Ribacci

Ribacci knew he was waiting for him. Still, he pretended not to notice the Dagger’s stare on the back of his neck as he oversaw his crew’s return from their latest job, directing some dragons to haul off the bags and crates of stolen treasures to the vault and others to tromp off to nest or entertainment, not start their off-duty festivities right here in the courtyard of the Brotherhood’s base, and keeping a sharp eye on the scribe counting the loot, assuring that each container was accurately jotted down. Not that any dragon belonging to the Brotherhood would dare betray it, but as a Head, Ribacci needed to be sure.

“Hey, hey, careful with that!” he snapped, springing forward to snatch a small chest bound in thin intricate chains from the claws of a wildclaw casually juggling it around two sacks of coin. The wildclaw turned an annoyed glare on him, and Ribacci showed his teeth. “This stores twelve pseudo-arcane battery radicals. You know what that means? You break a vial, we’ll be finding pieces of you on the second moon.” He said “we” but really the whole base could be nothing but a smoking crater—the Brotherhood’s mages would need to lay more protective layers over the chest soon.

The wildclaw blanched, gingerly accepted the chest as Ribacci handed it back, and walked away holding it as far from themself as possible. Ribacci snorted softly, retreating to his previous position to watch for any other idiots.

He saw a shadow slide past the corner of his vision, but ignored it, clapping the scribe on the back as the last of the job’s spoils were carried away and the two moved to follow behind. Within the tight security of the vaults, a more careful sorting and calculation could occur, and Ribacci intended to be there as it happened. This job had been particularly lucrative, with the acquisition of several expensive and dangerous items like those batteries, and he wouldn’t be making his report to Aldana until he was sure of every last jewel safely locked up.

Vault, Aldana, one last check of the travel gear and equipment stowed away, and then, at last, his nest—

A wink of metal was his only warning. Ribacci crooked his head to the side, and the knife whizzed past his ear at a high hum before thunking into the wall of the tunnel ahead. The scribe and those carrying cargo jumped, staring at the knife, then turning wide eyes on Ribacci.

“Keep going,” he sighed, rolling his eyes as he walked up and yanked the knife free. “I’ll catch up.”

They exchanged looks, then shrugged and obeyed, turning the corner and trudging out of sight.

Ribacci stayed where he was, knife dangling in his claws, and fortunately didn’t have to wait long—the Dagger had never been that patient, despite his occupation.

“You sure you’ll catch up?” Sysuul strolled down the empty tunnel, his gait more of a stalk than his usual swagger, a leer perched on the end of his lips. “Sure there’ll still be a scrap of your hide left behind once I’m finished with you?”

“Good day to you too, Sysuul,” Ribacci said drily, leaning back against the wall, knife spinning idly in his claws. “Quite the way to greet a Brotherhood Head’s fresh return from a highly successful job.” He tilted his head, thoughtful and concerned. “Tell me, when was the last time you got a mission? Last, ah, autumn quarter? No, no, the half moon, that was it—”

“Third quarter,” he snapped, and reached to snatch his knife back, but Ribacci was faster, the blade dancing as it traveled down to disappear within the folds of his tunic. Sysuul scowled, and Ribacci showed his teeth back.

“I think I’ll keep that,” he murmured, then returned to normal volume. “Third quarter! Why, that was a while back, now wasn’t it? I thought I saw your scales getting dusty.” His gaze roamed over Sysuul, who drew himself up with a light hiss, then flicked his tail, nonchalant.

“Oh, I’ve been keeping myself busy, don’t you fear.” Flash of teeth. “With my knives, mostly. The straw dummies in the training hall can attest to that.”

Ribacci raised a brow. “Can they? With all your knives, hmm?”

Sysuul’s eyes narrowed. Then before Ribacci could blink the bigger veilspun was on him, one blade pressed to Ribacci’s stomach, another to his throat, pinning him against the wall. “Where is it, Thief,” Sysuul growled, orange eyes flashing angrily. “Why’d you take it?”

Ribacci craned his head back, keeping as far from the blade edge as he could, but smirking regardless. Oh, he’d been looking forward to this. “I could hardly know,” he drawled.

Sysuul snarled and, keeping the knife to Ribacci’s neck, sheathed the other to search Ribacci’s clothes with quick, thorough claws, prying into every hidden pocket—not missing a single one and emptying them with ruthless efficiency, sending a plethora of various lockpicking tools, vials of powders and potions, tiny scrawlings of code on thin curls of paper, a scattering of coinage, two necklaces of precious stones, some dried berries he’d forgotten about, dice, and spools of thread steel and silk alike tumbling on the floor.

Ribacci sighed. “Really? I put time into tucking those away, you know. All this clean up . . .”

Sysuul found the little throwing knife, but left it alone. And nothing else. He seized the collar of Ribacci’s tunic and slammed him against the wall. “Where is it! I know you took it, Ribacci, give it back.”

“Clearly I don’t have it,” Ribacci said, annoyed. “Clumsy me, I must’ve dropped it in camp one night on our journey back . . . perhaps one of my thieves picked it up, and, thinking themself quite helpful, added it to the goods . . .”

Sysuul’s head swiveled in the direction of the vaults. “You bast—”

“Better hurry,” Ribacci grinned. “Doors lock once the scribe enters.”

And the Dagger was gone in a blur of wings.

Ribacci rolled his eyes, looked down at the utter mess of his things on the floor, and grunted. But as he bent to gather them up, he couldn’t keep himself from grinning. It was an idle game, for sure, a mostly useless challenge to steal the Dagger’s favorite knife before he left on his moons-long job. But he did need to keep his skills sharp, and sneaking into the Brotherhood base early this morning, dodging sentries and slipping past magical defenses alike, to hide the blade in Aldana’s own quarters, then slink unseen all the way back before anyone in his camp awoke, so none could suspect and rumors reach Sysuul’s ears . . . that had been ambitious.

