“Greetings upon you, servant,” he said in the most asinine Imperial accent Quistis had ever heard outside of the Rian idiocy.


    Three others flanked him, all dressed in thick furs, with the telltale colour scheme slathered on their faces. Ort’s own immortal clergy. Rare sight outside of Aztroa Magnor. The last people she wanted to see within her city’s walls.


    “Greetings, painted one.”


    She meant to step out of the cage and pass by, but all four formed up to bar her way. They all openly bore a sickle and scythe gleaming at their waists. The one that had greeted her, a tall, brawny human with a shaved head that showed off a complex tattoo of text, stepped forward to come nearly chest-to-chest with her. She had to crane her neck to meet his piggish black eyes.


    Barlo tensed behind and she heard the whisper of his swords being drawn. She signalled him to calm with a gesture above her shoulder. Touching one of the painted morons without direct provocation was a straight, one-way route to the dungeons beneath Aztroa’s Crown and not even Falor could protect him from his mother’s wrath. The rest of the crowd in the carriage drew back and muttered their obedience to the priesthood.


    Fools.


    “This isn’t Aztroa Magnor, painted one,” she said to the leader. “Whatever you mean by barring my way, I suggest you reconsider.”


    “Why did she come, servant? Why was she here?” the man asked. His accent made her ears itch.


    “Why the Goddess chooses to do what she does is her business alone. Certainly not for me to assume on, or for you to know.” She met his eyes easily and offered her most bored expression of pure disdain. Was he stupid enough to pull a weapon on her? His knuckled going white on the hilts of his tools suggested he was. “Draw those here and you may learn why I am unimpressed by their sight.”


    Even Ort’s clergy weren’t allowed to openly air blades in Valen, a fact the empress was keenly aware of. If this man was fool enough to disobey the rule of law in a free city, he would discover that it was terribly difficult to be immortal and have a sickle shoved up the arse. No healer from there to the ends of Edana would bestow even an itch salve on him. Barlo was right at her back, a looming, reassuring presence, waiting for the smallest slip from the four.


    “When the Lord of Reaping comes for the Harvest, you will find your faith misplaced, servant,” the man droned.


    Quistis fought to restrain a yawn. This old lemon. The Harvest. The servant insult. Every small omen, portent, and imagined slight from one of Panacea’s healers to Ort’s priests would always and invariably lead to confrontations of the stupidest order. She had no patience for this fool but did wonder where he’d come from. It was a near season’s travel to Aztroa and the iron road barely ran in Winter… so where were they from?


    She tapped the emblazoned fist on her chest.


    “One servant of the enlightened empire to another, painted one. This is not the time or place for old grudges. Behave, for you are abroad.”


    The priest’s eyes flickered to the symbol. Falor’s crest. A look at Barlo cemented his hesitation and cloaks were tightened, tools hidden from view.


    Quistis took a step forward and almost trod over his boots. The other men drew aside for her to pass, undisguised hatred burning in their eyes. She let it wash over and marched out into the small lift plaza. A crowd had swarmed while they’d been stalled and, of course, people muttered about the exchange. By this time tomorrow there would be a hundred idiot rumours flying around the city on wings of assumption and hearsay. Lovely.


    “Two men on them, please, after we get back,” she said as Barlo came to walk besides her. “I doubt they’d make themselves hard to find.”


    “Aye. The stupid crawl out after a fine day of too much wine and food,” he grumbled. “Long way to Garet. Longer still to Aztroa.”


    “My feelings exactly. I want to know where the dullards came from, and why they’re even here.”


    They’d barely passed the threshold into the new season cycle and here was another problem for her to worry over. She added it to her checklist. Four men weren’t an issue worth much attention, but she would prefer maintaining Valen’s good humour for a while longer. It would keep Diogron off her back and out of her office, and that was worth some bother. With the empire’s promise fulfilled—Falor had seen to it with aplomb—she echoed Barlo’s feeling that it was only a matter of time before they were redeployed somewhere more relevant. If she could tie up loose ends by Thaw she would leave happily.


    The Lower City celebrated after its own fashion. Streets were clean-swept and salted, the aromas of home baking masked the lingering scent of ash, and the crowds surged in the respite before the next storm. Many headed to the gates, likely to join the effort to clear the roads to the closest villages and deliver much needed help to those that struggled. She recognized some of her own off-duty men leading the efforts.


    It put the four out of her mind as they shouldered their way through narrow alleys, skirting the wider Agora ring where she expected murderous crowding on such a fine day. The Artisan’s Small Corner, a triangular intersection of alleyways with an uneven arrangement of narrow-built storefronts, offered a breather from the crowds mulling just about everywhere else.


    “Why him?” Barlo asked.


    They approached Laric’s Illustrations, a white-walled shop with colourful letters stencilled just above the door. A far cry from the artisans plying their skills near the Guild.


    “He’s reliable and he’s discreet.”


    “Same could be said of most of the ones at the Guild.”


    “And they report everything to Lucian. I don’t want his greasy little fingers on anything of interest for us. Not now.” She scowled at him, reminded of his and Rumi’s cock up from earlier in the season.


    “I could break them fingers,” Barlo deadpanned.


    “I’d rather you didn’t. It’s enough that Rumi gave him a black eye and a split lip.” She opened the door but tarried on the threshold to berate him. “You were right there, Barlo. You could have stopped her. Do you know how much he charges me now for information? Bastard likes to pretend to lisp now.”


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    Barlo followed her in, having to stoop and enter sideways to fit through the door. “Was amusing watching him try his shtick with her. Deserved what he got.”


    “It was stupid you mean. Anyways, Laric’s a good sort. Don’t scare him.”


    The elend Laric pretended not to have overheard the conversation on his doorstep. He smiled politely from behind an easel set in the one corner of the room that got a semblance of natural light, waiting for Quistis to pull off her cloak and set it near the fireplace to dry.


    “Good morning, Captain Quistis,” the artisan chirped. “Lovely day this late in Winter, yes?”


    Quistis couldn’t see what he was working on and she respectfully did not get in his light.


    “Lovely as a stubbed toe, Laric. But I don’t mean to burden you with my worries. How is the commission?”


    Laric raised a finger and refocused on his canvass, opalescent black eyes shining as his left hand worked with a tiny, needle-thin brush. Quistis shared a look with Barlo as both warmed by the hearth. Paintings hung on every wall of the cramped space and the heady smell of paint thinner badly needed airing out. Portraits of various people smiling serenely for the painter. Scenes of Valen life across the seasons. A riot of colours that hung on pegs or simply rested against walls, waiting for buyers.


    “That looks awfully familiar,” Barlo said in a half-whisper. He pointed a meaty finger at a half-hidden portrait behind the artisan.


    Quistis didn’t need to look at it to reply. “Painted by Laric’s father actually, at the behest of my mother. We were here for the Descent.”


    “Didn’t like it enough to buy?”


    “The artist wasn’t happy with this one. Didn’t like the light. Asked my mother if he could try again. That second piece hangs back home, above the mantle.”


    “Never knew ye had a sister.”


    “I don’t.”


    Barlo clamped up and Quistis felt terrible for her tone. But she wasn’t here for ancient history and preferred it weren’t dredged up. Sometimes she forgot that Laric kept that old thing around. She’d asked him once to burn it and the artist hadn’t spoken to her for an entire season.


    “Right. Yes. Apologies.” Laric added finishing touches to the piece and swung his attention back to them. “Yes, the commission is quite done. Let me get it for you.”


    Some rummaging in a backroom ended with him producing three vividly sculpted and painted plaques and their twins. One set for reference, second for mass printing by the Enginarium.


    The first she knew well. Cinder’s likeness had been at one point plastered all over the empire. This new portrait was reconstructed based on old wanted posters as corrected by the soldiers that had seen her up-close, as well as Falor’s observations. Older somewhat. Weary. Murder in her eyes.


