Myna stood in a doorway with Adan and Breakaleg in the darkness a pace behind, waiting for the three Goblins inside the candlelit room beyond to notice her and fall silent. The first Goblin to see her flinched, grabbing the handle of a stone knife strapped to his leg; the other Goblins followed the first one’s gaze, eyes widening. One of the two—dressed in red-trimmed purple robes which exuded something resembling dignity—raised his hands as if preparing to cast some kind of spell. The last Goblin gripped his wrist, stopping him—staring at Myna from beneath a flashy diadem of feathers and claws.

“What you want?” the headdressed Goblin rasped. “Why you come here?” He made an imperious gesture with his hand—implying Myna had better consider her answer very carefully.

“I have an offer for you, Liege,” Myna said, inclining her brow. “That’s right, isn’t it? You're the Liege, and this is your tribe?”

“Yes,” the Liege said, nodding. “You offer? What?”

“Your people are imprisoned in a dark pit,” Myna said, voice devoid of threat or boast, as though she wasn’t the one who had put them there. “You can heroically step in and free them all. They will love you for it. You’ll be spoken of fondly for generations.”

The Liege wrinkled his thick brow, frowning thoughtfully. He refrained from commenting on the substance of what Myna said, asking only, “That it?”

“No,” Myna added quickly. “That’s just one part of it. I also have information for you. You and I both know the vein of gold you discovered is nearly used up. It was a small one. You’ve practically exhausted it already. But now your tribe is accustomed to the things gold can buy for them—and they’ll be angry when it’s over. They’ll want to blame someone, and you, as the Liege, will be a handy target for their frustration. Now, I don’t know what Goblins do to leaders who fail their tribe, but I assume it isn’t good. I’m sure you’ve stayed awake nights thinking about that—ever since you saw that the gold-supply is already depleted, becoming harder and harder to find in the rock.”

The ordinary-looking Goblin glanced at the Liege, interjecting in their own language. Myna didn’t need to speak Goblin to guess he had asked something like, “Is this true? The gold is running out?” before the Liege raised his hand for silence. 

The Liege squinted at Myna. “Alright. What is offer?”

In the shadows behind Myna, Breakaleg grinned. 

“The aeneous thing,” Myna said, “which you considered trash and threw debris on as you mined, is more valuable than gold. You and your tribe can take it. It will fund a whole new way of life.”

The grin fell from Breakaleg’s face.

The Liege glanced at the robe-wearer beside him, clearly expecting counsel or advice. They exchanged a few whispered sentences in their language.

The Liege turned his head back towards Myna. “In return for all this, what you want?”

“Only for you to leave,” Myna said. “Give us this hole in the ground, and go settle somewhere new. That’s it.”

The Liege glanced again at his advisor, and a few more quiet words were exchanged. After a beat, the Liege nodded. “Alright,” he said. “We will take your offer. This cave yours now.”

Without further palaver, the Goblins tramped towards the doorway. Myna moved aside, while Adan and Breakaleg scrambled to flatten themselves against the sides of the shadowy corridor. The Goblins proceeded past, vanishing around a curve in the passage, as the Elf and Dwarf rushed forward a few steps to join the thief at the lighted doorway.

“What have you done?” Breakaleg hissed, grabbing Myna’s shoulders. “That machine is worth its weight in—”

“Tin?” Myna interrupted. “Lead, perhaps? Do you want to do the grueling work of digging it out and moving it yourself, or do you want the Goblins to do it, and then simply buy it for much less than you can resell it for?”

Breakaleg fell silent, lips pursed.

Myna crossed her arms. “You’re welcome for the mine your church just acquired without a fight, by the way.”

Adan chuckled quietly, clapping Myna on the back as he brushed past the others to enter the candlelit room. He craned his head, gaze sweeping the small room; which was devoid of furnishings except for fur pelts laid on the stone floor, a wooden bed shoved in one corner, and a wooden chest. The lack of pomp seemed to suggest the Liege had not used it for any length of time. It was easy to guess it had long been sealed off, and, immediately upon discovering a more comfortable, more private space than was available anywhere else in the mine, the Liege had moved into it.

