The Talismans of Aerdrim

[havenstone]

Master of the Arena

DESPITE NURAK’S ADVICE to put off any further rescue plans until his return, Atrix and Darren can’t resist a bit of advance scouting. They head to the Grand Arena in the northwest of the city to look for Lucian, remembering that he had been sold to a noblewoman to be her “champion” in the slave fights there.

They discover that in the weeks since their sale, Lucian has acquired a new nickname – the White Death – and a reputation as an unbeatable gladiator. Given that most of the fights in the Arena are between guard-slaves who have never fought in an actual battle, it is not entirely surprising that the Caragond sellsword has done so well. However, the Path of Chance, which runs the gambling at the Arena, is setting ever longer odds on his continued victory. Apparently the Masters of the Arena are uncomfortable with this slave from a defeated but unconquered nation trouncing everything they throw at him, and have begun to stack the fights.

For Atrix and Darren, these long odds are an opportunity. They bet the remaining gold from Nurak’s purse on Lucian, hoping to win enough money to redeem him from his mistress before he has to face something he can’t handle.

Over the next week, Lucian has to face two condemned Lakshari thieves; a lion, armed with only a spear; two massive gladiators from the restive jungle province of Theilash; and, unarmed, a black-skinned wrestler from the swamp peninsula of Hsaidar. Each fight comes a little closer to killing him. Each time, Atrix and Darren win more gold by raising their bets when Lucian looks closest to defeat.

THE ARENA MASTERS then declare that Archmaster Nyenju wishes to test his newly molded clay warrior against the White Death. Atrix and Darren feel an instinctive dread at the mention of the Radiant Path arts – how can Lucian possibly survive the kind of sorcery that destroyed the entire Army of the North? When placing their bets – “The White Death, of course” – Darren leans in to mutter in the gambling-master’s ear. “We’ve won so much on him – he’s a good investment. Do you know how much his mistress is asking for him? We can offer the five hundred gold you’ve been keeping for us.”

“She’ll never let him go for less than a thousand, the way he’s been fighting,” the gnarled Xaimani says with a grin. “And I think he may be serving in ways that go beyond the arena. So even if you keep your gold after this battle: good luck.”

A fiercely smiling Lucian emerges to deafening cheers from all sides of the arena. When the crowd’s roar dies down, the wizard Nyenju rises from the Arena Masters’ dais and cries out a dramatic incantation. A hulking clay golem stalks out into the center of the ring. It has been sculpted to look like a Xaimani Legionnaire, and when it raises its enormous fists, Lucian’s crude leather armor and helm seem preposterously fragile.

At first the young Caragond fights defensively, using all his speed to stay out of the golem’s reach and all his strength to deflect its strikes. Twice, the clay warrior lands a devastating body blow, sending Lucian flying into the dust. The second time, the Northern slave is sluggish to rise, and the golem dives in for the kill – but Lucian twists abruptly aside, his adversary’s fists hammer into the earth, and Lucian brings his mace up into its shoulder, knocking off its arm. Then he goes on the attack, striking again and again while keeping himself on the golem’s armless side.

Minutes pass, with the human fighter growing visibly tired while the clay warrior moves with the same inexorable speed and force despite its battering. At last, it catches Lucian under its arm and pulls him in with a crushing grip. Lucian howls and buries his mace in the golem’s head with the last of his strength. Then he goes limp, twitching into unconsciousness. The whole crowd holds its breath, waiting for the White Death to be pulped; several silent seconds pass before they realize the motionless golem, not the gladiator, has lost the fight.

THIS IS CLEARLY a victory too far for the Masters of the Arena. When the pandemonium subsides and Lucian has been carried away for healing, they declare that the White Death’s next fight will be against the Lakshari staff master Ganrad. A thrilled murmur surges around the arena. To their dismay, Atrix and Darren learn that Ganrad is one of the most experienced free gladiators ever to fight in Tziwan. Pitting a slave against him is a death sentence, especially since Lucian has never been that good with quarterstaves. Darren confirms despondently that their winnings to date – just over nine hundred gold – will not be enough to buy Lucian away from his Niyonari mistress.

On the morning of the fight, Atrix quick-talks his way into the lower halls of the Arena and finds Lucian surrounded by impressed arena guards as he practices combat stances with the quarterstaff. The muscular Caragond looks up at Atrix and blinks. Then he looks away again, smiling. “They all say he’s sure to kill me today – I hear the odds are four to one in his favor. What do you think, Chramic?”

