PROLOGUE - A PURCHASE OF PILFERED PLUNDER

Four long steps from the alley entrance, deep within shrouding shadows, Bastrake Gerrinjed stewed. Across the wide street, an out-of-view sprite light lamp cast a pale white nimbus into the gathering mist. Unseasonable cold rains wet the cobbles while a warm breeze descended from the north. By morning, a dense fog would limit visibility to a stone’s throw, if that.

As visibility decreased, his agitation ramped.

Bad enough I’m back in this insufferable kingdom, smothered by their weak, foolish gods. Of course the weather refuses to cooperate. Chill winds, slashing rains. Now a burst like a warm fart, complete with hints of the fetid underbelly stinking up these streets.

Where are you, girl?

Like most on his block and the one across the street, the buildings rose three stories. A sliver of lighter gloom above told where the rooftops ended and the night sky lay claim. Among the myriad of quiet, city-night noises, a soft patter drifted down—sounded like a cat prowling the rooftops or forest rats on their way from one park to another the safest route they knew.

He’d be long departed before the fog settled, providing the Daughter-devotee arrived at the designated time. The window of opportunity was fast closing, as indicated by the two o’clock morning bells pealing through the dampening gloom.

Brong! Brong!

“Ashes, girl,” he muttered. “Don’t be a fookin’ roon and force me to hunt you down.” In their last meeting, face-to-face for the first time—or, well, close enough—he assessed her n-ergy shell through void-sight. He could pick her out of a crowd now. If he pursued, she’d not be able to hide. “My time’s as precious as your little seeds.”

Though I have time enough ahead of me. Centuries. But it needs... meaning.

Which is why I’m back in this forsaken Jinx kingdom. Tried to burn me once. They’ll give it another go given the chance. Fookin roons.

His fingertips brush the dimmed, two-sprite demon in his pant pocket. Though his fingertips were singed beyond feeling the burn of such caresses, he’d infolded the demon’s n-ergy, leaving it cool to the touch. Safe to carry in a palm and coerce into an unsuspecting target. Most important, unseen by anyone peering through void-sight.

Infolding did not affect its destructiveness, though, thank the ashes.

He contained a multitude of such demons spaced throughout his tall lanky frame, each ready for use. Split the demon’s n-ergy shell, and the resulting explosion caused enough distraction to afford an escape, if such was the intent. Or caused enough damage to muscle and bone to drop a large horse—or its human rider.

Demons of three and four sprites peppered his forearms, these infolded as well. Slashing those shells to release the sprites within splintered heavy, metal-braced doors or made holes in walls. But fook! The noise and stench!

Still, an unused weapon at hand was ready for later deployment.

He resisted creeping to the alley entrance for a look around.

Never poor planning to arrive early and assess matters, ensure a way away is available. No cause to risk matters exposing myself to a passing patrol without need. The tavern’s behind me, still full of patrons. All too simple to hide in plain sight.

His many decades taught that patience was as valuable a skill as coercing, containing, and infolding sprites and demons.

A quarter-hour remained before he’d retreat and call the night a loss. Wouldn’t be the first this expedition, the prizes he sought hard to obtain for multiple reasons. Especially now, with all the turmoil rippling through the city—though he’d enjoyed success with his highest-valued prizes, to his delight.

At first, the war between the Son’s Discipline and the Daughter’s Companionship left him hopeful—he might accomplish his objectives and disappear in the strife without anyone the wiser. The bodies he and A’shoul might leave in their wake chalked up to the ongoing violence. As quickly as the fighting erupted three weeks earlier, though, it ended, the Daughter’s zealots suddenly and inexplicably triumphant over both the Son and the instigating Father.

Too bad I don’t have time to look into this Daughter’s Defender that appeared out of nowhere.

Rumors said she wore the Daughter’s green and a thick patch of leaves sprouting from her back. He’d scoffed when he first heard. Green skin? Leaves growing out of her back? Nonsense! No community wanting to survive would forgo the help of a Lady of the Leaves. Especially not one so young as talk in the gambling halls and taverns suggested—still in her late teens. Rubbish!

The consistency of all that jabber, even in the small outlying communities where his recent acquisitions took place, grew too hard to ignore.

Only the most dire of circumstances would’ve brought a young Lady of the Leaves so far south. Fook! Even male Ghesh rarely ventured among these distant lands. Preferred their kingdoms in northern Dwightill—despite the ongoing threat from tainted sprites.