“What’s in the chest?” Adan whispered, striding towards it.

“Wait!” Myna blurted, inserting herself in front of the Elf. She stared at the chest, breath held, as if it might suddenly try something of its own accord. “I don’t like this,” Myna whispered after a beat. “Why would they leave it behind, whatever it is?” She crept towards the chest and knelt, carefully palpating the seam between lid and sides with her fingertips. She lifted the lid minutely, barely cracking the chest. “It isn’t even locked,” she grumbled. 

“They wanted you to open it,” Breakaleg murmured in return, frowning.

Myna nodded. She produced a slender tool from inside her cloak, and inserted it underneath the cracked lid. Slowly and carefully sliding it along, she paused as she felt the needle-like rod hit something. After glancing at Breakaleg, she pushed against whatever she had hit, and felt it give way. Then opening the lid with her other hand, she revealed a crossbow nestled in a bed of rags inside the chest, aimed out. Myna had broken a small string which had attached to the trigger mechanism and would have made the crossbow shoot when the chest opened, had she not disarmed the trap beforehand.

“We’re not the only ones employing stratagem,” Breakaleg said. “All they know is you fought your way this far, and thus are formidable enough that they can’t take any chances. They wanted to bait you into opening the chest and getting injured, so it would be easier to turn around and finish you off after.”

Eyes wide, Myna hastily grabbed the crossbow. She bounded across the small room and squatted near the bed. Moving in a blur, Adan hurried between the candles mounted on the walls, blowing them out one after another. In darkness, Breakaleg and Adan got to the doorway and waited at either side, clutching their weapons, ready to put clotheslines of sharp bronze in front of anyone who came through.

“They need to think the trap worked!” Breakaleg whispered, slapping himself on the forehead. He shuffled forward and stomped his foot on the floor near the chest, simulating the thud of a body.

After that, the wait wasn’t long. Breakaleg was barely back in his hiding place before hearing the quick steps of the Goblins rushing down the passageway outside. The foremost monster blundered into the room; Myna shot her crossbow from concealment. The bolt thwacked into the plainest and largest of the Goblins, whom the Liege and his advisor had made enter the room first. He screamed in pain, clutching the shaft projecting from the right side of his torso. Breakaleg swung his maul, aiming for the same Goblin’s head; at exactly the same moment, he doubled-over in pain, allowing the weapon to swish above him.

The robed Goblin leapt forward, aware now that Myna was not the only enemy in the room. He raised his hands. 

Adan felt something arcane pull power into itself, like a giant had drawn a deep breath in the room and made it, for the briefest glimmer of time, a vacuum. 

A radiant bolt of energy flashed out of the robed Goblin’s hands, filling the room with red light; Breakaleg leapt aside, flattening himself on the floor and covering his head with his arms. The bolt of energy smashed against the wall, scorching stone, melting outright both candlesticks in the vicinity of where it struck.

Myna dropped her unpolished crossbow now that the single bolt had been used, and drew her shortbow as she rose to her feet. Nocking an arrow and shooting in a single motion, she disrupted the robed Goblin’s attempt to dispatch Breakaleg with another fulmination. Adan surged forward, scimitar flying. The mage turned and discharged the magic; it hit Adan in the waist, but a fraction of a second too late to prevent the Elf’s sword from taking off his head. Adan hurdled backwards, wreathed in smoke, as the headless mage fell to the floor in a bundle of bloody robes.

The injured Goblin warrior pulled himself together, ignoring the crossbow bolt sticking out of his flesh and closing with Myna. From the floor, Breakaleg swung his maul at the warrior’s calves. The Goblin went down howling; Myna nocked another arrow, then silenced the wounded creature.

The Liege sprang into the room, immediately filling the limited space, attacking with a descending swing of a cruel-looking two-handed weapon which Goblins probably called a halberd. Breakaleg rolled aside, letting the blade cleave through pelts and clang against the stone floor beneath. Myna dropped low, grabbing a handful of fur with her fingers, and yanked as hard as she could. The ground shifted underneath the Liege’s feet; he lost his balance, falling backwards. Breakaleg slid his maul forward—the edge of the blade facing up, the back of the blade braced against the floor—and let the Liege topple onto it.

