Chapter 11

Scorio awoke to a boot nudging him in the ribs.

“Wake up, stinky stranger, your food’s getting cold.”

Bleary-eyed, he sat up, He felt as if half his joints had calcified, and a good part of his musculature cramped up for good measure. “Ow. That stone floor’s hard.”

“You figure that out all by yourself?” Helena crouched down before him, hands dangling between her knees, her expression somewhere between sympathetic and contemptuous. “Pretty impressive. There’s hope for you yet.”

A bowl of steaming something or other was set before him, a wooden spoon dunked into its center. Giving up the chance at a rejoinder, he ate a spoonful and had to fight back a groan of pleasure.

“Feiyan makes a wicked soup,” said Helena as he started shoveling it into his maw. It was hot and savory, made of partially dissolved roots and strands of fatty meat seasoned with a hearty spice. She watched, head cocked, then continued innocently, “It’s pretty amazing what you can do with four-day-old dead rat.”

Scorio froze, then hocked his mouthful back into his bowl. Helena threw her head back and guffawed. “I jest! No dead rat. Aw, c’mon. Don’t look all upset like that. You never know in this city when your next bowl really will be mostly carrion-based.”

“Ha, ha,” said Scorio flatly, staring down at the soup. “Way to taunt the starving man.”

“I need to get my amusement somewhere.” She stepped away to lean against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. “Feiyan’s out. Went to see about your Basilisk contact.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Scorio around another mouthful of food. “She’d never leave you here alone with me.”

“You’re right. Normally. But in this case, her desire to get rid of you outweighed her natural caution. Plus, I’m pretty sure I could gut you with my long knife before you even managed to look at me funny.” She shrugged a shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first. Or tenth, even.”

Scorio stared at her through one eye, chewing ruminatively, and decided he believed her. Rangy as she was, there was a sinewy strength to her frame, and something about her expression, something hard and unyielding beneath her easy smile, that assured him she could use her blade just as she said.

“What’s Feiyan’s connection to Basilisk, then?” he asked.

“We’re not supposed to talk personal stuff,” said Helena, “but fine. She used to work for them, not long ago. It’s how we met. Which I’m also not supposed to talk about. But suffice to say she had a pretty dangerous reputation when I convinced her to try the romantic lifestyle of a wandering musician.”

“So she’s done with those kinds of jobs?”

“Has been for three years. Depraved and wicked as I am, somehow, I ended up being the good influence. Go figure. But she’s still got connections. Should be able to figure something out.”

Scorio nodded and focused on eating. His entire being clamored for sustenance. For her part, Helena contented herself with just watching him wolf it down. When he was almost finished—it was a generously-sized bowl—she canted her head to the other side.

“So, what’s it like, being a Great Soul?”

Again he choked, but this time he managed to swallow instead of spitting. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and stared at her again. “Who said I was?”

“Really? We going to pretend?”

“People lose their memories all the time.”

“Sure. And then emerge from the ruins with a sunphire the size of your fist. With no family, no connections, and dressed in what look to be authentic Academy robes. Happens all the time.”

Scorio stared down in dismay at his once-white robe, the grimy golden belt, then sighed. “Damn it. These that distinctive?”

“Sure,” said Helena. “There was a whole fashion phase a few years back where street toughs took to wearing robes cut in a similar manner, you know, different colored ropes denoting different ranks and whatnot. Died out after a year though. And with what’s happening in the streets these days? Nobody would be caught dead wearing them now.”

“Good thing I’m getting new robes then.”

“Yeah. So. What’s it like?”

“Being a Great Soul? Why do you want to know?”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Because every child born in Bastion spends their youth dreaming they’ll receive a special summons to the Academy and be put on a path to glory, riches, and fame?”

“They do?”

“Some of them,” she said, and kicked a rock skittering across the room. “I wouldn’t have minded a call myself.”

“Well. I don’t really know how to answer. I mean, they—ah—I left pretty quickly upon waking up. Nobody’s shown me how any of this is meant to work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You left, huh?”

“Sure.” He met her gaze with greater confidence and poise. “Decided I wanted to spend some quality time in the ruins.”

“Uh-huh. Well. You got an Igneous Heart?”

“You know about that?”

“Come on,” she said. “Bastion’s supposed to be—what—a thousand years old? And we’ve spent that whole time focused on your kind, your paths, your legends? What do you think the rest of us talk about?”

“Sure, I guess. And yes. I’ve got one. As much good as it does me.”

“You’ve not ignited it yet?”

He set the bowl down. “No. You know how I can?”

“Me?” She laughed. “Hardly. I just know Great Souls ignite their Hearts, then go through the Four Trials before becoming legends.”

“Four Trials?”

“Yeah, wow, they really didn’t tell you much.” She frowned at him. “How long were you in there, anyway? Ten minutes?”

“Just about. What are these Four Trials?”

“I don’t know. You’re just supposed to pass one to progress to your next level. First, you ignite your Heart and become a Cinder. Then you take your first trial, and if you pass it, you make Emberling. And so on until you reach Dread Blaze, where most of you guys stop.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged a shoulder again. “Lack of motivation? I don’t know. Just that most Great Souls don’t make it past Dread Blaze.”

