A knock at the door. Skinner bolted from thick slumber. His dreams had moved on from the bioluminescent jellies and cephalopods and back to old Fetterstone, that titan of stone and metal always at his back. He'd been dreaming that he was in the firing line in those prison yards—and not as one of the poor souls fated to die as he would expect... but as an executioner. He had been aiming down the crossbow's sight into the heart of the condemned and was on the very cusp of pulling his trigger when the knock came from the waking world and stirred him from the paralyzing grip of Mother Sleep (whose groom, so claimed the Book of Woe, was Father Death, the ferryman of souls who navigated the endless black oceans between the stars).

Skinner blinked, disoriented. Where was he? Not his cell. The light was so bright. Memories came flooding back in. Warden Hotch's bargain. Blood for freedom. His long walk through the slums of Camshire and into the Guts. He was hot and grimy with sweat and dirt and his mouth was full of cottonous stink. The sun beamed brightly through the inn's window. How long had he slept? He reached over and picked up his mead, untouched beyond that first sip, and brought it splashing to his lips. It was too warm and already stale but he gulped it down just as well and wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. The convict rolled out of bed and went to the door and flung it open just in time to see the broad back of a hatted man who thumped down the constrained stairway. Was this the knocker? "Church!" Skinner called out. The stranger did not stop. Gone into the parlor below.

Skinner stepped into the hall and followed. He could hear the giggling of a woman from a closed door and thought, yes, after this matter with Church was handled a visit to the nanny shop would be the next order of business. He descended the stairs to find the barroom still busy even as midday approached. Drinking went 'round the clock in the Guts till the clock struck dead. The slanted boozehouse was dim. Ratty shades pulled down over the windows blocked much of the sunlight. The wide man went out the front door and disappeared into the blinding day. Skinner rushed to follow him until a voice called out from the gloom to his side: "Skinner. Over here."

Skinner turned and squinted. A man was seated in a corner barely kissed by light. His face was difficult to distinguish in the dusty haze. "You Church?" Skinner asked as he approached and pulled up a seat.

The man nodded. A claw-headed cane was hooked on the arm of his chair. He had a moustache, Skinner could now see. Dark, combed hair. But despite his prim appearance Church clearly had a rough past. Nose broken and healed over. A couple light scars on his cheek and neck. Maybe a former soldier. Maybe just some dressed-up thug. Maybe both. It hurt to look too long at his face. Skinner felt hungover though he had barely a sip of that rotgut. He thumbed the door. "And who was the other blood?"

Church held out a rolled cigarette for Skinner who took it. The repeater looked at the other patrons as Church lit him up. All minded their own. Surely this place was chosen for that and many other good reasons. Some of these bloods might be on Warden Hotch's payroll. Perhaps all of them. Skinner took a drag and instantly his fingers and ears tingled. Smoking was another pleasure he'd been denied for too long. Perhaps in less secure parts of Fetterstone an inmate could get his hands on some dryleaf or dogweed but not in Skinner's particular hole.

Church fished out another smoke for himself. "First and foremost you are not to speak your employer's name. Never again in all your life." He lit his cigarette and took a drag. The man had a very casual way about him. It was clear he gave not an atom of a damn. "I have some instructions for you." Church reached into a pocket and produced an envelope which he set on the table and slid over to Skinner.

Skinner picked it up and felt a small dense object within. He dumped the contents onto the table. Charcoal, flaking with dust, some false identification papers ('Thorm Deeks,' laborer) and a folded blank sheet.

"You're to write down what I say," Church said, puffing on his cigarette.

Skinner frowned. "What makes you so sure I can write?"

"You can." Church flicked his ashes. "Or is it only when in another's man's hand?"

Skinner sneered and pulled the blank paper closer. Of course they would know he was a novice forger. His employer was Warden Hotch himself. All his crimes were theirs to scrutinize. "I'm a bit rusty. N'got the shakes. Can't say it'll be legible."

"Long as you can read it. Our communications are all to be verbal, from my mouth to your ear and no other in between. For our deniability, should you be caught. If you don't want to write it all down, fine. But I hope your memory is good. For your own sake."

Skinner picked up the charcoal. "Rattle yer jaw."

"The most recent known kidnapping was two nights ago, at the intersection of Ashe and Broodwich." Skinner scribbled as Church spoke. "There a little girl named Georgene Mautte was reportedly abducted by a cloaked figure that vanished into the night. About a week ago a boy named Jarid who worked odd jobs at the Hookyard docks was also noticed to be missing."

