“The monster in her,” Armitage trundled on, “needs the sands. Blood calls to blood where the sun scorches the earth.”

  Vertiline turned to Sight of Day. “I suppose you support this hair-brained scheme?”

  The Feybrind detached himself from the wall. {Your clever daughter ditched me.} He paused, examining his hands as if they’d turned traitor. {She left me to go into the wasteland. I failed her, and I will find her. I will go with the merchant while you stay here.} Golden eyes found Armitage. {If you need coddling, that is. While you coddle, I’ll get to work.} He padded toward the hallway exit.

  Vertiline rounded on Amir. “Did they set you up to this?”

  “No, High Justiciar.”

  “Call me Justiciar one more time and you’ll lose another tooth,” she warned.

  “Yes, High Justiciar,” Amir said mildly. “Tomorrow, when we meet Amber and Jade, we should be ready for an attack.”

  “What do you know?” Larochette hissed. “You didn’t say anything about an attack.”

  “Oh, we’re just lucky that way.” Amir looked to Faust. “Wouldn’t you say, brother?”

  “Aye. We are the luckiest alive.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sight of Day worked his way toward the docks. He wasn’t taking special pains to not be seen, but only thieves, assassins, and other Feybrind used the rooftops. Rarely would a human look up from the mud beneath their feet. It was a marvel they’d survived so long. Then again, they ruled the world, both before, and now. Being a human had its perks.

  Humans take everything so seriously. Perhaps it’s their mayfly lifespan.

  The sun was well and truly set, only the faintest hint of blue-yellow light touching the sky above the western sea. Ravenswall had its own beauty. Gulls flew above on their way to roost. Night birds called to each other. Sight of Day marked an owl taking wing. An early night hunter. Just like me. The rooftops below his padding feet were mostly tile. They kept the sun’s heat even after it had set. He was in the Artist’s Borough, the area the Raven Queen set aside for those with more heart than body. The Borough led to the docks, or near enough. A slight detour was well enough.

  Sight of Day liked human artists. They reminded him of Feybrind craftspeople. Dedicated to a perfection others couldn’t see, let alone pursue. He used to be one before life took him elsewhere.

  His path took him past music played on harp and mandolin. It led past bakeries where cakes were made into works of art. Sight of Day ghosted beside a window open to the night air, the faint scritch-scritch of quill on parchment reaching his sensitive ears. While he could hear the music and smell the cakes, he couldn’t read the poem without going inside.

  I wonder if it is as magnificent as the words Evanne teases from the heavens. Probably not, but all art had its place. It wasn’t a competition.

  The Feybrind’s path took him down a level onto a low roof. He used a drainpipe to scamper down, landing silently on a long roof. Now just one level above the street, a passerby might have seen him if the sky weren’t so dark. Two thugs clearly had the same sense of safety; they stood before him above the lintel of an open window. One was large, with a shaved head, and the other larger, with an impressive beard.

  It is strange how humans put so much hair on their faces. Is it to make up for the lack on the rest of their person?

  Sense suggested he slip on by. There was naught to be gained here. But the tink, tink of a hammer on steel drew his ear. It reminded him of his own smithcraft, the delicate shaping of metal that led to wonders like the blade at his hip. In the room below the lintel was another smith. Not a Tresward artisan forging Smithsteel for the will of the Three, just a man or woman intent on their craft even in these trying times. The presence of thugs suggested the smith was good at their job. Word was out, and covetous people wanted wonders that weren’t theirs.

  The tink, tink stopped with a grunt of disgust from within. “I’ll never get this right!” A man’s voice, young by how humans measured their brief span.

  How curious. He makes marvels yet is not satisfied. The thugs were still, perhaps waiting an opportune moment. The bearded one put lips to the ear of the bald, his voice so low only Feybrind ears would hear it a metre out. “We must get the sword.”

  Ah. A weaponsmith. Sight of Day crept closer to the thugs. The bald one nodded but had a restraining hand on the bearded one’s arm. “When he’s gone. No witnesses.”

  “There are other ways to remove witnesses.” Beard drew a thin slip of steel. The blade was dulled with lampblack, but Sight of Day didn’t think the old metal had much gleam left to give. His Feybrind eyes saw the state of the pitted metal.

