Everybody's Cousin

All life in Oldtown-Against-the-Wall revolved around three primary structures – the colleges, the town council, and the market. The first offered knowledge, the second provided order, but the third was the most lucrative. The market spanned several blocks in every direction. It was designed like the spokes of a great wheel, with an open courtyard for an axle.  Even at its extremities, families with homes at the fringes of the market had converted their living spaces into shops or the like. On any given day, even in the coldest weeks of winter, there were several dozen covered stalls open for business. Nearly anything of any imagination could be found for sale here, from the grains or vegetables and fruits grown out in the agricultural fields to livestock or meats from the stables. Given enough time, a person would encounter merchants selling tools, clothing, furnishings, and even a few stalls dedicated to the more esoteric, art-imbued items.

These last were seldom of much good – the best items were best sought by individual request from a reputable artisan – but from time to time, even the most pathetic cloud offered the possibility of rain.

Life on the streets of Oldtown was a simple enough riddle, when pondered out in the proper conditions. It could be read like a spreadsheet, numbers scratched out at the nib of a pen until a profit could at last be ascertained. Or it could be read like the schematic for a complex engine, delicately teetering on the edge between inefficiency and combustion. Taken too seriously in either direction, it became a dangerous game of cause and effect, uncertainly moving one’s assets against what felt like a generally superior opponent. If it was a game, it had been designed to quench ambition and the desire to win in all but the most steadfast players. Just like its market, Oldtown provided its people with virtually whatever they might want, within reason.

The town was balanced precariously between the monolithic white wall that had been designed originally for protection and the seemingly unending and unexplored wildlands to the west. Over the years, this town of exiled practitioners of the mystic arts had fashioned for themselves a collective life of relative simplicity. Cobbling together what fundamental skills of the sciences that remained to their minds into an integrated high-pressure hydraulic matrix, they focused the rest of their minds and energies into providing for their common needs. This, they achieved though simple hard work and the passing on of those magical arts they deemed useful.

Ballis loved the market; even more than his occasional foray into the halls of the town council – at least here, there was always someone seeking his services, and unlike the other, few people here were shy about asking him. With the network of contacts and favors he had spent his life cultivating, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he’d eventually work his way to the top of Oldtown. He scoffed at this notion, however. It’ll be a barren Harvestday you see me in politics, he thought decisively. Give me a life without agendas and I’m a happy man. Or at least let all the agendas be my own.

He adjusted the small cap on his head – there was just enough of a brim on it to shield his eyes from the sun which had barely risen above the Wall, marking it for just before noon. He’d already completed three tasks today, earning him a fair profit, but as far as he was concerned, the day was only now beginning.

Ballis frowned briefly as he ducked well below a cloud of steam puffing from one of the nearby copper pipes. Nothing makes a client more nervous than seeing his contact arrive with a sweaty brow, he thought to himself. Even if it’s just steam dotting his skin.

He followed the rhythm of the other market pedestrians; walking too slowly or too quickly was a sure enough way to stand out. Only the one last job to wrap up today, and then he could take the rest of the day off. Granted, his interpretation of “off” merely meant that he could work the market crowds, and drum up new opportunities for business. At the tender age of fourteen, Ballis Furthore was among the more industrious people he knew. He worked at least a little each day, though some days it felt like his biggest investment involved shoe repair. He figured he walked enough to circle the town at least twice each day.

Still, each job had its rewards, he reminded himself.

Ballis reached into his satchel and drew out a small rectangular object, wrapped in a red kerchief. Letting the leather flap drop back on the bag, he casually placed the object on the center of the table in the sheltered market stall.

“Good day in the market?” he asked the purveyor.

The old man standing behind the stall looked up with a start. “Oh! Cousins, it’s you! Er, yes, lad, fine day in the market indeed,” he said, with a hint of uncertainty clouding his words.

Bristling inwardly at the nickname, Ballis pointed at the object on the table. “As promised,” he said, giving the merchant a polite nod.

The merchant reached down with trembling hands to unwrap the cloth and examine the small box. He appeared confused for a moment, looking back up at the young man.

With an amused cock of his head, the young man smiled. “The box is free – I’ve got a cousin who makes them, it’s just my little way of thanking you for your business. The locket your thief stole from you is inside.”

“Your cousin does good work,” answered the older man, pausing another moment before opening the lid. He reached in with one sun-weathered hand and pulled out a delicate silver locket, flicking the lid open with his yellowed thumbnail. Instantly, his eyes misted over with tears and a shuddering breath shook his lean frame.

“H-how-” the man stammered, overcome with emotion, “How’d you find this?”

The young man shrugged casually. “Well, it did take a bit of asking around to all the right people – and a few of the wrong ones. But I was able to stay under my budget estimates, so there’s no change to my fees.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the merchant said, blinking a bit of moisture from his eyes. He reached under his table for a rusty lockbox and opened it up, fished out a handful of steel coins and counted them out into the boy’s outstretched and waiting hands. The coins exchanged hands before vanishing into a side pocket of the lad’s waistcoat. A friendly smile and brief handshake concluded their deal.

As for the young man, he made his way once again through the market’s throng, pausing to flip a coin at Braden in exchange for a ripe red fruit he plucked from his stand in passing. Behind him, the old merchant was left to appreciate the reunion with the locket he had feared was lost forever; his last physical token from his beloved wife, dead now more than ten years.

“Ah yes,” Ballis said aloud to no one in particular, “this is a good day indeed. A very good day!”

On a whim, he turned to the left and nearly ran into a tall, thin man who abruptly turned to the nearest stall and tried to look thoroughly interested in the shoes being sold there. Cousins noticed a unique band on the man’s right wrist – it was exposed for only a moment, but he recognized the colors that were sewn together. The band itself marked him for membership in one of the many cooperatives that existed in Oldtown – groups of businessmen that operated in fringe functions not covered by the board of guilds. But the colors belonged to one cooperative in particular that Cousins had run across only a few times, and then only peripherally. Even that, he felt, had been closer than he liked.

Carr’s Acquisitions, as they were named, was a troublesome lot. They prided themselves on existing outside of the structured affairs of Oldtown. Rumors whispered of Defense Guild payoffs trickling down into the pockets of many a member of the Constabulary, and worse. Cousins hoped they weren’t suddenly taking an interest in him, but the awkwardness evident in the strange man’s body language said otherwise.

Avoiding the man’s gaze, Cousins moved to pass behind the man when the latter’s hand snaked out and grabbed him by the wrist. Without hesitating, Cousins yelled out “Thief!” at the top of his lungs, pointing at the man with his free hand. Tall enough to be visible above the crowd of market-goers, his assailant took several moments to put together his response, which proved several moments too long. By the time he tried to assume a mask of innocence, a small circle of passers-by had already begun to form around the two of them.

Cousins raised his right foot and brought it down hard on the man’s closest foot, and as he doubled over in pain, the young man raised his knee to the man’s chin, sprawling him out onto the street.

“Thank you, fair citizens,” Cousins said with a brief flourish. “And now, if you please, I must away!”

He was already far from the area by the time the man’s pain-laced curses made their way into the general murmur of the open market.

Confident that he’d lost his pursuer, he leaned up against the brick wall behind Joden’s smithy. He felt the rhythmic pounding shaking through his bones as he pulled out a tiny well-worn black leather-bound book from the satchel he wore across his shoulder. The ever-present hissing of the pressurized steam vents on the wall above him, though heavily insulated, nevertheless offered a gentle warmth that chased away the otherwise cool air. Biting through the thin membrane of the fruit’s skin, he held it in his mouth while he thumbed through the pages of the book, flipping through them until he arrived at the page corresponding to that day’s appointment list. He placed a final mark beside the merchant’s name and scanned the rest of the unmarked names on the day’s itinerary, or those yet pending resolution. No chance of making it back into the market today, he decided, and paused to consider his options.

