(The author is on break until June 6th! Wish me luck with plumbing. Not my internal plumbing, but house plumbing…look, the less said about it the better. —pirateaba)

Izril was changing. Everyone always claimed that, just like how they claimed the ‘old days’ were better, where everything was cheaper and simpler—probably because they’d been younger back then.

Whoever they were. But it was also true that Izril was changing. In ways so fast and strange it hurt to see happen. Normalcy was dying, change stood over its grave, and surely it was allowed to mourn that.

Normalcy could be nice. So long as normal was acceptable. But sometimes you had to look back and…see it again.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss glanced back over his shoulder on the way to Dig Site A. The Wall Lord was sitting on horseback, a prime stallion from the City of Gems raised on the best magical grasses and trained for combat. The horse had sleek muscles under a glossy brown fur coat, and a saddle with gemstones embedded in the leather because Drakes had no taste.

He wore a modern suit that was decorated with, yes, more gemstones and in brown today, which was slightly hot in the warm spring air. Summer, soon. He had a bit of perspiration on his purple scales already, but it was nothing compared to the long line of hundreds of [Miners], [Diggers], [Safety Inspectors], [Haulers], [Forepeople], [Soldiers], and various officials trudging to the dig site.

As they hauled tools with them, pushing wheelbarrows across the unpaved dirt roads, Ilvriss tried not to think of this place as a backwater. The north had civilization.

Just not paved roads, apparently. At least, not in the eastern plains where he had come to dig up the City of Purity, Naamreles, as one did. All he saw was the damn grass. All he smelled was, well, manure.

This was [Rancher] territory. He could see vast herds of cattle grazing; even his own herd he’d bought for the meat and milk grazing to the side with bored Drakes on horseback corralling the cows. Plentiful and, he supposed, economic enough, but not enough to attract any noble houses.

Then again, it was far south enough that the Five Families had never come here, and what nobility there had been present had died during the Second Antinium War. So, local [Cattle Barons] ruled the area, and the result was that the roads were unpaved.

Dirt. It had rained yesterday, and most spots had dried up, but there was, apparently, a mudpatch. Or so Ilvriss assumed. He didn’t see one, but—he craned his neck.

“Wall Lord Ilvriss to Dig Site Team A. Who’s in charge this morning?”

“Wall Lord, sir! That would be me, Lord Dramm, sir!”

“Ah, good. Dramm.”

Ilvriss hid a grimace as he glanced around. Dramm. Wall Lord Brilm’s boy. Twenty-something, gone through officer training but never made full army status, decent head on his shoulders—or so Brilm claimed when he’d asked Ilvriss to employ him—but young. Prone to accidents.

Once took his father’s personal carriage for a spin and jackknifed it over one of the higher floors. Nearly killed an entire family. But that was when he was sixteen.

Definitely better these days. Probably. Ilvriss cleared his throat.

“Is…there some kind of accident or mudpatch I missed on the road?”

“Er…I do recall a mudpatch on the road, sir.”

Ilvriss stared at the hundred workers trudging past him, all of whom had mud on their boots and leggings. Some had mud up as high as their chests. None of them appeared happy about it. He checked his horse. No mud.

The Wall Lord scratched his head. Then he went riding backwards. The road was almost perfectly dry in most places, just a few potholes of mud here and there. Crumbling away; he sighed.

If someone would just put down some good stone and upkeep it, it’d probably save so many broken wagon wheels or people getting stuck. But that takes money, time, and organization, and Humans…

All respect to Humans, really. One of his best friends was a Human. But they tended to be a bit lazy when it came to organization. If they could put it off, they did.

Ilvriss knew that was a bit arrogant of him to think. He did, but he was still Ilvriss of Salazsar, a Wall Lord of the City of Gems. He had changed greatly, and so sometimes he had to pull thoughts out of his head and examine them.

But he had been in the north for months now. He’d observed the laxity of the City Watches, the more…what was the word? Carefree attitude towards governance and rules that Humans seemed to employ? Drakes, now, Drakes—and Gnolls of Salazsar, they had organization. Hierarchies.

Dead gods, no one had even heard of a [Safety Inspector] when he’d been hiring Humans for this project! That was appalling. No question about it. Ilvriss shook his head and finally found the mudspot in the road.

He stopped…and his notions of Drake superiority ran up against the hole.

The mudhole was a sloping area of the road that had clearly eroded and become a natural egress for water. It sloped downwards and ran for about twelve feet, a divot where water collected and had stayed overnight. It was, indeed, muddy.

It was also a mystery, because the mudhole did not extend across the fairly generous road. It occupied a third of it, just enough space for two or three people to walk abreast and splash in the mud.

Or, and here was a novel thought, take a few steps to the side and walk around the hole. Mysteriously…the dozens of Drakes and Gnolls were walking straight through the mudpatch. Ilvriss saw a group of female [Miners] splash into the pit, grousing as it hit one of them in the neck spines.

“Gaah! Ancestors! What a way to start the day!”

Okay, so this wasn’t a magical mudhole that was invisible to the eyes. Ilvriss leaned on the pommel of his saddle. They could see the mudhole and walked straight into it.

