The Edge of Chaos by Jak Koke

sign of her earlier rush to get moving on her journey was in evidence now. Duvan understood that; you didn’t hurry or interrupt Tyrangal. He’d learned that over the years.
    Despite her luxurious appearance, Tyrangal was one of the most accomplished thieves he’d ever met. She’d rescued him three years earlier from the Wildhome elves—from Rhiazzshar and her ilk. Tyrangal had taken him under her wing, had continued his training in thievery, in combat, in climbing and falling and countless other things.
    And in return, he acquired things for her. The sorts of things she sent him after were esoteric and bizarre: a vial of powder negotiated from a nomadic merchant in Murghdm;
    an amulet containing a metallic liquid at its heart, recovered from a treasure casket in prison dungeons underneath Alaghon in Turmish; a cache of wine barrels floated from a sunken galleon in the Sea of Fallen Stars.
    Duvan never asked questions about why she wanted these things. He didn’t really care, and Tyrangal would never tell him anyhow. She paid him enough that he didn’t need to ask questions. Besides, he thrilled to the challenge.
    He had done the occasional job for other collectors in the past, but like a child to fire, he always returned to Tyrangal. He owed her so much, and he loved the work she gave him. Can’t stay away from the intensity, he thought. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.
    Tyrangal looked up from her examination of the tome. “You have done well,” she said.
    Duvan smiled. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he wanted to please Tyrangal. He had wondered on occasion what it would be like to kiss her, but he had never dared to try.
    “I will need the ring back as well; it won’t work where you’re headed next.”
    “Of course,” Duvan said, and handed the teleportation ring to her. Enchanted jewelry and other magical items often misfired or just didn’t work in the Plaguewrought Land. The ring would be just as likely to explode or turn into a swarm of moths as it was to work properly.
    “I received word that things did not go exactly as planned.”
    Duvan scowled. “There are spies among the Copper Guard,” he told her.
    “The Order is getting bolder with their infiltration.”
    Duvan nodded. “I should never have let Beaugrat hire the team. I should have screened them myself.”
    “Yes; then you would have had but one mutineer.” Tyrangal’s gaze was intense, but not disapproving. “Tell
    me, did Beaugrat or any of the others get a look at the tome?”
    Duvan shook his head. “No. The other two are dead anyway, and I chased Beaugrat off when he tried to take the book.” “Did he know what he was trying to take?” “I don’t think so.”
    “Excellent. Tell me the whole story.”
    Duvan sent a questioning glance in Slanya’s direction. “In front of her?”
    “In a manner of speaking,” Tyrangal said, her hands reached out and brushed the air in front of Slanya’s chest. The cleric went into a trance, staring straight ahead where she stood. “She cannot hear us now.”
    So Duvan told her the whole tale. He relayed how they found the citadel barely hanging from a ledge down in the Underchasm, and how they’d descended to search it. He described the battle with the manticore, and the secret compartment he narrated the sorcerer’s demise and the tower’s plunge into the darkness, until finally, he told of the mutiny and Seerah’s death, Beaugrat’s spellplague attack and cowardly escape.
    “Beaugrat’s spellscar created blue fire?” Tyrangal asked. “Are you certain?”
    Duvan nodded. “I’m quite familiar with it.”
    Tyrangal gave a laugh, although Duvan wasn’t trying to be funny. “I suppose you are,” she said, and then added, “And he realized that his attack had no effect on you?”
    “Yes, I’m certain of it.”
    Tyrangal frowned. “That is unfortunate. I fear you will be sought by those who would use you for your talents.”
    Duvan looked away. It was