“What about a Blood Baron?” he asked. “How far up the ranking is that?”

“Blood Baron?” She looked at him curiously. “Why d’you ask?”

“Just curious. Heard the term somewhere.”

“It’s pretty powerful. Pyre Lord is what you get after Dread Blaze, and after that, you get your Blood Barons. Not that they stay in Bastion. By that point, all the Great Souls are further on into hell.”

“They leave?” Scorio thought of the chancellor. He’d claimed to be a Pyre Lord. “Why not stay here and rule Bastion?”

“It’s a big ol’ hell out there,” she said. “They say that the greatest heroes are drawn to the Pit from which all evil stems. That’s what all the living legends are trying to reach, so as to destroy it forever. The one who does will become the Infernarch, it’s said, and open the way home to Ettera. Hard to do that from Bastion.”

He nodded slowly. So many questions. He’d made Blood Baron, but Jova Spike had made Charnel Duke, which had to be even higher. Guess that made her even more impressive.

Helena canted her head to one side. “What are you thinking?”

“Just trying to piece things together.”

“You know, you should just try to get back into the Academy.” She sounded almost sympathetic. “Life for regular folk is hard. Even working for Basilisk isn’t anywhere close to as glamorous or fun or rewarding as being a Great Soul.”

“Oh yeah? Well, maybe I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

She took her thick braid in both hands and began to tighten the crimson ribbon that spiraled through it, tugging here, tugging there. “You did something, didn’t you? Got yourself kicked out.”

“I thought we weren’t getting personal.”

“I knew it. What did you do? Must have been pretty bad. But fine, don’t tell me. None of my business.” She pursed her lips and focused on her braid. Scorio counted to eight before she glanced up at him from under her expressive brows and grinned. “Unless you really want to tell me.”

He couldn’t help it—he laughed. “You’re dangerous. Ten more minutes with you and I’ll have told you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

She pushed her braid aside so that it bounced off her shoulder. “What’s it like in the Academy? Is it true Great Souls are given condensed mana pills every morning with breakfast? That’s been our main source of income, selling Black Star flowers for pills… Oh—did you do the Gauntlet? You have to have, right? Every Great Soul is supposed to run it before waking up. What was it like? Did you get far?”

“How do you know all this?” he asked, bewildered.

“Told you. Great Souls are the aristocracy of our city. Most folks have nothing to look forward to but lives of drudgery and work. All our stories, most of our entertainment, are focused on your kind. I know a hundred ballads about Great Souls. They’re the most popular requests, despite how much everyone says they hate them now.”

“Great Souls are hated?”

Helena’s gaze was pitying. “The privileged are always hated by the less fortunate.”

“Fair enough. But I’m only technically a Great Soul. You know more about it than I do.”

“What a tragedy,” she said, shoulders slumping. “I finally corner one and they’re more ignorant than a pile of bricks.”

“If you were hoping to write your own ballad based on my experiences, it’d be a very short, very depressing song.”

“Bah,” she said, pushing with her shoulders off the wall. “Fair enough. Anyways, here’s your clothing.” And she scooped up a folded set of clothing from beside the stairwell and tossed it to him.

It was a threadbare robe, once green but now washed so many times it was the lightest of milky jades. “The color or cut mean anything?”

“That faded? Just that you’re five years out of fashion and don’t care much about clothing.”

“All true. Thank you.”

“No, thank you. That sunphire is our ticket out of this life. Speaking of which. Where’d you put it?”

Scorio raised an eyebrow.

“What?” She affected mock surprise, putting one hand to her chest. “You think I went through your clothing while you lay there snoring, insensate to the world?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fine,” she said, blowing out a deep sigh. “I might have nudged your robe with the toe of my boot to see if it would accidentally roll out. Which it didn’t. Can’t blame you for stashing it, though. Wise.”

“It’s safe. And close. But with this meal and robe, we’re almost even. No worries.” He slowly stood. “The last thing I plan to do is double-cross the first people who’ve been fair with me.”

“Glad to hear it. For your sake. Feiyan’s a real terror with that hammer.”

“I can imagine. If you’ll excuse me?” Scorio stepped into a satellite chamber to change out of his filthy robe. He dropped it and the rope to the ground, and found himself wishing for a shower, a stream, anything in which to rinse himself clean.

Instead, he pulled on the old robes, finding them both clean and too short for him. He tied the belt off tightly, placed his treasures inside the fold, and frowned down at the ruins of his old sandals.

“Hey,” he said, poking his head back around the corner, and saw that the room was empty. He picked up his things, entered the chamber, and crouched down to wait for Helena to come back up.

Instead, Feiyan appeared in the archway leading to the windowed room. She wore a faded black overrobe with exaggerated shoulders, and her thick, shoulder-length hair was swept back so that her pompadour was even more prominent, with only a single black lock of hair curling down between her brows.

Her hand rested lightly on the head of her hammer. “Where’s Helena?”

“Downstairs,” said Scorio, resisting the urge to raise both hands in a gesture of peace. Something about her quiet confidence, the way she stood there, her eyes narrowed as she studied him, convinced Scorio that Helena had told him the truth. He could easily imagine her working for a shady outfit, and carving out a bleak reputation for herself.

“Helena?” she called out, not taking her eyes off him.