“…What in the name of quartz is going on here?”

Some of the Drakes around Ilvriss shrugged. He was always accompanied by people. Ilvriss barely paid attention. The Rubirel Guard, his personal bodyguard; his advisors; and often, Osthia Blackwing, known as Asrira Shieldscale as she was supposed to be dead; Nerul, his [Diplomat] uncle; or Xesci, the [Courtesan of Change].

There were even Humans; a bunch of bored-looking women known as the Sisters of Chell, a gang who was running security for his group against the many, many Humans who didn’t want Drakes in their lands.

So many people for this organization.

Welsca, one of Ilvriss’ advisors, was a member of his old advising group, and all these new people and projects seemed to unsettle her. The Drake groused.

“Is there a problem, Wall Lord? It’s just a bit of mud. The work teams will be far dirtier before the day’s over, and we have cleaning areas on site.”

“Well, yes. But it can’t be pleasant. Why are they walking through that mudpatch?”

Ilvriss just didn’t get it. Before his eyes, he saw a young Drake with a pickaxe on his shoulder hesitate as he walked and saw the mud, ready to get all over his overalls and britches.

Aha, someone with eyes! The Drake glanced at the line of people marching into the mudhole ahead of him and stepped right. He began to skirt the mudhole, and—

A few of his senior [Miners] ahead of him, with mud on their overalls, turned, saw him evading their fate, and shouted.

“Hey, idiot, back in line!”

“Wha—”

The young Drake jumped. He hesitated and gestured at the hole.

“But the mud—”

“Back in line!”

More people ahead of him turned, saw what he was trying to do, and bawled back at him. A few more of the marching Drakes halted, eying the young Drake trying to evade his muddy fate. One or two more stepped out of line and received death-glares. The young Drake, with bright black scales, hesitated until an older Drake gnawing on the stub of a cigar bumped him hard.

“Just walk into the damn pit, kid.”

He growled. He was thick, had a pickaxe slung over his shoulder, a shovel as well, and stomped straight into the mud and out the other side. He had off-green scales like olives, and the young Drake hesitated, then began walking around the mudpit.

The jeering grew louder, but more followed the young man’s daring example. He was almost past this mudpit, clothing saved, when there was the sound of hooves. Then—the young Drake peered up, and someone booted him in the chest.

Wall Lord Dramm kicked the young Drake into the mudhole, flat on his back, to cheers and shouting as he rode past.

“No stepping out of line, idiots!”

He was grinning as more jeering arose, and he whirled his horse, hesitating when he saw Wall Lord Ilvriss and his company staring at him. Dramm and his own escort were younger Drakes, and—Ilvriss just had to note—

He had mud all over his pants and boots. Almost like he’d walked into a mud pit. The rest of the Drakes gloomily trooped into the mudhole as Dramm threw a salute.

“Er, just keeping things orderly, Wall Lord Ilvriss, sir! Damn mud.”

A pair of Humans were walking down the road, possibly to work as hands on one of the ranches. They stared at the line of Drakes trooping through the mud with their impeccably clean clothing. Then at the Wall Lord, who had his head in his hands.

——

Drakes were a funny people.

They were. You had to laugh at yourself, especially if everyone else was laughing at you. The only other thing you could do was lash out or pretend they were idiots for laughing, and in Xesci’s experience…that just made you appear stupid. It didn’t make you a friend to other species, and that was one thing she was good at.

Being friendly with other species. Which, she supposed, was her use to Wall Lord Ilvriss. It certainly wasn’t in organization, fighting, or anything else. However, she’d been across Izril before. She’d slept with more famous people than he’d met, probably, and she knew the underworld.

It was a surprise that Ilvriss relied on her. From what she’d known of him, a few years ago he’d have never associated with her, let alone taken notes. But here she was, riding down to Dig Site A to act as a consultant.

Because…he couldn’t rely on his current advisors or staff. Something that [Adjutant] Welsca clearly had picked up on, because she was glaring daggers at Xesci. But she was also trying to smile.

It was a bad act, let alone for someone who read people like Xesci could. She felt Welsca’s resentment, her anxiety at being replaced, jealousy—because she assumed Xesci was sleeping her way to the top. Which, very funnily, hadn’t happened at all. Xesci hadn’t actually done what was in the nature of her class for months now.

“So, Miss…Xesci. Such a lovely name. Is that your working name? Wall Lord Ilvriss is a bit disturbed about some of our organizational practices and, of course, progress on the dig sites. I’m sure he’s just calling you in for a second opinion.”

Xesci translated this corporate-speak into plain common. She wasn’t good at how business-people talked. She could do gang-cant, but no one had ever hired her in a business setting. Except as a [Stripper] for an office party, of course. She nodded at Welsca, trying to put the Drake at ease.

“Xesci? I suppose it’s my work name. I forgot my real name.”

“You wh—”

A blink and Welsca’s guard dropped. The [Courtesan] slipped into the gap.

“Drake hierarchies do get silly at times. I’m sure it’s not gelling well with our hired Humans or even Liscorian workers. I’ll explain it to the Wall Lord; thank you for giving me the chance to do something. It’s all very dull for me, of course. Nothing to do. I haven’t had sex in four months.”

