Book 4 in The Alchemist’s Agent series is now available for pre-order! It will be for sale in all the usual places (Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, Apple, Google Play, and Overdrive) on August 14, 2024. It was kind of difficult to get this book over the finish line (moving states, moving houses, at this point I wouldn’t also count out moving through time) but it all worked out and now it’s here!

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Amazon US, Amazon Canada, Amazon UK, Amazon DE, Amazon IN

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Here’s Chapter One for those interested:

The Sect of Seven Fires held tradition in great esteem, and as such, the alchemists welcomed high summer like farmers greeted the spring. Since it was too hot to toil away in their laboratories, they clambered down the living mountain to remind the Grand Empire of Vissilia why it suffered their presence. Every preceptory from frosty, lofty Mariae to dreamy, far-sighted Govan and down to hardy Yseult, the preceptory to which Ibram gave his service, threw open their gates. They hosted festivals and exhibitions and ceremonies welcoming back those members of the sect who’d wandered off the season before.

After all, it wouldn’t do for anyone to forget just how helpful alchemy was, how important for the Vissilian economy, and how much in demand were their goods and abilities.  Once the sect had been granted the land around the Emerald Mountains for their use and study, they’d settled down to the kind of life one might expect from a group of alchemists. They had built buildings, and carved laboratories from the mountainside, they’d added a river—mostly on purpose— and they had fulfilled their imperial mandate of providing a safe and prosperous route up the mountains and into the western part of the empire. They’d even managed to stay within their imperially imposed boundary and kept the folk who’d wound up living under their authority in prosperity and health. But no sect could rest on its past accomplishments.

“Not to put too fine a point on the matter, but how might I be of service, Ladyship?” Ibram asked as he followed a step behind Lady Azadiya, properly off to her right. “I was tasked to watch over the younger attendants’ obstacle courses today.”

Yseult’s exhibition was generally considered the largest, being as its second division—the Medicinal Corps—threw up their tents and opened their stores to every villager with a hangnail who managed to free a space of time. Apart from the concoctions of the Medicinal Corps. Yseult was not what a serious student of classical alchemy considered traditional. Most of the attendants and their mentors had never created more than a passing fancy, and they’d yet to produce a Heavenly Light or a mind capable of plumbing the Abyssal depths. In fact, Yseult was ranked least in the hierarchy of the sect, charged with the day to day work of administering to their non-alchemical dependents. But, Ibram flattered himself to think, Yseult’s exhibitions were the most popular amongst the folk who lived within the imperial boundary. They were treated more like a traveling circus full of overeager wolfhounds than a stern lecturer like in Mariae and Baran, or a fuzzy mumbler of portents and storm clouds like when Govan came to the village.  

“Is it a poor time for a walk, then?” Lady Azadiya asked. She waved cheerfully to the loungers outside the Circled Crown, who’d decided to drink to Ladyship’s health as she passed. “I find the morning crowds invigorating, myself.”

“To be sure, Ladyship,” Ibram muttered.

Lady Azadiya raised one shoulder, and resettled her diaphanous silver overgown atop her green shift with her free hand. Her tall gar, capped in iron and smoothed by years of handling, tapped ably at her side. Her long black hair swayed as she walked, the golden hair sticks glittered in the morning light, curving the braided upper portion around the back of her head. She strolled along, unbothered by either the crowd or the heat. Ibram’s own twill gambeson dragged at his shoulders and absorbed sweat around his neck. His dark hair stuck to his sweaty face.

The noise of several folk running into each other volleyed out from the shifting crowd behind them; a pair of horses registered their vocal disapproval. Ibram glanced in that direction, and spotted a gilded carriage, its frame draped in thick curtains to block the nobles inside from dust, mired in a sea of the lower classes. The driver was swearing; the horses looked nervous. One side of the carriage’s drapes burst asunder, and Warder Kinnfort appeared in their opening. He leaned forward to yell at the driver, looking as hot and miserable as a man trapped in a box in high heat might appear.

“It’s not typical for a warder to be driven,” Ibram frowned. “What do you think Kinnfort’s doing over there?”

