I put my back up against a shelf, out of sight.

It came from just ahead. Not loud. Shuffling, a light footstep or two. The sound of book sliding over book. Someone browsing the shelves? I guess no one said I’d be alone in here.

I peek around the corner, not entirely sure why I’m acting like a scumbird that’s smelled a venalid. My magic is gone, yes, but I’m still the biggest game in town. The hell am I acting so afraid for?

About forty feet down the row, the shelves take a hard right, and at the corner is a woman. She’s got her head down, looking at a book. Medium height, wiry build, really eye-catching platinum blond hair. Dressed in an outfit that I’d call classic Zhalsiran - long coat with a regal fur collar, leather boots with little fur ruffs. Stuff you don’t really see in the desert, or at least not on people with functioning hypothalamuses. Can’t see her face with her back to me. If she’s one of those high North tribals it’ll be mostly scars anyway.

You don’t get many Zhalsiran immigrants to Wellspring. The climate’s the exact opposite of what they’ve been conditioned to for millennia, so they don’t really thrive. Outside of delegates from Her Royal Majesty or traders, they pretty much stay up there by the ceiling of the world. Wonder what she’s doing here. And how she learned about the Library-

Wait a second.

Zhalsiran woman. Magic.

Might not be her. Can’t tell for sure without being able to sniff her aura. Need to find out.

There’s something else, though, now that I’m actually looking at her. Something… weird.

Melee weapons aren’t really common in the city. Not out in the open, at least. As far as I know there isn’t any specific law against carrying weapons, but the Watch frown upon it, and generally there isn’t much reason to. In today’s day and age they’re mostly relics or curiosities. Expensive, even - we’ve got guns, so the only people making swords and whatnot are dedicated craftsmen that just don’t want to see the art die. Handcrafted things, meant to be hung up and looked at more than used. Sometimes you see mercenaries with hotblades or cops with shock sticks, gangsters with junk knives or home-soldered spiked knuckles, but those are fringe cases. The average schlub on his way to work doesn’t have a briefcase in one hand and a battleaxe in the other.

This lady has a sword, leaning upright against the bookshelves next to her. I guess it’s a sword? I don’t know - when does a sharpened bar of metal become so ludicrously gigantic that it stops being a sword? Five feet long? A foot wide? I’m gonna call this a sword, because it’s in the general shape of one and it’s the closest parallel I have, but frankly the word seems somehow inadequate when applied to a weapon so huge it would be unwieldy in my hands, let alone in those of someone without extensive genetic and surgical modification. Seriously, the thing has to be six feet long at the absolute least, it’s as long as she is tall. Not including the handle. There’s no way it weighs less than a hundred pounds either - it’s about a foot wide and at least three or four inches thick along the middle. It’s insane. If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was some kind of joke, something a blacksmith would make just to show off.

Maybe it isn’t hers? I have no idea why it’d just be leaning up against a shelf right here, though. I haven’t seen any weapons lying around until now - this place is huge, but overall pretty tidy. I don’t know how it could be hers - she’s kind of tall, but not particularly muscular. Even if she was utterly ripped, there’s no way she’d be able to swing that thing. Centripetal force wouldn’t let her, she’d just fall over.

Well, whatever. I want to talk to her. If she’s cut from the cloth I think she is, she’s already heard my breathing from all the way over here and has a knife drawn under that book. Thankfully I’m knife-resistant. Mostly.

I come off the bookshelf and turn, stepping around it to face her. She’d have to have serious nerve damage to not feel me approaching her, but she doesn’t turn around. Some kind of act? Playing nonchalant? Or just actually nonchalant, I guess. I stop about twenty feet away so she doesn’t get cagey.

Nice guy approach. Don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with someone who might be a multiple homicide. She won’t be able to do anything to me in here, but best to start off on the back foot, just in case.

“Hello!” I wave a hand even though she’s got her back to me, because I’m prokaryotic.

She turns her head a little bit to the left. Not her body. Just enough to get me in her periphery. She’s got angular features, like a glass fox or a sharpened eagle. She registers me for an instant wide enough for her brain to perform a target assessment, then looks back down at the book in her hands.

“You’re that sellmage. Featherlight.”

