"I believe now is the time to make the change, seigneur."

  Mirk edged over as close as he dared to the gutter before pausing to look around. The heart of the London mage quarter was crowded on Wednesday evening, just past sunset. The guild libraries and workshops had all closed for the evening, and the road was full of apprentice and journeymen mages fresh from their workbenches and desks, all of them packed in shoulder to shoulder as they rushed about tending to necessities before all the guild-run shops closed. The narrow gap in the middle of the road left for carriages and buggies was so thin at the moment that Mirk didn't think traffic could have passed, had there been any. Not without a contingent of guild guardsmen running ahead to beat distracted mages out of the way.

  Am-Hazek's presence at his side had been a boon ever since they'd entered the business part of the mage quarter. People always got out of a djinn's way, as long as they were beside someone who could pass for a nobleman. Am-Hazek was still surprised by Mirk's preference for walking. He spent so much time on foot in the City, it hadn't even occurred to Mirk how odd it would be for a noble mage to arrive at the counting house on foot.

  It had ended up not mattering. Am-Hazek had taken him around to the back of Madame Beaumont's townhouse anyway, to the stables, to show him Pascal's efforts at swapping the blue and silver livery on her carriage for the burgundy and gold of Lord Kinross's house. And though the footman was puffed up with pride at his hard work, Mirk knew anyone who had ever so much as glimpsed a noble carriage rumbling past in the street would be able to tell something was off. The hammer and anvil Pascal had painted on the carriage's side crest to replace his godmother's willow was particularly lumpy.

  Not wanting to hurt the footman's feelings, Mirk had offered a polite excuse about feeling particularly ill in carriages during the springtime, due to his unbreakable connection to the Earth. Am-Hazek, ever perceptive, had gone along. Though he'd also dropped the caveat that not having the carriage to bolster the ruse would mean that the rest of it would have to proceed flawlessly, if it was to be believed.

  "Would that work?" Mirk asked Am-Hazek, gesturing with Jean-Luc's staff toward a nearby alley, little more than a damp crack between a solicitor's office and something like a tavern, crowded with men in somber black coats and broad hats that were folded up along the edges. Men of business, who favored the economy of mortal style rather than the flamboyance of mage fashion. It was probably one of those coffee houses his Uncle Henri was always raving about.

  Am-Hazek nodded, though he sighed with distaste at the rubbish crowding the bit of the alleyway visible from the street. "I am afraid there are few good options in any city, mortal or mage. The City of Glass excepted. If your comrades ever needed a more reputable way to make gold, I think they'd make themselves a tidy sum sharing their cleaning spells..."

  Mirk laughed, letting Am-Hazek take the lead as they headed for the alley, his tall, lanky frame parting the crowd better than swinging Jean-Luc's staff ever could have. "I'll let Gen know," he mumbled, clinging to that small bit of humor to try to settle the nerves churning in the pit of his stomach.

  After casting an offhand distraction glamor with a wave of his hand, Am-Hazek sidled into the alleyway, Mirk close at his heels. Thankfully, it wasn't occupied, though the mounds of rubbish grew higher the further they continued down it. Near the midpoint, Am-Hazek came to a halt, looking down at the valise he'd carried all the way across the mage quarter, hefting it in his hand as he searched for the cleanest possible place to put it down.

  "Here," Mirk said, lifting his grandfather's staff, flashing the djinn the warmest smile he could muster. "Since you've already helped so much, monsieur."

  It was tricky, wasted far more of his potential than he should have spent on a triviality, considering what they were on their way to do. Mirk called to the mounds of rubbish nearest them, his mind filled for a moment with the cacophony of decaying things and bits of metal and glass as he shoved it all further along the alley with his magic, clearing a relatively clean spot for Am-Hazek to work in.

  Mirk sucked in a deep breath as he drew his mental shielding back up, coughing at the stench that stirring all the muck had put in the air. Being around Genesis so much really had made him even more spoiled than he already was. "Better?" he asked Am-Hazek. "I know it's not as good as the City. You could almost eat off the streets there."

  "Much better," Am-Hazek replied, with a tight-lipped, joyless smile. It didn’t comfort Mirk to know that the djinn felt as uneasy about things as he did, in his own, subdued way.