Lady Azadiya turned and leaned slightly on her gar, traffic flowed about her like a stone in a calm pool. Ibram tucked himself closer to her; a man stepped on his foot. She hummed in thought as Kinnfort pointed ahead, clearly directing the stalled carriage to make some haste. The carriage driver said something back, arms waving, which made Kinnfort’s entire face pinch in annoyance.

“Warders are as welcome to the exhibition as anyone,” she said, finally, “but come along.”

 She picked up her pace, and turned right through the alley between two inns. Ibram cast another look at Kinnfort’s carriage, but he had no choice but to follow.

“Don’t suppose we’re taking the long way for a reason, Ladyship?” Ibram asked, as he caught up to her.

Ladyship ducked under a line of drying washing, and then turned left, parallel to the main road. “It’s an exhibition, Ib-la,” she said. “The only way to get around in these crowds is by foot, and I’d much rather walk than be forced to refuse some misguided visiting noble and spend the rest of the seven-day pouring water on a parched ego.”

“You don’t know it’s a noble in there,” Ibram said.

Ladyship tsked. “Who else would dragoon a warder into playing coachmen for them?”

“Can’t fault the logic,” Ibram muttered. His stomach grumbled as they emerged back onto the crowded main street, and passed a bread seller with round loaves swinging from a long stick over her shoulder. He’d missed breakfast at home, too eager to get up the living mountain for his assignment.

“I do have my moments,” Ladyship said. She adjusted one of her earrings, the thin pendant chains hanging from beneath the delicate golden birdcage trembled when she walked.

Even this early in the festivities, the area beyond the fields of play was choked with hungry folk making their way towards the cookshops and draughtshops inside the village walls. The mixtus fryers were already beyond approach, with lines not merely doubled but wrapped around the stalls. Lady Azadiya paused, and tilted her head.

“Did you hear that?” Ladyship asked, her Merrilian accent trickled over her words like run off from a stream. “A woman’s voice, asking after me.”

Ibram paused. The only noise he registered was the crowd, and certainly not Ladyship’s name. If only Ahksell, childhood friend and partner, hadn’t put his name forward for the Attendants’ Melee; he could have told Ibram what he was supposed to be listening for in a heartbeat.

“Is it one of those noises only alchemists and birds can hear?” Ibram asked.

Ladyship sighed. “You have a reasonable measure of hearing.”

Ibram frowned. “I have excellent hearing, Ladyship,” he said. “Only I’ve never dosed myself in enough Rolier’s Tonic to hear a gnat’s wings beating as you have.”

She rolled her gar in the circle of her fingers, and stood there, silently listening, though how she discerned one sound from another in a crowded street was a mystery. Ibram put his back to the crowd, though it made the space between his shoulder blades itch, and lowered his voice. He touched the wallet at his belt for luck, where he kept Yilka the Green’s dice and bells, and then wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sica. There were few folk Lady Azadiya couldn’t defend herself against, if it came to it, but that didn’t mean Ibram wouldn’t feel sore about the attempt.

“Is it a voice you recognize, Ladyship?” he asked. “Is there someone I should be looking for?”

She sniffed, suddenly, and then refocused her attention on him. “It’s most likely nothing, to be sure,” she said, and then looked about the busy lane. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come along, we’re supposed to be outside the village gates already.”

Lady Azadiya darted back into the crowd. Ibram took off behind her. The crowd admitted her seamlessly as she moved with unquestioned authority towards the exhibition fields.

“It’s Amota Lakum you’ll be inconveniencing, Ladyship,” Ibram said, “not me. My uncle drew up the schedule, and you know how he gets.”

“He lives in a constant state of disappointment with me,” she said, “but you might come in handy.”

Ibram raised his eyebrows. “The measure of my delight grows daily, Ladyship,” he said.

“Now, you are only sore because you’re likely to miss Ahksell in the tumbling,” she said.

“He’s as big as a grandfather oak!” Ibram exclaimed. “Who wouldn’t be disappointed to miss that flying through the air?”

