Paradigm Clutch

Pieces Fitting Nowhere Else

 

Among the uninformed circulate assumptions about each breed of aerin. Nerin, for example, are believed to be naturally hairless. It is also held that they do not know how to create heat or cook food, having spent most of their lives in the water. An alternate of the latter is that Nerin cannot eat cooked food.

None of these are true. The custom of shaving the skull originated as a practical matter to reduce drag in the water, and became a fashion. Nerin are well able to create enough heat for cooking food even in the abyssal depths – they simply choose to use the heat for other purposes. As for the assumption that they can digest only raw things….

Lord Myllon Makko enjoyed everything about cooked food. He loved the smell of essential oils being released from steaming produce, the musky scent of roasting meat. The pop and crackle when a raw steak first hit the grille, the transition from red beef to rich brown or translucent poultry to creamy white were as beautiful to him as any work in a gallery. And the flavors!

Small wonder that as soon as authority over house affairs had passed to his hands, he’d replaced all of the kitchen staff with portians. Their clever hands provided him with an endless succession of steaming, smoking creations in infinite variety. As with any epicurean, of course he developed favorites. At this moment he was partaking of one such indulgence: sweet and tart berries and seasoned meat, skewered and roasted over an open fire. It was called m’rkobetan, which meant nothing more than ‘skewered meat and berries.’ The morsels slid off the skewer smoothly, leaving only a slight sheen on the wood. Perfect, he thought, saliva pooling in his mouth. The berries are at the height of their season, with the precise amount of caramelization on the skin!

“Lord Myllon!”

The staff knew better than to interrupt their Lord’s repast. Unless the matter was of truly world-shaking importance, summary dismissal was the customary penalty. Thus when the hail rang across the garden, Lord Myllon’s first response was not anger at the interruption. His stomach felt hollow in an altogether less pleasant manner, and his heart knocked insistently against his ribs. Ladies, he fretted, please no disasters!

By courtly protocol he did not turn to acknowledge the servant named Tanya, but waited with noble aplomb until she stood before him. One advantage of portian staff, he reflected as she knelt, is that I can look down upon them even when I am seated. “Speak,” he directed.

A tall silhouette loomed behind him and fell across the table. Tanya’s gaze entreated him to spare her the necessity of speech, staring over his shoulder at the cause of the shadow. He fixed a polite but noncommittal smile on his face and obliged her.

Lord Myllon had been close to his sister since childhood. At least I thought we were, he amended, until ten years ago. He knew her moods, could read them in her face and posture. What he saw there now drove all thought of his anticipated meal from his thoughts. He sprang from his chair with enough force to knock it to its side, and seized Shylla’s arms just above her elbows. “Shylla!” he cried. “Are you well?” Could you have possibly devised a more inane question?! He demanded of himself. “Do you need a chair?”

“Walk with me, Myllon,” she simply said.

She spoke again only once they were well within the maze which dominated the side yard. “What do you recall of the day Mother died?” They were at a dead-end within the maze, surrounded on three sides by walls of impenetrable foliage.

“Recall?” he echoed, and shuddered. “I shall never forget! I lost not only my mother, but my beloved sister that day! Yet now you seem to have returned to yourself! Have you, Shylla?”

“Myllon,” she chided. “Answer my question.”

“Of course, of course!” He paused and took some deep breaths to collect himself. “It seemed not so unusual a day. Mother had passed weeks in the tower suite, as was her wont. I had gone for a ride with Captain Vaeus, but he excused himself at the gate, pleading ‘vital matters involving city security.’ He was always like that, never one to impose on hospitality. We parted and I came looking for you.”

His brow furrowed as he dug for details. “One of the staff mentioned seeing you in the upper corridors, looking quite intent. I searched but you were nowhere. I knew the tower door would be locked, but to my surprise it yielded at my touch.” He swallowed, skin greyer than normal.

“What did you find?” Shylla prompted, her own voice barely above a whisper.

Myllon made an effort, and met her eyes. “We both knew Mother’s research had led her down dangerous roads, Shylla. We spoke of it not, pretended she was merely the reclusive, eccentric scholar everybody else thought her to be.” He swallowed again, this time suppressing a cough, and looked to one side. “I never suspected that you shared her obsession. Well-played, sister, hiding that from me.”

“Me?” The word was shocked from Shylla’s lips. Her eyes widened in surprise and hurt. Is it genuine? “I came here to confirm whether you were her confederate!”

Lord Myllon let his scorn show on his face. “I have never been half the scholar you or she was. Recall also, that I could not even enter the tower suite for the ward she placed on the door!”

“The door was warded against me also, Myllon!” Shylla protested. “Until that day, I had never before been allowed within!”

“Then how did you pass?” he demanded.

“How did you?” she countered. “The door shut behind me!”

Lord Myllon blinked, and a memory replayed behind his eyes. I’d looked everywhere else. What idle whim possessed me to test the latch of the tower door, I cannot say. How surprised I was, that it yielded as it had never before. I even felt the ward relent, allow me passage! He blinked again, focusing his gaze on Shylla’s face. “What led you there that day?” he asked.

“A slide, left in the viewer in the main office,” she told him. “It was a record of experiments Mother conducted within the tower.” She shut her eyes, her own face drawn at the recollection. “Such things — I’d never have believed within her to do.” She met his eyes again. “I stormed up the stairs and demanded entrance. At first I thought she’d admitted me. But she was surprised to see me there. That and things she said told me she had a partner. That person left the slide for you or I to find, and altered the ward on the tower door to allow both of us passage.”

“Somebody wanted us to know what she was doing,” Lord Myllon whispered. His brow furrowed, then shot upward. “Aubryn!” he cried.

The familiar angular face smiled up at Myllon from the mirror’s face. “Did you forget something?” he asked.

“Aubryn, please come at once!” Myllon cried. “There’s been a terrible accident! I need your help! And… your secrecy!”

The unfeigned urgency in Myllon’s manner erased the smile from Vaeus’ face. He nodded. “Calm yourself. I’ll be there directly.”

“Come by the maze gate,” Myllon instructed. “I’ll meet you.”

The mirror’s face reverted to its neutral state, reflecting Myllon’s own pale, frantic features. He blinked at his own appearance. Breath coming in ragged huffs, shirt askew on his shoulders, face waxy and lined with panic. He had the look of one who’d just been scared within a hair’s breadth of madness. And haven’t I? Still, it won’t do for the staff to see me in such a state!

By the time Myllon strode from the office, his face was smooth and relaxed, the shirt immaculate. Nothing in his mien betrayed the roil within. He strolled downstairs and into the garden behind the house as if this were a day like any other.

Like many fine Embron houses, the Makko estate boasted a wall encircling its yards. The barrier would not have stood more than minutes against an earnest invasion, but it enforced privacy and added prestige to the property. A gate wide enough for two carriages to pass each other was the main ingress. A smaller portal to the west allowed for deliveries and disposals. Finally, in a corner of the maze which dominated the back yard, hidden by a cunning arrangement of foliage, crouched a door barely wide and tall enough for one person to pass sideways. Like many other features of the property, it had been built on the orders of the original owner, a noble who took great pains to conceal his many vices.

Myllon maintained his leisurely veneer until he was within the maze. Then he sprinted expertly through its passages until he arrived at the concealed gate. It was warded to his touch only – he threw back the latch and wrenched it open. Aubryn Vaeus was the very personification of reassuring confidence, filling the narrow aperture as if made of the same stone as the wall. Myllon couldn’t help himself – he threw his arms around the Terin captain, and sighed away some of his fret as Aubryn returned the embrace.

“Forgive me,” Myllon implored. “I know city affairs demand your attention. Though in a way this is an official matter, still it needs no small measure of discretion, and…” I’m rambling. He forced a deep inhalation to stop the verbal flood. “I knew nobody else to call.”

Aubryn smiled, caressing the smooth curve of Myllon’s skull above one ear. “Whether as captain or confidant,” he purred, “you know I am here for you.”

Myllon returned the smile, fear beginning to sublimate to elation. “Come,” he urged. “It’s best if you see for yourself. Words or even mind-to-mind will fail at the full impact.”

He took Aubryn’s hand and led the way, pausing at the maze entrance to make certain none of the staff were about before crossing the yard into the house. The same level of caution was observed as they stole through hallways and galleries, up stairs and more stairs until stopping before the door to the tower suite.

“The staff assured me that Shylla was in,” Myllon explained as the latch clicked back, “and that Mother hadn’t emerged since last month.” He paused before opening the door. “I should not have been able to enter. I can’t say why I even attempted, except that there was nowhere else for them to be.” After casting scrutinizing glances in both directions to make sure they were still unobserved, he pulled the door open and gestured Aubryn within. “I have touched nothing,” he assured him.

It might have been Aubryn Vaeus, lover and confidant who passed through the doorway. At the sight of the two bodies sprawled amid piles of forbidden arcana, the eyes and mind which surveyed the scene belonged to Embron’s redoubtable Captain of the Guard. “Stay here,” he commanded curtly.

“Of course,” Myllon assured him. “I’ve no desire to see any more of that place than I have.”

Aubryn turned and favored Myllon with the smile which never failed to melt him. “Rest your mind,” he encouraged in smooth tones. “Shut the door and leave me. Whatever I find within these rooms will never pass beyond you and I. Go pretend this is just another day, that you and I have just returned from a pleasant afternoon and you are ready for a night of lordly indulgence. By the morrow, none of this will exist.”

The next morning’s sun drove daggers through Myllon’s eyes. His mouth tasted as if small animals had used it for a nest before being driven away by the smell. He awoke in his bed – whether he’d made it there under his own power or been carried there by the staff, he wasn’t sure at first. Then he noted he’d been bathed and dressed in bedclothes. I could not possibly have managed such feats on my own, after so much rum.

Myllon spied a small decanter and glass perching on the bedside table. The fluid visible through the crystal held the unmistakable rich darkness of tonic. Eschewing the glass, he snatched the cap from the decanter and tilted the vessel back. The aroma of the elixir clawed up his nose and danced in his sinuses, even as the rich liquid blazed down his throat and lit his stomach like hot oil poured from a parapet. He managed as long a draught as he could before both his nose and his belly closed ranks. Thank the Ladies for such quality help!

“Milord, please pardon the intrusion!” The human servant genuflected in the doorway.

Myllon took a deep breath, reinforced by the tonic’s effects. “Yes, Lin?”

The girl bowed again, obviously devoting herself to not panicking and committing a breach of protocol. “It’s Milady, Milord! Your sister!”

Myllon swayed a bit as he leaped from the bed, but the tonic had driven nearly all of the effects of alcohol poisoning from his system. “Lead the way,” he commanded. What have you done, Aubryn?

The seneschal met them along the way. “Pardon, Milord,” he said, producing a folded, sealed sheet of paper. “Captain Vaeus left this note for you. He gave strict instructions for its delivery directly you were awake, and that you should read it before doing anything else.”

Myllon,

Your sister lives. I placed her in her bed. Allow a week to pass before ‘discovering’ your mother’s body in the tower. There will be no trace of what she was doing. Give all of your servants generous severance. Hire an entirely new staff. Burn this note. I will contact you when it is safe.

Aubryn.

“I did as he instructed,” Myllon told Shylla. The two of them were still seated on the bench in the maze. The shadows had grown long with the descending sun, plunging much of the twisting passages into shadow. “I passed the time fearing when you would wake, what you might say or what I would say to you, or that you might never wake at all.” He folded his hands tightly in his lap and directed his next words at the ground, as if hoping they’d sink in and never be seen again. “When you did wake without any memory of the incident, I was actually relieved. Please forgive me that.”

“Given the circumstances,” Shylla allowed, “I doubt I’d have been any stronger. I recall some of what happened next. Mother’s death being discovered, the memorial.” Her brows drew together in thought. “I don’t recall any sort of inquiry.”

“There was none,” Myllon assured her. “Aubryn saw to that. Mother was just an eccentric, reclusive scholar who got careless and suffered a fatal fall.”

“Did he ever contact you?”

Myllon shook his head. “Not at first,” he told her. “After a month, I sent a note to the garrison. It was returned unopened. I took the hint, and waited on his decision when it was ‘safe.’” He loaded the last word with an overdose of acid, then sighed. “Besides, I suddenly found myself with a wealth of distractions.”

“The family business,” Shylla realized.

He nodded, unclasping his hands and throwing them up in a gesture of surrender. “You were always so good with them. Even when Mother dragged us from one end of the world to the other in pursuit of her mad research, you somehow kept the mills and quarries productive and profitable.” He scowled at the hedgewall before him. “While I played the role of the put-upon dandy who complained about the lack of suitable diversion in whatever forsaken ruin or hamlet happened to have drawn Mother’s fancy.”

He sprang upright and paced forward. “Suddenly Mother was gone and you were but a pale reflection of yourself, and there was nobody else to look after our fortunes.” He spun and gave her a manic grin. “I suppose I didn’t do so badly, in seven months we had to close only one mill!” The grin faded as quickly at it had appeared. His shoulders slumped. “I was trying to decide how many others would have to follow in order to start bringing in a profit again, when Aubryn called.”

A cool, suspicious current began flowing through Shylla’s mind. “Convenient,” she murmured.

Myllon didn’t make the connection. He continued, “He apologized for the delay, said he needed to be absolutely sure nobody would think anything amiss. I was so relieved at having any sort of sympathetic presence, it never occurred to me to realize that nobody had for a moment questioned the official story.

“He introduced me to Kethine, Kiel, Cyn, and Tesha. They talked long and forcefully about House Makko’s importance in Embron’s economy, of their concern over our turn of ‘bad fortune,’ and their desire to render such aid as they could.” He shook his head as the recollections tumbled forth. “I could speak as much that their eloquence and persuasiveness would have ensnared even a more experienced merchant than myself. But to take nothing away from them, I see now the truth is that I would have been just as swayed by methods more clumsy and transparent.”

Shylla saw in her brother now an epiphany similar to what she had suffered upon regaining her memories. He’s known this all these years, but hidden it from himself. My return has torn away the shades of his own mind. She had questions to ask and points to discuss, but knew that what Myllon needed most in this moment was to speak aloud the names of the demons which had tormented him over the past decade. So she kept her silence, except to prompt him along.

“How much of the business do they control?” she asked.

“I am still the official head of our holdings,” Myllon told her. “My word is needed for such decisions as cannot be delegated to managers.” His eyes gained a more thoughtful depth as his own statement triggered realization. “Though most of the current managers were hired on the Council’s recommendation.” The corners of his mouth twisted further downward. “Our fortunes are tied tightly to theirs. Kethine’s banks hold the bulk of our budget and profits, and we are dependant on Cyn’s caravans to transport raw and finished goods.”

Myllon clasped his hands and ground them together. “Even were I inclined to move against them, doing so would devastate our assets. Not to mention what damage might follow if Aubryn should ‘suddenly discover new evidence’ that paints Mother in a more accurate light.” He regarded Shylla sadly. “I fear I’ve placed us well and truly into a reefward tide.”

“That you have,” Shylla agreed thoughtfully. “I can see no way through this that does not involve a dear price.”

Hearing such a flat assurance of dire times ahead affected Myllon in a way he did not expect. Rather than adding to the weight on his spirit, the ominous forecast heartened him in a way unmatchable by the most enthusiastic optimism. It’s not as if things can’t get worse, he knew. They can, and will. Shylla is right: one does not undo a decade’s wickedness without cost.

I have truly sank to the bottom, he thought, buried in the silt. Now it is possible to ascend once more, but to reach the clear waters I must dig out from the filth and decay.

It felt odd to stand so straight. Have I been such a weakling these past years? I thought myself so strong in my suffering. Allowing and participating in their evil and greed, because I thought I had no other choice. Now I see it was only cowardice and apathy. He lifted his chin and locked a piercing gaze to match Shylla’s own. “Any price is worth it,” he declared.

Shylla smiled. “I am glad to hear those words from you, brother,” she told him, then her expression sobered. “For it will be upon you to pay much of it.”

Myllon’s own face split in another mad grin. “The Captain most often passes evenings in his quarters. Let us go and interrupt him.”

 

 

“Quartermaster!” Lieutenant Karlo Myl’s voice whipcracked in the doorway of Doren’s office. “Where are the reserve uniforms stored?”

Doren looked up from the pane of his viewer and regarded the Nerine second-in-command with his customary passive manner. He thought, as he had many times before on seeing her, how much her bluish skin, shaven skull, triangular face, pale blue eyes, and pointed teeth made her resemble an eel. Not so much the physical features, he corrected himself, as how the truth of her spirit shows through them.

He made a show of switching the slide in his viewer and checking records. It was a ploy; he knew the answer to her question as readily as he did any query about inventory. The pretense was another aspect of his habitual camouflage, appearing mediocre to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

“Unless they have been moved without authorization, Lieutenant,” he replied with the same deceptive indifference as showed on his face, “they are in Storage Four. Shall I confirm their location?”

“Just give me the keys,” Karlo snapped. “I’ll find them.”

Another day, Doren would have wondered why she wanted the uniforms which were kept ready against a recruiting of temporary Guards. Today, distraction caused him to dismiss her demand as, Doubtless more bodies in uniforms to keep the tourists properly cowed during the wedding celebration. He obediently held up the ring on which hung a collection of toothed, scored metal shafts of varying shapes. The lieutenant snatched it from his hand, spun on the balls of her feet, and swept into the hall without further ceremony. So headlong was her pace that the Guard who’d happened to be passing at that moment was forced to choose between colliding with her, or with the wall. There really was only one safe option available.

Doren watched Karlo go one direction and the Guards the other, the latter rubbing his bruised forehead. She is tough, smart, and confident, he mused. In moderation, those qualities would be virtues. A pity for her that moderation itself yet eludes her.

He replaced the slide which had been in his viewer. The pane lit with a dramatic scene, set against the courtyard of a well-appointed estate. It was the climactic moment of a duel. Both opponents wielded ankbam, batons whose shafts stretched or contracted with the motion of the wielder’s hand and arm. A human male, enough years behind him to streak grey through his brown locks but still with plenty of leather and whipcord in his limbs, put all he had into a lunge. His ankbam was at full extension, its tip rapping smartly on the wrist of his opponent, a Pyrin whose age was much less obvious. The strike was precise in location and delivery, hitting the tendons and shocking a spasm which loosed the aerin’s grip on his own baton. The Terin’s face was a study in surprise. His ankbam was in midair, halfway between his hand and the ground. By courtly rules of dueling, loss of a weapon forfeited the match.

This is the moment which everybody saw, Doren reflected. This, the image which lives in their memory. How much the Merchant Council made of this picture! The intensity on Lord Yrek’s face, the power in his lunge!

He tapped a control on the viewer’s base, and the image blurred into another. The Pyrin duelist lay on the ground, opposite hand clutched over the wrist where he’d been struck. He twisted in paroxysms of agony while necrosis bloomed in streaks and whorls of yellow and black all over his skin. One eye had already burst; the other bulged in terror and suffering. His mouth stretched wide, skin cracking at the corners, tongue already black and swollen, as he screamed and drowned in his own putrefying fluids.

This too, they burned into everybody’s mind, Doren mused grimly. He was unaffected by the portrait of torturous death. Not only because of how many displays of similar and worse had played out before him during the Steel War, but because his waking passions smoldered in a different direction. Not many had seen the effects of a deathrune before.

Another tap of the display controls diffused and reformed the image into a picture which obviously came between the two previous. The Terin was still falling to the ground, his first scream just emerging, the rot showing only in his hand and wrist. The human male had taken a step forward but now stood transfixed, ankbam held loosely in a hand which hung at his side. His empty hand reached out toward his conquered opponent in an instinctive gesture of aid, but the real story shone from his face. No grimace of malice sat there, no smile of triumph, nor even bland indifference. The victor was confused and terrified by an outcome he clearly had not expected.

Nobody saw this picture, though, Doren thought. Not even the Court Assembly. The Council made sure of that. A family ruined, hearts broken, a good man unjustly imprisoned. For what? To satisfy Kiel Rickart’s injured ‘honor,’ in reality to engorge the Council’s already-swollen coffers. And of those brave spirits who did protest the injustice, enough example was also made to dissuade anybody else. Myself included.

This is not the worst they have done. He pulled the slide from the viewer and darkened the pane. But it was one of their most transparent ploys. If not for the Shad curse and the state of the cityspell, I doubt very strongly they’d have carried it off.

The slide fit snugly into an envelope made of supple cured hide, which in turn was set into an unobtrusive wooden box. Doren gathered the box under one arm as he stood. The Shad curse is foiled. Embron is gifted with a Lord who blindsides protocol and tradition to expose those who hide their corruption behind just such outward shows of propriety. Phoenix-Touched Seekers bear the Lord’s Mark, issue outrageous challenges, and see into the soul with a mere touch! Such days!

Well, he concluded as he ambled from his office. Intrigues abound. Time for old Doren to join in the madness. We’ll see just how good you are at touch-scrying, Seeker Zerene Kandaler!

 

 

The loop on the end of the spring slipped over the spur with a metallic slik. Haydn set the pliers aside and grasped the ball-peen hammer, all without taking his gaze from the work before him. Three sharp raps with the rounded head bent the spur and trapped the spring. The cover-plate came next. It slid on smoothly, covering the mechanism, and was in turn anchored by a ratcheted metal strap.

Haydn opened the clamps and lifted the newly-crafted, modified kayat’neben. He turned it one way and the other, and blew some tiny filings from it. Then he slipped his hand through the grip, settling his fingers into the rings which were not part of the weapon’s customary design. Catch on the third finger, he thought with a frown, and removed his hand. He set the weapon palm-up on the worktable, and slid a rounded file from its slot in front of him. The edges of the table were crenelated with tools set into similar resting places, all neatly arranged and within easy reach. He slid the file through the ring and gently scraped the inner curve.

He had just set the file back into its slot when Kres stalked into the smithy. Haydn easily translated the set of his brother’s shoulders and the intent, distracted pace. “Still no sign of her?” he asked without turning, sliding his hand once more into the kayat’neben.

“Nor any of them,” Kres confirmed. “The only portians visible in Embron are those in non-portian employ. Marni and the rest of them–” He shrugged and scowled, leaning against a pillar. “It’s not cowardice, I’ll be bound. What do they know? Are they plotting something?” He shook his head. “It’s not just them, either. Something’s in the air.”

Haydn nodded. “Of course it is. His Lordship’s being married the day after tomorrow, while the city’s still trying to riddle his Ascension yesterday. If the Merchant Council’s meeting with him was a fraction as odd as ours, doubtless they’re on edge as well. ‘Tis a marvel the city has any wits left at all!”

Kres glowered even more. “His stones are just as much a puzzle. What did he mean with that meeting this morning?”

“You’ve been chewing on that all day,” Haydn chided. “Is it so incredible that he means just what he promised? Remember, he did spend two years in the world, away from court. Maybe he learned honesty in that time.”

“A forthright courtling,” Kres jeered. “Put that on the shelf with the subtle portian and the dancing centaur. Besides, wasn’t it just yesterday that you tested me on the truth of his motives?”

“He had us in his power,” Haydn pointed out. He lifted the hand wearing the kayat’neben. His hand clenched, and the blade slid out with the weapon’s characteristic shing! “Whatever he wanted from us, he could have taken at his leisure.” He relaxed his fingers, and the blade slid back into its sheath. “Remember that he made a point of us not actually having confessed to anything.”

Kres nodded. “I recall. It was a fine hair to split.”

Haydn grinned maliciously. “He needed no confession from us. We were caught with his servant captive in our cellar!” He extended the blade and let it retract again. “If we were his prey, why would he let us go?”

Kres pushed away from the pillar and took two steps forward, returning his brother’s leer. “Because he wants not only us, but any confederates we might have,” he conjectured. “He wishes to make an example not only of us, but of those whom we’ve helped. Why else do you think we’ve not gone out since before the Ascension?”

Haydn nodded and opened his mouth in a silent ah of understanding. “Does that also explain your vigil on Marni’s bakery, as well as the other portian businesses?” His tone was deceptively ingenuous.

Kres scowled again. “Marni already brought herself to His Lordship’s attention. And anybody with a brain behind their eyes could not escape noting the portians’ absence. I tell you, Haydn, he’s running a game and we’re merely pieces on the board!”

Haydn’s gaze wandered to one side. “How do you think the Phoenix-Touched fits in?” he asked. His fingers fidgeted inside the kayat’neben, producing metallic sounds of unrest.

Kres shrugged dismissively. “She’s in his employ. Phoenix-Touched need to eat and sleep too.”

The lines of Haydn’s face set in conviction. “She wouldn’t work for him if he weren’t true,” he stated, settling the question in his own mind. “Phoenix-Touched won’t abide falsehood.” He glared at Kres, daring his brother to dispute his statement. “That’s one of the qualities required to merit the Touch.”

Kres studied his sibling. Such conviction! he marveled. I can’t fault him for it, though. His world has always been defined by the work of his hands, the forge and table. His reality wasn’t torn down and rebuilt so he could see the interstices holding it together. So few things are certain and absolute, especially questions of nobility and honor. Even for those gifted by a phoenix!

A petite explosion burst in from the street. Haydn sprang from his seat, instinctively raising the kayat’neben in a defensive posture. Kres spun around in time to catch the brunt of the impact, which drove him across the smithy to sprawl on the floor on the far side of the forge.

Haydn let the blade retract as he leaped toward his fallen brother. Effortlessly he lifted the assailant from Kres and held her aloft, though he had to brace his legs against her struggles.

“You again?” he exclaimed, recognizing the Terine maid from the Greathouse. “Are we never to be rid of you?”

Nacci’s eyes were already wide in panic. When she realized where her blind run through Embron’s back streets had led her, they goggled further. “Ladies, no!” she screeched. “Not you! Release me!”

“As you command, Milady,” Haydn retorted and dropped her. He swept an arm toward the smithy doors. “Shall we call you a carriage, too?”

Nacci managed to land on her feet, only barely. Her balance was thrown off by the weight of the two bags she still carried. She darted around Haydn and sprinted for the street, only to skid to a stop at the doorway.

Kres sat up, wheezing. “What is she doing here?” he demanded with a gasp.

“Ask her,” Haydn advised off-handedly.

Nacci spun to face them. She was disheveled, dusty, and breathless. The bags she clutched were obviously not of courtly origin, worn and alternating between dullness and shine depending on how thoroughly dirt had been ground in. She stood in the doorway with her feet spread and posture hunched, as if prepared to jump in whatever direction promised escape.

And were the contents of one bag… moving?

“Hide me!” she blurted. “Please, you must! They mustn’t find me!”

“Who?” Haydn demanded.

“Brigands!” she cried. “Brigands dressed in Guard colors!”

 

A Rock and a Hard Case

 

Regardless of race, advancing age affects people in one of two ways. Some realize that succeeding generations reshape the world according to their own values, which are testing, modifying, or open discarding of their parents’ standards. “Evolve or die” is a catch-phrase these people understand. They may not surrender the mores which they used when it was their turn to mold society, but they are willing to discuss the merits of ideas brought to the table by their children and grandchildren.

Others view the changing world around them as proof that their progeny were obviously daydreaming instead of listening to all the good advice bestowed by those who have lived long enough to know better. (Whether their greater age actually translated to wisdom was a side issue often overlooked.) These people grow to view themselves as pillars sunk into the bedrock of reality. Their role is to offer sanctuary to those unfortunates buffeted about by the reckless experimentation which is rapidly transforming the world from a sensible, navigable river into a chaotic whitewater torrent. The more their conceptions of proper vs. profane are questioned, the more tightly they cling to them. One day, these people just know, everything will fall apart, and it will be up to them to show everybody else where they went wrong, and how to put it all back correctly.

Lady Most High Luvia Shayl of House Shayl (who never thought of herself except by her full name and title) did not stalk the hallways of Embron Greathouse. Upper Court, especially Most High, never stalk, she counseled herself. She further offered herself the following good advice in preparation for an anticipated confrontation. We also never argue, though a good debate is a healthy exercise. Grace, poise, and a pleasant, reasonable manner are the clearest signals of superior breeding.

Properly-reared Upper Court also understood the value of delegation. Trusting servants with certain tasks gives their lives a sense of value and purpose, without tasking their capacities overmuch. Sometimes though, she qualified, a matter which may otherwhen be safely assigned to the help needs to have its importance unmistakably demonstrated. The ability to recognize and react to such occasions is also a vital aspect of Upper Court education.

Of course, one must make allowances for members of the unfortunate House Shad. Minor breaches are understandable after so many years under that terrible curse. Such charity naturally provides that they show suitable commitment toward mending their lapsed ways, now that their affliction has ended. She paused in her internal monolog for added emphasis. Excellent examples of that commitment include being present without reminder for rehearsals of one’s own wedding.

A full-length mirror in an ornate frame hung on the wall of the hallway. It was not for communication, but neither was its placement without function. Just round the curve, the corridor gave onto the Greathouse’s reception gallery. The tall, wide pane of reflective glass provided a discreet means to make sure one’s appearance was in order before receiving visitors.

Lady Most High Luvia Shayl of House Shayl took advantage of the opportunity for just such a self-examination. Obsidian hair – meticulously coiffed and gleaming like its namesake. Slate-grey eyes – clear and full of serene, implacable purpose. Triangular face with high cheekbones, a chin pointed in calm determination, skin the color of rich earth – just the correct balance, neither too dull nor too shiny. Dress and posture – tall and erect, graceful but solid, fitting a Terine Lady. In all, the matriarch of House Shayl put one in mind of the one peak in every mountain range which by its height and immovable grandeur sets the example for all the rest, and accepts that role with utter gravity.

She noted movement in the mirror’s depths, and was glad she had. That advance warning allowed her to turn and greet an unexpected visitor with the level of decorum expected of her.

“Captain Vaeus!” she hailed him.

Both Guard Captain Aubryn Vaeus and the servant who escorted him turned at her call, and bowed deeply. “Milady Most High Luvia,” Vaeus purred. “What an unexpected gift from the Ladies, to finally meet you.”

Lady Most High Luvia smiled at his courtly greeting. “Reciprocated in full, Captain,” she assured him. “What errand brings you to Embron Greathouse?” She saw that the servant was still genuflecting, and gave him leave to stand upright with a casual wave. He looks very nervous, she noted. She added a warm smile to reassure him that he was under no threat of discipline. Oddly it seemed to have exactly the opposite effect – the poor fellow now looked as though he might abandon his duty to their guest and flee for his life. I shall have to remind Melia to screen the help more thoroughly, after the wedding.

“I seek an audience with His Lordship,” Vaeus informed her, “on a matter of the city’s security.” He glanced in the servant’s direction, confirming the source of his information without actually giving credit to him as a person. “I’m told I must wait until he has been released from rehearsals for his impending wedding.”

“How interesting!” Lady Most High Luvia cried. “I am just this moment seeking His Lordship, to remind both he and my niece of the importance of their presence at those same rehearsals!” She also now bent a less sunny gaze on the unlucky steward, a Zefin-Nerin breed whose name was Baras.

“Ah,” Baras temporized. “The Captain will please forgive my temerity in amending his summary of my earlier words. I indeed stated His Lordship would receive you directly he is finished with rehearsals for the ceremony. Those are the instructions I was given. It is not my place to state when His Lordship would arrive at those rehearsals.” He nodded at both the Captain and the Lady Most High. “Truthfully, such were my directives from the Greathouse seneschal.”

“And you are a good and faithful servant, to fulfill your orders with such conscientiousness!” Lady Most High Luvia declared effusively, again attemptin to assuage Baras’ terror. “Captain,” she turned once more to Vaeus, “if you will do me the pleasure of your company, we will locate His Lordship together, and riddle this gap in communication.”

Vaeus’ grin was full of teeth. “I can think of few strategies more admirable, Milady Most High.”

Baras gathered every ounce of courage he possessed and spoke up again. “If Milady Most High will pardon,” he said, “His Lordship was quite specific in the accommodations which were to be afforded the Captain.”

Lady Most High Luvia brushed the objection aside. Outwardly, the dismissal was very offhanded. Inwardly – Insubordinate. Yes, this house will need an entirely new staff. “As he should be, in receiving such a distinguished guest. Rest your mind….” She trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

“Baras,” he supplied. “Baras Plue.”

“Baras,” Lady Most High Luvia repeated. “You have discharged your responsibilities to a point beyond reproach. Now, as the ranking member of the Upper Court currently present, I appoint you a new task.”

Baras struggled to fit an expression of properly servile anticipation onto his face at the prospect. “I am at Milady Most High’s disposal,” he managed not to squeak.

“Of course,” Lady Most High Luvia agreed. “I trust that you are intimately familiar with this estate, its ways and chambers.” She made it a statement instead of a question, thus removing any convenient opportunity for Baras to disagree with her. “It is vital that both Captain Vaeus and myself locate His Lordship without delay, but we are both relative strangers to the Greathouse. Thus you will ensure that we do not miss any rooms or yards where His Lordship might be taking his leisure, so we may locate him and remind him of his obligations.”

Baras Plue had been hired while Vrei Weton administered Embron’s affairs. Regency life had been predictable and uneventful, such that any staff wishing for a more adventurous career had moved on long ago. Those who stayed on were content with the monotony enforced by Regent Weton. Working for a cursed House hadn’t been so bad, as long as the duties are familiar and the pay steady.

The week since Lord Jonnal’s arrival at the Greathouse had been marked by intrigue and upheaval. An exciting new Lord, an enigmatic new seneschal, the tragically short career of the new House Captain, that Tantareli and that Phoenix-Touched human coming and going. Really, it took all Baras’ wiles just to stay in the background. Now suddenly, he had fallen victim to one of the oldest and cruelest curses, worse even than the Shad curse. I’ve come to the attention of important people.

Baras knew that His Lordship was engaged in some plot. He was privy neither to the details nor the setting, which suited him just fine. That neither the Lady Most High nor the Captain had been briefed on current affairs was none of his concern, but presumably was how His Lordship preferred matters. The last, absolute not-even-on-the-long-list last thing Baras wanted to do was contravene His Lordship’s will, however inadvertantly.

But here they were before him, expecting him to do just that. And Baras knew that despite his best efforts, he had just been drawn into the plot.

Ladies preserve me.

He did the best he could. He walked well ahead of the Lady Most High and the Captain, ostensibly helping them search for His errant Lordship. Each room was subjected to a painstaking examination. In reality, Baras harbored hopes that he could spy whatever clandestinity Embron’s Mad Lord was up to, far enough ahead that he could divert attention away from that location. Failing that, Ladies smile that he could at least give his Lordship time to finish, or give enough alert to the impending interruption to allow a graceful cover-up.

Unfortunately, the Captain seemed to know something more than Baras himself. As they set out his first suggestion was, “As I was shown in from the gate, I thought I heard some commotion from the gardens to the side of the house. Perhaps we might check there.”

Impossible! Baras thought to himself. No aerin has such sharp ears! Besides, the yards are designed to prevent sight and sound between the gardens and the gate!

“In turn, Captain,” the Lady Most High allowed. “Surely a trained officer such as yourself can appreciate the methodical approach. We shall search the house first, then see whether my impending nephew is hiding in the hedges.”

The angry flash in the Captain’s eyes at her dismissal was quickly quenched, but not so fast that Baras missed it. A sudden sense of alien cunning ignited and smoldered in him. Perhaps I can play them against each other, thus further stymying their efforts? Sanity quickly doused the idea. What am I thinking? I have no gift for intrigue! I will do well to retain my position once this has played out!

Despite his gloomy prognosis, Baras enjoyed the Ladies’ favor by virtue of two dominant, unswerving personalities whose courses ran just enough askew to rub against each other. Three empty rooms later, the Captain spoke again. “Milady Most High speaks truly in suggesting that I am a proponent of a disciplined investigation. However, an experienced Guard also learns to listen to the quiet whisper of instinct and inspiration. Mine will not be silent in their insistence that scrutiny of the gardens will yield fruit beyond what may hang on the trees.”

“Well-spoken, Captain,” the Lady Most High purred. “If your insight proves true, I will happily give it full credit. We shall delay not a moment more, but to inspect these remaining chambers on our way to the garden!”

So obliquely was the rebuff delivered that Baras himself nearly passed by the next door. “Baras,” the Lady Most High hailed gently. “Is this room so unused that it does not bear even a cursory look?”

“Of course, Milady Most High,” Baras acquiesced. The entrance was neither locked nor warded. It was simply beneath the Lady Most High’s station to perform such a mundane task for herself, when Baras was present to spare her the effort.

The room was one of several galleries of ambiguous purpose. In happier times, it had seen use for intimate gatherings during which hours would pass in conversation, spiced by House Shad’s various native brews and trays of light, flavorful snacks.

With the advent of the Shad Curse and the Regency, Embron Greathouse had entertained little. The curtains were drawn and the furnishings were shrouded against dust and decay, giving the chamber a look reminiscent of a crypt. Nonetheless, Baras made a show of entering the room with obvious intent to check the shadowed corners for stray courtlings. The Lady Most High stood watch in the open doorway, in the event any such should try to bolt.

The escape, when it came, caught them both unawares. “Captain?” the Lady Most High called, looking around.

Baras had just emerged from the shrouded gallery. His head swung one way then the other, taking in the length of the hall. The Captain was nowhere in sight. Baras’ first reaction was to open the door and check the gallery again, in case he’d accidentally shut Captain Vaeus within.

“The garden,” the Lady Most High sighed. “Impetuous.” Uttered the way she did, the single word was condemnation. “Come, good Baras. Now we must retrieve both His Lordship and the Captain.”

Though he preceded her, Baras felt as though the Lady Most High were dragging him in her wake. He threw open the metal-framed glass doors which gave from the end of the hall to the garden. They would shut themselves a few seconds after he and the Lady Most High passed through the gentle ward.

When they emerged from the grove separating the house from the garden, Baras’ heart slammed against his ribs as if trying to escape. Ladies, he begged, deliver me!

On the one hand stood the Captain, tall, assured, resolute in his authority. At first Baras thought part of the reason for his confidence was the presence of a squad of City Guards. Where did they come from? Baras wondered. They couldn’t have passed the gate without challenge!

Then he factored in the belated observation that perhaps only three among the ‘Guards’ were aerin, or anything close. How could I have missed that? Ogres, lamia, centaurs – that is no proper Guard!

He recalculated the odds, and the Captain’s bold manner suddenly took on heroic dimensions. He was alone against a motley, dangerous press which drew from nearly all of Shenn’s lesser races. Even a tagarl! Baras marveled. At their front stood His Lordship and Her Ladyship (Not yet, Baras reminded himself. Not until two days’ hence.), along with that Phoenix-Touched human. Her eyes glowed like twin suns, and Baras could see power roiling off her, rippling the air. That was only the most obvious indicator of the tension which sparked and hummed on the lawn.

“And just what,” the Lady Most High spoke in deceptively mild tones, “is the meaning of this?”

Vaeus turned. His face was a study in professional detachment. “Milady Most High, your arrival is well-timed. To answer your question succinctly, these proceedings can be summed up in one word: sedition. I regret that I have been forced to place His Lordship, the Lady Melia, and these others present under house arrest for their demonstrated intent to subvert the proper role of law in Embron.” He turned back so that his field of vision took in both Lady Most High Luvia on one side and His Lordship on the other. “Further, I am forced to declare martial law until this matter can be brought before the Court Assembly.”

“Martial law?” Melia echoed, aghast. “You’re mad!”

Vaeus regarded her coolly. “I am not the one recruiting Seekers to ‘turn out the City Guard,’ Milady,” he pointed out. “Nor am I sneaking them in for a secret muster on Greathouse grounds.”

Melia blinked at Vaeus’ turn of phrase. Those are the very words Bolt used at Black Lake Valley! How could he know?

Sure of that? Zerene’s mind echoed in hers.

Caught utterly by surprise, Melia’s head jerked around to stare at Zerene. How did you get that? She demanded. My shields are in place!

Worry later, Zerene advised her. Are you sure Vaeus just quoted Bolt?

Word for word, Melia assured her.

Hm, was Zerene’s only response.