And rewarding—that look on Sysuul’s face! Oh, he would remember that! Maybe commission a painter so he could frame it in his den.

The vaults—by now ringing with Sysuul’s frustrated cries as he fruitlessly tore them apart—could wait. Aldana—who’d be dealing with the headache of putting said vaults back in order and reprimanding Sysuul—could wait. The long travel weighed on Ribacci’s bones, but he strolled feeling light as a feather down the tunnels to his own private quarters, flipping Sysuul’s knife in his claws as he went.

It was good to be home.

Ribacci squirmed underneath the window, cracked not even an inch to let in the cool night air—and one small thief. Once inside, he didn’t linger on the sill but scrambled immediately up the bundled curtain. In the corner where wall met ceiling, he twisted around, clinging to the fabric to hold him in place as he surveyed his hunting ground.

The bedchamber was still, no alarms raised at his entry. The banescale asleep in the massive swath of frilly linens for a nest snored softly. Ribacci didn’t let out his breath, but sighed inwardly. Good. Though a well-regarded clan in high society, they hadn’t bothered with magical wards in their security, so—Unless.

The aristocrat slept too soundly. Ribacci’s intel had told of her being a light sleeper, fretful with dreams of only inheriting half a vault of treasure rather than the whole, probably. But when Ribacci tasted the air, he could detect it. The faintest whiff of old-cast magic.

Ribacci groaned and dropped from the curtain. He flicked his wings out when halfway down and darted across the den to the massive portrait hung on the wall. Was it slightly askew? He shoved his meager weight against the frame and, grunting, nudged it enough to get behind and view the hidden safe embedded in the wall.

His pouch of lockpicks twitched against his side. But the safe was already open, the stink of magic overpowering. All that remained inside was a single treasure coin, bent in half almost to the point of breaking, disdain in every mangled twist of the gold.

The mage-thief had struck again.

Stealing Ribacci’s intended score for the fourth time now.

~

“They’re everywhere, they’re nowhere!” Ribacci ranted, pacing the small confines of the cave he and his crew had retreated to for the night, with rumors of a patrol of Strata Keepers sweeping the area for uncouth individuals to haul off to prison.

Theron fluttered her crests unsympathetically. “Sound a little obsessed there, boss.”

Ribacci snarled. “I am not.” He lifted his head to a proud angle, flicking his tail. “I just need to find them. And beat them. This mage-thief.”

“Sure thing.” Flat as a fae could sound, yet Ribacci heard her skepticism.

~

Aldana curled her lip. Sysuul mockingly offered his aid. But Ribacci spurned any assistance in hunting the mage-thief, save for one spell he had one of the Brotherhood mages place in a necklace. He wound it around his foreleg, the pendant bumping lightly against his claws, so he had access to it in a blink.

He made his plans. He remade them. He made two back-ups plans, scrapped them, designed better ones. He considered which crew to take with him, but no. The Thief of the Brotherhood would handle this irksome gnat of a mage himself. Lightweaver will it be. Or any of the Eleven. Ribacci just wanted his competition gone.

There was an exhibit called the Faceted Sight opening to the public in one of the city’s most prestigious gem galleries. Ostensibly. Brotherhood informants whispered, the jewel on display was a glass fake, set out to mock the gawking ignorant audiences, while the true stone was presented in a room just behind, accessible only to those both in the know and in the purse, so to speak.

It was the exact kind of target the mage-thief went for.

And Ribacci was there, on the first night’s showing of the Faceted Sight, his black scales melting into the few shadows of the well-lit den as he sat motionlessly and awaited his prize.

Which never appeared.

Ribacci stared, at first in narrow-eyed disbelief, then irritation, and finally unadulterated appall, as one by one, the rich and the powerful swept into the room, and one by one, none stank of his mage.

He could only fume until daylight, already formulating new traps. But they would never be deployed.

The mage-thief had, like the contents of so many vaults, disappeared.

~

Ribacci moved on. He’d been taunted, like bait on the end of a fishing line, then ghosted before he could even swallow the hook, sure, but life didn’t stop for such affronts. The Brotherhood, at least, did not. For a time he thieved in the Expanse, then the Waste, only returning ‘Home once the pickings were plump again.

The familiarity of walking silently on cold stone floors almost lulled Ribacci into a sense of calm. Early jobs like these were always so easy, before news of repeated burglaries spread and clans tightened their security. Ribacci had come across no one but a single half-asleep guard—glorified secretary, really—at their desk in the temple foyer. The inner halls were dusty, cold, and silent.

So it was a great startlement when Ribacci reached for the offerings cast at the foot of the great altar dedicated to the Earthshaker, at the very same time another set of claws did as well. They nearly bumped, before Ribacci leapt back with a snarl, and the unseen dragon did the same—he saw a disturbance in the dark, like images distorted through a wall of ice, recoil and twist away just as he did.

Heart pumping with a sudden jab of adrenaline, Ribacci crushed the bespelled pendant he’d carried on his wrist for well over a year against the ground, and before the disguised dragon could react, the trapped spell washed loose in a wave of acidic snaps and crackles. Rendering the room null of all active magical spells, enchantments, and effects.

The dragon immediately came into view, though still cloaked in regular shadow, now discernible as a pearlcatcher of muted brown scales and wings. A pair of icy blue eyes fixed on Ribacci, a snarl twisting their face.

Ribacci crouched, baring his metal-sheathed wings, but the pearlcatcher’s head suddenly whipped to the left towards the shrine’s entrance, their eyes widening. He didn’t fall for the feint, but lunged into an attack, leaping for the pearlcatcher’s face and swiping a wing down at their eyes.

The pearlcatcher fell back with a small cry, barely deflecting the blow so Ribacci’s wingtip merely sliced their ear. Their claws came up, clumsily flailing at Ribacci, who darted in close rather than retreat. He landed on the pearlcatcher’s neck and sank his teeth in deep. Their shriek was more pain than surprise this time, and their claws moved faster than Ribacci could escape, slapping him into a tight grip and tearing him free of their neck. Rather than crush him or fling him away, however, the pearlcatcher pressed Ribacci against their chest, jamming a claw into his jaws to prevent another bite. Ribacci struggled fruitlessly as they continued backing away from the altar, into the narrow space between the columns lining the walls.