Disarm, answer Welsca’s questions—it wasn’t that subtle, but Xesci was wearing the plain-faced Drake she liked to blend in. Welsca hesitated.

“Er, that’s usually not a matter for discussion, Miss Xesci, and I remind you that you are representing House Gemscale. There have been some issues with our foreign workers, but we’ve made progress on the dig sites. As for silly—what makes you say that?”

She bristled again, all defense. Welsca blinked as Xesci glanced at her, and the [Courtesan of Change] read deeper.

The person that was Welsca’s desire looked just like Wall Lord Ilvriss. How…predictable. But it was also a trap a novice [Courtesan of Change] would make. Give Welsca what she wanted and she’d not be happy because she knew the illusion would never come true. Spice things up instead. Be some debonair Drake [Rogue] or a Gnoll—not too far out of her sensibilities like a Human—and crack that professional clamshell she had on her—

That was just work. Plus, Xesci knew better than to change genders. It weirded most people out, and Drakes doubly so. Even Ilvriss probably wouldn’t be comfortable with that. She smiled at Welsca as they slowed, and she saw Dig Site A.

It was a huge, sprawling area with a lot of work-tents, tons of debris, and huge ramps where Drakes and Gnolls were wheeling the dirt and stone out. Organized; it had privies, shower areas, and places to cook and clean, and it was one of two dig sites searching for the City of Purity.

She knew Ilvriss wanted four dig sites, but staffing was an issue, apparently. Another thing Xesci wasn’t good at unless she became someone good with numbers. But Ilvriss—

He was working out of his ‘office’ below, no more than a tent used for administrative tasks. Wall Lord Dramm bowed at the door, then rushed past the two female Drakes. He paused to stare twice at Xesci, probably due to reputation more than her appearance at the moment. Xesci walked into the tent before Welsca could announce her.

“Intruder—”

The Rubirel Guard at the tent flaps went to grab her, and they had big halberds, but it was the Sisters of Chell who moved faster. A pair of women raised throwing daggers from where they were squatting on the ground, and Xesci glanced at them.

“I’m expected.”

“Xesci, come in! She’s on our list, surely!”

Ilvriss waved her into the tent, and both groups relaxed. Drakes and Humans glared at each other. More interpersonal problems. Xesci was, in theory, good at this sort of thing, but she had limits. She could charm plenty of people, but making the Sisters of Chell likable to the Drakes? Far harder, and she didn’t have time or inclination to do it. Plus, making herself likable to the Drakes meant denying who she was a lot of the time. Unless it was critical, she let it be and just monitored how much each side disliked the other. Xesci walked into the tent with Welsca, and Ilvriss sighed.

“Welsca’s already caught you up to speed? I had a word with Dramm, in private. Nothing like dressing down someone publicly to cause issues, but the boy has to understand that what flows from the top carries down to everyone in terms of morale and leadership. This is, what, the sixth incident this month around morale? I was hoping you had an opinion, Xesci.”

She sat down in a chair without being asked, which drew a gasp from Welsca. Ilvriss just shook his head at his adjutant, which Xesci appreciated. She could be a bit more herself here, whomever that had been. She’d forgotten her original face and name, after all. She was 70% sure she’d been a Drake, though. 20% she had been a Human or Gnoll, 10% that she was actually a Selphid who’d gone crazy.

“I do have an opinion, Wall Lord. Firstly, Dramm is angry, but not really at you, just at being dressed down. He’s not going to remember whatever you told him, though.”

Ilvriss put his head back and sighed as he poured himself a cup of water, then her one. He sat back in his chair and gulped down the water as Xesci politely drank her cup, then filled hers with a bottle from her side. Sherry. Welsca was trying to find new levels of appalledness, but she had dealt with Erin and Ryoka Griffin before. It was just that Xesci was a Drake, and apparently, that meant something.

Well, Xesci hoped Ilvriss really had changed, because this next bit had him sitting up.

“I hope you recall that some of what comes down from the top is gold, which is why people listen, Wall Lord. But the rest tends to be piss.”

Ilvriss sat up in his chair, and his eyes narrowed.

“I like to think House Gemscale runs a tidy, efficient, respectful enterprise, Xesci.”

She shrugged.

“From what I’ve heard? Scuttlebutt says it’s one of the best thanks to your Administrator Alrric. But the best nettle in a basket still hurts.”

He stared at her and put down his cup.

“You’re implying there’s a flaw in our structures?”

“I’m telling you there’s a flaw in Drake culture. Which is why Liscor’s and Esthelm’s people are turning over at a higher rate and you have an entire worksite covered in mud.”

She’d hoped she was wrong and her memories were out of date, but she had to point out the obvious. Ilvriss drummed his claws on the table.

“Dramm’s a young fool—”

“The fact that every Drake and Gnoll from Salazsar walked into the mud after him is because that’s how it works, Wall Lord. And if they didn’t? Every worker who did walk into the mud would make their life hell for a week.”

“…Surely not.”

