The next day Harpis felt the boat slowing, and even with the sack over his head, he could hear waves lapping against a stony shore, a sound which he hoped meant his journey had come to an end. Then, at last, the boat stopped and bobbed in the water as he listened to the crew tying it to a pier.

His door swung open, and he felt the familiar strength of the more considerable sailor grab his arm and lead him above decks.

“Well?” Harpis heard the older sailor behind him ask.

A new, soft-spoken voice responded. “Let me see his face first.”

The sailor ripped off the hood, and Harpis sucked in the fresh air with a chill that was more than he expected this late in spring. Salt from the sea was everywhere in the endless howling gusts on what must have been the windward side of this unknown island. Above him, in front of two black leather uniformed and pike bearing guards, stood a short but fit, fifty-something man with grey hair. He had scarred and wrinkled brown skin that reminded Harpis of the Quaji natives. The man wore a well-trimmed goatee and weathered dark leathers.

“He’ll do, twenty silvers as agreed,” the man said in the same quiet voice, throwing a coin purse to the older sailor behind Harpis, and the sack appeared once again over his head.

As the guards escorted Harpis away, he heard the older sailor handle what sounded like a sack with parchments in it and address the man. “For the bosses, Master Arken.”

“Fair winds and following seas, lads. Good work, see you in a few weeks,” Arken said to the departing sailors.

*****

When Arken removed the hood again, Harpis’ eyes found little light to adjust to in what smelled like a cellar that had only a few lit candles to fend off the gloom. Next, the guards shackled his ankles to a chain cemented in the floor. They then bent him forward, shackling his wrists together and to his ankles, forcing him into an arched position.

There was not enough slack for him to sit, and standing was now an impossibility. A shake to make sure the shackles were secured, and the guards seemed to leave.

Arken stepped in front of Harpis. “Who are you, and why were you on that boat? Surely you did not knowingly board a slave traders’ vessel?”

Wren had warned him to keep quiet about what they had discussed until he arrived safely with the gnome’s compatriots. Harpis answered the man with silence.

Behind him, Harpis heard a chuckle and a thump. He could not see the source of the laughter or that the person behind him had picked up and turned an hourglass over before setting it back onto the table.

“I’ll ask you again, who sent you and why?” Arken pressed.

This time Harpis’ silence was rewarded with a punch to the kidney and a few slaps to the face. Arken then pulled a large bucket of water in front of Harpis, grabbed his hair, and shoved his head into the water.

As furiously as Harpis struggled, the shackles would not allow him to free his head from the waters. Just as he thought he would die drowning in what was probably a latrine bucket, Arken ripped his face out of the water.

Coughing and gagging, he heard Arken repeat the question and remained silent. In response, Arken slid the bucket forward and grabbed the back of his hair again.

“Fine, I’ll ta-” he muttered, with the last word coming out as mostly bubbles when Arken shoved his head back into the water.

After what seemed like forever to the drowning Harpis, his torturer pulled his face from the bucket again. Once he recovered his composure, Arken spoke, “I am sorry. I couldn’t understand you there. What was that?”

Harpis responded in a half shout, “I said I’d talk!”

Arken grinned. “Well then, why were you on the boat?”

After catching his breath, Harpis paused for dramatic effect and responded as sincerely as he could manage. “I thought I was going on a pleasure cruise with your mother.”

Arken’s grin turned to a frown as the figure behind Harpis chuckled again and tauntingly tapped the hourglass several times. Then, with speed and strength unfitting his apparent age, Arken grabbed Harpis’ hair again, but instead of slamming him back into the bucket, he licked his pointer finger on his other hand and jammed it into Harpis’ ear, pressing harder and harder.

It felt as though the man could reach his brain as pain and heat exploded in his ear and along his cheek as Arken pressed on.

“All right, all right stop, I’ll speak true,” Harpis screamed. Arken pressed for another long moment before letting up.

Harpis practically spat the words of his confession. “Some corpse humping gnome I met on a boat out of Kalt convinced me to go to the docks that day with tales of grandeur and service!”

Arken and whoever was behind Harpis laughed together.

“You’ll have to do a lot better than that in the future, young Harpis.” Arken taunted, softly patting his face.

“About ten minutes, Arken, you’re getting soft in your old age,” said the unknown voice over fading footsteps.

