Sirylle adjusted her eyepatch for the third time in as many minutes. The damned thing was purely decorative, but it made her look properly dangerous, which was half the battle in her line of work. The fact that she had perfect vision in both eyes was a secret she'd take to her grave, along with the embarrassing truth that she'd gotten the idea from a particularly striking tale about pirate queens.

  "You're fiddling with it again," Grenda said, not looking up from her crossbow maintenance. The dwarf had been oiling the same mechanism for the better part of an hour, which was either dedication to craftsmanship or spectacular avoidance of actual work. Sirylle was rather sure of which it was.

  "It won't intimidate anyone if it’s on the wrong damn way," Sirylle said, examining her reflection in a polished shield someone had left in the mill's basement. The eyepatch did look rather fetching against her pale Silverwood complexion, though whether her grandmother had actually been from the Silverwood line or just particularly pale was a matter of family debate that no one cared enough to settle.

  "You're preening like a peacock who's discovered mirrors."

  "Peacocks are majestic creatures."

  Grenda still didn’t look up. "Peacocks are loud birds with delusions of grandeur."

  "I don’t see the bloody problem."

  The mill's basement was everything a proper dungeon should avoid being. No dripping water for atmosphere, no artfully placed skulls, just dirt walls and the persistent smell of grain dust mixed with human misery. The prisoners huddled in their cells with the kind of resignation that came from realizing they'd been captured by an organization that treated human slavery like grain distribution.

  "That priest is blessing the walls again," Grenda said, pointing with her crossbow bolt. "Fourth time today. You'd think he'd realize the Divine has better things to do than inspect basement masonry."

  "Let him have his damn rituals," Sirylle said, finally satisfied with her eyepatch angle. "Though I do wish he'd bless more quietly. We're trying to maintain a professional atmosphere of dread, for Thev’s sake."

  The mill wheel groaned above them, turning with the dedication of something that had forgotten its purpose but was too stubborn to stop. As much as Sirylle hated to admit it, the whole operation really was clever in its banality. Who suspected a mill of anything except occasionally producing flour?

  "Did you see the new prisoners?" Grenda asked, finally setting down her over-oiled crossbow. "That healer girl's going to make someone very rich. Can read, write, and has actual magical talent. Even if she won’t turn to the Hand, someone would bid mighty well for her in the Capitol.."

  "The Capitol nobles would bid on a talented turnip if we told them it was rare enough."

  Grenda chuckled. "Remember that merchant who bought three 'blessed' chickens?"

  "The ones we'd just grabbed from a local farm?" Sirylle shook her head at how stupid people could be.

  "He was convinced they laid golden eggs."

  "They laid regular eggs. He just refused to admit he'd been fooled."

  They shared a comfortable laugh, the kind that came from years of professional villainy together. Sirylle had met Grenda during a tavern brawl over a card game that they'd both been cheating at. The friendship was immediate, founded on mutual respect for each other's dishonesty.

  The comfortable silence of avoiding actual work was interrupted by voices from outside. Not the usual spellbound townsperson humming, but actual conversation. Sirylle's ears, sharp as any elf's despite her questionable lineage, picked up every word.

  "Looking for someone named Venn," a woman's voice said, with the kind of directness of someone that either didn't understand subtlety or didn't care for it. "Young healer. Heard she might be here."

  "This is a mill," one of the guards replied, attempting to sound like an actual mill worker despite the sword at his hip. "We mill grain."

  "You mill grain while wearing chainmail?"

  "You never know, these days."

  There was a pause with the heavy sound of someone thinking and someone else hoping for the pause to stop.

  "I'll just have a look around then," the woman said, in tones that weren't requesting permission so much as informing of intent.

  "Hey! You can't just—"

  The sound that followed was best described as meat meeting misfortune, followed by the surprised sigh of someone who hadn’t planned to die this day.

  ?Was that necessary?? the female voice said as the sound of steel being drawn followed.

  ?He was in the way,? a gruff, monotonous male voice replied.

  "That's that Bormecian," Grenda said, already loading her crossbow. "The one worth fifty gold."

  "Fifty gold just for information," Sirylle corrected, her mind already calculating. "Imagine what she's worth delivered."

  "Private lodging worth?"

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  "Private torture chamber worth."

  Above them, violence was unfolding with the enthusiasm of a tavern brawl that had been given good weapons. The ceiling shook as bodies hit floors with meaty thuds of people who wouldn't be getting up soon.

  ?Is that—? someone said.

  ?It can’t be—? someone else said.

  ?It’s a rabbit!?

  Someone screamed.

  "Should we help?" Grenda asked, though her tone suggested she'd rather eat her own boots.

  "We're guarding the prisoners," Sirylle said primly. "Can't guard prisoners if we're not here guarding them."

  "Sound logic."

  "I thought so."

  A body crashed through the floor above, landing in a heap of limbs. It wore Crimson Hand colors, which made it technically a colleague, which meant they should probably check if it was breathing.

  "Is he dead?" Grenda asked, prodding the body with her boot.

  Sirylle glanced at the body, not exactly enjoying the sight of a very possible near future. "Does it matter?"

  "I suppose not."

  The door exploded inward like punctuation at the end of a violent sentence. The Bormecian stood there, tall and scarred and magnificent in the way that avalanches were magnificent, beautiful and terrifying and absolutely unstoppable. Her sword looked well-used and well-maintained, the kind of weapon that had opinions about conflict resolution and expressed them pointedly.

