Whatever Bazso believed or suspected about the nature of my relationship with Mylera, it didn’t stop him from installing me in his spare bedroom for my convalescence. As if to convince me – or himself – that he trusted me, he even made a point of coming home in time for supper every evening so he could regale me with the latest developments in the Crow’s Foot political landscape.

“Lyssa just isn’t what Roric was,” he concluded smugly after telling me how the Lampblacks had gotten the best of the Crows in a territorial scrabble.

That did seem to be the general consensus.

Taking advantage of his good mood, I observed, “Yes, Mylera feels the same way.” Since his face didn’t cloud over too much, I pushed my luck. “Bazso, have you had a chance to think more about working with the Red Sashes? Just for as long as you need to drive out the Hive?”

Busying himself with his eel pie and dropping bits of crust all over the floor, he shook his head without meeting my eyes.

“If you’re worrying about her competence, you don’t need to,” I assured him, pretending that his assessment of Mylera’s intelligence was the only concern here. “She’s quite good at what she does.” Quickly, I summarized what her network of informants had reported about bee-marked containers down at the Docks.

“Mmhmm,” was his only response.

“You can’t take on the Hive alone, Bazso,” I persisted, trying to make him see sense. “You just don’t have the resources. And neither do the Red Sashes. But together – together you can push them out and retake the Docks.”

At last, he laid down his fork with great precision. “And why do you care so much, Isha?” he asked in that terrifyingly controlled way of his. I’d heard him use exactly the same tone while interrogating a Lampblack caught selling secrets to the Billhooks.

I poked at my pie while picking my words carefully. “Well, you know that I come from a big family, right?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that he knew no such thing. At the unexpected confidence, his eyebrows rose slightly. “There’s…there’s a lot of strife between the branches – ” which was putting it mildly – “and it weakens the entire family….”

In my mind’s eye, blood splattered across the walls glistened sullenly in the morning light. More blood squelched underfoot as my brother and I tiptoed across the carpet, hand in hand….

With more passion than I’d intended, I finished, “I’d hate to see it play out here.”

It worked. Relaxing, Bazso picked up his beer mug. “But this is different. Mylera and I aren’t family,” he pointed out quite reasonably.

“But – ” I scrambled for a rejoinder. “But you live in the same place. You…you have more in common with each other than with those rich bloodsuckers forcing their way in.”

“What does Mylera plan to do?” he asked abruptly.

I shook my head. “Nothing concrete yet.”

He shook his head too, albeit for a different reason. “Roric would have taken care of it,” he remarked almost wistfully, as if recalling the days when he didn’t need to be the biggest, baddest gang leader in all of Crow’s Foot.

“Roric is dead,” I reminded him tartly, “and Lyssa isn’t what he was. Mylera knows this too – that’s why she isn’t even going to the Crows.”

“And she might be willing to come to the Lampblacks?” Bazso’s voice rose skeptically.

Well, not really. At least, not yet. “She’s not entirely opposed to the possibility of working together in the face of a common foe,” I said primly, adopting the most generous possible interpretation of Mylera’s flat “I’ll take it under advisement.”

In the exact same tone as hers, Bazso told me, “I’ll think about it.”

And that was that.

While he went about Lampblack business and stubbornly refused to meet with Mylera, I turned to helping Faith and Ash lower our heat after that very public, very messy business on the bridge. Putting her dramatics to good use at last, Faith penned a lurid letter to the Dockside Telegraph claiming shocking new evidence that the Helkers had gotten entangled in the coils of a demonic plot. After the tabloid gleefully ran it alongside a slew of other conspiracy theories, she visited a few coffeehouses and whispered that the general must have been poisoned, because everyone knew that no mere demon could take down Ronia Helker.

Getting into the spirit of things, Ash methodically spread the rumor that Helker’s death could be traced back to the Avrathis. It was their follow-up to Merrick Dillingham’s murder, he accused, carefully calculated to prove that no citizen of Doskvol was safe in his or her own bed.

Meanwhile, propped up in bed with pen and packaging, I helped manufacture an evidence trail suggesting that an assassin crew from elsewhere was extending tendrils into the city. Ash and I bribed Gaddock Rail porters to smuggle our boxes out of Doskvol and then deliver them back into the city to a mail drop that the Bluecoats were already monitoring.

Between the three of us, we managed to throw their investigation off our tracks entirely.