  “Fair enough.” Bald freed a kosh from his belt. In Sight of Day’s opinion, a kosh was the kind of weapon you beat a man with until he couldn’t move, and then kept going if you wanted him dead. It wasn’t pretty, or merciful. The best thing you could say about a kosh was the price. It was cheap, for tawdry work. While there was surely a moral quandary in whether allowing the weaponsmith to live would deliver more death to the world, or save lives because people had steel against the claw and fang of the world, the man below the lintel was an artist. He was like the Feybrind, unsatisfied with his best, and wanting more from his art than his skills could provide.

  That’s cinched it, then.

  Sight of Day sighed, pulled out his own blade, and ran Beard through. The man arched, clawing at the handspan of steel sprouting from his chest. While he choked on blood, Sight of Day freed his blade, sweeping it across the throat of Bald as the man turned in alarm. He slipped back a couple metres while blood fountained and two men died. They fell to the roof, which made a noise.

  “Hello?” The smith within sounded nervous. Sight of Day hurried forward, grabbed collars, and pulled the men back from the edge. Lantern light’s fingers parted the night as the man looked out below. Sight of Day waited, silent, and after a few moments the light withdrew, the shutters closing behind it. He fussed with the bodies, tossing them into an alley below, before slipping to the street. He had the People’s curiosity, and wanted to see the art the weaponsmith was about.

  The window was latched, a trivial matter. He used a twist of metal from his belt and liberated the window, then eased it open. Inside, a workshop gleamed. A forge gave a sullen glow from the northern wall. An anvil was before it. It wasn’t large, more for the manufacture of horseshoes than ploughshares. Leaning against the anvil was a sword, or the makings of one. No hilt or crosspiece adorned the blade.

  He helped himself over the windowsill and retrieved the blade. The metal was light, and flexed when he tested the metal. Ah. It lacks tempered strength. He made his way about the room, finding charcoal, a hammer, iron ingots, and other such used in the making of fine steel. A chalk board was on a workbench, angry scrawls marking a failed attempt at the perfect recipe. Sight of Day erased it, fetched a nub of chalk, and wrote:

  Step one. Clear your mind.

  Step two. Use no more than 7 parts charcoal to one thousand parts iron. Less than 6 is also a mistake.

  Step three. Folding the steel takes time. Here is how it is done among the People.

  Helping mayflies was an argument long traded by the People. On the one hand, the obvious: their short-lived species couldn’t hope to equal the mastery of the Feybrind, and their petty natures could let them make weapons that would cut Feybrind just as easily as Vhemin. Sight of Day had a different take.

  They are children, and all children deserve to learn and grow.

  It was a matter unsettled between him and his son, before the latter had his name and then life taken by perverted monsters. Sight of Day didn’t mind that his son had a different perspective. Viewing things from a different angle and sharing the findings made for better craft, no matter the vantage. That he’d helped a human put a lift in his step as he traversed the rooftops. The docks were close, salt tang on the air, and the buildings closer to the ocean carried a more weathered look be they wood or stone.

  Some few ships bobbed at anchor. They were all sound enough vessels, but Sight of Day wanted the thing Amir had seen. A worthy ship. Something that drew the eye. Ah. There it is. It wasn’t the neat rigging, or the ropes coiled just-so. Nor was it the clean and clear deck, not a bucket astray, nor a hawser unlashed. No, it was the goons who lurked on the decks, hulking purpose directed toward the captain’s cabin. A cheery little light shone from the rear window, a sea lantern set to warm the heart while at harbour’s rest.

  That’s enough of that. The Feybrind slipped down from a warehouse roof, padding along the wharf toward the ship. A lookout lurked by a stack of crates sheltered by a waxed tarpaulin. Sight of Day relieved him of consciousness with a well-placed rap to the base of his skull, then tossed his crossbow, sword, dagger, kosh, darts, and garrotte into the ocean. He kept the man’s purse, because humans loved shiny things, and there were many things that glittered within. Perhaps Tilly will want them. She doesn’t smile, and for good reason, and I don’t expect baubles to change that. But a friend keeping her in their heart will help, if only a little.