“Just out of practice is all, Braffen,” Arken replied before turning back to Harpis. “We needed to make sure you weren’t an infiltrator or worse,” he said with an innocent shrug.

Arken undid the shackles around his wrists and ankles. “Apologies for the roughing up. We can’t be too careful, you see.”

As Harpis painfully straightened his back and stood upright, Arken wagged one finger at him. “Quite effective, no?”

Still clutching his ear, Harpis could not argue.

“Come, it’s time to meet the bosses,” he commanded, offering Harpis his dagger back before turning and beckoning him to follow.

They emerged from a cave not far from the lone dock he had arrive on, and the constant wind struck Harpis again. The island was small, maybe a mile around. A jet-black dormant volcano rose above the scant ring of shrubs on its lower slopes. Ahead was a path cut into the side of the mountain which climbed away from them around towards the island’s leeward side.

After a few minutes of walking, a simple three-story light-house tower rose out of the side of the volcano. In addition, there was a small two-story building attached to its base that could be considered a house of sorts.

When they reached the door, Arken pulled a rope hanging from the soffit overhead. The result was the sound of a bell ringing somewhere inside.

“Coming, coming!” a grating voice said, flitting out the windows above as the stairs creaked from someone making their way down. The door swung open to reveal an aged man of some seventy years with bushy white eyebrows, long white hair, and beard to match. He wore simple worn clothing which framed the lean features of a man who had spent many decades at sea.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, come on in.” From off to the side, the two uniformed soldiers who had escorted Harpis to the cave acknowledged them and disappeared into another room.

The older man shut the door behind them and shuffled back up the stairs. Arken led Harpis straight towards the back wall of the hallway, tugged a torch sconce, and the back wall slid away, revealing a tunnel into the side of the volcano with light visible some fifty paces down.

“This is amazing,” Harpis said, gawking. “How many of you live here?”

Arken was silent as they walked through the tunnel and emerged onto the circular floor of the dormant volcano crater that stretched over two hundred yards before them. The path across the crater was intersected in the middle by one perpendicular to it. The walkways split the courtyard into quarters, one of which fenced in some goats and sheep.

Harpis spotted two cows with a large chicken coop against the rock wall. The crater walls themselves stretched up thirty feet, yet the mid-day sunlight illuminated its entirety. On either side of the animals, two-quarters of the courtyard contained gardens and fruit trees. The last quarter was mostly dirt and had racks of wooden and iron weapons as well as archery targets.

Arken put his hands on his hips and peered around the crater. “There are some thirty or so of us that live here and another handful who pass through.”

As they walked across the courtyard, Harpis began to make out windows carved into the rock face opposite them. Immediately upon entering the hewn rock hallway on the far wall, Arken took him to the right and up a curving stone staircase to the second floor, down a short hall, and arrived at a thick ironbound wooden door. He pounded it twice, and a voice inside bid them come in.

The room they entered was not deep but was very wide and faced the courtyard with many windows. On one end were three desks and bookshelves with twice as many books as they should hold. There were maps and scrolls beyond that stacked, stuffed, and strewn about the place.

A low fire burned in a small fireplace, and two black-robed figures sat at a triangle-shaped table near the other wall. The table itself looked as if it came from a single piece of enormous driftwood.

In the center was an engraving of a ship’s steering wheel with a palm-up hand that stretched from top to bottom of the wheel and had an eye engraved in the center. There was an empty chair on the side nearest Harpis which Arken motioned for him to sit in.

Arken himself leaned against the wall just behind him and Harpis had the feeling that even if he wanted to make a move at either of the two across from him, Arken would have killed him before he finished the thought.

To his left sat a short woman with the same dark complexion as Arken. Her hair was stark white and hung loosely, framing a face that looked slightly older than Arken’s fifty-some years. Almond-colored eyes bored a hole into Harpis for what seemed like forever before she spoke quietly and deliberately.

“Well met, Harpis, I am Trilia Saboghan, youngest of the three Navigators of The Lodestar Syndicate. It seems you have already met Arken Hester, our master instructor,” she said, gesturing to Arken, who gave her a short bow.

Harpis tried not to visibly squirm as she stopped speaking but never lifted her gaze.

“And I am Qarn, second eldest Navigator,” the ancient-looking Gnome to Harpis’ right said gruffly.

