webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-021.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-17-felonious}{%
\section{Chapter 17: Felonious}\label{chapter-17-felonious}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Crimes against a crown are treason, crimes by a crown are a
reign.''}

-- Dread Emperor Reprobate the First
\end{quote}

And then we were two.

Part of me might have been more comfortable keeping Adjutant at my side
instead of Archer, but it'd be a mistake: she was the one who knew her
way around this place and the Named within it.

``We need to make an escape,'' I said.

``Like we used to say in Refuge,'' Indrani cheerfully told me, ``the
best kind of invisibility is killing all the witnesses.''

She was probably messing with me, but then that \emph{did} sound like
something Ranger might say.

``We can't kill anyone,'' I told her.

``That sounds like a terrible plan,'' Archer complained.

``But we're probably going to have to fight,'' I frankly added.

``I never doubted you for a moment,'' she assured me.

This was hauntingly familiar, I mused, although we weren't in a tunnel
surrounded by dead drow with the entire invading army of the Kingdom
Under behind us. We must have been skulking through the labyrinthine
stacks for almost eighty heartbeats now, but I kept us going what I --
probably mistakenly -- believed to be west. It was, at the very least,
vaguely leftwards.

``The thing is,'' I said, ``neither the Black Queen nor the Archer can
fight any of these fine heroes coming to foil the plots afoot.''

If the Mirror Knight saw me flee a room filled with dead bodies while
leaving an unconscious old man Named behind then there really would be
no talking him into the possibility that might not, in fact, trying to
undo my own life's work and doom Calernia because of my inherent
dastardliness\emph{. Fucking heroes}, I uncharitably thought.

``I get it,'' Indrani said, with enthusiasm that surprised me. ``So we,
like, put on masks and we're these mysterious villainesses of cryptic
intent. I will be the Peerless Beauty, whose legendary good looks
eclipse the sun itself-''

``So we're going to pretend we're dead bodies,'' I interrupted with
great relish.

See, when I'd known Archer for only a few months I might have been
tempted to chide her for joking around when this was a rather deadly
situation, all things considered, and one that could have drastic
consequences for the entire continent. Except that now I knew her well
enough to know that, while she did very much enjoy being mocking even
rapidly approaching doom, she did these kinds of things for a reason.
The back and forth was calming me, I was not above admitting, and back
when I'd been made of smoke and mirrors it'd been one of the few things
that had me feeling human for a bit. I knew this, she knew I knew this,
and I doubted either of us would ever admit it out loud. That did not
mean in the slightest that I did not \emph{thoroughly} enjoy shutting
every door on her metaphorical fingers that I could.

``\emph{Cat},'' she said, sounding betrayed.

``Revenants, to be exact,'' I blithely continued. ``My glamour hasn't
gotten all that better since it stopped being that and became Night
instead, but it should still fool anyone without eyes out of the
ordinary.''

``Which they'll have,'' Archer noted.

We tread around the messy pile of books left by a shelf that'd
collapsed, and I grunted in agreement. This would be the Mirror Knight's
band, and with the amount of heroes there were in this place he'd be
able to draw the most useful talents from a rather large lineup he was
even halfway clever. And even if he \emph{wasn'}t, he should still end
up with at least one hero of extraordinary perception: mages and mystics
tended to have a trick or two to see to that, given the nature of the
threats and villains they were born to face.

``Which is why I'll need you to take them out of the fight before they
can catch on,'' I said. ``We'll be springing an ambush.''

``We're good, but not \emph{that} good,'' Archer said. ``Not if we're
staying quiet.''

``If we're taking a swing at a band of five on war footing, maybe even
with Hakram backing them up, then no we're not,'' I replied. ``So we're
not going to do that.''

Indrani peered at me for a moment, then smugly smirked.

``We're going to set something on fire, aren't we?''

I coughed.

``It's not the only thing we're going to do,'' I defended. ``It's just,
you know, a part-''

``A part that is on fire,'' Archer sagely continued. ``A fire hat you
set. You monster.''

``Hey,'' I weakly replied. ``I wouldn't keep using it if didn't work all
the time. It's not like I have a preference for it, it's just that so
many things out there are flammable.''

``Inflammable,'' Indrani haughtily corrected.

``Fuck off,'' I retorted, ``Akua already pulled this bit on me,
flammable is right.''

``You're taking language lessons from a ghost, and \emph{I'm} the
dubious one?'' she replied without missing a beat.

