While Faith was off mentoring (for some definition of mentoring) Arilyn and Andrel, Ash audited the Church of Ecstasy. Impersonating a senior accountant, he accessed its real books and traced most of its funds to aristocratic donations, which meant that the Church relied on the same financial base as the nobles: the leviathan hunters. He also learned that said nobles were acutely aware that they provided the lifeblood of the Imperium. In their minds, even if the Immortal Emperor had saved humanity after the Cataclysm, he was nothing but an obsolete figurehead now.

That last point was pure hubris, but the Doskvolian nobles did wield significant political and economic power in the Imperium and were determined to preserve it at all costs. Much of the impetus for the Unity War had come from them, since they needed Lockport for its leviathan blood refineries, and they still did everything they could to crush Skovlander independence movements. They also suppressed funding for research into alternative energy sources.

Half-awed, half-furious, and all-jealous, Ash told me, “They quietly aggregated all the power to themselves and don’t answer to anyone, even though they pretend to.”

After considering the City Council families and eliminating the Bowmores and Strangfords because we’d already targeted them, and the Penderyns because they were Reconciled allies, he settled on the Dunvils. Several senior members of the family suddenly found themselves embroiled in frustrating conversations with their accountants about unreliable underworld contacts, missing payments, and such.

The harassment off to a good start, Ash went to meet with the leviathan hunter clans’ bogeyman, Hutton of the Grinders.

Over drinks in the gang’s favorite Docks pub, Ash lobbed a casual question at its leader, “What do you think of the nobility?”

Hutton nearly sprayed a mouthful of beer. “The Doskvol nobility? They can all go straight to hell.”

“Yes, well, I am more than of the same opinion.”

Ash chuckled. Hutton did not.

“Honestly,” Ash went on, “I think we all know that they think themselves invincible when they are not. The two things they fear most are synthetic leviathan blood – and Skovlander independence.”

Draining his mug and shoving it across the counter for a refill, Hutton said impatiently, “Okaaaaay….”

However, Ash, as we’d discovered long ago, couldn’t be rushed once he’d launched into an anti-Imperium rant. “Now,” he lectured, “we can’t singlehandedly make Skovlander independence happen, but the Doskvolian nobility does go to great lengths to fund efforts to suppress any hope of independence – ”

Here Hutton broke in with a pointed, “Mr. Slane. We’ve noticed.”

“Yes. But.” Ash paused for a second to regroup. “I have some specifics in mind. In particular, as you are well aware, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to intercept the nobles’ funding.” The ex-factory hand’s mouth worked as he sorted through all the clauses in that sentence, so Ash translated, “Banks are very secure. However, the nobles engage in underhanded dealing just as much as anyone else.”

From inside his coat, he produced a summary of what he’d learned from his audit and laid it in front of Hutton, who scowled at the columns and columns of figures. Whatever was covered in mandatory schooling in Skovlan, it didn’t include accounting.

Blithely, Ash continued, “While we won’t have much success robbing their armored money carriages, I have identified the nobles who are spending the most money on ruining the independence movement and who have the most sketchy dealings.”

That part Hutton did understand. “Yeah? Who?”

Ash skewered him with a reproving look, reminding him that the Grinders were about as subtle as a sledgehammer. “I’ll give you their names later. For now, who are your enemies?”

“Billhooks.”

“We don’t like the Billhooks,” Ash remarked.

“Everyone hates the Billhooks,” Hutton retorted. “Bluecoats. The Imperial Military. Leviathan hunter officers. Sailors.”

As he rattled off the factions, Ash nodded along. “I’m willing to help you and, conveniently, our skill sets don’t overlap. What do you need?”

“A boatload of money so we can buy weapons and send them back to Lockport.”

From the challenge in Hutton’s tone, he thought that amount of coin far beyond our means – so he was shocked when Ash replied at once, “That I can definitely help with. Let me just ask a few questions about your gang’s finances….”

In no time at all, Ash ascertained that the Grinders had no financial acumen whatsoever and were going to need remedial investment lessons if they ever wanted to achieve their goal of raising an army and stealing a warship.

For now, he gave Hutton one coin.