    The second overlaid nearly perfectly over the Anna Theala forced remembrance. Head of blonde hair, high cheekbones, full lips, light blue eyes. Anywhere in the Empire she would stand out. As a channeller with access to Iliaya’s Staff, the healer’s age was impossible to determine but Quistis still estimated some late thirty Summers, give or take. At least for what Barlo and Rumi had seen of her sister, that seemed well within reason.


    The last set was nearly pointless. Nothing could be seen of the man wearing the horned helmet except grey eyes through the slit, and this according to Aidan. Young had been all the Rian could contribute beyond the eye colour.


    “Good likeness,” Barlo said. He inspected each in turn while Laric wrapped the press plaques in expensive waxed paper. “That helmet would’ve drawn attention somewhere. Ye just don’t see that kind of stupid often.”


    “I take it you are happy with the work?” Laric grinned with the satisfaction of a job well done.


    “Quite happy, yes. Fantastic as always.”


    “Three griffons, as discussed, then.”


    Quistis paid him four. “Not a word about this to anyone. If you have sketches, I want you to lock them up. Better yet, destroy them. We have an interest in these people.”


    “You know me, Captain. Not a peep.”


    She smiled and signed her goodbye after the elend fashion, both hands pressed to the hollow of her chest, fingers intertwined, head inclined forward. “Until next time, then.”


    “Don’t be a stranger, Captain. I look forward to finally painting your portrait.”


    She’d be along some other time for a cup of tea with the artisan, when off-duty after everything settled. “Someday soon, maybe.”


    They stepped out to a gust of wind which brought a powdering of snow from the rooftops. Quistis tightened her warmed-up cloak against it. Barlo raised his for her protection but she refused. The cold did her good, kept her mind sharp even as an edge of weariness worried at the corners of her mood.


    “We will not circulate the Cinder plaque,” she said. “I want some time to pass before we bring her back to the city’s attention. We will send copies to the empire, in case she shows up there.”


    “Aye. The other two?”


    “Put them out separately and staggered. I don’t want them associated together. Invent a crime and a name for each and have them circulated like that. It shouldn’t be suggested that we have any special interest in them.”


    Barlo grunted his agreement. Falor would probably want things done the same way and, for the time being, leave the Cinder situation in her care regardless. He had plenty to deal with, especially once Diogron came out of his post-Descent stupor and the real damage assessment began. Valen loved the Commander but the Council would want to put a price on the destruction, haggling endlessly over every single detail, to the decimal point. They’d been insistent on pulling in more empire support for their own troubles in the deeper countryside, and now had just the bargaining chip.


    Barlo nodded along but gave her a side glance. “Yer keeping Rumi awful busy. First training the men, then checking the guard on the regular. Now on the Crepuscular look-out. How’d she piss in yer coffee?”


    They rejoined the ebb and flow of traffic heading back up to the Citadel. He tugged her back by the cowl of her cloak before she walked out in front of a carriage rushing down the tracks. It passed by angrily, ringing its bell at her.


    “Seems to me ye need some sleep, Captain.”


    “I’m fine. Was thinking.”


    “Think yerself back to yer feet, then.”


    “Anyway, Rumi’s handled five other dissident cells before being assigned to us. This looks to be up her alley and it’s work she likes.” She shuddered when thinking of the file she had on Rumi Belli. Even the ink stank of blood. “I’m more than happy to let her enjoy herself as long as she keeps away from the Aieni woman.”


    Cares bore down on the city, cold light filtered through a thin layer of clouds as the morning wore on. It dispelled some of the pooling shadows. Maybe it was her imagination, but she felt the caress of unseen eyes on the back of her head. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. If Barlo noticed anything, he didn’t show it.


    “Where’s the nearest elend coffee place? Do you know?”


    “Up the alley, two lefts, and ahead to the Greenwall. Place’s on the corner, next to the cobbler. Mind yer pouch there.”


    “Right. See about the posters and arrange the rest. I’ll be along in a bit.”


    “Aye, Captain.”


    If someone did try and move on her, she’d feed them their teeth. Either she got coffee or she got violent. Regardless, she would feel better.