The Blueshift spell had a significant effect on the economic dynamics of Gerios. Prices of small exotic goods, like spices and transmogrifs, dropped significantly after portals were established in every major city. Most merchants also greatly appreciate the ability to swiftly meet with their counter-parties in person, as this removes the need to rely on potentially untrustworthy intermediaries.

  Excerpt from 'Living Off The Land: Gerios'

  With a frown, Hans scrutinized the cupboard one more time. No, it's empty alright.

  He glanced at the table where he had gathered all the food and drink that remained in the haunt.

  Two jugs of sandwine. One small barrel of half-spoiled smoked meat, a small sack of walnuts and five loaves of bread hard enough to break said nuts with.

  He slammed the doors of the cupboard shut and sat down at the table. The food and drink in front of him would carry him through the day at least, but tomorrow he would have to go out to get more. The little coin I have at hand won't buy me much either.

  From the window of his haunt he'd seen people of the city returning to the streets in the days after the attack, yet as they did, so did the patrols. Horses thundered through the street at regular intervals with the blessed difference that they no longer cut down everyone they met.

  Feeling desperate, Hans picked up one of the signal stones on the table. He had tried to contact Rocam several times during the past two days. He kept the sigil of the spell charged at all times, and he even slept with the stone beneath his pillow; all to ensure that he didn't miss an attempt to make contact.

  Yet it was to no avail. Rocam had not responded to the signals or tried to contact Hans.

  With the luck I'm having at the moment, he could be dead as well. Or he could have fled from the city. That's even more likely.

  The signal stone trembled in his hand.

  On edge as he was, Hans let the stone slip from his hand only to recover it almost instantly. He grabbed the stone with his other hand just before it hit the floor.

  He sent back a general acknowledgement and was about to launch into a tirade through signals when he stopped himself.

  What if it isn't Rocam?

  Because of the short planning time for the operation at Echeb's trade-house, they had not established an identifier-signal. The person currently signalling Hans wasn't necessarily Rocam.

  Where are you? the stone vibrated.

  Hans fumed. Where the blaze do you think I am? Yet he kept himself together and sent back a neutral response. At my haunt.

  He nodded to himself as he awaited the response. If it isn't Rocam, that won't tell them anything and they'll ask for clarification.

  The stone vibrated again. I'll be there soon.

  “Huh,” Hans said to himself. “It's him after all.”

  Or is it?

  He shot up from his chair and went upstairs to the single bedroom. From the window there he could keep an eye on the entire street. If it was a trap, he would at least be able to see them coming.

  Better safe than sorry, Hans thought. Considering the situation, being overly cautious is the only sensible way to act.

  It didn't take long for Rocam to appear. Hans saw him walking up the street, a thick cloak wrapped around him. The cloak had a hood, but Rocam wasn't using it.

  Probably too suspicious.

  It appeared that he wasn't being followed, so once Rocam reached the haunt, Hans rushed down to open the door for him.

  “Hey,” Rocam said as he stepped inside. “You're still alive.”

  “No thanks to you,” Hans spat back, slamming the door shut. “Where the blaze were you the past two days?”

  “I had stuff to do,” Rocam said, ignoring Hans' anger. “Stuff that couldn't wait.”

  “That's it? You had stuff to do?”

  “Look, Hans, I get that you're angry. But trust me when I say that I was in no position to contact you any sooner. Especially not considering the fact that you might have been dead.”

  He angled his posture towards Hans. He could tell that Rocam was tense and anticipating a possible attack from him.

  For his part, Hans would have loved to sock Rocam in the face, yet apart from not helping his situation, it also meant starting a fight he would probably lose—he wasn't much of a brawler.

  Swallow it, Hans thought. Don't forget it, only forgive it. Keep it in mind for when he needs something from me.

  “I don't die so easily,” Hans said with a dark face. He stomped back to the living room where he sat down. “Although the supplies of this haunt are trying their hardest to test that.”

  Rocam stepped inside the room with a flat expression. “Ventus is dead.”

  The news made Hans feel disillusioned for a moment. Despite barely knowing Ventus, from the three people of the Tasselhane outfit he seemed the most amicable one by far. Even if he had been crazy.

  “How?”

  “Dusters caught him in the street. Drove a spear through his back.”

  That could easily have been me, Hans thought, recalling his own journey through the city. “And Cecille?”

  “That's what I wanted to ask you. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “When she went to the toilet. She told me to clear out, so I did.”

  “You left her behind?”

  “She told me to. She's the operator, right?”

  Rocam didn't respond.

  “Right?”

  “Officially, yes,” Rocam finally said. “But as you might have noticed, she tends to make poor decisions when in the field. The last of which likely got her captured or killed.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “Dumping the corpse of the Duster Ventus killed. By the time I got back, the place was swarming with Dusters. That's when I received your signal.”

  “How did you know there was an attack?” Hans asked. “Valour Keep wasn't burning at the time.”

  Rocam snorted. “Guys in full armour and armed to the teeth don't fly up in the air just for breaking and entering.”

  “You saw them?”

  “The guy Ventus shot dead was one of them.”

  Hans rubbed his forehead. “Alright, so where does that leave us?”

  “Nowhere. Our original orders are pointless now, and there is no sign of Cecille anywhere. Alive or dead.”

