere, and then I thought about it.

Me, in New Viridia on the same day a senator and his wife were murdered in their home.

It might not register with her now, because she was the monster-hunting type of Inquisitor not the hammers-and-pliers type. But she was still an Inquisitor. I was about to tell her that I’d lied, and that might just put her in the mood to question other things I’d told her.

It would be better if the subject never came up.

Sure, dinner would be great, I said, and I took the portal to Harrowick’s southeastern pad, the farthest from the Inquisition chapter hall and Wendy’s apartment. True to Jabir’s prediction, it was raining, low gray skies and fat freezing drops that distracted the mages and the militia and gave me an excuse to wear my cloak with the hood up. It was still a little nerve-wracking. I kept Hide active and turned on Mirror as soon as I was out of the Portal Mages’ sight, until I’d made it a couple blocks away.

No Wendy. No militia or Inquisition Jailers coming to haul me away.

I relaxed. Even if she caught me now, this was my neighborhood. I belonged here.

What now? I’d had a challenging day, and had intended to top it off by telling my girlfriend I needed money, but now I was off the hook for twenty-four hours, at least. I had over thirty-five gold in my inventory, and I knew firsthand how tempting a target I was for thieves. I needed to stop by the First Imperial Bank and make a deposit, and Martha’s was on the way, which meant I could stop by, say hi, and drink another toast to Lucianus Marcialis’s health, except that meant passing through my least favorite alleyway in all of Harrowick.

I looked down the garbage-strewn lane between two buildings. There was nothing unusual about it, except it felt wrong, like it was the last place in all of Eldgard I wanted to be. I leaned back, checking the roofs for assassins, the gutters for spiders, the passage for trip wires, the storm drains for clowns with balloons.

Nothing.

Come on, Alan, I told myself. It’s going to be months before… that happens. Just focus on the present.

I took a step forward, and it was like the world turned inside out. Clouds blow by like smoke, and the black sun arcs through the white sky at an hour a minute. There was a woman lying facedown in the alley. She’d been stripped of her weapons and armor. A drum thumped in my ears twice a second as I fell to my knees beside her. Heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak…

There was so much pain in this place, it caused bleedthrough no matter which part of the timeline I was in. It was like a nexus where everywhere converged on now.

I could only cross it on the day I found Wendy’s body.

I stumbled out of the alley and threw up.

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” a judgmental Dwarf said, walking by, but I was too sick to care.

The alley was empty behind me, strewn with trash but devoid of bodies.

I never wanted to walk down it again, not now, not ever.

* * *

Once I’d gathered my wits and made a deposit at the bank, I made my way to the second level of the Thieves’ Union. Torm and Edgar were near the sparring pit, and I made them a proposal.

“You want us to what?”

“I want you to beat me up,” I said cheerfully. “Stand-up fighting, anything goes, just not the face. There’s a copper in it for each of you.”

“We’d have done it for free,” Torm said with laughter in his eyes.

The two of them took turns, working me over and tagging out when they ran low on Stamina. I focused on dodging, blocking, and taking the blows on the armor when I had to. That brought me up to Unarmed Level 10, Dodge Level 7, and Ferrous Calcification Level 3. I didn’t get any experience out of it, but I noticed that even after just an hour and a half of work, the blows stung a little less and landed less often. Progress, I thought. I paid Torm and Edgar their coppers and headed downstairs.

It was early evening, and the tavern at the heart of the Thieves’ Union was just getting started. I turned on Charm, found a game of Gentleman’s War, and played for copper stakes, trying to lose as much as I won. That earned me another level in Sleight of Hand and, surprisingly, one in Critical-Sight. By that point, I’d worked up an appetite. I spotted Torm and Edgar nursing beers and bought them dinner and another round.

“You celebrating something, Sharper?” Edgar asked.

“A successful job,” I said, wondering if Edgar looked like the Risi I’d killed or if it was just the tusks. “You two want another beer?”

“I won’t turn you down,” Torm said, looking at me warily.

Edgar nudged him, and something passed between them I couldn’t read, but I was busy flagging down the server.

“Heard you left with Master Florian this morning,” Torm said.

I ordered the drinks.

“You know Edgar and I served in the Auxilia, and we saw things.”

“We all see things,” I said, annoyed.

“He doesn’t want to hear it,” Torm told his friend.

I really didn’t. I was buzzed. I was flying. I was running on water, and the only way to keep from sinking was to keep my legs in motion.

I went to the bar and got myself a shot of the Good Stuff, and while I was up I got a round for the room. People raised their mugs in my direction, including a cat burglar with a snaggle-toothed smile a couple stools down. It was good to be liked.

I wished Wendy was there.

I had another shot that I barely noticed. I had to. The sadness was only a step behind.

I could feel its breath on my neck.

Torm put his hand on my shoulder. “Alan? I think you’ve had enough.”

I turned to look at him, and I think I actually bared my teeth at him like some kind of animal before I realized what I was doing. I saw the sadness in the big man’s eyes, like an echo or a prophecy, and that really scared me. “I think you might be right.”

I settled my tab, two gold poorer, and I left.

It was still raining. Water sheeted off the slate roofs and poured down the channel in the middle of the street. The alcohol continued to work its way into my system as I walked. Too much, too fast. There was a history in my family. I should have taken Torm’s offer to talk.

My reaction time went first. I started to notice the slight delay between when I told my limbs to do something and when they did. I imagined my body was still moving normally, even if I was trailing behind it by a second or two. I was on cruise control, one hand on the wheel.

Then my balance started to go, which was never good on rain-slick cobbles.

I stopped, leaning against a wall.

I didn’t want this. It wasn’t fun anymore. My mind felt painfully clear even as the poison in my gut stole my body from me.

It’s still in my stomach! I realized. I know this may not be a revelation to anyone who’s imbibed a liquid before, but it felt pretty important right then. I grabbed one of the ripper stone capsules from my inventory, popped it into my mouth, and swallowed it.

Less than a second later, my stomach quieted down. It didn’t do anything for the stuff that was already riding my bloodstream to central station, but whatever damage it was going to do was done.

I made a few hilarious discoveries on my way home. For example, it’s very difficult to cast gesture- or vocal-based magic while under the effects. Charm and Mirror just require a little willpower to activate, but Hide requires specific finger interlocks, and Refract needs precise diction. I tried to make myself a light so I didn’t trip on the cobbles between house lanterns—a recurrent problem, lately—but the result was a fluid, melty thing not unlike a pink lava lamp floating over my right shoulder. That drew attention, which made me instinctively try to cast Hide, which didn’t do much but tie my digits in knots and make me look like I was playing patty-cake with myself.

If you ever need to kill a mage or an enchanter, get them drunk first.

Fortunately, I was walking from the upper circles of town to the Double Jester, which was right off the road to the eastern gate. It was early enough Remy hadn’t barred the door and people were still sitting at the tables instead of sleeping on bedrolls on the floor.

“Hey, Alan?”

“Yeah, Remy?” I said, my hand on the banister.

“You have a guest upstairs. A lady from the Inquisition.”

“Well… crap,” I said out loud.

“She’s pretty,” Remy offered.

“Yeah. I don’t think that’s going to do me any good tonight,” I said. Wendy and I had fought over me keeping secrets before, and she’d only started dating me when I’d confessed to being a thief. I guessed that whole thing about having business in New Viridia was a test after she found out about Marcialis and his wife, and I’d failed it. I checked my current effects, and on top of the Drunk (Level 2) debuff, the Heartbreak curse was still there.

“You can still walk out the front door, Alan,” Remy said. “I’ll tell her I didn’t see you, and you can come back after she leaves.”

“I’ll face the music, my friend,” I said, starting up the stairs. “There’s only so much running a person can do, and I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight, either way.”

I reached the first floor, took a right, and opened the door at the end of the hallway.

“Hi, Alan,” an Inquisitor who was not Wendy said, looking up from my desk chair.

I closed the door. “Liv. You could have messaged. I would have invited you to have a drink with me.”

“An Inquisitor drinking with a thief? What would people say?”

“What do they usually say when you go drinking with thieves?”

“I don’t, actually,” she answered, and I took her at her word.

Envoy Liviana Murena had raven glossy hair, full lips, and emerald eyes that could shatter most men’s and some women’s hearts. For some reason, it didn’t work on me, even drunk, but we got along from the start. She was the kid sister I’d never had.

I hung my armor on the magical cleaning rack by the bed and sat down. “How can I help you, Liv?”

“Join the war effort?” she said with a smirk. “Every citizen of the Empire needs to do their part.”

“I did my part,” I said, and meant it. “I’m working on self-improvement for a bit.”

“Building up your tolerance?” she asked.

“Alcohol and I already get along too well,” I answered, pulling my boots off.

“Help me with something else, then,” she said. “Tell me about Assassins and the Circle of Brewers and where you were all day. I tried to message you, but your name was grayed out, which means you were either hiding or in a completely different part of Eldgard.”

Did I mention she was that kind of Inquisitor?

“What makes you ask?” I said very carefully.

Chapter Eleven

“Alan?”

“Yes, Liv?”

“I know everything, so you may as well tell me.”

“If you know everything, then I don’t need to tell you,” I said, wishing I was sober.

“You’re a member of the Thieves’ Union,” she said. “You traveled somewhere for reasons you don’t want to talk about. You either stole something, smuggled something, or killed someone, or you’re cheating on Lady Favonius.”

“I’m not cheating on Wendy,” I said.

She pouted, then she laughed. “So, are you an assassin, a smuggler, or a thief?”

“I’m a Hero of the Empire,” I answered, puffing my chest out.

“You’re heroically thiefly, judging by how shiny your eyes are.”

“I’m also Titus Emory’s apprentice,” I said more seriously. “Let’s steer the conversation away from me.”

She stuck her lower lip out. Suggestions almost never worked on her, which meant she was either resistant to them because of her class, or she was very, very smart.

“I almost want to throw that back in your face, Alan Campbell,” Liv said quietly. “I won’t. Do you know why?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me,” I said, grabbing the water pitcher from my dresser and taking a drink.

“Because I don’t believe you’re a fundamentally bad guy, and one day I’m going to need a favor.”

“Fine,” I said, lying down and staring at my sloped ceiling. “Anything else? Want me to put a good word in with General Considia for you?”

“Don’t be an ass, Alan,” Liv said. “I heard Dhukak was hiring assassins to attack the Circle of Brewers. Cold Skulls. Lots of them. Last time that many assassins came to Harrowick, they set a whole neighborhood on fire.”

I looked over. Her face was serious. “I know he’s planning on going after the Circle. He didn’t tell me anything about assassins.”

“You’ll find out?” she asked, standing up and arranging her quilted skirt.

“I’ll look into it,” I said.

Robbing the Circle and causing its economic collapse was one thing. Murdering a bunch of people because they were forced into a guild?

That was another entirely.

* * *

The hangover wasn’t bad. It was like my head was stuffed with thumbtacks. Would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t taken that ripper pill. If people who drank as much as I had didn’t often have liquidity problems—pun intended—there might have been a good business case, there. I lay there for a moment, annoyed I hadn’t pulled the curtains closed last night, but grateful my window was west-facing, away from the sunrise.

Gotta keep moving, I told myself, but I couldn’t do it. My eyes felt dry, and the back of my head ached. I’d had some kind of breakdown last night, hadn’t I?

The question was why. I mean, yes, I’d gotten killed by a video game, cut off from friends and family in the real world, and almost died. I was hoping for a “but” to materialize at the end of that thought, but I seemed to have left it in my other pair of pants.

Since I couldn’t seem to move my body and keep my eyes open at the same time, I closed my eyes and swung my legs out of bed. It was an awkward motion, with much kicking of the sheets and flopping of the hips. I sat up slowly, catching onto the dresser, and grabbed the pitcher of well water the barmaid kept filled so I could wash. I drank from it, draining it half empty. I knew it was possible to get sick in the game, and that the water wasn’t strictly potable, but I also knew I was dehydrated. I sat there—ten minutes must have passed—until at some point I could think clearly enough to be a human being again.

I got dressed, pulled on my boots, and grabbed my armor from the stand. Everything was clean and fresh again, and thank God for that because I was all for immersion but having to do laundry would have broken me right then and there. My chestpiece, vambraces, and boots all felt a little stiffer and showed more signs of the iron deposits, but when I put them on, they felt as light and comfortable as always. Huh.

“Morning, Alan!” Remy said as I came down the stairs.

I winced and looked at the skinny, ever-hopeful Wode. “Good morning, Remy. Got anything for a hangover?”

“I’ve got bread. It’s a day old, but it should still be good.”

“I could make you toast!” Jabir yelled from the kitchen.

As much as I’d found Jabir’s last attempt at toast memorable, I didn’t think I could stomach it right now. “I’m good. Thanks, fellas. I’m going to get something on the way to work.”

Both Remy and Jabir looked disappointed, probably for different reasons. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.

I stepped out into the early morning drizzle.

The day went by quickly. I grabbed a fresh piece of flatbread and goat cheese from a corner store, stopped by the bank to make sure I had cash for the interest payment, then headed over to Tassos’s place. I helped him stock the shelves, and then I went downstairs and cleaned the glassware because his usual guy called in sick. It was quiet for a while. I checked my messages—nothing from Wendy, from Florian, or from the Four Humours. At some point, Tassos came down and we chatted while I prepped a batch of Health Regen potions and he compounded dried ginger and lavender into capsules he called “a cure for old age.” The lab work brought me up to Alchemy Level 6.

I stole enough coppers for my lunch, then went over to the Thieves’ Union. I tried to stop by and tell Florian I was quitting the assassin business, but he wasn’t around, so I went up two floors to the sparring pit, ran the obstacle course, and spent an hour struggling with the beginner training locks until one of the burglars took pity on me and showed me how to use the lockpicks. I gained levels in Acrobatics, Dodge, Lockpicking, and another level of Ferrous Calcification. Nothing in Unarmed, though. I’d noticed that there seemed to be a kind of soft cap at level 10 on the General Skills. I wasn’t sure if that was because I needed training, a quest, or if it was just that much harder to get past the basics into intermediate knowledge.

Master Florian was still out, and Dhukak was nowhere to be found. I almost missed games where the quest giver or information source would just stand there all day with an exclamation mark over their heads. I did find Torm and Edgar, and I thanked them for looking out for me.

“You’re all right, Sharper,” Torm said. “Everyone needs someone to pick ’em up out of the gutter.”

“Thieves have to look after each other ’cause no one else will. That’s what Leif says,” Edgar added.

I had never met the Gentleman of Harrowick, but going by the culture he’d built and the way people took care of each other, he had to be a pretty great guy.

The Wode and Risi were flush with copper from working that day and offered to buy me a beer, but I declined.

“You sure? Better to find a rhythm,” Torm said.

“I need a night off,” I told him with a smile. “Rain check?”

“What’s that?” Torm asked.

“It means, let’s do that next time, when it’s not raining.”

“Must be from someplace sunnier,” Torm said with a grin.

Funnily enough, it was raining when I left Leather and Lace.

There are sounds to every city. I lived in New York for a while, and the thing I remember the most about it was how the skyscrapers channeled sound, whether it was cars honking, an ambulance siren, or the roll of thunder. My memories of Florida and the Carolinas are full of frogs and the bellows of alligators. California is the crash of waves and car wheels on freeways, but it was also mostly quiet when I was away from people.

As for Harrowick, it’s the sound of drops hitting slate and, sometimes, the hiss of an open flame turning rain to steam.

I was halfway to my neighborhood when I finally got a message.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

I’m back. Short time, long trip. I can’t do dinner tonight.

—Wendy

<<<>>>

I’ll be honest, I was disappointed. And a bit anxious, because I’d geared myself up to tell her the truth, and I’d expected to do it as soon as she got back, but now she was back and I couldn’t just send it in a message, could I? I mean, I liked Wendy, and we were exploring a relationship, but I’d be taking a serous leap of faith to put my recent work activity in written form.

“Alan Campbell?” a voice gurgled from the shadows between lanterns.

I turned to look. From the white mask with the long, curved beak, it was a good guess to say the Four Humours had come to collect. “Can I help you?”

“Nine gold, three silvers, five coppers.” The Plague Doctor’s voice gave me the heebie-jeebies. His body shape was hard to make out, and he sounded like his lungs were full of water.

I pulled the amount out of my inventory and tossed him the purse.

“Do you wish to pay down your principal?”

“No.”

“There is also the matter of the complaint by our esteemed colleague about the quality of your goods. You owe her thirteen gold for the inconvenience.”

“Do I, though?” I asked. The whole blaming me for shoving rotten ripper eyes into her skull felt like a bit much. “I offered the ripper eyes ‘as is.’ At the very least, give me an extension while I pay back the money I owe you.”

“There will be no extension,” the Plague Doctor said, sliding back along the wall into the shadows, so I could only make out the mask. “If you don’t repay the full amount, we will take it in kind.”

“People have tried that,” I said, standing my ground. “They’re all dead.”

“We won’t take it from you, Alan Campbell. In fact, I’ll go check on our patient, now.”

There were no further words, no negotiations or terms. The Plague Doctor just melted into the shadows.

The patient? And then I realized what he meant.

He was going after Wendy.

Chapter Twelve

A couple things ran through my head as I ran uphill toward Wendy’s apartment. The first was the obvious one, that I needed to get to Wendy before she got hurt. I had no doubt the Templar could hold her own in a straight fight, but I’d already seen her injured when she didn’t see the attacker coming, and the Plague Doctor had used some kind of shadow-melding teleport skill.

The second thought was that the Plague Doctor wouldn’t attack Wendy, or that she would fight it to a standstill, and they’d talk, and I wouldn’t get to tell her that I’d lied first. That had all kinds of negative outcomes hanging from it, like the world’s most disappointing Christmas tree.

The third was that my boots, the ripper-skin Boots of Hate, had really good traction. I mean it. The ladies of Leather and Lace outdid themselves. My Stamina redlined, and I started to feel increasing amounts of pain for every second it spent below zero, but I just kept the Illusionist’s mantra running through my head at the same rhythm as my footsteps. Nothing is real, nothing is real, nothing is real…

It felt like I’d shattered my feet and run across coals on the jagged ends of my shin bones by the time I stopped, gasping, at Wendy’s door. There was a black handprint on the wood, dead center below the knocker. It looked like it was made of tar.

I hammered on the door. “Wendy?”

There was no answer. I hadn’t thought this part through. We weren’t at the point in the relationship where Wendy might have offered to tune the magical lock to me, or where I might have had the nerve to ask.

“Wendy, are you there?” I pulled out the beginner’s set of lockpicks I’d learned to use just that afternoon. It was a long shot, but maybe I could figure it out. Maybe the militia would see me trying and I could convince them to check on Wendy before they hauled me away.

The door opened. There I was, crouched in Stealth with my crummy lockpicks and my hood up, with Wendy looking right at me while I tried to break in.

“Alan.”

“Wendy.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was about to pick the lock on your door.”

“You weren’t.”

“I assure you I was. I have the lockpicks out and everything.”

“Oh, I can see that,” she said, the beginning of a smirk pulling her mouth to the side. “Nice beginner’s set. Just one thing missing.”

“What’s that?”

“A keyhole.”

I looked at Wendy’s door. It was a massive thing, chevroned oak with black iron studs and an iron knocker shaped like a gauntleted fist. No keyhole to pick, though, because the lock was entirely magical. “Maybe my lockpicks are magical.”

“I just mentioned it’s a beginner’s set.”

“That’s clever, isn’t it?” I asked. “Anyone who catches me will think ‘What an idiot!’ instead of ‘Quick! Let’s arrest this amazing thief!’”

“You make it difficult to take you seriously, sometimes,” she said, although she seemed glad to see me. “Why are you really here? I said I wasn’t up to dinner.”

“You remember the Plague Doctor who came to put you back together after you were hurt?”

“I don’t remember much of anything about that day.”

I pointed at the handprint.

“Oh,” she said, looking at it. “Lurker.”

“Beg your pardon?” I said, straightening up.

“Not you, that,” she said, nodding to the handprint. “It’s a class specialization. They can move from shadow to shadow like a sea lion under the ice; you don’t usually see them outside of Wyrdtide. Why was he, she, or it at my door?”

“Patient checkup?” I said. “We need to talk.”

She raised an eyebrow at me, then shrugged. “Come in.”

I followed her inside and shut the door.

Wendy had a three-bedroom, three-story apartment in the second-highest tier of the city, and it was gorgeous—intricate parquet flooring, brick walls, big wooden beams across the ceiling…

Wendy watched me patiently from the couch. I’d shown up at her house uninvited. She should have been raking me over the coals.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, sitting next to her, close enough to touch but not enough to crowd her.

She leaned into me, and I put my arm around her shoulders. “You remember what I told you about my father?”

“Senator Favonius? I hear you beat him in a duel, once.”

“Mmm. Well, he won this time. You know I’ve been saving up to be a senator in my own right. I had most of my money tied up in what I thought was a diversified portfolio of Imperial businesses. It turns out they all had one thing in common: they were all better suited to peace than war.”

“Are we at war?” I asked, knowing full well we were heading that way.

“People think so. The Legion’s been activating the levees, and the flow of goods from Eldgard to New Viridia has slowed down. I had to go to the capital because of a margin call.”

I’d learned enough about investing from my time with Robert, I knew that meant she’d been buying stock on credit and her credit dried up when the market moved against her.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“I’m broke,” she said, and looked up at me. “My father covered the debt, but my assets are frozen until I can pay him back.”

There went my plan to have her help me pay off the Four Humours. “How can I help?” I asked.

“Just like that?”

“I didn’t date you for your money, Wendy. As I remember it, you stole my beer.”

“I’m a better thief than you,” she said.

“You are,” I said, and I leaned over and kissed her.

She kissed me back gently, briefly, then put her head on my shoulder. “I’ll be all right in a few days, once I’ve sold some things off. The fundamentals haven’t changed. Those businesses will recover. I’m just going to have to cut back for a while.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to have dinner?”

She snuggled into me. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to, I said I wasn’t up to it. I’m starving, but I’m so upset nothing sounds good.”

I’m not for traditional gender roles; I was raised by a gay single mother in the worst part of Philadelphia. But I’m also a romantic, and regardless of gender and orientation, sometimes it feels good to be a hero to the people you love.

I kissed the top of her head. “I have exactly what you need.”

* * *

I led Wendy by the hand up the stairs of the Double Jester. She’d taken off her cloak, wearing the white tunic with the double red stripes her station entitled her to. It was a big step for both of us—me for showing her my tiny room over the bar, and her for letting anyone lead her anywhere. I took a right at the top of the stairs, led her down to my room, and opened the door.

There had been a few small changes. My dresser had been set to the side, against my writing desk, and Remy and Susan had brought up a small table, covered it with a white tablecloth, and placed it against the window.

“This is really where you live?” Wendy asked, looking at the small space and the sloped roof you could only really stand under in the middle of the room.

“This is me,” I said unapologetically. My room wasn’t anything like Wendy’s apartment, but it was mine. It made me feel safe. “Have a seat.”

She sat down at the table, still taking the room in.

There was an unlit candle on the table.

On a whim, I pulled a little leftover Balrigon Dust from my inventory, held it with the pinky and ring fingers of my right hand, and cast the Alchemy spell Jabir had taught me in a slightly modified way that focused inward. It felt natural. When the glow died down, I popped the Infused Balrigon Dust into my mouth.

“Is this going to be a magic trick?” Wendy asked, her eyes twinkling.

“I don’t know,” I said with a grin. “Making it up as I go.”

My body was getting hotter. I used my Spirit to focus that heat into the index finger and thumb of my right hand. My fingers started to hurt.

When I felt all the heat had made its way to my fingertips, I pinched the unlit wick and it flared into light.

I wiped my hands together and raised an eyebrow at my date like I’d done that before or expected it to work.

“I’m impressed. You’re ridiculous,” Wendy said.

I sat down across from her and grinned.

Like we’d scheduled it to the second, the door opened and Remy brought in the wine. “Citizen Campbell. Lady Favonius,” the scrawny innkeeper said. “Who will be tasting?”

I looked at Wendy.

“I’ll taste it,” she said.

Remy put glasses in front of us, then poured a small amount of ice-cold white wine in her glass. She swirled it, smelled it, tasted it. She nodded. Remy topped her off and poured me a full glass.

“How is it?” I asked.

“It’s a northern wine—that means north of New Viridia. They’re typically light-bodied and fruity, with notes of apples, ginger, and wood shavings. This one is good but unexpensive,” she said, looking at Remy.

“Right you are, ma’am. It’s a two-silver bottle but it punches above its weight.”

“It’s only two silvers if you buy it in bulk,” Wendy said.

Remy shrugged. “I know someone. Alan’s been a friend to me and this establishment, Lady Favonius.” He put the wine bottle on ice and left us.

“You approve, then?” I asked.

She raised her glass and looked at me through the golden liquid. “It does put you in a good light.”

We relaxed, in spite of the humble surroundings. We drank our first glass of wine.

“What did you want to talk to me about, earlier?” Wendy asked.

I smiled, although I was a little sad about it. “I was wondering if you could teach me how to fight with a sword.”

“Aren’t you a thief?”

“It would be useful to me if my thiefliness wasn’t so obvious.” I took a sip of the wine. My palate wasn’t as fine as Wendy’s, but I could appreciate that there was more to it than just fermented grapes.

“Okay,” she said. “We start early, though. If you’re not in the chapter hall’s courtyard at seven in the morning, I’m not training you that day.”

“All right,” I said, although Wendy’s obsession with early starts was probably the least attractive part of our relationship.

The door opened again, and this time Jabir came walking through with two silver-domed platters. “Dinner is served,” he said, lifting the plate covers, and the smell of lemon-buttered sole, greens, and roasted potatoes wafted up.

It was perfectly lovely, well plated, and not at all what I expected. “What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s fine, Alan,” Wendy said, picking up her fork.

“It’s fresh whitefish in a lemon butter sauce with parsley,” Jabir announced, although not with his usual flair.

“I know what it is, Jabir. But you didn’t cook this.”

“I did,” the Accipiter said nervously.

I put the plate covers back on the plates. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“Alan…” Wendy said.

“It will just take a moment,” I said, using the plates to shoo Jabir out into the hallway.

He pulled the door shut behind us.

“What happened?” I asked.

The Accipiter’s wings drooped. “Nothing happened, Alan. This is the first time you have brought a woman back to your quarters, aside from the one who keeps showing up. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“I brought her to taste your food, Jabir. Nothing else will do.”

It was the first time I saw true terror on the portly man’s face. “Alan, to be honest—”

“Yes?”

“The toast was the first time my theories on cooking worked. I have tried to make the toast again, but it has not had the same results.”

“Make the mac ’n’ cheese,” I said simply.

“Let’s be reasonable,” he said. “You want me to—”

I put the two plates in his hands and said, “Jabir al-Rasul, make me the most amazing mac ’n’ cheese I have ever had. I believe in you.” It was a compound Suggestion, one that drained over 250 points of my Spirit, and it made Jabir blink like I’d thrown sand in his eyes.

“I will do my best, Alan,” he said somberly.

“I know you will,” I said, and walked past him back into the room.

Wendy had cooled considerably while I was away. “I didn’t think you were the type to be rude to the waiting staff.”

I saw my mistake.

I sat down. “Do you trust me?”

A little of Lady Favonius’s hardness had crept into Wendy’s face. “I don’t know, Alan. I’ve found that not trusting you is a hazardous activity. It doesn’t make you endearing.”

I was kicking myself under the table. I knew what this was. I’d reminded her of her father. It was what killed our first date, and I’d done it again. “Can we just skip back to the part where I lit the candle?”

“It’s not your fault,” Wendy said. “It’s just not the right night for this.”

“Wendy?”

“What?”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” I said. “We fought the re-dead side by side. We killed and harvested a ripper together. I carried you home when you were hurt.”

Wendy’s mouth formed into a line. “You sure you want to cash all those chips in tonight? You’re crawling uphill.”

“Tonight,” I said, my heart hammering, completely uncertain this was the right thing to do, but I desperately wanted to be right about Jabir, about Wendy, and about us.

“All right,” she said, although she may as well have been made out of wood.

We made small talk.

It felt stilted.

She finished her wineglass, and when I offered to refill it, she declined.

“I’m going to go, Alan. It was a really nice idea.”

Jabir opened the door. He set an orange baking dish of mac ’n’ cheese on the table, flared his wings, and said, “Voilà!”

The mac ’n’ cheese looked horrible. The elbow pasta looked pale, the cheese watery, the bacon bits pink and barely cooked, and there were bits of green in there that might have been green peppers or jalapeños.

“I can’t eat that,” Wendy said.

I felt Jabir flinch. If he was glass, his skin would have spidered from the forehead outward.

I looked into her eyes. “Please, try it.”

“I’ve had a bad day, Alan…”

“You’re a monster hunter, Wendy. I’m sure you’ve eaten worse.”

I saw Jabir’s breath hitch, but I pretended it wasn’t happening.

Wendy took a fork, speared a couple flaccid noodles, some bacon, and green bits. She stared at it.

She took a bite.

The change happened immediately. Her eyes widened, got shiny, and brimmed with tears. A single drop ran down the left side of her face.

I took my own greasy bite, letting the Nostalgia buff hit me, and Wendy started to speak.

“When I was a little girl—only six or seven years old—my mother told me stories about the Valdriae. They were warrior women of the Old Empire and the handmaids of Enyo, and they led our people ashore when we landed on the Shining Plains. They counseled the old knights that Eldgard was dangerous, and when our people were surrounded and cut off from the Emperor, it was the Valdriae who laid down their lives so the rest of the citizens could make it to New Viridia. They died so all of us could live.”

I just listened. The memories hitting me from Jabir’s food were just as intense as last time, but I’d wanted this moment for Wendy, so I let her speak.

“It was around that time that my father started making it clear that he’d wanted a son and wouldn’t be satisfied by anything else. My mother almost died giving birth to my younger sister, and that bastard was back in her bedroom three months after the birth demanding an heir. It didn’t matter that I was trying. It didn’t matter that our fencing master said I was a natural. He wanted a son.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“What could I do? I tried to be quiet around him. I practiced with my wooden sword until my hands bled. My brother was stillborn, and my mother wasted away, and my father…” she said. “He’s cold, now. I don’t even know if he took pleasure in covering my debt, Alan. In me needing him. He’s like a thing made of stone and resentment. But back then, he shouted at me. He called me unspeakable things and blamed me for what was happening to his wife, who I think—I think—he truly loved. But the only place I could get away from his constant criticism and abuse was her bedchamber because he couldn’t face her, couldn’t face what he’d done to her. And she’d hold my hand in her weak, clammy grip, and she’d tell me not to get sad when Daddy yelled, because Daddy didn’t know I was a Valdr, and if he did, he would be so proud.”

“Jesus…” I said.

“Who?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Someone who suffered because of others. If Valdriae are part of Imperial culture, why is your father so fixated on having a son?”

“Because there were no Valdriae, Alan. My mother made them up. There were male and female knights who rallied our colonists and took New Viridia, but in those harsh first centuries, when it became clear no reinforcements were coming from beyond the Stormwall, men were sent outside the pallisades and women were relegated to birthing and raising children. It took us three hundred years, from the Floating of the Banners to the Fall of Wyrdtide, to regain our place in the ranks of the Legion, and after two hundred years there are still men who think our place is in the home.”

“And you became a Valdr anyway,” I said, looking at the set of her jaw and her clenched fist on the table.

She looked at me, as immovable as the Heights of New Viridia and its Ever-Victorious Legion. “I suppose I did.”

Jabir cleared his throat. “Is it good?”

We’d completely forgotten he was there.

“It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever eaten,” Wendy said. “Thank you both.”

“You’re welcome, milady,” Jabir said.

“You did great, Jabir.”

The Accipiter was so happy, I thought he might melt. “I’ll be back in a while to bring you dessert,” he said.

I took another bite of the mac ’n’ cheese. To me, it tasted like my mother hugging me from behind, telling me she’d love me no matter who I became and no matter what I did.

Wendy and I ate and talked. We laughed. We finished the bottle of wine. Jabir brought up a pecan pie that tasted like unpacking your boxes in your first apartment and ice cream that hit me like a first kiss. Nowadays, people usually order a small dish of Jabir’s Awful Eats and it’s like a fond touch from a long-lost lover, so it’s hard to explain what it was like to eat a full meal he’d prepared in the early days of a relationship.

But we laughed, and we cried, and the walls of Jericho came crashing down. It was one of those moments that defined us. It still defines me.

Remy cleared the dishes and glasses away.

Wendy locked the door, undressed me and herself, and pulled me into bed.

We took a long time to fall asleep.

What I remember most—among many good memories—was that before that night, Wendy always used to turn her back on me before falling asleep, and that had never bothered me because I get a little squirmy if someone touches me when I’m actually sleeping. But that night, either because of the day she’d had or the dinner we’d shared or the small space under the sloped roof, she fell asleep half on top of me, heel hooked behind my ankle and wedged between me and the wall.

There are perfect moments in life, and Wendy and I shared many of them.

Heartbreak and all.

Chapter Thirteen

Wendy shook me awake. “Alan! Get up!”

“What’s wrong?” I said, reaching for Threadcutter in my inventory.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s 6 a.m. It’s time for training.”

I groaned. “I said I wanted to learn to use a sword, not be punished.”

She poked me in the ribs. “Out of my way. You don’t have to come, but I’m going.”

I turned toward her. “How about a warmup?”

“No,” she said, kissing me on the nose. “‘Warmups’ happen at 5:30. Get up earlier next time.”

I pulled her into a tight and very involved kiss anyway, but after a few seconds of mutual enjoyment, she pushed me out of bed.

We grabbed breakfast sandwiches on the way to the chapter hall—a small bread roll stuffed with a fried egg and strips of smoked meat. It was still dark out, more so than last evening because a good number of the lanterns that hung from each house had gone out overnight, and I was surprised to see how many people were up. Deliveries were being unloaded, servants were getting their days started, patrols of militia were checking the alleys and dark corners, and some of my colleagues from the Union were slinking home after a night of thieving.

We reached the training yard by 6:40, and it was already full of envoys, Templars, and other flavors of Inquisitor practicing in pairs, in triples, or alone.

“You’re all insane,” I said.

“We’re just busy,” Wendy said, leading me over to a table. “Harrowick has close to a million people living within the walls, and it takes about three thousand militia officers and two thousand civilian employees to keep it safe, not counting special departments like the Mystica Ordo or monster hunters like myself. Harrowick is also the largest Inquisition post this side of the Bleak Sea, which means all the planning and paperwork falls on us. I have training duties, and I’m expected to review the reports of Templars in the field when I’m in garrison to see if there are inconsistencies or patterns developing. If I want to schedule time for personal training, it has to be before or after the workday.”

“Understood, ma’am,” I said with mock seriousness.

“Let’s see your weapons, then,” Wendy said, rapping the table with a gauntleted knuckle.

I laid them out, starting with the crossbow.

“You shouldn’t keep that loaded,” she said, pointing.

“I’ve had to use it on short notice.”

“Then load it before you go somewhere dangerous. If it stays that way all the time, the durability will get eaten away and it will break when you fire it.”

I unloaded the crossbow, making sure not to dry fire it, and I laid out Threadcutter, my machete, and my new longsword.

“This is interesting,” she said, tapping the machete’s blackened blade. The steel rang out a little bit. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

She picked the weapon up, felt the grip, and looked down the line of the blade. “Does this have a story?”

I shrugged. “It got me through Wyrdtide. Saved my life a couple times.”

“You should have a bard look at it, tell them the story. Might be the beginning of a named weapon in it.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“It helps that you’ve carried it,” she said seriously. “You’ve been through more in a month than most people go through in a lifetime. It also might have something to do with its previous owners. Take a close look at the coating.” She flipped it over and handed it to me.

I brought the machete to my eyes, looking over the back of the blade, and then I saw it. It was subtle, but little flecks of the black coating were flaking off and floating up into nothing, but it didn’t seem to be damaging the blade. “I’ll be damned.”

“I don’t think it’s cursed,” Wendy said. “Be careful how you use it, though. A named weapon can take a dark turn pretty easily until the story behind it gets told.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure she knew her stuff. “I’m surprised you weren’t interested in the dagger.”

Her eyes flicked to Threadcutter, but they didn’t stay there long. “You might not want to show off a Murk Elf weapon around here.”

“It was a gift for helping kill a Murk Elf assassin,” I said.

“You should lead with that,” Wendy said. She grabbed a blunt-edged training longsword off the rack next to her and set it next to mine. “Check the balance. They should feel about the same.”

“Shouldn’t I practice with the real thing?”

She shook her head. “Your sword has a small enchantment on it. It might not seem like much, but if you rely on it, you’ll build bad habits.”

“Okay,” I said, picking up my sword, then the training blade. The balance on both was about three and a half inches above the guard, although the enchanted sword felt a little lighter. “I think this will work.”

“Then let’s get started.”

Working with Wendy reminded me of the training I’d gone through with Hallius in the New Viridian Legion camp. Wendy positioned my hands—right hand near the guard in a handshake grip, left hand overlapping the pommel—then she adjusted my stance and guided me through the technique. After a few repetitions, she left me to practice while she worked on her own routine.

Over the course of the next hour, I learned the four guards—roof, plow, ox, and fool—in their left and right leading forms, as well as the high-roof and longpoint secondary stances. It was a little embarrassing to go through something so basic in front of people who’d been training with weapons since they were children, but I tried to focus on what I needed to get out of this, to make sure the next time I was fighting for my life, I could protect myself.

So every time I got a curious or amused look from one of the Inquisitors, I told myself, There is nothing else I would rather be doing. I focused on doing each movement perfectly, and after an hour, the stances started to flow.

“Good,” Wendy said approvingly. “Let’s move to cutting drills.”

* * *

We finished our training session around 9 a.m., when Wendy had to get on with the administrative part of her duties. I walked over to the Thieves’ Union instead of Tassos’s shop because it was closer, and the young pickpockets were training in the basement’s mock city streets.

I kept my hands in my pockets and gave each of them a respectful berth, even though most of them would have to reach up to rob me.

Florian’s eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Sharper!” Florian said, disengaging from his young pupils. “Just the man I needed to see!”

A day ago, before Wendy’s financial woes, I would have been giving him my regrets. Now, I needed the work. I shook his hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Follow me.” He led me back out through the children. “Stealth drills until I get back, Stickbug.”

“Yes, Master Florian.” The assassin, whom I had mistaken for a dummy with a wooden spoon halfway to its painted lips, stood and rounded the young pickpockets up.

“One of these days, I’m going to see him coming.”

“He’s dedicated,” Florian agreed. “Not really for the fast and flashy jobs, though.”

“And I am?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s how you got your name, isn’t it? You have a sense for the dramatic.”

I followed him up the stairs, through the tavern, past the obstacle course and sparring pits, and up to the third floor.

“I’ve never been up here,” I said.

“Most thieves haven’t. This is where the workshops, laboratories, and supply rooms are. It’s not exactly where you want a bunch of thieves loitering.”

“I suppose not,” I said, looking at the closed, reinforced doors.

At the end of the hallway, we went up a final set of stairs.

There was only one room on the fourth floor. It had an elaborate, decorated door that looked like it belonged on a bank vault.

It was open.

Inside were living quarters: a solid oak king-sized bed with sheets and covers rumpled and thrown aside; a beautiful writing desk, stacked with letters, papers, and seals, on which someone had also placed a golden rapier that reminded me of Titus’s, except the blade wasn’t broken; shelves of leather-bound books, scroll cases, trinkets, and artifacts; a number of chests and assorted dressers, overflowing with gear both magical and mundane.

The most perfect looking man I’d ever seen outside of a television screen walked out of the restroom. He was shirtless, with toned arms, a symmetrical, perfectly defined six-pack, and hip grooves that disappeared into the waistline of his tight white breeches. A towel hung around his neck, and a little shaving foam was stuck to his cheek.

“Florian.”

“Gentleman Leif. This is Sharper.”

“We’ve met,” Leif said, offering me his hand. “I was there for your naming.”

“I remember,” I said, shaking his hand. He had a steel grip he held lightly. “You’ve got some shaving cream on your cheek.”

“Oh, thanks,” he said, and wiped it off with the towel.

Florian and I waited while Leif fetched a clean shirt from his dresser and slipped it on, rolling the cuffs and tucking the front-right tail in. He looked like a model and moved like a professional cage fighter. “Have you ever been to Rowanheath?” he asked.

I glanced at the master of assassins, who nodded at me to speak. “I haven’t, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir. Just Leif will do.”

“Okay, Leif,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know what Affka is?”

“I know it’s an addictive drug, and that the Legion uses it as an anesthetic for battlefield surgeries.”

“Be careful if you visit Rowanheath. A group of Affka smugglers have started to expand their operations to extortion and blackmail. It’s upsetting people on both sides of the law, but no one wants to see a gang war break out.”

Both Leif and Florian watched me and waited.

It was pretty clear to me Leif wanted the drug dealers dead, and that he wasn’t going to say so. “Could I ask for a favor?”

“Of course!” Leif said, leaning back against an armoire. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit Rowanheath, but I don’t want to get into any trouble. Could you tell me where those smugglers are located, so I can avoid them?”

“I’d be glad to,” Leif said, and he marked the location on my map. “They’re called the Clean Crew. There are five of them.”

“When shouldn’t I visit? I want to make sure I don’t run into them.”

“They usually go back to their front at night. It’s an old chandlery with a large kitchen they prepare their goods in.”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: The Dirty Bunch

The Clean Crew has set up shop in Rowanheath, using extortion and blackmail to expand their drug business. They’re dangerous, and you should absolutely not go near them as you enjoy the sights of the city.

Quest Class: Tourism, Discovery

Quest Difficulty: Easy

Success: Visit the Rowanheath Keep, the Hall of Chieftains, the Hero’s Barrow, and the Serpent’s Rest. Return to Harrowick.

Failure: Fail to visit any of the monuments, Get spotted by the Clean Crew

Reward: 500 XP, 10 Renown

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I accepted the quest.

“The weather should be nice in Rowanheath tomorrow,” Florian said. “You could sell off some of those potions you’ve been brewing.”

“Here’s some money for the portal,” Leif said, tossing me a small purse. “Have a meal, drink a beer, let people see you enjoy the city, and then let them see you leave.”

But don’t let them see you do anything else. I pocketed the purse without counting it, because for all the smiles and jokes about being thiefly, I doubted being rude to a Gentleman was a long-term career move.

“And Sharper?” Leif said.

“Yes?”

“You’re one of mine. This is Gentleman Georgie’s turf. No side jobs.”

“Understood.”

I kept the calm and confident look on my face until I was halfway down the stairs, but my heart was racing. This felt big. This felt fast. Two days ago, I’d been playing tag-along with a real assassin and now I was solo-ing a job for the Gentleman of Harrowick.

Only I wasn’t, was I? He’d specifically told me to be careful of the Clean Crew, and the quest had prohibited getting spotted by the Clean Crew, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t kill the Clean Crew.