“Here!” The voice was muffled from below. “I’m not dead so relax already.”

Feiyan allowed her hand to drift away from the hammer, but that was the extent of it. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with Dola. She’ll decide whether you’re worth bringing into her crew. They’ve a job in a few days and could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Thank you.” Scorio wondered if there was anything he could do other than leaving to help Feiyan relax. Probably not. “Anything you can tell me about her?”

“Dola?” Feiyan moved casually around the room toward the stairs, never showing him less than a three-quarters profile. “She’s a tough lady. Don’t lie to her, because she’ll see right through you. Don’t talk more than you have to. Don’t do anything you’re not told to, but if she gives you a command, obey it to the letter. And if she starts being nice to you? Disappear. She’s only nice to people she’s about to expend.”

“Expend?” asked Scorio.

Feiyan peered down the stairs, then back to Scorio. She crossed her arms. Her nails were painted black, the hue vivid against the faded robe. “Some roles on a job are more dangerous than others. Sometimes a job requires sacrifices. Dola’s nice to the folks she’s about to screw over. I think that’s how she processes her guilt. Not that she feels much.”

“Got it,” said Scorio. “So as long as she’s treating me badly, I’m good?”

Feiyan smirked. “Something like that.”

Helena came up the steps with a pair of thong sandals in hand. “Here.” She tossed them at Scorio’s feet. “An old pair of mine. They won’t last you long, but I think we have the same foot size.”

“Thanks,” he said, glad to get rid of his ruined pair. “Careful though. You’re going to start making me think you’re doing more than we bargained for.”

Feiyan snorted. “Don’t worry on that account. Now, you’ve eaten.” It wasn’t a question. “We’ve given you a clean robe and pair of sandals. Set up a meeting with a crew that’ll give you work. That means we’ve done our part of the bargain.”

“That’s right,” said Helena, her expression turning flinty. “So. Where’s the sunphire?”

Scorio pulled the sandals on. They actually fit, though Helena’s assessment had been right: a week’s hard use and they’d snap. “Coming right up.”

He stepped into the side room where he’d hidden the gem, and sensed more than saw Feiyan moving to keep him in her field of vision. Hauling the rock aside, he dug out the sapphire—sunphire, as they called it—and hefted it in his palm.

Its glow was undiminished, and cast eldritch cerulean hues and glimmers dancing across the room.

“Here.” He walked back and held the gem out. “With thanks.”

“Craziest deal I ever made,” said Helena, shaking her head in wonder as Feiyan took the gem. “A sunphire for some old robes and a pair of sandals.”

Feiyan bounced the gem in her hand, then held it up, turning it slowly as she felt across its lines and facets. “This is it, Lena. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

Helena reached out and took Feiyan’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You know who you’re going to sell it to?”

“We can talk details later.” Feiyan dropped the gem into a pouch, and like a knife drawn across a throat, the room went dark. “Let’s say goodbye to our guest first.”

Helena nodded and beamed at Scorio. “If you happen to stumble upon any other sunphires, look us up. Though we’ll probably be living in a much nicer place by then.”

“We won’t be here,” said Feiyan, tone flat. “So don’t bother coming back to find us.”

“Fair enough,” said Scorio. “Ladies. It’s been a pleasure.”

Feiyan simply stared at him, while Helena gave a mocking bow. “So long, Scorio. Stay sharp out there.”

“I intend to. How do I meet up with Dola?”

“Time and place. Head into the city and ask for a watering hole called the Double. It’s not well known, so you won’t attract too much attention asking for directions. Dola will be there at Second Clay.”

“Second Clay. What’s that?”

To which Feiyan could only shake her head pityingly.

“You know,” said Helena, raising her expressive eyebrows, “the sun-wire—the line of light that stretches from Dead Portal to Hell’s Door?”

Scorio nodded.

“It lightens and darkens through distinct phases. Clay is the darkest, what we call dawn. Second Clay is the last, what we call dusk. It goes from Clay to Rust to Bronze to Amber, which is the middle of the light cycle. Then darkens through Second Bronze, Second Rust, and finally to Second Clay. Then darkness, which lasts for the equivalent of four cycles.”

“Sure,” said Scorio, the terms forming a blur. “What is it now?”

“Second Bronze,” answered Feiyan. “You’ve slept through most of the day.”

“Second Bronze. So I’ve… a cycle in which to find Dola before Second Clay sets in.”

Feiyan’s smile was hard. “You’d best hurry.”

“Thank you. Again.” Scorio hesitated, then gave them his best roguish smile. “I hope that sunphire treats you well.”

Helena’s was excited, genuine, and she glanced at Feiyan who remained stoic. “It will,” she said. “No more playing third-rate market squares for us. Good luck, Scorio.”

He nodded and left the room, moving carefully over the rubble and loose rocks to the window. He peered up and down the deserted street before climbing out onto the shattered pavement.

The air was filled with the sun-wire’s bright, bronze light; it had that dusty, flattening feel to it, muting shadows and washing out colors. He considered the wire, then focused on the rest of Bastion arching high overhead. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the ruins that dominated a third of the entire cylinder, and studied once more where the sun-wire connected to the cylinder’s end, that raised plug of white marble, ornate and complex and—apparently—a portal to a home world.

