“Is someone there? Hello?”

“Weh!” Nikha jumped in shock, spinning towards the voice’s source. It had come from one of the cell doors.

“Yes! Please, help me!” The voice was young and male, its accent just a little strange. She couldn’t help noticing its fearful tone. Nikha froze up, unsure what to do. Whoever he was, he sounded in need of help. It might be a trick, but what if it wasn’t?

“Are you still there? Please, I-I’m locked in here, I don’t know what’s going on…Please, just say something?”

Her mind raced. There was a good chance it was a lure, a ploy to get her to open the door. Probably something would try to eat her the instant she did. But she couldn’t be sure, could she? If it was her in there, she’d want the person on the outside to help. What really tore it, though, was that hearing a voice that wasn’t out to hurt her made her realize just how alone she felt. She’d give it a try.

“Yes, I’m here,” she called through the door, feeling awkward.

“You are? Good! Um, do you think you could let me out?” The voice sounded a little nervous, as if afraid she’d change her mind.

“Get against the wall away from the door, and I will,” said Nikha. If whatever was in there meant her ill, it wouldn’t listen anyway, but saying it made her feel a little better.

“Okay, I’m there,” came the reply after a moment. It did sound a little farther away.

“Good. I’m coming in.” Nikha slowly lifted the door’s bar with the bayonet, then pushed the door open. Standing across the cell like she’d asked was a boy about her age, thirteen or fourteen. He was small but fit, with tanned skin and dark brown hair down to his jawline. His clothes were rustic: simple brown trousers and an undyed linen tunic. His high-boned face was expressive, the sort that would be lit up by a smile, but right now he just looked scared. He raised empty hands as his eyes darted from her face to her rifle. She carefully noted he had one right and one left, like he should.

For a few moments they stared at each other, stock-still. Then he spoke. “Um, I’m not going to do anything bad, so can I put my hands down?”

“Wait,” said Nikha. “Are you human?”

He looked taken aback. “As far as I know…yes?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, frowning suspiciously. That was the right answer, but it was also just what a monster would say. However, it certainly seemed like he was telling the truth, and she wasn’t going to lock him up again or shoot him for no other reason than he was possibly lying. She sighed and lowered the hammer, then let the gun hang by its sling. “Alright. Good.”

He dropped his hands with a relieved sigh of his own. “Whew. Thanks. Um, was it you who locked me up? I woke up here but I’ve never seen this place before. I can’t even remember how I got here.” He rubbed his forehead, obviously still distressed.

Nikha shook her head. “I’ve never seen you before. Who are you, as a matter of fact?”

“Oh! Sorry!” He grinned sheepishly at her, revealing one chipped tooth. “I’m Kemp! Kemp Ysantov.”

“No title?” Nikha wondered about that. This Kemp didn’t look much like an aristocrat.

“Oh, um, apprentice, I guess? I help my da on the forge, most days.”

Nikha crossed her arms. Definitely not a noble, then. This might be awkward. She’d hardly ever said a word to the peasants that lived on von Kranssov land. She’d visited some of the farms with her father a few times, but she always felt strange around the people there and the way they treated Papa. They seemed to be able to switch from fawning politeness to bitter resentment at the drop of a hat. Kemp seemed nice enough, though-

“What about you?” Nikha started, realizing she’d been giving him a weird look for several seconds while he waited for an introduction.

“O-of course.” She stood up straight, feeling an absurd bit of pride when she noticed she was the taller of them. “I am Nikha Lyizevna Vanyana Dmitreya Yuryalia Ferizhin Mivral von Kranssov et Tamourginne, the heir to Eldergrave.” She pointed her chin up haughtily and waited for his acknowledgment. She didn’t really like people fawning over her, but it was something every noble had to deal with.

“Wow, your parents must have worked hard on that one! Do you mind if I just call you Nikha?”

Nikha instantly deflated. “Um, no. That will be fine. Though it isn’t really proper-“

“Why not?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but he looked genuinely quizzical, not mocking. “Well, because I’m a noble and you’re not,” she finally said. Who didn’t understand the distinction?

Kemp tapped his chin with one finger. “Noble…oh, like a boyar?”

Nikha frowned. He wasn’t wrong, really, though it was only some of the traditionalist far eastern houses that still used that title. “Um, I suppose so. Don’t you have a lord or lady? Someone who owns your land?”

“Not in Afansk- which is where I’m from. I hope that isn’t a problem.” He actually looked a little concerned.

“Nnno…” She’d never heard of this Afansk, and for it to have no lord? It must be a remote place indeed, far out on the steppe. One of the independent villages founded by the Namets horsemen, perhaps.“I just haven’t talked with many peasants, I suppose.” She also hadn’t talked with many boys her own age, or girls for that matter, but that was beside the point.

“Well, I haven’t talked to any nobles at all, so we’re starting from the same spot, right?” He grinned and stuck out his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Nikha. Thanks for getting me out!”

She gave his hand a tentative shake and said “Um, you’re welcome, of course. The pleasure is mine,” like she’d been taught.

