“That’s the second or third time I’ve seen that dog,” Ash remarked.

The scruffy three-legged mutt – the same one from the night market; this time I was sure of it – was slumbering peacefully outside our railcar, stretched out luxuriously along the train tracks. When we clattered down the steps, it lifted its head and stared at us alertly, ready to bound over at the first whiff of food.

What was the point of disguises if people could identify me by the distinctive dog that followed me around? I shook my head at it fiercely. “Go away! Scram!”

Having ascertained that we carried no breakfast, the mutt closed its eyes again and started to snore. Undignified, but it would do.

To Ash, I sniffed, “The dogs here are so ugly. Back home, we always kept desert salukis.”

Too late, I realized what I’d let slip. Well, maybe it could be interpreted as a general sort of “we,” as in “we, my fellow countrymen,” versus “we, my family.”

Luckily, Ash came from Tycheros, not Iruvia. “I’ve never seen a desert saluki. What do they look like?” he asked curiously.

“The Iruvian desert saluki is a hunting dog descended from the sighthounds bred by nomadic tribes,” I recited, trying to drown him in natural history. “It has a long, narrow head, slender body, and very long legs. Its short, silky fur ranges from cream to golden-brown – the colors of the sand pre-Cataclysm – which presumably provided camouflage on hunts, although of course there’s no way to test the hypothesis.” I glared at the mutt’s matted greyish-brownish hog-like bristles.

“That sounds nice.” To my relief, Ash spoke absently, his attention already shifting to the task at hand.

The two of us were on our way to the Bank of Doskvol, which owned and sold debt collection rights, to investigate Helene’s hapless patrons (and potential enemies). Faith had declined to join us, sending us off with an airy, “I wish you the best!” which I’d taken to mean that she found account books significantly less appealing than Whisper-y nonsense, especially when she wasn’t getting paid.

“Gambling is heavily regulated in Doskvol, of course,” Ash lectured as we strode towards Charterhall. “Obviously, the government needs to take its cut. But that presents an opportunity for us, because the Bank of Doskvol ultimately owns all gambling debts and sells them along with other types of debt as CDO’s, or collateralized debt obligations. By law, the bank is required to provide detailed information to investors.”

“So what are we looking for?” I asked. “We’re not actually buying anyone’s debt, are we?”

“No, no. Well, maybe. It depends. Maybe if we find something interesting. How much do you know about Helene? She’s a very capable woman, and her casino is profitable – or can be made so. Gambling is all about risk management.”

But Helene’s competence didn’t explain why we were investigating her debtors, and I said as much.

Ash exclaimed, “It’s embarrassing for a successful guild of our profession to operate out of a railcar! We will ruin Helene, take over the Silver Stag, and install one of her enemies to act as our public face.”

Not to mention generate a steady source of revenue for the crew, against the day Irimina’s funds ran out. “I’m entirely okay with owning a casino where the odds are always in our favor.”

“Not always in our favor,” Ash corrected swiftly. “If the house always wins, no one will come.”

And that was why we left supervision of business ventures to him.

The Bank of Doskvol turned out to be an imposing edifice with stone lions that guarded the steps leading up to a marble portico. In our respectable business suits, we passed right by the doorman and security guards and quickly talked our way into a private back room, where an obsequious clerk brought us the account books of all Silver Stag debtors. Over the course of the morning, we learned that Helene did not lack for victims who owed vast sums. With uncharacteristic emotion, Ash cycled between righteous rage at people who gambled when they were so obviously terrible at “risk management,” elation at the thought of cheating someone out of twenty coin, and depression that Helene got it instead of him.

“I haven’t seen anyone connected to the City Council. Have you?” he asked me.

“No.” In fact, most of the accounts belonged to the second tier of Doskvolian aristocracy. The names of the Bowmores, Clellands, Strangfords, and Dunvilles were conspicuously absent. With my finger, I traced the spines of a stack of books, each tidily inked with the debtor’s full name. “Look – it’s mostly the younger children of noble families.” Since the eldest children inherited the family estates and businesses, the spoiled younger darlings were left to while away their time at the gambling tables. I pulled out and opened the one labeled “Roethe Kinclaith.” “Hmmm, Irimina’s brother doesn’t actually owe that much,” I remarked, revising my assessment of Kinclaith finances.

“But one Brannon Keel does. Just look at that!” Ash heaved a book in front of me.

“Ye gods!” I gasped, running my finger down the dates and columns of numbers bloated by compound interest. “That’s one of Irimina’s friends! Brannon is – ” I searched my memories – “he is the third son of Lord Keel.”

Scanning the figures with a practiced eye, Ash pronounced, “This looks off. I think he’s being cheated out of his money. Helene must have tricked him somehow….” His voice trailed off as he scoured Brannon’s accounts. Then he shut the book with a decisive snap. “All right, I have everything we need. I’m going to talk to my mother now. Do you mind if I leave you here?”

