The pounding in my skull felt like a dwarf’s pick striking obsidian. I pried one eye open to find myself sprawled across silk cushions that reeked of sweet smoke and cheap perfume. The Prancing Peacock, of course - Urik’s most expensive brothel, disguised as an inn. Sunlight stabbed through the curtains.

I sat up slowly, and felt as if I had slept with a mouthful of silt. The events of last night trickled back: wine, dice, more wine, and that spectacular losing streak that had cost me… How much exactly?

“Awake at last, my artistic patron,” said Moddty Shierva, Nirum-Un’s wife.

Nirum-Un was the famous owner of the Peacock, but his wife acted as madam of the establishment’s seedier side. She entered the chamber, her painted smile more dangerous than a dagger. Behind her stood two bare-chested guards, their muscles oiled to a bronze shine. The message was clear: pay up or become tomorrow’s entertainment in the arena.

“Madam Shierva,” I croaked, struggling to find my courtly manners beneath the hangover. “About last night’s… expenses…”

“Forty-seven silver coins, your tab rivals that of a templar’s feast,” she purred, settling onto a nearby divan. “Plus damages to that mirror you threw at Kwessi when she laughed at your… performance.”

My stomach dropped. Forty-seven silver would feed a family for a year. I didn’t have forty-seven ceramic coins to spare, let alone silver.

“I have a proposition,” I said, summoning my inner flamboyant artist. “Art. You know my reputation, Azimanh the Great of Raam, disciple of Ushuch-si himself, sculptor to the rulers of Athas. One of my pieces would grace your establishment beautifully, worth far more than-“

“Your reputation precedes you, exile.” Her voice turned cold. “As does word of your… financial difficulties. Art doesn’t pay my guards or keep my husband happy.”

I leaned forward, desperation lending eloquence to my words. “A marble bas-relief of King Hamanu himself. Imagine your clients’ reactions, their whispered conversations about the brave Madam who displays such… audacious art. The publicity alone…”

She studied me like a merchant appraising trinkets sold by a drunk ssurran. Finally, she sighed. She had a sweet spot for me, always had. “Two months. If your ‘masterpiece’ doesn’t cover the debt by then, my boys will sell you to that zealous bastard templar Vaylin. You understand, Azi?”

I stumbled through Urik’s twisting streets, the morning sun already turning the walls into furnaces. My studio lay in the artisan quarter, wedged between a glassblower’s workshop and a carpet weaver’s. As I rounded the final corner, I saw the marble delivery carts and felt a surge of relief.

At least something’s going right.

But as I approached, I noticed only my two slaves, Karon and Mirel, standing beside the unloaded blocks. The merchant caravan was nowhere to be seen.

Master. Karon’s mental voice touched mine, carefully shielded from casual psionics. His surface thoughts showed confusion about the marble quality, but underneath ran a deeper current: The contact left no message. The seller departed before dawn.

My blood chilled. The marble delivery was never about marble.

Damn their haste, I projected back, while I bellowed loud enough for the whole quarter to hear. “What is this garbage? This isn’t Nibenese white marble! It’s chalky quarry stone!”

Mirel caught my meaning instantly. Her mental touch was lighter than Raamite silk: Shall I pursue them, master? Make the proper… complaint?

“Go!” I roared, for the benefit of any listening ears. “Catch that thieving caravan master before he fleeces another honest artisan! Tell him Azimanh the Great of Raam will not be cheated!”

She sprinted off, her lean runner’s build carrying her swiftly through the crowds. Meanwhile, I continued my performance, ranting about merchant houses and their declining standards while Karon nodded sympathetically.

Twenty minutes later, Mirel returned with the M’ke merchant and four of his wagoners, the merchant breathing hard from the run and eager to prevent a scandal. None of the wagoners was the messenger I needed to deliver the message to.

“Are you trying to fleece a fellow Raamite?” I began, but before I could continue, my skin crawled with the familiar sensation of a psionic probing.

I mentally slammed the door shut, flooding the intruder’s senses with a loud cacophony of fractured images: riotous colors, drumbeats, incoherent laughter. He recoiled, unsettled, and I psionically rounded upon him, face twisted in theatrical rage, breaking the psychic link.

I spun around with my cape flaring: there, a nondescript man in merchant’s garb, lingering by the glassblower’s stall. His eyes held the telltale glassy look of someone trying to maintain a psionic link. A House M’ke agent, without doubt.

Time for the performance of my life.