Qarn paused to glare at Harpis for a moment before softening his gaze. “So, you want to join our merry band of misfits, eh? You, on the words of a too-often drunk gnome with a strong case of necrophilia, sailed halfway around the world to Lodestar Island on a whim. Why?”

Harpis gulped and answered, “I wanted to do something worthwhile. I thought that was in the Ravnice militia, but Wren convinced me there was potential here for more. I want to make my mark on the world, and he told me if I made it through indoctrination here, I would get to do that.”

Qarn leaned forward. “Oh, you’ll make your mark and then some, so long as you are all right with never being able to claim that you were the one who made it.”

The gnome leaned further across the table, as far as his short frame would allow while still touching the floor. “Can you live with such anonymity?”

Becoming surer of himself despite the austere company, Harpis answered more steadily this time, “I can, Master Qarn.”

Trilia sat drumming her fingers on the table. “Your knife please,” she said, holding out her hand for it.

Harpis reached down into his boot and drew the knife. He could sense the tension in Arken’s muscles behind him as he slowly handed it, handle first, to Trilia.

“This,” she said. “This is quite special.” She turned the blade over in her hands. “The Siren blesses you to own such a weapon. I implore you, do not lose it.”

Trilia looked above Harpis at Arken. “That, he may keep, and Wren was quite right about his gift.” Then, turning back to Harpis, she continued. “If and when you complete your indoctrination, I will reveal its powers to you, and we may discuss your gift.”

Qarn climbed on top of the table, earning a disapproving look at his filthy sandals from Trilia.

“Well, suppose we make this official and all before we feed him to the dogs.” Qarn paused and glanced at Arken. “No offense intended, Master Arken.”

The man snorted in response.

Walking over to Harpis’ side of the table, Qarn motioned for Harpis to stand. “As eldest Navigator present and Vicar of Lodestar Island….”

Trilia put her head in her hand, drawing a glare from Qarn.

“What of it? I am the senior-most member of the clergy on this island, and as such, I am therefore its vicar, so what if I’ve been off Quaj since before the current Exarch was but a babe,” he said.

Trilia rolled her eyes. “You’re the only member of the clergy on the island,” she said and waved a hand at Qarn to continue.

“What’s your family name, lad, and where do you hail from?” Qarn asked.

“Harpis Akkeri, and nowhere.” He answered, receiving an uncaring shrug from Qarn.

“All right then, Harpis of nowhere, do you swear on your life and your soul, to crew the vessel that is Quaj, keeping safe her passengers, to keep the wind in her sails, her hull off the rocks, and point her true to the greater good of all?” the gnome finished, out of breath.

“I swear it,” Harpis said, bowing his head slightly. Then, when he looked up, the gnome backhanded him with surprising force across his cheek.

“You’ve made your oath, and that was so you remember it,” he said, climbing back into his chair, huffing.

Trilia stood slowly, walked up, and kissed Harpis’ other cheek. “And that, she said winking, was so you really remember it.”

From behind him, Arken slapped the backside of his head. “And that was simply because I wanted to, and don’t be expecting a kiss to follow.”

Settled back into his chair, Qarn addressed Harpis again. “Consider yourself accepted for indoctrination.”

He stopped to draw in more breath. “The Syndicate has existed for several hundred years to protect the people of Quaj from the malice and greed of the individual from dooming the lot. As you may have deduced from talking with Wren, each city-state has a Hand and an Eye.”

The old gnome paused, running his hand along the crest on the table in between them. “The Hand is typically the more senior and allowed to manipulate the course of the island. The Eye learns and takes direction from the Hand and is instructed to gather information but not act on it. We only train one operative at a time here at Lodestar.”

Qarn sat back and laced his fingers together before staring Harpis in the eye. “The Syndicate is an espionage organization, you see. Three Navigators to chart the course, based on information from our Eyes. We turn the wheel using our Hands to keep the island on the right course.”

Qarn then seemed to become more careful and deliberate in what he divulged.

“Lady Trilia, an accomplished water mage, will instruct you on laws and geopolitics, and I, servant of Daybreak, will cover the histories,” Qarn finished.

“And I will ensure you learn everything else,” Arken commented from behind him, putting a hand on Harpis Shoulder. “Truthfully, I will teach you but three things, and when you leave here, you will never forget them. Everyone may be a threat, everyone may be a mark, and every piece of information may be vitally important.”

