At some point in the future

  A swarthy figure with dark hair hesitates before a finely-hewn door. He glances behind him nervously, then swallows. He can’t see anything. But he knows he’s not alone.

  Raising a hand, he taps at the smooth wood before him.

  “What?!” The snarled question from within is not heartening – the boss is in a bad mood.

  “Ah, boss? I’ve got some news for ye. A job.”

  “A job? What kinda job?”

  “One from…the Lady.”

  There’s silence and then the figure at the door hears stamping from inside. A few flickers later, the door is wrenched open, revealing the massive figure within. A head taller than most men, and twice as broad, the boss cuts an intimidating figure. And when he’s glaring hard enough to set his own door aflame, it’s almost enough to send the messenger running. But knowing that, like the predator he is, the boss will take that as weakness and strike keeps his feet rooted to the floorboard below.

  Flickers go past as the boss eyes the messenger suspiciously, peering into the shadowy hallway beyond. The dark-haired messenger knows by the lack of surprise that the boss doesn’t spot the figure either. And he doesn’t dare reveal them yet – he’s even more scared of the figure and who they represent than he is of his boss.

  “From the Lady?” the boss questions, his glare lessening a touch.

  “Aye,” the messenger confirms.

  There’s a long pause.

  “C’mon in then, Ridik,” the boss grunts finally, turning and stomping away towards his desk. Some might consider that to be a stupid move – Ridik knows better. The last man who thought he could take the boss by striking at his back was alive when he was buried – but not for much longer. And the flesh-eating beetles trapped inside the coffin with him would have made it a torturous death. “An’ shut the door behind ye.”

  Ridik heads inside, unable to stop himself from nervously looking around a time more. He doesn’t see anything, not even when he turns to shut the door behind him.

  When he turns back to look at the boss, he sees the man already looking at him, his eyes narrowed. Ridik’s heart rises into his throat at the implicit threat and he swallows, his dry throat clicking faintly.

  “Expectin’ someone?” the boss asks deceptively mildly. One could say many things about Boss Dexil, but not that he’s stupid. He might look like a meathead, but anyone who makes the mistake of taking his physical appearance for lack of smarts isn’t long for this world.

  Fortunately, Ridik isn’t required to answer – which is good because he doesn’t know what he’d say.

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Dexil. I ordered him not to announce me.”

  The smooth voice comes from Ridik’s right. Both men react instantly. Ridik jumps half a pace away, his hand going to the knife at his belt. The boss, on the other hand, leaps over his desk, a much larger knife brandished at the figure leaning idly against the wall.

  The figure him or herself doesn’t react. Though their body language is hard to see in the form-concealing dark grey clothes that swathe them from head to foot, there is nonetheless something which indicates that they are amused.

  “Come now, Dexil, surely you recognise me?” The voice gives as little away as the concealing clothes. Male or female, Ridik has no idea. In fact, he’s not even sure if the figure is human. They’re apparently humanoid but Ridik isn’t even assuming that – he’s seen some strange things in his time.

  “Shadow,” the boss grunts, sheathing the bastard sword at his waist – on him, it’s merely a knife. He stomps around his desk again, but doesn’t take a seat. “Why’re ye here?”

  “Didn’t you hear your man? I have a job for you.”

  “An’ the lady chose ye to bring it? Didn’ take ye for a messenger, Shadow.”

  Ridik flinches back, for a moment not sure why he did. Then he feels it – the aura of menace which emerges from the shadowy figure. Then it vanishes, as if it had never existed, replaced once more with that amusement.

  “Consider me to be a…supervisor.”

  Ridik flinches again, but this time he knows exactly why he did – the boss ain’t gonna take that lyin’ down, he murmurs to himself.

  Sure enough, Boss Dexil’s teeth audibly grind together and a snarl paints itself on his brutish face. His right hand goes to his ‘knife’ again, even as he leans on the heavy-duty and scarred wooden desk with his left. The furniture in this room has seen more than their fair share of fights – it’s survived. Between The Shadow and Boss Dexil, Ridik isn’t confident that he would be able to say the same. His eyes dart around as he tries to work out whether sheltering under that same desk or darting for the door is more likely to see him survive a clash between the two.