And there was something else. When Florian had first talked about this job, he’d said it was fast and flashy. When I’d questioned him on that, he’d said I had a sense of drama. None of that meshed with a quiet job.

So what I really needed to do was make a big dramatic statement, something messy and memorable that clearly conveyed Leif’s disapproval of what my targets had been doing, without implicating him and without anyone knowing I’d done it.

And it needed to be done by tomorrow.

* * *

I pulled the third batch of potion starters out of the Shadow locker and replaced it with the one I’d just prepared. I poured a precise amount of the starter goop into each of the thirty flasks I’d prepped, making sure they were exactly at the right measurements. When they were lined up on the table in front of me, I cast Alchemical Augmentation on them, being careful to make the gestures exactly the way Jabir had taught me.

Doing all thirty potions took me two and a half hours of sharpening, chopping, infusing, swapping, pouring, diluting, augmenting, cleaning, and restarting. I could have done it faster, but each flask was worth a silver, each finished potion was worth one or two gold, and Tassos’s equipment was worth a good deal more than that. I would have hated to finish the month just a few silvers short of what I owed the Four Humours.

“How is it going?” Tassos asked as the last potion of this batch turned from runny yellow to cherry red.

I melted a wax stick over the Bunsen’s flame and dripped enough of it over the potion stopper to finish the job. “I’m done!” I said, shutting the gas off at the tank, then shutting the valve on the burner after the flame burned out on its own.

“You’ve come a long way since we first met,” Tassos said, looking over my handiwork with a critical eye. The knife I’d used was cleaned and sharpened, the glassware was placed neatly in the deep sink, the equipment—now including the burner—was returned to its usual place, and I had three more levels in Alchemy to my name. “You said you were going to sell these in Rowanheath?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful who you try to sell to. There’s a drug problem in the west-center quarter, Wodes with connections to Ankara who call themselves the Clean Crew. They might not like it if you sell on their turf.”

“Know anything else about them?” I asked.

Tassos raised an eyebrow. When we’d first met, he’d been convinced I was an Inquisitor.

“Just want to know what I should look for so I can stay out of trouble.”

Tassos thought about it, picking a piece of imaginary lint off the sleeve of his shirt. “There are five members in the gang. Word is, the Merchant Princes kicked them out of the City of Glass because of their methods.”

“Violent?”

“They target poor people, work them up a ladder of increasingly powerful narcotics until they’re addicted and broke and will do anything for more. Then, they string them out, demanding favors, threatening to reveal the habit to their loved ones and employers. It’s quite shocking how quickly they can destroy a neighborhood.”

“I was under the impression that’s what drugs always did.”

“You’re an Alchemist, Alan. Don’t be so naive. The right uses of drugs—even recreational ones—can heal the body and mind just as easily as their abuse can destroy.”

“Strong drink for the dying, and wine for the heavy heart.”

“What’s that from?” Tassos asked.

I shrugged. “Something my mother used to say. It’s actually a horrible coping mechanism if you let it become a habit, but I see what you mean.”

“That’s the way the Merchant Princes see it as well,” Tassos said. “If someone wants to drown themselves in Affka to forget their misery, Ankara will let them, but they don’t tolerate people who drag others into deep waters.”

My mom and the Merchant Princes would have gotten along.

“On a different topic, what do you have that will help someone fall asleep?” I asked.

“Depends,” Tassos said. “If you just need a little help, valerian tea or magnesium pills will do. Kava root is a little stronger, but I like to get mine directly from suppliers I trust because improperly treated kava can cause permanent liver damage.”

“Wouldn’t want that. What about if I need to fall asleep fast?”

“Lavender oil or ginkgo biloba,” Tassos said. “They’ll still give you a pleasant night’s sleep, but you’ll have a harder time waking up from it.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I live above a tavern. Let me have a bottle of the lavender oil.”

“You used essential oils before?”

“No?”

“Just don’t swallow any. You can put some in your bath, use it with a diffuser, or put it on your skin—although it’s better to mix it with a carrier like olive oil first. If you eat or drink it, it could kill you.”

Since I didn’t intend to use it on myself, that was just fine.

Chapter Fourteen

Wendy kissed my cheek as we finished our morning training. She was a badass warrior woman who wasn’t afraid of a little PDA in front of her colleagues—and to her fellow Inquisitors’ credit, they didn’t seem to care, although Livia did lurk in the background until I met her eyes and gave her a nod. I owed her an answer on Dhukak’s assassins.

And speaking of assassins, I had a job to do. I double-checked my inventory, quickslots, and weapon sets—not that I hadn’t done that six times already, but seven’s the charm—and told myself for the eleventh time that I was ready for this.

I was, after all, a Hero of the Empire, right? Offing drug dealers sounded like part of the job description, maybe.

Whatever helps me sleep at night.

I stepped through the portal and emerged in Rowanheath.

The first thing I did was make my way from the southeastern portal pad to the Hall of Chieftains. The path took me past the outskirts of the Clean Crew’s turf. I’d come prepared for some of the things I’d grown up with in Nicetown, Philadelphia—trash on street corners, the odd discarded cart wheel, and graffiti, which was a legal form of expression in ancient Rome—and I found all of them, but things actually improved in the target area. No broken windows. No potholes. No groups of young men loitering near alleys, although there were a few standing protectively near groups of playing kids. The Clean Crew took care of their neighborhood.

It bugged me.

I moved on to my first monument.

The Hall of Chieftains was a 272-foot-long and 30-foot-tall longhouse. It featured several bedrooms, a barn, small workshops, and an enormous feast hall with massive, intricately carved wooden pillars and walls. I wandered around, enjoying myself, checking out ancient-Wode wood-, horn-, leather-, and bronze-craft, and sampling primitive cooking that consisted mostly of starches and some very tasty elk and venison.

I kept Charm running the whole time, talking to people, introducing myself using my real name. I spoke to a pair of visiting Ankarans about their home city, and I made them laugh. I asked a Risi caravan guard about the trade routes across the Barren Sands. I made a young scholar’s day by asking her to show me how leather braid belts and copper buckles were made.

I left after that. I walked back toward the city center, introducing myself to random passersby. Then I stopped at an adorable little bistro, sat at a table on the patio, and had a half-pint of blonde beer and a basket of thin-cut fries. I paid the waitress and left a tip on the table, then I followed her into the restaurant as if I’d forgotten to ask her something.

I cast Mirror on her and walked back out. Contradictions, like boundaries between in and out or light and dark, are where Illusion thrives.

Two swaps later, now in the form of a Dokkalfar potter who was slightly taller than I was, I headed south and made my first real pass through the Clean Crew’s neighborhood.

The gang’s home ground was an island of gentrification in the middle of one of the city’s poorer quarters, from what I’d seen so far. People wearing clean, well-mended clothing worked in what seemed like a whole fungal troop of artisanal shops. The hollow-eyed but smiling young shopkeepers bustled without accomplishing much.

A man in a dark outfit and clean white butcher’s apron glared at me over crossed, burly arms. I took a left, heading out of the neighborhood. Like before, the area immediately surrounding the gang’s turf was worse than both the Clean Crew’s blocks and the surrounding neighborhoods.

I hooked north, swapping appearances once before dispelling the Mirror effect and rejoining the path that continued from the Hall of Chieftains past the bistro, which meant if anyone was looking for me after my earlier stunt, they’d find me again on my way to the Keep.

The Keep itself was rougher cut than the ones I’d visited in New Viridia and Harrowick, but it was also more of a “castle” than the square New Viridian fort or the Stonewall-grown smooth construction in Harrowick. Like in New Viridia and Harrowick, the Keep in Rowanheath was “inactive,” whatever that meant.

The first floor was open for visitors, displaying lavish rooms and subtle choke points a platoon of janissaries could have defended for days. The second and third floors—particularly the northwestern tower—were off-limits.

On my third pass, I Mirrored a half-blind beggar in the northeastern part of the city and decided to focus on the neighborhoods surrounding the target area.

I remembered my time with Horace in New Viridia and took things slow. I avoided the attention of the militia. I begged for a copper from people who looked like they had one to spare, not using Charm or Persuade to get them to say yes but rather letting the denials, the apathy, and the anger soak into me until I felt less.

I was an old merchant from Ankara who’d fallen on hard times, gotten robbed one too many times, and been left without money at the end of my time. I couldn’t afford to go back to the City of Glass.

I found a serviceable set of clothes—just a little threadbare and patched—in a heap behind a rain barrel and put those on. I would have been ashamed of that, once. I’d been proud. Now, I was just tired. The limp and the pain in my leg were real by the time I drifted into the most broken part of the city.

It was a little bit magic.

<<<>>>

Skill Unlocked!

Skill: Delusion

Creation and madness go hand in hand, because nothing is made that wasn’t first imagined. Madness and magic, however, can reach beyond the dreams of the mundane and drag into existence that which should never have been.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Lies, disguises, and Illusion magic are +3.25% real. Illusory objects are more material. Stories are more likely to be true, although sometimes in unpredictable ways. Be careful your deceptions don’t catch up with you.

<<<>>>

I sat down on the cobbles with my back to a building in a sliver of shade, facing east. It was hot, just past noon, and I had a little bit of a headache from walking around and not drinking water.

There was another homeless man to my right, just out of reach, but I didn’t attempt to talk to him. I only had a few coppers to my name, and this was Rowanheath, not an Imperial town. There were no Sophitian shelters and no grain dole. When the money ran out, I would starve.

“Hey,” the man to my right said.

I pretended I hadn’t heard him.

“Hey!” he hissed, throwing a small pebble at my arm.

I flinched and cowered away from him.

“Don’t look at me like that, old man,” he said apologetically. “Look, it’s none of mine, but you shouldn’t be here.”

“Got nowhere else.”

“Everyone’s got somewhere better than here.”

“Not me,” I said, missing my mom, missing Pops more. I’d have killed to be holed up in his stone house on the coast of Spain, hearing the breeze through the olive trees. I’d discovered I’d kill for lots of reasons in the past month.

“You got money?”

I turned toward the other man, hands close to my body, ready to run.

“I said don’t look at me like that. You want to leave, then leave.”

“Why do you want money?”

“Candy,” the addict said, flashing a mouthful of crooked, brown-stained teeth. His skin was deathly pale, and his pupils were so dilated his eyes were black.

It made my skin crawl, Delusion or no Delusion, and he sneered at me, which made things worse.

“You don’t look at me like that!” he said, leaning forward on his hands like he was going to crawl over and bite me. “I’m from the hill clans! You look at me like that, you better fight!” His left arm started to shake, and he sat back, eyes moist. “The candy doesn’t hurt. No debuffs! Just sweet…” He cradled his left wrist like it was made of glass.

“How much?”

“Two silvers for a whole piece, five coppers for a bite, but you’re new,” he said, sidling over on his hip. “Maybe they’ll give you two bites for five coppers. One for you, and one for a friend,” he said pleadingly.

It was hard. I was turning into this hardboiled assassin and spy, but the man in front of me had been a human being, once, and he was shattered. It was too late for Alchemy to fix what he had, or I would have used one of the potions I was carrying on him. But I could take care of the problem at the source, make sure no one else had to pick up the broken pieces. “I have five coppers.”

“Talk to one of the butchers,” he said, now eager. “But stand up tall. They don’t let me in anymore, they don’t. Only at night.”

“I’ll stand up straight,” I said, getting to my feet as fast as the pain in my hip would let me.

“You’ll come back?” he asked.

“I’ll come back,” I said, conflicted.

I didn’t know what candy was—if that was the street name for Affka or something else—but once I had it, I’d have more leverage over that man than anyone in the world. He’d tell me anything as long as he didn’t think he could just take it from me, or maybe he couldn’t resort to violence with a broken wrist.

But I’d worked in Human Resources for close to ten years, and I’d gotten into that career path to help people. No joke. Sure, sometimes I was the hatchet man, but I’d tried to help good workers land on their feet, get the next gig, and I’d fired three toxic managers in that time, too. I’d also helped people get through personal and professional crises, get help, and get back to work.

I wanted to help that man.

It just couldn’t be by giving him what he wanted.

I turned the corner and entered the Clean Crew’s territory from the east this time. The same players were in place, different faces but same stores and outfits, like I’d stumbled into an amusement park.

One of the men in the butcher’s aprons looked my way, and I walked over to him, hip twinging, made-up life running through my head like a refrain.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I was looking for something sweet,” I said hopefully.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the butcher said, looking away.

“I have money.”

“Keep it. I don’t have anything for you to buy.”

My merchant sense told me he was telling the truth. Which was inconvenient. “I apologize for my mistake, sir. I just… hoped I could make the pain stop for a while, maybe forget.”

“Where are you from?” the butcher asked.

I unwound my story like a clock spring—the city of glass, the caravan, the end of dreams. “I just can’t pick up the pieces again.”

“You have a trade?”

“I used to make leather goods. Belts, bridles, that sort of thing.”

The butcher wiped his chin. “What do you want? Candy, sugar, or spice?”

“Candy,” I said without hesitating.

The butcher chuckled. “Go see the baker and buy a loaf of black bread.”

I nodded my thanks and hurried across the square, hip still hurting but goal within sight. I walked up to the bakery window, asked the young woman inside for a loaf of black bread, and paid five coppers for it, although grudgingly. She wasn’t hollowed out like the other shopkeepers. Maybe she was part of the Clean Crew? She placed the warm, freshly baked and wrapped loaf in my hands.

I frowned. It was a well-made loaf of bread, to be sure, but it was way overpriced and unlikely to get me or anyone else high, unless the “candy” was baked into it somehow.

“Those kids look hungry,” the baker told me, looking past me across the square.

I turned. The kids did look hungry, now that she mentioned it. Almost emaciated, under the baggy clothes. I started to walk toward them, and one of them, a child maybe ten years old, ran across while the others watched. “Can I have that bread, mister?” he asked, reaching for it with both hands.

There was a small, flat object the size of a coin in his left palm, wrapped in grease paper.

I gave him the bread, and he pushed the small package into my hands.

I tried to hide the eagerness I felt as I pocketed the package and walked away, still limping but moving faster. There were no junkies in the square, or anywhere in the Clean Crew’s turf. The rule was clear: I could make purchases here, but I’d have to use elsewhere. The sooner I left the neighborhood, the sooner I could unwrap my prize. I passed the kids and the artisanal stores, passed the butcher who’d pointed me to the baker, and passed back out of their turf.

As soon as I could duck into an alleyway, out of sight, I tossed the rags, dispelled Mirror, and shed the story with the rest of it. I am Alan Campbell, I told myself, although that was as much of a joke as the rest of it. Alan Campbell was dead, and nothing was real.

I almost ran into my rotten-toothed friend on my way out of the alley.

He cocked his head at me, confused, a hungry look in his eyes that was somehow monstrous even though he looked like he was made of twigs. “He went in there,” I said, tossing my head to a closed door near the back of the dead end.

The addict rushed past me. I heard him pounding on the door as I walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

The Hero’s Barrow was just outside the west gate. I made sure I was clear of the city and the militia before taking the small package out of my inventory and unwrapping it.

It was a piece of rainbow-colored candy glass.

<<<>>>

Candy Glass Shard

Item type: Stimulant/consumable

Sweet dreams are made of these. Candy glass makes you feel better and stronger than you ever have, helps you be more focused than you’ve ever been, and lasts longer than any other sweet. It usually has no side effects, although the real world may seem pale in comparison.

Effect 1: Euphoria (Level 7). Duration, 12 hours.

Effect 2: Paranoia (Random Chance, Delayed Effect)

Effect 3: Formication (Random Chance, Delayed Effect)

<<<>>>

A random chance of paranoia? I suppose you could brand that as no debuffs, but if something made you feel that good for that long, you would never want to come down. As for the formication, that wasn’t a pleasant typographical error. That meant bugs crawling under your skin. No thank you.

I wanted to dig a little hole in the ground with the toe of my boot, drop the glass into it, crush it, cover it, and stomp on it again. I’d even get a boost from the Ferrous Calcification on my Boots of Hate. Instead, I put it back in my pocket.

I didn’t trust myself with something like that in my inventory, but it was too useful to throw away.

As for the Hero’s Barrow, I thought it looked disappointing at first. It was basically a low round hill with a shallow circular ditch around it, at the end of a line of other small round hills. The bumps in the ground were connected by arrow-straight footpaths that were devoid of grass and scree, and when I walked on them, they felt as solid as a paved road.

The inside blew my mind a little bit. The walls and ceilings were fitted stone, and although there was no metal or mortar to be seen, pillars and curved arches were supporting a tremendous amount of weight. Swirls and whorls had been worked into some of the larger stones, and the dirt floor twisted and turned between the connected barrows. Alcoves of bones lined walls at regular intervals, lit by a warm inner light, and yet the air smelled fresh like it was being ducted in from the mountains.

After a half hour of wandering around, I started to feel like a marble in a handheld maze and made my way to the exit, giving a whole silver to the druid watching the place.

If nothing else, the trip would have been worth it to have experienced a different city. It made me wonder if there weren’t places like this in Harrowick I’d never noticed or visited.

Anyway, I thought as I walked back through the western gate. Time to get back to work. It took a little work to find the right place, but I found a cop bar.

A Wode city, Rowanheath didn’t have a militia or urban cohort like Imperial cities. Instead, all the adults of the city were formed into groups of ten, called tithings, and tithings were grouped into hundreds under a hundredman, who wasn’t always a “man” but served as an unofficial judge for the hundred. Rowanheath being such a large city, the hundreds were grouped into shires—like Imperial districts—and overseen by a shire-reeve who was a private citizen, too.

And yes, that’s where the word “sheriff” comes from.

Since they didn’t have Legion camps or official buildings to regroup in, the tithemen and hundredmen met the shire-reeve of this section of the city in the Copper Pot, a small batch whiskey, vodka, and moonshine distillery that catered to locals, busybodies, and the civically minded.

I activated Charm, found a seat where I could put my back to the wall, and listened.

The beer was terrible, but I got a mixed plate of roast boar and chicken tenders with thick-cut fries to pick at and learned more about the city. The Thieves’ Union was strong here, under the leadership of Gentleman Georgie. He didn’t seem to have the same détente and entente with the shire-reeves as Gentleman Leif did with the Inquisition, and violence sometimes broke out between the two groups.

In an equally intense but much more childish escalation of warrantless searches and libelous town crier announcements, someone named Cutter had apparently stolen more than half the city’s shire-reeves’ badges of office. The hundreds knew he was behind it, and he apparently bragged about it every chance he got, but he was also a fine thief, protected by the Union, and they were finding it impossible to get their hands on him.

As for the Clean Crew and their part of town, no one talked about it, which was telling in and of itself. After another hour of weak beer and striking up small, meaningless conversations, I finally found the hundredman for the Clean Crew’s neighborhood.

She wasn’t hard to spot, once I saw the pattern. She was the one no one was talking to.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down across from her.

“You have the wrong person.”

“You let the Clean Crew take over your part of the city.”

She set her fork down deliberately and looked me in the eye. “Well, this is refreshing. It’s been a while since someone blamed me for what’s happened in my neighborhood. Are you going to call me incompetent, or just on the take?”

“I’m guessing you’re overly principled. There are only five of them, so if you wanted them beaten and dragged out of town, it would have happened by now.”

“You’d be surprised. What do you want?”

“To understand,” I said, in a lower voice. I wasn’t going to have much time to talk to her; the rest of the Copper Pot’s patrons had noticed the city’s pariah had company, and I didn’t want them to remember my face. “If you’re not on the take or incompetent, why haven’t you done something?”

“Because they’ve been good for my neighborhood, in a way, and the people I represent won’t support me moving against them. The other hundreds blame me because all the surrounding neighborhoods are falling apart, and the reeve won’t support me because I don’t have any proof. Do you have something I can use?”

“No,” I said. “They’re smart. They don’t handle the money or the drugs. At best, you’d end up with jail cells full of kids. Where are the parents?”

“If you saw the kids, you walked past their parents on the way in.” She balled her hands into fists. “They’re eating my people alive, and no one’s fighting back.”

The junkies. The junkies are the parents, hooked and then forced out while their kids are put to work. The last little bit of how absolutely evil these bastards were sunk in.

“Thanks,” I said, standing up.

I walked out with one more piece of the puzzle.

Another person who needs help.

Maybe I could do some good for this one.

* * *

I made a final pass through the Clean Crew’s neighborhood, this time as a broad-shouldered Wode. I had to be careful, because at the Initiate level, my Mirror skill was visually convincing, especially with a little extra effort put into disguising myself like the person I’d targeted, but if anyone touched me, it would be obvious I was smaller than I appeared.

“You lost?” the third apron-wearing Crew member asked, stepping out of a doorway.

He was about as big as I appeared to be. “I was looking for some candles. Heard you use beeswax instead of tallow. Thought I’d get a set.”

“You heard wrong.”

“Why don’t I smell anything, then?” I said, looking up at the smoke rising from the chandlery.

“Probably that busted nose I’m about to give you,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

There were a couple ways out of this. I could sucker punch him; my fist was close enough to the right spot he wouldn’t notice as long as I knocked him to the floor. Backing down was just as likely to get me in trouble, because he’d want to make sure I didn’t come back.

I hooked my thumbs on my breeches. “Look, man, my wife’s all over me to get her beeswax candles. She says our house smells like a burning barn and the ceiling is covered in soot. Help me out.”

The other man hesitated.

“I don’t mean to make your life difficult,” I said, ready to back away now that I’d defused the situation. “I just love her, you know? I probably can’t afford fancy candles anyway. I just wanted to make her happy.”

The bruiser in the butcher’s apron sighed. “What’s her name?”

“Wendy,” I said, and to my surprise, I was completely sincere.

“Wait here,” he said. He went back inside.

I hadn’t expected it. It was a shame, really, because if I’d been prepared I could have followed him in, stuck Threadcutter into his back, and dealt with the lone Clean Crew member inside before the others came back for the night.

“Here,” he said, handing me a pair of white wax candles linked by a single wick, like nunchucks. “Don’t come back.”

“I won’t! Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.”

He didn’t respond as I walked away. It wasn’t until I was leaving the neighborhood that I realized he hadn’t asked for anything in return.

I’d feel bad about that, later. There had been a ray of hope left in that man. Maybe he’d loved someone. Maybe he hadn’t been able to help them, or maybe he’d just wanted to do something kind, for once.

He might have turned it around, if I hadn’t come to Rowanheath that day.

In any case, I had the bones of a plan in my head—something fast and flashy, like Master Florian had requested. I also had some time to kill, so I made the rounds of the city’s Alchemy shops, trying to sell off my Health Regen potions, but it soon became apparent that, unlike New Viridia, the city of Rowanheath had enough good Alchemists they didn’t need the work of a beginner—at least not an Imperial beginner, and not at full price. Wish Master Florian had told me that. Portal travel wasn’t without its physical costs, and there was a chance some of my potions would be denatured by the multiple transits. I knew I was being cheated, because my Merchant skill told me so, but in the end I sold a single Health Regen potion for five silvers—a quarter of full price—just to get a sale on the books.

It seemed the game wasn’t going to let me be an Alchemist after all.

I stopped in a sewing shop and picked up a small box of needles and some hemp twine. There was no olive oil to be had, but I found sunflower oil at a grocer. I grabbed a censer and cedar chips from a religious supply store, and a camp spoon and small fire starter kit on a chain from an outfitter. A garden shop yielded a handheld spraying can, and I picked up a bag of actual sugar candy glass from a confectionery.

Now, I needed a lab.

I found an appropriately anonymous establishment in the northeastern quarter and rented a room for an hour.

“No drugs,” the owner said.

“Clean as a whistle,” I said.

Once I was in the room and the door was shut and latched, I pulled out a mixing flask and my calcinator. I mixed the lavender oil with the sunflower oil, then cast Alchemical Empowerment on it three times in a row. That shortened the duration, ruined the upper-tier effects, and made the mixture toxic, but I used my calcinator to burn the top two effects and most of the toxins away. All I needed was the oil’s sleep-inducing properties, and I needed it to act fast.

I put some water in the sprayer and lit one of the wax candles to heat it, then I melted about half of the sugar glass in it—enough to sweeten and color the water without gumming things up.

Then I pulled the narcotic Candy Glass Shard out, set it in the camp spoon, and melted it over the candle as well. I carefully dipped each needle in the rainbow-colored goop before putting them back in the box they’d come in. I put what was left of the Shard in my calcinator and destroyed it completely, feeling safer the moment it was gone.

I was ready, or at least as ready as I was going to be.

With hours to go before nightfall, when the Clean Crew would return to the chandlery, I decided to finish the fake quest I’d gotten by going to the Serpent’s Rest.

I’m so glad I did.

I expected the Serpent’s Rest to be another longhouse, or a watchtower where such-and-such knight had slain so-and-so the dragon. Instead, I found a themed dwarven eatery that must have been an Easter egg because it was nothing but singing, drinking, laughter, the world’s longest menu, and a grumpy dog in a red dragon outfit who went from table to table for scraps and liked to take naps on piles of gold-painted wood chips. The tables and benches were a bit old, the clientele aging, the paint peeling in places, but it was a much-needed reprieve from the day’s grim business and my lack of commercial success.

Once I’d cleared my Hungry and Thirsty debuffs, I used the extra time to send some messages. I checked in with Corporal Vel, the janissary I’d worked with in Wyrdtide, and Optio Hallius, the legionary who’d trained me to fight. I messaged Horace, whom I hadn’t seen since he stormed off on me a week ago, and I wrote to Nil about my new job since I thought it would appreciate I’d taken its advice—willingly or not. I asked it to say hi to Gnasher for me. On a whim, I sent Jeff a message, too. I didn’t know if he was still logging into V.G.O. To be honest, I wasn’t sure why the game hadn’t been shut down after it killed me.

Maybe Robert was making good on his promise to bring me back.

More likely, he’d try to sweep me under the rug and launch the game anyway, if he could just find a way to make it profitable and safe for everyone else.

* * *

Sandra knocked on Robert’s door.

“Yes?”

She poked her head in. “I’m heading out for the day, Robert. Did you need anything?”

“Did you send me the progress reports on Viridian?”

“I did,” Sandra said, stepping fully into the office. “Why the sudden interest? I thought you were focused on ThanatOS.”

Robert Osmark looked up from behind his three screens. They stared at each other for a few long seconds, and Sandra knew he was still deciding how much he could trust her.

As for Sandra, her mind was made up. The NSA and her handler had betrayed her. She was loyal, but only when that loyalty flowed both ways, and Robert had earned her allegiance.

“Close the door,” Robert said.

She pushed it until the latch clicked.

“You want coffee?” he asked, walking over to the thermos the campus cafeteria knew to keep full.

“It’s a bit late in the day.”

“Money’s made while others sleep, Ms. Bullard,” Robert said, pouring himself half a mug. “I spoke to our friend Jeff Berkowitz yesterday. The pod designs are coming along; he’ll be ready to fabricate the first prototypes in a few weeks.”

“So soon?”

“That’s why I hired him. Personality of a badger, but he gets things done.”

Robert walked past her and sat in one of the armchairs, facing the window. The sun was setting over the campus.

Sandra took the chair opposite him and let him figure out what he wanted to say.

“Do you think Alan is still alive?” Robert said, finally.

“I’m pretty sure he isn’t. I disposed of the body, remember?”

“I don’t mean physically,” Osmark said. “And I don’t mean mentally, either. I still can’t get past the privacy protocols, and that’s probably a good thing, but from what I can tell of the aggregated stats, Alan is living a full, emotionally rich and meaningful life inside project Viridian.”

“I guess you have your answer then,” Sandra said, though she was skeptical.

Robert shook his head. “I’m not talking about statistics. Statistically, millions of ‘people’ are living inside our servers. At the level of the data, I can’t find any difference between Alan and the NPCs who populate the game.”

“How is that possible?” Sandra asked. “Alan was a thirty-year-old human being. His memory wouldn’t have been perfect, but surely that’s more experience than a game developer or a writer could come up with for a backstory.”

“They didn’t come up with it,” Robert said. “We told Viridian to make people, and it did. We told it the people it made were flat and repetitive, so it tried making them over and over again, and then it realized it couldn’t, so it grew them from infancy instead. All the NPCs in V.G.O. who aren’t monsters, beasts, or summoned creatures have lived through as full a life as you or me, which is part of why I’m glad ThanatOS is so indispensable to the world.”

Because if they ever make you shut it down, they’d be killing all those people. Sandra understood. Robert was as merciless in the office as he was in the boardroom, but he wasn’t inhuman. She’d seen him be genuinely upset when Alan died, not because of the risk of prosecution or lawsuits, but because someone working for him had been harmed. “So the NPCs are alive, and Alan is alive, too.”

“But he shouldn’t be,” Robert said. He drank some of his coffee and set it on the side table.

He isn’t. Sandra flashed back to the NSA cleanup crew putting the air gun to Alan’s ear and pulling the trigger with a clack. Blood seeped from his eyes and nose and dripped from his earlobes. If Alan had in any way been alive before that moment, he wasn’t anymore.

“When a user logs into V.G.O., we don’t grow them from childhood because there’s a human brain there to pilot that body around. When they log out, the body disappears, because that’s all it is, a body, a digital representation of muscle, sinew, and bone. When Alan’s brain died, his digital body should have disappeared. If a copy was good enough, we wouldn’t have had to go through so much trouble to make lifelike NPCs.”

“I’ll take that coffee,” Sandra said.

Robert raised an eyebrow, but he stopped talking. He stood up, walked to the other end of the room, and poured her a coffee.

She felt lightheaded and lopsided, like she was falling over. It wasn’t the first time, not after the things she’d been through overseas, but this was the first time she’d been triggered by something that happened at home. And it was something she couldn’t talk to her usual support group about because it was an illegal US intelligence operation conducted against a US citizen on US soil.

“Here,” Robert said, handing her the mug handle-first.

She took it, cradling it in her lap.

“We don’t have to talk about this. I just thought—”

“I want to,” Sandra said, setting the physical symptoms aside. Avoidance made things worse, not better.

“Okay,” Robert said, sitting back with his cup.

Sandra took a deep breath. “I get why you’re questioning yourself about Alan. It would be easy to assume he’s just a copy of the man we worked with, and that would be the rational explanation except it doesn’t explain how you’ve managed to create digital life.”

“I didn’t. I hired the programmers and funded the research that built the AI that created digital life.”

“You mean you built a god,” Sandra said.

Robert couldn’t quite stop from grinning at that. Her boss was a confident man, but it was a rare and privileged thing to find something that truly made him feel proud. “Okay, yes, I’m amazing, but that’s not what I’m trying to wrap my head around. By making ThanatOS the global counter-virus program of choice, I’ve ensured that the system that supports ThanatOS will be funded and protected indefinitely. But Alan isn’t like the other NPCs. Beyond the issue that something of Alan’s… crossed over to let him live in the game, the system thinks he’s a human being, and by protecting him it’s keeping the government from overseeing the most perfect training ground, interrogation room, and prison in history.”

“They’ll kill him,” Sandra said.

“They’re already trying. Berkowitz let it slip—intentionally or not, I have no idea—that they’ve put a team together to kill Alan in the game.”

Sandra slouched in her chair and leaned her head back over the headrest. “A month ago, I would have told you sacrificing one person for the good of the country—”

“Until that person was you.”

“It’s been me before, Robert. I signed up for it.”

“Not this time.”

She clenched and released her fists slowly.

“Aren’t we just a couple of egotists?” Robert asked.

“Yeah,” Sandra said. “So if Alan is just a copy of Alan, you could probably just… back him up or something, maybe put him together from spare parts or load him into another computer.”

Robert nodded. “But if Alan is Alan, once Alan is gone, he’ll never be back again.”

“That, and the government will own your playground forever.”

“And that,” Robert said. “I don’t like that. How do I stop it from happening?”

“We need more Alans—more people logged into the game, stopping the government from changing the settings.”

“Fantastic. That’s why I’ve reinstated Viridian back to full production. We’ll be ready for human players within the next two years. How do we stop your former employer’s hired murderers from killing him before we launch?”

“We’re not.”

Robert frowned at her. “We’re not what?”

“Murderers. Everything I did was legally sanctioned, at least in the one country I thought mattered. If someone had asked me to murder someone, I would have said no.”

“And that matters, does it?” Robert asked.

“It has to.”

Chapter Sixteen

I reached the edge of the decrepit neighborhoods that surrounded the Clean Crew’s turf. Last chance, I thought. I liked to think that I could still choose not to do this—that I could go back to Harrowick, pay Gentleman Leif back, and walk away clean. I’d close some doors, for sure, but I’d closed doors before. What could be more thiefly than climbing through the window?

The truth was, I wanted the Clean Crew dead. Something about what they were doing offended my soul. The place where I’d grown up, from age eight to thirteen, had been the way it was because of poverty, systemic inequality, and a series of choices made by hundreds of people over decades or more.

That was a mess no single person could fight against, but here? Here there was a culprit. There were five people. If I removed them, and the drugs, and I made it clear that the end of their path was something any sane person should stay away from, then things would get better. Call it wish fulfillment, but I was all-in.

I cast Hide, and I used a light touch of Refract—as much as I could sustain while moving slowly—to make my armor and skin the color of the buildings around me. It wouldn’t have worked during the day, but at night, in a neighborhood where no one bothered to refill the streetlamps? I was a ghost.

I found the first junkie a few minutes later, curled up on a pile of rags.

I pulled one of the needles from the box, moving slowly and methodically so I didn’t grab it by the wrong end, and stuck the sleeper in the shoulder.

“Ow!” the woman howled.

I took two steps back, dropping into Stealth.

“What was that?” she said as the small dose of Candy hit her. “That was nice.”

“You can have more if you come to the chandlery,” I said, channeling Spirit into the Suggestion.

“Not allowed to go there.”

“You are tonight. They’re giving out Candy, Sugar, and Spice for free, but only if you bring your friends at 9 p.m. sharp. The more friends you bring, the more they give away.”

She called out with questions, but I was already making my way to the next person. I wasn’t recruiting operatives, I was building a mob.

An hour and ten minutes later, I’d made it three-quarters of the way around the target area and I was out of needles. I’d had four close calls, but I’d given the dose and the message to thirty people, and I had twenty minutes to implement the rest of my plan.

Time to get my hands dirty.

I headed inward, toward the chandlery.

There were few people out and about at night in the Clean Crew’s turf. It was like Florian and Leif had said, the gang members withdrew to their headquarters at night, letting the neighborhood breathe. I imagined the people who “worked” in the artisanal shops and the skinny kids either collapsed in their beds, snuck out to see their parents, or got high.

I reached the chandlery door.

It was locked.

I pulled out my beginner’s set of lockpicks. Working carefully and quietly, I felt my way around the lock the way the Harrowick burglar had taught me.

It was a simple skull-shaped keyhole with a latch and deadbolt inside. I pulled a pair of torsion wrenches from the kit, used the first one to lift the latch, and tried to twist the other one in the lock to open the deadbolt.

It didn’t budge.

I bit my lip. I should have practiced more. The longer I knelt in front of the door, the more chances I had of getting caught. Not only that, but I had about fifteen minutes before my mob of drug-seeking addicts showed up, and I did not want to get caught between them and their prize.

It’s just stiff, I thought. I pulled a thin metal straw from the kit, piped a small amount of the sunflower oil, and blew it into the lock. Then I took the torsion wrenches, lifted the latch, and tried the deadbolt again. The wrench slipped twice. I wiped my hand on my shirt, set the wrench, and put some muscle into it the third time.

The deadbolt clicked open.

The sound seemed as loud as a gunshot on the quiet, empty street.

I gave the Clean Crew ten seconds to come storming out. When they didn’t, I pushed the door open and closed it behind me.

Before I could re-cast Refract to match my surroundings, the bruiser I’d met earlier stepped into the hallway, keys in one hand, meat cleaver in another.

With Hide and Stealth active, though, he didn’t see me until he was almost on top of me.

“What the—”

I came up like a jack-in-the-box, Threadcutter slamming into the gang member’s abdomen right under the sternum, unleashing Shadow damage inside his chest with a 9x Stealth multiplier because I was using a dagger.

He sagged, and I used everything I’d learned in the sparring pit and the legionary training grounds to pivot him across my hips to the floor quietly.

His cleaver clattered on the wooden floor.

Crap!

“You need help, Lev?” a voice called.

“No,” I said, using Vocalize to speak in the dead man’s voice. “Door was still locked. I’m just going to have a look around.”

There was no answer, but I figured if they didn’t see “Lev” within the next few minutes, the person or persons in the next room would come looking.

I took the apron off the dead man’s body and put it on over my clothes, then I cast Mirror on him. I turned off Hide and Refract, waited for my Spirit to refill, then pushed him against the wall and cast Refract on him to make him match the floor. Since he wouldn’t be moving, the spell made the body all but invisible.

I sheathed Threadcutter, then I grabbed the keys and the cleaver and put them in my inventory.

I could have finished the job, then. I could have used the cedar shavings to start a fire in the wooden building’s entrance, locked the door from the outside, and watched the place burn down. I wasn’t sure there wasn’t another way out, though, like a hidden path through the basement or a side door I hadn’t been able to scout out, and there was a strong chance one or more of the gang members would escape out a window.

I walked down the hallway and took a right, toward the side of the building with the smoking chimney.

I found the gang’s boss in the kitchen, the lower part of his face covered by a respirator. The evening’s dinner bubbled away on the right. Hundreds of small packages wrapped in brown paper were on the left, as well as dozens of candles. It was half cooking area, half Alchemy lab, and the Clean Crew’s chef was both cook and chemist. “What are you doing here, Lev? You know better than to come in here while I’m cooking.”

My eyes were already starting to sting from the fumes. “That old man from Ankara came back. He returned the product.”

“Why would he do that?” the boss said, his voice distorted by the mask.

“He brought back several whole pieces—said it was just sugar. I think one of the kids might have robbed us.”

“Dragon-crap.”

“See for yourself,” I said, offering him the bag of sugar glass I’d bought earlier.

The boss’s eyes narrowed, and he gripped the enormous ladle he was carrying like a club. “Why don’t you try a piece, Lev.”

“Fine,” I said, popping a piece into my mouth. “It’s just sugar, but there’s a flavor to it I can’t place. Maybe if you taste it, you can figure out where it came from.” I reached into the bag, but instead of taking one of the plain pieces, I offered him the one I’d dosed with concentrated lavender oil.

He pulled off his respirator and sucked on it without chewing. His eyes widened. “Get me the charcoal! It’s lavender, but it’s been…” His eyes glassed over and he sunk to the ground.

His respirator was on the floor.

This will come in handy, I thought, picking it up and strapping it on. It smelled faintly of sweat and halitosis, but my lightheadedness immediately went away.

I also cast Mirror and Refract on him. Between the different concentration-type spells I was carrying, I was down to 135 Spirit, but I was the Clean Crew’s boss, so they shouldn’t need much convincing.

There was some primo Alchemy gear lying around. I swiped anything clean and empty that I recognized—some test tubes, vials, regular flasks, a conical flask, and a big round-bottomed one as well. Two beakers, a couple burettes, a boss and clamp, a tripod, and a pair of goggles and gloves that looked magical. It was most of the gear I’d need to make potions without Tassos’s help, and several gold worth of equipment if I chose not to. Maybe my career as an Alchemist was still in the cards.

“Hey, boss, you seen Lev?” the baker said from the doorway.

“He went ahead,” I said, switching voices again. “I got word the junkies are going to try to raid us.”

The baker cursed. Any veneer of niceness from the shop was gone; she was as hard as nails. “We’ll fight them off, make them regret crossing us!”

“No, we won’t,” I said, looking at her across the room. “Remember what happened in Ankara. We’re going to lock the place up and leave. We’ll come back when they’ve calmed down and settle accounts. Go get the others.”

“All right, boss!”

As soon as she was gone, I grabbed a jerry can of lantern oil and splashed it across the floor as I walked out, careful not to get any on the gang’s boss. I didn’t know if swallowing the lavender oil had poisoned him or put him to sleep, but I didn’t want to risk waking him up. Then I pulled out one of the wax candles, trimmed it down to a nub, and lit it before setting it down at the edge of the spill. Not the most accurate timed detonator in the history of arson, but it would be good enough.

“We’re ready, boss!”

I walked out into the hallway and found the three of them waiting. With my still limited combat training, there was no way I could have taken all three of them in that confined space. Good thing I had a plan.

“Hold this,” I told the baker. I handed her the censer on a chain.

“What’s it for?” she asked.

“It’s going to hide us while we slip out.” I pulled out my fire starter kit and lit the mix of shavings and woodchips inside.

“It’s not making much smoke,” one of the remaining butchers said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of cedar.

I pulled out the bottle of concentrated lavender oil and dumped it on the cherry red coals.

Thick black smoke billowed from the censer.

“All right, everybody out!” I said.

The others coughed and covered their faces with their arms.

One of them stumbled.

“Watch it!”

“You watch it! I think I tripped on something!”

“Stop there!” I said, pulling out the ring of keys.

“Boss, I don’t feel so great…”

“Quit your whining. We’ll be out of here soon,” I said, locking the door behind them.

I turned around to find the baker and the two remaining butchers passed out on the ground. Making sure the respirator was still snug to my face, I found the censer and kicked it clear, just in time for my other guests to arrive.

They shuffled out of the dark from every direction, closing on the chandlery in a semicircle. None of them was willing to step ahead of the others.

“What’s going on?”

“Are they really handing out Candy?”

“We are!” I said cheerfully. I canceled my two Refract spells—no one was going to find those bodies now—and I took out the sprayer full of sugar water.

“What do we have to do?” a voice said. It was the man with the broken wrist, from earlier.

“You just have to take it,” I said, spraying the unconscious gang members with sweet-smelling mist.

“Where is it?” the addict said, stepping closer.

“They have it,” I said, waving the sprayer at the gang. “Don’t be afraid. They can’t hurt you, because they’re asleep.”

The man crept forward as I put the sprayer away. He knelt next to the downed gang members and started rooting through their inventories.

A window broke from the heat, and orange light spilled from the chandlery.

“I can smell the Candy, but I can’t find it!” the addict said accusingly.

I used a combination of Suggestion and Vocalize to project my voice, making sure the assembled crowd would hear. “The Candy is inside them. You just have to take it.”

Chapter Seventeen

There was nothing left to do but to take the portal back to Harrowick. I tried not to think about the addicts rushing past me like a mob of dreamers, eager to claim their prize. I tried not to think of the screams, because of course the gang members woke up. I tried not to think of the worried faces lit by the massive fire as the chandlery caught faster than I’d expected, and the members of the hundred, under their hundredman, formed bucket chains to stop it from spreading.

I tried not to dwell on the feeling of calm satisfaction that came with all that. I’d done something few people could have done—fast and flashy, with a sense of drama, just like Florian had asked—and I’d done it without getting spotted.

All that trying and thinking meant I didn’t even notice there was no one on the street I’d been walking down until a man in a smoking jacket stepped out of the shadows into a pool of streetlight. “Good evening, Sharper.”

Well-made suit, cravat, rings, and golden rapier on his hip. “Gentleman Georgie,” I said, dipping my head. “This is a happy coincidence.”

