A Harvest Of Souls 2

The native vegetation had been plucked out and replaced with golden fireblooms. Every hundred feet there hung an orange banner covered in bold, white text. TWELVE MILLION AMBLERS LEASED, one screamed.

Beneath the Hill of Nine, the blue-fire consumed the Floor. Only a dozen concrete husks remained of a city that once housed a hundred thousand residents; soon, those too would be gone.

Two senior pyros stood waiting before the summit with clipboards and name tags. They wore pristine white robes and flame-patterned leather masks. There was perhaps one speck of dust between them.

"Rank four and above, thank you," one declared. "The rest of you – return to the field office and prepare for the second phase. Apprentice, come get your name tag."

Sam's entire team retreated the way they came. No one protested. No one spared her a second glance.

"I'm going back to the party," said the same pyro, addressing his colleague.

"I got this one," the other said. He was tall, with bright eyes resembling two simmering pools. He waited until his colleague was out of earshot. "My name is Jack. The Second Progenitor of the Guild of Combustion, Senior Coordinator of Field Operations, and Head Liaison with the House of Solutions."

"Sam," said Sam.

"You're cute," he said. "House of Dawn? I must admit, I thought Maestro Cowen only had his…giant, the big ambler, you know, the one that follows him everywhere."

"Her name is Lucia."

The pyro palyed with Sam's name tag. "Necromancy is an admirable career. In a few years you might be giving me orders," he laughed. "You dating anyone?"

Hysterical screaming did not seem an appropriate response, so Sam said nothing.

The pyro handed over the name tag by squeezing her hand. "Is this your first Ritual of Mass Resurrection? It is magical, isn't it? All that Green, shooting out of their fingertips? I've always said this: The Maestros are the pillars of our economy. Lords above – Thirty thousand seeds for one annual lease, and they've got twelve million of them in one House!"

"This is not my first time," said Sam.

The pyro's pupils shrunk as if struck by light, the whites turning so bloodshot they almost bled. "Is it not?"

"No," said Sam.

The pyro yanked at her hand, and Sam had to lean close. His breath smelled of rotten eggs and stomach acid. "Because I like you, Sam of the House of Dawn, I will give you the best advice of your life: a man – or indeed a woman – can learn to enjoy anything, given the appropriate incentives. Remember it, and the next time I speak to you, I want you to express that enjoyment to me with a pretty smile and an abundance of delightful conversation." He suddenly let go. "Better get going. Don't want to be late."

Sam looked up and saw Lucia at the summit. At eight feet tall, there was no mistaking her silhouette for anyone else, not with her black trenchcoat billowing in the rising heat and the long ends of her blindfold fluttering like wings.

Sam left the pyro behind and climbed the last stretch in a jog. She furiously rubbed her hand on her coat, letting the ash collect under her fingernails so it would feel cleaner.

Lucia pulled her onto the landing, lifting Sam as if she were a child.

The summit was ablaze with noise. Two hundred guild alchemists schmoozed under a row of silken marquees as they drank cold cider and fed on a triple-tier buffet. The pyromancers wore red-on-white, the preservers silver-grey, plus two dozen others Sam could not name. Masks of extravagant shapes and sizes dangled from their arms.

The Necromantic Houses had their own marquee. Nine out of ten had donned Finley orange. Only one other wore the gold-on-black of the House of Dawn: Maestro James Cowen lodged on the far side of the clearing, standing out like a blot of ink.