Lamp stays with Owl and the maid as they cross through Wall Town, and their group reaches the back wall without incident.

  As they enter the dark mouth of the main tunnel, they pass a trio of workers walking in the opposite direction. One man carries a tall stack of boxes while a woman at his side consults a scroll and recites instructions. A second man trails behind the others to provide them with backlighting from his graft. Owl watches the laborers curiously as their two contingents brush past each other. After the others have moved on, she glances aside at her own maid before looking to Lamp.

  “Would it be rude of me to request a candle or a lantern?” She asks with mild trepidation. “It scarcely matters now, since we leave early tomorrow, but I might want my own light source when we reach our next stop.”

  “Ah.” Lamp rubs one of his shoulders with an awkward feeling. “That’s a sensitive subject. The quick answer is: Yes. It would be rude of you to replace your way-lighter with an object. More than rude, actually.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not that it’s never done. We still make oil lamps, for instance, but…” Lamp sighs then backtracks. “The gift of magic reshaped our understanding and worship of the gods, just as it did yours. Presiding modern doctrine stipulates that each human in this world was granted a natural function at birth. It would be borderline sacrilegious for you to deny all light-binders the opportunity to perform their divinely appointed work on your behalf.”

  “Ah.” She swallows. “I had not realized. I apologize.”

  “No harm done.” He tries to force the tiredness out of his voice. “Besides, we’re about as far removed from the Blessed Order’s center of power as it’s possible to get, so there’s little fear of censure. Granted, we’ll travel close to their headquarters when we visit Clearheart, but don’t worry about that. I promise we won’t report you for heresy.”

  “Thank you.” The handmaid smiles weakly, though her face pales. “Are we likely to encounter officials from this institution? Should I know more of them?”

  Lamp shrugs. “I’ll always encourage education for its own sake, but I don’t think you need to worry much about the cult’s policies or politics. Blackwing told me he doesn’t trust them- which in hindsight I maybe shouldn’t have repeated- but anyway, I doubt he intends to lead us to their doorstep.”

  Owl nods, seeming relieved. Her pace slows as they near the corner where the two of them intend to part ways. The girl must want to extend their conversation slightly. She strikes Lamp as the inquisitive sort, so he’s not surprised when she asks a follow-up question.

  “I hope I am not speaking rudely again, but how do people like you fit into that framework? What is the prevailing attitude towards those who abandon the niche prescribed by heaven?”

  Lamp smiles. “That’s a non-issue because we have to accept it as a necessity of life. Even the full variety of graft-types can’t cover every category of labor required to keep our cities running. Plenty of workers like myself seek knowledge-based jobs instead of manual trades, and plenty more tradespeople wind up in a career that has nothing to do with their graft. The Order’s viewpoint isn’t that everybody needs to base our professions on our magic, but rather that society has a collective obligation to make room for those who choose to follow the gods’ path.

  “And one last note regarding your original question…” He holds up an index finger and activates its final digit in a luminous display. “Light grafts are plainly superior to all competing methods of illumination. They have a brighter potential output than any flame of manageable size, they can be adjusted to your preference without effort or delay, and you can have them lit or extinguished just by asking us nicely. Besides, a candle will coat your walls with soot and fill your lungs with smoke. If you rely on grafts instead, you get to breathe clean air.”

  The handmaid nods appreciatively. “Consider me convinced.”

  “I shall. Now, if I’m not mistaken, this is your hallway.” He waves a hand at the upcoming junction.

  Owl nods, and they exchange final pleasantries before parting ways. She mentions that she plans to return to handwriting practice, and Lamp advises her to work on memorizing simple words instead. He asks the maid to guide that lesson, and she confidently agrees after making reference to her impressive experience as a five-time mother.

  Lamp bids a cheerful but tired farewell to both the matron and the girl, then he heads off down the main tunnel while the others take the corner towards Owl’s guest chambers. The sound of their departing footsteps gradually fades as the distance between them grows, and soon the corridor adopts a lonely quiet to match its gloom.

