Water Street was hot. The giant wheels, set in a triple row, three abreast, one row every twenty feet, stretched on and on down the length of the broad thoroughfare. They creaked and echoed with metallic, pattering sounds as water from the buckets of one wheel fell onto the wheels beneath. Dalliance had to concentrate lest a horrible memory flash in his mind every time he thought too hard on them, but they were, if nothing else, a spectacle to see, ever-churning proof of the Empire's might and industry.

  The clang of trip hammers, the sounds of shaping from the forges, the whine of lathes, the turning of gears and hum of gear trains, the creaking of pulleys . . . it was all very magical, in a material sort of way. As long as he wasn’t thinking about getting into the water, Dalliance could say that he loved that about Water Street.

  The city of Galton rose like a cliffside in every direction. Behind, away from the Market Square, rose the Citadel itself, a half-mile bulk heaving itself ungracefully towards the heavens, glimmering with reinforcing steel and inset mageglass.

  The apartment blocks themselves towered at a miniature scale on either side of the street, the bottom stories dedicated to shops, manned by those who lived above. Up and up they stretched, twenty stories high, to end in rooftop gardens level to Fall Street and the Imperial Plaza above.

  But down here, the Market Plaza was near the great cistern that caught the constant deluge. This spill-off from the Imperial Lake was the inspiration for Fall Street's name: the man-made cataract plunged the twenty-story drop. Entirely illuminated by sunlight, the mist it spawned shimmered with rainbows, catching in the wind to blow down and cool the street below, although it was muggy from all the wet.

  Next to the cataract was the vertical transport: a great platform suspended by massive chains, hauled up and down by the very power of the water wheels. And below the streets, Dalliance knew, would run the spillover from all of it, into the engineering marvel that was the sewer system, which kept it smelling so clean.

  The smells! There was the smell of food from the densely spaced shops: cinnamon, chai, tomato, and celery; roasting chicken here and sausages there.

  Dalliance's hands were already heavy with sausages and buns slathered with a thick green chutney. Charity had opted for some sort of tomato-based pasta dish. Dalliance couldn’t understand how it was possible to eat something that messy while walking with a fork, but she did it, and looked, if not completely elegant, at least dignified and quite pleased with herself for her choice in food. It was disappearing at a precipitous pace.

  Effluvia had settled for a brown paper sack full of candied cherries, at Whimsy's suggestion, each of which was surrounded by a paper-thin layer of hard, transparent sugar. Every few minutes, he would hear the crack as she tossed one into her mouth, only for it to perish between her back teeth. He had happily accepted one, but no more were forthcoming once the noble girl had deigned to taste her street candy.

  And Earnest, for all that he had volunteered Dalliance to fund their expedition by dint of his mana pool being thirty-three thaums to Earnest's two, nevertheless had appeared to feel guilty at the prospect of actually purchasing something. In the end, he accepted a sausage and a bun but glared at the chutney with deep suspicion and hadn’t, as far as Dalliance had seen, actually consumed any yet.

  Whimsy walked as if a native, not a twitch betraying amazement as they passed magical sight after magical sight. Dalliance didn’t believe it for a second.

  The group settled along the rim of a fountain at the edge of the plaza. Though they were not sitting in a circle, it was quiet enough here, screened by a small stand of carefully shaped trees, to hear one another talk, provided one spoke with volume.

  "We all know why we’re here," said Effluvia. Morality simply nodded, her mouth too busy with the possibilities inherent in a small stack of pastries to offer comment. "We will all be swearing an oath," Effluvia continued, "to keep one another’s secrets. This is very serious." She stared at the only ten-year-old in attendance.

  Whimsy gave her a thumbs-up. She, too, was enjoying her pastries.

  "To that end, Charity will be leading a prayer."

  "Let’s just do it," said Earnest. "We didn’t have any ceremony last time—"

  "—and then we argued about whether or not we were a coven or council or what have you for the next month. I want to make sure that expectations are clear going in."

  Charity looked grumpy at the ongoing conversation, but ate and held her peace.

  Morality swallowed what was left of her humongous pastry. "We share secrets about our level, or love life, or whatever, and we don’t ever tell, or we die. I understand. Dad said this was a good idea."

  "That right there," said Effluvia, pointing, "is why we might as well be official. Because to those in authority in our lives, we already are. We may as well glean a benefit from it."

  Nearly everybody knew what Charity thought about that framing of things. Dalliance applied himself to his sausage, which was . . . very herbal, with a citrus finish that offset the sausage's fattiness, and yogurty. He was glad he hadn't bought two.

  "I think was perfectly wonderful to meet you," said Circe graciously, her work-hardened hand enfolding Whimsy's smaller, less calloused one. "We’ve talked a lot about what we want while we’re here," she said gesturing to her fellow classmates, "and what we’re doing. But what do you want?"

  Whimsy looked at her wonderingly. Charity took another dainty bite, hands to her mouth to hide a smirk at Effluvia's comeuppance.

  Morality took the floor, answering her own unasked question without waiting for Whimsy to speak.

  "I think," she said, "that we’ve got several rare classes, or those capable of attaining such. And I’ll never get this opportunity again, because outside of the Temple, I’m not going to find anyone who’s able to do the Rite of Firth. And if I did find some priest in training, he wouldn’t be the sort to associate with a scoundrel like Dalliance," Effie ducked her head to hide her own small smile, "or tell such interesting stories as Earnest. My father says to strike while the iron is hot. What that means is that if you wait past when you have an opportunity, it becomes harder and harder to take advantage of. So, since Dalliance lives on my land, I’m going to take advantage."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Earnest's eyes crinkled up merrily, but the girl continued, blissfully ignorant.

