I wake up in a pile on a couch.

  Someone’s prodding me. I crack an eye, and it’s Weekes. “Hey. It’s time to get up. The necklace won’t let us stay here much longer.”

  I yawn and stretch. My throat’s bone dry. I’m jittery – I must’ve been sleeping for a long while. “Why? Does your patron daddy live here?”

  “No,” he says. “He… says I shouldn’t spend so much time in here. And to go out more.”

  Lovely. It’s got parental controls. I push myself up. The bottle of dwarven whiskey still sits on the table. I pick it up. It’s empty. “Have you got more of this?”

  His rabbit ears droop. “Uh, no. At least, not right now.” He pauses. “You drank most of it yourself.”

  I find my mail coat on the floor, rummaging in the chest pocket. I pull out one of my flasks, taking a drink. “Well, you’re so very kind for sharing.”

  I blink out the blurriness. I find Arriel. She’s kneeling in the corner, holding her amulet. Her eyes are closed, and she’s sitting in front of a small statuette on the floor. It’s a person with a sun symbol etched on its chest, wearing a draping robe. She looks oddly peaceful. There’s a strand of blonde hair falling out of her braid, draping just so over her soft jaw.

  Weekes points to another corner. Some curtains are drawn across. “There’s a bath over there. Just touch the faucet to fill it.”

  I can’t remember my last bath that wasn’t a river, a suspect bathhouse, or a tepid basin from an inn. I spend a while in there, soaking and humming. My nondetection spell from yesterday is nearly wearing off. I sing and hold a long note, touching my forehead. I brush along the sixth ley line, like strumming a chord. The spark of magic channels through me. A familiar sensation closes around my mind, like a tight hug.

  I don’t remember a thing about last night – certainly not after talking about that godsforsaken island. My ankle itches something fierce, and I scratch it raw. I take another drink. Arriel and Weekes seem set on helping. I should take advantage of it.

  I dry off with a plush towel, stepping back out to my couch. Arriel’s putting on her armor. She makes a disgusted noise, turning away. She does another double-take. “Could you please be decent?”

  Weekes only blinks, busying himself cleaning up dishes. I scrounge for cleaner clothes. “We’re all friends here.”

  I’ve got pants on when the room suddenly vanishes.

  I careen to the ground, landing in a heap on the road. Weekes groans, face down in the dirt. Arriel is on her ass, armor plates scattered about.

  I cough out a laugh, rolling over. Weekes snorts, then joins me. Arriel scowls.

  “Alright,” I say, sitting up. “Give me that necklace. There’s gotta be some way around that.”

  Weekes hands it to me. I take it, squinting at it. The tiny lamp is absolutely humming with magic and powerful stuff at that. I was never any good with planar magic. I might be able to tamper with it, but when playing around with demiplanes, there’s a chance of getting caught in one.

  I sling it back at him. “No, he’s got that locked down.”

  “We’ll have to keep a better eye on the time, then,” Arriel says. There’s some pointedness behind it, directed at me.

  We scrape our things back together where they’ve been exploded all over the road. I get dirt and dust off me, shrugging on my mail and swords. So much for my bath. I retrieve my mandolin and sling it on, plucking it. Not a peg out of place.

  “What’s our plan?” Arriel asks, now armored up.

  She’s being less tedious this morning. I wish I didn’t have to spill my guts out to get some relief.

  “Come here.” I beckon her over. She’s got a twig in her hair. I flick it away. I snap my fingers. A small, pink, heart-shaped token appears in my hand. I offer it to her. “We can’t have you clanking around looking anything less than perfect.”

  “I… thanks?”

  I give her my most charming smile. “It’s the furthest thing from trouble.”

  She only blinks, not taking it. “What – what’s our plan?”

  I snap my fingers again. It vanishes into a pocket. “I’ve gotta do something, and it’s best done before we head anywhere. Hopefully, it’ll get things moving. I’ll need your help.”

  She quirks a brow. “What is it?”

  “Do you need my help?” Weekes asks, big eyes wet and eager.

  I pat him on the cheek. “Stay right here and keep an eye out. It’ll be ten minutes, tops.”