Even as the latest bit of back and forth was spoken, we reached what I
was fairly sure to be the western wall of the Miscellaneous Stacks. We
weren't quite at the back of the great room, but we ought to be pretty
deep in by my understanding. And far enough from the Doddering Sage that
he shouldn't be at risk of being hurt before one of the heroes rescued
him -- and he wouldn't be forgotten about, either, not with Hakram
joining them. The Mirror Knight was actually the reason I considered
setting a fire here to be a valid tactic when I did not yet know if the
gas that'd been released had killed the custodians or simply put them
asleep. A more\ldots{} nuanced Named might have been tempted to make the
hard decision of sacrificing the people for the chase, but though
Christophe was a stubborn ass with half the wits one of those should
have, that was simply not his nature. He did not seem himself as someone
who'd make that choice, so he wouldn't, and as the leader of his band
he'd give the order to start with a rescue. Sure as providence, we'd
probably run into one or more of the heroes and whoever had good eyes
was near certain to be of that lot.

But it wouldn't be a band of five, which meant Archer and I would have a
lot more leeway to deal with them without tipping our hands.

``Fresh faces first,'' I said, slowing to a stop.

``Revenants, huh,'' Indrani mused. ``So you want to slap the Dead King's
name on this?''

``They won't necessarily buy that,'' I noted, ``but at this point I'm
not trying to convince them of something so much as trying to convince
them they \emph{don't} know anything.''

``Lies and violence,'' Archer fondly said.

At least there wasn't anyone there to here, I grudgingly thought. One of
these days, though, she'd say that in front of some chronicler and it'd
be written down and it would all be downhill from there. If those ended
up being taken as the words of House Foundling, I was going do drown her
in a vat of ink.

``For you I'm thinking the Black Sickle,'' I said. ``Word is Tariq
torched his ass good a few months back after catching him sneaking
around near Sommont, but he was never actually confirmed destroyed.''

And the Revenant in question had, while being somewhat taller than
Indrani from what I could remember, used a pair of eerie dark sickles as
his weapons of choice. That much I couldn't replicate but while Archer
didn't have her bow and even if she did using it would be a dead
giveaway, she'd most definitely have knives.

``Do you have any other blades than your-'' I started, before closing my
mouth.

Of course she did, she was Archer. She had enough blades on her that
half the time I got her undressed her actual clothes made as much noise
hitting the floor as her mail.

``Stupid question,'' I finished, ``I withdraw it. Just don't use the
longknives.''

They were not her signature and odds were none of the Mirror Knight's
band would have ever seen Archer fight regardless, but it was a risk
when Indrani had brought her band into the Arsenal: \emph{those} knew
her arms well, and half of them were heroes. I cast her a searching
look, wondering what best to anchor the working on.

``You mind if I use your scarf for this?'' I asked.

``Don't,'' she said. ``The coat would do, right?''

Considering she wasn't wearing her mail at the moment it was the part of
her most likely to be hit -- and I couldn't be sure a good enough hit
with Light wouldn't break my illusion -- but that scarf was one of the
material possessions she cared about so I didn't insist.

``Belt would be better,'' I said, shaking my head.

She conceded with a nod. As for my face, I did actually have an idea
that had the potential to get Christophe running in the wrong direction
with a great deal of certainty.

``You've seen the Wicked Enchanter, right?'' I asked.

``Alive?'' Indrani replied. ``No.~But I did get a good look at his
still-warm corpse.''

``That might be even better, actually,'' I mused. ``Mind letting me have
a look at the memory?''

``Go ahead,'' she shrugged, leaning forward.

I put a hand against her temple and reached for the Night, letting it
flow through me and ever so gently into her. I closed my eyes, sunk into
the darkness.

``Think of it,'' I softly asked.

A moment later she did, with vivid sharpness, and I saw what she saw.
The Enchanter had looked rather young, to my surprise. Perhaps in his
mid-twenties, though for a villain such appearances didn't necessarily
speak much to the truth of their age. Tanned, dark-haired, athletically
fit and actually rather handsome he was not the emaciated and sinister
figure I'd somehow imagined he would be. But upon closer look, his
handsomeness was a little \emph{too} neat. Too symmetrical, and somewhat
unnatural for it. Not unlike the Exiled Prince's had been, all those
years go. \emph{Name vanity}, I thought with disdain. The gruesome axe
wound that'd split him open from the bottom left of his neck to his
belly button had spilled blood and guts all over what looked like it
might have been a nicely-tailored set of green tunic and trousers with
silver linings, the kind of thing a minor Proceran highborn or a wealthy
merchant would wear more than a villain.

