[game-notes version here]

III.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

On the surface, Maelen was thoroughly annoyed. She was adamantly not going to die on the bloody Greenwood Rise, off trail, where no one would know or find her body to bury it. She sure as bastards wasn’t going to die because of a lamed pup of a scribe who didn’t know the pointy end of a sword from the holding one. None of this was worth the promised hundred silver thorns she and Vessa were getting paid (though, to be fair, it was a lot of coin), and she was not going to die in debt to the gods-cursed, bloody Latchkey Circle.

Below the annoyance, though: Maelen was excited. Violence was her purpose in life, her profession. She’d never known her Tideborn father, and her mother was a knife-for-hire who ran numbers for no less than three gangs. From age nine, Maelen performed “errands” for rough men and mean women. By thirteen, she was knocking out the teeth of men twice her age. By sixteen, she was running a gang of canal-cutters who’d dubbed her Marr the Merciless. Truly, Maelen Marrosen was a fighter to the core, and it had been too long since she’d wet her blade.

The lad’s eyes were bulging out of his head, but he was doing a fair job of keeping quiet. Damned if she hadn’t been impressed by his lack of complaining and dogged perseverance up the hill all day. The pace was slow as sap, sure, but the lad couldn’t help that. Maelen had pegged him as a soft book-boy, but he’d shown a spine again and again and again, and she’d reassessed her first impressions. There was iron in his heart, and iron was the only thing that Maelen respected.

Tatter, probably sensing her mood, scampered out of her belt pouch and onto her arm. The mouse sniffed the afternoon air. Maelen paused for a moment amidst her thoughts and grinned down at the mouse.

“You take her,” Maelen whispered, extending a hand towards the scribe. Tatter knew the gesture well and ran along the length of her forearm, across her hand, and onto the boy’s shoulder. He startled, looking dubiously at his new companion, and then nodded silently at her. Good lad, able to roll with the situation. Maelen liked him far more than she expected to.

“Keep her safe or I’ll gut you,” she hissed. His face paled, and she felt certain he’d gotten the message. That done, Maelen gripped her sword with both hands and stepped cautiously forward to the tree with the black circle.

Quiet as a shadow, Vessa appeared out of the brush. The scribe squeaked in surprise but slapped a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. She stepped close to Maelen and the unwashed smell of urine, vomit, and sweat rolled over her. If they survived, she’d drag the girl to a stream and wash her herself if she had to.

“There’s four of them,” Vessa whispered close, lips near Maelen’s ear. “Look like outcasts. Criminals, maybe. Three look like they could fight, one old woman, but no armor and only one obvious weapon. They’re sitting around and drinking, but it’s not a permanent camp. They have black smudges on their cheeks, like a cult or something.”

Maelen frowned, absorbing this new information. “You think we can get around them?” she breathed close to Vessa’s ear.

The lass shot a meaningful, disapproving look at the lad and shook her head once. She leaned forward and said in a whisper, “They’re scouts, Mae. Talking about a leader they’re scared of: Sarin. If they find us, they’ll loot us and worse. And there was something weird…” Maelen raised an eyebrow and waited. “They seemed scared to make a fire. Said Sarin would be mad.”

Maelen pressed her lips together and nodded. “Not so weird. They’re hiding. Good work, Vess.”

“What’s going on?” The scribe whispered, urgently and too loud, like he’d never once played at sneaking through an alley in his life. Maelen shot him a quick hand gesture to shut him up.

“You stay put with Tatter,” she whispered, pointing at his nose and scowling. Maelen cocked her head and listened to decide whether they’d been heard. Comfortable to continue, she said quietly, “I’m going to talk to these people. Vessa’s got my back. You hear me yell, you hide. Clear?”

Sweat on his face, the lad nodded, already crouching low behind a tree. Good. He wouldn’t be underfoot, then. Maelen jerked a chin to Vessa, who nodded and disappeared back into the brush as quietly as she’d come. She was touched by The Claw himself, Vess was, able to blend into shadows better than anyone she’d ever met. It was one of three truly useful things about her.

Maelen cracked her neck and strode, quietly and purposefully, up the wooded hill, her long blade held out in front of her. She wasn’t nearly as stealthy as Vessa, but she knew how to plant her foot in pine needles and twigs to keep quiet.

So, of course, she tripped. Like a bloody amateur. A root just below a cover of fallen leaves snagged the toe of one boot, and Maelen went down hard onto one knee. Worse, she yelled in surprise and pain. There was a series of frantic shouts from up the hill as the four outcasts that Vessa had spied realized her presence.

“There’s someone here!” a woman yelped, her voice cracking. Others cried out as well.

“Get your weapons!”

“Gut ‘em!”

“For Sarin! For the Lanternless!” There was more fear in their voices than faith, but it was no doubt they were coming to fight.

Gritting her teeth, Maelen surged up, rage flaring hotter than the ache in her knee. No more mistakes. Not today. She charged up the hillside, her sword held in two hands. As the first of the outcasts stumbled down the hill towards her, she raised the blade high. Maelen briefly registered a wiry, pockmarked woman with greasy, dark hair tied back in tattered clothes. Her cheeks were smudged by tar or soot to look like black tears running down her face, and her eyes were wide and scared. She carried a rusty knife that looked more like a kitchen tool than a weapon, and Maelen realized with grim confidence that this ragtag group wouldn’t last long against her and Vessa. With a shout meant to attract the other outcasts and distract them from Vessa and the lad, she slashed her bastard sword down, cutting the woman from shoulder to hip in a single, practiced stroke. The outcast shrieked and rolled down the hill past Maelen’s boots, dead.

A man with sunken cheeks and a long, tangled beard, the same black streaks on his cheeks, appeared behind a tree and roared with outrage. For the second time, Maelen’s footing betrayed her and she stumbled. A heavy cudgel wrapped with iron nails slammed into her ribs. Her leather vest caught the worst of it, but the blow still stole her breath and pride. Maelen decided then and there that she’d spent too much time on the flat streets of Oakton and had gotten too soft for these overland jobs. She was going to get them all killed if she didn’t get her bloody feet straight.

The bearded outcast’s next swing with the spiked cudgel was a competent one and would have caved in one side of her head if she hadn’t brought her sword up to block it. Maelen thrust low, the tip of her blade slicing clean through his thigh muscle. The man shuffled backwards, trying to get out of her sword’s reach, and Maelen saw in his eyes that he knew he was going to die here. That leg wound would kill him if he didn’t tend to it, and Maelen was the better fighter, with the better weapon. She knew it, and so did he. With a malicious grin, she caught her breath, straightened, and leveled her longsword at him.

The last thing she expected was the soft-footed scribe suddenly looming behind the man, walking stick clutched tightly in both hands, Tatter riding along on his shoulder. The lad gave a wordless yell and swung hard, his stick slamming into the outcast’s ribs with a crack. It wasn’t elegant, but it did the job. The bearded man went down, curled in a ball and bleeding out from his leg.

