Chapter 10

The next three waking cycles were a continuous exercise in defying probability by exploring the extreme limits of ingenuity.

The rough caverns weren’t exactly infested with fiends, but that almost made it worse. Scorio could climb and walk for hours without seeing another living thing, only to stumble into a gigantic leech whose innards contained mesmerizing star clusters that stupefied his mind and made it nearly impossible to think.

The longer he went without running into a monster, the greater his sense of dread; on some irrational level, he started to believe that the duration of solitude corresponded to the monster’s lethality, so that he was almost relieved to cross the path of a flame-breathing centipede twice his own length right after escaping the trap of a dog-sized antlion that sought to suck him into its trap.

The chalk proved to be his greatest defense, though he was increasingly loath to use it. His lantern-moss had nearly grown completely dark when he turned a corner and awoke a sleeping carpet of mushrooms that began to glow brightly, their gills emitting a green, noxious light, and which then released a cloud of spores into the air that began to float in his direction.

A step backward, a quick scrape of the chalk across the tunnel, and the gas and spores were held at bay.

He experimented with different techniques after realizing that closing off an entire tunnel was unnecessary. Thus, when he ran into a boulder-sized toad which sat in the center of a cavern, its smooth, eyeless sockets shadowed under peaked horns, he simply backed away. But when the toad began to shorten the ground between them, however, somehow compressing the distance so that Scorio felt as if he were falling toward the fiend, he simply drew a two-inch-wide line on the ground. This invisible pole smashed into the toad’s face, shattering its jaw and knocking it off its perch.

He considered different tactics as he climbed and rested. What if he drew a circle about himself? Would he remain trapped for hours, or eventually run out of air? What if he drew a line on a pebble, then turned the pebble over so that it faced an oncoming enemy—would the invisible wall turn into a lance, or a razor-sharp curtain on which his foe would impale himself?

That one was quick to test—the chalk wouldn’t mark any handheld object, and drawing the line on a pebble that lay on the ground nailed the pebble down as if it had melded with the floor.

When he was next in a larger cavern, he drew an inch-long line on the wall, with the result being an invisible pole that extended clear to the far side of the cave. Easily ten yards. Which didn’t mean it would extend forever, but gave him a sense of its flexibility. Nor was it particularly sharp—it felt like the rounded edge of a rod, perhaps half an inch thick.

His experiments were curtailed by his desire to conserve the chalk. Already he’d used a quarter of it escaping five different monsters, each distinct from the last. At the rate he was going, he guessed the chalk would last him another fifteen or so moderate applications, and then it would be gone forever.

The rod and bridge were much harder to use. They required focus, summoning an image of his Igneous Heart, and then tediously sweeping the dark clouds around and into each one that he wished to activate. Useful for crossing the innumerable chasms or scaling sheer rock faces, but far too slow to use in combat.

Not that he could think of how to use them to stop a charging foe.

The occasional stream or silty pool assuaged his thirst, but by the third day, his hunger pangs had faded away and left him in a state of lethargic stillness. Running caused him to grow dizzy, and he found it incredibly easy to just sit and do nothing, resting contentedly while feeling light and hollow.

But always he pulled himself back up to his feet. His wounds scabbed over and began to heal without signs of infection. The deep, sucking pain in his core that Praximar had dealt him also began to fade. He’d discarded the last of the lantern-moss for a glowing sapphire he’d stolen from a large nest while its occupant was gone, and not stuck around to see what might come back to complain.

On he went, climbing, struggling for the surface. Resting when he had to, pushing on until he reached an obstacle that he thought would be his last.

But between the bridge and the steel rod, his determination and the ability to create invisible rods with the chalk to grab hold of, he managed to keep climbing. Each hour a success. Each time he awoke unmolested from sleep upon some high hidden perch was another improbable victory.

Until at last, half-delirious, dragging his feet across the ground, he crested a sharp rise and saw a cavern saturated with a sulfurous yellow light. He froze, one hand clutching the now-dull dagger, the other already fumbling to put away the sapphire in exchange for his chalk, and stared into the pocket cavern, searching its confines until he saw the source of illumination: a ragged crack in the ceiling.

For a moment he thought it might lead into the Gauntlet, then realized that this was a different kind of light; not a hazy, apocalyptic orange glow, but rather a washed-out, dusty burn.