  I step off the road and into the woods. After a pause, Arriel clanks along behind me.

  I walk and swig from my flask. It’s nearly empty – I’ll need to find civilization before my other one runs out. Things start buzzing again. It numbs the tearing feeling in my chest at the thought of what I’m doing here.

  “What do you need to do?” Arriel asks.

  “I’ve gotta have a chat,” I say. “I can’t hear or see a damn thing while I do it, though.” I nod over my shoulder toward the road. Weekes is too nice a kid for what he’s got himself into. “And I don’t want him seeing this.” To be fair, I don’t want her seeing this, either. But I don’t have a choice.

  “You’re going to talk with this Irminric?”

  I stop, turning to her. “I’m gonna piss him off.”

  She only nods, something grim in her face. She gives my arm a squeeze.

  I find a big rock. I plop down against it, pulling my mandolin around. My stomach’s churning. Maybe I should forget about this whole plan. Once I do this, there’s no going back. I breathe, ignoring Arriel watching me. I slam down another mouthful of my flask. It quells the shaking.

  I strum a few chords, humming a bit. I cycle through a few quick songs to warm up. I hit the end of the incantation and latch onto a ley line. Magical energy pulses through me. Pink flashes in front of my vision. I’m sucked into blackness. And then I’m somewhere horribly familiar.

  It’s mid-morning in the long hall on Jor. It’s a tall building by the standards of the Byrian Isles, supported by thick wood columns. The hall is shaped like a T, with hallways branching down either end. Long, rustic tables run the length of it, and fires crackle in pits. At the end is a high table and chairs running perpendicular. Tall windows offer a rocky cliff, the black ocean stretching before it. Faded and fraying tapestries hang along the walls, showing old heroes and warlords – Goran the Axe, Eline, and Thorhild fighting the Titan, one of the few contributions the Byrian Isles ever made to the arts.

  It’s hell if I’ve ever known it.

  There's a gutting feeling in my stomach, like when the nightmares come back. But it’s as real as ever. Raiders are still finishing breakfast, talking loudly and laughing. A couple people are meekly weaving through the tables, cleaning up and bringing more food. They’ve got a familiar dead-behind-the-eyes look. The way I looked. The way I still look. The kind of look that never really goes away.

  I step further into the hall, down the main path between tables. I don’t see Catherine or Torm. After a moment, the voices hush. Raiders stop to stare. The slaves gape, then skitter back around the pillars to watch.

  “Walstad!” I belt.

  At the high table, next to the empty center chair, sits a hulking older man. Erson Walstad is the second-in-command on Jor. He’s half-elven, most of his hair gone. His long, grizzled beard is braided, and he’s wearing Vasterholmian leather-and-chain armor with baggy pants around his ample waist, his calves wrapped in knot-patterned wool. He’s got a great, barreled chest and a gut that meets a wall before anything else. He glances up from his conversation.

  He stands and draws the shortsword from his belt. The sound splits the air. He grunts. “I’ll be damned. I owe Torm some money. I said it’ll be a cold day in hell when Seven Oaks comes back in one piece.”

  I smile. “Well, here we are. I hope you brought something warm.”

  His creased eyes flick behind me. There’s a grunt. A raider careens onto the floor, going right through the illusion. His axe goes flying. More murmurs go around the hall.

  “That’s embarrassing,” I say. I turn back to Erson. “Is our dear friend Ricky around? I’d sure love talking to him. Although if he’s extirpating the washroom again, you can let him finish.”

  He points to a slave nearby. “Go get the Warchief.”

  The slave skitters off, not meeting his eye. Behind me, a raider dashes out the tall double doors, presumably to go grab anyone in earshot of the hall. All the better.

  Erson steps around the high table, approaching me. He gets close, glancing me up and down. I’m lucky some senses don’t transfer through the spell. But I can smell the ale and musty wood all the same. “You have nerve coming back here. That, or you’re as stupid as you ever were.”

  “That's unkind of you, and not like your usual self,” I say. “I thought we were friends.”

  He lowers his gruff voice. “You’re gonna need one with what he’s got planned for you.”

