All went as planned for the first few days of our voyage. Sciza took immensely well to better food, sufficient water, and tolerable bedding. It turned out that, through a miscalculation, the captain had ordered more food and water than his crew needed; half again as much, to be nearly exact. So there was enough for both Sciza and myself to live on quite comfortably at a reasonable fee, which I paid discreetly from my own pocket, since I knew poor, cheated Sciza had not a coin to speak of.

I was required to entertain the crew in the evening, as per the captain's conditions. Some were old hands before the mast, and had seen a minstrel or two during their long, difficult lives; they enjoyed the content of my ballads and poems more than the delivery. But most of the sailors were young men of assorted nationality and universal naivety; they clapped their hands in delight when I juggled a number of small colored balls that I carried about with me, nodded their heads and tapped their feet in time to my flute, and listened eagerly to the tales of romance and high adventure that I recited from memory, even though most of them couldn't understand a word of my stories, since I could only recite them in Sandrelish.

Sciza was just as enchanted as the sailors. While they were all on deck attending to their various duties, he begged me to sing just one more song, or juggle knives instead of balls, once he realized I could do it without injuring myself. He knew very little Sandrelish, but wanted badly to learn more, and hinted often that he would like me to teach him. He wanted to live in Estevica, he said; he had heard wonderful things about the city; and he was tired of always living in fear of being caught and executed for treason in Jilliena. He chattered wistfully of bringing his mother to live there too, once he had found his father, so they could all be together again; how worried and lonely she must be, friendless and alone in the capital. He felt sure that she was in no danger of arrest, since she had nothing to do with the work he and his father did. I didn't have the heart to disenchant him by telling the painful truth: that Sciza's mother could very well be put to death merely for associating with spies.

As the days went by, this dawned on me gradually: although Sciza was a few years older than I was, he was much younger in spirit. I say this not out of a sense of self-importance or superiority, but merely as a fact. Sciza was still in possession of the idealism mostly found among children. He refused to give me the papers; believed firmly that his father had evaded the soldiers and was waiting for him in Estevica; promised that he would reimburse me for whatever arrangements I had made on his behalf, as soon as he had some money; and spoke of his mother with such childish adoration that I could not help being touched.

In two ways, we were alike: firstly, we both worked for the Guild; and secondly, neither of us could read. We discovered this second commonality one day while I was giving Sciza one of the private performances he loved so much. I had nailed a piece of wood in the shape of a cross to the wall and was throwing knives at it from across the cabin; each of the blades stuck fast in the wall, clustered around the piece of wood; not one of them grazed its edge.

Sciza watched me in fascination, the mysterious Guild papers cradled in his lap; he never let them out of his sight. While I was throwing my knives, I decided to strike up a conversation, in order to impress Sciza even further with my seemingly effortless multitasking. I asked Sciza if he had ever been tempted to open the letters and read them. He seemed surprised and told me that the papers were probably written in Sandrelish; and even if they were in his own tongue, he couldn't read.

I was startled, and my hand almost slipped; I caught myself in time to avoid an embarrassing mistake. The rate of literacy among men was higher in Jilliena than in my own country, though most of their women could neither read nor write. “You never learned?”

“I didn't go to school long,” Sciza confessed. “My father was arrested by the soldiers in the capital once, when I was six years old. There was no evidence, but men can be hung on suspicion if a judge thinks he's guilty. They let him go, anyway; he managed to convince them that they had the wrong man. But the boys at school got wind somehow that my father had been arrested on suspicion of treason, and they never let me alone after that. I was beaten almost every day. Eventually my father decided not to send me anymore.”

There wasn't any such thing as a school in Sandrela, and I told Sciza so. He was shocked until I explained that children were usually taught at home, by their parents; or if they could afford it, by a tutor. Churches also offered rudimentary education for children whose parents lacked either the time or inclination to teach them. Literacy simply wasn't very important in Sandrela, unless your profession had something to do with books or account-keeping.

“So you never learned to read, either?” Sciza's jaw hung open; this was even more of a shock than my revelation about schools. “But you know all those songs, and poems, and stories!”

His awe was amusing; he looked at me as if I were some sort of god. I felt obliged to disabuse him of any such notion. “I learned them all by hearing them,” I explained sheepishly. “I can't recite the words exactly the same as they're meant to be, but I can get close.”

That eased a little of his amazement; but he still seemed very impressed. I opened my mouth to tell him that songs were not so difficult to learn, even the ones of epic length – all you had to remember was the rhythm, and I might teach him one or two if he liked. But before I could say a single word, I heard an immense cry go up above us, on the ship's deck; and a moment later, a colossal explosion rocked the cabin. I was thrown off my feet and into the wall opposite. One of my knives was jolted free from the wall above my head, and fell into my lap – thankfully, hilt first.

In the dust and confusion, it took me a moment to get my bearings. Then I saw Sciza struggle to his feet beside me. He had his arms clutched around his torso, and at first I thought his wound had opened again, though it had been healing magnificently over the last few days; then I realized he was merely protecting his precious papers. “Are you all right, tabrou?” he said, offering me his hand.

At first I thought he was whispering; but from the way he craned his neck forward and moved his lips, I realized he was really shouting. The explosion had temporarily impaired my hearing, and probably his too. “Fine!” I yelled back; I checked myself to make sure I actually was fine. I was only bruised, it seemed; nothing had been broken. I picked myself up with his aid and looked about the cabin.

The hammocks were still in place; their very design prevented them from being affected by any movement of the ship, or even a collision. But everything else – loose belongings, leftover food, and even the colored balls I juggled with – had all been thrown about the cabin in a chaotic mess. The stair leading up to the deck had been reduced to rubble. Sciza was already advancing toward the wreckage, and I pulled several of my knives from the wall before following suit.

We managed to get onto the deck despite the ruined staircase; I stood on Sciza's shoulders and climbed up, then turned to help him up as well. Even after we'd both gotten out into the clear air, it was hard to make sense of what was going on. Sailors rushed back and forth, yelling commands in rapid Jillien. Too disoriented to translate, I asked Sciza to repeat what they were saying slowly enough for me to understand, but I don't think he heard me. He grabbed hold of a youth running past – the ship's cabin boy – and roared something into the poor lad's ear.

The cabin boy looked bewildered, and shouted something back at him. Sciza couldn't understand it; but I could; it was Sandrelish, my own tongue! I hadn't had a clue that one of my countrymen was on board. I snapped at Sciza to let him go, then addressed the boy in our own mutual language. “What's going on here? Speak!”

“You're Estevican!” he said in surprise, recognizing the accent instantly.

“Yes, yes – get on with it!”

He explained hurriedly that another ship had rammed ours from behind. I whirled around and saw it immediately; behind the ship's stern was the hulking shape of another vessel's bow. Then I realized what all the sailors on our deck were doing; they were running in search of weapons. The captain had come stomping out of his cabin with a shiny Jillien scimitar in his hand and was roaring orders at the top of his lungs.

“Are we being boarded?” I demanded of the cabin boy.

“Yes!” he cried, and promptly scurried off – probably to hide somewhere.

Now Sciza was pulling at my sleeve, asking for a translation. I quickly related all the cabin boy had said, and he looked with fresh horror at the other ship, now pulling up alongside. The standard fluttering from its mast was visible now; it was one of the pirates that stalked the Samali Sea, preying on merchant barges like ours. I had never been present at a sea-battle before, and my mind was racing. It wasn't like a fight on land, where I could always run away if I was outmatched – if the ship was sunk or taken, I had nowhere to go!

Sciza was yelling at me again. “Tabrou! Where is your bow?”

My bow! Of course. Sciza had seen my accuracy with it, when I had demonstrated for the sailors one night. In my haste to see what was happening on deck, I had left it behind in the cabin. “Can you fight?”

Sciza looked uncomfortable and shook his head. “Not well.”

I gave him a couple of my knives anyway – better than being unarmed, whether he could use them or not. Then I clambered back into the cabin to fetch my bow. The moment it was in my hands, I felt about ten times as confident. Suddenly the threat of engaging in a battle a hundred leagues from land didn't seem quite as terrifying as before. I made it back on deck just in time to watch the first of the pirates boarding our ship. Blades flashed, cries rang out, and the fight abruptly began in earnest.

My first priority was to defend Sciza and the papers he carried. I found him amidships, trying to keep out of the way of the fighting. He started when I came toward him, since I was cloaked in the same color as most of the pirates by pure chance; but he recognized me by my stature before I threw back my hood.

“Behind you, tabrou!”

I whirled around and put an arrow through a pirate who'd come up behind me. It was hard to tell how many there were; they seemed to be everywhere. The pirates' ship was much bigger than ours, but we had an unusually large crew for a merchant ship, and many of them were decent swordsmen. The captain must have been expecting trouble.

I did my best to pick off as many as I could, lamenting my shortage of arrows. Soon I realized I was doing rather too well; many of the remaining pirates realized that I was a bigger threat than most of the sailors and came at me directly. I was hard pressed fending them off, and I was wounded once: a slash across the bicep that thankfully did not hinder my shooting. Sciza was wise enough to stay out of my way instead of trying to use the knives I had given him.

“Damn it!” I shouted aloud. Sciza jumped, looking around wildly.

“What?”

“I'm out of arrows!”

Swearing again, I threw down my bow and drew my knives, but it was no use. There were too many pirates and too few sailors. Most of the crew lay dead or insensible on the deck; some of the pirates had gone below decks to search our cargo, others had subdued the captain and were busy tying him up, and a half dozen were advancing on me.

Of course – it was just my luck to have picked the ship bound for disaster.

“Hold!” I shouted, raising both hands. “I surrender!” Really, in a situation like this, it was the prudent thing to do.

For a few seconds, I thought the pirates were going to cut both our throats anyway. “Drop the knives,” one of the men in front growled.

I duly obeyed and quietly advised Sciza to do the same.

“You look a well-fed sort,” another of the pirates said, eyeing me up and down. “Not a sailor – no, not that one cowering behind you, either.”

“But he shoots like a demon!” one of the others complained, rubbing his arm gingerly. I recognized him as the one I'd shot by accident after my first mark tumbled overboard. It wasn't really my habit to leave a target wounded instead of dead.

“What are you doing?” Sciza hissed at me. “We should fight!”

“We?” I repeated incredulously. I could hardly believe my ears. Weren't spies supposed to be a cowardly bunch? “Go ahead and fight if you'd like – but give me those first!” I gestured toward the papers in his arms, receiving a stubborn glare in return.

The pirates started muttering amongst each other. Only one or two spoke Jillien without an accent; the rest seemed to be of varying nationalities. While they deliberated, probably arguing about what to do with me and Sciza, I assessed the situation on deck. Fortunately, they hadn't killed our captain; he had been trussed up and tied to the base of the mast. The pirates didn't seem interested in sinking our ship at the moment, either. Maybe, if we were lucky, they would just take our cargo and leave us on our merry way.

