Sean

Íde and the Pathfinder emerge as shuffling silhouettes in the gloom of the underbrush, and I see them long before they see me. Iseult took the time to write a pair of brilliant sun-sigils, and hung them around our campsite after a brief argument concerning the danger of advertising our location. I give a shout when the pair of them are close enough. The Pathfinder’s head shoots up in my direction, and it takes him a second for him to recognise me against the tree branch I’m perched on. Íde doesn’t look up at all. They’ve arrived on virtually the same trajectory they left on. He’s pretty good, to be able to retrace their path like that.

Iseult must be moving as well- there’s a clinking noise as she rises, and the scrape of the coffee dallah being taken off the light embers of a cooking fire. Underneath me bubbles the dinner I’ve been preparing. The stew has been simmering for the last hour that the two of them have been gone, though I’ve kept the fire as low as possible to conceal the steam and the cooking smoke.

Iseult leans against the tree under me, and we watch the pair of them pick their way back to the camp. It’s slow going- Íde isn’t moving her arms. Is she hurt?

The Pathfinder calls out something in Thalaami, a rhyming couplet that I don’t understand. Iseult says something in return, in that same sing-song tempo. She relaxes slightly, taking her hand off of the trigger guard of her weapon. Her practiced hands work over the gun, sliding the cylinder out, and she rapidly slots out four bullets into her open palm. She pockets these, rests the jezail lightly on the tree beside her, then folds her arms and waits.

When the pair of them make it back through the gloomy fecundity of the Bloom and reach our little clearing, Íde stumbles. Her face is sunken, as if her features have been pulled and twisted by fingers. There’s a crust of blood around her ears. I clamber down the tree and Iseult and I rush to meet her, but when I reach her and place a hand on her shoulder she shakes her head, still kneeling. She asks me, quietly, for a jar.

Iseult turns quickly, shooting a worried look at the Pathfinder. He looks at her, and then at me, and the concern and fear on his face is unnerving. When Iseult returns a minute later with a glass jar and a length of lead wire, neither the Pathfinder nor I have exchanged words. We’re both staring at Íde, who in turn has let her head tilt slightly, staring glassily and unfocused at the forest floor. There’s a heart-sized mass in her clutched, wrapped hands. It is staining her bandages black, and drips occasionally onto the thick lichen underfoot.

Íde takes the jar from Iseult, wordlessly. She shudders and drops the sopping, oily mess into the glass- the honeycomb folds gently from the impact. It skitters at the edge of my vision, slipping my eyes from its glittering edges. The older woman takes the jar from Íde’s unresisting hands, covers it with a lid, and bends a length of lead around the jar’s neck. It takes her a few minutes to draw a sigil onto the lid, and about five seconds for the glyph to brighten and weld the metal around the lid shut. As she does so, the honey sloppily oozes and settles at the base of the jar. It is mercurial, or thrumming, and is comprised equally of bubbling black spheres and hair-like tendrils. The roiling muck seems to be churn the most where it is closest to Iseult, and I watch over and over again as midnight-coloured spikes struggle against the glass like tangles of collapsing veins. It gleams with a matte shine that seems familiar. Like Aergan coins over the eyes of a corpse.

Life returns to Íde slowly, as if the act of holding the muck was exhausting. She looks at me with a sudden concern. “Can you help me with the bandages?”

When she holds up her streaked forearms, I am struck with a deep wave of pity. The bandages peel away in slippery ribbons, revealing blood and dripping black honey in equal amounts. I cradle those weak arms in my own, and her fingers clamp around mine. Warm, damp. Wormlike.

She makes it all the way to the end, just as I finish the binding on her left arm, before she starts crying.

*

We’ve packed the tents and placed more wood under the cooking fire, which I return to and resume awkwardly poking the stew I’ve been preparing. When I turn, the Pathfinder is standing behind me. It takes me a moment to realise that the grim expression frozen on his face is not from whatever happened to him and Íde in the woods. He’s staring at my food.

I ladle out three bowls (the Pathfinder politely demurs. He’s staring at the meal with the disdainful curiosity of a housecat). When I bring the meals over to Iseult and Íde, they’re murmuring something to each other in low voices. Jargon-rich, unusual syllables. Magic. Iseult takes the bowl without saying anything, but Íde gives me a sad smile. I notice she’s draped a necklace of iron Bani Yathrib beads around her neck- Iseult must have given it to her in these last few minutes. The bullet in the front has been engraved so intricately it catches my eye for a moment. I know what bullets mean to Iseult, and I hope Íde appreciates the gesture. The pair drop back into their conversation, and I understand perhaps four in every five words.

I shrug, knowing my place, and return to stamp out the cooking fire.

