On the eve of the anniversary of the battle, the Golden Plum’s kitchen girl met me after her shift, scowling ferociously. “Chef got a box of teygvamp mushrooms today,” she groused. “I hate cleaning ‘em. They’re so soft that they break easy, and if they break before you cook ‘em, they go all bitter and spoil.”

She was almost as bad as my archivist. “What is the significance of this shipment?” I prompted patiently.

“Oh!” The kitchen girl suddenly recalled that I didn’t work at the Golden Plum. “It means Herself is coming tomorrow. For her beef and teygvamp stew. Chef makes it up special every time. As if we didn’t have enough work already.” She scowled again to express her disapproval of people who traveled to foreign lands, developed a taste for outlandishly finicky foreign delicacies, and then insisted that said foreign delicacies be reproduced in Doskvol – specifically, in her kitchen.

Personally, I was curious about this ethnic Skovlander dish that Mother had never mentioned, but I certainly wasn’t curious enough to wait three months for a dinner reservation.

When I reported back to the others, Ash immediately rushed to Six Towers to befriend the chestnut seller who occupied the corner near the Golden Plum.

The next evening, bundled up in layers of armor and disguises, Ash and I loitered by the man’s cart, crunching hot roasted chestnuts and chatting casually with him while surveilling the restaurant. Somewhere in the direction of the canal, Faith was hopefully perched on a rooftop, inciting her ghostly riot.

At precisely the hour of honor, a goat-drawn carriage bearing the Helker coat of arms rattled to a stop in front of the Golden Plum. Out stepped the general, resplendent in her dress uniform. She turned to help out her husband, a bookish-looking fellow in a sharp frock coat.

“That’s Gen’ral Helker,” the chestnut seller said conversationally, nodding at the couple. He watched her march through the front door, medals glinting in the electroplasmic lights. “Must be something to do with the Unity War if she’s here again.”

My attention was on the coachman. After he drove the carriage around to the side, he hitched the goats to a post and trotted towards us, rubbing his hands and huffing on them to warm them.

“Well, I see a customer! Don’t let us keep you!” Ash gave the vendor a friendly smile and patted the metal barrel of chestnuts fondly.

Completely unaware that his wares would now induce violent bellyaches, the seller hurried forward. “Ah, good sir,” he called ingratiatingly, “hot roasted chestnuts?”

Leaving them to it, Ash and I strolled around the corner into a dark alley, from which we could observe both the front door of the Golden Plum and the carriage. “Is Faith in place?” I asked softly.

“Yes.” Ash tipped his head down the street.

Through the mist, I could barely make out a tiny figure leaning jauntily against a chimney. If all went well, the coachman would soon flee for the privy, upon which the two of us would knock him out and steal his livery.

But all did not go well. Just as the man pressed a hand to his belly and groaned, a messenger raced into the restaurant. Moments later, the Helkers dashed out and flung themselves into the carriage, Ronia bellowing, “Charterhall! Go go go!”

Temporarily forgetting his distress, the coachman sprang onto his seat, cracked his whip, and sent the goats galloping west towards the bridge to Charterhall.

“Quick!” cried Ash. Tearing off our street clothing to reveal frock coats and pinstriped trousers, we darted towards the nearest hansom for hire, pretending to be patrons of the Golden Plum. “Follow that carriage!” he ordered the driver as we leaped into the cab, rocking it back and forth.

Totally unfazed, the driver clucked at his goat and it plodded obediently after the Helkers. “Hehehehe,” he cackled salaciously through the trap door, “that’s a nice carriage, innit? Is it him or her that’s caught yer fancy?”

Channeling my inner Faith, I batted my eyelashes up at him and replied flirtatiously, “Why, both of them, of course!”

Ash repressed a sigh.

“Hehehehe, never you worry! I’ll won’t let you lose them!”

As our hansom clattered over the cobblestones at a much less-than-breakneck speed, I fixed my eyes anxiously on Faith’s rooftop. Had she seen the target leave? Had she had enough time to summon her specters?

