A cold wind blew through the alley, sending a chill down to the outcast’s bones. Khazmine would have liked to blame the autumn weather and gathering thunderstorm for a sudden onset of shivering, but knew better than to delude herself with such notions.

Don’t be foolish, Khazmine thought, her thumb grazing the top of Tatty’s worn caravan hammer lashed to her belt.

Clever enough to bring several weapons, the outcast took stock of her hammer, a chipped dagger, and Major Barshaw’s war whip before squinting at lanterns in the distance. No one’s out looking for a nobody like me. His lordship’s only after powerful etherlings, not some common cutpurse.

That much was true, at least. As much as it grieved her to admit it, the half-starved outcast was hardly worth Vythorne’s notice. It wasn’t sensible it to hire a hunter or enlist an Inquisitor to hunt down a handful of lowlifes from Cheapside and The Dregs.

Not unless he knew for certain there was a Deceiver among them…

Another shiver rippled through Khazmine’s body as she dropped her taxing camouflage. Appearing out of thin air, the outcast materialized in the alley, ever vigilant of using her ether so close to the Holy House’s reach. The last thing I need is Lord Vythorne searching for me.

Khazmine had managed to stay hidden for over two years so far, but a Deceiver was exceedingly rare. It would be worthwhile to capture one for Vythorne’s designs, whatever they may be. As long as no one found out, perhaps the outcast could survive. As a half-breed, sure, but at least Khazmine would be alive.

Narrowed eyes lingered on the dead house panther at her feet, and pale-lilac ears twitched to listen for the hunter that had snuffed out the tiny being.

That could just as easily have been me. Khazmine flinched, wondering if such an end was her destiny.

Shaking her head back and forth, the outcast tried to put the thought out of her mind. Focus, Khazmine. You can’t give up now. He already thinks you don’t love him enough…

A sting lingered in unblinking eyes, tears pooling at the bite of autumn storm winds. Chilled gales threatened to remove Khazmine’s hood, and ruffled the fur of the dead house panther below. The Deceiver prayed silently for the poor creature, leaving a dingy copper fawn between two flea-bitten paws.

See you in the Great Hereafter, little one, Khazmine thought as she clenched her teeth. Not being religious or knowledgeable of such rites, a quiet observance was all the outcast could spare before tearing off into the night once again.

Though modest, the mangy house panther’s funeral did not go unobserved. Lurking in darkness, a pair of sharp, orange eyes trailed after the outcast, narrowing with a knowing glint at what they’d just seen…

***

“What’ll ya have, luv?” a plump, friendly tavern woman chirped. The table she’d approached had but a single, attractive foreigner seated with his back to the wall, with fine hazel eyes that put her at ease. “Kitchen’s still open, though there’s not much left worth ’aving.”

“D’you have any hot spiced nog and raddilbak stew?” the Deceiver asked, removing his hood to reveal locks of done-up black hair and a charming dusting of freckles.

“We got brambleberry wine, but no nog, what with the—” His server flinched, unsure if she should say any more. With the Feast of Merkander cancelled, there was no need to brew hot spiced nog, but tavern goers still asked for it now and again. “An’ as for the stew. Is not real raddilbak, mister.”

“A shame, but I’ll have it all the same,” Radin replied, a smirk on his lips as he waded through memories of a similar scene long ago. Back then, Khazmine had barely made it out of The Blanched Hart alive, but now, the Deceiver had more practice and skill to get away with a ruse.

With a smile and a wink, the tavern woman toddled off, leaving Khazmine—no, Radin—to watch the situation unfold.

Though well after full-dark, a few patrons remained, drinking their sorrows away and buying songs from a minstrel on stage. Among the stay-up-lates, a handful of Cheapsiders and two city guards threw copper fawns into an overturned tam by the musician’s feet.

Most citizens had long tired of state-sponsored music, which must be approved by the Holy House before playing. Even the tune alone from a prohibited song was reason enough to label someone a lowlife in Old Sarzonn. And so, none were brave enough to request something so bold and daring as the Ballad of Merkander.

Radin winced at remembering her little brother’s attempts at it. Pavo wasn’t fast enough yet to play such a tune, though he practiced faithfully on his beloved lute daily. It was a shame that playing such songs was punished nowadays…

“Another round over here, wench!” Jarold called out, breaking Radin’s train of thought with a yell. “The good stuff, y’hear?”