“Slave, you look like you’ve never held a staff before,” Atrix says mockingly. “Really, if that’s the best you can do, you might as well just break it.”

Lucian pauses, then nods slowly. “Well, at least you’re honest.” The remains of the previous gladiators are brought into the hall, and the crowd begins calling for him. “If it comes to that, I will. Thanks.”

Darren bets all the gold they have on Lucian to win, while the lithe Lakshari warrior Ganrad descends to the Arena floor. Atrix watches with bated breath from the lower halls, one hand on his peace-knotted sword hilt.

The two gladiators bow to each other. Barely have they straightened when Ganrad lashes out with unearthly speed, landing near-crippling blows on Lucian’s arms and ribs. While the young Caragond desperately brings up his staff to block, the staffmaster spins around his defenses and plants the butt end of his weapon between Lucian’s eyes.

Bleeding and already near collapse, Lucian backs off, plants his foot in mid-staff, and snaps it into two long, straight fragments. At the same time, the overconfident Ganrad swings at Lucian’s kneecaps and misses critically [natural 1], breaking his own weapon against the ground. He looks up, appalled. Lucian’s bloodied face stretches into a feral grin. Thirty seconds of brilliant swordplay later, the Lakshari drops with a smashed skull, and Lucian flings both halves of his staff up into the stands to thunderous applause.

A TALL XAIMANI with a weathered face and steel-gray hair rises from his box and stalks toward the Masters of the Arena. Darren, demanding confirmation of their winnings from the near hysterical gambing-master, hears the same name whispered on a hundred lips: “Swordmaster Xeros.” This is the head of the Sword Path, highest general of the Xaimani legions and Protector of the Empire.

Xeros reaches the grand dais and speaks, his voice unnaturally amplified to drown out the tumult. “The White Death has earned his name once again this day. He need defend his life no more. By order of the Sword Path, he is permanently retired from the Arena.” He sounds decidedly unamused; such a display of swordsmanship from a slave, even with sticks, verges on a violation of the Imperial Order.

Lucian bows, never losing his grin, and begins limping out of the Arena. Atrix looks around and sees that the middle-aged Niyonari noblewoman who bought his friend has just entered the hall. He walks over to her and bows. “Great lady, your champion has brought you glory today which will not soon be forgotten.”

Lucian’s mistress looks pained. “No, it will not be forgotten. He can fight no more in this place, and his skill in these last two battles has brought great shame upon the Arena Masters. Out in Tziwan, there will be many seeking to take him by surprise and kill him – friends of Ganrad of the Staff, now, and perhaps even the servants of ar-ayan Xeros.” From the anguish in her voice, it is clear that her concern for Lucian has grown beyond mere proprietary interest.

Atrix seizes the moment. “Lady: I fear you are right. The spite of the shamed Xaimani will pursue your champion wherever you go. It would be a grievous waste to see such a warrior slain by cowardly dogs. I pray you will consider selling him swiftly and in secret to one who could take him far away from them.”

The Niyonari lady stares at Atrix, deeply torn. “Do you say that you could keep him safe, Chramic?”

“My friend and I will protect him, I promise you – and be kind, generous masters to him.” Atrix leans in and drops his voice. “I can not tell you the secrets of our trade, but we came to the Arena in search of a slave of courage and skill to be our bodyguard on an errand of great glory and reward. We will travel far from Tziwan, bringing him with us, to places even Swordmaster Xeros’ hand does not reach.”

“You are not a tool of the Arena Masters?”

“Lady: I swear to you, I am not.” Atrix looks up to see Darren enter, brandishing their notes of credit from the Path of Chance. “To us, a champion and guard of this skill is worth nineteen hundred gold. Will you let us take him away to further glory – before those who hate him have a chance to find him?”

THEY LEAVE THE Arena by a small side gate, wrapping Lucian in a cloak to hide him from curious eyes. Hours later, when they’re satisfied that they’ve shaken off any pursuers, they return to their inn, dye his skin, and sear the brand off his shoulder.

“We’ll find a new inn tomorrow – and each day after that, for a while,” Darren says quietly. “You’re easier to scry for than we are, if any of your new enemies come hunting for you. Best to leave them as confusing a trail as possible.”

“As you command, masters,” Lucian says wryly. He lies back on his pallet, looking haggard from his unhealed wounds but still smiling. “You know, back in the North, a Jendae woman once told me to beware of family, because I would die in the service of my cousin. I’ve always done my best not to serve any master for too long. I don’t suppose either of you is secretly related to me?”