Having wrangled a bit of breathing space, my crewmates felt safe enough to indulge their usual vices. Shut up in Bazso’s townhouse and bored out of my mind, I relied on my informants’ reports to follow their activities.

Ash, of course, promptly headed to the Temple to the Forgotten Gods and stayed there for two and a half hours, playing a sort of complicated board game on the altar of That Which Hungers. “It’s called Financiopoly,” explained Ilacille’s young acolyte, his white robes concealed under a dark cloak. “You compute different rates of compound interests, choose your investments, and use coin tokens to ‘buy’ properties and crooked politicians. The goal is to take over a city financially.”

That did seem like a game both Ash and his god would appreciate.

As for Faith, she paid her usual visit to the Sensorium for a relaxing session of other people’s memories, after which she interrogated the staff about who’d hurt Madame Keitel. “I don’t know who did it!” babbled the archivist, too shaky to sit still after that encounter. “All I know is that the Bluecoats took her to the Crow’s Foot precinct! I told her that weeks ago! I don’t know what else she wanted me to say!”

A rather surly Bug provided the second part of that story when he slouched into my room the next day. “You gonna pay me or what?” was how he greeted me.

“Manners, Bug!” admonished Bazso, who “just happened to be passing by.” He cuffed the urchin gently on the side of the head and popped back into the hallway (probably to eavesdrop).

The boy scowled and rubbed his head exaggeratedly. “So?” he demanded.

“Depends on what you have for me,” I retorted.

He scowled again but rattled off, “I followed Ruffle Girl like you asked. You know that ghost what hangs out by the station and eats Bluecoats?” I nodded as if I’d known that all along. “Ol’ Ribbon ‘n Ruffles went right up to it and asked what happened to her friend.”

That certainly lined up with Faith’s modus operandi. “And what did the ghost say?”

Bug stared at me meaningfully until I tossed him a copper. “It said the Billhooks were sniffing around, asking what happened to their Whisper. They’re all friendly with the Bluecoats, y’know.” He said it as if he expected me not to know.

“Which Billhooks were sniffing around?”

That was important. At last count, the gang had split into three warring factions. One supported the old leader, Tarvul Burns, who was serving a life sentence in Ironhook Prison but who still kept a hand in matters, or so it was said. A second faction backed his sister Erin, while a third had thrown in their lot with his son Coran. Billhook affairs sounded almost as messy as U’Duashan House politics.

“Dunno,” shrugged Bug. “They had billhooks,” he informed me, as if that helped.

It took two more coppers, but eventually I got rid of him.

As soon as I could hobble around, I dragged myself to the Red Sash Sword Academy to teach my class. Even if I couldn’t demonstrate anything, I could still sit on a couch and yell at my students: “Fix that guard!” And, “Your side is wide open! You know better!”

I wasn’t sure how much my students got out of that lesson, but it made me feel better.

Plus I collected the rest of our payment from Vaati, which made Ash feel better.

“So what’s the Sensorium like?” Ash asked Faith curiously when they visited me that evening. “Can you tell me more about it?”

In her most sultry tone, she responded, “It’s a beautiful den of sensual pleasures.” Then she burst out giggling at her own silliness.

I rolled my eyes, picked at my bedspread, and waited to see if she’d comment on her investigation. Of course she didn’t.

“But it’s a den of memories, yes?” persisted Ash.

Heaving a weary sigh, as if she had to correct misunderstandings about the nature of the Sensorium all the time, Faith sank down in her chair. “Well, if you’re being liberal about the definition, yes.” Then, suddenly, as if she just had an exciting thought, she bounced back up. “Ash! Are you interested in going? I can take you! I can introduce you! Madame Keitel is particular about her clientele, you see.”

To my surprise, Ash actually entertained the idea. “Yes, that could be interesting,” he replied thoughtfully. “Tell me, what do you need in order to extract a person’s memory? Their essence? Their life? A piece of their heart?”

Flippantly, Faith continued the list, “Their last breath, the name of a lover….”

“Do you need to harvest their ghost?” he asked, sounding way too hopeful.

Faith looked as appalled as if he’d tried to drink coffee out of a teacup. “Why, that would be so vulgar!” she exclaimed.

But I noticed that she still didn’t explain the procedure.

Noting the exact same thing, Ash decided, “I’d like to explore this unusual experience. I really am curious about this practice of selling off pieces of your memories.”

