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room, the saboteur paused. “Any mercenary will tell you, people come and go in this work,” he said, finally. “Sometimes, they have debts to pay. Other times, they’re just going from one place to another. Mostly, mercenaries are just soldiers who only know this work and there’s either no place at home for them or home has changed. Occasionally, a man or a group gets famous, but most don’t last that long. It’s different when you’re a saboteur. It is not a thing you can pick up and put down. If you know your job, you know too much. You keep professional, because you work for people you like, and people you don’t. Sometimes, it is just numbers and maths and theories, and sometimes, you get paid to kill men and women, to poison wells, to kill crops and to steal cattle. At times, it is a hard thing to look in the eye of someone. Other times, you get paid to slip into a war you don’t want to be part of, to spend time with people you don’t want to spend time with. You’ve got to close off the enemy like a good soldier does: it is steel on steel, but it’s harder when you share drinks with them for a month. You realize no one is born evil, just as no one is born pure, but the job is a lot easier if you keep the morals straight with the people you work with. The boy’s first job was one I regret, a choice we made that we ought not to have made, and the price we paid was high. At the end, he thought we were a little too much like assassins and wasn’t ready for a life of sleeping on the cold ground, eating last, dying first, and watching warm bits of silver and gold spend quicker than you could kill for.”
    â€œA surprisingly philosophical response,” Lady Wagan replied. “Why then do you continue with it?”
    â€œMy poetry sells poorly.”
    Lady Wagan laughed. “Would you like a drink, Captain?”
    â€œI rarely say no.”
    From beneath her table, the Lady of the Spine produced two glasses and a long, straight bottle of laq, a clear liquor from Faaisha. She poured a generous two fingers into each, and pushed one forward to the edge of the table.
    â€œThis war that I am engaged in is a terrible waste,” she said, leaning back into the light. “Mireea is a neutral trade city. A city that runs off mathematics, I have heard it said. Whether you believe that or not, it is a city where only coin is worshipped. Your race, creed and color do not matter—so long as you understand that the market can reward and punish you for both at the same time. This war has damaged my coin . No doubt you have seen my empty streets. My closed stores. Before the first force is sighted, it has cost me what is most important and ruined my belief in my neighbors.”
    Bueralan’s thick fingers closed around the glass. “Your treaties?”
    â€œHave ensured that all legal trade has been cut off from Leera. Anything else will require me to renegotiate at the cost of my financial independence.”
    The candid response surprised him. “You’ve not heard anything from Rakun, then?”
    â€œThe King of Leera has made no demands and sent no diplomats. No one has heard from him in close to a year.”
    â€œA long time.”
    â€œA long time for a lot of rumors, but let’s assume he is dead.” Lady Wagan lifted her drink in salute, finished it in one motion. “The last envoy I had from Leera claimed to work for a general by the name of Waalstan. Rumors—whispers, really—suggest that he is a warlock. I have no information as to whether that is true or not; what he wanted was to begin digging into the Mountain of Ger. He offered a token amount for the rights, but the land he wanted to take was so large that he cannot have thought I would be anything but offended. He didn’t even offer a reason for wanting the land. I pointed out that the gold was mostly tapped, and the envoy told me that there were