2

Golden fireblooms lined the path to the summit. Every hundred feet there hung an orange banner covered in bold, white text. TWELVE MILLION AMBLERS LEASED, one screamed.

The rising gale pinned Sam against the cliff. Refrigeration units chugged away at every turn, offering alcoves of cold air, but they were full of pyros who had returned earlier than they did. A flag featuring a cartoon skeleton filling up its canteen billowed atop a concrete pagoda. Under the eaves were a hundred pyros, sleeping, lounging, cleaning their harnesses. They waved at their approaching colleagues, and ignored Sam.

Her team seemed happy to stay. Sam pushed on alone, stumbling over the flowers. It was not a long fall to the bottom of the hill, only three hundred feet or so. The world below has turned into a sea of fire. Beneath the shadow of the Pillar, only a dozen concrete husks remained of a Floor that once housed a hundred thousand people.

Two senior pyros waited at the summit with name tags. They wore pristine robes and flame-patterned leather mask with perhaps one speck of dust between them. “House of Dawn,” one said. “One apprentice.”

“Leave us,” said the other. He waited until his colleague was out of earshot. “My name is Jack. Second Progenitor of the Guild of Combustion, Senior Coordinator of Field Operations, and Head Liaison with the House of Solutions.”

“Sam,” said Sam.

“You’re cute,” he said. “House of Dawn? I thought Maestro Cowen had his giant.”

“Her name is Lucia.”

The pyro played with Sam’s tag. “Necromancy is an admirable career. In a few years you might be giving me orders,” he laughed. “You have a boyfriend?”

Hysterical screaming did not seem an appropriate response, so Sam said nothing.

“Is this your first Ritual of Mass Resurrection? It is magical. All that Green, coming out of their fingertips. The Maestros are…something else.”

“No,” said Sam.

The pyro’s pupils shrunk as if struck by light, the whites turning so bloodshot they almost bled. “No what?”

“Not my first Ritual.”

The pyro grabbed her hand, and Sam had to lean close. “Because I like you, Sam of the House of Dawn, I will give you the best advice of your life: a man – or indeed a woman – can learn to enjoy anything, given the appropriate incentives. The next time I speak to you, I want you to express that enjoyment to me with a big smile and an abundance of delightful conversation.” He pinned the name tag onto Sam’s collar. “What say you we get better acquainted at the party?”

“I’m late for debrief.”

He pulled at Sam’s collar until it was crooked. “Better get going then, but if I find out…oh.”

Sam looked up and saw Lucia at the summit, her trenchcoat billowing in the heat, the long ends of her blindfold fluttering like wings. At eight feet tall, there was no mistaking her for anyone else.

Sam left the pyro behind and climbed the final stretch in a jog. She rubbed her hands until the skin was raw. Lucia pulled her onto the landing, lifting Sam as if she were a child.

The summit was ablaze with noise. Two hundred guild alchemists schmoozed under a row of silken marquees, drinking cold cider, feeding from a triple-tiered buffet. The pyromancers wore red-on-white, the preservers silver-grey, among two dozen colour schemes Sam could not name.

The Necromantic Houses had their own marquee. Nine out of ten wore the eye-watering orange of the House of Solutions. Only one other wore gold-on-black: Maestro James Cowen lodged on the far side of the clearing, standing out like a blot of ink.