Scorio had learned the value of patience, of caution, so he remained still, just watching, waiting for some sign of danger or a trap to manifest. But after a long spell of immobility, he simply couldn’t restrain himself any longer.

He had to look through that ragged rent in the ceiling.

Had to see what lay beyond.

Exercising as much care as he could muster, he leaped silently over the crest and landed in a crouch. Watched the walls, expecting something awful to rush him at any moment, and crept to the spot where the yellow light was brightest. Stowed the sapphire in his robe and raised his hand to look up through his fingers.

After so many days spent in soft blue radiance, the cadmium yellow burn from above felt unnatural, felt wrong somehow. Yet, grimacing against the glare, he slowly began to distinguish a slender glowing wire stretching across the sky.

Scorio’s heart began to surge within his chest. The space outside was vast, a cylinder so huge he could barely grasp its enormity. He took one final glance around the cave, set the bridge upon the ground, and swept black wind into the treasure’s funnel.

The bridge sprang to life, arched up and out of the hole. Still squinting against the unaccustomed brightness, he climbed up, hand over hand, till at last, he was able to poke his head out and gaze at the world above.

Scorio gaped for precious seconds, only to remember at the very last moment that the bridge was about to contract. He scrambled out of the hole just in time. The bridge sprang up under the power of its own recoil and clattered down amid the rocks.

But for the first time since acquiring the treasure, Scorio didn’t immediately reach for it. Instead, he pulled himself out all the way, sat against a jutting rock, and stared.

The sun-wire, or source of light, or whatever it was, stretched like a filament of spun gold through the air above, a central axis around which the city of Bastion curved, its buildings set along the inside of a vast cylinder. Streets rose up on both sides to meet on the far side of the sun-wire, perhaps a dizzying four thousand feet above.

And what a sight. Craning his head he thought he could make out life playing out all around him and on the streets far above. Small dots moving that could have been pedestrians, the tops of vegetation, of buildings. Everybody was pulled toward the street beneath their feet, even if they walked directly overhead.

It made him feel vertigo. He couldn’t have stood up if he’d tried.

The sun-wire’s golden light filled the entire cylinder. Its glow washed out details, reduced shadows to dusty darkness and the rest to shades of yellow, orange, and amber. It was anchored at the left end of the cylinder to a vast, ornate protrusion of pale marble.

But as pristine and glorious as that anchor point seemed to be, the left-most part of Bastion that abutted it was in ruins. Ruins that had consumed a third of the city, ruins in whose periphery he now sat.

In them, he saw the vast, blocky remnants of scorched buildings, the streets between them having often collapsed into chasms whose depths glowed with fire or perhaps smoldering magma. Buildings whose sides had partially collapsed and spilled out into barren avenues, or whose grandiose features were mostly erased by the passage of time and rough erosion. Bridges arched out over the burning depths, some improbably slender and still holding, others having collapsed long ago so that each shattered end reached for the other like yearning lovers cruelly parted.

All the way around the ruins extended, from where Scorio sat, up both sides of the cylinder, to meet at the top. A belt of ruin and gray stone, of burning light from cavernous depths that competed with the sun-wire’s own refulgent glow. Endless city blocks, a cordon of desolation and dark stone. No greenery, no vegetation, no color but the charred remnants of once-grand buildings, their darkened windows, their ruined towers.

What had happened? How had a third of the city been allowed to fall into such disrepair? Was this the cause of the war of which the chancellor had spoken?

Tearing his gaze away, he examined the rest of the city. A large building to his right blocked his view of the cylinder’s other end where the sun-wire was no doubt attached to a similar anchor. But what he could see, however, was the same grand architecture, monumental and imposing, with bridges and broad avenues. These were alive, vibrant with activity, the buildings painted white and trimmed with colored accents, streets with strings of pennants hung across them, squares with purple and blue leaved trees, monuments gilded in gold and silver, and more detail than he could encompass. The buildings weren’t uniform in appearance either; here and there he spotted edifices that were clearly important, hulking over their neighbors, bedecked with flags and hung with monstrous banners depicting their arms or insignias.

There was a huge ring, set on the cylinder’s side so that from his vantage point Scorio could see a great arena within, while stadium seating descended from its high walls right down to the sands. There a great tower some ten stories high, there a ziggurat whose edges were limned in gold, its uppermost level a gorgeous garden whose vines hung down to the lower platforms.

