As thieves and assassins the<em>Kargat </em>intruded on Danae's indulgence, a creak of supple black leather, a glint of metal in the first rays of dawn, a cruel presence watching over Moll's little death. In darkness gloved hands cast this bittersweet kiss goodbye, sealed heavy curtains against light's trespass and kicked up all the faded perfumes of decades wallowed in desperate pleasures. Such rich scents ought to stir memory. Had Captain Vine-Lott not been here before in this very room? But the leather-cowled<em>Kargat </em>were secretive, even within their own walls, and Lady Kazandra foremost among them.<br/><br/>"Captain."<br/><br/>Once more she garbed in that greyed and fraying bridal gown, fresh from fitting. A line of glossy new satin stitches repaired what moths and time deteriorated like a fresh scar down her flank. It must have belonged to a woman generations removed, and though her smile rapacious and cunning bore no hint of sentimentality, it was not done to touch her while she vaunted it.<br/><br/>"All of the family manage to balance leisure and commitment. It's your responsibility to load the ship before dawn."<br/><br/>Black-gloved<em>Kargat </em>hands drew across the throats of Linde and Moll while still muscle strained and eyes flutter. These pleasures, these freedoms were afforded only so long as Danae fulfilled her lonesome role in the trade of people. It was a lesson Lady Kazandra must have learned hard, years ago, if the lustrous black patch over one eye were to be taken at its most sinister implication. With all her raven ringlets drawn back, she wanted for it to be seen. She did not disguise what she had lost, now that she was in a position to take.<br/><br/>But it needn't come to that, for Captain Vine-Lott's whores. Moll and Linde would be all too happy to remain in Darkon and never too far from Martira Bay, where the most shocking of crimes were capitulated by idle hands. Linde did not heed the call of the sea, the command of a rugged ship, the clarity of purpose in Heinfroth's work. Moll did not envy the peace of the island, the company of women, the ambitious ear of Doctor Heinfroth. These were things for Danae alone.<br/><br/>Candleless, night eyes shining like a cat's, like jet, Lady Kazandra escorted from the rooms of cloak and dagger along darkened balconies into dead end remodels and trapdoor staircases to windowless vaults full of icy draft, whispers through thin walls, and shrouded mirrors. Not a word, not a sound passed wending in secret, until on the far side the hellish hiss of a black iron furnace and the piteous whimpers of the damned went unheard by the Cosmopolis Club at large.<br/><br/>There was a song, in the cellar.<br/><br/>It was not Elfish, nor even the familiar heart-shaped rhythm of Elfish songs, but the verses of a prayer disharmonious which over centuries of mantra whittled into rambling, trilling canticle. Its language was not well known beyond the jungles of its birth, but the sound of it, its inflection and emphatic rapidity, was carried in Akashic memory as far out as the Sea of Sorrows.<br/><br/>A shipment from Sri Raji, indeed.<br/><br/>In the company of Lady Kazandra, Captain Vine-Lott was left to pass through the ranks of the<em>Kargat, </em>beyond the burning scorn of the pyrewraith Lacaeryssar spying from the deep furnace, beyond the echoing cistern and ready traps, the poised killing stakes, stilled scythes, and cooled fire jets. There in the dungeon, arranged with the barrels and bundles for Captain Vine-Lott's smuggle, was the source of the song.<br/><br/>"The sun rises," Lady Kazandra said. "There must be no trace of these foreigners in Darkon by the light of day. From here you operate alone, and if caught the Black Tower disavows any knowledge of your custody. Be swift..."<br/><br/>Three daughters of the Verdurous Lands regarded Captain Vine-Lott as a guileless jailor. Their complexions were as dark, rich wheat, sharp noses and dusky eyes and lifelong hair worked into braids sinewy and narrow as the body's reserved poise, not elfishly slender, no, but lean whip-wild jungle growth over the bones of a woman.<br/><br/>"...and do not trust the spies of Maharaja Arijani ever to be broken."<br/><br/>With time, no doubt, each would don the porcelain mask and forget those inimitable songs, and the pain of their bruises would fade along with the guilt of Captain Vine-Lott's complicity, like water through the fingers, like thieves at morning, like a smuggler's ship from the port of Martira Bay.