Yet another drizzly London evening had saturated his cloak before he'd gone more than twenty steps past the East Gate. Though the steadier rain that’d just started back in the City hadn't helped things. Mirk hurried down the narrow close that led to the gate on the London side, clutching his stomach and wishing the churning there was good enough reason to turn back. But neither the weather nor the ache of being transported was a fitting excuse. The djinn's freedom was on the line.

  It had taken him a full week to cobble together a plan, one that came together through a combination of circumstance and the right connections rather than due to any deliberate effort on his part. Madame Beaumont had been eager to have something meaningful to do, impatient with having to spend more long weeks cooped up in her townhouse, torn between returning to Lyon and remaining in London to support him. Not to mention how glad she'd been to have her fears about Seigneur d'Aumont confirmed. And Seigneur Feulaine had only been doing his due diligence with the Circle when he'd written to tell him that the portrait of Jean-Luc that'd hung in the meeting hall was his for the taking, provided he either paid to have it shipped to London with the Teleporters or came to retrieve it himself.

  Mirk had proposed a third option. One that his godmother had helped come to fruition by mentioning to Seigneur d'Aumont how happy she'd be to have him visit her in London. And how glad she'd be to see Mirk, her only godson, happy. Even if she thought poorly of Jean-Luc.

  The whole scheme was still something of a gamble. There was no telling whether or not Seigneur d'Aumont would decide to bring Er-Izat with him to London along with the painting. But Mirk suspected, considering how Am-Hazek confirmed to him that Seigneur d'Aumont never traveled out of his strongholds without Er-Izat nearby, that he'd find both of them waiting for him at the Teleporters' hall instead of just d'Aumont and one of his human servants.

  Mirk rushed to the guild hall as fast as the weather and his burning thighs allowed. He was to meet Seigneur d'Aumont at six in the evening. And he suspected the Grand Master would be on time, even if he arrived fashionably late to balls, the same as all the other high-born French mages. By the time Mirk made it to the square in front of the Teleporters' hall, beside the Artificers' clocktower at the heart of the quarter, he was wheezing and dripping. He hated to present himself to Seigneur d'Aumont looking like a drowned rat, but it was unavoidable. The wheezing, however, he could do something about.

  Rather than heading straight on into the Teleporters' hall once he reached the square, Mirk dashed into the alleyway between it and the arcane goods shop on its far side, avoiding the common use portal that was tucked away between it and the Artificers' hall next door. He braced himself against the wall of the shop, sucking down deep breath after deep breath as he willed his heart to slow, his limbs to loosen and allow for an upright and graceful posture. He didn't manage to compose himself in time. Before Mirk could draw himself up to his full height and stroll out of the alleyway, the doors to the Teleporters' hall burst open.

  Er-Izat stumbled out first, struggling to both balance the canvas-wrapped portrait on his shoulder and properly hold the door open ahead of Seigneur d'Aumont. The Grand Master looked none too pleased by the djinn's efforts. Or by the drizzle and oppressive, foul-smelling London fog waiting for him out in the square. Seigneur d'Aumont adjusted the brim of his tall, wide-brimmed hat to keep the rain off his freshly powdered face and wig, considering his options.

  Mirk froze. Would it be better to run out to meet d’Aumont straight away? Or to see what he could pick up first from afar before leisurely making his entrance? Doubtlessly, Er-Izat would be able to sense his presence nearby if Mirk made use of his magic in any way. But only if Er-Izat had enough spare room left in his mind to focus on anything other than his ill-tempered master. The reflexive shudder that ran down Mirk's spine at the thought of it — of Seigneur d'Aumont hidden in some moldering cave, surrounded by bruised and frightened djinn, tallying and kicking at them like so many barrels of brandy — kept him hidden in the alleyway.

  "That brat should be here by now," d'Aumont said to Er-Izat as he consulted his pocket watch, either not trusting or unable to see the time on the Artificers' clocktower high above the square. Mirk could only just hear him over the sound of the wind and the rain on the cobbles. But at least the effort of focusing kept Mirk from being sucked down into the memories that the hiss of a gentle rain falling on stone streets always brought to mind. "None of them have ever been on time. Ever."

  "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat murmured, taking up his usual position behind and to the right of the lord, shifting the painting on his broad shoulder. The portrait of Jean-Luc wouldn't be heavy, not for a djinn of Er-Izat's size, but it didn't keep it from being awkward. And the wind blowing hard against it didn’t help any.

