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The main office of Coblyn's Fancy was not as well-appointed as Verad had expected. Better than the worker's quarters, certainly, housed in an outbuilding that looked far less likely to collapse than his sleeping quarters as it was. The furniture was much-improved as well, fine-grain mahogany chairs being a significant improvement over the stools and splintered cast-offs that were used further to the east. But the building nevertheless seemed older than it should have been, as if it had worn itself out before its time.

He had very little opportunity to take in the details, however, the attention of three people being fixed upon him. Jeresu Resu was a known quantity, however vexed he might look at the moment, cheeks puffing out in frustration under his mop of shaggy black hair. The other two, however, were of greater interest.

There was the company head, of course, Milith Palmer by the nameplate on her desk. Hyur, Midlander, late-twenties to her early thirties by his reckoning. Short, light red hair and a smile that hid deep strain, the kind of politeness he might use when a customer had proven truly unruly. Neat clothes and neat posture and a neat manner of holding her hands together in front of her desk. Nothing amiss and nothing out of place. But it was the eye of Agid that had him squirm in his seat.

The security chief was a bear of a Highlander, and, under the long dark braids of his hair, seemed as savage as his demeanor implied. He bore the scars of recent injuries, a superficial burn marking the side of his face near his eye, which seemed to make it bulge out as he watched Verad from the other side of the room, standing behind both Palmer's desk and Palmer herself, arms folded. He wasn't armed, and Verad suspected he didn't have to be.

His shoulders bunched together reflexively, remembering the threat. What, then, would become of him were he already the product?

"My apologies Ser Bellveil, are you cold?" Palmer's voice cut through the exposition.

"No, no, my apologies." He shook his head. "A little surprised, though."

Palmer's smile stretched rather than widened. "That certainly makes two of us," she said, her finger not so much pointing to a parchment on her desk as sliding towards it until it was incidentally indicated. "I received an unusual expenditure report from the commissary today. A dozen or more extra meals, enough beer for at least a keg's worth - this all on your account." Her hands returned to their folded position. "You don't seem to be immobile. I trust you didn't consume it all?"

Verad scrunched his lips together, screwing them up in thought. Certainly he'd seen people taking extra food on his name, but it hadn't seemed so many at the time, caught up in his own tale as he was. "No, I can't say I did," he replied.

"That would make sense. And it wasn't a special occasion? Your nameday, or a Duskwight holiday? I confess I don't often meet with people of your clan."

"I . . . can't say that it was, no." He tried grinning, kept it at a minimum wattage, looked sheepish, self-effacing. "Just a small party, you know." The room remained silent for a long moment, and the grin faded.

"Mmhm," Palmer said. "Just a small one. But quite an extension of your contract! A full month, just in one night, by these expenditures. Just imagine if one person were to pay for these meals every night. They might be here for years, which, let me assure you, is an unusually long contract when it comes to debt-trading. Yourself excepted, of course."

His stomach churned, performed a few mummers' tricks in his gut. "Of course."

"And, of course, it's a gross violation of our contract with the debt-trader, an abuse of the system we've established to allow the other workers to set their own levels of comfort and the length of their stay." She gestured towards Jeresu, who stood to the side of her desk. "I had to contact Ser Resu right away once I learned of it. In your case, he's taken on a great deal of risk, and it would surely do him no good to see the contract terminated. Isn't that right Mr. Resu?" The man seemed as close to fuming as Verad had ever seen a Lalafell, stamping his feet in an emphatic gesture too angry to be practiced.

"I took a big risk on you, Ser! You begged and pleaded, you did. Didn't I see you with tears in your eyes? Didn't I see you on your knees? You even said you would prostitute yourself if it came to that, and instead I found you this place, didn't I?" He slapped the desk beside him, scattering an ink quill. "And this is how you repay me?!" He stepped forward with a sudden movement, as if he held himself back from rushing at Verad, who similarly stopped himself from lifting his hands in defense.

"Calm yourself, Resu," said Agid, in a voice barely above a murmur. Jeresu remembered himself and drew back. "My apologies, Ser," he said to Agid, who snorted with the slightest lift of his shoulders before looking out the window with limited interest. 

Palmer spread her hands wide. "You see the problem. In light of the good work we've done with Ser Resu over the past few months, and in light of how new you are to our company, we've decided to overlook the breach of contract - although we will be distributing the extra accumulated time to the off-shift workers from last night."

At her words, Verad started out of his seat, Agid lifting off of the wall to match. "A warning," he said, a note of plea in his voice. "Just a warning for them, I beg you. What is a month on my contract? It will not happen again, I can swear it - "

Palmer cut him off with a look, her eyes stone. "This is the only fair method of distribution, Ser Bellveil. I trust you won't make this mistake again. Otherwise, as your contract will indicate, the penalties will become more severe. Let's not have this conversation again, shall we?"

His nod was weak, but it seemed enough to please her. "Ser Hatemonger, if you could show our worker back to his position. I think we're done here." She took a sip from a cup emblazoned with the company's cheery coblyn mascot, and the click of porcelain on her desk when she set it down was close to the bang of a gavel. 

Agid crossed the room and opened the door. Verad walked out with a shuffling step and his head hung low, Jeresu following behind him, grumbling under his breath. "Of all the inconveniences, to be called out from home for this, of all things, honestly . . . "

Verad chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Agid had lingered behind, nodding at Palmer as she offered instructions he couldn't hear. When he was certain he was inaudible, he spoke, whispering, "And how is your sister, Ser Resu?" Jeresu blinked, caught off guard by the question.

"She's . . . fine, obviously," he said, giving Verad a suspicious look. "Why?"

"No reason, no reason." He feigned interest in the secretary's desk. "But you should, perhaps, ask the security chief about his whereabouts last week." He smiled, brightly at that. "But it was good to see you! My apologies for the breach; I just thought to improve the workers' morale a little, ease the burden."

"Hm? Oh, yes. Very, um, noble, yes." Jeresu seemed distracted as he left the office. Verad preferred to wait for Agid to catch up. He was, after all, being escorted, even as he dreaded being anywhere alone with the man.

"This way," he grunted. Verad was quick to follow him out of the office, towards the mine's main entrance. "Very cute, what you did," he muttered. "You're at the dressing station?" Without waiting for a response, he pointed down the tunnel. "Bit to the right, just past the ore loading dock there."

Verad squinted down the mine's entrance. He had always entered from the camp, and so the front of it, with its rickety railings and loading docks, were foreign to him. "Thank you, Ser. I'll be on my way."

"Safe job, the dressing station. Not like working the tunnels. That was lucky for you." Agid gave the mine's tunnel a long stare, as if offended by it. "Lot of risks in the tunnels. Lot of accidents."

Turning, he walked away, leaving Verad in front of the dark and surrounded by the clatter of machines and the cacophony of metal on rock.