The lad, Alric, panted like he’d run from a troll, staring wide-eyed and crazed down at the fallen outcast between them. If possible, Maelen found even more admiration for the scrappy lad for joining the fight. It was a pathetic swing, but at least he’d swung.

“Are you mad, idiot?” she barked. “I said hide.”

“But…” he said, confused.

“Come on,” she huffed, stepping past him to continue up the hill. As she passed the boy, she extended a finger and Tatter scampered onto her arm. “Let’s go find Vess.”

“By the Herald…” she heard him whisper in horror as he stepped past the dead woman and dying man.

“Heh,” she chuckled darkly. Doing so hurt her side. Damn her fool footing and getting herself clobbered by an idiot outcast. “The gods don’t come to the wilds, lad. The Herald isn’t watching. Now keep up and stay sharp.”

They strode up the incline of the wooded hill, slipping around trees and bushes with weapons raised. In no more than ten paces, the hill leveled briefly. In a small glade, dirty, ragged packs were strewn about. A smudged green bottle lay on its side between two rocks, a few drops of whatever was inside soaking into the dirt.

Standing at the edge of the clearing were two women. One was an elderly, bent-backed woman with wild white hair, the same black streaks on her face as the others. She wore a stained, simple shift and a blocky necklace of some kind. At her feet lay a small paring knife. Clutching the old woman from behind, one arm wrapped around her shoulders and another pressing a short, chipped sword—more oversized dagger than proper blade—beneath the old woman’s chin, was Vessa.

“Look what I found,” the young woman grinned at her, looking smug.

“Good,” Maelen nodded, and sheathed the bastard sword onto her back. She cracked her neck and stepped closer, studying the old woman’s wide, unblinking eyes. “Let’s hope she knows how to talk.”

Next: Old Yara [with game notes]

[game notes version here]

II.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The Root Gate stood on the western edge of Oakton, where an old road began to climb into the forested foothills of the Redwood Marches. Its name came from the sprawling, gnarled roots of the Argenoak—the miraculous tree that towered high over the entirety of the city. So vast was the Argenoak that its roots pushed up through the street even here, a quarter-day’s travel from the trunk. Generations ago, masons of the Carved House worked those thick, petrified root-knots into the construction of stone gate’s archway, giving the impression the city was cradled by its sacred tree.

Twin, squat towers of weather-stained granite, decorated with old shields and faded banners, guarded either side of the arch. Each tower had a pair of slit-eyed lookouts, watching footsore travelers and carts full of salted fish, apple barrels, bundles of wood, and clay tiles pass in and out of the city. Grizzled Iron Thorn wardens stood nearby, their blue-and-rust tabards fluttering in the morning breeze, sometimes pausing to usher visitors forward so they wouldn’t stand in the road, ogling at the reaching branches of the Argenoak across the sky. Nearby, a group of scribes worked busily at a ledger table beneath a faded canvas awning, recording tolls and weighing disputes.

Alric had long since unshouldered his travel pack and set it against a rock, and he stood awkwardly beside the road, breath steaming in the midmorning air. He wore a leather vest over a sturdy, homespun shirt, plus travel breeches, and his only pair of boots. His crescent-shaped foot already ached, and though he dreaded the days of travel ahead, he kept his dread buried beneath a scholar’s frown. It was his eyes, though, that held a thunderstorm of impatience and frustration, scanning each new person who approached the Root Gate.

The only thing that kept him from complaining constantly was that the muscled thug Maelen appeared even more annoyed. She stood well away from the gate and Iron Thorn wardens, broad back against a cedar, thick arms crossed, her face set like a hammer waiting for a nail. Alric had tried and failed to speak with her, and it was clear she had no more idea where Vessa was than Alric did.

The thought came unbidden: What if Vessa never came? Alric swallowed. He had no more money, so it was this crew or none. Alric didn’t like the idea of traveling deep into the wilds with a single protector, plus no one adept at picking locks or avoiding traps. Truth be told, he had little idea what they’d find at Thornmere Hold, but he assumed the ancient order there had guarded their secrets fiercely and thus he would need a proper thief. That is, if Thornmere Hold even existed, or hadn’t already been looted by brigands once the secretive lorekeepers left. Alric ground his teeth, wanting desperately both to get going and to abandon this whole folly.

One hand dipped into a pouch at his belt, brushing the dry parchment, either the key to Thornmere Hold, or a fool’s errand in ink. No, he needed answers. He would go, today, even if it was just with Maelen Marrosen. The woman was a criminal, wasn’t she? Perhaps she could pick a lock herself. Alric’s gray-green eyes watched Maelen, standing bunched and hard, like a clenched fist. Would she simply gut him and search his corpse once they were out of the city? Surely she wouldn’t—reputations mattered, even among blades-for-hire. Besides, he’d been told these two were both competent and reliable.

Abruptly, Maelen pushed away from the tree and began striding angrily toward the gate. Alric’s gaze followed her path and saw the thief Vessa approaching at a ragged half-jog, red-faced and short of breath. Her head was shaved down to dark stubble, but otherwise she wore the same battered leather armor and carried the same short blade at her hip. Alric exhaled with relief, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks to the Rootmother.

Vessa raised both hands, trying to offer a stumbling apology. Maelen stalked straight up to her and drove a fist into her jaw. Back at the Lodge, a missed deadline meant stern words and lost pay. Out here, apparently, it meant your teeth on the ground. Alric’s heart lurched. If they ended up in a cell before leaving the city, the whole job was doomed.

He scrambled toward them as fast as his clubbed foot would allow, awkwardly dragging the straps of his travel pack behind him. By the time he arrived, a small knot of onlookers had gathered, the Iron Thorn guards already hauling Maelen off Vessa, who had curled defensively on the dirt, cursing a blue streak.

Alric drew a deep breath and projected his baritone voice as loud and steady as he could manage.

“Excuse me! Please! These are my companions, please!” Alric shouted as he stepped out of the circle of gawkers. The larger of the two wardens, dressed in a faded blue-and-rust tabard stretched over chainmail, had pulled Maelen off Vessa. The thief’s lip was bleeding, and she held the back of her wrist to it while sitting on her knees in the dirt. Maelen, meanwhile, still held a furious expression across her scarred face, but she was allowing herself to be subdued without throwing further punches. Her thick fists still balled, knuckles white.

The other Iron Thorn warden, tall and lean with a narrow face and receding hairline, raised an eyebrow and turned to Alric as he approached.

“Your companions?” the man asked, his voice nasal. “Why are they fighting?”

“Yes, sir, my companions. I’m afraid the one on the ground,” he pointed to Vessa, “has arrived late, and the other,” he gestured at Maelen, “has objected to the breach of contract. They’re not criminals, sir, simply…” Alric cleared his throat. “Too passionate about their obligations.”

