Just under two years ago.

The front gates of what was once an elegant mansion. But soot and neglect had long since turned the pale marble façade ink black, and thugs with red silk sashes defaced the garden by their very presence.

Observing quietly from the shadows, I adjusted Grandfather so its embossed and jeweled hilt drew attention away from my tattered tunic, took a deep breath, threw back my shoulders, and stormed into the Red Sash Sword Academy.

“Miss! This is private property!”

A few red-sashed thugs tried to intercept me.

Brushing them off, I strode past as if they were beneath my notice. Which they were. I outranked all of them. “Where is Mylera Klev?” I shouted in aristocratic Hadrathi as I flung open the front door and marched into the foyer. “I demand to speak to Mylera Klev right this instant!”

Another red-sashed thug tried to stop me, but I froze him with a haughty glare. When he took in the craftsmanship of Grandfather’s hilt, he blanched under his dark bronze skin. “Lady,” he stammered, “Mylera is busy….”

“Not for this, she isn’t,” I snapped. “Take me to her right away!”

Bowing as Iruvians did to high nobility, he led me up a red-carpeted staircase, down a hallway over a series of Iruvian rugs (of reasonable quality), and stopped before a polished oak door. He rapped tentatively.

An imperious voice called, “Enter!”

Opening the door a crack, he cast a nervous glance at me. “Lady, if you would wait here – ”

I didn’t let him finish. Shouldering past, I threw the door open with so much force that it ricocheted off the wall. An Iruvian woman in her mid-thirties who matched Bazso Baz’s description glared daggers at me across her massive teakwood desk. “Young lady – ” she began sternly in the same aristocratic accent.

Oh gods. I recognized that proud, arched nose. I’d seen it on any number of her cousins, uncles, aunts, and what-have-you’s in U’Duasha.

This “Mylera Klev” was a scion of House Ankhayat.

My courage very nearly failed me, and I missed a step, but then Grandfather’s scabbard banged into my calf hard enough to bruise. Practically leaping the rest of the way across the office, I slammed a leather pouch of slugs down on her desk.

“There!” I snarled. “That’s what he offered me to spy on you. It’s an outrage!”

Tearing open the drawstrings, I upended the pouch. Small silver coins, stamped with the profile of the Immortal Emperor on one side and a lightning tower on the other, clattered and bounced all over Mylera Klev’s papers. (I skimmed them rapidly, forming an impression of reminders scribbled in Hadrathi and Akorosian shorthand, the opening of a letter to an Inspector Clermont, a list of numbers under the heading “The Dreaming Rose.”)

At the sight of the slugs, the gang leader’s face froze, and her dark brown eyes hardened the way Father’s might have. “That is what who offered you to spy on me?”

Without waiting for an invitation – since I didn’t recognize her personally, I almost certainly outranked her as well – I threw myself into one of the upholstered chairs in front of her desk and crossed my arms. “Bazso Baz of the Lampblacks. Who else?”

She picked up a slug and rolled it through her long fingers, then pinched it between thumb and forefinger like something filthy and fastidiously dropped it into the pouch. Her hands were scarred and calloused in the manner of sword masters. “Elaborate.”

Still playing the gently-bred lady driven mad by gross incivility, I growled, “I set one foot in this godsforsaken city – one foot! – and what happens? A gang of goons in black overcoats kidnaps me, tortures me, and then turns around and recruits me to spy on my own countrymen for a mere pittance! I have never been so insulted in my life!”

Slugs plinked into the pouch one by one. Without even glancing down, Mylera Klev plucked them up while scrutinizing my features, noting the blend of Iruvian and Skovlander. Then her eyes dropped to the hilt by my side. When recognition dawned, I knew I’d won half the battle. Relaxing deliberately, she scoffed, “Bazso wouldn’t recognize a camel if it spat in his face.” (It was an ancient Iruvian saying. No one knew what a camel was or why it spat.)

Taking a gamble, I lifted my chin and stared at her challengingly. “Would you?”

Her lips peeled back in a grimace. “Yes. I believe I would.” Releasing the last slug, she pulled the drawstrings taut and tied them neatly, her eyes never leaving mine. “A valuable asset indeed. A daughter of House – oh, but they wouldn’t allow you to use the name, would they?” The pouch landed in front of me with a plop. “The same amount, but you work for me.”

I feigned outrage. “I thought you recognized my worth.”