The fruit nearly fell from his mouth when he felt a faint pressure on his book, and a single name slowly appeared on the next line of his schedule, as if written in an unfamiliar and invisible hand. He knew the name well enough, he’d visited her shop on more than one occasion while resolving other requests. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the old woman, but to his eyes she represented something around which Ballis didn’t completely feel comfortable. A touch of irony, he agreed, but Ballis didn’t enjoy the mystical arts, which were, after all, the basis upon which the entire town was inadvertently founded.

The schools of the arts were only available under apprenticeship, and he, a homeless youth (though much better dressed than the average), had learned all his trade upon the streets. No one was admitted to the Artisan trades without the recommendation of school or relatives. The deepest irony of all was that though many who knew him called him “Cousins”, he was without any actual family to speak of.

He looked again at the name on his ledger. Goya Parva, he read with a sigh. Glancing to his left, he could almost make out the second floor landing of her Apothecary shop, several streets over and just to the east of Collegiate Row. Cousins shook his head, placed the book and stub of a pencil back in his pouch and took a bite of the fruit. Might as well see what she wants, he decided. She evidently knows I have time to drop by.

Keeping a wary eye out, he made his way to the apothecary as quickly as he dared.

The first thing a person noticed upon entering the shop was the aroma. Both sweet and pungent, the air nearly stung his nostrils with the variety of spices and concoctions stored in the primary storefront. Ballis knew that Goya, the old woman who was considered by many in Oldtown to be either a mystic prognosticator or moonstruck recluse, owned the entire building. She maintained the corner of the building for her store, retaining the rest for her living quarters. He hoped Goya wouldn’t be here herself; her face tended to form the sort of focused expressions that made it seem like she was simply picking the words off the back of your eyes while you spoke with her.

And so it was with some relief that he saw a familiar young red-haired woman crossing the room to meet him.

“Miss…Briseida, is it?” he asked, recalling her name just in time.

She smiled, extending a hand in greeting. The skin of her hands was soft, with relatively new calluses on the pads of her thumb and fingers. Clearly, he surmised, a woman from a family of relative means, only now coming to grips with the realities of labor.

“Ballis,” she said kindly. “We are glad you could come so quickly.”

He let the door close behind him, and felt a momentary tingle up the back of his neck. A single brow arched on his forehead. “Wards?”

Briseida nodded. “It is for your safety as well,” she said. “Madame Goya has asked me to secure your efforts on our behalf for a task of utmost discretion. It is said that you are the most reliable individual for such things.”

He shrugged in response. “Well, I do know a few people, and discretion is one of them. How may I be of service?”

Her tension lessened, but only slightly. In spite of the glyphs cast about the room that ensured no one outside their immediate room would be able to overhear them, Briseida lowered her voice slightly. “There is an…item whose value comes from both its historical significance and its uniqueness. We need it secured and delivered to us, and kept from falling into the wrong hands.”

The young man paused to assess some of the particular impressions gleaned from her request, but was interrupted by the realization that they were not alone in the room. Glancing past her, he noticed a gentleman seated in a simple wooden chair on the far side of the room. Thin and apparently tall, the man sat cross-legged, seemingly engaged in the contents of an old book propped up on his lap. While turning the pages with his left hand, his right rose to casually scratch the thin brown beard that accented the angle of his jawline. Ballis cocked his head, deliberately drawing attention to the presence of this other person, addressing the fact that Briseida had neglected to introduce him.

She turned around in the direction of his gaze, nodding briefly. “This is another associate of mine; he can be trusted to maintain our confidence.”

Ballis shrugged. “Far be it for me to question it,” he said wryly. “Regardless, I have a few concerns with this request already, and you haven’t even provided the particulars. This by itself is an additional concern.”

“Speak your mind, lad,” the seated man said. His voice was soft and low but carried well across the room.

With a contented nod, the young man responded. “First of all, you must know by my reputation that I prefer to arrange work, and keep myself functionally distant from any hands-on activities. Second, the Arts are involved here, and I am generally uncomfortable around such dealings, though, as you likely know, I do on occasion make exceptions. Thirdly, I don’t generally cater to thievery. On the other hand, Algus Breadmore is a fool, and anything that would choke that foul man’s blathering maw would bring a smile to my face.”

Briseida’s mouth hung open. Behind her, the seated man laughed warmly. “Your reputation is well-earned, lad,” he said. “Bree, I think you have your answer.”

She stammered, “How – what did…” Her face took on a more serious mien. “Tell me how you know this.”

To his merit, Ballis managed to conceal his smugness from his face and voice. “I am aware of the connections Madame Goya possesses in the colleges; any artifact possessed by them or any of the guilds would not require such acts of subterfuge as this. In fact, were your wish to secure an item through legal means, there are far more well-established agents in the markets or upon the town council. I am disconnected from the merchant’s network and essentially independent, so the only reason you might seek to secure my services would be because you wish to acquire an item through…alternate means.”

He paused again for effect – and to continue ascertaining the accuracy of his statements off their faces. “On the other hand, there are many far more skilled cracksmen available than I, and in financial ranges both higher and lower. So, removing financial and experiential criteria, that leaves a skillset or attribute specific to me. I am well-known to have no truck with the Arts, so clearly this rules out targets whose homes or offices favor such things and yet might seek to possess such items in the first place. This leaves only a handful of individuals. I myself am strongly allied with two of these, thus prohibiting my involvement. Of the two remaining, Belarius Gertick has a security force that rivals the Defense Guild, and you would know I would never accept a job to pick that pocket. That leaves the Breadmore manor, and it wouldn’t take a seer to know there’s no love lost between he and I.”

Seeing no objection from the others, he went on, adding, “This merely leaves three points of business: how soon you require the item, the nature of the item itself, and what you’re willing to pay for my services.”

The older gentleman set his book down and leaned forward from the deeper shadows, a mischievous smile on his lips. “You wouldn’t perform this task for the sheer satisfaction of repaying an old debt?”

Ballis scoffed. “There is business and there is pleasure, sir. Only a fool confuses the two.”

“And you are no fool?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t confuse the two.”

Briseida nodded her head approvingly. “The opportunity for acquiring this object is brief – we believe others may be en route to take it for themselves. And in addition to the standard fees we understand you request for this sort of thing, Goya has offered a few items from her collection which you may find both valuable and useful.” She lifted a small bag from a shelf beside her and held it out for Ballis.

Tentatively – so as to not appear too interested – he reached up and took the bag, taking a moment to feel its heft. It was relatively light, but solid, whatever was in there. He unwound the binding and looked inside; his brows wrinkled as he reached in and pulled out two items. The first item appeared to be a short, leather-bound stick not much longer than his hand. One end was capped with a flat cross-piece of iron, making the item look like a sword that was missing its blade. The other item was a triangular-shaped box that opened up to reveal four polished marbles, one at each point, and one in the center. He passed his hand over the different-colored stones; the three around the central red stone were white, brown and blue. Ballis shook his head, smiling. “The Elemental Path, I see. Arts of some sort?”

Ian nodded. “Air, water, soil and fire, yes. They each have a few uses, so I wouldn’t suggest throwing them too far away.”

Ballis picked up the blue stone, which was quite cool against his fingertips. “How….how do these work? And what exactly do they do?”

After guiding his hand back down to carefully release the stone back into its position, Briseida explained, “They will do what you need them to, within reason, based upon the elements that have been focused into them. You only need hold them and will them to action.”

He removed his hand from the top of the case as if it had threatened to bite him. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the box and placed it carefully into his shoulder bag. The other item, he took in his right hand, balancing and weighing it. His eyes delivered an unspoken question towards Briseida and Ian.