The quick, intense fight was over. Breathing hard, Myna straightened up, looking around the small room. Her gaze skimmed over the wreckage of Goblin bodies, and fell on Adan—the Elf was huddled against one wall, unmoving, tendrils of oily smoke rising from crisped clothes. Myna hurried towards him, fearing the worst.

“Adan!” Myna blurted, shaking the Elf by the shoulder.

Looking groggy and perplexed, Adan opened his eye. “Were we victorious?”

Myna smiled. “We were. It was close, though.”

“That trap,” Breakaleg said, pushing himself up from the floor, “seems to have been in place already when we arrived. I doubt they set it up just to trick you, Myna.”

Myna nodded. “So, that begs the question: what was it protecting here?” she wondered aloud, stepping over the headless Goblin mage, moving towards the chest. She threw the lid back, then pulled aside the dirty rags which had divided the crossbow from the chest’s contents beneath. Myna saw a heap of amorphous gold nuggets at the bottom of the chest, dull and matte in her darkvision, devoid of the warmth and glitter light would put on them.

“Breakaleg,” Myna breathed, eyes riveted by the gold nuggets, “you’ll want to see this.”


•••


The yellow-eyed Elf and his troops tramped through dense underbrush, gazes fixed on the ground, watching carefully for signs of their hidden objective. With the guardian in the cabin dead, he felt that the final obstacle was gone, and attaining the ultimate end they sought was assured. It is only a matter of time, he thought, until we find the hidden site. Despite the dreariness of the sky visible in fissures of the woodland canopy, and the troublesome physical wounds he had sustained, and the many underlings who had been martyred for the cause, Leorsan Fenzairos felt spiritually exalted; poised at the threshold of inevitable success. 

The landmarks were all there, albeit under omnipresent brambles and ferns. There was a sinkhole, a high canyon, and a mossy grotto with a bright but blurry light filtering through tangled branches; the prophesied course they followed had been vindicated once again. Leorsan paused, raising his fist to halt the column of troops behind him. “This is it,” Leo said.

His second-in-command looked around the understory, her tree-resin-colored eyes cagey. She glanced at Leo. “Here, Commander? You’re sure?” She paused, letting the sound of a distant thunderclap wash over them, effectively making her point for her. In the mountains, they had no barrier standing between themselves and the storms. They didn’t have time to waste with false starts.

“Begin digging,” Leo said, stepping aside and pointing at the underbrush at his feet. A few troops pushed forward, hacking at the understory with machetes, clearing a patch of rocky dirt for the next wave, which was armed with bronze shovels. Leo crossed his arms, watching his troops quickly, systematically beginning the excavation. His second-in-command stood at his side, chewing her lip. Another thunderclap rolled along the mountainside.


•••


The amber light of gas-lamps in the misty, humid street limned the figures at the far end of a cluttered alley, swaddled in greatcoats and scarves, with simple helmets on their heads. Wordlessly, Myna, Breakaleg, and Adan approached them, kicking up stray bits of junk and debris as they walked; a damp scrap of a newspaper stuck tenaciously to the sole of Breakaleg’s boot. He glanced down, frowning slightly, trying to shake the periodical off without making the movement recognizable. Alas, my entrance has been robbed of its gravitas. Ah well—the light is low. Perhaps it’s not too obvious.

“So,” the taller of the two men at the end of the alley said, “you have information to sell us?”

Myna halted, staring. She took a moment, either building suspense or collecting herself, then said, “Yes. We’ve discovered something which could be much more valuable than the trifling cost of our finder’s fee.”

