"If we had to make the gamble, yes. That would make things much more plausible. But if you make major plays while sworn to only have half a plan, counting on opponents to not call your bluff won't get you very far."

"I know, I'm just saying that avenue isn't completely closed to you, now. Regardless, I'm not sure being a force to be reckoned with is a desirable goal in and of itself, and you can conversely swear that your diabolism limits itself to trying to bind and banish as many demons as possible without the personal gains associated with destructive diabolism."

"Yeah, maybe. Most of us are still in favor of keeping our heads down until we've got more options."

"That's reasonable."

"Well. Good luck with the Lord and all."

"Thank you."

Sadde's new allies can help with setting up the mundane side. Moving in. Job at the convenience store. (Which it turns out is operating by cheating. A few well-placed magically noticeable signs point passersby to a nearby competitor that could plausibly have had practitioners before it went out of business.) She'll be free to focus on the practice as long as she's here.

And then he should schedule an audience with the Lord.

He's easy to find. There isn't a council meeting coming up or he could just introduce himself there, but there'll be a few other participants who like to think of themselves as important, involved types. Not in so many words, of course.

No, not in so many words. He walks over to (what is presumably) the Lord's demesne.

From the outside, it's a building. Dignified but unremarkable.

Two men are flanking the doors. They're dressed more for warmth than for show; no uniforms here. But they radiate suspicion, if not quite reaching hostility. They look Sadde up and down. "Any weapons? If so, leave it out here."

"I carry no weapons," he says.

The speaker doesn't bother nodding.

"Anything you leave past this door stays there, and you should watch your step with the Sight on the way up."

He takes his glasses off.

The inside of the building looks...poorly decorated. Each individual object is perfectly unobjectionable, but nothing fits together. Their spirit world counterparts are stranger. No connections to anything. Owners, settings, concepts. Everything is just there, stranded. If there were an unpaired sock in this place it would probably be completely cut off from the matching one.

A flicker catches his eye. Humanoid. A very faded ghost, depicting a serious gash. It reaches for a sword on the mantelpiece and never quite makes it, then repeats its three-second echo. After seeing that, there are more like it. Each is seeking something in here, but they'll never make it. All the connections are one-way.

...what happens if he just gives them the stuff?

He expects nothing good, and he's convinced they're not people, so he'll try to just ignore the creepiness.

It's easily ignored. More decoration or trophy case than obstacle.

The staircase is more like a pile. Weapons litter the area: an antique sword biting into the stone rail, shell casings still smelling of gunpowder, a skull with its jaw hanging around a staff that got thrust through. On the way up, the walls get progressively more damaged until they're gone and he's standing in a snow-covered field. A cold red sun fills a quarter of the night sky. 

Oooh cool aesthetic, he approves.

He tries to look appropriately subdued as he walks along.

It's also cold. Or warm. Enough to be uncomfortable in either direction with little middle ground, and if carefully balanced enough it might even be both.

Conquest is a huge man in a bright red coat, sitting on a stone. Or at least he looks humanoid. His old-fashioned rifle has a bayonet that could pass for a small sword, and his beard with waxed mustache is legitimately impressive. He could pass for a larger-than-life image of a British soldier from two centuries ago, if not for the inhuman eyes like a painting and the surprisingly plural number of belts. He's holding two chains, which trail off to collars around the necks of captives.

"The only seat is the ground," he says, "and you have not offended me. You may stand."

He does, and raises his eyes to Conquest. "Greetings, my Lord."

"Allow me to make some introductions. Isadora, Phix's daughter." Nothing changes, but one area becomes more salient. And the person there is attention-getting on her own. From the waist up Isadora is a massively proportioned human woman, covered by nothing but her own strategically dangling hair. Less visible in Conquest's poorly lit domain is that from the waist down she is an enormous black cat. Extremely well-defined pouncing muscles drive home just how scary cats would be if they weren't usually tiny. Her wings—of course she has wings—are equally black.

"The Elder Sister of the Sisters of the Torch." Unlike Isadora, who would stand out anywhere, the Elder Sister is anonymous. White mask, ornate burgundy robe with one sleeve longer than the other, and a glowing ring on one finger.

"The Shepherd." He looks shrouded in dark, almost ghostly clothing. He holds a crook in his hand, matching the name.

"Matthew Attwell." A tall blond man with an absent, almost dead expression behind his round glasses.

"And the Queen's Man." He looks even more ordinary than Attwell, not at all like someone who would have a professional pseudonym.

Each of the people involved greets Sadde, with the exception of the Shepherd, who nods. Each of them are on stones or stumps forming makeshift seats, or in the Sphinx's case loafing on a wide slab of rock. "The High Drunk of Dionysius is not attending, nor the Astrologer, and I saw no need to bring the Eye of the Storm," Conquest finishes.

"It is an honour to meet all of you." And he's so very curious about them.

If they weren't at least willing to meet the new practitioner, they didn't have to show up.

"And who are you, entering my city?"

"I'm called Sam, from Jacob's Bell." He lowers his head and reaches into a bag. "I bring an offering." He grabs a beautifully decorated vial. "Fae blood."

"Blood and Conquest. I see." There has been the smell of blood occasionally, staining some of the weapons downstairs. "Taken from a defeated foe?"