“Of course not,” Atrix laughs.

 

[Wilhem]

great story, I am very much looking forward to seeing what happens.

 

[havenstone]

great story, I am very much looking forward to seeing what happens.

Thanks, Wilhem - glad you're enjoying it.

 

[havenstone]

The Young Laksharis

SUPRISINGLY SOON, ASH and Meeshak are allowed to return to their errand slave duties with Chosdzed. Meeshak guesses that sending Northern slaves across the city with the stripes of their punishment still visible on their backs is meant to emphasize publicly that despite the notorious escape, the Empire (and its Minister of State) is still in firm control.

Minister Tang is beginning a negotiation on the terms of the Imperial spice trade with Lakshadar, and dispatches his slaves back across the river to the estate of Raj Narayan Shah. On their first visit, the Lakshari swordsman Njitra once again leaves off gambling with the guards and approaches them for conversation. At first Chosdzed regards the earnest young man suspiciously, but Njitra doesn’t ask again how the Northerners feel about slavery; nor does he make even an oblique reference to the scandalous slave escape from the Imperial Palace. Instead, he plies Ash and Meeshak for mundane details of life in the North. On subsequent visits, Njitra keeps chatting with them about their lives pre-slavery, and Chosdzed’s own curiosity draws him into the conversation.

“And you, Master – Njitra – are you a retainer of Lord Raj Narayan’s household?” Ash asks eventually.

The other guards chuckle. “Njitra Raho Dirtborn? His blade’s too long for us, and his blood’s too weak for the masters.”

“My friends mean that I am of their social level, not the Chetriya warrior caste.” Far from being insulted, Njitra sounds amused. “Many of the ruling Ranas of Lakshadar would question my right to bear a sword at all. They have embraced the odd idea that the lower orders should confine themselves to short blades, spears, or clubs. Trying to be more Xaimani than the Xaimani, I think.”

Chosdzed furrows his brow, as if trying to decide whether this is an implicit insult to the Xaimani Imperial Order. “So what do you do?” Ash persists.

“Sell my sword,” Njitra smiles. “There are plenty of lords and merchants between Tziwan and Lakshadar who don’t care about caste matters.”

ON THEIR FOURTH visit, a second young Lakshari is sitting with the guards. “My friend Chandur was also curious about life in the North,” Njitra explains. “I finally told him that if he wanted to hear your stories, he should join me here instead of just asking me afterward.”

Ash and Meeshak try to hide their surprise. Njitra’s friend looks identical to the captured slave Chandur they met briefly on the road south – but there is no trace of a slave brand on this youth’s smooth brown shoulder. The roguish gleam in his eye, however, is unmistakable. “Pale Folk, is it true that your womenfolk are legendarily beautiful?”

“It’s been said so,” says Meeshak cautiously. “You Southerners might find them less appealing when they’ve been in the sun too long.”

“No, no – pink is a lovely color,” Chandur beams. Ash grins back, unsure why this curious Lakshari has reappeared, but feeling a strange, fierce hope.

“There’s no time for you slaves to swap gossip with these guards now,” Chosdzed grumbles. “Masters, we bear a message to the House Narayan Shah. Please let us through.”

“Another time, then,” Chandur says regretfully.

AS THEY HURRY back to the river, Ash more than once glimpses Njitra following them at a discreet distance. Their Kardei guardian is oblivious. As usual, Chosdzed has some small purchases to make before they cross the river, and tells the two Northerners to wait where he can see them. He enters a shop on a woodcrafters’ square. Instantly, Njitra and Chandur emerge from a side lane and stride up to the Northern slaves.

Njitra speaks quickly and quietly. “Do you wish to escape as your friends did?”

Ash and Meeshak glance at each other, confirming wordlessly that they trust these strangers. “Yes,” Meeshak replies.

“In two nights’ time, at the third hour after midnight we will be waiting with boats on the river to the southeast of the Tang Estate.” Njitra’s voice is matter-of-fact.

“Look for a pink lamp.” Chandur winks, and the two Laksharis melt back into the crowd before Chosdzed has a chance to notice them.

 

[Quartz]

It must have been very difficulty to have RPed the slavery episodes. And even more difficult to effectively GM them.

 

[havenstone]

It must have been very difficulty to have RPed the slavery episodes. And even more difficult to effectively GM them.