The tall warden snorted, unconvinced. “Passionate? Looks like a drunken street brawl to me. The one on the ground reeks.”

Alric offered a curt, respectful nod. “I agree it seems that way, sir. But they are under my employ, on contract from the Inkbinders Lodge. I have writ to show the Guild Council if needed. Any injury to them will be deducted from a sealed order of passage I’ve already filed with the Castellan’s clerks.”

This was all a lie, of course. None of what Alric did last night at the Heart & Dagger was known to the Lodge, and he had no formal contract. He reached to his belt, pulling a folded scrap of parchment with a careful flourish – not actually the sealed writ, but a page of scrawled supply notes, folded to hide the writing, with a broken wax blob still clinging to the corner.

“I assure you, sir, the Guild Council will demand to know why their contractors were delayed if you take them in. Please, let me handle their punishment. They’re mine to discipline, and they’ve hurt no one here but themselves.”

The warden glanced at the parchment in Alric’s hand, then looked the young scribe up and down, appraising. His eyes flicked at the crowd behind Alric, and he frowned.

“Let them go,” he said over his shoulder to the other warden. “You,” he said to Alric. “Get out of here with your riffraff. You’re causing a line, and I don’t have time for any of this nonsense.”

Alric bobbed his head. “Much obliged, sir. Maelen! Vessa! Let’s go,” he jerked his chin past the Root Gate.

Vessa blinked, still dazed, but obeyed. The big guard perhaps pushed Maelen a little harder than was necessary, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alric worried the mercenary would turn on the Iron Thorn warden. But she only cracked her neck, gave the man a wink and a grin, and stepped to Alric’s side. Tessa stood, brushed her leather breeches of dirt, and followed sullenly. As she joined, Alric’s nose wrinkled. She truly did reek.

“Do you really have a writ?” Vessa muttered, rubbing her jaw. They strode, shoulder to shoulder, away from the Root Gate, the two women shortening their steps to keep up with Alric’s limp.

“Absolutely not,” he said without blinking. “Just keep walking.”

A man, back bent by hard labor and waiting in the line that had formed outside the Root Gate, overheard the exchange as they passed. He whooped out a laugh.

“Oh! He’s a clever one, that one!” the man called out after them. With so many missing teeth he had a pronounced lisp. “I’ve got my eye on you, son! Well played!” Alric shot the man a desperate, disapproving look to shut up, and kept walking down the road.

When they’d passed, Alric glanced back. The man—stooped, toothless, grinning—gave a crooked salute. He frowned, unsettled, and kept walking.

With the city walls far in the distance and out of any earshot, Alric finally blew out a loud, relieved exhale of breath. Maelen snorted, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. Vessa said nothing, following behind them both a step and keeping her eyes to the gathering trees.

“So,” Maelen said, the happiest Alric had seen her. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, precisely. “We’ll follow the road for a bit, then go up and over the hills.”

“What are we looking for?” Maelen pressed, cocking an eyebrow.

He paused a heartbeat, then said, “A Lodge sanctuary. Well, the ruins of one. Less than a day over the ridge.”

“Ruins, eh? And what is Vessa breaking into, then? Scribes aren’t known for their hoarded treasure, lad.”

“Just get me there safely and we’ll see,” Alric said sourly.

Much to his surprise, the woman laughed. “Alright, alright. You’ve shown a spine to you, that’s for sure. Keep your secrets, and lead on, lad. We’ll get you back by Ashday, with whatever it is you’re after. And forty more silver richer for it, eh?”

Alric nodded back, pursing his lips, not yet sure how he’d avoid that second payment once the job was done. It might be his teeth in the dirt by the Root Gate then, or worse.

The old road, called unimaginatively Root Road, exited Oakton on its western wall. It passed first due west, then curved south, climbing higher all the way. Eventually the Marchlander trails branched off—narrow paths connecting remote logging camps and hill farms. After that, the Root Road followed the foothills south and, much later, west into the Redwood Marches proper. Alric had never been further than the stepstone trail that wound its way to the famed Skywarden Tower, and even then, only once.

Today, however, they stepped off the road just as the first trail branched west, well before the path to Skywarden Tower. Alric paused and unrolled his map, studying it carefully and comparing what he saw on the parchment with the surrounding countryside. His bad foot ached, but not as much as he’d feared it would, and he was pleased that neither of the mercenaries criticized or mocked his pace. True to her word, Maelen had not pestered him further about their destination. Mostly, the three of them had begun their journey traveling in companionable silence through the clear, autumn day. They were faintly terrifying, these rough-and-tumble mercenaries, but Alric had to admit that they had a certain kindness and honor to them. He was again grateful that his contacts had avoided connecting him with lowlifes who would simply slit his throat and loot his corpse once they’d left the city.

Satisfied with their location, he rolled the map and slid it back into the oiled leather tube at his belt.

“Now we go up and over the Greenwood Rise,” he said, pointing into the forest, climbing upwards to the western side of the road.

Maelen nodded. “I go first,” she said, brooking no argument. “And you follow right after me. If I say stop or shut up, you do it. These hills are wild places, full of danger.”

Alric nodded. “Fine.”

“Vessa will follow behind,” Maelen raised her voice so the thief could hear. Vessa stared back unblinking. “Both because she needs a bath and because she’s stealthy. If we do get into a scrap, we’ll be happy to have her surprise whatever’s bothering us.”

Alric swallowed and nodded. This would be his first time off a road or trail, something every Oaktowner of every profession would tell you would get you killed by all manner of criminal or beast. Monsters roamed the wilds, they said, and the demons who spawned them.

The climb up the Greenwood Rise hurt his foot significantly worse than the road. He and Maelen crunched through undergrowth as cedars and, eventually redwoods, towered over them. Birds called and insects chittered, but otherwise the only sounds were the crunch crunch crunch of their steps and Alric’s panting breath. He soon found himself gripping younger trees and pulling himself up the hill, trying to put some of the burden of the climb on his arms instead of his cursed legs.

Several times, Maelen stopped and watched him with a grim, serious expression. She never offered help, but also never showed outward frustration. Maelen became almost a fever dream manifestation of Alric’s will, a silent witness to his pain and progress. For his part, Alric grunted and struggled, focusing only on the next tree in front of him. So focused was he, that he never even thought to look back for Vessa, to see how far she tracked behind them.

It was impossible to tell how long they climbed. Alric felt his chest near to bursting, his legs numb, his foot in agony, sweat dripping into his eyes, and all the while the canopy above them obscured the sun. They climbed endlessly, each step a fresh misery, time stretched thin beneath the trees.

“Stop,” Maelen hissed, the first word she’d uttered since they began. Alric pulled himself forward by the trunk of the tree in front of him and paused, his breath heaving like a bellows.

“What—what is it?” he wheezed, reaching for his waterskin. Alric wiped his face for the hundredth time with a sleeve. He looked around for danger, but it was the same as everywhere else on these hills: A sea of trees, verdant underbrush, and fallen leaves and pine needles.

