Here is a quiet, worn, dark yard. Spires and blocks serving no clear purpose, geometric stonework all slightly off, like you're missing something from a trick of perspective. Still, clean canals intersecting at right angles. A pale gravel path just ahead, leading towards a broad mansion half-overgrown with ivy to the left, and what looks like an empty bus station to the right.

It's oddly cloudy, thick banks of something leaving the area to be lit only by strangely diffuse light and the string of lanterns along the path. Also rather open. No large buildings in sight, save the windowless mansion.

What did the Izzet do now?

...this doesn't look like anything Ravnican. Too artificial for Selesnya or Simic, too open for anyone else.

She looks up.

Much too open. Even patriarchs can hardly afford this much sky.

Well. She finds her feet again. "Gruggs, follow."

First, she'll check on that carriage stop.

Open sky: There's a lot of that. Out in front of the carriage stop is a large metal structure with guide rails, for some sort of flying vehicle, a large one at that.

And a lot of open sky ahead, and below. A few stars shine faintly in the distance, between cloudbanks.

The metal landing structure seems solid, if old. The stop otherwise consists of a few iron benches and a building with stained glass windows and a pair of restrooms and what looks like an abandoned ticketing desk. Completely empty and unlocled. There's a couple dozen lanterns inside and out which give off a steady pale orange glow. One is broken, revealing a cloudy orange crystal, now lightless.

Well. That's settled, she's not in Ravnica any more. She hazily remembers theories of "other planes" mentioned by one of her tutors... Guess she can confirm it. If she gets back.

She is tempted to send a thrull to test those metal rails, but she might need them soon. The Gruggs are good bodyguards, but not enough for an entirely new environment. Also she's missing Phleeb already.

The lights... are not quite what she'd expect from Izzet work. But it looks like some kind of crystallized mana, unstable on contact with air, which is close enough. She will tentatively expect magic artifice works the same here.

Is there any signage? She ought to be able to read anything, as long as some mind nearby knows the language.

A small sign indicates that this place is Piranesi.

Graffiti around back scratched into the walls says 'If change is part of life, then-" the rest is illegible.

That is not reassuring.

"...then you'd best know which change you want"

"...then stagnation is death"

"...then this is where life begins"

No, none of that seems right. Nor reassuring.

Well. Whoever is in charge around here, she won't find them here.

"Elpheb, in front of me. Bephel, just behind. We're going towards the mansion."

Near the great broad-shouldered mansion, it becomes obvious there is only one entrance. No windows, no side doors, just acres of stonework that looms perhaps larger than it should, framed by the carpet of ivy. Utter silence aside from the crunch of gravel, not even a breeze in the chill air.

Just in front of the mansion lies a small cottage of entirely different make, that doesn't fit next to the grand and imposing structure, surrounded by a - garden? A garden, save that it seems to be cultivating things one would normally consider weeds, all scraggly stem and thorns. The curtain twitches aside to reveal a brown-robed figure, wisps of grey hair falling from the hood, who silently takes in what they can observe of the approaching group.

She stops at the edge of the garden. It barely registers; she's seen Golgari gardens full of mushrooms and bone. (Not often but she has.)

The sign said 'Piranesi'. Not 'Piranesi Manor' or anything like that. And... That's not a manor even a sun-scared vampire would live in. Which means... Hmm. Whatever it is, this isn't a cottage for servants. Perhaps a caretaker?

Right, start this out on the right foot... 

She gestures her thrulls behind her and steps up the door to knock.

"Hello. I'm Lady Teysa Karlov, of Ravnica, and I suspect I'm very far from home. Could you perhaps help me?"

"...Ah," an old woman's voice replies. "Yes, Piranesi does like to try collecting the lost. Well, you may come in and take our hospitality, if you wish. Tea and explanations. We don't use birth names, we Chaplains, but welcome to you, Dire Lady."

A glance towards her followers. "And friends."

"I will, and thank you for it. I'll happily compensate you, if you have any use for zinos, though I expect you do not."

She looks back at the two ugly misshapen lumps of grey flesh in a semblance of humanoidity that escorted her. "Gruggs, stay. For the next, hmm, one hour, do not attack anything which does not harm you first. Bephel, call for me if a threat appears." The one that was behind her nods, but twitches its claws irritably.

She turns back to her host, "They are very poor guests. And their table manners even worse."

"No business of mine if you say so. I do admit some curiosity to what would become of them if they went in."

She disappears into the cottage with a gesture.

She follows inward. "I assume that means I oughtn't go in unprepared? I have no inkling what, or where, or perhaps who, Piranesi is. And where I am from, there is considerably less sky, especially as you go downward."

Inside, two more robed figures wait. A bespectacled man whose eye-sockets are blackened pits is writing in a journal, and a jovial man who smiles at her, unlike the old woman's utterly flat expression.

"Piranesi is a prison," the woman explains. "Our role is to help inmates reach egress. None may leave Piranesi unaltered, but the form that their change takes can be... Channeled. We do offer tours for the curious."

"And for those seeking things. Insights, relics, absolution," the jovial man drawls. "The tours are perfectly safe if you stay with your chaperone and follow the rules! Witnessing is a sufficient change if you're a visitor and don't linger. Tea? We've not much selection, I'm afraid."

She takes a small cup. No sense taking much of what is scarce. "Are you chaplains of some particular creed, or is it just the title for those who help the imprisoned? Ah, and what should I call you?"

"Whatever we were before, we are now Chaplains of Piranesi," The woman speaks in an even monotone. "I am the Grey Conformer."

"I go by the Gallant Reformer," the tired but cheerful man continues. "Adjective optional. And our quiet friend is the Glib Performer. Our last member is out at the moment. I'm afraid there's little here for you, save waiting for a locomotive to try for passage, for what it's worth."

"I see. Where might I get passage to? I have heard of universes beyond Ravnica, but only in the abstract. Visiting is not conventionally considered possible."

The Reformer shrugs. "You are at Piranesi, which is in the region of Eleutheria in the realm known as The High Wilderness. Whatever brought you here, it is unlikely to return you, I should say. The key place of interest would be Pan, a neutral area of sorts near the center of this slim dot of relatively less lethal sky - or perhaps Eagle's Empyrean, though they are keenly and determinedly unfriendly to foreigners. To say nothing of foreigners who reek of strange magic. They do control the only way out of Eleutheria, of course."

"Is all the Wildnerness so dark, or is that local?"

"Oh, no, the Halved doesn't like light very much. And most of it is dark and cold, by volume, the spaces far from stars - don't follow any captain who wants to travel the wastes without a damned good reason - but the Reach and the rest of it is brighter, at least."

"Then I shall endeavor to overcome the Empyrean's determination at some point. Fortunately, I am very convincing. I am - well, was, you're probably right - the very best of advokists. ...I believe the closest word in this language is 'solicitors', though that feels somewhat too narrow."

"May it serve you well. There's a great many dangerous things, but the worst are often other people. Even here, where the phantasmal and metaphorical dangers are ascendant over straightforward ones like the things in the Reach that generally simply wish to eat you."

"I've met plenty of phantasms, but mostly bound debtors and family, I don't imagine my experience will translate. People... well, not everyone can be reasoned with. But I believe I'll manage."

"Hmm. Well, would you like that tour?"

"Perhaps. What are the rules you mentioned?"

He smiles thinly. "Unfortunately, there is an unwritten fourth rule. The Chaplains may not explain the rules. The prisoners may, and you may learn them by observation. It really is quite safe if you're careful, but I understand not wishing to take the risk."

"Ah. No, I don't think I shall. I much prefer complex rules I know to simple rules I don't."

"Hopefully our busy harbor traffic control will be in a cooperative mood for your plans," The Glib Performer snarks, not looking up from his journaling. "In the meantime, there's dice and cards and wandering the boring empty grounds."

"Don't mind him, he's in a mood," the Reformer says warmly. The Conformer begins putting away the tea, moving mechanically.

"If I do find myself her a while, is there anything I could do in exchange for your continued hospitality? The thrulls are good workers, and with some time I could make one to leave you with - they're not quite sapient, nor quite alive, but close enough. And myself I can do some truth magic, write contracts that will enforce themselves, within reason. ...If you want more lights, that won't be permanent but it's quite easy."

"The lanterns fail for anyone except their prisoner, even after release. We manage." The Conformer's voice is polite and monotone.

"Piranesi provides the essentials, our cupboard will never be bare, though never rich. And you may rest here while we are about our duties. I would not turn away some assistance with the garden."

"You'll have to direct me; we bought all our vegetables. And my bad leg may be a bit of an impediment. But certainly." Also, she's probably going to have do manual labor regularly here, she is unlikely to be rich any time soon. Might as well start getting used to it.

If their attention is drawn to her leg, they'll notice her severe clubfoot. She puts very little weight on it, and everything from the shin down looks about as twisted as the thrulls outside, though it's elegantly disguised by the cut of her pant leg and the drape of her cape. She supports herself with a very solid cane, ivory-handled and filigreed and engraved to match her ostentatious clothes.

(Clothes and cane both are color-coordinated in white, black, and gold, clearly artfully designed and cut with a clear style in mind, one that even suits her coloration, but they are heavily decorated. They mostly manage to stay short of 'gaudy', but only mostly.)

The Gallant Reformer makes cheerful small talk about the prisoners as they go about the garden. This prisoner has given up their name; A perilous thing, he wishes he'd convinced them of another way. That one is engaging him in a fascinating series of ethical debates. Transforming from a thug to a scholar. A success story in the making. The thrulls can help with the gardening too. It seems more like a light hobby than anything else.

After a few hours there's a distant echoing bell-chime. A pair of tones coming from the stop, ding-dong, a pause, then another ten seconds later, and repeating.

"Arrival at the station, I assume? I should probably meet them there."

"Yes, indeed. The bell goes off when they're coming in to land. I don't understand the equipment, but visiting crews tend to give it a once-over, if only because they want to come back. Good luck!" The Gallant Reformer waves her off.

"And to you, and thank you all."

She turns to the waiting thrulls. (They didn't garden; too violent and too dim, respectively.) "Gruggs, follow. Two paces behind, but on guard."

Back to the station, and let's see what an 'engine' looks like.

The vessel approaching the dock has landed and begun disembarking uniformed men and women by the time she arrives. The sailors and uniforms both are dirty and worn from hard work.

It's a large roughly cylindrical metal thing - perhaps two or three hundred feet long, more a small ship than a large carriage in size. The side of the vessel is a long cylinder. Shiny-looking wood broken up by a few portholes, a pair of study hatch-style doors, and what looks like a big cargo hatch. A smoke stack peers out from above, closer to the rear of the vessel. Some of the panels are cracked and damaged and patched over with... Less inspiring bits of metal, dull and scratched. There's also the pointed shape of some sort of weapon poking through a metal debris shield at the front, and a large stained-glass window glistening deeply green. The cylindrical shape seems to be some sort of aesthetic choice, rather than a practical one. Low groans of settling machinery and the hiss of gas under pressure echo as she approaches.

The crew don't seem especially wary, even once they notice the thrulls. One nods at her a bit nervously.

"Hello. I've found myself landed here unexpectedly, and I'd like to negotiate passage. Who should I speak to?"

"The Bearded Captain will, once he's dealt with the prisoner I'm sure, ma'am."

"Would he benefit from preventing the prisoner from lying, do you think? Or is it past that stage? A 'verity circle' is among my unusual talents."

"I don't know much about the prisoner, ma'am. Only that we got him from a crossroads. And the Beard is more partial to gold and gems, I think."

That sounds more like a captive than a prisoner, really.

"I think I should offer my assistance regardless. And, well, if all he needs is an executioner, I have one of those in tow as well." She gestures to Belpheb, who is excitedly muttering and flexing his claws.

That is the moment when a slightly better dressed person of indeteminate gender, some sort of officer, ushers a manacled man out of the engine. Shackles bind his wrists, and a heavy lantern like the ones decorating the path hangs from his arm. His face bears a curling sigil in some strange language, burned on. His eyes dart around and latch onto her.

"Ma'am, Lady-"

"Shut it," the officer instructs. The prisoner cringes and goes silent as a Captainly figure with a good two feet of braided beard steps down.

"Well, let's be finished with this," the Bearded Captain says with a sigh.

"Captain, you seem displeased with your options. I believe I can supply another worth considering before you do anything final. No charge."

"Oh? I don't think you know what's going on here, but do tell. And who might be offering this?"

"If you want to check whether you can trust the captive's word, whether to claim innocence or offer future payment or otherwise, I can assure he speaks the truth. I find this is usually worth employing before handing down a verdict. Even if you still choose-" she pauses and considers the Conformer's comment about lanterns - "-something irrevocable."