"Took us a month to find the first seam. It was a tough one, let me tell you, not least because of the stakes. Bought our way out of a contract, me and Lennard, used what we had for two weeks, and that stretched to three, and that turned to chewing on boot leather. I kept telling Lennard the place was a bust, his nose was wrong, but he wouldn't have it, kept on plugging away, pick to metal, pick to metal. Not saying he was stronger than me, he being a Midlander and all, but you could see in the night, he was hammering away at something using I-don't-know-what for fuel. Not muscle, I know that.

 

"End of it came, we could barely swing down in the sink shaft, but once you've seen copper in the rock, hunger doesn't matter so much. We struck good, you know, saw the gleam. Brought some investors on, account of we didn't have much money to do any more than dig that pit deep enough to go out the other side of Hydaelyn. Wasn't a mine yet, not really.

 

"Money came in,though, and we were digging horizontal and vertical. Lot of the guys were new, industry just starting to boom back then. So a lot of the boys were just leaving rocks by the wayside, not clearing their paths. If you know what you're doing you know to keep the rocks secure, keep them safe, otherwise you get coblyns, scuttling in, looking for a meal. They won't do a man any harm if there's rocks around, just bad for business. Came to be that we'd see men break away rocks, open up a new shaft, and they'd make their way down the new path and the coblyns would be scurrying right behind them, chewing up all the leftovers, pleased as I suppose one of them can be.

 

"Well, we kept seeing that, and took a liking to it. We were the Palmer-Blood Mining Cooperative at the time, just a name we threw together, something to look official for the investors, but we liked that a little better, so we went through the paperwork, one of the men drafted up the little picture - I forget which, but he's gone to the Calamity now, I think - and there it was, Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company."

 

Wahlbert paused, and took a drink from his flask. "Put it on just about everything," he said once finished, holding it up so Verad could take a look at the faded logo on its side. "But just Lennard and I got the flasks."

 

Uncertain of what to say at first (an admittedly rare occasion), Verad leaned against the commissary's wall. From this position, he could vaguely see the outline of the company's head office, from its position to the west, only a faint shadow blocking dark with more dark. Wahlbert sat nearby, having commandeered one of the better-quality stools within his own stores. Verad could not begrudge him his preference for quality.

 

He had planned to ask the man a few questions, to perhaps push another of the levers he had mentioned to Gliding Bone earlier on; however, all it had taken was the briefest of greetings and to lean nearby, and Wahlbert had started to talk. "You're one of the owners, then?" he asked, unable to keep some of the surprise out of his voice.

 

Snorting, Wahlbert took another long drink from his flask before he continued. "Was," he said. "Hurt my leg in the Calamity, and it never set right. Too much pain to mine, and I never did do much of the paperwork. Lennard bought out my shares and set me up in the commissary. Used to be a nice job. Quality goods, got to interact with the boys. For a few months, anyway.

 

"Don't know if the seam got busted up five years ago or if it was always close to drying out, but output got less and less. Not as much ore going out or money coming in. Investors might've been fine with that, might have just squeezed the workers, but Lennard wouldn't budge. Always gave the miners a fair wage, tried to help them out, you know."

 

"Did you use debt-laborers?" Verad stopped himself from clasping a hand over his mouth even after he couldn't stop himself from asking the question. Wahlbert's glare was dark under the lantern light, thick brows casting a shadow over his eyes.

 

"Of course we did. Don't be stupid. You want to find somebody who will look down on that, go join the Sworn and the Royalists. It was good business." The look faded, and he turned his head to examine the offices. "Not like this, though. No contract extensions or bleeding them for a mug of beer. Nor - " He paused, as if hesitating, and continued. "Anyway, we didn't treat them any different than the skilled laborers. There but for the grace of the Twelve, and all. We could have wound up the same way if that first month hadn't paid off.

 

"But he kept pushing and the seam kept failing. We prospected, surveyed, stretched it out, but something had to give, break. People holding the purse-strings cut him loose, would have taken over entirely if his daughter hadn't stepped in. Businesswoman, you know. Raised right on honest gil, but a Monetarist for it all the same. They gave her some time, and I guess the money started flowing again, right around the time the camp started going bad."

 

"Not a coincidence,I'm sure." Verad chewed on the inside of his cheek in thought. "Why tell me this?"

 

"Because you're about as subtle as a bomb in a firewood shed." Wahlbert held his flask up, closer to Verad. The contents smelled foul, vaguely sulfurous. He took it all the same. "New workers cause some trouble," he went on, "But they don't cause as much as you, and they definitely don't stretch out their contracts with whole feasts at a time in their first week."

 

A gracious guest, Verad took a careful sip of the flask's contents, and the familiar taste of Qiqirn firewater conducted a full military offensive upon his throat. He fought back the urge to cough and expel the contents of his stomach through his nose as he returned the flask. Wahlbert seemed to take the silence as another prompt. "Don't do it at all, really. Used to be that we'd have them often as we could - sharing drink, food, stories. These fellows? The void's in them, or it might as well be. Dead inside, no breaking the contract, trying to ride it out as cheap as possible to get out and get done. Nothing like last night."

 

"Surely, you can stop it, then. You can't contact your partner?"

 

"Not without a shovel." There was another dark look on his face. "Passed just after Milith took it over. Died happy, at least. Company was carrying on in the family. And she always did think he was too soft on the workers anyhow, so I can't see as how it would matter much."

 

"Then the law,certainly. Perhaps the Blades - well, some of the Blades, or - " He was cut off by Wahlbert's stare. "There must be an honest one somewhere."

 

"For certain there is. That's not the point. I may be cozy here, I may be secure, with a full flask and a simple job, but I'm also under watch. If you don't think Hatemonger wouldn't hear about me getting up and trying to leave camp, same as any of the other workers, then you take him for a fool." He offered a rueful smile as he tipped his flask over to find it empty before closing its cap. "Hope they'd at least let me drink to death."

 

"So there have been deaths, then."

 

"Sure. People get too close to their contract, and a mine's a good place for accidents. Not often - about . . . " He counted out on his hands, once, twice. "Too often, but not often. Most of the boys here are extended through the next year. No telling what'll happen then."

 

Wahlbert leaned forward in his seat, rubbing a thick, calloused hand through his hair. Verad watched him, uncertain. There were a half-dozen pitches he could offer. He could appeal to the man's better nature, to nostalgia, to the need to quit the drink, to spite, to any number of things. No one seemed like it would fit, no sophistry would function. In the face of that, he chose the simplest question he could conceive.

 

"Do you want to stop them?"

 

Quiet settled between the pair, the kind of silence full of noise, surrounded by the workers and the clang and clatter of the night shift, the occasional low laughter and cough from those off-shift. Rubbing his face between both hands, Wahlbert sighed and sat up. "I do. The place needs to die." He pressed his hand against his face to hide something, Verad thought a laugh at first, before biting down on his knuckle as he kept his gaze on the offices in the distance. "It's not what it was, and it needs to not be."

