"What should we do with them?" Danu whispered.

  When Mirk didn't reply immediately, she knocked him in the shoulder, pulling him out of his distracted fussing with the shroud on the last of them. He sighed, leaving the end of it to trail on the basement floor. He'd never been good at folding laundry. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that he wasn't good at wrapping shrouds either. "Methinks that should be left to the djinn."

  No one knew what had been done with the bodies of the djinn who'd been killed before, the ones who'd been sacrificed on the battlefields of a dozen realms for Ravensdale's benefit. The eight who had died during the final battle out on the parade grounds and after, too drained and weak to recover, were lined up on the long stone table in the center of the basement where the K'maneda's dead were prepared before being tucked away into the niches that lined the walls until the Festival of Shades. Danu had suggested that they leave their heads uncovered. People were particular about that sort of thing, she'd said, and Mirk and Yule had yielded to her expertise.

  Even if it meant having the dead djinn's faces staring up at them while they worked.

  Yule looked back toward the basement steps, pulling down the sleeves of his robes. Judging by the amount of blood on them, how it was dark and flaking, he hadn't bothered to change his yet, just like the rest of them. "Someone needs to go check on them soon anyway. And those bastards from the Tenth sure as hell aren't going to."

  "Should one of us stay back and watch them?" Danu asked him, gesturing down at the djinn. "I don't mind."

  She was the only healer who didn't mind being in the basement, surrounded by the dead. Unsurprisingly. But Yule shook his head. "They're bastards, but they're not stupid. If someone puts them down the incinerator, that one with the hammer will kill them."

  They shuffled together off toward the stairs. Danu waved off the basement's magelights, as cold and pale as the dead hidden in the walls, when she reached the foot of the stairs. Mirk was glad to leave it all behind, at least physically, even though he knew he'd dream of them, the men and women he'd wrapped up before they'd stumbled on the matter of the djinn. At least they'd had help with the rest. The Seventh always helped with their own dead. And they'd been willing to give those of Fatima's ladies who hadn't made it extra spots in the wall rather than dooming them to a pauper's grave, open to looting by necromancers or worse.

  The high-born mages had collected their dead and left with them. Or with parts of them. Arms with tattoos and legs with particular, bespoke boots, collected from the parade grounds and stuffed in laundry bags for lack of anything more formal. And the heads.

  Except for one. Margaret. A trio of exhausted ladies from the Twelfth had brought her down the basement steps while Mirk's team and the members of the Seventh who had enough strength left to help had been wrapping their own dead. They'd gone looking for her atop the Glass Tower when no one had appeared in the aftermath of the battle to tell them how they could best support the other divisions. There'd been no wounds on her, but she was much smaller than Mirk remembered, worn down to skin and bones. She'd given up all her potential and strength to strike Casyn down. K'aekniv had told the ladies not to worry, that they'd take care of her.

  No one had gone upstairs to tell Catherine and Kali about what had happened to their mother yet. But it was coming. Just as Mirk suspected that Fatima would be sitting down with the pair soon enough to ask them what they intended to do about Alice's orphaned child. Fatima was merciless when it came to the accounts. And even though Alice had refused to speak on where Ella had come from until the end, it was up to the father to provide. Or his family, now that Casyn was dead too.

  It all weighed so heavily on Mirk that he had to pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. The first floor of the infirmary was still crowded with wounded, but it wasn't full of the usual comradely bickering and dark jokes that usually accompanied the aftermath of a desperate battle off-realm. The hallway at the top of the stairs was unnaturally quiet. The healers from the Tenth ushered along their high-born charges on stretchers and crutches without even nodding in acknowledgment to the Twentieth’s healers who had offered to help the injured Watch men who'd come crawling sheepishly back to the infirmary in ones and twos. Things were different when K'maneda fought with one another. With Ravensdale gone, there was no telling how things would settle. Who would be cast out to fend for themselves, and who'd be allowed to remain.

  Danu paused alongside him. Yule was the only one who managed to carry on as if none of it mattered, like it was business as usual. Mirk's mind was still too clouded with fatigue and pain to be able to tell if it was a facade or if Yule was just that much stronger than the rest of them.

  Yule even had the presence of mind to stop a pair of healers from the Tenth who were helping an injured mage down the hall toward the front of the building, one supporting him underneath his remaining arm, the other holding him awkwardly by the belt. He'd lost a leg too. Thankfully on the side opposite his arm. "Where the hell do you think you're going with him? He's a double-amputee! I don't care how good his private healers are, he needs to be in a bed."

  "I quit," the mage wheezed. "I won't stay in this place a minute longer."

  "We have to respect his wishes," the healer supporting the mage under the arm said, without looking up either at Yule or Mirk and Danu lingering behind him at the top of the stairs.

  "You'll kill him!"

  "He said he has three guild healers ready to treat him," the other one said, tugging hard on the mage's belt to keep him upright as he finally summoned the strength to look up.

  "And a teleporter from the guild besides," the mage said. The bottom fell out of Mirk's stomach when the mage's watering, bloodshot eyes locked not on Yule, but on him. "I hope he gets the rope for what he did. Worse. They should bring back the axe. Just for him."