Unsurprisingly, my archivist soon paid me another visit to report that Mistress Karstas had returned sooner than expected, this time bringing a friend with her, a young man of obviously demonic origins. “His entire right arm was black!” he hissed, casting nervous glances around my room as if a black-armed demon might pop up right then and there. “All black! Like a – a piece of coal!” (That was technically incorrect. Ash’s arm was only pitch black up to the elbow – or so he claimed.)

“And what was he looking for?” I asked, pretending that I had no idea who this demonic friend might be and hoping fervently that Ash wouldn’t choose that moment to walk through the door.

“He asked Madame Keitel for a memory of pure, unbridled greed. He was especially interested in the last moments of one who recognized far too late that avarice had destroyed their life. He also said that it would be ‘fun’ to experience working in an established criminal organization.” The archivist, who must have guessed by now that I worked in a criminal organization that was too established for his liking, carefully avoided my eyes.

I let it slide. He was welcome to his qualms, as long as he kept reporting to me. “How about Mistress Karstas? What memory did she seek?”

The archivist shook his head. “Nothing. She said that the first time can be overwhelming so she wanted to sit with her friend to make sure he was safe.” His last words lifted questioningly, as if he couldn’t quite grasp Faith’s altruism. “Madame Keitel took them both to the Green Salon.”

“So what did she give Mistress Karstas’s friend?” I was curious whether Ash had been looking specifically for Vhetin Kellis’s last moments.

Soberly, the archivist answered, “A tragic case, miss. It was a merchant who dealt in legitimate import-export business between Akoros and Iruvia. He was born in Charhollow, but he got a job on the Docks and worked his way up by backstabbing colleagues until he saved enough to start his own business. Then he used skullduggery to forge connections with the elite and grew fabulously wealthy off them. He even bought a mansion in Whitecrown and married a trophy wife, but his home life was just miserable. His family hated him, you see. His final business venture was a plan to betray a leviathan hunter family and take over their ship, but before he could achieve that, he got incurably ill and died wishing that he’d spent more time with his children.” He sighed wistfully, as if wishing he could spend more time with his children.

“That is depressing,” I agreed softly, thinking about my own family. After a moment, I asked, “What was the friend’s reaction to this memory?”

The archivist shook off his mood and snapped back to attention. “He’s as creepy as Mistress Karstas, miss. As soon as he woke, he asked her what she’d do with a leviathan hunter.”

That did sound like Ash.

“What did she say?” I honestly couldn’t see Faith wanting a leviathan hunter, unless it was to paint the whole thing pink.

“She asked, ‘What would I do with one? I’d prefer piracy.’ Her friend went all dreamy then, started talking about how it would be a good starting point, he’d do one or two hunts and then sell the ship.”

Ash did seem dreamier than usual the next time he dropped in. He even peppered Bazso with questions about the Night Breaker and Storm Palace and their technical specifications, until Bazso pointed out that the Lampblacks dealt more with the cargo that came off ships than the ships themselves. Then Ash wandered off, still mumbling to himself about crew complements.

All along, Mistress Slane had been sending us updates about Tess’s infiltration of the Hive, and Tess herself had already funneled five coin our way, but to Ash, that still wasn’t enough cash flow. As soon as Sawbones reluctantly concurred that I probably wouldn’t split my wounds and bleed to death in the street – and if I did, Bazso certainly couldn’t hold him accountable – Ash dragged Faith and me to Brightstone to launch a new business venture.

“Have I told you how much I hate Helene?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” I muttered, grimly hobbling around a pothole. It was a little hard to limp when both of your legs hurt equally.

At the same time, Faith answered, “Why, no, never! Who is this Helene?”

Ash, naturally, trusted my answer. “Good. Well, I certainly hope Brannon Keel shares this hatred. That might make him more inclined to accept our business proposition.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t!” objected Faith, dropping her pretense of amnesia. “I’ve found that people tend to love the creditors who can sell them into debt slavery!”

As usual, Ash ignored her and proclaimed loftily, “I intend to ruin her. Hopefully, we can even take this opportunity to broaden the definition of ‘ruin.’” Glancing at the crew’s Whisper, he added, “By the way, we’re not expecting ghosts from our targets, right?”

She put a manicured finger prettily to her cheek while she thought. “You never know. They can come from any direction….”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Ash.

