The pens were made of tall, thick stakes driven into the ground. There were half a dozen of them, and they varied in size but were all fairly small — thirty to forty feet or so across. The largest one was used for the captured cultists. Three had been empty, but one of those now held the Sentinel-worshipping traitors. In each of the last two, four or five dozen changelings were packed in, not shoulder to shoulder but close enough that they couldn't swing their arms without hitting each other.

Not that personal space was a concern — the cultists had never given a damn about their victims, and in their pens they were entirely docile anyway. They stood, swaying slightly, or sat, or lay on the ground with not a care in the world. They wore whatever they'd been taken in: everyday clothes, pyjamas or other nightclothes, a suit here or there, and two kids in school uniforms. In this case their clothes were not nearly so torn or dirty as the other changelings Ana had seen, and with how few the changelings had been the last few days, these must be the last ones taken and changed, kept in reserve and never released.

Outside, an arrow in one of the stakes, and dark patches and drag marks on the ground, suggested that there had been an attempt by the cultists to open the pens. It had been stopped with extreme prejudice.

The changelings were disturbingly docile. They roused somewhat when Ana leaped up and raised her head above the edge to look inside, but they didn't do more than look her way and make some low, ominous noises, which quickly stopped once Ana dropped back down. Why was a mystery; the changelings had never tried to get into the settlement, but many of the less heavily fortified farms hadn't been so lucky. Did they know somehow if they had a reasonable chance of success, or had they been directed? Ana tried not to care either way, but made a mental note to ask Falk to add it to the list of questions for the prisoners.

While there was nothing to do about the changelings until the white obelisk had been dealt with and the experienced mages were no longer occupied, there was something related that she wanted to deal with before too many people got involved. Steering Messy toward the pens where the prisoners were being kept — because no way in hell was she letting her girlfriend get more than sixteen feet from her until she was absolutely sure that they were safe — she quickly scanned the bound cultists. She noted that Karti wasn't there, but there were plenty of good reasons for that: separating the leader from his minions, keeping the most valuable prisoner safe and isolated, and the intensive care he'd need after how brutally Ana had worked him over. It didn't matter. Ana wasn't interested in him, anyway; she'd selected a likely target.

The man she picked looked appropriately despondent, but not sullen. No, he looked just afraid enough that the threat of violence should be enough to get him to answer some simple questions, which was what she'd prefer. Not that she wouldn't go through with it, but she'd rather not. Not in front of Messy.

Most of the prisoners sat inside a larger version of the mana-draining ritual circle that had kept Saareng the Binder harmless. Among the mages watching over them Ana recognized Stera the Flamecaller, so Ana pointed to her quarry and asked her, "Hey, Stera! This one. Can I take him out of the circle?"

"Marshal Cole!" Stera replied, her eyes widening at being addressed. "Um, he's a mage, but if it's you, and you've got backup, sure? I guess?"

"Great," Ana said, hauling the protesting man to his feet by his collar. A short length of rope tied around his ankles ensured that he couldn't take any step longer than a foot. "I'll bring him back in a bit if he behaves."

"And if not?"

"Then he won't be your problem anymore."

"Oh. Oh!" she said, her eyes widening even further as she understood what Ana meant.

"I'll be back to let you know either way," Ana promised then pulled her prisoner to his feet. "Come along, asshole. Try to shape and I'll break your hands. Don't know if you need them, but the pain should stop you."

The way fear flared through his aura might have been because of her tone, but he looked like he understood. Which was good; Ana had been concerned he might not speak Inter-guild, and she'd rather not have to pick someone else or involve a translator.

"Is that really necessary?" Messy asked. "Breaking his hands, I mean. I'm sure he understands the situation he's in."

"You never know," Ana said. "Some people are stupid enough that they need things spelled out for them, and this guy joined a death cult. Hell, he might just be so dumb he needs a demonstration."

"No, I understand! I understand!" the cultist babbled. His Inter-guild was a little halting, and accented the same way Saareng's had been. Probably in Wanteul, Ana guessed.

"Great! That'll save us some time," Ana said, then led Messy and their prisoner away from the others and out of the pen. The guy followed along best he could, taking his short steps fast enough that Ana barely had to drag him. She'd brought them behind one of the empty pens. It wasn't nearly far enough away that no one could hear them if they raised their voices, but that wasn't necessary. All Ana wanted was for the prisoner to know that no one could see them. "So, all these victims of yours. Do you know where they come from?"

"No! No, I know nothing about that!" the man answered quickly, his aura and body language both thick with desperation to be believed. "I only helped move them around, and power the rituals! The Grand Summoner and his Summoners, they are the ones who know, if anyone."

"Alright, but the victims, they must have had stuff with them beside their clothes, right? Strange things you couldn't recognize? Where did you keep them?"

"The Grand Summoner's tent. Anything we found was brought straight to him or his assistants. It should all be there!"

"And did you ever try to figure out what any of it did?"

"No! No, but perhaps the Grand Summoner did? I only did as told, to further the great work!"