 

"Then here's what you can do to help me."

 

"If it's not too much trouble, I would very much like to receive a receipt."

 

Palmer gave him a puzzled look, not least because, despite an otherwise impeccable appearance, she had the bleary eyes and tightly clutched cup of coffee that suggested, given the hour, that she hadn't expected to receive visitors this early in her work day. But Verad had risen early, dressed early, and begged leave for an escort to the main office early, as the befuddled guard sharing a brief smoke with the office workers could attest. He was bright-eyed and bushy-bearded, and giving Palmer the expectant expression of a man who  believed the woman in front of him should have all the answers.

 

"A receipt?" She repeated, to which Verad gave an eager nod. "I - certainly, I suppose that's reasonable. Was there a purchase that wasn't accounted for at the commissary?"

 

"Oh, no, no,"he said, chuckling and waving his hand. "No, I haven't been sneaking any more feasts or anything of the sort, I assure you, honest as an Ixal!" He held up his hand as if swearing an oath, and pressed on before she could question the saying. "Rather, this is something I needed to provide my former creditors to show that the transfer of my debt had been finalized, and that they had received appropriate compensation for the sale. I gather that there was a discrepancy in the amount they received."

 

Stifling a yawn, Palmer took a long gulp of coffee before she responded, heaving a satisfied sigh once she was done. "It's unusual, Ser Bellveil, but I can look around in my files for something that might suffice, or have my secretary draft a document stating that the contract was finalized. May I ask what brought this on?"

 

"Oh, well," Verad glanced away, shrugging his shoulders, an abashed look on his face. "I just happened to talk with Ser Resu after our meeting, that's all. Just before he left. There was just - well, it's nothing, I'm certain."

 

"No, please, go on. If there's a problem I can certainly try to resolve it."

 

"You see, he happened to mutter something about - well, I cannot say I understand the particulars, I understand debt-trading is a subtle business and all, but." He inhaled, bracing himself, unwilling to speak ill of his benefactor. "He muttered something about me not being worth the effort 'even if I never paid half-a-gil'. His words, you see."

 

Not quite comprehending, Palmer rubbed her chin and furrowed her brow. Without being interrupted, Verad continued. "And I remember him being very surprised by the scale of my debt and my situation - I did mention that the creditors would accept any sum - but I'm afraid he might have taken that to mean they would accept no sum. So, if there's some sort of receipt showing they've received some form of payment, I just wanted to put my mind at ease." He laughed, the sound high and bemused. "After all, imagine if he hadn't been paying creditors at all! Who knows who would come to collect? Badgering the guards and all that, you see?"

 

For the briefest of moments, the horror of realization flicked across Palmer's eyes, though the rest of her expression remained unchanged. It was all Verad could do not to shout "Aha!" and leap upon the desk in preparation for the dénouement. Such things were unbecoming too early in the game. She kept her composure well, that was certain, dropping her hand from her face, though both palms gripped her coffee mug tight enough to keep it from trembling.

 

"Let me see what I can find," she said, doing, in Verad's estimation, an admirable job of keeping the strain out of her voice. "Personally, though, I can assure you that Ser Resu has done an excellent job of maintaining good relations with creditors, and if there has been any kind of discrepancy in their receipt of payment, it is no doubt an honest mistake."

 

"All the same," Verad replied. "It would put me at ease to have a receipt. If I could see that in the next few days? After all, as Ser Resu would attest, the amount of money I owed, well! It was substantial. I would hate to see the company be liable in any way for it. But I should be on my way to my shift." He bowed, and was in enough of a good mood to make his usual exaggerated flourish, before stepping out of the office and closing the door behind him.

 

Once outside, he counted to three,but the satisfying sound of a coffee mug crashing against the wall was nowhere to be found, and all he received for the delay was the secretary giving him a curious look. Disappointing.

Things proceeded smoothly from that point, so much so in fact that Verad feared his plan, far from being dubious as originally intended, might border on something approaching effective. Shortly after his meeting with Palmer, he had requested to be transferred out of the dressing stations and back into the mining teams again. This occurred without incident, though not without a fair bit of mockery that he should shave his beard, lest he risk it being injured again. He bore the insults with the gravity suited to his station, and spent the next few days in the mine, straining himself as little as he was able.

 

The firesand was more difficult, but Wahlbert had been as accommodating as he could manage. He did not control access over demolitions, which were kept under lock and key and heavy guard in the third of the main office buildings. He did, however, have access to the requisition forms through which a crew could request extra stock in the event of a particularly stubborn boulder or a tunnel that refused to budge, forms that were available for a mere extra week on the leader's contract. It was with no small amount of pleasure that Verad watched as they forged their crew leader's signature to acquire a few blasting caps, dozen or so sticks of firesand, and a detonator.

 

From there it was a matter of waiting. Verad had given Miss Covington a specific date upon which she should tour the facility; he had to hope that she would arrive as planned, and that no rescheduling would occur. He had that day, and that day alone, to act. Any sooner, and he could not guarantee success, any later and the point would likely be moot.

 

Thus on the anticipated day, he and Gliding Bone begged leave from their crews to go to the infirmary, complaining of stomach aches from bad ziz the night before. It was an easy enough lie for the workers to believe, enjoying the sight of a man eating better than they and suffering for it, and left under their own power. Once they were out of sight of the crew, they turned left in one tunnel, rather than right, heading deeper into the mine and down old shafts scouted in the days before, to retrieve their equipment.

 

"You'll be all right down here?" asked Verad as they peered down one unlit shaft, only the vague glow of a pilfered lantern lighting their way. "I couldn't stomach the thought of you being lost here forever, to become little more than a ghost haunting the dreams of miners, you know."

"I don't know the tunnels well, but I know them better than you, and you don't have to make it so dramatic." Bone harrumphed as he picked past a stray piece of rock, keeping his head low and his upper body stooped. "How do you even know about this tunnel, anyway?"

 

"Wahlbert, same as the equipment. Gave me the directions, and how to use the equipment properly." Verad patted a small scroll tucked into the loose belt of his trousers. "He has his own role to play as well, while we're down here. All to be explained when it's over, of course."

 

"Of course. Telling me now while I'm stuck here in the dark waiting to push a lever would be unfair, wouldn't it?" They reached a dead-end in the dark, after a long curve in the tunnel, and unlike others, it appeared to be man-made, hastily covered with rocks and boarded up long after the fact. "What you have Ser Blood doing makes sense. And I don't know what you mean about levers, but I suppose this isn't it. So why this?"

 

"Ah, well, of course it wouldn't make immediate sense if you did not see the particulars of the plan in the grand, overarching sense that I do," said Verad, gesticulating broadly before propping up the lantern on a nearby rock. "But at least allow me to illuminate you. I have already mentioned, of course, that a wealthy investor of some acquaintance of mine will be here today to tour the facility, have I not?"

 

"You have."

