

### GREY SPACES

### Book I: Walls of Stone

By Jason McAnelly

Grey Spaces, Book I: Walls of Stone

By Jason McAnelly

Copyright 2014 Jason McAnelly

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art: Hollyfay Compton

Cover Design: eroticbuddha <http://www.christinabrower.com/>

Developmental Editor: Jake Sexton

Formatting: Nishi Serrano <http://www.nishiserrano.blogspot.com/>

Invaluable Feedback: Molly O'Blivion http://www.littlehellion.moonfruit.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Author's Ramblings

A lot goes into writing a book. And when it's your first book, everything seems much bigger than it really is and feels like it takes a lot longer than it really does. I've spent nearly three years developing the character of Jasmine and turning the tales of her life into this book, and decades developing the world of Dlorwyn and all its nuances. From a simple _Dungeons and Dragons_ ' game-world to the setting for my writing, the concepts, characters and even the geography have all evolved countless times. Now, finally, the time is here when I am allowed to share my world with more than just the five people that happened to show up for game that Sunday. Hopefully, people see all the beauty in it that I do. There are some who were invaluable during my journey from tinkerer of worlds to fully-fledged (self) published author. I'd like to thank each of them and let the rest of the world know that the author of a book is just a small part of its conception and execution. Without those who stand around us, we are little more than dreamers without purpose.

Thanks to Bo, for inspiring the character of Jetal, for always speaking his mind and for giving me a place to let Jasmine run around in while I discovered who she was. Thanks to Breck, for inspiring the character of Andrah and making sure I didn't turn into the wolfman. Thanks to Chris, for being radically honest enough that I knew when he had a criticism, I should probably listen closely. Thanks to Warren, for being my 'lightning rod' and thus preventing a complete meltdown. Thanks to Holly (my amazing cover artist), for giving me a picture to look at while I worked and for constantly challenging me to think out of the box. Thanks to eroticbuddha for finishing said cover and making it look even more beautiful. Thanks to Jake (my developmental editor), for taking time out of his life to lend his critical eye (and for free even). Thanks to me mum, for training me to think at an early age. Thanks to my brother Ron, for always insisting that I would do great things (a little ego goes a long way). Thanks to Luke, a man that gave me a chance to write about the things I love and thus distract me from my horrible day job. Thanks to Nishi, for saving me the months-long headache of figuring out how to format this thing. Thanks to everyone at Papaccino's coffee shop, for letting me spend 8 hours a day there without a single complaint.

And perhaps most of all, a thank you to Molly for showing up in my life at a most opportune time, for cheering me on when all seemed lost, for enduring (and even appreciating) my ludicrous sense of humor and for being the first person besides my editor to read, critique and shape this book into the form it now holds. Oh, and for drawing me a really cool bio pic.

One final thing - a brief apology to all my readers for any mistakes you may find within these pages. Some of us can not afford a proper editor and thus must rely on our own skills to make sure the commas are in place and the words make sense. Unfortunately, I'm not the best in that department, so you'll inevitably come across more than one grammatical error. Please overlook them for now and rest assured that future publications will be edited by someone with more knowledge than me.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

I.Walls

II.The Silver Knave

III.Running

IV.Echoes Without Noise

V.A Much Deserved Reward

VI.The Mirror's Reflection

VII.Roses Have Thorns

VIII.A Friendly Game of Keeps

IX.Dreams of Distant Places

X.Cat and Mouse

XI.Raining Gold

XII.Life At the Top

XIII.Theater of the Past

XIV.Unwelcome

XV.Consequences

XVI.Broken

XVII.Celebration

XVIII.Secrets

XIX.Unexpected Company

XX.Amateur

XXI.The Drunken Giant

XXII.A Convenient Alliance

XXIII.Born to the Role

XXIV.Poor Judgment

XXV.Homecoming

XXVI.Unlikely Liberators

XXVII.The Gambler's Grin

XXVIII.Resolution

XXIX.Sewer Rats

XXX.A Return to the Stage

XXXI.Sorcerous Complications

XXXII.To Catch the Wind

XXXIII.The Ghyst and the Witch

XXXIV.Dramatic Reveal

XXXV.Unplanned Meetings

XXXVI.A Final Game of Keeps

XXXVII.Renewed Negotiations

XXXVIII.A Few Last Words

Epilogue: One Final Job

I. Walls

Jasmine hated walls.

Staring across the normally hidden landscape of rooftops and empty space, the young rogue rested her defiant glare upon the towering stone cage that surrounded the ghetto she called home. Bleak and impassive, the weather-worn granite barrier gazed back at her with disdain. Eventually, she was forced to concede a temporary defeat in the pointless staring match, though it did nothing but stoke the furnace of her hatred.

To Jasmine, those monoliths of cracked, stone blocks were the very antithesis of every passionate movement in her head or heart. Walls meant confinement. Walls meant separation. Walls were malevolent specters lurking hidden like parasites in the mind even as they loomed in plain sight, lording themselves over those that walked in their shadows. They tormented the lives of the imprisoned, daily reminding them with forbidding sternness that they were not free. And though Jasmine had little trouble navigating her own way past the enclosure when the need arose, the very sight of them sparked a rage that boiled her blood.

Still, she could not keep her eyes from returning to them again and again.

Beaten once more, Jasmine turned her head toward the setting sun, tracking the fiery ball's progress as it made the long, slow decent to the horizon. Perched on the corner of a tenement and well above the milling crowds of the streets below, the girl welcomed the coming of night and the darkness that accompanied it. If the god of luck saw fit to kiss her hand that evening, she would be using that darkness to ascend to a world much brighter.

The rogue reached up and gave a tug to the black tichel wrapped about her head, ensuring that it was secure. Sliding her lithe hands down to her ankles, she checked the snugness of her greaves. Fingers tugged at laces and pulled at buckles all over her body as she tested each piece of the black, night-leathers that made up her roofrunning uniform. It was the fifth time she had done so in less than an hour, a habit that would have appeared as neurotic to any outside observer but one born of years of experience. A keen attention to detail was, after all, a runner's stock and trade.

Quite against her will, Jasmine's eyes returned again to the wall. She found herself musing, as was often her habit, on the fortification's sinister purpose. The imposing structure of stone was an obstacle built for one reason alone - to ensure that the city-sized populace of the East-block stayed securely in their urban pen, not quite animals and not quite people either. The masters responsible for erecting it (well before the girl's time) had been determined in their desire to keep the poverty-ridden streets of Porsham Grand's ghettos separate from the city proper. A stone cage had served them well.

The walls kept the unwanted in and served to discourage those of means from trespassing into the lives of the wretched, from even contemplating notions of charity or community. The end result was that the ghettos had become their own communities within the larger cityscape of Porsham Grand. The laws of House and King ruled, but were not enforced. Guards and soldiers stayed away unless circumstance demanded their attention. And economies of a different sort had sprung into being, interacting with the outside world only when necessary.

Of course, every cage has its doors. Residents of the East-block who were capable of providing some service for the respectable population of the city could use these doors to flee their fate, if only for a short while. The vast majority of these temporary escapees consisted of day-laborers, prostitutes and foreigners far from home and possessed of exotic or extraordinary skills. When the rich demanded the desperate, the unique, the unseemly or all of these, then the rabble were allowed to mix and mingle with the merchants, travelers, soldiers and nobility that kept the coffers of the ruling merchant Houses flush with gold. Those tax-paying citizens of means were, after all, the true residents of the city. The ghetto-dwellers were tools. Used as needed, discarded at convenience.

But at the end of the day, even the most skilled or compliant of the ghetto's inhabitants could not hold onto their false freedom. By the laws of the Houses (under the guise of kingly proclamation, of course), proper papers were required to walk the avenues of the outside world. In theory, this meant that all those in the city should be carrying proof of legitimacy. In practice, the guards never checked documents unless they wanted something. More than a few of Porsham Grand's "proper" citizens had ended their night in a ghetto because they had simply forgotten they even needed papers. The ghetto-dwellers, however, knew to be more vigilant. Should you be caught outside the walls after dusk and without official approval, the guards were at liberty to arrest you. Should they feel a bit of sport in order, they could do much worse. A few coins could often solve the problem, but most that walked the streets of poverty could barely find food for their bellies, let alone afford to line the pockets of a greedy thug.

People begged, people broke, people complied or died. The weight of invisible slavery rested on their shoulders, bending them to an unseen will. They became predators and prey and corpses floating in the sewer. All this due to a thirty-foot high, ten-foot thick pile of cut stone.

She hated those fucking walls.

Biting back her anger and forcing her gaze to the road below, Jasmine took in the spectacle of routine that occupied the lives of the East-block's mostly unwilling residents. The local market was winding down for the evening and the last vestiges of street-vendors attempted to defy the fading light. They waited by their wares, enduring the chilling winter air and hoping that one more soul might wander past with a need that they could meet. To those that made their living in this "honest" fashion, one lucky copper could mean the difference between eating and going hungry.

Jasmine did not envy those people. To her they seemed foolish, trying to survive inside the walls by mimicking the actions of those who lived beyond them. Jasmine knew that to truly get ahead in the East-block you needed two essential things - money and connections. Hard work and good fortune had their place, as they do in all things, but ultimately they were subservient to the mortal gods of coin and power. Without gold, your belly ruled your mind and you became little more than a beast, driven by hunger. If you weren't known in the proper circles, you would eventually settle to the bottom no matter what your talent.

The best these street-rats can hope for is keeping themselves alive, and barely at that. Even if they did have talents like mine, would they even make use of them? Or just still insist that the honest way is the best way?

The girl had her own way of surviving, one that utilized her unique set of skills most advantageously. It was a means of employment seen as unsavory by most but one that worked well enough for her. She provided a clandestine service for those that held the power and wealth, both the criminal elements within the East-block and the so-called legitimate businessmen that resided in the city proper. Some referred to what she did as theft or burglary. Jasmine preferred to think of herself as an equalizer and redistributor of undeserved wealth. She was a roofrunner, a thief, a creature of stealth. Where others could not or would not go, she traveled freely.

Her services, however, were far from free. Full purses opened wide when the need for her special talents arose and the rogue was not one to question a fair night's wages for a fair night's work.

In fact, those purses opened wider to her than most who shared her chosen profession. Jasmine was a freelancer, independent of the organized gangs that claimed dominance within the East-block's walls. Though this meant no outside protection in times of need - no higher powers to arrange a convenient release from a cell; none to stand in the way of a stray knife; nor any to seek vengeance on her behalf should she fall to that knife - it also meant no obligations to the prevailing status-quo. She was free to accept or deny contracts as she saw fit, she could negotiate her own fees and, perhaps most significantly, Jasmine need not tithe her protectors for their benevolence. Every coin earned went into her purse. Jasmine was satisfied with the arrangement.

It had taken some time for the young girl to scratch and struggle her way through the ranks of the East-block's runners. Over that time, she had gained a sterling reputation as the one to approach when established gangs refused to accept a job, deeming it impossible or suicidal. What others balked at, Jasmine embraced with a smile. Two years in the shadow-world and now the rogue need not go begging for work wherever it could be found. No longer was she just one face (albeit an unusual one) in a sea of hungry freelancers. These days the work found her, prestigious employers with fat purses that bulged and clinked with shining gold and silver.

Still, the young thief knew that there was only so far she could go in the shadow-world without tying her fate to one of the ghetto's circles of power. Skilled as she might be, the gangs wanted the satisfaction and security of knowing that you were one of them, that they owned a piece of you and could cash in on their investment if need be. Letting a freelancer run around unchecked was always a risky prospect, even if the risk was sometimes necessary.

More importantly (at least to young Jasmine), the fattest purses were kept in closed circles and, loathe it as she may, there would come a day when she would have to ally with one or another of them lest her career stagnate. Without the protection of the East-block's rulers, she would forever be watching her back, relying on Ihshintul's graces that her employers would decide paying her for a job was ultimately more profitable than just slitting her throat. Branding herself with an affiliation was an uncomfortable thought that stank of inevitability.

Imagine it, running with dull Bloodrazor thugs, plaguing the Block like a pack of starving dogs. Not a chance in the nihil. Now an invite to the Eleventh Hour... that I might be able to work with. If you gotta be a cog, be one in the biggest machine.

The thought brought Jasmine's head around, back toward the interior of the East-block and the massive clock tower that loomed near its center. The great mechanical device, towering some two-hundred feet and well above the rest of the cityscape, was said to be visible from as far away as the shore of Afarish Lake. No structure in the city came close to rivaling it for dominance of the skyline. Who had built it and why was a mystery to Jasmine, though it bespoke of a time when the East-block was more than just a dumping ground for the city's cast-offs.

Its gears had been dead since long before her years, the hands perpetually locked at the tenth hour and fifty-five minute mark. It was, according to street legend, the monolithic structure that the Eleventh Hour had adopted their name from. Some said it symbolized change, the turning of the hands set to mark some great passage for the ghetto, as if from night to day. Jasmine ascribed the tale to the misguided hopes of the desperate. For no matter whom she asked, none could rightly say what would happen should the mechanical beast rouse from its sleep, should its rusted steel hands finally make the journey to eleven and beyond.

Jasmine shook her head. Fanciful wanderings had begun to take root and she could not afford to be daydreaming. Her gaze returned to the steadily emptying street.

As the last rays of the sun faded behind the rippling range of tenements, the few remaining vendors reluctantly collected their wares and began the journey home. Lamp-walkers made their way down the length of the avenue, one to either side. Their stilted shoes clacked across the cobbles as they traveled between the large iron poles that lined the avenue. Torches in hand, they tapped the end of each pole and the vapor lamps sprang to life, casting an orange glow that provided light enough to battle the impending darkness though never enough to claim victory.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine spotted a figure flitting from the shadows of a narrow alley. Dressed in rags and smeared with mud, a small girl skulked her way toward a fruit cart heavy with half-rotted apples. A weary-looking vendor crouched beside the cart, twisting the cranks that held its wheels locked. The child inched her way forward, slow and silent, while his back was turned. Jasmine watched the girl's approach, small hand outstretched to snatch her prize. But the god of luck was busy elsewhere. A mere foot from her goal, the merchant turned and spotted her. He rose to his feet and snatched a thick, wooden stick from the top of his cart.

"You pissing street rat!" he bellowed at the girl and the stick came down.

The club connected with the child's shoulder with an impact that made Jasmine wince. The girl let loose a cry of pain and toppled to the ground. The vendor loomed over her and brought the stick down a second time, this time striking the child's arm as she raised it to fend off the blow. A sharp cracking noise echoed up to where the rogue sat. The child grasped her arm and scrambled away, wailing in agony.

"That'll learn you, rat," the vendor yelled after the fleeing girl. "Next time and I'll call the catcher on you. Be lucky I'm doing you a kindness."

A kindness for sure. But less than you figure, old man.

Bringing in the orphan-catcher was anything but kindness, but Jasmine knew it was likely the girl's only chance. Without care, the child's broken arm would become infected and she would slip into a fever. Even if the sickness spared her, one good arm was not enough to continue snatching her food and beggars fared poorly inside the walls. Within a week's time, death would claim the child courtesy of an empty belly.

Jasmine scowled down at the vendor, fighting the urge to pounce upon him and put a knife through his neck. Eventually, he finished packing his cart and left. She forced her eyes to settle on the wall once more, funneling the built-up rage to a more familiar object of discontent. It would do no good to carry unnecessary frustrations along with her that night. The job was too important to let her boiling blood push her into making some foolish mistake. She inhaled deeply, clearing her mind for what was to come.

At the sliver of light where the night meets day, where the heart's beat moves from push to pull, there the Nihil rests. Only the souls of the dead permitted to pass its invisible borders. Within, the Beast sleeps, one black eye always opened, stomach a-rage with unsated hunger. His children, the Ghyst, walking the border, patient. No mercy for those who seek to cross in their flesh, only pain for the souls that, wailing, desperately try to turn back...

It was the opening monologue of a play, something that Jasmine had seen nearly a year past. She was fairly certain that she had butchered the verse, but, whether accurate or otherwise, it felt an apt comparison.

For outside the ghetto walls lay Porsham Grand's own border-walking minions. House-paid soldiers lined the perimeter of the barricade every few hundred feet, ensuring that no rats tried to flee the sinking ship. Just the presence of the imposing stone monolith was enough to keep the majority of residents in without bother. The guards were there for the odd stray and, more importantly, to keep those of unscrupulous profession from crossing that border into the wealth of the city proper. They were there to stop people like Jasmine from thinking that they could do as they wished. But no wall or guard had ever kept the ambitious runner from going where she pleased, when she pleased. Not if there was a job to be done and coin at stake.

Jasmine smirked at the thought.

When at last stars began to appear in the late-winter sky, the sun just a memory on the western horizon, the young girl stood. Leaping across the gaps, from rooftop to rooftop, Jasmine made her way to the wall and, after a short climb, crouched at its apex. Another quick scramble and she stood in the road of the true city, the nearby soldiers oblivious to her presence. Seconds later, Jasmine had faded into the shadows of Porsham Grand.
II. The Silver Knave

Jasmine crouched behind a pile of refuse in an alley, the air thick with shadows cast from a moon nearly full. Leather-gloved hands smeared charcoal ash across her face, hiding the pale glow of her complexion and marking the final step in making the young runner one with the darkness. She gave one last tug to ensure the tichel was tight across her head and again checked the laces on her knee and elbow pads. Preparations complete, Jasmine glanced from the alley and across the road, taking in the two-and-a-half story building that would be the first challenge of the night.

The elaborate structure served as guildhall for the merchants that traded in the rare metal known as Riyshindian steel, a very wealthy and very exclusive group that openly displayed the dominance of their monopoly. Jasmine had never seen Riyshindian steel up close, but it was no secret that the black-tinted ore was one of the most valuable commodities in Porsham Grand. The merchants that transported it from the distant hills of the northeast traded very cautiously, requiring their own private hall to conduct affairs and employing squads of trained mercenaries to guard their wares wherever business took them. The job of the night would prove a tricky one, requiring stealth and a measure of patience. Jasmine prided herself on possessing both those particular skills in abundance.

Her ultimate destination was a guild apartment, one of two large, five-storied buildings that stood within spitting distance of the guildhall. Whenever business brought them to the city, the merchants would lay their heads in these opulent flats. Consequently, they would leave their personal possessions in them, safe and secure while the merchants prowled the night and sought out the fulfillment of whatever decadent pleasures struck their fancy. With all the locks and keys that money could buy, the Riyshindian quarter was a vault to rival the palace of a king.

Of course, that did not stop Jasmine from accepting the contract.

No shadow-walker in their right mind would take on something so risky. The prospect of walking into the most heavily guarded district of Porsham Grand's eastern quarter was enough to dissuade most. Breaking into a Riyshindian trader's apartment and looting it right under the noses of two-score guards was laughable. Which meant the job had trickled down until it fell into her lap, a shining pile of promised gold and a chance to push her talents to their limits.

Truth be told, when Jasmine was first offered the job she had been tempted to say no, common sense for once ruling out over ambition. But the employer in question was well-placed in the hierarchy of the Stewards - the "accountants" of the Eleventh Hour organization. When the big dogs came sniffing around, pulling off a run like that could move you to the top of the food chain quickly and Jasmine liked being at the top of things. Besides, such foolish impossibilities were the sorts of jobs she had built her reputation on - challenges that caused other moonlighters to cower in the shadows. And it didn't hurt that the promised payment amounted to a small fortune.

Despite the difficulties ahead, Jasmine felt confident. Most of the previous week she had spent scouting the apartments, studying the comings and goings of her mark. She knew the position of every guard, the pattern of every patrol and every blind spot. As long as she stuck to the plan, the prospect of failure was absurd. Jasmine knew that most of the guards were concentrated on the neighboring warehouse where the merchants' stock was housed. After all, what fool would steal a forgotten purse when a fortune in black ore lay an arm's length away? Still, there were bodies present to make access to any of the buildings a complicated task in the least.

This is going to be on the Gambler's shoulders, that's the truth. Jasmine, when you pull this one off, you're gonna buy yourself ale to celebrate for ten. Damn the ale! A bottle of Luvinian wine - the finest! It'll be the most expert thing you've ever done.

Creeping forward from her hiding place, Jasmine peeked from the alley and surveyed the street. It was devoid of life, the citizens of the city having no business in this quarter at this late hour. Everything that the merchants might find pleasing was located deeper into the city, well away from Jasmine's clandestine activities. Only one guard patrolled the western edge of the block, standing his post at a corner just south of the alley. She eyed him patiently, waiting for her chance. When at last he shifted his pace and began to shuffle in the opposite direction, Jasmine made her move.

A short sprint to the guildhall, a swift leap, and Jasmine was climbing. The building was a roofrunner's dream, with fanciful windows, ledges, eaves and carved stone statues adorning practically every inch. Jasmine scaled it in seconds. Once she reached the top, she paused, eyes scanning the skyline. The nearby apartment rose thirty feet higher than the guildhall and hosted a rooftop patrol of three men. If one of them happened to glance down and see her scrambling, the night's run would be over before it had begun and Jasmine would be left fleeing for her life. It was the only part of her plan that relied on chance. The god of luck appeared to be in good spirits, for no watchful eyes gazed down upon her.

She raced up one side of the slanted, tiled roof and down the opposite. Where the hall met the apartment, Jasmine pressed her body flat against the adjoining wall. Reaching into a small breast pocket, she removed a thin silver chain at the end of which hung a silver medallion of Ihshintul. Pressing the token to her lips, she thanked the god for his graces.

Jasmine steadied her breathing and crept the length of the wall, peering around the apartment's rear corner and down into the block's central courtyard. Normally used for refuse disposal, it now served as a post for three more soldiers. They shivered in the cold night air, watching the alleys that fed into the enclosure. Two stood with their backs to the apartment, blocking each of the rear service doors. The last was positioned on the opposite side of the courtyard and faced toward Jasmine's position. He was the one that could end up being a problem.

Soundless, Jasmine scaled the side of the apartment, climbing until she finally squatted in the arch of a window on the fifth and final floor. One last peek into the courtyard confirmed that none of the guards were blessed with an overabundance of vigilance.

With a scornful glance, Jasmine leaned back on the window's sill. Grabbing the edge of a shallow cornice above her, she stepped from the sill and shifted her weight to her fingertips. Arms straining with the effort, she crept, inch-by-inch, body dangling, around the corner of the apartment. Once she had reached its southern face, the runner stepped back onto another sill. Crouching, she rubbed her arms to relieve the tension. Another look down confirmed that the guard still stood where last she saw him, leaning on his halberd, blank stare fixed before him in a concentrated effort to appear attentive.

There's a reason a good runner can always outsmart a pack of paid soldiers. The thief has something to gain and shit for an end if they fail. Guards, no matter how well paid, are still daydreaming the night away, thinking on a warm bed with a whore in it or getting pissed at the tavern as soon as their relief shows. What man truly values a handful of silver when the goods he protects are worth more than his wages for a dozen lifetimes? The only time they care about being stupid is when someone has proven them stupid and then it's just bruised honor and lost employment. Until then they wait, almost inviting the clever to outsmart them and wake them from their dream.

Admonitions exhausted, Jasmine returned her attention to the task at hand, now confident that she would find no trouble from the oblivious guardians below. Four windows lined the back side of the apartment's fifth floor, spaced evenly along its length at intervals of six feet. They were ornate and arched and set deeply into the brickwork. The generous sills protruded nearly a foot from the plane of the wall, allowing Jasmine more than enough room to maneuver. Above her head, the cornice blocked the light of the moon and deepened the shadows she lurked in. She leaped from sill to sill until she reached the final ledge.

The second apartment, twin to the one that Jasmine now occupied, stood nearby, separated by a three-foot alley. It was this building where her final destination lay, though crossing the alley's length would prove to be a bit more complicated than the ease she had been blessed with thus far. To make her way across, Jasmine would need to swing from the supports of the cornice above and leap the distance. If she failed, a fifty-foot fall waited to greet her.

Gods' graces, at least the fall will kill me. No need to worry about ending up in a cage. Or worse, as some slobbering merchant's plaything.

As Jasmine stilled her mind and focused her intent upon the support, the sound of voices shattered her concentration. Sliding across the wall, feet poised precariously on the window's ledge, she glanced up the alley to the source of the noise. Two men sat upon the edges of the roofs, feet dangling. One man took a long drag from a rolled tobacco leaf and passed it across the gap to the other.

Brilliant! They choose now of all times to piss around?

A black cloud descended on Jasmine's mood. She hunched up in the window's arch and waited.

The empty interval proved a strain on her patience. Shadow-work often required long stretches of waiting, of feeling out for the right moment, but her objective would remain unoccupied for only so long. The fat man that resided there was out with his business partners, though when he might return was an unknown. Jasmine needed to be in and out with her prize as fast as possible.

It was twenty long minutes before the chatter finally ceased. Checking to confirm that her friend on the ground was as oblivious as ever, Jasmine leaned across the wall once more, peeking up the gap. The guards had vanished, returned to their patrol. Haste was necessary against the possibility that they might return again or, gods forbid, some other pair decided it was their turn to indulge in a leisurely sit.

Three steps to build momentum and Jasmine leaped, grasping the support. She swung her small frame as far as she could manage and released her grip. A brief sensation of floating accompanied the movement of her body upward and across. Time seemed to slow even as her reactions quickened. A second later and gravity decided that it had had enough, insisting that down was a more appropriate direction given the situation. At the last moment, Jasmine shot her hands forward, wrapping small, strong fingers around the opposite support. Her shoulders jolted in their sockets though her grip held firm. One more swing and she had landed safely on the window sill of the opposite building.

A few more hops took Jasmine across the back of the building and to the far corner. Ten feet out and twenty feet below lay the roof of the neighboring warehouse, that temple of commerce where the merchants stored their priceless merchandise. Across the top of the warehouse roof two more soldiers made their patrol. They looked to be as cold and bored as the rest, but their marching pattern was regular and they turned toward her position often enough to make her next move impossible. Impossible without a little help, that is.

Pulling the luck god's silver token from her pocket, Jasmine held it at arm's length, intercepting the path of the moonlight. She angled the reflection toward an alley opening positioned on the far side of the warehouse, fluttering it back and forth. In short order, a loud screeching echoed from below. Though the warehouse blocked her view, Jasmine knew that the guards in the streets now faced the wrath of a mad child. The screams came loud and shrill and ceased only long enough for the drawing of a breath. The men on the warehouse roof ran to the edge of the building to survey the show. From somewhere out of Jasmine's sight, a deep voiced boomed in retaliation of the shrieking urchin.

Jasmine quickly grabbed the cornice and repeated her finger-walk around the corner of the building, dropping onto the sill of the first window she came to. She was finally at her goal, yet not clear of danger. If the soldiers glanced back, even briefly, she stood in full view. The moonlight this side of the apartment was a spot lamp, placing her at center stage of a rather unpleasant production. Luckily, the rampaging child continued to hold their attention.

From a pocket in her leggings, Jasmine pulled a long steel rod, one end bent almost double to form a sharply angled hook. She slid it between the slats of the window's shutters, wiggling it back and forth. The hook finally caught, gripping the wooden bar that sealed the shutters from within. One quick yank and the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor echoed from the flat. Releasing her grip on the rod, Jasmine watched the rod disappear through the slats, the dull clatter of iron on wood announcing the tool's fate. She swung the now-unlocked shutters to the side and admitted herself to the apartment's interior.

Closing the shutters behind her, Jasmine scanned her surroundings, her sharp eyes adjusting instantly to the near complete blackness. The window let into the flat through the bedroom, just one of many rooms in the spacious quarters. A simple bit of research had provided an idea of the apartment's layout, but did nothing to prepare the runner for the scene of excess that assailed her eyes. Never in her life had Jasmine stood inside a home that displayed such luxury.

The over-large bed was stuffed with feathers as opposed to the dry straw that served most in her part of the city. Draped atop the massive cushion were white, silk sheets and thick, warm-looking comforters. A large armoire, crafted of dark, lustrous wood, stood at one wall, the doors of it ajar to reveal the luxuriant clothing that hung within. A man-sized mirror of the same wood stood at another wall, polished and bright and crafted of the strange, treated glass that only the artisans of the West knew the secrets of making. Nearby rested a small writing desk, the surface covered in paper and silver ink pots. A silk-cushioned, gold-painted chair accompanied it. The floor was made of wood but the majority of its surface was concealed beneath an ornately patterned rug of a design so elaborate that Jasmine couldn't begin to guess its origins. Paintings of many styles adorned all four walls.

There were no rooms like that behind the walls that held her humble home. Jasmine was awestruck by the accumulation of so much wealth in such a small space.

One of these days, things like this will be mine too. I'll have the bed big enough for two families, the silk clothing that shimmers in the light and lets everyone know you're important. But I'll keep mine safer than this dolt. A collector of lovely things should think more when keeping them safe.

Shaking off her daydream, Jasmine took stock of the room, seeking out the most likely hiding spot for the item she was sent to retrieve. The writing desk seemed the best place to begin the search. She shifted through papers and opened every drawer, but came up empty. Next she inspected the armoire. Jasmine turned out the pockets of every garment and, aside from a few spare coins (which found their way into her own pockets), discovered nothing. Bit by bit, she made a tour of the entire suite.

The hallway boasted the same wealthy décor as the bedroom, as did the sitting room, the drawing room, the dining area and even the small toilet. Jasmine was incredulous at why someone would want to make a chamber pot out of perfectly good silver. In the drawing room sat another, larger desk with more papers scattered across it. Picking through them, she still found nothing. When she opened a drawer on the right side of the desk, however, her eyes lit up.

Inside the drawer lay a neatly rolled bundle of papers, tied with a black silk ribbon and sealed with black wax. She lifted the bundle gently and examined the seal. The symbol of the Riyshindian Trader's Guild was impressed upon it. From the description given by her employers, it was the prize of the night. The roll was tucked away neatly into a pouch at her side.

Job is finished. The fat man should be out a bit longer though. Might as well have a peek around and see if there's a bonus in it for me.

Even as her eyes probed the shadowed room, Jasmine knew it was foolish to linger. Get in and get out was the safest way to play the game, but the seductive spectacle of wealth that surrounded her enticed her to stay. There were always things - small things, valuable things - that one could pilfer and pawn at the local fence to make a few extra silvers. As long as what she took wasn't too unique or eye-catching, the chance of someone tracking them back to her was minimal, if not impossible. Jasmine began to open everything in sight, searching for portable treasures.

Like a fool, the merchant had left a small pouch of coin - expense money, no doubt - sitting in one of the other desk drawers. Jasmine lifted the purse and rubbed it gently between her fingers, listening to the seductive and soothing sound of metal rasping against metal that came from within. Smiling, she deposited it into a pocket.

The rest of what she managed to uncover was either too large to carry or unfencible and the runner scoffed at the idea of loading her pockets with the weighty, clanking tableware, silver or no. After twenty minutes of rifling the rooms, Jasmine decided it was time to leave. Her accomplice in the alley would no doubt already be cross with her for taking so long. If she dawdled any longer she ran the risk of not having the cover she needed in order to extricate herself from the building unnoticed. As Jasmine returned to the point of entry, the glimmer of metal paused her in mid-stride.

Tucked away in a dark corner of the drawing room, atop a small table, a marble keeps board sat, complete with shining pieces plated in silver and gold. Jasmine had never been partial to the game of keeps, despite her love of winning. Once, some time ago, a friend had taught her the rules and tried to educate her on various strategies, but it didn't take. The games dragged on for far too long to hold Jasmine's attention and she would always lose interest half-way through.

But her interest was certainly held now, eyes glued upon the shining knights, knaves, soldiers and walls. The king of each set was even topped with a small gem, a sapphire for the silver and ruby for the gold. She idly wondered if it was dedication or merely decadence that possessed the fat man to invest so much wealth in a silly game.

Whatever your reasons, you'll have to play a few pieces short now. I may not be able to fence them without getting a sideways look, but it'll make an expert token of the night's work.

Still, even holding something so unique was akin to putting a mark on her head that spelled out her part in the crime. Not to mention that the weight of the pieces could affect her speed if she had to make a quick run.

Just one souvenir won't hurt... you don't need to take the whole damn board, girl. Just one piece. Something to keep for yourself.

The sound of nearby whispers awoke Jasmine from her musings. Whatever voice was attached to them wasn't far off and if she wanted to take a souvenir she had to do it quickly. Without thinking, her hand snapped out and snatched the silver knave from the board, tucking it away into yet another of her seemingly endless supply of pockets.

She cocked her ear to discern where the voice was coming from and realized that the whispers were gone. Replacing them, the sound of a key being clumsily cranked within a lock on the apartment's front door. Jasmine raced toward the bedroom and her escape route but she was too slow. The door to the flat opened with a loud bang and arguing voices poured forth, down the hallway and into the drawing room where Jasmine now stood trapped. She looked about, searching out a place to hide or a means of escape as the voices drew closer.

Another, smaller window in the drawing room caught her eye. It was barely over a foot wide, but Jasmine was small and quite flexible. She raced to the window, pulling the bar from its brackets and setting it to the side. As she opened the shutters, the arguing voices fell to silence, replaced in the next second by the return of the mad child's piercing cry.

Jasmine spun to see her mark and two of his gaudily garbed friends standing where the hallway met the drawing room. The fat man's face was a mask of rage. His associates played the comedy to his tragedy, eyes wide and jaws slack with surprise, unwilling to believe that someone would have dared to violate the home of one of their own.

A drunken slur roared from the merchant. "Thief! Stinking bitch of a thief! Guards! Guards!"

Reaching up, Jasmine lifted her small frame through the window with ease. Once outside, she couldn't resist a quick taunt, spinning on the window's ledge and poking her face back through the hole.

"Sorry to intrude on you and your buggering boyfriends, fat man, but I'm afraid you had something that now belongs to me. Now you boys get back to trading kisses and I'll be on my way."

The men's expressions swapped places, the merchant gone silent with shock and his partners now glaring daggers at the mocking rogue. Jasmine spun around one last time and leaped for the roof of the warehouse.
III. Running

The merchants' guards alerted, Jasmine found herself in a precarious situation. Even the screaming distraction of her accomplice did little to hold their attention against the cries of "Thief!" that echoed from the apartment window. As she hit the warehouse roof, Jasmine rolled to absorb the impact of the twenty-foot fall. The two previously distracted soldiers were already closing on her, large, iron-banded cudgels in their hands.

Coming out of the roll, Jasmine cut to her right. She skirted the edge of the warehouse and raced toward the buildings south of her. A simple jump across the gap of the alley and she arrived at the next roof. As she landed, the sound of shattering tiles erupted around her. The guards posted on the flat were firing crossbows her way. A bolt whizzed by her ear and cut a long gash across her cheek. Warm blood flowed down her neck.

Too close! Gotta get out of the open and fast.

The guards behind leaped the narrow alley in pursuit. Struggling to keep up on the slanting roofs, they proved unequal to Jasmine's level of skill, bodies heavy and legs clumsy. As soon as their feet found a loose tile they slipped, first one man and then the other, tumbling down the slope and into empty space, a thirty foot fall to the ground below. Jasmine kept up her pace, trying to outdistance the crossbows and thankful that the mechanisms took so long to reload.

One more leap and Jasmine was out of roofs. The streets in the Merchant Quarter were wide, made for moving carriages and wagons about with ease. Unlike the narrow roads of the neighborhoods she was more accustomed to, it was no simple task to hop over them and keep to higher ground, not even for one of Jasmine's exceptional talents. With no other choice before her, the runner clambered down one side of the shop she was on and leaped into the road. More guards began to converge on her.

She sprinted across the street and into another alley. The soldiers followed suit, all the while shouting at her to "Halt, thief!"

Does that ever work on anyone, anywhere? What kind of stupid do you have to be to think a thief will give up because you tell them to? Next they'll be asking please as well.

Guards at her heels and more closing in with every moment, Jasmine twisted her way through the back alleys. The passages were straight and narrow and almost always led to a central courtyard - the very model of efficiency. She longed for the haphazard alleyways that occupied more familiar areas of the city. Within those labyrinthine corridors it was easy to get lost and in turn lose unwanted pursuers. The only advantage she had left was her quick stride. In their heavy leather uniforms, weighted with iron studs and brass buckles, there was little chance the soldiers would be able to keep up.

Jasmine managed to remain unseen for three more blocks before she turned a corner and almost ran headlong into two city patrol, wooden truncheons in hand and triumphant grins plastered across their faces. They spread out to flank her position, trying to box her in or send her fleeing back the way she had come and into the arms of their allies.

The guard to Jasmine's left swung his weapon. In a blink the runner was gone, rolling to her right and out of range. The man's blow found empty space. Coming out of the tumble, she leaped straight for the other patrolman. Startled and confused, he backpedalled and held his truncheon before him to keep her at bay. Jasmine landed a few paces away, just out of striking distance.

Opening her mouth wide to bare overlong, pointed canines, Jasmine let out a hissing shriek. Her hands, fingernails sharp and vicious, hooked into claws. The guard's face twisted in fear and he turned, fleeing at top speed. Jasmine swiveled her head theatrically to stare at her other opponent, fangs still bared and eyes filled with menace. He took the lead from his friend and bolted down the street as fast as his legs would carry him.

Superstitious dullards! Works every time. Well, damn near anyways.

It was a common failing of the typical uneducated soldier that they should be possessed of a great many superstitions, among them the fear of ghysts - unnatural beasts birthed from old Black Eye and sent from the shadows of the nihil to steal away lives. When you looked like Jasmine did, it was no great feat to put on a little drama and bring that fear to the surface. The only problem was that while most chose to run, some others felt the best way to deal with a ghyst was to attack it head-on and kill it before it stole your soul. Luckily, even if they took the fight to her they were usually shaking in their boots, making it easy for Jasmine to dodge anything they would throw her way. Her pursuers now almost out of sight, Jasmine resumed her flight.

Now several blocks from the guildhouse, Jasmine had left behind the over-wide streets and well-ordered city planning that characterized Merchants Quarter East. It was still not cluttered enough for her to make the rest of the journey by rooftop, but she was beginning to have options.

A bit further to the red-light off Grand Avenue East. If I can make it there, escape will be a snap.

As if in answer to her thoughts, tin whistles sounded through the night as the merchants' guards signaled the city's regular patrols that there was a pursuit underway. In short order, the streets would be crawling with thief-catchers. Peering from an alley, Jasmine could already see the net tightening around her. Guards lingered at every corner, crossbows at the ready and scanning diligently for their prey. In time, proper soldiers would begin to filter in from the nearby barracks, adding their numbers to the hunt. She would have to be more clever than usual if she wanted to find a way to break through their lines.

Gods' piss and spit! Every guard in the damned city is out tonight. All for a handful of paper. Scream thief in the East-block and see who comes running... more thieves, that's who.

Eager to put herself beyond the reach of pursuers, Jasmine scaled a nearby four-story tenement. She skulked across the roof, careful to keep low and out of sight. Creeping to one corner of the building, Jasmine stole a glance over the edge and into the streets below. Even in the short span it had taken her to relocate, more guards had arrived. At least five that she could see milled about in the closest intersection. Jasmine's ears pricked up at the sound of voices conversing directly below her. Though the speakers were forty feet down, she heard every word as if they were being spoken right into her ear, clear and plain.

"Groups of two, crossbows ready," a resonant and commanding tone spoke. "Thief-catcher bolts. We'll make an example of this one."

"Yes, Sir!" A younger, nervous sounding soldier.

"Set the net six blocks in every direction from where he was last spotted. Keep it widening and bring in more bodies."

"Of course, Captain." Jasmine heard something strange in the man's voice.

There was a long pause. Jasmine resisted the urge to look over the edge.

"You have something you need to say, footman?" The deep voice at last broke the silence.

The younger voice became a whisper. "Sir... Belland, he says he saw him. He says it was a little girl. Some child even."

"Don't be a fool. No child could do what that thief has done. Do _you_ perhaps know something about girl-child moonlighters being recruited for high-end break-ins that I don't?"

"Well, no Sir..." the voice sounded even more distressed. "But Belland... he... he says it was a ghyst, Sir."

There was a derisive snort. "A ghyst? Belland'll be flogged for spreading such nonsense. And _you_." The captain's voice was now boiling with anger. "You had best get to following orders or you'll be flogged along with him. Now get my damned patrols out there."

More silence.

"Speak!" The captain was now almost shouting.

"Uh... perhaps... perhaps, we should bring in a priest, Captain?" The man spoke reluctantly, then added quickly: "To track him, Sir! Not... not because of..."

"I know what you mean, footman. If we call in a priest we look like fools. I don't like to look like a fool." He paused again. "Still, if we can't pin him down, it would better than losing him altogether. If we don't have him in thirty minutes, go to the temple of Cassieta and fetch one of their _hounds_." The last word carried extreme contempt.

The sounds of footsteps scurrying across gravel followed.

A hound! That's all I need. Well, Jasmine girl, given the time it takes to get to Temple Road and back, you have about an hour to get your ass out of this mess.

Jasmine hunched down, leaning against the barrier of the roof's edge. It was an extreme measure, calling in the Wolves of Cassieta to track a common thief, but the Riyshindians were an influential lot. They would be able to afford the temple's exorbitant fees with little effort and even a small fortune spent might be preferable to letting moonlighters think they could run off with Riyshindian goods whenever the fancy struck them. The scenario presented a new problem for Jasmine - that of a strict time limit. If a hound arrived before she had gotten well away from the scene of her crime, he would sniff her out no matter what shadow she lurked in. There were few ways to hide from a Wolf's gifts and Jasmine knew none of them. She began to grow anxious.

Scanning the surrounding skyscape, the young thief's mind worked furiously to find an escape route. Less than a minute and she was ready. There was one way out of the net she was in and, conveniently enough, that route happened to lie in the direction she wished to go.

Across the way, cater-corner to her position, rose a large tenement of brick and wood. The architecture was Abaldanian and, as was their custom, an enormous chimney pierced the center of the structure from roof to floor, the top of it extending a full six feet above the building's summit.

Twenty-so up, fifteen-so across, six-so in... Landing... thirty up. Maybe six seconds to the top...

As Jasmine's mind raced, estimating and dissecting the numbers, her hands swept across her many pockets and pouches. From one she pulled a length of silken line. From another she withdrew a foot-long steel spike, an iron ring attached near its center and a small lever situated just below that. Her thumb found the lever and flicked it to the left. A subtle hissing began to emanate from the spike and thin spouts of vapor leaked out of several pin-prick holes at the base. The contraption became warm in her hand, warm enough that she could feel its heat through her leather gloves.

She tied the silk line to iron ring, looping it thrice and tugging hard to test the integrity of the knot. Chancing a peek over the roof's edge, Jasmine spotted half-a-dozen guards positioned below, each cradling a medium-weight crossbow in their arms. They scanned the streets around them, occasionally glancing up to the rooftops in search of their prey.

Gods' graces they're easily spooked. Or at least lousy shots.

One more object made its way into Jasmine's hand - a small leather pouch, its opening bound securely. It moved of its own volition, writhing slightly in her grasp. Within the pouch rested a mated pair of Yullish storm-beetles, infamous little creatures that were the bane of the farmers of the far western coast. Untying and unwinding the cord that held it shut, Jasmine was careful to prevent the pouch from opening. The looser the cord became, the more the bag wiggled and squirmed. When at last she'd finished, Jasmine kept the end of the bag pinched shut with her fingers.

You two cost me a tall stack of coin, but it'll be worth the spending if you do your job right.

A sweep of her arm and the bag sailed high over the rooftops and into a distant alley. Almost immediately upon leaving her hand there began a low whistling. The beetles, exposed to air after so long a confinement, roused from their hibernation. By the time the pouch has passed beyond Jasmine's sight, the whistling had become a screech so loud that Jasmine would have wagered the nasty little bugs could be heard all the way back in the East-block.

The sound of running feet echoed up from the street. Another quick inspection revealed that only three of the guards remained, the others having gone to investigate the chaotic racket. The others fidgeted and looked confused but held their posts.

Sighting the rapidly heating spike on the opposite building, Jasmine took careful aim at the chimney. She inhaled deep to steady her hand and flicked the switch once more, back to the original position. A dull, whumping noise sounded as the forward half of the spike broke away from the back in a puff of steam. The front end launched across the gap between the roofs, carrying the iron ring with it, the attached silk line spiraling in its wake. Reaching its mark, the spike sank deep and sent chips of brick flying. Jasmine gave the line a quick tug to confirm it was secure. The rear half of the contraption safely tucked away once more, the runner wound the slack of the line around her forearm, took three rapid steps and leaped into empty space.

The neighboring building accelerated toward Jasmine within the blink of an eye. She curled up, legs bent to absorb the impending impact as her body hurtled through the air. The guards below caught sight of the airborne rogue and began to panic. They shouted in alarm and loosed their crossbows. As Jasmine slammed into the wall of her destination, the prematurely fired bolts shattered the brick around her, well off their mark. With a grunt, she pulled herself up the line as fast as her muscles could lift.

One guard, however, either better-trained or, more likely, too much in shock to follow his companions' lead, failed to fire with the opening volley. He regained his senses as Jasmine made her ascent and fired at her now slowly moving form. A dull crunching accompanied the terrible pain that shot through the runner's back. The bolt had caught her in the ribs. If the guards had been using standard ammunition instead of the blunt, heavy-headed, thief-catcher shots, she would have been impaled. Teeth clenched against the pain, Jasmine scrambled the rest of the way, up and over the lip of the roof.

Collapsing in a heap to the rooftop, Jasmine inhaled in agonized gasps. She tested her ribs with one hand to survey the damage. A bright flash blinded her as another burning spasm shook her wounded frame.

Broken... broken for sure. One at least... probably two or three... Not dead though. Ihshintul's grace for small favors.

She lay unmoving, her full attention fixed on blocking the pain from her mind. One hand slipped into a pocket and retrieved a small, paper-wrapped package. Unfolding it, Jasmine removed a dried leaf, white and powdery. She placed in on her tongue, fighting the urge to gag and spit the bitter taste from her mouth. Tears filled her eyes as she forced herself to suck on the repugnant herb.

The struggle was short-lived and ultimately worth the effort. The pain in her ribs began to subside, fading as the drug took hold. Normally, Jasmine hated using numbing herbs, no matter how much she hurt. The side effects upset her balance and depth perception, not to mention casting a dull cloud over her mind. In this case, however, there was no choice in the matter. It was impossible to run with broken ribs and there was no time to waste. She gave in to the tingling sensation that crawled across and under her skin. Her hands and feet feel like they were distant objects, unattached to rest of her body.

The guards in the street were hollering for their fellows and it sounded as if a small army was gathered beneath Jasmine's position. She could hear one man yelling excitedly followed by another screaming orders. They were sending men up to grab her while she was downed. The young rogue stood haltingly, testing her ribs against another impairing fit of pain. It was still there, somewhere, a distant ache in the back of her mind, but it was no longer crippling.

The runner spared a quick glance for her steam-powered grappler and nearly shed a tear at how much its loss was going to put her out, but she knew that pulling the line up or cutting it loose would only serve to announce to the guards below that she was on her feet again. With a sigh, Jasmine continued her flight.

It was a stroke of luck that the guards were set in their belief that they had finally caught their "man", concentrating on securing the building rather than fanning out to prevent a potential escape. Jasmine used the opportunity to put as much distance between her and them as possible. Two blocks south and she was where she needed to be. She descended into an alley and found an open grate nearby, her path into the vast sewer network that lay beneath the streets of Porsham Grand. If you knew where you were going, the sewers could take you nearly anywhere in the city. Jasmine was well-versed in their many twisting paths if not particularly inured to their secretive charms.

As she approached the entrance to her escape route, Jasmine's nose protested at the fog of stench that arose from the small hole. There were some times when having a keen sense of smell was less a blessing and more a curse. Pulling a pair of wax plugs from one of her pockets, Jasmine stopped up her nose and lowered herself into the city's bowels.

Though in the midst of winter, Porsham Grand had not seen rain for most of the previous week. Consequently, the sewers were in a most unwelcoming state, clogged and slick with the filth of a city hundreds-of-thousands strong. In the richer neighborhoods, civil servants flushed the wide stone passages regularly. Where poverty reigned it was a different story. Jasmine could alleviate the stench by using plugs, but sometimes the sludge was so deep that it was like wading through a swamp. Not only would she come out smelling like a well-used privy, a false step could end in a slip and something potentially worse.

Of course, if the rains came heavy, then the sewers presented a different set of problems. The water would sometimes run so high that it was almost easier to swim your way through. A wrong step then and you could find yourself carried along the torrent and pressed up against a grate somewhere, unable to move and with five feet of water above your head. The sewers were a valuable asset to thieves throughout the city, but Jasmine far preferred the safety and comfort of the rooftops. The worst that could happen there was a spill and a broken neck and since Jasmine never took a spill, her neck was perfectly secure.

It took thirty minutes of careful navigation across the slippery stonework before Jasmine found her exit. Climbing a set of steel bars that lead to the surface, she emerged far from the hunt. She was finally safe, another night's work over and done. All that remained was to switch costumes and meet up with her accomplice.

Another night, another pinch, another satchel of gold. I hope Sinta's not too pissed or she'll be trying to guilt a bonus out of me.

The building that Jasmine emerged behind was bulky and square, a simple construction that marked her new location as somewhat less affluent than the Merchants Quarter she had just fled. The rogue retrieved a small, bent wire from a pocket. Crouching near the building's rear door, she worked the wire into a lock and within seconds was admitting herself to its interior.

From the shadows, a figure observed the young girl's illegal entry through the back of the chandler's shop. A subtle yet steady flow of air swirled about the figure, kicking up dust and creating a barrier of sorts, a mask against the runner's sharp senses. The figure, a man of average height and slight build, spent only the mildest of his attentions in keeping the barrier active. It was a trick he learned long ago, a tool to keep him one step ahead of potential enemies and practice had made it second nature.

A more intense expenditure of concentration gripped currents of air further out. Eyes half-closed, the man chased those currents, down the alley and under the door of the building. The rogue he was following, the one called Jasmine, might feel a slight breeze at his intrusion but would remain unaware of his presence. In contrast, even the smallest of her movements would paint him a clearer picture than most men could comprehend with all five of their senses.

He could hear the echo of a sound - a rasping of wood on wood - and felt the movements of invisible objects both large and small as they danced their way through not-quite-empty space.

Board being removed... from the floor. A secret panel then. A secret cache. The girl is well prepared. Smart, clever. Knew she might have to run tonight. Or just didn't want to wander the night smelling like a sewer. Good choice. The stench is, after all, horrifying.

The girl was coated with filth from the knees down. And now, in the chandler's shop, she was also surrounded by the pungent stench of wax and the many perfumes infused within that wax. The lurking figure's stomach twisted and he elected to silence the information coming to that particular sense.

Nothing lost there. And sanity retained. Gods above, how can a world smell so damned vile and sweet at the same time?

More messages whispered down the twists of wind. The faint squeaking of well-used leather. Laces being undone. Another scraping of wood on wood, the slosh of water.

Opening her bag. A bowl with water in it. Washing her boots? No, that's stupid. Is it stupid? I mean truly? It could be the case...

The figure's concentration wandered for a moment. He lost his hold on the sorcerous wisps of air, his connection to the runner and her secretive acts severed. Sighing, he gave himself a silent rebuke and reached out to entwine with his invisible ally once more.

Now he could hear the rasping of cloth on something soft. The noise continued for some time.

Washing that ash off her face. That's what the water was for. See? Of course it was something simple. Has to wash her face, naturally. Can't go wandering the streets looking like she put her face in a coal oven, can she?

More sounds, more laces being pulled loose, the event going on for quite some time. It was punctuated every now and then by dull thumps.

Removing those leathers of hers, piece by piece. What a chore. Glad I never went that route. Half-an-hour just to get dressed and undressed every day? Seems a waste of time. I'd imagine it's quite hot under those things as well. Uncomfortable and sweaty.

Tempted for a moment to reach out and test the air for the scent of sweat, the figure halted at the remembered deluge of filth and perfumes. He sighed with relief, grateful for his sense of foresight.

The man continued to eavesdrop as the runner's routine went on for another twenty minutes. The removal of the leathers, the packing of them into whatever leather bag she was using for storage, eventually the donning of new clothes, something soft that rustled.

He grew bored, mind drifting, and it was only as the rogue finished that the man snapped to attention and remembered his reason for being there. Reaching out along the lines of his precious Hesharr, he spoke, lips moving silently. The air captured the subtle shifts of his mouth, taking the words formed there and turning them into something almost, but not quite silent. The near-noiseless sound echoed its way along the lines, under the door and into the runner's ears - a silent suggestion. Jasmine obeyed without thinking.

Almost forgot. Wouldn't do to forget that. Spent all night making sure to get that legacy on her. She leaves without it and I'll have to start the whole damned thing over again and that would be another night lost. The boss certainly wouldn't be pleased with that. I'd have to start all over again, another plan, another legacy maybe even. It's just too much work to forge another. All that dancing with Hesharr and Sen and leaving me tired like I've been awake for weeks. No, best not to forget.

The man, mind distant from his surroundings as he delved into his own private admonitions, failed to notice as the back door of the building opened and a cloaked figure emerged and made its way toward the opposite end of the alley. By the time he regained his senses, she was long gone. A brief bit of concentration, however, was all it took to feel her out, to pinpoint the legacy she carried as she made her way through the city streets.

Well, I should be able to find her pretty much anywhere now. For now, something else. Probably something better to do than follow her around with no reason. Maybe a drink? Sounds good, a drink. I imagine I'm quite thirsty after the night's work.
IV. Echoes Without Noise

The figure that stumbled into the alley was shrouded in a heavy cloak, the dress beneath coarse, threadbare and covered in filth. Her head swiveled back and forth, scanning for life, though she failed to notice the child lurking behind a stacked pile of refuse. The young girl observed the figure's actions, its careful step, the way it raised its head to sniff at the air. Despite the thick and shapeless clothes, the child could make out a lump at her side, most likely a knife hidden in the folds of her skirt. To another person, or on another day, the figure might have been just another desperate soul looking for a safe place to pass the night. But the stringy yellow hair that hung from the shadow of the cloak's hood marked the women out as familiar to the child.

Slinking from her hiding place, the child unleashed her venom. "It's about time!" she scolded, voice resonant enough to be heard clear within the alley but not so loud as to attract attention from those who might be passing in the streets.

The filthy woman jumped, startled at the appearance of the child despite, the young girl knew, full knowledge that she would be waiting. The figure pulled the hood back, revealing the sharp-featured face of Jasmine, her emerald eyes glittering in a rogue ray of moonlight.

'Hello, Sin." The runner responded casually, as if trying to pretend she had known the child was there all along. "A pleasure to see you as well."

Sinta answered the greeting with a scowl.

Pissed that I got the jump on you, eh? Well, you know it and I know it, and you'll not forget it if I have something to say.

Standing at just over three-and-a-half feet tall, the child was skinny, dirty, garbed in clothes that were mostly rags and her brown, shoulder-length hair was as tangled as a bird's nest. Eyes the same shade of brown as her hair locked with Jasmine's and refused compromise. She kept the expression on her face cold, ensuring that the runner knew exactly how unimpressed she was by the attempted wit.

"You're late," the scolding resumed. "I've been here more'n hour waiting for you. The matron'll call me up at dawn and now I'll not get any sleep because of you."

Jasmine's cheerful expression turned sour.

"Well then we'd better get moving instead of sitting around prattling on," she snapped back.

Sinta responded with a derisive snort. The child turned and stomped down the alley, not bothering to glance back to confirm whether or not Jasmine was following.

The pair made their way through the darker streets of the city, careful to avoid the guard patrols and anywhere that people might still be awake at that late hour. A short while later, they had climbed back over the wall and into the East-Block, home at last.

Sinta strolled down the midnight streets, a model of indifference. Beneath that façade, however, the young girl's senses were tuned to every nuance of the world around her. The surrounding cityscape was being observed and processed in a dozen different ways. Her eyes flicked to every shadow, probed every dark alleyway, scanned every rooftop above. Her ears cocked at each noise, the mind within picking the sounds apart to determine the exact cause and, more importantly, whether they signaled potential danger. Her body would shift from fluid to tense at each change in the environment, ready to fight or flee as the need arose. Stealing a glance back at her companion, the child could tell that Jasmine had been studying her again. The runner liked to watch her, Sinta knew. All the time that emerald gaze would be upon her, particularly when they were out on a job.

If she's waiting for a time so she can tell me I pissed up, she'll wait longer. I'll not give her the satisfaction of that. I do my job well and at least I'm always on time.

Despite her bitter mood, Sinta was no fool to be blinded to the truth of things. She knew that nearly every useful skill she possessed had originated with the oft-tardy runner. Though just seven summers, the child had been working with Jasmine for the better part of two years. Most of that was simple work, running spectacles and the like, and there wasn't much skill involved other than being quick enough to keep out of the hands of the guards. But Jasmine insisted on teaching her all the other talents that went along with existing in the shadow-world. Already the child could make her way in and out of the gated orphanage she called home without being observed and she even managed to stay clear of most of the trouble that lurked within its walls. Most, but not all, of course. At seven years old, there were plenty at the orphanage bigger and meaner than her. Running from a fight didn't always mean you got away from the fight. Living at the orphanage may not have been as dangerous as living on the streets, but Sinta had seen many of the girls there just roll over and let themselves become victims. With Jasmine's help, she had avoided a similar fate. For all the runner annoyed her at times, Jasmine was still her mentor, an absentee protector of sorts.

Stealing a second glance back, Sinta saw agitation flickering across the runner's features. Jasmine stared at the ground as she walked, thoughts turned inward and dwelling on some peculiarity or another.

Still boiling that I managed to sneak up on you? Good. You deserve it, being lazy like that. I'dve gotten a clip on the ear if it was me.

Returning her gaze forward, the child allowed herself a smirk of satisfaction at having bested the older girl. It didn't happen often and she would enjoy her small victory for as long as she could.

"Good spectacle tonight, Sin," Jasmine finally spoke.

Sinta shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

"Sorry about being so late back there," the runner added. Sinta could tell that the words were spoken without meaning. The empty apology agitated her, shunted aside her normal filter of deference and loosened her lips.

"You were being a bloody fool is what you were." She felt the advantage and ran with it, bolstered by her achievement in the alley. "You took too long, you set the whole neighborhood up too. I'm wobbled that you didn't get caught, being so dull like that. You tell me that I need to be..."

Her tirade was interrupted by a sharp crack and a jolt of pain as Jasmine clipped her across the back of the skull with two fingers. A yelp escaped the child's lips. Spinning, she stared up at the runner, one small hand rubbing at the spot where she'd been struck.

"Don't push me," Jasmine threatened, the expression on her face all business and ire. "And you'd best to remember to talk light to your betters. You keep spitting piss at people and you'll end up with more than a thump on the head, child."

Sinta scowled and returned to watching the street. Just then, a movement in the shadows of a nearby alley caught her attention. One hand slid into the tangle of rags that passed for a dress, resting on the hilt of a small knife. Looking Jasmine's way, the child saw that the runner had noticed the movement as well. Jasmine shifted closer to Sinta, her own hands disappearing from view.

Out of the alley stepped a young boy, dirty and dressed in rags as torn as Sinta's, though his were not part of any costume, just the typical garb of a street-rat that hadn't stolen a new set of clothes in some time. The girl recognized him from her nightly excursions into the East-block's streets. He glanced at them both warily, stepped a little further into the road. Sinta's tension eased and she removed her hand from her weapon.

"What're you doing out here, Pan?" she asked the boy, making her displeasure obvious. "You come up on someone like that and you'll get a knife in you. Stop lurking about and find someplace to hole up for the night before you freeze your bones or get stuck."

Pan opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.

"Bark or roll over!" Sinta snarled at him. "What is it already?"

The boy finally managed to make the words come. "You got anything to eat, Sin? No luck today for Vermin and the gang."

Gang! You and three toddlers and a baby found in the road and you're a gang now? Now you want me to feed you, do you?

She prepared to give Pan a tongue-lashing, to lay into him good for being so lousy at his trade that he needed to come begging from an orphan, but Jasmine interrupted her before she had a chance to get started.

"Take this, Pan," she said and tossed the boy a silver coin. "Get your rat pack something to eat though. No trying to double it up at a game of bones. I hear you starved that baby cause you're stupid and I'll cut your ears off."

"Thanks, Miss Jasmine," Pan intoned gratefully. He slipped the coin out of sight and disappeared into the alley once more, a shadow gone as suddenly as it had arrived.

Sinta turned to regard the runner, ready to unleash the abuse that she'd had waiting for Pan.

"Why're you just handing out silver on the streets then?" she demanded. "Got any of that for me maybe? At least I'm working and doing something for you. What's Pan doing that's worth anything? And when did you start emptying your purse to beggars?"

An expression crossed the runner's face that Sinta couldn't puzzle out. If she hadn't have known Jasmine better, the young girl would have marked it as sorrow.

"Just wanted to keep him away from eating bad apples," Jasmine replied, shrugging.

Sinta's confusion was further compounded. She grumbled under her breath and stomped off.

The rest of the walk was made in silence. A short while later, they finally reached the rusted iron gate that marked the border of the closed, walled world that was the orphanage.

Sinta turned to her companion and stared up at her, waiting. Jasmine caught the cue and, removing her purse from its hiding place, pulled out a handful of coin. She placed them one at a time into Sinta's outstretched hand, counting each silver coin audibly. The girl knew that there was no need for the display, that Jasmine would never try to cheat her, but she also knew that the runner insisted on making the count.

_It's good practice_ , Jasmine would state in her lecturing way, _to make sure your employers aren't trying to pinch your wage. If someone gets upset that you're taking the time to count your coin, you can be pretty sure they're trying to hide something. In the shadow-world, there're only two types of businessmen - those that stick to the rules and those that try to play clever. Most of them are the second type._

Jasmine counted out nine of the silver wrens, a fair night's wages by any account, especially given the ease of the job. "And this," she added, placing a single gold ril atop the small pile of silver, "is for your safe-hole. Don't spend it on shit, you might need it someday."

Sinta's eyes widened at the sight of the shiny coin. She had seen the better-off merchants bartering in gold on occasion, but had never actually held one of the coveted coins herself. It quickly disappeared, along with the silver, into the folds of her ragged dress.

The child took a step to leave, business done for the night, then halted. She stared up at the runner, deep in thought. Jasmine returned the look, eyebrows raised.

Suddenly, Sinta took a quick step forward and embraced the older girl. Jasmine flinched and her body went ridged in the child's grasp. The young girl squeezed tight and held on for perhaps a little longer than she knew she should have. She felt a hand patting her on the head, the way one might pat a stray dog out of pity. Breaking the embrace, Sinta turned and ran down the length of the orphanage's iron gate, seeking out her secret entrance.

As the small form of her companion faded from view, Jasmine sighed. The awkward embrace had caught her off guard and she was already beginning to regret that she had let it continue for as long as she did. It was no way for a protégé to treat their mentor. She would have to remember to scold the child the next time they met up.

It's not all easy coin and hugs, Sin. People see things like that and they call you weak. They'll use the people you care about to get to you. You want to have a mother, you'd best to be looking somewhere else. I did fine with none of my own and you'll get used to it as well.

Jasmine's gaze, along with her thoughts, wandered to the iron gate of the orphanage. Her eyes traced a path through the narrow gaps between the bars, across the open grounds, coming to rest on the monolithic block which stood beyond. It was a sterile and imposing structure of dull, grey stone. Windows, expansive and identical, were spaced at even intervals along the walls, running the entire length of each of the building's two stories. The only break in the pattern was a large set of double doors, wooden and rotting, braced with iron hinges as rusted as the gate. The extensive grounds which separated the building from the gate were dusty and barren. In a previous time, that vast, empty space had probably been home to a lush garden, but now only weeds grew.

Jasmine's many memories of the building's interior were no less bleak. Large, enclosed courtyards with evenly spaced, arched doorways, none with proper doors to fill them. Rooms that were indistinguishable from each other barring the implements of purpose that had been attached to each. Some of those rooms held rows of straw-filled mattresses, while others had been partitioned to provide make-shift quarters for the staff. Another room had been converted to accommodate the matron of the house, lavish with the spoils of her children's labor.

But perhaps sharpest in Jasmine's memory were the great chambers of productivity. It was necessary for every orphan to carry their weight and so each child was tutored in a skill of one sort or another. Long hours the children would work, all that they made then bartered off by the matron, the profits going into her pocket. Jasmine's fingertips began to throb, the ghost memories of days spent sewing from dawn to dusk.

At least I took something with me when I left. I may not be a seamstress, but my time in slavery gave more than it stole.

A breeze kicked up, blowing loose soil across the grounds. Small dust clouds formed and settled again with the dying of the wind. Within the dry rasp of the air Jasmine could hear the echoes of voices, traveling from a not-so-distant past to remind her of the way things used to be. The cries of "fairy", "ghyst", and other torments. The feel of the dark, cramped spaces where she would hide for hours on end. The scraped knees and bleeding scalp from being dragged by the hair across the stone floors by a drunken and raging matron. She remembered the scents of vomit and piss, the bloodstains on the floors and the bed sheets. The smell of burning meat...

Jasmine scratched at her arms, more ghost sensations trying to burrow their way out of her flesh. Her entire body tingled with the memories, the iorna having no effect on these remembered pains. Her heart began to race, the phantoms of past fears.

Left by shadow hands on the cold stone doorstep, she had been sentenced with unknown purpose to confinement within those walls. She had been broken daily by circumstance and her inability to master it. And slowly but surely she had learned her lessons, eventually forming the pieces of who she was at that moment. She had learned to hide, learned to be clever and learned that any friend can become an enemy, given the right motivation. Most importantly, she had learned to escape.

Devoid of a past and grotesque among even the lowest of the East-block, Jasmine had finally fled that prison of body and soul. She had made her way into the outside world, into the world of the streets and the gangs and the whores and the constant struggle for coin. Eventually she rose to the rooftops, where she discovered a perfect kind of freedom. And now, more than five years later, she had turned her skills into success and profit. She had taken all that those mindless, worthless creatures had to give and thrived, grown strong, thrown it back in their faces. A ghyst she might still be, but she was her own person while they remained slaves. Jasmine spat at the gate.

What does it matter where I've come from or what hand tossed me in there to rot? I've bested them, every last one. I'm smaller and I'm uglier, but I'm sure as shit smarter and they'll be pissing themselves when I'm at the top and they're still stuck playing bullies to children.

The thought brought her mind back to Sinta, another young child that would have to endure her time in the iron-gated prison.

It's no good she's in there... too young. I was that young once, but maybe...

Jasmine shook her head to clear the irrational thoughts. She was doing the best she could, given the coin and circumstances. Anything more might jeopardize the balance of her house of cards. Sinta would learn to survive just as she had, without mothers or fathers or guardians or protectors, only her wits to rely on. Trial by fire.

Trial by fire.

Her arms began to itch again.

Turning her back on the past, Jasmine returned to the streets.
V. A Much Deserved Reward

The warm water was a welcome relief after the long night's work. Half-sitting and half-lying in a large wooden tub, Jasmine could feel the aches and pains of her body finally subsiding. The stress of the run washed away, replaced by a sense of peace that settled a haze of serenity across her mind. Strong fingers gently massaged her scalp, working soap through her hair. Sleep threatened to overtake her at every moment, though the occasional sharp pain from her still-broken ribs kept that welcome darkness from falling.

"You smell an awful mess, Miss Jasmine," the feminine voice spoke from behind. "I'm betting you ended your night in the sewers again."

Jasmine turned her head a fraction and stared sidelong and through heavy-lidded eyes at the figure behind her. A pale face stared back, crowned with a faded blue coif and framed by a stringy tangle of damp, blonde curls.

"And a sound wager that would be, Maryline," Jasmine drawled through her haze. "Sometimes there's no other choice, as much as I'd wish it different. If you think my hair smells bad, you should take a whiff of my boots."

It'll be a week before I get them free of that stench. Have to wear the old ones til then, I suppose...

"I'd rather not, thanks," Maryline replied.

"Oh," Jasmine spoke with exaggerated disappointment, "but you just don't know what you're missing! The beauty of the sewers is a world its own and everyone should take a trip to have a look. And the smells! What a bouquet of flowers and spices it is, if only you've the nose to appreciate it."

Maryline giggled. "You'll not talk me into your follies, Miss Jasmine. I work in a bathhouse. I know what a body should smell like proper."

"Just Jasmine," the runner corrected, though she knew the futility of the gesture. "You don't need to nail 'miss' to the front of my name as if I'm a Lady or somesuch. I've known you for too many months for all that nonsense."

"Sorry, Miss Jasmine," the bathmaid responded, the plea failed once again. Jasmine sighed. "Next time I'll try to remember that you've got no station. Maybe street-rat Jasmine would be better?"

Jasmine turned to scowl at the young girl and an expectant smile greeted her. She sneered briefly and returned to staring at the water in the tub. "I'd not go that far with it. I may be no Lady, but I'm no street-rat neither. And after tonight, I'll be a top player. Give me some months to work it out and you'll be calling me Lady proper and I'll make sure you say it right every time."

Maryline laughed again, the jest absent of any malice or scorn. Jasmine knew the maid had every confidence in her and that if the runner had walked into the bathhouse wearing a regal gown with a golden tiara planted firmly on her head, Maryline would likely be surprised, but would never doubt the truth of what she saw. Jasmine knew no others in Porsham Grand that she could speak the same of. In her world, doubt and distrust were commodities and people like Maryline got quickly devoured. It was only the security of her work and her home at the bathhouse that kept the maid's innocence intact. Though Jasmine's feelings on the matter were confused at best, she knew that Maryline's innocence was as precious to her as a well-cut gem.

Their banter at a pause, silence fell once again and Jasmine gave in to the luxury of the moment. Her eyes drifted to the small iron grate that rested in the floor at the center of the room. Condensation from the steaming bath collected on the stone walls and wooden bench of the small chamber, slowly dripping and forming into thin streams that made their way to the depression to disappear into whatever dark abyss lie beneath. Watching the trickles of water twist across the ground, colliding and then separating again, reminded Jasmine of a dance. Each miniature river found its partner, lingered with them as they made their conjoined journey, and then broke apart when the dance was done. Though she could not understand why, it felt as if the water were speaking to her, trying to tell her something in its own strange way. The thought became intrusive and Jasmine closed her eyes against it, concentrating instead on Maryline's fingers working through her thick mane.

The sound of a curtain being drawn brought Jasmine back to awareness. She raised her sleepy lids to see a woman enter, trailed closely by a girl that couldn't have been more than thirteen summers.

The woman wore a thin dress of bright crimson with a dark blue apron tied about her waist. A bodice of brown offset the colorful nature of the rest of her garb and acted to support her rather ample bosom. Her sandy blonde hair was tied back and wrapped with a piece of red silk, the ends hanging free and dripping. Under one arm she held a dark leather satchel that spoke of excellent craftsmanship.

The girl was a stark contrast. She wore a dress of similar material, though it was light blue and much plainer of design. Her apron was white, her bodice simple and, in Jasmine's opinion, not performing much of its intended function on the skinny child. Her face was long and thin, framed by rogue strands of black hair that had managed to work themselves free of her bonnet. That black hair made her appear even paler than she already was and gave Jasmine the impression of a walking cadaver, fresh back from the grave to finish its work bathing the living. In her arms rested a faded leather satchel that looked as if it had seen better days.

The girl pulled the curtain closed behind her and offered Jasmine a shy smile. The runner could see the maid's eyes trying to remain focused despite Jasmine's strange visage, but she was losing that fight. Every few seconds Deirdre would glance at Jasmine's ears and, upon realizing what she was doing, snap her eyes away, locking them instead upon Maryline.

The woman, in contrast, stared directly into Jasmine's face, her own piercing blue gaze openly announcing her disapproval.

"Back here again, are we?" The judgment in her eyes was mirrored in her voice. "And not just for pleasure. You've gone and made a mess of yourself, I take it?"

"Good evening to you, Rita," Jasmine replied, ignoring the question. "I see you've found yourself a new girl. Care to introduce me or just feel like playing nanny on my coin?"

"I'll do what I want in my own establishment, girl," came the sharp reply. "And the new girl is Deirdre. You'll no doubt be seeing plenty of her, as much time as you spend here."

"No doubt..." Jasmine echoed, sinking back into her trance.

Rita strode forward and laid the satchel down on the wooden bench, working at the strings that tied it. Deirdre shadowed her, observing her every movement.

"Don't linger, girl," Rita snapped at her. "Get to work with those clothes."

At her command, Deirdre made a swift curtsey and moved to where Jasmine's filthy rags lay bundled up on the bench. Putting the faded satchel down, she began to undo the bundle. Her nose wrinkled against the stench. Jasmine smirked at the distressed expression on her face.

"Be careful of the scrolls, Deirdre," Jasmine warned. "If they get wet there'll be blood to pay for it."

Nodding, Deirdre continued, albeit with increased care. A second later a loud clanging noise announced that something had fallen from Jasmine's clothes.

"Careful with my knife. It's already in bad enough shape as it is."

Deirdre crouched to retrieve the fallen object from the floor and Jasmine caught the glint of silver out of the corner of her eye.

"Not a knife, miss," Deirdre corrected. "It looks to be a knave from a keeps board."

Jasmine raised her lids a fraction more and squinted at what the bathmaid held in her hand. Sure enough, it was the silver knave that she had taken as a prize earlier in the night, though Jasmine was almost certain she had left it at the chandler's when she'd switched costumes.

Losing your mind. Can't believe you could be so dull as to have that lying about in a pocket. Gods' graces you didn't get stopped by the guards or it would have been a long walk to a cell and a short walk to the gallows.

"Just put it and the rest in my pack. The rags you can burn or whatever you see fit to do with them."

As Deirdre finished her work, Maryline scooped warm water from the tub and poured it over Jasmine's head to rinse the soap away. This was followed by the rough scrubbing of a towel through the runner's hair. Out of the corner of her eye, Jasmine could see Rita waiting nearby, arms crossed and eyes impatient. Sighing, Jasmine stood and stepped from the tub, though it took a supreme effort of will to remove herself from its euphoric embrace. Moving to the center of the room, she stretched her arms to the roof. Maryline began to dry the moisture from her body with a thick, cotton towel.

"Ouch!" Jasmine winced as Maryline's rub-down found her broken ribs. "Careful, girl. I'm busted up, remember?"

"You whine worse than any man," Rita retorted. "Stop breaking yourself and you wouldn't have these problems."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I'd be best to settle down, perhaps find myself a nice man to take care of my problems for me. Maybe squat some brats out. Or better yet, you could give me a job on the other side of the house. I'm sure I'd be well-fit to lie on my back and let the boys crawl on top as long as my belly was full. Sure, I may still end the night with a broken bone or two if they get too rough, but no matter. The life of the grand, that's what that is."

Rita scowled and spat back at Jasmine with equal venom. "It's a far cry more lady-like than prowling roofs like a stray cat. And none of the girls here get broken up, so shut your homely face or else find someone else to patch you up, stray."

It was the word "homely" that snapped Jasmine to attention. It was a rare thing for the matron of the house to give insult to Jasmine's unusual looks and she was vigilant in making sure that her girls kept the same courtesy. Jasmine cocked her head at Rita and gave her the blackest look she could manage. Rita returned the look, unwilling to give ground. Though the temptation to retort was nearly overwhelming, Jasmine bit her tongue and let the matter die.

As if consciously setting a contrast to the growing tension, Maryline ran one finger down the length of Jasmine's now dried back, sending a shiver up her spine. Jasmine glared back at her and, looking embarrassed, the bathmaid jerked her hand away.

"Sorry Miss Jasmine," she stammered her apology, face flushing. "It's just so soft when you're fresh-dried..."

Deirdre now stared intently at Jasmine, having noticed the light layer of fur that covered her skin. The palest blonde color, it was nearly indistinguishable from the tone of her flesh, though Maryline had drawn attention to it and the other girl's sharp eyes had honed in. Noticing the maid's blank expression and slack jaw, Rita reached over and gave her ear a sharp pinch. Deirdre let out a yelp and jumped, finally aware of what she'd been doing. She quickly returned to busying herself with Jasmine's belongings.

With that small indiscretion, the tension had broken. Rita now appraised Jasmine with the look of a professional mender instead of the judging eye of a chastising aunt. She turned and retrieved some items from her bag which then made their way into the large pockets of the apron she wore. Gesturing with one hand for Jasmine to come nearer, Rita unrolled a length of green-stained bandages and began pressing it, length-by-length, against the damp walls of the bathhouse chamber.

Jasmine stepped closer and assumed the familiar position, arms raised and back to the matron. She winced from the jolt the stretch gave to her broken insides.

Once the bandages were sufficiently damp, Rita reached around Jasmine's frame and began to wrap them tightly about her damaged ribs. The stench of whatever concoction coated the dressing made Jasmine's nose twitch. If there were any other way, she would have avoided Rita's alchemical treatments altogether. But the faster she healed, the faster she could jump onto the next available job. There was no choice but to endure the smell until she mended.

Rita continued to circle Jasmine's torso until the entire length of bandage was used up. Giving one final tug to tighten the wrap, Rita cinched the cloth with a small iron clip. By the time she was done, Jasmine was feeling light-headed and her ribs had ceased to bother her.

"What..." Jasmine began and trailed off, almost forgetting what she had intended to say. "What is this... in is this... in..." She shook her head in a futile attempt to clear the growing fog.

"It's a Kat-Suk alchemy laced with iorna for the pain," Rita replied to the unasked question. "It will speed the binding along and keep it numb for a few days."

Iorna... something about that I could remember but I can't remember what it's about...

"Normally, it would take a month or more for them to mend," Rita continued, "though I suspect you'll be back on your feet in a week's time, odd as you are." She shifted position, bringing her face close in to Jasmine's. "Looks like whatever happened to your face is already closed up. No need to disinfect that then. Not that I've ever seen an infection take you."

Rita straightened and stared down into the runner's eyes. For her part, Jasmine was having a difficult time keeping focus on the woman. The world seemed to waver and sway around her. Jasmine wondered idly when the bathhouse had been put out to sea and how the stone structure was keeping afloat.

"I suppose you'll be back here before too long," Rita scolded. "Almost seems a waste to fix you up when you'll just be off running rooftops again and have yourself another spill."

But Rita's lecture had lost all meaning by the time it reached Jasmine's ears, the runner's mind spinning elliptical circles in a drug-induced haze. She stared back and nodded, fairly certain that was the best response given Rita's tone. With a slight shake of her head, the bathhouse matron turned, collected her bag and, pushing the curtain aside, left the room.

Before Jasmine knew it, Maryline and Deirdre were helping her into the yellow dress and pale brown bodice that had been pulled from her reserve bag. She was always diligent to keep a spare set of clothes at the bathhouse, just in case she came in more torn and bleeding than she liked. No need to walk the streets looking like she had just been clubbed by some thug - it was decidedly unprofessional.

Jasmine was so out of sorts that the maids even had to assist her in donning her cotton stockings. Assist, actually, may be a understatement considering the roofrunner was so addled that she could barely get one finger to touch another, let alone manage the manual dexterity required of anything more challenging. Once she had been dressed, Jasmine attempted to lay down on the wet bench, the lulling promise of a nap calling to her. Maryline and Deirdre were forced to lift the runner and carry her someplace drier to wait out the worst of the iorna's effects.

It was some time before Jasmine's mind cleared enough for her to realize where she was. Stone beneath her back radiated a coolness that contrasted with the moist heat of the bathhouse air. Pushing to a sitting position, Jasmine looked around, trying to decipher what had happened between now and the last coherent thought she could pick out of the void.

Too much iorna. The wrap and what I took before must of put me down. Still barely able to think... At least I'll have time to sweat it out before I make my meeting.

Jasmine rose from the slab the maids had placed her upon and, scanning the room, found her leather satchel. She opened it and rifled through the contents, making sure everything was present. It wasn't that she mistrusted the girls at the bathhouse. In fact, she trusted them perhaps more than anyone else. Rita ran a tight business and not pilfering her customers' belongings was a rule that carried no compromise. But trusting someone was very different from ignoring caution. If the papers she had retrieved that night were missing or damaged in any way then not getting paid would be the least of her problems.

Satisfied that everything was intact, Jasmine tied the documents to her thigh. She collected her knife, her money pouch and the silver knave as well, hiding them within the various hidden pockets of her dress. Exiting the room, she almost collided with a scurrying Maryline.

"Oh!" The bathmaid jumped, startled. "Miss Jasmine, I was hoping you would be awake soon. Lady Rita asked me to come and make sure to collect your fee."

Jasmine smirked at the maid. "And here I thought I'd be sneaking out the back and making tonight a gift of the matron." At Maryline's confused stare, Jasmine clarified, "That was a joke, Mary. I'm not going to walk out on the best binder in The Block without squaring up."

Maryline looked sheepish at her lack of understanding and Jasmine could only sigh.

One of these days I'll have to teach this girl how to think a little sharper. Lovely and kind, but dull as a spoon when it comes to her wits.

Reaching beneath her dress, Jasmine pulled forth a pouch of coin. She plucked out eight silver wrens and handed them to Maryline.

"Six for the matron and one each for you and the new girl."

Maryline looked slightly shocked. "But miss... really, a few coppers is fine, but this is too much."

"Maryline, let me tell you something to make you smarter. Never turn down a gift when there's no catches to it. I've done an expert run tonight and I'm expecting a pay-off that'd make your eyes blind to see for yourself. A few wrens gifted isn't going to empty my belly."

"But miss..." Maryline persisted in her refusal of the gift.

Gods' graces! How dense is this bath-rat? Shall I shove it down your throat to get your approval, girl?

"But, but, and I'm not a Miss," Jasmine scolded. She made a sweeping gesture and struck an affected pose, each word dripping from her tongue like liquid silver. "Gold is like water, little Mary. It flows here and it flows there, but it always ends up flowing downhill and into the sea. No person can hold a river in their hands and come this third-moon I'll be drenched and the better for it."

Pressing the coins firmly into the maid's palm, Jasmine closed the girl's fingers around them. With a nod and a wave, she made her way to the bathhouse exit.
VI. The Mirror's Reflection

As was her tendency, Jasmine awoke as the sun began its descent to the horizon. The dreams of the day shadowed her mind with remembered hues of gold and silver. Rolling off the blanket-covered pile of straw that served as a bed, Jasmine crawled on all fours to a battered wooden table on top of which stood a polished brass mirror and a mismatched collection of personal items. Sitting cross-legged before the table, eyes still heavy with sleep, Jasmine squinted into the mirror and contemplated the creature staring back at her.

It was not pride that motivated her to subject herself to these constant self-examinations, but curiosity, a puzzle that had plagued her for years and at times pushed her to the point of near-desperation. Feelings of hopelessness and impotence began to worm into her thoughts as she watched the strange girl mimicking her from the confines of the warped brass disc. The uneven plane of the mirror twisted her features, making the runner's unusual visage even stranger and further adding to her frustration.

Piss and spit on this mirror. When I get my gold I'll buy a showy one, the kind they make with glass and such.

Of their own accord, Jasmine's hands found their way to her ears. She traced the arc of them, a wide curve up to the jutting, pointed tips and back again. Her palms pressed inward, flattening the protruding oddities against her head and hoping that when she released them they would stay in the proper place. Once more her desire was left unfulfilled.

Worse than any mouse. What a stupid deformity. My parents must have been ugly as the Beast to leave me with a pair of these.

Willing her hands back down to her lap, she grinned broadly at the mirror, exposing over-sized canines set among the rows of small but otherwise mundane teeth. A thumb tested the point of one, felt the sharpness there.

Damn, let it go too long. Best take care of it before it's a problem.

Fishing a steel file from among the table's clutter, Jasmine raised it to the first of her two canines and began to drag it back and forth across the tip. The rasping of steel on tooth was accompanied by a jarring vibration that radiated through her jaw and into the recesses of her brain. It had once sent shivers down Jasmine's spine, this ritual, and she had tried to find ways to avoid it entirely, but to no avail. If she let her teeth get too long, one bad spill or cuff in the face could send them right through her bottom lip. She had been on the receiving end of that disagreeable occurrence more than once. Over the years, Jasmine had simply accepted that the ritual must be performed, for no matter how many times she filed the offending objects down, they always grew back within a matter of days.

Once, while in a particularly dark mood, she had filed off two-thirds of their length to make them flush with her other teeth. Her alcohol-fueled determination had left her writhing in pain and covered in her own blood, eventually passing out on the floor of her flat. But all the conviction in the world could not keep them from returning before the month's end, as long as they had ever been. After that revelation, she decided that there was nothing to do for it aside from keeping her mouth safe against the possibility of a fall. Besides, no matter how she felt about them marring her smile, they made for convenient weapons in a pinch.

Once finished, Jasmine rinsed the taste of metal and tooth from her mouth with some cheap wine she kept in a jug by the table, spitting the swill into a chamber pot. Another pull from the jug went into her belly, warming her a bit against chill in her drafty flat.

Next on the grooming agenda was her hair. Jasmine had been blessed with the thickest hair she had ever seen on a person and it took little provocation for the wiry mess to become a mass of tangles. Even sleeping left its mark and without a good twenty minutes of brushing and oiling each morning she would quickly find herself using a knife to remove the knots rather than a comb. If she ignored it for more than a few days she began to look as if she had been rubbing her head into the dirt.

She would have cut it off completely, or at least shorter than the collar-bone length that it was, but it possessed the same problematic traits as her teeth. One day she would hack it within inches of her scalp, the next day it would be back the way it had started. She never saw the vicious beast grow, as it only seemed to come alive when she was sound asleep, proclaiming its defiance when she woke the next morning.

The same troublesome enigma thwarted her attempts to dye it. Having hair as bright as hers was a serious detriment to her work. The platinum coloration seemed to catch every stray light, from the fume-fueled lamps of the avenues to a lonely candle resting in someone's window three stories up. But every time she changed its hue, it would shed the new color as she slept. She never found evidence of its passing, no stains on her pillow or blanket. It simply vanished, devoured by some mysterious and unnamed force. Again she had relented, relying instead on a tichel to maintain her stealth.

Everything seemed to work that way with Jasmine, as if her body could only ever exist in one state. Even her strange ability to heal much faster than normal people reflected this unmalleable nature. Many years ago, while she was still confined in the orphanage, the matron had become sickened by Jasmine's aberrant appearance. Deeply immersed in one of her drunken rages, the old crone had taken a pair of shears to Jasmine's ears, cutting off an inch or more. Within three days they were healed, returned to their original shape without a single scar, the missing flesh grown again as if delivered to her by some strange sorcery. Jasmine often wondered what would happen if she were to lose a finger or a hand, but curiosity never won out against the possibility that such a trauma would surpass her body's limits and leave her lacking in one of the essential tools of her trade.

The only parts of her that didn't follow this pattern of immutability were Jasmine's nails. They grew just like any other person's and, most importantly, when she cut them they stayed cut. She held onto this anomaly among anomalies as if it were a precious gift, some lone symbol that she was at least somewhat human. The fingernails she kept sharp, a surreptitious weapon at her disposal should she find herself in need. Her toenails - though none ever saw them save at the bathhouse - she painted up with colored polish. No matter how ridiculous she felt for having feet that sparkled with ten mismatched hues, the ability to control at least some aspect of her appearance outweighed whatever snide remarks Sinta could come up with during the times when they bathed together. She stared down at those colored toes now, noting that the paint was chipped on several of them.

The final part of Jasmine's waking routine was a strict regimen of stretches to prepare her limbs for whatever challenges she might face that night. Though she made a few attempts to limber up what she could, her broken ribs screamed in defiance and so she chose instead to climb back onto her bed. Pulling a blanket up to her neck, Jasmine stared at the ceiling and daydreamed of gold while she waited for the sun finish fleeing the sky.

It was half-a-week before Jasmine would be making her meeting and exchanging the pilfered roll of documents for a fat purse of gold. Despite the promise of reward, five days with a set of broken ribs was nearly intolerable. She couldn't hunt for jobs, nor could she go skipping across the rooftops to keep her skills sharp. The mending of her injury was of paramount importance if she was to get back to work and continue bringing in coin. Too much time off the roster and a freelancer could find themselves forgotten in the circles that mattered. And once the Steward let others know how impressed he was with her work, she would be looking at some high-end jobs coming in fast, jobs that she'd have to be ready to take on at a moment's notice.

Her intention was to confine herself to bed in hopes that she might mend quicker, but best intentions could not keep her from being finally overcome by boredom. It was a matter or hours before Jasmine rose from her place on the straw and crawled to the chest that rested near her feet. Lifting the lid, she pulled forth a green peasant's dress, some matching woolen stockings, a set of crescent-shaped brass ear clips to hide her more obvious deformity and a knee-length pair of leather boots that had been several times mended over the course of their use. It was a painful business, getting dressed with broken ribs, but she finally managed. After deciding against wearing a bodice for sanity's sake, she left her small apartment and made her way to a tavern with the hope that time might pass quicker under the influence of some strong ale.