“ENOUGH!” I roared, loud enough to wake the dead in the city’s graveyards. “If this is how House M’ke treats a master artisan, then let all Urik know it! I’ll take my business to House Krosi, if I must! At least they understand quality and respect!”

I stormed toward the M’ke compound, Karon trailing behind with perfectly performed bewilderment, while the merchant followed with genuine bewilderment. Citizens stopped to watch; in Urik, public outrage was rare entertainment.

The M’ke merchant house rose before us like a miniature fortress, its walls carved with the house’s famous symbol: the silver quill pen on a field of red. Guards flanked the entrance, their obsidian-tipped spears glinting.

“I demand to speak with Master Trader Fajorik!” I announced to the doorkeeper. “This insult to my artistry will not stand!”

Inside, Fajorik, a nervous man whose sweat stains mapped his anxiety, listened to my tirade with growing alarm. House M’ke’s reputation and position were already strained enough; angering customers, especially ones with connections to Raam’s former nobility and current Urik elite, wasn’t something House M’ke needed.

“Master Azimanh, surely we can resolve this misunderstanding. Perhaps a discount on your next order, and I’ll personally ensure-“

“Discount?” I sneered. “I want compensation for this delay! My commission for the King’s newest concubine cannot wait for your incompetence!”

His eyes widened. Everyone knew Hamanu’s appetites, and crossing the sorcerer-king’s latest favorite could be a death sentence. He rushed to some back office, where I could hear screaming directed at some underling.

I exchanged glances with Karon. Have you seen our messenger? Karon tapped his ear and pointed behind him. An unassuming mul was laboring on a large cart - our Veiled Alliance courier, right there among the M’ke laborers. With a practiced mental brushstroke, I whispered our coded message. Now I could leave.

Fajorik came back from the back office, red in the face from the screaming, “Of course, master, we apologize. Full refund, plus ten percent compensation. And I’ll arrange a priority delivery for the best marble we can get our hands on.”

I allowed myself to be mollified, accepting his groveling apologies with regal disdain. As we concluded our business, I caught sight of the same M’ke agent from earlier, lurking near a side entrance. Our eyes met for an instant, and I saw suspicion there.

By the Dead Queen, some agents don’t learn, I sent directly to Karon, but loud enough to be caught by the nosy agent.

Outside the merchant compound, I had barely taken ten steps when a shadow fell across my path. I looked up to see templar Vaylin, young, ambitious, and just as dangerous as any templar.

“Master Azimanh,” he said, his voice smooth but confident. “I trust your latest commission is progressing well?”

“Indeed, honored templar. Though I must apologize for a slight delay,” I leaned closer, dropping the tone to a confidential murmur, “that merchant was too busy dealing with some elvish trinkets making strange noises to fulfill my order properly.”

The word elvish struck like a dart. Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Elvish trinkets? Making… noises?”

“Indeed,” I said, a smile plastered on my face. “An utter waste of a respectable man’s time, I assure you. But all is well now.”

He nodded slowly, thoughts already turning. One seed of doubt would grow into an inquisition.

Perfect.

I let the silence hang, then shrugged, a helpless artist wronged. “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing.” I said airily, “Though I must admit, I’ll be offering a worthwhile deduction from your piece for this inconvenience. Your patronage deserves better treatment.”

“I… see. Thank you for the deduction… and the information, Master. I trust your discretion in this matter?” said Vaylin with his eyes narrowing.

“Naturally, honored templar. Artists live by discretion.”

As he hurried away, hopefully rushing to organize a raid on the M’ke warehouse, I allowed myself a small smile. By sunset, that suspicious agent would be in the dungeons, and any investigation into my activities would die with him.

Karon’s mental voice touched mine, carefully shielded: Master, was that wise? The templars might discover-

Nothing, I projected back firmly. Our friend in the compound will plant incriminating evidence that points to that nosy M’ke agent, not our little arrangement. Sometimes the best way to hide is to give the hunters a different prey.

I walked home slowly, savoring the day’s small victories. Tonight, while the templars tore apart M’ke warehouses looking for contraband, real information would flow through other channels to Raam’s surviving resistance.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’d sculpt Hamanu’s likeness for Madam Moddty Shierva, capturing every cruel line of his face in marble, as well as finish templar Vaylin’s commission, dodge creditors, deal with angry clients…

I shrugged. That’s tomorrow’s Azi’s problem, not today’s Azi.

The crimson sun beat down mercilessly, but for once, I barely felt the heat.