 

"And I have already mentioned that, as a man of business, I know that when one wishes to impress an investor, one must put on a great display of potential, have I not?"

 

"You have, as little sense as it makes."

 

"Ah, but it makes all the sense! For with an investor here, I have no doubt that Madam Palmer will seek to put on a display of the mine's still-remaining output, and that the day's load will be outside and ready for inspection." Verad lifted his index finger up, past his eye, as if reaching a conclusion. "And it is for that reason that we are here in the dark with explosives!"

 

Silence, and a flat look from Bone. "That doesn't make a Twelve-damned onze of sense."

 

"Ah, but it will,and you will see! But first let us place the caps and arrange the detonator." Verad unrolled the set of instructions from his belt. Following them was simple enough, and refreshingly free of any mishaps that might cause accidental detonation.

The lack of failure nagged at him, however. There was yet nothing dubious to this plan, nothing overly complicated, nothing that would fail. He did not doubt that his allies in the Harbingers would free him, that his levers would succeed, and that Wahlbert would succeed. This was the only place where there could be any failure! And there was none to be had. It was this lack of complication that led Verad to speak, halfway through connecting wires.

 

"You know," he said, glancing between the wire and the instructions to make sure he did not meet an explosive end, "I never did tell you about some of what we found on that bill of sale, did I? Back in the Tangle, the first time my assistants went out there, I mean."

 

"Huh?" Bone looked up, distracted by the careful arrangement of a blasting cap. "No, you did, didn't you? You said it was from my debt reduction plan."

 

"Yes," said Verad. "Yes, that's quite so. It was a debt reduction plan for you." He connected the wire to the detonator and set it down. "And yet it had many of my promissory notes listed as part of your assets."

 

Gliding Bone was not so practiced at maintaining a poker face as Palmer had been; even if the lantern had gone out and left the tunnel in darkness, his flinch would have been visible. "It was . . . it was a kidnapping, a robbery." he said. "They just took whatever they wanted, and made the bill of sale after, didn't they?"

 

"Mm. That's so, and I suspect anyone would believe that. There's no reason to suggest otherwise, after all." Verad took one of the firesand sticks they'd procured and placed it near a likely gap in the rocks. "I certainly wouldn't. One might wonder whether or not the papers could have been forged so quickly, and known the contents so thoroughly, without having been appraised of them in advance.

 

"But it's a minor question, easily overlooked. I certainly wouldn't gainsay it, out there - " He pointed towards the other end of the tunnel. "When all is said and done. I wouldn't. And I wouldn't sabotage this plan for the sake of a bad mood over it either. But in here, at least, in the dark? I would like to know."

 

There was a silence between them for a few moments as they connected firesand sticks to caps, caps to their detonator. "You always left that strongbox out there, right in the street. Always, every week. Said nobody would think it would have anything worth stealing. But I knew. The other vendors as well. We knew there was money in there." Bone tied a pair of sticks together and jammed them in the rock. "When you were on that vacation, it was easy to force the lock, take a look, security or no. I wrote it all down, and passed it off to Resu as mine." He shrugged. "I just didn't expect to get taken the day I tried to take, you know?"

 

Verad pursed his lips,and tested the connection between wires and caps. "Why?"

 

"Debts."

 

"We both have debts."

"I have debts. And a family. You have a number you're trying to make for people who don't even want it. No family I know of. None you've spoken of. Am I wrong?"

 

". . . You're not.But even so, there must have been other ways."

 

"There were. I was taking them. I would have gone elsewhere, if not Resu. Perhaps that Burning woman, or someone else."

 

"You couldn't!"He started to shout, but managed to drop his voice lower, remembering himself. "They're profiting from your debts, exploiting you! Legal or not."

 

Bone slammed his fist into the rock, though he kept his voice at a whisper. "And how are you so different? What's half of your stock? Bought from failed craftsmen and broken merchants at a fraction of the gil they cost, sold for a fraction more. And you laugh about it, and your customers laugh with you."

 

The Duskwight could not have looked more offended if Bone had reached forward and slapped him. "I have never stooped so low as to sell people."

 

"But you profit from them all the same."

 

A clatter at the end of the tunnel, the sound of stone on stone and stone again, silenced both of them before Verad could offer a retort. Grabbing the lantern, he blew it out before any signs of light could be see too far down the hall. He then pocketed a pair of loose sticks of firesand, and pressed a small vial into Gliding Bone's hand before the man could protest. 

"Here," he hissed. "Do not move nor make a sound. Once the commotion is gone, use the vial - it's a bell's worth of lantern oil, roughly. Finish the job, and only when the oil is gone should you detonate the charges."

 

"What about - "

"I will get you home. Do not call out after me." He turned to leave before Bone could protest, making his steps loud, making sure they echoed.

 

Feeling his way along by a hand on the wall, he walked some dozen yalms or so before he could see fresh lamplight further along the shaft. He braced his eyes to adjust to the glow before stepping forward, calling out "Ah, hallo? Anybody there? I do apologize, but I am just the slightest bit out of sorts." When there was no response, he continued. "Hah, I was trying to reach the ore separator, and found myself in the old tunnels. Silly of me, really."

 

"Lost, huh?"There was less of a chill in his skin than Verad expected when he heard Agid's voice, and the same when he saw the man round the corner, lantern in one hand, dagger in the other, gleaming gold in the light.

 

He feigned lifting his hand to block out the glare in order to look backwards over his shoulder. From this distance, Bone could not be seen.

 

"Yes, silly of me,really."

"You said that already."

"D-did I? Hah, my apologies. Haven't the slightest idea how people get used to these tunnels, but -"

 

"Please, Bellveil," said Agid, voice weary. "Cut the bullshit. What have you been planning?"

 

"Hm? What do you mean - " Verad seemed to notice the firesand for the first time. "Oh, these! Duds! My crew leader asked me to take them back - "

 

"Near the separator? Not to explosives storage?"

 

"I, well, when you put it like that  - "

 

"Your debt-trader and I had a chat, a day or two ago." The subject change caught Verad off-guard, and Agid gave him no time to speak. "He wanted to know what I had done with his sister, why she had gone missing for two days. And I thought it was strange, you know?" He held the lamp up near his face, the light giving the burn on his cheek and jaw a rough texture, as he peered at Verad. "How did he know that? He was right, I mean, I kidnapped her, but how did he know? We never did find the men that killed my lieutenant and took her back."

 

"That, hah, that is a very strange coincidence, is it not? That he could guess like that - "

 

"I asked him, and he said you had suggested it to him. Now how would you know that, I wondered? Just some fresh debt-slave."

 

Verad wished very badly that his uniform had a high and open collar, that he might tug it in worry. "Well, you know, we'd just had that conversation, and I was a little cross, it was quite the shot in the dark, you see - "

 

"You've been working with them, haven't you? The bitch in the mask and whoever killed my men and broke up my camp." Agid drew closer, one step, another, another, the expression on his face mild. "And now Palmer's talking about a tour with investors, and I find you here, lost, with some firesand sticks."

