The alley opened up in a rather desolate corner of the city's market district and out strode Farren and Linder. Down a flight of moss-covered, sun-cracked stone stairs, there stood what looked like a run-down apothecary, its rusty sign hanging askew.

"Know why it's so hard for an outsider to get to Silver Knife?" Farren looked up at him.

Had he known why, he wouldn't have cornered her outside of Silver Knife seven years ago. He simply could've strode through the main entrance-- only if he could find it. He never did.

"The place doesn't exist on the map," he said, "but only in rumours."

"Ah, I wish it were that mystical-- a place only existing in people's memories, some sort of mass hallucination," she said, taking long, carefree strides, "now that would've been rather grand. But I'll tell you the truth."

With a dramatic twirl of her skirt, Farren stepped around to face him, a dashing smile playing on her lips.

Linder knew this was vital information she was about to disclose, for which he'd once wandered fruitlessly down the streets and found nothing, that this was an answer to the illusion which had fooled him.

But he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else other than ...her. He had seen her in battle garb, armed with her axe and spiked helm adorning her head, not unlike a crown. Yet today, dressed in the plain, rustic attire of a peasant girl, she was strangely reminiscent of the people from the little village where he came from. A sudden homesickness clawed at his heart.

Hollow praise, she says. Does she not see what I do?

The bounce in her steps, unhindered by the weight of armour and weapons, the specks of gold caught in the deep brown of her eyes, wind ruffling her wild hair...Sweet Draedona, he regretted tricking her back in the alley.

"...and the entrances keep changing," she finished explaining.

"Huh?" Linder hadn't registered a word Farren had said. Get back to your senses, you fool. He needed to cover it up somehow. "Actually, I didn't get that part about the entrances changing. Mind repeating that?"

"Is that so?" Farren cocked her eyebrow, seeing right through him. A crooked smile tugged on her lips. "Then let me show you the practical demonstration instead. Theory seems to...bore you."

She led him down the stairs to the door of the apothecary. Before she could knock however, the door flew open on its creaky hinges and out came an aggravated customer, muttering rather colorful phrases about the shopkeeper.

"Whatever, I want my money back, that's all!" said the customer in response to something the shopkeeper yelled back, then shoved past the two of them.

Inside, the shop was completely different from its dilapidated exterior. A neatly arranged apothecary it was, fire crackling in the hearth in one corner, and a large painting of a raven occupying the wall on the left.

Across a counter laden with herbs and vials and potion bottles, sat a witch-- quite possibly the owner of the shop-- still shouting after the customer.

"Well, if my remedies are so bad, why not go to a Dark Saints healer and fix your headache, eh?" she yelled, "oh, I know! You ain't got coin for that!"

She was a woman in her twenties with dark, plaited hair, dressed in a black lace gown and a pointed hat atop her head. She was stunningly beautiful, and equally as angry-- if the loud thunk with which she placed a jar of dried herbs on the counter was any indication.

"She's guarding the entrance to Silver Knife," Farren said out of the corner of her mouth, "she is the one who'll let us pass."

Linder doubted they were entering today. Yet Farren was her usual self. She leaned low over the counter, fixing the witch with a hooded gaze.

"The hell you want, Clearstrike?"

"Oh, naught but a glimpse of the lovely brewer of these wonderful potions and poisons," she said, randomly picking up an emerald vial from a tray, "ah, yes. Beautifully lethal, like its creator."

Farren offered the witch her most charming smile, dimples blossoming deep on her cheeks.

Linder had a distinct feeling the witch lady was going to break that jar on Farren's head. He should steer her out of harm's way when there was still time--

But the witch smirked. "Not bad, huh? Better than your last attempt."

With a graceful swish of her trailing sleeves, she took the emerald vial from Farren's hands, and showed them the label pasted on it. "But next time you try sweet-talking someone, darling, try not to compare them to rat poison."

Linder snorted, and Farren threw him a glare, reddening like a ripe apple. So the smooth-talker does mess up sometimes.

"I assume you haven't come all this way to woo me," said the witch, now pacified, "what do you need? Be quick, I haven't got all morning."

Casting a quick glance out the window, Farren placed a handful of gold coins upon the counter. "We got some urgent business to take care of real quick. Here's the toll."

The coins vanished within a drawer behind the counter with a blink of an eye, and the witch nodded toward the painting of the raven. "Move fast."

She swung open the painting like a door, revealing a hidden passage behind it.

"And about that nasty customer," said Farren, "next time the fella comes to bother you, suggest wolfsbane wine. It'll ease all his headaches for...the rest of his life. Anything goes wrong-- blame it all on that one fortuneteller from Ebon street. That man's a scam."

"Thank you!" she said, "Quarleen's blessings upon you, lass."

Elbow propped against the counter, the witch threw her a wink and a polite nod to Linder.