Maelen simply pointed, her eyes searching the hill above them. Alric’s gaze followed her thick finger, to the tree just beyond him. It would have been the next tree he used as a lever to pull himself forward, in fact. It was paler than the others—not unnatural, just a different species than the redwoods, firs, and laurels around it, its bark flaky and almost white.

A black-filled circle had been carved into its bark, glistening like tar.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, trying to control his rapid breathing.

“Well, it was carved by someone, wasn’t it?” Maelen whispered back. Quietly, she slid the sword on her back out of its scabbard. It was a massive weapon, fully two-thirds Alric’s height, he guessed. The blade glinted in the dappled spots of sun allowed by the canopy.

Alric’s eyes widened as he looked at Maelen. The woman put a finger to her lips, signaling quiet. His chest pounded, but he tried his best to silence his panting.

Up the hill above them, out of sight, someone laughed.

Next: The Lanternless [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

II.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The Root Gate stood on the western edge of Oakton, where an old road began to climb into the forested foothills of the Redwood Marches. Its name came from the sprawling, gnarled roots of the Argenoak—the miraculous tree that towered high over the entirety of the city. So vast was the Argenoak that its roots pushed up through the street even here, a quarter-day’s travel from the trunk. Generations ago, masons of the Carved House worked those thick, petrified root-knots into the construction of stone gate’s archway, giving the impression the city was cradled by its sacred tree.

Twin, squat towers of weather-stained granite, decorated with old shields and faded banners, guarded either side of the arch. Each tower had a pair of slit-eyed lookouts, watching footsore travelers and carts full of salted fish, apple barrels, bundles of wood, and clay tiles pass in and out of the city. Grizzled Iron Thorn wardens stood nearby, their blue-and-rust tabards fluttering in the morning breeze, sometimes pausing to usher visitors forward so they wouldn’t stand in the road, ogling at the reaching branches of the Argenoak across the sky. Nearby, a group of scribes worked busily at a ledger table beneath a faded canvas awning, recording tolls and weighing disputes.

Alric had long since unshouldered his travel pack and set it against a rock, and he stood awkwardly beside the road, breath steaming in the midmorning air. He wore a leather vest over a sturdy, homespun shirt, plus travel breeches, and his only pair of boots. His crescent-shaped foot already ached, and though he dreaded the days of travel ahead, he kept his dread buried beneath a scholar’s frown. It was his eyes, though, that held a thunderstorm of impatience and frustration, scanning each new person who approached the Root Gate.

The only thing that kept him from complaining constantly was that the muscled thug Maelen appeared even more annoyed. She stood well away from the gate and Iron Thorn wardens, broad back against a cedar, thick arms crossed, her face set like a hammer waiting for a nail. Alric had tried and failed to speak with her, and it was clear she had no more idea where Vessa was than Alric did.

The thought came unbidden: What if Vessa never came? Alric swallowed. He had no more money, so it was this crew or none. Alric didn’t like the idea of traveling deep into the wilds with a single protector, plus no one adept at picking locks or avoiding traps. Truth be told, he had little idea what they’d find at Thornmere Hold, but he assumed the ancient order there had guarded their secrets fiercely and thus he would need a proper thief. That is, if Thornmere Hold even existed, or hadn’t already been looted by brigands once the secretive lorekeepers left. Alric ground his teeth, wanting desperately both to get going and to abandon this whole folly.

One hand dipped into a pouch at his belt, brushing the dry parchment, either the key to Thornmere Hold, or a fool’s errand in ink. No, he needed answers. He would go, today, even if it was just with Maelen Marrosen. The woman was a criminal, wasn’t she? Perhaps she could pick a lock herself. Alric’s gray-green eyes watched Maelen, standing bunched and hard, like a clenched fist. Would she simply gut him and search his corpse once they were out of the city? Surely she wouldn’t—reputations mattered, even among blades-for-hire. Besides, he’d been told these two were both competent and reliable.

Abruptly, Maelen pushed away from the tree and began striding angrily toward the gate. Alric’s gaze followed her path and saw the thief Vessa approaching at a ragged half-jog, red-faced and short of breath. Her head was shaved down to dark stubble, but otherwise she wore the same battered leather armor and carried the same short blade at her hip. Alric exhaled with relief, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks to the Rootmother.

Vessa raised both hands, trying to offer a stumbling apology. Maelen stalked straight up to her and drove a fist into her jaw. Back at the Lodge, a missed deadline meant stern words and lost pay. Out here, apparently, it meant your teeth on the ground. Alric’s heart lurched. If they ended up in a cell before leaving the city, the whole job was doomed.

He scrambled toward them as fast as his clubbed foot would allow, awkwardly dragging the straps of his travel pack behind him. By the time he arrived, a small knot of onlookers had gathered, the Iron Thorn guards already hauling Maelen off Vessa, who had curled defensively on the dirt, cursing a blue streak.

Alric drew a deep breath and projected his baritone voice as loud and steady as he could manage.

“Excuse me! Please! These are my companions, please!” Alric shouted as he stepped out of the circle of gawkers. The larger of the two wardens, dressed in a faded blue-and-rust tabard stretched over chainmail, had pulled Maelen off Vessa. The thief’s lip was bleeding, and she held the back of her wrist to it while sitting on her knees in the dirt. Maelen, meanwhile, still held a furious expression across her scarred face, but she was allowing herself to be subdued without throwing further punches. Her thick fists still balled, knuckles white.

The other Iron Thorn warden, tall and lean with a narrow face and receding hairline, raised an eyebrow and turned to Alric as he approached.

“Your companions?” the man asked, his voice nasal. “Why are they fighting?”

“Yes, sir, my companions. I’m afraid the one on the ground,” he pointed to Vessa, “has arrived late, and the other,” he gestured at Maelen, “has objected to the breach of contract. They’re not criminals, sir, simply…” Alric cleared his throat. “Too passionate about their obligations.”

The tall warden snorted, unconvinced. “Passionate? Looks like a drunken street brawl to me. The one on the ground reeks.”

Alric offered a curt, respectful nod. “I agree it seems that way, sir. But they are under my employ, on contract from the Inkbinders Lodge. I have writ to show the Guild Council if needed. Any injury to them will be deducted from a sealed order of passage I’ve already filed with the Castellan’s clerks.”

This was all a lie, of course. None of what Alric did last night at the Heart & Dagger was known to the Lodge, and he had no formal contract. He reached to his belt, pulling a folded scrap of parchment with a careful flourish – not actually the sealed writ, but a page of scrawled supply notes, folded to hide the writing, with a broken wax blob still clinging to the corner.

“I assure you, sir, the Guild Council will demand to know why their contractors were delayed if you take them in. Please, let me handle their punishment. They’re mine to discipline, and they’ve hurt no one here but themselves.”