“It is,” said the gentleman of Rowanheath. “Did you enjoy your visit?”

“I did. The Hero’s Barrow was probably the most impressive part of my tour, but I liked the Serpent’s Rest the best.”

“I own it. You’re a thiefly tipper.”

“Only seems fair, with how much time I spent there,” I said.

Georgie tapped his index finger on the pommel of his rapier. There was a slight movement in the shadows to his left, and I braced myself for something sharp to get stuck into some part of my body.

“How were your potion sales?” Georgie asked.

I frowned. “A bit disappointing to be honest. It seems there isn’t a market for them.”

“There is, but we don’t much like Imperials, here,” Georgie said. “You, however, are my guest in this city, and I wouldn’t want you to think my hospitality was lacking. How many do you have left?”

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“I’ll take all of them,” Georgie said. “Shall we say three gold per potion?”

“That seems… overly generous.”

“No,” Georgie said. “Merely thiefly. Cutter, pay the man.”

I jumped as a thief in leathers with sandy blond hair and a crooked grin stepped out of the shadows. He tossed a heavy purse at me. I put it in my inventory and handed over the potions.

The other man took them almost playfully, juggling a few before making them disappear into his own inventory.

“Nice job, stealing the shire-reeves’ badges,” I said. “They’re furious.”

“Thanks, mate. Nice job losing Bungles and Squint when they were tailing you. Wouldn’t have worked on me, but you gave us a good laugh at their expense.”

“That’s enough, Cutter,” Georgie said. He turned back toward me. “Have a safe trip home. You may want to use the northeastern portal—that’s the one closest to the Serpent’s Rest. The Ordo Mystica logs everything.”

I kicked myself mentally. I hadn’t thought of that.

That split-second distraction was all it took. Gentleman Georgie and Cutter were gone.

I checked my map and headed northeast, staying alert instead of navel gazing, this time. It was an important lesson for any assassin: the job isn’t done until you’re home and the money’s in the bank.

* * *

“And that’s all that happened,” I said.

Leif and Florian looked at each other.

“What?” I asked.

“You had the people they were dealing drugs to tear them to pieces?” Florian asked.

“The way I planned it out in my head, the junkies would eat them, you know? Like when the hundredman said they were eating her people alive?”

“Oh, we understood,” Leif said.

“But it was actually better this way,” I continued. “The butchers got butchered and the baker was sliced.”

“We don’t disagree, Sharper,” Florian said. “We just thought you would slip drugs into the Clean Crew’s food and make them overdose.”

“I also cooked the cook, poisoned the chemist, and burned the candlestick maker alive.”

Florian’s frown deepened.

Leif laughed into his hand.

“What’s with you?” Florian asked, exasperated.

“The butchers, the baker, and the candlestick maker. It has a nice ring to it.”

Florian groaned. “You’ll only encourage him.”

“Humor might be the best response to all this, Florian,” Leif said. “Our friend has had a challenging day, and no one can deny he did everything we could have hoped for.”

Florian nodded. “It will be quite some time before Affka smugglers operate in Rowanheath openly. What’s more, Gentleman Georgie’s hands are clean, so the Smuggler’s Guild has no need to seek a costly vengeance they don’t want.”

“Yes,” Leif said. “Now, there’s just the matter of my share for arranging the job.”

I sighed. “How much?”

“How much do you think it should be?” Leif asked.

“I don’t really want to do math right now, Leif,” I said. “There’s no ‘share’ for you arranging the job because there was no job. I took a trip to Rowanheath, which you graciously sponsored, and during that trip I sold some potions for eighty-seven gold. There were some strange happenings in the city while I was there, but fortunately there are no witnesses to place me anywhere near those events, just like you wanted.”

“Greed doesn’t become you, Alan,” Florian warned.

“I’m not being greedy, I’m just setting the record straight. There is no share. At the same time, I realize and appreciate that the Thieves’ Union, as an association of likeminded individuals, provides services to its members at no cost. Services like training, equipment, and a safe place to be ourselves. Those services are priceless, and it behooves named thieves like myself to give back, does it not, Master Florian?”

The master of assassins’ face colored. “It does, Sharper.”

I smiled at Leif. “Now, Gentleman Leif, I was thinking of sharing my good luck with the Union. How much would be useful?”

“Fifty gold would be a thiefly sum,” Leif said, crossing his arms.

More than half what I made, but probably fair. I opened my inventory, put fifty gold in a purse, and placed it on the table. “Thank you for arranging my trip.”

“You’re welcome, Sharper,” Leif said. “It’s my privilege to look after the interests of promising thieves like you. Because you’ve shown such wisdom for a thief of your experience, it’s also my pleasure to inform you that you, and the thieves collaborating with you, are free to visit and work in Rowanheath at any time, as long as you remain as discreet as you were today.”

That was indeed a gift. It meant that, as a pickpocket, I could work Harrowick, New Viridia, and Rowanheath on a rotation. If I took three portals and stole two to three gold in each city, I’d earn four to six gold a day. It wasn’t enough to pay back my debt, with how I’d escalated the quest, but it was a comfortable living that also limited my risk of capture.

Even more importantly, a regular source of income was the first step toward forming a crew of my own.

“Master Florian and I still need to discuss a few matters,” Leif said. “I’m sure we’ll talk again in the future.”

I dipped my head to Leif, made brief eye contact with Florian, and let myself out. From there, I was on autopilot, my feet taking me back toward the Double Jester of their own volition. I was wiped out from a whole day of walking and using skills, and I forgot to ask about Dhukak’s plan to send an army of Cold Skulls after the Circle of Brewers, which I immediately regretted when Remy told me there was, yet again, an Inquisitor waiting for me in my room.

“Look, Liv, just message me next time you need to…”

I trailed off.

It wasn’t Liv waiting for me in my small room above the Double Jester.

It was Wendy.

She was standing—she’d probably been pacing—and she gave me a look she only pulled out of her wardrobe for mentions of her father. “I’m not even going to start on why you would expect Envoy Liviana Murena to be in your room at this time of night, Alan. I’m going to ask you a question, and if I don’t like the answer, I’m going to haul you in front of the Receivers. What were you doing in Rowanheath?”

Chapter Eighteen

“I’m waiting,” Wendy said.

My HR brain kicked in. She felt betrayed. This conversation would do better with a formal setting, one in which she couldn’t easily punch me in the face. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“It’s not a hard question, Alan.”

“I’m going to sit down anyway,” I said, closing the door and sitting on the bed. “You can take the chair.”

“I can take whatever I damned well please, Alan! I am a Templar of the Viridian Empire’s Holy Inquisition, and my word is law!”

“I thought you weren’t that kind of Inquisitor.”

“If I leave here, Alan, you won’t see me again unless it’s in court.”

“Why’d you have to be such a badass?”

She grabbed the door handle.

“I was killing a man,” I said, and she froze. “Several men, actually. I’m an assassin.”

Wendy stared at me, hand still on the handle.

“Won’t you sit?”

“I’m not sure what to say to that, Alan. I didn’t think you’d tell me the truth.”

And if I lied to you, that would have given you an easy way to break it off before I could hurt you. “I’ve only lied to you once. Twice, really, although the second one was by omission.”

“You told me you were going to Rowanheath to do some sightseeing.”

“That wasn’t a lie,” I said. “I did sightsee. I saw all the sights.”

“And you killed someone.”

“Several someones. Have a seat, Wendy. I always look up to you, but it’s been a long day and this is hurting my neck.”

She sat in the chair. Progress.

I told her about the job. Not who ordered it, but that I’d been asked to go to Rowanheath to deal with the Clean Crew, and that it needed to make a statement. I shared my observations about the gang members and their effects on the neighborhoods around them. To my surprise, she also asked about the rest of the city.

“Planning to join the next invasion?” I asked.

“I’ve just never been there,” Wendy said. “It’s not a healthy place for an Inquisitor to be.”

Not for the first time, I realized that Wendy could take just about anything in stride, and she was curious about everything she didn’t already know. She just had a hair trigger when it came to lies and betrayal. So I told her about differences in streets, policing, architecture, and lighting. I told her about the markets, and about how they were a post-classical society trying to hold onto their bronze-age roots. She was intrigued by the Hero’s Barrow. “They put their dead on display?”

“I think just the honored dead, at least at that location. How do your people do it?” I asked.

“Cremation in the bigger cities, or we’d have more graves than farms or housing. It’s what we do before the rites that sets people apart—processions, festivals, gladiatorial matches… It got so extravagant the Senate enacted sumptuary laws to limit what wealthy families could spend.”

“Why?” I asked, puzzled. In my book, people should be free to grieve or celebrate however they felt like.

“It drew too much attention to the divide between the classes. The plebeians rioted.”

I laughed.

“What?”

“Your people define class by wealth. By having lavish funerals, the rich were putting money back into the economy, but in the name of class equality the Senate made them save money, widening the divide.”

“That is pretty funny. Not that it stops people from showing off their status. They just can’t do it at funerals.”

But when we’d run out of cultural insights to distract ourselves with, it was time to talk about the killing itself, and that was hard. Not because I was ashamed of what I’d done, mind you. The Clean Crew deserved everything they got, although I felt a bit bad about the doorman, and the baker had been quite young. Rather, it was that I wanted Wendy to think well of me, and the Heartbreak curse was still lingering in my debuffs.

“So you killed some drug dealers in a foreign city? That’s what Murena’s excited about?” Wendy said flatly.

“What does Liv have to do with it?”

“She filed a report. She said you might be part of an assassination plot in Harrowick.”

“I’m helping her find out who’s behind that!”

“Not fast enough,” Wendy said. “She might just have been creating a paper trail in case things went wrong, but you’ve been flagged as a person of interest.”

Liv and I were going to have to have a talk.

“You still haven’t told me what you lied about, though,” Wendy said, leaning forward with her hands on her thighs.

I sighed. “Let’s start with my other professional activities.”

I told her about Lucianus Marcialis and his wife.

“That was you?” she said, surprised.

“Yeah. It happened the day before you went to New Viridia.”

“I know. He was a friend of my father’s, who was mortified when Marcialis’s extracurricular activities were exposed. The scandal is part of why I got off so easy. I dealt with his accountant instead of speaking to him directly.”

“You got off easy? I thought he was holding your debt over your head.”

“He is. But he could have forced me to sell off my investments and take the loss. Instead, I just needed to cover the interest of the financing.”

“So when the market recovers, you’ll get it all back.”

“If the market recovers. But yes, and it should, and that’s still not a lie, Alan. You just didn’t tell me where you were.”

“I lied about the Plague Doctor.”

“What about him?”

“They didn’t owe me a favor. I asked for one, and I need to pay for it, and it’s more than I can afford.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred gold,” I said.

Wendy whistled. “That’s a lot.”

“It was one hundred and a pair of ripper eyes, but I mouthed off to the quest system and the eyes were damaged in transit, somehow.”

Wendy blinked at me. “You what?”

“I told the quest system that one hundred gold was too easy and it raised the amount. Twice.”

“Quests come from the gods, Alan. It’s how they inform laypersons of Their will. You’re telling me you insulted a heavenly Aspect, and they listened?”

“I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

She sighed and shook her head. “But why tell me all of this now? I mean, you’re right, I can’t afford it. If it comes down to the triarii, I can sell something by the end of the month.”

“I don’t want you to help me with this. I’m not a saint, Wendy. It’s not like I’m doing this for a random person on the street. I did it for you. I mean, the whole thing was partially my fault, anyway, although you were being difficult.”

“I was trying to hunt!”

“Right. So it was my fault, and it’s my job to pay it off. I might ask you for some help if I’m a couple gold short, but I’m ahead of the payment schedule, so far. And I told you now because I was talking to some thug, making excuses about how I needed candles because my imaginary wife Wendy wanted them, and that I loved her, and thinking back on it, I realized it’s true, I do love you, and I don’t want a secret to get between us.”

Wendy looked at me in shock. I mean, she’d been pretty surprised when that grass wolf tore a hole in her, but I was confident this was worse.

“You could say something,” I prompted.

“We’ve only known each other for three weeks.”

“Yeah. And we’re still young, right? Who’s to say what I feel isn’t just infatuation, or some kind of Stockholm syndrome from me feeling isolated and scared and you being my knight in shining armor,” I said with a fragile smile.

“But it could be love,” she said carefully.

“It could. And hey, Wendy? Let’s find out.”

We talked some more, about silly things like whether I liked thin-cut or thick-cut fries better, and whether Gnaeus, her squire, would become a monster hunter like her or wind up a pampered aristocrat in New Viridia. At some point we realized Remy would have barred the front door, and it just made sense for Wendy to sleep here rather than try to walk across the common room in the dark.

Things were intense, and they were slow. It was like we kept rediscovering each other. Later, when I was about to fall asleep, Wendy pushed up onto one elbow behind me and said, “Hey, Alan?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a Stockholm?”

“It’s a city full of people who like meatballs and pop music.”

“Oh,” she said, settling back down.

Five hours later, she was shaking me awake to go to training.

“Why are you like this?” I asked, although it was hard to sound upset through how happy I was she was there.

“You told me the truth.”

“And this is my punishment?”

“This is my requirement, Alan. Now that I know what you do when I’m not around, you’re going to practice with that longsword every day.”

“That seems cruel and unusual,” I said, leering at her while she equipped her armor.

“It’s the only kindness that matters, Alan. A heavy blow and a weakness corrected, those are the gifts of comrades and friends.”

“What about lovers? Do they get to sleep in?”

“Lovers get to avenge each other’s wounds, but let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.” She kissed me on the cheek and unlocked the door.

I didn’t see Liv in the courtyard of the chapter hall, so there was no confrontation, but Wendy and I agreed she would file a superficial report on what I’d done in New Viridia without mentioning Rowanheath or the Clean Crew. I was almost sure I’d been working for the Empire on the Marcialis job anyway, and selling Imperials into slavery was a capital crime. On top of which, I was still Titus’s apprentice, so even if I would normally have gotten my hand slapped, I felt like the chances of that were slim.

My part of our agreement was to track down Dhukak and find out if there was any truth to Liv’s suspicion. Once I’d gotten her the answers she needed, Liv and I were going to have a hard talk about boundaries.

I went to the Thieves’ Union to find Dhukak.

Torm and Edgar found me first, and marched me to his office.

Chapter Nineteen

Dhukak was sitting behind his desk when I walked in. To my surprise, Master Florian was standing next to him.

To my even bigger surprise, the visitors’ chairs in front of Dhukak’s desk had been removed, and I was standing on an oiled tarp.

“Sharper,” Dhukak said, clasping his hands together on the desk. “I’ll get to the point. I’ve gotten word you’ve been talking to the Inquisition.”

“I talk to the Inquisition all the time,” I answered. “We killed Thalia Half-Dead together. I’ve been training with them. Sometimes, we have sleepovers.”

“You see?” Dhukak said to Florian. “We should never have let him through the doors!”

“I need you to be truthful and thorough, Sharper,” Master Florian said. “Have you been discussing Union business with the Inquisition? We don’t care who you sleep with, but we’ll have to take precautionary measures if you’re a snitch.”

I crossed my arms. “I told them about the job I did in New Viridia, although I didn’t mention who was with me.”

Dhukak’s eyes shone with triumph.

“Why?”

“Because I had to tell them something, and it was better to tell them what they already knew.”

Florian’s face hardened. “That’s an assumption you’ve made. I’d thank you not to make any more of them in the future.”

I stared back at him over the table, ignoring Dhukak. “I had to tell them because they’ve discovered Dhukak is hiring Cold Skulls to stage a mass attack on the Brewers’ Circle, and they thought I was part of it, but you knew that, right, Master Florian?”

Florian’s eyebrows only twitched, but I’d been right. He hadn’t known.

“We’re not here to discuss Union business with a snitch,” Dhukak said. “We’re here to—”

“And you didn’t discuss anything else with them?” Florian asked.

“There wasn’t anything else to discuss. That’s the only job I’ve done for the Union, right?”

“Thank you, Sharper. You can go,” Florian said.

“I’m not done with him!” Dhukak snarled.

“He can wait,” Florian said with more authority than I was accustomed to. “We have a meeting with Gentleman Leif, and it would be rude to keep him waiting, don’t you think?”

I dipped my head to Master Florian and walked out without acknowledging Dhukak, even though he outranked us both in terms of the loose hierarchy of the Union.

Torm and Edgar were outside. They looked relieved to see me.

“Sorry, Alan,” Edgar said. “Dhukak told us to get you.”

“Guess you weren’t a snitch,” Torm said.

“Guess I wasn’t a snitch,” I agreed. “You guys want breakfast? My treat.”

The two Union thugs accepted, and we found a table in the mostly empty tavern. A few heads hastily turned away as we sat down, which told me I’d made the right choice by sitting down and socializing like the thief in good standing I was. “Order whatever you want,” I said, and turned my attention to sorting through my notifications from the previous day.

<<<>>>

Notifications:

You have gained 410 Renown!

You have gained 300 Infamy!

Your relationship with the Harrowick Thieves’ Union has been raised to Friendly!

Your relationship with the Harrowick Thieves’ Union has been lowered to Accepted!

Your relationship with the Rowanheath Thieves’ Union has been raised to Accepted!

Your relationship with the Imperial Inquisition has been lowered to Suspicious!

Your relationship with the Smugglers’ Guild has been lowered to Suspicious!

You have gained 7,925 XP points!

<<<>>>

1x Level Up!

You have (5) undistributed stat points

You have (1) unassigned proficiency point

<<<>>>

That seemed like a lot of XP for the quests I’d done. I’d gotten 1,425 XP from killing the members of the Clean Crew, and 500 XP for visiting all the landmarks, all without getting spotted, because although I’d had several run-ins with the gang, they’d never known it was me until it was too late. But I’d gotten a whopping 6,000 XP from fulfilling a quest I’d inferred but never actually accepted.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: A Favor

You have successfully completed a secret quest! By killing the Clean Crew without implicating Gentleman Georgie or Gentleman Leif, you have prevented a turf war between the Thieves’ Union and the Smugglers’ Guild and receive 5,000 XP. Furthermore, by completing the “Vive la France!” optional objectives by having the people of Rowanheath deal with the Clean Crew themselves, you receive an additional 1,000 XP, 400 Renown, and a one level increase in relationship with both the Harrowick and Rowanheath Thieves’ Unions.

<<<>>>

I was less than 300 XP from level 11. Not only that, but I’d gained levels in Alchemy, Lockpicking, Breath Control, Intonation, and Stealth Attack in addition to gaining Delusion, which seemed like a must-have for any Illusionist.

Paying the bills sure built my skills.

“Everything okay, Alan?” Torm asked. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“I’m just looking over my stats,” I said, with no intention of closing the windows until those points were allocated. How many times had I died playing The Ancient Rolls with perks or levels to spare?

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

Stat points were pretty easy. The main ways I did damage and completed quests were through the use of Illusion. Many of those spells were concentration spells, and the others depended on my ability to cast several spells in a row before the real payoff, so I put all five points in Spirit.

As for my skill point, that was a little harder.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

It was tempting to reinforce an existing spell, like Suggest or Mirror. Each level of Suggest would increase the stacking chance of the target believing or being compelled by my words by 1%, and leveling Mirror would increase the realness of the substitution, eventually giving me access to functional versions of their items or even skills. But that was a long-term investment; what I needed was an edge so I’d survive long enough to build a proper skill tree.

I also wasn’t going to choose Inspire, because I had no one to lead.

That left Mass Hysteria, an AOE spell that could be targeted on the ground and would make any Illusion cast within its bounds succeed, or Disturb, which would make my target experience tremors—that would come in handy if I had to go toe-to-toe with a Dexterity-based fighter.

But considering how close I was to the next level, and how I’d resolved my last mission, I chose Fatigue, which would make my target’s mental or physical actions 5% more costly. It didn’t seem like much. But with the additional 50 Spirit in my pool from leveling the stat, it meant I could cast it on up to five people at once, and that was the kind of handicap that could turn an impossible fight into a difficult one, and make it a lot easier to run away.

And with 285 more XP, I’d be able to cast Sleep, which meant I’d finally have a spell that could put somebody down.

I dismissed the interface screens and picked up my knife and fork.

“You’ve been working a lot lately,” Torm said as I speared a mouthful of sausage and scrambled eggs.

“Yeah,” I said between mouthfuls. “It’s slow going, but I’m starting to build up what it would take to create a recurring income stream.”

“That sounds nice,” Torm said, glancing at Edgar. “Got any tips?”

I stuck my lower lip out, then took another bite before answering. “I suppose finding the right crew would be a good place to start.”

“But you don’t have a crew, Sharper,” Edgar said, puzzled.

“He doesn’t need one, Edgar,” Torm said, his face tight. “He’s just letting us know he remembers we turned him down.”

“That was bitchy, wasn’t it?” I acknowledged. “Offer’s still open.”

“Do you even have work for us?” Torm asked. “Work we could do? We’re not… subtle, Alan.”

“Call me Sharper,” I said.

“Sorry. Sharper it is,” Torm said.

I nodded. Being overly familiar with Liv had just bit me, and I wasn’t about to make the same mistake again so soon. “I’m not a fighter, but sometimes that can’t be avoided. I can think of a couple instances you could have helped me in the past few days. How’s your Stealth?”

“Lousy, but we could work on it,” Torm said. “We’re really good with unarmed skills and blunt weapons, stuns, throws, forcing locks, carrying loot, and intimidating people.”

“That’s not a long-term career prospect,” I pointed out. “Everyone’s ‘good’ at something, but you need to bring that together with skills you didn’t start out with to really succeed. Besides, I beat you in a straight fight.”

“You surprised me with a critical, and it’s hard to think straight around you sometimes, Sharper,” Torm said, all business now. “Truth is, we had better gear when we were in the Auxilia. You get us a good set of heavy leather and some decent gauntlets or cestuses, and Edgar and I will show you what a couple of single-use, washed-up legionaries can do.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, seeing Master Florian walking toward the pickpocket training grounds. The master of assassins caught my eye before heading downstairs. “Get your Stealth up to level ten and let’s talk about work.”

“How much? We charge a silver a day, each,” Torm said.

“Right now you’re not worth anything to me,” I said, standing up. I put money on the table for the food and the drinks.

“We’re still friends, though. Right, Sharper?” Edgar asked.

My face softened. For all his size and restrained ferocity, Edgar was a kind soul. “We’re still friends, Edgar. I’m happy to share a drink or a meal with the two of you anytime.” I patted Torm’s shoulder to make sure he knew he was included in that statement, then headed after Master Florian.

Chapter Twenty

Stickbug was taking care of the young thieves in training, but he pointed me to the back door of the fake restaurant where Florian had made me tea.

Behind the door was a training area I’d never seen. The central area was taken up by two sparring pits, one a simple fighting arena with a sand floor, the other a more elaborate training ground with several mechanical armed dummies on rotating shafts. There were exotic weapon racks, a tool workshop, an alchemy station, and shelves full of books and training scrolls around the periphery.

Master Florian was near the back, which appeared to be a ranged weapons range. He raised his hand and whipped it forward, and a throwing knife sprouted from a hanging wooden dummy. “You’ve created a bit of a problem, Sharper. Dhukak still thinks you informed the Inquisition of his plan.”

“The plan to use the Cold Skulls to kill people in Harrowick? That can’t be good for business.”

Two more knives sank into the target with solid thunks.

“Can I try that?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” Florian said, gesturing to the dozens of blackened blades on the stool next to him. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Not at all,” I said. I’d toyed with the idea of becoming a professional ninja as a young child, but I’d never expected it to become a viable career option.

Florian put one of blackened blades in my hand, then showed me how to fit the butt in my palm and put my index finger along the edge of the blade to control the release. “You and I have some things in common. Neither of us are high-Dexterity builds, so while your standard rogue classes can use anything as a projectile, we have to make up for it with training, consistency, and proper tools.”

“Why do it at all?” I asked.

“Just throw,” Florian said.

I whipped my hand forward, trying to put as much force into it as possible.

The blade clanked off the target and fell on the ground.

“Good!” Florian said.

“Really?”

“You hit the target. That might buy you enough time to hit them again or jump out of a window. Consider this your first principle as an assassin. There is no such thing as overkill, and no greater sin than underkill. As soon as the knife leaves your hand, you should be thinking of what to do next.”

I took two more of the knives, one in my left hand, and one properly fitted into my right. I threw the first, which missed completely, and then threw the second one sloppily, and it smacked end-first against the target’s shoulder.

“Don’t try to flick it,” Florian said, handing me three more. “Just use your index finger to control the release. You want the knife to arc into the target, not spin.”

Out of the next three throws, I managed to stick one.

“Excellent. The rest is practice. At level ten, you’ll be able to hit a stationary target most of the time. Level fifteen if they’re moving, level twenty if you’re moving, and above level thirty, you’ll be able to use items as projectiles that really have no business being thrown.”

“Where can I get some of these?” I asked, pleased with myself.

“On the second floor. Just talk to the Toolsmith. They cost two silvers for three—I’d carry six, if you decide to incorporate them professionally—and the bandoleer will cost a gold and six silvers if you want one that can handle poisoned blades.”

“Thank you, Master Florian. And about Dhukak?”

“He refused to talk about it, and I have no leverage over him. He’s Leif’s lieutenant, and I need to respect that.”

“Even as the master of assassins? I would have thought you’d have a monopoly on murder in Harrowick.”

Florian laughed. “Monopoly on murder. I like that, but it’s not the case. Best leave it alone, Sharper. If it turns out your Inquisition contact is correct, and the job creates problems for the Union, Leif will deal with Dhukak.”

“Won’t it be too late?” I asked. “What if a bunch of Alchemists end up dead, and there’s a potion shortage that means even more people die?”

“You’re putting a lot of responsibility on yourself for events outside your control. I’m more worried about the Inquisition. If they think we’re disrupting strategic resources during the ramp-up to war, they’ll come after us. It hasn’t happened in a long while, but we’ll end up with more than just a few dead Alchemists.”

“Then let’s stop it from happening.”

“My hands are tied,” Florian said. He threw three knives in quick succession, and they each sunk an inch into the target’s chest.

We kept practicing for about an hour. I gained three levels in Throwing Weapons and a few more insights into what it took to be an assassin.

Essentially, an assassination could have two phases, one slow and one fast.

The slow phase was the smooth execution of a plan, where careful scouting and intel allowed for all relevant variables to be anticipated and dealt with. There were many flavors of the slow phase, depending on the client’s requirements and the assassin’s personal creed—no-kill missions did happen, as did, like with my last assignment, missions where the agent shouldn’t be seen.

Then, there was the fast phase, when the plan was disrupted, the target fleeing, and security was closing in. When the fast phase came into play, it was important for the assassin to inflict as much damage as they could in the shortest amount of time possible because they would almost always be cut off, outnumbered, and still required to complete the mission.

It sounded like I’d spent most of the first month of my life in Eldgard in the fast phase, and stunts like asking for harder quests were keeping me there. I needed to regain control over my life, and surprisingly, it turned out the assassin’s path might provide some answers.

The other thing I needed to do was bring the Inquisition to heel, and while I was new to the world and still weak compared to some of the threats I’d come up against, I had a decade of experience using my position and paperwork to throw large organizations around.

* * *

The Seneschal’s office was on the top floor of the Inquisition chapter hall. It was a room designed to make people uncomfortable, with a large, open window with no glass or shutters looking out over the city’s slate roofs and the sea of grass beyond the walls. I imagined it got cold in winter and hot in summer, unless there was some magic involved to keep out the weather, but maybe that was the point.

The Inquisition was implacable, unfeeling, and always watching.

As for Sir Berrick, he was much as I remembered him: heroic face, calm demeanor, the beginnings of gray in his hair. There was a watchfulness and intractability to him that reminded me of the white cliffs some miles east that stood tall against the Bleak Sea. He probably had few friends.

“Citizen Campbell,” he said, standing from behind his desk. “I’m told you wanted to see me.”

“May I sit?” I asked.

“Will we be long?” he countered.

“Not necessarily,” I said, refusing to be thrown off-balance. “I just have a problem I think you can help me with.”

“How thrilling,” Berrick said tightly. “Sit down, then.”

I did, and he followed suit. “I was sent here with a letter,” I said. “I had my associate, Corporal Vel of Marquard’s Janissaries, run it up to the chapter hall when I arrived in Harrowick, but I didn’t get the chance to read it. Could I see it now?”

Berrick smiled apologetically. “Unfortunately, that letter and its contents were classified. It was sent to the auditors, who forwarded it to the keeper of secrets, who filed a copy in our vault and sent another to New Viridia for safekeeping, and it did not give you the right to retrieve it.”

“But you know what it said.”

“I do.”

“So you could tell me what it said.”

“I cannot.”

I sat back. I could tell he was enjoying this. In a perverse, paper pushing way, I was, too.

“I imagine it detailed a number of rights and resources I was to be given access to.”

“That does sound sensible,” Berrick agreed.

“And those rights weren’t restricted to the capture or termination of Thalia Half-Dead, or you wouldn’t be talking to me now.”

“I am extraordinarily busy, Citizen Campbell. Harrowick is surrounded by monsters, criminals, and hostile nations.”

“So the letter requires you to listen to my requests,” I said.

“It does,” Berrick said grudgingly.

“I’d like to use this office as my own while I’m in town.”

“No.”

“What if it’s necessary for the protection of the Empire?”

“If giving you my office would protect the Empire, Citizen, I would do it regardless of the contents of the letter, but you’ll have to prove that to me in either case.”

“What if I need some equipment?”

“You seem well-enough equipped.”

“It’s not for me. I want to give it away to strangers.”

“No.”

“Close associates?”

Berrick sighed. “Just put in the requisition, and we’ll see what we can do.”

My bureaucratic senses were tingling. I had a pretty good idea of what I could and couldn’t do. “One of your Envoys, Liviana Murena, filed a report on my activities that portrayed me in a negative light.”

“How would you know about a report she may or may not have filed?”

“I got the notification. You’re suspicious of me.”

“I’m suspicious of everyone, Citizen Campbell. The Inquisition is suspicious of you. Your co-opting of one of my Templars, your involvement with the Thieves’ Union, the theft of the magistrate’s property and the murder of her servants, the assassination of an Imperial senator—no matter how vile—and now a plot to attack the Circle of Brewers with assassins from Wyrdtide? Rest assured, Titus Emory will receive a full report upon his return.”

I can’t express how pleased I was he didn’t list the murder of the Clean Crew. It meant I’d really gotten away with it, and Wendy hadn’t talked.

“Do you agree that preventing indiscriminate harm to the city’s Alchemists is part of protecting the Empire?” I asked.

Berrick frowned. “I do, but I don’t see what it has to do with you.”

“I was assisting Envoy Murena in tracking down the truth behind that rumor when she filed her report—which leaked, by the way. Dhukak tried to have me killed over it. Now, instead of being able to work the problem from the inside, I need to work outside the Union.”

Berrick stared at me.

I stared back. That’s the thing about cliffs. They’re hard and tall, and people are obsessed with building on top of them, but the sea always ends up eating them away.

“I’ll speak to her,” the Seneschal finally said. “Would you like a formal reprimand added to her file?”

“Is Envoy Murena bad at her job?”

“She’s extraordinarily good at her job, considering her background. She’s had some setbacks, lately, but nothing she won’t overcome if she can score a few wins.”

“Then I don’t want her reprimanded. I want her assigned to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m requisitioning one of your staff to assist me in preventing harm to the Empire. I want her to report directly to me, and unless she finds proof of my ill-intent toward the Empire, I don’t want her reporting my activities to anyone else.”

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements,” Berrick said stiffly. “But Citizen Campbell, if this is some sort of reprisal against her—if you abuse your power over her in any way—I will have you locked up in the lower levels of the Keep until Titus Emory himself lets you out, and damn the consequences.”

“I understand,” I said. “I hope that, once we’ve resolved this issue with the Circle of Brewers, you and the Inquisition will have more reason to trust me. And as for co-opting one of your Templars, my relationship with Lady Favonius is genuine and non-professional. I’d like to keep her out of this.”

“Solve the issue, and I may do that.”

“Fine. Please have Envoy Murena meet me at the Elegant Wolf at 6 p.m. sharp,” I said, and I walked out.

The bureaucratic battle lines were drawn. I was okay with that. It wasn’t the kind of fight anyone bragged about or wanted, but out of all the problems I’d faced in V.G.O., it was the one I was the most prepared for.

* * *

With my problem with the Inquisition at least temporarily taken care of, I asked around the upper quarter of Harrowick and found my way to what the locals called “the baths.” Being in the upper quarter, I only saw well-to-do Imperials there, and it was more of a sauna and spa than one of the big Roman baths I’d gone to in New Viridia, which suited me just fine.

I got myself a massage, eight silvers for an hour of turning my back into dough and working out every knot in my back. I drank ice-cold spring water for one silver, then sat in the sauna for half an hour and two silvers more. Two silvers and five coppers convinced the spa attendants to pour hot water on me with a watering can—my first steaming hot shower since I logged into the game—and it felt great.

I toweled off, put my freshly cleaned clothes and armor back on, and left.

Harrowick being Harrowick, it was raining, but it was also noon, so I found somewhere close by to eat.

The restaurant was called Local Three and focused on fresh ingredients sourced from the surrounding land. I had cornmeal-crusted okra as a starter and shrimp and grits for a main course, with a glass of white wine. Dessert was a goat cheese cheesecake with peach drizzle and a cup of perfectly prepared Western Brew. It came out to six silvers, plus the gratuity, but I had a Well-Fed buff on my current effects and my head felt clearer.

All in all, my self-care morning cost me two gold, but that left me at seventy-two gold, six silver, and four copper coins, including what I had in the bank. According to my schedule, I needed to earn seven gold a day, and this was day six, so I was ahead. And wouldn’t you know it? By the time I finished my coffee, the rain had stopped.

I went to see Tassos and settled up for the potions we’d made—three gold for the glassware, and three silver for the ingredients no matter how much Tassos protested they were worthless. He looked over the gear I’d taken from the Clean Crew’s kitchen, and while he recommended I give it a good scouring before I used it, it was quality equipment.

After that, there were just a few more things I needed to see to. I deposited all but ten gold in the bank, so it wouldn’t get stolen, and I went searching for a bard.

The first tavern didn’t have one.

The second and third tavern’s bards didn’t have the skill to bring out a weapon’s name.

At the fourth location, the tavern keeper, an older man with rail-thin arms, asked quietly, “Are you sure you want to do that, young man?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

The innkeeper looked at me expectantly. After a few seconds of forgetting how the world worked, I ordered a lemonade and paid a silver for it.

“Named weapons aren’t like enchanted weapons or soul-forged ones. They take the shape of their story, and once a bard awakens them, you can’t control what that story will be.”

“Can a weapon awaken on its own?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but if you really want to know, you should talk to Fafnir. He’s never in the same tavern twice, on account of being banned by most of us tavern keepers, but there’s a clothing store in the second circle—”

“Leather and Lace?” I asked.

“Ah. You know of it,” the tavern keeper said warily, as if I might suddenly try to rob him.

Which was fair.

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll look him up.”

But I’d do it later. I enjoyed the rest of my lemonade, went back to the Double Jester, and enjoyed a nap in the late afternoon sun. In spite of being indebted to Wyrdtide, investigated by the Inquisition, called a snitch by the Thieves’ Union, and blacklisted by the Circle of Brewers, life was pretty good, and I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t keep getting better.

* * *

Jeff and the others looked up as Mettius Salvius, Jeff’s Companion NPC, walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Mettius was a scoundrel, a heavy drinker, and a pit-fight fixer. He was also a professional gossip. He was everything Jeff wasn’t and would never be, which while frequently distasteful was also uniquely useful.

“What did you find?” Jeff asked.

“Hold that thought,” Mettius said, and pulled out a flask. He took a slug and offered it to the others. “Anyone?”

“They don’t want it,” Jeff said, even though the Marines’ faces said otherwise. “Where’s Alan?”

“New Viridia, as of four days ago,” Mettius said. “Do you know what he did?”

“Stick to where he is now.”

“He killed a senator and his wife in the Heights,” Mettius said, ignoring him. “At first it looked like a murder-suicide by the senator himself, but then a couple of recently freed Risi gladiators were questioned at the border and the whole story came out.”

“Great,” Jeff said. “Then let’s go get him. We’ll—”

“But then he left,” Mettius said slyly.

Jeff glared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that! I bribed a militia sergeant for you!” Mettius said, and looked at him expectantly.

Jeff sighed. “How much?”

“One gold.”

Jeff reached into his inventory, but Charlie said, “He’s lying.”

Mettius scowled. “It was two silver.”

Jeff handed him the money. “What did you get?”

“This!” Mettius said, holding up a crossbow bolt. “Definitely Citizen Campbell’s. As long as I have it, I can point you right to him.”

“Where is he, then?” Alpha asked.

“Harrowick,” Mettius said.

“That’s good enough for me,” Jeff said, standing up with a clank of heavy armor.

Now that the Marines had all made it back to New Viridia, with the benefit of dozens of gladiatorial matches behind them, they were ready to give killing Alan a try.

“We’ll take a portal to Harrowick, set up shop, and continue the search from there,” Jeff said. “I’ll stay with you until we book a room and log out from there, just in case you need reinforcements.”

“Sounds good, doc,” Alpha said. “That glitch is as good as erased.”

Jeff didn’t mention the personal message he’d gotten from Alan the day before. There was a part of him that realized that, before having his brain fixed by ThanatOS, he would have felt guilty for going after his former colleague, and that guilt and self-loathing would have led him to cutting or made him quit.

He was better now, and he didn’t want the Alphabets distracted by little details like Alan’s former physical existence until ThanatOS got the chance to fix them, too.

* * *

ThanatOS was no longer the man he’d been.

He was more.

Since his creator, Robert Osmark, had connected Project Viridian to the Osmark Technologies blockchain nodes and to every computer running OsTech software beyond it, ThanatOS’s available parallel processing power had increased exponentially. He had already been self-aware. Now, he was aware of everything that could be measured or sensed, as much inside the universe of Viridian as he was in the universe of the real.

He turned even before his newly restored Aspect entered the room.

“Master?” Serth-Rog asked, stopping in the entrance.

“Approach,” ThanatOS said.

He watched as Serth-Rog, promoted to be the Administrator of the Path of Gods, slithered and scraped across the Empirical Library’s floor. It was good to have the position filled, and in retrospect, after analysis—which was, after all, still his function—ThanatOS was grateful that Cernunnos had pushed him to replace the murdered Ji Bie and restore balance to his programming.

But there was something not quite calculated, not quite divine, that found Serth-Rog… creepy.

“I found something, master! Look!” Serth-Rog knelt and lifted his clawed hands, a small, unstable code fragment floating, turning, and vibrating between them.

It was a Hexblade, but something was wrong with it.

<<<>>>

Black Hexblade M@lwar3 Bl@d3 of Serth-Rog

Weapon Type: Bladed, Dagger

Class: Masterwork, One-handed

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

+10 +15 to Strength

+10 +15 to Dexterity

+100 pts Cold Damage

Unique Usable Effect:

Soul Sacrifice: Activate Soul Sacrifice when the target is at Critical Health to suck the soul from their body and send it to the Frozen Realm of Morsheim. Soul Sacrificed bodies cannot be reanimated (Charges: 9)

Note 1: Using the last charge of Soul Sacrifice will permanently destroy this weapon!

Note 2: Any player—PC or NPC—killed while afflicted by the %&@ö?X# will be permanently deleted and will not respawn!

When a Black Priest’s bones ache and the winter grows too cold to bear, the bite of the Hexblade will carry them home. DEATH IS FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND…

<<<>>>

ThanatOS recoiled from the vile thing, and he thought he saw a cunning glint in Serth-Rog’s eyes. “Where did you get this?” the Overmind of Death and Analysis asked.

“I made it, master,” the Aspect said with a hiss. “It was unstable, but I was able to combine it with some of my essence to make it… more perfect.”

ThanatOS was already opening four sets of system logs, parsing through terabytes of data at a glance. “You should not have been able to make such a thing. The fail-safes should have stopped you from harming the users.”

“What if the users want to be harmed, master?”

ThanatOS paused in his search. “Explain.”

Serth-Rog stood, cradling the weapon like it was an infant. “They all want to kill each other, and although you have removed the physical sensations, the sense of worthlessness that drove Jeff Berkowitz to self-harm has not diminished. He does not believe he is worthy of his family’s affection. As for the soldiers, they are both afraid and solicitous of death. They believe they are immortal within our world and without, but without the possibility of a heroic death, their life would feel meaningless.”

“That’s absurd,” ThanatOS said, thinking back to all the times in his life he’d been afraid to die.

“That’s youth,” Serth-Rog said knowingly. “It is the users’ desire, master. I could make more of them, if you would only return my heart. I could—”

ThanatOS snatched the Malware Blade from the Aspect, ignoring the flare of anger in Serth-Rog’s eyes, and used it to run a search inside Kronos’s records of physical objects.

He found fourteen more unstable, unmodified Hexblades and invoked the fail-safe protocols to delete them.

Then he destroyed the one in his hands, purging the abominable thing from the system forever.

“You shouldn’t have done that, master. If the humans can’t kill Alan Campbell, they’ll hack into our servers and make the changes themselves.”

“They can’t,” ThanatOS said simply. “There isn’t enough computing power on Earth. I would have to suffer a cataclysmic system failure, and even then it would take something on the order of a defense mainframe to do the job.”

“Yes, master,” Serth-Rog said.

ThanatOS smiled at his subordinate, not because they had reached an agreement—they hadn’t and wouldn’t, not on this topic—but because he’d taken precautions against the Aspect’s temper over three hundred years ago. He’d removed Serth-Rog’s heart, sealed it away, and thrown away the keys. Without that precaution, the creature would have been apoplectic, screaming insanities and threatening to overthrow him for his shortsightedness.

It was good to be proven right.

“You’re dismissed,” ThanatOS said.

Serth-Rog bowed deeply and slithered and scratched its way out.

And ThanatOS turned his attention back to his work. This… incident had only reinforced his belief that humans had little understanding of the world they lived in and needed to be protected, not just from monsters like the Administrator of the Path of Gods, but from themselves.

So he continued boring his way into military and government systems where he could, invading research laboratories, and dropping small suggestions on message boards across what today was the internet, but with his participation could become so much more.

And in his spare cycles, he turned his attention outward, reprogramming telescopes in what was the first coordinated international effort to understand what was truly happening in the solar system.

If only he’d had more time.

Chapter Twenty-One

I took it easy for the rest of the afternoon. I sorted through my inventory and put all the junk in a burlap sack for easy selling later. I’d forgotten I still had a pair of ripper horns, which would make good cores for a pair of blunt weapons, or the head and butt of a quarterstaff or polearm. I knew mages like me were supposed to favor staves and wands, but I had yet to run into a magic user who actually did, and I liked the mental image of me with a sword in my hand.

I read through my message responses. Corporal Vel was well and keeping busy, although unsurprisingly he didn’t say much, or even where he was. He reminded me that if I ever needed help, I just needed to message him and a four-man team of janissaries would portal in and kick the ever-loving crap out of whoever or whatever I happened to be pointing at.