  "I told Charlotte I'd be there at seven. How far away is the townhouse?"

  "A half hour at a brisk pace, seigneur," Er-Izat said, ducking his head.

  "I should have brought the coach. I despise this city," d'Aumont said, holding one hand out expectantly to his side. After a bit of juggling and digging in waistcoat pockets, Er-Izat pressed a lace-trimmed handkerchief into it. The lord shook the handkerchief out and held it over his nose and mouth to keep out the bad air, making his voice even harder to hear. "The mages here are just as foul as the mortals. Swine, all of them."

  "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat blandly repeated. The djinn had to be accustomed to this sort of exchange by now, Mirk supposed, though he felt odd hearing Seigneur d'Aumont speak so plainly. Without his usual artful discretion and domineering poise in the way, listening to the Grand Master ramble on about his opinions didn't make the same fear of making a mistake rise up in Mirk. Instead, it dredged up a different fear. The horror that came with the realization that, underneath his typical cool remove, Seigneur d'Aumont was no less crude and disdainful than the rough high-born K'maneda officers. But d’Aumont had five times their power and influence.

  "Does the boy have a communication rune?" Seigneur d'Aumont asked Er-Izat.

  "I have none recorded for him, seigneur."

  As the pair stood waiting for him out in the square, the rain increased from a drizzle to a steady, soaking downpour. Though he seemed loath to waste his magical potential, d'Aumont spun his eagle-headed cane around his wrist and conjured a shielding spell out of it, a shimmering bubble that kept away the rain and fog. Er-Izat remained exposed to the elements, without even a cloak to keep the rain from saturating his waistcoat and gambeson. The djinn did his best to use his bulky body to shield the painting of Jean-Luc from the elements. Mirk could see a haze of magic around it, something that wavered like heat rising off a ripening field of wheat in mid-summer. Seigneur Feulaine's work, most likely. Mirk couldn't imagine Seigneur d'Aumont wasting any of his potential on preserving a portrait of Jean-Luc.

  "I don't have time for this," Seigneur d'Aumont said crossly as he readjusted his hat once more, annoyed by its weight and how its brim fell down over his line of sight. A concession to Madame Beaumont’s tastes, probably. Hats like that weren’t in fashion among men any more. "Wait for him here. If he doesn’t show within the half hour, you are at liberty to pitch that thing and go about your own business. I’m sure you have the good sense not to get yourself into any trouble."

  A note of alarm stole across Er-Izat's impassive face. "You do not wish for me to accompany you to Madame Beaumont's residence, seigneur?"

  "I have nothing to fear from her or any of the English rabble," Seigneur d'Aumont said. "And I'd rather not have that djinn of hers anywhere near you, so keep to the human servants’ places if you decide to go out. That brute has no business being on this realm. Only to be expected when you buy on the cheap. It's a wonder the animal hasn't murdered her in her sleep."

  "Yes, seigneur," Er-Izat said, ducking his head in deference. Though Mirk could tell the djinn was still concerned by the seigneur's decision to venture off on his own. It was in the tenseness that pinched his shoulders, the way a glimmer of golden magic raced around the collar encircling his neck.

  "If I'm not back by midnight and you haven't received further instructions, only then may you come to join me. But hopefully, I’ll have occasion to spend the night. In that case, you’re on your own. Do not return to the house. Otherwise, amuse yourself as you wish. As long as you take care not to sully my name. I am in a charitable mood, Li-Izat. Do not spoil it," Seigneur d’Aumont concluded, adjusting his hat once more with a private smile as he set off across the plaza.

  The djinn’s expression had fallen back into blankness, his mouth not so much as twitching at d’Aumont’s use of the slave kinship title rather Er-Izat’s true one. "Yes, seigneur."

  The Grand Master hurried off, rain cascading off the sides of his shield, making him look like a very concentrated, ambulatory waterfall. Er-Izat remained beside the front doors to the guild hall, watching Seigneur d'Aumont until he was out of sight. Then he returned to trying to sort out the best way to keep the rain off the canvas-wrapped portrait of Jean-Luc.