``Did he use any tools?'' I quietly pressed.

An intricate casting rod appeared in my mind, stained with blood and
bitten into by a blade. To my distaste, it appeared to have been
sculpted in longer homage to the ceremonial baton that Cordelia
Hasenbach used on some formal occasions. Her was sculpted as a bundle of
twigs tied together by a string, though, while the Wicked Enchanter's
casting rod was instead a knot of snakes eating each other and encircled
by chains. I remembered when he'd been brought into the Terms, I'd read
the report, and it had mentioned that he was middling conjurer but
skilled in `domination magics'. From the beginning he'd been noted as a
potential problem, though also as being something of a coward and so
unlikely to misbehave if kept an eye on.

``Thanks,'' I said, withdrawing the Night back into me.

Keeping the image firmly in mind, I laid a hand against my belt and felt
the cool touch of Night wash over my skin. I reached again and tightened
my fingers around my staff -- which would give away my identity in
moments, if it kept looking like itself -- but the Night struggled to
sink in.

``None of that, now,'' I muttered. ``I did not snatch you from that tree
so I'd get mouthed off to.''

As if reluctantly, somehow giving off the impression of ill-grace, the
resistance ceased and I was left to hold the illusion of the dead
villain's casting rod. It wasn't an exact fit, as my staff had been
longer, but it'd serve. I wasted no time in laying a hand on Indrani's
belt, ignoring the suggestive eyebrow-wagging it earned me. Night seeped
into the leather, and as I watched Archer was replaced by a slender
figure in ragged robes and a hood that revealed only dark skin and a
mouth sown shut. Her knives I didn't change, since it'd frankly be more
trouble than it was worth to try and make them look like sickles. I
exhaled and gathered Night into me once more time, as I could no longer
afford delays: the moment I'd begun using Night, I would have tipped off
the heroes as to our presence. I traced a finger against the wood stacks
closest to me, leaving behind a trail of flame -- natural, not of Night.
Blackflame would be a dead giveaway, but it also meant I couldn't
outright throw fire around. I dipped a thick leather-bound book into the
growing flames and tossed it at Archer, who caught it without missing a
beat.

``Spread it around some,'' I ordered. ``We need a proper blaze.''

``Gotcha,'' she nodded, then cocked her head to the side. ``And after?''

``Hit and run,'' I said. ``I trust you to set up your ambush.''

``I'll see what I can do,'' she said, airily waving my words away.

She didn't fool me even a little: Indrani was a little pleased as the
spoken acknowledgement of something we'd both known to be true, and not
putting all that much of an effort into hiding it. It \emph{had} been
some time since we last fought side by side, I mused, that was true. But
her duties would have kept her sharp and working with her on the field
had always come easy. I saw no reason why that should have changed in
the last two years.

``Don't keep me waiting,'' I smiled, waving her off.

She was gone in a moment, silent as a ghost, and I sighed as I cast a
look at the fire springing up to my side. Burning books, damn me: I
might as well be burning silver, miscellaneous stacks or not. Still I
picked up a heavy tome from the opposite stack and fed it to the flames
long enough for it to catch before putting some spring to my step. It'd
be quicker with Night, but it'd also risk giving away where I currently
was. Another three sources on top of what Archer cooked up ought to do
the trick without putting anyone in too much danger, I mused. By the
time I'd gone down another two shelves and started a fresh blaze on the
other side, a shout of dismay in the distance told me the game was
properly afoot.

``Now,'' I muttered as I hastened my steps and started another fire,
``you split up.''

Hakram ought to have run into them by now, and if that'd ended up in
brawl, I would have heard it. Which meant that in the best case they
would be tacitly accepting him as an ally, and in the worst they'd be
considering him an enemy best brought with them to keep an eye until he
could be counted on to cackle and reveal the depths his perfidy in a
surprisingly informative speech. I'd considered villains who actually
indulged in monologues to be complete idiots, when I started out, and my
father had encouraged that perception. Not without reason. I had a lot
more sympathy for villains who indulged now that I'd spent a few years
around heroes, though. Some days you just wanted to rub their
\emph{utter fucking idiocy} in their faces, like forcing a dog to look
at its vomit.