  “Also.” Lamp mutters under his breath and in his own language, just to be sure. “Oil lamps can’t spy.”

  The scholar shakes his head and drives back the darkness with a bloom of light from his right hand. Next, he quells the silence by softly humming an old hymn. When the first song ends, he gives his voice a short break while he continues walking. Perhaps a minute later, he quietly sings a second song, followed by a third. After that, he lets the quiet win.

  From there on, his footsteps create the sole sound of life within this empty corridor of stone. The soft and steady rasp of leather kothornoi against the leveled rock produces his only metric of time. As his mind wanders, he imagines spending an eternity in such a hallway. Walking forever through shadows, judging time by the count of his own footfalls. What a dreadful concept.

  To ground himself, he traces his left hand against the matching wall, letting his fingers clink and chime as they rub against small imperfections left behind by the bore. These arrhythmic pings wouldn’t qualify as music, but they’re an improvement over the monotonous percussion generated by his gait. Lamp finds the gentle noises calming, for a while, but it doesn’t last.

  As time slips by and his distraction slowly crumbles, the tunnel’s dark serenity gradually turns melancholic. Lamp’s mood lowers, and he begins to dwell on worries he had previously shoved aside. Thoughts he had suppressed since leaving the handmaiden’s room begin to resurface, dragging old and potent memories up with them. Lamp resists their pull at first, but the past persistently demands his attention, and he eventually relents.

  Striding forward into an endless, unknowable dark with only his handful of light to guide him, Lamp returns his mind to a moment he would rather leave forgotten.

  He recalls Clearheart’s debut.

  The assault began hours after nightfall, while Lamphand and the other children slept, but that first night woke the whole city. The glow of burning warehouses and the soft echoes of distant violence carried across the waters of the bay to reach all corners of every district. For young Lamp, the invasion was far more audible.

  The warring factions filled his street with arrows, stones, and magic while civilians cowered and prayed in their homes. Neither side launched deliberate attacks against the temple, but under the darkness of an overcast night, amidst the chaos, dust, and smoke of an unexpected skirmish, none of the warriors could be sure of their aim.

  Hiding in their house of prayer, the acolytes and orphans were lucky if a minute passed without something that could kill a man crashing against their walls. The first hour of that grinding battle felt like an endless nightmare, but it was nothing, they soon learned. When she drew close, their bad dream became a vision from hell.

  That moment was Lamp’s first encounter with the stark line drawn between people like him and powerhouses like Blackwing. Just as a roaring bonfire compares to a sputtering torch, so does Clearheart’s namesake-graft measure against its inferiors. The young gang leader who had sought to amputate Lamp’s hands was also fear-binder, but appraising that boy against the Glassblood captain would be like placing a herring beside a hammerhead. They might swim in the same ocean, but she’s a different sort of beast.

  Twenty-one years ago, on the first night of Clearheart’s one-week war, Lamp felt her presence through the stone. His young mind hadn't understood the source or nature of her power, but he recognized the tempo of a beating heart. With every pulse, a wave of terror breached their walls. The feeling tore through their shelter and carved into their minds like gnashing teeth through rotten fruit. The cowering orphans couldn’t comprehend why this force had come for them, but they knew by instinct what it meant.

  Death. Death approached, not from without but from within. It walked inside their veins, stepping in time with that baleful drum, drawing closer to their core with every pounding beat. Some children felt its fingers inside their throat, squeezing, writhing in their blood, tearing to get loose. Any breath could be their last as they struggled to inhale. Every second felt like the end.

  But death was merely passing by.

  The children survived that night, for Clearheart had not come to raze their temple. Her target lay slightly farther down the lane. Once she broke her enemies there, she advanced and departed. The night grew quiet in her wake, save for the cries of frightened babes and the sobbing of young caretakers unable to care for themselves.