“No,” Jonnal agreed. “You’re merely the one who’s abandoned his oath and thrown in with a cabal aimed at squeezing every tine possible from Embron, by whatever evil, dishonest means comes to hand.” He smiled, showing teeth. “Your order of house arrest is without power, Captain. As of ten minutes ago, you were dismissed. Meet Embron’s new Captain of the Guard.” He waved a hand toward Zerene. “And it is you who is under arrest.”

Vaeus spared a scant glance in Zerene’s direction, quickly sweeping past her to bathe the rest of the company with the sort of look one gives creatures whose ecology is based in the excrement of more complex beasts. “And these are the best His Lordship could muster as replacements for Embron’s Guard?” He let his gaze linger only slightly longer on Tsial. “Does His Lordship truly believe the people are so beaten down that they will accept such rabble for their safeguards?”

Tsial made a sound deep in her throat which reverberated through her impressive torso. It was neither a growl nor a cough, but clearly warned that violence lurked but one more sneering syllable away. The other Seekers favored Vaeus with glares and grimaces that said more plainly than words or mind-speech, Your mouth is digging your own grave.

Lady Most High Luvia’s voice echoed across the garden, though its tone remained composed and conversational. “We have arrived at an impasse,” she announced. She glided forward, neatly interposing herself between Jonnal and Vaeus. She was every bit the regal arbiter, the voice of sweet reason and compromise between two headlong forces. “Your Lordship,” she addressed Jonnal, “if you have evidence in support of the charges you have leveled against Captain Vaeus, the proper venue is to present them before the Court Assembly. Your actions here only weaken your case, and strengthen the Captain’s charge of sedition.”

Jonnal inclined his head in acknowledgment of Lady Most High Luvia’s rebuke. “Your counsel is sound, Milady Most High. I accept that my strategy is unconventional and easily misconstrued. I am willing to submit to the rule of the Court Assembly. In my defense I offer that the necessity of these tactics was created by the pervasive influence of Captain Vaeus’ true masters. They have already demonstrated an ability to silence accusers and conceal evidence. Without such extraordinary measures,” he waved at the assembled Seekers, “our chances of getting the truth to stand before the Court Assembly are slim, indeed.”

Lady Most High Luvia’s fine eyebrows arched at Jonnal’s response. “Even more serious charges, Your Lordship. If you wish the favor of my office, more than vague accusations are needed. The actions you describe require the authority of Upper Court nobility, your peers and mine. Can you name them and show support of your charges?”

“Evidence will be forthcoming,” Jonnal hedged. “Names, I have. Lady Kethine Eona. Lady Tesha Khalchyte. Lord Myllon Makko. Lord Kiel Rickart. Lord Cyn Dessens. In short, Embron’s Merchant Council. Captain Vaeus and the City Guard have been the instruments of their designs to control all commerce in the city, in violation of his oath to the Lord’s office.”

“The Merchant Council?” Lady Most High Luvia echoed. She turned again to Vaeus. “What answer do you give, Captain?”

Vaeus shrugged. “Milady Most High, I am at a loss. In desperation and without any undue aspersions against His Lordship, I submit that he has been led astray by reckless and disproven accusations from a chronic malcontent.” He paused, gazing analytically at Jonnal. “Perhaps also he is swayed in that Lady Kethine is included among the supposed villains. House Shad has lost many holdings to House Eona during its unhappy cursed years.”

“DIE!”

The raucous syllable rang across the yard, shattering the tense air. A tall, bulky shape followed it, hurtling across the grass at Vaeus. Hands groped ineffectually in reflexive attempts to stop her, but Choxie swept them aside through sheer velocity. Close on her heels came her fellow ogres, whether intent on catching her or aiding her was unclear.

Jonnal and Zerene reacted with trail-honed reflexes. Whether they were the ogres’ target or simply in the way, the healthiest option was to no longer be where they were. Jonnal grabbed Melia around the waist and yanked her with him as he dove aside. Zerene performed the same courtesy for Luvia, clutching hands under her arms and pulling the Lady Most High down on top of her as she leaped clear. For his part, Evig leaped and tackled Baras. Instead of knocking his fellow servant to the ground, the seneschal’s Zefin Kinship wrapped a wind around them and bore them safely aloft.

Po’s warning KLAK cracked in everybody’s ears, but even that normally-respected noise failed to slow the charging ogres. The tagarl reached down toward them, but it was clear they’d reach Vaeus first.

Vaeus backpedaled, eyes wide and teeth bared. One hand darted inside his overcoat. The air around him charged and crackled, rippling and wrinkling. Across the yard the Seekers broke ranks and sprinted in random directions, leaving the cleared garden for the grove beyond. They ran heedless of the carts, tables, and kegs in their way – snack and beverages flew and splashed. Only Po remained, still trying to intercept Choxie.

“Choxie!” Tsial roared. Her leap carried her the same distance it had taken the ogres ten paces to cover. She landed on Choxie’s shoulders and bounded off, into the air ahead of her. Twisting fluidly, she landed in front of Choxie. Seeming to bounce off the ground, she leaped directly at the hurtling ogress, all six limbs splayed. Her rear legs pinioned Choxie’s together, her forelegs tangled with the ogress’ brawny thews, and her arms wrapped around Choxie’s head, smothering her face against Tsial’s chest.

The expertly-applied hold turned the charge into a clumsy dive. Tsial controlled the fall, twisting the two of them around so they impacted the grass on Choxie’s back. The intention of the other two ogres now became clear – they grabbed at their fallen fellow, slowing her headlong slide to a stop.

Zerene’s head whipped around to center on Vaeus. She stared as a swirling hole defined by an event horizon of green energy opened behind him. Portal! Her gut twisted in reaction to the opening. She’d always been sensitive to any distortion of space-time. Can’t let him escape! Marshalling her wits and shoving the nausea aside, she let her power become a fist and launched it at the escaping Captain. There was no subtlety about the attack – she intended to blast right through his shields and pound his mind into submission.

He staggered and cried out, lurching into the portal with none of the grace he might have intended. Zerene only dimly registered this, as a hammer suddenly slammed into her. It didn’t touch her shields, but literally slid through them as though they weren’t there. Though the impact was not physical, still she lurched, arching her back, and sprawling backward onto the ground. My own attack! The realization compounded her shock. Bastard!

Then something else took hold of her mind and pulled.

The portal closed with a final discharge of static, the crackle echoing back from the walls of the Greathouse. The nine people who remained in the yard recovered themselves and looked around. Evig lowered himself and Baras to the ground, where it was discovered that the servant had fainted.

“What,” Melia demanded, “was all of that?”

The next round, Jonnal’s thought echoed in her mind. Though it’s not going as I would have planned.

 

 

“Praler!” Karlo Myl barked. “Where is that worthless partner of yours?”

From the abruptness of Yar Praler’s jump, it was easy to imagine that the Guard second’s renowned tongue had literally stung him. “Lieutenant, I’m not certain,” he responded, knowing that admission would be a mark against him. Every Guard was assigned a partner, and each was charged with the responsibility of their colleague’s adherence to protocol and regulation. Failure earned penalties for both, but the harsher punishments were handed out to the Guard who lapsed at keeping their partner in line. “She was with me when we left the garrison. We became separated in the ride here. I’ve called her via mirror and mind, without response.”

Whatever measure of sympathy Lieutenant Myl once possessed had long since been squeezed from her, and her pinched features reflected that. “Then unless you wish to be deeper in dung than you are already,” she hissed through pointed teeth, “you had best retrace your steps and retrieve her.”

Yar nodded and bowed. “At once, Lieutenant!” He was not deaf to the malicious snickering and leers which followed his retreat from the Greathouse cordon. Laugh it up, he retorted, keeping the sentiment to himself. Come tomorrow the best you all can hope for is to still be here, thugs for the Merchant Council!

He commandeered one of the carriages which had brought them from the garrison. It was a Takaras carriage like all the Guard vehicles, not even a year old. Following the disgrace of Clan Takaras, the Guard had received all new carriages as a gift from Lord Kiel Rickart. The official reason was a gesture of sympathy and consolation for the loss of one of their own.

He could have saved himself the trouble, Yar reflected as he vaulted into the driver’s seat. He remembered Zaen Srata, the Guard who’d found his fate at the wrong end of Lord Yrek Takaras’ runed weapon. Nobody liked the courtless bastard.

Embron’s streets were just waking to the fact that martial law had been declared. Amplified announcements echoed from walls and pavement. Squads of reserve Guards patrolled avenues and alleys, chasing townspeople and tourists before them. Reservists! Yar thought to himself. If only the people knew who was really loose in the streets! The citizens were compliant for the most part, obediently scurrying into homes, stores, or inns, locking doors and windows after themselves.

One always expected a few troublemakers. Yar passed a squad in a dead run, after the shortest Terine he’d ever seen. The girl was well-dressed, definitely Upper Court, carrying two large, worn bags. Despite her burden, she kept pace ahead of her pursuers. Yar smirked as he noted that a couple of the reservists were bruised and bloody. Ladies smile on you, girl, he thought, and keep your feet fleet. Especially if ‘twas you that gave them those marks! A block later, he’d completely forgotten the incident.

Somebody had set something afire in Market Square – a slender coil of dense black smoke writhed in the twilight breeze. Yar studied it just long enough to reassure himself that his route would carry him nowhere near it. Lady Pyraesa take the whole city and welcome, he thought. So long as she lights it after we’re gone.

He had to detour twice to avoid crowds who hadn’t yet sorted out which direction to run, despite encouragement from the reservists. At length the gates of the garrison yawned open ahead of him. Yar steered the carriage into the yard and leaped from the seat before it had come to a complete stop. The plan’s afoot, Vela, he sent ahead as he sprinted into the garrison proper. You better have done your part!

 

 

Doren hadn’t needed much time to riddle where Aubryn Vaeus hid things. The rear wall of the Captain’s bedroom closet was much shallower than Doren recalled, and echoed dully when struck. As many years as this building and I have spent together, she holds no secrets from me.

Figuring out the mechanism which opened the false wall proved another matter. Was the latch concealed in the molding along the base? One of the clothing hooks, or part of the shelf? Did the closet door need to be shut?

This is taking too long, he fretted to himself, knowing that the complaint only increased his own impatience and fear of discovery. Even the Guards assigned to clean the Captain’s suite were expected to tarry no longer than their labor required. Nobody else was allowed in Vaeus’ rooms without his express invitation and presence. This worked both for and against Doren. The chance that I’ll be discovered is low, he counseled himself. If I am caught though, almost certain it will be the Captain himself.

A sudden tumult in the passages outside made his heart hammer nearly out of his chest. He hid behind the entry-door to the suite and listened. Martial law! He blinked as the announcement went out. And a cordon around the Greathouse! What game is this, now? Well, they’ll not be wanting old Doren along, and the garrison will be empty. With a deep, relaxing breath he returned to the bedroom closet.

At length he found it. There was a ward, but that was an alarm only. Doren was prepared for this eventuality. A lull rune, confiscated years before from an enterprising thief, persuaded the ward that nothing was happening that demanded its attention. With the door shut but the latch thrown only halfway, the hook nearest the rear wall had to be twisted and held while the molding along the base was pressed down with a foot. The entire rear wall said chak and slid slightly to one side, just enough to grab the edge and shove it the rest of the way.

Ladies.

He’d expected a trove, and was not disappointed. Vaeus was clearly prepared for a quick exit, should one become necessary. A bag sat on the floor just to the right inside the door, neatly packed with clothes and toiletries. A wide belt lined with pockets draped over it. Each pocket of the belt bulged with neatly-stacked coronets. Even if one calculated only by the precious metal content of the currency, there was enough to buy passage and anonymity anywhere on Shenn.

The cause of Doren’s invocation was the contents of the shelves which lined the secret room. Loose pages and bound volumes, devices and fragments of same, all arranged with the same obsession for neatness which Aubryn Vaeus brought to all other aspects of his existence. All of them sported the same crest. That insignia had once been borne with honor. For the past five millennia though, it had become synonymous with fascism and ruthless ambition. Mere possession of the artifacts by anybody not authorized by the Court Assembly and the Academy of Mages was considered high treason.

It was the crest of the Steel Concord. The combined military force which had engineered Shenn’s only worldwide war, and nearly taken control of the world.

What is your game, Captain Vaeus?

So struck was Doren by the illegal cache that his gaze swept the room four times before he saw the item he’d come to find. Carefully, he lifted it and set it into the box he’d brought with him. On impulse, he grabbed a badge with the forbidden crest from a shelf and shoved it into a pocket. One more stone to seal the Captain’s grave.

He closed the secret room and exited the closet, pausing only to make sure he’d left no sign of his intrusion. Though he knew the garrison had been emptied by the muster in support of martial law, still he paused at the suite entrance and listened before opening the door.

He stepped into the hallway, and the tip of his nose touched that of Vela Kockle.

 

 

Vela had ever been a creature of impulse. Her inability to plan further ahead than her next full purse had pulled her from one opportunity to the next. Until applying to the Embron City Guard, her personal best had been five months. She blamed her Zefin half for the wanderlust.

I really don’t mind, she insisted. I know a little about more jobs than many people, and I bring what I learn from previous positions to my most current. That ex-employers eschewed her versatility and innovative approach in favor of their staid ‘tried and true’ methods was their loss, not hers.

Yar Praler had changed all that.

I don’t love him. She reminded herself of this fact any time she caught her wayward mind drifting across the rough, broad planes of his dark face, the span of his shoulders, the slight burr in his voice, or his scent, a musky mix of dried leaves, dust, and sweat. He’s a good partner, that’s all. He’s smart, patient, and doesn’t treat me like a fool. Still, she remembered to thank the Ladies on a regular basis for the day they were assigned as partners.

Aubryn Vaeus and Karlo Myl had proven as closeminded as all the rest. Vela had been ready to collect her pay and move on after only two months. Yar had talked her into staying. She couldn’t remember the details of his argument, but the logic of it had seemed unassailable. Certainly the results bore no denial. In three years they’d amassed a burgeoning mutual purse as well as travel-bags stuffed with donations from Embron merchants. It’s not a fortune, Vela knew. Until you compare it to what I’ve had in my pocket when leaving any job before. For the first time, I’ll hit a new town without worry over which would-be Merchant Lord has the most kiss-worthy ass!

Of course, it never hurt to have a little more….

When the call came to muster around the Greathouse that martial law was being declared, and that the city would be patrolled by reservists who were in reality brigands from the Razored Shade gang, Yar decided that it was time to retire from Guard work. “Just as we planned,” he’d told Vela. “You tarry and gather our cache, wait for me here. As soon as Lieutenant Myl sends me back to fetch you, we’ll leave Embron and its plots forever.”

The muster had emptied the garrison. Even the kitchen staff were pressed into stations. The call had been urgent, leaving barely enough time to shrug into uniforms and strap on weapons before the carriages left for the Greathouse. A vivid illustration of the hasty response was the door of the Guard’s exchequer office. It was locked, but the ward hadn’t been engaged. A clearer omen could not be given, Vela told herself, if Lady Zef herself beckoned me in!

This being the last week of the month, the payroll for the coming month hadn’t yet been delivered. Vela’s thanks to the Ladies was just turning sour when she realized the floor of the small vault in which the payroll would be kept was thicker than the rest of it. She tched at how easily the false panel lifted out, then ooo’ed at the telltale sag of the satchel underneath. Grift fund. The exchequer must have been skimming the payroll for years! Which means at least part of this rightfully belongs to Yar and I! And the rest won’t be missed, at least not officially.

Her extra stop had taken more time than she’d expected. Added burden tucked securely under one arm, Vela took a short cut through a passage she normally avoided. It was the officers’ hall, where the apartments were reserved for the Captain, Lieutenant, and other ranking members of the Guard. Vela stepped up her pace, confident that this wing was as deserted as the rest of the garrison.

The door of the Captain’s apartment slid open just as Vela approached, and her heart tried to leave the rest her body behind to strike out on its own. Instead of Captain Vaeus’ forbidding dimensions, the spare frame of the Quartermaster emerged. Vela’s emotions did a dance, terror sliding to relief, skipping around fear, and finally twirling into confusion. Her face settled for the slack-jawed, goggle-eyed look which universally translates as I’m caught!

How odd, she thought, the Quartermaster has the same look.

Ages passed while they stared at each other, though the angle of sunlight on the wall dipped only slightly. Then Doren did something with his face that Vela had never seen him do before, and frankly hadn’t thought he could. His mouth split in a wide grin, rakish and conspiratorial. “You did not see me,” he said in quiet, clear tones, “nor I you. Are we in accord, Vela?”

He knows my first name! She spotted the plain wooden box he held under one arm. He’s stealing from the Captain! The old fraud! Her faith in people’s innate larceny was restored, and for the first time she felt a kinship to the old Pyrin. Not a lot – just enough that she could fall in with his offer of mutual non-interference.

The two of them were just passing each other when a clear tenor voice called, “You there! Guard!”

Now what? was the thought that passed through both Doren’s and Vela’s minds. Vela looked back and Doren looked up. To Vela, the pair of Nerin courtlings were vaguely familiar. They have something to do with city affairs. Doren, who took pains to stay current on such things, immediately recognized the Makko siblings.

“How may I help you, Milord and Lady?” Doren asked.

Quartermaster has them in hand, Vela assured herself. Confident that the courtlings were officially Somebody Else’s Problem, she finished her escape to the far end of the hall.

“Either explain the madness infesting Embron’s streets,” Lord Myllon demanded, “or bring us to Captain Vaeus for a similar courtesy!”

Doren later marveled at how many meetings in that hallway would have happened differently or been avoided altogether, but for a few moments more or less. As it was, he had been able to close the door of Captain Vaeus’ apartment and move a few steps down the hall before meeting Lord and Lady Makko. Thus his presence was questionable but not automatically incriminating when the last person on Shenn he wished to see at that moment turned the corner behind the nobles.

“Captain Vaeus!” he hailed. “You have visitors!”

 

Things Go Awry

 

Vaeus stumbled out of the portal into his office and nearly fell over his desk. Shenn’s entire population of tagarl giants was dancing enthusiastically inside his skull, and a live coal was inside his coat. He doffed the garment and turned it inside-out, glaring at the pocket which was beginnning to smolder. Turning the coat upside-down, he stretched the panel of it tight and shook it until a blackened lump fell out and clattered on his desk.

Amazing, he thought, staring at the remains of his twist rune. He’d carried the charm for years. Such portable wards were complex and expensive, but it had saved his mind and life often enough to justify the cost. The rune reflected any incoming magical or psychic attack, turning it back on its author. It had performed its duty this time, but at an unexpected cost. An elegant demonstration of the Phoenix-Touched’s power. Ladies smile that she suffered equal to what she aimed at me.

He frowned as he shrugged back into the coat. Idiot, he rebuked himself. You saw His Lordship’s game at the Ascension, and again in meeting with the Council. Yet still you accosted him as though he were just another courtling! You would have been well-served to have his pet turn your brain to ash!

The box with the journal and documents was in his desk drawer where it belonged. He snatched it and a few other necessary items, then slammed the drawer shut. And now, rather than a liesurely siege of martial law to keep things under control, the streets will be a running battle. No doubt also Tsial is casting for my scent, rot her soul. If she’s half as good as she used to be, she’ll find me before the dawn. He took time to fish a comfort rune from his pocket and touch it to his temple. The throbbing pain from the blunted psychic attack eased.

One last cast around the office to make sure he was leaving behind nothing of note, then he left it for the last time. Vaeus navigated the garrison corridors at a pace he would never have allowed his subordinates to see, being of the firm conviction that an effective commander must always appear deliberate and in control.

“Aubryn!” Kethine Eona’s voice shouted from his pocket. “Aubryn, I know you’re there! Answer me!”

Without breaking stride he slid the mirror from his coat, striking its pane with a practiced tap of his thumb. The Lady Eona was as immaculately appointed as always, her golden hair framing her fine features. The image in the mirror could have served as a formal portrait, but for the petulant pout of her lips and topaz eyes as hard as their namesake.

“I am ever at your command, Milady,” Vaeus intoned. For the first time in their relationship he did not bother to dilute the acid in his voice.

Lady Kethine was taken aback for a moment by his response. She had not earned her station by being so easily bested, and swiftly rallied her wits. “Aubryn, what is going on? Martial law? Your Guards are running wild in the streets, the city needs more protection from them than anything else! What game are you playing, and why did you not alert me to it?”

“Very simple, dearest Kethine,” he told her. “It’s my game. You’re as much a mark as His Lordship and the rest of this silly city. There’s nothing more, and I’m quite busy. Farewell.”

Lady Kethine was never at loss for a reply in any confrontation. No doubt she had a pithy, silk-edged threat to counter his dismissal. Vaeus was ready for that, too. The mirror slipped from his loosened grasp and bounced off the floor once. His left heel caught it as it landed again and ground it underfoot, the impact splintering the pane. Kethine had just enough time to hiss, “You had best–“ before the enchantment was disrupted and the mirror reduced to silvered shards in a twisted frame.

Doubtless she’s already crafting countermoves, Vaeus acknowledged unworriedly. By the time she’s satisfied with the design of her vengeance, I’ll be well beyond her reach and power. The thought made his lips curve upward. The expression could be called a smile in much the same manner as a constrictor smiles in spreading its jaws to swallow its prey whole. The prospect of realizing his own plans, of being done with Embron, its glum curse-twisted city-spell, and its pointless courtly intrigues brought an uncharacteristic giddiness to his mood.

His humor dampened noticeably as he turned the corner to the officers’ residential wing and spied three unwelcome figures standing where they had no rightful business. The Quartermaster was a mere curiosity, easily dismissed as always. The Lady Makko presented as little concern, thanks to her addled state. Lord Myllon Makko posed an obstacle only if Vaeus intended to enter into a debate. Collectively, their presence offered a puzzling potential impediment to Vaeus’ intentions.

The Quartermaster spotted Vaeus and hailed him, pointing out the excruciatingly obvious presence of the visitors. Idiot, thought Vaeus not for the first time. You should have died with your era. Aloud he replied, “Thank you, Quartermaster. Please see them to my office, where I’ll join them directly. I must leave some articles –“

”Oh, no!” Myllon exclaimed as he turned. His manner put Vaeus in mind of a pet fish at mealtime: overfed, underexercised, in a needless frenzy to indulge atavistic behaviors whose usefulness was utterly out of keeping with its situation. “You’ll not evade us this time, Aubryn! A reckoning is a decade past due for your connection to my family’s misfortune!”

The business about Amoren. Whyever he’s on about it after all these years, I haven’t time for it. “Of course, Milord. Please, join me in my chambers. We’ll have the whole thing out in comfort. That will be all, Quartermaster.”

The antiquated Quartermaster mumbled obeisance and shuffled off along the corridor. Vaeus slid open the door to his apartment and waved an ushering arm within. A wrongness tickled at his nape as the Myllons passed the doorway. He twisted his head and spotted the Quartermaster just before the old Pyrin turned the corner.

“Quartermaster!” he called. When the other turned, Vaeus asked, “What’s that under your arm?”

Doren’s heart raced, and his mind fought to keep stride. Of all the times to be concerned with old Doren, with all that should be filling his thoughts, now he wonders about my errands! “Captain?” he asked aloud, allowing only a trickle of interest to color his tone.

Any other day the dissemblage would have worked. In fact, on any other day it had worked. Though he would argue the point, Doren should not be condemned for failing to gauge his Captain’s atypical mood. The same insidious complacency which he had used to his advantage for so many years had crept into his own mind as well. Mixing mostly-feigned apathy with a dash of addlement had kept him in the background of his colleagues’ and superiors’ thoughts for so long, his own ability to adjust to changes in his environment had become impaired.

That problem was solved when Vaeus snatched the box from under Doren’s arm with unsuspected swiftness. The box Vaeus already held was wedged underneath one arm. “Are you as deaf as you are old?” the Captain hissed. The sudden assault and the tone of his voice weren’t just a dash of cold water in Doren’s face – he felt as though he’d been suddenly transported to the wastes of Chillblade without the benefit of clothing. “What. Is. This?”

“In truth Captain, I’ve no idea!” Doren quavered. He recoiled as if in fear of being struck, though Vaeus had never raised so much as a hand in his direction. Inspiration blazed in his mind. “Lieutenant Myl ordered me to fetch it from her quarters and deliver it to her without delay!” The lie was plausible. Vaeus hadn’t seen Doren emerge from his own rooms, and Karlo Myl’s chambers were adjacent to the Captain’s.

Vaeus’ manner cooled as swiftly as it had flared. He regarded the box with one eyebrow in a speculative arch. “Did she, now?” he murmured. Turning it level, he flipped the latch with one thumb and lifted the lid. His face became an impenetrable mask as he removed the tainted ankbam and held it before him.

“Aubryn!” Lord Myllon Makko barked, as if to remind Vaeus of more pressing matters. As with Doren, time had lulled him into expecting a specific range of reactions to his imperious tone. Even after Aubryn Vaeus had ended their affair and taken up with Kethine Eona, he had ever been the avatar of control and restraint. Thus, the Nerin Lord could be forgiven the comical gape of surprise which swept over his face when Vaeus swung the ankbam with just the right twist and flick of the wrist to extend the shaft, striking him in the chest with the death-runed tip.

The rune was designed to gather energy while idle, and dump its accumulated charge all at once. Between one beat and the next, Lord Myllon’s heart reduced to the size and appearance of an apple fallen from the tree and neglected by everything but the sun. The corruption spread outward, turning his greyish skin dark as organs and blood vessels burst within. Ichor from pulped lungs bubbled and dripped from his slack mouth, and his eyes stared at Vaeus in pain and confusion as long as they could before they clouded over. He didn’t so much fall as poured to the floor of the hallway.

Vaeus made the most of the moment. Even with the death-rune depleted, the ankbam was still a weapon which rewarded skill. He reversed his lunge and spun on the balls of his feet, catching Doren in the left temple with the staff’s unyielding tip. The blow dropped the old Pyrin like the proverbial parcel of produce.

In common with both his victims though, Vaeus had fallen prey to complacency. Lady Shylla Makko ceased to be a force of any consideration ten years ago, the day he’d scrambled her mind. This was why he’d left killing her for last, and even dared turn his back on her to finishing bludgeoning Doren.

“MURDERER!” The screeched accusation heralded a wave of pain which swept from his scalp to his soles. Command of his muscles was stolen from him; his arm was raised to crack Doren’s skull, but refused to fall.

“Face me, dastard!” she commanded. Now his body moved, but not of his own will. It lurched like a drunkard in plate armor, turning to face her. Each motion rippled fresh agony through him.

Clearly addled no longer, Lady Shylla Makko wore grief like armor and wielded fury like a sword. She stood erect, hands held slightly away from her sides, palms outward and fingers spread, staring at him with wide teal-colored eyes. “Feel that, villain? The body has tides just like the ocean. At this moment I control every drop of water in your tissues. I can pool it all in your heart until it bursts.” Vaeus groaned, eyes bugging as she demonstrated. “Or I can pull it through your skin, withering you until the lightest breeze blows you away. So how shall I avenge my family on you?”

Your error was in debating the point. Vaeus couldn’t speak, and he was not about to afford her the warning of a mental retort. He kept the thought to himself, reasserting the certainty of his own superiority even while held captive by Lady Shylla’s power. You may hold my body, but not my mind!

The walls and floor of the officer’s passage were of Embron’s bedrock, pulled up ages before by Terin power. Vaeus wasted no time on fancy feats such as collapsing a wall on her or liquefying the floor beneath her feet. He simply reached into the stonework of the passage and shook it as hard as he could. The passage bucked and rocked in eerie silence, lacking the roar normally accompanying natural tremors. Lady Shylla lost hold of her concentration as both she and it were dumped unceremoniously to the floor. She voiced her protest in a wail of surprise and rage.

Vaeus’ priorities continued to evolve. Murder could be postponed. Released from his paralysis, he dove past Lady Shylla inside his apartments, slid the door shut, latched it, and engaged the ward. Given time she will perhaps devise a crafty way to get inside, he allowed. I’ve more pressing matters to attend in the meantime. He thrust the ankbam through his belt as he crossed the salon, tossed the box he’d taken from Doren onto a table, and retrieved his own coffer of valuables from under his arm.

How did Karlo learn about this closet? Vaeus wondered as he opened the secret room. What game was she about, wanting the weapon? He snatched up the money-belt, cinching it around his waist and tugging his uniform tunic down over it. The packed satchel went over one shoulder, and the Steel Concord Command Badge–

–was not there.

Ztraq.

Well, it was a small point, though a further annoyance. The insignia was not integral to the ritual, but Vaeus reckoned his chances would be improved if he wore it. With his free hand he reached into the pocket where he kept the special portal rune. The artifact dated from the Steel War, and represented innovations in transit technology unmatched by current runes. It was the only item salvaged from Lady Amoren Makko’s tower workshop which had not gone directly into secret storage. Instead, Vaeus carried it with him and worked with it until he had mastered its secrets.

No incantation or tracing of sigils was needed. Simply a firm grasp on the carved disc and a clear mental picture of his intended destination, and the crackling vortex of a portal opened obligingly.

One last act, Vaeus told himself, lips curving in a serpentine smile. A final gift to this misbegotten place. The portal rune back in his pocket, he reached out and traced the sigils of a flare rune embedded in the secret room’s wall. As he turned and stepped through the portal to the next stage of his plan, the rune began to smoke and smolder.

 

 

“We have arrived at an impasse,” The Lady Most High Luvia held forth, clearly enamored with her own eloquence and self-appointed role as arbiter. “Your Lordship, if you have evidence in support of the charges you have leveled against Captain Vaeus–”

Evig, it’s Marni.

You have my attention, Marni.

There is mischief in the streets. Brigands wearing Guard colors led by real Guards are enforcing a call to martial law. They’re being none too subtle about it.

Thank you, Marni. The alert is noted. I am informing His Lordship.

“Your counsel is sound, Milady Most High.” His Lordship’s tone was properly moderate, contrasting in sharp relief the outrageous scene. “I accept that my strategy is unconventional and easily misconstrued.”

Your Lordship, pardon the interruption.

No apology needed, Evig.

Captain Vaeus appears to be running two games at once.

….

How interesting. Captain Kandaler is in charge of strategy. I must keep Her Ladyship Most High and the former Captain entertained.

Yes, Your Lordship.

The Lady Most High Luvia’s eyebrows arched artistically at Jonnal’s declaration. “Even more serious charges, Your Lordship.” Her voice adopted the tone one used in reminding a child to wipe his nose. “If you wish the favor of my office, more than vague accusations are needed.”

Aye, seneschal.

Captain! How?

Overheard from His Lordship’s end. Plan’s being passed. Stand ready.

Remarkable, marveled Evig. Are she and His Lordship so close, or is she that powerful? He left himself a memorandum to look into that.

Aubryn Vaeus bent a gaze on His Lordship as if examining a suspect brought directly from the sewers. “Perhaps also,” he speculated with hidden venom, “he is swayed in that Lady Kethine is included among the supposed villains.”

Choxie, go!

“What was all of that?” the Lady Melia demanded.

An audacious stratagem, Evig critiqued to himself as he surveyed the aftermath. Hasty, clumsy, and no more successful than it deserves. He landed, gently depositing Baras Plue’s unconscious frame on the grass. Still, a certain blunt elegance cannot be denied.

“What happened to Zerene?” His Lordship cried, and sprang across the lawn to crouch at the side of Captain Kandaler, sprawled unconscious across the Lady Most High Luvia’s midsection. Evig noted that the old giant was already looming nearby.

“Psychic !attack,” Po supplied. “From !Vaeus, just before he !portaled.”

“We’ve underestimated the former Captain badly,” His Lordship grumbled. “Melia!” He twisted to face his Promised. “Zerene’s mind is beyond my reach!”

“That may be so,” interjected the Lady Most High Luvia, “but her body is still very much with us.” She struggled to extricate herself from the human’s limp weight.

The Lady Melia enjoyed courtly training, but the grace with which she glided across the lawn and knelt at His Lordship’s side was poetic and clearly inborn. She swept fingers across Captain Kandaler’s forehead, her own brow knit in puzzlement. “Just so,” she concurred. “It’s as if she has sent her spirit aflight. Her body lives–,”

“The lights are on,” His Lordship murmured, “but nobody’s home. The question is, did she do this herself or is it the result of the attack?”

Talented novices, Evig thought, but too easily distracted. “With your pardon, Milady Most High?” he said aloud, materializing behind her. Upon her permission, he gripped beneath her arms and slid her out from under Captain Kandaler. “Your Lordship, I will see to the Captain’s welfare. Pardon my boldness, but larger issues should dominate your attention at the moment.”

His Lordship stared at Evig for a moment, then nodded. “Sage advice well-rendered, Evig. Please summon the House Guard. They must meet their new Captain and coordinate the security of the Greathouse.” He turned to the others. “Choxie, Fancy, Dandy, with me.” He fished in a pocket of his tunic and withdrew a pocket rune. Shrugging out of the courtly tunic and slacks and kicking off the matching slippers, he commanded, “Otkantu!” The rune disgorged maroon battle leathers and a pair of kayat’neben.

The spectacle made him the center of attention. “Jonni,” the Lady Melia objected, “you cannot mean to go out there!”

His Lordship slid deftly into the runed, studded garments. His hair was cinched back with a simple leather band. He slid his hands into the kayat’neben. “I must,” he told her. “Zerene is incapacitated, and there’s been no chance to appoint a new Lieutenant. By law, I’m the only one who can command the City Guard.” His words were gravely-uttered, but the underlying current of anticipation in his manner was plain to all present. He may not have planned this, Evig thought, but he relishes the prospect nonetheless.

“That would normally be true,” the Lady Most High Luvia stated. “Since the law is still a consideration in these proceedings, I am compelled to remind Your Lordship that you were placed under house arrest. The disputable dismissal of Captain Vaeus does not diminish the power of any orders he issued while still in power. You must respect the order of arrest until this matter is brought before the Court Assembly.”

Her rebuke brought His Lordship up short, but only briefly. “Milady Most High’s interpretation of the law is accurate, and I’ve no wish to engage in a legal debate. If Milady Most High can suggest a method by which the legally-required chain of command over the City Guard may be maintained in this crisis while at the same time respecting former Captain Vaeus’ final order, I am willing to entertain the notion.”

The Lady Most High Luvia maintained decorum fitting her station as she struggled to meet His Lordship’s challenge. His Lordship stood patiently, expectantly. The Lady Melia at his side regarded her aunt with equal attention. The quartet of Seekers visibly chafed at the delay. Off to one side, Baras Plue snored audibly.

Evig awarded points for grace in the Lady Most High Luvia’s favor when she at length conceded. “Well-played, Your Lordship,” she said, as though it were her choice. “As ranking member of the Court present, and in the interests of the safety of Embron and its people, I give Your Lordship leave to discharge your duties as needed in this emergency, without violation of the order of house arrest.”

The Lady Melia gripped His Lordship’s arm, her eyes intent on his. Evig could guess the gist of their unspoken conversation. She wishes to go with him. He denies her, telling her that a member of the ruling family must remain in the Greathouse to maintain chain of authority. Though only Promised but not yet wed, she could argue in favor of that authority. Besides, does she really wish to leave the Lady Most High Luvia in charge?

The embrace and kiss which followed declared eloquently the passion between them. Abruptly they parted and stared as if each saw the other for the first time. Power flowed between them in a nearly-visible stream. Searing scarlet energy bloomed on His Lordship’s right cheek and the Lady Melia’s left. The flares resolved themselves into matching sigils which retained a faint glow.

Now that’s unexpected, Evig thought. Or maybe not so much.

“Zushien!” exclaimed the ogress Choxie. “Hoooaaa!”

“Melia!” cried the Lady Most High Luvia. Her tone suggested the Lady Melia had just done something with His Lordship that should have been kept private.

Zushien, mused Evig. Two Spirits Made One. The ultimate fusion of mind and soul. None can say how it first came about, or why it can happen even among the mind-deaf. It happens when it will, beyond control of those involved. Love, devotion, and passion combine to forge a bond as strong as any other, often stronger even than death. Zushien can even take the place of a customary wedding ceremony. He repressed a grin. Now she is truly Her Ladyship.

Ladies keep you both, Evig wished them well as His Lordship took his leave.

 

 

“Clear the streets,” the amplified voice echoed outside. “The city is in a state of emergency. Cooperate with Guard orders. Close doors and windows. Stay inside. You will be advised when the emergency has passed.” The orders repeated at intervals. Punctuating the spaces between were shouts, screams, and crashes, some far away, others near enough to rattle the smithy windows.

“Sounds like some people aren’t cooperating,” Haydn murmured. Hammer-hardened muscles bulged as he effortlessly slid the smithy doors shut. The sturdy wooden barrier locked into its frame with a reassuring whud, echoed as Haydn threw the bolts.

Kres performed the same duty for the windows on the adjacent wall. “Or at least, not fast enough to suit the Guard,” he amended.

“They’re not Guards!” Nacci cried. “I told you!”

“It’s one thing for the Guard to dress as brigands,” Kres deliberated, turning to face her. “Another entirely for the reverse.”

Nacci fought to slow her breath and heart. She’d collapsed onto a stool, heedless of its spark-pitted roughness, the heavy bags on the floor. She’d released them more from exhaustion than any deliberate effort. When she felt her voice would not quaver or break she replied, “They’re not all aerin,” she told them. “They’re a motley mix of races in ill-fitting uniforms. And they bear themselves not as Guards, but as thugs out for evil pranks.”

“Hunh,” Haydn grunted. “For some real Guards that’s not far from the mark.”

“A person I met…” Her eyes suddenly filled. A sob tried to escape; she fought it back, rallying her courtly training. “He helped me escape from them…”

“What is his name?” Kres demanded. “Where is he?”

This time the sob got free. “They killed him!” she gulped. “I never learnt his name!” She looked down at the undulating bag. “He – he said to give them a good home….”

The Feber brothers followed the direction of her gaze. “What’s – what are they?” Haydn asked nervously. He sidled closer to the forge, in case having a hammer in his hand should suddenly become necessary.

“His work,” Nacci replied dully. Panic was leaving her, the terror of immediate pursuit losing its edge. Tired, she thought, suddenly realizing how much.

“Are they… is the bag secure?” Kres queried. She affirmed its safety with a mute nod, to which he replied with a satisfied dip of his own head. “Well. You’ll be safe here. Even if they are searching house-to-house, we have cubbies which will escape the most cunning search.”

Haydn bent a piercing gaze at his brother. “We may be safe,” he pointed out, “but what about the others? Taum hasn’t closed his store since he settled in Market Square.”

Kres nodded as the same thought occurred to him. “Inarguably, we should check on them,” he agreed. “Come.”

Nacci stirred suddenly as the brothers headed for the stairs. “You can’t go out!” she cried, panic blooming anew. “They’ll kill – they’ll get you too!” She sprang from the stool and grabbed Kres’ arm, eyes staring at him in wide entreaty.

Kres stopped at the foot of the stairs and gave her a smile which was both reassuring and slightly cocky. “Be at ease, Maid Agat,” he told her. “We’ll not be using the streets. And if the Guard could not catch us in three years, what hope have some rude, badly-dressed hoodlums who don’t know Embron’s streets?”

“Please!” She redoubled her grip on his arm. “I – I don’t want to stay here alone!”

Kres’ smile faded into a sober expression. “I understand,” he told her, turning to face her fully. “But you cannot travel the ways we’ll be using, and people are out there whose safety we must ensure. Ladies smile, we’ll not be long.” He put his free hand over hers where she’d grabbed his arm, and drew her up the stairs with him. “Come,” he invited. “Once your prison, my workshop will serve as your sanctuary.”

Nacci’s feet could not remain still when she tried to sit. They propelled her upright and carried her in erratic circuits around the upstairs salon while the brothers retired to their chambers to change clothes. Her thoughts likewise skipped from one horrid thought to another. She felt caught in a waking nightmare in which she ran down an endless corridor lined with doors. She checked each one in hopes of finding respite, only to slide them shut on the leers of fresh phantasms.

Next to the hall leading to the rear of the house hung a mirror. She caught sight of herself as she passed, and recoiled at her disheveled state. Her hair, so darkly brown as to seem almost black, was pulled loose from its unassuming coiffure, strands curling and tangling like a briar. Her face was ashen-pale under its normal brown, a patina of road-dirt streaked by dried tears. Her clothes were likewise torn and askew, smudged and stained with Ladies knew what substances.