  With a curse and a frustrated wave of his hand, Yule shuffled to the side to make way for the mage and the two healers. Mirk made himself watch as the mage hobbled away.

  This was what Genesis had done. His purpose, ruthless and cold. Mirk did his best to think of the djinn lying dead on the table in the basement. And not about the fact that, though he would have tended to the mage without hesitation if he was called on to help, the nagging thread of worry in the back of his mind about how Genesis was feeling was still as bright and alive as ever.

  "Useless nobs," Yule grumbled, as he headed off in the opposite direction of the trio, down the hall that connected the one leading to the field transporter to the opposite corridor that led to the second floor barrier. "The second they don't get what they want, they desert."

  Mirk thought being ripped limb from limb was a perfectly understandable reason to leave the K'maneda. But he held his tongue, tucking his hands into the pockets of his ruined justacorps to warm them as he trailed along after Yule.

  The treatment rooms on the first floor were all packed with those who had light wounds, cuts and bruises, broken fingers and twisted ankles. The second floor was where things got worse. The injured who needed surgery had all been seen to. Those who'd been lost had been sent to the basement. The ones on the brink, who'd either fight through their wounds and live, maimed forever by the battle on the parade grounds, or join their comrades in the basement, were up on second.

  The same heavy silence that reigned on the ground floor continued there, along with the same unnatural division among the healers. The higher-ranking healers from each division, the ones who'd been there the longest, maintained at least a passable degree of cordiality. The lower-ranking ones tended to mix more freely. But none of that was happening that night. Mirk understood why as soon as he passed through the floor barrier.

  Cyrus's rage was sharp enough to cut through the haze that clouded Mirk's mind, though the remnant of the pain blocker he’d taken after the battle gave it a distant feel, made it not sting as badly as Mirk was accustomed to. Emir's fury still did, though. Something about his angelic heritage, perhaps. Mirk put his head down and hurried after Yule, who didn't pause for a second, if he felt the two commanders' ire at all. It was coming from the common room near the center of the floor. They'd have to pass through it to get to the barrier to the third floor, where all the djinn had been taken.

  Mirk's resolve faltered as they drew closer, as soon as he could hear the competing low growl and high, shrill tones of Cyrus and Emir's argument. "Maybe we should wait," Mirk said, grabbing hold of the back of Yule's robes to stop him. "Or methinks there might be a teleporting mage around who could take us up..."

  "I don't know where Morty went," Danu said. "And he was spent anyways."

  "Do you really think putting it off is going to make things any better?" Yule asked Mirk over his shoulder. "I'll punch Cyrus myself if you don't feel like burying him this time."

  Yule had a point. But it didn't make the twisting in Mirk's gut any better. "Why do pain blockers always make you want to fight people..."

  Shrugging, Yule continued on. With a sigh, Mirk followed him. He thought about taking the staff out of his breast pocket, as a show of force, but decided against it. Cyrus saw nothing in it worthy of respect. To him, it was as much an insult as having his spell turned around on him. There was a time to stand up, and a time to yield. Mirk could only hope that yielding in this instance wouldn't just make Cyrus even more aggravated.

  The scene in the common room was worse than Mirk had been expecting. Emir and Cyrus were arguing over a mage from the Third who'd been put under a rough spun Supply Corps blanket on the table for want of a bed. And they weren't the only two commanders who'd come out to argue over where to put him.

  "Be reasonable, Emir," the tall, severe man behind Cyrus said, once the commander of the Tenth paused his diatribe just long enough to catch his breath. "The man needs a bed."

  "I'm working on it," Emir snapped. Albeit with less venom than he would have used had it just been Cyrus who was scolding him. "The djinn are anxious. Understandably. They only have one man who can watch the barriers. They don't want any of the mages put up on fourth."

  "What is he going to do to them?" Cyrus waved a hand at the mage laid out on the table, but didn't take his eyes off of Emir. "He's lost his casting hand. It'll take him months to train up his other. Besides, those djinn don't belong there in the first place."

  "They're as much K'maneda as the rest of us," the man behind Emir said, stopping just short of grabbing Emir's arm as the commander reached forward. Not to hit Cyrus, but to lift the blanket covering the mage and check on his injury.

  Mirk got the feeling that none of this was about the mage from the Third. The healers and their squabbling over patients was nothing but a pretext. The real conflict was in the two men standing with arms crossed behind the two head healers, an odd mirror of each other, one pale and regal, the other deeply tanned and scarred, but no less noble for it. Kysr S'kanyk on Cyrus's side, and the man who went only by North on the other. The heads of the Fourteenth and First Infantry respectively.

  "Are they?" Cyrus countered. "I don't remember seeing any djinn lining up to get their enlistment papers."

  "Half the infantry wants to be here as little as they do," North said, staring at Kysr over Emir's shoulder. "The only difference is that they got dragged to the transporter in chains."

  "A valid point, Comrade Commander," Kysr said, with a polite dip of his head. "However, the fact remains. The mage deserves a proper bed."