That, uh, burst of opinion aside, Hakram would be sure to mention the
Doddering Sage's presence if it wasn't brought up. That meant at least
one of the five, headed straight for the unconscious Named. Adjutant
wouldn't go along, since that'd carry the risk of the Sage waking up and
recognizing him, so that left a group of five. There should be one,
maybe to who took care of the custodians -- be they corpses or
unconscious, and actually I now that I thought about it I should be able
to answer that question right now. Was it worth revealing my position
for? Yes, I decided, absent-mindedly starting another fire as I kept
walking forward. If only so that I could more accurately predict how the
heroes moved. Sinking into Night, I reached out for the nearest corpse
to raise and found nothing that would serve. Good, all alive then. That
meant I could definitely count on at least \emph{one} hero going off to
save them rather than coming after me, bringing them down to a peak of
four. Most likely three, though, I mused. Less likely to have accidental
casualties that way. Which meant the real question was whether or not
Hakram would be one of the three. Time to draw them in close and find
out, I reckoned.

I tossed the book into stacks to my right and kept moving without
bothering to check if it'd started another blaze or not. By now, when
standing at the right angle between some stacks I could see the smoke
from where Archer had started fires of her own. Not the flames
themselves, given that the ceiling was low the vision obscure and I
might, possibly, not be the tallest person alive. The smoke would serve
well enough, though, since it told me where she'd headed. Apparently
while I'd been headed in a straight line south, she'd gone south-east
and been messy about fostering flame: it didn't give a trajectory to
follow, not like I had with my straightforward march down. Now, if the
opposition was made of fools they'd follow the burning arrow I was
lighting for them and wait for me at the bottom. But they weren't fools,
or this war would have killed them by now. Well, they weren't fools in
\emph{this} particular way, more like, I mentally corrected.

They'd have to send someone there, but the Mirror Knight would be headed
into the burning mess Archer had just made. Which meant it was also
where I needed to go. It was possible, in theory, that the person who'd
be waiting for me at the end of the line I'd drawn in fire would be
Hakram, and so I'd be free to just put him through a few shelves and get
out while leaving him plausible deniability. In practice, I was the
opposition and facing a band of five so it was the eyes that'd be
waiting for me there -- but close enough to come quick when the scuffle
started elsewhere, just in time to stumble onto the scene and unmask me.
That sounded like a bad thing, at first glance, but it wasn't. It meant
I could dictate the location, make-up and tempo of that encounter. If I
couldn't scrap together a win with that on my side, I might as well just
slit my wrists and join up with Keter.

A sharp turn to the right saw me heading towards Archer's devouring
blaze with a song stuck in my throat. The smoke and heat were licking at
my sides, and still I hummed out the tune and words.

\emph{``Run the hounds, rides the hunter}

\emph{His spear in hand, banner aflutter.''}

It was an old one, this one, though not so old as \emph{Here They Come
Again} or \emph{Red The Flowers}. It'd come later, when the struggle
against Proceran occupation had begun turning in the favour of Callowan
partisans -- but not yet so much that the cities were in their hands
again, and so there'd been a need to be circumspect where princes' men
might be listening.

\emph{``Charging that way, this one baying}

\emph{Trampling the paths, again raging.''}

Before me, a bonfire of wood and parchment roared. Loud enough it was
almost deafening, which meant I wouldn't be able to call on my sharpened
senses. But neither would the opposition, and \emph{I} was the one with
something to hide. The smoke would help mitigate visibility, and it was
something I'd be able to wield to great use, considering the functional
goal here was escape and not actually winning the fight. The heat itself
was no great trouble to me, though I felt it rather more keenly than I
would have with the Mantle of Woe on my back. I picked out, after a
moment to consider, exactly where I was to be `caught' by the heroes.
Further in, between two tall racks already touched by flame but not yet
consumed. Enough fire and smoke ahead and behind that I would be
half-veiled, but not so much that I would choke. One, two, three times
did I lay my hand and only then counted myself satisfied.

On a whim, I snatched up a book from the shelves and smiled when I read
the title, written in Chantant: \emph{The Life and Lies of Monsieur
Montfailli, A Monk No Longer}. Suitably absurd, I decided, for what was
about to unfold. One, two, three times did I lay my hand and seed Night,
only then counting myself satisfied. I was ready to begin.