No, she realized, peering more closely at her bodice. An irregular set of spots had been spattered there, drying dark and stiff. I know what those are. Her mind’s eye replayed the sight in sadistic detail. He jerked and arched like an animal hitting the end of its leash. His eyes were so wide. Most of it was caught in his shirt, but some must have sprayed over his collar….

Modesty be damned.

Haydn fastened the topmost clasp on his jacket. Each was itself a reactive rune, designed by Kres and crafted by himself. Once joined, no force bodily or ethereal could part the fastening, save his own touch. Hate those tunnels, he grumped. Even with the suits I can feel the ghosts there, just out of range. Staring at us, hating us. Doren’s stories made them a place to fear and avoid. He lifted a pair of gloves from his bed. I’d have never thought of using them as Kres did, nor of a way through the ghosts. Can’t deny it’s made a difference getting in and out of places, and getting people what they need. Going to make all the difference tonight. The gloves fit his hands snugly, but without loss of flexibility. But Ladies smile there’ll come a day when we can put these suits away and never go down there again!

A rapping vibrated his door. It wasn’t Kres’s knock. Already on edge from the night’s prospects, Haydn spun in readiness for an attack. But the following volley was verbal, and while equally startling couldn’t properly be called an attack.

“Where is your bath?” the Terine courtling demanded to know.

“Bath?” Haydn called back, uncertain if he’d heard aright.

“Yes, bath,” she retorted irritably. “A room devoted to washing and making one’s self clean. You have got one, haven’t you?”

Haydn crossed his room and slid the door open. I have to see her face, he vowed. To know if she can seriously ask such a thing right now!

She was serious.

She was also nude.

“Well?” she demanded, hands on hips, eyes boring into his. “Or must I wander about until I find it myself?”

Haydn silently pointed at the door at the end of the hall.

“Thank you,” she told him perfunctorily, then turned and strode in the direction indicated. Haydn stared until the shutting door hid her from view.

Unbelievable, he marveled. The working man’s elitism made him sneer in disdain at the sound of water running. Whole city’s gone mad, and she has to have a bath. He shook his head as he crossed the hallway and tapped Kres’ door. Typical courtling.

Kres slid his door open and looked at his brother. He was dressed identically, though close inspection would have revealed subtle differences in the runes adorning his suit. His gaze turned down the hall at the shut door. “Did I hear rightly?” he asked.

Haydn nodded. “Strange sense of priorities your lady has.”

Kres scowled slightly, more puzzled than annoyed. “My lady?” he demanded.

Haydn shrugged. “You got her drunk, probably first time in her life. She followed you home, woke up in your bed. You balance the scales.”

Kres’ scowl deepened. “Funny. Let’s go.”

 

 

I hate this place, Dren Usmas complained.

So you’ve said, Orim Dio responded. Her words were not a reply as she was not really listening to him. They were a knee-jerk response to a sentiment expressed so often it had lost all meaning.

It would be tolerable, he continued, if we could at least see the sky. If there were at least a window, or a crack in the ground. Just a sliver of green above us. I’d still hate it, but not so much.

Petition Lady Teryae for an earthquake, Orim murmured, putting only slightly more thought into that counsel.

Would she listen? he asked, with what sounded suspiciously like hope.

Orim shrugged. Have you anything to lose?

He fell silent then, and Orim relished the respite. She’d been House Captain for eleven days, was still attaching faces to names. She hadn’t gotten to know Dren at all before ordering him into the tunnels with her. If he whined this much when he was alive, it’s a marvel anybody stood his company! Of course, she had no idea whether the other Guards had liked him either.

He started talking again. How long has it been?

Two days, she reflexed.

No! he rejected the automatic response. Since she was here!

Oh, Orim acknowledged. A day… I think.

So hard to keep hold of time’s passing, he mused. Do you think she’ll keep her word?

Orim paused then, against her will actually considering the point. Humans are so capricious, what else would you expect from such a short-lived breed? They scarcely get a chance to understand loyalty and honor before their time is passed! Yet… Phoenix-Touched. The Fiery Wing is not extended casually or at random. Such energy there was in her! She allowed herself an ironic smile. It reached through even their cold resolve, resist it though they tried!

Yes, she told him at length. I think she will.

Ladies smile you are right, he prayed. It’s bad enough being trapped like this. I don’t want to end up like them.

That’s a sentiment I’ll gladly share, Orim agreed silently.

As Dren had moaned repeatedly, neither light nor sound penetrated from the world above. There was a sensation where the tunnels ran closest to the surface, though. An ephemeral but undeniable aura bled through soil and stone that defied any description beyond alive. The others avoided those tunnels, wanting nothing to do with the living except to keep them out of their domain.

Dren rarely left the shallow tunnels, insatiably drinking in the seeping energy. Orim told herself she joined him there only because his endless complaining was still preferable to the grim, simmering obsession of the others. When he’s quiet though, I can almost imagine it feels like sunlight on my face. They rested there now, beneath Market Square. Kept from passing on, this at least softens the torment of imprisonment!

A shadow darted through the radiance just then. What’s that? Dren exclaimed, looking up. A noisome haze of fear trailed in the shadow’s wake.

Orim’s attention jerked toward the disruption. Lacking physical eyes, she didn’t actually see anything. This was an advantage, though. Vision needed light and a lack of obstruction, neither of which were available in this moment. The Guard is emptying the Square, she deduced. Wait! Those are no Guards! Martial… law?

Bright Ladies! Dren cried. They’re killing people!

Had Orim still worn flesh, her reaction would have been to spring to her feet and sprint down the tunnel. Free of the need to push muscle and bone against inertia and gravity, she could ignore such minutiae. Come! she ordered as she moved.

What? Dren demanded, even as he followed her.

To the Greathouse! She made both explanation and command out of the statement.

Why? Dren wanted to know.

Something is terribly awry! Orim snapped. We must see to His Lordship!

Why?

Orim spun and bent a glare of incredulous outrage at him. You dare!

Dren held his ground, returning calm defiance equal to her vexation. I’ve no wish to be contrary, as Ladies know how long we’ll be trapped together and your company is infinitely preferable to the others. He made a placating gesture. But, Orim – yes, I did not say Captain – we are dead. Were it not for our remains being unburied and unwarded, we would have already passed on. Any fealty we owed was discharged with the forcible removal of our hearts and lungs. Besides, what aid could we render?

His reasoning gave Orim pause. Am I becoming like them already? she worried. Devoted past any reason to a cause whose meaning is lost to time?

I at least want to see, she told him, dousing her own ardor. I gave my life in defense of His Lordship. I’d like to ensure it was not a wasted effort. She smiled suddenly. What better way have you, to pass the time?

Dren returned the smile. Time passes whether I have a way for it or not, he replied. I cannot assail your reasoning. I hope in turn you will think no less of me, if I indulge my new apathy for the dramas of the living. With that, he drifted off.

The tunnels beneath the Greathouse compound were literally a thought away. The congregation in the eastern gardens stood out to Orim’s senses, one among them more than the rest. She’s there!

Orim felt like a moth near a candle. Compared to the energy of the Phoenix-Touched, the collective radiance of Market Square was no more than dying embers. Though His Lordship stood nearby in heated argument with the City Guard Captain, Orim could not resist reaching out to that incredible brilliance. It isn’t just light. It has substance. I can touch it, hold onto it. Like wrapping in a warm robe against winter chill….

Emotions suddenly exploded above. Rage buffeted her, confusion jangled a sense she would once have called hearing. She spun, whirled, and fell, grabbing wildly for any sort of support.

Zerene stood before her as she had the other time, burning with all the power any living spirit could ever have.

“What?” Zerene asked, spreading her hands out to either side in a questioning gesture.

Ladies! Orim thought, aghast. I – I pulled her from her body!

She was just framing an apology when Dren burst upon them.

Captain! he cried.

“What?” both of them replied.

You must come! he wailed. The vaults! They’re killing themselves!

 

Six Shallow Graves

 

She said, “I know what it’s like to be dead…”

John Lennon’s voice echoed down the halls of long-term memory. Zerene hadn’t heard the song in more than a decade, and it kept trailing off into a mumble after repeating that one refrain. She knew she could retrieve the rest of the lyrics with a few moments’ concentration. Haven’t time for that dance right now.

Travel without a body was disorientingly efficient. Distance and intervening barriers became irrelevant. Getting anywhere was a matter of knowing where you wanted to go, and wanting to get there badly enough. Orim and Dren knew their destination, and Dren’s hysteria provided ample impetus. They’re killing themselves, Zerene repeated his words to herself. She’d been forced to blunt the jangle of Dren’s panicky thoughts, accepting the resultant lack of a detailed explanation to his outcry. I’ll find out soon enough.

Krrzzzt.

Memory: their nearest childhood neighbor was old Eula Siekmann. Her husband had been lost to the jungles of Korea, and the seventeen hundred miles between New Orleans and Los Angeles was too far for her children to call or write. Alone and waiting for death in a house too big for one woman, she prepared her soul with regular confession and embalmed her body daily with moonshine. She balanced devout Catholic beliefs with an uncondemning acceptance of Alicia Chandler’s Santeria practices, and doted on Zerene and Nicholas as only an abandoned old woman could.

Eula’s back porch faced directly onto the bayou, where she would sit each night and watch television. The only other light was the eye-twisting glow of a bug-zapper. This clever, lethal device consisted of a black light lamp surrounded by electrified mesh. Eula had as much faith in its protection as in her rosary. The bugs which dominated the bayou would be going about their business, only to be irresistibly entranced by the black light. They flew at full speed to the eerie glow, only to flash-fry themselves against the humming wire cage encasing it.

Krrzzzt. Like that.

Zerene knew she wasn’t actually hearing the sound, and that it wasn’t being caused by anything as mundane as electrocution. The sensation passed through her shields and grated against her soul. She’d felt it only once before, but it was the sort of thing that stayed with you.

Unraveling. Ladies, NO!

You have no place here! boomed the spirit of Lord-General Paska Fehr as they emerged from the passage ceiling. The last commander of Tyvis’ Steel Concord forces cut an impressive, clearly-rendered figure. The sheen of his titanium hair, imperiously aristocratic features, and decoration of his uniform were nearly as sharp as if he’d been flesh. Zerene had rarely seen a ghost who could maintain such detail. He’s no intention of leaving anytime soon, that’s certain.

“Arguing the point,” Zerene retorted. “Ladies’ Mercy, what are you doing?!”

Lord-General Fehr stood with his troops. All of them were there, every single ‘survivor’ of the Siege of Tyvis. So many! She’d had an inkling of their number on her last visit, but it was difficult to judge when they were scattered throughout the network of tunnels. Seeing the whole assemblage in one place brought the scope of their tragedy into sharp relief.

They were clustered at the edge of a luminous, translucent wall The ward blocked the mouth of the passage, affording only a hazy view of the chamber beyond. Led by their Lord-General, their individual wills melded into a psychic bludgeon. The mental ramrod focused on six of their number, who stood closest to the ward’s shimmer.

Whether of their own accord or pushed by their fellows, the six suddenly rushed at the pulsing sheet of energy. The passage flared in blue-white actinic brilliance, and the hellish psychic crackle lost none of its potency with repetition. Loyal soldiers to the end, they did not cry out as the ward shredded the delicate lattices which held their spirits together. Memory, personality, and awareness reduced to nothing but raw energy, spending itself against the deadly barrier.

Zerene reeled, and was suddenly glad to be away from her body since spirits can’t vomit.

STOP IT!

Outrage loosed her tenuous hold on her power, which happily slipped its leash to run amok. Her command reverberated psychically and physically. The united will of the spectral army shattered, and the passage walls vibrated hard enough to rain down dust and stone chips. The next would-be suicide squad were stopped literally in their tracks, unable to move at all.

You dare! Lord-General Fehr’s own fury lashed out at Zerene.

She rebuffed it easily. “I do.” The initial flare faded, her power came back under her hand. Outrage sublimated into icy intent. Energy bled from Zerene as she moved forward, not like the shimmer around a fire but the crackling clarity of ice too cold and hard to ever melt. She stopped close enough to Lord-General Fehr that their noses would have touched, had they been corporeal.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she told him. “After you sacrifice all of your people and that ward still stands, what then?”

He stood resolute, undaunted. What lies within the vaults must be protected! Any sacrifice is worth that goal!

Seems protected well enough, as it is, Orim quipped grimly.

The Lord-General raged at her. The ward is not our doing! An enemy placed it there, to prevent our defense against his desecrations!

Zerene blinked (or near enough). He took her seriously. Lord-General Fehr’s words were forceful, his stance unyielding. But he’s empty inside, she realized. Defending the tunnels and the vaults is literally his whole reason for existence. He stopped asking why long ago.

Zerene had discovered two facts about ghosts during her career. First was that the old axiom about ‘unfinished business’ was altogether true. Whether they were aware that they’d left their flesh behind or were still aping the motions of life, every restless spirit had a mission that had to be fulfilled before they could pass on to whatever afterlife awaited them. On rare occasions the obligation was valid: a vital message to benefit the bereaved, vengeance to deliver against a foe who might otherwise escape his righteous comeuppance. Most are flattering themselves. The living are supposed to get on without the dead. Hanging around when your time is done only makes things worse.

The second useful fact was that ghosts can’t shield. She wasn’t sure why, but suspected it had something to do with having a living body to anchor barriers against prying minds. That’s why psis can feel them so easy. Lord-General Paska Fehr’s mind was literally an open book – all she had to do was read it to know what it would take to send him on his way.

He returns! one of the host cried. The desecrator!

Everybody’s attention turned from the confrontation between the Lord-General and the Phoenix-Touched. Zerene also diverted herself to peer through the glowing haze of the ward. She recognized the new arrival immediately.

Vaeus. Sunnuvabich. She rushed forward, passing easily through the ephemera of the spirits around her.

Maid Kandaler, no! Orim cried.

Zerene didn’t need the warning. The ward crackled at her approach as if smacking its lips at the anticipation of another willing morsel. This close, she could sense the weave of it clearly. Don’t do things by halves do you, Vaeus? Not enough to keep ghosts out, must you fry them? And damn it, without a body I’m as good as a ghost so I can’t stop you!

The ward was proof only against spirits though – living flesh could pass it safely.

Renew the assault! Lord-General Fehr commanded. The barrier must fall!

“NO!” Zerene countermanded so forcefully she actually made them pause. “Lord-General, you’re right,” she told him. “Vaeus must be stopped. But wasting your people against his ward isn’t the way.” She moved closer to him again, this time openly without confrontation. “I will help. You must give me time to return to my body, and safe passage down here.”

The living have no safe passage here! he denied automatically.

“Then you and your people will destroy yourselves uselessly,” Zerene told him, her tone making it a fact. “Aubryn Vaeus will open the vaults, and do what he pleases with the secrets inside.” She turned, expanding her message to all the host. She let her power out subtly this time, her words snaking through their own thoughts. “You all made the ultimate sacrifice to see your duty fulfilled. Do you really want it to end this way? Or do you want to pass on, to rest at last, knowing you haven’t wasted five thousand years?”

Resting her case, Zerene turned her attention once more to Lord-General Fehr. As if on cue, every single remaining ‘survivor of Tyvis’ focused on their commander.

Zerene couldn’t resist a quirky thought, though she kept it to herself. No pressure.

 

 

Lady Shylla Makko knelt next to the remains of her brother in the hall of the Embron garrison. A few paces away, the form of the Embron Guard quartermaster lay inert and unheeded.

How came affairs to such a point? One of the most powerful and beloved families in House Makko reduced to a lone daughter, survivor of a mad mother and murdered brother? So recently stirred from waking sleep, only to plunge into a living nightmare. What surprises can the future hold?

Acrid smoke stole up her nostrils and pulled out a sneeze, which was quickly pursued by a cough. Burning to death, she mused. Not a possibility I would have entertained. Yet what else would be more fitting, for one who lost everything else in a city of fire? A growl in the air grew into a roar, heat beat at her back. Is it just the garrison, or is the whole of Embron ablaze? She looked down at Myllon’s sodden skull, noting with analytical detachment the curls of steam twisting from the eye sockets. Easy for you, dear brother, she rebuked him. You’re already beyond pain. How like you, to take the fast current!

Small scurrying forms burst from the thickening smoke. Lady Shylla regarded them with bemused interest, as if they were offering a spectacle for jaded Upper Court diversion. Such urgency in their movements! And such a motley troupe! A human boy as dark as a Terin; a Zefine child who drifted as though of less substance than the smoke choking the passage; and a Konjon centaur filly whose rear torso was dappled shades of grey.

They shot past her and made directly for the fallen quartermaster. All three of them labored awkwardly to lift him onto the centaur’s rear torso. Their efforts were earnest but the results comic. The old Pyrin would have towered over the Konjon had he been standing; draped over her rear, his feet and hands dragged awkwardly on the floor. Nor did they have any more success trying to set him astride her, as his limp torso draped forward and overwhelmed hers.

As in all the best comedies the cast affected airs of dreadful urgency, so much so that Lady Shylla laughed and applauded their performance. The Konjon and the human turned glares of such incredulous outrage on her that she stopped mid-clap. What grave offense could I have committed? Then the Zefine offered a beatific smile and an extended hand, the gesture clearly saying For our next amusement, we need assistance from a member of the audience!

His feet still dragged on the floor, but with Lady Shylla’s aid the miniature performers were able to balance the unconscious quartermaster on the Konjon’s rear and keep him upright. Lady Shylla looked back at Myllon’s bones, now smoking and popping as the flames licked at them. You turned your back on Lady Nera and all that we should have been, dear brother, she told him with sad rebuke. Now see where that’s got you!

Smoke and flame belched from every door and window of the garrison by the time they emerged into the yard. Suddenly the quartermaster jerked on his unwieldy perch, swaying and coughing. Thus ends the show, Lady Shylla concluded. And with that, time that I make my way home at last.

“Milady!” Arjae called, turning and stretching one arm in the direction of the wandering Nerine.

“We should stop her,” protested Meye. Her fore torso was twisted completely around in the manner that only centaurs could manage, as she steadied the recovering Doren. “The streets be not a safe place to wander addled tonight.”

“Not yet,” counseled Kara. She offered no further explanation, but all of the orphans had long since learned that her advice was best followed, even at its most cryptic.

Once past the garrison gate, Lady Shylla stopped and surveyed the spectacle in the streets more critically. This is not right at all, she complained. Citizens should flee toward Guards, not away. Nor should Guards give citizens cause to flee! And what aerin city ever had Guards who were not aerin?

She strode to the middle of the road and raised her arms in a grand, imperious gesture. “Stop this at once!” she commanded. “As First Citizen, I command you –“

”Curfew!” barked a human nearly as tall as herself, though of course much broader. His Guard tunic was clearly stolen, by the way it strained across his barrel-shaped chest and hung open at the collar. He reached a hand toward her. Lady Shylla noted distractedly that the third finger was one knuckle short of its full length.

Effortlessly she exerted her will over the fluids in his body as she had done to Captain Vaeus, with the same result. He growled in pain and stared hate at her from his paralysis. “Clearly,” she told him, “News of Captain Vaeus’ treachery has spread. And this is the result! Whom did you think to fool with that clumsy disguise?”

“Working so far,” said a voice behind her, just ahead of a blow behind her right ear. The impact spun her around and sent her sprawling to the road.

She landed on her rear and shoulders, narrowly avoiding striking her head against the pave. Even so, the ground refused to lie still beneath her, and the two who stood over her kept trying to double their number. Beyond, other Guards of equal counterfeit moved down the street in continued savage misinterpretation of the idea of ‘curfew.’

“Highborn,” commented the one who must have struck her. He was also human, of equal rough and brutish mein to the one with the missing knuckle. “Wonder what her House’d pay to have her back in one piece?”

“Gonna be at least two,” grated Missing Knuckle. “Slattern near pulled my blood out my skin. Gotta give an answer to that.”

“Stand down!”

Such authority cracked in the command that the two brigands actually stopped and stood just a little more erect. Their pause was brief though, when they saw the source of the order. Backlit by the glare of the burning garrison stood Doren, with three children at his side.

Missing Knuckle recovered first. Echoing pain in his limbs a potent reminder of aerin powers, he decided to play it safe. The knife slid from his sleeve as his arm raised, and released while he was still drawing back. It was a classic underhand feinting throw.

Agony exploded fresh and glaring white between his eyes as his knife left his fingers. It ruined his aim and set him on his rump, hands trying to stanch his suddenly-gushing nose.

The other brigand stopped in mid-draw of his own blade, staring in disbelief at the slingshot which was now aimed at him. The human boy grinned maliciously at him, all but begging him to try something.

“Leave,” Doren advised, “while that option is still open to you.”

The brigand left loyalty to his comrade on the street along with his weapon, and made his only intelligent decision of the night.

“Help me,” Doren told the children. “We must get Lady Makko to safety.”

 

 

“That’s the last of the handlers,” came the news from the grinning aerin brigand whose face looked up at Karlo Myl from her mirror. The view swung to show a Terine Guard on the ground, blank eyes staring at the sky while her throat ran red over the pavement. “What townies aren’t locked in are running for cover. As of this moment, Princess, Embron belongs to the Razored Shade.”

“Do with it what you will, Ceril,” Karlo answered him. “But take haste, and be on watch. Word may have reached the Lord Most High, or even the Arasidhe.”

“Eyes in the backs of our heads, we’ll all have,” Ceril assured her.

A complete breakdown of order and discipline, Karlo assessed the situation with sadistic satisfaction, looking up from the mirror and toward the city. The streets in chaos, every single Guard assigned to command a reservist squad murdered. Exactly what one would expect from recruiting lawless cutthroats to enforce martial law. The Captain will have some awkward questions to answer from the Council and the Assembly.

Karlo allowed herself a little surprise. Aubryn Vaeus had proven himself as canny and defensive as anybody she’d ever known. Yet he had fallen readily in with her offer of truce between the Embron Guard and her Razored Shade brigands. Nor did she flatter herself that making the proposition while straddling him had influenced his decision.

We’ve played each other from the start, she knew, and suddenly frowned as a shadowy little Vaeus-shaped doubt skittered around the edge of her thoughts. So whose game is running now? Not having an answer to that question makes it even more urgent that I take steps. Ladies smile these fools under my command continue to use their greed and vice in place of their brains!

“Sergeant Shaea!” she snarled.

Sergeant Trysan Shaea was second in chain of command to herself and Vaeus. In that role, he had organized and led most of the covert actions on behalf of the Merchant Council. A stolid mix of Pyrin and Nerin blood, what he lacked in imagination or ambition he made up in determination and steaming, menacing authority. When the Seekers had burst through the Greathouse cordon, Sergeant Shaea was quick to regroup the startled, bruised Guards who’d taken the brunt of that charge.

The sergeant quickstepped at Karlo’s summons. “Lieutenant!” came his answering bark.

“We must remind everybody who really runs Embron,” she sneered, looking at the main gate. “Prepare to secure the Greathouse.”

Sergeant Shaea glanced to one side and the other, as if to reassure himself that the Guards at every gate around the Greathouse compound were still in proper rank. “Lieutenant,” he reminded her, “the compound is secure.”

Karlo snapped her head to lance her second with a reproachgul glare. “You’re not listening, Sergeant!” she snapped. “The Merchant Council and the Captain will get their rewards for tonight. What will we get? Blamed for every broken window and burned cart out there, no doubt!” She jerked her head sideways to indicate the city at large. “We must make sure of our own safety when time comes for laying blame.” With that, she turned a meaningful look at the looming bulk of the Greathouse.

Trysan Shaea would never achieve greatness, but neither was he stupid. Like everybody else who lived in the shadow of Shenn’s Upper Court, he could tell stories of privilege keeping its shoes clean by walking on the heads of the deprived. “And the lives of Embron’s Lady-to-be and a Lady Most High will provide a great deal of safety,” he said with a nod at his superior.

His gaze turned calculating as he looked back at the main gate. “House Guard’s useless for anything but herding party guests,” he analyzed potential opposition. “Staff, even less so. We should watch for any Seekers that stayed behind. That tagarl will present an obstacle, especially if it’s not yet been paid.”

“Old Po,” Karlo sneered. “I know him. He’s not taken a contract in years. Just lounges around Black Lake Valley, sucking ale, blowing smoke, and pretending he knows more than everybody else. They must have brought him along out of sympathy.”

A shaggy white shape hurtled over the wall and landed with agility that should have been impossible for something so large. Black eyes glared out from a face otherwise covered in snowy fur. Hands the size of small carts swung at the end of long, sinewy arms. A barrel-shaped torso held it all together. As he had since leaving Chillblade for warmer climes, Po!Xa Ki! wore nothing more than the layer of fur common to all tagarl.

The old tagarl held the Guards’ attention for a moment by the sheer suddenness of his arrival. Just as the quickest among them began to recover and bring arms to bear, he unleashed his next attack. A sound somewhere between a mule’s bray and canvas tearing echoed in the street. The stench heralded by that noise made sinuses contract and lungs seize out of self-defense. While the Guards were still reeling from that, Po launched into them with hand, foot, elbow, knee, and skull – the only other weapons he had ever needed.

Coughing, eyes tearing, Karlo Myl staggered frantically from the flailing giant, aiming in the general direction of the Greathouse main gate. To me! She repeated the mental command until a handful of Guards escaped with her onto the compound grounds.

“That,” commented Sergeant Shaea dryly, “would have been the smoke you referred to him blowing?”

Karlo spun completely around and resumed walking with barely a loss in pace. One arm raised during her pirouette, and those walking closest heard a dry shikt. Now former Sergeant Trysan Shaea gaped and stared after her. He said, “Whblblblbl,” and managed two more steps before falling to his knees. His hands rose to his neck, eyes goggling even wider as two fingers slid in and hooked themselves in a trachea which gaped wide. His last thought was, She’s not got much sense of humor. Forgot that.

The band of Guards encountered no opposition as they jogged up the drive to the Greathouse itself. A single figure stood resolute on the topmost of the steps leading to the massive double doors. The gold and corundum Captain’s bars on her shoulders contrasted with the scuffed leather of her jerkin. Her upper torso was ramrod-straight, arms crossed over her tremendous chest, and all four legs planted as though embedded in the stone beneath them.

“So you’re Aubryn’s second,” Tsial said on seeing Karlo. “He got away, so you’ll have to do.”

“I’m nobody’s second,” Karlo retorted. “And you’re welcome to try.”

The doors opened suddenly to disgorge an elegantly-dressed Terine. One of Tsial’s ears flicked at the noise, and in her thoughts loosed a creative string of invective. Useless courtlings. Her niece was supposed to keep her back!

Lady Most High Luvia Shayl faced the besiegers with all the dignity of her station. “I remind you all of the oath you took when you first donned the uniforms you now wear,” she entreated them. “The city needs your help. Abandon this reckless course and fulfill the duty for which you were chosen.”

“Your Ladyship Most High,” Karlo greeted her with a smile made even more malicious by her pointed Nerine teeth. “How accommodating of you to spare us the effort of searching the grounds for you. How much are you worth to your House?”

“You can have her,” Tsial hissed, “after we’ve all fallen.”

Karlo turned her nasty smile on the new House Captain. “We?”

Tsial smiled in response. A rustle from behind alerted the Guards that they had been outflanked. Karlo turned her head and stared at a company of armored, armed, very determined portians, each a miniature goddess of war.

On closer inspection, the new defenders’ appearance did not stand up well. The tailored plate armor was freshly-lacquered, without a single nick or scuff indicating previous use. What might have been axes were in fact griddles; dyeing ladles rather than staves; and in place of swords, rolling pins and smithy hammers. The portians had the advantage in numbers, and their intensity was undeniable. Still, it was excruciatingly obvious these were not seasoned fighters.

Karlo’s pride still smarted over the rout by “Old Po,” which by the echoes from the street, was drawing more attention from other Guard squads. There is a difference between underestimating how well an old Seeker fits his legend, she bolstered herself, and knowing amateurs when I see them! She grinned at the portians, then turned her leer to Tsial. “An army of artisans,” she taunted. “And an overstuffed N’eli with some stolen baubles. Where’s Embron’s real House Guard, Captain?” She weighted the title down with derisive sarcasm.

Tsial’s own smirk lost none of its assurance. “The answer to that question awaits your next step forward, Lieutenant.” Inside she was thinking I hate bluffing!

Word of the Guard cordoning off the Greathouse had spread from the main gate throughout the compound, with predictable results. Most of the staff had been hired during Embron’s regency, if not by the latest regent himself. Vrei Weton had been a timid, unimaginative administrator whose primary virtue was a resigned willingness to take a post nobody else wanted. He idealized a household which ran on a strict routine without disquieting things like adventure or innovation, and selected his servants with that in mind. Of the staff who predated Weton’s turn at the regency, only Evig the seneschal and the cook Chiesitanerinima remained – the rest had been driven off by boredom or disgust with their employer’s constrictive demands.

The House Guard were no exception. Adept at ushering the occasional visitor to the house or making sure gates and doors were properly locked, none of them had ever imagined themselves under siege. Denied their first hope which was escape, they unanimously opted for the next best option. Currently they, along with most of the house staff, were barricaded in the larder, which had the advantages of a thick door and walls, and plenty of provisions.

Townies, Tsial grouched to herself in disgust. Virtues only know who sent this ‘army of artisans,’ but at least they’ve nerve enough to step up!

“Lieutenant,” Lady Most High Luvia tried again. “I understand you feel dismayed and betrayed by your Captain’s apparent abandonment. On behalf of the Court Assembly I can promise you that any misconduct on his part will not reflect on you and your company. Even this little mischief can be overlooked.” She included the rest of the Guards in her entreaty. “I know the security of Embron may be but a job to all of you. Even if you take no personal vestment in the city, the pride of duty well-fulfilled –“

”Upper Court talks too much,” complained one Guard, and flung a truncheon at the Lady Most High. Luvia was still saying “duty well-fulfilled,” and hadn’t yet noticed the missile.

Tsial stretched up on two legs and snatched the stubby club from the air, returning it to its owner with equal enthusiasm. The hardened, lacquered wood shaft struck him squarely in the forehead, the impact lifting his feet from the ground and sending him sprawling.

The exchange was a signal to both sides that the impasse was broken. The Guards charged the steps, and the portians charged the Guards. Tsial coughed a warning and drew into a fighting stance, lips curled in a snarl and eyes meeting Karlo Myl’s.

The Greathouse doors opened just wide enough to permit an arm to snake out. Melia grabbed her aunt’s wrist and yanked her inside. “Stay here, auntie!” she commanded.

Lady Most High Luvia stared at her niece. “Melia, what are you wearing?” she demanded.

Melia cinched a leather cowl over her eyes and nose. The headpiece melded into a suit of strengthened, runed hide, in the traditional maroon of House Shad. “Something more suited to this sort of negotiation,” she answered.

“You’re no fighter!” Luvia protested.

Melia turned at the door and threw a grin to her aunt. The sigil on her cheek poked out around the edges of the mask, glowing brightly. “Tonight, I am. Bar the door behind me.” And she was gone.

There was something in that expression Lady Luvia hadn’t seen from her before, but which was nonetheless familiar. It was not until Melia had slipped out the doors to join the fray that her aunt placed it. His Lordship, and the Lord Most High Mahargni both have that touch of madness in their eyes when they’re about to do something especially reckless. Her eyes flew open wide. Ladies, the zushien! Melia’s been drawn into their insanity!

A gentle touch at her elbow made her jump. The seneschal was there. “Please accept my apologies for the startlement, Milady Most High,” he requested, engaging the doors’ wards. “No doubt Milady Most High would prefer to stay apprised of events outside, though from a safe distance. If Milady Most High would care to accompany me?”

She followed the genteel Zefin up three flights of stairs, finally emerging to the rooftop garden. Concealed among the crenelations, they leaned out to see the action below.

Tsial was an accomplished fighter. One hand wielded a slender blade of glittering white crystal, the other a parrying fork of the same stuff. In addition, her feline legs were well-equipped with lovingly-honed claws. She had already disposed of three Guards, and engaged Karlo directly. The Guard lieutenant favored a pair of concealed kayat’neben, the blades sliding in and out of her tunic sleeves. The two were evenly matched in skill and ferocity, trading lunges, parries, and kicks in equal number.

Lady Most High Luvia stared at Melia. Lithe hands grabbed a Guard’s cestus-covered arm and twisted it behind him. Her foot stamped down on the back of the Guard’s knee, driving him to one leg. She twisted, bringing her other knee up to crack against the back of his skull. As he dropped prone, she turned and ducked smoothly under another Guard’s slashing blade, straightening in time to drive the heel of her palm against his nose.

I know that style! Lady Luvia thought, agog. She’d seen His Lordship’s morning regimen, practicing uncourtly skills no doubt gained during his two-year sojourn. And now with their spirits joined, she shares that knowledge!

Nor did the portians stand idly by. What they lacked in skill they substituted with well-made armor, enthusiasm, and numbers. Three or four of them would swarm a Guard and drive their quarry down under a rain of cast iron and hardened wood.

Despite the valor and skill of the defenders, the outcome of the battle was far from certain. Other Guards had avoided the giant at the gates, deciding in favor of siege or refuge in the Greathouse. Whether driven by self-preservation or loyalty to their fellows, they outflanked the portians with telling effect. Armor reduced killing blows to injuries, but numbers and enthusiasm could not match training and experience. Of some thirty-plus portians, soon less than half that number remained standing. They, along with Tsial and Melia, gave ground grudgingly, ascending the Greathouse steps.

A sudden gale of wind roared into the courtyard. The remaining defenders and the observers on the roof watched a sphere of brilliant blue light hurtle across the compound, like a comet down from the sky. The Guards at the rear had just enough warning to turn and stare in momentary horror, knowing they had no time to dodge.

As the glowing juggernaut flung Guards in all directions, a shape could just barely be discerned within. Details became more apparent as the sphere reached the steps and faded, the shape skidding and spinning around to face the way it had come. Giving them proper credit, those Guards still conscious rallied valiantly to face the new threat. That they quailed at the sight of it was a forgiveable reaction.

“Play?” Bolt asked, grinning.

 

 

Grocer Taum Karegaru huddled in the relative safety of the sturdy, compact cottage which abutted his store. His arms wrapped tightly around his husband Gitec and daughter Janza in a gesture of defense more symbolic than practical. Outside, crashes and shouted voices heralded the wildest night Embron had seen in any of their experience.

“This is intolerable!” Gitec whispered fiercely, jumping at the crash of a bin being overturned in the canopied space of the store. Raucous laughter roared in response to the vandalism. “Has the Guard gone mad?”

“Those aren’t Guards, Da,” Janza told him in similar tones. “Not real ones. The real Guards are all aerin.”

“I know, sweet,” Gitec answered. “But they must have gotten their uniforms from somewhere!”

“One of them called themselves reservists,” Taum contributed. “What is the Captain thinking, allowing criminals to wear city colors in any capacity?”

Unable to riddle the mental processes of Aubryn Vaeus, all the Karegaru family could do was cling to each other in the shadows of their hut. Mothers’ grace will be that they spend their ardor against the stalls and bins, Taum prayed, hugging tighter. Stock can be replaced.

From an alley between Taum’s store and the butcher next door, Haydn and Kres Feber watched the scene. The brigands had abandoned their pretense of enforcing any sort of order. They vandalized and pillaged with sadistic glee, confident that no citizens would challenge them.

“I can see Taum’s door,” Haydn commented. “Shut. Likely they’re barred inside like everybody else.”

“Likely’s not good enough,” Kres hissed. “We must be sure!”

“All fortune explaining that to those f’ndi!” Haydn challenged, nodding at the brigands.

Kres hated to concede the validity of his brother’s point. Accomplished and unapologetic thieves we have become, but we are not fighters. My craft and his muscle will prove barely a challenge to them!

“Curfew!” roared a voice from the far end of the store. “At your Lord’s command, clear the streets!”

The brigands turned to the author of that order. An aerin in Shad battledress stood flanked by three ogres. The runed leather suit bore a broad gold stripe around the base of the neck, indicating the station of the wearer. The ogres were less-impressively decked, but each wore a passably-fitting tunic of maroon and gold.

“Mothers’ love!” jeered one brigand. “His Lordship has brought the Razored Shade a rich prize!”

“One more chance,” Jonnal declared. “Leave Embron with no more than you came, and you will not be hunted.”

“Counter-offer!” returned the brigand. “Stop playing games and drop your weapons, and you’ll be returned to your house with only minor bruises once your ransom’s paid!”

Jonnal waved a hand to one side. Power flowed, and the fierce, oil-fed fire which was consuming a nearby tent went out. He grinned and raised his hands in front of him, sliding one foot forward into a ready stance. His kayat’neben glinted in the remaining light. The trio of ogres likewise displayed their readiness for combat.

“Come earn your money,” he invited.

For all their roughness and bravado, the brigands were capable fighters. They had to be. Outcasts from civilized society by circumstance or choice, every band of professional criminals maintained claim to their territory by keeping the cost of taking it away too dear for other gangs to pay. Some even hired duelists and trainers, when they were able to find one willing to accept bloody money. Violence was literally a fact of daily life for them, and the only rule was whatever it took to make sure you were standing at the end.

By contrast, Seekers did not go out of their way to look for a fight. Their keep came from completing contracts with as little fuss and complication as possible. Even for escort jobs through the worst parts of Shenn’s wildlands, they counted themselves blessed to arrive at their destination without a single weapon taken to hand. Of course, in order to get paid and receive future contracts Seekers had to be ready for any obstacle, including rapacious brigands. Their favored axiom was, “Keep your blade sharp, but your wits sharper.”

Ladies! Haydn swore, watching His Lordship. Where did he learn that? Jonnal ducked and wove with the sinuousness of a dancing flame. Shing-chak sang his weapons in a metallic backbeat to every lunge and kick. Nor was his Pyrin Kinship neglected. One quick-handed brigand managed to pin His Lordship’s arms, only to scream and tumble back, flesh blistering and sizzling as if he’d just grabbed a hot stove.

The ogres made their presence known as well. Choxie had taught her sons Fancy and Dandy how to fight from the time they could walk. She’d also taught them to work together and coordinate their movements. Each of them was armed with a tulish, a polearm with a metal hook at one end and a wickedly serrated blade at the other. Combatants facing the two generations of Seekers found themselves pitted against three bodies that seemed to move with a single will.

At first the fight seemed all in favor of His Lordship’s forces. The brigands were surprised by such prowess from a ‘courtling,’ and the daunting ferocity of the ogres. The Razored Shade had earned its turf and reputation as well, and rallied back after the first exchange. Also, word that His Lordship was away from the safety of the Greathouse spread quickly by thought and mirror. Every brigand knew if they could capture the city’s Lord, it would be a fat payday indeed.

“They’re outnumbered,” Haydn scowled at the massing bodies in the square. “They can’t take all of them.”

“We must do something,” Kres stated, knowing the observation was obvious to the point of pain.

“Right,” Haydn agreed. He looked down at the modified kayat’neben on his hand. I can craft these in my sleep. Have done so, at least once. Fight with them? Well, at least I can distract them.

Light suddenly flared in front of the brothers, night becoming noontime. They blinked and recoiled, thinking they’d been discovered. They had, but not by the fighters in the square.

Come with me, Zerene Kandaler said, beckoning to them from within a streaming halo. I need your help.

“What about His Lordship?” Kres objected. “What about Taum and his family?”

Zerene grinned. Help is on the way for all of them. Move!

The apparition led them to the same trap door from which they’d emerged to check on the Karegaru’s. Haydn descended the stair without complaint. “Where are we going?” Kres demanded.

To do what you’ve been working at for three years, she answered. To save the city.

 

Stand or Fall

 

Nacci regarded her clothes sourly. The coat and robe were sour with fear-sweat, smeared with dirt, and stiff with spots of dried –

Say it.

At any rate, they were not wearable.

Once a family domicile, the Feber household had in more recent times succumbed to bachelor vagaries. Kres and Haydn were not slovenly, but they obviously procrastinated on niceties such as laundry. Kres had no clean robes. His shirts fit her well enough, but his pants were too spare in the hip and too long in the inseam. Haydn’s clothes were even worse, needing additional room for his forge-born muscles.

In the end she made do with one of Haydn’s longer shirts, cinched with a belt of ambiguous ownership. Her legs were bare from halfway down the thigh to the floor and she couldn’t bring herself to try any of their undershorts, but it was better than parading about in her altogether.

She considered Kres’ offer of hiding in his workshop, but a room with only one exit seemed a very foolish place to take refuge in a city besieged. Besides, they shuttered the windows when they left. From without this is only another house full of scared citizens, cowering and waiting for the Guard to rescue them.

Most of the noises of the violent night were thankfully distant. A window smashed a few doors away, and Nacci froze where she stood in the middle of the salon. Nothing more came of it, and after several moments she breathed and moved again.

What am I to do? I cannot reach the Greathouse while the streets are overrun, nor can I get word to Milady. I dasn’t even open the shutters for fear of drawing note of any passing brigands. While her mind fretted her feet settled on a course of action, taking her on a tour of the Feber residence.

Compared to the palaces and Greathouses in which Nacci had grown up, the accommodations barely qualified as servant’s quarters. There were but eight rooms counting the smithy and Kres’ workshop. Kitchen (which did double duty as a dining room), salon, bath, storage, and two bedrooms. The furniture was plain and sturdy, varnished wood with soft cushions. There was no theater, recital hall, or ballroom. Entertainment was had from books and a collection of viewer slides if one wished to stay home.

The short hall connecting the salon with the bedrooms and bath was lined on both walls with prints made by transferring captured mirror images to specially-prepared fabric, parchment, or paper. It was a retrospective of the Feber family. A woman of plain but regular features, her own shoulders and arms bulging with feminine versions of Haydn’s thews, and a man who resembled her too much to be anything other than a sibling had raised two boys. Passing years and achievements great and small were commemorated.

That must be Haydn, learning his mother’s trade. How small his hands look, covered so by hers as she guides his hammer-swings! What is he making?

Their first day of school. Haydn looks as though he’s off to prison, by his face. Kres obviously can’t wait. Even then their characters were clear.

What are they celebrating? A feast of some sort, surely they didn’t eat so at every meal! Who is that Pyrin at the table with them? He’s older even than Lady Most High Luvia!

Haydn must have made that sword by himself. Clearly, he knows more about crafting them than wielding them.

What is that certificate in Kres’ hands? Ah, head of his class.

Kres, in his Academy robe. This must be just before he left. How old their mother looks! Yet still straight and proud. Where is the uncle?

How Haydn and that maid smile at each other! A look of love, if ever there was one!

The pictures ended next to the bedroom doors. Nacci stopped there and turned around, staring back the way she’d come. A tightness grew in her chest, and she suddenly felt very much the intruder.

This is a family’s home.

Nacci remembered each grand house and palatial estate in which she had dwelt growing up. They had been beautiful, opulent, with every luxury and distraction imaginable. She’d eaten extravagant feasts, slept in beds soft as clouds, attended balls, concerts, and spectacles. She’d never wanted for any material comfort.

But none of it was for me. None of it was mine. Had I not been Melia’s cousin and maid, there would have been nothing. This entire house is smaller than a single room at Shayl Keep, but they who live here own it all. They do as they please, and live by nobody’s sufferance or charity!

How does that feel? Is that what drives them to the things they’ve done?

A muffled thud from the salon made her jump. It sounded utterly unlike any noise that could be part of a riot or siege, so after a moment she gathered courage enough to investigate it.

On the floor next to the salon door, which gave onto the stairs going down to the smithy, were the two bags she’d hauled from the Market Square. One had fallen to its side, the drawstring coming loose in the process. A small stone figure had escaped and stood on the wooden floor, head turning one way and the other as if surveying its surroundings.

Nacci crossed the room swiftly, stooped and picked up the granite dracolet. It looked uneven….

“You’re missing a wing!” she told the animated sculpture. “Don’t fret, I’ll find it!”

She righted the bag and carried it to the kitchen, where she set the dracolet on the table. Depositing herself in a chair, she pulled the bag open wide. The lopsided figurine craned its neck to peer into the satchel as Nacci rummaged through it. She removed other miniatures in the process, setting each one on the kitchen table with an “I’m sorry!” or “Apologies!” They moved about unperturbed, stolid as the minerals from which they’d been drawn.

At length she found the missing limb, and held it up for the dracolet to see. “There!” she cried in triumph. Then her shoulders slumped. “But how do I reattach it?”

The dracolet watched as she held its wing near the broken stump of its shoulder. It looked at the limb, then at her. Its manner seemed to say, Well?

Please, Nacci begged silently. She blocked out the muffled noise from the streets. Nothing mattered but the crippled granite dracolet. He trusted me to care for them. I mustn’t fail that!

Especially among the Upper Court, aerin prestige is directly influenced by how strongly one interacts with the virtues of their breed’s element. Kinship is defined by three basic levels: Novice, Adept, and Avatar. Novices can assume some of the basic traits of their element, or manipulate modest amounts of existing medium. Adepts can assume major traits and create their element from nothingness. Avatars can literally transform into the strongest expressions of their element. A Pyrin Avatar can become an inferno hot enough to reduce everything before it to slag and ash, while a Zefin Avatar can assume the shape and strength of a tornado strong enough to level city and forest.

Despite her blood ties to House Shayl, one of the reasons Nacci had never been given much consequence by anybody other than Melia had been the weakness of her Terine Kinship. The best she could manage was to enhance her own strength and durability, hardly courtly applications. She’d never been able to shift dust or gravel, much less create tremors or make stone flow.

Weak Kinship is often countered by strong potential for craft. Nacci had eagerly tested to see if she could be a mage like her cousin. To her disappointment, she’d proven incapable of anything more than child’s cantrips.

She had no parents, no powerful name. Though House Shayl was one of the richest Houses in the Upper Court, the Agat family had no fortune. She was educated and well-mannered as any courtling, fine of build and feature but not distinctively so. Completely bereft of any remarkable courtly assets, only by the charity of Lady Most High Luvia and the insistence of Lady Melia had Nacci been given the station of handmaiden. Else she’d have been left to the graces of the Lower Court, if not left totally courtless.

Did she feel a tickle in her fingertips? Was the pressure behind her eyes power trying to flow, or just muscular tension?

A thunderous crash from the lower floor rattled the entire house. The figurines braced themselves as the heavy table shook. Nacci leaped to her feet, and the dracolet reared indignantly as she took the still-detached wing with her. She took a few tentative steps, just reaching the arch from the kitchen to the salon.

“Where are you, little courtling?” a guttural voice echoed up the stairwell. Though she’d heard them but once before, the gravelly tones were familiar. Earlier that evening, they’d shouted for her to stop and surrender herself after she’d knocked a brigand in a City Guard tunic through a storefront.

The tightness was back in her chest, but now it was a lump of ice. The same chill encased her feet, rooting them to the floor. All she could do was stare with wide eyes at the salon door. “Did you think you’d lost us?” roared the brigand. “The Razored Shade has come calling! Come greet your destiny!”

Booted feet clattered up the stairs. The stampede rattled the floorboards and Nacci’s teeth, shaking her free of terror’s paralysis. “Even if they are searching house-to-house, we have cubbies which will escape the most cunning search.” Kres’ words came back to her. Time to find one!

She dashed back into the kitchen. A narrow door in one corner next to the stove offered the idea of a pantry or larder. She threw the latch and slid it open, then stopped short. Stairs. A rear entry? Maybe they’ve not noticed it yet! Suddenly the streets seemed safer than the Feber house. At least there she’d have places to run and hide!

She pulled the door shut behind her, and found herself in utter darkness. Fortunately the stairwell was as narrow as the entry, and she was easily able to touch both walls with her hands. Juggling the primal demand to flee, the desire for stealth, and the need to not trip and fall in the stygian passage, Nacci slid her feet from one step to the next.

From the salon she heard the tearing crash of wood splintering as the door stove in. She stopped and turned, aghast with sudden realization. The figurines! She’d left them on the table! Surely the brigands would smash them to gravel! She took one step back up the stairs. Perhaps I can retrieve them before they….

“Where are you, little morsel?” The brigand’s voice mocked her, rich with the predator’s assurance when bringing easy prey to ground. His tone abruptly drained of its feigned good cheer as he addressed his minions. “Spread out. Find her.”

“Here, what’s this?” another voice demanded, from its clarity obviously having reached the kitchen. “Somebody’s left their toys out! Or their pets!”

Nonononono, Nacci prayed, crouching on the stair. She stared in the direction of the door though she couldn’t see it, silently begging any Ladies listening to inject some love of art, grace of character, or simple distraction into the brigands’ hearts.

The first crash of pulverized stone was a lightning bolt through her. Rage elbowed fear aside. She leaped up the remaining steps and grabbed the door latch, the muscles in her arm tensed to throw the portal open, burst in, and –

And what?

Fear knocked rage to the ground and sat on it, staring up at her with an arched eyebrow. You’ve no craft, no ability, no skills. Even if you had station, what is that to them? What exactly do you intend to do?

I must do something, she argued. He trusted me with them!

He’s dead, fear reminded her. He could have had an easy, undemanding life, instead of scraping for tines and starving in the name of freedom. If he’d done the smart thing he’d still be alive. And his legacy to you will be your death if you open that door!

The ugly smashing sounds continued from the other side of the door, echoed by noises of similar violence elsewhere in the house. The worst part of it all was the lack of laughter or jeers as the brigands tore the place apart.

They’re killing them! Nacci wailed.

They’re stone figures, fear countered. Mere golems, curiosities to tempt fools with loose purse-strings. And you should be down the stairs and out the door instead of here, arguing with me.

The latch tore from her hand as the door shoved open. She blinked, dazzled by the brilliance of the kitchen light after several moments in darkness. Told you, fear jeered as hands like calloused manacles grabbed her wrists and shoulder. She caught a glimpse of the dining table as she was hauled across the kitchen. Fragments and dust littered the battered surface and crunched underfoot. Not a single intact figurine was visible.

“Kesent!” called one of her captors. “Found her!”

Kesent leered at her as she was dragged into the salon. He was an aerin of indeterminate breed, though the breadth of his shoulders and swarthy skin hinted at some Terin blood. Hard, violent years were etched into every scar and callous, marring features that might once have had courtly grace.

“There you are!” he greeted her. One hand reached out and cupped her jaw, lifting her face to his. “You and your friend left three of mine lying in the street, and you led us a merry chase. Shame for you that twists and turns and locked doors can’t fool my other friend’s nose.” He tossed a grin sideways at a female who looked vaguely human, but with decidedly feral lines to face and limb. Nacci was allowed only a glimpse of her before Kesent shook her jaw and brought her gaze back to his.

His eyes turned calculating, sweeping her from foot to crown. “Freshly-bathed,” he purred, “and dressed for an evening in. Where is your lover, Milady? Will we find him behind another door? Or was that he whom we laid down in the square?” His hand slipped down to her neck, then grabbed the collar of Haydn’s shirt and tore downward. The sturdy fabric held but the buttons popped off, flying to both sides. Only the belt kept the garment from hanging completely open.

“Let’s see what it takes to draw him out,” Kesent challenged. She felt each spur and ridge of his roughened palm as he cupped one breast. “It’s been too long since I tasted courtly sweetmeats.”

“We’ve no time for this, Kesent,” chided a human brigand, boredom and impatience edging his voice. “Kill her or let her go. There’re richer prizes waiting for us, and only so much time before Shad, Shayl, or the storm send help!”

“Off with you, then,” Kesent dismissed him without a glance. His eyes followed his hand as it traced down Nacci’s belly. Reaching the belt, he deftly loosed the latch. “Take anything of value and move on.”

The human looked around. “Are you joking?”

Kesent favored his underling with a dark look. “The courtling plays house here,” he pointed out. “They must keep some finery worthy of her!”

“There’s a door off the smithy,” the feral female stated. “Locked and warded.”

“See to it,” Kesent commanded, returning his gaze to Nacci. Disposing of the belt, his hand continued its downward exploration.

“Kesent!” An excited aerine burst up the stairs. She stopped short for a moment as she took in the tableau. Confident that her news was of greater import, she continued gamely on. “His Lordship’s in the Square! He’s out in the open!”

Kesent’s shoulders drooped at the new interruption. Without turning he replied, “Take Setz and three others for reinforcements. Get over there.” Setz, the impatient human, beamed with fresh excitement at the new prospect. The assigned quintet charged down the stairs and out the smithy doors.

Kesent’s other hand reached around and gripped the back of Nacci’s neck, fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise. “Release her,” he told the two who had hauled her in from the kitchen. He walked her backward until her calves pressed against the edge of a cushioned chair. “The rest of you see to that locked door,” he told them. “Find what they’re guarding so zealously.” He smiled at Nacci. “This little one and I understand each other, I think.”

“I’ll stay,” the feral female announced, settling into a crouch.

Kesent’s smile widened into a grin. “You always like to watch, Dzree.”

He dragged downward with the hand which gripped the back of Nacci’s neck, at the same time digging upward with the hand which had found its way between her legs. Her legs buckled and she tumbled backward into the chair. “So compliant, sweetling,” he purred. “You’ve been well-trained.” His hands went to the fastenings of his own pants.

Terror had been a landslide when they’d dragged Nacci from her hiding place and into the salon, an irresistible and headlong plunge. It sharpened to a buffeting avalanche when Kesent grabbed her and tore her clothes. When she looked into his eyes and felt his hands on her, it slowed and closed to a smothering, clammy bog. She wanted nothing more than to break and run, but the surrounding brigands and sour stink of his breath worked in between everything, encasing and choking her. Even his mind pushed against her shields, trying to ooze through any weakness or gap. Terror actually worked for her then, its suffocating pervasiveness squeezing out his attempted invasion.

When he pushed her down into the chair and stood over her, she was at last overcome by an immense, ponderous numbness. She was a thing of stone – unfeeling, uncaring.

Nothing left.

No craft.

No family.

No fortune.

No legacy, even from a nameless street artist.

Now, no maidenhood.

What does it matter?

Kesent knelt down on her, his thighs shoving hers apart. He pressed against her in both flesh and mind. “Give yourself a chance, sweetling,” he breathed. “You might even enjoy it. Many have.” Dzree leaned forward in her crouch, jaw parted, eyes wide and glittering. Further away, muffled sounds of impact reported the other brigands’ efforts to breach the sealed door to Kres’ workshop, which they would find very disappointing if they got in.

Nacci’s senses dutifully reported all of this information. Her mind turned its back and wandered off. It ambled down whatever avenues looked especially dark, neglected, and promising to lead far away from whatever trivia occupied the dreary thing she had once called her life.

Let it happen. It matters not.

Something lived in her hand.

What?

Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Her mind blinked in confusion and annoyance as a light suddenly shone in its comfortable shadows. A familiar, warm spark of energy pulsed between her palm and curled fingers.

It had points. They poked. Not painful, but insistent.

The dracolet’s wing.

It lived.

The same force which had given the figurine movement flared still in the disembodied limb. It was as brilliant and pure as the spark in the dracolet had been.

Other sparks winked and glittered at her. The shards and dust of the rest of the stone menagerie. Mere fragments beyond any hope of reassembly, but the life in them remained undiminished.

That is the strength of stone. Incredibly, she seemed to hear the voice of the nameless half-blooded sculptor speaking to her. Softly in her mind but clear, his tones blocked out the guttural noises being made by Kesent. Carve it, melt it, smash it to powder – it remains. What is earth, but billions of tiny boulders, each as powerful as the next? Break stone, you get only more stone. Stone cannot be destroyed, and at the end of life, the earth claims everything.

Nacci’s spirit suddenly expanded. It touched the stone of the smithy’s foundation, the soil upon which it sat. Moving further, she felt the bedrock beneath the city, deeper even than the siege tunnels. The ancient rock that bore up and made the entire planet – all of it, alive and eternal. She touched it, tasted the power bound up in its structure. She dipped into it, drew it into herself. Just a little at first, then more. She’d done this many times before, but this was somehow different. Purer.

I am Terine.

I am stone.

Indestructible.

Unstoppable.

Her attention came back to the moment at hand. Kesent knelt over her, his hands braced on the arms of the chair, his weight a rhythmic presence between her legs. Dzree’s tongue actually lolled to one side as she watched, one hand tucked between her own thighs. Terror was gone. Nacci expected rage to well up in its place, and was surprised that all she felt was impatience. With all that’s going on tonight, she thought, must I put up with this?

Her empty hand shot up from her side. It caught Kesent in the chest and flicked him away as if dislodging a gnat. “Off!” she commanded.

Kesent launched across the room with the yowl of one interrupted in the rudest possible fashion, loosened pants trailing behind him. The sound cut off with an “Oof!” and thud as he slammed against the wall next to the door.

Nacci leaned forward and leaped to her feet without using her hands. Damp hair askew, ruined shirt hanging loosely, any other time she’d have looked disheveled. In this moment though, the word that came most quickly to mind was primal. She gazed down at the stone wing in her hand.

Dzree boggled at the spectacle, but wasted little time weighing her options. She slid out of her own tunic and lunged at Nacci. Her flesh stretched and flowed in mid-leap. Muscles distended and bunched, bone and tendon reformed, fur sprouted, and her face pushed out into a muzzle full of tearing fangs.

Without raising her head, Nacci slid one foot forward and twisted her hips. She leisurely thrust a shoulder forward into Dzree’s attack. The klud of impact sounded less like two bodies colliding than as if Dzree had run into a wall. The force with which the shapeshifter rebounded off her intended prey was also not what one would expect from a petite courtling.

“Back!” ordered Nacci.

Kesent braced his back against the wall which had stopped his flight, and struggled to his feet. He shook his head, as if that would make what felt like many loose pieces inside fall back into place. “So,” he wheezed, “‘twas you laid out my friends, and not your streetwise lover.”

He spat a gob of blood and saliva to the floor and grinned. “Why then the docile play, sweet? To lure me into a vulnerable pose?” He raised his hands and clenched them. Cestuses of knobbed stone grew from the air, encasing his fists. “Silly courtling. You should have played along, or killed me outright. Your error.” With the speed of a practiced fighter he crossed the small salon in two strides and drove one cestus into Nacci’s gut. He twisted his shoulders and hips with the blow, giving it all the force he could.

Nacci swayed no more than as one touched by a spring breeze. Her manner belied the krak that drove sharp little daggers into Kesent’s ears, echoed by the shockwave that rippled through his bones as the stone cestus shattered. Shards of stone exploded, spraying his chest and face. White-hot fire seemed to engulf his hand as the small bones within bore the remaining impact for a moment before splintering.

He staggered back, awkwardly cradling the bloody, ruined hand in its still-armored mate. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, all the while blinking at Nacci in agonized disbelief through the blood that ran down his brow.

Dzree wasted no breath on taunts. She charged low this time, having learned the folly of the leaping lunge. Anticipating a retaliatory kick, she dodged sideways at the last moment and raked her claws across the back of Nacci’s calves. It was a proven crippling attack, guaranteed to shred muscle and tendon.

Ragged-sharp barbs dragged across naked flesh, and left no more impression than on a granite floor. Dzree kicked against Nacci’s legs and pushed herself out of range, crouching in a corner of the salon across the doorway from Kesent, trying to devise an attack against her unexpectedly formidable opponent.

Nacci glared at them both for a moment, then strode forward. She stopped after a few steps and crouched to pick up Dzree’s discarded tunic. Turning her back to them, she walked into the short hall. Over her shoulder she tossed the suggestion, “You should leave. You’ve no place here.” Then she vanished into the bath.

Dzree stared after her. “She’s mad,” she growled. Kesent made no answer, and she looked at him. His face was drawn and pale, sweat streaking through the drying blood. Breath rattled shallow and ragged from him, eyes barely focused. “Kesent?” she hailed him, with no response. “Kesent!” She sniffed and recoiled. Not long for him.

A distant ululation echoed up the stairwell from the street. Kesent appeared to take no notice, but the sound dumped ice water into Dzree’s blood. Her paws splayed on the floor and her hackles became a spiky ridge of fur all down her spine. She lifted her muzzle and sniffed the air, and whined at the faint trace that wafted in.

“Mothers keep you, Brother Razor,” she told Kesent. A loping stride carried her across the salon into the kitchen, and without pause into the narrow passage that had been Nacci’s erstwhile hiding place. And Mothers smile that this is an exit!

Sometime after Dzree’s desertion and Nacci’s return, a splinter of stone from the shattered cestus nudged slightly deeper into Kesent’s chest, pushed inward by his irregular breathing. The sharp tip pierced his heart, and blood flooded throughout his chest and abdomen. In a few moments, there wasn’t enough left to service his brain. With a final rattling wheeze, he ended his brigand’s career. It wasn’t quite what he’d hoped for, on his knees with his pants halfway across the room.

Nacci emerged from the bath. The Guard tunic draped over her like a tent, hanging nearly halfway down her thighs. It had been made for an average-sized aerin, and was not enchanted to tailor itself to its wearer. Her hair was neater, her face and other regions freshly re-washed, and beneath the tunic she wore her own underwear. It was still damp from being washed despite being wrung vigorously out, but would do. Though her shoes were still serviceable, she’d left them behind. The idea of separating her feet from the earth ever again seemed, well, wrong.

She paused at the doorway to look down at Kesent’s corpse. I feel as though I ought to say something pithy and clever, she thought. But nothing comes to mind. Dismissing the matter, she walked downstairs. Below, oblivious to the scene in the salon, the remaining members of the brigand squad swore and pounded at the door of Kres’ workshop.

Nacci stopped halfway down the stair behind them, just where they could see her if they turned. “You’ve no business here,” she advised them. “Leave now, and none of you will be hurt.”

A few minutes later, the two who could still walk carried their fellows up the stairs, fleeing to the relative safety of the riotous streets. Following a few paces after them, Nacci stopped to pull the smithy doors shut. The locks were ruined, and she hoped that the Feber household had gotten its full measure of mischief for the night.

She paused long enough to get her bearings, found the distant glow of the Greathouse’s crystal dome, and set off.

 

 

“Ztraq!” swore Yar Praler, setting the carriage in reverse and backing up the way they’d come a third time. “How can such a small city be so hard to leave?” Ahead of them the avenue was choked by the aftermath of three other carriages and a food kiosk, all on the losing end of a violent confrontation. The pavement was cracked open and lifted up around one of the carriages, evidence that Terin Kinship had played a part in the conflict.

“We’d make better time afoot!” Vela Kockle opined from the passenger seat. Frustration etched an acid edge to her tone.

“To the city’s edge, perhaps,” Yar allowed. His hand lay steady on the carriage’s steering, a slightly convex lens of leystone set into the driver’s seat arm-rest. Acceleration, deceleration, turning, and stopping were all a matter of psychically telling the vehicle what to do, while one’s hand was in contact with the control lens. “‘Twill be a long walk to Zaua afterward, though!”

“Try for South Grade,” Vela suggested. She suddenly coughed as a wayward streamer of smoke snuck from an alley and slid across their path. Though the blaze in the Market Square had been extinguished, its after-effects still hung in the air. As well, other fires still burned elsewhere in the city. “Go through Tumbledown. It’s poor enough there, nobody should have anything worth fighting over.”

Yar heeded her counsel, and turned the carriage toward Embron’s slums. “We’ll have to cross Lord’s Road just above Market Square,” he fretted quietly. “Ladies smile the ‘reservists’ have taken what they wanted from there and moved on!”

Lord’s Road followed a gently curving course from the city entrance at Old Gate, through the central court occupied by Market Square, before encircling the Greathouse perimeter wall. The widest, most heavily-trafficked street in Embron, it passed through all the major districts. Not surprisingly, the most enthusiastic ‘enforcement’ of martial law was along its length.

“This can’t be happenstance,” Vela stated with assurance. “Striking a truce with the Razored Shade was one thing. Appointing their bitch princess Lieutenant even made a kind of mad sense.” She shook her head as they passed a townhouse whose door had been stove in. The family living there struggled to barricade their home with a heavy table. From the corner of her eye Vela glimpsed pale faces upturned in fear as the carriage rolled past. The sight of Guard uniforms only seemed to stoke their terror. “But this….” Her words trailed off, unable to find an adequate description that wasn’t also painfully obvious.

Not that we ever gave them reason to love the Guard, she told herself with a thoughtful frown. That was part of the job, keep the townies too nervous to question anything they saw, or complain about anything we did. It never took much – ask questions a certain way, look at everybody with that ‘I Know What You Did’ glare.

They came to us only when they had no other choice, and rarely believed they’d get any sort of satisfaction. They never liked us, but knew we were better than nothing. The fresh memory hung in her mind, pale faces thinking ‘Things couldn’t possibly get any worse,’ only to be struck by the realization that they could, indeed. It was a look Vela knew well, having felt her own face blanch and stretch in the same manner in the days before she joined the Guard. I always wondered how it would feel to have another look at me that way. She stared down at her boots. It’s not at all as good as I thought it might be.

Market Square had been the first target of the pillaging brigands, due to its central location and the flimsy security of its establishments. Yar and Vela both leaned forward in their seats as the carriage turned onto Lord’s Road at the southeastern corner of the square. Eye, ear, and mind strained for the first bare hint they’d been spotted.

“Still fighting in the Square,” Yar murmured, eyeing the glare and clamor which carried over the canopies and porticos.

“Far enough away, though,” Vela judged. “We can’t see them, so they can’t see us.”

“Three streets to South Grade.” Yar grimaced at his own statement of the terribly obvious, knowing he’d betrayed his own anxiety. I’m the calm one, he reminded himself. Vela’s the worrier. Keep it straight, Praler!

He kept the speed low, but ready to spur the wheels at a moment’s notice. Debris crunched under the carriage’s wheels, and they winced with each noise. Kiosks were shattered and overturned, carriages crashed into each other or lying on their side by themselves. Storefronts were ravaged, broken windows and doors giving the uncomfortable impression of a row of staring, gaping skulls. Lord’s Road was wide and long at any time, but three intersections suddenly seemed the entire width and breadth of Embron.

The shadowy narrowness of South Grade beckoned only a carriage-length distant when a squad of uniformed Razored Shade aboard a commandeered Guard carriage burst from the next street down. “Ztraq!” Yar swore, swerving left. The oncoming carriage hurtled past them, missing them by less than a hand’s breadth.

Aiming for the entrance to South Grade, Yar didn’t see the fate of the brigands. He heard the crash, but took that only as a signal to keep going. Vela turned around in her seat as they passed the other carriage, and realized the two of them were not the Razored Shade’s prey tonight. She stared in horror as the brigands’ carriage bore down on a single pedestrian who walked down the middle of Lord’s Road. Where did she come from? They mean to kill her!

The intended target, a petite aerin of Terine color, appeared unconcerned. With casual deliberation she turned to one side and grabbed the rear axle of an overturned carriage in both hands. Her bare feet seemed rooted to the ground, spread far apart for balance. Vela suddenly realized the Terine wore a Guard tunic and nothing else. She’s not of the Guard! Why would they turn on one of their own?

Then the fallen carriage screeched and groaned as it swung a quick arc, slamming into the side of the brigands’ vehicle. The impact sent the attackers skidding sideways until their wheels struck some debris. Their carriage bounced, tilted, skidded, and finished its headlong course on one side, fetched against one of the sturdy posts which anchored Market Square’s many canopies.

Vela stared in disbelief as they skidded around the corner onto South Grade. She saw the Terine for only a few seconds more, continuing her hike up Lord’s Road toward the Greathouse, leaving her erstwhile attackers without further thought. Ladies Bright! she thought. Who is that?

 

What Price Family

 

Kres Feber maintained the brisk pace demanded by the ethereal form of Zerene Kandaler. The practical part of his mind was glad for the stamina and coordination developed by three years spent navigating unlit tunnels strewn with gravel and stone fractured by five millennia’s erosion, lugging sacks gravid with provisions. The Academy of Mages insisted on physical exercise for its students, but nothing close to the regimen of looting and thievery.

That part of him which dealt with more abstract matters was obsessed with two questions. Does she know? If not, how do I tell them?….

“Bright afternoon, Adept Feber.”

Haydn was off harvesting loam. Kres was unpacking the last of his bags in the unused cellar which they’d agreed would be his workshop. He worked quietly, and the stone walls and floor of the smithy were thick and heavy – either Captain Vaeus had divined his location through some esoteric deductive process, or had searched the entire house before coming downstairs.

Kres spun in startlement. Trained reflexes tightened his hands around the philters he’d been in the process of stocking on the shelf over his worktable. The Guard Captain’s frame filled the doorway, standing in the relaxed, confident posture of one who enjoyed his position at the apex of the local food chain.

“Novice,” Kres corrected him. Outrage still smoldered strongly enough in him to override the obsequiousness all citizens knew to be the safest mien for dealing with Aubryn Vaeus. Redressing the Guard Captain so brusquely was tantamount to an accusation of idiocy. “Adept reviews began today.”

Vaeus let the insult slide with a nod. “So they did. Doubtless the timing of your expulsion was deliberate. The Academy administration is nearly all Upper Court after all,” he allowed a scent of disdain to enter his tone, “and courtlings do enjoy twisting the dagger.”

Kres’ knuckles were waxy around the philters, but that was the only sign of his reaction to Vaeus’ own goad. “What assistance may I render to you, Captain?” he asked in a level tone.

Vaeus affected a surprisingly casual air, which fooled Kres not for a moment. Whoever the Captain called friend, the Feber family was not part of that circle. This was no offhanded visit. “Life in Embron stays quiet because there’s little to attract visitors from more exciting locales,” he answered, stepping into the room. “Even when a citizen travels and returns, rarely have they gone anywhere of note. You can appreciate how this simplifies my job.”

Vaeus drifted toward the table which Kres had unpacked first from its pocket rune. The heavy, runed structure was stacked with books, slides, and tools which had been unpacked but not yet given homes. Kres restrained himself as the Captain reached out and ran a finger along the edge of Kres’ locked runecase. “Yet you have been to the Academy of Mages!” he intoned. “Where the bounds of craft and knowledge are explored and expanded on a daily basis! And by all reports your performance inspired great expectations in your masters. You even participated in classes which are closed except by invitation from the instructor.”

“The Captain is extremely well-informed,” Kres commented. Now his own offhanded manner concealed the icy coating that suddenly encased his spine and stomach. How much did the aerin know?

Vaeus let his attention linger on the runecase, then deliberately turned away from the table and regarded Kres. “Shenn offers few places more exciting, does it not? Who can say what fascinating relics of your studies have been allowed to return with you?”

So that was it. Kres had heard of Vaeus’ habit of confiscating items that struck his fancy. He always had an official explanation for the theft, and even if he hadn’t none of his victims were in a position to challenge him.

“Very few, Captain,” he assured him, the chill in his gut thawing slightly. “The Academy takes its own security very seriously. Every departing student must submit to a thorough search of their belongings. Anything deemed dangerous or sensitive is retained under the Academy’s protection.” He heard an acid edge enter his own voice. Why not? If Captain Vaeus knew so much about Kres’ aborted tenure at the Academy of Mages, he had to know the circumstances of his expulsion. Who wouldn’t expect some sarcastic bitterness from him?

“Of course,” Vaeus purred. “As they must, for the safety of all.” The smoothness of his tone was the hiss of a viper sliding unseen through wind-fallen leaves. “Given their precautions, surely no harm exists in the indulgence of a local prefect’s anxiety, to make sure nothing has escaped their search?”

He was grabbing water, Kres knew. The Academy inspectors had taken his advanced texts, uncompleted projects, and study journals. They’d even searched his packed clothes and pockets. Only the most generic tools, components, and reference works were allowed to return with him to Embron.

Impatience siezed Kres. He’d accepted the Academy’s invitation to accept nothing at face value, to challenge the highest authorities to defend their assertions. In place of fair debate he’d received rebuke, censoring, ostracization, and finally expulsion. His current opinion of traditional authority swam with the Nerin through Shenn’s most abyssal depths. Now another petty tyrant wanted to reassure himself of his own importance at Kres’s expense. Fine!

“Certainly, Captain,” he agreed, the sudden warmth in his tone as visibly false as Vaeus’ pretense at courtesy. He set the philters he’d been holding all this time onto the table. “Where would the Captain care to start? I have nothing to hide!”

The viper came into view then, and Kres knew he had stepped wrong. The deliberation with which Aubryn Vaeus turned again to the locked runecase was too clearly calculated. “Why not here?” The words slid out on smooth, dry scales.

Kres stepped forward and pressed his thumb against the case’s latch. Confusion battled fear in his heart. The case contained only blank runeplates, simple tiles of varying minerals and semi-precious crystals sandwiched around cores of leystone. Despite the innate energy of the leystone they were harmless and useless to anybody but a runesmith with the proper tools. What could Vaeus possibly want with –

–Finished runes.

Kres was suddenly transported to Chillblade, naked. Frozen to his core, he swore even his heart lockstepped in terror. He begged his eyes to deny the presence of the case contents, or at least have the decency to look away. They were transfixed like the rest of him.

Most of the runes he could name, some of them he knew how to make. Bat runes that would record the softest whisper in a room, shadow runes to render the user invisible, spark runes that could ignite substances which had no right catching fire, and many more. All of them were meant for very specific purposes: gathering information, keeping things hidden or shielded, or removing items from existence. There was even a twist rune, which Kres had before only seen as an illustration. And in one corner, encased in a protective crystal shell to prevent any accidental touch, a deathrune nestled in the box.

“Those aren’t mine.”

How did they get there?

Zerene’s question rang in his skull. Kres stumbled and barely caught himself, shooting a hand out against one wall for balance. He stared at the luminous, ethereal figure. She drifted along the passage ahead of them, to all appearances intent on her role as guide.

How are you able to do that? Kres demanded. I’m shielded!

A derisive snort echoed from her. Shields or not, you’re shouting that memory. Ghosts have almost no shields, and at the moment I’m scarcely different from a ghost. Finally…, her tone gained an exasperated tinge, Phoenix-Touched. So. Question stands.

Kres accepted the rebuke. I opened the runecase for the inspectors before leaving the Academy. It had only blank plates. I made that case, one of my first projects. It was the only one they let me keep, because nobody else could use it. I crafted the ward to open only at my touch. Nobody else should have been able to open it!

What did Vaeus do?

Captain Vaeus’ eyes were mild and ingenuous, but when Kres met them with a wide-eyed stare of protest they proved mesmerizing nonetheless. “Assuming the truth of your claim,” he stated, “leaves only the possibility that somebody else placed them there. Somebody who can claim the skill to bypass your case’s ward, and to craft such advanced runes. Illegal runes,” he amended, tapping the deathrune’s crystal shell. “And further, somebody with the authority to ensure they would be ignored by the Academy inspectors.”

Kres could hardly believe what he heard. Did the Captain actually accept his croaked claim of innocence?

“This places us both in an awkward position,” Vaeus told him. “I cannot allow these runes to remain in your possession. Yet were I to confiscate them, either for destruction or return to the Academy, I would be obligated to make an official statement of their origin.”

How would that situation be awkward for Vaeus? Zerene demanded. It should have been a golden moment for him, catching smuggliig that the Academy inspectors missed!

Bear with my answer, Kres asked. The spring of my first year, three students were killed when their portal egressed within a wall. One of the dead was Stelara Gael, only child and scion of House Gael. The portal had been cast by Professor Vyn Nevik, their teacher on gatecraft, during a class on that same subject. Professor Nevik is the Academy’s premier professor on portals, a respected member of the faculty.

Of course, Lord and Lady Most High Gael demanded an investigation of the incident. They blamed Professor Nevik, and wanted him censured and dismissed for incompetence and negligence. The Court Assembly ordered the investigation, but allowed the Academy to carry it out. The Academy argued that only agents versed in craft could figure out what had gone wrong, and who was responsible.

Convenient, Zerene critiqued acidly.

The brothers paused before negotiating a steep incline. The ramp was too sharp to have been meant for normal foot traffic, and made even more treacherous by the dust that coated every surface. The patina was undisturbed, evidence that they were the first living creatures to come this way in generations.

“There must be a different route,” Haydn complained in a whisper. “Why are we not following Vaeus’ path?”

He used a portal rune, Zerene explained.

“Really?” Haydn’s eyebrows arched. “What runesmith could have gotten so far down without being killed by the ghosts?”

Pose that question to Vaeus if you get the chance, Zerene retorted.

Eventually they found that by bracing their hands against the walls of the passage and their feet in the lower corners of the sloping floor, they could manage a controlled slide down the ramp. It was grueling, but better than the alternative.

Maid Kandaler, Kres got her attention as they progressed. Haydn knows nothing of my dealings with Vaeus.

Please, she replied with a snort. Zerene will do fine. I’ll leave it to you how your brother finds out, and when. Continue your story.

Kres obliged. Stelara’s parents protested the Assembly’s decision. They claimed that Professor Nevik’s tenure at the Academy would prejudice the investigation in his favor. Their protests were noted but overruled.

The investigators determined that one of the other students had caused the fouled egress by wearing a cosmetic ward, which was against Academy rules. House Gael persisted that Professor Nevik should have noted the ward, and known it would interfere with the portal. The Academy cited its policy that instructors aren’t responsible when students deliberately break the rules and get hurt. The Court Assembly sided with the Academy. The other students’ family made satisfaction to House Gael and the third student’s family, but House Gael was ordered to surrender its award to Professor Nevik as an apology.

Zerene understood the anecdote’s meaning. If Vaeus made an official matter of the runes, there would be an investigation. Somehow, the Academy would find a way to blame everybody except itself. Not just you, but Vaeus could be staked out in the sun.

Exactly, Kres confirmed.

Then Vaeus took the runes?

Vaeus appeared to be considering the question. “Should the Academy ever raise the point,” he replied at length, “I’ll make apologies for my own lapse in reporting the confiscation, but present them with the runes as proof that they were removed from you. At worst, I’ll earn a reprimand from Regent Weton.” He smiled at Kres in a conspiratorial manner. “I think though, that whoever engineered this ‘crime’ would rather not draw any more attention to their failed attempt.” He shut the runecase and tucked it under one arm. “Good day, Mage Feber.”

I couldn’t believe it, Kres told her. Vaeus actually offering to take a reprimand for me! I should have just let it go, but I had to know something. first. I called out to him.

Vaeus turned in the doorway, returning an attentive expression.

“How… why did you believe me so readily?” Kres asked.

The Captain was still smiling, but the warmth which had been there before was gone. “Because you are too smart to lie to me.”

I was so relieved, Kres confessed, it wasn’t until weeks later that I began to really think over the incident. Why had Vaeus come to the smithy at all? Why was he concerned about possible contraband? Why did he want to check my runecase first?

He knew the runes were there, Zerene supplied. They were meant for him.

I didn’t want to believe it, Kres said sadly. He and Haydn clambered over and around a section of tunnel which was partially collapsed. Gravel and dust trickled down as they traversed the damaged passage, the quiet clatter wracking their nerves. It was one thing to accept that the Academy would ruin its critics to preserve its own reputation. But to believe that the staff were corrupt enough to deal in illegal runes!

Zerene kept the narrative focused. The deathrune was the same that killed Lord Kiel’s champion?

Yes, Kres confirmed. I was uncertain, until Vaeus came to me again. It was the day Lord Yrek was taken away. Haydn was gone again, trying to comfort Mrisal over her father’s fate.

“I have need of your skills,” Vaeus announced without ceremony. As before, he appeared in the entrance, though this time it was the Feber kitchen.

Kres spun, nearly cutting himself on the knife which he was wielding against a loaf of bread. Preparing a meal on such a day seemed infuriatingly banal. The act was made sensible by an axiom which Mother had reinforced constantly during their lives. “Let the storm rage and the earth shake,” she’d counseled. “Keep the forge hot and the larder full, and life will continue.”

“This is an official visit then, Captain?” Kres asked, making no pretense of hospitality. “I can think of no other reason for your breach of courtesy, entering without invitation or announcement.”

Vaeus actally appeared amused by Kres’ hostility, if a small quirk at one corner of his mouth could be called amusement. “Your clients say you’ve kept your command of runecraft keen. I need some very specific runes made.”

“My clients?” Kres echoed. The idea of anybody for whom he had made runes or wards in the past three years offering a testimonial on his skills to Aubryn Vaeus pushed a derisive laugh against the back of his teeth. He choked the outburst back. Recent events had vividly illustrated the risks of showing disrespect to the Guard Captain. “What do you need, Captain?”

He wanted a ward, Kres explained. A bane ward, against undead. Nothing unusual about that, the basic design is tested and true. But he wanted it portable, of adjustable perimeter, and as foolproof as possible. The contempt in his mental tone reflected in the frown which twisted his face. He wanted it as soon as possible, and for nothing.

“Nothing?” Kres echoed again. This time he nearly belched from swallowing his incredulous mirth.

Vaeus stepped into the kitchen and pulled a short, slender object from behind his back. Kres recognized the dark rod at once: the ankbam wielded by Lord Yrek Takaras, which had killed Zaen Srata with an illegal deathrune. Vaeus laid the weapon on the counter next to the cutting board at which Kres had been working. The ominous shape of the deathrune showed clearly in the ankbam’s modified tip.

“The rune is spent,” Vaeus assured him. “It will be days building up a dangerous charge again. Is the workmanship familiar?”

Kres’ eyes rose from the weapon, meeting Vaeus’ without flinching. “The Academy never asked after them, I take it.”

“To the best of the Academy’s knowledge, this rune did not exist until it killed one of my Guards,” Vaeus told him. “Now that they are aware of it, they and the Court Assembly are very keen to learn its origins. I promised a thorough investigation.”

Kres nodded. “I’m certain they are. I’d be happy to cooperate.”

Vaeus’ mouth quirked. “Precisely the sentiment I’d hoped to hear pass your lips, Mage Feber. You can best express that cooperative spirit by completing my commission as quickly as you are able, while we both enjoy the luxury of discretion.” He reached out and retrieved the ankbam from the counter, tucked it back into his belt. “The more time passes, the more open my inquiries will be forced to become, and the more detail will be demanded by the Academy and the Assembly.”

He had me in his hands, and made sure I understood that, Kres told Zerene. I’d just put my life back in order after being expelled from the Academy. Haydn and I had been stealing from the Council for almost three years, and people depended on us to survive. If Vaeus pointed to me as the source of the deathrune, it would all fall apart. I couldn’t allow that!

Zerene made no answer.

They descended a final spiraling staircase, and Haydn stopped in his tracks at the base of the flight. “Ztraq,” he breathed. Ahead of them the remaining host of spectres filled the hall. Several had turned and stared at them with hollow, hostile eyes. Beyond the mouth of the passage, soft light glowed. After the darkness of the tunnels lit only by their enchanted goggles, the illumination seemed noon-bright.

The ghost of Lord-General Paska Fehr appeared before them. Disapproval and menace radiated from him as his gaze swept the brothers from crown to sole.

“I don’t think he likes us,” Haydn whispered, staring up at the Ferin revenant.

…These are your champions? Lord-General Fehr’s sentiment dripped with disdain as he addressed Zerene. …I know them, thieving rodents who hide behind runes while they loot the city. We were better served throwing ourselves against the ward!

“You mustn’t!” Kres hissed, then glanced around in dismay at his own indiscretion. “The bane is consumptive. Every spirit it destroys, it adds their energy to itself. By attacking it, you’re only making it stronger!”

The Lord-General stared at him in surprise and dawning suspicion. Despite his blurring, ethereal features Kres had no trouble reading the question on Paska Fehr’s face. …How could you know that? Equally transparent was the chain of elimination and deduction which led to an inevitable conclusion.

Lord-General Fehr’s reaction was comfortingly violent. His ethereal hands locked around Kres’ throat, squeezed and lifted. Attracted by the attack, other ghosts gathered around, eager for their chance. …You bring the architect of our bane in our midst? He exclaimed to Zerene. …For this I owe you thanks! I will scatter his flesh throughout the tunnels!

You will NOT! Zerene commanded. Her words seem to echo like distant thunder. You gave your word, Milord-General! Is this Ferin honor? Are the stories true then? The Steel Concord are nothing but conquerors who sacrifice principle for the sake of victory? Or have you been dead so long, all you care about is killing?

Kres had never felt such pain. Nothing in his experience compared to this relentless vise-grip. His feet kicked in futile reflex, inches above the floor. Only the fact that he could not even manage a wheeze of breath kept him from screaming out loud. One second more, and he was sure his head would come off his shoulders. The world contracted to a small fuzzy point. Somewhere he knew Haydn struggled to reach him, somehow free him from hands that were solid only where they were killing him.

A strangely morbid question raised its hand for attention. If the ghost decapitated him, would he live long enough to see his own headless body? Perhaps upside-down and receding, as his skull bounced down the hall? From a long ways off he felt an upwelling of incongruous amusement at his thoughts. Then a voice sang I ain’t got no body, and nobody cares for me….

Lord-General Fehr blinked, rage suddenly doused in confusion. His grip loosened as depthless eyes swung from Kres’ face to Zerene’s. Assaulted on two fronts, his honor and the dessicated tatters of his humor, he recovered a measure of control. His arms relaxed, and his hands slipped from around Kres’ throat.

Haydn grabbed his brother under the arms and made sure he did not fall when the ghost released him. His cheeks ached from the strain of keeping his lips pressed against each other, lest his outcry alert the only other living person in Embron’s siege tunnels tonight. Frantically he ran calloused fingers over Kres’ neck, gently probing for any hints of permanent damage. Finding none, he sprang to his feet before Lord-General Fehr, avenging fury twisting his own features. The other ghosts crowded closer, ready to defend their commander.

ENOUGH!

What the command lacked in volume was more than balanced by its intensity. No thunderclap, instead a wind sharp and cold enough to freeze feet to the ground in mid-step. As one, all eyes snapped to the faintly luminous figure in their midst.

Once this is over you can all tear each other apart with my best wishes. Zerene’s words stung with the impatience of a parent disciplining children too unruly to heed more reasonable measures. Time is running, and our enemy is making better use of it than you. If he opens that vault and gets what’s inside, I will be very, very disappointed. She impressed on seasoned thief and implacable ghost alike the idea that disappointing her would be a terrifying and wholly unpalatable outcome. Now, are you ready to do what needs to be done?

Haydn bent one last glare on Lord-General Fehr, then turned to Zerene. “I perhaps should have said something before now,” he whispered. “Kres and I don’t know how to fight.”

Zerene nodded. I know. I can help with that, if you trust me.

Haydn nodded. “What do I do?”

Just don’t fight me.

Zerene wasn’t sure if she could do it. The technique was familiar enough. It was a common tool in Kandaler Vale. She’d received the benefit of it many times at home as well, learning to hunt and fight from her father. Never tried teaching this way though.

Instead of teaching physical skills through the relatively clumsy methods of demonstration or verbal description, instructor and pupil joined minds. Muscle and sense memory of feats passed directly into the student’s brain, giving instant prowess. Years of practice and use were transmitted between one eyeblink and the next.

It wasn’t perfect. Differences in size, muscle tone, and sense acuity, all of the myriad variations from one body to another distorted the fine details of the memories. Zerene remembered how awkward she’d felt after first receiving her father’s command of moving silently through the woods. Like I was wearing seven layers of leather and wool over my whole body. Practice was still needed to fine-tune control over the transmitted skills. Unfortunately we don’t have the luxury of a few sparring matches.

She aligned herself with Haydn’s mental defenses and slid through. The ease of it still unnerved her. Granted his shields are just basic, but they may as well be not there at all!

Trepidation went on a shelf so she could focus on the task at hand.

Suddenly Zerene realized how clearly she felt the connections between Haydn’s mind and body. Strangeness still lurked in his broad shoulders, heavy muscles, and balance of a male pelvis. He was strong enough, but his limbs and torso felt stiff without her years of gymnastics, infighting, and sliding through wildlands without rousing notice. But I can feel the differences! Can I adjust for them?

As it turned out, she could. The transference was slower than she remembered from her own training, and she kept one hand firmly planted over her own impatience. Each recollection of balance, stretch, flex, and twist was pulled up and slid carefully into his motor centers, tweaked and folded to accommodate the variations between her body and his.

Haydn gasped and panted in astonishment. When the Phoenix-Touched slid into his mind it brought back every memory of every lazy afternoon when the orders were done and hours stretched between now and dinner, with nothing to do but lay back and let the sunlight soak into your skin until you felt the warmth all the way through.

Fire roared suddenly through his mind and flesh like a forge being turned on high, not painful but exhilarating. His arms felt as though they’d only been hanging from his shoulders – now they perched in their joints, ready to spring in attack or defense. His legs had been heavy and numb, good only for trudging from place to place or standing as if rooted. Now he balanced on a razor’s edge, and felt like he could dance on one too.

Kres pushed himself upright, sliding up with one wall for support, staring at his brother. Haydn?

Haydn met Kres’ questioning gaze. Kres felt as though he were meeting somebody for the first time who bore a startling resemblance to his brother, but a stranger under the skin. He’d never thought of Haydn as clumsy or dull, but compared to the man who balanced before him now his brother was a plodding ox, stumbling half-asleep through life.

Then Haydn smiled, and Kres was reassured. That was Haydn the smith, when a weapon came off the cooling rack perfectly balanced. Haydn the thief smiled that way too, when they found an unexpectedly rich and undefended cache pleading to be looted. Haydn the man in love had beamed in the same manner when he’d contemplated marrying Mrisal Takaras….

Kres nodded at his brother, then turned to Zerene. He opened his mouth to speak, then winced as bruised vocal chords protested. Without further attempt he dropped his shields.

Now that she had a better idea what she was doing, Zerene could afford to split her concentration to thoughts of strategy. Tell me about the ward, she asked Kres. How easily can it be taken down?

It’s some of my best work, Kres confessed ruefully. He gasped as the first skill-memories blazed into his mind, but forced himself to concentrate on her question. I wanted to be sure Vaeus could not blame me for any mishap. Nine runes define the perimeter. They’re reactive, adaptive, and redundant. If one is destroyed, the rest instantly redefine their relationship so the perimeter is maintained. As long as two runes remain the ward is intact. The ward itself prevents both direct and indirect intrusion by anything incorporeal or reanimate. The unliving can neither pass through, nor can they affect anything inside by sight, sound, or any sense.

So anybody within the ward will have no idea what ghosts are doing outside? Zerene clarified. To herself she thought, Ladies, he reminds me of Nick!

I hadn’t considered the point from that angle, Kres admitted, blinking. It took a ferocious amount of willpower to form coherent answers, while his muscles and senses felt as though they were waking from a lifelong sleep. It reminded him of the first time his mind had touched the fabric of the universe, felt the weave and knotting of its substance, and gained an inkling of how to change it. But that’s right. Even visions and sounds made by affecting normal matter are blunted. Gnnh! He grunted as she placed the final overlay of martial prowess in his mind. It’s likely we could speak aloud, and he’d not hear us.

Surprise is always a good advantage to have, she replied.

There’s a trap door, he added, though it won’t help

Trap door? Zerene echoed. And why not?

Kres nodded. Many runesmiths include trap doors. Some defend the practice as a fail-safe in the event something goes awry, but the truth is it’s arrogance. A single command or touch of a key rune, and the ward may be passed or disabled altogether. He grimaced. Unfortunately in this case, the trap door must be spoken by my voice.

Zerene thought about the healing cantrips that she knew. They were part of every Seeker’s training, vital knowledge when one was days away from the nearest town. Too bad they need to be spoken! she complained silently. As a disembodied spirit, she lacked the ability to vocalize properly for craft.

And if they were able to collapse the ward, what then? Would she be able to prevent Milord-General and his host from taking satisfaction from Vaeus? I’m not ready to consign even him to such a fate.

Ztraq, Zerene cursed. Ah well. If it were easy, it wouldn’t be as interesting. And done.

Amazing, he commented, stretching his arms before him. On impulse he leaped in the air and landed in a fighting crouch, hands poised to launch or counter an attack. It feels so natural! As if I’d been doing this all my life!

Ladies smile it will feel that way when Vaeus is before you, Zerene commented. That’s as much as I can do. The hard part is in your hands.

And you’d best hurry, urged Orim Dio. She and the other spectres stiffened suddenly, attention turning to the chamber beyond. He’s begun the summoning!

“What do we do?” Haydn hissed. “How do we take him?”

Together, Zerene answered. Press him from both sides, coordinate your attacks if you can. Most of all, don’t give him a chance to breathe, much less plan.

The brothers took the latter advice to heart. Haydn took a moment to re-secure the modified kayat’neben he’d strapped on his right arm, then joined his brother in a sprint down the remaining length of the passage. Together they burst headlong into the gallery preceding the vaults.

Of common design with most such rooms, it was a circular dome-ceilinged chamber. The passage through which they’d entered was the only means of access. Time had been no kinder in its passage here than to the rest of the tunnels, as evinced by the gravel and chunks of stone littered about. A flight of stairs sank into the middle of the floor, leading to the vault doors themselves.

The area was softly lit by a trio of rods balanced on tripods. The glow of the nine ward runes spaced evenly around the base of the walls added eerie accents to an already chilling scene. At the top of the stairs stood Aubryn Vaeus, his back turned to them. He balanced a book in one hand while the other stretched out toward the vault doors.

All of this Kres and Haydn took in without breaking stride. They charged, intending to hit him from both sides as Zerene had advised. I’ll take him high, Kres alerted his brother. You, low.

Zerene watched the assault through the shimmer of the ward. Should be me, she grumbled to herself. ‘Twas me Jonnal hired, me he appointed Captain. ‘Tis my duty to take that whoreson down, not these two boys! Frustration flared, and she fought a mad urge to pound her ephemeral fists against the ward. If only there were time to get my body down here!

Then they hit him, and she didn’t try to contain a ghostly grin of triumph. Kres leaped at the last moment, and both of his feet slammed into the back of Vaeus’ head and neck. Haydn opted for a less stylish but equally effective tactic, wrapping his arms around their quarry’s waist and bearing him forward. Vaeus folded under the double impact, arms flailing and legs buckling. The book in his hand flew across the chamber, and the three combatants tumbled down the stairs together, vanishing from view. Good start! she thought, willing her encouragement to somehow penetrate the ward and spur them onward. Keep it up!

Dust erupted from the stairwell, punctuated by the thumps and rasps of close combat. After a few seconds a lean, tall blur of maroon and gold leaped upward. Vaeus managed a rough grace in his landing, coming down in a crouch with one hand outstretched for balance. A vivid red scrape on his right temple was just beginning to ooze. He rose and spun as his opponents burst from the stairwell, intent on pressing the attack as they’d been instructed. Their goggles had been lost. Bare faces stretched in manic exhilaration, flushed with excitement at the success of their first exchange.

The brothers each turned suddenly and veered off to both sides of Vaeus, closing on him in a classic pincer attack. Their timing was a second off, betrayed by inexperience which could not be balanced by implanted skill. Vaeus twisted his shoulders, pivoting at the hips so Kres’ blow brushed the chest of his tunic. As he grabbed the outstretched arm before it could withdraw, his opposing leg rose to avoid Haydn’s attempted floor-sweep. The ascending foot snapped out with deceptive, lazy grace and caught the smith-turned-fighter alongside his skull. Haydn’s sweep turned into a clumsy spinning sprawl. Vaeus pulled Kres across in front of himself, jabbed a hard fist into one kidney as he passed, then flung him at his fallen brother. Kres tried to leap over Haydn, but one foot didn’t quite clear. The two ended in a pile, struggling frantically to untangle themselves.

Ztraq, Zerene swore, glaring at Vaeus. Come on, you bastard, she thought at him. Talk to them. Boast, taunt them! Even a few seconds of braggadocio would give the brothers time to recover.

Vaeus obviously knew this too. He wasted no time on hubris. A slender blade slid out of one sleeve into his hand as he strode toward them. His face bore the impassive mask of a trained and experienced killer.

Haydn saw him first. He rolled onto his back and shoved Kres far enough off him to free his right arm. The metal frame of the kayat’neben gleamed in the soft light as he jerked the weapon in Vaeus’ direction.

No good, Zerene complained. He’ll get around that guard without trying!

Haydn curled his thumb and little finger, jerking them inward across the palm of his hand. There was a SPROING! as the broad blade of the kayat’neben shot clear of its frame and leaped at Vaeus. The aerin’s eyes goggled and he sprang back. His dagger rose in time to deflect the projectile, but the impact of the spring-launched blade knocked his weapon from his grasp.

Nice, Zerene thought with an approving nod. I think the Guard’s found a new armorer.

A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she swore again. As the Febers recovered their feet and faced Vaeus again she commented, Vaeus isn’t using his Kin powers.

…He cannot, Lord-General Paska Fehr explained. …The vault chamber is warded. Its stone is impervious to all craft, including Kin powers.

A smile from the Ladies for us, Orim Dio said.

Smiling’s a good start, Zerene retorted. A big grin would be even better!

All advantages of surprise and unknown skill were gone now. The combatants faced each other, each watching for the slightest blink or flinch that offered an opening.

“Mage Feber,” Vaeus purred with his viper’s smile. “And your smith brother. The thieves who have plagued Embron these past years, unseen and uncaught. So, runed clothing and the haunted siege tunnels are your secret assets.”

Kres opened his mouth to reply, then winced. He turned the pained expression into a scowl, his lips working silently. All three of them circled each other, feet sliding across the dusty floor without lifting, looking for an unguarded moment.

“Right,” Haydn shot back in his brother’s stead. “So why don’t you run back to your whore mistress and tell her you’ve solved the mystery?”

Vaeus’ eyebrows arched in feigned puzzlement. “Mistress?” he repeated. “Ah, the Lady Eona. A skilled and pretty plaything, but she is the pawn in this game. No, the Merchant Council will forever wonder how their warehouses were so artfully looted. Though from the state of the streets above us, I daresay they’ll have more pressing concerns to occupy themselves.”

“You can’t beat us, Vaeus,” Haydn declared. “If you could, you’d already have killed us and gotten back to your craft.”

Vaeus sneered. “I may not be at my best,” he admitted, “thanks to your cowardly assault. But I am still more than equal to you amateurs.” His eyes slitted in sinister calculation. “By the by, Smith Feber, has your brother told you about the profitable dealings between he and I?”

Haydn sneered. “Nice try. I don’t have to know everything Kres does. I know why he does it, and that’s enough. You obviously know nothing about family. But what else should we expect from a whoreson?”

All pretense vanished from Vaeus’ features at the insult. Naked, murderous fury made his face demonic. “You were going to die anyway,” he hissed. “Now it will hurt.”

“Do your worst,” Haydn invited.

Vaeus kicked outward. Haydn saw the attack was short, and simply grinned at the feint. Zerene saw the danger, but her shouted warning sank unheard into the ward. The small pile of dust which Vaeus had scooped onto the toe of his boot engulfed Haydn’s head. Gritty particles struck his eyes and nostrils. Choked and blinded he reeled, instinctively backpedaling.

Kres leaped at Vaeus as the aerin closed on his brother. There was no grace to his attack, and Vaeus swatted him to one side with barely a break in stride. It was enough. He reached out as he sprawled, grabbing Vaeus’ ankle in a desperate grip.

“Sa-kare donuma’ku!” he hissed fiercely.

Vaeus had spun to kick Kres in the head. His foot swung wide as the cantrip took hold, converting the sugar in his bloodstream to alcohol. Balance and coordination were left forlorn at the side of the road. He staggered and flailed, eyes rolling and jaw slack in drunken astonishment. One foot slid off the top step of the stairwell. The former Captain of the Embron City Guard gave forth a slurred “Ztraq!” as he toppled down the stairs. His head went THUNK against the vault entrance, and he fell limp. From the runed stone of the doors, six pairs of ethereal eyes blinked and glared down at him.

Haydn fiercely blinked the dust from his eyes, then stared at Kres in teary confusion. “What…?”

Kres grinned, rising to his knees. “Told you,” he whispered. “No knowledge is ever useless.”

 

Not the War

 

The crystal sphere of the viewer lit the study with a pale lunar glow. Within the device’s illusory depths figures flickered and moved with deadly intensity. The vantage was well-chosen, obviously the balcony over the main doors of Embron Greathouse.

Lord Most High Mahargni Shad leaned forward in his seat. Without moving his eyes from the viewer he reached to the plate on his right, lifted a flat, frosted square of baked crust to his mouth, and bit down. The consistency of the crust was right, but the flavor of the frosting and especially the sugary, aromatic filling differed just enough to be annoying. It was a tasty enough treat, but House Shad’s chef had so far been frustrated in her search for a spice that matched the Earthside bark called cinnamon. Even the most cunning similarity scries had proven fruitless.

He chased the bite of tart with a pull from his neverending bottle. The sharp, bittersweet wood taste of the single-malt complemented the sugar and spice of the tart. He let the mix of liquor and pastry loiter on his tongue while he watched the siege.

The Tantareli! he exclaimed to himself as Bolt’s arrival scattered the renegade Guards. Where has he been all this time?

“Where have you been all this time?” Melia demanded.

“Toldja when I left,” Bolt answered cheerfully. His eyes did not stray from the Guards recovering and massing before them. To one side several paces away Tsial and Karlo faltered only briefly in their duel. “Plan B.”

“Plan Bee?” Melia echoed, not at all mollified. “What have bees to do with anything?”

“Ask Zerene, next time y’see her,” he replied. “She down in th’ city?”

“She’s unconscious upstairs,” Melia told him. “Vaeus laid her low with a psychic attack before he escaped.”

That made Bolt’s head whip around, staring at Melia in shock. “Vaeus? Sonofaslug Captain we’re here t’ kick back t’ the bog? That Vaeus?” he exclaimed. “How can he be so strong?”

“It wasn’t him,” Melia explained. “He somehow reflected her own attack back on her.”

“Cheater,” Bolt grumbled, consigning Aubryn Vaeus to the refuse-heap reserved for all those who won’t fight fair. He turned to face their foes again, and a vicious smile split his face. The Guards thought to take advantage of his distraction, but had waited a moment too long to charge. They’d taken barely three steps when they lost the advantage of surprise. “Don’t stop now,” Bolt encouraged as they faltered.

“F’ndaku!” one yelled.

Bolt exhaled, and blinked because he hadn’t intended to do so. The air pulled from his lungs and he could not draw new breath in. His eyes widened as he began to suffocate. The Guards renewed their charge, surging toward the Greathouse steps.

They were met by a wave of armored portians who made up what they lacked in skill with enthusiasm and determination; a Terine Lady intent on defending her new home; and a Tantareli Seeker who had fought while holding his breath before.

Tsial and Karlo Myl circled each other. Both were breathing hard, covered in sweat and small trickles of blood where attacks hadn’t quite been blocked or avoided. There was no anger in their faces, only implacable will that their opponent fall first.

Karlo’s eyes darted over Tsial’s frame, watching for any twitching muscle or dragging foot which would signal an opening. Tsial’s yellow eyes were still, staring intently at some undetermined point in space. Damn cat-bitch, Karlo cursed silently. She seems blind to me, yet counters my every move! She mustered her Nerine Kinship to pull the blood away from Tsial’s brain. Counter this, beast!

Tsial lunged. The thrust was strong and direct, no deception or cleverness in it. Karlo parried and reflexively riposted, taking a fresh nick from the N’eli’s right ear. The wound was slow to bleed, due to Karlo’s own attempted Kin attack. They parted once more, and Karlo fumed. She’s fought aerin before, too, she deduced sourly. Each time I try a Kin attack she engages, even if it means accepting a fresh wound to break my concentration!

Karlo spared a scant moment’s attention to the battle between the Guards and the Greathouse’s motley defenders. Useless mercenaries, she cursed them. Only as good as their last pay. I marvel that they still fight, rather than cutting their losses. Do they think they’ll gain anything if they take the Greathouse? The Razored Shade will only take it from them as we’ve taken the city.

Tsial’s parrying fork dipped slightly, and Karlo lunged without hesitation. Tsial bowed nearly parallel to the ground and spun, presenting her back. Karlo extended her lunge, aiming for her foe’s exposed spine. Too late she realized she’d been drawn in, and was committed too far to withdraw. Tsial rolled onto her back. For most creatures the move would have been suicide. For a N’eli it was a means to bring more weapons to bear.

Karlo pulled back frantically, but Tsial’s rear paws clamped around her outstretched arm and dug in. The heavy fabric of her sleeve and the metal frame of the kayat’neben beneath it protected her arm from the dagger-pointed claws, but their grip was unbreakable.

SHING went Karlo’s other dagger as she lunged forward, slashing at Tsial’s legs with her free hand. Claws retracted as paws released their grip. The Seeker-turned-Captain twisted away from the lunge, one rear foot brushing the Nerine’s abdomen.

Pain like fire seared across Karlo’s gut. With a strangled cry she turned her attack into a clumsy, staggering retreat. Her recently-freed arm wrapped around and squeezed in an instinctive effort to stanch the flow of blood from four parallel incisions stretching from hip to hip.

The wound shattered her concentration. She became aware of new arrivals in the courtyard. For a moment she dared hope her fellow brigands had come to save their princess. The incongruous duo of a snow-furred tagarl walking alongside a petite, scantily-dressed Terine, both of them wearing the same serene expression, was so unexpected her mind tried to deny seeing it. Karlo fell to her knees, staring. Fortunately for her, Tsial found the spectacle equally distracting.

Bolt held the Zefin Guard aloft by one leg as he boggled. He’d known his sudden lack of breath was a Kin attack, but couldn’t see its author among the press of Guards. His solution had been simple: he’d leaped into the air, coming down with all four hooves in their midst. The weapons which were thrust upward to meet his attack had been turned by his protective field, but the Guards knew the best response to facing two tons of airborne centaur was to be anywhere other than its intended landing zone. The attack had also disrupted the hold on Bolt’s breath, as he expected. That still left the task of finding his attacker, But there’s only one Zefin among ‘em!

Melia and the portians had made the most of the Guards’ disarray. Having spent her life in pursuit of the arcane and intellectual, sports had only ever been a diversion for Melia. Martial skills had been the province of guards, soldiers, and the like, unnecessary and unseemly. The courtling portion of her still stood aside and tsked at the idea of her hands and feet raising bruises and drawing blood. That prim Lady stared even more scandalously at the new neighbor who drew satisfaction not from the battle, but from her ability to acquit herself so ably in it.

By the time Po and Nacci strolled into the yard from the front gate, the fight was all but over. “Gate’s !secure,” Po reported with as much emphasis as if he’d needed only to throw the bolt.

“Nacci!” Melia cried. She dropped the Guard she’d just choked to sleep and stripped the mask from her face as she raced forward to embrace her cousin. “Ladies, what happened? Are you well?”

“I’ve behaved in a most uncourtly manner, I fear,” Nacci told her, returning the hug. “You may find yourself very cross with me when I tell you the whole story. Take care!” she cried suddenly, looking over Melia’s shoulder. Without further ceremony she swung her cousin to one side. The knife thrown by a Guard who’d thought to score one last kill clattered off her chest as if it had struck stone. Which, in a manner of speaking, it had.

“Oi!” cried Bolt, glaring down at the reckless Guard. He swung the Zefin in his grasp at the other, knocking them both unconscious. “That’s enough!”

Melia stared at her cousin in disbelief. “I think you will have a very interesting tale to tell,” was all she could manage.

Still kneeling, Karlo Myl watched the spectacle with growing detachment. A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up into Tsial’s face. “Your injury is mortal,” the N’eli told her. “The battle’s over. You’ve but one choice left to make.”

Karlo nodded. “I’ve made it. Know this, Seeker. So long as a Razored Shade draws breath, you will owe an answer for my death.”

Tsial nodded in return. “I’d expect no less. I hope your spirit finds more peace than did your body.”

The traditional N’eli blessing was the last thing Karlo heard. Tsial reached down and gently closed the Nerine’s eyes.

Distant howls drifted across the courtyard, echoing from Embron’s streets. Everybody except Bolt and Po stiffened, alert to the eerie sounds.

“What is that?” Melia demanded.

“Plan B,” Bolt answered.

 

 

“We are secure, Milady,” stated the Guard from within the mirror. “Despite their best efforts the brigands have not breached the wards.” He held the device away from him as he turned in a circle, showing the darkened lobby of Eona Depository and Credit. “The squad is on patrol throughout the building, to make sure nothing has been overlooked.”

“Excellent, Captain,” replied Lady Kethine Eona, smiling brilliantly. “I trust I shall not need to speak with you again, as that would mean the thieves have penetrated your defenses.”

The Guard nodded, his expression grim and resolute. “Should they best us Milady, you may have both my resignation and my head.”

“Ladies smile your head stays where it does you the most good, Captain.” Lady Kethine bestowed another smile on him before tapping the mirror to end the call. The warmth vanished as soon as the device darkened, like a snuffed candle.

Damn you to the deepest pit, Aubryn, she seethed, for playing me so artfully. And damn me for not seeing your game sooner!

Lady Kethine rose from her seat and crossed her office to the floor-to-ceiling windows which overlooked her estate and the city beyond. Her demesnes were second only to the Greathouse in size and grandeur, located in the most posh portion of Embron. One would have thought such palatial accommodations to offer irresistable temptation to rapacious brigands. Yet they’ve not strayed into this neighborhood at all, she noted in puzzlement, peering at the plumes of smoke from Market Square and the City Guardhouse. They seem content to ravage the commercial districts.

What spurred this break in the truce? Is Aubryn the author of it, or simply concealing his own surprise?

The mirror on her desk chimed politely for attention. She turned from the windows and arranged herself in her chair, a monarch preparing to face her subjects. A blinking icon in the upper right corner of the mirror showed the crest of House Dessens. The ripples triggered by her tap resolved into Lord Cyn Dessens’ insouciant features.

“I am returning your call, Milady Kethine,” he purred. Behind him the sun still blazed in the sky over Vikamogan’s towers.

“Milord Cyn.” Lady Kethine’s smile lacked the brilliance of that which she’d given to the Guard Captain at her depository, but she had no need to reassure her peer. “Affairs are of some urgency, so we must speak frankly.”

Lord Cyn’s smile wavered not at all. He lifted a goblet from his desk and took a long pull. Lady Kethine realized the gesture was a subtle rebuke, making her wait while he savored his beverage. You should expect no less, she chided herself. At audience or in bed, he has ever done as he pleased and at his own pace!

The goblet returned to the desk before Lord Cyn. “I’m told the night in Embron is warm,” he commented, “and festivities have begun in advance of His Lordship’s wedding. I recommended Aubryn Vaeus to the Council for the office of Guard Captain, so now you wonder what sooth I can offer to his part in such affairs.”

Lady Kethine dipped her chin in confirmation. “As well as what his current game might be. Finally, what information have you gleaned that we might use against His Lordship?”

Lord Cyn’s eyebrows arched. “Should such knowledge not be shared among the entire Council all at once?”

“As I said,” replied Lady Kethine, “affairs are of some urgency. There is no time to assemble the Council.” Her smile turned knowing. “Besides, you are the only other member whose mind is his own. You know the rest will fall in step with whatever I say.”

Lord Cyn’s smile widened as he refilled his goblet from a matching carafe. “Milady is kind,” he acknowledged. Behind his cavalier facade Lady Kethine knew he was composing his thoughts for presentation. When she had first conceived the idea of the Merchant Council, including the transit lord was a primary necessity. Negotiations were delicate, she recalled, though not entirely unpleasant. Not only did he bring Aubryn to service, but suggested the truce with the Razored Shade. Being from Vikamogan and with the secrets he has been able to exhume, he must have ties to the Agents’ Guild!

“Aubryn Vaeus has held many positions in his life,” Lord Cyn began, “of varying degrees of respectability. As Milady knows better than myself,” he added a smile full of innuendo, “he is an aerin of formidable and wide-ranging skills, but few passions. He knew of my House’s interests in Embron, and approached me some time back about possible opportunities there. I had nothing suiting his abilities, but promised to mention his name should anything come to my attention.”

“He wanted to come to Embron?” Lady Kethine asked. “Why?”

Lord Cyn shrugged. “One can but speculate. Of the few passions I mentioned a moment ago, can be counted an appetite for historical academia. Milady doubtless recalls that before trading over for your… assets, he carried on discreet relations with Milord Myllon Makko. What Milady might not know is that he was also quite close to the Lady Amoren Makko, though in a much more intellectual manner.”

Lady Kethine’s brows knit. “Lady Amoren Makko,” she echoed softly. “Obsessed with the Steel Concord, to the point of moving her family to Embron to further her research.” Her features suddenly smoothed with realization. “Aubryn is searching for Steel War relics!”

The draught which Lord Cyn took from his goblet this time was more brief, clearly a gesture of confirmation. “Doubtless a well-educated Lady as yourself is acquainted with the legends of a fantastic cache of Steel Concord craft and treasure, buried and lost to time. Embron, then Tyvis, was the last and most fiercely-held stronghold of the Steel Concord.”

“So Aubryn thinks the trove is here,” Lady Kethine deduced. “Could he have found it? Is the break of the truce then a diversion, while he loots the cache and escapes?”

Lord Cyn drained his goblet and refilled it again. “Urgent questions,” he mused, “in dire need of answers.”

“Your tongue has ever danced like a duelist’s blade,” Lady Kethine chided him.

He nodded, unaffected by the rebuke. “There have been times Milady counted that in my favor,” he reminded her.

She let the comment pass. “What of His Lordship? Especially after tonight, a Court Assembly hearing is inevitable. Have you found bolts for our quiver?”

His smile was wide and full of self-satisfaction. “If Milady has a blank slide for her viewer, I’ll be happy to transmit what my agents found. It will provide, I think, substantial ammunition.”

Lady Kethine turned to one side and slid a crystal shard into the viewer on one corner of her desk. The device lit as it linked to its fellow in Lord Cyn’s office, taking in the information flashed across the miles. In just a few moments the transfer was complete.

“And now,” Lord Cyn announced, stretching his arms high over his head and yawning in entirely uncourtly fashion, “wine and the advancing hour shown through Milady’s window has induced a torpor in myself. A warm bed and warmer companion beckons from the room next to this one.” He grinned, reached forward, and closed the connection.

Lady Kethine dismissed his rakish farewell as she turned to her viewer. The flat, transparent pane in its frame lit with words. As she read, her remaining anxiety over the violence in Embron’s streets and plots of Aubryn Vaeus dwindled. Ladies Bright, she thought with a predator’s smile. Embron is all but mine.

Her mirror signaled another incoming call. This time, the crest blinking in the corner of the pane was that of House Rickart. “Milady Kethine!” raged Lord Kiel Rickart when she opened the connection. “What is your pet Captain playing at? Scoundrels in Guard colors are looting my warehouses! They’ve slaughtered my guards!”

Lady Kethine assumed a conciliatory mien, but could not resist mixing in some mockery. Lord Kiel’s frequent tempers had long ago lost any intimidating value, and were now nothing more than the barking of a caged dog. “Then perhaps Milord should have invested in better-trained Guards and more secure wards,” she advised him. “As for whatever game Aubryn Vaeus might be running, that is of less concern than the answers we must be ready to provide when this all comes out before the Court Assembly.”

Lord Kiel blinked, then favored her with his own peculiarly rapacious smile. “Milady had best look more closely at her own concerns,” he offered. “Or have you forgotten that not only did we all contract our Guards and wards from the same source, but agreed to give passage through them to the City Guard Captain and Lieutenant?”

A sudden chill chased down Lady Kethine’s spine. Ladies, she invoked to herself. I had forgotten! Without ceremony or farewell she ended the call from Lord Kiel, then tapped the mirror pane again. “Eona Depository,” she hissed, “from Lady Kethine Eona.” The reflective surface rippled, but no face appeared in its depths. She tapped the pane to clear the call, then tried again. “Eona Depository! From Lady Kethine Eona! I demand an answer!”

Not from the mirror but through the window behind her, her demand was answered. Howls echoed from the city, vibrating through the glass. Lady Kethine spun and leaped from her chair, staring out at the faraway streets.

What is loose in Embron tonight?

 

 

“I thought you knew Tumbledown,” Vela chided in a mild tone.

“I know Tumbledown!” snapped Yar. “I memorized all Embron’s roads! The worst that happens is a new pothole or a failed carriage! Never are there collisions, great gaps torn in the pave, or roving bands of brigands forcing me to jig and switch down alleys barely fit for feet, much less wheels!”

He twisted around and looked behind them, awkwardly keeping his hand on the control lens as he guided their carriage backward. Ahead of them lay a stunning example of failed architecture: a store set askew of the old city wall, so the alley between them tapered to an opening wide enough for a small child to pass, turned sideways and holding their breath. Metal scraped against stone as the carriage reversed, and the right front fender tilted and fell off.

“Syai-vei!” Yar cursed the errant body part. His words translated literally as “Unhappy fortune!” On the street, their meaning was considerably more vulgar. He’d worn out his usual invective of “Ztraq!” through overuse, and been forced to switch to the older expression for needed relief.

“Would you prefer that I drove?” Vela asked, a helpful look on her face.

Yar turned around the other way to stare at her. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded.

Vela blinked in honest surprise. “Wrong?” she echoed.

“I have always been the voice of calm reason between us!” Yar complained. “You, the spirit of anger and worry! How is it that our roles have become reversed?”

Vela shrugged. “When fate could turn sour,” she explained, “My constant fear was when and how. Now the city is under siege, betrayed and abandoned by the very forces that swore to keep it safe. We have deserted our post to flee through the poorest district with a fortune under our seats, only to get lost. In all likelihood we will be caught by the brigands, our own former fellows, or the next turn in the road.” She smiled. “Matters can scarcely get worse, so I have no more cause to fret.”

It was Yar’s turn to blink, and he did so multiple times. Since the day we were partnered, he pondered, I have strove to bring peace to her spirit through the insistence that hope is rewarded, and that the idea that things are not as bad as they could be is reason enough to rejoice. Yet now when we are thwarted at every turn and the Ladies themselves seem arrayed against us, she has found tranquility. Amazing.

Words came to his lips. He’d wanted to say them to her for years, but had never found the right moment. “I love you,” he told her.

Vela’s smile widened, and her eyes shone. She lifted a hand and caressed his right cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Now things are truly as bad as they can possibly be. For I love you too, and now that we have that to live for, we are certainly doomed.”

Yar answered her smile with his own. “We surrender, then?”

Vela shook her head. “Never.”

A choir sang in Yar’s heart as he finished steering the carriage back onto the avenue. Doomed, he thought, but never beaten! She loves me! He took a moment to recall the labyrinth which passed for streets in Tumbledown. “It would be so much simpler,” he muttered, “if we were not forced to keep to the streets.”

“If I were pure Zefine,” Vela contributed without any real rancor, “I could lift us over the roofs.”

“Aye,” replied Yar, “or I could tunnel under, were I pure Terin.” Suddenly he looked up at the silhouetted cityscape, inspiration lighting behind his eyes. “The roofs!”

Vela’s memory sparked the same idea from Yar’s words. “Those street rats that evaded us last winter!” she cried. “But what of the carriage? A long trek to Zaua?”

“We’ll walk if we must,” Yar declared.

He maneuvered the carriage close to a darkened storefront, blocking the entrance. This particular building was old even by Tumbledown standard. Once its face had been graced by an ornate relief depicting tangling, blossoming vines. Time and neglect had chipped away the details, leaving a rubbled, broken veneer which offered ample purchase for climbing.

Yar stood and reached back to the bay behind the cab, while Vela reached under her seat. He passed her a travel-bag, and slung an identical satchel between his shoulders. His was slightly heavier, as he also carried their collective savings. When Vela added the exchequer’s grift fund to her bag, the comparative weight tipped in her favor.

Standing on the seat and bracing himself, Yar offered his hand to Vela. She eschewed the offered assistance, instead planting her feet and gripping the rough stone to make the climb unaided. With only a few missteps, they were on the roof. Before them stretched an uneven terrain of flat, domed, and peaked surfaces. Most of them adjoined, and most of those that didn’t were separated by narrow gaps.

Last winter, Yar recalled. Patrol lottery had done them the favor of giving Tumbledown. As in most slums, the citizenry looked after their own grievances instead of going to the Guard. Tumbledown patrol was usually characterized by days spent trundling the rough-paved streets, enduring the sullen, suspicious looks of the residents without a single request for help. The perfect detail for avoiding trouble and excitement. Naturally, the Ladies had other plans for us!