The next day followed much the same pattern, but by the third day Jasmine's nerves were frayed from the constant deluge of inactivity. Luckily, it also happened to be a tenth-day and, since the weather was clear enough, the great market would be taking place.

The great market was a blessing to all the residents of the many walled ghettos of Porsham Grand. On this day, anyone who had something to sell could purchase a special certificate and make their way to one of the four main avenues that cut the city into its four primary districts. Merchants of the ghettos could bring their wares and were permitted to set up shop on those avenues, side-by-side with the more affluent businessmen that lived outside the walls. Though few would return with enough money to do more than cover their expenses, it was, at the very least, a chance to pretend that they were just as respectable as any other trader, regardless of where they lay their head.

Those that wished to shop at the great market could also obtain a pass, albeit one that cost much less and did not permit them to sell. The ghetto residents took the opportunity to seek out the best bargains they could, hording up valuables that they felt might fetch a higher price inside the ghetto's walls. Many made a decent living with their makeshift enterprise and some even managed to profit more than those who attended the market to sell. At least that was the case from spring to fall. Winter markets were few and far between and attracted a much smaller crowd.

To many the market was a promise of opportunity, but Jasmine knew that the reality of the situation was much different. The great markets were a tool that the ruling houses used to filter coin out of the ghettos. For every merchant whose goal was to put more silver into their own purses, there were ten shoppers that emptied theirs freely. A clubber by the name of Pyrus that Jasmine drank with occasionally explained the whole thing to her once, a learning of some sort he called "economics". Though she had not been schooled proper at a university as he had, Jasmine understood the flow of coin almost as if it were her second nature. But even in realizing the way the East-block was being squeezed dry, Jasmine still cared less. If people were stupid enough to throw their coin away, they deserved what they got. Besides, the world outside the walls was often the only place to get the things that she needed and, when she had the coin to spare, the luxuries that she enjoyed.

So when the day of the great market arrived, Jasmine, despite her still aching ribs, forced herself to waking earlier than usual. Donning a bright yellow dress that she had altered from its former peasant incarnation to make her appear as if she were of a merchant class, she snatched up her steadily depleting purse and made her way through the wall and into the outside world of Porsham Grand - city of traders, culture and endless spectacle.

Walking to East Market Avenue was uncomfortable, especially considering the need of a bodice to play her part properly, but the elation at being free of the confines of her drafty flat helped to push the sensations of pain from her mind. A warm sun resting high in the sky signaled the coming of an early spring and Jasmine basked in the change of weather. Her mood lightened considerably and by the time she reached the market she had almost forgotten entirely about her incapacitated state.

Being a mid-winter market, the avenue was scarce of vendors and most of those selling were out of the ghetto. The number of buyers was little better, though they were mostly of the city proper. Few ghetto-dwellers could afford to spend their coin on trinkets during the tight winter months. Jasmine watched the parade of tradesmen meander up and down the avenue, turning their noses at the meager wares that were on offer. The caravaners were little better, having come to town to sell or buy in bulk and most likely wasting time at the market while awaiting word on one deal or another. The vendors added to the dreary atmosphere with their desperate looks and poor hawking routines.

Occasionally, the crowd's homogeneity would be broken up by a group of foreign mercenaries, most likely on hire to the caravaners and blessed with a day off. They, at least, would buy something now and again, a token or souvenir to take home with them once their master's business in Porsham Grand was done. As the day crawled on, Jasmine even witnessed a few aristocrats making their way through the market. She recognized the symbols of House embroidered on their fancy silk coats, but was at a loss to tell one affiliation from another. They snubbed their noses with even more exaggerated displeasure than the others.

Jasmine spent the day wandering about and watching the people, occasionally bumping a wealthier looking patron and relieving him of his purse. The found money she spent at the food stalls, of which there were dozens. One thing that Jasmine truly enjoyed about Porsham Grand was the food. People from all over the continent and beyond had settled in the city at one time or another during its long history and the sheer diversity of exotic offerings was one obvious sign of this. The types of food available were almost as numerous as the stalls themselves. Jasmine's mouth watered at the smells of the foreign spices wafting through the air. By the time the sun was dipping and the crowds beginning to thin, her belly was as full as it could get. Still she continued to stuff in more, fighting through the growing pain.

But the real reason the runner was at the market, aside from staving off the boredom of recovery, was to watch the faces that came through. Porsham Grand, being the largest city and the greatest trade hub of the northern continent, attracted people from near and far. If there was a land with people in it, those people would eventually make their way to this city. Every time the runner spotted someone unusual, her eyes would hone in, searching the individual for signs of heritage. She examined their ears, their eyes, their hair and, when the chance arose, their teeth - anything that might give her a clue about her own strange blood. But every time the search came up empty. If there were people like her on the face of Dlorwyn, they either stayed in the shadows (and understandably so) or they had yet to find their way to the streets of her city. It was a futile search, she knew, but the promise of a clue, any clue, kept the runner going.

Once the sun had finally set, Jasmine made her way back to the confines of the ghetto walls and returned home. After changing into something more suitable, it was another night of draining flagons and another early morning passed out, half-drunk, on the pile of straw she called her bed.

The last two days were spent much the same as the first two aside from a quick trip to the bathhouse to get her bindings changed and to enjoy a brief soak. By the time the fifth day had come and gone, Jasmine's ribs felt bruised but not quite broken. She wouldn't be running any roofs in the immediate future, but at least breathing was no longer such a chore.

When the day of the meeting finally arrived, Jasmine rose earlier than she would have liked. Her intent had been to sleep as late as possible so that she was sharp when dealing with the Steward, but the anticipation of a purse filled with gold thwarted her attempts to rest. Finally she abandoned the effort, rising, grooming and dressing for the night ahead. Since her leathers were still packed away under the floor of the chandler's (and still quite covered in the filth of the sewers), Jasmine instead opted to costume herself in the manner of a peasant girl. It wasn't the best choice when doing business, but the only other option was to wear her old set of roofrunning gear. Bought in earlier days, when she naively thought showmanship to be the essence of skill, wearing the red and green costume now would do nothing but make her look the amateur. Checking the mirror one last time to ensure her appearance was as perfect as it could be, Jasmine left her small apartment and journeyed to her home away from home, The Chipped Bone.
VII. Roses Have Thorns

The tavern's long main hall was filled with perhaps two-dozen small, round, wooden tables, each circled by a number of mismatched, half-broken chairs. Along one wall of the building ran a long bar, a door at the far end leading back into a kitchen. Despite having a proper kitchen, the Chipped Bone was not known for its quality of food. Neither was it known for its quality of ale, for that matter. What made the tavern's name infamous among the shadow-dwellers was the row of booths which lined the wall opposite the bar.

Cut off from the rest of the room by a lattice-work barrier of thick, wooden slats, the only way to those booths was to pass between the two large and murderous looking guards posted at the entrance. To be admitted one needed the prestige of being either an important businessman or an agent working for one. All small-time business took place at one of the public tables.

The Steward who had hired Jasmine for the Riyshindian job was a man of only moderate influence, though he was still important enough that he need not lurk in the main hall. His invite had been the runner's first foray beyond the barrier, though if she had anything to say about it, it would be far from her last. Once the tale of her success had spread among the elite she would enjoy many meetings in those private havens of wealth and power.

The noise was more than usual for it being so early in the night. The clattering of bones across wooden tabletops, braggarts boasting the grey truths of their recent scores, deep bellowing voices demanding more ale and more feminine voices spelling out in lurid detail the services they could provide all came together to create a cacophony that was music to Jasmine's ears. From the tavern's small stage an unintelligible roar croaked out verses to what seemed to be a sort of folk song. The air around Jasmine was thick with the sound of business in one form or another.

She couldn't help but smile, watching the theater of the shadow-world play out in the smoke-filled tavern. Clusters of Bloodrazor thugs stood about, making sure to look intimidating among the crowd. Businessmen sat alone at tables or with their hired swords, eyes scanning the room discerningly, looking for the agents that might fit their needs. Freelancers and wanna-bes stared at the businessmen with hunger and desperation, waiting to be noticed, hoping that their reputations were enough to garner a meeting. Drunken ghetto-dwellers sat in circles and tossed bones, attempting to fill their shallow purses with a lucky roll of the dice. No matter how Jasmine felt at any given moment, sitting among the patrons of the Chipped Bone always managed to cheer her up. They were, in some strange way, family.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking among the faces for the man she was there to meet. She had noted no signs of his arrival, despite having been there since dusk.

Where is he, damn it? Always late, these businessmen. They think since they hold the coin that they work on their own time, as if mine means nothing.

Though the illusion of equality served to stoke her anger, Jasmine always knew the truth of things - that she was, in the end, little more than a tool. The only thing businessmen cared about was what service she could provide and how much they needed to pay for that service. Unless they were eager to get the payoff over and done, they showed up whenever they felt and acted as if Jasmine were somehow at fault for arriving before them. After her first few jobs, she learned to shrug it off as just another annoying detail of doing business. Eventually, she promised herself, her time would be so valuable, her skills so much in demand, that the employers would beg her apology even if they _were_ on time. She longed for that day in her not-too-distant future. In the meantime, Jasmine sipped on her second ale of the night and waited, her patience well-practiced if not quite genuine.

The drunkard on stage finished his song and immediately barreled his way onward and into another. He was a giant, square brute of a man, though unusually short in stature. For some reason, Jasmine had conjured images of the huge stone blocks of the ghetto walls floating about in her head. The man's drunken slur combined with his thick foreign accent to create a rambling melody of nonsense. Jasmine had not a clue what his song was about, though it conveyed a recognizable note of loss and remorse.

Anxious, Jasmine straightened the folds in her dress. The longer she had to wait, the more chance that she would be forced to interact with someone and she had no desire to be sociable that night. Worse yet, being that she hadn't dressed in her typical professional manner there was always the possibility of being mistaken for a whore. Having to fend off the advances of some drunken clubber would have been distracting and thrown her out of her carefully prepared state of mind. Luckily, those who recognized her face (a face that was more than easily recognizable) knew well enough to stay away from her sharp knives and even sharper tongue, no matter what she happened to be wearing. Still, she was eager to get the deal over and done.

The tavern keeper approached Jasmine's place at the bar, drawing her attention back. He was a plain-looking sort, clean shaven and balding across the top of his pasty head. His face wore an expression of perpetual disinterest, almost as if it were a mask that could never be removed. A bottle of Luvinian wine and two glasses were in his hands. He placed them in front of her.

"I've not ordered any wine, Laotz," she corrected him, raising one questioning eyebrow. "I'm not even half-done with my ale."

Laotz pushed the bottle and glasses a few inches towards her. Leaning closer, he pointed a long boney finger over her shoulder.

"Your guest has arrived, Miss Jasmine," he spoke in a raspy whisper that somehow carried despite the tavern's perpetual clatter. Laotz always seemed to know who had arrived and for whom each person was waiting. Jasmine stopped wondering at it some time ago.

She looked over her shoulder to see one of the guards staring at her impatiently.

Seems that I'm late.

Gulping back most of what remained in her tankard, she picked up the wine and the glasses and leapt down from the barstool. She grit her teeth against the flash of pain that lanced through her body courtesy of her injured ribs. Recovering a professional composure, Jasmine straightened and methodically strode to the back of the room, past the guards and into the first booth.

Sitting on one side of the booth's heavy wooden table was a man whose appearance demonstrated the great pride he took in displaying his wealth openly. It was a foolish practice as far as Jasmine was concerned, walking around announcing the contents of your purse to every eye sharp enough to see. It was also a sure way to become a mark for some bold or hungry clubber seeking to make a small fortune. The only thing preventing that unfortunate end was the circular silver brooch the man wore on his tunic, a mark of membership in the Steward organization. The Stewards may not have been the most martial of gangs, but their accumulated wealth was more than enough to buy the swords and loyalty of skilled bodyguards and thus fill the gaps of their weaknesses. Jasmine guessed that her employer had a half-dozen or more men waiting to escort his soft belly home.

And what a soft belly it was. The man's chins hung triple from his neck, below a puffy-cheeked face, red nose and ruddy flesh displaying his love of drink. His eyes were squinted and too small, conveying the feeling that he was either reading Jasmine or leering at her, though she would have been hard pressed to say for sure whether it was the one or the other. The clothes on his back were silk, ostentatious, and fashionably expensive. Gold and silver jewelry of many functions dotted the vast landscape of his corpulent form. He presented Jasmine with his most genuine and wide-mouthed smile, his teeth stained black from chewing Caralia nuts.

"Yes, you have come!" The man was excitable, to say the least. "Now, now... let's have that wine, shall we?"

He stretched his thick fingers toward the bottle as Jasmine slid it across the table. Missing the wine, the fleshy hands wandered past to grope at Jasmine's wrists. She pulled back quickly, careful to hide her disgust. Feigning as if nothing had happened, the merchant picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.

"So, you were successful? You have the item I requested?" The beady eyes probed as he set a now-full glass of wine before her.

Jasmine waved her hand, brushing off the question and affecting her best nonchalant manner. "Of course. I always do what I'm paid for."

The word "paid" seemed to set something off within the merchant. Jasmine noticed one eyelid twitch, a slight pulling at the edge of his mouth. He was hiding something, Jasmine was sure of it. The question was, what?

If you plan on double-crossing me you over-sized lump of dung, you'd best prepare for what I can do to you, guards or no.

"May I see the item... please?" The request was almost a plea.

Jasmine reached into her blouse and removed the sealed roll of documents, placing them directly in front of her on the table. As the Steward leaned across to take them, Jasmine pulled them out of his reach. He scowled at her, the way a parent might react to a disobedient child.

"Not that I don't trust you," she certainly didn't, "but I'd like to see my fee."

Again the twitching eye, but he complied, reaching to his side and lifting a brown leather purse from where it had been lying on the seat. He held it in front of him, clutching it tightly as if unwilling to part with it. Jasmine eyed the purse.

Cheap leather and poorly made. Figure the rich to spend as little as they can.

She slid the documents across to the merchant who in turn handed her the purse, once again making an attempt to rub his fingers across her wrist. She snatched her prize away, this time flashing him a hostile look for his lecherous advance. Lifting the battered, brown pouch carefully, Jasmine judged its weight. One-hundred gold rils were supposedly contained within, though it seemed larger than it should have.

Silver maybe? Though as long as it's coin, I'm not one to complain.

While the merchant pored over the documents, his eyes widening and struggling against the cramped confines of their tiny sockets, Jasmine opened the purse and examined its contents. A quick scan revealed what she suspected. It was about a third short of what she was promised.

"You've underpaid me, Steward." She locked him with a cold stare.

The fat man spoke without looking up from the papers, "You were hired to be in and out without anyone taking notice and you made a mess of things with all your noise. You've been paid what your work was worth."

Jasmine's outrage boiled beneath the surface of her skin. Doing business in such a manner was a bold display of contempt, one that could even get you killed in some circles. The merchant, confident that his status as a Steward would protect him from repercussions, was informing Jasmine that her own status carried no weight. Beneath the veneer of professional excuses, his statement to her was plain: "I am more powerful than you. You will take what I give and be happy that I have paid you at all. Perhaps next time I shall simply have my guards take the documents from your corpse."

The truth of the matter was that the Steward was right and there was nothing Jasmine could do to change that fact. The runner could yell and scream all she wanted and would gain little more than a bruising for her efforts. Being a freelancer as she was, there was no recourse through the normal channels that regulated the shadow-business. There was no higher authority for her to appeal to.

Placing the purse inside her blouse, Jasmine stood from the booth. The merchant glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a condescending smirk playing across his lips. With theatrically exaggerated grace, Jasmine bent to retrieve the still mostly full glass of wine that rested upon the table. Her nemesis, deeply engrossed in his purchase, paid her no heed. She took a small sip of the glass's contents and then began to balance it precariously on the tip of one finger. She remained this way for several seconds, curious as to whether the fat man would look up to find out why she was still present. But his disdain was complete; he continued to ignore her, to express with his absence of attention that her presence was nothing more than a triviality in his mind.

Bloody fool, thinking that you'll get away with insulting me so easily. I may not be able to put a knife into one of your swollen chins, but an insult will be just as satisfying, for now.

Jasmine's finger twitched and the wine glass lost its delicate balance. It shifted direction and began to tumble (with a little help from Jasmine) in the direction of the merchant. As it connected with the table, the glass shattered into a half-dozen pieces, sending dark red drops of liquid spattering across the merchant's expensive silks and splashing across his precious documents. The contents formed a pool which began to drain into the merchant's lap. The man yelped and made an attempt to jump to his feet, but his girth thwarted his efforts and he instead banged his thick gut into the underside of the table. His own wine glass toppled, adding more to the pool that was assaulting his crotch.

The guards from the entrance were upon her in seconds. One seized her arm roughly while the other looked to the Steward in the booth. Using his silken sleeve to soak up the wine from his prized documents, the merchant yelped loudly as one hand found a fragment of glass and his blood joined the pool.

"I demand compensation!" he raved, his voice now a high-pitched squeal. "I demand justice! You will not be leaving here alive, you filthy cunt. I'll show you what it means to cross the Stewards. When you defy us, you defy the Eleventh Hour, and they will ensure that your punishment is most humbling, I assure you."

The guards shifted their eyes from the merchant to each other and then, much to Jasmine's bewilderment, one of them settled their gaze upon bar. The lattice-work wall blocked the view, but through one small hole Jasmine could discern the face of the man returning their stare. It was Laotz, the bar keep. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The guard holding Jasmine's arm released it.

The look on the Steward's face was undisguised indignation as Jasmine calmly strolled from behind the barrier and back into the main room of the tavern. Many pairs of eyes followed the runner as she made her way toward the exit, gawking at the freelancer who had caused a scene behind the sacred wall of prestige. Jasmine stared back at them, dismissing their stares as if everything that had transpired was her decision and, therefore, sanctioned by higher powers.

That'll give these nits something to think about. A nice set of rumors'll be floating around within the week. Let's just hope they work in my favor...

As she exited, Jasmine kept the bar at the edge of her vision, attention fixed on Laotz. Though most of the patrons were still eyeing her, Laotz was acting as if the entire spectacle had never occurred. He stood behind the bar, polishing a glass, expression as bored as ever.

Well, well, mysterious barkeep. What part do you play in all of this? A hidden agent? A player? Businessman? Eleventh Hour maybe? I'll be keeping my eye on you, old man, that's for certain.

The sensation of a full purse pressed tight against her stomach, Jasmine pushed through the front door and into the cool night air.

It took less than two minutes before Floyd's target realized that she was being stalked. In truth, he had expected to be spotted earlier, despite his unique talents. The stories that followed this Jasmine were filled with tales of her strange ability to sense when the shadows moved. Some of the wilder rumors even claimed that she could smell when people lied. And many of them ended with some revelation that the young girl was a ghyst, escaped from the nihil and hiding from the Beast lest he exact his vengeance upon her. Of course, Floyd had had the unfortunate experience of once seeing a ghyst up close and if it was one thing he knew for sure, it was that Jasmine had nothing to do with that foul lot. Were she truly a ghyst in disguise, he would likely be dead, dismembered and possibly passed through her bowels by now.

No, just a little girl. An odd little girl, to be certain, but just a little girl still. A sharp little girl that seems to be getting away from me...

The runner had slipped into an alley while Floyd was lost in his thoughts. He approached the dark gap with haste and caution in equal measure. Calling the wind to him, he reached out to find the legacy that she even now carried unknowingly. Try as she might, there would be no way for her to evade him.

As Jasmine slipped from shadow to shadow, doubling back through alleys both known and unknown, Floyd strolled without haste through the ghetto streets. Considering the meandering path that she was taking, he could walk at a comfortable pace and still remain within a few hundred feet of her. Every movement she made echoed back to him along the trails of his whispers. It was, Floyd mused, a bit like watching a fly flit about a closed room, unable to escape but struggling on all the while.

All that effort for nothing. I begin to feel guilty. Maybe I should let her go? Could it really be said that I'm playing this game fairly? Hesharr is craftier than any shadow, little girl. Sorry, but I guess I can't go away. Things to do, promises to keep, obligations and all that.

Once during the chase, Floyd's curiosity led him to approach closer than he perhaps should have. Jasmine's eyes must have seen through his dusty veil, as she stared straight at him for a second. Ducking back around a corner, Floyd probed the wind to track her next move. Though he doubted that she had seen enough of him to discern his form, he had managed to panic her. Up she went to the rooftops, seeking the refuge of places more familiar to her and less accessible to her pursuer.

Now you'll make me run to catch up with you. How annoying, but I suppose it's less stacked than the game we've been playing so far. I shall even jog, just jog a bit. Maybe you can move faster than me? Oh, that's not right. I'll find you again. Still, I feel less guilty for giving you the advantage. That counts for something, yes?

Now hurrying, Floyd kept his concentration on the tendrils of air that followed the runner's flight. To make it more interesting, he opened his ears and listened to her running as well. The scraping of boots across gravel and tile, the steady yet labored breathing of the girl as she kept up the strenuous pace with her injured ribs, the occasional silence as she sailed through the air from one building to the next, followed shortly thereafter by the soft thump of leather boots on a new rooftop.

Floyd found himself captivated by Jasmine's every movement. Though her ribs slowed her down, the grace and intensity of her run infected him. The wisps of air encircled her like invisible dervishes, each screaming back a silent yet audible story. Every crunching, thumping impact of the runner's boots was a percussive accompaniment, a drum that beat in rhythm with the quickening of her heart. The whipping of her limbs through empty space was a dance that could be heard by him yet not seen, conjuring abstract and colorful images to both sedate and arouse his mind. And each time she leaped, the defiance of gravity overwhelmed him, the pit of his stomach dropping as he knew hers must be, at least until that brief flight was over. The entirety of the experience was a wash of ecstasy unlike any that Floyd had felt before. He had been listening to the breath of Hesharr for most of his life, but never had he heard and felt anything quite like Jasmine's journey through the unseen cityscape.

Eventually the flight was ended, the sound of Jasmine's running replaced with the creaking of wooden sills as she descended to the streets once more. Having become distracted by the show, Floyd now realized that he had wandered in the wrong direction. Shaking off the fog that had settled in his mind, he corrected his course. Luckily for him, she had gone back to her meandering route. He caught up with her five minutes later.

Almost as soon as he spotted her, she seemed to sense his presence and ducked into a nearby tavern. Floyd sighed.

She does have a gift for sniffing things out, I'll give her that one. And now that I've run her into the tavern I'll be stuck out here all night, playing the eavesdropper. Not exactly a night of entertainment for me. All it makes me want to do is have a drink. The drink is so close, yet so far... wouldn't do to try and sneak in and grab a pint. I have the feeling she would feel me out in a heartbeat.

Finding a discarded crate in a nearby alley, Floyd sat down and prepared for a long night of listening to his target enjoy her night much more than we would his. He heard her order an ale, caught echoes of her sipping away at it, slowly, deliberately. Ten minutes later, Floyd found himself sitting in a tavern several blocks away, sipping on his own ale and wondering exactly how he had arrived there and what it was he was supposed to be doing that night.

Jasmine's well-practiced tail-dodging routine was proving to be of little value when it came to ditching whomever was stalking her. The person was good, better than anyone she had encountered before, in fact. She had snaked through every alley she knew, cutting across hidden pathways, scaling impassible barriers and squirming through gaps so small that only a child could have followed. Still, her pursuer had remained right behind her, as if some sixth sense tuned him in to all her movements. Once she had caught sight of him, or so she thought. All that she could see, despite her keen vision, was a blur of dust, vaguely man-shaped, there one second and gone the next. The prolonged chase was becoming infuriating.

She had first sensed the tail more than two minutes after leaving The Chipped Bone and she was livid that it had taken her so long. Her first thought was that the Steward was responsible, pissed that she had insulted his precious pride and eager to get some sort of revenge. Or, even more likely, he had hired on a thug to snatch back his coin and leave her corpse in an alley somewhere. Either way, she had no intention of falling prey to the fat man. Her tail could keep up the pursuit all he wanted, but she would best him in the end.

Tired from her twenty-minute run across the rooftops and convinced that the stalker was back on her tail, Jasmine ducked into the nearest tavern to catch a breath and come up with a new plan. It was a dirty, smoky place known by the name of The Tooth. Why anyone had named a watering-hole so strangely, Jasmine didn't understand. She had never been in that particular tavern before, as it catered to no business that she found profitable. The only work that got done there was the steady labor of heavy drinking by the locals, the occasional game of cards or bones and regular rounds by some aged whores to whom years in the profession had been singularly unkind. It was, she mused, a dung-hole in a wooden frame.

Jasmine slipped past the knots of filthy laborers and found a seat at the far end of the bar. Her eyes trained on the open doorway, searching for signs of her pursuer.

"Waddaya want?" The barkeep demanded through a mouthful of missing teeth.

The Tooth, eh? As misnamed as anything I've seen.

Jasmine threw two coppers on the bar. Her voice slipped instinctively into a regional slur. "Whatever that'll get me."

The barkeep retrieved the coppers with one grubby hand, his gaze running up and down Jasmine slowly and a lecherous smiling playing at his lips. A few seconds later a battered tin mug was placed in front of her, the contents looking more like sewage than ale. Jasmine sipped at it, experimentally. Her tongue revolted at the prospect of having the foul liquid so near, but the runner summoned up her willpower and drank.

More than an hour passed in this fashion, with Jasmine sipping ale and watching the doorway. Her first drink turned into a second and a third, good sense ignoring the possibility that she might have to make a run should her pursuers be awaiting outside. The ale, for all its stomach-turning flavor, was nearly as strong as straight spirits. Jasmine was feeling quite light-headed.

A voice, melodic and smooth, chimed from beside her. "Hello, pretty maid. I've not seen you here before."

Jasmine turned, her hand reflexively reaching for the knife hidden within the folds of her dress. She moved so sharply that she strained her recently abused ribs and released an involuntary gasp of pain. The man, whose face she now saw was mere inches away from her own, started and pulled back.

Examining him, Jasmine could tell right off that The Tooth was not his normal place of preferred relaxation. The clothes we wore were not rich, but neither were they covered in the day's filth that a laborer invariably attracted. His chin was shaved clean, wavy brown hair combed and oiled though looking as if it had gone more than a few days without a barber's care. A few pieces of unremarkable silver jewelry decorated his fingers and ears. His large hazel eyes did not carry the same weariness as the rest of the bar's patrons. Jasmine guessed that he was there on some sort of business, perhaps a gambler making his rounds for the night.

"I don't come here," Jasmine replied. She leveled a hostile gaze on him.

Her curt reply seemed to throw him off. Jasmine figured the pretty boy wasn't used to being scolded in such a manner, especially not by a young girl.

"I..." his charming facade faltered a second before settling back in. "Maybe I can buy you a drink?" He flashed a smile, teeth clean and straight.

"Why? You think I'm a whore or some loose peasant girl?"

Though she had only just begun, Jasmine's assault was already breaking the man to pieces. He stammered a reply: "N-n-no... You're just sitting here, and... and you looked in need of company?"

She shook her head and sighed.

I can't be left alone can I? Whatever happened to my peace and quiet? I've a pack of thugs following me, probably outside right now waiting for me to leave, and now this fop is trying to get his sword wet. I've a mind to toss him in the way of them... and make a run for it...

Jasmine turned back to the pretty-boy, who now appeared rather frustrated. He was turning to leave, defeat admitted with the drawing of first blood. She placed her hand lightly upon his shoulder. He half-turned and looked at her, confused. Jasmine offered her warmest smile.

"Sorry for my tone," her voice became sweetness and roses. "It's been an absolute horror of a day. I'm not very nice right now."

The young man's face proclaimed his lingering distrust. Jasmine guided him onto the stool next to her, pushing down on his shoulder gently, signaling him to sit. After a brief moment of hesitation, he complied.

"My name is Rose," she held her hand out, limp-wristed and palm down.

Taking the bait, he lifted her hand in his, pressing lips lightly against it while gazing at her with eyes meant to convey seduction. Jasmine nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous display.

"I am BeRem," he replied, releasing her hand once more. "So... would you like a drink, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid the ale here is causing me a bit of an ache," she thrust out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout, rubbing her stomach with one hand. "Maybe we can go someplace different? I mean, unless you have something you need to do here..." She trailed off, staring with sorrow-filled eyes at the bar.

"No," BeRem was growing more enthusiastic by moment. "My business here is done. We can go wherever you wish."

Brilliant! Now if I get jumped at least I'll have a body to throw in the way.

"There's a quiet little tavern about five blocks from here..." She offered her arm. He took it with the slight bow that good etiquette demanded and led Jasmine from the bar.

Jasmine's self-control was breaking down piece by piece and as they walked she couldn't keep herself from peering into every alley, doorway, and out-of-place shadow. She spotted nothing out of the ordinary, but then whoever had been following her was skillful at keeping unseen. BeRem commented more than once on Jasmine's paranoia, but she was able to easily deflect his concerns with a few honeyed words and some batting of eyelashes. It was a short, tense walk, every moment an unseen potential danger, but they arrived at their destination unscathed.

The un-named tavern was marked by a cracked wooden board with a green box painted crudely across its face. What the box was supposed to represent, no one knew, though many had their guesses. To the regular patrons, it was known as The Broken Crate. Whatever the proper name was, it was lost to time, not even the tavern keeper remembered. Jasmine hurried her escort through the narrow door.

The interior of the tavern was clean, if not necessarily lavish. Years of use had taken their toll on nearly every surface. Long wooden tables bordered by sturdy wooden benches were the only seating. There was a kitchen, but no proper bar, the barmaids taking orders directly from the patrons and returning to the back to retrieve what they needed.

The regulars consisted mostly of old men, retired from their days of work and now living off the labors of their children, nothing to do but drink and talk their nights away. For the price of an ale or two they would eagerly relate stories of their sometimes eventful and sometimes troubled pasts. Jasmine would often sit for hours, buying drink after drink for an aged ex-soldier or craftsman and listening to their tales. Even though they could come across quite fanciful, the stories that the patrons of The Broken Crate had to tell were more real than that of any circle-teller, their insights refined by years of reflection. To Jasmine it was a familiar place where no one expected anything of her and she had no need to be vigilant about threats to her purse or person.

Luckily for Jasmine, there were few patrons that night. She had not considered the fact that by going there she might run into someone she knew and spoil her cover. It was only the location of the tavern that had occupied her thoughts, two blocks from her apartment with a tight alley that led almost directly from one place to the other. Looking around, she was certain that no one there knew her name, as unusual of an occurrence as that was. To be sure, she led BeRem to a seat in the rear corner of the room where they might not be noticed should new faces arrive.

Shortly, a bar maid approached and then left again to retrieve two pints of ale.

"A good choice, fair Rose. Much more pleasant than the Tooth," BeRem said, smiling. Jasmine could hear the habitual lies echoing in the tones of his voice.

"Yes, it is a nice place," Jasmine replied. "I come here quite a bit actually. Normally there are grandpas about telling tales of their lives. I find comfort in their wisdom."

The character was on, but her tongue was being too loose, too honest.

Dammit, now this fop knows where to find me. What emotional failure is it this time? I'm only a slight bit drunk, I need to stop speaking so plainly.

She steeled her reserve against the potential threat. BeRem was staring at her, probing away with his penetrating eyes. He had the kind of eyes that spoke of trust and sympathy and deep understanding; the kind of eyes that hypnotized maids and lured them unwittingly into his bed. Jasmine began to feel uncomfortable, shifted in her seat.

"So what is it that you do with your time, BeRem?" she asked.

BeRem scratched the back of his neck, his eyes betraying the fictions that were forming behind them. Jasmine awaited with curiosity the story he would spin.

"I do a bit of this and that..." he hesitated. "Mostly helping people who have, er, unique problems."

Unique problems? What kind of a set-up is that? For a seducer, you're not very good at your trade.

"And what is your trade, Rose?" he asked. "Imitating the beauty of flowers and making the world a lovelier garden to walk through?"

Jasmine barely managed to stop her eyes from rolling, instead offering a flattered smile and a wistful gaze.

"I am a seamstress. I make _unique_ clothing for people, some of them rather important people."

The intentional mocking flew over his head. He continued his routine without breaking stride.

"That sounds interesting. I would like it if you told me more." More rehearsed lies accompanied by poorly mimicked emotions. It was going to be a long night.

Their conversation went on in much the same vein for quite some time. The more he spoke, the less Jasmine thought of his seduction skills. He floundered, stuttered, and lost himself in the maze of his poorly constructed lies. Jasmine never let on that she was not fooled by anything he said, of course. She was having too much a good time watching the amateur work. Every time he thought that he had sealed tight the story-world he was constructing, Jasmine would probe him on some obscurity of his tale and send him scrambling to keep his ship from sinking. She was amazed that someone so poor at lying was trying to make a living of it. If he had tried to weave his tales in her circles, he would have been called out for certain, likely clubbed and left in an alley for the scavengers to pick clean. He was in the process of telling her all about his "long trip to the far eastern lands of the mysterious Kat-Suk" when she could contain herself no more and burst out laughing.

He looked at her, confused and somewhat offended. Suddenly his expression changed to one of undisguised shock. Jasmine realized that she had forgotten her well-practiced habits and accidently let her mouth slip open too wide, revealing her unique teeth. She hastily drew her lips tight. BeRem looked as if he were trying to say something, but couldn't figure out how words worked.

"Family thing," she began to weave her tale with a skill markedly superior to the young seductor. "We're... from the far-northwest. It's custom to sharpen the teeth as a symbol of status. My family was quiet influential where I am from. Before they... they..." she trailed off, her gaze going inward, sadness washing over her face.

I'm betting my full purse you can't point out the north-west with a map and a compass.

BeRem rested his hand on hers. When she looked up she found him staring at her with deep sympathy, or at least the imitation of it, though it seemed to Jasmine that what he was showing was at least in some way real. She felt disconcerted by his genuine display of emotion, more disconcerted that she believed it to be genuine at all.

"All roses have thorns," he said.

"What?" Jasmine looked at him, blinked.

"It's something my father used to say to me. 'All women may be roses, but all roses have thorns.' I think it was his way of expressing his distrust of the fairer sex. As for me, I find that the rewards of beauty are often worth the inconvenience of bloodied hands."

Something in BeRem's words touched Jasmine in a place where she explicitly forbid contact. Her stomach twisted a bit, she began to feel sick. BeRem's hand clenched tighter on her own, his expression filled with concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"The ale... it's... not agreeing with my stomach." She paused, extricated her hand from his grip. "I should be leaving now."

She stood from the table, making her way toward the back door.

"May we see each other again, fair Rose." The way he spoke conveyed that there was no possibility of it being otherwise.

Jasmine turned back to him and smiled. "Yes, maybe..."

Passing through the tavern's rear door and into the narrow alley that lay beyond, Jasmine weaved her way through the tight passages until she arrived at the tenement she called home. Slipping in through the back, she climbed up the rotting and creaking stairway to the fourth floor of the building, unlocked the door that led to her apartment and entered.
VIII. A Friendly Game of Keeps

For the next week, Jasmine's dreams were, much to her extreme annoyance, plagued by the shade of her clumsy seductor. She blamed the distracting phenomenon on her inactivity, sure that it would fade once she was back to work. Unfortunately, her ribs were still on the mend and so the runner was forced to continue her mind-numbing routine to burn the hours. In the meanwhile, she tried her best to put thoughts of pretty-boys with kind eyes from her head.

To make matters even worse, whenever she left her apartment she felt the now-familiar eyes of her stalker tracking her from the shadows. Whoever had followed her that first night was not so quick to abandon the pursuit and in fact seemed determined to make themselves a permanent addition to her life. Although Jasmine never caught site of her tail, she could sense a presence in the dark, waiting behind each corner and watching her every move. The only positive thing about the continued presence was that Jasmine was able to discern with some certainty that it was unlikely that the Steward's hand was behind it. If the fat man had wanted his revenge he could have taken it at any time and making notes on her day-to-day activities served no purpose that Jasmine could fathom. No, the person following her had a different game going. Jasmine needed to discover what that game was as soon as possible lest she become an unwitting player.

Despite her undetectable companion, Jasmine made no attempts to change her routine. Aside from a one-time trip back to the chandler's to collect her gear (and the subsequent cleaning of it to remove the sewer's stench) she spent each day mimicking the actions of the one before it. She woke up just past midday, crossed the walls to peruse the markets and shops of Porsham Grand proper and when she returned it was a visit to the Crate and a night spent filling her belly with drink until the welcome embrace of sleep came to greet her. A week of this uneventful lifestyle and she finally felt sound enough to resume her running drills. Her body wasn't yet in perfect form, but it was passable enough and even in her bruised condition she was still far more capable than most. On eighth-day she decided that she had waited long enough. It was time to return to the Chipped Bone and start letting people know that the best runner in the Block was back in the circle.

Jasmine's return to the shadow-world turned out to be less than extraordinary. Despite the successful run she had made for the Steward and the clout that such an accomplishment should have carried, no one was approaching her about taking care of their business. In fact, they treated her as kindly as one would a ghyst, avoiding her table and casting suspicious glances whenever they thought her attentions were turned elsewhere. It was a routine that the runner was all too familiar with in her life.

The first night she spent sitting at a table, sipping drinks and waiting for the inevitable arrival of the businessmen who would be clamoring to grab up the East-block's rising star. The hours passed and Jasmine finished ale after ale until finally, head too light to keep her thoughts clear, she retired home to bed. The next night followed a similar pattern.

No one in the Bone seemed in need of her services and after a third day of failing to attract any attention, Jasmine was convinced that the Steward was behind her run of ill luck. No doubt he was poisoning the ears of the underground and making her out to be incompetent or, worse yet, spreading rumors that she tried to rip him off. Either way, Jasmine was growing tired of the affair.

When I find that bloody fat bastard, my boots will be up his ass so far they'll smell worse than they do after any sewer-run. He thinks he can piss on my reputation. We'll see how that works out for him.

But those were little more than idle thoughts, a reality that Jasmine understood all too well. One move against the merchant and she would have the wrath of the Eleventh Hour coming down on her like a hatchet to the neck of a nice, fat chicken being readied for the pot. So she contented herself by whiling away the hours in deep contemplation of the many creative and painful things she could do to her nemesis if she ever managed to corner him. Needless to say, the perpetual scowl that she wore each night did nothing to help attract potential employers.

Though filled from head to foot with anger over the instigated dry spell, Jasmine could not help but dwell upon the unwelcome truth of the matter - that keeping her mouth shut that fateful night may have been the wiser course of action. It would have meant rolling over for the fat man and her reputation would have suffered in the long run, but at least she wouldn't be sitting on her hands without even the simplest of jobs. She would not be at an empty table as she was, steins littering the space in front of her, purse slowly lightening at her side. Luckily, she was frugal enough with her newfound fortune that she could continue in the same manner for months if necessity demanded. The prospect of having no work to keep her occupied was more a threat to her sanity than to her finances.

Cursing under her breath, Jasmine stormed from the tavern and made her way home yet again. In an effort to distract her mind from the disheartening turn of her career, she ascended to the rooftops and began to run. Leaping from building to building, the runner pushed her skills as far as she dare given her still somewhat bruised condition. Then she pushed them a bit further. Jasmine never considered the routine to be as satisfying unless there was an element of danger present.

She slid sideways down the slopes of tiled roofs, relying on her keen sense of balance to keep her from a fatal tumble. She dropped from the edges of five-storied tenements into empty space, catching herself at the last moment on a window ledge or clothesline. She flourished every leap with backspins, side-twists and somersaults. She indulged in every mad and foolish stunt she could just to get the blood within her burning and her heart racing faster. Each first beat, a greeting from the Goddess of Life. Each second, a dangerous gamble with the Beast. Three hours and one full circuit around the East-block later, Jasmine finally succumbed to her growing exhaustion. Returning home, she once again found her sleep early, restless and filled with phantom visitations from her stammering seductor.

For another two weeks the situation remained the same. She was driven to the point of desperation, hustling for business as she might have two years previous when she was an amateur with no reputation to speak of. The response was universal \- businessmen both high and low all ignored her requests, dredging up feeble excuses as to why her particular skills were either unnecessary or undesirable. By this time, Jasmine was ready to put a dagger into the fat folds of the Steward's neck, threats of retribution or not.

Every night she swore to herself that once she caught up with him she would make him suffer. Eleventh Hour be damned, she wasn't about to let some devious, greedy merchant piss on the reputation she had worked so hard to build. Vengeance would mean abandoning the East-block and saying goodbye to Sinta and the girls at the bathhouse, of course, but sometimes the luxuries of life needed to be sacrificed to make a point of honor. Or, perhaps more accurately in this instance, a point of revenge.

But the task of murdering her nemesis proved just as elusive as finding work. She had not caught sight of the gluttonous lech since that fateful night nearly three weeks past.

And just when Jasmine felt as if she'd hit the snapping point, bound to go on some sort of lunatic's rampage in pursuit of blood, Ihshintul smiled upon her most graciously.

It began as a night like all the others. Jasmine had relegated herself to a forgotten table in a forgotten corner of the Chipped Bone, back to the wall with drinks lined up before her. The same ugly, square man had once again taken his place on stage after too many of his own drinks, wailing out tunes in his incomprehensible, spirit-slurred accent. Oddly enough, the more Jasmine listened, the more of the giant clubber's words she began to comprehend, battling past his regional speech impairment to decipher the meaning behind the strange songs. They were tales of love and loss for the most part, though once or twice a night he would switch up his act and croon what seemed to be a song of the type one would sing to a young child, complete with mimicked animals noises. If anyone else in the Bone was aware that he was singing children's songs or felt any annoyance at his continuous barrage of out-of-key tunes, they kept their mouths shut. Given the size of the brute's arms, Jasmine certainly had no intention to voice any of her own discontent.

By this time, Jasmine had abandoned completely any hope of finding work. The only thing that occupied her mind anymore was finding the bastard that has crushed the efforts of more than two years of her life. From her shadowed corner she had a view of nearly the entire establishment. If the Steward walked in, she would spot him. And on that fateful night she would follow him out, wait for him to dip into a dark alley or some other neatly secluded location and then drop from the sky like the Beast itself, stealing life from a body and dragging it to an uncertain fate.

Ghyst they see and ghyst I'll be. I'll murder the piece of shit and everyone that stands with him. Then I'll butcher him like a boar and pass the scraps out at the soup house. The Lord fed to his subjects. A fitting end, I'd say.

Her eyes flicked back and forth, scanning to see if her prey had perhaps slinked in through some hidden passage, when something untoward caught her attention. Laotz was standing at the near end of the bar, still as a statue, his gaze trained on the runner with the strange, dead-eyed coldness that was the barkeep's signature look. With two crooked fingers he beckoned Jasmine in his direction and then calmly waited, ignoring the summons of his other customers.

The first thought through the runner's head was that she had forgotten to square up with him. The theory was dismissed as quickly as it appeared, as Jasmine did not forget when she owed coin, nor, for that matter, when the situation was reversed in her favor. Keeping track of credits was an essential part of doing shadow-business. Curious as to what the stoic man had to say, Jasmine stood, collected her remaining pints and strolled across the room.

As she approached, Laotz placed two empty glasses along with a bottle of Kalendeshi red wine on the bar before her. Jasmine's demeanor shifted from curious to puzzled.

"This is getting to be a habit, Laotz," she said, voice filled with a cynical mix of sarcasm and wariness. "I don't suppose that Steward is back to hand over the rest of what he owes me? Or maybe he liked my company so much that he just wants to sit about and have a chat? I've been told I make pleasant company when I'm sodded."

Laotz did not respond to Jasmine's goading. He simply transferred his cold stare from her face to the line of high-roller booths, one long, boney finger outstretched to point toward the guards that blocked the entrance.

"You are to join someone for a drink," he finally spoke, voice devoid of any hint that could betray to Jasmine whether or not that drink was to be her last.

The runner couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. She had been joking when she suggested that the Steward had come back to have another talk, but now she wasn't so sure.

If that fat bastard thinks I'm doing him another favor, he's in for a treat. The only favor I've got lined up is to relieve his lungs of the chore of breathing.

The idea of leaving right then and there seemed suddenly very appealing to the young thief. If she was being lured into the back for some purpose of the Steward's fancy, she might not even have a chance to draw her knife before things went sour. He no doubt still harbored a need for further revenge against her, as if poisoning her reputation wasn't enough. But curiosity won out over self-preservation. Placing her mugs on the bar, Jasmine snatched up the glasses and bottle and walked straight to the booths, ready to meet her fate no matter how ill-suited to her ambitions (and health) it proved to be.

One of the guards halted her as she approached, looking toward the bar for approval of the impending trespass. After a nod and a cryptic hand gesture from Laotz he stepped aside, leaning in a bit to speak in low tones directly into Jasmine's ear.

"At the end."

The plan was to stride past with confidence, head held straight to show her summoner that she was a runner without fear, there to challenge whatever intentions he held, but the mention of the last booth stopped her short. If the shadow-gossip was true, only the Eleventh Hour did business in that legendary retreat. With the situation being what it was, the chance of her being picked up by the Eleventh was a cold zero. The only other explanation that Jasmine could fathom was that the Steward had finally had his complaint heard and she was being brought in to face punishment through "official" channels. Still, she continued walking, albeit at a slower and less steady pace.

A private guard stood between the runner and the wooden shutter that closed the last booth off from the rest of the Bone. As she approached, he grinned at her with more amusement than she would have preferred. Jasmine could instantly tell that the man was a class above what she was accustomed to seeing among the usual assortment of clubbers and sword-arms.

His skin was the brown of rich soil and his face broad and flat, as if his veins ran strong with Terinek blood. In contrast, his head was completely shaven, uncrowned by the long braids that those plains folk usually wore. He sported scars here and there where skin was visible between the cracks of his well-crafted and well-used leather armor. The two swords at his hip were of a western design, single-edged and curved at the tip. Lashed to his belt beside those swords were two long dirks of distinctively eastern origins, their blades so thin as to seem useless in a proper fight. A small, single-handed crossbow attached to a thong hung from one shoulder. Jasmine's impression of the man was that of a soldier who had seen many wars and now, done with his fill of killing in the field, had settled into the relatively peaceful life of a strong-arm.

As Jasmine took her final steps toward the shuttered booth, the man bowed slightly and, still smirking, opened the screens so that she could pass into the sheltered space beyond. A moment of brief hesitation, one that she immediately reprimanded herself for, and Jasmine had left the Chipped Bone and entered into a whole other world - one that would very likely claim her life.

The interior of the booth was far from the image that Jasmine's mind had conjured. Other than being a bit more spacious, it was as simple as any of the others. On the bench to her left sat a man of unremarkable appearance. He stared up at her with eyes that betrayed no emotion other than the calculating calmness of business. With one hand he gestured for her to sit. Placing the wine and glasses carefully on the table, Jasmine slid into the booth opposite, surveying the scene and, within the span of a few breaths, trying to put as many pieces of this puzzle together as she could.

The table before her was solid and, in contrast to every other bit of furniture in the Bone, unmarred and polished. To her right lay a keeps board, the pieces arranged such that the game was over, most likely conceded by whomever had occupied her side of the booth before her arrival. Based on the disparity between the remaining white and black armies, either her newfound friend was an expert player or his opponent was atrocious. Other than the keeps board and the wine and glasses that Jasmine had brought with her, there was nothing else within the space of the booth excepting a vapor lantern protruding from the back wall. Its flame was turned up so as to provide plenty of light for the mysterious meeting.

Her summoner was dressed in a costume that seemed ill-suited to the part he was playing that evening. He wore a blouse, tunic and breeches of blue, green and grey respectively. They were well-made though faded with use and looked as if they could have belonged to any middling merchant in any number of businesses. A few rings adorned his fingers, but Jasmine's appraising eyes immediately dismissed them as virtually worthless despite their fine polish. A simple leather belt circled his waist and carried no burdens other than a small, plain-looking dagger and a black leather purse.

But while the costume conveyed little more than intentional ambiguity, within the flesh of the man Jasmine read a different story.

The first thing she noted was his hands, fingers long and delicate-looking though the backs of them were criss-crossed with scars and spoke of a life filled with hard labor. As if to emphasize that point, the tips of the smaller two fingers on his left hand were missing, victim of some past accident. His frame seemed weak at first, the clothes hanging loose as if made for a man of larger stature, but Jasmine soon realized that the incongruity was intentional. As the man leaned forward to examine her closer, she noted the rippling of muscles just beneath the faded surface of his blouse sleeves, bespeaking some degree of strength.

The man's face told more of his tale. His eyes were murky blue and cold and hard, surrounded by crow's feet. Jasmine guessed him to be in his fortieth or fiftieth summer, mid-thirties at the outside - with the old shadow-walkers age came from a hardness of life just as much as the passage of years. Those eyes were placed within an oval face that bore no scars other than the ones that no doubt lurked beneath the surface. Atop the man's head his hair was thick and black, cut short, combed back severely from the widow's peak that marked a spot just above his smooth forehead.

But for all that Jasmine could read in the marks and lines of his flesh, the light behind those eyes spoke nothing. It was as if there was no soul lurking inside the shell, only some calculating clockwork contraption evaluating her worth in a weight of coin. Not that Jasmine was unaccustomed to being thought of as a rented tool. It was the nature of work in the shadows, after all. But for some reason this man's appraisal unnerved her. Most looked her over with the shine of greed in their eyes, as if she were a key capable of opening a door behind which lay the treasures of their nightly dreams. Many carried the air of deception, ready to gamble on whether she was hungry enough to take a kick to the purse lying down. Some even leered, as the Steward had, imagining that perhaps the promise of work would make her grateful enough to grace their bed for an hour or two. This one was different.

Instead of feeling like a tool, as was the usual case, she felt as if he was regarding her as a meal, internally cataloguing the parts of her that would cook up the best and planning out what kind of wine and bread would go well with his feast. As uncomfortable as the confrontation made her, Jasmine steeled herself against her misgivings and forced her eyes to remain steady on his. Fear shunted aside, she could feel her heart hammering away, as if she were running straight at the edge of a towering apartment, readying herself for a leap that she wasn't quite sure she could make.

The exchange of examinations went on for some time, though the moments were lost to Jasmine. It could have been ten heartbeats, it could have been ten minutes - she couldn't tell. Finally, it was the man who broke the silence.

"Welcome to my table." His voice was deep, his words spoken formally. With one hand he lifted the bottle of wine, the other producing a corkscrew from seemingly out of nowhere. As he worked the screw into the top of the bottle, he continued. "My name is Dwervin."

"A pleasure," Jasmine found her voice. "I am..."

"Jasmine," the man interrupted. "You would not have been invited to join me did I not know your name."

Jasmine bit her tongue at the urge to snap back a retort. As if he could read her mind, Dwervin raised an eyebrow in her direction. Jasmine let her face go blank.

Finally having worked the cork free of the wine bottle, Dwervin set the coupled pair of screw and cork aside and began to fill the glasses.

"Your reputation precedes you, young lady. The name of Jasmine is not a difficult one to discover, even to the most virgin of those in the East-block. Your... unique appearance only enhances the legends."

Curiosity piqued, Jasmine spoke before thinking. "Legends? What are they saying about me?"

A phantom smile fluttered briefly at the corner of Dwervin's mouth. He placed a half-filled glass of wine in front of the runner and proceeded to fill his own.

"A ghyst-girl with fangs and claws. A creature that thieves by night and by day sleeps beneath the soil of Yana's yards to replenish her vitality. The roof-runner who can leap the wall in one swift bound."

Jasmine's eye twitched. Again she was forced to bury her voice lest pride overtake good sense.

Sleeping in a pissing graveyard? Bloody street rats and their bloody stories. Can't take a girl beating them out for work is what it is. They know I'd best any of them any night of the week, expert or not.

Again Dwervin responded as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. "I find the stories of the street-rats to be amusing as far as folk tales go, but I much prefer to know the genuine truth of a matter." His hard eyes met hers, pausing a moment before returning their concentration to his wine. "There are plenty more if you wish to hear them. Unless you'd prefer we just get to business?"

The last statement he punctuated by setting the bottle aside and raising his glass to sip its contents.

"And just what business are we talking about here?" Jasmine responded, perhaps a bit too harshly.

Dammit girl! This is a professional here, stop talking like you're dealing with a second-hand peddler looking for something shiny. Hold your damn self together!

Dwervin smiled in return, eyes turning inward for a brief second. It was a strange contrast to his impassive face. Jasmine felt warmth in that smile, if only for a moment. She made a note to think on it later, when she had a clear head and more time.

Her potential employer did not respond immediately, instead choosing to take another sip of his wine. He followed the drink by poking his nose into the glass and inhaling deeply.

"Kalendeshi, twelve years aged," he spoke as if to himself. "An amazing wine they produce, even more so because it is made in the Far West. Not what one would call a choice country for grapes."

Putting his drink down, Dwervin reached to his side and grabbed something from where it lay on the booth nearby. When his hand emerged, it held a battered leather purse.

"Matters of propriety first," he said, placing the purse on the table. "This is the remainder of the payment you were owed by Chalest, the Steward you ran for some weeks back."

Jasmine was taken aback. Her mind flooded with paranoia and began calculating what sort of trap she had just been lured into. After a moment she decided there was no other option but to carry on and so reached out to retrieve the offered sack of coin. Cradling it in her hands she opened the flap and glanced at the contents within. It was the money she had been bullied out of and more.

"There's about twenty more rils here than I was owed." Normally, Jasmine would have never mentioned such a profitable error, preferring instead to let her employers work it out for themselves in their own time. This time, however, she was more concerned as to whether Dwervin was attempting to purchase her services before spelling out the details of future obligations. It was a foul way to do business that only the most amateur got themselves mixed up in and it rarely ended well for the receiving party.

Dwervin continued to sip his wine and responded in his calm manner. "An apology payment, nothing more. If we decide to do business, you and I, the terms will be reached through proper negotiation before any deal is concluded."

"Apology? Why would you sorry up for the fat man's bad business?" Jasmine still didn't trust the man.

Dwervin gestured toward the shutters that closed off the booth's exit. "When you work behind that lattice wall out there, you're expected to conduct your business in a certain manner. Though we may be players in the game of shadows, there are protocols and guidelines to follow for the betterment of all. More importantly, to avoid unnecessary conflict.

"Chalest forgets that when he was granted the privilege of a booth he was also bound to take care of his business according to our standards. When he breaks the protocol, he makes us all look like amateurs. I, for one, do not enjoy looking like an amateur. There are others in higher circles that tolerate it even less."

He locked his eyes on hers once more, voice becoming even more serious. "We do not pay you because we hope to appease some prideful wrath. The gold is to settle our debts clean and make sure that our reputation remains as stolid as ever in the face of this... misunderstanding. I hope that the matter can be forgotten. _Completely_ forgotten."

Don't want me to start yammering about, telling people that the big boys' club treats their runners like rats, eh? For twenty rils I'll preach the virtues of fat Chalest from here to the lakefront.

"Forgotten," the runner responded with a broad smile.

Dwervin returned the smile, though the gesture carried not the slightest hint of either warmth or amusement, merely a formality of doing business. Jasmine picked up her glass for the first time and began to drink.

"You should really sip wine that rare. Take the time to enjoy it."

Jasmine looked down and realized that she had drained nearly the entire glass. She hadn't the faintest idea what it had tasted like going down.

Fool! You're doing it again. Just relax. It's business. Big business for sure, but still the same as any other job. Just wait for the man to make his offer and then say "Yessir, whatever you say sir!" and then you can get back to work.

Jasmine's internal dialogue was interrupted by another question from Dwervin. "Do you play keeps?" He gestured at the board.

"Of course," she responded, a bit too quick. "I was taught by a man who was expert at the game. Though the Bone ain't exactly a keeps-hall, so I'm probably a bit shaky."

"No, I don't believe I see too many of our patrons playing games that require something other than a pair of dice or a brace of knives."

Our _patrons? You must be a little more important than I first figured, old man._

"Why don't we play a game," he continued, "while we talk of business."

Jasmine nodded and immediately went to setting the board back to starting position. She had to rack her brain to remember where everything went, but managed to avoid an embarrassment by getting each piece in its proper place. She spun the board half-way round, aiming the white army, and therefore the first move, at Dwervin.

"I prefer black," she stated. "It's more my color, if you know what I mean."

Dwervin answered with another half-smile and reached toward the board for his first move, pushing a soldier one pace forward. Though tempted to lead with her favorite piece, the knave, she thought back to advice given many years previous and responded with her own soldier. Back and forth they pushed their paces, all conversation halted. The minutes stretched by in silence.

"I'll not twist words with you, Jasmine. You've caught the eye of some influential people."

Jasmine almost upset one of her walls as she made to shift it a pace to the side.

"Influential?" she asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the eagerness from her voice.

"You are surprised? From what I've heard of you from your past employers, you're anything but modest when it comes to your abilities. It was only a matter of time before someone higher up recognized your talents and sought to put them to use, don't you think?"

Damn right it's about time. Only took three years.

Jasmine shrugged a response.

Dwervin positioned his priest in the middle near his mage, dominating the center of the board. Jasmine grimaced at her quickly failing position.

"You have lived in the East-block for your entire life, if my sources are correct," he continued after a time. "I'm sure you've seen some of the changes over the years. Things have been taken under rein by the Eleventh Hour and we are becoming more prosperous with each passing year."

"Mmmmhmmm." Jasmine stared intently at the board, searching out an escape route for her doomed knight.

"The unfortunate side-effect of such prosperity is a lack of new recruits. As more... traditional work becomes available and coin flows through the cracks of the wall due to trade, more are choosing to settle in and live their lives as merchants, craftsmen and the like. This leaves us with a shortage of talent for the business that we need to conduct. Contrary to what some may believe, a proliferation of honest trade does not mean a concurrent reduction in the needs of the Eleventh Hour. For us, in fact, it has increased our need.

"Unfortunately, those that come looking for work now are the worst sorts of amateurs. All the clever ones latch on to burgeoning opportunities and keep their noses clean for the most part. Even if a runner survives a few years and manages to make a name for themselves, they're still nothing compared to those who came before. Ten years ago a virgin runner would show up looking for work and he'd be fit to take on a proper challenge after a month. Now, they run for years and still never measure up." He sighed, a wistful look clouding his eyes. "You have, I am afraid, missed the golden age of your profession."

The expression vanished and he calmly shifted a wall to block one of Jasmine's charging soldiers.

"I am in a unique position where I have the ear of many of the most influential of those in the various East-block factions. It happens that they need fresh blood. Not just any blood, but the blood of those who can get things done like the runners of old used to."

He paused, waited for Jasmine to look up and held her with his intense gaze.

"You are the only one I have found that display enough talent to compare."

Jasmine couldn't stop the elation from overwhelming her. Pride shined through and brought a self-satisfied smile to her lips. Dwervin dropped his eyes to the board.

"Don't get cocky," his voice had returned to its tone of severity. "The same people who are looking for talent are also a bit... old-fashioned in their views. They believe that women are not capable when it comes to doing shadow-work. Particularly the kind of work that requires an excellence of both physicality and cleverness. I'm sure if many of them had their way, every body without a cock attached would be married off or bound to a brothel when they hit their twelfth summer.

"Lucky for you, I have a distinct eye for recognizing ability within others while avoiding the pitfalls of limited predisposition. I've studied you these last few weeks and am convinced that you would thrive. Should you be given the chance, of course. By the way, your king is dead in three moves."

Studying me, eh? I'm guessing I've found the source of my shadow... Good to know I have a...

Jasmine was listening intently until he threw her off with the last statement. She glanced down at what she thought was a fairly decent position. She had no delusions of winning, but three moves seemed an optimistic estimation on Dwervin's part.

"So what do you need me to do?" she asked, still studying the board.

"I'm going to give you a trial run. Something to show my unconvinced colleagues that you've more talent than they suspect. Nothing too clever and nothing too regal. In five night's time, you will return here and I will give you a package. You will exchange it for another, return the same night and receive a payment of ten rils. _No_ negotiations on the payment."

Ten rils? Not a bad bit of change. Hardly what I'd call an expert run, playing courier for a few hours. But if it leads to something better, why not? Besides, it's not like I'm tits-deep in work these days.

"Fair enough," she replied. "And if I do this, you've got more lined up?"

Dwervin shifted a piece on the board, though Jasmine was staring so hard at him that she missed which. "If you do the job well, it is a distinct possibility that I will have a great deal more lined up, all of it being conducted out of this very booth. And your king is dead, in case you didn't notice."

Jasmine glanced down to the board and saw that her king was indeed dead, struck down by Dwervin's knight.

Not as good as I'dve liked, but not bad for being away from the board for so long.

"You're not much of a keeps player are you? All recklessness and no concept of defense. Let's hope you run better than you play."

Jasmine glared at her new employer, ego bitten at the insult.

"How bout we just talk business and stop playing useless games," she snapped at him, uncaring of her demeanor.

"Keeps is hardly useless, little girl," Dwervin bit back. "It encompasses all the elements of strategy, foresight..."

"Yes, so I've been told," she interrupted. "So I'm to be back here in five days and I'll run your package. Then when you see how good I am you give me more. I'm assuming the jobs after will pay better and be more interesting than just playing courier?"

Dwervin's lips thinned and his eyes squinted. He looked her over as if making a second evaluation of her worth. Jasmine recognized her rash error and raced to fix it.

"No need to answer. I'll take you at your word." She spoke quickly, trying to muddy his thoughts with a steady stream of blather. "I'm guessing you'll need someone expert like me to take care of all sorts of things that you can't trust to the babies and burn-outs. It's what I do best, you know? I'm pro at doing what others can't. Get in where people don't think is possible. That's why I'm so damn good."

Dwervin made to say something, but Jasmine kept going.

"And when I get back, I'll show you I know how to play this game. Just because I'm out of practice don't mean I'll let you beat me that easy. Wasting time or otherwise, I don't do nothing half-way."

She thought she caught a flash of confusion in Dwervin's expression, though it faded with the next second. It seemed as if she had gone from being an object of study to one of amusement.

Got you, old man. Now you don't know what to think of me, eh? Let me get away from this damn board and onto a game I really know how to play and we won't have to have these stupid conversations. My work speaks for itself.

Dwervin nodded. "Very well, cocky little girl. Return in five days, two hours after sundown. We shall see whether or not you're singing gold or spitting shit."

Jasmine drained the rest of her wine, placed the empty glass on the table and stood to leave. Dwervin rapped twice on the shutters and the bodyguard opened them once more.

"Until then, boss." Jasmine punctuated her farewell with a slight bow.

Spinning on one heel and stepping from the booth, Jasmine strode from behind the latticework corridor and into the main room of the Chipped Bone. Eyes trained on her from all sides, the faces attached to them displaying expressions of curiosity, resentment or both. Head held straight and mind already conjuring images of overflowing purses, she left the tavern behind.
IX. Dreams of Distant Places

The water had gone tepid, the discomfort finally building enough to motivate Jasmine to rise from the large, silver-plated tub. She inhaled one last time the intoxicating scents of the numerous spices that permeated the bath water. Two young servant girls rushed forward to help her over the edge and onto the plush rug that kept the chill of the porcelain-tiled floor from finding its way into her feet. They then began to rub her down with equally plush towels made of soft fleece.

After the drying, she stood naked in the center of the lavish washroom while the servants applied perfumes, moisturizing ointments and all manner of strange and expensive concoctions to her body. Once finished, they set to the task of dressing her, beginning with silken undergarments and proceeding with each layer, step-by-step until they finally hoisted the shimmering, green silk dress over her head. After straightening its folds, they wrapped a bodice around Jasmine's chest and laced it securely.

Sitting on an overlarge cushioned stool, she allowed one of the servants to comb out her hair while the other placed elaborate heeled sandals on her feet, wrapping the straps upward to just below her knees. Jasmine gazed impassively upon the emerald-toned shoes, admiring the dozens of minute sapphires stitched into them. Another half-hour of her servants tying gold, silver and jeweled ornaments into her hair and she was ready to make her appearance.

From the bathroom it was a long journey through halls that boasted marbled floors covered in rare, imported rugs and down two flights stairs framed with gold-gilded banisters before she reached the main ballroom. The walk took her past many fine works of art - portraits painted by master artists, sculptures of ivory, jade and obsidian, carvings cut from the rarest woods. As she descended the second flight of stairs, finally nearing her destination, the sounds of soft music reached her ears, echoing down the corridor at the end of which rested the location of the night's gathering. She slowed her pace, intent on making her guests wait just a moment longer for her arrival. And what an arrival it was.

Two men dressed in servant's uniforms whose opulence bespoke the wealth of their mistress opened the doors to allow her passage as she approached. The music blossomed to life, flooding her ears as surely as the colorful throng of elegantly dressed party-goers dazzled her field of vision. A caller standing just inside the doorway turned toward the guests and announced Jasmine's arrival in a booming voice.

"Lady Jasmine. Countess of Adali. Mistress of Shadows and matron of this grand fete."

All turned to gaze upon her visage. Though each lady present shone with the radiance of their own silk and bejeweled gowns, Jasmine was by far the most well-dressed of them all, having acquired her clothing through exclusive importers that most others didn't even know existed. The men were equally magnificent, some of them in the silken livery of merchants and others in crisp military uniforms, silver and gold badges of rank marking their collars and sleeves. They parted to allow her passage into the massive room and out onto the central dance floor. As she made her procession, she welcomed them each by name, having memorized the identities of all the most influential in her circle. Kisses and words of greeting were exchanged and more than one of the guests attempted to buy her good graces with a tirade of flattery.

Finally having made her way to center of the room, she signaled to the musicians on stage, indicating that she wished to hear a waltz. It was, after all, the dance in fashion that year and Jasmine had taken great pains to learn every step to perfection. Not that it was in the least bit difficult for her. She had a natural proclivity toward anything involving movement and so picked up the routines in short order. Her hand came up, held out to no one in particular, awaiting an acceptance by whomever deemed themselves bold enough to claim the first dance.

One young man came forward from the crowd to rest her hand in his grasp. He was dressed in the finest clothing, sporting a darker motif of deep blues, blacks and crimsons. Large hazel eyes gazed down at her from a smooth-skinned face framed by shoulder-length, oiled brown hair. The young man smiled a charming smile that made Jasmine's chest feel swollen and achy. She gazed back into those eyes, looking through them into the soul beyond, searching for the essence of the man who now pulled her close to him.

She gazed into those eyes and saw that...

A cockroach was making its way across the warped and lopsided wooden table. As Jasmine tracked its progress she noted that every time it encountered a stream of spilled ale it would halt, changing direction to find another way forward. Whether or not the ale was poisonous to the brown bug she could not say, but it disagreed with the liquid one way or the other. Soon, she suspected, it would be forced to retreat the way from whence it had come, all progress for the night spoiled by the wet remains of clumsy patrons.

Jasmine sighed.

"A lonely girl, once more drinking alone," a voice sounded from behind her, the owner making his way around the table. "Although she has chosen a place with better ale than last time I found her, at least."

BeRem sat down on the bench opposite and flashed his best charming smile her way. Jasmine stared back through a drowsy haze, her too-heavy head crooked and resting in one hand. She contemplated whether a smile or instruction to piss off was the more appropriate response. Unfortunately, she had the energy for neither and so instead made do with a noncommittal stare.

BeRem raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward, glancing into the tin mug that lay on the table before her. Jasmine's eyes followed his, to the murky, reddish-brown liquid that rose to the mug's halfway point, pulped red berries floating about in the brew.

"Eyeberries?" he seemed surprised. "I wouldn't have thought you to be one to enjoy that type of brew. I suspect you're deep in a daydream right now, eh fair Rose? Or would you prefer I call you Jasmine? A second name for our second meeting?"

Jasmine's lazy eyes blinked. She tried to summon up the words to respond to BeRem but they came slow and not as sharp as she would have liked.

"How... do you know me?" she asked in a languid voice. "You been following me? Some sort of spy..."

The idea of BeRem, clumsy lady-slayer that he was, being a spy struck Jasmine as utterly ridiculous. She began to laugh, her throat producing sounds that came across as giddy and half-mad.

BeRem shot her a sarcastic smile. Once Jasmine had finally mastered her giggling fit, he spoke again.

"No, I have not been spying on you. I _have_ been looking for you though. I came here and asked whether a beautiful Rose had bloomed here recently and the barkeep had no idea what I was speaking of. After a short conversation, I found that the person I was asking after had another name."

Lovely... now he knows who I am. This is the piss in my drink. Why can't I be left alone? The price of being seen in the least, I suppose...

"Well, you were looking for me. Now I'm here. What do you want?" Jasmine put as much irritation as she could muster into her words, hoping perhaps that the fancy boy would go away.

Instead he merely stared at her disapprovingly. "I wanted to see you, to continue our conversation from before. We seemed to be doing so well, you and I." He paused, expression becoming even more somber as he looked her over. "It appears I have misjudged you. You lied to me and now it looks like you're little more than an eyeberry disciple."

Jasmine snorted. "My first time trying this, if you must know. I'm celebrating." Her head sank deeper into her hand, the arm that held it aloft slowly dipped as her elbow edged its way across the table's surface. "Not the best way to celebrate, if I had to make an opinion..."

Jasmine's arm gave way completely. With a soft thump, her head dropped onto the wooden tabletop.

"Ow, shit!" she exclaimed. She quickly righted herself, but the eyeberries had destroyed her equilibrium. The world had gone flat like a portrait and was now beginning to dip, sway and spin. Jasmine's stomach rebelled at the loss of proper perspective.

She stood, stumbling as one foot hooked the bench and almost sent her tumbling to the tavern floor. Grappling with gravity's malevolent grasp, one foot moved in front of the other in chaotic rhythm as she wobbled toward the back exit.

As Jasmine vomited up streams of reddish bile, she thought on the events that had brought her to the Broken Crate that evening. After the meeting with Dwervin she had been riding high on the promises of finally moving up in the shadow-world. One simple run and she would prove to the old man that she was the best and he would have no choice but to keep feeding her high-class and high-paying jobs. Her purse would fill to overflowing and the closet-sized rat's nest that was her apartment would be a thing of the past. She would have a flat that properly represented her newfound level of status and all the grand furniture and decorations it took to fill it.

Being that she had no more need to worry over her flow of coin, Jasmine had gone to sleep early and awoken earlier than usual the next day. Costumed in her finest dress, she had made the journey to the merchant's quarter of East Market Avenue to spend the day browsing her way through any shop that caught her attention. From carpenters to blacksmiths to jewelers, there wasn't a single place that didn't seem to have something that she wanted. She kept a tally in her head of all the items that caught her fancy, mentally cataloguing which should be purchased first and which could wait and whether it was easier to spend coin as a customer or just steal them away in the night. Being forethoughtful of her sometimes spendthrift nature, she had left her purse behind lest she find it empty by sunset. Better to be safe than spend away everything before she was secure in her new position. In the shadow-world, you never knew when an employer might end up dead, victim of some unknown rivalry. If that happened, she could find herself as poor as an amateur with no way to get back into the game. As far as Jasmine knew, Dwervin had been the one behind her previous lack of work, a plan to corner her and make her desperate to follow his lead.

Elated with her preparations, she had wandered to the Broken Crate to drink the night away, not even bothering to change from the unsuitably fanciful wardrobe that marked her as out-of-place in the ghetto tavern. But playing the part of the rich lady had gone to her head and when the barkeep, Lonne had offered her a chance to try his eyeberry brew, she had seen no reason to say no. Tales of the way the strange, drugged concoction affected the mind, bestowing waking dreams and giving insight to the workings of one's thoughts, had intrigued her ever since she had first heard them. The only thing that had prevented her from sampling it before was the exorbitant cost. Tossing eight silver wrens on a single pint was not her idea of best value for the money, so she had stifled her curiosity - at least until that night.

Now, doubled over and clenching her spasm-wracked guts as the last of the eight-wren purchase spilled into the dirt of the Crate's back alley, Jasmine pledged to stick to cheaper spirits and, more importantly, spirits that didn't leave her gasping in pain and contemplating whether death was really as bad as people made it out to be. After another few moments, the contractions in her stomach eased. She straightened, wiping the remnants of the drink from her mouth with the sleeve of the expensive dress.

Burn it to the nihil. I'll clean it later. Now if I can just manage to stand up and get home. Maybe another drink first though... something normal to take the edge off.

"Feeling better?" BeRem's voice echoed from further down the alley.

Jasmine glanced over her shoulder, trying to transform her distressed demeanor into something harder as she met his gaze. He stood about ten feet away, leaning against the wall of a building and watching her. Curiously enough, Jasmine found the look on his face to be one of concern.

I guess even fancy-boy seductors have some real feeling in them somewhere. Or maybe he's thinking I'm too tossed to lift my skirts for him? Disappointing night for you, sweet-talker?

"Be better with a drink in me. A proper drink." She made to rise.

BeRem stepped forward, offering his hand to steady her as she wobbled her way upright.

"Do you think you should be drinking more? You don't look in the best of shape." His concern was beginning to annoy her.

What do you know of what I need, nit? Nosey bastard, can't you just go away and leave me to enjoy my night?

"It's just the eyeberry. A pint of ale will do me fine and take the edge off." She shook his hand from her arm and turned away, marching back toward the rear door of the tavern. He kept pace right behind her.

"Well then, if you're too stubborn I guess I'll just have to join you. You know... in case you start retching again you'll need someone to make sure you don't slip and spill into your own sick."

Jasmine rolled her eyes.

Looks like I have company, whether I want it or not. Well, maybe I can get him to pay for the drinks at least. Must be something this boy is useful for since I don't need to throw him in the way of a clubber anymore.

"Fine," she responded as they crossed into the Broken Crate. Turning, she gave him a stern look. "But if you want to stay, you've got the first pints."

BeRem hesitated, about to say something. Finally, he managed an "Okay... umm, sure, I can do that."

Jasmine returned to the table where sat her half-filled mug of eyeberry brew. Grimacing, she pushed it aside and signaled for the barmaid. BeRem took the seat opposite her, as before.

Once the ale arrived, Jasmine tossed hers back with gusto. The cool liquid soothed her throat, now raw from purging the disagreeable eyeberry swill. Within seconds she felt as if recovery was well on the way. Her body's accelerated healing was already working the drug out of her system, leaving her head a bit clearer. Partially recovered, she stared across the table at her would-be seducer.

He's not half-ugly, for sure. I've a mind to play with the poor lad, but then I might end up with a lost puppy trying to follow me home. Why are things so damned complicated? When you want someone to go, it should be a snap to just wave a hand and send them off. Instead, everyone thinks they're needed somewhere, like sitting alone is something that people don't do unless their head's on wrong.

As Jasmine's mind sorted through half-muddled thoughts, she could see that BeRem was completely unaware of what was going on beneath the surface. He stared across the table like a simpleton, a crooked smile on his face. Occasionally he raised the mug of ale to his lips and took a small sip, but he did it all in silence. Jasmine decided to wait the man out, a sudden surge of stubbornness preventing her from speaking first.

She emerged victorious. "So why lie about your name? Did I intimidate you that much?" BeRem finished his sentence with a wink.

Jasmine fought back the urge to say something particularly insulting. Instead, she contented herself to engage in conversation with the fop, if only to focus his attention on something other than gazing at her wistfully.

"Different people know me as different things. It's safer that way, when you're doing business."

"Business, eh? What kind of business do you engage in where you need so many names?" His smug attitude was grating on her.

"I'm here in the East-block, the daughter of a prominent merchant. What do you think I'm doing here?" She gave him a challenging stare, daring him to doubt her story. "When you have to go places that you'd rather not and talk with people that you'd rather not, it's better if they don't know you."

"So are you saying you'd rather not enjoy my company?" His voice was thick with dismay, a note of hope ringing within.

Jasmine ground her teeth to choke back the obvious reply. She was damned and determined to get the fop to leave her alone, but every time she felt the urge to send him off with tears in his eyes the tears seemed like they were about to come for real. Overcome with pity, she felt more as if she were scolding young Sinta than talking to a grown man.

I suppose I'll need proper etiquette once I'm running in higher circles. Best as well practice on this little boy for when I have to talk to proper rich folks and blend into the elite world.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all," she lied. "I'm just saying that doing business with... less savory types can be a challenge. Part of that challenge is making sure they don't know where to come calling if they think they can get something more from you than you're wanting to offer. I spend a lot of time here, both for business and pleasure, so I like to stay unknown when I can. How was I to know who you were, coming up to me that night when I was dodging a tail?"

She watched his eyes widen as she realized what she had given away.

"Someone was following you?" he asked, again the note of concern permeating his words. "They never caught up with you, I'm sure? You seem like you're okay."

"No, they never found me," she replied and then, after a short inner debate, added: "I imagine they saw me traveling with an armed man and thought better of trying to start a scuffle." A grateful smile flavored the candied lie.

"Glad I could be of service then, beautiful Jasmine," BeRem spoke from behind his own pleased grin. "Or should I be calling you Rose? Or perhaps another name that I am unaware of as of yet?"

"Jasmine is fine. The people here know me by that name, so let's keep it simple."

BeRem offered another smile, this one seeming warmer and more genuine than the others. Jasmine shifted on the bench. For some reason, the boy made her uncomfortable, but she was bound and determined to finish the night out, even if it did mean straining to maintain polite conversation.

The rest of the night passed much more easily than Jasmine would have imagined. Another few drinks and she began to relax, readily engaging in conversation with BeRem. She kept the topics light, avoiding anything having to do with her "merchant father" and everything that might lead to a discussion of her role in the shadow-world. The ale had loosened her tongue and it was better to be cautious lest she let something slip that she couldn't take back with a well-phrased lie and a longing smile. But despite her vigilance, the simple and unassuming nature of her companion caused her to let her guard down on more than one occasion.

What's to care? The fop may wander the East-block trying to get his sword wet, but he's no threat to me. It's a relief even, being able to chat without worrying there's a knife in his boot. I doubt the poor boy knows how to use a knife beyond cutting his food.

In seemingly no time at all, Jasmine was finishing her eighth drink of the night and the dawn was looming near. It took her a moment to realize that she had been talking to BeRem for several hours. For his part, he seemed just as engaged as ever, still plying his seductor's routine and hanging on every word that Jasmine had to offer. But while the couple was enjoying their inebriated conversation, the barmaid of the Broken Crate was becoming agitated. She sat at one of the empty tables, her bloodshot eyes every once in a while coming to rest on one or the other of her last two patrons. Though they both had noticed the poor girl's weariness several times, it was BeRem who finally spoke up.

"Perhaps we'd better let the lass get some sleep," he spoke with his typical concern, a habit that Jasmine had by this time gotten used to. "I doubt her father will be letting her sleep any longer than usual simply because we kept feeding her coin."

Jasmine glanced at the barmaid. "Well, we'll just have to make it worth his while then."

Standing, she walked over to the girl, who straightened at her approach.

"More ale, M'Lady?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"No need..." she hesitated, dredging through the ale-soaked swamp of her mind. "Alana, was it?"

The girl nodded in response.

"Either you have the Beast's patience or your father is a slaver, making you serve us til dawn when there's no one else here." Jasmine reached into the folds of her dress, fingers fishing for her purse. She removed a handful of coins and set them on the table in front of Alana.

The barmaid's eyes widened at the sight of gold amongst the small pile of silver wrens and copper signets. "Really, M'Lady, this is too generous," she replied with a quiver in her voice.

"Not at all, Alana," Jasmine said matter-of-factly. "When you have the gold to give, you give it. Your father has more than twice given me a credit when I... left my purse elsewhere. Consider it interest on money lent."

Alana nodded, mute, collecting the coin from the table. Jasmine turned and, collecting BeRem's arm along the way, walked from the tavern with as much regal bearing as she could manage in her drunken state.

Outside the tavern it was cool and dry, the end of winter giving a moment of relief to the normal wet chill that permeated the city. Jasmine inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh, crisp air after so many hours in the smoky tavern. Her mind turned once again to the coming job and the ever-flowing river of gold that would soon be making its way into her purse. A voice interrupted her pristine thoughts - she had almost forgotten that BeRem was still with her.

"You're quite generous, I see," he smiled and let his eyes linger on her face.

Jasmine turned away from that stare, annoyed that her discomfort had returned after so many hours of feeling free and clear.

"Gold is gold. A wise man once told me, 'Gold is like water. Sometimes it falls from the sky, other times the air is dry. It flows in rivers, but always downhill and always, eventually, far out to sea.' It does no good to have it if you're not going to spend it." She felt even more uncomfortable as she realized how honest she was being. "Besides, it's fair. Her father has done me more than one favor in... complicated times."

To prevent BeRem from seeing past the façade, Jasmine turned away and made to walk down the street. She felt a hand grasp her arm, stopping her. Turning back, she glared up at the fop to find his eyes lingering on her, some intensity within them probing deep, seeking out the reality behind her mask. Something about that gaze filled the young rogue with an anxiety that she couldn't quite comprehend. Jasmine felt like an amateur about to make her first run, heart beating too quick and hands fidgeting at her sides. BeRem placed his free hand lightly on her cheek and leaned in, his intent all too clear.

Almost too late, Jasmine jumped backwards, away from the boy's questing lips. Returning to her senses, one hand slipped into her dress, fingers wrapping around the hilt of small and rather sharp knife. BeRem was frozen where he stood, half-leaning, one hand cupping the air and an expression of pure confusion across the whole of his face.

Between the boiling over of her nerves and the spirits in her blood, the spectacle of the lady-killer made ridiculous was too much for Jasmine to bear. She burst out laughing, much to BeRem's dismay. His saddened and befuddled look only made it worse and Jasmine had to struggle to stifle herself.

Poor boy, the tail end of my joke. If you could have seen yourself, you'd have had a laugh too. But I'm not all that cruel, now am I?

Removing her hand, now clutching the small knife, from her dress, Jasmine darted towards BeRem. One hand reached up, grabbing the boy by his hair and pulling his head down toward her while the other brought the knife up just behind his ear, the point of it placed against his skin to be sure he would feel its presence. Standing on her toes to cover the rest of the distance, Jasmine planted her lips upon his, hard, full and aggressive. She held the kiss for several seconds, enjoying the look of shock in BeRem's eyes. Just before pulling back, she dug one sharp canine into his lip, drawing blood and eliciting a soft yelp from him. Returning her feet flat to the ground, she released BeRem's hair and withdrew the knife. Jasmine grinned up at him, a wide smile meant to display her pointed fangs.

"Never surprise a girl," she scolded, only half-seriously.

One hand to his bleeding lip, BeRem offered nothing in reply aside from a perplexed stare.

"Remember what your father told you? Roses have thorns."

Satisfied that she had made a lasting impression and brought the evening to a properly clever conclusion, Jasmine left her would-be seducer standing in the street.
X. Cat and Mouse

As per Dwervin's instructions, Jasmine returned to the Chipped Bone five days later, two hours after the sun had made its final descent. Upon entering the tavern, Laotz motioned her toward the booths. The guards stepped aside without fuss as she made her way back. The whole procedure felt awkward to young runner, moving into the staging area of the elite with so little effort. It was her first sign that things were different, that she would no longer need to sit around idly at the Bone's tables, waiting for a sign or signal from some unknown employer or another. Her jobs would be straightforward and always negotiated privately behind lattice-work walls and closed shutters, a guard stationed outside to ensure there were no interruptions. The scarred mercenary smiled at her as he opened the shutters and admitted her to Dwervin's private booth.

The conversation between employer and runner was short and to the point. Dwervin handed Jasmine a package wrapped in rough brown paper, small enough to fit easily into one of her larger pouches. He told her where to go within the South-block territory, describing in quick detail the location where the package was to be left and what she should retrieve in exchange for the delivery. As she stood to leave, eager to get the night's work underway, Dwervin punctuated the meeting with a final speech.

"Remember, girl," he spoke slow and clear, intent on conveying the importance of each word uttered, "I'm putting my neck out with this job. There are others who are not so eager to see a girl to find her way into the more private ranks of our organization and many of them would like very much for you to fail. The amount of caution you exhibit will be critical in determining whether you are successful or not in convincing them otherwise. You may carry the notion that tonight's run is little more than a test. Every bit of business is important to those who hold the reins in East-block. When you see how South-block operates, you will understand why our structure exists and why excellence is desired at every step. Do _not_ disappoint me."

Jasmine felt strangely unnerved. It wasn't the first time that she'd had an employer use subtle threats to emphasize the need for her to pull off a flawless run, but it was the first time in more than a year that she had felt as if the threats were tangible. Perhaps the first time ever that she had felt the threats were more tangible than the run itself. She had no desire to fail, for her own reasons, but something in Dwervin's tone of voice warned that failure held other consequences, the least of which concerned being unable to secure work due to a tarnished reputation.

Such is the price of doing business with the elite, I suppose. A damned fine thing I don't plan on messing this up.

Jasmine nodded and left the booth, her future secure in the pouch at her side.

The trip to the South-block was a leisurely one. Jasmine climbed the East-block wall and skipped across the rooftops for the majority of the journey. The mile-long stretch between one ghetto and the other consisted mainly of narrowly packed tenements, those poverty-stricken residents of Porsham Grand that had somehow managed to get left outside of the wall-builders' designs. She leaped from one roof to the next with ease, a silent shadow invisible in the darkness, the half-moon overhead muted behind a thin cover of spring clouds. Though none on the ground could see her through that blanket of blackness, Jasmine's eyes picked out the world around her as if it were dusk. Even the meager glow of the forgotten moon resonated enough for her to discern the shapes and structures of the cityscape. If she encountered any trouble, that advantage could mean the difference between a clean escape and a long, drawn-out run. Of course, Jasmine didn't plan on getting into trouble. Such a simple delivery would go off without a hitch, the same as they always did.

As she approached the perimeter of the southern ghetto, the first thing Jasmine noticed was a stark difference in the wall that surrounded it. Whereas the East-block's barrier was in a state of perpetual disrepair, only held together by the occasional patchwork that the masons would perform each summer, the walls of this pen looked to be subject to regular upkeep. They were much smoother than their counterpart, which made for rougher climbing. It wasn't anything that Jasmine couldn't handle, of course, proved a bit slower going than she was used to.

The second thing she noticed were the guards. There seemed to be twice as many and they were more alert than the lazy, copper-waged slugs that circled her home. Contrary to looking as if they were about to nod off, these soldiers were keen-eyed and, if Jasmine were to guess at it, a tad bit paranoid. The gates and posts where they were stationed were well-lit with oil-fueled lamps.

She had heard rumors that the leading gang in the South-block, the Kozon, had a reputation for using violence as both their first and last resort when it came to handling even the smallest of problems. From the look of the guards, she put her money on the rumors being fact. Back in the East-block, even if you did get caught slipping over the wall you could sometimes solve your dilemma through the exchange of a few coins. Here they looked as if they would sooner stab someone than do business with them. Jasmine made a mental note to take extra precautions against getting spotted on her way through. No need to start a scrap if she didn't have to

In like a ghyst, out like a ghyst. Nothing but the wind and the stray dogs to know I was here. I start kicking up dust it'll get back to Dwervin and piss on my position. If all I leave behind is a couple of footprints, I can squeeze a bit more coin from future jobs. Well, hopefully... the old man does seem like a miser when it comes to pay. Still, better quick than dead.

Maneuvering from one shadow to the next, Jasmine made her way to the wall, its guardians none the wiser. Pressed up against the base of the barrier and traveling its length as far as she could see were the husks of shanties. Made mostly of found objects lashed together to form only the most basic protection against the weather, it was as if the ghetto had overflowed and spilled some of its residents into the outer perimeter. Jasmine wondered at why the rich folks who took such pains to keep these types out of their precious city of trade allowed the hovels to even exist. Whatever the reasons, they made excellent cover against the prying eyes of the patrol while Jasmine sought out a likely place to scale the twenty feet that separated her from her destination. As quick as she was, the guards didn't have time to notice her ascent. Once perched at the top of the stone enclosure, Jasmine looked down upon a neighborhood that was just as murky as the night sky.

When she sat upon the walls of the East-block and surveyed the cityscape, it was alight with the night's activities. The South-block was a different story. Not a single lush could be seen meandering about, half-drunk and stumbling their way to the next tavern. The alley-children were not running around playing at games that would leave them bloodied and bruised the next morning. No whores claimed the street-corners, calling out to passersby the pleasures that a few silvers could buy, nor were there any passersby to call out to had they been there at all. No vapor lamps lined the main avenues and, there in the territory of the Kozon, even late-night candles burning away in apartment windows were scarce. The most that Jasmine saw of life in those dark streets were a few scrawny, stray dogs, skittering about and sniffing at the air.

For all she could see, the entire ghetto had shrugged off its residents or they had clambered below ground with the setting of the sun. Growing more wary by the moment, Jasmine hurried down the wall's opposite side, sprinted across a narrow dirt road and climbed to the top of the nearest tenement.

The view from the building was no better. Just blackness as far as the eye could see, punctuated here and there by the occasional flickering light. Cocking her head, she listened, intent on finding signs of life. After a brief time, she recognized a collection of sounds that signaled an open tavern somewhere in the distance.

At least someone is alive in here. Another few minutes of that silence and I'd be convinced that the old man had sent me into the mouth of the nihil as some sort of joke. A bad joke, at that.

Nerves already on edge, Jasmine began her meandering, rooftop journey toward the center of the South-block ghetto.