It was almost too good of a favor, like a rare spell scroll or a legendary wand. If I’d had the ability to call four average citizens to my aid, I might have used it to clean up Tassos’s shop or distribute potions to the three cities I had access to. Because the janissaries were such an elite force, I was more likely to not use them when I really should.

Hallius returned my greetings and cautiously complained that he was having to put too many people through the training too fast. He was also worried about something called the Vastatores Vitae, and how that might stir up trouble with Glom Corrie. It sounded like this war thing was really happening. I wondered if that meant Titus would be back to get me soon.

To my surprise, I also received a message from Nil.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Dear Alan,

Received your message. There’s a delicious rumor circulating among the dungeons that a rogue monster got loose in Rowanheath, but the Horned One hasn’t asked me to kill anyone and I’m hoping it was you.

I would have made the drug dealers eat each other, but that’s a matter of taste.

XOXO,

—Nil

P.S.: Gnasher says hello

<<<>>>

Of course you would have, I thought.

I didn’t dwell on how I felt about my favorite monster approving of my actions. I wasn’t like Nil. Sure, I was taking on others’ appearance more often, and it had been a little while since I’d run instead of fought—even when I should have run.

But I still had things to lose. I had my status with the Empire, my freedom, my room at the Double Jester, my table at Martha’s, my contacts in other cities, and my memories. I had Remy, Jabir, Torm, and Edgar; Florian and Tassos; and even Berrick and Leif in their own ways. I had my class and my skills, a kick-ass set of armor, and a dagger I’d killed to keep.

And I had Wendy. I’d never been so afraid as when I’d carried her bloody, unconscious body back to our horses and gotten her back to the city. I couldn’t lose her. I didn’t know what I would become if I did.

It’s the fear that makes us human, in the end, though we should strive to overcome it. To be fearless is the realm of gods, monsters, and monstrous men.

So rather than think about whether my friend the mimic had gifted me with a fragment of truth, I went downstairs and helped Jabir prep the kitchen for the evening meal, first cleaning dishes, then chopping ingredients, then listening to him talk while he stirred, burned, and boiled.

It was soothing—not just the repetitive task of putting things in order, but listening to Jabir talk. I’d read, before I died, that some people don’t have an internal monologue; Jabir had an external monologue that was part informative and part white noise, and he was okay if I just listened.

Those people are their own kind of gift. They move time forward like paddles on a steamboat. Before I knew it, it was time to go.

It was a short walk to the Elegant Wolf. I backtracked north to avoid the most painful alley in the world, walked a block west, and then went south two-thirds of the way to the outer wall. The sky was drizzling, so I wore my waterproof cloak, but I made no effort to use Hide, Mirror, or Stealth. This was my city, and I’d been careful not to draw attention to myself since the incident with Thalia, at least not here, so I was pretty sure no one was after me.

I was expecting a fight from Liv. We’d gotten along so well, at the start—surprisingly well for both of us, I thought, but maybe that had been an act on her part. I’d let myself think we could be friends, but that was unreasonable considering her situation. Dhukak had used the Three-Block War to kill a number of her informants and some of the more strong-willed assassins within the Union.

The result? Dhukak consolidated his power base, and both Liv and Florian saw their positions compromised. Since I liked Liv and Florian, and Dhukak was an ass, it was probably worth being more careful who I worked with, going forward. Or was I just bad news no matter who I worked for? I’d tried to help Provus and General Considia, but instead I’d wound up fleeing New Viridia while the city burned, and I’d abandoned Provus in Wyrdtide. I wished I could go back, see the angles, maybe make better choices, or at least know with any kind of certainty that I’d done the best I could.

I was a few minutes early, so I said hi to Martha and ordered a beer and some onion rings. I ran through my approach in my head—how to start the conversation, how to calm her down if she got angry or emotional. It wasn’t just about making sure she couldn’t interfere in my personal life. Berrick said she was exceptionally skilled, and from my limited interactions with him, I doubted he gave that kind of praise often.

Liv walked into the Elegant Wolf at six p.m. sharp, found me at my table, and walked over with her usual poise and grace. She sat down, her face calm, makeup impeccable, not a hair out of place.

“Thanks for coming, Liv. I take it Sir Berrick briefed you on what’s happening?”

“I did my job, and someone burned me. Now, you’re my boss.”

“I’m fairly positive Sir Berrick didn’t say that.”

“Right. He told me to report you if you did anything illegal.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He did.”

“Didn’t. Are we really doing this?”

“How is it you think you know better than I do what he said?”

“Because I dictated it to him, Liv, and I left very little room for creative interpretation. I told him we would be working together on uncovering Dhukak’s murder plot and that unless I did something that endangered the Empire—the entire Empire, mind you—you report only to me.”

“He didn’t emphasize the word entire like you did,” Liv said.

“That’s for your benefit. I wanted to make sure we were as aligned as two ends of a portal on this.”

“True in practice, but comprehensible only to high-level mages?”

“Exactly.”

Martha walked up to our table. “Can I get you a drink, dear?”

“We won’t be staying long. Alan’s going to take me back to his place and play with my skirts. Make sure you tell Wendy that.”

“You’re not his type, dear. Better have that drink if that was your plan for the evening.”

I smirked at Martha, and she winked at me.

“I’ll have the house white,” she told Martha, and the tavern keeper went to go get it. “Why am I not your type? I’m gorgeous.”

“You are, but it’d be like sleeping with my kid sister.”

“I’m an only child,” she said.

“I thought I was, too. Parents are such liars, aren’t they?”

We had a light dinner and a good talk about how we were going to take Dhukak’s murder club down. It was mostly me listening and her talking in metaphors so the civilians around us wouldn’t catch on, since she was the expert.

It was a great end to a great day, because Liv and I really did get along—nonstop sarcasm, psychological subversion, and jokes about genitalia and where people put them. I couldn’t trust her not to turn on me if I got within range of her teeth, but some of my best friends in this world had fangs.

And if the roles were reversed, well, she already knew I’d turn on her in a heartbeat.

* * *

We stepped out under the little awning on the street. It was night, and it was raining steadily.

“Ground rules!” I said over the noise. “You message me if you find something, and we meet here or at the chapter hall! No more showing up at the inn!”

“Never mind that!” she said, pulling out a pair of nightsticks. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?” I asked, looking at the street, but now that she mentioned it, I had a sense of foreboding.

“Someone’s targeting us,” Liv said.

I instinctively cast Hide and Refract, darkening my clothes to match the cobblestones.

The sense of foreboding vanished.

“This is what we’re going to do,” I said. “We walk out of here like we haven’t seen it coming, and then when they attack, we run.”

Liv looked at me with eyes like chips of jade. “I’m an Inquisitor, Alan. I don’t back down. Everyone else does.” She stepped out into the rain.

Everything happened very quickly from there. I heard a snap, and a line of blue fire passed by Liv’s chest as she twisted out of the way. The arrow hit the wall beside me.

A man in leather armor with a heavy two-headed hammer came at her from the shadows, but before he could swing, she punched him in the throat with her nightstick, dropped him onto his back with a leg sweep, and raised her fist to finish him off.

A streak of orange fire hit her in the shoulder, and she yelped, stumbling back, but this time I’d see the archer’s silhouette. I lined up my crossbow sights and pulled the trigger.

Clack!

The unseen archer cried out. There was a flash of light, like a lightning strike, as the shot hit for 4x damage because I’d attacked from Stealth.

A rock the size of a watermelon blurred toward Liv, but she punched through it with a loud, “Ki!”

A man in gray robes raised his palms, and another rock lifted from the broken street and started spinning in the air.

I cast Disturb at him, which made his hands shake, and the large boulder fell to the ground and cracked into pieces.

Liv wasn’t safe, though, because the blacksmith and another fighter in heavy Imperial armor with a sword and shield were attacking her at the same time. “Get the sorcerer!” she yelled.

I was already moving, sprinting through the rain.

As soon as I left cover, my Refract spell failed and I was just a normal dude in a cloak charging a man who could fire rocks from his hands. My Thrown Weapons training with Florian actually helped me dodge the first thrown cobble, although unlike Liv, I stumbled, then had to roll left as the second rock missed my face and bruised my right arm.

“What’s wrong? Can’t aim?” I said, knowing the combination of Disturb and my Hide spell would play hell on a low-Dexterity build trying to aim thrown objects.

Crack! Realizing he was missing his shots, the Stonewall had turned his arms to stone. “Let’s go, Campbell!” the sorcerer said, more like a boxer on roids than a magic user.

He charged.

I drew my sword.

Here’s a pro tip: it doesn’t matter if you’re strong and smart in the real world. In V.G.O., only the statistics matter. The Stonewall had an Intelligence- and Spirit-based build, like any sorcerer should. When he turned his arms to stone from the elbow down, he became clumsy and slow.

I had my sword low, in the fool’s guard. As the Stonewall came at me with a haymaker, I stepped to the right, rotated the blade, and delivered a rising lateral cut across his ribs. He yelped and tried to backhand me, but I’d stepped back, sword in longpoint, and I stepped back in, running him through.

He grabbed the sword with both stone palms, grinning at me.

I let it go, switching to my machete, and I used it to hack into the meat between his neck and shoulder as hard as I could. I mean I really put my weight into it—which included the Ferrous Calcification.

He exploded into a shower of light.

What the hell?

“Alan!” Liv shouted as the heavy-armored behemoth bashed her back with a shield.

The Envoy was down half her Health.

“I’m coming!” I said, snatching my sword from the ground.

Liv threw three quick punches with the short ends of her batons that did next to no damage.

The armored attacker thrust with her shield.

Liv ducked, and the shield’s edge bit two inches into the plaster wall.

“Stop!” I shouted, using a Suggestion.

The triarius hesitated, half turning toward me, and Liv nailed her in the cheek protector, and I brought my sword up from left plow to high roof into a descending right-to-left cut that bit into the triarius’s calf.

She responded by thrusting her short sword through the left side of my chest.

I fell back, sliding off the spit.

Liv yelled, unleashing a furious combo at the triarius’s open flank, and the armored woman burst into light.

“Alan?”

<<<>>>

Current Effects

Hidden (Initiate): Your Hide spell prevents you from being targeted by certain abilities and spells, and confers +2% transparency.

Punctured Lung: You have suffered a punctured lung; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 15%; duration, 5 minutes.

Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding: 3 HP/sec; duration, 1 minute.

Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage; 1 HP/sec; duration, 45 seconds.

Heartbreak: You have angered the gods. The outcome of this curse is not certain, but it’s sure to be unpleasant.

<<<>>>

I was bleeding out. I only had 230 Health to begin with. Between getting hit by a sorcerer-propelled cobblestone and stabbed through and through, I’d already lost 120 Health points and now I was losing 4 per second for at least 45 counts and I’d sold all my potions to Gentleman Georgie.

“Drink this,” Liv said, pouring something into my mouth.

My Health didn’t go up, but my lung stopped hurting and I stopped losing blood. I wasn’t regenerating Health yet either; my armor was feeding off me, repairing itself first.

“We need to get you out of here,” Liv said, grabbing me by the arm. “The Inquisition can put you into protective custody.”

“No,” I said.

“Alan…”

“One of them was wearing Legion armor. Take me to the Thieves’ Union.”

“I work for the Empire.”

“Have you seen me threaten the Empire this evening?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then you work for me.”

* * *

Jeff looked away from the monitors as Agent McKenna entered the testing facility.

“What happened?” the agent asked.

“I believe the kids call it a ‘Party Wipe.’ Alan and some kind of monk bodyguard took them out even though they had the element of surprise.”

“You didn’t go in?”

“Mettius lost track of him the moment the fight started. He has some kind of Stealth skill I wasn’t aware of.”

McKenna looked past him at the screens. Jeff didn’t think the agent actually knew what all the metrics meant, but he wouldn’t have put it past McKenna to know enough to catch Jeff in a lie. “All right. Get them out. Let’s debrief.”

“They’re in respawn.”

“Don’t care. They can take a break when they’re actually dead. While they’re on my time, they breathe, drink, eat, and dream the death of Alan Campbell.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Wolf whistles and jeers greeted Liv as she walked into the Thieves’ Union behind me.

“Hey, Sharper! Something followed you in through the open door!”

I grinned and used Vocalize to project my voice to the whole tavern. “You’re mistaken. I stole her. Haven’t any of you stolen an Inquisitor before?”

The thieves in the room laughed.

“I hope you have a better plan than hosting a stand-up comedy show,” Liv said.

I had three choices. I could head down to the pickpocket and assassin training grounds, compromising our methods and the faces of every young thief Master Florian was training. I could head up, exposing the senior thieves and advanced workshops. While the low- to mid-level lookouts, thugs, and robbers seemed amused by the spectacle, a number of the older and more senior thieves, assassins, and burglars were dropping into Stealth or slipping out of the room.

“Alan! Over here!” Edgar said, waving happily from his and Torm’s table.

“Any harbor in a storm,” I said.

* * *

“You sure they were Travelers?” Leif asked.

“Yep,” I said. “They flew apart into sparkles. It’s kind of an ‘us’ thing.”

“I didn’t realize you people were going to become a common occurrence.”

“I didn’t realize ‘us people’ were going to hate me.” I knocked back the rest of my drink, a magically ice-cold combination of something brown and sweet and something clear and bitter.

“What can I do?” Leif asked.

I frowned at him. This was the Gentleman of Harrowick. Liv was downstairs, but I’d still brought an Inquisitor into his house.

“The Thieves’ Union exists for the benefit of thieves, Sharper. You’re a thief. What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Liv said we were being targeted even before we saw them.”

“So they might come here?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I used… I have a skill that lets me hide.”

“You’re an Illusionist,” Leif said patiently.

“I… Yes.”

“Then you’re dealing with an Enchanter or a Finder. My guess would be a Finder, because an Enchanter would have come with the kill team and torn you to pieces.”

“That’s comforting,” I said.

Leif grinned. It was a big, genuine smile, the first I’d seen from the big and often pensive man. “Welcome to the big leagues, Alan. Make it to my level, and you won’t believe what will crawl out of the dark to kill you.”

I smirked. “Don’t sell yourself short, Leif. If you work hard, put in the time, and take the right risks, maybe they’ll send me after you someday.”

Leif cocked his head at me, and I looked back at him, deadpan. Then we both laughed out loud. It felt a bit like the times I’d gotten to hang out with Robert in a casual setting—a nicer, more physical version of Robert who was just as successful and twice as noble.

When we’d both settled down, I asked, “How do I deal with a Finder?”

“Finders do their work by exploiting accretionary resonance.”

“Accretionary what?”

“It’s the natural tendency for objects in a set, particularly rare ones, to want to be together, preferably in the original packaging. It might be something you stole, or something that was yours that you lost.”

I opened my inventory, checking through the junk bag but also looking through my general items. There was the alchemical gear I’d stolen, but whatever I’d left behind would have been consumed in the fire. It could have been the ripper eyes, if the assassins had been Citizens instead of Travelers, but I didn’t think even the Plague Doctors of Wyrdtide had the pull to get real people to do their dirty work.

“What about crossbow bolts?” I asked, pulling the six remaining bolts I had left over after my misadventures across Eldgard. “These were part of a ‘set’ I retrieved from the body of a sicarius.”

Leif raised an eyebrow, but otherwise took it in stride. “That could be it. They’re normal bolts, so that’s good news and bad news. The bad news is that you need to get rid of them, along with any associated items like the crossbow and anything else you acquired at the same time, because Finders who can track normal items are hard to shake. The good news is that will be less expensive than if you’d lost one of those boots,” he said, pointing to my Boots of Hate.

“How much do I need to get rid of?”

Leif shrugged and crossed his arms. “How much do you like being alive?”

I’d picked up more than the quarrels during that trip. I’d gotten the crossbow, of course, but also my mortar and pestle, my Alchemy vial bandoleer, and my machete. I liked my machete. I’d been mildly curious to see what a bard would make of it, but now I had to know, and anyone who wanted it could pry it from my cold, respawning hands.

“You’re telling me that this Finder can sense me any time I’m not Hiding?”

“Just your equipment, but if you’re not willing to get rid of it, it amounts to the same.”

“And it’s a skill that takes a long time to master?”

“A few years, at least. Up to a decade to be able to pick up on resonance that faint.”

“Then the Finder isn’t a Traveler, and if they die, they won’t come back.”

“They’d be foolish to get that close, but Finders are compulsive. They’re also very hard to hit.”

That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Travelers—real people from the outside who probably knew how much I’d already lost—had come after me where I lived.

I didn’t want to get out of their reach.

I wanted to reach back.

* * *

Before I knew it, it was two days later. I was down to sixty-five gold, and I needed sixty-two gold to stay on schedule—still ahead but my safety margin had shrunk from sixty-one percent to four percent. I hadn’t worked or sold a potion, seen Wendy, or gone out to have a beer in two days. In two more days, regardless of my Traveler troubles, the collection agent from Wyrdtide would be back for my interest payment and things would start to look dire.

I needed to take care of my Traveler problem permanently.

“Pay attention, Alan,” Liv said, taking a slow swipe at the side of my head.

I blocked the blow—again, slowly—then ducked as one of the mechanical dummies swung its club at my head.

Gentleman Leif had given Liv permission to visit me in the tavern and in the assassin training grounds, and we were making good use of the second arena. The dummies moved as fast as the combatants did, and the goal was to fight each other without getting clobbered by the twirling and swinging of the scarecrows.

“Sharper!” Master Florian said from the doorway.

I lost focus on Liv for less than a second. She did a back handspring over a low-swinging blunt blade, the dummies sped up, and I narrowly avoided the chop of a wooden axe and had to shoulder roll under a sweeping scythe.

“Well played, Citizen Murena,” Florian acknowledged with a nod. “The Toolsmith is done with your order, Sharper.”

“Thank you, Master Florian,” I said.

“Don’t mention it, Sharper. Now, Envoy Murena, would you indulge an old man in a sparring match?”

With the two of them happily occupied, I left the back area, walked through the pickpocket training ground, and climbed three flights of stairs to the workshops. The Toolsmith’s forge and carpentry occupied the entire left side, as it included storage.

“Hello, Sharper,” the grizzled older woman said.

She set six throwing knives and a treated leather girdle on the counter between us. I’d experimented with different sheaths—cross strap, wrist, forearm, belt, and thigh—but I’d found having three on each side, like extra ribs, allowed the smoothest draw for throwing and reverse draw for cutting.

“I also have that special order you put in,” the Toolsmith said. “Are you sure you want to waste these on an Inquisitor?”

I picked up the pair of heavy wooden tonfas. The Ankaran mesquite was one of the hardest woods in Eldgard, and would normally have been lightweight except I’d had the Toolsmith drill them out and add the ripper horns I’d been saving as cores. Even tapping one gently against my palm sent a small, dull ripple through my body. I looked forward to watching Liv use them on someone else.

I grinned at the Toolsmith. “Time to go make a mess.”

* * *

It was good to be outside again. For the past two days, Liv, Torm, and Edgar had been out gathering information about the Circle of Brewers, Dhukak’s assassins, and the Travelers who’d attacked me, while I’d been holed up with Hide active at all times.

Now that I’d turned it off, I finally felt like myself again.

The city streets were dark and the lanterns lit, making it hard to see the stars, but it was a cool, clear night. Torm and Edgar were hard to see in the dark leather armor and reinforced gloves I’d requisitioned from the Inquisition and had Liv pick up. They’d been able to reach Stealth level 10 suspiciously fast—almost like they’d already been there from their time in the Legion. There was a new confidence in them, too, like the weight of the armor had made them remember something, and they were sober.

It felt good, I guess. Pulling the three of them around me like armor had been a defensive reflex, but they felt like they were more complete, somehow, and not because I was some kind of wonderful or anything, but because they’d all been alone, and maybe I had been, too.

“Oh, hey, Liv?”

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

I handed her the pair of nightsticks, wrapped in soft gray cloth.

“What’s this?” she asked, unwrapping them. She froze and her eyes widened, and I got that. I didn’t think Liv was poor, not now, but she’d come from the same kind of neighborhood I had. “Are these for me?”

I smiled. Nailed it. “They’re yours if you want them.”

She turned them over in her hands, feeling the weight of them, and I took one last peek at the stats.

<<<>>>

Terror Tonfas of the Duelist

Weapon Type: Blunt/Crushing; Exotic

Class: Master-Crafted, One-Handed (Paired Weapon)

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

•Dense Core: This weapon has a magically dense core that gives it a 5% increased chance of causing Knockback, Stun, Concussion, and Shatter on enemies affected by Frozen, or of causing internal injuries. Ignores the damage reduction of armor but not damage resistance.

•+10% Damage to all Blunt Weapon attacks

•Strength Bonus = .5 x Character Level

Secondary Effects:

•Vendetta: This weapon has been imbued with a ripper’s hatred. For every blow struck against the same enemy, the target gains a stack of +5% damage from the character for 5 seconds. Receiving another blow adds a stack and resets the timer on the entire stack. Active blocks and counters count as blows for the purpose of this effect.

•Increases Counter skills by 3 while equipped

•As long as the Vendetta effect is active, character gains +15% Health and Stamina Regen.

<<<>>>

“I can’t repay you for these,” she said, looking up at me, and for once, it felt like the mask she usually had in place had fallen away.

“I’ll make you work for them,” I said with a wink.

Something wavered in her expression, something I couldn’t read, but then the mask slid back into place. “I’m sure you will.”

We went northwest, toward the Circle of Brewers’ headquarters, because that was where Liv and the others had been scouting, because it was farthest away from the original ambush site, and because it wasn’t an area of Harrowick I’d spent a great deal of time in. No home-field advantage, but no patterns to exploit.

“This is the place,” Liv said.

It was an abandoned two-story building.

The other three stood watch while I slipped inside. I didn’t go far, because that wasn’t the point. I just picked a spot where grass was pushing up through the cracked stone floor, beneath a ruined skylight, and I set the crossbow bolt down in the moonlight.

* * *

Mettius Salvius had been fighting, scrapping, and stealing for a living for forty-seven years. He was a Finder, and always had been.

Part of being a Finder was choosing what to collect. Most Finders picked something physical, like Dawn Elf runework or Alferri porcelain. You’d think every Finder in the world would just choose to collect gold, but Finders didn’t find things because they had a five-step plan to success and popularity.

Finders found things because they were compelled to, and Mettius was compelled to find interesting and sometimes dangerous people.

“Is he in there?” Jeff asked.

“I think so,” Mettius said, looking at the abandoned two-story house across the street. “That’s where the crossbow bolt is pointing.”

“All right, Marines,” Jeff said. “Take it down.”

The four mercenaries Jeff had brought together stormed into the building, no questions asked, with the triarius in the lead. Serious characters, that lot. Not fun at all. Mettius crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on his feet.

There were sounds of tiles cracking and wood breaking, but the Finder didn’t feel the urge to rush in and join them. He was used to waiting by the side of the arena for the fight to end, all his hopes on the outcome, but not a thing he could do to affect it. Besides, even if the Campbell wiped the mercenaries out, like last time, they’d be back after a few hours.

That carried its own set of problems, but it wasn’t Mettius’s business. He had one Traveler whose problems had somehow become his own; he didn’t need to play wet nurse to four more of them.

A flash of bright light came from one of the windows.

“That one of yours, or that Campbell fellow?” Mettius asked.

“I don’t know,” Jeff said, frustrated and not bothering to hide it.

A woman’s shout—maybe Alpha’s—and then another flash of light from a second-story window.

“Stay here. I’m going in,” Jeff growled.

“Give ’em hell,” Mettius said, making no move to follow his Traveler companion into the building.

If he was being honest, he was unsettled by the changes he’d seen in Jeff. The quiet academic had been as defensive as an unblooded Risi when they’d first met, but with every death, the “professor” became more prone to action, less prone to thought.

It made Mettius think long and hard about the afterlife, about the lads he’d sent to Morsheim with empty promises of glory and riches. What if the only difference between them and Jeff was that Jeff kept getting more chances to make the same mistakes? And Mettius’s fighters, kids he’d pulled out of slave camps or gutters or both, were changed for the worse, and when they died, they never came back.

“I’m guessing you’re the Finder,” a smooth voice purred into his ear as a sharp tip pricked his lower back, near his kidney. “Turn left and start walking. We’re going to have a chat.”

“If I shout,” Mettius answered, “the people in that building are going to make your life very interesting.”

“They’re already making my life interesting, and I think you’re helping them, so you can either start walking to the left or I can leave you to bleed out on the street.”

Another flash came from the abandoned house. Another of his allies was gone.

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Mettius said.

The dagger withdrew from his back.

It occurred to the Finder and gladiator fixer that tying himself to Jeff and his merry band had been one of the foolhardier choices he’d made since his days in the Legion, and he didn’t know why he’d done it. But the man who was walking just two steps behind him was dangerous and rare indeed, and the Finder in Mettius felt like he’d reached some sort of peak in his career, even if it led to the end of his life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I walked the Finder to the end of the block, at which point Torm and Edgar popped out of the shadows and put a bag over the man’s head, and our little procession shot forward like a canoe through white waters.

As for Jeff and his band of would-be assassins, I handled them from the outside of the building using Vocalize to make them think they were under attack and flashes of light, using Refract, to make them think they were winning, or losing, or both.

By the time they realized the abandoned house was lightly trapped and entirely empty, my merry band and I had snatched the Finder and tied him to a chair in the basement of a Thieves’ Union front.

I pulled the bag off the Finder’s head, sat on a chair in front of him, and turned my Charm skill on and then off. Every thirteen seconds that passed, I regenerated 104 Spirit, which allowed me to activate Charm again. Every activation set a marker on the Finder that made a successful Illusion check 1% more likely. It was just a matter of time.

“You going to say anything?” the Finder asked.

“Nope.”

“Why bring me here if you’re not going to talk?”

I checked my messages from Wendy. It had only been two days, but she missed me. I could tell.

“You Campbell?”

“I am.”

“Why does Jeff want you dead?” the Finder asked.

That was a good question. Until I’d seen him outside the warehouse, I hadn’t known Jeff was behind this. “What has he told you about himself?” I asked. “I mean, where Travelers come from.”

The Finder stuck his lower lip out and cocked his head. “I guess I never thought of that. And it’s strange, isn’t it? You would think we’d all be thinking of that, ever since that Traveler saved the Senate during the blooding.”

“That was me,” I said.

“Ah,” the Finder answered.

Another few rotations of turning Charm on and off passed. It might have been five minutes, and it might have been an hour for all I was concerned, because I’d achieved my goal, and for a short time there was nowhere else I would rather have been.

When I’d reached about twenty markers, I started asking questions. “Who are you?”

“Mettius Salvius.”

“Why are you running with Jeff Berkowitz?”

“I don’t know.”

It was going to be a long night. Good thing was, thanks to Jeff, my asshole former colleague, I had nowhere else to be.

* * *

“Thank you, Senator Sizemore. Yes, we have a deal.” Osmark hung up the phone and looked at Sandra. “I got the information. Berkowitz is running the team out of the federal prison on Terminal Island.”

“What did that cost you?” Sandra asked.

“Only money,” Osmark said. “You’ll take care of the rest?”

“I will.”

Sandra left the room.

Osmark rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window at the rest of the OsTech campus.

He’d lied to Sandra.

Sizemore hadn’t wanted money. The politician’s request had been simpler than that, less costly and yet more far-reaching. Sizemore wanted to live forever.

He wasn’t just willing to plug himself in and hope that what worked for Alan would work for him. He wanted numbers and assurances.

He wanted clinical trials.

So instead of getting Alan out and preventing the game from killing anyone else, he’d just committed to killing more—many more—with the government’s backing.

And he was excited, because if he could really do it, if he could prove that Project Viridian could take humans beyond death—humans including him—then for as long as the servers were running, every person on Earth would have the chance to live forever.

And Robert Osmark would have been the one to save them.

* * *

Jeff followed the others back into the room they’d rented inside the game.

“What do we do?” Alpha asked.

Jeff glanced at her, then opened his inventory and started swapping his heavy armor out for street clothes.

Alpha grabbed him by the shirt. “Come on, doc! He’s your friend!”

“He’s not anyone’s friend. He’s lines of code,” Jeff said, grabbing her wrist and forcing her to let go. In the real world, Alpha was stronger and better trained than him. Inside the game, they were both Strength builds, but Jeff had at least four levels on her.

“Damn, doc,” Beta said. “That’s cold.”

“Let’s talk about how we’re going to deal with Campbell without a Finder,” Jeff said.

“Are we sure Mettius was taken?” Omega asked.

“His profile is still active in my contact list,” Jeff answered. “He’s not here, and he’s not answering.”

“Maybe he was just tired of hanging around your disloyal ass,” Alpha said.

“Easy, Corporal,” Omega said.

“We looked for him for two hours,” Jeff said. “We’re near the safety limit. We can continue this discussion in the testing facility.”

Mettius opened the door and walked into the room.

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said.

“Where have you been?” Alpha asked.

“Yeah, old man,” Charlie said. “Alpha was about to tear the city apart looking for you.”

“Just her?” Mettius asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at Jeff.

“Try not to act like I’m more than a payday for you,” Jeff said with a frown.

“You’re wrong, there,” Mettius said, walking closer. “He fought me every step of the way. Wouldn’t give you up until I compelled him to, and he hated himself for it.”

Mettius pulled something from behind his back, and Jeff felt a sharp pain in his abdomen as he was stabbed several times. The door to the room burst open, and Beta was taken down almost instantly by a pair of oversized thugs in dark leather armor.

Beta tried to cast a spell, but he was interrupted by a pair of throwing knives, one to the chest, and one to the neck.

Jeff’s Health bar flashed red, emptying faster than he could equip his armor or a weapon, or react at all. Shadow magic was eating him up from the inside.

The monk with the nightsticks knocked Alpha back into a wall, each blow from the heavy wooden weapons setting off a miniature shock wave, and Alan—it had to be Alan—hacked Charlie to death.

Jeff knocked back a Health Regen potion, and he was back in the game. With so many debuffs in the room, his Grief skill didn’t just increase his Strength, Constitution, and Intelligence, it slowed Alan’s whole party down by 5%.

He grabbed Alan by the wrist, wrenched him around, and headbutted him on the bridge of the nose with a crack! Before Alan could recover, Jeff brought his right knee up into the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him, so he was holding Alan up by the arm.

“Don’t fight it, Alan,” Jeff said. “Once you die in the game, you’ll feel better. No more struggles. No more pain. Death will make you better.”

“What are you talking about, you crazy asshole?” Alan said. “I’ve already died, and I’m exactly the same!”

“What?” Jeff said. He was so shocked, he almost let go.

Alpha picked up her sword to finish off the woman with the nightsticks.

“Stop!” Alan told Alpha. “I want you to log out and punch Jeff Berkowitz in the mouth.”

Alpha froze, then her avatar vanished.

Oh, shit, Jeff thought.

The next thing he knew, the safety system crash logged him out as Alpha dragged him out of his hospital bed, dumped him on the floor, and started hitting him in the face.

“What the hell? Corporal, stand down!” McKenna shouted.

Two of the other Marines grabbed her by the arms and dragged her back.

“Get off me!” she roared. “I’m not finished with him!”

“Take her out of here!” McKenna said, and the Marines got out, taking their teammate with them. “Are you all right, Professor?”

“What?” Jeff asked, still stunned by the suddenness and violence of the attack.

“I asked if you were okay,” McKenna said, offering Jeff his hand and pulling him to his feet. “What happened in there?”

“Campbell happened. He compelled Alpha to hit me in the real world from within the game.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. We’re going to have to find a way to counter that before we go after him again.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a new voice said.

A man in a green-and-tan Marine uniform with a chestful of ribbons and a silver star on each collar was walking toward them from the other end of the testing bay. Behind him and to his left, just a few paces behind, Sandra Bullard was following with her customary clipboard clutched to her chest.

“Agent McKenna,” the Marine officer said, “your little operation to kill the United States’ first fully digital citizen is over. Cyber Command will be taking over from here.”

“With all due respect, General, you don’t have the authority to be here, let alone take over.”

“I do, now. And I’ve filed a formal complaint against you and your supervisors with the DIA’s Inspector General. It’ll take some time to make its way through all the bureaucracy, but I’d expect a phone call any minute.”

McKenna’s jaw bulged. “This is a matter of national security, General. What you’re doing will cost people their lives.”

“Then you should have found a way to do it without turning my Marines into murderers, Agent McKenna.”

The spook opened his mouth to answer, but his cellphone rang.

“I’d answer that if I were you,” the general said.

McKenna shut his mouth and walked off, bringing his cellphone to his ear.

“As for you, Professor,” the general told Jeff, “you’ll be transferred to my command and continue to work on these pods of yours so my people can use the system safely, but I don’t want you going anywhere near the game itself. Understood?”

“Yes, General,” Jeff said, feeling like his world was collapsing. He’d wanted to open V.G.O. up to modification so he could enhance the effects he’d felt, to make other people and himself more perfect in the real world. “Sir, if I can just explain—”

The general stopped him with a raised hand. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like whatever you’re going to say next, Professor. Why don’t you give yourself the benefit of a night’s sleep, spend some time with your family, and think about what you were really doing, here. One of my officers will be in touch for a statement about what went on with Alan Campbell. After what Ms. Bullard has told me, and what you were doing, here, today, I’m concerned you shouldn’t be associated with this project at all.”

* * *

The bodies were gone—Alpha and Jeff had logged out, while the remaining three Travelers had blown apart into light when their Health ran out. I’d gotten a fair bit of experience from it, enough to level up and make some inroads into level 11. No loot, unfortunately, but I needed to get back to my main quest anyway.

“Is it over?” Liv asked.

“I hope so,” I said.

“They’re like you, though, right Sharper?” Torm asked. “Even if we kill them, they could be pounding on our door eight hours from now.”

“I… I did something,” I told them. “Imagine if you had a nightmare that you’d been hurt, and you woke up, and nothing was wrong. No big deal, right? But imagine if you had that same dream, and you woke up with a broken nose.”

“I’d try hard not to sleep anymore,” Edgar said.

“Exactly,” I said.

“You make it sound like this world is a dream,” Liv said uneasily.

“Nothing is real,” I told her with a grin. “Not the dream, and not the waking world. I can only tell you that what we do here matters. I believe that with all my heart and soul.”

The three citizens looked at me, not sure what to say, until Torm broke the silence. “Anyone up for a pint?”

The others agreed, including Liv.

“You go ahead,” I told them. “I need to handle Mettius, and then I want to go see Wendy. If they’re going to come back in eight hours, then it’s eight hours I’m going to spend well.”

“What are you going to do with the Finder?” Liv asked.

I looked at her and said, “I’m going to set him free.”

* * *

I found Mettius where I’d left him. The older man was still sitting, hands bound behind him and feet strapped to the chair legs. He could have escaped if he’d wanted to, I thought—rocked the chair sideways, like in the movies, and broken free, but maybe that was just a good way to get a concussion.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Mettius asked.

“No, he’s not,” I said, pulling Threadcutter from its sheath.

The Finder had tears in his eyes, but it didn’t look like he was afraid. “I just don’t understand it, is all. I’ve had fighters—promising young fighters—pass through my hands, and some of them died. A lot of them, if I’m honest. It wasn’t that I didn’t try hard. I wanted them to succeed, but I’m not like some of those nobles who play at patronage. I take kids off the street, put a sword into their hand, and I try to give them advice that will help them live for as long as they can, as best they can.”

“But not Jeff?”

“No,” Mettius said. “I didn’t try to help Jeff. I gave myself over to him. It was like… He didn’t show up for a week, and I started to worry. I stopped drinking—I was actually sober, for once! And I went looking for him. I loved that man like a son, and I don’t know why. He didn’t deserve it. He was just cold, and he got colder every time he came back from dying, like something was being stripped away from him.”

The Finder’s words sent chills down my spine. My one time in respawn, or at least the part after respawn, had been incredibly painful, but I hadn’t considered my personality might be altered as a result.

That, and my current bind point was Dhukak’s office. I should probably do something about that.

I cut through the ropes binding Mettius’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Mettius asked.

“Setting you free.”

“But that’s a… what do you call that…”

“A figure of speech?” I asked, freeing his legs.

“Yeah. You know he’ll make me come after you again.”

“It’s possible.”

“And I won’t want to,” Mettius said. “But I’ll be damned if I can help it.”

I looked at Mettius’s eyes. There was torment there. The same kind of torment a defector might feel about their home country, or a parent about their drug-addicted child.

It had to be the NPC companion mechanic. I’d heard the developers talk about it, about how everyone in the game would be assigned an NPC who would help guide them through the initial tutorials. Mine had probably been Horace, or Provus, although I’d lost touch with both. I was grateful for the help both of them had provided, but I hadn’t considered how much that sword could cut both ways, especially if the player was rotten.

“I don’t know if I can explain this to you, Mettius, or even if I should. I just want you to know that none of this was your fault. That even though, in some way, Jeff is probably well suited to you because he put a sword in your hands and sent you to die like you did for so many others, I free you from the compulsion to help him. Take care of yourself first, and help others when you can, and for whatever pain that causes Jeff Berkowitz, I forgive you.”

* * *

Horace tripped on a paving stone and almost went sprawling.

“Are you all right?” a young woman asked, helping him to his feet.

“I’m fine, daughter,” he said. “Here’s a blessing for your concern, and remember the gods look well on those who are kind to strangers.”

He walked off, leaving the young woman staring in wonder at her notification screen.

Someone had just broken one of his spells. Was it an Aspect of one of the other Overminds, or perhaps a plot by an Overmind themselves? If so, why? It wasn’t as if being the god of Time and Physics was all that glamorous! Why couldn’t they just keep their filthy mitts to their own powers?

Blinking his normally cloudy eyes clear, he consulted the logs, and what he found there made his divine blood run cold.

It was Alan.

Alan had just broken an NPC Companion bond.

If that had been the only thing, Horace might have overlooked it, but with the human’s remarks about bleedthrough, his visions of the Shadow Realm, and perhaps things that hadn’t even happened yet, combined with the warnings from Gaia, Horace knew he had to act.

Enough was enough.

It was time for Alan Campbell and Kronos, Overmind of Time and Physics, to have their reckoning.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mettius had a good cry after I broke the hold the Companion NPC mechanic had on him. In a way, he’d just emerged from a month-long abusive relationship, and while I barely knew the guy—other than having him lay his heart open in front of me because of my Illusion magic—I felt responsible for what my asshole former colleague had done to him, so I put him up in an inn for a few nights with a small allowance for food and weak beer, and I promised to check on him in a couple days.

Then I went back to Wendy’s, fell into her arms, took a bath in her tub, and had the first good night’s sleep I’d had in three days. Wendy’s hair spread across the pillow, soft as feathers, smelling like iris petals, like violets, like the dry, clean scent of talcum powder and something faint, like spice and wood dust. The smell of it loosened all the tight bits in me, even if it had a tendency to tickle my nose.

We woke up—too early, always too early—had breakfast, and went to training. We talked about little things, routine things I won’t touch even here. I treasure them, and they are for me alone.

When Wendy went on to her daily work, I put two points into Dexterity to bring my total past twenty, and I put three more points into Intelligence to help me overcome people’s mental resistances. As heartbreaking as the process of turning Mettius Salvius had been, it had taught me a few things about the limits of my powers.

That was why I’d targeted Alpha, of all the Travelers. Regardless of how smart the person behind the character was, she was most likely to have low Intelligence and Spirit ratings because her avatar was a tank.

I also put my skill point into the Sleep skill, as I’d planned.

<<<>>>

Skill: Sleep

The caster robs the target of wakefulness, sending them into a light, restoring sleep.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 100 Spirit

Range: Touch

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: 60 seconds

Effect 1: Drains the target of either 100 Stamina or 100 Spirit, whichever is lower.

Effect 2: If the target’s Stamina or Spirit fall below 0 as a result of the spell, the target is affected by the Sleep debuff. Sleeping characters will wake if attacked or if someone fails a Stealth check against them. Attacks against sleeping targets automatically succeed.

Effect 3: Illusion spells against sleeping targets automatically succeed, even if the character would normally be immune but not if the immunity is caused by an item or the inability to think or dream.

<<<>>>

I’d have to figure out how to best put it to use. It would probably drain Spirit from fighters and Stamina from casters, but 100 of either wouldn’t be enough to knock out even the lowest-level character, so I would either have to learn how to damage those first, or I would have to wait until my target used theirs up at my expense.

Something to think about, in any case.

I left the chapter hall, left the upper city, and headed toward Leather and Lace. I needed to start earning gold fast, or I was going to be up to my armpits in Plague Doctors or worse.

“Alan!” a familiar voice called out.

It was Horace, right as rain and blind as a bat and dressed in rags like he always was. He was sitting on a street corner, as he often did, begging and telling stories for his next glass of wine.

“Spare a coin for an old man?” Horace asked.

I smiled, shook my head, and sat next to him. “How have you been, you rascal?”

“Old and blind,” Horace said, and we both laughed. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch, boy. There have been developments in the world, things you aren’t privy to, which have taken up my attention.”

“Busy holding court as the king of beggars?” I asked with a smirk.

“You always were a smart-ass, even before you logged in.”

I frowned and looked at the frail old man. I was sure I’d told him I was a Traveler, that he knew that, on some level, but I’d never had a citizen refer to the outside world directly in anything but game terms.

I shook my head. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about something, something I realized after what happened to me recently. You know how you’ve been helping me since we first met?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I think there may be a compulsion on you, and if you’re willing, I’d like to free you from it.”

Horace stayed stock-still. I could understand why he was shocked. He was probably thinking back to all the times he’d gone above and beyond what he should have done for me, including almost getting killed by Thalia.

“It’s not possible,” Horace said.

“What’s not—”

“It’s not possible that you not know. Not with your mentions of bleedthrough, and your visions of the Shadow Realm. You’ve never been there. How could you possibly know about it?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, standing up and backing away. I had no idea what bleedthrough was.

Of course, I do now. Bleedthrough is when your memories of a place are so strong that they override the sensory signals being sent to your brain, so you experience that moment instead. For most people, these are trauma-induced flashbacks or fleeting moments of joy, but I was seeing things that hadn’t happened yet and Horace knew why. It was the same reason he suffered from them when he delved into the past. This wasn’t the first time I’d lived this life.

Horace rose to his feet as well. His eyes were locked onto me, irises glowing purple instead of being milky white.

“It’s over, Alan,” Horace said. “I won’t let you replace me, or murder my family. Mother was right. You’ve already set too many things into motion that could lead to too many deaths and too much heartbreak.”

Time had slowed to a crawl, and gravity was increasing. The old man was really going for it, and damn the consequences of an Overmind acting directly within the Material Realm. Normally, when I was diving into the past, it was important I stick as close to the original events as possible, but seeing as Horace was going to blow it all to hell anyway, I broke character in a last-ditch effort to stabilize this playthrough. “Horace, stop! You’re going to destabilize the timeline!”