 

"C-come now, ser, surely you must - "

 

Agid moved suddenly, and Verad heard a soft, whispering sound before he felt something strike him. The security chief was much, much closer, looking him in the eye. "I warned you all to stay out of my business," he murmured, as if apologetic, using a newly-freed hand to pluck the firesand sticks out of Verad's slackening grip. "What do you think will happen to the investors without these now?"

 

The sensation of a blade driven into his side was cold and familiar.

 

With sensible business coat and trousers (not to her taste, but wearing a skirt of any length for business in the deserts of Ul'dah was a surefire way to dirty it) impeccably in place, Millith Palmer paused to adjust her bun of auburn hair in a mirror kept in her office desk. Today was a crucial one, and she would let nothing she could control make her plans go awry.

Six months! Six months of struggling with investors and forcing them to see that the Mining Company could still produce what it had in its heyday. She had scraped and saved and wrung as much profit out of the copper and cut her expenses as closely to dangerous as she could. She had partnered with Resu when he'd approached her with a scheme to save her money and earn him the same. She had even hired the Security Chief he'd suggested to help maintain order around the offices, though if she were honest, she could not fault that choice - despite his name, Hatemonger seemed good at keeping the workers docile.

Docile. Not a thing she liked to think of when it came to miners. Papa had been the sort to laugh the longest and loudest in any crowd. But it was necessary. All of it was necessary. It was the only way to keep the company alive when so many people would see her father's work broken apart and sold. They had to suffer to see the good days again, and she regretted that.

But she would not regret the outcome, for that would all change, she thought as she double-checked the papers and contracts, ensuring that nothing was out of place and all was ready to be signed. Madam Covington's interest had been polite but enthusiastic, and she was sure that once she saw the mine's output, and the potential for future investment, not to mention the plans for improving worker quality of life with her funds and the new seam it would allow them exploit, that she wouldn't hesitate to sign up for the enterprise.

She tapped and checked and shuffled everything, and placed it back on the desk. Nerves, she told herself, and cleared her throat before regaining her composure. Halfway through putting on the mask of a professional, however, she cracked open a drawer in her desk, taking out a small portrait. It was a simple one, but she'd always found it vibrant - Lennard Palmer in the prime of his youth, shaggy brown hair, gap-toothed grin and all, leaning his pick on a rock and posing as if he'd just slain a dragon, looking up at her where she sat on his shoulders and kept her hands on his forehead, doing her best to match his smile.

Stopping herself from tearing up, she tapped the image with her index finger before setting it back in its place. It would be better soon. All of it.

Finally composed, she stepped out of the Coblyn's Fancy's main office to see the carts and crates she'd arranged at the edge of the mine's rails, each stacked high with copper ore, ready for processing and transport. The output represented what was likely the last of the lode here, but it would be more than enough. Impressive to see and impressive to sell, that was it.

She waited near the front entrance of the company, watching a figure approach in the distance, and smoothed out her coat. The tour wasn't the only meeting she was having today; with things falling into place, the other part of her plans meant jettisoning her contracts with Jeresu Resu. She had put feelers out in the past few days, and a reliable name kept turning up. She had arranged a meeting to coincide, in order to show Covington the best possible face of the debt-trading movement. And who knew? Perhaps she would be the sort to react well to celebrity, former or otherwise.

For this, she had to thank Bellveil, she thought as she watched the figure approach, the whiskers and paws of a tamed couerl becoming visible through the haze of Thanalan's heat at high noon. His comments had, however inadvertently, spared her from disaster. 

The woman who dismounted from the couerl once she reached the Fancy's main gates was recognizable in large part because she'd kept the looks and physique she'd had when she retired from the gladiatorial arenas ten years ago. Palmer only knew this by reputation, never having followed gladiators with much interest, but she could certainly see why people said that. The Hellsguard woman cut a striking figure with a heavily-muscled physique, an apparent interest in flaunting it with a midriff-baring shirt, and the mass of fiery hair that was part of her namesake.

Admittedly, the macahuitl she'd brought along was a little strange, but perhaps it suggested security. A metaphor, certainly. Everyone projected an image, after all. Millith put her worry aside and offered a polite bow.

"Ms. Burning Edge! Welcome. Please, come in. I think we have business to discuss."  

---

The firewater was weak today, or at least Wahlbert thought so after another long swallow. Perhaps his throat had gone numb from too much of the stuff, and he was finally losing his ability to taste it. Not so serious a problem - firewater tasted awful - but it meant he might drink too much, and either lose his nerve and fail, or get too much of it and start matters too early.

That wasn't on him, though, he thought, looking around the commissary office, good leg tapping out a rapid rhythm on the dirt with each clatter of boot to ground. That was on the workers. Verad had been vague about his plans, excepting what he'd asked Wahlbert about explosives, tunnels and so forth. He'd been clear about one point. Today, there was supposed to be a tour of some potential investors. Good people, he'd said. Impeccable characters. If they were to see trouble - real trouble, the kind that couldn't be cleared up with paperwork - he was sure they'd intervene.

How that trouble was supposed to happen, Bellveil hadn't said. He hadn't even said he was leaving it to Wahlbert's discretion, but instead gone on about how exciting it'd be to infiltrate the mine. Like it were an adventure, the fool. But Wahlbert had assumed he had discretion, and so he'd taken steps.

The thing that most of the workers did - the thing that kept most of their contracts growing and growing by days and hours - was drink. And he couldn't fault them that. It was one of his favorite activities. But it also meant that there was one surefire way to raise their ire. He was just waiting for it to happen, seated patiently at his desk. The morning shift had come off their hours, and so it was bound to occur.

A minute passed. Then another. He was halfway to taking a second sip from his flask out of boredom when the first one burst into the door, looking mad enough to tear down the mountain with his bare hands, starvation be damned. Through the open door behind him, Wahlbert could see another mass of workers outside, looking just as irate.

"What the hell, Wahlbert?" said the man before him, slamming his hands down on the desk. Even expecting it, the movement made Wahlbert jump in his seat. "What the hell?! A month for beer?""

Wahlbert was very practiced at hiding a grin behind a noncommittal shrug and a lifting of his flask. "Ask management. Those are the rules now. You want a drink, it's an extra month. Or go without."

From there, things began.

---

Negotiations took much longer than Palmer had expected. She had been willing to pay a great deal for Burning's services, and she knew her urgency in acquiring the woman as a supplier of labor was obvious. But every time they seemed to come to an agreement, Burning raised the stakes, and so it had gone for two hours.

"And you're willing to pay the chirurgeon fees should I come to violent resistance?" she asked, looking surprised and amused with both eyebrows raised. "On top of the repairs, the lodging, the private stable for Chooga - " She nodded towards her couerl, which had kept out of the way once Burning had dismounted, "And shares?"