  Am-Hazek flipped open the clasp on the valise, opening it just far enough to pull out a white tablecloth that had a wine stain soaked deep into its fibers. He spread it across the ground, atop the space Mirk had more or less cleared, toeing off his shoes before stepping over onto it.

  Mirk looked around the alley, searching for some bit of junk that might be tall enough to preserve Am-Hazek's modesty. The djinn laughed as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his long fingers deftly tracing down the multitude of small pearl buttons. "As you are always reminding everyone, seigneur, you are a healer. But..."

  "But?"

  Am-Hazek sighed. "If you'd be willing to assist with my garments?" He lifted the valise, still hanging half-open in his other hand.

  It was strange, Mirk thought, that Am-Hazek's cheeks darkened ever so slightly at the thought of someone helping him with his clothes for once instead of at the prospect of standing naked in front of him. It must have been a djinn custom. The rumors he'd been told by Er-Izat had made Mirk think that Am-Hazek's deference toward rank had to be a show rather than his genuine feelings.

  But as Mirk accepted each of his pieces of clothing after Am-Hazek had neatly folded them, he was beginning to suspect that the rumors Er-Izat had heard weren't entirely true, judging by the reluctance with which Am-Hazek handed the bundles over. That or Am-Hazek was a fantastic actor. Which was, admittedly, just what the situation required.

  Once he was stripped down to nothing, left shivering in the cool spring air, Am-Hazek paused to contemplate his valise and its contents. "I haven't done this for nearly a century," he remarked, reluctantly setting the valise down on the tablecloth and crouching beside it. "It's considered bad luck to change wearing another person's clothes. But I suspect I won't get the dimensions correct otherwise. I've only had the pleasure of meeting Lord Kinross on two occasions."

  "Can every djinn, euh, change?" Mirk asked as Am-Hazek shook out a pair of Lord Kinross's silk drawers. They'd be little better than a laundry sack on Am-Hazek's lithe frame.

  "To an extent, seigneur. The Ta-Djinn are best at it. But most djinn are proficient enough to fool a human. Or former human, as the case might be." Am-Hazek paused, frowning as the drawers fell clear off him when he stooped back down to pick out Lord Kinross's shirt. He gave up on them, electing to put the shirt on first.

  Before he picked up the drawers again, he delicately took the teardrop earring out of his left ear, holding it for a moment in the palm of his hand. "But in order to change, one must hold their own soul. Thus, the others on this realm cannot do it. Whether their collars or other restraints might allow them to or not."

  In one fluid motion, Am-Hazek tilted his head back and swallowed the earring, along with his own soul trapped inside the gem. Magic flared in the depths of his eyes and he rolled his shoulders, loosening up. At least as much as he could while still holding the oversized drawers up with one hand. "It may be better if you avert your eyes now, seigneur. I've been told that watching the change is alarming for non-djinn."

  Nodding, Mirk averted his eyes, instead staring down at Am-Hazek's clothes in his arms. Still warm from his body, they were folded almost as neatly as his own clothes were once Genesis had finished with them. Though Genesis had always been considerate enough to leave him to his own devices when it came to his smallclothes. Despite having had servants tend to him from birth, the thought of Genesis meticulously ironing and folding his braies was mortifying.

  Mirk was jerked out of his thoughts by a horrible grinding noise, like the noise a long bone made while two healers worked together to set it. He caught himself an instant before he could look up. Instead, he continued to listen, the narrow alley making the sound of the change clear, even over the din of people and horses back on the main thoroughfare. Along with the grinding and crunching, there was also the meaty, wet noise of rearranging flesh, the sound of a desperate healer sifting through a man's innards in search of a bleed. Mirk was more appalled by how unbothered he was by those noises than he was by the sounds themselves.

  "It is done, seigneur. At least, this is as good as I can manage. With any luck, the clothes and the vial of potential will cover the gaps."

  Though he knew what to expect, more or less, Mirk was still startled by the sight of Lord Kinross standing in the middle of the filthy alleyway in his smallclothes, right where Am-Hazek had been a few minutes ago. "Amazing," Mirk murmured, reflexively crossing himself. "You look exactly like him, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I can hardly believe you've only seen him a few times."

