Grundle didn’t pay him very well besides, and certainly not well enough to keep his ear off the wood—especially if there was even a remote chance his curiosity might reward him with some extra coin. Raffert wasn’t entirely sure how spying on this particular conversation might be profitable, but he had learned, some years back, that many secrets were worth their weight in gold. Granted, he had no real idea how to cash secrets in here—he wasn’t exactly living in the lap of luxury any more—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stock up on them until the time was ripe to spend. Besides, Raffert knew there was a chance he could gain more than simple information if he remained watchful enough.

“B.P.R.D.,” said the first gentleman, his voice only barely muffled by the door. “A most curious footnote to your missive.”

“So glad you found it curious,” said the second. His voice was of a higher pitch than the first, and nasal, whereas the first man’s timbre held a deeper note. “Have you deduced my purpose?”

“Would that I had, Mr. Frobush; I might not have come, had inquisitiveness not gotten the better of me.”

“Pish,” snorted Frobush. “Our last parting was sour, but no personal slight would keep you from a riddle, Mr. Stain.”

The first man sighed. “Truth enough. Well, have at it. What is your purpose in luring me back here?”

“Soon. But first: B.P.R.D.”

“Baos Porithy Rarum Demes,” answered Stain without pause. “Evil incites the internal revolution. Or, as my sweet and dear departed mother used to teach by way of mnemonic, Bad Posture Ruins Decorum.”

“Quite so,” replied Frobush cheerfully. “I’ve a tin bit with your name affixed if you know the acronym that follows.”

“I’ve no need of your tin, Mr. Frobush,” Stain replied brusquely. “But I will give answer nonetheless: S.I.O.A. Or, Salas Indice Omi Ali. The proverb in full: “Baos porithy rarum demes; salas indice omi ali. Translated: Evil incites the internal revolution, whilst virtue inspires all others. An ironic anecdote the expansionist Novans are fond of, even to this day. Rebellion from within was always both their specialty and their greatest fear.”

“Excelsior, Mr. Stain.” Frobush sounded inordinately pleased.

Stain did not. “Sycophantic gestures ill become you, Mr. Frobush. The real riddle is why you chose to include that particular acronym in your missive. As well as the reason you wished to meet here, of all places.”

Frobush leaned forward in his chair. Raffert knew because of how the chair creaked. “That, my old friend, will become plain soon enough.”

“Make it quick. I’ve little time for the likes of you these days.”

“Unkind,” Frobush murmured. He sounded a little hurt.

“Unkind times,” Stain muttered, though some of the edge had left his voice. “I am not discounting our… history, Mr. Frobush. I am merely mindful of what has changed.”

“I am still sorry we parted ways, old friend,” Frobush said softly.

“It was not my doing,” said Stain.

“I know.”

A long moment of silence passed between them. Raffert began to think nothing more would be said, but he was curious as to why such clearly distinguished gentlemen with such interesting chemistry would choose the ramshackle and secluded Wayside Inn to hold a meeting in the first place, so he couldn’t leave now. The Wayside received few outsiders, stuck as it was on a soggy patch of Gloaming Marsh swampland on the border of Vertaes and the outlaw Outwood; it was in fact as out-of-the-way as any tavern that expected any sort of income had a right to be. He couldn’t imagine what business anyone with aspirations greater than a frogboat commander might have here.

Raffert supposed one possible answer was due in part because the inn did in fact boast a cigar room, and fancy men were drawn to fancy cigars, a fact busty Berla had stated on more than one occasion. But Grundle the innkeeper hadn’t stocked cigars, pipeweed, or rolling tobacco in years. Why would men come to an inn for a cigar room that sold no cigars? It seemed more than a little odd.