“Ibram!” Lady Azadiya stopped in her track, forcing him to halt as well. “I wish you would stop putting that rumor about. You know very well we don’t fly. We simply miss the ground.”

Ibram did not sigh, but he desperately wished to. Whenever he’d ‘missed the ground’ it had most certainly found him again. “Yes, Ladyship.”

Lady Azadiya walked on, her gar’s metal tip thudded into the ground at each step. They moved aside for a woman in a wheeled chair, and passed beneath the awning of a beer wagon. A small gathering of attendants snapped to their feet and bowed as Lady Azadiya passed, and she waved them back to their benches again. Ibram bowed slightly in passing. Ahksell wasn’t among them, even though he’d doubtlessly earned a bit of fun. He’d signed himself up for the melee events this year, eager to show up the other attendants and prove his skill with the gar. As if a man of his heighth and breadth needed the addition of a six and a half foot length of ironwood to make himself imposing. Most likely, he’d found a bench near the apple carts, and was even now enthralled by the travelers’ plays that sprung up on the outskirts of events such as these. If Lady Azadiya hadn’t summoned Ibram from the flock of agents heading down the living mountain as she’d left her tower, Ibram might have been enthralled himself.

The smell of food and animals, and bodies walking in traffic was beginning to blossom in the heat. Ibram sneezed, and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He turned his head at the distinct noise of a stir approaching behind them; someone vaguely officious-sounding was demanding folk make way for her. It sounded like a woman. A hazy form in imperial purple and black was making their way through the crowd; Warder Kinnfort again. Lady Azadiya sighed and walked more quickly.

“Is there something I should know about, Ladyship?” Ibram pressed, trying to keep both her and the warder in sight at the same time. “Has Captain Talsconis issued an invitation?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she said, and readjusted her silvery overgown once more. “The captain has been holed up in his office since last month.”

“Then what’s all this rush? Who’s this following us with Kinnfort?”

“I see you’ve been practicing your situational awareness,” Lady Azadiya remarked.

Ibram shrugged. “Can’t let all my caravan-guarding skills go to rot,” he said. He turned in a circle as they walked, and then ducked his head in Ladyship’s direction. “Warder Kinnfort’s red face is beginning to clash with his doublet.”

“Perhaps I should assign you a course of Rolier’s Tonic as well,” Ladyship mused. “To expand your range. Your eyesight has always been good, but with a few concentrated adjustments, it might be quite satisfactory.”

“Oh, well—” Ibram stumbled over his next step, but recovered in time to watch Lady Azadiya’s sly grin bloom and fade. “Not that I would protest if you truly wished it, but—” 

“Perhaps you prefer your conscious adaptation to reality unexpanded?” she finished for him.

Ibram sighed. “Exactly so, Ladyship.”

Ladyship shook her head. “Such traditionalists, your family.”

The noisy woman following behind them grew louder. “Make way, there! Make way!”

“Next time, I go over the wall,” Ladyship muttered, as she shook her head. “But I suppose it cannot be helped.” She paused and stepped lightly to the right, neatly avoiding a passing handcart. “Now, look stern, and I’ll hear no bad report of you. Think of a vexing memory.”

Ibram stumbled to a halt, but managed not to walk into her back. She paused, and tapped the end of her gar on the ground lightly. The six foot length of wood was worn dark and smooth with age and use. She released it, and the gar remained standing. Ladyship dusted her hands clean.

“You must admit I’m getting much better at that,” Ibram said, as he schooled his face. “Amota Evren’s explanation of the memory vault has been very helpful.” He forced his eyebrows together, and lowered his chin. “How’s this for stern, then, Ladyship?”

“Slightly more dyspeptic than stern, but it will have to do.” She glanced behind him, and then sighed. “Yet,”—she spoke more loudly—“I suppose your time in his archives has been of some help.”

It had given him a tight throat and a runny nose from all the dust he’d swept, but Ibram knew enough not to mention those unintended consequences of his education. Ibram spread his arms wide, palms upwards to the sky. She shook her head, and he dropped them immediately.