Three tenements closer to her goal and the rogue began to see the first signs that the ghetto was indeed occupied. The tavern sounds she had heard earlier were growing louder and their points of origin more numerous. Occasionally a body moved through the streets below. Some of those she saw hurried their way along, no doubt seeking shelter from whatever predators lurked in the shadows. Others strode boldly, blades at their sides and blue rags tied around their upper arms to mark their Kozon affiliation.

At one point, Jasmine leaped an alleyway to spot a body lying motionless below. A quick peek revealed it to be a woman of middling age. Her clothes were torn and she was covered in blood, most likely her own. Whether she was alive or dead, Jasmine couldn't tell without descending and inspecting the body close-up. But time was ticking away and the runner had a job to do, and so the woman was left to her uncertain fate.

With half-way yet to travel, Jasmine was forced down from the rooftops by what she mused was likely the only proper avenue in the entire South-block ghetto. The streets by this point had begun to thicken with bodies as she neared the neighborhood's taverns. Kozon thugs were plodding about here and there amidst a milder crowd of whores and laborers. Dressed as she was, there was no way she could have avoided being called out if someone were to see her. She considered skirting the entire scene by prowling the back alleys and cutting a wide berth around the busier patches, but she didn't know the South-block's layout. It would have been far too easy to lose her way and stumble into some den or another. She wasn't eager to have a face-to-face with a pack of clubbers out for a bloody night's entertainment. Instead, she opted to wait for the street to clear up enough to make a sprint to the alley opposite.

Crouched behind the remains of a splintered barrel, she watched the denizens of the South-block go about their business. They wandered up the street and down it. Some stayed quiet, heads down, trying not to be noticed. Others loudly proclaimed the embellished glories of their accomplishments and virtues. Every so often a pack of the blue-ragged rowdies would pick out one of the quieter ones and make sport of them. Some bought themselves out of harm's way with a few copper coins, others paid in bruises and broken noses. To Jasmine's eyes it was as if the back-room at one of the East-block's rougher clubber taverns had spilled into the streets, flooding every last inch of the forsaken ghetto. She lost track of time musing on the antics of her southerly neighbors, brought back to her senses only when she realized that the street had cleared up and there was no one left to watch.

A quick glance to left and right and she raced across the street, now grateful for the South-block's lack of proper lighting. If anyone up the street or down it noticed the sprinting shadow, they would think it nothing more than another alley-child, a feature of the city easily ignored.

Ignored, that is, excepting when they appeared in front of your face as if from nowhere, as was Jasmine's case a few seconds later. Upon entering the alley she bumped a pile of garbage, sending fragments of broken clay tumbling. A small child popped up from behind another nearby pile, either woken from her sleep or startled in the act of trash-mining. The girl was frail, emaciated and dressed in rags so worn that they could hardly pass for clothes. Her fingernails were dirty and chipped, the long hair on her head knotted. Filth covered her body from head to toe.

But what truly captured Jasmine's attention was the look in the child's eyes. The little girl seemed more beast than human within the raw hunger of her gaze. Survival had taken precedence over reason and the animal nature had risen to the surface. No more than eight summers old, the wretched creature reminded Jasmine all-too-much of young Sinta. But for the graces of the gods, her protégé's life could have run a similar course and her mind too brought low beneath the weight of necessity.

With a shriek and a hiss, the girl turned and fled.

Jasmine made the ascent back to the skyscape as quick as she could. The sights she had witnessed during her short time in the South-block were beginning to take their toll. She had seen more than her fair share of grisly things during her fifteen years, but there was something different about the way it played out on the South-block's ghetto stage. It seemed too random, too chaotic. The violent acts were not confined to back rooms and dark alleys. Artisans and merchants were not exempt for their ability to keep the gold flowing into the wall's confines. The orphans who roamed the streets were not merely survivors blessed with the ill-luck of poverty, but feral creatures seeking little more than another day away from grasp of the nihil's second beat. Jasmine's nerves were frayed.

Watching the clubbers walk the streets as kings left a bad taste in her mouth and the runner was close to a rage. It was enough that the rich hoarders of gold who ran Porsham Grand caged the poorer classes up within the walls of the many ghettoes. To see those victims making of each other victims twice-over created within Jasmine a desire to wreck vengeance on someone - anyone - in some ill-focused attempt to put things back in balance. There was nothing she could do, but that realization did nothing to pacify her state of mind.

She spat once to remove the imagined taste from her mouth and finished the last of her journey.

The building that Dwervin had directed her to was built in the style of the Far East. A man-high plastered wall encircled a modest courtyard, at the center of which loomed a multi-storied familial compound. The Eastern houses were similar to apartments, but stepped, each upper layer added as another generation was born. The elders made their homes at the top until their life spans were done while the growing numbers of the younger occupied an ever-widening base. From the looks of this particular building, there were three generations living within and most of the residents on the younger side.

Despite the compound being relatively small compared to many of the others nearby, it was an annoying climb. A break in the clouds revealed the shining half-moon, destroying her blanket of security. It was too easy to be spotted at any point while scaling the outer wall, running across the courtyard and then leaping up each tier to reach the building's apex. Jasmine moved as quickly as she dare while still retaining a healthy amount of caution. Three minutes later, she stood at the top of the compound, amidst the lush and exotic plants of a rooftop garden.

Jasmine spared a few minutes to appreciate the odd gathering of nature. It was quite out of place in a skyscape composed almost solely of plaster and stone and clay tiles, a strange oasis amidst the barren and man-made. Between the size of the building and the luxury of the garden, the entire compound felt lost among the destitute landscape of the South-block ghetto. Apparently, even the poorest of neighborhoods still had a measure of affluence resting within. If she could have stolen the garden and taken it with her back to the East-block, she would not have hesitated. It would have made a nice addition to the roof of her own bleak tenement. But the night called for expedience and plants weren't typically the most portable of prizes.

Jasmine began her search for the hidden package. Coming to a small and battered marble bench situated within the center of the garden, she glanced underneath. Sure as she'd been told, there in the shadows lay a fist-sized silver box. Removing the paper-wrapped bundle from her pouch, Jasmine exchanged one for the other.

The silver box was an intriguing object. Hinged on one side, it resembled a tiny chest. Jasmine held it in one hand, rotating it left and right to examine the detail. Lost in a daydream contemplation of what might lay within, she barely noticed the sounds of voices coming from across the street and above her.

"Hey Byrne," one of them spoke, a high-pitched, almost squeaking tone. "We got a lurker over here."

Jasmine looked up to see a half-shadowed figure perched on the roof of another, larger compound nearby. Shortly after speaking, the shadow was joined by a companion.

"Looks like a freelancer," a more serious voice spoke, quieter than the first though still audible to Jasmine's keen ears. "Not one I recognize. Wonder what asshole is stupid enough to come in here on business."

"I saw something in his hand, Byrne," the first voice replied. "Looked like silver from here."

Jasmine slipped the box into a pouch and out of view. Surveying the surrounding area, she sought the quickest and cleanest route. If she moved fast enough, it might be possible to ditch the pair of roof-crows before they managed to make their way down. Picking a direction, she strode to the side of the garden and began her descent.

"Hey, he's leaving!" The high-pitched voice.

As Jasmine dropped from the roof to the level below, a whistle sounded, short and shrill. Another glance back revealed two more figures had joined the first pair. Together, the pack of four began to leap down the tiered steps, their sights on the runner that had invaded their claimed territory. Jasmine quickened her pace.

By the time she cleared the compound's exterior wall, her four pursuers were nowhere to be seen, blocked from her sight by the courtyard walls. Jasmine sprinted down a street and into an alley, maneuvering away from the complicated skyscape of the eastern-styled structures and back to more familiar ground.

Bloody nihil. If I want to make it back, I'll still have to cross the avenue. Anyone sees me there I could end up with the whole pissing ghetto on my tail. Better cut further out and take the long way.

In order to avoid the main avenue, Jasmine veered west. As soon as she was clear of the Eastern neighborhood she returned to the rooftops, safe from harm's way and back in her comfort zone. For a moment, she thought she might have gotten rid of the hounds chasing her, but that hope died quick. Before she had made one leap, voices echoed through the night.

"We see you, little mouse," the one named Byrne's tone had changed from serious to gleefully threatening. "No way you're gonna outrun us in our own sky. Better just slow down and give us whatever it is you got before you take a nasty spill."

"We're gonna pound you til you shit yourself," an as-of-yet silent figure added his gravely voice to the mix from somewhere closer by.

A quick glance around revealed to Jasmine exactly what she had feared. Being familiar with the territory, the four runners had split up and attempted to encircle her. A large figure loomed on the roof just south of her, the two she had first seen coming in from the east. The fourth was nowhere to be found.

Well, west is as good a direction as any. Let's cross a finger and say a prayer for luck. Ihshintul, grant me your graces or I might end up with a few lumps before the night's end.

Jasmine picked up the pace, cutting a straight path toward the rooftop west of her position. It was a good fifteen feet lower than where she stood. Such distance was nothing for a runner of her caliber, but she hoped that it would prove too much for her pursuers and leave at least one of them stranded.

A leap turned into a roll as Jasmine made contact with the lower building. She barely lost speed as she came up, continuing her sprint west in an effort to gain more ground.

The echoing thumps behind her told Jasmine that the runners weren't that easily dissuaded. After jumping to the next building over, she risked a glance back. The three figures were now running together, spread out just enough so that they wouldn't trip each other up. The fourth was still missing. All of them were making good time and Jasmine, despite being one of the quickest runners in the East-block, was worried that she would be hard pressed to lose them anytime soon. Without a few creative tricks, the whole lot of them would run until legs tired, jumps became clumsy and bodies dropped into alleys and streets. Jasmine was no slouch when it came to having the endurance to run long, but she had no wish to try those skills against four opponents. With some clever maneuvers, they could easily herd her about and make her run twice as much ground as they did, all the while taking breaths whenever she was forced to steer wide of their net.

Haven't had a challenge like this in... ever. Let's hope you haven't grown lazy, Jasmine girl. Tonight's the night to prove just how expert you are. Four runners. Unfamiliar skyline. Clock ticking. Ought to make a story to tell, at the least.

The chase continued west for some time. Their course leaped up and down in height, forcing many a climb and roll. Despite being the smaller of the pack, Jasmine couldn't shake her hunters. Even the gravelly-voiced one, huge by runners' standards, managed to keep pace. Rooftop after rooftop passed beneath their feet until, a half-dozen blocks later, Jasmine found the missing fourth.

Leaping across a larger gap, again gambling that it might prove too much for at least one of her pursuers, Jasmine landed almost in the arms of the leather-clad Kozon. He had likely sprinted through the streets, gaining ground on the merry chase until he found a position to cut his prey off. Standing just a few feet back from the roof's edge, he waited, blade in hand, for Jasmine to come to him. Much to her dismay, she did just that. She didn't notice her opponent until it was too late.

As soon as Jasmine's feet hit the graveled roof, the Kozon lunged. Quick reflexes saved her, but barely. She kicked her feet forward, sliding on the loose gravel and throwing her body to the side. Her rival's momentum prevented him from stopping his forward motion and he flew right over her, Jasmine's legs colliding with his shins and spilling him face-first into the rocky surface of the roof. He might have slid completely over the edge of the building had not a small retaining wall checked his motion.

Recovering from the near-miss, Jasmine regained her feet and set off again, this time switching direction northwards, back toward the East-block. The next building over being taller, she leaped onto the ledge of a window and scrambled up the remaining story. From behind, heavy footfalls crunched in gravel as the three other Kozon caught up with their fallen friend.

"Filthy little..." A new voice, the note of pain and frustration it carried marking it as belonging to the foe she had bowled over. The insult was followed by the ringing impact of steel striking stone two feet to Jasmine's left.

"Don't waste your knives, Terry," Byrne reprimanded him. "We'll catch him soon enough, but you're not going down to fish for that sticker til we're done with this prick."

_Good advice all around, I'd say_.

Jasmine cleared the lip of the new building and resumed her run.

That was too close for my liking. Can't let them clutter up on me like that again. They know their zone too well. Could lead me in circles until a stunt like that works. Split up and...

Jasmine bared razor teeth in a wide grin as her mind began working on a plan. If she could split them up, she could afford to face off against them. Brawling wasn't her stock and trade, but a few clever tricks and she might be able to eliminate her opponents one at a time. Switching up her tactics, Jasmine began to run a zigzag pattern across the rooftops of the South-block skyline.

Ten minutes later and the runner was ready to make her move. Her meandering path had played havoc with the pursuers' nerves. She lured them into splitting up and trying to surround her only to double back and send one of their number on a wild hunt for no one. Once she even had the pleasure of watching two of them nearly cross each other's paths going in opposite directions. The longer the chase went on, the more Jasmine's muscles filled with aches, but the exhaustion was offset by the sheer pleasure of the competition.

Each of their repeated failures was accompanied by a bout of cursing, both at their prey and at each other. Over the course of those ten minutes, she had even managed to put names to the bodies following her.

The one named Byrne appeared to be the leader, since he was shouting the orders. The big bastard they called Knives. Jasmine wondered how such a long-limbed clubber managed to run like he did. His feet belonged on the ground and she intended to make sure he understood that before the night was up. The runner who had almost pinned her down near the start of the chase was named Terry. From what she saw of his technique, he was still new to the trade. Not an amateur, but lacking in talent enough that Jasmine wasn't too worried about him. And the last one of the group was the one they called Mutt. Smaller than the rest, he seemed ready to quit at every setback. Jasmine guessed that if it weren't for the screaming threats of Byrne, Mutt would have given up the chase long ago, contented to finish the night with a few drinks rather than a mess of broken bones.

She had lured them into splitting up for the fifth time, Mutt and Byrne keeping up the tail-end of the pursuit while the others once again tried to circle. Ignoring the two on her heels, Jasmine steered in the direction where she thought she'd find Terry. The poor bastard already had to deal with her outsmarting him once, so she thought she would offer him a chance to get even.

A few quick maneuvers left Mutt and Byrne a roof behind. They made no effort to sprint after her, confirming what Jasmine suspected of Terry's position. Keeping her eyes peeled, she continued to run, slowing her pace a bit to avoid another near collision. Sure enough, she spotted Terry just as he crested the edge of a building directly ahead of her. Instead of changing directions, she leaped onto the rooftop with him, landing just few feet away from the startled Kozon.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with mock surprise. "Look what we have here. Another piss-poor clubber thinking he has the legs for life on the roofs. Best to go home and pleasure your father, dog. You've no place up here with the experts."

With the last word, Jasmine spun on her heels and sprinted away. Terry followed suit with a growl and a curse.

Up and over a small retaining wall, Jasmine hopped onto a wide eaves covered in clay tiles, aimed in the direction of a neighboring building. At the last moment, she shifted direction and began running parallel to the roof's edge. Her feet threatened to slip on the slanted surface, but her balance was true enough to keep her upright. A hand made its way to the brace of knives lashed around her thigh. Sliding one free of its snug sheath, she slowed her pace just a bit, letting the predator close on his prey. The roof came to an end and Jasmine leaped across the narrow alley. Half-spinning in the air, the blade left her hand, flying back at her target even as he made his own attempt to jump the gap. The small knife buried itself in Terry's thigh. Loosing a cry of pain, he grabbed at the knife, flailing his legs and spoiling his momentum. Jasmine connected with the roof of their destination and rolled. Terry made the leap as well, but his landing was a rough tumble that wrenched the knife about violently, eliciting further anguished screams. Satisfied that at least one of her opponents was out of the game, Jasmine kept moving.

Unfortunately, none of the other Kozon felt that their wounded friend was worth stopping for. They kept up the chase, leaving poor Terry writhing in pain and spilling his blood onto the roof.

One down. Only three to knock out. Gods my legs are tired. Better get this done quick or I'll be too out of breath. If I have to get up close and personal with one of these shits...

A few more minutes and Jasmine realized that the Kozon weren't going to make the same mistake twice. Byrne and Mutt continued to trail her from behind, but the big runner, Knives, was pacing the lot of them from the ground, no doubt waiting for Jasmine to hit a dead end so she'd have to make a climb down. Given that she didn't know the neighborhood, it was a likely end to this run. Her only hope was to throw the other two off and take Knives by surprise.

The running duo close behind, Jasmine made a point of slowing as she reached the edge of the next rooftop. Turning to ensure that they had all eyes on her, she leaped over the edge and straight down. To the pair, it appeared as if their nemesis was heading to ground. In reality, Jasmine had dropped onto a window ledge and was making her way across the side of the building, circling to its northern face. By the time they arrived at the edge, Jasmine was safely out of sight.

Byrne spoke first, he breathing heavy and labored. "Pissing shit must have bolted. Knives better do his job down there."

Next came Mutt, gasping for air like a nearly drowned man. "Byrne... sir... maybe we... don't need... chase him so..."

"Don't fuck with me, Mutt," the reply was rabid. "We're going to find this whoreson and cut him to little bits, nice and slow. Then I'm going to feed him to my dogs. Now get down there and help Knives. If you see any faces, invite them in. The more the better and I'll pay finger-to-thumb in gold to see this prick's head."

The only response was the sound of a body scrambling, winded, down the side of the building. A second later, the sound of a leap being made to the next roof over. Jasmine crouched on a sill, catching her breath while she waited for them to get further out when she heard dirt being kicked up in the alley below. Looking down, she found her eyes resting on the top Knives' shaggy head. She slowed her ragged breathing, trying to keep quiet lest he turn his attention above him.

Nihil's moan, just move on you walking lump of shit. I've almost found my passage out and you're going to piss it up for me. That's right. There's no one here. Time for you to go find your...

Before Jasmine could finish her thought, Knives had glanced up. But the moon's absence was just as timely as its presence was previously, the clouds returning once more to block its light. Between the deep shadows and Jasmine's night-leathers she was one with the darkness. Still, she could not help but feel he had spotted her somehow. Head cocked, his eyes lingered on her position.

I move, he sees me for sure. If he calls out, this is all for nothing and I start running again. Time to end this now.

A knife in each hand, Jasmine leaped from the window ledge, down the twenty feet and directly onto the Kozon. But her appearance out of nowhere didn't surprise him as she had hoped. He snatched her from the air as easily as one might catch a child, spinning her momentum around and slamming the runner full force into the tenement wall. Her knives flew from her hands as the impact knocked the breath from Jasmine's already strained lungs. Flashes of light blinded her vision.

Knives dropped Jasmine's limp body to ground. The sounds of blades being pulled from their sheaths reached her ears as she lay crumpled at the burly runner's feet. A boot tipped her over onto her back and she felt the sensation of his massive form settling across her waist. Twist and squirm as she might, she was held fast by a body nearly four times her weight. When at last Jasmine's vision cleared, the sight that greeted her was the leering face of her opponent.

"A little girl," he growled at her. "What a nice present for me. Gave us quite a run, bitch. Too bad it didn't last, eh?"

One hand pinned Jasmine's right arm to the ground at the wrist. The other stabbed down, driving the knife he held through the palm of her hand and into the earth, staking it securely. Jasmine bit her lip to stifle a cry. Bringing the rest of the pack down on her wouldn't help the situation. If she wanted to get out of this alive, she needed to remain calm, to think clear despite the agony that threatened to overwhelm her.

Switching the remaining knife to his now empty right hand, the left he wrapped around Jasmine's neck. His grip tightened, cutting the air and threatening to crush her throat. He leaned in close, his face mere inches from her own. A thin trail of spittle hung from his bottom lip, threatening at each movement to break and fall onto Jasmine's face.

"I say me and you have some fun before I call Byrne back." His grin widened. The trail of spittle twitched and broke, sliding down Jasmine's cheek.

He leaned in further, burying his nose in his prey's hair. "The smell of fear makes me want to fuck. You're scared like a whore, little girl." Knives inhaled deeply and Jasmine felt his crotch go stiff against her belly.

Pinned down and hand throbbing, the Kozon's labored breathing poured into her ear. But she still had one hand free. And she had other weapons that lust-crazed Knives hadn't counted on. Twisting her head as far as she could against his grip, Jasmine opened her mouth wide, baring the sharp canines that lurked within. She leaned in and latched those teeth onto the Kozon's left cheek, jaw clenching, locking down as hard as she could. The shock of pain brought a yelp from the huge thug and he jumped back before he realized that Jasmine's teeth were deep in his fleshy face. Knives' cheek peeled away like the skin from an orange, from just below the socket of his eye to the angle of his jaw. Blood filled Jasmine's mouth, poured out across her face.

Flailing backwards, the Kozon pitched to the ground, grasping at his ruined face with both hands. Jasmine moved quick, wrenching the knife from her impaled hand. She rose from the ground and jumped to grasp the ledge of a nearby window. Fighting the pain in her wounded hand, she hauled herself up and out of the Kozon's grasp. As a final gesture, she turned and spit the ribbon of bloodied flesh that was once a cheek down at her nemesis.

"What a shame, Kozon bugger-boy," Jasmine taunted him, the taste of blood in her mouth bringing out a boldness in her that was both unfamiliar and invigorating. "Looks like you'll be too ugly for the whorehouse now. Maybe a job at the bathhouse, scrubbing swords for the lonely old men, eh? What say you to that, you pathetic fuck?"

Enraged, the Kozon stood and leaped to grab at Jasmine's feet. As a reward for his efforts he received the heel of Jasmine's boot, driven hard into the wrecked tear of his face. The howl of pain that burst from his lungs was a shriek to rival a colicky newborn. He dropped onto his backside and made no second attempt to rise.

Jasmine tittered with glee, the sound of her own hysterical laughter unnerving her, even through the haze of bloodlust. She regained her senses just in time to see Byrne turning into the end of the alley and rushing in her direction. Hawking another bloodied wad of spit in Knives' direction, Jasmine scaled the remaining way up the side of the building and onto the roof.

Body limp with exhaustion, Floyd braced himself against the wall of an alleyway and tried to regain his sense of self. He had been following the entire run, tracking Jasmine as she fled her pursuers across the seemingly endless roofs of the South-block ghetto. Much like the first time he had listened to her run, his senses had been bombarded. This time, however, there were no broken ribs to slow her down and she flew across the rooftops with a desperation that echoed her desire to survive. The entire experience had been overwhelming to the point where Floyd had been wandering the streets only half-aware of where he was at any time. As he awoke from his daze, he realized that he was quite lost.

The last things he could recall were the sounds of Jasmine's heart racing and the guttural breathing of her attacker. She had escaped her predicament, he knew that much, and continued to run as fast as she could, trying to make her exit from this hostile walled world. Floyd would be following her still, but the whispers had become too chaotic. The disassociation from his own mind that listening brought was dangerously close to bringing a permanent fugue. Given the stories he had heard of wind-listeners breaking away from their own minds, fear had taken over where good judgment had lapsed.

Still, it was so very hard to come away... I wonder whether it will be as hard next time? Or will it be easier to stay? The whispers, so strong and beautiful... to live there forever, would it be such a poor end?

But inside he knew the truth. If his mind broke away, he would lose both himself and the whispers. What happened afterwards, only the broken could say, and those living corpses had no words to speak.

Yes, better to stop now. I can always find her again. She still holds the legacy. I can run with her whenever I wish unless she puzzles it out.

It was a few minutes before he felt stable enough to walk again and another five before his eyes regained their ability to focus. The shaking in his limbs refused to stop. He knew that small problem might last for days. Listening to someone for that long threatened scars and doing so with a legacy attached was like pouring a never-ending stream of oil on a fire. He would have to inform his employer that he needed the remainder of the week to rest, else those temporary scars become permanent maladies. Mind focused on the path ahead of him, Floyd stumbled down the alley, giving a small prayer to Ihshintul that he was heading in the right direction.

Some moments later (Floyd's head had still not regained its awareness of the concept of time), loud voices interrupted his concentration on the deeply complex process of walking straight. Shifting his gaze in the direction of the noise, he spotted three figures coming up a side alley toward him. In the lead was a man dressed in black leathers, a scowl of rage across his face. Beside him a smaller, panicked-looking man. Behind the pair, another man, much larger than the others and again dressed in black leathers. He held a bundle of bloodied cloth to his face and stumbled drunkenly as he walked.

"...a girl!" The man in the lead had been speaking. "I've got worthless, pissing nits in my lot that can't even handle a damn girl. What good are you if..."

The man stopped abruptly. It took Floyd a minute to realize that the trio was staring his way, that he had stopped at the alley intersection and was staring directly at them. Likely, he had been for some time, though he wouldn't have been able to confirm or deny that detail.

"You looking at something, alley-rat piece of shit?" the leader challenged.

Something strange twisted within Floyd at that moment. The fire that he had been pouring fuel on all night was still ablaze. The fog on his mind had disguised its heat, but now it boiled forth, raging through his blood.

Taken in so much... it's comes in and it doesn't go out. Shaking, but that's just a symptom. There's a hurricane somewhere in here... why do I feel the need to scream like this? Is this the fugue in small? Am I broken?

The runner that Floyd knew to be Byrne, one of those who had been chasing his beloved Jasmine, stepped forward and drew a pair of daggers. Floyd stared at them for a moment, unsure of what they were.

Yes, a need to scream...

All that had gathered inside the wind-listener broke free in a moment. A foolish thing, he knew, to exert so much power in a single breath, but the practiced controls within his mind were tattered. Hesharr raged of its own volition, strong and brutal and uncaring.

The leader seemed to strip away in layers, his skin sloughing off in every direction, mixed in with strips of cloth, the remnants of his clothes. The dissembling took only seconds, tearing past flesh and muscle and eventually into the bone, turning it into a fine white powder. The man beside him ( _Mutt, was it?_ ) barely had a moment to contemplate the fate of his friend. A look of terror filled his face. He spun and managed one step before the hurricane hit him as well. The boy ( _a boy, yes, maybe fifteen summers_ ) was pressed against the stone wall of the alley, his body crunching, breaking and splitting apart. All that remained was a smear of pulp, dripping its way to form a thick puddle in the dirt.

The last man ( _the wounded one, the rapist..._ ) was already halfway down the alley when the sorcery finally caught him. His massive form was flung through the air like a tumbleweed. Floyd watched, curious, as the body faded into the shadows of night. His vision still impaired, it was impossible to determine just how far the man had flown before coming back to ground again. In truth, it mattered little.

Floyd collapsed in a heap. His labored breathing echoed in his ears, a gasping, wheezing discordance. So much power unleashed so rapidly had ripped every last ounce of the man's strength away.

They teach you these things, back at the school, not to channel it all at once. They never teach you how to stop it from channeling you...

Floyd laughed aloud at his own jest, a strained and painful chuckle, and then proceeded to pass out.
XI. Raining Gold

Following the altercation, Jasmine saw no more of her Kozon pursuers. With his large friend out of action, Byrne had likely chosen the path of wisdom and cut off the senseless chase. The rest of Jasmine's journey went uneventful and within the hour she found herself scaling the familiar wall of the well-lit ghetto that she called home. So hot was her blood that it wasn't until her feet touched familiar soil that she remembered her wounded hand. With the return of memory came the dull throb of pain.

Luckily, it was several hours before dawn, so she had time to kill before the shiny little box needed to be delivered. A quick trip to the bathhouse and Rita would be able to patch her hand up fine. Being that nothing was broken, she would be a day or two out of action at the most. Then, if Dwervin were satisfied with her work, she'd be back to running.

How could he not be impressed? In and out with time to spare, the package is secure. It was an expert bit of fun, tossing those Kozon bugger-boys, but I'd be happier with something less a delivery. Maybe a big sneak and pinch run. Show him how quiet I can be when I need to.

Lost in thoughts of bigger scores and a fatter purse, Jasmine strolled the East-block streets. She'd had enough of jumping alleys and scaling walls for the evening and was enjoying her time on solid ground. The clouds had finally cleared off for good and the moon above swam in its sea of stars and gazed down at her. It was several minutes into the bustling center of the ghetto until she finally noticed the odd looks that people were sending her way. Unmindful, she ignored them or, when one struck her as a challenge, glared back.

When she arrived at the bathhouse, the odd looks became shocked ones. The girl that minded the check-in screeched when she saw Jasmine enter, running from the room and screaming for Rita.

Now what in the nihil?

Jasmine's confusion was deepened when Rita finally arrived.

"Gods above, girl!" She had rarely sounded more cross with the runner, and Rita was not a woman of temperate moods. "Come with me quick. Get out of my waiting room before you frighten someone into calling a priest."

The bathhouse matron escorted Jasmine to the private baths. Passing a mirror along the way, she happened to glance at her reflection, bringing her stride to a pause. The face that stared back was her own, but covered from hairline to jawline in blood. Strands of stray hair poked out from her tichel, wet and sticky and plastered to her face, the blonde soaked a deep red.

Jasmine began to giggle at the revelation. Pain shot through her arm as Rita clenched her with an iron grip and dragged the runner the remainder of the way to her usual room. The look on the matron's face was anger tinged with terror. It did nothing to alleviate Jasmine's fit of ill-timed humor.

Once Jasmine had calmed down, Rita went to work on her hand. Maryline arrived to fill the tub and clean the blood from Jasmine's face. Calmness returned within the solace of the warm water and at the soothing motion of the bathmaid's hands scrubbing the dirt and blood from Jasmine's hair. By the time her hour was up, Jasmine's head had returned to normal, though the memories of the taste of the Kozon's blood in her mouth lingered, a disturbing yet welcome reminder of the eventful night.

Jasmine decided the best way to put her nerves at ease was to finish her delivery and get to celebrating the way she always did, with strong drink. The Chipped Bone was more crowded that usual that night, though for what reason Jasmine could not fathom. It was all she could do to push her way through the pressed crowds. When she had finally made her way in, she discovered the reason for all the bodies.

An area near the stage had been cleared and within it stood five men. One was the strange drunken lout that was a regular at the Bone, the very same square of a man who assaulted the patrons' ears at every opportunity with his off key singing. The other four were clubbers, Bloodrazors by the looks of them. They were circling the brute, bare-handed. Whenever one would lunge at him, a swift backhand from a meaty fist would send them flying back again. Everywhere people were placing bets and cheering on one side or the other. Jasmine pushed past the mess and made her way toward the booths.

Just as before, the guards let her pass without question.

"You're expected," was the only greeting.

After another exchange of unfriendly smiles with Dwervin's bodyguard, Jasmine was finally in the booth and sitting opposite her new employer.

She removed the silver box from her pouch and placed it on the table. Dwervin pushed it to the side. His eyes studied her.

"Your hand is bandaged," he stated plainly.

"Run in with some Kozons," she replied. "Took me a bit to take care of them. One of them got a lucky knife in. He don't look too pretty anymore." She punctuated the statement with a sharp-toothed grin.

But Dwervin's mood was anything but amused. "You were supposed to be silent in and silent out. It was a simple delivery and you managed to piss it up."

"Those Kozon were sitting on the nihil-damned building right bloody next to your delivery point!" Jasmine snapped back, much less in control of her tongue than she had planned.

Dwervin shot her a contemptuous look. "If you can't run the way we need you to run, you're of no use to this organization. A bit of trouble comes with the territory, but you handle it and you move on. Getting your hand run through is not an acceptable answer to the problem. You'll be broken for weeks and that makes you less than useless."

Jasmine lost what little self-control remained. "I was walking into someplace I didn't know. I got spotted. There were four runners, _good_ runners - and I don't offer that compliment lightly. I dropped two, the other two cut out. On _their_ territory, four against one, I'd say I did a pretty damned expert run. Besides, the hand will heal up in a day or two. It always does."

Dwervin looked as if he were about to respond but then suddenly changed his mind. He squinted, an almost imperceptible movement of his eyes that Jasmine barely picked up on. She could tell he was reappraising her. Contrary to what she expected, however, he didn't seem to be deliberating on how best to end her life for the mouthy outburst. He had the same look she had seen in many a pair of merchants' eyes when they'd just discovered that the item they were about to purchase was worth three times its cost. Her calmness returned.

"If you didn't know the South-block, why didn't you scout it before you made the delivery? It was unnecessary to deliver the package to me until sunrise. You still have half the night left before your deadline."

Jasmine opened her mouth to give another sharp reply but came up empty.

Damn the old man, but he's right. I should have spent some time lurking about, figured a quick way in and out. Maybe come from the east instead. Should have checked out the buildings nearby and made sure they were cleared off before I grabbed the prize. Stupid...

Her mouth returned to the closed position.

"Regardless of your clumsy methods, you have done the job fair enough," Dwervin resumed speaking. "Your payment..." He pushed the silver box back across the table. "...is in there."

Jasmine shot him a wary look, picked up the box and opened it. Inside lay a bundle of silk and wrapped within the silk were ten gold rils.

"You said this wasn't just a test," she challenged. "That everything your people do has some sort of purpose to it. I don't like being lied to by my employers, no matter how high on the ladder they are. Makes for bad business and a knife in the back."

Dwervin smiled. "It wasn't just a test. The purpose it served was to ensure you were paid for this evening's work."

Jasmine scowled.

"And while I, personally, do not grey my tongue over such minor affairs," he continued, "there are others within the organization who feel no need to share secrets with those we employ. If you are going to work for us, you need to learn to work in the dark or risk learning things that could prove fatal."

"So did I pass your test then? _Am_ I working for you?"

His cocky smile appeared once more. The affectation was beginning to annoy Jasmine. "Let's discuss your future over a game of keeps, shall we?"

Jasmine checked the exasperated sigh that threatened to spill forth. Pulling the board to the center of the table, she began to set the pieces into position.

Two hours and one crushing defeat later, Jasmine left the Chipped Bone in high spirits. The negotiations had gone extremely well and ended very much to her liking. She would retain her status as a freelancer, independent of the East-block's more rigid structures. Dwervin would come to her when he had something he needed done and she would seek out his approval before accepting jobs from other employers. If he decided that another piece of work was against the best interests of his "organization", he would compensate her for her losses. Even if she didn't get to work, she would still walk away with her purse a bit heavier.

It was the perfect mix of freedom and consistency that Jasmine had been striving for so long to achieve. She had always known deals such as this lurked in the hidden pockets of the shadow-world, but never dreamed she would be able to pick one up so clean. Foraging for work was a thing of the past. The money would be coming in steady and more in gold than silver. Things couldn't have been better.

There's no one more expert than I when it comes to my trade. It's about time someone recognized that. It's about time I got the coin I deserved. I've earned it for two years now and here it is. The old man thinks I'm the Gambler's gift and nihil take me if I'm not gonna make sure he keeps believing.

Between the elation of her newfound deal and the residual fire of the night's run still burning in her blood, Jasmine knew that sleep would not come to her without a few pints in her belly. She slipped into an alley and pulled a dress out of a satchel she had retrieved from the bathhouse. It did no good to seek relaxation when you were dressed for work, a lesson Jasmine had learned many times over courtesy of drunk and rowdy thugs looking to get their swords wet or prove their mettle at knives. Slipping the dress over her leathers, she made for Kaley's Folly, a tavern where she knew she would find no familiar faces.

The intention of the night was to drink until she could barely make the walk home, though even that simple quest rapidly became complicated. As she strolled through the doors of the tavern, the first sight to greet her was pretty-boy BeRem, lurking in a corner with some scowling clubbers, a spread of cards in his hands. Jasmine was not normally one to play at games of chance, but she was in high spirits and the intrigue that formed in her mind was too enticing to pass up. She procured a bottle of wine from the tavern keeper. Pulling a chair from a nearby table she shoved it between two of the clubbers and took a seat.

"A game of cards, eh? Deal me in," she said, voice cheerful.

The look on BeRem's face was one of stark surprise, the normally charming façade stripped away. By contrast, the clubbers' faces bore scowls at the intrusion. Placing a handful of silver on the table cleared up the latter problem. They passed her a handful of cards, happy to have an easy mark in the mix.

BeRem attempted to recover his composure, albeit with a pronounced lack of success. He offered Jasmine an awkward smile and the runner returned a smirk. Filling her cup with wine, Jasmine settled in for a night of cards.

One by one the clubbers dropped from the game, purses lighter for their troubles. Jasmine managed a successful hand or two, but lost more than she won. Her boldness was written plain across her face, despite all attempts to conceal it. She had always considered herself to be an expert liar, but in this game it didn't seem to work quite the same way. Cup after cup of wine only served to make the situation worse. The winner of the night was none other than the fawning fop himself, the small pile of silver in front of him growing over the hours into a rather sizable mound.

Thirty silvers and another bottle of wine later, the clubbers had vanished and only she and BeRem remained. By this time, Jasmine's head was floating from all the drink, so much so that the amateur seductor's game began to take on a cast decidedly more appealing than annoying.

"I'm not much of a card player," she slurred. "You seem to have your game down pretty well though, hmm?"

The smile he wore was replaced by a look of guilt. "Sorry. I didn't mean to take all your money. I... I can give some of it back, if you need it."

Jasmine laughed.

The poor boy can't even run a decent scam without being set off by a set of tits. I've a mind to accept his offer and watch him squirm as he hands my silver back to me.

"It's fine," she assured him. "I've more where that came from and soon more than I can count."

BeRem raised an eyebrow at her proclamation of wealth. In her drunken state, she couldn't help but laugh.

"So is this what you do then, pretty boy BeRem?" Jasmine layered her voice with cynicism. "A cards man, making money through the misfortunes of others?"

He glowered at her in response. "I manage," was all he said. He began the process of moving the pile of silver from the table to his purse.

Jasmine watched him in silence for a time.

"I'm a runner." She blurted it out, mind to slow to stop her mouth.

BeRem's ill-temper turned to interest.

"That's what I do," she continued. "I'm one of the best. There's not any in the East-block better than me and the Eleventh Hour knows it. They'll be putting me on their list before too long. I made ten rils tonight for doing next to nothing." She held her bandaged hand out before her. "Well, nearly nothing."

Before she could react, BeRem had reached out and grabbed her wounded hand, his touch gentle, almost caressing. Concern lined his roguish face.

"Your hand..." he begun. "Did you injure it while... er, climbing or something?"

Jasmine's stomach was doing that uncomfortable twisting thing again and it wasn't the quality of the wine causing the distress. Watching his hands on hers, she almost forgot to reply to his question.

"I... no. Well, sort of." She cursed herself for sounding like a stammering idiot. "I got into a scrap with a Kozon. He put a knife through my hand."

A surge of satisfaction flooded Jasmine when she saw BeRem's shocked expression. Control of the situation returning, she kept up the tale.

"He'd pinned me down after we got into a scrap. Stuck the knife through my hand and nailed it to the ground. He was trying to rape me but he didn't know that I was too much for his lazy clubber head. So I bit his face and tore half of it right off."

With each word, BeRem's eyes widened more and more. And with each word, the memory of the night's events returned to Jasmine anew. Her blood began to boil again, the phantom taste of her enemy's blood in her mouth. An overwhelming feeling of being predator to BeRem's prey overtook her and clouded her already drink-addled mind.

With one hand, she snatched up the half-empty bottle of wine, the other grasped BeRem around his wrist. He looked up at her, a mixture of surprise and what might have been fear in his eyes. Standing, she pulled him up and out of his seat, dragging him toward the tavern's exit. He followed along in her wake.

Once outside, Jasmine led him into a narrow alley between two three-storied tenements. She released his wrist, tucked the bottle of wine half into a pouch beneath her dress and began to climb. Once at the top she looked down at the bewildered BeRem.

"I..." he began, "you expect me to climb up _there?_ "

Jasmine peeked over the edge once and then retreated. Raising her voice so she was sure he could hear she made her intentions clear. "I've got a half-bottle of wine and I'm taking my dress off. If you can make it up that wall, fancy boy, you'll be getting your sword wet tonight."

The proclamation was enough to motivate Jasmine's would-be seductor to new feats of courage. As Jasmine removed her dress and worked at some of the buckles on her night-leathers, she stole glances over the lip of the roof, checking BeRem's progress. His clumsy ascent made Jasmine laugh more than once. Finally, he arrived, shaking and out of breath.

Is that fear that makes you shake, dear boy, or anticipation? Let's hope it's the first or this could be shorter than I'd like.

Jasmine sat down, the dress spread beneath her like a blanket, and pulled BeRem close to join her. He concentrated on undoing her many buckles and straps, pausing every few seconds to place his lips on whatever small section of Jasmine's skin he had managed to expose. Expecting his fumblings to take some time, she lay back, staring up at the moon swimming in its sea of stars and imagining each point of light to be a shining gold coin, falling through the skyscape and into her purse.
XII. Life at the Top

The next few months of Jasmine's life sped along smoothly. Dwervin kept her working as much as she could, giving her time for pause only when a particularly rough run had left her bruised or broken. With each passing week, the jobs became more prestigious, more challenging and, as a consequence, brought in more coin. It was unusual for the runner to go more than a week without fattening her purse by at least thirty or forty rils - a small fortune in the East-block. She was proving herself to be the best at her trade and in no time had become Dwervin's go-to when a tough run was on the table.

Others in the shadow-circles thought her mad for some of the jobs she undertook, but their mouths would quickly shut when she walked through the door of the Chipped Bone after yet another success, strolling past the crowds to make her way behind the lattice-work barrier. In truth, she thrived off the challenge. Things would have been far rougher for Jasmine had she been forced to make deliveries and skulk shadows every night.

In addition to a plentiful supply of gold, her association with Dwervin, and by proxy the Eleventh Hour, brought her a shining reputation. Other employers approached her on a nightly basis, trying to convince her to do their little jobs. Mostly they couldn't afford her now that the stakes were higher, but the offers came just as often from those sitting in the booths as they did from the second-rate businessmen relegated to hustling the tables. Sometimes she would take a job just for the chance to do something different or to kill a slow patch while she waited for Dwervin to dream up something big. Every once in a while the money was too good to pass up. True to his word, whenever Dwervin was opposed to her running for someone else he would pay up on her losses. Only once did this occur due to a conflict of interest, however. Mostly she was denied because he had something lined up and couldn't risk his top runner getting injured.

Of course, the boost in reputation also meant more pronounced rivalries with the East-block's other runners. Being just a tiny thing and a girl at that, there were others that didn't feel she deserved the attention of the Eleventh Hour. Eager to prove the superiority of their skills or sex, they would call her out to race down at the old warehouse district. It was a half-burnt, crumbling ruin of a neighborhood that was notorious for sending more than one runner into the care of the bathhouse. At first she answered the challenge of every loud mouth that managed to raise her hackles. After humiliating a dozen or so, pride gave way to boredom and she stopped caring about their goading insults. If a challenger didn't have a reputation for being up-to-snuff, she would ignore them or tell them to brush up on their skills before wasting her time. Enough strong runners had fallen to the young rogue to attest to the fact that she was no slouch, regardless of whatever rumor some jealous amateur was trying to spread.

This change in reputation among the other runners worked both ways, though the positive attention she received was often no less annoying than the negative. It seemed to her as if every infant in the East-block had climbed out of their cradles. They came crying to her, begging help in securing jobs, asking her to introduce them to the big players or offering to duo with her in exchange for a cut of her fee. In truth, Jasmine loved the attention and often took advantage of it by sending the wannabes on pointless errands, claiming that if they did their jobs well she would "consider" putting in a word or two. She never delivered on her implied promises, which left more than one amateur upset with her, but that didn't stop them from trying again and again. After a time, the beggars and the braggarts wore her patience thin and within a month Jasmine was avoiding the Chipped Bone for all purposes excepting business.

As for her new boss, she had never dreamed of working for someone so professional. Sure, Dwervin had a menacing aura that on more than one occasion left Jasmine wondering when the knife in the back would come, but he was straightforward with what he expected. That alone was a far cry from the way she had been forced to do business during her first few years. He let her know exactly what was required and laid out the details ahead of time. There were no negotiations about coin, but the payment was always generous enough that haggling seemed pointless. For all her love of gold, Jasmine was not a greedy girl. As long as the rewards matched the efforts, she was happy to cut out the bothersome process of bartering over a few more silvers.

There was one drawback to dealing with Dwervin, however, one that tried Jasmine's peace of mind to no end. He always insisted that they play a game of keeps while talking business and would not relent until she complied with his wishes. This meant she had to spend more time sitting at his booth than she preferred, as the bulk of any business done would be settled in the first twenty minutes. The next hour or two she would sit and struggle her way through a sound beating at Dwervin's expert hands. Try as she might, she could never get the best of him and he always made it a point to dissect each game and lecture her about how poor her performance was during each stage of the match. More often than not she would walk from the booth a tumult of emotions, elated at the promise of another job and a fatter purse, exasperated that her boss found it necessary to waste her time and then berate her skills at the idiotic game. But for Dwervin, playing keeps was anything but time wasted. He kept insisting that if Jasmine could improve her keeps game that she would improve her running game. Jasmine couldn't see the logic of the comparison, no matter how half-heartedly she tried.

As a consequence of the countless hours spent within the privacy of Dwervin's booth, the two came to be more familiar with each other. Jasmine felt more comfortable engaging in the sort of banter that other employers might think insulting. Dwervin took it in stride, though he answered her occasional taunts with derision just as often as laughter. After enduring his lack of humor for so many weeks, the runner felt a certain sympathy for the comedic circle-tellers who climbed on stage every night and tried to entertain rooms full of drunken clubbers with strings of jokes. She became convinced that if she could just get the old man to loosen up with a little drink, he would warm up to her, but the Eleventh Hour businessman was as reserved with his drinking as he was with his banter. Still, if he was going to submit her to hour upon hour of that pointless game, Jasmine had little compunction to spare him her often crass witticisms.

When not passing the time running, practicing for runs or trapped behind Dwervin's shutters being schooled in the art of make-believe war, Jasmine kept busy with more frivolous pastimes. Coin was no longer a concern, so there was little reason for her to budget her habits in hopes of making it soundly to the next job. That's not to say she threw her money away at every opportunity. In fact, Jasmine was still very meticulous about saving a good portion of her earnings in case times ever turned lean. There was always a chance that she would bust herself up good and be out for while or that her new boss would step on the wrong toes and end up a floater in the sewer. But the amount of coin she threw away in a typical week was still more than most in the East-block earned in half-a-year.

The first thing she had secured with her newfound riches was a spacious new flat. It was a proper flat, with three rooms and even its own water closet with copper piping to take the sewage out of the house without need of a chamber pot. Situated five-stories up, the flat encompassed the entire upper corner of a renovated mansion, a remnant from when the East-block was a prosperous neighborhood.

Being a corner flat, there were five windows in total. Jasmine had never seen so much sunlight in one room at one time. If the sun was up, there was never a need to burn candles. Even the early mornings were as bright indoors as they were outside. The second thing she purchased were five heavy, dark curtains so she could get a decent day's sleep.

With so much space, she felt obligated to buy things to fill it. Being that she had never bought furniture before, preferring instead to scrap it together from whatever back-alley leftovers she could find, it took her some time to figure out what sorts of things were necessary. She acquired a desk and a chair and a large, polished brass mirror to act as a place to prepare herself when going out for the evening. The desk even had drawers to store away her make-up, jewelry and various other tools. To hold her increasing collection of clothing she bought a wardrobe. It was a simple yet warming pleasure to be able to wake up each day and shuffle through the lengths of hanging garments instead of pulling everything from a lockbox, spreading it out across the floor to make her choice and then having to stuff it all back in. To replace the old wooden chest that used to act as dresser and wardrobe, she bought a heavy, iron-bound trunk. Now it acted only in the capacity of armory, a place to store her weapons and night-leathers and other such things.

The final purchase was a grand and comfortable bed. It was of such a size that when the laborers she paid to deliver it arrived, she was convinced they would never get the massive thing through the two doorways and into the room she had designated for sleeping. The mattress was crafted of a heavy velvet outer covering filled with feathers. The length and width were gigantic, more than three times the size of anything she had ever slept on. She had once scoffed at the idea of owning such a decadent thing and nearly gone into a blind rage when the merchant she purchased it from told her the price. But it was a necessity born of her changing lifestyle, for the other great change in Jasmine's life was the regular presence of a certain boyish fop.

Following their brief encounter on an anonymous rooftop outside of Kaley's Folly, Jasmine had undergone a folly of her own and taken a liking to the seducer. Every few days they would meet, usually at the Broken Crate. What followed generally consisted of drinks, idle chatter and, more often than not, a trip to the nearest rooftop that BeRem was capable of reaching. Once the new flat had been rented and the furniture situated, they ended their encounters there. On rare occasions, BeRem would even stay until morning.

Waking next to him was soothing to Jasmine, so much so that it began to disturb her moods. Becoming entwined in the fleeting feelings brought on by a lover was something new to her and she found it distracting. Luckily for her state of mind, BeRem made up for his tender caresses with a bounty of flaws.

As Jasmine's purse grew fatter, BeRem developed a habit of borrowing coin from her. Gambling was his stock and trade and though he was better than most he still hit an ill streak now and then. At those times, when he'd gone belly up, Jasmine would have to bankroll him so he could get back into the game. For the most part he repaid her in a timely manner, but there was more than one occasion where she'd had to accept her lent coin as a loss. Despite her urgings for BeRem to put some of his winnings aside, he felt compelled to toss his coin away on newer clothes, fine wine and expensive groomers. Some nights he would stumble to her flat, half-drunk and boasting a new silk jacket or perfectly trimmed and oiled hair. Jasmine usually turned him out when he came to her in such a state. But not always.

His other major flaw, and the one that kept Jasmine grounded even more effectively than her opinions of his poor spending habits, was that BeRem was more the seducer than she had first suspected. Gambling was but one way that he earned his coin. The other was through the sweet talking of witless women. When she had first sighted him at his work, lurking at the doorstep of a well-off merchant with that merchant's wife in his arms, she had been close to putting a knife in both of them. Instead she returned home and composed herself, eventually coming to the conclusion that she was less angered than relieved. It was one more reason to not let her playtime with him get too serious.

She had confronted him on the subject, of course, but her admonitions were directed at making sure he maintained good habits. If ever he brought her some whore's disease, she promised to cut his sword from his sack and feed it to the crows. After that conversation, the relationship between runner and seducer was well-defined. He was, in essence, her whore. Just as she worked running the rooftops, he had to earn his keep by piercing naïve maids. BeRem did not appreciate the comparison, but Jasmine wanted to make sure that he knew his place in her life. If she was to lend him money and spread her legs for him, she expected a certain level of obedience. BeRem complied, more or less, although toward the end of the two months he had taken to borrowing more money and going missing for days on end. Still, when he was around he was exactly what Jasmine needed. The boy was lover and companion when she wanted one and easy enough to run off when his presence became too distracting.

Busy with working and spending her coin at the markets and rolling about under the sheets with BeRem, Jasmine had little time left to herself. During those cherished moments, more often than not she would end up at the bathhouse. Between having Rita patch her wounds and just relaxing in the warmth of a bath, more than a handful of Jasmine's earned coin made its way into the pockets of Rita and her maids. Whenever she had a chance she would bring young Sinta along as well. The girl loved the bathhouse as much as Jasmine and for similar reasons. Jasmine found solace in the fact that Rita's was neutral ground, a place where she could truly let her guard down. To Sinta, the bathhouse was a break from the harsh realities of the orphanage, where the strong children preyed upon the weak ones and the adults used all as tools. And so they found themselves there as often as possible.

Sinta would generally begin the night by chiding Jasmine for wasting her money on stupid things. Jasmine would each time remind the child who was paying for her night there. From there it was a dance of tongues, the thrust and parry of a not-so-subtle verbal duel. Jasmine being the more experienced fencer, by the end of the night the child's tone would usually be more amiable.

So did the runner's life continue for many weeks, with everything she had ever dreamed of being placed neatly into her hands. Still, there was always something within Jasmine that could be calmed by neither the rush of the run nor the hefty weight of a full purse.

Pushing aside curtains heavy with moisture, Jasmine stumbled her way into the usual room at Rita's bathhouse. Sinta had already arrived, extracting herself from the orphanage earlier that evening, and sat in a wooden tub filled with steaming water. Maryline stood behind her, rubbing soap through the child's filthy hair.

From the way she was walking, Sinta could tell that her mentor was both injured and drunk, a state that seemed more and more common since her elevation into the ranks of the shadow-world's elite. The child watched as the runner limped her way across the room. Blood dripped from her thigh in small, slow droplets, staining the wet floor with red starbursts before being whisked down the drain in the center of the room. Reaching the bench, she sat down with a wince.

Upon seeing the trailing blood, Maryline sighed under her breath and, extracting her hands from Sinta's hair, rose. "I'll get Mistress Rita," she informed the pair as she exited the room.

Jasmine went through the long, slow process of unlacing and removing her boots and then proceeded to work at loosening the many buckles and straps of her night-leathers. Each piece of black leather she sat in a pile next to her.

"Why're you hurt then?" Sinta asked, attempting to keep the annoyance from her voice. "You got no work t'night, I know that for sure."

Another drunken spill, I'd put money on it. Don't need to just work no more, but out there doing infant things to make sure everyone knows who you are.

The runner remained silent for a long moment, no doubt clued in as to what the child was thinking. Sinta had been vocal about Jasmine's useless risks on more than one occasion and the older girl had grown more and more agitated every time the child brought the subject up.

"I was running a race at the warehouses," she finally replied. "Took a spill at the end on some half-busted iron pipe."

"Well that's clever," Sinta began her assault. "Don't suppose you won, did you? Maybe the prize was a bottle of spirits and that's why you stink like an alley-rat's ass?"

"Of course I won," Jasmine snapped back. "And I can run those roofs blindfolded, you little nit. Two pints ain't enough to throw me off. I was near the end when a beam gave out and knocked me over. I'm cut up good but I was so far ahead of the infant that I walked the rest of the way. And I made enough money to pay for your night out, so some thanks would be nice. A shut mouth would be better."

Sinta's replied with a snort.

You'dve seen a busted beam if your eyes'd been on straight.

Ignoring the child, the runner continued to extract herself from her second skin. By the time Rita arrived, she was nearly finished. Maryline helped her the rest of the way.

"Another night, another scrape," Rita quipped as she looked the runner over. "I don't suppose it would be the same around here if you failed to arrive busted up for more than two days in a row." Smiling, she made her way across the room and began laying out her stitcher's kit.

Sinta had noticed a distinct change in the spirits of the bathhouse matron over the last month or so. Rather than berate Jasmine at every opportunity - a show that the child quite enjoyed when she had the chance to witness it - Rita had taken to showering her with kindness. Even Jasmine's childish moods no longer seemed to affect her, the matron taking it in stride. Sinta wondered at the change but could reason no cause to it, other than the fact that the runner visited far more often and spent far more coin.

If it's one thing that she's always saying, it's that gold turns enemies to friends. I don't think Rita was ever the enemy though. She's always been friend enough to me. Maybe it's gold, but something don't seem right to me about it.

The child watched as Jasmine, finally free of her running gear, stood and bent over, hands on the bench while Rita knelt behind her. Pulling a bottle of pure spirits from her apron, she dabbed some on a cloth and worked at rubbing the liquid into the five-inch gash that ran down Jasmine's thigh. The runner twitched at each touch.

"A deep one this time," Rita observed. "It's a wonder you didn't have to be carried here."

"I make do," Jasmine's voice issued forth from the other side of her bared behind. "And a few drinks don't hurt none either."

Rita responded with a disapproving yet mild clucking.

Sinta's head turned at the sound of the curtain being drawn back once more. Entering the room was the pale-faced Deirdre, trailed closely by a woman that looked remarkably similar to Rita, though Sinta knew the two shared few similarities other than the blood in their veins and ownership of the bathhouse.

Anita, who was Rita's sister, had the same piercing blue eyes set in a face that most men would consider beautiful, the same wide shoulders and ample bosom. But where men called Rita handsome and afforded her the respect due a lady of status, they fawned and pawed over Anita the same as dogs might when teased with a scrap of meat. Her hair, though Sinta suspected it to be as blonde as her sister's, was dyed a deep auburn. Her thin lips were painted to make them larger and take on the appearance that she was always pouting a bit. The clothes she wore were fancier than Rita's and, though they were as elegant as any that Sinta had seen on a proper lady, they were quite a bit more revealing. Her laced-covered dress, tight bodice and overflowing bosom were, Sinta knew, the mark of her position as matron in the other half of the bathhouse.

Though Sinta had not visited the eastern wing, she had heard stories aplenty of what entertainments Anita and her collection of young girls provided. People came to Rita to be cleaned up or patched up. They gave coin to Anita to have women pleasure them. Though it sounded like a dreadful waste of good silver to the child, she had some time ago resolved to someday try these pleasures that she had heard so much about. If the tales were true, Anita kept boys as well, though Sinta wondered at why anyone would risk a baby in their belly, no matter how good it felt. Regardless, she had more than a few years to think on it, as Anita was strict on keeping children out of her wing. And if Jasmine ever found out she was over there, the runner would likely cut the tip of her nose off.

Anita glanced over at the arched form of Jasmine and smirked. "Now there's a position I'm more than familiar with," she quipped, tittering at her own joke.

Why does she always make a stupid joke and then laugh? If no one else is laughing at what she has to say, what's the point? That idiot boy at the orphanage does the same thing.

"What do you need, Anita?" Rita asked, her attention still focused on mending Jasmine's thigh.

Anita made to step further into the room but, looking around at the damp condition, reconsidered and instead lingered in the doorway. Wrinkling her nose she replied, "I've come to remind you that Maryline is fifteen summers this fourth-day. I've set aside a room for her with the other flowers. She should begin moving her essentials as soon as possible."

Flowers? What's that even supposed to mean? Do they bathe them in flowers or something when they turn into whores?

Glancing at Maryline, Sinta could see the bathmaid was upset though the why of it eluded her. The child had been coming to the bathhouse long enough to know that the maids, when they reached their fifteenth summer, all moved to the east wing to be trained as whores. And of course Maryline knew that the day was coming, so she shouldn't be surprised by the change. Plus, the amount of coin she'd be making was much better than with Rita, so there was no reason to worry about that either. All things considered, the prospect of working as a whore didn't seem like such a poor one to Sinta. But still, all three of the girls she had known as bathmaids before they switched to being whores seemed upset when they were informed that their time was coming.

The only one what didn't make it over there was ugly Callia and she didn't make it cause she was so ugly and scarred to boot. Even that tall, skinny girl Yolanta made it over there and you couldn't tell her from a man unless you squinted just right. Yet Callia was happy enough to not switch over. Don't see why anyone'd be happy with a face like hers. And now she scrubs and cleans all day instead of laying about on soft beds and being dressed up fancy.

Another resolution that Sinta had made was to talk to the girls she had known before. She would ask them herself what they thought now, whether the work was really that bad or if they had just been scared at first. Again, that would have to wait until Anita thought her old enough to step foot in the eastern wing.

Rita's reply to her sister broke Sinta from her contemplations. "Very well." She half-turned to Maryline. "Gather your things after you rise tomorrow and move them. You can stay there and come back each night for the remainder of your time in the baths. Better to sleep in the beds over there. They're more comfortable than the maids' rooms."

Sinta noticed Maryline's face twisting and switching over and over, finally settling back to the way it usually looked, albeit a touch sadder. Glancing to Jasmine, who was now fully stitched and had turned to look at the bathmaid, she witnessed an equally confusing scene. The runner's leg was cut up good and she should have looked like the pain was in her, but what the young girl saw wasn't the right kind of pain. It seemed to Sinta more like the pain she herself had felt a half-year back when a group of boys at the orphanage had found the rat she was keeping as a pet and smashed its head against a wall to make her cry. Thinking deeper on it, Sinta realized that she had never seen Jasmine with a bathmaid other than Maryline, excepting when the girl was out on some errand, and even then all the runner did was give the substitute maid an earful of grief by criticizing everything they did.

This time is was Anita's voice that snapped Sinta back to the world around her. "And if you're ever in need of a new line of work, Mina, come and see me. It looks like you're finally filling out that scarecrow figure of yours since I last saw you. Pay's double for the exotics."

"I don't recall paying my hard-earned coin to have a whore come and interrupt my bath, _Nita_ ," Jasmine's reply was laced with venom. "If your business is done, I'd like my privacy if you please. I'm sure you have legs to spread on the other side of the house. A man or three ready to turn you into a toy for the hour."

"Fine," she replied, voice almost, but not quite, concealing her hostility. Without another word she turned and left.

Glancing at Maryline once more, Sinta could see the sadness there had deepened and something else had blossomed beneath it. The bathmaid stared at the floor, guilty as if she had done something horrible. The young girl switched her gaze back to Jasmine, saw in the runner's eyes her own guilt as she stared at the despondent Maryline.

Smart words, you nit. She's upset about moving and now you make her feel worse. If you don't apologize and soon, I'll make sure you've an earful for the next month at least. As if you're some sort of highborn Lady that can look down your ugly, pointed nose at your friend cause she's going to be a whore.

But no apology came. Instead, Jasmine let out a sharp squeal of pain as Rita, her hand on the back of the runner's thigh, gave a tug on the newly laced stitches. Jasmine spun and glared only to be met with the angry and imperious stare that Sinta was more familiar seeing on the matron's face.

"Checking to make sure they're nice and tight," the matron stated, voice flat.

Jasmine remained silent.

"She's right," Deirdre's voice spoke into the tense silence.

All heads turned to gaze upon the normally mute girl.

Rita spoke first. "Who is right about what, Dee?"

The shy maid hesitated, finally speaking in low tones. "Mistress Anita. She was right about Jasmine. I mean... about her, um, getting more womanly." When no one replied, Deirdre's eyes sank to the ground and she grew quiet again.

Sinta had by no means missed the changes in Jasmine's body, but until Deidre spoke the fact out loud, she thought nothing of it. The runner's normally stick-thin frame had taken on a new shape over the last few months. Her hips had widened somewhat and, even more astounding to the young girl, her mentor was showing the beginnings of developing actual womanly breasts.

Rita stared down at Jasmine, eyebrows raised. The runner's guilt had washed away and she now held all the bearing of a cornered rat.

"You've been with a man these last weeks?" Rita questioned.

Jasmine shot a furtive glance Sinta's way. The girl squinted back, concentrated on deciphering the secret she saw shoot through Jasmine's eyes.

What's such a mystery about your tits that you're needing to act like a grey-tongued sneak?

"Well..." Jasmine begun. "I would say that my nights have been occupied in more... interesting ways."

Rita snorted. "Well, you might want to be more careful. You're looking like you might be feeling a slight more motherly come winter."

Jasmine's body stiffened, a look of panic crossed her face and she ground her teeth.

Motherly? She's been lying with a man then.

A fury began to grow within the child.

You're talking bad about Mary for going off to spread her legs and you're doing it all the same. Unless you been raped. Drunk and stupid is more like it though. Telling me that I need to stay away from the boys and now here you are being an infant about it and getting a baby in your belly. "Runners can't run with leeches in their stomach." Ain't that what you've always said? That a kid is like tying a brick to your leg before you make a jump?

If something heavy had been close by, no doubt the young girl would have thrown it full force at Jasmine's head. Lucky for both of them that there was nothing within reach other than a wet and soapy sponge. Convinced that the sponge would not deliver quite the same message, Sinta made a mental note to chastise the runner at a later time.

"There's ways to take care of that," Rita continued their conversation. "I've some tea I can get for you that will clear up your little problem. Anita uses it on her side of the house. Works almost every time and cheaper than finding a scraper to fix it."

"Yeah," Jasmine replied, still stealing glances at Sinta. "I'll get some of that from you."

"So you're fifteen summers, Mary?" Sinta changed the subject, answering Jasmine's questioning stare with a benign smile.

Maryline hesitated before answering. "Yes. This fourth-day I'll turn." Even though she was trying her best to conceal it, Sinta could still hear the sadness deep in the bathmaid's voice.

"I'm going to be nine summers next month," Sinta announced, beaming despite herself. "And Jasmine will be sixteen summers. And we're going to the mid-summer festival. Every year we celebrate it the same day, when Embrace comes, since we neither know when our birthing days are."

"That's... nice. I hope you have a lovely time, little Sinta." Maryline seemed cheered by Sinta's revelation, Jasmine relieved that the conversation had shifted. The young girl felt a sense of pride at having both diffused her mentor's cruel words and deflected her suspicions with one simple question.

From there the mood lightened. Jasmine joined Sinta in the bath, one leg propped awkwardly to the side to keep her stitches clear of the water. Deidre went to work on washing her hair while Maryline played with Sinta and the child splashed water indiscriminately over everyone. Even Rita, normally hustling off at this point to take care of some business or another, sat down on the bench and laughed along with them. Soon, the entire room felt lighter and warmer to Sinta. Though they were always the closest thing that the child had to a proper family, for one brief moment she felt as if the girls surrounding her were her family in truth - her cross yet caring aunt Rita; Maryline, the cousin that could find joy in everything; book-smart cousin Deirdre, who could barely get two words out of her mouth without stammering; and Jasmine, her sometimes vicious, usually clever and always capable older sister.

But Sinta could see something else lurking behind her older sister's smile. The runner had a familiar look on her face, that look that told Sinta that her mind was far away and thinking of distant things. The child recognized it from whenever the pair were near the orphanage. She knew that Jasmine was thinking on the past and good moods rarely found the runner when her head turned in that direction.
XIII. Theater of the Past

Jasmine crept along the narrow wooden beams that criss-crossed the spacious vault of the upper theater. Below her lay the stage, dark and cold, devoid of life without the presence of actors and audience to give it purpose. With no performance on the agenda, the tall wooden building was absent of all illumination excepting one flickering lantern that shined through the gloom. It emanated from a loft built off and above stage right. In the small circle of light Jasmine could make out a single figure. It was bent over a writing desk and, though Jasmine could not see it from her position in the rafters, the sound of a quill scribbling away on parchment reached her ears.

A long, pointed rapier in hand, she placed each foot slowly and carefully. The runner made her way between the ropes, pulleys and elevated backdrops that were hanging amongst the framework of beams. Each step elicited a dull ache from her thigh. It had been two days since her spill at the warehouse district and though the wound had mostly sealed it was still tender enough to throw her balance off a bit. To compensate she remained extra cautious. One slip would send her into a thirty foot fall that ended in the unforgiving planks of the stage.

Inch by inch she made her way closer, careful to avoid accidently bumping anything that might make a noise and alert her prey. After what seemed an eternity, Jasmine finally roosted on one long beam almost directly above her target.

From here, she could make out the figure more clearly. He was a round man, neither short nor tall. His clothes were not those of an actor, but rather those of a businessman, formal yet loosened and untucked as one might do at the end of a long night when no more social engagements were expected. His feet were covered in stockings, shoes placed to the side.

The man rose from his chair and began stretching, emitting small grunts with every motion. Now turned toward her, Jasmine could see his round face, squinted eyes, over-large lips and wide nose. The curly bushel of hair atop his head was tousled as if he'd been running his hands through it over and over. His chin displayed the remnants of the day's growth. For all intents, he resembled little more than an overworked businessman taking care of a little paperwork at the end of the day. But Jasmine knew better.

Finishing his stretch, the man walked to the edge of the raised platform and peered down at the dark stage, face deep in contemplation. It was then that Jasmine made her move. She leaped from her perch and landed behind the figure, rolling to lessen the impact on her bad leg. When she came up she was an arm's length from the fat man, rapier extended and pressed lightly against his breastbone.

He responded to Jasmine's threat with a steely glare, finally speaking, "You'd run an unarmed man through the heart, runt? Or maybe you don't think you can take me in a fair fight?"

Going to play it that way, are we tubby? Fine, I can beat you on your own terms. I'm not the infant you knew when last we met.

"Never let it be said that I kill a man without giving him a chance, however small that chance," Jasmine replied, backing away from the man.

She glanced around, found what she was looking for. Rapier still straight before her, Jasmine side-stepped toward a rack pressed against one of the loft's walls. Resting on it were a variety of weapons. She removed a rapier similar to her own and tossed it, hilt first, in the direction of her opponent. He snatched it out of the air with ease.

"There," she continued. "Now you are armed, a lot of good it will do you. Just be sure to not to stick yourself in the gut. I can't imagine that belly of yours would do anything other than get in the way."

Almost as soon as the words had left Jasmine's mouth, the man was driving forward with a speed that belied his rotund form. He assaulted her with a flurry of strikes, slashing and thrusting and knocking aside Jasmine's desperate attempts to parry. Within a matter of seconds, she had been pushed against a wall. Unable to let up her defense, there was no way for the beset runner to strike back. The man, for all his extra weight and age, fought like one who had been born with a blade in hand. Jasmine had crossed blades with him many times before, but could never remember him being so quick and relentless.

At last she managed to knock his blade wide, giving her a chance to shift position and get her back from the wall. As the man recovered his balance, she mounted her own attack. With all the grace she'd been taught, Jasmine danced her rapier in, pushing her opponent a few paces back. But it was a short-lived offense. The man adjusted for her assault and, slipping his blade past her guard, gave her a neat slice across the hand. Wincing, Jasmine almost lost her grip. A sharp downward strike from her enemy finished the job and knocked the rapier clattering to the loft floor. In one fluid motion the man shifted his attack from her weapon and thrust directly toward her heart.

Jasmine collapsed to the ground, half of the blade protruding out in front of her, the other half lost from sight. Groans escaped her lips as she kicked and writhed in the throes of death. Some seconds later her twitching finally stopped. Jasmine's body lay still.

"You never could die right," the victor spoke down at Jasmine's crumpled form. "You're as bad as Bonnie with your melodramatic rubbish."

Jasmine inclined her head to look back at the man, caught the disapproving stare that awaited her. "I'm not meant to die. I always told you that. Not my fault it don't come naturally to me."

" _Doesn't_ ," he corrected. "It _doesn't_ come naturally. Your speech has improved about as much as your fencing. And death will come naturally enough when the Beast comes for you, make no mistake of that. In the meantime, you should at least get some practice in and prolong your breathing by a second or two."

"Doesn't do well to end the scene poorly and spoil the entire production?" Jasmine finished the familiar speech as she rose from the ground, removing the rapier from where she had caught it between her arm and her side.

The man's round face shed its disappointment, the only sign of approval she had ever seen it possess aside from the occasional nod. "At least you've remembered one lesson."

As Jasmine brushed the dust from her leathers, the man walked back to the desk he had been writing at. Opening a cabinet beneath, he removed a clear glass bottle filled with a yellowish liquid and two squat cups also made of clear glass.

Jasmine placed the rapiers on the rack and began to suck at the cut on her hand. "You sliced my hand up good. Could have been more careful with an old friend, Zakariah."

The man finished pouring two fingers of the yellow liquid into each of the glasses. He walked back to Jasmine and held one out for her.

"Maybe you haven't learned anything," Zakariah spoke in a gruff tone. "The theater stage is soaked with blood, sweat and tears. If you can't handle spilling all three..."

"... then you're in the wrong place." Jasmine finished, taking the drink from the man's hand. "I remember the saying. You'd have us saying it nearly every day."

"If you wouldn't have been so insufferably incompetent, I wouldn't have had to make you repeat it so much."

Jasmine shrugged. Taking a sip of her drink, she curled her nose.

Always the same bitter, Eastern whisky. I'll never get why you drink this swill old man. And always warm as the day. It's like you find ways to make it worse on purpose.

Zakariah resumed his seat at the desk, motioning to a nearby stool. Jasmine sat and stared into her drink as she swirled the liquid about in the glass.

After a minute of silence, Zakariah finally spoke, this time with compassion in his voice. "You've been away for some time, little flower. From the looks of your costume, I'm guessing you still run errands for the less savory elements of our encircled city of poverty?"

"Yeah," she replied, returning her gaze to the man opposite her. "Better than that, too. I'm working in the big time now. Eleventh Hour. Good money, expert jobs. Respect and reputation and all that. I've made more in the last week than the whole two years I was here with you. Course, you didn't pay me too well." She smiled, openly, the care to hide her predator's teeth forgotten.

"Well, the theater is not a place of gold. Nor is it a place of fame, despite what others may preach. It is not even a place of happiness, though many joyous times are here to be had." Zakariah ended on a slight pause.

And Jasmine finished. "It is a place of toil and tragedy. A place where the fiery breath of living is forced through you every day, so that when the second beat comes, you'll know that you have lived, and lived well."

Zakariah shrugged. "Close enough."

A sigh escaped the runner's lips. "I didn't come here to listen to you spout the same theater wise-man's words I've heard a hundred times, Zakariah."

"Why then did you come here and nearly scare me half to death by stalking about in the rafters? If I hadn't seen your shadow in my mirror and recognized you for who you were, I might have hurled a dagger your way. I almost didn't recognize you at all. You've filled out a bit since you were last here."

"Yes, yes," she waved her hand dismissively. "I've been hearing that all-too-much of late. People can't seem to shut up about me fattening up a few pounds, as if there's nothing better to talk of." Jasmine paused for a time. "I wanted to come and see you. To let you know I was running at the top."

She pulled a purse from its hiding place within a concealed pocket of her leathers. "And to give you something to help out with the theater."

The purse rattled and tinged as it landed on the desk next to Zakariah. He picked it up, rubbed it between his fingers to judge the contents.

"Quite a bit of gold in here," he raised one eyebrow. "Are you sure you can afford such a generous gift?"

"That's not even a week's wage. Doesn't even dent what I've got. I told you, I'm expert now. Good jobs all night. And you told me enough about saving my coin that I always have plenty put away in case things burn to the ground."

Zakariah regarded her with probing eyes, finally relenting with a nod of approval.

"So how are the rest of the players?" Jasmine asked, eager to get that unnerving gaze to focus on something other than scrutinizing her.

"Well," Zakariah began, taking another sip of his whisky, "I guess you've been away a time, so plenty has changed, though just as much is the same. Pterlet set up one of those new steam machines to replace the chariots. The damn thing makes a blustering noise and I'm not sure it's worth the trouble, but he swears it's the future in motion and I've never had cause to doubt his reasoning.

"Callista is still bedding every new face that wanders through. Triana wandered back home to Vah Traex. Something to do with her mother being ill. Bonnie is Bonnie, as usual, though she's gotten worse of late. Donley finally saved up enough money to attend the university. He's studying up to be a cutter. I always figured he'd do better working with dead folks than he did with the living. Needless to say, Bonnie is less-than-happy about his decision and insists on taking it out on everyone else. She's managed to run off three costumers with her ridiculous demands."

Zakariah stared Jasmine hard in the eye. "It was always easier when you were here doing the sewing. At least you had the bite to get Bonnie to keep her trap shut when she had a complaint. Even at eleven years you could give any one of us a bloody ear with your razor tongue."

Jasmine smiled at the compliment. "I had to be sharp to live in a house of actors. Every last one of them lives the stage even when they're off it."

Her companion nodded in agreement. "You'll hear no argument from me there. Try getting them to follow orders or say their lines properly."

"So what about little Noya? How's he doing? Is he still around the theater or did he finally run off to be a soldier?"

Zakariah's face clouded at the question. "Noya got caught in the wrong place with the wrong people. Got stabbed by some Topper out in North-block. Bloody Jakob took him out there..."

Jasmine felt something hollow form inside her stomach.

"A few months after Noya's death, Jakob ended up getting himself rounded up by some Crusaders. He's rotting behind bars now, I'd venture. Good thing too. If I ever see his face again I'll cut a few pieces off it." His expression became distant, filled with a barely checked wrath. After a time he returned focus to Jasmine. "The rest are all pretty much the same. There've been some new faces in, though most of them leave before too long. Either they can't hack the discipline or they come in with some overblown idea of what it means to live life in the theater."

"Same story every day," Jasmine agreed. "I could always tell when someone was going to leave early."

Zakariah barked a laugh. "You ran them off half the time, if you didn't take a liking to them. The stagehands used to say that I kept you around to torment new actors and get them ready for their first great failed performance. They said you were worse than any heckler or even a face full of cow dung."

Jasmine smirked. "If they couldn't take it, they didn't need to be here. Eleven summers and I was babysitting half the lot of them. Pissing actors."

"Pissing actors," Zakariah nodded in agreement.

A few more minutes passed, each of the pair sipping at their whisky. Zakariah refilled their glasses.

"So what about you?" he inquired at last. "Aside from being the best runner in the block. Unless that's all you do with yourself these days, though I somehow doubt that."

Jasmine shifted on her stool. "Just things..."

"Sounds like you're having an exciting time of it," Zakariah responded dryly.

"I've been spending my coin, of course. Just things that I need for now. Honest, I have the gold to buy so many things but I can't think of anything I want to buy. I just look at the stuff I used to want and then figure it's not worth the price."

Zakariah nodded, waiting for Jasmine to continue.

"I'm still looking after Sinta. She's getting bigger now, nine summers come half-year. Still a razor-tongued little shit, but getting smarter. I've been keeping a boy around as well."

Her speech was interrupted by a loud and derisive snort from Zakariah. Skepticism and surprise filled his eyes.

"Piss yourself, fat man," she retorted. "It's just a fling. I've not the mind to keep him around forever, especially the way he acts. All he needs to do is show up every few days and take care of what I need him to and he just disappears for days and nights. He runs off with other girls. I mean, that's what he does to make his coin. He works scams on thick-skulled maids with too much coin for their own good. I don't care about that, but he needs to keep his duties with me in order."

Jasmine's speech sped up, the words flying out one after the other. "I don't even know why I keep around any more. The boy's an idiot when it comes to holding on to his coin and he's always borrowing from me and pays me back only when it fits in. Not that I care much. Like I said, I've got plenty of coin and can't really think of what to spend it all on other than useless rubbish. But if I'm going to be paying for his habits, he should damn well show up when I tell him to. If he'd at least come every other day and take care of business, I could care less where he goes and where he puts his sword. But he likes to run his games and play at being a seducer. I've a mind to cut him off my purse strings, the pissing shit."

Once Jasmine's steam was spent, Zakariah spoke up. "Oh little flower, ever the romantic."

Jasmine scowled.

"Despite what you may say, I've always known when you're lying. Of course, you're so poor at it that it's no mean feat. It seems like you're getting tangled up in this boy but you can't quite tame him the way you'd like. I'd even go so far as to take a guess and say that your inability to tame him is directly affecting how attached you've become."

She scoffed at him, rose from her position on the stool and began to pace. "That would be the biggest mistake I could make. I don't need permanent problems in my life. Besides, once I've got enough money together, I'll need to find some proper sort of boy to snatch up. One with land and titles and all that, to make me a proper Lady."

It was Zakariah's turn to scoff. "You? A Lady? Now there is a turn of events I hope I live to see. I've only got another thirty or forty summers left in me, so you'd best hurry it along before I've joined Yana's embrace."

"Ass," was the only reply that Jasmine could manage.

The rest of the night was passed with lighter conversation. They spoke of past times in the theater, of Jasmine's arrival and of her going, of the many people they had both grown to know over the years, of Jasmine's performances both on and off the stage and of many other things that made them both nostalgic. By the time the conversation came to an end, they had emptied one bottle of whisky and were working their way steadily through another. As the dawn approached, Zakariah began to yawn and the circles beneath his eyes had darkened. Jasmine finally decided it was time to go. They said their farewells and she left, feeling somehow calmer, a little more at peace. Unfortunately, that peace was not to last.
XIV. Unwelcome

The conversation with Zakariah had left Jasmine wide awake, disturbed visions swirling about in her head and begging for resolution. Her problems with BeRem were but one part of a series of greater dilemmas, a catalyst to unleash every troubling thought that Jasmine had been burying for the last few months. Now, slightly tipsy and swollen with chaotic emotion, they came at her full force.

In addition to the boy who would not obey, there was a small girl that insisted that Jasmine was her new surrogate mother. During their visits to the bathhouse, Sinta had been bringing up the subject of Jasmine's newfound affluence. Along with that came ideas about leaving the orphanage and taking up residence in the runner's flat. Worse yet, she had found allies in Rita and the bathmaids. Though they rarely addressed the subject directly, the undertones of conversation always carried the implied opinion that Sinta would be better off in Jasmine's care. For the most part, she had taken to ignoring them, pretending as if she didn't know what they were talking about.

Pissing nihil, I can't have some unruly child living with me. She's half helpless and I've got myself to take care of. How am I supposed to get anything done with a kid needing me to get her out of every idiot scrape she manages to find herself in? What am I supposed to do, chain her to the bed while I'm out? And she'd scream like an infant if I tried to make her pay for her lodging. What do they think they're up to, trying to start another mess?

In an effort to work the growing stress from her system, Jasmine did what she always did - she took a run across the East-block skyscape.

Starting at the theater, she made her way around the perimeter of the city-within-a-city, following a familiar route along the interior edge of the wall. She knew it was folly, pushing hard with whisky in her blood and a leg on the mend. If she took an accidental spill and hurt herself, Dwervin would make sure she had the nihil to pay. He had an important job for her in three days time. If Jasmine wasn't fit and ready to go when he needed her, the runner's sterling reputation would begin to tarnish. Not to mention she would be out the hundred gold rils that the job promised. Losing that much coin was far from what Jasmine considered acceptable, but the only thing fixing her attention was working herself to exhaustion so she could actually sleep when her head hit one of those nice, soft pillows she had spent so much silver on.

And then there was the question of whether BeRem would be waiting at her door when she returned home. He didn't have a key to her flat - she wasn't _that_ trusting of his intentions - but if he happened to be lingering and they ran into each other, it wouldn't fare well. With her head still a mess, Jasmine would probably overreact. Either she would tell him to piss off for good or he would end up in her bed and she'd be muddled again, unable to think properly about what was best for her in the long run.

So Jasmine ran.

She leaped and skipped and climbed and rolled her way in a wide circle. At each challenge, the runner pushed herself to foolish extremes. Twice her wounded thigh caused her to nearly miss a particularly long jump and take a spill from thirty feet. It was more than an hour after she had begun that the aches in her legs began to make themselves known and her lungs strained for air. Finally, she paused and settled in on the corner of a squat tenement.

Though her body had stopped, Jasmine's mind still ran with its troubling examinations. To make matters even more complicated, her instincts were firing up again. The lingering feeling that someone was following her, watching her, returned. For the most part, her invisible stalker had faded in persistence since she had come into Dwervin's employ. Her original thought was that the businessman had been scouting her and that the shadow was there to report back to him. Consequently, the hidden shadow should have disappeared once Dwervin was satisfied. And it did, for about a week. Now, it came and went at random. Sometimes she would feel eyes watching her, though she could never discern from where. Whoever was following her was a true master of his art.

Maybe it is one of Dwervin's. He's not tried to kill me yet, so no worries, right? And he only comes around here and there. Or maybe he's always there and maybe I just don't notice it most of the time. Or maybe I'm just still drunk and thinking I'm seeing things that I'm not.

Jasmine sighed.

Staring out across the wide avenue that separated her tenement roost from the rest of the East-block, the runner's keen eyes picked out a shadow bouncing its way from roof to roof. Coming to rest on the top of a potter's directly across from Jasmine, the figure stopped and turned toward her. Less than twenty feet away, she could see the red strip of cloth tied around its upper arm, an announcement to the shadow-world of its Bloodrazor affiliation. Too late, Jasmine realized that she had settled down right in the middle of their territory. Though the Eleventh Hour kept the peace in the East-block and wanton murder was generally frowned upon, being an unaffiliated runner in a Bloodrazor neighborhood was still bad news.

Luckily for her, it was a runner that sighted her first. When two runners met - at least in the East-block - violence was the last thing on their minds. More often than not, they would simply ignore each other, one or the other of them on a job of some sort. If both were just out wandering, they might sit and have a chat. Sometimes they would get into a race, the winner getting bragging rights in the runners' circles. Worst case scenario, the figure across the street might try to chase her off of the Bloodrazor roofs.

Curling all but her first two fingers, Jasmine held her hand out to the stranger, palm facing inward. It was the signal that she was running casual. Even though it invited a potential visit from her shadowy friend and she was partial to her solitude, announcing work in that neighborhood might have caused more problems than it was worth. The figure returned her gesture with the same, though the hand was twisted so that the palm faced outward, the signal for a runner on the job. The shadow followed that up with a finger to the nose and a crosswise chopping motion. Together, they told Jasmine that person across the way recognized her and liked her work. She responded by hooking her thumb, a blessing of good luck for the night. The figure continued its path along the rooftops, eventually fading into the night.

Now why can't the rest of the Bloodrazors be as civil? Always clubbing up whoever they don't like. If it's not a strong drink, a bloodied fist or a cheap whore, they'll have nothing of it. We up here have a much better code. Plenty of room on the rooftops, no need to go pushing each other over the edge of a building. Unless you're a Kozon. Those bastards have their runners and their clubbers switched up.

Jasmine felt some calm returning to her mind with the recognition of comradery. BeRem could drive her into a fury and Sinta could whine and cry all she wanted, but there were at least a few people out there who knew something of the complexities of her life. Even if they did tend to exist primarily on the horizon.

Finally finding at least a measure of the serenity she was seeking, Jasmine rose from her perch and stretched, loosening the stiffness in her body before she started home. But a voice echoing from the alley below stopped her from leaving.

"I told you," the speaker snapped, "we wait until we hear back from Dani before we move. It could be a couple days, it could be a week. You're _not_ shitting on this one, Rouge."

The voice was familiar, conjuring images of a time many years past. The skin on Jasmine's arms began to itch, the blood in her body tingling, almost vibrating.

"But my purse is dusting," a higher-pitched voice, presumably the one called Rouge, replied. "I need the cash now."

A third voice chimed in, much deeper and nasal. "Then stop putting it all in the hands of those Cillian whores, ya ponce."

"I'll not put my sword wherever you've been, Stub," came the retort.

At the mention of the third's name, Jasmine's rage swelled. The itching sensation on her arms had spread to the rest of her body. Though she did not notice, her teeth were grinding, jaws clenched hard. Blood turned to steam in her veins. Wrath narrowed her vision and stormed through her mind, killing all errant thoughts. Creeping on all fours like a beast, she stalked to the edge of the building and peered down into the shadowed alleyway.

Three figures walked the length of the passage below. At the front was a man barely in his twentieth summer, blonde hair oiled and combed. Behind him walked a man of slighter build and a few years younger. His groomed and oiled hair gave him the appearance of an aspiring fop. Taking up the rear was a squat, wide brute with a large, round and clean-shaven head. All three of them wore leather jerkins with iron studs and had short, sheathless swords strapped to their sides. And each bore the red cloth of a Bloodrazor tied about their arms. The man at the head of the line also wore a folding straight-razor hooked into his belt, the mark of a sergeant.

With a view of their faces, full recognition came. She didn't know the ponce, but the other two were emblazoned upon her memory with a fire that only flesh could contain. The taste of blood flooded Jasmine's tongue as her canines tore into the inside of her mouth. The smell of burning meat filled her nostrils, a ghost memory come to haunt once more. By now, the itching sensation had transformed and a thousand worms burrowed beneath the surface of her skin, writhing and threatening to burst forth and tear her apart.

Mind blind with the rage, Jasmine pulled a knife from her belt and pounced.

Her landing put her between the ponce and the brute. Acting without thought, she lashed out. The knife she buried to the hilt in the thigh of the brute. Her free hand raked sharp fingernails across the face of the other, peeling away the flesh in thin strips. A howl of pain from the brute was matched by a shriek from the fop. Both of them fell back, clutching at the wounds Jasmine had inflicted.

The leader spun around even as the other two stumbled away from Jasmine's now crouched form. Shock filled his face as he stared down at the attacker.

"You!" he shouted, surprise and fear mixed in equal parts.

Jasmine flashed a blood-stained smile at the last unwounded Bloodrazor, a man she once knew as a boy by the name of Loran. A scuffling from behind alerted her to the return of Stub. Spinning, she kicked straight out, catching the lunging thug in the shin and feeling the bones there snap beneath her blow. He tumbled to the ground in a broken and worthless heap. A glance to the side confirmed the continued submission of Rouge. The fop lay curled up against the wall, hands over his face and apparently weeping.

She returned her attention to Loran.

His surprise finally conquered, the Bloodrazor thug tore his sword free and faced her head on. Slinking like a plains cat on the hunt, Jasmine closed the distance between them inch by inch. Unable to restrain himself for fear or rage, Loran lunged, slashing down with his weapon. A simple sidestep removed Jasmine from its downward path. Overextended, Loran could do nothing to stop her as Jasmine rushed in and leaped on top of him.

Another dagger had made its way into Jasmine's hand and this one found a home in Loren's side, neatly placed between two ribs. Her prey howled, sword arm desperately slashing in an attempt to remove the bloodthirsty runner while his other hand grasped impotently at the buried blade. Face mere inches away, Jasmine shrieked like a banshee, mouth opened wide, fangs bared and bloodied. In all her years of playing the ghyst, she had never received a more satisfying reaction. His face became a mask of pure terror. His first reaction was to backpedal and get away from her, but Jasmine's legs were wrapped tight about his torso and escape turned to folly. Overbalanced, Loran fell to the ground.

The combined impact of slamming into the soil and Jasmine's weight bearing down upon him drove the wind from the clubber's lungs. The short sword fell from his hand. Jasmine could smell piss and shit heavy in the air.

One hand locked around Loran's throat, the nails digging deep into the flesh of his neck. With the other, Jasmine retrieved the Bloodrazor's fallen blade. Raising it above her head, the vengeance racing in her blood picked its targets meticulously. The first swing severed his left ear. The second lopped off two fingers of his right hand. A third strike came down pommel first into Loran's face, crushing his nose and sending a spray of blood across Jasmine's chest.