  It was a depressing sight, one Mirk couldn't bear to witness a second longer than he needed to. Once he was certain Seigneur d'Aumont wasn't coming back, Mirk rushed out of the alleyway to Er-Izat's side, calling out to him. "Monsieur Er-Izat! Monsieur! I'm so sorry I'm late! Please, go back inside! You'll catch your death of cold!"

  Er-Izat stared down at him for a time, caught between obeying d'Aumont's orders and the ones Mirk gibbered at him as he approached. When no flicker of magic circled around his collar, the djinn nodded, juggling the painting over into one arm once more so that he could open the door for Mirk. He beat Er-Izat to the chase, holding the door open for him instead. "After you, monsieur," Mirk said, ducking his head reflexively as he stood off to one side to let Er-Izat in ahead of him. "It's my fault you were left standing out in the rain to begin with."

  Er-Izat elected to go inside rather than debate the matter with him. But Mirk still got the impression that his politeness unnerved the djinn in some way. As if he needed to be careful, needed to be watching for some trap that would be sprung on him the instant he showed the slightest sign of lacking proper deference. Though he felt guilty about it, Mirk hoped that he could use that knowledge to make things easier on the both of them, as far as such a thing was possible.

  "I'm so sorry I'm late," Mirk continued, letting the door fall shut behind them once Er-Izat had wedged the portrait in past the door. "Did I miss Seigneur d'Aumont? Or did he decide not to come?"

  "Master had other business to attend to in London," Er-Izat replied, scanning the empty foyer of the Teleporters' hall. It was well after when most of the guild mages quit work for the day, the hallway leading back to the guild hall's lecture rooms and library blocked off with a chain that was without a doubt heavily enchanted. Only a sleepy journeyman teleporting mage remained at the lobby's scheduling desk, to tend to unexpected mages who had somewhere urgent to go.

  "I hope he didn't end up late on my account," Mirk said, letting some of his worry escape his mental shielding. "Please do give him my apologies."

  "Yes, seigneur."

  "Is that the portrait?" Mirk asked him, gesturing to the canvas-wrapped parcel Er-Izat had leaned against the wall beside the front doors. "It's much larger close up. I should have brought one of the infantrymen along with..."

  Mirk had broached the problem with the whole scenario indirectly, but it dawned on Er-Izat then nevertheless, the djinn's eyes shifting back and forth between Mirk — slight and soft, without the benefit of overlong limbs or a workman's grip — and the portrait. Mirk decided to emphasize the issue by making an attempt at picking the thing up. Though the span of his arms was wide enough to hold the opposite edges of the portrait, it was nearly as tall as he was.

  As Mirk had suspected, the portrait was more awkward than it was heavy, but he still made a show of struggling to keep it up off the ground, craning his neck unsuccessfully from side to side to attempt to see around its edges. "Oh dear...I never have been very good at planning ahead..." Mirk mumbled under his breath, knowing full well Er-Izat would be able to hear him, no matter how low he kept his voice.

  He could no longer see Er-Izat around the painting, but he heard the djinn give a polite cough. "Perhaps levitation magic would help in this situation, seigneur."

  "What a good idea! Let's see..."

  His failure to keep a firm grasp on the painting with his magic, calling to the oak of its frame in a vague way that sent the portrait hurtling off toward the ceiling, showed well enough to Er-Izat that magic wasn't going to help them out of the situation either. Mirk glimpsed a flicker of gold magic on Er-Izat's collar as he used his own magic to call out to the frame and prevent disaster, lowering it back to the floor. Mirk hung his head, not fighting against the heat he felt rising on his cheeks. Even though his incompetence was mostly an act in that rare instance, the way Er-Izat's eyes widened, as if incredulous that a man of Mirk's rank and element couldn't perform a basic levitation spell, still made Mirk feel a bit chagrined.

  "I'm afraid I've never been very good at calling to inert materials," Mirk explained with a sigh. "Plants and animals and bodies are best for me."

  "I see, seigneur."

  Mirk propped his hands on his hips as he stared at the portrait. "It's a half hour's walk back to the East Gate, and at least twenty more to the dormitory besides. But I suppose there's nothing else I can do..."

