The lacquered wood of the tabletop squeaked under her fingers as Challis rubbed it gently, back and forth. The coolness didn't quite soothe her blisters so much as it gave her something to do to ease the not-so-shocking shock she had just encountered.

Next to her, Rasalas sat leaning his elbows on the wood. Once or twice now he had taken a breath as if to say something. Somewhere just out of sight among the red brick buildings, the sounds of children laughing and yelling bounced off the canyon wall behind them as they sat in the now-empty communal eating area.

Neither of them was hungry anymore. Only thirsty, as usual.

Through Rasalas' eyes, Challis watched the workers in the garden nursing wrecked plants back to health after the twins had repaired the smashed tubing and trellises. The cooking platform itself was cracked in some places, but the sawmill wouldn't be open for a few days and replacing the boards would have to wait. Forge had relented just enough of the Gannagens' payment to cover the cost of lumber.

Challis' thoughts trailed after her brother's gaze as it moved towards the noise of carefree playing. She remembered those days, when her only problems involved having her hair pulled by the boys and then her brother doing it too. She had run crying to her mother, who sent Rasalas off to the lodge. Much of their mother's time in those days had been managing her twins' quarrels. Little did anyone know how essential their habit of arguing was to survive such forced proximity as they had now. Under careful supervision, it had drawn them into understanding the other better than if they had grown up merely existing together.

"Remember those puzzles mother gave us when we were kids?" Challis murmured.

Rasalas' view slid over to her hands running along the tabletop.

"What?"

"With Hianette and what's-his-face. What was his face?"

Rasalas straightened to look up at the canopy cover above them. "Oh. Oh, um. Chunk? Chuck. I'll miss that guy. I only remember playing him chess. He always won, the bastard."

"He would give himself handicaps, too," Challis said.

"So he said."

They went silent again. Challis looked sideways at him.

"Like, playing left-handed."

Rasalas bubbled up into choking laughter. Challis joined in, until the reigning emotion and disgruntlement of the whole afternoon swelled up between them, fractured into pieces, and dwindled away.

Rasalas started coughing. His sister pounded his back, the way he hated it, and made the coughs worse. Across the courtyard, from behind a row of stables, a pack of thrikes took to the air with a chorus of shrieks that battered the north canyon walls with echoes. Challis watched them ride the last of the updrafts along the walls and disappear over the windmills lining the canyon's edge. She tried to imagine what they saw from up there, soaring high above the canyon and surrounding mountainscape on nothing but air. Broad, pumping wings on either side, graceful thrusts catching the wind currents and gliding effortlessly over a mile, then mile after mile away from this place.

A scraping sound drew her back into the moment. Rasalas was sharpening his stubnicker on an identical one that belonged to Challis. Each little multitool was a stubby piece of iron about three inches long, with a rounded end for gripping or hammering, extending down into a point that had been pounded flat for screwing or cutting. The fat end was sandpaper rough, and every part of a stubnicker could be used to mend or compress or tighten any part of a pterosaur saddle that needed attention. A hole was drilled through the middle of each, so it was easy to tie to a leather thong on one's belt.

Technically, the little tools belonged to the equipment boxes in the stables, but Forge would never miss them.

"How's the hand?" Challis asked. Rasalas put the stub down and punched her shoulder lightly.

"Fine. Nugget, that hurt, though."

"Not as much as it hurt him."

"I wish that were true." He leaned his forehead on his palms. "Sorry I got us into this mess. We haven't been jobless since…"

"Father sold out." Challis elbowed him. "And it wasn't you. I'm the one who went after Rib-eye and got you into trouble."

He sighed down at the stubs on the tabletop. "Chall, we're so behind on debt payments now. Father said he'd pick up leatherworking material tomorrow. Borrowing. Hopefully, he can pick up commissions, and soon."

"Maybe we should go damage someone's saddle on purpose. Think Corvin would mind?"

"Psh. He could afford it."

Their father and the man in white came around a corner toward them. The stranger had his hat on again, and Challis thought he was smiling. When they reached the table, Rasalas half-rose from the bench and shook his hand.

"Drunnel Haske," the man said, offering a hand to Challis as well. His accent clipped the words short by punching every consonant. "Please, sit. We would join you."

The four settled onto the benches, the men facing the siblings. Haske's sleeves were rolled up for a more casual look than Challis had seen before, but the impression was skewed by black swirls inking his arms to the wrists. He had folded his hands on the tabletop, so she had to concentrate to keep her eyes on his face. Even more so when he removed his hat. The platinum blonde stripe stood out clearly in the shade, his ears outlined against the black close shave on the sides. The patch on his neck glowed an almost neon blue. Challis had never seen one that color, or that bright. Any sort of patch meant exposure to Cormellican hypertechnology in a hospital, though it supposedly faded over time.

As he was close enough that she and Rasalas were looking at him from different angles, Challis' view of the man was a flickering double-layer as if he were a malfunctioning holograph image. It made his head look misshapen, and it was hard to tell when he was looking at her brother and when he was looking at her. She did notice, however, his cursory glance over their filthy laborers' shirts. He refrained from wiping off his hands.

"Rasalas and Challis," he began, "I'm an agent from the Franken Histology Foundation, or FHF, in Eastwedgen district near the Cormellican Institute. I hear you're familiar with that area."

"Cormellican, yes," Challis said, a little too darkly. Her father and Rasalas traded a look, but Haske continued smoothly.