It was too much. He could have sat there all day, taking it all in, and still had more to feast his eyes on. But with great reluctance, he tore his gaze away, found and pocketed his bridge, and rose shakily to his feet.

After so much time spent within the claustrophobic confines of the caverns, the sense of open air above him jellied his knees. It helped to lower his gaze and focus on the rubble right before him. He was in the final bounds of the ruined zone, a belt that bordered the closest inhabited buildings. Taking a deep breath, he set forth, without a plan but knowing that he had to eat, had to find people, had to take the next step and begin defining his new life.

“How hard will it be to hide out there?” he heard Nissa ask, her voice a whisper in his ear. “What kind of life are we going to live?”

The rock beneath his feet seemed to grow younger as he went; lighter, less splintered and shattered, and in growing variety. It was as if some great fire had consumed the ruined zone from the inside out, turning the very rock into brittle scoria, and as he left it the stone took on color again, regained its hardness and clean lines.

There were buildings around him, but these were hollowed out, windowless, the rooms within without furniture or reason to step inside. Husks and hollowed shells, most two or three stories tall. No signs of life but for strange, crimson creatures the length of his arm that tracked him from a distance, slipping smoothly over the sides of the buildings as if untethered from the forces of gravity.

Scorio crouched down and studied the closest one as it curled around a ruined column off to one side; it had four stubby little legs, and large, feather-like frills that swept back from the sides of its face and neck. Small, forward-facing eyes of perfect jet studied him, and a mobile little mouth seemed to be curved into an expression of genial amusement. Its sides were streamed with bands of different hues of red, peppered here and there by dark dots like freckles whose centers were a pale white.

“Can you understand what I’m saying?” he asked, voice hoarse, and then immediately felt foolish. The creature blinked but otherwise made no expression of having understood. After a moment Scorio resumed walking.

He went another block, trying to stick to shadows despite the ubiquity of the sun-wire’s dusty, yellow light. A dull, repetitive clinking sound and the murmur of voices came from ahead, so he slowed, considered his options, and then entered the last building. Slid in through a gaping window, then walked as quietly as he could through its shadowed interior to the far side, where he peered out a window at what looked to be a small market.

A huge patchwork awning was strung up over the intersection of two ancient avenues. Under its expanse were small stalls, most being little more than boards set atop rocks, though a few looked to be actual carts that had been unhitched and used to reveal meager wares.

A sparse crowd was moving leisurely through this ragged market, with most of the customers engaged in conversation with the stall owners, a few haggling half-heartedly, though without animosity. A gaggle of dirty children was clustered around a crude iron cage in which one of the crimson snake-salamanders was caught, laughing and poking at it with sticks, causing it to leap up into a miniature cyclone and give off sheets of red flame before falling back down to the cage’s floor.

There weren’t any guards, at least not any that were obviously on duty. To one side, a couple of women had staked out a spot, one standing with a fiddle propped upon her shoulder, the other playing a battered instrument consisting of a score of iron pipes of different lengths arrayed together so that they emitted beautiful, hollow sounds as she ran her metal-capped fingertips over them.

But Scorio’s attention was riveted to a stall that was little more than a charred grill set over a bed of white, dusty coals. A lantern-jawed man with greasy black hair was tending skewers of glistening meat, and basting them from a small pot with a thicky, syrupy liquid.

The savory-sweet smell caused Scorio’s stomach to cramp and his mouth to flood with spit. The urge to just clamber out of the window and run at him was near overwhelming, but he forced himself to swallow and stay still.

First, he’d no means to pay. Second, everyone in the little market appeared familiar with each other; the air was convivial, relaxed, and he’d no doubt stand out like the stranger he was.

Fading away from the window, he scrutinized himself. His white robe and golden belt were now so dirty and torn that they looked little better than rags. His thin sandals were falling apart, the left having nearly lost its sole. His hands were gray with dirt, his fingernails grimy, and moving his hand up to his face he felt four days’ worth of stubble. Hair? Dusty and tangled.

No. Emerging like this would cause a stir. People would demand to know who he was, and what would he say? Stumbling out of the ruins like that?

So Scorio ignored the tormented cramps in his stomach and moved cautiously back to the window.

The wares on sale were few. Most of the little stalls had a dozen items on display at best: one a bunch of withered roots, another a collection of bowls, clearly hand-carved, a third had just three small loaves, blackened and dusted with white flour. A fourth simply had a large stone wheel affixed to the side of a little cart, a pedal and series of straps turning it into some kind of contraption.