Smoothly, she replied, “I’m sure you’ll agree that a carpet woven by Nahjan craftsmen on their own time isn’t worth as much as one woven by the same craftsmen but with the Nahjan name attached.” Then she gave me a sardonic grin and spread her hands in mock helplessness.

“How dare you – ” I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my flesh, but I managed to choke back the rest of that sentence.

Mylera Klev’s eyes bored into mine. “I am the head of the Red Sashes,” she said in a hard tone. “You are the nobody who had the temerity to barge into my office, address me in an outrageously disrespectful manner, and confess to spying for the Lampblacks.”

If only she knew who I was!

Father’s voice drifted through my mind. You are too proud, daughter. Pride has no place in our line of work. All it will do is reduce your effectiveness and get you killed.

Well, pride hadn’t gotten me killed yet, but it had brought me to this hovel of a city, with its ridiculously named districts and asinine gang leaders – which might be roughly equivalent.

Even though it took every bit of self-control I had, I bit my lip as if mortified by my own impudence, then bobbed my head without meeting her gaze. “I see.” Hating myself for it, I mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Satisfied by that show of meekness, Mylera Klev counted out the exact same number of slugs that Bazso Baz had paid me and knotted them into a piece of brightly printed Iruvian cotton. With a graceful gesture, she set the little bundle next to the pouch. Then she pulled out her ledger and poised a fountain pen over it. “What shall I put you down as?”

“Glass,” I said. “My name is Glass.”

“Oh, Glass! Come help me demonstrate this move!”

Catching sight of me in the doorway of her advanced class, Mylera waved me over.

After covertly observing me brood through Pickett’s report followed by Henner’s, Bazso had despaired of extracting meaningful companionship and released me, although he did make me promise to visit his townhouse that evening to explain why I was so upset. I’d wandered aimlessly through Crow’s Foot until my footsteps led me to the sword academy.

“What are you teaching today?” I asked Mylera. I picked up a practice sword from the rack and prowled to the front of the class.

“Misdirection.” She smirked, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “That should be right up your alley.”

I just rolled my eyes.

Teaching always relaxed Mylera – she really did make an excellent headmistress – and after class, we took turns at the water fountain, chatting companionably about our students. I took a chance and slipped in the casual remark, “Oh, by the way, he said he’d think about it.”

Mylera was not deceived. “Who said he’d think about what?”

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” I suggested, putting a hand on her arm and tugging her up the stairs.

In the privacy of her office, she flopped into her chair and warned, “This better not be about the Lampblacks. Glass, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re at war.”

Well, yes, that was the entire problem.

“But that was before. Now there’s a third party taking advantage of the, um, disarray in the district,” I argued. “Singly, neither of you can take on the Hive, but together – together you can push it out.”

Folding her arms, Mylera glared mulishly at me, acting so much like my brother in a sulk that I nearly laughed out loud.

“You need more allies. I suppose you could talk to the Crows,” I proposed with a shrug. “I’ll investigate their current alliances and internal politics.”

Much like Bazso, Mylera excelled at compacting all her thoughts into one expressive look.

“You want me to ally with Lyssa,” she stated flatly. “I have standards.”

Leaning forward and dropping the nonchalance, I told her in a flat tone of my own, “It’s Lyssa or Bazso: Take your pick.” When she didn’t respond, I pushed harder. “Mylera, you hired me to give you information and analyses.”

She still didn’t say anything.

I allowed a note of irritation to creep into my voice. “Why bother hiring me as an agent if you’re not going to listen to me?”

That roused her at last. Eyes flashing, she pointed out, “I hire you to give me information.”

“What use is accurate information without accurate interpretation?” I asked persuasively. “A good agent provides you with not only the facts but also their context.”

She tipped her head to a side and glowered at me.

“Here are the facts.” I held up a finger. “One: The Hive has been interfering with Lampblack shipments at the docks.” I held up another finger. “Two: Your other agents have reported an increase in the number of crates marked with the Hive’s symbol at the docks.”

“I do know how to count, Glass.” Mylera sounded peeved, but not offended, so I ignored her.

“Three: A docker captured by the Lampblacks has confessed that the Hive is expanding into the Docks, with the intention of either pushing you and the Lampblacks out, or making both of you pay for access.”

Mylera’s expression sharpened at my use of “you” instead of “us,” a mistake I couldn’t seem to stop making around her.