“It is a device of my own design,” Ian explained. “I haven’t named it yet, but I think of it as a kind of skeleton key, but for fighting.”

“But there’s no blade,” Ballis said, superfluously.

“You’re not fighting.”

“So there’ll be a blade…when I need it?”

“Yes.”

“But not until then?”

“Yes.”

Arching an eyebrow, Ballis shook his head. “But it will definitely be there when I need it, you say.”

 “Indeed.”

The young man took a long breath, releasing it in a sigh. “Well, here’s to hoping I can use it in good health.”

“That’s the spirit.”

With a faint shaking of his head, Ballis muttered something about “inspiring confidence,” and placed the Hilt of Most Likely Definite Good Health into his bag and affixed what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face as he looked back up to Briseida.

“So, where is this object that has so enthusiastically drawn your attention?” he said, now content to just take the particulars and get this job over with.

* * * * *

Algus Breadmore was a second-generation businessman, now in the latter half of his sixth decade. A man who’d scarcely built upon the legally-appropriate successes of his father, Algus did what any relatively unscrupulous man with the available assets and genetically superior physical frame might do: turn to a life of organized crime. Without the unpleasant constraints of morality or a disposition towards a patient growth of personal economy, Algus rose quickly past many of the less ambitious organizations at his perimeter to stake his claim on several cornerstones of the black market in Oldtown. And although he was well known for his unusual disdain for the Arts, he financed one of the largest private militias in the town, if not the largest.

While a sizeable number of them were spread about the town in order to maintain his communications and service network, his estate, a four-story grand edifice on the southern border of the population center of Oldtown, was constantly patrolled both within and without by an impressive display of well-trained and well-armed soldiers.

Ballis sighed. This is not going to be easy, he told himself for the third time in as many minutes. To Algus’ mind, fear and greed required him to create a physical force to repel any potential threats. Fear, like a disease, was contagious, and this same fear infected the men themselves. They were filled with aggressively nervous energy and clearly considered anyone on the streets a possible combatant.

This contrasted powerfully with the fact that Algus Breadmore seemed to want, above all else, social acceptance. This was evidenced by the grand parties he threw in his estate nearly every week. That pretention was the one chink in his otherwise flawless armor, and Ballis was happy enough to exploit it.

With a faint smile, Ballis adjusted the collar of his button-up shirt and ran the palms of his hands down the front of his waistcoat to smooth it. Confidently, he strode directly up to the slowly-evolving line of attendees, watching and listening to all the conversations around him.

The guards were stationed about the estate, carefully chosen based on their appearance and disposition. The rougher, less personable (or less intelligent) ones were positioned in the rear of the estate, overseeing the comings and goings of the staff and delivery services. As he had no room in his budget to fabricate the sort of high-end food or drink that Algus would have delivered to his parties, Ballis knew that wasn’t his entrance.

More aggressive and physically fit soldiers were placed around the defensive perimeter of the complex, and no manner of eloquence could get him past them.

But the front door was another matter altogether. As the attending dignitaries began to arrive, the soldiers at the front door were assigned based upon their people skills, with an emphasis on good looks rather than combat prowess. However, the best element of their professional demeanor was an overriding dedication towards making it appear to the guests as if nothing was ever wrong.

As he moved to the front of the line, one of the guards eyed him suspiciously. “Ain’t no kids invited to this party,” he said just loudly enough for Ballis to hear him. “Best scarper, boy.”

With a deferential laugh, Ballis shook his head. “Not here for the festivities,” he said. “I was sent by my aunt to deliver a message here for her son. Is Carso working back in the kitchen tonight?” Carso was a year older than he was; Ballis had gotten into a fight with him a few months back, and he’d been waiting for an opportunity to drop his name into a situation that might offer a bit of payback.

The guards half-greeted another pair of guests as they passed, obviously hoping to be rid of this young man as quickly as possible. “Carso? Don’t know him.”

Ballis was about to respond, but the other guard cut him off. “No, I know the boy. About your size, yes?”

“A bit taller. Darker hair,” Ballis shrugged. “Gets that from his dad.”

The second guard nodded. “Right, well, he’s working, sure enough. But that doesn’t get you in.”

With a pat of his shoulder bag, Ballis nodded. “His ma sent me over to see that he gets his ointment,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “He’s not meant to touch food without it, on account of the rash.”

That stopped the guards cold, and it took the first guard a few moments to answer. “Fine,” he growled, extending a hand. “Give it over, I’ll see he gets it.”

Ballis nodded, opening his satchel. He pulled out a clay bottle, sealed with a cork; before placing it in the guard’s outstretched palm, he also fished out a pair of gloves and a folded cloth. “You’ll also need these to apply it; it’s not really someplace easy, if you get my meaning. And don’t mind the pus, it goes away with a bit of fresh water--”

The guard looked fit to throw up right there; he stepped back quickly, gesturing for Ballis to put the items back. “Well, we’re pretty busy here anyway, why don’t you go on back and do it yourself?”

With a casual shrug, the lad did so. “That’s probably for the best,” he said, dropping the items back in and replacing the cover flap. “Carso gets ever so shy about this.” The guards stepped quickly aside to let him pass.

Waving briefly, Ballis turned and walked up the short stairway and through the opened doors. To his right was the servants’ passage, to the left were the stairs, leading up to the bedrooms, study and library. The clock on the far wall above the double doors leading into the ballroom indicated only a few minutes before the hour. All I’ll need, Reapers willing. Assuming they’re bothering to watch, that is.  He paused just long enough inside the doorway to force a few people to pause behind him and block him from view of the guards, then turned left and made his way leisurely up the stairs.

The trick to getting around in places you aren’t welcomed, he had long since learned, was to act like you belonged there. Nothing betrays you more than your own insecurity.

At the landing, he moved along the inside wall, letting the banister block him from view. In addition to the wooden supports, Algus had instructed his servants to suspend long and gaudy tapestries from the rail, offering a pleasant wall of concealment for Ballis. He counted the doors as he passed them, finally arriving at number six.

The main foyer beneath him wasn’t large; only a dozen or more people milled about on their way to the other side of the room where they faded into the general noise of music and sounds of conversations. All the same, opening this door was sure to get him some unwanted attention, whether by sound or motion. He crouched down beneath the doorknob and reached up to test it. The knob turned roughly a quarter of the way before coming to an obstructed halt. Ballis sighed, shaking his head. Thank the Shepherds I had ‘cousin’ Bardac teach me the finer points of locksmithing.

Inside the pouch, he found the devices Bardac had given him for this sort of thing – a thin hollowed-out object which looked like a toothless key, and an iron rod with what appeared to be a tube and a pair of wings at one end. Ballis placed the key into the lock, slowly, until it came to rest at the interior wall of the mechanism. He then slid the second piece into the inside of the key, until it stopped as well. Then, with a calming breath, he pressed the two wings between his thumb and forefinger.  A soft hiss from the tube filled the keyholes with a faint burst of rapidly-released steam which forced the individual tumblers to click into place. Before the pressure relented, he gave the key a steady turn. The lock shuddered once and then slid back into the housing.

Suddenly, the clock in the main foyer below him rang out, pealing a series of chimes that were displayed in the very center of the ceiling. Ballis counted four beats, and then turned the knob as the highest chime resounded through the hall, masking the sound. In one motion, he pulled the key out and pulled the door shut again by the next beat of the chimes, only turning back and breathing a brief sigh of contentment before setting himself to his next challenge. They said the item is secreted inside an old book; shouldn’t be too hard to suss out, he thought confidently.

The room was dark; he reached into his bag and pulled out the triangular box. Holding it flat on the palm of his hand, he opened it and pulled out one of the central stones – I don’t need anything actually on fire; here’s hoping I can just coax some light out of this.