  Er-Izat hesitated, beginning to speak, but cutting himself off before any words could slip past his lips. Lips that were chapped from the cold and wind, Mirk couldn't help but notice. Mirk would have thought that d'Aumont wouldn't tolerate such unsightliness on one of his servants. Then again, no one ever looked very hard at djinn, Mirk supposed. And Er-Izat was constantly trying to make himself invisible, save for when d'Aumont called on him to intimidate. "May I suggest making use of the teleporting mages, seigneur?" Er-Izat performed a tidy half-bow, gesturing back at the journeyman mage who'd lapsed into an open-mouthed snore behind the desk.

  "Oh! That's a better idea, yes. Though that'll only get me to the gate, I'm afraid. The K'maneda won't let the guild in on the secret to getting into the City. Basic defense, you know. So I'll still have to walk through the City itself."

  Er-Izat made a noise of discomfort. He was dripping steadily onto the marble floor, shivering despite his best efforts to stay still, his hair an unsightly black snarl atop his head. Mirk drew a handkerchief out of his sleeve and offered it to the djinn with an encouraging smile. "I wish I had a warming spell to offer you, monsieur, but I'm afraid that's outside my specialty. Do you not have any fire magic like the other djinn? I only don't want to see you fall ill on my account. It'd be better if you could dry off a bit."

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  It was phrased as nothing more than an idle suggestion, but it was really a veiled attempt at probing the restrictions carved into Er-Izat's collar. With the help of a bit more information coaxed out of Richard, Genesis had been able to decipher the basic parameters of the binding magic inscribed into the collar.

  Seigneur d'Aumont had full control, of course. But only when he was paying attention to what was going on with any particular djinn. Out of d'Aumont's sight, the basic parameters took over. Protect high-born life at all costs. Obey high-born orders. Mirk couldn't wrap his head around how the magic determined any of that, how it recognized a noble from a low-born, but he'd drifted off midway through Genesis's lecture on the subject. Something to do with sensing magical potential, with tapping into the djinn's understanding of the world.

  Er-Izat hesitated once more. But he submitted to Mirk's suggestion, bowing low to him as he accepted Mirk's handkerchief and let his fire magic flicker down both their bodies, making the dampness vanish into a cloud of steam. Er-Izat's fire magic felt different than that of Am-Gulat and Am-Hazek. Stronger, but also tinged with a steady, patient feel. Like a brick of peat left burning in a stove overnight to ward off a persistent chill. "My deepest gratitude, seigneur," Er-Izat said as he used Mirk's handkerchief to delicately wipe the rain off his collar, the one thing on his body his magic couldn't reach.

  "Oh, it's no trouble at all, monsieur." Mirk smiled up at the djinn and took the handkerchief back from him. "And thank you for drying me off.”

  While Mirk turned to study the painting once more, he made a point to tuck his hair back behind his ear, revealing a bruise on his temple. Makeup, not genuine. No one had been willing to give him a knock about the head just for show. "I suppose I’ll just have to do my best to get it home myself. I'm sure someone will mug me for it half a dozen times on the way there, but I'll fight for this. I don't mind giving my gold and my clothes away, but I don't have anything else to remember my grandfather by. Other than the staff, I suppose."

  Again, Er-Izat coughed. "You are in danger, seigneur?"

  "Oh, it's nothing that bad. They never come close to killing me. Just a knock over the head and a broken arm or two, so they can go through my pockets. I wish they'd just ask instead, I'd hand over whatever they'd like. But I suppose even thieves have their pride."

  "I did not know the K'maneda's City was so dangerous," Er-Izat said, the look of discomfort on his face deepening.

  "I don't feel like I'm in danger," Mirk reassured him. "It's only an inconvenience, really. I've had five suits ruined since the start of the year from the blood stains. Anyway, let's go wake up the journeyman, hmm? Better to get it done and over with. God helps those who help themselves, after all."

  Mirk made a move to head over toward the scheduling desk, but Er-Izat shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him with a gesture, though he didn't touch him outright. "I will help you take the portrait to your residence," he said. Then paused, feeling for any signs of protest from his collar. But its metal remained cold, its edges free from the tell-tale glimmer of d'Aumont's magic. "If that is acceptable to you, seigneur," Er-Izat finished, bowing to him once more.

  He did his best to look shocked and pleased all at once. "Would you, monsieur? I don't want to inconvenience you, of course. But it would help me out a great deal. I don't think anyone would try anything with a man like you beside me. You are very striking, after all, monsieur."

  "I live to serve, seigneur," Er-Izat said as he went to pick up the portrait once more. He hefted it up onto his shoulder without any difficulty, his grip certain and his arms long enough to manage the task with ease.