“You bit me,” the pearlcatcher hissed incredulously, then as if Ribacci could have made any response at all, “Shut up. Here they come.”

He crouched low, shrinking against the nearest column, and Ribacci could just twist his head around to see a thin, faintly-glowing mist flow out of the actual stone wall on the opposite side of the shrine. It was pink, mostly ambiguous in shape but for the barest outline of bones—not a skeleton Ribacci recognized—floating within the mist. The, ghost?, came to a halt in the center of the room, its “head” sluggishly scanning one half of the room, then the other.

The pearlcatcher’s grip had loosened enough for Ribacci to pull his face free and hiss, “The hell is that thing.”

“A temple guardian, idiot! The real question is, how did you get so far without meeting one?”

. . . This temple had guardians? Ribacci went slack in the pearlcatcher’s fist, aghast at his dearth of information and the sheer foolishness of his actions. The pearlcatcher’s veil hadn’t been to hide him from living eyes—Ribacci had seen his claws, and his body, once close enough and knowing how to look—but the dead.

The guardian’s head turned inexplicably in the two’s direction. At first it was still. Then it drifted forward. Directly at them.

Ribacci swallowed. “Dumb luck.”

The pearlcatcher’s pulse beat strongly against Ribacci’s back. “Run?”

“Run.”

The altar’s fortune? Another day.

~

Tell me your name, Ribacci had panted, in a side alley a far distance from the Earthshaker’s temple, more demand than ask. He couldn’t stand still, shifting his weight from side to side, as he waited for the pearlcatcher to straighten up from his own exhausted slump, turn to him, look at him.

The pearlcatcher shook his head, still wheezing, his tail tip flicking at him, Wait.

You saved my life, Ribacci growled, the admission pulled from his chest as reluctant as a thorny weed’s root. Tell me so I can repay it. The pearlcatcher hadn’t needed to grab Ribacci like that, pull him out of the guardian’s immediate line of detection. It would’ve been easier to escape by far, if he’d used Ribacci as bait. Instead, unthinkingly, automatically, he’d done just the opposite.

He flashed Ribacci a quick, unsteady grin. No honor among thieves?

Ribacci lashed his tail, wordless and angry and increasingly desperate, and the pearlcatcher lifted his head at last. He looked Ribacci in the eye, and handed him a bent coin.

Catch me at another job, and maybe I’ll tell you.

“Just try the spell,” Ribacci said, “one more time.”

Ezra hissed out a long breath. “I told you. I’ve tried.” He could hear the veilspun’s metal-capped wings buzzing in frustration as he paced the small confines of the bolthole Ezra had occupied for the past halfmoons, ever since the . . . incident.

“You can heal everything!” Ribacci snapped. “Anything! Your spells have always worked before—Why is this one different?”

Ezra did not flinch, did not snarl. Anger flamed within him, but he’d been trained better than to let it show. It was with purposeful intent that he curled his lip, baring just the edges of clean, white teeth. “Ribacci,” he said. “I don’t. Know.”

His partner hardly seemed to hear him. He kept pacing. “Something must work. I’ll try a different herbalist’s shop—that new one, down Mothlace Street. She just moved from the Wasteland, might have something different, something effective than your typical nature healer’s stock.”

Ezra shook his head and rose from his perch by the bricked-over window, stretching out his legs and wings. He'd been in this miserable hole for long enough that, even in the dark, Ezra knew how far he could extend his limbs, knew when to duck his head when stepping down from the windowsill to the main floor of the room.

Ribacci was still jawing away. “—and I mean, even if she refuses to sell, it’s not like we’ve ever really paid for anything in this lousy city—”

He stopped in front of him. “Ribacci, it’s over.”

The veilspun froze mid-hover, and Ezra resisted to urge to catch him as he dropped to the floor. He caught himself, however, recovering enough to flutter up to the lantern alcove—lit only today, for Ribacci’s visit—and cling to the ledge there. “What do you mean?” he said at last, cautiously.

Ezra scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. I know you know . . . the game’s up. I can’t thank you enough for your support this past moon, but it’s time that we—”

“You want to split?” Ribacci yelled—too loud for a supposedly secure bolthole. “I’m trying to fix this! And you’re just going to, what—give up?”

Ezra kept his face expressionless, didn’t let his tail twitch, his feet to shift. An ache in his chest threatened to crack his ribs, but he stood strong. He had to. Because this— “It’s the only option,” he whispered. “We both know it. I’m sorry.” At that, his voice broke, and Ezra turned away, ducking his head under his wing and stumbling to the bolted hatch embedded overhead in the ceiling of the room. “I-I can’t do this anymore, can’t be—be this—this—this burden on you.” He reared up and tried to undo the trapdoor’s chain, claws fumbling on the small links of oily metal.

“I can hardly believe it,” Ribacci said, still atop the ledge. His voice was utterly cold, all hints of anger swept away. “You, out of everyone. Just running away. And I thought—” His voice caught, and he broke off.

Ezra hesitated.

“Thought maybe we could be different,” Ribacci whispered.

Not daring discern what painful emotion stained Ribacci’s voice, Ezra wrenched the hatch open and clambered out of the room—then halted, uncertainty flooding him for the first time. He’d moved in and out of the bolthole before, of course, during their recovery, especially these last couple of days as he’d made preparations to leave. But a sudden, gripping fear engulfed him, tighter and more consuming than the blindness, and he gasped for breath, unable to move.

“Ezra?” Ribacci called from below. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he barked harshly, and forced his body into motion, walking stiff-legged to the front door of the abandoned shop, which would open out to a small, dirty alley in one of the quieter parts of town. He barely remembered his pack, sitting in a shadowed corner, and hastened to put it on.