If the Daughter truly manipulated events to bring a teenaged Lady of the Leaves to serve as Her Defender in this hopeless situation... Maybe She deserves the level of devotion surging through these people. Ashes know Hurion meddled often enough without bothering to hide Its influence.

He grunted.

The Daughter and Her zealous followers would do well to take heed of what such meddling brought upon Hurion and Its devoted children. Our numbers are hardly a fraction of what they were, even decades after the purge.

Phantom fingers tapped his shoulder. He flinched then closed his eyes. Three breaths later his mind’s eye opened on the void.

The two sprites within the lamp across the street shimmered in the utter darkness, fully brightened blue-white intensities rippling within their shells. Additional pairs every half-block in either direction pin-pricked the gloom. Many more revealed the layout of streets and intersections. A cat prowled the alley behind the building across the street, tail flicking as it prepared to pounce on a smaller n-ergy shell—looked like a mouse—oblivious to the danger.

And all around, more shimmered in the consuming black. Mostly laying flat, likely people asleep. A few sat in chairs while a small number walked about in their homes and apartments, at street level and in the two stories above. Dogs, cats, birds, rats, and other moving critters speckled the void along with flames of various sizes—a hearth fire here, dimmed sprite lights casting faint illumination over there and there, more candles than he could count...

He shifted his focus north, where his protégée, A’shoul, waited four blocks away in a similar alley. The distance gave her time to void-walk to his position and alert him to the Daughter-devotee’s approach. Her forty-two sprite demon was nearly as strong as his. She needed a mere three-and-a-half breaths to open her mind to the void. From there, their abilities were evenly matched—not that she’d ever tested him, or him her.

Accidents in the void came easy and proved all too destructive. Her alerting taps to his shoulder, ever gentle, could’ve just as easily ruptured his n-ergy shell. The resulting explosive release of the sprites cohered into his demon would level buildings in all directions and set fire to everything flammable. The inferno might burn for days.

The approaching Daughter-devotee’s shell was two blocks distant. Had to be a devotee or adherent, as only they could obtain what he sought from Her garden. They’d not then entrust another to deliver the prize.

Or reap the reward.

The two-spriter pinched between fingertips, he withdrew it and the small pouch of emeralds requested as payment. A quick swipe with a finger opened the pouch. He dropped the dimmed, infolded demon inside then cinched the pouch shut. If the cohort checked her prize in the sprite light across the street, which she likely would given her actions thus far, she’d find naught but the six almond-sized green gems.

A small risk existed if she spilled her bounty into her palm, with the demon possibly falling to the frigid cobbles. He judged that she’d hurry off to somewhere private first, unwilling to risk tipping the emeralds to the ground in her excitement. No, she’d more likely keep the pouch tucked close than not. Where, if he decohered the demon, the resulting explosive release would splatter flesh and muscle and splinter bone.

Required outfolding first, of course—infolding preserved the demon’s shell, preventing decoherence. A safety measure discovered ages ago. With the demon’s two sprites bearing his imprint, though, he could track them through the void, outfold, and decohere in a single beat of his heart.

As her sandals scuffed closer, he straightened and smoothed his simple linen shirt before adjusting his pants, both with many pockets, some more obvious than others. A quartet of darts hung from loops on his belt. Another four from leather pockets at his breasts. On their tips, all wore a glaze of muscle ice, the locals’ effective paralytic.

He wore the standard dress of a middle-aged local here in the land of the Jinjers. To complete his disguise, he wore a Jinjer’s skin over his milky Kelpri flesh, blonde strands and green eyes. If word went out for the patrols to apprehend a bearded, balding, russet-haired, slightly overweight local on suspicious activities, a few moments’ effort would see him back to his original face and above reproach.

Skinning into and out of such disguises had kept the demon-possessed alive for centuries. Didn’t work while his demon was infolded, but that was a moment’s thought to remedy.

The scuffing closed and a petite form silhouetted by the sprite light lamp appeared in the alley entrance. She kept close to the edge and bent as though peering into the gloom.

“Na’am?” Her quiet, child-like voice carried. Her single query carried tension. She shifted, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation—more street savvy inside than her age and appearance suggested.

Before stepping from the shrouding darkness, Bastrake grumbled, “I am here.” Even his voice sounded local. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

She straightened. “Of course. I’ve given my fellows no cause to suspect me of nefarious dealings. Ever watchful, they are.”

Bastrake turned his snort to a slow exhalation. A lack of warning from his protégée suggested no authority crept down the cobbles as her shadow. Still, anyone watching in void-sight could remain blocks away, coordinating with the authorities through void-talk, directing them to their prey from a multitude of directions.