As odd as the two men themselves. Raffert hadn’t gotten a clear view of either gentleman—one distant glance from behind, really—but he’d seen enough to know they were men of obvious means. A top hat and lace-trimmed sleeves on one, a bowler and a fancy cane with a silver knobbed head with the other, and long capes and good boots on both. He tried to gain a closer view, but the Wayside’s shadows were too deep, and the men had fetched drinks and were behind a closed door too fast for Raffert to see if they were wearing anything of value that might be easily filched. He knew from experience that fancy men favored gem-encrusted cufflinks, gold pins, ornate brooches, or intricate pocket watches, any of which could have Raffert living comfortably for a year.

Especially here. Raffert hated the place, surrounded by mean people living meager existences; the singular, sad advantage one might gain was that it did not take much coin to survive in these marshlands. Everything was as cheap as dirt, which was a good thing for him; Raffert was no longer Squire Raffert and could hardly claim three silver stags to his name these days. Following the debacle that had been the Battle of Gloaming Bay, the invading Vertaen forces (of which he had been an eager member of) had been forced to withdraw from the Outwood, taking with them most of their beleaguered survivors—a group which did not include Squire Raffert. Raffert’s knight, Sir Hugh Hardby lay drowned at the bottom of the bay, the unfortunate victim of his unwavering belief that his horse could swim Bogged Channel whilst carrying a fully armed and armored man. The horse made it across safely, though not before unkindly disposing itself of its noble and knightly (and exceedingly heavy) rider.

Bereft of any coin—and unwilling to beg any of the remaining Vertaen jackanapes for more abusive employment—Raffert made it as far as Gullville before giving up his dreams of knighthood and an early but righteous death, instead opting for a more meager (and safer) existence scrubbing pots at the wayward Wayside. He regretted the choice daily, but even at the worst of times was forced to admit life at the Wayside was better than no life at all.

His life could get better. All he needed was gold. And these two lavishly appointed gentlemen could be his ticket to a better way of living. He hoped they might decide to get good and drunk by eve’s end; Raffert had robbed only a handful of people in his life and felt much more comfortable doing it when his victims were unconscious.

“…as good a place as any, Mr. Stain,” Frobush said, snapping Raffert back to attentiveness. “And we’re not the only ones familiar with this particular inn.”

“No indeed,” Stain replied. “Clearly you came in search of a clue. I trust you’ve found one.” Stain’s chair creaked this time; Raffert imagined him leaning back, studying his old associate. “So tell me true—after these six long years, have you finally found our wayward Blue Baroness?”

“I… have not,” Frobush admitted quietly, and Raffert heard Stain exhale in frustration. If Stain had a complaint, however, it was given pause when Frobush added, “I may finally have an inkling as to the mystery of her disappearance, however. B.P.R.D. is, in short, the postscript placed at the end of a very short and succinct note warning me against pursuing any thread of logic which might result in unraveling the Baroness’s whereabouts.”

Stain jumped on that thread eagerly. “A warning implies belief that you were onto something, Mr. Frobush. One does not warn away the blind or inept. Your investigation was clearly beginning to bear fruit. Though I assume by your omission of more pertinent details you’ve been unable to discern the origin or author of said note.”

“Sadly, no. It was written in cinder-script and burned away in my hands just moments after the seal was broken.”

“A deepening curiosity,” Stain mused. “And much as I did before our parting, I continue to suspect the Baroness was betrayed by someone close to her, though this added clue makes me suspect she was in service to some greater cause than her reputation allowed.”

“You do know with whom she was affiliated with.” It wasn’t a question.

“It goes without saying,” Stain murmured. “I am merely placing myself in the proverbial shoes of her steadfastly invisible foe. Our mysterious letter-writing harbinger could have used other platitudes; betrayal is hardly bereft of anecdotes. He or she chose ‘rebellion’ from within, which paints a broader picture than is traditional. I am moved to suspect a much larger god tampering with the machine, figuratively speaking. Not only that, but the recitation of lesson-expounding proverbs are generally the stuff of megalomaniacs and paranoids.”