Not a lot of wealth here. The people themselves were soberly dressed, many of them in patched and threadbare robes. Faces were gaunt, but for the most part clean. The adults, he saw, had long scabbarded daggers affixed to their belts, the scabbards being brightly colored and adorned with beads, markings, and emblems he couldn’t understand. A marker of their identity? Clearly, they were important.

Was the light changing? It was subtle, but he thought it was—the dusty yellow was becoming a syrupy amber, the shadows more distinct, color stealing back into what had been washed out, everything with a lazy patina over it, as if the light were waxing the city into deeper hues.

The sun-wire had grown a trifle dimmer.

A few of the stalls began to close up. Some simply packed away their wares and hoisted their planks up under an arm. Others, after calling out their goodbyes, stored their wares within little cabinets in the body of their stalls then began to wheel away their carts.

A better-dressed child with a blue sash had shown up with a luxuriously fluffy pet in her scrawny arms, a six-legged cat-like creature that appeared to be all white down, with over-sized blue insectile eyes, moth-like antennae, and large, ivory-colored butterfly wings. The gaggle of children immediately encircled her, eager to pet the strange creature, then followed her away as she left the market.

Scorio wanted to go out amongst those people that remained. To introduce himself, to ask for a blackened loaf, a cup of fresh water. To explain that he was lost, knew nothing, needed help, charity, friendship.

But he stayed still, ignored his bitter hunger and drifting inability to focus. He was scraped and raw, hurt and exhausted. He didn’t trust his judgment, nor what the people out there might do to him.

So he waited, and the syrupy amber light turned honeyed, the shadows growing larger, their edges less distinct, and the last of the stalls closed up shop.

The skewer-man’s departure was particularly painful, but when the meat was out of sight, he found himself better able to think.

The pair of musicians were the last to give up the market. They played even as the final stall owners left, until the fiddler finally lowered her instrument with a frustrated grimace and gave a caustically mocking bow to the empty market.

Scorio watched them. They didn’t seem to be part of the communal tapestry; nobody had engaged them in conversation, and the few that did seemed to only thank them for their skillful playing before moving on.

The seated woman rolled her pipes into a tight parcel with measured, deliberate movements, tied a pair of thongs around it, and slung it over her shoulder as she stood.

Scorio watched, curious.

The fiddler picked up her cap, emptied some octagonal tokens into her hand, counted them, and then her square shoulders slumped.

The pair spoke in desultory tones as the fiddler stowed her instrument in a badly battered case. The conversation pricked the fiddler’s temper; she glared up from where she crouched to say something withering, and the other woman turned away, expression tightly controlled, jaw clenched.

The fiddler took up her case, and then to Scorio’s delight led the other musician not deeper into the hospitable section of Bastion, but down one of the deserted streets into the ruins.

Homeless, then, just like him.

Scorio slipped out of the building and did his best to trail after them, trying to figure out the best approach. In the end, he decided to be direct. Anything else would rightfully cause them to regard him with suspicion.

“Hello?” He raised a hand and stepped out into the middle of the rubble-strewn street. “Excuse me?”

Both women spun around as if expecting an attack. They were only a few blocks from the market, but clearly, they were ready for trouble. The pipe player placed a hand over the haft of a large mallet that hung from her hip, while the fiddler reached behind her back to ghost her fingers over the hilt of a short stabbing blade.

Scorio approached slowly, both hands raised, trying for a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of a better way of introducing myself, and this is already going terribly. Is there any way we could talk? You set the terms.”

The musicians exchanged a glance, and what passed between them was enough for the fiddler to lower her hands to her hips. She was tall, rangy, skin a deep bronze and with a thick brown braid with a crimson ribbon spiraling through it hanging down nearly to her waist.

“That’s close enough,” she said. “What do you want?”

“I need help, but don’t have any of those octagonal coins with which to buy supplies—”

Their expressions hardened, eyes narrowing, and he could practically read their thoughts: A beggar, wasting our time, trying to grift a pair of grifters—

“But I do have this,” he continued and drew out the glowing sapphire the size of his fist.

“The Imperators wept,” said the fiddler, face going slack, eyes opening wide.

“He must have stolen it,” said her companion, voice deeper, suspicious. “He’ll have people after him. Best we steer clear.”