Perhaps spurred on by the Grinders’ deficiency, Ash next taught a class at the orphanage entitled “Paths to Power.” On the left half of the chalkboard, he wrote down a long list of potential existential threats in Doskvol. Pointing at one at random, he told the children, “You might fall into a well and get eaten by a demon. If you were Miss Karstas, you could summon a swarm of horrible ghosts to destroy it. I want you to work in groups to come up with ways that you can deal with it.”

After an energetic brainstorming session, the children presented their solutions in front of the class, and Ash critiqued them while writing the best ones on the right side of the chalkboard. When they suggested various Whisper techniques that they’d seen Faith use, he scowled and scolded, “The arcane powers are dangerous to control and take a long time to learn.” Quickly, he followed up with, “And worshipping demons is bad. Do not join demonic cults.” After what happened to poor little Kristov, none of the orphans were inclined to, but Ash repeated, “No demon cults. Benefits: None. Disadvantages: A demon might eat you.”

Observing from the back of the classroom, I couldn’t help but notice that he was systematically eliminating all the more mundane options and steering them towards the conclusion that the best way to gain enough power to survive Doskvol was – worshipping a forgotten god.

Of course he was.

Ash’s next lesson was on theology. To his credit, he did omit the more dangerous forgotten gods (such as The Maw of the Void) and avoided swaying them towards That Which Hungers. After class, he identified the eight students who’d seemed genuinely interested and took them on a field trip to the Pantheon. Whatever disagreements Illacile might have with Ash, she received the children warmly and answered all their questions about the different gods and their altars. The afternoon went smoothly, and at the end, Ash tossed two coin into the donation box.

Naturally, Edwina, our moralistic Tinker and tutor, was distinctly unhappy, and for once, Faith almost shared the sentiment. She made sure to keep her own protégé Wester far, far away from anything that smacked of cultic activity.

She did, however, enlist Ash’s and my aid in organizing a dinner in Charterhall so Wester could practice proper etiquette. As a first step to having him infiltrate the Church, she needed to ensure that he fit in with the other students at the Red Sash Sword Academy, many of whom came from noble families. As soon as Ash heard about the venture, he invited Spider and Azael as well. Unfazed by the expansion of our little expedition, Faith directed the boys, “Wester, you’re my son. Spider and Azael, you’re the children of Miss Yara and Mr. Slane.”

“What?” I yelped. Whatever Bug and the other street urchin runners were going to do with that rumor, Bazso was not going to like it.

Sarcastically, Ash asked me, “But dearest, didn’t you know?”

I stared at the three boys, none of whom looked anything like a mix of Skovlander and Iruvian. “Which children are supposed to be ours?”

“Spider and Azael,” Ash repeated, as if it couldn’t be clearer.

Eyebrows raised, I scrutinized Spider, who was obviously Akorosian, and Azael, who was even more obviously Tycherosian.

Cocking her head to a side and putting a finger to her lips, Faith made a show of pondering this knotty issue. “Okay, I guess Azael is yours, then, Ash. And the others are ours, my love,” she informed me.

Ash laughed outright. The three boys eyed one another sidelong and kept their mouths shut.

I heaved a long, long sigh. “As much as I hate to say it, that actually makes more sense.”

“It does,” Ash agreed.

Satisfied, Faith turned back to the boys. “Now kids, our two families are going to meet at the Hazlewood Restaurant in Charterhall. You’re going see your friends for the first time in a couple weeks. It is very important for you to act like proper middle-class children, so you should start by putting this on.” She handed out three sets of suits (all sized for Wester, so they were a little baggy on Spider and Azael). “Then we will walk to the restaurant separately. Make sure you behave.” Her voice went stern. “No yelling, no screaming, no tantrums. Observe how the other children act and act just like them.”

Looking like the angelic middle-class children she wanted them to mimic, the three boys drank in her words. Then, flashing the charming smile he’d learned from Ash, Spider wheedled, “So, if we’re good, we get dessert, riiiight?”

“Of course,” Ash jumped in, right as Faith began, “Only if you ask for it in the proper, middle-class – ”

“Mr. Slane already said yes,” Azael pointed out with an air of pure innocence.