“Or rulers,” suggested Frobush.

“In my experience, kings and queens—and all of the fools who aspire to that lot—qualify as megalomaniacs and paranoids.”

Frobush chuckled darkly. “We’ve known a few. And their offspring.”

“A few is a few too many. That a great man would assume his progeny to be automatically destined for greatness is irresponsible. Preposterous to think true leaders are born of particular bloodlines.”

“Not leaders perhaps, but… power can be.”

“Of course,” Stain granted, though irritably.

“Power harnessed through the appropriation of various bloodlines informed much of the Baroness’s early education. We should assume that if she was indeed betrayed by someone close to her, then that person might have been afforded that same outlook. Especially if our culprit is a person of means or influence.”

“What were the bloodlines then? Her companions, her rivals… those fellow unfortunates raised to might in Gault. Do we even know?”

“Only a few. Seraphic, fae, vampiric. Lycanthropic, dwarven, elvish, marid. Others, if we’re branching further. Troll, goblin. And her own, of course.”

“The Baroness does not technically have a bloodline,” Stain corrected.

“She is what she is, blood or no.”

“Very well. What sort of unusual activity have we seen of late?”

“The fae,” Frobush said after a moment.

Stain snorted with disdain. “As if something could hold their interest longer than half a breath’s time.”

“If directed and motivated,” Frobush said. “You asked for activity, Mr. Stain, and I am telling you, the occurrence of fae has increased dramatically in the past few years. Gillies and nixies and silvies, buccas and gannocks, kith and sith. And more than a few gremlins, as well as clobbers aplenty.”

Stain gave what seemed a rather loud harrumph. “Fae should be last on the list of suspects, occurrences or not.”

“Very well,” Frobush murmured. “Now that I recall, you made mention of gods earlier.”

“I did not mean literal gods, Mr. Frobush. Unless you suspect the god of thievery. It would be the first time he left a warning note.”

“I actually came here in search of a god,” Frobush said.

“I am flattered,” Stain said. “Alas, I am merely mortal.”

Frobush chortled. “Well played. But no. I sought a deity little known and rarely worshipped on this continent.”

“Sought in the past tense. You found what you were looking for?”

“Would that I had. Alas. But every clue I found, as meager as they were, seemed identical to the clues surrounding the disappearance of the Blue Baroness and her colorful companions. The thoroughness of it all, Mr. Stain! I found myself as impressed as I was alarmed.”

“Are you suggesting the same person who betrayed the Baroness is also thieving deities, Mr. Frobush?” Mr. Stain sounded half-skeptical, half-amazed.

“Even if my supposition were correct, they would not be major gods by any stretch. Peripheral dominions—fourth tier influences at best. And yet…”

“And yet immortals are immortals. The dominion they possess over their given demesnes remains absolute. Trapping gods of any sort is tricky business. If one is not exceedingly careful, one will merely anger said deity… and that deity, if truly threatened, will turn to other deities for aid. Even the weakest has allies.”

“Which would make short work of all who might dare, I agree. And yet… certain ones could disappear for decades at a time and their absence could go wholly unnoticed.”

“Certain specific deities.” Frobush took a sip of something. “You have a particular one in mind, you said. Speak plainly.”

“As plainly as I can without naming names.”

Raffert shifted uncomfortably. He knew, as much as anyone, that you did not speak the name of a god unless you purposefully hoped to catch their attention.

“Let us use Jho’ol as an example,” Frobush said after a moment.

“The bygone manatee god.”

“Bygone in a sense; he is forever without purpose once his mammal was lost to this world. The extinction of one’s species demesne would prove problematic to any animal god.”

“That’s putting it lightly. Though one imagines a god knows he stands at greater risk when his demesne is a fat, placid water mammal not known for its proclivity toward natural defense.”

“The shark god would be harder to leave bereft.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Stain said. “His creatures are hard to kill and will eat nearly anything. Though I imagine he misses the taste of manatee.”

