Paradigm Clutch

Prologue

 

“Look at all this!” Haydn Feber exclaimed in a quiet hiss.

“Told you,” answered his brother Kres. “New Lord’s aiming to set quite a spread.”

“Aye,” Haydn acknowledged cynically. “And by the end of the day, most of it’ll wind up in the garbage.” He hefted a well-fleshed haunch of cured meat, tightly wrapped in paper and burlap. “Ladies forbid any scraps should fall into the hands of the rabble.”

Both men wore identical suits of black hide, embossed runes lining arms, legs, and torsos. The suits left only their heads bare, exposing identical shocks of blond hair crowning faces of pleasant if unremarkable character. The brothers illustrated the contrast between muscle and intellect. Where Kres was slender and long-limbed, muscles born from a lifetime of labor bulged and rolled along Haydn’s back, arms, and legs. Large sacks, each flaccid in emptiness, hung between their shoulders.

Kres grinned as he shrugged out of the straps of his backpack. “Ladies forbid,” he echoed, setting the pack on the floor and making sure its mouth yawned wide. “Shall we, brother rabble?”

“Let’s,” answered Haydn, setting his own pack down.

Both of them moved through the narrow aisles of the warehouse, picking and choosing from the stores of food and drink. Their manner was efficient and familiar, evidence of how often they’d ransacked the warehouse previously.

“Wow,” said Kres, lifting a bottle from its nesting. “A neverending bottle!” The vessel was as tall as his own torso, and as thick around as one thigh. He carefully worked the stopper.

“That’s a lord’s ransom, right there,” Haydn acknowledged. “Kres, we don’t have time for a party!”

“Just a sip,” Kres reassured his brother. He sniffed at the large bottle’s open neck, and smiled. “House Shad single-malt.” Lifting the bottle, he took a small mouthful. He let the liquid set on his palate a few moments before swallowing, a euphoric smile on his face. “Smooth.” He offered the bottle to Haydn.

“Shouldn’t,” Haydn temporized.

“Come on,” Kres encouraged him. “The bottle’s staying here, but they’ll literally never miss a few mouthsful.”

Haydn acknowledged the argument with a nod and an arch of his eyebrows, accepted the bottle from Kres, and took a sip. “Hooo!” he exhaled explosively. “Nice to know even the Shad Curse couldn’t spoil their brew!”

A mischievous grin stole over his face. From his back pocket he drew a metal flask. “Hold this,” he told Kres, handing the neverending bottle back to him. Then he cast about on the warehouse floor.

“What are you doing?” Kres demanded. “We don’t have time for this!”

“Relax,” Haydn reassured him. “The House Guard gave up doing their duty years ago.”

“New Lord, new Guard,” Kres reminded him. “And the curse’s been broken. Even if they’re careless, no reason we should be!”

Haydn found the object of his search: a drain grate in the floor. He crouched and opened the flask, dumping the contents through the holes in the metal plate. “Oh,” he returned. “Is that why we’re sampling House Shad’s finest brew? So we don’t get careless? Give me that bottle, and finish up. This won’t take but a moment.”

Kres accepted his brother’s rebuke with mild grace, and returned to his prior task. He hefted a vine of aromatic tubers, surveyed them with a chef’s critical eye, and topped off his sack with them.

Haydn tipped the bottle carefully, allowing a slender trickle of amber fluid to flow into the narrow mouth of his flask. When it was full, he re-stoppered both vessels, thrust the flask into his hip pocket, and returned the neverending bottle to its nested crate.

“Time to go,” Kres declared. Both brothers hefted their bulging sacks, and turned toward the rear of the warehouse. Haydn pressed down hard on one of the floor stones near the wall. The stone sank slightly, stopping with a soft ka-chunk. The sound repeated itself several times, as a rectangular section of floor collapsed into a short flight of steps.

“I’d wager none of them even know these siege tunnels are still here,” Kres murmured.

The front door of the building suddenly swung open. A slender figure stood, haloed by the lights from the Greathouse. “Who’s there?” a feminine soprano voice demanded. “Qamil!”

In response to the single-word charm, the crystal rods set into the ceiling of the warehouse flared with light. Haydn and Kres were dazzled by the sudden brightness, and slowed their pace while their vision adjusted. Haydn misjudged a corner, bounced one hip off a stack of crates, and sprawled to the floor.

Kres dropped his sack and sprinted across the warehouse to the Terine. She was obviously caught as off-guard by his charge, as they had been by the lights turning on. In a moment he had one hand over her mouth, and pinned her arms behind her with the other.

“Sa-kare donuma’ku,” Kres murmured. The literal translation of the charm was, “The gift of the vine overcomes you.”

The Terine’s eyes bulged, then rolled back under lids suddenly as heavy as stone. Her head lolled, and she slumped in Kres’ arms. She wasn’t unconscious, but neither was she in any shape to raise an alarm.

Kres gently lowered the dark-skinned female to the floor, propping her against stacked sacks of produce. “Get the bottle!” he commanded, as he stood and pulled the door shut. “Temota!” he hissed, and the lights shut off.

Haydn gathered himself from the floor, grabbed the neverending bottle once more as he crossed the warehouse. “Never thought you’d find a use for that silly cantrip,” he murmured, grinning.

“No knowledge is ever useless,” Kress retorted mildly. He took the bottle from Haydn and unstoppered it. Pouring a small puddle into the palm of his hand, he let it drip onto the Terine’s mouth and chin. Some drops dribbled further onto her bodice. Then he carefully laid the bottle next to her, and for good measure wrapped her arm around it.

“She’s no guard,” Haydn noted, surveying the simple dress she wore.

“A servant, I’d wager,” Kres returned. “Perhaps she couldn’t sleep, and went for a walk.”

“Her misfortune,” Haydn declared.

Both brothers surveyed the scene critically. Then Haydn snapped his fingers and stepped forward. He pulled some of the Terine’s ebon locks loose from her immaculate coiffure, letting them fall forward across her face. She murmured something unintelligible at him, then trailed off into a snore.

“Now she looks as though she’s enjoyed herself,” Haydn murmured in approval. “Let’s go.”

 

Dead Should Be Dead

 

Nicholas Chandler stared incredulously at the apparition. The animal had been quite large in life, with the low-slung, rotund torso of an ungulate. A long neck rose from its shoulders, ending in a small, triangular skull crowned with forward-curving horns.

Though the flesh had rotted away long ago, dried tendons and scraps of fur still clung to its bones. It lumbered along the rim of a deep gorge, intent on some errand to which only it was privy.

One foot landed too close to the edge of the crevasse, and the soil crumbled in a small avalanche. The skeleton’s jaws opened in a silent cry as it toppled out of sight, the clatter and crunch of bones heralding its final destruction.

“How is that possible?” Nicholas asked.

“Sometimes,” Zerene Chandler explained to her brother, “if death comes too quickly, or with too strong an emotion – rage, terror, what have you – a bond can remain between body and soul. Not enough to keep it alive, but to keep the soul from moving on. Essentially, the poor beast doesn’t realize it’s dead.”

Nathan St. John lowered the camera which he’d held before his face. “This vile place breeds revenants,” he added, green eyes hard with revulsion. “It’s not only contaminated physically. The whole region is choked with the twisted results of untested high craft, and the spiritual energy of thousands of creatures all dying simultaneously. Small wonder that after so many generations, it’s still deadly.”

Nicholas shook his head, dark eyebrows and moustache describing grim parallel lines on his face. “That shouldn’t happen,” he grumbled.

“Magic makes its own rules,” Zerene told him.

“I understand that,” Nicholas replied. “But dead should be dead. Being stuck halfway….” He shook his head.

“On that, we are agreed,” Nathan contributed.

Zerene glanced at the camera, then glared at Nathan. Were you taking a picture of Nicholas? she demanded.

Nathan grinned. Preserving the moment, he replied. It’s rare to see him so nonplused.

Zerene found herself grinning in response, and felt a warmth spread inside. That smile…. No. I’m Kandaler, he’s Arasidhe. When this is done, he’ll go back Earthside and I’ll stay here. And falling for my brother’s aiv’shien? Just too done!

Still…

No!

Nathan was similarly tormented. Everything about her, he thought, unable to resist studying her. Tall and lean, her proportions were alluringly aerin-like. Blood-colored hair fell in a torrential ponytail to her knees, its color in exotic contrast to her dark, ruddy skin. Eyes like molten bronze gleamed in a face which combined resolve and intelligence, with a spicy touch of mischief. But Shenn is her home, and as soon as Nicholas’ errand here is done, back to Earth we’ll go. I should not even be on this side of the Veil, in any event! And lest we forget the reason for my exile – she already has little love for my House. How much more, were she to learn that I’m no longer even aerin? That I’m but the reverse-image of the most reviled plague this world knows?

“Here it comes,” Nicholas declared. His matter-of-fact tone demonstrated his obliviousness to the turmoil churning between his sister and soul-brother. To do him credit, this was due less to any failing on his part, than to the strength of the mental shields that both Zerene and Nathan maintained around their private thoughts. Psychic bonds of twin-birth and spirit-sharing notwithstanding, it took little additional effort for both of them to conceal their demons from him.

Especially when he was distracted with a self-appointed mission to heal Shenn.

A shrill whine accompanied the drone’s appearance through the heat-shimmer that hung over the Blasted Lands. A triangular chassis of lightweight molyceramic housed a high-speed fan, cameras, and sampling tools. The drone could be operated from remote, or be programmed to carry out a complex series of tasks. Best of all for Nicholas’ purposes, it was a machine, with no flesh to infect or mind to madden.

The drone lit on the roof of the large maroon transport parked nearby, and smoothly sank from view. “That’s it,” Nicholas stated. “We’re done for now.” He turned and headed toward the transport’s main door.

Zerene hurried after him, determined to reach the entrance before Nathan. The last thing I need is to give him an excuse to hold it open for me!

Nathan also turned, and was mesmerized by the sight of Zerene trotting after Nicholas. The flex and stretch of buttocks and legs imprinted on his thoughts, where they remained with him for days afterward. Poetry, he thought.

Zerene was still caught by the transport’s logic-defying interior. The foyer alone should have taken up a full quarter of the available space, judging by the vehicle’s exterior dimensions. There should not have been room for the spacious, oak-paneled salon beyond the frosted interior doors. And there should definitely not be room for an overgrown pony! Zerene thought with a grin.

In the salon sat Bolt, happily pulling on a keg-sized tankard of stout ale. The massive Tantareli centaur came up for air and asked, “So, all done? Ye got what ye came fer?” At Nicholas’ nod he said, “Good. Sooner we’re quit of this place, happier I’ll be.”

“Amen,” Nicholas agreed. “Morphy, best course to Embron.”

“Of course, Nicholas,” the transport’s smooth tenor voice said from its usual indiscernible location.

“I’ll be in the lab,” Nicholas informed the salon at large, already walking toward the spiral staircase which led downstairs.

Etti, Zerene called to him mentally, using the childhood diminutive of his middle name. Concern flavored her thoughts. Sure you’re all right?

Nicholas stopped at the top of the stairs, turned and favored her with an easy smile. Physically, I’m fine, he assured her in the same manner. Morphy’s facilities and my own abilities have fixed the damage, and diagnostics confirmed that you burned the Blasted Lands’ infection from me. For the rest… He shrugged. I’ve been close to death before. I’m not afraid of it, but I’m doing my best to avoid being blase. Don’t worry, Zed. My focus right now is to make sure the Blasted Lands don’t get a chance to kill anybody else. With that, he turned and quick-stepped down the stairs.

Zerene realized that Nicholas’ departure had deprived her of an accustomed buffer between Nathan and herself. She knew Nicholas would spend hours sequestered down there, reviewing and analyzing the data which the drone had brought back from the Blasted Lands. Just like when we were kids, she mused. He’d bury his nose in a book, and Momma would have to physically take it away from him to get him to wash up and come to dinner.

She couldn’t fault Nicholas his current obsession. The Blasted Lands were the largest remnant of Shenn’s only world war, several thousand square miles of dead, toxic, cursed terrain. Everything living avoided the region, with good reason – even the slightest contact with the lands promised a slow death of infection, decay, and madness. Less than two days ago, a random encounter with an infected predator had nearly killed Nicholas. Zerene couldn’t repress a shudder as she reflected again how near she’d come to losing her brother. Again, she added.

But he was now safely ensconced in his lab, and she had only Bolt between herself and the disquieting Nathan St. John. Fortunately, a giant Tantareli can be an obstacle of some consequence, and not just for his size. Zerene retrieved a large brush from Bolt’s packs, climbed atop his rear torso, and set about currying his thick mane of blonde hair. Though Bolt was perfectly able to look after his own hygiene, letting his partner groom him was a favorite pastime for both of them.

Nathan found himself at ends. He was accustomed to hours of solitude whenever Nicholas was busy with a project, and was well able to amuse himself. Entertaining guests was a task he normally attacked with skill and enthusiasm. This time, the guests seem intent on entertaining themselves. It seems rude to simply leave them, but equally so to intrude. And too, because it’s she! He cursed inwardly. I feel so damned awkward, like a boy at his first court!

Outwardly, he maintained a much cooler demeanor. “Morphy can see to your needs, should you have any,” he announced. “I’ll be forward, in the observation cabin.” With a small bow, he gracefully escaped through a door at one end of the salon.

“Bet ye thought he’d never leave, eh?” Bolt asked.

“What?” Zerene asked in turn. Her hand with the brush paused, mid-stroke.

“St. John,” Bolt replied. “Haven’t seen ye ignore someone that hard since Jonnal Shad first caught yer eye.”

Zerene set the brush down, and sat on Bolt’s barrel. “It’s… different,” she explained quietly. “Jonnal and I never really had a chance. We had a common interest in the quest, but it also kept us from getting as close as we might have. Also, his lifelong love for Melia Shayl was always in the back of his mind.”

“Aye, and it din’t escape me, how much ye and Melia resemble each other,” Bolt noted. “That is, before ye got yer new do.”

Zerene nodded. “That may have been part of it, too.” She paused, and took a breath. “But with Nathan… it’s everything about him. The color of his hair, his eyes, his height, shoulders, the sound of his voice, his smile….” She trailed off suddenly, realizing she was getting caught in introspection.

“Ye best stop,” Bolt quipped, “else I’ll fall for him, meself! All jest aside, Spoons, yer not one to have yer head turned so easily by a pretty set of eyes and flashing teeth. What’s so differ’nt about this’n?”

Zerene shook her head. “That’s what’s fraying my nerves. When I said ‘everything,’ I meant it. It’s not just his looks and manner. I feel… comfortable around him, relaxed. And I shouldn’t!” Her hands balled into fists. “We’ve only just been introduced a few days ago, but I feel like –“

Suddenly her eyes widened in shocked realization. “Like I’ve known him for ten years,” she breathed. “Nicholas. Sunnovabich.”

“Yer twin bond,” Bolt realized aloud. “Ye know him so well ‘cause Nicholas does!”

Zerene slithered nimbly from behind Bolt, sliding down his fore torso and depositing herself between his forelegs. She pillowed her head on the knee of one, while hooking her legs over the other. The resulting position was, as she called it, her favorite grumping spot.

“And before you get any ideas,” she said aloud, to the universe at large, “I am not going to wonder how my life can get any more complicated!”

 

 

“I was not drunk!” Nacci Agat protested.

Three pairs of eyes regarded her with varying mixtures of sympathy and skepticism. House Guard Captain Orim Dio’s gaze was unforgiving. “No?” she retorted. “Then your slurred speech and inability to walk straight when we found you, that was just the result of a deep sleep?”

Nacci threw up her hands in frustration as she strove to clarify her case. “I mean, aye I was drunk, but it wasn’t my fault! Those thieves did something to me!”

Lord Jonnal Shad looked as though he’d prefer to believe her, but was conflicted by the evidence. He leaned back in his chair, one hand thoughtfully smoothing the tuft of whiskers on his chin. That goatee shared its fiery hue with the long locks of hair which framed Lord Jonnal’s angular face before falling around his shoulders and back. His azure eyes aimed his question at Captain Dio. “What do your scries show?”

Orim’s confidence was unflinching. “There is no sign of anybody else in the warehouse.” She nodded at Nacci. “She has a trace of craft about her, but it could easily be from the bottle.”

“What about the door wards?” Jonnal asked.

Orim scowled. “We have none,” she grumbled. “One more thing in need of repair.”

“Have you performed an inventory of the stores?” Lady Melia Shayl asked. Nacci took solace in the absolute absence of doubt or accusation in her Lady’s voice. Taller than the servant (as was nearly every adult aerin she’d ever known!), Lady Melia wore intellect and confidence like a perfume. It exuded from the pores of her smooth dusky skin, lived between the waves of her hair, and added a teacher’s expectation to get the answer right the first time to her emerald gaze.

“Being done as we speak,” Orim told her. “But Milady, if there were thieves, why would they have left a neverending bottle? That alone is worth nearly as much as the rest of the stocks, combined!”

“And its absence would be immediately noticed,” Melia riposted. “It was worth more to them as a diversion, to further blind us to their pilferage.”

Orim tacitly conceded Melia’s point, but moved on to another. “None of the guards saw or heard anything at any of the compound gates,” she informed them. “The hounds found no trail leading to or from the warehouse, save hers. And there was no trace of portal craft in the warehouse.” Her manner softened slightly. “Milady’s loyalty to your servant speaks well of you. But the facts –“

”Are inconclusive,” Melia shot back. “As you say Captain, Nacci is my servant. She is also my direct cousin. I’ve known her since we were children. She enjoys strong drink as much as any. But she would not steal down to the warehouse in the middle of the night, to souse herself like a common drunkard!”

Orim inclined her head at Melia’s outburst. “Your pardon, Milady. But your relation to Miss Agat is the very reason we are here. Were it not for that, I would not have troubled you with such a minor incident, on the eve of Milord’s ascension.”

Jonnal stood up. “Your discretion is applauded, Captain. Since you have brought this matter to our attention, I can do no less than give it proper due. Let’s have a look at the warehouse.”

Orim stiffened and looked for a moment as though she might protest. As she’d reminded Lady Melia, it was within her discretion to bother them with something as unimportant as a simple case of misconduct by a servant. Much too much is being made of this, she told herself. Especially on a day when Milord’s and Milady’s minds should be on more important matters! And what does he think he might find, that has escaped us?

She knew that part of her urge to protest Lord Jonnal’s further involvement was born of professional pride. Milord Most High himself appointed me this post, and granted me in turn the power to choose my own staff.

But this is Lord Jonnal Shad! She reminded herself. Not only my Lord, and soon to be His Lordship of House Shad’s sole remaining city, but the Shad son who devoted two years of his life away from all the comforts of home, searching for – and finding! – the key to our House’s salvation! Even if he finds nothing, I can hardly deny his wish to see for himself.

“Of course, Milord,” she said aloud.

Jonnal led the procession from his office. “Come, cousin,” he said to Nacci. “Let’s see how your assailants escaped.”

Nacci blinked, caught off-guard by the warmth of Jonnal’s invitation. He even called me cousin!

Jonnal maintained a nonchalant veneer as the quartet crossed the compound of Embron Greathouse, to the warehouse which stocked perishables and provisions for its residents. Beneath his insouciance, he roiled. Curse or not, we should have never allowed ourselves to sink so low! At every turn, the morning light betrayed cracks in masonry, dull spots on varnished wood, corners worn round where they should have been sharp. I offered my lordship to Embron on impulse. Have I cut deeper than I can stanch?

Other members of the Embron Greathouse Guard met them at the warehouse doors. “Captain, Milord and Lady!” cried one guardman, snapping erect at their approach.

Orim Dio cut to the chase. “Losses?”

“Minor, Captain,” assured the guard.

“Exits?” she demanded.

“Covered, Captain.”

“His Lordship is to be afforded every assistance,” Orim directed.

“Be at ease, Guard,” Jonnal advised with a wave of a hand. He wished Orim had called the guard by name. Addressing him by title was more formal than he wished to be, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to learn all the new names. “So, there has been pilferage.”

“Aye, Milord,” replied the guard, handing over a tablet with handwritten figures on it. “Nothing that can’t be accounted for through oversight and normal household losses, though.”

“‘Normal household losses?’” Melia echoed, arms indignantly akimbo. “Exactly how much thievery is accepted in this Greathouse, Guard?”

The guard swallowed nervously. “Your pardon, Milady. “With all due respect, it happens.”

“Not any more!” Melia retorted. “Not in my house!”

Jonnal perused the tablet, then turned to Nacci. “Where were the intruders when you discovered them, Nacci?”

The petite Terine pointed without hesitation at a point across the cavernous building. “There.”

Jonnal threaded between the neat piles and stacks of foodstuffs. He stepped slowly next to the wall where Nacci had pointed, scrutinizing the closely-fitted stones in the floor. “Are you a student of history, Captain?” he asked.

“As much as any, Milord,” Orim replied.

“I developed an interest in it during the phoenix quest,” Jonnal explained. “Embron is one of the oldest cities on Shenn. House Fehr built it during the first generations of the High Kin, and called it Tyvis. It became one of Lord Most High Arianus’ major strongholds during the Steel War, and was the last Ferin city to fall at the war’s end.”

“The Siege of Tyvis!” Melia realized, recalling her own studies.

Orim slapped a hand to her forehead. “Siege tunnels!”

Jonnal pressed down on an irregular-shaped stone whose color was just a shade off the other slabs in the floor. As in response to Haydn Feber the night before, a row of slabs sank, forming a staircase.

“Marvelous engineering,” Jonnal noted, watching the smoothness with which the entrance opened. “His Lordship Most High always insisted on the finest workmanship. Except for our thieves, these stairs haven’t been used in generations, and probably not serviced in as long. Yet they still open and shut in fine order.”

Orim knelt, looking down into the passage. “No lights,” she commented. Louder she called, “Qamil!” She frowned when the shadows did not abate. “Did they not have proper lights in that day?”

“They may respond to a different charm,” Melia theorized. “Or they were disabled. They may have even worn out.”

Jonnal descended halfway down the steps, then crouched and peered into the darkness.

“Milord!” Orim cried in a rebuking tone. “I cannot allow you down there!”

“Be at ease, Captain,” Jonnal reassured her. “If these passages are safe enough for our thieves to use as a regular route, as I suspect they have for some time, there’s little risk to a casual foray.”

“Even so, I respectfully remind Milord that your Ascension is set for this afternoon,” Orim persisted. “It would not do for Milord to suffer a fall, perhaps, or some other mishap. Such risks are the office of the Guard.”

Jonnal was tempted to defy Orim Dio’s argument, though he knew she spoke sensibly. Despite his calming words, the risk of what might lie within Embron’s long-neglected siege tunnels called to him. Two years’ adventure undid a lifetime of courtly lethargy. Now I chew my leash at the least hint of peril. How can I ask others to confront danger while I stand by?

He knew the answer. It was the same reality that every ruling noble faced. Their burden is to challenge our enemies with armor, blade, and spell. Mine is to send them to their death, when all the courtly battles of false smiles and half-truths have failed to keep the peace. They risk life and limb, while I chance the honor and prestige of my House.

I will not always stand so idly by, though, he promised himself. I will not return to the soft, arrogant, what was the term Zerene used… waste of space that I was once!

Satisfied with that oath, he stepped back up onto the warehouse floor, and gestured toward the tunnel entrance. “At your command, Captain.”

Orim nodded and smiled at Jonnal. “Thank you, Milord.” She stepped forward and plucked a torch from her belt. “Dren!” she called to one of the guards. “At my back!”

“Yes, Captain!” the Guard replied, jogging over and drawing his own torch.

“A thorough mapping of the tunnels can wait,” Orim told Jonnal, Melia, and Nacci. “For now, we’ll just check for any obvious traces the thieves might have left.” With that, she led the way down the stairs, Guard Dren Usmas close behind. The uncapped crystal shafts of their torches shone with clear white light.

At the base of the steps Orim paused, and scrutinized one wall. “Runes,” she commented. “Recently scribed.”

“Let me see,” Melia replied, starting down the steps after them.

“Milady must stay!” Orim commanded. “Your pardon, Milady. But if Milord must respect the obligations of his station, so must you.”

Melia sighed impatiently. “Very well!” she conceded with ill grace. “Then show me how they look, at the least.”

Orim moved a few steps into the passage. “They repeat at intervals,” she commented. “Their appearance is so, Milady.”

Melia felt the Captain’s mind reaching to hers, and relaxed her outermost shields to allow contact. An image filled her mind’s eye, of the section of wall which Orim was currently facing. Three runes were meticulously painted onto the stone, at head-high, waist, and ankle. She mentally traced the lines and curves of each sigil. An icy current slid down her spine. Ladies!

“Captain, come back!” she shouted, voice rising in fear.

Orim turned toward the entrance, but did not move. “What is it, Milady?”

“Come back, at once!” Melia insisted. “Those are reactive runes!”

“Captain!” Jonnal added. “Return at once!”

Orim and Dren were already on their way. It was not their place to question their Lord’s and Lady’s orders. The urgency in Jonnal’s and Melia’s voices left no doubt that the command to return was neither an idle whim nor an overreaction.

The apparition coalesced from nothing, standing at the base of the stairs. It shifted in and out of focus, like smoke stirred by a breeze. For a moment it was in sharp relief: a tall, silver-haired aerin, dressed in a uniform whose like hadn’t been worn on Shenn in millennia. His face would have been handsome, but for the malevolent scowl which twisted his features as he faced Orim and Dren. He stood with his legs spread and braced, one hand out to his side, resting on the wall.

“Don’t stop!” Orim commanded Dren, whose pace faltered at the sight. “It’s not solid!”

The wraith before them might have been insubstantial, but the unseen hands which grabbed them both about throat, arms, and legs were irresistably firm. Dren voiced his terror in a scream as he was lifted from the ground.

Jonnal started down the stairs, but Melia grabbed his arm. “Jonni, no!” she pleaded.

The uniformed wraith faced Jonnal and Melia at her cry, without turning around. His features once more swam into focus, grinning at them with undisguised hatred. His arm shoved on the wall where it rested. With a deafening roar of stone against stone, the steps shot upward and slammed level. The force of their closing was hard enough to launch Jonnal a foot from the floor, and echoes reverberated throughout the room.

Jonnal landed lithely on his feet and immediately spun to the trigger-stone. He stomped on it with all his might. The small, irregularly-shaped switch stayed firmly in place. “Move, damn you!” he roared.

Melia stared intently at the slabs which would form the stairs when collapsed. Her mind reached into the monoliths, sliding through and about. She acquainted herself in an instant with the masses of stone, feeling their density and rigidity. They were firm, unyielding.

But you were not always thus, she coaxed it. Stone can flow like water, blow like the wind. You did so once, you remember how. Do so again

Power flowed with her thoughts, into the substance of the stones. The connective forces which held the ‘solid’ matter in place slowly yielded and realigned themselves to her will. It was not easy – her Terin Kinship had never been among the strongest, and her education in sorcery had further weakened it. Such is the choice every aerin makes. One can focus on their Kinship powers, gaining mastery over a narrow aspect of the world around them. Conversely, through tutelage in craft, one can learn techniques of controlling more of their environment, but never with the raw power of Kinship. Achieving expertise in both is a feat possible only for the most legendary aerin.

Melia’s fine features were a study in concentration and strain. A small hole opened in the floor and widened, yawning large enough to see into the tunnel.

Orim’s and Dren’s torches lay where they’d been dropped, shining steadily. Their light was dimmed and tinted orange. A dripping sound echoed from the passage, and a musky acid smell wafted up to sting their nostrils.

Nacci cried out and looked away, her fist jammed into her mouth. Melia pulled her cousin into her arms and held on tight, staring in silent horror. Jonnal wrapped his arms around them both, firmly turning Melia’s face away from the passage. He allowed himself to look, scowling at the sight of what the wraiths had left of Orim Dio and Dren Usmas. “Ladies keep you both,” he whispered.

 

For the Masses

 

Bolt skidded to a stop at the top of the shallow hill, letting the wind catch up with him. “There’t is,” he announced.

A soaring aqueduct sloped gracefully down from the northern mountains, carrying water to the city itself. Fields and gardens whose dimensions had been determined by centuries of bargaining and dispute made a crazy-quilt of green, amber, and brown, interrupted by gray strips of paved road.

Embron’s age was betrayed by the remnants of a wall defining the city’s perimeter. Only Shenn’s oldest cities were walled. Not intended as a defense against invasion, such edifices had been constructed when the original six breeds which became the Upper Court were first defining their identities. The world of that day was rife with beasts eager to wipe the newly-reborn aerin race from the face of Shenn. Borne true was the wisdom, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

Of course, that was before the aerin established their mastery of the world. Since then, the only time that high, strong walls were a necessity had been during the Steel War. Over the intervening centuries, the walls of most cities had been deliberately dismantled, pilfered for building materials, or let slip into disrepair. Only Vikamogan, the self-proclaimed ‘most evil city in the world,’ maintained such fortifications intact.

In Embron’s case, the wall and gates had become ceremonial barriers only, or foundations for newer construction. The original perimeter of the city heart had expanded beyond its original boundaries and become more ambiguous, defined only by a thicker border of buildings which had borrowed a section of the ancient wall for extra support.

Embron’s Greathouse was one of three features which were easily visible from their current vantage. The other two landmarks were the aqueduct, and the sprawling, congested quilt of canopies which sheltered the open-air market in the city’s main square. The traditional residence of the city’s ruler was distinguished by a glittering dome of glass, intentionally faceted to reflect sunlight in a fiery corona. The rest of the city was a warren of avenues and alleys — paved, cobbled, or dirt — separating the well-off from the dirt-poor.

To the eye, the view was traditional enough.

Zerene looked across the valley, and wanted to vomit.

What is it? asked Nicholas in her mind.

In answer, Zerene let him see what she saw.

What the deuce?! he replied.

City spell, she told him. Remember: on Shenn, thoughts have power.

Through Zerene’s perceptions, House Shad’s capital city was covered in a nauseous miasma of grey, brown, and purple. It was not wholly evil. Here and there were nodes of deliberate malice, but they were like boils festering in unwashed flesh. The overall pall over Embron was the uninentional result of generations of hopes dashed and expectations ground to dust. Years of continual disappointment had fostered in the citizens’ minds a belief that things would never change. That collective belief in turn created a free-form enchantment on the city, making depression the norm, and hope even more fragile than normal.

Observer effect! Nicholas realized. Is this how you see things, Zed?

Moreso here, Zerene replied, and moreso since that damn bird. Jonnal has his work set before him. Not only does he need to sort things out, he must make people believe they can be better. Otherwise, it’ll be as if the curse was never broken.

We’re coming up behind you, Nicholas told her. She turned around, and spied Morphy’s sleek oblong hull cresting a rise.

Zerene blinked as she detected a faint but unmistakably humorous tint to her brother’s thoughts. What? she demanded.

I knew Bolt couldn’t stay inside Morphy the whole trip, he replied.

Zerene grinned. Even that good ale can’t keep him from an open road. Her expression suddenly sharpened. How did you know that? Then she rolled her eyes and clucked at her own obvious question. Duh, of course. Twin bond.

Right, he confirmed. I know Bolt as well as you do.

She knew he meant the comment in an off-handed manner. Nonetheless, it struck a nerve that reverberated too sweetly for comfort. He knows Bolt as well as I know Nathan, she thought to herself, and for the same reason.

She turned her mind firmly away from the troubling concept of Nathan St. John. “Come on, Pony,” she urged. “You waiting for his Lordship to send an escort?”

“Why not?” Bolt returned happily, setting out an easy trot. “But fer us, he wouldna be seein’ this day, would ‘e? Oy, what ye make o’ that?”