But as she raised the sword one more time, possibly the final time, something crashed into her back, knocking her clear of the fallen Bloodrazor and sending her flying. Her body sailed through the air, out of the alley and across the width of the adjoining avenue, only stopping when she slammed, shoulder first, into the corner of a building. A sickening crunch and a mind-numbing shock of pain filled Jasmine's being. The runner's body fell limp to the ground and blackness descended.

He hadn't even been on duty that night, free to loosen his purse in the taverns or whorehouses however he wanted, but instead Floyd had chosen to go wandering. There was no destination to his journey, so he walked a meandering path through the many streets and alleys of the East-block.

He kept his swirling, senses-blinding cloud about him to lessen any attention he might receive. The purpose of the night, he reasoned, should be to think on all that had transpired over the last few months. By his reckoning, more than one-hundred-and-fifty days had passed since he had taken on the assignment of tracking the small, strange girl known as Jasmine. Over that time, he had followed her across many a midnight roof, reveling in the swiftness of her race, tuned in deep to the legacy that she could not help but carry. And in that time he had begun to doubt certain things, things about both his employer's intentions and his own ability to continue tracking the runner while still retaining at least a semblance of sanity. Deep in these thoughts and hidden from the world he walked in, Floyd barely noticed when the tell-tale whisper of wind reached out from a nearby rooftop to alert him that his legacy was close-by.

It's her again. Here. Now. I'm not going to go along with her this time. I've got three days to myself and I'm not going to muddle myself up again chasing her tail-wind. Just need to ignore her, Floyd. Just keep walking like you didn't see it. She's not doing anything important and there's no need to go tracking her. Just stay in your space. It's you tonight.

By the time thought was complete, Floyd had already reached out and grasped his invisible hand firmly around the beacon of the legacy. Within seconds, his mind slipped away, carried along on its journey across the rooftops at a speed that no human could match. The whispering winds cut through his skull, past the grey matter than occupied it and directly into his thoughts. Like an orchestra experienced from mere inches away, the music of her movement played within him and brought back the longed-for ecstasy.

She ran long and hard that night and Floyd was with her every step of the way. He often had to hurry to keep up, but it was a small matter to ask Hesharr to assist him with a little speed of his own. Luckily, the runner was making some sort of circle across the skyline, so she never fully left him behind. Thirty minutes later, she came to a halt atop a roof in the middle of a Bloodrazor neighborhood.

Floyd normally hated wandering where the Bloodrazors had set up shop, as it all-too-often turned into a confrontation of one sort or another. Being a small-framed man and carrying no weapons, they thought him easy sport. He was adept at remaining invisible for the most part, but every once in a while he would let his guard down due to some distraction or another and a sharp-eyed thug would spot him. Defending himself with his gifts was strictly prohibited, so when these little altercations occurred, Floyd was forced to either acquiesce to handing over a few coins or spend the next ten minutes fleeing.

There had been more than one occasion, however, when he had been at a loss for anything clever to say to avoid a beating. At these times he had ignored the prohibition and whipped a clubber or two into a wall or sent them flying onto a roof so he could make his escape. Needless to say, his employer and the Eleventh Hour in general were unhappy with his lack of discretion. If someone discovered that they were working with a sorcerer, a purge would begin. Priests would be everywhere with their witch-hunt. Business would go sour and important people would disappear into unknown cells to be forgotten or, even worse, broken and sent back to the ghetto with their wills stripped away.

And they say the magics of the dragons are cruel and brutal. Those holy killers have no worries when it comes to ripping apart the mind. It's only when others can see it does forging become an instrument of evil. Left in the shadows, it's a tool of the gods. Just because no mortal god rules my whispering winds, I am a beast to be put down.

The train of thought inspired rage within Floyd and he snapped to awareness when he realized that he was bleeding his sorcery indiscriminately. Gusts of wind lashed out from him in random directions, kicking up dirt from the road and creating swirling dust-devils that danced about in plain sight. The sorcerer took a deep breath and calmed himself, ceased the unwanted outburst.

It's all that energy from the girl, built up again. If I don't let it out nice and slow this time I might end up turning some other clubber into pudding.

Floyd closed his eyes and began to breath evenly, slowly, letting the pressure of the gathered wind seep out through the top of his skull to drift into the night sky where it longed to be. If he were to maintain control over himself, Floyd desperately needed to stop listening to the girl run so much. Otherwise, the dangers would become greater and greater. He decided that he would have to talk to his employer about the situation, assuming he could remember to once they had their next meeting.

The sorcerer had no idea how long he had been standing there, leaning against a building and letting the magics dissipate, before the sounds of conflict broke his concentration. Scurrying along the wall, he peaked into the alley from whence the sounds came.

Within, three broken clubbers lay sprawled across the ground. One clenched at his face, another writhed about in the dirt grasping at one ankle and the last was straddled by the runner herself. He watched in confusion as the girl lifted a short-bladed sword above her head and brought it down again and again. His mind suddenly went sharp as he remembered his employer's orders.

Damn! This isn't going to go over well. Better stop this before it gets too much out of hand.

A whisper from his lips, a soft clap of his hands and a burst of wind poured forth. The cloud over his mind flawed his judgment, however, and instead of knocking Jasmine clear of the poor clubber she was hacking to bits, he hit her square in the back and launched her up and out of the alley, clear across the road. She slammed into the corner of a building and fell to the ground in a heap.

Floyd hurried into the alley, panic overtaking him. If he had killed the girl on accident, his employer would cut him into thin strips of meat and dump the remains in the poorhouse stew. As he approached, the clubber that the runner had been beating on scrambled to his feet. He wrenched a knife from his side and, a mask of rage consuming his bloodied and scarred face, stumbled toward the fallen form of Jasmine.

Oh no, I didn't really think about that. If I haven't already killed her, he certainly will. I supposed it's up to me to finish this.

Reaching out to his unseen ally, he formed invisible ropes from the air. Those ropes lashed about the legs of the clubber, entwining him and yanking his feet high above his head. That head connected solid into the ground and his body went limp. Floyd let the ropes fade once more. Turning, he saw the other two clubbers staring at him wide-eyed.

Umm... what to do with you two then?

Lacking a clever resolution to the problem, Floyd bolstered the wind and drove it beneath them. The resulting torrent sent the two flying into the air and onto the nearest rooftop. A pair of loud thumping noises informed him that he had been a bit overzealous and that the clubbers had probably fallen a good ten feet further than he had intended.

Staring at the chaotic mess that surrounded him, Floyd sighed.

Gods' graces, I've done it again...
XV. Consequences

The incessant throbbing in her shoulder finally dragged Jasmine back to consciousness. Opening her eyes, they confirmed what her nose had already told her, that she was laying amidst the garbage of a refuse-strewn alleyway. Rising from the ground was painful to the point of almost causing another blackout. Jasmine's shoulder was thoroughly broken and each movement brought a wave of agony and flashes of light into her field of vision.

When at last she had managed to maneuver her body into a sitting position, Jasmine surveyed her surroundings. She was not in the same place where the fight with the Bloodrazors had taken place. In fact, if her memory served correctly, she was not in Bloodrazor territory at all. Struggling to her feet, Jasmine made her way slowly to the alley's mouth, glancing out at the surrounding buildings and trying to get her bearings. As far as she could tell, she had come to somewhere around ten blocks east of where she had originally passed out. How she had negotiated her way all that distance eluded her.

Can't remember walking all this way... course I'm beat up pretty good. Maybe it's like being blacked-out drunk and the body just goes when the mind turns off? Whatever it is, I'm lucky to not be laid out next to that mess I made. Can't figure why I lost it... Loran and Stub deserved what they got, but I should know to not be such an infant about things like that. It's like my head shut down altogether.

After finally gaining her bearings, Jasmine began the long walk to Rita's. If the pain was any indicator of her condition, the injury might be one that even her unusual healing couldn't handle in time for the next job. Dwervin would be furious with her once he learned that he would need to find someone other than his star runner. Jasmine did not look forward to that conversation.

Each step was a nightmare of pain, every footfall jarring Jasmine's shoulder and lancing agony through her skull. Several times she felt herself on the verge of another blackout. To keep herself from succumbing, Jasmine concentrated on the taste of blood that still lingered in her mouth. It was a steady reminder of the way she had cut Loran up, of the vengeful execution she had dreamed of for so long.

Well, what's done is done and too bad I didn't have time to finish the job. What in the nihil hit me back there? It couldn't have been Stub, he couldn't even walk. And if he'd of hit me then I wouldn't have woken up at all. Or if I did it would've been someplace that doubled as my tomb. Maybe that runner I saw? Maybe he came back and pulled me out of there? If that's the case, I owe him a lifetime of debts.

Almost an hour later and Jasmine at last spotted the bathhouse. Plodding the last few steps to and through the entrance, she approached the check-in counter.

She flashed the maid behind the counter a weary grin. "A little help, if you'd be so kind."

Rita retrieved Jasmine personally, bringing along two young men to help carry the runner up the stairs to the matron's special treatment chamber. The men, barely more than boys, were covered in soot and smelled of smoke, no doubt shovelers in the building's furnace room. They lifted her small frame as if it weighed nothing. Jasmine wondered idly at what it must feel like to have so much strength in one's arms, to be able to lift things so simply.

A few minutes later and she was laid out on a bed of elevated wooden planks - Rita's version of a cutting table. Rita called in Deirdre and the two set to work unfastening Jasmine's night leathers. Another maid, one that Jasmine didn't recognize, entered briefly to open some sort of vent. Heat flooded the space beneath the planks, warming the runner's aching frame.

Once her leathers were removed, Rita set to poking and prodding, examining Jasmine's body for any wounds that weren't obvious to the eye. When her hands came to the runner's shoulder, Jasmine let out a groan and felt the threat of blackness returning.

"Well," Rita began, "you're in decent enough shape except for that shoulder."

She fished around in her apron pocket, removing something and placing it into Jasmine's mouth. The all-too-familiar taste of iorna caused Jasmine to gag.

"Down it goes, girl. I'll need to take a better look at your shoulder and you'll be grateful for it once I start moving things around."

The drug set in within the minute and the pain in Jasmine's shoulder faded to a dull throb. The runner's mind distant from her body, Rita dug her hands into Jasmine's shoulder. The young rogue could feel a dull throb as the bathhouse matron massaged her collarbone, could hear an odd grating noise that seemed to reverberate right through her body and into her head. A sigh and a curse from the matron's lips informed Jasmine of the severity of the situation.

"I'll need to get a cutter," she stated, irritation in her voice. "Your odd healing has put the bone together improperly. They'll need to break it again and make sure it goes together right this time. Best to hurry, before it mends more than it already has."

A cutter? Never needed one of those before... I must truly be moving up in the world.

While Jasmine lay on the table, staring at the undulating ceiling through her iorna-induced haze, Rita went about her business. The runner could hear words being exchanged between her and Deirdre, though her mind refused to care for the details. Aside from the strange and distant shadow-pain in her shoulder, Jasmine's felt her connection to the outside world fading. In her mind's eye, a boy named Loran stood above her, a knife in his hand. He swung it down on her three times, once removing an ear, then two fingers and finally driving it through the front of her skull. She knew that the memory was wrong somehow. The players were the same, but she couldn't figure out what the truth of the matter was.

I think I have to talk to someone about something... Dwervin? Yes... a job. I'm late for a job. What's taking so long? I've been lying here for hours it seems. Just patch me up and let me go home already.

Time moved outside of Jasmine's awareness. She had no idea how long she'd been lying there, but eventually realized that a sheet had been placed over her body and a man's face loomed above.

"Drugged up, is she?" the man asked. His voice was a quivering whisper and to Jasmine it sounded as if the man were excited, or possibly mad.

"Iorna," came Rita's reply from somewhere off to Jasmine's right. "Just one leaf. If she needs more she can take it. This one is stronger than she looks."

"Yes, it seems so. If her bones are mending even before you managed to set them, she is a strong child indeed."

Deirdre's voice interrupted the exchange. "Dragon's blood," was all she said.

Jasmine's mind cleared, her thoughts became lucid. She turned her head toward the sound of the bathmaid's voice. The aching in her shoulder warned her against the movement, but Jasmine ignored it. She spoke to the blurred figure she reasoned to be Deirdre. "What? What did you say?"

There was a pause, and then, "I read in a book that some people... some have the blood of dragons in them. They can do things, like use magics and..."

"Deirdre, hush," Rita stopped her. "You have notions above your station. Just because you spend your spare hours with the Historians doesn't mean you're a scholar."

Deirdre's explanation went unfinished.

"No," Jasmine insisted. "I'm paying my coin for this, I'll hear what the girl has to say. Tell me Deirdre. Whatever it is you've read."

Another pause ensued as, Jasmine reckoned, Deirdre waited for her mistress's approval to continue. Finally, she resumed. "I've just... it's said that the dragons - the gods of the soil and the air and fire and such - they leave a mark in the world. And sometimes that mark is on a person. It's... maybe that's why you're the way you are. As in the way you heal and your teeth and fur and..."

"That is enough," Rita snapped at the girl. "I'll have no more talk of magic and dragons here. You want the priests to catch wind of this and think Jasmine is some sort of sorcerer? They'll have her head on a pike before you can say sorry."

"I'm sorry, mistr..." Deirdre began.

"Don't be sorry, be silent."

Jasmine made to protest once more, but as she opened her mouth Rita shoved two fingers into it. The bitter taste of iorna overwhelmed her again.

"Dragon's blood, hmm?" the cutter spoke. "I'm not partial to such tales myself, but the girl certainly is an interesting specimen. More likely she comes from the stock of some old Southern race. Or perhaps even the blood of the Suo runs through her veins, though Suo are rare enough even in Porsham Grand and I've never heard of one breeding outside its own people."

"This talk is _done_ ," the tone in Rita's voice made it plain that she would tolerate no more discussion of Jasmine's heritage.

"As you wish, matron," the man returned to the task at hand. "In order to reset the bone properly given the subject's... _unique_ regenerative properties, I shall have to cut a window through the flesh of her shoulder. Therein, I shall break the bone once more and attempt to clamp it in place while whatever mechanism her body uses to bind it is undertaken." A brief pause. "It will take some time and will be quite painful. Also, quite risky. The chance of the body becoming tainted is almost certain. Under normal conditions, of course. I am relying on the girl's accelerated healing to handle the burden of potential complications. If she is indeed as resilient as you say, then there should be none."

Rita leaned over Jasmine and looked her in the eyes.

"I hope you're hearing me through that haze of yours." It took all of Jasmine's remaining concentration to put Rita's words together and comprehend their meaning. The matron continued. "I'm guessing you'd be better off if your arm didn't work and you had to put aside your idiotic notions of running roofs, but I also know you'd probably try to slit my throat in my sleep if I didn't try to fix you, no matter the cost."

Jasmine nodded, though at which part of the speech even she wasn't quite sure.

"So ready yourself for some pain," Rita continued. "Even that much iorna isn't likely to numb it all." Her head once again disappeared from Jasmine's view. "Go ahead then. Deirdre, help me to hold her still in case she starts thrashing."

Jasmine half-felt hands on her chest and arms. Another pressed down on her forehead. The distant echo of metal chiming against metal reached her ears. In the haze of nothingness she rested, until pain reawakened her - a sharp, lightning pain that drowned out all thought and other sensation. Her body flailed, trying to break free from the seemingly iron grip of her aggressors, but to no avail. Within a few moments, blackness had taken her down into its embrace once more.

Asleep, Jasmine dreamed of being chained to the ground while ghysts poured liquid fire over her skin.

Following the surgery, Jasmine was in no condition to find her way home alone. Rita had given her yet another dose of iorna, along with a small bag of the foul-tasting drug and instructions to use it whenever the pain became too much to bare. After Jasmine handed over the disagreeable sum of six gold rils for cutting and mending, the bathhouse matron instructed one of her shoveler boys to carry the runner home. Jasmine despised letting people know where she laid her head, but in this case there was little choice. Between the drug and the pain, she was more than likely to become lost or pass out in some alley before reaching her flat. Once she had been delivered safely to her sanctuary, a few silver wrens sent the boy on his way with lips sealed.

The wounded shoulder had been wrapped tight and her arm placed in a sling while she was still unconscious. Even if she had managed to battle through the pain, movement of the afflicted appendage was near impossible. Some sort of black concoction had been applied to the bandages which had caused them to stiffen up, becoming hard as the plaster that coated the walls of her flat. With no way to run and a head full of iorna, Jasmine lay on her bed and drifted in and out of sleep. When she awoke, she would remain so just long enough to put another leaf into her mouth and return to her blessed black and empty slumber.

How much time had passed when Jasmine opened her eyes to see Dwervin's face was a mystery to her. All she knew was that there was no light coming in through the windows, so it was night. Her shadow-world employer sat in the flat's lone chair, leaning back, his eyes on the many trinkets that covered her desk. In his hand he held the silver knave she had snatched, absent-mindedly twirling it in his hand. Once he noticed that Jasmine was returned to the waking world, he set the keeps piece down and trained his sights on her.

"How did you get in?" Jasmine asked in a drowsy slur. "Sure I locked the door."

Dwervin raised an eyebrow at her statement. "Do I need to answer that question or will your addled mind come to find the truth on its own?"

Stupid. He's connected to the damned Eleventh Hour. There's probably not a lock that stays closed to him.

Jasmine struggled her way into a sitting position, back against the wall. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing a bathmaid's chemise. No doubt Rita had found it an unwelcome task to return her to the confines of her leathers. A satchel rested at the foot her bed, bulging with what Jasmine's surmised to be her runner's gear.

Once she was a bit more comfortable, she turned her head to Dwervin, cut straight to the reason she knew him to be there. "I've got three days. I'll heal up and I can do the job, don't worry."

"You _had_ three days." He replied. "Two days ago. The job is tomorrow night and even if it weren't for another week, there's not a chance in the nihil that I would offer it to you after your _indiscretion_." The last word he spoke through clenched teeth.

Jasmine cursed the cloud that the numbing drugs had left lurking inside her head. She was in a difficult enough position as it was without being unable to discuss matters properly. Dwervin would have the upper hand the entire conversation and any retort she could muster would come across sounding, at best, like a juvenile whine. In her condition, Sinta could have out-argued her. She resolved herself to listening instead of speaking.

Once Dwervin realized that the usual sarcastic replies were not forthcoming, he continued. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble for me with your idiotic attack on those Bloodrazors. What stupid thought formed in your head that you should try to murder someone on their own ground and without the approval of the Eleventh Hour? Do you understand exactly what kind of reparations this will entail? If I'm going to keep you alive, I have to convince the organization that your value outweighs the need for retribution."

Jasmine continued to sulk. In her head she knew that Dwervin's words were truth, but her emotions were having difficulty accepting it. She had lost her head, leaped into the middle of battle without plan or purpose, but as far as she was concerned, Loran had gotten far less than he deserved. In Jasmine's mind, the only thing that she was guilty of was a lack of subtly.

Her tongue loosened and Jasmine spoke her mind, perhaps too freely. "The bastard had it coming. If I see him again I'll finish the job."

Fuck. I am going to die now, aren't I?

But Dwervin made no attempt to put a dagger in her. Instead he smirked and spoke again. "A personal vendetta, is it? There is little room for the exercise of personal vendettas in the East-block, little girl. Those who indulge in such activities find that their value drops in the eyes of those that matter until finally they become a liability, and thus disposable."

Jasmine managed to catch her tongue before it spat out yet another hasty reply.

"The Eleventh Hour runs the East-block in a very specific way and with very specific purpose," he continued. "We have our own laws and, though they may be unspoken, they apply to everyone in equal measure. Do you not remember your lesson in the South-block? Did you forget how things operate down there, every knife for himself and blood flowing freely through the gutters of the streets? It was like that here once too, though you were still barely arrived at the orphanage and didn't see the ugly face of it."

How did he know I lived in the orphanage? I never told him that. If Sinta opened her big mouth, I'll cut the tongue from it. More likely the old man just knows everything already. Eyes in every dark hole of the East-block.

"After many long years of work, the Eleventh Hour secured an alliance between the most prominent factions of our little city and assumed the role of its leadership. Now everyone is happy, everyone makes a profit and everyone is protected from the rampant idiocy of rogue players. You had a chance to be within that organization and carry on making more gold that your tiny little brain could conceive of. Instead, you chose to attack some clubbers in the street. Worse yet, their lieutenant had them lined up for an important job and now she'll have to find others to take their place. The same bloody way I have to find someone to replace you."

Jasmine spoke up immediately. "I can still work. It's a bit sore, but by tomorrow it'll be fine to make the run."

"Fuck your shoulder." Though his voice remained level, Jasmine had never before seen the rage boil so hot in Dwervin's eyes. "When we want something done right, we do not use a broken tool. Does a soldier march to war with a dull sword? Does the farmer in the field strap a load to a mule with only three legs?"

A tool am I? A mule? If I weren't busted up I'd show you exactly what I am, old man. Just because you can play a game of keeps doesn't mean you're better than me.

As if picking the thoughts from her head, Dwervin stated, "And then there's the matter of your inability to comprehend what's best for you. I see that rage in your eyes, you impotent little girl. How does it feel to know that you can do nothing but sit there, one arm useless, forced to listen to me tell you the truth of things? That I could cut you to ribbons where you are? That, if it were my inclination, I could call Leiber in here, have him hold you down while I did whatever I wanted and that your only relief would come when I finally grew bored enough to slit your throat?"

The rage in Jasmine had begun to subside, replaced by a feeling that she was most unaccustomed to - fear. There truly was nothing she could do. Her arm out of commission, she couldn't even attempt to climb out a window and flee across the rooftops. Chances are, she wouldn't have been able to get the window open without asking Dwervin to lend her a helping hand.

But rage ruled out over fear. "So what the pissing nihil do you want from me then?" She snapped, spittle flying from her lips. "If you're here to kill me, get it over with. I've no time to listen to your ramblings, old man. Slit my fucking throat already."

Dwervin leaned back in the chair, regarding her with appraising eyes and mouth set in a deep frown. "I'm not going to kill you. Nor torture you or anything else. If I can't resolve the issue with the lieutenant of those Bloodrazors you tore to pieces, I don't imagine I'll have to. The ones you cut up will make sure to exact their own kind of justice and they'll likely have the blades of every Bloodrazor in the East-block behind them. Matters of face are taken quite seriously by some."

The lingering panic in Jasmine's chest flared. Fear, true fear, blossomed within her like a torrent of flame. Her skin began to itch terribly. The emotion was so overwhelming that she barely registered the flash of surprise across Dwervin's face.

What now, old man? You think I can't handle myself? I'll cut them up a second time just like I did the first. I don't give a piss or a fuck what their lieutenant says. Let's see them try to hunt me down. They haven't caught me in a long time and I don't plan on letting them any time soon.

But Jasmine's attempt at bolstering her courage was futile. Normally inclined to believe her own opinion on everything, this time the terror was stronger than the bravado. She couldn't get a foothold in her own mind, couldn't check the thought and replace it with something more suitable to her preference. Stealing a glance at her hands, she noticed they had begun to shake.

"But I believe I still have use for you." Dwervin's voice was distant through the blood pounding in Jasmine's ears. "I do not sharpen a tool only to throw it away the first time it blunts. For that reason I will be speaking with the Bloodrazors about solving this little problem."

Jasmine looked up from her hands. All traces of rage had fled from Dwervin's face, replaced by the calm and collected mask that he normally wore when talking business. Behind his eyes she could see something odd lurking, something familiar and foreign at the same time. But it was impossible to puzzle out in her addled state.

"But there are conditions." He paused to let the words sink in. "You will be grounded for the next month. Not only will you receive no jobs from me, but you will accept no freelance work as well. Understood?"

Jasmine nodded in silence.

"In addition, you will remain off the rooftops completely until I give you leave. I do not wish some ambitious Bloodrazor with a hunger for gold to take up a contract on your life before I have had time to reconcile the situation. Once the issue is resolved, you can get back to running, but only for the purpose of renewing your edge."

Again Jasmine nodded.

"Also, I have taken fifty gold rils so that I may make an offering of compensation to the Bloodrazors you cut up. Hopefully they will accept it and we can all move ahead and get back to business as unusual."

The idea of losing fifty coins in addition to the hundred she had already pissed away due to her injury made Jasmine livid, but once again she nodded in agreement.

Still have more than two hundred rils lying around. Like it or not, I can make due for a month. You already pissed this one up good, Jasmine. Better take your lumps, keep your trap shut and just wait this shit of a mess out.

Seemingly satisfied, Dwervin answered her nod in kind and rose from his place on the chair. He looked down at her, a stern expression upon his face. His eyes were unreadable but it was obvious to Jasmine that he was harboring doubts as to his generosity. The uncomfortable evaluation lasted a few seconds and then Dwervin walked to the door of the flat.

He paused one last time before leaving and half-turned. "Be aware that just because I am approaching this incident through the proper channels it by no means guarantees that the Bloodrazors you attacked will not seek their own vengeance," he warned. "I advise that you stay inconspicuous during your hospice, lest they find you at an inopportune time."

His speech finished, Dwervin opened the door to leave. Jasmine spotted the familiar form of her employer's favorite mercenary, Leiber, standing dutifully outside. Once the door was closed and her visitor long gone, Jasmine sank back into the bed. She chewed another leaf to put herself under, but sleep would not come.
XVI. Broken

Though restless and agitated by Dwervin's timely visit, it was only hunger that finally drove Jasmine from her fitful rest. Careful to avoid strain to her wounded shoulder, she rose from her place on the bed. Using her one good arm, she managed to sift through the wardrobe of clothing and find something simple enough to change into without help. Ear clips and slippers finished the costume, though her hair was another matter. She tore through the tangles as best she could in her crippled state, but thirty minutes of struggling only brought her to the conclusion that the indulgence of vanity was not worth the effort. It was just a short walk to the nearest street-vendor that sold something at least passably edible and the gods could take whoever found her haystack of a head offensive to their sensibilities.

The trip itself proved more daunting than the preparations. Jasmine's new flat was on the fifth floor and each footfall of the long, slow descent jarred her shoulder and brought a fresh jolt of pain. Once she reached the street, the walk became somewhat easier. Altogether, a trip that normally would have taken the runner ten minutes at the most consumed nearly an hour. When she finally returned from her laborious struggle, she carried a sack full of roast gulls and potatoes, enough to keep her from having to repeat the frustrating journey for at least a day.

Resuming her place in bed, the runner devoured her prize with enthusiasm. When the pain in her belly at last began to deter her from further consumption, Jasmine lay down and drifted into a half-slumber, the blissful drowsiness that accompanied a well-sated stomach. And each time her mind returned to at least a semi-lucid state, she repeated the routine.

At some point during the night - Jasmine wasn't at all sure what the time was - there came a knock at the door. Only two people knew where she lived, aside from Rita's boy, and only one of them was inclined to announce his arrival. It was BeRem outside her flat, Jasmine knew. Whether she was in a mood to let him in or not was up for debate. She dwelled on the possibility for few moments before she finally climbed from bed and let her foppish boy in.

"You look like the nihil itself broke loose on you," he started in as Jasmine shuffled back to the bed. "Take a fall during a run?"

Settling in on the soft mattress, she answered his inquiry with a glare. "I never fall while I'm on a run."

Closing the door behind him, BeRem nodded, his expression a bit too patronizing for Jasmine's tastes. "Well, it must have been something."

Jasmine noticed that the young seductor was dressed a little nicer than usual. His normally stylish yet frayed clothes had been replaced with fresh silks and velvets of muted blues and greens. His hair had been recently cut and his chin freshly shaved. On his feet, boots polished to a shine and looking as if they had just been retrieved from the cobblers.

A good last few nights, eh? Looks like you found yourself a pigeon or two. Though whether you took them at the table or to bed is another matter. At least you know where home is, when all is said and done.

"Good night?" Jasmine asked candidly.

BeRem seemed taken aback. It took him a few seconds to realize the intent behind her question.

"Why yes," he responded, the practiced smile alighting once again upon his face. "Found a nice little gambling hole out near the east avenue. Traders coming in for the mid-summer festival. Lucky for me, none of them too wise on the best way to play a hand of strife. But I suppose with what I took off them last night I won't be seeing an invite back to their table." He finished the boast with a wide grin and a firm slap to the purse at his side.

You'd tell me you were gambling regardless, wouldn't you? Can't be honest about your other trade. Already told you I don't care, so what's the big deal? I talk about my work all the time...

"You're just in time to help me out, lover." Jasmine offered him a too-wide, toothy smile. BeRem froze, his boastful cheer replaced with trepidation. "Nothing too dangerous, so stop looking like you're staring down the Beast's maw. It might be a bit of hard work, but I'm sure you can handle it just fine."

"Uhh..." he hesitated to ask the obvious.

"I've been laid out here for more than two days. I'm starting to feel like I've been rolling in a midden pit and there's no way for me to get to Rita's to fix it. I'll need you to get me a wooden tub and bring it up here. Then it needs to be filled with hot water."

BeRem relaxed once more. "Well that's easy enough. I'll hire some boys to bring the water from the bathhouse. If I try doing all that myself you'll end up with cold water before I'm half done. And I'll likely end up with a bent back."

Jasmine nodded her approval. Pointing to her purse, still laying open from when Dwervin had raided it, she said, "Take what you need from there. Shouldn't cost you more than a handful of coppers for all."

Ignoring the purse, BeRem approached the broken rogue and sat next to her on the bed. He leaned in toward Jasmine, so suddenly that it caused her to flinch. Deftly, he planted a kiss on her forehead.

He stared into her eyes with some small degree of amusement at her startled reaction. "I'll get the cost of this, love. You've taken a hit and I'm doing well for myself so I think it's about time I paid back your good will and patience."

Jasmine was stunned. She had never seen the fop willingly agreed to pay for anything unless he felt himself backed into a corner. That he had offered in spite of Jasmine's purse being laid bare for the pillaging was, in her mind, nothing less than divine intervention.

"You sound sicker than I am," she voiced her doubts openly. "Sure you're not with fever? You don't smell like you've been having an afternoon slosh-up. Not that that'd open your purse regardless."

BeRem responded with a laugh, loud and hearty \- another anomaly in behavior. "I admit that I've not been the best of men when it comes to certain things, so you have more than your fair share of reasons to cast doubt on my motives. But I assure you that it's just the odd bit of generosity working around inside me. Like I said, I hit really big the other night and I'm ready to put in my end of the bargain. At the very least, I'd like to get things square between us before I have to start borrowing money from you again." He finished with a wink and wry grin.

Will wonders never cease? Give the man a purse full of gold and he's dressin' smart, talking smart and head-in-the-clouds. Course, how's that different from me? Or from anyone? If a body has coin, she's got less to worry about. Maybe BeRem just finally found enough coin to sate his need. Or maybe he's just pitying me since I'm all laid up. Man doing a man's job for his helpless little lady?

The thought of being pitied or, worse yet, being one of BeRem's maids made Jasmine clench her teeth. BeRem looked confused at her seemingly out-of-place reaction.

Jasmine spoke quick to mask her thoughts. "Sorry, the shoulder really is bashed up pretty awfully. Even sitting and standing makes it piss fire."

The explanation seemed to satisfy him well enough. He leaned in once more for another kiss on the invalid runner's forehead and then stood to leave.

Flourishing his arms, BeRem put on a gentleman's accent. "Want for nothing, M'Lady! I shall be back within the hour to bestow upon you the gift of warm water that it may remove from you the ripened smell that begins to permeate your apartment."

Jasmine scowled, but BeRem's observation was all-too truthful. The iorna had been bleeding through her skin in a solution of sweat, soaking her bedclothes and blankets. A sickly-sweet stench had grown and festered and created a miasma of odor that clouded her flat. In her drug-induced haze, she'd not truly acknowledged it until BeRem pointed it out. Jasmine's nose wrinkled.

"Do me another and open some of these shutters before you go," she added.

True to his word, BeRem secured a wooden tub and hired on two of Rita's boys to bring up buckets of boiling water to fill it. To his credit, he carried the tub to the flat himself, though Jasmine suspected that he had hired someone else to bring it to the fifth floor landing and then hauled it the last few feet on his own for show. Another surprise, BeRem had purchased a tub worthy of a properly luxurious soaking. As opposed to the tiny buckets that most in the ghetto used, the one he delivered was a container large enough that Jasmine could have almost lain down in it, had her shoulder not demanded a more conservative positioning.

Once the tub was filled with the steaming water, Jasmine stripped down and took her place in that haven from all the world's troubles. Dwervin, the threats of Bloodrazors, a lighter purse and even the thought of being banned from the East-block rooftops all seemed distant, if only for a short time. It wasn't quite the bathhouse, but she made due by having BeRem attend to the duties of washing and combing her hair. Despite his lack of training as a bathmaid, he worked the tangles out of her mane well enough.

It seems you do have more than two talents after all. Now if I could keep you from escaping, we could make a go of this. When I finally take my place at the head of a lord's table, you'd make a fine servant and lover on the side.

The minutes stretched by, Jasmine's mind wandering once again in the imagined tales of future Ladyship. Her bliss was interrupted when BeRem at last broke the silence.

"We could move away, you know," he began. Jasmine was startled to attention, jarring her shoulder and sending a lance of pain through her head.

He continued, undeterred. "Porsham Grand isn't the only place in Dlorwyn. Not the only place in Walfen for that matter. With the money I've made and what you've got saved up, we could travel around. See the biggest cities in the north. Maybe sail south or east and see whatever it is they have there."

Jasmine's words failed her. She would never have expected to hear talk of that sort from any mouth, aside perhaps from Sinta. It was certainly unexpected to hear it coming from her relentlessly unreliable lover.

His romantic daydreaming tune played on. "There's a solid guild down in Vah Traex from what I hear. Maybe not as profitable as it is here, but you're expert enough at your trade you could find work without much trouble, I'd imagine. And me, I can find a gambling table no matter where I go and from there it's just a dice-toss away to the nearest mark."

"Or maids to swindle of their not-so-hard-earned coin?" she asked, voice tainted with unintended cynicism.

"Well..." he began and then stopped. A moment later he continued, but with an uneasiness in his tone that Jasmine was not accustomed to. "I suppose I wouldn't have to continue along the lines of that particular trade. Between you running and me playing cards, there wouldn't be any need. Unless ill luck struck, of course. But it always pays to have something to fall back on."

Jasmine was incredulous to every word that came from her lover's mouth.

Has the rake taken a heartfelt fancy to me then? Is he ready to run off and wed, two rogues stacking coins as they fly from city to city? Maybe I could even bring Sinta along, a surrogate daughter. What a farce. The boy has stars in his eyes. Romances are for fools and only come to foolish ends. Likely we'd end up coinless and in the streets and he'd be turning tricks for old men like any corner whore.

Her response to BeRem was less abrasive, however, than her thoughts. "You're dreaming, pretty-boy. It's taken me years to get a name here. I'd not be able to jump right into the game in any city, especially a big one. Not without attracting the attention of people we'd not want noticing us. And I don't know how much you've sitting around, but my purse is less than two-hundred rils filled. With your appetites, it'd likely run out in a month."

Jasmine could feel BeRem's touch on her shift, become less tender, more distant. She may have crushed the starstruck fop's fairy tale, but it was practicality that ruled the world in which she lived. A lie over running away with him would have escalated into more. If he really was becoming infatuated with her, the end result would end up messy and unwelcomingly complicated.

Still, there was a part of her that considered his proposal, if only for a moment. Even if they came to naught within the span of a month, the adventure of new cities and new skyscapes to explore pulled at her in some way she couldn't explain. To make matters stranger, Jasmine felt as much attraction to the idea of journeying across the wilderness as she did to any particular destination. A certain wanderlust was burgeoning within her. It was a feeling that she vehemently opposed, if only for the sake of having one less complication to occupy her already crowded thoughts. In the end, however, she was unable to resist the urge to give in, if only a bit.

"I'll think on it," was all she said. BeRem seemed satisfied enough and went back to devoting his full attention to Jasmine's moment of comfort.

Over the next week, as Jasmine's shoulder knitted, BeRem became a more present fixture in her day-to-day life. He fetched her food each morning, afternoon and night, ensuring that she always had something hot to eat. When she felt the need for a bath, he made the arrangements and performed his duties as surrogate bathmaid. When extended confinement raised within the runner an irrepressible agitation, he would lay with her in bed and talk. Acts of a more intimate nature, much to Jasmine's dismay, still brought about more pain than they were worth. She was limited to contenting herself by lying next to him and enjoying his warmth. As a consequence of the near-constant interaction, BeRem had taken to staying over during the nights, the better to take care of whatever needs arose.

They spoke frequently during those ten days, and Jasmine found herself talking more and more of things that she had previously revealed to no one. Her distrust of the seductor still lingered, but each day his actions seemed to confirm his words. And each day Jasmine's tongue grew a little looser, her words a little truer. There were, of course, things in her life that she would never speak of, not even to a star-struck boy that she had wrapped around her finger, but relating whispers of her history at all was not a practice that Jasmine made a habit of. When people knew who you were, they knew what to expect. Predictable shadow-players more often than not turned into dead shadow-players. Yet still, stone by stone BeRem carved away at the wall that surrounded her and prised loose the secrets she kept hidden away within.

Jasmine's unnaturally quick healing put her twice-broken shoulder back together long before it should have been. BeRem didn't know the extent of her abilities, so she had kept up the wounded act in order to keep him around a bit longer, but by day eleven it could no longer be concealed. There was a need to get back into shape and ready to make the next run and the sooner Jasmine was able to start, the better.

The first day left her quite exhausted. Ignoring her own good sense as well as BeRem's cautionary advice, Jasmine had pushed herself during her daily exercises and caused the shoulder to knot up terribly. At the end of the night, she found herself once more laid out in bed, though entertaining a pain of a different sort. BeRem, ever eager to prove his lack of sense, scolded her for failing to heed his warnings. Bringing attention to her failures sent the runner into a rage and she almost broke the skin on his head when she snapped a silver coin his way in an effort shut him up. After the near-miss, BeRem extricated himself from the flat under the pretense of fetching food. When he came back with not only food but two bottles of strong Mironian wine, Jasmine's mood improved significantly.

An hour later, the couple lay nestled in bed, thick comforters piled atop their bare skin. One of the two bottles was empty and the second was fast approaching the half-way mark. BeRem sipped his from a fancy-looking glass that he had no doubt stolen from some maid's house, while Jasmine drank straight from the bottle. Despite being the invalid of the pair, the young girl managed to outpace her lover by quite a few drinks - three of hers for every one of his, to be exact.

In her inebriated state, her mind began to dwell on all the whimsical plans that the starstruck fop had expounded upon during his previous moment of madness. She contemplated the idea of leaving the ghetto of the East-block and the city entire, roaming the vast expanse of the unknown world. Imagined sites from barely heard-of cities filled her head. Jasmine daydreamed in her drunkenness of magnificent castles and estates, of cities built entirely of veined marble, of places where prosperous thieves slept on mattresses of spun gold. They were foolish notions - she realized this even as they came to her - but the conjuration of images passed the time. As she related each fanciful idea to BeRem, he listened and commented. Despite the ridiculousness of many of her descriptions, Jasmine did not once hear scorn in her lover's voice. He rode the daydreams with her, content to see them as she saw them, offering neither mockery nor words of admonition.

Draining the last few drops from the final bottle, Jasmine tossed it to the floor and burrowed in closer to BeRem's warm body. The wine had relaxed the knotted muscles of her shoulder and was settling its drowsy haze over her mind. Deep in the languid state of half-dreams, Jasmine felt as if her lover's flesh was merging into her own. It became difficult for her to determine where her body ended and his began. They were two living forms melting into one, like heated wax. The feeling of connection was an unusual one for Jasmine. She felt as if some forgotten desire was clawing its way around her insides, twisting her in some unknown way. If not for the wine, she might have recoiled from the feeling, but the spirits flowing through her convinced her to forget, allowed her to simply fade into that single moment.

"You're the first I've lain with, you know," she said for no reason in particular. "Well, willingly of course," she amended.

"Willingly? A previous line of work you've failed to elaborate on, my dear?" he asked jokingly, not realizing the meaning of her words until his own had already passed his lips. His body tensed against hers.

Jasmine laughed at fop's failed humor and subsequent panic.

"I grew up in the orphanage, you twit," she explained. "I've told you that. What do you think happens when a young girl's locked up in a prison with a bunch of boys just learning what their swords are for? I was quicker than most though. I knew where to hide and could climb and was small enough to fit where the others couldn't. Some of the girls didn't have it so well. One even ended up killed while I was there."

"But..." BeRem seemed confused by Jasmine's explanation. "Isn't there a matron of the house that's watching over the children? Surely there are people there to keep some sort of order?"

Jasmine snorted her derision. "The matron's a drunken cunt who thought only of how much money she could get from working us. It's where I learned to sew so well, in the orphanage. Had to have a trade and be good at it or the first time you bled she'd sell you to the brothels or worse. The girls anyway. The boys went to the mines, usually, unless they were pretty. Then they went to other brothels, the kind that service rich old men and priests.

"Being able to sew well kept me alive more than once. Matron couldn't have her prize fingers being broken. Still didn't do much for keeping the boys off me, when they could catch up. It's why my shoulder got broke, that nihil-pissing place."

"You broke your shoulder at the orphanage?" Still unaware of how Jasmine had injured herself, BeRem was more confused than ever.

"No, you twit. It was boys from the orphanage. I jumped some clubbers in the street that I recognized from the orphanage. Was beating them good too til something off happened and I woke up in an alley out of the neighborhood and my shoulder broken up. I see them again, I'll finish it for good."

"Isn't there some sort of unwritten code that keeps the factions from tearing each other's throats out? I mean, it sounds like vengeance is fair enough in this case, but you could end up with a slit throat for your troubles."

"I'm too good for that," Jasmine stated plainly. "My employers know I'm good and they'll protect me. An expert runner is worth more than a couple of clubbers any night of the year."

"Still," BeRem pressed the matter, "it might be better to just let it go. At least until you're further up the ladder. Or maybe just hire someone from another block to take on the job. Keep it anonymous. You've plenty enough coin for that."

Jasmine turned her head to look BeRem in the eyes. "I'll not give the satisfaction to anyone else." She pulled away from him, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. "When I was just barely in my eighth summer, those clubbers, Loran and Eger, they and three of their pack cornered me in the orphanage kitchens. I'd never been one to take the lie-down without a fight and they knew it. So they always brought as many of the bigger boys as they could.

"That night, Eger had a notion to try something he'd heard about from some whore or another. The cronies pinned me while he tried to shove his cock in my mouth. Bad idea for him. I bit the end of it clean off, sent him screaming and bleeding. The other boys were so thrown off that I managed to break free. There was a pot of oil sitting on the stove, being boiled up for the night's cooking. I spat the tip of his cock right into it, fried it up like a hunk of cheap meat.

"Loran didn't like that so much, a little girl cutting up one of his mates. The boys grabbed me before I could run and held me down. Loran and one of them pulled the pot off the stove and dumped it on me, drowned my whole body in it."

Jasmine paused, realized that she was trembling with the memory.

"It... it was like my skin had turned into fire itself."

The shaking worsened. BeRem pulled closer and stroked her hair in a futile attempt to calm her.

Her voice quivered, self-control fallen victim to the excess of wine. "I should have died there, as bad as I was burned. Loran probably would have finished the job but another boy, Daniel, he showed up in time and ran them off. He got the matron and helped them move me. I remember the matron having to cut and peel away my clothes and the skin coming off with the strips. She should have put olive oil on the burns, to calm them, but I was dead as far as she was concerned, so it would have been a waste of coin. I was left to die.

"I spent most of the week lying in bed, pain in every inch of my skin. Since I was already dead, the matron told them not to feed me. It would have been another waste. But Daniel snuck me some food and kept watch over me. I was sure that Loran and Eger would be back to finish the job, now that they had me where I couldn't run. But they never came or if they did Daniel must have kept them away."

By this point the memory was overwhelming her completely. Jasmine felt her eyes begin to water, a somewhat bewildering sensation.

"Eventually I healed up. My body did whatever it does and the skin grew back and the scars faded. Inside of the week I was back in working order, all ready to start sewing away for the matron again. She was pleased at that, but a bit spooked too, given that I didn't die and didn't even have a single scar to show."

Jasmine laughed, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice. "Loran thought I was a ghyst for sure after that. So did the matron and pretty much everyone in the orphanage. I guess it turned out for the best, right? The matron was none-too-happy about the boys trying to kill off her best seamstress and cut into her profits. Loran and Eger, or "Stub" as we took to calling him after that, they got shipped off to be sold to the mines across the lake. The other boys stayed their distance. Except for Daniel. He stuck around until a few months later when he turned fifteen and got sent to street. Then I ran the next summer."

Silence followed the confession. BeRem continued to stroke her hair as the emotion of the recollections passed and her shaking subsided. Jasmine rubbed the tears from her eyes and cheeks, infuriated at the weakness she had let overtake her.

Finally, she spoke, her tone now distant. "I know I'm a pissing mess to deal with. I do what I do and you do what you do. We both have to make our way, and we do what we're best at. I'm always having to watch my back, dealing in the circles that I run with, so it's hard to be trusting anyone. And Sinta's always needing help and I've got to deal with that too. Only time at the bathhouse really keeps my head sorted."

Jasmine paused, considering the ramifications of her next words.

"And my time with you. You keep me calm. For whatever reason..."

BeRem leaned in, kissed her on the top of her head. For a moment, Jasmine felt as if the past were behind her, as if maybe, during that exceptional moment of resolve, she truly could let it fade to blackness and be forgotten. Within the secure embrace of her lover's arms, she drifted to sleep and dreamed of nothing.

The next morning, Jasmine awoke to find BeRem missing. Along with her purse.
XVII. Celebration

It was the morning of First-day during the half-week of Embrace, the tipping point between the ascending and descending halves of the year, and Jasmine dwelled once again amidst the warm waters of Rita's bathhouse. A few feet away Sinta sat in her own tub, soaking and splashing, her body alive with the kind of excitement that only a child could possess. She and Deirdre chatted away without tire, talking about all the wonders to be expected at the upcoming Festival of Embrace.

Jasmine bathed in silence, having refused a maid in hopes of avoiding unwanted conversation. Even if she had desired assistance, only Maryline would have sufficed given her agitated state of mind. But the young girl had already relocated to the other side of the house to begin her training as a bedmaid. Despite her desire for isolation and quiet, Jasmine found herself missing her former confidant, as if her time in the bath was somehow made incomplete by the absence. Instead of distancing her mind from the incident with BeRem, the trip to bathhouse had only reinforced Jasmine's frustration and rage.

Nearly two-hundred gold rils, maybe fifty silver wrens, a few handfuls of signets, all my best jewelry. My brace of knives, the good ones dammit. And the knave, my only trophy from the expert job that set me into the big time.

The list had been running through Jasmine's head for most of the last week, ever since her deceptive lover had robbed her while she lay in a wine-induced stupor. In truth, the loss of her money and valuables was not the runner's chief cause of distress. It was an annoyance that brought her close to spitting fire, to be sure, but there was always the promise of more coin and she had been smart enough to keep a reserve at her old flat in case of an unforeseen emergency. What truly twisted her insides was that she had been played as a mark and done it willingly. She should have trusted her instincts when she knew it was time to get rid of the fop. Instead, she had held on like a frightened child and paid the price for her weakness.

Mentally repeating the list served to focus her mind away from the feelings of naivety and self-loathing that plagued her. It also helped her keep a tab of what she planned on carving from the fop's skin once she had tracked him down.

At least my body's got back to normal. Rita's tea must of have done its job then. And with no more BeRem, there'll be no more threats of a leech in my belly. A blessing to all this bloody mess?

The sounds of splashing and laughter from the neighboring tub grated on her nerves. If she'd had her way, hunting the bastard down and waiting for Dwervin's call to work would be the only orders of business in her life, but being as how Embrace had arrived, she was obligated to take Sinta out to celebrate her birthing day.

And, she supposed, obligated to celebrate her own.

While ignoring her own birthing day would have been an avoidance of little consequence, there wasn't a chance in the nihil that Sinta would let her slip free of her months-old promise. The child had few things in her life that brought her joy and she had been talking about the festival for the better part of two months, counting down the days and weeks. Until the incident with BeRem, Jasmine had been excited in her own way, eager to see the costumes and grand festivities that the Festival of Embrace promised. Now it was just another unwelcome distraction that she would have to endure before setting her mind to more important endeavors.

"And they say that everyone runs about with great wooden cocks popping out of their 'eads!" the child exclaimed. "And that they smack each other about with 'em."

Deirdre giggled. "Well, the festival is one of fertility, young mistress. The... er, phallic totems are there to symbolize Dobaba, Bringer of Life and Bearer of the Fertile Seed. But that's only the first few days. On Third-day the effigies of Ania Tar-Sverl are brought out..."

"What's a phallic?" Sinta interrupted.

Deirdre opened her mouth to respond, but no words formed. Jasmine watched lady-like pretense war within the young maid, fighting to find a word that would explain accurately while still retaining her adherence to modesty.

Jasmine stopped the war with a blunt clarification. "It's a cock, Sin. A man's sword. His rod, his pole. The worthless bit between his legs that drags him to the brothels and leaves maids in a sorry state."

Deirdre's pale face turned scarlet.

Sinta simply nodded with understanding. "And what's a totems?"

The bathmaid had fewer problems responding to the child's second question. "It's a statue of sorts, but having a meaning that's important to a God or a spirit."

Sinta nodded again, but the look on the child's face told Jasmine that she only half-understood the explanation and was seeking to avoid seeming dull.

"But as I was saying,' Deirdre continued, eager to share her wealth of knowledge now that she had found someone willing to listen, "once Third-day arrives, the attention is turned to Dobaba's consort, Ania Tar-Sverl, the Shimmering Queen, Sculptor of the Unborn Soul. There's a big show of lighting all the phallic totems on fire and then replacing them with the clay arches of Ania. Then for Fourth and Fifth-Day, the celebration is in her honor."

"She's the golden one, right?" Sinta asked, eyes squinted and searching her memory for the answer she was convinced was lurking there somewhere.

"Yes, mistress. They paint her icons up in gold because she is the Shimmering Queen, though if books are to be believed, her true form shines forth a thousand-thousand colors. To look upon her face is to become enraptured and ensnared by her will, only released when she gives leave."

Sinta nodded, once more the slow acknowledgement of feigned understanding. Jasmine surmised that Deirdre's educated words were bouncing right off the poor girl's skull.

I really must get the girl to a tutor before too late. She's going to need to know more words than what the orphanage and the clubbers can teach her if she's to be more than just a half-wit pincher. No more money for that now though. Maybe Zakariah might take her in for a time, like he did me...

Jasmine put the thought aside for another time. The day required a focus of attention that was going to tap her will plenty enough without stray plans roaming in and out of her skull. She would be able to think on it more clearly once a few jobs had come and gone and her purse was full and jingling once more.

"Are you sure you'd not rather wait until the end of the festival, Sin?" Jasmine asked the question for what was likely the tenth time that day.

"No," Sinta snapped. "And stop asking me that. We're going today and you promised me. So no backing out and sayin' you got something to do. I want t'see the festival _today_."

Jasmine sighed. Taking a day to see the festival was enough of a waste of time. Rushing down on the first day to see armies of men parading around with replicas of their manhood protruding from their heads made the undesirable visit even more so. Following BeRem's flight with her purse, the last thing Jasmine wished to do was surround herself with wooden cocks.

"Fine," she relented once more. "But you'd have a better time once the women's half of the festival comes in."

And we'll be gawked at by every idiot in the street, given that it's only whores and loose maids that visit the festival on First-day. We're not even supposed to be there, by their account.

Jasmine left the thought unspoken. To suggest that they would be breaking decorum by attending at festival's opening would only entice the child more. In truth, the original suggestion to mark the first day of the festival as their birthing day was Jasmine's own, her personal joy at upsetting tradition being a primary motivation behind the choice. The two thought alike in some ways and shared a certain love of irreverent behavior. Regardless of the violence she was feeling toward the weaker sex, she would need to hunker down and endure, if only for Sinta's sake.

When the baths had gone lukewarm, the two toweled off and began to prepare for their excursion. The costumes of the day were two dresses that Jasmine had crafted during her time between jobs, before the injury to her shoulder. Her own was bright orange and trimmed with brown and rust-colored lace. For Sinta she had put together an outfit of yellow and white, complete with a child-sized bodice and a brand new pair of soft leather boots that Jasmine had purchased from the same cobbler who made her running boots. The cut and quality of the dresses marked her and Sinta as well-off visitors from the northeast valley. There would be fewer questions about their presence at the festival if people thought them ignorant of custom and laden with coin. Any calls to purchase their services in back alleys could be met with indignation and the city guards would be more inclined to step in if things got ugly.

Between Jasmine's hours of work and Deirdre's attention to detail in putting together the final touches, Sinta was left looking quite refined, only the vaguest shadow of her usual street-rat self.

She almost looks the lady in this costume. No dirt on the face, hair done nice. I could slip her right into a merchant's entourage and they'd not be the wiser til they realized she wasn't one of their own.

"You look like a true-born noble's daughter, Sin," Jasmine gave the praise openly.

The look on Sinta's face was a war between pride and indignation, trying to decide whether she had just been complimented or mocked. Jasmine fought to keep a straight face at the poor child's struggle.

The crowning touches to the outfits were a few bits of jewelry. Though BeRem had run off with all of Jasmine's best, the runner had still been able to find some pieces that were presentable yet affordable on her new, tighter budget. Clips to cover her ears had been the worst of it, being as how they were a foreign fashion and had not yet gained a measure of popularity in the city, but one look into the mirror confirmed that her choices had been sound. The pair would be attending the Festival of Embrace as wealthy merchant's daughters. And, if Jasmine's fingers proved deft enough, they would leave the festival a good deal wealthier than when they arrived.

Despite the sun still looming high above the horizon, the wide street of East Market Avenue was already beginning to swell with bodies. The thickening crowds bled from the main thoroughfare and into the surrounding lanes. Storefronts were fenced off for blocks in every direction, their entryways converted makeshift into stalls, narrowing the roads even further and making the crowd feel denser. People milled about, looking at the variety of festival-themed objects up for sale - wooden phalluses of all sizes, paper phalluses designed to be lit afire once the sun had set, ludicrous hats with matchstick phalluses protruding from the crowns. Being surrounded by so many cocks pulled at Jasmine's nerves. She was eager for the sun to set and the offensive tools to meet their ends at the unforgiving touch of a torch.

Although the crowds were still not thick enough to present an obstacle to movement, the threat of the pair being trampled was still a very real one. Sinta was half the height of most and Jasmine not much taller than she and, as was tradition, the ale had been flowing freely since dawn. Many of those who shambled about were less than steady on their feet.

The two grasped hands to avoid being separated, Jasmine dragging the child along to keep her from falling prey to an unmindful drunkard's timely spill. Eventually they navigated their way to the main avenue and while conditions there were little better than the side-streets, at least there was more room to maneuver.

Within a few moments, Jasmine's eyes had picked out the perfect destination for the duo. An avenue shopkeeper had, in an effort to make a few coins, closed off the space in front of his storefront and transformed it into a haven for those that wished to be away from the main tide of bodies. A small gathering of richly dressed merchants and foreigners had accumulated behind a haphazardly constructed barrier of reinforced lumber. Most stood, though some sat on small wooden stools that had been placed atop shipping crates, enjoying their elevated view of the spectacle below. Jasmine took measure of the barricaded spectators, finally judging one individual to be of a pliable demeanor.

Making her way to the wooden fence, she approached the well-dressed man. By the casually amused look on his face, Jasmine had a suspicion that the man was attending alone. His clothes marked him as a northeasterner, a double boon for the runner's needs.

"To my embarrassment sir," she addressed the man in an intentionally vague yet still recognizable northeastern accent. Startled at first, he turned his attention to the pair of young girls, large brown eyes gazing down upon them. She was unsure if it was kindness or spirits that animated those eyes but, at least for Jasmine's purposes, either one served equally well.

"This is my sister, Sorra," she motioned at Sinta, "and I am Yellowbell. We've been parted from our father. He's let his mind become drunk with spirits and wandered. You'd be so kind, we're inclined to find a comfortable place to sit until he has returned to his senses. We beg your leave to join you, good sir."

The man seemed confused at first, glancing back to where the shopkeeper stood, his hawk's eyes scanning to make sure none crossed the barrier without first handing him suitable compensation. Returning his attention to the pair, he nodded and, reaching over the barrier, lifted Sinta up and across. Jasmine's relocation followed shortly. As was to be expected, there was a fuss with the shopkeeper, but the brown-eyed man claimed the pair as nieces and slipped the shopkeeper a few overlarge, foreign silver coins for his trouble.

Within minutes, Sinta had managed to talk herself into a higher position, squatting on a crate next to a stout man surrounded by empty steins and dressed in the manner of an off-duty officer. Every once in a while he would pat Sinta on the head, flash a wide drunkard's smile and offer her a few coppers to fetch him another ale. Sinta took to her role eagerly, adopting an air of pride at being able to buy the pints as if she were going to drink them herself. That pride shifted focus once she pocketed the coin that was left over once she had bargained the ale vendor down a bit.

Looks like you'll be coming out of this with a few extra coins too, girl. A better job with your tongue than I've seen in a bit. Who knew the little banshee could sing a softer song when her spirits were high? All the makings of proper merchant, that one.

Jasmine, still brooding and uninterested in the antics of the festival crowds, contented herself to chat with the amiable fellow who had proven so useful in getting the pair away from the rapidly growing mob. She plied him with questions about his home and his journeys, all the while avoiding similar questions asked of her. As it was with all men, she found it simple enough to keep him thoroughly engrossed in the topic of himself.

The day wore on, people came and went, the crowds grew and shrank and grew again, and the sun completed its long, slow descent. Music was now pouring from the fronts of shops all along the avenue, bards and amateurs alike adding their songs to the growing din. By the time dusk had come and gone, the top of the crowd was a bobbing, swaying, prickling forest, one of every two heads topped with ridiculous cock-hats of paper and wood.

Once conversation with her benefactor (whose name she had discovered was Timbial) had slowed, Jasmine took to plying both their tongues with a steady stream of spirits. Each time they needed a refill she would offer to cover the cost, but Timbial would have nothing of it. Waving his hands about to exaggerate his generosity, he would insist that it be his own coin spent, that his trade in Porsham Grand was a great success and that the least he could do to thank Yellowbell for her companionship was to ease the burden on her purse. Of course, Jasmine's coy flirtations and some well-placed mentionings of her "rich and somewhat influential father" helped to encourage Timbial's generous nature.

After a few pints, it became apparent to Jasmine that the man was a formidable drinker. In her prideful attempt to keep up, she began to feel quite light-headed.

Seven or eight drinks later (Jasmine had quickly lost count) and the crowd in the streets had become overwhelming. The people pressed against each other in a tight swell, forming an ocean of bodies that ebbed and flowed, occasionally crashing against the barrier of her private retreat. They cascaded up the avenue and back again, the direction of their movement seemingly random. There were thirty or forty men to every woman and Jasmine would have been at a loss to spot more than a handful without either a phallic effigy on their head or a drink in their hand. The Festival of Embrace was in full swing. Jasmine had to admit that she had never seen such a chaotic sight in all her now-sixteen years of life.

Conversation with Timbial had stopped, the abundance of drink taking his mind away from his immediate surroundings. He sat on his stool, rocking his head off-beat to the cacophony of music and trying to focus on the crowd through half-lidded eyes. Jasmine decided that she could find no more distraction from the man and, courage bolstered by the ale in her blood, she leaped the wooden barrier and dived into the crowd.

It took her some time to master her footing, but eventually she puzzled out the best way to navigate the drunken horde. When they went one direction, she was inclined to follow. When bodies pressed in too tight and lifted her from the ground, she relaxed until they spread out set her down again. Her eyes scanned for breaks in the press that she could dash through in order to make progress toward one destination or another. And when a strange hand became too friendly for her tastes, Jasmine responded with an sharp elbow to the offender's short ribs.

All the while, her fingers probed the crowd, seeking out the purses of those nearest. Occasionally, they came back with a prize. It didn't take long for Jasmine to fill the dozen or so hidden pockets of her dress with other people's coin.

Individuals of all types had come out to enjoy the festivities. It was one of the only times of the year that ghetto-dwellers and aristocrats could be seen walking side-by-side, knocking silver steins against crude wooden cups in toasts of health, clapping each other upon the back and sharing lurid tales of romantic conquests. In addition, the festival had gained a wide-spread reputation for being one of the best in all the north and attracted curious foreigners from the valleys of the Far East to the distant Desselian shores. Combined with traders, merchants and travelers passing through on their way from one place to the next, the street had become an exotic stage, filled with players whose skin and costumes and dialects were as varied as the number of gods in the sky.

Amidst the sea of bodies, small islands roamed, breaks of open space created by walls of armed and armored figures. Within these empty pockets lay the rich and influential, safety sealed away from the rest of the raucous crowd by their hired muscle. Not all were inclined to rub shoulders with the sweat-stained and filthy rabble. Instead, they navigated the tide like violent and aggressive barges, pushing and jostling their way along.

At one point Jasmine spotted a circle of Northern woodsmen, dressed in thick leathers and boasting great, bushy beards with hair to match. Curiously, the clear pocket between them appeared to be empty. Jasmine dodged between the breaks in the crush, intuition fired by spirit-blindness, progressing foot-by-foot toward the mysterious gap.

Could it be? It must be! I must see!

Her suspicions were confirmed when she caught a glimpse of several small figures within the circle of men, each one dressed in clothing so garish that it would put even a House thespian to shame.

Their clothing, however, was the least of their strange features. Each stood less than three feet in height, heads protruding frontwards on long, thick necks. Their skin was moist, leathery and colored in bright patterns. One was a forest green, with tiger-like stripes of cobalt across his face. The second was brilliant orange and pocked with magenta spots of varying sizes. The last was a similar green to the first, but instead of stripes he was covered in marbled veins of rusty brown. Their mouths were wide, running nearly from ear to ear. Or rather where their ears should have been. Instead of sticking from the side of their heads like a human's would, the creatures' ears were little more than holes that spiraled inward. Finalizing the exotic spectacle were their eyes, bulbous orbs that shimmered with more colors than Jasmine could count - kaleidoscopic half-spheres that resembled exotic jewels. Atop their heads were strange little hats, conical yet flattened on the top and with long, vibrant feathers of many colors protruding from them.

Kat-Suk! I knew it! I've not seen one of them in over a year. The colors are so amazing, even if they do look more like walking toads than anything. And what's with those hats? Someone should tell them that they're wearing the same kind of hats that the tiny monkeys wear when the trainers bring them to market day. At least I should be thankful they're not wearing damned paper cocks on their heads.

Mind afire from too much drink, Jasmine took advantage of her small size to slip through a crack in the woodsmen's defenses. By the time the bodyguards realized they had been infiltrated, the fuddled runner had swept up one of the toadish merchants and was spinning him through the middle of the circle, bouncing along to the rhythm of a nearby bard's circle. The Kat-Suk's eyes bulged even wider (if that were possible), but his feet moved in time. Much to Jasmine's disappointment, the dance was short-lived. One of the guards plucked the runner away from her dancing partner and set her gently yet firmly down amidst the crowd once more. She flashed him a sharp-toothed grin and poked her tongue out and then laughed loudly at the bewildered expression on his face. Spinning in place, Jasmine slipped back into the celebrating mob.

Thoughts of BeRem's betrayal had almost completely fled her mind. Whenever she felt the urge to dwell and the outrage threatened to return, she exchanged some pilfered coin for a cup of whatever concoction happened to be selling nearby. Light-headed and in high spirits, Jasmine pranced through the throng for what seemed like hours. Eventually, exhausted and spent and a bit unstable on her feet, she paused to catch her breath.

The crowd had finally thinned out a bit, the early comers having stumbled home in a daze or found their way into a brothel, and Jasmine took the opportunity to survey the scene before her. People shuffled around, some of them a pint away from unconsciousness and others still filled with fire. As she observed, the sound of bells resonated through the air, echoing up and down the streets and alleys from a dozen points of origin. It was the signal that the burning should begin.

The vapor lamps that lined the avenue dimmed all at once, the street draped in shadows by the will of some hidden hand. Shopkeepers and guards alike began producing candles and lighting them with matchsticks, careful to avoid singeing the festival-goers that wandered too close. They then handed the candles to whoever happened to be nearest. Those receiving the candles touched them gingerly to the towers of paper and matchsticks that topped their hats and then passed them along. Within minutes, the forest of fertility was aflame. Pain and surprise sounded throughout the street, the cries of those who became victims to the growing clouds of showering sparks and hot ashes. Jasmine was grateful she had stolen away from the crowd at a fortuitous time.

Eager to get a better view of the flaming spectacle, Jasmine climbed atop a nearby vendor's table, flipping him a silver coin to quell his protests. Below her, the blazing horde stretched out for miles in either direction, up and down the great East Grand Avenue. She regretted not thinking to find a perch on some roof or another before the lighting - the sight would have been magnificent from three stories above. But it was too late to correct the mistake. Just as quickly as the fires had been lit, they began to dwindle and the street was claimed by shadows once again.

The vapor lamps returned to life, though not as brightly as before. Jasmine surmised that since the burning was over, the guards and other city workers were eager to clear the streets of revelers. The effect was slow-going, but it proved effective. Bodies began to filter into the side-streets, emptying out the main avenue in a hundred trickling streams.

Jasmine, feet planted on solid ground once more, watched the dispersing ritual with fascination.

Though some are stubborn and stay, most just wander off. It's like they do it automatic. Either they do it without a thought or maybe they'd all rather be somewhere else.

Midway through her examination, Jasmine's attention was pulled away with a violent jerk by the sound of an explosion. Whipping her head to the side, she could see guards rushing to shut the valve on a vapor lamp. For some reason, the glass casing at the top of the pole had shattered. Beneath the lamp a couple stood, the female of the pair grasping at the side of her face, blood trailing down her cheek. The man leaned in, trying to examine the cut while he ran one hand soothingly across the back of his wounded companion's neck. Even through her drunken haze, Jasmine recognized the man's languid posture, his practiced and graceful movements, his large, hazel eyes. Her mouth spread in wide grin, teeth bared full.

Fire now coursing through her veins, Jasmine felt the cloud of spirits lift from her head. She pushed her way through the remnants of the crowd, eyes never leaving her prey. Between the cover of the milling bodies and the fact that the man's attention was focused on his fair maid, Jasmine managed to cover nearly the whole distance before BeRem noticed her predatory approach. Eyes widening in shock, he turned and sprinted into a nearby alley, leaving his bleeding lady behind, confused at her admirer's hasty departure.

Now that she had been spotted, Jasmine quickened her pace, chasing BeRem into the alley he had entered only seconds before. When she arrived, he was nowhere to be seen, though the alley was long and her eyes picked out the details of every shadow. A scraping noise from above alerted her to the fop's position. He was climbing up the side of a four-storied inn and, Jasmine noted, doing it with no small degree of skill.

So you're quicker on the roofs than you let on, eh you wrinkled prick? You're still no match for me and you know it. I'll clean you up before you make it a block.

Elated at finding her prey so quickly and invigorated with the thought of a chase, Jasmine scaled the building, from window sill to window sill, following in BeRem's wake.

"Oh, poor boy," she called up to him, "you really think you've a chance in the nihil of outpacing me in the sky? Your lying, thieving, arrogant ass is mine and there's nowhere you'll be able to run to make yourself safe. Better you just lie down and take it like a man. Though I'll be taking a piece of that manhood with me as a trophy, I promise you that."

Reaching the lip of the building, BeRem climbed over and out of sight. Jasmine was half-way up and mere seconds from finishing her own climb. Her former lover's head poked over the edge of the roof. He grinned down at her.

"So sorry, lass," The apology did not carry in his voice. "But I've no time for games with you. Maybe you'd best just accept the loss to your purse and go home, eh little girl? If you follow me up, you won't like what you find."

Letting out a low, rumbling growl, Jasmine sprint-climbed the last few feet, leaping from one sill to grab the roof's lip. But before she could pull herself up and over, pain shot through one of her hands. BeRem raised his foot and brought it down again, this time on the other hand. Fury ruling out over good sense, Jasmine held tight.

"Don't get me wrong, lass," BeRem said as he stomped on Jasmine's aching fingers, "I really hate to do this to you. It's really not my style. But your anger suggests to me that at this point only one of us will be walking away from here in one piece, and I've a fondness for my own skin that I can't be persuaded against."

For all the will that the runner possessed, it was not enough when BeRem brought his foot down again and again, crushing first one hand and then the other. After the sixth blow, her fingers failed and gave up the struggle. She fell away from the rooftop and into empty space.

At first she landed on the sill below, giving Jasmine hope that perhaps she could stop her descent. But the spirits in her blood had destroyed her balance and her feet slipped out from beneath her. One knee smashed into the sill. Acting on reflex, she reached to grab another as it sped past her. Her broken fingers latched on with all the strength left to them, but her body's jarring stop wrenched her wrist violently and ripped her grasp away. She tried to spin in mid-air, to steer herself toward the ground in a manner that might allow her to roll and lessen the impact, but her mind was afire with pain, vision blurred and unsteady. She landed on one foot, felt her ankle twist and crack, and fell in a battered heap into the dirt.

Jasmine pushed onto her back and stared up the narrow alley at the stars overhead. BeRem was leaning over the edge of the rooftop, gazing down at his handiwork. Jasmine struggled to a sitting position, staring back at him with eyes wavering from both drink and the fall. She awaited a final taunt, but BeRem simply looked for a moment and then withdrew from sight.

The runner sat in the dusty alley for some time, focusing her will. Finally, she fought through the agony of standing. The effort left her winded, forcing her to lean against the wall for some time while she built up the strength for what would be a long walk home. As she took her first step toward the alley's exit, a glint of metal caught her eye. She looked down to see her stolen silver knave lying in the dirt. Whether BeRem had accidently dropped it or intentionally thrown it at her she could not recall.

At least I got something for my troubles. Though it won't amount at all to the coin I'll owe Rita for patching me up this time. If my blood weren't what it is, I'd be dead for sure. Stupid... bloody damn stupid, stupid girl.

Groaning, Jasmine bent and retrieved the keeps piece, deposited it into a pocket of her torn and soiled dress and shuffled out of the alley with all the grace of a walking corpse.
XVIII. Secrets

Sinta finally spotted her companion stumbling out of an alley and looking as if she had just been jumped by a pack of clubbers. It was obvious that the runner had been drunk out of her head before she wandered off several hours previous and the child reckoned her friend's big mouth had gotten her into scrap that she couldn't handle. Sinta quickened her pace as she approached Jasmine, but made sure to keep her gait slow enough that the runner wouldn't think she was worried.

Spying the approaching child, Jasmine spoke. "Looks like we're done for the night, Sin. I'm off to the bathhouse to cut through more coin..."

The child's mouth opened, a curse and a reprimand on her lips, but she shut it again. Given the state of the runner, whatever had happened to Jasmine looked serious. If Sinta pressed her friend, she knew that pride might keep the older girl from leaving, if only to prove a point. So she let the matter go.

"You get jumped?" the child asked.

Jasmine shook her head. "Wanted to climb up and see everything from above. Slipped on a wet ledge and tumbled." The runner's explanation came quick, off-handedly.

I'm not stupid. I know when you're lying. I'll get it out of you sometime, you wait and see.

But again the child bit her tongue. The pair made their way slowly but surely back to the East-block and the bathhouse, Jasmine limping the entire way. Occasionally, some reveler or soldier would stop them and inquire after Jasmine's health. To each inquiry, Jasmine would reply the same: "I had a bit too much to drink and got caught beneath the crowd for a spell." Most seemed satisfied enough with her response, as it was no unusual occurrence for someone to get swept under and stomped on for a bit. Sinta had passed two bodies already that looked like they weren't getting back up, victims of the drunken mob.

Sinta glanced at her companion every few minutes, noting the way Jasmine suppressed a grimace every time she put weight on her left foot. The child could tell her friend was in a lot of pain.

Why don't you ask for help then? I could help carry you back, so you can stop making that face over and over. You'll not give me the satisfaction though, will you? Damned stupid, going to hobble all the way home rather than ask a child to help you out. Whatever. I'll not be the one to offer then. Just be in pain, infant. And you'd say no even if I did.

By the time they completed the forty-minute trip back to the East-block, Jasmine looked as if she were on the verge of blacking out. Somehow she still made it the last half-mile, only relenting to be carried once the bathhouse greeter had called up a few shoveler boys to lend their backs. With their help, the pair was set up in a private room.

As Jasmine settled in on the stone slab in the middle of the room, Sinta worked at removing her fancy dress. A struggle with the laces on her bodice proved futile, however, and the child was forced to wait until Rita arrived, Deirdre in tow. While Rita dismantled Jasmine's costume, the pale bathmaid helped Sinta with her own, finally at last removing the constricting leather nightmare.

I'll not ever know how ladies wear those things all the time. I've no breath in me because of that thing. It's a stupid idea, even if it does look nice and fancy.

Removing her new boots and shrugging out of her colorful dress, Sinta, with one last longing look, packed them away in Jasmine's satchel. She replaced them with the faded, dirty and coarse brown dress that was her usual outfit. Slipping in to her equally worn-out slippers, the child headed toward the door.

"Not staying for a bath?" Rita inquired.

"Nah," she replied. "Got to get back before the matron figures me out. I'll need sleep for tomorrow's work. No birthing day celebrations there."

Jasmine's strained voice issued forth from her place on the slab. "Happy birthing day, Sin."

Sinta paused a second, finally answered back. "Happy birthing day."

Pushing past the curtains, the child quickened her step. It was truth that she needed to get back to the orphanage in time to get a decent night's sleep, but there was something else she had to do before her return and no telling how long it might take. As she made her way down the stairs to the lower floor, the sound of arguing voices reached her. Slipping behind a curtain into a conveniently unoccupied room, the child listened in.

"...can't go up here, sir." A feminine voice protested. "This is for the ladies, I'm afraid. If you'd like a bath, please just follow me to the other..."

"I'm not here for a bath, washing wench," a grating male voice responded. "I've business with someone above and I'll be taking care of it with or without your leave."

"But, sir!" the voiced became shrill, almost panicked.

"Let him up, Tala," a third voice broke into the argument. Sinta recognized the sultry tones of Anita, though she sounded less light-hearted than usual. "Just stick to where you need to go, clubber. Keep your leering eyes out of where they don't belong."

Rough laughter from the man and then the conversation ceased. Sinta heard the sounds of heavy footsteps move past her and fade. Slipping from her hiding place, she scurried down the steps, out the front door and made her way to the Chipped Bone.

It was the first time Sinta had been in the tavern, but she had heard more than enough about it from Jasmine. The smell of the place was sour, like old milk, mixed with the bitter smoke of a dozen smoldering tobacco cones. Customers, swords and knives at their hips, either milled about trying to look tough or sat at filthy wooden tables pouring spirits down their throats. Here and there, a group rolled bones across the tables' scared surfaces and grabbed at small piles of coin when their numbers came up. An ugly, brute of a man stood on the stage and croaked out song verses in some language that Sinta couldn't understand. Everything in the tavern seemed dirty and run-down and more than one dark patch stained the worn wooden floor. Every person in the Chipped Bone looked desperate and violent and just as worn down as the floors.

It was the most amazing place that Sinta had ever seen.

Several eyes turned to regard the new addition, the small, female street-rat that had wandered in, most likely by mistake. The majority of them then went back to what they were doing, not thinking her worthy of their attentions. A few, however, stared hard, a challenge in their eyes. One fat man across the room scrutinized Sinta with his bulging eyes and licked his lips.

Slipping her hand beneath the dress and resting in on the hilt of her knife, Sinta took a deep breath, rearranged her face to look tough and walked to the bar. Climbing onto the stool was awkward, but once she had settled in she flagged down the barkeep.

Strolling slowly to face Sinta from across the bar, the thin man gazed at her with eyes that seemed as if they would have been more at home in the skull of a dead man. He said nothing.

"I've a need to see Dwervin," she said, trying to sound all business. "I've got a message for him about..."

The man held up a finger, halting the girl in mid-sentence. He shifted his eyes to something behind her, made some sort of signal with his hand and then nodded. Returning his corpse's gaze to her, he pointed to the other side of the room. Glancing over her shoulder, Sinta saw a pair of guards blocking a hallway cut off from the rest of the tavern by a thin wall of latticework. One of them stared her way, looking impatient.

Spinning on the barstool, the girl hopped down. She paused for a second, thinking, and then turned back to the barkeep. Removing a copper signet from a pocket in her dress, she placed it on the counter in front of him. The young girl locked his eyes with her most serious expression and nodded. He glanced down at the copper and back at her, blinking slowly. Sinta turned again and marched up to the clubbers blocking her path.

The well-armed men regarded her with curiosity but didn't voice any questions. They simply stood aside and let her pass. Halting a few steps in, Sinta scanned the partitioned hallway. There were five large sets of doubled shutters blocking off what seemed to be different rooms, but she had no idea which one Dwervin might be in. None of the shutters had guards in front of them nor where there any clues about who might be lurking within. She glanced back to see one of the guards regarding her, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Last one, on the left there," he said.

"They're all on the left, now aren't they?" Sinta snapped back.

All signs of levity left the man's face and he turned his back to her.

Treat me like an infant, will you? Just cause I haven't ever been here don't mean I don't know my right and left. Just tell me where he's at and that's all I need from you.

As she walked the length of the passage, Sinta's pace slowed. Her mind began to wander, to that first meeting some months ago, to the time when Dwervin had approached her with the offer of a job.

She had been walking home, just finished up from putting on another spectacle for Jasmine. The runner had meandered off to the bathhouse to have a scrape looked at, but the hour was too late for Sinta to join her. The creepy looking man had wandered out of a nearby alley and smiled at her. The child's first thought was that he was some sort of raper, looking to find easy prey in a little girl. A knife in one hand and the other hidden away and ready to draw another, she had spun to face him, affecting the same terrorizing menace that she used to warn off kids at the orphanage when they were looking for someone to beat.

The gesture of bravado had halted the man in his steps but, as he soon began to explain, he was not there to do her harm. He was, in fact, there to offer employment of a sort. Not on her back (that had been Sinta's first question, naturally), but doing what she already did. He needed someone close to Jasmine, he had explained, someone who could keep an eye on her and make sure the runner wasn't getting into too much trouble. A valuable investment, he had called her. Sinta had almost laughed aloud at the statement but was clever enough to know you didn't burst out when you were in the middle of talking business.

They had journeyed to a nearby tavern and the man - Dwervin, he had said his name was - loaded her up on all the food her stomach could hold while they talked details. The deal, he proposed, was that she would report to him anything that Jasmine did that seemed off or strange, so he knew whether he needed to help her out or not. Sometimes, he said, there would be other jobs for her, ones that paid in gold rils and might be a little dangerous. Sinta knew that danger was how you made the real money and the promise of gold had made the man's offer very tempting. It was his final offer, however, that finally brought Sinta around. Being as influential as he was, he could arrange to have a talk with the matron of the orphanage so that Sinta could come and go as she pleased. Even more so, he would make sure the guards there kept the other kids out of her hair so she wouldn't have to worry about someone sneaking up behind her. There were advantages, he had said, to working with him and her future career would be cast in gold if she played her game right.

Despite misgivings as to why the man would need a spy next to Jasmine, the offer had been too good for the child to pass up. She had heard from Jasmine's own mouth that she was working for a man named Dwervin and he seemed to match the way she had described him, so everything looked proper on that end of things. Besides, she could always just keep her mouth shut if there was something she didn't feel like telling him. After all, how would he know?

Thereafter, the two met once a week at the tavern they had first gone to and Sinta reported on the comings and goings of her mentor. At least that was the normal routine. The night of the festival, however, she was worried about her friend. Jasmine was pretty broken and not only would Dwervin want to know about it, he might be able to help her out while she healed up. He had never told her directly about his booth at the Chipped Bone, but the child had heard about it more than once from her mentor. And so she had come.

Stopping at the last shuttered booth, Sinta rapped on it lightly. Then, thinking herself meek for it, she rapped on the shutter again, this time firm and loud. The heavy wooden door almost knocked her flat as it swung open and collided with her forehead.

"Ow!" she yelped. "Be more careful. I'm here to report that something's happened, not to get a bloodied nose already."

She looked up to see a sun-darkened face, head shaved clean, staring down at her, another set of corpse's eyes resting in deep-set sockets.

Pissing nihil, is everyone here looking like they just rose from the grave? Yana worshippers, maybe?

"Let her in." A voice she recognized as Dwervin's emerged from somewhere beyond the dead man's head. He leaned back into the booth and swung the shutter the rest of the way open.

Glancing in, Sinta saw her employer sitting to one side, across from the other man. Between the two a pair of wine glasses rested and, at one end of the table, a thick and heavy-looking length of chain, rolled up and covered in some sort of vicious-looking barbs. Gathering her courage, Sinta slipped into the booth, next to the stranger, and closed the shutter behind her.

Dwervin rested his unnerving gaze upon her. "We don't have a meeting for another three days," he spoke, his voice flat. "I hope that this interruption of my time is important."

Sinta swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "It's..." she halted, looked over at the man next to her.

"He's fine. Just say what you came here to say."

"Jasmine's gotten herself broken again. Fell off a roof, she says, but I think maybe someone tried to lay her out. She's really busted up."

Dwervin sighed. "Although I appreciate your ambition in seeking me out to report, I have already heard about our mutual friend's accident. Rest assured I am dealing with it."

Sinta began to get agitated, but she held her tongue.

"For future's sake," he continued, "do not seek me out here. The chances of someone making note of your presence and inadvertently relating it to Jasmine are too great. Unless you or her are in immediate and dire danger, you will meet me where we always do. And only on the days that I instruct you to, no more. Not only are you telling me things that I am already aware of, but you are interrupting my business. Are we understood on the matter?" He locked his eyes on hers, giving off a presence that suggested to the young child that he would accept only one answer.

Sinta could feel his menace but lost her control none-the-less. "Well, you want information and I'm here to give it to you, the least you could say is a thanks. How am I knowing that you've already got people watching her? What am I doing then, just giving you an earful of what you already know?"

The man at her side barked out a laugh, his voice deep and rumbling.

Dwervin flashed him a quick glare, returned his gaze to Sinta. He leaned forward slightly.

"You can go now, child."

"Fine then, " came her retort. "Just be where you're supposed to then and don't forget my coin."

The other man's laugh resumed as Sinta pushed open the shutter and slid out of the booth. She nearly slammed the shutter closed to make her point further, but caught herself, deciding it would make her look as if she were throwing a tantrum and all the other clubbers and runners in the tavern would spot her doing it.

As she slowly closed the shutter, she could hear the deep voice of the corpse, "She's got a spirit in her, that one."

And Dwervin's reply, "More like a pint of piss. Just like her friend."

Grinding her teeth in anger, Sinta marched down the passage and, before they had time to step out of the way, pushed her way past the guards at the entrance. Stomping her way out of the Chipped Bone, she pondered on whether she had made the right decision working as a spy for the man. Which led straight to worry, as Sinta contemplated what Jasmine would do to her if she ever found out.
XIX. Unexpected Company

Once again Jasmine found herself confined to bed and under assault from an endless barrage of inactivity. Following her visit to the bathhouse, Deirdre had been kind enough to fetch a basket of fruits and other foods that would keep for a time, but they didn't last long. Jasmine's quickened healing came with an accelerated appetite and the entirety of her supplies had been devoured within the first day-and-a-half. The horrible stink of the bed-bound had also begun to set in again, ripened further by her body's expulsion of whatever drugs Rita had applied to her injuries this time around. Add to that the stress of another impending meeting with Dwervin and, all-in-all, it was not the most comfortable hiatus that Jasmine had ever experienced.

With the food finally exhausted and her water supply looking dubious, Jasmine was forced to decide on a course of action. Without food, her odd ability to heal would do little other than prompting an increased appetite. She feared that her devouring stomach would eventually begin to eat itself and the result would be a not-so-quick death to the beast of starvation. That might solve her problems with Dwervin, but it was a questionably desirable alternative.

She was running over the options in her mind, from making the long and painful journey down the five flights of stairs on her own to screaming out the window like a lunatic until someone in the street below felt generous enough to come help, when an almost inaudible knock brought her attention to the door.

With a groan and a sigh, Jasmine realized that the bolt on the door was, as always, secure. She labored to her feet, careful to keep the weight off her injured leg. With the assistance of a chair to lean on, she crossed the flat inch-by-inch. Removing the bolt was another complicated task and it took her the better part of a minute to figure out how her elbows and forearms could make up for the lack of functional hands. When the heavy wooden bar was finally raised, she backed away from the door and called out for her visitor to enter.

What awaited Jasmine took her by surprise. Standing in the hall, a basket of food hanging from the crook of one elbow, stood Maryline, though her time in the bedhouse had brought on many changes. She wore a grey and white dress with a narrow skirt, finely made though plain enough to not attract attention. Her blonde curls shimmered, lustrous with oils and wrapped with a blue kerchief to keep it from her eyes. She looked a sight different from that last time Jasmine had seen her. The young girl even carried herself with more confidence than the runner remembered.

But it was Maryline's skin that really caught Jasmine's attention. The maid's hands were clear and clean, no longer suffering from the roughness and splitting that constant exposure to the soaps, bleach and dyes of the bathhouse resulted in. The complexion of her face was equally changed, shining with a radiance that Jasmine would have never guessed she possessed. A wide, open-mouthed smile spread across the maid's face. As much as Jasmine disdained the bedhouse, Maryline looked the world better for her change of profession.

Before the runner could speak a word, Maryline sped through the door and embraced her. The basket on her arm clipped Jasmine's hand, eliciting a cry of pain. The maid jumped back, her expression flooded with fear and concern.

"Calmly, Mary!" Jasmine exclaimed. "I'm busted up, remember? But it's good to see you, for sure."

The smile returned. Maryline hurried into the room, closing the door behind her. She set the basket down and then rushed back again to help Jasmine make her way to the bed. The wounded rogue leaned on her friend, grateful for the support of her arm. Finally comfortable on the cushioned paradise, Jasmine allowed herself to return Maryline's smile.

"Miss Jasmine," the maid began to speak a mile-a-minute, "I'm so glad to see you again. It's been too long and I've really missed the time we used to spend together in the baths. But they won't let me go to the other side of the house any more of course, because I'm being trained as a bedmaid. But you already know that. It's just been so long. Though it doesn't feel like too long, it starts to feel that way once I think about you and Rita and Sinta and the other maids that I don't get to see any more except when they come by to drop off clean linens and such. We're not allowed to do the linens on that side of the house. They say that using the soaps will damage our skin and that it's bad for business. They won't even let us use soap at all unless it's a certain kind and..."

Maryline's rambling tirade continued in much the same vein for several minutes. Pleased with the newfound company, Jasmine did not interrupt, allowing the maid to freely expound upon anything and everything that touched her mind. Though most of it was of little consequence, Jasmine listened eagerly. Hearing her friend's voice brought the broken runner a joy that she had not felt since before BeRem's departure.

When at last the young maid paused for breath, Jasmine interjected, "What are you doing here? And how in the nihil did you find where I lived?"

"I'm to help you while you're injured," Maryline related, joy apparent in her voice and plain on her face. "Mistress Rita had one of the shoveler boys bring me here. I've been given time off from the bedhouse before..." She trailed off.

"Almost time for your training to end, is it?" Jasmine said, not unsympathetically.

Maryline opened her mouth, shut it again. After a few moments and a few expectant looks from Jasmine, the maid finally spoke. "No. My training will go through the end of this year. Mistress Anita says that I'm too pretty to be put in a room off the hall. She wants me to be special and work in one of the suites up top. That means I'm to learn letters and refinement and such, to act and talk like a proper lady for the special guests."

Though she still felt unease at the maid being forced into the bedchamber, Jasmine had to admit that some of the weight on her shoulders lifted with the knowledge that her friend would be under closer watch and dealing with more respectable men. Still, what should have brought Maryline relief seemed to make the maid's melancholy even more pronounced.

Jasmine decided that pushing the issue was the best tactic. "So why're you looking so upset then? Sounds like you'll be making big money, having all sorts of nice things. And Anita will keep you well under guard since you're... well, to make sure you don't get busted up."

Maryline said nothing. As if to fill the uncomfortable silence, Jasmine's stomach let loose a loud growl. The runner was suddenly aware of exactly how hungry she was and that the basket Maryline had brought with her was flooding the flat with the smell of cooked meat. Jasmine's mouth began to water.

"Grab that basket," she instructed. "And come up here to sit on the bed. I'm damned hungry and you'll talk better when my mouth is full."

After a brief struggle with her skirts, Maryline managed to position herself next to Jasmine on the bed, cross-legged and back resting against the wall. She watched in silence as Jasmine tried to eat with only one hand, and that one splinted up to near immobility. The runner winced and cursed the entire time. After a few moments the maid began to laugh. Jasmine glared at her, mouth half-filled with an overlarge hunk of roast duck.

