The opposition. The oh-so-charming leader of the other party of adventurers, because that’s the only thing he could plausibly be, smiles grandly at me, body language open, hands carefully away from his swords.

I’m not fooled. They’re not that far away from his swords, and I can see the tension in the crossbow woman’s arms; she’s used to people staring at her, not looking at her, and she’s doing a bad job of hiding how ready she is to bring her weapon up and fire. It doesn’t mean they’re necessarily about to try to kill me, just like everything in this place other than the Paladin on my right, but it’s worth bearing in mind.

“Opposition, huh?” I smile at him. He’s very easy to smile at. “I wouldn’t jump to such conclusions. I’m not on any side other than my own and my party’s, and the only enemy I acknowledge is the Temple, inasmuch as I acknowledge an enemy.” I give it a beat, and barrel on the moment his mouth opens to respond. “Which, I mean, it is trying to kill me, and presumably you too, however euphemized as challenges and scenarios it would probably rather I put it.”

“What an interesting thing to say!” He leans against a table - hey, there’s a table there - and smiles wider. With his weight on his arm, he’s more or less lounging in a model’s pose, rangy muscles on a lean, fit body taut and face in a delighted smirk.

His shirt is purple and ruffled, his purple pants go poofily down to just above the knee after which he’s got some sort of stockings or leggings that hug the muscles of his calves, and he’s definitely going to try to kill me. “So,” I say, casting my mind for anything clever to say, “come here often?” I almost physically recoil from my own words the moment they come out of my mouth, and then almost start laughing at myself about it.

“Second time,” he says, like I’m not being tedious at all. The hand he’s not leaning on comes up to play with his hair, toying with the thick braid that hangs down to his waist. “I’ve done a few other Temples and a Dungeon, but I like it here. It’s got… ambiance.” He winks, somewhat ludicrously. “How about you?”

“I can’t say that I’m a huge fan of the ambiance, personally.” My eyes are flickering around, but I catch the way that that makes him tense up just the smallest amount, the way his hand is still playing with the end of his braid, but it’s doing it near his swordhilt again. I can’t tell what the spellcasters are doing, but Crossbow Lady is less lounging distractingly and more poised, and Scars McGee is propping himself up on the back of a chair; its front legs are just off the floor, and I’m pretty sure he can launch it in one motion. “Actually,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, “I find it kind of offensive. And harmful? I mean, it instills decision-making paradigms that will actively sabotage you in the future, and it’s so… cheap. There’s a certain craft in it, but it’s a tawdry craft. I’ve fought orcs with more subtlety.”

“You’ve fought orcs?” It’s the one-robe spellcaster in the back. His voice is deep and resonant, and Fancy’s head whips around. “I thought they were a myth. There’s no well-attested-”

“Tim.” Fancy hisses the name like it’s a curse. “Don’t you-”

“Fought two of them. Clan Berger, a pair. One of them was a fighter, and the other a warlock.” I direct my words to Tim, but my eyes stay on Fancy, whom I cheerfully steamroll. “They were smart. I don’t know what folklore about orcs you grew up with, but at a guess they had the kind of oral tradition that makes written histories look thin.”

“Let’s not,” Fancy says emphatically, “get sidetracked.” He softens it a moment later with a smile that looks too good to be honest.

“Sir.” It’s Layers, the other spellcaster. She’s got a high soprano voice, clear and quiet and carrying. “Hear them out? You know we’re… here.”

“Five on three.” Fancy doesn’t turn his head. “Scrawny, my friend. Stand down, take the loss. I’ve killed prettier ones than you.”

“I’d say likewise,” I say quietly, “but I’ll admit, the goblins had worse color coordination. The purple works really well with the light green trim.”

There’s a round of snickers and sniggers, and Fancy straightens slowly. “Okay. I like you.” His smile is a lot more honest, this time; narrow and savage, almost feral. His voice is different, too; less polished, a little growly. It’s, frankly, a lot sexier for being more genuine than his prettier voice from earlier. “I changed my mind. Gimme yer pitch. Maybe we don’t fight.”