“To starve in perfect grace by ourselves?” The fiddler’s wide lips broadened into a smile. “I’d rather a little trouble. Better than playing Elenor’s Fall to a bunch of halfwits. What’s your name, stranger?”

“Scorio.” He slipped the sapphire back into his robe. “May we talk?”

“I’m Helena,” said the fiddler, and her smile was predatory, her gaze alive with surmises and stratagems. “This grouch is my partner in crime, Feiyan. How’d you come across that gem?”

“Found it,” he said, then gave a low laugh. “Which, weirdly enough, is actually true. It was in a large nest underground. And I’ll be willing to discuss how I might be convinced to part with it in exchange for help.”

“This help,” said Helena, stepping toward him, moving warily as if afraid he might bolt and run. “What are we talking about?”

“We don’t have the octs to give you fair value,” said Feiyan. She was shorter than her partner, her black hair styled into a pompadour, vivid against her pale skin, her frame that of a blacksmith. “And I’d rather gut you than sleep with you.”

Which earned her a warning glower from Helena that she ignored with sublime indifference.

“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “I’m not looking for market value. I suffered a blow to the head while exploring underground, and lost most of my memories. All I ask for is some food, some answers, and perhaps some new robes so that I’ll look less like a murderous madman.”

“A blow to the head, eh?” Helena’s expressions were quicksilver, flickering from doubt to scrutiny to an encouraging smile. “That’s tragic. But of course, we’ll help. We can manage to feed another mouth for a night, can’t we, Feiyan?”

“We’re not idiots,” said her companion, crossing her arms deliberately over her chest. “Lost your memories? What do you remember?”

“Not much,” said Scorio. “My name, the name of the city, little more than that.”

“Not our business,” said Helena pointedly. “We’d be glad to help.”

“And get involved in Academy or House business? Not likely. We’re better off scraping by and staying alive than getting mixed up in your trouble.”

Helena’s smile grew stiff as she wheeled to face her friend. “How about we step aside to talk about this?”

“How about we tell this guy to find another pair of idiots to rope into his troubles?”

“Let’s talk. Excuse us, Master Scorio.” And Helena draped a tanned arm over her friend’s compact shoulders and forcefully steered her to the side of the street.

Scorio waited. Helena was clearly doing most of the talking. Feiyan stood with her arms crossed and stared off down the street, her expression set.

Helena threw up her hands, walked away five steps, turned back, hunched her shoulders, and held her hands out as if cupping a bowl, speaking rapidly, her tone insistent. Feiyan looked sidelong at her, eyebrow raised, gave a snort, looked away. Helena straightened, hands on hips, said something pointed. Feiyan started, glowered at her, to which Helena nodded slowly, as if affirming some bitter truth.

At last, Feiyan sighed, shook her head in bitter resignation, then gave the barest of nods.

Helena turned back to Scorio and beamed. “We’ve reached an agreement. Help in exchange for your gem. But our partnership will be of an extremely limited duration. We’ll get you a set of clean robes, a hot meal, answer any questions you may have, and then bid you goodbye. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Scorio mildly. He knew he was being cheated out of an enormous sum, but what good would the sapphire do him if he starved to death in the ruins, or was arrested by more respectable locals the moment he stepped into view?

“Excellent.” Helena strode up to him, and up close he saw that she wore metallic eyeshadow, bright yellow at the corners of her eyes which gradated to a rich crimson at the wings. “Let’s get this relationship off to a good start. The gem?”

“Here,” he said, patting his robe. “I’ll give it to you once I’ve had my meal and received the robes.”

“Sure you will,” said Feiyan, drifting up behind her partner. “Why would we ever doubt you?”

“My friend raises a good point,” said Helena. “How are we to trust you?”

“You can’t,” said Scorio. “But there’s got to be a little trust if this is going to work.”

“You armed?” asked Feiyan.

“A dagger.”

“Hand it over and you can hold onto the gem.”

“What’s to stop you from taking it from me by force if I do?”

Feiyan’s smile was darkly amused. “What’s to stop us from doing so now?”

“Trust,” said Helena, as if discovering the word for the first time. “Let’s try it. Come on. We’ve a glorious camp not too far from here. We can talk there.”

“Great,” said Feiyan. “This is getting better and better.”

Scorio smiled and inclined his head. “Lead on.”

They split, both walking just ahead and on opposite sides of him, glancing back as they led him down the darkening street.

“So, Scorio.” Helena’s tone was bright, curious, probing. “What do you want to know?”

