She pulled her cloak of shadows closer. It wasn’t warm down here, and although her crippled heart beat anew, it didn’t flow with the blood of her mother. The cloak of shadows preserved her heat well enough and would do until she could make a fire.

  Which would take some doing. Down here there looked to be precious little to burn. The floor was made of a pale might-be-marble. The dead people were so far gone there was nothing there that would catch, although they had clothing that seemed to have withstood the ardure of time. Evanne poked about the ruined promenade as her eyes grew more accustomed to the murk. The street was lined with buildings, and a few glances inside suggested they were shops because the layout spoke of shelves and cabinets rather than beds and couches. The contents of the shelves were lost to time, everything ruined or rotted.

  A sound made her freeze.

  She froze, as if that would make her ears work harder. If I were half Feybrind I’d hear better, but no, I’m made of two peoples who weren’t gifted with anything special there. No other sound reached her, but she placed her feet with a little more care.

  It wasn’t easy. Her ankle still sucked, so it was half-hobble, half-padfoot, but she did the best she could. I wonder how Tarragon is. The fairy would be welcome now, not just because she was light and heat. Evanne missed her, and wanted to say crazy things like I love you or You are beautiful. It made no sense because she was pocket-sized, which would make romance … mechanically tricky. But Evanne’s mended heart seemed to urge her to say things when the fairy wasn’t there, then her stupid mouth seized like a stuck gear when the elfin woman was near. For all I’m a master of Tricks, I’m bewitched.

  The sound came again. It was like a metal bar scraping on old stone, and Evanne imagined a horror with a spear dragging it against the cream marble beneath her feet. It was certainly the mania of her overworked imagination, because this place was dead as dead could be. But she sang songs and told stories; it stood to reason being in touch with that side of life gave her bountiful creativity, although Evanne wished her brain would save it for a better time.

  Being caught in the open would make her sucky ankle even more suckful, so she crept to a doorway on her left.

  It was wide enough to admit two at once. Within she found a store with chest-high glass cabinets against the back wall. The interior held buckets with a cool, gritty substance within. Evanne imagined mould and kept her distance. The ancients were said to keep everything clean; a fungus that grew here was something a wise person wouldn’t want to mess with.

  A glimmer of ghost-blue caught her eye. Evanne didn’t scream or flail, because she was used to the dead, and if there was a thing known to all it was: spectres couldn’t speak. They couldn’t change the world, not even to pick up a pin, let alone harm a half-blooded vagrant.

  The ghost was a girl, maybe ten summers with a tailwind. She wore a frock, nice enough if you were into that kind of thing, and while Evanne could see no colours she fancied it might have been yellow and white. The lighter part had a terrible stain above the heart, the fabric rent, and Evanne figured the wound that killed her took her quick enough. The girl beckoned, drifting through the right wall. That would lead further up the promenade, but through the buildings instead of out in the open.

  If only I could walk through walls.

  Evanne glared at the wall, then hustled to the back of a store. Sure enough, a thing people of today and ancient times shared was a space out the back. A twinge hit her as she remembered Old Merle, and his storehouse, and the strings she’d stolen, but only because he’d let her. Deep breaths. Keep moving. She slipped through a door that merely screamed on ancient, rusted hinges rather than howled, finding herself in a room full of crumpled crates and boxes. She frowned, because most things the ancients made stood the test of time. Didn’t they?

  She lifted the flap of a box. Inside were cylindrical containers. Food, perhaps? She stood, hunting through the dark for a way out. There. A door at the back opened into a slender alleyway. It ran parallel to the promenade. Blue hinted ahead, and Evanne headed after the ghost. The spectre wasn’t messing around. She caught a glimpse of ether saxe as it flitted from a building, stormed up stairs that no longer existed with the insouciance of a child unaware of the world’s dangers, and through a cracked remnant of a door. Evanne hustled to the no-longer-stairs, swore, and slipped into the building through an open window.