I rushed on to distract her from pronoun usage and its implications. “And four: The Hive is run by wealthy, legitimate merchants. Those are the facts. Now here is the only logical conclusion: The Hive has devoted to this operation a massive treasury, political connections, and other assets we can’t hope to match. On our own. However, if we pool our resources with the Lampblacks, we can expel the Hive from our district,” I concluded forcefully.

Somewhat to her own surprise, Mylera found herself considering my advice. Tapping her long fingers thoughtfully on her ledger, she asked abruptly, “He said he’d think about it as in he’d think about it, or he just wanted you to stop talking about it?”

More like the latter. I avoided a direct answer. “Bazso is a very practical person.”

Experienced gang leader and teacher that she was, she caught the evasion, of course. Rising majestically, she flowed to her window, leaned against the frame, and stared out at the dark clouds hovering over the skyline. After I’d waited for a good five minutes, I cautiously moved around her desk (scanning her papers in the process) and made us both coffee. When I proffered a cup, she accepted it absentmindedly and sipped in silence.

At last, she addressed the skeletal trees across the canal. “I suppose a truce can’t hurt. I will speak to my lieutenants.”

“Thank you.” I startled both of us by hugging her quickly around the shoulders.

Maybe Faith was rubbing off on me too.

When I returned to the railcar, I found Ash trying to convince Faith to teach him how to attune to the ghost field.

“Oh, the power of being a great witch!” sighed our resident great witch, hands clasped in front of her ruffly pink skirt, eyes lifted dramatically ceiling-ward. “To have ghosts and gods at my beck and call!”

Half-skeptical, half-hopeful, Ash exclaimed, “Even the gods obey you?”

“When you attune to the ghost field, you manipulate cosmic energies and command spirits!” Adopting a severe air, Faith pursed her lips like a sour old governess and pronounced solemnly, “It takes a sharp mind and decades of study to become a good Whisper. Do you have what it takes?”

Ash gestured at his stack of notebooks on the table. “I’m a good student,” he replied without false modesty. “How long have you studied?”

Faith flung wide her arms, encompassing her decades and decades of education. “Since I was but a thought in my father’s eye!”

Ash tried a different tack. “Are there books I can read on my own?” he asked hopefully.

Faith swung her head sorrowfully from side to side. “Books, books, books. What good are books to the neophyte? We must begin at the beginning – with the magnificent art of meditation!”

She walked him through the basics, waited until he was seated on the floor with his legs crossed and eyes shut – and then smacked him on the back of the head.

His eyes flew open.

“Did you feel that?” she inquired innocently.

“Yes!”

“Ah,” she proclaimed sagaciously. “Then you are getting attuned.”

Rubbing the back of his head, Ash complained, “Can’t I use someone else’s memories to learn?”

“There are some things you can only learn through practice and from a wise mentor,” Faith explained wisely. “Now return to your exercises, young tyro.”

With a dubious expression, Ash closed his eyes again.

Whack.

“Ow! Stop it!”

Ash raised an arm to ward off further blows, the movement exposing a flask peeking out of one pocket. Inside sparkled the golden motes that he’d harvested from the Stag. At the sight, the oddest expression crossed Faith’s face – the unique look of one experiencing a sensation somewhere between an unscratchable itch and a stabbing pain.

Pointing an imperious forefinger at him, she commanded, “Return to your exercises, young novice! Do not surrender to sensations of the flesh until you can meditate for fifteen minutes.”

Hands plonked on hips, she loomed over him and monitored him until he sank into a genuine trance. Then she tiptoed backwards into the hallway, whirled, and ducked into his compartment. Books and clothing flew every which way as she rummaged gleefully through his belongings.

Leaning against the doorframe, I inquired casually, “Anything interesting?”

“Nooooooo,” she sighed, incurably crestfallen. “It’s all so booooooring.” She tossed a notebook in my direction before scooting on her belly under his desk.

In my hands, the notebook fell open to a page of scribbles about reverse-engineering some sort of ritual. Possessing neither an understanding of the ghost field nor a desire to learn from Faith, I couldn’t make any sense of Ash’s ramblings.

A loud squeal made me jerk in surprise. “Heeeeeelp!”

Faith had tumbled headfirst into a large trunk. Her stockinged legs waved like tree branches in a gale.

Shrugging, I closed the notebook and laid it on top of Ash’s desk. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Happy hunting.”