I smile. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Known to some as Baulric the Beast.”

My smile explodes. “I see my reputation’s gotten a little ahead of itself. Or you’ve been spending too much time in Sector Sixteen. You don’t really seem like the type.”

“I’m not. Word gets around.”

I take a step closer, not suddenly. “I never liked that nickname. Kind of a mischaracterization, if you ask me.”

“Maybe. It could have less to do with character and more to do with meat. You could feed a family of four for a month. Where I’m from, we call that a beast.”

I cross my arms disapprovingly. “Now that’s just prejudicial. Who are you, anyway?”

She claps her book shut and sets it back on the shelf while replying, “I have the advantage of you, hm?”

Her eyes meet mine. Now that she’s turned around I can get a better idea of her expression, but I’m not getting much. Kind of a tough read, this lady. Very measured, very neutral. There could be curiosity, scrutiny, challenge, or playfulness in there depending on your interpretation, or none of them at all. She’s got a face like a glacier.

“For now.”

She smiles at me. And I know that smile. That’s the smile of someone who wants a challenge and thinks they’ve found one. Very interesting, for someone who weighs about as much as one of my legs. Her eyes are so blue they look dyed.

Leaning her back against the shelf and crossing her own arms as cool as you please, she measures me with her gaze and says, “You would be incredible. They don’t make them like you up North. All that muscle… and I bet your magic increases your stamina, and agility.”

I blink. “Are we uh, talking about one thing, or the other thing?”

She shows me her teeth, bright white and sharp like broken porcelain, and I think I know which one. “They’re really the same thing, as long as you don’t think on it overlong. Hm… you’d probably spoil it, though. You seem like a thinker. Big city people treat hesitation like it’s some kind of hobby, in my experience.”

That gets a disapproving frown out of me. “And I guess evasions and sweeping generalizations are a couple of yours, huh? You didn’t answer my question.”

She hasn’t stopped smiling. She’s the kind that plays with her food.

“You’re a hunter, like me. I know the game you prefer. I think you know who I am.”

I’ve taken a couple more steps closer. Not close enough that I’m sending any kind of message in particular - just testing her. She hasn’t moved.

“Kaiamora Stonecutter.” The name leaves my lips like tolling leaves a bell.

In answer, she departs the shelf to make a deep, elaborate bow.

“Princess Kaiamora Ixundra Morvallyn Stonecutter, of the Stonecutter Clan.” Rising back, her eyes snap back to mine. “I wondered for some time when we would meet, Mr. Featherlight. I didn’t think it would be here.”

I could move this forward, and I probably should. But my curiosity is getting the better of me. I know, but try to contain your astonishment.

I point and nod toward the conspicuous object to her right. “Is that your, uh… implement?”

Her eyes don’t leave mine to look at where I’m pointing. That’s good control - most people can’t resist following the direction of a sudden pointing gesture. Focused. She puts a hand to her mouth and laughs briefly. A low, self-satisfied sound, like a mountain would make when another idiot climber dies on its flank.

“Men. So easily distracted by others’ implements. Yes, that is my weapon.”

I hold a hand out. “May I?”

I’m so fucking clever. See, this does multiple things - I get to see if she’s confident and self-assured enough to let me touch her weapon, and if she agrees, I get to see how she handles the damn thing.

Still that smirk. I think she knows exactly what I’m doing, but doesn’t care. After all, we can’t hurt one another in here, can we?

She turns and just picks the fucking thing up. Just… like it’s made out of so much papier-mache or plastic foam. By the blade. She artfully, impossibly spins the massive thing around her forearm once, and stops it with her other arm, so it’s being held out with its grip to me. Like she’s done this a thousand times. Like it’s a reed.

I step forward. She’s looking at me, and I know what she’s thinking. She just turned the tables on me. Now she gets to see how I react to this thing, how I handle it.

Here goes, I guess. I take the grip in my right hand - it’s cool, just made of knurled metal.

She takes her arm out from under the blade once my hand is on it, and it’s like someone just started fucking with the room’s gravity selector.

CLANG.

The ringing clash flies all over the place, echoing off the shelves and back on us again and again. I’m bent over, hand still under the blade’s handle, taken aback by the sheer goddamn weight of this thing. I was wrong. There’s no way on Almarest this freak of blacksmithery weighs less than two hundred pounds.