Ettera.

It meant nothing to him. An empty conceit. He still didn’t have the right vantage point to see the wire’s far end. He’d need to climb to a rooftop to see Hell’s Door.

But first, he had to find the Double. Tugging at his new robes, which felt stiff and rough after the silken pliability of his old white ones, he set off, heading back in the direction of the market.

The sun-wire darkened a fraction as he went, losing luminosity and going from its bright bronze light to a ruddier glow, the shadows gaining depth, the dusty pervasiveness of the golden light retreating to a more somber cast.

Second Rust.

Moving quicker, he reached the space where the market had been but found it empty now, the stalls gone, only the occasional stone stand showing where planks would be placed the next time on which to display wares.

It felt eerie, stepping out into the open, and Scorio felt painfully self-conscious. He restrained himself from smoothing down his robes or walking with artificial stiffness as he crossed through the market space. He pressed on, leaving the ruins behind to enter a lively neighborhood of two- and three-story buildings that were tightly packed together, the paint flaking off their walls, the air above the narrow streets crisscrossed with clothes lines, people sitting on stoops or watching from windows.

He was obviously an object of interest, but not in a particularly alarming way; eyes tracked him, conversations stilled, but nobody cried out in alarm, nobody stepped up to challenge him.

The area was clearly impoverished. But there was a sense of dignity to the squalor—each doorstep swept clean, with planters hanging outside most windows spilling a gray ivy, whose tendrils blossomed with luscious, purple flowers. They gave off a powerful and lush scent, rich and heavy, so that he felt as if he walked from island to island of redolent smells, the spaces between arid and dusty.

The buildings were blocky, flat-roofed, the ground floors painted a rusty red that was uniformly flaked and chipped to reveal the gray stone beneath. A few were abandoned, and he heard the sounds of conversation and laughter from hidden rooftops, along with the occasional strain of music, a flute playing a plaintive melody, a voice raised in artless song.

Scorio entered a small square dominated by a broad-bowled and shallow fountain. A line ten deep stood before it, the people holding buckets as they chatted quietly amongst themselves.

Suddenly thirsty, Scorio moved to the back of the line, and ignored the surreptitious stares that were cast his way.

He’d not had a chance to take stock since speaking with Feiyan and Helena. To assess everything they’d told him. To make sure this was something he actually wished to do.

Work for Dola. Join her crew, and—what—steal from the other Houses?

The very idea of theft made his stomach turn. He could recall nothing of his past, but still the thought of taking what wasn’t his felt galling.

The whispers around him were building up. He wanted to stay in line, but simply standing there in plain sight was beginning to garner more attention than he was comfortable with. Ducking his head, he slunk away and left the small square, picking a street at random to get lost in.

Damn the chancellor. He couldn’t even fetch a cup of water without being viewed with suspicion. Had to barter rare gems for threadbare robes and worn-out sandals. Neither Feiyan nor Helena had thought he had any choice but to work for Dola and her Basilisk masters.

Scorio drew up short and stared out into the middle distance, not caring for the moment how traffic had to flow around him.

He’d not asked for any of this. He’d not asked to be reborn as a Red Lister. To be cast through the Final Door. So now he was being forced to take back from the very Houses that had stolen everything from him. Wasn’t there a bitter fairness to that? They’d thrust him into this situation—what was he supposed to do, squat in the ruins and starve to death?

Scorio blinked and resumed walking. He’d speak to Dola, at the very least, and see what manner of work she offered him. He wouldn’t accept any mission from her. But if she afforded him a chance to redress the balance with the Houses and the likes of Praximar?

Then he’d take it.

First, though, he had to find his way to the Double.

He stopped a respectful distance from a couple of men standing at a street corner, both smoking from delicately arched pipes, their free hand tucked comfortably into their ocher robes.

“Excuse me. Could you direct me to the Double?”

Both men eyed him speculatively, in no rush to respond. They were slightly older, grizzled and worn, their hands swollen and callused from hard labor.

Scorio was about to nod respectfully and move on when one of them finally answered, his reluctance obvious.

“The Double?” Another long pause, another exhalation of greasy, iridescent smoke. “Bit of a ways. Head axially north three blocks, then radially west some five, maybe six.”

“That’ll take him through the Narrows,” said the second man, eyes squinted against the smoke.

“What of it?” The first studied his friend frankly. “Anyone headed to the Double should feel right at home there.”

The second man only shrugged and looked away.

“Three blocks axially north, then six blocks radially west. Thank you.” Scorio inclined his head and moved on, aware that he might be walking in the wrong direction, but not wanting to ask for clarifications and arouse more suspicion.

Instead, he stopped again once the two men were out of sight before a small crowd of kids who were kicking a leather ball around the street. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The boys eyed each other, amused and cagey at the same time.

A stocky boy with a black eye sniffed at him. “What’s the problem?”

“Simple question is all. Which way is axially north?”

They all glanced at each other again and then stared at him suspiciously.

“Axially north?”

“Right. Just point it out.”

Slowly, as if suspecting a trick, ready to snatch his hand back, the boy pointed toward the sun-wire’s hidden end.

“And radially west?”

“What is this?”

“Stupid questions, that’s all. Humor me, will you?”