Ilvriss glanced at Welsca for support, but here Xesci felt the [Adjutant] hesitate. Because she knew Drake hierarchies. Ilvriss didn’t. Xesci smiled at him.

“You told me to be direct with you, Ilvriss. All I can tell you is what I see. You stand at the top, so I imagine it looks different from above, but I’ve been at the bottom rung in Drake culture.”

“So we have a problem with authority?”

“You have a problem with how authority works, Wall Lord.”

“A bit of overzealousness when it comes to stepping out of line isn’t the worst—”

Xesci turned to Welsca, a big smile on her face.

“I don’t know this Dramm, but I know Wall Lords. Adjutant Welsca, how many times have you gone out drinking into the dawn this month?”

Ilvriss’ head turned, and his mouth opened at this apparent non-sequitur, but when he saw Welsca’s eyes shift away from him, her visible twist of the lips, he hesitated. The [Adjutant] coughed.

“I’d say no more than…eight times? We’re very committed to the project, Xesci.”

It was the 14th of the month. Xesci pointedly turned to Ilvriss, and he hesitated.

“I haven’t been out drinking since last year. I haven’t kept up on after-work events, but a bit of relaxation is allowed, Xesci. Hangover cures were invented for a reason, and if someone’s a bit tired, well—”

He was making excuses to avoid painting Welsca in a bad light. Xesci sighed louder.

“You don’t get it, Ilvriss. It’s not about Welsca drinking. It’s the fact that she has to drink when she doesn’t even like it.”

This time, the [Adjutant] jumped.

“How do you know—?”

Ilvriss blinked, and now he was leaning over his desk.

“Is that true, Welsca? But when I used to throw after-work parties, you always showed up.”

He was thinking. It took a while, but the Wall Lord was blinking, and Welsca was blushing. Xesci was calm because it took a lot to get her ruffled. She smiled.

“That’s expected, Wall Lord. Especially in Salazsar, but most Drake cities have that culture. You show up for an after-work party because you have to. Anyone who doesn’t do that is anti-social. Not part of the team; isn’t that right, Welsca?”

“I quite enjoy such events, Miss Xesci.”

The [Adjutant] really seemed like she didn’t want to be here, but there was also part of her that was saying she wanted Xesci to go on. Ilvriss turned.

“Dramm’s holding after-work drinking parties? I suppose any lad his age would. Into the dawn’s a bit rough, but at his age, you can survive it. Why is Welsca there?”

“Because he outranks her. And because he wouldn’t mind sleeping with her.”

Welsca nearly spat out her water. Xesci wasn’t surprised, of course, but Ilvriss turned.

“That would be entirely—”

He hesitated because he’d had a relationship with his subordinate, but Xesci shrugged.

“Her and every female co-worker the young Wall Lord has. It’s easier when they drink.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

“That’s how it works, Ilvriss. And she can’t exactly leave until he’s done or he’ll get upset—assuming he remembers that. I expect plenty of Liscorian Drakes don’t know how that dynamic works. You have to know this is expected.”

Ilvriss was squirming in his chair.

“I—well, yes, there’s such a thing as being part of the team, but it’s not onerous. I buy all the drinks!”

Which was nice unless you wanted to be somewhere else or you didn’t really care for drinking. He glanced at Welsca, and Xesci exhaled.

“It’s up to you if you want to ignore that. But you asked me what I think? I think there’s things about Drake culture that are making things less effective here, Wall Lord. Especially when you’re trying something new.”

Like digging with mostly volunteers in Human lands and having to work with other species. Ilvriss protested weakly.

“I understand, Xesci. But it’s not just that. It’s the damn cattle raids from those idiots stealing our food! It’s the lack of plumbing in the town of Thirthoof, our low workforce, all these nobles giving us grief—and Humans are damn inefficient, can’t pave their roads, don’t use bidets, and can’t handle one Drake on their lands without causing a fuss!”

He slammed a fist down on his desk as all the frustrations of this project came out of him in a moment. Xesci waited as Ilvriss lowered his head, then peered up, embarrassed, and she smiled at him.

“Yes, Wall Lord. But none of that excuses the issues with Salazsar or Drakes, does it?”

He sat there and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“…No. No, it doesn’t, does it? So what do I do, Xesci?”

She gazed at him and said the thing that was at the core of her class.

“Change, Wall Lord. You’ve done it once, but only you’ve changed.”

He sat back in his little office as flies buzzed around him, and he heard shouting from the mines and Captain Osthia leading a patrol of soldiers around. Ilvriss stared up at the ceiling.

“Alright. Welsca, starting as of now, I am mandating that no officers have parties…”

Xesci coughed noisily, and Ilvriss sat up and stared at her. He hesitated.

“I’m…instituting a broad reform that people don’t have to attend such events?”

“Sure, that’ll work. This is sarcasm, by the way.”

Ilvriss drummed his claws on the table.

“Well, how in Rhir’s hells am I supposed to change things?”

She gave him a patient look.

“Why don’t you take your own advice and lead by example, Wall Lord? Piss from above and all that. Throw a party, and let people not attend or excuse themselves. Welsca and I will do it, and you should make a point of showing everyone it’s fine.”

He sat there.

“I have to throw a party tonight so people can leave?”