  He jumped the paltry seven-metre gap between dock and ship, grappling the rearward lintel of the open window. The lantern gave a gentle light, but he turned golden eyes away, because the night was not yet done. Breathing came within, soft under the gentle wayward creaking of the ship. Two people, not at all alarmed, perhaps reading books and sharing wine.

  Sight of Day entered through the open window in a smooth movement, one hand on the sill, the other pushing the lantern aside. He landed on the carpeted floor, spreading his hands wide. I am a friend. The two people within were very surprised to see him. The man knocked a goblet over, so Sight of Day moved the three metres between window and table, caught it before it could clatter on the deck, and put it on the table.

  The woman sucked in a lungful of air, no doubt to scream or shout for aid, so Sight of Day liberated the man’s half-drawn blade, vaulted the table in the same motion, swished behind her, and clamped a fursoft hand across her mouth. He held the sword about her front, holding it by the tang, not hilt. An offering, not a threat.

  Everyone took a moment, which was good. Sight of Day waited them out. Humans moved very, very slowly most of the time, but this deserved an abundance of care. The man looked between his empty scabbard and the blade now in Sight of Day’s hand. The woman relaxed a fraction, then gently, so very carefully, took the sword.

  Sight of Day stepped back from her reach, because while he was confident in his skills with a blade, he didn’t know hers. {Hello. I am Sight of Day. There are six men on your deck who wish you harm. Do you know why?}

  The woman looked to be sucking in more air, so Sight of Day put a finger to his lips. Feybrind couldn’t speak but the gesture was universal. Be quiet. She closed her mouth, pursing her lips as if she could swallow sound. The man sketched a short bow. {I am⁠—}

  {I know who you are.} Sight of Day’s tail lash, lashed. {What is in question is who is on your deck.}

  The woman lifted her skirt, crouched to keep her shadow off the windows, and made her way to the door. Clever, that one. She lifted the bar, dropping it with exquisite care into its stays. Sight of Day shifted golden eyes to the man. The Feybrind knew humans found their jewelled eyes beautiful, captivating perhaps, and the People were no strangers to leveraging every advantage. The man looked into Sight of Day’s eyes, relaxing a micron. {I don’t know who they are. Our crew are⁠—}

  {I know you have no crew.} There was nothing for it but to burn precious time with stupid explanations. {This afternoon a son of the Three visited you. He holds no Storm but it is within him waiting for the right moment. He said this, yes?} The man nodded. {You are sand merchants, prowling the blasted plaguelands for trinkets to sell to humans. The curious part of this is how a human could do a thing the Vhemin, who call the wastelands their home, struggle with. It is a thing the People do not know how to do, and we know how to do almost everything.} He gave an encouraging nod. {So, why do six men with murder in their heart roam your deck? It doesn’t bother me. I can leave through the same window I came in. It might worry you, if you cannot use steel like Tresward.}

  The door creaked as the handle turned slowly. The bar held it, and after a moment, someone set shoulder to it. Whump.

  “A moment,” the woman called, cementing herself as the brains of the pair. “I but need my coat.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to the wall, the tiniest motion but not lost on one of the People. Sight of Day moved whippet-quick to the wall, eyes spotting the almost invisible panel more worn than others. He knocked it, and it opened, revealing a small device. The man rushed Sight of Day, so the Feybrind stepped behind him without taking his eyes off the device, then tapped the back of the man’s knee. He stumbled, and Sight of Day helped him to a sitting position.

  The device was similar to one the Feybrind had seen out on the plaguelands. They’d found several in a temple that birthed a lost friend, the dragon Ormeon. The devices were made of a curious mix of metal and glass. The one Sight of Day had seen could provide the true name of a Feybrind, the hidden one they trusted only to their closest friends. Knowing this name let Feybrind be Commanded, robbed them of will, could turn friend against friend, or worse, son against father.

  I want to destroy this thing.

  Still, there was something different about it. The panel of glass affixed to the device’s front was larger, and it had a curious weightiness to it, like the inside was larger than the outside, with all the world’s secrets packed within.