This time the boy pointed up one side of Bastion’s curving wall.

Scorio pointed his own thumb in the opposite direction, over his shoulder. “So that’s radially east?”

The boy looked at him with growing annoyance. “And your mother’s a drippy tramp!”

The whole pack of them took off, laughing raucously.

Scorio snorted, looked about himself once more, and continued walking. He’d come a block axially north by luck. Another couple more and he’d turn to the left.

On he went, drinking in the details of the neighborhood as he walked on. A small square featured a long line of people awaiting their turn at another clamshell fountain set against a wall, each carrying an pail with them, everybody relaxed and chatting.

Here and there, he espied the red, snake-like creatures with fins growing from their necks, twining their way high about the rooftops or the branches of thorn trees whose canopies were horizontal planes of dull green, like a series of serried clouds that provided shade below.

The atmosphere on the streets, however, was tense; people eyed him suspiciously, others stood in tight knots speaking earnestly amongst themselves, while others hurried past, intent on reaching their destinations as quickly as possible.

Scorio reached his intersection. The street running radially west proved to be quite narrow. More of a shadowed alley than anything else, with cloth awnings slung out over its breadth.

“Great,” he muttered to himself, and plunged in.

Within a few blocks, he noticed the change. Windows were shuttered, and there was an absence of the gray vined planters. The rust-colored paint was almost completely gone from the ground floors, and the streets were in poor repair, cracked and fragmented and strewn with withered vines and trash.

People were still in evidence, but these watched him with a different kind of curiosity. More evaluating, sizing him up.

Scorio squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and marched on as if he owned the place. Still, he wasn’t surprised when a small crowd of men detached themselves from the shadowed side of a building to ease their way into the street and block his path.

Their leader was a lean, pale-skinned, one-eyed man with a stripe of white through his otherwise greasy black hair. A rolled-up cheroot jutted out of the corner of his mouth, unlit, and danced when he spoke without unclenching his jaws.

“You lost, my friend?”

“Not lost,” said Scorio, “and not your friend.” Three of the men drifted slowly around to cut off his retreat. Eight all told. All of them looking hard-bitten, their expressions ranging from amused to stoic. “Just heading to the Double.”

“The Double, is it?” The man’s sole eye widened in mock surprise. “An upstanding lord like yourself?”

Scorio allowed himself a small smile, but he felt a welcome flush of heat spread through his body. “I’m no lord. Step aside.”

Not the most diplomatic way to proceed, but Scorio realized that he was relishing this confrontation. After all the fear, the frustration, the anguish, and pain, he wanted someone to provoke him.

The man moved his head from one side to another, as if taking in all of Scorio’s angles. “Let me do you a favor. Steer clear of the Double. It’s not the right place for the likes of you.”

“I didn’t ask for advice.” Had his voice deepened? He opened and closed his hands, aware of the men around him but focused on their leader.

“The advice wasn’t free, my lord.” The man’s lips curled back to reveal yellowed teeth. “Why don’t you share what you’ve got with the rest of us to show your gratitude?”

Scorio smiled, the expression apparently unnerving the other man. “Oh my. I seem to have forgotten what I’ve got on my person. Why don’t you come check for me?”

“Doesn’t need to be like this,” said the leader. “Just hand over your goods and you can be on your way.”

“Hmm.” Scorio stared down the length of his nose at the man, his heart pounding, his muscles quivering. “Your mother’s a drippy tramp.”

A couple of the men sniggered, but the leader flushed. “Well, if you want it that way, fine—”

Scorio pulled the chalk out of his robes, bent, and raked a curving line behind him. The movement was sudden, sure, and confused the men, who startled, hands going up, but stared instead of reacting.

“All right,” said Scorio, rising to his feet. “Let’s get to work.”

And he lunged forward to slam his shin across the leader’s thigh. The huge muscle snarled up, the man let out a cry of shock, and then Scorio’s second blow connected: a vicious head-butt right into the fellow’s nose.

Cartilage crunched and the man collapsed backward.

The other seven let out hoarse shouts of outrage and rushed him. Only three of them slammed into the invisible barrier at full tilt and staggered back in shock.

Reaching down, Scorio raked a line of chalk down his left, sealing off two other men, and then exploded upward and into the remaining three, tackling the man in the center about the waist and lifting him clear off the ground. The man roared in anger, slammed an elbow down onto Scorio’s back, then cried out as they crashed into the wall.

Scorio dropped the man, caught hold of his robes as he landed on his feet, and spun, hurling him into the other two.

And came right after, fists swinging, teeth bared, practically growling as he tumbled into them, bludgeoning jaws and elbowing them across the throat. The other five were losing precious seconds as they explored the invisible barrier before them, but then one found the edge and let out a shout.

Scorio took a punch to the ear, stepped away, swayed back from a clumsy haymaker, then clobbered his opponent with a hasty punch to the mouth. Lips split, the man reeled, then Scorio saw three men charging at him from the side, coming at him in a line.

He tore out the iron rod, summoned his Igneous Heart as he backed away, and desperately swept just a fraction of the thick, cloying black clouds into it.

The script flared and the rod stuck, frozen in mid-air.