  Only once Am-Hazek began to move, putting on the rest of Lord Kinross's clothes, did the difference become apparent. Kinross was sprightly despite his age, but he was a bulky man, lumbering and inflexible and solid. Am-Hazek changed into Kinross still moved with deliberate djinn grace and speed. It was a little uncanny, but Mirk had no doubt that once they left the alleyway Am-Hazek would shift his mannerisms to match the lord whose face and clothes he'd borrowed.

  "A Ra-Djinn's taste is always impeccable," Am-Hazek murmured, admiring the short burgundy coat that Ra-Darat had snuck him. It was close-cut, not the fashion presently, but it suited Lord Kinross's burly frame much better than the voluminous justacorps that the French mages, along with many of the style-conscious English, favored. And the gold waistcoat underneath it spoke to what Mirk had observed of the lord's dramatic flair.

  "Why do you think Monsieur Ra-Darat chose to help us?" Mirk asked, handing back Am-Hazek's clothes. "Does he feel strongly about helping the djinn trapped in the City? Or is Lord Kinross..."

  "I cannot say, seigneur. There have always been two kinds of Ra-Djinn. The ones who hide none of their opinions, and the ones who hide all of them. Monsieur Ra-Darat is the latter."

  "But he really is taking a risk, giving you the means to steal from his vault with the ghosts." Mirk couldn't help but worry that it might be some kind of trap, despite knowing full well that if it was, Am-Hazek would undoubtedly have seen it coming. Another consequence of spending too much time among the K'maneda, and Genesis in particular.

  "He gave what he could, but the plan would have most likely failed were it not for your own connections. Which I don't believe Ra-Darat could have known about, no matter how good his intuition is. I believe he merely wanted to have a bit of hope for himself."

  "Hope?"

  "The Ra-Djinn would not sell off one of their own lightly. What he did to deserve that must have been unforgivable. His only chance at returning to the home realm, even if Lord Kinross was charitable enough to hand him back his soul and remove his bonds, would be for the Ra-Djinn to lose the hierarchy." Am-Hazek turned the vial of Lord Kinross's potential between his fingers, a wistful expression on his face. "It's strange, the impressions you can make on strangers without even knowing..."

  "Euh, pardon?"

  "I apologize, seigneur. Making the change always leaves me a bit out of sorts. There's enough chaos mixed in this sample for me to mimic Lord Kinross's magic for an hour at most. We will need to be quick once I take it. I believe it would be best if I waited until the very last moment."

  Mirk nodded. "Shall we go then, monsieur?"

  "Yes, seigneur." With great reluctance, Am-Hazek slipped into Kinross's shoes, closed the valise, and wrapped it up tightly in the wine-stained tablecloth before hiding it in among the piles of refuse. A man of Lord Kinross's rank would never carry his own bag. And neither would Mirk. Not in polite company when he wanted to make a strong impression, at least.

  The crowds back in the street had thinned since they'd sidled into the alley, but the heated conversation going on both within and outside the coffee house next door kept anyone from noticing them. From there, it was only ten minutes walk to the main London counting house. Although all the businesses near it — guild establishments to the last — were shuttered, the counting house's lamps remained lit, a pair of burly human footmen standing guard at the door. The counting house never closed. Ghosts, after all, didn't sleep.

  Am-Hazek had consumed the vial containing the sample of Lord Kinross's potential just before they'd turned the corner onto the street the counting house stood in the middle of. By the time they reached the front door, it had taken full effect. Am-Hazek had abandoned his usual quietness and was using his own fire magic to augment the amount he'd swallowed, and now his presence felt very much like the man Mirk had met at the ball weeks ago, loud and jolly. And as Mirk had suspected, Am-Hazek also altered his gait to something more like that of an elderly human, albeit one who hadn't lost all of his youthful spirit. Am-Hazek gave the footmen a booming and grinning greeting, and they moved aside for them without batting an eye.

  The pair of ghosts tending the long counter that ran across the far side of the counting house's lobby were far more cautious. The counter served as an extra barrier between the human patrons of their counting house and the back of it, where all the riches of English magecraft were kept under lock and key.