Kemp shook back and gave her a firm nod, his smile fading. “Now, I’m sorry to be abrupt, but where are we? Do you know who put me in here? What in the world is going on?”

Nikha scowled a little, glancing at the floor. She’d been about to ask him the same thing. “I don’t really have a good answer, but-“

A stentorian rumble from Kemp’s stomach stopped her. His eyes went wide and his face flushed. “Sorry about-“

“Kemp, do you want some food?” Nikha interrupted. She had plenty of jerky, and she wanted to sit down and go through her gear anyway. This seemed as good a place as any to do it.

Kemp quickly nodded, looking almost desperate. Maybe they would be able to get along after all.

——

“So you just woke up this morning, and everything had gone all strange?” Kemp asked through a mouthful of jerky. He was technically her guest, so she’d felt rude offering him nothing but salted meat and hard cheese. He didn’t seem to mind, though. They were sitting across from each other on the floor of his cell, which was featureless except for a caged gaslight on one wall.

After setting him up, she’d been about to clean her gun when he asked again what was going on. She told him what she’d seen since waking. At first, she’d been reserved, almost tentative, but after a few minutes the tale almost told itself. Nikha realized she’d wanted to talk about it with someone, even a stranger. Kemp listened raptly while he ate. To Nikha’s surprise, he didn’t laugh at her when she talked about being scared, or judge her for what she’d done to Ossoff, or even get angry when she found herself unable to talk about the thing in the gallery. He just listened without interrupting, eyes wide. Finally she talked about the dreamlike journey through the cave and her arrival in this dungeon.

“And…and that’s all I know,” she finished awkwardly. “I still have no idea what’s happening, but I think P-my father might, so I’m trying to find him and make sure he’s safe.” For a few seconds Kemp just watched her, an unreadable look on his face. “What?” If he said something mean or made fun of her, Nikha thought she would either attack him or burst into tears.

“I was just thinking…I don’t know if I could have done the same thing. I think I might have given up.” He sounded dead serious.

“Oh…well…” Nikha looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sure you would have been alright-”

“I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you’re telling the truth…you’re pretty tough, I think.”

“Um…sure. Sure. Is your jerky good?” She knew it was, of course. She just wanted to change the subject. He said it was and ate some more, while she sat quietly and nibbled at her own piece. After a few minutes he’d asked his question.

Nikha nodded. “Right. I just got up this morning and everything had gone wrong. I didn’t notice anything strange the night before.”

“Sounds like what happened to me.” Kemp stared at the floor, concentrating. “Last night, I was at home. We ate dinner, I did some arithmetic with Ma, I went to bed, and then I woke up in here. No idea how I got all the way to your house, or wherever this is. Seems we’re hitched to the same cart.”

Nikha didn’t appreciate being compared to a donkey, but nodded. “It would indeed. So let me ask you something.” He looked up expectantly, and she swallowed. “Will you help me?”

Kemp raised an eyebrow. “Well, of course.”

Now Nikha was taken aback. “Of course?”

“Yeah, of course! Finding your da seems like the best way to figure out how to stop this…whatever it is. That knight you met doesn’t sound too trustworthy.” Nikha scoffed, agreeing. “Besides, it sounds better than wandering around by myself.”

“Alright. Good. Thank you, Kemp.” Nikha was a little nonplussed. She hadn’t expected that to be so easy. “Let me take care of my things here, and then we can get going.” She pulled out a whetstone and began sharpening Papa’s war-knife.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Kemp reached for the knife and she jerked it away with a glare.

“I can do it myself, thank you very much.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t. Sorry. I just want to do you a favor, in return for the food and letting me out of prison and all that. My Pa says if you’re in debt to someone, you should clear it as fast as you can.”

“Would have done that anyway,” mumbled Nikha. He sounded sincere enough, and it wasn’t like sharpening knives was her favorite thing in the world. “You’re sure you know how to do it?”

Kemp laughed, a genuine and pleasant sound. “I’d be a poor excuse for a blacksmith’s son if I didn’t! I can do it just fine.”

“…Fine, then.” Nikha passed him Papa’s knife, the bayonet and the whetstone. “Just be careful with that war-knife. It’s my father’s.

“I’ll treat it gentle as a soft-headed calf.” Nikha gave him a funny look. “Just something my da says. Don’t ask me where he got it from.” He began running the stone up the edge with smooth, practiced motion. He looked like he knew what he was doing, at least. Nikha left him to it and got to cleaning her rifle.

She removed the breechblock, lever and ejector, all of which were filthy and black with carbon. A thorough wipe-down with a rag and Kopp’s Patent Solvent got them shiny as the day they came out of the Zhdanovsk rifle works. She poured more solvent down the barrel, then pulled a brass jag through the bore and grimaced at all the fouling it brought out with it. A few more passes with jag and patch, and it too was clean. Then, after everything got a thin coat of deer tallow mixed with beeswax to keep it clean and free of rust, she put the gun back together. She worked the action a few times to make sure everything functioned, then laid the rifle across her lap and sighed. Cleaning it was a routine activity, one she’d done more times than she could count, but that very mundanity calmed her. After a moment she set the gun against the wall and began refilling her cartridge belt.