The warden glanced at the parchment in Alric’s hand, then looked the young scribe up and down, appraising. His eyes flicked at the crowd behind Alric, and he frowned.

“Let them go,” he said over his shoulder to the other warden. “You,” he said to Alric. “Get out of here with your riffraff. You’re causing a line, and I don’t have time for any of this nonsense.”

Alric bobbed his head. “Much obliged, sir. Maelen! Vessa! Let’s go,” he jerked his chin past the Root Gate.

Vessa blinked, still dazed, but obeyed. The big guard perhaps pushed Maelen a little harder than was necessary, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alric worried the mercenary would turn on the Iron Thorn warden. But she only cracked her neck, gave the man a wink and a grin, and stepped to Alric’s side. Tessa stood, brushed her leather breeches of dirt, and followed sullenly. As she joined, Alric’s nose wrinkled. She truly did reek.

“Do you really have a writ?” Vessa muttered, rubbing her jaw. They strode, shoulder to shoulder, away from the Root Gate, the two women shortening their steps to keep up with Alric’s limp.

“Absolutely not,” he said without blinking. “Just keep walking.”

A man, back bent by hard labor and waiting in the line that had formed outside the Root Gate, overheard the exchange as they passed. He whooped out a laugh.

“Oh! He’s a clever one, that one!” the man called out after them. With so many missing teeth he had a pronounced lisp. “I’ve got my eye on you, son! Well played!” Alric shot the man a desperate, disapproving look to shut up, and kept walking down the road.

When they’d passed, Alric glanced back. The man—stooped, toothless, grinning—gave a crooked salute. He frowned, unsettled, and kept walking.

With the city walls far in the distance and out of any earshot, Alric finally blew out a loud, relieved exhale of breath. Maelen snorted, cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. Vessa said nothing, following behind them both a step and keeping her eyes to the gathering trees.

“So,” Maelen said, the happiest Alric had seen her. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, precisely. “We’ll follow the road for a bit, then go up and over the hills.”

“What are we looking for?” Maelen pressed, cocking an eyebrow.

He paused a heartbeat, then said, “A Lodge sanctuary. Well, the ruins of one. Less than a day over the ridge.”

“Ruins, eh? And what is Vessa breaking into, then? Scribes aren’t known for their hoarded treasure, lad.”

“Just get me there safely and we’ll see,” Alric said sourly.

Much to his surprise, the woman laughed. “Alright, alright. You’ve shown a spine to you, that’s for sure. Keep your secrets, and lead on, lad. We’ll get you back by Ashday, with whatever it is you’re after. And forty more silver richer for it, eh?”

Alric nodded back, pursing his lips, not yet sure how he’d avoid that second payment once the job was done. It might be his teeth in the dirt by the Root Gate then, or worse.

The old road, called unimaginatively Root Road, exited Oakton on its western wall. It passed first due west, then curved south, climbing higher all the way. Eventually the Marchlander trails branched off—narrow paths connecting remote logging camps and hill farms. After that, the Root Road followed the foothills south and, much later, west into the Redwood Marches proper. Alric had never been further than the stepstone trail that wound its way to the famed Skywarden Tower, and even then, only once.

Today, however, they stepped off the road just as the first trail branched west, well before the path to Skywarden Tower. Alric paused and unrolled his map, studying it carefully and comparing what he saw on the parchment with the surrounding countryside. His bad foot ached, but not as much as he’d feared it would, and he was pleased that neither of the mercenaries criticized or mocked his pace. True to her word, Maelen had not pestered him further about their destination. Mostly, the three of them had begun their journey traveling in companionable silence through the clear, autumn day. They were faintly terrifying, these rough-and-tumble mercenaries, but Alric had to admit that they had a certain kindness and honor to them. He was again grateful that his contacts had avoided connecting him with lowlifes who would simply slit his throat and loot his corpse once they’d left the city.

Satisfied with their location, he rolled the map and slid it back into the oiled leather tube at his belt.

“Now we go up and over the Greenwood Rise,” he said, pointing into the forest, climbing upwards to the western side of the road.

Maelen nodded. “I go first,” she said, brooking no argument. “And you follow right after me. If I say stop or shut up, you do it. These hills are wild places, full of danger.”

Alric nodded. “Fine.”

“Vessa will follow behind,” Maelen raised her voice so the thief could hear. Vessa stared back unblinking. “Both because she needs a bath and because she’s stealthy. If we do get into a scrap, we’ll be happy to have her surprise whatever’s bothering us.”

Alric swallowed and nodded. This would be his first time off a road or trail, something every Oaktowner of every profession would tell you would get you killed by all manner of criminal or beast. Monsters roamed the wilds, they said, and the demons who spawned them.

The climb up the Greenwood Rise hurt his foot significantly worse than the road. He and Maelen crunched through undergrowth as cedars and, eventually redwoods, towered over them. Birds called and insects chittered, but otherwise the only sounds were the crunch crunch crunch of their steps and Alric’s panting breath. He soon found himself gripping younger trees and pulling himself up the hill, trying to put some of the burden of the climb on his arms instead of his cursed legs.

Several times, Maelen stopped and watched him with a grim, serious expression. She never offered help, but also never showed outward frustration. Maelen became almost a fever dream manifestation of Alric’s will, a silent witness to his pain and progress. For his part, Alric grunted and struggled, focusing only on the next tree in front of him. So focused was he, that he never even thought to look back for Vessa, to see how far she tracked behind them.

It was impossible to tell how long they climbed. Alric felt his chest near to bursting, his legs numb, his foot in agony, sweat dripping into his eyes, and all the while the canopy above them obscured the sun. They climbed endlessly, each step a fresh misery, time stretched thin beneath the trees.

“Stop,” Maelen hissed, the first word she’d uttered since they began. Alric pulled himself forward by the trunk of the tree in front of him and paused, his breath heaving like a bellows.

“What—what is it?” he wheezed, reaching for his waterskin. Alric wiped his face for the hundredth time with a sleeve. He looked around for danger, but it was the same as everywhere else on these hills: A sea of trees, verdant underbrush, and fallen leaves and pine needles.

Maelen simply pointed, her eyes searching the hill above them. Alric’s gaze followed her thick finger, to the tree just beyond him. It would have been the next tree he used as a lever to pull himself forward, in fact. It was paler than the others—not unnatural, just a different species than the redwoods, firs, and laurels around it, its bark flaky and almost white.

A black-filled circle had been carved into its bark, glistening like tar.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, trying to control his rapid breathing.

“Well, it was carved by someone, wasn’t it?” Maelen whispered back. Quietly, she slid the sword on her back out of its scabbard. It was a massive weapon, fully two-thirds Alric’s height, he guessed. The blade glinted in the dappled spots of sun allowed by the canopy.

Alric’s eyes widened as he looked at Maelen. The woman put a finger to her lips, signaling quiet. His chest pounded, but he tried his best to silence his panting.

