“Don’t take it all on yourself, Whiskers,” Tsuta said quietly from his seat on the hearth. “The last time we mixed it up with her, none of us, except maybe Tiny, had ever done any complex grifting.” He panned the room. “Now, everyone has had a bit more experience. Let us help you.”

  Glynfir slapped the countertop. “Hear, hear! I, for one, would love to be more involved in the planning.”

  “We’ve also got a few more tools than we had last time,” Segwyn added.

  “What do you mean?” Lunish asked, her words muffled by a mouthful of stew.

  The ranger pushed off the counter he was leaning against. “Well, last time we really had only our wits and the magic bonnet. Since then, we’ve added Whydah’s amulet, a magic owl with a twenty-foot wingspan, a couple of magical tattoos, and a powerful mythal, though I don’t see how we can take advantage of that in this particular case.”

  “Don’t forget the Jug of Alchemy,” Tsuta deadpanned, taking a sip of his wine. “You never know when a landslide of mayonnaise could come in handy.”

  “The stakes are a lot higher this time, too, though,” Lunish cautioned. “Back on the mountain, it was a few demons on their own. This time, we’ll be eyeball-to-eye socket with a Lich, and there could be a hundred bonded fighters in the crowd to boot.”

  “Are you thinking you’ll actually steal the phylactery tomorrow night, during the ceremony?” Turin’s tone was incredulous.

  Bird paused, yellow irises scanning the floor as he considered the question. “Now that we talk it out, maybe not... There’s a fine line between bold and stupid, and usually death waits on the other side. Though…” A wry smile crept across his face, a low purr rumbling from his chest. “Such a heist would be the stuff of legends. Truly epic…”

  “Have you already forgotten what we literally just talked about?” Whydah reminded him.

  Bird held up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know, but a cat can dream!” His brow wrinkled as he turned to Tsuta. “You said that a Lich usually keeps their phylactery hidden somewhere, not on their person, right, Stick?”

  “Correct,” Tsuta confirmed. “It’s too risky. The literature suggests that if a Lich is destroyed, it takes several days to regenerate into the phylactery.”

  Bird picked up the thread. “So, if they were ever caught with it and somehow defeated?”

  Segwyn finished the thought. “Then the phylactery would be in the hands of their vanquisher, with several days to figure out how to destroy it and end the Lich forever.”

  “Exactly,” Tsuta confirmed. “Which means the only time a Lich will be in the same place with their phylactery is during a soul harvest—because they have no choice. They have to cast the transfer spell.”

  “So, what does that tell us?” Bird volleyed the question to the room.

  Reaching up onto a shelf, Turin took down his tobacco box and began packing his pipe. “Tells me that she will be on high alert at that gathering tomorrow night.” Putting the stem in his teeth, he rolled the pad of his thumb across those of his fingers. “Flame!” The tip of his index finger flashed in orange before he dipped it into the bowl of the pipe. With hollowed cheeks, the druid drew in, spitting out two plumes of smoke. “If she’s as paranoid as you’ve described, which I don’t doubt in the least, then she’s going to be very aware of her exposure during those moments.”

  “Exactly.” Bird agreed. “The most difficult circumstances to make a grab.”

  Tsuta barked a short cough, waving his hand through the air. “Come on, Cloudy, open a window at least; it isn’t exactly spacious in here.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” the druid apologized, crossing to the door, opening it wide, and stepping just past the threshold.

  Bird started to pace, stopping abruptly when he realized there wasn’t enough room in the cramped cabin. “So, maybe the smart play isn’t to try and steal it tomorrow night. Especially if we know it spends most of its time somewhere else, far away from her.”

  “We only need to learn what, specifically, it is,” Iskvold mused. “That makes tomorrow much less daunting, but then we still have the problem of locating it after she leaves the ceremony.”

  Bird’s whiskers twitched into a grin. “There’s only one way to eat a dragon—one bite at a time.” With a theatrical flourish, the tabby spread his arms to the heavens. “If only we knew someone who could use magic to locate an object they were familiar with…” he turned to the halfling with a mock look of surprise.

  Whydah straightened in her seat on Turin’s footstool. “Yes, my Locate Object spell would work, but the range is pretty limited, as we saw tonight with the hat on the river.”

  “One bite at a time,” the tabby repeated.