“Who are you?” demanded one of the pirates, moving closer to me. He gave my bow a nudge with his toe, making me wince. I had spent hours oiling it after last night's act, and now he'd smudged it with his dirty boot. But complaining probably wasn't in my best interests right now.

“Moe. Moe Leonseph.” I didn't see any point in lying.

“And him?” He poked Sciza in the arm with the point of his sword. Sciza flinched and glowered at him.

“Kigan Visali.”

“Give me those.” The pirate gestured toward the papers.

“No,” Sciza growled.

“You should do what he says,” I said warningly.

“Now,” snapped the pirate.

Sciza opened his mouth to protest. The pirate raised his sword, point angled toward Sciza's heart. I knew I couldn't just stand there and let him run Sciza through. Quick as a flash, I reached over and snatched the papers from Sciza's arms before he had a chance to react, and held them out to the pirate. Sciza inhaled sharply and looked at me with murder in his eyes.

The pirate grabbed the papers and yelled a word I didn't understand. One of his comrades came forward, and I realized it must have been a name. The first pirate thrust the papers under the second one's nose and barked, “Read.”

Right. Most of them would be illiterate, like Sciza and myself. I watched the lettered pirate slowly unfold the papers. Beside me, Sciza was practically trembling with the effort of keeping himself from snatching them back. I couldn't really blame him. His father had probably died to protect that information, and I'd just handed it over to a third party to save both our skins.

But Sciza was in luck. The pirate frowned down at the papers, scratched his head, and finally admitted defeat. Standing up on my tip-toes, I got a good look at the pages for the first time, and a chill of surprise rushed down my spine. I may not be able to read, but I can definitely tell when a piece of paper is not written in any language I know. The paper in the pirate's hand was covered in strange, foreign characters. It wasn't Sandrelish or Albynaian, which to the best of my knowledge use the same alphabet; nor was it Jillien, which uses an odd kind of writing that appears to me like chicken scratch.

“I can't read it,” complained the pirate. His fellowman struck him hard over the head; he was obviously of a higher rank.

“What are you talking about, you idiot? It's right there, isn't it?”

“But it's – ” The pirate sputtered helplessly and retreated under a rain of blows. The higher-ranking man grabbed the papers and pushed them in my face. His beady eyes were blazing with frustration.

“Read it.”

“They're not important,” Sciza broke in, sending a murderous glare my way. I guess he'd forgotten that I couldn't reveal the paper's contents if I wanted to – even if they had been in my own language. “Just some... bills. Records. My father is a trader.”

“Him?” The pirate jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the trussed-up captain.

“Not him, no.”

“Hm.” Silence ensued as the pirate stared at Sciza, obviously trying to assess whether he was telling the truth. I took the opportunity to do a quick survey of the pirates. I'd managed to drop at least four during the fight with well-placed arrows, and the sailors had taken down about six more. Most of our sailors were dead; the first mate, the captain, and oddly enough, the cook had been spared and were tied to the mast. I counted nine remaining pirates. I wasn't sure which of them was the captain; the man who kept passing around the papers seemed to rank the highest of the group, but he seemed too plainly dressed and lightly armed to be the captain.

So: five of our crew remaining, and at least nine of theirs. The odds were not in our favor, especially since Sciza hadn't the slightest idea how to use a sword, and the cook probably wasn't much better. It would be in our best interests to cooperate, then.

“What language is this?” demanded the pirate at last, shaking the bundle of papers. A few leaves drifted loose and settled onto the deck. They were covered in the same strange script as the ones I had seen.

“Uh...”

“Code,” I said hastily, covering Sciza's hesitation. “His father writes all his records in code. You know, to keep competitors from reading them.”

“If his father is a trader, then who are you? And where's his father?”

“I'm their assistant. We're going to meet his father in Estevica.”

A few questions later, the pirates seemed satisfied with our story; it was a testament to my bardic training that I was able to come up with swift answers to each of their questions. Sciza remained mute for nearly the entire time, sensing that the establishment of our official story was best left to me. Afterward, we were tied up with the captain, the cook, and the first mate while the pirates discussed our fates in a greasy huddle. All five of us had been gagged, so we didn't exactly carry on a conversation.

Evidently the pirates had decided to keep us; after a protracted argument, we were chained at the wrists and ankles and led in a bound line over the gangplank to the other ship. Sciza was shivering visibly, obviously more frightened than he let on. I was a bit nervous myself, but knowing that there was nothing I could do helped to calm myself down. I had no illusions of attempting a grand escape. The pirates left our small ship adrift, and after we set sail, the vessel that had carried us from Sabhile disappeared into the distance.

The cook was separated from the line and led away, presumably to the kitchens. Perhaps they intended him to pay for his life by preparing them food. The rest of us were chained to the foremast and left alone while the crew attended to the ship. After managing to work the gag out of my mouth – I'd always been quite clever with my tongue – I quietly asked the others to nod if they'd spotted any opportunities at escaping. I was greeted by four blank faces.

“I suppose it's all up to me, then,” I muttered. “Lovely. No pressure.”

To my chagrin, a nearby crew member heard me. “Hey! You there! No talking!” He stomped over and attempted to fit the gag back between my teeth. I bit him. Really, he was asking for it. I received a hearty smack across the face for my troubles before the pirate walked away, cursing loudly and shaking his injured hand.

My fellow prisoners looked sympathetic. Except for Sciza, whose eyes were closed; I was almost certain he was praying silently to himself. I wanted to tell him not to worry so much. I didn't intend on dying or being press-ganged into service on a pirate ship. I was going to find a way for us to escape, whatever it took.

But he was right on one point; the papers were a priority. Just getting myself and Sciza off the ship wasn't enough. We still had no idea what was written in the papers; possibly the Guildmaster was the only one besides their original writer who knew how to decipher them. The only way to complete my assignment was to bring the papers straight to the Guildmaster.

Technically, I didn't have to save Sciza. But I knew my conscience would never let me hear the end of it if I didn't take him with me.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Bored within an hour or so, I watched listlessly as the crew scurried about their tasks on deck. A ship this large had to have a captain, but whoever he was, he didn't make a single appearance. I had never before seen a crew of sailors who didn't slack off when they weren't being watched; but surprisingly, the pirates worked hard despite the apparent lack of supervision.

When dusk fell, the pirates untied us from the mast and led us below-decks in a stiff, clanking line. It was difficult to walk after so much time spent sitting, and both Sciza and the captain tripped on the way down and were dragged roughly to their feet again. The four of us were greeted by the sight of a dark, damp hold filled with crates and kegs before the trapdoor above slammed shut, throwing us into pitch blackness.

The pirates had left the heavy metal shackles around our wrists and ankles, but a short stretch of chain between the cuffs allowed me to maneuver my hands somewhat. It took a moment for us to sort ourselves out in the dark; we were all still chained together. Eventually we managed to remove our gags, and had our first conversation since the capture.

“What happened to the ship?” were the first words out of the captain's mouth. He'd still been unconscious when the pirates had struck out for the open sea, leaving our ship behind. The first mate reluctantly told him of the news, and the captain sighed mournfully and said nothing more for a while.

“We have to get out of here,” said Sciza.

“I concur wholeheartedly,” I said. “Any ideas?”

The four of us were in a sorry state indeed. We hadn't a single weapon among us, and the pirates had neglected to give us food or water. My bow and other belongings had been spirited off, and were probably being divided up amongst the pirate crew right now. I fervently prayed that I would be able to recover them unscathed when I escaped.

“Even if we managed to overpower them, we'd still have nowhere to go,” the first mate said, sensibly enough. He was a solid man in his thirties whom I hadn't paid much attention to during our short-lived voyage. “We'll have to bide our time until the ship docks.”

“They might kill us before then,” Sciza argued. “We can't just wait!”

“He's right,” I said heavily.

“Who is?” demanded Sciza and the first mate.

“Mr... uh...”

“Jean,” supplied the first mate.

“Mr. Jean. Just so. There aren't enough of us to commandeer the ship.”

“What use do they have for us, then?” Sciza asked. “Why didn't they kill us?”

“Ransom,” the first mate said wearily. “They killed the crew because simple sailors usually don't have wealthy relatives. But we might be worth something to them.”

“No one will pay for me.” I heard Sciza sigh in the dark. “My father might, but I don't even know where he is.”

The first mate had no relatives, and all the captain had was a penniless half-brother in the slums of Sabhile. But all the talk of ransom had given me an idea.

“I know how we're going to escape,” I said.

* * *


I put my plan into effect the morning after our capture, when one of the pirates came down to give us some water. He was an unimpressive specimen, with a large head, small dark eyes, and coarse hair covering his exposed arms and legs. I was in some doubt as to his sentience, especially when he snarled in response to my request to parley with the captain. But apparently he had understood me, since he returned an hour later with the paper-shoving pirate from yesterday.

“What do you want?” demanded the more civilized of the two, whom I had finally managed to identify as the first mate. “Rotter here says you want to par-leigh or some such nonsense.”

“That is exactly what I want to do, my good sir,” I said politely, leaning against a crate with my arms crossed. Behind me, Sciza and the captain were napping on the floor, but the former first mate of the merchant ship, Mr. Jean, was watching us keenly. Both of the pirates were carrying naked swords, apparently to account for the imbalance in numbers. “Am I speaking to the captain of the vessel?” I knew I wasn't, but a little flattery never hurt anyone.

“No,” came the gruff response, “but I'm as close as you're bound to get.”

I gave him a small bow, laying it on rather thick. “Very well. I wish to negotiate the terms of our release.”

“Release?” The pirate snorted loudly. Following his lead, the primitive beast beside him did the same, unleashing a spray of mucus that fortunately fell short of hitting me. “Who said anything about release?”

“I just did,” I said boldly, taking a shuffling step toward him. The sword came up to block my progress, though I had no intention of going farther. “And if your captain is interested in turning more of a profit than whatever you happened to find in our ship, you'd better listen to me.”

That struck a nerve. The pirate first mate's jaw tightened, and he spat heartily in my direction. Chained to the others and taken by surprise, I couldn't move to avoid his next blow: a solid kick to the ribs that knocked the breath from my lungs in a gigantic whoosh. I hit the ground next to Sciza with a groan.

“Let's make this clear,” growled the first mate. “You are not in charge here. You will not talk like you're in charge here. Understood?”

“Understood,” I whispered meekly. It wasn't in my nature to be meek, but the kick had really hurt.

Beside me, Sciza finally stirred, disturbed by the commotion. He blinked open drowsy hazel eyes and looked vaguely confused to see me lying next to him, my face contorted in pain. “Tabrou? Are you all right?”

“Silence!” commanded the pirate. Sciza gave a small jump, realizing that we weren't alone. The first mate took a step closer to me. I tensed, waiting for him to kick me again – but instead he spoke. “Speak your terms.”

Oh, now he was talking my language. I was in too much pain to stand up, but I did make an effort to get my back off the ground. “Ransom,” I said plainly, seeing no further reason to be cryptic. “I'm offering you a ransom.”

