“Come on, Octave. Just an hour. Please?”

“Don't be absurd. We don't have an hour.”

“We're going to have all night. And I've been stuck in a carriage for days. Just let me have an hour to relax. Half an hour.”

“If you've been stuck in a carriage for days, you've had days to relax.” Octave looks back over her shoulder. “This way.”

“But...” But there's no hope arguing. Ariel falls into step behind the older mage. The streets of Salkrit have diminished somewhat since their last visit overrode her childhood memories of the place. With the gates open, people once again roam the streets like deer in a valley, some in small herds, others picking their way through foliage. Octave doesn't so much as glance at an immense bull someone has left tied to a unbearably flimsy stick in the ground. Ariel holds her breath as it snorts and tosses its horned head. Thankfully, nobody is gouged. Around a cluster of merchants arguing over prices for their knockoff daggers, between a pair of carts stopped in the street, and down a series of side alleys, Octave seems to know her way through the capital better than even Ariel. They're so far off the main street, the sidewalks become unwalkable, covered as they are with garbage and refuse. Then a sudden turn, and they're back to the respectable part of the city. A building rises before them, towering over anything nearby. Of course. Marble quoins and eaves – not the most practical, but some things are meant to make a statement. Red window lining glowing in the sunset. The smiling stone figure in the front can only be one deity. “Too bad Eje isn't here.” she says, more to herself than anyone. “She would love to visit the Temple of Retifanta.”

“Look to the left.”

“Is that it?” A simple two-story building with a flat roof. A building so nondescript she could walk past it a score times without wondering as to its function.

“The Royal Museum. Designed by life mages, not poncy priests.”

Ariel can't help but glow from the underhanded compliment. “We're a practical sort.” They walk by the buildings, Octave's head directed down the street but her eyes fixed from their corners on the target. “It'll be closed and locked at this point. We'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“To buy the preserved life. Isn't that why we're here?”

Octave stops and turns, her back to the setting sun, her eyes boring through Ariel's. “Why do you think I suggested you come with me while Salaya accompanies Eje?”

Ariel gulps. In this red-soaked landscape, she's reminded all too well of how difficult it is to read Octave. Then the sun winks out behind the mountain. Shadows fall over them and in the sudden darkness, the lines on Octave's face point to her eyes almost kindly but more shrewdly. She's up to something. “Why?”

“Salaya has, shall we say, a more guided sense of justice. Guided and passionate.”

Ariel smirks. “She's a colour mage. Can't blame her for being hotheaded at times.” She pauses, the weight of Octave's words sinking in. “Are you saying my sense of justice is lacking?”

“I'm saying you're flexible on the matter. You've seen for yourself in the desolation: justice can be an ugly word. You understand that any action can be justified through context. And our context lends us strength.”

“How exactly do you plan on getting that preserved life?” Ariel tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

“We're going to steal it.”

“Octave!” Ariel hisses, snapping her head around to ensure nobody is in earshot. “We can't do that. We even brought money to buy it.”

“It's the only way. Do you honestly believe the Royal Museum will sell even one stray pebble of its beloved collection? No, curators know only how to hoard. It's their job. It's where they derive their sense of self-worth and compare themselves favourably or unfavourably to one another. Selling would disrupt their carefully constructed hierarchy.”

“But...”

“If we were aristocracy, we might have a chance. If Eje brought her parents, they might be able to work something out, though I wouldn't dare suggest it.”

“I just can't believe it's what we have to do. What would Ogostinia say?”

“Weren't you listening to her tell us she doesn't need to know how we got it? This is her suggestion.”

Everything Ariel has been taught screams out against this, insists Octave is wrong, Octave is lying, Octave's cynicism prevents her from normal societal interactions, Octave wants the money for herself. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out, and she knows Octave is right. Ogostinia did know, and she, Ariel, refused to notice. Deeper inside, beyond the indignation and ringing propriety, she knew all along it would come to this. And yet somehow she can't admit it. “Please, Octave. Let's at least try. Come back tomorrow and talk to them. Explain our situation.”