Zerene squinted against the morning sun. To the left of the main road leading into Embron was a flurry of activity. Visible from this distance was a large dais, matching the height of the nearest buildings. What had been a field left fallow by a family who’d given up farming for a cursed city was being raked clear by tractors. Where the land was already clear, tents had been erected in a line along the far edge. Workers were busy beneath the stretched canopies, setting up tables and apparatus whose purpose was not clear from so far out.

Suddenly Zerene realized what they were seeing. “Well-played, Jonni!” she cried with a wide grin.

“He’s gonna have the Ascension in public!” Bolt realized at the same time. “Out where all the townies can attend! An’ those tents must be fer food! He’s actually invitin’ the whole city!” He laughed. “That’ll set some heads shakin’, if anything will!”

I take it, commented Nicholas mentally, that Ascension ceremonies are not usually public affairs?

The whole city celebrates, Zerene explained. But the ceremony itself is usually held within the Greathouse compound or the Greathouse itself. Only the ‘social elite’ are invited. I’ve never heard of an Ascension being done like this!

About damn time, was Nicholas’ opinion. Zerene had to agree.

The main gate of Embron’s old wall had been left intact, and currently functioned as a landmark and ceremonial entrance into the city. A crowd had begun to gather around Oldgate’s portcullis, watching the busy scene in the field beyond. Kres and Haydn Feber stood among them.

“Impossible!” Haydn protested.

“Were it not for the evidence of my eyes, I’d agree with you,” Kres replied.

“Cooking tents!” Haydn exclaimed. “He actually intends to feed the people? No Lord has ever done such a thing!”

“With that, I find myself wondering if we did a disservice with our errand last night,” Kres mused.

Haydn shook his head emphatically. “People ate last night, who otherwise would have had none. Even if this new Lord intends to make good on the appearance of this, Embron needs more than one grand feast. And until I see it happen, nothing changes.”

Kres spied a moving figure on the main road, which descended from the rolling hills to the west. He tapped Haydn’s shoulder and pointed. A remarkable spectacle resolved out of the morning haze. A Tantareli centaur, huge even for that massive breed, trotted along the road. The brothers realized the giant carried a passenger. Other townspeople also noted the apparition and murmured, especially when they spied the nature of his companion.

Zerene reeled and narrowly maintained her grip on Bolt’s harness. Even through her shields she felt the pressure of dozens of minds all suddenly targeted on her, and more turning her direction with each moment. What the hell? Then she heard the phrase echoing over and again.

Phoenix-Touched.

Phoenix-Touched!

PHOENIX-TOUCHED!

She slammed her mind shut, but could still feel the pressure rising higher.

Bolt felt Zerene shift behind him. Ten years with her a comfortable weight carried across the face of the world, he knew instantly something was wrong. “Whassup?” he demanded.

Zerene could barely squeeze spoken words out. “Get us… out of here. Greathouse!”

Bolt instantly increased his pace, but the press of the crowd worked against him. He could push through them easily enough but some were sure to get injured, especially if he used any speed.

Cool blue suddenly spread through Zerene’s mind, buttressing and insulating her. Thanks, Etti! she sent.

Of course, Nicholas replied.

With Nicholas blunting the crush of the crowd’s minds, Zerene could focus. She ran through the mantra she’d learned years before. Her aura turned inside-out, reflecting to each person looking her way a complete absence of anything notable. Qran Ztan, the mental discipline perfected by her ancestors, came to her aid as it had many times before.

Only now it was much easier, more pervasive. The crowd not only stopped caring about her presence, they completely ignored Bolt as he passed among them. Even when he bumped against bystanders packed too closely to avoid, they caught their balance without turning their attention from the preparations for the ceremony.

“Yer doin somethin’,” Bolt accused her without rancor.

“Aye,” Zerene replied, marveling at herself. “I am.”

“Well, whatever it be,” he replied, “keep at it ‘til we get t’ the Greathouse. We’ll ne’er git through this crush otherwise.”

For the people around, there was no memory that the remarkable duo had ever passed. They went about their errands, oblivious to the gigantic centaur and his blood-haired, sun-eyed rider passing in their midst.

The pave beneath Bolt’s hooves was even and not overly-worn. The sewer gratings were free of clog, and did not stink. The buildings, kiosks, and carts which lined Lord’s Road were in decent repair, their cracks competently patched. Despite it all, both Seekers felt an insidious aura of unwell about Embron.

Zerene felt Bolt’s weight shift beneath her, and changed her own balance accordingly. He rose up on his rear hooves, from which vantage he towered over all of the single-story structures. He raised one arm over his head, and without prompt or ceremony Zerene slithered up the massive limb like a tree-trunk.

“No cracks or missing tiles,” she reported, surveying the visible rooftops. “They’ll keep the rain and bugs out well enough.”

“But…?” Bolt prompted.

Zerene slid back down his arm, settling on his shoulder. Her brow was a straight scowling line over her eyes. “Nothing’s new!” she realized. “Or even recent! They patch cracks, but don’t paint over them! Missing tiles are replaced, but only with other old tiles.”

“Maintain, but don’t improve,” Bolt murmured. “Shad curse. It’s over the whole city.”

“Worse than that,” Zerene told him. “It’s gotten into the city spell, too.”

“Not good, that,” Bolt returned. “Even with the curse broken –“

”Right,” Zerene replied. “Until the townies believe it in their hearts, nothing’ll change.”

“A job an’ a half, that’ll be,” Bolt stated. “Y’think His Lordship knows what it is he’s stepped in?”

“Let’s find out,” Zerene proposed.

The gate to the Greathouse compound was left open during the day, normal for a city that feared nothing from its populace. The guards were attentive enough. Under normal circumstances they’d certainly have challenged a caller approaching without proper schedule or herald. That they took no note of the visitors was an error for which they could not be fairly reprimanded.

Unbelievable, Zerene marveled. I bet I could dance down Lord’s Road naked and nobody’d notice! The idea both chilled and exhilarated her. Just what are the limits to my power?

The same sense of upkeep without improvement was more pronounced within the Greathouse compound. The hedges and trees were green, but slightly undersized from having just enough water and fertilizer to stay alive. The towering curve of the Greathouse itself was clean and well-patched, but while the wounds inflicted by time and weather had been salved, scars remained.

Bolt and Zerene passed into the Greathouse proper. The floors were solid stone, but even without Zerene masking their presence, Bolt stepped lightly enough to leave neither echo nor scuff. Neither had ever been inside Embron Greathouse before, but such structures followed a fairly standard floorplan. Finding the Lord’s office was no great feat. The entry doors were outsized enough that Bolt could pass through if he bent his fore torso all the way over. They slid inside and stood against the wall opposite Jonnal’s desk.

“…a grave error, Milord, on my honor,” swore the aerin in conference with Jonnal. He looked mostly Terin, but an auric tint to his features and a touch of fire in his sandy hair hinted at some Pyrin parentage. “Proper security will be impossible to maintain within such a venue.” The plaintiff was as tall as Jonnal, his hair drawn back in an intricate, intertwining braid, and he wore the maroon-and-gold of Embron’s City Guard. The filigree at his shoulders, collar, and cuffs proclaimed the rank of Captain.

Jonnal reclined in a chair whose construction shouldn’t have allowed any sort of relaxed posture. His visitor perched in an even less forgiving seat on the other side of the Lord’s desk. Both wore the same pleasantly neutral expression. A look I know all too well, Zerene thought. Upper Court negotiating.

“Your caution is noted and appreciated, Captain,” Jonnal returned. “I am adamant in this, as demonstrated by the preparations already underway. Embron’s citizens must see with their own eyes that their new Lord brings true change. I have every confidence that your Guard will be equal to the challenge. If needed, I will place the Greathouse Guard at your disposal as well, should such additional security be needed.”

“Milord’s trust and support are overwhelming,” replied the Captain. Zerene suddenly remembered his name: Aubryn Vaeus. Where have I heard it before? “Ladies smile that this morning’s tragedy is not echoed in the afternoon.” He rose, lifting his hat from his lap and setting it on his head. “The very brightest of the day to come, Milord,” he offered with a perfunctory but acceptable bow and saw himself out.

“Leaves rather a glistening trail, doesn’t he?” Zerene commented dryly, relaxing Qran Ztan after Vaeus had left. She leaned against the wall to one side of the door, arms folded.

“Sooth!” Bolt added. “Get a mop!”

“Ladies!” Jonnal swore, shoving his chair back from his desk. So forceful was his thrust that the rear legs of his seat caught in a chink between the floorstones. Momentum yanked his hands away from the edge of the desk, as the toppling chair dragged him with it. Zerene and Bolt both goggled at the spectacle. The chair clattered against the floor, but Jonnal turned the fall into an adequate reverse somersault and sprang to his feet, staring at the visitors.

Zerene and Bolt clapped, laughing. In response Jonnal grinned and struck a pose, arms out to either side like an acrobat accepting the lauds of his audience. “Thank you both,” he said. “You’re the first to bring a smile to my face this morning, and today I’m in dire need of anything pleasant.”

“Who was that slug?” Bolt asked.

Jonnal waved a dismissing hand as he crossed the office to them. “A minor bastion of self-important elitism,” he replied. “He gained the captaincy during the regency. At the moment, he is the least of my concerns.”

“Second thoughts, is it?” Bolt prodded.

Jonnal shook his head, his manner sobering. “Were it only so simple! No, I am determined and eager to pull Embron up to its rightful glory. Had I not seen our curse foiled, I’d think we were still under it.”

Zerene could touch his distress, like a catch on the edge of a fingernail. “What happened?”

“Come,” Jonnal said. “I’ll show you.”

Melia joined them at the door of the warehouse. “Good morning, Seekers,” she hailed them. “The staff advised me of your errand.”

Jonnal turned to regard his Promised, and a smile once more lit his features. His and Melia’s everyday shields were well in place. Nonetheless, Zerene could feel the current flow between them, strong and sparkling. Like a storm breaking, an unruly corner of her mind murmured. You feel the same when you look at Nathan.

Shut up! she rebuked herself. No point thinking on that, and Jonnal’s problem is more important right now!

While tempests raged inwardly, pleasant morning greetings were exchanged. Then Jonnal and Melia related the grisly events of earlier, while Jonnal led them inside the warehouse. Staff scurried in and out, grabbing foodstuffs or crates of beverages as they were needed for the preparation of the Ascension feast, but tarrying not at all.

They did slow and stare though, at the blood-haired human who had come into their midst.

“Reactive runes?” Zerene echoed, eyebrows climbing. The four of them stood around the hidden staircase. The tightly-fitted slabs were once more in their previous shape, to ensure the murderous wraiths beneath stayed put.

“It’s an advanced craft,” Melia explained. “I recognized them, but have not yet studied the technique. The rune in place forms part of the enchantment, but a key element is deliberately excluded. In its place, a sympathetic sub-rune is woven into the main rune. A matching sub-rune is attached to the missing element, which is usually carried or worn.”

“Aye, like prison runes!” Bolt exclaimed. “Bring the halves of the runes t’gether, or in this case close enough, an’ the sub-runes connect ‘em and there ye go!”

Melia smiled and nodded at Bolt, her own eyebrows arching in surprise. “Just so! Our intruders must have painted the main runes at intervals, beginning with the far end of the passage, ending at these stairs. As they traveled, they would pass from the range of one set of runes into the next, providing them a continuous moving field of protection.”

“So which do you want us to do?” Zerene asked. “Find the thieves, or purge the wraiths?”

“The wraiths are likely left from the Siege of Tyvis,” Jonnal answered. “I suspect the entire network is infested. But the tunnels are so forgotten that nobody even knew about this entrance, so that can wait. I’ve more interest in petty looters who use advanced craft to aid in their crimes.”

Zerene nodded, looked around, and frowned. “What’s here that they touched?” she asked.

“Melia’s cousin Nacci,” Jonnal answered, “and this.” He gestured to one side at the neverending bottle.

Zerene regarded the container and snorted. “Gee,” she murmured, “don’t make it too easy for me!”

“Eh?” Jonnal grunted for clarification.

“Enchanted items distort psychic impressions,” Melia supplied. “With the caliber of spells on that bottle, it will be a wonder if Zerene is able to sense anything at all from it.”

“Aye,” Bolt agreed. “Y’might have better luck wi’ th’ cousin!”

Zerene hefted the bottle over one shoulder without further comment. She reached toward Bolt with her other arm. He reached down, twined his arm with hers, and scooped her up. She perched in the crook of his elbow, leaning against his massive chest. The bottle sat in her lap, cradled between her crossed legs. She pulled off her gloves and grasped the vessel lightly with both hands. Her head bent and her eyes shut, her face set in lines of concentration but not strain.

“Bolt’s mind-deafness provides insulation,” Jonnal explained in response to Melia’s questioning look. “Surrounded by him as she is, Zerene is able to sense much fainter impressions than she could otherwise. We gained more than a few clues this way, during the quest.”

“Nicholas and Nathan will be delayed,” Zerene announced suddenly, not moving otherwise. “They’ve been called to Arasidhe Keep for a debriefing.”

Jonnal and Melia blinked. “You gained that from the bottle?” Jonnal asked.

Zerene opened her eyes and grinned. “No. Nicholas just told me. They should be back in time for the ceremony.”

Shutting her eyes once more, Zerene delved for what traces might be left untainted by the powerful charms of the neverending bottle. “Two of them…” she murmured. “Both drank from it… dribbled some on the cousin….” Her brows knit slightly, then she shook her head and leaned back. “Nothing else. The bottle didn’t mean enough to them. ‘Twas a momentary diversion, a means to an end, nothing more.” She shrugged, popped the cap, and tilted the bottle toward her lips.

Halfway there she stopped, her gaze sharpening into a glare of realization. She set the bottle back before it touched her mouth, and firmly stoppered it. “Is this bottle for the celebration?” she demanded.

“Not if you need it,” Jonnal replied readily.

Zerene leaned forward. Bolt obligingly straightened his arm, letting her slide down to the floor. She carefully set the bottle back in its nesting, then lifted the entire parcel. “I’ll keep it in my room for now,” she told them. “Nobody else touches it. If you can wait until after the celebration, I can find your thieves.”

Jonnal grinned. “A gift from the Ladies, you are.”

 

 

Glory or disaster, Jonnal thought to himself, looking over the notes before him. The Ascension was due to start in just over an hour. There’ll be no middle ground.

“Jonni,” Zerene’s husky voice came from across the office. “Got a moment?”

He looked up with a smile, and his breath caught. I’m no longer in love with her, but Ladies! She makes it hard to remember when she looks like that!

Gone were the sturdy unremarkable leathers she normally wore. Instead, she was encased in a sleek gown of shimmering deep purple. The bodice left her shoulders and arms bare but for a strap encircling her neck. The neckline was fashionably low, coming to just between her breasts. Elaborate gold stitching around the midriff gave the impression of a wide belt, without interrupting the sleek line of the garment. The skirt fell to the floor, slit twice in the front to allow free movement and glimpses of her legs. Her hands were covered in fingerless gloves of matching fabric and hue. Her hair was pulled back except for the unruly forelock which always fell over one eye. Instead of the usual braid or pin-up, it was twisted and coiled into an elaborate cascade which fell to her knees. Woven into the tresses were ribbons of purple and gold, and tiny gold bells. Bolt’s work, no doubt!

A lifetime of courtly training came to his rescue, keeping his voice steady. For all that’s worth, he thought. Doubtless she’s seen right through my shields! “Thank you for entering with more ceremony,” he gibed gently. “You gave me two years of your life, Zerene, and for a while your heart.” He waved at one of the seats opposite him. “How can I deny you a moment?”

Zerene rolled her eyes and crossed his office. It was not lost on Jonnal that none of the bells in her hair made a sound as she walked over and sat down. “Been practicing your lordly ways, I see,” she scolded. “Just see you don’t forget what it’s like to get dirty.”

“Never,” he assured her. “By the by, I approve of your gown.”

She plucked disdainfully at the middle panel of the skirt. “You better,” she retorted. “I don’t fancy up like this for just anybody!”

“Duly noted, and appreciated,” he assured her. “Now, what’s really on your mind?”

“Embron’s not well,” she told him bluntly.

The forthright statement dragged his attention away from his idle appreciation of her appearance, back to larger matters. “I know,” he told her with a nod, his expression becoming serious. “Melia felt it, as well. I lack her sensitivity, or yours. But it comes as no surprise.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “My father buoyed our House’s spirit by the force of his personality. Even he could not foster hope for an entire city. So many years of despair cannot be undone in a week.”

“It’s worse than that,” Zerene replied. “There are islands of hope here and there. Having the Ascension out in the open, inviting the whole city to the feast – a good start. But it won’t be enough.” She held out her hands, palms up, adding emphasis to her words. “In their heads, people know the curse is broken. But in their hearts, nothing’s changed. They want to believe things are different, but they’re afraid to reach for it. You need to get their attention.”

Jonnal nodded again. “I realize this. What strategies do you suggest?”

Her hands fell to her lap, and she slumped back in her seat. “Not my forte,” she confessed. “You want me to con one person or even a small crowd, no problem. Waking up an entire city and convincing them to take a chance on hope?” She smiled and shook her head. “Too subtle for a trail-dusted Seeker.”

“Even a Phoenix-Touched Kandaler Seeker?” Jonnal prodded with a smile.

Zerene’s eyes glowed slightly as she rolled them. “Ladies, don’t you start! I’m already walking around hidden all the time as it is, just to avoid the stares and whispers!” She leaned forward, and Jonnal couldn’t deny a small tremor at the keenness of her gaze. “And for what it’s worth, Jonni: hair and eyes aside, that damn bird didn’t give me anything I didn’t already have. I’m still an empath and touch-scryer, with some telepathy in the mix.” She gestured with her hands again. “It’s… as if I were working with only a fraction of what I’m capable of. Now –“ She searched for a proper metaphor.

“As if you were smoldering tinder,” Jonnal ventured, with insight unexpected to himself. “Fanned suddenly into an inferno.”

She grinned and nodded, teeth brilliant against her dusky skin. “There’s that lordly command of words again!” Just as quickly, her expression became introspective, distant. “I could probably make everybody feel faith in you, and hope. Or near enough.” She shuddered suddenly, revulsion twisting her features. “But that’s not the way to do it.”

It struck Jonnal at that moment, just what sort of being sat opposite him. Bloody hair and sun-colored eyes notwithstanding, she was so much the same as she’d been for two years past, he’d let slip from his mind just what had happened to her. What I did to her… So rationally did she consider the possibility of altering thousands of minds, imposing emotions on them all at once! And if the legends are true, that is only the barest expression of her power! Remember Rock Bend!

“Stop thinking with so many exclamation marks,” she scolded him suddenly. The moment had passed, and she was once more the Zerene he’d known. Lingering still was the realization born in it, though.

“And that’s another thing,” she continued. “You didn’t do this to me. Tethwyn did. Even if you hadn’t shot me, she would have touched me.” Her mouth quirked in a sardonic smirk. “Apparently I was an ideal candidate. But enough of that.” She waved the distraction away. “Unless we come up with a way to shake those people up, the past two years might as well not have happened, as far as Embron’s concerned.”

Jonnal’s thoughts turned unbidden to the papers before him. Obviously, Zerene sensed the shift of his mind. With no pretense of protocol she stood, reached across the desk, and snatched the pages. Her eyes darted from side to side as she scanned his neat handwriting. Then they rose to lock on his face, glowing. “You’re mad,” she told him.

He smiled in self-deprecation. “Not for the first time have I heard that accusation, these two years past.”

“This,” she waved the pages, “is one hell of a set of stones to throw.”

He nodded. “It will either be the second best game of my life, or the second worst.”

Zerene cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. The motion made the forelock swing away from her face, so both her eyes showed. “What were the first?”

He grinned. “The best was hiring you. The worst, shooting you.”

She laughed then, and he joined her. For that moment neither Lord nor Phoenix-Touched were in the room. Only Jonni and Zed, two trail-dusted souls united by shared experience. It was a fleeting thing, and sweeter for being so brief. Jonnal looked back on that moment for days afterward and dwelt on the realization of how truly close were they.

Zerene stopped laughing suddenly and glared at him. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” Her gaze sharpened more with realization. “You’re not telling anybody! Not even Melia or your father?!”

“You taught me,” Jonnal reminded her. “A secret shared is no secret.”

“Damn,” Zerene breathed, smiling in anticipation. “This may be a good party after all.”

 

Walk the Walk

 

The turnout was all for which Jonnal had hoped. Embron was virtually empty, crowds pressing against each other in the cleared fields around the dais. Only the most staid or jaded avoided the ceremony. To be honest, as many citizens attended from curiosity or the prospect of a free meal, as to show fealty to their new Lord.

Lord Most High Mahargni Shad, his other three sons, and their wives were all seated at the rear of the dais. All of them wore formal robes of scarlet and amber, encrusted at cuff and hem with carnelian and fire opal. Mahargni’s shoulders and chest were covered with a wide golden mantle, scribed with runes and inlaid with more jewels. It was his mark of office, as Lord Most High. Each of the Shad sons wore torcs of similar make, evincing their noble heritage.

Mahargni rose and walked to the front of the dais, where he stood facing off to one corner. Jonnal ascended the platform from the opposite side, stopping just a single step from the top of the stairs. He was dressed in a simple robe the color of ash, and wore no mark of office around his neck.

“I am Lord Jonnal Shad, scion to House Shad,” he proclaimed. Pylons of runed leystone built into the foundation of the dais echoed and amplified his words. The control of the sound was fine enough that the people at the back of the crowd could hear him clearly, yet those at the foot of the dais were not deafened.

“Show your proof!” challenged Mahargni without turning.

The air around Jonnal shimmered and ignited. The fabric of his robe caught and burned, falling in smoldering tatters at his feet. His skin did not blister, nor did his hair singe. Formal threads of scarlet and auric gleamed as the ashes fell away, covering him from neck to foot.

“I am come to Embron, to serve as Lord,” he stated.

“What makes you worthy for such service?” Mahargni demanded, still showing his back to Jonnal.

“That question is not yours to ask,” Jonnal retorted.

“I am Lord Most High Mahargni Shad, of House Shad!” Mahargni roared. “If I may not demand proof of your worth, who then?”

“You are my Lord Most High,” Jonnal acknowledged. “But you will not be my master. I will answer to the people of Embron. It is they to whom I must prove my right to serve!”

This still feels very scripted, Nicholas commented silently to Zerene. The two of them perched on Bolt’s shoulders, enjoying a superior vantage to the attendees clustered around. They were in the first rows behind the seats reserved for local nobility. To the crowd around, Nicholas was the only person using Bolt as a seat. Nobody noticed Zerene, which is just how she wanted it.

It is, Zerene told him. Whatever his game, he’s not played it yet.

Zerene fought impatience. She was eager for Jonnal to run his plan, as she enjoyed any well-played scheme. Distracting her was the hushed, collective susurration of the crowd’s minds. She was grateful that Shennese were trained to shield their thoughts from birth. Compared to the din of Earthside minds, the quiet buzz was annoying but tolerable. Worse was the faint nausea caused by the miasma of the city spell.

Most distracting of all though…. Her attention kept sliding from the drama on the dais to the elegant, winged figure who stood among the other delegates from Upper Court Houses at the foot of the dais. Nathan was dressed in Arasidhe colors: silver, indigo, and black. His hair was loosely gathered at his shoulders, but fell loose to his waist. His wings were out. Between the storm-colored plumage and the way his formal robes covered only his front, she had an exquisite view of his back and shoulders. Every minute shift of wing and arm made the muscles beneath his skin slide and clench…

STOP IT!

“Shall the people speak, then?” Mahargni asked. “Or will they choose a voice?”

“I shall be the people’s voice.” The staid declaration came from a richly-gowned Nerine from the front row. Standing at a height typical for her breed, her smooth grey skin and hairless scalp gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. A flattened ovoid disc of runed leystone floated over her head. The disc picked up her words and relayed them to the pylons beneath the dais. Thus everybody heard her words as clearly as they did Jonnal’s. Zerene dragged her attention back to the dais. “First Citizen Lady Shylla Makko,” she heralded herself. “I challenge you to prove your worth to serve Embron as its Lord.”

“I shall do so,” Jonnal promised.

“But not to you.”

Here we go, Zerene thought aloud, grinning in anticipation.

The other Shad sons and their spouses gaped and stared. First Citizen Lady Shylla Makko coughed as her scripted response went down the wrong way. Even Mahargni blinked, though he maintained decorum enough to conceal his reaction otherwise. The crowd gasped, murmured, and were suddenly captivated by the unfolding events.

“You are not the voice of the people,” Jonnal told Lady Shylla. “With all due respect, First Citizen, you speak for Embron’s most privileged. Your like have been touched least by the years of curse and despair. Your welfare, I promise to guard safe, but you are a few. I come to steward those whose suffering has been most dire.” Jonnal stepped to the front of the dais, and held his arms before him. “Citizens of Embron!” he called. “What challenge do you set before me, to prove I will be a fit Lord?”

An awkward silence fell, as all gathered were suddenly forced to think about a ceremony which had become mindless rote over the years.

Come on, Zerene thought. Somebody, grow a pair! This was the defining moment of Jonnal’s game. If the people were too scared or apathetic to answer his challenge, the break from the traditional script would become a hollow, futile gesture. She knew Jonnal had a recovery planned for that event, but it would work so much better if–

“I shall speak!”

The high, clear voice piped from behind and to one side of them. At Jonnal’s wave the speaker disc floated away over the crowd. It stopped over a portian with hair like brushed copper, slate-grey eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across an impudent nose.

“Marnixelroikenama,” she introduced herself. “I’m a baker. If you’re serious about doing well for the downtrodden of Embron, Lord Jonnal Shad, then here is my challenge to you. End the corruption in Embron’s Merchant Council!”

Remove her!

No.

You dare?

With ease. At the moment, she enjoys his attention. Make her a target, and we create a martyr. Allow her to fill his ear with poison, while we concoct an antidote. Then when he comes looking, if he does, we are the persecuted and she, the outspoken paranoid.

Dangerous stones you cast, Milady.

Equal to the stakes for which we play, Milord.

Jonnal bowed in Marnixelroikenama’s direction. “Your challenge is accepted, Citizen.” He straightened, facing the crowd, and held his arms out. “By the name of Pyraesa, Mother of Fire, this is my oath to the people of Embron. No matter the station of the culprit, malfeasance or abuse of any sort will not be tolerated once it has come to be proven in my sight!”

Whispers breezed through the multitude, but nobody spoke aloud. Once a new Lord had offered his acceptance of the challenge, none were allowed to speak until the citizen who had issued the challenge had pronounced the Lord’s reply acceptable. Necks craned, ears strained, everybody hung by a thread waiting for Marnixelroikenama’s reply.

“Then welcome and loyalty do I offer to Your Lordship Jonnal Shad,” Marnixelroikenama’s voice reverberated from the pylons in the base of the dais.

“To which I add my recognition and blessing!” roared Mahargni. He turned and strode to where Jonnal stood. From the sleeves of his robe he produced an ornate torc. Jonnal raised his chin, and the loop of gold and jewels clicked in place. “By my power as Lord Most High, all hail and swear fealty to His Lordship Jonnal Shad, Lord of Embron!”

Cheers and applause erupted then, echoing off the city walls and the distant hills.

Zerene blinked, looked around, and smiled. Her shields were still held tightly shut, but she knew it was more than just the euphoria of the moment. A small change, no more than a shifting zephyr of power – but the nauseating, depressing fog that choked Embron had thinned.

Well-played, she thought.

 

 

A door lurked furtively in the rear of the dais’ base. The entrance was intended for construction or maintenance only, as the space inside was only scaffolding and sound pylons. Jonnal had his hand on the latch when Mahargni discovered he and Melia. The space in which they all stood was narrow, only a few paces’ distance between the dais and the wall of a neighboring house. The angle of the late-afternoon sun cast the passage into shadow. Beyond, the noises and smells of a city enjoying a rare afternoon free of care echoed off the ancient stonework.

“Here, now!” Mahargni hailed. “That’s no fit place for a tryst!”

“Milord!” Melia rebuked him in courtly reflex, then caught herself. “Milord Most High, forgive me!”

Mahargni swatted the unintentional slight from the air with a wave. His customary neverending bottle was slung across his back, and from the flush of his cheeks he’d partaken to his usual standards. Nonetheless, his gaze pierced Jonnal as keenly as a spear-point. “Raised you better than that, I thought!” he challenged.

Jonnal offered his father an ingenuous smile, pulled the door open, and ushered him within. “Lordly duties are done for the day,” he told Mahargni. “Now I serve my city in more subtle ways.”

Mahargni grinned, but inside he was caught off-guard. So assured! He thought wonderingly. Not a bit of the angry courtling son, so bent on proving himself! In his place, a Lord who needs no-one’s approval but his own!

All three of them gasped and gaped as they passed the threshold. Instead of a dim, dirt-floored oven of naked struts and leystone pylons, they entered a well-appointed foyer of oak and frosted glass, which in turn gave access to a luxurious salon of wood, metal, and fabric. Within stood two familiar figures, both vying for domination of the room.

“Oy, M’lord Most High!” called Bolt, once more happily settled in the middle of the room. “Y’ must have a taste!” Gone from his torsos and limbs were the festive, complex patterns which had been painted on for the party, likewise the ribbons, braids, and bells which had adorned his hair. He was once more in simple Seeker’s garb, which for a Tantareli centaur consisted only of a sturdy, utilitarian harness of leather and metal over his humanoid fore torso. The picture was completed by the keg-sized tankard he held in one fist.

“Welcome, Milord Most High, Your Lordship, and Milady, to our home!” Nathan offered an expansive greeting from the far side of the room, arms held wide. He was still dressed in his festival clothes, but the telltale Arasidhe wings were tucked away. “I see Milord Most High has brought his own diversion, as usual. Are Your Lordship and Milady in need of any sort of repast or libation?”

“Lord Sinjinklaer!” Mahargni exclaimed. “Of what interest are Embron’s affairs to House Arasidhe?”

Nathan smiled disarmingly. “My presence is strictly ceremonial, Milord Most High. My only mission, to officially convey House Arasidhe’s congratulations and best wishes to His Lordship and your entire House. It just so happens that Milady and His Lordship have contracted services that require the assistance of my associate.”

“The Kandaler,” Mahargni recalled. He turned to Jonnal. “What’s your game?” he asked. “Aside from prancing downrange with a target painted on your ass?”

Jonnal’s expression suddenly sobered. “If it takes that to raise Embron’s own self-imposed curse,” he said quietly, “such will I gladly do, and more.” His hands flew to his collar, tugging savagely at the robe’s fastenings. He yanked the garment open and let it drop to the floor. He was bare beneath, but for a brief clout protecting his modesty.

“Jonnal!” roared Mahargni in reflexive outrage.

“Jonni!” cried Melia, and she thought, Oh! Her eyes traversed the lines of him of their own volition. Jonnal’s arms and legs were long and toned, betraying the hardness they’d gained from two years in Shenn’s wildlands. The same was true of his torso, whose muscles slid lithely beneath sun-bronzed skin. Even the network of small scars subtracted nothing from the disquieting allure.

From somewhere far in the back of her skull a quiet, determined voice vowed Tonight.

Jonnal produced a clay disc inscribed with leystone runes from a shallow flap in the breechclout. Holding it between his fingers, he cried “Otkantu!” The rune flashed obligingly and disgorged a pair of pants woven from sturdy maroon serge and black leather boots. Jonnal caught the garments deftly in his hands, and with equal lack of ceremony slid them up over his feet and legs. There was no visible latch on the pants, but a touch at the waistband cinched it comfortably on his hips. His torso remained bare.