“You are, or he is?” The pirate pointed his sword at Sciza, who was still rubbing his eyes in confusion. Right; the pirates still believed that Sciza was the son of a wealthy trader. No wonder the first mate thought that if any of us were worth a ransom, it would be Sciza.

“I am.”

I hesitated then. Now was the moment that might decide all our fates. If the pirates realized that Sciza and I had lied to them, there was a very good chance that they would kill us. But if we continued in our deception, I wouldn't be able to convince them that Sciza and I were worth a ransom – especially since Sciza's “wealthy” father was probably dead.

But I had to do it. I couldn't see any other way of getting off this ship.

“Well?” The pirate prodded me in the ribs with the point of his sword, making me wince.

“He's not the rich one.” I glared up at him, no longer bothering to hide my resentment. Now was the time to look as haughty as I possibly could. “I am.”

There was a moment of silence. Sciza stared at me, suddenly looking completely awake. I could see the doubt in his eyes, tinged with a healthy amount of alarm. Thankfully, he said nothing.

“You lied.” The first mate's tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts, as if I could see them swimming around in his head. He wanted to run me through, right then and there. I knew it as plainly as if he'd said it aloud. But the word rich had captivated his interest, making it impossible for him to kill me on the spot – and that's what I'd been counting on.

“My name is Moe Leonseph – heir to House Leonseph and an ancient line of Estevican lords.” As I spoke, I let my voice slip into the rounded, clipped accents of Sandrelan nobility, as best as I could reproduce them in the Jillien tongue. The pirate's eyes narrowed, and Sciza's eyes widened; suspicion and awe in roughly equal measure. “Sail me to Estevica, and my family will reward you with enough gold to buy your own ship and crew.”

Now that was my trump card. I had seen the way the man in front of me had acted the previous two days. During the attack on our ship, he had been at the fore of the pirate crew, shouting orders and exuding an aura of command. Then, after taking us as hostages, he'd pulled rank and bullied the other pirates in a way that made it clear he was used to authority. He wasn't the captain; I was still certain of that fact. He was too plainly dressed, and despite all his bluster, I had seen a flicker of uncertainty now and then when he had shouted at the crew – almost as if he'd expected them to shout back.

No, he wasn't the captain. But he desperately wanted to be. Something was holding him back – perhaps a personal debt to the real captain, or a lack of enough charisma to muster a mutiny. I had pulled all the clues together, and now I was almost sure that with the right offer, I could win him over.

“Your own ship,” I repeated slowly, probing for a reaction. The first mate stood still, his face frozen in thought. After a lengthy pause, he finally spoke.

“Terms?”

My heart started beating faster. He was going to accept. I knew it. I'm going home. “Release us,” I began, indicating myself and the three other prisoners. “Return all of our belongings. Oh, and the cook,” I added, remembering the pirates' fifth captive for the first time.

I was interrupted by a disgruntled noise from the hairy pirate, whom I had nearly forgotten about. “Not the cook,” he said belligerently. I was startled; I hadn't believed him capable of speech.

“The cook comes with us,” I said carefully, “or no deal.”

“But the stew,” pleaded the pirate, turning to the first mate.

“He does make a fine stew,” the first mate agreed. Then he addressed me directly, and for once, there was no condescension in his voice. “We'll keep the cook.” He held up a hand to forestall my protests. “Make no mistake – he won't be our captive. He's a member of the crew now, or soon will be.”

“Wait.” Lying on the floor on Sciza's other side, the captain of the lost trade ship spoke for the first time. I hadn't realized he was awake; in fact, I'd nearly forgotten he and his first mate were still in the hold with us. He sounded very tired. “You'll treat him well?”

“Like I said.” The first mate's voice was firm, but not unkind. “He'll be a member of the crew.”

“Thank you,” sighed the captain. When I looked his way, his eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply again. The wounds he'd suffered in the attack must be bothering him more than I'd realized.

“So you accept?” I pressed, wanting an answer once and for all. “You accept the terms?”

The pirate first mate hesitated. The point of his sword wavered in the air between us, speaking volumes of his uncertainty. But when his answer came, it was imbued with finality.

“I accept.”

The next week was the longest I had ever spent in my life. My fellow three prisoners were sullen company, at least until I persuaded the pirate first mate to return my flute – as a gesture of goodwill, so to speak. After that, I was able to lift their spirits some with a few rousing songs, though I quickly lost my appetite for music in the wake of increasing hunger. The pirates fed us on scanty rations and brackish water, and none of us saw daylight for the next eight days.

With no one to tend his injuries, the captain soon grew sick. The pirates couldn't have helped us if they'd wanted to; the only man among them with any skill in medicine had perished during the attack. The first mate was kind enough to mention that he'd been taken down by one of my arrows. I managed to procure a needle and thread to sew up the captain's wounds, but it was too little, too late. After a few days of infection and high fever, the captain died.

Understandably, Mr. Jean, our former first mate, was most affected by the loss. The captain had been something of a mentor figure to him, or so I gathered from his grieving. The pirates allowed him to give him a proper burial at sea; we wrapped his body in one of the silk sheets stolen from our own ship, secured weights to his wrists and ankles, and lowered him over the side of the vessel into a choppy midnight sea. The cook attended the makeshift funeral; it was the first we had seen of him since the attack. The pirates had been true to their word; he was in much better shape than the three of us remaining.

No two words had ever made me happier than the faint Land ho! shouted from far above the hold, in the early hours before dawn on the eighth morning of our captivity. I drove Sciza and Mr. Jean mad with my pacing, but I ignored their irritated mutters. I was so close to home that I could taste it. As I waited impatiently to be released from the hold, I vowed that I wouldn't so much as touch a ship for another year – at the very least.

Finally, finally, the trapdoor above us opened, and the pirates' first mate descended into the hold. He wanted to know how to contact my family and arrange the ransom. I told him that House Leonseph was notoriously suspicious of outsiders, especially foreigners, and that the only way to reach them was by carrier pigeon. He was skeptical at first, but my silver tongue paid off in the end, and he agreed to have his men escort me to the local pigeonry.

After I was unchained from my fellow prisoners and led to the trapdoor, I happened to glance back and catch Sciza's eye. He was staring at me with doubt written plainly across his face. I realized he was afraid that I would give my guards the slip and run off without him. Really, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. I'll come back, I mouthed to him. The suspicion melted from his features, and he offered me a faint smile. That was the last I saw of him before the trapdoor closed between us.

Besides the first mate, three more of the pirates were assigned to accompany us, leaving five behind to guard the ship, plus the cook. I had seen neither hide nor hair of the captain in the eight days since our capture, and I was beginning to wonder if he kept to his quarters out of some illness or deformity. Now it seemed I was unlikely to ever get an explanation – not that I particularly minded.

Oh, Estevica! My home and so much more; the home of every man who ever wanted to make a living by being unscrupulous or dishonest or greedy or all three. The hub of all trade across the kingdom and continent; a madhouse of seething criminal activity and intrigue; a city of murder whose every street ran red with blood. There was never a city more at war with itself, or populated with such equal measure of life and death, coexisting in every breath taken within its walls, first or last. If you wanted to hide, you could do it here; if you wanted to trade, here you came; and if all you wanted was a fair maiden and a bottle of rum, well, Estevica was the city for you.

My heart was racing as I descended the pirate ship's gangplank and set foot on dry land for the first time in two weeks. The aroma of tea, sewage, incense, fish, spices, and a hundred other trade goods hit my nostrils all at once, throwing my senses into a fantastic bewilderment of sound and color and taste. The pirates were overwhelmed; I could see it by the way they walked, nearly staggering under the force of sensory overload, trying to look at everything moving around them. But I – I was home, at long, long last. I could hear my native language mingled with a dozen different tongues all around me, and the rush of anonymity that came from walking in a crowd of busy tradesmen and merchants was better than the warmest welcome.

The customs official at the end of the dock initially gave the four pirates a warning glare as he took in my ragged clothing and chained hands. Then the first mate slipped a couple of coins in his pocket, and his eyes swiftly veered away from us as we walked past. Slavery had been forbidden by the Sandrelan king more than a century ago, but it was well known that the trade continued long after institution had been abolished. No doubt the customs official assumed I was some poor soul harvested at a foreign harbor, here to be traded discreetly for the weight of good, hard gold.

“The pigeonry,” the first mate hissed into my ear. His harshly accented Jillien quickly brought me back to reality. I could probably slip away from the pirates if I wanted to, even with my hands chained together; but then there would be nothing stopping them from killing the other two prisoners. “Where is it?”

“By the...” I hesitated. If there was a word for cathedral in the Jillien tongue, I didn't know it. To the best of my knowledge, Jilliena had no churches or chapels; they worshiped a pantheon of household deities at shrines and altars in their homes. “The large stone building. Over there.” I pointed at the soaring stone figure of the Cathedral of the Old God, a few streets inland of the harbor. It was easily visible over the low-built warehouses and slum-shacks crowding its base from view.

The first mate grasped my forearm, pressing hard enough to make me wince. “If this is a trap...” He jerked his chin meaningfully toward the metallic gleam of the sword-hilt in his belt.

I nodded. “Understood.”

The urge to break away and run was almost overpowering. The pirates surrounded me, walking two to a side; but I was better than anyone at the art of undignified escape. I could slip away, hide in an alley for a few hours, then go to the locksmith's to have the manacles around my wrists removed; he owed me a favor, so it didn't matter that the pirates had stolen all my coin.

But Sciza – and the papers. No, I couldn't run just yet.

The pigeonry was a tiny, crumbling stone house, dwarfed by the enormous cathedral to its left. The front door was open; a powerful reek of bird droppings floated from the dark interior. I wrinkled my nose, though the pirates seemed unaffected. The pigeon-boy looked up as we stepped over the threshold. His eyes widened when he saw the clanking manacles around my wrists. Then his gaze moved up to my face, and he gave a small gasp. I gave the tiniest shake of my head: Don't give me away.

“Send your message,” growled the first mate, “and be quick about it.”

“The Guild birds,” I told the pigeon-boy. Beside me, the first mate shifted uneasily; he couldn't understand Sandrelish, and I could be saying anything. In that moment, I knew he was questioning his own judgment in accepting my deal – but the promise of gold and independence had obviously secured his confidence, for he made no protest. “I need to send a message.”

“Three coppers,” the pigeon-boy said perfunctorily, holding out a grimy palm.

I gave him a meaningful look. “I don't think that's really necessary. Do you?”

He withdrew it promptly. “Uh, no. Of course not.”

The pirates were glancing between him and me, obviously suspicious. No doubt eager to escape their eyes, the pigeon-boy hurried into the backroom. I could just see the dim shapes of cages stacked against the wall behind the door. A minute passed before the boy returned. Perched on the leather glove covering his forearm was a sleek grey carrier pigeon, blinking dark eyes in the lantern-light. Tied to one of its legs was a small tag, inked with the same symbol that was tattooed on my breastbone.