While Faith sucked in a breath, preparing a blistering lecture for all of them, Ash wagged a finger at the boys. “You can’t be too well behaved,” he warned. “Middle class children also rebel, although they don’t go overboard about it.”

“Do they?” I asked, fascinated by the dynamics among Ash, Faith, and the three orphans.

In her sweetest tone, Faith instructed the boys, “So what Mr. Slane is saying is that you should disobey him, and obey us.” She generously gestured between herself and me. “Because we’re proper authority figures.”

“Yes,” retorted Ash. “Because clearly children specifically respect their parents as authority figures.” To the boys, he said, “Remember what we learned in class about how to determine when people are telling you half-truths that suit their own agenda.”

Long accustomed to our bickering, they exchanged commiserating glances. “But we get dessert!” Spider hissed at Wester, who, as the oldest, tried and failed to feign indifference.

Eventually, we broke into our little “family” groups and took different, circuitous routes to Charterhall. When we reconvened outside the Hazlewood, Ash and Azael were wearing new outfits of a slightly higher social class than ours.

So that was how we were playing this.

Launching herself at Ash, Faith threw her arms around his neck and enthused, “It’s so good to see you again!”

“Oh, yes! It’s so good that you could afford to come from out of town!” he replied, stressing “afford” just a bit. “I know the prices are so taxing.” He pulled a fake-sympathetic face.

Pretending that the jibe went straight over her head, Faith blinked and said innocently, “I hate to ask, because I know it’s a delicate matter, but what’s with the ears?”

Ash stepped back and gave a curt nod. “That’s an excellent question. But it’s private. You understand. Personal matters.” He could and should have stopped right there, but then he just had to add, “For the bedroom. It’s not for all ears.”

“Oh my!” Faith gasped and clapped her hands over the closest boy’s ears. (Spider, as it happened, who was looking a little disappointed that Ash had stopped where he did.) She stage-whispered, “Are these things that delicate young minds should hear about?”

Deciding that it would be fun to play passive-aggressive peacemaker, I stepped forward and suggested pointedly, “Dear, how about going inside and seeing if our table is ready?”

As I waved at the gleaming, glass-paneled doors, Ash said over Azael’s head, “It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you’ve been such an exemplary model for the children.”

“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Faith from my other side.

I gave Ash the sort of look that Mother gave her friends when Father was being insufferable. He pursed his lips at Faith, whose entire face lit up.

“It’s a shame that I haven’t seen Azael in so long!” To the boy’s dismay, she ruffled his hair (making sure to avoid the cat ears). “How are you doing?” she cried in that slow, exaggerated tone that adults used on toddlers – or the developmentally challenged. “You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!”

Baring his teeth in a tight, social smile, he replied, “I’m very well, Miss Karstas. How are you doing?”

She stretched her lips into a warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Quite well. I like the cat ears. They look very fetching on you.”

“Thank you, Miss Karstas.”

Acting harried, I herded them all inside for our foray into middle-class mealtime.

Inspired by both fear of Faith and dreams of dessert, the three boys obeyed her instructions to the letter. As they ate, they observed the children at other tables and adapted their own manners, and, by the time the check arrived, had learned a passable imitation.

As for Faith, Ash, and me, the three of us spent the entire dinner sniping at one another. It wasn’t even entirely feigned.

After the obligatory tense farewells and fake expressions of regret that we had to part so soon, we left the restaurant again in our separate “family” groups. When we returned to the orphanage, Ash and I were both carrying boxes from Charterhall bakeries. Amused, we arranged the desserts in the dining hall like a buffet and called the rest of the orphans. They buzzed excitedly and started to snatch pastries and cakes with their bare hands, but Spider, Azael, and Wester sternly stopped them and started to lecture them on dessert forks and spoons. In no time at all, every child, down to little Locust, knew how to navigate a place setting.

As we watched contentedly from the sidelines, Mrs. Lomond handed us an unsigned note that had arrived during dinner. It said: “The Spirit Wardens have begun to harry us to an untenable degree. I need you to move against Elder Rowan now.”