She hasn't quite gotten a handle on local names, so she'll hedge her bets somewhat. "My family is Karlov, my home is Ravnica, and the first chaplain I spoke to called me the Dire Lady. None of which I expect means anything to you."

"Dire Lady is a fine enough 'nym. Names proper tend to be reserved for ones you're close to. Or gossip. And I suppose I could get some answers, with that sort of service, but you're mistaken. I am not the judge here, just the transportation. He already has a lantern, and the mark of the Halved's disapproval. Piranesi is a kindness."

"Then I shan't slow things down for curiosity's sake. Do you want help carrying him to the gate?"

"No, no. There has to be another way!"

"I'm afraid not, old man. A Judgement like this is not easily satisfied." Judgement is verb and noun both, here. "Piranesi is your best hope. That or the Griever's maw. The Chaplains will help you."

"Damn you all! Throw me away then. Get it over with. Do not bother your conscience with it."

The wretch starts walking down the gravel path, not looking back. Officer and Captain follow grimly.

Teysa is interested to see what happens when they send someone into the prison. She follows behind the two officers, watching the convict.

The Gallant Reformer comes out to meet them and speaks to the condemned man like a priest giving last rites. The prisoner listens, but doesn't reply.

The great oak door swings open gently, revealing a maze of passages and arches and bridges and hanging chains. Far too many, in far too great a distance, to fit in what the manor appears to be outside. A few points of light bob along in the distance. 

The lanterned man steps through, and between steps - twists and vanishes into the distance.

"Sorry to bring you more work, chap. I'll have some supplies sent over to make up for it."

"If it pleases you," the Reformer allows.

"And I believe you wished to discuss passage?" He asks, dragging his eyes from the prison. "Back to the ship if you will..."

Not taking a tour seems like a very wise decision.

"Indeed. Lead the way."

As they walk to the engine, the Captain explains, "We're likely headed to the House of Rods and Chains on business next. It's bad manners to leave someone stranded without recourse but I admit to a bit of apprehension regarding your... Friends. On the other hand, Pan is a place where truth telling could be worth the fare and more, if I had some collateral or similar to hold on to."

"A fair concern. They can't go against my orders, and they could stay in a crate with cargo if you'd prefer, if that's reassuring. For collateral... I imagine zinos aren't worth face value here, but the metals are still good."

"Metal is metal. Silver? Gold? You don't mind if I do some tests with scales."

"Electrum, gold, and platinum. I assume you'll want to test the gold." She digs into her purse by feel, pulling out gold coins worth about a week's wages for a common laborer, or the minimum five-minute bill for herself.

"Two weeks' wages are fifteen, twenty Sovereigns. Or thereabouts."

The Bearded Captain shows her into a small cabinoffice and does various things to the coins.

"...These are worth thirty five Sovereigns by weight in total. Thirty, for the inconvenience, and my passenger fare direct to Pan is thirty in this case."

"Gold's especially rare here, I take it? Then I suppose I don't need to work my way. Any conditions you generally require?"

"Common sense? I'm not going to pry into your affairs but no fell shrines, no murder, no stargazing, and the creatures get a cage for the duration unless they evince signs of being people. Oh, wait, if you have any papers from the shattered library, we can't have those aboard. They attract scrive-spinsters."

"Stargazing, hmm? Not known to be dangerous where I'm from. I'll avoid it. How much in the way of signs do you want - they're more people than a clever dog, though less than a particularly stupid elemental or ogre. Bephel can talk, but if I let him he never stops asking for permission to kill."

"Sounds like critters. It's a spectrum, for sure, but we're not exactly nuanced philosophers out here. If you're not concerned for their comfort I'm not. And yes, the light of stars is bad for sanity. Hence all the stained glass. Are you from Earth?"

"Rather further than that, I expect. But from the name, that's somewhere where sky is only found above you, so probably more similar to there than here. Ravnica is an city that covers its whole planet. And there isn't anything like this," she gestures to the clouds both above and below them, "anywhere on the plane. We'd know."

"Hmph. I try not to get too involved in Powers' games... At any rate, even Old London and Paris and New York barely covered an island or two. I don't suppose you have a landscape handy? Either way, welcome to the High Wilderness, and to the Steady Haul. Let's show you the passenger cabin."

"I doubt anyone's actively involved. One of the ten guilds of Ravnica is the Izzet, who engage in quite a lot of extremely wild experimentation. Traveling planes is supposed to be impossible, but if they accidentally accomplished the impossible, don't have any idea of what they've done, and will never manage to repeat it, that wouldn't even be the first time this year."

"Reassuring to hear that they're far away from me, then."

He has a crewman fetch a sturdy wooden crate for the Thrulls, then shows her through cramped corridors with exposed piping, past a drab galley, to a cabin with enough room to stand up in and a fold-out bunk above a small chest (empty), with a steel radiator and a porthole and another fold-out desk with a chair.

"It'll do, thank you. Can I get to the cargo from here? The thrulls can't complain, but I'll rest easier knowing where to retrieve them if someone turns violent."

"It's just to the rear, between the engineering space and here. I'll make sure it's labeled. Do they need food? Anything to take care of before we set off? We leave within the hour."

"Not much, and slops will do. I'm ready to leave at your convenience."

The preparations for flight are straightforward. Crew bustle about, inspecting the exterior and moving things around. Dinner is some sort of stew with purple vegetables and unfamiliar meat, with optional cheap booze. The Captain gives a short speech about how this ought to be a straightforward trip to Pan, and they'll get shore leave at Pan!

And then they're off. The engine floats through the sky mysteriously, driven forward by the power of coal and steam. A steady chugging noise and the groans and cracks of pipes expanding. The frost invades her porthole, but the radiator keeps it at bay. It'll be a few days. She's welcome to play cards and gossip with the crew, though they treat her all deferentially.

She'll drink lightly, and play cards - she loses on purpose to try to put them at ease, especially if they're making bets, though she bets conservatively (even by their standards, after the first couple hands - she's not going to be wealthy here and should get used to it). When it comes up, she asks about superstitions and stories - she suspects she's short a lot of common knowledge, and she's never met a traveler who didn't like tall tales.

When in her cabin, she dredges up long-unused training for sensing the flow of mana. It may take a lot of trying, and she's not sure how stingy she'll have to be.

They're betting pennies, tiny fractions of a Sovereign. And chores and favors when those aren't sufficient. They gossip about old friends and lovers, and places they've seen, and gawk at her a bit, treating her deferentially due to the nice clothes and probably-having-mysterious-powers. There's a lot of sky-lore to share, she's clearly getting bits and pieces only. 

They gripe about cleaning the pipes in the narrow spaces, and talk in hushed tones about star-madness symptoms and how rest, comfort, and home alleviate them. They speak of Hours, 'crystallized time'. Valuable and often-used in Albion, it seems, but rare as hen's teeth out here. Of Devils who can only be trusted for cheap coal, scrive-spinsters lashing out at everyone, Douser engines who seek to bring darkness and anarchy, the semi-anarchy of Pan's many competing factions, the Crossroads that dot Eleutheria and have fey-like rules about debt and politeness. Judgements and the Correspondence mentioned only in hushed whispers- Not to be messed with lightly.

One of them makes regular sacrifices to the Waste-Waif, throwing some of his food out the hatch, to the consternation of others at the chill this allows in. But they don't say anything, or stop him.

"Devils with coal, huh? What do they look like? Ravnica's devils are... short, big horns, scaly, stupid, leave a trail of murder, fire, and property crimes anywhere they go."

"No, devils're dapper things. Polite, civilized, will absolutely knife you in the back if you trust them. Really concerned with souls. They can taste altruism and cruelty in the heart and stuff."

"Golden eyes and the smell of sulfur. That's how you tell a Devil. They buy them. Souls, I mean. For a desperate sort, it can seem worth it. I'm rather fond of mine."

"Hell only knows - heh - what they do with 'em, but they insist they don't actually eat souls. You see them on display in their offices and stuff."

"I heard they have engines that burn souls. They can make yours better, make you a better person. Carillon."

"That always sounded like something stupid rich folks do for a fad, like aquapressure or whatever stupid thing it was-"

"Well it's a real place. If the Devils can bilk rich folks, more power to 'em."

"You wouldn't believe the things ours go for. Daily ooze-bandages that are supposed to make you "attuned to the universe", ordering an angel-golem with the looks of a woman two centuries dead, made to order from pieces of a hundred corpses and animated by five mind-mages trying to pick up what you expect her to do, buy a whole mountain and strip everything down to the ruins to 'experience nature'..."

"Christ."

"I was a guard for this guy once, long story, and he met with an admiral or something who talked about how all his cabinets were made of genuine Senior Scrivener wood. Imagine wanting your fucking cabinets made of a thinking being."

"Yeah. It reminds me of the Bazaar buying love stories, all kinds, every-"

"Bad luck to talk about the Bazaar up here."

"Shit, sorry."

"Or the Mausoleum."

"Yeah, that place is ridiculous. Traitor Empress kills her husband in the first fucking place, then turns a whole mountain into one titanic tomb. What the fuck?"

"Well, damn, you've mentioned it and made me curious. Is it safe to ask about the - marketplace - in port?"

"It's old history. Most people - Er, most humans up here came from the Neath, and it was there. It's not the serious kind of bad luck. But it's old history and kind of a lot to explain and you don't want to get stuck on heavy topics in flight, as a general precaution."

"Same for the 'Neath' in general? I'll just have to be patient, then. What makes an Empress a Traitor?"

There's a round of chuckles. "That's history. Again. She sold the city of London to the Bazaar, which brought it to the Neath."

"Shut up about the Bazaar already. And deal. C'mon."

The dealer deals. "Maybe you oughta buy a book in Eagle's Empyrean about it. We can chat about the Neath, I suppose... It wasn't quite as bad as the High Wilderness, I think. A vast sea, formless and dark, rather than a great sky."

"I'm sure I will, but I like learning from people better. Hear what's important to them, not just what some dusty writer thinks."

But in any case, she antes up.

The game moves on. Later, one of the crew, Annie (because the names thing is stupid in her opinion and they can't all have cute titles for each other), tries to spook Teysa by repeating gruesome stories from the Neath and the Sky. Eye-eating sorrow-spiders. Cannibals. Brain-eating Snuffers. Flukes that make your eyes bleed just from looking at them. And more.

She retorts with moroii who sap decades of youth from your flesh in seconds, Rakdos blood witches who call the vagrants down into their theater-altars to sacrifice themselves willingly, Simic graft-doctors who are equal parts squid, elf, deer, and virus, and Izzet 'inspiration' that sends whole city blocks speaking in each other's voices and seeing strange colors.

(She doesn't expect to win, but it's fun to try.)

Parabola, the nightmare realm where dreams are reality. The Work-Worlds, London's solution to debtors: Time accelerated prison labor. Old Tom's Well, a permanent hurricane that draws people to it in fascination. Piranesi... Well, she knows that one doesn't she?

Annie thinks this is great fun but they should probably stop before she gets to the things it's dangerous even to know about.

"I didn't actually go inside Piranesi, they wouldn't tell me the rules. And I'm pretty much out of spooky stories, you win anyway," she says with a grin.

"Could you do me a favor, though? Explain the thing with names and titles. I'd rather fit in, where I can, and 'the Dire Lady' is just what one of the Chaplains called me on the spur of the moment. I don't know how people choose better ones, or why."

"First rule, don't look back. Second rule, don't give names to the nameless. As for 'nyms... Well, it's just a thing, isn't it? From the inside anyway. You can use peoples' names, but it's a lot more fun and mysterious - Not boring old George Miller, the Blue-Eyed Gossip. Mostly important or notable people get proper 'nyms, though. Or it's a friend group's in-joke. It's kind of trashy to call yourself something grand without someone else starting it. You can shift it or reject one but... You kind of have to see it in action? You have poise and obviously nice clothes in foreign make - with bone. Dire Lady fits just so."

"Ivory," she says absently, "technically different. Ivory for Orzhov, bones for... well, it doesn't matter. Honestly, I'll probably sell the ornamentation off in port, it's meant to advertise whose protection I'm under, and I'm not."

She catches herself, and her train of thought, and turns back to Annie with a carefully-chosen smile, one that shows "Good work" and "Thank you" and a little bit of "Aren't you a lovely thing?" that tends to fluster anyone into not paying much attention to what came just before it.

"Thanks, that's very helpful. I suppose I'll keep it for a bit, probably change names when I've found my feet a bit better and know who I want to be here. Probably not still a solicitor."