  Mirk didn't consciously step in. His body moved on its own, edging past Yule and dipping into a deferential bow, years of training in placating and soothing responding to the sound of voices raised in anger. If it had only been Cyrus, Mirk suspected he'd have tried to skirt around the edge of the room and escape notice. But the combination of the four commanders made everything feel less daunting. With so many personalities to push against, points and counterpoints to make, he had room to maneuver. And maneuvering within a conversation, even if it was a heated argument, was much more familiar to him than dodging and darting on a battlefield. "Methinks I may be able to help some, Comrade Commanders. I know some of the djinn from back home."

  Cyrus's anger flared up high at the sound of his voice, making it hard to feel any of the others' emotions past it. But none of the men were particularly dedicated to schooling their reactions. Why would a man with a whole division at their beck and call feel the need to? North arched a skeptical eyebrow, cut through the middle by a scar that snaked up into his hairline, and Kysr's eyes narrowed. Not with doubt or disdain, but defensiveness.

  Emir was the only one who was glad to see him. His lips pressed into a tight attempt at a smile. "I tried speaking to them myself, but that big one at the door wanted nothing to do with me."

  "Monsieur Er-Izat is very...euh, particular about doing as he's told. I'm sure they told him not to let anyone pass."

  "If they're so particular about doing as they're told, this whole mess wouldn't have happened to begin with," Cyrus grumbled. Mirk couldn't help but notice that both of Cyrus’s hands were wrapped from fingertips to wrist in bandages. He must have started clawing at the stones he'd been trapped behind in desperation when they refused to respond to the touch of his elemental magic.

  "And you are...?" North asked.

  To Mirk's surprise, Kysr answered him. "A foreign nobleman from the Twentieth. D'Avignon..." he trailed off, searching for the rest with the slightest of frowns but coming up short.

  "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon," Mirk provided for him, with another bow. "Your servant, always, Comrade Commanders."

  Both Cyrus and Yule rolled their eyes at that, though Yule's was a bit more good-natured. The older healer chose that moment to escape along with Danu, going to tend to another delirious mage who'd stumbled into the common room before he could derail the conversation.

  "The Frenchman," Emir added, as if it wasn't obvious from his name and title, shooting a pointed look back over his shoulder at North.

  North's skepticism grew. "Ah. Right."

  "One of the rebels," Cyrus said, shooting his own glare back at Kysr. "Even if he's a healer, he should be punished along with the rest."

  But Kysr was unmoved. Cyrus waved his hands at him, scowling, though he at least had the sense not to bellow at Kysr for his indifference. "He tried to bury me!"

  "Can't blame anyone for doing that," North said with a snort. Emir wasn't having it. He coupled his pointed look with an equally pointed heel pressed backward onto the toe of North's boot. Though Mirk thought he saw the corner of Emir’s mouth twitch upward in a barely suppressed smirk.

  "I'm very sorry, Comrade Commander Cyrus," Mirk said, with an especially deferential bow. One that wasn't mirrored by any genuine remorse, but Cyrus was too cross to have felt it even if there'd been any. "The situation was very...euh, difficult."

  "Indeed. This situation is very difficult, as you say," Kysr said. He was paying very little attention to both Cyrus and Emir, and only cast an occasional glance in North's direction. Most of his attention, to Mirk's discomfort, was focused on him. As if he'd been long awaiting the opportunity to have an excuse to study him openly, to test his wits and his responses.

  "It's not my place to say anything about the, euh, other problems, of course," Mirk said, suddenly very conscious of how tattered and filthy his suit was. "But methinks I can sort things out with the djinn. They'll leave the City as soon as they can travel back to their home realm, I'm sure."

  "Unacceptable," Cyrus snapped. "They played their part in this too. It's in the laws. Everyone who tries to revolt has to face the Council when they fail."

  "They didn't choose to come here in the first place! They were slaves!" Emir spat. So much for his usual restraint. Though Mirk couldn’t really blame him.

  North wasn't willing to press things as far that time, not with Kysr watching for his reaction. He shrugged, grimacing. "That's true enough."

  Kysr tilted his head to one side, his hands not stirring from where they were clasped behind his back. He'd moved them there as soon as Mirk had spoken up. It concerned Mirk almost as much as Kysr’s composure did. It was considered very poor manners for a mage to hide his hands during a disagreement. Judging by the quality of the padded gambeson he wore underneath his overcoat, by the precise tailoring of all of it, Kysr must have been well schooled in the unspoken rules of polite society. "I have heard that Ravensdale is no longer a matter that we all need to be concerned with. Is this correct, seigneur? I have only seen concrete proof of Lord Percival's departure."

  Mirk had to check himself to keep from cringing at the memory of it, of Am-Gulat driving his war hammer down into Ravensdale's face and ripping it off. "Yes, Comrade Commander."

  "Then by the English guild law, the matter of the djinn is settled, if there is no one with a rightful claim on them left in the City. I don't believe Ravensdale had any blood heirs."

  "No. He did not," Emir said. That time, he'd managed to compose himself enough not to add any extra spiteful comment to his words.