Maryline reached over, snatching the remainder of the duck from Jasmine's hands. Meticulously, she pulled strips of meat from the carcass and placed them into Jasmine's mouth. From anyone else, the runner would have considered such an act an insult worthy of a knifing. With Maryline, however, she felt no threat. She let the blonde girl feed her as a mother bird might its baby. Her mind drifted briefly to another time, when she lay in bed, burnt half-to-death and only the kindness of a boy willing to feed her with his own hands had kept her alive.

Things seem to be going in circles a lot lately. Why am I okay with her doing this? Sure, Mary's as close to what a friend is that I'll get, but this is a bad place. Like with BeRem... let him get close and then look what happened. But Mary wouldn't put a knife in my back, right?

Jasmine's mind clouded with doubts that she did not wish to entertain. But regardless of her feelings of vulnerability and the disaster of trusting BeRem, she put those doubts from her head. That moment with her friend was one of the only good things left to her and even that would be stolen away when the maid had to return to the bedhouse. Pushing aside all feelings of apprehension, Jasmine chewed the duck that Maryline fed her, happy at least to have some small moment of solace.

After a time, Jasmine feared that Maryline might begin to tire of the task. The maid had brought a basket filled with roast duck, apples, bread and other foods, and Jasmine had not stopped eating for nearly an hour. Although Maryline did look somewhat exasperated whenever the runner would ask for more, she continued to help, as patient as she had always been when performing her duties as a bathmaid.

Finally feeling at least a measure of fullness in her belly, Jasmine let her companion off the hook. She leaned back into a stack of pillows, broken hands resting on a full stomach. Maryline licked at the juice on her fingers and looked relieved that Jasmine was at last sated.

"Tell me your trouble," Jasmine said. "I know you're upset about something but if it's not being a bedmaid than what is it?"

Maryline looked surprised that the conversation had resumed where it left off. Her mouth opened but no words came. Jasmine waited, adopting her best sisterly demeanor so as to convey to Maryline that she would not be leaving until she answered Jasmine's question and in detail.

"It's just that..." she hesitated. "I'm supposed to have my first soon." The girl's face went red beneath its frame of blonde curls.

Jasmine was perplexed. "I thought you're still training for months. How is that supposed to work? Anita can't tell the seasons proper or what?"

"Well, no. I'm not to be working in the bedhouse for many months, but since I've never lain with a man... I have to know what they speak of when I'm training so in a few weeks I'm to lay with a man while Anita... explains what is happening."

Though Maryline seemed truly distressed, Jasmine still had to fight against an impending fit of laughter. A conjured image of the innocent Maryline with a man sprawled atop her and Anita standing over the pair shouting instructions and pointing out the bits and pieces stuck in Jasmine's mind and refused to budge. She tried to banish the image but all she managed to do was replace it with a memory of her and BeRem, that first fumbling night on the rooftop outside of the Broken Crate. Instead of laughter, her mind threatened tears and rage.

"I'm to pick out one of the servants of the house in a few days. Anita says that since I'll be placed in a suite that I can have any man in the house that I wish. She's saying that I should choose someone older, because they know more about what they're doing, but..." Maryline trailed off, looked away nervously.

Jasmine picked up on the cue with little trouble. "But you've got your eye on some young lad. Maybe a shoveler with a body of rippling muscles and a sword size enough to rival his shovel?" She followed the jest with a sharp-toothed grin.

Maryline's face turned a deeper scarlet. Jasmine laughed, though she felt some guilt at making Maryline's troubles the tail of her jest.

"Look, Mary," the runner began, her levity replaced with sternness, "you've a choice of three dozen men and boys in that house. It's more freedom than most girls at your age have of their blood-lover. Me, I didn't have a choice at all of mine. And most girls here in the East-block will tell the same story of their first." She looked her friend in the eyes. "You'll be lying down for many men in the months coming. This is when you get to do something for what you want. Pick who you will and tell Anita to piss herself if she don't like the choice. Take your well-hung shoveler boy..."

"He's a stablehand," Maryline corrected. "A Westerner with beautiful crooked eyes the color of rich soil...." She blushed again.

"Stablehand then. But you take him as you wish. And don't get hung-up on him, cause Anita won't let you keep him like a pet. You might be able to sneak a hidden joust in here or there, but don't get the poor kid kicked to the street."

Maryline's spirits seemed to improve with Jasmine's speech. She nodded and smiled and, after the briefest hesitation, leaned forward and embraced the rogue. A slight moment of doubt and Jasmine returned the embrace, ignoring the pain it brought to her shattered hands.

The rest of the day and the early part of the evening they spent chatting. Maryline restocked Jasmine with food and water and even hired a few boys to fill the tub that BeRem had brought up before he made his inglorious exit. When it was finally sloshing with hot water, the former bathmaid helped the broken rogue in and commenced to scrubbing her clean. It was as if the year had been turned back and they were in the bathhouse again, ignoring for a time the cares of the outside world and talking of trivial things to pass the hour.

Once dusk arrived, Maryline took her leave.

"I am free of duties for the next two days," she informed Jasmine, "so I will come and visit again."

Another embrace ended the day and the bedmaid left. Jasmine was in much higher spirits than she had been in some time and she slept well for a change, dreams free of worry or pain.

When morning arrived, however, it was not Maryline but some girl unknown to Jasmine that arrived to help her with her daily affairs. The girl, Aluna, was new to the bathhouse and apparently knew nothing whatsoever of Maryline's existence, let alone why she had been replaced. The following week-and-a-half brought the same girl to Jasmine's door each day. Maryline either would not or could not visit and Jasmine was left without an explanation as to why. As soon as she felt capable of navigating her apartment's stairs, she dismissed Aluna and made her way to the bathhouse to have her injuries checked and inquire after the peculiar absence of her friend.
XX. Amateur

The trip to the bathhouse proved helpful to Jasmine as far as checking the state of her injuries, but where Maryline was concerned, little progress was made. Rita confirmed that the girl had been sent to help, but amended that it was by Anita's request, not hers. The reason that the Bedhouse Matron had withdrawn the girl, according to Rita, was that she had been upset that washing Jasmine would destroy the hard work put into restoring Maryline's skin. Even before Rita had finished her explanation, Jasmine knew that she was being fed a string of lies. The only way she was going to find the truth was to talk to Maryline face-to-face. That, however, proved to be an impossible task.

Rita let Jasmine know, in no uncertain terms, that there was no way she would be able to see the former bathmaid. Maryline was isolated, on Anita's order, so that she might focus on her training. Unless the girl mysteriously arrived at Jasmine's door again, it would be more than a month before they could meet.

Her body may have felt better, but Jasmine's mind was more clouded than ever.

Why would Rita lie to me like that? There's no way that Mary would tell me it was Rita if it wasn't, is there? Could I have been deaf to her greyed tongue? No. There's no way... Mary's too honest. And she's a terrible liar and I'd see through it before she spoke ten words. Or did I miss something? Maybe soft in the head, like with BeRem...

The two sides of the story made no sense. The mistress of the bathhouse was a neutral party in the shadow-games. It was unspoken law that any in the East-block could come to her without fear of getting a slit throat while taking a soak or having a wound patched up. She had no reason to play at stealth and lies, at least none that was readily apparent.

Discontented, Jasmine hobbled her way out of the bathhouse. She leaned heavily on a carved mahogany stick as she walked. The runner's knee was mostly healed, but Rita's advice to keep her weight from it made Jasmine cautious. It was essential that she get back to the rooftops, and thus to work, as quickly as possible. If that meant limping through the streets of the East-block on three limbs like an old man, then that's what she would do.

Her arrival at the Chipped Bone was less than distinguished. The walking stick thumping across the Bone's wooden floor, Jasmine hobbled into the tavern a few hours after dusk, hoping that Dwervin might have arrived by then. A sense of dread accompanied her task, but dealing with the admonitions of her boss was first priority. She needed to get back to the comfortable routine of dancing across the rooftops and refilling her purse with coin. That was, of course, assuming that he didn't have yet another set of restrictions to place upon her, another idiotic lesson about operating in the shadows that he felt compelled to preach. The berating she could handle, but Dwervin's self-righteous mentoring was trying her patience.

If the damn fool wants me to work for him, he'd better get used to how I operate. I may get busted up now and then, but it's never while I work. That about makes up for it, far as I'm concerned. He can take his waggling finger and shove it right up his ass.

Shuffling through the tavern, she made her way to the guards blocking the booths. One stared at her through narrowed eyes, appraising her. His gaze wandered to the walking stick and a smirk touched his lips.

"He's waiting." The guard spoke then stepped to the side.

An equally discomforting smirk waited on the face of Leiber as he opened the shutters. Jasmine slid awkwardly into the booth. Dwervin stared at her from across the table, no hint of his intentions touching his features.

The minutes stretched by with no word from either of the two. It was Jasmine who finally broke the silence.

"I'll be back and running in a few weeks," she began. "I busted myself up pretty good, but it's nothing that won't heal up. Like it always does. I can take on smaller jobs if you think I might be more broken than I'm saying, but it's always the same with these things. I heal up and I'm ready to go. If it wasn't for the knee I'd be moving along quicker..."

Dwervin interrupted what was quickly evolving into a meandering train of babbling. "Your services are no longer required," he stated, toneless and businesslike. "You are welcome to continue the practice of your trade in the East-block, although any interference in my business or the business of the Eleventh Hour will be construed as an intentional lack of respect and addressed accordingly."

"Hold a second," Jasmine spoke up, perhaps a bit too aggressive. "I've just had a spill or two. I'm not broken and you know it. I'm the best runner you've got and the best in the East-block. Pissing nihil, I'm the best in the whole of Porsham Grand."

Dwervin's face twisted. Gone was the professional calm, gone the mentor and the employer. What remained was the vicious predator that Jasmine had caught short glimpses of on the odd occasion and had an even more pronounced look at when he had come to her apartment. His eyes narrowed and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a grimace that resembled a hungry dog.

"You worthless little shit," he spat the words at her. His voice was venomous, contemptuous and dangerous. He seemed barely able to keep himself from shouting. Jasmine detected something akin to a low growl building in the back of his throat. "Understand now that the only reason you're being allowed your life is because you've done good work for me. The Eleventh Hour is not in the habit of letting those who know our business walk when they've fucked up."

Jasmine started to speak, ready to defend herself against accusations that she didn't know how to keep her mouth shut, but Dwervin cut her off.

"You will not speak. If I hear one word pass your lips, if you interrupt me a single time while I am talking, I will have Leiber come in here and cut the tongue from your mouth. You may nod if you understand."

Fire coursed through Jasmine's blood. She nodded, slowly, but was having a difficult time ascertaining whether she was hiding her rage and hatred of him as he stared into her eyes. If he thought she might leap across the table and try to knife him, he would likely call Leiber in regardless.

Or he might not even consider me a real threat. He might be able to swat me aside the moment I tried to lunge. And with my knee the way it is, I don't reason I'd get too far off my seat.

"Good girl," he spoke to her as one would to a tame yet unlikeable dog. Taking a deep breath, he seemed to regain a small measure of control. "I told you once that the Eleventh Hour does not discard a tool simply because it dulls once or twice. You, little tool, are broken beyond repair. First you go hunting our soldiers, costing us valuable work and coin. Now, you run off at the first sign of a disobedient lover. If you're going to lose your head every time a cock walks out on you, we don't need.

"You are all talent with not a brain in your misshapen head. You let vengeance overrule what little sense you do have and that, child, makes you a liability. What happens when you're out on a job and you spot someone you happen to have a past with? Do you finish the job before or after you run off seeking revenge?

"When I brought you into the organization, I bartered my reputation. Those in higher places believed that you did not have the skills necessary for such work and it was my intention to prove them wrong. It appears that their first assumptions were correct. You have made of me a fool in the eyes of those who possess the power in the East-block. For that alone I should bless you with a slow and painful death. Thankfully - for me at least - that will likely remedy itself. I imagine that your talent for avoiding death will stretch its limits soon enough.

"You have no self-control and a sense of the shadows worse than most amateurs, a combination that assures a quick and timely demise. The higher up the ladder you are, the quicker that death will come. Stick to being a freelancer. You can do what you will in those circles. You might even survive another year or two, living as you will. As for the Eleventh Hour, you are neither needed nor welcome."

As the speech unwound, Dwervin shed his rage and became once more the calm and collected businessman that the runner had first met all those months ago. By the time he reached his last words, she would have been hard-pressed to notice any trace of the fury that had just boiled over in his blood.

As if matching his steady decline of anger, Jasmine had been drained of her will to fight. She sat across the table, absorbing his words and feeling two years of ambition and dreaming drift away like steam. All desire to fire a retort, to make an argument that Dwervin would consider, was gone. Jasmine had pissed all over her chances at the top of the shadow-world and she knew that there was no way back.

Dwervin eyed her for some time, no doubt waiting in his mentorly manner for the lesson to set it. With a wave of his hand he dismissed her. Leiber, as if reading his mind, opened the shutters a moment later.

"Remember," Dwervin added as Jasmine pulled herself from the booth, "that this reprieve I offer you has its limits. If I hear the slightest rumor of you being involved in anything that I suspect even remotely compromises my operations, I will chain you up and cut you into pieces, one small bit at a time. I will also make sure that your little protégé Sinta receives the same treatment and that you have the pleasure of watching as I do it."

Defeated, Jasmine hobbled her way back to and through the common room of the Chipped Bone. She could feel the eyes of the tavern's patrons tracking her, the expressions of pity and contempt and satisfaction trailing her as she made her way across the floor and through the exit. No longer was she a runner, a player in the shadow-world. Now she was just another broken amateur, the remains of ambition unrealized.
XXI. The Drunken Giant

Jasmine hadn't taken two steps beyond the doorway of the Chipped Bone before a large wall of flesh, seemingly dense as stone, slammed into the runner and threw her off balance. The walking stick slipped, her bad knee wrenched and down she went, landing without grace, tailbone colliding into the tavern's wooden porch. Hands instinctively grasping for her knives, Jasmine looked up to find the source of the impact.

A large head, square and shaggy, stared down from above. The head rested atop a frame just big enough and just square enough to keep the whole of the body in proportion. Protruding from that square of a body were arms and legs thicker around than Jasmine's chest. Jasmine recognized the brute as the talentless singer that plagued the Chipped Bone on near nightly basis.

He was dressed in the same roughspun and filthy clothing that he always wore and, despite his obvious bulk, the rags hung loosely on him, the result of a second-hand purchase or a terribly unskilled seamstress. His hair looked as if it had been cut with a dulled razor by a drunkard with the shakes and in a lightless room. Framed by that border of hair and set within his lumpy plane of a face were two large, brown eyes, watered from a night's heavy drinking. He grinned down at her, a toothy expanse that might have been part of a brilliant smile at some point, though time and circumstance had left a tooth here missing and a tooth there blackened and rotting. Protruding above each of the man's shoulders were what looked to be thick iron poles, attached to his back by some sort of makeshift sling.

The man spoke then. Jasmine was fairly sure he was speaking to her. He was, after all, staring right at her. But the words that came from the brute's mouth were almost unintelligible. His speech was slurred with spirits and beneath the liquor lay an accent so thick that there wasn't a hope in the nihil that Jasmine could decipher a word the man said.

The brute held out his hand, as if to help Jasmine up from the ground. That much she understood and so she reached up to grasp it. He pulled her to her feet with such ease that the rogue was sure she would be tossed right into the air. But the man halter her momentum before he could unintentionally launch her skyward. Once standing, Jasmine was surprised to find that face-to-face the man stood barely a half-foot taller than her own diminutive stature. Width-wise, however, the runner could have stacked three of herself side by side and still not filled the distance from one of his shoulders to the other.

After she'd been righted, the man attempted a half-bow, stumbling a bit in the process. He then weaved his way around her and continued his way southwards. Jasmine, in turn, turned toward the north and began her journey home.

Thoughts of the conversation with Dwervin filled her skull to bursting. Once those had reached a crescendo, they were replaced with thoughts of BeRem, finally resurfacing in full force after nearly a month of dormancy. Trickling through the mass of troubled contemplation came the confusion of the situation with Maryline, of what had happened to her and why there had been a fog of half-hearted lies surrounding the entire affair. And last but not least, her mind wandered to Sinta, the poor orphan girl who relied on the runner and looked up to her. Though there was little now left to look up to. Jasmine was right back where she had started, an infant scrounging the underbelly of the shadow-world, looking for jobs here and there and taking whatever coin was offered. Hardly a shining example of how best to survive and prosper on the streets of the East-block.

She had lost her place at the top of the ladder in the span of a few short months. By upsetting Dwervin she had almost guaranteed that there would be no future for her in this walled ghetto, at least none worthy of her ambitions. The carefully laid plans of her life had been pissed away, each failure brought on by her own stupidity.

An easy climb to the top, an easy fall. Ihshintul's luck has passed me over and it's cause I tried to rend the god in the ass when his back was turned. I've gotten no less than I deserve, I suppose. When you let yourself get stupid, you don't deserve nothing better.

She contemplated the idea of moving into a different ghetto, leaving the mess she had made in the East-block behind. If she could make a new name for herself, there might still be a chance to fight her way back to the top. Then Jasmine remembered the anarchy she had witnessed during her South-block run. That walled compound was nothing but chaos and terror. If the others were even half-similar, she would be forced to watch her back at every turn.

As much as Jasmine hated to admit it, she had become quite used to the comforts of living in the East-block. The iron fist of the Eleventh Hour kept everything in order. They kept the rats from feasting on each other, kept the wolves from feasting on the rats, and let the cats lurk safely in the shadows of the rooftops, just as she preferred. It's not that she doubted her ability to adjust to the differing patterns of a new shadow-world. In making a decision such as this, Jasmine also had loyalties to consider. Sinta wasn't going to take care of herself, nor was Maryline. They needed her, so leaving her walled home simply wasn't an option.

Would I had the good sense to stop with these obligations. They'll all take care of themselves fine, they don't really need me around. Maybe I'm just holding on cause I don't want to face the truth. Maybe I'm done here and it's time to move on. They'll get on fine without me...

Engrossed in her melancholy thoughts, Jasmine wandered the streets of the East-block ghetto of Porsham Grand, though her steps did not take her home as intended. Unmindful, the runner had slipped into a back alley short-cut and then forgotten to turn when she had reached the proper fork. Eyes on the ground, limping along on her walking stick, Jasmine weaved her way deep into the maze of narrow roads and even narrower alleys that defined the cityscape of the walled enclosure. When next she looked up, she found that her course had taken her nearly a dozen blocks in the wrong direction. Sighing, she turned again toward the north.

Still pursued by the relentless torrent of uncertainties, Jasmine's attention was split between maintaining the correct route home and trying to unravel her numerous troubles. If she had been clear-headed, perhaps she would have noticed when two bodies stepped out from the shadows behind her and began to follow in her wake. Perhaps she would have taken note when the East-block residents wandering the streets began to disappear. Perhaps she would have heard the tell-tale scraping of boots on cobblestones when, a few minutes later, a third figure emerged from an alley just five feet to her left. And perhaps she would have reacted quicker when the fourth man crossed directly into her path. Looking up, the familiar and now-scarred face of Loran stared her in the eyes. His lips were stretched back in a wolf's grin, the predator that had found its prey.

Within a matter of seconds, Jasmine had dropped her walking stick and pulled two daggers. She crouched defensively, arms whipping back to throw the blades into the face of her enemy. Jasmine noticed too late the man on her right as he stepped forward, one foot sweeping out to take her in the knee. Her leg wrenched to the side and a violent shock of pain rippled through her body and into her head, pounding away at the inside of her skull. Flailing to the side, the runner's body tumbled to the cobblestones in a heap, knives flying from her hands and clattering across the surface of the road.

Spinning as she fell, Jasmine's eyes now found the two men approaching from behind. She recognized the stocky figure of Stub, but the other was a new face. They paced up to her, their strides long but steps unhurried. Another bolt of pain hit her as a foot came down on her wounded knee. The agony was so intense that she was barely aware of another boot slamming into her back, just below the ribs.

"Don't kill her outright," the familiar voice of Loran spoke from above and behind. "She's not going anywhere now that we've got her. And we've got all night, enough time for all of us to enjoy the rewards of the night's hunt."

A boot prodded Jasmine in the chest, tipping her over and onto her back. Staring into the night sky, she tried to focus on the faces that now loomed above, tried to ignore the wracking sensations that ruled her body and blinded her senses. Loran and Stub she remembered, along with the foppish clubber who had accompanied them the night she had lost her head and attacked the group. The fourth was no one familiar to her, a youngish thug with tattered hair, well-worn leathers and a seemingly permanent grimace.

Stub smiled down at her. "Looks like we finally caught up with you, eh? I've got more'n a few things'ta settle with you, you little ghyst bitch."

"And you rent-up my face, you little cunt!" The fop chimed in his own grievance.

"Now, now," Loran spoke in a calm and reassuring voice. "We'll all have a chance to work out our differences, and I've got more cause then both of you put together to get the first stab at this."

The thug crouched to one knee, brought his face in close to hers. Only inches away, Jasmine could see the mass of scarred flesh that was once his left ear.

"And my first stab is going to be as sweet as the taste of my sword." He flashed his wolf's grin once more. "Ugly little thing may not be much to look at, but from what I remember her cunt is as fine as any whore. I'd guess her ass is just as sweet. And once we knock those teeth out of her face, we'll have room for three."

"Gonna have some real fun with you, ghyst," Stub growled, spittle flying from his meaty lips. "It ain't gonna be pleasant neither. You might've bit the end of my cock off, but I think a taste of my knife in your cunt should work just as well. Just you think. What with the bleedin' it'll be just like you're a maid again, eh?"

Jasmine's mind was filled to bursting with panic. The Bloodrazor thugs had caught her off-guard and now she was going to suffer for it. One hand surreptitiously slid toward where another of her daggers lay in hiding, tucked away in a fold of her leathers. She was careful not to make her movements too obvious lest one of her attackers take notice.

Another one to stupidity. I'm dead now, no getting out of this one. Can take one down before I go, if I'm lucky. At least that's some revenge. Or I can finish myself quick, keep them from their fun. That'd piss Loran off worse than a splinter in his dick. Either way I'm dead...

Jasmine's instinct to survive and fight battled with the crushing despair growing inside her. Hand mere inches away from her blade, the decision of whether to flee her spirit to the nihil or attempt to take one her enemies with her had to be made soon. The longer she waited, the more chance they would start in on her, looking to break bones so she didn't struggle while they were raping her and cutting her up.

Loran and Stub were arguing about where they could take her body before they got started, their attention distracted for a moment. Not-so-pretty boy Rouge still glared down at her, his face all rage and without the sharpness of mind that might notice a blade being drawn until it was too late. The fourth was glancing around nervously, scanning the street for anyone that might stumble in on them and try to steal away their prize. She could easily take the fop in the neck if she wanted, but the moments beyond that were left to Ihshintul's graces. More than likely they would stomp her again. There might be a chance to get one more shot in, if she was quick enough, but it wasn't liable to be a kill. Jasmine's hand slid closer to the blade, her mind still undecided.

"Hey," the unknown clubber finally spoke up. "Boss, we got a lurker."

Loran and Stub cut their argument short, turning to follow the gaze of the fourth out and down the street. The fop mimicked them a second later. Jasmine saw her chance and in one quick, if not quite graceful motion she had the knife out. Before she could lunge, another pain arced up from her leg and twisted her entire body in a spasm. She heard the distant clattering of her blade as it skittered across the cobblestones. Loran scowled down at her.

"You're not getting out of this like that, ghyst," he spoke, voice cold, eyes dead. "We'll be right back to take care of you." He turned to the fop. "Rouge, tie her up. We'll take care of the lout."

Rouge rolled Jasmine onto her stomach, wrenching her arms behind her and jamming his knee into the small of her back. She could hear the sounds of the fop rummaging in something, then felt the rough embrace of hemp binding her wrists. Though her vision was little more than stars in blackness, Jasmine twisted her head to the side. Blinking, she struggled to focus on whatever was happening down the road. She could make out three figures, spread out to surround and flank a fourth, much larger figure who had stopped in the middle of the street. Blurred as her vision was, she could hardly tell one man from the next.

"You'd best to carry on in another direction," Loran's voice echoed back to her. "We're in the middle of business and feeling generous. Slink off and we'll let you slide."

The next words, Jasmine couldn't make out at all. Apparently, neither could any of the Bloodrazors.

"What did he say?" This time the voice of Stub. Jasmine could now tell that he was the figure on the right.

The garbled speech sounded again, just as unintelligible as the first time around. It sounded as if the man were so drunk he had forgotten the local language. Or perhaps a foreigner whose grasp of the tongue of Porsham Grand was so bad as to be useless.

The next few moments followed in much the same way. Loran and his gang tried to communicate with the man but made little progress. Words got heated, more aggressive. Jasmine could tell that things were going to take a turn for the violent. Behind her, Rouge was finishing his work with the rope.

As the conversation progressed, Jasmine's vision cleared and it finally occurred to her why the man with the incoherent tongue seemed familiar. Even from a distance she could make out the squarish form of the drunken brute that had knocked her sprawling earlier that evening. What she couldn't figure was how he had found his way this far north when she had seen him wander in the opposite direction.

Drunken lout probably forgot where his home was. Ihshintul's luck be with me, I might be able to use this. If he can distract Loran and the others just long enough, I can slip these ropes then slit this fop's throat. Any more luck and I'll get into an alley before they see me running.

As Loran's patience with the intruder ran down, Rouge put the final touches on his knot and stood. He walked around Jasmine's prone form and watched the spectacle down the road, hand resting on the sword at his side. Jasmine began to shift her wrists back and forth, working slowly and deliberately. Breaking bonds was one thing she knew and even the tightest knots would eventually fail as long as she had the time.

All at once, the tension between the drunk brute and Loran's gang came to a head. The three Bloodrazors pulled their weapons, likely trying to intimidate the square thug into thinking twice about his position. In response, the brute reached over his shoulders and grasped the two long bars there. With a tug, they lurched free of the harness, swinging over and down, heavy with their own weight and slamming into the road. Cobblestones shattered and sprayed into the air with the impact.

Now that the weapons were free, Jasmine could see that they were even more odd than she first thought. They resembled swords of a sort, albeit only if those swords' forging had been left off halfway through. The two-and-a-half foot long bars that served as handles ended in three feet of flattened iron, like some strange, elongated spade. It was impossible for Jasmine to tell from where she was, but her guess was that there were no edges on the massive sword-clubs. The weight behind them would prove sufficiently effective to damage any body beyond its ability. That was assuming, of course, that strong enough arms wielded them. The square-headed brute looked more than up to that task.

Stub was the first into the skirmish, no doubt eager to finish the fight and turn his attentions once more to the captive runner. He rushed forward, short blade in hand. A downward slash passed through the space where the body of the brute had been less than a second before. He had stumbled, seemingly in a drunken stagger, to the side. Stub's lunge took him past and behind his target. One of the brute's elbows came up hard and fast, hitting the side of Stub's face so solidly that the sound of the Bloodrazor's cheekbone shattering was like thunder breaking in Jasmine's ears. Stub stumbled sideways, flailing to keep himself from falling face first into the road.

Next to rush in was the unknown clubber, a sword in each hand. Loran came just a second behind, no doubt hoping that the brute's attack would find his companion first so that he could move in for the kill. The brute looked up to see them coming and stumbled again, this time away from the pair. His two iron clubs dragged across the cobbles, cutting ruts into the road.

What came next, Jasmine could only compare to some sort of macabre dance. The brute with the iron poles began to backpedal, each footfall settling a bit to the side, twisting his body in an arc. His arms brought the club-swords up, but their swing was still more than an arm's length shy of the Bloodrazors. Within seconds, the weight of the weapons had begun carrying the brute into a pirouette. He lurched left and right, spinning all the while. Loran and the unknown clubber hesitated in their charge, apparently confused by the spectacle. As the arc of the square man's swing came back around, he stepped in, one foot rapidly dancing its way in front of the other. By the time they realized that he was rushing them, it was too late.

The first five feet of steel scraped across the ground, tearing a furrow in the cobblestone street and sending a shower of rocks into Loran's face. The leader of the gang threw his arm up to protect his eyes and shuffled back a step. The second of the brute's blades came up short of Loran. The unnamed clubber, however, was not so fortunate. The heavy steel connected with his shoulder, crumpling it with the sound of shattering bones. From there it slid, its momentum carrying it upward and into the thug's head. A dull and wet bursting sound reached Jasmine's ears. It reminded her too much of the noise an overripe melon makes when it tumbles from a cart and smashes into the road. Though it was difficult to make out details from the angle Jasmine had on the fight, it was at least apparent that the man's head was no longer the proper shape. His body twisted and flopped to the ground, twitching a few times before it went still.

By this time, Stub had recovered from the blow he took to the face and was coming up fast behind the brute. But the spinning motion of the man's body kept him moving, the blades carrying him around another half-circle. Stub's arrival was greeted with the solid impact of iron on flesh. One club-blade caught him in the thigh, giving an odd angle to his legs and sweeping them out from under his body. He had no time to fall, however, as the other blade almost simultaneously connected into his upper arm. The impact cracked the arm, burst its casing of skin and sent pulped flesh and splintered bone spraying. What was left of the arm hung limply, barely attached by thin strips of muscle. Stub let out a short, sharp scream, fell in a heap and did not move.

Loran continued to hesitate, which proved his undoing. Even through her haze of pain, Jasmine saw the opening he could have used to stick the brute in the back, but the massacre before him had stalled his mind, prevented him from acting in the moment. By the time he continued his attack, the brute had come around again, pitching forward another step so that the tips of his blades grazed the Bloodrazor's ribcage. Loran's chest was ripped open from the impact, the weight of the blunt weapons as effective as the sharpest blade. Pieces of rib flew through the air, followed closely by a cascade of entrails. The sword dropped from his hand, his arms grasping in vain at his fleeing innards. A second later, he collapsed atop the bloody pile of flesh.

The squarish man completed one more spin before he halted his momentum, dragging the heavy iron blades across the surface of the road and sending another shower of cobbles into the air. He glanced at the body of Loran at his feet, cocked his head to the side and then shrugged. Weapons still in hand, he turned his attention toward where Jasmine lay, the fop Rouge standing frozen above her. The brute shuffled toward the pair, his gait slow and steady and displaying none of the drunken tottering that Jasmine had seen earlier in the night.

The smell of urine and feces flooded Jasmine's nose. Rouge's sword fell from his hand. He turned and, without even a glance at Jasmine's prone body, ran past her and down the street at top speed.

Unsure of what her would-be savior planned next, Jasmine worked fast on trying to free herself from her bindings. She wrenched her wrists back and forth, could feel the flesh there being rubbed raw. As the brute came closer, she considered the possibility of breaking her own thumbs for a quicker escape. A second thought brought her to the realization that no matter what she did he would be upon her in seconds. Muttering a silent prayer to the god of luck beneath her breath, Jasmine waited for what would come next.

Alright, you ugly bastard. Did you save me cause you were bored and wanted a fight or cause you want a prize of your own?

The man's stride paused a foot from where Jasmine lay. His attention was focused past her, down the road to where the surviving Bloodrazor had fled. A rumbling sigh escaped his lips and a look of disappointment crossed his features. He raised his massive iron weapons, both still draped in gore, up and over his shoulders. The first slid back into the harness and, after chasing his own tail in a circle, the brute managed to secure the second as well.

Now disarmed, he crouched down next to Jasmine. Their eyes met and the man's cold manner melted away as a huge grin spread across his face. He mumbled something and began to work at unknotting the rope that held her wrists. After several minutes of unsuccessful fumbling, he muttered what was likely a curse. He drew a rusted and badly notched knife from his ruin of a boot and began sawing at the bindings. A few moments later and Jasmine was free.

The runner rose to a sitting position as the man stood. He stared down at her with watery eyes, a smile still playing at his lips. With a nod of his head, he turned and started down the street in the direction from whence he had come.

The runner stood, too quickly and without thought. Her bad knee twisted beneath her weight. A cry of pain escaped her lips as she fell once more to the ground. The brute halted and turned back. Shuffling to where her walking stick had fallen, he knelt, retrieved it and handed it to Jasmine. He mumbled something that she deciphered roughly as "You need that to walk."

Rising once again, albeit with more success the second time around, Jasmine stood face-to-face with the brute. Another string of unintelligible speech poured from his mouth and he resumed his journey southwards. Overtaken by curiosity, Jasmine hobbled along after him, pausing briefly to retrieve her knives. As if silently voicing his approval, the brute slowed his step so that she could keep pace.

The two passed the battered remains of the Bloodrazors and Jasmine stole a glance at the bodies. What she witnessed would invade her dreams for several weeks to come. She fought to keep her stomach from emptying. But despite her watery guts, she still managed to halt, stare down at the barely still-living form of Loran and take a moment to spit in his eye.

Good riddance. Just be lucky it wasn't me what got to you first.

Later, Jasmine would wonder at why she followed the unknown brute instead of just returning home to rest. Any number of unwelcome things could have followed, should her savior change his mind about wanting something more out of rescuing her. It was as bad a decision as any she had ever made, but she made it none-the-less. The pair wandered through the streets of the East-block, the brute shuffling along and Jasmine hobbling in pain at his side.

The runner had not the slightest idea where they were heading. The brute had not suffered a scratch nor did he smell as if he bathed on a regular basis, so the bathhouse was unlikely. Given her throbbing knee, Jasmine certainly would have preferred otherwise.

As near as she could guess, he might have been looking for a tavern to get drunk in, or perhaps a whorehouse. The soldiers and clubbers she knew usually made it a point to visit one of the two following any fight, their hot blood unwilling to cool without the assistance of whisky or a woman. But something struck her odd about the manner of her companion. He didn't seem to be heated in the slightest. There were no signs of shaking as the fire of battle burnt its way from his blood, he did not talk restlessly, nor did he seem filled with fear or elation. It was as if opening Loran's gut had been as typical to him as opening a jug of wine. The strange attitude piqued Jasmine's curiosity even more.

And so she continued to follow.

"You're quite the bruiser," Jasmine attempted to coax the man into talking, whether she could understand him or not. "You tore through those bastards like nothing. You a soldier then?"

The man did not look at her, but simply responded with a shrug and a mouthful of mangled syllables. The runner thought she caught something in his speech about "...just clubbers..."

"I'm Jasmine," she kept her tone friendly, despite her trepidation. "You've saved me from a rather unpleasant night. I owe you a drink at the least, eh? What's your name, bruiser? So at least I can stop calling you bruiser."

The man replied with a single word, though Jasmine had to ask him to repeat it a few times. Finally, apparently weary at the runner's inability to comprehend, he stopped, turned to face her and began slapping one meaty hand into his own chest.

"Aaaaaahhhhnnn!" He spoke slow and loud, as if to a simpleton. "Drrraaaaaaahhh!" He repeated the ritual a second time, only stopping once Jasmine nodded her head in understanding.

"Andrah?" she asked, receiving a tilt of the head in reply. "Andrah then. Well, it's no name I've heard before. You from the north? Your words are harder to understand than anything."

Andrah nodded and then shrugged again, uttered some more words that Jasmine reasoned to be an affirmation.

Weary from the journey, Jasmine ceased the taxing conversation. They had been walking for some time and she was eager to discover their impending destination. Along the way she took the opportunity to examine the bizarre weapons strapped to Andrah's back. They were, as she had first suspected, completely without a sharpened edge. The flattened portions of the club-blades were rounded, like a woodsman's maul. It was no wonder the Bloodrazors' bodies had ended up in the state they were in. Andrah's weapons were the essence of brute strength, not a note of subtlety aside from the strange dance he performed while wielding them.

It was the better part of an hour before her companion finally stumbled to a halt before a run down building that looked to have been a stable at some point in the distant past. The exterior was mostly rotted wood with the occasional patchwork of newer planks, without which, Jasmine reasoned, the entire structure would have fallen down long ago. Holes poked through here and there where boards had fallen through and were yet to be replaced. The entrance was a stall door, confirming Jasmine's suspicions as to the building's original purpose. Sliding the door to one side, Andrah entered without looking back.

The more foresightful side of Jasmine's nature warned her that now was the time to fight her curious urges, but she had already come this far and was unwilling to part without more knowledge of her mysterious savior. Bolstered by the imagined courage that her purpose conveyed, she followed the bruiser in.

The interior of the stable-house was little better than the rest of it. Most of the stalls had rotted apart, leaving the stable as one large, empty space, punctuated by arrangements of splintered boards. There was no furniture in Andrah's home aside from a large and rotted wooden chest crammed awkwardly into one corner. The floor was dirt, though a few large piles of moldy hay lay here and there, one of them pressed flat as if something heavy had been resting on it. The entire building smelled of animals and manure and, Jasmine realized with only a slight bit of surprise, alcohol. It was as if the stable had once served as a tavern for livestock.

Andrah shuffled across the room to the chest. He lifted the lid with his foot and then kicked it the rest of the way open. Bending down, he reached in and pulled forth a translucent green bottle, half-filled with liquid. He yanked the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spat it to the ground next to a small pile of similar stoppers and, tossing his head back, began to pour the liquid down his throat with some rapidity. He wiped his mouth with the back of one dirty hand and held the bottle, now nearly emptied, out toward Jasmine.

Unthinking, Jasmine snatched the bottle and attempted to repeat Andrah's dramatic thirst. As soon as the liquid touched her lips, she knew it was a mistake. The foully brewed concoction tasted like sewer water laced with peppers and fire. She sputtered, coughed and almost dropped the bottle to the ground. Her companion chuckled and held out his hand to retrieve the bottle. Not to be outdone, the runner took another swig and, this time aware of what to expect, managed to swallow it with only a brief grimace and a clenched jaw.

Bottle once again in hand, Andrah sat down hard on the flattened pile of hay. As he pulled his boots off, he pointed at another hay pile and mumbled something that Jasmine couldn't make out, though she assumed it was an invite to stay the night. For the next few minutes, she remained standing, watching her ugly and muscled savior go back and forth between preparing himself for sleep and finishing his bottle of fire-piss. Her knee throbbed unforgivingly.

I should really be at the bathhouse to get this together. But I just don't think there's enough piss in me to care. I'll just get it taken care of tomorrow. It's not like I won't heal whether I go or otherwise.

As she pulled the stable door shut, the room disappeared beneath a blanket of darkness. Jasmine stumbled her way to a pile of hay and, lying down, let the intensity of the night's events wash from her blood and her mind. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her.
XXII. A Convenient Alliance

The next day, Jasmine awoke smelling of horses and piss. It was a smell that would become quite familiar to her over the next few months, as the young runner and the great, square brute named Andrah were nearly inseparable. In fact, each and every night that one or the other of the pair was not out working, they could be found at the same table of the Chipped Bone, tossing back drink after drink as the night hours slowly relented in their fight with the dawn.

Her affiliation with the potentially murderous beast began that first night, though it was not until a few days later that they again made each other's company. Finding him drunk and singing at the Chipped Bone, Jasmine offered a night's worth of pints to thank him for saving her neck. She had thought to drain him of his sobriety and then wring from him the truth behind the events of that first, bloody night, but the man could drink like a giant and Jasmine made the mistake of matching him one for three. Seven hours later, the sun was rising, Jasmine was so drunk she couldn't stand and Andrah was still singing to an empty room. The next day would be the second time the runner woke up with the smell of horse piss in her nose.

Jasmine's knee being still battered from the beating it took at the foot of the Bloodrazor Rouge, she had more than a week to kill before it was even passably healed up. Andrah, being that the thug only worked when he had to and only took jobs that paid well, was just as unoccupied. Together, the pair made a tremendous effort to drain every keg, jug and bottle in the Chipped Bone's cellar. And while they never quite succeeded, they certainly left their mark.

Within a few weeks of her knee healing, Jasmine had gotten back to work, albeit in circles must less prestigious than the one she had grown used to. At first she was livid at the miserly pay she received for often complex and dangerous jobs. But with a little time and effort the runner numbed her mind and convinced her ambitions to accept the fact that she was, now and forever, distinctively unremarkable. A few weeks of freelancing and a steady routine of drinking with her new friend and she had integrated herself well into unrecognizable blur of freelancer faces. No more high ambitions meant that every job was leisure. She had no one to prove anything to other than herself and if she screwed a job up the most profound consequence was a lack of payment. Of course, Jasmine never screwed her jobs up. It was a matter of personal pride that every run came off clean. Just because she had no ladder to climb in the structure of the East-block shadow-world didn't mean she would settle for a reputation that was anything other than golden.

The runner's off nights were always spent with the mountain of flesh that had become her new companion. Thoughts of Dwervin and BeRem and even Maryline were pushed to the back of her mind, the inconsequential results of the movements of a past life. Sinta she visited less often and usually only when business demanded a spectacle. The child seem displeased with her mentor's new choice of lifestyle and had even taken to avoiding Jasmine on occasion, but the runner greased the child's palms with a few extra silvers for every job, which at least guaranteed that Jasmine wouldn't have to endure too many chiding remarks.

It didn't even take very long for her to get a handle on her new friend's speech problem. She discovered that Andrah was from the northern valley, former resident of a hilly nation of barbaric stoneworkers known as the Ba'Quaine. The way he talked was mostly due to his lingering accent, though the drink did nothing to clear the muddle. Oddly enough, Jasmine observed, drink had an opposite effect for her - the more she imbibed, the more success she had at deciphering the brute's garbled speech. In a moment of drunken clarity she theorized that, assuming all the Ba'Quathin were as lush as Andrah, the entire language had been put together under the influence of strong spirits and so drinking was required to speak it properly. When she mentioned that to Andrah, he laughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes but, Jasmine noted with some satisfaction, never bothered to deny it.

The rest of the Chipped Bone, however, stayed blissfully ignorant of what the brutish thug was saying. Jasmine even managed to mimic Andrah's accent to a point, pitching her voice and muddling her words just enough so that Andrah could understand what she was saying while the rest of the tavern's patrons had to listen closely or miss her message. The two spent hours bantering back and forth in their Ba'Quathin accents, spitting piss at people behind their backs and keeping themselves amused while they tossed back pint after pint.

Occasionally, some bruiser or small clubber gang would catch on to the fact that the pair's comments were being directed at them. Most would take one look at Andrah's tree-trunk arms and think better of pursuing the matter. Sometimes, however, a group of four or more might step up, swollen with confidence that they could take Andrah down in a fair fight.

When the questions started, Jasmine, usually terribly drunk, would gladly become the helpful one and play the part of translator for the concerned clubbers. Of course, her translations weren't always necessarily accurate. In fact, what Andrah said and what she related were rarely one in the same. At first her giant, square friend would stare at her, perplexed, until the first fists began to fly. After a time, he caught on to her game and just rode along like a man strapped to a galloping horse. It was his nature, as Jasmine soon discovered, to hit and be hit. Andrah cared very little for the reasons behind a fight, as long as he got the chance to hurt someone, a talent that he excelled at. Jasmine never once met the man, nor group for that matter, that could bring the bruiser down.

But starting fights in the Chipped Bone wasn't exactly good for business and so Jasmine did what she could to alleviate the consequences of her mischief-making. Being the conscientious person that she was, she made sure to stop the brawls before they became fatal and always helped clean up afterwards. She even paid Laotz for anything that got broken during the scuffles. On the rare occasions when Andrah needed to be patched up, she would haul him down to the bathhouse and pay the bills herself, occasionally throwing in an hour of fun in the eastern wing for good measure. It was to both the clubber's and runner's disappointment that in less than a month people had caught on to their game and just avoided their table altogether.

Though they spent more than their share of nights drinking and starting fights, Jasmine found that even two months' time had taught her very little of her new companion. Aside from the very brief explanation of where he had come from, Andrah never spoke of his past. Even when she pressed him he would just shrug and, on those rare occasions when he actually answered her, his words would be cryptic and vague.

She did, however, manage to finally wring from him his reasons for saving her life in the first place, though it resolved to a rather anticlimactic "I didn't like the way they looked." Why he had been on the complete wrong end of the East-block was excused as bad direction sense. Though she knew it to be a lie (for Andrah, as she soon discovered, was a terrible liar), she let it go. If he had been stalking her for other reasons and changed his tune, she didn't care. The bruiser had saved her life and even the drunken flicker of a midnight ravage could be forgiven when it was left undone and forgotten. The thought that the death of her enemies had calmed the fire in his blood and thus she had been saved from two ill-fated ends amused her, as if Ihshintul's graces lay heavy upon her that night.

Though the two spent most of their time together and talked often enough about the particulars of their lives within the walled confines of the East-block, Jasmine still refused to consider the man her friend. She called him friend on more than few occasions, fueled by drink and familiarity, but the true meaning of the word had fled Jasmine's understanding. The idea of getting close to him was a concept she disagreed with at its core. It was well enough to have a bruiser with a penchant for violence as a drinking partner, a good bit of insurance in case something untoward happened, but trusting him implicitly was beyond her. For his part, the ugly clubber seemed contented enough with their relationship as long as she kept him plied with drink. It was a match that fit well into her new lifestyle.

Despite all efforts to remain comfortably distant, Jasmine's nature drove her to play big sister to the brute. She cleaned his stable and scrounged up some mostly functional furniture for the abode as well, justifying it as a necessity considering the amount of times she had woken up on his hay-covered floor. Finally tired of his ragged and dirty appearance, she dropped the coin to have a barber give the man a half-decent cut and a shave. When he was out working a job one night, she bought some squares of cloth and sewed him up a set of clothes that were, while little better in quality than his own set, at least clean and fit properly. To each gift he seemed indifferent, though he wore the clothes and used the furniture and thanked her with ritual politeness.

One thing that Jasmine felt compelled to do that Andrah did not thank her for was the constant criticism of his whoring habits. Whenever the brute came back from a job he always had a purse filled with wrens and rils. Those coins would vanish just as quick as he could spend them. Much of the wealth would go to his drinking habit, the likes of which, Jasmine reasoned, could have rivaled anyone in the whole of Porsham Grand. But plenty more found its way into the pockets of the Chipped Bones' regular bedwarmers. Andrah's appetites with women were as voracious as they were with spirits. Jasmine reprimanded him on his habit every time he reached the bottom of his purse. And every time, her admonitions were met with scowls and silence. If she pushed the issue too far, the brute would simply walk out on her and she would be left drinking alone for the rest of the night.

On more than one occasion, Jasmine thought on the possibility of breaking him of his wasteful spending by slipping into his bed herself. With one simple act she could both keep him from going through his coin so fast as well as obtain a replacement for the needs that were once met by BeRem. But each time the thought occurred, it was accompanied by images of the whores that Andrah chose on a near-nightly basis. The idea of picking up a pox due the man's indiscriminate tastes in bed-partners caused her to reconsider.

And so it was that Jasmine lived and played as the summer and autumn months passed her by, the sun replaced by clouds and the clouds embraced by the chill and rain of winter.
XXIII. Born to the Role

The season took hold and the winter rains made the world of the skyscape an unpleasant place for roof-runners. There were still jobs to be found, but the oft unpredictable deluges made for slick tiles and threatened unexpected falls. It was a time of both boom and bust for the reckless Jasmine. She could pick up the work that others passed on, but it came less frequently. The usual runners had begun their seasonal hibernation and those that employed them followed suit. For this reason, Jasmine found herself without anything to do for nearly two weeks. Come Eighth-day of the second week of her lull, she decided a distraction was in order.

Luckily, another consequence of the city's rains and their accompanying chill was the opening of the late theater season. The poverty-stricken East-block residents often found it more desirable to spend a few copper signets on a trip to the theater rather than risk a house fire by heating their own homes against the cold. There, pressed up against a mass of their fellows, they found warmth, companionship and a few hours of entertainment.

Most of Porsham Grand's theater owners despised the muddy mess that the crowds brought in during the rainy times, but Zakariah was a shrewd businessman. He knew that the quality of the productions he offered could be less than outstanding and yet still people would flood in to rid themselves of their coin. The tedious job of cleaning up the aftermath he would assign to some poor apprentice. There was, after all, no shortage of young and naive faces trying to make their way onto the stage. Each of them would come seeking adoration and most would end up with little more than a long series of winter colds. Jasmine had been one of those faces once, though the colds never touched her thanks to the strength in her blood.

This night, she sat high above the milling crowds, perched on a rafter. Arriving late, it was a simple task to sneak in without paying but by the time she had found her seat the play was mostly finished. Leaning against a beam, the runner sipped on a bottle of cheap wine and watched the actors below prance about with feigned emotion. Some of those faces she recognized from days past, though most were new to her. It was the nature of the theater that none stayed for long. Dreams of fame were quickly replaced with the demands of reality and few endured more than a season or two, dragged away to more common pursuits by the call of their bellies.

The play (if it rightly deserved that name) finally reached its conclusion. The actors took their final bows before their unimpressed audience and retreated behind the curtain with haste, before the crowd decided that the warmth was not compensation enough for the coin they had spent and that a retribution was in order for the hours of pain they had been forced to endure. Luckily for the actors, another blessing of the winter season was that most attendees were unwilling to slog pockets full of soggy, rotted fruit through the downpour and then stand with their decaying and pungent bundles for three or more hours. The other side of that coin was that some had taken to bringing rocks with them instead. Most were confiscated at the door, but occasionally a player ended the night with a bloodied nose or busted head.

As the grumbling crowds milled toward the doors, the house strong-arms helping them on their way, Jasmine continued to drink and watch. With nothing to do she was in no hurry. An hour passed as she lurked, listening the sounds of merriment echoing from the back of the theater as the players celebrated the end of yet another show.

Once the crowds were long gone and the latest house-slave was busy scrubbing the mud from the theater's aged wooden floors, Jasmine scrambled down from her perch. Surprised by the arrival of the leather-clad rogue, the boy started and seemed about to bolt. Jasmine ignored his trepidation, strolling past him to the stairs at the side of the stage and offering a tipsy wave in answer to his slack jawed bewilderment.

A familiar voice echoed from the shadows of stage right as she approached. "Scaring the piss out of our young hopefuls, are we little flower?" A figure followed close behind the voice, the soft bulk, round face and chaotic curled hair of Zakariah.

"I like to keep them on their toes,' Jasmine replied with a razor-sharp grin.

Finishing her climb to the stage, she sprinted up to the man and embraced him before he could realize what was happening. Once she had released him, Zakariah took a step back and appraised her.

"Drunk, I would imagine," he stated. "Only time I've ever seen you with even a thimble's worth of affection. Affection that didn't involve coin, that is."

"You wound me good sir," she responded with feigned dejection. "Cannot an old friend greet another old friend with an embrace? Is it so wrong now, in this walled world of ours, to express our affections openly and with purity? Where are our hearts if not in the spaces where our body and that of a loved one meets?"

Zakariah leveled her with a blank stare and waited in silence until Jasmine had finished. "I rescind my first judgment. You're more likely mad than drunk. And, if I may speak frankly to such a fine and pure friend, you look as if the Beast's been lurking in your shadow."

Jasmine scowled. "I'm doing fine. Just been too many days off the job and nothing to do but drink and sleep."

"Two things you excel at," he quipped.

"Your gut says you're more the expert than me, fat man," Jasmine fired back.

"My gut says I enjoy a good meal and don't have blood burning in my veins that allows me to pour as much into my stomach as I will without paying the price for my indulgences."

A retort formed on Jasmine's tongue then faltered and faded. In place of the missing words, she narrowed her eyes at Zakariah.

He sounded an almost inaudible snort. "Enough witticism for today then? Maybe you would be so inclined as to tell me why you are here for a second time in the preposterously short span of half-a-year?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Just bored with the lack of work. Thought I'd see what crap you're shoveling out this season."

A long sigh escaped Zakariah. "It was certainly not the best of my work. I'm afraid I've fallen behind in having the winter bill prepared. That glorified dung pile was written Tenth-day of last week and rehearsed for barely four days before opening." He sighed again. "And next week shall prove to be little different from this one."

Jasmine felt a pang of sympathy for her former mentor. Zakariah was a man who would work himself to death if necessity demanded it. There would be no rest for him until the winter season closed, Jasmine knew, regardless of how many times the chill set into his bones and laid him in his bed. She had once spent nearly an entire month sitting at his bedside, transcribing play after play while he choked and coughed his way through each and every line.

The matter was made even more pitiable by the fact that Jasmine knew Zakariah to be an expert playwright when he chose to put in the effort. But great stories and characters of complexity were more often than not wasted on the crowds that frequented his run-down theater. They desired a diet of blood and betrayal, with as many bouncing tits and bare bums thrown in as could be justified without crossing the boundaries of propriety. Propriety being, of course, that invisible border that, when crossed, would prompt wives to rein in their husbands' theater-going habits. So he spent his time spinning simple tales for simple people. So far, he had been quite successful in that regard, keeping the theater in business for almost twenty years.

Footsteps sounded from deeper in the old building as someone approached. A lithe figure appeared, dressed in a gown so sheer that even the dimmest backlight outlined her form beneath. Upon noticing Jasmine, the stern look on her face faded, replaced with an odd sort of bewildered contempt.

"Hail, Bonnie!" Jasmine greeted the new arrival with exaggerated cheerfulness. "A splendid performance tonight all around. Though I must admit, I only caught the last twenty minutes or so. Maybe it was the abruptness of it that made it so pleasant."

Bonnie gave the runner her blackest look and, tossing her dark curls, turned to the master of the house.

"We were promised three bottles for the night," she addressed Zakariah imperiously. "There's only one in the back and we've finished it already. Where is the rest of the wine?"

Zakariah ran one hand through his hair. Jasmine could see his mask of controlled calm beginning to crack. "There are two in Dellum's room, I'm wagering. Why don't you check there first and _then_ come complaining to me if you still can't find them."

His reprimand did nothing to quell her haughtiness. "I will look. But if they're not there, then I will be going through your loft until I find something that suits me." With her final words, she spun and stormed to the back and out of sight.

"I will never understand why they don't check Dellum's room every time," he growled through clenched teeth. "The man can't walk by a bottle without tucking it into his breeches."

"I'll never understand why you let that prima donna talk at you like she does," Jasmine retorted. "She's no shining talent to be coddled like a child."

"Her talent is in her tits and her willingness to present them on stage," Zakariah elaborated. "When those two treasures no longer shine bright enough to distract the crowds, rest assured her arrogance will no longer be tolerated. Until then, the theater will continue to bow and scrape beneath the rich bounty of that ample bosom."

Jasmine snickered at the man's frustration. Raising her bottle to her lips, she drained the bitter dregs and grimaced with distaste.

"Speaking of bounty, it appears I've gone dry, old friend. Care to have a sit and a chat and share some of your fine stock with me?"

Zakariah nodded, turned and walked back to the narrow and rickety stairway that led to his office loft. Jasmine followed close behind. A few moments later and the pair were sitting on opposite side of a keeps board, a bottle of clear liquid between them, their glasses filled and ready. Jasmine began to arrange the two armies in their proper ranks.

"I've never seen you set the board willingly before," Zakariah observed. "You really must be drowning in boredom to arrive here with a bellyful of wine and a desire to play keeps with someone whom you know will trounce you soundly."

Jasmine smiled at his remark but said nothing. Once the pieces were in place, she leaned back in her chair and lifted the glass to her lips. The deceptively benign-looking liquid within burned her mouth with a fury. The portly theater owner pushed one of his soldiers forward a pace and sipped at his own glass. Below them, a girlish voice squealed and laughed in a pitch so discordant that Jasmine winced.

"So how is the boy?" Zakariah asked.

Jasmine shrugged. "He's gone. It ended poorly. Almost got me killed too. I really don't feel like talking about it."

"Many a soul I've known to end a pairing with threats of death," he replied, lifting his glass in mock salute. "Do not foolishly believe that you're the only one so blessed by the graces of the Mother."

The man's goading did nothing to loosen Jasmine's lips. She remained silent and pushed the pieces of the keeps board along their paces. Despite the fiery nature of the liquor Zakariah had put in front of her, it wasn't long before she was refilling her glass.

"At least your keeps game has improved," he said. "Even pouring that spirit into your stomach you're managing to hold your own."

"Had plenty of practice the last few months."

"Playing keeps or drinking?"

Jasmine returned his quip with a sneer. "Both, but keeps is what I meant. Former employer couldn't have a damn word with me without forcing me to play a damn game with him."

"And that's going well, I assume? Your fabled piles of silver and gold stacked up high enough to touch the ceiling of your fine estate yet? The suitors lined up and eager for a chance to win your hand and make you a proper lady?"

"Going deaf, old man? I said _former_ employer," she spoke with venom in her voice. "Bastard dumped me. My own fault though. Just wasn't thinking, being too much the infant. Had the whole rending game in my hands and then dropped it because of..." Jasmine went silent, filled her mouth with drink to stop herself from saying more.

Because of that stupid boy. And those bloody clubbers, may their souls rot in the nihil as their bodies rot in the streets.

Eyes on the board, she could feel Zakariah's gaze lingering on her.

"Not every road runs in a straight line. Living in the East-block, you should understand that riddle by now."

"No road left to travel," Jasmine responded. "It's fallen apart and left me stranded. I could find another road, I suppose. Maybe somewhere else. Maybe south. A man told me that Vah Traex has a proper guild. Could make my name there instead."

It was BeRem that told me that. Bastard's probably down there right now, hiding from me, laughing. I could catch up with him and finish this thing for good, if I'm lucky.

Jasmine refilled her drink for a second time. The sound of shattering glass echoed from the back of the theater. This time is was Zakariah's turn to wince.

"Well," he began, "if you plan on traveling, keep yourself covered and faceless while you're out there. Do the same thing if you plan on staying. And by that I mean your more... unique features."

The strange lead-in piqued the runner's interest. She raised one eyebrow questioningly. "The priests running round on a witch-hunt? I've dealt with their types before."

"More than that," he continued. Jasmine could hear concern bordering on fear in his voice, not something to be taken lightly considering its source. "There's a militant priest order stirring up trouble from here to Kanel. Call themselves the Cleansing Hand of Dverng. On some sort of nihil-bound crusade to eradicate every sorcerer on the face of Dlorwyn. Last I heard, they had set up shop on North Temple Road and were harassing the locals, trying to weed out everyone they think has even a taint of magic in their blood. Rumors say they're setting up their outposts damn near everywhere."

"North Temple Road is a long ways away. I don't guess they'll be down here in the East-block too soon. Nobody round here would welcome them much neither."

"Just be sure to steer clear if you notice one coming your way. They're not hard to spot. Wear these idiotic-looking helmets painted up with seven-fingered hands and tabards to match. The way that you look, they'll be drowning you by sundown."

"I think I'm capable of taking care of myself."

Zakariah snorted. "You seem to be taking care of yourself quite well, don't you?"

"I've got the experience for it, as you well know," she snapped at him. "Wasn't a season gone by you didn't have me playing the role of some goblin or ghyst or fairy. I'm a damn sight better than most of the rubbish you call actors here and you'd never even let me take stage unless it was a monster or a tormentor of some sort."

Zakariah seemed taken aback by her sudden outburst. Fueled with drink, Jasmine continued deeper into her tirade.

"The way I look, I've dealt with it my entire life. Before I came here, at the orphanage, and I deal with it every day when I'm out there. I know how to cover it up when I need to and when I need to use it. I may piss all over my chances at making it high-up in the business, but I sure as hell know how to take care of myself when it comes to how I look. Last thing I need is you trying to play my father and telling me to cover my face. You never wanted me to cover it when it suited your purse, did you?"

Even as she spoke, Jasmine realized she was rambling. It made no sense to blame Zakariah for trying to warn her of danger. She felt consumed by a pointless desire to wound him in some way, to blame him for the trials of her own existence.

Well, he didn't have any faith in me when I was here, did he? He deserves what he gets, the fat, greedy bastard. I should cut him up a bit so he knows what it's like to wear a face that others gawk at all the time.

"You're just a princess in waiting then, are you?" Zakariah's tone was level, calm, but Jasmine could hear a familiar anger lurking beneath the surface of the words, a storm on the verge of raging.

"I..." her tongue became tangled, her voice subdued. "I could have been. I'm a damn sight better than Bonnie and her tits. Or any of them, for that matter. You made me the ghyst..."

"So you're just waiting for that golden moment, that opportunity above and beyond all else where you can maneuver your way into a nice, clean, royal household? I'm sure that you dance across the rooftops every night wishing you would have had some practice playing the princess, am I right? Or maybe you would have done just as well in another, equally lady-like part? How about a turn as the virtuous whore? Or perhaps you'd fare better in the role of a wealthy merchant's simple-minded daughter? Naturally, it would have been all sweets and roses if only I would have had the good sense to provide you with the right mask to wear, one that didn't involve scaring children. The Beast take your shadow-world, along with all of its promises of fortune and threats of death. That is what you're getting at, am I correct? Have I hit the nail on the head?"

"That's not what I meant..." Jasmine's voice was pained.

"Well, then what good would those roles have served you? What would you have learned from donning a painted wooden tiara with glass beads glued to it? How to prance about in front of the East-block rabble?"

Jasmine opened her mouth to reply, closed it again. Zakariah continued his assault.

"You are a stubborn, self-absorbed, vane, slightly vicious and randomly violent _child_ , whether you can admit that to the mirror or otherwise. You played the role of the ghyst because you acted like one even when you weren't on the pissing stage. And you were damn good at it then and you're still good at it, or else you wouldn't have survived as long as you have out in the streets of our fine, walled home."

Jasmine could find no words to respond, so she simply scowled. Zakariah's furious stare prompted her to avert her eyes. Downing the rest of her drink in one burning swallow, the runner, coughing from the fire, refilled it once more.

Glancing back at him, she could see that some of the rage had left his eyes. He sighed and refilled his own glass.

He plucked one of the walls from the keeps board and held it before him. "Can I make this wall move like the queen?"

Puzzled, Jasmine shook her head.

"Is my queen content to stay in one place and play the part of a wall, never moving, never sweeping the board, never using more than a small piece of the potential it has in the game? Does the knave charge into the middle of the board, blind and unthinking of its purpose?" He paused, a timely and dramatic moment to his lecture. "Or does this knave wait patiently behind the wall and bide its time until it has a chance to strike to the heart of the enemy?"

Despite her best efforts to ignore Zakariah's mentoring presentation, Jasmine felt his words cluttering up her drink-addled mind, sinking in somewhere deep and becoming thought, begging questions.

"As much as it pains you to accept it, and, with all truth, pains me to say it, you are no queen. The child I found sleeping in the rafters and invited into my theater had already chosen the role of ghyst for herself long before she ever met me."

What he said felt like truth, though it frustrated the runner to think on it. There was hardly a day that had gone by during her years at the theater when she had not ended the night lurking on the high roof, staring out over the gas-lit ghetto of the East-block. The roofscape had called to her each and every time, with promises of fire in her blood and gold in her purse. Likely, Zakariah would have let her stay at the theater forever, maybe would have even made her his protégé, but she had left and sought a different sort of fortune, a less savory kind of fame.

And now here I am yelling at one of the only people who helped me out. Why? Because I pissed up everything I worked for. Someone has to be at fault beside me, right? I'm not the only one to blame for all this mess...

Finished with his scolding, Zakariah returned his attention to the game in front of him. Jasmine echoed his silence with not a small amount of shame and self-loathing.

As the night wore one, the liquor flowed freely. The sounds of revelry from below eventually stopped, the actors having drunk themselves to sleep or paired up and moved to their rooms for a different sort of celebration. Three times the pair played keeps and three times Zakariah emerged victorious, though, in Jasmine's defense, by the time they had reached the final game she could barely see the board, let alone remember how to move the pieces properly.

Beyond the tense moment, their conversation stayed light and they mostly discussed the ins and outs of the theater. Jasmine inquired after his new plays and, reluctantly, he related some of his ideas. She interjected with a few ideas of her own. They were mostly born of drink and cynicism, but Zakariah was intrigued enough a couple of times to take notes.

Well, I won't be able to help you with coin anymore, old friend, but at least I can give you some rubbish to pile onto the heads of your audience, maybe save you a night's sleep and a headache. Knowing your tight purse strings, you've still got the money I left months back.

"I may need to borrow some of that, come to think of it," Jasmine muttered.

"What?" came Zakariah's confused reply.

Realizing that she had spoken out loud, Jasmine shrugged. "That money I left before. If things don't turn up, I may need to borrow some of that back."

Zakariah grinned at her. "Sorry, flower, but that money was spent long ago. Perhaps you've noticed that the building we're sitting in hasn't fallen down atop our heads yet?"

Jasmine sighed and refilled her glass.

As the sun bestowed its first rays upon the cityscape of Porsham Grand, a very drunk Zakariah stumbled, with a small bit of help from Jasmine, to his bed and passed out. Pausing by the keeps board on her way out, Jasmine reached into her pocket and pulled from it one silver keeps piece. She placed it in the center of the board, in plain sight so Zakariah would find it the next day.

It's yesterday. No more need for yesterdays anymore. Maybe the old man can get a few coins for it.
XXIV.Poor Judgment

Floyd slogged through the muddy alleyways, the night's torrential rain soaking his cloak and his clothes and bringing a chill to his bones. It was times like this that he wished that he could be more liberal with the use of his abilities. A simple funnel of wind and he could spin the offending raindrops away, keep himself mostly dry. It would do nothing for his shoes, of course, but small things mattered. Unfortunately, the effect would have been obvious to even the densest of observers and it wouldn't take long before a priest cadre took a walk around the East-block looking for the mad witch in their midst. So Floyd endured the rain, the mud and the chill until he finally reached his destination.

As if to taunt him, the rain ceased just as he approached the doorway of the Chipped Bone. Looking up to the sky, the sorcerer scowled his disapproval at the whims of his gods. Floyd muttered a curse beneath his breath and pushed through the door and into the mostly empty tavern.

Small crowd tonight. Everyone staying in their homes. Don't want to make the walk, I reckon, and with good reason.

He looked down at his shoes, now brown with the thick layers of mud that encased them. Kicking the door jamb to remove the worst of it, Floyd shuffled back toward the guards and the booths that they blocked. Deeply engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to notice when he passed within an arm's reach of the target of his observations and her newfound brutish companion. He was also disinclined to acknowledge the presence of the guards and the men had to step aside quickly to let Floyd pass before he collided headlong into them. Making his way to the last booth at the end of the passage, Floyd further ignored the mercenary that acted as gatekeeper. He opened the shutters to the booth and stepped in, closing the barrier behind him.

It took a moment for the sorcerer to realize that the man across the table was speaking. He stared at the table in front of him then looked up. The familiar face of his employer, the man that called himself Dwervin, stared back with a questioning look.

Lost some time again. Sitting in the booth... must have walked here. How long have I been here? Are we in the middle of a conversation or just starting one? What was I thinking about that was so important?

With no memorable reference, Floyd decided to assume that he had just arrived. He smiled across the table. "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

Dwervin drew a long, slow breath. Floyd noticed early on during his employment that the Eleventh Hour businessman was prone to agitation and anger. Not a meeting went by without Dwervin having to calm himself. It was, in Floyd's opinion, not a good way to do business, getting riled up at the smallest provocation.

"You're late again," Dwervin repeated. "By more than a week this time. You're supposed to be checking in and letting me know how the child is doing. What good are your observations if the reports come late or infrequently?"

"Oh, that," Floyd responded, nodding his head slowly. "Yes, I'm late. It's been uneventful. The girl managed to lose the legacy somehow."

Dwervin raised an eyebrow. "You assured me that such a thing wouldn't be possible."

"Likely," Floyd replied. "I said it wasn't likely. Or at least I think that's what I said. It's been a while since I said it, so you understand my confusion. But she'd need to be a sorcerer of some sort to recognize it and even then it takes an effort of magic or a very strong will to severe the tie."

Silence settled across the table. Dwervin stared the sorcerer in the eye. Floyd had the feeling that he was supposed to say something more, but, upon reflection, realized that there was probably nothing more to say. So he remained silent and waited for his employer to prompt the next phase of whatever conversation they were having.

"Your services as of late have been less than adequate, magus." Again, the anger crept into Dwervin's voice. Floyd felt the urge to leave, but figured that he would have to endure this conversation eventually, so best to just get it out of the way. "Three times your lack of vigilance has led to the target getting needlessly damaged."

"Twice," Floyd interrupted, lifting two fingers before him. "The second time I fixed the situation. So that shouldn't really count."

"Three times or two, you have not been performing your duties..."

"It should only be twice that I failed," he interrupted again. "I just don't think that the second time is my fault at all. Maybe not the third time either, really."

He could he hear the subtle sound of Dwervin grinding his teeth. "What is the difference between three or two or even one if you keep performing to less than what is expected of you? You will do as you are told and you will do it correctly or my associates and I will find someone to replace you."

"Impossible," Floyd countered. "There's nobody in this city, all million or so souls, that can do what I do. You know that, so don't play that game. It's boring and my mouth is already sore form moving my lips too much." A brief pause and a nearly inaudible, "I hate having to move my lips..."

Dwervin's anger had escalated one step further. Now, his hands, resting on the table between them, clenched and unclenched, begging to resolve as fists and no doubt resisting an urge to strike Floyd in the face. The sorcerer smiled at the astuteness of his observation.

When he finally spoke, Dwervin's voice was calm again. "There are others that we could employ, rest assured of that. Your particular skill set is not so unusual that there are no others with a sufficient amount of expertise. If we need to replace you so that our business won't be disrupted, it would only be a matter of calling in the necessary favors. Your position within our community relies upon your willingness to use your talents to our advantage. Your good standing relies upon those talents being exercised successfully. If you can not be relied upon for this next job, then I will discuss your fate with my employers. I'm more than sure that the temples owe the Eleventh Hour a favor or two."

Implied threat. He wants me to think that he'll sell me out to the witch-hunters. He won't. That would cause too many questions about why he's working with me. That would be bad for business. At least I think that's how it would work...

Again lost in thought, Floyd missed the beginning of the next stage of Dwervin's speech. "...certain events that need to take place and we need to ensure that there is no margin for error while this business plays out. Nearly three years of planning have gone into organizing the contacts and setting events into motion. You, Floyd, my friend, are the puppet master at this critical juncture. We need you to take control of the girl and make sure she goes where we need her to, when we need her to. You need to take your role seriously. You need to focus."

A cackling laugh tore from Floyd's throat, unnoticed and unchecked by the sorcerer until he was halfway through the outburst.

"Focus was never a strong suit for me," he spoke to the table, eyes drifting back and forth from one side of it to the other. "I keep things moving along and the deal is not yet broken. But I can't account for what Hesharr whispers in my ears... or the ears of others who may become the target of his intentions."

"Just be there when we need you. And solve the problem of the legacy in the meantime. If you can't track her, it reduces your usefulness to our organization. And," Dwervin paused, offered Floyd a reassuring smile, "despite my admonitions, I am confident that your abilities are sufficiently up to the tasks as hand."

"Yes, yes, tasks at hand. I will be there tonight to make sure all the little children are snug in their beds..." Unbidden, a grimace gripped the sorcerer's face, held on longer than he would have liked.

"You have some doubts?" Dwervin queried.

"It's just... that I'm beginning to feel uneasy about treating children in such a manner." He clamped his mouth shut, trying to find words that would communicate his thoughts without causing his employer to begin ranting again. "It seems that Jasmine will end up dead before all of this is over. Maybe more children dead as well. I watch her for you, but if she breaks, I don't know what will come of me..."

The loss of the whispers. Those beautiful and enveloping whispers as that creature prances across the sky, leaving hurricanes in her wake. What then am I if those whispers are gone? How is it possible to return to the mundane after touching that perfect ecstasy?

"If it eases the burden on your mind, rest assured that I have another working behind the scenes to ensure that tonight goes off without complication. The target will remain safe, the packages secured for delivery. Just perform your part and all will be well."

Floyd nodded, half-heartedly. There was little more he could do, aside from attacking his employer outright and fleeing the city.

A foolish move that would be. Already made that mistake once, don't intend on trying it again. My position here is a good one, safe from the witch-hunters. And besides, Dwervin has done nothing to jeopardize dear Jasmine thus far. My whispers are safe, safe for me to visit whenever I need.

Still, even as the sorcerer left and made his way back into the musty and noisy main room of the Chipped Bone, he entertained doubts. His relationship with the Eleventh Hour businessman made him uneasy and the more of Dwervin's words he listened to, the more convinced he became that the man was not to be trusted.

Even though Jasmine had a job lined up for the night, she arrived at the Chipped Bone early with the goal of indulging in a few pints. Andrah was nowhere to be seen, more likely than not only now rising from his bed and nursing a hangover. The sun had just gone down and the tavern was nearly empty. A pair of rogues sat in the back corner discussing something in hushed voices and glancing her way periodically, but other than them the only bodies present consisted of Laotz and the armed guards at the booths. Sitting in the usual spot, the runner sipped her drink in silence. Two ales further into the night and her brutish companion finally arrived.

Andrah sat down heavily in the seat across from her. She could see the bags hanging low and dark beneath his eyes, criss-crossed with a spider web of cherry red blood vessels. His skin was pasty and he looked slightly fevered.

"A drink too many?" she jested.

His response was little more than a grunt. He raised his hand to attract Laotz's attention, signaling the bartender with three fingers. The brute's elbows thumped on the table and his head he rested in his massive hands.

"Aren't you at work tonight?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah, gotta little run. What of it?"

"Yer gonna fall on yer ass one day, drinkin' and runnin' as you do."

Jasmine answered with a derisive laugh and said, "It's nothing that an infant couldn't do. In and out and all I need is Sinta to run me a spectacle. A few drinks ain't gonna do nothing but make me happier until it's time to head off."

Andrah leveled his gaze upon the runner. Between his feverish look and the alcohol damaged eyes, she couldn't tell if he was disapproving of her or had just forgotten where he was.

"Besides," she continued, "you ain't sober a second when you're out doing whatever clubber business you do. I'm having three or four and you do jobs with a keg in your gut, so don't try wagging your finger at me, nanny Andi."

Jasmine thought she heard a growl rumbling in the back of the brute's throat, though she supposed he could have just been clearing it.

"What I do don't require no sober man," he countered. "No sane man neither and less sober means less sane. Get the cut of it? You got things to think on and gotta clever up. Sober men may kill, but sodded men do it better." He punctuated his short speech with a grin.

"Well, I ain't likely to mess it up. Like I said, it's an infant's run. And the pay is shit, so I don't mind walking away if it gets complicated."

Andrah belted out a laugh.

"Something funny, bruiser?" Jasmine challenged.

"You don't walk away from nothing," he stated plainly. "You'd be climbin' down a smoke-pipe into a lit oven if you'd been promised a purse. Don't gimme that piss, kitten."

"Well, how about a deal then?" Jasmine snapped back. "First time I dump a job or mess it up, you get to rap me right in the face? I won't dodge, I won't hit you back. You just lob one of those hams you call fists into my nose."

For a second, Andrah looked appalled. That expression was fast replaced with cruel amusement.

"Yer asking for it, you know."

"Deal done then?"

"I gotta better deal." Jasmine could hear a clever self-satisfaction lurking in his speech. "You piss it up and it's a week of drink on your purse, eh?"

The runner's first instinct was to balk at the outrageous idea of paying for the man's drinks for an entire week. The fiend could murder alcohol as well as he could men and even the one day she had thanked him for saving her life had bit deeply into her reserves. If she lost a bet of such consequence, it would be the moneylender or the whorehouse to keep the deal.

But pride won out over good sense.

"Deal, bruiser," she answered.

Andrah's hangover seemed to lighten after the rogue spoke those two simple words. Jasmine could feel a knot forming in her stomach.

"So, the little girl, eh?" he inquired.

"Hmm? What? Oh, yeah. Sinta's a little girl, I guess. Though no one's a little girl for long in the East-block. Time takes it's toll on us all..."

Andrah rolled his eyes at the melodrama. Jasmine countered with a sneer.

Movement out of the corner of her eye brought Jasmine's attention to the booths in the back. The shutters on the end booth were being returned to a closed position, pulled shut from inside. Shifting her gaze further along the aisle, Jasmine caught sight of a man making his way out. As he turned the corner, toward the tavern's exit and, consequently, toward where Jasmine sat, she took his appearance in.

He stood average height, though his build was a bit skinny, almost malnourished. His narrow face was pale from lack of sun, his dirty blonde hair cut short but with no particular style. A shadow of a beard covered his chin. His clothes were plain, a pale blue tunic, brown breeches and a faded grey cloak. Nothing fit the man properly and all were soaked through.

As he passed by Jasmine and Andrah's table, he paused for a second. His head swiveled toward the runner and his ice blue eyes stared directly into her own emerald green pair. Jasmine noticed Andrah tighten the grip on his stein, his empty hand coming up from under the table to rest on its surface, fingers curled into a fist. His own aggressive gaze settled on the strange man.

Suddenly, the man leaned forward at the waist, awkwardly towering over Jasmine in her seat. He raised one hand, curling three fingers and his thumb into a fist and leaving one long finger pointing to the roof. He placed the finger to his lips and let out a breath of air, like a long, slow whisper. It took Jasmine a moment to realize he was shushing her.

The runner opened her mouth to reply with some properly sharp words, but the man righted himself and, quickening his pace to nearly a jog, rushed out the front of the Chipped Bone.

Confused by the whole affair, Jasmine could do nothing but stare.

"Friend of yers, eh?" Andrah asked, amused.

Jasmine shook her head to put her thoughts back in order. She returned her attention to her bruiser friend. "No, not me," she replied, still a bit confused. "Friend of Dwervin's, I'm sure. Just came out of his booth."

Andrah raised an eyebrow at the runner. She shrugged in return.

A few pints later and the hour was drawing near for Jasmine to be on the job. Draining the last of her cup, she wished Andrah a good night. He responded by rapping his stein three times on the table, the Ba'Quathin way of signaling Ihshintul and summoning good luck. The runner strolled from the tavern and made her way toward the orphanage to find her young protégé.
XXV. Homecoming

Jasmine had been waiting outside the orphanage for more than thirty minutes before the anger set in. A message had been sent earlier in the day and it was unlikely that Sinta had not received it, so she should have been on time, but the child was nowhere to be seen. If Jasmine couldn't find her soon, the night's work would become more complicated than it needed to be. Sighing, she paced back and forth outside the barred wall that surrounded the orphanage grounds.

Admittedly, it had been several weeks since the runner had last spoken with Sinta in person. There was always the chance, however small, that her message had been discovered and intercepted. There was equally a chance that the girl was deliberately ignoring her to prove some sort of point that Jasmine wouldn't even comprehend until next they spoke.

That unreliable little brat. Probably pissed at me because I haven't treated her to a bath in nearly a moon. Always late, that one, no matter the promise of coin.

Even as she thought it, Jasmine knew it to be untrue. Aside from a few rare exceptions, Sinta was never late, work or play. It was one of the first lessons the runner had ingrained into her young partner. It had, in fact, come back to bite Jasmine in the ass on more than one occasion, as Sinta would eagerly call her out if she was even a half-minute behind for a meeting. The fact that the child was not present could only mean that something had gone wrong somewhere.

Must've gotten herself into a pinch with the matron, the stupid child. Now she's scrubbing floors til dawn or elbows-deep in the ashes of the furnace. Mess my night up by being mouthy. If this comes back to mess my bet with Andrah up, you'd best run, you ever see me coming your way. I'll give you a knuckle for every wren that brute pulls from my purse.

Slightly tipsy and more than a little curious, the runner decided that further investigation was in order. If the courier that ran their messages had been discovered, then they would have to find a new method of communication. If Sinta had gotten herself in a bind, then Jasmine wanted the opportunity to berate her. Even if it meant being late for the job, it had to be done, for the benefit of both business and amusement. With a bound and a quick climb, Jasmine was over the iron bars and into the orphanage compound.

As she walked across the barren lot toward the window she had chosen as a an entry point, it occurred to Jasmine that she had not been on the inside of the fence for more than three years. As soon as Sinta had become capable enough to navigate her own way out of the orphanage, crossing the barrier had proved unnecessary. It was safer and more expedient for the girl to come to her when they needed to meet.

The wide expanse of hard-packed dirt was the same as always, the same as it appeared from outside the fence, though the night's rain had muddied it up a bit. Once, back when Jasmine had first arrived at the stone prison, there had been trees in the lot. Not many of them, but they were very old trees, planted during a time when the orphanage had served its previous purpose as a house for plague. That was before the walls had gone up, before the merchant houses had cut the East-block and the other ghetto neighborhoods off from the rest of Porsham Grand. Someone whose name escaped her had said that the trees were well over three-hundred years old. Jasmine had laughed then, thinking it impossible for anything to live that long.

During the winter of her seventh year, the last two ancient trees had been cut down. They were chopped into fuel to keep the orphanage warm against the unusually bitter chill that set in that season. Or, more accurately, they had kept the rooms of the matron and her assistants warm. The children had been left to huddle together for warmth. More than a dozen died during the worst of it. Jasmine, being unwelcome among her peers, had been forced to seek out a different solution. Lurking in the kitchen hoist, she had soon discovered, provided a body with a steady stream of heated air as it washed down from the chambers of the matron herself.

Jasmine grinned at the recollection. Sitting comfortable (if a bit cramped) in the very shadow of the terrorizing matron while the children who mocked her shivered the night away. Cleverness had proven far superior to the strength of numbers.

Having reached the stone block of a building, Jasmine scrambled up the wall, digging her sharp nails into the cracks that laced the old stone. She arrived at the window, slipping through one empty pane and into the dark.

The room she entered was much the same as most every room on the top floor of the structure and similar in kind to every room in the building. It was large and open with high ceilings. Windows, expansive enough to come within an arm's span of the ceilings and floors, dominated the exterior walls. An overlarge, arched doorway exited through a third wall and into the central hallway. The doorway was barren of an actual door and the windows, though a surprising number of glass panes had managed to survive, were patchwork with boards. It was one of eight such rooms on the upper floor, six of which served as storage. The other two belonged to the matron and her staff.

Always did like to live high above the stink of your charges and the noise of the workshops. I bet you'd make your cronies live below as well, if you had enough room.

The only decorations were a score or so stacks of the moldy and straw-stuffed cloth bags that served as mattresses, along with a half-dozen overlong tables. The tables stretched nearly the full twenty feet from one wall to another and, Jasmine knew, when they actually saw use they occupied the workshops of the lower floor. The damp of the rains had set into the cloth and wood and the air was thick with the smell of rot and decay. Jasmine's sharp senses recoiled at the familiar stench.

Slipping between the stacked piles, Jasmine arrived at the doorway. Carefully, she peeked around the corner and into the central hall, if a hall it could be rightly called. In truth, it was large enough to take up nearly half of the entire floor. A sizable expanse of the floor had been left open to the lower level, a ten-foot wide walkway encircling it. Only a bent iron rail discouraged the likelihood of a fall. Spiraling stairways of rusted iron descended, one on either end of the lengthy open space.

Late as it was, no light shined from anywhere nearby. The matron made sure the house was black and silent once the later hours arrived. It was a waste to spend money on candles when that money could be used to enhance the state of her comfort. The only evidence of life was a guard outside the matron's room. He sat on a stone bench next to her doorway, heavy with sleep and half-falling from his seat.

If not for the meager moon sending its light in through the building's many windows, Jasmine might have been at odds to see anything at all. But her unnatural eyes picked up the stray light and focused it into blanket of luminescence. Anyone else in that hall, including the guard if he had been awake, would have seen naught but deep shadows.

The faint, metallic tinkling of bells echoed from the direction of the matron's quarters. Jasmine recognized the sound all-too-well, the product of the matron's mechanized musical box. The self-serving woman had spent a small fortune procuring the device from the Knaylish tinkerers of the northwestern valley. That fortune had come from the bleeding fingers of her charges, the product of months of labor.

The old beast still has that thing? I'dve thought it would've been sold ages ago, knowing her habits of coin. Course, she'd rather just push the slaves harder than try to make it otherwise. Well, piss on the old bitch queen in her cracked castle. One of these days the children will rise and dethrone her. Then it's to the chopping block.

Jasmine chuckled at the thought of the matron, stripped and bruised and bleeding, splayed out upon the shoulders of dozens of rabid children, hauled off to meet her fate at the cold, sharp blade of the guillotine in Central Market Round. It was her fondest wish that she be there to pull the release when the time came. But that fantasy would have to wait until another day.

Stepping into the hall, the runner skirted clockwise around the gaping hole, careful not to wake the sleeping guard. Once she had navigated to the opposite side, she padded down the stairway.

The hall of the lower floor was identical to its counterpart, aside from a large, wooden trapdoor at the center. That trapdoor, Jasmine knew, opened onto stairs. Those stairs descended into the gloom of the kitchens. Her head held far too many memories of that unpleasant space.

Making her way back to the opposite side of the hall, Jasmine passed doorway after doorway, each opening into one of the dormant orphanage workshops. In the dim light she could see that the rooms had changed little. Long tables were cluttered with the remains of the day's work, awaiting the matron's morning inspection. Wooden half-crates lay by each child's station, filled with finished product or unused supplies. She hurried by, to the first girls' dormitory.

Another guard and another bench lay near the entrance to the dormitories, though this one had not even made the pretense of trying to stay conscious. He was flat on his back, legs hanging more than half off of one end and head but an inch away from losing its place on the other. Mouth gaping, long, whistling snores emitted from his throat at regular intervals. Jasmine hurried by, again as quiet as a whisper.

Glancing through the doorway, she scanned the room for Sinta's familiar face. Lack of immediate success prompted a more thorough search. The runner wove her way between the beds, examining each occupant as she passed. The room was emptier than was usual, so the search went fairly quick.

Light compliment today, matron. Not enough kids being thrown away these days? Why, there's even room enough for the girls to roll over without putting a foot into their neighbor's eye.

Minutes passed and still no sign of Sinta. Jasmine returned to the hall, skulked past the unconscious guard, and checked the second girls' dormitory. Luck there was just as scarce, the number of children just as small. The runner was beginning to think that the girl had gotten out late and they had just missed each other.

If the guards outside had caught her, she'd be locked in the kitchen, scrubbing. Best to check there before as well.

To open the wooden door would have made a racket well beyond Jasmine's ability to conceal. So instead, she went into one of the workshops, the one positioned just below the matron's quarters. A lift had been built in one of the corners, a wooden platform connected to a pulley and running up the interior of a makeshift stone chimney. Putting her head inside the tube, she looked up. The lift remained on the upper floor. Glancing below she could see the faint flickering of a candle. The runner climbed into the chimney and shimmied her way down to the kitchens.

Jasmine leaped from the hole dramatically, intent on scaring Sinta into pissing herself before giving her a solid tongue lashing. Unfortunately for the rogue, the small child that crouched on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floors was not Sinta. The poor creature yelped and tried to scramble away from her assailant.

"Hold up there," Jasmine rushed to quiet the young girl. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just relax. I don't like the matron any more than anyone here. I'm just trying to find a friend of mine."

The girl, still in shock, crawled backwards until she was pressed against the far wall, but did not scream. Jasmine reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver coin, waving it in the air so the candle's light would catch its reflection.

"All you gotta do is let me know where my friend is and I'll give you this."

The child appeared to lose some of her fear, the light of terror in her eyes replaced with hunger.

Jasmine tossed the coin at her newfound ally. The girl snatched it deftly from the air.

"There we go," Jasmine tried to sound reassuring, soothing. "Now it's yours even if you don't talk. All I need to know is what happened to my friend Sinta. She's a girl about as tall as you, maybe a bit older. A mouth on her that..."

"I know Sinta," the girl chimed in as she tucked the silver away somewhere in her rag of a dress. "She's gone though. A lot of the girls are gone. Some guards came and took them all out. I was supposed to go too, but I hid. And the matron has me scrubbing the floor for punishment."

Realization hit Jasmine before the child had finished her short speech. Forcing the children to labor twelve hours a day in the workshops was only one method the matron used to bring in her beloved coin. When the weather set in and the market shut down, expenses got higher and the workshops less profitable. It was during these times that the matron would pluck out the older girls, and some of the more handsome boys, and turn them into a different, baser sort of commodity.

The old witch would lie to the children to get them to fall in line, would tell them that they had been hired on by a merchant or a foreigner of some sort that needed labor fast. They were told that their lives were going to get better, that they would have soft beds and their own coin to spend and that if they held out for a few years or more they would eventually have a way to start a proper life, a life outside the walls.

Jasmine knew the truth of it, however.

Ever since her seventh summer, the runner had been able to negotiate her own comings and goings with regards to the orphanage grounds. Tired of the bleak walls and poor company, she would sneak out at night and explore the surrounding city.

One night, she had been sitting atop the western gate of the East-block, watching the people below as they went about their business. It was a game of hers, to sit and spy on people and make up stories. She would invent their names, their professions, where they were going and where they had come from. One winter, while scrutinizing a wealthy prince who had approached a poor and destitute woman to give her coin and escort her home, Jasmine's thoughts were interrupted by an argument below.

