From above, the Pit looked like a knife wound carved into the granite of the mountain, a crevasse a kilometer long and several hundred meters across. Legend said that it had originally been cut as neat as a surgeon’s incision with an unmetal scalpel, but four hundred years of caustic fog rising from the depths had eaten away at the rock. The edges crumbled, bit by bit, breaking loose to bounce down the cliff face into the glowing fog that shrouded the depths where the Chosen weapon still gnawed at the earth.

This erosion had been uneven. Outcrops of tougher rock remained as freestanding peninsulas and even islands, balanced precariously on ever-narrowing bases until they finally gave way and toppled into the deeps. As a rule, the wealthiest districts of Deepfire were those closest to the Pit, with the Spike on the east side and the great palaces of the merchant combines lining the west. But only a madman would build on the very edge, where the rock crumbled a little more each day, and only the maddest would try to use the islands themselves.

Deepfire being what it was, there was no shortage of madmen willing to gamble that the inevitable collapse would come just a little later. One such entrepreneur had thrown a spindly wood-and-cable bridge from the east bank to one of the larger islands and constructed a rambling, three-story wooden structure that seemed to less stand on its rocky base than cling to it desperately. It was a bar, a brothel, and a gambling den all rolled together, catering to the soldiers and servants of the Republic nobles who lived in the shadow of the Spike. The owner, foresightedly, had named it the Smoking Wreckage.

The sun was setting behind the jagged peaks of the western horizon. Gyre, loitering in the street opposite the swaying rope bridge, watched the sky go from burning crimson to a faded, bruised purple and straightened his borrowed linen coat. His scar itched something fierce, but he didn’t dare scratch.

Well. Here goes nothing.

*

He’d spent much of the day getting ready, in between arguments with Lynnia.

“You don’t think I should go?” Gyre said.

Lynnia scowled. “Of course I don’t think you should go!”

They were in the alchemist’s workshop. Gyre sat in front of a section of worktop that sported a large mirror, mixing a gooey powder in a metal dish. Lynnia sat in her chair, swiveling irritably back and forth.

“What’s the problem?” Gyre said.

“You mean, apart from how this is obviously a trap?”

“I would say that it’s only probably a trap.”

“Gyre. Who goes to the Smoking Wreckage?”

He shrugged. “Servants looking for a good time. Merchant combine guards. Caravaneers.”

“And Auxies,” Lynnia said. “The place is practically their second headquarters. You might as well walk into the Spike and offer Raskos your head.”