Part One

Rain poured down, and there was a boy snoring in her quarters.

An unfamiliar boy with hair the colour of the sooty streets he clearly belonged to, from his ragged clothing and the stink of dirt and weed-smoke.

Lise’s eyes flicked to the open window letting in gusts of rain all over her now-dirtied, neat desk cramped next to the occupied bed.

Of all the rooms one could break into, why choose that of someone who could be ordered to shoot him at a moment’s notice? He must be too stoned to recognise a guardsman’s posting.

Sighing, she stepped forwards, slipping her sidearm from its holster. I don’t want to deal with this.

A yelp rang out as her hand seized the damp, ratty scruff and yanked him upright, a pair of wide silver eyes meeting hers.

She paused. Not grey, not blue—molten, startled, surprisingly-aware silver. “Who are you and what are you doing in my quarters?”

“I’m sorry ma’am!” His hands shot up as he tried to lean away, his efforts thwarted by her firm grasp on his collar, standard-issue PL49 aimed at the bed. “It’s real wet outside, couldn’t see a thing, just this window open so I climbed in. Wasn’t planning on staying around, I promise I’m a good citizen!”

“A good citizen who’d steal everything not nailed down to spend on more weed,” she said drily. “Aren’t you?”

He smiled nervously. “You’re absolutely stunningly beautiful, ma’am, and all this closeness is nice and all, but I’m not into women who’ve got a gun, you know what I mean.”

Her gaze turned flat as she let go, and he dropped with a yelp. Trying to flirt as a distraction, really? “You can’t be older than twelve.”

“Sixteen, actually!”

“You wouldn’t come up to my shoulder.”

“Kick a man when he’s down?” The urchin sneezed, rubbing at his nose and shivering. “I’m a poor kid who barely gets a meal a day, go easy on me.”

“Uh-huh.” She eyed him—thin, damp hair, shirt hanging off his bony shoulders; a slight glaze in his unusual eyes. He was a wretch, literally. Exactly the kind she saw every day, parents gone or also on the streets, watching from dark alleyways as her polished boots marched by.

He didn’t need arresting. He needed a good meal and a shower. He needed a family she couldn’t give back to him.

Her eyes flicked to a glint at his collarbone, a pendant of the Angel of Mercy dangling from a cord, winking at her.

She holstered the pistol. “Let me get you a meal, then.”

“What?” His eyes widened.

“But before I do.” She tried to smile, an expression that felt lost to time, as though she’d lived a hundred years, not eighteen. “I’d like to know your name.”

The shock melted into a bright, cheeky grin, nearly enough to make the sun shine outside. With a dramatic, stunted bow, he declared, “Salte. Salte Dias, m’lady!”

__A Few Years Later__

The sun shone on sheer-faced, snowcapped mountains.

It also shone on the platinum-gold hair of the man bouncing up the carved stone steps ahead of Lise, a cheery song on his lips. Though his voice was pleasant, she doubted the locals in the valley below had sung whatever nonsense words he'd come up with.

She glanced back down the cliff, cozy loghouses still dwelling in dim, pre-dawn light peeking through shreds of fog at the still edge of the lake, wisps of smoke rising from chimneys. “You do know that song is about how music is crafted from sorrow, don’t you? And how hard and miserable life is.”

“Lies.” He broke off, his silver eyes peering back around a twisted branch leaning across the track. “It’s a cheerful tune, sister!”

“Most of these folk songs are like that.”

“No they aren’t. They can be about happy things.”

“Not this one—”

“The black-haired beaut-y of these mountains is a slave-driver fro-om Nastis, wheeen she speaks the sun goes dark it’s, really terrible she’s so negative.”

She gave him a flat look as he broke out into the cheery nonsense chorus again.

“Salte.”

“Bu-ut the sun still shines in the sky and, sooometimes she smiles very rarely.” Coat flaring, he whirled and offered his fingerless-gloved hand to help her across an eroded step, his smile bright as the sun twinkling off the charm dangling at his wrist. “Wheeen that happens it’s, like the da-ay has come back to us.”

Taking his hand, she hopped over. “You’re getting distracted.”

He held it for a moment longer than necessary, his smile completely unapologetic. “We’ve got a long way to walk, I need a distraction.”

“I’d prefer it to be one that doesn’t end with you dancing yourself off the mountain.”

“Pff, I’ll just fly up again.”

“And exhaust yourself.”

“Then we can look at the beautiful view while I recover.” He twirled up the stairs. “And isn’t it beautiful?”

“The mountains of Itan were nicer. Not as steep, either.”

He started singing about her negativity again, picking one of the sadder folk-songs this time.