Church gave Skinner a moment to catch up in his writing and puffed his stem of croakweed and observed the repeater's scurrying hand that had become so withered and paled by Fetterstone. The other patrons looked over suspiciously. Any kind of writing these days was a feared thing. For all they knew it could be a sorcerer there at that table scrawling runes that would send all those around him to oblivion or charm them into drooling sex-slaves or turn them all into pink chickens.

"You're to look into the disappearance of a deaf child named Soren who assisted at the coffinmaker's shop on Gruel Row. Some of the missing youths frequented the underpass of Beggar Bridge, but most of them hailed from Mother Blacklove."

Skinner looked up at the sound of those familiar syllables.

"We know you spent some time in that home as a boy," said Church, "It's partly why you were selected for this, in the hopes you have some contact there. Special access, as it were."

"So you bloods know all about me," said Skinner. "But who the knives are you?"

Church ignored the question. "Many other children have vanished but those leads are the freshest. They should be enough for you to start with. Keep your profile low. Only use the name we have provided you. Stay away from the law. If you're blown before finishing this out, we will deny any involvement and claim you'd simply escaped the prison. The Diluvians will throw you back in Fetterstone and I don't have to tell you who runs that house. Nor what happens next. You are not under any circumstances to return to your old apartment. And do not go carousing with your old waghalter buddies or do anything outside the needs of this mission until you deliver us the fiend warm or cold. We will be watching and will not hesitate to erase you from the book of life if we catch wind of any chicanery."

"Y'got me all sweet an' weepy," Skinner folded up his scrawlings and put them in a pocket. "Anythin' else, chief?"

"If you need to contact us leave a message at this bar." Church unhooked his cane from the chair and turned to go.

"Wait," said Skinner. "Gonna need more actual."

Church smirked at Skinner's audacity. The man had knuckers. "Ask no adds, repeater. We gave you enough money to buy yourself some grub and maybe fetch a set of new boots. You get the rest of the bounty when the killer's stopped."

"Don't need much," Skinner said. "Just some extra chink to pry lips with."

"You have other ways." With this Church limped for the door on his taloned cane and went into the street. The middleman had a quality about him that appeared to blur the mind and memory and Skinner wondered if some veiled sorcery was at work. If so, it was a bold risk. The Diluvians did things to practitioners that would make a hobgoblin sing.

Skinner looked down at his smudged scrawlings and began to plot his path through the city's low streets from landmark to landmark in this morbid chase. He would start with the closest scene, in the Hookyards, involving the case of the missing boy Jarid. Charcoal-stained thumb tracing that scarred palm, the repeater's head swam in exhilaration at the idea of setting out on this unexpected adventure of intrigue and unravelings. And so recently he had worried that he might never see the outside of those prison walls again.

— • —

"While the rest of the empire has been occupied with infighting," said Phus, "it is Ixhalal who has been the spiritual leader driving our push into human lands."

Phus sat with his guest Tecneli in the emissary's unadorned suite. A jar of live spiders for the eating sat on the table between them. A tray of assorted needles and pins. "It is the Blind Prophet who will be remembered when the war is won," Phus continued. "Not set-Satemi. Not the Gluttons. Not those who scramble to claim the throne. Ixhalal is the voice of Xul himself, destined for history. All else is sand."

Tecneli needled his calloused skin with a bonepick. "I am with the Prophet, you know this. We suffer for the same god. But I fear set-Satemi and his sort have lost their way. They have become part of a machine that has made this struggle more about conquest and power than fulfilling the desires of our god or seeking salvation."

"That is unfortunate to hear," Phus lied. It seemed he perhaps had more in common with The Soother than with Tecneli. He could possibly find an ally in set-Satemi after all. Ironic that Phus' association with Ixhalal was likely the very thing that distanced the chief painsmith from him. This was something to ponder later. At the moment Phus was more interested in those like Tecneli. The faithful, easily controlled as long as they believed the emissary spoke for their revered Blind Prophet.

Tecneli removed the jar's lid and pierced a spider with his pick. Put the twitching thing in his mouth. Savored its sharp bite on his tongue before crushing the creature between his teeth. "Some question the Prophet. Perhaps they are uncomfortable with his power among the people, and those who would die for him. I assure you... I am one such believer, as you are. But we must walk a careful path among those who may doubt us."

