The noonday sun falls gently from the heavens and plays across the choppy waters of the Kismet Bay. The light scatters off the foamy peaks in a parade of colour and skips along in shards of blue and orange. The waves flail at the salt crusted cobbles of the docks, throwing the stowaway light off into town. It bounces along the whitewashed buildings and skates over copper pots assembled for sale.

The most wizened archmage will breach the slurry of parchment and tomes to blink aching eyes at the coming dawn. One driven to madness would consider blowing up the moon, but never the sun. Even the fell lich, amidst the lamentations of its victims, will consider the brilliant sun still beyond its grasp.

Which is why I don’t take it too personally when those whimsical beams of sunlight scatter off the engine in front of me, and hit me square in the eye.

I squint and turn my head, conceding defeat this time. The obnoxious fireball does a victory lap by strobing me as the tram trundles slowly down the market rail. Apparently, no one had the spirit of innovation necessary to add more than two stories to any of the buildings in town, so the sun is free to beam uninterrupted into my corneas.

A polite cough interrupts my developing migraine, and squinting, I make out the old lady sitting opposite from where I’m stooped over the tram’s engine. I follow her thin-lipped nod to see the iron casing of the engine start to ice over. You’d think that frost would be difficult to achieve under direct sunlight, but the bloody thing must be thirty years old at least – efficiency is fried.

With a gloved hand, I yank open a hatch and snap a firebolt into the gearbox. The frost recedes and the slightly concerning grinding noise drops to an easily sidelined grumble. I flick another firebolt in for good measure and click the hatch shut again. I don’t even need to incant anymore with that, and only the under supervised 5-year-old at the other end of the tram seems to care.

“So, Melissa has been all nonchalant about him every time that we’ve been in there, but yesterday she bought the expensive rye bread – she doesn’t even like rye!”

I zone back into the material plane as a dark-haired girl leans over the headrest of her seat and persists in complaining to me about her dramatic love triangle between herself, her friend and the baker boy. She hasn’t shut up since she got on the tram, and that was twenty minutes ago. I hum vaguely enough to appease her.

“And,” she exclaims, “she’s the one who keeps suggesting going there for lunch! She totally likes him, right?”

“Maybe she just likes their ham rolls,” I reply dully. “They smell alright anyway.” Not like we could afford lunch from the Barnett’s Bakery. She makes a so-so gesture and continues vacillating as I distractedly flick another firebolt into the engine block.

“But she kissed Calvin at the summer festival last year and he’s blonde – Jeremy’s blonde too!” She starts worrying at the leather of the headrest she’s leaning on, something I can totally see the boss blaming on me.

“Look, Amy,” I say, ringing a bell as another passenger waves at me for their stop. “Just ask him out and if your friend has a problem with that, talk it out.” Amy absorbs my wisdom with teary eyes and a runny nose. “Also, this is your stop.”

She nods decisively and hops up from her seat and off the tram. “Thanks Lulu! See you tomorrow!” she calls as she runs off to her shift at the fishmonger. I sigh and rub my eyes, then shoot a firebolt into the engine.

I manage to zone back out as the tram starts to trundle down the hill and last a few minutes before someone raps their knuckle against the wall next to my ear. I start for a moment but settle back when the disturbance turns out to be the next guy on shift, rather than Amy back for more. He drops a bundle of logs and I light the furnace underneath the engine for him. The old lady huffs and finds a seat further towards the front as smoke starts to splutter around us. I politely hold myself back from smirking as my replacement starts feeding wood to the fire – this is why I get paid the big bucks, or I should be anyway.

I hop off as the new guy starts fanning smoke, as best he can, out the window – no zoning out for him. I jog down the length of the tram and collect my pay from the driver – five silver barons and a copper knight.

I jingle the coins in my hand as I wander off, dreaming vaguely of chocolate. After a minute that gets too galling and I shove the money into my pocket. Good thing anyway, I’m literally a poorly timed mugging away from starving to death. With a sigh, I push my way through the market street, following the tram track down the hill towards the docks and trying to remember my shopping list.