"Of course. The FHF sent me and a few associates to the Exhibition you put on here in Polescos. Normally, we attend these events to discuss logistics and advances in pterosaur management and cultivation, and to upkeep a healthy affiliation with all circles of floxogelenical value in Oedolon." Here he gave a deferential nod to the man beside him. "Your father is one such whom we have gotten to know personally and maintain connections with, even after your unfortunate change of position some years ago."

None of the Gannagens moved. Haske tapped the table, his first sign of nervousness, and pushed on.

"The FHF is looking to hire some operatives for an excursion in two months, specifically those above the age of twenty-one and with some experience handling animals. Big animals."

Rasalas shifted when Haske paused. "Sir, what kind of experience?"

"It's Drunnel, please. The experience I refer to is basic knowledge of how to analyze, care for, and simply behave around high-flux creatures bigger than you. Of course, the more technical processes of the position would be trained on hand as soon as the situation allows."

Challis and Rasalas glanced at each other and then away, both remembering one or two incriminating events from yesterday. Their father cleared his throat.

Rasalas gave a nod. "Understood."

Drunnel leaned forward suddenly, rubbing his hands together.

"Have either of you heard of maccotons?”

Challis let out a short laugh. "Real ones?"

Rasalas kicked her sideways under the table, but Drunnel grinned, pale eyes glinting.

"Real, and wild. The FHF got news of a herd sighting just last month up on the north coast. Maccoton herds only travel south every hundred years or so, or when population explosions drive them apart. With the news of several baby calves said to accompany this herd, we are certain it is because of the latter."

Challis, to regain some footing, spoke up again. "What is the excursion for?"

"We intend to acquire as many maccotons alive as we can for preliminary research, and we expect them to be of invaluable worth in the face of the city-wide water shortage, or floxogelene crisis. The last time this happened, flux had become scarce enough to drop the average lifespan to eighty, or even seventy in the less fortunate districts. Oedolon did not possess the resources it did now, and the population shrunk disastrously as people died or left for healthier places. But," Drunnel thumped the table with a fist, "with maccotons, we can achieve something like never before. From up here in Polescos, the largest river in the rainforest is but two miles away. There sits only a wall of cliffs between us and it."

He looked back and forth between them, clearly enjoying their reactions. Challis' eyebrows had shot up, while Rasalas' had frowned down.

"And?"

Drunnel's voice went distant as he looked past them at the cliffside. "And, with the strength of maccotons, we can bring that river to us."

Challis caught her brother's eye and smiled. Drunnel's words, his offer of something new, had started to take hold inside each of them, rubbing sparks into a desire that had long sat dead and unmoving.

"They're huge, aren't they," Rasalas said quietly. "Monsters?"

The other just nodded.

"And how many operatives are you hiring?" Challis went on, her heart starting to pound harder.

"Upwards of a hundred, not including a score of officers," he answered promptly. "Mainly from Eastwedgen and Polescos. As I mentioned before, this is a once-a-century opportunity. The organization intends to fund the preparation and pre-training of any number of candidates for the program, though provisions can only be made for a limited number on the expedition. And, I should mention, upon returning to Oedolon, those chosen candidates will be expected to enroll into an introductory two-year association with the FHF as trainees."

Challis ran that last point over and over in her head. Whatever future mucking out the stalls had prepared her for, it had never occurred to her that it might launch into something as… pretentious as histological research and development, or even energiconformatics, the study of floxogelene. With fantastical creatures from myth.

"You mentioned preparation and training," Rasalas was saying. "What would that involve?"

"In two months, aside from being able to ride and manage their own horses and equipment, candidates will be expected to –"

Challis rose with a start, moving out from the bench to stand at one end of the table, staring at nothing. Her father and Drunnel looked up in surprise, but Rasalas just stiffened. He knew they had avoided the horse stalls like the plague after the accident that killed their mother and flung them headlong into debt, but any mention of horses still shook Challis off balance even after six years.

"You said horses?" Challis demanded.

Drunnel hedged. "The excursion will also include a band of thrikes, if you are competent as a handler."

Rasalas turned, plunked an elbow onto the table, and locked hard eyes on her. Challis couldn't look away while distinct messages from her brother came into her head like smacks in the face.

The first was: Don't you dare give us away. Maybe Drunnel knew they were rarely allowed to touch the thrikes, or maybe he didn't.

The second was: Yes, he said horses. Deal with it.

And lastly, the most obvious: If you ruin this chance for us, you're dead. Just stop.

"Don't," Challis said softly, "tell me to stop." She sat down again, slow and deliberate and pointedly not looking at anyone.

Their father broke the strained silence. "To clarify — if my children accept candidacy into the program, the FHF will cover the cost of preparatory training, whether or not they are admitted after the two months?"

"Correct."

"And if they are admitted, the success of the expedition would mandate their enrollment into the FHF corporation?"

"Indeed. The preliminary two years would also be funded, of course."

Trent Gannagen gave his son and daughter a frank look, making sure they saw it before smoothing it over and rising from his seat.

"I have business to attend to. Thank you, Agent Haske." Giving a last nod to Drunnel, he left without another word.

"I'd… like to speak with each of you individually," Drunnel said. "Who's first?"

"Go ahead," Challis said to Rasalas, brushing her hair back from her face. "I need to finish mucking out some stalls."