Not at all. “I’m due at the sword academy anyway,” I told him, somewhat disingenuously. My class wasn’t until later in the afternoon, but Ash didn’t know that.

Unfortunately, although I tailed him to his mother’s Nightmarket townhouse, I couldn’t think of a way to infiltrate it and could only watch through a window as he vanished into the basement. Ah, well. Time to go terrorize my students.

After a thoroughly infuriating lesson in which I tried to teach them new parry-riposte skills, only to discover that they’d forgotten everything I drilled into them last week, I dismissed my class in disgust and ran upstairs to talk to Mylera. The head of the Red Sashes operated out of the mansion’s main study, which had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall, recessed electroplasmic lights in the ceiling, and red silk hangings everywhere, of course. The office door was shut, indicating that she was busy, but I rapped anyway.

“Mylera?” I called through the wood.

“Oh, Glass! Come in!” her voice called back. Little clinking noises drifted through the door, and by the time I stepped into the office, Mylera was already grinding coffee beans (reasonably high quality, imported from Iruvia). “Please, have a seat.” Her hands full with the coffee mill, she jerked her head at one of the upholstered chairs in front of her desk.

With her bronze skin, deep brown eyes, and glossy black hair, Mylera Klev looked much more Iruvian than I. She’d inherited the proud, arched nose of House Ankhayat, of which she’d been a member before a Mysterious Family Dispute. In the aftermath, she’d either disowned herself or been disowned but permitted to claim that she disowned herself to save face, and stormed off to Doskvol for a life of crime. Despite my best efforts, I’d never managed to extract the details of her exile, although the more romantically inclined whispered that she’d been involved with an unsuitable man, while the conspiracy theorists alleged that she’d personally caused the collision and sinking of two leviathan hunters from Houses Ankhayat and Ankhuset. (Whatever the truth of that matter, Houses Anixis and Anserekh rapidly brokered a truce and strenuously suppressed all details of the incident. An inter-House war would tear the Iruvian fleet apart and force us to import leviathan blood from the rest of the Imperium, serving only Akorosi designs. However, into this vacuum of hard facts, bored gossips spouted all kinds of rumors.) Regardless of how or why she’d come to Doskvol, Mylera knew all about family issues and banishment, self-imposed or otherwise, and generally treated me with empathy.

Also, she thought she knew my true identity.

“So,” she asked conversationally, “how are things with the family?” Handing me an artistically chunky earthenware mug imported from Iruvia, she sank into her own chair with a second mug.

Taking an appreciative sip of the coffee – which was really quite good – I glanced around her office, taking stock of her art collection, which included a delicate porcelain statue of She Who Slays in Darkness that occupied pride of place on her desk, and noting that nothing had changed since last week.

In answer to her question, I shrugged expressively. Mylera knew perfectly well that I had no contact with my family and every intention of keeping it that way.

“And how are the beginners coming along?” she inquired.

I briefly summarized their progress (or lack thereof), detailing the exercises I’d covered in the past two weeks.

Obviously, Mylera shared my opinion of their learning speed. She frowned at my report. “I’d hoped they would be further along by now.”

“Well, they try, but you know….”

She sighed and completed my thought: “But nobles are naturally lazy.” She gave me a wink, hinting at what she thought was our little secret. “We need to find a way to motivate them.”

The oil painting of a great Iruvian naval battle that loomed behind her desk gave me an idea. “We could organize a schoolwide fight,” I suggested. “With live blades to up the stakes.”

“Hmmm….” She mulled it over for a moment, perhaps contemplating how to placate the irate parents of stabbed students. “That would certainly provide motivation. I’ll organize something.” Educational concerns out of the way, the head of the Red Sashes leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on her desk, and asked meaningfully, “So, what do you have for me this time, Glass?”

Ironically, in order to maintain my credibility as a double agent, both she and Bazso prepared partially accurate intelligence for me to convey to the other every week. Now I fed her Bazso’s innocuous report – and then took a gamble. After all, as Ash would say, it was all about risk management, wasn’t it?

Quietly, I told her, “The Lampblacks caught a docker sabotaging their activities. A docker with a bee tattoo.” Mylera went still, much as Bazso had when Pickett slammed the man onto the table and yanked down his collar. “He confessed that the Hive plans to either drive the Lampblacks and Red Sashes out of the Docks – or make both of you pay tribute.”

“Us,” she corrected me absently, tapping her fingers on her desk as she processed the information. “They want to make us pay tribute. Well. That does explain why I’ve seen an increasing number of crates marked with bees at the Docks.”

“You have?” I probed cautiously. “Do you know what’s in them?”

“Probably drugs. The Hive makes profit any way it can. I wonder if Lyssa knows about this,” she mused, naming the newly-minted leader of the Crows.

“I don’t know. I can find out,” I offered.

Mylera immediately shook her head. “Never mind, it’s not important. The Crows aren’t what they used to be.” Grimly, she declared, “It’s time for us to shore up our defenses.”

Here was my chance. I sat up straight.