Once the painting-door had shut behind them, Farren turned to him with a smirk. "Wonderful, isn't she?"

"Indeed." Linder sighed in annoyance, feeling something he didn't quite have the right to feel-- a twinge of jealousy. "Must you always use flirtations to have your way?"

"If I could always use flirtations, good sir, the world would have been at my feet," she said, "or... I could end up with a noose 'round my neck-- it's unpredictable."

"Because you're about as smooth as sandpaper," Linder muttered under his breath as he strode down the passage with her.

"Right." She chuckled. "Maybe that's why you've gotten so smooth lately--  you're so often in my company."

Linder shook his head, admitting defeat.

They were at the end of the passage and what he saw before him left him in awe.

The passage ended in what seemed like a portal to a depthless abyss. A dark tunnel stretched ahead, no trace of light in sight, no sign to ensure the tunnel opened up somewhere in the distance, or even turned a corner. An impenetrable wall of ink.

"What you see before you, is a wonder of Ancient Sorcery. In reality, this is but a mundane alleyway, turned into an abyss by... what's it called-- Space Manipulation," she said.

Linder stared hard, eyes straining to see something beyond the solid darkness and mind trying to recall all he'd learnt about sorcery from books he'd read. But books on Ancient Sorcery were rare. "How does this work?"

"I have no idea." Farren grinned, donning the wooden Quarleen mask. "And I ain't one to slog through books in a dust-caked office to work out theories-- no, I like to plunge right in!"

Small, warm hands closed around his wrist, and he found himself staggering through sorcerous darkness.

His boots struck cobblestones, free hand reaching out to gain purchase on a wall-- yet found none. Farren strode at his side with the ease of strolling down the hallways of her own house. His hand clasped tightly in hers, she took turns left and right and rounded corners as though in broad daylight.

And then he realized.

"So the trick is in the mask?" said Linder, blindly falling into step beside her, letting her lead him into the darkness, quite literally.

He heard Farren click her tongue. "You figured it out too fast, damnit. Thought I would keep you..."

"Don't you dare, Farren--"

"...in the dark some more."

Linder let out a groan as a ringing laugh echoed beside him.

"They say these masks hold the blessings of Quarleen, the Patroness of Thieves herself. Without one, even if you manage to find the enchanted alleys, you'll be left wandering in the dark...for days."

"How comforting," said Linder and clasped her hand tighter.

"Here, try it." Farren handed the mask to him. A faint scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon lingered in it. He slipped it on and looked through the lenses set in the eyes.

Linder hissed in a sharp breath.

The walls around him were of stone, etched with runes on all sides. In the sickly green light the strange symbols emitted, the alleyway was clearly visible, and so was Farren, who now clutched his arm like her life depended on it.

"Oh, however will I find my way now?" she said. Idiot.

"Why, your city guard in shining armour is here!" Great, I'm also an idiot.

On they went hand-in-hand, through the sorcery-induced darkness.

"No one knows the trick behind this one, you see. Not even the best mages of all Silver Knife square," said Farren as they scurried on. "All they can do is shift the whole abyss from one street to another, so the entrances keep changing. You wanna get inside, you stay up to date with the changes and contact the ones guarding the doorway."

After turning a corner, they found themselves facing a square of light a few steps away, through which the two now stepped out on a sunlit street.

In the distance was a dilapidated mansion, and its vast premises had been turned into the crowded market through which they now waded their way.

"It's said the Silver Knife Square was actually built on the property of a Royal Sorcerer," shouted Farren over the clamor-- which certainly was not the ideal ambience for storytelling. Yet she still continued. "Cazdon he was called. Dates far back before the Great War, this place. He was the one who built these dark, enchanted alleys. And the masks, too.”

Linder nodded. “A feat worthy of a great reward.”

“Alas, poor Cazdon received nothing of the sort. He was murdered by the Royal Guards.”

He looked at her in alarm. “The Royal Guards?”

“A grim tale, that one. Think I'll have to tell you that story some other time." Farren gave up trying to finish her story in the squalor of the bustling marketplace.

Remembering what they were actually here for, a surge of rather unprofessional disappointment washed over Linder. He would wander these streets with her all day if he could. Reluctantly, he let her hand slid off his.

"Ah, yes. Let's get the job done first."

Stalls with the strangest sorts of wares lined the narrow lane on either side.

In brightly colored tents were Velan merchants from the highlands of Wickhills who sold what appeared to be magical decorative items-- blue-flamed candles which never burned out, vases to keep flowers fresh all year long and mirrors which would show people exactly where they left the missing pair of their sock (Linder's was below his bed in Brittlerock).

In front of their tents hung enchanted wind-chimes that sang the ancient folklores of the land in bizarre, tinkling notes. Just beside them, there were dark, grim looking stalls with shelves of dried flowers and bundled herbs. One of them Linder stopped to look at had actual human skulls on display.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking," Farren said, "no, they usually don't kill people to collect those. Old graveyards have plenty."