Yesterday, the quiet the monstrous stain brought had extended well past when Iseult and Íde banished it. All night, for hours, the sounds of the Bloom had been muted, or far away, or both. I had stared up into the night and watched the real moon track lazily across the horizon, lulled into sleep by the rhythmic breathing of the trees.

No such luck tonight. Just as I am secured under my tartan (I have given the remainder of my sleeping kit to Íde, who lost all of hers to the creature), a thunderous hooting blasts from the trees around us, some gurgling racket that bolts me wide awake. Only my face, slathered with a salve against mosquitos, emerges from my blanket. I’d rather marinate under the oppressive heat of my tartan than risk any sort of Wraithwild bug-bite diseases. I think of the bee we saw today, and feel a stab of embarrassment that it was neither Iseult nor me, but Íde, who realised what it was.

We’re letting her rest. I don’t know if she’s asleep. There are a few scant measures of laudanum in the base of my pack, and I palmed the smallest bottle to her without the others noticing. Afterwards, the rest of us drew lots for the watch schedule. The Pathfinder first, Iseult last, and me in the middle with the dog watch.

I roll over, and can see him, sitting cross-legged against a tree, staring out into the darkness. Iseult undid her light sigils, and stored the now blank slates in her pack. No sense advertising overnight. Still, I can just make out his silhouette, a lump barely illuminated in the feeble moonlight that pierces the canopy above.

I close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep.

*

The Pathfinder is kneeling over me, his thin, pinched face tilted very slightly to one side, as if listening. I am awake, instantly, and remember where we are. Adrenaline begins to leach out of my blood, slower than it arrived. He grins when I emerge, decelerating, from the tartan.

He removes his delicate hand from my shoulder, before turning and walking over to his sleeping spot. I watch him shuck his clothes, revealing a lithe body, before halfway burrowing himself under a Thalaami blanket. No tinctures or ointments to ward off against insects. He just settles himself and stops moving.

A few minutes later, I see his chest slow to a dreamer’s pace. Unbelievable.

It takes me a moment to realise how shockingly bright it is. The moonlight should surely not be able to penetrate to this depth, nor should it be this bright. When I look up, the moon looks normal. That’s not where this light is coming from.

Under the canopy, clinging to a hundred boughs, are a thousand pinprick lanterns. They flutter, rarely, from tree to tree, bobbing with the nonchalant gracelessness of moths. I look up, and see above me, above everyone, a sea of tiny stars set against the underside of the trees. Their light is strong enough to illuminate the entire Bloom in a faint, ghostly aura.

I crack my shoulders, retrieve my sword from its resting spot just to the right of my blanket, and start slowly encircling the camp.

If these moths hadn’t showed up, I would’ve been perfectly happy sitting in a tree not far from my bedroll. Now, as I quietly make my rounds, I note that my chosen spot is perfectly illuminated by a particularly thick cluster of luminescence. No good, then. I see a few spots about the campsite that seem dark enough. Before finding the optimal one to perch myself in, I trudge my way through the underbrush, over to Íde.

She’s used the insect tincture, that’s for sure. I can smell it from five paces away, before I even really see her. She’s curled under my bearskin, lit by the moth-glow. As I draw closer to her, I hear something that tightens my throat and puts my teeth on edge.

Íde is whispering something.

This happens, of course, with certain people. But we’ve been travelling together for weeks, and I haven’t heard her talk in her sleep before.

What happened to her, with the bees? She told us the story, in two fragments, but neither Iseult nor I were convinced. When Iseult pressed the Pathfinder, he had said something similar- she’d been coated in bees, and they’d talked for a long time, then left her quivering, with her hands filled with honeycomb. Maybe that’s the truth.

Her voice rises slightly, a nonsense rhythm, a Saint’s glossolalia. Should I wake her?

I spend the entire night in a tree above her, listening to that garbled susurrus. When the time comes to wake Iseult for the last watch, I elect instead to stay in my tree, never taking my hand from my sword or my attention from Íde’s frantic murmurings.

*

By the time we’re packed the next morning, some of the colour has returned to Íde’s face. She still looks awful, but at least her complexion has returned. I mention the latter, as she bashfully returns my bearskin. We decamp, then strike backwards out of the Bloom. Iseult seemed grateful for the extra sleep. I fall behind the troupe, and spend most of my time staring at the back of Íde’s head. The Pathfinder seems confident, and we make very good time.

About thirty minutes before we reach where the border of the Bloom and the rest of the Wraithwild should be, we arrive at the shores of a large lake. The Pathfinder is staring at it, frowning. I join him. We have returned on a similar bearing to the one we entered in, according to the compasses. Where did this water come from?

It’s a huge, vague circle, ringed with a mat of orange flowers that are so dense and so vibrant that they obscure the water underneath their petals. As we watch, they twitch slowly- first towards us, then in random patterns, as if they are losing interest. This flower wreathe extends only a yard or so into the rest of the lake, which is completely devoid of life. The waters are still. Stiller than I’ve ever seen a body of water, entirely flat even in the light midday breeze. Sunlight reflects perfectly off its unblemished mirror surface.