“A truce until then? I wonder if I can trust you to hold to that.” I smile softly.

“On my honor as a Lord Mayor,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t figure it’ll be you swinging first, and I don’t fear it if. Seidr strip me of honors if I lie, and bind me in Hytherian chains; a truce, until I turn you down or take yer offer.”

“Uh, okay.” His eyes narrow, and I take a breath. “Right. I swear by the Void Between.” That gets a reaction; an insucking of breath from about half of them, and a wide-eyed surprise from Fancy. “May it sunder my ties if I lie; may it take me to drift in the darkness if I break faith. A truce, until my offer is given, and you get a chance to take it or turn it down. May it bind us both to our word, in this place without Gods.” Sunder me and drift my bones, in oath form instead of just swearing. It was the first thing that came to my mind, and it’s got more weight than I’d expected; it fills the air, wraps around my throat and wrists, settles its weight onto my shoulders.

There’s a thunk. It’s me, and it’s also Fancy; we both make it into chairs before we collapse, me feeling and him looking like there was just an unexpected kid jumping onto our shoulders, maybe an eight year old, give or take. There’s a strangled couple of curses over on the other side and a totally unrestrained chain of absolute foulness coming out of Zidanya in low, grinding mutters, and my shoulders relax as I sort of lean forward and half-slump onto the table.

“Settle y’selves,” Fancy says, waving. “Gandrhei Pravad, that’s me, Lord Mayor of same. I’m sword and shield, scale and crown to those who’re mine; I stand between them and the Gods. Small town, but we’re a freehold, and to hold it I need the strength to keep the respect. I’m here for a pylon consecrated to Kazir, Druid. To Khasaf, too, if I can; like to see him smile on Pravad, I would. Tim’s yer biggest fan, what with you knowin’ any history he don’t. We got my brother Knives, he don’t talk anymore, Mikha bless’m; my wife Stella, she do, more the pity; and Sara, she mostly don’t, but oughta more often, on account of she’s smarter’n me for all she’s a thrall.

“Won’t lie, I know where we are.” He stops for a moment, chewing on his cheek. “Clever to bind us both; oath to a God here is a loose end and no anchor. Mad, and I like it. Who’re you’n yours?”

I pause a moment to look at them all, once after another, trying to bind appearances and mannerisms to the names. Knives gives me a credible attempt at a smile, tilting his neck back and to the side and displaying an absolutely brutal-looking set of scars across his throat; he’s lounging against a weapons rack, flipping knives that were racked there from hand to hand and putting them back like it’s a nervous tic, and maybe it is one. Stella, formerly Crossbow Lady, doesn’t pay any attention to me; she’s sitting next to Gand… Lord Mayor Pravad, head on his shoulder, crossbow dangling loosely. Tim and Sara stay standing, interestingly; there’s probably some sort of social status thing going on, and I throttle my fury at Pravad’s casual claim of ownership over a person and do my best to control my expression.

“Adam Levi James, Magelord. I don’t know why you’d think I’m a Druid, honestly; I’m an Outsider and a Runewright.” My voice takes on the cadence that I’d heard from the really good storytellers, inasmuch as I can replicate it. “I used to thread a path through the Void, with a ship that is a world in my wake; we were betrayed, and I sent them to safety and took the wending road here to Cador, across the trackless Between.

“My companions; Reca Amber Ashborn,” I say, the title ash in my mouth, “Paladin of Kazir. And Taveda Zidanya Medah, Druid and Ranger, late of Arcadia.”

That drops like antimatter into the room. Tim’s reaction I expected, inasmuch as he just about can’t form coherent words, but before I can even blink Sara is introducing herself to Amber, with Knives settling in next to the two of them. Stella slides herself across from Zidanya, with Tim perching on a stool at the end of the table, and suddenly there’s two rapid-fire conversations to my sides and an intense gaze from the Lord Mayor in front of me.

“An Outsider Runewright.” His voice is slow, careful. Gone is the casual tone and the accent; present is, I suspect, every gram of formality he has. “You mentioned an offer, and you have my attention, Magelord James.”