It wasn’t the quality of the butcher’s meats that drew the attention of the children who roamed nearly feral through Tumbledown. When the theft of a curing huskva haunch happened just as he and Vela were driving past his shop, the aggrieved merchant claimed membership in the Merchant Council. “Stop those thieves,” he’d threatened, “or I’ll march your names directly to Captain Vaeus, see if I won’t!”

We chased them as best we could. I’d learned the streets, but they could dodge into places too small for us to follow. We closed their favorite routes, and the vermin took to the roofs. That was the end of it. Ladies only know why we weren’t dismissed after that, perhaps because the next team to get Tumbledown fared no better.

We can travel all the way to the city’s edge without hardly touching the ground, Yar told himself. And no brigands to worry about! He took Vela’s hand, reveling in the warmth of her slender, strong fingers wrapped around his own, and they set off. Long trek to Zaua? With her by my side, the whole of Shenn is no more than a day’s stroll!

The first howls glued their feet to the roof as securely as if they’d stepped in tar. They both looked around, scanning the dark roftops for the source of the chilling ululations. Vela saw them first, and pointed. “There!” she hissed.

Dark, sinewy shapes. Their precise form and size were hard to determine. They leaped from roof to roof as if gravity were a matter for debate, clearing even the widest Tumbledown avenue with ease. Sometimes one of them would vanish to street-level, only to bound back up a few moments later. They loped on four legs, but when one stopped for a second to test the air it stretched erect. Just enough light shone behind it to silhouette a steep, sloping skull and elongated muzzle.

“Ladies!” Vela whispered as they crouched, hoping to avoid the creatures’ notice. “What are those?”

“I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard of them,” Yar told her. “So have you.”

“Hnzruu.”

“I was wrong before,” Vela said as she digested the answer. “Now, things are truly as bad as they can be.”

 

 

“Frred fell.”

“Again.”

“Frred!”

“I can’t help it! These tiles are slippery!”

“Nobody else is having trouble.”

“Focus, pups. We need to make a good impression on our new neighbors. That means making a bad impression on these ruffians.”

“With respect Uncle, what ruffians? We’ve been two-thirds of the way around the city with nothing more than the townies screaming behind their doors at our howls.”

“I roll we’d see more if we hit Market Square.”

“The elders are looking after Market Square, Lien.”

“Beside which Lien, do you want His Lordship’s first recollection of the band to be Frred crashing to the street in front of him?”

“I wouldn’t! I told you—“

“Uncle Tiy! There are two people on the roofs!”

Yes, Farni. Male and female aerin, twenty-three paces ahead and to the right.”

“They’re scared, I can smell it from here. Should we take them?”

“Farni and Vynx, circle them. Do not engage.”

“They’re in Guard colors, carrying bags. I don’t smell fight in them, they just want to get away.”

“Cowardice doesn’t make them innocent, Vynx. Let them run, but stay on them.”

“They use different soap than those others we met, Uncle. I think these are real Guards.”

“So? From Bolt’s words, the real Guards are the reason we’re here. They’re no better than the brigands!”

“True, but are they cooperating? Remember the dead Guards we found.”

“Some brigands are on the street to our left. Drive the Guards that way, we’ll see how they get along.”

“Uncle, what if the brigands attack them?”

“We’ll not let them die, unless they prove too stupid to accept salvation.”

Yar and Vela cowered and stumbled as the lithe, muscular shapes bounded around them. In the dim light that leaked up from the streets they seemed things of shadow, except for eyes and teeth that were all too bright and solid. Jaws snapped scant inches from their arms and legs, and fur-covered flanks jostled them from all sides. They staggered forward, trying at once to flee and dodge the repeated near-misses.

They’re playing with us, Yar judged.

No, Vela contradicted. They’re driving us.

Toward what?

She jerked her chin upward, indicating the distance before them. That!

Yar peered in the designated direction. The jagged roofscape ended a brief measure of paces ahead as South Grade, Tumbledown’s main throughfare, yawned in a three-story crevasse. They mean us to fall to our deaths? he exclaimed. Why not just kill us directly?

Perhaps they prefer their meat tenderized! Vela retorted. Terror birthed inspiration. She increased her pace, sprinting toward the roof’s edge. Run! she commanded.

You’re mad! Yar accused.

Just run!

Yar couldn’t restrain a hysterical shout as he followed Vela’s leap. He felt power flow from her, and a sudden updraft erupted from the street below. Vela’s half-Zefine gifts were not strong enough for the wind to bear them up, but the gale slowed their fall. Yar landed first. The Terin side of his heritage soaked up the remaining impact, refusing to allow the ground to hurt him. He caught Vela around the waist, making sure she landed safely. They cast about for a moment, hastily judging which direction would elude the hnzruu.

The band of brigands straightened, having crouched against the sudden windstorm. The six of them were spread in a rough semi-circle around Yar and Vela, murder in their eyes.

“That’s your idea of a first strike?” jeered one brigand. Dried blood spattered the chest of the human’s tunic. “What did you think, that we’d break and run from a little dust and wind? Take more than that to avenge your comrades!” He waved an arm, urging his mates forward. A variety of deadly devices were taken to hand as they advanced. “We’ll send you to join them, then finish with those brats for breaking my nose!”

Yar and Vela armed themselves. This will be the end of us, Yar thought grimly. At least we can make them pay for our blood! He readied his battered ankbam, while Vela held a pair of weighted batons. Both of them also called on their Kin abilities for the imminent fight. Vela lightened her feet to speed up her movements, while Yar pulled from the ground to reinforce his flesh and muscles.

At least one of the brigands was psychic. Mental force lanced out, battering against their shields. As were all Shennese, Yar and Vela had been trained from childhood to guard their minds from intrusion. Neither had received formal tutelage in psychic combat, but years spent in the world’s lowest, roughest social strata had toughened their basic shields. The shock of the assault staggered them still, opening gaps in their physical defense.

A whip made of fine chain looped around one of Vela’s batons and yanked it from her grasp. Yar grabbed desperately at the captured weapon, but aborted to swat a lunging stiletto. He flicked his ankbam’s shaft outward in an attempted riposte, but the knife-wielding brigand danced out of range.

Vela was ready for the next whip assault. The sharpened point at its end whistled scant inches from her face as she spun aside. She slapped the chain with her remaining baton. As she expected, the whip again grabbed her weapon. Its wielder jerked back again, thinking to relieve her of both her batons. Vela redoubled her grip and leaped. For her, the air was as buoyant as water. The force of the brigand’s pull on his own weapon flung Vela to him as well, feet first. Her boots slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling and gasping.

Vela kicked off and bounded clear, but not quickly enough to fully avoid the stiletto-wielder. The point of the blade scored the back of her right shoulder, slicing through her tunic and drawing a bloody line underneath.

The brigand tried to follow up with a deeper stab, but ran into the enraged wall of Yar Praler. This time the ankbam struck true, caving in the brigand’s windpipe. Yar added a mighty kick for good measure, and the stiletto was permanently deprived of its master.

The two runaway Guards regrouped, shoulder-to-shoulder against the remaining brigands. The mental lance again battered their minds, and this time the psychic assault was followed by a pair of thrown knives, courtesy of the other two brigands. Yar redoubled his durability and shielded Vela from the deadly blades. Had his gifts been stronger he could have rebuffed them completely. The points stabbed a mere inch into his chest.

Yar grabbed one knife and pulled it free, in the same motion flinging it back at the brigands. Vela reached around Yar, pulled the other weapon from his chest, and sent it in the same direction. Both blades struck a rotund Janjigau human. He lacked Yar’s Kinship with the ground, so the knives buried themselves hilt-deep in his voluminous gut. He screeched and grabbed his belly, and the mental storm cut off abruptly.

The whip-wielder had recovered. The chain links sang as they snaked out, the tip slashing the back of Vela’s hand. The cut was deep enough to score tendon, and she dropped her remaining baton with a cry. Behind me! Yar commanded.

“Take you a piece at a time, if we must,” threatened the brigand with the bloody tunic. “Each of us you kill, your deaths’ll take longer to fiiiyyaaaa!” His sudden shout of pain was punctuated by a wet krak. Blood geysered from his nose as he stumbled and fell back. The other brigands knew the attack hadn’t come from Yar and Vela. They cast about, scanning dark windows and rooftops, searching for their new enemy. Barely visible in the shadowed street, a small rock fell to the street and bounced.

“Who did that?” demanded Vynx.

“Slingshot,” answered Tiy. “In the building behind them, the top-floor window on the left.”

“Charias Shad Shelter for Displaced Children,” Farni read the sign. “An orphanage?”

Unheard by all but hnzruu ears the slingshot spoke twice more. The stones struck weapon hands, and knife and whip clattered on the paving. Yar and Vela looked around as well, wondering if this was salvation or a third enemy.

“I warned you once before to leave,” a dry, flat voice spoke with cold precision. All eyes locked on the tall, spare figure in soot-stained Guard colors. The elderly Pyrin stood in the open doorway of the orphanage, flanked on one side by a Terine in a simple dress that had seen much patching, and on the other by a Nerine of stately dress and manner. All of them wore identically implacable expressions.

Missing Knuckle fought back to his feet. Rage deafened him and robbed him of all sense. “Kill you!” he screamed, charging at the three aerin. The slingshot fired again, and the stone cracked against his forehead. He tripped and fell, skidding to a stop at the orphanage doorstep. Whether from unconsciousness or defeat, this time he didn’t rise.

The remaining brigands considered their options. The idea of retreating before townie Guards, elderly aerin, and orphans rankled them deeply. On the other hand, what their fallen brother Razor had promised to be a fun, easy rout had turned into a serious fight that promised a lot of pain for not much profit.

“Help them choose,” Tiy instructed.

Howls split the night air, chilling the blood of everybody below. Eyes snapped roofward, to be rewarded by the silhouettes of eight hnzruu.

Ladies! Nerit cried silently. What brought those creatures here?

Steady, Doren reassured her. His own initial fear tempered itself with realization. They do not threaten, only warn. If they truly meant us harm, we would have already fallen before them. He squared his shoulders and glared again at the brigands, as if he were the master of the things that perched above them.

Self-preservation once more won out over pride. The injured psychic was helped along by one of his fellows, but the dead stiletto-wielder and Missing Knuckle were not so fortunate.

Yar and Vela stared at Doren. “Quartermaster?” Yar spoke at length. “What are you doing here?”

“My job,” Doren answered readily. “Yours is at an end.” He eyed the satchels slung on their backs. “By the look of you, I judge you understand that. Or are you adding desertion to your other crimes?”

“Do you mean to turn us in?” Vela asked.

“If doing so would place you in the hands of proper authories, I would,” Doren affirmed. “Since Embron has no such authority at the moment, you have a brief reprieve. I recommend making the most of it.” With that, he turned and vanished within the orphanage. The Terine and Nerine accompanied him. The doors shut, followed by the sound of a lock being thrown.

“He let them go,” Tiy said. “So we will also. Farni, Vynx. Follow them to the city’s edge. See that no harm befalls them. Rejoin us when you’re done.”

They’re gone. Vela looked up at the rooftops, now devoid of threatening shadows. Aren’t they?

I don’t know, Yar replied, wrapping a bandage torn from his sleeve around her hand. A healing cantrip could wait for a more relaxed moment. Nobody’s attacking us right now, and the city’s edge is an easy walk from here. Quartermaster’s a smart old fart, gave us a free pass and good advice. Let’s follow it.

They managed a fairly brisk pace despite injury and encroaching fatigue. Less than a half-hour later they left the outermost districts of Embron behind, heading south toward the port city of Zaua.

 

 

Market Square echoed with a symphony of metal, stone, wood, flesh, and bone in violent percussion. The court near Taum Karegaru’s store was the center of the battle. Seekers turned temporary Guards had followed running brigands and news of His Lordship Jonnal Shad’s presence. As a result, pillaging and vandalism elsewhere in Embron had dropped to virtually nothing. Everybody either wanted in on the capture or kill of Embron’s Lord, or to prevent either fate from befalling him.

Ladies! Jonnal swore, dodging and riposting attacks which penetrated despite the skills of the Seekers flanking him. It was no reflection on their ability, but the sheer number of Razored Shade pressing the assault. How many of these marauders have been living out there, massing for this attack? He estimated twenty to thirty brigands had fallen, but half again that number had taken their place. No mere band of thieves, this is an army!

Seekers maintained a fighting trim through regular practice and sparring, and Jonnal had adopted their standard. Even so, the constant battle was beginning to tell. The kayat’neben on his arms seemed to weigh twice what they did normally, his feet felt mired with each kick, and he’d been forced to abandon any use of his Kinship. His chest rose and fell with heavy breath, and sweat ran in rivulets under his leathers.

Rising exhaustion, the seemingly endless waves of attackers, and inevitable sour twists of fortune claimed their due from his fellow defenders. Choxie and Dandy fought on through tears of rage and grief after a poisoned dart had felled her other son Fancy. Reza Kau had taken a deep gash to her fighting arm and been forced to withdraw. Still she did her part, hauling other injured to safety while her wound seeped under a makeshift bandage.

An agonized screech drew Jonnal’s attention to one side. He sidestepped and turned, forcing his current opponent to move with him, and risked a glance past the flailing hammer and pick trying to get past his defense. His heart leaped in dismay. A pair of ogres, obviously too massive to have even tried to don a Guard tunic, had arrived for the fray. They’d flanked and surprised the Konjon centaur Vraldy, literally catching her between them. One had her arms by the shoulders while the other had wrapped his huge hands around her rear haunches. They held her aloft and pulled with all their might.

“NO!” screamed Ryl Renkak at the sight. The Nerin tried to slide through the fight to Vraldy’s aid, but the brigand facing him was too tenacious. Vraldy’s own scream blurred with the RRIIP and POP-POP of flesh tearing and bone parting as her arms were pulled from their sockets.

Something large and heavy hurtled past Jonnal’s head. It was a tulish, the ogrish polearm favored by Choxie and her sons. The jagged blade at one end buried itself in the chest of the ogre who still held Vraldy’s arms. The impact split his sternum and sent him sprawling to his end.

The other ogre loosed a furious roar and threw Vraldy’s corpse in return. Razored Shade brigand and Seeker defender alike dodged the grisly missile. As Jonnal rolled under the flying centaur, he glimpsed Dandy. The ogre youth caught his comrade’s body and set it on the ground with as much gentleness as the moment would allow, then charged the ogre brigand.

Ryl Renkak got there first. His headlong attack seemed foolhardy to the point of suicide, then Jonnal spied the deep, mortal cut which opened the Nerin’s back from shoulder to hip. Must have happened when he dodged Vraldy’s body was all the analysis he had time for, before returning his attention to the brigand before him.

Only later did he learn how Ryl completed Vraldy’s vengeance. The corpse of the ogre was found with its arms wrapped around Ryl’s broken form. The brigand’s skull was devoid of flesh but for a few dangling gobbets. The pattern of gore around the body indicated that all of the fluids had been forced upward with enough force to burst the head entirely….

Ceril Tirrak was having the night of his life. Embron might have been a cursed city, but it was not poor. Straddling the main trade route from the desmesnes of House Shayl and the human Clan Zukron in the mountainous north to Zaua’s harbor and the kingdoms across the ocean, its location alone had lent it additional resilience against the degradation of the Shad Curse. All these years, he thought, swinging his hammer and pick with practiced, deadly ease. Watching from the wood’s edge as caravans rolled past, into the city and out the other side, all that loot slipping by. All for the promise of a greater payday if we but bided our time and grew our numbers!

Only The Princess’ cunning could have conceived such a scheme. Only her charms could have persuaded the Razored Shade to abandon their traditions and actually throw in with townies of any stripe. And only fear of her fury could have enforced the truce until the time was ripe. Some had doubted, protested, even rebelled. Their bones lay quietly bleaching in the forest beyond Embron.

Damn me if she wasn’t right, Ceril reflected. He feinted a lunge with his hammer, and glowered as he was almost duped by his opponent’s counter-feint. The wide, flat blade of the kayat’neben whistled through the air a scant inch from his nose. The tales weren’t stretched, he realized. Embron’s new Lord is a fighter all right! And damn me if he hasn’t recruited Seekers for his own new Guard!

But they’re only a handful, and they’re getting tired. A death-scream split the air, and Ceril’s mouth stretched in a savage grin as he saw the pained horror around the edges of His Lordship’s mask. And there’s your true weakness, Your Lordship. You suffer every wound taken by your soldiers!

A veteran of many fights, Ceril knew every bluff and dirty trick conceivable to fell an opponent. He had also mastered the sense of when his foe was clearly not bluffing. When His Lordship’s eyes widened at something over Ceril’s shoulder and he dove to one side, Ceril knew this was not a feint. Blood trailed through the air as most of a centaur’s body sailed overhead, and the brigand was glad he’d taken the chance and ducked as well. He ignored the Nerin who rushed past him, intent on exploiting His Lordship’s vulnerability while it lasted.

The Pyrin tried to leap clear, but fatigue weighted one leg. Ceril’s hammer caught the kneecap squarely, and Lord Jonnal screamed as the bone shattered. The pick caught the edge of the mask and tore it free, drawing a bloody line across the zushien mark on his cheek. Ceril pressed the attack, stomping on Lord Jonnal’s chest with his boot and bearing him down. The point of his pick stopped just under His Lordship’s jaw.

“Yield,” Ceril roared, “or follow your Lord into the pit!”

Howls split the night. Rather than adding emphasis to Ceril’s threat, they upstaged him completely. Ceril had heard such a sound before, but only from the single throat of his comrade Dzree. A chorus of ululations echoing from street and wall made even his callous heart slam against his ribs.

“Advice,” Lord Jonnal stage-whispered, grinning through his pain, “you’d do well to heed yourself. Plan B.”

Ceril glared down at the suddenly insolent Pyrin. “What have bees to do with it?” he demanded.

His Lordship chuckled. “Yield, and you may live long enough to understand.” Then his eyes slid past Ceril again, their gaze once more declaring this was no bluff. “Or not.”

Ceril spun and faced a ghost.

A human female, translucent and luminous. Power bled from her in waves like summer heat. Her face was utterly devoid of expression, but her eyes were twin suns that burned his shields away in a blink.

You will not touch my family.

The declaration seared into his mind. Her ephemeral hands reached up and plunged through his skull. Ceril gained a deeper understanding of pain in the last moments of his life. Beyond the screams tearing from his own throat he heard his fellow brigands’ cries suddenly cut off one by one, punctuated by growls and tearing fangs.

“And now,” Jonnal whispered before unconsciousness claimed him, “begins the real battle for Embron.”

 

In With the New

 

Ceril Tarrik dodged and ran. Zerene pursued him relentlessly, forcing him from one nook of habit or reflex-barred closet to another. She prodded him with goads sharpened from his own memories.

Terrified traveler.

Begging hostage.

Crying child.

Lives you destroyed.

Nothing but trophies to you.

It’s their time now.

Inevitably Ceril ran out of places to hide. It wasn’t in him to surrender. One avenue of escape remained to him, and he took it.

Zerene watched his spirit leap free of his flesh. He didn’t look back for even an instant, but willingly accepted oblivion. Should’ve seen that coming, she thought. No right to be surprised. Her hands slipped from out of his skull as his body slumped to the street.

His remaining fellows didn’t accept their ends so peacefully. Agony, terror, and grief hung heavy in the air, roiled along the pave. They mixed with the pain left by those killed earlier, entangling them when they would otherwise have moved on to their expected fate. They strained to escape the morass, in turn giving off confusion, fear, and anger as they were stymied. Some were so addled they trapped themselves in a repetition of their last few seconds of life. There was Vraldy, constantly reliving the torment of her arms coming free from her shoulders. A few paces further a Razored Shade brigand reeled over his own body but did not fall, still trying to breathe through the spectre of a windpipe crushed by hnzruu jaws.

The ripples did not stop there. In her discorporate state Zerene’s senses were unhindered. Behind barred doors and windows the townspeople huddled, bewildered and terrified. A steady malaise of apathy and fatalism could be tolerated, adapted to. Life may not have been good, but it was constant. Now thugs wearing Guard colors rampaged in the streets, the familiar Guards were either dead or missing, and howling beasts prowled the shadows bent on mysterious, ominous errands. What could a body do in such times but seal themselves in and beg the Ladies to bring back some form of order?

That’s still not the end of it. Zerene’s focus drifted further outward.

It crept around the edge of the lights. Like a party-crasher lacking the brass to strut in it hovered, timidly testing at first. The lack of resistance emboldened it. It lived in mind and spirit, but also in stone and mortar. Here a family mourned the loss of a son and brother. There, a soul which had lived by valor and balanced debts relived endlessly its last few moments of shock and agony. Others struggled in similar straits further on. Living and dead alike bled the terror of anticipation, that what they had suffered so far was not the worst imaginable. Oily darkness slid into those doubtful spaces, filling in the worst possible imagined outcomes.

The cityspell, Zerene realized. It’s so unstable that the fighting is corrupting it!

Woven by the collective thoughts and attitude of its population, the ephemeral lattice of energy blanketed all of Embron. Its pattern impressed in turn the same minds which gave it form, reinforcing and suppressing various facets of mood until it achieved a tolerable balance. Every city, village, and wide spot in the road on Shenn had a cityspell.

When I arrived, Zerene recalled, it was a dirty, choking grey fog. After Jonnal’s Ascension it thinned somewhat. People started to hope, believed things might get better. But they weren’t sure. Now…!

Now a viscous black tide flowed over the rooftops and curdled in the streets. It stank of despair, the sour, acrid stench that comes after fear has reached a saturation point, leaving in its place a lethargic resignation to inevitable doom. So glad ghosts can’t vomit, Zerene thought. It’s everywhere. If it settles it’ll never shake loose!

The encroaching darkness could not be seen by physical eyes, nor could fleshly noses scent it. Its effect was even more telling for being so insidious. It crept around, over, and through every spirit in the square, living or dead. The suffering of the dead redoubled, while a deadly thread of anguish wove itself into the exhaustion and grief of those still standing.

Six hnzruu spaced themselves around the small court, forming an impenetrable cordon. They began to fidget and growl at an unease they could neither name nor deny. Reza had knelt while she tended to Jonnal’s wounds. She got as far as wiping the blood from the gash on his cheek before coiling over her knees with great gasping sobs. Choxie and Dandy likewise were disconsolate, grieving loudly over Fancy’s body in completely un-ogrish fashion. Jonnal had surrendered consciousness in the certainty that the day had been won. Zerene could feel that assurance slipping away from him, giving way to doubts. Had they really gotten all the brigands? What about the corrupt Guards? Should he have stayed at the Greathouse? Was Melia all right?

Zerene herself felt the touch of the tainted cityspell. It reminded her of a childhood toy called Slime. A mixture of guar gum and green food coloring, Slime had been marketed to trade on the morbid, perverse attraction some children had for the disgusting and unwholesome. Growing up on the edge of a bayou full of real slime, Zerene had never seen the appeal of an artificial version. Her first and only contact with the clammy, viscous stuff had been enough to instill a lifelong revulsion.

Not in my city, she resolved, allowing a little surprise at the new sense of ownership.

What are you going to do? she heard herself ask scornfully. You’re talking about an entire cityspell, created by every living thing in Embron! How are you going to fix that?

To begin with, she replied, knowing she was speaking to the corruption, by not listening to you.

Her resolve ignited. It burned hot and tight, blue-white like a magnesium flame. She felt no anger, only unstoppable determination. The tainted cityspell recoiled from her. I don’t care if I unravel myself. I’m not even sure I can. Whatever it takes out of me, I’m not going to let this thing torture anybody anymore.

Zerene’s attention snapped to Vraldy’s repeating torture. She’d never known the Konjon well, just one of many Seekers whose paths briefly intersected at Black Lake Valley. Had she been a complete stranger, her agony would have been just as compelling. Zerene drifted to the centaur’s side, glowering at the tendrils which wrapped around and through her. They waved briefly at Zerene in an automatic attempt to ensnare her in the same pall of hopeless, endless misery. The overture lasted only as long as it took them to feel the heat pouring from her.

She plunged her arms into Vraldy. Her power slid through the contact into the Konjon. Where it touched the blackness fled or unraveled, until the last vestiges of its taint were clear.

Zerene reached into Vraldy’s memories of her death. The sense-memory of physical pain, the shock of watching herself be dismembered, and the dismay that she would not see the next dawn in a new home still tore at the centaur. Zerene melted the edges off them, leaving their substance but robbing them of their power to hurt. It’s all right, she told Vraldy. You can’t win every throw. You had a good run, and you will be remembered. Time to let go.

Vraldy stopped writhing and looked at her. Zerene? Zerene nodded and smiled, wrapping Vraldy in a hug. Vraldy returned the embrace. Thank you, she whispered, and was gone.

Grief was healthy. Zerene allowed herself to mourn the loss of a life and a fellow Seeker, and channeled it into her power. She hovered in a bubble of light and warmth, proof against the darkness which encroached all around.

Ryl Renkak had died without regret. His spirit had passed on immediately, escaping the corruption. Besides, Zerene thought with a smirk, can’t imagine a trap could snare that slippery Nerin! Likewise the ogre Fancy had left this plane as soon as his last breath was spent. The other ghosts which struggled in the black tangle were Razored Shade brigands who’d fallen to Seeker weapons or hnzruu fangs.

Tempted to leave you bastards go, Zerene admitted. Brought this on yourselves, you did. But your pain is adding to this whole mess. Setting you free’ll help clear things out for everybody else. She spared no more contact with them than she needed, pointing their spirits in the right direction and giving a firm shove.

The dead with their over-raw emotions and nonexistent shielding had aggravated things, but they were not the source of the taint. Zerene reeled as her perspective stretched and spread, chasing the cityspell’s weave its entire length and breadth. Every living creature that had a care for Embron played a part in its warp and woof.

I can feel them all! Zerene drew in an ethereal gasp of shock. They want to believe that life will get better, but they’re gun-shy after generations of curse. Tonight made it worse. They could still come around. All they need is a nudge….

The stray thought was all the impetus her power needed. She expanded outward, into the minds around her. Their basic shields were effortlessly bypassed. Thousands of spirits opened to her, budding blossoms of hope choked by briars of fear and despair. So easy. Blaze in, clear the cruft, let the light in….

No!

She recoiled and suddenly felt weight, warmth, wind. Her outcry blasted breath from her mouth, resonating in her ears and the bones of her skull. Muscles stretched and tendons snapped as a spasm of startlement launched her into the air.

“Oi!” Bolt cried in surprise. His massive arms reached out and snatched her deftly to him. “There ye are!”

“Oh!” echoed Evig, arms similarly outstretched. Zerene realized it had been his grasp from which she’d launched as she returned to her body.

Zerene swiftly took in her surroundings. Greathouse. Courtyard. Bolt. Po. Portians in armor, Melia in leather. Ask later. She grabbed the straps of Bolt’s harness and hauled herself upward, over his shoulders and onto his back. Reflex loosened Bolt’s arms as she moved.

“Pony!” she commanded. “Market Square, now!”

“Oh, aye,” Bolt acknowledged casually. He reached a hand down to Melia. She wrapped both of hers around it, and he swung her to his back. Zerene noted with absent startlement that the mount was identical to that which Jonnal had learned during their years on the trail. Melia’s cowl was thrown back, the zushien glyph on her cheek glowing brilliant scarlet.

The courtyard suddenly stretched and blurred as Bolt accelerated. Debris from the battle and the tangle of streets slowed him down, so the run to their destination took minutes instead of seconds. A grey glow on the eastern horizon heralded the impending dawn. Zerene’s weight was relaxed against his back, but Bolt knew better. No talkin’ ta her when she’s this way. Just get her where she’s goin,’ answers’ll come later.

The cordon of hnzruu had redoubled itself as patrolling groups rejoined their elders. Most were still in fur and fangs, but a few had shifted. Upright and smooth-skinned, their human appearance was betrayed to expert eyes by a peculiar length of limb and sloping, triangular features. Their wardrobe consisted of jerkins and pants of cured hide, plain but durable. They parted as Bolt approached, their gloom giving way to grins and yips of “Arh!” at the Tantareli’s arrival.

“Orh,” Bolt replied. Zerene and Melia both slid from his back as he skidded to a stop, sprinting to Jonnal’s side. The gash on his cheek had been daubed, but no other aid rendered. Melia and Zerene knelt on opposite sides of him.

A reproach formed on Melia’s lips at the morose apathy surrounding her. The rebuke died as the ephemeral darkness crept inside her mind. “Ladies,” she murmured, voice breaking. “Is this the end of us all?”

“No!” Zerene snapped. She gripped Jonnal’s right hand in her own. With her other she reached out to Bolt. He stepped forward without hesitation, folded all four legs, and enveloped it in a grip both gentle and unyielding. Though flesh-and-blood once more, Zerene’s perception of the tainted cityspell was still clear. She saw a clammy tendril snake around Bolt’s head, trying to infect him with the same deadly despair whose thrall was still reaching toward Embron’s edges. He frowned, eyes flicking to one side, and his ears twitched. Like a fly being flicked off the tendril recoiled, and abandoned the futile effort.

Zerene grinned in inspiration. “Pony, I love you,” she said.

Bolt blinked at her, but returned the grin. “Love ye too, Spoons!”

“Got to fix this knee first,” she muttered, slipping her hands free and turning to the task. She gently probed the swollen joint and scowled. “Shattered. No cantrip for this. Reza!” She turned and shot the Janjigau Seeker’s name like a bolt. A matching lance of power snaked through Reza’s shields and none too gently burned the cityspell’s taint clear of her thoughts.

“Ow!” Reza cried, clapping a hand to her head. She blinked and glared at Zerene as one rudely stirred from sleep. “Damn it, Zerene!”

“Curse me after you’re done,” Zerene shot back. “Need you to fix his knee. He can’t ride this way.”

Reza, Melia, and Bolt all stared. Had they heard aright? “Ride?” Reza demanded.

Zerene nodded, smiling tightly. “Got an idea.”

Reza dove a hand into her satchel and produced a knitting rune. While she lay the carved tile on Jonnal’s leg and murmured the activating words, Zerene lifted Jonnal’s head between her hands and bent her own brow down to touch his.

Zerene was coming to learn what curious things were cityspells. Formed without deliberate intent by the collective hopes and fears of a region’s population, they created a symbiosis with their creators, in turn affecting and being affected by the spirits which brought them to be. A cityspell maintained a connection with every person who fed energy into it, for as long as they were in that region. The strength of the connection varied according to the amount of energy invested.

For Reza Kau Embron was a contract, though it held the promise of becoming something more. Her link with the cityspell was tenuous enough that Zerene’s mental flashfire had been more than enough to purify the spell’s effects. But Jonnal already loves Embron as much as he loves Melia. His link to the cityspell is much stronger, so the taint has a deeper hold on him.

Doubt and despair had weakened his shields. Zerene slid through them without a ripple. Melia awaited her within.

So it’s come to this, Melia challenged. I’ve waited for him all my life, only to lose him to you. Again!

Zerene knew the Terine’s animosity was born of the tainted cityspell. Even the slight vestiges of doubt she still harbored about the history between her Promised – her zushien! –and the Phoenix-Touched Seeker who’d helped him save his House were magnified by the corrupted enchantment.

Any other time Zerene would have taken her to task for her unfounded accusation. We don’t have time for this, Melia, she told her. Jonnal needs your help.

Yes? And then what? Melia shot back. Only with zushien can I pass within his mind like this. Yet here you are again, as though he had no shields at all! What have I to offer, to match the love of a Phoenix-Touched?

Zerene abandoned the futile debate with a sigh of exasperation. No time to dance, she replied instead. The zushien link between Jonnal and Melia was fresh and strong, and Melia’s distracted state made her even more vulnerable. Zerene stretched her power from Jonnal’s mind through the psychic link. Melia’s mage training made her shields more complex than average, but still no match for Zerene’s probe.

As Zerene expected, Melia’s love for Embron was not yet as great as Jonnal’s, though the city meant more to her than to Reza Kau. Cleansing the cityspell’s taint was less a flashfire than the skillful wielding of a hot scalpel.

In the physical world, Bolt and Reza watched the tableau. Melia glared at Zerene, who seemed oblivious to the scowl marring the Terine’s features. Suddenly Zerene’s eyes lit as they snapped upward to stare at Melia. Melia gasped and recoiled, her own eyes widened in shock. She lost her balance, fell back, and sat down heavily. The angry, suspicious, sullenly defeated look vanished from her face, replaced by an expression of wonder.

“Somebody just took a pole upside the head,” Reza quipped.

“Not a pole,” Bolt corrected her with a grin. “A spoon!”

Now that we have that sorted, Zerene declared, can we get Jonnal’s head on straight?

Melia gaped. Not at Zerene’s simultaneous presence in both her mind and Jonnal’s, nor at the raw power surging behind ferocious restraint. Phoenix-Touched were long reputed for such qualities. But to stand before her without a scrap of shielding! Had she danced in the square without a stitch more than the Ladies afforded her at birth, Zerene could not have hidden less.

That’s the idea, Zerene told her. So there’s no question of my motives or my feelings for Jonnal.

Zerene loved Jonnal. That feeling might have grown into romance, but fate decreed otherwise. Their relationship had initially been entirely professional. But two personalities rich in virtue, a common cause, months spent with scant company other than each other – an emotional bond was inevitable.

Jonnal had intended to foreswear his courtly station at quest’s end in order to pursue a Seeker’s life with Zerene. They would most likely have led a life of passion and happy adventure, but for a last stroke of the Shad Curse. Instead here they were, Lord and Captain. More than comrades, but not lovers. Not now, nor ever.

Neither of them would have matters otherwise.

He’s yours, Zerene assured her. And you’re his. Zushien proves that. He’s in torment now, because the city he loves is sick. I can fix that, but the time I need to reach him might be too late for Embron. He needs your help.

What would you have me do? Melia asked readily.

Zerene relaxed as she felt the last traces of doubt and suspicion fade from Melia’s mind. With zushien you can pass through the cityspell’s taint, go right to his core. Take me there.

Their minds entwined, with the mental image of Melia taking Zerene’s hand. They slid through the mental bond into Jonnal’s mind, passing deeper into his consciousness. Briars and bogs of despair threatened all around. Melia forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand, though glimpses of startling Zerene lore winked teasingly through their new alliance.

She was from Earthside?

Tell you later, Zerene promised.

Jonnal’s self-image hunkered in shadow. He cast one way and the other, trying to guard against attack from all directions at once. Nothing moved in the surrounding darkness, which only aggravated his tension. Zerene remembered him in similar state early on in their quest. Out in the wilds far from keep or town, he’d start and stare at the slightest noise.

No closer! he threatened as he caught sight of them.

Distract him, Zerene directed.

How? Melia asked.

Think of something, Zerene told her. Whatever it takes. Throw him off-guard so I can get inside.

Melia pondered strategy, then smiled as a inspiration offered itself. With the speed of thought she crossed to Jonnal, pressed her self-image against him, and replayed every kiss they’d shared in recent days. She felt unfeigned passion rise in herself, and let the fire add to her ‘distraction.’

Old tricks are the best tricks, Zerene commented aside as she set to work. With Melia occupying his full attention Jonnal was unable to mount any resistance to Zerene’s mental excision. For all the preparation, the task itself was completed quickly.

Zerene! Jonnal exclaimed, partially extricating himself from Melia. The shadows faded from his mental landscape, leaving the three of them in a simulacrum of his office. His mind enwrapped hers in a jubilant embrace. The Ladies cannot bless enough the day we met! But what will we do now? Surely even you can’t alter the thoughts of every person in Embron!

Not by myself, Zerene replied, though a part of her wondered whether she could. The cityspell’s weave was clear to her senses as any physical fabric, how it sprang from and connected the whole of Embron. The taint in it, and how to clear the corruption, lay as plainly before her now as it had when she’d released the tormented dead.

Ladies! Melia exclaimed, seeing the memory in Zerene’s mind. You could do it!

Even if I can, Zerene balked, it shouldn’t be me. This can’t turn into the Phoenix-Touched saving the day. The city should be saved by its Lord and Lady.

What do we do? Jonnal asked.

Zerene smiled. I’m going to introduce you to an Earthside trick my godfather taught me, she told them.

We’re going to hack the cityspell.

 

 

“It’s quiet,” whispered Janza Karegaru. “What’s happening out there, Da?”

“What does it matter?” answered her father Gitec, leaning against one leg of their sturdy dining table. “Tonight is the end of Embron.”

Janza peered up at Gitec. “You really think so, Da?” Her voice held a note of entreaty. The idea was too horrible to imagine, but Da Gitec was always so certain with the things he said. Janza had never known any home but Embron. Idle fantasies notwithstanding, she could not imagine living anywhere else. A tear drew a hot track down one cheek as she thought, If Embron is doomed, where do we go?

If you can hear our words, it means you feel Embron.

“What was that?” Taum Karegaru sat up. His head turned to one side and the other.

“I hear it too!” Janza exclaimed.

Perhaps you’re recently arrived, or your family has spent generations here. It matters not.

“No…” Gitec roused himself. “You don’t hear it, child.” His eyes grew wide with wonder. “Nor is it telepathy!”

We are your Lord and Lady.

Taum rose to his feet in reflex. Gitec stared at his husband, reached a cautionary hand upward. “Taum!”

“It’s His Lordship!” Taum retorted.

“You don’t know that!” Gitec hissed.

“Yes,” Taum replied, wonder smoothing the lines from his face. “I do.”

Unbar your doors. Release the shutters on your windows. Come out into the streets.

“How is this possible?” demanded Marnixelroikenama. The portian baker had doffed her dented helmet in order to more easily tend one of her artisan-cum-warrior sisters. The foyer of the Greathouse had been commandeered as a makeshift infirmary.

“There’ll be some new chapters added to the books on Phoenix-Touched after this,” Evig anwered obliquely, grinning.

“What are you all talking about?” Lady Most High Luvia Shayl inquired in a pleasant but imperative tone.

The terrible night is over.

“Do you not hear that, Milady Most High?” Baras Plue asked, not quite concealing the incredulity in his voice.

“If I did,” Luvia replied, “why would I be asking after it?” Incompetent.

The rising sun is not just another day. It’s the start of a new age in Embron.

“And a new home for us!” Frred cried ebulliently. The hnzruu pups and their mentor Tiy scampered ahead of Bolt.

Come out. You’ll see some new faces. Don’t fear them, welcome them.

Nacci Agat and Po!Xa Ki! strolled along Lord’s Road. In place of a tunic Po hung a gigantic swath of maroon fabric from one shoulder and across his chest. The sash carried the seal of the City Guard in a prominent place. Nacci also wore Guard colors, though these were of better fit and repair than the commandeered reservist tunic which she had worn previously.

They happened upon the overturned carriage which Nacci had batted across the road on her walk to the Greathouse. Of the brigands riding in it, bloody footprints told a tale of fearful, futile retreat. Po righted the carriage while Nacci performed the same service for the vehicle which had earlier served as her bludgeon.

They continued on, in search of other messes to clean up.

They spilled blood for us, their own and our enemies’. They want nothing more than a home to love, and they’ve earned it.

“I can feel their voices in my soul,” Lady Shylla Makko said wonderingly. She, Nerit Pumic, and the young Zefine Kara stood on the front step of the Chiaras Shad Shelter for Displaced Children. A few paces distant Doren, Arjae, and an ogre barely into his teen years named Zakni disposed of the brigands who’d run afoul of Yar Praler, Vela Kockle, and Arjae’s slingshot.

“Not just their voices,” Nerit added, equally rapt. She looked up past the buildings of Tumbledown, at the sky greening with dawn. When’s the last time I watched the sunrise? “I can feel their certainty! They honestly believe what they say, and I believe it too!”

“They are using the cityspell,” Kara murmured. “I would never have thought of that.”

“There they go!” cried the Konjon Meye. She stabbed a slender finger in the air, pointing. The indicator was unnecessary. All of them, along with the first neighbors to follow the broadcast directions, could see the odd procession moving up South Grade. Meye gave chase first, but the rest of the children were quick on all four of her heels.

