I drew a breath, as deep as my contorted body, my opera gown and the limited air would permit, and reached out with my power. Memories began to come to me from the wood of the chest, memories of lingering dark and occasional tumults of light. I was not the first person to suffer this confinement.
The terror and screams and sobbing of those previous occupants went straight to my heart. I slammed on the end of the chest again and again with my feet, determined to at least make a nuisance of myself. I had recovered some of my strength (I tried not to think of how long I must have been unconscious to accomplish that) and if I could just force them to open the lid…
Voices entered the room. I kicked all the louder, cursing Baffin with every profanity in my multilingual vocabulary, but was rewarded only with a chuckle and, judging by the movement of chairs, indifference.
I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes and forced myself to breathe, raking in my own stale air again and again.
As my nerves quietened, the voices of those outside became clearer.
“…bombing in Old Harrow, and there are rumors they will begin to target the bridges.” The voice was a woman’s, practical and deep.
“Have soldiers stationed at each one and set patrols alongthe riverbanks,” Baffin’s reply came. “Bring all suspected Separatists in and reopen the Old Citadel cells. That will send a message.”
I thought of Harden in a sickening flash. He and the Separatists had enough on their plates, and I had sent Wake after him?
In that moment, I despised myself.
Baffin went on, “Offer leniency for any information that proves helpful. And discreetly place some of our Affinates among them, to keep their ears to the ground. Notify Thera immediately.”
“Very good, sir.” There was a moment of quiet, then, in a lower voice, “If you kill the Rushforth woman, there will be more conflict. The Guild will not stand for it, even if she is Rogue.”
Kill me?Why would Baffin kill me? I was his last living connection to the artifact, and until that artifact was in his hands—which would not happen, as Harden did not have it—he was not stupid enough to dispose of me. Was he?
I listened in growing, horrified bewilderment. “No,” was Baffin’s calm reply. “No, they will not, but my hands will be clean. Reach out to Incarnadine and make the necessary arrangements.”
The Zealot Queen Incarnadine. I realized I was not breathing and forced myself to inhale and exhale.
“Sir,” Baffin’s companion tempered her voice, but I caught the tension in it. “Given the Zealots’ recent escalations, might it not be time to cut ties? If your accord were to come to light now, especially in this matter, the damage may be irreversible.”
I expected Baffin to cut the woman off, to rebuke her, but he did not.
“Soon,” he replied, calm and factual. “My moment of action must be precise, and for the moment, Incarnadine is still useful. Give her the Rushforth woman.”
A NOTEUPON: BRONZE
Bronze Entwined possess the power of the written word, with the ability not only to convey visceral images and experiences with those words, but to implant memories, thoughts, and beliefs in the minds of their readers. They are chillingly useful in the efficacy of propaganda and various forms of entrapment, but also in illicit, mind-altering novels. The latter, dear reader, are never as harmless as they may seem.
Bronze-written materials are found across the world and are virtually indistinguishable from natural, powerless handwritten scripts, upon first glance. But in this, we find their greatest limitation. Bronze writing must be inked by hand, by a mage. Copies possess no power, nor do typewritten texts.
Thus The Vigilant Lady Traveller may avoid Bronze lures and entanglements by selecting typewritten materials such as this humble guide.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
After the voices of Baffin and the woman faded, I used my captivity to contemplate the depths of my misfortune. I was quite pitiable, I decided, locked in a box and at the mercy of my people’s greatest enemy. All my plans, all my determination—they could not break me out. Lewis was a world away, I had selfishly exposed Harden to danger, and the artifact? Perhaps it was wholly lost.
And now it seemed Baffin would use my death at the hands of the Zealot Queen Incarnadine as a tipping point in Harrow’s conflict, forcing the Guild to act and giving himself an excuse to move against them.
But why would he give me up before I had led him to the artifact? I conjured and discarded a dozen scenarios, but ended up with two possibilities. Either he deeply believed I’d given the box to Harden, in which case my skills at lying were to be commended, or he had found it elsewhere.
In the end, his reasoning did not matter. I needed to escape the trunk and get back on course, but I would have to wait until the lid opened again. I could only hope that Harden had overpowered Wake, and the Silver hands that found me would help me, rather than Leech away what little strength I had.
An indeterminate length of time passed before the lid ofthe trunk lifted. Unfortunately my escape plans were thwarted by the fact that I was asleep when it happened, having slipped into blissful unconsciousness where cramped muscles, gnawing hunger, and impending murder could not torment me.
The next thing I knew, I was being carried over someone’s shoulder, as tenderly as a sack of barley. I could barely breathe, due to a shoulder in my gut and a bag tied over my head.
I was tossed unceremoniously into the back of a carriage or wagon. No one spoke, but after a clattering journey I was hauled out again. I sensed us descending stairs, felt a waft of damp cold, then a wash of warmth.