  My stomach drops. I can’t end the spell yet. I keep it together. And then I hear lumbering footsteps from the other end of the hall. My chest shrivels.

  Coming around the corner is a massive black dragonkin. He’s wearing a leather tunic with a braided band around his brow where spikes and horns sprout. He’s got massive clawed hands, fisted tightly as he walks. A spiked tail swishes behind him. There’s death in his face.

  Deep inside me, the black, churning waters begin to roil and crash.

  I clasp my hands. I need to get out of here. He shoves Erson aside, snarling. His nostrils flare as he looks me over. His deep, rumbling voice splits through my head, nearly snapping my resolve like a twig. “You came home.”

  “I told you I would. I couldn’t stand another morning not seeing your lovely face,” I say. I’m dying inside. I can’t stay here. Something touches me. If it's not Arriel, she'll have to deal with it. “It’s been quiet around here, I’m sure.”

  Irminric steps closer, hulking over me. He’s got almost a foot on me and is rippling with muscle. Even his biceps have biceps. He’s the Warchief of the Byrian Isles for a reason. He lowers his voice to a growl. “It won’t be when I find you.”

  “I’ll make it easy for you, then,” I say. My legs are weak. It’s a good thing I’m not really standing. “I’m poking around the southern edge of Rheda. Come and collect me whenever you’re feeling it.”

  He pauses, his black, scaled face scrunching. He smells a trap. But he’s gotta save face in front of his raiders and jarls. They know I got away, and in the most spectacular fashion.

  “Aside from that, I’m not sure what the issue is,” I continue. “You seemed happy and agreeable to letting me go, last we spoke. We really seemed like the best of friends.”

  The hall stays dead silent. Nobody dares laugh. “You think magic will save you?” he says.

  “It has, at least once.”

  Another dragonkin appears, leaning against the wall in the corner. She’s red-scaled and wearing a robe patterned with knots. She’s got a great book on a sling across her shoulder. He must’ve got himself a wizard.

  Irminric growls. “I don’t know where you got magic, but I should’ve taken your pieces and parts when I had the chance. I won't make that mistake again.”

  Something touches me again. I cock my head at him. “You don’t know? Did you think I was just a scop? That’s one of the harms in treating people like property. You think they won’t fight back when you hand them a loaded weapon.” I gesture to the mandolin on my back.

  He growls, yellowed fangs poking out. His rumbling voice echoes around the hall. For a moment, his dragon blood flares. I fight the urge to step back. “More words. I won’t waste death on you. I’ll enjoy waking to the sound of you begging every day for the rest of my days.”

  “It’d not be the first time I’ve covered the sound of you ripping ass in the washroom.”

  A snorting laugh trickles through the raiders now crowding the hall. It’s infectious, spreading. Then comes the sound of fighting. Someone draws a sword. Others shout them down. A vein pulses in his black, scaled neck.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Something’s still touching me. Back in my body, I shake it off. I smile. I turn and look around the hall, sweeping my arms out. “This has been lovely. I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your morning ritual. Why don’t you prop your boots up and send your best to come find me?” I turn to the crowd of raiders. “Did you know he’s offering 20,000 gold for me? I’d bet he’s got three times that much in his vault. Dragon’s blood, and all. It’s time to ask for a raise.” They pause, looking at each other. “Also… we all knew he’s fucking Catherine, right?” I gesture back at him with a thumb. There’s some more laughs. Someone nods. “That’s how she got to be Warlord over there. It’s got me wondering about Torm.”

  Someone else guffaws. More laughter rumbles. I catch a glimpse of a slave peeking from around a pillar - a gnome. She’s smiling.

  I turn back to Irminric. Every ample muscle on him is tensed. He spits at the floor in front of me. It sizzles, beginning to form a hole in the wood. My stomach sours. “You’ve gotta learn to laugh at yourself,” I say. “Everyone else certainly is. And I’m gonna absolutely glaze myself thinking about it tonight. Maybe I’ll even let your scryer have a peek.”

  I glance at the red dragonkin and then turn back. I pass him a wink. Then, like sand through my fingers, I release the spell.

