26–27 Pharast, 4725 AR

Paul was still there.

He had a lantern propped against a stalagmite and half an eaten sandwich, with the unhurried air of a man who just happened to be in a cave system beneath Firebell at the end of the day. He seemed very pleased to see us. He made clear he wanted the anchor.

Azazle put distance between himself and Paul immediately. Not obviously. Not rudely. Just enough space, and he kept it.

Paul growled at Klause. Not the way a person growls. The way something that eats people does when it is choosing, for the moment, not to. The effect on Klause was considerable, which told me something, because very little has a considerable effect on Klause.

What followed was a negotiation. Grizzle and Devon told Paul the anchor wasn’t in the Workshops at all. It had been relocated long ago, to the Witch King’s Library. Paul considered this. He had done his research, apparently, and this conflicted with what he knew. Grizzle and Devon continued to be confident. Paul eventually accepted it.

He suggested the party accompany him to the Library. He phrased it as an invitation. It was not an invitation. Devon told him they would be dead weight on the search, slowing him down. Paul accepted this.

Before he left, he cast something at Grizzle. I did not recognize the working. Grizzle, who had been focused on the more pressing problem of getting Paul out the door, shifted register entirely and spent the next several minutes explaining his views on sandwich construction in considerable detail. Paul watched this with mild satisfaction and left alone.

The mood after he was gone was not exactly relief.

The party made for the airship.

Marlowe Shadeweaver was leaning against the corner of a building on the way to the airship, with the air of a man who had been there long enough to get comfortable. He recognized Devon. He pointedly did not acknowledge him.

He spoke with Klause. He mentioned the Pale Flame’s growing presence in Firebell, visible in the city lately in ways that were starting to draw attention and cause him trouble. He asked Klause whether the anchor decision was worth the price it carried. The question was specific. He knew about the anchor.

Devon made a motion to address how they had parted ways. Marlowe told him he understood, and that he had forgiven him. Devon had not gone through with it, after all. He said this simply, without ceremony. By the time he moved on, Klause knew something about Devon, Devon knew something about Klause, and Marlowe knew both of them knew. The tension that left in the air was not subtle.

The airship was waiting.

The Contrivance was as we had left it: wind, cold, the low continuous tone the structure made somewhere below hearing. Grizzle went to the temple where the Vessel was housed. Devon kept watch outside. Eli, Klause, Azazle, and I went to find Keloras.

He was in the lowest chamber, the silver cord running through the ceiling and the floor with him at its center, still pulsing with energy. Ancient, his body reduced to something that should not have been able to sit upright. He was still lucid. He was extraordinarily calm.

Klause stepped toward Keloras to set the anchor in place. Eli struck before he reached him. The blow took Keloras’s head from his shoulders.

Klause lunged for Eli. He missed. He hit the floor. Keloras’s head came to rest in front of him, facing him.

His last words: “They stayed too long. They always stayed too long.” He did not say it to us. He said it to the room.

I was there. I cannot tell you what Klause’s face looked like in those seconds. I do not have the words for it, and I have a great many words.

Klause was still on the floor. He did not move. He did not look at Eli. A cord can hold a great deal of weight for a very long time. What it cannot do is survive being cut. I think that is as close as I can get to what I saw. The Dungeoneers will carry what happened in that room for the rest of their lives. I am certain of it.

The energy that had been holding everything together for a thousand years let go all at once. The party was killed. The airship was gone. Captain Tomsley was gone.

We were somewhere else for a while. I am not going to write about that. The Dungeoneers were arguing, which meant they were still themselves. Grizzle was still talking about sandwiches.

Then we were falling.

The Indifferent Wind caught us. Its captain, Maret Vas, had tracked the disturbance from a distance and changed course. The crane assembly on the aft deck hauled us out of freefall. She did not ask questions. She told us what the crossing to Silt Post would cost in labor, and that was all.

The ship had lost six crew to a storm lord cluster two weeks prior. Maret’s remaining three were experienced and exhausted. We were six more bodies, which was what she needed. That was the extent of the welcome, and it suited everyone. The Dungeoneers knew what a storm lord could cost. That landed differently than it might have otherwise.

The ship was somber. Maret’s crew had their grief. We had ours. Neither was spoken of. Work was the common language, and so we worked.

The first day, Klause took a position at watch and held it without complaint. Eli found the heaviest work available and did it. Azazle went up into the rigging without being asked. Devon announced his qualifications as an organizer and leader, which Maret received with the expression of someone who has heard similar announcements before. By midday he had shifted to music. The crew had no complaints about that. Grizzle applied his knowledge of mercantile logistics to the freight situation. The freight situation was not a mercantile logistics problem. He was not wrong, exactly. He was simply not useful.

The second day, Klause had found the ship’s rhythm and was anticipating problems before they arrived. Devon’s music had settled in. Azazle had an off day in the rigging and kept to the deck. Grizzle instigated a confrontation between two crew members. I am not certain what his intention was. When Maret asked him about it directly, his account of events differed from everyone else’s in every particular. She noted this. She did not say anything further about it. She did not need to.

The third day was the best of the three. Eli moved as though he had spent his whole life on ships. Azazle went back into the rigging and did not come down until Silt Post was in sight. Klause kept his watch. Devon kept the crew from going too quiet. Grizzle helped Eli carry things and was, by his own account, indispensable.

Before we docked, Maret told us she would look into getting us passage to a material-plane port if her next freight contract took her that way. No promises, but she would check. For Maret, I believe that was warmth.

Silt Post came into view as a sprawl of weathered wood and green copper anchored to a stable current in the clouds: wide docking platforms, a domed hall at its center, ships moored alongside, crates stacked wherever there was room to stack them. A tower at the dock’s edge flew a banner reading SILT POST. The clouds sat flush against the platform’s underside. The flags did not stop moving.

We were still on the approach when someone ahead shouted: “Triggerbrand Salvo!”