“I need you to write a message for me,” I said. The pigeon-boy nodded and let the bird hop from his arm to the desk. Opening the single drawer, the boy rummaged noisily through it until he found a quill, inkpot and parchment. I dictated to him the following message:

To my father, the esteemed Lord Leonseph. His son requires monetary aid: five hundred gold, to be delivered to the harbor at midnight tonight. The ship is berthed at West Dock, flying the ebony colors. Much love to my sister.

The first mate demanded to see the note as soon as the pigeon-boy had written it; he barely glanced at it before handing it to the pirate beside him, whom I recognized as the only literate crewman. He was obviously talented linguistically as well, for he was able to translate the message into Jillien without much difficulty. Satisfied, the first mate gave the note back and watched the pigeon-boy tie it onto the pigeon's leg. With one last nervous glance at me, the boy went to the door and let the bird fly free. Its small, dark shape quickly disappeared into the sky.

As the pirates led me back to the ship, I allowed myself an inward smirk. Everything was going according to plan.

We played the waiting game for the rest of the day. Everyone in the ship was on edge, but no one showed it more clearly than the first mate. He spent hours pacing back and forth across the deck, snapping at any of the crew members who got in his way; I could hear his heavy bootsteps from down in the hold. Sciza, who had been immensely relieved at my return, wasn't much better off. He constantly asked me whether we were really going to be freed, and why I had never told him of my noble lineage; my responses to all of his questions were something along the lines of wait and see.

Just before midnight, Rotter came down to give us our supper. To my delight, this was much more substantial than what we'd been fed on for the last week. Vegetable broth, a few chunks of good bread, and an ale each: the pirates had obviously gone shopping. Alas, I knew not what had become of the bottle of Harbinger Nadia had given me at the start of the voyage: probably guzzled down by the first mate or the elusive captain on the night of our capture. Wine like that was too good to be wasted.

“Any minute now,” I muttered as Sciza and Mr. Jean finished off their supper. I had wolfed down mine in the space of a minute or so, and now I was listening intently for the sound that heralded our freedom: the midnight toll from the chapel bell-house. Even from here, it would still be clearly audible; the bell was designed to be heard from all parts of the city. “Any minute...”

Sure enough, a moment or two later, I heard it. Sciza gave a small jump at the sound of the low, resonant chiming. “What's that?” he asked hoarsely.

I didn't know how to describe it in Jillien. “It's... er... a tower. It makes noise at certain times.”

Sciza frowned, looking bewildered. “Why?”

“Shh,” I said tersely, in no mood for a lengthy explanation. Now I was listening even harder than before; listening for some kind of movement on deck, whether it be footsteps or voices or the clash of swords. Our rescue was at hand – but what if something had gone wrong? What if the pigeon had never reached her destination? What if the Guildmaster had failed to heed my call for help? What if...

Thud. Something heavy hit the deck, right above our heads. Sciza jumped yet again with a surprised cry. “What was that?”

“Man down!” came a shout from above. I heard the thunderous noise of running feet. Someone said something in rapid Jillien that I didn't understand – it sounded like the first mate. A sharp, agonized yell: a death cry if I ever heard one.

Two dead already. The Guild doesn't waste time.

“What's happening?” Sciza demanded. He looked frantically about the hold, as if expecting men to jump from the shadows and go for our throats. I felt the slightest bit sorry for him.

“Don't worry. They're on our side.”

“Your family?”

I chuckled. “Not exactly.”

The battle was swift and quiet, and I expected no less. Guild assassins hold their work to a much higher standard than any other sort of killer. Silent, quick, and with a minimum of fuss: that's the Estevican way. Halfway through the proceedings, I heard Sciza give a shriek and begin babbling about something wet dripping from the trapdoor. I told him that it was blood, and to stop being a baby.

At last, all was silent. Moving as best I could while chained by the ankles, I went to stand below the trapdoor, and noticed immediately that Sciza was right; there was a prodigious amount of wet, sticky liquid leaking between the iron hinges. “Shh,” I hissed to him, and reached up to test the handle. Locked.

“Moe?” came a deep call from above. Hidden in the dark below the deck, I smiled to myself.

“Down here.”

Heavy bootsteps crossed the deck and stopped directly above my head; the trapdoor rattled, and I heard a muffled curse. “Where's the key?”

“Probably on the first mate.”

“Which would be who?”

I tried to remember what the pirate first mate had been wearing. “Er... try the one in the leather jerkin.”

More footsteps, and a brief scuffling noise. “There's no one up here in a leather jerkin.”

Dammit! “He must have scarpered, then. Can't you pick the lock?”

There was a snort from above. “Stand back.”

I hurriedly scrambled away from the trapdoor. Several moments later, a sword blade drove down between the hinges, directly where my head had been. I watched in fascination as the gleaming blade sliced through the hinges with a metallic shriek and the trapdoor fell to the floor with a clatter, exposing a square of dark blue midnight sky. Then a head and shoulders appeared, silhouetted black against the sky.

“Well?”

“Your lock-picking skills need some work,” I commented.

“Just get out of there.”

“With pleasure.”

I didn't know who my rescuers were – other than the obvious fact that they were Guild members – until I climbed out of the hold and onto the deck. Only then was I able to get a good look at the face of the trapdoor-smasher.

“Oh. It's you.”

“Who?” asked Sciza.

“Yes, it is,” came the deadpan response from the man leaning on his sword in the moonlight. At first glance, the only real impression one would get of him was that he was tall enough to put his face just above eye level for most people. Being, ahem, somewhat less gifted in the height department than the average man, I had to crane my neck to see his face. At least five days' worth of healthy stubble lent his jaw a somewhat furry outline; the stubble was golden-brown in color, much like his hair. Unusual for a Sandrelan – we trend toward dark hair and eyes, as a general rule – but I suppose there's a freak in every family.

It was Paschal Swordarm, of course. Just my luck. The Guildmaster had probably sent him as a practical joke. Time to revise my earlier theory that the Guildmaster lacked a sense of humor.

“Who is he?” Sciza asked again, looking between me and Paschal. I realized with amusement that he was trying to discern a family resemblance. Good luck. “Your brother?”

“You have a Jillien with you,” Paschal stated flatly.

“Two, actually,” I corrected him, as Mr. Jean climbed out of the hold and hoisted himself onto the deck.

“Tell me what's going on, tabrou,” Sciza said with increasing urgency. “Who are these people?”

I realized belatedly that there were two other men standing behind Paschal. Of course; it would take more than one man to eliminate a crew of nine pirates. The two men were dressed in black cloth from head to toe and wore hoods that hid their faces in shadow. Typical.

Poor Sciza looked more frightened than he had when the pirates had captured us. I couldn't really blame him. At least the pirates had spoken his language, and he had known what was going on. He couldn't understand a word of what Paschal and I were saying to each other.

“It's all right,” I told him, trying to sound soothing. “They're part of the Guild. Just like you and me.”

Sciza gave Paschal a suspicious look. “How do you know?”

“They came to rescue us, didn't they?” I said with some exasperation. Sciza still didn't look convinced, and I realized he had a pretty good reason to be cautious. The only Sandrelan he had ever had dealings with was me; now he was facing up against three strangers from an unknown, possibly dangerous nation. I turned to Paschal with a sigh. “Show him your tattoo.”

Paschal looked wary. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Paschal gave me a glare, no doubt in objection to my tone of command, but reached up to undo the fastenings on his cloak regardless. The darkly inked tattoo on his breastbone, an exact copy of mine, was clearly visible in the moonlight. Sciza looked mollified.

“Now tell me who he is.” There was no room for protest in Paschal's tone.

“This is Sciza, the man I was sent to escort.” Unnecessarily, I added, “He's from Jilliena.”

“Right,” Paschal said shortly, holding out a gloved hand. Sciza hesitated, then shook it. “Good to meet you. I'm sure we'll get on splendidly.”

“It's a pleasure,” Sciza muttered in his own language. Then both of them looked at each other in uncomprehending suspicion.

I took the opportunity to leave them both standing on the deck, while I went to look for our confiscated belongings. To my delight, I found my bow and quiver safe and sound in the first mate's cabin, though the Harbinger was nowhere in sight. The sheaf of papers were there, too, missing a few sheets that had been lost during our capture. My flute had already been returned to me, having been thoroughly examined and deemed harmless by the first mate. Satisfied, I gathered my possessions and left the cabin.

“Ah!” Sciza's eyes lit up as he saw the papers in my arms.

“What are those?” Paschal asked.

“Nothing important,” I said, handing them to Sciza.

We were about to leave the ship when I remembered something. “Wait a minute.” Paschal and the others watched me blankly as I walked back up the gangplank and past the first mate's cabin, heading for the door just beyond. It was locked, but a few minutes with my newly recovered lock-picking set soon remedied that. Unsure of what I would find inside, I pushed open the door to the captain's cabin.

There was no one inside. Just a small wooden room with a low desk and a bed with untidy sheets. A closer look revealed a fine layer of dust coating the surface of the desk. Then something on the bed caught my eye, and I took a step further inside. Barely visible in the moonlight was the unmistakeable shape of a human skull, propped against the headboard. I narrowed my eyes, making out the outline of an entire skeleton, partially hidden by the sheets.

Ah. So the mystery of the captain-less pirate ship had been solved.

I had learned in Sabhile that Jillien sailors were possibly the most superstitious men in the world. Their lack of a proper religion allowed myriad cults and legends to crop up, warning against everything from washing too long in a stream to stealing someone else's infant child. One of the myths they were particularly adamant about was that when a captain was killed aboard his own ship, his spirit would haunt the decks forevermore, cursing his crew and preventing any other man from taking control of the vessel – until his murder was avenged. That was why the captain of a conquered vessel was always either taken alive, or at least transferred to the other ship before his death. I suspected that the myth had been formulated by a captain fearful of mutiny, in order to ensure his crew would not kill him outright.

The first mate must have accidentally killed the captain, probably during a mutiny. Of course he wanted his own ship; the dead captain's spirit wouldn't allow him to assume command of this one while his murderer lived – or so the superstition went.

The cabin door creaked open behind me, and I jumped and whipped a blade out of my sleeve. Paschal raised an eyebrow at me.

“A little jumpy, aren't we?”

I snorted and pushed past him, leaving him with a clear view of the skeleton on the bed. I had the satisfaction of hearing his breath hitch slightly. “Let's go.”

“You're late.”

It was just two words, but those two words were enough to send a chill down my spine. I was standing in the most submissive manner I could think of: hands together, head bent, attempt not to quiver like a birch tree in the wind, check, check, check. Somehow, in the presence of the Guildmaster, none of it made me feel any better.