  “What about your underworld connections?”

  Rocam raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I have those?”

  Hans huffed. “For one thing, you were too emotional about the whole shadow war. At first I believed it was because of your desire to stop blowouts, but over the past few days I've had plenty of time to think. The resources you have, the information. It all suggests being part of an organization that isn't the Whisper.”

  “Even if that was true,” Rocam said, undaunted, “what would you do about it?”

  “Nothing,” Hans answered. “I've made my share of shady deals to move operations along, and considering the competency level of the Tasselhane outfit, I might even call you stupid if you weren't.”

  “I'm not going to admit to anything,” Rocam said. “You'll understand.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Hans said, making a throwaway gesture. “All I'm interested in is what we are going to do now. That and getting some decent food.”

  Rocam pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. “There is nothing we can do. As I said, our original assignment of keeping an eye on Echeb is void now. The occupation has changed everything.”

  “How many Dusters are there in the city now? One company? Two?”

  “Two companies?!” Rocam exclaimed. “They marched an entire host through the Galebreaker. Two full-strength regiments would be closer. Twenty thousand men, possibly more.”

  “Oh,” Hans said, dumbfounded. He had trouble imagining that many soldiers.

  “Most of them moved on though, so I have no idea how many of them remain in Tasselhane. Last I heard, the main host has marched on Esell.”

  Hans struggled to mentally conjure up a map of Gerios. Unfortunately, geography had never been his strong point so he had no idea where Esell lay relative to Tasselhane, nor why it was important.

  “That's bad, I take it?”

  “It's the only other city in Ceriel worth the name. It also holds the largest and widest bridge across the Pyll. They'd want to take control of that one to avoid a repeat of what happened during the Twenty-Year War.”

  “History isn't really my thing,” Hans admitted hesitantly.

  Rocam passed his hand over his face. “Back then, the Gerios army destroyed all the bridges north of Neroshi, which stopped the Dusters dead in their tracks. The only one they didn't destroy was the bridge I just mentioned, which is part of an extensive citadel that protects it. The Dusters didn't even bother to lay siege to it as they couldn't stop it from being resupplied. So they had to march south all the way to Vedburg before they could cross. For that reason the citadel was called the Dustbreaker.”

  “Yet now they have men who can fly. Some of them at least.”

  “That's indeed the real problem here,” Rocam said, looking pensive. “It explains how they got past the Galebreaker so easily, but it also makes me wonder what they are planning. Twenty thousand men is a lot, but still only a third of Gerios' regular army. I don't see how one or two troops of flying men will make a difference. A spell like that has to require a lot of channel strength, so they can't have more than a hundred of them.”

  “They'll probably count on magic to even the odds somehow,” Hans guessed. “Maybe they can do more than just fly.”

  “Which means there is nothing we can do.”

  Hans took some time to ponder the situation, while Rocam poured himself some sandwine from one of Hans' two remaining flagons.

  “You're right that there is nothing we can do about the occupation itself,” Hans eventually said. “I'll give you that. Nonetheless, I came here to gather information on Duster activities, and I see no reason why we cannot continue to do that. The Whisper will be grateful for information from the inside.”

  “No reason? I suppose not, if you ignore the fact that it's far more dangerous now.”

  “And what about the magistrate?” Hans said, ignoring Rocam's objection. “He's still involved somehow.”

  “He committed treason. That's not hard to grasp.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Coin? Fame? A grudge against the Crown? The promise of thirty-six Duster maidens, three from each major clan? Take your pick.”

  Hans made a mental note that there apparently were twelve major Duster clans and poured himself some sandwine as well. Rocam is right that in the grand scheme of things the magistrate's role is over. Yet I can't just sit in this haunt doing nothing. “There is still information of importance we can gather merely by observing. Troop strength and movements, for example.”

  Rocam sighed. “That's all well and good, but you are forgetting one thing. We are here and the Whisper is far away. How do you propose we get that information to them? The Pyll runs along the west border of the province and the Schrim along the south. Those are just as much a barrier to us as they are to the Dusters.”

  “I know. We'll need a telepath.”

  Rocam scoffed. “I doubt the Dusters have forgotten about the ministry branches. They would have hit those first.”

  “I know that. Aren't there any hidden telepaths? Like the ones syndicates tend to use?”

  “Even if there are, they won't be attuned to someone in Rios or anywhere that isn't near here. I never heard of a syndicate that spanned an entire nation.”

  Hans crossed his arms. “I'd rather try to find one than sit here eating bad food.”

  Rocam stared at Hans for a few moments before shaking his head. “Well, if you insist. Start at the branch office and work from there.”

  “I'll need a map of the city.”

  “There's one in Cecille's house.”

  That surprised Hans. “They didn't clear it out?”

  “Nope, everything is as it was. I was there when I contacted you.”

  “But if that is the case, then Cecille's—”

  “—dead, yes. Had she been captured and tortured, she would have told them everything. Including where she lived.”

  Hans closed his eyes. Two deaths already.

  “Your arrival here was a bad omen, it seems.”

  That remark jolted Hans' eyes wide open again, only to be greeted by Rocam's big grin.

  “That's not funny.”