O – O – O – O – O

Captain Morgan Temolt rubbed his eyes and took a sip from his mug as cultist number twelve was dragged out of the interrogation room by a couple of guards. That man’s odds weren’t great – what with all the threats and blasphemy. He wasn’t absolutely clear on what they were doing to the captured cultists, but it wasn’t his job to know anyway. Granted, since the promotion he was getting dangerously close, but things weren’t quite that dire just yet.

He reached across the table, picked the recording crystal off of the activation rune and dropped it in a satchel. He checked the roster, squinting in the dim light of the flickering lamp. His new room in the officer’s barracks has a magitech light for the bloody privy, why in Her name did they stick him with a spluttering oil lamp? Intimidation? Surely, he’d have more luck if he could at least see the prisoner clearly.

Morgan drained his mug and scribbled something close to the name on the roster across the satchel, then threw it into a box along with a dozen similarly glowing sacks. He reached down to his side and grabbed a fresh crystal.

“Send the next one in,” he called while he fiddled with the crystal. He’d done it fifteen times today, but the priming seal always seemed to prove difficult. Not for the first time today, he regretted his habit of chewing his nails.

The door opened and a woman wearing the season’s latest convict sackcloth was shoved in. Morgan gestured politely for her to sit and set the crystal aside. The cultist sat down without a word, her bright crimson hair looked like it’d seen better days, but Morgan was in no position to be throwing stones – it still beat his rapidly greying crew cut. He finds his place in the roster and coughs.

“So,” he began, squinting at the name again, “Miss Vanity?”

“Valorie,” muttered the woman dully.

“Right,” he slid a paper across the table, “let’s start with this. Could you confirm these details for me?” She picked the paper up and gave it a glance, her eyebrows creasing as she looked back at him.

“This is Mythic right? How am meant to read this shit?” With opportunity to snark at him she seemed to regain some energy, her stiff-backed posture sinking into a juvenile slouch.

“Good for you,” Morgan said, crossing her name off the roster and starting down a shorter list of questions. “In your own words, what were the goals of your organisation?”

Valorie blinked and her eyes darted back towards the Mythic script. “Um, to dismantle the Empire of Caithurt and return the land to the true teaching of The Mother?” She replied woodenly as if struggling to remember her lines. She’d done well, just missing a few embellishing adjectives that the previous fifteen cultists had included.

“Fair enough,” Morgan said, idly colouring in the loops of the letters on his roster. “And what are you trying to achieve with all the summoned outrealmers being able to read Mythic?” He flicked his eyes up to catch her own.

“They can do what?” There was only confusion reflected back.

“Alright,” he reached for the recording crystal and peeled the seal off, “I’m going to ask some questions now. I want ‘yes sirs’, ‘no sirs’ and ‘praise the empire’. No threats or heresy, and it wouldn’t hurt to sound like you’re crying.” Valorie blinked blankly but nodded. “Excellent. Let’s see if we can’t tone down your execution to a year’s hard labour. Sound good?”

Valorie looked a little green but seemed to catch on quickly – unlike her compatriots. Morgan smiled briefly and clicked the recording crystal into the activation rune and finally starting the interrogation.

Morgan exited the room after another dozen interrogations. Only Valorie had taken the hint and maintained coherency. Half of them had spent the time quoting their homebrew scripture, while the other half tried but couldn’t remember it. It was at the point the Morgan could probably recite it himself – actually, he should probably keep that quiet, for his own good.

He began walking down the corridor before looking up to see a man leaning against a column, waiting for him.

“Captain,” David greeted, a teasing lilt to the word. “Got everything Reynard asked for?”

“David,” Morgan greeted, mostly just thankful that Sir Reynard hadn’t sent one of the less friendly enforcers. “Everything I could. Maybe someone can get something useful out of this mess.”

