One evening after a long day of careful travel through the forest North of Gahnil, Rask quietly asks the group,
“What do we know about this Veris-a-miss? That’s the same as Varis right? The one Sheyeeni worked under who is hunting us? He’s a mage and he has access to scrying magic, but it is not portable scrying magic right? He’s got a henchman named Thraan? The cousin of that… mage who ambushed us in the collegium? Thraan’s a bit of a duelist, Shyeeni is probably a sneaky assassin type fighter…”
“The have the orcs, what other resources could they bring to the fight? You’ve defeated or suborned several of his people already…”
Rask looks at Alexis first, but glances at Elthered and Gustav, as well as Ca’rmine and Alikimo.
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Alexis listens while Rask speaks, eyes on the fire. He coils and uncoils the whip at his side, leather sliding softly through his hand. After a breath, he exhales and squats near the flames, the whip now on his lap. With a stick he sketches out the winding lines of Barra’s cave.
“We know little of this place,” he says, tapping the drawn chambers. “Somewhere inside lies the pool Verisimus uses to see us. How it works, how far it reaches, how often it stirs—” He gives a small shrug. “It might need blood under a full moon, or it might open at his whim. Not knowing is its own danger.” His hand grazes the Collegium ring. “But one thing is sure: the pool anchors him. He cannot simply carry it about. Unless…” Alexis tilts his head. “Unless he has found someone else to work it while he roams. Still—I would not place my wager there.”
The stick scrapes again, lines shifting to a new map: Sutheron’s alleys. He marks the ambush, the clash of the Dark Hand, and the Hoodites who came crashing in after. He studies the faces around the fire as he speaks, measuring their reactions.
Then the map shifts again, his hand broad and quick. He tells of the Made at the Twins: scouts, hired muscle, pawns of a greater hand. The firelight jumps, catching on the red jasper pendant at his chest. For a moment it flares—two ember-eyes, scanning the circle of listeners—then fades, leaving only the stone’s steady glow. Alexis’ voice settles as he explains how the Made were no more than extensions, arms of another’s will. Alexis continues with the battle just-out-of-the-passage-to-the-stink-lizards. About how Thraan, Skellor, and Mavon were extensions of Varisimus sent to subdue the Crimson Calling.
The dirt is smoothed, scratched fresh, drawn again: the Greyfax estate. Alexis delivers the battle piece by piece, tracing movement and clash, answering questions when they come.
When the ground is cleared once more, Alexis speaks of Sheyeeni. Of how Verisimus wagered with her life. Of Rask’s bloodlust, and of Ethelred’s infatuation, already burning, that grew sharper still that day. “He trusted,” Alexis says, “that we would not slay an unarmed woman who sought parlay. And he was right.” He pauses. “Perhaps he also wished us to hear her faith, to tempt us toward it. But I think not. Sheyeeni was expendable—utterly devoted, and therefore safe to expose to us. Unlike Mavon or Skellor, who could be lured away from the Dark Hand because they did not truly believe.”
Alexis wipes the ground clean with his boot. Silence holds for a long beat, broken only by the crackle of flame.
Then: “Each time, Verisimus sent others to bleed for him. Thraan, Sheyeeni, the Made, mercenaries lured by treasure. He never steps to the front himself.”
Alexis leans back on his heels, eyes in the fire. “That is his way. He circles. He waits. He sends others to strike. He will not risk himself when he can spend ten lives instead. If he is the wolf, then he hunts through the teeth of his pack, not by his own jaws.”
The whip rests coiled in his lap as Alexis continues, his voice shifting from tale to reckoning.
“So—if he strikes us again, it will be through others. Mercenaries, zealots, the Made, or something yet unseen. He favors ambushes, attacks where his pawns take the wounds while he watches from the dark. And he will use the devoted—like Sheyeeni—when he knows their faith will give us pause. That is his pattern.”
A copper ring walks across his knuckles. “But there are still shadows we do not see clearly. The pool itself—how far it reaches, how often it stirs. Whether another can wield it in his place. These things could be known, if we sought them. We do not yet know the shape of his network—how many he commands, or what binds them to him. Nor do we know his limits. Has he studied at the Collegium? How far did he get? How many of the scrolls did he get through?” Alexis looks at Ethelred briefly. “Finally: what is the pattern, if any, of his ambushes? And what are the flaws of those he uses against us?”
He lets the questions hang for a moment, then finishes:
“If we can find his limits—his tools, his rhythms, his loyalties—then the wolf is not so dangerous. And maybe even can be put down.”
Rask nods attentively and appreciatively.
“Would he aid the Warden or other agents of the Theocracy against us? You’re sure he wouldn’t join in the hunt? The Merchant made it sound like things had taken a more personal turn. At least that’s what I took from it.”
“So far Verisimus has only been using the usual tools of the Dark Hand; the tools of criminals.” Alexis shrugs noncommittally.
“He joined in on the fight on the Greyfax estate grounds. They got the jump on us, and they were significantly better suited for a stand-up fight against us. You and Carm change the calc-…” Alexis stops abruptly and starts again “… how he would weigh the odds.”
Alexis takes the whip from his lap and attaches it back on his belt.
Ca’armine takes all this in, and thinks to himself, “I heard this Crimson Calling was formidable, now I know how they got that reputation!” He feels confirmed that he has found the right companions for his quest.
“Greyfax. Right. Arri was an agent of the ShadowFoot, right? In Paavo? Was Various Misses his handler? Torrvin — no Torrin? was frozen in ice… I don’t remember that being one of Ole’s common moves…”