Although the Keels lived in a less nice part of Brightstone, the dignified old family butler still showed us into a tidy (albeit threadbare) parlor where tea had already been set. Wearing a rumpled suit from last season, a rather perplexed Brannon welcomed us, giving us curious looks the whole time.

“I understand that you want to discuss a business venture?” he asked tentatively.

Ash immediately replied, “Yes, we’re very impressed by your business situation.”

The naïve young lord looked taken aback. “And you’re impressed?”

Smoothly, Ash explained, “We’ve investigated your situation and identified certain…irregularities.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in before continuing, “The establishment responsible for these irregularities would certainly benefit from a change in management, perhaps even ownership. All relevant deaths would be replaced, of course,” he finished casually.

Brannon’s lips moved silently as he tried to keep up.

“We have business dealings with Irimina Kinclaith,” Ash hinted heavily. “If you discuss the matter with her, she might be willing to fund a change of ownership. If so, we can take care of the details.”

Brannon’s jaw dropped when he finally grasped our meaning. “You mean – you’re going to – but Helene – ”

“You have a most keen financial acumen,” Ash flattered him. “All the red ink against you can turn to black if you just take over the institution to which you’re currently in debt.”

Brannon squeaked incredulously, “You want me to take over the casino?”

“Well, there’s no reason to set our sights low,” Ash reproved, like a schoolmaster disappointed by his prize pupil’s slowness. He glanced at me and hand-signed, “Some help here?”

Gesturing with my hands like an orator, I spewed out a rousing pep talk about rising to the occasion, making sure to pepper my sentences with classical allusions and literary quotations. Brannon nodded along, looking increasingly confident, and at the end, he threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest like a conquering general, and declared, “Well, I have nothing to lose.”

Then he deflated again. “Unless, of course, Helene comes after me.”

With only the slightest hint of exasperation, Ash suggested that Helene would be removed, saying things like “She will not be your concern” and “Businessmen approach problems from all angles” until realization finally began to dawn on Brannon’s face.

“Do talk it over with Lady Irimina,” I urged. “She will explain how it works.”

Looking a little shell-shocked, he assured us that he would.

As we left the Keel mansion after that potentially profitable business tea, Ash pronounced with satisfaction, “Helene will never see it coming. Although it would be nice if she knew at the end….”

I shook my head firmly. “Better if she doesn’t, in the interest of keeping a low profile,” I reminded him.

Faith, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet and preoccupied throughout the meeting, abruptly announced, “Well, this has been a delightful outing, but now I simply must abandon the two of you.”

“Oh?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

“Why, to visit my dressmaker of course! I have a fitting – oh, Isha, you have no idea just how many fittings it takes to get a dress to fit perfectly.” She frowned at me. “Although, honestly, the least you can do is accompany me, since I sacrificed my best dress to save your life.”

Without waiting for a response, she flounced away down the street, heading in a direction that might just as well have led back to Coalridge as to Nightmarket. For a moment I considered tailing her, but gave up when my boot caught on the edge of a cobblestone and I tripped and nearly knocked Ash over. I’d just have to wait for my informants to report.

Faith’s true mission was revealed a few days later when Bazso interrupted one of our nightly conferences to show in a Lost runner, a teenaged girl who was still out of breath from her jog.

As soon as she caught her breath, she rattled off her message: “Cortland said to tell you that Tarvul gave the order to Chime who went to the Bluecoats and told them to investigate Kamilin’s death and it was okay if they used drastic measures.”

It took me a moment to parse all of that.

“Ah, thank you, beautiful!” Regally, Faith bestowed a tip upon the girl and dismissed her. Then she lounged back in her chair, stretched luxuriously, and told us, “Oooh, I had the nicest chat with Cortland the other day. He said Tarvul was the one who hired Kamilin. You see, he still runs things from prison through his right-hand man, Chime.”

“You’re investigating who betrayed Madame Keitel to the Bluecoats?” I blurted out before I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to know about Madame Keitel’s injuries or Faith’s side project.

Faith looked entirely unsurprised that I’d been tracking her activities. Instead, she yawned widely. “Ooooh, no, that sounds like work! I merely suggested to Cortland that I would be most appreciative if he looked into it, and the Billhooks would be most unappreciative, and he did!”

I had an idea of where this was going. “Are you suggesting that we target Chime next?”