The men glanced at each other, faces devoid of expression…

After filling their pouches and pockets with gold from the Goblin Liege’s chest, Myna, Breakaleg, and Adan had doubled back to the half-buried machine and considered their next steps. The option of manipulating the Goblins into excavating and moving the metal hulk was gone, leaving them, again, in the daunting shadow of all the work it would take to actually profit from the thing. Breakaleg thought of the Fence, who was always happy to buy stolen goods for resale; but he abandoned the idea because, as far as he knew, the Fence’s business didn’t branch into the antiquities blackmarket, and he wouldn’t be interested in something requiring him to travel out of Kingsholm and dig for it. Breakaleg next thought of his own dozen-or-so urchins, but they were children: not exactly the staunch, brawny workforce one would desire for displacing tons of rock and hauling a large metal apparatus overland back to the city. Ultimately, Myna suggested they cover the exposed bits of the machine, hiding it completely, and sell knowledge of the location, not the thing itself. She explained that she possessed contacts inside the Watch: and since the deeply corrupt Watch served, among other seedy jobs, as enforcers for the entire blackmarket, they would be a natural conduit for the information to reach interested parties. Payment would flow without a hitch, she said.

Following a tense negotiation with Myna’s contacts, they received a small finder’s fee and washed their hands of the whole thing going forward. Stepping out of the alleyway, Breakaleg fixed Myna and Adan in a blank look. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know about you, but I find walking through Kingsholm as darkness settles in with pockets full of gold to be an awful idea.”

Myna nodded. “You’re right. We should go somewhere to stash our takes.”

Adan shrugged. “I’m a stranger here,” he said. “So I suppose I’ll have to search for an inn.”

“Do you want to be jumped by townies?” Myna asked, frowning. “The people of Kingsholm are very touchy about Elves right now. The most recent way the Merchant Governor found to remind everyone he has arbitrary control of their lives was by allowing a group of Elf shamans into Kingsholm to seize and excavate whatever bit of land they said is sacred to their lineage, or whatever. More than a couple people had homes and businesses leveled. Someone is sure to attack you just because you’re a solitary Elf wandering the streets at night, and afterwards be pleasantly surprised by all the gold you’re carrying.”

Adan grimaced. “What do you suggest, then?”

Myna furrowed her brow. “The Borough where I live,” she said, “is under the auspices of a slumlord called The Foreigner. How he owns so much property in the first place is anyone’s guess, but he purports to believe strangers in the city need to stick together; so the undercurrent of xenophobia elsewhere present in Kingsholm is held at bay and does not reach there—nor do the exorbitant urban prices for room and board. Under The Foreigner’s implied patronage, an anonymous Elf could probably avoid being targeted for violence and robbery overnight. Probably.”


Adan shrugged again.


The trio of tired adventurers, with no tweeness and very little formality, disbanded. Breakaleg headed for his church, where he could safely deposit his sizable share of the gold nuggets they had found, and report that the Ixian ruins—while it was true there had been a small vein of gold exposed by a quake—were once again played out and not worth the effort to mine further. (The coins jingling in his pocket from his finder’s fee, he decided, were his own, and he need not mention anything to the Rector about the discovery of the machine or the subsequent sale.)

Reaching the church and entering through the same basement counting-room, however, he did not find the Rector in the building, and left again after quietly stashing the gold underneath his own mattress without mentioning it to anyone.

Standing outside the door of the Church of Alithia, Breakaleg noticed a dark shape move across the mouth of the alley, silhouetted by street lamps. He stared at the end of the alley—a narrow view of a cross street framed by nondescript walls—and waited. A worrying, ill-defined prickle of instinct gnawed his ribs—like an insect crawling on his skin, making him swat at it without consciously processing what it is. But the shape in the mouth of the alley did not reappear.

“It was only someone walking down the street,” Breakaleg mumbled aloud to himself, intent on quieting his own misgivings before proceeding. The opposite end of the alley was a brick wall—leaving him with no choice but to approach the place where he had seen the shape. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, broke into a brisk trot, reached the end of the alley, and rounded the corner onto the street without event. He released a breath he had not been aware of holding. Breakaleg relaxed more the farther he moved down the street. The instinctive sense of foreboding had evaporated entirely, by the time he cast a casual glance behind himself, and saw the same shape from before dodge quickly out of the lamplight, flitting into another alley to hide from view.

Breakaleg stiffened, eyes wide. He forced himself to look ahead again, and walked as much faster as he could without outright running, and potentially galvanizing his tail into  rash action. Why am I being followed?