After a moment she realized the rhythmic strokes of the whetstone had stopped, and Kemp was watching her with interest.

“What?” she said, feeling defensive for some reason.

“I’ve just never seen a gun like that before, that’s all,” he replied. “Where’s the match?”

“The match? What do you mean?”

“You know, the match or wick or whatever it’s called. The burning rope that sets it off.”

Comprehension dawned, and Nikha almost felt bad for him. “It doesn’t need one, of course.” Papa was always telling her how huge the Tsev Empire was, how many different areas and types of people it contained. But to think there were places so backward they still used matchlocks? Incredible. Afansk must have been far out on the steppe indeed.

“How’s it work, then?” asked Kemp, frowning. “Is it one of those wheellocks? They’ve got a few of those up at the convent…”

Nikha shook her head pityingly. “Here. Look at this.” She tossed him a round. He caught it and turned it over in his hands. “That’s a cartridge. It holds the bullet and the patch and powder all in one piece, see? And little round piece on the back is called a primer. It’s got a chemical in it that burns when it’s hit. So no more flaming ropes.”

Kemp handed her back the cartridge, shaking his head. “Sounds like you know a good bit about it. I’ve never even heard of something like that.”

Nikha couldn’t help tilting her chin up a little at that. “I suppose I know a little bit. What about my knives?”

Kemp grinned, picking up the war-knife. He ran it lightly along his forearm, and Nikha saw a few hairs cut so clean they popped into the air. “Sharpened up good. I left the heavy one a little toothier, but it’s far better’n it was.” He made to hand it back to her, and Nikha made a decision.

Instead of taking it she reached over and took the bayonet. “You hold on to that one,” she told Kemp, nodding at the war-knife.

“R-really? How come?”

Nikha cocked an eyebrow. “You need something to defend yourself with, don’t you? I’ve only got the one gun, so you can borrow the knife.”

Kemp eyed it nervously. The blade was more than a foot long, stiff and slender and wickedly pointed. A weapon, not a tool. “Alright, but I don’t really know how to use it.”

“I’ll show you some technique.” Nikha pushed herself off the floor and demonstrated a few guards and cuts with her bayonet. Kemp followed along, motions tentative. “Slashing is good for getting someone out of your face, but to really hurt them a thrust is usually better. Where you get them’s important too. Cutting someone’s forearm might make them drop their weapon, you know? And if someone’s inexperienced going for their face can put them off-balance. If you really want someone dead quick, though. you need to go for blood vessels.” She began pointing out target areas on herself, Kemp watching with trepidation on his face. “A thrust to the heart or a deep cut across the neck are fastest. But you can also go beneath the collar bone here, the brachial artery here on the front of your arm, here on the inner thigh-“

“How do you know all this?” Kemp asked nervously.

“Oh. Um, I read it in a book,” said Nikha with a quizzical look. Was it really all that strange?

“What kind of weird book tells you how to kill people better?”

Weird? Nikha sheathed the bayonet and crossed her arms with a hmph. “If you must know, it’s The Gentleman’s Guide to Ungentlemanly Fighting by Colonel Dafydd ap Dwylys. He’s a Cymdwishman,” she added primly, as if she knew him personally. “One of the good ones, my father says.”

“And that’s what you read about in your spare time. Fighting.” He didn’t say it like a question.

“Well, yes,” answered Nikha, somewhere between haughty and defensive. “It’s important to be able to defend yourself. When no one else is around, the only one who can keep you safe is you.”

Kemp seemed to consider that. “…makes sense. You sort of proved that just getting here. Still doesn’t sound like my kind of book, though.”

“Can you read?” Nikha asked, surprised. Peasants tended to be illiterate, as far as she’d ever heard. It kept them safe from seditious literature.

He gave her a flat look. “Well, that depends. Can you not sound sound so shocked about it?”

Nikha winced. “Uh…so that’s a yes. My apologies.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” said Kemp with a sigh. “I guess a lot of people in Afansk can’t. My ma teaches at the convent, though, so I learned from her.”

“Your town has a convent? What kind?”

“The Order of the Lachrymal Orbuculum. Funerary nuns.”

“Oh. What’s that like?” The gray-robed funerary nuns were an unusual group. They officiated at funerals, maintained relics, embalmed bodies and mourned for those who would otherwise go unmissed. Most people saw them as macabre and treated them rather distantly. Nikha had only seen some once, at her grandmother’s funeral.

Kemp shrugged. “They keep to themselves, pretty much. Ma says they have a funny job but they’re mostly just like other people.”

Nikha wondered if they could really stay normal even working with death all the time. Maybe they trained at it.

“Are you ready?” she asked Kemp after a pause.

He glanced down at the long knife still in his hand, then nodded. “As I’ll get.”

“Oh! Almost forgot.” Nikha undid the war-knife’s scabbard from her belt and passed it to him. “There. Put that on.”

He carefully tied it on and sheathed the blade. “You’re sure you want to let me borrow this? I know you said it was your da’s…”

“I-it’s fine. Just don’t lose it or anything.”

“Promise I won’t. Shall we?”

“Let’s.”