Anger pushed open the door of Hobbs' Veterinary Surgery. Inside, only the oil lamp on the dissection table was still lit. The man didn't look up.

  "On time. Are you ready?"

  Anger stopped by the doorway, his guard still up. This place itself was deeply off. A detective seeking out a gambling den—who wouldn't find that laughable?

  The man simply told him to put on the ring and bring the BoneBird dead coin. The ring was wound with some silver thread.

  "Is there anything else I need to know? The rules?"

  "Rules are just the surface. Winning is everything."

  The man walked to the wall and lifted a filthy canvas tarp, revealing a low wooden door behind it. On the panel was drawn a crude sketch of a bonebird, its eye sockets two real, hollowedout holes.

  "The den isn't on land."

  Anger frowned. "At sea?"

  "You'll know when you get there. Into the fog, straight ahead. Push through this door, downstream along the river, then east. There's a derelict barge landing. Every seven days, the tide drowns the last stretch of path leading to it. Only those who know the hour and carry the key can find the ferry."

  He stepped aside, revealing the passage that led into an indistinct gloom.

  "Leave now, and you might catch the first boat at midnight," the man said. "The ferryman waits for no one and asks no questions. You'll understand once you're aboard. Remember: when you leave, you must leave behind one thing you brought with you."

  "What thing?"

  "Your choice." The man grinned, offering no elaboration. "But you must leave something. That's the rule."

  "One last question," Anger said. "Are there killers at the den?"

  "Killers, perhaps. The privileged, definitely. Some don't go to the den to gamble. They go to watch how the desperate lose everything in a single night." His tone was mocking. "Detective, if you're truly there to investigate, look for the dice first once you're inside. The BoneBird's dice aren't for throwing. They're for asking. But to ask a question, you must wager something of equal value. Because you might not come back. So consider this a free piece of advice. Heh."

  Anger turned and ascended the stone steps.

  He arrived at the designated ferry point. At the prow of a low boat stood a cloaked figure, its back to the shore, motionless.

  Only when Anger stepped onto the wooden platform did the ferryman turn around. He extended a hand, palm up.

  Anger raised his left hand, revealing the ring. The silver thread glimmered with a faint phosphorescence in the thick fog.

  The ferryman withdrew his hand and made room for Anger to board.

  ******

  Just as Anger moved to board, footsteps echoed from the stone steps behind him.

  His hand went to his gunhilt in an instant, melting back into the shadows beneath the landing. The ferryman glanced over but seemed to find nothing amiss. Then, two lanterns pierced the thick fog, followed by three figures.

  The leader was a middleaged man swathed in a sable coat—the picture of the fanciest sort of fortune. Two attendants trailed him: one carried a small case, the other was emptyhanded but wore a shortsword at his hip.

  "Bloody nuisance, this weather. Every time," the middleaged man grumbled. He strode to the landing's edge and, without ceremony, tossed a gold coin to the ferryman. "The usual. Front seats."

  The ferryman caught the coin, turning it in his palm for a silent inspection before tucking it into his cloak. Yet he did not step aside.

  The man frowned, then drew a small silk pouch from his coat. He tipped out a section of finger bone, its surface intricately carved with minute sigils. Placing the bone into the ferryman's outstretched palm, he waited.

  This time, the ferryman yielded the way.

  The two attendants boarded first, the middleaged man following. As he passed the shadow where Anger was concealed, he suddenly halted. "Lanterns," he commanded, his tone brusque. The attendants swung their lights toward the gloom.

  "Who's there?"

  Anger stepped into the light. The man's eyes flicked to the ring on Anger's hand, then swept over him, finding no crest of family or guild. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

  "Firsttimer. Got some nerve, eh? What's your poison? Revenge? Fortune? Or... looking to strike a bargain with one of the BoneBird's cutthroats?"

  Anger remained silent, his right hand still resting near his gun.

  "Not talking. Smart." The man gave a low chuckle. "The most valuable currency in that den is a closed mouth. But here's a bit of free advice: if you're truly after a killer, don't bother with the dice. Head straight upstairs. Wager your most prized possession. That's the sort of parlour talk they appreciate."

  With that, he turned and boarded. His attendants followed close behind. The one with the case stumbled slightly, its corner scraping against the gunwale, nearly springing the latch open.

  "Get a grip," the man snarled at him.

  Inside the cabin, six others were already seated. The middleaged man and his retinue took one side. Opposite sat two hooded figures, their forms swallowed by dark robes, faces invisible. At the stern, sitting alone, was a young woman in a faded blue dress, her knuckles white as she clutched a small cloth bundle to her chest.

  The ferryman cast off, poling the long oar into the black water. Not a soul aboard seemed inclined to speak another word until they reached the designated crossing.

  ******

  The boat traveled through the thick fog for about half an hour. The sound of dark water slapping against the hull and the quiet atmosphere were enough to lull anyone into drowsiness.

  The ferryman suddenly drove his long pole deep into the water.

  "We're here."