Annie raises an eyebrow and nods. "Isn't ivory just bones from some great beastie or another? Also, surprising level of demand for law people in Pan, I think... I've got my course and you yours."

"More teeth than bone, that's what makes it rare. I guess I'll see what Pan's like when we get there."

"Guess so. Back to work with me." Sigh. "Boring is the best kind of trip, though."

Nothing else of particular note happens on the trip, save a slight detour to avoid something that's too far to get a clear look at.

"That's the truth. Thanks again."

Pan is a wild, overgrown collection of islands, with mist framing the structures that throng with small craft making the short trips from the loose collection of islands. Old ruins and groves that practically promise secrets, faint music echoing across the sky from it. All overseen by a great statue of something not quite human. The dockyards are disorganized but busy, with at least a dozen engines not much more reputable-looking than this one waiting in scattered, branching landing areas. She sees a scuffle on the docks through the porthole as they come in to land, a group of rough sorts kidnapping some young sailor and vanishing into the alleys.

Eugh. Yeah, she's not staying here unless it gets her very rich. And not stepping off the dock without both Bephel and Elpheb on her heels.

Once they're docked, assuming it's not a rush, she'll go find the Captain.

"Can you give me the one-minute version of how people operate in Pan? I assume there's something people rely on to not be mugged in - well, not broad daylight, but what passes for it?"

"Walk with a tough crew. Have a visible weapon. Don't show the tells of the local factions on their enemies' turf, or fuck with them on it-"

He summarizes them: The Brazen Brigade, Devils pretending to be knights. The Heart-Catchers, a mysterious partnership with talking trees and a penchant for kidnappings. Winter's Reside, open revolutionaries trying to overthrow Her Imperial Majesty, the Queen. The Gentlemen, a self-policing society of smugglers, criminals, brutes, and other foul sorts.

"Pan's not an especially lawful place, I'm afraid, ma'am. I'm happy to organize an escort for a while if you'll lend me consequence and truth for a meeting with a Khanate contact of mine. Or maybe with the King. Of course, this being Pan, the King is not actually a position of authority. More champion of the moment, or chief storyteller."

"My thrulls will probably do until I can find some tentative friends; unfamiliarity lends menace, and they are dangerous enough to start. But I'd be happy to accompany you regardless, introductions are nothing to scoff at."

"Introductions I can do. My contact is Khara Two-Scar. She doesn't have two scars - she'll scar you twice if you cross her, or so she claims. Monster hunter of some renown with some ambiguous tie to Eagle's Empyrean's arms industry. I hope to buy some of the things one can get from monsters... And a bit of information."

The crate of Thrulls is brought forward. The crew carrying it back away quickly.

"Up you get, Grugg brothers. Stay on my heels, and don't attack anyone who doesn't attack me or this gentleman first."

The two thrulls push the less-secure side of the crate off, causing some minor damage to in the process. Bephel mutters something about scratching and killing, but they both quietly take their places just behind her.

The Bearded Captain has that officer from before follow him too, both of them armed with scary-looking guns. Their destination is a specific bar, not very far from here.

"Hey," the officer says to Teysa neutrally, "You oughta get a weapon."

"It's occurred to me. I don't recognize the technology of yours, but you hold them like bam-sticks, and with those I'm a poor shot, though I may improve with practice. For now, my weapons are walking behind me."

They snort. "They do go bam."

The Captain interrupts, "Khara is a bit... Imperious, but it's easier to just indulge her. We'll have to bow, like this," he demonstrates. "Full Khanate etiquette is one deep rabbit hole but in general be a bit less direct."

They don't actually stand out all that much on the streets of Pan. There's a fair amount of weirdness wandering around. Still, people seem to keep a carefully polite distance to each other. It doesn't take long to arrive at the bar, built out on a stone pier of some sort to look over a small lake and mysterious groves on a lower shelf of Pan. There's a bouncer. The bouncer eyes the Thrulls warily but ultimately lets them in.

Khara Two-Scar is pretty obvious. She has an actual throne with intricate carvings and silk cushions at one table, and a bunch of scarred hangers-on wearing the same sort of fashion around her. She smiles sharply when the Bearded Captain bows asks for permission to approach. "Come sit! I find myself curious who's accompanying you with such fine ivory. And gold. Bold to wear it like that."

She bows, slightly more shallowly than the captain.

"Well, I'm very foreign, and very new. In my own city, these clothes show every peasant that I am of the Orzhov Families and under their unsurpassed protection. But that is, quite literally, a world away. The Dire Lady, at your service."

"Orzhov, huh? Such a shame they're not here with you, unless those gutter things are Orzhovs. Dire, pfah. And who called you that?"

"Oh, I think she can earn the adjective," the Bearded Captain comments.

"We'll see. You want something and it's not just to introduce me to your lady friend." She seems to revel in the piercing, direct statement.

"Yes, but we don't need to get into that right away, do we? I'll buy a round, how about."

A smile from the Khanite. "Uncharacteristically generous of you."

"Maybe I want to leave a good impression for my guest."

"A Piranesi chaplain gave it to me, I think it will do until I can pick my own. And I asked to be introduced. You sounded worth impressing," she says, with the air of someone who has never in her life had cause to doubt her ability to impress.

"If you manage to not die despite knowing nothing about here I guess that'll be impressive." She waves at the bartender, who nods and starts filling glasses. "The only other surefire way to do that is to kill something big, displays of other talents can be so scattershot."

"I have some abilities I believe aren't common here. Guarantee truthfulness, make more like my thrulls, trivial little lights on command, and others that are more esoteric. But perhaps I'll make impressing you a longer-term goal."

"Oh, is that why. Old Beardy, do you trust me so little?"

The Captain scowls. "Some things need to be verified, scarface. It's the way the game goes." Khara makes a slight grimace at the returned insult, then nods as if to say 'fair enough'.

"True, true. Truth is such a delicate thing. Intertwined with thought and perception..." She squints hard at the thusly-introduced Dire Lady.

"I also have interest in a more ordinary transaction. Hard Sovereigns, for the gems I know you pry from Grievers."

"Yeah, we can do that too. But I want to hear what you think about truth first."

"It's not really my opinion that's relevant, but the opinion of, hmm, 'white mana' probably means nothing to you. In a verity circle, you cannot make false statements, you cannot give misleading answers to questions you are directly posed, opinions vary on the degree to which it compels you to speak rather than remain silent but it's largely moot. Rapid answers are not compelled, you can stall if the questions go out of scope. I can swear intent to follow the standard procedures within my own circle, to avoid scope problems, though you may reasonably doubt that's efficacious and I'm not sure I can reassure you."

"...Hey Sufi, if you can tell me to my face under her truth spell about your girlfriend, I'll believe you. And you can tell me what it's like."

Sufi shrugs. "My job to poke my head in and see if it gets bit off? Should be interesting at least."

"I'm sure I can come up with something to compensate for a little demo if necessary," she nods at the Dire Lady.

"Sure. And no need for much of a favor, I can practically do it in my sleep. I can add a small question or two of my own, perhaps."

She traces out a circle on the floor, wide enough for three people to stand in if they didn't need personal space. It glows faintly, rippling with some script they don't know. When she completes it, it brightens substantially.

"There. Step inside. I can describe usual procedure if you like, or save that for your boss."

"I do admit to bein' a mite nervous and would appreciate said explanation."

Teysa steps inside herself.

"When used outside a courtroom, it is customary for the questioner - me, here - to agree to the primary questions in advance. Other questions can be asked, but if the witness - the one in the circle, sorry, jargon - resists answering for anything not relevant to the primary questions, the questioner either retracts the question or drops the circle. It is permissible to end by asking if there was any information left out that would be misleading on a specified list of topics, which should be equal or equivalent to the primary questions. Other people can ask questions, but it is again customary for the questioner/advokist to retract them or drop the circle if they're out of line. I will follow custom strictly for you and, if relevant, for Khara."

She steps back out.

"I'll give you a chance to see what delaying an answer feels like. Any particular question you'd like me to use for that?"

"Nothing about the ship or the missions."

"Ask me all about my very real girlfriend and our amazing love life, why don't you. And some more embarrassing questions besides, so this lot believes it."

"If you manage to lie about anything obvious, names or math or any of that, you get fifty sovs, that'll do for belief," Khara Two-Scar says after some thought.

Sufi grins and jumps inside the glowing floor ring.

"If you insist. What's your name, and what's your girlfriend's name?"

"I'm Sufi Khoboran, and my girlfriend is-"

She tries to outright lie, to see what it feels like. "Jemmine" is not her girlfriend's name, but if she tries to speak it...?

The real name comes out like she'd intended to say that instead. Everyone finds it surprising, many also find it very disconcerting.

"-Rita Windsor. Fuck! Rotting bones and offal, that's weird!"

There's a series of guffaws and jeering. "No wonder we never see her! A Londoner!"

"She's very lovely, I'll have you all know!"

"Shut it," Khara commands, smacking one of the laughing men on the head in a way that probably still counts as "lightly" by her standards. "Yeah, I knew. What? We're not exactly good Leopards and Eagles out here. Frontier life. Go on."

"When did you last-" hmm, not sure what's intimate here, be careful "-touch Rita? What did you have for breakfast? What's 23 times 27?"

"How about I don't answer that first one. Fried eggs of an unspecified origin an' booze and pora fruit, hell knows where the things come from but they haven't killed me yet. That's, what... Four sixty and... Five ninety? No, seventy five, eight one... Six hundred one. I think."

The Lady lets her sit with the unanswered question for a few seconds before she says "Alright, I take the girlfriend question back." After Sufi finishes, she says, "It's six twenty-one, actually. Or possibly six-eleven. What's 23 times 27?" (It doesn't give her any more confidence in any of the answers, despite only one of them being correct.)

"Nah, I think I was wrong the first time- Gahhhh. That's weird, I was trying to be super confident I was right the first time. I don't know, I'm not a math girl."

"I imagine it doesn't come up much except for bookkeeping and aiming long shots. And I'm mostly just putting you through the paces with as many flavors of maybe-lying as are likely to come up. It's kind of fun, I usually only do this when training new advokists. Just to wrap that up:"

"27 is thirty less three, so 23 times 27 is 23 times 30 less 23 times 3. 23 times 3 is 69, so that becomes 690, take away 69, leaving 621." She pauses for a beat. "So, now, what's 23 times 27?"

"Sounds about right. I have to take your word for it that you're actually bound by this thing too and it's not sucking out my soul or anything, but I sure seem to be fine-ish."

"I'm not still in the circle, the only thing keeping me from lying is professional integrity. I haven't, though. Anything else you want me to ask about before you leave it?"

The Bearded Captain makes effort to point his body language at Teysa, not the hanger-on currently in the circle, and says, "I would like to ask but am not doing so directly in hopes that doesn't press it - if there's a mental pressure to answer, and if one might imagine scenarios in which you manage to lie inside the circle."

"I mean, go ahead and ask as long as it's on topic. Yeah, there is, and that one didn't twig it but I'm answering anyway. Feels kinda like Chorister Honey. And I was trying to be confidently wrong, but it didn't work. Insane or sneaky people might do. And I bet you can still do, ah, carefully selected truths if the questions aren't careful. And I wonder if Correspondence or some shit like that could get through it... Fuck tryna use Correspondence, though."

"What about Irrigo?" Khasa prompts.

"Oh yeah, bet that'd do it. 'Oh, no officer, I have no memory of that at all'."

"What you don't know can't be forced out of you," she confirms, "though if it leaves noticeable gaps you might mention that. Not confessing those unless pressed is the kind of thing you can do with practice. Holding back tangentially-relevant information is easiest, giving misleading truths is harder. Telling outright lies of commission is probably impossible. Though I don't know what Correspondence or irrigo is, maybe that could overcome it."

"Okay, I think I've seen enough to be willing to step foot in that thing for a premium. Depending on what exactly it is you want to know."

The Bearded Captain nods. "I'd sooner discuss that in a back room than here, mind. Gemstones for Sovereigns first?"

"Aye." They start haggling.

Sufi steps out of the circle and tells the Dire Lady, "Irrigo is the color of forgetfulness. You can't really describe it to someone who hasn't seen it, and it's not... It's definitely a color. Sort of purpley, except not at all. It's really hard to remember irrigo things and it can help you forget other stuff too. You don't see Neathbow colors up here that often, though. And Correspondence is the language of Powers, innately magical, but human minds aren't built for it."