Change of attire complete, he regarded his father and his Promised with aplomb. “I have come to hate formal attire these two years past,” he told them. “Besides, the time for ceremony is ended. Now we must pay for the party.” He turned, bent, and picked up the robe. “Lord Sinjinklaer,” he said to Nathan. “Is Zerene about?”

“She is, indeed,” Nathan replied, nodding. “I believe she was last seen in the kitchen. And if you please, call me Nathan. It’s that name to which my ears have become more accustomed.”

Jonnal nodded in turn. “Nathan, then.” He folded the robe, then held the rune to it. “Simashu!” The holding rune flashed, and the robe vanished into its depths.

Bolt’s ears perked, and he twisted his torso around in the direction of the double doors at the far end of the salon. “Kitchen?” he echoed. “An’ what’s that smell, then?”

As if waiting for his cue the doors burst open and disgorged a rangy, blood-haired dancer. She carried a plate piled with steaming, flat squares of frosted dough in one hand and a carafe of milk in the other. She crossed the salon, swaying and nodding to music only she could hear, courtesy of the speakers covering her ears.

All eyes were fastened on the spectacle. Zerene reached the table, where she set the plate of pastries and the milk. Holes opened in the tabletop, and empty glasses rose into view. She smiled as she recognized the visitors. “Milords and Milady,” she greeted them, and snatched one of the sweet-smelling squares from the plate. “Pop-Tarts!” she exclaimed, holding up the treat.

“Give over!” Bolt cried.

Melia blinked. “What sort of tarts?” she demanded.

Zerene flung one at Bolt with a flip of her wrist, sending it spinning through the air. Her aim was true – he snatched the treat between his teeth, taking the whole thing into his mouth and chewing. His eyes popped open wide, and he masticated the treat with renewed enthusiasm. “Oy, Spoons!” he cried. “Where’d ye get these? They’re choice!”

Zerene invited the rest toward the couch with a wave, and passed out tarts. “It’s an Earthside pastry,” she explained. “The name comes from how they’re prepared, using a device called a toaster. When they’re done, they pop up out of it. So, Pop-Tarts!” She bit in to one herself, and her eyes shut in happiness. “Ladies, I forgot how much I missed them!”

“Wot’s this spice?” Bolt demanded around a mouthful of tart. He chewed slowly, as if undecided whether to swallow or continue savoring the flavor.

“Cinnamon,” Zerene answered, forced to use the Earthside name as there was no equivalent on Shenn. “It’s made from the bark of an Earthside tree.”

“Underbark,” Nicholas corrected her as he emerged from the staircase. Like Zerene, he had abandoned the local festive clothes for more customary garb. In his case, this was a pair of blue jeans and a grey longsleeve pullover shirt. “Corrupting the locals with Earthside junk food, are you?” he chided his sister. As he crossed the salon, he tossed a pair of sealed vials in Zerene’s direction.

She caught them deftly, then swung a halfhearted foot at his calves when he drew close. “Not junk food!” she protested. “Besides, I remember you’d empty a box by yourself if Momma wasn’t looking!”

Jonnal and Mahargni were already halfway through their tarts, thoroughly enamored by the combination of sugar, molasses, and cinnamon. Melia took a tentative bite, then dug into hers with equal enthusiasm. Fastidiously swallowing a mouthful, she indicated the vials which Nicholas had brought. “And that?”

“DNA,” Nicholas answered.

“Deeyenae?” Melia echoed, brow furrowed.

“Sorry,” Nicholas replied. “It’s a matrix of proteins and enzymes, arranged in a coded sequence. The sequence is specific to an individual organism, which makes it a reliable means of identification.”

You’ll have to do better than that, brother, Nathan sent with a grin, noting the expressions of puzzlement which still glazed over Mahargni, Bolt, Jonnal, and Melia. Mahargni’s face in particular was beginning to add suspicion to the confusion.

Nicholas’ brow set in a straight line. This was a familiar task for him, translating esoteric concepts into everyday terms. “Both of the thieves drank from the bottle,” he told them. “When they did, they left saliva and cast-off bits of skin on the neck of it. I cleaned the traces off the bottle, then cooked them enough to break them down.” He nodded at the vials. “Those are the most basic expressions of the thieves’ physical structure. If you can match them with other samples, you can prove they handled and drank from the bottle last.”

“What other samples?” Jonnal wanted to know.

“That’s the rub,” Nicholas admitted. “You need to have other DNA samples, and check for a match.”

“Earthside, you’d be right,” Zerene corrected him, grinning. “The rules are different here.” She turned to Jonnal. “Seeker question, Your Lordship. You have one piece, you’re looking for the rest. What do you do?”

Jonnal blinked and nodded in realization. “Similarity scry!” he exclaimed, answering her grin.

“Similarity scry,” Nicholas echoed, silently adding a question mark on the end of the phrase.

Melia’s teacher’s reflexes brought the explanation out first. “Similarity is a basic law of matter,” she told Nicholas. “All objects have identity and memory.” She held up a Pop-Tart. “Separate part from the whole –“ she broke off a corner of the tart and tossed it onto the table. “The object remembers that part being in place, and with the proper stimulus, will try to draw the two of them together again.” She murmured a few phrases under her breath, holding the broken pastry in front of her. The broken fragment twitched, then leaped off the table and attached itself to the tart, melding together without a hint it had been separate.

Nicholas watched intently. “Hm,” was all he said.

A deep-throated bray suddenly split the air. All eyes snapped to Bolt. The Tantareli arched his back, stretching his arms out to either side, and spread his jaw open wide enough to produce an audible crack. “Sorry,” he said, swallowing the end of the yawn.

The damage was done. Morning had come very early for everybody present, and the reflex to echo Bolt’s sleepy sentiment was irresistable. Jonnal arched his own back, and tugged at the unfamiliar weight of his torc. “‘Twill do no harm to allow our quarry one more restful night,” he decided, and stood.

“And Nicholas and I have errands awaiting us Earthside,” Nathan added. “Morphy, adjust your egress to one of the Greathouse entrances, please.”

“Of course, Nathan,” Morphy replied.

“Just see to it you’re back in three days,” Jonnal reminded them, offering his hand to Nathan.

“We wouldn’t dream of missing the blessed event!” Nathan assured him, gripping his hand and bowing slightly.

“Not a chance,” Nicholas confirmed.

The visitors moved to the door. As they approached, the entrance stretched up and out until it was large enough for Bolt’s dimensions. “An amazing vehicle,” Mahargni stated. “Is there no end to its abilities?”

“We’ll let you know, directly we find out,” Nathan replied.

You going to be OK? Nicholas asked Zerene at the doorway.

She grinned. What I was going to ask you! Behind the flippant reply lurked yearning. If she asked, he’d stay. He might even leave Earth, she knew. And if he asked… would I leave Shenn?

Get going, she told him, settling the question for the moment. You have a world to save, and you can’t do it here.

He nodded. I need Struyck Worldwide’s computers. Morphy’s good, better than ever. But designing a cure for the Blasted Lands takes more calculating power than he has.

They embraced, holding each other tightly. Take care of yourself, they each advised the other at the same time. Behind the brief sentiment, currents of love flowed deep and strong.

As they parted, Zerene became aware of Nathan standing nearby. A sudden mad impulse overcame her. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said.

Nathan’s eyes snapped wide. For a few moments, his arms floated out to his sides, as if afraid to touch her. Then his ingrained poise reasserted itself, and he responded with a courtly embrace. “Whatever for?” he asked.

“Being his family,” she replied simply.

Nicholas blinked, realizing the significance of her words. He leaped onto Bolt’s harness with as much expertise as if he’d been performing the act for years. Equally adept was the forehead bump he administered to the flummoxed Tantareli. “Echoed,” he told him, grinning.

Bolt laughed, and crushed Nicholas against him. “Pony’s got a new brother!”

Further farewells and embraces were exchanged all around, then all but Nathan and Nicholas exited the salon. They looked around in surprise, to find themselves walking into the front hall of the Greathouse itself!

“Life just got much more interesting,” Mahargni murmured.

Inside Morphy, Nicholas turned toward Nathan. “You won’t need wings and telekinesis to fly for the next few days,” he stated with certainty.

“That obvious?” Nathan asked. His sense memory reeled as it replayed the heat and pressure of her arms around him, her head fitting into the hollow of his shoulder as if molded to it.

“You got it bad,” Nicholas told him.

Nathan nodded and finished the quote. “And that ain’t good.”

 

Fateful Meetings of Chance

 

“So,” said Kres Feber, shrugging out of his coat. “Regrets?”

Haydn Feber scowled as he removed his own festival garments and tossed them into the corner of the room he customarily reserved for laundry. “Not yet,” he growled.

Kres staggered theatrically, rolling his eyes. “How much more evidence do you need? He accepted Marni’s challenge! He fed the entire city! He took the leftovers and shared them out! He gave a giant’s share to the orphanage!”

“It’s still only Ascension Day,” Haydn reminded his brother. He stepped into a pair of sturdy, spark-bitten leather pants and a matching apron. Muscles grown and hardened from years of shaping and folding hot metal with a hammer slid and bulged as he moved. “So far, all he’s really done is talk. Will he investigate the Merchant Council? What will he do with what he finds?” He fastened the apron’s strap behind him. “Would that Marni’d kept her mouth shut.”

“A subtle portian,” Kres jeered gently. “Might as well wish for a dancing centaur.”

“Agreed, though that Tantareli danced at the Ascension,” Hayden recalled. “But she’s drawn attention to herself, which might do the same for the rest of us. I’m surprised they didn’t take her away!”

“They dasn’t,” Kres pointed out. He had exchanged his own party clothes for a simple robe and trousers, a scholar’s dress of leisure. “Silencing her would only have added weight to her complaint. Doubtless they’re composing plays to make Marni out as a case of imagined persecutation, so His Lordship can dismiss and forget her.”

“Which he will, most like,” Haydn growled. “I have orders to fill.” With that, he stalked downstairs to the smithy which occupied the ground floor of the Feber home.

A day before, Kres would have dismissed Embron’s administration as readily as his brother. “Look Haydn,” he said, trailing after his sibling. “I have less love for Shenn’s Upper Court than you. Recall which of us was dismissed from the Academy of Mages, for no sin greater than being smarter than his teachers?”

Haydn turned at the foot of the stairs. “Aye, that you were. Which makes it all the more incredible that you should be taken in by an aerin play!”

“Play?” Kres echoed in disbelief.

“Aye!” Haydn emphasized. “A twenty-five-hundred year curse, undone in two years by a minor son and a couple of Seekers! And just like that, everything that has gone wrong in Embron since before our grandparents were born goes away?” He stressed the point with a snap of his fingers. “Not!”

“Why not?” Kres challenged. He watched Haydn tap the forge control, stoking the furnace. “Change must come sooner or later. Ladies know, we’ve worked toward it long enough!”

Haydn lifted a half-forged blade from a rack and plunged it into the forge. “The Merchant Council and the Guard run Embron,” he growled. “Always have. It’ll take more than a shiny new Lord to change that!”

Kres shook his head, conceding the argument. He walked upstairs and returned shortly, wearing plain street clothes. “I’m off to check on Marni,” he announced.

“Thought you said they dasn’t move on her,” Haydn called after him.

“I’ve been wrong before,” Kres retorted.

The official portion of the Ascension Day events were over with. Outside the city gate, the dais on which the ceremony had taken place had already been dismantled. Likewise gone were the serving tents, from which many Embron citizens had received a better meal than they’d enjoyed in months.

Though the setting sun was turning the sky deep emerald, the streets were still bustling with people. Locals mixed with visitors who’d come for the Ascension. More notable was the variety of Shenn’s breeds in evidence. Humans and aerin were most common, of course. But there were also taur, ogre, harpy – even a few lamia.

A wrongness tickled the back of Kres’ neck. He scanned the crowds more closely, and suddenly riddled it. Where are all the portians?!

Normally the stocky, diminutive, all-female race were a third major presence in the city, especially when potential customers were to be had. This night, not a single one could be seen.

Marni’s bakery was closed, its chimney empty. Likewise every other portian-owned establishment in the immediate vicinity. Kres had heard about portian solidarity. He guessed that Marni’s challenge to Embron’s new Lord had spurred a private meeting with her fellows. With the theme of, ‘Are you daft, Marni?’ he thought with a grin.

At least there she’ll be safe! Kres told himself. Artisans by culture and temperament, portians were fiercely protective of their sisters, a term which they extended to their entire race. The idea of any force smaller than a full troop accosting a room full of privacy-minded portians… I’d almost feel sorry for the invaders!

Satisfied that Marni was safe from mischief for at least the rest of the night, Kres strolled back to Feber Smithy. He tarried here and there, listening in when a conversation promised intrigue.

“I’ve known Marni for years. She wouldn’t be part of a play!”

“Aerin oaths aren’t worth the air used to breathe them.”

“Did you see the size of that centaur at the ceremony?”

“The Merchant Council won’t let him spoil their fun.”

“Did you hear what happened to the House Guard Captain?”

“On my honor, a Phoenix-Touched! She rode in on a giant centaur!”

“Sure she did. Naked and passing out feathers, right?”

“F’ndaku. I saw what I saw.”

TANG-tang! TANG-tang! TANG-tang! The steady rhythm of Haydn’s hammer was comforting, familiar. Kres’s life had been lived to the accompaniment of the forge’s roar, the bellows’ wheeze, the hiss of hot metal plunged into water. Mother was so disappointed when I insisted on following Uncle’s path, instead of becoming a smith like her. Thank Ladies my little brother inherited her love of the hammer!

The smithy windows were sturdy and leaded, with a faint film of soot on the inside that refused to clean off, even with cantrips. With only the glow of the forge lighting the interior, they were reflective as mirrors.

As Kres stopped at the door and reached for the latch, he spied furtive movement behind him in the window’s reflection. A hooded figure had come around the corner of the building, stopped suddenly, and ducked back out of view. A chill chased up his spine, and his mind’s eye suddenly replayed a fast montage of visual memories from his walk.

Ducking behind another passerby

Turning quickly away to peruse a vendor’s cart

Never more than a few paces behind.

Followed!

Mentally rehearsing a disabling cantrip, he jogged back the way he’d come. I need to catch them before they can give us away! He increased his pace as he rounded the corner–

The fist was small but expertly folded. The aim and launch of the blow were of equal precision. Its impact caught Kres squarely in the throat, choking his incantation before it reached his lips. The second blow sank deep into his belly, forcing his breath out with an explosive “Hooooooooo!”

He reeled back, sparks and stars flaring around the edge of his vision. Vaguely he knew that somebody was suddenly at his side, coming up from behind. Another meaty sound of impact, a small voice suddenly cut off in mid-cry. After that the world turned completely on its side and pitched him off.

Balance and awareness restored themselves in the familiar setting of the Feber kitchen, seated in a dining chair. Haydn was there, handing him a short glass filled with thick, brown liquid. Kres gulped the tonic gratefully, sighing in relief as the comforting fire swept through him and erased the effects of the attack. His throat and gut still ached, but the pain was tolerable.

He sat up, then blinked and stared at the unconscious form who slumped in the chair opposite him. The hood had fallen back, and the earth-colored face lolled to one side. The bruise under her right eye was already beginning to ripen, reflecting the overhead lights.

“What’s she doing here?” Kres demanded hoarsely.

Haydn shrugged. “You tell me, brother. I saw you reach the door and reverse course, so I came out. She’d just felled you when I got there, and reflex did the rest. I couldn’t very well leave either of you laying outside, so….” He repeated the shrug.

Kres ran his hands through his hair as he stared at the Terine maid whom he’d last seen just the night before, when he’d laid her out with an internal fermentation cantrip. ”She must have recognized me,” he whispered, “and followed me. She knows where we live.”

“So now what?” Haydn asked. “Soon as she wakes, she’ll betray our location!”

Kres looked at her critically. “I think we’re beyond her reach to the Greathouse,” he whispered. “To be safe, let’s move her to the basement.”

“Aye!” Haydn exclaimed. “The insulation you installed when you came back from the Academy!” He bowed in front of the chair, looped arms around her back and rump, and hefted her effortlessly onto one shoulder. Kres held the basement door open. “Qamil,” Haydn said to turn the lights on. Halfway down the steps he stopped and turned, looking up at Kres. “How long do you plan on keeping her?”

“Until we convince her to not give us up,” Kres replied. “Or until it no longer matters.”

Haydn considered the answer, and nodded. “So we’ve just graduated from thieves to kidnappers.”

 

 

“Evig,” Melia hailed the seneschal of Embron Greathouse.

“Good morning, Milady,” the lithe blue-haired Zefin favored her with a wide smile as he turned in her direction. He had just ascended the stairs from the front hall, and was headed toward one of the halls. Below, a knot of ornate aerin stood with impatient dignity.

“Have you seen Nacci this morning?” Melia asked.

Evig gave the matter some thought. “Maiden Agat came in from the Ascension festivities at seventeen twenty-three yesterday, changed her clothes, and left again at seventeen thirty-nine. She has not yet returned.”

Melia wrinkled her brow and smiled at the precise reply. “Does nothing happen in this house without your knowledge, Evig?”

Evig bowed in acceptance of the implied compliment, returning her smile. “Only that which I choose to ignore, Milady. Such as the noises coming from His Lordship’s and Milady’s bedchamber door last night.”

Melia blinked and gaped at him. “We made no –“ Her protest died in mid-sentence as the seneschal’s expression suddenly became one of ingenuous surprise, eyebrows arched and eyes wide. She expelled a hiss of exasperation through pursed lips, shaking her head at his impertinence even as she conceded falling victim to the prank. “Point yours, master seneschal.”

Her brow furrowed again as her attention returned to the original problem. “Nacci has never before stayed out to such hours,” she mused.

“I will relay Milady’s distress directly I see Maiden Agat,” Evig assured her. “If Milady pleases?”

Melia nodded and waved a hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Evig.” She glanced over the railing at the assemblage below. “Awaiting an audience with His Lordship?” she asked.

“Just so, Milady,” Evig answered. “I was on my way to announce them.”

“I think His Lordship is in the rooftop garden,” Melia told him.

Evig nodded and smiled again as he turned to go. “I know, Milady.”

As he climbed the stairs to the Greathouse roof, Evig reflected on the exchange with Lady Melia. She’s more concerned than she let on, he told himself. In truth, I’ve not seen the cousin separated for long from her Lady, since they arrived. What errand would have taken her back into the city, and out all night? He scowled. Not all of Embron is friendly or safe for courtlings. No telling what she might have stumbled over!

Jonnal was indeed in the rooftop garden. This was a crescent-shaped area which occupied a full quarter of the Greathouse roof. The battlement defining the outside wall betrayed its original purpose as a defensive position. All of the siege engines and batteries had long since been removed, replaced with hedges, planters, and sod.

Evig watched his new Lord for a few moments before hailing him. “Your pardon, Your Lordship!”

“You found me, Evig!” Jonnal complained without pause. “Lordly duties trail in your wake, I presume?”

“Correct, Your Lordship,” Evig confirmed. “The entire Merchant Council and Captain Vaeus wish to discuss events at yesterday’s ceremony.”

“Show them up,” Jonnal instructed.

Evig’s eyebrows arched. Reflex tempted him to ask for confirmation of the order, but he knew he’d heard aright. “At once, Your Lordship,” he said, not bothering to suppress his grin.

His expression was properly composed by the time he returned to the front hall, but anticipation tickled in his belly. “Milords and Ladies, Captain,” he greeted the visitors. “If you will please follow me, His Lordship has granted your audience.”

Evig was well accustomed to their peremptory, dismissive attitude toward him. He was, after all, merely a servant, due little more than acknowledgment of his presence and utility. Nor should it be otherwise, he thought. The most interesting things happen when people think they are unobserved by anybody of consequence!

He led them upstairs. Their own familiarity with the Greathouse’s floorplan was betrayed when some of them turned at the top of the steps, obviously assuming they were headed for the Lord’s office. “This way, if you please Milords and Ladies, Captain,” Evig prompted them.

The first cracks in their composure appeared as he steered them the length of a passage and through a door, which gave onto a wide spiral staircase leading up to the roof. At the top, Evig held the door open like a proper servant, ushering them outside. It was due to be a brilliant day in Embron, and the morning sun was already bright on the roof.

The expressions of indignation and surprise on their faces were so comical, Evig had to suck his teeth to avoid bursting into laughter. It was a credit to his years of service that he was able to announce the visitors without his voice cracking.

Jonnal wore a breechclout of supple cured hide, a strap of similar stuff binding his hair back, his torc of office, and nothing else. On each hand he wore a kayat’neben, a large punch dagger. The blades of the daggers were spring-loaded and retractable. Squeezing the trigger on the grip shot the blade forward. Released, it slid back to rest atop the forearm. A skilled wielder could use a kayat’neben as either a bludgeon or a blade, in attack or defense.

As the Merchant Council gaped, Jonnal crossed the length of a grassy area, executing a rapid series of slashes, punches, blocks, and kicks. The metallic shing and chak of the daggers extending and retracting punctuated his motions. “Good morning, Milords and Ladies, Captain!” Jonnal hailed them, his tone forced only slightly by the exertion of the exercise. “My thanks to you, for saving me the necessity of summoning you! Shall we get directly to cases?”

“Your Lordship, please forgive the intrusion!” pleaded a Pyrine whom Evig had announced as Lady Kethine Eona. “Your servant misled us into the belief that you were prepared for our audience!”

She shifts blame from herself to others, Jonnal thought. She’ll sacrifice the rest of them if it will let her escape.

“And so I am,” Jonnal assured her, ending his pattern with a stomping kick and a downward lunge of one kayat’neben which buried the tip of the blade in the sod. Had he been facing a living opponent, the combination would have crushed his enemy’s chest and impaled their throat. The timing of his statement with the finishing move was coincidental, but no less disconcerting for that.

Nor did Jonnal regret the implied antagonism. House Eona enjoyed great prestige in the Upper Court, due to its age and widespread properties. Including some they ‘rescued’ from House Shad, he recalled without the least effort at stifled bitterness. Not that I fault the citizens of those regions for foreswearing their fealty to us. But I recall Father’s account of how enthusiastically House Eona wooed them before their defection!

“Your Lordship, this is hardly a proper venue for matters of such import!” protested Lord Myllon Makko. The Nerin’s resemblance to First Citizen Lady Shylla Makko was unmistakable: the same smooth grey skin, shaven scalp, bottomless black eyes, and cetacean teeth. He was shorter than his sister, and the girth of his tunic showed he enjoyed the soft life more than she. The reports which Jonnal had studied for the few days past left no uncertainty to a lack of sibling affection between the nobles, but no solid information to the root of their emnity had yet surfaced. Of course House Makko’s original holdings were offshore, but they had in recent years taken control of several inland forests and quarries.

He’s very intent on form and protocol. He’ll countenance any atrocity, so long as his reputation isn’t on the line.

“I’ll counter you on that, Lord Myllon,” Jonnal replied, launching into another pattern. “In truth, your presence here bears witness to the gravity which I grant to our meeting. My seneschal can attest that my morning exercise is normally granted absolute privacy.” He performed three spinning kicks in rapid succession, followed by an equal number of circular slashes with the kayat’neben blades extended. “Now, shall we continue to debate the locale, or would you prefer to resolve the matters which brought you all here so early?”

Evig watched the visitors’ reactions and mannerisms during the audience. All five members of the Merchant Council claimed ties to powerful Upper Court Houses. Lady Kethine was obviously the dominant member of the Council, if only because she was more outspoken. The others – Lord Myllon Makko, Lord Kiel Rickart of the Terin House Rickart, Lady Tesha Khalchyte of Terin House Khalchyte, and Lord Cyn Dessens of Pyrin House Dessens – were all equally convinced of their own importance, and just as intent on their own agendas.

They let Kethine take point, Evig reflected, so long as their goals run apace. What might happen were one to break stride?

Only Aubryn Vaeus stood aside, content to watch the drama play out. The slight smirk at one corner of his mouth told Evig that the Guard Captain saw the reasons behind Jonnal’s unusual choice for the meeting.

The visitors seemed at once fascinated and repulsed by Jonnal’s appearance. The muscles beneath his skin bulged and slid in sharp relief, where theirs were flat and muted beneath smooth skin. Lady Kethine and Lord Cyn were of average Pyrin coloration, with only a hint of ruddiness to their court pallor. By contrast, Jonnal was bronzed nearly as dark as some Terin.

The feature which caught their eye the most, Evig saw, were the scars. They were not many, nor were they large or especially gnarled. The original injuries had healed without infection, so all that remained was the odd pale line or curl standing out against his skin. The striking exception was a curving row of dimples, brown on bronze, defining the join between left thigh and groin. The marks hinted at something with many claws or teeth taking hold and letting go only after strenuous protest.

But for a highborn courtling, Evig mused, any mar of the flesh is unthinkable. Even the smallest injury would have been erased by healing craft. One more sign of how his quest has changed him.

“I hope Your Lordship attaches no credence to the slanderous insinuation which so nearly spoiled yesterday’s ceremony,” Lady Kethine said. “That portian baker has been an agent of discontent ever since she opened shop!”

“Just so,” Lord Myllon agreed. “Captain Vaeus can attest to how often she has plagued his Guard with all sort of imagined slights and conspiracies. Captain!”

Vaeus stepped forward and produced a flat rectangle of crystal from a tunic pocket. “Complaints, Your Lordship,” he affirmed, “filed by Marnixelroikenama. Each alleges at least one form of extortion, sabotage, or harassment. Each has been investigated and reviewed by myself and Regent Weton. The resolutions stand by themselves.” He offered the shard to Jonnal. “The latest one is from eleven months ago. Until then, we received them on an average of one every month and a half.”

Jonnal looked past Vaeus and nodded. Vaeus swivelled his head in time to see Evig step forward and reach for the slide. He blinked but did not protest as the seneschal removed the storage device from his grasp.

“Why do you suppose she stopped, Captain?” Jonnal asked conversationally.

Vaeus turned his attention to Jonnal again. He shrugged. “In truth Your Lordship, we hoped she’d come to her senses. Instead, it is now plain that she was merely biding her time.” He cocked his head as he regarded Jonnal. “If I may speak plainly Your Lordship, your diversion from the scripted ceremony was doubtless of the finest intentions. It is a shame that it afforded such an opportunity for mischief.”

“A shame,” Jonnal repeated quietly. His tone was ambiguous. Was he echoing Vaeus’ words as agreement, or simply mulling them over? His voice dropped further, fading to a steady murmur. The Merchant Council fidgeted and exchanged glances. Evig needed no special insight to divine their thoughts.. They fear they’ve been saddled with a mad Lord, one who’ll be beyond their control. As before, only Vaeus seemed unperturbed. Indeed, he actually appeared amused!

Jonnal’s voice rose sharply on a finishing syllable. A surge of power rippled the air ever so slightly, and suddenly all of the accumulated sweat and grime which had added a sheen to his skin and made his hair plaster to his forehead and back vanished.

As clean as if freshly emerged from the bath, Jonnal gathered both daggers in one hand, holding them by their frames. Evig stepped forward, holding up a robe. Jonnal slid one arm into a sleeve, while Evig relieved His Lordship of the weapons. While Jonnal shrugged into the robe, Evig deftly slipped the daggers into a fitted pouch.

“My thanks to you, Council members,” Jonnal said, his voice clear and strong. He pulled the front panels of the robe around him. They held in place without tie, fitting him snugly. “I’ll review the files which Captain Vaeus so generously supplied. I trust that if I have additional questions you will all be at my disposal.” He smiled and bowed. “My seneschal will show you out.” With that, he turned and strolled away toward the far end of the rooftop garden. His languid pace was deceptive. By the time any of the visitors marshalled enough wit to protest, he was too far away.

The Council members stared and gaped, unsure how to react to the unceremonious dismissal. Evig prompted them helpfully, waving one arm toward the stairs. “Milords and Ladies, Captain, if you please?” Left no other choice, they acquiesced with ill-concealed chagrin. Evig sensed the buzz of psychic conversation as he guided them to the front doors, though of course he was not privy to the details. Not that it would take a very deep scry to guess the gist!

He suppressed his mirth until the front doors were firmly shut behind the Merchant Council and Captain of the City Guard. Then it bubbled forth without restraint. “Well played, Your Lordship!” he gasped between laughs.

“Now, where has that cousin of Milady’s got to?”

 

 

It was a mage’s workshop.

Shelves were bolted to the walls. One held books, while others contained tablets, crystals, bottles of powder or fluid, and other materials used in craft. The main furnishing was a large desk with a sturdy, cushioned chair. Aside from the desk and chair, the bunk on which she perched was the only loose furnishing. The door at the opposite end of the chamber was a barrier of uncompromising wood and steel.

The frame of the door was engraved in runes. So were the edge of the desk, the back of the chair, and the edges of the shelves. Even the legs of the chair and the bunk had glyphs cut into their surface. There were no windows, but a single rod in the middle of the ceiling provided light. That and Nacci’s own Terine senses told her she was below the ground.

She lifted her arm and glared at the manacle around her wrist. An identical restraint enclosed her opposite ankle. Both were fastened to legs of the bunk. The cables were long enough to allow her to either recline or sit up, but she could not stand nor reach anything else.

She could touch her own face though. She winced as her fingers brushed over the swollen bruise under one eye, then scowled. Well-played, she scolded herself. As good a Seeker as you are a mage or courtier! Now instead of bringing in the thieves who caused Captain Dio’s and Guard Usnas’ deaths, you’ll be just another victim! Ladies smile they kill me rather than the shame of being ransomed!

She could feel that she was not very far underground. Very likely it’s their basement! she mused derisively. Then her brow furrowed as she looked around the room again. Odd, she thought. Why do I feel as though I’ve been here before? She scrutinized the furnishings, their design and arrangement. Suddenly she realized the source of the familiarity. Academy standard! Melia’s workroom was set just this way, and the same for every Academy student and instructor! The realization brought only more questions. What is an Academy mage doing here, involved in such conduct?

Feh. Let the Guard riddle that puzzle from his sweat after I’ve been rescued. She scowled again. Of course, there will be the expected comments and barely-stifled giggles at my expense. ‘Silly child, thinking she could succeed before the Lord’s Seekers! That she could do anything beside putting others out to save her from herself!’ Depression settled like a dark fog as she reached out to Melia’s mind. I’m too far from the Greathouse, but there should be somebody outside. With the Ascension just passed and Milady’s wedding in three days, Embron has no shortage of people at all hours!

A wall blocked her mental probe. Of course it’s warded. That would be too easy otherwise. Seems as though I’m on my own, after all. She tested the cable attached to the manacle on her wrist. It creaked, but did not give.

The runes in the doorframe flashed dimly, and she heard the scratch of a key in the lock. She drew her legs up onto the bunk and sat up straight, doing her best to look outraged instead of scared.

It was the thinner one, the mage. She knew now that the other was a smith, with a fist that hits like a hammer. He was dressed in a simple tunic and pants, his blond hair undone and his feet bare. He nudged the door inward with an elbow, and shut it with his buttocks. The reason for the awkward manner was instantly obvious, and riveted Nacci’s attention without her will.

“Good morning,” he said as he crossed the room. He set the tray on the seat of the chair, pushed it toward her, then backed away and leaned against the doorframe. “It’s not Greathouse fare,” he said of the food, “but it’s filling, and even tastes good.”

“If you have any thoughts about ransom,” Nacci told him without preamble, “best abandon them. Nobody will pay you a tine for a servant.” She made a valiant show of ignoring the food, but the growling in her stomach betrayed her.

The mage shook his head, a small smile on his face. “The only ransom we desire is your silence,” he explained. He gestured toward the tray. “Eat while it’s still hot.”