•••


Running his hand through the high-and-tight hairstyle on top of his skull, Breakaleg turned in place, his gaze roving over the busyness around him, bathed in early afternoon sun. The walled compound in which he stood was lousy with evidence of Tundrarlum Platedigger’s noisome profession (though Breakaleg couldn’t articulate what exactly that was.) Structures like hangars for zeppelins spread across ground of hard-packed dirt; conveyor belts were visible beyond open doors, being loaded, unloaded, and sorted by Goblin and Dwarf laborers. Horses and carts went past on the thready roads crisscrossing the compound, carrying crates and barrels of who knows what to who knows where. In the air, the smell of burning wood from smokestacks mixed with fumes of unsavory chemicals. Though he had only meant to orient himself in the compound and find the correct building in the panoply, Breakaleg unexpectedly glimpsed the exact face he sought; it belonged to a Dwarf standing in the shade of one building’s eaves with a Human; the two were apparently absorbed in conversation. The cleric broke into a walk, approaching at a casual pace.

“Ah, your piety,” one of the figures said as Breakaleg drew close. Stepping forward and reaching out to clasp Breakaleg’s hand, the rough-looking Dwarf smiled toothily. His Human companion said nothing, and did not smile. 

“It is a pleasant surprise to see you here,” the Dwarf went on genially. Glancing at his companion, he added, “You needn’t worry, this puissant gentleman is a friend. I have worked with Mr. Goodchap extensively, and always to great advantage.” 

“It’s good to see you as well, Mr. Platedigger,” Breakaleg said, smiling in return. Mr. Platedigger—or the Fence, as he was more often known—had a rugged face, deeply wrinkled; huge eyebrows and dark bags framed his bright, alert eyes. His beard and wild mane of hair were inky black. Breakaleg was somewhat confused at having found him in the alley between his offices and the next structure, rather than inside the building itself, but he knew better than to inquire after particulars. The Human beside him stood rigidly upright, very obviously uneasy at Breakaleg’s sudden arrival; his hand rested tellingly against his side, gaunt fingers presumably ready to close around the handle of a hidden gun. 

“To what do we owe this visit?” the Fence asked.

“I have a problem,” Breakaleg said. “I find myself with a question that needs answering.”

“I hope I can be of help to you,” the Fence said, nodding.

“It seems that I am being followed,” Breakaleg said, and instantly the Fence’s companion went ashen and wild-eyed. 

“Have you brought the Watch here?” the Human stammered, bracing himself to run, looking hastily in both directions. The Fence held out a placating hand.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Bilge,” he said. “I don’t suppose Mr. Goodchap means he’s being followed at this very moment, but recently. Correct?” 

“Indeed,” the cleric assured them. “I was very careful on that point. I shook my tail off before coming here. But I’m sure the reprieve will be short-lived. Starting last night and continuing today, I’ve been shadowed almost constantly. Oh, the woman who’s after me thinks she has gone unnoticed, but I’ve been very much aware of her. I cannot say who she is, or what she wants. I have subtly tried to confront her twice, but she is wary, and difficult to get the drop on.”

“I see—well, we can’t have this,” the Fence said. “And what is your intent: to simply uncover her identity, or to have her be energetically discouraged from such surveillance…?” He spoke with the flat, easy demeanor of someone asking about another’s plans for lunch.

“At present, I simply wish to know who she is,” Breakaleg answered. “I have had a couple tolerably clear views of her, and my hope is that her description might ring a bell with you. I know you are one who keeps his finger firmly on the pulse of the city.” 

The Fence grinned. “I would be delighted to turn my attention to this matter,” he said, “just as soon as I’ve concluded my business here. Would you be so good as to step into my office—you know the way, feel free to show yourself in—and I will join you there just as soon as I am at liberty.” The man called Mr. Bilge nodded emphatically, apparently much annoyed that Breakaleg had abruptly appeared and monopolized the conversation. 