"Huh. I'm not sure whether I'd bet on a Power against White, mana natures are roughly fundamental forces of the multiverse as we know it. But Correspondence doesn't have to beat that, probably, just whatever channeled it into its form."

"Also, sorry about outing you. Didn't seem like that was what you meant to sign up for."

"Eh, it's all for the dark. Friendlier than some wrestling matches I've had. Woulda begged off if I really cared."

She bumps a fist into the Dire Lady's shoulder. "And this way it comes with a story."

The promised round of drinks arrives, the bartender having held back while Weird Magic was going on.

"A good perspective to take." She'll take a glass of whatever's here, and take time for everyone to have a few swigs. But then she asks Sufi, "So, this must be common knowledge, but I don't have the first clue, and you seem likely to be sensible about it. What's the difference between Khanate and Londoner? Just the skin?"

Her drink is sweet wine grown from some unknown fruit, possibly plucked right from the orchards visible out the window. A few people have something different, though.

"Oh, damn. History. Okay, so, London was the Fifth City on the Bazaar. The Khanate was a colony of the Fourth. A prosperous, well-regarded one. And, 'course, rich Europeans newly arrived to the Zee set about deciding they were in charge now. And they've got guns. And boats. Lots of gunboats. So no lost love there. When that old bat Elizabeth left the Zee, we followed. Built ourselves an independent city out here."

"Ah hah. And you kept your distance, too, unless her new London is in the other corner of Eleutheria and no one's bothered to mention it."

"Aye, two Relays away from here. There's an embassy everyone quietly hates and a lot of fuss about who technically controls the Relay. They do and the politicians politely pretend otherwise, if you're in any doubt. London is the big fish in the pond for sure. We're not... Entirely capable of standing on our own. It grates, but few Londoners want to come out here, so we have room to be our culture. You should see new year's ceremonies at the Xanthous Moon..." Sigh.

"I'll see if I can manage to. Did you all build the city next to the Moon?"

"We built the damn moon!" She laughs.

The Bearded Captain and Khara appear to have agreed on a price. Khara cuts her thumb with a knife that appears from her sleeve just long to do that, and presses it against a paper. The Bearded Captain grumbles but accepts a similar blade from his escort to do the same.

"A bit of backrooms dealing in a bit, if you please, Dire Lady?" Khara asks pleasantly.

"Then I will definitely have to visit, that sounds a sight. But now some business. Thank you, Sufi."

She stands up and nods, then follows wherever the Captain is going.

There's a Backroom that the barman unlocks for them, a small lounge that becomes quite silent once the door is closed, with comfortable couches, an oak table, and a shelf of expensive-looking drinks.

"I know you have dealings with the one of the Crossroads."

"Owe a debt, do ye Londoner?"

"The information I seek would be the most convenient way to discharge it, preferably ahead of time."

"Now that is valuable information. I don't suppose you'll tell me what you need it for?"

"No."

"Not even a hint? They don't charge everyone the same prices, you see. I want to make sure my advice is good." A vicious grin.

"Let's just say I have an unreliable friend."

"Mirrors or bees?"

"Mirrors."

"...Ah. So you'll be wanting a... Sanatorium, let's say."

So-so gesture. "Friendship only goes so far. If there's another way, it's probably ruinous. So yes. But the price will remain."

"I think I know enough now to name a price for what you seek, and conveniently enough it's not really a secret. Just a bit of domain expertise."

"Oh?"

"You've got a Lustrum accent."

"Aye, I do."

"Promise to prospect a couple of rocks in an inconvenient location, and what I know of the Measurers' Prices is yours. Though I can't promise you'll be happy with it."

"I'll fly there myself, either charted or following you."

"What's stopping you from telling whoever you want about my rocks later?"

"Besides the fact that you'd hunt me down and kill me? This is Eleutheria, and I bet they're in a particularly unpleasant corner."

Khara stares at him with narrow eyes. "...Well, that's what she's here for, I suppose." And a nod to the Dire Lady.

"Nothing stops you from breaking a promise made in a verity circle. But if you don't mean it at the time, you won't be able to make it. If that's of interest."

She's missing a bunch of subtext, and some outright text. But she can work it out later.

"Swear to me you fully intend to prospect my two rocks in good order and faithfully under reasonable conditions, and I'll tell you the prices one might pay within the same circle."

"Just how big are these rocks? You sincerely expect this isn't some elaborate deathtrap?"

"Bigger than a homestead, smaller than a village. No worse than usual for here."

"Okay, deal. You'll repeat this in the circle."

"And I'll answer a couple of the questions I see burning on your lips too while we're at it, as payment if you'd like." Khara grins at her.

"Almost a waste, the amount I don't know. Let's see, which explanations do I most need... Measurers, Crossroads, Mirrors, Bees, in descending order. As much as you think is fair to give me."

Khara cackles. "Your answers after the ceremony. We'll be standing so intimately together, whispering secrets... It's almost a shame I haven't a fishing net to give you~" She says sweetly to the Bearded Captain.

"I've neither ring nor gown for you, no." He rolls his eyes and sighs slightly. "Let's get this done and then both go on our way, shall we?"

Both look to the Dire Lady.

She circles the room, tapping with the cane, making a new circle as large as will fit - which still isn't large. It flares as she finishes, and she steps back.

"As and when, gentlemen"

The pair step forward and grimace. Khara promises the task at hand is no more perilous than any other in Eleutheria. The Captain promises to make a reasonable effort etc etc etc.

"Five prices cover what you'd seek. Perhaps the kindest is Chrysanthemum - inspiration and innocence and wonder. Seven visions of distant lands, shining memories of the beautiful things of the sky- They'll take it all from you as payment for services rendered. The Nephentine, you haven't got the balls for. You've got to murder someone to pay it. There and then, too, so one of your crew or an unlucky passenger. Kaleidoscopic - a bounty of dreams, they'd siphon from you, both past and future and literal and metaphorical. If you're a particular friend of the Waif, she can pay for you, but most people don't qualify. And finally, refuse the rest... They'll take what they want straight from your heart and soul. I'm told it's rather excruciating."

The Bearded Captain takes notes in a shaky shorthand.

"Thank you. Do let me know when you're free to escort me to your find. Or send charts. I'll... I'll let you be.

He bustles out of the room in a hurry.

Khara smiles. "The Measurers, was it? I don't think they're actually your most important concern here. So long as you refuse their charity, they keep to themselves."

"Charity and prices, magically enforced and hard to renegotiate? Sounds like a normal day's work, where I came from. Perhaps I should be running away, but on the other hand perhaps I should be jumping at the chance."

"I suppose if you're used to the game you can still try to play with no idea what the cards mean and only the one chip." A pointed finger to her sternum. "The Measurers are minions of the Halved, he who still rules this place and hates light. They traverse invisible distances that manifest to us as the Crossroads. It all comes down to Powers with the ability to set their own laws of nature, and those that have to learn all the deadly intricacy like us, in the end."

"Some learn the law, some evade it, and some change it. I'm an advokist - all three at once is my job. But yes, I'll need orienting before I go back to playing for big stakes, I know. But less, I believe, than you think I'll need."

Disbelieving snort. "Mirrors and bees, was it? Parabola, the dreamland of the Neath, was accessible through mirrors. Up here, it's only in especially dark and deep areas that they serve the same role. I'm sure you know nightmares come hand in hand with dreams, and the worst sort is what happens if you enter Parabola and don't keep your head about you. Bees referred to Devils in our wordplay." She stops short suddenly, saying nothing more on bees. "One last piece for you. The Correspondence, what do you know so far?"

"Native language of Powers, possible for humans to understand, with difficulty - if not quite speak, as I understood it - and use to modify the laws Powers set. It's on my list of things to investigate when convenient."

"Write, not speak. Humans can sometimes write Correspondence. Usually it ends up with fire and explosion instead of whatever you were hoping for. Curving sigils, they are, most often circular with fractal flourish and flair carrying almost infinite amounts of meaning in a single symbol. There's a difference between statement and enforcement. You'll sometimes find sigils out there, there's one down the road a bit on a five-branched tree, and the right academic type will buy rubbings or sketches - safely taken in several pieces - from you. Oh, and get a gun for Eagle's sake. I think that's about all I've got in terms of general life advice, hon. Good luck out there."

"Last week, I'd never seen a gun in my life. And with the closest thing that passed for one, I'm a terrible shot. If you don't mind answering a last, trivial question: what do you think of the whole 'Dire Lady', 'Bearded Captain' convention? Since you clearly don't hold to it yourself."

"Londoner nonsense. Anyone can be anything, we don't judge. Get your twig replaced with a chalice and start calling yourself Madam Fantastique instead of Clark Bolter, who cares, you do you. The Empyrean isn't silly enough to do any of that."

"I'm getting a favorable picture of Empyreals, to be sure. I will certainly have to visit your home-made moon, at the bare minimum."

(Partly because she was intensely curious what sort of mana it was attracting, or producing. But also for the reasons Khara'd understand.)

"It'll impress. Go on, shoo, I've got gems to exchange."

Back out to the front of the bar they go.

She nods to Sufi, but makes her way to the Captain. "Are we staying longer, or is it back out to the engine?"

"Just as soon as I see the gems I've just bought." He pats a lockbox, previously carried by the officer.

"Yeah, yeah," Khara drawls. The exchange and counting goes briskly.

"Alright, now I'm heading back."

"Then so'm I, not going to risk getting lost. Though could we stop by the five-branched tree down the road?"

"By old Garden-Pillar? Do try not to get too curious about how Pan works, please. But very well, a brief stop, it's on the way."

"I want to have a quick look at Correspondence first-hand, see if it feels like the old hometown magic. Don't worry, I won't touch."

"...Just keep in mind that poking your nose into things is a good way to have something blow up in your face and those of your neighbors."

The five-branched tree proves to be a big old oak-relative, sturdy and a good four feet around the base, whose five main limbs branch out quite low at perfect pentagonal angles and keep splitting in a mostly orderly fashion, making prime climbing paths. Someone's even installed a short rope bridge from one of the boughs to an upper level. The sigil of correspondence is formed in a natural-looking pattern in the bark near the base. It's clearly a symbol, with parallel twists almost making it look like a stylized butterfly off the main loop and several dots, squiggles, and accouterments. A handy plaque says: "Garden-Pillar: A Nexus of Growth Around Which the Plants are Oriented (Some translate this as The Gate That Demarcates A Grove)"

She hisses to herself when she sees it, a reflex that goes with looking closely at mana flows. (She picked it up when studying, long ago, and doesn't do this often enough to bother untraining it.) And, yes, as she looks closely, mana is swirling around. Green and white, primarily, but wisps of the other three are definitely congregating more than around the rest of the tree, and reacting to the symbol. Also, she gets a slight feeling of what it ought to mean, slightly skew to the translations on the plaque, but not in a way she can put into words.

...Damn, this will be more tempting to mess with on her own than she expected. She has self-control, though, she'll be fine.

...Actually she feels an odd sensation in the back of her mind, like her brain would be sparking if not for the heavy curtain that just dropped on it. And her blood is softly singing. Well, for the credits, Orzhov blood clearly assisting her here. But for the debts, looking closely at Correspondence makes that assistance necessary.

She gives herself a once-over, and she's physically fine. "Right. Not looking at any of that closely again until I've talked with an expert. Or nine. There is quite possibly only one piece of magic more complicated than that in all of Ravnica. And you just have them lying all over the sky; no wonder you're nervous."

"Let's just move on and stop poking the dark underbelly of reality, shall we? You've been a lovely passenger so far, would hate to ruin it."

"Yes, absolutely, good plan, let's go."

She's not quite as unnerved as she's acting, she's playing it up to build rapport. But she is unnerved.

The engine is a slightly cramped haven, guarded by a doorman with an intimidating looking gun and a much less noticeable crewman in the lookout post up top.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Wonders the Bearded Captain. "We'll be moving along at some point after all, you need a new place."

"Well, if there's no other visits you want me along for, then yes, I imagine I should look. However that works, here, which doesn't seem likely to be as simple as presenting someone with money for rent. Hmm, how long will you be staying in port?"

"No, not after that. Until Khara's crew are sober and she decides to show me her rocks." He snorts. "Rent is a valid mechanism. You're mostly safe with the Thrulls and away from the Heart-Catchers. If they can do dumb labor or if you've other magic... But I'm not you. One more day for sure, but I want to be unentangled after that."

"Fair enough. Would any of your crew have some contacts with the Gentlemen, or near their claimed turf? They're a more, hmm, familiar, risk than the other factions you mentioned. And I'd rather not do business with complete strangers, if I can't rely on law to make promises stay kept."