“Silence!” she repeated. Her stomach was folding in on itself, demanding satisfaction from the smells drifting from the tray. “Two people are dead because of your thievery. How can I be silent about that?”

“Dead?!” He looked honestly stricken. His arms uncrossed and he leaned forward. “How?”

Nacci was suddenly haunted by recollection: bone gleaming white where it poked through, or the skin had been stripped away; greyish-pink ribbons of intestines and bloated sacs of organs strewn about; empty, ragged sockets where arm, leg, or head should have been. “The… wraiths…” she whispered, because it was the only way she could keep her voice from breaking. “In… the tunnels.”

He slumped against the doorframe, the color drainng from his skin, one hand over his face. “Ladies,” he whispered, his breath ragged. “We never meant anyone to die.”

“Well, they did!” Nacci shouted, sudden fury mixing with her own remembered horror. “And you’re to blame! They would never have been in those horrid tunnels, were it not for your crimes!”

That stung him. “If you wish to count fault like that,” he retorted in rising tones, “best add your own. If you hadn’t violated curfew for a jaunt, our pilfering would have never been noticed, and the tunnels would have remained undiscovered!”

“Curfew?” Nacci’s eyebrows rose indignantly. “I was within the Greathouse compound! And do not presume to equate my need for the night air with your trespass and thievery!”

He looked ready to counterattack again. His posture was stiff with righteousness, his eyes wide with his own indignation. Then he caught hold of himself, and relaxed with visible effort. “You’re right,” he conceded, voice quiet once more. “And for whatever worth a thief’s words hold, I’m sorry. For their deaths, and for what we did to you.” He turned toward the door. Without turning, he added, “You may not believe this, either. But we are not the real villains here.”

If you show sympathy for him, they may release you sooner, Nacci’s better judgment counseled. Let him have the last words and leave, so you can eat!

But her baser nature was not so easily mollified. “Oh?” she fired back. “So larceny, assault, and kidnapping are in the community service?”

He turned toward her again, and she noted the small, wry smirk on his face. “Assault and kidnapping, no.” The righteous fire lit in him once more then, his expression becoming more fierce. “But were it not for our thievery, there are people in Embron – good people, who want nothing more than the good life for which they labor – who would be long dead from hunger or disease. Meanwhile, the Merchant Council strangles every tine they can from purses already pressed flat, the Guard grinds hope under their bootheels, and House Shad can’t bother to send anything better than an ineffectual regent! If it’s villains you seek, maid, they are thick in Embron, and we are far from the worst of them!”

His intensity set Nacci back, and for a moment even made her stomach forget about the tray of food. At length she recovered enough composure to ask with a voice steadier than she felt, “Yet by your own admission you are a villain. So where does that leave me?”

“That depends,” he replied dryly, but with no less intensity, “on how much I can trust you. If I released you now, into whose ear would you pour news of us?”

“His Lordship,” Nacci answered without hesitation. “Who, you should recall, did make it his Ascension oath to investigate the corruption in the Merchant Council.”

He nodded. “I do recall. And of course, what other answer could you give, after I so brazenly betrayed my own opinion of the Merchant Council and the Guard? I hardly left you any other avenues!” He grinned without mirth. “So. You tell His Lordship of us. In turn, he dispatches the City Guard to arrest us, as our crimes extend throughout the city, and not just within the confines of the Greathouse.” He affected a transparently ingenuous expression. “What do you think will happen to us after that?”

He seeks to trap me, Nacci knew. He wants me to give the most conventional, reasonable response, so that he can twist it to show his wisdom and my ignorance. Yet there is only one proper response!

“His Lordship would not allow anything improper to befall you,” she assured him.

“How would he enforce that?” he demanded in return. “By what force of arms or force of law would he ensure our safety and fair trial? When those normally charged with such things are the very same against whom we would bring witness?” He shook his head. “No, maid. If His Lordship wishes the pleasure of our company, he’ll have to first prove himself a proper host who can defend his guests!”

Knuckles rapped sharply on the other side of the door. Nacci jumped slightly. Don’t be such a child! she rebuked herself. It’s only his partner, perhaps come to check on him!

Her captor turned and unlatched the door. “I thought you said you wanted no part of –“ His words cut off as he stared incredulously at the apparition in the doorway. Nacci stared also, though she’d seen the newcomer before.

“Zerene Kandaler,” she introduced herself, showing teeth in a rakish grin. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

The mage opened his mouth, whether to utter a spell, ask a question, or make a declaration, Nacci wasn’t sure. Zerene Kandaler denied him the opportunity. She snapped her head forward and her forehead rapped sharply against his. The impact sent him reeling across the chamber. Nacci scooted quickly aside as his legs hit the bed. He fell sideways across it, narrowly avoiding striking his head again on the stone wall.

Nacci stared at the unconscious human, then at her blood-haired rescuer. Zerene’s sun-hued eyes regarded her quizzically. “Maiden Agat,” she said. “You do get in the darnedest situations!” She crossed the room and checked quickly on the mage.

“There’s at least one more of them,” Nacci told her.

“Aye,” Zerene acknowledged, mouth stretching once more in a rogue’s grin. “My partner’s entertaining him upstairs.” She turned and lifted one of the manacles binding Nacci. “Let’s get you free of those. I imagine Lady Melia’s more than a little concerned about you by now.”

 

Congenial Settings

 

“He’s going to ruin everything!” Lord Kiel Rickart slapped a hand against the tabletop with enough force to rattle the utensils. A loose grape toppled from the platter of fruit before him and rolled a short distance along the table, as if terrified by his eruption.

Lady Tesha Khalchyte sipped her tea, unfazed by Lord Kiel’s tantrum. “It would seem,” she commented mildly, “that we have at last answered the question of how our fortunes prospered so well under the Shad curse. And with it foiled, we are now endangered.”

“How dare you!” exclaimed Lord Myllon Makko, glaring across the table at Lady Tesha. “I will not accept a definition of myself as an agent of a curse!” He hoisted a forkful of steak into his mouth. The precisely-cut cube of meat had been interrupted in its journey from his plate by his outburst at his peer. He pointed at Lady Tesha with the empty fork, emphasizing the words that tumbled past the food in his mouth. “This son of Mahargni is full of himself for his good fortune on his quest. He’s setting up these vulgar displays to beat us about the head and shoulders until we bow to him, and to further puff himself up before the rabble!”

“Unfortunately, he seems to be succeeding on the latter count,” Lady Kethine Eona contributed, a frown marring her fine features. “Even before the Ascension, stories of his valorous quest and heroic triumph fueled the people’s imagination. Now the legend not only walks among them, he will lead them all into a golden age.” Her nose wrinkled as if at a foul smell. “Just when we’d weaned them away from heroes, Mahargni puts one in the Greathouse.” She lifted a tumbler of spiked juice to her lips to rinse away the unpleasant taste of the word.

“Well, there’s an answer for that too,” Lord Kiel muttered darkly, stroking his obsidian-colored moustache and goatee. The whiskers shared their hue with his thick shock of hair and hard, glittering eyes. Teeth flashed white in a face the color of dark slate as he turned a sudden, tooth-filled grin at Aubryn Vaeus. “Eh, Captain?”

Captain Vaeus was coolly unaffected by Lord Kiel’s insinuation. Lord Myllon’s reaction was more dramatic, as he now punished the tabletop with his hand. Shorter and less brawny than the Terin Lord, most of the impact traveled back up Lord Myllon’s arm, sending ripples across his own belly. His grey face flushed with anger, and pointed cetacean teeth showed in an angry grimace. “By the love of all the Ladies, Kiel! What makes you so bloodthirsty?”

“What makes you so squeamish?” Lord Kiel retorted. “Heroes die as readily as any. And waste no more of our time with protests that your mother’s death was such a tragic accident!”

Lord Myllon rose partway out of his chair, features further darkening in rage. “How dare you, Milord! I loved my mother!”

“Of course you did!” Lord Kiel sneered. “It must have been an excruciating choice, your dear dam or her estates. How many minutes did you spend, tormenting yourself with the question?”

“Milords, enough!” Lady Kethine rebuked them both. “This Council is bound by vested interests and common goals. Do not take our lack of friendship as license to make enemies of each other!”

“From a cold eye, Lord Rickart’s suggestion is not without merit,” Vaeus contributed. “But if we are going to consider it, let us do so and quickly. All His Lordship need do is give the people a few exhibitions such as he treated us to this morning, and he’ll be too popular. Assassinating him then will only further enhance his legend.”

“Assassination is not an option this council will entertain,” Lady Kethine stated with chill finality. “If you entertain any ambitions about maintaining my good favor, you would do well to discard such fancies.” Her gaze was on Lord Kiel as she said the last.

Lord Kiel bowed his head with poorly-feigned obeisance. “Of course, Milady. I merely–“

“Merely intended to drag us all once more through the morass that House Rickart calls intrigue,” Lady Kethine finished for him. “And doing so, risk the wrath of the entire Upper Court for a matter that may come to naught in the end.”

That sentiment caught the attention of the other council members. “Explain yourself if you please, Lady Kethine,” Lady Tesha quietly demanded. The Terine Lady had never been known to raise her voice. Those who took her quiet manner for a mild, retiring nature were well-advised to take a second look at the cold light of her azurite eyes, and consider the unfailingly meticulous set of her wardrobe and sandstone tresses. Light colors were rare among Terin, and in Lady Tesha brought to mind a frigid expanse of tundra. “The noises issuing from Lord Kiel and Lord Myllon leave little doubt that our situation is dire.”

Lady Kethine plucked a flaky fragment of the whitefish on her plate between her fingers and lifted it to her lips. She sucked the moisture from the meat, then delicately flicked her tongue out and curled it back in, the piece of fish vanishing with it. She shrugged, the motion dislodging one curly lock of golden hair from its perch on her shoulder. “It is one thing to spend two years combing the world for a phoenix, and finding it, steal its feather to foil a curse. That may make for entertaining ballroom chat, but does it qualify one for the lordship of a major city? Or to prove charges of collusion and market manipulation among five of the most powerful Houses in the Upper Court?”

She licked her fingers, smiling around her tongue. “House Eona has gotten the best of House Shad constantly these past years,” she reminded her cohorts with a purple gaze that put one rather in mind of a predator when the prey knows it is doomed. “Curse or not, Lord Most High Mahargni is the same sodden bladder of flaming gas he has ever been, and his boy’s vulgar display this morning shows only that he is cut from the same cloth.” She smiled. “Let him conduct his ‘investigation’ to its inevitable fruitless conclusion. If he is stupid enough to voice even a single specific accusation against any of us, we will raise a storm in the Upper Court. In the end, Embron will follow the rest of House Shad’s holdings to the sanctuary of House Eona.”

A single pair of hands applauded her optimistic prognostication. Lord Cyn Dessens had kept his own counsel throughout the audience and the conversation, as was his usual habit. The youngest of them all, he was also the only one who did not keep residence in or near Embron. Though his House’s carriages and wagons ferried the goods of the other four in and out of Embron, Lord Cyn commuted via portal rune from his home in far Vikamogan, the self-proclaimed ‘most evil city on Shenn.’ A slender, lanky Pyrin, he combined the auric skin and crimson hair most common of his breed with a wardrobe which emphasized minimal adornment and clean, simple lines to create a demeanor reminiscent of a salamander.

“Very pretty,” he purred at Lady Kethine, whether at her method of eating or her words was unclear. “With all due respect, Milady, what if His Lordship is as good at running a city as he is at questing mythic wildlife? Or clever, lucky, or stubborn enough to find the evidence all of you have undoubtedly forgotten to destroy?”

Lord Myllon snorted derisively. “Again you tear others down while raising nothing of your own, Lord Cyn,” he chided the younger noble. “Have you anything to actually contribute to this conversation, aside from denigration and innuendo?”

Lord Cyn had stopped applauding, but left his hands resting against each other in front of him. Now he spread them apart, palms outward. “Your failure to see the value of my contribution again forces me to abandon subtlety, Milord. I am the voice of caution. I tear down only those who scale the heights of hubris without making sure they have a soft landing.”

He plucked a sweet nut from his plate and flicked it into his open mouth. “His Lordship is at least clever enough to set us talking about him, arguing among ourselves whether anything should be done about him, and if so, what?” He smiled warmly. “This morning was only his opening play. We should watch closely the angle of wrist and clench of fist as he casts his other stones, before we dismiss him as a second-generation bottle-dweller.” He bit down, crunching the kernel between molars. “Perhaps we should scrutinize him as he plans to do us, to see what secrets the people of Embron do not yet know about their new Lord.”

Lady Kethine smiled at Lord Cyn. “As always, Lord Cyn, your counsel is wise beyond your years. To you will we leave the scrutiny of His Lordship Jonnal Shad.” She saluted him with her drink before draining the goblet. “And with that, fellow council members, this meeting is at an end.” She stood. “Captain Vaeus will accompany me for additional instructions. To the rest of you, I bid you good morning and encourage you to finish breaking your fast before you leave.”

 

 

“Melia, your wedding is but two days hence!” Lady Most High Luvia Shayl protested. “Surely this errand can be delayed until afterward!”

“It has already waited longer than it should have,” Melia replied, shrugging into the coat Nacci handed her. “I told the Academy masters I would be gone no more than a week. It has been nearly that and once I am wed, I will be gone very much longer.”

“But why resign?” Lady Luvia complained. “Other teachers of courtly name are married! Why are you throwing out all that for which you worked so long?”

“Plans change, dear aunt,” Melia told her. “When grander destinies call one must be prepared to answer. I do not intend to be an idle Lady of the city. Embron and my Promised Lord deserve better than a mere showpiece. I cannot do justice to both the city and the Academy.” She crossed the room and took her aunt by the shoulders, smiling warmly. “Besides, the Academy will never want for teachers. How many of House Shayl have served there, including yourself? But Embron needs a Lady of undivided attention.”

Lady Luvia nodded and returned the smile. “Do not tarry. Rehearsals for the ceremony are tomorrow!”

“No later than the afternoon,” Melia promised, hugging Lady Most High Luvia. Then she turned to Nacci, who was also suited for travel. Melia held out one hand to the shorter Terine, meanwhile digging in her coat pocket with the other. As Nacci took the proffered hand, Melia produced a portal rune from the pocket. She traced the glyphs on the small tile with her thumb, silently mouthing their meanings. Then she turned the tile over with her fingers and nodded. Nacci clapped her hand over Melia’s, pressing the tile between their palms.

The Greathouse bed-chamber suddenly spun away from around them. A bottomless vortex of malachite and viridian yawned and spun beneath them in dizzying whorls and streams. They fell, but did not tumble. There was neither air nor water, but their hair and clothes fluttered and blew, adding to the illusion of falling.

Melia very sensibly closed her eyes against the maelstrom. Nacci couldn’t resist looking down, though she knew she’d pay for it when they arrived. I know I am not seeing what my eyes tell me, she thought. I have no eyes with which to see, at this moment. Our bodies have melded with the leystream, guided through it by the directives of the rune. We ‘fall’ through and come out at the destination coded into the rune. Simple.

Only it is anything but. Everybody uses portal runes so often, and take as given that they will arrive where they intend in the same state in which they left. Every House has a portal-mage, on retainer if not payroll. The most widely-traveled mages command fabulous fees for their services. And it all dances on a razor’s edge. One ill-carved glyph, misgauged current in the stream, or wrongly-set egress, and Ladies smile that you die quickly.

Nacci ‘looked’ sidelong at Melia’s tranquil expression, then ‘down’ at the spiraling abyss ‘below’ them. I know that by watching I cannot avert whatever peril might await us. And perhaps I am a fool to want to see it, should it approach. But more frightening to me is the idea of death taking me by surprise!

Gold light stabbed through the green. It spun swiftly open to a bright, cheery morning in the reception garden of the Academy of Mages. Safely arrived once more, Nacci thought, just like each time previous. I am a fool.

Nacci fell to her knees and sat back. Now she did shut her eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Obviously accustomed to her cousin’s reaction, Melia was unperturbed. She crouched and stroked the ground at their feet, coaxing up an earthling. “Go to the doyen,” she told the animated dirtclod. “Tell her I am at her convenience, to discuss the matter of my resignation.”

The earthling chittered and dove back into the soil, intent on its errand. Melia turned to Nacci. “Come,” she directed. “We must pack my chambers.”

Nacci peered curiously at her mistress as she followed her across the Academy gardens to the faculty residence hall. She waited until they had reached the door of Melia’s chambers. “You hid your ill humor very well from Her Most High Ladyship,” she commented at length, deliberately pitching her tone to sound off-handed.

Melia turned from the door, her gaze sharp as she regarded Nacci. Then she turned back with obvious deliberation, and traced her personal sigil on the lockplate. Opening the door, she gestured Nacci silently inside.

“Not as well as I’d thought,” Melia commented. “How did I betray myself?”

“The earthling,” Nacci told her. “Every other time I have seen you summon an elemental, you’ve taken time to flatter and cajole them, incline them to you. Never have you simply commanded one.”

Melia blinked, then nodded. “The days ahead promise to be very interesting, in the historical sense. I fear thieving mages and corrupt merchants are the least of the forces arraying themselves against us. The deadliest enemy is that one who sits next to you and smiles.”

Nacci’s brow furrowed as Melia’s words awakened suspicions which had slept but lightly in her own mind. “Do you trust the Seekers His Lordship has retained?”

Melia sat down in the chair next to her desk. “I want to,” she stated. “Jonnal’s faith in them is obvious and unquestionable. Certainly they are competent, unless it was only luck that guided them to the phoenix’s nest. And that the Kandaler woman came away Phoenix-Touched!” She rested a hand on the desktop, fingers drumming restlessly. “More is guessed than known, of both Kandalers and Phoenix-Touched. My beloved may be clasping to his breast a creature as dangerous as the most venomous asp.”

“Clasping…?” Nacci’s eyes widened. “I had heard rumors! After all, two years in the wildlands –“

Melia’s glare snapped so quickly in Nacci’s direction, it seemed almost to make a sound. “That was not my meaning, Nacci!”

Nacci bowed and averted her eyes. “Forgive my misunderstanding, Milady,” she pleaded. “I meant no slander against His Lordship. You should know that the stories are there, though.” She raised her gaze again. “I share your suspicions. Given that my reputation with regard to the matter is suspect, even so I thought it passing strange that the Seekers did not talk to me about the thieves.”

Melia’s manner softened. She nodded. “I asked Zerene about that. She claimed that her skills were more reliable from objects than people, because people too often color what they remember. She seemed confident that the bits of spittle and skin the thieves left on the neck of the neverending bottle would be all she needed.”

Nacci considered the explanation. “I suppose that cannot be debated,” she allowed, “as her discovery of the thieves and her rescue of me attests. Perhaps I should not be so wary of her, since she did save me.” Her brow furrowed again. “But there are so many questions about her and her partner!”

Melia nodded. “In that, cousin, you have struck to the heart of the matter. And more worrisome still, is that His Lordship seems to have become as odd as they.”

 

 

Bright sunlight turned the darkness inside Haydn’s eyelids red. Songbirds contested dominion of their arboreal kingdoms, and the heady smell of sweet bread, spicy meat, and pungent wine provoked growls from his stomach. I was just getting breakfast, he recalled, when that giant Tantareli tore the door open. What happened then? Did he attack? Did I? How did I end up here? Where is here?

Open your eyes and find out, stupid!

A thick quilted mat had been spread under a tree. It was large enough that he and Kres were laid head-to-head along one edge, and their feet still rested on the plush surface. The tree’s branches provided a canopy, but allowed glimpses of the green morning sky. One side of the hill fell gently away toward Embron, giving a wide view of the farms and fallow fields around the city, the aqueduct, and the cityscape beyond. The other side joined the rolling range of forest to the north. The sun was well above the horizon, but a breeze left from the previous night kept the heat from being oppressive.

The tantalizing aromas came from trays and platters draped with mesh to keep the bugs away, but allow the dishes to breathe. Fresh fruit and cheeses, juice and wine. The main dish were bdams, steamed dumplings of various sweet breads, wrapped around spicy cooked meat or vegetables. Bdams could incorporate virtually any combination of flavors, and could be dipped or sprinkled in a variety of sauces or powders. The other virtue of bdams was that the dumplings could be dried hard enough to be stored or packed for a long trek, without worry about them or the filling spoiling. Then just a vigorous bath in boiling water or broth, followed by steaming, and they were good as fresh.

Peasant food! Haydn marveled. Or Seeker food. But definitely not what I’d expect a Lord to eat.

Yet there he was. His Lordship Jonnal Shad wore a simple tunic and pants of dark green as he sat cross-legged on the mat, barefoot, and munching on a bdam with every indication of enjoyment. When he saw that the two brothers were awake, he waved his empty hand at the food. “My most profuse apologies for starting without you,” he offered. “I simply could wait no longer.”

Both brothers looked around, then back at their host with similar expressions of puzzlement and suspicion. To all appearances, the three of them were alone. But for the lone tree, the hill was covered only in ankle-high grass, too short to hide any guards. No carriage or mount lurked nearby. The forest’s edge was too distant for any guards to mount a timely response. The farms, fields, and buildings of Embron were even further away. Unless they have portal runes, Haydn thought, regarding Lord Jonnal and the food with equally naked distrust. Or that Tantareli’s out there….

“The other question on your minds, doubtless,” Lord Jonnal said, “is why are you here, being invited to a friendly breakfast, instead of enjoying the hospitality of the Greathouse dungeon or the City Guard Garrison?” He chased a final mouthful of bdam with a draught of spiked juice, and nodded. “The Greathouse has no dungeon – we converted it to a wine cellar years ago. As for the City Guard, whether you honor Captain Vaeus with your company depends entirely on the answers you give to the questions pressing on my mind. In the meantime, please eat!” He grabbed a carafe of clear juice from the mat, and filled the two glasses near them. “I know we interrupted your breakfasts, you must be hungry!”

Kres ignored the glass and the rest of the meal. Haydn followed his brother’s lead, though his stomach complained loudly about its emptiness. “How did you find us, Your Lordship?” Kres demanded

Lord Jonnal arched an eyebrow at his impertinence. “You have it reversed, Mage Feber,” he said without heat. “You are in my power. That means you answer my questions, and ask yours only on my grace. Let us begin again. Why is an Academy-trained mage who is adept enough to use reactive runes skulking about haunted siege tunnels and pilfering food from my warehouse?”

Kres’ gaze was unflinching. He answered without hesitation. “Embron’s people can barely live without enslaving themselves to the Merchant Council. What do you intend to do about them, Your Lordship?”

Haydn glanced from Kres to His Lordship and back again. He concealed his wince at Kres’ counter-question, and wished he had more gift for mental communication. You’ve still not learnt to rein in your mouth! he thought fiercely. Kres’ Academy education had included some training in the skill. Whether it was enough for him to hear his brother’s silent rebuke was in doubt. Haydn meant his mental outburst more as a vent for his surprise and infuriation at Kres’ rashness. You’d think after the Academy, you’d know better!

Fortunately, His Lordship seemed to take no offense. He lounged back and rested his weight on one elbow. “Strong word, enslave. Strong enough to stand before the Court Assembly, I would imagine. How does the Merchant Council enslave people?”

Kres leaned forward, encouraged by His Lordship’s apparent openness to the topic. He held up his hands and ticked off a point by pressing the index fingers of both hands across each other. “House Eona controls the banks in Embron. If you want to keep your money somewhere other than a private vault, you accept their fees and rules. If you need to borrow more money than your friends can afford, you pay House Eona’s interest.”

He extended the middle finger to tick off his next point. “House Makko runs the trade in timber, stone, and the like. Any repairs, upkeep, or construction have little choice but to buy from Makko.”

Third finger. “House Dessens controls the largest shipping system. If you wish to get your goods to other markets, or to import materials from elsewhere, you use Dessens ships and caravans.”

Fourth finger. “House Rickart is Embron’s largest wholesaler of meat and produce. Nearly all of the grocers, butchers, bakers, restaurants, and pubs buy their stock from Lord Kiel’s warehouses.”

Kres extended and crossed his thumb. “House Khalchyte dominates the market in dry goods and spice. Tailors, chemists, and sages all have to deal with them.”

His Lordship listened with apparent raptness. Kres dropped his hands back into his lap and fell silent, waiting to see what the aerin would make of the information. Embron’s Lord gazed back at him as if waiting for him to continue his discourse.

Into the sudden silence intruded a slurping sound. Haydn froze as his brother and His Lordship both turned to look at him, one of the glasses of juice tilted to his lips. A few crumbs of bdam floated back into the small wash of juice left when Haydn lowered it. It had been his third dumpling.

“I was hungry,” Haydn answered Kres’ glare. “I’m sorry!”

“Well,” His Lordship said, “thus far I’ve heard only that five Houses have been very successful in their chosen markets.” He grabbed a pair of apples from a basket, and tossed one to Kres. He chomped into his own. “Is the sinister part of your tale yet to come?”

Kres caught the fruit and held it in his lap. He nodded in affirmation. “Indeed, Your Lordship. The Merchant Council has taken great pains that people should see only their prosperity, but not the means they use to retain it.” He lifted the apple and looked at it, then shrugged and took a bite. “Dessens caravans and ships never have room for cargo from anybody other than Makko, Rickart, or Khalchyte. Embron’s outlying reaches are infested by a particularly savage and well-organized brigand gang called The Razored Shade. Yet Lord Cyn’s caravans always make market safely. Until Haydn and I discovered the siege tunnels, the City Guard foiled all attempts at thievery from Merchant Council stores and warehouses.

“Contrast that with any suppliers or merchants who tried to compete or avoid the Merchant Council.” Kres’ smile was grim, humorless. “Caravans and ships are raided and sunk. Warehouses and stores burn, become infested with pests, vandalised, or suffer other unforeseen misfortune. In most cases, the City Guard is unable to find any culprits. When they can, the guilty parties are always other merchants who resisted the Council.” He frowned. “These days few oppose them anymore.”

Haydn had long acknowledged Kres as the more eloquent between them, and was content to let him tell the stories. The last statement stung him too deeply to stay silent. “Sometimes they do!” he added bitterly.

Kres nodded, and laid a hand on his brother’s brawny shoulder. “Yes,” he acknowledged softly. “And when they do, it is even worse.”

His Lordship sat up, grabbing the carafe as he did so, and refilled all three of their glasses. “I sense a tale of painful import behind those words. From the detail of your account, I also sense that you have evidence to support any charges you might level against the Merchant Council and the City Guard.” He set the carafe back, and lifted his own glass. “Why then, have you not taken your case before the Court Assembly?”

Kres chuckled, acid dripping from the sound. “They would never listen to us, Your Lordship. The Feber name has little credibility these days. Ladies smile we were merely ignored. If they took us seriously enough to listen, it would take but a few words to make us out as bitter, disgraced men who blame phantom conspiracies for their own mistakes.”

His Lordship sipped thoughtfully from his glass. Haydn fought the waves of grief and pain which unbidden memories had provoked, and looked at the aerin ruler. He almost looks as though he’s listening to something….

At length His Lordship asked, “Surely you two cannot be the only witnesses to these atrocities. There must be others who have suffered, who can speak?”

“There are,” Kres admitted. “But they are too hopeless, or too afraid that worse will come should they speak.”

“Unfortunate,” His Lordship complained mildly. “Thank you, citizens. We will speak again, when I have further need of you.” He slid his feet into a pair of sensible boots, stood, and drew a portal rune from a pocket.

Both brothers goggled. “Your Lordship!” Haydn blurted, leaping to his feet. “We – we’re free to go?”

His Lordship paused, finger hovering over the rune’s inscription. His own expression betrayed surprise. “Of course!” he replied. “You were never arrested. I issued no orders, no Guards were involved, no reports filed. On what grounds then, can I hold you?” He began tracing the inscription.

“But we confessed!” Kres protested, also springing up.

“You did no such thing,” came the reply. “Good morning!” His Lordship grinned and threw a jaunty wave just before he vanished.

Haydn and Kres stood on the hillside, no noise but the breeze making its journey from the hills toward the city. At length Haydn voiced the question on his mind.

“Do you think he meant for us to keep the food?”

 

 

“What did you get?” Jonnal asked.

Zerene tilted her head back gently, pulling deeply from the flask Bolt put in her hand. The unmistakable pungency of tonic wafted from the vessel as she lowered it and replaced the stopper. “Nearly their entire life stories,” she replied, panting slightly. “And smelling that food was murder, I’m starved!”

“Good thing, that,” Bolt commented, taking the flask from her hand. “Last thing we need’s you makin’ a mess in ‘ere straight outta the portal.” He replaced the flask with an apple. “That’ll get ye started,” he told her. She accepted it gratefully and bit in without further ceremony.

“You filched that from the basket,” Jonnal accused without heat. “They might have noticed.”

“Not a chance,” Bolt scoffed. “They were all about the show you put on, Your Lordship.” He grinned. “But oy! I’m about t’ faint from hunger, too! Let’s ‘ave a spread!”

“Of course you are,” Jonnal retorted. “It must have been an entire hour since you last fed!” He crossed his office to his desk, leaned over the polished wooden expanse, and turned the iron-framed mirror around to face him. He tapped the mirror’s pane, and the reflection rippled like water. “Kitchen from Lord’s Office,” he said.

The reflection of his own face changed to a view of the kitchen. A portian face of typically astonishing beauty smiled out of the glass. “Chiesitanerinima at your disposal, Your Lordship,” came the spritely reply. “Per your orders, we prepared breakfast for the staff only. Are you now ready for your own repast, or will you wait for lunch?”

Jonnal nodded, smiling. “Breakfast will be fine, Chef Chiesitan…” He trailed off, trying to get the other syllables of her name right.

Like most of her breed, the chef was used to the trouble other races had with portian names. “Chiesit will do, Your Lordship. Breakfast for one, then?”

“Six please, Chef Chiesit,” Jonnal replied.

Chiesitanerinima blinked, but didn’t insult her Lord by asking him to repeat an order she knew she’d heard aright. “Six, Your Lordship,” she echoed. “Very good. As soon as we can, Your Lordship.”

“Thank you, Chef Chiesit,” Jonnal said, nodding again. He tapped the pane again. The image of the kitchen rippled and faded back to its normal reflectivity.

Jonnal reclined in his chair. “Right,” he said, regarding Zerene. “Must I wait until you’ve been properly fed, or will that apple fortify you long enough to begin sharing the profits of our latest game?”

While Jonnal was conversing with the cook, Bolt had folded his legs and settled to the floor. Zerene perched on his back with her legs crossed, finishing the fruit. “Long’s you don’t mind my stomach adding color commentary,” she retorted. “Take notes, there’s a lot. Things run close to the surface with those two.” She tossed the core in Bolt’s direction. The centaur snapped it out of midair with his teeth and drew it in, chewing with gusto.

Jonnal reached out and twisted part of the mirror’s frame, then turned it toward her. “At your convenience,” he acknowledged.

Zerene took a deep breath. “They believe everything they told you,” she began. The surface of the mirror pulsed in time with her words, recording her image and voice. “The Merchant Council and the City Guard are working together to control commerce in Embron. If you sign an exclusive contract promising to buy all your materials from them, you get sweetheart prices and free storage in Council warehouses. They’ll still sell to you if you don’t sign, but you pay ruinously high prices. If a business is especially profitable they’ll try to buy it outright. Tell them no, or try to deal with anybody else, and all kinds of bad luck just happen.”

“Can he witness to the Council’s responsibility for such ill fortune?” Jonnal asked.

Zerene nodded. “Both of them have personally witnessed City Guards in disguise, releasing weevils, mites, and even feral elementals around non-member warehouses and stores. Haydn was returning to the city once after curfew–“

”Curfew!” Jonnal exclaimed. “I was never informed of a curfew!”