It’s as quiet as it was when the d’hain hunted us. Nothing moves.

We circumvent the mirror lake, staring occasionally at the glassy surface, our footsteps grotesquely loud in that placid air. When it is behind us, and we are almost to the edge of the Bloom, I check over my shoulder much more frequently than I normally would, imagining threats at every twitching leaf.

Then, all of a sudden, we are out of the darkness, and into the Wraithwild proper. Iseult literally sighs with relief, and she joins the Pathfinder, who is standing with his eyes closed in the centre of the road. The sun is drowned, yes, but it is there, and the light is welcome after those long miles under the dismal canopy.

*

Even outside of the Bloom, away from the maddening strangeness of the forest, we’re not entirely safe. Bandits and highwaymen are rife in Yvreathe, especially in places far away from well-travelled towns and roads. I’m sure that sinister people lurk here, in the Wraithwild. Thalaami brigands. Bani Yathrib tribes. As with before, the terrain blurs between dusty scrubland and dense forest, where trees and ferns occasionally push right up to the edge of the road.

We’re well into the first day’s hike back when a bough detonates over Íde’s head.

In her defence, she’s walking dead on her feet. Her ears are still ringed with little crusts of blood, and she can’t even use her hands without wincing. She doesn’t have a pack, because it was eaten by the monstrous red swirl-thing. There’s a gunshot crack, and I snap my head sideways just in time to see the branch start to descend onto her.

Only her head moves, and she looks up, resigned. The exhaustion and the sadness in her eyes is unmistakable. I erupt towards her, and have taken two steps by the time the tree branch hits the ground.

I don’t know what the Pathfinder and Iseult are doing, but I reach Íde a second later, taking her head in both of my hands. She’s standing stock-still, strong as a standing stone, quiet amidst the still-quivering tree branches. It missed her by inches, and by some incredible stroke of luck she is situated just at the point where the bough bisects into two separate branches. Had she been one more foot the right or left, she would’ve been maimed or killed by the falling bough.

I know what shock does to people. But I’m staring at Íde, and I swear to the Saints that she’s not afraid. Her eyes are unblinking, and locked onto mine, like her world is just her and me. She’s not just tired, or weary. She’s not there at all.

“I’m sorry. I don’t feel myself,” she says, in a soft, heart-breaking murmur.

I wrap her in my arms and almost cry in relief when I feel her, seconds later, hug me back.

*

We smell the sea at about the same time we see the walls of Brixa Thalaam. A slow-rolling merchant caravan a mile ahead of us fills the entire width of the road, but it slowly congeals to a single-file line as we draw near. As soon as we’re within earshot, the Pathfinder shouts one sentence, just one sentence, and the traders shift from polite to raucous. They’re from near Cotton Castle, and accept our Wraithwilders garrulously, and Íde and I with open arms.

By the time we reach the gates, they’ve mostly retreated from around Íde. I don’t particularly blame them- she says almost nothing, her eyes glazed like she’s on henbane. Her stiff, juddering walk is difficult to match.

We enter the city from a different angle, though the houses and buildings look much the same. Our merchant crew leaves us around a large plaza, flanked with squat little beige buildings, marked with swirls of cast iron and gorgeous tilework. We say our goodbyes and slot neatly into the afternoon traffic, joining a herd of boisterous cattle driven by a bored-looking farmer.

I slowly sneak my hand into my coat pocket, and gingerly touch the bundle I’ve secreted there. Yes, the Pathfinder told us to take nothing from the Bloom. And on the way into those depths, concerned as I was regarding the threats of that forest, I hadn’t considered stopping to take a souvenir. But after passing a copse of house-tall finger-trees, I’d felt the overwhelming need to take something, something to mount or frame or entertain at an Ildathach gathering.

This desire eventually intensified to the point where, when the others were distracted by a particularly grotesque sapling, I had taken a few moments to collect a flower that appeared to grow in the shape of a human jaw, jewel-teeth included. I’d wrapped the flower in a kerchief and snuck it into my pocket. I’d also collected a brace of dried leaves, splashed in glorious indigo fractals.

I’d seen a rock, just before we left the Bloom entirely, that looked for all the world like a carved cylinder of malachite the size of my palm. As I stooped to collect it, a foot-long slug had reared up from the dirt next to it, and stared at me with a narrow, judgemental gaze. Its flat face was alarming, as were its bared, human-like teeth, and my hand had hovered over the cylinder for just a moment before I had walked briskly on to join the rest of the group.

A group of black-clad Bani Yathrib, one of whom is resting an enormous firearm on his shoulder, marches towards us. They wheel before they intersect our path, disappearing down some side street. If they see Iseult, they have no reaction. She’s ahead of me, so I can’t see her face, but I can’t help but notice that her gaze lingers on the intersection where the tribe had pivoted away from us.