"Pay me. Or buy a gun from my friend," the severe officer suddenly speaks up with a grin. "I used to be Establishment but I was distracted by a dropped coin and looked the other way often enough. Lesser evils and all."

"Will the gun be worth the price?"

"Well, you probably want something intimidating and impossible to miss with, so it'll be a shotgun and those are on the cheap side. I'll throw in a lesson and see if I can't figure out your aim issue."

"Deal, then. The other thing I should look for is somewhere to buy reasonably-intact corpses. Bats, most importantly, and probably other animals. I think I'm going to want to diversify my thrull collection, but it's difficult without raw material. Any ideas where I'd look?"

"Oh, the Resurrection Men would serve you well. Tragically they operate in Albion. If you ask around you'll find pragmatism wins over sentiment often in Pan, though. Shall we be off or would you like a break first?"

"An ironic name they've picked. Mainly, I'm a little worried I'll be competing with the gardeners for the market. Now's fine, if you don't need to stay on watch duty."

"Captain?" The Captain waves negligently. "Very well. Oh, no, it's the doctors you have to worry about, there, but I was thinking human, which now that I actually listen to what you said... I think you'll be able to find what you're looking for."

"I could use human bodies, they make much better messengers and they'd be smarter. But I think I'll want scouts and bodyguards more anyway." She gestures the Gruggs behind her and follows wherever he's headed.

The androgynous officer heads back out onto the streets of Pan.

"We're rather inured to the horrible out here, this discussion would be a fair bit more scandalous out of Pan, fair warning. Cats, bats, wrigglers and crawlies... Come to think, I heard of an academic who's selling off formeldehyded samples to fund a study of Achlys, though I don't recall exactly where he is."

"Oh, I entirely understand, back home it was done behind closed doors. Usually on people who died deeply in debt and had the body seized by bankruptcy after burial. Kinder than passing it on to their family, but still impolite to dwell on. Or when giants or trolls or something attacked our people, they got no quarter in any sense. Formaldehyded would be chemically preserved? I don't think that would work well."

"London puts you in a time-accelerated factory if you've enough debt, and the graveyards are large enough to count as a region... Well, it's not like I understand how your workings work. Live monstrosities are much pricier, as I imagine fresh ones are."

"The best is recently-dead, just starting to rot. Well, live works better in theory but executioners for thrull-making are a specialist skill I had absolutely no interest in observing, let alone learning. But yes, I don't expect to get anything exotic until I'm well-established and found a market for something I can do. Though if you have dog-sized bats or something I might be tempted to try."

"There's engine-sized bats. Right terrors, Curators are, and smarter than you and me. So probably some in the middle exist out there somewhere. Trained bats are a valuable commodity, do thrulls need... Maintenance? More than food and water, I mean."

"Sapient giant bats? That would be... terrifying even as thrull, and those are stupid and slow compared to the living. Thrulls don't usually need maintenance, but they also are usually kept in a much higher background-mana environment and routinely interacting with people with Orzhov blood, which lets us use small amounts of mana to give them commands. They might only last a year or so independently here before they start rotting."

"Probably not worth the effort then. What about living wood, does it have to be fleshy?"

"No wood, too much green mana. Scrive-spinster wood probably double-no, artificial life usually can't be used either for one reason or another."

"Turn here. All I can say now is good luck, I s'pose. Got any other tricks up your sleeves?"

"Always. But not any that are obviously useful. Bending law won't do me much good until I understand how the arcane law works here."

"Hm. Well, we're almost to Nibble's place."

They pass another engine, one with what is obviously a Correspondence sigil carefully carved into the side, with a few singe marks.

"Are there Correspondent engineers, or some such thing?," Teysa says, nodding to the singed engine, "I can't imagine just carving those signs into metal at random would do anything pleasant."

"Hm? Oh, I recognize that, 'an inevitable return to the place where one began'. Not random. There's engineers, and sequencers, and linguists, and biologers, and statisticians, and librarians, and poets, and all sorts of other academia out there, some of which focuses more or less on it."

"I can see how that concept might be helpful. Or at least good luck. As long as it didn't... pull that particular metal plate toward home like a magnet, which I suspect would be a valid reading of the core concept. Are there many of those academics in Pan?"

"Some of everyone in Pan, really."

"I suppose that makes sense. Getting out from under the law is a wide-ranging motivation."

"And my breadth of contacts is relatively narrow. Ah, there's the place," she points to a rough-looking wooden shack along the road with a sign painted in white that says "RAT-BUILT GUNS".

"Rat-built?" 

"Oh aye, Rattus Faber are cunning little mechanics. Tiny hands, tiny details. Nibble's a good sort. Grumpy, but proud of his work."

"I'll... take your word for it. Ravnica's rats tend more toward large, angry, and destructive, with optional swarming. And, hrmm."

She turns to the thrulls, "Bephel, wait at the door. Elpheb, hang two feet back from me and don't approach the rat unless he attacks me."

"Right," she says, turning back to her helpful guide, "After you."

The officer shrugs and heads in. Inside, in contrast to the dilapidated exterior, everything looks sturdy and well-maintained. The guns, accessories, and ammunition are neatly laid out in padded glass cases, with small labels. There's also a sign that says 'Shoplifting? This is a gun store.' With a target reticle over a hunched figure carrying a bag.

"Nibbles! I've got a customer for you." The officer calls out.

An overall-wearing grey-furred rat leaps down from an overhead walkway, scurries across a shelf and tiny bridge, and up to the counter in a handful of seconds.

"Grits, if that thing stops another customer from coming in, shoot it!" Is the squeakily shouted reply. 

A ratty face wearing an aviator cap peeks its head out from a hidden slat just long enough to be obvious, then shuts it with a slam.

"Your friend doesn't look very happy to be here, Mox," the rat-owner says.

"I'm not the Ambiguous Officer anymore?"

"You'll always be Mox to me. Why should I sell to her, eh?"

"Because money. And being one of the first to witness the new gossip."

"Point. Welcome to my store, miss. You can go wrong with ratwork, but only by hiring the wrong rat."

"It's not that I'm unhappy to be here, it's that I'm very foreign and intelligent rats are the second most surprising thing I've encountered so far. Our rats had enough size and ferocity to win fights with my thrulls, and enough viciousness and stupidity to start those fights. Please don't shoot them, they're slow to replace and won't act out unless I tell them to."

"Grits, amend that. Regular rules."

Tap-tap from inside the wall.

"Right, well I promise we can provide you the equipment to ruin your foes' day quite thoroughly. What kind of weapon are you in for today, Lady...?"

"Karlov, or the Dire Lady. Very foreignness comes with not being trained with guns at all, so I was suggested a shotgun."

The rat sighs.

"Probably want it low-maintenance too."

He sighs again. "Well, I can do shotguns, I can do low-maintenance and smokeless powder and safe as Port Avon, but this is really seeming more and more like a waste of my art on someone who won't be able to properly appreciate it."

"If I've made a mistake bringing her here we'll get out of your hair..."

"Very foreignness, hmm? I don't suppose you have some interesting engineering tidbits or exotic weapons that I can puzzle over, that'd be fascinating. No Rattus Faber? Who maintains the wiring and the piping? Who gets inside engines to oil and clean?"

"We have a lot fewer of them, I'm afraid; most things run on magic, which is much better-behaved than the kind you get here. I think sprites and fairies - humanoid but about your size - do some maintenance on them, but mostly for precision pieces. The rest is made to be serviced from the outside, and Izzet goblins handle it. They're about yea high," she holds her hand at about stomach level, "and have green scaly skin. The Izzet are the guild of mad scientists - they make their dull ones handle the infrastructure for the rest of the people. Which we're all thankful for, because if they let the clever ones do it, it'd work ten times as well but explode once a month."

"That's the reputation ratwork has, but it's a damned stupid one because it's the socioeconomic system that oppressed rats and made us all desperate to survive. Sure, hire a rat to fix your boat and they'll do it for a tin of biscuits but it might fail suddenly later. We fixed it with gum and string because that's all we have, because people were literally hunting us. C'mon, give me something, some colorful Izzet thing that you have half a clue how it works?"

"Hmm, closest thing to guns we have are 'bam-sticks', which look pretty much like the barrels of these. Two-part charge, enhanced by red mana - if I work out how to teach anyone to use it, I'll come to you first - but basically alchemical, they either burn mercury and cyanide in precise conditions - hmm, that might need magic, actually - or dissolve mercury in... acid of ammonia, I think it's called, and some simple alcohol. Or if you like alloy-forging I know something about mizzium, which is the toughest metal known."

"Acid of ammonia and alcohol... Would that make an ester? No, no. Mmh. Oh, wait. That's just mercury fulminate, isn't it. White powder? Explodes if you jostle it too much? That discovery was the key to modern mostly-reliable impact fuses, you know. Good stuff, good to know the chemistry's the same at any rate, means mizzium might be promising."

"Sounds about right. When I've seen it, it was a mixture of red and blue, but they'd add color if they could, red and blue are their guild colors and they're as egotistical as anyone. Mizzium cannot be bent, and can withstand the highest heats ever recorded and any amount of fire-enhancing magic. I can write down my estimates of the ingredients and proportions, they're economically important, but the final synthesis is secret. They say it requires dragonfire, but they basically worship their leader, Niv-Mizzet, who's the last dragon alive, so if anyone claimed to have another way, they'd probably be executed. Possibly by being thrown into the mizzium synthesis. You need incredibly high temperatures, certainly, I don't know your scale but it's at least, oh, fifty times the difference between ice and steam?"

He laughs and rubs his hands together. "Cannot be bent or cannot be bent without shattering first instead? Now that's an exciting sounding synthesis. What do you say to a free gun for everything you can think up about it and an explanation of what red and blue mean? Yes," he says impatiently to the officer. "It still counts as a referral. And you can listen in."

"Hmm, it may shatter under extreme pressures, I'm not sure. They salvage it from their wrecks and they're very proprietary about that - they revere the substance somewhat, like the dragon who makes it, hence the name. But it's tough enough for thin spars to support twenty-story towers for decades without maintenance, maybe centuries. Red and blue - so, as far as theorists know on Ravnica, magic is fundamentally composed of five types, usually called colors. Each of the nine guilds is aligned to a different pair - mine is white and black, as you might have guessed from my clothes. Red is passion, fire, intuition, anarchy. Blue is ice, wind, technology, minds. Izzet combine the two and get geniuses who make massive leaps of logic and are usually right, but when they're not, it misfires. And sometimes levels whole city blocks."

"That does not sound like any remotely mundane material, no no. Hmm. I can't say the colors make sense to me, I'm a rat of hard science."

"Heh. Sir, blue mana would stick to your fur. Science, the progress toward understanding and control of the fundamental forces of the world, is just about the bluest endeavor possible."

"And since I'm a cantankerous and proud bastard of a rat too, maybe I'd fit right in with them, eh?"

"It would depend a bit on how you feel about big explosions, but yes, you'd probably be a shoo-in. Are most rattus faber craftsmen - craftsrats? - like yourselves?"

"Positively, if I'm behind a nice sturdy blast shield. Yes, by long tradition and natural, possibly even designed, inclination. Tinkers, mechanics, tailors, gunsmiths, welders, machinists, canners, chemists, pneumaticists, electricians, and more. Several of my relations are soldier types instead, that'll be second most common, and my granddaughter Filo she became a ratronaut, but even that involves maintaining her rocket between scouting missions!"

"You sound like Izzet, only much more sensible. And unlikely to... actually, I think listing all the stupid callous things Izzet do and you don't would just seem offensive. I'll just summarize it as 'designated close-range explosion observer' is, as far I can tell, a common hereditary job title for Izzet goblins, and it's as bad as it sounds."

"Yes, well, let's move on. Untrained shooter, hmm?"

"Yeah. I've used a bam-stick, but not often and I'm an awful shot. Though I've also never had the need to defend myself personally, and the Ambiguous Officer suggested they'll try and give me a proper shooting lesson; maybe I'll be competent with a little practice now that I'm motivated."

"So no marksmanship rifle for you..."

"I was thinking shotgun," the officer says. 

"Hush, let me decide. Which of these sounds best? A gun that will shoot every single time you pull the trigger, even underwater or soaked in mud. A gun that hits really, really, really hard and kills things that usually take more. A gun so steady and smooth an arthritic octogenarian can shoot it five times without so much as a creaking joint."

"Probably the steady one. If I lose my footing I'm in trouble, the cane isn't decorative."

"Pistol then. Clever blowback mechanisms and springs can get the recoil down to almost nothing. I can do that."