No sooner had he thought it then the marble began to shine with an extreme incandescence – so brilliant that Ballis had to roll it into the palm of his hand while he fumbled with the wooden lid that contained the other stones. This is why I hate the arts, he thought. Too unpredictable.

With the box back in his satchel, he carefully revealed the stone, letting a bright beam of light pour from the circular space created by the space between his coiled thumb and forefinger. “Oh, damn,” he whispered. Around him, illuminated by the cone of warm light, was what had to be an entire library of books of all shapes and sizes, on columns of bookshelves that reached from floor to vaulted ceiling and covered nearly every square meter on each of the room’s four large walls. He sighed again. Might as well start looking, he whispered to himself, and began by looking for any books left out, or displayed prominently about the room.

A desk near the far side of the room was covered a small stack of books, stacked in no apparent concern for their protection. That seemed as good a place to start as any, and Ballis didn’t relish the thought of climbing the bookshelves and pulling each book out in turn to see if they held what he was looking for.

The title of one of the top books leapt out at him, though, “Mysteries of the Machines.” His mind turned to the old husks of constructs that had once served the people of Oldtown, but now only existed by the presence of a few long-abandoned and partly-rusted objects strewn about out beyond the agricultural fields. Glancing across the others, they all seemed to be pertaining to the same sort of historical nonsense – books going at length in the descriptions of that lost knowledge. He shook his head. Old Science and strange artifacts, what are you doing, Algus? Other than losing your precious sensibilities, that is.

Of all the books, however, one stood out from the rest. Where all the others dealt with the old Machine lore, one of the books on the desk, besides being substantially of a more recent printing, was entitled “Barter and Taxation Codes”. His free hand was reaching for it before it even occurred to him.  Once he lifted it, he knew he’d found it, the heft was all wrong for a book of this size. He put it back down and flipped it open, turning the pages in chunks until he found section wherein an oval section had been cut free, offering a snug hiding place for a golden and semi-opaque egg-shaped stone. It was large enough to fit in the palm of his hand, not small enough to completely enclose his fingers around it.

As he picked it up to place into his back, the stone in his other palm flared, becoming at once incredibly hot. With a surprised “ouch!” he dropped the fire marble, and the room returned to darkness. The other stone in his left hand continued to glow, however, but much less brightly than the fire marble. He held the egg-shaped stone over the table until he found the marble, and delicately touched it. It was as cool as it had been when he’d first held it, if not colder still. Picking it back up, he thought of the light again, but nothing happened. He shook his head. Some trick, he thought. Thing was supposed to have a few spells cast into it, but I think I broke it. That, or it was a poor thing to begin with. His eyes returned to the larger stone, still in his left hand, and a shiver crossed his spine. Or maybe this had something to do with it, he reasoned. He nodded, convinced. At any rate, that concludes this portion of my grand adventure, now I simply need to make my way out.    

The smirk that had crept onto his face vanished instantly at hearing a sound outside the door. It was a combination of low, hushed voices and a tentative grip on the doorknob. Standing as he was behind the desk, there were no other more readily available places to secret himself, nor time to look for them. He dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the relative concealment of the desk, thrusting his hand with the egg-shaped stone into his satchel in an effort to once again engulf the room in darkness.

A moment later, the door opened, a broad band of light cutting a swath across the room and shining on the room behind his hiding place. Two figures stood in the doorway; a man and a woman.

The woman was speaking; her voice was casual and conversational. “I mean it, Favo, go back down and enjoy the party, no sense in both of us wasting our evening looking for some rubbish stone.” Ballis nearly gasped. Though he’d never met the man, Favo’s name was well-known on the streets. He’d even seen him once, from a distance, and Ballis had made a point to give the man a wide berth. Whispers on the street suggested that he’d climbed to near the top of Oldtown’s underground crime network on the backs of a score of the bodies of his former competitors.

“Shhh,” came the man’s voice. On the back wall, Ballis could make out the silhouettes of both people. The man extended an arm to the right. “Light’s over there, be careful.”

“Careful? Think I can’t make my way across a dark room?”

“No, love, I’m confident your many skills include the cautious navigation of a bit of rogue furniture across an unfamiliar landscape,” Favo said after a long pause. “But I suspect that we might not be entirely alone here.”

“You’re sure?” the woman asked.

“Algus never leaves this door unlocked,” he said. “Any thief worth his shoes would have locked the door after him. At least,” he amended, “I would have.”

Ballis carefully tucked the presumably yet-glowing egg-shaped stone into the bottom of his satchel and into one of the soft leather gloves he kept there, and drew out another of the elemental marbles. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell which of the three remaining objects he had grabbed, so he simply grabbed all three. Until he needed the item to be activated, he kept his mind clear, concerned that any particular thought might trigger it preemptively.

He could hear soft, hushed footsteps approaching on the carpet. His heart pounded in his chest.

Eventually, the steps paused beside the desk he was hiding beneath. Something small and metallic knocked against the wood.

“Come out, boy,” the woman said. “We saw you sneak into the party, we know it’s you.”

A strangely elegant black boot pushed the chair aside, and the wearer leaned closer. Dark hair evidently lightened by time under the sun was lightly mussed in a manner Ballis assumed to be in fashion, and crisp blue eyes peered in at him. “Why, hello there, lad. I believe I recognize you now. They call you ‘Cousins,’ correct?”

Favo extended a hand down towards the young man. With the marbles still concealed in his left fist, Cousins ignored the offered hand, and crawled out to stand between the two of them. He glanced briefly at the woman, tried to size her up quickly as a potential threat. She was just shorter than Favo, with tall boots and a white, fur-lined jacket that buttoned at the waist and extended down to the backs of her knees. Her bold red hair was kept back from her face by a pair of dusty riding goggles that rested upon the crown of her head. Visible beneath the jacket was a low-slung double holster; one of the weapons was drawn and leveled at his face. He’d heard of the spellshot, a weapon which held and discharged cartridges of art-infused energy, but had never seen one this close.

“Molla,” Favo whispered, “please. The boy isn’t our enemy, we needn’t treat him as such. You’re merely making him nervous, and I would never want a friend – we are friends, aren’t we, Cousins? – to be put in a position to make decisions under duress.”

Clearly reluctant, Molla nevertheless conceded, holstering the weapon.

“Good girl,” the man said, somehow managing to sound both sincere and condescending in the same breath. Turning his full attention back to Ballis, he held out his hand, palm up. “Now, then, since I assume you already have the item we all have come seeking, why don’t you do yourself the greatest favor I could possibly imagine and give it to me.”

To his own surprise, Cousins did nothing. After the first moment of non-response, he realized that each additional moment would simply increase the tension of the room exponentially, but still couldn’t bring himself to turn the stone over to them. Why not? He thought. It would mean failing to do my job, which, while a rare thing, wouldn’t be the first time, either. Is it pride? Am I that stubborn that I would risk my own life just to not be beaten by this ruffian?  

Favo slowly began to shake his head. “You’re not that stupid,” he said. “You don’t really have a choice; we’re leaving with the stone, and whether you’re alive or dead when we do that is the only option you have. Though,” he said, a thoughtful expression emerging on his face, “I wouldn’t be disinclined from sweetening the pot. To be honest, I could use someone with your skills in my organization. You’re clever, well-connected and have a good reputation on the street – something I lack, to my deep and abiding regret.” He turned his hand onto its side as a gesture of partnership.

Again, Ballis wondered why he simply couldn’t reach in and pluck out the stone, and hand it over to them. But something troubled him about the notion of giving this over to Favo. It was something in Briseida’s eyes, he realized, that odd sense of concerned urgency that she had been feeling with respect to this stone. It was a dread realization that, whatever this item was, it was an essential and likely dangerous thing to fall into the wrong hands. His eyes looked back to Favo’s hand; it was steady, not shaking. When he looked back up to Favo’s face, their eyes met and Ballis realized that his own chances of getting out of this situation alive were declining rapidly. He’d need to do something, and quickly.

