The second disc went onto the back plate and flared blue before going dormant.

  The third disc settled into position on the left side, just below the ribs. Blue light flared and held for a long moment before finally fading.

  “Now for the countermeasures,” I said. “Felix?”

  We worked together on the final inscriptions for heat generation and dissolution pulse and magic purge. Each effect was linked to Rose’s detection system through careful integration of our ward work with her artificed triggers.

  I finished the last inscription just as lightning struck somewhere nearby. The thunder was instantaneous and deafening. I squinted as the forge fire blazed brightly enough to hurt my eyes.

  And the chestplate glowed.

  Silver and blue light ran through every inscription, every channel and every artificed component. The glow built and built until I had to look away. Then it faded slowly and left behind dark metal that seemed somehow more real than it had before.

  “Did it work?” Kyle’s voice came from very close. He’d crossed the room, and none of us had noticed.

  I picked up the chestplate and smiled as I realized that it weighed almost nothing.

  “Try it on,” I said.

  Kyle took the chestplate with trembling hands. He turned it over and examined the web of silver inscriptions and the three blue discs set into the dark metal. Then he pulled off his tunic and lifted the armor over his head.

  It settled onto his shoulders as if it had been made for him. Which it had. Tom’s measurements were precise.

  “How does it feel?” Felix asked.

  Kyle moved his arms experimentally. He twisted at the waist and bent forward and straightened again. “Light. I can barely feel it.” He pressed his palm against the chest disc. “It’s warm.”

  “That’s the detection array,” I said. “It’s monitoring your heartbeat, breathing and muscle tension. If those readings change suddenly in ways that suggest incapacitation, the countermeasures activate.”

  Kyle looked down at the armor on his chest. The silver lines caught the firelight, and the blue discs pulsed faintly with contained energy. He stood there for a long moment without speaking.

  Then he laughed.

  It started as a chuckle and built into something fuller and looser than I’d heard from him in months. He ran his hands over the chestplate and shook his head and laughed again.

  “It works,” he said. “It actually works.”

  “We won’t know for certain until someone tries to trap you,” Felix said. “Want me to freeze your feet to the floor?”

  Kyle’s laugh faded into something more serious. He looked at the three ruined chestplates in the corner and then back at the armor on his chest.

  “Yes,” he said. “Actually, yes. I need to know.”

  I reached into my satchel and pulled out the mana crystal I’d brought for emergencies. The pale blue stone caught the firelight.

  “This is fifteen gold,” I said. “You sure?”

  Kyle didn’t hesitate. “Use it.”

  “Everyone stand back,” I said.

  Tom retreated toward the forge. Felix moved to the far wall. Kyle stayed where he was and planted his feet.

  I lifted my palm toward Kyle’s feet and recalled the ice pattern clearly in my head. I’d memorized it while inscribing Elara’s combat spells back during my apprenticeship and first cast it in the dungeon when a creature nearly killed me. I adjusted for the smaller mana crystal and willed its energy into my hand. The familiar cold rushed through my fingers.

  I cast the trigger.

  Frigid air rushed from my palm. Ice formed instantly around Kyle’s legs and encased him from the knees down. The blast spread across the stone floor and froze a patch nearly six paces wide. Frost climbed the nearby workbenches, and the temperature in the smithy dropped sharply enough to make my breath mist.

  Kyle’s jaw tightened against the cold, but he held still and waited. “Colder than I expected,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The mana crystal in my hand cracked and fractured. Tiny fissures spread through the blue stone as the last of its energy drained away. Fifteen gold reduced to worthless powder.

  Then, the chestplate glowed.

  Heat poured from the silver inscriptions as the blue discs flared bright, and the countermeasure activated exactly as designed. Steam rose from Kyle’s frozen legs as the ice melted. Water pooled around his boots and the frost on the floor retreated from the spreading warmth.

  Within seconds, Kyle stood free. Puddles surrounded him and his trousers were soaked from the knees down, but he was moving. He lifted one foot and then the other and stamped experimentally on the wet stone.

  “It worked,” he said. His voice held wonder now instead of hope. “It actually worked.”

  Felix nodded with quiet satisfaction.

  Kyle looked at each of us in turn. Tom stood with his arms crossed and his expression had finally softened. Felix had his notebook tucked under his arm. I had silver-stained fingers and a mana crystal residue on my palm.

  “We’re going out to dinner tonight,” Kyle said. “My treat.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “After everything you just spent?”

  “After everything I just received.” Kyle tapped the chestplate. “This is worth more than seventy-five gold. This is worth more than I can calculate.” His grin widened. “So we’re going to the Crossed Keys and I’m ordering the good wine and none of you are allowed to argue.”

  Felix glanced at me. I shrugged.

  “I could eat,” I said.

  The storm had faded outside. Rain still fell, but the thunder had moved on to trouble some other town. Tom banked the forge fire and Felix packed away our supplies while Kyle stood in the middle of the smithy with enchanted armor on his chest and a smile that wouldn’t quit.

  It was a good night to celebrate.