  Whydah’s face wrinkled in concern. “Wait. For me to be able to find something that way, I need to be well-acquainted with the object—get an up-close look at it first. That means I would need to be the one…”

  Bird’s low purr stopped. He watched her, waiting for a reaction to the implication. Silence stretched. Finally, her shoulders drooped, and a faint headshake accompanied a long eye roll. “Fine,” she breathed, “If that’s what we have to do.”

  The feline grin returned to Bird’s face. Offering Whydah to the room like a magician introducing his assistant, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to present our inside woman.”

  After dinner, Glynfir returned to the boots on the hearth, finding them mildly damp. “Everything feels pretty dry, time to get rebooted if you want to avoid shrinkage, or are just tired of going barefoot.”

  At the remark, Turin stole another glance at Whydah’s feet. After holding it a bit too long, she caught him and called him out, one eyebrow raised in warning. “Get a good look?”

  The druid hurriedly looked away, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I…I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “They’re just a lot bigger…and furrier than I expected.”

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  A swift punch from Lunish landed sharply on the side of the druid’s thigh. “What’s wrong with you? You did not just say that!”

  “What?” the druid objected, his face twisted in a grimace. “I was just being honest. I’ve never seen halfling feet before.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still single,” Glynfir chided him, handing Whydah her boots as she stalked silently toward a seat on the hearth, “with that silver tongue.”

  Turin doubled down. “I don’t understand what the big deal is?”

  “I think what they’re trying to say,” Segwyn interjected. “Halfling or otherwise, it’s never a good idea to remark on the size or the hairiness of a woman’s feet. It’s rude.”

  Turin hung his head, calling across the room, “I’m sorry, Whydah! I didn’t think; it was insensitive of me.”

  Her acceptance of the apology was half-hearted. “Don’t worry about it.” Turin, deciding it was best to move on, quickly changed the subject. “How did you all get wet feet, anyway?”

  Bird winced. “Oof. You’re really stepping in it tonight, mate!”

  The druid’s head tilted back, his eyes rolling skyward. “What did I say now?”

  “The reason all our boots were soaked, Hedge, is because we were attacked on the river by a bunch of aggressive, hard-headed fish creatures—Silver.” Lunish held her elbows against her sides, waggling her wrists. “Red collars, tiny little arms.” Her eyebrows shot up as she held his gaze. “They sank our boat. We barely made it to shore. Ring any bells?”

  “Sure,” Turin shrugged. “River drakes. The Kya’s full of them. Everyone knows that. It’s why no one sails at night. I assumed you knew.”

  “The Kya’s not our river, Turin,” Segwyn reminded him. “We’re not from around here.”

  Tsuta flexed his toes, stretching the leather wraps on his sandals. “No harm done this time, but those types of details are critical. We haven’t got much margin for error. From now on, tell us everything, no matter how seemingly insignificant, okay?”

  “Aye, I get it.” The druid nodded, tugging on his beard as he removed his tattoo kit from the cupboard. “Are we doing tattoos tonight? If so, we’d better get started.” Whydah? I’ll make it up to you with a real beauty…”

  Whydah rose, crossing to the vacant chair, her eyes narrow. “It better be your finest work ever.”

  “Okay, everyone.” Bird commanded their attention. “We need to figure out a clean entrance and a quiet exit to this shindig. Let’s get started!”

  Turin wiped his cloth against the back of the halfling’s neck. “Interesting spell choice with your tattoo. Not one I would have expected under the circumstances.”

  “The way I look at it,” Whydah began. “I don’t want this symbol, given everything it stands for, on my body any longer than necessary.” A shiver wormed its way down her spine. “It makes me cringe just thinking about it. So, I chose something that’ll easily get used three times within a few days, and the ink can be gone. Besides, you have no idea how difficult it is being the only one who can’t see in the dark with this crew!”

  Overhearing the exchange, Glynfir winced. “I wish I’d thought of that. Mine could be extremely helpful under the right circumstances, but that might take a while.”

  “What spell did you choose for yours, again?” Segwyn asked.

  “Summon Elemental,” the wizard confirmed. “I could cast it myself, but I need to earmark that energy for a couple more powerful spells I expect we’ll need more in the days to come. But, as a result, I may have my tattoo for a while.”

  Whydah rose from the chair, her hand rising unconsciously to rub the back of her neck. “And you chose Flame Arrows?” she asked the ranger.

  “Seemed to make sense,” Segwyn shrugged. “I figure it couldn’t hurt to add a bit of magical fire to my regular ammunition, and like yours, I don’t think it will take me very long to burn through three uses.”

  Whydah rolled her eyes, her lips popping on the consonants. “I see what you did there. You’re a punny pellah, Master Segwyn!”