He fishes out a wooden and obviously fake pistol from one of the many cubbies, plus a small tape measure.

"Hold that and let me get a couple measurements."

"Sure," she says, and watches how he goes about measuring and whatever fine-tuning or inspecting he needs for the gun itself. She won't understand what he's doing, but she can - probably, he is a new species - understand how he's doing it, and thinking about it.

Quickly and intuitively and efficiently, with occasional shouts to fetch this or that.

He continuously asks questions about mizzium as he works. Does it shatter. How dense is it. How expensive is it. What materials go into it. Any idea what kind of tooling is necessary to shape it. Does it react with a long list of chemicals. Does it rust. Does it accept paint. Is it electrically conductive and how much. Et cetera.

The gun taking shape is a slick, boxy shape, with bevels and curves along all the edges. It'll fire this standard kind of bullet and shouldn't be too hard to clean. At one point he uses tongs to place a tiny ruby glowing like miniature star inside some complicated assemblage, and mentions she'll need to cook it in a fire if it ever dims.

Mizzium is very difficult to shape, possibly it just has to be reforged entirely, she doesn't know. It's less dense than steel, but not by a large margin, maybe ten percent. Very expensive; a decorative mizzium bracelet would cost her about a week's wages, and she made more zinos in a day than a common laborer would make in a lifetime. She doesn't recognize most of the chemical names, but it's not very reactive and doesn't rust, patina, or anything like that. Probably refuses paint, there are slightly-adulterated alloys used to change the color. Mizzium wires are used for some high-performance structures, she's pretty sure, but she doesn't know how much better it is.

His overall manner is reassuring; she doesn't think he's quite too busy thinking to lie, but it's definitely not his priority. The gun itself certainly looks sophisticated, even compared to the others she's seen which seemed very advanced to her.

The whole process takes a couple of hours, complete with a grip adjusted specifically for her hand shape.

"Here we are. Take a look, get used to the feel of it. One Nibble Custom. It's low recoil like you asked, but I was thinking about it some more and for low-skill shooting the benefits of a mirror-dot sight outweigh the drawbacks. These are very new, very clever, and only work because Navarantine Rubies make about as much sense as bombazine, glowing like that - I think an explanation of the optics here would be a bit wasted on you, but the long and short of it is you just need to line up the red dot with what you want to shoot, instead of having to hold your head just so and align fore sight, aft sight, and target."

The Ambiguous Officer certainly seems excited as they quiz him on some of the details. And sure enough, if she holds the gun in front of her, there's two thin little lines of red light shining brightly, seeming to hover in midair, moving slightly as the angle changes.

"It probably would be," she nods at the mention of optics, "I know how a telescope or microscope works but that's about the extent of it. What are the drawbacks?"

She vaguely remembers the first rule of bam-sticks to be "don't point with it unless you'd be okay if it fired spontaneously", which probably applies here. She points it toward the far wall, and looks down the barrel while listening to the Officer ask questions.

The boxy sight on top with its red crosshairs does seem to be a bit more intuitive to use than iron sights.

"Expensive. It's not great at range, the dot obscures the target. But you're not going to be entering any marksmanship competitions, are you? Mox, you'll handle the teaching?"

"I most certainly will, it'll be fun."

"Great, let me just scribble down some quick maintenance notes and we'll be done here."

"Indeed not. Thank you, Nibbles. Where should we go for practice, Officer?"

"Gun ranges are popular enough that there's plenty of options," they say cheerily.

The lesson goes as well as can be expected, after they find an oddly cozy range with short-range targets. The Officer has good training mannerisms - they drill her in safety, then shows her how to load, unload, unsafe, re-safe, and do various other operations on the pistol, including disassembling it partway a few times. Then the Ambiguous Officer fires the gun a couple of times, to get used to it. Then actually shooting, with a large amount of correcting the position of her hands and fingers and critiquing her breathing.

"You'll not become a markswoman in an hour. Practice, practice, until it's automatic, or you'll just forget it all when it's shoot or die."

She's attentive and perceptive, but she clearly doesn't have any instincts for anything like this. She improves a little, though.

"I'm familiar with the principle, yes; 'your practice is how you'll play'. I'll find time. I hope the ammunition is standardized?"

"Yes, this is chambered for forty five-seventy, any arms dealer will have it standard. Just a quick tip, if a place smells like this range does? They're lazy about cleanup and probably unreliable in other ways too. There's different types of ammunition, you probably just want to get round."

"The smell's for the shops? I'll keep it in mind. What else is there, other than round? Hits harder, more accurate, that kind of thing?"

"Wad-cutter's specifically for target shooting, makes nice clean holes. It'll still kill people, just not as much. Blanks have no actual projectile, for... Show, I guess? You use them to start races?" The Officer shrugs. "Ballistic capped flies further, more accurately. Hollow point does more damage to flesh but won't penetrate much. Armor-piercing is what it says on the tin, anything 'jacketed' is the same. Incendiary and explosive shot mostly doesn't come in calibers as small as yours. There's more exotic variations but that's the basic idea."

"Yes, I think I'll be fine without them. Right, I guess I should look for somewhere to stay now. Any ideas?"

"Don't want your introductions right away?"

"A specific introduction counts as an idea. But introductions first is good too."

"My advice for safe accommodations is to make friends with someone who needs manual labor and have the thrulls do some of said labor. The Gentlemen take time and proving oneself to trust. I can bring you around and get people used to seeing you with me, see who's in today, specifics depend on results of said endeavor."

"Fair enough. Without anything to keep them bound together, paranoia is probably an important job skill. Introductions, then."

They start walking in the right direction, after making sure the new gun is safely holstered.

"A key component of the bindings is a distrust of outsiders. I'm sure I only see the surface, and only 'cause I kicked a fat overseer in the nuts when I got fed up with his lechery, and stole enough codebooks and stamps to play hell with the bureaucracy for years, so they have a grudging sort of respect. But I'm not in the business, see?"

"I do. We had... well, more magic. Break your word and that wouldn't be the only thing breaking. But there was still in and out."

"So it goes."

The Officer is happy to take the rest of the walk in silence; The Gentlemen's demesne is a warren of ramshackle construction over old crumbling stones. Laughter and shouting ring out, and knives glint openly in the lamplight. The two human figures and two thrulls attract all sorts of stares and whispers just by approaching this area. They walk quietly until she recognizes a group.

"Travis! I'm here to make introductions."

Travis nearly draws a knife with a suspicious scowl as he turns. "Who the fuck-? Oh, it's Nutcracker." And then he relaxes and opens into a wide shrug, the two obvious lackeys standing behind him. "What's two nice gals like you doing in a hive of scum like this? Got any fresh news for the box?"

"Nah, not today. You know me, stick my toes in but never going swimming. Anyway, Captain brought us out to fucking Piranesi and we're out again to God knows where soon. Like I said, introductions."

"Welllll if I have the pleasure of being yer host today, mind explaining what the walking corpses are about, madam...?"

"She's going by the Dire Lady. They seem obedient, didn't make a peep on the trip over."

"Evocative. And useful."

"I'm very foreign, and make them by magic. The other obviously-useful thing I do is truth-enforcing. Law was my main racket back home, but the family did much more. I expect you're my kind of people."

"We are not exactly law-abiding folks around here. That is a very un-reassuring thing to say. Maybe Nutcracker's trying to get back in with the Revenue Men, and you're an agent."

"Law is a matter of interpretation, and no one needs a good solicitor more than a criminal. I was the best in the world, and will be again."

"I can count on zero hands the time I thought 'gosh, I could really use a lawyer right now'. I suppose the big boys could possibly theoretically use someone to yammer at the Establishment for them. Figure out more tax loopholes. But that requires a rather established level of trust. The easiest, fastest way to gain trust is to give us dirt on you."

"Well, obviously. If you were ever in a position where you needed a lawyer and didn't have one, you would be in jail, or a grave, not standing here talking to me. Survivorship bias, it's called. Not having a lawyer is pressing your luck."

"Well, good to meet you, I suppose. Have a lovely day now. Let's get back to the bar, boys."

"How many people do you know who got caught, but were released without a conviction? Because unless they make a habit of summary executions, it should be much more than zero."

"Oh do tell me exactly how you'd argue someone out of the cells in Eagle's Empyrean. Saying you know how to 'help' twice isn't any more convincing than once."

The Officer sighs. "Trev, you Cantnakerous Enforcer, do you think this is at least something we can talk over with your bosses like gentlemen?"

"...Truth spell any better than thumbscrews?"

"Much. People will say anything under torture, you know that. And I've seen the spell work."

"There's maybe something we'd be thankful for in that if you're fine contributing to some violence."

"Of course. Lead the way."

The Officer follows along. 'Trevor' raises an eyebrow at her then half-shrugs.

Down an alley, through a square opening in the old stones, into a chamber with lots of random stuff piled up. They exchange passphrases with a couple more toughs. 

Then they're brought to a relatively finely appointed room with lit gas lanterns, silks and cushions and booze lying about. A woman wearing a slightly grimy pantsuit and a roughly made steel "crown" lounges as Trev makes introductions.

"Purported Dire Lady, this is Rusty Rose. Rusty Rose, Dire Lady. Apparently she can make Blues talk, see if his alibi's bullshit or not. Nutcracker here says it's legit."

"Oh? That'd be useful. It's bad business to merk the wrong people. What'll truth cost us?"

"Call it advertising. You've no reason to trust me, yet; this is cause to consider finding one."

"Easy to burn, hard to build. Ain't it ever so." Rusty Rose shrugs. "Alright, why don't you all sit tight for a couple minutes while I send this up the chain and then we can try it if there's no, eh, contraindications?"

"Reasonable enough, thank you."

Help yourself to the drinks if you like."

Rusty Rose departs through a fold in the fabric. She comes back five minutes later. 

"Ms. Garden is curious to hear more about whether she has truly been betrayed, and by whom. A little explanation first, I think? Well, the short version is that a job went bad. It sure looks like Blues tried to sell our family out to something inhuman, but he swears up and down that another who I shouldn't mention in the presence of excess ears, is framing him."

"I gather 'inhuman' means something beyond 'different species'? Humans are a minority back home, though we do tend to be the ones in charge."

"Something that doesn't operate in polite society. Or impolite society for that matter. I suppose you'll hear soon enough but I'd really rather Nutcracker didn't hear and maybe start some premature rumors."

"Fair enough, easiest way to calm a panic is not to start one. Are there many non-humans in polite society? I heard about devils, and Measurers if those count, but all I've met is humans and rats."

"There's a few more types, none overwhelmingly common. I'd call the Measurers impolite society in that they can be negotiated with."

"That seems like a fair place to set the line. Anything else before I go talk to 'Blues'? Should I explain how it works to you, or wait for Ms. Garden?"

"Ms. Garden will not be present. You can explain on the way. Let's get to it!"

"I'm her escort," the Officer says. "I don't need to hear your interrogation but I'll remain nearby, please."

"Of course. Right this way."

She can explain on the way through a twisty series of halls and stairways down, into an old fashioned steel barred jail cell where a man in a Tragedy theater mask is held, looking depressed and hopeless.

"Simple version: I trail a circle onto the floor, channeling magic into it, and when it's complete, it will flash white, and until I let the spell drop, anyone standing inside the circle - me included, though I don't expect you to trust that - is unable to lie and will find it difficult to actively mislead. Resisting answering a question is a matter of time; people with a bit of skill or willpower can manage to ask the question to be retracted, but about half a minute of stalling is as far as I've ever seen that stretch. As a matter of professionalism, I prefer to establish what topics are going to be covered before asking, so that people can trust I'm not getting them into a circle saying I'll check that they didn't lie to me and then ask them about what thefts they're planning for the next month. I can drop it prematurely if the questioning breaks that."

At about this point, she sees the prison cell. Interesting choice of decoration on the prisoner.

"Under the circumstances, that doesn't seem necessary today. Though I'd prefer to briefly explain what's going to happen to the accu- hmm. To Blues."

"If he really sold out a lot of our friends to- A terrible fate, then I'm going to kill him. If not... I'm going to go after the setup and maybe see about cleaning up the mess."

"I didn't, I didn't, I swear I was tricked!"

"Well, good news, boy, you're getting a chance to say so and be believed. You won't be able to lie or mislead. So either Rose decides to believe you, or you're dead."

She taps the cane on the floor, and starts making the circle. It glows faintly white again.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

Ms. Rose stands in it and has her lackey ask a couple of harmless questions. She nods decisively and shoos everyone except the Dire Lady away, and unlocks the cell.

"Did you sell anyone to the Mindflayers?"

