She ached with the need for sleep. How hard could she drive herself? Fiercely dedicated academic or not, she had to sleep sometime. It was a fact that often annoyed her.

As she made to shut the door, however, she glanced downward. Frowning, she stooped and picked up the folded sheet of vellum propped against the ceramic cup sitting on the ground. Scented steam rose delicately from the cup. She opened the paper and strained to read:

we all deserve the occasional luxury enjoy it, Beauty, I know it is your favorite

She bent once more, this time retrieving the cup. The liquid inside was hot. Its smell, so familiar... tallgreen. Tallgreen tea. Yes, her favorite. She had always loved it. It was among the scarce handful of fond memories she had of her upbringing in her home city of Dral Blidst. It was a fine soothing beverage but difficult to come by. It was indeed a luxury, just as the note said.

The anonymous note. She hastily checked both sides of it. No name. Not even her own. Was it meant for her? Her mind was suddenly racing. Of course it was meant for her! Whoever had left it must know her fondness for this particular tea. She lifted the cup to her lips, took a small swallow. It was even properly honeyed.

Her head whipped as she looked up and down the corridor again. It remained vacant.

She entertained the impetuous—and wildly uncharacteristic—impulse to race off after whoever had delivered this gift, whoever had gone to such lengths ... whoever had referred to her, in the note, as "Beauty."

And why should that be causing her heart to beat so forcefully?

She withdrew into her cell. She sat up on her bunk, sipping at the comforting, smooth tea, its intricate flavor reawakening those few pleasant memories she'd all but forgotten. She examined the note. As a document it was poorly suited for study, so short, offering no substantial clues to its source. Certainly Master Honnis wasn't responsible.

Nonetheless, Praulth read it repeatedly until her candle at last burned out and the cup of tea was empty.

DO THE SMART thing first. Next, the most economical thing. Then, the safest, the most self-fulfilling, and the thing that will most confuse your enemies, in that order. Failing everything, do the stupid thing.

These Isthmusers were as amusing as they were annoying. It was an orphan culture, after all. The Isthmus knew no indigenous human life. This land was merely a bridge between Southsoil and Northland. It was narrow strip of dirt abutted by a poisonous sea on one side and an unapproachable, coral-thick coast on the other. It should never have been settled. It was a road, not a destination.

As historical happenstance would have it, though, the Great Upheavals had rendered the Isthmus useless as a trade route. It wasn't that anything had happened to this miserable belt of land. No. Rather, the once mighty dominions of the two continents were no more, and thus the prosperous trade between them was finished. A Southsoiler had no need to go far north anymore; and as for the Northlanders, they were all barbarians now, too busy fighting cheap tribal wars amongst themselves to worry about the Isthmus or the Southern Continent beyond.

There was no profit in a Northland war. Those people had devolved into such depravity that they fought for honor, accolades, and the revered names of their warlords. Worthless reasons to fight.

Radstac fought, yes, but she fought for appropriate causes. One cause, actually. Herself.

The bodies were mounds. They stank, and they stirred feebly beneath blankets. The coverings weren't for warmth. It was still just barely summertime, but even here on the Isthmus, north of the perpetually gentle climes of the Southsoil, it remained quite temperate. The blankets were thick, black, and they cut the meager seeping sunlight that found its way through chinks in the cheap planks of the walls. The bodies under there, rolling in their own filth, were hiding from that light, from all light, from anything that would illuminate—and therefore remind them of— reality.

Radstac didn't spend time under blankets. She felt nothing, neither pity nor revulsion, for the marginally human creatures that had reduced themselves to such states. Addictions had to be chosen carefully, but there was rarely anyone to guide neophyte users. Normally they fell helplessly and randomly into their habits, and there they stayed, their physical existences turning to shit while their souls soared in glorious narcotic realms.

It ended in death, sure. What didn't?

Radstac didn't hide her leather armor and scarred bracers beneath a cloak. The accoutrements of her trade she displayed—not proudly, practically. Being a mercenary didn't begin and end with the talent and willingness to fight. Hardly. You had to hustle yourself. Someone had to hire you. For that they had to know you existed.

The durable leather about her upper body was marked by past blows that had landed on her. That she was still walking around inside the armor was something she wanted to advertise. She also wore dark leggings and kid-skin boots, a small, wickedly honed blade nestled in each, inside oiled sheaths, hidden from view. On her left hand she wore a black glove, more leather. It was a snug fit, customized by a superb Southsoil specialist. It had cost her more than a few coppers, but for the use she'd gotten out of it, it had proven to be a bargain. It weighed heavily, but she was very used to its heft. Used to the feel of the small gears and sockets beneath the leather surface.

On her belt she carried no weapon. Petgrad, this Isthmus city she'd come to, didn't forbid its citizens or visitors to carry arms, but the local police made a point of harassing those who did, particularly something like the heavy combat sword she favored. She had checked the sword at the Public Armory, a

civilized amenity only a city-state the size of Petgrad could offer.

Radstac had to admit the city was fairly sophisticated. It was large, well-maintained, its economy stable. It provided a health service for its citizenry, had a respectable standing military. The people weren't especially oppressed. A typical worker could live a decent life of reasonable years. By Isthmus standards, then, this was the pinnacle of culture.

Cities, of course, were bigger and better back home. Radstac's home, specifically, was the Republic of Dilloqi, located in the northern part of Southsoil. Dilloqi, a real nation, and the city of her birth, Hynсsy ... beautiful. Proud. Important. With an eminent history to back up its boasts.

That Dilloqi was in truth a splintered relic of the erstwhile Southsoil empire wasn't anything that needed to be dwelt upon. Dilloqi had resurrected itself from the ruins of the Great Upheavals, as had other lands of the Southern Continent. They abided now independently of each other. This wasn't the first time Radstac had journeyed northward to the Isthmus to sell her sword. The Isthmus was a fairly reliable source of petty hostilities between individual city-states. They bickered about farmland; they wrangled about the use of roads. They blustered and fussed and made ultimatums, and eventually they provided the wars that Radstac lived on—at least for a while. Conflicts played themselves out in rather short order here. No Isthmus state had the resources to wage sustained warfare.

That, it seemed, had changed.

The prepubescent boy, who had the overused look of a rental about him, led her deeper into the waste-smelling lair. He had appeared from the air when she stepped into the doorway of this establishment, the barest glint of silver showing in her palm.

She had surrendered one silver to the boy, who made the coin disappear the instant it touched his tiny fingers. She still held another in her palm and had more money in pouches no pickpocket would ever find.