There were attempts at polite acknowledgements of this by all except Nine, who merely smiled. But the rest of the Keepers abandoned them quickly for an improvised knot of embracing humanity. When everyone had extracted themselves, rubbing at moist noses and eyes, and returned to their seats, Sefton found his list within the pile of items.

“The second item on the list, is less, pleasant . . . it’s about all the, ahem, letters we’ve been getting,” Sefton said.

“The last one turned my hands green, for a week!” Korbinian moaned. “Not that it would be first time . . .” he added in a whisper.

“I keep getting phantom itches,” Silence added, scratching at the back of her neck.

“I’ve been seeing strange colors,” Gita whispered, seemingly awake again.

“That’s just because you’re in the drink, little one,” Nine concluded.

Cadryn, too, had received the letters, one a week at least for the better part of the last month. Each time he’d been excited that it might be word back from Throne-home, only to open it, revealing a rather droll insult and some arcane scrawling.

Then came a strange shock, tingle, or smell something out of place, like summer rain, indoors. Then the curse, if they could be called that, would begin. While bothersome, none of them, so far, had been dangerous.

“Any ideas?” Sefton, asked of the table.

Ideas they had, named as well: Flick for one, for allowing him to nearly die. Then there was Takis the Grim, who they presumed one of their number had threatened into allowing the mail to go back to normal rounds. Dagmara’s name was floated, but word of his death surely had reached whoever was sending the letters. Another Merchant, perhaps jealous of them allowing little Emmi Baker to sell her sweets at the Toll house.

“None of them,” Bahsa Fen said over the debate.

“Oh?” Sefton said, twisting his head to look at her in a way that couldn’t help but remind Cadryn of a vulture. “Who then?”

Bahsa dipped a Darcy cookie into her mug, the smile shaped cookie darkening with her tea, and popped it whole between her perfect teeth. “Shall I count them off for you?” holding up a hand, she began. “Flick doesn’t have the money, or disposition. He’d rather just call us all whorespawn if he were really sore about it. I expect he’s just happy to be alive.”

“Takis would never waste good reagents on petty games, but he does have the skills required. Dagmara had the money, but alas,” she nodded at the trunk. “Is no longer on the board.” She paused, plucking up another one of the Darcies from the plate.

“Well out with it!” Gita squeaked, more surly than usual.

“It’s Karl,” Bahsa said, with bob of her head, “he’s mad at the loss of income.”

Sefton looked unconvinced, “Karl’s no warlock, or alchemist, and, he never struck me as that, dedicated? So if he’s mad over a lost bribe, why would he waste it on annoying us?”

“Oh,” he’s not paying for them,” Bahsa said, shaking her head, “Takis wouldn’t have been bribing him anyway . . . I expect he’s just realized Takis has a lot of people he dislikes, and is miss delivering his . . . grudges. To us, for interfering in what he sees as his duties.”

“That little bastard,” Korbinian muttered, “Well, let’s figure a way to turn it on him.” He raised his tankard, and the rest of the other Keepers. Except for Sefton, toasted the notion.

Cadryn, while happy for the night’s festivities and company, couldn’t get the image of Bahsa Fen articulating Karl’s conspiracy for the table out of his head. It had the markings of an old master, pleased to be able to show off their art again to an appreciative crowd. The more he learned about his fellow Keepers, the more he suspected them of hiding deeper lives.

All things came to those who wait, while a false truism, had some merit: Patience was a virtue the Neeft’s isolated nature continued to instill in him. So he resolved to wake up early and see what truths he could glean from talking with Bahsa Fen, he suspected they were many.

As the feast wore down, and Cadryn carried a sleeping Gita in her prize wolf’s pelt back to the toll house. His thoughts were interrupted by the Unfortunate, as Nine had named the Batsel.

“Cadryn,” she said from within the folds of fur.

“Yes little one?” he replied.

“You believe me, don’t you? That I was once a great man. Galen the 3rd, of House Jago. First son, heir to the Jago fortunes . . .”

Cadryn looked down at the slowly breathing form of the creature, and in his drink addled mind, she transformed into a tiny man wrapped in the fur, like some great blanket. “I can see it,” he said, “in your noble demeanor.”

“Fuck you, Cadryn,” Gita said.

“If you had your cock, Galen, you might be able to.”

They both devolved into a fit of laughter, in the hallway of the toll house, after which and shiny eyed Gita emerged to climb his shoulder. “You believe me, don’t you?”

And remembering what Nine had said about Fae sight, the name he used for Gita took on a new facet, the Unfortunate wouldn’t apply to an escaped familiar, would it . . . “I do,” he said, as they entered his room. Glancing at Gita, he saw the tiny beast had fallen asleep again. Gently, he folded the wolf’s hide into a bed, and pulling the Batsel from his shoulder, laid her gingerly on it.

Fatigue assailing him, Cadryn fell into his bunk, and the dreamless sleep of the drunk took him.