  Evanne expected a house, because spectres seemed drawn to their past, but she found a wide room with curious panels of glass affixed to the wall. All was cold and dead to her Vhemin’s eyes. The floor was a smooth material that sucked up the noise of her footfalls. A couple of skeletons were hanging out on a dilapidated bench in the corner. Evanne ignored them and tried ignoring—but without much success—the assault of dust and musk that threatened to steal a sneeze from her. She located intact stairs through a door that fell apart at her touch and headed aloft. A landing with broken boards promised a swift drop to a broken leg, so she edged along beside a railing that looked no stronger than a newborn deer. The craftsmanship was fine enough, but the palings were plain steel that didn’t like these conditions.

  A glimmer of cobalt drew her to a closed door, so she lifted the latch, took a calming breath, and stepped inside. She found a room perhaps six metres a side, but the bulk of it was taken up by an epic dollhouse on a table at waist height. The girl crouched atop this, blue sifting from her body, the courtesy of luminance letting Evanne’s human eyes take in details her heat vision couldn’t.

  First, the dollhouse: it was all walkways and buildings. Someone built this child a city to play with. There were no dolls left Evanne could see, but the girl went through the motions well enough.

  Second, the walls: they had similar glass panels to below, but the spectre’s cyan light let Evanne see they were clouded with smoke, rather than mirrors or pictures. The far wall boasted another door which hung wide in a drunkard’s leer. The walls held ancient writings which Evanne didn’t much care for the look of. They were familiar shapes but made no sense. By the Three, what is an IMPERIUM CENTRUM? She frowned at the words for a moment, then glanced to the girl, who still played with the epic dollhouse.

  The ghost wanted something, but Evanne was in no mood to play with dolls. Still, the girl was intent, hunched over a large structure. She glanced at Evanne, gave an eyeroll, the meaning of which spanned the ages, and beckoned. Evanne growled, adjusted her guitar’s strap, and padded closer. She tested the table for strength, and it didn’t creak or pitch a fit, so she vaulted atop and made her way to the girl.

  It took a little doing. She tried to step in the streets rather than on the houses. She stubbed her toe, swore, swayed, and planted her foot in the middle of the promenade, then⁠—

  The promenade?

  Evanne felt her perspective shift as she saw the ‘dollhouse’ anew. This was no child’s toy. There was the store with the cylinders. And back there was where she’d landed from the trapdoor above. The child was hunched over the building they were in. Evanne unslung her guitar, crouched, and eyeballed the girl. “This is a map of the city?”

  The girl gave that some thought, then slowly nodded. She stabbed a blue arm at where they were, then along the city toward a taller structure that sat at the end of the table. Evanne crouch-walked toward it, trying not to trip and put her eye out on tiny houses. The taller structure had the look of a tower from which one could see the lay of the land. Perhaps the ghost wanted her to find a better vantage?

  Evanne did another scan of the table. The promenade ran the length of the city, but toward the let’s-call-it-east was a wide channel that ran perhaps two thirds the city’s length. Evanne tried to do some mental math and figured you could fit perhaps ten horse-drawn carts abreast along that laneway.

  She hopped off the table, crouching so her eye-line was level with the street, fancying it would give her a better view. When she straightened, the girl was right before her. Evanne leaned on her guitar. “You want me to go to the tower? What’s there? Is that where you died?” A head-shake. “Something to help you? Give you peace?”

  The girl puzzled over this a moment or two, then shook her head. She just pointed at the tower. Evanne sighed, then leaned against the wall. “Fair enough, spirit. You can’t talk, so I’d best just go there myself, hey?” She glanced at her guitar. “Would you like me to play for you?” The girl snapped out like a candle, the pitch of black returning again. Evanne sighed again, rubbing her forehead. Okay. The ghost doesn’t want music. Best get to the tower.

  She turned to the broken door, and the table gave a click. Evanne froze into a crouch, ready to drop or run. Nothing else happened for a moment, then the panels around the room gave a soft light. They were full of the patterns of swirling snow, flickering like a troubled fire. Evanne straightened, because nothing seemed to want to eat her face. Some ancient technology woken by her presence perhaps?

  Evanne paced the walls, running a hand against cool glass. The panels didn’t do anything else. Best give the table one last look, fix my bearings, and be off. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust this room, but she had bigger issues. Tarragon was prisoner above with a psycho Feybrind, and the faster she got there, the better. As she faced the table, she saw motes of ember at a few points in the streets. Some moved, but most didn’t. One was near the building she was in.

  Evanne leaned closer, reaching a finger out to touch the mote. Her fingers passed clear through it, and she felt no heat or resistance. The panel across from her flickered, then filled like a painting. She saw the street she’d been in well enough, which was also empty.

  She looked at the mote, the panel, and back to the mote. “Are you showing me outside? Are you saying there’s a, what, an invisible monster out there?” Evanne glowered. “If you’re going to show me anything, show me Tarragon. Show me above.”

  Nothing.

  She slammed her fist against the table. “Show me!”

  The table trembled, then the entire tableau shifted. Walls fell into the ground, silting away as if made from sand. The table’s length became a blank canvas, all except the tower at the end. This stayed upright, but the surface shifted as if Evanne’s perspective were watching it rise, then the table hissed, sand rushing up and creating new buildings. The whole thing took but moments.

  Evanne realised her hand was still balled in a fist, so she relaxed it. A good Trick to remember is, when something unexpected happens, make it look like I planned it. She paced the table’s perimeter, feeling her eyebrows draw into a frown that threatened to become a scowl. The panels on the walls reverted to calming snow as if reading her mood. The new let’s-call-them-streets still ran a long distance, a central avenue giving passage along the length of the city, but where houses and shops were before this seemed to have more large structures.

  An idea tickled the back of her mind as a further red motes blinked into being. She glanced at the central tower, then said, “Further down.” The table shifted, hissing as sand trickled like water. The tower’s face changed again as if Evanne were travelling further down, then stopped, the table filling with sand structures once more. Larger holding areas, more red motes, and still a central thoroughfare. She glanced at the tower. “So you’re always there. This is a map of a multi-level city. And you’re a keep for a castle that runs, what, leagues below?”

  The tower chose to keep its silence.

  “How far down does this go?” The table shimmered, the tower going down once, twice, and a third time, stopping to reveal a level with promenade, but the area was smaller, the structures more utilitarian. Where before there were smaller rooms and laneways, this was connected by stout, workmanlike channels.

  “Back up. All the way to the top.” The table hissed and changed, taking Evanne’s view back up five levels to where they were. She glared at the tower. “All the way. To the top, I said. Where I fell from.”

  The table did nothing.

  Evanne felt her scowl relax into a plain ol’ frown. She padded to the door at the end of the room and peered out. There was a short corridor ending in a window. Evanne hustled down it, then peered out and up. The world outside was brighter, somehow. She could see, sure enough, there was a roof above, plain as houses. She glanced toward where the map showed the tower should be and goggled in surprise. Where before the streets were mired in blackness, light lay long, cool fingers on the streets. The tower was clearly visible, studded in sullen lamps rising upward. They might once have been evenly spaced, but not all worked. Time robbed many of whatever magic made them work.

  Evanne followed their broken line to the ceiling high above. Sure enough, the floor was at a crazy angle to the level above. Perhaps the table couldn’t show above because the system broke? What could break a system like this? She leaned on the windowsill, feeling the smooth ancient maybe-marble beneath her hands.

  Wait. This is the stone they used, but the level above was mostly made of metal.

  Evanne’s perspective shifted, her mind clicking pieces into a lock. “Murderous bastards!” She scrambled back into the table’s room, then tapped the tower. “Show me the top level.” No change. “Show me the bottom level.” Sand shifted, silted, and became the smaller bottom level. “Top.” It changed back to where she was.

  Evanne looked up at the roof above. “This is the top. The thing above us is a, what, a ship? A ship crashed into this city?”

  She sat on the floor, instrument clattering beside her. The invaders crashed a giant warship atop Tarragon’s home. No wonder she doesn’t remember what is above. That was never her home. Evanne glanced around. “This underground tomb is the ancient city of the fairies. It’s been lost for hundreds of years, not because it’s at the bottom of a lake, but because there’s a huge … ship? An Artifice larger than anything I’ve heard of? Something’s on top of it. A battleship?”