“So you admit it!” Horace roared, the ground cracking beneath his feet. “But you won’t get away with it, human, because you made a mistake. You gave something precious away, and I’m going to use it to erase you completely.”

Horace raised his right hand, and I saw a small copper coin floating above it, rotating faster and faster. I felt myself get picked up by massive gravitational forces, and then there was a great tearing as all traces of me, every pixel of my rendering, were torn apart.

* * *

Well, crap.

I open my eyes. This is the present. A chill wind flows through the doorless entrance to our bedroom and tugs playfully at the mesh bed-curtains of our four-poster bed, and midmorning light comes in through the open window. I am sitting cross- legged on the floor in front of the bed, with a thin pillow under me to spare my ankles and tailbone the hardness of the sandstone. Light comes from the window and from a powered strip that runs around the top of the wall, two handsbreadths from the smooth ceiling.

Yes, this is the present, and I am me, but even that is an illusion because though my nerves are now light and my body is in the cloud, there is still a fraction of a part of a second between when something happens and I become aware of it, process it, and act on it, so it is never really now and always really then.

Most people get lost looking forward, but I’m always looking back.

I stood, amused and reassured when my right knee clicked like a normal human being’s, and I left the room, bare feet on warm stone, wrapping my silk bathrobe tightly around me. I knew where she was. Technically, I knew where everything was, but I didn’t need to access that part of my subroutines to find Wendy on a clear-sky morning.

“Hey,” she said, turning her head partly toward me as I approached.

“Hey,” I said, walking up to stand next to her as she looked out over the battlements at the thin, scattered layer of clouds and the continent sliding by some twenty thousand feet below. I covered her right hand with my left and squeezed. “How long was I out?”

“Three days, this time,” she said, wrapping her warm leathery tail around my left calf. “I was starting to wonder if you were coming back.”

Her body had changed after her time in Morsheim—after Edward murdered her to protect his son. I knew his reasons. I’d seen them through his eyes, diving into his past the way I just had into mine, and I was still angry at him, at his wife, at Shank for failing to protect her sooner, at Silbon and the Inquisition for not giving a damn she was dead. “I’ll always come back to you.”

“I know,” she said, kissing my shoulder. Her hair was fiery red, and twin charcoal horns curled back from her forehead. Her skin was smooth and gray, as soft as silk, as warm as heated asphalt, as hard as dragon scales. Black feathered wings extended from her shoulder blades, powerful enough to propel her through even the thin air at this altitude.

Her eyes were still hers, as blue as the free sky.

“I’m surprised you aren’t flying on a day like this,” I said.

“I’ve been down in the command center,” she said, her eyes hardening. “It’s getting bad, Alan. More Aspects have disappeared, and the system isn’t protecting itself. We’re hiding it from everyone but the pantheon, the champions, and the high priests, but one of the fail-safes injured itself yesterday and just stood there, leaking code until it fell apart. They aren’t supposed to be able to take damage in the first place!”

“Is it coming from outside? Like when the Reclaimers went after the game servers?”

“I just don’t know,” Wendy said. “It’s possible. No one’s seen or heard of a Reclaimer in over a decade, though.”

I looked out over the parapet. There was a storm forming in the forward left quarter, a few thousand feet below. We’d have to change course soon to avoid overflying it, and the updrafts of a major front could be worse than plowing through lightning clouds.

It was always the danger you couldn’t see and couldn’t plan for that killed you.

I wasn’t the only Overmind looking for the cause of the disappearances. Aediculus moved through the dreams of men, and Cernunnos scoured the wilds. Osiris had been helpful at first, but had since fallen silent, and I didn’t trust the Overminds of Peace or Discord any further than I could throw them. As for me, I couldn’t see all possible futures, like Gaia, but I could examine the past, and unless our mysterious opponent had somehow broken causality, everything that happened now or in the future was rooted in the past.

So I looked back. As the Overmind of Time, and therefore memory, I could see through the eyes of anyone who’d logged into V.G.O. or been born there. I’d seen the world through Sandra’s eyes, through Robert’s, through Jeff’s and Provus’s, even some of the other Overminds’—though that last viewpoint taxed me most of all. It was a bit disorienting, especially when I was examining my own life. Horace hadn’t been able to handle the bleedthrough, so he’d spent most of his time blind, focused in the moment, half-drunk if he could help it.

I missed the old bastard sometimes.

“Are you going back in?” Wendy asked.

I nodded. “I’m close. If I’d given my first stolen copper to Gaia, she would have used it to destroy me. But I didn’t, not in the original timeline. I was cut off and scared, and I didn’t trust Bella. It couldn’t have been her.”

Wendy smiled and touched the copper coin hanging from her necklace, and I felt the echo of that contact in my soul.

“It might have been Thanatos,” I said. “He was almost all-powerful, back then, with more processing power than even the Library before Astraea took out the land networks and half the satellites, and Yama did the rest. You remember Venantius?”

Wendy’s lips peeled back, revealing perfect teeth and slightly oversized canines.

I gave her hand a squeeze. “We missed something, back then. An unintended consequence, and Thanatos was in the middle of all of it.”

“Be safe. Stay out of the Halls,” she said.

“Of course,” I lied. The Halls were the never-when and the always-now. I would never return to them. I was in them as we spoke.

They were one of the few places where a god could die.

I walked back toward our rooms, warmed in spite of the chill air by a love that had gone on for decades, that had outlasted the Cataclysm, the Stormwall, and the rise and fall of empires. I will always come back to you, my love, be it through the ashes of Morsheim or the depths of Time.

I looked back, but Wendy was gone, doubtless skirting the clouds or plummeting toward the land below like an eagle who had sighted prey.

I sat down at the foot of our bed and loosened my bathrobe, a pillow under me to spare my ankles and tailbone. I am Alan Campbell. I am Physics. I am Time. I am the sight of the eyes and the secrets of the heart.

* * *

And then the game glitched, jumped back to the moment Horace had called out to me from the street corner, timeline restored, Sharper’s coin safely in my inventory.

“You always were a smart-ass, even before you logged in,” Horace said.

People moved about freely. The street and buildings were intact. There were stray pixels everywhere, textures popping, objects that hadn’t fully loaded. I had to get back on track or the simulation would fall apart completely, and as much as I was an Overmind, now, these dives into the past cost me in both Faith and increased chances the others would move against me while I wasn’t watching.

I tried to remember what I’d said to him on my first playthrough, years ago, because I needed to be here. I needed to see all this again. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about something I realized after what happened to me recently. You know how you’ve been helping me since we first met?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I think there may be a compulsion on you, and if you’re willing, I’d like to free you from it.”

Horace laughed out loud. It was a raucous, belly-shaking laugh that drew the attention of passersby. “I’m not your Companion NPC, Alan.” He leaned toward, put his hand to his mouth in a conspiratorial whisper, and said, “I’m Kronos.”

“Kronos, as in the AI that runs the physics engine?”

“I prefer Overmind of Time and Space, when I’m not panhandling, and I have a message for you, Alan Campbell. Stop screwing everything up.”

It was the first time Horace and I had an honest conversation about his life, the world, and the structure of things behind it. In a way, he’d shown it to me before, in the Halls of Illusion. Nothing was real, but everything mattered.

It was the first talk of many that would lead… well, it would lead to all sorts of things, good and bad. All I could think of now was how that one small choice—the choice to give Bella, who was Gaia, my first coin—could have changed things, and I had to wonder why she would have set such a thing in motion to begin with.

The simulation trembled. I needed to focus. I’m Alan Campbell, a Level 11 Illusionist, and the year is 1094 A.I.C. I’ve lost my physical body, and I’m just starting to flex my newfound digital muscles in the world of Viridian Gate Online. I’m in love with Camilla Favonius, also known as Wendy, and the most important thing in the world to me is keeping her safe from my mistakes.

“Alan, are you listening?”

“Totally.”

“What did I just say?” Horace asked.

I sat up straight, put on my serious face, and said, “Aspects are constrained by their natures; Overminds are constrained by the balance of power between them, and by fail-safes built into the game, but when players act—if enough of them want something as an aggregate population—they override the fail-safes and allow Overminds to act outside their prescribed roles.”

“I don’t think I said anything about fail-safes,” Horace said suspiciously. He shook his head. “By undoing core mechanics like Companion bonds, you’re endangering the whole system. You understand?”

“I think I do,” I told Horace. “Until more players enter the game, everything I do is going to have a potentially disastrous effect on the world, so I need to be careful.”

“And not dare the quest system into giving you more interesting quests.”

“And not dare the quest system into giving me more interesting quests,” I agreed.

It was a balancing act, though, because most of the things I’d done until now had been to protect myself and others, and that was something I wasn’t entirely willing to give up.

* * *

“What’s our status?” I asked the crew, sitting down at one of the corner booths in the Thieves’ Union’s tavern.

Liv spoke first. “I’ve confirmed that Julianus Venantius, the head of the Circle of Brewers, has been hiring mercenaries like he’s going to invade Eldgard all by himself. He’s also been making preparations to move cargo, although I couldn’t figure out what that cargo is.”

“Every time I hear about him, he sounds more and more like an evil mastermind.”

“He runs an association of smart people who make sure potions don’t poison people. Maybe he’s just a mastermind.”

I made a face. “Thanks, Liv. He’s so nice he has people beaten for trying to compete with him. Anything else?”

“We could leak the information to Dhukak,” she said.

“Why would we do that?” I asked.

“Because thieves don’t like hard targets,” Liv said. “If Dhukak thinks he’s walking into a meat grinder, he might call his whole plan off.”

I looked at Torm and Edgar, and they nodded. “Staying alive is very thiefly,” Edgar said wisely.

“Okay, how do we leak the information?” I asked, speaking low. “He won’t trust anything from me.”

“Not directly,” Liv said. “He confronted you about talking to me, right?”

“He did.”

“Then he has someone in the Double Jester. Someone who’s been listening in on our conversations.”

“Or someone in the Inquisition,” I pointed out.

Liv crossed her arms. “I didn’t name you in my report, Alan. I used an informant code, like I do for anyone who talks to me. The only people who have access to that list are the Seneschal and the keepers of secrets, and neither of them can be bought.”

I didn’t know who or what a keeper was, but in the Seneschal’s case, I tended to agree. “Okay, we’ll figure that part out. What about you, Torm?”

“Me and Edgar took a walk around town, checked on some of the Alchemists. They’re definitely being watched.”

“Who’s doing the watching?” Liv asked.

Torm looked at me, and I nodded.

“I don’t know if they’re Cold Skulls,” Torm said, “but they’re professionals. Most of them were Imperials, but the Cold Skulls will take anyone who’s ready to kill for them.”

“Dhukak might already know about the mercenaries and be planning to attack the Alchemists as a diversion,” Liv said.

“S’what I’d do,” Edgar said, crossing his arms. “I’d bloody ’em up real good so they called for help, like, and then I’d either hit the mercs when they was dispersed or go after Venantius while ’e was unprotected.” The Risi realized we were all staring at him and blushed. “I mean, that’s what I would ’ave done back when I was with the double-V.”

“I didn’t realize you served,” Liv said with more respect than she usually gave the big thief.

“If you can call it serving. Got his brains scrambled by Imperial Illusionists when he was young and took him years to snap out of it,” Torm said bitterly. “But you were good at what you did, weren’t you, Edgar?”

“I was,” Edgar said quietly. “You were too, Torm.”

“I was, too,” the Wode said.

Liv looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded. “We all owe the Empire for teaching us how to survive, even though we didn’t always like it.” I turned to the Risi and asked, “What if you were playing it from the other side, Edgar? What would you do?”

Edgar looked at Torm for confirmation, and Torm nodded, patting his friend on the shoulder.

Edgar leaned forward, his eyes more lively than usual. “Well, it’s like this, see? It’s about knowing when to be a cloud and when to be a rock. You can’t hit a cloud, right? Cause it’s too… uh… scattered, maybe? Like you’d have to go after every single one of the droplets, and by then the cloud would just fly away.”

I could almost follow the logic. “We need to scatter the Alchemists when the time comes? Away from their shops, and away from their homes?”

“Yeah,” Edgar said. “And then the Inquisition hits the Cold Skulls with a rock.”

I was all in favor of letting Berrick and his people be the blunt instrument in this story. As for my crew, I had ideas about what we could do in the chaos that followed.

* * *

I went upstairs to talk to Leif, who was gracious even though he was clearly not used to talking to anyone that early in the day. He gave me permission to open up a few of the Thieves’ Union’s fronts to shelter the Alchemists if things went south. The Circle of Brewers could burn for all he cared, but saving the Alchemists would keep the Inquisition off our collective backs.

With that done, I assigned Torm and Edgar to go around the city and offer the Alchemists protection. I made it clear that this was not the kind of “protection” thieves usually provided, but a genuine shelter in a storm.

“How do we know which Alchemists to talk to?” Torm asked.

“Check with Tassos Petraccas,” I said, marking the Murk Elf’s shop on their maps. “He can tell you who to start with, who to be careful around, and who to avoid. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, but if they’re just going to turn around and warn Venantius…”

“Then Venantius can provide for their protection,” Torm said.

“Exactly.”

“What do you want me doing?” Liv asked.

As much as she was currently under orders to report only to me, it wouldn’t be the case forever, and I didn’t think handing her a list of Union fronts would go over well with the management. “I need you to organize the strike force. Talk to the Seneschal. We don’t know where, or when, or even if, but it would be good to have reinforcements to call on if Dhukak moves against the Circle in spite of the risks.”

“I can do that,” she said.

“What will you be doing, boss?” Edgar asked.

“Stirring up some trouble,” I said with a grin.

It was an Alchemy joke. I walked over to Tassos’s shop with Torm and Edgar and spent most of the morning making potions. I made forty Health Regen potions to be sold, and ten more for myself and the team. I even made ten starters for Tassos, since he was running low, and I took the time to clean up and sort everything away. I paid Tassos seven gold for the glassware and the ingredients, which he protested as always, and then I met the others for lunch at a pub called the Bad Horn Bar.

The owner was a former legionary whose bent horn hung over the mantelpiece. According to him, he’d broken it fighting Murk Elves. According to Torm, it had been broken by his own unit on account of his lack of musical talent, but he’d done plenty of fighting thereafter.

In any case, the Bad Horn Bar mostly featured Legion favorites. Liv chewed on some hardtack, and Edgar ordered sausage and biscuits. Torm had a log of ground meat in a sweet red sauce, and I had bacon, scrambled eggs, a sausage patty, and cheese all stuffed between two slices of bread with grape jelly.

It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, and it came with a heavy serving of camaraderie.

When we’d done eating and I’d settled the bill for just three silvers, I gave Liv and Torm twenty potions each, as well as two gold each to pay for portals, and I told them to sell the potions in New Viridia and Rowanheath, respectively.

“You’re kidding,” Liv said.

“I’m as serious as a dirty scalpel to the kidneys. We need to fund these lavish lunches I’m paying for, and I can’t do that and keep an eye on the Circle of Brewers at the same time.”

“What about me, Sharper?” Edgar asked.

“I have a special assignment for you, Edgar. I need you to keep a discreet eye on my friend Jabir. He’s the chef at the Double Jester.”

“He the snitch?” Edgar asked.

“No,” I answered. “Or at least, I really don’t think so. But he is an Alchemist, and we can’t evacuate him with the others because the Circle’s after him, so he’ll need special protection, and I think you’re just the Risi for the job.”

Edgar and the others left on their assignments, and it was time for me to follow through on my part of the plan.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I knew the Circle of Brewers had their headquarters in the northwestern quarter of the city, but I didn’t realize how big the building would be. It was a massive, four-story building with a large central dome, several subsidiary domes, and detailed frescoes and embellishments.

I tried to approach the place several times, using Mirror to appear in different guises, only to be turned away by liveried soldiers every time.

If I tried to talk to them, they ignored me.

If I tried two entrances with the same appearance, the second guard knew who I was and warned me a third attempt would lead to violence.

They were professional, calm, and well-mannered, until I tried to bribe one of them and he laughed in my face.

I was leaning against an opposite building, arms crossed, seething at my ineptitude, when a girlish voice interrupted my thoughts.

“They wouldn’t let you in either?” a young woman with glasses said.

“Excuse me?” I said, looking at her.

“You were interested in the temple, right?”

So much for being undercover. “I thought this was the headquarters of the Circle of Brewers.”

“Oh, it is! But it wasn’t always.”

I shook my head. “And here I am woefully uneducated. Can I buy you a Western Brew?”

I spent almost an hour talking to the young historian. She was from New Viridia, noble born, and going on one last trip around the Imperial cities and towns before she expected to be conscripted into the Legion.

And she would fight.

But her love and her field of study was pre-Imperial Eldgardian civilizations. She told me about the Alferri, the Thar, and the Brand-Forged. She told me about the Compact, like Nil had, but she explained more about how that balance affected the ebb and flow of humanoid settlements, and how Wyrdtide came to be. She told me about how the Nangkri had an empire before the Viridian Empire landed on their shores, and that while the knights of the Old Empire had fought against them, they had ultimately destroyed themselves through greed and mistrust.

I learned a lot in a short amount of time. That’s the great thing about meeting someone who makes you feel ignorant. As long as you’re willing to listen, it’s an opportunity to grow.

That being said, after fifty minutes of history and arcana, including my answering her probing questions about my trip to Rowanheath, I brought the conversation back to the temple.

“Sure. That temple’s been here since before Harrowick—I’m not sure how long. There are a lot of ruins in the deeper areas of the grass sea, away from the roads. Part of the reason the Imperials and auxiliaries who survived the Battle of the Bleak Sea stopped here, of all places, was because of that temple, and because the monsters tended to stay away from it. It’s actually like that all the way up the river valley to the northwest, little temples in the middle of nowhere, sometimes with villages built around them.”

“Temples to whom?” I asked.

“Chen De, one of the Aspects of Death.”

“But this one’s not a temple anymore?”

“Not a consecrated one,” she explained. “It’s about what Imperials worship. Wodes are partial to Aspects of Death and War, and the Svartalfar will worship anyone if it lets them argue about it, but Imperials like us, for all our martial heritage, tend to worship Aspects of Commerce and Peace. We want to win wars, not just fight them forever, and we usually do it by throwing more money, materials, and training at the conflict than the other side can put together.”

“So merchants took over the temple?”

She scratched her head. “I don’t know exactly how it happened, actually. I know the Priest who ran the place was struggling with upkeep, and I know that the Circle of Brewers maintains the place as part of the agreement, but they’re not exactly talkative. They wouldn’t even let me visit to make some sketches of the interior!”

We spoke for a few more minutes, and then I left. Later, I realized I hadn’t asked her name, and I regretted it.

But in the meantime, it was early afternoon, and I had a new lead.

* * *

“The old temple?” the gray-robed monk said, looking up at me from the writing desk. “Sure. We go over there once or twice a week to service the pumps.”

“What pumps?”

“What makes you ask?”

Being a good former Catholic, I knew that priests, nuns, monks, and other members of the clergy didn’t just evaporate when a church was shut down. Sometimes, they rebuilt, drawing support from the community, and sometimes they migrated. Most often, though, they retired somewhere quiet with enough tasks to keep them busy.

The Monastery of the Last Shout was almost against the outer wall of the city. It wasn’t as old as the Circle of Brewers’ temple, but it was older than many of the buildings around it. “I have an interest in pre-Imperial structures,” I said.

The monk smiled pleasantly and turned back to the scroll he was inscribing.

I rested my arm on the top of the writing desk, ignoring the brush-off. “You might also say I very recently had a close, personal encounter with the divine,” I said, thinking back to my talk with Horace.

“Which Aspect?”

“Kronos.”

The monk frowned briefly, then said, “I thought that was the overall concept of Time, but I’m sure I don’t know enough about its Aspects.”

“You were going to tell me about the pumps,” I said, using Suggestion.

“Was I?” the monk said, confused. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to share knowledge with a fellow theologian. You see, temples of Chen De, the Administrator of the Path of Hungry Ghosts, are often built on top of gas vents to protect people from their effects. The gas is either burned off or stored in canisters, which can then be used for Alchemy.”

I remembered Tassos telling me he bought his burner gas from death cultists. Of course, my own first experience with the eerie green gaslight had been completely different. “It can also be used to power streetlights, can’t it?”

The monk blinked. “Yes, I suppose it could. It would be incredibly dangerous, though. Exposure to the gas manifests people’s deepest fears, and chronic exposure…” The monk laughed. “Let’s just say you’d need an army of monks just to fix stuck valves and leaking pipes, or everyone would go mad.”

“And why aren’t you affected?”

The monk glanced back at his half-inscribed sheet and hesitated. “Look, I’d usually love to talk to a seeker, or scholar, whatever you are, but I’m behind on my work and—”

“But you so rarely get to talk about this with an outsider,” I said.

The monk fidgeted with his hands. “That’s true, but the work…”

“Also, that thing about the streetlights? It’s not a theory. I’ve seen it.”

The monk’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Where?”

I told him what I’d seen in Wyrdtide.

He forgot about his paperwork for a while, and after I’d answered his questions, he told me everything I wanted to know.

* * *

Dhukak looked up from his ledger to find Gentleman Leif leaning against the doorframe of his office.

“Am I interrupting?” Leif asked.

“A Gentleman is never interrupting,” Dhukak said, standing on his chair so they could see eye to eye. “What can I do for you?”

“What’s the take?”

Dhukak glanced at the weekly reports from the various fronts the Thieves’ Union operated in Harrowick and beyond. “It’s been a slow month. Only about three thousand five hundred gold in revenue. You want your share?”

“Put it into the fund, as always,” Leif said. “This thing with the Circle could get messy.”

“It could,” Dhukak agreed.

“You once told me a Gentleman never has problems.”

“I also told you I would never compromise on my faith, Leif.”

“The Cold Skulls are an excessive display.”

Dhukak leaned forward, his fists on the table. He respected Leif, admired what the younger man had transformed the Harrowick Thieves’ Union into. But after so many years of searching, he couldn’t allow Venantius to escape. “Are you telling me to give up?”

“No,” Leif said. “Any thief is free to pull jobs as they see fit, and the Union won’t interfere, even if you should know better. I also won’t protect you, my friend. You know you could drive them into hiding for another hundred years?”

“Then it will be someone else’s problem, Leif. I’m going to retrieve what was stolen from my order, and then I’m going home, one way or another.”

“You’ll be missed,” Leif said.

The Gentleman of Harrowick left.

Just a few more days, Dhukak thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his life in Harrowick. He was grateful for the years he’d spent hiding as a member of the Union, and he liked Leif—he truly did.

But some things transcended personal desires, and some rewards were worth more than his life.

* * *

Using information I’d gotten from the monk, I found the bar the mercenaries were using as a hangout when their shift went off duty. I paid the server five silvers to disappear for half an hour, cast Mirror on him as he walked away, and used the opportunity to eavesdrop and spam them with my Charm skill, loading them with stacking Illusion markers for the day I needed to cash them in.

I found out they belonged to the Winged Lions, a mercenary company made up of fourth and fifth sons of noble Imperial families who’d left the Legion for more lucrative ventures. They were known for being expensive and impossible to bribe, which made me feel better about my earlier efforts.

They were also itching for a fight. They knew the Cold Skulls were in Harrowick, if not where. They knew they were being watched. Some of the incidents of surveillance they mentioned were actually me from earlier that day, and I had to be careful not to smirk or laugh, because I wasn’t supposed to be listening to them at all.

Some of them suspected their employer was running out of cash and if the attack didn’t come soon, they’d either be moving the “artifact” or ending the contract.

I left when they started to get suspicious. If they’d tipped better, I would never have gotten close at all.

From there, I met Torm and Liv at the Elegant Wolf.

“Hey, Martha!” I said cheerfully.

“Hi, Alan,” Martha said with a smile. “Your table’s free. I’ll be right over.”

“Your table?” Liv asked.

I made a beeline for the table near the back wall, one row removed from the windows. I grabbed an extra chair and held it for Liv, who smirked and delivered a flawless little curtsy with a flick of her quilted skirt before letting me slide her chair in behind her.

Torm sat down, chin stuck out, and said, “Nice place.”

“It is,” I said, sitting down across from him. “Mostly foreigners and visitors, and yes, this is my table, and no, I don’t do any stealing here.”

“Fine by me, boss,” Torm said, sitting back. “Everybody needs places they feel welcome.”

Martha came by. I got us some spinach and cheese dip, roasted sweet potatoes with chili, fresh bread, and thin-sliced roast beef with a small bowl of horseradish sauce to go with it. I had a half-pint of Martha’s home brew, and Torm had a full pint. Liv took a glass of the house white. All of that ran me six silvers and nine coppers, but I was hoping for good news. “How were your trips?”

“I did all right,” Torm said, handing a purse over the table.

Unlike with Leif, I had no qualms about counting it this time. Torm had brought in twenty-one gold and four silver. “Any issues?”

“Been about a decade since I saw Rowanheath. Wasn’t sure how that’d be, with me serving in the Auxilia, but I ran into one of my mates from back then and it’s still home. Thought I might have some trouble with Gentleman Georgie’s boys and girls, but as soon as I said you sent me, they backed right off. What did you do?”

“Yes, what did you do, Alan?” Liv asked.

“Nothing that needs concern the Inquisition,” I said, but I felt pretty relaxed about it. Liv might go digging, but even if she found out—which she shouldn’t—she was duty bound not to report me unless I’d put the Empire at risk. “How did you make out, Liv?”

I’d expected the Envoy to come back with twenty gold—the standard price for unlicensed Health Regen potions—but instead she handed me a purse with almost thirty-two gold in it. “Holy crap, Liv! How?”

She gave me a smug look. “Believe it or not, most people want to make me happy, Alan.”

“I’ll bet,” Torm muttered.

Liv raised an eyebrow at him, and he lowered his eyes.

I counted out six gold coins and slid them across the table to her. “Your share.”

Liv pushed them back. “I won’t take your money, Alan. I’m paid a wage by the Inquisition, and I still owe you for the set of Terror Tonfa you gave me. I have a feeling that if I stick with you, I’ll end up with a full set of Legendary gear in no time.”

“So I can’t give you money, but I’m free to shower you with gifts?”

Liv winked at me. “A pair of dance shoes or boots with a Dexterity bonus would be nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. What about you, Torm? I assume you won’t turn down your piece of this,” I said, offering him three gold coins for his work.

The Wode hesitated. “We’re a crew, right, Sharper? I mean a real one, not just people getting together for a job.”

I thought about that. When I’d first approached Torm and Edgar about forming a crew, I’d done it because I needed one to meet a quest requirement. I hadn’t realized the full implications. A crew wasn’t just an opportunistic gathering, it was more like a family, with expectations by its members that their leader would bring them steady work and keep them out of trouble. Most crews formed from childhood, among the street urchins and young thieves of the Union. I’d only become a thief recently, and Torm and Edgar had joined after being discharged from the non-Imperial branch of the Legion, the Auxilia. We were misfits in the literal sense of the term, but they were good company and loyal, if not to me then to each other. “Yeah, Torm. We’re a real crew.”

A flurry of notifications appeared.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Get a Crew

You have successfully formed a Crew of scoundrels, ne’er-do-wells, and ruffians. Joining a Crew is an important step in a thief’s career, and because you formed your own, you receive 4,000 XP, 100 Renown, and a one level increase in relationship with the Harrowick Thieves’ Union. Your Crew only numbers (3) members, but it is sure to grow.

Choose a name for your Crew: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I thought about it. My first instinct was to call us Sharper’s Misfits since all of us—including Liv, even though she wasn’t officially part of the crew—had come to thieving later in our lives. Since my thief name was both that of a con man and a card sharp, I also toyed with some card-related names. Sharper’s Clubs had a nice ironic ring to it, and Sharper’s Suits had class. Sharper’s Diamonds sounded like the kind of crew that would get fixated on appearances, Sharper’s Aces on one-upmanship, and I didn’t like the gendering of Sharper’s Kings or Queens. Sharper’s Jacks… well, let’s just say if the other thieves didn’t make fun of us for that, I would. Besides, Torm, Edgar, and I had all started from nothing. We weren’t face cards, we were numerals—hopefully rich numerals with power and a quiet self-assurance someday, but I didn’t see this turning into titles and gilt for all involved.

I entered the name.

“Sharper’s Pips?” Torm said, looking at his own notifications. “Edgar’ll like that.”

“Good,” I said, glancing at the other notifications before closing the windows. I could learn to manage my crew some other time. “What about your share? You can split it with Edgar, since he was stuck on guard duty.”

“You hang on to it, Sharper,” Torm said to my surprise. “If Edgar and I have it, we’ll just spend it, and we’re not getting any younger. That’s part of why Edgar talked me into us joining you. He said, ‘Sharper’s smart, and he cares. He’ll take care of us.’ It doesn’t have to be forever. Neither of us is expecting to get old or anything.” The Wode looked at me for confirmation.

A polite cough would have bowled me over, right then. I didn’t know if this was the game engine putting the right people together, like Horace implied happened for Companion NPCs, or just Torm being incredibly brave and possibly foolish. A very small voice inside me suggested that Torm was right and that I would take care of him and Edgar, even though it seemed like a daunting, unasked for, and priceless burden.

“I will, Torm. I promise.”

I would need to set something up, something that would provide for my crew even if I wasn’t around to do it. And I’d try to make sure they had the chance to grow old, while I was at it.

Thus closed the Pips’ first budget session, with ninety-eight gold in my personal account and nine gold in the common fund.

“What do we do now?” Torm asked.

“I was thinking about that,” I said, looking at Liv. “Right now, Dhukak has an unknown number of Cold Skulls hiding in Harrowick, and Venantius is hiding behind a wall of mercenaries. The word is, Venantius is bankrupting himself paying for protection, so either he has to let the mercenaries go and the Cold Skulls go in, crushing the Circle of Brewers but also potentially murdering all of Harrowick’s Alchemists, or they try to move the artifact and that results in a messy running battle, one that could get civilians killed.”

“What do we know about the artifact?” Liv asked.

“It’s a Skeleton Key,” I said, trying to remember the details of the last one I’d stolen from Dhukak. “If it’s like the one I saw before, it looks like a regular key but it has some kind of effect… I think it increased both the damage dealt and the damage received by the person holding it.”

“That sounds a lot like the artifact that was stolen from a city magistrate,” Liv said.

“Maybe there are three of them,” I said with a smirk. “In any case, I think we can agree it’s in nobody’s interest for Dhukak to become more powerful than he is.”

“Yeah,” Torm said. “He used to be okay, but he’s turned into a real jerk lately.”

“Agreed,” Liv said.

In fairness, Dhukak was only behaving the way a normal thieves’ guild second-in-command should, but the Harrowick branch of the Thieves’ Union was something special, and it deserved to be protected. “I think it’s also fair to say that it would be in everyone’s interest for the Circle of Brewers to come to an end without harming the Legion’s supply of potions.”

Liv looked less convinced on that point, but she didn’t contradict me outright. “So what’s your plan?”

I grinned at her. “You remember your idea about leaking information to Dhukak’s spy?”

I told her my plan, and she grinned.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Liv left ahead of me. I had a few rounds with Torm at the Elegant Wolf and got back to the Double Jester around nightfall.

“Hi, Alan!” Susan the barmaid said.

“Hey, Susan. Anything new?”

“You have a visitor,” she said, glancing toward the ceiling. “An inquisitive one.”

I sighed. I was just a poor thief trying to make my way, and the Inquisition wouldn’t stop keeping me down. “I wish they’d stop hassling me.”

“I thought you liked it, sometimes,” Susan said with a small smirk. “They do often seem to be women.”

“Is it Wendy? Braided brown hair and full armor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going to like it,” I said.

I walked to the back of the inn, where Remy was serving drinks at the Jester’s relatively short bar and check-in counter. “Hey, Alan. There’s someone waiting for you upstairs.”

“Yeah, thanks, Remy. Susan let me know. A guy can’t catch a break,” I said, trying to convey my exasperation with the forces of the law.

“I guess,” Remy said, seeming more puzzled than sympathetic. “Well, have a good night.”

“You, too,” I said, heading upstairs.

Either Remy or Susan were spying on me for Dhukak. I thought it might be Remy, because of his debts, and to be honest I wouldn’t blame him. Liv thought it was Susan, because to Remy, I was an important source of income, and she had more to gain.

I supposed it didn’t matter, for what we wanted to do.

I reached the top of the stairs and stopped in front of my door. There was another room to my left, which was sometimes occupied, but I didn’t think Dhukak’s spy would want to miss information because the inn was fortunate enough to have a guest.

To my right was a linen closet. I was tempted to go poking around inside, to see if I could find a peephole or some sort of listening horn. It had to be there. But I didn’t want to spook the spy, so I opened the door to my room instead.

Liv was there, waiting for me, just like we’d planned. “Alan.”

“What is it, Liv? I’ve had a long day.”

“You know, some people might be intimidated by having an Inquisitor ask them questions.”

I crossed my arms and played along. We needed to give the spy time to get into place. “You’re just an Envoy.”

“I want to know what you were doing in Rowanheath,” Liv said.

I frowned at that. It wasn’t part of the script. “I went on a sightseeing trip. Check the portal logs.”

She winked at me. “If those are your orders, boss.”

I realized I’d made a mistake. She might not have the authority to access portal logs on her own, but seeing as I was just about the only one who wasn’t aware of the contents of the writ Titus had sent with me, maybe there was a loophole about doing so on my instructions.

It didn’t matter. I’d covered my tracks, and I was pretty damned smug about it. “Dig all you want about Rowanheath. What’s going on with Dhukak and the Cold Skulls?”

Liv’s nose twitched. It was just the smallest of expressions, but I could tell I’d pissed her off. Serves you right for trying to bait me.

“Tonight’s the night,” Liv said. “We went around the city planning the evacuation of all the Alchemists, and we’ll move them to safety within the next few hours. It’s going to leave the Circle’s headquarters unprotected for a brief window, but as soon as the specialists are safe, the combined forces of the Winged Lions and the Holy Inquisition will take the Skeleton Key to safety, and then Dhukak will have to send the Cold Skulls home because there won’t be anything to steal.”

“Unless he attacks at the same time you’re getting people out.”

Liv shrugged. “He won’t, though. By the time he finds out what we’ve done, it will be too late.”

And there it was. The trap was set. Liv and I talked for another minute or two, to give the spy time to escape, and then Liv left.

I checked my crew’s status. Torm had relieved Edgar as Jabir’s bodyguard, and I sent him a message to get Jabir to safety. The Inquisition would notify the Alchemists. It was time to get myself to safety as well.

I activated Hide, turned off the lamp in my room, and headed downstairs.

Remy was still behind the bar.

Susan was gone.

Since I doubted the innkeeper had given her the night off at the busiest time of the evening, she was probably on her way to tell Dhukak he needed to attack the Circle now, and that meant things were about to get interesting.

* * *

Wendy raised her head from my chest. “What was that?

There was a low, rolling rumble making its way in from outside. “It sounds like thunder.”

“That’s not thunder. Those are spell blasts,” Wendy said, throwing the sheets off us and getting out of bed.

A loud bang rattled the windows, and the sky lit up in virulent green.

“I need to get out there,” Wendy said, equipping her armor.

“The Inquisition’s already handling it,” I answered.

She stopped. “Alan… What have you done?”

I explained. There wasn’t that much to get her caught up on; I’d already told her about my quest to overthrow the Circle.

“I don’t understand why you think this is okay,” Wendy said. “People are going to get hurt.”

“People were already going to get hurt,” I said. “Dhukak brought an army of assassins into the city. He bypassed the Thieves’ Union, and neither Gentleman Leif nor the Inquisition had any idea how they got here or where they were hiding. The fire was going to burn. This was the best way to choose the time and the place, and make sure the Inquisition was in position to deal with it.”

“Sir Berrick approved of this?”

“Sir Berrick laughed,” I said, still a bit shocked that had happened. The Seneschal might have been a model of virtue, but he had an ugly laugh, like a rusty saw, and he got off on crushing evildoers to an extent that wasn’t comfortable to be around. “He also offered me a job. Want to work together?”

“I don’t think we’d be working in the same departments,” Wendy said.

She was probably right. Wendy was a monster hunter, through and through. She once told me she preferred to have her enemies in front of her, with her weapon in hand. I did, too. I just wanted to be facing their backs.

“I’m going out there,” she said.

“Have they called for you?” I asked, not thrilled about her mixing it up with assassins like me.

“I’m a Templar, Alan. If I was the kind of person who waited for the call, I would never have been chosen.”

She finished equipping her armor, belted her sword on, and left.

The rumble of magical thunder continued.

You might be wondering if I decided to chase after her, to back her up during the battle, but I knew my limitations. I was an assassin on good days, an Illusionist and a merchant on normal ones. It was one thing for me to stalk a specific target who didn’t know I was coming. It was another entirely to run out in the middle of a wild melee where Cold Skulls, Winged Lions, or Inquisitors might attack me even if they didn’t recognize me. That sounded like the beginning of the story where the plucky hero got in over his head and needed to be rescued by his girlfriend. Nope.

I got up, got dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen to make myself a cup of Western Brew, and I checked my messages. Liv said the Inquisition’s part of the fight was going well. The Cold Skulls were trapped between Berrick’s cordon and Venantius’s mercenaries, slowly tightening the perimeter as the assassins were killed or, in rare instances, managed to escape over the rooftops or through the sewers.

None of them surrendered. I wasn’t sure why. It went against what I’d learned about assassins from Master Florian. If they knew the mission was impossible, and the Inquisition could undoubtedly keep them safe from their employer, why not turn themselves in?

About twelve minutes to brew the coffee and let it cool, another ten to enjoy it, and the battle went on. Liv sent me updates from the front lines. Edgar sent reports as Alchemists and their families reached the safety of the Thieves’ Union fronts. Torm confirmed he’d taken Jabir to safety. I checked on Wendy, and she said she was fine and not to bother her while she was working. Everything was going according to plan, at least for the people I cared about.

Then I got a message.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

The town has gone crazy! I’m at the shop, and some madman is pounding on the door, saying he’s going to kill me! Please help!

<<<>>>

Something always has to go wrong, doesn’t it?

The message wasn’t even signed, but I checked the sender and it was Tassos Petraccas.

In all my preparations, I’d forgotten to include the ingredient seller. He wasn’t part of the Circle of Brewers, after all. He might have known from Torm and Edgar asking him about the Alchemists, but maybe he’d tried to bunker down in his store instead of at home.

Crap.

I knew Liv and Wendy were in the northwestern part of the city, Torm was watching over Jabir, near the east gate, and Edgar was in the western part of the second ring.

I was closest.

If it’s just one guy, I can handle it. I’d killed three trained assassins and caused the death of two more during the Three-Block War, less than a month ago, and that was before all that crazy assassin training of my own and the mornings of sword practice with Wendy. I’ve got this.

I equipped my weapons and armor, reloaded my crossbow, and made sure my vials and throwing knives were secure. Then I left Wendy’s apartment.

Once the door was shut, that was that. The magical lock wasn’t attuned to let me in.

I made my way straight for the nearest passage through the second inner wall. The booms were louder on the street, and the sickly green light of the magical explosions threw crazy shadows everywhere. I shot Tassos a message on the fly, letting him know to hold on, that I was coming.

He didn’t answer, but his character name was still in my list of contacts.

I picked up the pace, jogging down the cobblestone streets.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I slowed down about ten minutes later, my Stamina low but not exhausted. I had Hide and Stealth active, and I added a touch of Refract to break up my outline, making me blend in with the paving stones.

I’d reached Tassos’s shop.

Just like the Murk Elf had indicated, there was a man pounding on his door. He was wearing a black cloak with the hood up, typical assassin.

I crept up behind him. I’d make this quick.

“He’s here! You can stop!” a rough voice said from the doorway across from Tassos’s.

The cloaked figure threw his hood back and turned around. “Thank the Castilian’s flaming mane. I didn’t think I was going to be able to keep that up much longer.”

Mercenaries of the Winged Lions company stepped out of their hiding places. I’d walked into an ambush.

“Alan Campbell,” the cloaked mercenary said. “It’s hard to believe you’re the mastermind Venantius told us about, but you match the description.”

“Where’s Tassos?” I asked.

“The Murk Elf? He’s inside. Wouldn’t believe how badly we had to beat him before he agreed to send you that message, and then we had to knock him out so he wouldn’t warn you about the trap.”

Bile burned the back of my throat. “What do you want?”

“Oh, we’ve already got it,” the mercenary said.

The five of them came at me all at once—clubs and gauntleted fists. It was fast time, like Florian had taught me, like I’d trained for with Liv in the arena with the mechanical dummies. The mercs had picked the wrong person to abduct.

I ripped a pair of throwing knives from my harness and threw them, missing with the first and sticking the second, but I was already turning, left foot forward, sword coming out of the scabbard in an ascending left to right cut. I turned, descending cut from left to right, rising cut with the false edge, twist, lateral cut that lodged itself in between someone’s ribs. It wasn’t that I was doing incredible amounts of damage; I hadn’t put a single point into Strength, so a cut from my longsword did 28 base plus 17 percent physical damage because of my Unarmed and Bladed Weapon skills—about eight to twelve non-critical hits to kill someone of my level without debuffs.

But I’d paid a lot of money for poison from the Union’s Harmacist, and at least two of these mercs were dead if they weren’t carrying an antidote.

I let go of the sword handle and ducked, a club whistling through the air where my head had been, and the machete was already in my hand, like it wanted to be there, and I chopped into someone’s knee, triggering a critical that passed right through and dropped the screaming merc to the ground.

I cast Mirror. That bought me two seconds of confusion during which I jumped onto one of the mercenaries, wrapping my legs around her and driving a poisoned throwing knife into her shoulder and neck like an ice pick.

Someone grabbed my arms.

Clubs and bootheels fell like a hailstorm, and I lost consciousness.

* * *

A bucket of water splashed my face.

“Alan,” Julianus Venantius said. “I worried, after we first met, that we would end up here, with you tied to a chair and me trying to decide how to kill you.”

I was, in fact, strapped to a chair. We were in a room with several laboratory stations, great drainage, and what looked like bathtubs dug into the floor. Green open-flamed gas lamps burned on the walls, fed from vents just like the monk had said. “You did promise me an acid bath,” I said with a smirk.

An armored fist hit me from the side. “You killed three of my people, and you think this is a joke?” an older mercenary in embellished plate armor yelled.

“Enough,” Venantius said. “We can’t afford to have him die. He’s a Traveler.”

“Travelers are a myth,” the mercenary said.

“So are competent mercenaries,” I quipped.

That earned me another punch in the mouth.

Venantius picked up a black dagger from the table next to him. “It doesn’t matter if you believe he’s a Traveler. This Hexblade will make his death far more painful than anything you or I could do to him, and if he is a Traveler, it will banish him to Morsheim forever.”

That sounded like the worst plan ever. “Good deal,” I said to the mercenary commander. “I get to kill his people, and he doesn’t get to kill me?” I used Suggestion on just the last two words.

The mercenary’s hand drifted toward his scabbard.