  The fog parted to either side, revealing an immense, derelict freighter. Its hull was tilted, halfsubmerged, yet the superstructure was ablaze with light.

  Two men in black suits stood on the gangway, checking each person's key.

  When it was Anger's turn, he raised his left hand. After a glance, they moved aside.

  The freighter's interior had been completely repurposed. The cargo hold was now a tripleheight hall. Gamblers in all manner of dress gathered around various tables. There were also many figures shrouded entirely in black robes, only their eyes visible.

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  Anger's gaze was drawn to the center of the hall.

  From the ceiling hung a massive construct at least fifteen feet long. A base of stitchedtogether human skin, even painted black, was studded with constellations. And those stars were no gems—they were eyeballs. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of eyeballs, some still glistening with fresh blood vessels, fixed in specific positions.

  It was a heretical mockery of a star chart.

  Why hasn't the Church found this? Why have there never been any reports?

  These killers... using something so brutal...

  A spasm twisted Anger's lips. A fire seemed to ignite within him. He clamped down on it, hard.

  Bellatus. He wanted to shout the name, but reason screamed that here, he could do nothing.

  His ScarSight triggered at that moment.

  The star chart was entangled with a terrifyingly dense web of traces—red, gold, green, countless filaments, a tangled, indistinguishable skein of energies all twisted and woven together. These threads of power had become a hopeless snarl.

  He forced his gaze away. A pulse throbbed at his temples.

  "First time seeing it?" a voice remarked beside him.

  Anger turned. A man in evening wear, holding a glass of wine, had sidled up to him, looking amused.

  "You could say that," Anger replied curtly.

  "That chart is the heart of the den," the man said, taking a sip. "They say it can reflect... higher existences. Winners can ask it questions. For a price, of course."

  "What price?" Anger pressed quickly.

  But the man seemed to notice his urgency and simply smiled. "You'll find out soon enough."

  He nodded toward the other side of the hall. Anger followed his gaze.

  Directly beneath the star chart stood a figure.

  No—that wasn't a person.

  It was the Gothic automaton he'd seen at the Mute Tower.

  She wore a pure white lace dress, utterly incongruous with the hall's atmosphere, her hair still that blend of gold and white, a smile fixed on her face. The gamblers around her unconsciously gave her space, forming a vacant circle.

  Does no one realize she's an automaton?

  "The perfect automaton craft of the Rhine Federation. The Clockwork Commonwealth," the man murmured, his gaze lingering on the doll with something like rapture.

  The scene grew even more bizarre. She slowly turned her head. Emeraldgreen eyes locked directly with Anger's. She even blinked.

  Most of the nearby gamblers followed her line of sight, their attention now on Anger.

  "You know her?" The man's interest was suddenly piqued.

  "No," Anger lied without changing expression. "Just thought she looked... distinctive."

  "Oh, she's distinctive, all right," the man continued, still staring, his expression dreamy. "She's a guest of the house. Never places a bet. Only watches. Some say she's the den's mascot. Others say she's here to select... materials."

  "Materials?"

  "Some games aren't played for money," the man said meaningfully. Then he turned and melted into the crowd.

  The Clockwork Commonwealth. The Rhine Federation. Anger had never left the Core Empire of Alikaxi. He didn't truly know what the Rhine Federation was. Or the New World, for that matter. It seemed he'd been too focused on his investigations, paying too little attention to the world beyond the fog of Londinum.

  Perhaps I should get out more.

  ******

  Anger tore his gaze away from the automaton. As a detective, he knew full well he was exposed in this environment. Retreat was the only prudent move for now. He began to edge slowly along the perimeter of the grand hall, his eyes perpetually scanning, searching for any possible exit—an escape route.

  After a long moment, a cold prickle of awareness shot down his spine. He was being watched.

  Anger didn't turn immediately. Instead, he feigned interest in a nearby gaming table, angling his body to stand beside it. Using a suitably polished brass fitting on the counter as an imperfect mirror, he caught a blurred reflection of the space behind him.

  A man stood there. His left arm hung at an odd, unnatural angle. His other hand remained buried deep in his coat pocket.

  Anger turned on his heel, facing the man directly, and began walking toward him.

  The man didn’t budge. Only when Anger had closed the distance by several more strides did he finally withdraw his right hand from his pocket. In it, he held that familiar, sinisterlooking implement—the knife akin to a dinner blade.

  Viper’s Breath. The BoneBird assassin Anger had shot in the left shoulder.

  Their eyes locked. The assassin said nothing. He merely raised the knife slowly, its point aimed directly at Anger. He held the pose for a few seconds, then, just as deliberately, slid the blade back into his pocket. Without another glance, he turned and melted into the crowd flowing toward the staircase that led to the upper deck.

  Anger did not give chase. This was their lair; starting a conflict here would be the height of folly. His hand, however, drifted to the pistol in his own pocket. A grim uncertainty settled in his gut: he wasn't at all sure a bullet would be enough to put down a killer like that, not here, not now.