  Kysr nodded. "North is correct. They are not on the enlistment rolls, so they are not K'maneda. Like all visitors to the City, they are welcome to leave as they wish. The K'maneda does not keep prisoners."

  Mirk had heard enough about that ancient practice from Genesis and the men of the Seventh, albeit in different lights. Genesis was proud to say that the K'maneda kept no one from their freedom. The other men were always quick to add, with grimaces and shakes of their heads, that they decided to kill them instead.

  Cyrus threw his bandaged hands up in disgust. "Fine. Whatever. But you're not letting the rest of the traitors get away with all of this, are you? I don't want him in my infirmary," he said, jabbing a finger at Mirk. "If Dauid insists on keeping him for a combat healer, fine. But I have a right not to have someone who raised his magic against me in here."

  "He's not your healer," Emir countered. "He's a member of the Twentieth."

  "And you're actually going to discipline one of your reprobates for once?"

  It was North’s turn to shoot Emir a pointed look. The head of the Twentieth stewed in his discontent, trying to find a way out of the trap he'd walked into without throwing Mirk to the wolves.

  Mirk searched for the most diplomatic way to defend himself, to diffuse the tension of the situation. He settled on being mostly honest. "I really am very sorry, Comrade Commander Cyrus. Things were a little...euh...how would the English say it...heated? I was only worried about all the patients. We have a duty to help any K'maneda who comes to us, non? And there were many K'maneda then who needed help, not just the djinn. If I could do anything to help, maybe look at your hands—"

  "I don't need your gold," Cyrus snapped. "Or your healing."

  "I am in agreement, for the time being," Kysr said, before Cyrus could launch into another rant. "As you rightly said, seigneur, things were very...heated for us all. But fortunately the matter resolved itself before all the divisions needed to get involved. Ravensdale took his position at the head of the Council without following our rules. We will not continue this practice. One commander, one vote."

  Kysr's gaze shifted then, just for an instant, over to North. The other commander nodded in agreement, though he didn't seem comforted at all by the thought of a vote. And neither did Emir or Cyrus.

  "I'll go up to the third floor and speak with the djinn," Mirk reassured them all, speaking into the tense silence that had followed Kysr's judgment. "I'm sure we can find a place for everyone. Methinks I might only have to move a few people around, so that the djinn feel safe. But only if everyone agrees, of course."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Though the other three commanders nodded, Kysr was the only one who spoke. "You do seem to have a certain talent for negotiating with difficult personalities, seigneur. I'm certain it will serve both us and the French guilds well in the future."

  A smile, humorless and small, came onto Kysr's face. It made an uneasy feeling rise up in Mirk’s chest. All his life, he'd been resigned to being overlooked, dismissed because his magic wasn't well suited to war and domination, had been taught how to use that casual disregard as a strength rather than something to be struggled against. Very rarely had other men regarded him with such sharpness, such caution. As if he was a worthy opponent. A threat that needed to always be kept in mind.

  Before he could dwell on it too long, Mirk found himself reflexively bowing once more, the same polite, deferential smile plastered on his face. "Bien s?r, Comrade Commander Ksyr. Like I said, I'm here to serve."

  Ksyr didn't look like he believed a word of it. But the commander was moving on then, turning his attention back to North on the other side of the table. "Go back to securing the West and South quarters. The Fourteenth already has the East and North well in hand."

  "I'm sure you do," North muttered, already on his way out of the room as he said it, swerving around Mirk and tramping back toward the second floor barrier with that lumbering, steady gait Mirk often saw in men who'd served in the infantry for decades. Men who were accustomed to long days spent marching, then needing to fight at the end of it.

  Kysr followed Cyrus, who was still muttering curses under his breath, into the depths of the second floor, to look after some other mage who'd found himself on the wrong side of the struggle on the parade grounds. Which left Mirk alone with Emir. Safe. He let himself slump over, sighing and worrying at the strings hanging from the front of his justacorps. He'd lost most of its crystal buttons. But such things could be bought again. Unlike the hand the mage from the Third was missing — Emir had peeled the man's blanket aside and was probing the stump of his wrist for signs of infection with his magic.

  "You are going to speak with the djinn, yes?" Emir asked, without looking up at him.

  "That's where we all were headed before we ran into...euh, this," Mirk said, steeling himself before looking down into the mage's face. His eyes were unfocused, skin pale, sweat running off the sides of his brow. Unlike many of the low-born patients he'd tended to before seeing to the dead in the basement, the mage had been given laudanum to ease the loss of his hand. "We need to ask them what they want us to do with the djinn who didn't make it," Mirk added when Emir didn't respond to him, crossing himself to ward off all the death he'd seen that day.

  "If you can get them to let us up onto fourth, it'll make my life easier. I'll move our people up there and let the mages have all of second. I'm sure the djinn will trust us more than them, if they decide any of us are worth trusting."

  Satisfied with the mage's condition, for the time being, Emir tucked the blanket back in around him. Then he stepped back from the table, looking down at Mirk with eyes that were darkened with exhaustion. And pain. Emir had never been one for leaning on pain blockers. "This is just the beginning," he said to Mirk, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "If your friend thought he was going to be able to get rid of Jackson and Percival and throw himself into the gap, he was mistaken."