  In retrospect, Lamp estimates that his exposure to Clearheart’s magic hadn’t lasted any longer than five minutes. Two at minimum. The forces arrayed against her would either have died or abandoned their position soon after she arrived. It’s useless to fight a trueborn ruler without support from another of the same rank, and the defender’s basileus made no appearances that night.

  Still, for the duration of that brief skirmish, Lamp had believed with full confidence that the morning sun would shine down upon a wasteland strewn with corpses, that when the dawn finally broke above his ruined city, nothing besides death’s monstrous heartbeat would remain to greet it. Only in Clearheart’s absence did his panic fade. When she moved on and her dread curse befell a different street, Lamp felt saved. Spared.

  He and the temple’s other residents had wept, shivered, and prayed until morning. Many of them only found sleep at the following dusk. By then, Clearheart had secured more than a third of their district. Two days later, she had claimed another third. From there, her progress slowed as she ground down the final core of resistance. She eventually flushed the entrenched lord from his bunker at the end of that week to stage their second duel. He died trying to run from her.

  Over the course of those bloody days, Lamp was lucky enough to observe the battle from afar. The carnage never returned to his street, for all the good that did his nerves.

  After Clearheart’s war finally concluded and civilians began to wander outside their homes again, Lamp learned that some of the elderly and frail had died as a direct result of their conqueror's power. She likely killed more noncombatants than any other individual fighter, excluding those careless fools who set the docks ablaze.

  In the aftermath, their new leader apologized to the bereaved and sponsored several funerals. That act of reconciliation was the beginning of her redemption in the minds of many, and she followed it by fostering twenty years of safety and peace. Somewhere along the way, the city forgave and forgot her sins.

  But not Lamp. He knew better than to pursue a grudge against someone so far above him, but he forgot nothing. He forgave nothing.

  His resentment and distrust remained private, expressed only through a preference to live and work outside Glassblood territory for as long as he had the option. He took jobs in Clearheart’s district whenever he couldn’t find employment elsewhere, but he could never accept her protection or agree to work for her directly.

  Now he needs to work across from her.

  Fortunately, Lamp’s assignment under Blackwing doesn’t require him to break his prohibition. All that is required is for him to share a space and serve as someone else’s voice in a conversation that doesn’t truly involve him. He can stomach that.

  Resolution made and conviction affirmed, Lamp shoves his worries back inside the mental box he built for them years ago. Then he returns to singing hymns.

  “Hail to Mirror, source of self, sower of souls. You greet us before our beginning and await us at our end. When we travel Wayward’s road and pass ‘neath Regent’s gate, it is your hall in which we rest. You bring…” Lamp iterates through several praises until softly whispering the closing line. “... and show us how to change.”

  After a while longer, probably not quite as long as it feels, he reaches the tunnel’s other side. The dark corridor spills out into an equally dim room, and Lamp almost stumbles in surprise when his graft light reveals the threshold. He had expected to see the stone hallway’s terminus long before he reached it, having assumed that its exit would stand open to admit the light of day. Were that the case, he should have seen a bright spot shining in the distance as he approached. Instead, it’s just here.

  Where’s the sun?

  Lamp steps into the room with cautious curiosity. His right graft shines too wanly to reveal the sprawling space within, so he holds up his left hand and burns more of his reserve. The brief flare of white light lingers just long enough for him to scan and understand his new surroundings.

  This room is a warehouse filled with empty wagons. Past the vehicles, directly across from the tunnel’s mouth and opposite Lamp’s current position, a heavy pair of doors blocks the true exit from the wall.

  Lamp drops his left hand as its luminance fades and walks forward. While traversing the room, he detects a faint scent which he can only describe as stale dust. Did the wagons track that in? Perhaps he’ll try sniffing them later if he gets bored enough. For now, he approaches the wide gate and holds his right hand forward to get a better view.

  He’s not shocked to find the doors barred shut. In hindsight, it’s obvious that Blackwing wouldn’t leave any entrance to his compound hanging open. Lamp’s actually surprised that paranoid man didn’t assign multiple permanent guards to this position. It seems like an obvious security oversight.