  The pink flashes away from my vision. The forest comes back into view, sunlight and the rustling of birds seeping in. I’m not sure how much time has passed. I’m not sure of anything aside from the fact that the forest is spinning. I’m soaked in sweat. I’m shaking. My head’s roaring with the droning sound of waves crashing against rock. It’s roiling, brimming upward.

  “Chouncey?” It’s Arriel. She’s got a hand on my shoulder, jostling me. She looks terrified. Or maybe it’s me. “Chouncey!”

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap, pushing her away. I tug out my flask, draining the rest of it. I’m unbearably thirsty.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. She’s kneeling next to me.

  “I’m fine,” I throw back. I have to go somewhere – anywhere – but I’m rooted. I can’t stand up. I can still smell the musty wood, ale, and sweat of the long hall. I’ve made an unprecedented mistake. He’s gonna find me and string me by my insides in front of the Isles. I should’ve just made peace with dying in a ditch somewhere.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just give me some godsforsaken quiet,” I snap. I’m gonna scream.

  She backs away, standing. I don’t care what she’s thinking right now. She’s done nothing but pester me since we met. But as soon as she’s gone from next to me, I regret it.

  She waves her hand downward. Magic channels. “Dawn Lord, bestow silence.”

  All sound vanishes. I’m in a bubble of absolute quiet, the forest only a picture around me. I can’t hear anything, not even when I pluck a chord on my mandolin.

  She gives a short nod, holding up five fingers. Then, she turns and walks several feet away and kneels on the ground, her back to me. She takes out her amulet, clasping it in her hands.

  Something deep and dark emerges inside. It’s like cracking the moment my foot hit mainland. I had nothing but my mandolin, clothes, and stolen mail and swords. I was free. I still am, but I’ll never be. I’ll not get that time back, and at the end of it, Irminric will still kill me. Clerics like saying that suffering has a purpose, that it makes you better, more righteous. It doesn’t. It's all pointless. There’s no lesson to be learned, no virtue to be gained. You just end up face-down in a ditch by your own hand, and all your talent and potential and dreams of being someone worth remembering just drowns at the bottom of a bottle.

  I sob and scream until I taste metal, all of it eaten by the silence. After a bit, I slap myself back together, breaking into my second flask. The cool burn tears at my throat. The forest is reeling, and my face is numb by the time sound comes back.

  “…and please guide him to everlasting light,” Arriel murmurs. She turns, tucking away her amulet. She stands and comes over. She offers a hand.

  Her face is soft with emotion. I take her hand, and she pulls me upright. She steadies me. “How long were you there?” she asks.

  She’s not referring to the chat I just had. “About five years.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says breathily.

  “I’m sure you are,” I say, brushing past her. I don’t need a cleric’s pity on top of all this.

  We return to Weekes, who’s sitting on a log beside the road, playing cards with himself. He quickly tucks them away, loping to his feet.

  “That’s all set. Irminric will be coming along shortly,” I say. I start heading south.

  Arriel clanks up beside me. “Where are we going now?”

  “Takazaki,” I say. “Raiding season’s about to start. They’ll be crawling along the southern coast. I could get us there quick, but we’re a better target if we’re on a ship.”

  Weekes trots alongside us, all legs and lank. “Neat. I love sailing.”

  “That makes one of us,” I say.

  “And what’s the plan when we find them?” Arriel asks.

  I shrug. “That's a problem for another time.”

  It takes the better part of a day to get to Takazaki – luckily, without issue. It’s a much smaller port than Port Nakanai across the bay, but it’s a port nonetheless. It’s surrounded by wooden palisades, and the gate has a few guards in front of it. We stop just out of sight.

  I turn to Weekes and Arriel. “Alright. We’ve gotta get passage booked for first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m sensing a but,” she says.

  I gesture with my flask. “It’s not my first time here. Let’s just say, the less I’m seen, the better. Unrelated to that whole bounty.”

  “How are we getting in, then?” Weekes asks.

  “And how are you going to convince a ship to take us south during raiding season?” Arriel asks.

  This is the problem with bands – too many questions. “I’ll be staying out of sight. Luckily, we’ve got Cheeks here to do the talking in my stead,” I say, clapping a hand on Weekes’ shoulder. He brightens, standing a little straighter.

