Jonas draws a second and third knife. He always travels with spares. The remaining guards step around the body of their fallen comrade and spill down onto the dock behind them. Artemis steps forward, throwing Jonas behind him to help Lily and Wilhelm push the trolley of ‘gas. Jonas growls, daggers raised. “Just go, I’ve got this,” Artemis hisses, and lifts his hands in the guards direction. With a final glance, Jonas turns and presses his shoulder to the trolley. A whisper of wind first tickles the back of his neck, and then flows down along his arms, before gusting out from his outstretched fingers. He channels the air at the guards on deck, who slow as the wind pushes against them. Beads of sweat appear on his face as he strains. The Builder whom he took this spark from was strong though, and Artemis’s own strength adds to the force of the wind. Panicked shouts from the civilians nearby echo around him, but all he hears is the roaring of the wind. He grunts with effort, and the guards tumble backwards, tripping over themselves as the wind howls, blowing them backwards, and almost end up in the drink, before clawing themselves back up. By the time they find their feet though, Artemis and the others are in the crowd, out of sight. Lily is whispering in Wilhelm’s ear as they hurry the stolen Widowgas along the pier, trying to cut through the growing crowd by drawing a middle ground between ‘meant to be there’ and ‘too dangerous to get in the way of’. “It’s called The Rat’s Pyjamas, Wil. Yes, I know. The Barkeep there is called Elfie, I think it’s a nickname, it’s two stories, with a grimy blue door and green paint around the windows. Find us a way, please.” Wilhelm nods, and lets go of the trolley. He walks forward, kicking off a dirty sandal. He bows his head slowly, and a resonant hum fills the air around him. Nobody sees anything, the light passes through Wilhelm’s foot and into the ground beneath him, singing a path of least resistance into the core of the wood and the Stormwarden’s mind. He sets off, sandal forgotten, bare foot leaving a bloody print as he limps on. The others trundle behind him as he leads them through the crowd. The Wrathhowl lumbers through the air above and behind them, and as it hovers past, the hairs on Jonas’s neck prickle. Someone, or something, watches. He commends Lily’s quick thinking. He’d protested having a known member of the Shadewalker’s criminal network on board, but her knack for finding jobs and solving problems had made her a staunch companion. By the time they arrive at the Rat’s Pyjamas, a dilapidated dockside inn replete with mangy dogs and a rotted sign, Jonas is almost twitching with anticipation. His instincts scream at him to fight. He looks back constantly, but sees nothing. Whoever is following them is doing a damn good job of it. “Got a tail,” he hisses. “You go in, take the ‘gas out back. I’ll stay and watch.” Lily gives a quick nod, and disappears into the sprawling building. Artemis and Wilhelm work together to steer the trolley of ‘gas around the side of the building and out of the crowd while Jonas watches the street. A huge root hugs the wall of The Rat’s Pyjamas, sprouted with white flours. A very hasty barricade set up with a few overturned chairs keep people from bumping into it, and with that problem effectively solved in the eyes of the staff and patrons, the world inside the bar has returned to normality. The bar is busy though, with people seeking comfort and refreshment and an escape from the chaos outside. Nobody looks at the tree root or poisonous flowers, they have eyes only for their drinks and drinking mates. Lily slips through the crowd with practiced ease. Shadewalkers can pass unseen, when they’ve a mind. It’s not invisibility, per sé, just a way of walking with the crowd. A blending with the world around them, most effective in darkness and crowded spaces. Lily does just that, and slips to the front of the bar. “Elfie!” she cries, but the Singer behind the bar doesn’t respond. He is overworked and understaffed, pouring amber ales as quick as his dexterous hands can manage it. “Your ears look great today!” In a flash, he’s in front of Lily, smiling genially, he wears a heavy coating of make-up which accentuates the slender lines of his face, and blend the skin of his cheeks up and back to match his prosthetic ears, which are long and narrow to fine points. “Why thank you madam,” he says, tipping his head graciously, a careful maneuver which makes his ears wobble. “I believe we’ve met?” “Just this morning, actually. I came in asking about your special deliveries.” His eyes narrow. “…and?” “I need one. A big one. Rush