“Yep.”

He sat back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling again, then sighed.

“Alright. Welsca, will you handle it? Spread the word. Ancestors. I wonder if anything fun is happening at The Wandering Inn?”

Everywhere had to be more pleasant than here. Xesci felt bad for the poor Wall Lord. Change was so damn uncomfortable, even if you were used to it. But knowing you needed to change, feeling you had to, in your bones…that was life.

Change or die. She adjusted her clothing as Welsca nodded and scribbled a note, trying not to look that happy. Xesci raised a claw.

“On that note, I think I’d like to help with morale a bit more, Ilvriss. I can keep giving you advice, but how would you feel about me opening a brothel in town?”

“What?”

“No? Just at our worksites, then?”

The other Drakes stared at Xesci, as if they’d forgotten they’d hired a [Courtesan]. Xesci sighed longer.

Corporate people. They were her best and kinkiest clients.

——

Someone else glanced over her shoulder and had cause for regret as well. Much like a Wall Lord staring at a line of muddy Drakes and Gnolls, Damia Reinhart stared back at the nude form of her half-brother, Wernel Reinhart, in their messy, shared bed and had a thought.

Ick.

It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that way of late, but it had been recurring, and she had to consider that, maybe, just possibly, she wasn’t having as much fun with her half-brother in their incestuous relationship as before.

A crazy thought, but, well, she had changed. Damia sat up in her bed and instantly saw Wernel reaching for a little tin. He poured a line of brown powder into a roll and began hunting around for a wand to light it. She wrinkled her nose at the harsh aroma.

“Hazyflower. That will destroy your mind, you know, Wernel.”

“Bah, it’s fun. Let’s have some and go again, Damia. From behind?”

Normally, Damia would decide to try the Hazyflower and think it spiced up the bedroom. Instead, she rolled over and hunted for her clothing.

“I have more to do than just sex, Wernel. Are you getting bored?”

“Hmm? I mean…no? You should really try the Hazyflower. I’m getting it all the way from…Nomaudrel. It’s non-addictive, or so the [Merchant] who sold me it said.”

Damia blinked and brightened up.

“Oh! Is this from the Cont’dvalle productions? The Delightful Duchess—Princess Menisi of Calanfer, I believe, came up with several high-end variants of drugs that don’t have the same harmful effects. Very interesting.”

She’d just found out about this Menisi because the Duchess had apparently re-emerged in Calanferian politics. Which Damia hadn’t ever paid attention to until this year; now she was reading up on the many Terandrian nations and was frankly annoyed at how powerful and secure their holdings were.

That’s what comes of taking an entire continent and holding it against other species. And largely subjugating the half-Elven and Dwarven populations, of course. She was sure that’s not how the Terandrians would say it, but it gave them an undeniable edge as a continent, as well as their unity against foreigners.

She was ready to snuggle up to Wernel and discuss all that as she perked up, but he finished a huge puff of his spliff, exhaled the brown smoke that stained the sheets and pillows, and gave her the blankest of looks.

“What? Cont’d—what? No, I just got it from Nomaudrel. What’s…the rest of all that?”

“It’s what I found out, Wernel.”

Damia snapped, her good mood evaporating. He shook his head, and a familiar grimace crossed his face.

“That damn curse from Aunt Magnolia—try the Hazyflower, Damia. It helps with all that.”

“What, thinking?”

She leapt out of bed and began dressing. Wernel reached for her arm, but she stormed out of his rooms, so he shouted after her.

“Send a servant or someone, would you, Damia? One of the ones I like!”

——

Damia Reinhart was annoyed as she walked through House Reinhart’s family manor. Not by the idea that Wernel was promptly going to pop another servant into bed to replace her.

That was normal, expected. She was annoyed because he didn’t want to reclaim their stolen birthright, the intelligence of a Reinhart. He wanted to hide, even after Magnolia Reinhart’s curse, the Skill she’d used to subdue her entire family and cloud their minds, had vanished.

But Damia was thinking, and the problem with thinking was that…it meant she was no longer complacent.

None of them were. As she strode through House Reinhart, Damia saw servants fleeing her or pausing to practically prostrate themselves on the floor. They hadn’t used to do that.

Oh, they’d been obsequious, but not afraid. Also, lower-class. The new ones were a mix of completely inexperienced but attractive, young men and women both, or highly competent. Her mother, Cecille Reinhart, and her uncles and aunts and cousins had shaken up their staffing.

The Reinharts were back. No longer made dumb, no longer tamed by Magnolia. For two decades, they’d been shackled, and some, like Damia, had been born and raised and never known their true nature.

Which was to be the viper among flowers, to be sharp, cunning, incisive—and dangerous.

A crash from the front doors as Damia strode through the courtyard that led into the various wings of the manor. A man was catapulted out of the carriage he’d driven into the doors. He landed, swearing, then got up, visibly intoxicated.

Blood on the carriage front.

Uncle Gorthes strode forwards unsteadily, a bullwhip at his side, and roared.

“Servants!”

They came running, a [Hostler], his personal [Manservants], a pair of [Maids]—Damia leaned over the railing and called down.