Hence his collection of two-, three-, and four-sprite demons. And brightening his dimmed sprites to full incandescence would temporarily ruin any void-sight observers as they tried to blink away the blinding brilliance.

The devotee asked, “Have you brought my precious payment?”

“Have you brought my precious prize?”

She hesitated then plucked a square of paper—based on the crinkle it made slipping free—from a fold beneath an arm.

He said, “I will approach to make the exchange. Do not be alarmed.” He scuffed his boots on the gravel littering the alley ground. A trio of steps brought him close enough to discern portions of the devotee’s features.

Gaunt, curls pulled back, jutting ears. Hunched shoulders beneath a flimsy half-cloak. White sandal straps circling up stick-thin calves—certainly she felt the chill.

Just a girl. Was she who I spoke with two days ago to make this happen?

She’d hid behind a thick row of tall, leafy plants along the edge of a field near a Daughter’s temple. A few quick words—time and place and payment. He’d worn his current skin then, so she knew she dealt with the same person now. Her voice matched the whispers that carried through the leaves.

Three easy breaths, and he opened his void-sight.

Her n-ergy shell shimmered, its edges smooth. Some shifting ripples, like a wind’s breath over a placid pond—hints of anxiety. More expected than not.

No signs of duplicity, and what he saw matched the devotee he’d met earlier.

Keeping his mind’s eye open, his normal vision blind to world around, he stepped an arm’s length away.

“Your reward.” He raised the pouch, cinched tight.

She extended the paper. “Six seeds, as requested.”

“Straight from the Daughter’s island? Daz’Kran?”

“I stood in the grass beneath the tree myself. Plucked the seeds from three different tears, as requested.” She exhaled through her nose.

Bastrake peered at her palm, within which the square lay. An adjustment in his void-sight, and the seeds shone as six blue-white sparkles against her shell’s shimmering orange.

Blue-white—the shimmer of potential. Planted right and tended with care, the Daughter’s precious tears would be Hurion’s. An entire ocean beyond Her influence.

He set his pouch in her palm before pinching a corner of the square and teasing the crinkling paper free.

Once his hand lifted with his prize, she tucked the pouch into the same place at her armpit where she’d produced the square. Throughout, her shimmer remained steady, the edges keeping their clarity. Confirmation she practiced no deception.

If she were cheating him, she displayed remarkable control over her emotions. Her youth argued against such mastery.

She believes in the health and purity of her seeds, whether or not she plucked them from the fruit herself. He nodded, more to himself as she likely couldn’t see him all that well with the thickening mist and deepening shadows. The emeralds are a small price to pay. And her life is hers to keep. No need to use the two-spriter.

He closed his mind’s eye as he pocketed the square, its edges creased sharp and tight.

“Not going to check if I’m cheating you?” he asked, allowing light amusement into his tone.

“If you’re bold enough to risk yourself for a prize you can’t claim in these lands, I’ll trust you’re smart enough not to cheat the Daughter. She’ll have your head on a pike before mid-day if I misjudged you. Mine, too.”

She gathered the edges of her cloak, skipped across the alley entrance, and disappeared into the gloom, continuing south.

Surprised by the speed of her departure, Bastrake grunted.

Nary a hint of her intent to leave. A level of caution worth admiration.

He turned and strode to the alley’s far end, where it opened to a wider space running behind the buildings, enough room for a medium-sized wagon to deliver supplies. Candles burned in windows on a second story, hinting at the way through the gloom. As he turned north, toward the cross street between his block and the next, a muffled bwoomf! crept from the alley entrance where he and the devotee exchanged their prizes.

He spun, boots grinding pebbles.

Despite being muffled by the surrounding buildings and thickening mist, he recognized the sound—a two-sprite demon decohering.

A’shoul! For your sake I hope you didn’t decohere my demon just to be petty.

Her hostility toward all things Daughter landed her in trouble more times than he could count. Since she was attuned to his imprint, finding and outfolding the demon wouldn’t have been a problem.

Holding his breath, he opened his void-sight and looked about.

His heart thumped.

Movement on three sides. Ten, twelve—no, fifteen shells, their shimmers an intensity brighter than those nearby. Three pairs approaching at street level, the rest ascending from the second stories of buildings at either end of the back alley. All far enough away not to draw notice if viewed in void-sight but near enough to close in and trap their quarry.

An effective strategy that caught most, if not all, of their targets.