  One of the ghosts, a woman dressed in ceremonial robes that Mirk didn't recognize, looked up at their arrival. But she didn't bother to make herself more than halfway solid, which meant that when Mirk tried to bow and smile in greeting to her, he ended up focusing more on the potted fern behind her than on the misty impression of her face.

  "Lord Kinross," the woman whispered. "And...?"

  "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon, madame," Mirk pivoted, bowing to the ghostly man as well, who was already digging through the stack of reference ledgers piled atop the counter. His clothes were much more modern; he had to be more recently deceased. "Monsieur."

  "No need to go digging into the accounts, Billy," Am-Hazek said, waving an absent hand at the man. "I need to be taken to the back. The seigneur's come with to help me evaluate those gems that just came in from the coast. Always easier with an earth mage around, right?"

  "The Brighton counting house confirmed their authenticity before passing them on to us, my lord," the woman said, staring hard up at Lord Kinross. It troubled Mirk that she didn't need to consult any records to remember the jewels they'd come to steal. The London counting house had to have hundreds of visitors each day.

  "Oh, I'm not worried about them being paste, Gwynn. I want them tested for resonance. The seigneur here is an expert at that sort of thing. And a good deal better company than Rawls from the Artificers," Am-Hazek added with a knowing grin that was bursting at the seams with merriment. It was astonishing how well Am-Hazek could hide his true personality just as easily he could his face and form. Perhaps that was part of the magic that went along with putting on another person's body and swallowing their potential.

  At the mention of Rawls, whose face Mirk couldn't match with the name he'd overheard at several balls, both of the ghosts behind the counter relaxed. "Very good, my lord," the man said, taking a fat ring of keys off a hook on the wall behind the desk. There were dozens more there, all of them identical to Mirk's eyes. It all made him wonder what happened to the ghosts who arrived at the counting house who didn't have extraordinary memories. "If you'll follow me, then."

  They were waved around to a locked bit of the counter near its end that flipped up at an arcane gesture from the ghost. Then it was on into a maze of hallways, all of them narrow and lined with iron doors. And full of spirits, all of them too busy or unwilling to bother with the hassle of fully manifesting. Instead, they flitted around them like so many chilly breezes as they headed deeper and deeper into the counting house, some of them carrying with them the scent of long-dead flowers or hot metal or cooking that'd been eaten up ages ago.

  Am-Hazek in Lord Kinross's body made jolly but trivial conversation with Mirk the whole way, polite inquiries about his uncle's business and the K'maneda's use of spell papers. It was all Mirk could do to keep spitting up cheery answers without swallowing his tongue due to his nerves.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Which was, thankfully, not all that out of character for him. Mirk always felt uneasy whenever he ventured into any of the ghosts' counting houses, embarrassed and still a little shocked by the thickness of the ledgers the ghosts watching the desk hauled up onto the counter at his wincing requests for yet another small measure of his family's gold. None of it felt right; none of it felt like him. Mirk was always tempted to call in the whole ledger and go on a spree outside the South Gate of the City, pressing the gold into the eager palms of passers-by until he was relieved of his guilt.

  But that wasn't the way things worked, K'aekniv had explained to him one night over drinks at the tavern. No amount of gold would make the commanders and the guildmasters stop beating people. At least, that was how Genesis had explained things to K’aekniv when he had felt that same guilt when confronted with the gains of their first truly devastating contract. Their masters would never be happy no matter how much gold they were handed. Gold only did any good once all the masters were gone, K'aekniv had concluded with a shrug, as he had offered him another drink. Along with a joke that the only other thing gold was good for was keeping the night barman from throwing them out for never paying their tab.

  Mirk was jolted out of his thoughts by the ghost coming to a sudden halt in front of one of the identical iron doors — he almost walked straight through him, brought up short by Am-Hazek whipping out a thick arm and throwing it in his path. A bit too quick of a move for a man like Lord Kinross, but the ghost was too busy with his keyring to notice, thankfully. "Would you prefer privacy, my lord?" the ghost asked Am-Hazek.

  "Indeed I would, Billy. Lock it up after too. To engage the wards. The seigneur's senses are very delicate. I'd rather not have the potential of any passers-by clouding his judgment."