We march on, exhausted and covered in the sweat and grime of hard travel. The city itself is a nexus for all sorts of nomads and traders, and we hardly cut an unusual shape in the winding cobblestones of whatever district we’re in. It comes as somewhat of a surprise when we stop at an unremarkable-looking caravansary. I hadn’t asked, I’d just assumed that the Pathfinder would’ve taken us to see Ābreen directly. The sun hasn’t even set yet: we have several more hours of daylight at least.

Unsurprisingly, the building is beige, tiled, and has those tall thin walls that seem to be in fashion in the city. A few street urchins watch us from their squat in the road, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. They’re lounging under a small statue of Saint Teneral, his bronze face aged and featureless from the wear of centuries.

The street we’ve stopped in is a little quieter than the others. I have no idea where we are, but Iseult seems satisfied, so I’m happy enough. Íde leans hard against me as we stop moving, and I feel her shift her weight as she sags, exhausted, against my chest. I wrap an arm around her, and she closes her eyes and just breathes, slowly. The city murmurs around us, a faraway susurrus of laughs and arguments. When the wind whips through the street, it rustles through the broad leaves of the trees that line both sides of the road and brings with it the smell of salt and pine.

Iseult and the Pathfinder are speaking with each other. I recognise the set of her shoulders, and the unpleasant tone she’s using. She’s furious.

My first instinct is to figure out what’s happening, but Íde has slumped against me and I don’t speak Thalaami. Instead, I pretend that I don’t hear anything, and take a deep interest in the porticos of the buildings around us. Even when Iseult stabs a hand angrily towards Íde and me, I opt to look up at the intricate iron balconies of the Thalaami buildings, and the wide, dark doors of the inn before us.

Minutes later, I act surprised when Iseult addresses me, stamping angrily behind us. “He’s leaving us.”

That is actually a bit startling. I cock my head and frown. “What?”

“Tdhahi,” She spits his name. “He’s a Pathfinder, literally, so that’s as far as his job with us extends. He said his task is done, so he’s excused himself. After taking us here.” She gestures towards the wide, squat walls of the caravansary. Moments before, with the implied presence of the Pathfinder, it had been an oasis.

“You think this is going to be a problem?” Íde hears my tone change, and peels herself off me, concerned. Iseult scowls.

“He seemed normal. Not planning something, I mean. This isn’t unusual, for Thalaamis.”

I trust her judgement, and rest my hand back on the pommel of my sword.

“But,” she continues, “I’m not sure what the implication is. Do you think he’s gone to collect friends? Why this caravansary in particular? Delaying our meeting with Ābreen until tomorrow gives either of them some time to plan, if indeed something is being planned.”

I ponder this. She’s not wrong, of course, and I don’t necessarily disagree with her. I wish I’d been able to speak with the man, to see for myself if I had trusted him or not. “So you think we should choose a different inn? Wouldn’t that be a bit… impolite?”

Iseult taps a booted toe against a loose cobblestone. “Yes. Absolutely. It would be impolite.”

Íde looks between the two of us, head turning slowly. I consider things for a few seconds, and see the exhaustion writ plainly on both of their faces. This paranoia is standard, for Iseult. But she’s not necessarily wrong.

“How much money do you have?” I ask, indelicately. Even Iseult picks up on the bluntness of that question, and her response is understandably brusque: “Why?”

“In case we have to shift our lodgings-“

“In the middle of the night,” she interrupts. “I see. So we purchase rooms here, and we leave without being noticed at night, and find another inn to stay in.”

This is not what I was going to say, but it is very characteristic of the way that she thinks. I was just going to search for a more expensive hotel. “Yes,” I lie.

“Alright,” she says, enthused. The idea of a midnight getaway has kindled in her a few more minutes of zeal. “We can rest here until a few hours after sunset. Then, we can exit. Preferably out over the roof,” she’s pointing at a low-slung part of the caravansary, presumably where horses or camels can be kept overnight. Iseult nods curtly, glancing sideways at Íde.

“Right. Be ready to move in a few hours.”

*

Luckily for me, despite her temporary fervour Iseult succumbs to sleep almost the second she lays down. Íde, likewise, has collapsed, exhausted, onto the delicate eiderdown of her own bed. Boots still on and everything. I debate unwrapping her bandages to check on her wounds, but opt to let her sleep.

This is my first time in a true Thalaami caravansary, and it is easily as impressive as anything similar I’d find in Yvreathe. We’re locked behind a thick dark-wood door, which is flanked with a pair of impressive security irons. Outside of the room, smooth marble tiles set in tessellating patterns expand outwards from a central square pool within the place’s broad courtyard, which is open to the air and clad in the same gorgeous stone. Huge leafy trees in immaculate white pots are placed every few yards around the edge of the space, and featureless stone benches topped with outrageously-patterned cushions offer plenty of places to sit.