Phus noted the irony. He'd walked such a path all his life but for the inverse cause, forced to disguise his nihilism and faithlessness and pretend to embrace the religion of his people out of fear of what the barbaric zealots would do to him if he were exposed as an apostate. No one of any station was able to escape the unforgivable stain of blasphemy, not even the Gluttons and Justicars themselves. To be discovered as a nonbeliever would be a horrible fate that Phus preferred not to ponder. The painsmiths knew how to stretch a death for weeks and more. He'd already once been challenged years ago and resorted to slicing off his own nose in the Court of Khasarem to prove his piousness when rumors had surfaced that he was an infidel. The jagged cavity still stood as a symbol of Phus' devotion to this day. A sort of badge that served him well in convincing others of his fidelity to the sun lord. He continued down this road of untruths, manipulating and fooling others until he landed at the side of the Blind Prophet himself. A secret heretic with no shred of faith now among the scion's most trusted circle. How many more were there like himself and, purportedly, set-Satemi? Those who truly did not believe, or at least had doubts? Could they all somehow signal other like minds and unite themselves? Push out the despots and fanatics in favor of a more calculated and orderly empire? They could forge a true modern Nation to rival that of the humans. Or even achieve the fabled sophistication of the djinn. They could be a people of science and knowledge instead of the savages they were today. But the battle to see that vision to its fruition was harder won than even the physical wars that now waged beyond Xul's Fall.

"The Prophet sent me to Thajh for many purposes," said Phus, continuing his charade as spokesman for the glorified leader. "One of my tasks was to claim the captive Reapers, as you know. Another more secret goal, for the ears of only a select few... is to build a Reaper team of our own."

Tecneli ceased the picking of his scabs. "Our own Reapers..." He was hooked by the notion and his excitement grew as the emissary went on.

"Consider the possibilities," said Phus as he looked out on the city's steep spires. The ritualists' hysterical cries sang across the night as a backdrop to his nefarious pitch. "We must learn to think like our enemies. Use their best strategies against them. Plan as they do. Train as they do. Execute as they do. We have taken Reaper weapons. Studied their tactics. With such a force we could cut down their leaders from the shadows of their cities and their forts. The views of the Blind One who Sees All are as fluid and ever-shifting as the sands when it comes to our crusade against man. He understands that our opposing armies can grind this conflict out for years. But with a tool such as this we can strike at the very heart of the enemy, far beyond the front lines... target their most beloved leaders and holy men, and even their artists and play-actors in a bid to terrorize their people and break their resolve. Ixhalal saw a role for you in this, Tecneli. You were part of Yanhamu's so-called Mankillers. The only survivor of which we are aware, thanks to the Reapers. This is a chance to avenge your fallen comrades."

The leathery faces on Tecneli's robe creaked as he leaned forward. "The Prophet wishes that I serve on this team?"

"Indeed," said Phus. "Perhaps even lead them. I do know that it would greatly please the Blind Seer if you were to make use of your special access in these halls to carry out one certain crucial deed. It would mean much to him. And your future."

Tecneli resumed his attentions to his scabs. "It's not within my power to hand the Reaper captive over to you. Only set-Satemi has the authority. And he does not answer to me."

"I do not need you to deliver the Reaper to me." Phus said. "It will be enough to simply slay him."

"This is the will of Ixhalal?" said Tecneli. "By his own mouth?"

Phus nodded. "And thus the words of Xul himself."

Tecneli stood and gathered his heinous robes. "Then consider it done."

— • —

"Why did you kill me, Reaper?"

"I did not. It was the sword."

"Drawn by your hand. Monster. A sword does not kill people. People kill—"

"It guided my actions," Halo said into the zeroscape of his psychic prison. "It controls me."

"I showed you hospitality," the hermit lamented in voice alone, for he had no more body to command. "I made you my guest. And you repay me with death? This is why I chose to shun society so long ago. This goddamn meanness."

"Forgive me. Please."

Halo's eyes shot open in the dark and he felt as if he might tumble into the constellations above. The wayward Reaper was at camp, alone in the vociferous wastes. His hand grasped something so tightly his arm ached to its bone. It was of course the vampiric sword. The old Hermit of the Shell was trapped in that cursed thing now, along with all the others. Halo tried to pry his hand away but the weapon would not let his fingers unclench. He was arcanely fused to the cold metal, held in its diabolical grip.

The august emperor within the ancient phylactery hushed Halo's restless soul. "Soon it will all be over, Reaper," promised old Rattanak, speaking from some place deep in the Reaper's mind. "I need your legs to carry me to the sacred places I seek. There are fonts of knowledge I must drink from, black wells of thought in the squirming brains of exiles and oracles. And then I give you my undying word... I will set you free."