“We’re not sharing anything personal,” warned Feiyan.

What did he want to know? Everything. But where to start? Scorio felt momentarily overwhelmed by the enormity of his ignorance. The sun-wire had now dimmed to a ruddy copper, and the light had changed accordingly. Slowly darkening toward—what?

His first question just popped into his mind. “Why is a third of the city ruined?”

The two women exchanged glances again. “Nobody knows,” said Helena. “Why does a plant wither in time? Why does hot passion one day run cold? Bastion’s dying.”

“So it’s a natural process? Not part of the war?”

“I didn’t say that.” She sounded almost irritated. “But if you’re going to ask those kinds of questions, we won’t be of much help. We’re just a pair of innocent troubadours and harvesters, you see? A couple of talented ladies trying to get by. Ignorant of such grand and, ah, metaphysical questions.”

Feiyan snorted.

“What?” asked Helena, grinning. “You know something I don’t?”

To which Feiyan just smiled and shook her head.

“All right. The Houses. One of them’s House Hydra, right?”

“That’s right,” said Helena.

Feiyan kicked a pebble and sent it skittering. “They the ones you stole the gem from?”

“What can you tell me about them?”

“Some, but not too much,” replied Helena. “Only what we’ve seen from our impoverished perspective, languishing on the streets.” They reached an intersection, and Feiyan turned without hesitation to the left, leading them down a narrower road. “There are four great Houses, with Hydra being the most prestigious, the most political of them.”

“Kraken is the most prestigious,” said Feiyan.

“No it’s not,” said Helena, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “It’s the richest. Money doesn’t equal prestige.”

Feiyan didn’t look convinced. “Does in my books.”

“And that’s why I love your little mercenary soul,” said Helena. “But anyways, Hydra’s where most of the ruling council comes from. So. House Hydra, House Kraken with their endless vaults of treasures and wealth, House Chimera, the youngest house—”

Feiyan stopped before a mostly demolished building, half of its face slurried down into the street, and moved to climb in through one of the dark windows. “Chimera’s been making a name for itself. Growing famous for deep-hell acquisitions.”

“Sure,” said Helena tolerantly. “And then there’s House Basilisk, the eldest and most nefarious.” She looked at Scorio speculatively. “Which, to be honest, is whom we’ll probably be selling your gem to.”

A light bloomed inside the building, and Feiyan appeared, holding a lantern aloft. “Hurry up, get inside. Light’ll attract trouble.”

“After you,” said Helena, with another mocking bow.

Scorio climbed inside. The room was barren and decrepit, the walls cracked, the floor covered in detritus. Nothing that would cause him to enter if he’d looked into it while passing by.

Feiyan had stepped away from him, hand resting on the head of her hammer, and watched him closely. He raised both palms, but her studiedly neutral expression remained unchanged.

Helena vaulted lithely inside, and Feiyan led the way deeper into the building, to a central room with no windows. A stairwell led down into the dark, but instead of descending, Feiyan set the lantern on a ledge and stared at Helena. “We can talk here.”

“Smart.” Helena sighed, unshouldered her pack and fiddle, then bent down to touch her toes. “Though not as comfortable.”

More to show that he wasn’t going to be a threat, Scorio sat with his back to the wall. He felt light-headed with hunger, but instinct told him to be patient. “These Houses. They run things in Bastion, then?”

“Yes,” said Feiyan.

“Mostly. Kind of. Depends what you mean,” said Helena, sitting across the room from him, her long arms resting atop her knees. “They haven’t been doing such a great job of late, what with the failed prophecy, the riots, the rise of the Deniers, the calls for equality, you know.” She gave an airy wave of her hand. “The Academy’s its own thing, of course, from where the Houses try to recruit as many new Great Souls as they can. Supposed to offer new graduates all kinds of wealth and power. Most of the leadership in each House is a Great Soul as a result.”

“You two aren’t…?” Scorio cut himself off.

“What?” asked Helena, arching an eyebrow, her eyeshadow glinting in the lantern light. “Great Souls?”

“Sure,” he said, deciding it was too late to retract the obvious.

“No,” said Feiyan, tone deadpan. “We’re not. Are you?”

His exhaustion and hunger dulled his wits, so that for a moment he simply stared at her, trying to think of a convincing denial.

“Let’s not get personal!” said Helena, voice rich with false cheer. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” said Scorio. “It was. So Great Souls run things around here?”