They came for me through the smoke, two of them, even as the refrain of
the song caught up with me at last.

\emph{``But we know, oh we know,}

\emph{That in the woods, the fox is king}

\emph{Yes we know, oh we know}

\emph{That in the woods, the fox is king.''}

Alistair the Fox was the closest thing to a trickster-king my home had
ever had to boast of, though at times he'd been little more than a bold
bandit in good armour. The Mirror Knight advanced with his sword already
in hand, silver shield up and living up to the Name. He wore no helm,
and his hair was pressed close to his brow by sweat. At his side was the
Blade of Mercy, whose hand snapped out as soon as he saw me to clasp the
handle of his greatsword and slide it out of the leather straps on his
back.

``Who are you?'' the Mirror Knight snarled. ``Why did you do this?''

The book in my hands I snapped shut, turning to face them entirely and
watching both their faces pale when they saw the grisly wound that'd
killed the Wicked Enchanter. I'd never heard the man speak, of course.
Neither had Indrani, so I couldn't even attempt to imitate his voice.
But then, it wasn't necessarily the Enchanter himself I was pretending
to be, was it? The Dead King I was a passing hand at impersonating, from
all those lovely little talks he and I kept having at the edge of the
world.

``Late again, Mirror Knight,'' I said. ``Do you not tire of always
needing better Chosen to take you by the hand?''

``We'll stop you, monster,'' the Blade of Mercy said, voice shaking. ``I
don't know what pact you've made with the Black Queen, but-''

Oh, \emph{come on}. Really, now I was conspiring with the damned Dead
King to sabotage the same Arsenal I'd shelled out gold to help build? At
some point these assholes were going to have to explain to me exactly
what my plot was supposed to \emph{be} here.

``- it won't be enough,'' the Mirror Knight grimly said, sword rising
higher. ``Powerful you may be, but your vessel was not. Even the King of
Death cannot grow the dead.''

``With men such as you,'' I said, tone contemptuous, ``why would I
\emph{need} to?''

First touch, and it would be the most subtle. Just a palm I'd pressed
against the back of the stacks to my left, seeding the slightest bit of
Night. And as I gestured my veiled staff, I ripped it right out. There
was a crack, which was enough to have the Mirror Knight shooting forward
at impressive speed for a man in plate while Light engulfed the Blade of
Mercy's weapon. The Night hadn't been much, really the barest of
seedlings, but then the wood was already burning and breaking down. It
was more than enough. The entire set of shelves collapsed, spewing out
debris and burning books in a flood even as the Mirror Knight passed.
Wouldn't do anything to actually hurt the man, of course. He was the
closest thing the Heavens had been able to rustle up to a fortress on
legs. But then his strength came from resistance, not, necessarily
physical power, and that meant he was still a human-shaped thing of
human weight and subject to the same sort of creational forces that
would affect these. The point of breaking the shelves had not been
hurting him, it'd been \emph{blinding} him.

I took a single, measured step to the left.

The Mirror Knight burst out of the fire and debris, still under the
impression I was right in front of him, but now he was a man in plate
running blindly and very much intent on stabbing me with his sword. If
I'd swung at him with even my full power in the Night, I honestly
doubted I'd be able to crack that shining shield of his. But that wasn't
my game, not here and tonight. The second touch I'd laid was running my
fingers across a stretch of about one foot and a half on the ground,
against the warm stone, making the oiliest residue of Night that I
could. So the Mirror Knight slipped, shouting, and stumbled forward and
past me with a precise slap of my staff against the back of his armour I
tipped him all the way into falling into a pack of shelves already on
fire. Now that left the other pest, arguably the most dangerous of the
two in the current circumstances -- one hit in the wrong place from that
sword of his and the illusion making me look like the Enchanter was
gone.

``Keeper,'' the Blade shouted, ``it's the Dead King, he's overpowering
us!''

The Maddened Keeper, huh? Not who I would have guessed. That might get
real tricky if I wasn't careful. The Blade of Mercy was not content with
merely calling for reinforcements, naturally. A little more careful than
the Mirror Knight, he sliced through a library stack and then caught the
side of it with the flat of his sword, tossing it towards me with a
mighty heave. It was a beautiful display of dexterity and skill, the
sort no human without a Name would really be able to replicate. It was
also a showman's attack, so obvious in the coming I would hesitate to
call that anticipating. And actually, with a little bit of movement. I
took one step back to call his aim where I wanted it at the right moment
in the swing, then two swifter steps to the right. The Mirror Knight,
freshly back on his feet, ate fresh wooden debris right in the face. As
for the Blade, who'd followed-up the toss with a dash forward, I almost
sighed.