The lead man crashed into it, hitting the bar with his sternum. The others piled in behind, all of them shouting in alarm as they fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

A punch glanced off Scorio’s shoulder and then a staff cracked across his back. Raising his arms, Scorio wheeled about, saw the staff swinging right at his head. He pressed his arm tight to the side of his face, bicep bulging over his ear, and took the blow full on. His head rocked over, but his arm absorbed the blow, then he caught the staff, pinned it to his ribs, and yanked the man into a thunderous cross that dropped him to the ground.

Everything was happening at once. Men were climbing to their feet, others were backing away warily, some bumping into invisible lines of force, others staring in horrified fascination at the floating steel rod.

Scorio wanted to go after them. His fury was a white, tremulous force that made it impossible for him to catch his breath. He wanted to stomp each of them down to the ground, to hear bones break, to redress the imbalanced scales of justice with their pain.

Instead, he rose out of his combat crouch, tossed aside the staff, and collected the rod. “What are your names? I want to make sure Dola knows who waylaid me.”

The men froze.

“You’re… you’re meeting with Dola?” The leader with the white stripe of hair was picking himself back up, hand pressed to his bleeding nose.

Scorio made no response.

The one-eyed man glanced nervously at his companions, then limped aside. “Damn it. We didn’t know. You should have said as much. Double’s straight ahead. Two more blocks. Stairs leading down to a lower landing, red door. You’ll see it right enough.”

Scorio’s smile was cold, a thin veneer of courtesy over his still raging desire to throw himself at the men. “Thanks. And your name?”

The man’s smile didn’t touch his one eye. “No need for formalities. I’m, ah, just an altruistic local, doing his civic duty.”

“Right you are,” said Scorio, and stepped through the sparse crowd and out the far side. He didn’t look back, didn’t walk quickly. Just strode along as before, calm and composed, for all that his heart was pounding and his knuckles stinging.

The entrance to the Double was just as the altruistic local had described. A flight of stairs leading down to a basement level, a slender crimson door almost innocuous in the deep trench.

There was nobody around, so Scorio walked down, hesitated, then simply pushed the door open.

Within was a long, narrow room, rays of bloody bronze light filtering in through the shuttered slats that ran down the length of the wall high up by the ceiling. The heavily waxed bar gleamed. A low murmur of conversation paused as a dozen patrons turned to examine him, most puffing on arched pipes, then turned away as he closed the door.

Scorio stepped up to the bar. Candles sunken deep within thick glass holders caused pools of green light to shimmer across its top, and a line of upside-down clay mugs was set along its length.

An older woman with long, gray hair pushed away from a conversation and walked over, her expression skeptical. She wore mustard-colored robes that were sufficiently open at the front to reveal an intricate tattoo on her chest, and she had a powerful frame to go with her relaxed confidence.

“Think you’re in the wrong place,” she said.

“I’m here to meet with Dola. She’s expecting me at the start of Second Clay.”

“Second Clay, is it?” Mild interest quickened her expression, her brows lowering as she looked him up and down. “You’re early. But then again, Dola’s already here. Let me go check out your story. Name?”

“Scorio. Feiyan set this up.”

“Feiyan?” There was obvious recognition at the name. “Well, that’s something. Hold on.”

She strode back down the length of the bar, unhurried, out and around the far end to dip through the curtain of beads.

Scorio stood at his ease, not looking around, arms crossed, aware of the covert glances being directed his way. His back ached. His knuckles were raw. But he felt alive, refreshed because of the fight, purposeful and deliberate. Anyone who wanted to was more than welcome to step over and cause problems.

Soon enough the bartender emerged, caught his eye, and gave a sharp nod back over her shoulder.

Beyond the beads was a small, comfortable room, windowless and lit by three lanterns with their wicks trimmed short, each shedding a soft, roseate glow. The three walls featured deeply recessed alcoves, each with its own broad, cushioned bench, and a circular table in the center boasted three ornate water pipes, their intricately painted surfaces making them objects of art.

A subtle, honeyed incense lingered in the air, with a musky scent beneath that. Scorio stood in the doorway, but though each alcove featured a small group of guests, he had no difficulty picking out Dola.

She stood out even amongst this tough crew like a battle-ax amongst paring knives. Older, large, with powerful sloping shoulders and a trim waist, she looked hard enough to have taken on the entire gang that had challenged Scorio outside. Her skin was near-black, her ivory hair shorn all the way around except the very top, from which slender braids flowed back and down about her shoulders, nearly to her waist. Painted lips, slender, arching brows, and strong, striking features all made her appear to have twice the personality of anyone else present, four times the presence, and infinitely more command.

“Scorio,” she said, voice rich and full, not a question.

He stepped up to her alcove. A young man, bare-chested, his hair spiked and with a ring through one nostril, slid off the cushioned bench and faded away into the depths of the room.

“Dola.” Was he missing an honorific? The direct approach seemed best.

She took her time eyeing him up and down, her expression inscrutable. Finally, “Feiyan says you need work. Why should I give it to you?”

“Why not? I’m strong, willing, and without any loyalty to the Houses.”

“All good prerequisites, but that also describes half the fools that enter the Double. Do better.”

Had Feiyan told her he was a Great Soul? Was she fishing for a confession? He decided not to give one. “Feiyan’s no fool. She vouched for me.”