Unfortunately—but he’d been praying for it, hadn’t he?—that gave Ribacci time to decide to come out of the hidden room as well, saying nothing, but the quiet hum of his wings giving him away. Ezra had noticed how his other senses, hearing and smell in particular, had sharpened since the incident, and he wondered how further they would improve over time since—since this was permanent.

Ezra braced himself, expecting more arguing with his former partner, but Ribacci merely hovered in the air, saying nothing.

Head still bowed, as if unable to meet the veilspun’s gaze, though that was silly, Ezra moved back to the shop entrance, grabbing the door handle. But again he hesitated. Could he really leave without—

“F-find someone else,” he said without looking—turning—back. “There’s no shortage of wannabe thieves in this city. Get a new partner and, uh, heh. Rob ‘em blind, huh?” He swung open the door and winced at the sunlight.

Ribacci’s ghostly voice from behind. “Don’t forget your bandage.”

Ezra’s claws jumped to his face in surprise; yes, they were still there. Bloodied, and gummed to his scales, since he hadn’t bothered to change them since his last attempt at a healing spell had failed. But the flesh should have scarred over by now. He tore the bandages off in a few quick tugs, and tossed them to the side with the rest of the decrepit old shop’s refuse.

He paused, claws poised over the scars, the raw, soft scales and raised, ruined skin. Prodding here and there didn’t hurt so much except—

Like a flash of lightning, Ezra was back. Creeping down darkened halls, a minuscule ball of magelight floating just ahead of his claws. Picking the vault’s lock, only to miss an errant wire, and hearing the stomach-dropping sound of some invisible gas hissing out in a sudden, direct stream at his head, clouding him in darkness and confusion as he stumbled back, magelight winking out, unable to hold back a cry as—

The pain hit. Ezra shrieked, crumpling in on himself, clutching at his head as pain sensors discharged over, and over, and over again, not in response to any real threat, but the sheer memory of one.

Ribacci was at his side in an instant, snarling, and grabbed Ezra’s claws in his own, pulling them away from the scars and clutching them tight. “You’re not well, Ezra! You need more time. There’s still a chance—”

“No.” Ezra wrenched free of his grasp. He stumbled back, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, straining for a semblance of control as slowly, agonizingly slowly, the searing sensation faded, and he became aware of his true surroundings once more. Still trembling, he reached into his pack and withdrew a long length of fabric, and shakily wrapped it once, twice, around the marred remnants of what had once been his eyes, then knotted it tightly.

He sighed, lowering his forefeet heavily to the floor, sudden exhaustion weighing on his body as if an imperial leaned on him. “You say more time, Ribacci? I say it’s been long enough already.” He flicked his tail tip, gesturing to himself. “Look at me. I know you’ve been taking from your own hoard to keep me tucked away in that hole. How much longer, eh? How much longer until you realize I’m not worth the coin.”

Silence stretched in the dusty shop. Then, Ribacci said drily, “Well, that’s a pity. Since I’ve already spent the last of it on a parting gift.”

Ezra’s head snapped up. “What?”

The veilspun clicked his jaw derisively. “I knew you were leaving, Ez. I know all your sneaking, your tricks and hiding places. And I knew . . .” He sighed. “Knew I couldn’t stop you, once you’d made up your mind. Today I thought, maybe I could convince you, give it one last try.”

Ezra shook his head. “Ribacci, what did you do?”

He laughed roughly, flitting over and landing on the shoulder strap of his pack. “Nothing terrible, put your hackles down. You’ve always said you wanted to see the Sunbeam Ruins. So! Purchased you a ticket. One-way boarding pass on a trading vessel bound to leave the port in, hmm, another hour or two, give or take. Go with the tides, you understand.”

“Ribacci. I just said—”

“Well, you didn’t say it soon enough, now did you? I bought the ticket days and days ago; it’s already done. And I’m sure as hell not getting on that boat.”

Ezra let out a long breath, then sighed, and shook his head ruefully. “I never did manage to pull the wool over your eyes.”

“Not even once,” he said in satisfaction. “Come on. There’s a small bar not far from the docks with, well, subpar drinks but an amazing evening stew. I’ve talked to the cook, reached an arrangement.” He hurried on, raising his voice over Ezra’s initial complaints. “We go now, we get the place to ourselves! No one will see you but the ’keep, and we’ll share a nice, hot meal before you head out. A good way to part partners.”

Despite himself, Ezra softened. “A final hurrah,” he murmured. His stomach gave an apt gurgle.

His friend snickered. “That’s the spirit.” Ribacci took off from his shoulder, darting out the door, and Ezra followed him out into the alley.

“The Sunbeam Ruins,” he mused aloud as the two went down the street, which was thankfully empty. He stepped carefully, unsure of his footing on the cobblestone, but with the hum of Ribacci’s wings at their side, he didn’t think he would run into anything. He’d have to figure something out though, once he was gone, truly alone.

I’ll make it work, he thought forcefully, shoving mounting panic back down. There was no other option.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be full of pretty sunshine and flowers. Maybe I’ll come visit sometime, hmm? Then you can get me a drink.”

Ezra nodded. “Next time,” he promised.

But he wondered, and couldn’t suppress the thought. Would there be one?

Ribacci remained a nocturnal creature.

Four days, the Matron—Biela—had said, tossing the pack of medical supplies on the nest before exiting the den she’d assigned to him for the night. The strain in your wing will have eased. Then we can discuss future arrangements.

Those words, future arrangements, had caused such a tension in Ribacci’s jaws and shoulders he’d been unable to sleep, adjusting his position in the unfamiliar nest every half minute. He startled at every noise, too habituated to the Wood’s tricks and taunts after a moon of travel to slip into unconsciousness easily. But the den was also too quiet, at the same time—it had been so long since Ribacci had slept indoors, with firm stone and wood on all sides. The nest was sized correctly, but spacious yet, free of thorny brambles or mischievous sprites, complete with a quilted cover to burrow into.

