Outside of Golath’s Place, Asher leaned back against the wall, breathing in deep breaths of the cool night air through his nose. He wasn’t sure how he’d thought that encounter was going to go, but it certainly wasn’t . . . Whatever the hell that had just been. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, realizing for the first time that it was damp with sweat. All things considered, that wasn’t surprising. Aliyah always had made him sweat.

He took a moment to get his bearings, then pointed himself down a set of streets that would eventually take him back to the Black Charger. Bozhren would be worried about him, no doubt, and he’d be even more displeased that Aliyah was in town. The more he thought about their encounter, the more irritated Asher became with himself. When he’d seen her there outside of the Tychaea mansion, he knew it wasn’t an accident. If he knew her at all—and, while he wasn’t entirely certain that he did, he felt confident about this—she’d been there tonight to gauge security and start working on a plan, just like he was.

If it were anybody else, Asher might not have been so worried. It wasn’t that he was worried about being conned by her again; avoiding her entirely was the easiest way to avoid that particular mess. As long as he didn’t talk to her, or try to guess at her plans (or lose very much sleep thinking about those playful green eyes), it was unlikely that she could manipulate him in the same way as she had before.

Asher paused, glancing over his shoulder at a sound from the dark city behind him, then snorted as it resolved into drunken, tuneless singing. No, he thought to himself as he resumed walking, the real risk was that she might actually be able to get into that mansion before he did. Although he doubted that she was after the journal, or even that she was aware of its existence, she’d be tramping through the dragon’s nest. If she managed to get inside first, his job would become much, much more difficult—perhaps even impossible. Even with his concoctions.

His concoctions. That was what he had always called them, the strange tools he crafted by secret and forbidden methods, the tools that let him perform seemingly superhuman feats. Every time he heard a tavern tale about Quicksilver’s seemingly magical abilities, it was all he could do not to burst out laughing. If the people only knew how little his tricks could actually do. Softstone, stonequick, cat’s eye, and hound’s ear. Those were what he called them, the four missing pieces of Quicksilver’s legend.

With a few drops of softstone, most substances took on a consistency not unlike that of cool butter or wet clay for the span of about ten minutes before returning to a solid—albeit significantly more brittle—state. It was this mixture that allowed him to seemingly walk through locked doors, and that had allowed him to carve out his own handholds out of solid stone, like he had in Minok’tan. Combining them with the slingbow had been an inspired idea as well, allowing him to essentially melt through the legs of the brazier without ever coming near the building.

Stonequick was a gray, taffy-like goop that did the opposite. Within a few seconds of contact with the air, stonequick hardened into a remarkably resilient material that stuck fast to whatever it happened to be touching when it hardened—perfect for sealing doors shut behind him. Like softstone, the effects of stonequick didn’t last long; it degraded after only a few minutes, eventually crumbling away into a fine, chalky powder.

The other two were at least as useful, if decidedly less fantastic. Cat’s eye gave him clear vision in the darkest rooms, while hound’s ear sharpened his sense of hearing. Walking through locked doors was incredible, no doubt, but being able to hear a guard coming from two rooms away had saved his hide more times than he cared to think about.

Four concoctions that transformed simple, ordinary Asher into Quicksilver, the thief of legends. Four alchemical recipes penned by a Magire blood-mage. Only a handful of people knew that he even had them, and fewer still knew how he had come by them. By law they shouldn’t exist, and by his own code he should never have use them. Sometimes he felt like he should throw the recipes away, burn them to ashes and destroy them forever—but he knew he couldn’t. He was the only one who could defy House Magire, and so he would, even if he had to use their own tools to do it. In a way, Asher consoled himself, it was even a bit poetic. That’s the way he needed to—

He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening as a nearly inhuman shriek of agony shattered the silence from somewhere in the darkened streets around him. He stood still as stone for a long moment, his ears straining. Gods above and below, he thought to himself angrily, what he wouldn’t give to have his harness in hand right that moment, risks be damned. The scream came again, more quietly this time, followed by muffled sobbing, and Asher launched himself down the streets in that direction. He turned one corner, then another, his boots skidding slightly on the dusty street, until he stumbled to a halt at the mouth of a particularly shadowy alley between a smithy and a pottery.