  Chapter 2

  The Price Of Good Wine

  The morning light streaming through the window felt like an act of violence being committed on my senses.

  I sat at my desk with both hands pressed against my temples and tried to remember why I had thought Kyle’s good wine was a reasonable idea. The morning sun slanted through the shop windows like it had a personal grudge and every beam found my eyes with malicious precision.

  Felix looked worse. He sat at his own desk with his head in his hands. His usually immaculate hair stood at odd angles. His notebook lay open in front of him but he had not written a single word.

  “How much did we drink?” he asked. His voice came out as a croak.

  “I stopped counting after the fourth bottle.”

  “There were four bottles?”

  “At least.”

  The shop door opened. The sound of the bell might as well have been a hammer striking an anvil directly against my skull. I winced and looked up to see Mrs. Henderson bustling through the entrance with a wrapped package under her arm.

  She took one look at us and stopped dead.

  “Well,” she said. Her voice carried the particular satisfaction of someone who had caught young people being foolish. “Someone had a celebration last night.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Henderson.” I tried to sound professional. The words came out thin and reedy. “How can we help you?”

  “You can start by telling me what time you finally stumbled home.” She set her package on the counter and crossed her arms. “I heard the singing from three streets away. Something about a spider and a chamberpot?”

  Felix made a sound like a dying animal.

  “That was Tom,” I blurted. “We just provided harmonies.”

  “Harmonies. Is that what you call it?” She seemed to be enjoying this far too much. “My grandson used to make similar noises when he had colic.”

  I decided the best strategy was to change the subject. Quickly. “What brings you in this morning?”

  Mrs. Henderson’s expression softened. She unwrapped her package to reveal a piece of parchment covered in colorful drawings of flowers and birds and what might have been a house, all rendered in the confident strokes of a child who had not yet learned that houses needed proper proportions.

  “My youngest granddaughter, Emma, made this,” she said. “She’s five now and quite proud of her artistic talents.”

  The drawing was charming in that way only children’s art could be. A yellow sun with a smiling face beamed down on a family of stick figures holding hands. One of the figures had what appeared to be a cat or possibly a very small horse standing on its head.

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “She wants it preserved. Says it needs to hang on our chill box so everyone can see it when they visit.” Mrs. Henderson smiled. “I told her I knew just the glyphwrights for the job.”

  This was a simple preservation ward. I had done hundreds of them and I could do this in my sleep. Except sleep was exactly what I had not gotten, and my hands shook slightly from whatever Kyle had served us after the wine.

  “We would be happy to help,” Felix said. He stood and immediately grabbed the edge of his desk for balance. “Standard preservation ward with household environmental resistance?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  I gathered my brush, preservation ink, and a steady hand that I currently did not possess. Felix moved to assist and knocked over his inkwell in the process.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He grabbed a rag and mopped up the spreading puddle while Mrs. Henderson watched with undisguised amusement.

  I positioned the drawing carefully and dipped my brush. The first stroke wobbled. I stopped and took a breath and tried again. Better. The preservation ward required twelve precise lines in a specific sequence. I had done this so many times the pattern lived in my muscle memory.

  Line three came out slightly crooked.

  “That’s not quite right,” Felix observed from over my shoulder.

  “I know it’s not quite right.”

  “The angle needs to be steeper.”

  “Felix.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  I wiped the line away before the ink could set and redrew it. Steeper. Better. My head throbbed with every heartbeat but I forced myself to focus. Little Emma had worked hard on this drawing. She deserved a proper ward.

  Line eight almost intersected line four. I caught the mistake at the last moment and adjusted. Mrs. Henderson said nothing but I could feel her watching and judging. No doubt she had already composed the story she would tell her friends about the hungover glyphwrights who nearly ruined her granddaughter’s masterpiece.

  The last line completed the circuit. I held my breath and pushed intent into the pattern. Preserve. Protect. Keep safe from time and handling and the inevitable splashes that happened near any kitchen surface.

  The ward shimmered gold and settled into the parchment.

  “There,” I said. “Good for thirty years at minimum.”

  “Assuming you haven’t accidentally turned it into a fire hazard,” Felix added. He examined the ward with a critical eye. “The energy distribution looks slightly uneven in the third quadrant.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t fine. I said it was slightly uneven.”

  Mrs. Henderson tucked the preserved drawing back into its wrapping. “You boys are more entertaining than the theater. Same time next month for my regular orders?”

  “We’ll be here.”

  “Sober, preferably.” She grinned as left two silver pieces on the counter and swept out the door with her package. The bell rang again. I pressed my hands against my temples and wondered if it was possible to die from sound alone.

  The shop door opened again an hour later. I tried to brac for the bell but the sound still sent a spike of pain through my skull.

  Sarah entered and carried a large basket covered with a cloth. She took one look at me and pressed her lips together and fought back a laugh.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her voice was far too cheerful.