He should take advantage of the secure nest and den—he’d gone over it thoroughly, checking for any weaknesses besides the door and window—while he still had them. Four days, the Matron said.

Instead here he crept through the halls of the lair, silent as absence, every sense bent on signs of threat or observance, and attempted to learn every secret he could find and pry them open. He had to make sure he was—that there was no blatant, immediate danger to him, at least. No Brotherhood member stationed here, for example. That would be, to put it simply, bad!

Once he’d scouted out the whole of the place, maybe then he’d sleep.

It unnerved him that the clan was so lax as to not set guards at night. He’d noticed the lack of them when the Matron walked him through the lair the first night, and thought maybe they’d merely missed the patrols, but no. They just. Weren’t. Assigned. Which was utterly backwards from any sort of life Ribacci had seen or partaken in.

And similarly, while he was no mage, Ribacci had thought he’d be able to detect at least the, the primary wards a reputable organization set on their structures. To turn away large predators, add durability to the walls against environmental and force damage, those sort of spells a backwater clan like this one made use of, if not the perimeter alarms and identity recognition wards Ribacci was accustomed to in the underground of cities. In his investigation of the lair, however, he’d found . . . nothing. Just the barest scent of magic in the air, strongest when he pressed his face against the walls and inhaled through his mouth. It wasn’t magic he was familiar with, so faint and, integrated, as if woven into the very fibers of the wood and grain of the stone. It didn’t smell of Biela, but it certainly reminded Ribacci of her. Her, and the Wood . . .

All in all, Ribacci was dissatisfied in what he found in terms of defense and security. He still couldn’t sleep, so on the third night, in the wee hours before sunrise, he slunk into the kitchens. The Matron had brought him meals the first couple days, then upon asking after his knowledge of the lair’s layout—he’d messed up a few locations on purpose, of course—had been satisfied enough to allow him free rein of the public spaces without an escort. So he didn’t feel too bad in climbing the counters and into the fruit basket, squeezing around the smooth, hard skins of apples and cherries until he reached the woven-grass bottom, and curled up there.

Not that he’d ever felt bad, thieving from others to support himself. Why hide in the basket, then? he asked himself, sullenly pulling a potash peach close and sinking his teeth into its cracked peel. But he could hardly take a fruit and eat it seated at a table or rug. If another dragon walked in, well he’d hear them coming and exit first, but if someone did see him, they’d say something, and he’d have to say something back.

. . . Did he? He was leaving after the fourth day. Who cared if their ghostly visitor was a weird silent veilspun? Knowing the Wood, they’d had something worse.

Goopy peach flesh dribbled down his jaws, dragging Ribacci back to the present. Why’d he pick a potash? He should’ve pinned his mane back first. It was making a mess on his scales and the basket.

Growling, Ribacci shouldered fruits above off of him, hissed when an errant grape dropped in a puddle of peach, and carefully climbed out of the basket with the peach in claw, so it wouldn’t drip on any of the other fruits. He fetched a cloth napkin and set the peach down, then grabbed another napkin and wiped up the juice that had spilled. One by one, he took the fruits to the water faucet and rinsed them, and gave the basket a more thorough cleaning, before finally arranging them back how they were before, peach-pulp free.

His injured wing, splinted against his side so as to not accidentally jostle it, didn’t ache after the exercise. But it was making itself known. He’d wanted to take the peach to a windowsill, but instead he lay down where he was and tiredly took another bite.

One more day. And then what? Back traversing the Wood, and looking over his shoulder for Brotherhood agents every step of the way. He couldn’t risk going to another region. However much the shadows hated him, they hid him still. It was his best chance against the Brotherhood.

Ribacci placed his used napkin in the dirty linens basket and climbed back down to the floor, checking the corners before putting his back to the room to exit. No Dagger here to tackle him unawares, but he almost wished there was, just to be rid of the sheer dread of not having anything to guard against. That’s what the Brotherhood had been. Constant stress relief.

Those had been the days. Hadn’t they? Ribacci wandered the corridors, avoiding the dens he knew to be occupied, and remembered the Brotherhood in its infancy. The near disasters. The heady successes. That one time a faction had tried to usurp Aldana and her fellow Heads—they’d called them the “Sistercloaks”, hadn’t they!—and the tunnels had been so soaked with blood so as to form puddles, streams . . . they’d relocated after that. But never again.

Ribacci’s feet took him to the baths. He paused outside the entrance, but padded in, scenting for the presence of others as he prowled the circumference of the chamber. He’d been in here just once, and never actually touched the water—though, now that he thought of it, that had been a grievous oversight. There could be secrets underwater. So he should investigate.

He’d elected to wash himself with a cloth and bucket in his den because these baths were public. There were two chambers, a smaller one typically reserved for the hatchlings, and the larger open and available for everyone. Practically a pool inside the lair, with fire and ice runestones ensconced along the sides to change the temperature as desired—a more recent addition, he’d surmised, comparing the paler stone to the rest of the lair decor—and a number of drying mats laid out along one wall. (As if anything ever got dry in this miserable murky forest.) There, clanmates would recline and chat idly while finishing their preening. Oftentimes, they’d groom each other. Ribacci wondered sourly how often such interactions led to, hopefully more private, activities in secondary locations.

When was the last time he’d shared a bath? (The botched Sea job did not count.) Cleaned or dressed in a den with others? He’d afforded such privileges as privacy, being a Head. His fellow thieves learned to give him a generous berth. He hadn’t trusted to sleep in the same den with anyone—hell, sleep in a den alone without a locked dock—since. Well, not until Ezra.

“That’s all gone,” he snarled, and slid beneath the water.