He’d slipped such nets before and came to this exchange as prepared. He had noticed the collected shells on the second stories of those buildings at either end of the back alley. People remained awake this late into the night for a variety of reasons. Though others nearby stretched out on beds or large couches, their activity was common in no matter what city he visited.

The three pairs of shimmering shells rushing in his direction at street level, though...

Their brighter intensities gave away they’d been lurking. Waiting. Excited, now. Hurrying after their prey. After him.

The devotee’s departure probably triggered the closing of the trap. The exchange was plain. The men—seen in their shell’s’ height and broad shoulders—tightening the noose likely included members of the Daughter’s network working with the city’s authorities.

His prize was six seeds of Her precious, health-boosting and healing tears, after all.

Having observed the flurry of activity triggered by the devotee’s departure, A’shoul ruptured the two-spriter’s shell. With the demon tucked beneath her arm, there wouldn’t be much of her head left to identify. Quick, maybe painless for her. Messy for the authorities.

All right, this one’s legit.

Void-sight still open, steps measured to mask his awareness of the closing authorities, he strode toward the back of a building across and down the alley—the rear of a tavern. He moved with confidence, having practiced the way multiple times, counting his steps, ensuring a path clear of obstacles.

A pair of authorities at street level shifted direction toward the front of the tavern. Those to either side were still half a block away. The rest, arriving on the ground floor of their watch posts, would soon crowd the back alley. In the mists, they might catch sight of his ginger hair and beard as he passed beneath the sprite light—yellow-white and at half intensity—above the tavern’s rear entrance.

The only person who would get a good look at his face was the burly hall guard on his stool two paces inside.

Bastrake stopped and held the door for a pair of shimmering shells stumbling out, leaning on each other for support. Their breaths reeked of ale. Raised voices, boisterous laughter, and music shoved out as well, joined by the scents of spicy meats and baking bread, along with an accumulation of aromas less pleasant. He closed the door behind him. The hall ahead was clear, save for the guard on his stool off to the side.

As he walked to the large front room, busy with two, maybe three dozen shells, he glanced around again. Yes, the pair on the street aimed themselves for the tavern entrance. One hand of each rested on something at their hips—small bone-breakers, perhaps. The quartet starting at street level joined with the first of those on second-story posts as they entered the back alley. He expected one or two to hurry through alleys to bolster the pair guarding the tavern door. Which they did.

All normal, save for the lack of a horse-drawn wagon to spirit him away. It’d arrive soon enough.

He nodded at the guard as he passed, another sprite light at half intensity illuminating his friendly gesture. If the guard even noticed his face, bushy beard, or the colors of his clothes, such details would likely slip away in moments.

Two paces from the hall exit into the tavern’s front room proper, past the flight of steps leading up and swinging doors leading in, Bastrake outfolded then brightened all the sprites and demons within his shell.

Though he’d never witnessed the incandescence of his own demon, forty-five sprites strong, he’d experienced the painful brightening of fellow Keepers as strong, if not stronger. And A’shoul’s dimming and brightening as well.

Anyone following him through void-sight was now thoroughly blinded and would remain so for at least a quarter-hour after he dimmed. Enough time for him to infold again and mingle into the shifting throng. He’d appear as empty a container as the bulk of his fellows.

He had naught to fear from being plucked from the crowd. Hiding in plain sight.

Sidling up to the bar along the far wall, he dimmed his sprites again then infolded, including the six soft shimmers within the seeds—small as they were, a person peering through void-sight might spy them if they stood close enough. “Gwoon,” he muttered at the barkeep. A ten-kryket coin completed the exchange.

As he enjoyed his first sip, authorities tromped from the hall leading to the rear entrance. A pair of burly bearded Faslers entered through the front—their dark skins telling these likely worked for the Daughter. The hubbub died down, along with the string plucks, bell rings, drum thumps, and whistled hoots from the band. Like everyone else, he turned to face the sudden rush of authorities.

Tensions rose in the ensuing silence. Nine of the twelve authorities inside spread out. Two of the remaining three guided the last in a slow circuit of the front room. The last looked about with the blank gaze of someone peering through void-sight. Bastrake cocked his head at the trio as they passed before enjoying another swallow of his tart fruity drink. The liquid warmed a path down to his gullet. A Fasler standing by the front door scowled his way but made no threatening move.

Naught he can do, whatever his suspicions. Unless provoked, they have no cause to search me.