As I've been writing these episodes up, I find myself amazed that Carwyn's player stayed with us, and generally ashamed of quite how much degradation I directly pushed onto the PCs.

I was still a fairly inexperienced GM, and not sensitive to the real-world emotional impact of RPing. Once the game went South, it stayed intense and kept strong horror/tragic elements, but those early slavery games crossed the wrong line. Role-playing the death or abuse of loved ones is hard -- and there's more of that to come, I'm afraid -- but I think we were able to handle it cathartically, and it added emotional depth to the characters. By contrast, I should never have asked any of my friends to role-play surviving a rape. Or rather, I should have asked, not just let the plot take us there and declined (in the name of brutal realism) to offer a deus ex machina.

Don't know if cerebralpaladin, orichalcum, feir fireb, or any other PCs from this period want to comment on the experience of playing slaves in Xaiman?

 

[Feir Fireb]

Don't know if cerebralpaladin, orichalcum, feir fireb, or any other PCs from this period want to comment on the experience of playing slaves in Xaiman?

One of the things about pushing grittier stuff is you don't really know what your players' hot buttons are going to be, and if you don't know what you're doing you may not find out until it either they tell you or it blows up in your face. The episode with Carwyn at the party could easily have been much worse with a different group composition, and we all learned valuable lessons about roleplaying at that time.

The degradation of slavery that Darren faced was not something I found threatening, it didn't push any of my buttons. For me, it was easy to suspend disbelief. I'd come from a rather twinkish high school group (in 2nd ed D&D, I had a bard wielding a powerful sword in one hand and and even more powerful intelligent sword in the other) that mostly played modules low on plot and character interaction. So I'd already been hooked on the comparative glut of drama, especially after havenstone's semester-long hiatus abroad. And many turns of the game took me enough by surprise that I didn't really have much time to figure how I felt about them.

Slavery in Xaiman was very high-stakes challenge: no equipment, no allies, the whole of society against you and expecting absolute subservience, and the slightest mistake could send you to a gruesome (and legally sanctioned) death. As long as you can suspend disbelief, it has its appeal and definitely adds adrenaline to even many of the most mundane interactions. But of course it depends upon what the stakes are for your character.

 

[Orichalcum]

As someone who now teaches students the age we were when we were playing this, I can assure you, havenstone, that you weren't particularly naive or careless given your age and experience. That said, yeah, we'd all definitely do it differently now.

I actually joined the game just after the rape session, and honestly, I think in retrospect that Rian's crazy ankle-spraining plan was also Ori's rejection of that gameplay (related second-hand) - my attempt to send a signal that no, I was not okay with roleplaying this - without endangering my fragile new position in the group. Of course, the interesting thing was that both the slavery aspect and the ankle-sprain wound up providing three key anchors to Rian's character - her utter hatred and fear of slavery, her impulsive recklessness, and her loyalty to the other PCs not through any sense of altruism or initial friendship but due to feelings of obligation and debts owed. So it wound up being a very fruitful roleplaying moment.

I do think that the whole episode did a great job of communicating how horrific slavery actually is. It's slightly ironic, really, that in the post-college campaign I GMed (Alea Iacta)with many of the same players, havenstone played a slave. I feel like that campaign approached many of the same issues but with a lighter touch - havenstone's character Meloch's own master was a PC (whose player, Ladybird, will show up later in this campaign) and very gentle with him, but at the same time his behavior and actions were somewhat limited, and he lived in mostly justified terror of being inherited by her ruthless mother. I don't know if H felt that I pushed that line too far. I think slavery (which I work on professionally in the Roman context) is a very fascinating social dynamic to play with, but one where you have to be very careful as a GM to not abuse your power, or conversely make it seem all happy and whitewashed.

 

[havenstone]

It's slightly ironic, really, that in the post-college campaign I GMed (Alea Iacta) with many of the same players, havenstone played a slave. I feel like that campaign approached many of the same issues but with a lighter touch - havenstone's character Meloch's own master was a PC (whose player, Ladybird, will show up later in this campaign) and very gentle with him, but at the same time his behavior and actions were somewhat limited, and he lived in mostly justified terror of being inherited by her ruthless mother. I don't know if H felt that I pushed that line too far.

I enjoyed it tremendously -- not just the lighter touch, but having to grapple with the nastier aspects of Roman slave life (like mandatory torture before testifying). I definitely didn't feel you pushed it too far. (And by the way, anyone who's enjoyed this SH should totally go read Alea Iacta, if you haven't already).