Favo’s eyes darted downwards and took note of Ballis’ left fist. A smile broadened on his face. “Last chance, boy,” he said. Molla took a step to her right, placing him between her and the desk. Favo mirrored her movement, standing beside her with his hand still outstretched. Cousins’ hand rose, seemingly of its own volition, the back of his fist facing the floor. His eyes darted with a deliberate languor past the barrel of Molla’s weapon. He knew a little about the spellshots, enough to know that they required a verbal command; the wielder had to say a word that directed the energy from the released Art in order for it to work. An idea formed.

A thick, cold swelling began to fill his fist, darkening the spaces between his fingers. He held it as long as he dared. When he looked back up at the two older criminals, their eyes also moved from his fist to his face. A spot of confusion appeared on Favo’s brow, giving Cousins one final thrill of victory before he unleashed the explosion of dirt and water. Emerging as an enormous and focused mud ball, Cousins channeled the water and soil marbles into a single burst of viscous brown matter, emphasizing its destination: Molla’s face. The moment before it struck, her spellshot was already back in her hand and drawing a line towards Ballis’ face. The glowing shell flew out of the barrel and bounced harmlessly off Cousins’ chest, the required command being choked off by a mouthful of mud.

He half-turned back towards the desk and placed his right hand atop it, kicking off from Favo’s stomach and vaulting towards the door.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of Molla’s coughing while Favo’s voice barked out a single command: “Shut!” The door ahead of him began to swing back towards the frame, but Cousins held up his left hand and pushed out a single burst of air in that direction, the force of which blew the door from its iron hinges.

As he rounded the corner, Molla managed to pull off a few more attempts. Her voice was nearly screaming the three shots: “Stop! Stop! DIE!”

The second shot struck his right foot, knocking him off-balance and sending him over the banister as the third shot disintegrated the chandelier in the main foyer. The floor came speeding up to catch him, but Cousins managed another blast of the air marble directly beneath him, slowing his fall at the last possible moment. He landed hard, but without injury. His right foot, numb from Molla’s weapon, forced him to a hurried limp as he made his way as quickly as possible from the room, as panicked partygoers ran in all directions. As he passed through the doorway, he sent a final burst of soil into the air, which filled the room with an obscuring dust that masked his getaway.

By the time Favo and Molla found themselves at the exit, Cousins was nowhere to be found. Favo couldn’t hide an appraising smile as he patted the inconsolably livid Molla. “Fret not, my love, this is only a temporary thing. Poor lad still has to deliver it, thus we merely need to lie in wait.”

With a second glance at Molla, he stifled a chuckle, adding, “But first, you’ll want to clean up.”

He turned, walking over to a two-wheeled compressed steam-drive vehicle which he’d left parked nearby, and, in so doing, missed the expression of pure rage that momentarily darkened Molla’s face.

* * * * *

Cousins peered out the wooden slats of the tiny window and looked over the street. It was moving on towards noon, and the streets were more crowded. He’d slept in the cramped loft overnight, realizing he was too defenseless on his own with Favo and Molla hot on his heels.  He’d managed to lose them at Algus’s estate, but their arrival at the very moment he was preparing to take the item was too convenient to be coincidence. Any movement he made on the streets was bound to be tracked. The chances of either being intercepted or being followed to the Apothecary were too high to risk it. Better, he thought, to let enough time pass that they suspect him of already delivering the stone, re-think their assumptions, and give him a window of opportunity to slip past their notice and actually make the delivery.

He also decided that it wouldn’t hurt to wait until there were more people around to mask his movements. While he waited, he pulled out the large stone again to get a better look at it. It was no longer glowing as brightly as it had last night, but still felt slightly warm to the touch. Strange rock, he thought. Who would’ve thought something so small could stir up so much excitement?

He pulled an extra box from his bag and looked at the two items side by side, gauging them for size. Content, he opened the box and placed the stone inside of it. It was what his ‘cousin’ called a secret box. There was a trick to opening it, which required pressing on two separate panels at the same time to trigger the latch. He put a piece of cloth into the box first, and wrapped the stone in the cloth to prevent it from moving around inside the box before closing it securely. He shook his head. This masks the symptoms, it doesn’t cure the disease. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this job.

The crowds were finally beginning to thicken, and Cousins decided that if there were ever a good time to try and make his way to the apothecary, this was probably it.

He dropped down from the loft crawlspace into the pantry below, and, after re-concealing the hatch, dusted himself off and stepped out into the street, closing the door behind him. The small room above Carstin’s Mercantile was one of the few secured safe-rooms he kept aside for times of the most challenging and dangerous need. There was no chance that – he stopped dead in his tracks. At the intersection of streets ahead of him, he could see Favo coming in his direction.

Favo and Molla were on Favo’s two-wheeled vehicle, driving slowly while Favo glanced frequently at some small device in his hand. He’s tracking me, somehow, Cousins realized with a grimace. Time to run.

Turning around, he ran straight into a pair of girls, knocking one over and tangling himself up in the process. He looked up at them – the one he’d knocked down was perhaps the most shockingly beautiful girl he’d ever seen, though her patchwork clothing marked her for an orphan, like her friend. But her friend, who was even then helping her to her feet: he knew her.

“Oh. Cousins,” she said.

He felt a knot in his stomach tighten. It wasn’t safe here, he realized. He got up and ran back towards his hiding place without another word. Not even daring to peek out, he focused on trying to slow his breathing and calm himself down.

A few moments later, he heard hushed voices, and nearly bolted until he realized it was the two girls, hiding in front of the very doors he was himself hiding behind. If they stayed out there, he knew it was only a matter of time before Favo saw them and intimated that he might be here. On the other hand…something told him that this might be more than simple providence. Perhaps a case of Reaper’s Luck, for good or ill. Right now, I’ll take any luck I can get, he decided, and opened the door to speak to the two girls.

Several minutes later, he’d sent the girls on their way, having found a happy agreement that suited them all, and it was a much less fearful Ballis that made his way through the marketplace. In the back of his thoughts fluttered a young girl’s face, her dark eyes posing a perplexing distraction.

When he felt a strong hand take him by the shoulder, he managed to betray an appropriately manufactured expression of concern and surprise. Molla looked to be the angrier of the two, but Cousins wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

“Got you!” she spat.

Cousins made a substantial display of discomfort, looking around them. “A bit public, isn’t it, for an execution?”

Favo laughed convivially. “My boy, you are too big a fan of the dramatics. Why, we’re only just in time for a lunch and a proper conversation between businessmen.” He nodded to Molla, who, in spite of her obvious frustration, led the way through the crowd, Favo keeping a firm hand on Cousins’ arm.

Stealing a glance at Favo’s face, Ballis had to admit he was fairly impressed by the degree of projected calm the older man wore. No one seeing the trio walking through the market would have reason to suspect them of trouble; he nodded and saluted the shopkeepers on their way, calling most of them by name and briefly asking after their family members while they passed. If any of them happened to notice the boy being almost dragged along with them, no one seemed to think twice of it.

After a few minutes of walking, they left the general hubbub of the market behind them, and Cousins began to wonder (and not for the first time, nor the last) if all this risk was worth the price of that stone. But, he reminded himself (not for the first nor last time) that it was not truly the stone he was protecting, but his reputation. Failure was a sure way to lose any hope of return business.

Then again, so is dying, he thought.

Favo pointed Molla towards Favo’s vehicle, propped up against a nearby building. “Take it on ahead and meet us at the storage, Cousins here and I need a bit of man-to-man time. There’s a dear,” he said casually.

With a curt nod of her head, Molla did as she was bidden. Once she had vanished around a corner two streets up, Favo released Cousins’ arm. “Don’t run off,” he advised. “I’m not above shooting you in the back.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Cousins lied. “Lead on.”