Somewhere above me, Stonecutter’s voice says, “Hm. Not as strong as you look, I guess.”

I growl at her a little and buckle down. Left hand joins the right, up on the grip. I’ve never held a sword before, but my guess is that left hand goes under right. Then… heave.

The absurd flagpole of a blade sails up into the air and back. Way back. Too far back oh god oh fuck-

WHAM.

All one thousand pounds of man and metal crash into the floor and I’m on my back now. This is really a hell of a fucking day for me.

There’s a demure, ladylike chuckle.

Eyes on the faraway ceiling, I reply, “Hey, at least I lifted it. That’s a start.”

“Every warrior starts where you are now. More or less.” She laughs again.

I let go of the fucking thing and lumber to my feet. Brushing off my coat, I look at her. She doesn’t look condescending or ridiculing, just amused. Kind of how you look at a clown, or a funny dog.

I snort like a bull, turn around, and give the thing another try. More carefully, this time. Grip in my hands, just off the ground. Push left hand forward, pull right hand back. Hnngh… leverage. Oh my spine. Up… and up… Catch it gently…

The huge blade comes to a thud onto my right shoulder. It’s sharp, but not digging into my coat or anything. It’d probably be in my goddamn shoulder right now if I’d been less careful, though. Imagine. ‘Slab mercenary severs own arm with giant sword’. Oh how the people would talk.

Doing my absolute utmost to not fall the hell over with all this awkward extra weight on my shoulder, I turn to face the princess. I have to do it slowly, or the huge piece of metal jutting out from my center of gravity is gonna send me slamming down on my ass again.

She puts a hand on her chin for just a moment, then gives me a couple claps. “Well done. It does look a little more natural in your hands than mine, I suppose. Ah well.”

She holds out a hand, like she wants me to give it back to her. I start forward to flip the beast off my shoulder, but something stops me.

Nothing stops me, technically. Because the sword is gone. It’s not on my shoulder anymore. All the weight just disappears.

It’s in her hands like it’s been there the entire time. She’s putting it back over by the bookshelf.

Okay. I wind the fucking footage back, to check and see if the memory part of my brain isn’t currently on fire.

From my perspective you can’t really see the thing evaporate off my shoulder, but you can see it rematerialize, grip in her hand, arm outstretched like the thing doesn’t weigh more than a dry pasta noodle. My framerate isn’t high enough to catch it. Sometime between frames, it just… pops in. In slow-motion playback you can’t even see her arm react to it at all. No subtle adjustment, not even a teeny dip as her muscles tense. Nothing.

I cut the feed and zero in on her. By now she’s faced me again, leaning on the bookshelf by the sword, cool as you please.

I frown at her. “Okay, what’s the trick?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Hm? What trick.”

I smile, irritated. “Don’t fuck with me. You’re a cryomancer, right?”

The princess blinks. “Yes.”

“And besides, magic doesn’t work in here. Or so the Librarian says. And you didn’t drug me because our metabolisms got turned off on the way in. Spill, sister.”

A smirk, loaded with so much smugness I don’t know how it doesn’t collapse her face into a smugularity. “I don’t have to tell you anything, Mr. Featherlight.”

“Oh, c’mon. I realize being aloof and mysterious is probably part of your whole…” I wave a hand vaguely at her, “deal you’ve got going on here, but who am I gonna tell? I don’t even have friends, much less important contacts to leak information to. I must know the secret. If I learn how to do that I’d be such a hit at all the parties I don’t get invited to.”

She meets my lenses evenly, without wavering. The entire time we’ve been talking, her expression’s barely changed. She’s looking at me the way I look at one of Gulder’s sandwiches and it’s kind of freaking me out. A little. A very fractionally small amount, alright?

“It’s interesting. Someone built like you normally doesn’t need to learn how to weave words and lies to get their way. It’s natural and easy to use one’s body, when you’re stronger than everyone else. But you’re no brute.”

I hold a finger up. “Ah, but you don’t know that. We can’t hurt one another in here. For all you know, I’m a regular half-ton nightmare. If we met on the street, I might twist your head off and drink your juices like a bottle of fizz.”