We’ve rented two rooms, from a massive, genial woman named Jala Manaf. She speaks no Irdcheol, but to my surprise does have very passable Aerinic, and she had ranted to me about a pair of Al Khazraj visitors who had left without paying. Íde went to bed instantly, and Iseult had been completely alert and even vaguely sociable for about ten minutes, fuelled by our planned subterfuge. Slowly, over about half an hour of passionate heckling from Jala, she had flagged. I had escorted Iseult across the courtyard to our room, and our host had sent me off with a salacious look and a furious eyebrow waggling.

Iseult’s paranoia has infected me. Despite the exhaustion of the long journey back to Brixa Thalaam, I secure our door with the security bars, then with Iseult and I’s belongings, then fall asleep in a seated position directly under the locked, shuttered window. The entire night, I keep my sword unsheathed, an inch from my hand.

Just as I am on the cusp of sleeping, I realise I am being kept awake by the noises that Íde makes in her sleep. She’s making a sort of droning hiss in her dreams. Unless I too am dreaming.

Nothing happens that evening, and I manage to slip in a few hours of sleep before the sun peeks through the shutters. We leave the next day, and Íde has the good graces not to mention the fact that we all slept through Iseult’s original plan to escape the caravansary under cover of darkness.

*

First surprise: Ābreen is not at his home.

Second surprise: Iseult does not seem to be particularly concerned.

We leave the jar of honeycomb with the man’s servant. He didn’t even invited us in, just shared a greeting with Iseult. No notes, no signets, just a single sentence in Thalaami, and that was it. Íde and I were befuddled, but quiet. She hadn’t said much since this morning, when I’d checked her hands for infection and rewrapped them with scented Thalaami bandages that I’d bought from Jala. Perhaps it’s her age, but she’s healing exceptionally quickly. Physically, at least. I still can’t believe how vacant her expressions are, or how the skin around her eyes has been hollowed.

Íde shifts her weight awkwardly on the fungalboard decking that skirts Ābreen’s apartment. When Iseult says something in a rhyming couplet and puts her hand to her heart, the old man smiles peacefully and shuts the door with a solid tunk.

We descend the long staircase down, and I ask Iseult what is happening. She answers, lethargically. “We’re done.”

“That’s it?”

She nods. “That’s it.”

We make it down to the street, five stories, before Íde speaks. She’s been holding the words in for some time now. “But where is the oleum? Where is Ābreen?”

Iseult’s tiredness collapses upon her all at once, and her face creases as if she’s exerting herself. The few square-inches of untattooed flesh on her jaw bob as she opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. Her response is brief. “It’s coming. And he’s not here.”

We wander back through the streets, towards the docks. Our travelling packs are secure in the caravansary, as Iseult’s mistrust has diminished substantially after sleeping a full night in an actual bed. After leaving the district that Ābreen lives in we return to a more central part of Brixa Thalaam. The buildings are hued from beige to brown, and exactly arranged in squares and grids that flow up and down gentle hills. None is taller than four stories, but all are tastefully decorated with crenellations and masterful stonework. Great balconies, carved from wood and iron and detailed with the same care and skill that the buildings are, stretch out above the flattened grey stones of the street. They’re painted in deep blues and reds, and combined with the black iron and the potted plants that emerge from myriad points along the facades, they are beautiful. I’m so entranced by the buildings that I almost run straight into a group of pilgrims. The leader, carrying a bulky statue of Saint Teneral on a pole that’s longer than he is, glares at me darkly.

Iseult perks up and pauses at an intersection. Íde, hands newly wrapped, accidentally bumps into her when she stops. Much to my surprise, there’s no irritated reaction from Iseult at all. She’s smiling. I share a raised eyebrow with Íde.

“I… know this street.” Iseult taps the air with a single finger, starts walking one direction, then shuffles her feet and hones in on the mouth of a crooked alley. Brixa Thalaam’s thoroughfares are huge, Ildathach-sized, but her winding side-streets are cramped and labyrinthine. The sun is blunted by the thin, tall walls of the buildings surrounding us, and we follow our gunner through an alley barely wide enough for two of us to walk shoulder to shoulder. Iseult skirts neatly around a discarded pile of wooden crates, and makes a sharp right. We follow, curious, and find ourselves in a small plaza, a neatly scooped square centred with a placid, tiled pond. Olive trees grow in enormous pots at each corner of the plaza, tiled in a jumble of oranges, whites, and blues. At the plaza’s centre, a trio of Al Khazraj adventurers in travelling robes are arguing loudly around a map. All three of them have fat, leather-bound cases slung to their back.