“I’ve nearly built an entirely new wing of the house in my mind now,” Ibram proclaimed. “Bursting with important memories!”

“How much room do the rules of tica occupy?” Lady Azadiya asked.

Ibram shrugged. “Only as big as the tally of my winnings.”

She tsked.  

“Out—out of the way!” a woman called out, breathless, but entirely officious. “Lady Azadiya! Mentor Hobon!”  

Ibram tensed. Ladyship rolled her eyes. Most folk used both of her titles—her personal title of nobility and the rank granted to her by the Sect of Seven Fires—interchangeably, but very few dared to shout at her in the street like a common grubber. Indeed, the throng of folk about them began to slow down and gawk in anticipation of some kind of show.

Lady Azadiya lifted her right hand; the sunlight flashed on the signet ring she wore on her forefinger, the enameled mongoose’s eyes seemed to glitter. He looked quickly over his shoulder, and then pivoted on his heels to block the swift approach of a short woman in a red and blue kirtle with a purple and black sash at her waist. She was youthful—much less old than the usual clerk in the village—and had a harried, but determined sort of set to her face. The young mistress stepped to the left, and Ibram copied her.

“Damnation, has the big tent collapsed again?” Ibram asked.

“What?” the young mistress asked, startled. She leaned back from him, distracted from her mission. “Has it what?”

“The way you’ve come up running,” Ibram said, gesturing out and around them, “scattering villagers in your path, abandoning good carriages, and yelling for Ladyship… I thought some grievous accident had befallen the exhibition, to be sure.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the young woman snapped. She stepped to the right, so Ibram did so as well.

Warder Kinnfort, looking a bit out of breath, heaved a sigh to the heavens. The young mistress took a step backwards, and then dismissed Ibram from her mind with a hurtful ease, and refocused on Lady Azadiya. She bowed hastily, her hands on her stomach, and hardly waited for Ladyship’s approval before rising again.

Warder Kinnfort in his purple and black livery with his peaked cap firmly on his head, crossed his arms behind the young mistress’ back. He looked as bored as a man on the sliding slope of old age could get away with in uniform. Ibram nodded, and he returned the gesture. Then, Kinnfort turned his attention to eying the crowd until they began moving away. Warders were good for crowd control at least, even if they were only stationed in Lityen to preserve the imperial property.

“The compliments of Mistress Valverde of the Bureau of Currency and the Office of Contracts for Labor,” the messenger said, panting a little. “She is in conference now with First Mentor E’garcid and Third Mentor Nieminen.”

Lady Azadiya tapped Ibram’s left arm; he sidled out of her line of sight. “I am aware, Mistress, to be sure,” she said. “To what else do you direct my attention?”

The messenger brushed down the front of her kirtle. She cleared her throat, and glanced in Ibram’s direction. Ibram continued to look stern. She wrinkled her nose, and then shook her head.

“My mistress requests the pleasure of your counsel while speaking with the senior mentors of Yseult,” the messenger said.

“Does she?” Ladyship asked. “But I am not a senior mentor.”

The messenger flushed, her already pink cheeks turned a delightful magenta. She shook her head. “Perhaps not, Ladyship,” she said, “but of course my mistress does not deny you the rights granted by—” She blinked and paused. “—ah, by right of birth.”

“Oh, I’m not so old as First Mentor E’garcid,” Ladyship answered. “She and Lamy remain quite a few years ahead of me.”

The messenger stared at her, a touch befuddled, and her warder escort rolled his head on his neck. Ibram bit his lips together, and wriggled his nose to keep from smirking. All the empire knew the messenger had no more thought of Ladyship’s age, than she had of a caskfish’s chances in a fisherman’s net. As in most matters, the situation boiled down to precedence and politics. Lady Azadiya, by the happy circumstance of being born to a great and noble house, could have demanded that her business be been dealt with first in the annual conference, when her opponents were at their most convivial. She, however, was only the Fourth Mentor of Yseult; her rank had nothing to do with her standing within the preceptory and, thus, the sect.