  This had to be some sort of standard procedure. The ghost was already in the process of locking the door back up before him and Am-Hazek had gone past the threshold. Inside the small room beyond the iron door was an elegant gilt desk, a polished mahogany workbench with a selection of forging tools hung on the wall above it, and two dozen safes. Before Mirk had time to properly take it all in, the door was already clanging shut behind them, with the snick of the key in its lock. The wards on it engaged a moment later, blocking out the faint traces of the ghosts whispering past out in the hall Mirk could feel against his mental shielding.

  "Do you feel anything, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked him, switching smoothly back into French, into his usual soft cadence that neither demanded nor yielded. Perfect neutrality, the hallmark of a well-trained djinn servant whose master at least respected the power of the being they kept around to open their doors and oversee their human servants.

  Mirk shook his head. "Which safe are they in?"

  "Ra-Darat did not pass me that information, seigneur. However, I believe our friends should be suited to the task. Ra-Darat did say that Lord Kinross would undoubtedly have put his family spell on the safe, owing to how dear the jewels are."

  More uneasy than ever, Mirk drew the spell paper out of the breast pocket of his justacorps. The ghosts had put up wards on their counting house meant to keep out mages with uncanny magic like Genesis's, invisible walls in the Abyss that could keep out demons and human chaotic dark mages strong enough to move through the shadows. But Genesis had a temporary solution. A combination of the magic he usually employed to move from place to place and something to bribe the creatures that inhabited the Abyss into attacking the wards. Genesis estimated the odds of the ghosts knowing that their attack was guided and not their usual capricious desire to consume and destroy was low enough for them to risk it. About thirty-five percent.

  It still felt awfully risky to Mirk. But they had no other option, not if they wanted gems clear enough to house the souls of Ravensdale's djinn, that could allow their depleted magic to work well enough for them to make good their escape. The spell paper Genesis had given him had two lines drawn on it where it was meant to be ripped. Once to get Fatima and Elijah into the counting house, and once to send them back. Mirk and Am-Hazek would be leaving on foot. Provided the ghosts didn't realize their domain had been intruded into.

  Biting his lip, Mirk ripped the top half of the spell paper.

  It was horrible to watch, like a great beast had slithered out of the shadows beneath the desk across the room and ripped a hole in the world with five hands full of claws as broad and sharp as the deadliest swords. But at least the press of chaotic magic against Mirk's mind was the same, a rush of familiar hissing static and a rush of coldness. There was a burst of inhuman chittering and screeching. Then Fatima and Elijah were shoved into existence in the middle of the room.

  "Oh God! Don't let me go, please, please don't let them eat—"

  The trip must have been as harrowing as it'd seemed from the other side. Elijah's usual reticence around women was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had both arms wrapped tight around Fatima's shoulders as he gibbered with fright, as if he was terrified that something would lash a wriggling appendage out from underneath the desk and drag him back into the Abyss if he let her go.

  Fatima was having none of it. She used her cane to push him away as she pried one of his arms off her shoulders. "Quit crying! And get to work. He said we have twenty minutes. Hope the abyssals eat your yellow ass the next time..."

  "Oh, hello, Mirk! And...um..."

  The small scrap of his usual exuberance Elijah had regained vanished at the sight of Am-Hazek wearing Lord Kinross's shape looming back by the door. Elijah swallowed hard and laughed, rubbing sheepishly at his neck. "I know you're not actually Kinross, but it still gives me the shivers..."

  "Don't be alarmed, Comrade Oliver. I can assure you, if everything goes to plan, Lord Kinross will have no idea who took his jewels," Am-Hazek said, with a slight, graceful bow that was at odds with Kinross's stocky build.

  "Ah, that's almost as bad as the abyssals...last time I saw Kinross he was coming after me with a hammer..."

  "I said, get to work!" Fatima smacked Elijah across the back of his legs with her cane once more. "Tell me which one of these things has his family spell on it."

  Mirk couldn't help but wonder what Elijah had done that was so awful that it'd made jolly Lord Kinross fly into a rage. That or his friendliness was even more of an act than Mirk had assumed it was. But there was no time to question Elijah on it, not then.

  At least redirecting his attention to a magical problem served to calm the mage some. He ran his hand over the safes lining the wall opposite the work bench, mumbling to himself until he came to one that sparked and hissed at his touch. "That's it! Would recognize it anywhere. Put it on all the best grimoires so that no one could take as much as a peek without him breathing down your neck making sure you didn't copy anything out..."