I’m not sure what to expect. We walk down one side of the square, the various scattered peoples paying more attention to Íde and me than our guide. A pair of children stop to gawk at me, and I give them a friendly, unreciprocated wave. Iseult points at a black wicker chair, and I understand.

She doesn’t wait for a waiter. She leaves us outside, and strolls into the wide doors of this café, leaving Íde and me to be studied by the locals.

Coffee. Shisha. Food. All three arrive, at various intervals, and the tabletop begins to fill.

Saints, the food is good.

Sated, we bask in the aftermath, stuffed with things that I’ve never heard of, that I regret eating merely because I know I will never taste them in Yvreathe. Iseult grins at me, and I can see whatever irritable mood possessed her last night has waned. Íde made a joke about eating so much she’d fall asleep, and she’s about one more dessert away from literally dozing off in her chair.

At the end of the meal, Iseult excuses herself, leaving Íde and I to pleasantly marinate in the afternoon light. She disappears back into the café, and the shaded heat pushes down gently on my sunburned ears. I would be uncomfortable, if I weren’t so perfectly filled with food, and if we didn’t have an immense brass carafe of chilled water in the centre of our table. I lean back, head lolling and throat exposed, close my eyes, and surrender myself to the afternoon.

“Hey… Sean?”

That’s not a normal tone of voice. I snap my eyes open and lean forward. Íde is looking at me, face drawn. Concerned, anxious. I tilt my head, grimacing. “I wanted to ask you a question,” she continues. “Am I, ah. Am I doing okay?”

She looks shattered. She probably is shattered, because I myself am exhausted by our trek through the Wraithwild. It is a testament to her will that she’s made it this far, without stopping. Or perhaps, I realise with a start, I’m getting old. I hold both my arms wide, trying not to be condescending or trite. “Íde. What kind of question is that? You’re doing perfectly.”

Her face reforms into wavering content. Or, does so halfway. She starts again. “It’s just, I don’t know. I almost screwed up with the,” and here she says a pair of words in Thalaami which I don’t understand. She sees my confusion and amends her sentence hastily, “the d’hain. And the bees. And now I’ve got these headaches. And my hands.”

Here she holds them up for me to inspect, as if I have forgotten. The bandages, edged in travel grime, stained with various small food stains. No ichor wells up from underneath, neither honey nor blood nor anything more sinister. The look on her face breaks my heart.

“Hey. Don’t worry about it. Don’t focus on what you didn’t do perfectly. You helped Iseult kill the thing. You talked to the bees. You made it, and I know a lot of people who wouldn’t.”

That same look, that same clash of anxiety and happiness. I press on, sincerely. “I’m serious. Íde. Don’t worry about what you did wrong. We did the job, about as good as we could have expected. Don’t ever think that you have to be perfect. You’ve never done this before, you have no practice, and you really exceeded any expectations we could’ve had of you. Don’t worry about trying to perform miracles. Maybe you yourself are a miracle.”

A fly buzzes over some scarce, leftover humus. I shoo it away lazily, and when she’s comfortable, she speaks again.

“My mother was so worried, when I left. She didn’t say it, out loud. I don’t think she wanted my brothers to be afraid, as well.”

I nod. “My father hated it when I used to spend nights outside of Llancreg. Used to drive him up the wall, when I’d spend days or weeks exploring the Aergan. Wasn’t a big fan of my time in the military, either.”

I trail off, realising I’m about to dive into waters I’d rather not plumb. I switch the topic, noting that neither of us have mentioned our missing parent. “You’ve got brothers?”

She smiles, actually smiles, from the heart, and her face begins to catch some of its previous enthusiasm. “Two brothers, both younger. In the Ragged Schools, still. Mum doesn’t want them to grow up into the workhouses, so she’s trying to get them through to a college, like me. I send a lot of my scholarship back to them, to help with the costs.”

I grin. “Me too! Two sisters! I mean, not in Ragged Schools. But in Llancreg. They mean the world to me,” I lie.

She’s about to say something else when Iseult returns, and Íde looks down at the leftover food on her plate. Iseult stares at it too, then stares at Íde, and the two enter some sort of weird entente until Íde leans forward, scoops the last handful of stuffed vine leaf into her mouth, and contently nods.

*

My father used to cook for my sisters and me, with a tremendous enthusiasm that I have rarely seen matched elsewhere in Yvreathe. As a child, it never struck me as unusual, and it was only until later in life that I understood that ladies and gentlemen of a certain standing were expected to have servants to do that sort of thing, and that for a gentleman, spending really any measure of time in kitchens is considered ‘eccentric’.

It was also much later in life that I learned that ‘eccentric’ was a euphemism, and that my own love of food was much, much more acceptable than my interest in cooking.