  ******

  Before Anger could gather his thoughts, a stir erupted from the center of the hall.

  He turned to look. The area beneath the star chart had been cleared. Several masked attendants carried in a low table, upon which were placed seven bronze oil lamps arranged in a circle.

  The automaton walked to the table's edge.

  In her hand was a small cloth pouch. When she opened it, what she withdrew were eyeballs, some still trailing nerve fibers.

  The gamblers pressed closer, not a soul daring to break the silence.

  Then, she gently placed the first eyeball into an oil lamp. The flame sputtered and leapt higher, its colour shifting from a sickly green to a deep, sombre red.

  She proceeded to retrieve a second, then a third, until all the eyeballs were deposited into the lamps.

  The seven lamps blazed into fierce life simultaneously. Flames roared upwards, converging in the air above the wicks to form a shimmering screen of light. Images began to coalesce upon it.

  A vast subterranean cavern. Its walls were carved with intricate reliefs. At its heart lay a pool, filled with what could only be blood. Dozens of robed figures knelt around its edge, chanting in unison an ancient tongue. The sound pierced through the projection itself, a cacophony of grating harmonies that forced its way into the ears of all present. Suspended above the sanguine pool was a crown woven from thorns, set with twelve pulsating, darkred crystals.

  "The Crimson Crown…" an old gambler beside Anger muttered under his breath. "So they're truly doing it…"

  "Doing what?" Anger asked, almost without thinking.

  "The Rite."

  The vision lasted barely a dozen seconds before the flames died as abruptly as they had risen. The eyeballs within the lamps were now mere ash. The lightscreen dissipated.

  The automaton remained where she stood, a flicker of what might have been distaste crossing her features. She looked up at the star chart. All the eyeballs serving as its stars had now turned to face her, as if in solemn acknowledgement.

  Then, she turned and moved through the crowd, heading for the stairs leading to the lower decks. As she passed Anger, she paused.

  A sentence appeared, unbidden and clear, within Anger's mind: Your turn.

  Then, with a smile, she was gone.

  ******

  “What—?”

  The automaton had barely vanished when a hand landed on his shoulder.

  It was the man from earlier, the one who had introduced him to the fleshstar chart. Two attendants wearing white masks stood behind him.

  “Sir,” the man inquired.

  Anger was puzzled. “What is it?”

  “A guest on the second floor wishes to see you.” The man made a ‘this way’ gesture. “Regarding that ring on your hand.”

  Anger considered for a moment. “Lead the way.”

  He followed the man upstairs. The assassin went up here too earlier. Who knows if it's the same killer setting a trap.

  The man knocked on a door.

  “Enter.” A woman’s voice came from within.

  Anger pushed the door open ahead of the man. Inside the private room, a round table stood at the center, with three people seated around it: a bald, burly man, a gaunt old man who was idly flipping a gold coin, and, in the middle, the woman who had just spoken. She wore an expensive silk gown.

  The moment Anger entered, her gaze went directly, unabashedly, to the ring on his left hand.

  “A VowRing of the Silent Confraternity,” the woman declared, her opening salvo. “I want it. Leave it here, and I’ll guarantee you leave this place alive.”

  “I can’t give it to you. And I’m not accustomed to letting others use my life as a bargaining chip,” he refused flatly. What kind of demand is that, not even a polite preamble? Are all the punters here a few cards short of a deck?

  The woman seemed to have expected this. “Then let’s have a wager. The poker downstairs is mere pastime for lambs. I offer a more… elevated game. You’ll appreciate it.”

  “Wager what? What do I get if I win? And what makes you so certain I can’t leave here alive?” What’s her purpose in wanting the ring? What’s so special about it that she’d toss aside all decorum and just bluntly state her desire? On the surface, it’s a simple, crude demand, but in reality, it’s thoroughly hooked his suspicion.

  She retrieved something from beneath the table and placed it in the center. A small scale, palmsized, of bizarre craftsmanship.

  She extended her index finger and lightly touched the left boneplate tray. It instantly glowed with a faint red light, and intricate patterns materialized on its surface.

  “The Agony Scales,” the old man intoned. “One of the BoneBird Den’s treasures. It measures neither coin nor jewel. It measures only one thing: the purity of suffering.”

  “Suffering,” the woman said. “Here, it is… concrete. The pain of a wound, the grief of loss, the sting of betrayal, the gnaw of hunger. Any agony etched upon your soul, or upon an object, can serve as a counterweight.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Yet this is the most elegant game to be found in the BoneBird Den. Don’t you wish to try it? As for your questions… I’ll answer them if you win.” She regarded him with a predator’s idle curiosity, utterly unconcerned by the others’ gazes upon her.

  The others seemed utterly unfazed by all this. They likely expected Anger to show shock or fear. Unfortunately for them, they witnessed no such reaction.

  Seeing no trepidation from Anger, the woman actually found it a tad dull. She knew this must be his first time aboard. His composure raised her estimation of him a fraction—but only a fraction.