 

[havenstone]

Well Met by Moondark

“WE NEED TO bring her with us.” Carwyn’s stubborn whisper brooks no disagreement.

“We’ve scarcely known her for two weeks,” Ontaya murmurs back, concerned by Carwyn’s irrationally intense attachment to her new friend Rian. “Why are you so sure we can trust her? She’s not a Northerner – she doesn’t think like us. Most slaves down here would never dream of escaping. They’d turn us in the second they suspected we were planning it.”

“Ash and Meeshak decided to trust these young Laksharis they just met, even though they’ve spent much less time with them than I have with Rian.” Carwyn warms to her theme. “The fact that she’s a Southerner should make us more eager to get her on our side. Without friends like her who know the South, we’ll be caught again for sure. And she’s young, and terrified of being a slave – it’s new to her, too. We can not abandon her to the nobles here. She’ll be desperate to get away with us. And she’s good with little Tarai – I mean, T’harai. He’s calm around her.”

Meeshak raises one hand in exasperation. “Fine, Carwyn, fine. We’ll tell her on the night. If she doesn’t want to come with us, I’ll just gag her, tie her hands, and sprain her other ankle.”

GAUGING THE PATHS of Aerdrim’s nine moons is a complex art, as they all constantly influence each others’ orbits. In the North, only the most determined of scholars could master the calculations necessary to predict what the moons would be doing one month hence, or to predict with precision what they would be doing in even a few days. Meeshak guesses that either Njitra and Chandur must be a half-decent student of the moons, as it becomes clear that the night of their planned escape will have a lengthy stretch of moondark – a window when none of the moons save Manachorn, the black moon, are visible in the sky.

That night the four brightest moons are all waning, and set early. When the last of them has slipped below the horizon, leaving only the dull red slivers of the twin moons Ascha and Tischa, Carwyn crawls over to Rian and silently wakes her up. “Rian: we are escaping,” she breathes, almost inaudibly. “Come with us.”

Rian stares wide-eyed at the ceiling for a moment. She loathes slavery, and knows she can’t survive here for long; sooner or later she’ll be caught using sorcery and executed. But the Northern group into which she’s Charmed herself are the most conspicuous group of escapees imaginable, and will be the most hunted-after. They’re sure to be caught and excruciated. As soon as we get over the wall, she decides coolly, I’ll slip away from them and make my own way. She has no sentimental attachment to the strangers or their slightly alarming baby Tarai, and the debt she owes to Meeshak is not exactly a life-debt.

“All right – I’ll come with you,” she whispers.

THE NORTHERNERS STAND and Meeshak chants a muffled prayer for Silence. As he mutters the last syllable, all sound ceases in the area around the slaves’ sleeping enclosure. Carwyn, Meeshak, Ontaya, and Ash sprint out of the building before its four Xaimani sentries have the chance to notice or understand the unnatural stillness. Carwyn saps her target, who drops like a stone; Ontaya and Ash grapple their two down, knock off their ornamental helms, and pound their heads against the pavement. Meeshak whips a rope around the neck of the fourth guard and begins to throttle him. The mutely choking man lashes out with his mace, but Meeshak manages to hold on until Ontaya arrives, brandishing another guard’s mace, to knock the Xaimani out.

They step back into the slave quarters just long enough to collect Rian and wake Hamber and Tarai, whose noiseless fussing soon subsides. As they emerge, they see the twin red moons have also set, and the five escapees steal into the gardens of the Tang Estate by starlight. Pebbles crunch beneath their bare feet as they leave the radius of Meeshak’s Silence. Rian is limping badly from her sprained ankle, and Ontaya silently beckons her to hand over baby Tarai. Soon they reach a thin wall of decorative ironwork with a locked door. “On the far side of this wall, the Minister releases great hunting cats each night,” Ontaya murmurs to Rian. “Daoran says they are the estate’s most effective guards. Ash?”

Ash listens intently and sniffs the air for catspoor. “I don’t sense any of them close at hand.”

Carwyn has nothing like Darren’s skill with a lockpick, but manages to unlock the door with needles stolen from the Great House. The party creeps through a maze of hedges and reaches the outer wall – a tall stone edifice topped with a battlement and flamelike crenellations. Ontaya and Carwyn, with the children, are the first to scale the battlement. Then the night is split by a horrific shriek, and a half-dozen Xaimani panthers attack the party members remaining on the ground.