  Perhaps this thing is not like the other things.

  The door shook as a large fist hammered against the outside. Sight of Day rolled his eyes, popped the device into his pouch, winked at the woman, then drifted through the window to hang from the lintel. He gave the humans another encouraging nod, then lowered himself from view. Listening, and waiting.

  He heard the door’s bar lift, and the slam of it opening. The bar rattled against the deck, and an oof suggested the man had taken a stout blow to the stomach. The woman didn’t scream, bless her, but Sight of Day heard the sword she held clatter to the deck beside her brother.

  No matter.

  Heavy footsteps spread out within the room. The desk was knocked aside. The door of the cubby where he’d found the device rattled, then muffled scraping as a hand probed within. A sea chest lid opened, a thud as contents hit the floor. Sight of Day waited until footsteps approached his window, then he reached in, helping the surprised man within to exit over the side.

  He took the man’s place in the room as his startled shout ended in a splash. Five men remained, one hulking in the door as lookout. Well enough. The man by the sea chest lunged for Sight of Day with a heavy cutlass swinging about like a kite in a storm. He may as well have offered the blade to the Feybrind as a gift. Sight of Day took it from him, considered the fine carpet beneath his feet, and decided not to run him through.

  The dumbfounded man’s eyes crossed when Sight of Day rapped him on the head. As the man began his slow slide into gravity’s embrace, the Feybrind scampered over the table, because on the other side was a man with a small crossbow. The weapon fired, releasing a bolt to where Sight of Day had been what felt like ages past. Sight of Day borrowed the weapon, cudgelled the man against the wall with it, turned, and threw it at the man coming through the doorway. This served as a useful distraction, the man shouting as the stock broke his nose.

  Armitage is better at this. But Armitage wouldn’t have kept his head when he’d found the device, because his brother from another world took that kind of thing personally. The Feybrind felt his breathing hurry, his heart picking up the pace, and felt happy there was just one foe remaining in the room.

  The enemy had the look of a fencer. Classic guard pose, blade tip higher than hilt, just so, stance a little weighted on the rear foot. She paced about the table, feet moving with care across the carpet. Sight of Day bent, grabbed an edge of the rug, yanked, and then moved forward as she fell backward. Her sword clattered to the feet of the merchant brother, which might be a problem in moments but wasn’t presently.

  The swordswoman flailed, knocking her wrist against the table with a wince-worthy crunch, screamed, and then passed into unconsciousness as Sight of Day punched her in the temple. This but left the man with the broken nose at the door.

  The merchant sister was clambering to her feet, leaning on her brother’s recaptured sword, which wouldn’t do at all. If she got killed then the brother would be difficult, and Tilly had no time for difficulty. Sight of Day helped her up, took the sword from her, sidestepped her brother, took his sword as well, exited the cabin, and ran both blades through the chest of the man outside.

  The fellow he’d tossed out the window arrived up the gangplank, so Sight of Day waited for him, two blades in hand, blocked his clumsy lunge, and removed the man’s head.

  That job done, the Feybrind tossed his liberated weapons overboard, then returned to the cabin. He surveyed the unconscious forms. {I didn’t want to mess up your carpet.}

  The man looked at the fallen bodies, then at Sight of Day. “We are in your debt.”

  {Of course you are. Your whole species is in our debt. We make your tools of living and killing. You are infants who can’t clothe yourselves.} He noticed the man eying his pouch. Best get this done, and done well. He fetched forth the device. {I have seen one of these before.}

  The merchant’s sister looked surprised. “You’ve seen a star atlas? This is the only one we’ve ever found.”

  Sight of Day looked closer at the device. {A what?}

  “Star atlas.” The man held out a tentative hand. “Let me show you.”

  They didn’t smell like they were lying, but humans were duplicitous creatures. He felt a stab of guilt. Tilly is not a liar. Geneve was no liar. Meriwether was a sometime liar but not about the things that mattered. Perhaps he was judging because he’d seen much evil. Pocketing the device, he hefted unconscious people out the window. The waters below the ship would be crowded, but he didn’t have a better place. {Perhaps you can show me later. You should sleep elsewhere. This place isn’t safe.}