Favo gestured down the street in the direction Molla had departed, and they resumed walking.

“I won’t waste your time, I only ask you not waste mine,” Favo began. “I know you took the stone, and you know I won’t stop until I have it. Are we both agreed on those two points?”

Cousins nodded. “Yes, on both counts, but you’re wrong for thinking I still have it.”

Favo sighed. “Perhaps, but you haven’t delivered it yet, have you?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

The older man laughed. “For starters, you’re still rummaging about in this rubbish heap. With the amount of coin that trinket’s worth, you could buy your way back into the City.”

Scoffing, Cousins shook his head. “Who says I’d want to go? For that matter, who says they’re even selling the opportunity?”

Favo looked down at Cousins, his blue eyes seemingly trying to read the boy’s mind. He sighed. “I’m not certain I approve of your lack of ambitions, boy.”

“I sleep well enough at night.”

“And, see, Cousins, there’s the problem,” Favo said wryly. “Nighttime is precisely where the best work happens; you sleep through it, you miss it all.” He waved his hand to cut off Cousins’ anticipated response. “But that’s irrelevant. My point is, we’re at an impasse here; one which I am at a loss for how to resolve. We both have made promises to our employers to deliver a single item, and clearly only one of us will be able to make good on our word.”

“True,” Ballis agreed.

“And I’m similarly assured that you are not the type to forgo your work, therefore I have a counterproposal: namely, that we both make good on our agreements.”

“I suspect there’s going to be part of this I won’t like, but go on and share your plan.”

Favo nodded. “Perhaps. I simply ask that you go on and deliver the charge to your employer, but let me know who it is that has paid you off. And then Molla and I will take it from their hands after the fact. That way, we both receive our rewards.”

Cousins was already shaking his head before Favo finished his pitch. “Even assuming for a moment that I would betray my employers, which you should know I would not do, there is no good way to arrange such a bit of information. If I tell you in advance, you would simply stake out the employer and steal the item before I could make the exchange. The only other logical option would be for you to trust that I would tell you their identity after the exchange has been made.”

“Which I would not do,” Favo concurred. “As I said, an impasse. How do you suspect we will surpass this, then?”

They reached the corner and turned right. “I see no solution that profits us both, nor one that prevents harm to either of us.”

With a sigh, Favo nodded his head in agreement. “Regrettably, I must confess I see no other way, either.” He turned to face Cousins, wearing an expression of genuine regret. “It has been an honor working against you, young man.” In his hand, a spellshot pistol was raised at about waist-height.

“I doubt honor had aught to do with it,” Cousins replied.

Favo shrugged, pulling the trigger. The spellshot fired, a glowing cartridge of compressed Art being cast from the barrel and bouncing harmlessly off Cousins’ waistcoat.

Cousins blinked, clutching his chest and realizing nothing had happened. He looked back up at Favo, whose expression was now blank. A piece of rigid paper was stuck to his shirt which hadn’t been there a moment before.

“Reaper’s breath!” he exclaimed. “Thought you had me dead to rights, old chap.”

“Closer than I would’ve liked,” came a familiar voice over Cousins’ shoulder. “I missed the hand, but I stopped the tongue.”

Cousins turned to see Ian striding casually towards him, placing a small rectangular box back into the interior of his jacket.

“We should go,” Ian said, tapping the piece of paper, which dissolved into dust at his touch. “He’ll be back to his wits inside of a minute; we shouldn’t be here when that happens.”

With a final glance back at the inexplicably statue-like criminal, Cousins broke into a run to keep up with Ian.

When they at last finished running, Cousins leaned over to brace himself up with his hands on his knees as he struggled for breath. He raised his head, briefly wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Ian looked around, seeming content that they had avoided being followed. Cousins noticed that the older man seemed no worse for wear; he didn’t look as if he’d been running at all.

He glanced down at Cousins, nodded at something of which only he was aware, and reached into the patchwork jacket he wore and drew out a tall wooden cup, handing it to Cousins. “Here, you should drink some water before you pass out,” he said.

His throat was burning enough that he didn’t initially question where the cold cup had come from. The water was almost shockingly icy on Cousins’ throat, and he felt almost instantly better. He handed the cup back into Ian’s outstretched hand, and tried to keep his eye on it as Ian passed it behind his right arm for but a moment. However, when his left hand returned to view, the cup was gone.

Before Cousins could say a word, a nearby pressure junction sprayed up a prolonged blast of steam into the sky, loudly enough to cut him off.

Ian smoothed out the fabric on his jacket. “Well, young man. I can only assume that as those two had some shenanigans lying in wait for you, you were successful in your task?”

Cousins nodded, his mind still wondering about the wooden cup.

“Excellent news, lad! Very well, then, I should probably take that…oh.” Ian’s expression drooped. “You don’t have it anymore.”

“No, sir,” Cousins replied. “I needed to get it someplace safe so that they couldn’t find it on me.”

Ian laughed. “And you gave it to the one person I should have liked to have kept it far from,” he said. He waved his hand, cutting off Cousins’ response. “No, that’s a question for another day. First, we shall need to make arrangements. We’ll need to get them to meet us somewhere that your ruffian friends won’t try and follow. Someplace…” Ian looked towards the west. The agricultural fields were visible between the streets, and, beyond them, the lush and dangerous greenery of the Wild. “I know an area that might work,” he said at last. “Can you deliver a message to Romany?”

Furrows appeared across Cousins forehead. “How do you know Rom?” he asked.

“Long story, too long for today, maybe later,” he smiled. “And her friend, too, the smith.”

Cousins could feel a bit of a flush appearing in his cheeks. “The smith? You mean Kari?”

Ian’s smile deepened. “Oh yes, that one. She’s a part to play as well, we’ll have to invite her along.”

“I can get them a message, yes. But wouldn’t it be simpler to just go to them and get the stone?”

“No,” Ian said with a faint shake of his head. “It’s not time, yet. Two days should be about right, perhaps three.”

“If you insist,” Cousins said. A strong scent of sugar and chocolate passed his way, drawing his attention to his right. Auran’s Confectionaries, he read on the sign. An idea formed. “Ah, I have an idea for getting a message to them,” he said.

“Perfect! We have a few hours before it gets dark, come. We need to locate the perfect place to perform the exchange.”

He began leading the confused Cousins towards the fields. “Wait,” the young man said as they walked. “You’re not thinking about having us all meet up out in the Wild?”

“I am.”

“But that’s too dangerous! We need to figure out a different place - one of them could be hurt, or worse.”

Ian’s expression grew dark, and, Cousins thought, a little sad. “I know,” he replied, stopping to address Cousins directly and somberly. “But that’s how it always begins.”

They lay low for a pair of days, with Cousins grumbling about “lost business and diminished reputation” and Ian ensuring that the lad stayed safely in Goya’s house. Cousins spent the time reading from Goya’s extensive library. To everyone’s delight, the two days eventually came to an end, and the two men left Goya’s apothecary under cover of night.

“Looks like rain,” Cousins said with a frown. “I should have brought a jacket. And larger boots, perhaps.”

The two were trudging through the packed dirt of an access path between two of the square hectometers of tilled soil, the darkened silhouette of the thriving Wilds growing steadily before them. To his imagination, the mountains far off to the west had already swallowed up the sun, and now the overgrowth was doing the same in turn to the mountains. In a few minutes, it would swallow them up as well. The thought made him shiver nervously.

“Is this…the same path we took the other day?” he asked, equal parts surprised and annoyed by the sudden tremble in his voice.

Ian nodded, and held up one hand, pausing to sigh before turning slowly around.

“What is it?” Cousins asked, seeing Ian’s eyes focused behind them. “Oh,” he answered himself, turning around as well to see the pair of rough-looking men following through the breezeway between the crops.