  “So you say,” Rocam said, reaching into his pocket and producing a key. “This is the key to Cecille's house. Feel free to take whatever you need.” He slid the key across the table towards Hans. “I wouldn't stay the night, though, if I were you. For all we know the Dusters just haven't got around to searching the place yet.”

  If they did that, at least there would still be a chance Cecille is alive.

  “There's better food there as well,” Rocam added as he banged a loaf of bread on the table. “You ate this for the last two days?”

  “I'll go right away then,” Hans said, ignoring Rocam's question as he rose. “The day is still long.”

  In truth he had begun to grow tired of Rocam's behaviour and just wanted to get away from him to think over this latest news quietly.

  “Knock yourself out. If you need me, go to the Drunken Orshak in Hass Street, or else be here this evening. I'll swing by.”

  “Very well,” Hans said, looking for his coat. “I'll be off, then.”

  After Rocam pointed him in the right direction, Hans arrived at Cecille's house where he indeed found several maps of Tasselhane. He took some time to study them while plundering Cecille's food cabinet.

  As he enjoyed an excellent slice of cheese, he read Cecille's report on the employees of the local branch of the Ministry of Transportation.

  Despite Rocam's low opinion of her, she's remarkably diligent, Hans thought, skipping through the many pages. She even included a bit of personal information on the servants.

  There were five telepaths stationed at the local branch of the Ministry of Transportation and Hans memorized their names and addresses. It's unlikely that all five were present at the branch office when it was attacked. So the first thing I'll have to do is find out which of these five are still walking around.

  Hans packed up the things he needed and headed out.

  When he reached the main road to descend from the Rink, he saw a group of Duster soldiers keeping an eye on everyone that passed. They did not stop anyone, though, restricting themselves to mocking the men and making lewd comments at the women. They let Hans by unhindered as well, apart from one of the soldiers making a remark about his height, which led to more mocking laughter.

  Hans ran into several more patrols on his way, yet none of them appeared to give the population any hassle beyond mere words.

  Whoever is commanding them certainly has a strong grip on his troops. During the attack itself, they were frenzied.

  Their presence still made Hans feel uncomfortable, though. They were everywhere. It would be clear to anyone walking the streets that this city was now firmly under the control of the Dust Empire.

  And, Hans found to his dismay, so was the Ministry of Transportation.

  The branch office—where he had arrived after the blueshift—was a large building; three storeys tall with a small park surrounding it. The low wooden fences that encircled said park were broken in several locations, the flowerbeds trampled, and the lawn in front of the building had been torn up by the hooves of many horses.

  Horses that—along with their riders—were still present in force as Hans strolled past the broken fences.

  It looks like they turned it into a guard station or command post of some sorts, he thought, eyeing the soldiers moving in and out of the building from the corner of his eye. Going in there is out of the question.

  After he had put some distance between himself and the ministry, he halted at a crossroads. Where do I go from here?

  The next step would be to check the home addresses of each telepath, yet as they lived all over the city it would take the rest of the afternoon for him to visit all of them. As he didn't know what had happened to any of them, that could be a huge waste of time.

  If I recall correctly, the first housekeeper lives near here.

  Provided she had survived the attack, she would likely be a wellspring of information. Hans knew from experience that gossip was one of the few things servants could enjoy during their workdays. If anyone knows what happened to the ministry's channellers, it's her.

  The house the first housekeeper lived in was tucked away in a back alley, and Hans felt the eyes of the locals that lived there weigh heavily upon him.

  Hans knocked on the door and waited as he heard agitated whispers drift through the air.

  Good thing I don't look like a Duster.

  Above him, on the second floor, a woman in her early forties leaned out of the window.

  “Who are you?” she bit at him.

  “My name is Hans. I'm looking for Sara Bertrazon.” He already knew she was the person he was looking for. She wore her hair bound back in the fashion typical for female servants.

  “What do you want?” the woman said with a sudden uneasiness in her voice.

  “I need to speak to her about some of her co-workers.”

  The woman hesitated.

  “I'm willing to pay for any information you can give me.”

  Not that I have much coin to spend, Hans thought. He had found a small bag of florins in Cecille's house, but it still didn't amount to much.

  Unfortunately, there was little else he could do to convince the woman to let him in. Back in Rios he could have used his contacts to refer him, yet no such thing was possible here. Either the lure of coin was enough for her or Hans would have to try someone else.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Hold on,” she said, before vanishing from sight.

  Hans waited quietly as he observed the people in the area, who observed him in turn from behind many open windows.

  The door opened, yet instead of Sara it was a young and broad-shouldered man who opened the door. He glared at Hans for a moment before stepping aside.

  “Up the stairs,” he grumbled.

  Hans ascended the steep wooden stairs, the young man right behind him.

  The stairs ended in a single large room that covered the entire floor. The woman he had seen earlier had seated herself at a large table in the centre of the room.

  “I'm Sara,” she said.

  “I'm glad I found you,” Hans said. “I had feared you might have been killed in the attack.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Those cinds just locked us up in the kitchen. For an entire day! Some of us had to go in buckets until those bastards let us go.”

  She stopped as she realized something.

  “I don't normally talk to people like this,” she continued with a more cautious tone. “But I'll make an exception this time if you are willing to pay.”