She laughs again. “I know you’re not. It’s in your speech, your posture. You’re no monster. You’re a kind and gentle man in the wrong body. More like your namesake than perhaps even you realize.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything, while I flail around and think of something witty.

She continues, “You’re not the only one who can use words as well as weapons, Mr. Featherlight. I also know that you do have friends, or things that closely resemble them. Connections, as well. Ms. Summerstone, Lieutenant Deepwell of the Tenth Precinct. A handful of others. You aren’t as hapless and incompetent as you often pretend to be.”

I squint my shutters at her. “Taken quite the interest, haven’t we?”

“Insofar as I must. I guessed you would come after me eventually, for one reason or another. I’d be a fool to not learn all that I can about you. Consider it a compliment - you are one of the few things in this steaming catastrophe of a city I consider a genuine threat. And I haven’t lived as long as I have by ignoring threats.”

“Is there a reason I’d ever need to be a threat to you, specifically?” I fold my arms.

“You are a manhunter. Often a magehunter. And I’m aware of my current status with the Brotherhood.”

“I don’t work for the Brotherhood.”

“But you work with the Watch, whose relationship with the Brotherhood is not as antagonistic as some of them would prefer you believe.”

One of my eyebrows pops up. “I work with Deepwell. The rest of the Watch won’t touch me.”

“Lieutenant Deepwell is a Watchman first and everything else second.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask him.”

I frown at her. “Talking to you is like going to a competitive dental surgery tournament. Did you kill someone in Sector Thirteen a few days ago?”

Now it’s her turn to frown. “No. Am I supposed to have?”

“It’d honestly be more convenient for me if you had, yeah.”

“Well, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I haven’t been to Sector Thirteen in some time. Who is dead?”

“A Brotherhood priest.”

She shrugs. “Seems foolish, regardless of the reason. And I am no fool, so clearly it couldn’t have been me.”

“Maybe. You know you’re missing?”

She blinks. “Missing what?”

“In general. A little bird told me you were missing.”

The Princess rolls her eyes. “I swear, I’ve only been gone for…” Something seems to occur to her. “... Come to think, I suppose it’s been three days or so. Hm.” She waves it off. “No matter. Just some of my companions being overprotective of me. I’m not missing, as you can see.”

“I can see. It’s one hell of a coincidence, though.”

“How do you mean?” She raises a snowy eyebrow at me.

I park my ass right on the floor. “How much time do you have?”

She’s frowning, but she sits down too. “As much as you do, I suppose.”

I tell her the whole thing. Okay, most of it. The bits you think would be unwise to tell her, I probably didn’t tell her. Why am I telling her all this? I don’t know, but an unlocked door is usually more useful than a locked one, in my experience. Maybe she knows something. And hey, what can I say - I’m just a trusting kind of guy.

Once the tale is done, she looks pensive. Not worried, or particularly concerned, but thoughtful.

“You could have just kept your mouth shut.”

I cycle my shutters. “Please. You know as well as I do things would have ended up here regardless.”

The Princess huffs a sigh. “Maybe. Either way, I don’t know these men you’re looking for. I live underground but I have little to do with the others who do. And I’m not acquainted with any other hydromancers.”

“Any theories?”

“You’re asking me? I’m not performing your investigation for you, detective.”

“Why not? You seem like the kind of gal that has theories about stuff.” I flash my teeth at her. “Tell me.”

She rolls her eyes again. She seems to be doing that more often. “You tell me what your current supposition is, and I’ll tell you whether I agree.”

“Cheater. Fine. I think this is some kind of weapons test.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, after mulling it over. At first it seemed like we were dealing with angry mages, but now that I know what I know about the stuff the Brotherhood’s been up to recently? Nah. Can’t be a coincidence. They’ve got some kind of new toy. They’re putting it through its paces, and they’re letting arcanists take the blame for the mess afterward.”

There’s a glint in her eye. “Bold of them.”

“Yeah, but they always have been. Let’s just say I wouldn’t put it past them. It’s perfect, when you think about it - come up with some kind of weapon or gizmo that can capture and dispense magical energies. Bottle and control what makes the enemy so special. Then you don’t even have to fight the enemy anymore - you’ve made them obsolete. Tell me that doesn’t sound like the most Brotherhood thing ever.”