Her position in larger society, to the general dismay of her peers, remained an unescapable fact of life. Lady Sebbina, the Imperial Commissioner, had been known to corner Lady Azadiya at parties in order to pass messages to various other mentors who’d been ducking their meetings—once even the Lord Preceptor of the sect himself. The mentors of all seven preceptories were either amused or disdainful of the politicking, depending on what time of day you asked them.

Ladyship didn’t give a fillip for their dispute. She claimed meetings with imperial representatives were against her religious beliefs, and suffered them rarely. Since few folk in the imperial bureaucracy were Westerners of any flavor of Merrilian—despite being within a stone’s throw of the old border—they had no way of honestly refuting the charge.  

“Not at all, Ladyship,” the messenger finally said.

“Mentor,” Ibram interjected. “If you’re of a mind to remember your courtesies. On official sect business, Lady Azadiya is to be referred to by her rank within the sect.”

“No, Ibram,” Ladyship corrected. “This matter falls under ‘protocol,’ not courtesy.”

“I stand corrected, Lady Azadiya,” Ibram said, and bowed shortly.

“Put it in your mind palace,” she smiled indulgently. “It will no doubt tumble out when needed again.”

The messenger smiled tightly, briefly flustered, but gamely spoke again: “My—Mistress Valverde merely thought you might wish to join the first and third mentors now, and then you would be able to grant your full attention to the day’s entertainments with only a minimal delay.”

“And here I had no more thought in my head,” Lady Azadiya responded, “than to find something to eat before moving on to one of my entertainments.”

She smiled, and behind the messenger, Warder Kinnfort shook his head, but kept silent. The warders of Her Gracious Majesty’s Bureau of Peace were in place to enforce imperial law, not local, but the entire cohort stationed in Lityen had a long history of dealing with the Fourth Mentor of Yseult. The messenger flushed red and then cleared her throat. Ibram wished he could follow suit.

The whole of Lityen and most of the surrounding villages could have told this woman her request was a lost cause. Ibram narrowed his eyes. He had a horrible feeling there was mischief in this matter, and where mischief bloomed, so too did work. Whether it was more interesting work than guard duty had yet to be determined. What could this Mistress Valverde have possibly been thinking to send this young woman Lady Azadiya’s presence, doubtless interrupting the necessary business of supervising the exhibitions and inconveniencing all of the mentors?

The messenger paused before continuing: “Yes—no, Mentor Hobon—”

“That’s the spirit,” Ibram encouraged.

“Mistress Valverde merely—”

“Ibram,” Lady Azadiya tilted her head slightly. “The schedule.”

Ibram coughed. The sun beat down on them all. He felt sweat begin to drip down the back of his collar; the messenger seemed a trifle faded herself.

“The schedule of events is a trifle complicated, Ladyship,” he said, and softened his look to appear apologetic towards the messenger. “The attendants and learners have been granted rights to perform approved spectacles and such esoterica as might illuminate the wonders of the preceptory’s abilities concerning the transmutation of physical ability—”

“Yes, and very lively they have been,” the messenger attempted to interrupt, but Ibram deepened his voice and spoke over her.

“We’re missing the bubble machines even now,” he said.

“The children will be disappointed,” Ladyship commented.

“The learners were looking forward to your attendance,” Ibram nodded. “While the tourneys continue—and before the explosive demonstrations—First and Third Mentors E’garcid and Nieminen have been granted these hours to speak with the representatives of the Imperial Commissioner as well as the village council in regards to rents, tithes, and taxes for the coming season.” Ibram allowed himself a twitch of a smile before continuing as his employer demanded. “Given your respective responsibilities today, yourself, Ladyship, and Second Mentor Stadat have been scheduled for meetings in the evening prior to last meal of the day in order to discuss more regulatory matters.”

“Indeed so, thank you,” the messenger spoke rapidly. “My deepest apologies, Mentor Hobon, this was clearly an oversight on the part of someone within the Office of Contracts in Labor. When I apprised Mistress Valverde of the situation, she immediately sent me to correct our error. After all, Mentor, seeing as—that you and Mentor Stadat have such differing agreements within the village and the bureau, it would make more sense to include you in the earlier discussions.”