  "I thought you said you knew how to break his family spell?" Fatima asked, as she heaved the bag that'd been slung over her shoulder up onto the workbench. She'd already begun to pluck the necessary tools from it, cunning devices with lots of levers and screws.

  "Of course I do! Though I'm sure he tweaked it a little after I finally got into Zhao Jianyu's Gunpowder Chronicles..."

  Fatima scoffed. "If you've read Gunpowder Chronicles, what did you have to drag me into all this for? To smack you when you lose your nerve?"

  "Never could get the intensity circles right. Took out half of the apprentices' dorms with that one..."

  "Are they always like this, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked Mirk in a low voice, a much more subdued smile crossing his face than the one he'd used when pretending to be Kinross.

  "Mostly yes, monsieur."

  "Oh! I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself! He did just what Comrade Genesis said he'd do with it. Added to the binding aspect with Dover's four-point bracing array..."

  Elijah applied himself to the spell on the safe that'd sparked at him with gusto, taking a pot of ink and a brush out of his overcoat pocket and sketching arcane figures all over its front. As he worked, the spell that'd been cast on the safe, providing a layer of protection that artificed and enchanted metal alone couldn't compete with, became clear. It manifested as chains looped around the safe, glowing white hot with fiery potential. Its glow reminded Mirk of the magic that had circled around Ra-Darat's bracelets at the mention of Lord Kinross's name. "Two minutes," Elijah said, his voice tight with excitement as he moved to activate the spells he'd painted on the surface of the safe.

  "We've got thirteen," Fatima countered, consulting a pocketwatch she'd slapped down on the workbench among the rest of her tools. The last item in her bag, she held out to Mirk — a burgundy velvet bag, closed with a golden cord. An insignia consisting of a galleon with sails unfurled, sails that bore three balanced crosses, was stamped on its side. The mark of the English Artificers Guild. "All made to order by a friend in the guild according to the djinn's info," she explained. "Check them."

  Mirk crossed the room to the desk, propping his grandfather's staff against its edge before shaking out the bag's contents onto the blotter. Thirty diamonds of varying sizes, the smallest one among them still as big as a chicken egg. Banishing his shields fully, Mirk picked one up and reached out to it with his magical senses.

  It sounded very much like diamond, a tune that was somehow both airy and gravelly all at once, a delicate harmony of low and high intertwined. And the way the glow from the magelight on the wall in front of him got tangled up in it, how it fractured inside the gem's depths, was the same as any diamond Mirk had ever seen.

  Yet, there was a certain artifice to it that Mirk didn't know how to describe. Not in what he saw, but in what he heard. Like there was a second song hidden in the stone's melody, one much higher and shriller than the dominant tune. A faint voice that wanted to make itself heard, but couldn't pierce through the duet that made up the diamond it had been carved and broken into resembling. Though Mirk couldn't think of any way to confirm it, he was certain that the diamond in his hand was made of a different kind of stone, clawed out of a very different kind of rift in the earth than the sort diamonds were pried out of.

  "It sounds a little off, methinks..."

  "Sounds?"

  "There's a higher pitch in it. But it's very faint. Methinks that no one would hear it unless they knew what they were listening for."

  Fatima paused her work at the bench, scowling over her shoulder at him. "Does it look all right, at least? Doubt even Kinross has someone like you on hand...sounds like...imagine having every grimoire you could want and still depending on wild magic..."

  Mirk only nodded in response to Fatima's continued grumbling, scooping the false diamonds back into their velvet bag. A few moments later, the ghostly, glowing chains around the safe vanished with a shudder and a bang, one that Elijah hastily threw up a shield against, making it echo loud in the rear of the room rather than leaking out into the hall. "Done! Well! That was exhilarating! I knew I still had the knack!"