I believe I can safely say that Guildmaster Flynn Stormbow is the most terrifying man on the planet. It isn't the way he looks that does it: his steel-gray hair and dark eyes are fairly standard, as far as men in their late fifties go. The menace is in the air around him, turned icy by his anger. His fury is of the still, silent variety; not once has he raised his voice in my presence. But the Guildmaster is perfectly capable of terrifying a man into obedience without saying a word.

“The mark was late, Master. He didn't arrive in Sabhile until three months after I did.”

The Guildmaster made a displeased sound, and I had to stop myself from flinching. “You didn't think to send a message?”

“I did, Master. It must have gotten lost at sea.”

“I gave you no orders to bring the man back with you.”

“He said he was meant to take the papers to the Guild personally. I thought –”

“Where is the other man? Xeno Venheele?”

“Er... Probably dead, Master.”

“How were they discovered? This should never have –”

The Guildmaster stopped talking and frowned. A moment later, I heard it too: light footsteps in the corridor outside his study, moving closer. I was standing with my back to the door; as it opened, I turned around to see who it was, and my heart leaped.

“Moe! It's true, you are back!”

“Alyss!” I cried delightedly, opening my arms. Flynn's daughter flew into them, throwing her arms around my neck with a sigh of abandon. For a few blissful moments, I forgot completely about the Guildmaster's presence in the room, focusing completely on the reunion with my oldest childhood friend. Alyss and I were trained together, and until about five years ago, when I was sent abroad on Guild business for the first time, we spent nearly every waking moment together. Truly, seeing Alyss is the best part of coming home.

Behind us, the Guildmaster cleared his throat. Alyss and I broke apart from our embrace, though she kept hold of both my hands. Stepping back, I got a good look at her for the first time since she'd come through the door. She was wearing an unevenly dyed linen dress that someone had obviously tried to match to her eyes and failed; probably because Alyss's eyes were of that bluish-green hue that seems to shift color every other moment. Her skin, as always, was a few shades paler than mine; more than a few, I noticed with some surprise, with the deep tan bestowed on me over the last few months, courtesy of the Jillien sun.

“You've gotten taller,” she gasped in mock surprise, and I grinned.

“Liar. I haven't grown an inch, and you know it.”

She scoffed. “Well, spare me for trying to massage your ego. Although I suppose I needn't bother, it's so overblown already.”

“That's my girl,” I said fondly, giving her white-blond curls a pat. Privately, I was relieved that I was still taller than her, if only by a couple of inches. If even the Guildmaster's dainty doll of a daughter had managed to surpass me in height, I might have really done something drastic.

“Alyss,” the Guildmaster said sternly. “I did not send for you.”

“What was Jilliena like?” Alyss demanded, ignoring her father completely. “Were you attacked by anyone? Did the shinken find you?” The shinken were Jilliena's special troops, made famous by bardic tales of their exploits during the Age of War. There weren't many left in Jillien now, but I didn't tell Alyss that. Instead I smiled at her, giving her hands a squeeze.

“Actually, yes. On the very first day my ship sailed into the harbor, there was a riot going on at the docks, and naturally I went to find out what had started it. You're never going to believe this; there were twelve shinken there, and every one of them carried these huge swords–”

“Leonseph,” the Guildmaster cut in, a warning in his voice. I stopped talking immediately, and Alyss gave a sigh of disappointment. Poor dear, she'd actually believed me. Alyss has had a bounty on her fair-haired head since she was a babe, merely for being the daughter of one of the most-wanted men in the kingdom. In order to keep her safe, the Guildmaster never lets her step foot from the underground Guildhall without an armed escort—and even then, only rarely. As such, her knowledge of the outside world is a bit lacking.

“I will cut our meeting short tonight,” the Guildmaster continued, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief. “You will accompany my daughter to the entrance hall and ensure that our guest is given proper lodgings. I trust that you took care of the other one?”

Ah, the first mate. “Yes, Master. He'll be out of the city by morning.” I had given Mr. Jean a few sovereigns, enough to book passage on a ship back to Jillien, and bid him farewell at the docks. Hopefully he would make his way back to his homeland safely. If not, there was nothing more I could do for him.

“Good. Provide Mr. Venheele with appropriate accommodations. And make sure my daughter doesn't run off when you aren't looking.” The Guildmaster fixed Alyss with a stern glare. “She has been absolutely insufferable for the last four months.”

“Pining away for Moe, of course.” Alyss smirked. “What can I say?”

“She's got a point,” I admitted. The look on the Guildmaster's face quickly dissuaded me from making any more smart comments. Alyss could get away with it because she was his daughter, but I had a sneaking feeling that another extended trip abroad might be in my near future if I pushed the Guildmaster past his limit.

We were about to leave the study when the Guildmaster called me back inside. He dismissed Alyss with a wave of his hand; pouting, she went to wait in the corridor. The Guildmaster beckoned me to his desk; swallowing back a lump of fear, I moved closer. In hindsight, holding the Guildheiress's hands in front of her father was probably not a good career move.

“Mr. Leonseph,” the Guildmaster addressed me. I flinched in surprise. With the Guildmaster, I was always just Leonseph or boy. I didn't know whether to be flattered or uneasy. “I'm postponing your next assignment for two weeks. Use your time wisely.”

Two weeks! Two glorious, assignment-free weeks – and now that I'd come of age, I didn't even have to do chores for the Guild anymore. Two weeks to do whatever I liked. I was nearly struck speechless by the very idea. “Thank you, Master,” I said fervently, almost afraid to show too much enthusiasm, in case he decided to pull the prize at the last minute.

He was watching me steadily with dark, impenetrable eyes, and I couldn't meet his gaze. Alyss and the Guildmistress were the only ones capable of doing that. “However, I do have a task for you,” he said.

I felt the smile wiped cleanly off my face. Of course it was too good to be true. Usually, when I returned from an extended mission, I was given a few days to rest and recuperate, especially if I'd been traveling. But two weeks was simply too much to ask for. “Yes, Master?”

“You will watch over my daughter. Very closely. I do not want her to spend a single moment alone with the man you brought from Jillien, and I do not want the two of you venturing aboveground without my express permission. Is that clear?”

Oh. Well, that wasn't too bad. Two weeks to spend with my best friend–I could handle that. “Yes, Master.”

“Good. You are dismissed.”

* * *


Introducing Alyss to Sciza was... interesting, to say the least. The moment Sciza saw her, he turned bright red and started staring at the floor. Alyss gave me a puzzled look, and for a moment, I shared her confusion. Then I realized Sciza had probably never spoken to an unmarried girl before. Respectable Jillien girls stay far away from boys and men; their families arrange their marriages, and their wedding night is usually the first time they lift their veils before a stranger.

Nadia was different, of course. She had no family, and she had to make do on her own. That meant staying indoors, out of the disdainful public eye, and dismissing any future as a proper Jillien housewife. Thinking of how hard it must have been for her made all of my complaining about Guild work seem petty.

Sciza mumbled an unfamiliar word in Jillien, without looking up from the floor. Alyss laughed, which made him blush harder. I decided to take matters into my own hands, before she gave the poor man a heart attack. “This is Sciza,” I told her, deciding not to make them shake hands. Then I switched to Jillien to tell Alyss's name to Sciza.

“Tabrou, I cannot speak to her,” Sciza whispered urgently, drawing me apart a few steps. “She is kelli-jelou—an unmarried woman. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said solemnly, trying not to laugh. For some reason, it all seemed so amusing: Sciza's red face, Alyss's bewilderment. But I did understand that this was part of his culture, something he had been brought up to believe in. Well, it looked like obeying the Guildmaster's instructions—keeping Alyss and Sciza apart—would be even easier than I'd thought. “I'll keep her away from you, don't worry.”

Sciza made a small bow. “Thank you, tabrou.” Then he frowned. “Ah... where is her veil?”

“Veil?” This time I couldn't hold back my laughter. Imagining Alyss in a somber veil of heavy dark cloth, the kind Jillien girls wear on the street, was just too much for me. “Sciza, we don't have those in Sandrela. All of our, uh, kelli-jelou... They don't wear veils.”

“None of them?” Sciza looked aghast. He shook his head. “What a strange land.”

Needless to say, he was relieved when I led him to the accommodations I'd picked out for him—if only because it meant he didn't have to be around Alyss. The room was fairly nice, much larger and roomier than the barracks I slept in. Obviously, he wouldn't be staying long.

“Good night,” I said, holding out my hand. Sciza looked at it, confused, then put out his own to shake it. I snorted back a laugh. “The papers.”

“Oh!” Sciza dug around inside his coat, finally producing the bundle of papers we had recovered from the pirates. “I suppose it's safe to give them to you now.” He handed them over and bit his lip. “Tabrou, will you... do something for me?”

“Hmm.” I ran a finger along the ragged edges of paper in my hands. They were still a little damp from our adventures on the high seas, but the cleanly inked symbols were still intact. “Depends on what it is.”

“My father.”

It was just two words, but it was enough to make the temperature in the room drop several degrees. I looked up slowly from the papers. Of course—Sciza's father. How could I have forgotten? Sciza's father, who had probably died long before reaching Estevica, or even boarding a ship. Behind me, Alyss gave me a questioning look.

“I want to write him a letter,” Sciza went on. “To leave at the... the, uh, cathedral.” The foreign word was hard for him to pronounce. “He said he would meet me there. Will you help me write it?”

“Sciza, I can't write.”

Sciza looked crestfallen. “I forgot.”

Alyss tugged on my sleeve. “Moe, what's going on?”

“He wants me to write a letter,” I muttered to her. She frowned.

“Moe, you can't write.”

“I know,” I said with some exasperation. “I just told him that.”

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Moe, I can write.”

“Wait, I—”

“Tell him,” she insisted, giving my sleeve another yank. “Tell him I'll write it for him.”

“Alyss...”

“Tell him!”

I wanted to explain to her that Sciza would never even think of asking her, an unmarried, unveiled female stranger, for any sort of help. But the look in her blue-green eyes allowed for no protest, so I reluctantly translated her offer into Jillien. Sciza looked shocked by the time I was finished; his eyes darted between me and Alyss, as if one of us must be joking.

“She can write?” He blinked twice in quick succession. “A woman?”

Alyss had received a better education than many noblewomen her age, and I told him so. He looked staggered, but there was newfound respect in his eyes when he looked at her—full in the face, for the first time since he'd realized she wasn't wearing a veil. I watched their eyes meet, and saw Sciza flush dark red again, but this time he looked more intrigued than embarrassed.

Damn it. This might be difficult, after all.

“Let's do it tomorrow,” I said in a rush, herding Alyss out the door. Sciza blinked and promptly looked at the floor again, scarlet to the tips of his ears. “Good night, Sciza. Thanks for the papers. We'll write that letter tomorrow. Bye!”

“What a strange man,” Alyss mused as we walked down the corridor, away from Sciza's room. I looked at her sharply.

“I've just thought of something. He'll probably want his letter written in Jillien. You can't write in Jillien, can you?”

“Don't be silly. You can translate for me.”

“But I—he—oh, fine.”