“Of course, of course, there’s no rush.” Breakaleg made a gesture of blessing at the two men and left the alley, heading for the entrance to the building. As he slipped through the doorway into the vacant, mildewy lobby, he heard a gunshot crack in the alley he had just left, followed by the crash of a large, Human-size body falling against the crates and trash. Again, he knew better than to ask after any particulars…

“So,” the Fence said, lighting his pipe, “Tell me about this mysterious person who has been following you.” Seated across from each other at the Fence’s desk, Breakaleg and the Fence had conducted the niceties and were moving on to the business at hand. His office was largely unchanged from the last time Breakaleg had seen it; the dark floorboards creaked noisily, the aqua wallpaper was inexplicably damp, and the appalling artwork hung thereon gave one a headache if one looked too long at it. His massive wood desk was scuffed in one specific place from years of supporting his feet.

“To start with,” Breakaleg said, “She is Human—of medium height for their kind, dark-haired, with cobalt eyes…” he rubbed his temples absently, bethinking any particular identifying features of the woman. Sadly, one Human looked very much like another. “Perhaps the most distinguishing feature of all is her act of shadowing me itself,” Breakaleg said, settling on a characteristic he could clearly define. “It is hardly typical to see someone of her description moving through fetid backstreets and liverish taverns, totally intent on her quarry and heedless of her personal safety in such places. Is there any clue in this that resonates with rumors you have overheard—a dogged dark-haired Human of medium height? I only wish I could offer more information, but I simply do not have it.”

The Fence leaned back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto his desk in their customary spot, where the uncouth habit had worn a groove in the varnished hardwood. “It happens that this information may be enough,” the rumormonger said. “There is a certain Human making a reputation for herself inside the Watch, of late; she holds the rank of Corporal, and her name is Juniper Silva. She is something of a throwback to what the Watch used to represent, before that august institution was largely a private thug-army for the aristocrats and blackmarketeers. Silva hunts criminals like a hound, championing law and order in the oldest, most outdated sense. As I understand it, she creates a great deal of angst in the Watch with her meddling and prying, but the public is enamored with her crusades—giving her such a high profile that rather than deal with her, the Watch is forced to leave her to her own devices, and even throw her the occasional promotion when it would reflect well on them to do so. I’ve heard many whispers about her, and there are many who would like to see her thoroughly done away with. Several friends of mine have already been hanged as a result of her talents. Granted, most of those gentlemen were stunningly overdue for it, but still.”

Breakaleg whistled softly, mulling all these new facts the Fence had brought to light. “So hanging is what I should expect, as a result of her pursuit?” the cleric asked. 

“Probably,” the Fence said, puffing at his pipe, “if you’ve done anything to deserve it. She rarely fails to bring her prey down. Unless of course you get to her first. A good many criminals would be grateful, if you did.”

The cleric nodded thoughtfully. “Well,” Breakaleg said, “This has been most illuminating. And to show that I don’t take your assistance for granted…” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pouch of coinage. “Your time is valuable, and I appreciate your insight into this matter.”

The Fence splayed his chapped lips, once again revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. “A pleasure,” he said. “Please, don’t hesitate to come again.” He raised a caterpillar of an eyebrow, and added: “That is, if Juniper doesn’t get you.”


•••


Breakaleg found the street immediately outside the Fence’s compound devoid of passing foot- or cart traffic; so hiring a cab was out of the question. He had much to think about, though, and apart from the sickly fog which had crept over the city, making the sunlight weak and greenish and the temperature drop precipitously, he did not rue the walk. Tucking his chin against his chest and muffling the lower half of his face in his own bushy beard, he hooked his thumbs in his belt and struck-off towards home. 

At a line of storefronts, he caught sight of something reflected in one of the large windows. He stopped in his tracks—covering his sudden pause by pretending to study an antique sword for sale in the store. Juniper Silva was behind him, across the street, half-concealed in the thick fog. Breakaleg continued watching her reflection in the window before him; she, too, pretended to study something in a storefront across the street, loitering casually, waiting for Breakaleg to begin moving again. This is the closest she’s gotten, Breakaleg thought. This is her first mistake. My own mistake thus far has been being too timid in my attempts to confront her. I shall correct that.

He resumed his brisk pace down the sidewalk, keeping track of Silva by her reflection in windows. The moment he saw that the street was clear of passing carts and he had a clear route from his side to hers, he veered off his course and sprinted at top speed towards her. She had little time to react; the cleric was across the narrow street in the blink of an eye, leaping and tackling her into a small alleyway. The two became tangled in a mess of laundry which had hung throughout the space on lines; ripping the lines down and tumbling to the ground, they struggled blindly—with each other as well as with the pantaloons wrapped around their heads and shirtsleeves hobbling their feet.