  “Just think.” He mutters to himself. “What if somebody walked out of the sea of chaos, crossed the largest desert in the history of deserts, found the one spot on this impossibly giant wall where someone drilled an access point, and then somehow battered this fortress of a door down. On that day, Blackwing will feel very silly for not installing watchmen.”

  Smiling weakly at his own jest, Lamp steps forward to examine the gate further. The wooden beam securing the doors looks long and sturdy enough to support the roof of a mansion. Lamp probably can’t lift that mass by himself, but he doesn’t despair just yet. He doubts Owl was forgetful or capricious enough to let him walk all the way down here if this room didn’t offer a way for him to look outside.

  Sure enough, his focused appraisal reveals a small window cut into the wood; a brass latch holds its shutter closed. Lamp unclasps it and pulls the plate back. Then, like water breaking through a dam, light pours in from the outside world. The scholar squints in anticipation of a harsh, afternoon glare, but the blinding flash never strikes.

  Lamp reopens his eyes and examines the awaiting vista with confusion. The landscape, at least, conforms to his expectations. A mostly flat and completely empty stretch of stone leads outward to a desolate horizon. Upon the ground, Lamp sees minor divots and the odd pebble, but no hills, valleys, ditches, or major slopes of any kind. Most importantly, he doesn’t see any more canyons.

  With nothing to block the sun, and with dusk well over an hour away, he had expected blue skies and bright daylight. Why, then, does he see the evening sky? Why does the sun shine so weakly on his skin? He hadn’t spent that much time walking here, had he? If so, he’s late to his meeting with Blackwing…

  No.

  Lamp gently shakes his head in silent refutation. He doesn’t think he lost that much time during his stroll, no matter how slowly he dawdled. Thinking back to his march through the canyons, he remembers Blackwing telling him that the sun grows weaker the further one travels from the caldera. Lamp had felt that slow decline every time he pulled light into his graft. The premature twilight he sees through this window must be a byproduct of that process.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Lamp had expected the solar enfeeblement to progress in a linear trend across the breadth of the empty plane. Maybe it still does. He sees darker shades of blue and purple in the far distance, suggesting a further decline in the potency of light. Regardless, there must be a significant drop-off at the geographic demarcation drawn by the final canyon wall. The concept of a bright day does not appear to exist beyond this barrier. Fascinating.

  Lamp scratches his chin thoughtfully, mulling over his assumption. By ordinary physical laws, such as he understands them, none of this makes any fucking sense. However, that same absurdism becomes plausible when considered in a mystical, aesthetic sort of way. It’s the kind of detail gods might dream into being while creating a more finely sculpted world.

  But if it’s deliberate, if this is heaven’s own artistry, then is it supposed to mean something? Is this a final warning for any human travelers who manage to venture so far from their cradle? Or perhaps… Perhaps this section of the world is simply unfinished? Maybe it lacks daylight, water, and life because no one was ever meant to dwell here. But then…

  Lamp sighs and cuts short that stream of musings before his mind can drown in it. He’s already wasted enough of his life trying to puzzle out the intentions of the gods. He should let them keep their mysteries, or at least, he should focus his attention on the smaller set of questions that he actually stands a chance of answering.

  It’s dusk outside because it’s dusk outside. That’s his thesis. Later academics can build on his findings.

  Lamp steps back from the window but leaves it open. Turning about, he reassesses the large room and its many wagons. Most of the vehicles sit in tidy rows to his left, parked perpendicularly to the exit with their backsides facing inwards. Blackwing’s momentum-binders must have steered them in through the wide gate before making a right-angle turn.

  Lamp imagines a hectic but efficient dance of workers moving through this room. In his mind’s eye, the dusty caravan slowly trundles between the wooden doors in single file. One by one, they enter, turn, and roll to a stop in the next available position. As the wagons steadily accumulate, fresh laborers from Wall Town nimbly step between each vehicle, hurriedly snatching jars from their beds the moment they settle.