Peaking over the wall, careful to remain unseen, she peered down upon an altercation between the gate guards and two armed men dressed in battered leathers. The faces of those men she recognized as two of the matron's thugs. Shifting sides to stare down into the East-block interior, she saw two more of the orphanage's guards. The four men encircled a group of six girls, all of them whom Jasmine knew, if not necessarily liked. After an exchange of coin, the gatemen allowed the procession to continue into the city proper.

The next day, Jasmine noticed that none of the girls had returned. When she gathered the courage to ask the matron about it, she was informed that they had been sent north to work in an Historian library, as bookbinders. Jasmine knew that most of the six had proven atrocious at bookbinding and called the matron out on her lie. The response from her benevolent caretaker had been a backhand to the face, sufficiently violent enough to fracture young Jasmine's cheekbone.

Over the following months, Jasmine took it upon herself to solve the mystery of where her fellow orphans were going. Night after night she lurked above the western gate and watched, waited. He patience paid off when she saw the same scene played out again and, afterwards, every few weeks. And, just like the first group, none of the girls ever returned.

But it wasn't until she witnessed the sale of a six-year-old child by the name of Jezira that she discerned the truth of it. This time, the matron's thug had come alone, just him and his charge. He greased the palms of the gate guards as usual and was met just outside the wall by a handsome young man. He was a lord by the look of his dress and drunk beyond sense by the stagger of his walk. After a brief negotiation, the lord passed the guard a small purse and Jezira's hand was placed into his. Crouching before the young girl, the man began to sniff at her hair, rub his hands across her arms. He started mumbling things in whispers, not to the child but about her. Those whispers Jasmine snatched from air as they drifted toward her. Though she understood only half of what the man was saying, she knew enough to decipher the unpleasant and appalling nature of his words. From her vantage point, Jasmine could make out the reflection of light on tears as they rolled down Jezira's cheeks. Those tears fell in silence as the man stood and led her away.

The flash of memory surged into Jasmine's mind like the fire of the strongest whisky. Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding. Her lips curled back baring razor sharp canines. Forgotten was the presence of the child, the time ticking away and threatening to spoil the night's work, the thoughts of losing her bet with Andrah. Her mind was filled with images of blood, vengeance and murder. Only the sharp inhalation of air as the child caught her breath brought Jasmine back to the world around her.

She reached into her purse once more, pulled out another silver wren. Holding it up, she spoke to the child with barely concealed fury. "How long before did they take her?"

The child hesitated, shifted her gaze between the coin and the runner's teeth. "Just after the sun fell," she finally said.

"Pissing nihil," Jasmine swore aloud. "They've got plenty of lead on me."

Tossing the coin to the child, she spoke once more, "For your silence", and then, climbing into the stone chimney, Jasmine scrambled her way back up.

Grin spread wide across her face, sharp teeth bared in a vicious, predatory fashion, the runner gazed down upon her sleeping prey. She had removed the tichel that normally bound and blackened her hair and lit a nearby candle in order to make sure that there would be no mistaking who she was.

It had been several years since last the runner had looked upon the face of her nemesis, but little had changed. The matron's broad shoulders were still topped by a slightly overlarge head. Even as she slept, her expression held the familiar look of perpetual imperious contempt, lips downturned at the edges in the shadow of a frown, eyes slanted in a way that complimented the look perfectly. Her hair, brown once but now mostly silver, was piled atop her head, held in place with a dozen or more silver pins. She more a nightgown of blue silk, an item expensive by most anyone's standards, and a lone silver band graced the long, boney middle finger of her right hand, evidence of a failed marriage long passed.

In one hand, Jasmine held the delicate music box, now inert and silent. With a whip of her arm, she tossed it onto the chest of the sleeping matron.

The old woman jumped awake, startled by the heavy weight colliding with her breast. Her gaze instantly found Jasmine's form looming above. As recognition set in, the matron's eyes widened and she turned, attempting to flee from her bed and toward the exit. A knife flew through the air and buried itself an inch deep in the wooden headboard and a mere handspan away from the matron's nose. She jumped back, ceasing in her attempts to escape.

She turned to face her intruder. Mustering as much defiance as she could, the matron spoke. "You!" she declared. "I thought we'd seen the last of you, you sour little ghyst. How dare you come back here and attempt to terrorize me in such a manner, _child_." The last word oozed with contempt.

The matron had made the mistake of resuming the relationship where last she and Jasmine had left off, but the old fears no longer lurked in Jasmine's heart. There was an imperious expression on the old woman's face, a familiar one that pulled the right side of her mouth down even as her right eye bulged. It had once intimidated Jasmine, as if the matron was somehow touched with a bloody madness. Now, it just made her seem as if she suffered from apoplexy.

Jasmine reached down, unsheathed two of her knives. "You just don't know what kind of shit you're in, do you?"

The old woman's mouth opened wide as her head turned toward the doorway of her room.

"I'd stay silent if you know what's good for you," Jasmine threatened. The runner waved one blade casually toward a small, faded-green ceramic jar resting on the table beside her. "Recognize that? You know what's in it, you use it on the kids enough. Let's just say I already took the chance to use it on your thugs. You yell all you want, the only one that might come running are the children, if they care enough. Or if they want to get a kick or two of their own in.'

The matron froze, her mouth snapped shut. The contempt in her eyes began to betray a trace of fear. Jasmine's grin stretched wider. She had not, of course, taken the time out to drug the guards, but there was no need to explain to the matron that small detail.

"I'm here for something that's mine, and I intend to get answers from you. If it takes all night, I'll cut into you for as long as I need to make sure you're giving me the truth." The runner slid one knife across the other for effect. The shrill, metallic scraping caused the matron to twitch.

"And let's get something clear from the start," Jasmine continued. "I'm not the person to think about what sorts of things are proper or not. If it makes you scream, it's game to me. I _will_ have my answers and if you happen to die along the way, there'll be no tears in my eyes. You call me the ghyst, but you don't know the half of it. I've become a true child of the nihil over these last years I've been gone. I know ways to hurt people that even a master poet couldn't describe, cause no mind can think rightly of that much pain. Now," she leaned in and locked her most intense gaze upon the shivering old woman, "are we clear about what's going to happen right now?"

The matron nodded her head, the fear in her eyes spreading to cloud out all else. Jasmine relaxed her predatory grin, mixed in a slight tinge of joy, as a mother might offer a disobedient child that had chosen to cooperate.

"You had a girl here, a girl named Sinta," Jasmine spoke slow and plain. "She and some others have gone missing. Normally, your business is your own, but I have arrangements with Sinta that don't agree well with your business this time around. I need to know where she is and when she got there."

The matron hesitated. Jasmine thought she saw a brief flash of triumph in the old woman's eyes and felt panic grip at her. By the time the matron spoke, Jasmine could sense a definite change of mood, a lightening of the woman's demeanor.

What is going on in your head, you greedy cunt? If you've done her harm, you know I'll take it out on you right here and now, so why the funny little shadow in your thoughts?

"She's been sold," she finally said. "The Portween have bought the little whore up, along with twenty other whores. They've been sold and shipped and are likely well out of the city by now, on their way to a mining camp in the east, where they will be put to good use in the pleasure house."

Jasmine's first instinct was to bury a knife in the matron's soft waddle of a neck, but a lingering vestige of self-control stayed her hand. The runner took a deep breath, relaxed her mind.

You've already blown things again and again cause you're not thinking straight, girl. Don't go pissing this one up too. No more Bloodrazor messes or BeRem bullshit. Let's take this one nice and clean. Think clearly, think clearly, think clearly...

Fear, rage and bloodlust filled her, fought for control over her expression, threatened to betray her to the matron. Jasmine fought back, held the emotions at bay, and calmly addressed her enemy.

"You're full of shit, old woman," she accused. "Sinta's only eight summers and if she was sold inside the kingdom, to a proper mining camp, there are laws against things like that. And it's easy to spot, so don't tell me they'd just hide her in backroom for a special treat. No one in their right mind will try to move a child her age with older girls along the eastern highway."

The matron's grin widened, her right eye bulged just a bit more. "I just deliver what I'm told to deliver, ghyst. The order came in for twenty girls of proper age, but the man doing the ordering said he wanted the little whore specifically. Said he had seen her around and taken a _special_ fancy to her. I would venture that she won't be going to the pleasure house at all." She paused, eyes scanning, trying to read Jasmine. "Given the danger of being discovered, I wouldn't be at all surprised if young Sinta didn't quite last the entire journey."

Jasmine's heart raced a little faster. The prospect of a slave-broker taking on a private purchase so that he could indulge in a more personal fancy didn't sound beyond the realm of possibility. And, as the matron had subtly emphasized, the easiest way to avoid being discovered by the toll guards that patrolled the eastern route would be to slit the child's throat and throw the body into a lonely gorge somewhere along the way. The runner took another deep breath. Time was her enemy, but she had not lost quite yet.

"You'll tell me where the purchase was made, where the girls went and the numbers and anything else you know about the buyers," she said.

The matron's response was an amused sneer.

"If any of those questions don't get answered, or if I'm not happy with what you have to say, I will carve bits of you off for every time you make me upset. I'll be starting out with the nipples on the ends of those dried out tits of yours and your nose and ears will probably go next. And your fingers, of course. I've found cutting off fingers to be a fine bit of fun. Even more when you take off half from each hand. Makes it kinda hard for people to get anything done."

The amusement had gone out of the old woman, but not the defiance. Jasmine could tell that the matron's tongue was already rehearsing an elaborate set of lies.

"To make things even better," Jasmine continued, punctuating the statement with an oft-practiced but rarely used crooked smile that stank of madness, "I'll be knocking you out and then cutting you up _after_ all the questions are over and done. So, you don't get to know if I think your lying or not until you wake up later and count your parts." She leaned in closer to the old woman, studied the fear in her eyes. "Doesn't that sound like it's fun? I think it's fun."

The matron spoke quickly and freely and answered all of Jasmine's questions in short time. The runner was reasonably sure that most every word was truth, or at least the parts that mattered. And once she felt she had enough information to let up, she knocked the old woman out. Instead of taking a finger or an ear, however, Jasmine took the matron's precious music box. The ounce of gold was, after all, more practical than a pint of spilled blood.
XXVI. Unlikely Liberators

"And why am I gonna worry a piss about yer little friend, kitten?" Andrah asked from behind a mugful of ale.

Jasmine ground her teeth with frustration. She had rushed from the orphanage and across the rooftops so intently that her breath still had yet to return. Jumps were taken that bordered on suicide and it was a surprise even to the runner that she hadn't fallen a half-dozen times and shattered the bones in her body. Now, finally back at the Chipped Bone, her bruiser ally was proving difficult to recruit.

"Look here," she began, voice heavy with the Ba'Quathin drawl so as not to be overheard. "Sinta may not be nothing to you, but she's a friend from years back to me. And she's a child and some Portween cunt is planning on selling her to a pleasure house at eight summers. You may not care about what happens to kids in pleasure houses... pissing nihil, it might even be your thing..."

"Mind yer tongue, kid," Andrah interrupted, his voice lathered in menace enough to give Jasmine pause.

The runner continued, "I know where she's being kept and I'm planning on going there with you or without you, regardless. I came here cause I figured you'd be keen to help me out. I've bought you enough damn drinks, already."

The brute grunted and shrugged, "Not enough fer me to go crossin' the Houses. I like my life simple. Don't need those eyes on me."

Jasmine felt like slapping the brute across his bored-looking face. One canine dug into her lower lip, the pain lost amidst a cloud of rage. Blood trickled down her chin.

"Yer bleedin', kitten," Andrah pointed out.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Jasmine replied, "Why is it you care? You don't want to help no one unless there's coin or whores involved. Lot of good you came too. I could've been best casting my lot with any of the other clubbers in this hole."

"Look here you," his voice grew stern. "I ain't no sneaker like you. I kill men and that's what I do best and that's what I like to do. I'm not goin' tip-toeing about trying to snatch children just cause you think it's worth the cost of my ale."

Jasmine drew a sharp breath and looked away from the impassive eyes of her drinking partner. Inside, her mind clamped tight, sought out the words that would sway the brute. After a few seconds, it all came to her. Jasmine returned her gaze to the half-drunk bruiser.

"If you come with me to do this, I can't get my job done tonight," she said. A spark of interest lit in Andrah's eyes. "That means I owe you your drinks for a week, right? Good deal to me, sounds like. On the other hand, you stay here sitting on your ass while I head out to rescue my friend and I'm probably dead for sure. No drinks for you either way."

The bruiser let out a long, rumbling sigh. He stared into his mug, thinking.

"Still don't change the truth that I ain't no sneak-thief," he stated plainly.

"I'm not looking for a sneak-thief, dammit," Jasmine replied. "If I was wanting someone to help me break in and out, you think I'dve come looking for you? I know a fistful of runners I could call on that would cost me a sight less than the all the coin I'll be handing to Laotz once you start on your week-long binge."

Andrah's gaze locked on hers, his interest finally captured.

"I need someone to run a distraction," she continued. "I'll be sneaking in the back door, but there's probably more guards than I can handle. You'll be making noise and trying to get them around front. Maybe you'll even get to kill someone, if you're lucky."

When the broken smile spread across Andrah's face, Jasmine knew that she had him.

The bruiser grabbed the two massive iron clubs that served him as weapons, along with a large jug of cheap wine, and the pair made their way out of the tavern and toward the west gate. It wasn't too far of a walk from the Chipped Bone, but even the fifteen minutes it took to cover the distance twisted Jasmine's stomach into knots. Deals in flesh lent themselves better to the shadows of night. The girls, and Sinta, could have been moved already, crammed into a cage, loaded into the back of a wagon and on their way down the eastern highway. There was a chance that the companions would arrive to find that they were too late. They could be risking their lives for nothing and, worse yet, spending precious time doing it. Pinched between thumb and forefinger, Jasmine rubbed the silver medallion of Ihshintul until the tips of her fingers felt raw.

If there's any luck left in you, I need it now for certain. Just let me be on time, and I'll take care of the rest. You mess this one up, Gambler, and I'll piss on your token and drop it in the charity box at the temple of Oran. See how that suits you, eh?

As they approached the west gate, the guards posted there stepped forward to block their passage. Jasmine reached for the pouch at her side, ready to make the customary bribe, when Andrah's fist lashed out. The mass of meat and bone he called a hand connected solid with the face of the first guard. A crunching noise sounded, blood poured from the man's broken nose and his form crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The second man, face dumb with shock, made to draw the short blade at his side, but the bruiser was too quick. A second swing and he joined his companion.

Jasmine stood silent, gaping, as Andrah bent over and pulled a half-helm from the head of one guard. Despite the too-small size, Andrah managed to wedge it onto his head, if a bit awkwardly.

"I could have bribed them, you know," Jasmine stated.

Andrah shrugged as if it were all simple routine. "Needed a helmet," he said, walking through the gate and into the city proper. Jasmine followed two steps behind.

Another thirty-minutes on foot and they had reached the east-central warehouse district. It was a bleak place, almost as dreary as the ghetto, and filled with nearly identical buildings of great size, each one joined to a small apartment of two or three stories. Here and there, broken marble fragments lay cluttering the outer perimeters of the buildings. They were pieces of statues and columns and other unknown structures, the remnants of whatever purpose this district had once served in a previous incarnation.

The main avenues were wide enough to ride two large carts side-by-side, which meant they weren't narrow enough for the pair to effectively hide. The alleys were no better, being as wide as most of the East-block's normal roads. The roofs of both warehouses and apartments were flat and no two buildings stood close enough together for the runner to even consider making a leap. That was assuming that there wasn't a compliment of guards lurking on the roof of their destination as well. Approaching their target would prove trickier than Jasmine first suspected. When they arrived at the warehouse the runner knew to be the Portween's shipping post, her fears were confirmed.

Lurking around the corner of a neighboring building, she peered out and surveyed the scene. From her vantage point she could see two guards patrolling the roof, another two out front and the shadows of movement in no less than three windows. They were all positioned on and around the apartment, the warehouse left relatively unattended. The fact that there were so many soldiers was encouraging. In all likelihood, if the girls had been moved most of the guards would have gone with them. There was a good chance that Sinta was still nearby.

A belch and the sound of something heavy dropping into the dirt echoed from behind the runner. She spun to glare at Andrah, who had finally finished his wine and discarded the empty jug. He stared back, uncaring.

"They know we're out here, it's going to be a time of it," Jasmine snapped in a hushed voice.

"I'm here to kill some men, right?" Andrah retorted.

Jasmine bared her fangs at the bruiser and returned to her examination of the situation. Her eyes took in every motion, every nuance.

Lazy mercenaries. Not even making a proper patrol. Just sitting there like dung-heaps, waiting for someone to show up and cry out that it's time to scrap. Don't think that someone would have the sack to bust up a Portween deal, eh? Infants is what you are. Might be able to get in and out pretty easy, with just a little distraction.

After five minutes of diligent observation, Jasmine was ready to go. She turned back to her companion.

"Alright," she said, "now we're gonna go through this building here and then come around from the door of the apartment. I can get us in there quick and easy and you'll wait in there at the front door, facing the target. Keep an eye through the window. I'll signal you when I need you to start a spectacle and draw them out. Stay sharp though. There may be someone in this building that you gotta knock out before they sound any alarm."

Andrah grinned and nodded. His eagerness to shed blood was palpable.

Getting the brute to his position was uneventful. Though Andrah seemed disappointed that no one had stood in their way, Jasmine was grateful that at least something was going as planned. Once he was posted, she took a circuitous route around the target building, coming to the side of the warehouse furthest from the apartments. There, she climbed to the roof and stared out across the flat expanse.

Fortune favored the runner again, the guards proving to be just as lazy as she first observed. They barely even glanced down at the warehouse roof as Jasmine slinked her way across it. When they chose to look, they did an uninspired sweep and then went back to milling about. With the storm clouds still heavy in the sky, Jasmine was little more than another shadow, unworthy of examination from the comfortably immune employees of the powerful Portween. Coming finally to the wall of the three-story apartment, she pressed up flat. The runner crept to the front of the apartment and then the back, checking her foes' positions. There were two at each side.

No matter which way I go, there's gonna be trouble. Let's hope that giant slab of meat does his job, else me and Sinta may end up flayed. It's up to you, you drunken bastard.

Unobserved, it was a simple matter for Jasmine to check the nearby windows, find one that didn't have someone lurking beyond and then jimmy it open enough to climb in. Once inside, she made her way across the room and to the single exit, careful to remain silent. The runner pressed her ear against the door, checking for sounds of life.

No noise reached her, so she opened the door slowly and peaked out into the connecting hall. Seeing no one, Jasmine let the door open just enough to squeeze through.

The hall continued to both her left and right. She was busy deciding which way to go when a high pitched sobbing broke the silence. Spinning in the direction of the noise, Jasmine drew a heavy, leather-bound sap with one hand and pulled out a small, rough cotton pouch with the other.

The runner peaked around the corner of the hall, toward the origin of the pained cry. Two doors stood to her right, facing the front of the building. A guard was posted in front of one, leaning against the frame and looking agitated. The sobbing continued, waxing and waning in volume and pitch. Jasmine watched as the irritation on the man's face swelled.

Finally, it appeared he could take no more. Spinning, he threw the door open and began to yell.

"Shut yer damn hole, bitch!" he shouted. "Bad enough I can't have my go at you, I don't need you back there pushing me on. You don't shut up and I'll do what I please, like it or not, you little..."

"Piss in your own ass, you ugly bugger-boy excuse for a swordarm," a familiar voice began hollering in retaliation. An amused grin spread across the runner's face.

Oh, Sinta. Words to make me proud, dear girl. Though you'll not hear that from me. Don't need that mouth getting even louder than it already is.

Sinta continued her beratement. "You touch us, your boss'll have somethin' to say about that, I'm sure. Just leave us alone and wait to get paid, you piss-faced, pig-rending, bloated, cow-jousting..."

But the child had gone too far. The guard's blood, already warmed with frustration, finally caught fire with rage. He slammed the door the rest of the way open and pulled a long, thin-bladed knife from his belt.

Well now you've pushed him right over the edge, girl. Guess it's about the time to get this thing over and done.

A moment later, the mercenary's inert body lay splayed out in the doorway. Jasmine stood over him, sap in hand. More than a dozen pairs of eyes stared up at her, astonished. The runner sought out Sinta's eyes among them. Contrary to her older companions, the young girl did not appear surprised. If anything, Jasmine sensed something closer to impatience. The runner grabbed the guard by the ankles, dragged him into the small room and shut the door quietly behind her.

She turned to address Sinta. "Get up here and let's go. I got Andrah ready to run a spectacle for us so we can sneak back out again."

The impatience in Sinta's eyes was replaced by a roiling fury.

"And what about the rest of them, eh?" she challenged. "We gotta get them all out too."

Jasmine shook her head. "There's nothing we can do for the rest. I'm already crossing the Portween to get you out. I steal their whole cargo and the next time I close my eyes to sleep is the last time."

The girl who had been sobbing before resumed. A few of the others joined in.

"I'm not going without them," Sinta declared.

A growl escaped Jasmine's throat as she faced down her eight-summers-old protégé. "We don't have time for this, Sin. It's you and me or we're all dead, and you know it. You don't like it, I'll leave you here and head off on my own."

The child's eyes gave no hint of a change of mind. If Jasmine and the girl were going to escape unharmed, the runner would simply have to sap her, just as she had done to the guard, and throw Sinta's limp body over her shoulder. Jasmine opened her mouth to give good sense one more try before embracing violence, when a horrible shout from outside interrupted her thoughts. Rushing to the room's only window, she looked down into the street to see Andrah, or at least the few parts of him that were visible, rushing across the gap between one warehouse and the other.

In his right hand, the brute held one of the giant club-swords that his massive strength made so effective. In the other, he held a door that had, judging by the broken plank still attached to the hinges, been ripped straight from it's housing. A handful of crossbow bolts, the thick ones called "horse-killers", protruded from the man-sized wooden shield. Andrah's roar of rage echoed out from behind the barrier, the only evidence aside from the unique sword that it was him at all.

As Jasmine stared, slack-jawed, another round of bolts connected with the brute's makeshift shield. The door jolted, a piece of its corner splintering beneath the impact, but Andrah hardly missed a step. A second later and he had completed his charge up to the apartment's entrance and out of Jasmine's view.

The runner spun, stared Sinta in the eyes. The fixed determination writ there was plain to read. The child would go nowhere without the rest of the girls.

"Fine," Jasmine barked at the girl. "Shit, piss, son-of-a-whore. How the nihil am I supposed to get all these rats out of here? You got an idea or two? There's still guards in the building too. Any answer to that puzzle?"

Sinta's expression was set in stone.

"Alright, brat. You want them, you watch them. I'll clear the way but you keep up or I leave you all behind."

Just as Jasmine was finishing her speech, the door to the room swung violently open. Standing in the doorway was another guard, this one larger and meaner looking than the last, a strange foreign blade, short and wide and serrated on one side, clutched in his hand. He looked down at his unconscious colleague, back up at Jasmine. With a grimace, the mercenary raised his weapon and stepped in.

Quick as the flick of her wrist, Jasmine tossed the contents of the small bag into the man's face. As the white sand spilled forth, the cloud enveloping the guard's head, he let out a terrible scream. His sword dropped to the floor and he raised both hands to clutch at his face. Wisps of smoke trailed from between the cracks of his fingers and from speckled patches on his neck. Within seconds, his hands, now coated with the sand, were burning and smoking as well. Colorless fluid streamed from wounds both seen and unseen. The stench of cooked meat flooded the room.

Careful to avoid the lingering dust cloud, Jasmine put one boot to the man's gut and gave him a shove. He staggered back into the hall and fell to his backside. The flesh of his hands and face had by this time melted like so much candle wax, mixing and mingling in one liquid pool. The rising volume of his screams announced the pain of his efforts to separate the two.

Jasmine turned back to her two-score new charges and grimaced. "Move quick after me. Don't breathe til we get in the hall, else you'll be choking up blood for a week."

Taking a deep breath, the runner dove through the airborne remnants of the fire sand, her steps almost fouled by the flailing legs of the melting mercenary. Grabbing the man by the shoulders, Jasmine grunted and pulled him to the side. The train of girls began to filter into the hallway.

The screams were likely to bring more guards to the scene at any second, so Jasmine moved as quick as she dare. The apartment hallway ran a square circuit around a central cluster of rooms that were, Jasmine reasoned, most likely offices. While her first thought was to exit the same way she had entered and make a dash across the warehouse roof, she quickly realized that the girls in tow would never be able to keep up. The group, most of them wearing little more than bed-slippers and all of them dressed in white, would provide a nice bit of target practice for the two guards stationed on the roof. Instead, she decided to check the backside of the building. With any luck, Andrah's lunatic charge would have pulled the two at the rear from their posts and left a clean escape route.

Coming to the first of the northward-facing doors, Jasmine swung it open. She barely saw the man who leaped out at her, a long knife in his hand. Only her reflexes saved her from finishing the night with that knife in her left eye. Spinning in place, she pulled her own blade. As the man's thrust overshot, Jasmine brought her knife up and jammed it into the hollow of his elbow, up and under the mercenary's greaves. She felt the sharp weapon vibrate from the friction as it tore through muscle and tendon, eventually biting down on bone. Now close enough to embrace her, the man's shriek of pain bellowed directly into the runner's ear, followed closely by the sound of his blade clattering to the hallway's wooden floor. His arm went limp and the greaves, locked on the hilt of Jasmine's knife, tore it from her grip.

The runner watched the man fall to the ground, left hand struggling with the buried blade. She raised one leg and kicked him as hard as she could in the face. The sound of his nose shattering, a spray of blood and the soldier fell. Jasmine stepped around his legs and into the room.

Another blur as a second form lunged her way, this time from where it had been hiding just inside the doorway. Pain lanced through her shoulder as a blade found its target. Lights clouded her eyes and instinct took over. One knee came up, slamming hard into the groin of her opponent. The hand that gripped the knife loosened and Jasmine heard the thump of a body slamming into the floor.

Blinking through the flashes and the blur of tears, Jasmine stared down upon her attacker. He lay curled up, hands clenched between his legs and rolling on the ground. A long and steady whimper of pain poured from his mouth.

Unlike the first man, this one was not dressed in the manner of a mercenary. His clothes were made of fine cotton, a pair of breeches and a blousy tunic that marked him as some sort of merchant. Several leather pouches were secured to a finely crafted belt that looked to Jasmine as if it were straining beneath the weight of the man's belly. The shoes on the man's feet were little more than slippers, soft and velvet and dyed a deep green.

Oh, I know who you are, little man. King of the deal, eh? Come here to keep an eye on your stock? Looks like you got a little more than you bargained for.

Staring down at the object of her contempt, it took Jasmine some time to realize there was a voice calling out behind her. "You've got a knife stickin' right out've your shoulder!" Sinta's tone sounded desperate.

Turning her head to one side, Jasmine noticed that her young protégé's observations were indeed true. The knife in her shoulder was sunk to the hilt, the pommel pointing straight up toward the ceiling.

She turned to the small army of orphans. "Get in here now. Close the door behind you. Sinta, put a knife in these two if they do anything besides bleed."

The group filed in, the girls' eyes wide with wonder and terror at the sight of the two downed men and their impaled rescuer. Jasmine gripped the offending blade with her right hand and took a deep breath. Thankfully, the blade was short and came out with one firm tug. Unfortunately, the hole it left began to soak her tunic through with blood. The runner staggered and fell to one knee, rested her hand on the nearest girl's shoulder to steady herself.

Jasmine found Sinta among the crowd. "Window..." she gasped. "Get the window open. Make sure there's no one there first. Use this..." She pulled a tight coil of thin silk line from a pouch and held it out to the child. Sinta's eyes flittered back and forth between the line and the blood-welling wound on the runner's shoulder.

"Take it, you idiot!" Jasmine snapped.

Sinta snatched the line from Jasmine's hand and began to scan the room for something to secure it to.

Jasmine turned to one of the girls, one that looked to still have at least some of her wits about her. The runner held out the bloodied knife. "Take this, cut that shirt off the fat one there. Turn it into strips. You've been putting in time at the workshops, you've had plenty of practice, so make it quick." As the girl rushed to the fallen merchant and went to work with the knife, Jasmine pulled a leaf of iorna from her leathers and shoved it into the gaping wound that the knife had left behind. Another blast of pain shocked her body, her vision blurred.

By this time the guard had passed out from pain and blood loss and the merchant had mostly recovered from the blow to his manhood. He stared up from his place on the floor, scanning the faces of the orphan girls. Jasmine could see the mind working behind those eyes, weighing and measuring the quality of his captors and debating his chances at overpowering them.

"Don't even think of it, you shit-brained slaver," she growled with as much fury as she could manage in her weakened state. "You even try once to stand up and I'll put a knife in you before you know what's happened. Don't think I can? Try it and let's gamble."

The merchant reconsidered his position, settled back to the ground, palms to the floor.

As the unnamed orphan girl bound Jasmine's wound, Sinta tied off the line and moved to the window. She peered down to the building's rear, turned to Jasmine and nodded. Jasmine returned the gesture.

A minute later and the group was climbing down the back of the apartment. One by one they made their way through the window and precariously descended to the street. Jasmine remained until last, her eyes on the merchant and a blade in her hand. When the last of the orphans had fled, only the runner and Sinta remained.

"Here," Jasmine called out. The runner crouched next to the merchant and one by one began to cut the strings of his purses. Each of these she in turn tossed to her protégé. Sinta tucked them away within the folds of her dress. Once the merchant had been relieved of his last bit of coin, Sinta disappeared through the window.

Jasmine rose to make her own exit when the fat, shirtless man finally spoke. "You know you're dead before the next sunrise," he threatened. "The Portween don't take it lightly when people get in our business. You taking those girls is stealing from us. You kicked me in my sack, you kicked a member of the family."

The runner sighed, turned to face the taunting businessman.

"And what does that mean to me? You come over my walls and take people that belong to the East-block, your life is forfeit. We don't care much for what Portweens got to say over there. You want to trade lives, take it elsewhere, fat man."

"You stupid little shit," he fired back, spirits rising now that the wounded runner was his only visible nemesis. "We own the East-block. We own everyone in it. We want to take those girls, or even you, we do it. We want to sell you all to the pleasure pits, we do it. I get an urge to buy up your little friend there, rape her in every hole she's got and then slit her throat and throw her to my dogs, I do it and you sit on the other side of your wall and keep your mouth shut."

Jasmine remained silent. Between the throbbing in her shoulder, the noise of the man's threats and her awareness that time was running down, the runner's mind was a thunderstorm. Her palm began to itch terribly. She scratched it on the pommel of one of her daggers.

"This offense won't go unpunished," the man prattled on. "And when we find you and kill you, I'll be sure to take that little bitch of yours too. And every last one of those girls is coming right back here and then going right out to where we choose. You'd best get out the city as fast as you can, cunt."

Unable to contain the storm any longer, Jasmine pulled her blade and stepped in on the man, looming over him. Defiance and pride were frozen across his features. Jasmine raised the knife above his face, watched the resistance falter.

"You Portweens may be able to sell people like you own them," she said, "but you'll not be enjoying much of anything now." With the final word, Jasmine brought the dagger down full force, past his shocked face, and buried it between his legs. Quick as it was, she could still feel the blade's tip rip through the majority of his manhood, digging deep into the wooden floor beneath. A pool of blood began to form and the man wailed his agony. A grin of malice spreading across her face, Jasmine tugged at her weapon to retrieve it, but the blade was buried a bit too deep. She had to wrench the knife back and forth a few times to finally get it free. The merchant's screams ceased as he sank to the ground unconscious.

Jasmine turned back to the window, painstakingly removed and recoiled the line and, climbing from the room, began an awkward, one-armed descent to the ground below.
XXVII. The Gambler's Grin

Organizing a group of panicked orphans while her mind was addled by iorna was more difficult than Jasmine could have ever imagined. Once her feet hit the dirt, she urged everyone on, trying to keep them in a reasonably tight group so no one wandered too far off. This illusion of control was quickly shattered when she discovered that four of the girls had already bolted.

"No time to go searching," she told the others. "They'll just have to make it on their own. Hope they're smart enough not to head back to the matron and lucky enough to not get picked up by someone with even worse ideas than these Portween pricks. The rest of you'll come with me. I got a place to hide you for now, but stick close, dammit."

The train of bedclothes-clad girls began to quiet and fall in line, but the fragile peace was broken the next instant when a body fell from the sky and landed almost atop several of them. Jasmine spun, a knife in her still-useful hand, and scanned the sky. Leaning out over the lip of the apartment was Andrah. He stared down at the group, caught Jasmine's eyes and then disappeared again.

Sinta's voice piped up. "Should we wait til your thug gets down from up there?"

Jasmine suppressed her irritation at Andrah's rampage. "You move them along," she replied. "I'll go make sure that fool gets out alive. Take them back toward the East-block, but don't move too fast. We'll catch up quick. And stick to the shadows."

Sinta nodded and, turning to the herd of orphans, began to bark orders and shoo them along the streets of the warehouse district. Jasmine ran to the rear door and shoved it open, the fire in her shoulder returning with the rapid movement. Behind the door lay another hall, this one running straight from the back of the building to its front. A body lay face-up halfway down, torso crumpled and misshapen, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Stepping back into the building, the runner peered into each doorway she passed. The third doorway opened onto a switchback stairway leading upward. By the time she had climbed three steps, the sound of heavy footfalls sounded from above. Jasmine crouched, throwing knife at the ready, when Andrah came around the stairwell's bend.

Covered nearly from head to toe with the remains of his enemies, the brute's blood-spattered face grinned down at her. The door-shield was gone, but he still held one of his massive swords. The blade of the weapon was thick with gore and dripped a steady trail of blood and bits of flesh beside him as he walked. Sometime during the fight, he had managed to lose his stolen half-helm.

"Done here," he said, still smiling. "Guess we can go now, eh? You find your friend in all those girls?"

Jasmine nodded, still in shock at the sight of Andrah's gore-drenched form. The elated smile on his face complimented the carnal visage in such a way that left no doubt in Jasmine's mind that the man before her was one of the most dangerous people she had ever met. The haze of iorna made the flickering flames of the stairway's lanterns seem to cast a reddish aura about the brute. He glowed with a light that made him the very incarnation of murderous intent.

Gods, he enjoys every minute of it. Every death gives him new life. He'd eat their hearts still beating if he could. What in Dlorwyn do they live like in his country?

Andrah, now standing but inches away, stared down at the frozen rogue. His elation transformed to confusion. "We goin' or got more to do? I want to get a drink in me."

Nodding, Jasmine spun around and headed back the way she came.

The walk home proved easier than Jasmine had anticipated. Once she managed to convince the girls to follow her into the sewers, that is. Between the mess she and Andrah had just left behind and the mess that the brute had made of the west gate's guards earlier that evening, there were few options for getting back to the inside of the East-block's walls. The last safe route was below the ground, through the filth of the city.

Ihshintul's luck appeared to be with her, however. The day's rains had washed the sewer passages clean, but had not been so torrential as to cause flooding. The stench was ever-present, but the more dangerous elements of that hidden way were gratefully absent. It was a long and uneventful journey. Only occasional complaints from the girls broke the steady silence. When the group finally emerged, they were tired and covered in all manner of foul things, but they were safe and just three blocks from Andrah's stable.

The short remainder of the walk proved the worst of it. People stopped to gawk at the procession. Seeing the bloody Andrah at its head, they promptly disappeared into buildings and alleyways or closed the shutters on their windows lest they catch the killer's eyes and provoke his thirst for blood. Though the group encountered nothing in the way of resistance, Jasmine knew it wouldn't be long before word of the motley parade made its way through the rumormill of the streets. Andrah's home would prove no safe haven if the Portween came looking for their goods. Jasmine would need to work fast to find a solution.

Once the orphans had been packed into the stable, Jasmine approached Andrah. He stood in one corner, pouring a fresh jug of cheap wine down his throat.

"The Portween will try to track them and find out who pissed on their trade," she said. "We'll need to move them fast and you'd best to find a place to lay low for a time. The Eleventh Hour may run the East-block, but the Houses can push their way in whenever they want."

Andrah shrugged. "Been meaning to find a nicer place."

The hectic moment of escape now passed, Jasmine finally noticed exactly what sort of shape her friend was in. Covered in the blood of mercenaries, it had been hard to tell if the brute had taken any wounds of his own. But now the blood had dried, excepting a few places. A dozen or more spots on Andrah's body shined wet and red.

"Take your clothes off," Jasmine commanded.

Andrah raised an eyebrow at the demand.

"You're all cut up," she snapped. "I need to see how much of you is still good for fighting."

The bruiser seemed satisfied enough with the explanation and began to peel the sticky cloth away. Jasmine assisted him with her knife, cutting the fabric free where it remained stubborn. Stripped to his loincloth, the brute stood before her and the runner surveyed the damage.

Andrah had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of blades during that evening's work. Most of the wounds were superficial, but a few poured blood faster than the runner knew was healthy. A bolt had taken the brute in his side and it looked as if a blade had been buried deep in his left thigh. Considering the damage, Jasmine was in awe that the man was still standing, let alone that he had made the entire journey home without a single word of complaint.

"You'll need a healer and soon," she said. "That sewer filth didn't help none either. If you don't pass out from losing the blood, you're gonna end up infected up and down your whole body. We need to go to the bathhouse."

Andrah swallowed another mouthful of wine. "I'll keep. Ain't we gotta deal with this lot first?" he said, waving the jug in the orphans' general direction.

"We will be," Jasmine responded. "I've gotta talk to Rita there anyways. We'll get you back in shape, or at least close enough. Get everything done all at once."

Andrah nodded.

"Put some clean clothes on though," she added. "They may soak through, but it'll draw less eyes than you stomping about with your sword dangling."

Jasmine put Sinta in charge of watching after the stolen girls while she and Andrah made the long journey to the bathhouse. She would have much preferred to travel using the skyscape, but she doubted her companion's stout legs would have served him well on that trip. Truth be told, she wouldn't have been able to make it regardless. The iorna she had numbed her shoulder with was still thick in her blood. The wounded arm hung useless at her side.

Upon arriving, they were immediately escorted to a cutting room. Andrah lay down on the stone block while Jasmine sat on the nearby bench. Just the act of sitting was a relief beyond measure. The runner felt the night's tension pouring from her body. Between her exhaustion and the iorna, it took every effort to stay awake. Andrah proved less disciplined. Within a minute, the sound of snoring filled the room.

Moments later, the room's curtain was swept aside and Rita came rushing in, Deirdre a pace behind her. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the haggard runner and the corpse-like form of the unconscious Andrah. She approached the bruiser first, began to cut his clothes from him. Andrah opened one eye, stared up at the matron of the house and then closed it again.

Jasmine sat in silence, watching Rita do her work. Each of his wounds she examined closely and then poured a generous amount of strong-smelling spirits over. Andrah winced with each disinfecting rinse, but otherwise displayed no signs that he was even awake. After the most vicious of the wounds were sewn up, Anita left Deirdre to finish the work while she went to examine Jasmine.

"Another vicious cut," she said. "I haven't seen you in here in some time. Almost thought for a moment that you'd wised up and found something safer to do with your life. Call me the fool."

Jasmine ignored the customary banter and cut straight to the reason behind her visit. "I need your help with something," she said, hearing a pleading tone in her voice that left the runner a bit unnerved. It appeared to do the same to Rita, who eyed her with newfound curiosity.

"Then tell me what you need and I'll see if I can do it," she replied.

"There's some girls. Some Portween slavers came in a bought them out of the orphanage, wanted to ship them off to the mines for the pleasure houses."

Rita's expression became wary.

"Sinta was with them," Jasmine continued. "So me and the killer here went out to rescue her. Ended up with the whole lot and now there's nowhere to put them. They go back to the orphanage, the matron'll just beat them and sell off the ones she doesn't end up breaking too bad. You're the only one I know that maybe can do something about it. You know people. Maybe you need someone to work here..."

"Look, child," Rita interrupted. She stepped back from the runner, stared her in the eyes. "I'm not running this business to hide slaves from the Houses. If they find out about something like this, they'll come in with blades drawn. I've got people of my own to protect and no intention of drawing the eyes of the Portween."

"But there's nowhere else..." Jasmine said, her voice feeble. "Maybe just for a while?"

"You're not listening," Rita continued. "There's no 'just a while' when it comes to a breach like this. The Portween will come looking for what they see as rightly theirs and they'll start as soon as they hear about what happened."

Jasmine barked a laugh.

"What's so funny?" Rita demanded.

The runner gestured at Andrah's prone form. "I think that one murdered every last one of them. I left a few alive, and they'll know my face, but it'll take em time to put it together and track me back to the East-block."

"I think you underestimate their ability at hunting their prey, little girl," was Rita's stern reply. "And the only thing more certain than them finding you is the Eleventh Hour tracking you down. Only the gods know who will corner you first."

The haze cleared from the runner's mind at the mention of the Eleventh Hour. "What does the Eleventh have to do with this?" she asked.

"What do you think they'll do when they find that you're provoking the Houses? The Eleventh Hour are the only ones in the East-block that stand in the way of the Houses owning this place completely. You think that the wealthy criminals stay away from the ghettos because they don't like the smell? There's plenty of business running here, you know that. To imagine that a group like the Portween would give up the chance to pull more coin out of us is naïve, girl."

"So damned either way, is that what you're saying?"

Rita sighed and stared down at Jasmine. "You'd best to get out of here as soon as you can. Take Sinta with you if want her safe. Leave the rest of those girls alone though, or you'll have everyone with a stake in this on your trail. You can't leave a mess of dead bodies and stolen property behind you without expecting to have to watch the shadows the rest of your days."

Jasmine had no response. It was beginning to sink in that her hasty action once again commanded a price higher than she could pay. Rita would not help and likely Andrah would be forced to flee as well. All the work that had gone into freeing the orphan girls from the slavers was wasted effort. They would be back in the hands of the Portween before a day had passed and there was no answer to the problem. At least nothing within Jasmine's power.

Jasmine stood.

"Make sure that one gets patched up and out of here in one piece," she said, nodding toward Andrah. The runner tossed a pair of gold rils on the bench and made her way toward the exit.

"Your shoulder..." Rita began.

"Is fine enough for me," Jasmine cut her off. "It'll be back in shape in a few days at most. I don't have time to sit around here and listen to you tell me that there's no answers. I'll work things out as I always do, with my own wits."

If Jasmine hadn't known better, she would have thought that the look in Rita's eyes was one of concern.

More likely pity. Thinks I'm going to end up dead. I've not come sixteen years from abandoned at a doorstep to take a blade from the likes of the Portween. The Eleventh Hour neither. Keep your pity to yourself.

The pain began to return to her shoulder as she made her way back across the city to Andrah's stable. What her plans were for the orphans, even she did not know. It was, after all, Jasmine's nature to improvise.

By the time she finally arrived at the rotting stable, the iorna had worn off completely and her wound was on fire. The bleeding had stopped, but the pain seemed to multiple for it. She contemplated taking another dose, but decided against it. Keeping her mind clear was essential if she were to put together a plan with even a minimal chance of success.

Opening the door of the stable, all notions of planning fled. There was not a single soul within - Sinta and the others were gone. Cursing, Jasmine began to examine the scene, looking for clues as to whether they had been taken by force and, if so, who might have grabbed them. She stalked the room, fighting to keep focus against the pain in her shoulder.

Looks like no struggle. Though they'd not fight if men with blades came after them. Looks like a few pairs of boots, too small to be Andrah, too big for me. They came in, ordered them mostly likely...

A scuffling of boots on dirt from behind her brought Jasmine back to attention. She spun, hands reaching for her blades. The left arm recoiled at the movement and shot another ripple of pain through her.

Standing at the entrance of the stable were three men. One the runner recognized as Dwervin's favorite bodyguard, Leiber. And while the other two were unknown to her, she recognized seasoned killers when she saw them. The man to Leiber's left was a muscled brute, clad in stud-covered leathers and carrying short, thick wooden poles, one in each hand. The other was tall and wiry with a freshly shaved head and a nose like a hawk. He wore no armor and his hands were empty. A length of barbed, rolled chain hung from a harness at his side. And while Leiber wore his customary mocking smile, the muscled brute mimicking it, the wiry one's expression was unreadable, devoid of emotion. Jasmine had the strange sensation that she had just walked into the middle of a war.

"You're to come with us," Leiber began. "I'll say it once and then, if you've got a problem, we'll lay into you. Got it?"

Jasmine scanned the eyes of the three men, saw the conviction lurking there.

If I try to get out of here, they'll batter me up good. I go with them, then Dwervin gets to cut my throat. Maybe I can dodge them on the way back though. Get them off guard and run.

"Fine," she finally replied. "Dwervin wants to talk, we'll talk. First, though, where's the girls?"

"Not my business," Leiber responded. "They're not here, right? Ask Dwervin when you see him."

Jasmine nodded.

Leiber stepped to the side, gestured for her to exit. The runner walked forward cautiously, eyes shifting back and forth between the three men. The fingers of her one good hand twitched nervously, begged to be filled with the grip of a blade.

As she was passing between the group, agony filled her skull. The brute with the poles had clubbed her in the back of the head. Jasmine dropped to the ground, consciousness rapidly failing her.

"What in the nihil you think your doing, Yant?" Leiber's voice echoed from above.

A rough and grating voice responded. "She was gonna run. I could see it in her eyes. I'm not chasin' no one I don't have to."

"You know she's gonna run just cause you don't like the way she looks at you?" Leiber responded. "Dwervin wants her alive. You bust her head and she dies, you're fucked. We're all fucked."

"She was gonna run," the rough voice insisted. "You saw it, Jetal?"

Another voice added to the mix, deep and toneless. "Yeah. I seen the type before. Coulda tapped her a bit lighter though."

"I know my business." Again, the rough voice. "Let's just tie her up and get this done. I've got an appointment later."

"Coin well spent at Anita's, I take it?" Leiber added. "Fine, tie her up. You knocked her out, you're carrying her."

A grunt in response. Jasmine felt strong hands yanking her arms around. The pain fired up in her shoulder once more and the world went black.
XXVIII. Resolution

Jasmine's return from the black of unconsciousness was greeted by another form of darkness. Wherever she was, not even her keen senses could pick up a stray bit of light to create shapes and forms and give her some sort of reference. All she knew was that she was standing, more or less, although not of her own volition. Her wrists were gripped by the rough touch of iron, manacled together, stretched aloft and secured to something above her. Below, her toes barely scraped across the earthen floor of her prison. Each movement caused her body to sway and brought a wave of pain as her wounded shoulder wrenched, the agony rippling through her body and amplifying every bruise, break and scrape that she had endured that night. Careful to keep perfectly still, Jasmine contemplated her predicament.

With no sight, it was impossible to see where she was, although she doubted that her eyes would have done much good in any case. The air was damp and musty and smelled of rotted wood, dust and sewage. Listening closely, she could hear the sound of muffled voices from somewhere nearby, behind a door most likely, though they were too faint for the runner to make out the words. The lightness of her body told her that she had been stripped of her weapons, her leathers and her belt. Whomever had done the preparations, however, must have felt it either too inconvenient or not important enough to remove her boots. They had also, gratefully, left her clothed.

Brought to the slaughterhouse. Strung up and waiting to get cut up like a pig. Dwervin'll have his fun with me, I'm guessing, before he sacks me. Or he'll be storing me away to sell to the Portween, maybe grab a few coins in the deal. Oh Jasmine, you've met yourself an ignoble end, here at the hands of this Eleventh Hour lackey.

Too resigned to her fate to even feel fear, Jasmine hung in the darkness of her prison and waited for the jailmasters to arrive.

Some time later, a crack of light appeared in front of the dangling runner. A door was pulled open, flooding the chamber with a brightness that nearly blinded her. Luckily, her eyes were just as good at shifting one way as the other and they adjusted to the light in a matter of seconds, just in time to see two figures settling in before her. To her right, her former employer, the Eleventh Hour businessman that had prompted her long journey to the top of the shadow-world. Ironically enough, it appeared he would also be the one to end that journey. To her left, the ever-smirking mercenary, Leiber.

Dwervin fixed her with his cold eyes, his expression unreadable.

"So we've found our little liberator," he began. "The child who sees fit to take on the mantle of freer of children."

"Don't see where it concerns you, old man," Jasmine retorted, her tongue freed with the acceptance of her impending fate. "Unless maybe you were looking to buy one up, lock her away and use her as you liked. Maybe some deal with the slavers on your side? Give them some little girls and get yourself a nice toy in the..."

Her former employer leaned in. His hand whipped out to clench strong fingers around her neck, cutting the tirade short.

"Understand this, child," rage boiled behind his words. "I already own all the children in the East-block. Every one of those orphanage cast-offs is mine by right. If I wish to take one, I will take one and you will not be the one to tell me otherwise. If I wish to sell them to the Portween, then that also is my right. You and your drunken monkey thug have cost me a lot of time and money this night."

"Maybe if you'd left Sinta out of it, we wouldn't be..." The runner's words were choked off again as Dwervin's grip grew tighter.

"Do you have a problem with hearing, child? Sinta is _mine_ , just as any other orphan. If I choose to sell her, then it is my business and mine alone. You think for some reason that Sinta has special privilege simply because you've taken her under your wing, because you've decided to groom her to become your little protégé? If the girl is so important to you, why haven't you taken her into your home? Unless your skull is thicker than I thought, you lived in the orphanage long enough to know that Matron Mullinque sells her charges. As long as Sinta was there, she could have been sold at any time. Yet for some reason you were prepared to take that risk. Do not try to exercise your notion of self-righteous rule of exception because you happened to be short-sighted."

Jasmine ceased her efforts to speak, knocked down a notch by Dwervin's words.

For all this man is, he speaks the truth. I could have pulled her out whenever I wanted. She would have been a pain, but maybe then this wouldn't have happened... there's still the other girls, but they're none of my problem. Sinta would have been okay and I wouldn't be in this mess.

Dwervin released his grip. Stepping away, he let out a long, slow sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. Jasmine had never seen the man so lacking of his characteristic calm. If she didn't know better, she would have guessed panic was lurking below the surface of his practiced disaffection. He straightened, turned to regard her once more.

"To put the matter straight, the sale of these children was not a deal that I was privy to. The Portween do as they will in the East-block, as does any House that takes an interest. Within the walls, the merchant lords have free reign when it comes to conducting whatever business appeals to them. I would have thought you clever enough to understand this arrangement, but apparently I was incorrect in my assumption."

Jasmine blinked, confused. If Dwervin wasn't responsible for selling the orphans to the slavers, what was the point of him bringing her to that dungeon?

As if reading her mind, Dwervin continued, "You and that idiot thug of yours have left a pile of bodies in place of what should have been a profitable cargo for the Portween. Most of them were little more than hired swords, but there was one among them that was blood of the family. That particular individual had his cock sliced clean before he was murdered. I'm assuming you wished to add insult to injury? Perhaps to send some sort of message to those that had offended your sensibilities so?"

Dwervin's words confused Jasmine even further.

Murdered? I left that bastard alive. Andrah? But why would he...

Her thoughts were cut short by Dwervin's continuing monologue. "Thanks to your actions this night, I will have to meet with the Portween ranking family members and attempt to explain to them how one of my former employees got loose from her leash and slaughtered their men. I will no doubt be forced to pay a tithe for their lost time and then obligated to return the goods to them regardless. The entire affair will not only cost me in time and coin, but also in prestige as I bend a knee to those House bastards."

"Fuck them," Jasmine snarled.

"If it were that simple, child, I would have dealt with them all long ago. The Portween are fourth in the hierarchy of Houses and they have no small degree of influence over the King's Guards. The guards, in fact, would more rightly be called the House Guards, if you were to measure their loyalty by the count of coin they receive from either source. The Houses can come into this sanctum of ours and fill the streets with blood if they see fit and no one, peasant, merchant or royal, would so much as blink. Your provocations may have inspired them to think on that final solution, unless I can diffuse the situation."

He ended the speech by eyeing her intently, confirming what she had suspected.

"So you're going to send me over to sweeten the deal? Give them the killer of your men to get back to business, eh?"

Dwervin shrugged. "Do you see any other answer to my conundrum? If you do, I suggest you offer up your observations quickly."

Jasmine said nothing. Suddenly, what sounded like the mating call of a drunken owl echoed through the doorway. Dwervin's head whipped around. Jasmine could see his eyes narrow and teeth clench. Just as suddenly, the odd noise ceased. Dwervin returned his attention to the helpless runner, probed her eyes with his. She could see his mind working away, calculating the value she might hold to the Portween.

No doubt he's looking to see if he can pull some coin in on this as well. Tell them he was in the dark. Then he's in the clear and can sell me off like he's a good hound, bringing them the stick before they even told him to fetch it.

"So I'm a trade then, more pounds of flesh for you to barter off," she said. "What about Sinta? And Andrah? Plan on making yourself a proper Portween sword-licker by selling them off too?"

Dwervin's mouth twisted with disgust. "Your friends are, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. Rest assured I shall solve that dilemma in good time. And if the Portween desire more than one sacrifice to keep the peace, then so be it. I see no need to risk the prosperity of the East-block and its people for the sake of a few who have decided to disrupt the balance of order with their self-serving needs. Did you not learn the lesson of the South-block, child? I'll not have my home turn into that degenerate's asylum again. If that means a few must fall for the good of many, so be it." He leaned in once more, close enough that Jasmine could smell the scent of wine on his breath. "You seem to live under the misassumption that any one person is more important than any other. Worse still, you have a distinct belief that those closest to you deserve special consideration. I assure you that is far from the way things work here."

He leaned back, gave her one final look and said, "You can remain here to rot for now. I shall have someone come to feed you when I feel that you are hungry enough. I can't have you dying on me before a deal is worked out, now can I? Until then, I suggest you use your time to make peace with your gods. You've done enough good work for me that I shall grant you that at the least. Who knows? The Portween often take weeks to organize these meetings, for all the praise they give to their bureaucracy. We may even have time to snatch up your fledgling protégé before the deal is done. Wouldn't you enjoy the chance to say goodbye?"

Head hanging, Jasmine stared at the floor, offered no words to retaliate against Dwervin's promise of her impending death, of Sinta's impending sale into slavery. After a time, her former employer gathered his bodyguard and left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Jasmine lost in the darkness once more.

It was more than an hour after the clubbers had brought Jasmine's limp form into the underground storeroom before Dwervin and his bodyguard showed up. Getting into the strange complex had been a breeze for Sinta, as the two thugs had been busy with their package and a steady exchange of meaningless banter. After watching them descend into the sewers, it was only a matter of staying out of their sight. Finally, they had arrived at a secret passage, a doorway of stone that slid aside at a touch, as if enchanted by some sort of sorcery. She had given them a lead of twenty heartbeats before following, hoping that was time enough that the sound of the door's opening wouldn't alert them to a pursuer.

The maze she had entered was composed of more sewer passages, though these looked older or, at the very least, built much more poorly than the usual ones. Gratefully, they were clear of sewage and lit at increments by small, battered lanterns. The layer of crumbled rock and dust that covered the ground made it a simple task to follow her marks' trail, even in the dim lighting. Eventually, the passages ended in a large, stone-walled room that was filled with wooden crates of various sizes. Scouting around, dodging between cover, Sinta had spotted an open door, one among many lining one of the storeroom walls, and heard the sounds of the men within. She found a nice hiding place between two of the crates, some twenty feet away, and watched as the men left the room, closing the door behind them and taking up positions to either side. Squatting, Sinta waited.

From the shadows, Sinta observed her part-time employer approach his men, the bodyguard Leiber two steps behind him. Some sort of argument followed. Though she was too far away to hear the details, she could tell by the look on everyone's faces that something had gone wrong, something that Dwervin was quite unhappy with. After a time, the man pulled two bulging pouches from his pocket and handed them to his hired swords, one to the ugly one with the sticks and the other to the tall one with the odd, razored chain.

Same bastard that sat next to me that time. Dirty clubber, I'll slit his throat one of these days.

Nodding at their employer, the two men stalked off.

After a brief exchange with his bodyguard, Dwervin opened the door to the room where Jasmine had been stored and walked in. Sinta noted that he had left the door halfway open.

If I can get up there, I can hear what they're saying. Not too many places to hide around here though. Better be careful on this...

Even as the child took her first steps, a voice sounded behind her and caused her to jump in alarm. Her hands went to the knife beneath her dress.

"Better not bother, kid. If she sees you out here, Dwervin will make it hell to pay. I'd say that she would too. More likely she'll hear you, what with those fairy's ears of hers."

Sinta looked up to see a pale-faced man, eyes ice blue and dressed in clothes that looked like they belonged to someone twice his skinny girth. The child had seen the man before, in the company of Dwervin on occasion, but had never spoken to him.

"Who in the nihil do you think you are?" she demanded, removing her knife and brandishing it at him.

The man stared down at the blade and cocked his head. He looked confused by it, as if he had seen a knife only a few times during his life and was attempting to put a name to it. Sinta straightened her arm, held the blade closer to his chest.

"Really, there's no need for that," he said, raising his hands in surrender and taking a step back. "I am Floyd. I work for Dwervin, just as you do. I was employed to help him keep track of your friend Jasmine."

Sinta squinted at him, still holding her air of menace. "How do you know I'm working for the old man? And what makes you say I'm her friend?"

Floyd smiled, a pleasant smile with no hint of hidden malice that Sinta could discern. "Because I have seen you many times, Sin. In Jasmine's company."

"Don't call me Sin," she snapped. "You're not allowed to. And you've been spying on me too then."

Floyd shrugged. "I suppose that could be interpreted upon how you choose to define spying. I was spying on Jasmine. You just happened to be there sometimes. So, it was not my intent to be watching you, but, given the way the human senses function, it was an inevitability of my employment."

"You're talking like an idiot. What are you doing now then? Lurking behind me, you're spying."

The man raised his hand to his chin and gave it a ponderous rub, eyes drifting. "Well... I do see your argument." He paused and Sinta's agitation grew. "Yes," he said finally. "I agree that I was spying on you just now, though briefly. I've only just arrived and so could not have been watching you for very long. Of course, I often don't do well with the passage of time. It is possible that I have been here for several hours. Unlikely. I seem to remember being somewhere else earlier."

"What stupid words are coming from your lips, clubber," the man's rambling was breaking Sinta's calm to pieces. She had all but forgotten about the dilemma of her wounded mentor. "Either you've been here only a little while or you've been here for longer. You can't forget something like that so quick."

"Sorcerer," Floyd corrected, raising one skinny finger. "I am no clubber, dear Sin. My talents lie in arts more arcane than swinging swords and slitting throats. Trained by the Protectorate Guild of Vah Traex, the finest magus circle still in existence. Well, the second finest..." He trailed off, eyes drifting again as he sank into a thought.

"You're leaking shit, old man," the girl retorted. "Ain't no sorcerers around here. They all been killed and burned a..."

Sinta's words were halted as a breeze of air blew her air back and the knife in her hand began to tug this way and that, eventually wrenching free and hovering in mid-air. Looking up, she found Floyd staring intently at the small blade, one finger pointed at it, tracking its movements as it drifted through empty space.

"Woooo," he intoned, a half-mad look in his eyes. "Woooo! Woooo! Woooo!"

The knife then floated into his hand, settling after its restless flight. He grinned at the girl, proffering the knife before him victoriously as if he had just finished some sort of grand performance. Sinta reached out and snatched it from him, eliciting a yelp from the strange man as the blade slid across one of his fingers. He tucked the bleeding digit into his mouth.

"A sorcerer then," Sinta said, challenge still in her voice. "And one of Dwervin's spies."

"Iuhm noh gohn tah tahl dwarvm..." Floyd spoke around his finger.

"Speak the language right, witch," Sinta snapped.

Floyd removed the bleeding finger from his mouth and began again. "I'm not going to tell Dwervin you're spying on him, don't worry. I'm here out of curiosity myself. To be honest, I'm inclined to disagree with his methods as of late. I've grown quite fond of young Jasmine. I enjoy watching her make her nightly runs..." His voice drifted off again, the light in his eyes turning inward, a grin twitching at one side of his lips. Sinta shifted, uncomfortable at the man's odd behavior.

"So you're here to look in on her then? To make sure he doesn't bust her up?"

Floyd's focus returned. He gazed down at the child. "Umm... I yes. I suppose. I mean, there's nothing I can do to stop him, short of killing him outright. That would put me in a rather precarious position, one that I would do best to avoid. But I do not like the way Dwervin is playing his strange game."

Satisfied enough that the sorcerer was at least somewhat on her side, Sinta nodded and returned her attention to the gaping door. She spoke over her shoulder at Floyd. "I'm not liking it either. He said all this was for her good. That he was going to make her the best runner in the whole city. But all I see is him busting her up and blaming things on her that ain't rightly her fault. She's a fuck-up, for sure, but she's good at what she does and don't deserve none of this."

"I am inclined to agree," the voice came from right beside her.

Sinta looked back to see Floyd lurking over her, his head almost directly above her own as he stared across the storeroom floor to the open door.

"Back off then!" she growled.

Instead of backing off, however, he simply stated, "I can listen in, if you want." He finished his statement with a mischievous grin.

Sinta raised an eyebrow at his claim, but nodded anyway.

If he's a real sorcerer and that wasn't some trick, he might be able to anyway.

Floyd closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the crate the two had taken cover behind. A second later, he inhaled sharply and let the breath out in a slow, steady rhythm. Sinta watched the man, a frozen statue of a witch working some spell or another. After a few more seconds, a noise alerted her that Dwervin and Leiber were making their exit.

"Well?" she whispered.

"Umm... sorry, not much," came the reply. "Dwervin saying something threatening. His usual demeanor. He did mention that he was going to be snatching you up or somesuch. Not sure what that means..."

Sinta cursed beneath her breath, a profanity so shocking that Floyd's eyes widened at the child's words. The sound of a door being dragged shut and barred echoed from behind her. Peaking around the corner of the crate, she spotted Dwervin and his lackey. They were walking directly toward the pair of spies.

"We've got to split," she warned her companion.

"Don't bother," came Dwervin's voice in response.

Caught beyond excuse, Sinta stepped out from her hiding place. Floyd followed, a smile playing at his lips.

"You should not have followed her here, you know," he scolded the child as he approached, finally coming to a halt before the pair. "The Eleventh Hour doesn't generally smile upon intrusions into their inner sanctum." He paused, waiting for a response though Sinta kept silent. Shrugging, he continued, "Rest assured that your mentor is doing well, young Sinta. The fear of the gods is in her now, but it is as things must be. When next we speak, she will no doubt be more inclined to accept a position returning to the Eleventh Hour and with all the conditions I will lay before her. Once this mess is concluded, we can put the affair behind us and continue with business as usual."

Sinta stared up at him, fighting to keep any betraying expression from her face.

Let him think what he wants. I don't like him no more and I never liked him. I'm not gonna let him piss on Jaz just cause he's some big head with a stack of coin in every pocket. You'll see how it is to play a game with us, old man.

Dwervin gazed down at the girl for a moment longer, pondering. He shook his head and smirked, turned to Floyd. "Your task is completed already?"

Floyd looked confused. After a moment, a light of recognition dawned in his eyes. "Oh yes, that. Yes, the Portween will be none the wiser, sir," he said, then added hastily: "Unless they have a disciple of Dunn in their employ, of course. He would still be able to smell the blood. Though I imagine the fire should take care of that problem."

Sinta probed Floyd's demeanor, trying to decipher the meaning of what he was saying.

Portween? The warehouse then? What does he mean disciple of Dunn and all that? More of Dwervin's game, I'd say.

"Excellent," Dwervin replied. "And you'll be retiring for the surge soon, I assume? I admit I'm at a loss when it comes to events calendrical."

Puzzled at the question, the child again glanced back at the sorcerer.

"Yes, yes." Floyd sighed, scratched at his head. He winced and pulled his hand back, remembering his wounded finger. "The dance begins next week and so I'll be buried away nice and snug. Let's hope it's a short one this time. Always gives me a bleeding cunt of a headache."

Suddenly, alarm flared in Floyd's features. He looked down at Sinta, a guilty expression on his face. "My apologies, Sin," he said, stammering. "I'm forgetting myself with my language in the presence of a lady."

Unable to tell whether he was mad or mocking her, Sinta just glared. Dwervin chuckled. Leiber glanced back and forth between the pair of men, puzzled.

Dwervin turned to Floyd. "I suggest you rest up from tonight's activities. We will need you in top form following your seclusion." He shifted his attention to Sinta. "And you, I shall escort you from these tunnels before someone arrives that is less appreciative of your presence."

"I'll go with the girl," Floyd interjected. "Make sure she makes it home safe and all that. It's rather late and she's... er, she's very small."

Sinta scowled up at the sorcerer but said nothing.

Dwervin nodded and walked toward the nearest tunnel, Sinta and Floyd a few steps behind.
XXIX. Sewer Rats

It was less than thirty minutes before Sinta and Floyd managed to sneak back into underground complex. It was easy enough to navigate their way to the main storeroom, though Leiber stood alert and ready, blocking passage to Jasmine's prison. Luckily, Floyd had concocted a plan. He had seen the inside of the cells on more than one occasion and was reasonably sure that there was another way to get behind that door, providing that the person making the journey were small enough. Sinta, of course, was small enough to get virtually anywhere.

A high pitched whine emitted from the far end of the storeroom, pulling Leiber's attention. Drawing his two blades, the bodyguard stalked toward the source of the noise, slow and deliberate. His back turned to her, Sinta sprinted across the open floor to a door, identical to the one that Jasmine was locked behind, though further down along the storeroom wall. Once she had reached her target, the girl glanced back at Floyd's lurking form and signaled. An almost imperceptible nod from the sorcerer and Sinta felt the air shift. It was as if the empty space around her had transformed into something half-way between nothing and water. Her hearing became muddled and the world outside turned silent. Grabbing the handle of the cell door, Sinta pushed with all her might. The door resisted and, she knew, should have been screaming loudly in protest at the unwelcome change of position, but no sound came forth. A few seconds later and the gap between door and wall was wide enough for her small form to squeeze through.

Inside, the room was almost too black for the child to see anything. She could make out the form of something like a rope hanging from the ceiling though it was just out of her reach. The walls were flat and made of stone, the room small but not as tiny as what she imagined a cell would be. Sniffing at the air, she confirmed what Floyd had told her and immediately set about on all fours, hands sliding across the dirt floor as she sought her goal.

A few minutes later, one hand found what she was seeking. A hole in the floor, less than a foot around, marked where a latrine had been dug. Cocking her ear above the hole, she could hear the faint sound of running water.

Ha! Too lazy to clean it up every time you need to hole someone up, eh? A small sewer inside a big sewer. Let's see how well it does you now.

Taking a deep breath of the last fresh air she would likely enjoy for some time, Sinta wormed her way down the narrow chute.

The drop was less than she had guessed and her feet touched the bottom of the latrine drain before her outstretched arms had left the room above. Crouching, she felt around and discovered that the run-off channel was made of stone and was significantly wider than the latrine itself. The water that came down the pipe moved steadily, though it was barely a few inches deep at any point. On hands and knees, the young girl crawled through the old and forgotten remains of the cells' past prisoners. She squirmed every time her hand slipped into some pile of what felt like mud. From the smell of the channel, she knew that mud was unlikely to be what oozed between her fingers, though she put the thought of it from her mind. Concentrating on the task at hand, Sinta pushed forward, inch by inch, through the blackness.

Groping at the ceiling every few feet, she eventually came upon another hole leading up. The cell she had infiltrated was three down from where Jasmine was being kept, so she pressed on, counting each hole she found during her progress. Eventually, she came upon the exit she was looking for. Standing, the child wriggled her way into the narrow dirt passage, reached up and lifted herself into the room above.

"Jaz," she whispered into the silent darkness. "Jaz, it's me. I'm coming to rescue you. Are you in here? Where are you then?"

No response came.

Stalking carefully through the dark room, the girl held her hands out, groping blindly to find a sign of her mentor. If Dwervin had beat her bad, then it was possible the runner was unconscious. Slow and methodical, Sinta scanned every foot of the room, but found nothing.

Dammit! I know this is the one. But then what if I missed it? What if this is too early or too far? I'll have to get back down again and check to be sure. What a pissing mess.

For the next twenty minutes, Sinta crawled up and down the drainage pipe, lifting herself in and out of half-a-dozen latrine holes, but found each room empty. The only conclusion she could come to was that the runner had been moved.

But then why is Leiber still out there then? They playing some sort of game?

Finally, convinced that her friend was no longer there, the child scrambled out of a hole and into the original entry room. Covered in filth and excrement, she cursed at the ill luck.

Floyd better still be there waiting to get me out of here or I'll have a knife in his ass. All this trouble and for nothing.

Poking one hand through the gap between door and wall, the child felt the strange embrace of liquid air surround her once more. She skittered out of the cell, across the storeroom and back to where her accomplice waited.

"She's not bloody there," the child exclaimed, despondent.

Floyd considered the problem for a moment. "They may have moved her. Or she may have left on her own somehow. She is a clever little thing, I'll give her that."

"But Leiber's still there guarding. So why move her and then not him?" Sinta clenched her filth-covered hands into small fists. "If she escaped while I was crawling around in piss and shit trying to rescue her, I'll give her a clubbing for sure. Ungrateful..."

Floyd seemed to choke for a moment, interrupting the child's wrath.

"What now?" she snapped.

"You smell absolutely horrible."

The child scowled at the sorcerer and, not bothering to check if he followed, began sneaking her way back through the storeroom and toward the exit.

Crawling from the sewers and into the streets of the East-block, Jasmine had never in her life been more grateful for Porsham Grand's unpredictable winter downpours. A steady stream of rain washed her clean of the sewage that had coated her from head-to-toe during the course of her escape. It wouldn't remove the stench entirely, but at least she could wander the streets without smelling like she had fallen into a piss-pot.

More like crawling through one. A damn lucky thing too, that they decided to pipe their prison shit. I wasn't looking forward to a try at tussling whoever was on guard. Thank Ihshintul for small favors, though less for his sense of humor.

Following Dwervin and Leiber's departure, the runner had waited a few minutes just to make sure they wouldn't return. Then, using the sharp fingernails of her left hand, she had dug into the flesh of the forefinger on her right. There, beneath the skin, a small, bent, copper wire rested. A last resort in case she ever had the misfortune of ending a night in a cell, Jasmine had never seriously thought that she would ever have to use the hidden lockpick. Once again, careful planning and foresight had paid off and this time it had likely saved her life.

The trip through the old leavings of the Eleventh Hour's former prisoners wasn't exactly her idea of pleasant, but at least the drain had emptied onto the sewers proper. Being as how she knew nothing about where Dwervin's thugs had taken her, a more direct approach to leaving could have proven complicated. Though she doubted there were more than a few guards posted on her, she was weaponless and in no condition to fight even the laziest of clubbers. Given her familiarity with the East-block sewers, it wasn't long before she had gained her bearings enough to navigate in the direction of her goal.

Trudging through the rain, just another sopping figure amongst those trying to get from one place to another despite the unpleasant weather, Jasmine felt secure that she wouldn't be spotted by any of Dwervin's thugs. Even if she did, the chances were that not enough of them were in on the Eleventh Hour businessman's hunt that they would look twice in her direction. Besides, she reasoned, they probably didn't even know she was gone yet.

Still, there was that noise at first, like someone was trying to follow me through the pipe. Could someone have come looking and seen me gone? No, not likely. I would have seen the light coming in for sure. Likely just rats creeping about.

Still, the drenched runner stuck to the muddy back-alleys, avoiding the main avenues when she could. There was no point in tempting fate, especially when she was so close to sanctuary. Finally, rounding a corner, she spied her goal. Looming above and before her, her former home, the towering construct of wood that was Zakariah's theater.

The morning hours were creeping by, dawn close at hand. Jasmine perched high in the rafters of the theater, as high as one could go without climbing onto the roof. Thick wooden beams laced the top of the building, shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from far below. If not for her unique eyes, Jasmine would have been blind. Anyone glancing up from below would have seen naught but shadows. It was a safe place, a comfortable place that reminded her of a different time.

Her eyes found a convergence of beams near the theater's northern wall. Once, a latticework of old boards had formed a makeshift platform across those beams. Many years ago, she had made her home there, sleeping away the daylight hours, the patrons and theater folk below none the wiser at her intrusion. At least until Zakariah had spotted her sneaking in one evening. Instead of kicking her out into the night, however, he had invited her into the troupe, given her a place to live.

That was more than five years past, of course, and things had changed since then. She had worked and lived in the theater for the better part of three years, earning her keep through the virtue of her sharp tongue and deft hands. She had never been much of an actress, though it was something she was loathe to admit. Then again, she had never had designs on staying at the theater even as long as she did. Always, in the back of her mind, the desire to move on to greater things, to the money and fame that being an expert shadow-runner had promised. And now, all that fame and money had amounted to nothing. Jasmine found herself in the very same place where it had all begun. She was older, her skills were better honed, and she was, perhaps, even a bit wiser, but she was just as destitute and desperate at sixteen summers as she was at ten.

The runner crept across the beams to that familiar spot along the wall and lay down, stretching out as best she could. Her shoulder no longer throbbed as incessantly, but her body was still as sore as if she had tumbled down five flights of stairs. A yawn escaped her mouth despite efforts to halt it. Her mind, sinking into sleep, began to flood with memory and regret.

Two years of running, of building a reputation, taking on the toughest jobs and proving that she was the best in the business. All that for nothing. Now she hid away, hunted by the very man that should have been her salvation. Worse still, Andrah and Sinta were now on the run. She had dragged the clubber whom she had almost considered a friend into her mess and now Dwervin was going to sack him and dump the poor bastard's body in the lake. If the man found Sinta, he would likely lock her back up at the orphanage, awaiting the time when he could sort out his business with the Portween and ship her and the other girls off for sale.

What he said was truth, much as I hate it. I should have pulled her out of there when I was holding all that coin. Even if I did something to piss it all up, at least she'd be out of the mess and with a hefty purse to keep her. Now she's off to some old man's bedchamber, unless the girl's clever enough to figure out that trouble's after her.

The runner's hand absently reached for the token of Ihshintul that hung from her neck, a prayer on her lips, only to find it missing.

Took that too, did they? Good thing the Bone Roller don't care about propriety. Hope it brings whoever finds it a whore's curse, serve em right. Well, if you're listening, Gambler, keep an eye on the little girl, will ya? Me, I can take care of myself, but she's still learning. She's a sharp one though. I think you'll like her if you can stick around long enough with all her whining and complaining.

Despite the prayer, thoughts broke through into the Jasmine's mind, flooding it with images of a battered and broken Sinta, victim of some high-roller's whim, her freedom bought with coin. She ground her teeth, one sharp fang slipping and digging into her cheek. The taste of blood coated her tongue.

And with the taste of blood, the memories of blood.

The runner's body lurched of it's own accord. Her hands gripped the beams beneath her to keep from an inadvertent fall. Visions flickered across the scape of her mind, invading her senses. The feel of flesh tearing free from a clubber's face, that strip of meat clenched in her jaws. Muscles tensed, arm heavy with the weight of a blade as she brought it down upon her prey, again and again. Elation at seeing her enemy broken and battered in the middle of the road, carrion for rats, the ignoble end that he deserved. Only the sound of the beams underneath creaking and groaning snapped her out of the trance.

Sitting up quickly, Jasmine glanced at her wooden perch. The beams were gouged and broken where her fingers had clenched down, furrows ripped into the solid oak. Fractures ran up and down the beams a few feet in either direction. Looking at her hands, she saw that her fingernails were cracked and broken. Some had nearly torn free at the quick, though she felt no pain. Jasmine was dazed by what she saw, uncomprehending of what had just happened.

What in the Nihil?

Choosing safety over curiosity, the runner crawled from her perch and crept to an area that looked more stable. Looking down upon the darkened theater below, she sighed. She would need a place to hide, someplace less precarious than fifty feet in the air, regardless of how comfortable she felt there. The theater was as good as any and safer than most, as long as she kept back stage and out of sight. Jasmine descended through the criss-cross of beams and rafters and pulleys, eventually settling on the platform that served as Zakariah's office.

Laying her bruised form down on the hard, wooden floor, Jasmine sought oblivion. Eventually it came, though her sleep was plagued that night and would be for many after with the memories of a predator's desire. She dreamed of a field, somewhere far away, where she ran on all fours like a beast. Her prey, the Eleventh Hour businessman that had begun as an ally and ended as an enemy. And each morning she would awaken in remarkably good spirits, the taste of Dwervin's blood in her mouth.
XXX. A Return to the Stage

Jasmine shivered in the cold air of the trap room. It was a far cry from the warmth of the bathhouse, but Zakariah had no other place to put the washing tubs other than beneath the stage and getting hot water in the dead of winter wasn't exactly an easy task. Being that the runner couldn't possibly pay a visit to Rita's without risking her life, a cold bath was all she was going to get. Sure, she could have probably made the effort to heat some water, but Zakariah would have given her an earful for wasting wood and the actors would have thrown fits that their seamstress was afforded luxuries that they were not. It wasn't pleasant, but Jasmine had endured the icy waters for years, back when she had first been a resident of the theater, and she could do it again.

Done with her scrubbing, Jasmine toweled off as best she could, wiping away each and every offending drop of freezing moisture. She then grabbed a small, clay pot from a nearby stool. Opening it to reveal the red paste within, she scooped out a handful and began to rub it through her hair. The process took most of ten minutes, but by the time she was done the ash-blonde strands had taken on a rich red hue. She bent over again, soaking her hair in the tub to remove the paste's remnants.

Every day it was the same routine. Wake before the others, clasp back the tell-tale points of her peculiar ears, file the points of her protruding canines down a bit and then a trip under the stage to paint her blonde mane crimson. An arduous task to be sure, but necessary if she wished to remain anonymous to those in the troupe that did not already know better.

"Oh, now there's a cute little bottom, isn't it?" a high-pitched voice intoned from behind her.

Jasmine responded without looking back. "What do you need, Callista? Bit busy here."

"Aye you are, and you can thank me for the recipe, Jassa," she replied with a note of indignation.

"And you can thank me for letting your dress out a bit until you get that seed out of your belly," Jasmine retorted.

Callista snorted. Though she wasn't looking at the horse-faced girl, Jasmine already knew that Callista was pouting, arms folded across her chest and looking for all the world as if she were the victim of some grave injustice.

"I was just comin' to say that Bonnie's all up and hot cause you didn't add the sparklies to her costume."

Jasmine sighed.

That stupid, ungrateful bitch can be happy I didn't too. Last time she nearly cut a hole in her tits because of it. Vain and stupid and can't figure out that sharp stones in your bodice don't sit well when your shaking your bags around for half the night.

"Tell her Zakariah said to leave them off. I do what he says, not what she wants. She has a problem, tell her to chat him up."

"You tell her," the girl snipped. "I'm not no message girl."

"Fine, fine. I'll tell her then, since you've got nothing but fear for the old hag. Now leave me to finish in peace already."

Another snort followed by the sound of feet padding up wooden stairs. The footsteps paused for a second and then Callista's voice sounded once more. "Jassa, I'm not one much for girls and all, but you know..."

"Yes, I'm sure I do know Callista," the runner interrupted before the crass comment could be finished. "Now stop gazing wistfully up my shit-hole and leave."

More footsteps, this time loud with the indignation of their owner, and Jasmine was finally left alone.

It had been just over two weeks since her escape from Dwervin's cell and slipping back into her old life at the theater was proving to be easier than she would have expected. Zakariah had not seemed at all surprised when he found her battered form unconscious on the floor of his office the morning after the incident. He simply waited for her to make her request to come back, nodded, and then told her to go wash the stink of sewer from her skin. After that, it was almost as if she had never been gone.

Aside from the new faces, that is. Less than half-a-dozen of those working were in residence back when Jasmine had left on her roofrunning adventure. So many new faces, and most of them with eyes as dull as any theater folk she had ever known and brains to match. It had been a trial for her to work up to caring enough to even memorize their names. After all, she wasn't planning on being there for too long, despite everything.

Just as Jasmine had expected, the current theater seamstress, Loma, had been ecstatic when Zakariah informed her that the runner would be taking over her duties and that she would be relegated to assisting from then on. Between the self-important Bonnie and those who had adopted her prima donna attitude in an effort to bolster their egos, the costumers had more than their share of grief. If any design threatened to rival Bonnie's dress on the stage, she would come through on a rampage, demanding that her outfit be made over, that something shiny or lacey or otherwise expensive-looking be added to spruce it up. Then would follow the train of other actresses, complaining that Bonnie received special treatment and that they too should have something extra. Few of them understood the concept of a budget and none of them could accept the fact that they weren't always the main star of every production. The worst had been when one of the newer girls, Tularala, had approached Jasmine about adding silk trimming to the tattered skirts of her milkmaid's costume.

"I know she's a milkmaid _now_ ," the girl had argued, "but couldn't she have been a lady before she turned poor?"

By the time Jasmine's temper had calmed, poor Tularala was fleeing in tears.

With Jasmine's assumption of the position, the tide had slowly turned. Only Bonnie dared approach the sharp-tongued seamstress anymore, and then only when something had truly burrowed beneath her skin. Most, in fact, were pleased with Jasmine's work regardless of whether it shined with the radiance of a star. Her talent was rivaled only by her attention to detail and it showed with every production.

Yet another consequence of the improved costuming and the pacified actors was that Zakariah was in much better spirits. The relationship between Jasmine and her former mentor was much the same as it had always been. The runner acted as a buffer between the ire of the troupe and the overworked theater owner, keeping the inconsequential complaints away from him so that he could concentrate on more important things.

Despite most of the new group not knowing of her short temper and razor tongue, it took less than a week for her to reestablish the reputation of terror that she had enjoyed before. People steered well clear of the frightening young girl unless there was something pressing to discuss. Some tried to circumvent her authority and assault Zakariah directly, but when the news of such impropriety finally reached her, they always regretted their decision. Many tried to challenge her those first few days, to match her wit for wit. Systematically, she tore each and every one apart. Most of the time she managed this with her words. Sometimes, however, things got a bit rougher. More than a few had bruises to prove that her anger went beyond the verbal and on the third day a handful of stagehands had to pry her off of an actor that had insulted the way she looked. She had managed to slap the lad across the face until his cheeks practically glowed red before finally being restrained.

Once a night's production was done, the troupe would gather in the back room to indulge their habits of drinking, bragging and fondling and Jasmine would retire with Zakariah to his office platform. There, the two would sip at some foreign-made spirit he had acquired from whatever trader happened to have come through the city that week and talk of the failings of their fellow theater folk over a game of keeps. Though Jasmine never managed to win a single game, the runner was, she noted with pride, at least beginning to give him a run for his money.

And so the weeks passed and Jasmine was contented, almost happy, with her new life. But almost happy was not enough. Ambitions and plans still lurked beneath and each day brought them closer to fruition.

Dry and dressed and hair dyed the color of ripe apples, Jasmine emerged from the pit to find that most of the theater's residents were rising from their slumbers early. Actors and actresses, stagehands and builders, designers and painters, all were shuffling about, some engaged in tasks and others busy wiping the sleep from their eyes.

What in the bloody nihil is going on? The production's not for hours yet. Half these bodies should still be lazy in their beds.

Marching to the nearest man, a stagehand struggling under the weight of a bulky set piece, she queried, "What's all this? We're not due to rehearse for hours yet."

The man - Joseph, if her memory served her - grunted something in reply. Shifting the weight on his shoulders, he lowered the piece to the ground. A string of curses sounded as the huge frame settled on an actor's foot. Through labored breathing, the man replied, "Rains're up and chill's settin' in. Zak's 'spectin a load tonight."

Jasmine blinked. "But we're not even open tonight. Damn that fool, him and his love of coin." The runner scowled and marched off.

Arriving at the rickety stairway that led up to Zakariah's suspended workplace, the Jasmine yelled into the air. "I know you're up there you fat, old man. Don't think you can hide from me with all this mess you're making. I'll not be trying to outfit the whole nihil-damned troupe in hours and you'd best get that through your skull now or..."

The theater owner's pudgy face poked over the side of the platform, the mass of thinning curls on his head in complete disarray. "Not to worry, flower," he shouted down. "We're not doing the performance we had planned. There's no time to rehearse, after all. I'm letting Bonnie and Callista center stage for a bawdy little thing I put together last winter season. They've already done it more than once and most of it's just them shaking their tits about anyways, so it won't be problem. All the costumes were made a year ago, so there's no need for you to bruise your precious fingers trying to rush."

Jasmine frowned. She could feel the "but" coming at any moment. Not wanting to prolong the moment, she took Zakariah's bait.

"So then no costumes, eh?" she questioned, voice dripping cynicism. "Just a few to patch up from last season?"

"Well," he began, "we have all the costumes together, of course. And as a matter of fact, most of them are in rather excellent condition, an expert job on them all around." He paused a moment. Jasmine waited for the punch line. "In fact, I do believe you just fixed them up yourself a few days back."

Jasmine was confused.

That don't make sense for nothing. The only thing I've been working on is the costumes for the play we aren't doing no more. Just a changing up a couple of old things...

Realization dawned. "You mean the Lucot pirate-wench drapes I just finished up?" Jasmine shouted up at him, this time her voice filled with rage. "I spent most of three days sewing those up!"

Zakariah grinned. "Well, we'll need them looking like Nareemish whores again in approximately five hours."

"Five hours? Are you mad? It's not even midday yet, you mind-addled miser."

"Aye, it's not. I agree with you on that count wholeheartedly and concede to your most profound wisdom. I do, however, plan on putting together three productions this evening. The chill is in the air and the dear citizens of the East-block will be cold and horny."

Jasmine glowered up at the man.

"Oh, and last season Bonnie waggled her udders so much that she broke the bodice, so be ready to mend between scenes." With those words, Zakariah disappeared from view.

Stomping back toward the costuming room, a tirade of exceptionally explicit curses poured from the runner's mouth.

Clothes flew through the air as Jasmine moved from one chest to the next, digging for the materials she would need to reconstruct what Zakariah had so recently asked her tear apart. It had taken her a matter of minutes to track down the dresses themselves, being as how they were readied for the ill-fated performance that was no longer happening, but she could not for the life of her remember where she had stored the scraps. Growling and cursing, Jasmine turned the floor of the costume room into a mess of bits and pieces of material and other various things. A half-hour later, the runner sat on the top of a chest, fingers gripping her hair and threatening to tear it from its roots, frustration overwhelming sanity.

Loma walked in on Jasmine's impending mental breakdown, pausing half-way into the room. She seemed as if she were contemplating fleeing, her mind weighing the possibility of helping her fellow seamstress versus being on the receiving end of a potentially fatal tongue-lashing. Loyalty won out over self-preservation.

"You need help finding something, mistress?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jasmine glowered up at her. "You know what I done with the scraps from those whore's drapes? When I was making them into the pirate-wenches?"

"Of course, mistress," the girl answered, much to Jasmine's relief. "Remember, we stripped those back in the storage room cause Bonnie and Callista were yelling at each other all day and it was giving you a headache. They'll probably be back there sitting on a crate where we forgot them."

Jasmine left out a long sigh of relief. She would have hugged the girl for being the savior of her sanity, but the promise of an endless night's work ahead of her offered no additional energy. By the time the production was over, she would be exhausted. And the errands she had to run that night were going to take their toll even further. Jasmine rubbed at her already aching eyes.

"What's all this, mistress?" queried Loma.

Jasmine looked up to see the seamstress rifling through one of the chests. She lifted a ragged peasant's dress from it, holding the garment up before her and sniffing at it. The girl's nose wrinkled with distaste.

"Don't remember us ever using something like this. And by the gods it smells like someone shit themselves in it." She sniffed again, recoiling, and continued under her breath, "Gods know it wouldn't be the first time one of the new blood shit themselves on stage..."

Ah bloody nihil. Thought I stored that away. Spent a whole week making that, can't have people wanting to throw it out.

Jasmine replied, perhaps a bit too quickly, "It's nothing, Loma. Something from a long time ago. No one uses it anymore, but I'm not going to throw it out. Nostalgia and memories and all that."

The girl reached in a pulled out an equally tattered and soiled cloak. "Looks like they've been darned recently."

"Yeah, didn't want them to fall apart into pieces. Just throw them back in there and close it up. Starting to smell up the place."

Shrugging, the girl obeyed and, with Jasmine as escort, the two went searching for the much-elusive pieces of the night's costumes.

As midnight approached, Jasmine was almost certain that she had lost her mind for good. Five hours of running about preparing the costumes, nearly six hours of performances, a seemingly endless series of costume fixes thanks to Bonnie's overlarge bosom and then two hours of putting everything back in order so that, if the weather stayed chill and the people of the walled city still had coppers to spare, they could do the entire thing over again the next evening. But, she mused, at least they had sold out three performances, the bodies packed wall to wall. And when the floor had filled even the poorest of the East-block had been willing to spend the few extra coins to stand in one of the balconies. The take for the evening had been so good that Zakariah had seen fit to send out for a pair of ale kegs and a half-dozen bottle of wine. The actors and crew were all well on their way to passing out in a stupor, a little extra coin in their pockets, and even the most overworked of them were in good spirits. Well, excepting Jasmine.