“You’re going to hate this, but hear me out,” I said intensely. Mylera regarded me impassively, which I interpreted as encouragement or at least permission to continue. “Do you remember that time, just after Iruvia joined the Imperium, when Akorosian senators insisted that we give up our standing army as a sign of good faith? In order to defend our interests, Houses Ankhayat and Ankhuset set aside their differences and outmaneuvered the Akorosi together.”

“I don’t like where you’re going with this, Glass,” she warned.

I persisted anyway. “Independently, the Red Sashes and Lampblacks are no match for the Hive. But together, you can stave it off….”

Mylera stared sternly at me until I stopped talking. “Even if I were willing,” she pointed out in a clipped tone, “Bazso would never go for it.”

“I’ll work on him,” I promised confidently.

She smirked, hinting at what she thought was my background. “I’ll think about it,” she said at last.

“But it makes sense – ”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” she told me flatly and, sipping her coffee, lapsed into silence.

But the day wasn’t over yet. As I lay in my railcar bunk bed late that night, drifting halfway between waking and dreaming, a voice addressed me. Granddaughter, a word?

Mmmm? I asked drowsily.

I can’t help but feel that you’re getting sidetracked by these Akorosi concerns. I’m disappointed in you. There are larger things afoot. Have you been paying any attention to relations between Iruvia and Akoros? Or have you been too focused on Crow’s Foot?

My dream-self blushed.

A job will come your way. You should take it.

I’ll decide for myself, I told the voice.

It is not in either of our interests to let happen what will certainly come to pass should you neglect your duty.

I’ll judge that for myself, I informed it defiantly, and then, quoting Mylera: I’ll take it under advisement.

For a moment, wisps of smoke circled my head in frustration, as if searching for something. But then they evaporated into nothingness and I fell fast asleep.

The next morning, I woke with a hazy memory of a conversation about current events and the conviction that I needed to learn more about Iruvian-Akorosi relations. In the archives in Charterhall, I scoured old newspapers for any relevant articles. Last week, the frontpages were all screaming about Merrick Dillingham’s death. Naturally, the North Hook Gazette focused on the impact on business at Gaddoc Rail and mentioned an Iruvian connection only as a footnote. The Dockside Telegraph, on the other hand, ran hysterical headline after hysterical headline about how demons from Iruvia had invaded Akoros and were murdering citizens in the very streets of Doskvol! Reading between the lines of more recent Gazette articles, I found hints of general dissatisfaction among Akorosi merchants over how Iruvia acted like a sovereign nation still and denied them free access to U’Duashan markets. Taken together, all the newspapers conveyed a sense of deep unease in Doskvol.

After considering matters, I began to approach and recruit Iruvian Consulate employees, particularly the cleaning staff whom no one ever noticed but who saw and heard everything. Pleased at being treated like human beings for once, they told me that Elstera Avrathi had been working particularly long hours of late. In addition, the volume of her letters had increased drastically, suggesting that she’d gone into crisis mode after the Gualim affair.

My new agents also promised to keep an eye out for him and alert me if they saw anyone so distinctive, but given his penchant for disguises, I wasn’t overly optimistic.

A new job offer soon interrupted my fretting anyway. In much the same way that the Lampblacks handled my personal correspondence, the Lost accepted and delivered the crew’s mail. One of their younger scoundrels showed up at the railcar with a cheery, “Letter for you!” She handed it to us, waved at the mutt, which eyed her curiously, and ran off.

Opening the aggressively nondescript envelope, we found a stilted note penned in aggressively nondescript handwriting. For the benefit of Faith, who declined to stand up and walk across the room, Ash read out loud: “Two individuals would like to discuss a matter of some sensitivity….”

I rolled my eyes. These “two individuals” sounded like amateurs plagiarizing a penny dreadful. “Well, they’ve obviously never hired assass – ” Ash cleared his throat – “I mean, guildmembers of our profession before.”

“They do seem desperate,” he observed. “They’ve suggested rendezvousing in a café in Silkshore. What do you want to do about this?”

A vague memory stirred, of bedtime whispers and wispy smoke – and something about a job and duty and Iruvian interests and my intention to judge for myself. I feigned casualness. “Can’t hurt to find out more, right?”

The three of us showed up to the appointed café at the appointed time, but before we went inside, I surveyed it thoroughly to forestall any ambush attempts. Located on a shadowy side street on the edge of Silkshore, Prufrock Coffee & Tea provided a discreet place for illicit trysts. Through a grimy side window, I noted the overall darkness of the interior and the high booth backs that hid the patrons’ faces.

“It looks clean,” I reported to Faith and Ash.

All things considered, Prufrock wasn’t a bad meeting place for a couple of amateurs and the scoundrels they hoped to engage. Accustomed to assignations, the wait staff swiftly and discreetly ascertained the purpose of our visit and ushered us to a booth at the very back of the room.

At our approach, two young Iruvian gentlemen rose politely to their feet.

To my shock, I recognized one of them.

He was Vaati Zayana, my student at the Red Sash Sword Academy.