“Don’t reckon they’d enforce it on you anyway,” Bolt contributed cheerfully.

“Regent Weton enacted it about a year back,” Zerene said. “Official reason was concern for public safety, with the increase in vandalism. Our boys think Weton was pressured into it by Captain Vaeus, so people wouldn’t find out it was their own Guards doing the damage.”

She paused, returning to the previous subject. “Haydn was sneaking back into the city one night, after restocking his supply of ‘special’ loam he uses in his smithing. He saw a group of brigands ride in, right past the gate guards. One of the guards saluted the lead brigand. Haydn followed them, and saw them ride into the garrison, where they stabled their mounts and walked right into the barracks.” She grinned. “The kicker is when he saw the face of the lead brigand, and recognized her as Guard Lieutenant Karlo Myl.”

“Guards posing as brigands,” Jonnal realized aloud. “No doubt to raid non-Dessens caravans.” He frowned. “All that they say could be verified in court, with truth runes. Why don’t they step forward?”

“Six months ago,” Zerene replied, “Haydn was engaged to a daughter of Clan Takaras.”

“I remember them!” Jonnal interjected. “One of Embron’s oldest human families. The finest wainwrights on the continent, and loyal to House Shad since the Steel War.”

“Clan Takaras refused to deal with the Merchant Council,” Zerene continued. “They were wealthy and influential enough to withstand the usual tactics.” Her eyes lit as she recounted the tale, evidence of her own rising anger. “Haydn and Kres were stealing from all of the Merchant Council and their members, using the siege tunnels. The tunnels had been sealed so long, most people forgot they were even there. The thefts had been noticed, and no matter what kind of countermeasures Vaeus or the Council used, they couldn’t catch or track the thieves.”

Bolt snorted. “All they needed t’ do was post some guards inside the warehouses!” He shook his head. “Typical craft-addled townies. Usin’ wards ‘n’ charms fer everything, ‘stead o’ sharp eyes ‘n’ strong arms.”

“Lord Kiel Rickart did just that,” Zerene told him. “A few days later, he announced that the City Guard fought and killed a group of intruders who broke into one of his warehouses. The intruders were identified as Takaras servants. Lord Kiel formally accused Lord Yrek Takaras of masterminding the thefts. In turn, Lord Yrek accused Lord Kiel and Captain Vaeus of kidnapping his people and executing them, setting it up to look like a theft. Lord Kiel took it personally, and demanded satisfaction for the slight on his honor. Lord Yrek accepted the challenge, but on the day of the duel Lord Kiel sprung a ringer, appointing one of Vaeus’ Guards as champion.”

“Lord Yrek was killed?” Jonnal asked.

Zerene shook her head. “No, he killed the champion. But Lord Kiel accused him of cheating, and demanded an examination of his weapon. Sure enough, it had been rigged with a deathrune.”

“Cheater,” Bolt growled, frowning.

“That’s what everybody said,” Zerene continued. “Lord Yrek was tried and imprisoned for murder. Clan Takaras couldn’t survive the disgrace. Contracts were cancelled, faithful customers turned to other wainwrights. The family had to auction off their holdings just to survive. Mrisal Takaras broke off her engagement to Haydn, because she didn’t want her family’s shame to taint him. They left Embron three months ago for parts unknown.”

“A tragic tale,” Jonnal declared. “But one can hardly hold Lord Kiel responsible for Lord Yrek’s treachery. Though I can barely believe –“

“Neither do Haydn and Kres,” Zerene interrupted. “All of their memories of Lord Yrek show him to be harsh, opinionated, stubborn – but honorable. To their thinking, he’d have taken the chance of dying before he’d cheat at a duel.”

“How many of Clan Takaras’ holdings went to Merchant Council members?” Jonnal asked, jaw hard.

“Nearly all, from what the brothers know,” Zerene told him.

Jonnal nodded. “From one tale of woe to another. What about Kres Feber?”

 

 

“Kres Feber,” murmured Professor Kigar Mudd, as if recalling a favored book. “Well do I recall both the name, and the boy who bore it.” He regarded Melia with deceptive languor in his earth-colored eyes. His hair was a slightly lighter shade of the same color, pulled back in a scholarly braid. Ageless in the way only an aerin mage can manage, the professor’s elastic face combined wisdom of years with an irrepressible puckish humor. “What brings his story to your interest, Milady?”

Melia held up her hands with an entreating smile. “Please, Professor. You have known me since my first year. To you will I always be Melia.”

Professor Mudd held up a hand in mock reverence. “Yet does our breed love its form and ceremony,” he intoned. “Once were you a mere initiate. Now you are a teacher in your own right, and your Promise to Embron’s newly-Ascended Lord comes due in two days’ time. While I?” He adopted a humble mien. “I am still a simple scholar. So.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before him. The two of them were gathered in his small office, well-warded against even the most determined prying. “What is Kres Feber to you?”

“At this point,” Melia answered honestly, “merely a piece in a puzzle. He was a student here?”

“More like a storm in a robe,” Mudd corrected her gently. “He blew in as a human initiate with ability equal to most aerin, from whom we all expected great things. He blew out in disgrace, as an insubordinate blasphemer intent on nothing less than rewriting Shennese history to suit his own fancy.” He winked. “At least, that is the story of record, assuming you could manage to exhume his record. The Academy is very secretive about embarrassing students.”

Melia cocked her head, regarding Mudd quizzically. “You said ‘…story of record.’ From that I infer there is more to the tale.”

Mudd nodded. “As is ever the case. Young Master Feber had just come under my tutelage when the unfortunate affair happened.” He paused as a look of regret crossed his face. “Such a loss.”

“What happened?” Melia prompted.

“He got into a very heated debate over a matter of history, with Lord Professor Perre,” Mudd replied. “And made the mistake of refusing to back down.”

Melia frowned. “I don’t see how that would be ground for expulsion.”

“The debate was over the Siege of Tyvis,” Mudd added, and sat forward. “Now, indulge an old scroll-crawler,” he said with a smile. “Impress me with your knowledge of the event.”

Melia took a moment to compose her thoughts. “Tyvis was the last stronghold of the Steel Concord,” she began. “Also the most loyal to Lord Most High Arianus. When news of His Lordship Most High and Lady Most High Kyndera’s deaths first reached them, the garrison of Tyvis refused to credit it. Even when it was corroborated by members of the Concord’s command staff, they wouldn’t believe it. They retreated into the siege tunnels and sealed themselves in. They refused all negotiation and entreaty, even placed traps at many of the entrances.” She paused in recollection. “Sixteen months after it began, Court Alliance forces finally managed to breach the tunnels. They discovered that the Concord loyalists had all starved to death. That was the official end of the Steel War.”

Mudd nodded in approval. “And the commander in charge of the forces which laid siege to Tyvis?”

Melia’s brow furrowed as she struggled to recall her own history classes. Suddenly her eyes widened in both recollection and understanding. “Lady General Aisha Perre!”

Mudd applauded softly. “The Academy will suffer greatly from your defection to court life,” he complimented her. “Now, according to Kres Feber, who claimed he had gotten it from a soldier under Lady General Perre’s command, the Concord loyalists retreated to the siege tunnels right away. When they received the confirmation of Arianus’ and Kyndera’s deaths from the survivors of the Concord High Command, they agreed to surrender, on one condition.” He paused for effect. “They requested that the lowest vaults of the siege tunnels, which they had sealed, would remain unmolested. They claimed the vaults had been made into catacombs for their honored dead.”

Melia looked puzzled. “Only Terin bury their dead. Tyvis was a Ferin city.”

Mudd waggled an approving finger at her. “Precisely. And that discrepancy aroused Lady General Perre’s suspicions. In Kres Feber’s version of events, the Lady General theorized that valuable treasure, or perhaps important documents had been concealed in the siege vaults, that the Concord loyalists would rather keep buried for all time rather than have them fall into Alliance hands. The vaults were not only sealed, they were warded against scrying.

“The Lady General refused the loyalists’ request. Further, she extracted the location of all of the siege tunnel entrances from captured Tyvis citizens, and had them sealed with deathrunes.”

“Deathrunes!” Melia echoed, shocked at the idea.

Mudd nodded. “The Lady General told the loyalists they could either come out and open the seals on the vaults, or stay buried themselves along with them. Several members of her staff objected to her actions. A few even attempted a coup, to remove her from command. They failed and were summarily executed for treason, without benefit of trial. The Lady General also issued orders that anybody attempting to remove the deathrunes or otherwise aid the Concord loyalists would be put to death.”

“Ladies!” Melia exclaimed.

“Thus, after sixteen months, when the loyalists no longer answered hails, the rune on one entrance was removed, and scouts cautiously entered.” Mudd’s expression was grave. “They discovered every single Concord loyalist dead of thirst or starvation. And the vaults were still sealed tight, their wards impregnable. The Concord loyalists got their way in the end. The Lady General had the tunnels cleared, delivered the bodies to their families, and gave the story that has become the official account of record. She ordered the tunnels sealed, ostensibly as a memorial to the loyal dead. Her power and prestige were such that none of her command dared counter her word.”

Melia regarded Mudd curiously. “You tell the tale as if you believe it,” she murmured.

Mudd leaned back again, raising his hands in a dismissing fashion. “It matters not what I believe. Kivik Perre was furious! He took Kres Feber’s story of the siege as an insult to the memory of his grandmother, his family name, and himself.” He chuckled. “Had the boy not been courtless, I believe the Lord Professor would have demanded satisfaction!”

“So he had Kres expelled instead,” Melia concluded.

Mudd nodded. “Initiate Feber was given a choice. Either he named the alleged survivor from whom he’d heard the alternate account of the siege, or be expelled from the Academy.” He frowned. “What was unstated in the choice was the fate of Kres’ friend, should he be named. If the more villainous account of the Siege of Tyvis were proven, all survivors of that campaign would be branded war criminals, no matter how innocent their association. And there is no statute of limitations on war crimes. Kres would be delivering his friend, and every other survivor of the Siege of Tyvis, up to investigation and possible execution.”

“That’s no choice at all!” Melia protested in a low, dangerous tone.

“Indeed not,” Mudd agreed. “The entire affair was quickly filed away and never spoken of again. In fact, many here will now deny even recalling the name Kres Feber.” His tone became unmistakably sardonic. “The Academy prefers to present a more unified, enlightened face to the world.”

Melia stood, smoothing her skirts, and offered her hand. Professor Mudd stood as well, cupping the hand gently in his own. “I hope my little tale has helped fill in your puzzle,” he said.

Melia smiled broadly. “It has, Professor. Thank you so much for taking time, and sharing the story with me.”

Professor Mudd bowed slightly over Melia’s hand. “This humble scholar is ever at your disposal, Milady.” His eyes twinkled, betraying the mischief in his obsequiousness.

Nacci was waiting in the anteroom of Professor Mudd’s office. She sprang to her feet as Melia emerged. “So?” she prompted, once the two of them were several paces down the hall.

“So,” Melia echoed. “There may be more to your thief, after all.”

“My thief?!” Nacci squeaked indignantly. “What gives you the idea I’d give a bent tine for him?”

Melia smiled. “You spoke with some eloquence about his passionate defense of his and his brother’s crimes. It was that which made me seek out Professor Mudd, to see whether he’d made an equal impression elsewhere.”

Both of them squinted as they emerged from the Academy office wing and made their way back to the reception garden. Nacci affected an apathetic manner. “Matters not why he did it,” she declared. “He still broke the law, and should be punished. Such should be the fate of all criminals.”

Melia nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed,” was all she said.

 

Careless Tongues

 

Sunlight struck dazzling reflections from the domes and terraces of Tyvis. Supply Adjutant Doren Shad felt his breast swell to bursting at the spectacle. I told you I’d return, he boasted to the gleaming city. That I’d free you.

“Doren,” the Supply Officer next to him hailed. Strict military protocol discouraged the use of proper names between superiors and staff, but protocol had never been Supply Officer Nerit Pumic’s forte. Besides, they were both courtless, so what harm lay in the occasional impropriety? “You were born in Tyvis, were you not?”

“Indeed, mistress,” Doren replied. He had to clear his heart from his throat to make his answer understandable.

“Riddle me, then,” Nerit requested. “Why do even the Ferin build their cities from stone? They command metals. Why not raise entire cities from steel?”

“Two reasons,” Doren answered readily. “The first, metal is suitable as a support, but not a main component. Unless properly enchanted or alloyed, it collapses too easily under its own weight. The second is that stone is far more plentiful.”

Nerit grinned. “Always with the right answers,” she praised him. “You’re too smart to be a mere adjutant. Ladies smiled on me that I got this post first. Else I’d be answering to you!” She laughed, and wrapped her fingers around his upper arm in a friendly grip. “It’s welcome home this is for you then, isn’t it?”

Doren smiled in response. “It will be,” he agreed, once more letting himself be caught up in the reflected sunfire sparked from the rooftops. “Ladies smile, it will be.”

Five thousand years later, Tyvis was but a memory. Some days Doren Shad wished the same fate for himself.

The city had been re-christened Embron after the end of the Steel War, at the demand of its new Pyrine Lady. Doren was unperturbed by the change. It had ever been the victor’s privilege to place their mark over that of their defeated opponent. In his heart, the city of his birth would always be named Tyvis.

The domes sparkle not nearly so bright these days, he brooded. My own fault for not noticing the change. Too many years with my eyes bent toward the ground, instead of the heavens. Do the events of recent days portend a return to happier days for my city? Or will a broken curse and new Lord be yet the latest morsels to be chewed up and spat out?

Along with the rest of Embron, Doren had felt the reverberation of the Shad curse being foiled. Praiseworthy as that event had been, its impact on daily life in Embron had yet been unnoticeable.

Doren had attended yesterday’s Ascension festivities along with the rest of the city. He’d witnessed the exchange between the new Lord and the portian baker. He knew neither of them. The scene could as easily have been rehearsed or genuine. The baker had since gone to ground, while His Lordship retreated behind the walls of the Greathouse. On the street, people murmured. What did it mean? Was change possible?

That such questions may even be contemplated is answer enough, Doren reflected, feeling his own mood lift ever so slightly. He realized the change as soon as it happened. He pounced upon it and dragged it back under the shroud of malaise which served him both as defense and camouflage. These days, life in Embron was best kept uneventful.

You would do well to heed that wisdom more closely, he chided himself.

He trudged along Lord’s Road to the Market Square. The name was slightly misleading – the expanse of open, paved ground in the middle of Embron was of a shape not so easily defined. The forepart of its name was accurate enough, though. Though there were mercantile establishments elsewhere in the city, Market Square was where nearly everybody did their shopping. Carts, kiosks, tents, gazebos, and open stalls defined only by the walls of their neighbors composed a cacophonous labyrinth of commerce. Here and there large canopies stretched taut on poles and cables, under which many businesses hawked their wares while sharing the shelter.

The flimsy, haphazard look of many establishments was deceptive. Some merchants packed up their stock and took it home each night, returning before the next dawn to stake out prime vacancies. Most of the businesses in Market Square had long since claimed their space. They might lower their screens at night, but they had not budged from their locations in years.

Market Square never fully closed. Crystal rods lit the evening and through the night, doused only when the sun rose high enough over the city roofs. Merchant boasts grew quieter as the shadows deepened, but never ceased entirely. Drifts of smoke carried scents of incense and cooking food and layered the air in a fine haze, adding a surreal ethereality to the scene.

This morning, Doren noted a new resonance buzzing within Market Square’s customary noise. There’s the haggling and boasting of course, and the gossip. But no! The gossip’s changed. Without lifting his head or turning, he cast his eyes about. Faces normally slack with boredom were stretched in smiles or taut with tension. Eyes were wide and bright.

What news can be so striking, Doren wondered, to raise such a stir? Surely not just the new Lord! He slowed his pace a little more, even paused at points to overhear the currents of conversation.

There was about His Lordship. There was no middle ground there – folk either hailed Lord Jonnal as Embron’s salvation, or a self-worshiping courtling who’d gotten lucky once and had staged the scene at the Ascension to further inflate his own prestige.

Rumor drifted like smoke also about a gigantic Tantareli centaur which had apparently come into town among the other visitors, for the Ascension and wedding. Aside from the spectacle presented by such a creature’s presence, some claimed to have seen a human woman with sun-gold eyes and blood-hued hair riding him. Could a Phoenix-Touched have come to Embron?

Then there was this tale, whispered by a Pyrin Doren knew not by name, but who served in the Greathouse. “His Lordship nearly went down, but the Captain stopped him.” Captain? Aside from this morning’s meeting with the Merchant Council, Captain Vaeus has had no contact with His Lordship! Ah, he means the House Guard Captain. “She and the Guard were down there only a few moments when both His Lordship and the Lady Melia were shouting at them to get out. Before they could, the stairs slammed shut and would not open.” Stairs slammed shut? Ladies, no! “The Lady Melia finally used her Kin power to reshape the very stone. I saw not what had happened, but neither Captain Dio nor Guard Usmas came out. The Lady Melia resealed the tunnel, and His Lordship forbade any discussion of the incident.”

“Given that last,” one of the listeners retorted dryly, “should your mouth be open on such things?”

Though he stood in a patch of bright morning sunlight, Doren felt the chill of a harsh winter in his bones. How could they have discovered – those boys! Surely, even they would not be so impetuous, so stupid!

And now I must act just as foolishly, to find out what they have done. With that thought he turned and left Market Square, his pace quickened by urgency.

Nothing in Embron was new. Neighborhoods were either old or very old. The Feber forge was buttressed against a section of what was once Tyvis’ perimeter wall, betraying it as dating from the days before the Steel War. The district had avoided falling into a ghetto, but neither was it one of the finer parts of the city. Its primary virtue was being far enough off the main thoroughfares to afford a measure of quiet.

The wide double doors giving onto the smithy itself were shut. The chimney of the forge emitted only a faint wisp of smoke, obviously idle. Doren knew the Feber brothers maintained their family tradition of rising early – even on the day their mother had died, the smithy doors opened to greet the morning sun. No official seal, Doren noted. He walked around the corner of the building without ever looking directly at it. The door which led upstairs to the residential part of the structure was likewise shut, but there was no sign of any formal Guard activity at either entrance. Of course, if Vaeus had taken them openly, I’d have known. So either this is not Vaeus’ doing, or he wished no official record made of it.

“It was not the Guard.”

The voice was small and quiet, as ethereal as the dawn-stirred breeze. It came from above and to one side of Doren, as if issuing from the smithy’s eaves. From long habit he knew better than to look directly at its source.

“Good morning, Kara,” he whispered. She would hear him as clearly as if he’d spoken openly. “What happened?”

“Seekers,” replied the wisplike voice. “The Tantareli and his Phoenix-Touched partner. Fast and quiet. They took them, and a Terine who was dressed for skulking.”

“Phoenix-Touched!” Doren breathed. “Then the rumors are true! Where did they go?”

“The Terine went by herself in the direction of the Greathouse,” Kara answered. “The Seekers took the brothers outside the city.”

“They wish to avoid any official attention,” Doren mused. “But why bring in Seekers? Between their Houses and the Guard, they’ve no shortage of willing, discreet lackeys!”

“The question should be,” Kara murmured, “what Merchant Council coin could possibly attract a Phoenix-Touched?”

Doren snorted. “Beware of legends, Kara. At the end of the day, I’m sure Phoenix-Touched need to eat and sleep like anybody else.”

“You are too old to be so cynical,” Kara chided him gently.

The rebuke startled a quiet chuckle from him. Imagine being too old to be cynical!

“The curse is broken,” Kara reminded him. “A door has been opened now, for allies to enter.”

“If they are not in the employ of the Merchant Council,” Doren whispered, “then who?”

“The answer to that,” Kara replied, “lies in His Lordship’s adventures these two years past.”

“The Lord, employing Seekers?” The idea was preposterous on the face of it. Certainly the Upper Court was rife with intrigue and exploits which never officially took place. The Agents’ Guild made the centaur’s share of its coin on such affairs. Seekers were noted neither for subtlety nor discretion – why use such blunt instruments instead of more conventional methods?

Precisely because they are unconventional, the answer came to him at once. Like breaking the script of a ceremony generations old, to revive the truth behind its form.

“The Market Square awaits.” Kara was indirectly advising him he’d tarried too long from his routine. “We’ll be ready tonight. Thanks to His Lordship we’ll need much less than usual.”

“Bless the Ladies for that timing,” Doren reminded her. “I recall that it’s Arjae’s birthday.”

“Orphans have no birthdays.”

“They do on my watch,” He took the opportunity to return a rebuke. “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

No answer came. A risked glance from the corner of his eye revealed only empty eaves where he’d heard her voice.

Even to those eyes which knew him well, Doren’s manner when he returned to Market Square merited scant remark.

“Running a bit behind today, Doren?” offered Taum Karegaru the grocer, a wiry human with the blond hair and aquiline features common to natives of Janjigau, far to the west.

“Am I?” Doren returned rhetorically, barely meeting Taum’s eye. Without further ceremony he handed him a sheet of paper.

Taum took the sheet and quickly scanned the neat handwriting. “All the usual,” he wheedled. “No special meals for the Guard, to celebrate the new Lord or his wedding?”

“Captain Vaeus frowns on extravagance,” Doren explained, as though the subject had not been discussed many times previous. He extracted a sealed coinpouch from his belt and extended it. “The amount should be correct.”

“As always,” Taum agreed.

“Ztraq!”

The oath rang through the morning air. Its vulgarity was a herald. In the next moment every nose and throat in the small court siezed up to repulse an erupting stench which combined honey, fresh blood, and wet fur to produce something unmatched by any unkempt sewer.

Doren and Taum both looked around through teary eyes, following the sound of the oath. Two stalls from Taum’s market a massive cask had long ago been split in half, dried and lacquered against the weather. Under the curve of the wooden stays hunkered a small alehouse. The proprietor was a human named Dassel. That unfortunate soul was the source of the swear. He struggled to restopper a freshly-tapped keg, at the same time fighting to keep his breakfast in his stomach.

“Sruhi-vany ve’ter!” Dassel’s wife, a matronly woman named Keldy, waved her hands in the air in a spiral motion as she shouted the cantrip. Wind suddenly roared and twisted in the market, the vortex sucking the stench from the rotten keg up through the flapping canopies overhead. People wiped at their eyes and gratefully gulped air that tasted sweeter than before, though it was only the lack of the stink that made it seem so.

“The keg was bad!” Dassel exclaimed. “It spoiled the ale!”

Keldy uttered an oath of her own, though she was lady enough to keep it under her breath. “They’re all from the same lot!” she cried, surveying the other kegs which had just been delivered. “Are any of them good?”

“For love of the Ladies,” shouted Taum, “don’t open them here to find out!” The sentiment was echoed by many others nearby.

Taum returned his attention to Doren. “Delivery should be around noon. That will do?”

Doren nodded, eschewing a spoken reply, and turned to leave. Behind him, Taum shrugged at the small brusqueness. Can’t be fun, he thought, working for that nest of spiders.

As Doren passed the alehouse he overheard Dassel mutter to his wife, “So much for refusing to pay Council dues. I warned you!”

The rest of Doren’s morning errands passed without further event. Office supplies, grooming needs, necessities for keeping the garrison clean and in repair. The other merchants had long since abandoned efforts to draw the dour old Pyrin into conversation. Deliveries would be staggered throughout the afternoon, allowing enough time for each to be properly received and disposed of before the next was due.

“Kockle! Praler!” shouted Lieutenant Karlo Myl from the doorway of the common room. “Receiving duty! Into the yard, like you enjoy it!”

The two guards in question jerked their attention away from their game of Stack. When Lieutenant Myl used that tone of voice, one dared not dally. Praler endured their superior’s glare while he waited for Kockle to put her boots on, rather than abandon his comrade to the Nerine lieutenant’s impatience.

Neither guard was surprised to see Doren already in the garrison yard with his tablet and stylus, checking the invoice against the bundles in the bed of the carriage. They waited while the quartermaster finished his tally, then stepped forward at his signal and shouldered a load. Doren led them downstairs, where they again waited while he unlocked the larder.

“Flour against that wall,” Doren instructed with a point of his stylus. “Vegetables in the cooler.”

We know, we know, Kockle complained mentally to Praler as she carried the bag of vegetables into the chilled chamber reserved for perishables. Ladies, you’d think we’d never done this before, the way he acts!

Old Doren doesn’t trust anybody, Praler replied phegmatically. He gently laid both bags of flour onto a pallet. That’s why he’s still around.

What’s worse, Kockle went on, is how he watches us every moment we’re down here! As if we might steal an apple, or mix the cheeses! Distrustful old fart!

Keep such thoughts to yourself, Praler reminded her as they returned upstairs for the next load, and especially away from the Captain. To him, Doren’s farts smell like flowers.

Is that why he never helps? Kockle retorted. Or is he so old he might break if he tried to carry anything?

“There’ll be another delivery in an hour,” Doren told them six trips later, as he re-checked the storage of the groceries. “Keep your boots on.”

For Vela Kockle, the peremptory dismissal was one insult too many. “When the Lieutenant calls,” she retorted from the doorway, “we shall answer, quartermaster.”

Yar Praler cuffed her on the back of the head, and Doren looked up from his tablet. “We are at your disposal, Quartermaster,” Praler assured him. He clutched Kockle’s upper arm and dragged her upstairs.

Are you mad? he rebuked her as they returned to the common room. It would take but one word from him to Myl or Vaeus, and we’ll both pull cleaning duty for a month!

I’m sorry, Yar, she replied. I’ve had my fill of Embron. This used to be a good job, but dealing with the likes of Vaeus, that bitch Myl, and that gnarled relic of a quartermaster – the price has grown increasingly dear.

Endure but a little longer, Yar entreated. Change is coming, I know it. Soon we can both enjoy the sight of a horizon which does not include Embron.

Doren lost no further thought on the guards as he completed his review of the stocked provisions. He checked the fit of the drainage grate in the middle of the floor before exiting and locking the door. He and the cook passed in the hall, each acknowledging the other with a mute nod. Doren did not pause at the sound of the cook unlocking the larder door. Only the two of them had access to the larder, and the quartermaster had long ago impressed upon the cook the importance of a daily report on what supplies were taken for the guards’ and Captain’s meals.

The sun was a blinding white disc in the dome of the verdant sky. Doren squinted against its brilliance as he emerged from the garrison’s side entrance into the yard. Does the sky seem brighter today? The large, open court surrounded by a high wall betrayed the place’s origins as a military fort. Dating from the Steel War, it was not the oldest building in the city, but missed that distinction by only a few thousand years. When the fledgling City Guard needed quartering, the old fort was a natural choice.

No watch had stood along the parapets in thousands of years, nor had any formations mustered in the court. The brig which had once housed hostages or prisoners of war now saw occasional use, though most of the recent inmates had been strangers to Embon and Aubryn Vaeus’ law.

The closest place I’ve known to a home since the War, Doren brooded. If seniority were the deciding factor in rank, I’d have long ago been Captain. Thank the Ladies that other considerations prevail. Those who hold most tightly to authority are those least deserving of it.

Case in point, he amended as he spied Captain Vaeus march through the gate (which had not been closed so long, he doubted its hinges still worked). Doren quickly squelched the contemptuous thought, fixing his own posture and stride to their usual haggard manner. He saw that his course and Vaeus’ were due to intersect, and took pains to ensure he appeared oblivious to that fact.

“Quartermaster,” Vaeus muttered absently by way of greeting, as they passed.

“Captain,” Doren returned in like manner. Anybody else would have been required to snap to attention at even such a half-hearted hail from the Captain, showing proper fear of Vaeus’ position. But I am only old Doren, more an extension of this place than a person.

The fact that Vaeus had acknowledged his presence to even that small degree betrayed another bit of information. Doren knew that Vaeus had accompanied the Merchant Council to an audience with the new Lord that morning, and that they had retired to Lady Kethine Eona’s house afterward to discuss the fruits of that audience. All of which should have returned him to the garrison long before now. Doubtless Milady held a private audience with the Captain once the rest had left. Which would account for his mood being elevated enough to spend even one word of greeting in my direction!

The sardonic reflection nearly brought a smirk to his lips, and he fought it back fiercely. Does the question of Kres’ and Haydn’s fate trouble me so much, that I am distracted to the point of such carelessness?

Without quickening his pace, he escaped to the sanctuary of his office. The next delivery was due in a half-hour. He intended to use the time to restore his usual apathetic composure.

The door locked behind him. The metallic click was thunderous in his ears. It took little pretense for the surprised, faintly frightened look on his face as he spun to face the entryway.

She was dressed simply, in a jerkin and pants of matching, unadorned leather. Bracers and fingerless gloves of the same material completed her ensemble. Her dark, slightly ruddy skin nearly blended into the color of the leathers. Tall for a human female, the crown of her head came to his nose. Her features were fine and spare, their high, strong lines reminiscent of aerin blood.

All of this came to him later. The first things that caught Doren’s attention were the mass of brilliant red hair, brighter even than Pyrin locks; the sun-colored eyes; and the bejeweled gold ring which adorned the index finger of her upraised hand.

“Of one voice am I with His Lordship, Lord Jonnal Shad of Embron.” Her lips and tongue formed the words. The voice that came from her mouth was the same Doren had heard yesterday, amplified by the speakers beneath the dais on which the Ascension of Embron’s new Lord had been made official. That same voice had issued a challenge to the mob of the city, answered the challenge which had been returned, and started a wave of hopeful gossip in Market Square.

“The Lord’s Mark.” Doren hadn’t meant to utter the phrase aloud.

“I’m glad you recognize it,” Lord Jonnal’s voice replied from her mouth. “I hope that will save some time, because we don’t have much of it.” She frowned then, and slid the ring off her finger. “My name is Zerene Kandaler.” Her own voice was higher than His Lordship’s but deep for a female, with a husky rasp. “I’m a Seeker in Jon – His Lordship’s employ.”

Doren bowed slightly. “As a member of the City Guard, I am of course at the disposal of His Lordship,” he assured her. Behind his calm facade, his thoughts raced. That was Kara’s meaning! His Lordship went questing for a phoenix feather. Of course he’d have hired Seekers for guide and protection. This must be one of those, and she gained enough of the phoenix’s favor to receive its Touch! No wonder His Lordship would retain her services!

“I really want to believe that,” she told him. As she spoke, she unfastened the hem of her jerkin, and lifted the shirt beneath it. Her navel was adorned by a simple gold ring. She opened the ring with a practiced flick of her fingers, slid the enchanted Lord’s Mark onto it, and shut it again. As she restored her jerkin she continued, “Because you may just be the key to Embron’s salvation.”

Doren’s eyebrows climbed. “A bold statement,” he declared. “By its very forthrightness, no doubt intended to pique my interest in what details may follow.” His face relaxed into a smile at once knowing and tired. “I am but a relic whose dreams of changing the world, or even leaving a legacy, are long since dust and blown away. My duty and the next sunset are grand enough adventures. What can I offer a world of Phoenix-Touched Seekers, and mad Lords who tread tradition beneath their shoes?”

“You can restore the honor of a young man who believed the tale you told him of the true Siege of Tyvis,” she offered readily. “And you can help break the Merchant Council’s stranglehold on the city you love.”

“More tantalizing tidbits!” Doren cried softly. “Stop whetting my appetite, Seeker Zerene Kandaler. Make your offer and leave me in peace.” Behind his cavalier reply his thoughts raced. What does she know about Kres?

She nodded. “I’ll make my offer. But peace has nothing to do with it.” She took a small step forward to emphasize her words. “His Lordship requests that you come forward and tell what you know about any illegal activities by the Merchant Council or the City Guard. At least to His Lordship, and possibly before the Court Assembly.”

