The mounting pressure of the moment etched anxious creases on her face as Lunish continued to run through the plan’s details during the reluctant march to the docks. “And, what’s the codeword again, if things go sideways while they’re on the inside?”

  “Buffalo,” Tsuta repeated for what felt like the third time in the last five minutes, his tone slightly annoyed.

  “Right, and that’s when we go to the backup plan. And what if that goes sideways, too?”

  A deep sigh betrayed Bird’s forced patience. “Then it’s everyone for themselves, find your way back to the cottage any way you can. But, hopefully, it won’t come to that. Hopefully they’ll learn what we need to know, stroll out of building four, and meet us back at the Slippery Dock.”

  Iskvold let out a chuckling snort. “I wonder if the proprietor realized when they named the pub.”

  “I have no doubt they did,” Tsuta replied. “Pub owners are notorious for their double-entendres and dark sense of humor.”

  Whydah cocked her head. “What was the name of that one in Glahaneth, with the fletchery in the back?”

  “The Quiver’n Shaft,” Tsuta reminded her.

  Iskvold let out a groan.

  Unable to resist, Bird added, “There was one in my hometown called The Velvet Scabbard. You can draw your own conclusions about what went on in their backroom.”

  Iskvold sneered in disgust. “Ugh. That’s not even subtle!”

  Bird turned to face her without breaking his forward motion, his whiskers stretched in a wide grin. “It was a tailor!”

  Refusing to be pulled down to their level, Lunish continued to fret, raising her voice above the light-hearted laughter. “They know where to go for the backup plan, right?”

  “Yes,” Whydah assured her. “I messaged them earlier this afternoon.”

  With the sun hovering just above the treetops on the river’s far shore, the tabby stopped as they approached the quay. The evening’s stragglers still lingered on the docks. The closest building was already shut tight, as a burly half-orc was in the process of padlocking the third. Four empty wagons, their outstretched hitch poles longing for the embrace of their equine engines, waited patiently for the morning load. A single flatbed blocked access to the farthest set of berths, its pilot hustling to secure his cargo in hopes of hitting the road before dark.

  The creak of taut hawsers sighed occasionally from the five cargo ships in dock, buffeted gently by the current and the falling breeze.

  Bird’s eyes darted from target to target before he crouched down, his paws on Lunish’s shoulders. “Okay, time to part ways. Remember, we don’t want to tip them off that we’re even in the neighborhood. Do whatever you have to do to keep out of sight.”

  With a somber nod, the gnome stepped wordlessly into the alley between two quayside shops, and after a flash of green, the familiar red-tailed mouse paused at the group’s feet. With a double twitch of her whiskers, she scurried toward the empty wagons.

  The tabby studied the bloated wagon at the third and farthest intersection of dock and pier. “You three get ready. When I create the distraction, get to the closest ship—the one with the bird carving as the figurehead.” He nodded to the vessel in the closest berth to the shore. “And find somewhere onboard to hide. The crew should all be ashore for the night. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The four strolled casually to the parked transports, keeping the barrier between themselves and the docks, before Bird, with one final nod, pulled up his hood and strolled onto the pier. The others immediately lost sight of him as the cat, recognizing his entrance attracted no attention, made a sharp right turn, away from the berths of ships rocking gently in the current. Quickly padding along the side of the closest storage building, he reached the corner and took in the tiny gap between the rear walls of all four warehouses and the pier’s bull rail. Cursing the civil engineer responsible for such an efficient layout, he tentatively tested the wooden lip with one foot.

  A perimeter of six-inch, square wooden beams, mounted end to end on the pier’s outside edge with iron bolts, the rail’s intended purpose was to prevent accidental loss of cargo into the river. It wouldn’t curtail a runaway wagon but had more than enough structural support to prevent a slow-rolling vehicle, mistakenly left unattended, from pitching into the water. The rail’s timbers on the active side of the pier were also well-maintained, fresh beams having replaced those that presumably displayed signs of rot, he had checked during their earlier walkthrough. This side, however, protected from any practical duty by the warehouse buildings themselves, was a crapshoot. A diligent program would inspect and replace degraded timbers around the entire perimeter. One more focused on cost-control, likely not.

  Regardless, his only option to traverse the length of the pier unseen was along the rail. His casual glance at the river beyond the lip was regretted instantly. Though only three feet below, the black swirling water silently forced a congealed knot into his stomach, and his tail flicked in apprehension. A fall would most certainly drag him under the pier, into the clutches of barnacled pilings and a web of crossbeams all conspiring to steal his last breath, held fast below the inky surface. Thirty feet deep, Whydah had estimated.

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  Bird shook his head and forced his focus back to the beam. With a deep breath, he extended his claws and dropped to all fours. Ignoring the growing knot in his midsection, he scuttled nimbly along the beam.

  The cat made quick progress until just past the halfway point of his wooden tightrope. Picking up speed as his confidence increased, his front right paw suddenly gave way, breaking through the thin veneer masking the beam’s internal rot. The imbalance pitched him out toward the beckoning black swirls, and he let out a low hiss. Quickly arching his back, the tabby collapsed his left knee and elbow, barely catching himself before tumbling over the edge. The cool sheet metal of the warehouse wall felt welcome against his body as he dared not move for several seconds, catching his breath. Satisfied after gingerly testing the beam’s integrity once again, he closed the remaining distance to the outside corner of the final building without incident, letting out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  With his back against the structure that would be the Dominion’s gathering point in less than two hours, Bird surveyed his surroundings again. To his left, the half-orc had progressed to threading chains through the doors of Warehouse Three. A few human workers fussed around, collecting the castoffs of the day’s work from the landing’s surface, occasionally glancing at the loaded wagon, now directly across from him. After his heart rate and breathing slowed, his whiskers twitched into a smirk. If there’s one thing everyone hates, it’s being held back at quitting time. His eyes combed the vehicle. Ropes stretched taut around an oversized load, holding a substantial overhang of cargo at bay. The waggoner systematically worked his way around his transport, checking and tightening the bindings, one by one, to prevent a spill once he hit the road. When he disappeared around the far side of the wagon, Bird took one last glance at the idling workers and sprang from concealment.