He was moving too quickly, his large and heavy sword dragging behind
him. It was sloppy swordsmanship, the mark of a boy who relied on his
Name for the kill instead of proper footwork and technique. I'd indulge
him with a lesson on how a projectile should actually be used in a fight
between Named, out of the goodness of my heart. I leaned forward,
waiting until he'd closed distance, and the book I still held in my free
hand was tossed at his face. Light flashed over his skin, some sort of
protection, but it wouldn't help: the Night within the book I'd already
called on, and the detonation of heat looked close enough to a fireball
that it ought to pass. More importantly the flames that went out were
not, strictly speaking, magic or Night. Just regular fire, against which
Light was no protection. Flame and debris went into the boy's eyes even
as I cast half a glance behind me, adjusted my angle as I took two steps
forward and with the side of my staff struck at the Blade's side. I
didn't hurt his momentum, just redirected it.

The Blade of Mercy tumbled into the risen Mirror Knight, and the two
tumbled back into the fire.

It should be about time for the Maddened Keeper to show up, which was
good as I was running out of petty tricks. I began to walk away, hearing
the roar of power behind me as the heroes extricated themselves from the
mess in a fury. The flames had spread, while we skirmished, so it was
unpleasant to the ear to sharpen my hearing but no less necessary.
Footsteps could hardly be discerned, but hardly was enough. By the time
the heroes were -- more cautiously than before -- headed towards me once
more, I ended the sharpening and waited for what had been arranged to
take its course once more. My steps slowed, just as a flickering
silhouetted passed the edge of soot-touched stacks with a glinting knife
in hand and struck out -- missing, for I'd ceased to advance the side of
the stacks blocked the deeper angle of the blow. It wasn't the knife
that worried me, though, even if it was a Named wielding it. The
Maddened Keeper's eyes would be a lot more dangerous to me than her
blade right now.

Fortunately, I still had a card up my sleeve.

The long-haired Named withdrew her hand lightning-quick and took half a
step into the alley where I stood, prompting shouts of triumph from the
Proceran Named behind me, but those were short-lived. With calculated
brutality, Archer leapt down from the top of the stacks and her boots
tore into the side of the Maddened Keeper's face. The slender woman
fell, taken utterly by surprise, and Archer leaned over after landing on
her torso to make two quick cuts with her knives. She didn't cut the
eyes themselves, as there might be complications in healing that, but
instead just above them. The blood would drip down and blind her, but
just to be sure Indrani smeared what was already flowing into the to the
Keeper's hoarse shout of pain. I turned, cast a disdainful look at the
Proceran heroes who were frozen with fear and anger.

``Take care of the rabble,'' I told Archer. ``They cannot be allowed to
interfere with what we came for.''

Indrani, still hidden as the Black Sickle, did not nod. Revenants were
sometimes capable of such things, but the Sickle had not been. I'd
pitched my voice just loud enough that the Mirror Knight and his
companion should be able to hear me, and watched them from the corner of
my eye. \emph{That's right}, I thought as Christophe's gaze narrowed,
\emph{you overheard me saying too much in my utter contempt for you
lot}. \emph{Now figure out that I'm here for something properly
nefarious, like turning the Doddering Sage into a Revenant or somesuch.}

``He's here for Hakram Deadhand,'' the Mirror Knight said. ``Blade, run
to him. The Dead King's trying to frame us for murdering the Black
Queen's second.''

That\ldots{} was not what I would have gotten from that, but Hells I'd
take it. Even odds he still thought the Black Queen was conspiring with
`me', though. Well, I got what I'd come for. Now I just had to follow
the most honoured of villainous traditions and turn a clear pair of
heels to this situation. Archer would delay them for a bit and slip out,
there weren't any of them here who were her rivals in those arts. I just
needed to make a sufficiently clean break, which without using Night
might be\ldots{} ah, this would do. I turned a corner around shelves
already merrily burning and, discreetly hit it pretty hard with my
staff.

It collapsed, and as the fire flooded my back I legged my way out of
there.

Right, onto the next part of this. I needed to steal a dead body, then
see someone about having a chat with it.