All of a sudden, a giant, ragged phantom exploded out of the ghost field right behind the Helkers. So old that it barely looked human anymore, driven to ravening by life-lust, it locked hollow, pitch-black eye holes on the carriage and shrieked wildly.

Bleating with frenzy, the Helkers’ goats bolted forward mindlessly – only to screech to a halt just inches from a bluish-white vortex of open mouths and grasping hands that blocked the entire street. The goats screamed and backed up frantically, nearly upsetting the carriage in their panic.

“What in blazes is that?” shouted our driver. Much more accustomed to specters than the Helkers’ team, the Six Towers goat twitched its ears and continued to trot forward unconcernedly.

Barely clinging to his own sanity and shouting, “Gee up! Gee up!” over and over, the Helkers’ coachman yanked hard on the reins. The carriage veered left so sharply that it nearly overturned – I held my breath, hoping – then righted itself and careened down a side street, heading south towards the canal and the bridge to Nightmarket and safety.

“Keep going!” I yelled up through the trap door. “Don’t lose them!”

More and more specters plus a haunt or two sped out of the surrounding neighborhood to join the riot, but under Faith’s skillful control, the big ghost never wavered. It swooped after the carriage like a deformed, translucent sheepdog.

Exhaling sharply, Ash whined in an upper-class accent, “Six Towers has gotten so dangerous! What are we even doing here? True, Chef Roselle is brilliant, but can her restaurant possibly be worth this hazard to life and limb?”

“Lady!” the driver shouted down at me, “I don’t care how pretty that lord and lady are. They’re not worth yer life!”

Just a block away by this point, the ghostly uproar kept growing, the high-pitched shrieks reverberating almost unbearably through our skulls. All around us, shutters slammed shut as the residents of Six Towers hunkered down to wait out the riot.

“I will decide! Keep going!” I ordered the driver.

“No! It’s not worth my life!”

Hauling on the reins as hard as he could, he sent us hurtling down a side street.

“No! Stop! Go back!” I yelled frantically.

“No! Yer mad!”

“Then pull over!”

“No!”

It took us five heart-stopping blocks to calm him enough to let us out, and he was so rattled that he clattered off before we could pay him.

Staring around the dark, twisty alley, I tried to get my bearings. “Where are we?”

Ash darted to the intersection and looked up and down the street. “We’re four blocks east of the bridge,” he called. “Hurry!” Without waiting, he took off.

I raced after him, catching up easily and matching his rhythm. In silence, we ran a block south, hit the canal, turned right, and jogged along its black waters.

“There!” I wheezed, pointing.

In the distance, a carriage chased by a big, ragged ghost was just careening onto the bridge, axles creaking and wheels skidding.

Adrenaline spurred us into a sprint, but just then, the icy mist turned into an equally icy, needle-sharp rain, stinging our eyes and turning the cobblestones slippery and treacherous beneath our feet and forcing us to slow again.

Faith must have seen our struggle.

All of a sudden, the big ghost vanished with a thunderclap that terrorized the goats into leaping forward. They were halfway across the bridge when the ghost reappeared on the other side, rising out of the ground with slow, deliberate menace, its entire head region distorted by a huge, jagged grin.

This was too much for the goats. Rearing up, they bleated and kicked their front hooves frantically. Yelling and cursing, the coachman fought desperately to regain control. “Whoa! Whoa! Easy! Easy there!” he shouted.

The big ghost simply hovered midair over the end of the bridge, waiting patiently for its prey. One taloned limb rose and beckoned lazily.

Shouts drifted out of the carriage, but we were too far away to make out the words.

