I’ve got five fingers wrapped around another double shot of whiskey when I spot an angel across the tavern.

  Past the bustling people dressed in workers' hakamas and wide-sleeved shirts, she’s sitting cross-legged on a reed pad at a low table in the corner. The clomp of footsteps on a shoddily-built wood floor and the rustle of voices calling for more drinks fade. I squint, peering at her. A halo of light surrounds her, glinting from her tawny hair. Her eyes are on me, locked over the rim of her cup, pinning me to my stool at the bar. My stomach buzzes. The room’s spinning. She’s human, or at least looks it – maybe the only other one here. She’s lit up like a radiant sunbeam, only missing the brush of wings behind her. Is she real? I blink and strain against the whiskey. She certainly looks real. Nobody seems to notice her. I take a drink. I’m more fucked up than I thought.

  A half-elven face eclipses her.

  A woman pushes through to the bar next to me, passing a lingering smile. She’s got deep brown hair swept in a fanning bun and dark, wide, almond-shaped eyes. Her wrapped shirt plunges just low enough.

  “I loved your show,” she says, propping an elbow against the wood. “It’s not often we get real talent coming through here.”

  “You’re too kind,” I say. “Hopefully kind enough to give me a name to put to your lovely face.”

  “Azuma,” she says with a small smile. A flush touches her round cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Not half as nice as it is for me,” I say playfully. I offer a hand, and she takes it. I put a kiss on the back of hers. “Chouncey of Seven Oaks, as I’m sure you heard.”

  “I did. Where is Seven Oaks? You don’t seem like you’re from here.”

  I take another drink. “It’s up in the mountains of the Bellenstein Dynasty. Let me tell you, it takes a special pair of legs to live up there.”

  A slender brow goes up. “That’s a long way to travel. Are you staying the night?”

  “Here or in whatever bed catches my fancy. Although if you’re hoping to find me in the morning, it’ll be mid-afternoon at best. I’ve got strict contract terms against being up before sunrise.”

  She laughs. Her eyes wander. She pauses. “What a coincidence that I’m finding you now instead.”

  I glance down. She’s got a hand on my knee, inviting me somewhere else. All I can see is hips. I thrash back the rest of my drink. I can’t think of a finer idea. “And I’ve got just the place to chat a bit more. Aren’t we full of coincidences?”

  She smiles. “What about something more fun? Let’s go outside.”

  I’d follow her face-first into a pisspot. I put a hand on her grabbable waist, and she leads me out.

  It’s the middle of the night. She leads me around the corner against the flow of people flocking to the roaring tavern, rattling off a long list of things to do around here. The sky spins. One of the moons is visible above the edge of a pointed wood building.

  “Come on,” she says, taking my hand. There’s a playful urgency to her voice. “This way.”

  We turn down a tilting alleyway, out of sight. The smell of ditch wafts. A figure peels off a wall further down, stepping toward us – a half-orc. I stop.

  “It’s okay. He’s a friend,” she says.

  I cock a brow. “You didn’t tell me we’d be a party of –”

  Something stings my neck. I hiss and swat at it. But I don’t even get that far. I go completely stiff and topple into a ditch.

  I’m unbearably hot. I can’t move. She and her half-orc friend begin rifling through my things. My belt leaves me. My instrument is unstrapped and removed. She checks pockets, then tugs at my shirt. They’re gonna need every last scrap to make a decent purse.

  “This lute will fetch quite a bit,” the half-orc says. Firstly, it’s a fucking mandolin – but the words don’t make it past my clenched throat. My blood blazes. I’m utterly paralyzed. If not, I’d be halfway to getting myself chucked out of this town. There’s a layer of hell reserved for people who part musicians from their instruments.

  “We can -”

  “Hey!”

  Piercing, golden, holy light cuts through the sight of dubious mud.

  The two thieves scuttle to their feet. I can’t see what’s going on. My neck’s stinging fiercely. A thud and a screech split the air. Footsteps splash past me, tearing further down the alleyway. There’s a grunt and what’s recognizably the sound of a mace cracking skull.

  The alley falls quiet. More footsteps approach. Something pushes against my shoulder, rolling me over. I still can’t move. I’m absolutely rigid, and not in a good way. Cutting gold light flares. I blink.

  The angel peers down at me. I squint. Features come into view. She’s got lovely full brows and a long neck, wind panting past her lips. Her jaw twitches.