Up the hill above them, out of sight, someone laughed.

Next: The Lanternless [with game notes]

[game notes version here]

I.

Frostmere 14, Thornsday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign swung gently in the nighttime breeze, lit by two smoky torches that shimmered hauntingly in the chill, lazy lake mist.

Inside, the tavern was low-ceilinged and lantern-lit, dense with the smells of hearth smoke, stale ale, and spiced fish. The oak beams were blackened with age and soot, and voices echoed off mismatched walls. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs guttered atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From a back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, swearing softly. Her long black hair, tied with a frayed leather cord, revealed a sharp, freckled face. With long, lithe fingers, she absently rubbed at her bent nose, something that had become a nervous habit since the accident that broke it two years ago.

“He’s bloody late,” she murmured to her companion. When it was clear she hadn’t been heard she leaned over and said more loudly, “He’s late!”

“You’re too impatient!” Maelen bellowed back. Where Vessa was lean and wiry, built for balance and speed, Maelen was thick and powerful, built for breaking bones. The woman’s pale, nearly amber eyes flicked from Vessa to the entrance and then down at her half-empty mug. Maelen took a long, loud draught, then wiped the back of a calloused hand across her mouth.

Vessa, irritated, barked back, “And you’re too… too… gah!” She threw up both hands. “We need this, Maelen!”

Maelen’s grin showed more predator than warmth. The scar decorating one cheek tugged when she grinned. “He’ll come, lass.”

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face entirely transformed as she looked down at it, from hard to soft, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the small creature’s head. Tatter the mouse had been Maelen’s only friend when Vessa had first been introduced to her two years ago. Now, she supposed, it was only herself and Tatter, with the rest of their crew gone. It was a dark thought, and Vessa scowled back, rubbing at her crooked nose.

Maelen, meanwhile, pushed herself from their table to go order more ale at the bar, reflexively moving Tatter from elbow to shoulder as she stood. Vessa reached for her own mug, hardly touched, and caught a glimpse of the tattoo of a lark upon the inside of her wrist. The glimpse only made her mood darken. Her whole life was a curse. Damn the Larkhands, all dead but her and Maelen. Damn the Latchkey Circle who’d hired them last year. Damn the incident that had killed her friends and left them in debt, scrabbling for scraps ever since. Damn sneaking jobs outside the watch of the Guilds for pips and spare copper oaks. How had her life come to this at only eighteen years old?

As if reading her thoughts, Maelen returned and cuffed her on the shoulder to bring her back to the present. Vessa rocked to one side from the blow and ale sloshed over the side of her mug.

She opened her mouth to complain when she saw him.

A pale-faced young man in robes stood in the doorway, squinting in the candlelight and looking wholly out of place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but Vessa saw immediately that his body held none of the hard edges of real work, and none of the menace of someone who knew how to wield a blade. That said, he looked like a priest or scholar, not a privileged merchant or noble. His tunic was brown and simple, tied at the waist with a cord, and his boots were beaten and worn.

“He’s here,” Vessa announced with a slap of the table. In one fluid motion she was out of her chair and weaving through the Heart & Dagger’s maze of tables towards the doorway. When she was already within range of a knife thrust, he finally saw her, gray-green eyes going momentarily wide. Up close, he had a handsome enough face, with heavy brows and an obvious sharp wit. He seemed close to her own age, maybe just under twenty.

Once they’d made eye contact, Vessa turned and waved for him to follow. She paused, though, and cocked an eyebrow when she saw the young man’s first, shuffling step. One of his feet turned inward, the leg thinner than its mate. It looked like a condition from birth rather than injury, but regardless, it gave the man a shuffling, loping gait as he made his way across the common room and to the table with Maelen.

His face shone with sweat as he settled into his chair, his eyes darting between the two women. Vessa had to give him credit, though: She was sure he’d never been to the Heart & Dagger before—maybe not even to this side of the lake—but neither his hands nor lips were trembling, and he met their gaze without flinching, even Maelen’s. He might lack a fighter’s build, but at least he wasn’t a coward.

He leaned forward to say something conspiratorially, but his low voice was lost to the din of the crowd. He frowned, clearing his throat, when he realized the predicament.

“Is there a place we can speak privately?” he asked loudly. His voice was rich and deep.

Maelen gave him that malicious grin of hers. “You can say anything in the Heart & Dagger, lad. Don’t waste our bloody time and get on with it.”

He pursed his lips, clearly not liking the situation, and ran a calloused hand through his thick, brown hair. Vessa knew that she was not the most charming or persuasive person in Oakton, but she may have some of the keenest eyes in the city. This man—who she decided was a Marchlander scribe by trade, and a low-ranking one at that—was a thinker, a planner. He hadn’t expected such a chaotic, noisy conversation and was now adjusting his approach. Vessa could almost see his mind working, like a great water mill. After no more than three heartbeats, he nodded almost imperceptibly and straightened his posture.

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward again but this time speaking so they could hear him. “I need an escort, out of the city and over the western hills. Perhaps two days’ travel, and back. I was told you were available to hire.”

“Out of the city?” Maelen scoffed. “You need a ranger, lad. Do we look like woodsmen to you?”

Vessa shot her companion a sharp look. They needed the coin, desperately. Even the expense of Maelen’s refill of ale gave Vessa heartburn. But her friend just winked at her and fixed her dark grin on the stranger.

“I don’t need a ranger,” he said, nonplussed. Vessa noticed an ink stain on the inside of one finger. “I have a map. What I need is protection,” he nodded to Maelen, “And a thief,” he nodded to Vessa.

So. The scribe had done his homework. This whole situation had the Latchkey Circle’s footprints all over it, but then she supposed all their jobs did since… the incident. Normally, she’d have interrogated him about how he got their names, but she guessed it came through a chain of middlemen. He likely had no idea that he was dealing with one of the most powerful and least known guilds in Oakton, or that she and Maelen were so deep in debt to the Circle that they would accept his job no matter how little it paid.

The man clearly misinterpreted their silence, because he reached into his robe and pulled out a fat purse that he dropped onto the table before them.

“I have coin,” he announced. “One hundred thorns for the job. Sixty now, forty when I’m back here safely.”

Maelen snarled and grabbed the man by the front of his robes, pulling him into half-standing. “You bloody idiot! Lower your voice!”

“But you said–”

“That was before I knew you brought a sack of silver that could get us all gutted,” she hissed, and then released his robe. She nodded to Vessa, who swept the purse off the table and into her lap faster than a blink. It sat there heavily, and she didn’t need to count them to know the coins were indeed thorns, and a lot of them. She nodded back to Maelen.

The scribe looked momentarily confused, straightening his robe. “She took the purse,” he said. “Does that mean you accept?”

Maelen’s eyes scanned the tables around them to see if anyone had overheard or seen the money. Finally, she licked her lips, slapped the table, and stood.

