It occurred to Lucan that with the disaster that’d befallen Wylhome, he would never see the messenger boy or his ring of signification again. The boy, he could replace easily. But the ring was another matter. Hand-crafted by the Emperor’s smiths, the ring was a unique artefact, intentionally hard to replicate. He cursed his largess in giving the boy the symbol of his power. Still, there wasn’t a soul—other than that oafish dragonrider—who would not recognise Governor Lucan this side of the Tezadan Divide. His authority was not in question; but his pride was wounded.

  The wound was quickly healed, however, when he saw Dreyne and his team descending into the dungeon via the second entrance, a concealed wooden elevator, useful for moving ill-gotten goods into the extensive cellars he had also mapped beneath his property.

  The rope pulley system creaked as the assassins lowered the contraption to the wet, stone floor. The woman in their arms was bound and unconscious, but there was no mistaking her as Qi’shathian royalty. Indeed, Lucan wondered how she had remained so long undetected, when her features so loudly decried her parentage.

  “Qala Jin,” he whispered. “You bring me a kingly gift this day, Dreyne. Therefore, you and your men shall receive kingly rewards.”

  The men knew better than to cheer or gloat. They were trustworthy hands. Efficient in execution. Modest in victory.

  “Take her to cell four,” Lucan said. “I shall wake Xarl.”

  Dreyne smiled. The assassins dragged the woman into the cell and then doffed their black leathers and armour. Changing into the spare clothes Lucan kept stored in a large chest at the entrance to the cellar, they soon resembled nobles, albeit surly and roughshod. Lucan retrieved a bag of coins and placed it in Dreyne’s hands.

  “The night off,” Lucan said, with a magnanimity that sparkled like the sun. He leaned in close to Dreyne, whispering into his ear: “At a later date, there is another matter to discuss. Our dear Hart has at last started bleeding.”

  Dreyne’s eyes widened.

  “You obtained the location? After all this time?”

  “Not exactly, but I have found his breaking point. A daughter.”

  Dreyne’s cold, clinical mask cracked somewhat, revealing an eagerness equal with his master’s.

  “Where, Governor? Tell me and I shall find her!”

  “We have little to go on. He last saw her twenty years ago. She will be a grown woman now. There are a few sundry details. Blue eyed. Pale skinned. Golden-haired.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “There are millions of women with golden hair in Aurelia.” Lucan heard his righthand man’s frustration like an expulsion of steam from the depths of an Engine’s core. He had to restrain the humour he felt to see Dreyne—normally so collected—worked up like this. Clearly, Lucan had planted the dream of the Shadow Market deep within him and watered it well.

  “Quite. But Ylia is an unusual name. You will have to go to the office of Governor Yeshia, in Tezada. He will have records of births there, as well as notations as to their movements and indentures to Wagemasters. It might give us a clue as to her whereabouts. But tonight, I must request one final service of you. I think it will be to your liking. You have won us a great victory tonight, and you might win us another.”

  “As you command, Governor.” Dreyne bowed. “What is the task?”

  “Meet me back here within two hours. You have earned that much rest, at least.”

  Dreyne left with the others. Their usual haunt was an old gambler’s den on the south side of town, but whether it still remained or was accessible was another question.

  In truth, Lucan cared not what they did to pass the hours. Whether they whored, gambled, or drank themselves into stupours was irrelevent. He knew little freedoms were the key to a man’s heart. Allow a man small licenses, and he will feel no reason to betray you.

  Lucan walked the length of the cell corridor, until he reached a cell door unlike the others—stronger, more fortified, and with a brass plaque upon it depicting a reptilian creature from the Daimonic Age; Lucan could not remember its name. He rapped once on the door and opened it. Within was a pool of murrky waters carved five feet deep into the earth, and in it reclined Xarl. The cowl he usually wore hung upon a metal peg embedded in the wall. His great cleaver rested on the opposite wall. His other possessions, meagre though they were, lay dotted about: a tiny bell that made a sweet, tinkling sound; a book featuring lewd artworks Lucan had purchased for Xarl from an old, perverted book binder near the Virgodan Forest; and a jar full of still buzzing flies.

  Lucan fought down the revulsion that rose in him every time he saw Xarl’s true face. Had he merely resembled a frog, that might not have been so bad. Frogs could be cute, in their own way. Xarl was neither frog nor man from the shoulder up, but some hideous amalgam of the two. Human eyes stared out of a grotesquely large head. Still flesh-coloured, his skin yet had the sheen of an amphibian’s. His mouth was far, far too wide. Toothless. Gifted with an obscene tongue. He was the very definition of a god’s mistake.

  Lucan coughed. Xarl’s eyes opened, dark and narrow. Pereiving his master he gave a grown of recognition.

  He rose from the briny pool. He retrieved the cowl and placed it over his face, concealing his monstrous features. His naked body was large and bulbous but more human and therefore easy to look upon. Slowly, he donned his clothes, with the slow and deliberate movements of a creature woken from hibernation.

  “Thank you, Xarl,” Lucan said, though it pained him to be pleasant to such a creature, when he was so magnificent, so refined.

  “I live to serve,” Xarl croaked.

  “Indeed… We have a new prisoner. A royal prisoner.”

  Xark’s cowled head turned to Lucan, studying him for clues.

  “Then, should I show restraint, my lord?”

  Lucan smiled at that.

  “No, my dear Xarl. No this one, we must really go to town on...”