David smirked and fell in with him. “None of that Morgan, official word says it was a big success,” he grinned as he sauntered down the hallway. “Caithurt got her royal fingers in Havale’s pie and your immediate superior carked it – living the dream Captain.”

Morgan followed after, and chuckled in that special way where he shouldn’t really have bothered.

O – O – O – O – O

A cool breeze comes in from the sea and nicely counteracts all the good work the sun had been doing to get rid of the chill one develops from standing next to a mana engine all day. I wipe my runny nose and brace against another gust of wind. The air smells overwhelmingly of salt and an undercurrent of rotting fish – the kind of thing you’d say is invigorating if you’re a retiree and you’re trying not to regret your recent sea change.

I keep following the tram line down main street and the wind stops just long enough for the sun to disappear being Manor Hill. The coastal town of Kismet has apparently always been some sort of fishing village. A quaint collection of cottages nestled at the base of a cliff. It lasted that way for a while, until some enterprising soul with half a pint of noble blood noticed it, and nature took its course. The first thing they built was a manor right on top of the cliff, the second thing immediately after was the tram. It winds down from Manor hill in a lazy spiral, crawling up and down every day like an indecisive caterpillar. As people have no imagination, everyone just built their houses along the track. On one hand, the resulting wind tunnel lets the whole town experience that salty air – which I’m informed is a selling point. On the other hand, this results in the entire town managing to be entirely hill.

I finally manage to get to the butchers, clutching my side but resolutely ignoring the benches placed at intervals along the street – got to have some self-respect. I take my place in line outside the butcher – a market stall, not a shop, the meat’s cheaper when you’re not subsidizing their building tax. A young mother in front of me walks off, a leg of lamb in one arm and a screaming toddler in the other – the expression on her face tells me that she hasn’t yet decided which of the two should go in the stew tonight. I step up to the counter and the butcher frowns at the sight of me.

“The usual, kid?” I grunt back and he scoops up a few handfuls of stringy offcuts and wraps it in some waxed linen. “For the sake of my soul, I hope you’re feeding this to your dog,” he mutters, handing me the package.

“Yeah, yeah,” it’s not like it’s completely nauseating. “I also need about a pint of blood,” I say as I hand over my precious coins. The butcher doesn’t have the courtesy to look weirded out by the request, I must be losing my edge.

“From any animal in particular?” he asks, looking towards the pre-bottled ducks’ blood with entirely unfounded optimism. I shake my head and hand him a mug which he unceremoniously dunks in a barrel. I take it back gingerly, trying not to look at the chunky soup of butcher refuse floating in my only mug. Whatever, it’ll be worth it.

I stop at the ornate doorway of my next appointment and check my reflection in the polished bronze name plate. My brown roots are definitely showing and look decidedly stupid nestled in amongst the white. It looks terrible, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what went in to the dye I used back home. It might have been bone meal, but I don’t know from what or if that’s relevant. Probably human, let’s be honest.

I take a stick of charcoal from my pocket and grind the end into my palm. Carefully, I dab the charcoal powder around my eyes, fading it out towards my eyebrows. I’m missing the foundation for the sickly pallor, but it gets the point across.

I straighten my shirt, brush back my hair and rap my knuckle smartly against the door. I hear shuffling and quickly school my face as close to professional as possible. A butler opens the door and raises one imperious eyebrow.

“I am here in response to your mistress’ summons,” I intone with every ounce of breeding at my disposal. The butler nods gravely as if I wasn’t just referring to a ‘help wanted’ poster I’d seen in the pub.

“Of course, Lord Magus, the mistress has been anticipating you,” he steps to the side and I step in, spine stiff and nostrils flared – still got it.

He leads me through a fairly nice sitting room and into a corridor. The place has the air of declining nobility – they’ve shamefully begun relying on taste rather than just filling the place with endangered antiques. We reach a non-descript door and find the lady of the house waiting for us. She looks somewhere around middle-aged and nods to me.

“Lord Magus, welcome to my home. Your reputation proceeds you,” it doesn’t. “I thank you for your prompt response and discretion,” her eyes momentarily flash at the last word, obviously why she’s outsourcing this to me – that and I’m cheap.