  Those eyes, Sirylle thought.

  She felt a twist of envy. This woman didn't need an eyepatch to look dangerous. She just was dangerous, radiating it like heat from a forge, with muscles that could stop arrows and break backs.

  Behind her came, to her utter surprise a Dragoon, and Sirylle's envy doubled. The armor alone was worth a jealous sigh, all blue and gold shining with authority, but it was the way he moved that really stung. Like gravity was optional. Like the world itself bent to accommodate him. No one would ever question if his eyepatch was real, not that he needed one with presence like that.

  "Where's Venn?" the Bormecian demanded, which was rude. Not even a greeting or an acknowledgment of their professional criminal status.

  "Don’t know if we have that in stock," Sirylle said with her best fake smile, the one she'd learned from a Goldriver elf who'd run the most successful poisoning business in Vaelen. "But I'd be happy to check our inventory if you'd like to wait."

  The Bormecian’s sighed and responded, her greatsword attempting to make Sirylle's acquaintance at speed. Sirylle moved with elven grace, which mostly meant cheating. The half-second of prescience that supposedly all elves possessed wasn't much, but it was enough to be exactly where the sword wasn't.

  "Stand still!" Grenda shouted, her crossbow singing as bolts flew. "It's terribly rude to dodge!"

  "I'll try to be more considerate while you're trying to kill me," the Bormecian replied, which Sirylle found actually rather witty for someone who communicated primarily through violence.

  The Dragoon moved like every hero statue Sirylle had ever walked past. His lance swept through the space where Grenda had been, but dwarves were surprisingly agile when they needed to be.

  "Dragoon!" Grenda announced formally. "By the authority of the Crimson Hand, I demand you cease this unlawful interference with our lawful... unlawful... our business operations!"

  The Dragoon actually paused. "I am Saren, here to end this criminal enterprise."

  "Oh, well, that's different then," Grenda said, reloading. "Carry on with the violent justice."

  "What?" The Dragoon paused.

  The Bormecian stopped mid-swing, which was rather lucky for Sirylle’s right shoulder. ?Really??

  "No." Grenda smiled and the crossbow sang again.

  A scholar type was doing something magical with the cells, which seemed unfair since this was supposed to be proper combat. The prisoners were stumbling out with a mix of relief and confusion that came from being rescued during what appeared to be a rather polite battle.

  "The transport!" someone shouted from above. "The transport is leaving with the valuables!"

  Crap, Sirylle thought. That meant the mill operation had been abandoned by those in charge. I liked it here.

  The Dragoon was already on his way out, whereas the Bormecian turned to them with a confused look.

  Sirylle shrugged. ?Sounds like your friend is going for a trip.?

  The Bormecian’s entire demeanor changed;, and Sirylle suddenly understood that they'd been playing at fighting while this woman had been holding back. The greatswords’ pommel found the spot on an elf's skull that made the world go sparkly, then dark, then absent entirely.

  Sirylle woke to Grenda's face looming over her, which was never pleasant but beat being dead.

  "How long was I out?" she groaned.

  "Long enough for them to free the prisoners, and murder most of the guards." Grenda rose to her feet. ?They just ran after the caravan.?

  "The ones upstairs?"

  "Very dead."

  "The spellbound townspeople?"

  Grenda shrugged. "They tried to stop them. Emphasis on tried."

  Sirylle sat up carefully, her elven grace temporarily replaced with the spinning that usually required at least a bottle of wine. "So we're alive."

  "Appears so."

  "And in a damn pickle."

  "Most definitely."

  They sat in the wreckage of their criminal enterprise, surrounded by not so alive colleagues and the debris of heroic intervention. The mill wheel continued grinding above them, dedicated to its meaningless purpose.

  "The operation around Westkeep seems sound," Grenda said eventually.

  Sirylle massaged her temples, very gently. "I hear they have that bloody lord helping them out."

  "That usually does help in avoiding stuff like this."

  They helped each other stand, stepping over bodies as if they were horse manure. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the once-real-now-fake mill in shades of orange that almost made it look legitimate. In the distance, they saw the caravan racing toward Falun with the would-be heroes on its tail.

  "We should probably help the guys in town," Sirylle said, already knowing they wouldn't.

  "Isn't that what that spell is for?" Grenda said with a shrug.

  "Boss would like to know about this."

  Grenda barked a laugh. "Kael wouldn’t care about this crap any more than he cares for dancing."

  Sirylle shot her a glance. "You damn well know I didn’t mean Kael."

  ?Doesn’t matter. They’re both in Crownport, anyway.?

  They stood there for a moment, looking at the people disappearing in the distance.

  Grenda shifted the weight on her feet. ?It’s been a while since we did our own venture, hasn’t it? Guard something simple. Like a dragon hoard or cursed artifact?

  ?Or just do our own thing.? Sirylle nodded, enjoying the idea. ?Would make our backs a nice target for the bloody Hand, though.?

  "There's no Hand in Oerlain. Or The Shields. Or in Danara."

  ?That would require a ship, which would require money.? Sirylle looked around at her former co-workers. ?I think we should be able to scrape together enough for passage from Valemark, don’t you think??

  Grenda smiled, and they started to loot anything that might have value, two terrible people who'd failed upward in the way that only truly professional criminals could. The mill ground on, its waterwheel too stubborn to stop turning.