order.” “How soon?” Elfie asks, gesturing to the taproom. “I’m a little busy at the moment.” “Right now. Urgently. We can pay, coin or favours-” Lily is cut off as Elfie slaps a small wooden coaster onto the bar. “I do wish you folk would show a little more decorum,” he says with a weary sigh, then turns and begins pouring a glass of house white. When he turns back, Lily is gone, the coaster missing, and he makes an exasperated face at the next person in line. He downs the wine in a gulp and his cheeks flush red. “Next!” Lily, meanwhile, grips the coaster like a lifeline, her long fingernails quickly find the latch beneath it and draw the small key from within, she slips out into the back kitchen, flashing the coaster and key at the chef, an aproned man sweating profusely, beads of it falling into a ball of dough he kneads fiercely. Lily makes a mental note not to stay for food. The chef, for his part, nods in the direction of a store-room. She follows his gaze and finds a small side door with a padlock. Slipping the key in, it opens smoothly. She does a double take as she pulls the door to reveal Artemis, standing by the trolley of Widowgas. “Wilhelm-” Artemis said, by way of explanation, before she shushed him and helped maneuver the trolley through the door. * * * Jonas leans on the rickety balcony outside, idly rolling himself a cigarillo from a pouch in his breast pocket. He affects the most casual air he can manage, and his fingers do not shake. Around him the city seems to be slowing. Well organised lawmen are managing the exodus of people from the city, and teams are working to clear flowers from the great roots. He lights the cigarette with a tiny spark from the tip of his finger, a hand-me-down blessing from his father. “You stole my fuel,” a voice whispers in his ear, and Jonas almost bites off the tip of his cigarette. He freezes, tense, but otherwise gives no reaction to the voice. A body seems to materialize from behind him. An old Shadewalker trick he’d seen Lily pull off a few times and mess up more. This one is masterfully done. The body that appears is short, stout, far too hairy, and moving with an uncomfortable arachnid grace. Jonas’s eyes narrow and he drags on his cigarette as the man comes to stand next to him, too close. “Vinifess Wress,” the man says, nodding. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” Jonas eyes him, raising an eyebrow through the thick smoke. Stout and heavy, with a tattoo of a tower emblazoned on one arm and a dagger on the other, greasy, thinning hair and dark, lidded eyes. The short man was not what one usually thinks of when considering the agile and sneaky children of Nox. “Wress… Wress…” Jonas mutters. “Can’t say I have, friend-” Wress grins at him, a wide smile. One of his teeth shines with a silver glimmer in the late afternoon light. “Oh damn,” Jonas’s stomach drops out as he makes the connection. “You’re the Happy Spider.” The man flinches as if stung, and then gives a loud harrumphing guffaw. “I guess I am at that. But I’m not happy today, Hellion. Not happy at all.” The Happy Spider, a crime-lord by his own right on Dusk, a man who had climbed a mountain of corpses to become the thing that goes bump in the night to so many Shadewalker stories. He left all his enemies smiling, teeth clenched in a gleeful rictus. “Didn’t know you were here” Jonas says lightly, his head racing with a dozen notions of the transition from feigned casualness to actual casualty. “Thought you kept to Dusk…” He resisted the urge to spit out his cigarillo. Was his leaf spiked? Would he start grinning soon, laughing uncontrollably, spilling secrets as all his cares in the world floated away? He could already be dying. “Dusk is small,” the man opposite says, equally lightly. “Shatter is big, and the rest of the galaxy bigger too. I conquered my shard… Now… I seek bigger fish. Say, you got any more of that pipe-weed?” Jonas hands him the small pouch, and the man smiles even wider. Jonas can see the gaps between his yellowed teeth. He thumbs some of the weed into a long-stemmed pipe, packing it with delicate, if dirty, fingers. He goes to hand the pouch back to Jonas, who waves his hand. “You keep it.” The Spider just winks at him, pocketing the pouch. “So, you know me by two names, but the only true one I have for you is thief, seeing as Hellion isn’t your real name, is it?” “Thief ain’t the worst thing I’ve been called,” Jonas says. “Well, whatever name you go by, we’re going to need to make friendly introductions. See, I need my ‘gas back. Got a long journey coming up, precious cargo and all that.” “I’m sure. Just one problem chief,” Jonas says, his eyes