“A bit late for farming, eh?” Ian called out to them, but the only answer was a bit of derisive laughter from the smaller of the two men.

“Favo’s employ, I’d wager,” Cousins said.

Ian smiled wryly,“I wouldn’t take that bet. One of the reasons I felt the Wilds would be best is precisely for this reason,” he continued, softly enough for his words to reach only Cousins’ ears, “much more unlikely to be unwittingly followed.”

“I can see the allure,” Cousins whispered back as the two large men approached.

One of the men was carrying a large smithing hammer, the other carried a pistol of some sort at his hip. Ian’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “Have you still the Handle?” he asked Cousins softly.

“The handle – oh, that, yes. Why?”

“Get it out now,” Ian instructed. “You’ll need it.”

 Cousins reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out the curious piece of wood. It felt awkward and clumsy in his hand.

“You’re holding it upside down,” Ian said casually, reaching into his jacket.

The thugs broke into a dead run towards them, the larger one with the hammer raising it up by the handle and preparing to swing it down towards Ian.

Flipping it over in his hand, Cousins was forced to admit it did feel much better that way, though he suspected he’d feel better still if there were a blade attached to it.

“Here!” Ian said, grabbing Cousins by the right arm and raising it between them and the man with the hammer. Cousins felt a slight vibration in the wood, and suddenly a large frame of reinforced wood appeared – a shield, attached to the handle itself. The hammer slammed against it, but sent only the barest shiver down to Cousins’ arm.

Ian pushed the shield abruptly, sending the man sprawling. The shield vanished, and Ian then drew Cousins back behind him with one arm while the other flicked a pair of hardened squares of paper in their direction.

“Close your eyes!” he hissed.

Too flustered by the activity to refuse the command, Cousins did as he was told, squinting his eyes tightly as a wave of heat turned the darkness into a shade of red, and then a tremendous explosion sent him reeling.

It felt as if he had wool shoved into his ears, and the loudest ringing he’d ever heard on top of that.

Hands grabbed at him, and it took him several moments of struggling before he realized it was Ian.

Ian dusted him off and held his face in his hands to look at his eyes. At about the time the ringing began to subside, Ian nodded his head and smiled. “Good lad,” he said. “You’re going to be just fine, now.”

“Wha-“ Cousins began, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. “What happened?”  He glanced past Ian’s shoulder to see a blackened area several meters wide, and still smoking. In the distance, a blue shimmer sparked to life; a great field of energy snapped into place around the entirety of Oldtown. “That’s the Motive Wall,” he observed. “That means it’s…” his voice trailed off as he turned behind him into the deepening shadows.

“Sunset,” Ian finished for him. “We should move quickly, the storm is coming.”

“What storm?” Cousins asked. The sky had been clear just minutes earlier, but now, thick, dark clouds filled the air, and he could taste the coming rain on his lips.

“The storm I summoned to keep us safe and hide our tracks,” he answered. Cousins could see a hint of something darker on Ian’s face, nearly concealed by his usual smile.

“What is it, Ian,” Cousins insisted. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Ian’s eyes returned briefly towards the city, and then again to Cousins. “I don’t favor such a strong abuse of the Arts,” he said. “I’ve set something in motion, and I fear for what might yet happen.”

“Such as?” The winds were whipping up strongly now, forcing them to move on over the rock fence line and into the trees.

“That’s the trouble, my lad,” Ian replied, leading them through a winding maze of brush and overgrowth. “Nature prefers to move in a straight line. And when you push it,” he added, drawing back a low-hanging branch to illustrate the point, “it tends to respond in kind.” Releasing the branch, it whipped past them both with an impressive velocity. If Cousins had been standing in its path, it would have easily drawn blood.

They walked in silence for the next several minutes, finally arriving at what appeared in the storm’s darkness to simply be a smooth hill cropping up from the mud. Cousins approached it, and struck his knuckles lightly against the rusted metal with a hollow clang.

“No more of that, young man,” Ian cautioned. “There are many a beast out wandering these woods, we don’t wish to alert them to an untimely end.” He pointed up around to the far side of the structure. “Go wait in the shelter of its mouth, the insulation should keep you safe enough.”

“Where will you be?”

Ian drew the collar of his jacket up over the long braid of his hair. “I have to go apologize to the storm for summoning it. Keep the girls safe until I arrive.”

He stood, perplexed as the strange man walked off into the intensifying storm, and started as a lightning blast lit up the night sky. “Insulation should keep me safe enough? Should?!” In spite of his growing concerns, Cousins moved quickly around the Machine’s half-buried head and crouched down to enjoy what brief dryness he could and tried not to imagine he was being eaten.

While he waited, he pulled the triangular box of marbles back out. He rolled the fire marble in between his thumb and forefinger, and nearly dropped it as it began to glow again. Probably not a good time, he thought urgently, but the tiny sphere only shone more brightly.

Movement outside the Machine’s head caught his eye. Something small, and fast. He stood up, grabbed the Handle and hoped it would still work. However it is that it works at all, that is, he thought.

He kept the glowing marble behind him at first, so that its brightness didn’t make him night-blind, but caught a solid glimpse of the figure ahead of him, and recognized the white hair beneath a slightly tattered parasol. Cousins tried to call out to her, but could barely hear himself over the torrents of rain that rattled against the ground and the metal shell of the Machine directly behind him.

At that moment, something caught her attention, and she spun around as another quickly-moving shape entered the clearing, Kari evidently; a realization which made him feel both warm and strangely uncomfortable. Before he had a chance to come to terms with that mystery, something altogether larger than all three of them combined leapt into the clearing.

With the light coming from behind him, he got a clear look at it. Though its hair was soaked and mud-matted, he could see its claws, teeth and curled horns glinting. Cousins noticed what had to be a pair of wings like a bat, folded down across its back.

The creature snarled, seemingly caught in the choice of finding its supper with either of the two girls. Rom took the lead, he noticed, making the decision for the beast. Always a scrapper, that one, he observed, and never one to picture herself on the losing side of a fight.

She tried to keep herself between the creature and Kari at all times, but the great range of its jumps proved it to be only a matter of time before it would achieve its desired positioning. Each time it leapt, Cousins thought for certain it had her; but she would dive, roll or even leap above it as it landed beneath her. It was too dark, even with the light from the marble, for Cousins to see with any detail. Lightning filled the clearing with flashes of illumination, but the darkness after it was gone felt even more disconcerting.

Rom and the beast made several passes, each time shocking Cousins with the girl’s undeniably impressive skill at jumping; perhaps two or three times what a normal man could achieve, even in the best shape of his life. Something odd about her; and not just her hair, to be certain.

His mouth opened in warning, but if she heard him, she did not acknowledge it. The creature landed between the two girls and turned its attention on the easier meal. Rom responded by leaping up onto its back. It answered her move by unfurling its wings and bolting straight up into the storm-tossed sky.

Cousins heard his own panicked cry echoed by Kari. He rushed to her side, apologizing instantly for the fright his hand on her shoulder created. They had time for a moment’s glance before the next bolt of lightning struck the sky directly overhead.

From somewhere over Cousins’ right shoulder, Ian jumped past, skidding to a stop in the slick mud in front of them. He pointed at Cousins and yelled out for him to get ready, though Cousins wasn’t sure exactly what he was to get ready for. Nevertheless, he gave Kari’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and moved a few steps closer until Ian, looking directly into the blackness overhead, held up a hand, palm forward.

In his other hand, he snapped two cards in half, generating a brief spark and puff of smoke which were instantly dissolved in the rain. His hands then shot straight above his head as a large object crashed down atop him. In the last meter before it landed, it seemed to slow, as if falling into a great and invisible pillow. After the shock of its appearance passed, Cousins could see that it was roughly the size and shape of the immense monster, but blackened and burnt, still sizzling with each drop of rain.