A man lay with his back propped against the side of the smithy, one arm cradled against his stomach, the sound of his weeping muffled by a wad of cloth stuff in his mouth. A heavyset man stood over him, maybe an inch or two taller than Asher, muttering under his breath. As Asher watched, the big man slammed the toe of his boot into the downed man’s side, causing him to gasp and wretch pitifully around his gag.

“Stupid,” the big man was saying, grumbling to himself in a vaguely irritated tone. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. They’re not hard rules to remember, are they? No, Bigsby, they’re not. Bigsby isn’t a smart man, but he can remember the rules, so you—”

Asher knelt huddled in the mouth of the alleyway, his eyes wide with horror as the big man stomped down viciously on his victim’s left leg, and his stomach lurched as he heard the the splintering of bone, followed immediately by the smaller man’s breathless screams before they trailed away into more sobbing.

“So you,” the big man continued, in the same vaguely irritated tone, “you, you’re a smart man, you said you were a smart man, so you shouldn’t have any problems keeping track of the rules, should you? No, Bigsby, he certainly shouldn’t. A smart man like you—”

The big man paused at a sound from the alley behind him, one foot raised to kick the downed man again. He put his foot down ponderously and turned just in time for Asher to smash a heavy clay pot over his head, sending him crumpling to the ground.

At least, that’s what Asher meant to do; instead of catching the big man directly on the crown, the blow landed more on the left side of his face and shoulder, and only sent the him staggering. The big man shook himself, grunting, and Asher cursed as he tossed the shattered remains of the clay pot to the ground and looked for a new weapon. Standing face to face with his opponent, he felt his mouth go dry, and his hands began to shake. Gods above, what was he thinking. He didn’t know the first thing about fighting. Gods, he was just a burglar!

“What . . .” The big man said, looking around dazedly until his eyes focused on Asher. “What was that? Shalanti’s eyes, Bigsby, did that boy just hit us with a pot?”

A spike of panic shot through Asher, and he shot a glance over his shoulder, his eyes darting around the alley, looking for this “Bigsby”, until the big man continued muttering to himself, “Aye, Bigsby, he did at that. What would possess such a scrawny lad to hit Bigsby?”

“Look—Bigsby, is it?” Asher said, raising a hand in warning. “Bigsby, I think everyone’s been hit enough tonight, don’t you? I’ll bet that pot didn’t feel too good, did it? If you turn around and just walk away now, I won’t have to—”

He cut off as Bigsby threw back his head and roared with laughter. Asher took the opportunity to steal a glance at the other man, and saw him dragging himself back towards the mouth of the alley, kicking and scrabbling with his free hand and leg. Asher looked back at Bigsby and stumbled back another step when he saw that, still laughing, the big man had both arms raised. His left coat sleeve, Asher now saw, was torn away, and he caught a glint of metal through the tattered fabric just before Bigsby brought his right hand down sharply, slapping his own left forearm hard enough to make Asher wince. Gods, the man really was mad.

“Bigsby,” he said again, trying desperately to sound more confident than he felt, “don’t make this worse than it already is. Let me take that man for medical attention, and you . . . Can just . . .”

He trailed off, cocking his head. Something was wrong. The big man had stopped laughing, but all of a sudden he seemed taller than he had a moment ago. No, Asher realized with a start, he was taller. Bigsby, now a full head taller than Asher, took a slow, menacing step forward. As his face came out of the shadows Asher could see a horrible, twisted, utterly insane grin stretching the man’s features.

“Gods above and below,” Asher whispered, unable to tear his eyes away. Even as he watched, he saw Bigsby’s muscles swell under his coat, which was now straining at the seams. In less than a minute, he’d somehow transformed from a slightly portly man into a hulking brute, nearly a full head and shoulders taller than Asher and quite literally rippling with muscle.

“Stupid,” Bigsby said again, and now his voice was like the slow rumble of thunder. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Asher turned and made a mad dash for the mouth of the alley, but he didn’t make it more than three paces before the brute behind him let out a bone-shaking bellow. A moment later something heavy slammed into his back, sending him sprawling into the dusty street. He rolled to a stop a few feet beyond the mouth of the alley, groaning and disoriented. From where he lay he could see the wounded man dragging himself across the ground, toward the alley on the other side of the pottery. Some small, animal part of his mind shrieked that he should be running, too.

Instead, he pushed himself unsteadily up onto his side, then onto one knee. He heard a rumbling grunt from the alleyway and looked up, then hurled himself to one side with a yelp as another one of the heavy pots came sailing out of the alley towards him. It smashed to the ground less than a foot away, spraying him with shards of shattered clay. Asher flinched back with a cry, swiping at his face with one hand to remove the worst of the stinging shrapnel. The sound of Bigsby’s heavy footfalls sent a spike of panic up his spine, and he scrambled backwards, his eyes watering, blurring his vision past the point of uselessness.

"How does the scrawny man like it?" asked Bigsby, his voice rumbling like a rockslide as his heavy footfalls thudded closer. "It doesn’t feel nice, getting hit with a pot, now does it?"

"Ow," Asher mumbled in response. He finally succeeded in wiping and blinking the debris from his eyes, and as his vision cleared he looked up to see the madman less than a dozen paces away--much less, some part of his mind pointed out through the haze of fear and pain, given his longer stride--and drawing closer. His back met a wall, and he used it to push himself unsteadily to his feet.

"Bigsby was just doing his job," growled Bigsby, and Asher wasn’t sure which of them the giant was talking to as he stomped forward. "Just trying to make sure everybody follows the rules."

He lashed out with a wild swing on the last word, faster than Asher expected from a man his size, and Asher barely had time to dodge to one side. Bigsby’s massive fist rebounded off the thick clay wall of the building, and he let out an explosive snarl that Asher hoped was at least partly from pain. Asher took the momentary opening to slip out from between Bigsby and the building, ducking around the bigger man and jabbing a fist into his side as he went.

He might as well have punched the wall as well. He staggered back, grimacing, and nearly stumbled to the ground dodging a backhand swing from Bigsby. The giant finished turning, his face still stretched into that insane grin, an unnaturally deep giggle bubbling up from his massive frame.

"Stupid, scrawny little man," he rumbled to himself between chuckles. "Will his screams be scrawny too, Bigsby? Will he cry and beg while we snap his scrawny little bones? Yes, Bigsby. Yes, he will."

Asher stole a glance up and down the street, weighing his options. The smithy might have something he could use as a weapon, but he was obviously beyond outclassed in this fight. On the other hand, he could run, maybe lose the ungainly madman in the twists and turns of the streets--but even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw Bigsby’s head cock, as if listening, and the giant’s gaze shifted over his shoulder, and Asher realized with horror that he was staring hungrily into the darkness of the alley where his previous victim had crawled to hide.

In that moment, Asher knew that running wasn’t an option, not when he was the only thing standing between this monster and the terrified, helpless man in that alley.

"Damn it, man" Asher growled to himself, glancing over his shoulder at the door to the smithy, trying to gauge the distance. "Why couldn’t you get mugged by a normal--"

He realized, a split-second too late, that he shouldn’t have turned his back on Bigsby. He heard the gravel crunch as the giant shifted, and whipped his head back around just as a massive hand clamped down on his face. He let out a strangled, terrified scream as he was hauled bodily into the air, Bigsby’s thumb digging into the hinge of his jaw while his four enormous fingers squeezed from Asher’s left temple down to just under his chin. He twisted and writhed, kicking out frantically with his legs and clawing at the giant’s arm while Bigsby dangled him above the ground like an unruly puppy.

"Scrawny screams," he heard the madman breathe in a grating whisper, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. "How long will you scream, little man?"

Asher felt the muscles in the massive hand flex, and the pressure on his skull intensified. He screamed again, his voice muffled by the palm covering his mouth, and thrashed more desperately, twisting his head and scratching at his own face to try and budge Bigsby’s fingers.

Bigsby giggled again. "Silly man. Look at him, fighting so hard, so--"

The big man cut off abruptly with a startled yelp as Asher finally managed to get the top of his mouth free of Bigsby’s paw and promptly bit down into the meaty web between the giant’s thumb and fingers. It was like biting into a leather glove, but the pressure on his head lessened by a fraction, and Asher took the opportunity to shift his jaw and bite down even harder. This time, his teeth clicked together, he tasted blood, and Bigsby let out an animal shriek of rage and pain.

The next thing Asher knew he was hurtling through the air, flung by the flailing giant. There was a smashing, splintering impact, and everything went dark.