  Hans nodded and sat down at the table across from her. Behind him, he could hear the young man positioning himself nearby.

  “Can we speak freely?” Hans asked, inclining his head towards the person behind him.

  “That's my son. I have no secrets from him. He's just here to make sure you don't do anything funny. I can tell you're a stranger.”

  “I understand,” Hans said. He knew his small stature helped him here. Had he been a big burly man, this woman would never have allowed him into her house. “And it is as you say. I am a stranger to this city.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Rios.”

  Sara nodded. “Thought so. I heard that fancy accent of yours often enough from blueshift travellers.” She tapped two fingers on the table. “How much are you paying?”

  “That depends on the information you give me, yet I'm willing to give you ten florins at least for telling me about the attack itself. If I have any specific questions afterwards, I'll pay you another florin for each answer. Is that agreeable?”

  “Two thalers for just telling you what happened?”

  That's three to four days' wages for you. “That's right.”

  “Give me the coin and I'll tell you.”

  Hans stuck his hand into the coin-pouch hidden in his tunic and retrieved the agreed-upon amount. He then stacked the florins on the table before sliding them towards Sara.

  She placed her hand over the coins as if trying to prevent them escaping.

  “Where do you want me to begin?”

  “Start at the moment you realized something was wrong.”

  A short hour later, Hans had a pretty good notion of what had happened at the ministry. It was in line with what he had expected. Duster soldiers that had pretended to be customers identified the channellers for the soldiers that suddenly poured in. They had swiftly taken care of the handful of guards before herding the staff into the kitchen, where they were locked up.

  Unfortunately, as Hans understood it, rather than being confined all the channellers had been killed.

  “Are you certain all the channellers are dead?” Hans asked after Sara had finished telling him for the third time how horrible it was to be locked up for a day.

  “Lon and Vadik told me. They were forced to carry all the bodies outside, and they told me that every one of them was among the corpses after they came back. They killed most of the scribes too.” She shook her head and made a face as if smelling something foul. “Despicable animals those cinds are.”

  “But not all the channellers could be present at the time, right?” Hans asked, ignoring her last statement. “At least some of them had to be at home.”

  “Everyone was there,” Sara said, shaking her head. “The past weeks had been so busy with those goings-on in Rios. But if you are from there, you'd know about that. Anyway, as I said, it was really busy. One of the telepaths even had to call in sick because of ?ther attrition or some such illness.”

  Hans immediately caught on. “That telepath was sick? So he or she wasn't present during the attack?”

  “Ah, I suppose you are right,” Sara said with a pensive look. “I can't recall seeing her that day.”

  “What was her name?”

  Sara opened her mouth to answer, but remained silent for a moment as if thinking. “Is this one of your special questions?”

  Hans held up two florins. “That depends on the answer.”

  “Ismerel Andjonne.”

  Hans nodded and handed both coins to Sara. Ismerel Andjonne was indeed the name of one of the five telepaths.

  “Now tell me about the scribes,” Hans said.

  Despite having obtained the information he needed, he couldn't leave just yet. If he did then the rumour that a man from Rios had come for information about Ismerel would start the moment he left the house. The fewer people who knew it was her he specifically needed the better, so by staying longer and donating some more coin for unimportant information, he could dilute the rumour that would inevitably reach the Dusters.

  When Hans finally set foot upon the street again, he was nearly four thalers' worth of florins lighter. He'd spent most of them on enquiring about and acting interested in some scribe whose name he'd already forgotten.

  Despite this subterfuge, he understood he had little time to waste, and with a determined pace he set off in the direction of the Oakhill Quarter where Ismerel lived.

  Ismerel's neighbourhood turned out to be one of the nicer parts of the city. The streets there were clean and most of the houses had small yet well-tended gardens. They even had trees spread out over the entire quarter, a sight that did not exist on top of the Rink as the soil there was too thin to support them.

  This should be the right street, Hans thought, turning the corner.

  Before him lay a street just like the one he had left. Low, free-standing houses with orange-tiled roofs and pine trees providing them with shade.

  With a casual stroll he continued into the street, and was almost at the right address when he spotted them.

  Dusters.

  Unlike the many patrols, these two had hidden themselves in a garden that was across the street from where, Hans guessed, Ismerel's house was located. Or perhaps hidden was too strong a word; the couple had merely positioned themselves in such a manner that prohibited one from seeing them from most angles. Anyone who did see them, however, would think nothing more of it than a man and a woman enjoying the spring sun.

  But Hans knew better. A lifetime of experience with suspicious behaviour told him the two Dusters weren't residents of the house behind them. It was the sum of many small things. A tension in their body that didn't suit a relaxed posture; the hard, emotionless lines on the woman's face; the fact that their house had all its windows shuttered; the intense looks they gave him the moment they noticed him.

  As Hans walked past them, he noticed the pair had an excellent view of a house across the street, which a glance confirmed held the number of Ismerel's house.

  The front door is damaged, Hans noticed. Dark stripes showed on the lower panel and wood splinters jutted out of the doorframe. Looks like they forced their way in.

  Without pause, he continued down the street until the Dusters could no longer see him.

  This isn't good, Hans thought. They're looking for her as well.