“Even going as far as killing their own?” I can tell she knows the answer to this already. She’s just indulging me.

“Especially going that far. It’s a great smokescreen. They’re treacherous as fuck, they don’t care. It makes it look like they’re a victim to anyone that would even think to look into it. Meanwhile, we get to foot the bill. It’s perfect.”

“Not so perfect. You appear to have figured out this entire scheme within a few days.”

“Yeah, but that’s the beauty of it - most people aren’t even gonna bother looking at this the way I would. I’m a mage, I’m incentivized to look at this case from multiple angles. Not many other people are. They’ll just take it at face value. Why not? It doesn’t need to be an airtight plan because no one’s going to scrutinize it. We’ve been guilty for the last six hundred years. This is just another fall of the gavel.”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking at nothing in particular.

“And soon it’ll be the same elsewhere.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

She meets my eye and smirks joylessly. “Not one for international news, are you.”

“I can’t afford the paper. And not much of that stuff ends up in the pool.”

Stonecutter shakes her head. “Nearly one quarter of Krathia’s Moot is Brotherhood these days.”

I nod like I understand all the implications of this. “That’s… bad.”

“Yes. It allows the Brotherhood to legally burn down entire villages for displaying atavistic traits. They can bully and threaten and extort huge portions of Krathia’s population. It used to be the plantation owners and lords that did that. Now the Brotherhood are becoming the lords. And they’re not doing it by force. They’re being elected.”

“That’s, uh. Not good.”

She squints at me. “You’ve never left the city before, have you.”

“I’m outside the city right now,” I reply very smugly.

“We’re in the Subterrane, you dunce. The Library doesn’t move - only its doors do. That aside… the upshot is that the Brotherhood are trying imperialism on for size. They’re eating Krathia from the inside out. The Queen recently appointed a Brotherhood minister as an advisory consul adjunct. Not because she wanted to, but because the Brotherhood have made it clear that unless they gain greater representation and privilege within Zhalsiran government, they will lay trade sanctions and begin to question the legitimacy of the royal right to rule within their doctrine. Which may not be much of a threat to the Queen personally, but it would sow chaos throughout the entire nation.”

“And when did this happen, exactly?”

“About three years ago. Things have progressed since.”

“That’s about when you came to the city, isn’t it.”

“Yes. It is.” She stops talking.

Some pieces start falling into place in my head.

“Hmmmm. You’re Zhalsiran. Or at least you’re pale enough to pass as one at a costume party. The Brotherhood starts muscling in on your government. You show up here of all places. This Library, this city.”

She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes narrow just a very small amount. Juuuust a little bit.

“... Oh my god, you’re a freedom fighter, aren’t you.”

Now she’s full-on glaring at me. “You say that like it’s something salacious.”

“No, no, it’s just,” I can’t stifle at least one of the giggles, “I’ve never met one of you before, you guys keep getting killed before I get the chance. So what is it, are you all-out Anti-Rec, just really nationalistic? Taking advantage of high-minded principles and a veneer of activism because you’re greedy and it’s easy to manipulate others with high-energy rhetoric? Or maybe you’re just insane and this is the easiest way to justify murdering people? We’ve got thousands of every kind in Sector Thirteen alone, you’d probably be able to-”

She leans her chin on the palm of her hand exhaustedly. “You’re being tedious now, Mr. Featherlight. You’ve made yourself quite clear, you’re far too cynical and content to believe in anything. Very… urban, of you. While it’s certainly impressive that you’ve managed to become so proud of a mentality that’s as common as sand, could we skip to the end? I’ve heard all this before.”

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

“The plan?”

“Yeah, the plan! You guys always have a plan, right? What’s the goal, what are you trying to achieve?”

She looks pensive for a moment, as if no one’s ever asked her this question before.

“I want to murder every single member of the Brotherhood, until their regime is less than a memory.” Her eyes are somewhere else, looking into a beautiful void.

“Yeah? And how are we going to do it? You’re not the first person to try, as I’m sure you’re well aware. The others are either counting shadows in the Arcanix or fertilizing a vat somewhere.”