Ian grunted with the weight, but pointed his finger nearest the two children directly at Cousins, who instinctively held out his arms and caught the smoking body of his friend Rom.

Kari’s scream behind him felt muffled, distant. All he could see was the burned skin and open, unblinking blue eyes as they stared up into a roiling sky.

The next hours were a blur. There had been a sort of reverence with which Ian had carried Rom’s body back. He, meanwhile, had all but supported Kari as they returned through the Wild and the agricultural fields until they somehow arrived at the Apothecary. Ian had taken Rom’s body in to Goya’s parlor while Briseida stayed with Kari and Cousins. His eyes had remained on Kari most of the time they had waited. She had cried inconsolably for the first several hours, and had fallen asleep from exhaustion shortly before dawn.

At some point, there was a mug held in front of him. It contained something smelling of herbs wafting up in the steam to his nose. He glanced up to see Briseida there, her expression concerned and tired. She glanced meaningfully towards Kari, whose sleeping head was supported by one of the pillows Briseida had brought for them earlier. Though her eyes were closed, the lids were deeply reddened and, even in sleep, her breaths were heavy and tinged with sorrow.

Cousins couldn’t think of anything he could say, and a faint shake of Briseida’s head told him she didn’t need him to. He took the offered cup and took a tentative sip of it. It made his lips tingle.

She nodded encouragingly for him to finish walking past him with a blanket held across her arm. Briseida carefully laid it atop Rom’s slumbering friend, and paused as if to be certain the girl did not yet awaken.

The door into the salon behind her opened and Ian stepped out, his face a combination of sorrow and optimism.

“We’ll know more soon,” he whispered, eyeing Kari beside them. “All I can say for now is that all hope is not lost.”

“Reaper’s breath,” Cousins swore softly. “I thought… well, I thought she was gone for certain.”

Briseida looked quickly at Ian, who answered her unspoken expression with a wink. “No, my young friend, there is something you should see.”

Confused, Cousins looked back to Kari. Briseida touched his shoulder, “She’ll be fine, I will sit with her until you return.”

He got up, stretched his back and glanced once more at Kari before following Ian back into the salon.

The salon looked like a dining room, but with all the chairs lined up at the walls as opposed to at the long table in the center of the room. At one end stood perhaps the oldest woman Cousins had ever seen, though the commanding expression of resolve etched upon her face made her seem somehow younger than Ian. Her hands rested, palms down, atop the table. Rom lay atop the table, a single white sheet having been laid across her from the neck down. It took him several more moments to both realize, and then believe, that the sheet was moving.

Cousins gasped, in spite of himself.

Ian closed the door behind them.

The old woman nodded her head. “Look closely, boy,” she said, gesturing towards Rom.

He was comfortable in admitting it was perhaps the last thing he should have wanted to look at, but he did as bidden, his reluctance replaced almost instantly with incredulity.

Cousins stepped forward; one step, two, and then moved the rest of the way to the table.

“But this isn’t possible!” he said, uncertain of exactly why he was still whispering.

Ian walked around to stand on the opposite side of the table from Cousins. He said nothing, but simply nodded as if to confirm that it, in fact, was possible.

“Ian, I caught her when she fell. She wasn’t breathing!”

Nodding patiently, Ian extended a hand towards the old woman. “Cousins, this is Goya Parva; she is an old friend of mine, and an impressive healer.”

She waved off the compliment as if it were an annoying fly. “I can’t take credit in this case, of course,” she said. Her voice was soft but seemed to carry all the way into his ears. “She’s doing all the work, I’m just keeping her fed and hydrated.”

Rom’s white hair was fully grown back, brushed back from her face. And the skin of her face was unblemished, pale and slightly freckled as always. But what truly drew his attention was in the very center of her forehead. There, beneath the skin and roughly the size of his fingernail, was a purplish glow, shining faintly. It didn’t look so much like a lump or a bruise, but flat and faceted like a sizeable gem.

His thoughts flashed back to his studies as a small child, and the random bits of information gathered through his life. The jeweled skin was a feature only mentioned in the old tomes of knowledge, or in the few remaining paintings or sculptures that could be found around Oldtown. It was a singular descriptive, always in reference to a single entity, one he had thought long lost to tradition and myth.

The blood pounded in his ears.

“Reaper’s breath!” he whispered.

Ian’s eyes sparkled as he nodded in confirmation. “Though, in all fairness to her, lad, you may wish a different epithet going forward.”

“You mean…” Cousins reached out to the table for support.

Goya shook her head. “It is not yet fixed in the stars, both of you. No matter what path she is choosing, her choice will either be made by her or for her. Let our little snow angel find her way back and then we shall see.” Looking back to Ian, she pointed a gnarled finger at him. “The Matrons will be worried at their empty beds,” she said, scarcely hiding a grimace at speaking of the philosophical order who ran the orphanage that cared for Rom, Kari and dozens more children, “See that she is returned safely. Let what transpires do so in the place she has come to call her home. Take the children with you, and explain to the boy here what other favors we must ask of him.”

 Leading the stunned Cousins from the room, Goya walked him to the door and pointed towards the stirring Kari. “She will want to remain by Romany’s side, and that would be well. I’m sure the girl will want a friendly face to see when she awakens.”

“But,” he sputtered, confused, “how is this even possible?”

But Goya merely smiled. “More is possible than you have yet to imagine, boy. Now, go help your friend get ready to go back while Briseida and I take care of other matters.”

Briseida rose and stepped past him and Cousins knelt beside Kari, reaching a single hand towards her to rouse her. He wanted to touch her hair for some reason, though it was caked with flecks of mud and leaves from her mad run through the Wild last night. Her eyes fluttered open to see him paused there, hand outstretched.

“Oh, I…” he began, but couldn’t think of any of his right words, as they had clearly abandoned him for a more eloquent master. “Rom’s okay,” he whispered. “She’s still sleeping, but… I don’t know how, but she’s fine.”

She bolted to her feet. “Where is she? Can I see her?”

He stood between her and the door. “Ian’s bringing her out and we’re going to take her back to the Orphanage.”

Somehow, he managed to keep her relatively calm until the door opened and Ian stepped out, carrying the unconscious Rom in his arms. If Kari noticed the two women at the doorway, she made no indication; her attention was fixed entirely upon her friend.

He held the door open for Ian and Kari, and they made their way from the corner shop, walking east towards the Orphanage that sat near the base of the Wall. Ahead of them, it loomed across the skyline, white and featureless, sweeping up towards the sky as a constant reminder of their ancestors’ exile.

Cousins paused as a brief spell of dizziness passed him; his vision blurred momentarily, and, just for a moment, his eyes played tricks on him. For just a second, it had looked as if the Wall was gone; that only an unending blue sky met the far horizon. He shook his head, and caught up with Ian and Kari as they took Rom back to the dormitories.

Something’s happened to the world, Cousins thought. It’s different than it was yesterday, and it’s going to be different again tomorrow. All that was, need not be again, strange, half-remembered words fluttering past his memory. He took a deep breath and adjusted the bag over his shoulder.

Well, he thought, if it’s going to be a new world, then I need to start learning a fair deal more about the one I’m already living in. He pondered that idea as they walked. Beginning with Art, he decided, nodding in satisfaction at the idea. Yes. It’s time Cousins gave in and started learning that.

His eyes moved between the Wall and the girl who walked only a few paces ahead of him. The pain and anguish of last night was already fading from her face, and the hopeful smile she now wore looked to him like the sunrise after a storm. He sighed softly.

Maybe Art won’t be the only thing about my life to change, he told himself. And in spite of the fears that realization might have otherwise caused him, this was like no other day. Today, the thought made him smile.