The butler swings the door open and the smell of human refuse wafts over us like all my worst nightmares.

“I’ll get right to it then,” I manage through watering eyes. The indoor toilet in front of me is mostly clean, but the household must have hit the sweet spot of having been rich enough to build one, but not enough for regular waste disposal. “No connection to the sewers?” I ask, more for the privilege of turning away from the yawning abyss than any real curiosity.

The lady sniffs haughtily on instinct and manages to find the poise necessary to not look like she regrets it. “There is, but a cave-in blocked it. No one has had the time to clear it.” I’m sure time’s the driver there. Kismet is apparently built on top of a network of limestone caves that the city saw as free infrastructure. Most people just drill into the caves and hope the waste finds its way out into the bay. I pull out the blood mug and the rest of the charcoal, then get to work.

Under the watchful eyes of my host and her butler, I stir the charcoal into the blood until I get a paste in the closest approximation of dark ritual red that I can manage. Then, with sweeping, deliberate strokes, I randomly scribble a bunch of half-remembered magic runes in a circle on the ground. When nobody immediately kicks me out for drawing a capacitance rune right next to a portal trigger without any sign of an elemental grounder, I know that I’m safe to continue. I add a bit more geometric nonsense that I kind of remember from my uncles’ summoning arrays and finish it off by drawing a symbol of The Mother which I’d seen in one of Emmet’s books – upside down naturally, for maximum thaumaturgic efficacy.

I take a moment to gauge my audience’s reaction and find the lady of the house staring with the satisfied confidence of a successful investment. The butler is trying not to look sick at all the blood that he’s going to have to clean.

With the theatrics mostly over with, it’s time for me to actually do my job. Like any good aspiring necromancer, I remain incapable of cleaning up messes. Luckily the job advertisement – behind the veil of enforced respectability – was a lightly hysterical plea for someone to deal with this truly diabolical smell. And as any good necromancer, covering up mistakes is well within my wheelhouse.

I take a reluctant deep breath to steady myself, then start channelling mana towards my left hand. While that’s going on I snap the fingers of my right hand. Now, I’ve tried casting two spells at once a couple of times in the past, but I can never seem to manage the dream of dual casting firebolts. I can, however, cast the barely-a-spell purify at the same time as I strategically fail a firebolt.

Like the best of master plans, it’s simple, and relies on my signature moves. As long as I can keep charging both hands long enough, the net result will be complete citrus saturation as well as a suitably convincing flash of light.

I snap my fingers a second time and my fingertips prickle uncomfortably. With the prep work done, I just keep pushing mana as my hands rapidly grow cold and my finger joints start to ache. Once I’ve managed a half-decent mystic glow around my hands, I start putting the finishing touches on this stupid performance.

“Etsmon aerkad i dormansun. Pytris goh vah jurnan vek,” I intone a few lines from one of Uncle Bastian’s demon summoning rituals. I have confidence in my terrible pronunciation and that nothing will come of this – but part of me is starting to regret recycling most of that runic nonsense from the same rituals.

One of my fingernails split down the middle and I take it as a sign to get on with it. Blinking back tears so that it doesn’t ruin my makeup, I swing my arms up and let go. There’s a loud pop and everyone is blinded by an impressive flash of light. Right behind it, with an understated puff, the room fills with the overwhelming smell of lemon peel and ginger.

My vision clears and I turn to face my employer, the both of us standing in a cloud of citrus mist. With the mana I put into that, I’m probably never going to get it totally out of my clothes. Hopefully it’ll hang around here long enough for them to scrape enough money together to hire a professional.

The lady takes a tentative sniff of the air and her eyes glisten with barely restrained tears. I’m rapidly led out of the house, the butler clapping me on the back and the lady oscillating between bouts of gratitude and assurances of her discretion. She presses a delightfully heavy pile of coins into my hand and lets me out the front door.