"As if that's any better," he said, "what're they used for, anyway?"

"Many purposes-- fortune telling, dark sorcery, curses and whatnot. I'll tell you a fun one-- assassins of Byton have this one extravagant ritual for summoning them. Candles stuck on skulls. It's all eyewash, though. Countess says they turn up anyway, if the pay is good."

There were bookstores with shelves upon shelves of banned books and scrolls on dark sorcery and old books which were no longer published. 'How To Grow Your Own Portable Coffee Garden' attracted his attention, but there were more important businesses to take care of today.

Farren led him down a narrower alley now. As they neared the end of the lane came gusts of hot air, sounds of metal clanging against metal and embers flying in the sorcery-laden air.

It was no more than a small shack, with a forge set outside under a worn leather canopy stretched taut on high poles. A stocky, Velan young man with bright red hair tied in a knot above his head was busy hammering a red hot blade into shape.

Above the shack, a cold-hammered sign read:

'KILFORD SMITHY: QUALITY BLADES FOR A REASONABLE PRICE.'

"So here's where we'll get our fake dagger?" said Linder, doubt creeping into his voice as his eyes searched around the lackluster place.

"Aye. Kilford's actually a wizard, you see. Man's got Migdros, the God of Earth as his patron," Farren said quietly, "he can work metal like none other. Got in trouble once for forging counterfeit Velan silvers, but the Countess took him under her wing. Been working as a smith ever since, and damn does he love his job!"

Hearing them approach, Kilford looked up and greeted them with a bright smile.

"Busy day, eh?" said Farren.

"Got a huge order from a mercenary company," he said in broken Midaelian, nodding toward the racks of steel swords he'd previously forged. There had to be at least a hundred.

Linder picked one up. They were of amazing quality, light-weight and fine-edged.

"This many?" Farren stared in awe. "Why, I would have thought you got the order from the fabled Captain Walric and the battlemages!"

Kilford's expression was serious. “Been thinking the same, actually. For I received the order...indirectly. From an old lady who I'm pretty sure was a mage."

“Right.” Farren chuckled in disbelief, and slid the crystal dagger out its sheath. "Need an identical copy of this one. Help an old friend out, will you?"

"Don't usually do this stuff ever since that blunder but..." He trailed off, taking the dagger and examining it with squinted eyes. Then a look of surprise crossed his sweaty face. "Ah, a fascinating blade, this one. It's got sorcery in it."

Linder's hopes rose. "Can you figure it out? The sorcery?"

Kilford looked some more, then shook his head. "No, sir. No clue. Enchanting weapons ain't my forte. I just forge 'em."

"Can you make the copy fast?" Farren asked.

Kilford grinned. "Depends on the coin."

Farren reached into her satchel and placed a burlap bag of coins in his hands. "A hundred. That enough?"

"Hm, I've got a pretty big order to work on now, let's see." He held up three fingers. "Three days."

"Make it one," she said, pulling off her left boot and jingling out Velan silvers.

"Two, that's it."

By the Gods, this'll take all day.

"Allow me." Linder cleared his throat. Taking out a stack of gold coins, he slid them across Kilford's work-bench. "We need it now. Lives are at stake."

Kilford stood dumbfounded for a moment, gawking at the money, then darted for the shack.

Linder and Farren exchanged glances.

But then Kilford rushed back, with two chunks of what looked like ore.

"White volcanic glass for the shaft," he said, "and malachite for the veins. Captain Walric can wait!"

And with that, he got to work. With the real dagger on one side of his workbench for reference, he began to fashion from the malachite fine, green veins. With measured blows from a miniscule hammer, the ore began to come apart in perfect, identical patterns. Earth magic sizzled in the hot air.

"He can fashion a sword from naught but sand, if he puts his mind to it," muttered Farren, watching him work his wonders. Then she appeared to remember something urgent. "Sarge!"

"Mhm?" Linder couldn't take his eyes off from the fake dagger Kilford was making with only the help of raw ore and a hammer.

"Picked up some juicy gossip I think you'll like. Long story short, Alfred Henris is a traitor piece of scum, you were right about Dion, so he's mad and you're going to die."

"Finally," he said as both relief and trepidation washed over him. "Now tell me the long story, Corporal."

By the time she finished, Kilford was done with the dagger too. A new kind of worry now gripped Linder's already sleep-deprived mind. This Captain Reylan is trouble.

When Kilford handed them the fake dagger at last, the only thing telling it apart from the original was its weight. The fake one was heavier.

Farren finally asked the question she seemed to have been eager to ask: "Why pray tell, do you need a fake dagger, Sarge?"

He smiled, turning the weapon over in his hands.

"Bait," he said at last, the green glow of the veins glimmering in his eyes. "For a very nasty fish."