Trilia smiled at him. “If Wren has vouched for you, I think you will make it through indoctrination just fine. We believe your intentions, Harpis, but we still need to test your soul, train your body, and fill your mind,” she said.

Arken ended his lean against the wall and took a step back. “Come, Harpis. I will show you the rest of our facilities and your quarters. Indoctrination begins tomorrow.”

Harpis stood out of the chair, but he could not resist a question before turning to go. “Where is the other Navigator, who sits in this chair?”

Qarn chuckled. “Not all our secrets at once, lad. Eat well tonight. Tomorrow starts the toughest month of your young life. Make it through these weeks and the assessment that follows, and we will consider you worth the while of being truly trained back on the streets of Ravnice by a certain necromancer. If you become an Eye for The Syndicate, you may spend years or decades in that role learning from the Hand before being deemed capable of further responsibility.”

*****

Sirul had been stalking the Tuath wharf for days after his decision to let Seulman live. He had spared Seulman’s life not out of mercy but for a purpose. The governor would not live long. It would not take The Syndicate but days or weeks to find out that Sirul had not completed his mission.

For his retirement plan to succeed, Sirul needed to be there when Seulman Tuath drew his last breath. But, for that to happen, he needed to know when the next Syndicate Shadow received their tasking.

It was a stormy spring day, even for tropical Tuath. He was looking for The Syndicate runes he was sure would appear as graffiti in the city’s poorest and more dangerous area. There were times where death was to be obvious, a warning to others. His instructions received weeks ago, for Seulman’s death, had been to make it appear an accident. That may have served whatever grand plan The Syndicate had in motion, but it would not help his own.

Sirul was one with the shadows of a storage shelter near the docks, allowing him to view as much of the wharf as possible. It was essentially empty given the hour and the weather.

He almost jumped when he saw a slim feminine figure pause near the side of a particularly unsavory tavern. The figure bent down with what must have been charcoal and quickly wrote on the bottom of the wall.

She was done after a moment and then straightened, pulling her green cowl and cloak tight against the rain. Finally, she paused, surveying the rest of the wharf.

Sirul, for his part, attempted to become one with the pile of grain sacks behind him, despite knowing she could not possibly see him. Still, if she was writing what he hoped she was, she too was trained and likely experienced in espionage, and her senses may have been nearly as keen as his.

Seemingly satisfied no one noticed her, the woman stepped away from the wall and disappeared into an alleyway. Sirul’s tradecraft-driven paranoia and excited curiosity waged an excruciating battle for his will. He wanted more than anything to run over and see what she had written but knew he needed to wait until she was truly gone.

Perhaps she was as good as he at sneaking and prying, and he could not risk that. She could also, out of curiosity, contemplate breaking protocol to try and catch a glimpse of a Syndicate Shadow. Maybe she had waited out of sight to see who came to inspect the runes. Then again, if he waited too long, he might run into the other Shadow, or worse, miss him or her and lose his chance to be present at Seulman’s killing and set his planned events into action.

Curiosity won after an hour as dawn’s light began to break. He would become increasingly noticeable and suspicious-looking backed into an alcove of grain sacks. He strolled towards the markings she’d made, gazing around at every window and every doorstep acting as calm as his nerves would allow, and walked past the graffiti.

He saw an anchor casting a shadow, the sign that the Shadow was to move forward with the plans to stop someone’s journey on the sea of time. A small crescent moon next to the anchor indicating the death still was to appear as an accident. If it were instead a sun, the death was to be an apparent assassination.

Over the anchor, a crown with Tuath’s city seal indicates that the city’s leader was the target. In his excitement to return, he almost missed the rope hanging from the top of the anchor, a knot tied in its end, the sign to dispose of loose ends.

He felt hot rage wash over his entire body. Did they send another Shadow here to not only finish his task as he expected but look for, and if possible, dispose of Sirul himself? His training kept him walking, his steps measured. His fists were clenched so hard several knuckles popped, and the tendons of his hands silently screamed for mercy.

He had sent hundreds of souls to The Sleeper for The Syndicate over his decades-long service. They had let other assassins who gave up on their service disappear into the shadows of their own accord. What made him different?

He had intended for his transition to retired killer to come in comparatively bloodless terms, requiring only the deaths of a few choice individuals.