I check my pay and am greeted by the intoxicating glint of an entire gold royal – not to mention the silver barons beneath it. Definitely worth all the faffing about with the magic circle – can’t have them knowing it could have been a five-minute job.

I turn down the hill and start walking back home. I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window as I pass. I definitely need to wash that off before Evelyn sees it.

O – O – O – O – O

Morgan pushed the heavy doors open and quietly stepped into the chapel. Standing at the pulpit, the archbishop silently conducted a full choir of white-robed youths. The air hummed with the slightly mournful church singing that seemed to be in vogue lately. The pews were mostly empty which naturally prompted the question of what they were doing to warrant the archbishop himself leading a choir in full regalia. Morgan didn’t particularly care, and gave it even odds between an important ceremony, or just because they could. Either way, best to err on the side of invisibility.

He slipped into the front pew and sat, spine straight and silent, waiting for his neighbour to acknowledge him. Sir Reynard sat still, candlelight reflecting softly off his ever-present armour. His eyes were closed and brow slightly creased in calm concentration. He seemed to be listening with rapt attention, entirely more than the choir’s performance warranted in Morgan’s humble opinion. As the silence dragged on, Morgan wondered whether he should at least pretend to look more attentive.

“Do you hear the majesty of the heavens, captain?” Reynard’s soft words cut through the air and shocked Morgan out of his trance. The knight’s eyes were still closed, his face unmoving as if he had never spoken.

“The choir, sir?” He spoke, words hushed and drowning amidst the choral chanting. Reynard opened his eyes as a flicker of disappointment twinged at his brow.

“It is not yet our lot it seems, to feel Her voice,” Reynard continued, his voice low as his eyes stayed fixed on the choir as it began building to the climax. “What I would give for a moment of that clarity,” those eyes traced the candles and polished gold finery, searching for something in the light. “They give so much, but I would give more.” Morgan turned away from Reynard’s face, an odd sense of voyeurism bouncing his gaze towards the singers.

The choir hit the chanting climax of their hymn and the candles in the room flicked as one. The music warbled as someone missed their note and a choir boy collapsed, tumbled down the altar and began seizing on the floor.

Morgan looked on, strangely separate, aware of some great distance between his mind and his limbs. The choir continued on, launching into a refrain as the boy twitched on the red carpet – blood flowing from his ears and disappearing into the fabric. Reynard, however, watched transfixed. The idea of turning away seemed impossible, and Morgan knew that it wasn’t concern etching into the man’s face.

Blood continued to spurt from the boy’s ears, each pulse in time with Morgan’s own heart. The choir’s song slowed, tracing that beat and drawing him further away from himself. At some point the song ended and his pulse echoed softly in the ringing silence. For a single moment his heart stopped beating altogether, just as the final drop of blood fell to the floor.

Morgan let out a loud, shuddering breath and his limbs returned to him. The boy lay dead and the choir dispersed. The archbishop straightened up and descended the pulpit to inspect the boy’s body.

“Dead,” he muttered, turning the boy’s head with his foot. “Take him to the morgue, I want his mind read before we lose too much to rot.” Two imperial soldiers stepped forward and bundled the body up, carrying it out of the room. The archbishop sighed and wandered slowly towards Morgan and Reynard.

“Your worship,” Reynard greeted with a bow. Morgan followed numbly, still feeling vague after whatever had just occurred. The archbishop nodded back.

“The Mother’s voice rings loudly,” he said as if commenting on a particularly inconvenient spell of rain. “That’s the second one we have lost this week.”

“I’ll make sure it reaches the Empress, your worship,” Reynard responded with another bow. The two of them exchanged pleasantries and the archbishop wandered off. Reynard and Morgan stayed sitting in the pew, the room rapidly emptied, leaving the two of them alone with the sound of dripping candlewax. Morgan eventually remembered his original intentions in coming here and broke the silence.