  He rubbed his temple, trying to figure out what to do next. The couple keeping an eye on the place suggested that Ismerel had evaded capture so far and that the Dusters were hoping either she or someone else would return to the house.

  Either that, or Ismerel told them something they had to follow up on.

  Whatever the case, she wasn't at her house, which left Hans right back where he started.

  That servant said she was sick, Hans reasoned. If Ismerel is indeed suffering from ?ther attrition, then she should be at the alluvium. Yet the Dusters would have found her if she had gone there. He rubbed his chin. Where can you go to get medical aid while remaining hidden at the same time?

  Hans sighed, realizing the answer. It appeared he was going to pay Rocam a visit after all.

  The Drunken Orshak was an even more dilapidated building than Hans had imagined. With a baffled expression, he took a moment to ensure he was in the right place, but the wooden sign—bent crooked due to moisture—showed that he was.

  Hesitantly, Hans opened the door. Unseen eyes had kept an eye on him the moment he entered this neighbourhood. I'm right in the middle of a syndicate's territory.

  Inside, the innkeeper, a man with greasy skin and matching apron, immediately approached him.

  “We're closed,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the door.

  “I'm looking for Rocam,” Hans said, surveying the room. The furnishings and the look of the main room were better than the outside suggested. But only slightly.

  “Don't know him,” the innkeeper said, taking a step closer towards Hans. “Now off with you.”

  Hans braced himself and his eyes darkened. If this guy wanted to throw him out, he would have to find some help first.

  “I know he's here, he told me this morning. Tell him Hans is here.”

  The innkeeper's demeanour changed instantly.

  “The man from Rios,” he said, his bearing now one of amicability. “Please sit at the counter to wait. Rocam's busy at the moment.” He made a grand sweeping gesture towards the tiny bar.

  He is? Hans thought. For that matter, what is he doing here anyway? I can tell this is a syndicate den if I ever saw one.

  He sat down at the bar and noticed three men seated in a back corner of the room. Rocam was one of them, speaking with the two others. If he had spotted Hans, he didn't show it.

  “I'm Saul,” the innkeeper said. “Anything to drink?”

  Hans turned on his barstool. He'd spent most of his morning walking and had long emptied the flagon he had taken with him. “Spring water. Sandwine if you don't have any.”

  Saul chuckled. “Spring water is only for the rich, and this inn's patrons do not include any of them. So sandwine it is.”

  To Hans' amazement, the cup placed in front of him was clean. A taste later confirmed that the sandwine wasn't bad either.

  Definitely a den.

  Hans turned his head and eyed Rocam and the two men. They were using a voicesphere, making it impossible to eavesdrop, yet he could tell from their expressions and agreeable nodding that the conversation would end soon.

  I wonder what they are talking about.

  When Hans had asked Rocam about his underworld connections he had evaded the question, which was the same as confirming it. As such, what was taking place now wasn't a surprise.

  Nonetheless, Hans was curious to know exactly how far Rocam's contacts stretched and how deeply he was involved with the underworld.

  Hans briefly considered barging into the conversation, yet restrained himself. There was no great rush to speak to Rocam, and interrupting the conversation would likely only anger him.

  He's the only ally I have left in this city. I can't afford to get on his bad side. Not now.

  A short while later, the two other men got up from their seats. They nodded a last greeting and then left the inn, paying neither Hans nor Saul any heed.

  Shady characters those two, Hans thought. What bothered him more, however, was what had just happened. The two men had left, not Rocam. If there was one thing Hans understood about syndicate connections, it was that they never came to you. You had to go to them.

  With his eyes narrow with suspicion, Hans approached Rocam's table carrying a full jug of sandwine. He was just in time to see a fleeting expression of worry on Rocam's face.

  “Hans,” Rocam said, his expression returning to its regular sly, disrespectful state. “I didn't expect you here.”

  “Yet you made arrangements all the same,” Hans said, setting down the jug and then himself. The seat he took was still warm from its previous occupant.

  “It pays to be cautious.”

  “Is that why you need a voicesphere even here?”

  Rocam shrugged lightly. “Not in particular, but it's a great deal of additional security for a small cost. So why not?” He leaned forward over the table. “What did you find? I'm assuming you didn't come here just to tell me you gave up.”

  “The branch office has been overrun. All channellers present there were killed. All except one. She wasn't there during the attack, and as far as I can tell she has gone to ground.”

  “Smart,” Rocam said. “But I take it you don't know where she is now.”

  “I don't. But she's suffering from some ?ther-induced illness, which I assume she can't treat by herself.”

  “And she isn't at the alluvium?”

  “I didn't check, but if she's smart enough to realize that she should hide, she wouldn't be dumb enough to go there. She would go to a tishe instead.”

  “Which is why you're here,” Rocam said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Did you verify this information?”

  Hans shifted in his chair. Again, he's more of an operator than Cecille could ever hope to be.

  “I did not, but the source had no reason to lie to me.”

  “So the information is unreliable.”

  Hans became annoyed. “I checked the telepath's house and there were Dusters keeping an eye on it. If they are looking for her as well, it's safe to say that it went down as I was told. It's not as if I have much to work with here.”

  “What's the telepath's name?” Rocam asked, ignoring Hans' annoyance.