“That they do,” said Helena. “Though most of them end up leaving Bastion to go deeper into hell. To LastRock, or the Fiery Shoals, or Red Keep. Only the ones content to run the Houses end up sticking around.”

LastRock. He’d heard that name. Jova Spike had been from there. “So when you die, you don’t come back?”

Both women stared at him.

“What?” He leaned his head back against the wall. “I’m too tired and hungry to pretend to know things I don’t.”

“We don’t come back here,” said Feiyan, tone short, her words sounding as if she were repeating a stock phrase. “We’ll be reborn back in Ettera, having served a lifetime assisting the heroes of Bastion.”

Scorio stared at her blankly. “Ettera. That’s our homeworld.”

“Somebody give him a prize,” said Feiyan, tone growing irritable.

“You said no metaphysical questions,” said Scorio, ignoring her. “But why did we come here? As a people? Why build Bastion?”

Helena stared at her fingernails as she cleaned dirt out from under one of them. “I mean, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? We’re all told from birth that it was to stop hell from coming back to Ettera. Now, is that true? Who can tell? But the fact is, the portal home’s been closed for as long as anyone can remember. If it really even ever was a portal.”

“You know what I think?” asked Feiyan, dark eyes glittering. “I think the Deniers are speaking a whole lot of sense. All of that’s a story made up by the Great Souls to justify the way they treat us—”

“Feiyan,” protested Helena.

“To justify the way they’ve set up Bastion, the order of things, the systems of oppression that keep us poor and servile.” Feiyan’s stare could have bored holes in the Brass Door. “We’ve all these stories, but nobody knows if they’re true. Even the Great Souls. Even the leaders of the bloody Houses. Nobody knows. There’s no proof. All this time we were told to look to their damned Empyreal Prophecy, and look how that turned out. A humiliation.” She leaned forward. “You want to know what’s really going on? We’re born into Bastion, we serve for as long as we’re useful, and then we die. Unless you’re a Great Soul, and then you live a life of privilege and get to come back. Which isn’t the honor it’s made out to be. In fact, I think it’s the worst form of punishment I can think of.”

“Great,” said Helena, tone resigned. “You going to give him revolution pamphlets while you’re at it?”

“Nah,” said Feiyan, looking away at last and recrossing her arms.

“Thank you,” said Helena, and summoned a smile. “So! What else you want to ask?”

Scorio frowned, looking from one woman to the next. “I don’t know. What do you think I should ask?”

“Oh, tricky. I like it.” Helena leaned forward and roped her arms around her knees again. “You’re going to want to lay low, not draw attention, and find a means to make octs. Which means working with House Basilisk, most likely. Bastion’s too small, too provincial for you to try and get a job without raising eyebrows.”

“Neither of you seems provincial or local.”

“That’s because we’re fabulous,” said Helena with a grin. “And clearly know how the world works and don’t ask stupid questions. But even we have a tough time of it. Sure, there’s a small part of society that doesn’t want to work the way their parents work, that wants something more like freedom, to get out of the system. But we can make that work because we know the rules and when to break them. A little singing here, harvesting Black Star petals there, knowing when to move on to the next Ward—we get by. You? You’ll just break them and get caught. Probably without even knowing what you did.”

“But working for House Basilisk will change that?”

“It’s your best bet.” Helena considered him. “All the Houses struggle against each other, but Basilisk, they’re the most willing to undertake, how should I put it, ah—nefarious tactics. You know. Like stealing shipments coming into the city, or hitting other Houses for their goods.”

Feiyan nodded reluctantly. “Which means they’ll hire anyone desperate enough to risk taking part in one of their schemes.”

Scorio frowned. “But what’s to stop the other Houses from infiltrating them with their own agents?”

“Who’s to say it doesn’t happen?” asked Helena. “But Bastion’s not big enough for true anonymity. The crews that’ll hire out are known quantities. They operate knowing they risk being killed if they’re caught. But nobody takes it personally. One month they might hire out to Basilisk, the next to Chimera. Long as you don’t get caught.”

“So why should I approach Basilisk?” asked Scorio.

“Because they’ll realize you’re trouble and not care,” said Feiyan flatly. “And they’ll give you a job. One that will probably get you killed, sure, but it’ll be better than nothing.”