“When do we leave?” she smiled at him, her scar tugging at her cheek and making Maelen look somewhat crazed.

“Oh! Very good. Tomorrow morning?” he also stood. Vessa stayed sitting, the heavy purse weighing on her thighs. “How about we meet at the Root Gate?”

“Done,” Maelen nodded. “Watch yourself getting home, lad, and we’ll see you at first light.”

“My name’s Alric,” he said.

“Don’t care,” Maelen scoffed. Her face hardened as she jerked a thumb to the doorway. “Now get out. We’ll be seeing enough of each other over the next four days.”

“But–” he sighed. “Fine.”

As the young man shuffled his way awkwardly out of the Heart & Dagger, Vessa caught Maelen’s wide smile, displaying her chipped front tooth, and grinned back. Perhaps the Gambler had finally decided to favor them, after all.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

Vessa woke because someone was licking her face. She groaned and shrank away from the offending tongue. Blinking woozily, Vessa attempted to gain her bearings. She lay atop a straw pallet, and she had that cotton-headed feel, so familiar to her, of a night inhaling too much lotus leaf.

“By the Rootmother,” she wheezed, running a hand over her face. She moved her fingers higher and found only a thin layer of stubble where her hair had been long and tangled the night before.

Vessa sat up straight, blinking. Stubble?

A dog sat a stride away from her, panting happily and tongue lolling. Right. Someone had been licking her face, and it was, apparently, the hound.

She groaned again and ran a palm over her shaved head. Where had her hair gone? And… her tongue probed a gap at the side of her mouth… why was she missing a tooth?

Vessa scanned her surroundings. Other than the dog, she was alone. It appeared that she had not been sleeping on a straw pallet, but simply straw. It was a barn, and not a particularly clean one. She was still clothed in her leathers, which was a blessing, and both shortsword and dagger lay unbuckled nearby. Apparently, she’d come here of her own volition, not been dumped unconscious.

In a flash of panic, she patted her belt but heard the jingle of silver coins. Vessa still had the money from that scribe at the Heart & Dagger, or least most of it. Well, some of it, anyway. The problem with heavy purses, she found, was that she used them for lotus leaf. And drink. And gambling. And brawling. And usually sex. She gently probed her face and neck with long fingers, then stretched. She wasn’t injured, thank the gods, so maybe last night had been more drink and lotus, and less of the rest.

That’s when she felt something else in her pouch, sitting oddly and poking her in the ribs. After some fumbling, she pulled it out and examined it. The item was a heavy piece of polished brass, about the size of a large walnut, shaped into a hexagonal stamp. Its face bore the stylized sigil of Oakton—the Argenoak framed by twin scales—and ringed in delicate, curling script spelling out “By Order of the Castellan.” Its handle was bound in dark, cracked leather to give a firm grip, and the underside was caked with red, waxy residue. A thin iron chain, snapped at the clasp, dangled from a drilled hole in its spine.

A writ-seal? From a clerk of the Castellan? Vessa shook her head, trying desperately to recall the previous evening after the Heart & Dagger. The hound panted its way closer, pressing its head into her hand. She stroked it behind the ears idly, her mind working slowly at the problem of a strange barn, friendly dog, and a government writ-seal.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, startling the animal, who yelped and jumped away, tail between legs.

Vessa buckled on her weapons and started running, the mysteries of the evening forgotten. It had just occurred to her that light had been slanting into the barn from outside. Sunlight.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t the Root Gate. She was late, very late, for the first decent job she’d landed in a year.

Next: Into the woods [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

I.

Frostmere 14, Thornsday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign swung gently in the nighttime breeze, lit by two smoky torches that shimmered hauntingly in the chill, lazy lake mist.

Inside, the tavern was low-ceilinged and lantern-lit, dense with the smells of hearth smoke, stale ale, and spiced fish. The oak beams were blackened with age and soot, and voices echoed off mismatched walls. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs guttered atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From a back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, swearing softly. Her long black hair, tied with a frayed leather cord, revealed a sharp, freckled face. With long, lithe fingers, she absently rubbed at her bent nose, something that had become a nervous habit since the accident that broke it two years ago.

“He’s bloody late,” she murmured to her companion. When it was clear she hadn’t been heard she leaned over and said more loudly, “He’s late!”

“You’re too impatient!” Maelen bellowed back. Where Vessa was lean and wiry, built for balance and speed, Maelen was thick and powerful, built for breaking bones. The woman’s pale, nearly amber eyes flicked from Vessa to the entrance and then down at her half-empty mug. Maelen took a long, loud draught, then wiped the back of a calloused hand across her mouth.

Vessa, irritated, barked back, “And you’re too… too… gah!” She threw up both hands. “We need this, Maelen!”

Maelen’s grin showed more predator than warmth. The scar decorating one cheek tugged when she grinned. “He’ll come, lass.”

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face entirely transformed as she looked down at it, from hard to soft, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the small creature’s head. Tatter the mouse had been Maelen’s only friend when Vessa had first been introduced to her two years ago. Now, she supposed, it was only herself and Tatter, with the rest of their crew gone. It was a dark thought, and Vessa scowled back, rubbing at her crooked nose.

Maelen, meanwhile, pushed herself from their table to go order more ale at the bar, reflexively moving Tatter from elbow to shoulder as she stood. Vessa reached for her own mug, hardly touched, and caught a glimpse of the tattoo of a lark upon the inside of her wrist. The glimpse only made her mood darken. Her whole life was a curse. Damn the Larkhands, all dead but her and Maelen. Damn the Latchkey Circle who’d hired them last year. Damn the incident that had killed her friends and left them in debt, scrabbling for scraps ever since. Damn sneaking jobs outside the watch of the Guilds for pips and spare copper oaks. How had her life come to this at only eighteen years old?

As if reading her thoughts, Maelen returned and cuffed her on the shoulder to bring her back to the present. Vessa rocked to one side from the blow and ale sloshed over the side of her mug.

She opened her mouth to complain when she saw him.

A pale-faced young man in robes stood in the doorway, squinting in the candlelight and looking wholly out of place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but Vessa saw immediately that his body held none of the hard edges of real work, and none of the menace of someone who knew how to wield a blade. That said, he looked like a priest or scholar, not a privileged merchant or noble. His tunic was brown and simple, tied at the waist with a cord, and his boots were beaten and worn.

“He’s here,” Vessa announced with a slap of the table. In one fluid motion she was out of her chair and weaving through the Heart & Dagger’s maze of tables towards the doorway. When she was already within range of a knife thrust, he finally saw her, gray-green eyes going momentarily wide. Up close, he had a handsome enough face, with heavy brows and an obvious sharp wit. He seemed close to her own age, maybe just under twenty.