  “Godsdammit,” she mutters. She hangs a mean-looking mace on her belt. It’s got pieces of people in it. Her dark blonde hair is knotted at the base of her neck and streaked with bits of ashiness. A strand is stuck to her forehead. From inside her Carthesian tunic, she pulls out a silver chain with an amulet on the end of it. She crouches, putting a hand on my chest.

  “Dawn Lord, restore this body whole,” she incants. Magic channels. More gold light flares, watering my eyes.

  I go limp.

  I exhale, coughing. I glance around. There’s no sign of the half-elf. I look back at the angel. That was relatively powerful magic, not the kind just anyone walks around with.

  “What were you hoping for, following me out here?” I ask. Her face has a certain soft look to it, like you’d see in an old painting – a deadly celestial creature at a god’s right hand. I’m stunned. My mouth is dry. “Are you some kind of angel?”

  “I watched your show,” she says. She plucks something like a needle from my neck, peers at it, and chucks it away. Her voice is like soft wool. But there’s force behind it. She stands and starts gathering my meager things.

  “I’d not have missed you staring at me,” I say, glancing her over again. Does she always glow like that? I push myself halfway up. I’m sore.

  She rolls her warm blue eyes and looks at my flask. She drops it in a pocket. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  My mandolin sits against the building nearby, kicked over in the scuffle. I hum a quick triad and flick my hand out. Something like a translucent pink glove flies off it, hovering in the air. It grabs the neck and brings it over.

  “Get up,” she says, nudging me with her boot. I grunt, trying to stand.

  She hoists me up, setting me on my feet.

  Now, I’m not a small man. But this glowing woman sets me upright without breaking a sweat. The sweat’s all mine, thinking of how easily she could pin me to a wall. Or maybe I could pin her. Maybe we could wrestle for it.

  The alleyway spins. I sling my mandolin across my back. She clutches my belt of single-edged Vasterholmian shortswords.

  “My most profound thanks for your help. I’ll take my flask back,” I say. My arcane hand floats in front of her, palm up.

  She waves it away like a fly. “You drank most of what you made from that show. I’m doing you a favor. You can have it back in the morning.”

  I go cold. Or hot. “Well, extortion never goes out of style. You refulgent thief. Are you sure you’re not with them?” I gesture at the half-orc slumped against a building. He’s still groaning.

  “I’m not robbing you –”

  “I’m failing to see what you’re doing, then.”

  My blood’s starting to rise. I’m not the least bit sure how any of this is her business. Her face goes flat. “We’ll talk more when you’re sober.”

  I laugh. “You’ll be getting only three questions out of me, then.”

  My arcane hand slips behind her, poking into her pocket. She whirls, slapping it away.

  “I'm hoping you'll be reasonable here,” I say.

  I rub a finger just underneath my eye. Inside, I reach toward a thrumming, throbbing connection to a ley line, a band of pure magic – music – and grasp it. Magic begins to channel and course through me, all the way to my bones. It’s electric. The mandolin on my back comes to life, adding its own humming energy. I mentally flick it toward her. Bright pink briefly flashes over her eyes.

  She recoils, blinking. That didn’t work.

  She shakes her head, glaring at me. “Did you –? You’re a bard.”

  She spits it like a mouthful of chalk. I ignore it. She’ll not be so easy to charm. That’ll make this a whole lot harder. “Look,” I say. “I need that.”

  “As I said, we’ll talk more in the morning,” she says forcefully. “And I’ll forget you did that.”

  I raise a brow. “We’re spending the night then?”

  She turns and starts walking toward the tavern. Her accent is Carthesian, bent and throaty. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Why’d you even come after me? Aside from the usual, staring at me from across the room,” I call after her. The alleyway tilts as I walk. Whatever that paralytic did to me, it’s still working its way out.

  “I was sent to look for you,” she says with a sigh.

  I stop. I check my chest pocket. My flask isn’t there. She has it. “By who?”

  She whirls. “Gods. You’re drunk, and it’s the middle of the night. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  She’s hardly someone I’d expect to be after me. I sidle up to her, catching myself against a wall. “You’ve not even told me your name. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, if civil introductions are standard where you’re from.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She sighs, pausing. “I’m Arriel.”

  “Arriel.” It floats on my tongue like a smooth, buttery finish. I stagger to one knee, taking her hand. She pulls it away. My arcane hand brushes back a strand of her taupe hair. “May I say, thank you for coming in my hour of need. I couldn’t ask for a lovelier rescuer in all of Taihar –”

  She whirls, continuing on. “This is Ensato,” she calls back.

  I squint. She’s right. Was that one or two nights ago? I stumble to my feet, continuing on.

