One Last Job is a piece of fiction from 99 Whispers and Rumors to Hear in Archbliss, The City of The Sorcerers one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara.

The Cloudwatcher Inn was a handsome structure of wood and brick, standing three stories above narrow side streets. It was clean, quiet and like many of the other structures in the neighborhood of The Respite, it was welcomingly normal. Assuming, of course, one could overlook the flocks of pseudodragons nesting in the eaves, the fairy lanterns hanging on iron sconces and the floors that cleaned themselves when no one was looking.

For some, it was a luxury accommodation. For the City of The Sorcerers, it was downright austere.

The inn’s common room was filled with travelers of all shapes and sizes. Some huddled over bowls of soup, exhausted from their travel through either the air or the ether to reach the floating city. Others made notes in journals, or reviewed sheaves of papers as they prepared to handle whatever business had brought them to this fantastical place. Those who had been to the other parts of the city either sat and stared into the middle distance, overwhelmed by sheer magic of a city built by and for sorcerers, or they talked animatedly to their companions about the wonders they’d seen.

In all that, the outlander passed relatively unnoticed. A handsome young man with a well-worn pack on his back, and a heavy walking stick in his hand, his woolens were hard worn, and his boots were rundown at the heels. His eyes were sharp, though, and his voice pleasant as he stepped up to the front desk and gave a name to the attendant. It was a false name, but it slid smoothly off his tongue, and she handed him a key to a room on the third floor. He climbed the stairs with his head down and his stick resting on his shoulder, his ears listening for anyone who might be following him. When he reached the third floor, though, he was utterly alone.

The young man’s steps got lighter as he walked down the hall, barely making any sound until he stood before the door that matched his key. He knocked five times; one long, three shorts and a long again, before he slid the key into the hole, turned it, and opened the door. He stepped inside, and felt a blade press against the small of his back, and the pressure of a cocked crossbow leveled at his head.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jace said, holding his hands up. “I ran into some trouble acquiring the last puzzle piece.”

Renard grunted, lowering the crossbow and slowly easing the pressure off the string before laying it aside. Meran left her blades in place half a second longer before sheathing them on her hips. She stalked back to the table where she’d been going over her equipment, ensuring it was all in working order and ready for whatever came next.

“We were getting worried,” Renard said, taking a seat across from Meran and opening up the hard-backed case he’d packed. The smell of chemicals and essences wafted up from it, along with a few puffs of colored smoke.

“You were getting worried,” Gregor said, picking up his guitar again and strumming a few chords on it.

“I’m touched,” Jace said, shrugging out of his pack and cloak. He tossed his quarterstaff onto one of the two still-made beds, and gestured at the table. “Clear this space. We’re going to need it.”

“For what?” Renard asked.

“You get your questions answered faster when you just do what I ask, Renard,” Jace said, unbuckling the flap of his pack and throwing it open. He withdrew a folded over piece of leather, and as the alchemist and the thief removed their tools, Jace flung it out like a tablecloth. It settled into place, revealing a map burned onto one side of the skin. It was expansive, detailing dozens of floors, complete with numbered indicators that represented guards, traps, watch points and axis shifts where rapid responses could lead to a full facility lock down. Gregor’s face went pale, and his fingers stumbled over the strings as he stared at the map, and then at Jace.

“Tell me I’m not looking at what I think I’m looking at,” Gregor said, a note of quiet pleading in his voice.

“This is where we’re going,” Jace said. “The Vaults.”

Renard’s face paled, and he swallowed. He worried his lip, as if he were trying to chew over his thoughts. Meran frowned with her mouth and forehead alike, her eyes rapidly taking in the details of the map in front of her, and looking for the pattern that held it all together. Renard was shaking his head, though it was hard to tell if it was in denial, or in defeat.

“Jace… why are you doing this? Why are you asking us to do this?” Renard asked. “What could possibly be down there that’s worth risking everything for?”

“It’s Esperanza,” Gregor said. Renard’s head whipped toward the dark-haired man, but he was looking at Jace. “She’s down there, isn’t she Jace?”

“Of course she is,” Renard said, his mouth twitching. “This explains everything! It’s why you were so secretive. It’s why you told us not to bring anything enchanted. It’s why you brought him along-”

Jace turned, and looked at Renard. His face was a mask of calm, but as his eyes met the alchemist’s Renard shut his mouth so quickly that his teeth clacked together. There was a cold fire in Jace’s gaze that would have shaken even the most powerful sorcerer in the city to their very marrow if they’d stood in his way in that moment. Jace returned his gaze to the map, and then touched one, scarred finger to its surface.

“We enter here,” he said, before lifting his hand, and touching one of the hundreds of cells marked on the map. It was located four floors beneath the surface, behind a slew of listed wards and deadly hazards. He leaned over, and tapped the restricted cell with a scarred index finger. “And we need to get here. We have until tomorrow night to work out the route, and prepare any back-ups. After that, everything is going to shift, and this map won’t be worth a hot piss in the wind.”

“I’ll have them send up dinner,” Gregor said, standing and setting his instrument aside. “And maybe a pot of dark brew… this is going to take some time.”