Clif was clearly enjoying himself, feet up lounging in the pub at the cheap inn they had chosen. “So I take it the visit didn’t go as planned?”

Petyr frowned, taking a seat. “No, but it went as expected. Sephiria is no longer a friend. It sounds like even their king is a bootlicker now.”

Clif waved to the innkeeper. “A smallbeer for my friend.” He turned back to Petyr.“ You smell awful, by the way. ”

“Thanks,” Petyr rolled his eyes.

“Well then, I suppose we should work on our extraction.”

“I suppose we should. All of the hirelings are dismissed?”

“Aye, sire. All fat and happy. They’ll make their ways back to their own homes in their own times. Disguised now as pilgrims, following the path of the gods.”

This pleased Petyr. All of the hired hands they had used, pretending to be members of the court, dispersed and happy to have extra coin and full bellies to boot. He would miss some of those lads. He sighed. All of those maps he had drawn. It was going to be a pain to re-create them, but he could do it. He had every town memorized, every mountain and stream committed to memory. He could see them as they were in person and as they had been laid out on paper. Sad that he wouldn’t be able to travel and complete Sephiria. Oh well. At the very least, perhaps he could find some Zephyrian curios and treasures along the way as he traveled back home.

Petyr looked up at Clif. “Where will you go?”

“I’m taking the route to Hestia first. Like your father instructed - they need to know that Sephiria is wholly imperial now.

“That sounds like an interesting diversion.”

“I don’t look forward to the trip - bunch of zealots. Still, if we are to win the inevitable war ahead, we will need allies.”

Good luck with that,” Petyr laughed. The nation of Hestia was famously conservative, with a ruling class rooted in the predominant religion of G’uin. The pantheon that most of the surrounding countries loosely accepted as gods was considered by Hestians to be an absolute blasphemy.

“Anyhow, all is ready for your journey home. You have your pack upstairs in the room. Be sure to bathe before you leave - you smell like death.” Clif grinned and rose, flipping a coin to the innkeeper before striding out the door.

Petyr took a few more gulps of his smallbeer. Probably best to leave as soon as possible. Still, it would be nice to relax in the bath a little. He had just set the mug down when the door creaked open again. Thinking that Clif had returned, he looked up and began to crack a joke. It was not Clif.

It was a familiar face, however: boy a few years older than himself with the beginnings of a beard on his chin. One of the hirelings. He had played at being a footman, from what Petyr remembered. They recognized each other instantly. Petyr smiled and began to say hello when the boy pointed at him suddenly.

“That’s him right there,” he said to someone behind him through the doorway. A moment later, several large men lumbered into the room. The Chancellor’s men.

So much for the bath.

Petyr swiped his mug from the table and flung it at the closest soldier, shattering instantly against his skull. The man clutched his face and yelled. The others pushed forward, bowling over the traitorous hireling. Petyr sped up the stairs. He scrambled through the hall, trying doorknobs to find an open room. The first one that squeaked open revealed a middle-aged woman in an unfortunate stage of undress who screamed as he threw the door open. Petyr averted his gaze and ran straight through, the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs echoing behind him.

“Sorry!” He yelled as he yanked the window open and thrust himself through and onto the roof. Yells came from inside the room, along with more screaming, as he balanced along the edge and worked his way to the end of the building.

As he shimmied along the edge, Petyr eyed some scaffolding by the adjacent building. The jump would have been too far otherwise, but with the scaffolding there he could just make it. That would buy him some time, at least. There was no way these lunkheads could pursue him across rooftops. He sucked in a breath and then jumped as far as he could. It was a little further than he had anticipated. Rather than landing on his feet, he just barely reached the top plank with his torso, knocking the wind out of him as he hit his mid-section on the ledge. It took all of his self-control to clamber up to the top rather than just allow himself to fall.

Petyr climbed from the scaffolding onto the roof of the building and looked up. A pair of the Chancellor’s guards were cursing at him, framed inside the window he had just exited. It was time to run in earnest. Petyr allowed himself a split second to catch his breath and he was off.

Now to see just how good of an escape artist he really was.