“Uncle Gorthes, did you run someone over again?”

He grinned up at her.

“Just a pair of horses from an idiot who didn’t yield the road, Niece! Some fools still don’t get that we’re back. I snapped up that bakery everyone likes.”

She sighed, leaning on the balcony.

“By, what, threatening to run into the owner’s shop if he doesn’t sell you a stake?”

“Don’t be silly. His son was in prison after a fight at the bar. Poor lad. Would have gone straight to the noose if I hadn’t bailed him out.”

“Really, the noose over a barfight?”

Damia rolled her eyes, but Gorthes was chuckling.

“Strange how it all works out. That’s the way, Damia. You, eh, you have any projects going on? I’m still trying to take all those damn mines Magnolia has lying around. But she’s got them all behind other owners. As if she knew we’d come for them. Wine. Wine, and get me something to eat!”

He swung a fist out as one of the [Manservants] tried to take his coat. The man dodged the fist and backed up with the coat.

“Absolutely, at once, Lord Gorthes.”

Damia eyed the older man. He didn’t seem as frightened as the female [Servants] who ran when Gorthes reached for them. Not every servant of House Reinhart had fled the moment they’d reawakened.

Some were part of the family and knew how it had been. After all, a Reinhart might be a viper, but they knew to share the wealth with people they liked. Gorthes went limping up the stairs.

“You still sleeping with your brother?”

“Wernel? Oh, yes.”

It displeased Damia that Gorthes didn’t even blink at this, just wrinkled his nose up. Last year, he’d have been appalled, if mildly, and it wouldn’t be fit for conversation. Today? He just spat.

“Well, if you’re going to pop children out, we could use them. Maybe I’ll find someone to sire a score; Izril’s barren enough for nobles. Dead gods but it’s all a mess! Did you know we’ve got Terandrians on our shores?”

She raised her brows.

“Really? For the New Lands? Which nation?”

“Taimaguros! Damn bastards. I don’t remember what they’re like. Also, what’s up with these damn [Vampire Hunters]? I nearly ran over a bunch of them demanding to test me with silver—”

Gorthes was striding out of sight, and Damia had no inclination to follow him. He’d always been aggressive and loud, but the difference was, today, he would back that up with the willingness to run someone over in his reinforced carriage.

Before he’d just been, well, rude. Magnolia Reinhart had kept the real Lord Gorthes from coming out, and this man wasn’t shy about leaping from his carriage or unleashing the bullwhip he carried. The old Lord Gorthes had everyone in fifty miles of their manor avoiding any black carriages on the road. Because that was who he had been, and older generations remembered him.

But who…was Damia Reinhart?

She didn’t know. And she owed Magnolia a dagger in the heart for keeping her from herself all her life.

——

Cecille Reinhart was Damia’s mother, who had been a rather uppity woman with piercing blue eyes, brown hair pulled back in a frazzled bob, but who had mostly contented herself with gossip and sneering at other women. Damia remembered her mother mostly being outraged about Damia and Wernel’s illicit relationship and being annoyed at everything. A woman who would sneer from behind a cup of wine but never sully her hands when a servant could do it for her.

Cecille Reinhart, today, was pacing around a carriage with an [Enchanter] and [Engineer] from the House of El. Both men were nervous, but she was giving orders in a pointed, clipped tone. And yes, she was dressed to impress in that bloody cloth that had once been described to Captain Zevara as ‘rosewood’, but she even seemed sharper. More beautiful, more sure of herself. She didn’t even glance at Damia when her daughter came into the workshop.

“The scythe-blades are utterly useless. If the House of El doesn’t have auto-aiming, auto-reloading crossbows, give me something that explodes outwards. I want more speed. And locking-Skills on my wheels. No disassembly.”

“I—I could look into that, Lady Reinhart. You’re searching for a counter-Skill against any magics or Skills? That’s very specialized—”

“Do it. If you cannot, don’t waste my time.”

Cecille Reinhart snapped her fan open, then tapped the glass of the carriage window.

“Also, illusion spells on the carriage. I want a variety of options. And an enchantment to make it appear as though I am someone else.”

“Lady Reinhart, that’s highly illegal—”

She turned her head, and the [Enchanter] from First Landing added.

“—But well within my capabilities! I may need to consult with Wistram.”

Her lips twisted.

“Can you do without? If you work with Wistram, I will not have any listening or tracking enchantments in my carriage. Unless you can guarantee that, I will do without. And if you are wrong, I will ensure you don’t survive that mistake.”

The [Enchanter] went dead white and said nothing at all. Cecille snapped her fan closed, then smiled.

“Enchanter Jives, that’s a joke, a joke! Dead gods, you take things so seriously…excuse me, my daughter appears to need me. Damia!”

She was all smiles as she came towards Damia and took her arm. Cecille exited the workshop, dropped the smile, and scowled.

“Odious little men. No one capable for miles around here. They’ve either left for the New Lands or…that Master Hedault in Invrisil would have been far better.”

“You couldn’t get him?”

“Him? Hah! Too difficult to work with. Too principled. What do you want, Damia? I’m busy.”