"No! No, I didnt, it was that rat Boreas. He gave us the route."

"And the mindflayers were there?" 

"Yes! There's- It was a perfect ambush in the old pumping station on Clavering, they got them all at once, all except me."

"How do you know it was Boreas?"

"He gave us the route and it was unusual. I thought he was up to something and I barely escaped with my life!"

Rusty Rose glances to the Dire Lady, fingers tapping on a gun holster. "I honestly... Did not expect this. Troubling. Ma'am, I suppose you have interrogation experience? If you'd care to show your stuff. Up to you."

"Did Boreas tip you off, pay you, or otherwise involve you in his plan? Do you know, or suspect, why the Mindflayers spared you?"

"I had - Okay okay I had some idea that something was gonna happen, but I wouldn't have sicced mindflayers on them! If he tipped me off he did it so sneaky-like even I didn't notice. I think I just got lucky, I shot one and one of the jars of honey broke, they kind of - swarmed it - then I ran for it and hid in a sewer pipe for a day."

"Hell. Mindflayers are bad news. Are you sure they were mindflayers?"

"I mean, splitting headache when one looked at you, the fucking weird thought that it'd be so nice and comfy to stop resisting, purple heads with tentacle mouths? Yes. It was mindflayers."

"How many?"

"Uh... Six? Maybe ten? Not much more than that. I wasn't really in a state to stop and count."

"This was May 6, right? Because the drop was for the seventh."

"Right."

"So thirty-seven days ago now, six to ten mindflayers, at least, in the bowels of New Winchester... Which may not end up being our problem, precisely, but they are rather a problem for everyone at some point."

"Are we reassured that he's telling the truth and don't need the circle? I have a last question, but I'm fine to drop it assuming the answer matches my expectations."

"Is is straining? Couple more sanity checks and I can be done."

"Expends 'mana', which exists here but was a lot more abundant back home. It will take me about an hour to recover ten second's worth, unless and until I work out a better method."

A slight raising of one eyebrow and a sharp nod. She steps into the circle. "Blues, work with us here and you'll be fine. Were you telling the truth the whole time?"

"Yes! I- Yes."

"Are you going to keep being honest on the topic of mindflayers? No lies of omission, no fancy wordplay, just- Honesty."

"Yes."

Rusty Rose says, "Good. Okay, you can drop it."

"Are there any questions you're hoping you aren't asked, and what are they?"

He freezes, frowns, then deflates slightly and grinds out, "Yes. 'Is there something you did someone'd want to kill you for.' I've been skimming the red honey."

Rusty Rose's eyes narrow, then she shakes her head and makes a cutting motion in the Dire Lady's direction.

"Not a good move. Not at all. Cost of doing business, to an extent but we'll be going over the details," this word comes out sharp and threatening, "later, out of Ms. Dire's relatively limited attention."

"Yes, Rusty Rose."

Teysa nods, and the circle's light cuts out.

"Well, it sounds like you have discussions it would make no sense to have in my hearing. I can think of ways an outsider might be handy for passing messages about the mind flayers, if you don't like the channels you have already. But that can, presumably, wait."

"Yes, we've got a lot of work to do now. The Gentlemen can handle a bunch of overgrown brainjackers if we have warning, there's ways and ways, and we don't want the Establishment rooting around New Winchester's basement, so I'd consider it a favor if you keep this to yourself, hm? Not that you'd get taken seriously easily at any rate."

"Naturally. Well, I'm sure you can find me. And we can talk about other services I can provide another time. Shall I leave with the Officer?"

"Not quite yet. You've in all likelihood saved my Lady a lot of headaches, so. What'cha need? Sovs? Bed?" An eyebrow-raised glance to the thrulls. "Warm meat?"

"Well, I certainly saved you some cash by asking my own questions, and I won't refuse a cut. Five percent of what he skimmed in honey would seem fair. But my most urgent needs are recommendations for trustworthy lodgings, and a tailor who can match the cut of my robes in less gaudy materials. It hides my bad leg, and I don't fancy having to fight off every idiot who decides that I must be an easy mark."

"There's a lovely little cheesemonger who owes the Gentlemen a favor. I'll call it in for you. Tailors, well, we certainly have brisk business with a family that does good work, but you'll have to pay somehow - materials are not free. Let's head back up for now, then?"

The Ambiguous Officer, waiting at attention, silently looks at her with a slightly expectant expression as they approach.

"This outfit was, if you can believe it, even gaudier when I landed. I'll have no trouble paying for materials. Point me and the Officer in the right direction, then?"

They receive an escort to a conspicuously respectable (for the area) single-story wooden building. Fresh-painted walls and polished brass trim and clean glass windows. The sign just says Felters. The interior's mannikins and displays speak of understated luxury, meticulously kept. It almost seems holy, the way passers-by regard it.

A salesman in an understated suit sees their escort flash a hand sign, and then coolly asks Teysa, "What are you looking for today, madam? Felters clothier is, I assure you, utterly professional."

"I am a new arrival from very far away, and I need new clothes that make me look neither rich nor weak. These robes are cut to distract the eye away from my bad foot, so I don't look weak, but even after I removed most of the gold, ivory, and ebony accents, they're still too gaudy. I'll be a target if I keep them, and I can repel attacks but I'd rather not have to prove it too frequently."

Felters is quick, diligent, and professional. They take a look at the materials on offer, show off a few garments to get an idea of her taste, and then rapidly assemble an appropriate wardrobe, from nightwear to a formal coat. One to wear now, the remainder for pickup tomorrow after adjusting for her measurements. The Ambiguous Officer seems to be getting pretty bored and antsy at this point.

"Sorry, dear Officer, I'd forgotten how long this takes when the tailor doesn't already have your measurements. Shall we do shooting lessons now?"

"Well, I did already show you the basics, but more practice never hurts. Getting on to dinnertime, though."

"Ah, so it is. I assume you were expecting to go somewhere with me, since you didn't beg off while I was here?"

"Guard duty is sacred. But I suppose we're even now, then?"

"Close enough to call it good, at least. Thank you. I suppose I should go find that cheese store for my dinner, and my rooms over it."

The cheese store exists! An enforcer will introduce her and have a quiet conversation.

The Anxious Cheesemonger who minds it mutters about his trade constantly between bouts of how, uh, how very glad he is to pat the Gentlemen's back and put the past behind him. She's welcome to stay a while. Modify the rooms or lock them. Whatever she wants. He's not using any of it. Here's a chaucherie board.

"Thank you kindly. I suspect I will be a very unusual lodger, as you might have guessed from my escorts" - she gestures at her pair of thrulls - "But I will do my best not to be a troublesome one. Let me know if there's any favours you think I might do for you."

Nope nope nope, he won't trouble her. At all. He's just going to mind his cheese caves and curing sheds and keep his nose down.

As he likes, then. But if he ever has an idea of a way they might profitably collaborate, she would be pleased to hear him out.

She'll inspect the rooms; can she stash her thrulls somewhere? Ground just below a window or roof just above one, maybe?

The property is fairly large and there's a lot of old junk in storage. The lived-in areas are clean at least. An unremarkable attic right outside her room can be had, for example.

That will be excellent. She will stash them there, and then relax for a while.

But now, what's next? She makes a mental list:

• The Correspondence
• Bat-thrulls (sale? Cheesemonger's butcher?)
• The Gentlemen (value of lawyers)
• Sourcing mana

Honestly, she's not sure where to start. Operating independently is a weird experience.

But after some thought, she decides that she should walk around the neighborhood, with her escort and gun, and orient herself to it better.

...Tomorrow, though.

Then it is tomorrow. She takes her Gruggs and a walk, trying to look approachable.

The territory of the Gentlemen is still hardly welcoming, but the character is different. They don't move to stand in front of her path until an explanation is given, for example. She receives directions to The Box, where secrets and favors can be traded for coin.

Some standout denizens she can pass include:

An Ursine-Accompanied Singer in leather pants and an extremely poofy red shirt, oozing Red slowly, riding a docile bear with a bell around its neck, whose harness is clinking with dozens of bottles of alcohol. She offers the Dire Lady a drink in between verses of something pretty-sounding in French.

A Khanate Scrimshaw who has heard that she has a lot of ivory from somewhere and would perhaps like to buy some, or better yet, trade in kind. He shows off his work; It's very fine, tiny lines of text and stylized illustration of a tiger lounging in a tree, on a single long curved tooth.

A dapper-dressed man with bright golden eyes whose breath smells slightly of sulfur, who introduces himself as 'an associate of Hell' and offers to buy lunch if she'll make a judgement on a somewhat tricky contract regarding the rights to a soul, as a sort of interview.

A small urchin gang hawking various stolen knicknacks; Watches, wallets, purses, belts, shoes, hand mirrors, and so on. One of them standing back and watching over the rest eyes the Thrulls and fetches a Lethargic Bat in a rusty cage to display as she passes.

She politely declines the drink, suggesting that she might take one in the future when she is more at home here.

The scrimshaw is lovely, and she will definitely want to trade later. Probably mostly not in kind, but try not to sell the tiger for a week, will you? It's definitely to her taste.

She looks faintly bemused at the urchins, and notes the bat but doesn't actually engage with them. (Children are not really her speed.)

The devil, though:

"Ah, I'd been wondering when I'd meet one of your - kind? species? What's the polite term? I would love to take a look at the contract over lunch. Are you one of the parties to it yourself? Or did you perhaps just pull out the most challenging case you had available?"

"Oh, it's an old one in fact. Long settled by blood and fire, but it makes a good conversation piece. Either descriptor is acceptable. Just be aware that I am not associated with those fools pretending to be knights."

"It seems a strange mummery to turn your life toward. Harmless, perhaps? I don't properly know."

"Chivalry is just another set of laws, one that's easier for weak people to mentally deal with." Headshake. "I will get my usual table at the White Swan. Now or in a while?"

"Now will do for me."

He has a private room. The place is vegetarian, though there's decent variety none the less. The devil orders stir fry and honey-glazed fruit while maintaining small talk.

The gist of the contract, once you get past irrelevancies, is that a man managed to bet his soul twice by arguing that he had become a different person with a different soul, and then both bets reached the condition where he would owe it. The first contract conditions were fulfilled first. The second contract holder claims the 'different person' line.

Teysa orders a slightly different stir fry, and picks at the fruit when she notices it's served to be shared. (Usually at restaurants she was culturally obligated to performatively overeat and/or waste food, so 'shared appetizers' are a slightly foreign concept.)

She asks some questions about objective standards for measuring change in a soul, expecting this to be fuzzy enough not to be decisive, then examines the terms around the distinction.

"If I was arguing for the first contract, one tactic I've used is to goad a counterparty - either the second contractor, or the original man who had the soul - into testifying, and try to subtly corner them into admitting they didn't actually believe the 'different person' standard was met, or even better that they didn't think it could realistically be met. Obviously it depends on their personality, but it works more often than you might think. That also assumes that you have a concept analogous to mens rea. In short, that's 'intentions matter' - that someone entering into a contract, or filing suit, under knowing false pretenses, has a significant effect on whether the contract can be enforced or the suit upheld."

The standards for "new soul" are indeed not enough to be decisive. They're very high, but then, something very extreme happened to the man, involving Parabola.

"Always a sound tactic. It can be very helpful to unnerve a foe - or to make them underestimate you by focusing on the 'wrong' things. Tricky, tricky. We generally don't hold with mens rea, the letter of the law is superior. Nor do we hold with the nonsense of precedent. What would you guess actually happened in the end, in this case?"

"You might be missing out. Precedent creates more complex law, and complexity favours the party with experience and money. But here... The first contract. Pragmatism favours the one who can take possession immediately, and he can argue that he wagered for the soul, whatever would become of it, extreme changes not excepted. Not a flawless argument but a very strong one."

"Perhaps, perhaps. The old entrenched system always has the advantage. It does depend on one's objectives and position. Every system has its factions, doesn't it? There's a saying I picked up from an engineer... The design is not complete when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. In this case, you're broadly correct- The soul was claimed by the first holder, and the thing left behind was promptly given a terrible fate by the second in anger over the whole affair."

"Tch. And what did they gain from that, hmm? Discouraging others from contracting in the future, and a misplaced sense that it wasn't their own error that was at fault."

"Discouraging others from contracting - in certain ways - is exactly what they meant to gain from it. I'm sure you can imagine how much more reluctant people were to look very carefully for technicalities that could cheat them, going forward. And of course, it's never that simple. Never just one thing. You don't have the historical context or even the names, but just another move in the great game. Wouldn't it be nice if it was just the words on the paper? But that's chivalric thinking, in my opinion."