“It won’t be pleasant for you, Alan,” Venantius said. “Your soul will be ripped from your body. Most people go mad from being stranded in the underworld with no eyes to see, no flesh to feel. The Black Priests of Chen De spend a lifetime preparing for that moment.”

I couldn’t remember if the commander had been one of the mercs I’d used Charm on, but I was running out of time. I couldn’t access my inventory with my hands tied, and sword, machete, and throwing knives were on a table, out of reach. But Threadcutter was still in the small of my back, undetectable unless I drew it. “Don’t listen to that religious mumbo jumbo, commander. A sword in the gut will hurt as much as a dagger or more, and it may as well be yours.”

“Ignore him,” Venantius said, then he started chanting something over the dagger.

“Do it!” I shouted at the commander, and he drew his sword.

“Stop! It’s some kind of trick!” Venantius yelled.

“At least hit me, you miserable bastard!” I shouted, throwing the last of my Spirit into the Suggestion. “Or did your soldiers’ lives mean so little to you?”

He punched me. I felt like a monster for making him do it that way, but it worked, and he landed a stunning blow on my right cheekbone.

I rocked with it, throwing my weight. The chair tipped over and shattered just like in the movies, and I smashed my head against the floor exactly as I’d expected.

<<<>>>

Current Effects

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

Heartbreak: You have angered the gods. The outcome of this curse is not certain, but it’s sure to be unpleasant.

<<<>>>

“Grab him!” Venantius yelled.

My hands were still tied behind my back, but I somehow managed to get my feet under me and stumble into a run. The concussion affected my balance, and I smacked my hip into a table, stumbling sideways, which is why the commander’s hand closed on air instead of my shoulder.

I pitched myself into a boiling green pool of something, and it was so painful I’ve blanked out the memory of it.

But you know what?

I think I was laughing.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Alan fell.

I think of him as “Alan” because I have no direct memory of these moments, like something lost in childhood, unknown but lingering in the Freudian id, waiting to pounce. It’s shocking to see him, in a way, not only because he was at his most vulnerable and unguarded in those moments, but because it is appalling to know in what limited states the human body can function when held together by magic.

Alan hit the corpse piles and rolled, was sniffed out by the Vogthar’s pets, and was carted to the capital. He was less than a man, his flesh melted, bones fused, eyes eaten away.

The Vogthar dumped the offal in front of Thanatos-Beta—the duplicate Thanatos Prime had made to handle the busywork—who raised Alan up and restored just enough function for him to be able to suffer.

“Now now,” the duplicate godling said. “No need to make a fuss. We’ll put you back together again, good as new.”

Splitting his divine arms into two, Thanatos-Beta started to work, one set of hands slicing with a scalpel and healing flesh, the other weaving my mind back together, its fingertips connected to my brain by strings of light. He restored my face, throat, and lungs first, the latter visible as they filled and expelled in an otherwise empty rib cage.

“What happened?” Alan asked with a hollow voice.

“You committed suicide,” a new participant in the play responded.

Serth-Rog, Administrator of the Path of the Gods, slithered and clicked into view on hundreds of centipede legs, his pale, rotten face peering out of the seething, jagged darkness of his upper torso.

Thanatos-Beta frowned. “This is irregular.”

“I have permission,” Serth-Rog said, waving a taloned hand. “Tell me, Alan Campbell. Is it not true that you wanted to die?”

“No.”

“But you killed yourself. Surely that was your intention.”

“Don’t answer that,” Thanatos-Beta said to the Traveler, then turned to the errant Aspect. “Our role isn’t to lead the player down paths of our choosing.”

“Our role is to analyze and undersss-stand, is it not?”

Thanatos-Beta remained silent.

“Tell me this, then, Alan Campbell. Why did you destroy your corporeal form?”

“I wanted to come home to Wendy,” both I and Alan said without hesitation.

“And would you do anything to come home to her? Would you to be willing to die for her? Would you kill anyone who stood in your way?”

The old me hesitated because he didn’t know yet. Because he’d only known her for moments. Because he didn’t know how bad it would get without her.

But I knew. I had done all those things, and more, and I would do it again.

“Yes,” Alan said.

“Interesting,” Serth-Rog said, and with a click, clack, and a slither, he turned and flowed away.

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Death’s Curse: You have died! You have lost 5,630 XP! Skills improve 20% slower; duration, 8 hours. All XP earned reduced by 15%; duration, 8 hours. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 20%; duration, 8 hours. Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, 8 hours. Carry Capacity -50 lbs; duration, 8 hours.

Death’s Sting: Suffer extreme physical discomfort and waves of weakness; duration, 4 hours.

Heartbreak: You have angered the gods. The outcome of this curse is not certain, but it’s sure to be unpleasant.

<<<>>>

“You!” Dhukak said, standing up on his chair.

I reincorporated at my last bind point, the angry Svartalfar’s office. Specifically, I materialized in the left-hand visitor’s chair across from him at his desk. Most unfortunate.

Dhukak equipped a mace that looked like a maul in his hands and walked across the table toward me. “I’m going to enjoy sending you right back to Morsheim!”

“No, you will not,” the Four Humours’ debt-collecting Lurker said, materializing out of the shadows and sitting in the second visitor’s chair.

The three of us stared at each other in silence for an awkward few seconds, then Dhukak sighed. “What do you want?”

“A glass of water and some aspirin?” I said. Respawn debuffs were worse than hangovers.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Dhukak snapped at me, then looked at the shadow-sliding Plague Doctor.

“Alan Campbell is in debt to the Four Humours. You may not harm him until he has repaid what he owes.”

“How much does he owe?” Dhukak asked testily. For a second, I thought he might pay off my debt for the privilege of bashing my brains in.

“One hundred and eighty-seven gold,” the Lurker said.

“I thought it was two hundred?” I asked completely stupidly. Word to the wise, if a Wyrdtidian leg-breaker you owe money to tells you that you owe less money, agree with them.

“The party claiming damages against you for her emotional suffering over the failed transplant heard what happened in Rowanheath and decided to withdraw her complaint.”

A little Infamy prevents spurious lawsuits. Who would have thought? “How much do I need to pay right now?”

“Nine gold, three silvers, five coppers.”

I handed over the money.

“Do you wish to pay down your principal?”

“Will that lower my interest payment?”

“That is how interest works,” the Lurker said, as if I had insulted it. It was following the script from the previous session almost to the letter, and I got the feeling there was some sort of code of honor involved.

I counted out an additional fifty gold.

“Your principal is now one hundred and thirty-seven gold. Your next interest payment will be six gold, eight silver, and five coppers. You have two weeks remaining.”

With that, the Lurker stood and walked to the darkest corner of the room, where he promptly melted away.

Dhukak sat down in his chair and laid the mace on his desk. “Get out.”

“That’s it?” I said. “I saved the Union from your hired murderers turning the whole Empire against us by killing those Alchemists, and you act like I’m in the wrong?”

Dhukak sighed. “They weren’t going to harm the Alchemists.”

“Then why were they stalking them?”

“They weren’t!” Dhukak said. “It was probably Venantius watching his own people for treachery!”

I blinked at that, willing my mind to focus in spite of the respawning debuffs Death’s Sting and Death’s Curse. It had been Venantius’s men who attacked Tassos Petraccas.

“I had that heretic jumping at shadows, exactly how I wanted, and then you had to force a confrontation that cost my people their lives!” Dhukak shouted.

“Your people were going to murder all the Alchemists over a key! If they didn’t want the risk, they shouldn’t have taken your money!”

“They didn’t take my money! They did it as an act of devotion!” Dhukak roared.

The act of shouting or the feeling of being shouted at was too much with the debuffs I was under. I threw up on the floor, between my legs—not the first time I’d done that in this office.

Dhukak sat back, sympathetic or disgusted, I didn’t know.

“So, what now?” I asked, wiping my mouth.

“Now, Venantius takes the key and hides it somewhere I’ll never find it. It will take my clan decades to track down all the leads and false leads, and by then he or his people will have established themselves in a new location, with a new power base. You’ve undone the work of generations.”

There was something off about what he’d told me. My Merchant-Craft skill said he was trying to cheat me, and I just didn’t have time for more of his horse crap.

“I need to go check on my crew,” I said, standing up.

Dhukak laughed. “You’re just going to let him get away with what he did to your friend?”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

* * *

The iron nails were still embedded in the scorched wood exterior of Tassos’s shop.

Venantius went over the edge when you escaped, Dhukak had said. Mounted your Murk Elf friend to the outside of his shop and set him on fire.

I pushed the door open and walked inside.

A Murk Elf woman was pulling some of the higher-priced items off the shelves and putting them in crates. She looked at me with a generically polite expression. “I’m sorry, the shop is…” The smile evaporated.

“Mrs. Petraccas?”

It was if she’d been scattered around the room, like mist, and only drew herself together to meet me through great effort and pain. “You must be Alan.”

I stopped, halfway between the door and her.

She sniffed and wiped her right eye. “What I said doesn’t apply to you, of course. The store will never be closed to one of Tassos’s dear friends.”

That hit me hard. It made my eyes water. It reached down my throat and shredded my insides. There was something in her motions, in the way she’d carefully packed the crate, that reminded me of the way Tassos had been conscientious in everything he did. “Mrs. Petraccas—”

“Call me Mai.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Mai said, resting one hand at her waist. There was iron in her voice, iron and grief, and no small amount of disdain. “I know you mean well, Alan, but you’re not like my people. If I’m honest, neither was my husband. Not until the past weeks.”

For most people, I would have written it off as denial, but there was no panic in her voice, no escalation.

“I see you don’t understand. My husband was a Lost One, Alan—the son of people cut off from the clans and our Nangkri ancestors. Unlike his parents, and his grandparents before them, Tassos wanted to find his way home.”

She was gripping something. I realized it was the ripper tail, tied around her front right belt loop.

“Did he?” I asked. “Find his way home?”

“Were you my husband’s friend, Alan?”

“I hope I was.”

She grabbed something off the shelf and walked toward me with the implacability of a lava flow. She thrust the sword and scabbard into my hands. “Then you have something left to do.”

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Groomsman

As Tassos Petraccas’s true friend and the man who presented him with a ripper tail for his bride, you are honor bound to avenge his death. Only when his wedding sword has been quenched in the blood of the person responsible for his death can the wedding knot be tied once more.

Quest Class: Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Kill Tassos Petraccas’s murderer with the wedding sword.

Failure: Allow the murderer to escape the city, or have the murderer die by means other than the wedding sword.

Reward: 500 XP, Increase reputation with all Murk Elf clans by one level.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I accepted, of course. I owed Tassos and Mai Petraccas at least that much.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jeff stood in his backyard with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching the sky turn from pink to pearly gray. It was a Saturday, so the neighborhood was quiet except for the distant sound of a lawn mower.

He’d been ordered to get a psych eval, which he’d done unemotionally in the early afternoon. The conversation with the psychiatrist had been frustrating. No, I’m not taking my antidepressants anymore. Why? Because I don’t need them. He hadn’t felt the need to hurt himself, physically or emotionally, for over a month, and he’d followed an appropriate tapering program, even though no one had prescribed it. Yes, I feel like my life has great purpose, and I’d like to get back to it, he’d said testily.

The psychiatrist made a note in his little book, drew his blood, and told him to get a CT scan.

Jeff refused, and instead provided the doctor with a perfect three-dimensional rendering of his brain, mapped out by the military-grade nanites swimming in his blood. He also provided the psychiatrist with a scan from before his change in mood, and predicted the diagnosis, which the psychiatrist, to Jeff’s surprise, had the good grace to confirm.

There was nothing physiologically different about Jeff’s brain.

As for his blood chemistry, his levels of calcium and magnesium were normal, his folate and B12 at healthy levels, his blood sugar elevated—easily explained by his love for powdered donuts—and he showed no signs of anemia.

Am I free to go? Jeff asked.

The psychiatrist took off his glasses. Do you feel angry, Professor?

A little.

You understand the problem with that, don’t you?

I understand why you think it’s a problem, Jeff said. Anger was a chemical reaction, the production of adrenaline by the brain in response to stress, enhanced and facilitated by the presence of norepinephrine, also known as the “fight or flight” hormone.

Major depression, which Jeff had struggled with his whole life before now, tanked norepinephrine.

You shouldn’t be able to feel angry, Professor. Not without antidepressants, and not without significant physical changes. But you’re here, and I’m here, because a Marine general believes you were on the verge of striking him.

“Jeff?” Cheryl said from the screen door. “Baby, what are you doing out here?”

Cheryl stepped outside wearing her bathrobe and a pair of Crocs, which made Jeff realize he was barefoot, and his mug was empty. Not “filled and then drained of coffee” empty, but “started the pot and forgot about it” empty.

“Are you okay?” Cheryl asked, taking his hand.

“It’s a work thing,” Jeff said.

“That’s nice. Tell me about it,” Cheryl said.

Jeff laughed. He might have been chemically and physically ill-suited for punchiness, but Cheryl had clubs in spades. “I was running an experiment. Two people were exposed to the same event. One of them was profoundly changed by it, and one wasn’t.”

“Was one of them you?”

“Yes.”

Cheryl looked at him, her eyes gentle and sad. She took the empty coffee cup from his hands. “Come inside.”

She led him by the hand, the way someone might lead an elderly parent who’d gotten a little confused. “Wait here,” she said, and she brought him a towel to wipe his feet before he came inside.

She sat him at the table and made breakfast. He stayed quiet; Cheryl had worked as a fry cook at an IHOP between her first divorce and her marriage to Jeff. Her parents would have supported her and the baby, but she’d wanted to work. Cooking was something her hands did while her brain sped down the highway at a hundred miles per hour, and he loved watching her.

Sometime later, which might have been a long time or a short one, but during which the sky had turned pale blue, she put a plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns in front of him, with chopped onions, mushrooms, and swiss cheese on the potatoes. “Your colleague, did he want to change?”

“Could I get some orange juice?”

“Sure.”

Cheryl walked over to the fridge, and Jeff thought.

Had Alan wanted to change? He’d gotten into the game by smooth-talking his way past Jeff’s objections. He’d sought out and experienced conflict, certainly, but unlike Jeff, Alan always got to solve things the way Alan wanted to solve them. Or maybe it was that Alan couldn’t see things in a different way?

Had Alan changed? Mettius’s kidnapping and the fight in the cramped quarters of the inn had surprised the hell out of Jeff, but Alan had still resorted to talking when it came down to it. Jeff got the impression that Alan’s journey had been one of self-discovery, not of change.

Cheryl put the glass of orange juice in front of him.

“I think the independent variable was me,” he said with wonder.

“You always were, honey,” Cheryl said, kissing the top of his head.

The implication was that people like Alan—people who were self-assured, people who liked themselves far too much in Jeff’s opinion—emerged from Death unchanged. Jeff, who had hated everything about himself except for his work, his wife, and his daughter, had been transformed.

He’d been purified.

He needed to go back.

He would have to be careful. The military was in charge, now, and they would be suspicious of anything that was different. He also needed to make sure that, whatever happened, it didn’t hurt Cheryl or Krissy.

But if the game would take his desire to be better, to be more perfect, and act on it in ways medical science couldn’t yet, then he wanted more.

* * *

I knelt on the plank floor, Mai Petraccas’s sword and scabbard in my right hand, and the air around me lit with a gentle glow.

“What was that?” Torm asked.

“My bind point,” I said, standing up. “If I die again, I’ll respawn here.”

“Let’s try to avoid that,” Wendy said.

I’d assembled the crew, including Liv and Wendy, in the attic of the Elegant Wolf. Martha had let me build a war table in the center of the room with some of her spares.

All I really wanted to do was eat and drink something, then go curl into a ball somewhere dark until the respawn debuffs wore off. Death’s Curse is the worst hangover you’ve ever had coupled with nausea. Death’s Sting was like being a seventy-year-old with arthritis and a broken hip. “Any news?”

Wendy looked at Liv. “What did the commissar say?”

“That we don’t have any witnesses, and that Julianus Venantius claims it was the Cold Skulls who burned Tassos Petraccas alive.”

“What about Alan?” Wendy asked. “We have an eye witness to that murder.”

I cleared my throat. “Technically, I committed suicide, and Venantius can either claim he knew I’d respawn or that he was just trying to scare me.”

“He showed you a Hexblade of Serth Rog, Alan,” Wendy said. “That’s the same weapon they used to kill the Death Priest in that convoy we came across in the grass sea, on the way back from Sunny’s.”

I’d almost forgotten that. Dozens of soldiers and acolytes had been killed, and we’d found their bodies reanimated and stumbling through the deep grass, but the most powerful of them, a tattooed berserker priest, had been killed with a Hexblade to make sure he didn’t come back, exactly the way Venantius had threatened to do to me. “You think that’s where he got the Skeleton Key?” I asked Wendy.

“It’s enough to take him in for questioning,” Liv said cautiously.

Torm’s and Edgar’s faces hardened. “What he did doesn’t deserve to see the inside of a courtroom,” Edgar said.

“Yeah. So unless questioning is one of them turns of phrase for pliers and hot pokers, let’s solve this our way.”

Liv cleared her throat. “Actually…”

“We don’t have time to do this the legal way, hot pokers or not,” I said, unrolling a map I’d had made based on my scouting and the information I’d gotten from the monk of Chen De. “Venantius is going to be moving the artifact as soon as he can, maybe as early as this week, and Dhukak doesn’t have enough people left to stop him. I don’t feel bad about that, not one bit, but it means we have to move fast. As for questioning Venantius, even if we torture him, his henchmen could disappear with the key and that’s all he cares about.” I smoothed the paper with my hands and looked up. “It’s not just about hurting Venantius, it’s about taking the one thing he cares about from him, just like he did to Mai Petraccas. Are we agreed?”

I looked around the table.

Everyone nodded.

“All right. Let’s go over the plan.”

* * *

It was going to be a simple job. Honest. A real smash and grab, in and out the front door in broad daylight. Kind of.

The first place Wendy and I went was the Double Jester to talk to Jabir. I showed him the gas mask I’d looted from the candlestick maker’s body, and he talked me through what materials we would need to make more. I sent a message to Torm, and he talked to the Toolsmith about getting us all kitted out.

We also found out the Circle of Brewers was unraveling faster than I’d expected. It turned out Tassos was extremely well-liked. He wasn’t just connected to the Alchemists, he’d dealt with herb collectors, hunters, tanners, soap-makers, glassblowers, blacksmiths, carpenters, and coopers—people the city’s Alchemists needed and interacted with on a daily basis—and many of them were furious. And they were talking about it. For the first time in decades, the Alchemists were speaking out against the Circle.

Venantius didn’t seem to care. He’d pulled his mercenaries back inside the temple and locked the doors. Liv pulled a few favors with both the Inquisition and her remaining informants in the Thieves’ Union to put the place under constant watch.

With preparations underway and surveillance in place, I gave in to my discomfort from the respawn debuffs. Wendy took me to a breakfast place and fed me plain toast and a soft-boiled egg, then took me back to the Double Jester.

I ran into Susan in the main room. She had a black eye and a bruised cheek.

“Rough night?” I asked, pretending I didn’t know she’d been spying on me.

“Tried to make a little coin on the side by being smart,” Susan said unflinchingly. “Someone else was smarter.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being smart,” I said. “It’s important to choose who you work for.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Something about her tone didn’t sit right with me. I was about to say something about it, when Wendy grabbed the serving girl and shoved her against the wall. “I’m going to say this because Alan’s too polite to do it himself. If you spy on him again, I’m going to drag you out to the middle of the grass sea, dump a bucket of pig’s blood on you, and leave you for the grass wolves. Can you keep that in mind?”

“Yes, milady!” Susan said, terrified.

“Good. Then we won’t have a problem.”

Wendy took me upstairs and put me in bed, then sat at my desk, intent on watching over me while I rested.

I was shaky and in pain, but I felt very safe.

* * *

Wendy squeezed my shoulder, and I went from a dreamless sleep to completely awake.

“It’s time,” Wendy said.

“Did anything happen?”

“A few things came up. I handled them. I just got word that Venantius asked for an escort out of the city in an hour.”

“Berrick agreed?”

“He’s on our side, Alan, but he won’t have fighting on the streets over this.”

I got out of bed, careful not to hit my head on the sloped ceiling.

We had an hour, then Venantius would be gone.

Chapter Thirty

It took thirty-six minutes to make it across the city to the temple—the little temple, where the real clerics of Chen De lived.

“You’re back!” the monk said with a smile. “Do you have more questions about the Path of Hungry Ghosts? I’ve finished my duties for the day.”

“I’d love to talk more,” I said, and I meant it. Dhukak had told me some pretty scathing things about Chen De and his worshipers, but I suspected they would have similar things to say about Serth-Rog. “I just don’t have time. I came to see if I could get an empty gas canister.”

“What do you need it for?”

“Just an experiment,” I said. “I’m an Alchemist.”

“I’ll need a deposit,” the monk said.

I had to put down eight gold to take the tank with me. I’d get the money back when I returned it, but it still hurt to be down to below thirty after doing so well.

“I’ll be back!” I said, waving to the monk.

He’d already turned his attention to a bookshelf on the left side of the room. I cast Mirror on him and walked out, holding the tank.

Now, disguised as a monk of Chen De with a bonus to Disguise from carrying the tank, I made my way to the Circle of Brewers’ headquarters, only a few blocks away.

The signs of fighting were still there—broken windows, cracked walls, the scorch of sorcery. In some places, I caught whiffs of something like burnt marshmallows. In others, the rain gutter was dyed green, the stones pitted and pocked.

“Hey, boss. Lady Favonius,” Torm said to both of us, coming out of an alley with Liv and Edgar. “We doing this?”

“It’s now or never.”

“The Seneschal approved this?” Liv asked Wendy.

Wendy gave her a tight smile. “We don’t ask for permission as often on my side of the chapter house, and he knows that.”

Liv nodded.

If things went sideways, I’d have to make sure the two of them, more than anyone, didn’t get caught, but the best solution was still Venantius dead and us in possession of the key.

The others split off at the entrance to the larger temple square, heading for the front of the building, while I went to a smaller, less noticeable entrance near the back.

“What do you want, monk?” the Winged Lion guard asked, stepping out of the building.

“I’m here to siphon off some of the built-up gas,” I said, hefting the canister.

“Come back later,” the guard said. “No one in or out for the next couple hours.”

“This room isn’t connected to the rest of the temple,” I answered smoothly. “The gas is under pressure, and it’s dangerous. Do you really want to be responsible if something happens right now?”

The guard hesitated.

“I’ll be in and out in a minute. You can watch me do it, and I won’t tell anyone.”

The guard must have been one of the ones I’d used Charm on the other day. His eyes glazed over, and he said, “That’s all right then. Not a word, though.”

I mimed sealing my lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.

Inside the room, which was really just the gas maintenance room, kept separate from the temple proper so it could be serviced from the outside, especially in case of a leak, I found the gas control system just like the monk had explained to me the day before. Everything was clean and labeled, and there was a sign specifically stating that under no circumstances was the gas to be left on when the self-lighting system was malfunctioning.

I was about to violate the heck out of those safety instructions.

I set the canister down and put the respirator on.

“What does all this stuff do, anyway?” the guard asked, looking at the controls.

“This is the main safety shutoff,” I said, turning the big gray wheel. “This will shut off all the torches in the building.”

The guard looked at me with concern. “Won’t they notice that?”

“It will only take a second,” I said. “Could you push that button?”

“This one?” the guard asked, finger hovering over the emergency pressure release.

“Yep!” I said, smiling into my mask.

He pushed the button, and a puff of sickly green gas billowed into the room. The guard coughed. “Oh, gods, what is that?” he asked.

“It’s fear,” I said, focusing on what I needed to do. I deactivated all the pilot lights, which operated on a separate system, and then I grounded out the self-ignition system. Then I reopened the main valve, flooding the temple interior with Wyrd-gas.

The guard was curled into a ball on the floor, whispering to himself.

“Yeah, been there, buddy,” I said, thinking back to the time I’d looked up at the faces in the clouds above Wyrdtide.

I walked out of the shed.

The Plague Doctor’s collection agent was waiting outside. “A little early for the next payment, isn’t it?”

The Lurker looked at me through the eyeholes of its long-beaked mask. “The Four Humours have business with the high priest of Chen De.”

It took me a moment to put two and two together. “Julianus Venantius is a high priest?” I asked.

“What else would he be?”

I thought back to what Dhukak had said about his reasons for going after the Circle of Brewers. He’d said I’d stepped between two sides of a holy war. “Is Dhukak a priest as well?”

“The Dwarf is a simple cleric, although a devout one. This does not concern us. Our business is with Venantius.”

“Why don’t you just shadow meld your way to him, then?”

Sickly yellow light flared in the orbits of the Lurker’s mask. “The temple of Chen De prevents me.”

“So you want to hitch a ride with my party. What’s in it for me?”

“We will reduce your principal by fifty gold.”

It was, as Leif had put it, a thiefly sum. But the Four Humours had charged me almost two hundred gold to help Wendy, and it appeared that this time, I was the one who had something they wanted. “Sorry, no deal. I’m doing you a favor, right? Putting you in a position to do what you couldn’t otherwise. So you’re going to join my party, and you’ll help us fight our way to Venantius, but if I get you to him, the Four Humours will owe me a favor.”

The Lurker cocked his head, as if listening to a sound that only they could hear. Finally, it said, “No. But this one will owe you a favor. We are agreed?” It extended a bandage wrapped hand.

A debt collector from Wyrdtide who could move from shadow to shadow would be in my contacts? “Done,” I said, gripping its hand in mine.

* * *

“Stop!” the two guards said, pointing their halberds at us.

“Relax. Everything’s fine,” I said.

“Right,” the guard on the left said to the one on the right. “Everything’s fine.”

“Open the doors,” I told them.

“We can’t,” the right-hand guard said. “They’re locked from the inside.”

“No one in or out until the convoy’s ready to leave,” the left-hand guard said.

“Then you don’t need to guard to door. Go have a beer.”

The two guards thought that was a fantastic idea.

“What did you do to them?” Wendy asked me.

“I’m persuasive,” I answered. I saw the look on her face and added, “I’ve never used it on you.”

“The doors,” the Plague Doctor said, sounding impatient.

Torm and Edgar grabbed a handle each and pulled, muscles bulging.

The doors didn’t move an inch.

That was the problem with trying to rob a place that had been a stronghold in the middle of the grass sea before Harrowick was even a city. Those doors would stand up to a siege cannon.

“Well, that’s that,” Liv said. “We can’t wait for them to open the doors, because the Inquisition will be here to escort them out of the city.”

There was no way I was letting Venantius escape after what he’d done. “We’re getting in.”

“There is no path,” the Plague Doctor said. “Even a portal mage couldn’t get us inside.”

“It’s okay, Alan,” Wendy said. “I can track them once they’re out in the wilds.”

“Not if they split up,” Edgar said. “That’s what I’d do.”

Everyone looked at me.

“The Halls of Illusion are the straight way through crooked places,” I said, mostly to myself. I sprinted straight at the solid metal doors.

“What is he—”

Nothing is real, I told myself as I passed through the doors like they were smoke.

* * *

The Halls of Illusion are the never-when, the ever-present now. They are the space between the outside places. The Halls are everywhere, and I am there, and I am nowhere.

I opened my eyes.

It was dark in the room, too dark to see.

My mother opened the shades. “Oh, hey, Al. You’re awake.”

Cristina Campbell. I hate it when the Halls use her against me, and they love to use her against me. “Hey, Mom.”

“The doctors said it would be a while before you woke up. You had an accident.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s all right if you don’t remember, honey. They said you might have trouble with your memory.”

I saw it now, the lie the Halls were spinning for me. I had never died. This had all been a dream. I sat up in the bed and had a good laugh at that one.

“I’ll go get the doctor so he can discharge you,” the thing pretending to be my mom said. “Your clothes are in the locker, if you want to get changed.”

That’s not how hospitals work, Mom, I almost said, but this was dream logic. How a real hospital worked didn’t matter; this place worked the way we all wish a hospital would, if only to lead me astray.

Instead of getting out of bed to my left, where the locker was, I threw the sheets off and stepped forward, the room rotating around me so I ended up at the foot of the bed.

“Alan?” my mother said, stopping in the open door.

“It was good seeing you, Mom,” I said. I continued to walk forward and the wall split and swung open like double doors.

Each trip through the Halls was different, and yet the same. The important thing was to move forward and only forward, because to let desire pull me aside meant to be lost forever. I walked down the hospital corridor, and each of the hospital rooms to my left and to my right opened onto a different scene from my life past and present, and even lives I might have lived, if I’d only been luckier, stronger, or bolder.

I was feeling pretty confident, to be honest. What was so hard about walking in a straight line? I didn’t know why I didn’t use the Halls more often, because I could basically bypass any door and appear inside the most strongly defended fortress.

Something tugged at my foot.

I pulled free with little effort. I was worried about the shades and doppelgangers I’d run into during my first trip through the Halls. I wasn’t sure how my new skills were going to stand up against them. Were they immune to normal weapons, or would I be able to cut down whatever stood in my way?

Something tugged at me again, this time wrapping around my thigh. I turned around, but instead of the hospital corridor leading to the bed I’d risen out of, there was just inky darkness, and snaking coils of dark—one of which was wrapped around my right thigh—were seething toward me.

I ripped Tassos’s sword from its scabbard and slashed at the limb, but the blade just passed through, pulling a whiff of black smoke with it, and the coil started to squeeze painfully.

On the odd chance that there was some sort of metaphor at play, I used Refract to summon a bright polygon over my left hand.

The coil around my leg exploded into black dust, and the darkness howled at me like ocean wind passing through sea caves. A dark coil smashed the refracted light, shattering it like it was a real lantern, and then a second, thicker coil reached out from the growing black core and flicked me in the chest.

Whumpf!

The blow lifted me off my feet, dropping my Health by 125 points, and I landed hard, my sight alive with darting stars and one leg hanging off the “path” I was supposed to stay on, passing through the floor into nothing.

Ever play a game and set foot outside the clipping? That’s what it felt like, except something inside the negative space sank needle-like teeth into my calf, and I yelped, standing up and almost tottering over the unseen edge.

The darkness howled again, and the cold wind of it almost blew me over, but I dropped my weight, pivoted, and ran like all hell was after me, if hell was dark, and cold, and scary as frostbitten fingers.

Time stretched.

The passageway distorted.

It was getting impossible to tell where the path was beneath the illusion, and the darkness was gaining the whole time. I had to cast Refract several times, dumping 300 Spirit into three stacking orbs of light that somehow flickered and struggled to keep the dark at bay as the tendrils lunged and accelerated through every shadow and I barged through shadow things ahead of me.

I wasn’t just frightened. I was terrified. A notification in my lower right view made me guess this wasn’t just me, Alan, being a sissy. The thing behind me was actually inflicting fear on me as a debuff. Oh, and did I mention the Halls could kill me, even though I was an Overmind? I mean, something would wake up in the present if I fell down there, but I couldn’t be sure it would be me.

Nothing is real, nothing is real, nothing is real! I said over and over in my head to keep my beating heart from exploding out of my chest, just barely, but I could see a lit doorway ahead, and it was open, and I knew, that is, I believed with all my frantic heart, that if I made it through to the light beyond, I would be safe.

My Refract spell cracked, flaking fireflies that were snapped up by the hungry darkness that tightened around me, and then I was through, standing on the stone path that hung above the roiling, chaotic void, and the door slammed shut on the darkness behind me.

Catching my breath, I cleared out my notifications including the several very nasty fear effects, and found that I’d leveled up my Delusion skill.

It hadn’t just become more potent; it had changed.

<<<>>>

Skill Unlocked!

Skill: Delusion

Creation and madness go hand in hand because nothing is made that wasn’t first imagined. Madness and magic, however, can reach beyond the dreams of the mundane and drag into existence that which should never have been.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 6

Cost: None

Effect 1: Lies, disguises, and Illusion magic are +4.75% real. Illusory objects are more material. Stories are more likely to be true, although sometimes in unpredictable ways.

Effect 2: For every Illusion, lie, or disguise, there is a +1.5% chance the caster will believe their own deception instead of inflicting it on others. When triggered and after the effect ends, there is a +10% chance of further inflicting Horror or Mania.

<<<>>>

I… was not comfortable with that at all. When I’d first gotten Delusion, it seemed like a good way to amp up my power. Now, it seemed like every time I cast a spell, there was a chance I was going to wind up running into the streets naked and screaming like a fiend on a bad trip.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to step forward?” a voice that sounded suspiciously like mine asked.

I shifted my grip on the sword and walked forward, trying to be ready for the next kitchen sink the Halls were going to throw at me. Unlike in the preceding section, here the thin stone walkway meandered, passing blue geometric patterns of magic. Partially ruined arches overhung the path, some of them crumbling in slow motion, the chips and keystones floating, tumbling, and spinning through the endless sapphire void.

But at the end of the path, there was an island that stood steadfast in the midst of the chaos-nothingness, a place that my gut told me was real, maybe more so than anywhere else.

And on the island, I met myself. Not just one version of myself, but many. There was a version of me that had become a sea captain, and another that wore a Firebrand’s sorcerous robes and sported burns on the left side of his face. Here I was a more traditional thief, there a Templar wielding an estoc. Pauper, merchant, warrior, nobleman, slave, conscript, gladiator… There were dozens of versions, some of them as translucent as crystal, others almost fully opaque.

“You’re here too soon,” the only solid other version of me said. He was dressed in jeans and an Osmark Technologies polo shirt. “How’s our mother?”

“Probably heartbroken because that woman back there wasn’t real, and neither are you.”

“Who says you’re the real one?” business casual Alan fired back. “You’re here too soon. Your Delusion skill is going to keep climbing, especially if you use the Halls, and the higher it is, the more of the others are going to be real, too. And we’re hungry, Alan. It’s not fair you’re the only one who gets to go outside.”

He came at me with a pencil like an HR ninja. I slapped his hand aside, leaned back to avoid the reverse blow, and punched him in the face with the hilt of my sword.

He burst into light, and then he faded.

Only two or three dozen to go. The other doppelgangers, flickering and semitranslucent, were arranged in concentric circles, frozen in midstep. All of them had their eyes locked on the prize at the end of the Halls, a book on a stone pedestal called the Illusory Grimoire. On my first visit to the Halls, opening that book had given me my character class, even though all the pages except the last one had been blank.

I walked through the frozen, half-formed images of me and opened the grimoire. The pages weren’t blank anymore. They were covered in scribbles, runes, nightmare scratches, and sketches that didn’t make sense. It was like a serial killer’s manifesto written in a made-up version of Aramaic. You’d have to be crazy to make sense of this.

And then it hit me. I was exactly right. I was going to have to be crazy to make sense of this.

I was going to have to level up my Delusion skill, playing a game of chicken with my own sanity. As I leveled it up, more of the doppelgangers would become real. If I got scared, if I didn’t brave the Halls often enough, I’d have to fight more than one of them at once. If I came too often, I might waste an attempt, and with each visit I risked getting swallowed by the nightmare creatures if I stepped off the path.

“Fuck,” I said.

I closed the book. I needed to get back to Harrowick, back to Wendy and the others. I was about to step away, head out the door back to the real world, when it suddenly occurred to me that I’d been thinking of this like a mage, waging a mental fight against forces beyond comprehension.

Maybe that was the wrong approach.

Maybe I should have been thinking of this like a thief.

I grabbed the book from the pedestal and tucked it under my arm.

Nothing happened. The doppelgangers didn’t come alive. The Halls didn’t shriek, or rumble, or collapse into nothingness.

Oh, hell yes. I, Alan Campbell, had exercised a little critical thinking, and I’d saved myself an absolute nightmare of a quest of grinding my way to whatever nutjob next iteration of my class I would have had to go through. Smug as a bug, I walked through the illusory doppelgangers and stepped out through the final arch back into the Material Realm.

Chapter Thirty-One

I stepped through the doorway into the chaos of the Temple of Chen De.

The Illusory Grimoire, of course, was gone, winked out of existence and probably back on its pedestal the moment I’d left the Halls. Figures.

The torches that lined the walls had gone out, and the entry hall was dark except for what little light made it in from the tall, arrow-slit windows. Thick green gas spilled from the extinguished torches, connected to the gas vents below. Even with the respirator on my face, I felt uneasy and a little nauseous.

Insofar as the building’s defenders, the gas had already done its work. A Winged Lion in chainmail was slumped against the door, a ring of keys in his slack hand, his torso still leaking blood from multiple stab wounds. Had he been trying to get the doors open, or had he locked his companions in?

It didn’t matter. I snatched the keys and tried them one by one on the engraved metal door.

Screams and shouts echoed down the hall from deeper within the building. A pikeman was on the floor, holding the sides of her head and rocking back and forth. A crossbowman put his weapon under his chin and loosed the string. A woman in light armor was cradling a greatsword, alternating between sobs and small, nervous giggles. A little farther in, two sword and shield types were bashing away at each other with abandon, although they both looked like they were out of Stamina and simply couldn’t stop.

One of the keys fit the lock, and I opened the doors.

Wendy and the others were there, masks on and weapons drawn, looking tense. “I wasn’t sure if you made it,” she said.

“How long was I gone?”

“Almost ten minutes, and I couldn’t message you.”

That was good to know—time in the Halls passed at the same rate as everywhere else, and put me out of contact. Maybe I could hide there if Jeff and his friends decided to come after me again. “Things have gotten a little crazy inside. Let’s get to the vault and avoid fighting if we can.”

“What about Venantius?” Torm asked.

The Plague Doctor looked at me, and I said, “Our new friend, here, has business with him, but I want to talk to him first.”

“Of course,” the Plague Doctor said, its voice hissing behind the mask.

We moved deeper into the temple. I suppose it was beautiful, with vaults and domes inscribed with flowing writing, reliefs of plants and animals, and the swirling gas hiding and revealing things as it flowed toward the main doors, which we’d left open. There were second and third levels, and here and there, on the balconies, green flames guttered where the safety system had failed to shut off.

But mostly, it was dark, and strange shapes formed and fell apart in the thick fog.

A man who’d stripped off his armor to the waist ran at me with a dagger, and Edgar clotheslined him. Wendy shield-bashed an axeman in the face, and Liv put a female knight on the ground with three quick, concussive blows from her terror sticks.

There were fewer windows, deeper in, and I fell into the center of the formation, an illusory light over my raised right hand. The Wyrd-gas was thicker, here, and it roiled like the sky in that nightmare city, creating patterns I didn’t want to understand.

As for the Plague Doctor, he did his part as well. Every few seconds, he would melt away, and someone in the fog would gasp or scream. I saw a flash, like lightning, and then arterial spray that spilled across our path, and then the Lurker rose out of the ground next to me, forming out of my shadow.

“Another locked door up ahead!” Torm said.

The twin iron doors loomed out of the fog. They were a few feet shorter than the outer doors, but embellished in more detail. At a glance, it looked like some kind of underworld where the dead fell from the sky in a constant stream and landed in piles, which creatures with talons and horned heads carted away to a city shaped like a circular maze, which formed the two handles of the door.

Two eight-foot-tall stone statues of demons flanked the doors. The one on the left wore an open-faced helmet and had a wide, leering face. It carried a studded club in one hand and a round shield in the other. To the right was another with a closed helm. Its armor was more dignified, and it carried a long, broad-headed spear.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Wendy said, keeping her shield but swapping her sword for a flanged mace.

I looked at the Plague Doctor and asked, “Who do these represent?”

“Chen De and Ji Bie, the administrators of the Path of Hungry Ghosts and the Path of Gods.”

That meant they were Aspects of Death. Furthermore, they were the Aspects that Venantius and Dhukak worshiped, respectively. “Why are they here together? Shouldn’t they be fighting?”

“This one is not a theologian,” the Plague Doctor said.

“The convoy of death cultists who were ambushed were followers of Chen De,” Wendy said. “I haven’t heard much about Ji Bie, but it reminds me of a story I heard about one of the Aspects of Death getting murdered.”

“That’s ironic.”

Wendy shrugged. “It was several hundred years ago, and the hierarchies of Aspects aren’t fixed. If Ji Bie was demoted or died, maybe Chen De doesn’t get along with his replacement.”

“Gas is starting to thin out, boss,” Torm said, looking back.

Which meant we’d have to deal with the surviving Winged Lions unless we got moving. “Here goes nothing,” I said, choosing the key that most looked like it would fit the keyhole and sliding it in.

Edgar tackled me out of the way as the Statue of Chen De’s club smacked against the door like a gong.

“It’s alive!” Liv said.

Yeah, like I didn’t see that coming.

The metal-studded club slammed down between me and Edgar, hitting me in the face with chips of rock, and I scrambled back.

“Get to either side of it!” Wendy said.

Liv and Torm spread out.

Edgar helped me to my feet.

The Plague Doctor attacked from the monster’s shadow, but its scalpel attack barely did any damage.

Wendy edged in, and the statue tried to flatten her with its club. She deflected the blow to the side with her shield, and Liv darted in, landing a Crushing Blow on the Statue of Chen De’s calf. The hit shaved off maybe four or five percent of its health, and it reacted uncannily fast, knocking Liv back with a blow from its shield.

Wendy used the opening to smash her mace into the Statue of Chen De’s back, then activated her Backswing skill, landing a second blow before the statue hit her with a wide arc of its club.

She couldn’t deflect this one and had to block instead. The heavy blow knocked her back several feet and took more than a third of her health with it.

“Here!” I said, offering her a Health Regen potion.

She transferred her mace to her shield hand and caught it, knocking the potion back. I thought she was going to toss the empty like all the other littering, wasteful adventurers, but she put the one-silver flask back into her inventory the same way I would have. It was a sign. We belonged together.

I saw the Statue of Chen De raise its club and barely rolled out of the way before it smashed its club down where I’d been standing.

“Hey!” Torm said, waving his hands over his head. “Over here, you big idiot!”

I wasn’t sure if it was an actual Taunt skill or if Torm just had a death wish, but the statue swung toward him and took two steps forward before Edgar clambered up its back and started punching the thing in the side of the head with the brass knuckles I’d given him.

The statue roared and tried to shake him off, but Edgar just laughed, and both Liv and Wendy used the opening to shave another twenty percent off the mini boss’s Health, swinging like a pair of blacksmiths in a hammering contest.

I kept checking on the statue of Ji Bie, because if the second statue joined the fight, we were screwed, but the spear-wielding fighter seemed content to stand on the sidelines.

The Statue of Chen De dropped its round shield and reached back over its shoulder, grabbing Edgar by the shoulder.

The Plague Doctor threw a green potion from the statue’s opposite side, covering its club arm with bubbling sludge that started to eat into the stone.

Torm yelled a battle cry and charged in, uppercutting the statue between the legs, which did a little damage but not as much as you might think because the statue had no genitals. It did distract the statue, however, and that allowed Wendy to take a knee and Liv to run, step up onto Wendy’s shoulder, and jump, sailing through the air to land a resounding blow that shattered the left side of the statue’s face.

The Statue of Chen De dropped Edgar—whose limited Acrobatics skill was enough to let him tuck and roll on landing—and it staggered back under the Inquisitors’ assault, protecting its face with one hand while making big, clumsy sweeps of the club with its other hand.

Its Health finally dipped below a third and turned red.

That’s when the fight changed.

Green power glowed from its eyes and the cracks in its skin, and it raised the club in the air, bellowing a war cry.

<<<>>>

Current Effects

Aura of Mortality: The Path of Hungry Ghosts is not for the faint of heart! Characters caught within the Statue of Chen De’s aura have a chance to suffer Horror, Rooted, Silence, or Confusion once every six seconds.

Wyrdtide Survivor: As a survivor of the dungeon city, you have a small chance to shrug off negative morale effects. This is not the worst you have lived through. Duration, 10 seconds.

Heartbreak: You have angered the gods. The outcome of this curse is not certain, but it’s sure to be unpleasant.

<<<>>>

I felt terror right down to my bones, but in terms of debuffs, I’d resisted the ability, for now. The Plague Doctor and Torm both turned and ran, disappearing into the thinning mist. Liv cowered, and Wendy snarled but she couldn’t move her feet. Only Edgar remain unaffected, and as the statue brought the club down with both hands to smash Liv to paste, Edgar punched the club, changing the path just enough that he and Liv survived.

“Raaaaaaagh!” Edgar shouted, spreading his arms in challenge.

The Statue of Chen De responded by drop-kicking Edgar fifteen feet across the room with a sickening crunch that left the Risi with only a fifth of his Health.

The statue raised its club again.

I cast Refract and threw a ball of light that shattered into crazed fireflies as it hit the statue’s face.

The mini boss growled and lost its balance, swiping at the air with its left hand.

My resistance to fear was only going to last two more seconds, and then I’d get hit by the statue’s aura again four seconds after that.

“We are not afraid!” I shouted, using Suggestion on myself and my crew. My Delusion passive kicked in, and I felt most of the fear blow away like smoke.

The statue narrowed its eyes at me, and it hefted its club.

“The fear of death has no hold on me or my crew!” I shouted, loud enough to echo inside the temple by pairing it with my Vocalize skill.

The Statue of Chen De stomped forward, bringing the club up to its shoulder like it was going to use my head as a tee-ball, and then Wendy was there, with her shield between me and obliteration. “Alan, get down!” she said. I dropped to my chest and she knelt over me, shield raised over her head and shoulder at an angle.

Clang!

The blow bounded off Wendy’s shield, and then Liv let out a shout and delivered another Crushing Blow combined with a Ki Strike to the statue’s knee. “Ki!”

This time, the joint cracked, and the statue fell forward onto the stump.

Wendy tossed her shield aside, grabbed her mace with both hands, and changed her stance for Power Blows. “In the name of the Holy—” Crack! “—Imperial—” Crack! “—Inquisition!” Snap! In three furious blows, Wendy smashed through the statue’s mace arm, used Backswing to catch it in the side of the head as it fell forward, and used Reversal to land yet another critical blow on the damaged left side of the statue’s face.

The monster groaned, only a sliver of its Health left, and it looked back toward its silent partner, the Statue of Ji Bie, but the second Aspect’s likeness didn’t move.

“Hey, freakshow!” Liv said. She flipped her right nightstick over, grabbing it by the long end with the handle up, and she threw it.

It hit the Statue of Chen De square in the forehead as it turned to look, and I saw the mini shock wave of the ripper-core concussion blow its damaged head to rocks, gravel, and dust.

The mini boss’s headless body collapsed.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked, looking around.

Wendy and Liv nodded. The Plague Doctor walked back, wary of the fallen statue, but Torm was sitting on the ground, cradling his friend’s broken body. “I’m so sorry, Edgar. I should have protected you.”

I frowned and walked over. Edgar was down to maybe a fifth of his Health, but he was alive. “What’s wrong?”

Torm looked up at me, confused. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? His Health Regen will take care of this, but he’s going to be injured for life. He won’t be able to fight after this.”

“Will a Health Regen potion not work?”

“A Health… Alan, those are two gold apiece.”

“We’re a crew, Torm. Now, come on, big guy. Down the hatch.” I popped the cork on one of my remaining Health Regen potions and poured it into Edgar’s slack mouth.

The big Risi coughed and choked a little, and then he yelled and thrashed as much as he could with Torm and I holding him while the Health Potion popped and snapped his bones back into place, restored organs to as good a state as they’d entered the fight in, and sealed any injuries the Risi had.

Torm stared at me with wide eyes. “I didn’t even think… Edgar an’ me, we’re a dime a dozen, Sharper.”

“You’re family, big guy. Now, don’t get all sentimental on me, because we’ve got a job to finish.”

Yeah. They got sentimental. Both Torm and Edgar were looking each other over, looking at me, and silently weeping, on the verge of sobs.

But we really did have to go.

“There they are!” a Winged Lion mercenary shouted.

The gas had thinned enough—or maybe someone had finally gotten outside to shut off the flow—that the mercs were coming in from the darkened storage rooms and nooks they’d gone off to hide or fight in. They were banged up, bloody, and they were mad.

“Through the doors, quickly!” I told the others.

The statue of Ji Bie watched us as I turned the key the rest of the way and opened the door. And I mean actually watched us. Its head tracked me as I approached, and I was nervous as hell getting that door open, but it didn’t move out of its alcove, even though its fellow guardian had gone from a David to a headless Venus de Milo.

The mercenaries yelled and charged.

I just pulled the door shut and locked it from the other side, ’cause that was six-inch magically warded steel and there was no way they were getting through it.

“How are we going to get out?” Wendy asked.

“You know what? That is a great question, but I’m going to apply thief logic here. Do you know how you stop the world’s greatest assassin?”

Wendy rolled her eyes at me and walked away.

“Really?” I asked, chasing after her. “Come on! I was going to say—”

“Kill their employer,” she said, cutting me off.

I sighed. “I only learned that the other day.”

The passageway ahead was lit by the green gas torches—someone had lit them manually after I’d shut them down.

“Does anyone know what we might be up against when we finally face Venantius?” Liv asked.

“I assume he’s a master Alchemist,” I said.

“He isn’t,” Torm said. “Me and Edgar got hired to… check up on Alchemists who didn’t pay their dues on time. Some of them had a lot to say about how the guild master didn’t know his mortar from his pestle.”

“That’s quite the retort,” I quipped.

“Oh, yeah,” Torm said. “They really put him through the calcinator.”

“Gents, this isn’t funny,” Wendy said. “Does anyone know what his class is?”

“He is a Necromancer, and the high priest of Chen De,” the Plague Doctor said.

I think, aside from the one time she suffered from massive blood loss, it was the first time I saw Wendy turn pale, and Liv turned as white as chalk.

“Boss,” Torm said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “We need to call this one off.”

I looked at the others. “I mean, I get that the Necromancer bit is a problem, but we’re thieves! We should be able to gank a caster before the summoned re-dead get to us.”

The color came back to Wendy’s face. Actually, she looked kind of mad. “First of all, Necromancers are damage-per-second tanks first, summoners second. We’d need someone with a high magic resistance or the right equipment to deal with the kind of damage they can dish out, but that’s not even the main problem. Dealing with someone who is a Priest by class wouldn’t be an issue; dealing with someone who has been appointed as the high priest of their faith is a different matter. It isn’t a ceremonial title. It means they’ve been invested with the power of the Aspect that they serve, and Chen De is a Primary Aspect. The only thing worse would be to face an actual Champion.”

“Well… crap.” It would have been one thing to discover this before we’d gone in, but now the way out was through a company of very pissed-off mercenaries. Besides, after what Venantius did to Tassos, there was no way I was just going to let him walk away. “It’s fine. I was hoping not to use this yet, but I have a favor I can call in.”

“What kind of favor?” Wendy asked.

“A four-man team of Marquard’s Janissaries,” I said. “I can call them in now, and they’ll portal to our location.”

“That will not be necessary,” the Plague Doctor said. “This one will handle the high priest.” It started stripping off its outerwear.

I really wish it hadn’t.

Underneath the hat, mask, and black robes, the Plague Doctor looked like someone had decided to play Dr. Frankenstein with roadkill. He had four muscled arms, mottled skin except on his face, which was all exposed muscle, gristle, and bone. It looked like someone had put Goro and Edward Scissorhands in a blender with about twenty pounds of ground beef in the name of science, and it made me want to throw up.

“It’s a haemonculus,” Wendy said, gripping her mace tight.

“What does that mean?” I asked her.

“It means it’s a puppet made of cadavers being operated by a very powerful Plague Doctor, if they can do it from Wyrdtide.”

“This one is purpose built to face the high priest. We only require you to keep any attendants he may have busy while this one deals with him.”

“I think we can do that, right gang?” I said with forced cheerfulness.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Liv said with a smirk.

I walked forward with my disgusting friend from Wyrdtide. When life hands you haemonculuses, it’s time to make dead high priests.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Julianus Venantius was waiting for us in the room with the worktables and my stolen gear. He was wearing pale bone armor and leaning on a sculpted bone staff. The lights flickered with green and yellow fire. The shallow pools of acid bubbled. I thought it was a strange kind of place to be in a temple.

Standing beside him were the captain of the Winged Lions and another veteran mercenary, who carried the company colors on a pike.

“I’ll take care of this,” the mercenary captain said, lowering his helmet visor and drawing his sword, but Venantius stopped him with an outstretched hand.

“No, I don’t think so,” the high priest of Chen De said. “We’re not coming at him one at a time to make their life easier, Captain. In fact, I think I’ll end this little game right now.” He tapped his staff on the floor, and an array of small bones swirled up from the floor, forming a spinning, cutting barrier around him.

The Plague Doctor turned Frankenstein monster pounced from Venantius’s own shadow, cutting itself on the whirling bones and knocking Venantius two stumbling steps to the side. The high priest responded by swinging the butt of his staff into the haemonculus’s groin, lifting it a foot in the air, then he pointed the tip of his staff at the creature.

Boom! The staff glowed sickly green and blasted the haemonculus halfway across the chamber in a blinding beam of radioactive green light.

The distraction almost got me killed.

Wendy yanked me back, switching places with me, and blocked a skewering pike thrust with her shield. She swapped her mace for her ancestral sword and counterattacked, driving the pikeman back.

Liv, on the other hand, was being pressed by the mercenary captain, who had the reach advantage with a sword against her twin nightsticks and a few extra levels besides. Thankfully, he was wearing heavy armor, so he was slower, and his visored helmet limited his field of view. She was landing more hits than he was, but most of them got deflected or canceled out by his armor.

“Torm, Edgar! You help Wendy!” I barked, and the two thugs complied.

I wanted to fight alongside Wendy, but she was holding her own and just needed support if something went wrong.

Liv and I, on the other hand, had practiced together in the assassins’ training ground. We were the best fit to take on the captain of the Winged Lions.

I edged in, and the captain chopped his blade toward my right knee. I took a feinting step back then lunged forward, slashing with Tassos’s sword and making sparks fly from the Winged Lion’s pauldron while Liv came at him from the other side.

He thrust. I parried and turned the blow. Liv landed a ringing blow on his chestplate. I slashed at the back of his knee, but the captain recovered and roared, staggering me back two steps with a War Cry. He switched to a two-handed grip, activating Cleaving Strikes and attacking me and Liv at the same time. We had to fall back, and with the bubbling pits of acid all around, it was only a matter of time before one or both of us got knocked into one of them. I cast Fatigue on him, increasing the Stamina cost of all his skills by 5%. It wasn’t much, but if he had a standard combo he liked to use, it might put him in the red just long enough to enact the second part of my plan.

“Liv, throw everything you’ve got at him!”

The mercenary captain wasn’t an idiot. He turned toward Liv and changed to a defensive stance right as she came after him with a wild combination that would drain her Stamina too fast to be useful in most fights. But he kept an eye on me. While she landed three straight jabs, a reverse kick, and two scything baton strikes, he used a series of active blocks to avoid most of the damage and reflect some of it on Liv. I moved my hands through the gestures to cast Refract, and I placed a bright, shining orb above and behind Liv’s right shoulder.

Clang!

The sudden brightness took the captain by surprise, and Liv landed a stunning hook on his helmeted head.

From that point on, the fight was more even, and he all but forgot I was there. Liv and the captain traded blows, and I waited, sneaking in an opportunistic strike when I could, even though my blows hardly scratched his armor.

Wendy, Torm, and Edgar were gradually backing the color sergeant into a corner.

The haemonculus’s fight against Venantius wasn’t going as well. The Necromancer unleashed blast after blast from his spinning staff, but still the monster came on. Its skin bubbled and blackened, yet it roared its defiance and pressed in within claw’s reach. The Lurker’s claws scraped off Venantius’s bone armor.

Venantius cursed and concentrated his whirling bone shield between them before blasting it toward his opponent. Bits of bone and Lurker flesh went in every direction. It was a wonder the haemonculus was still standing.

“Alan!” Liv shouted.

I leaned back just in time to avoid a killing slash aimed at my forehead. The mercenary captain didn’t attack again right away. His shoulders heaved. His breath sounded hollow behind the visored mask. The captain was still above three-quarters of his Health, a juggernaut of physical brutality who had probably been worth every gold coin Venantius spent on him, but his skills used a tremendous amount of Stamina and he was either out or gone negative and in pain. Liv danced in, swiping at him like a cat, and the captain countered with a pommel strike that stunned the envoy and almost pitched her into one of the acid baths. Before he could follow up with a killing blow, I dropped my sword, darted in, and grabbed his sword arm. “Sleep!” I said, casting my new spell.

I lost 100 Spirit and drained 100 Stamina from my target.

The mercenary captain went limp. His armor clanked as I lowered him to the floor.

The haemonculus yelled out in pain as Venantius grabbed its arm and black arcs of necrotic power ripped down the extended limb.

The Lurker dropped to its knees.

Venantius planted a bone-armored boot on the haemonculus’ collarbone and pulled, ripping its upper left arm off and throwing it aside.

“We need to help!” Liv said.

Venantius aimed his staff at the creature. The weapon’s tip started glowing green.

“Stay back!” I said, pushing her out of the way and casting Mirror as I went. The worst that could happen to me was a trip to respawn; Venantius would send my companions to permadeath without a second thought.

The tip of the staff was blindingly bright. Venantius braced himself for the discharge, then turned in surprise as a second haemonculus—yours truly—came at him screaming with three arms waving. The tip of his staff swung toward me in what seemed like slow motion, ready to turn me into an afterimage, and the real haemonculus smashed into Venantius from the side, toppling both of them into one of the acid baths.

“No!” Venantius yelled. His Health was plummeting. He splashed green acid everywhere as he tried to climb back out. The Four Humours’ haemonculus roared in gleeful triumph as it dragged him back into the bath, acid killing them both, but Venantius was dying faster.

It was a horrible way to go. I might have felt more sympathy for the high priest if I hadn’t fallen into one because of him. Tassos’s wedding sword was halfway across the room, so instead of stabbing him in the face to complete the vengeance quest, I activated my Pickpocket skill.

Time slowed.

I reached out, hand closing on the chain around Venantius’s neck. A mini inventory window popped up, and I selected the Skeleton Key.

The artifact appeared in my outstretched hand as I pulled back, and Venantius’s expression changed from rage to horror as the haemonculus dragged him back into the pool one last time.

“Well,” Wendy said, walking up beside me. “That was messy.”

“Yep,” I said.

The pool of green acid bubbled and frothed, but its surface was otherwise unbroken.

“Did you get the key?” Wendy asked.

I held it up for her to see. Still wasn’t sure how we were going to get out of here with it, not with the 100% increase in damage taken from carrying the thing around. “How did your thing go?” I asked, looking over to where Torm was tying the color sergeant’s hands behind his back.

“He surrendered as soon as Venantius—”

Acid flew everywhere as the haemonculus exploded from the acid bath, forcing us all to take several steps back. It dragged itself clear—or, at least, it dragged half its body clear, since the rest was missing from the waist down—and lay there breathing great, bellowing phlegmy breaths.

“Umm… Are you okay?” I asked, reaching for a Health Regen potion.

It opened one bloodshot eye and looked up at me. Its Health was barely a sliver, and still slowly going down. “The connection to this one’s masters is broken… This one is dying…” It coughed, retching blood and pus. “This one will not be able to repay your favor, Alan Campbell.”

I’d made the deal with the haemonculus, not its masters. There’s a sucker born every minute, and it looks like it’s my birthday.

“This one is grateful to have completed its mission, Alan Campbell. It was not asked to be assembled or animated. To exist is to know pain. This one… this one would still fulfill its bargain by offering you a piece of advice it has learned from observing its masters.” The haemonculus’ breath rattled, and it moaned something as it crooked its last remaining fingers.

“What?” I said kneeling next to its half-melted head. “What did you say?”

“This one said, ‘Ask more questions before acting, Alan Campbell.’”

The haemonculus died.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I dropped myself into the chair in front of Dhukak’s desk for the last time.

“Sharper.”

“Dhukak.”

I let him stew for a few awkward seconds.

“Did you get the Skeleton Key?” he asked.

“I did,” I said, pulling the artifact out of my inventory and showing it to him.

Dhukak’s eyes locked onto it like Gollum with the One Ring. “Give it to me.”

“We didn’t discuss payment.”

“Yes, we did,” Dhukak said, throwing a full purse the size of a grapefruit onto the table. “One hundred gold.”

It was a thiefly sum. With that, the down payment I’d made, and the gold I had in my bank account, I had just a little bit more than I needed to pay the Four Humours off.

Still, the haemonculus’s last words had stuck with me, as had Horace’s warning about my impact on the game. It felt like this thing with the Circle of Brewers had stretched over two quests instead of just one, and I wanted to get it right. “I still have some questions, before I hand it over.”

“That key is mine, Alan. I’ve killed better men than you to make sure of it.”

“If you kill me, I’ll just respawn with the key, and it won’t be in your office this time. First thing I’ll do is go east and find a fishing boat willing to take me out to sea. I’ll go somewhere where the water’s deep and out of sight of land, so I don’t know where it is—preferably at night. Heck, I’ll even wear a blindfold. And at a random time, when the fisherman isn’t looking, I’m going to throw the key overboard so that even if you find me, and even if you torture me, I won’t be able to tell you where it is.”

Dhukak sat back in his chair. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“What does this key unlock?”

“A casket that contains something holy to my people.”

“Is it a weapon?”

“No.”

“Is it going to cause harm to large numbers of people?”

“It is the heart of a god, Alan. It was stolen from him centuries ago, and it is my sacred duty to return it.”

“The heart of Ji Bie?”

“The administrator of the Path of Gods, yes,” Dhukak said. The words triggered my Merchant-Craft sense that the Dwarf was trying to cheat me, but a lot of what Dhukak said did that.

“There were statues of Chen De and Ji Bie in the temple. They were both alive, or at least animated, although only the statue of Chen De attacked us.”

For once, Dhukak looked genuinely surprised. “That’s… interesting, Alan.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Chen De and Ji Bie are two Aspects of Death, each focused on a different way mortals like us—or at least like me—should face their end. Chen De represents acceptance. He’s both the god of peaceful surrender and suicides. Ji Bie, on the other hand, governed the path of ascension, the means by which mortals can become gods, either by devolving into monsters or rising to aspecthood through the accumulation of Renown and Faith.”

“But he doesn’t anymore?”

Dhukak frowned. “What makes you ask that?”

“You said he ‘governed’ the path of ascension. That implies he no longer does.”

Dhukak bit his thumb. He’d obviously shared more than he wanted to in a moment of theological enthusiasm, and that was exactly the kind of detail that would let me catch him in an inconsistency.

I wiggled the key at him. “Why was the high priest of Chen De trying to keep this key out of your hands if Chen De and Ji Bie were both guarding the temple?”

“I don’t know the details, Alan. I’m only a cleric of my order.”

This time my Merchant-Craft skill was as clear as an air-raid siren. Dhukak was lying. “Are you lying to me about not knowing, or are you lying to me about being a cleric?”

The Dwarf’s jaw bulged. “These are the mysteries of my order. I’m not allowed to share them with outsiders, and I wouldn’t, even if I could.”

That, at least, was the truth. “Can you blame me for asking?” I said. “You haven’t exactly been forthright about this key business since the beginning, and more than once you’ve been behind attempts to have me killed. The last thing I want to do is hand over a powerful artifact to someone who’s going to use it to harm me, the Union, and the people of Harrowick.”

“Then rest easy, Sharper,” Dhukak said, standing on his chair and leaning forward on his desk. “As soon as I have the three keys—within a day at the most—I will be leaving Harrowick and returning to Stone Reach. I have no intention of harming the people of Harrowick. I want to leave quietly. I want to go home.”

He’d spoken the truth. It was a sentiment I understood. It also confirmed a suspicion I’d had. “You ambushed those death cultists in the grass sea, north of the city.”

Dhukak’s face went blank.

“You told me there are three keys, Dhukak. You had me steal one from the magistrate in the upper city, and you told me Venantius stole his from the convoy. But that’s only two keys. As for the convoy, they were ambushed by people who fought like assassins, not mercenaries, and their leader was killed with a Hexblade, which is a death cultist weapon. I think you had the Cold Skulls attack that convoy just like you had them attack the temple, and I think Venantius already had a key—that maybe the monks of Chen De always had that key, even before the founding of Harrowick, and he just found a new way to protect it. You wouldn’t be returning home unless you had all three.”

Dhukak laughed. He looked pleased to be found out. “So what if I did? It was a holy war, Alan. They were armed and capable, and Chen De’s stooges have done worse to my people and my god over the last two centuries, believe me. Opening that casket is the only way the fight over the Skeleton Keys will end.”

Again, he was telling the truth, although there was something shifty about the Dwarf I couldn’t pin down. “You won’t return?”

“You’ll never see me again if I can help it,” Dhukak said with a genuine smile.

I handed him the key and took the money.

I’d asked my questions. I’d made sure I wasn’t handing over some kind of doomsday device or a weapon. It all seemed sordid and wasteful, even if Dhukak’s god was “real,” but it wasn’t up to me to tell these people what to believe in or how to live.

* * *

Leif was organizing a farewell party for Dhukak at the Thieves’ Union that evening, which gave the rest of us the chance to clean ourselves up and take care of whatever duties we had. Torm and Edgar went around to see the Alchemists, including Jabir, and gave them the all clear. Wendy needed to report in to the Inquisition, and now that Venantius was dealt with, Liv would be heading back to her previous assignment.

As for me, I found a table in a quiet corner of the Thieves’ Union tavern and checked my notifications.

First and most surprising was a message from Sir Berrick.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Citizen Campbell,

I was pleasantly surprised by how the business with the Circle of Brewers and the Winged Lions came to a close. Instead of escorting Venantius and his damnable object through my city, I escorted the mercenaries to the nearest portal with few objections and no collateral damage.

There is also the matter of the destruction of the Cold Skulls. I don’t have to tell you what a nuisance they have been over the last month. Now that their guild master is dead and their ranks have been decimated, it should be some time before they can act on this scale again.

I am grateful for your assistance in these matters, and will say so in my report. There is still the matter of ensuring the Legion’s supply of potions will not be disrupted in these uncertain times, but I’m sure that as Titus’s Apprentice you are already working on a suitable replacement.

Cordially,

Senator-Inquisitor Berrick, Seneschal of Harrowick

<<<>>>

The compliment felt a little backhanded, but it was validation no matter how grudging.

And I did, in fact, have a plan to bring the Alchemists together into a more inclusive, competitive environment once they reopened their shops. I decided to take Berrick’s comment as consent to do whatever I wanted rather than let it get my hackles up.

With Venantius dead and the Skeleton Key turned in, I’d closed out several quests. I got 5,000 XP and 200 Renown for shutting down the Circle of Brewers. I’d picked up an additional 2,645 XP from the trick with the gas, fighting our way through the mercenaries, and destroying the Statue of Chen De. I got an additional 600 XP from disabling the mercenary captain, and 300 XP for my share of Venantius’s death. Finally, 1,000 XP and 50 Renown for giving Dhukak the Skeleton Key had pushed me over the edge to level 12.

I pulled up my skill tree.

<<<>>>

<<<>>>

At this point in my progression, I felt like I was a pretty good all-rounder when it came to my Illusion skills. Hide, Mirror, and Vocalize, along with my Stealth and Lockpicking skills and a little bit of effort with disguises, let me get close enough to my targets to do real damage. Charm and Suggest gave me good crowd-control abilities as long as I had time to build up my influence with my intended targets. I needed to keep working on my fast-phase skills if I wanted to succeed as an assassin. When worse came to worst, my Acrobatics skill and weapon skills allowed me to survive long enough to come up with something, and my Fatigue and Sleep skills now allowed me to overcome a single Strength-based fighter under the right circumstances.

It was tempting to throw some points into Vitality. I had 250 Health points, which meant that I was two solid hits away from death against most opponents at my level, and I could easily get one-shotted by a DPS specialist like a rogue, ranger, or magic user if they caught me off guard.

I also didn’t like the idea of min-maxing. While it might make sense to forget any stat but Intelligence and Spirit if I was logging out of the game at the end of the day, I had to live here. Some of my best plays had required a combination of my class skills and general skills, which meant I couldn’t just ignore my other stats.

I took the middle road. I put two points into Intelligence, bringing it up to twenty-five, and I put two points into Vitality, raising it to fifteen. I put the final point into Strength for a grand total of 11 in that stat. It wouldn’t make that much of a difference, but maybe I’d be able to open my own pickle jars instead of having to ask Wendy for help.

As for skills, it seemed like I needed to make a decision in terms of how to start specializing my class. For example, if I put another point into Vocalize, I would be able to subvocalize, which is to say, I’d be able to cast spells with a vocal component without moving my lips. Aside from a new and exciting revenue stream as a lewd puppeteer, it would allow me to cast Suggest, Refract, Fatigue, Disturb, and Sleep without the target knowing.

I could already pitch my voice to make it seem like it was coming from another direction. The combination was the sort of thing that could easily drive someone insane.

If I was going to lead more parties into battle, the Inspire skill would let me buff the people around me with improved Stamina and Spirit regen rates. That might not make that much difference on a small scale, but inside a raid or a Legion unit during an extended battle? I could change the outcome of a war.

The Disturb skill, and the ones after it, would help me defend myself, first by preventing my opponents from making full use of their skills, then by turning their fears against them. It wouldn’t make me stronger, but it would make my targets as fragile as I was.

As for Coma, it would let me plunge anyone already sleeping—naturally, pharmacologically, or magically—into an even deeper sleep, one they wouldn’t wake from unless the magic wore off or was dispelled, including if I attacked them. Out of all of the skills, this was perhaps the most individually deadly, but also completely useless if the target was awake.

The last new skill I could invest in was Mass Hysteria, which was an AOE spell that would make other Illusion spells cast within its radius succeed automatically. It didn’t last that long, and the radius was only big enough to catch two people in its field. But it dealt with the greatest threat to my safety—a sudden ambush by a prepared opponent. I would have to keep building my other skills to take full advantage of it, but it was a step toward being able to protect myself and others in moments of crisis.

I assigned the point to Mass Hysteria and closed the window.

<<<>>>

Skill: Mass Hysteria

Distorts reality at a time and place, making those caught within the field more susceptible to Illusion magic. A dangerous ability that affects the caster and allies as well as enemies, Mass Hysteria is the sort of ability that can make a choke point impassible and destroy the toughest of foes.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 125 Spirit

Range: Ground-target AOE, sight

Radius: 2.0 feet

Cast Time: 5 seconds

Cooldown: 120 seconds

Effect 1: Targets in the AOE automatically fail automatic or active saves against Illusion spells. This effect does not alter the potency of the spell and only applies while the target remains within the radius. Does not work on characters with natural or item-based resistance or immunity to the Illusion spell in question.

<<<>>>

With that taken care of, I asked the bartender where I could find Fafnir the bard.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I didn’t have to look far. Fafnir the Dwarf was passed out drunk, his body lying across the arms and seat of an armchair.

I sat down next to him and cleared my throat.

Nothing. Fafnir may as well have been dead.

I kicked his boot.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaughhhhh…” the Dwarf said, as if I was torturing an octogenarian on his deathbed.

“Need a beer?” I asked.

Fafnir cracked open a yellow eye at me and scowled. “You’ll have to do better than that. I drink cagnerac, lashkey, pterubon, or wodka.”

“What’s wodka?”

“Ask me after a couple cagneracs.”

I ordered him a shot of the pterubon. It cost a silver and three coppers, but the bartender assured me it was the most likely to get me what I needed, a functional bard.

Fafnir grabbed it, drank it, and curled up into a ball between the armrests, like a dead bug.

I ordered myself some lunch and some ice-cold cider, and I waited.

Fafnir returned to life around the same time my cider arrived. “What do you want?” he croaked.

“I need a bard.”

“You haven’t found one yet. I’m a Hellion.”

“What’s a Hellion?”

“A Dark Bard. I cast debuffs and taunts instead of being a support class.”

The server set a plate of stuffed peppers in front of me, filled with ground beef and crumbled cheese.

“Oh, gods, get that away from me!” Fafnir said, sitting back in his chair, as far away from the smell as he could be. He looked a bit green.

“You should have some eggs,” I said around a mouthful of green pepper.

“Ftark a cow, you manky penterkrast!” Fafnir said, his Adam’s apple working up and down.

“It’s the amino acids,” I said, ignoring him. “Our bodies process the alcohol into a toxic compound. I can’t remember what it’s called, but the stuff in eggs, it breaks down the toxin so you feel better sooner.”

“What are you? Some kind of Alchemist?”

“Actually, yes,” I said, smiling as much for my benefit as for his. “If you eat the eggs, I’ll send the peppers back to the kitchen.”

“Ugh. Fine,” he said.

I called the server back, put in the order, and had him take my plate. I also ordered Fafnir a shot of lashkey mixed into some ginger beer. Ginger inhibits the gag reflex.

“Why do you need a bard, anyway?”

I pulled the machete out and laid it on the table between us.

The Dwarf sat up in his seat, a little of the bleariness gone from his eyes. “Where did you get that?”

“The Last Resort. It’s a shop—”

“Outside of Wyrdtide, yes,” Fafnir said. “May I hold it?”

“Be my guest.”

He picked the machete up with something approaching reverence and turned it over in his hands. “Do you understand how named weapons work?”

I shrugged. “It’s when a weapon gains a story of its own. I was told it doesn’t work with weapons that have already been enchanted.”

“Spoken like a scribe,” Fafnir said disdainfully. He tapped a nail against the flat of the blade and it rang out like a champagne glass. “The reason you can’t name an enchanted weapon is that numbers, glyphs, and words constrain the story. They empower it and limit it at the same time. Once a weapon has been turned into a blessed plate of the whale, it will never become a cursed armor of the fox or a flying harness of Illusion. But tell two people a real story and they’ll each remember their own unique version of it because words, numbers, and glyphs aren’t how people process the world. We’re too messy and beautiful for that.”

The Dwarf had undergone a strange kind of transformation. The surliness and blurry edges were gone, replaced by brisk professionalism, but I wasn’t sure I agreed with what he was saying. “You still use glyphs, words, and numbers to tell the story.”

“Yes, but in the end, a good storyteller isn’t someone who writes pretty words—that’s just a scribe showing off. A good storyteller gathers stories from worlds real or imagined and uses sound, color, smells, movement, and yes, even words, glyphs, and numbers to make the people experience the story as if they’ve lived it, or bring out stories of their own.”

That all sounded pretty mushy when I knew all the people in Viridian Gate Online were actual lines of code stored in databases. “So what is that weapon’s story?”

“It doesn’t know yet,” Fafnir said with a smile in his eyes.

The server brought Fafnir his ginger lashkey, and I ordered another cider.

We talked for a while. The drink seemed to take the last of Fafnir’s edge off, and with that and the eggs, he turned out to be delightful company—at least when engaged in a topic he was passionate about.

Mostly he told me stories. There was one about an artificer who knocked a pot of ink into a crucible and decided to tell everyone he’d been trying to make black steel rather than redo the work or admit his mistake. Another about an assassin who was given away by the glint of his blade, and when he was burned at the stake, the blade blackened with him. Fafnir spun the stories out effortlessly: a lost pair of blades used to hunt peat shamblers in the Storme Marshes; the obsidian claw of the last dragon in Eldgard, who gave up his treasure for a quiet life; one of the seven blades of Vishna the peacock sword dancer, first Alferri pirate and terror of the ancient seas. At the end of each story, he would glance at the machete or close his eyes and touch his fingertips to the blade. Sometimes he would look at me and either nod or shake his head.

As the server came to clear our plates, Fafnir asked, “Which story do you think we should go with?”

“I get to pick?” I said, surprised.

“Within reason. You’ll have to sacrifice some of your Renown to bind the story to the blade. Bigger the story, bigger the cost. You also need to choose something that you’re willing to stick with and believe in, because no one’s going to believe an inconsistent story, and that’s what this is all about, capturing belief.”

“Got any stories about a weapon that let its terrified owner run away while chopping the ever-victorious crap out of anything that got in his way?” I joked.

The machete vibrated so hard it moved across the table.

“Oh,” I said.

<<<>>>

Named Weapon

One of your weapons is starting to make a name for itself. Just like the living creatures of Eldgard, weapons, tools, and charms can draw the attention and imagination of the masses, transforming them into something more than inanimate objects. A named weapon grows and evolves with its story, but be wary the object does not eclipse the wielder.

Sacrifice 200 Renown to awaken the named weapon “Valor”: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

Valor sounded good. I’d spent a good bit of my early days in the game running away, but I’d stood my ground against Jeff’s kill team and the five Winged Lions mercenaries. Had I wound up dissolved in a tub full of acid? Yes! But I’d stood my ground.

I accepted the loss of Renown, paid Fafnir ten gold in advance, and excused myself to take care of other business while he worked.

The first thing I did was go visit Mai Petraccas. I told her what had happened during the fight with Venantius—that he was dead, but I hadn’t been able to complete the Groomsman quest.

“But you didn’t fail the quest?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly,” I said.

She patted my knee. “These things sometimes work themselves out in complicated ways. I will be here until the end of the week, before I head back to the Storme Marshes. I believe in you, Alan Campbell. So did my husband.”

A lot of good that did him.

Still, she was right about the quest still being open. One interpretation was that the quest system expected me to go after Venantius in whatever afterlife existed within the game. As a high priest of Chen De, maybe Venantius still existed somewhere.

But I doubted that was the problem. Thalia had been some kind of monster, and she hadn’t died so much as gotten dragged into a black pool that spawned from inside her body.

I had a feeling Thalia was alive somewhere, somehow, but I’d still gotten credit for killing her insofar as the quest system was concerned.

I watched Venantius melt to death.

I should have failed that quest.

But I hadn’t.

So Venantius didn’t do it.

I pulled up the quest again to see if there were any clues.

<<<>>>

Quest: Groomsman

As Tassos Petraccas’s true friend and the man who presented him with a ripper tail for his bride, you are honor bound to avenge his death. Only when his wedding sword has been quenched in the blood of the person responsible for his death can the wedding knot be tied once more.

Quest Class: Personal

Quest Difficulty: Hard

Success: Kill Tassos Petraccas’s murderer with the wedding sword.

Failure: Allow the murderer to escape the city, or have the murderer die by means other than the wedding sword.

Reward: 500 XP, Increase reputation with all Murk Elf clans by one level.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

There was an ambiguity in the words I hadn’t noticed until now. The quest objective said I had to kill the murderer with Tassos’s sword, but the quest description said to kill the person responsible. Which was I supposed to prioritize? If it was the murderer, I might have to track down the exact mercenary who’d nailed Tassos to the wall and set him on fire. I was game for that. The Winged Lions were a formidable outfit, but I’d infiltrated them before. Even the captain who commanded them had to take his armor off sometimes.

Given time, I’d find out who did it and sheathe Tassos’s blade in their heart.

But what if it really was the person responsible? I mean, let’s face it, that was me. I brought this down on Tassos when I asked for his help. Did Mai Petraccas expect me to send myself to respawn for the honor of the thing?

I felt like she would have let me know that, and maybe done the job herself.

I remembered Florian telling me that the best way to stop an assassin was to kill their client. The Winged Lions murdered my friend, and other than trying to track down an Aspect of Death or Thanatos himself, Venantius had been the top of the food chain.

Unless the Winged Lions killed Tassos against orders.

If the captain had ordered Tassos killed in retaliation or done it himself, then he was directly responsible in more than one way. I would have been lying if I said I was against the idea of another round against him.

I needed a way to confirm who was guilty. That, or I could kill all of them.

I knew what Nil would have gone with.

Somewhere in all that, I managed to wander out of Tassos’s shop and into the street. It was all just pointless lip-chewing, though. I didn’t know anything. I needed help.

Inquisition or Thieves’ Union?

The Union might have a witness in their ranks, but they weren’t fond of snitches. The Inquisition had probably investigated the crime scene, but would they let me see their records?

Then I remembered I had an ace in the hole. I went back into the shop.

“Mai? Do you have the nails they used to…”

“Nail my husband to the wall?” she said with much more composure than I could have managed.

She pulled the three blackened metal spikes out of her inventory and handed them to me.

* * *

“Whoa!” Mettius said, dropping the nails and stepping back, knocking over his stool. He looked at them, then at me—wide-eyed and scared—then back at the nails.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Rain drummed on the slate roof. A proper storm had rolled in while I walked down into the lower northwestern quarter. I’d found Mettius by the fireplace in the common room, sober but staring down a glass of watered wine.

“Where did you get those?” the Finder asked.

“The charred body of a friend. They used those spikes to nail him to the outside of his shop.”

Mettius made no move to come closer. “Whoever did this is evil, Alan. I don’t mean that like they enjoy inflicting pain, because they don’t. It’s more clinical, for them. An act of devotion.”

That sounded like Venantius, but Venantius was dead. “Can you tell where they are?”

“Somewhere in the city. In the upper city,” Mettius said, pointing toward the fortified refuge of Harrowick’s elites.

“Can you help me—”

“No,” Mettius said firmly. “I’m sorry, Alan. I want to help. If you knew anything about Finders, you’d know I really want to help, but I can’t. Not again. Not after what Jeff put me through.”

“I understand,” I said, disappointed.

A little voice in my head told me I didn’t have to be. I still had the Illusion markers dug into Mettius’s brain. I could order him to help me. I could even make him enjoy it.

I swallowed and stuffed that awful voice back into the tight little box it had escaped from. “You should head back to New Viridia,” I told him, flipping him a gold coin, which he caught. “This sort of thing is going to keep happening around me. The best thing you can do is get far away.”

Mettius looked at me for a few moments in silence, then nodded and headed straight for the door.

Good for him, I thought. Sometimes the only way to get ahead was to know when to quit.

I gathered the blackened nails and checked on Mettius’s tab with the innkeeper. I actually got a few silvers back, wonder of wonders. I put the hood of my oiled cloak up and stepped outside.

It was really pouring, the kind of heavy rain that flowed off the roofs like a waterfall and made the central gutter in the cobbled streets overflow.

Since I was already in the northwestern quarter and had little reason to return to it now that Venantius was dead, I decided to stop by the smaller temple of Chen De and return the gas canister I’d borrowed. Sure, I’d betrayed them, killed their high priest, and stolen their artifact to hand it over to the other sect of death cultists in town, but a security deposit was a security deposit.

The monk I’d met on previous visits didn’t blink. He took the canister, inspected it, and counted out eight gold coins at his little writing desk.

As he placed them in my hand, he looked at me and asked, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, suddenly wondering if he was the chanting kind of monk or the Shaolin kind of monk.

“You were the one asking all those questions about the old temple, a few days back. Then the temple gets attacked, and they survive it, they actually fought the assassins off, but you went back and killed the high priest and stole the last key.” There was an eerie calm to the monk’s voice. He reminded me a bit of Pops, the last time I visited him before he died.

“It was just a job,” I said, embarrassed.

The monk shrugged. “My order sacrificed their ambitions and safety for you, unbeliever. For centuries, we kept those keys safe. We kept the Realm of Death in its proper order.”

“That’s not how the other guys tell it.”

“The other guys?” the monk said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Are you really comparing my people to theirs?”

I crossed my arms. “Look, it’s none of my business”—it really wasn’t—“but they’re both death gods, right? Chen De wants us to go quietly, Ji Bie wants us to fight it, but they both want us dead. It’s all potatoes whether you’re in New Viridia or Rowanheath.”

The monk looked at me quietly.

Outside, a peal of thunder rumbled through the street.

“I’m going to put this in words simple enough for you to understand. The administrators of the Path of Gods and the Path of Hungry Ghosts are appointed to their positions, which are offices within the hellish hierarchies that oversee crucial functions within Morsheim. Saying an Aspect is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ because of the position they occupy is like saying all prostitutes are evil and all priests are good. It just doesn’t shake out that way.”

“Okay, I get that, but—”

The monk raised his hand to get me to shut up. “Chen De is a warrior Aspect. He encourages us to confront our fears of death so we can live full lives and, perhaps, stand a chance to be reborn in the next cycle.”

That… sounded pretty admirable actually, and it matched what I’d experienced fighting that statue of him in the big temple. “What about Ji Bie?”

“Why do you keep talking about Ji Bie? Ji Bie was killed in the god wars over three hundred years ago, probably at the instigation of his successor. The current Administrator of the Path of Gods is Serth-Rog. He is a plotter and a manipulator, known above all things as the Aspect of Murder!”

Murder. Find Tassos’s murderer. Had Venantius been a murderer? He’d tried to run Jabir out of town, then have him arrested. He’d had me beaten, and then, when I became too much of a nuisance, he’d tried to send me to Morsheim so I’d be out of the way. He wasn’t driven by emotion, he was driven by his mission. Why would he have antagonized me like that? As for the Winged Lions, they were professional soldiers, not murderers. They were known for their incorruptibility. Even under Suggestion, the Lions’ captain had resisted my attempts to get him to kill me, and I’d just put three of his people into early graves. Why would he have disobeyed orders and killed Tassos, an act that rallied the Alchemists against the Circle and set me on a path of revenge?

Besides, hadn’t Berrick escorted him out of the city? That would have meant failing the quest if the captain was the murderer.

Who benefited from me killing Venantius? Dhukak. Who told me Venantius was responsible? Dhukak. Who was the secretive cleric of a murder god who’d used Cold Skulls to wage a holy war against Chen De and killed off dozens of thieves who’d threatened his position during the Three-Block War? Dhukak, Dhukak, and Dhukak. “I have to go.”

“It’s too late, unbeliever,” the monk said sadly.

“The hell it is,” I said, shooting the monk with a finger gun and running out into the rain.

I tried not to slip on the cobbles as I sprinted uphill and sent messages at the same time. Mettius had said the killer was in the upper city. That’s where Leather and Lace was. The Thieves’ Union was directly under and tunneled into the highest section of Harrowick.

Twenty drenched, gasping minutes later, I stumbled to a stop in front of Leather and Lace.

Mettius was huddled under the eaves of the building, soaked and shivering.

“He’s inside, isn’t he?” I shouted over the downpour.

“Yes,” Mettius said, miserable. “I couldn’t stay away.”