Rolling her eyes, she continued plodding up, cresting the cliff. Along the rocky track leading up into another valley, patches of snow still lingered in the shade of gnarled foliage, crunching under their boots. Until they reached a crossroad marked by a post, decorative beads and tassels fluttering in the chilly breeze.

“It should be the left fork, from what Eelis told us,” she said as they paused.

“Looks less used,” he agreed, digging in his coat pocket anyway. “But let us consult the Etlas of Anomalise first.”

Dramatically, he flipped open the old book. The “Book of Ancients”, and not the ridiculous name he’d given it. Honestly, he was incorrigible. The tome had a rich history—it was a holy artefact—and what did he do? Cook up a plot to steal it and rename it that.

She sent a long-suffering look to the thrones of heaven, casting back to where this had started....

__A Few Weeks Earlier__

“I’ve found it!”

Lise stared blankly at the sheet of newspaper shoved into her face over the kitchen counter. She wouldn’t recognise her own father at this distance. “Excuse me?”

“The Book of Ancients is on display at the Grand Arch Library, they’re holding an auction to sell it!”

The—?

“What?” She snatched the paper. “Why are they auctioning it? Your ramen’s there, eat it.”

“Oh joy dost thou be to me,” he sang as she scanned the article, hopping onto the bench in the corner of her eye and scooping up his bowl. “Apparently it’s been in a private collection forever, and the guy just died. So now they’re selling it.”

“Jennus Arters? I thought he dealt in paintings.” She frowned. “His estranged son opting to auction off everything... found dead at his home last month.... We don’t have the money to buy it, you know.”

“That’s why we’re gonna steal it,” Salte declared around a mouthful of barely-palatable homemade noodles, chains and charms jangling on his wrists. “The entire history of ancient wonders, right there! More importantly, key to the Church of Heaven! It has maps and sketches, too. There’s supposed to be a detailed drawing of the Sword of Angels and smudge-smudge—probably Demons—in there.”

She glanced up to see him fiddling with the winged-sword pendant around his throat. She also abruptly noticed he’d left his fancy boots on. “How many times have I told you not to sit on the bench with your shoes on?”

“Oh. Hah, forgot.” He chucked them off, throwing his jacket away with them to leave him in a white singlet and his soft-grey stressed jeans. “Anyway, I have a plan, and I’m thinking we hit up old Mr. Roschal for a favour, infiltrate as rich types, and...”

____

“...There it is, just for you.” Salte eyed the pull station shining like a red beacon across the babble of the improvised auction room. “You ready to go?”

“I pull it as they're displaying the book, the fire alarm sounds, the crowd evacuates, and we swoop in. Simple.”

Honestly, almost more impressive than the bookshelfed, intricately carved walls stretching up past a second-floor balcony to the painted ceiling, was the sight of Salte in a neat olive-and-white tuxedo, hair slicked back; not a hint of his usual casual style to be found.

He flicked out a smile. “What?”

“I keep expecting to find a burger keychain hidden somewhere.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I wish.” He laughed, running a fidgety hand over his hair. “I feel like I’ve been squeezed into a tube of toothpaste.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

“You look like you were made for this, though.” He flicked a little sideways glance at her silver-and-black dress.

“Isn’t it nice to be friends with nobility,” she said drily. “From the sound of it, Roschal wouldn’t notice if we never returned these.”

Salte muttered something that sounded vaguely like “I wouldn’t mind mumble-mumble-mumble” and coughed into his fist.

“You just said you didn’t like the suit. Now you want to keep it?”

“It’s not the suit....” He looked towards the front as the auctioneer called. “Looks like we’ll be on soon. Better go!”

He shot off before she could question that. Hm.

Taking a wine-glass offered to her, she watched the proceedings as she drifted across the room, glimpsing his bright head of hair near the front. Around him, rich men and women raised paddles as the bid progressed, her path leading towards an elegant statue with a nose reminiscent of Salte's.

Only for a tall, dark-haired man to nearly run her over. She sidestepped, frowning up—

Into eyes like coals, his hair not just dark—black. Jet-black, like her own, so unlike the fair-featured locals.

She froze, the delicate glass nearly creaking in her grip. Why would a man from Nastis be here—?

He moved on, but the memory of that narrowed gaze and its flicker of recognition lingered.

They needed to get the book and get out of here.

Hurrying over to the pull station as subtly as possible, she slipped next to the statue, fingers tapping restlessly at her hip. I need to be careful—

Except when she looked he was gone.

What—?

“And now for lot five, the Book of Ancients, written by Saint Angelo from the given word of God....”

She couldn’t worry about that now. The auctioneer’s attendant reached for the glass case, and Lise’s hand snapped up to the pull station’s handle.