Doren’s eyebrows arched again. “How comes His Lordship to imagine that I have any such knowledge? Though I carry the Shad name I am courtless, a mere ledger-crawler who arouses notice only if I am remiss in my duties.” He turned away, moving toward his desk. As he lifted a shallow pile of reports and shuffled them, he threw a challenge over his shoulder. “What part would I have in any highborn conspiracies?” The pages went back into the tray reserved for them, now in a neat stack. He reached his chair and collapsed gratefully into it.

She followed him as far as the other side of his desk, but allowed its expanse between them. Leaning forward, she rested the knuckles of her balled hands on the wood surface. “I don’t have time to dance with you,” she growled, eyes lit. “I know you hate what they’ve done to this city.”

She pushed off and stood straight. Her eyes no longer glowed, but they caught the sunlight coming in the single window and so were still brilliant. “I’ve been here only two days. I owe Embron nothing. Just being here is fraying my nerves. But I intend to do everything I can to take those f’ndi down, so the people here have a chance at a decent life.” The gaze she leveled at him was challenging, and a little contemptuous. “You’ve lived here since the Steel War. Your love for this place is so strong I can taste it. Are you really going to sit there and pass up a chance to make things right?”

She doesn’t know about the children,he deduced from her question, with a mental sigh of relief.

“Is His Lordship paying you so well?” Doren retorted, leaning his head back against his chair. “Surely there are less taxing ways for a Phoenix-Touched Seeker to make good coin.”

Her blink and the momentary blank expression which flitted across her features told Doren he’d brought up a point she hadn’t considered. Suddenly she smiled broadly. “In point of fact,” she told him, “His Lordship and I haven’t discussed the matter of payment.”

Doren tsked. “Hardly professional,” he chided gently.

Her smile turned knowing. “Only to those who know so little about us,” she riposted. “Lord Jonnal left a courtling, but he returned a Seeker. We never charge our own. Now,” she continued, her tone rasping like a blade against a whetstone, “time for you to choose, Guard Quartermaster Doren Shad. Do you remember how it feels to fight for something you love, or will you…” Her words trailed off as her eyes glowed softly.

Doren felt nothing against his shields to indicate that she was trying to probe him. After a moment’s pause her eyes dimmed. Her shoulders lost their tension, slumping not in defeat but… disappointment?

“I see,” she said, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her. Her head was tilted foward, her bangs nearly obscuring her eyes. “For a moment there, I thought you had something.” She sighed, then lifted her head again, shoving a sanguine lock back and tucking it behind her right ear. Her expression was sad as she regarded him. “If you find it again, let me know.”

She vanished.

No shaft of a portal spell, no vortex of energy, no wisp of smoke in the air to show where she had been. In less time than it would have taken to blink, she was no longer there.

But the look in her eyes haunted him. She was disappointed, sad… for me! He examined his own thoughts at the moment the conversation took that turn. I was thinking about the War, the Siege…

Suddenly he leaned forward, his hand darting for the neat stack of reports before him. From between them he pulled an iron-framed mirror. He tapped the back of its pane, then traced a curlicue in the scrollwork of its frame. The pane darkened.

He lifted his finger from the spiral. “For a moment there,” her voice came from the mirror’s pane, “I thought you had something.” Her sigh was eloquent. “If you find it again, let me know.”

He traced over the curlicue again. “Time for you to choose, Guard Quartermaster Doren Shad. Do you remember how it feels to fight for something you love–“

Doren tapped the pane, interrupting the playback. He let the mirror slip from between his fingers, and it clattered softly against the desktop.

How did she know? Did they tell her?

“How did it go?” Jonnal asked, looking up at Zerene from the mirror in her hand.

Zerene shook her head. She walked along Lord’s Road, splitting her attention between the mirror and traffic around her. Qran ztan made it easy to get from place to place without drawing Phoenix-Touched! attention. The downside was that if people couldn’t see you, they didn’t know to get out of your way.

“Not a good start,” she reported. “He’s the one who told Kres and Haydn the truth about the Siege of Tyvis. He also knows enough to put the Merchant Council away, or at least for us to crack their alliance apart.” She paused long enough to quell the pang of pity that stung in her heart. So many years with so little joy. So lonely, old, tired…

She stopped suddenly. Her eyes widened, then a clatter of wheels warned her to dodge a wagon trundling past.

“But he won’t?” Jonnal finished. His face loomed in the mirror, as he reflexively leaned closer in a vain attempt to improve his view of her.

Zerene’s reaction was not to the near miss. He hasn’t given up! She realized. He daren’t let himself hope, but he still… does what he can. She hadn’t probed the old aerin very deeply. He’s hiding something. Something he’s doing, that he knows will cause him trouble if it gets out. “I’m not sure yet,” she told Jonnal absently.

Jonnal sat back with a frown. “Very well,” he said at length, “Ladies Smile, Bolt and Melia will have better fortune at Black Lake Valley.”

 

 

Where am I? Right, Embron.

Where’s my body?

What the hell happened?

Crowded in here.

…You do not belong here.

Thank you, I’m glad we agree! Now, the way out, if you please?

…There is no escape.

Look, I have way too much to do, and I’m far too short ot time to dance with you. Who are all of you, anyway?

…We are they who guard the secret ways, defend that which is sealed and hidden.

*sigh* Can no one ever give a straight answer?

Did they catch you, too? After what happened to us, I thought surely His Lordship wouldn’t send any more!

Ghosts! You’re all ghosts! This is Embron’s siege tunnels! How the hell did I end up here?!

I am – was Captain Orim Dio, of the Embron Greathouse Guard. Who are you, unhappy stranger?

Zerene Kandaler and no, His Lordship didn’t send me into the tunnels! I’ve been working on a way to clear them out, but joining you all sure was definitely not part of the plan! Bright Ladies, I don’t even have a plan for this yet!

…You are still tied to your mortal frame. You do not belong here.

Great, we’re unanimous on that. Well hells, long’s I’m here… Captain Dio, I assume the manner of your death binds you here.

Correct, Maid Kandaler.

*snort* Maid. Call me Zerene. What can you tell me about these others? They’re from the Siege of Tyvis, aren’t they?

One of the few advantages of this state is that we have very effective ways of sharing information, Zerene. Though I must warn you, the experience is not always pleasant.

Of course it isn’t. Still, no time to dance.

As you wish.

 

 

“Dead?” Lord-General Paska Fehr demanded in incredulous horror.

Lady-Colonel Chazaquiel Daubei confirmed the news with an unhappy nod. “Confirmed by reports from our own agents and staff, Milord-General,” she replied. “Both Milord Most High Arianus and Lady Most High Kyndera unraveled themselves before a veil portal rather than surrender. Those members of the Concord Command still free are negotiating the terms of their surrender.” Tears shone on her cheeks. “The dream is over, Milord-General.”

Paska Fehr felt his own eyes wet. Cousins… He allowed himself a few moments’ grief, shutting his eyes as he leaned against the tunnel wall. He imagined his dear leaders’ bodies withering black and evaporating, their spirits likewise torn asunder and cast upon the winds that blew between reality’s planes.

“Pardon, Milord-General,” Chazaquiel Daubei persisted. “Our leaders are unraveled, our command dismantled, our troops in disarray. We ourselves are besieged, while the Steel Concord’s most precious, dangerous secrets lie sealed beneath our feet.”

“We are undone,” Paska agreed with his second-in-command’s analysis. “And in truth Colonel, I cannot claim surprise. Once our Lord Most High chose to bend against our own lands that terrible craft with which we are now entrusted, I have feared our own fate bound as tightly. One cannot profess to fight for one’s home, then turn and burn it to the ground!” He sighed. “It was that which turned so many of our allies against us. For if Lord Most High Arianus were willing to turn his own demesnes into smoking, poisonous rubble rather than let the Court Alliance capture them, how could he be expected to show more mercy to the lands of other Concord Houses?”

Lady-Colonel Daubei decided to avoid any critique of Lord Most High Arianus Fehr’s tactical acumen, keeping instead to safer subjects. “What are your orders, Milord-General?” she asked.

Paska gazed upward into the pale glow of the rod overhead. Chazaquiel noted how haggard he looked, and remembered the dashing figure who exuded command and confidence when she’d first been assigned as his adjutant. So many years and lives lost! Truly is war itself a beast, more ravenous and careless in its appetites than any other! Even we who survive sacrifice the best of ourselves to it.

“The vaults,” Paska murmured at length. “Sealed?”

Chazaquiel nodded. “Yes, Milord-General. I carved and charged the runes myself.”

“Do the troops know of Lord Most High Arianus and Lady Most High Kyndera?”

“No statement has been made,” Chazaquiel assured him. “As always, rumors run well ahead of official statements. They very likely know that the other strongholds have fallen, that we alone stand for the dream of a united court. For the rest, Ladies alone can say.”

“A united court,” Paska echoed softly. Suddenly he chuckled. “It is over, and we have already won.”

Chazaquiel blinked. “Milord-General?”

He stood straight once more, head high and shoulders square. “Colonel!” he commanded, his voice strong. “Summon a courier. We have terms to discuss with our esteemed opponents.”

“Terms of surrender, Milord-General?” Chazaquiel asked.

“No,” he replied. “Though we will allow them to think so!”

Fourteen months, twenty-two days have passed since the Court Alliance laid siege to Tyvis. Milord-General Paska Fehr died this evening. Of all our forces who retreated to these tunnels when the Alliance overran Tyvis, I alone am left. Deep in the earth as I am, the gifts of my Terine blood sustain me beyond what any other aerin breed may do.

Though I am the last survivor, I am not alone in these tunnels. Their flesh has expired, but most of our number remain. Only those who willingly threw themselves against the deathrunes set by the cursed Lady-General Aisha Perre have abandoned their posts. The rest stay, so long as a chance remains that our enemies may gain the secrets sealed in the vaults. So long as Milord-General remains in command!

I am not as strong as they. The earth is my Kin, but I wish to feel it beneath my feet, not all around and above me. I wish to die in the lands of my House, not on the opposite side of the world!

My days are consumed with unfaithful thoughts. I will not touch the deathrunes. Yet I wish nothing so dearly as to be away from this place, even though it means allowing our enemies access to the vaults. The cursed Lady-General Aisha Perre has made it clear, that and nothing else is the price of freedom.

Ladies bless Milord-General, for his foresight and mercy in saving me from the fruits of my own weakness! The same day the cursed Lady-General Aisha Perre ordered the tunnel entrances sealed with deathrunes, Milord-General called for volunteers. To those brave souls that stepped forward, he gave an extraordinary post. I re-scribed the runes which sealed the vaults, incorporating their names into the patterns. Milord-General then by his own hand ended their lives. With this, their spirits were bound to the vault doors.

Even were I to surrender to my treasonous thoughts, only by the soldiers’ unanimous consent or the command of Milord-General can the vaults ever be unsealed. Of course, this also means that unless either Milord-General or the cursed Lady-General Aisha Perre soften in their resolve, these tunnels will be my home, or my grave. Ladies curse them both, and curse me as well for such an evil wish.

I wish to stay here no longer! Yet I cannot abandon my post.

The deathrunes grow more appealing with each passing moment.

 

Casting The Net

 

“Black Lake Valley,” said Melia.

“Right, ye were here once before, weren’t ye?” Bolt replied, as they emerged from the swirl of a portal egress. “When Jonni – er, His Lordship and ye were searchin’ fer me.”

“Only this close,” Melia told him. “His Lordship feared the reception he might receive, due to his actions on your quest.”

“Aye,” Bolt acknowledged, “prolly rightly so, too. An’ on that subject, M’Lady…” he turned his fore torso around to face her where she sat on his barrel, “it’s best t’ let me do the talkin.’ Folks we’re here t’ see, they’re not much fer highborn speech.”

Melia smiled. “Of course, I intended nothing else! I am merely sent to add a courtly touch of verisimilitude to the outlandish offer we are here to extend.”

Bolt nodded in satisfaction and turned back around. Just hope she remembers those words inside, he thought. I recall how Jonni tried t’ take control of every conversation, ‘til we taught ‘im better!

The crossroads compound sprawled before them. The sun had just crested its course across the sky, and the shadows were short. The dark, peaty soil which gave the area its name was dry in the warm months, and small black clouds puffed with each hoofstep. The fields on either side of the road coiled with tomato vines, melon creepers, and other produce that grew well in warm, arid conditions. Overhead, the sun was just reaching its zenith.

Bolt passed the gate at much less than his usual blurring speed, but still skidded to a stop in front of the main house’s doors with enough force to startle the tourists on the patio. His legs bent, but Melia sprang lithely from his back before he could finish kneeling.

A sound like rock striking rock cracked across the compound. Melia concealed a reflexive start with reasonable grace. To Bolt the sound was both familiar and welcoming. He bent a wide grin at Melia before turning away from the doors and trotting around the side. Melia followed, curiosity plain on her fine features. Surely he’s not so easily distracted!

Rafters, canopies, and nets sheltered a sprawling patio reserved for Black Lake Valley’s giant clientele, with chairs, benches, and tables of appropriate scale. A mass of snowy fur and weathered sinew lounged next to one such. A pipe with a bowl the size of Bolt’s head spewed aromatic streamers, while a full keg with its top stove in sat nearby. Eyes as black and clear as winter night’s wind regarded Tantareli and Terine with equanimity.

“Oy, Po!” Bolt greeted the giant.

“Welcome, !Bolt,” rumbled a voice like a far-off avalanche. “Returned with a !profit, have you?” The clicking sound was made far back in his mouth, and could obviously vary widely in volume. Melia remembered learning somewhere that the tagarl, as the giants of Chillblade called themselves, used the sound by itself as a signal, and in their speech to add emphasis to words. Jonnal mentioned an old tagarl named Po stayed here. What would bring an ice giant this far from home, and impel him to stay once he’d retired? And such a mercenary greeting!

Far from being put off by the pecuniary hail, Bolt’s grin stretched wider. His head bobbed in cheerful confirmation. “Certain I have, ye mangy old cuss. And more than a profit – I got a dream come true fer them as wants it!”

Po’s eyes swept Melia from toe to crown. “There that much of !her to go around?”

Melia’s eyes boggled and her jaw dropped. The idea! How dare he! Then she spied Bolt’s expression from the corner of her eye, and realized she was being played. These are the people who reshaped Jonnal’s attitude during his quest, she realized. As Bolt said, not much for highborn ways. Ladies smile that their honor runs as deep as their gentility is shallow!

“Oy, be nice!” Bolt scolded Po playfully. “This ‘ere’s Lady Melia Shayl, Jonni’s Promised She’s ‘ere t’ add verisimilitude t’ me outlandish offer! ‘Sides, ain’t like anybody here’d know what t’ do with such rich coin!”

“What’s the !dream contract, then?” Po demanded.

Bolt shook his head. “I’ll not be repeatin’ meself,” he declared, turning and trotting toward the main entrance of Black Lake Valley’s main hall. “Y’ want in, ye’d best stir yer ass outta that chair an’ be sociable!”

The serving staff in the main hall were without exception portian. They were uniformly enthusiastic in their reception of Bolt. One in particular, an exquisite raven-haired daughter whom he called Wynne, was sending signals Melia found unmistakable. She’s in love with him! And the great thing hasn’t a clue! A portian and a Tantareli, could there be a more star-crossed match?

Bolt threaded a route through the public dining room with amazing skill for one so large. His greatest hazard was avoiding the hanging lights. Melia followed in his wake. She noted the stares of the patrons, ranging from apprehension to naked terror at the perceived danger of two-and-a-half-tons of muscle and bone passing close between their tables. These were not Black Lake Valley regulars – they were travelers whose carriage or caravan had stopped on its way to its destination, to whom the roadhouse was an exotic, quaint locale in the middle of Shenn’s wild lands.

While Melia understood their reactions, suddenly she realized her lips were curving in a smile at once condescending and impatient. She schooled her features into proper blandness, but the thoughts behind them remained. He calls these lands home, she rebuked them silently. He faces their dangers that would send you screaming with a smile and a laugh. His survival, and that of his clients, depends on his prowess. Do you really think he’d be so clumsy as to tip your table and spill your ale? She caught herself short of uttering the sentiment ‘Silly townies!’ Where did that come from?

A large pair of doors at the far end of the main dining room gave into an area of equal size, number and style of furnishings. The decor boasted one striking difference. The walls were hung with a motley collection of items. Weapons and armor in various states of disrepair; preserved bodies and parts from assorted creatures, some with grievous wounds still visible; and a miscellany of items not readily identifiable. None of the objects was pristine, and several of them were even grotesque. Each and every piece here has a story to it, she thought. Few of the stories are polite, many are fantastic, and some are surely repulsive and horrific. But none of them will be boring!

The beings who lounged at the tables (or on them) were likewise a diverse collection of riffraff, including among their number members of nearly every intelligent race on Shenn. The only thing they share is a peculiar set to their eyes and posture. All of them have scorned the conventions of polite society in favor of a life of uncertainty and risk. They ridicule the people in the next room, even as they gleefully take their coin in return for services as escort, hunter, or defender from their own naivete. The offer that we are here to extend them surpasses the word ‘outlandish.’ It is sheer madness. Yet am I a willing participant in it!

What is happening to me?

Bolt answered the chorus of hails from the gathered Seekers with a wide grin and upraised hands. “Oy oy oy!” he called. “I gotta make this quick, so drinks and tall tales come later. We’re here t’ offer any who wants it a job. Prolly the biggest job ye’ll ever take, maybe the last. Shut yer mouths and bend yer ears in my direction.” Gradually the rumble of conversation died off. Bolt dropped the offer into the silence like a rock.

“We’re gonna turn out the City Guard in Embron.”

 

 

The key made a scratching sound as the bolts slid home. Doren turned away from the room where tools and supplies used for maintenance and repair were kept. The last delivery, he reflected absently as he walked along the hall and ascended the stairs.

“Quartermaster!”

Doren recognized the voice calling from behind him. As he turned, he made sure his face was fixed in its customary listless expression. He was vexed to discover that this actually required some adjustment. What was my face showing? Did anybody notice? “Yes, Guard Praler?”

Yar Praler must have lingered after Doren had dismissed he and the other Guard. Kockle was her name. His demeanor was tantalizingly familiar to Doren. Suddenly he placed it: Praler was displaying interest, curiosity, –Perhaps even concern? Preposterous! – toward Doren.

“Are you well, Quartermaster?” Praler asked.

“Should I be otherwise, Guard?” Doren replied, taking pains to inject the proper lethargy into his tone. What did he see?

Praler made a show of thinking about it, searching Doren’s eyes. “Dunno,” he admitted, and shrugged. “For just a moment there, your walk….”

Doren thought back, recalling the feel of his limbs and muscles as he’d left the storeroom. Not the usual trudge through the doldrums, he realized. So concerned was I with that Seeker’s offer, I was actually striding as if I had an interesting destination! He quickly erased all signs of animation from his mien, praying he’d not tipped his stones to Praler. You’re imagining things. I’m just old Doren.

At length Praler sighed and shrugged. “I guess not,” he conceded. “Good day, Quartermaster.” He slid past Doren and headed down the hall in the direction of the barracks.

“Good day, Guard,” Doren returned, watching Praler’s back recede. ‘For just a moment there,’ he said. The Seeker said the same thing. I’m becoming distracted, careless. Whatever it is they saw, I must take pains to ensure it remains hidden.

With that thought, he made a study of plodding back to his office as if weights were fixed to his boots, and as if the very air were too thick to push against. Nobody else paid him notice, but only once his door was shut and latched behind him did he relax the facade. He sagged against the wooden planks, resting his chin against his chest.

Adjutant!

The urgent summons echoed in his mind. It came from outside the garrison. The wards of his quarters had been subtly altered so that they would allow only that one word to pass. The arrangement had been tested, but never before used in earnest.

The Shad Curse has not been lifted, Doren indulged in a sour moment. It has been transferred to me, and changed into a curse of adventure. I am to be drawn into intrigues, whether I wish it or not!

None noted his departure from the garrison yard. Why should they? It was only old Doren, intent on the assurance that their bellies were full and their uniforms clean. Similarly he avoided his usual routes, lest anybody wonder why the City Guard Quartermaster was about once the daily orders were done. Hopping a public carriage was taking a chance, but the summons meant he had to get to the district called Tumbledown as quickly as possible.

How telling, Doren thought, stepping down from the carriage as it slowed, that those structures which ought to be revered for their place in Embron’s history instead receive so little note as to be are considered slums! Tumbledown was named for the dilapidated fragments of the old city wall whose stones seemed to sag under their own weight. As in other parts of Embron, centuries of peace had seen the actual city limits outgrow the old wall. Now the only purpose it serves is a curiosity, an obstacle, or a source of cheap building materials.

The buildings in Tumbledown were in slightly better shape than the wall. A mix of residences and warehouses segmented by narrow, crooked, old streets, there was nothing here to draw visitors. The entire district seemed tucked carefully out of sight, lest its shabbiness embarrass the rest of the city. What more appropriate place than this, Doren reflected as he approached a converted warehouse, to store Embron’s forgotten children?

The sign was in need of paint. He could barely make out the legend: Charias Shad Shelter for Displaced Children. Doren remembered Charias Shad. She was the Lady of the city when the Shad Curse first made itself known. She always loved children, especially the orphaned, lost, or abandoned. The Greathouse yard was always open to them under her reign. What a hollow honor, for her name to be attached to such a place!

He was met at the door by a well-known face. Five millennia had etched Nerit Pumic’s face the same as his own. Not the years, Doren corrected himself. The contents thereof. Her demeanor reflected his own careworn haggardness.

“Praise Ladies, you got my message!” Nerit cried, pulling Doren into a brief hug. “Enter, enter!” Releasing him, she all but yanked him across the threshold. She gave the street outside a quick, searching look before ducking in and shutting the door. “The children have done something… very rash.”

“Calm yourself, Nerit,” Doren soothed her. “The children? Or Arjae?”

Nerit shook her head as they walked from the entry hall to the main dormitory. “Arjae was involved, surely,” she defended. “‘Twere his poisons did the deed. But Kara directed him.”

Doren blinked. Kara’s motives were often enigmatic, but he had never known her to do anything impulsive or ill-advised. Likewise, Nerit Pumic had never raised an alarm without due cause. What have they done?

His question was answered eloquently when they entered the main dormitory. All of the children were gathered, encircling one of the bunks. Doren instantly recognized the figure recumbent on the thin mattress.

“I saw her leaving the garrison, and knew she’d spoken with you,” Kara explained. As usual she perched on high, on one of the upper bunks. Her gossamer hair and enormous cerulean eyes reinforced her Zefine ethereality. “Nobody else could see her. I knew she’d upset you. I thought it best to detain her until we knew better her allegiance and agenda.” She frowned. “Something has gone awry.”

“Not my fault!” Arjae proclaimed. He crouched on the headboard of the bunk occupied by their ‘guest.’ His manner was not petulant or defensive. He seemed like a craftsman who was annoyed that a tested-and-true tool had failed him. “Kara targeted her for me, my poison laid her out perfect, and we brought her back here.”

Doren surveyed the inert form. Her breathing was shallow but regular, and there was no pallor to her dark, ruddy skin. “What is wrong with her?” he asked.

“We are not sure,” Kara replied. “Her mind has gone elsewhere.”

“Who is she, Doren?” Nerit asked. “What is her business with you?”

“Zerene Kandaler,” Doren told them. “A Seeker in the employ of His Lordship. She even carries the Lord’s Mark. As for her business, she is carrying out the promise he made at his Ascension. She seeks to bring down the Merchant Council.”

“Really?” Arjae asked. “Ladies, I hope she won’t be mad at us when she wakes!”

“What passed between you and she?” Nerit asked.

“As much as I would give a stranger,” Doren replied. “Even one with such impressive credentials. She was forthright in her agenda, that will I grant, though a trifle scattered in her strategy. She thought first I might lend character witness for an unnamed young male. On the heels of that, she relayed a request from His Lordship that I myself testify to any misdeeds by the Merchant Council or City Guard to which I might be privy.”

“What was your answer?” Arjae demanded.

“She gave me no chance to give one,” Doren told them. “She beat me about with questions and challenges, but stopped short of whatever final blow she meant to deal. Instead she….” ‘If you find it again, let me know.’ “…told me to contact her, and left.” He kept his eyes focused on the inert form on the bed. Kara was beyond even his peripheral vision, but the keenness of her gaze on him was a tangible thing. Why do you even try to dissemble before her, you old fool?

But it was Nerit who spoke. “She asked nothing about us?” Tension added a scratch to her voice.

Doren shook his head. “Her prey is the Merchant Council and City Guard,” he said reassuringly. “She cares naught for our embezzlement.”

“But it may come out in an investigation!” Nerit fretted.

Without thinking, Doren looped an arm around his old comrade’s shoulders. “Should that happen,” he declared, unaccustomed strength in his tone, “they will know that I was both architect and engineer of the scheme, and you and the children but desperate spirits grasping at any hope of salvation. With all the visible evidence in my own hand, it will not be any sort of stretch to prove that to the satisfaction of all concerned.”

Part of him stood aside and marveled at his display. This is avoiding notice? This, keeping safely to one’s own corner? Have you learned nothing from those who run the city? Placing yourself on the block to protect a gaggle of forgotten children, whose future most likely holds only the same nameless, courtless neglect as their past?

At least they have a future! He rallied against his own cynicism. They haven’t millennia dogging their heels, stealing more with each nip! Possibilities still exist for them, if only because their lives still stretch before them rather than behind!

Besides, he argued sardonically, who would believe regular pilfering from the City Guard’s own larders to be an idea engineered by unschooled waifs?

“So tonight is on?” Arjae asked eagerly.

Doren couldn’t resist a smile as he nodded affirmative. The boy’s ardor has ever been infectious. Were it not he and Kara that brought me into this scheme, I’d never have agreed.

“She wakes!” Kara hissed suddenly. The waifs took to the shadows without further prompting, vanishing like smoke in the wind. To all appearances, Doren and Nerit were the only other people in the dormitory.

Zerene slid gratefully into the familiar confines of her body. The spirit of Orim Dio faded back down to its less comfortable current digs. Thank you, Zerene sent. I won’t forget my half of the deal.

Any other possibility does not bear mention, Seeker, the former House Guard Captain assured her. Thank the Ladies for the events which brought us together. Only if I may, one piece of advice?

Go ahead, Zerene prompted.

Always make time to dance.

Zerene frowned as she opened her eyes. I know what she means, she thought, and why. If she had no regrets, they wouldn’t be able to hold her. That doesn’t mean it’s not good advice. Right now though, I have too many other things to do.

The room was large. Thick curtains kept the sunlight at bay. The blocky scaffolding of bunks were barely visible in the dimness. She lay on the lower mat of one such. A small lamp on a bedside table cast a pool of light which just barely reached to the foot of the bunk. The room had that peculiar musky-sweet smell of active, youthful life, which no amount of soap and scrubbing could completely erase.

Two figures, aerin by their height and build, stood just at the edge of the light. Zerene felt Doren Shad’s shields. The mind of the female next to him was unfamiliar. Twenty-five others hid in the shadows, the concealment of their shields counterbalanced by their intense interest in her.

Her fingertips rested lightly on the blankets covering the bunk. Feigning grogginess to buy time, she let slip the leash on her power and let it slide through the fabric, past the solidity of thread and dye. Good, she thought. It has an owner. Arjae. She suppressed a grin as she learned his character. Reminds me of me years ago: fearless, invulnerable, and stupid. So tell me, Arjae, what’s going on here? Her power strained to divine all the boy’s secrets, but she reined it fiercely in. I don’t need to know everything about him, just how and why they brought me here. The answer made her eyebrows arch in surprise. “I’ll be damned,” she murmured aloud.

“Good afternoon, Seeker,” a raspy baritone voice came from the taller aerin she’d identified as Doren. “One imagines you have questions.”

Zerene sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She looked directly at Doren, and favored him with a wide smile. “Good to see I was wrong,” she told him. “You have something you’ll fight for, after all.” Her gaze swept the dark room. “I’m not your enemy,” she declared. “Will you show yourselves?.”

Across the room another lamp lit. A Zefine, as pale and ethereal as any of her breed could be, seemed more as if she were floating above the bunk than resting on it, huge cerulean eyes reflecting sensitivity and wisdom far in excess of her body’s age. Kara, Zerene knew her. She saw me speaking with Doren, even watched me leave though I was in qran ztan. I’ll have to be more careful.

Other lamps followed Kara’s lead, their glow illuminating the dormitory. The orphans were a cross-section of Shenn’s major races: mostly aerin and human, with a few centaurs (none Tantareli) and ogres, then one or two each from the less common breeds. The only race not represented were the portians. Of course not, Zerene told herself. Portians never let a daughter go unfostered. They peered from around dressers, curtains, and bunks. They ranged in age from mid-single-digit to early teens.

Typically boldest, Arjae was the first to actually approach her. He was as dark as she, though his skin lacked the ruddiness characteristic of Kandalers. His eyes were startling, as brilliantly green as young grass. They sparkled with intelligence and mischief. His hair was a tight cap of jet-black curls, cropped close to his skull. He looked no older than ten. Like all the children, his clothes were neither new nor fancy, but they were clean and in reasonably good repair. He stopped just beyond arm’s reach, weight balanced lightly and arms loose at his sides. Ready to dart at a moment’s notice, Zerene noted. He’s used to dodging guards and shopkeepers.

“Why were you bothering Doren?” he demanded without ceremony. His brows and jaw were set in uncompromising challenge.

Zerene knew it would be a mistake to smile at him. This is serious to him, and the last thing he wants is an adult dismissing that because of his age. With equal gravity she replied, “It’s as Doren said. I need his help to expose the corruption in the Merchant Council and City Guard, so they can be taken before the Court Assembly.”

Arjae’s gaze sharpened. “How’d you know he said that? You were out of it!”

“You told me,” Zerene shot back, still unsmiling. “Just like you told me how Kara saw me leaving the garrison and called you, how you used a drugged dart to knock me out, how Tasish–“ she nodded in the direction of a young ogress whose heavy jaw hung more slack with each revelation “–carried me here. When I didn’t wake up, even though you gave me the antidote for your drug, you called Doren.”

Zerene’s gaze returned to Arjae. His eyes were wide, not with fear but wonder. “You told me everything,” she said, “including how you and Kara convinced Doren to over-order supplies for the City Guard, so the lot of you can sneak into the store-rooms through the drainage grates and bring them back here. You three came up with the scheme after he caught you in the store-room one night. You told him you did so because the orphanage’s contract allows Nerit to shop only from Merchant Council vendors, but the stipend the city provides isn’t enough to pay their prices for all that you need.”

The dormitory was silent for a moment. Then Arjae blurted, “What divination is this? I never even met you before!”

“She’s a touch-scryer,” Kara explained quietly. “She got it all from your bed.”

“This next part’s no divination,” Zerene announced. “The question on your minds right now is why did I toss all my stones at once? Telling you how much I know puts me in a rather precarious position. If you’re desperate or scared enough, well, you’ve already seen that being Phoenix-Touched doesn’t make me invulnerable.”

“Why, then?” Nerit asked.

Zerene grinned at her. “Thanks for picking up the cue, Mistress Pumic. Again, Doren has it right. You’re not my prey. Even if I disagreed with your arrangement, which I don’t, my contract with His Lordship specifies the Merchant Council and City Guard. At worst, you’re an example of what their practices force normally honest people to do just to survive. Once we get rid of them you’ll have no need to steal from the City Guard, which you hate doing anyway.”

“So we are neither enemies, nor yet friends,” Doren concluded. “What are we, Seeker?”

“Zerene,” she corrected him. “Right now, we could be allies. Even if I find the evidence for the Court Assembly, you probably know better than I how well-connected the Merchant Council are. Prying their claws loose from Embron won’t be an easy fight, and it may get right nasty.”