Regardless, my father’s unstated hypothesis was that filling his children with food, constantly, was the greatest possible virtue a parent could conduct. Combined with my mother’s love of riding, hunting, and soldiering, it is likely the reason why my siblings and I stand at least a head above our other, more genteel cousins. It also means that I, after being filled almost to the brim with food and drink, enter a content state that can last for several hours.

By contrast, Iseult’s happiness dents and then disappears within about five seconds of meeting the guard at the Colt & Tumble warehouse, whose initial sneer is beginning to vaporise as he realises that he cannot actually dismiss the seething Bani Yathrib woman in front of him. He is from Ildathach, by his accent, and he was almost certainly not expecting Iseult to argue with him in fluent, furious Irdcheol. He looks at Íde and me for assistance, before coming to the understanding that we are, in fact, travelling as a unit. He looks to his comrade, who is significantly wiser and says away nothing. I adopt the deadpan stare I reserve for times like this, when I’m allowed to watch Iseult be a social cudgel.

“What do you mean, we need access.” Iseult snarls. “We have access.”

To her credit, Íde is learning quickly, and has adopted a blank-faced head tilt that I also use when I want to see how badly someone can dig themselves into a hole.

“No, uh. No access to Colt & Tumble warehouse without company writ. Those are the rules.”

Upon mentioning the rules, the young guard appears to rally slightly. He clutches to the authority that has, in turn, imbued him with a semblance of power.

This sort of appeal has literally no effect on Iseult. I’ve seen this before.

She leans in, and almost literally growls. The other guard seems actually worried, and begins slowly leaning forward, her hand tightening very slightly around the fire-blackened shaft of her halberd. I try to nail her with a glance, which to my gratification does actually slow her down.

Without breaking eye contact with the original guard, who to be fair is actually doing his job correctly, Iseult slowly unbuttons a small bag that she’s strapped around her hips. A bullet pouch. What she pulls out of the worn leather is not a gun, or a ward, or a knife, but what I recognise as a familiar piece of midnight-black stationary, crowned in a broken seal of grey wax.

“I think you’ll find,” she says with a wintry tone, unfolding the paper and holding it to his face without looking. “We are indeed agents of Mister Evin Tumble. My name is Iseult Morrin.”

She never uses her name to get what she wants. I’m beaming. Internally, though. Externally, I’m trying to melt the guard with what I hope is a suitably belligerent glower.

Both guards visibly pale. Thus defused by her demeanour and her name, our original guard nods his head once. He steps backwards smartly, and grips his halberd so tightly I’m afraid he’s going to splinter the wood.

We stalk angrily through the doorway, into the Colt & Tumble warehouse. The best part of the entire exchange is the fact that I’m fairly certain Iseult has just bluffed her way past the guard by waving her employment contract at him, without actually verifying that Evin Tumble gave us access to his warehouses. Íde and I aren’t even mentioned in that document. I feel very proud of her.

Our two-hour detour for food and coffee has given Ābreen, or perhaps Ābreen’s servant, enough time to organise the oleum delivery. We enter through the main door, which is Ildathach-wrought iron, and I notice now that the warehouse is significantly longer than it appears on the outside. It must be a hundred yards or more, and we have entered on the short side of a colossal rectangle. Fungalboard roofing soars high above, set into evenly-spread Thalaami reinforcement architectures. We are surrounded on all sides by a staggering quantity of goods- pots, crates, amphorae, barrels, casks, more exotic items awaiting shipment. All are catalogued and branded with Colt & Tumble labels. Even as we watch, a stream of shirtless porters haul torso-sized wooden crates to the centre of the warehouse, stacking them in a slowly-expanding pyramid. The crates themselves are stained with the sweat of dozens of men.

I feel a light touch on the small of my back, and spin to look down at Íde’s earnest face. She tilts her head and says, quietly, “clear the space.”

I grin and let her move me out of the way. A gang of Ildathach workers march past, two of them hauling a dark wooden barrel of significant heft. Íde looks like she’s about to say something, but focuses instead on a group of sailors, who are arguing with each other before a stack of nearby barrels.

“Well this is certainly a sight.”

One of the sailors from the Gundog Walking has strolled up to us. Short, with a flat face and a frame that’s slowly turning to fat. Senior crew. I blink rapidly, trying to recollect his name- “Boatswain Heremon! Excellent to see you.”

I pump his hand with the blood-crushing grip I reserve for the occasions where it is necessary to hide the fact that you’re not confident about someone’s name. The ineffable geniality is insurance.

I guessed right, apparently. He greets me warmly, then nods at my two companions. Like most of the Gundog Walking’s crew, he’s from Yvreathe- Crowmere, judging from the pendants in his hair, from one of the trading houses who run the lucrative routes to the Far Coast. The Gundog Walking was supposed to acquire cargo beyond just what Iseult, Íde and I were asked to collect, so it’s hardly surprising to see one of the crew here in a Colt & Tumble warehouse. The last time I saw any of the sailors was before we ventured towards the Bloom, and the stubble he’s accumulated in the days we’ve been gone is dense and alarming. He runs his hand through his blonde hair, and it stays slicked back from the sweat coating his forehead.