  With less effort than a summer breeze, he sprinted across the open space to the flatbed. Crouching behind the back wheel, he protected himself from the dockworkers' view, allowing the vehicle’s bulk to provide similar cover from the driver. Trading the expediency of his claws for the precision of a dagger, he drew the blade cleanly across the key rope anchoring the cargo’s overhang. The blade bit deep into the woven hemp, and with the deft touch of a surgeon, he severed all but the last few fibers. When the final threads began to fray and snap, he bolted back for the cover of Warehouse Four. No sooner had he stilled himself in a crouch, shoulder pressed against the warehouse wall, than a sharp snap announced the inevitable. Seconds later, he felt the pier’s planks vibrate under the weight of falling cargo when two bales of wool and a small cask of olives hit the ground.

  The driver’s cry of anguish rose into the night air as the heavy-set man hustled around the vehicle to survey the damage, immediately hurling a string of expletives, almost losing his footing on the brine-soaked planks. Fearing the delay of the evening’s first pint, all the remaining dock workers, including the half-orc, instantly converged to offer assistance.

  From the corner of his eye, Bird noted three shadows hustle out onto the pier, then slide down the first dock and over the side of the ship with the carved bird on the prow. Checking that his marks were fully occupied corralling the escaped bales of wool, he shimmied along the face of the four buildings before crossing to the same dock. Pleased to see no sign of his friends, the tabby threw himself over the gunwale and onto the deck, rolling onto his back paws without making a sound.

  Dusk descended on Irdri as the sun fell behind the trees across the river. The red-tailed mouse eyed the quay’s activity intently from a cozy spot beneath the edge of a discarded crate leaning against a barrel on the shoreside of Warehouse One. She watched the fleet of parked wagons grow. All but the center pair were parked tightly together, creating a natural funnel for any pedestrian traffic.

  As the shadows deepened, the evening’s participants began to arrive. First, in small groups of two or three, dressed in the robes and tunics of civilians, likely the event organizers and key attendees, almost all humans. These weren’t Reapers. These were the second Dominion group Ferrier’s letter mentioned—the Sowers—those occupying positions of authority, decision-making, and power. This cohort was more valuable for their ability to move the Red Queen’s agenda forward through influencing the population, bending the direction of institutions, or chipping away at the societal values that opposed her cause.

  Once darkness fell, a queue began to form between the wagons. This was the Reaper crowd, the robes were replaced with leathers, and sheathed swords rode on most hips. There was even a difference in their hygiene. The Sowers were clean-shaven, and her nose picked up the faint smell of tallow mixed with various botanicals—lavender, chamomile, and pine. Those crowding the wagons waiting to enter sported facial hair of different lengths and reeked of sweat, wood smoke, and ale. Still mostly human, there were some elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes and halflings in the mix.

  Two figures stalked into view from her right, headed for the wagon queue. Cinders! The horned offspring of humans and demons, their red skin and glowing eyes betrayed their lineage, despite the attempted distraction of colorful, garish clothing. Treated like pariahs among the ‘civilized’, cinders were mostly nomadic, travelling in caravans of covered wagons from town to town. Drawing on their natural magical abilities to entertain local crowds, they were often accused of fleecing their customers out of their hard-earned coin.

  Isn’t that curious? I didn’t see those two walk in, and no new ships have landed. They must have arrived by some magical means. Staying out of sight from the quay, tucked behind the wagons, the pair began to process the queue. As each person stepped through the barrier, one horned enforcer checked for the tattoo, while the other muttered a greeting. Her ears flicked back and forth, straining to pick up the words, but the demonic doorman worked hard to keep the short conversation discreet. He would step aside, granting access to the pier only after receiving an equally muted response.

  Scanning the crowd, she spied Segwyn and Glynfir, moving steadily toward the front of the line. That was her cue to move inside. Breaking from cover, Lunish scurried around the back of the warehouse. Her nose twitched, and she tensed, the unmistakable feline scent raising her guard. A second sniff confirmed it was one she recognized—Bird. He had been here, likely on his distraction sortie. Fears allayed, she pushed on, darting from one hiding spot to the next between the sheet metal walls and the pier’s bull rail.

  Reaching the final building, she slowed, sniffing around for a way in. Jagged and corroded, the bottom lip of the sheet metal wall fit the bill perfectly. Squeezing underneath, her eyes adjusted to the soft interior glow of warm, flickering firelight. Braziers burned at several points around the large space. A crude stage constructed from pallets and plywood was positioned opposite the large barn-style doors, currently wide open, pushed all the way back along their sliding rails. The fusion of several aromas overloaded her: wood smoke, rotting grain, treated wood, wax, and the sharp territorial musk of a predator. This wasn’t Bird; this cat was desperate, feral, and ripe. Her black eyes darted rapidly back and forth. The warehouse had a mouser.

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