“I’m not entirely sure yet. There are still some particulars I need to work out. But they are weak and I am strong, so I’m sure it’ll all come together in the end.” She fixes her frosty eyes on mine. “Would you like to help? I could use you.”

I smirk. “Is this one of those join or die things? Because that’s worked out very poorly for everyone who’s tried it on me so far.”

“No. But if you get in my way, I’ll have to fight you.”

I make a face. “Oh dear. Well, I’m terribly averse to violence, so rest assured, that day will not come. Do you want to help me find whoever’s killing these mages?”

She takes her chin off her hand and crosses her arms thoughtfully. “Hm. I suppose I might as well. Though I don’t know how much use I can be. I’m a wanted woman, you know.”

“Yeah. I’m not asking for much, just… keep an eye out.”

“I’ll see what I can see. What brings you to the Library, Mr. Featherlight? You don’t strike me as the literary sort.”

Shrug. “I read. Not as often as I should, but I can’t afford a viewscreen and the locks on the University’s dumpsters aren’t as strong as they think they are. But to answer your question, I’m trying to learn about magic.”

She nods, seriously. “Ah.” A pause. “You know, I pity the magic-touched in this place. For many reasons. They are motes of the natural consigned to a place that has declared war on the natural world. They can never commune. The ones of flame will never gaze long into a ritual brazier, to feel the heat of all time among those that also burn. The lightning weavers will never rise to meet the storm, to be struck down and shown respect by its great decree. There is nowhere to go, no one to teach them. They are surrounded, but they are still kinless.”

“We get by. It’s all we can do.”

“There could be more.”

“Should there be? Say what you want about the Brotherhood, there’s been a suspiciously low number of magic-related apocalypses in the last half millennium. And we have… y’know, like antibiotics and shit now.”

She glares at me. “Antibiotics and shit aren’t worth the cost we have had to pay for them. There is a right way and a wrong way. This is the wrong way. All of this has been the wrong way.”

“And I guess you’re the one with the master plan, huh. You’ve got it all figured out.”

“No. But I know who does.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

We just stare at each other.

“You’re not gonna elaborate, are you.”

“Not now. I don’t know if I trust you.”

“Pretty smart. I dunno, you seem pretty decent to me. If a little crazy. But we all need a little crazy, otherwise this just wouldn’t be a show worth watching.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I feel a wave of building pressure coming from the tribeswoman.

“I have some advice for you, Mr. Featherlight.”

“Hell yes, I love unsolicited advice. Lay it on me, sister.”

“You aren’t going to learn magic from a book. Or twenty books.”

“Oh no? Why not?”

“Could you find yourself in a book, Mr. Featherlight?”

“... Hm. You could probably make a perfectly serviceable self out of the things you find in books.”

“Your magic is just the results of you happening to the world. So it was with the old magisters that wrote the books. They may have written down their personal journeys, ways of thinking, little tricks that helped them on their path, but all those things are what they discovered, about themselves. Magic isn’t engineering or science. Not yet, at least. You have to look inward, and the only one who can do that is you, no matter how many old sages’ words you read.”

“Look inward.”

“Outward too. I was called to the Hall of Ice. You were called to the Grove. If you ignore the natural world, if you never feel the beating of a heart, watch the leaves fall, or see the new sprouts rise up through winter’s dying frosts, you will never really know yourself or where you were meant to belong. Just as I would be, if I had never submitted myself to the snow, and heard the song of the glacier.”

She stands up, and places her gigantic sword over her shoulder. Her cold, cold eyes land on mine.

“You cannot attain yourself through someone else’s words. You have to go out, and let the world refract through you, as you do through it. Stop putting all these filters between you and the truth, these books and walls and devices. This distance. Go to it and see for yourself.”

“... See what?”

The Princess steps over and puts a pale white hand on the top of my head, smiling. Not the predatory or aloof smile she’s been wearing. It’s real, and full of care.

“Go touch a tree, you big idiot.”

She goes the way I came, out of my life as fast as she’d fallen into it. I let her go. Something tells me it’s far from the last time I’ll ever see her.

For my part, I lean my back against a bookshelf and wonder aloud, “Well now what the fuck am I supposed to do?”