“The sharks of this world had best hope they encounter no manatee at all.”

“It would be none other than Jho’ol himself.”

“Quite right, Mr. Stain. And as placid as a manatee might be, I would imagine Jho’ol would be in no mood to be eaten. And I cannot imagine a more vengeful god than one bereft of its sole responsibility. Pity those sharks.”

“Indeed. But to my point. What I am saying is that a demesne lost to the world does not remove its god, nor does it erase that god from the recollection of other gods. It is true the world has not seen a manatee in over a hundred years, but what is a hundred years to an immortal? If sad Jho’ol might someday convince one of the wardens of creation, or life, or conception, or procreation, or child-bearing, or any one of those greater concepts to gift him with but one female manatee, his cause could be born anew.”

“Quite literally,” Frobush chuckled.

Raffert made a face. The conversation had veered from something interesting and conspiratorial to something tangential and esoteric. He wished wealthy men were not so universally dull.

Frobush continued. “The point that must be remembered is, if one seeks to capture a god, what is the reason?”

“If a god’s demesne remains even after he or she is gone, the only reason would be for control.”

“One thing we have to keep in mind is the Singular Dominion Accord,” Frobush said. “No god would kill another for their demesne.”

“Of course. The conjoined creation of the eponymous Cygnus Stone ratified that accord. Every immortal fervently wishing for the chaos of the Great Carnage to come to a close set mind to purpose in creating a universal law agreed upon by nearly every deity. The days of one god holding sway over more than one demesne are long past—as are the days of one god thieving powers from another via murder.” Stain said it as rote. It made Raffert’s head hurt.

“And so control it must be. Willful control. That could slip notice for more than a few years.”

“But to what end?”

“That remains as great a mystery as any other, Mr. Stain.”

“And yet here it is. You’re positive, Mr. Frobush?”

“I am not. It is merely a common thread I am now pursuing. And in doing so…” Mr. Frobush took a deep breath. “I think I shall require your help, old friend.”

Another long silence passed. Finally, Stain said, “Very well. You have it. At least until we find her. We owe her that much, you and I. In truth, I curse my inattentiveness, letting her whereabouts slip beyond my sight.”

“She is an outlaw. Disappearing is something they do well.”

Mr. Stain sighed. “What irks me is that we knew, Mr. Frobush. We knew the power she and the others would attain. We should have been more watchful. For all our sakes.”

“We watched where and when we could. There was little that could be done. It was out of our hands.”

“Well we must become more active. Beginning now and today. If our suspicions are correct, the disappearance of the Blue Baroness is but the tip of the proverbial iceberg.”

“And yet it begins with her. Our path, in that regard, is clear.”

“Indeed it is. Come then. It is time we were away.”

Raffert heard the telltale squeal of chairs across flooring, so he scrambled back, cursing his luck. He turned and moved quickly down the hall so that neither gentleman would find him lurking. Raffert grumbled to himself. Neither Frobush nor Stain had been nearly drunk enough to rob. Worse, they weren’t even going to attempt to rent a room, it seemed, which meant the possibility of rifling through their belongings in the night was off the table as well.

He should have known it wouldn’t be easy. Nothing was ever easy for him. He was cursed with ill fortune—dead Sir Hugh had been correct on that account.

Raffert stood idle at the back end of the hall pretending to buff a candlestick, waiting for the agonizingly slow men to make their exit of the Wayside Inn cigar room. Though the chance was small, some fools occasionally became forgetful and left behind something of worth. It was rare, and Raffert knew the chances were slim. Slim or not at all, with my luck, he silently moaned.

But exit they never did. A good three minutes passed before Raffert cautiously moved back to the door, and another twenty heartbeats—hearing naught but silence within—before he summoned the courage to open it.

The cigar room was empty. The tables and chairs were arranged just as they had been before the men had entered.

It was as though the two men had never been there at all.