  What happens next? Do they employ weight-binders to haul their cargo to the inward side of the wall? Blackwing probably just grabs a whole cart and carries it all the way up the mountainside to one of his ships. Why not?

  Shaking his head, Lamp dismisses the image and climbs into the back of a wagon to rest his weary shins. He shifts to face the window and arranges himself into the most comfortable cross-legged position he can find. Once composed, he returns his attention to the heavy doors and that lonely beam of twilight streaming through a small square portal.

  He sits in silence and watches his little patch of the cloudless, pink-hued sky through its wooden window. The false evening still strikes him as uncanny, all the more so with its current framing, but there’s a melancholic beauty to it also. The silence of it might be what moves him most.

  The solemn calm of that somber view slowly settles atop his mind like a comforting weight. Lamp closes his eyes and permits the lulling quiet to blanket his thoughts in a shroud of emptiness. For a few moments afterwards, he doesn’t think of anything at all. He simply breathes. A deep inhalation fills his lungs, and a slow exhale empties them. The actions repeat in a leisurely cycle until he ends it on a whim.

  Leaving his eyes closed and letting his breath come automatically, Lamp twists his hips, swings his legs off the side of the wagon, and flops down onto his back. From that more relaxed position, he allows his mind to wander. A few inconsequential thoughts meander through his head before he eventually latches onto something that feels meaningful.

  In a quiet moment of sudden realization, it occurs to Lamp that he’s the farthest from other humans he’s ever been. He spent his entire life inside a bustling city, and while he didn’t always have company, there were always other people around him. Now he’s alone. Profoundly alone. He finds it peaceful.

  Lamp stifles a yawn. It would be reckless for him to doze off when he has a looming appointment to attend, but, as a strong counterpoint, he’s very comfortable here. Surely he can rest… for a little while. It’s only a quick nap. He’ll go back when… when he needs…

  The world fades out. Strange dreams come after a time, but Lamp’s addled mind remembers nothing from them. He remains in that state for considerably longer than he’d intended, rousing only when a sudden noise tears him from his peaceful slumber.

  Startled, he jolts upright into a sitting position and stumbles from the wagon. His jumbled imagination conjures morbid visions of the graft thieves who had waylaid him three nights prior. For a terrifying moment, he believes the thugs came back to kill him, but he quickly wakes enough to dismiss that panicked assumption as absurdity.

  Lamp remembers where he is, and the realization calms his heart. Next, he remembers where he was supposed to be, and that second realization frightens him all over again. He must be late, so Blackwing came to find him. That’s not ideal.

  Glancing down the tunnel, he sees an approaching dot of light. He activates his own graft to make himself visible and walks towards the oncoming light-binder while calling out.

  “Blackwing?” He asks with a bleary and uncertain tone.

  “Yes.” The returning call carries a touch of amusement. “I thought I might check in. Are you free?”

  “Of course, Sir!” Lamp answers with a growing sense of mortification. “And I’m terribly sorry for being late. I was… I made a mistake.”

  “Peace, Lamphand. You aren’t late.” Blackwing answers with a calm expression that Lamp is finally close enough to resolve. “Rather, you weren’t late when I started looking, and that wasn’t too long ago. I finished my other tasks earlier than anticipated, so I decided to advance our meeting. Thank you for staying in one place for me.”

  “I… Sure.”

  Lamp feels too embarrassed to reply to Blackwing’s playful sarcasm with banter of his own. Instead, he dutifully marches forwards until his pocket of light combines with theirs, whereupon he deactivates his graft. Blackwing stops at that point, then turns to his way-lighter.

  “This discussion will involve career planning.” He tells the young woman. “Please wait here.”

  She nods. Blackwing turns back to Lamp and waves his right arm down the hall towards the wagon room and its outer gate. Lamp understands the gesture’s meaning and turns around as his employer reaches him. They walk together in the direction from which Lamp had come.