  Turin lifted his gaze, settling on the drow. “Iskvold, are you ready? It’s getting a bit late, but I’d like to do the first layer of ink before we call it a night. We can finish it with the spell in the morning.”

  At the sound of her name, the drow snapped out of her quiet reflection perched on the edge of the cabin’s only bed and stood. “Sure, though it’s looking a bit crowded over there at the moment.” Seated beside her, Tsuta rose in tandem.

  “I’ll get out of the way.” Whydah turned sideways to scootch past the druid tattooist and headed for Lunish and Bird, whispering conspiratorially by the door.

  “I just don’t think I can pull it off on my own,” she heard Lunish say before her approach broke the spell of their hushed conversation.

  Bird nodded reluctantly to the gnome before his gaze fell on the approaching Whydah, a smile rising to his fuzzy maw. “Let’s have a look!”

  Whydah did a half-turn, holding it long enough for both of them to see her new tattoo.

  “Wow,” Lunish blurted. “There’s no hiding that, not with your pixie cut.”

  “I know,” Whydah agreed, her nose wrinkling. “That’s why I chose Darkvision as my spell. It will hopefully be gone in less than a week.”

  “Are you feeling good about the plan for tomorrow?” Bird asked with a sidelong look.

  The halfling let out a long exhale. “As good as I ever will, I think. Getting in should be easy enough. I worry about the exit.”

  “That’s what we were just discussing,” Bird confirmed. “Based on Ferrier’s account, the random culling of her own flock is not something we want you hanging around for, too unpredictable.”

  “Your timing has to be perfect, or we risk being cut down.” Whydah agreed.

  “I know, believe me.” Lunish wrung her hands. “And, I think I need some help with that.” Whydah followed the gnome’s gaze over her shoulder to their host.

  Iskvold, with Tsuta in tow, squeezed past them through the cramped quarters on her way to what had become known as “the throne”—where Turin did their tattoo work. The name was only partially in jest since it was also the only full-sized, reasonably comfortable seat in the crowded pub of a cabin.

  The bald monk was providing reassurance as they passed. “We’ll figure out a way to free her, Pinky, I promise.”

  “Turin?” Bird called, causing the druid to turn his head. “Might we have a word before you get stuck into Pinky’s ink?” The tabby smiled to himself at his alliterative wordplay.

  The druid set his quill down on the table, crossing the distance between them in a few steps. “Pinky’s ink, I like that. It would make a great name if she ever decided to take up the quill and open her own parlor.” His eyes narrowed, seeing their smiling faces. “What have you two been conspiring about over here?”

  Bird raised both palms, hoping to suspend the judgment of his bearded host. “I know you said you wouldn’t get involved…”

  Turin’s arms folded across his chest, one hand moving immediately to tug on his beard. “That’s right.”

  Sensing his resistance, Lunish jumped in, a forced and exaggerated smile painted on her face. “Normally, we would totally respect your boundaries on that, but would you reconsider if it were kind of…” Her hands came up expressively, shoulders individually rising and falling in a seesaw motion. “A tangential part in the plan? If we promised you wouldn’t be anywhere near Her?”

  Turin’s head turned slightly away from her, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t speak.

  The gnome pushed through his silence. “It’s just that I need your help. It’s too much for me on my own, but with two of us…” Her raised eyebrows silently pleaded her case.

  Turin turned to Bird. “So, if I understand your fancy names, that would make me the Roper – right?”

  “Yes, but not on your own,” the tabby reassured him. “We would effectively be using two Ropers instead of one. You’d be doing it together.” His eyes shifted from Turin to Lunish and back.

  “And once we’re done 'roping’?” Turin probed.

  Bird raised both palms in front of him a second time. “Then, you can both just shift forms and fly back here. No danger. You’ll be nowhere near the Red Queen or her crew.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” Turin challenged him. “It only takes one person to drive a wagon. Why do you need two Wheelmen?”

  Bird shook his head. “I can’t leave Glynnie on his own in the thick of things. If he gets overwhelmed, our inside women would be completely stranded. We wouldn’t normally ask, but we’re in a real bind here. We need an eighth to make it work.”

  “What do you think?” Lunish pressed. “A couple of hedges sticking it to the man, or in this case, the lich woman, together.”

  Turin raised his chin, glancing between them, his hand working overtime on the long, grey beard. “Let me sleep on it.” Turning on his heel, he walked back to Iskvold, seated on the throne, ready for her ink.

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