“Explain what? That we might have a spell to remove the desolation? Lead with that and you won't get another word in over the laughter. I've seen the inside of an insane asylum before. I wouldn't return if it meant all the desolations in the world became green and beautiful.”

Ariel hangs her head and whispers. “How do we do it?”

“For now we'll just look.” They pace about the squat museum, night falling around them. If there's some architectural secret Octave is looking for, a hidden entrance, a weakness in the doors, Ariel can't find it. After ten minutes of this, she flops onto a stone bench on the side of the street.

“Sit down before people start to wonder why we're walking in circles.” Octave does, but keeps her eyes on the museum. “What are you looking for, anyway? There are only two doors. We've seen them both.”

“Look at the windows. The lights are mostly off, but people still walk by.”

“So how long before everyone leaves for the night?”

“We'll find out.”

Without the sun, Ariel can't tell time. It feels like hours. Octave sits with an air of serenity on the bench, arms folded and legs crossed. She's done this before, many times. Periodically she rises and circles the building, never looking at it directly. The lights go out one by one. Occasionally the door will open and a figure will emerge, closing and locking it; Ariel can hear the clink of keys and the clack of a lock. Each time she'll look to Octave, and each time Octave will say nothing and take no action. Finally she's had enough. “Octave, I'm freezing. I'm going for a walk.” Octave nods. Ariel stands and stretches, rubbing her frigid fingers and breathing on them to restore life. “It's too cold to be sitting here at night.”

A man walks beneath a lamppost some thirty yards away, the smouldering flame illuminating his thin face over a coat so heavy and fine it looks to be carved from ebony. His arms are crossed, hands under his armpits for warmth. But Ariel is drawn to the figure on his heels, crouched slightly, eyes fixed on the back of the man's head. Sure enough, it reaches out and taps the man on the shoulder. Ariel drifts toward them eyes on the sky, ears pricked. The Wayfarer isn't out tonight, hidden behind the clouds. All she can see is the half moon.

“Hullo, Redigan. How are we on this fine night?”

“Fine.” The man in the coat looks back at the figure, then turns away and continues walking, faster now. The figure keeps following. They pass under another lamppost, only ten paces away now. “Why are you following me, Caris?”

“Just thinking about how you always seem to land on your feet while the rest of us lie face-down in the muck.”

“Woah, take it easy, Caris.”

“Easy? Why don't you hand over that nice new coat and we'll see how easy it is for you.”

“Octave!” Ariel snaps back to her tranquil teammate, hissing under her breath.

“Hm?”

“We need to help that man.” Octave looks over at Redigan, hands in the air, pleading his assailant. A knife flashes. Caris it under Redigan's nose then hits him in the stomach with his free hand. Redigan crumples almost in half and falls to the ground.

“None of our business. A private dispute.” Caris gives Redigan a kick. Then another.

“We can't let him do this, Octave.”

“None of our business.” Caris, oblivious to their presence, bends down and whispers in his prone victim's ear. Ariel can't stand for this. Salaya would have already taken him out; the image of her bristling to attack the guards in The Cap and Crown hasn't faded from Ariel's memory. Nor has the concern over her actions. Who was right? Should they have done something? Every logical facet in Ariel's mind tells her that she was right to stop Salaya, that fighting could have only have led to trouble in the long haul. And yet she can't shake the suspicion that she was wrong, that she let practicality override decency.

“Stop that.” Ariel strides toward the two. Redigan is on his knees now, bleeding from his head, hands trembling as they unclasp his coat. Caris looks at her, eyes boring into her, not like Octave's knowing stare but with malice. He stares at her as though his eyes are arrows seeking her heart. He raises his knife.

“Best to keep walking, missie.”

“Let him go.” Redigan has stopped moving, but his eyes fix on the ground at Caris's feet.

“I plan on it, but not just yet. You don't know what this fella's done to me. How he's stolen what should be mine.”

“Just leave.”