  "Took you three minutes, not two," Fatima said in passing, as she swept her tools up into her arms and got stiffly down onto her knees before the safe. Unlike Elijah, she worked quickly and quietly, with picks and levers and screws. Mirk had been expecting something more violent, something closer to all the curious ticking devices that Ilya was always making. But really, he shouldn't have been surprised that Fatima opted instead for the precise and cautious route. Within five minutes — five minutes that Elijah spent making awkward conversation with Am-Hazek, torn between curiosity about how he'd managed to put on the Grand Master's body and an instinctual sort of fear of it, even if Am-Hazek was making it perpetually clear that he wasn't actually Lord Kinross — Fatima had pried off the safe's door, leaving its lock untouched.

  "You're up," she said to Am-Hazek, shuffling aside to make room instead of getting back to her feet. "Might be hidden trip spells. Take out the bag and make the swap."

  Nodding, Am-Hazek bent gracefully down beside the safe, taking out a velvet bag identical to the one Mirk handed over to him. But just to be certain, to leave nothing more to chance, Am-Hazek transferred all the real diamonds out of the original bag and replaced them with the fakes. It was the first thing that evening that made a slight, wry sliver of a smile cross Fatima’s face.

  While Fatima was putting the door back on, with practiced ease, Am-Hazek drew back a few paces and examined one of the diamonds, his own multi-colored magic flaring in his eyes as he peered into the depths of the largest gem.

  "It goes further than I thought," he said to himself, softly, an expression that Mirk had never seen from him before crossing his face. A smile, bitter and hard rather than amused or wistful. And the magic in his eyes seemed so wild, just for a moment, that Mirk knew Lord Kinross's fleshy, stocky body wouldn't be enough to contain his magic if it escaped Am-Hazek's control.

  "Is something wrong, monsieur?" Mirk asked him.

  "I'd very much like to speak to Comrade Genesis sometime soon, if that is at all possible. Preferably outside of the City."

  "You're in luck," Fatima said with a grunt, as she used her cane to help lever herself back to her feet. "Big Nose wants you both at the house as soon as you get out of here."

  "I'm afraid I won't be at my best this evening. It has been a long time since I've changed. But if that is the only option...then it is done."

  It made a chill run down Mirk's spine to hear Am-Hazek use that djinn expression in such a final, determined tone, the same one Am-Gulat used every time they had a chance to speak to him. But Mirk scraped himself together, helping Fatima put her tools back in her bag over her protests. Then it was back through the shadows for her and Elijah: the fire mage's dread was strong enough to make Mirk's eyes water as Fatima grudgingly let him hold onto her shoulder with one white-knuckled hand as Mirk moved to rip the spell paper a second time. The shadows lashed out from underneath the desk once more and, with an undignified shriek from Elijah and a roll of Fatima's eyes, the pair were dragged back into darkness.

  Am-Hazek was in motion the instant the others were gone, all business once more as he tided the small safe room, erasing any evidence of their thievery with his eye for detail. Mirk did what he could to help, though he felt more like he just got in the way rather than making things any easier for Am-Hazek. Once the room was to his satisfaction, Am-Hazek paused to compose himself, to put back on the Kinross act that went along with his changed body. A warm smile on his face, Am-Hazek held the velvet bag full of diamonds out to Mirk.

  "No, you keep it, monsieur," Mirk said, waving the bag away. "They're your diamonds, after all. Euh, Kinross's. But also yours. Really yours."

  "And soon they'll be the lads' gems. Until they get their proper ones back," Am-Hazek replied, in Kinross's booming, cheerfully commanding voice, slipping the bag into the breast pocket of his borrowed waistcoat. "Shall we be off, seigneur?"

  Even though Am-Hazek's Kinross impression was as flawless as it had been before, Mirk couldn't help feeling that something had changed in him when he'd looked into the stolen diamond. As if all of Am-Hazek's curiosity and the energy that came with it had been focused, concentrated into something hard and sharp, like the gems tucked away inside his waistcoat.

  "Yes, let's."

  - - -

  The change back into Am-Hazek was even worse than the change into Lord Kinross had been, if the sounds were anything to go by. Once again, Am-Hazek had warned Mirk against looking, had waved off all of his many offers of aid. The meaty crunching and grinding that time was followed by the sound of retching. After five full minutes, Mirk could stand it no longer. He lifted his head and went to Am-Hazek's side.

  He was back in his own naked body, shivering and braced against the wall of the alleyway, gagging and spitting bile into a growing puddle at his bare feet. Hesitantly, Mirk put an arm around Am-Hazek, shaking his handkerchief out of his justacorps pocket and offering it to him. "Please, take it. I don't need it back."