  "I don't think that ever was the plan," Mirk said. "Methinks he would have waited longer, really. But the djinn..."

  But the djinn, with their hollowed-out cheeks and the heavy iron collars around their necks, had forced Genesis's hand. Despite what everyone said about the commander being unfeeling, incapable of sympathy, Mirk knew that knowing the djinn were trapped in the City, bound like he was by the capricious whims of an uncaring master, ate at Genesis. He couldn't rest, couldn't think of himself or the men of the Seventh, until they were free.

  "That's what always ruins his plans," Emir said with a snort, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "Maybe you'll be able to put some sense into the lot of them. Teach them about patience."

  "What do you mean?"

  Emir looked around, once, before continuing. "The last time this happened, they were all boys. Seventeen, eighteen. That one's father was in charge," he said, unwilling to speak Kysr’s name, but jerking his head in the direction he and Cyrus had gone in. "And Cyrus's uncle was the head of the Twentieth. They were all involved in some nasty business. Bad contracts and slaving, the same as always. They killed all of them."

  Mirk's heart froze in his chest. “I didn't know..."

  "At least they had the sense not to do it out on the parade grounds that time. But people remember. You're lucky he wanted his father and brother gone as much as they did. Same with Ravensdale. Next time?" Emir paused, leaning in closer still and putting a hand on Mirk’s shoulder. His emotions were restrained, but Mirk felt his apprehension, his frustration ghost past the remains of his mental shielding. "Talk some sense into them before it's too late. He won't get the axe this time, probably. But there's no promises."

  Swallowing hard, Mirk nodded, dipping into a bow, deep, genuine, and grateful. Then he hurried off to speak with the djinn.

  - - -

  "Monsieur Er-Izat, it's only me."

  The giant djinn, still shirtless, his immaculate cream breeches reduced to a collection of bloodstained ribbons only half attached at the waist, heaved a sigh. And lowered his fist, which he'd pulled back to strike as Mirk had slipped past the barrier. He really should have knocked. But Mirk didn't know how to rap on chaos like a door, nor did he know how to reach past it to project his presence at any of the djinn.

  "My apologies, Seigneur d'Avignon," Er-Izat muttered. Slipping back into French seemed to ease his tension. As far as Mirk could tell, none of the other djinn spoke it passably, aside from Am-Hazek. Despite the fact that, if what evidence they'd gathered could be believed, most of them had been stolen from Seigneur d'Aumont's estate in Dordogne.

  "Are you all well? What can we do to help? Most of the others are resting now, at least..."

  Er-Izat looked him over, grimacing at the state of his suit. "Thank you for your kindness, seigneur, but we will manage on our own. We always have."

  "It's really not as bad as it looks," Mirk reassured him. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do? We owe you so much..."

  "The ones who owe us are all dead," Er-Izat said, though his voice wavered with doubt. It was as if he was repeating something that'd been shouted at him, that'd been insisted again and again until he had no choice but to accept it. Mirk thought he could detect a hint of fear in his expression too. Or it could have been hope. The two felt more alike than most people liked to admit.

  "That may be true, Monsieur Er-Izat. But perhaps it would be helpful if the seigneur stopped by to look in on Monsieur Am-Gulat."

  Am-Hazek stuck his head out of a room a little ways off from the floor barrier. He was as much a mess as both he and Er-Izat was. He'd stripped down to his shirt, his cravat in hand. And his face and hands were smeared with blood, his hair whipped out of its usual orderly ponytail, as if he'd walked clear through a maelstrom and had only just made it out the other side.

  "Of course, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I'd be glad to." Mirk had a feeling he needed to speak to Am-Gulat anyway, depending on which of the djinn had been appointed as their spokesperson. It was between Am-Gulat and Am-Hazek, if Mirk's intuition served him. Depending on whether or not both of them were still lucid. The last he'd seen of Am-Gulat, the djinn hadn't been in much of a state to speak sensibly to anyone.

  "I'll go with you, if you'll wait a moment," Am-Hazek said, glancing back into the room he'd emerged from. "In the meantime, if you would remind Monsieur Er-Izat where the healing supplies are kept, I'd be very appreciative. I only have one cravat."

  Mirk and Er-Izat exchanged a tired look. After explaining the layout of the floor to Er-Izat, where the potions and the bandages and other necessities were kept, Mirk went to check on Am-Hazek. His godmother's former servant was just finishing with tying his cravat around the neck of one of the drained, battered djinn who'd been freed from Ravensdale. To keep the blood and pus seeping from the ring of sores around his neck from soiling his bedclothes and the set of patient robes Am-Hazek had helped him into.

  "Are you sure we can't help you up here, monsieur?" Mirk asked him, lingering in the doorway. The djinn Am-Hazek had tucked into bed was too weak to project much, but the sight of him, so thin and weak, made the guilt churn in Mirk's stomach once more. "Even if it's only to help with bandages and poultices, we may have more practice than you all. Though I don't want to assume anything, of course."