Caris steps around Redigan toward Ariel. “Y'know, I don't think I will. You just made the mistake of your life.” He lunges, only to hit a gleaming barrier face-first. The knife clatters to the ground. “You really think that little trick'll stop me?” Before he was confident and nasty. Now his eyes are wide and his teeth bared. “I'll gut you with my hands, bitch.” Spittle flies with each hissed word. His arms reach out, but his legs tremble and sway like trees in a storm. As Ariel's curse climbs up his torso and spreads to his arms, they fall at his sides. He tries to take another step and collapses alongside his would-be victim.

Redigan sits up cautiously. “Thank you, friends.” he says, wiping blood from his nose.

“Get out of here. Both of you.” Octave picks the knife off the ground and taps the blade with the tip of her fingernail.

“Who do you think you are?” snarls Caris. He struggles to his feet, legs still trembling as the curse wears off. “You don't know who –”

“I don't care.” Octave flicks her wrist and the blade narrowly misses taking off Caris's nose.

Caris looks them up and down then spits on the ground and stalks away. “You'll regret this. Just you wait.”

“Are you hurt?” Ariel helps Redigan to his feet.

“Only a few bruises.” Redigan bows all the way to his knees before Ariel, who smiles awkwardly, and then Octave, who stares at him impassively. “If you hadn't been out here, my life would have been forfeit to that thug. Redigan, at your service; anything I can do to help would be insufficient.”

“Know a way into that building, Redigan?” asks Octave. Ariel stares at her. It isn't like Octave to be so open. Octave stows the knife in her pack, not looking for a reaction.

“The museum? Have you tried going underground?”

“Is there a tunnel nearby?”

“Of course. As it so happens, I know exactly where the entrance is. Follow me. It's the least I can do.” Ariel isn't sure what's happening, but they follow Redigan around the back of the buildings where the darkness covers them unhindered by lampposts. “It's not far from here.” he chatters happily. “You two are dressed to travel. Did you just arrive?” Ariel nods while Octave says nothing. “There are underground tunnels all through Salkrit. Makes it easier to get from one place to another. Some of these buildings have underground openings for emergencies or to move things in and out inconspicuously. I'll wager a hefty purse this here museum has one too.” He goes on until Ariel hears only droning noise, but sure enough, he stops at a tiny shack she never would have noticed nestled between a house and a pair of enormous beeches. Salkrit during the day is a jumble constructed without care or planning, and it's unlikely anyone would give such a miserly shack a second look. At night, the city glows with light but only along its main streets; anything to the side is lost in darkness. Redigan pulls the door open with an effort.

“They don't keep it locked?”

“Nay. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to get in, missy.” He winks and leads them down. “Could use a light down here though.”

Ariel conjures a luminous shield in front of them that casts a pale gold light down the bare tunnel. Just as fast as it appears, it fades, the outlines of the floor and walls growing darker and darker until they merge with the coalescing blackness. “Try something new.” says Octave. Ariel's next spell combines her bonds with the freedom of conjuration magic. The spell writhes and reforms from ropes to a net to a ball of soft light hanging overhead.

“Very pretty.” says Redigan. “I could never get the hang of magic meself.” They walk down the tunnel, boots crunching on the gritty floor, an uncomfortable reminder of the last time Ariel found herself underground.

“I hope getting out of here is simpler.”

“Don't you worry about that.” Redigan stops in front of a heavy door. “This is the way into the museum. Best of luck to you ladies. I'll just keep going. This tunnel comes out near my home, and me missus is waiting.” He bows shortly and hurries off into the darkness.

“There you go, Octave.” Ariel stretches her arms proudly, levitating the ball up to the ceiling. “Sometimes helping others is a charity unto itself, but other times it pays you in turn.”

“Let's not celebrate your goodness just yet. This door won't open.”

“Is it locked?”

“Bolted.” Octave puts her shoulder to it and pushes.

“And there's no way you can open it?” pleads Ariel.

“Not without a battering ram.” Octave smacks the door with a dense thud of flesh on iron.

