“If you want to take down Legionaries, I’m going to need more to work with than glow dust and black drip,” Lynnia said. “A bit of ignition oil, some drive stems—”

Gyre held up a hand. “Take it up with Sarah. She’s going through what we got from the carriage. Right now, I’m about five minutes from falling over.”

“Get yourself upstairs quick, then.” Lynnia spun her chair back to the worktop. “Chosen know I can’t carry you.”

Gyre edged past her, pushing through the narrow lane down the center of the basement not occupied by alchemical glassware or general detritus. He’d reached the narrow stairway at the far end of the room when Lynnia looked up again.

“There was a delivery for you this afternoon,” she said. “One of your mysterious friends. It’s on the front table.”

Gyre paused for a moment, then continued upstairs. The main floor was furnished much more conventionally than the basement workshop and was distressingly neat and tidy. Gyre shuffled over to the second-floor stairs, exhaustion growing in him with every step, and nearly forgot to pick up the envelope waiting for him on the front table. It was cheap paper, bulging and sealed in wax with the stamp of one of his usual couriers. Gyre put it in his coat pocket and went upstairs.

His bedroom was as ordinary as the rest of the house. Gyre made a point of not keeping anything incriminating here that he couldn’t grab in a hurry on his way out, to make sure Lynnia could deny everything if Raskos ever tracked him this far. Even after three years, therefore, the place bore few traces of his personality—just some of his respectable clothes in a dusty wardrobe and a map of the city pinned up over the small desk. Gyre shrugged out of his coat and let it fall, the mask in his pocket hitting the floorboards with a metallic clunk. Then he flopped into bed and closed his eye.

Plaguefire. He rolled over and looked down at his coat. The end of the envelope stuck out of his pocket. It’s probably a lot of nothing, just like last week. And the week before. But there was always a chance …

Sleep first. I can be disappointed in the morning.

He closed his eye again and took a deep breath. A moment later he was sitting up on the edge of the bed, swearing irritably as he broke the wax seal. He pulled out a few folded scraps of paper, along with another, smaller envelope.

Each torn sheet bore a few lines of hurried script, written in several different hands.

Doran Hardskull and his crew returned from the deep tunnels south of southwest. One man lost to plaguespawn. Recovered one antique armored suit, one blaster rifle, assorted trinkets.