With trees screening the neighboring estates, there was really only one thing to see. The Spike lived up to its name, two hundred meters of unmetal as slender and featureless as a needle. It was a relic of the war, a Chosen fortress that had served as a base for their purges of the tunnels. The Gate was inside, connecting Deepfire directly to the Forge and the heart of the Republic, ensuring that it remained under the Twilight Order’s influence in spite of being well outside its nominal borders. In later days, the dux’s palace had been constructed around it, a manor even more luxurious than the Moorcat chapter house, surrounded by walls, Auxiliary barracks, and intricate arcana defenses.

“I can’t say that I care for it,” Gyre muttered.

“Always good to appreciate what you’re up against,” Kit said. She glanced back at Gyre. “That is what you’re up against, isn’t it, Halfmask? The Order?”

“If we’re asking questions, I have a few. Starting with your cognomen.”

“Oh?”

“Doomseeker has been a legend since before I came to Deepfire,” Gyre said. “I asked around, and people have told stories about him for at least fifty years. You’re, what, nineteen? Twenty?”

“That’s a rude thing to ask.” Kit gave a saucy wriggle. “Maybe I’m just very well preserved.” She grinned. “Maybe I found the elixir of youth down in the Tomb, and I’m really a hundred and ten.”

“You’re not Doomseeker,” Gyre said. “Which raises the question of why I’m even talking to you.”

“Now, let’s not run away with ourselves.” Kit spread her arms. “I’ll admit that I’m not the first Doomseeker. How does that sound?”

“Does that mean you never found the Tomb?”

“That’s an awfully personal question,” Kit said. “Let me maintain some air of mystery.”

“I’ve heard enough,” Gyre said.

She put on a pout. “But I haven’t even gotten to my proposal.”

Gyre turned away.

“Fifty thousand thalers,” Kit said. “And the chance to kick the dux in the teeth as hard as he’s ever been kicked.” She cocked her head. “Not literally, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t get anywhere near his mouth,” Gyre said. “They don’t call him Raskos Rottentooth for nothing.”

“Ah,” Kit said. “You’re listening, then?”

“For the moment.” Gyre turned back to her, eye narrowed. “Fifty thousand thalers?”

“Fifty thousand,” Kit said.

That was an astonishing sum of money, enough to buy a sizable chunk of the building they were standing on. Gyre paused.

“Why do you have that kind of money?”

“My business,” she said. “Or, rather, my client’s.”

“You have a client.” Gyre frowned. “Who?”

“Also their business.”

“And?”