“You would ask children to fight?!” Nerit challenged, maternal protectiveness rising at the idea.

“Why not?” Zerene retorted. “‘Tis their home too. Besides, your children bested me and removed me from the street without anybody noticing. Add to that they’ve been pilfering from one of the most heavily-guarded buildings in town for several months without anybody tumbling wise.” She looked sidelong at Arjae, cocking one eyebrow. “And I suspect those are not the biggest things they’ve done.”

Arjae blinked, then grinned in rascally acknowledgment. Zerene returned an equally rakish smirk, then looked at Doren. “So there you are.”

Doren crossed his arms, arching one skeptical eyebrow. “Suppose we decide to be satisfied with the risk we already take? If we refuse to partake of your mad revolution?”

Zerene nodded. “Your choice. You could argue you’ve suffered enough.” She stood. “Now we both know you have something to fight for, Quartermaster. How far you’re willing to go depends on how much you love it. Me?” She shrugged. “I’ve never left a contract unfinished. I’ll be damned before I start now.”

 

 

“Embron!” exclaimed an ogre, punctuating the name with a rafter-rattling belch. “What makes you think we want anything with a city, especially that cursed pit?”

“Agreed,” seconded a Nerin whose fine features and educated accent were at contrast with his rough garb and unshaven head. “And what aerin city would accept a non-aerin Guard?”

Bolt grinned at the ogre. “Wasn’ talkin’ t’ ye, Carasano. Yer life’s still all about the trail, an’ that’s fine. ‘Sides, curse’s been broken, thanks t’ Jonni, Z’rene, and him that stands before ya.” He switched his attention to the Nerin. “An’ as fer a non-aerin Guard, Ryl, people in Embron’re so sick o’ what they got, they’d be happy t’ see travelin’ clowns wearin’ Guard colors.”

“Which is exactly what they’ll get,” Ryl retorted. “Seekers in uniform!” He laughed derisively, and several joined him.

Bolt swept the room with his eyes. “There’s some o’ ya are tired o’ bein’ covered in trail dust, wakin’ up each mornin’ an’ the first thing ya gotta do is remember where ya went t’ sleep. It’s those t’ whom I’m speakin’. The rest, I’m askin’ only the courtesy o’ lettin’ me be heard. If not, I’ll be happy t’ discuss matters with ya in th’ yard.”

Melia fully expected further jeers. After all, weren’t Seekers a rough, unruly lot with respect only for money and those that could best them in a fight? Instead, both the ogre Carasano and the Nerin Ryl conceded to Bolt’s request. Then again, she thought, eyeing the Tantareli’s massive thews and scarred knuckles, perhaps he’s already settled any doubts about himself in that fashion.

“Here’s the story,” Bolt started. “Th’ curse left Embron with a lot o’ bad people in charge, wors’n most other cities any’ve ya’ve known. Jonni’s stepped up t’ sort it out, an’ Spoons ‘n me’ve agreed t’ help. Th’ bosses’re a tangle o’ Upper Court leeches call themselves th’ Merchant Council, an’ the City Guard’s their brute squad. We reckon t’ put Captain Vaeus and his thugs on th’ wall, an’ get them t’ turn on the Merchant Council t’ save their own skins.”

“Wouldn’t that violate some oath of fealty or other?” The question came from a Janjigau woman named Reza Kau, a Seeker of twelve years.

“Guards swear fealty to the city Lord’s office,” Ryl told her. His manner had softened from open derision to thoughtful consideration. “That includes the Guard Captain. If it can be proven Embron’s City Guard has been taking orders from anybody else, especially if those orders run counter to the Lord’s will, city law, or Court law, the best they can hope for is to be stripped of their colors and exiled. The Guard Captain better have powerful friends indeed, to avoid prison and losing his standing at court.” The grin that stretched his lips was full of malicious glee. “If your scheme works, Bolt, I’d not trade places with your Captain Vaeus for any price.”

“Vaeus?” growled a N’eli Seeker from a dark corner of the room. Melia hadn’t seen her at first, and called on her courtly training to conceal her surprised reaction. N’eli were seen away from their home climes as rarely as Po’s people, the tagarl giants of Chillblade. They were a six-limbed race, four legs on a horizontal torso for propulsion and a pair of arms on a humanoid torso for manipulation. Unlike centaurs, N’eli ran toward a feline appearance. This one had golden fur with dark spots covering her rear torso, furry, mobile ears, eyes that reflected the lights, and a dark, catlike nose. She was also very obviously female, her jerkin straining to contain its burden. “First name Aubryn?”

Bolt nodded. “Aye, Tsial. Ye know him?”

Tsial laughed, the sound reminiscent of a hunting cat’s warning cough. “Unless there are two with that name. Ruddy Terin breed with dirt-colored hair and eyes, with all the warmth of tundra in winter?” Bolt’s nodding confirmation of the description provoked another coughing laugh, this one showing predatory incisors. “He still lives. The Mothers smile on that one far more than he’s due. So he’s a Guard Captain now? Hmp. Wonder who he tum-bucked to get that post.”

“What do you know about him?” Melia asked.

Tsial turned to her glass. “That I’ll tell you once your coin’s in my purse, fine Lady,” she replied, gazing into the amber depths. Abruptly she lifted the drink and drained it, slamming the glass back on the bar. “I’m in. I may not stay, but at least for the chance at finishing the last conversation twixt Aubryn Vaeus and myself.”

Bolt frowned. “This isn’t about vengeance, Tsial. We’re aimin’ t’ help folk get out from under some bad people. Ladies smile there’ll be no need fer fightin’. If that’s not t’ yer taste, yer welcome t’ relax an’ order ‘nother drink.”

Tsial pouted at Bolt. “Spoil my fun,” she complained. “Rest your brow, Bolt. I can keep my claws sheathed if needs be.”

Bolt nodded and favored her with a grin, then turned to the rest of the assembly. “All we really need is people t’ wear Guard colors an’ keep the peace while the Court Assembly works out who gets what punishment. At worst, ya might hafta knock heads with some o’ the Guards ye’ll be replacin,’ or any overly ambitious bandits who might see an opportunity. Once things’re sorted ye’ll be welcome t’ head back t’ the trail with a fatter purse. Any that find th’ job t’ their fancy’re welcome t’ stay on.”

Murmured and mental conversations accompanied exchanged looks throughout the room.

“It’s no work for a Seeker,” Carasano declared with finality. “Townies can look after themselves.”

“It’s not just townies, though,” argued Reza Kau. “It’s Bolt, Jonni, and Spoons. They’re Seekers, and they’re asking for our help. Seekers always look after their own.”

“Seekers?” jeered Riyando Ah-Sumar, another human Seeker. His shaven, tattooed head reflected the lights as he threw back and laughed. “Might once have been, but they lost rights to the title as soon as they bought in to city life. It’d take a fat purse of diadems before I’d step foot in Embron!”

“A fat purse of diadems is not so impossible a thought,” Ryl interjected smoothly. “House Shad may be rebuilding its fortunes with the curse foiled, but a wedded alliance with House Shayl is a fine start.” He regarded Melia knowingly. “And House Shayl has a reputation of generosity to its benefactors.” He grinned. “Merely added spice to the soup.”

“I’m in,” Tsial repeated emphatically. “Those of you who can only naysay, I don’t want you at my back anyway!”

Unnoticed among the arguments, a furtive figure slipped from the room. Once in a secluded passage, a mirror was retrieved from an inner pocket. A tap made the mirror’s surface ripple. In whispered tones came the words, “Lord Cyn Dessens from your Agent at Black Lake Valley.”

 

Time and Tide

 

Lady Shylla Makko gazed from the balcony of her chambers, facing south. Would that I could see the ocean. How long has it been since I felt seawater on my skin, drew its flavor through my lungs? Since the ocean and I were one? I am a Nerine Lady. Yet I am First Citizen of a city a full hour’s overland travel from the shore.

Over. Land.

What am I doing here?

“Milady?” Callie emerged onto the balcony. “Your lunch has grown cold and untouched, Milady.”

Shylla looked down at the portian. Like all her curious breed, Callie was a study in exquisite miniature grotesquerie. Her smooth skin and soft, beautiful face contrasted to the muscles that bulged within her shoulders and arms. Her torso was at once brawny yet shapely, flowing from wide shoulders to a slender waist before swelling outward again to sturdy hips. Her legs were compact to the point of seeming stunted, yet were well-curved and graceful.

She is smart and well-favored, Shylla reflected, a fine servant and in every way an asset to the household. Yet she is a creature of the land. Shylla’s brow rose at a sudden realization. In fact, we haven’t a single Nerin servant in the house!

“Milady?” Callie repeated, concern clouding her face. “Are you well?”

“Callie,” Shylla murmured. “My brother gave the household leave to attend the Ascension, did he not?”

Callie nodded. “You know he did, Milady. I was at your side!”

Shylla smiled. “That you were. Do you know the baker who usurped my challenge?”

Callie nodded again. “Marnixelroikenama and I share three bloodlines, Milady. We have known each other since childhood.”

“Of course you have,” Shylla mused. “Unmatched, portian solidarity. Why, do you suppose, His Lordship scorned my challenge for hers?”

“It’s not my place to criticize the thoughts of His Lordship, Milady,” Callie temporized.

Shylla’s manner abruptly chilled. “If all you will bring to this conversation is empty form, Callienestolaia, you are dismissed.”

Callie stiffened as if slapped. So few other races were able to pronounce the full measure of portian names, it always counted in their favor when one managed the feat. That along with the sudden frigidity of her Lady’s manner struck through Callie’s customary attitude of professional, detached subservience. Unfamiliar ground you tread on, girl, she told herself. Throughout the span of Callie’s employment on the Makko estate, Lady Shylla had seemed bemused, even a bit daft. She was able to look after herself well enough, and Callie supposed she dispatched her duties as First Citizen adequately, though of course that was pure assumption.

Now, Milady seems as one rudely torn from a deep sleep, earnestly seeking to catch up with the waking world! Callie remembered the orders given the staff by Lord Myllon when he’d hired them. “Our dear mother’s death has affected my sister deeply,” he’d said. “Do not condescend to her, but should you note any change in her manner, whether for better or worse, notify me at once.”

Of course, Milord never specified what sort of change was improvement and which not, Callie counseled herself. I can hardly be blamed if I take extra time to be sure!

“My pardon, Milady,” she replied with a conciliatory curtsey. “I would answer your question with one in turn. Had His Lordship accepted your right to issue a challenge, what feat would you have tasked him with?”

Shylla opened her mouth to answer, then suddenly shut it and blinked. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I… do not know,” she said at length. Merciful Ladies, she thought. What have I been doing all these years?

Callie nodded, and smiled. “I would submit, Milady, that His Lordship wished an actual challenge rather than empty form.”

Empty.

“Where is my brother?” Shylla demanded suddenly. Her gaze was intense, her manner focused and urgent. She did not wait for an answer, but swept inside from the balcony. She stopped suddenly by the table, looking down at the artistically-arranged luncheon set there. “Grown… cold,” she murmured.

Then she was out her chambers and into the mansion hallways. Callie trailed in her wake. Had any asked, she’d have stated her purpose as fulfilling Lord Myllon’s order to apprise him of any dramatic change in Milady’s condition. In her heart was the determination: I am not going to miss this!

The seneschal, another portian named Tanyaeoushiyarani, informed them that Lord Myllon was taking lunch in the garden. Lady Shylla’s smile was made even more predatory by the cetacean teeth common to all Nerin. With not the barest nod to ceremony she sailed through the doors to her brother’s office.

Both Callie and Tanya stopped at the doorway, staring at their mistress. One of Lord Myllon’s most adamant rules was the sanctity of his office. Even at mealtimes, none were allowed to enter without express invitation. With still greater audacity, Lady Shylla sat in his chair and glared at his desk.

As in any modern, well-appointed place of work, Myllon Makko had long since replaced written or printed documents with information encoded on narrow, rectangular slides of sturdy crystal. Paper or parchment and ink was reserved for treaties or contracts which required signatures. Stored files were retrieved, reviewed, and modified through use of a viewer which consisted of a large, transparent globe set into a complex base of metal, crystal, and fluids. The slide was inserted into a slot in the base, with control and modifications made in response to spoken commands.

Tanya turned to go alert Lord Myllon to the intrusion. “Remain where you are!” Lady Shylla commanded without looking up. Tanya exchanged a worried look with Callie. Callie rewarded her with a bare smirk of anticipation.

Lord Myllon gave strict orders, Tanya protested silently.

True enough, Callie acknowledged. As did she. Look at her! Never in all my time here have I seen her so alert and filled with purpose!

Nor have I, Tanya conceded.

Cross her if you will, Callie goaded. But I’d not give a bent tine for your chances!

Shylla tested a drawer, and smiled as it slid open without resistance. “Trust the Ladies, Myllon,” she murmured, “but dive deep when it blows. You always forgot that.” She flipped through the slides, quickly scanning the labels of each one.

A moment later, her brow furrowed in thought. She murmured to herself, “I’ve been here before….”

Shylla stared at the images moving within the crystal globe. A hand of pure ice reached into her chest and squeezed, making her heart hammer against her ribs. Her lips moved in an attempt to voice a denial, but her voice would not come. For the first time in her life, she knew how it felt to be paralyzed in horror.

A low crackle slipped in through the open window behind her. It might have been a distant thundercloud threatening the ground below, but she knew it was not. The way she suddenly leaped from the chair, one might have thought she had been literally shocked into motion. That was not far from the truth.

Though she was a highborn Lady whose every need and whim received instant satisfaction, Shylla was not idle and flaccid like so many of similar station. Mother had moved the family to Embron to pursue her latest mysterious historical obsession. But as long as Shylla could craft a portal rune, her beloved ocean was never too far. Nera was her Lady, and not a day passed that did not involve twisting and dancing through the abyssal depths.

The strength and endurance granted by her aquatic regimen held Shylla in good stead as she sprinted through the passages and up the stairs of Makko Keep, Embron. Her mere touch opened any lock or ward in the house, save one. She crested the staircase, crossed the tower passage in long strides, and slammed a deceptively lithe fist against the door.

“Mother!” she shouted, echoing the title mentally. “By all the Ladies’ love, Mother, let me in!”

No voice replied to her demand. Instead, a heavy krr-chunk of sliding metal and quiet buzz of the ward relaxing served as an implicit invitation. Shylla slid the heavy wooden slab aside and stormed in.

The original master of the house had designed the tower as his private retreat, when he wanted to escape the burden of his office without being brazen enough to actually leave. Mother had claimed the suite as her private library and workshop when they had moved to Embron. Once the laborers completed the specified refurbishments, no other soul had been given admission. Meals were lifted directly from the kitchen through the dumbwaiter, while cleaning and Mother’s own hygiene were left to her care. When Mother locked the door behind herself, weeks could pass before she was seen again. Shylla had controlled House Makko’s official affairs since Mother had first been consumed by her fascination with Shenn’s past.

Small wonder then, that Shylla’s pace faltered as she looked around the highest chambers in the keep. Gone were the elegant tapestries and paneling, likewise the plush carpet and sumptuous appointments. Walls and floor were bare stone, scarred, scuffed, stained, and scorched. Sturdy, unadorned tables likewise bore marks of many chemical and incendiary endeavors, but held firm under their weight of artifacts, books, scrolls, and loose pages. Not content in their campaign to overpower the tables, the horde of ancient parchment and chipped, faded relics mounded and huddled against the walls and in the middle of the floor. The resultant labyrinth was treacherous. One misstep or brush of a leg or hip would create an avalanche of documents or shattering of archaic stone, possibly even a chain reaction of antiquated destruction.

This close, the roil of energy rubbed Shylla’s nerves like coral. There was an open portal, but something else as well. She picked her way deftly through the maze and up the stairs to what had been the master’s bedroom, to the source of the maelstrom. She thought what she had seen in the viewer in her office had armored her for this encounter.

It hadn’t.

The portal in the floor swirled green, black, and gold. It did not glow as a lamp would, or flare like lightning. But staring at it for more than a moment or two made Shylla’s eyes want to twist back on themselves. It was no entrance to the leystreams, into which one could dive and emerge at a distant point on Shenn. Its terminus was much further away, and related to real space in much the same way that a nightmare related to waking reality. Shylla had heard of the Veil – who hadn’t? – But this was the first time she’d had a glimpse into it. The more her mind tried to grab hold and make sense of what her eyes saw, the harder it careened off, slamming against the inside of her skull.

That was the third worst part of the tableau before her.

Above the vortex hung an abomination. The device should never have been invented in the first place, much less recreated. Cylindrical, the main part of it was transparent crystal. Runes more complex than any Shylla had ever seen spiraled the length of the crystal tube, inlaid with leystone. The ends of it were capped in gold frames, within which she glimpsed workings of metal, crystal, and leystone. The crystal chamber was hollow, and occupied. The complex runes prevented Shylla from telling precisely what creature was trapped inside. She could tell that it was smaller than an aerin, bipedal, and writhing in unimaginable agony.

As with the Veil, though Shylla had never seen such a device with her own eyes, she knew enough history to recognize it from descriptions. In the desperate closing months of the Steel War, when Lord Most High Arianus Fehr realized that conventional methods of warfare would not win the day, Steel Concord mages and engineers had been pressed to devise weapons more potent and terrible than any before. No concept was too heinous if it furthered Arianus’ dream of Shenn unified under his banner. Out of that mad, amoral fit of innovation had been born the soulbomb.

That was the second worst part.

Lady Amoren Makko divided her attention between the device and the information streaming through the globe on the table before her. Her hand rested on a lever which held the chains, which in turn prevented the soulbomb from plunging into the portal. She hadn’t shaved in days; her skull sprouted a tight cap of fine, downy hair. She was dressed for work, in a stained smock of heavy serge. Her posture was stiff and alert, her eyes bright with anticipation, her lips stretched in a toothy smile.

Lady Amoren’s gaze glanced in Shylla’s direction as she entered. “Shylla!” she cried. “How did you get in here? Never mind, you’re just in time. I think this one is going to work!”

That was the worst part.

“Mother!” Shylla screamed. “How can you do this?” It was not the most brilliant way to open a conversation. Shylla felt idiotic for having asked such an obvious question, and in such a tone. The circumstances be damned – highborn Ladies were expected to maintain aplomb in any situation!

Mother’s brow furrowed momentarily as she considered the query. “The runes create harmonic dissonance,” she explained. “Just off-phase with the passenger’s frequency. Unconsciousness is prevented and sensation heightened by stimulators in the end-caps. Stress levels and energy are monitored here –“ She gestured at the viewer.

“That’s not–“ The portal threw an arc of electricity, its horizon generating static where it ground against reality’s edge. Shylla tried again after the noise faded. “That’s not what I meant! Mother, this is heinous and forbidden craft! You’re torturing that – that –“ She peered more intently at the form inside the chamber. A fresh paroxysm threw its head against the inner surface, mashing cheek and jaw against the resilient crystal.

From that momentary glimpse, Shylla suddenly recognized the prisoner. Her own heart slammed against her chest again, and she whirled on Mother with fresh horror and rage. “Mother!” she shouted, stabbing a finger at the soulbomb. “You said Varls was called suddenly home! He’s served us faithfully all his life, how can you do this to him?!”

“Precisely!” Mother replied as if it were obvious. “Pain and fear of death weren’t providing the expected force. Outrage at betrayed trust seems to be filling that gap.”

“That’s monstrous! And the blast will destroy the city!”

“Nonsense! I’ll drop the bomb into the portal just before the reaction becomes critical. Did you think it merely decoration? Really, Shylla!” Mother heaved an exasperated breath. “I simply cannot concentrate with your distractions! I shall have to ask you to leave! How did you pass the door, anyway?”

She’s mad.

The realization weighted Shylla’s gut like a frost-rimed stone. The Nerine before her was not she who had birthed and raised her. Nor was she the fanatical hunter of scraps and artifacts who had dragged her children and family business from one corner of Shenn to the other, even as her interest in either waned in favor of the newer passion. The former would have never contemplated even building the horrific device. The latter might have, but would not have imprisoned a living being within, especially a loyal family retainer!

As do many people, Shylla had an atavistic revulsion to insanity. That part of her screamed at her legs to turn and flee, leaving Mother in her derangement. The idea had a sensible side. In Shenn’s telepathic society insanity was dangerous, even if the affected person were not violent. Some forms of madness were actually contagious. Merely by being close to her, Shylla realized, I court infection.

Yet I cannot abandon Varls! The man in the cylinder was not the smartest, nor the bravest, nor strongest. But he had always made time for Shylla as a child, even though it was not his job to wait on her. He had followed House Makko around the world without complaint, abandoning whatever life he might have otherwise made for himself. Even if he were less than all of that, allowing the agony he suffers to continue is tantamount to torturing him myself!

Reason has no place in this contest. Shylla saw no hint of a hatch in the cylinder. Given time, she was confident she could find a way to release Varls safely. But time is scant and fleeting. Every second is an eternity of torment for him. If Mother drops the bomb into the Veil he will be lost forever, but if it stays here we are all doomed! I must disable it, but Mother will not simply stand by while I riddle its workings!

Amoren’s attention had once more returned to her experiment, all notice of her daughter apparently lost as soon as Shylla stopped arguing. I cannot believe the action I am contemplating, she thought as she cast about the room. As with the rest of the tower suite, it was a jumble of books and loose documents. She saw no conveniently large, heavy artifacts. A side-table held the tools which Mother had presumably used to assemble the soulbomb. These were all forged of hard metal, with unsettlingly sharp points, corners, and edges. Suitable for murder, Shylla thought, were that my intention.

“Yes,” Amoren breathed in anticipation, staring at the readings. Her hand tightened on the chain latch. “Almost there….”

Shylla hit her.

The book was the largest she could find. As thick as the width of her hand, long and wide as her own torso, bound between slabs of carved, lacquered wood. Shylla could not read its title, nor had she any idea of its age or worth. It was hard and heavy, but not likely to tear flesh or crush bone. She brought it down with both hands, hard as she could, atop the fuzzy curve of Mother’s skull.

Lady Amoren Makko dropped without so much as a groan. The force of the blow drove her forward as she fell. Shylla reached out mentally, and heaved a sigh of relief to feel Mother’s mind stunned, but still very alive.

Then she heard chunk-klackalackalackalacka, and her smile died before it fully reached her lips. “No!” She dropped the tome and dove forward. Her fingers grabbed ahold of the sturdy smock and she hauled Mother off the chain latch, letting her drop unceremoniously to the floor.

The latch bit into the skin between her left thumb and index finger as she hauled back on it with both hands, but her cry was of distress not pain as she saw the soulbomb. It stopped just short of the portal and swung to one side, the golden base striking the horizon between two universes. That edge was finer than the keenest blade, and just as sharp as it was thin. It sheared through the bottom of the bomb, removing half of the base and a corner of the crystal chamber. On its next swing it would take off the rest of the base, and Varls would plunge into the Veil.

Shylla grabbed the crank and turned it as fast as she could, heedless of the blood pouring from her hand. She stared as the bomb swung back, and dared another relieved breath as it lifted clear of the portal horizon. Next to the crank was a second lever which locked or released the crane arm which held the bomb over the portal. Once released, the arm swung with little effort, until the device hung over solid floor.

A blinking from the viewer caught Shylla’s attention. “Unit damaged,” read the words floating in the sphere’s depths. “Test aborted. Unit disabled for testing. Open containment?”

“Ladies smile on me,” Shylla murmured, smiling in turn. “Open containment,” she directed the viewer, and rushed to the side of the bomb. A seam appeared in one side of the runed crystal. The shaft parted, sliding into itself. “Varls!” she called as the chamber opened.

Bloody rage and ravening madness tore through her shields and clawed into her brain.

Varls threw himself against his manacles. His nose was broken and twisted to one side, and one eye was swollen almost completely shut, darkening to the color of an old, rotting plum. His remaining eye was bulging and wild, foam ran from his mouth to mix with the sweat slicking his body. Blood dyed the foam pink where he’d hit his mouth hard enough to break teeth.

He’d have mauled her like a beast if he could reach her. Denied that, his mind sought to rend and infect hers. Torture and madness had given him unbelievable power. Mere vapor remained of her shields. Shylla staggered back and tripped over Mother’s inert form. Nausea attacked as she fell, and she lost that battle as well.

The fall and seizure tore her mind free from Varls’ psychic talons, so there was yet some grace in the encounter. Shylla struggled to re-cast her shields, dredging up every lesson she’d ever learnt on reinforcing against mental assault. That training was so very long ago, and she’d never taken it very seriously. After all, who would be so crude as to attack a scion of any Upper Court House?

Visions of murderous intent filled her thoughts. She was a gentle soul, tormented without cause past all limits by one to whom she’d pledged her life. Her spouse and children, once a source of joy and pride equal to her duty, now paraded past her mind’s eye in gory review while she reveled in the idea of tearing them open. Nothing less would assuage the lust born of pain that burned in her breast.

No! Those – are not – my thoughts! I am not – Varls Thorn! My name – is Shylla Makko! I am – a noble scion – of House Makko!

The madness was ready for that defense. Instead of a human wife and children, she found herself suddenly entertaining various scenarios of dismemberment and evisceration involving her mother. Why not? This was all her fault, after all! And her brother, that rebellious child who scorned his heritage and yearned for a life on dry land, how would it suit him to see his own blood and flesh scattered on the dusty soil he loved so much, never to feel the kiss of the sea again?

The sea…

The sea!

Nera, my Lady!

As it always had, the ocean came to her rescue. She was a child of the sea, and her spirit had ever found solace in its embrace. The cold depths, unknown and feared by all those who shared none of Nera’s Kinship, broke over her mind, welling up, wrapping around her thoughts, dragging her down. There was room enough and more in the wide waters to contain her fury, power aplenty in the tides to wash it away. She sank and drifted gratefully, mending and reinforcing her defenses.

I am Lady Shylla Makko of House Makko, she recited. Nera was my first mother, is now and ever will be my Lady. Through the love of her and all the Ladies were we reborn, and to the honor of her love we will ever hold true.

She wiped her mouth and stood, and approached the bomb. Varls strained against his manacles with renewed fury, and his mind once more lashed out at hers. No rational thought remained in him – his entire purpose now was to destroy. Whether that is part of the bomb’s design or a mere side effect matters little.

She glanced down at the console. “Close containment,” she commanded.

“Cannot comply,” the words appeared in the viewer’s globe. “Unit damaged.”

What do I do? She demanded. I can’t kill Varls. He’s not to blame for his state, and there might be a cure for him. But the damage if Mother’s experiments became public… it would be the end of House Makko!

The portal threw another fat spark, the arc touching the crane with a deafening KRAK. As if it were beckoning to me, she thought, reminding me of its presence, and the promise of its voracious emptiness. Everything would be gone, all the evidence. Mother could be dismissed as a mad, shaggy old Nerine who’s been dry too long, kept in the rest of her days….

She reached for the crane controls. “Forgive me, Varls,” she said.

Varls replied with a spitting snarl and a fresh lance of rage against her mind. That made it easier, but she still could not meet his cycloptic glare as she steered the crane back around. Six centuries old, and I’ve never before taken a sentient life. But he’s no longer really sentient, is he? Am I doing him mercy, or merely placating my own sensibilities? The crane thunked against the stops, the damaged bomb dangling once more over the eye-twisting portal. Or am I betraying a faithful soul for the sake of my own fortunes? She wrapped her undamaged hand around the lever of the chain latch, and squeezed.

At first Shylla thought the portal had sparked again. Her vision was all flashes and sparks, and the chamber tilted at crazy angles. Then the shock of impact resonated through her skull, and her ears were full of a screaming mad voice.

Mother was awake.

“Evil child!” Amoren screeched, dropping the very book with which Shylla had struck her. “The only other design we could salvage! Months of work! And you’ve ruined it!”

Shylla was flung forward by the attack. She’d held back in her strike; Mother had no such compunctions, and was bolstered by rage and madness. Countering that was the fact that she had spent the past years lifting nothing heavier than ancient texts and fragile relics. Shylla had spent as much of that same time as she could sliding through her beloved ocean. Mother’s blow was strong enough to drive Shylla over the rail, but not enough to knock her unconscious.

She twisted in midair, and her hands grabbed the swinging chain. The portal yawned beneath her. The soulbomb with Varls inside was already gone, vanished into the chaos of the Veil. The empty chain clacked as it unreeled, dropping her down –

– before stopping short with enough force to drag her hands down a few links of chain. She cried out as the friction further abraded the torn flesh of her injured hand. The portal tugged on her legs. She fought back the pain and climbed frantically.

Mother took her hand from the latch lever and raced to the rail. She peered into the portal, searching for the bomb and its passenger. “Gone!” she wailed. Her eye fell on Shylla, and a glare of pure hatred flashed in her gaze. “The Veil take you, too!” She grabbed the latch and released the chain again.

Shylla pulled herself upward with a final effort, then let go and grabbed for the rail. The fingers of her good hand brushed the metal and she curled them spastically, achieving a scant purchase. It was enough. She wrapped her injured hand around the rail and pulled herself up, balancing by her toes and her grip alone.

Mother gave no reprieve. She rushed forward, hands outstretched and aiming for her throat. Shylla crouched and swung under the rail, tucking her head down and letting her feet slide forward. She rammed into Mother’s thighs, driving the elder Nerine back. Amoren staggered into a stack of loose documents, and antique sheets of parchment fluttered in all directions.

Shylla sprang to her feet, ready should Mother continue her assault. Fresh horror swept through her as she saw Amoren had not regained her balance. Only a scant half-step separated her from a headlong tumble down the staircase which led to the rest of the tower suite. Reflex propelled Shylla forward. She killed Varls and Ladies know how many others, she tried to kill me, she’ll destroy our House to advance her research… but she’s still Mother!

She extended a steadying hand. Perhaps Mother interpreted her charge as an attack or was herself so enraged that her daughter’s mere proximity was enough of a goad. She grabbed Shylla’s outstretched arm with both hands and swung her around. Shylla found herself again dangling over a precipitous gap. The stairs followed the curve of one wall from the main chamber of the tower. They were wide and shallow and sacrificed safety for style, having only a rounded curb on the outer edge rather than a proper railing. The force of the spin drove Shylla off the edge of the stairs. The debris-strewn floor of the main chamber sprawled much too far below for comfort.

Many stories of life-and-death contests made reference to time seeming to slow down when death was imminent. Shylla had always considered that mere hyperbole, or the result of faulty memory. But it’s not! She realized at this moment. Mother’s fingers lazily uncurled from their grip on her arm. Shylla’s field of vision also included Mother’s face, so she got a clear view of the light of madness and triumph in those eyes, the leer of malicious joy stretching that mouth, features she thought she knew so well. She felt her toes slip off the edge of the top stair, one by one. I’m going to die, at my mother’s hand!

She watched her hands drift up without her command, like seaweed twisting in the tide, her own fingers wrapping around Mother’s wrist. The expression on Mother’s face dissolved into surprise and confusion as she was pulled forward to the plunge she’d just escaped. Shylla twisted sinuously as they fell, ensuring two outcomes: that they would land on a relatively clear piece of floor, and that Mother would be on the bottom.

The impact knocked the wind from her lungs and drove her vision to a small point surrounded by red and black haze. But I live! I’ll just rest a little, regain my breath, then shove all the evidence through… the portal… so nobody will ever know… in just a little….

Shylla sat in her brother’s chair, staring at the information in his viewer, but not seeing it. I awoke the next day in my own bed. I had no memory past sitting down to look at the viewer in Mother’s office. All anybody knew, or would say, was that Mother had been found in the tower suite, dead of a broken back and neck. No trace of her research was ever mentioned. I was in such a befuddled state that Myllon had to take over House affairs.