Ibram snorted, and then coughed at Lady Azadiya’s swiftly warning glance.

“Well now, which is it?” Ladyship asked. “Has my dignity been affronted, or is my division’s business with the good folk of Lityen too much at odds with the Medicinal Corps?”

The messenger paused, flushing slightly. Ibram leaned back on his heels and subtly stretched out his back. Drumbeats began to pound in the distance, signaling another event in the exhibition was about to begin. Lady Azadiya turned her head at the noise. A cheer rose up from nearer the village wall; folk began to hurry past them.

“Almost time for the demonstrations, Ladyship,” Ibram murmured. “You’re supposed to be on the dais by now.”

The messenger briefly touched her black and purple belt, a symbol of her office, however slight. “Mentor Hobon, I do not presume to dictate either your feelings on the matter, or—”

“Only Ladyship’s actions, to be sure,” Ibram said.

“My mistress wishes only see to Mentor Hobon’s comfort and ease,” the messenger insisted. “As a peer of the empire, it is her right—”

Ladyship tsked. “You are mistaken, Mistress,” she said. “I hold no painful duties in the Preceptory of Yseult. As humble as my position might be, I perform it faithfully and within my designated time. What is it the Advisor says, Ibram? Something about hours and sense.”

Ibram tucked his hands behind his back and leaned forward. He’d had to memorize this for an examination once, to prove the Bedris School maintained appropriate imperial fealty. The Advisor was the boring half of the Sovereign Twins, so it had been a special sacrifice of his limited attention.

“Let not expediency,” he began, “bear weight against the structure of governance, lest ye gain fleeting favor and lose eternal glory in the fullness of time.”

“And very right her holiness your goddess is, too,” Lady Azadiya said briskly. “Now, I do believe you will be late for our First Mentor, Mistress, if you do not return to your stable immediately. Warder Kinnfort will doubtless show you the way.”

“Oh, but I do think you should accompany me, Mentor Hobon,” the messenger said.

“You may carry my reply back with you in my stead,” Lady Azadiya said. “Warder Kinnfort, please pass my greetings on to your Captain. Ibram, I have some business with Sarrha before the mock combat begins.”

Ladyship walked forward, and the messenger was forced to scramble out of the way, bowing hastily. Warder Kinnfort gave an audible snort as they passed, but the noise of the crowd soon swallowed whatever point the messenger might raise again. Ibram chuckled, and then quickly brought his hand up to cough as Ladyship raised one eyebrow. Ibram’s steps faltered.

“Shall I escort you to the dais, Ladyship?” he asked. “It seems dangerous out here. Who knows what might befall a person of quality walking by herself?”

“Nobility,” Ladyship said, as with a sweep of her left hand, she sent her gar ahead of her and tipped a fallen bench out of her way, “is merely a means to an end, and that end is never to sit in an uncomfortable chair and discuss economies.”

Ibram snorted, and then fell back a step to maintain a decorous space between himself and Lady Azadiya. Despite the heat, it was a good day for an exhibition. The air was heady with anticipation and noisy with folk ready to be amused or cured, or both, miraculously. Almost like one of the flower and vine festivals down south.

“I thought your schedule of days was handled by Amita Sarrha?” he asked, as he cleared his throat. “Why isn’t that messenger badgering her?”

Lady Azadiya waved her hand irritably; her gar continued to float alongside until she took hold of it again. “Would that were true,” she said, “I should have a Marshal Steward in deed and not merely in fact, Ib-la.”

Ibram’s Aunt Sarrha—by kith, not kin—was the highest ranked agent working in Lady Azadiya’s division. Being an alchemist meant Ladyship was by law denied the usual trappings of household and authority, but that fact seldom meant much in the practical function of life. Lands and property must still be governed, especially the ones owned and administered by the Sect of Seven Fires. Ibram’s own mother had been her agent for decades before her marriage and retirement, and it was something of the family business to look after Lady Azadiya’s interests. Ibram rumpled his shoulder-length hair off his face, and then put his hands behind his back.