“Sir, my report on the interrogations of the cultists,” he spoke, falling back on a comfortable role. Reynard gave a single distracted nod as he continued staring at the altar. “Not one of the prisoners mentioned decrypting Imperial documents, or seemed at all aware that the outrealmers were capable of reading Mythic.”

Reynard nodded and his eyes flicked to Morgan. “I suspected as much. One wouldn’t go through the theatrics of a cult to finally produce something as practical as a cipher,” he said, “and why summon so many and so frivolously?”

“They don’t seem to have any consistent idea about what the outrealmers are for, sir,” continued Morgan. “Just abstract plans to ‘destroy the empire’ and ‘return to the true teachings of The Mother’.” Morgan stopped as Reynard looked away. “Sir, the group was barely coherent beyond vague platitudes. Without finding their leader, I have no idea how we are meant to figure out what they want.” Reynard waited for him to finish before speaking into the void.

“There has never been a question in regards to their desires – it has always been power. The question, captain, is how they mean to grasp it.” He gestured for Morgan to rise, “the orders remain. Find this Sable, and capture any outrealmers you come across. He’s not stopped the rituals since Havale – he’s waiting for something, and we need to be there when he finds it.”

Morgan saluted and quickly left, heaving the heavy chapel doors open again. Reynard stayed sitting, staring at the red carpet, and the stains it buried.

O – O – O – O – O

The tram lines take advantage of a rare reprieve in Kismet’s incline to give the small industrial quarter a wide berth. I however, have no such luxury and simply hold my breath as I walk past the leatherworker and onto one of the side streets. I take a left at the smithy that specialises in kitchenware, then carefully duck into one of the limestone chutes that honeycomb the town.

This one conveniently tunnels under the tanning workshop and spits you out right in the residential area – assuming this is the right cave opening. I squint to check one of the stalagmites and see the chalk cross I’d left the first time, nestled amongst dozens of similar coloured markings. It’s less embarrassing when everyone’s doing it – and anything’s better than a repeat of last week.

I tread carefully down the passageway, mindful of the stone, worn polished from decades of feet dodging the evening traffic. Someone has thoughtfully laid a few wooden planks out as the chute’s incline levels off and trickles of murky water start to split the floor. I think it’s the dyer’s workshop upstream and it shows in the coloured stains marking furrows in the limestone. I walk over the wooden boards – Gods know what goes into those dyes.

After a stooped over climb, the passage spits me out in a quiet neighbourhood. The shadow of the rocky outcropping above casting the whitewashed houses in a slightly chilly shade. I take another left and pass through a mudbrick fence in front of a squat, two-story apartment. Not wanting to talk to the landlady, I duck behind the staircase and fumble for my key. I unlock a door, set into a mostly mudbrick wall, and quickly enter.

You can see the whole dwelling from the doorway. A small sitting room and a kitchen, divided by a waist high counter. Cramped, basic and home-sweet-home. I shuck off my shoes and step into the kitchen. Rifling through my pockets, I retrieve my earnings, and drop the coins into the money jar sitting on the counter. It’s about a third full – I’ll have to do the sums on that soon.

It’s mostly quiet, save for the faint sound of ironsmiths hammering away in the distance. It’s quite nice really. I fill a pot with water from the well and set it on the stovetop. I slide a few wood chips into the furnace, then add some more – I’d promised Evelyn to boil the water, Gods know why - and snap a firebolt at it.

While the water heats up, I chop an onion and a few potatoes. With a flick, I coat another pan in conjured grease and the vegetables start cooking. I unwrap the waxed linen and wince at the stringy bootstraps they call meat around here – dog food indeed.

With another pulse of magic, I think spongey thoughts, and throw the softening meat into the frying pan. Spongey isn’t any great textural improvement over leathery, but hopefully that convinces it to soak up some flavour.

The onions start to brown and I pour the lot of it into the boiling water. I watch the meat bend elastically around the potatoes as they tumble around in the bubbling pot and try not to think about the hours of studying that have culminating in making barley passable beef stew.

I stir the stew with a spoon and give it a taste. Definitely needs some salt.