Managing to get free and scrambling up to a high kneel, Breakaleg shifted forward to straddle the Human’s ribcage and pin her to the ground. Reaching down to seize her hands, Breakaleg leveraged his advantage—namely, gravity—and held her fast as she tired herself out with frantic, blind struggling. She still had a ratty vest inopportunely draped over her head. When she paused momentarily, breathing heavily, the cleric said: “I know your name is Juniper Silva, and that you are with the Watch. Let us cut to the chase, then. Why are you following me?”

Silva was quiet for a moment, apparently deciding how to answer. 

“Let me rephrase my query,” Breakaleg said. “Why are you devoting so much energy to tracking me, a modest and innocuous holy-person, when there are many criminals roaming these streets who more richly deserve the attention of the Watch? Perhaps we can agree to part here, and trouble each other no more.” 

“Call it professional intuition,” Silva spat, her voice muted by the vest on her head. “I know there is more to you than meets the eye—indeed, I know all about your little pickpocket ring, but I suspect the real truth runs much deeper.”

“Perhaps it does,” Breakaleg said. “But you see, you’re correct—I am a tad more ruthless than I appear at first look, which is why you may find swearing enmity to me is a misguided idea.” He let go of one of her wrists, and took hold of the vest across her face. “It will bring me no pleasure to do what I must do next—but I understand it is you or me, and I must admit that the idea of hanging—” Breakaleg threw the vest aside as he spoke, and was instantly rocked off balance as Silva planted her feet and bucked her hips. The cleric posted his arms on the ground to save himself from being flung forward, and Juniper swept him over sideways with her arm as she rolled out from beneath him. 

Opening and closing his mouth without a sound, Breakaleg stared up at Silva’s eyes—getting an entirely new perspective from his position pinned under her. 

The Corporal said nothing. As she met Breakaleg’s gaze without blinking, they both took stock of the reversal. Juniper’s skin shone in the hazy air and the muted light of the gas-lamps, which were then coming on along the street to offset the deepening gloom of the day. Her dark, satiny hair fell across her brow, and hung around her face in scattered strands as she looked down at Breakaleg. Then, one hand moving faster than the cleric could react, she drew a gun from her sash and clapped the muzzle against his temple.

“All right,” she said, “Be quiet. I’ll tell you how it is.”

Breakaleg nodded.

“I know that your church,” Juniper began, “is merely a facade, and your real aim is bringing in as much money as you possibly can.”

“That may be your opinion, but—”

Juniper pressed her flintlock pistol slightly harder into Breakaleg’s temple, silencing him. “I’ve been aware of your church and your little army of thieves for a while. Honestly, I thought it’s a small scale operation. I wouldn’t be interested in you, except that I was recently clued in on something big happening inside the corrupt elements of the Watch. I don’t know what it is, but I know they’re moving in ways they’ve never moved before. So I’ve been watching some Watch members I know to be dirty, hoping to glean an understanding of what has changed. And who should I see meeting with a pair of them last night, but you? Now, given what I know about you already, I have to reevaluate what you’re really doing. I want to know what this is all about, and I don’t have time to be subtle about my inquiry.”

Breakaleg broke into a pained grin. Juniper scrunched her brow and stared at him quizzically. “What?”

“I’m happy to inform you that this is only a misunderstanding!” Breakaleg gushed, holding his palms out. “I have nothing to do with those Watchmen I met last night! You were apparently observing it all, so you will know who I mean when I say that the young woman arranged the meeting. If anyone has some connection to this larger problem of yours, it is she, not I.”

Juniper made no move to let Breakaleg up from the ground, but her icy eyes thawed a bit. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“Absolutely nothing!” Breakaleg blurted. “I’m confused constantly! I don’t even know where I am half the time!”

Juniper chewed her lip thoughtfully, then nodded. She eased the pressure of her flintlock off Breakaleg’s head. “I believe you. Tell me about the one who arranged the meeting.”