"You only helped turn innocent people into feral monsters," Ana said, and the man flinched at the look she gave him.

"Are you sure it all went there?" Messy asked suddenly. "That everyone brought anything they found to Karti? Strange, otherworldly artifacts must be worth a great deal."

The cultist flinched at Messy's use of Karti's name, but answered, "I cannot say for sure what has not happened, but I cannot imagine anyone so treacherous. I would have told the Grand Summoner if I had seen or heard such a thing."

"Loyal to the leader, but not to each other. Sounds about right," Ana said, and dragged the guy into motion again. "Show us Karti's tent. Then you can go back to your fellow idiots."

It was no surprise that Karti's tent was the biggest one, though with the number of simple chairs and benches it also seemed to double as a meeting hall. Part of the tent cloth had burned away — ashes covered the inside, and the tent was threatening to collapse — but the fire had either been put out or burned out on its own. Most likely the first, Ana thought, considering how the other tents had burned when set alight. She silently thanked whoever had done that for making this job easier.

The square tent was large enough to be divided into three sections; the "meeting hall" was the largest while Karti's quarters, with a ten feet long cot and two chests, was the smallest. The middle one was used for storage, and that was where they found the changelings' possessions.

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True to her word, Ana returned the prisoner to the others, with a simple, honest warning: if she found that he had told anyone what she'd asked of him, she would kill him. She didn't expect it to stay secret for long even if he didn't talk, but figured that as long as he kept his mouth shut, she'd have at least an hour.

The changelings' stuff was somewhat organized. Similar things went with similar things in a number of wooden boxes on the floor, while things that stood out lay by themselves on low, two-level shelves, either openly or in more, smaller boxes. Ana guessed that the boxes and shelves were both made locally, by how many there were.

"What is all this?" Messy asked, holding an empty, green soda can that had come out of the first box she opened.

"That right there is a container for mass produced drinks," Ana replied, going through a box of smartphones.

"What's it made of?" she said curiously, looking inside. "It looks like a leaf-thin, enamelled metal, but I can't imagine what kind of smith could produce something like this. The artwork is so crisp and bright! It must be very valu— Oh gods!" Messy squeezed it, jumping when it crinkled and bent. "Oh! Oh no, I ruined it!"

"Don't worry about it," Ana said quickly, struck by a sudden spike of fear that Messy's slowly brightening mood might darken again if she thought she'd done something wrong. "It's worthless. Idiots just throw them on the street instead of in the recycling, but it's basically trash. This—" she held up a budget model smartphone from the pile, "is worth several hundred of those things. Except that this is absolutely worthless here, too."

"Oh, okay," Messy said, carefully placing the dented can back in the box and moving on to a small notebook that lay on a shelf.

Ana relaxed again. She put away the phones and grabbed a lightly scratched, white, steel water bottle with a screwtop plug. It had a rainbow print on it that read "Bridgeclimb Sydney," and a sharp tap on the side suggested that it was double walled. She was keeping that, if no one claimed it. The top even had a wire loop!

One box held assorted jewelry, and Ana offered it to Messy. "Do you want any of this? I've got everything I need," she said, fingering one of her thunderstone earstuds. She hadn't had them out for more than a few minutes at a time since Messy gave them to her.

Messy smiled as she watched Ana, but said, "Oh, no, I couldn't. It's all stolen, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I doubt we'll ever match anything in that bag to its owner. But sure, you're right. That's not what I'm after, anyway." She went through the smaller boxes on the shelves quickly until she found what she was looking for. "Ah, here we go."

Among the changelings that died attacking the outpost had been a single man in what was unmistakably a police uniform. Not any uniform that Ana recognized; she'd guessed that the man had been Chinese. But with few exceptions, the presence of a policeman in uniform suggested that there should also be a gun, and if there was one, Ana wanted it.

Inside the box she'd just opened lay a semi-automatic pistol. The model was as unfamiliar as the man's uniform had been, but there it was. The safety was still on, and when she removed the magazine it was full.

Unfortunately, that didn't matter. The gun was beat to hell. The slide was dented and didn't move smoothly, and when she forced it no round chambered. The damn thing was basically trash. She might be able to just drop a round in — who cared if she damaged the extractor? — but she didn't know if this particular model had a magazine disconnect. She'd have to test that. She checked the chamber again. Then she aimed at a patch of sky visible through the burned tent cloth and pulled the trigger.

Nothing. The gun might as well have not been racked.

Ana picked up one of the two extra magazines and looked at them closely, hoping to be able to at least use the ammo, but they held rounds that were smaller than the 9mm Parabellum that her own gun used.

"Shit," Ana hissed.

"What's wrong?" Messy asked, "Is that another ghann?"

"It's garbage, is what it is," Ana muttered as she tucked the gun and the magazines away in her waistband. "I'd hoped to re-arm, but no such luck. Help me go through the rest, just in case."