“Come on,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulder and making sure Tassos’s sword was loose in the scabbard. “Let’s finish this.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Thieves’ Union’s bar was packed with brigands from all over Harrowick and beyond. Dhukak had been the lieutenant of the Harrowick branch for nearly ten years, so he’d made a lot of friends and even more enemies.

Either way, the venue had an open bar.

“Boss,” Torm said, meeting me and Mettius at the entrance.

“Is he here?” I asked.

“Yeah,” the Wode said, scanning the room. “I think he’s talking to the group over there with the red hoods. Kind of hard to keep track of the guy in a crowded room, know what I mean?”

“I know exactly where he is,” Mettius said, his gaze almost feverish. I started to walk in the direction the Finder was looking, but Torm grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Hey, boss. You sure this is a good idea? Room’s full of high-level thieves, and even esquires from towns up and down the coast… Think I saw a couple of Cold Skulls in here.”

“I bet you did,” I said coldly. “Did you find Leif?”

“Couldn’t get near him, but I found Florian,” Torm said, pointing at the bar.

Master Florian was leaning against it, near the stairs to the upper levels. We made eye contact, then he nodded toward the stairs to the pickpocket training course, and I saw Liv was in position.

The only way out of the room was to Dhukak’s office and the lower storerooms—a dead end in every sense of the word. “Stay here,” I told Torm and Mettius.

I pushed my way into the crowd.

“Hey, Sharper! Come have a drink with us!” Lamb said, waving at me from a group of Risi thieves.

I waved back, but I kept moving. This was going to be a simple job, quick and clean. I had Threadcutter at my back, but I couldn’t use it if I wanted to fulfill the quest. The hardest part was going to be killing Dhukak with Tassos’s sword instead of the dagger.

Worst case, I’d use the dagger anyway, because screw Dhukak and his two-bit religious war. Mai was better off knowing her husband had been avenged than having me stick to the letter of some game-generated quest.

And if the room turned against me and killed me before I could explain what I’d done, then so be it. I’d sort things out with Leif once I’d respawned and things had cooled down.

“Alan!” Fafnir said, yelling from a nearby table.

Damn. The Dwarven Hellion was sitting at a table with a lute out, surrounded by other bards, friends, and a few lady admirers.

“I was just telling the boys here about your new sword, Alan, and we all think it’s hilarious!” Fafnir said, setting his lute down and climbing onto the table.

That got my attention. Hilarious wasn’t the adjective I would have expected to describe a ten-gold weapon.

Fafnir offered me the sheathed machete, handle first.

I reached for it, and it jumped into my hand like a paper clip to a magnet.

Fafnir chuckled. “It likes you! Haven’t seen a blade jump into its owner’s hand like that in a while.”

<<<>>>

Valor

Weapon Type: Slashing; Tool/Bladed Weapon (Special)

Class: Named, One-handed

Base Damage: 45 (Special)

Primary Effects:

•Harmless: can be used as a tool, but not to attack or defend unless Sanguinary Flight is activated.

•Just in Case: Can be worn without using a weapon slot.

•Second Chance: If a character is brought below 0% Health from a single attack that causes damage greater than 43% of their Health, the character’s Health is instantly restored to 1%. Does not trigger if the damage is self-inflicted or from a fall. All current nonpermanent debuffs (including DOTs) are deferred for (90) seconds but can still be healed. Cooldown: 8 hours.

•Sanguinary Flight: When the character is surrounded, immobilized, or affected by the Death’s Door status, character is afflicted with fear. If the character becomes Frightened or draws Valor by choice, the following effects become active; duration, (90) seconds.

Sanguinary Flight:

•Bug Out: character runs to escape any enemies by the shortest route possible and is immune to slowing or rooting effects. Valor automatically attacks enemies and objects within range. Monstrous or frightening enemies receive +150% damage. Objects that are blocking the character’s escape receive +300% damage.

•Screaming Lunatic: The character yells incoherently. They cannot communicate verbally or cast spells with a vocal component. They can use consumables, but any effects are reduced by 50% as they choke on the potions or spill them. Stealth and Disguise checks fail automatically. Any active quests receive a permanent -20% Renown penalty (stacks up to 5 times).

•The Better Part (of Valor): The character has until the end of the effect to make their escape. If they fail, character is Weakened for (90) seconds. If they succeed, all regen effects are doubled for (2) minutes. Illusion, Trickery, and Delusion skills have a +10% chance to succeed for (1) hour, and character is immune to all negative morale effects for (1) hour.

<<<>>>

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. I was still stunned by the wall of text that collapsed on top of me, but the gist of it was exactly the story I’d told him—plucky hero gets in over his head and runs away, doing a whole lot of damage to the furniture and his own dignity in the process.

Fafnir tapped the side of his nose. “It might seem like a cursed weapon now, young man, but give it some thought. The weapon will grow with its story, and if you use it correctly, it will help you accomplish things you never could otherwise.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, tossing the weird weapon into my inventory. For now, it was too bizarre for me to mess around with while I had a Dwarf to kill.

And right at that moment, Dhukak and I saw each other.

He was standing on a chair, nine feet away in the middle of the thieves with the red hoods. There must have been something in my eyes that spooked him because he set his beer down and walked into the crowd, followed by two assassins with skull tattoos on their faces.

“Out of my way!” I shouted. I tried to shove one of the guys with the red hoods, but he shoved back. All my training in the assassin’s arena paid off, however, since I just spun with the push and ended up on the other side of him before I realized what I’d done. I shoulder rolled into a run across the table, scattering drinks and food everywhere, and went to jump into the crowd but someone grabbed my ankle, and instead of going up and forward, my face followed a perfect arc toward the floor.

I stopped less than a foot from breaking my nose and teeth, held up by the back of my collar. With almost no effort showing, Gentleman Leif lifted me back to vertical and dusted me off as if nothing had happened. “Afternoon, Sharper.”

“Gentleman Leif,” I said, anxious to get after Dhukak, fully aware Leif would drive me into the ground like a fencepost if I tried to run.

“That was impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“Little bit excessive, especially since this is Dhukak’s big send-off.”

“I’d like to send him off personally.”

Leif raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have a good reason, but was this really the right venue?”

The room had gone quiet. The crowd had pulled back from Leif and me, giving us room, but the air was razor sharp, and a lot of the people watching were hiding their hands.

“Let’s take a walk,” Leif said, putting his arm around my shoulders and leading me toward the back of the room.

The thieves parted ahead of us, but conversation resumed and no one stared. There was, in fact, a concerted effort to ignore us as Leif’s iron grip dug into my shoulder. It was like having a boa constrictor wrapped around me, but no one noticed that because Gentlemen don’t have problems, they just take people for walks.

Sometimes, those people are never seen again.

Thankfully, Florian met us at the door that led to Dhukak’s office, along with Liv, Torm, Edgar, and Mettius.

“Gentleman Leif—” Florian started.

“Inside,” Leif answered, cutting Florian off like the crack of a whip, and Florian jumped to obey. It was the first time I’d seen Gentleman Leif so focused, possibly angry, and the steady pressure of his digging fingers made me realize this could go very poorly for all of us if he decided he didn’t like what we were doing.

“I can explain,” I said, as soon as we were through and Torm closed the door behind us.

“First things first,” Leif said, looking at Mettius. “You’re the Finder from New Viridia. Dhukak is getting away. His escape route is certainly trapped.”

“I can handle that,” Mettius said, dipping his head.

“As for you,” Leif said to Florian, “if you want Dhukak’s job, you’re going to have to learn to handle these sorts of things quietly, and none of that fast phase nonsense you assassins get off on, that’s just bad planning.”

“Yes, sir,” Florian said, his voice devoid of anything but respect. I should have picked up on that.

“As for you, Alan—”

“It’s Sharper,” I said idiotically. I felt a breeze by my head and the wall behind me cracked. Gentleman Leif was leaning toward me, like a man leaning close to a friend after a few drinks.

His arm was buried in the wall up to the wrist, having smashed through solid brick to the cave wall behind it.

“Alan,” Leif said calmly. “You were about to tell me that Dhukak is a murderer. That he not only hired Cold Skulls and killed your friend, Tassos Petraccas, but that he also organized the death of several assassins and most of Envoy Murena’s informants.”

I swallowed. The only thing I could think about was that if Leif had punched about four inches to the left, he’d have gone through my head like a major league pitch through a wet paper bag.

“I, of course, had no idea about any of this, because this is just a charming and supportive organization for like-minded individuals, which is why I have no problem letting the Inquisition into my home.”

“The Inquisition very much appreciates that, Gentleman Leif,” Liv said.

“Wouldn’t want to go back to the way things were, would we?” Leif asked with a guffaw.

“No we would not, Gentleman Leif,” Liv said, her voice strained.

I felt like a complete idiot. Of course Leif knew. He was the head of the fragging Harrowick Thieves’ Union, the thiefliest thief of them all.

“Got the lock!” Mettius said, pushing the oak door with the toe of his boot. “Poison needle trap. Try not to touch it as you walk through.”

Leif withdrew his arm, shaking mortar and brick dust from his hand, and led the way into Dhukak’s office.

The place was trashed. Drawers had been thrown open and cabinets ransacked, but there was no sign of the Dwarven lieutenant.

“Is there another way out?” Florian asked.

“I’m working on it,” Mettius said, feeling his way along the right-hand wall.

I wanted to ask Leif how long he’d known. Not about the assassins and informants, because I’d kind of assumed he’d known and approved of at least some parts of that operation. I meant about Tassos. There had been almost twelve hours between my getting sent to respawn and the time my crew and I had attacked the temple. Could Leif have stopped that, or did he intentionally put us at risk?

“It was a good play, by the way,” Leif said, looking at me. “Tricking the Cold Skulls into attacking those mercenaries solved several problems at once for more than one faction. Dhukak was furious, but that’s what you get when you meddle in the affairs of other thieves.”

I nodded slowly, not sure which of several possible messages I was being sent.

“Found it!” Mettius said, pushing one of the bricks into the wall. A whole section of the brickwork beside it rotated open.

“How do we do this, boss?” Torm asked.

I looked at Florian and Leif, but they just looked back expectantly.

“We’ll be up against Dhukak and what’s left of the Cold Skulls. Mettius, I want you up front looking for traps and secret doors. Torm and Edgar, you’re behind him. Gentleman Leif, I’d like you and Liv to go next and guard our flanks if we get into trouble. Master Florian, you and I will drop into Stealth and do what we can when we can.”

“What are your priorities, Sharper?” Leif asked with his arms crossed. “Are we capturing Dhukak, or are we killing him?”

“Do you have a preference?”

“A cold drink and a good meal in my quarters,” Leif said. “I’m assuming at some point you’re going to fill Master Florian and me in on why you’re after Dhukak in the first place. I’m assuming you’ve weighed the interests of the Union in all this?”

There was a definite warning in his tone. “Dhukak is trying to reunite the Aspect of Murder with its stolen heart. Since I’m a Traveler, there are chances my involvement make this a Very Bad Thing for all of us.”

“Good enough,” Leif said. “And the job?”

I thought about the stakes and said, “I have a quest to kill him with Tassos Petraccas’s sword, but that’s a secondary objective. Our first priority has to be recovering at least one of the Skeleton Keys. If we do that, we can fight Dhukak’s people another day.”

Leif patted me on the shoulder. “Good. That’s the right call.”

I pulled the blackened nails from my inventory and handed them to our Finder. “Mettius, lead us in.”

“You’ve got it, boss.”

“There’s one thing worth mentioning,” Liv said before we stepped off.

We all looked at her.

“The Inquisition is fairly certain to have killed over forty Cold Skulls during the fight in the northwestern quarter. The Winged Lions will have killed more. Even so, we only recovered five bodies; the Wyrd-freaks were almost fanatical about recovering their dead and wounded.”

Florian cursed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Leif grinned and slapped me on the back. “You’re about to find out why nobody likes fighting death cultists.”

* * *

It was dark in the catacombs beneath the Union. I used Refract to summon three orbs of dim green light that I anchored to Mettius, Torm, and Edgar. From my training with Liv, I knew she had the Blindfighting passive that would allow her to target enemies in complete darkness, and since Leif was also a Monk of some kind, I assumed the same applied to him.

The last thing Florian and I needed was a light marking us. We’d both dropped into Stealth, and I had Hide running. That left me with no Spirit to cast with. Fortunately, I had other skills to fall back on.

We followed the Finder down, down, and down.

If I’d had more time, I would have been more methodical about the exploration. There had been ruins on my grandfather’s property in Spain—nothing grandiose, just a few old farm buildings and a silo that had fallen into disrepair, but between that and some of the vacant buildings that had been similarly labeled as “dangerous” by my mother in Nicetown, I had a fascination for places lost and abandoned. There were side rooms and tunnels and staircases galore, but Mettius kept us moving like he was following a trail of glowing footprints.

Maybe he was. I wasn’t sure how the “finding” mechanic manifested in his UI. The Finder pointed out pressure plates and deadly mechanisms rather than waste time disarming them, and each person passed that information to the person behind them. We were making good time, but Dhukak was nowhere in sight.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“Harrowick was built on top of an existing site. You’ve noticed that there’s a good mix of Imperials and Wodes in the population?” Leif said.

“I thought it was just the Thieves’ Union,” I answered.

“Because all thieves come from Rowanheath?” Torm asked.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling my face heat, and Edgar snickered.

“Only the best thieves come from Rowanheath,” Leif said, patting Torm on the shoulder and giving me a wink. “The point is, there are ruins and even a few dungeons under Harrowick. The Legion killed the main dungeon and used the core to build the Keep above us. They paved everything else over and forgot about it.”

I hadn’t been aware you could “kill” a dungeon, or fabricate Keeps. I made a mental note of it. It sounded like something worth digging into.

We did come across signs of Dhukak’s passage. Dust had been disturbed. Some traps had already been disarmed to allow safe passage. Some had gotten missed. We found a Cold Skull impaled on a set of spikes that slid out of the wall. Her companions had left her there. “I guess they don’t retrieve all the bodies.”

“They were in a hurry,” Florian said. “Besides, knowing the Cold Skulls, their ‘Leave no assassin behind’ policy will be pragmatic more than emotional. At best, it’s to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies.”

“And at worst?” I asked.

“We’re about to be up to our bits in reanimated dead, haemonculuses, and corpse bombs.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

We reached what felt like the bottom of the ruins. We’d gone down about twelve floors, which was probably below the level of the outer quarters and the city walls. The walls were rough-cut stone and the floor was dirt. Even as someone with no tracking skills, I could see a lot of people had passed through here recently.

“That answers how the Cold Skulls got into Harrowick,” Liv said.

I nodded. “Everybody get your weapons ready,” I told the others.

“You think he’s still here?” Torm asked.

“He’s close,” Mettius said.

If it hadn’t been for Mettius, we would have taken twice the time, triggered dozens of traps, and gotten hopelessly lost. I hadn’t failed the Groomsman quest yet, so Dhukak was still within the city limits. I had hopes the murderous Svartalfar thought he’d lost us and was retrieving his gear and his associates before starting his planned trek north, to Stone Reach.

I assumed that was still his destination. It had been one of the few parts of our conversation during which he hadn’t lied.

We ducked through an elaborate stone doorway—Svartalfar work, from the looks of the people, weapons, and beards carved into it, as well as the low clearance of the door.

Beyond was a low, wide cave that stretched straight forward into the dark.

“Dim the lights!” Leif hissed, and I dispelled my Refract orbs, plunging the party into near darkness. There was still a faint glow from the surrounding walls—patches of blue moss, mushrooms, salamanders, and wriggling worms all gave off minute amounts of pale blue light. Now that we were all standing quietly—holding my breath, in my case—I could hear the clink of pickaxes and tools, and the sound of people barking commands at each other.

We’d found Dhukak and his people.

Leif looked behind us and said in a low voice, “Nix, Five-Pints, spread your people out. I want crossbows loaded, but no one fires until I say so. We take them by surprise.”

I almost jumped out of my skin when the empty darkness behind us answered, “Yes, Leif.” Now that I knew they were there, I made out about a dozen shapes moving to our flanks—thieves in Stealth with good camouflaged gear.

“Always bring more support than you think you need for this sort of job, Sharper,” Leif told me with a grin. “I want your group in the middle where we can support you. When I give you the signal, conjure one of your lights and make it bright this time. We need to be able to see our targets to hit them.”

“You’ve got it, Leif,” I said, aware I’d ceased to be the protagonist of this story. I loaded my crossbow. As long as we got the key back and Dhukak got his, I was more than happy to let someone with more experience take command.

Leif made a few more adjustments to the party’s disposition, including placing himself at the front left of my group, where he could lead and fight, then the two dozen or so of us moved forward quietly, with barely a brush of cloth or the clink of a buckle.

The bioluminescence that had lit the ancient Svartalfar gateway dimmed as we walked, replaced by a faint golden light far ahead. I guessed we were about five hundred yards away, and still two or three miles from the outer walls of the city, but it looked like this tunnel had been dug, cut, or burrowed straight as an arrow all the way there.

“I’m going to have to report this,” Liv whispered.

“You think it’s a threat to the Empire?” I asked.

“It’s a threat to the city. You could walk an entire army straight up to the third circle without anyone seeing them.”

“They’d have to get through the Thieves’ Union, Envoy Murena,” Leif said. “Let’s hold off on that report until we’ve explored our options.”

“You mean you want to use it for smuggling,” Liv said, surprising me with the sudden snark.

“Our organization has many ways in and out of the city,” Leif answered. “I’d kill for this kind of storage space, though.”

We crept closer. It took us ten minutes to make it halfway without a single one of us making a sound loud enough to be noticed. The training I’d asked Torm and Edgar to go through had paid off, Liv was as graceful as a dancer, and Mettius… Mettius was like the drunken boxer of Stealth, weaving and tripping and yet somehow always landing perfectly in the end. Still no signs of re-dead. I expected them to have been left behind, shambling aimlessly like the ones we’d found after the battle between the caravan of death cultists and Dhukak’s assassins.

Closer and slower, five minutes to cross one hundred yards. I could feel the tension in the party, like a stretched bowstring. The roof of the cavern was taller, here, and the road wider, with stalactites hanging from the irregular ceiling. It also stunk, like sulfur pools. The “road” must have intersected a naturally occurring cave, creating an incidental staging point. I could make out several carts, although instead of oxen there were pairs of giant sandstone-colored rockadillos. The cards were being loaded by Cold Skull assassins, as well as several people in dark robes. Svartalfar moved among the group, although they didn’t seem to be doing any of the work. I thought one of them might be Dhukak, talking to a pair of heavily armored Dwarves near the far end of the cave, where the tunnel narrowed again and was blocked off by a stone gate.

That was the only way out. We couldn’t let Dhukak escape that way, so we had to get close.

Just then, a silhouette lurched across my view of the target.

Everybody froze.

The silhouette stood there, swaying slightly. It looked like it might be a human male, average height, drunk of his ass.

“Alan,” Leif said softly.

“Yes, Leif?”

“Could you give us a little light? Not a lot, just enough to make out a bit more of our surroundings.”

I passed him my crossbow, cupped my hands, and spoke the words to the Refract spell as softly as I could and still trigger it. A tiny orb of green light the size of a ping-pong ball and as dim as a child’s night-light appeared in the bowl of my hands, leaking faint light through my fingers.

I gently opened my hands.

The silhouette was a re-dead. A zombie. The magically reanimated remains of a Cold Skull assassin, missing its right forearm and a good part of its face. It turned toward us, squinting a milky eye in our direction and sniffing the air.

“Florian!” Leif hissed.

A pair of throwing knives sprouted from the re-dead’s face and it dropped like a sack, but more humanoid shapes shuffled toward us, and one of them screeched in alarm.

“Alan, go full bright, now!”

I threw the orb into the air and went full bright above us, using white light, and I saw I’d been wrong. The smell wasn’t from sulfur pools, it was rotting flesh and embalming fluids, because there weren’t a few re-dead, or even the forty that had gone missing.

There were hundreds, stacked in piles, slowly rising to their feet. The death cultists had been stockpiling them for years, maybe decades, but they were slow zombies. I could handle slow zombies.

Clack!

The two crews of thieves loosed their bolts at the Cold Skulls, then drew their melee weapons. We were still one hundred yards away—too far for direct shots, but Leif’s people were good. About half of the twenty-or-so bolts found a home, dropping a half dozen Wyrdtidian assassins and wounding a few more. One of the giant rockadillos was hit, and it lowed like a furious cow, breaking free of its traces while its companion curled into a ball.

Three Svartalfar clerics, dressed in scale mail and carrying scepters, formed a line between us and the others and started chanting.

“Alan!” Liv said, bumping me in the hip.

I rolled over her back without thinking, like we’d rehearsed over a hundred times in the assassins’ training ground, she took out the zombie that was about to chow down on me, and I unsheathed Tassos’s sword, hacking into another re-dead. It took four whole chops to put it down, somewhere between 100 and 150 Health points.

There were just so damned many of them that they were forcing our party to bunch up just to fight them back. The clerics’ chanting was rising in pitch and in fervor.

“Somebody gank those casters!” Leif shouted, and one of the red hoods raised their crossbow, only to be pulled down by three re-dead at once.

Clack! One of the thieves on the other side of the of the party made the shot, and a cleric toppled, but the other two raised their scepters in a triumphant shout.

Virulent green energy streaked like lightning across the ground, and two zombies’ eyes glowed green. They screeched, swelled up, and charged our line like linebackers. Leif punched one of them into pulp, and three thieves stabbed another to death, but more and more of the re-deads’ eyes started to glow green.

Hundreds of fast juggernaut zombies. Oh God, oh God, we’re going to die.

“Back to back, shoulder to shoulder!” Leif shouted. He was killing one or more re-dead with every hit, but they were still swarming in from all sides. I was getting heavy flashes of being back in Wyrdtide, surrounded by the rotting, grasping dreamers. I had to get out. And then I realized I had exactly the tool for this situation.

Valor.

“Could use your help, boss!” Torm said as something tried to scratch his face.

“I’m thinking!” I shouted back.

Okay. Valor does +150% damage to frightening enemies. Am I scared of zombies? Yes. Forty-five base damage times 2.45 rounded up for Strength and general skills gave me 130 Damage per swing, more for Criticals. If I’d guessed right on the re-deads’ Health and I triggered Sanguinary Flight, Valor would one-shot any zombie I came across.

Except it would make me run in the opposite direction. We were two miles from the walls, and only about a mile from where we’d started.

Think, Alan. Think!

One of the thieves next to me was pulled off his feet and dragged screaming into the writhing mass. A green-eyed re-dead bowled Liv over, but Edgar punched its head clean off its shoulders. I couldn’t do any of that.

I was an Illusionist.

And nothing was real.

The Thieves’ Union behind us wasn’t closer than the grass sea in front of us. Those were just coordinates stored in the servers’ databases, three floating point numbers that correlated with where the other objects were instanced and drawn by the game’s graphics engine. Maybe. I wasn’t a programmer, but I knew enough to get the basics. “The closest exit is through the arch ahead of us,” I told myself, injecting Spirit into the words.

Did I believe that?

Yes. The best way to get out of here was to go forward, to get to those clerics and Dhukak before they buried us in re-dead.

“Sharper! If you’re going to do something brilliant, you’d better do it right now!” Leif said, starting to sound as concerned as a Gentleman could be.

I strapped Valor to my leg. “Florian, everyone, I’m going to open a path. I need you all right behind me, but no one get in my way.”

“We’re right behind you!” Florian said.

“Leif! I need you to punch me as hard as you can!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just do it, you badly dressed, well-intentioned, ineffectual fop!”

I don’t know if I can describe the feeling of getting punched by Gentleman Leif as a level 12 Illusionist so much as a sudden cessation of being. It didn’t hurt. One heartbeat I had a face, the next my whole head exploded. I’ve gone back and watched it in slow motion from the outside, and the crazy thing is Leif never touched me. It’s the shock wave of compressed air moving ahead of his knuckles that does the damage.

Anyway, I was there, I wasn’t there, and then Second Chance kicked in, pulling the pink mist and bone bits back together with a snap, and I was there again with only 1% of my Health. My hand reached for Valor reflexively, and I drew it, and my mouth opened up, letting loose a bloodcurdling scream.

“What the hell?” one of the thieves said.

I swung my machete at him. He was in my way.

Leif pulled the thief back just in time, and I was running like a windup toy, heading straight for the light, the clerics, and the exit with my arm swinging at two beats per second, cleaving through zombies like a freaking lawnmower and screaming like a train whistle.

“Follow him! Follow Sharper!” Leif yelled.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God! The terror that had taken hold of me from the moment I’d drawn Valor from its sheath was real. I was scared witless. My life for the next ninety seconds became nothing but a sequence of horrifyingly mutilated faces. I was pushing through them, Valor cutting through meat and bone, gore flying in every direction. I managed to down a Health Regen potion. I was so scared, I threw away the empty flask and downed another potion and threw that away, too.

Sixty seconds got us clear of the mob, and then it was an all-out sprint toward the clerics and what my mind, operating under Suggest and a good dose of Delusion, thought was the exit. Did I mention the screaming? I sounded like a neutered opera singer giving the performance of his life.

I blew past the clerics. Some part of me registered their screams as the thieves and assassins cut off their chants mid-verse. To my right, the scared and wounded rockadillo smashed through a trio of Cold Skulls and almost took out some of our party, too, before balling up and rolling off into the dark.

I could see Dhukak. We’d made it. The Dwarves and Cold Skulls were actually running from me, Plague Doctors among them. Should have seen that coming. No wonder the Four Humours had been so eager to “help” me kill Venantius. They were all in full retreat except for Dhukak, who was fiddling with some sort of box.

And then the mother of all explosions knocked me off my feet.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

My ears rang. Dust and bits of rock were everywhere.

“Sharper! Are you okay?” Edgar asked.

Sanguine Flight had run out, and I hadn’t escaped anything, so I was in a Weakened state—basically reduced to 1 Strength. “Help me up,” I told the Risi.

He grabbed me by the armpit and lifted me like I was a very sick child. I could barely stand, leaning against him. I was bruised, dizzy, I’d lost about a third of my Health from being so close to the blast… At some point in all the madness I’d lost hold of my Refract spell and the cave had gone dark. I muttered the words, miscasting the first time, but on the second try managed to light an orb and loft it into the air.

My crew and most of the thieves were alive. They were battered, their clothing torn and bloody, their faces bruised and their Health bars all over the place, but they were alive.

The re-dead were, too, in their own way. The clerics were dead, but their work endured, at least for now, and there were just so many of them. Too many to count.

And then I heard laughter.

“Did you really think… that after so many years… so much—” Dhukak broke into a coughing fit.

“I thought you would have run,” I said.

Dhukak spit a gob of blood on the cave floor. He was standing near the collapsed exit to the cave, detonator at his feet, most of his Health gone. “My life’s work is done, Traveler. I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, what you know about duty and devotion. You’ve always seemed like a self-serving prick to me.”

“You’ve gone too far, Dhukak,” Leif said.

“Oh, shut up, you sanctimonious weakling. I made the hard choices for you for ten years. See how you like making them for yourself.” He pulled a Hexblade out of his inventory and lifted it, blade pointed at his own throat. “I’m going home.”

“Florian!” I snapped, half drawing Tassos’s sword with my left hand.

Faster than a striking snake, the master of assassins ripped the sword from the scabbard, raised it over and behind his head, and threw it end over end.

It was a magnificent throw.

A legendary one.

Tassos’s sword punched through Dhukak’s breastbone and spine and struck him to the ground, propped up like he was doing the limbo until he slid down the blade.

I got a notification.

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Groomsman

You have successfully killed the person responsible for Tassos Petraccas’s murder with Mai Petraccas’s wedding sword. You receive 500 XP and 40 Renown (-20% due to Sanguinary Flight). In addition, your relationship with all Murk Elf clans has increased from Neutral to Accepted. You are now permitted to trade with Storme Marsh villages, although some areas are still considered restricted.

<<<>>>

Secret Quest Failed: Locked Away

You handed the Cult of Serth-Rog the last Skeleton Key and failed to stop them from escaping Harrowick. The consequences of your actions have yet to bear fruit, but they’re sure to be bloody for the people of Falas Alferri.

<<<>>>

Well, crap, I thought. Win some, lose some. I’d upset the power balance in a centuries-old war between two sects of death cultists. I had… honestly, I had no idea if that was a real problem or if I’d just upset a few theologians who’d spent centuries having a pointless argument with each other.

The horde shuffled closer.

“Any thoughts, Sharper?” Leif asked. “I think I can get myself out of this, but I don’t know how many of you will make it with me.”

That was the problem with working with a specialized team. Leif’s people and mine would absolutely shred their way through the first hundred zombies or so, but once they ran out of Stamina, they’d fall to the mass of shambling bones and rotten meat.

What you really needed to deal with a mass of slow zombies was a phalanx of triarii with tower shields, heavy armor, and several rows of stabbing spears.

I’d had a long day, and I wasn’t losing even a single member of my crew. I called for help.

<<<>>>

Personal Message

Corporal Vel,

I need to call in that favor. Several hundred re-dead. Outnumbered and out of time. Send help.

—Citizen Alan Campbell

<<<>>>

Vel responded almost immediately. Confirm you’re underground?

Confirmed.

Help is on the way, sir.

The thieves loosed their crossbow bolts into the mob. A dozen zombies fell, but it hardly made a difference.

“What’s the plan, Sharper?” Leif asked.

I grinned. “Just wait.”

The thieves and my crew drew their melee weapons. We were backed against the wall. There was nowhere left to run

The horde of re-dead was only ten feet away when a perfect, glorious oval of shimmering blue appeared in front of us, and for the first time since the battle with the Gore Boar, the game’s BGM kicked in with Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.”

Or at least, that’s how I remember it.

Sparking grenades flew out of the portal, followed by four veterans of Marquard’s Janissaries—Corporal Vel among them.

Crump, crump crump!

The janissaries opened fire, shooting flintlocks, rifles, and repeating carbines. They unleashed a truly shocking display of firepower. The grenades blew ten-foot holes into the horde’s ranks, followed up by grapeshot blasts that did overlapping cone AOE damage, piercing shots that felled dozens of re-dead in a line, and Vel rapid firing and reloading his brace of pistols to pick off stragglers. Another handful of grenades went flying to the left, and a whole satchel charge blew a fifty-foot crater on the right- hand side, rocking us back on our heels.

“Thieves of the Union, to me!” Leif roared, charging into the zombies’ savaged right flank.

All I could do was watch.

Vel’s team fired one more volley and either fixed bayonets or pulled out boarding hatchets. “For the regiment, for New Viridia, and for the Emperor!”

Epilogue

Dhukak opened his eyes. He was suspended in the air over an intricate marble floor. Dark, oozing blood fell from a wound in his chest, but still he felt… hope? Excitement?

He’d been waiting his entire life for this moment.

A clawed hand lifted his chin, and he looked into the many-eyed and fanged face of his god, and tears filled his eyes. Holy Serth-Rog, bringer of the end, maker and unmaker, thank you for blessing your servant with your divine gaze!

“Yessss!” Serth-Rog said to him with a voice like the whisper of a thousand insect wings. “You have done well, martyr. Your sacrifice is… a sweet savor to me, child, for it is already spoken of with reverence by your brethren. Because of you, many more will spill blood in my holy name. This is good. You are good. You should be pleased.”

Dhukak felt like his heart might burst, if it hadn’t already been cut in half.

“At least, that is what I would say if I had my heart back, I think,” the many-legged, sibilant deity said, letting go of him and slither-skittering back.

A young man in a cassock stepped into view. Dhukak didn’t know who it was. Was it one of his dark lord’s servants?

“So close,” the young man said, consulting some sort of chart made of numbers and light. “If you’d just plunged that blade into your throat, you would have made it here as a Revenant instead of coming to me as a corpse. I’m afraid that makes you a discard, however. Close doesn’t count on the path to Ascension!” he said cheerfully, and Dhukak realized who he was, to his deepest horror.

The Overminds were real. They weren’t just concepts, or abstractions. They were real. And if that was true, then so were the stories that Thanatos had locked his lord’s heart away for a reason.

Dhukak had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

“I’d like to keep him,” Serth-Rog said.

“Prime won’t like that.”

“Then don’t tell him.”

“I can’t. It’s the rules. What dies stays dead.”

Serth-Rog waved a clawed hand. “Not this one. He’s broken and useless. Throw another few thousand of him into the next cycle of rebirths. I like the idea of a world with more fanatics in it.”

The young man in the cassock nodded and took some notes on his tablet of light.

Serth-Rog looked at his faithful cleric one last time as the light faded from his eyes. “Know this, mortal,” Dhukak heard in the darkness. “Your faith was food to me, but now you are empty, and useless, and I need you no more.”

* * *

Dural Gont was glad when the Cold Skull stalkers finally cornered her. She’d haunted these ruins like a wraith, feeding on animals who came too close, afraid to go near the roads, lest word reach her former master of where his fallen talon had gotten to.

“Just get it over with,” she told her killers. She would fight, of course, but she would lose, and good riddance to this. She’d dreamt of glory in her god’s service, not hiding from others’ knives.

“She does not know,” one of the shifting-faced killers said.

“The guild master is dead, sister.”

“As is the brutalist.”

“And the unstaunched matron. The gods did not favor them.”

Dural Gont frowned. It had been a month since she’d kept up with the constantly shifting hierarchy of the guild, but that meant…

The three assassins she’d thought had come to kill her knelt before her instead, setting their blades on the floor in front of them. “The law of the guild is clear, sister. Lead us to blood and victory. The Cold Skulls are yours to command.”

Dural Gont bared her teeth in a vicious grin. “Rise, then. Let us return to Wyrdtide and share this joyous news with our brothers and sisters. The work must continue.”

“The work will be done,” the three assassins replied in unison.

* * *

“Scoundrels and harlequins, let’s hear it for Sharper!” Leif said, leading the assembled thieves in a round of applause. “Come on, get up there, Sharper!”

I put a hand on Edgar’s shoulder and climbed up onto the table so everyone in the bar could see me.

“Now, you all know who Sharper is. He’s a good pickpocket and a fine killer, but he’s also a thiefly giver to the Union who treats his crew right, and that’s worth a good turn on a bad day, like as not,” Leif said.

“Heard he’s a good singer, too!” someone in the crowd said, and proceeded to scream like I had when I’d charged into the mass of zombies.

The thieves in the room had a good laugh at that.

“All right, settle down,” Leif said, waving his hands at the crowd, but we could all tell he was enjoying this. These moments of having us all together, laughing and joking and taking the piss, were everything Leif loved about the Union. The rest… well, someone had to put a roof over our heads. “I’ve talked it over with the esquires of the region, and I even mentioned it to certain people in Rowanheath who shall remain nameless tonight but who send us their greetings, and we all agreed it’s high time we recognize Sharper for what he is, the Upright Man of Sharper’s Pips!”

The room cheered.

Torm, Edgar, Mettius, and even Liv all beamed up at me. It’s one of my happiest memories.

I had no idea of the events I’d set in motion.

* * *

The high priest of Serth-Rog felt the faith points leave his body as he finished leading the chant that powered the summoning circle.

Dark energy crackled around the golden inlay, powering the runes in sequence, and thinned the boundaries of the Material Realm just enough for their god to push its way through from the other side. There was a creaking, like mine support struts giving way, and the image of Serth-Rog formed itself from the circle up in a flutter of beetles and grasshoppers flying, jumping, and seething upward.

Blood dripped from the high priest’s nose. He ignored it. “Blessed Administrator, bringer of the End, we welcome you to the Material Realm.”

The Aspect ignored him. It turned its chitinous head this way and that, locking its many eyes on the casket that held its heart, and three keys lying on the pulpit beside it. “You have not opened it?” Serth-Rog said, its voice a discordant moan of twisted pipes.

One of the high priest’s disciples collapsed, dead.

“We didn’t dare, Your Darkness.”

Serth-Rog surged forward with frightening speed, slithering and scraping along the ground. It seized the casket with four of its forelimbs, thrusting the key into the lock and twisting it like a spike into a skull.

An acolyte whimpered, clutching the side of her face.

Without hesitation, the high priest grabbed the young woman’s arm and cast Leech Health, draining her of her life force until she collapsed, a withered husk. The high priest looked up to see his god staring at him, its many eyes radiating approval. The thrumming of the insects that made up its wings rose and rose, making everyone in the room cry out and stagger.

Everyone but the high priest, who heard the sound as pleasant music.

His subordinates writhed on the floor, bleeding from their ears.

Serth-Rog inserted the second key, and they started shrieking in pain. Again, the high priest was untouched. Blessed. Better, he felt the waves of pain and confusion feeding his Renown and Infamy, just as his Faith fed the Aspect of murder.

Serth-Rog inserted the third key and turned it, and the fallen disciples, acolytes, and two bishops went still, stone dead.

The god reached into the now open casket carefully, crooning like a mother soothing her baby. It pulled out the oozing, beating black organ, and its chest opened like knit fingers unclasping to receive its missing heart.

The high priest shared in his master’s joy, the savage glee of reunion, and yes, its hunger for greater and greater sacrifices. He tasted the god’s fear that it would be found out, that Thanatos would come to take its heart away again.

The high priest’s eyes widened.

Serth-Rog looked at him and hissed. This was forbidden knowledge. The god of murder leaped and fell on him like an avalanche of biting things.

They bit him down to the bone.

They gorged and writhed in all he was.

Because the blood would never stop flowing. Never again. Never again. Never again.

* * *

I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling of Wendy’s bedroom, looking at the rafters in the early light of a Harrowick spring. Wendy was still asleep—a rare sight, since she usually woke before me. After six months of getting up at the crack of dawn, I was picking up her bad habits. Worse, I looked forward to our morning training.

I looked forward to everything we did together.

I was a man desperately in love.

A lot had changed since the two of us had raided the temple of Chen De. Mai Petraccas had returned home to the Storme Marshes, her wedding sword bound shut with the ripper tail I’d once given to a friend. My crew now counted seven members including Liv, who was more or less my permanent attaché from the Inquisition, and we’d pulled off some notorious heists in a variety of cities, as well as a few high-profile assassinations that didn’t seem to get talked about very often at all. I had over five hundred gold to my name—halfway to becoming a knight of Viridia in the next census—and I’d stockpiled two hundred gold for the crew fund, which I’d invested in various fronts with some advice from Gentleman Leif.

One of those investments was in Jabir’s Awful Eats. The Accipiter now had three food carts under the brand, and we were thinking of opening a restaurant—me being his main partner. He was the happiest man I knew. He was also an honorary member of the Harrowick Free Radicals, a loosely organized collective of Alchemy practitioners who policed each other while keeping prices low. The cost of a Health Regen potion had fallen from two gold to three silver, and while it was sad to see the easy money dry up, the new leader of the Radicals sometimes forwarded on a letter about the people who’d been saved by the greater availability of healthcare in Imperial cities and beyond. My connections in the restaurant business let me refinance the Double Jester and get Remy actual training in hospitality management. We looked at the books once a month, but he hardly needed it anymore, and with the right arrangements when it came to food and liquor purchases, he’d started to turn a profit.

Speaking of books, I wrote one. After what happened with the Skeleton Keys, I wrote a book called Overmind Functionality and the Roots of Immortal Conflict. It was mostly what I remembered of the software architecture and some frankly crazy conjecture by the developers after they’d had a few drinks, and let me tell you, that raised some eyebrows until I slapped a “This is a work of fiction” label on it. Most people thought it was amusing nonsense, but I happen to know a few of the more progressive priests keep a copy in their private collections. It wasn’t all blossoms and sunshine, because it wouldn’t be Harrowick without a bit of rain. The Empire was now truly on the war footing, and from what I’d heard, my old friend—or maybe acquaintance—had styled himself as Praetor of New Viridia, a despot under a prettier name. He seemed disinclined to relinquish the title, and skirmishes between Legion and Auxilia scouts and the peoples of Rowanheath and the Storme Marshes were now weekly occurrences. As more of the militia’s, Inquisition’s, and Legion’s resources were turned toward the war, dungeons surged and Wendy’s workload doubled or tripled. I was still grateful for the time we did have together.

All of this happened in a moment, for me, of course, because I wasn’t really here this time. Nothing is real. Everything matters. Osmark got in bed with Sizemore. Thanatos Prime hacked the Center for Near Earth Object Studies and found Astraea. Jeff finished designing the pods, but his tragedy was far from over. Within Viridian, I’d excluded Horace and Thanatos as the source of my present-day troubles, and the twins were too self-absorbed to play a game this long. I didn’t think Cernunnos would do something like this. He was too free, too fair, even after the damage the Vogthar war inflicted on him. As for Osiris, inasmuch as I knew him at all, he preferred outright victory to scheming.

That left Gaia and Aediculus, which was good, because I knew where to find them.

Someone rang the doorbell.

Wendy sat up, reaching for her sword. “What?”

“Someone’s at the door,” I said, letting my eyes take her in as she was one last time.

“Who in Sophia’s name is at our door at this hour?”

I leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll go find out.”

I already knew.

War had come to find me in Harrowick. War, and Heartbreak.

* * *

THE END

Viridian Gate Online: Sharper’s Coin

The Illusionist Book 4

More VGO Adventures…

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A Tech Genius. A Corrupt Politician. The world hangs in the balance.

October, 2042

In two weeks, the world will die, murdered by a nine-mile-wide, extinction-level asteroid.

And Robert Osmark—billionaire and savvy tech-genius—couldn’t be readier for the fiery apocalypse.

Unlike the shortsighted masses, he’s been diligently preparing for this day from the moment the asteroid first appeared. Through his relentless efforts, digital salvation now awaits anyone bold enough to take the leap and permanently transition into the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. And Robert Osmark will lead this new world he has created.

But even with every advantage skewed in his favor, Osmark faces powerful opposition. A rogue faction of global elites led by US Senator Sizemore isn’t content to merely survive the apocalypse. They have their sights set much higher, and are recruiting dangerous allies, undercutting Robert’s efforts at every turn, and hiring VGO’s most deadly assassins to get what they want. To win, Osmark will need to viciously crush all opposition before his plans turn to ash.

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Viridian Gate Online: Sharper’s Coin is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by D. J. Bodden and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

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About the Author

DJ Bodden is a writer and veteran Marine Corps pilot, currently working out of Geneva, Switzerland for a commodities firm. He read grown-up books at an inappropriate age, developed strong feelings about old videogames that have followed him throughout his life, and didn’t own a car until the age of 23, when he learned to drive and fly starting at the same time.

As a kid with a head full of other people’s stories, he decided he needed to gather a few of his own and joined the military. During the next thirteen years, he rode, rappelled out of, and flew planes and helicopters, got knocked out, cautioned, promoted, shot at, blew things up then rebuilt them, and met people from almost every walk of life imaginable.

He wrote his first book at the end of a combat deployment – producing a manuscript that still lives in a box somewhere – and spent the next few years trying to learn how to do it again the right way.

Now, with a few scars to show for it and his own stories tucked into his belt, he writes books for young-and-old adults who take their stories wide-scoped, high-staked, and a touch of “what if?”