He meant to swim to the bottom of the massive bath—easier for larger dragons, but not him—and give it a thorough scouting, but the unique sensation of being enveloped in water distracted him utterly. Oh! Ribacci twisted, corkscrewing his body as he hadn’t in ages, feeling his mane sleek and flare in congruence to his movement, and for a short time, was without weight. He hung suspended in the water, unmoving but for how the water pressed and tugged on his limbs, simultaneously smothered and emptied. He tipped his head back, eyes sliding half-shut, and loosed his breath in a trail of bubbles, rapidly hurtling away and above him.

This wouldn’t be so bad, would it.

His lungs eventually compressed for want of air, and Ribacci stirred. A few slow swishes of his tail, the rest of his limbs slack and loose, and he drifted towards the surface. Too slow for the rest of his body, which screamed for him to HURRY, but Ribacci couldn’t will himself to move faster. It would be fine, either way.

A blur of movement from above water, and a splash that sent a wave surging over Ribacci’s limp body. He reeled, eyes flaring open in a shock of panic and bewilderment, and a body crashed into his. He opened his jaws to yell, lashing out with his hindclaws, and water poured down his throat. He felt his claws slash into scale, but the dragon tightened their grip on him, trying to wrestle him deeper. Ribacci choked, lungs despairing, and flailed until his head smacked against something. On instinct, he bit down, hard, and the dragon writhed in pain. They released him, and immediately Ribacci kicked for the surface. He felt the pursuit on his tail.

Ribacci’s head burst into open air. He gasped, doubled over in a cough, spewing water, and—idiot!—tried to flare his wings to fly. His injured wing jerked against its cast, shooting fiery pain down his shoulder, and he shrieked.

Then the Brotherhood assassin was upon him, their head breaching right beside him.

Ribacci snarled, scrabbling backwards, knowing he was dead but he would not die without a fight, and the dragon—a veilspun like him, how appropriate of Sysuul—threw up their claws rather than lunge for him.

“Sorry! Sorry!” they yelped. “I am so sorry—I thought you were drowning!”

Ribacci’s back hit the edge of the bath. He hesitated at their words—FOOL, his mind screamed at him—but if this was a trick, what was the point? Ribacci tapped the runestone nearest to him, making it flare with a dim glow, which threw just enough blueish light across the face of the maybe-assassin for Ribacci to recognize him.

“Prince . . . Vallaki?”

The Matron’s favored whooshed out an exhale that sounded more relieved than murderous. “Yes. Hi. Sorry. Hello.”

“ . . . Hello.”

“I am very sorry for, ah, jumping on you like that, but, um, your pardon but, may I ask your name?”

And Ribacci had thought bumping into someone in the kitchen would be bad.

Ribacci perched on a twig at the tiptop of a pine tree, watching the sun rise. His den’s window faced west, so he came outside for the dawn, and with the thick thickets of tree standing in the way of the horizon, he had to climb the tallest one by the lair to obtain a decent view. Even here, on the thinnest branch, swaying at the tree’s whim, Ribacci couldn’t see the smooth curve of the planet; the sun rose from within a spiky crown that almost seemed to drag at the fiery orb, reluctant to let it cast its light on the Tangled Wood. Yet the sun prevailed, and its cool touch caressed Ribacci’s face.

He squinted into the rays, quietly massaging his aching wing joint, thinking, thinking, thinking. But he could see no other way out. Only one option remained.

Far below, the large main door to the lair shifted open. Ribacci heard the slight sound even from where he sat, so quiet was the morning, and he turned his head to watch as Prince Vallaki slid out and shut the door behind him. The blue-green striped veilspun stood in the courtyard, looking around, and when his gaze wandered upwards, Ribacci lifted a wing in greeting. The Prince waved back and took to wing, buzzing quickly up to Ribacci’s tree. Ribacci shifted to make room and Vallaki landed on a twig a little below him. Even that minor weight change caused the treetop to bow, but the two rode the sway easily.

“Greetings, Prince,” Ribacci said.

Vallaki smiled at him. “Good morning.” His voice was warm and gentle, and even clinging to a prickly pine branch, he appeared poised and graceful. It was a different finesse than Ribacci was accustomed too; far more elegant than threatening, but as Ribacci was discovering, no less impressive. He had yet to find the Prince in a state other than calm, no matter how hectic clan life became.

Today was no exception. Ribacci eyed the Prince. “You’re up early.” Most members of the clan didn’t wake up before the sun was well into the sky, yet the Prince looked flawless.

“That was supposed to be my line.” Vallaki smiled. “I don’t know how you do it each day.”

Ribacci shrugged. “Long habit.”

The Prince tilted his head, long strands of hair slipping over his face. “Have you always watched the sunrise, then?” A lock caught on one of his branches, and Ribacci resisted the urge to tug it free.

Instead he looked eastward, blinking sunbursts from his eyes. “No.” As a Brotherhood Head, he’d woken each day already behind schedule, and worked until past midnight to keep up with his many duties—not counting when his routine shifted nocturnal completely. “I’m simply used to being up at this time.” He chuckled, and almost managed to make it sound lighthearted. “My body doesn’t know anything different.”

For the first several moon cycles of his stay at the clan, Ribacci had had no idea what to do with all the free time. The Matron had informed him he would be put to work—satisfactory, rewarding jobs, but rigorous ones nonetheless—and he’d put his whole self into seeing his tasks completed to the highest standard, even when learning skills he’d never had use for before. And that had not been enough. They took breaks here, for leisure and relaxation, and Ribacci had nearly torn out his mane from sheer agitation of not being able to do anything.

Yet gradually, as his muscles slowly unwound from constant tension, and his scales no longer prickled at the sound of a slammed door or raised voice, and one day Ribacci found himself taking a nap, he had, indeed, relaxed. He woke up early, but used the time for nothing more than to climb this tree and watch the return of the day. It still struck him as funny that he’d developed the hobby only after moving to the Tangled Wood.

He’d been quiet for too long, staring aimlessly at the sunrise. That kept happening now, Ribacci just zoning out at times when his body and mind was still, for unspecified amounts of time. It was startling, and Ribacci wondered if it was what other dragons called feeling peaceful.