  "Would you mind walking with me to the gate? You remember how ill teleportation spells make me."

  "As you wish, seigneur."

  They set out at once back into the rain, Mirk holding the door for Er-Izat before the djinn could sidestep past Mirk to do it for him. Although Er-Izat still seemed unsettled by this helpful proclivity of his, Mirk thought the djinn was beginning to resign himself to the fact that Mirk refused most of the small dignities that the other noble mages expected from him.

  Though what opinion Er-Izat held of him due to that strangeness, Mirk hadn't a clue. No matter how many times he tried to engage the djinn in conversation as they made their way back through the rain to the East Gate, Er-Izat always demurred, every polite question and observation bouncing off him and trailing away into nothing but another distant "yes, seigneur" or "as you wish, seigneur." It was galling. And it made Mirk feel worse about the trap he was luring Er-Izat into.

  Er-Izat’s polite, subdued demeanor shifted once they were past the East Gate. Mirk thought it had to be something to do with his collar, that it was somehow resonating with those of Ravensdale's djinn just like Am-Hazek's magic had ever since he'd switched places with Am-Gulat. But he couldn't see any tell-tale sign of golden magic on the collar once they passed beyond the glow of the mage lanterns hung over the gate and slipped into the characteristic gloom that pooled between the City's street lamps.

  Mirk had to ask. "Is something wrong, monsieur? Would you like to go back?"

  Er-Izat shook his head. He was standing up straighter now, his shoulders squared, holding the painting with only one arm as the other hung ready at his side. And his head was up, his eyes roving over the hunched-over forms of the other K'maneda scuttling from tavern to tavern and workshop to dormitory. As always, it was colder in the City than it was in London, the rain on the verge of shifting over to sleet. No one was out on the street beside those who absolutely needed to be there. "It is worse than you said, seigneur."

  "Euh...is it?"

  "This place is beneath a man of your station. Seigneur."

  Puzzled, Mirk looked around once more. True, they'd soon passed out of the wealthier area near the East Gate, following the outermost ring road south in the direction of the Easterners' dormitory, their final destination. But the streets were tidy as ever, free of the usual muck and rubbish that cluttered even the best streets back in the mage quarter. The buildings were a bit ramshackle, true. There were more improvised structures in that part of the City than nearer its center, everything bits of spare wood and metal and a lot of haphazard, make-do brickwork that'd been put up by infantrymen rather than proper masons. Mirk turned his attention back to Er-Izat. In the gloom, he could see a greenish light flickering in his eyes, tinged with the faintest flecks of red and blue. "Is it really that bad? It's very clean, at least. On the outside, anyway."

  "I am no longer surprised to hear that you have often been robbed here."

  Despite the situation, Mirk chuckled to himself as he hurried onward. He glimpsed a familiar face loitering near one of the cross-streets ahead, but he let his eyes skim past the Easterner as if he paid him no particular note. The infantrymen from the Seventh stationed every few streets along the route were a precautionary measure Genesis had insisted on, in case either Er-Izat became aware of the ruse or a Watch patrol stopped to ask Mirk what he was doing in the City with a djinn of Er-Izat's stature.

  Judging by Er-Izat's reaction, how he didn't seem to know what black-clad figure to glare at first, the Easterners were no more suspicious to him than any of the other men going about their business that evening. "It's really not so bad. They’re mostly quite kind. I've healed many of them by now, and they do show some consideration to those who've helped them in the past. The thieves aside."

  "You must take your vows very seriously, seigneur."

  Mirk laughed outright that time. It was the same thing Am-Hazek had said to him when he'd come to visit him in the healers' dormitory. Mirk doubted the two djinn shared the same opinions on most things — comfortable surroundings had to be a thing that all djinn cherished. "You're not going to be very happy with where I'm staying, then, monsieur. But it's very cozy, in its own way. Everyone's a family here. Even if they do come to blows over their disagreements."

  They continued on in strained silence for another ten minutes. The uncertainty of their surroundings must have been wearing on Er-Izat; he was losing his perfect control over his stride, and Mirk had to nearly run to keep him from passing on ahead of him. Luckily, Mirk was accustomed to having to struggle to match the pace of outsized half-bloods and non-humans. Mirk gestured him down the side street that the Easterners' dormitory was at the end of. Er-Izat paused at the intersection, head swiveling back and forth as he studied their surroundings once more. Looking for traps, perhaps.