  “Ain’t no need for a supervisor,” the boss spits. “Or does ye Lady think that I can’t do me job?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dexil,” The Shadow tells him disdainfully. Ridik starts backing away towards the opposite wall slowly. From there, he can slide to the door – he figures that would be the best option of the two. “She wouldn’t give the job to you at all if she didn’t think you could do it.”

  To Ridik’s relief – and quiet surprise – the boss actually calms down a little at that. Apparently The Shadow is even more impressive than he thought – any old person can become an assassin; not everyone can calm his easily-angered boss.

  “Then why are ye here?” he demands. The Shadow doesn’t answer immediately. Ridik can’t tell if it’s hesitation or deliberation.

  “You’re going to receive some very important cargo from an…associate. Very important, very delicate, and very valuble cargo.”

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  Boss Dexil eyes her shrewdly.

  “Live cargo, I assume?” The Shadow inclines their head. “Sale, or store?”

  “Store – at present. They are…insurance for good behaviour,” the shadowy figure explains. Ridik understands as much as his boss clearly does – hostages. They’re only valuable as long as whoever is being blackmailed obeys.

  “Ye still haven’ answered why ye need to be present.”

  “The…original owner of the cargo is a rather important figure. The lady feels that we need a little more insurance that the cargo is stored correctly and securely.”

  Ridik holds his breath – will his boss take offence at that? Their outfit is well-disciplined; if the Lady wants them to treat these hostages with velvet gloves, they will do so. But Boss Dexil is just eyeing The Shadow sharply.

  “We gonna have a nob on our heels? We don’ have enough Classers for that.”

  “If you do your jobs correctly and keep the cargo well concealed – and I mean from everything – then you shouldn’t need to worry.”

  Which isn’t a ‘no’. Oh Murder.

  “What’s the Lady payin’ for this? Better be a lot for this risk,” Boss Dexil warns. The Shadow reaches into the folds of their disguise. Out of it, they pull a large bag which looks far too voluminous to have fit in there without causing a bulge. Ridik can’t help feeling a pang of jealousy – a magical storage space is something that would make thieving so much easier. Pity they’re just so expensive. Being an assassin must be far more profitable than Ridik’s line of work.

  The Shadow tosses the bag onto the boss’ desk with a nonchalant flick of their wrist. The gesture belies the weight of the bag which lands on the wooden surface with an audible thump. Boss Dexil nudges open the bag and golden coins spill out of it. Greed gleams in his eyes, and Ridik himself can’t help leaning forwards, a soft gasp pulling itself from his lungs at the sight of more wealth in one place than he’s ever seen.

  Unfortunately, that quiet sound seems to have reminded the other two that he’s in the room.

  “Get ye gone, Ridik,” Boss Dexil orders him sharply. “An’ mind ye don’ say a word ‘till I’m ready.”

  “Aye boss,” Ridik hurries to agree – anything to avoid that hot glare. Edging sideways – he doesn’t want to turn his back on the predatory stare coming towards him from The Shadow either – he fumbles for the door knob. Turning it, he slips out.

  “Alright Shadow, I’m listenin’,” is the last thing Ridik hears before he closes the thick wooden door and the words are muffled to an incomprehensible murmur.

  Also in the future

  “Are you sure that we’ll be finished on schedule?” Pevril frets pacing in the darkening solar room. “Lord Titanbend is expecting the ships to be ready for his heir within two tendays!”

  “All is on schedule, my lord,” his stalwart dockmaster responds patiently. “Barring any unforeseen last-mark delays, we will be completed in plenty of time for his lordship.”

  “Good, good,” Pevril sighs, relieved. Maybe he didn’t need to hurry home from the palace after all – the cost even for the publicly-available teleport to Haven has definitely cut into his budget, and the rest of his retinue will have to make it back from Crownseat on their own. But when one has such an important contract in one’s care, some extra attention doesn’t come amiss.