He smothered a chuckle with another swallow, mimicking the disdainful nonchalance of many around him. As predicted, when escorted around the room, the one with open void-sight saw nothing. In his current skin and clothing, his sprites infolded, Bastrake hid where he sat. Helped that skinning left no trace in void-sight, either.

The authorities huddled near the front entrance, arguing their next course of action in frantic whispers. He turned back to the bar, wooden mug raised. “Another, if you would, good sir.” By then, most everyone at the bar had resumed drinking and ordering more. The music resumed a pair of heartbeats later.

Another ten-kryket coin disappeared into the barkeep’s possession.

* * *

Bastrake passed the folded paper square to his protégée, A’shoul Harrel. “Six seeds from the fruit of the Daughter’s tear tree.” Closer to the docks than the tavern now, he’d outfolded the seeds’ n-ergy shells, exposing their blue-white sparkles to void-sight again.

They continued in silence for a block, with A’shoul likely opening and closing her void-sight. The half-past five morning bells rang out, echoing off buildings and reverberating from the cobbles. Pedestrian and wagon traffic picked up. The scents of baking bread and cooking meats mixed with the stench of horse droppings obscured from the city’s sanitation workers by the predicted gathering mists.

An odoriferous mess awaited the poor fools come mid-day.

They crossed the next intersection, Bastrake trusting his hearing to avoid walking in front of a wagon traveling at a reckless speed. A’shoul bounced the packet in her palm.

“Six a’sparkle with healthy potential. Worth the gems.” She slipped the square into the pouch hanging from her shoulder. Her simple dress matched what the locals wore, like his. A natural ginger, she wore no disguising skin, though she had plenty at the ready. She also carried several two-, three-, and four-sprite demons within her wrists and forearms, all infolded from prying, void-sight eyes, like those of her demon. “These complete our mission objectives. We can go home now.”

Bastrake hid his smile. Though born in Jinx Shore, this was her first time back in over five decades. Both had fled at the tail end of the devastating purge that wiped out the Children of Hurion, waiting until the last moment to preserve as much knowledge as possible. Neither escaped without scars, whether mental or physical. Or both.

Voice low, he muttered, “You are Crop Manager, my dear. You’re happy with our collection? We’ll not be returning for decades, if not longer.”

She grunted. “Decades is too soon.” She hawked and spat. “And yes. Our haul of seeds all look promising. They sparkle well enough.”

“So as long as we match soil and water, we’ll have our own trove of the Daughter’s precious coin crops?” Planting and crops were her domain, a talent bolstered by her possessing demon. Keeping himself and the rest of the shadows alive was his enhanced ability. Every possessed enjoyed such an enhancement of their prominent talent.

“There’s more than soil and water to get right,” she replied, her voice as low as his. No telling who might be listening, and until the morning wagon traffic picked up, their mutters remained their first line of defense.

Not that the authorities had any idea who they were.

She continued. “But yes. The Daughter’s coin crops will be ours, in time. As will all our other acquisitions.”

“In time.”

And as demon-possessed, the centuries stretched before them. Host to a demon forty-five sprites strong, he could expect his two-and-a-quarter centuries thus far to turn into triple that. Her as well, as long as they both remained diligent.

The pyre’s flames remained a constant threat.

With their multitude of sprites, until they returned home to their growing estate north of Trawvaugh, across the vast Pommonic, they faced suspicion, mistrust, and persecution. Jinx Shore was safer for demon-possessed than the surrounding kingdoms and territories, as the populace practiced sprite containment as a matter of course, but the flames of decoherence in the pyre hung like a blistering cloud.

At least the resulting decoherence would likely kill those lighting the fire. The eruption of any possessed’s shell was explosive. Put the sprite count at forty-five, entire city blocks would be outright destroyed and everything flammable set alight.

With the violent end of Hurion, the Jinx Shore society purged knowledge of possession, and the associated dangers, from its collective memory. They preferred to work with individual sprites to accomplish their societal goals, considering them as valuable as currency. Any demons encountered were, to them, entangled sprites and considered worthless until the entanglement came apart on its own, freeing the constituent sprites.

A’shoul asked, “Have you an update on when we’re set to sail?”

Bastrake grunted. “Another four days. Captain Waveridge sent word the departure will be delayed to await a passenger of note.”

“Passenger of note?”

“An associate of High Daughter Sha’Nedya. That’s all he’d say. Seems this passenger of note has already paid in full—and then some.”

“Fook.” His protégée grunted again. “Some high-up muckity-muck of the Companionship, no doubt. A pampered Jinjer princess.” Disgust colored her tone.