“Or you could try begging,” said Helena, shrugging one rangy shoulder. “Learn enough to avoid being noticed, and spend the rest of your life on the verge of starvation, moving around, making no friends so you can’t be betrayed…”

“You’d love it,” said Feiyan with a dark smile.

“Sounds great. What about going into the caves? Finding more treasure like that sunphire?”

“Sure,” said Feiyan, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “A fine way to be rich for a year and then get yourself killed. The deeper you go into the ruins, the more dangerous it is. Fiends, horrors, the Nightmare Lady…”

“A Great Soul could do it,” said Helena thoughtfully.

“But why would a Great Soul be scavenging in the first place?” asked Feiyan.

“Point,” agreed Helena.

“Plus I’m not a Great Soul,” said Scorio, half in jest, half in protest.

They both simply stared at him.

“So work for Basilisk, then,” he said, sitting up. “They pay well?”

“No,” said Feiyan. “But they do pay. If you’re good, it can be a living.”

“And I won’t stand out?”

“You’ll stand out,” continued Feiyan. “But you’ll be known as a Basilisk operative, and folks will give you wide berth. You’ll find your place in society. Not in the cracks like we live, or under everyone’s feet like a beggar, but…” She trailed off, glanced at Helena.

“But as someone everyone will be willing to take octs from,” continued the fiddler. “Right up till you make a mistake and die. Which is what everyone will be counting on. A problem that’ll take care of itself.”

“Charming,” said Scorio.

Feiyan smirked. “Welcome to Bastion.”

“But you’ll have to be careful with your questions,” said Helena.

“Even if I work for Basilisk?”

“Especially if you work for Basilisk. Your best bet will be to just keep your trap shut. Even if you don’t know what’s going on. Just pretend you do. And eventually, you will.”

“Won’t work,” said Feiyan. “You’re doomed.”

“Oh, stop,” said Helena, half-heartedly throwing a pebble at her. “Can’t you even pretend to be nice?”

“No,” said Feiyan, turning away so the pebble missed her.

“It’s not likely to work,” said Helena, turning back to him. “But what choice do you have?”

“Can you introduce me to some Basilisk people?” asked Scorio.

Helena pursed her wide lips and looked to Feiyan. They seemed to communicate a lot in that one glance. Finally, Feiyan sighed. “Sure. Fine. I guess.”

Helena beamed. “That’s so nice of you.”

“Watch it. But after that, nothing more. An introduction and you’re on your own.”

“Fine,” said Scorio, then felt his stomach cramp as it gurgled audibly. “About that food you promised me?”

“Stay up here,” said Feiyan, picking up her belongings. “Helena will bring it up when it’s ready.”

“I will?” asked Helena, climbing to her feet.

“You will,” said Feiyan, moving down the steps. “And Scorio.” She paused to level a flat stare at him. “If you come down these stairs for any reason? Any reason at all? I’ll cave in your head with my hammer.”

“She’s so nice,” said Helena.

Scorio raised both hands appeasingly. “Understood.”

Feiyan studied him a moment longer, then grunted and descended out of view, taking the lantern with her. The room darkened immediately, so that he could barely make out Helena standing at the head of the steps, dimly lit from below.

Helena flipped her thick braid behind her back and took up her fiddle case. “We’ll be just a moment. And don’t run away with that sapphire, all right?”

“No worries there.”

Helena studied him through narrowed eyes a moment longer, then smiled, a broad, easy smile that was so charismatic it almost seemed unforced, her teeth pale in the gloom. “Great. I’m glad we met you, Scorio. This is going to prove immensely profitable for the both of us.”

“I’ll settle for a hot meal and clean robes,” said Scorio, smiling back.

She winked at him. “That’s the spirit.”

And fiddle case in hand, she descended after her friend, leaving him in the dark.

Exhaustion threatened to steal over him. But before allowing himself to rest, he rose and crept out of the room. Finding another chamber that was partially collapsed, with great care he buried the sapphire under a heavy rock, piling ash and grit over it to obscure its light.

That done, he returned and sat against the wall. Sat there, listening to the gentle murmur of the musicians’ voices from below, and eventually smelled something savory being heated up.

But he was too tired to hold on. The stone floor was indescribably comfortable, and the wall the perfect pillow. Closing his eyes, Scorio felt his thoughts begin to drift, to sink.

His last thoughts were of Leonis and Lianshi. He wondered what they were doing. How they fared. Did they think of him at all? And then his eyes closed, and he thought no more.