  Pevril isn’t sure what he would do without Emilia. Many disagreed with his choice to promote the woman to the position, especially since it was one of his first decisions upon taking up the lordship.

  His family had taken exception to her coming from the most common roots imaginable – daughter of a humble fisherman who caught fish for other commoners to purchase, not even the kind that nobles would be interested in. Others had argued that a woman without a Class had no place on a dockyard where the work was heavy and laborious.

  But Pevril knew that such a position should be hers from the moment he watched a girl of ten test wildly different shapes of boat on the waves to see which floated better. The dockmaster at the time was a staid chap. A good enough manager, and the ships were given good care under his watch. If he’d done any less, he would have been replaced.

  But he’d had no flair. New ships were built exactly as the ships before them had been constructed – and the ones before that for generations. There had been no imagination, no creativity, no invention for far too long. Even as a boy, Pevril had yearned to change that. Had looked out of his window at the expanse of blue that extended beyond the horizon, and had wondered what he might find there.

  Now he’s lord, he knows that he cannot dare such a voyage. Not before he has an heir ready to take over in the likely event of his death, anyway, and his children are far too young. But perhaps one day….

  The ships he’s had constructed for Lord Nicholas are a marvel of shipbuilding. With the right education, the vessels in Emilia’s imagination have become realisable – the four currently at berth are everything Pevril dreamed of his own ship. He looks forward intensely to seeing them set off on their maiden voyage, and to hear the feedback – that must be done ahead of the Titanbend heir’s own journey, of course. But Pevril is highly optimistic that it will go off without a hitch.

  “When is the testing set for?”

  “The construction of the ships is all but finished – the only tasks that remain are final touches to the interiors. If you would like me to order a test sail for tomorrow, I can add that to the schedule.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea, Emilia.”

  “Then consider it done, my lord.”

  A smell meets Pevril’s nose, a very alarming one.

  “Do you smell that?” he asks Emilia urgently.

  “What, my lord?”

  He inhales deeply, searching around the room with his eyes. There is no smoke, no flicker of a flame in here beyond the time-candle.

  Feeling increasingly alarmed, he strides to the window. Instead of demanding questions, Emilia just follows him and looks out. It feels like a bucket of seawater has been dumped over Pevril’s head – there’s a fiery glow from the worst possible direction.

  “By Sailor! The dockyard’s on fire!”

  Earlier

  River wakes in darkness, her head practically exploding with pain. The discomfort is not aided when her head collides with something hard and something spiky rolls on top of her feet. Nor do her thoughts clear easily when she is being shaken. Instinctively, she pushes her mana into her assailant to burn it. At least, she tries to.

  Cold horror goes through her gut as she realises that she’s unable to move her mana outside her body, and it’s slow and unresponsive even inside her.

  My eggs! The fear explodes within her and she tries to move her hands to feel her belly. But they seem to be stuck behind her – now she thinks about it, her shoulders are aching. She’s tied up? And has been for a while? In absence of that, she tries to send her awareness into her body as Markus has taught her. She’s not so good at it, but she’s good enough to feel that her eggs are still there – and they seem fine. The rest of her, though, is battered and bruised.

  “Help!” she tries to cry, but only the rumbles and hisses come through – she’s unable to open her mouth to click her teeth together.

  The pieces are coming together slowly, but form a picture that she very much does not like.

  Can anyone hear me? she asks, this time intentionally projecting it into their network of Bonds.

  I can, Smith answers, her tone frightened.

  I’m here too, Catch is the next to answer, obviously trying to be reassuring, but the cold fear that underlies his own words speaks to how out of control he feels the situation is.

  One by one, multiple voices pipe up; all of those who had accompanied the Pathwalkers are present. In fact, now River thinks about it, the spiky thing that’s lying on her feet could easily be the claws of Trouble or his kin. It seems they are all together. That’s something, at least. But given that they are tied up with their abilities restricted and in a moving conveyance, they are clearly not in the hands of allies.

  Who has taken them, and where are they going?

  And more importantly, when will Markus find them?

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here