"In my experience, it's much easier to get other organizations to play along with your rules when they're written down. Less relevant here than in the Khanate or London, I suppose, but if you're planning to stick around for centuries... Obviously it limits you, but make the text complex enough and it's not much."

"I see the point. There's something to be said for specificity, and for labyrinthineness, yes. All too often, of course, the law we weave fails before those of greater powers. From a position of cooperation, of exploring the possibilities, it is less useful. If what I've heard is right, you're from a vast city, powerful heir to an empire that, while not above all reproach, not immortal for nothing is, is at least as sturdy as the Mountain-of-Light. The position of Hell is less secure than the Mountain's."

"You're well-informed. One of a few hundred heirs, and I haven't actually heard of the Mountain of Light yet. But, yes, I have not gotten the sense that anything here has lasted to its Decamillennial, which everything important back home will have within a decade. It does remove some of the incentives, particularly for the group." She stops, but turns a hand slowly, thoughtfully, like she's trying to grasp something she can't see.

Then she finds it, and continues, "But, hmm, say I was a mortal considering contracting with a devil. If the angry second party wanted to secure my soul personally, and I'd heard about his retaliation, I'd certainly need a higher price before I'd consider him over the first party, or some other devil I knew nothing about. He's discouraged me from trying to be tricky with him, certainly, but I'm not likely to want to play straight with him either - I'd rather just not play. And that's not good unless all of Hell coordinates on similar levels of punishment for being foiled by attempted cleverness. Does it?"

"The Mountain of Light has seen its kilomillenial and more; The beings who dwell at its feet have seen their regime's decamillenial. Hell does not coordinate on that front, specifically. What's a little bit of profit in comparison to long-term considerations? Such as a reputation for not being trifled with. Aside from the odd malcontent, much of our coordination goes to political efforts. Have you heard of Carillon? A great success story, really."

"To an Orzhov, profit is the point, for its own sake. Always. But I understand why you might make a different tradeoff. What is Carillon?"

"A soul-improving resort presided over by a very intimidating, very capable woman. A partnership with several wealthy human patrons, allowing the skilled sculptors of the soul to care for the masses." He smiles broadly, with just a hint of menace in the eyes. "Faith, morality, the notion of sin... Such funny ideas they come up with, but we can help excise your greed. Your lust. Your envy. Mutually beneficial."

"Faith is such a useful lever, isn't it? Sin was never really our line with it, too prone to making people think there are things that coin can't redeem. But it keeps the masses under control marvelously."

"From what I understand it was something between a historical accident and a bit of an inevitability when our trade is souls and nothing but. There were some areas that held more convenient views, at times and places. It is what it is. How do you define profit? The line between gains from trade and increases in production, and more complete control of available resources..."

"Coin itself, for the most part. Precious metals aren't nothing, and in theory anything which an overwhelming majority of the populace perceives as a store of value can do. But it absolutely must be an unambiguous physical representation of material wealth, that's ritually significant."

"I'm curious what the margin of error is on 'overwhelming majority' and 'store of value' are. Gemstones? Bronzewood? Tea? Souls? Paper or cryptographic fiat?"

"Cryptographic fiat? I have no idea what that could even be. I think the Families have actively blocked the widespread use of any fiat or unbacked letters of credit, in order to keep our lives and ritual magic simpler; there hasn't been enormous counterpressure. Guild scrip doesn't count, neither as debt or as credit. I don't actually know yet which trade goods here would count; the drive for profit is - fundamental but not moment-to-moment obvious, absent extreme cases like large-sum charity. If I reconstruct the Council ritual, I suppose I'll find out along the way."

"Something terribly clever and entirely useless that a group of Scrive-Spinsters once came up with. Something about mathematical proofs and verification." He waves dismissively. "Interesting... Well, there's a lot of chaos in the absence of a strong hierarchy, but Sovereigns ought to do if nothing else. Precious metal, stained glass in larger denominations, symbolic and minted and used in at least three major regions."

"Yes, I imagine so. Gemstones and souls seem likely as well, though I've gathered 'soul' doesn't mean quite the same thing here, since it can be extracted nonfatally."

"Quite so. The soul is not the mind. Most other things I could elaborate on to continue the casual transaction of lunch conversation get uncomfortably close to actual secrets, when souls are involved."

"Then I will try not to press. One thing, though: Are ghosts a commonly-known occurrence here? I haven't heard of them yet, and it would be informative as to which of my old assumptions I must scrutinize."

"Not common, no. There are a number of entities that might be called 'ghosts', rare, varied."

"Concerning. Well, better to know, I suppose."

Their food is mostly gone at this point. "Thank you for the meeting. Perhaps we can do business some time, you do seem like someone we would find satisfactory to work with."

"I'm glad; it seems like interesting potential work. If you don't mind, is there anyone nearby you'd call competent to explain the very basics of the Correspondence? Most locals are, quite reasonably, content to stop at 'don't touch', but I think I ought to look a little deeper, and you seem rather more daring."

"That attitude is a healthy sense of self-preservation, really. So a great many academics and engineers have none of it."

He gives a name, the Gothic Calligrapher, and an address. For whatever addresses are worth around here; It's more like general directions.

"Thank you kindly, and I hope there are many profitable collaborations ahead of us."

She considers her priorities for a moment, then sets out to find the Calligrapher.

The place stands out pretty well. It's tall, architecturally detailed and centered on vertical design, absolutely no plants or decorations aside from the bare stonework, an arched window with delicate iron framing, and is painted black. Very black. The sign above the door says 'Calligraphy for Hire' in an honestly impressively sharp serif font, with a cursive inquire inside just as neatly below. A bell rings above the door as she enters. There's a small sitting room with neatly arranged painted signs, fancy contract letterheads, and illuminated manuscript pages on display.

A roll-up wall panel ascends a few moments after she enters, revealing a long-faced, thin-lipped man with dark circles under his eyes, wearing half-moon glasses and inkstained robes and holding a feather quill.

"How may I help you today, madam?"

"I am an accidental immigrant from a place with magic which works on nearly completely different principles from things here like the Correspondence. But only nearly, meaning that it does interact with Correspondence, so I believe I need to learn about it. You were suggested as someone who both might be able to teach me and would be likely to not, say, land us both in an explosion that left us unsure whether yesterday was to our left or our right."

"I shall require payment up front. I will warn you now that you will not learn to write in the language of the heavens without inviting disaster along the way. Learning to read... Perhaps safer."

"Actually, I already can read. Just a bit. I took a look at a tree marked "Garden-Pillar", with the senses mages of my variety normally use. I saw that it was, first, an incredibly powerful little nugget of all known types of magical energy - we typically refer to them as the 'colours' of 'mana' - and, second, that the translations given were not quite right. I stopped quickly, because I could feel fire in my mind, trying to push itself through my natural protections. I have no desire to repeat the experience untutored."

"Quite. Fire is the most common failure mode. This is hardly a secret. In fact, a basic safety precaution. Observe my sprinklers," he finishes with a dull droll, pointing to a small metal spigot on the ceiling. "Were you imagining a short session? A simple history lesson?"

"At minimum, whatever other warning signs are common. Perhaps whatever is considered common first experiments. The basics, in short. What would you consider to be the skills needed before you let someone off to study any particular application? At home, that would be the very basic theory of the coloured disciplines, sensing for energies, and mastering an elementary spell like light," and a small bobbing glow dances on her palm as a demonstration. "What are the basics here?"

"I would thank you not to perform magic near my books. Basics? The ability to discern communication from commandment. Recognition of the broadest major meaning groups. A sense for when combustion is imminent and when to stop asking questions. Introspection, of a sort. If one intends to write, exacting practice with a non-magical language."

"My continued existence is the result of ongoing magic. In several respects, but the one most likely to alarm you is that I can speak any ordinary language at least as well as any thinking being nearby, so I am in some sense interacting with the contents of your mind. Not directly, though, more 'zeitgeist' if that translates properly."

Siiigh. "I'm not concerned about that. Don't damage my books."

"Of course not. Right, then, meeting your standards for writing is probably impractical. I've been trying to trade services, since they have more comparative advantage, but you won't be interested; fortunately I do have some currency and trade goods as well. Elaborate slightly on communication versus commandment, please. Do you mean a tendency to comprehend a concept and take it as an instruction, or some other thing?"

"Something else," he deadpans, resisting the urge to sigh again.

"Very good. Just assessing urgency. How much time would you expect training those things to take, and for what consideration?"

"It's difficult to judge, some have greater talent. One hour will be sufficient to determine if you are entirely hopeless, or not. If you are a once in a generation genius, or your circumstances give you a unique advantage, that same hour would perhaps be sufficient, though at least a day is more likely. If I were you I would not wish to be just barely capable, rather than actually competent. And I do not say that to encourage additional lessons. I won't pretend teaching is my favorite job."

"Noted and understood, but that isn't currently my priority. I don't expect to do significant work without a collaborator."

"Very well. Now is when we circle back to payment."

"Indeed. Do you have a price in mind?"

"Given that you are asking for somewhat hazardous specialist knowledge. I believe fifteen Sovereigns an hour is reasonable."

"Your premium has a reasonable cause, and yet it seems to be remarkably large, even so. I'd pay eight an hour."

"You're welcome to return at a later time, I suppose."

He reaches for the pull-down wall.

"I believe you're the first person I've met here who doesn't default to haggling."

"I'm sure I've never heard that before. Do you think I need the money? I do not. The price I set is what is required to offset my reluctance and suspicion. I don't anticipate it changing."

"I assume you're better than others I could find; you came recommended and I can see why. I do not, however, know how much better. And your rate is surprising even for a skilled professional."

He lowers the dividing wall with a slam.

Heh. Well, now she knows how confident he is, she supposes. She actually will 'return at a later time', most likely. But she'll do a bit of a market survey first. Not today, though; she's going to see about butchery.

She'll take a slightly meandering route back home, keeping an eye on mana flows nearby. Correspondence might foul it up, but generally butcher shops ooze small steady streams of Black mana.

The place is a riot of flows contesting each other, in all honesty. The Gothic Calligrapher's place was a thinly glittering field of Blue holding its own. The streets pulse with red and black and green and even the odd bit of white all ebbing and pooling around, as distant pipe-flutes play. (Has she ever actually seen someone playing the pipes she keeps hearing? Does she notice that she hasn't?)

Here's some black, but it seems to be a loan shark. Well, it fits, sort of. A bit further along the way, mingled black and green - They seem to be using some creative means of fertilizer for a specialized garden. But closer out to the main throughway, where there are good views, there's a place that slowly oozes blood and death, just like she's familiar with.

Got there eventually, then. She mutters to her Gruggs and brings one in with her, the other left by the door.

Mostly-clean glass cases displaying a dozen different cuts and pieces, though mostly small ones. A wide, smooth counter. A shiny cash register.

A skinny teen with a bright green hat at the cash register, paging through a novel idly.

"Hello. I have a specialist order I'd like to discuss, if you can. Bats, preferably large ones, whole corpses recently dead."

"...Queen's tits, what, you a competitor? Eh. Bat meat's a slow seller anyway. MAVIS!"

"WHAT?!"

"WEIRD CUSTOMER!"

Mavis, apparently, ducks through a dark hanging cloth a moment later and rinses her hands from a small basin before coming up to the front.

"She wants whole bat corpses."

"...Why?" This bewildered question is directed to their customer.

"My grotesque companion here is a thrull. They are made from the recently-dead, via certain arcane methods. They are somewhere between a clever dog and a very stupid person, but this makes them quite useful. I am new to Pan and want to make a new batch here, and I would like them to fly."

Mavis thinks for a moment. "...Well, I done stranger. What'cha offering?"

"What've you got available?"

"Nothing right the heck now, I cut just about as soon as I get the meat. But I can talk to my suppliers."

"Hmm. Couple sovereigns for the first six? Should beat selling it for meat."

"Eh, some people do like bat. If they're the little ones and I happened to have some around that's not a terrible price. Being a rush order does put the pressure on a bit, and what if I find a bigger one? Would you be interested if I get a line on something nice and exotic?"

"No Curators, I'll need a lot more set up" - like a power source - "before I could use anything bigger than a human. Three and a half for six with wingspan at least this wide" - she gestures about a foot and a half - "up to double that if they're larger, say three times that."

"Fucking- Do you think I'm suicidal? Curators, what've you been snorting?"

"...Look, you don't know this place, that's becoming kind of obvious. I'll ask around but I'm telling you, it's going to be more expensive than that. I wonder what your tolerance for side-requests is?"