  “Is it?” I murmured

  “For some of us.” She set the basket on my desk and pulled back the cloth. The smell of fresh bread and something savory hit me immediately. My stomach lurched somewhere between hunger and rebellion. “I brought food for everyone. Whitmore mentioned you might need it.”

  “Whitmore knew we would be like this?”

  “Whitmore knows everything.” She unpacked warm rolls from the basket along with sliced ham and butter and a flask that smelled restorative.. “He also said to tell you that the network check-in is in two hours and you need to be functional by then.”

  Felix groaned and dropped his head onto his desk. I was sure I felt the thud from where I sat.

  “Eat,” Sarah said. She pushed a roll into my hands. “You’ll feel better.”

  I took a bite. The bread was perfect, soft and fresh with just enough salt. My stomach settled slightly, and I took another bite.

  Sarah watched me with concern, and amusement mingled in her expression. She had not been at the Crossed Keys last night. She had declined Kyle’s invitation with the excuse of early morning baking. Looking at her now, bright and alert and not suffering at all, I realized she had been the smart one.

  “How bad was it?” she asked.

  “Kyle kept ordering more wine.”

  “And you kept drinking it.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “It always does in the moment.” She handed Felix a roll. He accepted it without lifting his head from the desk. “Tom’s on his way. He wanted to check on those throwing knives for Shade before the meeting.”

  “Tom was there too,” I said. “He drank as much as we did.”

  “Tom’s a blacksmith. They’re built different.”

  The door opened again. Tom entered with all the energy of someone who had slept twelve hours and enjoyed a hearty breakfast. His grin when he saw us was undeniably malicious.

  “You two look terrible,” he announced. “Great night though.”

  “How are you not dying?” Felix demanded.

  “Clean living.” Tom grabbed a roll from Sarah’s basket and took an enormous bite. “Also, my father made me drink a raw egg with pepper and vinegar before bed. Family secret.”

  “That sounds worse than the hangover.”

  “Works though.” He chewed contentedly and watched us suffer with obvious satisfaction. “Kyle sends his regards. Says he slept in the armor last night. Wanted to make sure the detection array stayed calibrated.”

  “He slept in a chestplate?”

  “He’s an adventurer. I think they’re all a little strange.” Tom shrugged. “Said it was the best sleep he’s had in months, knowing something would wake him if danger got close.”

  I tried to feel professional pride. Mostly, I felt like my skull was too small for my brain.

  The shop door opened again. Master Whitmore entered and surveyed the scene with the practiced eye of a man who had seen countless apprentices make countless poor decisions.

  “You look like something a necromancer rejected,” he said.

  “Good morning, Master Whitmore,” I managed.

  “Is it?” He settled into the chair near Erasmus’s empty desk. “Let’s find out. Mr. Fairwind, the energy coefficient for a standard preservation ward operating under variable temperature conditions, if you please. Formula and application.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “You heard me. If you’re well enough to celebrate, you’re well enough to think.”

  My brain lurched into motion like a cart with a broken wheel. Energy coefficient. Variable temperature. The formula resided somewhere in my memory, but fog and pain blocked my path to it.

  “The base coefficient is determined by the material substrate,” I said slowly. “Modified by ambient temperature variance divided by the ward’s thermal tolerance threshold.”

  “And the practical application?”

  “You increase the coefficient by fifteen percent for every ten degrees of expected variance. More if the ward will be exposed to direct heat sources.”

  Whitmore nodded. “Mr. Penwright. The Guild regulation governing cross-jurisdictional ward maintenance. Citation and summary.”

  Felix raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression suggested he was weighing whether he could plead illness. “Regulation 7.3.2 of the Journeyman Standards. Any ward work performed outside the glyphwright’s registered jurisdiction requires notification to the local Guild office within three days of completion. Failure to notify results in a formal citation and possible suspension of operating privileges.”

  “Exceptions?”

  “Emergency repairs to prevent immediate harm. Crown-commissioned work. Contracts with pre-existing jurisdictional agreements.”

  “Acceptable.” Whitmore leaned back in his chair. “You’ll both live. Though I suspect you’re questioning whether you want to.”

  “The network check-in,” Sarah reminded him. “Two hours.”

  “Hour and a half now.” Whitmore stood. “Eat. Drink whatever restorative Miss Millstone brought. Be ready to speak coherently when we connect with the others.”

  “Others?” I asked.

  “Thomas. Rose. Erasmus if he can spare the time.” Whitmore’s expression shifted slightly. “Prince Adrian will be joining as well. He has news about Keldrath.”

  The fog in my brain cleared slightly. This was actual work. Important work. I couldn’t show up to a network meeting with a prince looking like I had crawled out of a wine barrel.

  “We’ll be ready,” I said.

  “See that you are.” Whitmore moved toward the door. “The price of overindulgence is paid in effort. Start paying.”

  An hour later we walked through Millbrook toward the city council chambers. The morning light still hurt but the food and restorative flask had helped. Sarah walked beside me and Tom strode ahead with the boundless energy of the unjustly healthy.

  “What do we need to report?” Felix asked. He had managed to flatten his hair into something approaching respectability.