  The bustle of the tavern swallows us as we enter the large sliding door. The Glass Whale – that’s what it’s called. Like most buildings around here, it's post-and-beam, leaving it open and airy. She keeps a hand on me, steering me through the crowd, away from the bar, and toward a hallway. Doors line it, one of which is mine for the night. She opens it, pushing me inside. I stumble. My belt of swords clatters onto the chair.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she says pointedly. She turns, closing the door behind her.

  “Give me –”

  From the other side comes a jostle and then a click. I pause, clenching my jaw. She took my fucking flask. I tug on the door. It doesn’t budge. She put something unmovable in the track. The slight tingle of magic toils beyond it. She’s probably waiting outside. I clench a fist. I’m itching to throw it. I glance around the shitty room, pacing. It’s dark except for the crack of light under the door. I rub my face. It’s numb.

  She was looking for me. She didn’t say who sent her. I can only think of one person. I pat myself. She took my fucking flask. Something inside begins brimming to the surface.

  I've gotta get out of here. She’s strong – there’s no way I’m fighting my way out without a crack or two from that mace, disregarding whatever magic she's got. I’ll have to run and hope I lose her. There’s a port here, and for all I know, I’ll be on a ship headed south in the morning. The thought claws at me, being stuck on a longship for days with nothing but waves and the ninth layer of hell waiting at the end. I swallow, and it’s like a throat full of glass.

  What’s nearby? Kennobe? Could I get there by morning? I could teleport, but it’s risky getting caught off-course right now. I glance around again. There’s no window, but it’s a free room for the night. I try picturing the tavern from the top down, but it’s hazy. Fuck it. From the basin in the corner, I scrub ditch detritus off me, then tie on my jacket of mail reinforced with leather – it’s beat to shit but Vasterholmian quality and reliably made. I strap on my belt of shortswords, gathering up the rest of my meager things. She has my flask, but I’ll find a way to get more.

  I bring my mandolin around my shoulder. I hover my fingers over the courses, plucking a few harmonic tones and teasing a metaphorical finger down a ley line. The sound fits the resonance, harmonizing like a tuning fork.

  A translucent pink projection fills the room, coming into color. The illusion forms into me, lying on the bed, singing and strumming. I’m in nothing but a pair of pants, dark hair askew from its top knot, looking guttered as a shit-caked boot.

  I pick the left wall. I strum a few chords and tease another ley line. It buzzes through me. A pink square forms in my vision. I bring up a finger, dragging and dropping it. It expands.

  A hole opens in the thin wooden wall. My illusion begins singing, accompanied by bright, bouncy chords.

  You look like you need love

  I can give you my touch tonight

  I know this is what you've been dreaming of

  Let me show you how I can love you right

  I can’t just tell you how I am feeling

  And I hope you understand -

  In twenty minutes, it’ll fade into snoring. I'll be surprised if she can stand listening that long. I step through the hole and close it behind me.

  The kitchen staff turns to stare.

  A blue dragonkin who looks like the head chef is wearing a greasy apron, elbow deep in raw chicken. A door is cracked open behind him, leading to an alleyway. I nod to him on my way out, speaking in draconic. “Let me bid you a fine evening. Lovely work on the mushroom stew, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  I slip out the door, and as soon as my feet hit the main road, I flee west.

  I come across a wagoner making an overnight push for Kennobe. I’m firmly in Horonese territory, which is held in an even firmer grasp by the Guild, a business masquerading as a government that has its claws in most parts of the continent of Rheda. But Kennobe is a little chiseled-out haven that maintains independence. I can admire that. It's not a bad place to hide. For a couple songs and some help moving wares around when we get there, the wagoner lets me sleep in the back of the cart full of soy. We arrive in the morning, and I unload crates for the creaky old dwarf and part ways. It beats sleeping in the woods and letting Arriel catch up. Of all the people looking for me, she seems the least likely. Maybe that’s the point. But I’m not gonna stop and ask questions.

  It’s a shithole here – exactly as you’d expect from an independent state carved out of the Guild, sucked dry like the morning’s remains of a date with a vampire. It's mid-morning, and I head to the nearest general shop. I’m starting to get jittery and desperately thirsty. I can’t wait any longer. I buy a used flask off a surly gnome and find a decent-looking tavern nearby. Podunk’s Drop looks the most respectable, at least by Kennobe’s standards. There’s not as much shit between the floorboards. It’s nearly empty at the moment. I head through the open sliding door and sit at the bar. Behind it is a silver-cast medal in a frame. I peek in the flask, humming – I snap my fingers. A puff of dust floats out of it.

