Reaper Team 3 humped toward the location provided to them by Merek. There was disappointment among them that the only captive held by the sandmen at their destination wasn't a true Reaper at all, but instead the recruit Addison who had failed in his first outer mission. Blacwin considered confessing to Nail about his abandoning Addison and Merek and Barnibus in the desert. Did it matter now, anyway? He couldn't be sure how such a thing fit into his leader's antiquated code. Blacwin had endangered the lives of his comrades. He had been a deserter. The rulebooks permitted execution for such crimes. He decided instead to wait and be ready to defend himself if the story of his earlier desertion ever came to light. He had since that occasion shone as a Reaper. Perhaps that would mean something. And if not, he would be ready to fight and run if he must. He would be happy to be done with these endless conflicts forever. Blacwin was already fatigued by a life spent contending with aggressors. Every side seemed forever determined to clash over resource or dogma. Each tribe and person bent on besting the other. All crabs in a well, clawing for the light whether that beacon be riches or god or power. The Reapers spoke on runecraft as they walked. Merek had promised they would face it in their raid on the wasters.

"Is sorcery always such a horrible thing?" pondered Jasha. "Couldn't it, say... be made to infect peoples' minds with pacifism? Cast a spell that sweeps the world like a wave and charms every warrior to lay down his arms and embrace his foe?"

"I wish it were so, brother," said Riddle as they humped in tandem through the haggard terrain of ashy earth and dead grasses. "But in the end, the Black Science corrupts all. Have I told you of my grandfather? Ignalio served among the paladins of Toloy. His order, the Brothers of Mebish, and others like it tried to strike such a balance, using sorcery for righteousness and justice only, and not for personal gain. Every one of them eventually fell to the art. Sorcery rots the mind, unfailingly. Twists the soul. There is something about the runery that causes knots in the ether, a radiation that pervades all around them. There are wards to counteract and slow this, but they are not perfect. My grandfather and his Brothers took oaths... as soon as they felt the entropy take hold, they were to end their own lives on the spot. That drastic measure was the only way to halt the decay's advance once it took root. Suicide was the only sure escape from eventual madness, loss of self, a descent into chaos that threatened all around you. No one man should have that power. Look at every society magery has touched. The Khrem, the hobgoblins' old shattered empire, the fall of Yoglunus. As much as I may disagree with the Diluvians, they were right to outlaw its use. I became a rune man and a Reaper to help keep things that way, after seeing what happened to my father's father. Yes, old Ignalio was a powerful warrior thanks to his supposed 'holy runes'—but it was not worth that price. Never should we tamper with those ruinous forces."

— • —

Jinx had stolen many a heart in his younger years, leaving behind a trail of broken oaths (fiery Yasmin was the one his mind returned to the most), before his dark study of the tome became his new obsession. And now his own heart had been hijacked too, but not by love. By runery. Still his inner breast twinged with each throb. He could not be sure if the pain was true or some phantasm conjured by his distressed mind. Jinx had no way of knowing if Wral's statements were lies or truth, whether his heart had indeed been runed. Still, he moved with care across the immense square outside the Triad to avoid laboring the organ too much and finding out, at the cost of his life, it indeed had been compromised.

He'd been in the Halls of Theory when the blast hit the city the previous night, searching through the vast collection of tomes and scrolls and tablets for any sign of the curse that had been placed on him. This complex held the largest known libraries on the continent (though the rakshasa across the sea were said to keep archival vaults so immense that they were themselves almost cities). No person was given access to arcane writings or materials outside the tightly-controlled halls of the Triad, but there were often hints to be found in the old histories and folktales. Perhaps there were some past tales that told of runed hearts and the ways to break their bond and power. Jinx also read all that he could about his new masters, the Inquisitors. It was their charge to eradicate sorcery but Wral had violated that sworn duty for his own aims. Was he a lone operator, or were all the Inquisitors rotten? Wral had mentioned others whom he served. Did he mean the Inquisitors, the Diluvians? Or some other cabal of schemers?

If they indeed could track Jinx's movements with their runes, they would know he was in those halls of erudition. But that was no unusual place for a rune man. Jinx no longer had the codex to delve into deep in the night, and he had to occupy his mind with something in those long sleepless hours. He discovered little of use. He became intimate with the history of the Inquisitors, learned of their ancient origins under other names like 'the Serathu' and the 'Vision of Char' and read of their reinvention by the Diluvians after the overthrow of the monarchy and the Arcanum's antisorcerous mandates.

An unexplained blast shook the library. The shelves swayed in the aftershocks. Jinx had to step back to avoid being struck by the falling books. He met other astonished officers and scholars in the street outside and they discussed theories on what had shaken the city. Columns of smoke rose in the distance. The blast had been on the other side of Camshire, yet still it had fractured the library's walls and tossed books from its shelves like leaves from autumnal trees.