There he went again. He’d started rubbing at his wing joint, and his face must have shown some of the pain, because Vallaki asked, “May I?”

Ribacci hesitated, but nodded, and the Prince climbed up to sit across from him. The tree swung again, but once it stabilized, Vallaki set his claws on Ribacci’s scales and began to gently squeeze. Ribacci’s body instinctively tensed at having a dragon he didn’t trust so close, but he ran through his checklist of reminders: Vallaki didn’t carry weapons, this wasn’t a manipulative trick or unspoken test, Ribacci didn’t have to worry about owing Vallaki a favor in return.

“That feels nice,” he murmured, trying to get himself to relax. It was a good massage; firm, but careful enough not to strain his wing joint further.

“I’ll confess, my only real practice is from kneading bread dough,” Vallaki laughed.

Ribacci grunted. He hadn’t learned how to bake yet. Maybe tomorrow he’d go into the kitchens to ask if he could help.

There is no tomorrow, idiot. Ribacci shuddered as the realization swept over him, his stomach twisting sickly as his inner thoughts revealed what he’d been trying to deny. He expected—he wanted—to stay in the clan. But he’d already made his choice, hadn’t he.

Vallaki lifted his claws at feeling Ribacci flinch, peering at him in concern. “Did I press too hard?”

“No, you’re fine.” Ribacci moved away regardless, too twitchy to be touched any more. He tried to assemble his confused thoughts into order, and to give himself time, asked, “But what brought you out this morning?” Vallaki had sidestepped Ribacci’s implied question earlier, he realized, though to be fair, Ribacci hadn’t stated the question directly.

The Prince gazed at him with an expression Ribacci couldn’t read, but whatever it was, the softness in it was hard to bear. “Ribacci,” he began, and the tender way he said his name was enough to rip his scales off his body.

“Don’t,” Ribacci said sharply, flicking his wings and wincing as it tugged on his damaged one. He took a breath. “Just tell me plainly.”

Now Vallaki’s expression was sad, and Ribacci felt bad for possibly hurting him, but he couldn’t get himself to apologize. Maybe—but there would be no later. So maybe there was no point. Ribacci stared eastward, jaw clenched.

“The Matron asked me to find you,” the Prince said softly. “She wishes to have a conversation.”

“I see.” Ribacci nodded, resolute. This was best. “I’ll go straightaway.”

“I can come with you, if you like,” the Prince said suddenly, reaching out as Ribacci turned away. Ribacci paused. “Forgive me, that was far too forward. Though I would be honored by that trust, I understand your need for privacy.”

Irritation prickled underneath Ribacci’s scales, at this earnest, well-intentioned prince. His not-so-subtle hints at what he wanted to happen and gentle pushes to let him in. Between him and the Princess, Ribacci would never get some rest.

Good thing I’ll never see them again, he thought savagely, now more angry at himself than Vallaki, for being so—weak, Aldana would say. Yet Ribacci remembered Ezra and the frustration they’d shared before their departure—Ribacci at Ezra for giving up, and Ezra at him for refusing to let him go. Did he really want to go through that again?

So he forced himself to turn back, to match Vallaki’s kindness with a genuinity of his own. “Thank you, I appreciate the support. I will be fine, though.” He smiled. “Your mother isn’t nearly as scary as she’d like to be.” Though he never wished to meet Aldana again, Ribacci would have paid good money to see them in a room together.

The Prince dipped his head, graciously accepting the refusal, just as he had every time Ribacci turned him down. Somehow that didn’t stop him from trying again the next day, however. Tenacious fool.

“Goodbye, Vallaki.” His throat closed, but this was it. It was permanent.

Ribacci scuttled down the tree trunk before the Prince could respond. It was times like these that he really wished he could fly, he reflected sourly as he climbed, forced to go slow or else risk falling. Then Vallaki would zip down to catch him and—ugh. Ribacci reached the ground and hopped down, then walked to the lair doors, very aware of Vallaki’s gaze following him. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the front door open and let himself in, closing it as quickly as he could.

Hot with embarrassment, his stomach still churning—good thing no one woke earlier than him, including the cooks, so he hadn’t eaten yet—Ribacci walked through the corridors to the staircase winding up the Matron’s tower, and started up the steps. The stone was cut at different levels to accommodate dragons of different sizes, which was nice, but also made Ribacci’s climb seem much longer, with hundreds more small stairs than the larger ones. He considered using the spell the Matron had taught him, which would activate a stone beneath his feet to lift and carry him to the top, but he preferred the climb. Without flight, it was critical to keep his legs strong, and the elevator was fast. With this being his last day at the clan, Ribacci wanted to spend as many minutes here as he could.

At last he reached the top room, and scratched on the door lightly. It opened on its own, and Ribacci stepped in, blinking to adjust his eyes to the immediate decrease in lighting. According to Vallaki, the effect wasn’t intentional—as far as he knew—but shadow acted strangely around the Matron. Ribacci had witnessed that himself.

This morning, the Matron hung upside down from the rafters, her tail wrapped around a wooden beam and rest of her limbs hanging limply, fur covering her face. Normally Ribacci might be alarmed, but with the Matron he merely sat on one of the rugs stretched out on the floor and lifted his voice, “Good morning, Biela.”

The rafters creaked, then the tundra came sliding down. Ribacci narrowed his eyes, and could have sworn she didn’t fall as fast as any other dragon would have. She didn’t bother flaring her wings to slow at the end, but crouched to absorb the impact, and for a second shadow cloaked her form entirely. Then she stood tall and walked to a rug across from Ribacci and sat. “Thank you for meeting with me.” As always, the Matron sounded vaguely distracted, as if not all her attention or presence was in the room. It was a disconcerting sensation, since her eyes remained sharp and intense, boring into Ribacci without blinking.

He would still take it over Aldana’s disparaging glare. “I’m glad you asked to, as I believe I know what’s needed to be discussed.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

He forced himself not to flinch away from her stare. “I received a visit from an old associate two days prior.” Which you already know, he left unsaid, because the Matron knew he knew.