  Am-Hazek sighed, tugging at his makeshift bandage with evident dissatisfaction. "Perhaps that would be for the best, yes. Are there other healers who aren't English? I think I recall a few who seemed...distinct..."

  Mirk nodded. "As I said to Monsieur Er-Izat, most of the worst has been taken care of downstairs. I'll ask around to see who can be sent up."

  "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. His bow that time was more of a relieved nod than a proper gesture of deference. Mirk was glad for it.

  "I don't mean to be rude, monsieur. Or to impose on you all even more than we already have. But the matter of not letting anyone up to the fourth floor..."

  "That would be why I wish to go with you to speak to Monsieur Am-Gulat." Am-Hazek paused, smoothing his hands over his hair, doing his best to try to tame it back into something approaching a proper shape. It ended up only making him look even wilder. He gave up on it with a dismissive wave of his hands, buttoning up the neck of his shirt instead, to make up for the loss of his cravat. "Perhaps we will have better luck convincing him to be reasonable together than either of us would alone. He is unwell."

  Mirk could feel it well before they reached the room Am-Gulat had holed up in, one of the most heavily shielded ones at the heart of the long-term ward. The chaos hissing against Mirk's mind grew louder with every step they took down the hall, coupled with a growing heat that made Mirk feel like he'd gone feverish. Some of the more mobile djinn had gathered in a room a few doors down from Am-Gulat's, discussing something in hushed tones. They all looked up as he and Am-Hazek passed, but they didn't halt their conversation.

  Am-Hazek led by example. He knocked on the doorframe, as the door itself had been left slightly ajar, clearing his throat as he switched to English. "Am-Gulat. The Destroyer's healer has come."

  From inside the room, there was a hissed curse. "Fine. Enter. Both of you."

  Am-Gulat looked as sick as he felt. He was sitting cross-legged on the room's bed, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. He still had his war hammer clenched in his fists across his lap. All around him, tendrils of shadow and flame danced, like he was nothing but a heat mirage rising off the well-worn bedclothes. Mirk took a step into the room, studying Am-Gulat closely with both his mind and eyes. His fingernails still looked the same as the rest of the djinn's, chipped and dirty but still very much nails rather than claws, and there was no hint of his lips straining over any unexpected rows of teeth. Genesis's second form had to be related to his real heritage, not a product of his being a Destroyer. Though that didn't explain where the hissing undertone to Am-Gulat's voice, constant now instead of rising and falling with his anger, had come from.

  "How are you feeling, m...euh, Am-Gulat?"

  "Like too much sausage stuffed in too little casing," Am-Gulat said tersely, opening his eyes into slits. They smoldered like dying embers; since the last time Mirk had seen him, the darkness had overtaken the fire in them twofold. Mirk gestured Am-Hazek into the room, then waved off the magelights, leaving them all together in nothing but the faint light from out in the hall. And the fading glow of Am-Gulat's elemental magic.

  "Is that better?" Mirk asked. Genesis's sensitivity to light could have been either from his lineage or his magic, he'd never been certain.

  "Much." Am-Gulat's eyes widened. But his voice lowered. "I can see you both as well as if it was noon."

  That answered that question. Mirk approached the bed with caution. Am-Gulat's shadows didn't seem to reach out to him, like Genesis's did, but they didn't lash out to try to hurl him into the nearest wall either. As if he'd done something to merit their grudging respect. "I'm sure it will pass. You didn't start to...euh, well, none of this really started until after your collar was gone. Methinks that's the important thing."

  "Is it?" Am-Gulat looked past them, into the darkness. "Where is the other one?"

  "Monsieur Er-Izat?" Am-Hazek asked.

  "No. The one who can tell me what in the four expanses is happening to me."

  Mirk could only assume that Am-Gulat was referring to Genesis. "He is...euh, not well either, at the moment. But I'm sure he'll come see you as soon as he's able. And in the meantime, I'm sure he wouldn't mind writing to you, if that would help any."

  Am-Gulat sighed, restlessly flipping his war hammer around in his hands. "Better that he doesn’t come yet. He makes it...move. Like I ate worms..."

  Mirk wished that Genesis was there. He was working entirely by feel, with nothing to help him but intuition and all the hours he'd spent struggling with Genesis's magic. When K'aekniv had finally made his way to the alley Genesis had hidden himself in, he'd said it wouldn't be good to take the commander back to the infirmary. Too many people wanted him dead; it would start a panic. They'd carried him back to the dormitory instead, locking his lifeless body in the tomb of a bedroom he and Mirk shared. K'aekniv had tried to lighten the mood some by telling Mirk that he was lucky Genesis let him keep his gaudy quilts out on the bed. It hadn't made Mirk feel any better about leaving Genesis alone in the dark.

  "Can I look?" Mirk asked Am-Gulat. "You don't have to worry about it hurting me. The chaos...euh..."

  "They know you. The shadows. I can feel it."

  All Mirk could do was nod in confirmation. He sat down on the edge of the bed, setting a careful hand on Am-Gulat's bare forearm. He'd stripped to the waist just like Er-Izat had, but not for the sake of making it easier to fight. It was because he was burning up, so hot to the touch that Mirk nearly had to pull his hand away. The shadows curled inward to cut down on the heat, cushioning his hand. Mirk didn't know how to feel about that.