Palmer nodded externally and winced internally. It was a painful contract, but one she could afford with Covington's assistance. And the sooner she cut herself loose of Resu, the better. "Yes, certainly," she said. "Profits have been up for the past few months, so we can certainly afford to spend more on a trader of your reputation, Miss Edge." Looking pleased, Palmer stuck her hand out as if to shake, and, out of the corner of her eye, noticed another group approaching the gates.

Like Burning Edge, Faye Covington was easy to notice, with her penchant for all-white clothing. A daring choice in the dust of Thanalan, Palmer felt, but that was neither here nor there. She seemed to have brought three others with her, all Miqo'te, and all apparently armed in some fashion, or, by the stance of one, able to take care of themselves without armaments. Strange; very different from the bespectacled fellow she'd brought last time, but perhaps after last time she felt she needed her own security detail. Fair enough. "Ah," she said, "And even better! Here's one of our interested investors. She was very concerned about the nature of the debt-laborers, so your presence would be a tremendous comfort during her tour."

Burning did not take Palmer's hand, nor did she give much of a response, merely uttering a "Hrm," and giving a lazy nod in the direction of the group. Out of earshot, Palmer saw them speaking among themselves, apparently organizing the detail. When Covington stepped forward, it was with only one of the Miqo'te men, a shockingly handsome man with golden blond hair, whose features did not detract from the spear at his back. 

Palmer tried not to flinch as Covington bobbed in a polite curtsy. "Good day, Miss Palmer. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Grinning, Palmer looked immensely relieved, radiant with the prospect of an imminently successful business deal. "Madam Covington," she replied. "Likewise a pleasure." She returned the curtsy with a bow. "You've come at a very opportune time. Our copper is ready to be shipped south to Ul'dah for processing and smelting. An excellent time for inspection. Ah, and - " She gestured towards Burning. "I know you were concerned about debt-trading in the past. I've been speaking with Burning Edge here about a new series of contracts. I think you'll find her reputation in the business to be impeccable."

At this, Burning actually stuck out her hand to shake. Palmer did her best to ignore the snub. "I haven't signed the contract yet, Palmer," she chided. "A pleasure, Miss."

"Oh?" Covington coiled one corner of her lips into a grin. "What impeccable timing indeed! I'm glad this seems to be such a profitable investment." She turned towards Burning and curtsied again. "Miss Edge, was it? It's a pleasure to meet you. Lady Faye Covington, Support Saint of Harbingers of Dawn, at your service." 

The two shook, and exchanged pleasantries. Meanwhile, Palmer tried to edge her neck past the Miqo'te guard standing behind Palmer, to see what the other two men were up to. She could see another figure approaching, though much smaller, and very determined. Surely it could't be -  Faye's voice brought her back to attention. She 

"Ah," Faye said, gesturing to the Miqo'te and bringing Palmer back to her attention. "This is my bodyguard, Val. Please pay him little mind. A precaution, you know? Mines aren't always the safest place." She spoke into her linkpearl - personal business, Palmer assumed.

"Oh, I completely understand, madam. Our accident record is cause for concern, of course, but I think with the right distribution of funds that it need be a concern no longer." She gestured with one arm towards the steps leading to the mine's entrance. "Shall we?" If it was who she thought it was, then she wanted nothing to do with the man. Perhaps her security would keep him out after all.

---

Jeresu Resu was doing his level-best to keep a cool head as he made his way to the Coblyn Fancy's main gates, but his rage was evident in the trembling of his fingers and the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

"That bitch," he grumbled to himself. "That backstabbing Midlander bitch." The debt-trader market was a small one in Ul'dah, and word had gotten around that the head of the Fancy was interviewing Burning Edge - Burning Edge, of all people - as a possible new source of labor. Cutting him out. Him!

The very thought of it made his eyebrow twitch. Who had kept her company from collapsing? Who had made it possible for her to keep her costs low and her gates open? None other than he! Certainly they had both profited, but he didn't need her the way she needed his services, his forged contracts. And to think that after all this time she was going to terminate his services! Why, if she thought she could get away with that, then - 

In his rage, he almost tripped, and in tripping, realized he was being spoken to. "Of all the things to need maintaining," he groused, stamping his foot in frustration on the short stair leading up to the main gates. Squinting upwards, he noticed two Miqo'te in front of him, both armed. "Are you new security? I hadn't realized Ser Hatemonger was hiring again. No matter. I am Jeresu Resu, and I must speak to Miss Palmer at once. May I pass?"

One of them, a white-haired Miqo'te with a spear on his back, looked a little uncertain. "Ahh, well, actually there is a tour of the mines going on right now Mr. Resu." He squinted towards the east, where the worker's camp was located. "Say, what is going on down at the camp? Those workers are kinda rowdy." The other, darker-haired, said nothing, merely staring down at Jeresu. He hated that look - it always made him feel like he was being treated like a doll.

"A tour?" he said, ignoring the question. But it really is very impo - " He craned his head to the left and right, and froze at the sight of Burning next to Palmer, unmistakable with her height and build. "So that's how it is!" Never before had so much rage been compacted into so tiny a body, and Jeresu stamped and shouted and spat. "Palmer! Palmer, you'll regret this!" he shouted, trying to attract her attention.

The white-haired Miqo'te tried not to look perturbed as he intervened. "Hold on there a second. What is going on between you and that lady?" 

The other nodded, sounding annoyed. "They're doing a tour right now, and you can't go in; you've got no special privileges here . . . But perhaps you should voice your troubles to us."

Resu looked as if he were about to speak in his irritation, but hesitated. There was no sense in incriminating himself simply out of anger. "F-forgive my agitation," he said, waving a hand. "It's a private matter between she and - "

"What in the hells is going on down there?" The white-haired Miqo'te attracted Resu's attention, which veered to the east, towards the camp at last, and he paled visibly at the sight. "Oh, Twelve."

---

Palmer was doing her best to ignore the shouting. Jeresu showing up was a set-back, certainly, but she had to do her best to keep the tour going, keep the investors interested, and that meant smoothing over any complications.

"My apologies," she said as she lead Faye, Val, and Burning up the steps. "We've been having a rather tough time with the former trader. I was apparently - well, I was quite mistaken about his reputation, and that's something I fully intend to correct." There was no use denying the state of the workers now, she felt. In the circumstances, plausible deniability was her best defense.

Faye gave Palmer's expression a close look as they walked, but paused at the sound of shouting in the distance. "Ah, mistakes do happen. That's the Mister Resu you mentioned last time, I take it?"

---

---

The oil was almost gone. Bone had kept a careful eye on the lantern once Agid had left with Verad, lighting it once he was certain the Highlander hadn't doubled back around to see if anyone else remained. Whatever Verad had done, he had ensured that Bone had gone unnoticed, and for the past bell the lantern had glittered in the dark, Bone waiting nearby with the detonator in a safe location.