“Well, that’ll be for you to learn over the next three days.” He raised a hand at her sharp inhalation, audible over the horse-hoof clops and rattle of a passing wagon. “I know, you wanted rest. I do too. But I’ll be collecting information along with you. We can rest once we’re a’sea.”

More than enough time then for us to catch our breath. Over eight weeks of days we’ll never get back.

At least I can stay in touch with the home estate through void-talk.

His daily updates assured him all remained well. He and his fellow Keepers weren’t quite as established as he would like. His haul of valuable seeds would see them into profitability. Fellow Keepers of Hurion at the plantation on Savage Reef, their ocean transport’s first port of call, had traveled about as well, making additional deals to assure their success.

In time.

“Maybe your captain friend of the lead wave-slipper can shed some light,” A’shoul said as another wagon clattered past, overtaking a rickety two-wheeled cart, the mule in the hitches content to plod along. The old Jinjer hunched on the driver’s bench pretended not to hear the wagon driver’s shouted curses.

“I intend that to be my first stop.”

“I suppose you want me in amongst the Daughter’s haunts?”

“You can be at Daz’Drim by the four o’clock mid-day bells.”

After many steps, she sighed. “I never did get the full story about what happened at Her precious temple. Only that High Daughter now controls the Father’s and Son’s temples.”

“Now’s your chance.” He patted her shoulder. “Take what funds you need. Indulge yourself. Last chance for a while.”

She snorted.

“While you’re poking around, learn what you can about this Daughter’s Defender I’ve been hearing about in the markets and taverns. I suspect she’s the central character involved around all the temple strife clogging the streets.”

A’shoul cocked an eyebrow his way. “You mean the Lady of the Leaves?”

As they paused at the next intersection, listening for approaching wagons on the cross-street, he scoffed. “No community in their right mind would let go a Lady of the Leaves. Especially one rumored to be so young.”

“Everything I’ve heard says so.” She giggled. “Care to wager? I bet this Daughter’s Defender is exactly as they city folk describe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A Lady of the Leaves down here? When was the last time you’ve seen a greenskin down here, much less a female? There’s a reason we don’t use Ghesh skins in these lands. So few folk with that color of hide, we’d stand out.” Which is the exact opposite of a skin’s purpose.

“So it’s a wager, then?” She chuckled. “We’ll set stakes when I rouse from my nap. Before you sneak off and see this Defender for yourself. If she’s even here in the city.”

They remained at the intersection’s edge, frowning into the mists. The buildings all around bounced sounds in too many directions. A passing wagon, chains rattling, horse hooves clopping, added to the din.

When silence returned—if only for the moment—he grabbed her upper arm and hurried them across the mist-slicked, packed-dirt street. Ahead, sounds of the docks—shouts, bells clanging, wagons trundling over pier planks—floated through the damp, clinging fog. Street-side sprite light lamps cast blue-white, fuzzy-edged illumination.

Their hotel, an aged, three-story brick building, lay past the next intersection.

He grumbled, “You can sleep on the half-day boat ride up the Inholli.”

“Oh. Of course,” she replied with false cheer. “The river boats are notorious for their comfort.”

“Make do. As you always have.”

“May I play with a Daughter? A nice young devotee, perhaps? Or maybe an adherent just risen to the rank. She’ll be so... giddy at her new standing, the realization she’ll be standing before the Daughter all too soon, after terrific pain...” Her breath hitched.

He sighed. “Don’t get caught.”

“I haven’t so far.”

And you’ll have your diversion demons at the ready. He sighed again. “Make sure you clean away any blood you get on yourself. I doubt we have the sway with Captain Waveridge or the freighter’s crew we think we have, despite the coins we’ve dropped. We’ll find no ally on board if the authorities are breathing down our backs.”

“I’ll pick one with plenty of folds to wipe my blades clean before I leave. And I’ll make sure I alone enjoy her whimpers and pleas for mercy.”

“Fine. Just... be mindful.” He considered finding a diversion for himself then rejected the idea. No sense in both of them looking over their shoulders in the few hours left before their freighter, the Chasing the Horizon, set sail across the Western Pommonic with her escort of wave-slippers. “We’re come too far to let a little play ruin us now. I fear we as a society have not the time to recover.”

A’shoul snickered. “We may not have the time but we’ll have the seeds.”

He clenched his jaw as they crossed the final intersection. Yes, we may have the seeds, but like everything else these days, earning from those will take time. And if we’re not careful, all that time ahead of us?

Meaningless.

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