We went to the banquet hall next, on my insistence. I hadn't eaten a proper meal since the pirates had captured our vessel, a week ago. I regaled Alyss with the story in-between mouthfuls of the Guild kitchen's best meat stew. By the time I was finished, her eyes were wide and sparkling with delight. I suppose Jillien pirates ranked nearly as high as shinken as objects of fascination for her.

“Did you really shoot that many? And they didn't try to kill you?”

“Well, a few did,” I said modestly. “Then I told them I was a son of House Leonseph, and they decided to hold me for ransom instead.”

“House Leonseph?” She laughed much longer and louder than I thought was strictly necessary. It wasn't that funny. “And they believed you?”

“What?” I said with some irritation. “Do I really look like that much of a peasant? You know, Miss Stormbow, we can't all have houses of our own. Some of us have to make our way through life without a fancy surname to do our work for us.”

“Oh, Moe. I didn't mean to offend you.” She placed her hand over mine—the one that wasn't busy shoveling spoonfuls of stew into my mouth. “And it's not as if I can actually use my name. Unless I want to get myself killed, of course.”

“Point,” I admitted. The name “Stormbow” wasn't really something you could throw around willy-nilly; that much was true. “I suppose your name does come attached with several million sovereigns in private bounty money.”

“Never mind that,” she said, dismissing the idea of several million sovereigns with a wave of her hand. “Go on with your story.”

“Well, once we docked in the harbor, I convinced them to let me go to the falconry to send a message. To arrange my ransom, you know. The first mate and three of his best men came with me, but on the way back from the falconry, I gave them the slip and ran off.”

“But what about Sciza? Wasn't he still locked up in the hold?”

Damn, she'd been paying attention. “Well... yes. You see, I went back later and set him free, under the cover of night. Then I gutted two of the pirates on the way out, for good measure.”

“Incredible.” She looked transfixed, spellbound, and I reminded of the way Sciza had looked on the ship when I had shown him my juggling and knife-throwing tricks. It made me feel slightly guilty, for some reason—but it was part of my training to make a story more interesting wherever possible. And to omit references to pesky archrivals who might make me look bad in comparison. “You're amazing, Moe. How did I not see that before?”

“Now you're making fun of me.” I pretended to pout.

“Oh, perish the thought.” She thought for a moment, and a smile lit up her face. “You know, it's been quite lonely around the Guildhall for the last few months. There's been no one here to get into trouble with me.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “You know, your father told me to keep you out of trouble.”

“Well, yes. But what he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?” The smile disappeared from her face, and her lips curved downward ever so slightly. Oh, Alyss—she knew exactly how to work that magnificent pout of hers to get whatever she wanted out of me. “Moe, I've been dying for a breath of fresh air. Father hasn't let me go aboveground for weeks. Just a quick walk to the marketplace—I won't even talk to anyone.”

“I'm not sure I like where this is going.”

“It's only been four months. You can't have changed that much.” She leaned forward and looked straight into my eyes. “Moe, don't you remember? We used to sneak out all the time. Don't tell me you've changed.”

“Alyss, just listen to me.” I put down my spoon and took her hand in both of mine. “I just returned from a Guild assignment. I've been given two weeks off to spend as I please, provided I keep you safe and out of trouble. If I do anything to jeopardize that, I might be sent away again.”

“Father wouldn't dare.” Alyss's face had gone tight. Both the smile and the pout had vanished. “I've just got you back. He wouldn't dare send you away again.”

“Maybe not, but I don't want to risk it.” I smiled, hoping to cheer her up. “So why don't we behave ourselves for a while? You can write Sciza his letter, and I'll get the Guildmaster's permission for us to take it to the cathedral. Then you can get all the fresh air you like.”

“Well...”

“Excellent,” I said, sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction. “It's settled, then.”

Laughter danced in her eyes, and she swatted me lightly. “Moe!”

I pushed back my chair and stood up from the table, brushing down the front of my tunic; I'd spilled a few crumbs of the bread I'd used to mop up the remainders of stew with. “Let's get some rest. I'm looking forward to sleeping in a bed again.”

After I escorted Alyss to her quarters, I went to deliver the papers to the Guildmaster. The study was locked, and the sentry usually posted outside the door was absent, but I could see flickering candle-light under the door. I knocked; a few moments later, the peep-slot in the door slid open and I caught a glimpse of the Guildmaster's dark eye peering out at me. Then the door opened and I was ushered inside.

“The papers, Master,” I said immediately, proffering the innocuous bundle I had gone to such great lengths to retrieve; lived in a foreign city for three months, spied on smugglers, and fought pirates to keep safe. I thought of Sciza, who had sacrificed much more than I had—his family's honor, his father's life, his own safety. The Guildmaster took the papers delicately from my grasp and unfolded the first page, examining it carefully.

“Very good. Now the money, Leonseph.”

I had a moment of confusion before I realized what he was talking about. Of course—the remainder of the gold the Guild had entrusted me with, to fund my voyage and lodgings in Sabhile. I still had almost a third of it left, ensconced in a leather pouch, which I promptly handed over to the Guildmaster. Without it, I was nearly destitute; but the money had never really been mine anyway, and the Guild would take care of me as long as I did its bidding.

The Guildmaster returned to his desk, sat down, and began to pick through each of the papers I had given him; he said nothing else. Taking his silence as a dismissal, I turned to leave; but the sound of a throat clearing brought me back.

“Mr. Leonseph—” and there it was again, that inexplicable gesture of respect. “It has come to my attention that you have recently come of age.”

“Two months before I left, Master.” That memorable day was still fresh in my memory. Alyss had stolen a bottle of wine from her father's storeroom, and we had shared it in a dusty little room deep within the bowels of the Guildhall, where no one besides us ever went. “But truthfully, Master, I didn't really come of age.”

The Guildmaster quirked an eyebrow at me. “How so?”

“Well, no one knows for sure when my birthday is. Alyss made one up for me when we were children. Do you remember, Master?”

A cloud passed over the Guildmaster's features; then his face transformed back into blank slate. “Yes. I do remember. Nevertheless, for all intents and purposes, you are now a man. And that means you will now enjoy the privileges of full Guild membership.”

“Master?” I was confused. To my knowledge, I was already a full Guild member, and had been thus since the age of eleven or so. None of the other junior members did the sort of work I did, and I was often entrusted with assignments usually reserved for the Guild's most senior members, simply by dint of having had a long history with the Guild and its master. House Stormbow had formally adopted me as a ward at the age of five; I had been sold to the Guild by a priest who had probably caught me cutting his purse on the streets. Therefore I had spent more time altogether with the Guild than many of its senior members had.

“You will no longer reside in the communal barracks. Whenever you decide to do so, you may choose a vacant room in the Guildhall for your own.”

That was a welcome change—I had long since grown weary of sleeping in the barracks, where I had no privacy and was surrounded by snoring Guild apprentices at any given hour of the day. But I had a difficult time believing that the Guildmaster would declare me an official Guild agent simply so I could change rooms. “Thank you, Master.”

He made no reply, and went on thumbing through the symbol-covered pages. Utterly perplexed, I made to leave again; and for the second time, I turned back when he began to speak.

“You will notice, Mr. Leonseph, that my daughter has reached the point in her life most consider to be a marriageable age.”

I tensed despite myself, suddenly wary. “Master?”

“Traditionally, the Guildheir—or Guildheiress, as the case may be—is reserved for the partner whom she—and her parents, if living—deem to be most suitable to share leadership of the Guild. The marriage of a Guildheir is a most complicated process.” The Guildmaster lifted his eyes from the pages in front of him, gazing at me steadily over his knuckles. “It may interest you to know that my wife and I have already begun to choose candidates for our daughter's hand.”

My heart began to beat faster. “I understand, Master.”

“Do you?” I had to swallow back a lump in my throat under the unblinking gaze of those dark, stony eyes. “My daughter is approaching the age where casual friendships with the opposite sex may no longer be appropriate. Remember that.”

“Master, if I may interrupt.” I was sweating now—cold sweat that rolled slowly down the back of my neck. “With all due respect, your daughter and I do not share a 'casual friendship.'” It was desperately vital that I should make that point clear, no matter the consequences.

He observed me without speaking for what seemed like an eternity. “I see,” he said at last.

I resisted the urge to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Now was no time to relax. When I was out of the study and safely in my bed, I could think—but not now. “May I be dismissed, Master?”

“One more thing.” To my amazement, he shuffled the papers into a pile, folded them back into their original bundle, and held them out across the desk. Held them out to me. “The person I have sent for to translate these has not yet arrived. I would like you to keep them safe for the time being.”

Dazed, I took the papers and clutched them to my chest. “Yes, Master.” Entrusted with the safekeeping of both the Guildheiress and the vital information I had spent four months retrieving, both in one night. Perhaps being a full Guild agent would involve more than I'd thought.

“You may go, Mr. Leonseph.”

* * *


Transferring my belongings from the communal barracks to a room just down the hall from Sciza's took all of about twenty minutes. Junior Guild members are not encouraged to own personal effects, and theft is rampant in the barracks—most of its occupants are thieves-in-training, after all. I only had my bow, which I kept in the armory or on my person, my knives, my flute, and a few other items used in my bardic routines. Once, long ago, one of the other apprentices had stolen my flute. It had taken me two days to ferret out the thief, and I had taught him a quick and brutal lesson that neither he nor the other apprentices would soon forget. My flute, thankfully, was unharmed—or the foolhardy thief might have met a much more gruesome fate.

The room I had chosen for myself was small but comfortable, with a stone fireplace, low wooden bed, and unadorned walls. Most of the Guildhall lay underground, and the smoke from the fireplace was funneled into an elaborate series of chutes which eventually led to the surface; it was all quite technical and difficult for me to grasp. Once I had lit a fire and shaken out the dusty bedsheets, the room began to look a little more like someplace I might eventually call home. More importantly, it was a symbol of my newly acquired status. I had never been just another recruit, but neither had I enjoyed the privileges that other devoted Guild members had. Now, with enough space to collect a few more personal belongings, as well as some much-longed-for privacy... I thought I could tackle the next stage of my career with enthusiasm.

I was deeply exhausted from my recent exploits, but I didn't immediately fall asleep. Instead I lay awake between my bedsheets, thinking of what the Guildmaster had said to me in his study.

Alyss was growing older. That was obvious; I had noticed as much when I had first laid eyes on her this evening. I had only been gone for four months, but during that time her shape had lengthened and acquired more womanly proportions, and she had begun to carry herself with more mature distinction. She was two years younger than I, and the Guildmaster was right: sixteen was the marriageable age in Sandrela.

All of this was deeply worrying. The thought of Alyss as a married woman was nearly unthinkable. We were childhood companions; we had played and trained and gotten into trouble together; for about ten years, we had done everything as one entity. It was only recently, with the Guild sending me on lengthy assignments abroad, that we had spent much time apart. And now I had a new threat to contend with. Once Alyss was married, spending time together would be much more complicated. She would have a husband to attend to, Guild business to oversee. Marriage meant a step into a new world for her, one where I could not follow—and I didn't like the sound of that at all.