  Hans hesitated. Should I tell him? The irritation he felt was mixed with apprehension about how far he could trust Rocam. Yet in the end, he knew he didn't have a choice. If he wanted to find her, he needed Rocam's help.

  “Ismerel Andjonne.”

  Rocam nodded with a thoughtful look. “Bohja first name, Geriossa last name.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It means she's a Duster who married a Geriossa man. That narrows it down.”

  “How does that narrow it down?”

  Rocam didn't answer. Instead he reached for a notepad and used a pencil to scribble something down.

  “If she really did go to ground, she's probably at the second address,” Rocam said, tearing off the page and handing it to Hans. “And if she's not, someone there will know where she is.”

  Hans looked at the page, which showed two addresses. “What's the first address?”

  “A little shop not far from here. Go there first and ask for a runestone that holds the Telepathy spell. Without one she'll be useless to us.”

  “Wouldn't it be better if I first confirm they know where Ismerel is?”

  “They'll know,” Rocam said with certainty. “Ask for Zylanja when you get there.”

  Rocam reached into his pocket and produced a strange-looking coin. “When you meet her, flip this coin in front of her before asking anything else.”

  Hans accepted the coin and flipped it over between his fingers. The coin was silver; one side was polished to a bright sheen while the other held a dark tarnish. Both sides showed a symbol he did not recognize.

  “What's this? I've never seen a coin like this before.”

  “It's an old imperial rand from the days the Empire still had an emperor. Most were melted down during the succession war as each clan started to use their own coinage.”

  Hans lifted the coin up to his eyes. That makes this at least eighty years old. Four generations.

  “I flip this in front of her?”

  “Yes, before talking about anything else. You should do the same thing for the shopkeeper at the first address.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Doesn't matter. He won't respond to it anyway. Just flip the coin in front of him and you're good. He's a stodgy guy with a nose sharp enough to cut paper.”

  Hans nodded and put the coin away. How is it possible that he has so much clout? Is just flipping this coin really enough to hand me a telepathy stone? Those must be worth a small fortune.

  He pushed his worries aside. The mystery surrounding Rocam Nevi would have to wait for the time being. Finding Ismerel came first.

  “Are you still coming by the haunt tonight?” Hans asked as he prepared to leave.

  “Probably. I'll trust that you can handle the rest of this operation by yourself.” The sentence didn't sound like a question, but it wasn't an encouragement either.

  “See you later, then,” Hans said.

  He left the inn and checked the position of the sun. It's past noon already. If I can finish this before dark, it will be a day well spent.

  By the time Hans arrived at the second address on his piece of paper, two hours had passed. Inside his tunic, he could feel the round bulk that was the telepathy runestone. Just as Rocam had said, after Hans had flipped the coin and asked for the stone, the shopkeeper had handed it to him without question, although it had taken him some time to find it.

  And now this place, Hans thought as he eyed the two sun sigils placed one beneath the other. One small, one large. A brothel.

  The corners of his mouth dropped. He didn't like brothels. Not because of what took place inside them, but because he knew the kind of circumstances that drove women to become whores.

  Despite that, he realized that there was a good chance Ismerel was here. Nobody would question a new face here and the better brothels had their own tishes.

  Hans pushed open the door and was immediately met by a waft of flowery perfumes. A glance around the cosy entrance room confirmed that this was a red house that catered to the richer part of the city. Everything was clean and proper, and the blonde woman that approached him wore a rich and revealing outfit without being garish.

  “Good day,” she said with a sensual voice as she traced her hand over his chest. “Is this your first visit to the Velvet Scabbard?”

  The Velvet Scabbard? Maybe this place isn't as up-market as I thought.

  “I'm looking for Zylanja,” Hans said, trying to ignore the woman's finger sinking lower towards his waist. It had been a while since he had enjoyed a woman's company, yet he knew he shouldn't let himself be distracted now.

  He didn't have to worry about further distraction. Upon hearing Zylanja's name, the woman snapped back her arm as if he was poisonous.

  “There is no girl working here with that name.”

  This again, Hans thought. They are all so cautious. I suppose that is to be expected with their occupation.

  “I don't care if she's working here or not,” Hans said, taking out the half-tarnished imperial rand. “I know that she's here and I need to speak with her.”

  The woman glimpsed the coin before he had a chance to flip it and grabbed hold of his arm, all seduction and warmth again.

  “Please follow me,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll get you set up.”

  Hans wasn't entirely certain if this return to form was good or bad, yet he allowed himself to be shepherded into one of the back rooms.

  “Wait here,” the woman said, before closing and locking the door behind her.

  Great.

  There were no windows in the room and only one door, so Hans made himself comfortable. All he could do was wait until Zylanja showed up. It's either her or a bunch of bouncers to beat me up before throwing me out.

  Fortunately, when the door was unlocked after a while, it turned out to be the former.

  The Duster woman who stood in the doorway was as tall as Hans and dressed in a plain dress. Creases showed next to her eyes, making her at least thirty years of age, possibly older, although it could be possible she appeared so due to a harsh life rather than age. She indeed doesn't look like one of the working girls.

  “I'm Zylanja,” she said. Her voice was soothing and warm, and the way she moved her lips as she spoke betrayed a lifetime of experience with seducing men.

  Hans did not answer. He took the coin and flipped it up in the air.