Plodding wearily up the stairs to Zakariah's platform, she spied the old man busy counting the night's profits, dividing it into neat piles to distribute among the troupe. He glanced back at her as she approached and Jasmine could see a huge, satisfied smile on his face.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, the volume of his voice informing Jasmine that the man had been dipping into the spirits liberally. "I still got it, yes I do. Smell the chill in the air and it's really just the smell of money. Gods willing, the breeze will keep rolling in off the lake, windows will stay slick with ice and the good folk of our fair city will be as cold and lustful as they were this evening. I doubt we'll need three shows, but two will certainly come close to selling out, I'm sure of it."

"While I'll not debate the sharpness of your nose, old man," Jasmine replied as she made her way to Zakariah's keeps table and sat down heavy in one of the chairs, "I do wonder and doubt at the depth of the common folks' purses. What makes you think they'll be back again to see the same pair of tits in their face?"

Zakariah stopped what he was doing, turned slowly in his chair, grin still plastered across his face and a devious look in his eyes. He held one finger up for emphasis. "Because, my skeptical little flower, I witnessed this night the same overworked and undersexed faces in the audience throughout all three performances. They left the theater after one show and immediately returned to the line so that they could purchase their passage for the next. And if my sharp nose speaks truths, they'll be right back here tomorrow for one and probably two more looks at Bonnie and Callista's assets. Not even to speak of the tales they'll be spreading in the taverns tonight as they sip their ale and tongues loosen. All those who failed in coming tonight will be lined up for the morrow. And we, dear flower, shall fatten our purses even further."

Jasmine sighed. "Don't you think they'll get a bit tired of the same udders wagging about, old man?"

Zakariah pondered for a moment. "Maybe I can bring Tularala out as well. Perhaps not the same bodice-bursting treasures as Bonnie possesses, but yes, a new set entire. Something more to get the audience worked up."

"I thought Tularala had..." she paused for effect. "What's those called? Oh yeah, ladylike principles. I think that's what she called 'em."

Zakariah snorted. "Principles melt away once the clatter of coin reaches the ears. When she sees how much of a bonus the others pulled in tonight, she'll likely change her tune."

The runner chuckled, shook her head.

"Best to have a proper costume ready for her, just in case," Zakariah continued. "You can get to work on that tomorrow. And another for Bella, just in case she takes it upon herself to try and take advantage of the profitable situation."

"Bella then!" the runner exclaimed. "She's a summer young than I and new blood to boot. You'd already have her half-undressed on the stage after a month? Truly the sound of clinking coins buggers your brain."

The theater owner frowned. "I'll not force her to perform, though she might be the type that doesn't view a pair of bared bosoms as belittling. If you're looking for the brighter side of the moral debate, flower, than you're in the wrong business. Some would speak of your former profession as being a slight less womanly than a bawdy stage play."

Yes and yes, old man. And people can be damned for whatever they thought of me and whenever they did. What do I care what one girl does and another doesn't? Let them parade about so some box-hauler can have a memory in his head while he tugs at his sword. So some old peddler can replace the face of his toothless wife during a minute of tumbling.

"Yeah," she said finally, "whatever you say. Give me something to sip on while I work out the weary in my legs, old man."

Zakariah turned back to his perfectly stacked piles of copper signets. "Busy. Get it yourself, you know where it's at. And pour me another as well." He pushed his empty glass to the edge of his desk.

Snatching the glass, the runner walked over to the man's supply of spirits and picked out a translucent green bottle that, if she remembered correctly, contained a liquid less offensive to her palate. She removed the glass stopper and began to pour. A casual glance to the side and something at the edge of Jasmine's vision caught her attention. She finished pouring the two glasses, replaced Zakariah's on his desk and returned to where, half-hidden on a low shelf, behind stacks of old and yellowing scripts, she found a broken keeps board, a crack along one side having split it nearly in two. Removing it from its hiding place, she could plainly see the silver knave that had once been her lucky charm. It appeared to have been glued to the center of the board, unwilling to part ways with the shattered remnants of the game's playing field.

"What in the bloody nihil is this about?" she asked, utterly puzzled.

Zakariah looked back. "Huh? Oh that," his voice became flat, disapproval plain within his tone. "Your little prank the last time I saw you. Very cute indeed, flower. I happened to hold an attachment to that board. I was none-too-pleased when it split in two while I tried to remove your stupid knave. Gods alone know what you used to get it to stick like that. I had meant to make you pay for that and now that you've found it, I'll be sure to pull it out of the night's wages."

"Prank?" she queried, growing more confused by the moment. "I don't know what you're talking about, old man."

Setting her drink down, Jasmine reached up to grasp the knave. As she touched it, the keeps piece fell away from the broken board and into her palm.

"Bloody nihil, out of my wages. Piss on that, old man, it wasn't even stuck."

Zakariah stared at the silver piece resting in her hand. His mouth gaped, Jasmine saw, but only for a moment. He regained his composure, the man's expression a familiar one to Jasmine, one the told her he knew more about the mystery than he would be willing to tell.

"Swear it was stuck," he muttered, turning back to his coin counting.

Jasmine tossed the remains of the wooden board back with the scripts. She held the knave before her, staring at it intently. Zakariah may have known something that he wasn't going to share with her, but the runner was reasonably sure she had worked out a puzzle of her own.

The knave, right there since that first job. The job that got me into the Eleventh Hour's graces. And always popping up in this pocket or that. The shadow always on my tail, no matter where I was or how much I dodged it. And now, I dumped it here weeks back and I've not felt those eyes on me at all. My dear friend Dwervin, I do believe I've found the leash you've been leading me around on. Now I've just got to get to you before you find me, eh?

Smiling, content, her mind already plotting away faster than Zakariah could count coins, Jasmine sipped on her drink. The errand she was running tonight had just taken a sharp turn. It was time to make her first move, to take her former employer head-on. She had vowed that night, not so long ago, that she would taste his blood before all this was over. And with any luck, it would be over very soon.
XXXI. Sorcerous Complications

Despite the terrible chill of the night, a cold that seemed to defy the limitations of nature, a cold that seeped straight into one's bones, Floyd was drenched in sweat. He had went to bed covered in layer upon layer of thick, woolen blankets, but slowly the heat had come on, roasting him from inside out. Each blanket was cast aside, one at a time, ending with him peeling away his sodden clothing until he now lay naked and without even the most modest of barriers between him and the icy air.

The heat and the resulting sweats were an unavoidable consequence of wielding the sort of power that sorcerers did. The convergence of the dragons of air and water, that moment when they shared in their madness, sent ripples of raw power through the air. It traveled with such ferocity that it reached for hundreds and thousands of miles, flooding the body and the spirit of all those open to the touch. The worst of the storm was over and the surge itself would end within a matter of days, but sometimes there were residual waves. One such burst had crashed through Floyd sometime during the night.

Normally, he could have funneled it away, flung the chaotic essence of Hesharr off in all directions and thus alleviated his discomfort within a matter of minutes, leaving him with, if he was lucky, little more than a mild headache. While he slept, however, he was vulnerable. The whirlwind of anarchic magical energy had enveloped him and lingered, burying itself within his own natural circuit, looping and looping until it began to burn him up from the inside. Now, he lay in the bed of his underground abode, the frozen air around him doing little to alleviate the symptoms of the tumult that raged within.

Ah, so stupid. Should have felt that one. Just too tired. Should have told Dwervin I couldn't be working so soon. Should have given it another couple of days at least... Damn Hesharr for taking a liking to me. Those fire-eaters don't have it nearly as bad.

Sitting up, his senses scrambled and balance all but useless, Floyd reached blindly for the lantern that sat on a nearby stool. He found some flint and, after a long and arduous process, finally managed to get the wick burning. Light spread across the small, plain room, though Floyd's eyes had trouble deciphering the bouncing, wavering world that surrounded him.

He leaned forward, shifting his weight to his feet, pushing them into the stone floor. One breath and then another, the sorcerer attempted to rein in the maddened winds that raged through him. Each time he felt as if he had grasped one by the tail, it slipped away, running deeper into the heart of his power, vanishing from his probing senses with only his burning skin as evidence of its presence. Despite repeated failures, Floyd continued to play this game. Though the energies were mild enough that they wouldn't kill him, they might very well leave him with a horrid cold and a fever. At the very least, their chaotic dance would prevent him from getting any sleep.

Eyes closed, deep in concentration, Floyd had almost managed to corner one of the rogue wisps when another surge hit him like a wooden club in the back of the head. A familiar sensation, as familiar as his own flesh and bones. It screamed from across the night sky, a solid and definitive line of energy that led, he knew, right back to his legacy, the long-missing silver knave.

Awakened again! So it hasn't been destroyed. Where have you been my precious little child? Why do you scream so loud? Have you been wrapped in chains, only now breaking free to voice your pain?

As the connection to the legacy built, so too did the whispers from Floyd's creation flow. They raced into him from afar, a steady stream of magic that joined that of the surge's dance. The sorcerer felt as if his skin were going to split and burst, leaving naught but raw and bleeding remains.

His mouth opened wide, Floyd screamed.

As the last echo of his outcry faded, Floyd once again sat in darkness. The heat had left him finally, all the excess energies, both offending and welcome, gone in a prolonged burst of release. He was grateful for the darkness around him, for he did not wish to see what remained of his room. The bed beneath him had shattered, the mattress rupturing and sending a rain of hard, grainy pebbles into the air. Splinters had lanced his body in what felt like a thousand places. Though it only remained as a half-memory, he recalled the sounds of breaking glass and bending metal joining in the scream of the sorcerous hurricane.

Sitting on the cold stone floor and feeling the intense chill of the air pushing through his skin to rest heavy in his bones, Floyd sighed. He would have reached for his clothes, but even without seeing he knew that they were torn to shreds. Slowly but surely, a headache began to take shape, growing and growing as the miserable mage contemplated his foolishness at ever having learned his damnable art.

At least I shall have her once more. My beautiful runner, the magnificent and enveloping queen of the wind. I would not abandon my art for all the gold in the city, were I to lose that most precious of gifts.

Sinta sat at the worn wooden table, staring across at a man she was pretty sure she hated with all her heart. Dwervin had taken a liking to her, keeping the child close to him and presenting her with a steady stream of employment, but the weeks of lingering under his wing had strained the young girl. Whenever she rested her eyes upon the black-haired Eleventh Hour businessman, she could think only of Jasmine and the pains he had put her through in an effort to fulfill his "plan".

Your stupid plan, old man. Whatever it meant to be putting Jasmine through all that. And now giving me a pile of coin to just smile and make like it's all good with me when you know better. It's not good with anyone except for you and the thugs you pay to nod and say yes and beat on whoever's face you don't like.

To be honest, Dwervin had done a bit more than simply keep Sinta employed and provide her with more coin than she had ever dreamed possible. He had also given her a place to live, a place away from the instability and hazards of the orphanage. She was now free to do as she pleased, for the most part. She could roam about at night, come back whenever it suited her and never had to worry about her home being filled with predators. There were predators aplenty in the Eleventh Hour tunnels, to be sure, but they were all Dwervin's predators and knew to stay well away from her lest they incur his most unwelcome displeasure. The day after she had moved in (at his unrelenting insistence, of course), some child-loving clubber had tried to offer her coin to join him in his bed. Though Sinta never mentioned the incident to Dwervin or any of his thugs, the next afternoon she had seen two of the old man's uglier looking enforcers marching though one of the sewer corridors, a small burlap sack in one of their hands. She never saw the man again after that. Whatever the child felt at Dwervin's lack of respect for Jasmine, the man maintained his rule ruthlessly and by the knife. Between Dwervin's desire for obedience and order and Jasmine's inconsistent and flighty nature, it was a wonder the two had gotten on as long as they did.

And now, Sinta sat across from her mentor's nemesis, probing his face for signs of weakness as he counted out a small stack of silvers.

He pushed the pile of coin across the table. "Ten wrens for your troubles tonight, child. A excellently executed job all around. I see why Jasmine kept you on retainer, despite your fledgling years."

Jasmine? Why is he bringing her up? It's like he knows I'm thinking about her...

Of course, there was rarely a moment spent with her employer where thoughts of Jasmine didn't cross through her mind.

The child grabbed up the stack of silvers and shoved them into the crisp leather purse that she had bought with her earnings. They clinked amongst a healthy pile of other silvers, copper signets and a not a few gold rils. She laced the purse up again, slipped it beneath her dress and secured it.

"If you are feeling up to the task, tomorrow brings yet another need for a distraction. Though the risk is somewhat greater, the rewards are more to match. You could fill your purse..."

"It's a spectacle," Sinta corrected, belligerent despite her employer's accommodating demeanor. "No one in the street calls it a distraction."

Dwervin half-smiled at the child. "Spectacle then, if you insist, but remember also that you are not in the streets when you work with the Eleventh Hour. And you had also best remember to hold your tongue with your betters."

Sinta maintained the foul look on her face, unwilling to back down despite recognition that the man was only speaking the tenants of doing good business.

He shook his head and sighed. "Well, let me know before too long if you wish the extra coin. Until then I shall leave you to your own affairs." Dwervin stood from his chair. "Sleep well, child."

As the man was turning to leave, a noise alerted the pair to an intruder in their midst. Shuffling and staggering, as if drenched to the core in spirits, Floyd made his way across the room and toward them. Instead of the usual ill-fitting clothing that he normally wore, the sorcerer had seen fit to don a heavy over-sized cloak, tied at the waste with a piece of frayed rope. A blanket was further draped over his shoulders and hung about him in disarray. Bare legs poked out from the cloak as he walked, leading Sinta to reason that he was wearing nothing beneath. The man was covered in small cuts, bits of splintered wood poking from his flesh here and there.

Dwervin approached Floyd and Sinta could see the businessman's arms tense, his hands move a slight bit closer to the knife at his side.

"I know I've been suggesting a change of attire for some time now, Floyd, but I hardly think this to be an improvement. You look a damned mess. Another accident, perhaps?"

Floyd walked right by Dwervin, seemingly unaware of his presence, and shambled up to the table at which Sinta sat.

"Found her," he said, his breathing labored, the words coming out in a wheeze. "The legacy woke up. Something happened, I don't know. But I can find Jasmine."

Sinta's eyes widened, her teeth clenched at the man's revelation. She stared daggers at the sorcerer. Floyd stared back, the exhausted look on his face adopting an air of bewilderment.

Stupid idiot, addle-brained wizard! You could have told me this with no one around. Not in front of the very person we're trying to keep in shadows.

Sinta was filled with an overwhelming urge to draw her blade, to bury it in Floyd's foot for his oblivious stupidity.

"That," Dwervin spoke from behind the sorcerer, Floyd jumped as if surprised, "is the best thing I could have heard all week, my friend Floyd."

Floyd spun to face the man. "Yes, good news." He stammered, struggling with his words. "Was just thinking I would go find you and let you know..." One of Dwervin's eyebrows rose at the statement.

Find him! Moronic, dog-buggering infant! It's true what they say, that magic melts the mind and leaves you a madman. Next you'll be pissing yourself like a proper baby and sucking your thumb.

"So when can we begin tracking down our wayward roofrunner?" Dwervin asked, even his practiced calm unable to mask the hunger lurking within. "I am eager to finish this game."

Floyd held up one hand, as if to make a point. He turned it in front of his face, gazing upon it for all the world as if he did not recognize what it was.

"Not now..." he finally managed. "Feeling unwell... surge, got me..."

With those words, the sorcerer collapsed to the ground in a heap, retching violently and, half-true to Sinta's prediction, filling the air with the stench of piss.
XXXII. The Catch the Wind

Leaving Zakariah to his coin counting, Jasmine slipped away under the pretense of retiring early. The half-drunk man barely noticed her leave, offering a throaty grunt in place of a proper goodbye. The celebratory mood of the troupe, though the presence of so much drink should have kept it running into the early morning hours, was winding to a close. Even the elation of a successful night's production couldn't fight off extreme exhaustion forever and one by one the players and stagehands filtered off to find their beds. Even the sounds of lovemaking were diminished, much to Jasmine's relief.

Padding her way past the dwindled gathering and into the costume room, Jasmine bent beside a chest, opened it and retrieved the foul smelling peasant's rags that Loma had stumbled upon earlier that day. Reaching deeper into the box, she pulled forth the black blouse and breeches that she had first come to the theater in, those two weeks past, along with her boots and a belt she had pilfered from Zakariah's stock. Stripping down, Jasmine began to don her old clothes, cinching up the belt and tugging on her runner's boots. The peasant's rags went atop the familiar clothes, masking her true appearance from whoever might see her that night. A small box in the chest contained ash to dirty her skin and hair and make the deception complete. Studying herself in one of the nearby mirrors, Jasmine was satisfied that no one would think her any more than a poor peasant, red of hair and particularly filthy. Done with the charade, she snuck out the back of the theater, quiet as a cat.

It had been the same routine every night since the runner arrived. In the morning she would mask her appearance against potential discovery and once night fell she would put on her costume and head out into the streets of the East-block. So far, no one had recognized her and, she reasoned, as long as she made it a point to stay away from her old haunts, that lack of recognition would continue. She steered clear of running the rooftops, no matter how much her feet itched to get back to her natural habitat, and it was easy enough to remove herself from the path of any shadow-player she spotted roaming the streets. The only people that she interacted with willingly were a small group of children, none of them the wiser as to her identity and all of them beholden to her for the coin she weighted their palms with. Twenty minutes into her wanderings, Jasmine came across one such child, curled up in an alley, half-hidden behind a pile of refuse and apparently sleeping.

Flitting through the shadows, Jasmine crept up on her mark, announcing her presence with a scuffle of feet across the dirt when she was within a few feet. The child, awareness tuned high by the needs of survival in the streets, immediately rose from where he lay, a small yet thick wooden stick in his hand. He held the bludgeon in front of him, warding off the unwelcome visitor.

"It's just me, Cryer," Jasmine spoke in the raspy voice she had adopted for her peasant personality. "I've come lookin' for news on the little one."

The boy named Cryer lowered the stick, sighing audibly with relief. "I've not seen Sinta today ma'am. I talked at Dull and Darkness and Tabitha and none of them seen her neither, but Tabitha said she might've known someone who did see her, just earlier at sunset and on her way through the wall."

The story was much the same as it had been most of the last two weeks. Sinta would be seen leaving the East-block or sometimes coming back into the East-block, but rarely just moving about within the ghetto's walls. She was also being spotted at all hours from dusk until morning, which likely meant she was no longer in residence at the orphanage. Whatever had happened following that night at the warehouse, Sinta had managed to elude Dwervin's grasp and somehow, despite her very public movings back and forth through the gates, he had not been able to track her down again. Either had been unable to or, Jasmine considered, he was beyond caring about the young girl. Given the Eleventh Hour businessman's single-mindedness, she doubted the veracity of the latter explanation.

"Good work, Cryer, good work." Jasmine reached into the folds of her dress, produced a pair of copper coins. She held them out and the boy snatched them from her hand. "And stop yer sleepin' in the alleys," she continued. "Not safe 'ere for little ones, 'specially not with the chill, eh? There's a shop done run out of work out on Borosh Street. Others like ye down there. Tell em that Zahara sent ye and they'll give ya no trouble and a warm sleep to boot."

The boy nodded in response, waited a second as if expecting something more to be said and then, realizing that his benefactor was finished, scuttled away down the alley.

Stupid little rats. Trying to curl up in an alley with the weather as it is. He'dve been a frozen corpse before the sun rose. Better than the orphanage? I'd say more and more yes, but then death is a cleaner end than being a slave, for sure.

Disappearing into the shadows of the streets once more, Jasmine made her way toward her second destination. Now that she had figured out the trick of the silver knave, she would have to move fast. The only way to counter Dwervin was to be smarter than him. And there was but one person Jasmine knew that was smarter than anyone when it came to the particulars of wizardry.

The runner sat in the chill, lurking atop the palatial building that had once served as a grand manor to some wealthy merchant or another but had now been divided to meet the twin demands of bathing and fornicating. Three stories up, the wind had nothing to stop its passage and the cold it brought was reaching into Jasmine's bones, but she was beyond caring. It was only elation that filled the runner, the joy of hovering above the streets once more, of being that much closer to the sky and its promises of freedom.

When this is over, I'll run from dusk til dawn and nothing will stop me. Sure, I'll likely be doing it in some other city, just to keep my throat from splitting, but it's first on the list. Never again am I gonna let some big-headed businessman fuck keep me from where I need to be.

Hours had passed since she first scaled the bathhouse walls and began her vigil atop its flat marble roof. Normally, there might be girls up there, bathmaids taking a rest from the oppressive humidity or whores enjoying a smoke of tobacco between customers or after a long night of laying on their backs. Tonight, however, the vicious cold kept them away. They were, Jasmine guessed, all huddled in their beds and grateful for the warmth, no matter how damp the walls or soiled the sheets.

The person she was there to see would be working until nearly dawn, Jasmine knew. It would have been easy enough to creep into her chambers and wait there, away from the numbing winds, but the runner could not part herself from the skyscape. Weeks without a good run and being locked in that cacophonous wooden box Zakariah called home were taking their toll on her sanity. Even as the sensation in her limbs left her, Jasmine could feel serenity returning.

But there were important appointments to keep. Eventually, with a long sigh and a stretch of stiff limbs, the runner clambered down to a sill below. Deftly working, a few seconds later and she had unlocked the wooden blinds and slipped into the room beyond. Finding a dark corner to rest in, Jasmine awaited her target.

The long day and hectic night proved too much for the fatigued runner. Even her desperate sense of need, her overwhelming desire for revenge against Dwervin, could not bolster her willpower enough to fight against the tide of exhaustion. Within minutes, the runner was asleep, huddled in the corner of the bathhouse apartment. Only the creaking of the door brought her back to consciousness. She blinked her eyes against the light that flooded the room, saw her target entering.

Jasmine observed as Deirdre, looking as tired as Jasmine felt, shuffled over to light a candle and then returned to the door to shut it. Rising to her feet, Jasmine realized that one of her legs had fallen asleep right along with her. She winced as the limb returned to life and Deirdre spun, finally aware of the runner's presence.

The dark-haired maid, panic in her eyes, pitched her arm out, fingers splayed, in the direction of her unknown intruder. Abruptly, Jasmine's sight wavered and clouded, an immense pressure building behind her eyes. The runner pressed her palms to them, rubbing to relieve the sudden onset. And just as swiftly as the strange occurrence had begun, it ended again. The pain fled and Jasmine's vision slowly regained its focus.

"Oh, by the gods!" Deirdre exclaimed, voice a mix of panic and concern. "I'm sorry, Miss Jasmine. I didn't know it was you. I could never have expected that..." Her voice trailed off. Jasmine looked up to see the young girl staring at the floor.

Jasmine rubbed to quell the last of the pressure in her eyes. "You could've not expected me. I didn't tell you I was coming, after all." The runner paused, examined hard the sheepish girl. "You've more talents that I'd known, Deirdre. I figured that something similar might be the case, but didn't know you'd be a witch."

In a flash, the girl's demeanor shifted, anger filling her face. "I'm not a bloody nihil-damned witch!"

Jasmine recoiled. She had barely ever seen the maid speak above a murmur, let alone let loose with such an outburst. There was certainly more to the girl than the runner had ever suspected.

"What was that then?" she queried, softening her tone, inviting the frightened maid to speak openly.

"It's..." her voice had returned to its characteristic whisper. "It's just the term is very derogatory. I don't like to be called things like that."

"Dera-what?" Jasmine asked, feigned puzzlement on her face. She knew what Deirdre was saying, of course, but there was no better way to bring the girl around than to get her talking about all the things that filled her head.

"Derogatory," Deirdre responded, looking slightly exasperated. "Insulting. Witch is an insulting word. Properly, those trained in the elemental arts are referred to by their patron elements or as forgers or, though base, as sorcerers."

The tension had left the maid with her attempt to explain. Jasmine's little tug had worked.

"Sorry, Dee," she responded, shrugging. "I've not come here to be deragatory to you."

Deirdre rolled her eyes at the mispronunciation.

"I've come for knowledge, the kind of learning that I know you have." She paused, looking the girl over. "And now I think I maybe know why you're so smart about all these things. You trained or some sort of natural? Does Rita know about you being a wi... a elemental forger or whatever?"

Deirdre shook her head. "I was trained before I came here. Several years ago, in another place. A city by the name of Culter."

Jasmine thought she recognized the name, from some map or another. "Culter? Isn't that up by where the priests have their grand temple and their council and all that? I wouldn't think a user of sorcery would be lurking so close to those bloodthirsty zealots."

"No one lives there now. Not anymore." Sadness filled the maid's eyes, she continued to stare at the floor. "I was six when the priests came through to Purify the city. I'd been training for only a few years, but the elders insisted I had a strong talent. I did manage to surpass all the others of my age and many of those older. But then the Purification happened one evening and when I came home I found them all dead. They'd been nailed up on poles along the avenue... covered in pitch and lit aflame." Grief seemed close to overwhelming the girl, Jasmine could almost see it burning through her skin, threatening to tear her away.

"I'm sorry Deirdre," Jasmine began, digging for the right words. "I mean, for your loss and such, but also because you have no one to talk to about it. I know how it is, to be so different. Me, I don't even know why I'm like how I am."

A smile touched Deirdre's lips.

"I didn't mean to dredge up old pains," the runner continued. "Gods know I have enough of those of my own. But I need to talk to you and I need to be out of here before the sun rises, so I don't get caught."

Deirdre looked up, meeting Jasmine's eyes, and nodded. "The word I hear is that you're on the run from the Eleventh Hour. That you've done something to wrong them and there's a price on your head."

Jasmine shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose that's the truth of it. But I've got a way to get out of here and at least get Sinta away from them if nothing else. But there's sorcery aimed at me and I need your help with it."

Deirdre sat down on her bed, motioned Jasmine to sit beside her. "I will offer whatever knowledge I can. I've continued my studies beyond my training in the circle, despite Mistress Rita's insistence that I do nothing more than learn numbers. So I very well may know something that could prove useful."

Jasmine sat next to the girl.

Another friend? Like Maryline, but more like me for sure. Believe me, Deirdre, I know more of your pain than you could guess at. Strange, dangerous, hunted, no family to speak of...

Jasmine pushed the thoughts from her mind, concentrating on the task at hand and the need to race the rising sun. "I need to know everything you know about things with magic in them." She paused, removing the silver knave from a pocket. Deirdre's eyes widened at the sight of it.

It was foolish, dangerous even, to have the silver knave on her person, Jasmine knew, but from what Deirdre had said, the "legacy", as the maid had called it, was key to finding whoever had been shadowing her for so long. A hundred ways of hiding the knave flashed through her head and the compulsion to do so was assailing her, but she knew that if she truly wanted to play this game out, it was necessary to keep it close. Easy enough to bury the thing in some forgotten basement or cram it behind a loose stone in a sewer passage, assuming she was willing to gamble on the possibility of her sorcerous shadow finding it. To lose possession of the knave meant defeat and Jasmine intended to win. And so, returning to the theater, the sun cresting the horizon and announcing the new day, she tucked the keeps piece away in a box and hid it in the rafters. At least, she figured, if the witch came hunting he would have to spot her with his own eyes. Considering her rather obvious presence within the troupe, the thought did nothing to alleviate her anxiety.

Just have to trust the Gambler's luck on this one. Ihshintul be with me for just a few more days. I'll put a bent copper in your box if you don't.

Tired through her bones, Jasmine changed back into the costume of her theater life, dragged herself to bed and, within seconds, was deep in the arms of oblivion.

The next day, she awoke late, the sounds of the theater's residents echoing through the building as they went about their morning tasks. Crawling from her bed, the sleep still heavy in her eyes, Jasmine snapped the bronze clips to the tips of her ears, wrapped a blanket about her and shambled through the milling bodies on her way to the stairwell that would deliver her to a much-needed, if not altogether pleasant, bath. Bodies stopped to stare as she walked by, mouths hanging open. Jasmine returned their confused looks with glares.

When she reached the trap room, she realized the cause of the unwelcome attention. As usual, the red dye had vanished from her hair while she slept. Being as how she had always awoken well ahead of the oversleeping troupe, they had yet to see the natural ash blonde of her hair. Cursing under her breath, the runner went to work with the dye and rehearsed a string of excuses with which to feed them and dispel their nosey curiosity.

Luckily, the excuses proved adequate if not compelling. Most were so frightened by her hot temper that they didn't bother to press the issue. Only Loma dared raise an eyebrow to the claims that she had wanted to experiment with a bleached look.

The whole thing don't matter anyways. If all happens the way I planned it, I'll be out of here by Ninth-day. No one to question or remember that they heard some clubber talking about a blonde-haired girl with a price on her head. Pissing nihil, I'dve figured everyone would have known by now. Bonnie and Callista know well enough what I look like and they'd be fast to talk if they thought they could get a laugh at my expense.

The only explanation that the runner could attribute to her good fortune was that Zakariah had warned them off of speaking about her bizarre features. She looked strange enough without the extra oddities, so no doubt the venomous actresses had enough ways to insult her when she wasn't around. Jasmine sighed. It really wasn't worth thinking about any more. The game was coming to a close and it was more likely that Dwervin's wizard would find her well before some stagehand ran off looking for the Eleventh Hour at the hint of a reward. Finishing her morning routine, Jasmine joined the rest of the theater's residents and helped prepare for what would inevitably be another very long night.

What felt like weeks later, the theater was finally still. True to his instincts, Zakariah had sold out two shows and fattened up his own purse as well as those of the troupe. Everyone was in good spirits despite a second day of the exhausting schedule, gathering as always in the back room and working hard at draining away the last of the ale and wine. And once again Jasmine sat at Zakariah's small table, sipping his strange foreign spirits and listening to the tinkling of coins as he stacked them. The runner had no energy left to talk and, gratefully, her companion did not seem particularly eager to engage in conversation. So she sat, drinking slowly as to keep her head and running over her plans to deal with the pesky sorcerer that would soon come calling on her. Once the theater had quieted down and she was reasonably sure she wouldn't be caught sneaking out, Jasmine grabbed a shovel from the tool closet and set out to dig a hole.
XXXIII. The Ghyst and the Witch

The night of digging went off without a hint of trouble and the next day at the theater brought no unwelcome visit from her sorcerous rival. Luckily, the chill had left the air somewhat and that, combined with the fact that even the most randy of theater-goers were reaching the bottoms of their purses, meant that the night carried only one performance and that an easy one. As Jasmine lurked atop a tenement, a mere three blocks away from the flat she once called home, she felt well rested in her body and alert in her mind.

Twirling the silver knave in her fingers, the runner waited. Deirdre had informed her that the "surge" - some sorcerer's nightmare of random wizardry - had ended and that her nemesis was free to use his magics at will once more, so, providing he hadn't left town on some errand or another, she would likely see him before too long. Still, there was no telling when the tracker would start hunting again. Jasmine was resolved to being forced to repeat the routine several nights before it bore fruit.

But Ihshintul's luck proved abundant that first night and it was a mere two hours before she first caught sight of her prey. He had made the mistake of peering into the alley that she overlooked. A brief glance, to be sure, but it was enough. Though his magics masked all sound and even prevented Jasmine from picking up his scent on the air, they could do little to impair her sight. The best the sorcerer could manage was to turn himself into an indistinct blur. The trick had fooled Jasmine before, when she was unaware of who her pursuer might be, but now it only served to mark him out.

One glance, a retreat behind the alley's corner, but that was all it took. Jasmine knew he was there and now was the time to spring the trap.

Placing the silver knave sideways beside her, she gave it a quick kick. The keeps piece spun and rolled to the far end of the large, flat roof. Just as quick as she propelled the object, the runner leaped across the alleyway and onto the opposite building, careful to make as little noise as possible, lest her enemy be listening closely. One hand slipped into a hidden pocket and withdrew a metal ball, just large enough to fill her small hand. The polished surface of the device shined in the moonlight and gave off a silver glare. Another Knaylish contraption that she had picked up for cheap, she was gambling that it would prove the perfect counter to her sorcerous opponent.

Eyes on the alley, Jasmine saw her confused pursuer looking up to the opposite roof, his blurred form slinking down the passage in a way that suggested to the runner that the man possessed little real ability at walking the shadows, relying almost solely on his talents with magic to accomplish his stealth. A grin crossed her lips as she brought her arm back, muscles tense. Waiting until the man was almost directly beneath, Jasmine flung the device as hard as she could, down and into the alley. It collided with the brick surface of the tenement wall and began to let out a horrible, warbling cry. It was as if a hundred drunken priests were ringing the temple bells to call their worshippers to service, wailing wild and random and without any thought to harmony.

Knowing the effects that the screaming ball would have on her own sensitive ears, the runner had thought ahead and stuffed them with cotton to lessen the assault. Even a man half-deaf would have had a hard time doing anything other than holding his ears if confronted with the cacophonous nightmare at close distance. Jasmine was betting on the wizard using (as Deirdre had suggested) his control over the air to amplify sounds and thus eavesdrop on her. From the man's reaction, she had gambled correctly.

The blur around the figure dispersed in what appeared to be a cloud of fine dust. He clamped his hands to his ears in a frenzy, dropping to his knees. If the expression on his face were any indicator, he was also screaming bloody murder, though it was impossible to tell over the wailing of the ball. Unsure of whether the sorcerer was capable of recovering from his pain or not, Jasmine moved quickly. One step onto the lip of the roof and she leaped down, a three-story fall onto the back of her prey. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, head bouncing off the dirt.

Jasmine leaped up and off his limp form, rushing to where the steel contraption lay, spinning small, quick circles in the dirt as it jolted about chaotically. She picked the ball up, felt its rippling vibrations race up her arms and rattle her bones. Even the cotton stuffed into her ears couldn't stop the threat of an impending headache. Grasping the ball tight, she clenched it to her stomach and wrapped her hands around it. Using every ounce of her strength, Jasmine fought to keep the ball still so that it might run its course faster. Eventually, the noise diminished and the device ceased its struggles. Careful not to upset it further, Jasmine tucked it away.

Returning attention to her prey, Jasmine retrieved a length of thin silk cord and wrapped the man's hands behind his back. Two lengths of cut cloth provided a blindfold and a gag for her victim. Given the stillness of the man's body, it was likely that the runner didn't need to bind him at all, that he was deeply unconscious and would not be recovering for some time, but the night's work required precision and caution and she would not risk an escape if she could help it. As she secured the sorcerer's bonds with a second knot, Jasmine noticed that blood was leaking from his ears.

Well, well, little witch. Looks like you've been knocked flat by a piece of metal. From the way you're bleeding, you might be a bit deafer for it too. Let's hope you're fit enough to answer some questions or this night's a waste.

Grabbing the man under his arms as best she could, Jasmine dragged him through the dirt and off to the hideaway she had prepared for just that moment.

Floyd awoke to the sound of blood beating violently within his skull. Barely aware of what had happened earlier in the night, his mind was a haze and the raging headache did nothing to help him achieve clarity. He remembered heading out in the evening, on a mission to track down Jasmine now that the girl once again carried the legacy. He had a plan of some sort... something that Dwervin had told him and something that Sinta had told him but he was having a hard time remembering either of their words and even if he could have, it would have been yet another monumental task to figure out which person had told him what. But the plan, whatever it had been, was disrupted by something. He could remember a loud noise, something horrible and overwhelming, but little else.

Or is that just the pain in my head? Memories and moments getting blurred up into one again... what in the nihil happened? And where am I now? Why can't I move my arms and legs? Perhaps I should begin by opening my eyes...

Following his own advice, the sorcerer lifted his eyelids, gazed out upon a dimly lit flat plain of dirt. It was as if he stared out across the horizon, only the horizon had come up to meet him face-to-face. He turned his head to look around, felt his chin scrape across dirt. Trying to glance down to find the source of the odd sensation, his head was halted within a few inches. Realization began to take hold. He tried to move his arms and legs again. The same inertia stymied his efforts.

Ah! I am apparently buried in the soil. Up to my neck as it were. Well... this is a most uncomfortable position. Gods, my ears hurt to no end. And this headache doesn't appear to be going away.

The muffled sounds of speech reached him. A form appeared in the faint light, small, lithe and dressed entirely in black. He raised his eyes to stare into the shadowed and nearly indistinct face of Jasmine. Her lips moved, warbling noises filled his ears but he couldn't make out a word that she said.

"What?!" Floyd shouted, loud enough to hear his own words and apparently loud enough to startle the runner. She took a step back. Holding up her right hand, around which a length of rope was wound, she pointed at something above him and to his left.

"...try anything... this and that pole drops and... buried. And I leave..."

Floyd was having the most unpleasant time trying to decipher the garbled noises, the task made even more daunting by the continued thrumming of blood in his skull. His eyes followed the runner's pointing finger, from the mass of rope wrapped about her hand, across its length as it stretched through the air and ended its path knotted around a large wooden pole that stood, crooked and precarious, a foot away from his head. The pole was wedged beneath what appeared to be a large wooden board on the ceiling. At one end of the board lay a set of hinges, connecting it to a flume.

Some sort of storage ramp? Gods, I wish she would speak up. If I'm forced to lie in the dirt and have this conversation, it would be nice at least if I could bloody understand the girl... Wait, wasn't I supposed to find her for something? I think I had a message to deliver...

"You're talking in pieces," Floyd pleaded with his captor. "If you're not going to speak clearly, can we just have this conversation at another time? I think my ears are broken. And why have you buried me? This is no way to discuss anything."

Floyd could see the runner's teeth bared and clenched. She seemed frustrated for some reason.

Think about how I feel! You're the one that buried me, I presume. Not as if I had anything to do with this mess.

Jasmine squatted next to the sorcerer's head, coiling more rope around her arm to keep its connection to the pole taut. She leaned in, spoke loudly and directly into his face.

"I said, you move you die. I've got this thing filled with dirt and you try anything with your magics and I drag this pole out and you're buried. Though I don't think you'll be doing much, will you? I have it from wise lips that you air worshippers can't do much when all buried up like this."

"Whisperers!" Floyd shouted. The runner flinched at his scream. "Air whisperers. And that's a not very nice way to address me. I am a properly trained..."

"Shut it, witch," Jasmine growled.

"That's an even less nice..." Floyd began, but quickly ceased his response when the runner produced a knife and rested it on his check, a mere finger-twitch from his right eye.

"I'm tired of playing Dwervin's game, hound." Jasmine flashed her toothy smile. "You've been following me since the whole mess started and now you'll tell me what I need to know or I'll start taking pieces off your face for trophies. Understand?"

Floyd well understood that the girl was angry with him and even sympathized with her somewhat, considering all she had been through. Of course, she had asked no real question and some of the questions she might ask he would not want to answer, at least not truthfully. Still, he decided it best to go along with her, if only to discover why he had been buried up to his neck. The sorcerer attempted to nod, bounced his chin off the dirt again and became confused.

"Just say yes, idiot," Jasmine snapped.

"I'd rather not have any pieces of my face removed, so I suppose we've reached an agreement of sorts."

Jasmine sneered but seemed to accept his answer.

"Start with where Dwervin is right now."

"Oh," Floyd perked up at the question. "That's an easy one. He's off to talk to the Portween about some sort of deal. He and Leiber, some other hired swords whose names I've never cared to learn, Sinta and I think that..."

"Sinta?" Floyd thought he detected a note of panic in the runner's voice.

But why should she be upset at Sinta? I thought the two were friends. Speaking of which... I was supposed to give her some sort of message from little Sin, wasn't I? Damn this headache...

His thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of something sharp and pointy digging into his cheek.

"Ow!" he exclaimed. "What is it now? You didn't ask me any questions, what am I supposed to say? Please stop cutting me. I've enough problems with this nihil-gifted headache." Suddenly, Floyd realized why he had the headache. Some memory began to resurface from the depths of his pain-addled mind. "You did this to me!" he shouted. "You attacked me with some sort of terrific noise. Tonight I think... I was just following you. I was supposed to lead you..."

Floyd clamped his mouth shut.

Damn it all. I think that was a secret. Or was it part of one of those messages I was supposed to deliver?

The runner was staring down at the buried man, a perplexed look on her face.

Oh, what now?

"Yeah, I attacked you, you infant," she said, for all the world sounding as if she were scolding a small child. "How do you even get your boots on in the morning with a mind all filled with holes like that from using your sorcery?"

Floyd attempted to shrug and failed.

"You'll tell me the where and why of you leading me around as well, witch. And best be quick and honest about it, cause I'm eager to go hunting and if I don't get my way I may just take it out on you. I've had a fair bit to drink and I'll need a piss soon. Your head looks a nice toilet for that."

Floyd stared up in horror. She responded with a malicious grin.

"No need for that!" He shouted. "It's no secret that I'm supposed to bring you along to Dwervin and the Portween fella. Don... Dun... Dunoltwe? I think that's it. Dunoltwe, yes, sounds about right."

"Hurry it up, witch. My bladder is itching awful."

"Dwervin's to meet up with Dunoltwe for some business or another. He wants you there for the deal as well. I'm not sure why. I mean, it's not really the sort of information that he talks about in open company. Only that it's important that you be there."

Oh bloody nihil. That wasn't the message I was supposed to tell her... that was the part I wasn't supposed to tell her. Damn it all again, I can't say I really care much about any messages at this point.

He gazed at the now silent runner to find her staring at nothing, deep in thought. Musing on what the girl's musings might be, Floyd waited patiently for the next step in this strange dance. Suddenly, as if revelation had struck, Jasmine turned back to the sorcerer.

"Tell me where they'll be and when." She paused after the statement, pressed the knife a little closer to his eye. "And if I think you're telling me truth, I'll leave you here alive. Who knows? Maybe some street-rat will stumble down and have some mercy."

Floyd gave Jasmine all the answers she asked for, relating exactly how to find Dwervin and Sinta and the Portween man, Dunoltwe. He was reasonably sure that telling her everything was one of the worst things he could have done, but the threat of having his face cut up or worse, being pissed on, kept his lips moving, even through the still-present storm of his headache. Finally, the runner left, no doubt off to meet her fate head-on. It was a trait within the girl that fascinated and impressed Floyd, even if she had entombed him in the ground.

Poor girl, off to get beat up again for Dwervin's entertainment. Hope you come out of it okay. Try not to stick your knife into anyone too important, or the whole thing could get quite messy.

Satisfied that Jasmine was long gone, Floyd inhaled deeply and concentrated. Reaching out to caress the filaments of air surrounding him, he exhaled in a burst, grabbed onto the force of the blast and amplified it. The soil that confined him blew away, up and out in every direction, releasing him from his filthy prison. Sighing, Floyd began to stand, only to have his motion interrupted by the sharp groan of rusty hinges and the impact of a heavy, soil-laden chute glancing across his skull. Dirt began to pour down the chute, into his face, filling his mouth and covering his body yet again. Luckily for Floyd, there was only enough dirt to rebury him to the waist. Coughing and cursing, his headache now ten times worse, the sorcerer clawed his way out of half-filled hole.
XXXIV. Dramatic Reveal

Sprinting across the rooftops, Jasmine ran hard and reckless, desperately trying to beat the clock and reach her target before the businessman and his companions finished whatever deal they had set up for the night. If the opportunity was lost, it could be weeks before the runner would be able to pin down a time and a place once again. And if they managed to find and dig up that sorcerer she had captured, Dwervin would be well aware of her intentions and on his guard. She had one chance at getting her vengeance and freeing Sinta from the Eleventh Hour businessman's grip.

A short time later, Jasmine arrived back at the theater. Creeping quietly in, she found the interior of the building silent. All celebration had ceased and everyone was no doubt secure in their beds, heads heavy with drink and dead to the world. The runner made her way up through the rafters, to the very top where once, long ago, she had slept, the rest of the theater unaware of her presence. There, hidden away from prying eyes, was a large sack. Grabbing the bag, Jasmine slung it over her shoulder and climbed back down again.

Hiding away in the darkness of the costume room, Jasmine unlaced and opened the bag, dumping its contents on the floor. Inside lay the few pieces of runner's gear that she had gathered up from the various emergency caches she had hidden throughout the East-block. Along with those, a few prizes she had spent the remainder of her coin on. It wasn't the best set-up that money could buy, but there was no way she could have infiltrated her old flat to grab up the best of her gear. The mismatched pads and braces would have to do. Luckily, she did have a few surprises in store for her nemesis tonight, should things take a more confrontational turn. More confrontational than her just sticking a knife in his throat, that is.

As Jasmine secured a kneepad, tugging the laces tight to ensure it wouldn't slip, the scuffling of feet alerted her to another presence. Among the darkness a deeper shadow appeared. Lurking at the doorway, a squat, round shadow, one arm extended to the side, the hand gripping a large bottle. The runner's eyes adjusted, picked out the soft features of Zakariah.

"Going somewhere, flower?" His voice came thick and slurred, the smell of spirits and mint so heavy that his breath practically formed a mist in the air.

"Got things to do," she replied. "Out in the real world. Just a couple of things and I'll be back, I'm sure."

Zakariah stumbled a few paces closer, leaned heavy on the door's frame and took a swig from his bottle. A pause and a small, rumbling belch followed. "Real world ain't got much for ya, flower. Dangerous out there."

"Yeah, well, I've little problem with danger. You know that. Besides, won't be more than a throw of the bones and I'll be back in time to get rested up for tomorrow, so don't worry about it."

"Dwervin's a dangerous man to be playing games with, flower." Jasmine paused at the mention of her enemy's name. "He likes to play games and he's damn good at them. Was damn good at them when he was a lad and just got better as the years passed him by."

"Whattya mean, as a lad?" Jasmine queried, caution creeping up inside her.

"The old man was a young man, years back. We were all young men, once. Known that young man for damn near on twenty-five years now and he's just gotten more clever as he's gone. And more ruthless. And even more fond of games."

Friends once, were you? Sounds like it didn't end too well, Zak. Well, I'll be taking care of this business for both of us then, eh?

Jasmine let the silence in the air linger as she worked tightening the laces of her forearm guards.

The theater owner shuffled further into the room, his feet having a hard time finding the floor. He meandered to a nearby chest and made to sit on it but almost missed. Jasmine had to reach out and grab the man's arm to keep him from spilling to the ground.

"Thanks..." he slurred, settling precariously on the wooden box. "There were three of us back then, running about in the East-block and throwing our swords around. It was a different place, mind you." He held up one finger for emphasis. "Not the calm waters you see today. No Eleventh Hour. Well, not proper like it is now. Just a small gang of us, trying to cut enough throats to make a name for ourselves."

Jasmine paused, cocked her head at her drunken mentor.

Cutting throats? You, old man? There's more to you than I've ever guessed, I'll give you that.

The thought of a young, fit Zakariah with a blade in his hand, sneaking up behind some hapless clubber and opening his throat, seemed ridiculous to the runner. She smirked, the gesture lost in the darkness.

Zakariah continued his story. "Me and Dwervin and a fella name of Sulan'Kae. A Kanda'Suo from down south, up here for whatever reason. His proper Suo name was a mess of letters and impossible to say, so I won't even try it. He was a terror to see though. Those Kanda are beasts in truth."

As Jasmine shifted her leather cuirass, the man stopped his drunken tirade. She glanced over at him, saw his eyes glittering in the dark, staring in her direction. Though her thoughts were distracted by the night to come, Jasmine felt compelled to continue the conversation, if only to soothe Zakariah's drunken state of mind. "Kanda, eh? Some sort of wood-folk, right? The ugly brothers of the Antasi or somesuch? Thought they didn't like cities."

Zakariah took another pull from his bottle. "Aye, they don't really. Sulan'Kae though, he liked it here for a time. Loved the thrill of the hunt. Bloodthirsty bastard, he was, but honorable in his own way." He paused again. "You're a lot like him, you are. In your own way."

Something in the man's tone snapped Jasmine's mind to attention. She spun towards him and stepped close.

"What do you mean like me?" she snapped at him, barely able to keep herself from yelling. "What in the bloody damned nihil is that supposed to mean? What the fuck are you not telling me, you fat, pissing bastard?"

Zakariah wilted beneath the assault, his head began to sag. He glanced at the bottle in his hand, lifted it for another pull. Jasmine slapped it from his hand. The impact sent it flying across the room, the heavy glass thumping on the wooden floor and spinning away into the shadows.

Jasmine stood above the man she called mentor, the man who she would have probably called father if she had ever managed to swallow her pride on the subject. Her breath quickened, heart thumping in her chest and blood boiling in her veins. One hand nervously twitched at her side, palm itching to have a blade in it.

Zakariah finally spoke, voice filled with anguish. "He'll use you up, you know, Dwervin. The people around him are tools and he throws them away when they dull. He talks a big talk of making the East-block better. To be fair, he's done a good job of it. But there's a long trail of bodies between twenty-five years ago and today."

His words did nothing to calm Jasmine's rage. "Stop prattling, old man and answer my question. I've a mind to put a knife in your throat if I don't like your answer."

Suddenly, the theater owner barked out a laugh. "Yeah, more like him then you know. Maybe more than Dwervin knows..." He turned his head to the runner. "Sulan'Kae was your uncle, flower. Maybe not proper, but brother to your father, in the manner that Kanda'Suo have."

"So you've known about my blood all this time and said nothing?" The runner had lost most of her control by this point, her voice raised to a yell. The sounds of troupe members awakening at the disturbance sounded from further in the theater.

Zakariah opened his mouth, closed it again. "It wasn't for me to say."

Jasmine waited, but the man added nothing more. She returned to cinching up her leathers. "We'll be talking on this more later, old man. And you'll give me answers or find yourself cut into pieces. Feel lucky I've got other things to deal with right now."

Suddenly, Zakariah's drunken malaise shattered. His voice raised to a shout. "Nihil-cursed little girl!" Jasmine jumped at the outburst. Even filled to the eyes with spirits, she had never seen the man lacking such control. "Dwervin is waiting for you. He'll draw you in and trap you and if he's not planning to kill you he's planning to tame you."

"And you know all about that, do you?" Jasmine retorted. "You working for him or maybe planned to sell me out then? Just been holding on to me until he's ready to come and pick up his prize?"

Even as she accused the man of treachery, the runner knew it to be untrue. But her mouth would not stop in its desperate need to wound him, to seek some sort of vengeance for the truths he had been keeping from her.

"You think for a minute he hasn't known you were here all along? The only reason he hasn't snatched you away and put your head in a sack is because of what he owes me. Owes me and owes Sulan'Kae. He was here the same damn night you showed up, before you even roused from your sleep. I told him I'll keep you here and as long as you stay here you're under my protection. You leave the theater and you're fair game. You go hunting him and you're another body in the lake."

Jasmine said nothing for a time, concentrated on rechecking her leathers and making sure she had secured all the tools she would need for the night. Zakariah remained silent until finally she spoke, her voice filled with bitterness and scorn. "I don't need your help, old man. I've taken care of my life from the time I was dumped in that nihil of an orphanage. Neither you nor any pissing uncle ever came to get me from that place, did you? Less loyalty there then you claim. I've always been a fucking tool and not even one that people wanted to use, except maybe the matron and the other shits in that nihil damned hole."

Satisfied that everything was in order, Jasmine slid the filthy peasant's dress over her running outfit, followed it with the cloak. She looked down at Zakariah, the huddled form of the man she had trusted for so many years. He was curled up tight, head nearly between his knees, body shuddering.

Is he... weeping?

Jasmine shook the thought from her head. There was no time to get the answers she wanted from Zakariah, not unless she was willing to sacrifice her chance to get even with Dwervin. And whether the man was turning into a drunken, crying fool was no concern of hers. Once, perhaps just minutes earlier, she would have been alarmed and concerned at old man's display. But not now, not anymore.

Fucking, pissing rubbish. Can't let this go worming into my head and piss up my run tonight. Dwervin first, then come back and deal with Zak.

Shouldering a small bag, the runner walked past her former mentor and into the theater's backstage. Around her, peering out from dimly lit rooms, actors and stagehands stared, their glares accusative, confused or hostile. Jasmine quickened her pace and left her former home, out into the night streets of the East-block.
XXXV. Unplanned Meetings

As the night drew on, the sky over the city of Porsham Grand had, in its usual fickle fashion, decided that clouds and rain were in order. Given that not two hours before the night had been clear and the air quite chilled, Sinta had dressed in a thick and heavy woolen dress and cloak. Now, as she trudged along in Dwervin's shadow, the garments soaked up the continuous drizzle and by the time the party neared the center of the East-block, she felt as if someone had draped her in steel. At least, much to Sinta's relief, her boots were capable of dealing with the mud that many of the ghetto's streets were transforming into.

This is what it feels like to wear chain armor, like those guards have to all the time. It must be. Any more water soaks into me and I'll fall over in the mud and never get up again.

In order to accommodate their guest, Dwervin had steered their party along mostly paved and graveled roads. Occasionally, however, they would cut through an alley or take a short-cut and be forced to slog through a few inches of mud. And the longer the rain fell, the more inches of mud confronted them. Dwervin's companion, the elderly Portween man named Dunoltwe, struggled with his footing here and there, though voiced no complaints.

As the group cut left and made their way up yet another unworked road, the man finally spoke. "The roads here are in a state. Something perhaps you should look into remedying, Overseer."

Dwervin's tone was, as it had been most of the night, deferent and polite yet laced with an almost imperceptible note of challenge. "My apologies again, Chairman, but time is running short and these short-cuts are a necessity born of haste. And, alas, the East-block is not the well-cultured place of comfort that the exterior city is. We do the best we can with what resources we manage to acquire. Eventually, if things take a turn for the lucrative, I'll be assuring that each and every road is graveled at the very least. The next time you..."

"Not a criticism of your governing skills, Overseer," the man interrupted, a slight mockery to his words, "merely on observation from one statesman to another. And the likelihood of there being a next time is quite minimal. If your prized runner does not prove to be everything that you claim, our business is done."

"As you see fit, Chairman."

The interaction between the two men was something that had been puzzling young Sinta ever since she had made Dunoltwe's acquaintance. They addressed each other with half-felt honorifics, poked and prodded at each other in ways so subtle that Sinta could not fathom the reasons behind them, but they always maintained a strict air of formality and feigned respect. To the girl, who had spent more than her fair share of time in the company of the Eleventh Hour businessman, his moods were easy enough to discern. But she had never witnessed him doing proper business with a House merchant before. Their game of grey words and white tongues was something out-of-reach of Sinta's comprehension, as if they spoke another language entirely.

As she continued to watch the pair, deciphering the subtleties of their bizarre verbal dance, Sinta's eye caught the mercenary to her left studying her. She glanced over, stared him full in the face. The one known as Jetal, the tall clubber with the strange chain weapon and the voice that sounded like he did nothing but smoke tobacco leaves day and night, was eyeing her, a smirk playing at one side of his mouth. The man had taken to watching Sinta, almost as if she were some sort of amusing animal, like one of those trained monkeys that Westerners sometimes brought to the markets. She had had enough experience in her last few weeks of life to know that his lingering eyes weren't those of a man with a hungry sword and an appetite for children, however. He observed her much the same way that Jasmine did, although the runner's appraising looks carried little humor in them.

Next to the towering man walked another bald giant, albeit this one a bit shorter and much wider. The one she knew as Yant trundled along, oblivious to the interplay of his fellow clubber and the child. He simply marched forward, hands gripped on those two thick sticks he used as weapons, a perpetual scowl on his face.

A few paces behind those two, a man that Sinta did not know. She had seen the brown-skinned man in the tunnels on occasion, but he never stood around for long, instead preferring to hide himself away. Curious, Sinta had asked around and discovered that his name was Mercy. A strange name for a clubber, but then the man carried no weapons to speak of. Sinta wondered if he were one of those from the Far West, the border guards they called Dunewatchers. She had heard that all those enlisted in that army were forced to learn to kill with their hands, presumably in case they lost their weapons in the middle of a fight. But all tales that had been related to her of the Far West described the people there as shorter, with slanted eyes and copper skin. Mercy looked for all the world like some giant lump of earth, with flesh to match. Unlike the rest in their party, he seemed perfectly content in the rain, a serene smile on his lips the entire journey.

And though there were only six of them walking through the streets of the East-block, Sinta had caught sight of others. No less than two bodies, dressed head-to-toe in black, had been following in their wake, tracking them from the rooftops. She was almost positive that they were Dunoltwe's men. Before they had set out, Dwervin had informed the group that the merchant might be wise to Jasmine's involvement in the warehouse incident and that he might take their meeting as an opportunity to assassinate or capture the runner. He was gambling that the Portween were still in the dark regarding that indiscretion or, at the very least, that they saw Jasmine as more valuable to them alive than dead. To Sinta, it didn't matter. Whether Dwervin wanted to turn her into a fetching mutt or the old man wanted her dead, it was still the same. Her friend was being made an unwilling player in their idiotic game and she intended to make sure their fun was ruined.

As long as that half-wit of a witch does what he's been told.

Eager to distract her mind from the myriad of uncertainties that assaulted her and more than a little curious about her unknown companion, the child shuffled over to Mercy and walked beside him. He turned his head, a slow and methodical motion, and stared down at her. His serene smile widened and Sinta could see a joy in his eyes that baffled her.

"You're not a clubber, I'm guessing," she stated.

The lump of a man nodded once and spoke, a voice even deeper than Jetal's, but soothing and melodic, sounding to Sinta's ears as if his tongue were some strange musical instrument. "No, I do not fight."

"Don't make for much of a guard then do you? I'd thought maybe you were one of those Dunewatcher soldiers, what fights with their hands."

His head shook back and forth. "I have never seen the dunes of the Mal'Dun desert."

"So where are you from then? I mean, your skin's all dark, but not like a Terinek and not like a Westerner."

A growl from Yant. "Leave the man be, bug. His past is his own business and none of yours."

"Don't suppose I asked what you thought about it, did I?" Sinta retorted. "With your head looking like a spoiled potato, I'm guessing your brain's rotting in there somewhere."

Jetal chuckled.

Yant made to open his mouth and bite back, but Mercy's calming voice halted him. "I am not disinclined to relate my past to those who ask." Yant clamped his jaw shut, the scowl on his face deepening. He picked up his pace and left the rest of them behind.

"My skin speaks nothing of my home, child. When I was born I was, in fact, blue - the color of a pale noon sky."

Sinta raised one eyebrow to convey her disbelief, but Mercy's eyes were not upon her. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, seemingly relating the explanation to himself.

"And before I had reached my fourteenth winter, my skin was as white as a cloud. As I aged, I learned things. That knowledge seeped into my skin and my bones. With each passing year I changed more, until I became the color you see before you. And should you know me in a year's time, I shall be yet even darker, I imagine."

The man's riddle confounded the girl. She was convinced he was playing some sort of game, all his talk of skin changing colors. Agitated, Sinta gave no response and asked no more questions. Instead, she concentrated her efforts on eavesdropping on the exchange that Dwervin and Dunoltwe were having ahead of the pack.

"...again on tracking down the source of the warehouse fire," the Portween was speaking, "but I must admit I am at a loss as to why you and this supposed agent are at such odds that you must go to these lengths."

"The sharpest swords often cut the hands of the ones who wield them," Dwervin responded. "Her skills and talents are matched only by her erratic temperament."

Sinta's ears pricked up.

Having a chat about Jasmine, are we? Won't you both just piss yourselves when she don't show up.

"If the blood of Sulan'Kae flows within her veins, I have no doubt as to the truth of your claim," Dunoltwe said. "I remember all-too-well that beast of a man. And if I recall, you kept him on no leash."

"I must admit I underestimated the resemblance to her uncle with regards to her strength of will. Thus, simple plans became complicated and now she desires nothing less than a knife in my throat."

_Blood and uncles? Sulan-what?_ Sinta was more confused than ever.

Dunoltwe laughed. "And now you must apologize for doing what is expected of you. Your world resembles mine much more than you might expect, Overseer."

"Rest assured," Dwervin spoke as if nothing he uttered could be anything but true, "she is the perfect candidate. You may be doubtful as to the wisdom of using a young girl to execute a task of such importance and subtlety, but I assure you that she will not disappoint. The additional skills required, while they will take some months to instill in her, are perfectly within her abilities to absorb and comprehend."

"You place doubt where none is deserved, Overseer," Dunoltwe assured him. "I know your eye for talent. Barring her questionable temperament, I have every confidence before having even met the girl. Though I must confess that I am quite curious to see her within the realm she excels in. It would be quite the show."

Sinta saw Dwervin tense up, but only for a moment. In the second afterward, he looked more relaxed than ever. "It would be at that."

Think I can't smell the knife you have waiting for Jaz, you Portween nit? I guess you'll be in for a surprise when you don't find what you're looking for, eh? As long as Floyd didn't wander off and drown himself in a puddle...

As if on cue, a figure emerged from a side street, outlined in the dim light of the vapor lamps. It walked toward them, off-balance, probably drunk. The party halted their steps and hands gripped weapons as the form drew closer. At fifteen paces, it was obvious from the ill-fitting clothes, now hanging in a muddy mess from his frail frame, that the man approaching was the sorcerer. He raised one hand and offered a clumsy wave.

Gods, you did fall right in a puddle you infant. Looks like you fell right up to your neck too.

Dwervin stepped a few paces toward the haggard-looking man. "You're back from your outing. Successful, I assume?"

Floyd ignored the man's words, walked to within a few inches of him and yelled directly into his face. "You'll have to speak much louder!" Dwervin flinched and took a step back. Floyd pointed at his head, which, Sinta could now see, was marred by a large gash just above his left eye. The vapor lamps reflected off the wound, revealing a white patch that the child guessed was the man's skull.

"My ears have been blasted!" Floyd resumed his screaming. "Bloody, nihil-damned girl screeched like the Beast and blew a hole straight through them. You're going to have to yell or I can't hear a word you say."

Cocking his head to the side, Dwervin called for Mercy. The man strode forward, stopping before the sorcerer.

"Good evening to you, Mercy!" Floyd shouted into the brown man's face. Mercy responded by placing a finger over Floyd's lips.

Sinta watched as Mercy peered into Floyd's ears, first one and then the other. He then bent down, scraping a layer of gravel from the surface of the road and digging out a handful of mud from beneath. He methodically picked the rogue pieces of gravel from the soggy mess in his hands. Everyone watched the man work, saying nothing.

Finally satisfied with the content of his mud ball, Mercy split the dirt in two, half of it in each hand. He placed those hands to either side of Floyd's head, took a long, deep breath and then shoved the muddy mess into the sorcerer's ears. Sinta's jaw dropped.

Hands clamped on Floyd's head, Mercy began to hum, a thrumming sound that seemed to vibrate Sinta's very bones. She watched in wonder as the rain around Floyd ceased falling from sky to ground and began to arc toward Mercy's huge, thick hands. The drops that did not disappear into his very skin circled Floyd's head, pouring into the wound above his eye. That wound closed, inch by inch until it was no more. After a moment Mercy stopped, removing his hands and taking a single step back.

Another sorcerer! Gods, how many of these people does Dwervin have working for him? Maybe all that rubbish about his skin being different colors wasn't all lies.

"A true lifesaver, Mercy!" Floyd was still yelling. Pausing, a puzzled look on his face, he shoved a pinky into one ear and began to dig mud from it.

Mercy brought his hands up once more and clapped them together. The mud in Floyd's ears shot forth like a wet sneeze.

"Better, better," Floyd's volume had returned to normal. Mercy resumed his position beside Sinta. She stared up at him, eyes wide. He responded with another smile and a slight nod.

"Now that you're able to hear again..." Dwervin spoke as he stepped up to Floyd. "So what of the girl? I can see from your current state that you encountered more trouble than anticipated. Did you manage to secure her presence at tonight's meeting?"

Floyd stole a glance at Sinta. The child saw worry in the sorcerer's eyes.

You were supposed to warn her off, you addle-brained puddle of piss. You'd better have done things right for once. It's a trap and we both know it.

"I, uhh..." Floyd dropped his eyes to the road, one hand raised to scratch at the back of his neck. "She got the drop on me. And... well, she wanted to know what was going on, so I told her. I'm sure she's on her way if not lurking above us already. It's been a few hours since I last spoke with her." The sorcerer's eyes flicked to Sinta again.

Idiot. Stupid, bloody infant.

"So she knows where we are?" Dwervin squinted at the sorcerer, his eyes questing for something. "You were able to relay the message as I instructed you?"

Floyd's face went slack and his eyes glazed over. His peculiar state remained for several seconds. Finally, as if slapped awake, he became animated once more. "I think so. I delivered _a_ message and I am fai... er, very certain it was yours." Two fingers came up to rub methodically at his jaw.

Sinta could tell that Dwervin was not pleased. Though his face seemed blank, she felt something lurking underneath, a dissatisfaction that he would not let escape from its prison. But when he finally spoke, it was all smiles and good cheer.

"Excellent." Dwervin clapped Floyd on his shoulder. "A brilliant job. I knew my trust in your talents was well-founded."

The sorcerer nodded, eyes still trained on the ground. Suddenly, his head whipped up, an expression of astonishment plain across his features. His mouth broke into a wide grin. Fumbling through his pockets, one hand emerged with a silver keeps piece in it. He held it up triumphantly.

"The legacy?" Dwervin asked, puzzled by the display.

"Yes," Floyd responded. His triumphant look turned to concern. "Well, it's not much since we can't use it track her. But I... er, I thought it might make a good present for the child?" He raised one eyebrow, some unknown deception written clear on his face.

Floyd whipped out one arm, tossed the keeps piece toward Sinta. Almost faster than the child's eyes could follow, Dwervin snatched it from the air. He turned toward Sinta, stared down at the knave. She could see some thought flickering behind his eyes. After a moment, he smiled and threw the knave to her. Sinta grabbed the piece, almost fumbled it into the mud.

"I think we've lingered long enough," the businessman said. "Let us retire to someplace drier and await the coming of our wayward companion."

"Sir." Floyd spoke up. "If I may, I just spent some time getting knocked out and buried to my neck in the dirt. I'd sooner spend my evening in bed if you've no further need of me." The man looked exhausted, though Sinta could see his fingers curling and uncurling, the nervous, almost panicked, look in his eyes.

Dwervin nodded and walked on, the rest of the party following. None spoke, though Sinta could see anticipation building in Dunoltwe. Ten minutes later, they were just a few blocks away from the East-block's grand plaza and the monolithic clock tower that rested within. As they crossed the road to turn onto one of the main avenues that led to that towering landmark, Sinta spotted a figure in a nearby alley. The small form was hunched up, sitting in the mud and taking shelter from the rain beneath a prominent eaves. Stringy red hair hung from the shadow of the hood of the figure's sodden black cloak.

Oh no. I'd spot that ruse anywhere. Just stay there, please, just stay there. Use your damned brain for once, please.

As the party neared the alley, Dwervin in the lead, the figure rose. A blur of motion and the black-clad assassin had sprung, a knife shining in each hand. The hood fell back and Sinta could see familiar features. A bloodthirsty grin stretched across Jasmine's face as she charged toward her prey.

Any other would have fallen to those knives, quick as the runner was. Dwervin merely side-stepped, a casual and graceful movement. His hand snapped out and grabbed one of Jasmine's wrists, using her momentum to swing her around and fling her to the graveled road. The predatory look on her face transformed to one of surprise. As she spilled into the street, the runner curled and tumbled, switching directions in mid-roll. Halting her movement with one precisely placed foot, Jasmine leaped again, her hands weaving patterns with the blades as she made another run at her opponent.

As she neared Dwervin, he raised one knee and leaned into her charge, connected solid with the runner's chest. Close enough to strike, Jasmine twirled her blades in a tight, repeated circles, striking at anything near with fury and speed. But again the man proved too quick for her. He intercepted each swing with his forearms, every impact sounding metal against metal and sending a shower of sparks.

The air knocked from her, Jasmine stumbled back, barely able to keep her balance. A second later, however, and she had recovered. Crouching, knives poised, she began to circle Dwervin. Dunoltwe stood off to the side of the conflict, watching intently, a smile playing at his lips. Sinta noted with some surprise that none of Dwervin's men had made any attempt to intervene in the conflict.

Once again, Jasmine lunged, moving in low this time, striking at Dwervin's legs. And again he side-stepped and brought up a knee. But the runner was prepared for that trick. Even as he tried to drive his knee into her gut, she dropped prone to the ground and rolled. Arcing her legs backwards and above her head, she pushed up with her arms and flipped into a squat. A backhand slash caught Dwervin across the back of his thigh. The man grunted and Jasmine struck with her other knife, attempting to impale the same thigh. Her opponent brought his leg up and the knife skidded against the leather of his high boots, cutting through and biting into flesh though not driving deep as was his enemy's intention. Dwervin shifted his stance, removing the wounded leg from Jasmine's reach.

The pair stood eyeing each other, Dwervin still and calm, Jasmine creeping across the cobbles, legs splayed wide and resembling some sort of gargantuan, four-legged spider. Sinta could see a pool forming at Dwervin's foot, blood mixing with water on the cobbles. The glow of the vapor lamps turned the watery mixture a shade of orange.

As Jasmine made yet another attempt to rush the businessman, he lashed out. One hand came from nowhere, up and under the runner's guard and colliding with her face. Blood sprayed from Jasmine's nose as she collapsed to the ground, skull bouncing violently on the cobbles and knives flying from her hands.

Dazed, the runner raised her unsteady head from the road, stared into the eyes of her victorious enemy. "Guess the coin-counter knows how to fight." She smiled at him, the blood from her nose running down to sheath her teeth in red.

Dwervin sneered at his fallen opponent. "You're ill-suited for fighting me. You should have studied your keeps game more meticulously. It might have saved you more than one embarrassing moment. Now, I suppose, the game goes to me." He paused, straightening up and wincing as he put weight on his wounded leg. "If comfort and anonymity is all you seek, you could have stayed well away. But then I suppose it's nowhere in your nature to let someone fall from your sights once you've been tempted by the smell of their blood." He fixed her with a cold stare. "Yant, subdue her so that we can finish this."

By this point, Sinta had gone into panic. Her gaze shifted back and forth from Dwervin to Jasmine to the now-grinning clubber.

She's gonna end up in a cell again and then dead. There's no way she'll roll over and just let Dwervin maker her into a pet. Jaz, why didn't you just stay away?

Yant walked forward, drawing his clubs from their harnesses. "Glad it went this way, ya little shit. I was thinking I wouldn't have me no fun tonight."

As the man approached the fallen runner, Sinta rushed forward. She heaved her body at the clubber's legs, catching him in the backs of his knees. Loosing a yelp of surprise, the brute lost his footing. His knees slammed into the gravel and he yelped yet again, although this time in pain. A strong hand grabbed the back of Sinta's cloak and lifted her from the ground.

In front of her, behind the thick barrier of the clubber's body, she saw Jasmine leap up from the road. Dwervin took two steps toward her before she cut to his left, skirting around the man as he attempted to catch her in the back of the head with one deadly fist. A second later, she was sprinting into the darkness of the alley.

No one in the party gave chase. Sinta hung in the air, Jetal's iron grip tight around her chest to keep her flailing arms from finding a target. Yant swore and stood, brushing away the gravel that had embedded itself in the skin of his knees. Mercy stepped forward, hands filled with mud. Dwervin looked annoyed, exasperated beyond all patience. And Dunoltwe, Sinta noted with some bitterness, looked relieved, almost excited, though he hid it well from the rest of the party.

"Bloody nihil," Dwervin cursed. "I suppose we shall continue our journey to the tower." He turned to Dunoltwe. "My apologies, Chairman, that this is taking more time than it rightly should, but the girl isn't one to give up so easily. We shall see her again tonight. "

The man faced Dwervin, a serene cast to his demeanor. "I have no doubt that we will."
XXXVI. A Final Game of Keeps

Jasmine's mind was consumed with self-reprimanding curses as she bolted down the alley and away from her target. She had not anticipated the Eleventh Hour businessman being so skilled in the art of face-to-face conflict, certainly not figured on the man being quick enough to dodge her when she got the jump on him. She had bet, unsuccessfully, on his combative nature being limited to the keeps board. It seemed as if his mastery of that game was reflected in some real world experience, for he was not only a skilled king, but an exceptional knight as well.

Just have to skirt around them somehow. Find where they're going, track them from the roofs and then try my hand at it again, this time from a little further off maybe. Can't figure why the rest of those clubbers didn't try to grab me up instead of just letting me stick blades in their boss. Unless he was just playing with me.

The thought of her enemy tossing her around with such ease brought on another bout of agitation. She wasn't the best when it came to a fight, but her sixteen summers had taught her enough and, combined with her superior reflexes, the average clubber had no chance at bringing her down in a fair fight. And to mock her as well, it was the insult to the injury that sent Jasmine over the edge. She would kill the man, even if it meant ending up dead in his wake.

Now a few blocks out from where the confrontation had taken place, Jasmine scaled the side of a three-story tenement, returning to a more comfortable elevation. The neighborhood she traversed was a mess of poorly made and rapidly aging buildings crammed together and jammed within spaces that had once separated the many palatial residences that dotted the area. Once, the neighborhood would have housed the wealthy of the East-block, though those were far gone and better times in the ghetto's history. With the dense layout came a proliferation of narrow streets and a distinct lack of alleys, a fact that would work to the runner's advantage while she tracked her target. Scaling up and down, from three to four to five-stories and back again, Jasmine made her way across the skyscape. Finally, peering over the edge of one rooftop, she spotted Dwervin and his party. They were walking the northwestern avenue toward Oros Tine Plaza, within which lay the great clock tower.

Oros Tine Plaza, Jasmine knew, was yet another remnant of the East-block's past. The clock tower marked the center of the plaza, four once-grand avenues extending outward from the landmark. Three-hundred-feet, broken only by a decorative circular canal, separated the tower from the surrounding buildings. Those buildings, a sign of the ghetto's former affluence, were grand estates of marble and granite and sandstone. Designed at some point to serve the needs of a proper city center, now those wonders of architectural achievement had become dilapidated and fallen to squatters. Grand government structures, expansive palatial homes, regal trade and guild offices and even a proper temple row each had their place at the plaza's border. During the day, Jasmine would sometimes perch on a tower or a spire and look out over the plaza, trying to imagine what the ghetto must have looked like in that bygone age. Now, cloaked in the hazy drizzle of grey rain, the plaza and its architecture looked more as if they belonged in the East-block of the present, another decaying cluster of stone squares fallen from grace. The plaza itself, once vast and open and home to its own market, had transformed into a maze of lean-tos and found-object homes. Dwervin, Sinta and the others with them now disappeared into the shanty town.

Being as how there was no skyscape leading from her to the clock tower, Jasmine needed to return to the streets. She would be forced to track her prey from the ground, dangerous as that was. The roofs of the plaza's shanties were worthless for running and the rain would only make them worse, so they offered no help. It was going to be a challenge, but Jasmine knew how to keep to the shadows. She just needed to reach them before they took shelter in the tower and her job became that much more difficult.

But before she could take one step over the edge of the roof's retaining wall, a soft scuffling, almost lost amidst the patter of falling rain, alerted the runner to the fact that she was not alone. Spinning, Jasmine barely caught the glint of steel sailing through the air in her direction. She leaned to the side, a small blade skirting by just inches from her face. Across the broad, flat expanse of the roof she saw a figure, dressed in black and crouching. A black hood draped its head, hanging from it a black veil that covered all but the man's eyes. The mystery opponent's hand slid into its blousy tunic and emerged with another knife.

Bloody runners! I should have known Dwervin would have someone on me. Maybe you've forgotten, old man, but I'm better than any in the East-block. Whoever this infant thinks he is, he'll not be long for the skies once I run the roof out from under his clumsy feet.

Jasmine's hands went to her own knives. Back to the wall, she prepared to meet whatever surprises her opponent had in store. The foe in front of her, however, proved to be less of a problem than the one that lurked on the ledge above.

A hiss alerted Jasmine to the second enemy's presence even as the cold grip of a steel wire wrapped about her neck. A sharp tug almost lifted her from her feet. Dropping her knives, she reached up to grasp at the tight cord in a futile attempt to pull it free. The line bit painfully into her throat and she felt blackness threatening to overtake her mind. The first figure straightened and began to walk up to his helpless prey, his gait casual and unhurried.

Fumbling at her belt, Jasmine's hand found her desperate hope. The long, thin rod was pliable, made to bend and flex without snapping until the owner wished it to. Grasping one end of the rod in each hand, Jasmine bent it until the middle split. Each end of the broken cylinder came to life with a brilliant blue flame. Heat began to pour from the miniature torches, much hotter than one might have imagined given their size. Jasmine reached up and touched one sparking stick to the extended end of the wire cord encircling her neck. Made for the purpose of melting chains and breaking shackles, the Knaylish fire sticks instantly severed the thin, steel wire. As it snapped, the tension around Jasmine's neck eased. She stumbled to her knees, gasping for air. Tossing the sputtering torches to the rooftop, she pulled away the remains of the cord. A curse sounded from above and behind.

The figure before Jasmine paused in its approach, though only for a moment. Regaining his wits, the man rushed at her with renewed purpose. She snatched one of her knives from where it had fallen and hurled it at her attacker, a clumsy throw that missed its mark but still managed to force the man to flinch to the side. That flinch slowed his arrival just enough that by the time he reached her, Jasmine was already tumbling away, her opponent's knife-thrust skidding off the leather guard of her right arm.

Spinning in her roll, Jasmine came up facing the enemy and caught her first glimpse of the second attacker, another black-clad runner who was nearly identical to the first in every way. Height, weight, dress and even the veil-covered face, the two looked as if they were twins. In a moment of fear and despair, Jasmine realized who her opponents were.

Said to be retired, Jasmine had heard tales of these twins, Kenid and Trenil. From what she had heard, they were not runners at all, but assassins. Worse yet, they were supposed to be some of the nastiest assassins Porsham Grand had ever seen. Panic gripped the runner's chest.

Nihil-damned assassins! Damn you Dwervin, now you're not even playing fair. Well, let's see how well a couple of killers do when the speed picks up, shall we?

Knowing that confronting the two in a hand-to-hand fight was akin to suicide, Jasmine decided that she had only one course of action. She had to outrun them, to use the skyscape to her advantage and either lead them to a nasty spill or else keep up the chase long enough that they got winded and lost her trail. There were none in the East-block that could outrun her through stamina alone and she prayed that these two would fare no better.

The first of the pair began to circle to Jasmine's left even as the other dropped from his ten-foot perch to the rooftop. Knives in their hands, they made a careful approach. It was obvious to Jasmine's eyes that they were seeking to flank her.

Let the games begin.

In a flash, the runner switched direction and began to run as fast as her legs could move. She weaved across the rooftops in an effort to confound any attempts they might make to stick her in the back with a knife. She dodged behind every obstacle she could find, leaped down ten and twenty feet drops and scaled up walls to gain height and keep the chase going. But each time she glanced over her shoulder, Jasmine saw them still firm on her trail. It was only when, a few minutes later, she looked back and saw her pursuers missing that she began to truly worry.

Floyd was sodden, his body chilled beyond any sane man's capacity to endure. And even though the rain came at a steady pace, it seemed to be doing nothing to clean the mud from his clothes. Worse still, being buried had a way of depositing dirt into places it normally wouldn't and shouldn't be. All-in-all, he was having a miserable end to a miserable night. The only thing that had gone right was the fortuitous presence of Mercy within Dwervin's party. If not for the healer, Floyd would have been deaf and still bleeding from the head as well.

Thanks the gods for small blessings? I'd sooner it were a nice summer night. If only the gods blessed on request.

After he had left the company of his employer and the others, Floyd had taken a meandering stroll to nowhere in particular, looping back again after a half-dozen or so blocks. Now, he stood huddled and cold beneath an eaves, a mere block from Oros Tine Plaza. If Dunoltwe was planning on killing Jasmine, his men would have started their chase by now. But without the legacy on her, it would be nearly impossible to find the runner out there in the vast, multi-storied world she ran. He could quest, send out wisps of his breath to find her, but the effort would be enormous. While the tears of Lys and the breath of Hesharr were not enemies - the two dragons were, in fact, lovers if the legends held true - trying to weave whispers randomly through an ever-moving maze of falling raindrops would be chaotic and, he knew, ultimately useless.

So now he stood, his clothes soaked through and his mood as grey as the rain, and waited. Waited for a message from Jasmine's last ally.

The shanty town was barren of life, those thousands of East-block residents that dwelt in the ramshackle buildings huddled up inside against the cold and the rain. Dunoltwe had set a brisk pace since Jasmine's failed attack on her former boss and the group was forced to quicken their steps to keep up with him. They hurried toward the clock tower, twisting through the maze of buildings and across the broken tiles of the plaza grounds. When they finally arrived, the party entered, Dwervin in the lead.

Sinta had not been free of the confines of the orphanage long enough to have seen the many sights of the East-block, so the clock tower was still a mystery to her. Inside she expected to find wonders, great iron or brass gears and levers, all designed to keep the mechanical contraption running (at least when it was running). Instead, what she found was a marked contrast to the grand exterior. Whereas the massive structure's outside was covered in façade of granite, carved in elegant patterns, the interior walls were simple, stone brick. A roughly made stone stairway ascended along one wall, leading up twenty feet to the next level. Here and there, lying along the room's walls, were some of the ghetto's poorest, clustered together for warmth. Only the dim, flickering light of a single, battered lantern hanging from one wall offered a break in the suffocating darkness.

Stepping over the occasional body, Dwervin led the group to the stairway and ascended. The next floor was little different from the first and the stairway continued up to yet a third. At the top of the second flight, an iron-bound door blocked further progress. Dwervin removed a large iron key from one pocket and slipped it into the keyhole. The lock emitted a loud groan as he twisted and the door settled open a fraction of an inch. He pushed it open the rest of the way, the hinges groaning in protest, and, once everyone had filed past, closed and locked it once more.

The next rooms were just as plain as the two below, though no residents crowded their floors and no lanterns were present to offer light. Sinta heard a rasping noise in the dark, saw a shower of sparks fly around Dwervin's hands and suddenly the room brightened. The man held up a thin iron rod, an orange light similar to a vapor lamp spitting from the end and the party resumed their journey.

They climbed three more sets of stairs to arrive at a room that was slightly different. Instead of purely brick and mortar, the four walls of this enclosure were covered in wooden panels, each as tall as a man and half-again as wide. Each panel was held in place by a pair of large, iron latches. Dwervin walked to each of four lanterns that hung in various places along the walls and lit them with his spitting stick. Meanwhile, Jetal and Yant worked at the latches. With each set they opened, the wooden panel tilted and threatened to fall. They pulled them down, one at a time, and placed them in the middle of the floor. Behind each panel, an open window that commanded a striking view of the plaza and the surrounding buildings.

Sinta hurried up to the first opened window, staring over the edge and down at the shanty town some hundred feet below. Glancing across the plaza's north quarter, she could make out three grand buildings side by side, each hundreds of feet wide, their entrances decorated with rows of marble columns and roofs crowned with towering spires. Dim lights flickered in many of the countless numbers of windows.

Sinta held her breath at the sight, rushing to the next window each time Dwervin's bodyguards removed another panel. To the east she saw a maze of roads meandering through a cluster of perhaps three-dozen temples, some simple and others as grand as any civil office. To the south, more magnificent buildings, though flatter and less decorative than those to the north. And to the west, buildings that reminded her of Rita's bathhouse, wide and solid with broad, flat roofs.

Mercy's voice sounded from behind, startling the child. "It is an amazing sight, is it not? The days of old held in time, old purposes given way to new. A great change in the movement of lives and something built of wealth becomes just another place for the poor to rest their heads."

Sinta glanced up at the man. He stared out across the skyline, eyes indicating that his mind was likely somewhere far away.

"It almost seems a shame that the East-block should be locked away as it is," Dunoltwe interjected with his own opinion. "This whole area could be refurbished and given a purpose more suiting to its once-prestigious origins. It's a wonder that the Cushomborn haven't already attempted something of the sort."

"A minor oversight that I am sure they will be looking to remedy at a point in the future, Chairman," Dwervin replied. "Of course, the relocation of nearly ten-thousand souls is no easy task. With this community being well over a hundred years established, its residents might not prove to be so simple an obstacle as they are perceived to be."

The merchant smiled. "Men can be bought away with coin. A small investment, in the long run. And," he added with a slight shrug, "those that refuse to accept gold can be persuaded by other, less civil means. The larger investment would be in the renovations and in finding a way to return access to this portion of the ghetto. Though I do not expect the Cushomborn would balk at simply shipping all the residents to the other ghettos and bringing down the walls entirely."

"The Cushomborn often have unrealistic expectations of what they can or can not do with the lives of those in East-block." Dwervin turned to look the merchant in the eye, the expression on his face flat. "A fact that could come to haunt the Portween should their House continue to hold power here."

Dunoltwe answered the Eleventh Hour businessman's stare with a knowing smile. Reaching to his side, he pulled forth a small, cylindrical object. Grasping it at either end, he gave it a quick tug and the cylinder expanded into a long tube. Sinta's eyes widened at the sight.

It's a spyglass of some sort! I've not seen one of those up close before.

Dwervin raised an eyebrow at the device. "Plans to watch the birds while we wait?"

"You'll forgive me, Overseer, but I have taken the liberty of hiring some outside specialists to help test the veracity of your runner's talents." Dunoltwe's smile lingered, though it chilled noticeably. "I merely wish to enjoy the show."

Dwervin bowed slightly. "Understood, Chairman. It is quite fortuitous then that we have taken up position within this tower, given the unexpected change of plans."

Walking to one corner of the room, where, Sinta now noted, a large chest lay, Dwervin crouched and twisted a key in the iron padlock that secured it. Opening the wooden box, he removed several brass cylinders, each just shy of a foot in length. He stood and made a circuit around the room, handing one of the devices to each of his men and one to Sinta. The child watched as everyone twisted their cylinder, causing it to grow in length. They then raised them to their eyes and aimed them out across the city. The only one who did not take part in this ritual was Mercy. He stared out into the darkness with only his eyes.

Dunoltwe's smile, Sinta noted, had now completely fled from his face. "Fortuitous indeed," he said. His eyes locked hard on Dwervin and Sinta thought she saw anger lurking in there somewhere, though the man hid it well. For his part, Dwervin did not acknowledge the man, instead concentrating on scanning the horizon with his spyglass.

Sinta twisted and pulled at her own cylinder, but to no avail. Seeing the girl struggling, Mercy took it from her hands. "You have not used a spyglass, I see. A simple enough device, it enables the seeing of things further away than the human eye would normally be capable of detecting."

I know what it is already. I'm not so stupid as you think I might be. Just never had one is all.

He gave the device a twist and it extended. He then handed it back to her. "It is quite heavy. Make sure to rest it on the wall and keep a firm grasp lest it tumble out the window and land on some unwitting person's head below."

Sinta nodded, raised the object, which she found was indeed heavier than she had first thought, and rested the wider end on the stone ledge of one window. Staring through the device, she could see that everything appeared much larger and brighter. The child gasped.

Stealing a furtive glance around her, Sinta realized that all of her companions were busy gazing out into the night. She slipped one hand into the wet folds of her clothes. Fingers found and clasped around the silver knave.

I know you're not going away, stupid Jaz. At least now maybe I can see you. And lucky for your stupid head that me and Floyd are smarter than Dwervin or his grandpa merchant friend.

The child felt the keeps piece vibrate, ever so slightly, though it could just as well have been her imagination. She knew some of the secrets of the knave, things that Floyd had imparted to her about the way the legacy worked. If she used it right, her mentor might very well survive the night. And from her vantage point atop the tower, the benefit would be even greater.

"Found her, boss," Yant's voice sounded from the more southerly of the western windows. He raised one hand and pointed as the rest moved toward him, raising their spyglasses to trace the path he indicated. "Over there, running south across them tenements. Looks like she's comin' at the old guild houses in a circle."

"Looks like those twins are on her trail too," Jetal added.

Sinta rushed to the window, pushing past Yant. She ignored his glare, propping her own spyglass up and scanning the night's horizon. Finally, she was able to pick out the shadowy forms on the distant rooftops. Jasmine was moving quick and random, and Sinta easily recognized the common tail-dodging routine. Two other figures were pacing her, far out and keeping behind the larger buildings as they closed in on her flanks. Sinta realized with some alarm that if Jasmine didn't change her course, she was going to run straight into one of them with the other right at her back.

Grasping the silver knave tight, the child began to speak. "There she is, right there on that big building with all the chimneys poking from it. And there's someone there, coming up and in front of her and the other one looking to sneak in behind. I'd guess they'll be on those big, fancy buildings that look like Rita's in a few minutes if they don't catch her before that."

Eyes turned to regard the child, a host of puzzled looks in answer to her strange narrative tirade. She glanced up at them, eyes wide with innocence and wearing her best mask of confusion to cloud her intentions. A few heads shook but Dwervin, she noticed, offered only a subtle smirk. All eyes then returned to the drama below.