Cecille lit a cigarette as Damia stood there. She wore her clothing of old, which was a young noblewoman’s outfit, trendy, with the lace of last year’s fad still clinging to a revealing, ruby-red dress that would have been so provocative…

Now it just felt pointlessly slutty and trying too hard. Cecille eyed Damia, and one roll of her eyes stung more than any lecture or outrage of before.

I have changed. But because she had, Damia lashed out with a slight smirk.

“Still sore about getting trounced by Watch Captain Zevara, Mother?”

Cecille Reinhart blew out some smoke and didn’t dignify Damia’s comment with a response.

“I miss our [Assassins]. They should have never been allowed to rebel, and doing without them is so tiring. I hear Calidus has them, but how they came back into our possession is odd.”

“We have the Assassin’s Guild again? They weren’t wiped out?”

Damia grew interested again with that flash of—of being alive that thrilled her to the core. Cecille hesitated, then went to apply some lipstick. She spoke, sidelong, appraising Damia.

“That is a secret to any but our house and likely some members of the Five Families and greater houses. It will be kept secret.”

“I’m no fool, but why, Mother? They turned on Magnolia and Tyrion. And the Circle—why suffer them to live?”

“Hmm. I can see you’re still trying to engage that brain of yours. Magnolia, Tyrion? Do we love them that much?”

The question threw Damia.

“But he’s the head of House Veltras, our military commander, and even if she’s Aunt Magnolia, she was our head.”

The older [Lady] fished for a little puff pad to apply more makeup, alternating between that and the cigarette.

“And? When it’s war, he’s a useful dolt. It behooves us to have House Veltras weak, if not in strength of arms, then coin or whatnot. The Assassin’s Guild is a necessity to keep commonfolk in their place. The Merchant’s Guild is getting notions above their station again…one employs a [Ratter] for pests. The same here. But a trained dog instead of a feral one. I’m just surprised anyone gave Calidus the reins. Bah, he might do it, and if he dies, he was always the oddball.”

Damia understood the logic, but it just sounded—

“But doesn’t the Circle of Thorns constitute a larger threat, Mother? Even if we’re accepting the results, shouldn’t we keep eliminating them? No one in the family is bothering with them.”

“Why should we? It’s not our problem. Nobles always have their little cults and groups. I’ve been part of six secret societies. They usually have no teeth.”

Now her daughter was holding her head in a dreadful display of…Cecille rolled her eyes, but Damia was thinking.

“I…understand…that’s how it used to be, Mother. But that was before Magnolia took power. Before the Second Antinium War and the Sacrifice of Roses. Are—are things different now? Shouldn’t we look into the Drakes or—or Gnolls or—?”

Cecille ignored her stuttering daughter. Damia was trying to think, which was in some ways commendable, but she didn’t understand how deep the divisions ran. Ally with the Drakes? Hah! Cecille would rather drink poison; it’d be a more pleasant way to go. She changed the subject, tired of this.

“Damia, if you’re going to continue menacing the servants with Wernel, use protection. I don’t have time to be a grandmother, and you and Wernel bring negative value as a match.”

“You’re not intending to marry us off?”

“Hah! For what, five coppers and a rock?”

That stung even harder, and Damia flushed. Cecille gave her an amused gaze.

“Anyone with eyes knows your relationship. To whom am I supposed to make a bid, much less want to pay a dowry to? We are not Terandrians.”

“I’ve been studying Terandria, actually. There are precedents. There was a proposed engagement to one of the [Princesses] of Calanfer with Lord Tyrion’s sons. If I were to wed a [Prince] or a high-ranking [Lord]—”

No, her mother actually gave Damia a look of half-interest, but it turned to impatience at once. Cecille waved a hand through the smoke.

“You are no Tyrion Veltras, and we are low-ranking [Ladies] in Terandria’s eyes. Confine your ambitions to practicality, Damia. I do appreciate the fact you can now read…your brother seems content to return to form. But don’t presume to think you know the family business. You were born under Magnolia’s curse.”

“I’m quite aware of what you’ve all been doing! You don’t appear to be that much more capable if a single Drake from Liscor could outsmart you!”

The elder [Lady] pinched the glowing end of her cigarette, and the red-hot ash on her finger burned…but her skin did not. Damia sensed—something—gathering on the tip of her mother’s finger and stared at it, wide-eyed. Cecille spoke.

“Aura.”

She flicked the hot ash past Damia’s right ear, and as her daughter flinched, Cecille leaned forwards.

“I have bought over two hundred healing scrolls to replace the healing potion shortage, despite the Watch Captain confiscating the rest. At considerable personal effort. The rest of the family comes to me, begging for what no one else has. Even old Regis summoned me to get them out of me and coughed up enough gold to let me re-establish my businesses. Not the scraps of gold Magnolia gave to us as our ‘allowances’. The next step is capable help. Which I shall find, and secure, then begin re-establishing what our family should have. If you can prove you’re worth the investment, I may allow you to help, but you have nothing but our name, Damia. You don’t even know what we’ve lost.”

She blew on the cigarette again, then swept back towards the workshop. Damia was left red-cheeked, thinking of revenge. Outraged and, for once, envious of her mother.