  She glares at me. “Don’t encourage him.”

  “No, I can do it,” Weekes says. “I’ll get us booked.”

  “With what money?” she asks.

  I gesture at her. “You’re the noblewoman here.”

  She gives me a long look, then pulls out a purse. She counts out some coins and passes them to Weekes. I catch a glimpse of platinum.

  “I can, however, get us a free room for the night,” I say. We’ll need a room so we don't leave Weekes’ necklace in the middle of the road again.

  “If you’re in trouble with the guard, you shouldn’t be playing shows,” Arriel chides.

  “Well, some of us have gotta work for a living.”

  She starts to say something, then stops, sighing.

  I bring my mandolin around, strumming three chords. It gives a pulse of swirling, pink magic. When I glance down, I’m invisible.

  “Alright,” I say. “I’ve got a half hour.”

  “Oh! I can do that, too,” Weekes says. He waves a paw-hand down over himself. “Conceal.” He vanishes with a swirl of gray wind.

  “Lovely,” I murmur, right next to Arriel’s shoulder. “I’ll be at hand while you get us in there. You’ve got nothing to worry –”

  Her hand cracks my cheek.

  “Shit. You virulent tribadist,” I hiss, clinging to the magic. “You’re gonna make me lose the spell.”

  A barking laugh comes from her other shoulder. She swats. Weekes suddenly appears, clutching his nose. “Ow.”

  I laugh. Arriel starts clanking toward the gate, steaming. Weekes bounds after her. “Conceal–”

  I stick a foot out, and he sprawls in the dirt.

  “Come on,” she says flatly.

  Arriel easily gets us through the gate, the guards having no qualms with a cleric traveling on her own. They don’t even question her. What a world she lives in. Her raucous armor covers any noise we might be making. Once inside, Weekes drops his spell, and we head to the quays. I pick out a decent-looking ship, and Arriel spies the captain. I push Weekes toward him. A few minutes pass while they talk.

  “Please, my sister’s having a baby - no later than next week, she said. Her husband died two years ago, so I have to be here… No, the kid is from a different father. I’ll pay double your normal amount if we leave first thing in the morning… her? She’s the midwife.”

  “Sweet fucking hells, he learns fast,” I whisper.

  “Iros, help me,” Arriel mutters.

  Weekes finally comes back, handing the rest of the coin back to her. “We’re all set.”

  “What happens when we show up with an extra – never mind.” She pockets it.

  “Let’s go get a drink and settle in for the night, then,” I say. It’s nearing late afternoon.

  I bring us to a suitable inn near the harbor. Since Weekes' necklace is left wherever we enter, we should count on some orphan running off with it. I drop my spell as we enter the open sliding door. I’m out of sight of the guards for now, and it’s probably safe. I head to the bar, Arriel and Weekes following. The innkeeper watches us approach. He’s a birdfolk, looking like a sparrow. I give a nod in greeting.

  “What a lovely evening. I hope you’re enjoying it,” I say. I lean against the bar. I clap my two flasks on it. “A bit of whiskey, please.”

  “I’ll take a shot, too,” Weekes says. He sits on a stool next to me.

  “And one for the missus,” I say. Arriel looks at me sidelong. I turn back to the innkeeper, who comes back with drinks. “Are you looking for any entertainment tonight? I happen to have a great deal of skill with an instrument and a crowd. How about in exchange for a room? We’ll just need the one. This here’s my lovely wife and son.”

  Arriel coughs up her drink. Weekes claps her on the back. The birdfolk looks between me, her, and Weekes. Then, he looks me over. “Are you licensed?”

  Fuck me. I press my lips together. “Wouldn’t you know, I’m waiting on my new card. I’m sure the one time won’t be an issue.”

  “It has before. I got dinged last month for having an unlicensed player. I didn’t even know about it.”

  “I’d not dream of bringing further trouble to your establishment, then. We’re happy paying our way if you’ve got anything available.”

  “I have one with two beds,” he squawks. “One silver.”

  “Perfect,” I say, grabbing my flasks and tucking them away. “Angel, would you get us paid up? Cheeks and I are gonna head across the street.”