“She didn’t vouch for you. She simply said you needed work. I respect her, hence this opportunity to impress me. Which you’ve yet to do.”

Scorio nodded, sucking on his teeth. Reveal one of his treasures? Boast about his accomplishments beneath the ruins?

No. Dola’s gaze was halfway between stern and dismissive. He got the impression that the more he pleaded, the less impressed she’d be.

So he shrugged. “I bet you’ve already made up your mind. If you’re not going to offer me the job, let’s end this.”

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Oh ho. Ultimatums? A curious interview strategy.”

“Feiyan got you curious. You can tell I’m no fool. Arrogant, maybe. But I’m my own man. If I work for you, I’ll work hard and I’ll work smart. But if you’ve already decided I’m not what you’re looking for, then let's stop wasting time.”

She pursed her lips, causing deep dimples to appear below her cheeks, though the expression failed to soften her face. “I see your approach. Old robe, cheap sandals, looking like you rolled in a coal pit before you got dressed. You’ve got nothing, and nothing more to offer. So you hold hostage the one thing you do have—your own desire to work.” Her smile was predatory. “Retreating from me to make me curious, provoking me into giving chase.”

“And?” asked Scorio. “Is it working?”

She let out a bark of laughter. “It’s not not working. Take a seat.”

He did, though only on the edge of the bench.

“You look like you can fight.”

“Sure.”

“Any qualms about taking things that don’t belong to you?”

Scorio felt his gut twist. “Would I be here if I did?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Formalities, my dear. Answer the question.”

Scorio thought of Praximar and forced down his distaste. “No problems there.”

“Got family?”

“None.”

“Debts?”

“Nope.”

“Addictions? Flywrap, rustspark, dancing bear?”

He’d no idea what any of those were but simply shook his head.

“Hands.”

He held them out. She examined his nails carefully, then ran a thumb over his palms. “Where are your calluses?”

“I take good care of my hands.”

She snorted, dropped them, and reached toward his face. He held still. She pressed a broad thumb to each cheek and pulled down his lower eyelids. Scrutinized him, then let go. “Well, no obvious problems. Would you be willing to kill a child to get the job done?”

Scorio blanched. “Kill a child?”

Dola watched him carefully, her expression hard. “Uh-huh.”

“No.” He stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Sit your ass down, you passed the test. I don’t want any monsters on my crew.”

He hesitated, his heart pounding, then awkwardly sat down once more. “You’ve got morals, then?”

“What do you take me for?”

“You do Basilisk’s dirty work.”

“Sometimes. But I need people with smarts and enough morality to not create unnecessary problems. I’m not above killing if it’s needed, but only as a last resort. People with overly fluid views on right and wrong cause more trouble than they’re worth.”

“All right. What else? Want me to fight someone? Walk a highwire?”

She scoffed. “You think you’re going to be the star of the show? No, I just need an extra pair of eyes for this job, and you seem capable of that. But there’s something off about you, Scorio.”

He forced himself to relax a fraction, to lean back against the alcove’s wall. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve not asked about the pay.” Her eyes narrowed. “The only folks who go this long without asking are moles or thrill-seekers. You don’t strike me as a thrill-seeker.”

“You think I’m working for another House?” He allowed his genuine surprise to show through.

“No calluses. Clear eyes, clear nails. Nothing on your breath. Smart, sharp, and not uneasy to talk to. No family, no debts, no history, and somehow you get Feiyan of all people to walk back through my door.” She smiled grimly. “Doesn’t take a fool to add all that up. And given the unrest on the street…”

“I don’t work for another House.”

“Funny. That’s what a mole would say.”

Tension flowed through the room like a cold current, and a half-dozen men and women slowly uncoiled from their alcoves, rising to their feet, making no overt threatening gestures, but staring at him with the promise of brutality in their eyes.

“You think Feiyan would betray you like this?”

“I already told you. You’re going to have to do better than leaning on her reputation.”

Scorio spread his hands. “Tell me what it’ll take to convince you.”

“That’s on you.” Through all this, Dola remained cool, calm, relaxed. “You’re running out of time.”

The crowd began to close in.

Scorio resisted the urge to stand and forced himself to appear as calm as Dola seemed. His thoughts scrambled, tripping over each other. Dola held his gaze with flinty equanimity.

“If I were an agent for another House, I’d have come in here with a better cover story.”

“Interesting.” Dola considered. “Or it could mean you’re just arrogant and lazy.”

Now Scorio did stand. The others were closing in inexorably. He saw hands closing into fists. A few drew long knives from their ornamental scabbards.

There was no way he could fight his way out of here without someone getting in a lucky cut. The way to the exit was blocked.

“Attack me, and I will defend myself,” he heard himself say.

Dola leaned back, the leather cushions beneath her creaking. “That’d be interesting to see. You defend yourself against this lot, and we can continue our conversation.”

A deep breath. The stench of foul intent was heavy in the air. They weren’t just going to toss him out on his ear.

Scorio drew out his steel rod from where he’d tucked it through his robe. Dola narrowed her eyes.

“See this?” He held it vertically before him, and with a deep breath, he summoned a vision of his Igneous Heart. For a second it escaped him, but then it was there, gloriously indifferent to his plight, cold and gleaming and suspended in the void.