Asher lay on the ground for a long moment, stunned and disoriented but, incredibly, alive. His head was spinning, his ears were ringing, and it took him a moment to realize that the darkness wasn’t due to being struck suddenly blind, but because he was now indoors. He raised his head groggily, looking around, and found himself in the smithy. The wooden door lay in splinters, the doorway now a gaping hole through which the dim light of night filtered in.

Unfortunately, the dusty night air wasn’t the only thing wafting through the door.

"Kill you!" The madman’s roar rattled the tools hanging from the walls, hammers and tongs clinking as they shivered on their hooks. Bigsby continued howling, his words mashing together into incoherent strings as his thunderous voice drew closer. "No more playing, scrawny man! Rip scrawny man, Bigsby, tear his arms--his legs--push his fingers down his throat till he--"

The tirade continued, but Asher did his best to tune it out as he hauled himself blearily to his feet, looking around for a weapon. He tried to walk towards the wall, grasping desperately for one of the heavy hammers hung there, but his shaking legs refused to support his weight, and he tumbled back to the floor.

This is it, he thought, pushing himself feebly to a sitting position and leaning against a nearby table. This is how I die, sitting on the floor, unable to even stand up and defend myself. He felt burning tears in his eyes at the thought and, suddenly furious with himself, struggled once more to clamber to his feet. He seized the lip of the table and heaved, hauling himself to a standing position, then leaned against it heavily as stars spun before his eyes.

There, on the table in front of him, lay a plain bar of unworked metal, not much longer than his forearm and as thick as two fingers. As he moved to lay his hand on it, the dim light from the open doorway suddenly disappeared. He turned, the metal bar impossibly heavy in his already leaden arm, and saw Bigsby’s hulking silhouette hunched in the doorway.

"You want me?" Asher hissed, releasing the table to grip the bar with both hands, shifting his feet as his legs steadied beneath him. "Come on, then."

"Yes, scrawny man," Bigsby snarled, crouching further and turning slightly to one side to fit through the broken doorway. "Bigsby is coming. Bigsby is--"

The big man cut off abruptly as, for second time in less than ten minutes, someone smashed a clay pot over his broad shoulder. He jerked, scrambling to turn his bulk as the door frame creaked around him.

"That’s right, you great lump!" a voice cried from out in the street. "Turn that enormous arse around and get out here! Come on!"

For a bewildered moment, Asher wondered if the wounded man had somehow dragged himself into the fight. As the taunting continued, however, he realized that the voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"Hey, boy," the voice cried out again, and Asher felt a wave of relieved disbelief wash over him as he recognized Grem’s drunken slur. "Are you still alive in there?"

Asher heard another pot smash into Bigsby’s exposed back, and the giant roared in anger as Grem called out again. "Boy, if you’re alive in there, let me know I’m not making this thing mad for nothing!"

"Yes!" Asher called back, finding his voice at last. "Gods, Grem, what do you think you’re doing?"

"What does it look like I’m doing, you brainless twit!" Grem shouted back, and Asher heard a loud thump, followed by a fresh roar from Bigsby. "Now why don’t you damn well do something with the distraction I’m handing you!"

At that moment, Bigsby finally managed to wriggle backwards out of the doorway, stumbling around to face Grem in a crouch, his back to Asher as he howled in rage.

It was the opening Asher needed. He stepped forward, swung the iron bar back over his shoulder, then whipped it forward. This time, he didn’t miss. There was a thud of impact, followed immediately by a sickening loud crunch , and Bigsby’s leg folded inward. The giant toppled backwards through the doorway, his knee twisting even more viciously as he landed on his back with a breathless scream of pain.

Asher staggered back away from the fallen giant, his iron bar held high, ready to strike again. It wasn’t necessary. Bigsby writhed on the ground, groaning in pain and whimpering softly to himself. When he was certain Bigsby wasn’t about to heave himself up for another round, Asher sagged back against the table, the metal bar dropping from his suddenly limp fingers with a clatter.

He heard a whooping cheer go up outside, and he looked up to see Grem standing a few feet from the doorway, peering inside. "Whatever you just did there, boy--that was exactly what I was talking about!"

The shaggy-haired Makibari glanced down at Bigsby’s still-writhing form, then back up at Asher. "Meet you out back?"