Just as the lights abruptly went out. In the sudden dark, the clamour of the alarm turns gasps to cries.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm! Evacuate in an orderly—”

This had not been in the plan. A veritable stampede of not-particularly calm patrons rushed for lit exits, tripping over each other. Where was Salte? Someone else must be after the book—

Stained glass windows cast an eerie glow over the room, just enough for her to catch sight of a tall silhouette on the evacuating stage, moving for the box.

And one leaping out of the mass with shadowed wings spread wide.

“Salte!”

The thief turned with a glint in his hand, and she snatched out her concealed pistol. Screams rang out at the suppressed shot’s crack, the figure twitching. She saw him reel away from Salte’s following kick, and dashed into the clearing space before the stage—

A man appeared in her path, a knife flashing.

How—? No time. She twisted to the side, ducking low and shooting him point-blank. The knife’s edge whistled past her shoulder, his eyes—

His eyes flickering red?

Just the lighting. Lunging past him, she vaulted onto the stage, Salte and the thief still struggling. “Salte! There are more of them!”

“Lise!” He spun, hurling something.

She twitched away from whatever he’d seen, a man stumbling back from her. And tumbling off the stage when her shot met his head. Or rather... crumbling into black smoke?

“Did that guy just teleport?” Salte swung back to his opponent, catching him with a savage kick. “And turn into ash?”

The man he was facing coughed, and chuckled. “You’re outmatched.”

All across the room, lights like burning coals flickered to life.

Lise twitched her aim from one shadowy figure to another. Maybe it hadn’t been the lighting. “Who are they?”

“And where’d you come from?!” Salte panted, leaping back to her side, wings lifted protectively.

“Nowhere,” his opponent replied, stepping forward into a patch of rosy light, revealing the dark-haired man from before.

“Okay Mister Nowhere.” Salte’s hand drifted up. “You and your freaky buddies can turn around and go home. We were here first.”

“I don’t think so.” The man strode towards them, his group pulling out guns of their own. “You may have an interesting advantage, but there’s only one of you, and one gun. And the woman wielding it also happens to be a deserter of the Nastis army. That warrants execution.”

She pressed her lips tightly, training a steady aim at his face.

“You’re a little wrong about some details there. Big fat number one, you’re not executing her.” Salte yanked his pendant off its cord.

In a burning flash, the glowing blade of a sword flickered from his hand, his fingers curling around the winged hilt as it coalesced into deadly, very real metal sharp enough to slice through a song. This close, she could hear its familiar low hum; see the faint flickers of ethereal light dancing in its reflection.

“Because I have a big-ass magical sword and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Of course, all hell broke loose.

Cursing Salte’s hotheadedness, Lise let him lunge into the fight and leapt for the glass case herself. Snatching it off the stand, she aimed a one-handed shot at Nowhere, snapping, “Salte! I have it!”

In an instant, the library blurred past. Instinctively, she tucked her feet up, following the movement to land solidly on the upper balcony. Salte immediately whisked her away, slicing through a glowing-eyed man suddenly in their path, turning him to ash.

“What is wrong with these people,” he panted. “That was the best fight of my life but God’s fuzzy socks.”

“They’ll try to cut us off, or use that teleporting trick. We need to—”

“Leap out a window! Great idea!” He hurled his sword at one of said windows and scooped her up.

“Wait—!”

He leapt. For an instant, they hung weightless in the twilit sky, too far above the ground.

Salte landed with a grunt, managing not to drop her, thankfully.

Huffing for breath, he also kept her in his arms, half-crouched, close enough to see the silver rings of his irises as he beamed. “Flight express, third class. Not a bad landing.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Now can you put me down, please.”

“Let go first.” He made a face. “You’re pinching my fancy suit.”

Unclenching her death-grip, she was slipped gently back to her feet on the cobblestones, not a soul in sight, the clamour of the library drifting from the street.

“Hey, Lise....”

Eyebrow rising at his unusually tentative query, she handed him the locked case, half-moon jewel on the book's cover glinting. “We should go, you know.”

A smile chased away the shadow on his face as he took it. “But I was just thinking this thing could do with a renaming. Title’s boring. Etlas of Anomalise would sound better, right?”

“The... excuse me?”

“Etlas of Anomalise!”

“What in heaven is an ‘Etlas’.”

“My name backwards,” he said angelically. “Anomalise being your beloathed full name.”

“Yes, I do remember my own name, thanks. Why in God’s good name do you need to call it that.”

“Because it’s ours now, Miss Humour! And we’re finally on the hunt for the Sword of Angels!” With a flourish, he moved to open the lid. It refused. “...Just as soon as we get this thing open.”