Tem felt the sun shift slowly across his face. It was well-passed noon, but night would not be soon in coming. The summer sun lingered, and Tem thought he saw the shifting of a shadow from the corner of his eye.

"Hot day, Misser, to be sittin' so centre in th' sun," the shadow said in an accent he couldn't begin to place. Tem strained to see the man beside him. He reeked of oil and made a sound like very faint bells with the slightest movement of his head, but, as always, Tem could divine no more of this man than of any other.

"You tell stories, Misser?"

"That's what the sign says," Tem replied evenly.

The shadow bobbed his head. "Go tellin' me one, den."

Tem smiled, and he cocked his head to the side, his long hair tickling itself off his nose, only temporarilly. "Do you have any requests?" he asked.

Camphor's destination was some forty miles to the west. He had explained it as 'another town to visit, another casket to make, two days by road if we walk hard.'

Well, Faline was certain it would have been, but the bridge appeared to be out.

"That's not 'out', so much as 'utterly and completely missing, and likely not to be soon repaired,'" she complained, staring at the broken timbers. "What is this?"

"It appears to be a canyon," Camphor replied, leaning over the edge to see the river cutting through forrested cliffs far, far below.

"Please don't fall over the edge," Faline sighed.

Quetz was off hunting, and Faline leaned on the cart she'd been pushing for Camphor. "And how are we supposed to fix this?"

Camphor shrugged. "There're three ways."

"Well?"

"We turn around and go find somewhere else, we circle around the long way, or we build a new bridge."

Faline folded her arms across her chest.

"Ever build a bridge before?" he asked her.

"No. Never really meant to try."

"It's not hard. Tell me, how much weight can Quetz tow when flying?"

"Are you serious? Do you know how long this will take?"

"Ultimately half as long as going the long way." He shrugged and pulled a hefty axe, one that looked far too big for him, from the cart, and stepped crisply into the woods, evidently in search of trees.

Faline stared after him as he went, easily and unafraid.

"He's going to get eaten," she whined at length. She had no choice but to follow him.

Dusk was settling to night when Faivish felt the push, the firm nudging from Fate herself to take the swiftest horses and ride out across the plane and find the traveller in the shadow. He retrieved the horses from the natural corral beside the temple, nestled up against the mountains, swung up on the back of the gelding, and urged them back across the plains.

There, miles away, the shadow stretched, so black that the rest of the night seemed a grey dawn. He followed it, whistling the horses on, until he saw the palm lying open, and the mass huddled safely within.

Faivish dismounted and approached the palm.

"I come on orders of our Lady, deaf and dark and silent. Allow me to retrieve the one you keep."

As she says, Faivish.

The darkness faded as the shadow slipped across the plain and back to its place beneath the Hand of Fate. The moon crested the mountain as Faivish kicked the pilgrim square in the ribs. The pilgrim's braided hair shone pale copper, and he cursed as he curled up, feathered earrings jingling. He'd been sleeping as he waited.

"Get up," Faivish said firmly.

Gershwin glared mutinously. "You know it's me. And you kick me every time - regardless of whether I'm awake or not."

"Complain some more," Faivish offered. "I can kick you a lot harder."

Gershwin staggered to his feet. When he almost fell, he threw his weight on Feivel, who rolled with the sudden pressure. "What?"

"My legs are asleep," Gershwin whined.

Faivish clapped him firmly on the shoulder. "No bed for you for a month. You're getting soft, so you're sleeping outside."

Without another word, they mounted up and rode back to the sanctuary.

By the time the man's story was finished, a crowd had gathered. "Thankin' ye for your wares, Misser," Gleb said as he tossed a few small coins in the basket by the man's feet. The crowd echoed his payment, and Gleb drifted with it as it filtered out of the square.

He had a job to do, but he always loved a good story, and this storyteller was good enough to draw the crowd that would be his half-decent cover. But it was a good story, and Gleb was good enough to afford a quirk in his business.

Unfortunately, now there was no more time to relax. He had a job to do.

The storyteller was blind, or a very clever fake, so he would suspect little. And as far as the rest of the crowd was concerned, Gleb was a beggar, and not even worth an honest day's pay.

He hurried with the crowd as it dispersed. He'd been casing this neighborhood for quite some time now. He could find the right place on a cloudy, moonless night.

But he didn't need to.

The job was to be carried out in broad daylight, and his client had ordered it to be a messy affair.

Already it was a bit messy. He'd coated himself with oil to help with the job and to keep people unconcerned with his dealings here. If he looked even dirtier than usual, no one would take notice. Beggars worked these streets during the day because it was one of the richest districts. The rich paid money to keep the beggars away. And, once they had, they pretended the beggars were invisible. It was a perfect cover for his day's work.

Gleb hurried down the street and scurried onto the roof, his soft-soled boots giving him a quiet step and a better feel for the footing. From there, he squeezed down the chimney, which had been cleaned just three days ago. Gleb slid down with little difficulty, though without the oil on him, the squeeze would have been a tight one.

He stepped into the study the chimney had led him to and tapped his toes to shake off any ashes that might have been missed by the chimneysweeps. He put on a pair of heavy work gloves, and set to work seeking out his target.

Why his client wanted Vanguard Piler dead in a most gory fashion was none of Gleb's concern. He was getting paid an exorbitant amount of money upon the completion of this job. He wouldn't have to work for at least two months. It would be glorious.

Piler was a businessman of some sort. Gleb's client saw a competition in him... or something. It was the clearest motive he could work out, but as he'd previously noted, he didn't really care. Work... was work.

He crept through the lush house with its thick carpets and its finely-crafted metalwork. He passed the lamps glowing with steady flame. He passed the stairs to the kitchen full of servants and rich-smelling food.

And he found Vanguard Piler at the same place he had found him every day for the last two weeks at this time: in his sun porch on the second floor, screened in from the flies by a fine mesh net, and inaccessable to the world by a staircase. He walked to Piler without a word and without a sound. And just as silently, he pierced Piler's trachea. No witty dialogue. No vengeful smirk. Not a twitch of annoyance or satisfaction.

Quickly, while Piler's heart was still beating, Gleb hauled him up, and disemboweled him. He reached in and peeled out Piler's liver and tossed it to the side nonchalantly. This didn't thrill him. This didn't bother him, but it certainly didn't thrill him. There were better things to be doing with his life, sure, but none paid as well.

Though every now and again there was reason for him to feel a little proud of his handiwork. This was one of those times.

He crushed Piler's guts beneath the soft heel of his shoe, ground them down to the boards of the sundeck, and inspected the enclosure.

Gore dripped from the bright, sunny, mesh-lined ceiling, as well as splattering the books and chairs and tables. Piler was still flailing around; mere seconds had passed. He wasn't dead yet.

But he definitely wasn't alive.

Gleb flicked the blood off his knife, wiped it on the inside of his shirt, and returned it to its rightful place up his sleeve. Then, without a glance back or worrying about whether anyone down in the kitchen heard him, he padded silently out to the other side of the house, where he dropped out a window and into the garden. From there, he casually meandered out to the street again, and no one was the wiser.