Biela didn’t say anything.

Ribacci swallowed and went on, a slight tremble to his voice he was unable to control, “I have reason to believe he won’t return, but that might not necessarily mean we’re safe from . . .”

“Trouble,” the Matron said grimly, and Ribacci’s thoughts reflected back to their first meeting. “You fear this encounter will cast far wider ripples in the pond, leading to a wave to disrupt my clan.”

“Perhaps capsize it.” The Matron’s face shifted minutely, and Ribacci hurried on, “I hardly know the extent of your powers, Matron, but I’ll remind you Sysuul did make it into clan territory.” He knew now how well the Grove defended itself against unwelcome intrusions, allowing few in and Biela fewer. Yet the Dagger had slipped—or, more likely, cut—past the safeguards. He struggled to make the Matron understand. “If all the Brotherhood is mobilized against us, you alone will not be able to rebuff them.” And no one else in the clan was powerful enough to pose any real threat, Ribacci knew after his time here. They were too busy being damned kind to each other.

She said nothing. Ribacci stared at her pleadingly, knowing she didn’t particularly care for him and had watched him closely all these moons in case he caused harm—and now he had. “Please believe me.”

The Matron pulled her gaze away, as slowly as if moving through sap. Her head craned towards the window, then her eyes flicked to the outside view, and she said to it, “You are an interesting one. Why tell me this? So straightforward, for a thief.”

Ribacci swallowed, wondering how much she did know about him and his past. The clan had been kind in not prying too much, likely per Biela’s request, but he couldn’t hide his every aspect of self perfectly. Things slipped by, most uncaught by most dragons. Biela was not most dragons.

His laugh came out ragged. “I thought the time for bravado was over.”

The Matron made a hmmm noise in the back of her throat. “Why now?” she wondered. “Why not ask for help when this associate first arrived?”

Eleven help him, he could not keep his voice from shaking. Why did this have to be so damned hard? “Sysuul is not an honorable dragon,” he said, thinking of sharp grins and flashing knives. “I feared if anyone else knew he was here, he would go after them as well as myself.” He’d been utterly at the Dagger’s mercy. And somehow gained it, a fact Ribacci was still struggling to wrap his mind around, when he wasn’t burning from shame and fury. Which was why he’d made up his mind.

He looked up, and the Matron was looking at him again. Had she moved closer? Her position on the rug was the same. Yet she looked bigger, almost filling the room. He held his ground, and said it. “I’m leaving the clan.”

There. It was out. Ribacci couldn’t trust to Sysuul’s word to lie for him to Aldana. Either the Dagger would change his mind and tell her everything, or Aldana would find out the deception, kill him, and come after Ribacci herself. So Ribacci couldn’t be here.

The Matron blinked. “No.”

Ribacci exhaled sharply. “Biela, you must understand, this isn’t—”

“No,” she repeated, cutting him off, “you didn’t let me finish. I meant, why only come for help now? This all would’ve been much easier to set to rest had you come to me immediately. Truly, little thief, I’ve learned to expect this kind of behavior from hatchlings, but you are quite grown up, aren’t you?”

Ribacci gawked at her. “I said I’m leaving. I didn’t confess so you’d help—there’s no—they’ll be no setting to rest, I just need to be gone as soon as possible—”

“The latter part was a joke,” she noted. “Though a poor one. I recognize the lived experience of your life to be far different from my own children’s lack of it. I apologize for the unfair comparison. Regardless,” she carried on, not waiting for how Ribacci responded, “you should know by now from interactions enough with me that I do not speak lightly. I and the clan will help you. We will not abandon you as others have.”

Much as he wished he could, Ribacci couldn’t deny what she said, couldn’t hide behind skepticism and doubt. He didn’t know how to defend against such an attack, and was made utterly vulnerable. So he stammered and stumbled and under those empty pitiless eyes he finally admitted, “Thank you.” And his eyes were tearing and although he was already seated his legs quavered and he hated that. Didn’t he have to be strong? Aldana was going to kill them all, and he could do nothing about it, and it was all his fault.

“Ribacci.”

He looked at the Matron unwillingly.

She didn’t blink. “I will ask Laverne to assist you. Go rest.”

He shook his head fiercely, snarling a little to be rid of the tears and shaking and terror. “If I’m to stay, I need to help you plan, prepare. We—”

“Next on my agenda is for me and the Grove to talk. You should not be present for it. You are intruding on my space. You will be most helpful in your den, building strength for what is to come. Do you understand? Do you agree?” She expected a true answer.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t agree. But he was suddenly too tired to fight any longer. Weakness. But the Matron had said she would keep watch. So maybe it was safe—for now—to trust her to that. She’d never lied to him before.

Silently, he nodded. Biela accepted that, flicking her tail to excuse him, and Ribacci left the tower. He walked slowly down the stairs, staring at the ground rather than watching his surroundings, and didn’t respond to the greetings sent his way as he passed the main chamber. He found himself in his den without his noticing it, and stood a while, trembling. He half expected someone, something, to climb through his window and attack him then and there. When nothing happened, he collapsed into his nest and curled up. At some later point he heard a scratch at his door, and Laverne entered, with the scent of hot tea accompanying her. She set the tray on his side table and sat beside him, saying nothing but drawing her claws through his mane. It was soothing, yet his heart beat hard, and his body wouldn’t uncoil its tautness.

While Aldana yet lived, the clan was not safe. Ribacci knew too well the stories—less than rumors, barely whispers—of what had befallen the perpetrators of the Bazaar Indigo Raid. And that had been in the early days of the Brotherhood. What would she be now? What would she do now? Ribacci saw fire, fire. Either that or—his mind flinched from imagining the alternative. Hope was too painful.

But relief, the sense of a burden being shifted off his shoulders to be borne alongside someone else, was overpowering in its intensity. Try as he might, Ribacci couldn’t regret his decision to stay.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore.