“We could just … leave.” Tarragon wrung her hands. “You and me. Or, hic, you, or, um. Hic.”

  Evanne didn’t seem to notice her tongue-tied nervousness. The maybe-Vhemin was on a roll, all shining eyes and youthful enthusiasm. “See, what we need to do is get in there, smash the bad people down, and show the remnant of the village a little freedom.”

  “Or we could leave,” Tarragon suggested again, but in a smaller voice.

  “Okay, let’s do that.” Evanne squared her shoulders. “Into the village. Nothing to keep us here.”

  She set off down the small incline, leaving Tarragon fluttering in the gentle breeze. When the maybe-Vhemin had gone twenty metres, safely out of earshot, the fairy sighed. “I don’t want another person that I love to die.”

  Chapter Three

  Evanne glared at the fortress. It was shitty top to bottom. Old stone, complete with crumbling masonry. A couple towers on the walls that needed re-thatching. Lichen roamed, and vines scaled. It looked like the ramparts had taken a beating in some faux war an age past, and no one had got about the task of repairing them.

  The guards were also shitty, because they were alert. The pair by the busted main gate were hands-on-pikes types, hard stares and a no-fucks-given view on the drizzle. On the wall above, archers patrolled with the lofty superiority of people who could put an arrow in you and knew there was nothing you could do about it.

  She turned to Hitch. “You’re sure this is the place? Why couldn’t you take me to a place with lax security?”

  “Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.” The spectre seemed distracted. “There’s something not right here. I can’t quite⁠—”

  “Of course it’s not right,” Tarragon hissed from the safety of Evanne’s cowl. “There are people there,” she jabbed a tiny arm, “who will kill,” she tugged Evanne’s hair, “her!”

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry. Making a point.”

  “Make it with your own hair.” Evanne felt the smile in her voice, no sting in it at all. Odd. Where’s my biting wit when it’s most needed? “What’s up, ghost?”

  Hitch sighed. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Means it’s something,” Evanne countered. “C’mon. You’re usually the one who wants to go in swinging.”

  “That’s because it’s not his fists doing the swinging,” Tarragon muttered.

  “I think there’s a bad person here,” Hitch said. “I think there’s a really bad person here.”

  “Well, duh.” Evanne straightened her cloak. “There’s only one thing for it. We’re playing a confidence trick.”

  “No,” Tarragon said. “We will die, because I’m a terrible liar.”

  “It’s fine, fairy.” Evanne beamed. “This is what I do.”

  Evanne strolled up to the gates. They were, unlike the rest of the keep, in relatively good repair. The road leading to them was rutted, muddy, and unsuited to horses. She kept her eye out for undead horrors, but nothing looked like a shambling wreck from beyond the grave. Just the standard poor maintenance common across all the Kingdom of Or’sen she’d had the dubious pleasure of seeing.

  The guards watched her wander closer, not doing much other than giving her a curious look every so often, as if she were a two-headed duck. As she drew near, she could see the stone wasn’t just crumbling, but rough-hewn. No one spared a bent copper baron when putting this one together. The tower roofs in need of re-thatching were actually bad repairs thrown atop chipped and sun-faded blue tiles. They reminded Evanne of her mother’s eyes. Vertiline had the colour of the sky in her eye.

  When she made it within hailing distance, a guard hollered, “Halt!”

  Evanne stopped, gazing up at the archers, who appeared to be taking a professional interest in her. She waited, hoping they wouldn’t nail her feet to the muddy road. Her boots were standing up well, the ancients’ material keeping them snug, but an arrow through the top would spoil waterproofing for all time.

  After a handful of moments that stretched to the point of discomfort, the guard said something that sounded like come closer. Evanne tossed a squint in his direction. “What?”

  “I said, come closer!”

  “Will your friends shoot me full of arrows?”

  The guard thought about it, glanced to his friend, then up to the archers. One archer looked down, shrugging, so the guard faced Evanne. “Probably not?”

  “You don’t sound certain.”

  “Uncertain times, friend.” The guard shifted his pike from left to right hand. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  Evanne put a little lazy roll into her stride as she drew closer. Be cool. She stopped about ten metres back. “Look all you like.”

  The guard gave her an up and down, then another go-over. Tarragon leaned into Evanne’s ear. “I don’t like him.”

  She ignored the sprite, giving the guard a sly grin. “You get what you need?”

  He stopped doing the up-and-down thing, looking her in the eye. “You look … different.”

  “It’s the cloak.” Evanne tugged it open. “Got it from an Imshir merchant who said it was one of a kind.”

  “And you believed him?”

  She snorted. “I liked the colour.”

  He laughed, a good-natured sound. “It suits you.”

  “My thanks.” She gave a mock bow. “I am here to play for the lord of the manse. I have a talent with the strings, and⁠—”

  “Now’s not a great time.” The guard looked at his friend who was as if cut from stone, eyes front, but Evanne noted a slight twitch in her eye. “See, Lord Gyles is … indisposed.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “He’s not available.” The guard sighed, a micron of his poise slipping as he leaned on his pike. “He’s here. But not for you.”

  Evanne widened her smile. “That’s okay, sailor. I’m not here for him.”

  Evanne and Hitch trudged in the guard’s wake, the spectre’s not-eyes downcast, his mind on something else. Tarragon remained in Evanne’s hood, glimmer hidden, but still warm. The keep’s design was unconventional. The immediate courtyard past the gates was wide and thin, no ostlery in sight. A few stray piles of rotted straw to the east suggested livestock were more welcome in that direction. To the west lay a cobbleway so worn the stone sagged in the middle.

  Evanne frowned. “Maintenance not a big priority?”

  The guard gave her a backward glance. “Not for a long time. Lord Gyles doesn’t notice things like that. C’mon.”

  He led her further, the passage to the west jinking north into a wide, circular walled enclosure. Here the age of the stone was more apparent. To the east lay a shitty, rotted double door that was open, one half laying on the old stone floor. A barred gate to the west called to her because the door was the only thing she’d seen that looked new, but she resisted the pull. To the north a passage barred by a ruined portcullis and slump of broken masonry spoke volumes. Evanne pointed. “The boss not give a shit if you die when the roof caves in?”

  The guard glanced to the north, startled as if seeing it for the first time. “You know, I think … there’s something about that…” He trailed off, sounding befuddled.

  Tarragon leaned into Evanne’s ear, whispering, “Careful now.”

  “It’s all good.” Evanne spoke expansively, arms wide. “You said we were going to meet your captain?”

  “Ed,” the guard nodded. “That’s right. This way.” Predictably he led Evanne to the east, not the highly attractive west.

  Evanne gave a last, longing glance westward. “What’s that way?”

  “Eh?” The guard frowned. “Don’t rightly know. Only the lord himself goes that way. Not even Ed gets a look in.”

  Evanne sighed. “If only we knew someone who could walk through walls.”

  The guard laughed. “If only.”

  “Oh!” Hitch’s blue brightened. “You mean me.” At Evanne’s nod, he drifted west while she followed her escort. Another north-south corridor promised an ache to the brain if she tried to get out of here in a hurry. This place is a warren.

  Her chaperone headed north. She glanced south, flicking a shooing motion in that direction. I don’t know if Pakhet is here, but if so, she can go for a look-see. Evanne jogged to catch up to the guard. “I never got your name, and ‘sailor’ seems so presumptuous.”

  “I was a sailor, that’s the thing.” He scratched under his helmet, then straightened it. “Pay is for shit and there’s a high chance of getting wet.”

  She laughed. I don’t want to kill this one. He’s … likeable! “They call me Evanne the Half-Made.”

  “They call me Quinton, on account of it being my name.” Quinton gave her a shy smile. “What’s half-made about you? Everything seems to be in working order.”

  “Here’s the thing, Quinton.” Evanne waited for him to open the door at the end of the corridor, which he did with the help of a large ring of keys and a lot of grunting. “You and I? We can flirt a little. Hell, it’s fun. I’m enjoying it.”

  “But.”

  “But, and here’s the thing, you’re just built of all the wrong pieces.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  “Shame.” Quinton shrugged it off. “Don’t begrudge a man for trying.”

  “The Three love a trier.” Evanne glanced up. “At least, that’s what Mama said. Papa had a different view.”

  “Here we are.” Quinton pushed the door wide.

  Behind lay a large room, complete with dogs, men, women, tables, smoke, the smell of burnt meat, ale, and sweat. Evanne loved everything about it. First, the dogs. There were four, big mongrels that looked made of spite and the souls of the damned. All were black, slavering hounds. The men and women were what you’d expect at first glance, but scratching deeper left a more irritating itch. Sure, they had armour and weapons, but only a few had the muscled look of those used to hitting other people for money. A few didn’t look used to outside work, or inside work for that matter.

  The burnt meat smell came from a massive fireplace with a spit. The remains of an animal that could have been a pig charred merrily away. Ale was easy to place, the large open casks about the room suggesting a group used to the crutch of liquor to tide them through the watch.

  Evanne glanced at Quinton. “You’re not really a guard, are you?”

  “Careful,” Tarragon warned again. “Things aren’t what they seem.”

  “I…” Quinton frowned.

  “Used to the sea,” Evanne urged. “More like, a lake. Hollyhead’s waters. Hmm?”

  Quinton’s frown deepened, the furrows on his brow looking like mountain ranges. “I⁠—”

  “Quinton!” A woman stood from a huge chair in the middle of the room. She was striking, once black hair falling like a silver-grey waterfall over her shoulder. “Was I in any way unclear?”

  Quinton had the look of a man finding himself in a pickle not entirely of his making. Before he could speak, Evanne dredged up a platinum solar smile, and stepped in front of the guardsman. “My lady.” She dropped the words like she dropped her bow: elegantly, with poise, and assurance that went dragon high.

  “I’m no lady, you imbecile,” the woman barked. “I’m the captain of the guard. And the whimpering quim behind you is⁠—”

  “Quinton, your master of ceremonies,” Evanne purred. “He knows how hard it is here on the edge of the world. Naught but sheep for company, assuming you can handle the smell.” Was that a twitch of a smile? “Truth, there aren’t enough sheep to go around.” That brought a chortle from a brave hero near the fire—Evanne couldn’t mark the man, but she wanted to thank him. “I am but a lonely traveller on the road, seeking shelter, company, and but a sip of broth.”

  “We’re no charity.”

  “Nay, you are…” Evanne frowned, then turned to Quinton, jerking her thumb at the angry woman. “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Ed,” the guardsman said.

  “Ed’s a boy’s name,” Evanne, as if to someone very young, and inexperienced in the ways of the world.

  “Short for Eden,” he said.

  “Ah.” Evanne turned back to Ed, smile just as wide as ever. “Ed, you run a fine house. And such a fine house deserves song for all under its roof. I promise I will play you music the likes of which you’ve never heard.” She unslung her guitar, ignoring the shift of hands to weapons and straightening of spines that promised a readiness for bloodshed. Tough crowd. “I swear before the night is out⁠—”

  “You will play and only take our food if we like it?” Ed snorted, clearly liking the bargain. “You must be very stupid or very good.”

  “Why not both?” Evanne stroked the strings, fingers gentle, coaxing, comforting the guitar. The chord drifted from the instrument, sifted along the old stone floor, and stilled all within the room.

  “You’re really very good at that,” Tarragon said. “Where did you learn to play?”

  “Imshir,” Evanne said out the side of her mouth. “There was nothing to do but get drunk or play.”

  Ed relaxed a whisker, raising her chin with interest. “And with one note, you have my attention.”

  “Three.”

  “What?”

  “Three notes,” Evanne said. “It’s a chord, and… you don’t care, do you?”

  “Do I look like I care?” But Ed was smiling with it, something less harsh in her voice. Something almost wistful. “I think…” She listed for a moment. “I think I need more wine!” She held her goblet aloft.

  A general chorus of agreement sounded from the men and women scattered about. Evanne took that as a good sign and navigated toward the fire. While her heart was better than new, and her human blood warmer than the Vhemin other half, it was still too cool in Or’sen by far. She settled in an empty chair by the open hearth, feeling it creak beneath her. She allowed herself to relax. I’m in.

  Chapter Four

  Tarragon did not like being in this place. Underneath the smell of Bigs was an odour she couldn’t put her finger on. It felt like something she should know from the Manifest, but of course she didn’t have one of those. But Evanne was here, and so there was nowhere else she’d rather be. It didn’t stop her wishing Evanne, and thus Tarragon herself, were somewhere else though.

  Evanne’s fingers had drifted to the strings, the maybe-Vhemin getting that far off look she had when she made music. Tarragon didn’t think of it as playing, because she’d heard people play before. They held instruments or used their voice, and sounds came out, no problem. That part was similar.

  But until she’d met Evanne, she’d never found someone who held music inside them. The notes in her chest, right next to her heart, and urged into life because Evanne wanted everyone around her to experience the same thing she did.

  The bard didn’t sing. She made you feel.

  Tarragon wiped a tear from her eye, which was a special kind of bullshit because Evanne wasn’t even playing the soppy stuff yet. This won’t do. As the song wound down and a man brought Evanne a flagon of ale, Tarragon leaned close the maybe-Vhemin’s ear. “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  Evanne shook her head. “No.” A hesitation. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Tarragon lied. “I want to see what’s keeping Hitch.”

  “Good idea,” Evanne said. “I’ll stay here until, well, they feed me.” Tarragon could hear the smile in Evanne’s voice, one of those ones Tarragon knew was real, not made up for show or pageantry. It was small, and uneven, but just for the fairy. “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” Tarragon lied again. “I’m tiny. What could go wrong?”

  “Hmm.” Evanne turned away, attention drifting to her music and her crowd. Tarragon reached a hand to stroke those rust locks, then took wing.

  She’s not ignoring me. She’s just … focused on other things.

  Tarragon fluttered through the crumbling shitpile that tried to stand up to the memory of being a castle, ignoring just about everything. The darkness didn’t bother her, because she glowed. Cobwebs she didn’t fear. Spider’s silk couldn’t withstand glimmer, no matter the size of the spider. She zipped past mouldering tapestries. A proper Builder might know how they were made. Weave? Or is it weft? She scrubbed her hair, wanting to get fingers into her brain, to comb through the Manifest’s gaps to get to the truths other Builders had.

  All except those in her clutch, barring Helio, who had it all. Tarragon had nothing. Not even a sword.

  It was with that unfortunate thought Tarragon realised she was lost. She’d flown through a passage that smelled of rotted wood and chalk, then darted into an old dumb waiter, up, out into a disused bedroom, down another passage, and then about forty other turns she didn’t remember.

  Which left her in a dark corridor with no paintings, the slumbering remains of an ancient tapestry decaying quietly to itself against a wall, and no clue where to go next. The obvious path is to find Hitch, because he might know where the Raven Queen and Heser the Cheg are. Once we have them, we can get out, and stop consorting with people who don’t know how to decorate.

  As plans went, it was a good one. Find their maybe-friends, take wing, and get gone. They’d even talked it through, just the ghost, Evanne, and Tarragon. Tarragon didn’t remember them talking about how the fairy would get lost and spoil everything.

  I’ve screwed everything up.

  She bit her lower lip, glimmer subsiding in shame. Think, fairy. I’m good at thinking. They made me to be good at making stuff they couldn’t. Surely I can make my own way out of here?

  Tarragon glanced left, then right, then gave a tiny hic.

  Laughter.

  She spun, eyes trying to pierce gloom her glimmer couldn’t reach. The laughter wasn’t close. It was sepulchral, male, and made her feel uncomfortable in her stomach, but it was at least someone who sounded like they knew where they were and how to get to where they wanted to be.

  Good start.

  The fairy fluttered along, weaving a little in indecision. After a turn of the passage, she spotted a door cracked ajar ahead. A slender lick of orange light lay against the old stone floor. The light showed dust, highlighting the lack of broom use. There were no convenient places to hide, but that was okay because she’d heard laughter not mad panicked screaming.