It hadn't been easy; on at least a half-dozen instances, he had been sure that a rattling on the rock or the echo of a cough had been the signs of a guard or a curious worker making their way down the tunnel, and he had been halfway to blowing out the light entirely. But then he would lose track of time, the precious moments spent waiting for the perceived threat to pass meaning that once the lantern was lit again, that the time for Bone to push the lever would pass well before the oil was spent. The opportunity Verad had spoken of would be lost.

For some reason he couldn't allow himself to do that. It wasn't that he had faith in the plan, exactly. Here, in the dark, he didn't even know what the plan was. For all he knew it would fail disastrously and that would be the end of Gliding Bone, never to see his wife and child again.

"I will get you home."

And yet, there was that. The Duskwight believed it would work, whatever it was. He was sure of it, had guaranteed it with the same certainty that Bone had seen him use to tell customers that the item in their hands had no value whatsoever with a bright, broad smile. And money and products inevitably changed hands, despite or because of that warning.

The lantern started to flicker and gutter. He could leave now, of course. Make his way back down the tunnels, creep out into the camp, take an extra week's punishment for shirking his shift without permission or a visit to the infirmary. The thought was tempting, and he rubbed his hand against his temple, still bandaged after so many days, in careful consideration.

It wouldn't be the first time. Verad had left that strongbox out so often that Bone had joked to him at one point that anybody could steal it, so there must have been nothing valuable in it at all. "On the contrary," Verad had replied, grinning. "There are many valuables within! But who would be so cruel as to steal the only valuable things belonging to a man with nothing else to his name?" It had sounded like a jest, but Twelve above, the man had said it with conviction, as if Nymeia herself had decreed it must be so.

He had said it with such conviction that Bone took him at his word and, when Verad was away in La Noscea, tested his theory. He had been right; there were promissory notes for large sums of gil, research notes on a half-dozen insane projects, a few portraits. Valuable enough for Bone, certainly, and so he had, happily in the moment, betrayed the man's trust. It would be simple to do it again.

The lantered flickered and dimmed, and left Bone in the dark, his hand on the detonator. He tensed for a moment, and then placed the other on the detonator's plunger. "Sorry, dear," he said, placing the image of his wife in his mind before pressing downwards with both palms.

The explosion was short and sharp, and Bone's position was secure, away from the blast. The rocks flew apart or shattered, the boards behind them cracked and splintered, leaving a ragged opening in the tunnel where a dead-end had existed before.

Unwilling to stick around the site of the explosion, Bone picked himself up and, after confirming he was no worse for wear, ran towards the active sections of the mine. In his haste, he missed the sound of scuttling behind him.

((Best read to Ride of the Valkyries. Or just imagine it, you probably know the song.))

The sound was what came first, crawling up out of the tunnels in the form of a soft, subtle whispering. They didn't have armored legs in any fashion, and so it was not the sound of their steps but the echoing of their steps, the rattle of rocks being pushed aside in rapid fashion, clattering against the walls of the mine again and again as a great mass of creatures pushed it aside.

Nobody noticed it at first. At the offices, Palmer watched, horrified, as Agid fought Burning and Val to a standstill, each advantage the pair managed to make against the man neutralized by fast reflexes and a sturdy defense. Nor could Agid strike another blow against them, doing so exposing him to the others. Faye was distracted by trying to heal Verad, the severity of his wound enough that she could rouse him to the faintest state of consciousness without closing it.

At the camp, Wahlbert and the workers were busy fighting a defensive battle against the marching line of guards, who scattered and broke apart to slash at workers who drew too close, while Ziuz'a and Lan, the two Miqo'te guards, rushed to provide aid. Everyone's attention was, therefore, preoccupied, save Verad's, who, through pain and through noise, heard the sounds, and mustered enough strength to give half a pleased grin.

It came as some surprise, then, when the first of the coblyns poured out of the mine tunnels. A few, and then more, and then more, dozens of them skittering forward on thin, stalk-like legs, a sea of beady eyestalks poking up three feet above the ground, their crystalline carapaces shining in the mid-day sun brightly enough to blind mid-day onlookers. As one they surged forth, a tide of pest animals ignoring the weak and fleshy participants of mortal affairs to seek their only real purpose in existence - copper, metal, and the rapid consumption thereof. 

The work camp was thrown into chaos, laborers pulled forward on surging coblyns and scattering the guards. In the same moments, Ziuz'a reached the barricade, and began tearing it apart with bare hands, punching and opening a hole and shouting for the workers to aid him. Some noticed the opening he gave amidst the chaos and, with the guards preoccupied, rushed to aid him in dismantling wood and metal, ripping the wall apart until it was enough to let a man through, then two, then three, and then another surge happened, this one not of beasts but of workers pouring through the opening and breaking free into the desert. They ran, and did not stop, heedless of exhaustion, water, and heat, running south, the spires of Ul'dah in the faint distance.

The guards recovered their composure and sought to cut down the escapees, to find that Lan was among them, striking down one of their number with a spear to the back before they could recover. As one the group turned on the white-haired Miqo'te, but trained though they were, they could not withstand his assault. He kicked dirt into one's face to distract him, spearing another, tripping a third on the backswing, and eliminating the distracted man all in one fell swoop. The survivors were quick to surrender, dropping swords and shields to the ground, though they did not stay there long, snatched up in the gaping maws of stampeding coblyns eager for metal.

To the west, Agid found the coblyns skittering past made him lose his footing, there being few places he could reach without needing assistance. Burning was the first to take advantage of the opening, grabbing a coblyn by its legs to bash its crystalline shell against Agid''s back, a high squeaking noise issuing forth every time the carapace hit flesh. Val followed suit, tripping Agid up by sending a coblyn between his legs, flipping above him to stab him in the shoulders while the man was off balance.

While he howled in pain, Palmer was only half-aware of the man. More pressing were the numbers of coblyns surrounding her, drawing closer and closer to the shipment and the overpowering sent of copper coming from each cart and crate. Beady eyes wavered and jaws slavered in anticipation. "No . . . " murmured Palmer, holding out a hand as if to stave them off. "No, no!" They skittered and scuttled towards her, over her, and past her, and for a moment she was submerged beneath blue quartz until they had reached the shipment itself, tearing apart wood and toppling carts in their haste to devour a lode's worth of copper.

Blood flowing down from his shoulders, Agid tossed his weapons aside, drawing out the loose firesand stick he had revealed upon his exit from the mine. In the other, he drew a piece of flint and a striker. "Nobody fucking move," he hissed, doing his best to step past the stragglers as the coblyn horde began to thin, conglomerating around the shipment before scattering into the desert. "Do what you want with Palmer. I don't care. Ruin her. But I walk," he went on, waving the explosive. "Or this gets thrown right under demolition storage!"

Val froze on the spot, eyeing Agid as he drew the weapons. He was not impressed. "Go right ahead, cupcake. Throw that shit all y'want. Ain' like I give a damn."