Already half-drunk, Jarold and Murdik were happily enjoying the spoils of their patrols, and shirking the remainder of their duties. With no Merkander festival to police, there was little reason to linger out in the cold autumn air.

Equally chilled by the night, Khazmine had rushed through backstreets to beat these cruel city guards to The Blanched Hart. It was no great hardship to pass them; the outcast was nimble and quick, more so without heavy, neglected armor on every surface.

Knowing that half-breeds weren’t welcome, the Deceiver donned a disguise—a dark-skinned foreigner she already knew very well.

Handsome enough to draw a few stares, at least, Radin thought, crinkling sharp, friendly eyes and pulling a mischievous grin.

The Deceiver’s camouflage was flawless, from freckles to feet. No one would guess in a hundred years that Radin Asteras lived again through such tricks. And with such limited alteration of Khazmine’s physique, it didn’t take as much ether to fuel her deceit.

Not bad, eh, father? See, I didn’t forget, Radin mused to himself as the tavern woman returned with his food and drink.

It was an easy thing, picking at stew and waiting for two city guards to get drunk. The pair carried on, four flagons deep by the time Radin finished. Only once Jarold’s words slurred together did the charlatan make his move at last.

Picking up his generous mug, Radin rose from his seat, swaggering across the room, inevitably reaching the city guards’ table.

With precise, practiced movements, the Deceiver readied his knife in a sleeve-covered hand, preparing to act the part he’d planned. Tipsy-looking and ungainly, Radin toddled over and began his role in earnest, as ready as he’d ever be.

“Oh, I’m terribly s-sorry, my good man,” Radin exclaimed, having “accidentally” bumped into Murdik, and spilling half of his wine on the bloated mess of a man.

The Deceiver rushed to blot the armor with his sleeve, fussing as he made quick work with skilled hands. “Good gods, you’re soaked through! I’m so sorry, my friend.”

Boiling mad that he’d been drenched with wine, Murdik whipped around to face the fool who’d doused him.

The tall, dark-skinned stranger had dared spoil his armor and stain his boots beneath metal sabatons, which demanded an immediate response. Murdik’s gloves creaked beneath his gauntlets, itching to lay this foreigner low with one punch.

“Easy, friend! I meant you no harm,” Radin soothed, his hands raised in protest. “How’s about I buy a whole other bottle, as an apology, huh? Go ahead, take your pick.”

More greedy than sensible in his drunken state, Murdik squinted at Radin, his hackles still raised.

“Really, friend. I am sorry to have wronged you,” Radin added, his voice straining to sound more masculine. The Deceiver flagged down his tavern woman with a wave and a whistle, eager to smooth things over and have a witness to his deception. “I say. I’ll have two bottles of your finest, please. For these kind gentlemen.”

At that, Jarold raised a brow, his smirk broadening at this foreigner’s silver tongue. Murdik was many things, but kind certainly wasn’t one of them. Whoever this strange fellow was, at least he was good for a laugh, and perhaps getting a few more stag’s worth of wine out of.

Flagons clinked together as Radin made himself at home, buying round after round with his ill-gotten gold. Deft fingers had made quick work earlier, both patting Murdik down and relieving the brute of his heavy dark hart leather purse.

Nearly an hour went by in this way, with Radin circling his new friends with a bottle in hand, never letting either guard reach the bottom of his chalice.

Jarold could hold his liquor well, but even he was nodding off and rubbing his belly, having overindulged himself. Murdik, meanwhile, fared no better; he’d nearly passed out but was kept up with a headache.

Having enjoyed not a single drop of sticky wine, Radin maneuvered to make his final play for the night. Jarold was far more vigilant than his companion, but his senses were dulled by drink, and he bore a drowsy expression that betrayed his agreeableness.

“My friends,” Radin whispered during a lull between songs. “Wishing you a very happy Feast of Merkander.”

“H-here, here!” Murdik raved, his speech labored and slurring. “Th-three cheers fer Merkander, an’ all o’ this, this—”

“Shhh—keep it down,” Jarold scolded. “You’re giving me a bloody headache.”