“A bar of metal,” said Dola, nonplussed.

He reached for the black, sooty clouds, and to his surprise found them to be lighter here, tinted reddish-brown. They responded more energetically to his will, sweeping around him once, twice, and then into the treasure.

He felt it activate.

Six seconds to go.

“Look,” he said, and released it.

The bar remained suspended in the air.

The crowd froze, their expressions betraying surprise and confusion.

“And then here is a little bridge,” he said, drawing out the second treasure. “Cunningly made, right?”

He set the bridge’s edge against the bar. Again he stirred the coppery clouds which were as thick and responsive as before. He swept them around his Igneous Heart, urgency giving him focus, and into the bridge.

It burst forth, exploding into its full size, anchored by the bar’s impossible fixity, smashing its forward beam straight into the crowd, knocking men and women flying, breaking bones, eliciting screams in an explosion of kinetic power.

Dola gaped. The bridge filled the room, the thunderous sound of masonry smashing outward into the next chamber accompanied by billows of dust that rolled in, fragments of stone falling as cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling. The bridge leaned drunkenly at an angle, then shrank rapidly, contracting to fall amongst the distant rubble in its miniaturized form, just as the steel bar fell with a satisfying thwap into Scorio’s palm.

The crowd was scattered, tossed about, several of them unconscious, half of them sitting up, cradling broken limbs and clutching at their sides.

Scorio slid his steel bar into his belt and sat back down. He felt panicked, exposed, and cursed at the necessity that had forced him to betray his true nature. But events were what they were, and now he had to play his hand all the way.

“So,” he said, looking at where Dola had remained seated. “Ready to continue our conversation?”

“You…” She dragged her gaze back to him. “You’re a Great Soul?”

“Kind of.” He waggled his head from side to side. “Not really. But I know some tricks. And I’m interested in working for you.”

The gray-haired bartender appeared in the doorway, her frown melting into an open-mouthed gape at the huge hole in the far wall, the men and women strewn across the floor. But she gathered her wits with remarkable speed. “Problem?”

Dola relaxed, her features composed once more. “No problem, Kayla.”

Scorio and Dola sat in silence as Kayla and several others helped the wounded rise or simply carried the unconscious out through the bead curtain. A look from Dola assured the bartender, who finally retreated and left the pair of them alone.

“Nice tricks,” said Dola at last.

“Not bad,” allowed Scorio, leaning back, affecting nonchalance. “They’ve proven useful.”

“You willing to part with those treasures?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Wise. But now I understand your story even less. Why work for a handful of octs when you’re carting around wealth like that?”

“Check out the sandals,” he said, lifting one foot. “And from what I hear, this robe I’m wearing isn’t the latest cut.”

“So you’re asset rich, cash poor.”

“Essentially.”

The older woman pursed her lips, considering him. “There’s no way you could activate those treasures without manipulating mana. Which means you’re a Great Soul. But you’re down on your luck. Which means you’re on the outs with all four Houses.”

“I won’t confirm or deny it.”

“That makes hiring you on a high-risk move on my part.”

“I thought high-risk moves were your trade.”

Her smile was humorless. “Those that I actively choose after careful evaluation. You’re an unknown element with who knows what baggage.”

Scorio stayed silent.

“The Academy after you? One of the Houses?”

“No,” he said. “That I can swear to you. Nobody knows I’m here or alive.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Scorio smiled at her. “Honest ones, too, for that matter.”

“Hmm. So you say.”

He leaned forward. “We already know you’re hiring me on. Now we just need to settle the terms.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I’m still sitting here.”

“I’m interested. What rank are you?”

“Rank?” He thought briefly about bluffing, but decided Dola was just too experienced and smart to fool. “Char. I got out early.”

“Char. So you’ve got your tricks and that’s it.”

“Like you said, they’re nice tricks.”

“That they are.” Again she pursed her lips, those deep dimples appearing, her eyes narrowing. “We’ll stick to the original job. Ten octs for successfully executing the mission. You do well, and we can talk about fast-tracking you to more interesting opportunities, giving you more responsibility.”

“Seeing as I’m a Great Soul.”

“Seeing as you’re a Great Soul in training,” she said. Her gaze had become speculative, predatory, hungry. “If you play fair with me, if you do your part, you could do well.”

“That’s my intention.”

“But know this, Scorio. My crew will keep their mouth shut about what happened here today. But you mess up, you set yourself against me, and we’ll see to it that the wrong people at the very top hear about you.”

“Some judicious blackmail to square the deal,” said Scorio, his smile widening. “Oddly comforting. Fine. I take it that means you trust me now?”

Dola laughed. “No. But you don’t get where I am without knowing when to take a bet. I’m not important enough to warrant a Great Soul coming after me down here in the Narrows. Which means, strange as you are, you’re no mole. So let’s try each other on for size. One mission. Depending on how it goes, we’ll talk.”

“Fair. Thank you for the opportunity.”

Dola leaned back, hiking one knee up to plant a boot on the bench and drape an arm over her knee. “Oh, you’re most welcome, Scorio. I’ve a feeling things are going to start changing for the better around here. And if we play our cards right, our little outfit might be heading to the top.”