Lady Azadiya surveyed the crowds before her. A few merchants had set up stalls near the municipal fountain just inside the village gates. The militia had designated two guardsmen to either side of the oval entryway, and a further two high in the stone spires overhead. Judging by the number of folk passing beneath the gates, it looked as though the exhibition was to be a grand success.

The space between his shoulder blades itched. Ibram glanced over his shoulder, and spied a highly determined young mistress and her warder escort marching down the line of oncoming villagers. It was that messenger come again. He popped air out his mouth, and turned back around.

“Ladyship,” he muttered. “I fear Mistress Messenger has experienced an insurgent confidence.”

“I think you mean ‘resurgent,’ Ibram,” she replied.

Ibram shook his head. “No, Ladyship, I do not.”

Ladyship was not one to groan, but a twitch in the column of her throat betrayed her temptation. She tsked instead, and without breaking stride, slipped out of the horde, and down the fire lane that ran along the village wall.

“I suppose it couldn’t be helped,” she said, as they skirted along the muddy walk. “Once Mistress Valverde gets an idea into her head, it’s very difficult to dislodge.”

“And her idea is to make your day happier by shoving you into a meeting sooner?” Ibram asked.

She chuckled. “Mistress Valverde believes strongly in grubbing for every advantage she can acquire; hence she sends messengers to do her dirty work. Remembering my hereditary glory is an excellent method of giving Mentor E’garcid heartburn, while very neatly providing she and Lamy less time to renegotiate their own affairs.”

Ibram nodded. “Infighting amongst the alchemists,” he remarked, “seems a terrible idea to encourage.”

“Nothing so vulgar as infighting, please, Ibram,” Lady Azadiya scolded. “A rousing discussion, certainly.”

“At dawn?” Ibram asked. “Featuring Second Mentor Perhara and his pike?”

“We’re not allowed edged weapons.”

“Simply because an axe blade is removable, doesn’t make a pike a gar.”

Lady Azadiya tsked and waved her hand, briefly allowing her gar to walk at her side unaided before she resumed her grip. The butt of the staff smacked into the earth, and the ground rumbled beneath Ibram’s feet. A villager angling for a better look at Ladyship suddenly tripped and fell back to the safety of the crowd.

Such an arrangement, Ibram thought as they continued walking, would have the added benefit of isolating Second Mentor Stadat later on.

“And Mentor Stadat hates meetings,” Ibram said.

“Especially when they have nothing to do with alchemy,” Ladyship said.

Ibram nodded. “You are united in your disinterest, then.”

He was certain Mentor Stadat would have to be lured from his laboratory at the appropriate hour by an agent dressed in rags and moaning about the Nandar Aprasat Fidgets, or something equally exotic. Lady Azadiya refused to be pinned down to any agreement she could not poke holes into at will, and Mentor Stadat agreed to everything in order to get out of the meeting that much faster.

Ladyship hummed in agreement. “Left to his own devices, the Medicinal Corps might well wind up occupying a new wing in the Bureau of Imperial Oversight.”

“Mentor Hobon!” Mistress Messenger called out behind them.

“Absolutely not,” Ladyship murmured. She threw her hand out towards a break in the crowds. She rushed through it with Ibram at her heels. “Down this way… Here, there’s something— What is that noise?”

She paused at the end of a building, at mouth of an alley, with her head tilted. Once again, Ibram heard nothing. “Ladyship?”

“Like someone choking,” she said.

Ibram grimaced, and looked about the empty bit of alleyway. A stubborn yellow weed bobbed at him. “No one seems to be sickening,” he said.

Something heavy thudded to the ground. Ibram turned in a circle, head cocked, but he couldn’t tell from where the sound came. Ladyship turned left, and strode down a short alley between two honeycomb buildings barely worth naming the architecture, just as a youngish man opened a narrow door and staggered out into the muddy track. She swept by him, gar thunking up the short stairs, and inside, leaving the poor man, gaping and white-faced.

Ibram patted his shoulder; he seemed startled, but not as if he’d been choking. “It’s fine, she only needs a bit of privacy.”

“But—but,” the man stammered. “The body!”