  "Was fire your strongest element? Before..."

  Am-Gulat nodded. "Always. That was why the Ra-Djinn got rid of me as soon as I came of age."

  "We Am-Djinn tend to favor water or air more," Am-Hazek added. To make himself feel a little useful, Mirk suspected. "Though it's not unheard of for an Am-Djinn to be stronger in ground or fire. It's more a matter of the depth of a djinn's potential in any one element."

  "Balanced in mind and body," Am-Gulat recited, with a bitter hiss of a laugh. "Measured in all things."

  Mirk couldn't help but remember that Genesis had said something similar about himself. That it was better to have a balanced temperament than it was to have his tendency toward that one click-clack word Mirk had already forgotten, the one that referred to thinking and waiting. Genesis had also said that no matter how hard he fought against his nature, he'd never been able to achieve the balance that was supposed to temper his magic.

  But he was getting distracted, retreating into thoughts of Genesis to ease his mind away from the tension that hung in the room. Mirk couldn't sense it with his empathy, not over the hiss of Am-Gulat's newly emerged chaos, but he could feel it in the tenseness of Am-Gulat's arm under his hand. And in the way that Am-Hazek couldn't muster even a glimmer of a smile for Am-Gulat, who he so liked to tease. Mirk closed his eyes and studied Am-Gulat's magic, watching shadow and flame war against each other with his magical senses.

  "It's...methinks it's not as bad as it feels," Mirk said, after he'd watched it for a time. The shadows weren't restless, not any more than they were when Genesis allowed himself his too-few moments of relaxation, or when he was concentrating intently and not tugging on them. It was Am-Gulat's fire that was lashing out, that was trying to strangle the strength out of the shadows. It was a futile endeavor. In Mirk's experience, nothing could best that particular kind of chaos. It could only be convinced to turn its attention elsewhere. And Mirk got the strong impression that instructing Am-Gulat to try that would only end in disaster for everyone involved.

  "Is that so?" Am-Gulat asked, disbelieving. "Your healing must not be as as good as everyone thinks."

  "It's...you won't have your elements for much longer," Mirk said, having to fight against showing Am-Gulat the deference he gave everyone. Not out of submission, but out of politeness. Was it a Destroyer trait, being difficult? Or was that just a coincidence? "You'll probably have a bit of fire left, but not this much."

  Just enough to keep him from going mad. But Mirk thought it prudent not to mention that. Not when everything was still so fragile, Am-Gulat included.

  "Is this what being a Destroyer is?" the djinn asked himself, clenching his fingers around the handle of his war hammer. "Pain?"

  Mirk shook his head. "Not all the time. But methinks Gen would know better how this all goes. Like I said, I'll have him write to you. He's...well. He should be in bed a few days."

  Whether he'd stay there, of course, was a whole other matter. Mirk suspected that having another Destroyer in the City to poke and prod at would be hard for the commander to resist.

  "How long will this last?" Am-Gulat asked him. "This...change?"

  "Methinks I can't say for sure, but judging on how much your fire has faded since the ball...another day. Maybe two."

  Am-Gulat cursed under his breath, but settled back more heavily against the wall, the bed creaking under the weight of his body and magic. "It is done. The others won't be ready to leave for a week. Or more. But we must be gone by then."

  "They are very badly drained, Am-Gulat," Am-Hazek said, taking a tentative step closer to the bed. Though it was clear from the way he hardened his expression that he found the touch of Am-Gulat's chaotic magic unpleasant still. "They will not be able to return to the home realm for two weeks. At least. If we were to return before then, the Ra-Djinn would order the Er-Djinn to take us all. Even their kin. And they will win against us."

  "We're not going back to the home realm. Not yet."

  Am-Hazek's expression loosened, his curiosity distracting him from the shadows teasing at the buckles of his shoes. "Is that so?"

  "No djinn will stay on this realm. Not without being freed first."

  "Wajinn, they've been sending us to Earth for over a hundred years. There are hundreds of us. Thousands, perhaps."

  Am-Gulat's hands tightened into fists around the handle of his war hammer. "They will all be freed. If they wish to stay past that, they're welcome. As for the rest..."

  A halting, twitching half smile came onto Am-Hazek's face. "And do you have any plans for what you'll do with your army?"

  "No. But I'm sure you do."

  "If you say so, wajinn, then it must be true. Tak ral-sek," Am-Hazek concluded, spreading his hands wide, no longer seeming to see the shadows.

  "Tak ral-sek."

  Mirk cleared his throat. "Euh..."

  "It is done," Am-Hazek clarified, a bit of his composure returning. "An expression that can be understood in many ways in djinn, seigneur. It began as the closing words of a trade. But it’s also often used when we’ve made up our minds on something."