This is our city. We paid for it, with pain and fear. Now is the time for us to claim our due.

“Wonder if that means we can bill them for the cost of new doors?” Haydn Feber grunted, dragging Kesent’s body into the street. His grin belied both the grisliness of the task and his own grumpy words.

“Haydn, let that garbage wait!” Kres urged as he burst from the smithy. “Come see this!” He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and dragged him along.

Below the streets the message penetrated as well. Orim Dio and Dren Usmas looked at each other. Time for us, too, Orim said, smiling.

Dren returned the smile, then turned to Lord-General Pasha Fehr. You could also, he told him.

The Lord-General shook his head. …So long as the vaults remain, so must we. But you are correct. Your time here is done. Ladies keep you.

Orim and Dren both saluted him. The Lord-General held his replying salute until they had faded completely.

No longer must you live in fear of those who are supposed to protect you. Never again will you have to live at the whims of another. The tyranny of cowards who force their will through curses, lies, and sabotage is ended.

Lady Kethine Eona glared into the mirror on her desk. Lady Tesha Khalchyte’s tear-stained features stared back at her. “Make sense, if you can!” Lady Kethine ordered.

“Can you not hear it?” Lady Tesha wailed. “Feel it? They are speaking to the entire city at once! More than that, they are like a fire in my heart! Payment is come due for the evils we have done, all of us!”

Come greet your neighbors, and welcome Embron’s new age.

Bolt wanted to run, but restrained himself heroically. Speed wasn’t the goal of this tour. The people of the city were supposed to get a good, clear look of their Lord and Lady. He couldn’t help the high prancing step which lifted his hooves, or the grin which stretched his mouth wide as it would go. On his back rode Jonnal and Melia, the very portrait of happiness and assurance.

At first it was just the hnzruu escorting them. As the effects of what Zerene called ‘hacking’ spread through the cityspell into hearts and minds, doors and windows opened, people came into the streets, and the procession grew. Neighbors looked at each other as if meeting for the first time (in some cases this was literal truth), and smiled at the sight. Smiles led to laughter. Some of it was the crazy mirth of hysteria, but most of it was simple pure joy.

By the time they ended back where they’d started in the middle of Market Square, the crush of people was so large it seemed to include every citizen of Embron as well as the visitors who’d come for the new Lord’s Ascension and impending wedding. When they saw the wreckage strewn throughout the city’s commercial heart, their euphoria took on a curious expression. Without any command or direction, they began to clear away the bodies and debris. Even so, they laughed and even sang as they worked.

Unseen by the mob atop Bolt’s back, Zerene struggled to maintain qran ztan so she would not upstage Jonnal and Melia. The crowd was infectious. Maintaining the tap into the cityspell, keeping the feedback from burning out Jonnal’s and Melia’s brains while she relayed their message through the invisible network, and shielding herself from the rapturous waves which otherwise threatened to engulf her – I’m going to sleep all day tomorrow, she grumbled to herself.

Despite the strain she couldn’t resist a jab. You were supposed to speak plainly to them, she rebuked Jonnal.

Those were plain words! he protested.

Silly courtling.

Jonnal grinned. Through the link with Zerene he could feel the cityspell, and how it interacted with the populace. He allowed himself to sample it, relishing it as he might a mouthful of his family’s finest brew. It won’t last, he reflected without bitterness. As the days pass it will collect the stains of everyday anger and disappointment. It will never be this good again. But neither will it ever again be as bad as it was!

A fresh commotion drew attention to the edge of the Square. The crowd looked up from its celebratory industry to note the carriage which pressed inexorably forward. They gave way with difficulty, hampered by the narrowness of the avenue, the carriage’s bulk, and their own numbers. The House Shayl crest glinted morning sunlight from the nose of the carriage.

“Aunt Luvia,” Melia announced. “No doubt intent on her crusade to make sure we bring no disgrace to our names in our revelry.”

The carriage ground to a halt several paces from where Bolt stood, unable to dislodge the mob any more. The grind of gears was lost in the crowd’s collective murmur as posts unfolded from the carriage roof, silk rope hung between them. A hatch in the cab roof slid back, and two figures stepped up a concealed staircase onto the instant dais. Lady Most High Luvia Shayl was respendant, looking as if she’d spent hours being coiffed and dressed. Such an elegant figure she cut that though her companion was likewise clean and combed, she made him look plain. Not shabby though — his spit-in-your-eye assurance created a commanding regality that made the casual tunic and slacks he wore as august as the most formal robes.

“Father!” Jonnal cried. He sprang to his feet on Bolt’s back, eyes and teeth bright with surprise and joy.

“SO!” Mahargni’s voice thundered across the Square. The carriage had a built-in sound system, but the Lord Most High of House Shad had never needed artificial aids to make his words carry. “I GIVE YOU LORDSHIP OF OUR LAST REMAINING CITY, AND WHAT DO YOU DO WITH IT?”

Jonnal’s jaw set undaunted. “I did what the people challenged me to do, Milord Most High!” he shouted back, waving an arm at the crowd between them. Cheers of approval erupted at his reply.

Mahargni’s eyebrows arched. “I was at the Ascension!” he roared, overriding the crowd with ease. “I recall no petitions to set Market Square afire, or to usurp traditional authority with mercenaries and rapacious shapeshifters!” A hnzruu near the carriage growled at the Lord Most High’s derogation of his breed, but abated at an admonishing nip from his nearby elder.

“For my methods I’ll answer to the Court Assembly and gladly!” Jonnal shot back. “As for those I recruit, Milord Most High, look around you!” This time his wave encompassed the hnzruu and the Seekers scattered in the press. “I see no mercenaries or wild beasts. I see only those who have risked and suffered for the chance to join Embron’s City Guard!”

“Who ever heard of an aerin city with such a motley Guard?” Mahargni challenged. The crowd had stopped its cleanup. They watched the debate in rapt silence.

“Embron is not an aerin city, Milord Most High,” Jonnal declared. “Certainly aerin built it, and its rulers have ever been aerin. But a city without its people is an empty ruin. Again I charge you, look!” He waved at the crowd once more. “Not only aerin but human, portian, centaur, ogre, lamia! Nearly every race known to Shenn, and all of them hold Embron in their hearts as a place to live, work, and raise their children! What better Guard for such people, than those they can call kin?”

“Then where is the Captain for your Guard?” was Mahargni’s next demand. “Where the Lieutenant?

“We’re on, Spoons,” Bolt murmured.

Oh no, Zerene thought. To Jonnal she ‘pathed, I hope your father doesn’t mind seeing the new Captain of the Guard faint. As soon as I let go of the cityspell and qran ztan, I’m not long for this world!

That wouldn’t do at all, he agreed. Suddenly Zerene felt love and encouragement surge through the connection between Jonnal, Melia, and herself. The feelings washed through her with the sweet fire of the strongest tonic, rejuvenating and invigorating.

From empty space next to Embron’s Lord and Lady, standing on the towering Tantareli’s back, shimmered an apparition of blood and gold. Her hair had come unbound during the ride, and stirred in the morning breeze. Her eyes burned as if to give contest to the rising sun. Her posture was erect but relaxed, arms folded casually across her chest, face open and calm.

“I’m the Captain,” was all she said.

“And I be the Lieutenant!” Bolt declared proudly.

The crowd erupted with even louder cheers. Their enthusiasm swept through Zerene with almost physical force — it took all her concentration to maintain the outward attitude of calm assurance. This time her lifelines were Jonnal, Melia, and especially Bolt’s indomitable presence beneath her feet.

Mahargni had one last bolt to shoot. “And on top of everything else,” he bellowed, “you went and got zushien with your Promised, before the wedding!”

Jonnal nodded, grinning. Zushien was well-known to obey no laws or propriety but its own. The preposterousness of Mahargni’s charge belied the severity of his tone. Jonnal laced his fingers with Melia’s, smiling at her, and held their hands aloft. “For that charge I have no answer, Milord Most High,” he replied, “save that love does what it will, and ever has!”

“So will there still be a wedding?” Mahargni asked.

“Of course there will!” Luvia at last spoke up. “What an idea!”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Mahargni told her. “It’s happened before. Zushien makes vows and ceremonies redundant.”

“Courtly forms must be observed,” Luvia stated as if discussing whether the sky were green.

“In the end,” Mahargni said, “the decision’s best left to those directly concerned.” He looked at Jonnal and Melia. “What say you?”

The couple exchanged looks, already of one mind. “If that be the case,” Melia said, “then it’s not for the two of us to answer.”

“Just so,” Jonnal agreed. His eyes swept the throng. “What say you, people of Embron? Shall zushien carry the day? Or shall there be a wedding?”

The crowd, to coin a phrase, went wild. By the next morning, in the field outside the city which would forever after be left fallow and known as Festival Field, on the same dais which had served for Jonnal’s Ascension, the Lord and Lady of Embron stood before the Lord and Lady Most High of their respective Houses and the people of the city, and swore a lifetime of love and devotion to each other.

 

And Your Enemies Closer

 

The aerin who for the past dozen years had used the name Aubryn Vaeus sat on the edge of the bunk, the softest furnishing available. Given that the other accommodations consisted of a stone toilet and basin, this was not a very flattering comparison. The cell was simple and entirely functional: a round room of diameter scarcely greater than the length of the bunk, the ceiling with its single illuminating rod securely out of reach. The metal door nestled securely in a frame of the same alloy, bolts sunk in from the walls on all sides. The Captain’s suite in the Embron garrison had been austere, but compared to this it was a pinnacle of luxury and indulgence.

His wardrobe likewise had suffered. Instead of the maroon and gold brocade of the Captain of Embron City Guard he wore a simple grey robe without belt or pockets. His feet were bare, and he’d been allowed no undergarments. Fortunately the cell was warm, so the lack was merely humiliating rather than uncomfortable. His hair was unbound, falling past his shoulders. It had been thoroughly brushed. This was not out of any concern for his grooming, but to make sure no needles, lockpicks, or other implements had been hidden within his locks.

He gazed at the floor, idly tracing the veins in the stone. He could feel its structure, but the cell wards rendered it invulnerable to his Kinship. His thoughts were idle, like one waiting for something.

Something took form in the grind of bolts sliding out of the door into the frame. He looked up expectantly as the door opened, and was not surprised at the figure which stood there.

“Bright morning, Aubryn.”

“I wondered if you might visit,” he replied. “You take considerable risk, coming here.”

“Not a bit,” his visitor replied easily. That one strolled into the cell, closing the door behind. “At this moment dozens of members of the Upper Court can truthfully swear on their families’ names that I am attending the pre-hearing reception. The guards who let me in have already forgotten that I am here, nor will they recall my leaving after I’ve gone.” Lips curved in a smile full of self-assurance. “Did you think I achieved my current station by name alone?”

“As soon as you can spare a moment from honoring yourself,” Vaeus chided, “perhaps you might get to the purpose of your visit. I have a busy day ahead.”

The visitor chuckled. Feet clad in boots of hide which had been cured to a silken smoothness, dyed, and carved whispered across the stone floor. Woven slacks of equal quality and softness insulated buttocks that leaned against the edge of the basin. “You speak more truthfully than you know,” came the reply. “You have a great journey ahead of you.”

Vaeus arched an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly to one side. He drew one foot up to the edge of the bunk and crossed his arms over the knee. “Greater than from here to the Assembly chambers, and from there to Daidoga Prison?” He smirked. “I thought you had such intolerance for failure.”

The other nodded. “When the failure is due to poor planning, cowardice, or incompetence, this is true. Your defeat in Embron was due to a combination of factors none could have foreseen. Especially the involvement of a Phoenix-Touched!” Long hair made a halo as the head shook in acknowledgment of the idea. “I still hold your intelligence and skills in some regard, Aubryn. That is why I have come to discuss a new arrangement with you.”

Vaeus frowned. “My days of taking orders from another are long behind me. Even that silly Merchant Council understood that my cooperation was at my whim.” He eyed his visitor with cool measurement. “Your estimate of my situation must be dire indeed, to imagine I would agree to be your agent.”

“I am one of those in whose judgment you will shortly stand,” the visitor reminded him. “My word carries some weight in the Assembly.”

“Will that still be true,” Vaeus countered, “after I have spoken my piece with a truth rune in my hand?”

Fine eyebrows arched. “Your wit is not slowed by imprisonment,” came the compliment. “Yet still you lag a pace behind. Do you really imagine the Assembly will have the opportunity to hear you speak, whether or not you accept my offer?” Another shake of the head, this one accompanied by a smile which combined honey and venom. “It would not do for your lips to pass the truth about how those runes found their way into Novice Feber’s runecase.”

Vaeus’ answering smile was equally poisonous. “I lag less than you think. Your words confirm what I suspected.” He leaned back, setting his leg back on the floor. “So my choices are to accept your offer, or take my secrets to my grave.”

“The guilty often suicide rather than face the disgrace of a public trial,” the other confirmed, still with that deadly-sweet smile. “It affords them some small remnant of honor.”

“And so doing, spares the Assembly the chore of a trial,” Vaeus added with a knowing nod. “It’s not much of a choice,” he complained mildly, his smile fading to impassivity.

The other shrugged, still smiling. “We cannot always choose our destinies.”

From a pocket was produced an object Vaeus recognized. He let one eyebrow climb his forehead for a better look. “A Steel Concord tunnel rune,” he mused. “Mine?”

“Oh no,” the other replied. Power gathered in the air of the cell as the sigils on the graven disk began to glow. “This is an old family heirloom.”

“Of course it is,” Vaeus affirmed without any sincerity. He rose from the bunk, and plucked distastefully at the robe. “I hope there will be a change of clothes waiting at my destination.”

“That and much more,” he was assured. Energy sparked and crackled, bending the space in the cell into a vortex of white and green. “Instructions also will be forthcoming.” The tunnel rune was extended toward him. He accepted it, knowing he’d need it to traverse the portal. “Until you receive them, do your best to make a good impression on your hosts. You are, after all, my envoy.”

Vaeus nodded and turned toward the portal. Suddenly he spun back around. His left hand curled into a fist which described a short, vicious line connecting with the other’s right eye.

The other stumbled back and fell against the basin. One hand was clapped over the injured eye, while the other stared at Vaeus with shock and rage.

“That is a reminder,” Vaeus said, turning to the portal. “Do not ever push me into a corner, and do not ever think you control me.” Then he stepped into the swirling vortex and vanished.

 

 

“Escaped?” Lady Tesha Khalchyte’s eyebrows pushed up into incredulous arches.

The bearer of the startling news was of course none other than Lord Cyn Dessens. Transport might have been his House’s main enterprise, but secret information was obviously a passion of his.

Lord Cyn nodded as he leaned on the edge of a table, an infuriating smirk curving his lips. “From a cell whose locks and wards remained undefiled until the arrival of the dear ex-Captain’s breakfast. The Assembly has sent to the Academy for their best scryers.”

“Academy?” echoed Lord Kiel Rickart. He lounged in one of several couches spaced strategically around the parlor. “They suspect craft?”

“Let them suspect what they will,” Lady Kethine Eona scoffed disdainfully from another couch. “Aubryn Vaeus’ latest game is no concern of ours.”

“Your tone sounds faintly peevish, dear Kethine,” Lord Cyn prodded. “Perhaps you are stung by the discovery that Master Vaeus did not find your charms as captivating as you thought?”

Lady Kethine’s eyes flashed topaz fire, but her exquisite features lost none of their composure. “How boldly you speak now, Milord Cyn!” she purred, stretching out further across her couch.

Lord Cyn shrugged. “Embron’s Merchant Council is no more. Even if the Assembly absolves us, too much attention has been drawn to the city for us to continue operations there.” He smiled winningly at Lady Kethine. “Which means Milady, that your favor is not the treasure to keep as once it was, and thus I speak my mind.”

The answering smile which stretched Lady Kethine’s lips was equally full of charm, but added a full measure of rising heat. “Vikamogan is not so far away,” she reminded him, “and House Eona’s fortunes stretch the breadth of Shenn. Has House Dessens grown so powerful while I was distracted?”

Lord Kiel blew a derisive snort from his nose. “Would that the two of you end this foreplay and just take each other right now!” He exclaimed. “The Lady Tesha and I will happily give you privacy if you wish!”

The remains of Embron’s Merchant Council were at this moment very far from their common interest, gathered in a parlor within Alliance Keep. Named in honor of the coalition which put aside centuries of intrigue and competition to thwart the Steel Concord’s steady march across Shenn, the compound of buildings and courtyards sprawled the diameter of an unnamed island off the southern coast of Ynwen, the planet’s major continent. The jagged peak of a submerged extinct volcano, the island boasted no virtues to attract any House, but its location was acclaimed as a symbolic juxtaposition of the four remaining Upper Court Kin. At any rate, it was an agreeable neutral ground on which could be argued matters of treaty, commerce, and law.

The sarcastic offer doused the fire building behind Lady Kethine’s smile. “Your counsel is sound, Milord Kiel,” she acknowledged, her expression suddenly one of genuine warmth. None of them for an instant accepted its sincerity. “We managed our enterprises by cooperation and mutual interest. That same strategy will see us through this inconvenience. Even if Embron is lost to us, other markets beg for proper management. Though,” her smile regained some of its normal silken rapacity, “I am not so convinced that Embron is beyond salvation.”

Lord Cyn chuckled and echoed, “Salvation.” He stretched one hand out before himself like a herald beckoning attention toward a featured speaker. “You’ve never failed to offer entertaining strategies, Milady. I trust you’ll not disappoint us now.”

“It’s very simple,” Lady Kethine announced, sitting up into a more businesslike posture. “So obvious in fact, I’m embarrassed to say it aloud.” Also, she continued silently, accepting privacy as a feature of our current accommodations would be the height of folly.

Telepathy can be scried, Lord Kiel pointed out.

A true observation, Lady Kethine conceded, one graceful hand rising to a bejeweled pendant which rested between her breasts. Anywhere beyond the radius of this ingenious bauble. So now, let us speak frankly.

Why do you all suppose I was so adamant that no minutes be kept of our meetings? That our accord be kept a matter of voice and mind, never put to paper or slide? That even the truce with the Razored Shade be sealed by their ‘princess” appointment as Lieutenant? Lady Kethine paused while her questions resonated in rhetoric. In support of their charges, House Shad has only tales spun by malcontents and the mad who blame their own misfortune on invisible enemies. Indeed, she held her hands out for emphasis, their own eccentricities have ruined their credibility before they can step before the Assembly!

She rose and with minor legerdemain produced a viewer slide from one sleeve. By contrast, we have sworn and sealed Agents’ statements which attest to the illegal recruiting of mercenaries –

Seekers, Lord Cyn interjected. A blurry distinction to us, but there are some on the Assembly who prize their services. Those will bristle at such a misnomer.

Lady Kethine nodded without the slightest rancor at his correction. The schemer was in her element now, and all previous emnities were forgotten. Seekers and courtless beasts, to usurp and massacre the rightfully-appointed Guard! We also have statements from former servants at the Embron Greathouse. They establish that Captain Vaeus exercised his lawful authority as Captain. He informed His Lordship that in response to the illegal assembly of hostile forces within the city, he must declare martial law. In response, His Lordship ordered Captain Vaeus dismissed and held!

The slide rose aloft like a trophy. Lady Kethine’s smile was radiant in malicious triumph. No textbook written holds a clearer example of sedition! Even further, we can argue that Lord Most High Mahargni bears ultimate responsibility. He had evidence of his son’s madness by his disruption of the Ascension ceremony, and chose to ignore it!

Caught up by her enthusiasm, Lord Kiel sprang from his seat. If the Assembly accepts that argument, he exclaimed, we can demand satisfaction from House Shad for our losses! His own grin held ravening anticipation, a feral dog teased by a dangling steak. We could carve them to pieces! Not just Embron, but all their remaining fortunes could be divided among us!

Audacious, was Lord Cyn’s critique. But not implausible. Certainly Lord Most High Mahargni’s own bombast has not endeared him to some of the Assembly. He smiled reflectively. Indeed, I still marvel that Lady Most High Luvia Shayl was persuaded to give her only scion in Promise to the wayward Shad son. He nodded in respectful observation of the strategy. It could work.

“It could,” conceded Lady Tesha aloud. “But it won’t.”

If the Ladies had entered the parlor at that moment and been greeted by resounding flatulence, the unanimous confusion and disbelief which would result could not have been greater than that displayed by the other three aerin in the room. They goggled at Lady Tesha, who had not stirred from her couch next to the parlor window which overlooked the tides surging against the walls of Alliance Keep.

An impromptu contest immediately ensued to see who first would recover enough composure to ask the obvious question. Lord Cyn won. Dear Lady Tesha, he asked in gentle tones, what leads you to that conclusion?

She regarded them serenely, but a single tear drew a glistening track down one cheek. “For I intend to tell the Assembly the truth. All of it.”

Half an hour later, Kaaz Tasic knocked respectfully, tentatively on the parlor door. In his three years as a page at Alliance Keep, the young Ausin had yet to overcome his trepidation in the presence of Upper Court nobility. He’d tried to swap with one of his fellow pages for the duty of summoning the Embron Merchant Council to dinner, but no temptation within his power could sway them.

No hail or command answered his knock. Kaaz knew he’d knocked loudly enough. Protocol demanded he escalate his efforts. Either he returned with the guests in attendance, or with their regrets and refusal. Nothing else would do.

The latch turned silently. Kaaz pushed the heavy slab of carved wood open just enough to slip his head through. His lips held an apology ready, his weight balanced precariously enough to allow a speedy retreat if his presence was deemed intrusive.

What he saw within sent him scrambling in terror for the nearest alarm.

 

 

“I need you to do something,” Zerene had said. She stood quite close to him and spoke in low tones, which emphasized the contralto thrum of her voice.

“Anything,” Nathan had acceded, a touch more eagerly than he’d intended.

She’d seemed oblivious to the effect her proximity had on him. He was unsure whether to congratulate himself on his self-control, or worry at her lack of perception. “You’re Arasidhe,” she’d said. She was breathless, having just leapt from Bolt’s back to meet him in Morphy’s entryway. “From the way you dressed at the Ascension, one with station. That means you can speak up in an Assembly hearing, and you’ll not be told to behave yourself.”

He remembered the intensity of her gaze as she explained what she wanted of him. The upward tilt of her chin as she compensated for the six inches difference between their heights to meet his eyes, and the manner in which her blood-hued tresses fell partially over one eye had been distracting. Moreso had been her scent, especially standing that close. Orange and sage, leather and musk. The soft, insistent thud of her elevated heartbeat had demanded utmost concentration to ignore, so he would remember the charge she’d laid on him.

Somehow he’d managed. He gave all the credit to his instructors, who had drilled him mercilessly on the importance of knowing all the nuances of one’s environment when beset with savage diversions.

“One question, if I may?” He’d had to ask.

By way of answer she tilted her head at him. This made her forelock fall completely over the one eye, also brushing the tip of her nose. For a second he’d forgotten what he wanted to ask. Training to the rescue again.

“This is an errand of great importance,” he’d said, “to you personally as well. I am greatly flattered and honored, but why can you not fulfill it yourself?”

The impatient look which had crossed her features had made him feel buffoonish and club-footed for asking. “I’m needed here.”

Thus had he come to Alliance Keep. It was the afternoon before Kaaz Tasic’s dreadful discovery.

“So that’s portal travel,” Nicholas mused. The two of them had just emerged from the emerald vortex which had whisked them from Embron, a quarter of the way around Shenn’s circumference away. “Interesting perceptual distortions and rationalizations.”

Nicholas looked around at the soaring, graceful towers, walls, and causeways which made up the compound. Only native materials had been used. The keep was in shades of grey and black, muted basalt counterpointed by gleaming obsidian. The use of shading and accent had been carefully engineered so rather than forbidding and dark, the keep seemed protective and invulnerable. “Wow,” he murmured appreciatively.

Similar sentiments tickled through his mental link with Nathan, and one eyebrow arched quizzically as he looked sidelong at his Ausin partner. “You’ve never been here before either?”

Nathan shook his head, not bothering to disguise his own admiration for the architecture. “Alliance Keep is a center of politics and negotiation,” he answered.

“Both of which carry their own share of intrigue and espionage,” Nicholas amended. “I thought House Arasidhe’s concern was any potentially hostile contact between Upper Court Houses. This would certainly qualify.”

“Only if the intrigue and espionage got out of hand,” Nathan explained. “Such as somebody getting caught and the House in question unable to disown them.” He smiled at Nicholas as they crossed the meticulously-landscaped courtyard to the Reception Hall. “In truth, I was never considered subtle enough for assignment here.”

Nicholas turned his head to stare incredulously at Nathan, who nodded his head in confirmation of his statement. “Earth was considered an easier assignment than this place?”

Nathan grinned. “It’s much easier to fool people who don’t believe you even exist, than those who worry that you might lurk around every corner.”

In the foyer of the Reception Hall they were met by an aerine of startling appearance. Her skin was definitely Terine, nearly as black as the obsidian trim in the walls. Yet her hair was white as a summer cloud, her eyes cerulean, and her build ethereally slender. She wore the livery of a page.

“Lord Sinjinklaer Naethn Arasidhe,” Nathan announced himself to her.

“Milord,” she greeted Nathan, bowing deeply. “Ladies keep you and your servant. How may I assist in the discharge of your errands?”

Servant? Nicholas echoed mentally, eyebrows arched.

Nathan chuckled through their link, unheard by all save his soul-brother. I warned you. Perhaps next time you’ll dress for the occasion.

I did dress! Nicholas protested.

For a lecture, Nathan allowed, or perhaps even an informal dinner date. Not for Alliance Keep.

Nicholas grinned ruefully, accepting the gibe. He had traded his usual gray molyfiber shirt and pants for what Nathan had long ago labeled his ‘professor costume.’ Over an ocean-blue cotton button-up shirt of the style that Earthside men had worn for nearly a century he wore a charcoal blazer if equally classic cut. Matching slacks draped closely over black leather boots. Only the topmost button of the shirt was left unfastened. His blue-black hair was tied back in a ponytail which was neat without being severe.

By contrast Nathan was done to the proverbial nines. Glossy ebon-hued slacks hugged his thighs before diving into knee-high boots of matching color and snugness. A silver belt whose purpose was simply to interrupt the line between leg and torso cinched low on his hips. The sleeveless indigo shirt consisted only of a panel to cover his chest and abdomen and a low collar to snug around his neck. Over this he wore a black vest which was similarly backless. Finally a garment which was somewhere between a coat and a cloak draped over it all, held in place with silver clasps, again with no covering behind. A silver medallion with jet and lapis inlay displaying the crest of House Arasidhe nestled at the base of his throat. His arms were bare but for bracers of indigo and silver. Cloud-colored hair fell straight and loose to his waist. The peculiar front-and-side-only design of the suit made sense with the addition of the wings which framed his head and hung relaxed from his shoulders, unmistakably proclaiming his Arasidhe heritage.

Nathan easily managed his mental exchange with Nicholas without delaying his reply to the striking page. “For the moment, I am here merely as an observer. My House’s normal suite should be currently unoccupied?”

The page nodded briskly. “If by some unhappy misfortune it is not, Milord, I shall not rest until you are resting in accommodations of equal splendor.” Teeth flashed like diamonds against her ebony skin when she smiled. “Please follow me.”

“We are in your hands,” Nathan agreed.

Suite, Nicholas commented when the doors to the chambers reserved for visiting members of House Arasidhe were thrown aside. Sweet, he punned. Could park Morphy in here and hold a tailgate party without being cramped.

Nathan was surprised to find himself faintly embarrassed by Nicholas’ analysis. As well, the finery he wore felt more like a costume than garments befitting noble station. Have I been Earthside so long I’ve lost my taste for courtly things? He knew the answer — in truth, he’d never favored such extravagance. His exile/assignment on the other side of the Veil had demanded he lead an inconspicuous existence, which suited him. The daily struggle to survive following the Warp had stripped much of the preoccupation with grandiose displays of wealth from Earth’s societies. Even though the advent of the Molecular Age had brought those fripperies back within reach, still most Earthsiders preferred a more straightforward lifestyle.

“A formal dinner of welcome will be held in the grand hall at twenty-five,” the page told them. “Attendance is encouraged, but certainly not required. Shall I announce your presence to any parties in particular, Milord?”

“Ladies smile on you for your attentiveness and thoroughness,” Nathan praised her. “Should such errands become necessary, may I call upon your services by name?”

The brilliance of her smile made her previous efforts seem like guttering candle-flames. She bowed so deeply she seemed to bend in half. “Should Milord wish to so honor me,” she replied, “you need only utter the name Talisha.”

Nathan returned an equally scintillating smile. “Until your name passes my lips then, Talisha.”

“That was a bit thick,” Nicholas commented when Talisha had left.

Nathan shrugged. “Good manners are the lubricant of society,” he observed. “A society as old as the Upper Court needs a lot of lubrication to keep its gears from grinding against each other.”

“Are servants expected to attend that formal welcoming dinner?”

Nathan shook his head, then peered keenly at Nicholas. “You have some mischief in mind?”

Nicholas shrugged in turn, then suddenly grinned. “You know me. I like to see the machinery behind the ride.”

Nathan was surprised by the grin. For most of their association Nicholas had been tacit, even dour. The closest he’d ever come to smiling or laughing was a smirk or chuckle deep in his throat. Until he and Zerene found each other again. Now what was buried beneath years of loneliness and regret is coming back into the light. Unexpected though it was, Nathan found himself warming to the change.

“Remember, this is Shenn,” Nathan cautioned. “There are counter-intrusion systems here as well, but they don’t rely on electrical current and molecular sensors. And while espionage is part of the Grand Game, those clumsy enough to get caught are expected to accept the price.”

Nicholas nodded, and tilted his head to one side as a rakish smirk quirked his mouth. “I promise, I won’t embarrass you.”

Nathan blinked again. The gesture was eerily similar to Zerene’s manner. They’re twins and mindlinked, he reminded himself. Still, it’s disconcerting to see two different people act so similar!

 

 

Nathan could have the formal reception dinner, and welcome to it. Nicholas had neither patience nor taste for courtly scenes, on either side of the Veil.

This was not blue-collor reverse elitism, simply personal preference. The whole point of a party was to join other people in celebration of an event, or simply for the pleasure of shared company. Molyfiber or silk, beer or champagne, chips-and-dip or caviar: all those were matters of taste. Nicholas’ upbringing had been simple and rural by design. His parents had abandoned high society and extravagance for a life of comfort through moderation. They’d understood that contentment didn’t require wealth, and instilled those same values in their children

His time in the top-secret research facility nicknamed Mount Twilight had been in similar style. The research staff there traded all contact with the outside world for having their every professional and personal whim indulged. Nicholas’ focus had remained on the project at hand. In the interests of full disclosure, he had to admit that part of the reason for his asceticism was penance. I’m sorry, Zerene.

In the hard-scrabble days following the reality warp officially named Cantionis Terra, there’d been no time to think about luxuries. The Molecular Revolution later changed that, bringing to the common man materials and flavors that had previously been restricted to the elite. By that point though, Nicholas’ tastes were carved into his bones. His ‘professor costume’ was the fanciest clothing he owned. Even for a special occasion such as the wedding of Jonnal and Melia the week before, he’d attended in the same charcoal and blue ensemble. If that weren’t good enough for a given event, they could damn well do without him.

Besides, he added, if I were there, I couldn’t be here.

Here was one of the corridors of the Alliance Keep guest residence hall. The reception was by now five minutes old. Nathan had left early, the better to blend in among the other attendees. His commentary on the ebb and flow of socializing and politicking buzzed quietly in the back of Nicholas’ mind.

Nicholas walked with practiced silence, slightly to one side of the corridor’s center. He stopped when anybody else appeared, holding still until they were gone. Guests and staff alike passed him without hail or glance. Even the pages whose job it was to make sure nobody got lost and everybody knew when and where they were due to appear acted as though he wasn’t there.

Struyck Worldwide offered CamoNet to its Independent Innovation Evaluators program in 2001. Fifteen months later, testers had yet to reach a consensus. Law enforcement both loved and hated the idea of advanced active camouflage — it was a godsend for surveillance, but a nightmare if criminals got hold of it. Post-Warp government intelligence agencies had a lot less work on their hands, so the concept of invisible spies was not the draw it would have been a decade earlier. The worst predators in the wildlands used more than vision to track prey, but outriders and freelances were willing to try anything that might give them an edge. Finally, the pure technophiles thought the idea of being able to stand in plain sight without being noticed was just cool.

A large mirror hung on one wall over a decorative table. Reflected by the mirror, the bouquet of flowers in the blue vase pretended to have twice as many multicolored blossoms as it really did. Nicholas stopped in front of the mirror and surveyed himself. Last upgrade finally fixed the oblique refraction problem, he noted as he waved one arm in front of him. No shadowy outline. Processing speed improved, too. Minimal blur, even in motion. Belatedly he noticed the arrangement of the table, vase, and mirror. He grinned inside his mask. Just like on Earth, they can think of only so many ways to decorate a hallway. No matter where you go, there you are.

A Nerine swept around an intersecting corner and into the hall where Nicholas stood. She stopped before the mirror, obviously intent on a final reassurance that her gown and jewelry hung, snugged, and dangled just so before putting herself on display before her peers. Nicholas watched her reflection in the mirror as she primped. Wonder what she’d think if she knew she wasn’t looking into a mirror, but a super-dense high-speed micro-optic array on the back of my head? He toyed with the idea of pulling back the hood and cowl which covered his head and saying “Boo!”

I can’t believe you even thought of that! Nathan’s incredulous rebuke rang in his skull.

Relax, Nicholas chuckled. I’m the sensible one, remember?

Blissfully unaware of the exchange, the Nerine rehearsed her smile, cetacean teeth flashing between grey lips. She then spun and glided away toward the reception.

They’re gonna love my next report, Nicholas mused.

Running footsteps made his head snap to his right. A young aerin in page livery, Ausin judging by his pale skin and grey hair, skidded on the carpeted floor as he sprinted around the corner opposite from where the Nerine had come. He regained his balance and plunged headlong past Nicholas, quickly lost from sight. The sight would have been curious but not notable, but for the look on the page’s face. What’s got him so scared?

Nicholas was both a scientist and an adventurer. That meant when he needed an answer, he’d follow the question past signals that more conventional folk understood as meaning DANGER! KEEP OUT! Something in the page’s native environment terrified him enough to leave decorum on the floor so he could make best speed away from… what?

The hallway around the corner was short and ended in a large, ornately carved door. The panicked page had left the entry slightly ajar. Nicholas stole ahead with slightly more caution. A scent stole faintly out of the doorway, down the hall, and up his nose. He’d smelled it only a few times, but knew it at once. The sickly-sweet musky aroma of overcooked meat blended with the acrid stench of burnt hair. His brows and the corners of his moustache caught against his mask as they drew down. Part of him didn’t want to look inside the room now.

The door opened wider, just a little. Nicholas froze, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t be seen. He waited to see who would emerge. Had his senses not been straining for the first clue of danger, he might have missed it. The CamoNet suit fitted him too snugly for the faint breeze to pluck at it, but its material was sheer enough that Nicholas felt the disturbance in the air. He glanced down, and spotted the series of foot-shaped depressions in the carpet quickly tracking down the hall.

I’m not the only invisible man here tonight.

Definition of a moral dilemma, he continued. Somebody in that room has suffered third-degree burns. They may still be alive. Chase the person possibly responsible, or help the victim?

Chase the assassin, Nathan answered. I’ll send healers.

Welcome to the party, pal, Nicholas quipped. The movie quote struck an old guilty reflex. Before his adventuring years he’d always thought it callous when the hero cracked wise after dispatching a villain. Regardless of how heinous the criminal’s actions, their passing should still merit more than a chance for the hero to show off his wit.

After a few years of witnessing mutilation and violent death first-hand, Nicholas came to understand that such black repartee was really a defense. One-liners and movie quotes moved the horror just far away enough that it could be acknowledged without striking too deeply at the soul. Without humor, only denial or sadism offered any protection.

His unseen quarry obviously enjoyed more confidence in their invisibility than Nicholas did. They also knew Alliance Keep very well. The stride was long and brisk, with no hesitation about it. Intersections and stairways were navigated without a break in pace. I recognize this hallway, Nicholas realized, and this staircase. Nathan and I passed this way en route to the Arasidhe suite. We’re headed down and outside.

The reception court, Nathan supplied. Where a portal will draw much less notice than elsewhere.

Can’t let them portal out, Nicholas declared. Not without a few answers at least.

Persuade them to stay, came the reply.

His quarry passed from the foyer of the residence hall to the courtyard, and the footprints vanished as carpet gave way to stone. Nicholas was already adapting his strategy. The lantern-lit courtyard suddenly seemed bathed in faint, glowing fog. The mist was thicker and more lambent around windows and leaked under the bottoms of doorways, less so around the crystal globes which furnished normal light. Some places which were out of reach of the lanterns now glowed as well. Brightest of all, a phantom silhouette strode across the courtyard, trailing wisps of vapor behind it.

Got him on infra-red, Nicholas updated Nathan. Male aerin. Breed unknown, but if he’s Terin he’s a thin one.

Nathan’s tone was grim. Given what we’ve found here, most likely a Pyrin. Take care, Nicholas.

Nicholas had no intention of giving the unknown aerin a chance to display any Kin powers, especially Pyrin. His enhancements could heal nearly any wound which was not immediately fatal, but that would do nothing for the pain of burning alive!

He lengthened his own stride to catch up to the aerin, taking care to keep his steps silent. One leg looped out to the side as Nicholas passed him, while the matching arm reached up and behind to grab the back of the aerin’s neck. The leg swept backward while the arm shoved forward. Properly executed the throw would bounce the aerin’s forehead off the walkway, stunning him if not knocking him out.

“I think not.”

Had the invisible aerin spoken a moment sooner Nicholas would have had plenty of warning. The quiet words came at the exact same moment as the countermove, the mark of an experienced fighter. The aerin’s leading leg, the one that Nicholas had meant to trip, snapped out sharply, bouncing Nicholas’ leg up and off-balance. At the same time his arm rose, cocked at the elbow, and shot backward into Nicholas’ throat.

Nicholas moved with the force of the attack. He kicked his leg up and snapped his head back, arching into a reverse handstand. His trailing foot rose as he continued the flip, and caught his opponent in the jaw.

The aerin staggered but regained his balance by the time Nicholas was back on his feet. In the fog of infra-red he was a luminous, anonymous phantom. A brilliant aura suddenly sprang up around him as the air heated.

Oh hell! Nicholas knew what that meant. Adrenaline shot into his blood and tripped a trigger. He twisted sideways and slid the few steps between the aerin and himself. His opponent reacted to the charge, but to Nicholas’ perception the other’s arms were rising at a sedate pace. It was as if he were demonstrating the proper way of blocking an attack, slowly enough that beginning students wouldn’t miss a thing.

Nicholas easily slipped between the lethargic guard, his own arms cocked in a semicircle before him. He threw his shoulder forward and shoved with both hands. All the force of his charge exploded through the shove. The aerin launched up and back as if struck by a full-grown Tantareli centaur. Nicholas blurred forward to be there when the aerin landed. His arms traced an infinity symbol in the air. The aerin spun head over heels in midair before slamming to the ground face-down hard enough to bounce.

Nicholas!

Here, he answered. His hand shook slightly as he reached to the CamoNet suit’s collar and slid over the small nub under his chin. He leaned against a nearby tree as the camouflage system deactivated, tremors cascading throughout his body. Overdrive for the win, he thought to himself. But the aftereffects blow.

Nathan sprinted out of the residence hall, followed by a knot of guards and nobles. The others slowed as they approached, but Nathan kept pace until he was close enough to lay hands on Nicholas. Are you all right? he asked anxiously, feeling his aiv’shien’s racing pulse.

You should see the other guy, Nicholas replied. Really. I’d love to, myself.