  “Good morning. What would you like?”

  I glance up. I keep glancing up. Towering over me is a minotaur, broad-nosed and with dark hair braided down her back. Short horns sprout from her thick brow. She’s nearly spilling out of a scrunched barmaid shirt stained with ale.

  I set the flask down between us. “What a lovely sight you are. Whiskey. And three more.”

  She snorts, turning and filling the flask. She comes back with three shots fisted in one large hand. “Five copper.”

  I plink down coins, thrashing back two shots. After a moment, the shakiness goes down. I tuck the flask away for later in my chest pocket.

  “What have you got for food?” I ask.

  “Gator dumplings. Just came off the stove.”

  “What have you got without meat?”

  “Eggs. Comes with rice and greens. Taro and spinach, if you're curious.”

  It’s another two copper. I slide it to her, checking my coin. I’m getting dangerously low again. Work’s easier in Kennobe, but less prosperous. She heads to the kitchen, yelling after someone named Jerry. She returns.

  “Has the Guild been giving you much trouble here?” I ask. Last I came through here, a Guild representative was chased out of here in his underthings. I never found out why, but I don’t judge - it happens to the best of us.

  “They’re always giving us trouble,” she says. She stacks crates of cups on shelves. It’s like lifting paper. “My cousin works for them. It pays shit, but it’s better than what he can get here. All the best supplies come from Shirano, too.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve got a handsome establishment here, though. I’m sure you’ve worked hard on it.”

  She turns her back to me. I lean on an elbow, risking a glance downward. What bone-crushing thighs she’s got. “We’ve been here about ten years. I don’t know how much longer we can afford it.”

  She chats more about life and business in Kennobe, and eventually, my food comes out. I stuff it down, ravenous.

  “I wish you the best in your endeavors here. What’s your name?” I ask.

  She turns back. “Gertrid. You?”

  “Gertrid. A beautiful name for someone with such shapely horns. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks,” I say, offering a hand. She takes it with her own. It nearly covers mine. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a show tonight?”

  She stops, crossing her arms covered in coarse hair. She glances at the mandolin on my back. “What kind of show?”

  “Singing and playing. I work in making sure people have a good time.” I snap my fingers. A small, pink, heart-shaped token appears. I offer it to her. “And for a generous owner like yourself, maybe a bit of magic.”

  She takes it, leaning her ample arms against the bar. She examines it. “How much are you looking for?”

  I pass her a furtive smile. “Tips. Maybe some drinks. And a room for the night. Company, if you’re so inclined. As they say, don’t buy the cow without trying the milk. I, for one, would love a taste.”

  Her dark eyes roll over to look at me. She glances me up and down. “I don’t need a taste.”

  I lean in a little. “Sure, you’re a hard-working woman. How’d you like being the whole meal?”

  She pauses for a moment. She glances me over again, lingering a bit this time. “Yes, for the show. But I got a husband.”

  I check over my shoulder. There’s only patrons seated cross-legged at low tables on the floor. They're sipping hot sake and eating meals. I look at her through hooded eyes. “Will he be joining us?”

  She snorts again, nostrils flaring. And then a smile pulls at her lips. “He’d never miss it.”

  I throw back my last shot. The jitteriness is starting to fade, and things blur pleasantly. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

  An abrupt knock on the door wakes me.

  Golden sunlight streams into the room. I sit up, grunting. My legs are sore. A halfling pops up from the sheets next to me. I blink. Jerry – that’s his name. We’re both naked. I’m in Kennobe. Presumably, the show went splendidly last night.

  Another knock bangs on the door.

  “Come in,” I call.

  The sliding door opens. A flash of an ashy head appears. “Godsdammit! Would you –” The door slams shut. Arriel’s muffled voice comes from outside. “We need to talk!”

  How in the nine frigid hells did she find me here?

  Jerry titters, lounging back in the low, slatted, wood-framed bed. He runs a small hand along my chest. “Is that your wife?”

  “Her mother doesn’t like me,” I say, shaking my head with a pained smile.

  He nods sagely.

  “That’s not true!” Her voice comes from outside.

  I reach for my flask. I'm getting close to empty. Clothes are scattered about the floor. “Speaking of wives, where’d your lovely one run off to?”

  “She’s starting things up for the morning. Will you stick around?”

  I take a swig of my flask. “I don’t stay most places too long, but I’ll fondly remember both of you if I wander this way again. Maybe sing your praises here and there.”