  But he didn't spot the one that was actually waiting for him: instead of settling on Slava, who was nursing a bottle on the front steps of a shuttered supply house, his gaze fixed on another infantrymen who was reeling across the street ahead from gutter to gutter with his own bottle in hand, slurring a tipsy tune to himself. A Bavarian, from the sound of things.

  "Should I do something about him, seigneur?"

  Mirk shook his head. "He's not hurting anyone. The men live a hard enough life as it is. There's no need to trouble them when they're trying to relax."

  "Very well, seigneur."

  Still, Er-Izat made it a point to put his giant frame between Mirk and the Bavarian as they walked past him, down to the end of the street. The Easterners' dormitory was dark, save for the sole mage lantern hung above the door to make sure no one tripped heading up the front steps. The front steps where Pavel was sitting and keeping watch, bundled up underneath a fur he'd borrowed from Ilya, none of him showing but a hand gripping a bottle and his boots. He budged over obligingly to the far edge of the steps as they approached, but didn't say anything or look up at them. That time, Er-Izat made certain to take point rather than letting Mirk bumble on ahead.

  "It's really not as bad as it looks," Mirk said. Like K'aekniv and Slava, Er-Izat needed to duck to make it through the doorway. The portrait made things even more difficult. But Er-Izat was unwilling to leave Mirk until both he and the portrait were somewhere safe. Mirk noticed that, just like Genesis, Er-Izat refused to touch the door's handle bare-handed, flicking out a handkerchief to keep himself free of the dormitory's filth.

  It really wasn't as bad as it looked among the Easterners, for once. Genesis had been ghosting around the building the past two days, lacing it with the proper spells and forcing every last Easterner he crossed paths with to recite their part in the plan. The commander had tidied up as he'd woven his web of trap spells. Although the dormitory still wasn't glamorous, all its common areas, its hallways and vestibule and two common baths, were all spotlessly clean. A handful of the men had seen fit to stop Mirk in the halls as he'd shuttled back and forth from the low-born officers' dormitory, bringing Genesis the things he needed, sharing that they were glad to have gotten something tangible out of the whole affair. Apparently the matter of who would be responsible for cleaning the baths on a monthly basis was hotly contested. And one that often came to blows.

  "Are your quarters warded, at least, seigneur?" Er-Izat asked, pausing in the vestibule to look back over his shoulder at Mirk.

  "Of course, monsieur. I am still an empath. Without proper wards, I'd never get a minute of sleep. They're down in the basement, even, so no one can climb in a window."

  "I will check them before I leave," Er-Izat said, turning back around and shuffling grimly off toward the basement steps at the end of the vestibule. Mirk smiled to himself. There was no question in the statement, no pause to either deliberate or make sure Mirk approved. It made him feel guilty about what was coming, but it still cheered him to see Er-Izat revealing a bit more of his personality instead of constantly ducking his head as if waiting for a blow. Perhaps from an eagle-headed cane.

  The basement steps groaned under Er-Izat's bulk, just like they always did under K'aekniv's. Mirk's part in preparing the ruse had been freshening up the usual wards and shields against emotions that he'd placed on K'aekniv's basement room back when he'd stayed with him during autumn. The better to hide Genesis's trap spell beneath them, the one that would keep Er-Izat from escaping. It'd often meant working around K'aekniv dozing on the bed, but the half-angel hadn't complained. He was glad for the company, for how homey having both their magic everywhere made the room feel. A true testament to his sentimentality. To anyone else, being caught in the snarl of Genesis's magic would probably make them feel like they'd been cursed.

  "Is your door solid and warded as well?" Er-Izat asked, not looking back that time. But Mirk could hear the disapproval in his voice as he sidled down the hallway. The fact that several of the doors along the hall had holes knocked through them in places or were missing their handles had not escaped Er-Izat’s notice.

  "Yes, yes. It's the one all the way at the end. They gave me the biggest quarters, even, and I don't have to pay any extra. Isn't that kind of them?"