A commander and his armed band made their way down the avenue, ordering all Nation men in service to report to their superior officers immediately for instruction. The situation was under control, the ranking officer assured. All would be explained. Jinx and the others said their goodbyes and went toward their stations as commanded.

And now he stood before the doors of the Triad. His commanding officer Petronax waited within, but at the sight of the commotion at those gates over which the Shield was emblazoned Jinx felt a painful shock in his chest. He did not know if it was a signal sent by his new masters or a physical effect of the shock he felt at the number of guards and rune-hounds inspecting all who entered. The dogs sniffed for hints of the exotic components and compounds used by sorcerers. The guards dragged people Jinx recognized off to be searched and prodded and scrutinized and questioned. With each step forward Jinx's heart pounded with more urgency, the pain more acute, his breaths shortened. Sweat beaded on his brow. There was no chance he would get through that gauntlet of intensified security unchallenged. Jinx turned away at his first chance and made his way toward the nearest cluster of buildings in which he could hide and recover. Finally out of sight, he collapsed into an alcoved doorway and gathered himself. At last his heart slowed and he could breathe more easily. If he did not report to the Triad soon he would be branded a deserter of his post. He had to think. Find someone he could talk to. But whom could he trust?

— • —

Leuchrim stared at the broken wall of his cell. The entire block of prisoners had been shredded by the great blast that had knocked the hobgoblin runist unconscious. He was still bound by his shackles, tantalizingly close to freedom but denied it. The sandman snarled, a horrible sound considering his missing tongue and the dehydration and the litany of other abuses that had been exacted upon him. After his capture at Fort Nothing, in which all his comrades had died, including his leader Yanhamu, Leuchrim had been brought to this city. The humans had taken his hands and his tongue and kept him locked down here with the other captives they studied and twisted for their own gain. The Nation thaumaturgists funneled arcane forces through the hobgoblin's body, studying the effects of its entropy and corruption on his form and soul. If he could get out of his irons and escape into these shattered corridors, he could perhaps find a way to communicate with his people and report on the doings of his enemies here in their capital, from their very heart. And then: revenge.

He heard footsteps in the hall. Probably the humans come to survey the damage and clean up the mess. And thus cut off any hope of escape for the beastmaster. How Leuchrim wished he could channel himself into one of his runed raptors and fly free. What had caused that blast? An accident? Sabotage? Was he or another captive being rescued?

The one who approached stepped through the broken wall of Leuchrim's cell. It was a figure in robes, the hood down. Leuchrim could not make out a face in the shadows but saw gnarled horns curling round the newcomer's skull. Whoever this was, he had spent far too long dealing in sorcery and his body had paid the price. He looked as much a hobgoblin as a man. Leuchrim himself had become further warped by the experiments performed on him as well. He could feel the changes within and without. Had the horned one that now visited him also been a captive down here? His hands were folded into his robe so it was not clear if they were gone. Leuchrim waited to see if the visitor would speak. Then he would at least know if the man had a tongue.

"I offer you freedom from the Nation, sandman," said the stranger but it was not with his voice. It was with his mind. Leuchrim's skull ached at the sensation of the wizard ramming words into his brain like dull knives via rude telepathy. "If you accept being runebound to me. I assure you I am a far kinder master than the Diluvians. The other discarded and botched souls down here have chosen to ally themselves with me. Come, help us take our revenge. I know you cannot speak. A nod will do. Be quick, for the Diluvians are sure to come soon to pick through these ruins."

A simple choice. This would be the only chance Leuchrim would ever get. He nodded and accepted the horned stranger's bargain.

— • —

The bodies of Inspector Valen and the other men who'd been killed in the blast were laid out on tables in Strotham Yard's morgue where they were to be identified and cleaned and prepared for their families to take them.

"This man didn't die from the blast," said Inspector Croose as he stood over Valen's broken body which had been looted of its belongings and boots. "I know a knife-wound when I see one. And the manner in which he bled shows he was still alive when stabbed." Croose pointed at the gash in Valen's torso. So it seemed the Inspector had not died in the unexplained rupture that had decimated an entire city block. He had been murdered in the wake of the event, perhaps by his own stolen weapon. A prisoner Valen was escorting to Fetterstone had apparently escaped in the chaos after the enormous blast, a man named Varga Skinner who had long ago tried out for a career as a Reaper but was sent home in shame with blood on his face. Skinner had become a scoundrel and petty thief. A career criminal, in and out of various prisons and jails for most of his life. The repeater had been accused of the child abductions and murders that Inspector Valen, now dead on this slab, had been charged with solving. Croose had been Valen's partner and would be the one to inherit the duty of bringing Skinner to justice. He was given the authority to kill the man on sight. The hunt was on.

— • —