A devious grin crossed Radin’s lips as a plan formed in his head. If executed properly, the outcast could not only get his hands on another irresistible purse, but also have these two louts punished heartily for their crimes. Radin cleared his throat and leaned close to Murdik to pour him another drink.

“Three cheers, indeed, friend,” Radin added at last. “How does the rest of that song go again? It’s a famous one. I know I should know it, but… Gods, I’m not much of a singer at all.”

Leaning down enough to smell the stink of stale sweat, Radin loomed overhead, a serpent’s tongue whispering nonsense in Murdik’s ear.

“Foreign to slander,
Immune to defeat.
Olan Merkander;
Who no man can beat.

He travels the land,
And stops every year.
With his motley band,
To one day—Oh, gods. What was it again?” Radin asked.

“Ap-appear,” Murdik mumbled. “T’ one day appear.”

“You’re right! That’s it! Good show, my friend,” Radin praised, drawing a pleased grunt from the bloated knave. “But I’ll tell you what, for as good as you sound, I still think there’s something missing. What could it be?”

Jarold huffed at the stranger’s foolishness. Of course, Murdik sounded like a rough-ridden warhorse when he tried to sing. He was all grunts and wheezes, made worse by copious amounts of drink. The only thing that’d save that boorish lump’s voice was a—

“Hey, you there, lute wench!” Jarold called out to the minstrel. She’d long since given up on playing for the night, and was about to collect her tam to depart. “Where’re you going? Let’s have a song!”

Too drunk to realize what he had done, Jarold lobbed a gold stag right into her hat, bouncing once off the brim. “Play us the Ballad of Merkander. You know it, yes?”

Paralyzed by fear, the minstrel froze on the stage, glancing to see if anyone else had heard the request. All of the other patrons had indeed heard it, but no one was brave enough to go against the city guard.

“Are you deaf? I said play, woman! Play!” Jarold demanded, his hands tugging on a sword at his side. The scraping of metal sent shivers into the bard, and she moved trembling fingers to play a brief song. “There, that’s better. Louder, I say!”

Still shivering on stage, the minstrel did her level best, missing notes frequently as she went. The tune was just different enough to be confused for another, should any more soldiers come in and discover them.

The rhythm in time and notes slightly off-key, Murdik added his lyrics to the bleak harmony.

“A rascal an’ thief,
Both rugged an’ tough.
Steals from every fief,
Though never enough.

He takes every stag,
An’ small treasure chest.
Goes into ’is bag,
Wit’ all of th’ rest.

He’s on a crusade,
But never for greed.
Just gives food an’ aid
T’ those most in need…

So, if ya see through,
Despite ’is disguise.
Regardless of who,
You’ll get a surprise.

Take a good gander,
An’ say thanks again.
Good ol’ Merkander,
A man among—”

Murdik stopped dead once he recognized the bleached look of pure terror on Jarold’s face. The more sober city guard had tried to stand at attention, but caught his knee on the bar table and smashed his hand on its corner.

A rattle of neglected armor sent discordant noises through the tavern, which was otherwise silent with the new arrivals. Seeing Jarold’s fear mounting, Murdik turned about, catching a steel gauntlet to his cheek for his trouble.

Murdik plummeted to the floor, sounding like many pots and pans tumbling from a great height. His cohort stood stock-still and trembling, frozen in place and unable to help.

It was only once Murdik wiped the blood and spittle from his battered face that he managed to look up at the figure towering overhead.

Blurry yet daunting, the visage of a cruel, hard-lined man bore down on Murdik. He wore pristine Star Guard armor, with a long, flowing cape, and bore rank insignia Murdik was too drunk to recognize. Before the lout had a chance to speak, another slap silenced the foolish man on his knees.

“I should have expected as much from you, swine,” the Star Guard jeered, his hatred obvious and thick. “Who gave you permission to sing such FILTH?”

Stunned silent and stupid, Murdik made no reply. He was too busy trying to figure out who’d slapped him just then.

Who was this man, with eyes sharp enough to carve stone, and a hideous scar running right down his face?

“M-M-Mister Hallem, sir,” Jarold stammered and shook. “We had no idea. I mean, it isn’t our—”

BANG.