Ariel sighs. “I guess I shouldn't get ahead of myself. That's the lesson here, right? Gloating over success only brings tragedy.”

“I'm not so sure. Come down here.” Octave leads her to another door, a thinner one of wood. She raps on it cautiously then tries the knob. It turns with a click. Octave enters. Ariel hangs back for a fraction of a second, then follows.

“Urg. It's so dusty. Where are we?”

“Priests never were experts in security. I'm hoping this is the temple to Retifanta.”

“The god of wealth and glory will be incensed to discover this basement is neither wealthy nor glorious.” They skirt around old tables and broken chairs covered in years of neglect to a rickety staircase. With each creaking step, Ariel is certain a guard will sound the alarm and the cry of 'thieves!' will spread through the city. It might even get locked down again. No such cry is made. Through a door, Ariel's ball casts it tender glow on pillars of black marble, golden statuaries of soldiers bearing plundered wealth, and above it all, a tall man with a harsh face and heavy beard. “Hello, Lord Retifanta. I pray you will allow us safe passage through your temple.”

“Afraid of divine retribution?” asks Octave, her voice betraying only a hint of a smirk.

“Just being safe. Why are we in here anyway?”

“We're going up.” They climb up another set of stairs, then another, then a third, the pit in Ariel's stomach deepening. Somehow she agreed to stealing from the museum. Now they've broken into a temple. What could cause worse luck? Breaking into the palace? That might get the city locked down again. “This is it.” Ariel tiptoes past murals stretching from the floor across the ceiling of armies marching triumphantly under the protective gaze of their great god to a window. Octave unlatches it and pushes it open; only temple to Retifanta could afford actual hinged windows.

“We're going to...?”

“Drop down from here to the roof of the museum.”

Ariel peers out over the empty street. “That's a frightening drop if we miss.”

“We won't miss then. I'll go first. Conjure me some of your ropes and I'll swing down.” This is lunacy, but with each accentuation this night, Ariel has lost a little more of her ability to protest. She's has never used her luminous bonds for this, but it should work. Right? Octave grabs one and leaps. No hesitation, no looking down at the street three levels below. The flexible bonds bend and swing, her feet pry for a solid landing, then she's standing on the Royal Museum looking up and beckoning. Ariel takes a deep breath. She looks down at the street, then wishes she hadn't. Another deep breath. Why didn't Octave just fly or float down like she did when they broke into the city last time? It was to give her confidence. That must be it. Like some mother bird flying from the nest to encourage her chick to take wing. Ariel grabs the rope and jumps.

Even as her feet push off from the window sill, she's knows she's made a mistake. Without her presence to anchor the rope, it hangs precariously in middair; the force of her binding won't counterbalance the force of her body plummeting down. Worse yet, her jump was insufficient. She won't clear the street. Her knuckles and teeth clench as it begins to draw near. A thousand options shoot through her mind, but there's no time to decide what she should have done differently. She grabs for the edge of the museum in desperation.

Then, somehow, she's slowed. Hands catch her hands and pull her in. Her thrashing legs kick solid landing. “Easy.” says Octave. “You're safe.” Ariel clutches Octave's hands for a few more seconds as the rope dissipates from glowing light to nothingness. Her feet lurch and she nearly falls off. Octave pulls her back a second time.

“Let go.” pants Ariel before realising she's the one holding on. She lets go and sits with the sigh of one who has too closely contemplated mortality, then springs back to her feet in disgust. “Shit!”

“Probably not, but roofs rarely are clean. Ready to move on?” Ariel nods and curses as she tries to wipe the dirt and residue of rotting leaves off her pants. The flat roof is buried in the accumulated waste of years. Thankfully, the door leading to the ceiling is less fortified than the underground entrance and Octave rattles it until the flimsy lock snaps. Now they're in the museum. Ariel reconjures her luminous ball, smaller this time. Octave doesn't so much as glance at the oil paintings, each worth a quiet fortune, or the crown studded with enough firegems to make Rol Blaketik salivate. Nor does she care for the display of weapons: swords carved from bone or forged from meteoric iron, a flail used by ancient kings in long lost battles. It's a wonder more people don't try to steal from this place. Then Ariel contemplates the punishments they'll face if caught and stops thinking.