  Like a cat, Zylanja slid forward, grabbing the coin in mid-air.

  As she did so, a cloud of a subtle and fragrant perfume washed over Hans, and he felt a tingle inside his forehead as he inhaled it.

  Zylanja cocked her head as she studied the coin and Hans realized that her beauty was one that could only be appreciated if she was in motion. A painting of her would never be able to do her justice.

  Zylanja stepped back towards the door, closed it, and beckoned Hans to sit at the table.

  “You know Rocam,” she said, handing back the coin before sitting down on the table with crossed legs. Remarkably enough, her dress allowed her to do that, and Hans quickly looked away from her exposed olive-skinned thigh.

  Is she doing that on purpose?

  “I do,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. If she was trying to make his head spin, there was no sign of it in her facial expression. “My name is Hans.”

  “A visitor from Rios.”

  “You knew I was coming?”

  She blinked slowly as she shook her head. “I did not. I just recognize the accent.”

  Hans watched her dark-brown hair sway around her head before he pinched himself underneath the table. It's been a while, but get it together. I'm not here for this.

  “I'm looking for a woman called Ismerel Andjonne.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?” Hans asked, somewhat surprised. The shopkeeper had given him no hassle at all once he flipped the coin.

  “I don't know you.”

  “Do you know all the people that Rocam keeps as acquaintances?”

  “Not all, but I would have remembered you.”

  Hans blushed and he noted a twinkle in Zylanja's eyes at his reaction. The line of her mouth remained flat, however. If she was toying with him, it was more out of habit than anything else.

  “Is she here or not? I have something for her.”

  “What is it?”

  Hans reached into his tunic and produced the runestone holding the Telepathy spell. “I need her to use this to contact Rios.”

  Zylanja's eyes rested on the runestone for a few moments. “A Telepathy spell.”

  “Yes.”

  Zylanja didn't answer, obviously thinking about something as her eyes flitted back and forth between the stone and Hans' eyes.

  “Come with me,” she said, climbing down from the table and allowing Hans another glimpse of her bare leg.

  As he followed behind her, he made certain not to let his eyes sink below her shoulders.

  After climbing two staircases and passing several rooms that emitted questionable noises, they arrived at an inconspicuous door at the far end of the corridor.

  Inside lay a woman in a bed. Her skin was bronze and her black hair stuck to her head from the sweat.

  That must be Ismerel.

  Another woman, sitting beside the bed, held a damp cloth that she was wringing out over a bucket.

  “Ismerel,” Zylanja said. “There's someone here to see you.”

  The woman in the bed turned her head. “My husband?” she asked with hope in her voice.

  “I'm afraid not, dear. We told him not to come here, remember?”

  Zylanja placed her hand on the shoulder of the woman attending to Ismerel. “Leave us for a moment,” she whispered.

  The woman left the room and Zylanja seated herself on the free chair, leaving Hans to stand at the foot of Ismerel's bed.

  “Who are you?” Ismerel asked, eyeing him with bloodshot eyes.

  Hans' mind raced. Should I tell her I'm with the Whisper? He was obviously in syndicate territory here, and from Zylanja's posture he could tell she wasn't going to leave them alone even if he asked her to.

  Would they even believe me if I told them? And what about Rocam? Do they know he's part of the Whisper?

  “My name is Hans,” he said, showing her the telepathy runestone. “I brought you th—”

  Ismerel jerked upwards and reached for the stone. “Is that a telepathy rune? Please give it to me, I need to tell everyone what happened.”

  Well, that makes things easier, Hans thought. He handed her the runestone and she immediately began charging it.

  “Don't overdo it,” Zylanja said, placing her hand on Ismerel's arm. “You're still on the mend.”

  “I must tell them,” Ismerel insisted. “They don't know what happened yet.”

  “Who doesn't know?” Hans asked.

  “Rios. They don't know about the invasion.”

  “What?!” Hans exclaimed. “How could they not know? It's been almost three days.”

  “All the channellers at the ministry were killed,” Zylanja said. “One of the scribes escaped from the building during the attack and he warned Ismerel. She knew to come here.”

  Ismerel nodded, her eyes becoming misty.

  “Surely they had time to send a warning at least,” Hans said. “I can't imagine the Dusters being that swift.”

  “It wouldn't have mattered,” Ismerel said, shaking her head. “Arren told me there was a problem in Rios that day. Something to do with the ?ther, so all contact was suspended until further notice.”

  A problem with the ?ther, Hans thought as his mind flashed back to the memory of that strange scrying he had taken near the Duster haunt.

  “I've haven't heard from anyone in Rios since,” Ismerel continued. “If they knew there was an invasion, why didn't they contact me at least? I wouldn't be able to answer, but still.”

  Maybe they couldn't.

  A cold sense of dread started to envelop him as the meaning behind Ismerel's words sunk in.

  What if something happened in Rios as well? What if the White Candle situation exploded just like that guard-captain said it would?

  He grabbed hold of the bed's foot-end to keep himself upright. His stomach churned and he felt like throwing up. Up until now he had thought his situation couldn't be any worse than it already was, but it turned out he was wrong.

  “Are you alright?” Zylanja asked. Her expression remained unchanged, yet Hans could hear the apprehension in her voice.