  Er-Izat didn't reply. There was no one hanging around in the basement. Not anyone visible. K'aekniv would be at the end of the hall waiting for them, as long as things were still going to plan, but Genesis had stuffed him into the shadows. K'aekniv had complained that he hated being stuck in the Abyss, but had consented for the good of their plan. There was no hiding K'aekniv otherwise. And no one other than K'aekniv would stand a chance in a physical fight against Er-Izat, except maybe Genesis. The commander had done good work hiding him. Mirk couldn't detect a trace of the half-angel's presence.

  Mirk had feared that Er-Izat would hesitate when it came to entering his supposed quarters, that he would drop the portrait and abandon Mirk to his fate. But the djinn's resolve was unwavering. Instead, he only stepped aside just far enough to let Mirk use the key it'd taken K'aekniv a full three days to find to open the door and disengage the shields and wards he'd put on the room. Then he was muscling past Mirk again, slinging the portrait down off his shoulder once he was in past the door, carrying it more like a shield than the antique it was.

  "It's really all right, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said as he waved on the room's sole magelight. It was in dire need of renewing. Which made the gloom inside the room less conspicuous, though Er-Izat still scanned every last corner of it before the tenseness went out of his shoulders. Only once he was certain there was no lingering threat did the djinn stop to consider the appalling sparseness of the room — although Genesis had cleaned it thoroughly, over K'aekniv's protests, the bed still looked like it was about to collapse, the dresser jammed in the corner dinged and singed and the walls badly in need of fresh plaster and paint.

  "You live here," Er-Izat said, his tone flat with disbelief.

  "I spend a lot of time at the infirmary, so there's no need for anything special. But the room will look so much more cheerful with the painting now, don't you think? I can hang it over that crumbling bit on the wall."

  All the stress of the walk through the City, of subtly disobeying Seigneur d'Aumont and having to be on constant guard against attack, had worn down Er-Izat's composure far enough to loose his tongue. "Your kin will come to haunt the K’maneda once they hear about this."

  It would have been enough to make Mirk laugh, had K'aekniv not chosen that moment to spring his attack. For such a large man, the half-angel could move quickly when he wanted to, though he still inevitably had trouble moving in deliberate silence. The sound of his feathers brushing against the doorframe flung Er-Izat back into readiness. Mirk threw himself off to one side, taking cover near the dresser and calling the door shut behind K'aekniv as the pair squared off against one another.

  Mirk barely had time to pull the door to before Er-Izat hurled himself at K'aekniv, not bothering to even attempt attacking his body, going for a direct blow to his face with the heel of his palm. The sudden, unexpected appearance of someone even larger than he was had trapped so much of Er-Izat's attention that he didn't notice the shadows snaking out from underneath the bed behind him.

  They didn't move to join the brawl. Instead, as K'aekniv threw up an arm to divert the strike and try to grab hold of Er-Izat, the shadows coiled around Er-Izat's neck. Not to choke him, but to slip between the collar and his skin, disrupting Er-Izat's connection to the magic within it. As Genesis's trap spell engaged in a rush of shadows that crept over the room's walls and twined around the djinn’s legs, Er-Izat's hands flew toward the collar.

  "Relax," K'aekniv said, holding his empty hands up in a sign of goodwill. "We're not here to rob anyone. We want to help."

  Genesis’s voice emanated from one of the room’s darker corners. "Do not...touch the collar. That will make this more difficult."

  Er-Izat ignored both of them, still trying to grab at his collar, though more bands of shadow shot out from under the bed to wrap around his elbows, keeping his hands away from the metal that was now flickering golden as the magic within it tried to engage. He could tell the shadows were hurting Er-Izat by how pale he’d gone, though he refused to cry out in pain. Mirk sighed, knowing full well what he had to do. "Don't fight it, monsieur. I'll explain everything. Please stop."

  Er-Izat kept struggling. K'aekniv shrugged at Mirk, gesturing for him to go on. Staggering back to his feet, Mirk made himself say the words, though he cringed at the wavering in his voice. At least he had an excuse to say them in his native tongue, instead of one K'aekniv could understand. Genesis, emerging out of where he'd been hidden back in the shadows, understood everything. Both his own reluctance to speak and the look of anguish on Er-Izat’s face. "I order you to stop, Monsieur Er-Izat."

  There should have been nothing forcing Er-Izat to obey. Not then, not with the spell Genesis had labored on non-stop for the past week separating Er-Izat from the collar's control. But Er-Izat's arms fell limply to his sides nevertheless.

  "Yes, seigneur. I submit."