It was the wrong thing to say at the right time. "Fools." Snarling, Agid struck the flint, lighting the firesand's fuse with the sparks. He swung his arm back to throw, lobbing the stick in an overhead arc. It left his hand in time for Burning to shout "Fetch, girl!" Agid disappeared beneath the weight of a full-grown couerl as Chooga bounded forward, pouncing over the remaining coblyns and bringing the man down with both front paws. The details of his devouring are gory, unnecessary, and can reasonably be excised.

The firesand, however, was still in midair, arcing over the group towards the demolitions shed. Val was the only one able to react, racing towards it to leap up and swat it away from its arc. Sparks struck his palm as he diverted its path, rebounding it towards the mine itself. Being only a small measure of firesand, the explosion was small and concentrated, notable for a loud boom that frightened the remaining coblyns and caused them to scatter from the now empty shipment, and little else.

Watching all of this from Verad's side, Faye shook her head and tried to shoo away a few coblyns that had seen fit to perch atop his prone body, waving her hand at them to get them to scurry away. "Awful lot of trouble your rug led to, you know," she remarked in an off-hand fashion.

Verad tried to chuckle, but only managed a wince. "Just a little bit," he said, his voice hoarse. "But still one of my better plans, I think."  

---

A Week Later:

Despite his vehement insistence that he was fine, Airka and Faye's healing having reversed most of the damage inflicted upon him by Agid, Verad was still confined to his room and the company quarters for a day or two after the confrontation, and even when he was allowed out on the streets he wasn't to do anything stressful like peddling. They couldn't understand, of course. The streets of Ul'dah were broken and forlorn without his wares! Who would answer when the people cried out "Where, oh where, can we find dubious goods?" He envisioned men and women gnashing teeth and rending clothes when the call went silent. But his superiors were adamant, and so he stayed away.

It was therefore some time before he could get in touch with Gliding Bone again, and that only when he knew where the man would be. So it was that a week after his freedom, Bone approached where the rug had been in Pearl Lane, wicker baskets on each shoulder, to resume his business. There were, after all, still debts.

He arrived to find a rug in much better shape than the one he had used previously, a nice patch of carpet in the oasis style, as well as a new placard, one he had certainly never made. The writing - "Bone and Family Baskets" - was too neat for his own script, precise to a degree that worried him. 

Verad was there too, of course, leaning against the wall and grinning from ear to ear, a difficult feat for an elezen, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. Bone frowned, setting down his baskets. "Did you do this?"

"Mm, well, consider it a donation," said Verad, bobbing his head in concession. "And the sign. You needed one, and I don't - with my offices relocated to the Mist, there's little point in my selling here. You look better without the bandages."

"Yeah, well, the eye healed all right. Said I was lucky, really." He touched the space where his bandages had been. "You look better without the knife-wound."

"Oh, that?" Verad waved a hand. "A scratch. I felt it best to let Agid feel like he was contributing before the true nature of my plan went into motion." He gestured towards the baskets. "But I'm surprised to see you back at work. Didn't your family want to keep you at home?"

"Of course, they were ecstatic. Begged me not to go. But this is my day at work, and I still have debts to pay. Help me organize these?"

They pulled small baskets from large and arranged them in front of the rug. In so doing, Verad pulled out a small slip of paper from his coat. "About the debts, though - here."

"Not poison, is it? Not another scheme?" 

"Just take the paper!"

Brief silence as Bone took the slip and read it. Then, sputtering. "You can't - no, you can't be - where did you even get this much?!"

"Promissory notes, as you'll recall from my strongbox?" Bone looked abashed, but Verad ignored it. "My comrades were able to recover them during their second excursion in the Tangle. I'm just giving you what you've already taken."

"If you're going to put it like that, then take it back, please." He tried to offer the slip to Verad, who pushed the man's hand back.

"And my days on the rug are now yours, at least until the lease runs out in six months. You'll have much more time to sell your wares. And - "

"No, no more anding. That's enough ands."

"And if you'll come with me, I have something I think you'll find useful."

---

The trip to Verad's warehouse wasn't a long one. Verad rented space where he could afford it and, like his rug, that meant his storage space was in the alleys and byways of Pearl Lane.

"I recall you saying in the past that wicker could be quite expensive to procure." Verad spoke while he walked, moving backwards and facing Bone while keeping pace with the man. "And, during my convalescence, I happened to see a small supply of it in my inventory. It's not much, but I'd certainly like you to have it."

Bone's frown was deep and suspicious. "You're being too kind, you know. If this is a ploy to see a Roegadyn blubber, you're going to be sorely mistaken."

"It's not a ploy, it isn't! I just want to show my appreciation."

That made Bone stop in his tracks. Verad followed suit, and a passer-by stumbled into him. "For what? For stealing from you? For dragging you into the whole mess and getting you enslaved, and stabbed?"

"For keeping faith, and doing the right thing when you needed to," said Verad, righting himself. "Besides, so far in this fracas I've ruined at least three lives, destroyed a business, caused a mass coblyn migration which will doubtless affect other mining companies - legitimate ones - and seen a man get eaten by a couerl. Somebody needs to get rewarded in all this, or I'm going to go mad, and it certainly can't be me."

"You freed the workers though."

"They did that. They and Wahlbert. I just gave them an opening. Would you take the offer?"

"Fine." Bone huffed, marching forward again. "But I'm taking a reward under protest."

"Capital! That's the best way to take it. Now, it's just a bit further."

Verad's warehouse was something of a misnomer. More of a wareflat, by the size, but it housed his goods decently enough, and with minimal threat of theft. "Now, it's in the back next to some old furniture, so it -will- take a bit of digging," Verad said, before turning to see the door, and frowning. "That's odd."

A piece of paper had been plastered to the door, covered in Eorzean script in bright-red ink. Maintaining the frown, Verad pulled the paper off of the wooden surface and glanced it over.

"Verad, you okay?" Bone peered downwards. As he read, the Duskwight's skin changed from a healthy grey to an ashen color, his eyes widening. He let the paper drop from his hands as he scrambled for his keys, fumbling to find the right one for the door. Bone reached down to pick up the loose leaf.

"'Notice of Asset Liquidation'," he read aloud, finding the text familiar. "In accordance with the terms of the contract as defined by Jeresu Resu and the undersigned - " Realization struck. "This's the same bill of sale I had! What's going on here?"

Verad said nothing. The door was open, and the key dangled from its lock. His eyes were wide, his skin pale to the point of whiteness, his mouth open. Bone peeked over the man's shoulder to look inside.

Barren. Desolate. Emptiness. Void. Nothing but bare rock greeted the two men, Verad's wares nowhere to be found. Almost nothing. A gust of wind from outside, let in by the open door, caused a small tumbleweed in the corner to roll across the room.

Seeing this, Verad put on a desperate, brave smile. "Well," he said. "At least they didn't sell the plant."

--fin