  He tried to conjure up a smile. “That depends on her.” Can she contact someone or not?

  Ismerel made an approving noise and closed her eyes. It appeared she had successfully cast the spell.

  Hans waited with bated breath, his knuckles turning white where he held the foot-end.

  After a few tense moments, Ismerel opened her eyes again. “They're all busy; I can't reach anyone.” Her breathing accelerated and she closed her eyes again.

  What does that mean? That they aren't there or that they won't talk to her? He had no knowledge of how telepathy worked beyond that you needed to attune two telepaths to each other for them to be able to make a connection, and that that attunement required close proximity.

  “Ah,” Ismerel said, her face breaking into smile.

  Did she reach someone?

  Hans studied Ismerel's face, which appeared to go through several different emotions. Most of them were negative, and her earlier smile did not return.

  She opened her eyes once more, her breathing now loud and ragged.

  “What did they say?” Hans said. “Is everything alright in Rios?”

  “There—there was a blowout,” she said as if she couldn't believe it. “The entire city is in chaos. For days. They had no idea what happened here.”

  “An ?ther blowout in the city?” Hans asked. “Where was it?” Looks like Felt's hunch was correct after all. I'll never doubt her Nightsinger stories again.

  “I don't know. I just told them about the invasion. All of it. I told—”

  With a violent spasm Ismerel's back arched and her limbs started to tremble. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she started to produce gargling sounds as if she was drowning.

  Zylanja immediately reacted. “Azjeri!” she shouted. “Azjeri, get back in here, she's having an attack!” She turned to Hans. “Hold her down so she won't hurt herself!”

  Hans reached down and grabbed Ismerel by the ankles, who violently thrashed around, still holding the runestone in her cramped hands.

  The woman from earlier burst into the room. “What happened? Is that a runestone? You let her channel?!”

  “I'm sorry,” Zylanja said. “It's my fault. I shouldn't have let her.”

  “This is bad,” Azjeri said, her eyes flitting around. “We need to cool her head, or she might lose her mind entirely.”

  Azjeri reached into the bucket for the cloth and covered Ismerel's forehead with it. The effect was almost immediate as she sank back down on the bed, the thrashing of her limbs turning into a mere tremble.

  “Get that thing away from her,” Azjeri commanded, pointing at the runestone.

  Hans leaned forward and freed the stone from Ismerel's grasp.

  Azjeri removed the cloth from Ismerel's head, which had turned a dark reddish bronze. Her spasms started to increase again, and Azjeri swiftly replaced the cloth with another.

  They waited for a few moments until Azjeri replaced the cloth once more. Ismerel did not react. The trembling had stopped and her breathing started to slow down.

  “She'll be fine,” Azjeri said. “I hope.”

  “Thank Ris,” Zylanja said, as she briefly looked towards the ceiling and raised her arms slightly.

  Hans didn't know who Ris was, but he agreed all the same.

  “Out. Both of you,” Azjeri bit at them. “And take that with you,” she added, pointing at the runestone.

  Zylanja and Hans slunk out of the room.

  “Let's have a drink,” Zylanja said, and he nodded in agreement.

  The brothel turned out to have a bar as well, and Hans and Zylanja seated themselves in one of the room's many secluded alcoves. She poured him some spirit, but he barely tasted it as he let his mind wander over what just happened.

  He knew that, objectively, he should feel good about having achieved what he had set out to do this morning. Yet circumstances as they were made it hard. Ismerel obviously remained too ill to be relied upon for regular contact with Rios, and the fact that Rios hadn't known about the invasion until a moment ago wasn't good either. Between that and the blowout, it would be days if not weeks before Gerios could mount an effective counter-attack.

  It will be a while before I can leave here. Or even get new orders, for that matter.

  In one large gulp, he finished the glass in front of him. It was only then that he noticed the nutty caramel aftertaste in his mouth.

  “What is this, anyway?” Hans asked Zylanja.

  “Hastian brandy,” Zylanja replied.

  Hans looked at his empty glass. “Isn't that expensive?”

  Zylanja shrugged faintly. “Some years more than others.”

  She placed her left hand on her forehead and leaned on her elbow as she slowly spun the brandy in her glass.

  “Are you going to tell Rocam about this?” she asked without taking her eyes off the glass.

  The question surprised him. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I screwed up.”

  “It wasn't your fault. You didn't know what would happen.”

  “No, but I should have known. I should have known when I saw her so eager. She way overdid it.”

  Zylanja looked at Hans. “You're not going to tell Rocam?” she asked again.

  Why the blaze is she so worried about that? What is he to her that she feels she needs to explain herself to him? He studied her for a moment and saw that her worry was genuine.

  “How about you give me something to eat and I'll forget the whole thing?” Hans said, trying to ease her worries. At the moment he wasn't in the mood to delve into Rocam's shady connections anyway.

  Zylanja's face brightened, bringing back some of her beauty with it. “Sure, what do you want?”

  “Anything is fine,” Hans said and his stomach growled to support his words. He had not eaten since this morning.

  “I'll see what I can find,” she said, slipping out of the alcove and leaving only her fragrant scent behind.

  Hans inhaled it deeply. Maybe staying in Tasselhane for a while longer won't be so bad after all.