Eyes practically bulging out of his head with fear, the coachman jerked the reins to the left and whipped the goats into a trot, but even though the bridge was wide enough for two large vehicles to pass each other normally, it had not been designed for U-turns at speed in the rain. Slipping and sliding across the slick ground, the goats smashed straight into the railing, splintering the wooden bars and lacerating their legs and chests and bleating heartbreakingly. Too panicked to notice or care, the coachman lashed their backs viciously and shouted at them to back up, which they did – only to jam the back of the carriage into the railing on the opposite side of the bridge and get well and truly stuck.

A woman’s voice roared out the window, “Drive forward slowly!”

It was nearly drowned out by the goats’ screams.

In the midst of all this confusion, Ash’s backup plan swung into action. Up the street from Nightmarket came a clattering of hooves and rattling of rusty metal. Trailing shouts of “Watch out!” and “Runaway cart!” a scraggly old goat pulling a broken-down farm wagon charged onto the bridge and slammed right into the side of the carriage. There was a great splintering crash, broken wheels and sharp pieces of wood flew everywhere, the Helker goats bleated even more loudly, and the poor cart-goat, impaled on a broken axle, flailed and screamed in agony.

The carriage door flew open with a bang, and out clambered the Helkers: Ronia with her service pistol drawn, Tocker cowering behind her and clinging to her coattails. Calmly, the general assessed the situation, planted her feet, and fired an electroplasmic round squarely into the big ghost, disintegrating the center of its body. It swirled and howled so loudly that I shuddered, Ash missed a step, and the coachman huddled in on himself and clapped both hands over his ears.

Totally unconcerned, Ronia lowered the pistol, seized her husband’s hand, and poised to sprint for Nightmarket.

Skidding to a stop at the mouth of the bridge, I fired one wild shot at the target before dashing forward again. The bullet went wide and exploded the railing to Ronia’s left. Little chips of wood sprayed all over her and her husband, who yelped and tripped over his own feet.

“Get down!” Ronia commanded. Dropping his hand, she grimly reloaded her pistol with another electroplasmic round.

On the far side of the bridge, the pieces of the big ghost knit themselves back together, hovered, smoking slightly, to check that it was whole – and then lunged straight for Tocker, jaws open wide enough to swallow him in one gulp. At the very last second, it veered just far enough off course to miss, but its frayed edges brushed over and through him and froze him in place with its weird electric-blue glow.

Tocker broke.

Sobbing hysterically, he literally flung himself at the carriage and tried to scramble up and over it.

“Tocker, come back!” shouted Ronia urgently over her shoulder, pointing her pistol at me.

From behind me, Ash’s shot whizzed past my head and buried itself in the ground by her feet.

But now I was in sword range. Without slowing, I thrust Grandfather at her belly, but she stepped aside nimbly, let my momentum carry me past her, and coolly shot me point-blank in the back.

I jerked forward as if she’d punched me, nearly fell flat on my face, and staggered a few steps before I could regain my balance. Under my torn frock coat, my armor cracked and smoked.

Whistles and pounding boots in the distance heralded the arrival of Nightmarket Bluecoats.

Bounding past us, Ash rushed to intercept them and send them the wrong way. “Shots fired!” I heard him crying. “That way!”

Faith’s voice sang out soothingly behind me, “Come over here, Mr. Helker! You’ll be safe over here!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Tocker abandoning his mad climb and stumbling towards Faith.

“Tocker! Wait!” yelled Ronia, but she was too busy trying to wrestle a third round out of her pocket to stop him.

Faith darted forward, grabbed Tocker’s hand, gently led him away from us – and promptly got jumped by three small, vicious ghosts.

“Why, aren’t you the ones I met at the Sensorium?” she cried out in evident delight. “You tracked me all the way here? You clever, clever things!”

With a wave of her lightning hook, she casually brushed them away. Two vibrated resentfully and prowled in circles around her, but the third darted past the hook and sank all the way into Tocker. His body went stiff for a split second, but then his face relaxed as it took full possession.

“How about a teensy-weensy bit of help here, dear?” Faith called gaily across the bridge.

A ragged, glowing form swooped past me and lunged at the newcomers, scattering them like old handbills in the wind.