  She carves a smile into her cheeks. “Of course, dear. I have to contact a friend. I’ll come find you in a moment.”

  I clap Weekes on the shoulder, draping an arm around him. We head outside, where there’s a casino by the barest possible meaning of the term. It’s a balmy day out, especially now we’re in the bay. We find a low game table outdoors. It’s inside a tall, fenced-in area dotted with cherry trees and shrubs. It’s not busy yet, the sun still in the sky.

  Weekes takes up a deck of cards and shuffles. He deals us both.

  “So,” I say. “Is it just you and your patron daddy? Or have you got siblings? Have you got a special lady or lad friend? Or otherwise?”

  “Oh. No. And I’m, uh… straight.” His ears turn a bit pink on the inside.

  I glance over my shoulder. A few other people are sitting at low tables, playing and drinking. “And have you done it?”

  “Done what?”

  “It. You know, the in-and-out. Gone halvsies on a bastard. Fucked someone. Have you had sex?”

  His ears wilt a little. “No.”

  I guffaw. “And you’ve got a private room around your neck? I’d be sopping wet if you offered me a night in there. We’ve gotta find you the right lady. We’ll work on it.” I glance over my shoulder again, lowering my voice. I put down a card, flipping it face-up. “Now let me show you something.”

  Arriel finds us half an hour later, looking freshly washed. She’s not wearing her armor anymore, just a tunic and breeches in the Carthesian style, well-tailored. She's got a different pair of boots. She’s sipping a mug of cheap wine and sits at a low table near us, not partaking of the cards. By now, a couple more people have joined. We’re playing twenty-one, and Weekes has set himself up as dealer. We’ve been doing well so far, bringing in a few silver. I’m running low on coin again.

  He deals. I’ve got a two and a three. Two chairs down is a king and a five. It’s owned by a lizardfolk whose tongue darts out as he looks at his hand. I catch Weekes’ eye and nod. He knocks over his empty cup, causing everyone to jump. He grabs at it. It goes flying off the table.

  I put a hand over my cards, straightening them. I sleight a finger. Translucent pink magic seeps over the cards. It becomes an ace and a seven. I shift, checking the angle. It’s perfect. I take a swig of my flask, glancing over to make sure Weekes is alright.

  I bring in two silver and pocket them.

  Arriel straightens, her attention suddenly seeming elsewhere. Her fair brows pull together. She shifts into the corner of the fenced-in area. Her quiet voice drifts over.

  “I know they’re… nice, but please don’t trust any erinyes. Please don’t sign any contracts, either. I’m glad you’re alright. Miss you. Another message incoming.” She pauses, grabbing her amulet. Gold flashes in her hand, flickering with her voice, and she continues. “I found him. I’m okay. We’re headed to southern Rheda in the morning. It’s frustrating, but I’m managing. Can’t wait to be home. Love you.”

  The lizardfolk hisses in frustration and starts gathering up cards to pass to Weekes. Before I can grab mine, he swipes them into his pile. The illusion flashes before I can drop it.

  His black eyes fall on me.

  “Cheater,” he hisses, standing. His voice is reedy and reptilian. “If you can’t play fair, you didn’t earn it.”

  "What, me?" I stand, too, putting my hands up. “You think I’ve got that kind of magic? I mean, I’m flattered, but –”

  More of the table stands. Others start peering over.

  “Friends, let’s keep playing,” Weekes says. He’s barely heard over the noise. Guards glance over. They’ve got padded clubs on them.

  “Have you been cheating this whole time?” an elf says.

  “This is a respectable place,” someone else says.

  “Well, that’s where we’ll disagree–”

  Arriel appears, stepping between me and the rest. “Hey. There’s no need to get violent here. Chouncey, just give them the coin back.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I say. I scratch underneath my eye. My mandolin hums on my back. I mentally palm a ley line. “Why don’t you all go have a drink instead? I’m really not worth the trouble.”

  Pink briefly flashes across their eyes. Some of the group stops. They grumble, shuffling toward the door to the bar.

  Arriel slowly turns to me, her eyes murderous.