darting. Where in the burning hells were the others? “I think you might have the wrong man. I’ve been called worse than thief, sure, but that don’t make me one. I haven’t stolen anything-” Jonas feels the pinprick sharpness of something against his ribcage before he can finish his sentence. Wress moves not at all, his smile never changes. Jonas stops talking. “I’d be very careful if I were you. I didn’t get to where I am today by caring about collateral damage,” Vinifess says, as if for all the world they were just two old friends bumping into each other. “Mmhmm,” Jonas murmurs, his lips sealed. His chest barely moving as he attempts to keep his breathing shallow. “Now, did you steal my ‘gas?” Jonas nods, slowly. “Presumin’ Silver Linings is your ship, I-yeah, I stole it.” “And your crew? Your accomplices. They’re not just lackeys, are they. So, you have a crew, you have my fuel, I must presume you have a ship.” “I-” Jonas pauses, caught between two bad choices. The needle at his side moves slightly, tickling his skin, and he freezes. “Yes. I have a ship.” “And I bet you and your crew thought some rich idiot with more money than sense owned a ship as luxurious and ridiculous as the Silver Linings. You thought you could waltz in, play your ‘pack mind-games with my guard, and then fly away.” “Something like that.” Jonas thinks hard. He’ll have to give away enough information that he isn’t poisoned. Because once he’s high, he’ll surely tell Wress everything. “I’m going to kill you, Wolf-pup. You know who I am, you know the stories about me. I’m sure you know a man of my proclivities has a number of different methods of doing business. Laughingstock is what I call the one that makes people talk.” His eyes flick down to the point in Jonas’s abdomen. Jonas can just barely make out a glistening strand, fine as spider’s silk, connecting them. “But there are others. It’s something of a hobby of mine. Some are deadly, some are painful, some will put you to sleep without a word, some even,” he chuckles, “heal. But you don’t want to take your chances.” “Why not just-” “Stab you now, and be done with it? Carry you away, either unconscious, or kicking and screaming down the docks? I may not care about collateral damage, but that is plain stupid. Your crew will come out to check on you soon enough, and you’ll do a marvelous job convincing them to play nice, I’m sure. I do need that ‘gas back, not much point killing you without a lead to it. So, we wait. Smoke your cigar, enjoy the view.” “I’ll talk-” Jonas says, desperation mounting in his voice. “I’ll tell you-” “Hush, pup. It doesn’t matter. You dogs are all the same, you think you can muscle your way into the running of things just because you fight well. You really do think you own the place, and Zeal isn’t enough for you anymore. Unless your crew is particularly exceptional, you’re not getting out of this alive.” Jonas sucks on his cigarillo and stares out at the docks. He can just make out The Kingfisher’s flag among the other ships. Just go, he thinks as hard as he can, take the gas and leave. “My name is Jonas Blackwater, Warmaster of the Kingfisher, son of-” Jonas cuts off as the pressure against his ribs disappears. He smells burning flesh, instinctively, he looks for Wilhelm, but sees nobody. The Happy Spider stands behind him, his hands gripping the railing in front of him. His eyes seem unfocused, and the small black tower tattooed on his hand sizzles. “Jonas Blackwater, Warmaster of the Kingfisher, under Captain Thunder, first name Erin, true last name unknown,” Vinifess says, though his voice is different. Hoarse. Guttural. It echoes as if he’s speaking from far away. “Uh, yes,” Jonas says, still on edge. “Then you may live. I-” there’s a pause. The voice is stilted, as if unpracticed, though it still sounds like Wress. “You carry cargo I mustn’t interrupt. There is time for me to source replacement ‘gas.” “What the fuck is happening?” Jonas growls, he turns to see The Happy Spider staring out over the bay beside him. He seems exactly the same, but for the singed skin on his hand and the whites of his left eye, the only eye Jonas can see, bulging wider than he’s ever seen before. Fear? “Do us one favour, Jonas of the Kingfisher. Send a message to your Captain. Tell her The Watchtower send their regards.” And then he turns and walks away. Jonas watches as he goes, after a few meters, he shakes like a wet dog, and whatever malignant energy that had gripped him seems to dissipate. He looks back at Jonas and offers a winning smile, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving no trace but the smell of burnt skin hanging in the air.