Unlike wolves – those famously solitary hunters – the great cats of Aerdrim hunt in packs, closely coordinated, with some flanking their target while others engage head-on. Barely able to see in the moondark, Meeshak bats clumsily at one with a mace, Rian cowering behind him. Ash tries to fend off the others with a guard’s short spear, while trying vainly to use his animal empathy skills to convince them to leave. Ontaya leaps from the wall and manages to land on one of the panthers, breaking its back. The remaining cats immediately spring onto Ontaya, raking her with their talons; Ontaya bellows and lets herself go into berserker rage, battering her feline attackers with her mace and flinging them into the wall. Ash gives up on diplomacy and spears one that has begun chewing on Meeshak. Within minutes, the surviving panthers have vanished back into the lightless outer garden. Ontaya regains control of herself before committing a truly chaotic act – like lashing out at one of her friends – and leans against the wall, drained of energy.

Any hope of a stealthy escape is now gone. Carwyn sees a patrol of five armed guards marching along the battlement from the north, while a dozen-odd torches are flickering in the garden close by. “Behind you – they’re almost here!” she hisses. Hamber and Tarai are wailing in her arms.

“Run,” Ontaya growls. The party sprints off along the wall to the south. The first guards who emerge from the hedges are frozen in place by Meeshak’s Hold Person chants. Six others charge in and clash with Ontaya and Ash, who take dozens of blows on their unarmored bodies to shield their less sturdy friends. By the time they have fought off the first patrol and resume running, both the fighters’ slaveclothes are soaked in their own blood; without Meeshak’s Curing blessings and Ontaya’s ability to heal by laying on hands, they would all unquestionably have been slain.

FRANTIC BUT HELD back by the excruciating pain in her ankle, Rian hobbles behind the others as fast as she can. She screams as a new shadow bursts out of the garden, metal armor glinting in the starlight. The Xaimani mace meets her skull, and all she sees is a blaze of color, fading to featureless white.

When she regains consciousness, she is slung over Ash’s sinewy shoulder as he tries to clamber up the wall of the estate. Ontaya is already fighting off Tang’s guards next to Carwyn on the battlement, while Meeshak helps haul Ash up. “I’m awake,” she whispers, feeling sick as her bleeding head jostles next to the wall.

“Good. Can you grab Meeshak’s arm and hold on?” Ash grunts.

She manages to twist and keep a grip on the priest. Ash scrambles up over the lip of the ledge and hauls her up after him, then turns to help Ontaya with the remaining sentries on the wall, allowing Carwyn to fall back with the boys. “Forgive me for not Curing your wounds,” Meeshak says drily to Rian, whipping his rope past the fighters and around the ankles of a guard. “But I think we’ll all have a better chance of surviving this if I reserve my blessings for the front line.”

Rian nods sickly. “Ash – he saved me?”

“Killed the guard and carried you to the wall,” Meeshak confirms, yanking the enemy off-balance and toppling him from the battlement.

“I owe him a life-debt,” Rian whispers dizzily, revising her plans.

“He probably won’t see it that way. But yes, you do.”

Ontaya bull-rushes the last guard off the wall. “We’ll be seeing mages and Minister Tang’s honor guard here at any moment,” the paladin barks. “Let’s go.”

THEY CLAMBER DOWN the far side of the wall, into empty streets left almost featureless by moondark. Meeshak takes the lead, guiding them down alleys toward the river. Ash picks up Rian again and carries her for a few minutes, but his strength is clearly flagging, and he doesn’t protest when she asks to be put down. Behind them, the chorus of shouts grows ever fainter.

After they’ve been running for five minutes, a burst of white flame ascends into the sky near the estate, hovering like an artificial sun. For long moments, they feel exposed; then the light winks out again. In the houses around them, they hear people starting to stir and candles being lit, but they remain alone in the street. They push on to the banks of the inky Shanyang and head downriver.

A half-mile from the estate, Ash spies a pink glow and hisses, “There!” A paper-walled lantern hangs in the stern of a long rowboat. A masked man steps from the boat and waves them closer. “Welcome – but don’t speak our names,” Njitra says softly. “We don’t know if anyone already has eyes on us.”

As the party members hurriedly board, Rian realizes that this is almost certainly her last chance to strike out on her own. For a second, she hesitates – then mutters, “I always pay my debts,” to herself, limps into the boat, and reclaims little Tarai from Ontaya.