“Where is the assassin?” The demand came from the current ruler of Alliance Keep, striding forward from among the assemblage. Lady Davina Perre shared only a distant relation with the family which traced its lineage to the commander of the Siege of Tyvis, but she took her responsibilities just as seriously. The evening was already off to a bad start with the news that Lord Myllon Makko’s murderer had inexplicably escaped from his locked and warded cell. This most recent turn of events set her humor on a definite ill slant. The glare with which she challenged Nathan and Nicholas had an edge keen enough to score granite. “Did he escape?”

“Not at all, Milady!” Nathan assured her. “The dastard never had a chance!”

He bent over the aerin’s prone form. He made a show of searching the invisible body by touch alone. It would not do, being forced to explain how both he and Nicholas could see heat emissions. Of course Nicholas could say ‘Earthside tech,’ and they’d be revolted but satisfied. Explaining a vampire in their midst would be somewhat more delicate. He found the telltale hard bulge in one pocket, slid his hand in, and drew out the small, round tile. As it left the aerin’s possession the rune’s spell faded. Nathan turned the body over. “He lives,” he noted, then blinked as he recognized the fallen aerin. “Well,” he murmured.

The rest of those present knew him as well. “Lord Cyn Dessens!” cried Lady Davina, confusion as plain on her elegant features as it was in her voice. “Then who is the fourth body in the parlor?”

 

The Battle for Embron

 

“Assuming the fourth body is the assassin,” Nicholas said, “it was either somebody the Council knew or had no reason to suspect. All they can tell right now is he was aerin and not Pyrin, since apparently Pyrin are fireproof. The body’s too badly burned for identification.” Lady Kethine, Lady Tesha, and Lord Kiel all got hit with a deathrune, which gave Lord Cyn enough time to burn the other one down.”

Zerene shook her head at the news from Alliance Keep. Disappointment spoke clearly in the tight press of her lips and the way her brows drew a low, straight line over her eyes.

Damned if that’s not the exact same expression Mom used to get, Nicholas reflected as he studied his sister’s face in the enchanted mirror. After all these years, it still makes me feel like I ought to apologize for something!

Over her shoulder Bolt voiced his opinion aloud. “After all we did t’ get that lot down there, ‘twould’ve been nice if their garrison’d kept ‘em locked up an’ alive!”

“How’re Jonnal and Melia?” Zerene wanted to know.

“Shocked, annoyed, disappointed.” Nicholas replied. “I think Jonnal was really looking forward to facing the Merchant Council in front of the Assembly.”

“He was,” Zerene confirmed. “How will the assassinations affect the hearing?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Unknown,” he replied. “Lord Cyn’s still unconscious, so they can’t get a statement out of him.”

“Could it have been Vaeus?” Zerene asked.

Nicholas shrugged. “Might be. Houses Eona, Rickart, and Khalchyte are all screaming for blood and they don’t care whose. The hearing’s still set for tomorrow morning. The rest of the Merchant Council may be dead, but the question of their guilt still needs to be answered.” Suddenly his face split in a rake’s best grin. “Meanwhile. How are things in your jurisdiction, Captain?” He emphasized the title slightly.

Zerene blinked at the grin, and felt a nostalgic pang at its familiarity. Dad used to smile that way, she remembered, always when things were at their worst. Like all the misfortune around us was some grand joke. Despite herself, she couldn’t resist warming to his expression. Her brows rose and her eyes rolled to one side.

“Easier than we’ve any right to expect,” she told him. “Townies won’t fight for their city, but they’ll clean it up. Some still give a hairy eye to Guard colors worn by other than aerin, especially the ‘savage shapeshifting beasts.’” She sprinkled the epithet liberally with sarcasm to remove any doubt of her disdain for the bigotry in question.

“Nothin’ serious,” Bolt amended with easy cheer. “Townies ken the Guard they got’s better’n what they had!”

“And they should!” Nicholas replied, replying in kind to Bolt’s irrepressible humor.

“Quartermaster’s a gift from the Ladies,” Zerene continued, and smirked. “Though he still has to be reminded he’s a lieutenant now.”

“Speakin’ of whom,” Bolt interjected. Both his and Zerene’s heads swiveled off to one side.

Nicholas heard Doren Shad’s dry tones say, “Please pardon the interruption, Captain. You wished to be alerted when Po was ready to depart.”

“Right, Lieutenant,” Zerene replied with a nod. “Thank you.” She turned back to Nicholas. “Got to go, Etti. Keep me current when you learn anything else?”

“Absolutely,” Nicholas affirmed. “My best to Po. Take care, Zerene.”

“You too,” she told him. “Love you, little brother.”

“Love you,” Nicholas reciprocated, then added, “Three minutes!” His features faded from the mirror.

Zerene stood and tucked the mirror into a tunic pocket. She tugged the uniform tunic straight as she crossed the study currently serving as her office. It was a grand chamber, one of many in the estate formerly occupied by the Makko family. Lady Shylla had offered use of the property while arrangements were being made for construction of a new garrison.

“Little brother?” Bolt echoed, rising to his hooves. He’d been settled on the floor so he could be seen in the mirror. “Three minutes? Thought ye two were twins. An’ Etti?”

“We are,” Zerene explained. “I came out three minutes before Nicholas. And Etti is short for Etienne, his middle name.”

She and Bolt followed Doren down the hall to the estate’s front yard. Though the hour was not as late in Embron as at Alliance Keep, the yard was in shadow beyond the glow of the mansion lights. Po stood at the base of the stairs. He crouched as they emerged, bringing his head down to eye-level with Bolt.

“Back t’ Black Lake Valley an’ yer fav’rite table, old icewalker?” Bolt hailed.

The tagarl nodded. “This city’s too !small for me, and I’ve done what I came !here to do. The !rest is in your hands.”

Zerene nodded, smiling at him. “Thanks for coming out of retirement. Any time you get the itch, you know you’ll be welcome here.”

Po nodded. “And don’t either of you !forget to come lift a tankard sometimes,” he cautioned.

“Not a chance,” Zerene promised. She raised her arms and held them out to each side. In response Po reached down and picked her up, gently crushing her to him. Zerene reached her arms as far around his neck as she could and squeezed, burying her face in the thick fur. Through some arcane tagarl chemistry he always smelled of fresh citrus.

After Po set her down he exchanged embraces with Bolt as well, then stood and drew a portal rune from the pouch which hung on a strap across his chest. It was made to his scale, about the size of a dinner plate. The sigils glowed as he traced them, a shaft of green light shot from the ground around him, and he was gone.

Bolt and Zerene watched the place where he’d stood for a few moments. At length Bolt said apropos of nothing, “Y’know what’s really vexin’ about this whole hearin’ affair?”

“What’s that?” Zerene asked.

“We bled an’ died t’ save this city,” he replied. “Now we’re bustin’ our backs t’ put it back t’gether an’ make it a better place,” he replied. “An’ dependin’ on the word of a bunch o’ courtlings who’ll never wanna live here, it could all come t’ naught.”

Zerene nodded, frowning at the idea. “Politics stink,” she stated, “no matter what world you’re on.”

 

 

“This is the Assembly chamber?” Nicholas demanded, eyebrows arching.

“Not what you expected?” Nathan replied. They filed in along with the rest of the gallery, those whose station merited the right to attend but could participate only if invited by the Assembly.

“Looks more like a dinner theatre,” was Nicholas’ analysis. The page Talisha showed them to their table with a smile, then glided off to assist other guests. Nicholas adjusted the hang of his blazer as he surveyed the chamber.

The resemblance to those establishments which offered a meal and drinks while live thespian spectacle unfolded was undeniable. At one end of the oval room a dais rose, well-lit and empty. Separated from its base by a walkway was the first ring of booths, consisting of plush couches encircling tables. The closest ring were the most opulent, with fine fabric covering thick cushions, the tables made of heavy, intricately-carved wood. The floor rose in tiers from there, each one becoming progressively plainer, until the outermost ring were comfortably-appointed but utilitarian. Out of deference to House Arasidhe’s odd status, neither Lower nor Upper Court, Nathan and Nicholas had been seated in the third tier.

“Shennese court is rather like theatre,” Nathan explained. He spoke in tones so low only ears as enhanced as Nicholas’ and his own could hear. “Though a more apt description might be a theatrical duel of words. It’s much less forgiving than Earthside legal proceedings, even post-Warp. Neither side can be sure what evidence the other might have, or how they intend to present it. Both sides must be ready to answer any question or challenge from their adversary as well as members of the Assembly. There are no objections, no sidebars, and very little is off-limits. By the same token any accusation must be backed up, by the honor of the accuser if nothing else.”

Nicholas’ brows lowered thoughtfully. “The Court Assembly is made of the Lords and Ladies Most High of all Upper Court Houses,” he recalled. “I see Lord Most High Mahargni is already here, so I assume the leaders of the Merchant Council Houses will be also. Are they expected to be impartial?”

“Not a bit,” Nathan answered. “A House is expected to either throw its full support to the aid of its members, or disavow them completely to save the House’s own reputation. In the end, the matter is decided by a simple majority vote of the entire Assembly. So a House on either side of an issue needs to know who their friends are, and who they must sway to their side.”

“So there’s no standard definition of the law, to judge when it’s been broken?” Nicholas frowned. “It’s all up to which side sells their case better?”

“I know, it sounds terribly capricious,” Nathan admitted. “There is a rough justice, though. No Lord or Lady Most High dares not judge their fellows unfairly or too harshly. Even their decisions can be called to question before the Assembly, if their bias is too askew.” He smiled. “Also, one must take care against that day when one’s own House might be brought before the Assembly, at the mercy of those you might have wronged.”

Nicholas counted the tables in the first tier of the room. “Fourteen. One for each House, judging from the crests. How do they break a tie vote?”

Nathan smiled again. “It’s up to both sides to make sure the matter does not end in a tie. If it does, presentations continue until a majority is reached.”

“A court of social evolution and enlightened self-interest,” Nicholas concluded. “Well, it won’t be dull.”

“It’s better than plea bargains and endless appeals,” Nathan pointed out, unable to keep a hint of defensiveness from his tone. His own reaction surprised him. We’re long since past the point of needing to prove ourselves to each other. Even longer since I considered Shenn home. After all these years, why should it matter if he approves of how things are done here?

Nicholas either ignored or did not notice the slight edge in Nathan’s reply. “True that,” he agreed, then nodded in the direction of a separate entrance. Finely-dressed aerin paraded into the room singly or in small groups, each as if it were their personal audience chamber. Their wardrobe was clearly ceremonial, consisting of elaborate robes, gowns, tunics, slacks, overcoats, all richly dyed and each in a distinct theme. “Does each House have its own color scheme?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Nathan confirmed. “And it’s considered good manners to have them all committed to memory.”

“Just like Highland tartans,” Nicholas mused.

Pages abandoned all other duties to escort the remaining Lords and Ladies Most High to their respective booths. Trays bearing carafes and goblets were placed before them, servings of a dark, sparkling beverage swiftly poured. Nicholas grinned as he noted Lord Most High Mahargni empty the contents of his goblet halfway back into the carafe, then top it off from his ever-present neverending bottle.

As soon as the entire first tier had been served, trays containing servingware of quality consistent with each tier were served. Talisha again tended to Nathan and himself, favoring them with her radiant smile. Nicholas reciprocated, but did not interrupt his study of Upper Court society in action. Not only were the last tier’s beverages in sturdy, shiny, but unadorned containers, but they were expected to serve themselves. They don’t miss a chance to remind people of their place here.

Nathan took a deep draught from his goblet, sighing in evident enjoyment. Nicholas sniffed at the beverage. “Not alcoholic,” he noted. A familiar bittersweet tang stung his nostrils.

“Of course not!” Nathan replied. “The last thing anybody wants in an Assembly hearing are wits dulled by alcohol. Be warned though,” he added quickly, expression sobering. “It does have a bite.”

Nicholas arched his eyebrows at his soul-brother. Nathan’s eyes were bright, his cheeks slightly flushed. He looks like he’s just fed. The only other time I’ve seen him in a rush like that is… “Ysrin?” he asked, looking into the goblet. That’s the scent! Like the tonic Bolt gave Zed!

Nathan smiled as he nodded. “Not nearly as much as I use in emergencies, or even what you’ll find in your average tonic. Just enough to kick the wits awake.” He took a smaller swallow. “Shenn doesn’t have coffee, but this fills the need.”

Nicholas noted that everybody else in the room seemed to be partaking with equal enjoyment. He shrugged and tilted his goblet. What the hell. I can drink snake venom with no worse than a buzz. How bad can this be?

As a boy, Nicholas had once touched his tongue to the terminals of a nine-volt battery. This was something like that. Sweet, effervescent liquid lightning grabbed his tongue, vaulted to his uvula, then performed a one-and-a-half gainer with a twist down his esophagus, lighting off a sparkler in each hand. In a multi-pronged attack it simultaneously rocketed up through his sinuses and used his optic nerves like an Olympic gymnast punishes the uneven parallel bars. His brain showered sparks like a steel mill as every synapse seemed to fire at once.

“Good?” Nathan asked, grinning.

Smooth, was all Nicholas could manage. To himself he added, This will definitely be interesting.

 

 

Doren heard the quiet murmur coming from the Captain’s office as he approached. He reached the open doorway just as Zerene exclaimed the final syllable. Her hair regained its spring, her face became freshly-scrubbed, and her uniform smoothed itself of the wrinkles and stains gained from a day’s wear. She yawned and reached both arms toward the ceiling, standing and pushing her chair back as she did so. Doren heard vertebrae pop back into place. His mouth opened to hail her but the greeting stopped in his throat as she twisted, arched her back, and kept going. Her legs scissored apart as she performed a limber walkover and came down into a split. As she stopped she yawned again.

“Captain,” he asked with faint rebuke, “Have you slept at all?”

She shot a challenging grin at him. “Have you?”

Doren accepted the retort with good grace. His tunic and hair were as immaculate as hers, and for the same reason. Cleaning cantrips were one of the most basic applications of the law of disparity, and had been in use for centuries by those who hadn’t the time or the inclination for a proper bath and laundry. “I shall,” he promised, “once affairs are more stable.”

Zerene swung her legs in a circle beneath her, coming to her feet in a graceful spiral. “Hold you to that,” he threatened, narrowing her eyes in feigned menace.

Doren leaned down until their eyes met. He matched her glare with the glint of a soldier left standing after many battles. “As I shall you, Captain,” he murmured.

Zerene let the staring match go on a moment more, then conceded with a blink and a chuckle. “Were you looking for me?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Doren replied. He held out a small stack of slides. “Last night’s patrol reports.”

“And you, Lieutenant, are delivering them personally rather than sending them with a Guard because…?” Zerene probed. Her eyes narrowed again.

“Because the Guard are all occupied making certain Embron is defended against any who might think us vulnerable after recent events,” Doren replied readily. “Thus leaving the officers with only the tedium of administrative duties.”

Zerene nodded, relaxing once more. “Just so long as you remember you’re more than just the Quartermaster these days. Come,” she beckoned him into the study. “I can use some help reviewing them.”

The sun was just cresting Embron’s rooftops, casting a dim grey light into the study. “Captain, if I may presume?” Doren asked.

“Of course,” Zerene assured him, crossing to the desk.

“You had your choice of all the rooms in this house for your office,” Doren reminded her. “And you do not impress me as one given to ostentatious displays.”

“Ladies, I hope not!” she snorted.

“Why then did you choose such a grand room for your office?”

Zerene smiled as she sat behind the desk. “Very simple,” she replied. “This is the only room tall enough for Bolt to come and go without ducking.” She pointed to a chair. “Pull that around to this side, and let’s get to it.”

Doren blinked and felt abashed at the matter-of-fact manner of her reply. Naturally she would be long used to making accommodations for the Tantareli’s dimensions. With such as he and the ogres in our number, what does that bode for the needs of our future garrison?

Zerene felt the idle anxiety in the old Pyrin’s thoughts. Whatever the cause of his vexation, it was not urgent. She made a mental note to broach the subject later, when there was time. Right, she retorted to herself sarcastically. Time. Sure. Mad as Embron’s Lord, I must be. Why did I take this job?

Because this is where you are needed, she reminded herself.

She had just noted that the viewer on the desk had a slide in the slot when an electrical storm lit in her brain. The current raced down her spine, along her arms and legs, and she was surprised to not see arcs erupt from her fingers. Her body tried to stand up without her telling it to, but didn’t stop to push her chair back first. The heavy desk stayed put. The chair screeched against the stone floor before friction caught hold of its feet.

Doren had just rounded the front corner of the desk, carrying the chair Zerene had indicated, when the Captain seemed to go suddenly mad. “Waugh!” she cried, her arms waving as if trying to escape her torso. “Arh!” she added for extra emphasis. She kicked the desk, then suddenly vanished behind the massive furnishing in a flurry of limbs and hair.

“Captain?” Doren dropped the chair and vaulted over the corner of the desk. He crouched over Zerene, grabbing her under the arms to help her sit upright. “Are you–”

She held up a finger to order silence. Her eyes were glowing, and the her face held the familiar intensity of one sending an important psychic message.

Nicholas!

Hey, Zed!

What is wrong with you?

Has a kick, this stuff does.

…Nicholas, what are you doing drinking ysrin?!

It’s the thing to do here, apparently. Nobody wants to be drunk at an Assembly hearing except Lord Most High Mahargni, but getting wired makes it easier to listen. Or so goes the local think.

Where’s Nathan? Why didn’t he warn you?

He did! I’m OK Zed, really. The first rush is wearing off. I can see why this stuff is so popular here. Is it me, or are you louder than normal?

*sigh* It’s the ysrin, Nick. It amplifies psychic and magical potential, and restores them when they’re depleted. Just go easy on it, OK? It can really throw you if you’re not used to it.

Promise. Sorry for the bleed-over, Zed.

Voice and sensation from the physical world gradually wedged its way back into Zerene’s awareness. Doren was repeating her title with increasing urgency. She blinked up at him, and realized that her mirror was vibrating for attention in her pocket. She drew it out and saw the House Shad crest blinking in the corner. Process of elimination told her who it had to be. She tapped the pane and said, “Good morning to you too, Jonni.”

Jonnal’s expression hollowed out her flippant greeting. “I’d have called you earlier Zerene,” he said without preamble, “but we’ve only just been released from interviews and scrying to assure Lady Davina that we had nothing to do with — I assume you’ve heard the news?”

“Vaeus escaped from a locked cell,” Zerene replied. “And Lord Cyn Dessens is now the only surviving member of the Merchant Council.” Her brows were level. “I know you wanted to face them directly before the Assembly, but I’ve no tears to shed for them.”

“Lady Tesha Khalchyte promised me she would betray the Council,” Jonnal stated, “and tell everything at the hearing.”

Zerene blinked. “When did this happen?” she demanded.

“She spoke to me at the wedding.” Jonnal’s smile was at once wry and grim. “She happily benefited at Embron’s misfortune, but nonetheless held enough love for it that she could be touched when you hacked the cityspell.”

“Which explains your decision to leave Doren and the Febers behind,” Zerene deduced. “With Lady Tesha’s testimony, you didn’t need them.”

“I’d have told you,” Jonnal assured her, “but Lady Tesha made my silence a condition of her cooperation.” He scowled unhappily. “Now bereft of my best weapon, I am forced to fall back on weaker armaments. Lieutenant Shad and the Febers can attest to the misdeeds of Aubryn Vaeus and the Guard under his command.”

“But without Vaeus you can’t connect them to the Merchant Council,” Zerene added, nodding.

“I’ll send for Kres and Haydn Feber directly, Captain,” Doren volunteered. He drew his own mirror from his tunic pocket.

“The Greathouse seneschal Evig Deneras will provide you with a portal rune to Alliance Keep,” Jonnal told them. “We already planned for the Merchant Council Houses to present first, so you have a little more time.”

“They’ll be there within the hour,” Zerene guaranteed.

“Thank you,” Jonnal replied. “Ladies Smile they’ll put on a good show.”

While Doren sent word to the Feber Smithy, Zerene moodily pulled the slide from the viewer’s slot in order to insert the first of the patrol reports. And so I wrestle a desk while the fate of everything around me is decided hundreds of miles away. Bolt’s right, this sucks.

She looked for a container for the errant slide, eventually opening one of the desk drawers. Inside lay a shallow box full of similar slides, with one empty slot. She started to put the slide into the box when the text inscribed along one edge caught her eye. With exaggerated deliberation she replaced the slide into the viewer slot. “Display,” she commanded. The viewer pane lit with neat paragraphs. At the same time, a voice issued from the viewer’s base. After it spoke a few words, a different voice began speaking.

Zerene’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Really,” she said.

Doren stopped his instructions to Kres Feber in mid-verb and stared at the viewer. “I know those voices,” he breathed in whispered astonishment.

 

 

The few whispered voices which had rustled the air in the chamber silenced as two portals spun open, one on each end of the stage. From one emerged an entire company, led by a quartet of aerin resplendent in multicolored formal finery. From the other stepped Jonnal and Melia. In contrast to their opponents the Lord and Lady of Embron stood shoulder to shoulder without entourage, wearing robes of elegant, simple line in Embron’s colors of maroon and gold. Along with their torcs of office identical necklaces hung from their necks. Each featured a gold chain from which hung one red jewel and one golden-brown. Below and between the berry-sized gems was a larger stone, aqua depths shot through with veins of gold. Clean, groomed, and alert, the couple certainly did not look as though they had been up all night.

“Curtain,” whispered Nathan.

From among the opposing troupe stepped a Pyrine. Towering a full head over her companions, Nicholas estimated her height at nearly seven feet. She used her stature to full advantage, bearing herself like a living monument, beautiful and impervious. Hair the hue of a candle-flame was both piled atop her head, making her seem even taller, and fell in auric cascade over her shoulders to her waist. The tresses were studded with orange gemstones which matched the color of her eyes. She wore House colors of yellow, orange, and cerulean in a gown which was extravagant but just barely missed overplaying its hand.

“Congratulations on your union, Your Lordship and Ladyship,” she said by way of greeting. She did not bow or nod along with the sentiment, making it seem as though she were granting Jonnal and Melia the boon of her good wishes. “Must I introduce myself?”

Jonnal and Melia likewise made no subservient gesture. “Such inconvenience is not needed,” Jonnal assured her.

“Though this is our first meeting, the name of Lady Renat Dessens is known to House Shad,” Melia reinforced. “Ladies smile that your son recovers swiftly and fully from his injuries, Milady.”

Lady Renat Dessens accepted the good wishes with the same aloof grace. “The task has fallen to me, to speak for Houses Eona, Khalchyte, and Rickart, as well as my own. This is an accord between us, so that the hearing may reach a speedier conclusion.”

“House Shad thanks you for your consideration, Lords and Ladies,” Jonnal answered her. “The sooner these unpleasant necessities are concluded, the sooner we can return to the task of repairing our city.”

He makes it sound like they’re doing it just for his benefit, Nicholas commented. Cocky much?

Clever, was Nathan’s verdict. He’s letting them know that he won’t let them dictate the course of the hearing, without being rude about it. Well-played so far.

Lady Renat let Jonnal’s veiled comment pass unchallenged. “In that same expeditious spirit,” she continued, “we shall now detail the charges for which your Lordship must answer before this Assembly.” She raised her voice for the benefit of the gallery. “Vrei Weton, stand forth and deliver!”

An aerin slid from the entourage with the manner of one who’d rather be anywhere other than at the center of attention. He wore tunic and pants of simple cut and courtless ley green, with the crest of House Dessens a glittering incongruity on the left side of his chest. His shoulder-length hair was straight and unimaginatively styled, the color of wet sand. Everything about him gave an overwhelming impression of nothing much.

“Your Lordship,” he said to Jonnal. “I charge you to recall the time we last spoke to each other.”

“I recall,” Jonnal assured him with a smile. “And I hope the Ladies keep life bright all the rest of your days, Vrei Weton. Your stewardship to Embron and House Shad will not be forgotten.”

“Such good wishes ring hollow, Your Lordship,” Weton retorted, “when I recall how you offered me the choice between abandoning my post as Regent, or being incinerated at the hands of Lord Most High Mahargni Shad!”

“It is clear from the incident recounted by former Regent Weton,” Lady Renat contributed, “that your ambitions for Embron have been reckless from the start, Your Lordship. What answer do you offer to Vrei Weton’s accusation?”

Jonnal shrugged. “He does not lie,” he said simply.

He split that point pretty fine, Nicholas noted. But there are levels of magnitude between ‘not lying’ and ‘telling the truth.’

Succinct and accurate, Nathan complimented. His brows knit thoughtfully. He created the opening, but did not play it. His Lordship must be holding some telling stones in reserve.

“I could recall your outrageous conduct at your own Ascension,” Lady Renat pointed out as Vrei Weton gratefully escaped back into the anonymity of her entourage, “as well as your irreverent manner of receiving the Merchant Council on your first meeting with them. These are matters of mere eccentricity though, even if they do illustrate your lack of respect for tradition and courtesy as well as law.” She favored Jonnal with an expression of pained sympathy, as if he had come to the hearing with crumbs on his robe.

“Instead,” she continued, having made her point that Embron’s Lord was rude as well as a criminal, “we turn our attention to the unannounced trip made by Her Ladyship Melia iv-Shayl Shad to Black Lake Valley.” She raised her voice to hailing volume again. “Riyando Ah-Sumar, stand forth and deliver!”

His leathers look new, Nicholas critiqued as the small crowd disgorged the human Seeker with his ink-capped skull.

They are, Nathan confirmed. Either he was paid in advance, or Lady Renat’s people wanted him to look clean but authentic.

Riyando Ah-Sumar strode forward with rebellious assurance. He knew he was out of his element, but was determined to turn that awkwardness to his advantage. He stopped exactly halfway between Lady Renat and Jonnal and Melia, and favored the latter with a crooked, knowing grin.

“Bright morning, Your Ladyship,” he said to Melia. “Remember me?”

Melia patterned her reaction after her husband’s. She nodded and smiled pleasantly at Riyando. “Your decorations make you a memorable presence,” she told him.

“I remember you,” Riyando replied. “Not every day a highborn Lady comes into the Seekers’ room with a contract as grand as taking on an entire City Guard!” His grin stretched, becoming even more sly. “Really sold it well too, though you let Bolt do all the talking. Only thing you didn’t say was whether ’twas His Lordship’s idea.”

Such warmth and affection was in the smile that Melia bestowed on Riyando, it was easy to imagine he was a beloved playmate she had not seen since childhood. “No,” she replied, “I did not.”

“Should we assume, your Lordship and Ladyship,” Lady Renat spoke, “that you have no intention of answering any of the charges brought against you?”

“We would not presume to restrict your imaginings in such fashion!” Jonnal replied, looking politely horrified at the suggestion. “You may draw as many and as varied assumptions as you please!”

Lady Renat nodded, unfazed. The gallery was hushed, rapt by the spectacle. Riyando was beckoned back. He obeyed, gifting Melia with a last conspiratorial wink as he retreated.

“Thus far we have shown reckless ambition and conspiracy,” Lady Renat announced. “With our next witness, we demonstrate the climax of your crimes: sedition! Baras Plue, stand forth and deliver!”

Vrei Weton had been obviously uncomfortable at center stage, buoyed up only slightly by lingering outrage at the manner of his resignation. Compared to Baras Plue, the former Regent of Embron had walked up, openly fondled Melia, and spat in Jonnal’s eye. He’s no credit to his new employer, Nathan commented.

Nicholas compared the bronze, scarlet, and violet scheme of Baras’ vestments to those of the nobles seated at the first tier. He’s with House Eona now, he deduced. Are all Upper Court Houses such scavengers?

He won’t last with them, Nathan predicted. As soon as they’ve gotten what they want from him he’ll be cast adrift again. Whatever their other faults, House Eona values loyalty.

“Your Lordship doubtless has forgotten this former servant in the excitement of recent days,” Baras opened quaveringly.

“Not at all!” Jonnal assured him effusively. “Your contributions to the Greathouse have been well noted, and no malice lurks in our hearts for your departure. Ladies smile that your current position rewards you in whatever measure Embron lacked!”

Baras was not reassured by Jonnal’s good wishes. “The – the day of the siege on Embron, I escorted Lady Most High Luvia Shayl and Captain Vaeus –”

“Former Captain Vaeus,” Lady Renat corrected him.

“Former Captain,” Baras amended quickly. “The former Captain separated from the Lady Most High and I while we were searching for Your Lordship. W-we found him in the garden, along with Your Lordship and Ladyship, a-and a full host of mercenaries –”

“Seekers,” Jonnal corrected Baras, with the first hint of anything other than good cheer in his manner.

“S-seekers,” Baras reflexively accepted the rebuke. “Some of them were already donning Guard tunics. Cap – Former Captain Vaeus declared martial law i-in response to what he saw. Your Lordship then ordered his dismissal and d-detention.”

“You are absolutely clear on that sequence of events, Master Plue?” Lady Renat pressed.

Baras Plue nodded emphatically, the most assurance he’d shown so far.

“Then there we are!” Lady Renat declared. “At the moment Former Captain Vaeus announced martial law, an announcement spurred by his witness of Your Lordship’s formation and outfitting of an illegal occupying force, he assumed ultimate authority in Embron. Such authority could have been relieved only on order of Lord Most High Mahargni Shad. Your order for his dismissal and arrest, and your formation of the occupying force of Seekers, were out of order by all accepted standards of protocol and authority. You are accused and witnessed of sedition, Your Lordship. Have you any answer at all?”

“Are you finished, Milady?” Jonnal asked.

Astonished whispers crept through the chamber at the impertinence of Jonnal’s response. Lady Renat herself didn’t quite blink, but betrayed her own surprise by staring at him for a moment. “We have brought our witnesses and made our presentation,” she confirmed. “We now yield to Your Lordship to make what answer you have.”

Jonnal bowed his head. “We thank you, Milords and Ladies, for the devotion to Upper Court law and protocol which has doubtless spurred your call for this hearing. I do have an answer to all that you have brought before us and this Assembly. Before I speak though, I wish for you to hear from those who otherwise can no longer speak for themselves.”

He gestured to the shadows offstage. In response a pair of pages rolled out a table on which was set a viewer. The pane of the viewer was three times larger than the usual desktop model. Jonnal produced a slide from his pocket and held it aloft. “After you have seen the contents of this slide,” he announced, “I will allow it to be inspected and scried to the satisfaction of all, to verify its authenticity.”

But first, Nicholas added, a short film.

Nathan coughed and spat the mouthful of ysrin cocktail back into his goblet. He goggled at the human he thought he knew well. Who are you, he demanded only partially in jest, and what have you done with Nicholas Chandler?

Nicholas regarded his soul-brother with a grin. He tipped his head in the same way that made Zerene’s hair fall over one eye and replied, Heh.

The moment of levity faded with the first words which reverberated through the chamber from the viewer’s speakers. The viewer pane lit with a transcription of the spoken words, scrolling steadily upward. Each statement was assigned to its author, to remove any doubt who was speaking.

LADY KETHINE EONA: Lord Kiel, Captain Vaeus at last. Your presence bodes to provide relief from a matter which has of late sorely vexed our spirits. Pray, sit!

LORD KIEL RICKART: False conviviality ill becomes you, Lady Kethine. You are at your most graceful when speaking plainly.

LADY KETHINE EONA: As you wish, Milord. Please, honor us with an explanation of your actions. Why did you resort to these measures without gaining the approval of the rest of the Council? Abduction, murder, and now false accusation!

Nicholas, Nathan thought urgently. Your Forbin.

Gotcha, Nicholas replied. He tapped a key on his wrist terminal, engaging the device’s recording function.

LORD CYN DESSENS: This scarcely seems a viable strategy for endearing Clan Takaras toward membership in the Council.

LORD KIEL RICKART: Feh! You all have been alternately wooing and trying to scare Lord Yrek Takaras for months, without result! Even having an entire caravan butchered by Captain Vaeus’ pet brigands did no more than infuriate him. I warned you that not all of Embron’s merchants are such easy prey.

LORD MYLLON MAKKO: Even granted your claim, Lord Kiel. What do you hope to accomplish by this play? Do you think you can blackmail Lord Yrek into joining?

LORD KIEL RICKART: On the contrary, Lord Myllon. My dearest hope is that his legendary temper deafens him to any reasonable solution.

LADY KETHINE EONA: You entreated me to speak plainly, Lord Kiel. Now I adjure you do the same. You’ve kidnapped servants of Clan Takaras, had them murdered, and planted their bodies to be discovered in one of your own warehouses, as proof of who has been pilfering from Council holdings these three years past. Doubtless you’ve invested much planning into this game. But this Council has been successful because we act consistently in concert, a single unifying force over all commerce in Embron. Make plain your strategy, so we may continue our profitable tradition.

LORD KIEL RICKART: I will accommodate you happily, Milady, in due time. First, I beg to enjoy the usual hospitality of your house, while we await the messenger I expect will shortly arrive from Clan Takaras..

LADY TESHA KHALCHYTE: What of the real thieves, Captain? Have you made any –

Jonnal halted the playback in response to an urgent gesture from Lady Renat. She retained her poise, but the veneer of impervious assurance now showed several cracks. “How,” she asked, “did Your Lordship come into possession of this recording?”

Jonnal arched his eyebrows ingenuously. “It was discovered among the effects of the bemourned Lord Myllon Makko,” he told her. “Lord Myllon was well-known for his attention to detail and documentation.”

Frantic telepathy crackled almost visibly between Lady Renat and her companions. At length she declared, “Your Lordship’s rebuttal is eloquently made. We require no further evidence in your favor.”

Jonnal looked surprised and confused. “I beg your leave, Milady,” he replied. “But I believe I have not yet made my point. The corruption of Embron’s Merchant Council is at best a side issue to the crimes of which I am accused. I do not deny that I engaged in conspiratorial and seditious activities. My defense is that due to the pervasive influence of the Merchant Council over all proper channels of appeal, the only course left to me was to bypass those channels.”

“We withdraw our complaint,” Lady Renat countered. “We are satisfied as to the legitimacy and necessity of your conduct as Lord of Embron.”

“I am not.”

The clear, imperious tones cut through the tension in the chamber atmosphere. All eyes turned to the table reserved for House Shayl. Lady Most High Luvia Shayl sat there as serene and assured as Lady Renat onstage had been a few moments before. “His Lordship speaks accurately,” she went on. “He has not adequately demonstrated that the regular channels of petition and appeal were closed to him by Embron’s Merchant Council. Until he has made such demonstration, House Shayl requires that these proceedings go on.”

“As does House Shad!” bellowed Lord Most High Mahargni. “I want to be sure such reckless behavior was founded in necessity, before I permit His Lordship to continue his administration!”

A burly Terin with ebon ringlets clenched tightly around his skull and dressed in the colors of House Rickart burst from the assemblage onstage. “House Rickart wishes to declare its disavowal of the bemourned Lord Kiel Rickart!” he shouted. “Lord Kiel’s actions as evinced by this recording were on his own initiative! They were formed and executed without counsel, approval, or knowledge of House Rickart!”

The House Rickart delegate was joined by a tall, sinuous Nerine, her bluish-grey skin and shaven head glossy in the lights. “House Makko disavows the bemourned Lord Myllon Makko,” she stated firmly. “Lord Myllon sought neither counsel nor permission for his participation in the actions of Embron’s Merchant Council. Further, we renounce claim to any hldings or benefits resulting from his membership in that body.”

So much for honor among thieves, Nathan observed.

Rats and a sinking ship, Nicholas riposted Nathan’s analogy with his own. The same on both sides of the Veil, I guess.

“The delegates from House Makko and House Rickart are excused,” Lady Davina declared. As the delegates gratefully escaped the stage she asked, “Will anybody step forward to champion the bemourned Lord Kiel Rickart or the bemourned Lord Myllon Makko?” After listening to a few moments of thunderous silence she told Jonnal, “Your Lordship may proceed with your presentation.”

“Your Lordship!” Lady Renat spoke as Jonnal reached for the viewer switch. “Before you proceed, we request the opportunity to verify the authenticity of your evidence.”

Jonnal took a moment to consider the challenge, exchanging glances with Melia. Then he pulled the slide from the viewer slot. A Zefin page appeared at his elbow, and he handed the flat crystal rectangle to the slender cloud-haired boy. The page light-stepped across the stage and presented the slide to Lady Renat. She turned and gestured toward part of her entourage, another Zefin with verdant eyes and hair the color of a stormy sky. “Tiant Meriva is a touch-scryer employed by House Dessens,” she explained. “He is fully vouched. If Your Lordship prefers, we can petition the Assembly to supply its own expert?”

Jonnal smiled and shook his head. “I would not imagine to question Master Meriva’s credentials. We are satisfied with his impartiality.”

Tiant Meriva stood just beyond arm’s reach. Lady Renat passed the slide to Baras Plue, who happened to be standing between she and the touch-scryer. As Baras took the slide in order to relay it to Tiant, an unseen member of the entourage jostled his arm and made him stumble. The caliber of legerdemain was nothing short of expert. Baras’ foot swung out to steady himself just as the slide hit the stage. He squeaked in unfeigned terror at the brittle crunching sound, staring down at his foot as if it had developed its own evil will.

“Idiot!” With one word Lady Renat condemned him to a future whose pinnacle of employment would involve mopping vomit, blood, and spilled ale from tavern floors. She turned a convincingly contrite expression to Jonnal and Melia. “Fortunately the pieces can still be scried,” she assured them. “As our primary intent is to verify that the slide did belong to Lord Myllon Makko.”

“Outrage!” roared Lord Most High Mahargni as he sprang to his feet. Sparks and heat-shimmer wreathed his form. “A transparent play to destroy His Lordship’s defense! We demand the author of this action stand forward to face judgment!”

“Have a care, Milord Most High!” The answering shout came from House Eona’s table. Lord Most High Rezle Eona glared across the gallery at his counterpart. “Your charge falls beyond the scope of this Assembly. Would you call the storm into this chamber?”

Milords Most High!” Jonnal bellowed. The acoustics of the stage along with the strength of his own voice successfully overrode the impending conflict. Jonnal held up his hands, begging peace. “I must confess duplicity before this Assembly.” He slid his right hand into the left sleeve of his robe, and drew out a glittering object. He held it aloft: a viewer slide. “This is the actual slide whose contents we were viewing until a few moments ago.” He smiled warmly at Lady Renat. “I beg your forgiveness for the deception, Milady.”

Melia gestured offstage. In response a Pyrine wearing Alliance Keep livery and sporting a badge identical to Tiant Meriva’s stepped into the lights, stopping next to Jonnal. The Lord of Embron handed the slide to the Assembly touch-scryer. The slender, auric-skinned maiden with charcoal-colored hair held the slide in her hand, eyes shut and face relaxed but intent. “Many hands have touched it of late,” she murmured in quiet, clear tones. “The one whose spirit lies most strongly within is… the bemourned Lord Myllon Makko.”

She returned the slide to Jonnal, who accepted it with a grateful smile and put it back into the viewer’s slot. The viewer pane lit with fresh scrolling text and the recorded voices picked up where they’d left off.

LADY TESHA KHALCHYTE: –progress at finding them?

At Lady Renat’s urgent beckon, Tiant Meriva laid his hand over the crystal fragments which had lain under Baras Plue’s foot. He needed only a moment to assure himself and his employer that the slide bore no strong impressions of possession. Lady Renat stared at Jonnal, rage barely hidden behind a brittle veneer of good manners.

LORD KIEL RICKART: Here’s the courier already! Lord Yrek Takaras does not disappoint!

LADY KETHINE EONA: What is his answer?

LORD KIEL RICKART: (laughter) He demands satisfaction on the field of honor.

LORD MYLLON MAKKO: Lord Yrek’s skill in dueling is as renowned as his temper. How do you intend to best him?

LADY KETHINE EONA: More to the point Milord, how do you propose to satisfy the inquiries which will assuredly follow your duel? Lord Yrek is not without friends at court.

CAPTAIN AUBRYN VAEUS: Your pardon, Milady. I can assure that the City Guard will find that Lord Kiel conducted himself with honor befitting his station, and that he was the victim of a treacherous attempt on his life by Lord Yrek Takaras.

LORD KIEL RICKART: Nor have we any cause to worry about the Regent’s office. That self-important, courtless buffoon Weton will accept whatever answers Captain Vaeus feeds him. This matter will gather no more notice from the Assembly than we wish it to, than any of our other activities.