Grandfather! I cried desperately. Help me!

Wisps of pitch-black smoke curled up from its tip, and I stabbed Ronia all the way through her armor – a blow that would have incapacitated any normal target.

But the general was just too tough. Tossing her pistol aside and pressing one hand to her side to staunch the bleeding, she drew a long knife with the other and thrust at me.

I barely dodged.

At that moment, Ash came charging across the bridge and plunged his dagger straight into her back.

She roared in pain and fury.

On the Six Towers side of the canal, a streetlight blinked out as if extinguished. An arc of crackling blue lightning leaped from it into the tip of Faith’s lightning hook, then veered sharply and speared right into Ronia’s chest. Electricity sparked and danced all over her body, dazing and disorienting her briefly.

In the distance, on the Nightmarket side, the detachment of Bluecoats was pounding back along the canal towards the bridge. Any moment now, they would realize that this was no mere road accident.

There was no time to think.

Flinging my arms around the general, I dragged her to the broken railing and threw both of us over the side and into the black water.

Oh, forgotten gods, it was cold! My fingers went numb almost immediately. Accustomed to campaigning in Skovlan, the general had no such problems. She grappled and pummeled me as I struggled to disentangle my arm far enough to stab her.

Then, out of nowhere, something long and sinuous and scaly wrapped around her waist and started to haul her down. Releasing me, she kicked and punched it furiously, but the thing only tightened its hold and started squeezing the air out of her lungs. Her eyes went wide, and a little trail of bubbles escaped her lips.

At the same time, a tentacle looped around my ankle but slipped off. Still clinging to Grandfather, I fought my way upward until my head broke the surface.

Above me, Ash was running back and forth along the canal on the Six Towers side, shouting like a panicked nobleman and waving his arms in distress. As soon as he spotted me, he rushed to the edge and leaned all the way over the ledge, stretching out both hands.

I latched onto them, and he hoisted me halfway out before a tentacle whipped out of the water, seized the gibbering coachman, and dragged him in. Before I had time to shout a warning, a second tentacle shot up, lassoed Ash’s neck, and dragged him – and me along with him – into the canal with a great splash.

Back in the icy blackness, I waved Grandfather, trying frantically to figure out what was Ash and what was water demon. Sharp claws the size of sickles sliced into both my legs, and I opened my mouth to scream, only to choke on filthy canal water.

In my head, Grandfather’s voice roared: You can’t have her! She’s mine!

Abruptly, the claws loosened and sank into the depths.

I groped blindly for Ash, seized a handful of fabric, and kicked furiously for the surface, hoping I was heading the right way.

There.

A flash of brilliant bluish-white light illuminated the water. I swam for it until my head broke the surface.

Air. Blessed air.

I coughed and swiped at my eyes to clear them, and when I could finally see again, I found Ash treading water two feet away. He pointed wordlessly upward. On the bank above us, Faith was gleefully pulling power from the streetlights and hurling bolt after bolt into the canal like so many javelins. Behind her, the big ghost shredded one of the smaller ghosts, billowed out like a fishing net, and caught and swallowed every last piece, then chased down the other ghost and devoured it too. Glowing more brightly, looking a lot less ragged now, it contentedly drifted around a corner and out of sight.

Awkwardly, I fumbled around until I could re-sheathe Grandfather, then heaved myself onto the ledge and hauled Ash up after me. The two of us managed to crawl halfway up the embankment before collapsing, panting and gasping and still hacking up canal water.

On the opposite bank, Tocker was glowing a brilliant blue and gibbering in tongues in the center of a ring of Bluecoats, none of whom were paying us commoners any attention.

“Well,” proclaimed Faith with a very satisfied air, trotting over and helping Ash to his feet, “they’ll take him to the Spirit Wardens and un-possess him, and that will be that. I’d call this a most successful evening.”

Sprawled in the dirt with my legs cut nearly to the bone by demonic claws, I couldn’t quite agree.