Having almost made her way to the edge of the tenement blocks, Jasmine allowed herself to slow the pace, to catch an extra breath or two. Crouched behind a large brick chimney atop one of the taller buildings, she could see the lower, flatter buildings of the old merchant offices just a few streets further. The guildhouses themselves offered little in the way of cover for the runner and would invite disaster should the assassins spot her there, but she was aiming a little further south. For just a short distance beyond the dilapidated marble structures were block after block of warehouses, all crumbling wrecks fallen victim to some fire many years back. She knew the area well, for it was a testing ground of sorts for runners across the ghetto. She had run those roofs a hundred times at least and probably closer to thrice that. A few dozen times she had even made the run drunk to the point of lost time. And not once (aside from a few times in her youth, which Jasmine had chosen to forget) had she been beaten. If the assassins followed her, she could lead them on a merry chase and right into an endless path of danger. Though she would be exposed for the journey there and while crossing the warehouses themselves, it was a necessary gamble.

The runner made the descent from her perch and clambered down, roof to roof and finally into the streets. She was her most vulnerable there, so speed was essential. As she made her way between buildings, flitting from alley to alley, a sharp peal of thunder rattled the air around her. The storm was picking up, the rain coming down heavy and blocking vision beyond a few blocks. As the storm built it also brought the wind. Raindrops swirled in the air, shifting direction back and forth and stinging at Jasmine's eyes.

Bloody nihil, what's this weather? Choose tonight of all nights to let loose with a perfect shit of a winter storm. Good thing I rubbed my boots down earlier or I'd be slipping and spilling all over the damned place. With any luck, those assassins weren't so clever.

Though even as she thought it, she knew the likelihood of it being truth was almost zero. She would have to rely on her own wits and familiarity with the warehouse layout rather than a chance blessing from Ihshintul. The god of luck was generous at times, but he rarely catered to the needy.

Slogging through one muddy alleyway, the mire so saturated now that it devoured her feet with every step, the runner's path was blocked as a black-clad form dropped from the sky not ten feet in front of her. A small, curved blade in each hand, the veiled figure crept nearer, its pace slow and deliberate. Instinctively, Jasmine glanced behind her to check her route of escape, only to find the other twin creeping up from behind. In seconds, they would be upon her and no matter how well she fought, she would be dead in a matter of heartbeats.

Jasmine leaped up the side of one tenement wall, hands grasping at a sill above. The jump would have been simple had her boots not been covered in the thick mud, but even so she was still able to gain enough height to reach her target. Pulling herself up, she could see the two assassins racing forward to stop her. One pulled a whip from his side, a small steel ball attached to its end, and lashed out at Jasmine. With one foot, the runner kicked off, sailing through the air to the wall of the tenement opposite. The whip passed harmlessly through the empty space that had, a second ago, held Jasmine's foot, impacting with the building in an explosion of plaster chips. As she flew, Jasmine kicked out again, catching the wall and repeating her motion, back and forth from wall to wall, a steady climb to the tenement roofs. Once safe at the top, she glanced down to see one of the assassins climbing after her, though his mud-caked boots were hindering him far more than they did the runner. The other twin was nowhere to be found. Spinning, the runner continued her escape.

Jasmine didn't have long to wonder where the second pursuer had gone. Even before she had reached the edge of the roof, ready to jump for the next, the veiled man emerged almost directly in front of her, knives in hand.

How in the nihil...?

She shifted, tried to curve her momentum to change direction, but the roof was too wet, too slick. Instead, the runner lost her balance and fell on her side, body sliding through puddles and toward the awaiting enemy.

What happened next, Jasmine could only guess at. It was as if the hand of a god caught her from underneath, pushing her back to her feet and then over again. The runner saw surprise in the assassin's eyes as she flew, head-first, into his stomach. The pair of them, bodies locked in a tangle of flailing limbs, tumbled over the side and down four-stories.

Floyd had chosen to sit, settling in the mud despite his discomfort. The exhaustion of the day was overtaking him and without purpose his mind had begun, as was its tendency, to wander. Only the legacy's cry brought him back to the present. He bolted upright, reaching out to grasp at the thin strands that connected him to the knave. Sounds echoed down those lines, reverberating words from voices unrecognizable. Then, suddenly, Sinta's voice, loud almost to the point of deafening. Floyd pulled back a bit, pushed the threads a little further from his ears and listened.

Yes, dear child. You've done well. Now, I shall be off to find my beloved and track her through the sky. What gifts of wailing whispers will she hold for me tonight, I wonder?

Excitement welling through him, Floyd scurried off through the alleys and streets, practically skipping as he pushed toward the old guildhouses as fast as he could.

Along the way, he reached out. Probing wisps of air felt at the rooftops, trying to find the bursts of ordered chaos that accompanied the runner's frenzied flight. The rain proved an annoyance to navigate, but Floyd's determination knew no bounds. Eventually, one touched something. It was a figure, but different.

Not Jasmine.

Floyd reasoned that it was most likely one of her pursuers. Giggling, giddy with the prospect of being able to embrace his winds around Jasmine's fleeting form once more, the sorcerer grabbed at the figure's feet. Weaves of random gusts interlaced between the moving legs, pushing one a bit further, holding one a bit back. Floyd felt the man's body tumble to the ground, heard the echo of a curse in a language unfamiliar to him. He scampered on, loosing new wisps to find his true target.

Much to the sorcerer's delight, it was mere moments later that he found Jasmine. Reaching his arms to the sky, he forced every last bit of energy from his body. Strands of Hesharr latched onto the runner, tangling about her, a firm yet gentle embrace. They formed into patterns, weaving together like a cloth on a loom. Each fiber split and split again, becoming finer and finer, a seamless mesh surrounding her body, flowing across her clothes and her leathers and in between the strands of her hair. Jasmine, Floyd knew, would feel nothing. He, however, could feel everything.

For a moment the sensation overwhelmed him. The ecstasy of whispers flowing back into him caused every inch of his skin to tingle. His mind caught fire, his eyes staring wildly at nothing. A long-held breath released, carrying with it all the tension in his body and creating a circuit with the empty space around him. Floyd had learned his lesson from times before. To let so much flow into him, he had to channel it out again or risk serious consequences. Still, it took him a moment to recover his senses and finish the circle completely. As the whispers reached him, travelling along a thousand fine threads, he pushed the energy through and out again, straight into the sky. There was a single crack of thunder and the wall Floyd leaned against seemed to shake with the impact. The rain began to pour faster, though the sorcerer stood oblivious to the change.

Lost in the moment, Floyd listened to the runner's movements. Her pace was slow, cautious. The sporadic motions of her feet suggested that Jasmine was trudging through the mud.

Hardly the echoes I was hoping for... it should pick up soon though. She'll not stay on the ground for long.

He felt the runner come to a complete stop. Questing out, Floyd found two other figures near her. Then, suddenly, Jasmine's pace quickened. Every muscle flexed, her clothes rippled, directions changed rapidly. The runner's hair floated and flailed, reflecting raindrops. Floyd's mind was awash with a flurry of shifting currents. The runner's thumping feet became a hypnotic percussion to accompany the symphony of her flight.

Yes! Now this is what I need. One with the sky, one with the wind. Everything flowing like a thousands gales colliding.

The chaos stopped and Jasmine's movements became more fluid. She was running again, straight and quick. Floyd pushed the residue from her frenetic burst out, toward the sky, making room in his body for more. As he concentrated, a sharp change in her movement disrupted him. She was falling, sliding. A figure loomed in front of her. Sensing her panic in the pace of her heart, Floyd reached out and pushed, perhaps a bit too hard. A collision of some sort and then she was falling.

No! No! No falling for you, dearest.

Another push, a sudden wave of energy as he desperately sought to halt the runner's decent before she collided with the ground.

Sinta scanned the rooftops, one eye shut tight and her hand grasping the knave in her pocket. Jasmine had disappeared some minutes ago into the streets, apparently on a path to the old warehouse district, and had not yet reemerged. The child, along with Jetal and Yant, had been told to watch and let Dwervin and Dunoltwe know when she was sighted again. Meanwhile, they sat to the side, discussing something in hushed voices.

The silence of her companions amplified the tension of waiting and Sinta spoke out of a desperate need to fill the empty space. "She'll beat them, you know," she said, to no one in particular. "She's not been bested on the rooftops yet. Jasmine's the best."

Jetal offered a neutral grunt. "Those twins are something to be feared, girl. Heard stories about them. Some of the best."

"Yeah," Yant interjected, "your little friend has quite a night ahead of her. If she don't slip and break a neck, those two'll put a knife between her ribs. Or hang her by the neck with those whips of theirs."

The grip on the knave grew tighter. The child's jaw clenched, teeth grinding back and forth.

You better make it to the course, Jasmine, damn you. I dunno if those throatslitter bastards can run, but you know those warehouses better than any. Lock 'em up there. And Floyd, piss on you, get to work and break their necks already.

A movement at her side alerted Sinta to Mercy's approach.

"All things are equal, child," he said in his calming voice. "You friend has quite the reputation. Kenid and Trenil have been retired for several years as well. Their footing may not be as firm, especially given the rain." He ended with a benevolent smile.

Sinta's tension eased a bit. The brown-skinned man seemed to have that effect on her, no matter what words he spoke. Sinta was convinced it was some sort of magic he worked.

"Bullshit, " Yant decried. "Those two are lookin' fresh as the..."

Jetal cuffed the man across the back of the head, turning his words into a growl of pain and almost causing him to drop his spyglass out the window. "Shut it, Yant. You talk too much."

Glaring, Yant went back to half-heartedly scanning the horizon.

"Damn this pissing rain," he complained. "Keeps getting' worse and worse. Can't you do something and clear this up, Mer?"

The sorcerer chuckled, deep and rumbling. "Would that I were master mage enough to alter the weather, friend. Those with powers that far-reaching have been gone since the breaking of the chains. The mothers do not allow such strength to flow in their children's veins after the crimes that were committed against them. Those that seek out such power quickly lose themselves to the madness."

Suddenly the room erupted. Peals of thunder, one after the other after the other, and the room lit up with flashes of lightning.

"Hey!" Yant's booming voice broke through the deafening roar. "Found the little bitch."

Heart quickening, Sinta ran to the window and stared out, eyes searching through the sheets of rain, desperate to find her friend. What she saw was fire, and lots of it.

The ground rushed up at Jasmine, her face turned to point directly at its graveled surface. The assassin's body was beneath her, limbs thrashing about in vain. But before the pair could reach their rapid journey's end, an abrupt torrent of wind whipped through the road. Its draft travelled directly under their plummeting path, catching them like a malevolent pillow. Their bodies were pushed up, away from the ground and in opposite directions. Jasmine flew to the side in a chaotic tumble but, much to her own surprise, managed to hit the ground with a roll and a minimal amount of pain. As she clambered to her feet, she could see that her enemy wasn't as fortunate. He had been taken toward the nearby wall and now sat hunched on the ground, one hand clutching his elbow.

Jasmine spotted the assassin's knives scattered across the street. They were closer to him than her, but he looked to be caught in his moment of pain. She stood, ready to pounce on them and perhaps end at least half of the night's chase but the sudden presence of his twin upon the edge of the building they had just fallen from made her reconsider. Instead, the runner shifted direction and ran, continuing toward the warehouses.

The assassins appeared to have halted their pursuit, at least for a time, for Jasmine made it to the her destination unaccosted. The warehouse district, once rich with trade, was now a mess of disrepair. The graveled roads had been destroyed by seasons of rain, leaving a muddy and gritty mess that was a challenge to even walk through, let alone traverse at a run. The warehouses themselves were little more than husks of rotting boards, blackened from fires. Even the most desperate of the East-block's residents rarely tried to bed down in those broken structures, as dilapidated as they were. And running their roofs was as dangerous as anything. There was no telling when a board would snap or a rusted nail would catch one unawares and leave a festering wound that, without the care of a healer, would send disease coursing through the veins of its victim.

Luckily, Jasmine knew how to run this challenge. There were very few ways across the warehouse roofs that one could take without falling victim to a spill or getting caught in a dead end. When the runners came to test their mettle on this course, they weren't permitted to touch their feet to the ground without being disqualified. Jasmine knew every board, every broken bit of iron piping, every teetering piece of framework.

Here goes nothing. Let's hope they take the bait.

Finding a familiar spot, the runner ascended. She looked around to get her bearings, calculating the longest route she could find. The longer she ran, the more chances that her opponents would make a mistake. Of course, the same held true for her, but failing at this challenge wasn't a concern. She was, after all, the best.

Jasmine crept across the creaking ceiling of the warehouse and settled in atop the rusting husk of some sort of over-sized stove pipe. She was exposed, but in order for this game to work she needed the assassins to see her and come running. Considering the very few options the roof offered for escape, she could only whisper a prayer to the Gambler that their approach would leave one of them open.

The minutes passed and the rain began to ease up. Jasmine's heart slowed, the strain of her flight leaving. Muscles unclenched, the pounding in her head becoming less audible. When the two finally climbed into view, one to either side of her position, she was rested and ready.

Jasmine watched as the twins made their way across the roof, treading lightly. The one on her left held his whip in one hand and a small throwing knife in the other. His companion held only throwing knives. They could have hurled the knives in her direction at any time, but inched closer none-the-less. Jasmine sat, as still as a statue, watching the pair out of the corners of her eyes and waiting for the perfect time.

The assassin on her right whipped his arm back and forward again, sending a knife the runner's way. Jasmine leaped from her perch, down to the roof and, with a burst of speed, began the chase anew.

A leap to the next building over, a dodge around a shattered patch of roof and Jasmine allowed herself a glance back. The one with the whip followed in her wake. The other had apparently gone to ground, seeking to cut her off.

Good luck with that one. I can keep on these roofs all night if need be. You'll have a hard enough time trying to get your way up here without breaking something, let alone jumping in front of me again.

Ignoring the dangers of the rain, Jasmine ran in a frenzy. The faster she went, the worse the rain seemed to get, but she ignored it. The thrill of running the course was with her and now the game was fair, even if it was two against one. The assassin behind her was having trouble keeping up and more than once she heard a crash as something below his feet gave out. To his credit, he was light on his feet enough to avoid spilling into the buildings below. But each obstacle slowed his pursuit and if Jasmine wanted to lead him into a trap, she would have to slow down and wait for him. And the raging downpour of rain was making the run more and more treacherous.

Just as she anticipated, the second assassin had circled around, albeit much quicker than she would have thought possible. She caught a glimpse of his form, a blur amidst the obscuring sheets of rain, as he disappeared behind the crumbling remains of a stairwell hutch. Instead of skirting clear of his ambush, Jasmine kept her course straight, letting her opponent think his trap was sound.

With less than five feet between her and the hidden assassin, Jasmine cut left. Her hand shot out and grasped an awkwardly protruding iron bar. Lifting her feet from the ground she threw her weight against it. Gloved hands slipped around the bar's slick surface. Jasmine's momentum shifted, bringing her around in an arc just as the assassin emerged, knives in hand. But he had anticipated her coming from a different angle. It took the man only a second to adjust his stance to meet the runner but that second was enough. Jasmine released her grip. As the runner's body flew through the air, her legs completed their circle and caught the assassin in the hip. He stumbled back, footing fowled by the uneven floor shifting under his weight. Jasmine completed her flight by landing on her hands and tumbling into a roll that brought her up behind her opponent. The backhand slash of knife came down to greet her. Jasmine ducked to the side and kicked the man in the shin. One leg went out from under him, his knee colliding into the roof. Jasmine leaned back, putting her weight onto her hands and kicking her legs straight forward. Her well-placed blow collided with the assassin's chest. It wasn't hard, just meant to push the man, but he had backed away from it, trying to protect himself from a mess of broken ribs. The kick added to his momentum and he tumbled onto his back. Or at least he would have tumbled onto his back had there not been a large break in the roof. The assassin grasped desperately for a hold even as he fell. The last Jasmine saw of the man was a pair of flailing legs disappearing into the darkness.

Heart now beating with such intensity as to threaten an escape from her chest, Jasmine leaned back, resting against the stairwell hutch. She glanced around the corner of her cover, scanning her surroundings for signs of the other enemy. He was nowhere to be seen.

And then she saw him, outlined against a bright flash of lightning, standing above her on the hutch. In a blur, the whip lashed out, caught Jasmine around the neck. The assassin pulled at it, tightening the cord and cutting off her breath. As the hand with the whip held her fast, the other drew a short, curved blade from his side.

Off balance and without a weapon, Jasmine felt the end of her life nearing. Then the first flash of lightning was followed by another.

And another and another and another.

The sky lit up as bright as day and a sound poured forth so loud that not even the deluge of rain could be heard over the cacophony. She stared up, mouth agape, as jagged streaks of blue and white poured down in a torrent, a dozen or more of them. The assassin, stunned by the onslaught of thunder, turned to look at the light show. And Jasmine watched as one of the crooked lances twisted in its path and came straight at the pair of combatants. It found its home inches from the assassin, blowing the wooden hutch into fiery splinters and sending his body flying through the air, up in an arc that took him well over the edge of the warehouse.

The rotting roof in front of her now a growing blaze, Jasmine shook her head to regain her senses. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried to the edge of the warehouse and looked down. A body lay sprawled in the mud below, unmoving.

Hands shaking violently, tugging to release the whip still encircling her neck, Jasmine stumbled across the roof to another edge, one where she knew there was an easy climb down. Strangely enough, by the time the runner had regained the street once more, the rain had stopped completely. Jasmine peered up to find that the clouds were nowhere to be seen. Only a clear night sky with its stars and moon stared back.

The last contents of Floyd's stomach spilled into the mud. Hunched over, his guts clenched, violent pain raced out in every direction. His gaze slipped from the regurgitated mess before him to his arms. For some reason he couldn't fathom, the channeling had dried his clothes completely, the bits of moisture pushed free of the cloth. The blue sleeves of his now-dry tunic were beginning to soak through with red. Turning his hands over, he could see that the veins in them had all burst. Blood leaked freely into the ground.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, leaning against a wall. Dimly, through the haze that now covered his mind, he could feel his entire body growing sticky and wet. He glanced down at his legs to find more red patches blooming.

A little too hard... just pushed too much. Bound to happen one day...

When he had sensed Jasmine's pursuer lurking above her, felt the heart pounding in her chest and her muscles locking up, Floyd had panicked. Elated with the rush of power he had received from the runner's swift journey across the warehouses, he had lost sight of his own mind. Her panic had become his panic and when she couldn't react, he had to.

Had to save her. Can't let my dearest go.

Panic had mixed with the riot of energies and every thread he had extended into the sky swelled and erupted.

The result had been unexpected.

Hoping to blow the man from his perch, Floyd had instead caused some sort of disruption in the heart of the storm. The entire mass of swirling wind and water had shattered, its naturally born order turning into maddened chaos. He had heard the thunder sound with its breaking, felt the charge of the lightning as it descended. The sorcerer had even felt the body of Jasmine's enemy flying through the air, by that point unable to pull back. His mind had been tuned into every nuance and no wizard's body was capable of so much, no matter their training or natural aptitude.

And now, Floyd lay dying, his life's blood pouring out to mix with the mud.

But it was worth it. So much wind, so many whispers, threads touching every movement for miles... Too much, but not enough. It was bound to happen someday...

All strength gone, Floyd collapsed into the mud. His mind, still filled with the endless visions of unbridled power, grasped at moments, seeking to relive them, even if they weren't the movements of his own life but those of another's. Finally, the probing thoughts settled upon that first time he had followed Jasmine, when she had thought him a killer coming for her blood. He held onto that moment, recalled with perfect clarity each subtle motion, every wisp of wind. Lying in the mud, slowly dying, Floyd wept tears of remembered joy.

The party looked on, the surprise evident on all faces as they watched the growing conflagration. Sinta's attention had been elsewhere, as had most of the others, so only Yant was witness to the strange event that caused the fires.

"Forty bolts of lightning!" He had sworn. "No, more like fifty or sixty!"

Given the scene of devastation, no one seemed inclined to doubt him, Sinta in particular. For she knew that Jasmine had a hidden ally lurking somewhere down in the ghetto streets and that it was Floyd who was likely the cause of this mess. How he had managed it, she had no idea, but he was a sorcerer and sorcerers did those sorts of things.

Glancing from face to dumbfounded face, Sinta noticed that Mercy wore a different expression entirely. He stared hard at the fires, his normally relaxed demeanor uncharacteristically stern. Then the sternness broke, concern revealed somewhere beneath. Puzzled, Sinta opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted when Dwervin raised his voice.

"Mercy." The brown-skinned man turned to regard his employer. "Those fires will need quenching now that the rain has chosen to depart in such a timely manner. Please make all haste and see what your talents can do to ensure that the East-block is not lessened for this disaster come dawn."

The healer seemed somewhat relieved. He nodded, turning toward the stairway to make his way down.

"You'll need this," Dwervin sounded, tossing him the large iron key. "No breaking the door to pieces, please. Repairs can be quite expensive."

Mercy caught the key and descended.

"It seems as if nature itself is inclined to agree with your choice of agents, Overseer," Dunoltwe remarked, his gaze now resting hostile on his host. "Rain and lightning and thunderstorms and now not a cloud in the sky. Though I wonder at the subtlety of burning down an entire district in her wake."

"It wasn't her!" Yant yelled, almost pleading. "I tell you, I saw the clouds rain down fire like..."

Dwervin held one hand up and Yant clamped his jaw shut. Sinta could see bitter rage smoldering in his eyes.

"Nature does seem fickle this evening," the old thief replied, demeanor devoid of all emotion. "Though if other circumstances are found regarding the eclectic storm and the subsequent fires, I assure that you will be the first to know. For now, we should await Jasmine's arrival so that we may finish our business."

"Yes, I am growing ever more eager to talk with this girl." Sinta thought she spotted the faint twitching of the man's lips. "Until then, however, I'm really hoping to see how she measures up to Lazurus."

Dwervin's calm vanished, a predator's hunger shining from behind his eyes. A second later he had regained his composure. "Another test?"

Dunoltwe offered the slightest of nods.

You worthless, crusty old pile of mule shit. So you'll just keep throwing bodies at her until she's dead, is that it? Why even come up here and play at this game then?

Sinta bared her teeth, dropped the spyglass to the ground and took a step toward the man. A hand gripped her firmly on the shoulder, stopping her dead in her tracks as if a stone had been set on her back. She glanced back to see Jetal staring down at her. He shook his head side to side, ever so slightly.

Still enraged, the child bent to retrieve the spyglass.

"Lazurus the tinker?" Jetal sounded somewhat taken aback. "What in the nihil is he doing all the way down here in East-block?"

Yant leaned closer to Jetal and whispered at him. "It's him alright. I seen him up on those roofs early in the night. It was him for sure. Met him in Graves a couple years back. Recognize that fucked-up nose of his anywhere."

Jetal turned to regard his companion, his expression one of mixed anger and disbelief. "Is there a reason you didn't mention this already?"

Yant's mouth opened but no words came out. Finally he managed, "We knew they was coming. Does it matter who?"

Jetal sighed and shook his head. Scratching at the stubble of his beard, Sinta could tell he was thinking hard on something or another.

"What's with this Lazurus?" she finally asked.

The man looked down at her. "Never met him myself. Supposed to be heavy into using that Knaylish garbage. Waste of money, you ask me, but he's got a reputation, that's for sure."

The tension growing within her, Sinta brought her spyglass up once more, scanning the cityscape for signs of her friend.

Jasmine stumbled away from the growing inferno that was the warehouse district, trying to calm her runaway heart. It had been a close thing with the twins and, by all accounts, she should have been dead, hung by the neck until her mind shut down, permanent blackness her final reward. But strange luck and even stranger weather had proven her ally. She made a mental note to ensure that Ihshintul's temple had no want for coin.

If I make it out of this alive. No more twins on my trail, but what else does Dwervin have up his sleeve? He's waiting for me right now, for sure, and all those clubbers around him. Gonna have to be quick and clever.

With some annoyance, Jasmine noticed that her skin was itching terribly. Reaching up to scratch at her face, the runner felt small, needlelike projections embedded in her flesh. Removing a glove, she grasped one and pulled it free. It was a small splinter, no doubt a piece of shrapnel from the exploding hutch. Dozens more lanced her face.

Have to worry about that later. Need to keep moving. Skirt around the plaza and find a way up to the tower where Dwervin and his swords won't see me coming.

Jasmine turned to begin a circular route that would bring her to the temple district and perhaps a better approach, when she spotted movement at the edge of her vision. A figure emerged from a shadow, one foot raised. A blur of motion and the kick connected solid into her side. The familiar pain of cracked ribs followed.

Stumbling sideways, hands already reaching for her knives, Jasmine spun to meet her attacker only to find a fist driving into her face. Instinct took over and she twisted, though only just barely. The vicious attack glanced off the side of her head and sent her reeling. Again she attempted to lay eyes on her assailant, glancing over to see a black-clad rogue. He was tall, somewhere just over six feet. His pale face was graced with a huge, broken mess of a nose and his hair was so far receded as to give the impression of a massive forehead. He was wearing a tattered tunic that fit poorly, the sleeves hanging well below his hands. At his elbows and knees, runner's pads. Jasmine noted bulges all over his person, the mark of hidden tricks.

Just as quickly as she had made her examination, the man came for her again. Another kick arced toward her stomach and, hunched over and off balance as she was, Jasmine's evasion of the blow sent her sprawling into the mud. She spun to face her attacker only to find him in mid-lunge.

A fist lashed out and Jasmine yanked her head back to avoid it. But, she realized too late, the attack was wide on purpose. As the man's hand drew close, Jasmine heard the telltale sound of a spring firing off. From beneath his sleeves a blade popped into view, a vicious looking curve that split the runner's nose nearly in two as it passed by. Blood flowed down her chin and filled her mouth with its familiar taste.

As Jasmine back-pedaled her way across the muddy ground on all fours, the man paused. He pulled his sleeves up, securing them with a swift tug to some unseen cord. His ruse used up, the killer seemed to feel no need to hide the blades and the strange, mechanical arm braces that they were secured to. Once his adjustments were finished, he marched toward the fallen runner.

Jasmine sprang up from her place in the mud, twin throwing knives appearing in her hands. As one arm whipped back to toss the first of her blades, the man quickened his pace. If not for the mud, his charge may have been the last thing Jasmine ever saw. But the short delay in his assault allowed her to send her blade deep into the man's shoulder. He halted, again only for a second, but it gave her enough time to toss the second knife, this one lancing its way into the side of his thigh. The second wound halted the assassin completely. As he reached up to remove the offending weapons from his flesh, Jasmine spun and escaped from the muddy alleyway as fast as she could.

Stumbling from the alley's exit, Jasmine heard a sharp popping noise sound from behind. She turned just in time to see a flash of light and a puff of steam emit from one of her opponent's arm braces. She threw one arm up in front of her eyes, lest the man be trying to blind her. A second later and she realized that nothing had happened. Glancing back down the alley, she saw the assassin marching her way with renewed determination. Only several seconds later, as Jasmine fled through the city streets, did she finally discover what the man's light show had accomplished.

A searing pain began to build in her arm, as if a nest of fire ants had found their way into the sleeves of her leathers. Glancing down, she now noticed that a dozen small, silver spikes protruded from her arm. They were tapered at each end with a slight swell in the middle. Even as she puzzled over the strange weapons, thin lines of blood began to stream from their opposite ends.

Panic gripped the runner and she grasped one of the spikes, wrenching it free of her flesh. As it tore from her skin, a blinding pain erupted in her head. She stared at the now-freed device, seeing the barbs that decorated its end and the bits of flesh that still clung to it.

A quick glance back confirmed that her enemy was still close behind, though he seemed to be moving at a more leisurely pace. She continued her brisk flight through the ghetto streets, keeping as much distance between her and the assassin as she could manage.

Looking at the sizeable hole removing the silver barb had left in her arm, Jasmine contemplated leaving the rest in. But as the blood poured forth from them, Jasmine's head began to grow light. She grit her teeth, grabbed another of the spikes and tore it free in a fresh wave of agony. Repeating the process again and again, by the time all of them were finally excised from her flesh, Jasmine was awash with nausea and stumbling blindly. Barely conscious, she reached into a pouch and retrieved a roll of stained, yellow gauze. She paused for a moment, leaned against the wall of an alleyway and wrapped the gauze around her mangled arm. Numbness began to set in immediately, followed shortly by a sharp jolt to the runner's head. A mixture of iorna and some other Kat-Suk tincture known as lightning blossom, the medicinal wrap dulled Jasmine's pain even as brought the world around her into sharp focus. She had never been more relieved that she had decided to spend twenty gold rils on a whim. Feeling as if the world were on fire and she were walking straight through the center of the blaze untouched, Jasmine continued her flight.

A few minutes later, Jasmine was beginning to suspect that her opponent had gotten lost in the maze of streets and alleys. She had seen no signs of his pursuit for some time. Either he had finally given up or the runner could expect a surprise at any moment. Disoriented by the combination of drugs and blood loss, Jasmine was having problems coming up with a proper plan.

Draw him out or go for Dwervin's throat? He could be waiting for me there, but then if I stay out here I'll never find him one way or the other. But if he is still lurking about, then it's better not to be caught between him and the rest.

As if to answer her question, a shadow slipped into the runner's peripheral vision. Head turning, she caught sight of the man just as he caught sight of her. He began a sprint in her direction and Jasmine spun on her heels and bolted.

She could not see if he was gaining ground on her, dared not look back for even an instant lest she miss a single step and give the assassin that much more of an advantage in their race. All the runner could do was push her body to its limits, relying on the iorna to do its work in blocking out the pain and using her will to keep the remaining phantom aches from slowing her down.

Time was lost to Jasmine as she kept up her seemingly endless flight. All she knew was that she wasn't dead yet. The man had made no attempt to fire anything at her during the chase. Or if he had, his aim was off and Jasmine had noticed nothing. Still desperate and with no plan forming in her head, Jasmine did the only thing she could think of - she ascended to the rooftops.

As potentially lethal as fighting on the roofs might be, Jasmine's endurance would not hold out for much longer. She was bleeding from too many holes, small though they were, and the bigger man had the edge on the ground. He would shadow her at a steady pace as she slowed, eventually putting one of his blades into her back even as she stumbled along unaware.

Looking around, Jasmine realized that she was deep in the temple district. Nearby stood the once-great temple of Oran, the Silver Guardian of Justice. The main hall of the temple rose more than thirty feet and the roof was decorated in a dozen towering spires, the central of which stood easily sixty feet taller than the structure itself. It was as good a place as any to make her final stand. Finally chancing a look back, she saw the assassin closing in fast. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, his jaw clenched tight and teeth bared as he barreled down on her. Grabbing the nearest handhold, Jasmine began her dizzy ascent to the temple's heights.

Once she had reached the top, another quick glance revealed that her pursuer was beginning his own climb. Sensing her opportunity, the runner reached for a blade, only to find that she was completely out. Cursing under her breath, Jasmine began to flee again, moving toward the forest of spires in hopes of removing herself from the assassin's view.

But he was quicker that she had anticipated. Just as she reached the first of the temple's grand towers, the thump of leather boots on the rooftop alerted the runner to her enemy's presence. She spun around, one hand sliding into a pouch for her last real weapon.

I'd hoped to save you for Dwervin, but it's no good if I never make it there in the first place. Have to think of something else for that mess if I survive this one.

Her hand came back clenching a small, glass globe. She could feel liquid sloshing about inside. Careful to keep it hidden from view, lest her enemy detect the trap, Jasmine faced the man down. She could now see the unusual glint in his eyes, the reflection of starlight that shined red in the night's darkness.

The assassin's red eyes spelled out plain the influence of Nighteye. A drug popular among runners and assassins, it granted the user a keen vision that cut through the darkness much as Jasmine's own unique senses did. The drug, however, had the unfortunate side-effect of causing blindness in the long term. It also made the user extremely sensitive to bright lights. Jasmine fist tightened around the globe.

But before she could unleash her final roll of the bones, her opponent let loose with a trick of his own. A globe identical to the one that Jasmine grasped slid out from his hand, rolling across the rooftop and towards Jasmine's feet. A sharp crack and a puff of steam announced the shower of small, steel balls that rained in Jasmine's direction. She had just enough time to close her eyes before the fiery globe erupted.

The burst of light burned past the runner's eyelids and everything went white. She was blind and, if she remember rightly how the globes worked, she would remain so for at least a minute. Plenty enough time for her enemy to slit her throat and be on his way. With a prayer on her lips, Jasmine hurled her own globe toward the temple rooftop, halfway between her position and where she had last seen her opponent.

Here's hoping that this is all the Gambler's wicked joke. And that this throatslitter ain't suspecting that we'd both be playing the same game at the same time.

Turning her head away, Jasmine heard the impact and the shattering of glass, caught another flash of light through her eyelids, albeit this one much less in its intensity. She waited for a sign, any noise that might indicate that her opponent had fallen victim to the last, desperate gamble. Her prayers were answered with a curse and the sounds of boots shuffling about chaotically. Still blinded, hands grasping at the nearby spire to give her some sense of direction, Jasmine fled in darkness, knowing not where she would end up next.

She tried to picture the temple's many ornamental towers, the position and details of each. Her pace slow and deliberate, the runner navigated to where she believed the central spire to be. If she could get him to climb up after her, then the resulting conflict would become a test of balance and, perhaps more importantly, a matter of higher ground. The assassin's hands would be tied up with climbing so there was less chance of him being able to launch some other unexpected surprise her way. Of course, the plan wasn't flawless by any means, but it was the best she could come up with.

After what seemed a night and a day, Jasmine's eyes finally began to clear of the crippling white cloud that had enveloped them. Blurred forms became solid and she saw that her path had taken her within a few feet of her destination. A second glance around informed her that the assassin must also be regaining his vision. His blurred outline moved at the edge of her vision, appearing and then disappearing again behind a spire.

Jasmine approached the central spire. Somewhere within her, caution let its voice be heard, told the runner in no uncertain terms that this climb would be her last and that if she valued her life she would run. But there could be no vengeance against Dwervin, no rescue for Sinta while the assassin remained on her trail. Ignoring the doubting voice, she leaped upward.

One hand shot out and grabbed an ornamental projection, beginning the precarious climb for better or worse. Even as she began her ascent her enemy leaped into view from seemingly nowhere. He raced forward, hands clawing at her dangling feet, but Jasmine lifted them up and away from his grasp. The man growled in frustration as she began to climb.

She circled the spire as she gained height, leaving the assassin to follow in her wake. He wasn't the climber that Jasmine was, but he was fair enough and a night of running and bleeding had left her weak. Foot by foot, she scaled the tapering tower, unsure in the least what she planned to do once she reached its apex and her opponent had her cornered.

Could always leap to my doom. That would be a most fitting end...

Twenty feet up, Jasmine glanced down to see the assassin had gained on her and was just a few short feet away. Lacing one arm around a projection, she whipped a foot out to strike her pursuer in the head. Blinking, his eyes still unfocused from the assault by the flash globe, the assassin almost failed to dodge the blow. But dodge it he did, striking back with one of his blades and almost catching Jasmine in the ankle.

With her free hand, Jasmine pulled a small glass bottle from a pocket and tossed it at the man's hands. The bottle struck, exploded into shards and left behind a dripping sheet of oil. Though the assassin grasped tightly, his grip failed. Just as the hand slipped free, his other lashed out and dug a blade into the stone structure, sticking fast. For a moment he hung, scowling at the runner and wiping his greasy hand clean on his tunic. Jasmine used the opportunity to plant her foot in his face, smashing the misshapen nose and sending a spray of blood down his chin. He yowled in pain and brought his other blade around, though too late to strike true.

Knowing the same ruse wouldn't work second time, she backed up and continued to spiral her way up the tower. The assassin regained his grip and followed. Hoping to catch him by surprise, she cleared one corner of the spire and then spun back around to give him another kick. This time, however, he was ready. A hand came up and grabbed Jasmine's ankle. The man pulled, leaning hard and putting all his weight on the runner's grip, testing her strength against his. Unable to free her captured foot, Jasmine held on with every ounce of will she could muster, but it was not enough. Feeling her tired muscles failing, Jasmine did the only thing she could think of - she let go.

Combining the momentum of the pull with one desperate push, Jasmine let her body swing down and across. Thrown violently backward at the loss of leverage, the assassin released his grip on her ankle and grasped tight to the nearest projection. Jasmine continued her plunge, spinning in mid-air and drifting through empty space directly behind her opponent. Hands shot out to grab him by the belt even as gravity tore at her. Her fall stopped, though only for a moment. Even Jasmine's small frame proved too much for the man. A jolt and he was falling with her, the pair of them pitching through the air chaotically, thirty feet down to the hard marble rooftop.

Though she made her best attempt at a tumble, it did little to help Jasmine's landing. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. One elbow drove into the marble with a crunch and a mind-numbing blast of pain. She bounced, the second landing rebounding her skull from the stone. The rest of her momentum spun her, body as limp as a rag doll and flopping across the roof for twenty feet. Even the iorna in her blood was helpless to block out the pain of her body breaking. Moaning, flesh and bones wracked with agony, Jasmine used what little strength remained to push herself over and onto her back.

As she stared up at the night sky, blackness threatening to overtake her, the runner caught the equally pained moans of her enemy. Another effort and she managed to raise her head. Curled up near the spire, the assassin was trying to regain his feet. One leg twisted and flopped about as he pushed upright, a splinter of bone poking through his breeches at the ankle. His head spun and the two locked eyes. Jasmine could see conflict warring within the man, the obvious struggle between the urge to finish his contract and the desire for self-preservation. Finally, his jaw clenched and her enemy began to shamble towards her, one blade raised.

Though her broken elbow was causing her no end of grief, it was the blow to Jasmine's head that proved most daunting. She tried to push herself up into a sitting position, but the further her head rose from the roof, the dizzier she became. The blackness gripped at her even as her stomach threatened to revolt. With her good arm, she reached into a pocket and pulled out the pouch with her iorna leaves in it.

Last one. Not gonna be in much of a shape to think after this, but maybe without pain. Enough to survive.

One arm useless at her side, Jasmine struggled to pull the pouch's strings loose with her teeth. Meanwhile, the assassin made his way closer, hopping on his one good leg and dragging the other in his wake. At the rate she was going, the iorna wouldn't take effect fast enough to soften the killing blow, let alone give her enough strength to fight back. Frustrated, Jasmine threw the pouch at her enemy and watched it glance uselessly off the side of his head.

Bereft of weapons, the runner waited as her opponent closed in. She could see him now standing near. The man must have hit his head on one of the spire's projections on the way down, for the right side of his face was split from his chin to just below his eye. The grimace on his face revealed that a few teeth had been lost as well.

He lurched over her, letting loose the first words Jasmine had heard him speak all night: "Now it's time to finish this." Blood trailed from his bottom lip as he spoke.

As he leaned forward to bring his blade within reach, Jasmine flailed one leg out, catching him just below his knee, mere inches from the telltale splinter of bone. He yowled in pain, his good leg buckling. The man crumpled and twisted as he fell, landing back-first atop Jasmine's form. He brought an elbow up and rammed it down into the runner's shoulder. As he lifting his arm to repeat the blow. Jasmine wrapped her working arm around his neck, using what little strength she had to cut off his air. The man rocked back and forth in an effort to free himself, sending spikes of pain through her ribs. Another elbow slammed into her shoulder.

Blind with rage, fear pulsing through her like the last gasp of a dying animal, Jasmine clamped her teeth down. Digging in as hard as she could, the runner felt canines rip through the flesh of her opponent's arm. He growled his displeasure. Unable to free himself from her desperate grip, the assassin began instead to slam her head into the roof over and over. Stars shot across Jasmine's vision even as the bitter, blessed taste of her enemy's blood filled her mouth.

The fog over Jasmine's mind dispersed. Every muscle in her body awakened. Her vision cleared, became sharper than ever. The pains of her body faded into the back of her mind even as her arm dug deeper into her enemy's neck, a vice crushing his throat. His body flailed on top of her, both hands now grasping desperately at the vicious limb which threatened to rob him of life. But his strength was not enough. The bloodlust drove Jasmine's body with a predator's hunger. Teeth bit even deeper, digging away at a chunk of the assassin's flesh. One leg twisted to the side and laced around the man's broken ankle. Jasmine squeezed hard on the shattered bone. Had he breath to scream, her opponent would likely have shouted to the stars. With or without breath, he passed out, body going limp atop Jasmine's own.

Jasmine heaved the limp form of her enemy to the side and struggled to her feet. She stared down at him, eyes bright and mind afire from the taste of his blood. Even though Jasmine's enemy was defeated, the temptation to continue ripping him to shreds was strong within her. She gazed upon her helpless prey, thoughts of murder racing through her skull. The desire to taste more of his blood was nearly overwhelming. She bent over the unconscious assassin, eager to tear into him and experience the bestial bliss once more.

It was only the flicker of a thought that stopped the runner, a brief image that raced through her head - the thought of Dwervin resting safely in the clock tower. The world around her crackling with unseen energies, the pain of broken bones becoming little more than a memory, she set out to find her true prey.

The plaza had become a mass of chaos. As the fires in the warehouse district blazed, people panicked. They gathered up what scant possessions they had and now lined the streets in an exodus. As Jasmine approached, she could see that the way to the clock tower would be a difficult one. If her arm had not been broken, she could have squirmed and dodged her way through the press of bodies. As it stood, any attempt at that would end poorly. Still, her destination called and so into the chaos she plunged.

The bloody mess of the runner's face proved a boon during her journey. Upon sighting her, bodies moved quickly to clear a path. Those that hesitated were answered with bared teeth and a snarl, hastening their retreat. All-in-all, she had an easy time of it once the momentum of her passing set in. Even the threat of impending fire could not convince the typical East-block resident to face down a ghyst, no matter if it took the form of a small girl or not.

The trouble with her tactic was that in clearing an easy path she was also marking herself out plainly to the whatever eyes watched from above. Jasmine could feel her enemy's gaze trained upon her, could almost see Dwervin and his hired swords preparing to cut her down the moment she came within range. The runner knew that she didn't likely have long before feeling the nihil's embrace, but it mattered little. Blood still singing in her mouth and mind, she could not stop, had no choice but to follow the call of vengeance. Either her prey would die, or she would. There was no other way for this final act of the play to resolve.

Almost there. Just another hundred feet. Get out of my way you pissing idiots. Yes, that's right, run and fear. There's a ghyst coming through and you'd best be away before it snatches your children.

Even as the vast majority of mob stepped to the side or fled outright, one hulking form pushed forward to block her path. Glaring up at the challenger, Jasmine's eyes found the familiar face of Andrah. Looking much the same as always, the brute regarded her without emotion. His gaze traveled from her cracked head to her bloodied face to the arm that hung useless at her side.

"You're fucked up," was all he had to say.

Jasmine nodded. "Got business to take care of. Kinda in a hurry. You want to get out of the way or maybe help me out?"

Andrah pondered a moment, then spoke. "What you doin' that needs help? Only help you need is at Rita's. How you even on your feet, kitten?"

Jasmine cackled at the question, the madness in her voice evident even to herself. "Now there's a puzzle, bruiser! Gotta keep going though, else I fall on my ass. Not sure I could get up again and have to pay Dwervin my respects before I drop dead."

"Dwervin, eh?" Andrah scratched at his chin then nodded. "Sure, I've got yer back on this."

"Follow me then," the runner replied, walking by the man to resume her march.

The clubber close behind, Jasmine finally arrived at the tower. Her eyes scanned the structure's surface, seeking out the best hand-holds for a climb.

Have to do the whole thing one-handed, but ain't much choice in the matter. Better than doing it no-handed, right?

Having plotted out what she thought to be the best ascent, Jasmine was just about to start her climb when Andrah's voice sounded behind her, a low whisper. "Sorry, kitten."

A shock of pain as something collided into Jasmine's temple and the world went black.
XXXVII. Renewed Negotiations

Time slipped away in the void of unconsciousness and when Jasmine next came to, she was lying in a bed, a soft mattress beneath her. Opening her eyes, pale light emanated from somewhere to her right, reflecting off the white and grey veins of the room's high marble ceiling. Confused, wondering if perhaps everything she had just experienced was little more than dream, the runner tested her shattered arm. The elbow should have screamed in protest but instead Jasmine felt only a dull throb. The rest of her body communicated a similar state, aching yet not broken. Head still cloudy, she pushed herself into a sitting position.

The room around her was huge, an open floor plan that held nothing more than the bed she lay in and a few small tables and chairs. On one table sat a large ceramic bowl filled with water, next to it another half-filled with drying mud. A lantern hung from a hook on the wall near the room's only door. Every surface was covered in a marble façade, the once elegant patterns carved into it now faded, scratched and chipped. And in one chair, just off to the side of her bed, a large man sat, skin deep brown, the color of fertile soil. His earthy eyes looked weary and the large, dark circles beneath them bespoke of a distinct lack of sleep. He returned Jasmine's regard with a warm smile.

"You have arisen at last," his voiced echoed in the room, a deep hum that seemed to reach in and vibrate Jasmine's very bones.

The runner blinked and looked down at herself. She still wore her silks and leathers, both filthy with blood and dirt. Warily, she addressed the man. "What game is this? You one of Dwervin's? He brings me up here to fix me up so he can get to torturing me? Or so he can have the chance to stick the knife in personally?"

Still smiling, he shook his head, the greasy, shoulder-length strands of hair that framed his face waving rhythmically. "There will be no violence." A pause and he continued. "Unless you are the one to initiate it. I would strongly advise against that imprudent course of action. I am Mercy, by the way. I am here to assist you for the time being."

Jasmine examined the man, trying to get a read of his skills.

Assist me? You ain't no servant like I've ever seen. Some sort of clubber? No weapons though. Maybe a rough and tumble bruiser, all fists and headbutts.

Her eyes scanned the room further, seeking out something she might use as a weapon and judging the distance between her and the doorway. Escape looked simple enough, although there was no telling what resistance awaited her once she managed the exit. A couple more clubbers with blades and she would likely end up skewered. Jasmine stretched her limbs a bit, testing them, and found everything to be stiff. The condition of her body would slow her down too much. Even her keeper, as dull-witted as the man seemed with his simple smile, would probably be able to grab her up before she made a clean run out.

As if in tune with her thoughts, Mercy spoke, "There is no reason to seek flight." Jasmine's eyes snapped back to him. "Dwervin will wish to speak with you, but he does not mean you harm. There is, as I understand it, business to conduct with you, should you choose to listen."

"Why would I want to talk business with that dung-hole?" the runner snarled. "He tried to cut me up tonight. I best his throatslitters and now we're old friends ready to have a drink and talk old times?"

Mercy's smile faded, his expression turned ponderous. Jasmine was almost ready to begin a fresh tirade when the man spoke. "I once knew a man, a runner like yourself. His name was Ologart. You have met him before?"

Suspicious at the question, Jasmine said nothing.

"Perhaps your mind does not recall the name, but I assure you there was some passing familiarity between you and he. A contest, I believe, across the rooftops of the warehouses."

Still cautious, Jasmine retorted. "I've raced dozens. Everyone's raced dozens. It's what we do to prove who the best is. What's your pissing point?"

"This man, Ologart, he fell that night he raced you. A rather bad spill. By the time his friends brought him to me, there was only so much I could do to heal him."

A healer? So that's why I'm all fixed up then. What's Dwervin got a healer on me when he knows I'll cut him up first chance? What kind of game is he playing now?

"His legs were broken badly, the muscles within torn. Even with my rather competent skills I was only able to repair so much of him, put so many pieces back in their places. The result was that, while he still lives and walks, he is unable to run. His career in that regard has ended."

Jasmine grew annoyed. "So what?" She retorted. "Lots of runners get busted up on that course. Some even get killed. It's the price of being the best."

Mercy nodded, a grave look upon his face. "Yes. I concede your point. Being the best presents many trials. Some of them are fatal. And those who fail are often forgotten. Yet still the game is played."

What in the nihil is he talking about? That's not what I said at all.

Realization began to dawn in the runner's still-fogged mind. The man was trying to make some point about the way business went down in the East-block. Trying to show her a connection between what the runners did when they challenged each other and the way Dwervin had tried to have her cut down.

"You trying to say that prick was just testing my skills? That all this is some fucking joke? Good for him. Guess I'll settle in for the pat on the head and an old bone, eh?"

Mercy shrugged. "I am not at liberty to discuss Dwervin's business. I only suggest that, no matter what you settle your mind upon, when Dwervin brings his associate in to speak of business, you remain amiable. Your life at this point revolves around the man Dunoltwe. If he does not approve, Dwervin will have no further use for you."

Jasmine's muscles tensed. If she were to avoid playing this game, she would need to get past her guardian. Knowing he possessed sorcerous skills, the runner doubted she was capable of it on the best of days, let alone in her bruised state. Instead, Jasmine leaned back against the wall and said nothing more, waiting for the Eleventh Hour businessman to make his appearance.

Several minutes passed in silence, finally broken by the opening of the door. A barrel-chested brute of a man entered, a large platter in his arms. Atop the platter, all manner of food was piled in a giant heap. The man wore thick wooden sticks in harnesses at his side. His face was twisted in disgust. Jasmine recognized him as one of the clubbers she had seen escorting Dwervin earlier in the evening.

Stomping across the room, he practically threw the platter down on the bed.

"Eat up then," he snapped. "Have a time of it. I'll go see if maybe there's a bed pan I can empty out. Or an arse I can scrub clean." The man plodded out, slamming the door in his wake.

Mercy immediately started in on the feast, stuffing his mouth to overflowing. He glanced up at Jasmine, pointed at the food.

Swallowing, Mercy explained. "You're still weak from the healing. You should eat as much as you can or your body will look inward for sustenance."

As much as Jasmine would have wished otherwise, her stomach signaled rather insistently that it was treading the border of starvation. The effects of being put back together with sorcery appeared to be just as taxing as those that came with her own exceptional healing. The runner grabbed the largest hunk of meat she could find and began to devour it.

The pair ate in silence for the next ten minutes, until the door opened once more, admitting Dwervin and his companion, the man Mercy had referred to as Dunoltwe. Dwervin offered Jasmine a benign smile. The other merely stared at her, his face an emotionless mask.

Time to play this game, eh? I'll put on a show for you, old man.

Tossing a half-eaten piece of turkey back onto the platter, the runner rose from the bed and made her way toward the two men, strutting as best she could given her body's utter stiffness. She saw her nemesis tense up, one hand shifting subtly toward the folds of his tunic before he caught himself. The other man stood motionless, his eyes never breaking from Jasmine's own. Jasmine strode to within a pace of him. Speaking through a mouthful of food, a healthy amount of which she allowed to fall freely to the floor, the runner raised one greasy hand in greeting.

"Jasmine's my name," she smiled wide, sharp canines prominent. "I'll be taking care of business for you and yours." The man responded with a glance at the runner's fouled hands and a raised eyebrow. She gazed down at her outstretched hand and affected a puzzled countenance. "It's only grease. Seals the deal, eh old man?"

Dwervin, his posture relaxed once more, scowled at the runner. "The Chairman is not predisposed to sampling your meal with his fingers. We are here merely to discuss the particulars." Jasmine looked to the Eleventh Hour businessman, a dumbfounded expression on her face. "You may sit down," he finally added, no small degree of threat behind his words.

Shrugging, Jasmine paced back to the bed and resumed her position in front of the platter. Hands once again filled with meat and boiled potatoes, she commenced eating.

Languid eyes drifting to his companion, Dunoltwe spoke. "I understand your confidence in her as far as her acrobatic and combative skills are concerned, Overseer. The show tonight was proof enough of that. My chief concern lies with her rather unusual appearance. Surely one as skilled as this has gained a reputation such that she would be recognized on sight by any House with even the slightest bit of intelligence working within the walls of the East-block."

Dwervin's lips broke into a wide smile, a fire burned behind his eyes. "Trust in me, Chairman," he replied, voice all silk. "The danger of her being recognized will be nonexistent when I'm through. There are means by which even the Cushomborn will be kept in the dark regarding her true identity, no matter what intelligence they possess. Further, three years on the stage have made young Jasmine adept at both theatrics and the art of disguise."

More like two-and-a-half years. Disguise? What's the old man going into? What's he trying to sell to this merchant dolt?

"If you allow me two weeks to affect the transformation," Dwervin continued, "you shall find the results will be most pleasing. Of this, I assure you." He looked pointedly at the runner, his gaze unnerving her with its intensity. "What say you to the challenge, Jasmine? Are you up to the job?"

She held his eyes for a moment, but that glare won out over her stubborn nature. Eyes travelling instead to Dunoltwe, Jasmine smiled again. "There's nothing I can't handle. The more the challenge, the better I am at it." Dwervin's intensity eased a bit. Then Jasmine added, "As long as the rewards are worth the risk. I'll not be working for less than the job's worth."

Jasmine saw Dwervin's neck tense for a second. He shot her an annoyed look. Turning back to Dunoltwe, his smile manifested once more. "Let's discuss the finer details of the arrangement over some wine, Chairman."

The two left the room, closing the door behind them.

"He'll be back once his business with the Chairman is concluded," Mercy said. "You should take this time to consider your options. He will not force you into unwanted servitude. The matter at hand is too delicate, too important to risk. If he does not have your complete loyalty, you will be free to go. I assure you, however, that the rewards of this task go beyond the base needs of coin and fame. There are secrets that lurk in places where you cannot tread without the assistance of a benefactor."

Jasmine raised an eyebrow at the strange statement. Mercy responded with another of his serene smiles and stood.

"Another thing to consider," he regarded her now seriously, all traces of benevolence vanished. "You blood runs strong, the blessing of Sen deep within it. You may not possess the skills of a sorcerer, but be aware that even the briefest brush with the Eket-tehr can prove so great as to overcome the strongest of wills. Even now that need burns within you, threatening to consume your mind. Guard yourself against it. Hold precious your humanity."

Leaving Jasmine with those puzzling words, the brown-skinned man exited.

It was nearly an hour before Dwervin returned. By that time, Jasmine had devoured nearly everything on the platter than had not ended up in Mercy's stomach. Her hunger content, the runner had then torn a piece from the bed sheet and, soaking it in the bowl of water, commenced to cleaning as much of the grime from her body as possible. The water quickly turned opaque from the remnants of blood and soil, but she at least managed to get the worst of it from her face. A sense of clarity accompanied the cleansing and left her feeling more confident of her place in the coming confrontation.

At long last, the door opened and Dwervin entered, alone. He walked at a casual pace to the chair that Mercy had previously occupied and sat down, crossing his legs and leaning back as if he had no reason to distress over the runner's presence.

Not too worried, are we? I got no blades and you already showed me what you got in a brawl. I'd guess you'd snap my neck if I made a move after you. Nice way to get me to talk pleasant.

Dwervin once again displayed the uncanny knack he had for picking the thoughts from her mind. He reached into a fold of his tunic and withdrew one of Jasmine's knives, the blade still crusted with mud, and tossed it onto the mattress beside her. Jasmine glanced warily down at the weapon. She shifted her eyes back to the man.

"If you feel the need to exact some sort of vengeance, now is the time," he said, spreading his arms for emphasis. "I'm sure you're more than capable of sending that knife through the air and into some part of me. You might even get lucky and strike me true in the heart. All of your problems solved then, correct? No more worries at the powerful man in the shadows seeking to hunt you down, trying to place assassins and clubbers in your way. A nice, easy way out of the game of the East-block. Then you could return home, collect up your hidden stash of rils - yes, it's still there, untouched - and make your way to some other city, someplace far away where you could start over." He raised his eyebrows.

Though the runner knew taking the chance at killing him would be her end, she still could not resist the urge to play the thorn in his side. Snatching the blade, she spun it in her hand and hurled his way. The point thunked solid into the chair, in the small gap between Dwervin's arm and his chest. The Eleventh Hour businessman didn't even flinch. He reached across and grasped the blade by the hilt, wiggling it a few times to remove its grip on the chair.

He graced her with a cynical smirk. "I should have known you would want to at least make a point. Every time I think that the puzzle of you has been solved, you manage to push my expectations one step further." He paused, examined the knife in his hand. "Which is why I have gone through so much trouble to hone your unique set of skills."

"Hone?" Jasmine countered. "If that's what you call trying to kill me, locking me up in chains, sending throatslitters my way and using Sinta to bait me in. You're playing one of your keeps games, old man, and we're all just pieces on the board as far as you care."

Dwervin nodded, undisturbed by Jasmine's outburst. "Yes, you are correct. I am playing a game. A very dangerous game with several very skilled opponents. Unfortunately, they have a full compliment of pieces while I have regrettably started this tournament with only half of mine."

Jasmine scowled.

"Listen to what I have to say," he locked his eyes to hers. Instead of feeling the vague but certain threats lurking there, Jasmine saw something different. His eyes carried the unmistakable air of a confession, perhaps even an honest one. "If you do not wish to engage in further business with me after I am done speaking, I will give you a purse filled with gold and you and Sinta may do as you please. If you wish to remain in the East-block and work freelance, I will do nothing to interfere. If your desire is to leave, then I will bid you a fond farewell. I'll even buy you a fit wagon to load with supplies if the two of you decide that your destination is far from here." A tilt of his head. "Agreed?"

If the old bastard's telling the truth, what's the harm of it? And if he's not, then who gives a shit? So why do I still feel like I'm walking into the mouth of a hungry dog? A big fucking dog at that.

Jasmine nodded and leaned back against the wall, arms folded across her chest.

The man returned her nod and rose from the seat. Pacing back and forth, he delivered his monologue.

"You have already seen the lack of control in the streets of the South-block, the depredations that occur there on a nightly basis. Once, not too long ago, some twenty-five years past, the East-block was foul with that same brutality. I would venture to say the East-block of the past would make the South-block of the present look like a pleasant alternative."

The man paused in his stride, fogged by some memory or another. Blinking away the thought, he resumed.

"I was a man of just over twenty-five summers. Born into this ghetto, I was much as any other here. I sold my sword to bring in gold, spending most of it on whores and drink. It was the typical life for a man of my age and I had no reason to doubt its authenticity. Eventually, however, the daily sights, the constant murders and rapes and betrayals of blood began to wear at me. I felt the need to enact a change.

"As the gods would have it, there were two others that agreed with my convictions. Zakariah, who has now settled down to a quiet life in the theater, and Sulan'Kae, a Kanda'Suo with a particularly single-minded and ruthless nature."

"My uncle," Jasmine interjected. "Zakariah says this Sulan'Kae is related to me somehow, in some Kanda'Suo way of family."

Dwervin smiled at her. "Yes, this is true. Though I would not have expected Zakariah to mention the subject." He shrugged. "Together, with some other, less publically active parties, we formed the foundations of what would become the Eleventh Hour. Our goals were simple and focused. We eliminated all independent competition within the East-block, converting those we could to our cause and killing or driving off the rest. We solidified the organizations which exist today, each with its own purpose and structure. The Bloodrazors for strength of arms, the Stewards to handle affairs of business, the Abandoned to provide structure for the most destitute of us..."

"Abandoned?" Jasmine queried, baffled at the revelation. "Those street rats are a proper organization?"

Another of Dwervin's knowing half-smiles. "One wouldn't know it, but there is a very complicated system controlling the movement of pinchers and beggars in our city. That even you did not decipher their affiliation is testament to the excellent job they do of keeping it out of sight.

"But in addition to those three, we also had the Eleventh Hour, acting as guidance, a form of leadership that governed the rules of coexistence within the East-block without interfering directly in the business affairs of the various other structures. We also formed a small but elite group known as the Blue Men."

"Never heard of them either," Jasmine replied, perturbed at her own ignorance.

"You've met only two of them and in truth the organization is so small that it might more properly be referred to as a gang or a squad. They are the wielders of magic, loyal to the Eleventh Hour and performing duties that we more mundane humans can not. Mercy is one such, as was the unfortunate man who had the duty of following you and received a burial for his services."

Jasmine's curiosity piqued, her thirst for knowledge overtaking the hunger for revenge that still boiled inside her. "So the Eleventh keeps mages about then? More than just that air-head and the healer?"

Dwervin regarded her, expression somewhat apprehensive. "This knowledge is a closely guarded secret that I am entrusting to you in order to convince you of my ultimate intentions. Lack of discretion in this, even if that indiscretion came from my own mouth, would mean a quick and anonymous death."

Jasmine waved a hand casually through the air. "I'm not gonna offer up your witches, old man. I hate priests more than I hate most."

Still, the man seemed worried. Jasmine could see the gambler's tension clouding his eyes. Dwervin buried it and returned to his speech.

"With the structure in place, the East-block began to shed its chaotic roots. More than two-hundred years of disorder shifted over the course of five, creating a city that functioned like the greased gears of a Knaylish mechanism. Killings were regulated, those seeking to live their lives in peace were allowed to do so. We still retain all the complications of any city, but the sewers no longer clog with the bodies of the dead.

"The structure, however, still retains one particular element I find undesirable. For the Eleventh Hour to take power, it needed the support of the Houses." A grimace of distaste twisted Dwervin's features for a moment. "All of them. We still perform the functions that we always have, here in this walled prison. We provide bodies for them, whether to work the hard jobs that others will not or to be shipped off as slaves, although their particular brand of slavery is endorsed by law."

"You sound the two-face on this one, old man," Jasmine broke in, a rage creeping up from inside. "You'd gone and sent twenty girls or so, and Sinta to boot, right into the arms of the Portween. Now you're cuddling with one of theirs and talking plans. Maybe I've not been around to see the old days of everyone getting cut up, but I know enough that the orphanages here train up and sell slaves. I've yet to see any kid out of there get a proper home."

Dwervin paused in his relentless pacing and turned toward the runner. The grin on his face was much too self-satisfied for Jasmine's tastes.

"So it was, wasn't it? You and Andrah took care of that though." At Jasmine's puzzled expression, he continued. "You were sinking into a pit of drink. I had meant to push you, but instead pushed you into a bottle. Getting rid of the slavers was a most welcome bonus and it snapped you out of your downward spiral. Sinta volunteered to act as bait, to draw you in. Andrah came along to ensure that no tongue spoke of what truly happened that night. The mess was cleaned up and the incident made to look as if it were the work of Cushomborn business interests taking a dislike to the Portween." Dwervin's eyes clouded for a second, a tinge of anger flashing through him and then gone so fast that Jasmine barely caught it. "In the end, I was able to put a 'temporary hold' on the movement of bodies from the orphanages as well as convince the Portween that they needed the Eleventh's help in dealing with the Cushomborn."

Jasmine's attention drifted as she put all the pieces together.

So we were just there to get this whole thing started? And Andrah, a spying bastard the whole time...

"So Andrah then," Jasmine's thoughts became words, "another of your spies. And what do you mean Sinta was acting bait? She'd not betray me."

Would she?

"Andrah was not there to spy on you. After your incident with the Bloodrazors, I felt a need to keep you protected until you recovered and were able to defend yourself from potential retribution. He was there to ensure you survived.

"As far as Sinta is concerned, she was offered a chance to permanently leave the orphanage, to work for me and fill her purse while enjoying the comforts of her own bed and protection against the more vile elements of the city." His eyes burrowed into her. "Would you, at her age, have done any different given that chance?"

As much as she hated to admit it, Jasmine knew she would have jumped at the opportunity. Whether her loyalty to another, had she had any at the time, would have won out was impossible to speculate on.

Freedom and coin and a place in the Eleventh? Sinta, girl, you've set yourself up good, haven't you?

Dwervin ceased his pacing and settled back into the chair. He leaned forward to stare at the runner as he spoke. "If the arrangement with the Portween moves forward, the East-block has a chance to be free of the chains of the Cushomborn. The second most powerful House in Porsham Grand will have no more influence here. You can be the key, the catalyst to that change. If you choose to be, and if you trust me."

The desire to knife the man still lingered, but Jasmine found herself swayed by his argument. It would be easy enough to take him up on the offer of gold and anonymity, but then where would she be? Returning to the life of a freelance runner, scraping the cobbles for work and never holding enough coin to achieve the freedom she craved would leave a bitter taste in her mouth. All Dwervin's talk of breaking chains and knocking the Cushomborn around held little appeal to her, but the rewards of a job always proved satisfying if they were ample enough.

The runner put on her negotiating face. She could see the satisfaction burgeoning in Dwervin, the recognition that he had won yet another of his little games.

"So what's the offer then? You want me to smack around some of these House infants, tell me what I'm gonna get in return. And," she raised two fingers for emphasis, "no negotiations. You make an offer and it better be good. I'll be saying yes or no the moment your done and I'll stick to it, so throw everything you got out in the first go."

Dwervin's stern demeanor was almost, but not quite enough to cover the odd flash of pride that slipped through his mask.

Learned a bit too well from you, did I old man? I'm not playing anymore games that you think you can win. I'll win this one now, nihil be damned.

"Membership in the Eleventh Hour, though it will need to be kept secret for the time being. Your flat will be subsidized by the Eleventh or, if you so choose, you can have a room in the tunnels. The bathhouse will be put at your disposal, free of charge, barring exceptional purchases. You will, when not active in the job against the Cushomborn, be provided with the very best, the highest paying work. The underground markets will be open to you." Jasmine sneered. "Not the markets you currently use," Dwervin pressed on. "There are sources of equipment that only the Eleventh Hour are privy to. I believe you would be most impressed with what they have to offer."

"Done yet?" Jasmine asked, fighting to keep her face from betraying the growing satisfaction at Dwervin's generous offer.

"Similar arrangements will be made to ensure that Sinta has all she needs, including paying work, albeit less dangerous work until she achieves a more competent level of skill. And," he licked his lips, a positively disturbing gesture from the cold-eyed man, "if you so choose, I will offer up all the knowledge and resources I possess regarding your uncle, your father and your mother."

Jasmine tensed, her gambler's mask crumbling for a moment. She could hear the desperation in her own voice as she spoke. "You'll help me track them down?"

He responded with a nod. "Only after the Cushomborn are taken care of, mind you. Finding them may require a good deal of travel and I will not risk you wandering off for years while my plans turn to ashes. What information I possess from my experiences with them in the past, however, is open to you."

A chance to find my father and mother? If they're even alive. He could be playing some other game with me. He knows I have to say yes to it, that's why he saved it for last. Still, even a chance might be something. A nihil-blessed sight more than I'll be able to get done on my own. And if it all gets pissed up, I can still put a knife in his neck when he's not expecting.

Jasmine nodded. "Agreed then."

"I was confident you would find the wisdom in accepting my offer," he responded.

The runner relaxed, crossing her legs and leaning toward the man, elbows resting on her knees and her chin in her hands. The exhaustion of the night was becoming all-too-apparent. "So tell me then, what is this job that's got you and that old Portween bastard so worked up?"

Dwervin shifted in his seat. "You will be playing the role of the Eleventh Hour's spy. You will infiltrate the Cushomborn household, gain their trust and remain with them for as long as it takes to accomplish a number of tasks, most of which involve pilfering documents and other information gathering activities."

She raised one eyebrow. "Not exactly what I'm best at."

"I have every confidence that you will acclimate yourself quite well. Leave the details to me."

Jasmine shrugged. "So when you need me to get started on all this? Now that I don't have your dogs barking at me, I'm feeling the need for some time off."

"You can spend the next five days at your leisure," he paused, his thoughts wandering for a moment. "There is, however, one particular job that needs doing tomorrow, if you're so inclined."

Rolling her eyes, Jasmine replied, "I've been busted and harassed by you for weeks, old man. You're always about the business, aren't you?"

A mischievous smile stretched wide across Dwervin's face. He reached into his tunic and removed a yellow envelope, holding it out for the runner. "This one, I think you may wish to consider before you decide against it."

Curiosity gripping her, Jasmine reached out and snatched the letter from his hand.
XXXVIII. A Few Last Words

At the end of the long hallway, a window open to the outside world offered a glimpse of the sky as it lightened with the coming of the dawn. Leaning heavily against one wall, Sinta yawned long and loud. Jetal, the tall man standing just to her side, glanced down at her and chuckled. She responded with a scowl.

Across from the two lay a closed door, behind which Dwervin and Jasmine were negotiating something or another. Further down the hall, the two black-clad assassins that had attempted to take the her friend down earlier in the evening stood, their alert stance unmarred by fatigue. Mercy and the obnoxious Yant had long since taken their leave.

What the bloody nihil are they doing anyways? Not enough that they got beat, they need to hang about now? Don't think Jaz will be happy to see them here. And why didn't Dwervin run them off already? What if that old Portween prick is looking for another shot at Jaz?

Every so often, the child would shoot the twins a sharp glare. Neither seemed to notice or, if they did, they showed no signs of caring. The idea of the latter made Sinta bristle.

Finally, after what seemed like an entire other day, the door to the room opened. Jasmine and Dwervin emerged, both looking pleased with whatever conversation had taken place. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Sinta rushed forward and embraced her friend.

Jasmine returned the embrace, if only for a few seconds. She then patted the child on the back and tousled her hair. Knowing that any more affection would only serve to agitate the runner, Sinta stepped back. The child gazed up at her friend.

"Hello, little worm," Jasmine spoke to her with no small degree of cynicism. "Shouldn't you be sleeping about now?"

Sinta shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "I wanted to make sure you'd be alive tomorrow is all. Sure that your big mouth didn't get you a slit throat."

Jasmine scoffed. "I've got an arrangement that suits me. Never find a fight when you can fill your purse with coin instead."

Out of the corner of her eye, Sinta saw the twin assassins approach, one standing a pace behind and to the side of the other. Jasmine tensed a bit at their advance. Sinta took a short step back, eyes flicking between the twins and the runner. One hand slipped away to find a hidden knife as her mind worked to decipher what was happening.

The assassin in the lead spoke. "You are admirable in your element. I am Kenid and this," he gestured at the other figure, "is my sister Trenil."

Sister? I thought they was brothers. Trenil's a boy's name, for sure. I think.

The brother continued. "I wish to offer my apologies for any injuries you have received at our hands tonight. We were tasked with eliminating you, though you proved to be our better. It is our custom to offer respects when a contract has failed. And to ensure you that we will deny any further contracts upon your life."

The sister interjected. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. She spoke in a language unfamiliar to Sinta, the words harsh and guttural. It sounded almost as if she were doing little more than clearing her throat of phlegm again and again.

Once the sister was done, her twin turned back to Jasmine. "My sister expresses the wish to practice with you some time in the future. She is most eager to discover the secrets to your mastery of speed and reaction."

Eyes returning to Jasmine, Sinta could see the runner calculating, looking for some sort of advantage in the situation.

"Maybe we can do just that," Jasmine finally spoke. "I'll admit there was more than a share of luck in it tonight. Ihshintul's blessings and the attentions of an angry sky no doubt played their roles. But I'd be game for testing blades again. Let's play without lives at stake this time, eh?"

The twins laughed in unison.

The sister spoke, the brother listening and then translating once again. "My sister says you are very beautiful, that you have a grace unmatched by all but the most splendid of wildcats."

Sinta observed as the runner took the compliment in stride. "There are many who'd beg to differ on that. I'll take it as courtesy though."

"Also," the brother paused and reached into his silken tunic. His hand emerged with a small knife, the blade crafted of some dull black metal that seemed to reflect no light. Sinta puzzled at the strange weapon. "We offer this as trophy, a tribute to a night well fought."

Jasmine took the offered weapon. Turning it over in her hands, the runner's eyes shined with wonder. "A most welcome trophy, indeed." Her mouth split in a wide grin. "I accept, though I've nothing to give you to compare."

Shaking his head, the brother replied, "You have proven the victor. The trophy is yours by right. My sister only asks that you remember her request."

Jasmine eyed the lead twin and Sinta could see her reevaluating him, calculating him as something other than just a mark. It was nearly the same look that the runner offered the child when she had done something particularly clever.

The twins bowed slightly, as if of one mind, and took their leave. Jasmine examined the blade once more, holding it up to a nearby lantern and twisting it back and forth in her hand.

"A fine blade, that," Dwervin interjected.

"Truth in those words, old man," Jasmine spoke more to herself than to Dwervin. The knife disappeared into the folds of her tunic.

She stared down at Sinta, locked the child's eyes with her own. A moment of pause, Sinta could see the thoughts working their way through her friend's head. Finally, Jasmine spoke. "I'm off to the bathhouse to get cleaned up. Then to the flat to sleep in a decent bed for once in too long." The runner's mouth opened and closed again. She ground her teeth for a brief moment.

"If you wish to take a spot in the flat, you're welcome to it," the words finally came. "You'll be expected to pull your weight and I'm not there to play mother, but it's a roof and a bed."

Sinta was taken aback by the runner's offer. A large part of her wanted to say yes, to finally have a home with Jasmine and feel like maybe she had some sort of family. But second thoughts demanded otherwise.

"I'm going to stay in the tunnels," the child spoke quickly to avoid a change of heart. "I've a friend that I owe and I'll need to make sure he's okay."

The child snatched a glance at Dwervin, to see if he had picked up on her, had figured out her and Floyd's part in how the night had played out. The businessman was staring down the long hall at nothing, seemingly oblivious.

The expression on Jasmine's face shifted from confusion to anger and finally settled on some mixed form of relief. She nodded at the child and said, "Very well then. I'll find you around somewhere, no doubt."

With those final words, the runner strode down the hall and, after a few moments of figuring out where the stairwell was, turned out of sight.

"I'll walk you back then," Jetal rumbled beside her.

One hand absent-mindedly found its way to the silver keeps piece still hidden away in the folds of her dress. Clutching it, Sinta returned to her new home.

The cool touch of water brought Floyd back to awareness. With that awareness came the aches that plagued his entire body. He was baffled as to how he was even alive, given the way he felt. Exhaustion and pain came together to leave him as weak and battered as a man with the most virulent sickness. Opening his eyes, the sorcerer found a small arm hovering above him. After a moment, it withdrew.

He shifted his gaze to the left.

Gods, even my eyes feel bruised.

Staring down at him, a child's face. The expression it wore was one of concern tinged with annoyance. A slosh beyond his vision and the arm returned. The hand at the end of the arm held a wet rag. Once again Floyd felt the coolness on his face, a sensation of something sliding across his skin.

"A damned fool, you are," Sinta said, though her mild tone contrasted with the reprimanding words. "You were supposed to be helping out, not blowing holes in yourself. If you'd not of set everything on fire, Mercy might've not even found you out there. He said you left a trail of sorcery bright as the sun."

Floyd tried to reply, found that his voice was lost to him. Instead of sound he was greeted by a rasping pain that travelled from his gut to his head. A headache began to form behind his dysfunctional eyes.

"Shut it, witch. I'm here to clean you up and I'll be making sure you settle in for a time. I may not think you're smart, but I'll pay my debts."

Floyd desperately wanted to speak, to tell the child that there was no debt. The joy of riding Jasmine's whispers was everything he needed. Without a voice, that admission lay unspoken. Floyd gave in and let the child do her work.

All that I've done, it will be a wonder if I can do anything more. I've probably burnt myself out for good. A most ignoble end, I must say. What to do with myself now then, if Hesharr has abandoned me for abusing him so? Lay here and die? Is life useful of itself if there's no soul left in the body?

The cool sensations ceased. Floyd heard another soft sloshing noise.

"It's the best it'll get until you clean yourself. I'll not be acting the bathmaid for you, debt or no."

He wanted to thank her, even though she had shattered his peaceful slumber and awoken him to the broken shell that was his body. A moment later, Floyd felt something pressed into his hand. Something else cool, though solid and not wet. Stiff fingers clenching the object, he recognized the ridged form of his legacy, the keeps piece. Venturing a probe, what little sorcery remained within the man reached out to touch the object. He felt the swirling winds within reaching back, recognizing the breath of their father. Inwardly, Floyd sighed. He silently thanked Sinta for the company, though the child no doubt had little idea of what the gift of the legacy truly meant.

"Get some rest," Sinta's voice travelled from somewhere near the door. "I'll be back to make sure you're eating tomorrow, so best be ready to do what I tell you. No air-headed nonsense."

The light in the room dimmed. Floyd heard the door click shut. He closed his eyes, the silver knave gripped tightly in his hand, and waited for sleep to claim him.
Epilogue: One Final Job

The black-clad rogue perched on the corner of a rooftop, feeling much older than her sixteen summers. The last year had proven to be the greatest trial of her life and the passage of four seasons had felt closer to ten. Along with the trials, however, had come the rewards. She now claimed promises of gold overflowing, security for herself and the person most important to her and perhaps even a chance to discover something about her unknown past. All-in-all, Jasmine couldn't complain. The double-dealing, the knives in the back, the constant betrayals from those who stood closest - why that was all part of the game, right? The game that she loved, in fact. A game she was playing willingly again tonight.

She watched from two-stories up, her dark silhouette cloaked further by the absence of a moon in the sky, as the lights in the building opposite her flared to life. First one on the top floor, then, some thirty minutes later, one in the entry hall. The interior illumination bled through the cloudy strips of glass than lined either side of the rich residence's double-doored entrance. Another few minutes and one of those doors cracked open, widening to allow the passage of first a man and then a woman onto the grand, raised porch.

Jasmine's preternatural vision picked out the details of both figures as if they were standing right before her. A woman, young of age and attractive in the way that passive, subservient girls were to most men. She was wrapped in a robe of silk with only her nightclothes beneath. Beside her, a man of average height and build, if a bit slight. His clothes and modest jewelry indicated that he was well enough off, if not quite on par with the opulence of the manor from which he had just emerged. As he turned to face his companion, one hand combed back his oiled, wavy brown hair. He rested large hazel eyes upon the fawning creature and graced her with a smile of clean, straight teeth.

"The graces of your company have been their own reward," he began, a voice sweet as honey, almost musical. "I can not accept your gift, my beautiful flower."

The man made a presentation of reaching into his pocket to retrieve something. The girl placed a hand on his to stop him.

"I'd not think of it, my love," she spoke as one entranced, every thought for the object of her affections. "You have an ailing father to think of. I will not see you suffer, could not stand to see grief touch those eyes."

Her lover averted his eyes, stared into the darkness of the night. His face was a war of guilt and regret. After a long pause, his gaze returned to her. The man's countenance transformed from joy to adulation and eventually settled on heartfelt gratitude.

"It's more than I can ask for, one such as you." He reached up to stroke her hair. The girl's eyes closed at the touch, she pressed her cheek against his arm. "You are a love like no other. The gods have gifted me more than I deserve. Were I to draw my final breath tomorrow, I would die the happiest my life has ever seen."

Jasmine could see tears forming in the girl's eyes. She also felt her gut twisting in revulsion.

Gods above, finish with the prattle already.

After some more tender words, a few desperate embraces and, to finish the night, one long, passionate kiss, the two said their goodbyes. The woman retreated back into the house and the man, a different sort of smile on his face now that his lover was gone, strutted his way down the manor's walkway, past the encircling iron gate and into the streets.

The runner followed him for another half-hour. He stuck to the well-lit, vapor lamp-lined streets for most of his journey. Finally, having left the wealthier neighborhoods behind, he entered into the dark and narrow roads of a middling red-light district. When her target decided to take a short-cut through an alleyway, Jasmine sprung her trap.

BeRem hit the mud face-first, the runner on his back. He squirmed frantically, managing to flip himself over despite her weight upon him. Raising his arms to protect his face from whatever might come, he had yet to recognize his attacker.

"I've done nothing!" he pleaded. "I can pay you if you want. There's no need to put a knife in my..."

Finally, the man had gained enough courage to look at his assailant. Even in the darkness, Jasmine wasn't difficult to distinguish. Once his eyes met hers, he ceased squirming. He even had the nerve to smile up at her, as if everything between them was fine and cozy. To emphasize her intent, Jasmine placed both blades at his throat and grinned her predator's smile.

"Well, well," she hissed through clenched teeth, "it seems I have found my little lost doggy. You've been a very bad dog, yes you have. Mother is _very_ upset."

His smile faded, replaced by confusion and growing fear.

"Now," Jasmine continued, pressing one of her knives deeper into his neck, "whatever are we going to do about your indiscretions?"

"I..." BeRem struggled to find words. "Let me explain, please. I acted in haste. I was afraid that you were going to toss me on my head into the streets and..."

"Oh, such tender words then, from you to me and me to you, for it to end that way. You held me close and whispered dreams of running away. Afraid those tender moments might cost you a meal or a drink?"

Her prey relaxed, lowered his hands from his face. "Yes," he said. To Jasmine's ears, he even sounded genuine. "I wanted to leave, but you didn't. It... it was obvious to me then that you were going to toss me aside when whatever infatuation you had with me was over."

"And me, broken and bruised with my coin on the table," Jasmine growled. "A perfect mark. No way to go chasing you down until you were long gone, eh pretty boy?"

"Well, yes," he admitted, then quickly realized his mistake when Jasmine's blades bit deeper. His pleading quickened, became more desperate. "What would you have me do then? I... I loved you true."

Startled at his words, Jasmine momentarily lost her vicious manner.

"I wanted us to start something new, to leave behind all the troubles that both of us had gathered around us like so many walls. Your heart wouldn't reach out to me, no matter how I tried. And to protect myself, I had to keep playing at lover to dreamy-eyed girls. When you tired of me, I had to have a way to survive..."

Jasmine words failed her. She wanted to strike out at him, to tear him apart with her words and, should the rage sufficiently strike her, with her knives as well. Thoughts of how she had treated her former lover crept into her head. She was not a kind mistress to him. He was an idiot boy and a seducer, but perhaps he did not deserve the bite she had delivered.

"I still care for you, my flower," he continued, now overflowing with countless emotions. "I would do anything you ask of me. We could still leave here, to find someplace where we can start anew. New lives mean new opportunities for both of us. The past can be washed away clean. We can hold each other again without fear or regret."

Jasmine's body loosened. She withdrew the knives from BeRem's neck and looked down at him, her eyes filled with pain and loss. BeRem reached one still-trembling hand up to caress her hair, finally resting it on her cheek.

"What did you do with the money you stole from me?" she asked.

BeRem seemed taken aback by the question. "I'm sorry my love, but it's long spent. But we can get more. There's nothing that the two of us cannot accomplish when together. Money is as nothing..."

His consolatory words were cut short as Jasmine, grabbing the wrist of his caressing hand, pushed it down into the mud and drove her blade through it. BeRem screeched. The soft soil did not hold the blade as the runner would have wished and the man's twitching pulled it free a second later. He clutched it to his chest, still groaning. His eyes met hers and she saw true fear within them.

Jasmine pressed the tip of her other knife to his throat. All fury now, she glared down at the helpless fop. "Best you give me whatever coin you do have, along with whatever that sopping girl handed to you early this night. If you don't, I'm cutting you from ear to ear."

BeRem fumbled with his tunic, withdrawing a small, leather purse. He handed it to the runner, along with a jeweled ornament that shined silver and blue in the meager light.

Jasmine grabbed the man's wrist again, yanking the knife free to the sounds of whimpers. Replacing the blades in their sheathes, she stood.

"Give a prayer to Ihshintul I'm in a pleasant mood tonight." Jasmine spoke her last words and walked down the alley.

Just as she emerged into the street, the runner heard BeRem's voice behind her, so quiet as to be silence to anyone but her. "One more broken promise," he said.

Jasmine walked the rest of the way home, taking her time as she wandered the streets of Porsham Grand. In one gloved hand she held the ornament that was one of the night's prizes. It was crafted of silver in the shape of a beetle of some sort, a shining blue sapphire mounted on the creature's back. Twisting it back and forth, the runner admired the way it sparkled and shined under the light of the vapor lamps.

Jasmine could feel malevolent eyes staring out from the shadows of the alleys she passed. Whenever she caught sight of a pair of those eyes she bared her teeth and growled. The owner then invariably scampered away into the darkness, fear of the ghyst overwhelming the promises of greed-fueled confrontation.

And as she walked, her mind was flooded with all manner of unwelcome thoughts.

He knows I can hear better than most. He was saying things to addle my brain. Or does he know? Of course he knows. I mean, I never told him or anything, but he'dve figured it out in all those months. It's just a way to get last revenge on me, confuse me and make me doubt everything like this.

But the night's work had left a bitter taste in her mouth. Even the pouch of coin seemed more a burden than a reward. Jasmine put the silver and blue insect away and pulled out the leather purse. Clutching it in her hand, she rubbed it gently back and forth, feeling the coins within rasp against each other. After a few minutes of the routine, the runner had calculated that at around fifty rils lay within, along with a dozen or so silver wrens and at least a handful of coppers.

Not a bad catch at all, really. Then why do I feel like putting this coin with the rest will make it rotten somehow? When did I care for such things?

By the time she wandered into the East-block Jasmine had to admit that something had changed within her. The dreams of gold felt fuzzy and distant. Thoughts of fame and its rewards produced little more than indifference. All the work she had done over the years to become wealthy and powerful and free held no special memories for her. The future felt the same. Yes, she would continue to work for Dwervin, no matter how much she despised the man. And yes, she would continue to collect her gold and grow rich from her talents. The problem was, the motivation had dried up. She would continue to do what she did for little reason other than the fact that she did it.

I wonder at whether I'll become some murdering thug like the clubbers do. Or maybe some manipulating shit like Dwervin, pushing everybody around like pieces in his fucking game. Or I'll fall and break a leg that don't heal. Then it's a lifetime of sitting on my ass, spending coin on useless trinkets to keep the shiny things in my eyes and distract me.

Sighing, Jasmine began to put the purse away when movement from an alley attracted her attention. Approaching, free hand drawing her knife, she peered into the darkness. Huddled on the ground, curled up against the still chilly late-winter night, Jasmine saw a small girl. She was dressed in rags that looked as if they could barely keep out the cold of summer, let alone the icy breath of this fell season. Her body was more bones than flesh, the telltale mark of prolonged starvation. As the runner moved closer, the girl stirred. She struggled to sit up and her gaze found Jasmine's own.

"Please..." she begged, raising one arm to ward the runner off. The other arm raised as well, though it was twisted and broken and jutted out at an odd angle.

Realizing that she was brandishing her knife at the frightened girl, Jasmine quickly tucked it away. She glanced down at the purse which still rested in her other hand.

"I'm not going to cut you up, girl," the runner said, voice soft. "I've got something to give you."

The purse flew through the air and landed at the girls feet with a jingle. Warily, the girl picked it up and opened it. Her eyes widened in shock at what lay within and then, shifting back to the runner, they filled with dread.

"It's yours girl," Jasmine assured her. "You get food and find a bed. And, this is most important of all, you don't let anyone know you've got it. If someone sees you carrying all that coin they'll cut you up for it. If you play it smart, that money will keep you fed and warm for a year or maybe two. You'll be old enough to figure out what to do next by then."

With those final words, Jasmine continued down the avenue.

Feel better already, I do. Hope that little street rat takes my advice or I've just handed the night's pay over to the next bloody clubber she meets.

Some time later, Jasmine approached the tenement that held her home. She stood outside for a moment, staring up four stories to the window she knew was hers.

A nice flat, a pile of gold, good work for all my years. Sinta's okay and BeRem got his. And it all feels like piss dribbling down my leg after a drink too many. Still...

The runner's smile returned.

There is one thing.

Turning away from her home, the runner climbed the tenement opposite. She took a moment to stare across the vast skyscape of the East-block and then, one fleet foot in front of the other, she began to run.

### A Thank You to My Readers

If I properly wrote this section of the book they way I would like to, it would likely end up as a very major percentage of the overall text. There are too many people that influenced, inspired and egged me on with the production of this book. And every reader that enjoys the story is yet another name that gets added to that list. Those with names I know have already been mentioned in the front of the book, so this section is for all those with names that are currently unknown to me. Hopefully those unknowns will change with the passage of years, but until then - Thank you all and I hope the ride was worth your time.

### About the Author:

I have been writing, in one form or another, for more than thirty years now, though this is my first attempt at publishing any of it. I hope to one day quit my day job so that I can write all day, every day. I plan on continuing to write until the second beat sounds and the Beast comes to claim my soul. I live in the Pacific Northwest because I enjoy the rain. I own a cranky old cat that pushes me around and treats me rudely when I don't give in to her demands. I consume far too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes and often drink more than I probably should.

Look to the future, when Jasmine's story takes her into a new world, the rich and decadent estate of the powerful and dangerous Cushomborn House. Meet new faces, revisit familiar ones and explore more of the city of Porsham Grand in _Grey Spaces, Book II: Walls of Iron_. And in between here and there, I will be writing some short stories that will be free to download and enjoy. Hopefully that will keep you all satisfied until I can make the journey from here to there.

Check out these links to ask questions, keep current on Book II's progress and find out when I'm publishing other things. Or just stop by and say hello.

Jason's Facebook Page (<http://www.facebook.com/greyspacesbook>)

Grey Spaces Blog (<http://jasonmcanelly.blogspot.com/>)

Jason's Twitter Feed (<https://twitter.com/Jason_McAnelly>)

Smashwords Author Page (<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JasonMcAnelly>)

### Other Fine Tales Recommended by the Author and Staff of Grey Spaces:

**Shipbreaker** \- Paolo Bacigalupi

**Neverwhere** \- Neil Gaiman

**Stardust** \- Neil Gaiman

**Neuromancer** \- William Gibson

**Wool** \- Hugh Howey

**The Hollow People** \- Brian Kearney

**Swords and Deviltry** \- Fritz Leiber

**Name of the Wind** \- Patrick Rothfuss

**Battle Royale** \- Koushun Takami