“Good to see all of you. I take it this is your doing?”

I nod, and take a moment to scan the room to figure out what he’s talking about. The pyramid the porters are making, surely. “It would seem that way.”

“Well good work! And about a week before we’re set to sail, too. Can’t believe they carry all of that by hand, either- heavy as sin, oleum. Not to mention dangerous.” I can’t tell if this is some higher judgement about the Gundog Walking being used as a cargo hauler for five tonnes of highly explosive chemicals. Doesn’t seem that way. Maybe he has a lot of faith in Captain Holofernes’ judgement.

I watch a porter, his wiry muscles taut under walnut skin, struggle to stack one of the simple hazel crates atop the pyramid his team has erected in the centre of the warehouse.

“Yes! Well, you know how Thalaami are. I suppose they’re the oleum experts.”

Heremon snickers. “Right. Or they’ve all got death wishes. Seems alright quality. Had some of our new crew look at it just now, after we chased off the Thalaamis.” He laughs again, a cruel noise that suddenly makes me feel much less friendly towards him. I say nothing further, and let the conversation dwindle to the point where he wanders off, to attend whatever duty sailors do when they are ashore. We dawdle for a few minutes, watching the Thalaami men finish stacking the oleum, and visit the captain.

*

Captain Holofernes must be in a good mood, because she employs precisely zero of her trademark venom when talking to us. Indeed, for the remaining week we are in Brixa Thalaam, we (although to be fair, I really mean Íde) attracts no undue attention from the captain. She has enough on her plate, and is half-embedded in a world of city politics, dock taxation rates, and cargo accounting. I spend a fair few hours of time with her, though to be honest am not actually very useful, and not very interested in how she decides to spend her days. To be clear, it is unlikely the captain would be particularly keen on me hovering near her, and I leave her in peace well before she is forced to comment on my presence.

The alternative is to stay with Iseult and Íde, and to stick out like a sore thumb as the pair of them wade through the murky topic of charming the oleum. Within the first ten minutes of one of those conversations, a tactful yet significant distance away from the quiet pyramid of the stuff that has been erected in the centre of the warehouse, I found myself so comprehensively out of my depth that I excused myself to the restroom and never returned. We’ve switched lodgings, to an inn significantly closer to the warehouse, and both women leave their room long before I do and return long after I’ve retired to my own quarters. When they speak, it’s in the technical-rich lingo of sigilry, and winding them away from the work is exhausting. At one point Iseult explains to me that their efforts consist of two main ideas- the first is to increase the potency and the stability of the oleum through magical means, as Evin Tumble requested. The latter is to do so in a way that is subtle, to force Colt & Tumble to involve her in any later ventures involving the oleum. Say what you will about Iseult, sometimes she is much better at manipulating social situations than you’d expect, for a woman who hates talking to people.

Íde comes to life when she works. Otherwise, when I see her travelling or when we sit down to eat, she has is robbed of her curiosity and happiness. Whatever happened to her in the Bloom is continuing to take its toll on her. I am grateful for the oleum work, for it seems to keep her together. Even Iseult seems uncharacteristically sympathetic, and agrees to keep an eye on Íde whenever I’m not present.

Several days pass, wherein I ricochet between being somewhat useless in the presence of Captain Holofernes, to entirely useless with Iseult and Íde.

After this miserable realisation, I spend the remainder of my time in Brixa Thalaam carousing with some deckhands from the Gundog Walking, which is far more enjoyable. The night before we leave is a pivotal one for the sigilists, who have completed their work: some sort of intricate and apparently fascinating sigilry, keyed specifically to this batch of oleum. Iseult knows me well enough not to go into the specifics when we discuss it the next day.

I myself spend that night with the crew, steeped in the infectious and bittersweet fervour of a wild pack of sailors desperate to wring every inch of entertainment possible for their last night of shore leave. After the initial raucous raillery and rowdiness, I find myself in the company of only the most dedicated drinkers, and prowl with this listless party through the warm streets of Brixa Thalaam. We pass bars and lounges and pubs, and have enough Thalaami speakers with us to smooth ruffled feathers and avoid outrageous price gouging. At one point, this eruption flows past the tiny sailor’s chapel, the only building in this entire city that is dedicated to the worship of any Saint other than Teneral. This sombre reminder seems to leach the joy out of the night, though it does not stop the procession. My night floats in jolly alcohol.

We share a night and an early morning together, huddled as a loose and solemn gang. Not for warmth, or comfort, but to avoid the bleak reality of the solitary drinker. Too swathed in our own thoughts to connect with each other, too shameful to drink alone, we drift like tomb-candles through the steadily emptying streets.

We sail the next day.