  The younger light-binder lingers behind them but continues illuminating their path. She increases the brightness of her output as the two men move further away. When they reach the hallway’s end, Blackwing calls back with permission to stop, whereupon she allows her graft to fade.

  The red-tinged ray of dusk light pouring through the window shines just bright enough for the merchant and scholar to see each other. By that glow, Blackwing finds his way to the back of a wagon and takes a seat. He gestures for Lamp to do likewise in the next vehicle over, and the scholar complies. The two of them sit silently in their adjacent flatbeds for a moment before Blackwing speaks.

  “Before we get to our main topic, tell me your assessment of the handmaiden. On a personal level.”

  Lamp draws a long breath in and collects his thoughts before answering. “I think she’s a good kid stuck in a difficult situation, and I’m not sure how the pressure will shape her actions. She seems intelligent, sociable, and broadly conflict averse. That said, she’s proven herself capable of suicidal levels of brashness, and she had enough resolve to plan an abduction and human sacrifice for the sake of saving her loved one… I admit, she worries me a little.”

  Blackwing nods. “Thank you.”

  The merchant doesn’t volunteer his own feelings, not even on his face. Perhaps it’s not Lamp’s place to inquire, but keenly he wants to hear the other man’s thoughts.

  “May I ask what you make of her? I suppose I am asking. May I expect a response?”

  Blackwing smiles and answers. “My opinion roughly matches yours with a few addendums. First, the girl’s an experienced runaway with complementary magic. If we left without bringing her along, I doubt she’d be here when we returned. Were I in her position, if I had her power and I was abandoned in Wall Town a second time, I would simply trail the departing group through the canyons until they led me inside the caldera. She has no reason not to try, and I could only stop her through imprisonment.”

  Blackwing rests the elbow of his human arm on the sidewall of his wagon and holds up two fingers.

  “Second, her prior possession of a soulmask marks her as nobility, yet she bears a servant’s title. That seems incongruous, but if her people always give the handmaiden’s job to an aristocrat, then the designation has likely warped into a symbol of status and royal favor.

  “Her appointment therefore implies strong political connections; she’s probably the scion of an old and wealthy family, potentially their heir. Even without that factor, she’s apparently the sweetheart of their ruler’s only daughter. Given her standing, I must assume that by unjustly restraining my guest or allowing harm to befall her, I would sabotage the most lucrative partnership our company has ever formed. Now that you’re one of us, that prospect should worry you.”

  Blackwing holds up a third finger. “Lastly, she’s still na?ve, or perhaps just inexperienced. I’ll grant that she’s shown conviction, but it’s far easier to risk your life than to make your first kill. I also haven’t met many girls her age who had the stomach for kidnapping.”

  Lamp nods, taking Blackwing’s point. Owl had spoken confidently on matters of death and justice, but Lamp would bet half of his new yearly salary that she’s never taken a human life before or even held a person at knifepoint. She didn’t strike him as being truly capable of abduction or murder-by-proxy. He’d wager there’s still too much warmth left in her spirit. Too much purity. At least, that’s his impression after knowing her for two hours. Maybe he’s being benignly chauvinistic. She might be more dangerous than he wants to believe.

  Lamp refrains from sharing those thoughts aloud since the general sentiment has already been expressed. He does, however, have a comment pertaining to Blackwing’s second observation.

  “I think you’re right about her status.” He volunteers. “I’m pretty sure commoners in her world aren’t allowed to view their king’s face; I’ve seen depictions of him wearing a falsemask when greeting the public even though he presumably still has real skin underneath. With that restriction in place, it makes sense that only nobles would attend to his family.

  “Also, when Grayowl gave us her real name, she introduced herself as belonging to House Wit. I don’t recognize that specific surname from any of the stories I’ve translated, but it matches a common trend. Some of the oldest and most prestigious families in her world are named after virtues. They all trace their lineage back to the divine kingdom, but following the rupture they renamed themselves after the traits to which they attribute their salvation.