But who would her husband be? Surely the Guildheiress could not marry just anyone. Whoever married her would become the next Guildmaster, after all. I racked my brain, trying to think of possible contenders, but came up empty. Alyss simply spent very little time with anyone besides me. And until my recent encounter with a certain unmarried Jillien maiden, I could have said the same of her. Perhaps it would be a complete stranger—someone neither of us had met. I tried to picture that: a grown man of unknown motives and personality, laying unfamiliar hands on the only family I had ever known. No, it was too abhorrent.

Exhaustion got the better of me, and despite my anxiety, I felt myself slowly drifting into slumber. As sleep took me in its heavy, ponderous grasp, a thought wormed its way into my mind.

What if I married Alyss?

What if, indeed.

“Moe... Moe, wake up. Moe...”

“Ungh,” I groaned eloquently, shifting away from the prodding hands to bury my face in the pillow. “Lemmalone.”

A snort of laughter. “Moe, get up or I'm going to sit on you.”

“What...” I cracked one bleary eye open. Alyss was leaning over my bed, dressed in nothing but her shift and nightgown. Still half-asleep, I gave a skull-cracking yawn. “What... is it your wedding day already?”

“Wedding?” Alyss looked bewildered. “Moe, what are you talking about?”

“Good question,” I admitted muzzily, raising myself with a great deal of effort into a sitting position.

For a moment, my surroundings bewildered me. The room I saw was unfamiliar. Was I in Nadia's inn at Sabhile? Why was Alyss here with me? Maybe I was mistaken, and it was Nadia who had woken me. One look at Alyss's white-blond hair and wide sea-green eyes soon put that notion to rest. Oh, right. The Guildmaster had given me permission to move to my own room. That was where I was.

I yawned again and looked at Alyss. “How'd you find me?”

“By the sound of your snoring, of course.” She snorted, unable to keep a straight face. “What was that about a wedding?”

“Nothing important.” I swung my legs out of bed, and only then realized that I was wearing nothing but my breeches. “Sentinel's holy whiskers, Alyss! Get out—I'm not decent.”

“Relax. Neither am I.” She had a point; her shift-and-nightgown combo displayed a bit more skin than I thought I could deal with this early in the morning. There was something in her logic that seemed a bit off, but I couldn't quite pick out what. “Here, I'll get your clothes.”

I busied myself with yawning and stretching while she retrieved my clothing from the floor, where I had discarded it the night before. She wrinkled her nose as she held out the garments toward me. “These stink, Moe. You'd better get them washed.”

“They'll do for a few more days.” I donned my shirt and trousers as quickly as was humanly possible, decidedly uncomfortable with being in such a state of undress around Alyss. A few years ago, I wouldn't have cared—but things were changing. “Now, why did you wake me at...” I checked my pocket-watch. “Sentinel's mercy—six o'clock?”

“For one, you sleep like a log. I could have been an assassin, creeping in to murder you in your sleep, and you would never have noticed.” Alyss laughed to herself at the thought; she was really much bloodthirstier than it seemed appropriate to be at six o'clock in the morning. “Anyway, we're going to write Sciza's letter today, remember? I came over to the west wing to find him, but then I heard your snoring and decided to wake you first.”

Thank the gods for that. I shuddered to think of how Sciza might have reacted to finding a nightgown-clad kelli-jelou in his bedchamber, leaning over him as he slept. I loved Alyss dearly, but she had very little sense sometimes of what constituted appropriate and inappropriate behavior. “Why don't we go back to your quarters, so you can get dressed first? I'm sure Sciza can wait another half hour or so.”

She agreed reluctantly, and we made our way out of my bedroom together. We attracted a few curious glances on the way to Alyss's quarters, but most of the Guild agents we passed merely shook their heads and went on their way. Apparently a half-naked Alyss scampering through the Guildhall was an ordinary sight these days—and this woman was going to be the next Estevican Guildmistress. Unbelievable.

Perhaps a description of the Guildhall is in order. Like any other crafthall, the Guildhall is located in the middle of the city, near the marketplace. Aboveground, the Guildhall is a simple stone building with a number of offices and some lovely architecture near the front. We call it the Facade, and to be frank, nothing important ever happens there. Behind a locked, heavily guarded oaken door in the central room of the Facade is a long, long staircase that spirals down into darkness. After roughly four hundred steps, the winding staircase stops at—surprise, surprise—another heavily guarded door. Behind that door is where the real Guildhall begins.

Understandably, very few of our people choose to come in that way. The Guildhall has two other exits: one in the basement of a tavern called the Creeping Cutthroat, owned by one of our senior members, and another in the Estevican sewers. The sewers are especially useful for those of us who wish to navigate the city without being seen.

No one knows just how far the Guildhall extends underground. As children, Alyss and I used to pack food for three or four days and go exploring—down, down into winding corridors and dusty storerooms, through half-rotted doors and trapdoors with only our torchlight and the rats for company. Sometimes we encountered hallways that led down into underground pools of cold, deep water, halting our progress. We tried to draw maps, but the passages crossed over each other so often that it was impossible to tell whether this room was above the other, or the opposite way around. Somewhere, Alyss was sure, there had to be another exit; and if we found it, we could sneak in and out as often as we wanted without ever being caught. We were lost quite often, but Alyss always managed to find the way back. As a Stormbow, she seemed to have an innate affinity with the place; she was always running her hands over the mildewy walls, or crouching to examine a broken statue whose pieces I had dismissed as rubble.

The Guild rarely uses the rooms more than a mile or so below the surface. Alyss's quarters are some of the deepest, along with her parents'; farther away from the threat of invasion, I suppose. Once we reached the door to the Stormbows' wing of the Guildhall, Alyss produced a cleverly hidden key from the bodice of her nightgown to unlock it. She didn't seem to notice my raised eyebrows.

“Where did all of these come from?” I asked in confusion once we had entered her quarters. Her bedroom, nearly as familiar to me as the barracks where I'd spent most of my nights, was littered with clothes. The bed was nearly hidden underneath a mountain of silk, and stockings in various colors covered the carpet. Alyss had never been much interested in clothes before I left.

“Mother's making me try them all on,” she explained, retrieving a black dress from atop the pile on the bed. I hastily turned around as she started shrugging off the shoulders of her nightgown. “For my inception ceremony.”

“Is that so,” I mumbled, back still turned. “What's an inception ceremony?”

“I'll be officially recognized as the Guildheir, and my formal training will begin. It's sort of... a delayed birthday party, I suppose.” The sound of fabric sliding over skin stopped, and I sneaked a peek over my shoulder. She had put on the black dress and was trying to lace up the back without much success. With a sigh, I went to help her. “Mother said it means I'm becoming a woman.”

My hands froze, still gripping the bits of lace at the back of her collar. Becoming a woman. The Guildmaster's words and my own musings from the night before came back to me in a sickening wave. Alyss was being prepared for her own wedding, and she didn't even know it.

Alyss noticed my lack of movement and twisted around to peer at me over her shoulder. “Something the matter?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, hastily doing up the rest of the lace ties and stepping back.

She smiled brightly. “How do I look?”

Alyss in a black dress didn't look much like Alyss to me. I missed the dirty-faced sister in patched trousers who had explored dripping underground chambers and dark, winding corridors with me. But I forced a smile onto my face and said, “Like a lady.”

“Don't tease. Come on, let's go.”

Sciza was already awake when we returned to the west wing and knocked on the door to his room. He kept his eyes downcast and greeted us with a “Good morning” in heavily accented Sandrelish. Alyss was delighted and began chattering away at him almost immediately; the poor man looked so overwhelmed that I felt obliged to intervene on his behalf. I sent Alyss away to fetch pen, ink, and paper; normally, I would have done it myself, but I had orders from the Guildmaster not to leave her alone with Sciza.

It took over an hour, but at last we managed to write Sciza's letter. It was a group effort; Sciza dictated, I translated, and Alyss wrote furiously with her tongue pressed between her front teeth. The text of the letter went like this:

Dear Father,

I've arrived safely in Estevica and passed the gift to our friends. They have given me lodgings in the city for the moment. When you arrive, or if you're already here, could you please contact me? They have wonderful birds here that carry messages for a few coins. I hope you are well, Father. That was a sneaky trick you played—slipping the papers into my pack with the map. I'm not sure if I'll forgive you for that one.

Love, your son.

“Can your father read Sandrelish?” I asked Sciza. He nodded, biting his lip and staring down at the letter Alyss had written. Then, without warning, he turned in Alyss's direction and bowed low, until his head was nearly level with his knees.

“Thank you,” he said in Sandrelish, his words no less fervent for their stilted pronunciation. Alyss beamed and tried to take his hands, the way Sandrelans do to acknowledge gratitude, but Sciza shrank back from her. I suppose he wasn't quite ready for that yet.

“You're welcome,” I said pointedly. Sciza straightened up and gave me a puzzled look. “You know. I helped, too.”

“Oh—of course.” He smiled at me distractedly. “Thank you, tabrou.”

I dragged Alyss out of the room, leaving Sciza with a strict warning not to wander around the Guildhall or try to leave without permission. As an obvious outsider, he could easily get killed that way. Once I was satisfied that he would remain in his room until instructed otherwise, Alyss and I went to see her father.

The Guildmaster wasn't in his study. The guard outside the door told me stiffly that he believed the master had gone down to the lower levels, to oversee the training of some apprentices. To my discomfort, Alyss decided to press me for details about Sciza on our way down: what had happened to his father, where was he from, and why on earth couldn't he look her in the eye? I mumbled brief answers, hoping to put her off, but she refused to be dissuaded. The Guildmaster must have foreseen this; of course inquisitive Alyss would be fascinated with a young man from across the sea. At least I could find some solace in the knowledge that Sciza wasn't Guildmaster material. He couldn't even use a knife properly.

The lower levels, directly beneath the Facade, were apprentice territory. Alyss and I had spent long days there as children, learning the balance of a throwing knife or the pressure of a bowstring through hours and hours of repetition. Now the stone dueling chambers and archery ranges belonged to a new generation of six- to eleven-year-old boys and even a few girls, honing their craft under the watchful eyes of the Guild taskmasters. Most of them had been sold to pay off their parents' debts to the Guild; others were street urchins who had sold themselves, offering their lives as collateral in return for the Guild's protection. Few, if any of them would even know exactly what the Guild was.

The Guildmaster was in the third training chamber, watching a group of eight-year-old apprentices with a solemn air. The apprentices didn't seem able to concentrate, though I didn't blame them. Most of them were staring at the Guildmaster, rather than at their instructor, who was demonstrating a set of sword drills.

Alyss and I approached the group from behind; the instructor saw us before the apprentices or the Guildmaster did. “Leonseph,” he said wearily, lowering his sword. I frowned.

“Do I know you?”