  He smirks, his silt-colored hair mussed. His hand creeps lower. “You’re welcome here anytime. Let me give you something for the road.”

  About ten emphatic minutes later, he gathers his clothes and dresses. He stops for a long, languid kiss before slipping out the door.

  “Are you decent?” Arriel calls from outside.

  “Yes. Come on in.”

  She opens the door, recoiling again. She pushes inside, slamming it. She grabs a pillow from the floor and throws it over my waist. She’s not glowing anymore. Of all things, she’s wearing a set of Carthesian plate armor, well-cared for and, frankly, fucking expensive. It twinkles with magical enchantment. Her mace hangs from her belt, and she’s got a shield across her back. I can’t see what’s on it. Her hair is braided and tucked out of the way. She smells like road.

  I point at her with my flask. “You’re really raining on my evening. I met the most wonderful couple. They own this here tavern. She’s the minotaur up front. We had a bit of a… spitroast maybe isn't the right thing to call it –”

  “I don’t care,” she snaps.

  I cock my head. “How did you find me here?”

  Her jaw twitches. “I couldn’t scry on you. I had to ask around.”

  Scrying? She’s packing some serious magical ability. I smile. I tap my temple. “Nondetection. Lasts all day.”

  She pauses. She straightens, her armor clinking. A crease appears between her exquisite brows. “That’s powerful magic.”

  It’s some of the most potent magic I’ve got - nothing short of working the second most powerful ley line. I sweep my arm out. “I never promised otherwise. Are you gonna tell me why you’re tramping in here and tracking your hauteur on my rug?”

  She clanks into a chair. “I was sent to find you.”

  “You mentioned that. Keep going.”

  “I don’t know why. I refuse to believe I was sent halfway across the world just to save some drunken bard from hitting rock bottom. There has to be more to it.”

  I take a drink. I hit rock bottom months ago and have been flopping around the rocky floor since then. In some ways, it’s comfortable. I’m not falling anymore. “Someone really put you up to it, then.”

  “That someone is Iros.”

  I stop. Iros is a god – the Dawn Lord, he’s called. The lord of light and general good things. I look her over again. She’s a cleric. My stomach twists. Just what I need – some god interested in me, and a cleric in love with the taste of boots coming to save me from myself. “Your god sent you?”

  She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She becomes more measured. “Yes. He showed me your face, name, and location, but I have no other guidance beyond that.”

  I laugh. “And you ran off at the snap of his fingers? You misguided sucker.”

  She only glares at me.

  I gesture with my flask. “Well, that’s lovely. I’m sure it's all part of his grand plan, you dragging me out of a ditch. Now, I’m sure you’ll posture back to your church and pat yourself on the back for a good deed. You saved one more poor soul.” I sleight a finger, and a faint sound of applause drifts.

  I get out of bed, beginning to dress. She keeps her eyes averted. “That’s not what it is.”

  “That is what it is,” I say, prickling. “I don’t need saving – or your pity – and I’ll certainly not help you part the cheeks of your puckered sun god.”

  Her brows scrunch together slightly. She glances down at the amulet around her neck. It's etched with a sun symbol, with rays spreading outward.

  I pull pants on, and she finally turns to look. She briefly glances, then away. “I don’t know what he wants me to do. I’m sure it will become apparent, though. Until he guides me home, I’ll be staying.”

  I sigh deeply, staring out the window. At least she’s not here to turn me in. But she’s not gonna go away so easily, and I can’t keep running from her like this. She’s god-bound to follow me around. I look her over again. She’s almost exactly what I expect from a cleric. And in other ways, she's nothing like a cleric. We look to be about the same age, mid-twenties. She makes that plate armor look awfully good, although the twenty minutes it'd take me to get her out of it is less so.

  My ankle itches. I scratch it, and her eyes track me. If this god wants to help me, he's five years too late. My stomach grumbles, and I take another drink. “Alright, you divine pain in the ass.”

  “Where are we going next?” she asks.

  I shrug my arms out, laughing. “You think I’ve got any idea? I go wherever I’m feeling. If you’re not a fan, maybe it’s best going home. And you’ll be paying your own way. You don’t know much of bards if you think this’ll be cushy. You’ve not got any spare coin to part with, have you?”

  She scowls. She scoops my shirt off the floor, slinging it at me. “Would you put this on?”

  I glance down. “Am I causing you to sin?”

  She huffs, turning away.

  I smile, dressing the rest of the way. “Just the two of us. This’ll be lovely.”