  “If the outlander was born to one of those clans, then her ancestors have likely held positions close to royalty since the mythic days in which the gods ordained our first king…” Lamp trails off, then nervously clears his throat. “Speaking of, aren’t we technically their subjects?”

  “What?” Blackwing’s brow furrows incredulously. “No. Why would we be?”

  Lamp shrugs. “It’s just… our people have served theirs since our ancestors crushed Mycenae. The old vows may be forgotten, but they were never actually renounced, so it stands to reason…”

  “I renounce them now.” The merchant shakes his head dismissively. “Ancient history won’t dictate my allegiance. If the gods want me kneeling in imitation of my forebears, they can come down to bend my knee themselves. Until such time, speak no more of this.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” Blackwing lets his hand fall flat atop the wagon’s sidewall. “Returning to what you said directly before that… Does this surname have a meaning?”

  He speaks the word for “caution” in the old tongue. Lamp translates it for his employer, and the man nods with a musing expression.

  “Jaleh Caution.” He softly speaks the name before raising his voice for Lamp’s benefit. “She’s my counterpart in trade negotiations. Her rank in their world appears roughly equivalent to my rank in ours. Have you translated any stories on House Caution?”

  Lamp nods. “I have. Her family shares a close connection with the icon of heartbreak. One of her male ancestors lured Heartbreak to its current position at great personal risk, though the text was a bit vague about the nature of his peril.”

  Blackwing shakes his head. “Another icon. How many do you know about?”

  “Around a dozen, including Heartbreak, Manslaughter, Growth, and Judgement. Would you like me to list the rest of them?”

  “No. Not now. I’ve steered us too far away from my original target for this conversation.” The merchant sits up straighter and continues in a more professional tone. “I wanted to meet with you privately so we could discuss your future at this company. I’ll explain my expectations for the work I want you to perform over the next few weeks and during the remaining span of your contract. When I’m done, I want to hear your preferences. Do you feel ready to address that subject?”

  “Yes.” Lamp answers earnestly. He’d been passively wondering about this topic for days.

  “Good. To begin with, I obviously need you to accompany Owl and myself as we travel back to your home city. Clearheart and I exchange enough money through our proxies that I should be able to arrange a face-to-face meeting on short notice. I expect to see her the same day we arrive, or perhaps the following morning. You’ll attend that meeting with me.”

  Lamp nods calmly, though inside he feels a sudden rush of dread. Maybe he isn’t as ready for that meeting as he thought. He wonders whether he can hedge the risk.

  “Will we meet Clearheart in her stronghold or on neutral ground?” He asks in a flat tone.

  Blackwing smiles and shakes his head. “No ground within that city is neutral, but to your point, my only option is to seek an audience at her manor. Our short notice and the inclusion of two unfamiliar guests will put Clearheart’s guard up. Requesting that she exit her place of power would evoke outright suspicion. Not to mention, a departure from her office might cost more of the basileus' time than she’s willing to give away for free. Glassblood rates are expensive.”

  “Understood.” Lamp answers woodenly before looking away.

  “May I know why you asked?” Blackwing lightly prompts. “Do you have a history with Clearheart?”

  “In a way, but it’s nothing unique to me.” Lamp bows his head before elaborating. “I was present, proximate, when she conquered her district. Her mercenaries engaged the defenders on a junction close to my orphanage. Our walls could stop most of what the warriors were throwing at each other, but after a while Clearheart herself marched down the street and joined the fray. Her magic was like a flood…”

  His voice trails off, and he falls silent for a moment before hesitantly concluding. “I had nightmares for years afterwards.”

  A quiet moment passes between the two men.

  Lamp glances back towards the outer door and looks out through its small square window. He notices that the light outside has grown slightly fainter, the sky a few shades darker. True dusk has arrived, it seems, and the sun will soon set behind the vast sea of stone. Lamp takes in the sight, slowly breathing out, then in. On the next exhale, he finally turns back to face his employer. He finds Blackwing also staring out through that patch in the gate, though the man refocuses on Lamp after another second.