  "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek croaked, spitting once more, that time into the handkerchief. With a grimace of disgust, he plucked his earring out of the mess. "I'd forgotten why I never do this..."

  "Let me get your clothes."

  That time, Am-Hazek was too weak and upset by his condition to protest. Mirk helped him back into his things, letting the djinn lean on him as much as he wished, helping him tug on sleeves and stockings. Then he knelt down on the now filthy wine-stained tablecloth to help him buckle his shoes, sparing Am-Hazek the dizziness Mirk could feel washing over him every time the djinn wasn't perfectly upright. When he'd finished, Mirk looked up to ask him if there was anything else he needed, only to find Am-Hazek staring down at him, his mouth screwed up in a grimace.

  "Are you going to be sick again, monsieur?"

  The djinn shook his head. "It's all very strange, seigneur."

  "What is?"

  "I've lived among the humans for decades now. Though you display wonderful variety, there's one thing you all do that's always reminded me of the home realm. You guard every inch you rise on your human hierarchy with your life, the same as most djinn. I understand the impulse. And yet..."

  "Yet?"

  "You have no sense of self-preservation, seigneur."

  The comment startled a laugh out of Mirk. But Am-Hazek was quick to apologize, holding out a hand to help Mirk up. Mirk accepted it, though he was careful to put as little weight as possible on Am-Hazek. The djinn's hand was cold, clammy. And his magic felt more addled and weak than it had the last time Am-Hazek had been forced to venture into the City of Glass.

  "I apologize for my rudeness," Am-Hazek said, after a final fit of coughing. He'd taken out his own handkerchief and was polishing the teardrop gem hanging from his earring, though he refused to take it back out of his ear to check to see if his rubbing was doing any good. "I didn't mean it as an insult."

  "I'm not offended at all," Mirk said, helping Am-Hazek pack up the valise to once again spare him the strain of bending over. "My sister was sure to tell me something like that every chance she could. But I am a little curious, monsieur. How did you mean it?"

  "There is a certain confidence in it that I feel most individuals of noble birth could benefit from," Am-Hazek said, after a long pause, as Mirk got back to his feet and picked up the valise.

  Mirk didn't feel very confident, not at the moment. He mostly felt damp and tired. And cold. The weather had turned while they'd been in the counting house, and one of London's perpetual fogs was rolling in, drifting over from the direction of the river that wound through the mortal part of the city and rising up thick from between the cobbles. He should have brought his cloak. "Thank you for the compliment, monsieur. It'd be better if you rested a bit longer, but you know how Gen is about waiting. If you'd like, you can lean on me as we walk. And if it'd help you feel less out of sorts, I can lower my shields so that you can use my potential to help recover."

  Though he hesitated again, Am-Hazek caved to necessity and nodded, keeping one hand tight on Mirk’s shoulder as they shuffled out of the alleyway and back onto the street. The solicitor's office was dark, but the coffee house next door was still overflowing with patrons, most of them growing louder and freer as the evening progressed. Mirk wondered if coffee was the only thing those sorts of places served. It radiated the same heady, rambunctious feel that drifted out of the taverns back in the City of Glass.

  As they headed off down the street, Mirk leaning on Jean-Luc's staff and Am-Hazek leaning on him in turn, Mirk felt the djinn reach out to his healing potential, drawing from it carefully, taking as little as he needed to regain his bearings. Mirk didn't mind the feel of it at all. Though he thought he could feel a change in Am-Hazek's mind, much like the one he'd glimpsed in his expression back in the counting house. His magic felt more focused, sharper, just like his eyes had become.

  Mirk wondered what it was he'd seen inside those diamonds that had brought about the sudden change. But he suspected he'd be hearing about it as soon as they got to the bordello just beyond the South Gate. In the meantime, he thought it best to let Am-Hazek recover and collect his thoughts.

  That aside, Mirk also had a strong suspicion that whatever Am-Hazek had seen was not something that should be discussed openly in the middle of the London mage quarter. No matter how little heed any of the passers-by paid to the high-born mage who was, uncharacteristically, supporting a djinn rather than things being the other way around.