They found all kinds of things, including a number of briefcases and purses, but no more guns. No more ammo. Lots of phones, lots of watches, lots of keys and wallets. Plenty of pocket mirrors and small make-up kits. Along with the broken gun and the accompanying ammo, Ana didn't hesitate to claim a solar-powered watch, a small bottle of pepper spray, a few candy bars, and every single pad, tampon, and pack of wet-wipes that she found. But there was nothing really game-changing.

At least her most important concern had been laid to rest. More ammo for her gun would have been great, as would a working weapon for the ammo she'd found, but she could make do without it. The important thing was that if Ana couldn't have a working firearm, no one else would either. No one would be shooting herself or Messy. As tough as she herself was, Ana doubted that she was shrug-off-a-bullet-to-the-head tough, and she may not be fast enough to get between Messy and someone with a gun before they fired.

Ana filled one of the larger purses with her loot. "Find anything you want to keep?" she asked, but Messy shook her head.

"Maybe after we've cured the changelings and they've had a chance to go through everything."

"Alright," Ana said, throwing the purse over her shoulder. The tan leather went surprisingly well with her armor. "Let's go help Touanne, huh?"

Ana half expected someone to run up and ask her to make some decision, or join the command group, but no one did. People looked her way; people nodded in greeting or respect. But no one made any kind of demands on her time, and Touanne and her assistants were only glad to have four more helping hands. Touanne's control of her aura had returned, along with her confidence, once they proved that the ritual to cure the void plague worked, but being near her was like standing next to a tightly compressed spring; if Ana could do something to take some of that edge off, she'd be happy to.

Off to the side were the more gravely wounded cultists, and that was where Touanne sent them. "Nobody has tried anything," the Healer told them, "and I hope that having you there will help keep it that way. Start by topping off their suppression circles, would you? We don't have enough mages here, but I know you've got strength to spare."

The way Ana saw it, the easiest way would have been to just give them enough healing potion to stabilize them and then let them heal the slow way. Handling a few dozen prisoners was going to be bad enough without them being at peak health. But Touanne was Touanne, and for her sake Ana and Messy helped keep the wounded cultists comfortable and in line as they waited for one of the Life-mages to get to them.

The most critical part of any healing was when the prisoner was removed from their mana-suppressing ritual circle. A quick or subtle mage might have been able to finish some Shaping or other as they were being tended to, and the Splinter had too few Life-mages to risk their wellbeing. For that, Ana went with the simplest solution, Touanne's protests be damned.

"Try anything more threatening than breathing," she told the first woman, who had a nasty gash right across her thigh, "and I crack your skull like a nut. Understood?" Then she slammed her hammer into the ground next to the cultist's head, so hard and fast that she didn't yelp and twitch until Ana was already raising it again.

"Understood?" Ana asked again, locking eyes with the woman, who froze for several seconds before nodding frantically and saying, "I get it! I get it, alright?"

"Good," Ana said then nodded to the Life-mage who was standing by, his eyes wide with horror. "Maro? She's all yours."

The cultist didn't have any accent that Ana could hear, she noted as Maro worked on the wound. Thinking back, she couldn't quite remember if the guy who'd summoned her and Nic or either of his two henchmen had any noticeable accents either, but she didn't think so. She herself hadn't gotten a word of Wanteul, but spoke Inter-guild so fluently that it had taken her a day to notice, while Jisha was the opposite.

She'd been thinking of the cultists as some kind of homogenous mass, but in hindsight that made no sense. Her own best guess was that anyone summoned learned the Summoner's native language, and there were at least two such languages. And the cultists were no less diverse than her own Bluesky Guild in race and appearance; they even had the same plurality of humans.

Basically, this wasn't some small local problem from some remote part of the world. At the very least, Karti and his group came from some melting pot, which generally meant a big city. Coupled with the Sentinel being one of the more popular deities…

This is bigger than just us, isn't it? Ana thought, directing the thought at the Wayfarer.

Almost certainly. The goddess answered almost immediately, her voice strong and clear. I'm reaching out to my faithful Ascenders to find if anyone has seen or heard anything. But Ascenders, faithful or not, are fickle at the best of times, and they still need to get to hallowed ground to speak with me. It may be some time.

So we'll have to see what we can get out of Karti and his cultists, Ana said with a heavy sigh that made Messy look at her with concern. Ana gestured to her head. "Wayfarer."

"Ah," Messy said. "Give her my gratitude? For showing us the way."

"Sure," Ana said, and passed it on.

Oh, I didn't do much, the Wayfarer said modestly. But back to the cult leader and his minions. Ana, you all cannot leave the Splinter for some time. Even if you were willing to sacrifice the Splitner itself to escape, it is still too unstable to transfer nearly as many people as are with you. You have time. And even if you didn't, are you a skilled interrogator? Do you know which questions to ask, or how to trick someone into revealing the truth?

No. I'm mostly good at scaring people.

So leave the interrogation to the others. Spend some time with your lover and your friends. You can't shirk a responsibility that is not yours in the first place. Then the goddess laughed, short and bright, and said, And if anyone questions you, say that it's the will of the Wayfarer. The goddess has commanded her Chosen to rest!

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