The instructor pulled off his helmet, and I realized I did know him. It was Paschal, the Guild agent who had led the raid on the pirate ship the day before. I wasn't exactly pleased to see him, though I wondered why he was there. As far as I knew, he didn't make a habit of training apprentices. “I should hope so, considering I saved your life yesterday.”

“Saved your life?” repeated Alyss in confusion. She looked at me, and I winced inwardly. “What's he talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said, at the exact moment Paschal said, “On the pirate ship. I rescued him.”

“Did not,” I snapped, resentful that my slightly exaggerated story had been shown up for the lie it was. “Don't listen to him, Alyss.”

“There's gratitude for you.” Paschal gave me a disdainful look. “Is there something you need?”

The Guildmaster turned around at last. All of the apprentices were staring wide-eyed at us by now, but the Guildmaster looked anything but surprised to see his daughter. “Alyss.”

“Father,” Alyss said, mimicking his tone. I flinched again—she had to be the only person in the world who could do that. “Good morning.”

Best to get this over with quickly, before Alyss could singlehandedly ruin our argument. “Greetings, Master,” I said deferentially, inclining my head to him. Behind the Guildmaster, Paschal smirked in obvious delight—I could have killed him. “I was wondering if I might have a word?”

The Guildmaster glanced at Paschal, wiping the smile off the blonde man's face. “Carry on.”

Paschal nodded and donned his helmet again. I took a discreet grip on Alyss's arm and led her to the other end of the room, out of earshot of the apprentices. The Guildmaster came slowly after us. He was dressed in a dark-colored waistcoat and wore a thin-bladed sword at his hip. He was powerfully built for a man of his age, and towered above me—a fact made painfully clear now that he was no longer sitting behind the desk in his study.

“The item I entrusted to you, Leonseph?”

“Right here, Master.” I pointed to the leather satchel slung over my right shoulder. I had carefully tied the papers up with twine and ensconced them inside the night before. Carrying them around with me seemed like the best option; in a city like Estevica, no one trusted a locked door. At least I had faith in my own ability to fend off would-be thieves. “I'll keep it safe as long as you need me to.”

“Good. You have a request to make?”

I resisted the urge to look at Alyss. “Er... yes. Sciza asked me to, ah, drop off a letter. For his father. At the cathedral...” Damn, I was making a mess of this.

The Guildmaster held out a gloved hand. “Let me see this letter.”

I handed it over. The Guildmaster delicately unfolded the thin paper and read it through with a blank expression. Beside me, Alyss watched her father anxiously. Poor girl—I wondered if she'd even seen daylight in the four months I'd been gone. As far as I knew, she had never left the Guildhall without me in attendance.

“It all seems to be in order.” The Guildmaster gave the letter back. “You have my permission to take it there.”

“Er, there's just one more thing...”

On the other side of the chamber, one of the apprentices slipped and crashed to the ground, his sword skittering over the stone floor. The child, who couldn't have been older than eight, immediately burst into tears. I could almost feel Paschal's frustration radiating across the room. Moving stiffly, he grabbed the boy's arm and hoisted him upright, dusting off the front of his jerkin in a perfunctory manner.

“Yes?” the Guildmaster prompted.

Alyss, who had been watching me flounder about with pained eyes, finally decided to take matters into her own hands. “Father, I want to go with him,” she said plainly, stepping forward.

“No,” the Guildmaster said firmly.

Alyss went still. Spots of pink appeared on her cheekbones. “Please?”

The Guildmaster looked at his daughter for a long moment, considering her. I badly wanted him to say yes—not just for the sake of Alyss's happiness. It wasn't healthy for her to live her life underground. No wonder she was so pale and thin. But alas! I wasn't nearly brave enough to dare speak up in her defense. If the Guildmaster fixed me with one of those withering stares of his, I might just shrivel away to nothing on the spot.

“Now is not the time,” he said at last.

I could see Alyss gathering herself for a last assault, an appeal to her father's better nature. But then, as if realizing the futility of the task, her face fell and her shoulders went limp. I wondered what had made her stop. Did she recognize some subtle clue in her father's face, some sign that no amount of begging or protest would sway him? I could see no such clue. Alyss could appeal to both her parents like no one else—but I suppose, in this, even she was helpless.

“Escort my daughter to the kitchens,” the Guildmaster continued, now addressing me. “Cook can keep an eye on her until you return from your errand.”

I nodded, trying not to look at Alyss. “Yes, Master.”

Once we had left the training chamber, Alyss let her frustration show. “Damn it, Moe! You always act like that – like you have to make up for being alive. Why are you so scared of him?”

“I'm not—” I began. Then I stopped myself. It was true. I was scared of the Guildmaster. It seemed like a fairly natural reaction to the man who kept the whole city in the palm of his hand. If he wanted someone killed, he could have it carried out within the hour. Money never changed hands within the city limits unless he knew about it. It was his job to be intimidating.

But I suppose, in the face of filial love, none of that mattered. Alyss didn't see her father the way everyone else did. She was Guildmaster Flynn's only weakness—and that right there was the reason he kept her hidden away underground.

“I'm coming with you,” Alyss said determinedly. “I don't care what Father says. I'm not going to stay in the kitchens with Cook. I'm sixteen—not a little girl anymore.”

“You still seem pretty little to me,” I murmured. Alyss gave me a frustrated look.

“You don't know how lucky you are, Moe. Going to all those fantastic places—meeting pirates, and people like Sciza. I can't do any of that.”

“Lucky?” I repeated incredulously. “Being captured by pirates is lucky?”

She wasn't listening to me. “Father always talks of caution and suspicion, and the importance of prudence—and Mother never stops lecturing about duty and education and propriety. Don't you understand? I don't want any of those things. I want to know what it's like to be someone else—not the Guildheiress, but some random peasant girl. I would be happy, I think, just to know.”

“I don't quite follow,” I said carefully.

We were in the stairwell now, surrounded by echoing stone walls; the sound of our footsteps was loud enough to impersonate a marching band. The stairs and corridors of the Guildhall had been constructed for just this very purpose, or so I assumed. In an organization where stealth and trickery were commonplace, it was naturally necessary to install such obstacles to plotting and conspiracy. Coups had to be formed behind closed doors, if at all—and even then, the Guild spies might still be listening.

By pure force of habit, Alyss kept her voice low, but I was sure that we were still audible from either the top or bottom of the stairwell we now ascended. “I know my duty, Moe,” she continued fervently. “I can't escape it. For good or ill, I will be Guildmistress someday. But just once, before I have to shoulder that burden for good, I want to know what it's like to be free.”

I fancied I was beginning to understand. Alyss and I were not childhood companions for naught; I knew her thoughts almost as well as my own, or at least I had before my extended assignments had begun, separating us for months at a time. What I now understood was that Alyss wanted a one-time deal—in some ways, similar to the last request of a dying prisoner. And despite myself, she was beginning to sway me. What harm could a single sojourn aboveground do, as long as I guarded her as jealously as a faithful hound? Oh, but my orders! The Guildmaster had given me the task of watching over his daughter, and I dared not betray his trust.

Alyss stopped, turned her back on the stone banister, and grasped at my hands. From any other, I might have taken this as a threat; but surrendering them to Alyss was so automatic that I hardly noticed. “Moe, have you really changed so much? A year ago, you would have let me come along without a single protest. You were on the lookout for an escape as much as I was.” A flicker of doubt suddenly appeared in her clear, turquoise eyes. “Oh, but you have changed—and Father knows. He would never have commanded you to watch me otherwise. What happened, Moe? Have you really betrayed me?”

I had done my best to remain silent, so as not to reveal my inner conflict and provide her with a guarantee to her victory—but the mention of betrayal drew a protest from me at once. “Betray you?” I said in astonishment. “Well, how can you say that? I've never once betrayed you in my life, and I never will.”

“It was poorly chosen,” she murmured, letting go of my hands, “but nevertheless. It's frightening—the way you grovel. I've never known you to grovel before anyone, but the way you act in front of Father—it's embarrassing.”

I felt my cheeks go red at the accusation. To tell the truth, after that fateful conversation in the Guildmaster's study, I had made up my mind to do my best to ingratiate myself into his favor. Short of committing some miraculous act in the near future, I had nothing else to use as collateral for the privilege of remaining Alyss's companion. Once she was married, the only way I could remain with her would be to set myself up as some sort of invaluable partner to her, someone nothing short of death could separate from her side—certainly not such a paltry affair as marriage. Alyss's regard for me could be no greater, but I was less certain of her father's tolerance of me, and whether he would support my efforts or condemn them.

“'The poor, loyal peasant, with nothing to offer in tribute, did prostrate himself before the great monarch; and so, with a little humility, he procured for himself great favor,'” I quoted, hoping to get myself off the hook. Alyss loved my songs and stories and rarely failed, after I had offered a small sampling of one of them, to demand the rest. But now my efforts were in vain; she would not be dissuaded from her argument.

“Has he said anything to you, to make you fear him? Is he going to send you away again? If he does, I shall run away with you this time.”

“That would only get you ten guards wherever you went,” I said, “and we would be separated besides.”

“But Moe, you aren't listening to me,” she said plaintively. “If we run away, Father cannot find us. And when we return, I can prove to him that a few months of travel have made me a better Guildmistress than a lifetime spent underground could ever have done.”

“That just shows how little you know,” I said kindly. “He's the Guildmaster. He'll find you wherever you go.”

“But I—” she began. I never found out what she would have said next, for at that very moment, we both heard the tumultuous sound of footsteps clattering down the steps above us. Alyss stopped talking immediately; doubtless the first thought in her head was that her father had somehow overheard her and sent his men immediately to prevent her from flight. The idea was ludicrous, but neither of us drew breath until the offender appeared around the bend in the stairwell and nearly sent all three of us flying down the steps. It was Sciza.

“How did you find us?” I demanded once we had all got our bearings. “I told you not to leave your chamber!”

Sciza looked bewildered, but obviously taken aback by my violent gesticulations. “What?” he said faintly, and I realized too late that I'd asked the question in my own tongue, rather than his. I repeated it in Jillien, and comprehension dawned on his face.

“Ah, but tabrou, I did not disobey you. A messenger came and knocked on my door; he had a message for me, with one of those wonderful birds. Can you read it, tabrou? Is it from my father?” He fairly stuffed the missive in my face, blotting out my vision with paper and ink.

“Hold on—let Alyss see it.” I took it from his hand and gave it to her with the instruction to read it aloud. She squinted down at the lines, a frown forming on her face.

“This is in Jillien. I can't read it.”

I relayed the message to Sciza, who looked distraught. “There must be a way!” He grabbed handfuls of his own hair in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “I'm sure it must be from my father. Who else would write to me in Jillien?”

“I know who can read it,” Alyss interjected. Sciza and I both looked at her, though he couldn't have understood what she'd said. “My mother.”

“The Guildmistress?” I couldn't help being skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “Let's go.”