  The ghostly figure of the long-dead girl materialised beside her. The girl’s face was sad, but she nodded. Then she pointed at the tower. The dead might not talk, but they could get the point across. Go there, bard, and free us all.

  Now the tower was lit with lights to guide her in, Evanne made good time getting there. From her initial vantage they’d seemed wan, but the closer she got the brighter they became. Small suns, a fairy magic long asleep below the corpse of a crash that killed them all.

  She paced along, mindful of the red motes the table had showed her. The ghostly girl drifted in her wake, not doing much of anything useful until Evanne came to a barricade in the middle of the thoroughfare. It was poor work, all rotted tables and broken chairs. A fair number of corpses adorned both sides of the barricade. The ones on Evanne’s side were mostly solid skeletons you’d expect Vhemin to house within their flesh. Even dead, rotted to naught, they were impressive.

  The other side? Humans, more or less. No Feybrind Evanne could see, but a small collection of sticks caught her eye, and she realised, Those aren’t sticks. She crouched, reaching through the barrier, and—gently, bard, Three’s mercy but be gentle!—lifted the sad collection through.

  It was a fairy, of course. The tiny body was no more than a hand’s length tall. Small even for their people. A child? Did they have children? Or just a super-small Builder? The fairy’s gossamer wings still glittered in the dim light, but the rest was old death like everyone else. She held the little bundle to her chest for a moment, feeling unaccountably sad. How do we protect those who need it most? How do we stop those who are too small for the size of our fights? She thought of Tarragon, the fairy’s unstoppable courage, her fierceness, and felt sadder still.

  She placed the bundle back by the barricade, stood, and brushed her pants down. “I’m sorry, fairy. I’ll find out what did this. I promise.” Evanne eyed the barrier, thinking to climb it, but when she put a hand on a table it groaned. “Right. Try climbing that and the whole lot could come down. Be crazy to arrive after the big fight, and die snared in matchwood.”

  A glance left showed a laneway she could help herself to. Evanne turned that way and found herself face to face with the ghost. The girl shook her head. Evanne glanced around her. “There’s a passage. We need to go that way.” Another head shake. Evanne growled. “Look, I know you’re very dead and all, but this isn’t helping. My fr…” Friend? Not right. “My Tarragon is up there,” she pointed to the roof high above,” and she’s going to die if I don’t hustle.”

  The ghost put hands on hips, settling in for the duration.

  Oh, for goodness sakes. Evanne sidestepped the spectre and headed down the laneway. Her Vhemin blood heat vision just gave her the cold blues and chilly blacks of a world bereft of light and life for hundreds of years. The rays coming from the tower weren’t sufficient to lift the mood of the alley, but the ghost hopped along beside her, then in front, back-pedalling as the girl waved her arms frantically.

  Evanne glared, storming on, because no one cared about Tarragon, or the world above, or people who were still fucking alive, by the Three, and this was no exception. Ahead, a bend in the lane headed toward the tower, so Evanne followed it, then stopped. Ahead of her was a sturdy box. It was the size of a sea chest, roomy enough to hold a body, two if you cut them up well enough. It was just sitting there, not doing anything, but also not a rotted ruin like the rest of the place.

  The ghost hung back. Evanne looked at the chest, then the girl. “This is what you’re worried about? This is just a box.” And she wound up, levelling a kick into the stout wood.

  Clunk. It didn’t sound hollow. It didn’t even really sound like wood. It sounded like … leather, maybe. Evanne frowned, crouched, and touched the box. It wasn’t warm, but the wood felt like parchment, a softness wood didn’t have.

  She stood, then kicked it again. Clunk. Again. Clunk. As she was about to give it another jolt, because the sound was just so weird, the box opened, revealing a giant maw with more teeth than a tribe of Vhemin. Evanne backed up, because the box would definitely hold a person if it chewed them up, then backed up further as it sprouted legs and two clawed arms. She screamed, turned, and ran. Back around the corner, out into the street, all the while wondering, Is this what the red motes were? The monsters here aren’t invisible. They look like luggage!