After some wandering and backtracking, they arrive at the mineral exhibit. Within it lies a smaller collection of stone life. “We don't want the big ones on display.” says Octave, walking by an immense stone seashell half her size. She opens a door, and they're in the storeroom. Desks stacked with logbooks sit beside shelves and tables full of pieces too odd or broken to be shown for a price. “This is what we came for.” They stuff their packs with stone shells, no larger than chestnuts, in the shape of spirals, chipped rocks bearing imprints of insects and fish, and bits of rock bone fragments.

“I wonder if these really were alive at some point.” says Ariel, spreading out the remainder to better hide their pilfering. “I'd like to imagine there were dragonflies this big, or a fish that was somehow stamped into a rock.”

“Who knows?” Octave hefts a stone fang the length of her forearm. “This may have been how life came about, born from the seed of the earth.”

“I once heard that stone life represents the discarded attempts by the gods to create real life.”

“You're a more pious person than I gave you credit for.”

“Am not! I'm just sensible is all. Looking at this room reminds us that world hides mysteries enough for another thousand epochs.” Their thievery complete, Octave leads Ariel, not back up to the ceiling, but down into the basement where wooden skeletons of ships sit safe from the waves they will never know. After a short search, she finds and unbolts the door, and they're back in the tunnel Redigan lead them to. “Do you think they'll know someone broke in?”

“Depends on how strong their record-keeping is. Someone is bound to be berated for leaving that underground door unbolted though.”

They step back out of the shack onto the street. A few stars now twinkle through breaks in the clouds. “I hope nobody is fired over this. Or worse, blamed for anything and imprisoned.” Footsteps sound behind them. Without only a lamppost in the distance, Ariel can only see a dark blur and hear a thump. Somehow Octave has moved from on front of her to the back in as much time as it takes to blink. She whirls around and steps back to see her standing over a figure on the ground.

“Garn.” Caris rolls away from her and tries to stand, but Octave's boot crunches down onto his wrist. He yelps and a knife clatters to the ground. Octave picks it up.

“Another sticker? Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?” Not a knife, a dagger. Long and deadly thin with a slightly leaf-shaped blade for a heftier thrust. Octave releases his hand and he snatches it away. “This is a killer's blade.”

“Why were you waiting for us?” demands Ariel. “We don't want your trouble.”

Caris half stands half squats before them. “Should have thought about that before you poked into my business. Don't want trouble? You can't lose it. Go on. Take my blade again. I have more Run away again. I'll find you.” He spits. “I never forget a face. I never forgive a debt. Go on. I'll be waiting behind you.”

“No you won't.” As he rises, Octave places a hand on his shoulder and drives the dagger into his chest. It pierces his heart to the hilt. Caris's eyes widen. His mouth opens but only a gasp escapes his dying lips. He collapses to the ground yet again. Octave hops back to avoid the dark liquid pooling beneath his body.

“Octave...” Ariel stands frozen. “How could you kill him? That was a person. I thought after everything...” Her voice trails off.

“I've seen this type before. It's not safe to leave and forget about him as a passing bit of nastiness. He might have gotten drunk and forgotten the night's events, or he might have spent the rest of his life with an eye out for us.”

“But he wasn't a threat. We could have, I don't know. Turned him in.”

“You want to go to the city guards as we are? Explain how we crossed paths? Deal with whatever inquisitions they impose on us? Perhaps they lock him away for a few months. What then? He spends months in prison sharpening his teeth every time he thinks of us. Then there's no way he forgets. No, this is better. Safer.” She turns. Ariel lingers, eyes fixed on his. She bends down to close his stiff lids and afford him some semblance of peace. “We'd better get out of here while our problems are still solved.”