  The lizardfolk blinks, shaking his head. He turns to me, too. Three of his friends stay with him. “Magic. A cheater and a liar.”

  He steps forward. It’s time for us to go. Arriel blocks him. “Let’s calm down –”

  The lizardfolk smacks her in the face.

  Faster than I’ve ever reacted to anything, even an oiled-up, naked someone ready and eager with a bottle of whiskey, I snap. I clobber the lizardfolk in his scaled jaw. He cracks against the ground. He crumples, staying there. They pause. Another one swings at me. I duck. A fist cracks into me. Another lands in my stomach. I grunt. People are shouting. Guards crowd over. I grab a stool. I thwack it across the elf’s face. Spittle flies. I brandish it at the others.

  Then, a dwarf’s head explodes.

  A crackling arrow sails through her, misting the table. The lizardfolk and his friends shriek, flying for cover. I whirl around. Weekes is gone. I spot him on top of a pointed wooden building, his longbow out.

  “Oh my gods,” Arriel mutters. She’s got her mace in hand.

  “Sorry!” Weekes calls. “Was that too much?”

  “Sweet fucking hells, you killed her!” I say, pointing at the seeping body on the ground. “I’m not gonna hang for that!” I chuck the stool aside. There’s more commotion coming from inside the casino. City guards start pouring in. “Oh, fuck me.”

  I bring my mandolin around, picking between the two tall fences. I hash a few chords, slapping a translucent pink square on the wood. It opens a hole, revealing an alley. I turn and pluck three harmonic tones. On the rooftops, translucent pink forms into an image of Weekes tearing across the roof and jumping to another one. Inside the illusion, the real Weekes vanishes in a puff of wind.

  “He’s up there!” I shout and point.

  Everyone turns. I shove Arriel through the hole in the fence and follow. It closes behind us.

  We tear down the alleyway. The alarm’s going up - more guards are bolting past on the main road ahead. I’m gonna feed Weekes his tail.

  “Where are we going?” she demands.

  “We gotta get to Cheeks, and we can hide in the necklace. Or, I’ll just teleport us south.”

  “You can teleport?”

  “You’ve really got a habit of underestimating –”

  “Wait.” She grabs me, stopping. “He went the other way.”

  “He got out of there.”

  “How do you –”

  “Look, I don’t see you making plans, so you’d best take the one being presented to you.”

  Splinters explode behind us. Guards blast through the wood fence. They whirl, pointing at us. I hustle down the alleyway again. She follows.

  We find the main road, dashing across to a side street. Shouts come behind us, and more guards follow. I turn left. It’s a dead end. I whirl, plucking a few more harmonic tones. I glance back and grab a translucent pink image of the alleyway, shaping it in front of us. I push Arriel back and shuffle against the wall, waiting quietly. Guards fly by, clanking and shouting. I breathe. We might be in the clear. One stops, peering toward us. Her brows knit together. She steps closer.

  “Hey!” she turns and calls to the other guards. “Over here!”

  “Fuck me,” I breathe. I turn left and open another hole in the wall. We dash through. I close the hole behind us.

  It’s a bathhouse. We sprint, naked people turning to gawk. They shriek and fumble for towels. Some dive out of the way. I jump over a pool full of fey elves, doing less bathing and more something else. I glance back. One of them calls out and beckons, giggling. Arriel drags me along. She skids on wet tile, crashing through a paper dividing wall. I haul her up. I vault over the front desk, workers scattering to the floor. There’s a door. I sling it open and barge onto the street again. To our left, guards turn and point.

  “Obstinate bastards!” I spit.

  I dash right. Arriel follows. I’ve no clue where Weekes is. I’m getting fairly lost myself. I dart left, down another alleyway. It’s another dead end. It’s too late – guards are closing behind us.

  Running, I strum up some more chords, slapping a pink square on the wall ahead of us. It opens. I dive through, rolling. I snap it shut as soon as Arriel’s in.

  It’s quieter inside. Or at least, it is now. I stand, brushing myself off. “Alright. I think we’re clear,” I pant.

  She doesn’t say anything, instead putting her face in her hands. I turn to look.

  We’re in a room full of guards having dinner.