Once they’d made eye contact, Vessa turned and waved for him to follow. She paused, though, and cocked an eyebrow when she saw the young man’s first, shuffling step. One of his feet turned inward, the leg thinner than its mate. It looked like a condition from birth rather than injury, but regardless, it gave the man a shuffling, loping gait as he made his way across the common room and to the table with Maelen.

His face shone with sweat as he settled into his chair, his eyes darting between the two women. Vessa had to give him credit, though: She was sure he’d never been to the Heart & Dagger before—maybe not even to this side of the lake—but neither his hands nor lips were trembling, and he met their gaze without flinching, even Maelen’s. He might lack a fighter’s build, but at least he wasn’t a coward.

He leaned forward to say something conspiratorially, but his low voice was lost to the din of the crowd. He frowned, clearing his throat, when he realized the predicament.

“Is there a place we can speak privately?” he asked loudly. His voice was rich and deep.

Maelen gave him that malicious grin of hers. “You can say anything in the Heart & Dagger, lad. Don’t waste our bloody time and get on with it.”

He pursed his lips, clearly not liking the situation, and ran a calloused hand through his thick, brown hair. Vessa knew that she was not the most charming or persuasive person in Oakton, but she may have some of the keenest eyes in the city. This man—who she decided was a Marchlander scribe by trade, and a low-ranking one at that—was a thinker, a planner. He hadn’t expected such a chaotic, noisy conversation and was now adjusting his approach. Vessa could almost see his mind working, like a great water mill. After no more than three heartbeats, he nodded almost imperceptibly and straightened his posture.

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward again but this time speaking so they could hear him. “I need an escort, out of the city and over the western hills. Perhaps two days’ travel, and back. I was told you were available to hire.”

“Out of the city?” Maelen scoffed. “You need a ranger, lad. Do we look like woodsmen to you?”

Vessa shot her companion a sharp look. They needed the coin, desperately. Even the expense of Maelen’s refill of ale gave Vessa heartburn. But her friend just winked at her and fixed her dark grin on the stranger.

“I don’t need a ranger,” he said, nonplussed. Vessa noticed an ink stain on the inside of one finger. “I have a map. What I need is protection,” he nodded to Maelen, “And a thief,” he nodded to Vessa.

So. The scribe had done his homework. This whole situation had the Latchkey Circle’s footprints all over it, but then she supposed all their jobs did since… the incident. Normally, she’d have interrogated him about how he got their names, but she guessed it came through a chain of middlemen. He likely had no idea that he was dealing with one of the most powerful and least known guilds in Oakton, or that she and Maelen were so deep in debt to the Circle that they would accept his job no matter how little it paid.

The man clearly misinterpreted their silence, because he reached into his robe and pulled out a fat purse that he dropped onto the table before them.

“I have coin,” he announced. “One hundred thorns for the job. Sixty now, forty when I’m back here safely.”

Maelen snarled and grabbed the man by the front of his robes, pulling him into half-standing. “You bloody idiot! Lower your voice!”

“But you said–”

“That was before I knew you brought a sack of silver that could get us all gutted,” she hissed, and then released his robe. She nodded to Vessa, who swept the purse off the table and into her lap faster than a blink. It sat there heavily, and she didn’t need to count them to know the coins were indeed thorns, and a lot of them. She nodded back to Maelen.

The scribe looked momentarily confused, straightening his robe. “She took the purse,” he said. “Does that mean you accept?”

Maelen’s eyes scanned the tables around them to see if anyone had overheard or seen the money. Finally, she licked her lips, slapped the table, and stood.

“When do we leave?” she smiled at him, her scar tugging at her cheek and making Maelen look somewhat crazed.

“Oh! Very good. Tomorrow morning?” he also stood. Vessa stayed sitting, the heavy purse weighing on her thighs. “How about we meet at the Root Gate?”

“Done,” Maelen nodded. “Watch yourself getting home, lad, and we’ll see you at first light.”

“My name’s Alric,” he said.

“Don’t care,” Maelen scoffed. Her face hardened as she jerked a thumb to the doorway. “Now get out. We’ll be seeing enough of each other over the next four days.”

“But–” he sighed. “Fine.”

As the young man shuffled his way awkwardly out of the Heart & Dagger, Vessa caught Maelen’s wide smile, displaying her chipped front tooth, and grinned back. Perhaps the Gambler had finally decided to favor them, after all.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

Vessa woke because someone was licking her face. She groaned and shrank away from the offending tongue. Blinking woozily, Vessa attempted to gain her bearings. She lay atop a straw pallet, and she had that cotton-headed feel, so familiar to her, of a night inhaling too much lotus leaf.

“By the Rootmother,” she wheezed, running a hand over her face. She moved her fingers higher and found only a thin layer of stubble where her hair had been long and tangled the night before.

Vessa sat up straight, blinking. Stubble?

A dog sat a stride away from her, panting happily and tongue lolling. Right. Someone had been licking her face, and it was, apparently, the hound.

She groaned again and ran a palm over her shaved head. Where had her hair gone? And… her tongue probed a gap at the side of her mouth… why was she missing a tooth?

Vessa scanned her surroundings. Other than the dog, she was alone. It appeared that she had not been sleeping on a straw pallet, but simply straw. It was a barn, and not a particularly clean one. She was still clothed in her leathers, which was a blessing, and both shortsword and dagger lay unbuckled nearby. Apparently, she’d come here of her own volition, not been dumped unconscious.

In a flash of panic, she patted her belt but heard the jingle of silver coins. Vessa still had the money from that scribe at the Heart & Dagger, or least most of it. Well, some of it, anyway. The problem with heavy purses, she found, was that she used them for lotus leaf. And drink. And gambling. And brawling. And usually sex. She gently probed her face and neck with long fingers, then stretched. She wasn’t injured, thank the gods, so maybe last night had been more drink and lotus, and less of the rest.

That’s when she felt something else in her pouch, sitting oddly and poking her in the ribs. After some fumbling, she pulled it out and examined it. The item was a heavy piece of polished brass, about the size of a large walnut, shaped into a hexagonal stamp. Its face bore the stylized sigil of Oakton—the Argenoak framed by twin scales—and ringed in delicate, curling script spelling out “By Order of the Castellan.” Its handle was bound in dark, cracked leather to give a firm grip, and the underside was caked with red, waxy residue. A thin iron chain, snapped at the clasp, dangled from a drilled hole in its spine.

A writ-seal? From a clerk of the Castellan? Vessa shook her head, trying desperately to recall the previous evening after the Heart & Dagger. The hound panted its way closer, pressing its head into her hand. She stroked it behind the ears idly, her mind working slowly at the problem of a strange barn, friendly dog, and a government writ-seal.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, startling the animal, who yelped and jumped away, tail between legs.

Vessa buckled on her weapons and started running, the mysteries of the evening forgotten. It had just occurred to her that light had been slanting into the barn from outside. Sunlight.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t the Root Gate. She was late, very late, for the first decent job she’d landed in a year.

Next: Into the woods [with game notes]