I killed my own mother!

And somebody covered it up.

Could it have been Myllon? He’s never shown a gift for subterfuge, but neither would I have expected myself capable of the things I did that day either! In order to preserve our House, he might well have carried out the same plan that I intended, in which case all of that horrid stuff is safely unraveled within the Veil.

If not he, then who?

Mother said ‘we.’ ‘The only other design we salvaged.’

‘Other design.’

‘How did you pass the door?’

I thought it was Mother’s carelessness that left the slide I found in her viewer. But the tower door should not have admitted me.

Unless.

Ladies have mercy.

 

Move and Counter

 

Aubryn Vaeus leaned back in his chair, watching the pane of his desk mirror ripple back to a reflection of his own dour angularity. His eyebrows steepled in a rare display of surprise. Interesting, he thought. Either this new Lord is as mad as he plays, or the Council has dismissed him too quickly.

He rose and crossed his office to a set of shelves as tall as himself. Among the books and items resting there was a device similar in appearance to a viewer – a crystal globe mounted on a short, intricate pedestal of metals and leystone chips. The mechanisms in the device’s base were more complex than a viewer needed, and did not include a slot into which slides could be inserted. In either event, his game threatens to disrupt my own plans. I’ve come too far to allow that.

A long finger traced an inlaid circle on the pedestal. The globe’s depths churned and darkened, as if ink were poured into a bowl of clear water. Vaeus manipulated, pressed, and twisted other controls in the globe’s pedestal, fine-tuning the scry. They must be using a portal. Nothing else will move such a number of people so far, so quickly. Origin, Black Lake Valley… large enough to transport twenty, some giant…

A sudden shaft of yellow-green shot through the darkness. It followed the globe’s curve across more than a quarter its circumference before terminating in a pulsing dot. There they are, he thought. Not quite arrived yet.

Vaeus twisted a silver-plated ring which went all the way around the globe’s base. The interior suddenly lit as if a window had been opened. Seemingly from a great height, Vaeus looked down over Embron. The glowing line remained, the pulsing dot resting within the Greathouse compound.

If vipers could smile, the expression would bear an unmistakable resemblance to the curve of Vaeus’ lips as he gazed at the image. Leaving the scrying globe active and set, he returned to his desk and rotated the mirror to face him. He tapped the pane and said, “Lieutenant Karlo Myl from Captain Aubryn Vaeus.”

Vaeus did not wait for an acknowledgement when the face of his second-in-command appeared in the mirror. “Lieutenant, muster the garrison and the reserves.” He did not add the qualifier “immediately.” It had long been established that any order the Captain gave was to be implemented out without delay, unless he specified otherwise. “Issue tunics to the reserves and set them in patrol through the city. Divide the garrison between all entrances to the Greathouse compound. Station them nearby, but out of sight.”

Karlo Myl knew better than to question her Captain’s orders, but this one surprised her nonetheless. “Captain, if I may inquire?”

Vaeus smiled that venomous smile again. “Embron is now under martial law, Lieutenant. I will be informing His Lordship of this directly the garrison and reserves are in place. How soon will that be?”

Karlo’s brow knitted as she calculated. “Within the hour, Captain.”

“Alert me directly they are present and dressed,” Vaeus commanded, and tapped the mirror to end the call. He gazed at the display in the scrying globe again, then returned to his chair. He rested his hands flat on his desk and took a few moments to make sure his breath was slow and regular. The cold mind wins the day.

From a drawer of his desk Vaeus removed a small wooden box. The container was plain and sturdy, without marking or design. The lid opened easily to his touch. He withdrew a flat purse containing a shallow sheaf of documents and set it aside. Beneath lay a piece of soft, cured hide wrapped around a flat, rectangular object. He peeled back the leaves of the protective sheet. The book thus revealed was old, but its dilapidated state was due less to its age than to the neglect it had suffered in past millennia.

Gingerly, Vaeus opened the book and turned the pages. His eyes scanned quickly over the handwritten words, though he had long since committed them to memory. At one entry close to the end of the narrative he slowed, actually studying the curve and stroke of the text, reinforcing its clarity in his mind.

The same day the cursed Lady-General Aisha Perre ordered the tunnel entrances sealed with deathrunes, Milord-General called for volunteers. To those brave souls that stepped forward, he gave an extraordinary post. I re-scribed the runes which sealed the vaults, incorporating their names into the patterns. Milord-General then by his own hand ended their lives. With this, their spirits were bound to the vault doors.

Even were I to surrender to my treasonous thoughts, only by the soldiers’ unanimous consent or the command of Milord-General can the vaults ever be unsealed.

Vaeus lifted the purse, opened it, and extracted the topmost sheet of paper. Written on it in his own hand were six names. As with the journal, he knew the names as well as those of childhood friends. He studied them again nonetheless. Fifteen years’ delving and research, he thought. Only to be forced into action sooner than I intended. Ah, well. The Ladies make their plans, and it is all we can do to keep pace with their whims.

He lifted his eyes and gazed across his office at the scrying globe. The angle of simulated sunlight had shifted, lengthening the shadows within the Greathouse compound. Visible now was a dark, shifting knot of forms which milled and mixed in the main yard. They varied in size and shape from barely visible to awkwardly outsized. Vaeus’ eyebrows arched again. They do have a tagarl. I thought that to be an exaggeration. Abruptly he peered more closely at the crowd. He sprang from his chair and stalked across the office. He adjusted the globe’s magnification further, and his brows drew down.

Ztraq, he cursed. Tsial.

His mirror rippled and spoke. “Captain Aubryn Vaeus from Lieutenant Karlo Myl.”

He strode back to his desk, and tapped the pane. “Are the reserves in place, Lieutenant?”

If Vaeus’ smile held the cold venom of a snake, Karlo Myl’s leer was that of a feral dog anticipating a fight. “They await only your order, Captain.”

“The order is given, Lieutenant,” Vaeus replied, and ended the call. He replaced the box’s contents and restored it to its hiding place. Then he stood and tugged a few wayward wrinkles from his uniform tunic.

You’ve thrown your stones, Milord. My turn now.

 

 

Ryl Renkak emerged from the spiral of the portal egress. He looked around the compound of the Embron Greathouse, squinted into the green twilight sky, sniffed, and blinked. “Hm.”

That single syllable was eloquent enough to draw Reza Kau’s notice. Having arrived just a step ahead of Ryl, she turned to face him. “What do you feel?” she asked.

“Wrong question, my dear Reza,” he replied, smiling at her. “It’s an absence I find remarkable. I’m surprised you don’t feel it yourself.”

“Straight answers are just too much to expect from you, Ryl,” Tsial grumbled. “Give Reza a free throw, you know she’s not very crafty.”

Ryl nodded in acceptance of the rebuke. “The cityspell,” he explained. “When last I was here Embron lay under a foul grey fog of hopelessness and apathy, heavy enough to choke you.” He looked around again. “Some of it’s here still. But it’s thinned, lighter.” He smiled. “Lady Nera, there really is hope in the air! This mad stratagem actually stands a chance!”

Tsial flicked his right ear with the tip of her tail. “If you had any doubts,” she chided him, “why did you come at all?”

Ryl reflexively batted at the accosted ear, feigning a wounded look. “That you can ask such a question!”

“He can’t stand to be left out,” Reza supplied dryly.

Tsial leaped slightly ahead and turned herself across Ryl’s path. She stared up at him with an intensity possible only with feline eyes. “I meant what I said earlier,” she warned him. “If you are here only for a show, play your games far from me.”

Ryl stopped short and met her gaze. “Rest your heart, Tsial,” he replied. “This will not be my first ‘hopeless’ contract, any more than it is yours. I would not bet my bar tab for our chances of success, still I am as much a Seeker as you. Win or lose, only liars will be able to say Ryl Renkak gave less than all to this challenge.”

Tsial’s moue indicated she was only partially reassured by Ryl’s declaration, but she let the matter drop and moved out of his path.

Such bluster and bravado, Melia chafed to herself, even from one so obviously highborn! And the way they heckle and bicker over everything! No proper Guard ever conducted itself in such a manner! She maintained a facade of serene composure, concealing the unrest within herself. A mad stratagem, he calls it. I cannot disagree. Ladies smile that Jonnal’s confidence in these… people is not misplaced!

“Welcome, Milady and honored guests!” hailed an approaching Zefin dressed in servant’s livery, whose smile somehow included each of the twenty arrivals. “I am Evig, seneschal of Embron Greathouse.” He concealed a double-take at Po’s looming bulk, as well as three masssive ogres who were among the company, and continued as if their presence were a matter of course. “His Lordship and Mistress Kandaler will join you directly. In the meantime, refreshments are being brought out for your pleasure.”

Behind him, other servants appeared with trays laden with mugs and tankards. A second wave arrived a few moments later, burdened with kegs which had been hastily fetched from the cellars and dusted off before being tapped.

Evig himself handed Melia a drink, hers in a slender gold-rimmed glass of scarlet crystal. If a mere servant may be permitted a succinct observation, Milady? he inquired.

Melia smiled at him as she accepted the beverage. You are not a mere anything, Evig. And certainly somebody of your years with House Shad is entitled to speak his mind!

Milady is too kind. Evig glanced discreetly around. Some of the Seekers who have answered Milord’s call are certainly of fearsome stature. Still, nineteen oathless mercenaries seems a barely adequate force to take and hold a city the size of Embron.

Melia nodded as she sipped. I cannot dispute your estimate. I think His Lordship hoped for a more enthusiastic reception to his offer. Ladies smile that matters do not degrade to direct confrontation.

Ladies smile, Evig echoed in agreement. He looked around more openly this time, not disguising the fact that he was searching for somebody specific. Master Bolt is not among you, Milady.

That observation elicited a momentary scowl that formed only around Melia’s brows before vanishing behind her hostess’s veneer. There I suspect I am either thought the fool, or being played for one. He seemed to grow impatient with the time needed to open the portal for such a group of people. Finally just as the portal opened, he announced he would meet us here, and left us at the gates of Black Lake Valley!

Evig’s eyebrows arched. He can’t have meant to race the portal here!

I’ve no idea! Melia snapped, unable to keep the peevish tone from her mental voice. I’m certain only of this: not only do I return with at best a token force to counter the current Guard, but I am short the Seeker sent to recruit them!

His Lordship and the Mistress Kandaler arrive, Evig declared, spying the two figures walking across the compound. Surely from their long association with him, they can riddle the Tantareli’s odd antics!

Melia looked where Evig indicated. Jonnal and Zerene walked with matching pace from the Greathouse. Without warning or apparent reason, Jonnal suddenly leaned sideways and drove his shoulder into Zerene’s, breaking her stride. Teeth flashed white in a rake’s grin as she retaliated with a smart kick to his knee. Jonnal riposted the kick with his own foot, to which Zerene looped out one arm around his neck and pulled his head down. She had just raised her bunched knuckles to his captive crown when she spied Melia and the rest of the assemblage. Like a child caught misbehaving she released Jonnal, who aborted his own counterattack as he also realized they were being observed. They both recovered and resumed their approach, the match ended with as little ceremony as it had begun, merely a playful, momentary contest.

Melia suppressed a frown at the display. Jonnal swore his love for me, she reminded herself fiercely. And Zerene all but pushed him into my arms. They both avow that they are friends only. I know my fears have no ground. Why then must my heart voice such unworthy thoughts at the sight of them with each other? Am I so unsure of myself that I cannot bear the idea of Jonnal sharing anything with another that he cannot share with me? Or is it because, had events gone another route, he would have foresworn his courtly station in favor of a Seeker’s life with her?

In the next moment Jonnal’s eyes met Melia’s own. The smile that lit his face flash-fried her anxieties, not eliminating them but making them much easier to consume and digest. He turned his course and made straight for her. A sweet thrill prickled her scalp before chasing itself down through her, even making her toes curl inside her shoes. She maintained proper courtly composure at first, returning Jonnal’s smile with one of the sort to which she’d been trained, just wide enough, bright enough, happy but with only a full measure of joy rather than overflowing.

As Jonnal caught her up in his arms, Melia caught sight of Zerene’s expression. The human had stopped two paces back, and watched the embrace. Her grin lost its rake’s edge and now welled over with happiness as Melia’s did not. There was satisfaction in that smile as well. Without word either spoken nor projected Zerene showed all who cared to look that she felt Jonnal and Melia belonged together.

Melia Shayl, she told herself, crushing herself to her Promised and tasting his lips on hers, you are such a fool.

A shadow fell over them. Melia looked up, and up and met a pair of obsidian eyes, each nearly the size of her head. The flesh around those orbs held deep lines, but they were not of fatigue or decrepitude. He cannot be more than a century old, Melia thought. Yet those eyes have seen more in that time than many aerin manage in millennia!

“Haven’t !learned your lesson yet, !have you Your Lordship?” the voice rumbled from within the giant’s beard. “Still taking on !fool’s quests.” The lines around his eyes deepened, the clearest indication that he was smiling.

Jonnal kept one arm around Melia’s waist, and smiled up at the elderly tagarl. “What does that make you then, Po? Coming out of retirement to join in this madness!” He turned and raised his voice, addressing the rest of the gathering. “Though truth be told, I hope that you will all either return to Black Lake Valley with no stories to tell but purses full of the easiest coin you ever earned, or stay on and help bring Embron back to her proper glory.”

“What about us that just want a chance to mix it up with some fancy townie Guards?” jeered an ogre. His gibe provoked a swift cuff on the back of the skull from the ogress who stood next to him.

Jonnal turned to the ogre. “If I thought for a moment you meant that in earnest, Fancy, I’d pay you for your time right now.” His tone was still jovial and he still smiled, but the light in his eyes became the glint on a knife-edge. “Ladies smile this will be the most boring contract you’ve ever taken.”

“When do we start, Your Lordship?” Ryl asked.

“You started directly you arrived,” Jonnal told them. “Uniforms are being fabricated for you as we speak. Once you’re dressed, you and Zerene will portal directly to the garrison.”

“Uniforms!” interjected the ogress who’d just disciplined her companion. “Nothing ever got said about wearing uniforms!”

“I’d like to see the tunic made to fit Po!” gibed a female centaur named Vraldy. Her comment provoked laughter and jeers of agreement. She was of Konjon stock, Shenn’s most common centaur breed. Much smaller and more compact than the massive Tantareli, Konjon only slightly outmassed most humans. Vraldy herself could look Zerene in the eye, and navigated with ease most buildings designed for bipeds.

A resounding KLACK cut through the clamor. In the silence following his distinctive and well-known manner of rebuke, Po asked, “What !happens at the garrison, !Your Lordship?”

Jonnal smiled and nodded thanks to the giant. “You’ll all stand by while Zerene scries the Guards there. Any who refuse or don’t pass will be given their pay and escorted from the city.” He paused to add emphasis to his next statement. “Some of them won’t want to leave. See that they do anyway, with as little damage to the city as you can.”

Reza had adopted her customary ‘briefing’ stance: feet planted just slightly further apart than her shoulders, arms folded, chin tucked into her chest, eyes shut. Without moving she asked, “What about the Guards on patrol when we take the garrison?”

“Once the garrison is secure,” Jonnal replied, “an alert will be sent by the Guard’s common mirror. Guards on patrol will be ordered to report to the garrison directly. As they come in, they’ll get the same treatment. Priority is to get them out of the city with as little delay and confusion as possible. They’re not our targets.”

“You want the Captain,” growled Tsial.

Jonnal nodded. “Among others. When you leave for the garrison, I’ll summon Captain Vaeus. I’ll inform him of his dismissal and arrest personally. He’ll be held here at the Greathouse until the garrison is secured and all Guards accounted for. Then he’ll be placed in the brig until he and our other targets can be brought before the Court Assembly.”

“I volunteer to help with his arrest,” Tsial offered quickly.

Beware! Melia thought to Jonnal. That one has a personal account to settle with Captain Vaeus!

Jonnal tightened his arm around her waist slightly to acknowledge her warning. “That will be the duty of the Greathouse Guard,” he informed Tsial.

“Then hire me,” Tsial retorted, adding belatedly, “Your Lordship.”

Jonnal studied the N’eli. “The Greathouse Guard is currently without a Captain,” he stated. “Are you up to that?”

Tsial blinked, her tail writhing. “Captain?” she echoed. “Of Embron Greathouse? You’ve a strange sense of humor, Jonni.”

Melia stared at Jonnal. Are you– She broke off, not wanting to voice the idea even mentally. He slid a hand into a tunic pocket, drew it out, and tossed the contents at Tsial in one sinuous motion. “That’ll be Your Lordship from this day forward, Captain,” he informed Tsial drily. “It also means your first loyalty will be to House Shad. Personal matters will come second.”

Tsial stared at the gold and carnelian bars in her hand. Around them the servants and Seekers stood rapt. Though the exact expression varied, the same realization bloomed in all their minds. Never before has a non-aerin been trusted with the security of an Upper Court holding!

Tsial looked up at Jonnal. Then she folded one foreleg and bowed. “At your command, Your Lordship,” she whispered.

A concerted cheer erupted from the gathering. It was directed at both Jonnal and Tsial. Melia suddenly realized the wisdom of the appointment. Left to her own devices, breaking to pursue her grudge against Vaeus could be easily done on the sly. Bound by oath and rank and given official charge over the target of her ire, the cost of any treachery becomes unbearable. She would become not only a fugitive but a pariah among her own. She looked at Jonnal again. You are mad, she told him, but this time the word held admiration rather than derogation.

I’ve only just begun, he replied, amusement coloring his thoughts. Watch this.

“While we are speaking of such things,” he announced, going into his pocket again, “I should also introduce you to the new Captain of Embron’s City Guard.”

This time the bars flew in Zerene’s direction. She caught them in reflex, but unlike Tsial did not look at them. Instead she stared at Jonnal. Her mouth opened to protest, when suddenly a memory flared.

“Fair enough, Captain,” replied Morphy, the enigmatic ‘artificial intelligence’ which ran Twilight Agency’s mobile headquarters

“Captain?” she echoed. “What?”

“What?”

“Why did you call me Captain?”

“Did I? Sorry, I’m still getting used to watching just one spot in space-time. Any time you’re ready!”

“Heh,” she chuckled. “You truly wish to be the Mad Lord, don’t you?”

Jonnal responded with a flourishing, theatrical bow. “At your service!” he replied.

 

 

Plots and intrigues, Nacci grumbled to herself as she stepped down from the public carriage. Secret errands and conspiracies, ancient and new. They’re to be married the day after tomorrow, yet by their actions you’d not know it! She smoothed her dress and gently patted one unruly lock of curly hair. A wheel on the departing carriage voiced its discomfort with a shrill demand for grease, provoking a wince from her.

She entered the labyrinth of Market Square. The shadows were growing long, but the square was still crowded with Embron citizens and visitors hoping for a share in the next day’s festivities. Vendors sang, shouted, or demonstrated their wares for potential customers. Customers in turn either haggled with vendors or paid the first price quoted to them, the latter betraying their naivete at street commerce. Somewhere a band played a spritely tune, and the afternoon breeze allowed the scents of spices, perfumes, and food to hitch rides.

None of this sweetened Nacci’s mood. Only this morning, Milady fretted that His Lordship had brought some madness back from his quest. Certainly his conduct has not been in proper courtly manner. Now she is caught up in the same insane business. Imagine recruiting Seekers for Guards! That cannot be legal! It’s certainly not… normal!

Well, she resolved, whether they mean to conduct themselves as befits their station and situation, I’ll still need a gift for Milady — in case she remembers to show up for the wedding! Between the jaunt to the Mage Academy this morning and Lady Most High Luvia demanding of my time since we returned, this is my only chance.

A chirring whistle was her only warning – she ducked and felt the breeze as a zaupik narrowly missed her head. The flying mammal’s tubular, elongated torso flattened when airborne, and the translucent, veined wings cut the air. Zaupik had long been domesticated, and were commonly used as courier animals by those who could not afford mirrors. They were fast, reliable, and loyal, but had scant patience for any obstacles along their intended path.

Its cry is not unlike Lady Most High Luvia’s laugh. The wayward thought confirmed to Nacci the true source of her current funk. It also begat a perverse smile on her lips, and a slight, ironic leavening of her humor. Ladies smile that this maligned city has something appropriate and attractive!

An hour later, the chance of any divine favor became more remote with each trudging step. The Shad Curse may have been foiled, Nacci thought, but its effects still echo. Never have I seen a market so drab, so lacking in proper finery! I hadn’t expected to find Upper Court quality, but at least some diverting piece of craftsmanship! Her lips compressed and then parted on an explosive, resigned sigh. She turned back to the collection of scarves, shawls, and sashes she had dismissed only a moment before. The colors were bright but plain, the patterns simple but lacking elegance. As with everything else here, she grumped.

A tickle in the back of her mind made the hairs on her nape stand up. The scarlet sash with the gold fringe slipped from between her fingers, but was saved from an untidy landing by virtue of the cord holding it among its fellows on the stall’s post. She looked around, turning one direction and the other. Somewhere nearby, Terin craft is in use.

The scarf merchant’s face fell as Nacci turned away from her shop. She’d recognized the resigned slump of the Terine’s shoulders and the listless way Nacci’s hands had sorted her wares. Being a last resort was no worse than a first choice – either way, tines changed hands. But when the customer left in the manner of a predator catching blood on the breeze, that meant tines in somebody else’s pocket.

Nacci followed the trace through Market Square’s maze. She made excellent progress, having to retrace her steps and find a turn she’d missed only once. The stall was small and narrow, more of a space between two others that didn’t quite join. No banner or floating words proclaimed its name, if it had one. A rough-hewn table, a chair, a bedroll, a bag of rocks – and the artist.

At first she thought him deformed. He had the cupped, pointed ears of an aerin, and his greyish-brown skin was within the normal range for Terin blood. But his features lacked the slender refinement typical of aerin breed, and his proportions were somehow – off. She tried to riddle the difference, and realized that while his hands were of proper length, his arms and torso were shorter, broader, more compact. Nacci boggled as the word came to mind: shi’anbun. Half-breed.

He’s blind, she thought. He leaned back, his chair balanced on its rear legs, legs crossed and feet propped on the table, eyes shut as he cradled a fragment of granite in his hands. The rest of the tabletop was a menagerie – no, a miniature wilderness in motion. Animals of wildly varying size, color, and realism wandered or sat among trees and flowers that stirred as if by a breeze. All of them were shaped from among the rocks in his bag, but moved with as much life as the things that were their inspiration.

Nacci watched rapt as his fingers suddenly dug into the granite shard. Pulling, pushing, stretching, squeezing, pinching. The rock gave under his ministrations, flowing and setting as if he were somehow molding fluid. She felt the power flow from him, as when Melia used her Kin abilities. Suddenly Nacci realized something more was happening. Her gaze was trapped by the spectacle of the quickly-molding mineral. It’s as if the stone is… awakening! As if there is a spirit within, slumbering until moved by his touch! She blinked, this time in startlement at herself. How is it I feel it? My Kinship has ever been barely those of a novice!

Moments later he leaned forward, dropping his feet to the ground, and added a dracolet to the collection. It set next to a unicorn which would have dwarfed it in real life. The dracolet’s wedge-shaped head turned to one side and the other, as if the stone eyes could see the other milling creatures.

His eyes opened as he set the sculpture down, and she realized he could indeed see. He looked up at her in startlement, then lit the shadows with his smile. “Good even, Milady.”

Nacci suddenly realized her mouth had come unhinged while she’d watched him. She shut it quickly, but then opened again to exclaim, “What an amazing gift!”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the praise. “Merely the result of endless boring hours. The only gift is that I am too stubborn to give up when all about me counseled a more practical career.”

“I’m glad you paid them no heed!” Nacci told him. “I am surprised you have no patron to support such talent!”

“Some have offered,” came the reply. He crossed his forearms on the table’s edge, drawing the attention of a blue chalcedony lamia and and a pyrite hound. “But then I would be bound to create according to my patron’s whim, rather than what the rock wishes to be.”

The audacity of his claim distracted Nacci from her own newfound sensitivity to his works. “You prefer to live this way?” She stared at the nicked table legs, the dust on the bedroll, the shiny spots on the backpack and bag of rocks.

“Every choice has a price,” he answered, obsidian gaze unsettlingly direct. “I could have stayed at home, lived out a pampered, luxurious life as a tolerated bastard, fit to entertain guests with clever tricks but not to carry the family name. In choosing this life,” he waved a hand and encompassed the width of his kingdom, “I lose nothing but lying smiles, gaining honest appreciation of my value in their place.”

“You’re… very forthright,” Nacci observed tentatively. She’d heard it said that artistic genius was often an awkwardly close neighbor to madness. Perhaps it’s time to purchase one of his creations and make a polite escape.

He shrugged. “One never knows on whom the Ladies will smile, or for how long.” Suddenly his smile flashed again. “Words should be spoken when their power can be most keenly felt. Now,” sage changed to huckster as adroitly as he’d shaped the sculptures on the table, “Which of my noble friends has most captured Milady’s eye?”

Glad of the opportunity for a quick purchase and escape from this unsettling person, Nacci smiled and looked over the animated sculptures. She matched his change of role by slipping into the protective coloration of customer. It mattered not to a customer how the tiny creations aped life so effectively, or why the spark of spirit within each one was so apparent to her. They were merchandise, and her only concern was which would appeal most to her own mistress.

Shouts shredded Market Square’s twilight murmur. An amplified voice rang out with a stentorian declaration. “Attention, attention! Immediate curfew is in effect, Market Square is closed. Return to your homes immediately. Anybody in defiance of curfew will be arrested.”

“They’re early,” commented the artist in mild tones.

“Curfew!” Nacci cried. “So soon before Milady’s wedding! They must be mad!”

“They’ll be sweeping the square,” he told her. “Looks like another night in the garrison for me.” He might as well have been discussing the evening breeze. “I apologize for rushing your choice, Milady, but if I am not packed and ready to go when the Guards get here, they’ll insist on helping me collect my wares. They’re very thorough, but none too gentle.”

Nacci stared at him for a moment. Then she slid around his table, siezed the backpack from the ground, and shoved it at him. “Pack quickly,” she commanded, “and come with me.”

He accepted the pack and began gently collecting the sculptures into it. “Milady’s very kind,” he said, “but your concern is unfounded. The garrison is well-appointed as jails go, and the Guard always release well-behaved guests with dawn’s light.”

Nacci cinched the ties on the bag of rocks and hefted it. The cured hide bulged and sagged under the weight of its contents. She reached into the ground beneath her feet with her mind and pulled from its limitless strength, shunting the energy into her bones and muscles. Her own might thus augmented, she hefted the bag to one shoulder with ease. With her free hand she reached for his bedroll. “You said they’re early tonight,” she replied. “Do they do this every night?”

He shook his head. “They sweep through once each month, late at night after the respectable folk have retired. Those who are uncooperative or cannot lay claim to proper residence are treated to a night in the garrison.” He deposited a jade tree in his backpack and cinched its straps, then stopped in belated realization. “But they’ve never closed the Square before. Perhaps they wish to make a good impression for His Lordship’s guests.”

“I’m only recently arrived,” Nacci said, “but I somehow think it’s more than that. In any event, there’s no call for you to spend the night in the garrison when there’s plenty of room at the Greathouse.” She looked down at the battered table and chair. “Do you need those?”

“The Greathouse!” he exclaimed, staring at her. “Milady jests!”

“Stop calling me Milady!” she snapped. “You’ve more noble blood in your veins than I! Trust me when I tell you this is no normal sweep, and come with me!”

He hesitated until a scream and unmistakable sounds of violence spiked the tension in the air. “Mil – your caution seems well-founded after all. The table and chair are more the property of the Square. I’ll find others if they are taken.” He hefted the backpack over one shoulder.

“Let’s go!” Nacci set a determined pace which lasted only a few steps. Then she slowed, looked over her shoulder, ahead again, over the other shoulder. She sighed, let her shoulders slump, and showed him a face ruddy with shame. “I’m… lost.”

He won her heart in that moment as he effortlessly swallowed his laughter, his own expression promising that butter in his mouth would not even soften. “Allow me, then,” he said.

He returned to his narrow stall, and pushed between the panels at the back. Heavy fabric on one side and tanned hide on the other, they gave and parted enough for him to slip through. Nacci followed, and found herself in another winding Market Square passage.

His pace was rapid but not frantic. He cut between or through stalls with obvious familiarity, always avoiding wider passages or open courts. People milled about them in tides of confusion and slowly ripening fear. The amplified voice repeated its announcement at irregular intervals, sounding more irritated with each chorus.

What is happening? Nacci’s thoughts raced as she tried to match her companion’s obvious wit. Did His Lordship order this? What’s his game? Or are Milady’s fears right, and he has gone mad?

At one junction he paused. They were in a narrow lane between two rows of stalls, an alley formed where the back walls of the businesses didn’t completely join. He stuck his face to a gap in the wall, peering into the passage beyond. “Odd,” he murmured.

“What?” Nacci hissed, crouching in the alley behind him.

“Those Guards who just passed,” he told her. “Only four are aerin. The rest are human.”

“Human!” Nacci echoed, craning her neck though the squad had passed out of sight. “No aerin city has ever had other than aerin Guards!”

He favored her with a smile over his shoulder. “Thank the Ladies for sending you to my stall tonight. Else would I have been caught as unawares by these untidy events as my fellow citizens.” He peeked out again. “They’ve passed. Come!”

Nacci followed fast on his heels as he stole into the passage. A bulky shadow loomed to one side of them. She had enough time to open her mouth but not to sound a warning. He saw it, and spun in an attempt to evade grasping hands. He was nimble but untrained, while his opponent displayed obvious deftness at hand-to-hand techniques. One hand twisted his free arm, while the other balled into a fist and buried itself in his gut. He made a funny hooooooo sound as he sagged.

“Release him!” Nacci meant only to surprise the unkempt “Guard.” She succeeded. The impact of a leather sack stuffed with rocks of varying breeds driven by magically-amplified muscles against the right side of his head made his eyes bug out and his mouth sag in complete befuddlement. Then he caught up with events and pitched to one side, crashing through the screened front of a store offering decorative lamps.

Nacci dropped the bedroll and grabbed her companion under one arm, lifting him to his feet. “Come on!” she commanded.

His eyes were glazed with pain and confusion. “M-Milady?”

“Fine!” she hissed. “I’m Milady! Just come, quickly!”

A hiss like dry grass in a wind, punctuated by a sharp, wet thuk. He sprang to his feet, arching his back, his eyes now bright and clear as he stared at her. A round, dark spot appeared on his shirt just below the collar, spreading rapidly. Nacci gaped at the stain, then at his face which was much more grey than brown now. Her ears informed her mind that a loud voice nearby had issued a command to stay where she was. Her mind promised to relay the message as soon as it was able.

He essayed a smile, a pale echo of its former brilliance. His free hand slipped under the strap of his backpack, sliding it off his shoulder. He offered it to her. “Tell me your name,” he whispered.

“What?” she demanded.

“Your name,” he repeated.

“N-Nacci,” she told him. “Nacci Agat.”

“Take them,” he begged, stretching his arm to emphasize the proffered backpack. “Give them a good home.”

Nacci’s mind told her that several pairs of booted feet were rapidly approaching, accompanied by repeated commands to stay where she was. She took the backpack, watched the last light fade from his eyes, then finally let her survival instincts take over.

Two more of Embron’s City Guard Reserves were sent flying by a petite juggernaut. Quarrels struck sparks from walls and cobblestones as she raced through the darkening streets. She had neither knowledge nor care for her route, intent only on avoiding any more contact with the local authorities. An errant thought repeated in her mind. It would haunt her for days afterward.

I never learned his name.