  "Next year," she said, "I think it’ll help me to know a healer, a theological student, a seer, and an aeromancer. I’d like to serve on the Wall with an aeromancer and a lightning mage, and if we position ourselves intelligently, there’s no reason we couldn’t become a package deal."

  "What about the scholarship?" asked Earnest. Someone had to.

  "I’ll be getting it in my year," she said, no hesitation. "In your year, I believe it’s going to be Effluvia, Sterling, and Circe."

  "I don’t need it," said Circe. "I’ve already asked to be withdrawn from consideration. Mom got me an 'in' at the Medica."

  "Then Effluvia, Charity, and Sterling," Morality corrected, "unless Woebegone makes a comeback, or Dalliance or Knot discovers a spine."

  Dalliance blinked at that.

  "But there’s no certainties," Morality said. "That sort of thing isn’t decided until the very end of the semester. I watch this happen every year, and I can help you study if you need to, to outmatch Sterling. See? There's a benefit for everybody."

  "Just for the record," Earnest said, "I've never doubted anybody's usefulness to the cause. Whatever that may be." He gestured at Whimsy: "Every party needs a mascot."

  Her little face soured.

  Grinning, Earnest took a bite of his green chutney sausage-in-a-bun. His face contorted.

  Dalliance suspected that this much lime zest was an acquired taste. The thought chained to another. "Are there any good apothecaries around here?"

  Effluvia didn’t even bother looking up, just pointed at the extremely obvious apothecary sign right across the plaza. Of course. He'd have to take a look. By the time he looked back to the group, they were holding out their hands expectantly.

  As before, they joined hands as Charity brandished her icon and began the invocation. The weight of a world beyond pinned them to their seats.

  Whimsy was crying by the time it had lifted.

  "I’m glad that’s done," said Earnest, "because I have something to get off my chest. I’m going to be a [Whore], and you guys are gonna send me all your friends. It's a foolproof plan, with this many contacts, just like Effie said."

  "Took the words right out of my mouth," Effluvia said, "except I was going to go for something dignified, or ironic, or anything except for that. Do we really need him?" she asked the group at large.

  "Hilarious."

  "What do you bring to the table?" Whimsy asked him.

  He rolled his eyes and produced his card deck. "Alright, young lady. Pick a card, any card."

  As the meeting wound down, the group discussed whether they actually had anything new to share, which they did: Effluvia had tiered up, becoming a [Voltaic Thaumaturge]. That hadn’t even been on the list, as far as Dalliance was aware. She confirmed it was a rare class.

  Earnest snickered. "I wouldn’t know anything about rare classes," he said, looking at Dalliance, who admitted he'd once had a rare class as well. Effluvia asked if he kept the [Scamp] skill. He said yes. Effluvia asked if she could know his new skill. He told her.

  It was a disaster.

  "You're supposed to get meta-magics for your skills, mages cast spells, why would you use a meta-magic skill slot for a single skill? You’ve locked yourself out of so much versatility."

  Her own [Shock-Lance] skill was a hereditary thing, and rare-tier besides, and had been perfected to [Voltaic Arc]. She would, she explained, probably still give it up for a suitable metamagic evolution—[Thaumic Link], if she could get it.

  Dalliance had probably ruined his build again. Apparently, meta-magic—skills that affected the magic you cast—was the widely accepted best use for skills. And he had gone and spent his skill point on a spell. That was it. There was no way back until the next tier. He had a spell, [Werewind], where his peers would have metamagic.

  As Effluvia described it, [Thaumic Link] allowed you to do things like Chain Lightning—her favorite potential use for her planned Tier-Up. This was just frustrating. She already qualified for [Voltaic Thaumaturgy], she said, but would continue to level up her Spirit until the last possible second. If she didn’t, she’d be forced to start from scratch with her new skills, with the exception of [Shock Lance], which she was going to perfect and turn into [Lightning].

  Everything she said, literally everything, felt like steel wool rubbed into Dalliance's wounds. She was going to have Mana. She was also going to have [Acuity to Mana]. She was also going to get to be a wizard. She even got to select her favorite type of wizard for her inherited legacy skill, and worse, she already knew the requirements and the benefits. She'd already been speaking with instructors at the Academy about her build.

  The anger that flooded him at this casual display of privilege almost covered the flat certainty of guilt that he couldn’t possibly allow her to compete for the slot. Unless… well. He found himself waffling. Circe had found another way. Earnest was out, and hadn't needed it besides. He did. Charity did. Effluvia did. Sterling didn’t. He was beginning to wonder whether Charity even did. But he couldn’t gamble her future like that. Woebegone and Knott didn’t even enter his calculations; he was even unaware of the fact that they had already been written off.

  “Did you know,” asked Morality presently, “that those in magic-heavy groups, such as ours…” She glanced up at Dalliance. “For this purpose, I will count you.”

  Effluvia scoffed. “He’s more magic than I am.”

  “I said that,” said Earnest. Dalliance didn’t think he had, but allowed it. It was possible.

  “Magic-heavy groups last longer,” Morality said. “Fewer casualties. Especially with a healer.” She looked at Circe. “Don’t go anywhere. I will be depending upon you.”

  Why are you in the Council?

  She had a blank cheque to anywhere. What was there to gain? Effluvia’s comradeship was presumably on the table, even if she'd stayed separate.

  Dalliance thought about the sight of the small girl pirouetting with a stick, flashing it out at eye and hip level in hooks, slashes, and prods.

  “What is your ambition?” he asked.

  All eyes turned to Dalliance. “I’ll go first,” he said. “I’m taking care of my sister.”

  Whimsy colored bashfully.

  The eyes turned to Morality.

  “I’m avenging my father,” she said.