His former employer’s actions regarding his own life would not go unpunished, he decided. He was Sirul Amun, the foremost dealer of death on all Quaj, maybe even the world. He ran rain from his hair with his hand and traced the scar on his cheek with his thumb.

Sirul Amun, The Needle, longest Shadow of The Syndicate, decided he had personal and unfinished business regarding his former employer. His pace quickened as he made his way back to the mansion’s stables, where a dry change of clothes awaited.

He slipped into the exposed half-basement of the mansion from the stables, wearing clothes like what he had seen another stableman wear. Sirul was halfway down the musty hallway to the scullery and kitchens when he stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move.

On a drying hook outside the kitchen in the basement hall of Seulman’s mansion, there was a soaking wet green cloak of exactly the color the woman who left the runes wore. Slowly his gaze drifted into the kitchen, seeing one of the young serving girls staring straight at him as she squeezed water from her hair, the drops sizzling on the stones around the kitchen fireplace. She smiled and threw him a wink and turned herself towards the fire to continue drying off.

It took every ounce of sheer will to peel his eyes from the back of her head as he mentally commanded his feet to continue walking. Why had she winked? Did she think he was the Shadow for whom she had just left instructions? Did she know of his own identity and impending death sentence? Sirul forced the paranoid thoughts from his mind. She would be dealt with if necessary. He made his way to the attic access and his cramped, makeshift quarters.

Wedged again in his space above Seulman’s office, the day had passed in a boring fashion. An emissary from Kalt had come in the late afternoon, bringing with him what he claimed to be several gallons of scarce ice wine from last winter.

The two men ate together in Seulman’s office. They drank late into the night complaining about the foreign elf tribe together, lamenting the popularity of the capital in Mer and reminiscing on past days. The southerner also favored hereditary rule and repeatedly mentioned he was some half-attached descendant of the ancient line of Kalt.

Sirul wished the two drunks would just pack it in for the night so he could rest hidden in Seulman’s quarters and wait for the other Shadow to appear. His impatience slowly simmered into anger at the two below him as they carried on, and he felt any chance at sleep slipping away with his calm.

So it was that his eyes were wide and his mind sharply awake when the wrinkled, sixty-something man from Kalt suggested one more drink before bed, which Seulman, of course, accepted. He saw the older man draw a vial from his robes and dump it into the glass he eventually handed Seulman, who was already half passed out in the chair behind his desk.

“Cheers to you, Seulman Tuath, may your family reign as long as it may,” the man toasted.

Seemingly spurred by the anger of thinking about what his son would do to his legacy, Seulman chugged the glass in two gulps and fell back full into his chair. His breathing got more and more labored, and his heartbeat slowed until both stopped.

The man from Kalt calmly watched Seulman die while finishing his own glass. Once it was empty, he walked across to Seulman’s corpse, dumping some wine on the man’s clothes. He then urinated on Seulman’s crotch, chair, and the floor in front of it.

Sirul watched intently as the killer put Seulman’s glass on its side and spilled more of the wine before grabbing some of the scrolls and books from the desk. He then took a glass decanter of rum from a bookshelf, walked next to Seulman’s now limp hands, and let the decanter slip, shattering on the floor as if the man dropped it to the floor before passing out.

Sirul knew he had to be quick. He had to get into position before the man from Kalt fled the mansion. Sirul made his way to the stables, where he had seen the man tie up his horse earlier and hid in the next stall over before the older, slower man arrived.

*****

The man from Kalt saddled his horse while looking around frettingly despite knowing Seulman’s corpse would likely lay undiscovered until morning. His old bones creaked and cracked as he pulled himself onto the horse’s back. They were barely outside of the stable when he felt the weight of someone suddenly behind him and the horse sagging under two riders.

That sensation was the last he ever knew as Sirul’s needle ended his thoughts. Sirul rode with the dead man in front of him out into the streets of Tuath in the cover of night and quickly dumped the man’s corpse where he hoped no one would find it. Then, with all due haste, he made his way back to the mansion. He snuck into Seulman’s office, drew a knife he had liberated from the kitchens, and slit the throat of the corpse.

How nice of the other Shadow to stage the scene. A dropped decanter and soiled pants could just as easily come from self-intoxication as well as an assassin slitting one’s throat from behind. The man had been dead for an hour and did not bleed as well as Sirul had hoped. He pumped the man’s chest with both of his hands until he was satisfied with the amount of blood on the floor and Seulman’s clothes.