  Mirk felt his headache returning, pounding at his temples, pressing at the back of his throat like his teeth were on the verge of clattering their way out of his mouth. Or maybe that was the nausea, thinking of how many other djinn could be hidden around the continent, stashed in darkened cellars and caves, working endlessly at projects assigned to them by uncaring noble masters. And that didn't even begin to touch on the matter of the djinn in England, the ones who'd likely been sold off in twos and threes by Lord Kinross, for the sole purpose of being worked to death.

  "I'm sorry," Mirk mumbled under his breath.

  "But I do have one suggestion for you," Am-Hazek continued, seeming to get a grip on his ambition, on whatever communal idea had sprouted between him and Am-Gulat without them needing to exchange more than a few words. "To make the remainder of our time in the City more peaceful."

  Am-Gulat opened his eyes into slits again, shooting Am-Hazek a skeptical look.

  "Many humans were injured in our struggle. And if we do not give the masters places to recover, more will die. It will force us to leave sooner than we should."

  "I'm not giving up any of our space for them."

  "Of course not, wajinn. What I'm suggesting is that we allow the poor humans to stay on the floor above us. Surely you'll agree that those who were willing to fight for us wouldn't turn around and kill us now, after everything."

  "Not everyone was hurt," Mirk added, to bolster Am-Hazek's cause. "I'm sure some of the men will be willing to help Monsieur Er-Izat guard the barrier between second and third."

  Am-Hazek nodded in agreement. "If only to ensure that the masters don't come for their injured either on the fourth floor."

  Am-Gulat was quiet, his dying fire and looming shadows dancing eerily along the wall he was propped against. After a long while, he also gave a single, grudging nod. "A trade, maybe. We only have Er-Izat who is trained well in fighting. An Er-Djinn's tactics will do nothing for the rest of us. And the worm did not teach us to fight. Only threw us at battles and forced us to survive. If they will teach Am-Djinn the best ways, then maybe it will be a worthwhile trade."

  The wry smile reappeared on Am-Hazek's face, and he tried another joke to lighten Am-Gulat's grave mood. To lessen the sting of losing the elemental magic he'd depended on the whole of his life before chaos had overtaken him. "Perhaps you were meant to be an Ir-Djinn. That's an exceptionally fair bargain."

  Am-Gulat snorted. "It is done. Get more humans to stand between us and them. Er-Izat is only one djinn."

  "But an exceptionally sturdy one. I was very impressed by how well you worked together, wajinn, for not knowing each other before," Am-Hazek said.

  Again, Am-Gulat inclined his head, only slightly. "He does his work dutifully, if nothing else."

  "Methinks maybe it'd be better if we let Am-Gulat rest," Mirk said, levering himself up off the edge of the bed. Something about the discussion was making Am-Gulat's shadows restless. Probably the prospects of fighting, of returning to the realm that had cast him out, only this time with an army in tow and his war hammer clenched in his fists. "I can't feel you as well as I can other people, especially now with your magic, but methinks the change must be painful."

  Am-Gulat gave an indifferent shrug. "Better change than death."

  "A very Destroyer-like observation, wajinn." Am-Hazek took a step back from the bed as well, smirking.

  Am-Gulat looked like he wanted to scold Am-Hazek for using that name on him again, whatever it meant. But he didn't seem to have the energy for it. Instead, he closed his eyes again, the light of his fire magic dimming to almost nothing as the shadows pressed in close around him. Mirk and Am-Hazek slipped out of the room, leaving it just a hair ajar, like they'd found it.

  They didn't pause to discuss the situation until they were well out of earshot, nearly all the way back to the third floor common room. "Will he be all right, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked, shifting back into French, though he still kept his voice low.

  "I'm not sure," Mirk said. "But I do know who I can ask about it."

  Am-Hazek took a step back and surveyed him, taking in his filth-streaked suit, his shaking hands and his doubtlessly sallow complexion. "It would be better for us both to come back to the problem in the morning fresh, I believe," Am-Hazek said, picking with dismay at his own ruined set of clothes. "It has been a very long day."

  Mirk wanted to protest. The motionless faces of the dead djinn in the basement flashed through his mind, the last in a long line of faces that had gone hard and cold by the time they'd tucked them away into the niches that lined the basement's walls. But Am-Hazek was only being sensible. There was nothing more Mirk could do for all the djinn in such an addled state. Or for anyone else. He hadn't slept since the morning before the ball. It might as well have been two weeks ago rather than two days, for how exhausted he felt. "You're right, of course, Monsieur Am-Hazek. Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Usually I rest up here on the third floor during times like this, but..."

  But the floor was crowded with whispering, shaking djinn. And he had another patient to tend to yet before he rested, one who wasn't in the infirmary that time.

  "Go home," Am-Hazek said, bowing slightly to him. "I know where to find you if there's trouble. If you would be kind enough to send up those reinforcements you spoke of before you leave, I'm certain I will have little difficulty arranging something with them. Despite the circumstances of our meeting, I received the impression that the Seventh is full of flexible personalities."

  Mirk laughed, doing his best not to let his fatigue show, either in his smile or his bow. "Certainly, monsieur. Thank you for all your help."

  "Thank you, seigneur. I'm sure the djinn will remember all you've done for us."

  Mirk didn't feel comforted by that reassurance in the slightest.