  “Thank you for sharing that, Lamphand.” He speaks gently, reaching over with his right arm to rest his palm on the sidewall of Lamp’s wagon. “When we meet Clearheart, are you concerned for your physical safety?”

  “Ha.” The scholar weakly laughs. “No. No I’m not. Clearheart’s violence is never random, and she has nothing to gain by harming me. And even if Grayowl really manages to piss her off, I still wouldn’t expect Clearheart to start anything while you’re in the room. If I’m wrong about that and a bad situation comes to worst, then I’ll just hide behind you.”

  Blackwing chuckles softly. “Good plan.”

  “I thought so. It seems the best allocation of the assets I have available.”

  “Indeed.” His mild amusement shifts back into a serious expression, then he asks. “Are you worried Clearheart will retaliate against your friends and former colleagues if we offend her?”

  Lamp shakes his head. “No. Clearheart won’t know about those connections, and none of the credible rumors I’ve heard suggest she’s that extravagantly vindictive.”

  “Having met her, I agree.” Blackwing retracts his hand. “Do you have any other concerns?”

  The merchant waits for Lamp’s shake of the head before resuming. “Good. Returning to our previous subject, we need to discuss your interests and duties over the longer term. Your primary ongoing responsibility will be to translate during trade negotiations. I’ll also need your help drafting any missives I send to Owl’s king and prospective contacts among the aristocracy.

  “Beyond that, I’ll have you tutor me in the old tongue; I’ve delayed that education too long already. Once I achieve basic proficiency, I’d like you to instruct my second-in-command as well. She works near the office you shared with Emerald. I’ll make your introductions before we leave the city again.” Blackwing pauses until Lamp gives him a nod. “That workload should keep you busy for most of a year. Do you have any objections or alternate proposals?”

  “Will I continue documenting your acquisitions?” The scholar asks curiously.

  “Not in the same way. Going forward, we can just ask what each gift means.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Let me know if you think of anything else. We can expand your role if you’d like to assume greater responsibilities down the line.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Please do.”

  With that, Blackwing slides his legs off of the wagon and regains his footing. Lamp follows the other man’s lead by exiting his own vehicle. Once both of them are standing, Blackwing calls down the hallway for his way-lighter to reignite her graft. She complies a moment later, and a spot of color blooms in the dark tunnel.

  Blackwing heads off immediately in her direction, while Lamp turns back briefly to close and latch the window in the gate before hurrying to catch up. When they reach the young woman, Blackwing bends down closer to her ear and speaks in a soft but serious tone.

  “Anything?”

  “No, sir. Not that I noticed.”

  “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” He straightens. “Thank you, either way. Please lead us back.”

  The way-lighter turns around and sets off in the direction of Wall Town. Her charges follow behind at a polite remove. As they walk, Lamp glances askance at Blackwing with a dubious expression. The merchant notices his attention and returns a curious glance. Lamp almost doesn’t ask, but then he decides he needs to know.

  “Did you have her,” he waves ahead to the young woman, “monitoring the tunnel for Grayowl?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I visited her room while I was looking for you, and she directed me down the tunnel. I wondered if she might follow me afterwards.”

  Lamp shakes his head in frustrated befuddlement. “Why would she bother eavesdropping? She’d learn nothing. She doesn’t speak our language.”

  “So we assume, and it’s almost certainly true, but there are too many unknowns at play. I’m not taking anything at face value where that girl and her kingdom are concerned. I will not grant through carelessness any information which should be earned by trust.”

  That statement hangs in the air for a few seconds of walking before Lamp comments. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re paranoid?”

  “I’ve heard the complaint.”

  “Do you admit to it?”

  “That depends. Who’s asking?”

  Lamp sighs, Blackwing laughs, and they let the matter drop. The rest of their walk passes easily with infrequent but pleasant conversation. Once they emerge in Wall Town, Blackwing shows Lamp to his quarters, and the scholar quickly falls back asleep.