So that was what they were. She was learning fast.

——

She could poison her mother, of course. Or slip some glass into her drink.

No, it’d have to be fast. And there were personal protection spells. An enchanted crossbow with an anti-magic bolt would probably do it, while Cecille was in the privy or in bed. Bribe the guards, make sure she was dead.

Damia ran through the scenario in her head, then discarded the thought. For so many reasons, no. Firstly, her mother was far better alive than dead. It would ruin Damia’s reputation, it carried substantial risks—

It was just a thought. The reason Damia didn’t do it was because it wasn’t worth the effort. Not because there was some moral or philosophical reason not to.

Even before her awakening, Damia had known the truth: you could do anything you wanted in life. There were no rules for them. She had just, well—enjoyed life when it was simpler.

Here was the thing: it wasn’t fun sleeping with her half-brother these days. Before, it had been the spice of the forbidden, the thought they were doing some grandly heinous thing or even in great love.

Today? Damia was getting rather tired of seeing Wernel’s nude form. She had the distinct feeling she could do better and was rather annoyed to wonder if he thought the same thing. She was bored of her old life.

Time for something new, but what?

Damia made a list.

“Selphid’s Dust…I’ve tried that. Addictive unless I buy some from Cont’dvalle. Do I have enough gold for…Dreamleaf, bah. A party?”

All her old ‘friends’ were insipid or leeches after her reputation. Damia twirled the quill around in her fingers. She’d tried to hang out with them, but they were just petty bullies who confined themselves to ruining someone’s day by commenting on their dress, sniping at their ‘enemies’ that were other young [Ladies].

If I have an enemy, I will ruin their lives and shatter everything they hold as good and dear. If not, she had better things to do with her time.

Power. Damia checked her list, and she was not happy with what she found.

Assets:

Merchant’s Guild account: 2,287 gold pieces. No access to family accounts.

Personal clothing, 7 minor enchanted artifacts, all protective.

Dueling Sword, Enchantment of Sharpness. Wernel’s birthday gift.

Servant contracts:

Liset — Level 9 [Servant]. Useless. Sleeping with Wernel.

Evie — Level 11 [Servant]. Useless. Sleeping with Wernel.

Amadearie — Level 14 [Snitch Servant]. Useless. Sleeping with both of us.

“That’s it. That’s all I have?”

She was—poor! Damia clenched the quill in one fist. When she tabulated her wealth, the actual wealth in her control, she had nothing.

No actual retainers on staff, no capable help, no magic. Oh, she had plenty that was just the ‘family’s’. Access to staff, the mansion, their carriages, but even there, she’d seen Gorthes and her mother making their own custom-built carriages.

Damia had no authority. No voice in House Reinhart or the Five Families. No one knew her, except as ‘the girl who slept with her brother’, and no levels.

She was a Level 9 [Incestuous Lady]. That—that stung most of all, knowing she was Damia Reinhart, and she deserved to be Level 30 at her age. But how to get more?

She didn’t know. So Damia went to the one place she knew power lay. Where she could obtain it…if she was clever.

The basement that her family had avoided like the plague for so long, where the oldest Reinhart of all resided.

Regis Reinhart.

——

Damia had never realized it, but the entire hallway under the Reinhart estates was made of Chemath Marble. Enchanted, probably the most structurally sound place in the entire north. The magical armory that contained the Reinharts’ treasures, guarded by the ghost of one of their first ancestors upon Izril, Regis Reinhart himself, was deceptive.

You could only see a bit into the armory; huge wardrobes and other objects blocked what lay behind, out of sight. There was gold, visible gold, a literal crown, pieces of art hanging in the foreground of Regis’ abode, but, Damia suddenly thought, it was an act.

Who had gold pieces just lying around? It was meant to impress the credulous. Then again—her eyes darted to an object on a plinth.

The Crown of Flowers. Each petal blooming and glistening, beautiful beyond belief. She reached for it as a bunch of ghostly [Maids] watched her. Her hand smacked into an invisible wall, and she recoiled.

One of the [Maids] laughed at her. Damia rubbed at her hand.

“Silence. Where is Grandfather Regis?”

“Absent.”

“Absent? This is where he’s contained!”

Damia cast around, brows raised. Could he ‘sleep’? Was he further in the vaults? He couldn’t leave, obviously, so she stood on her tiptoes, wondering if he was inspecting some Relic-class objects.

The [Maids] said nothing, and Damia folded her arms.

“Summon him. I wish to speak with Grandfather Regis.”

None of them responded. Damia waited, scowling deeper, wondering if she should threaten and, if so, with what, when Regis Reinhart appeared, a misty form coalescing into shape, details emerging until she heard his irritated, snappish voice.

“—got to go. Someone’s bothering—”

He caught sight of her and stopped putting a finger to his temple.

“Bah. It’s just one of the young ones. I’ll deal with her presently. Stop whining, Calidus. I need the Assassin’s Guild functional. Do so and I shall reward you. With what? A Relic!”

He paused, and Damia’s ears perked up. Calidus? He’d always been annoying to her, that fat, drunk slob who slept around constantly. Annoyingly sharp when she and Wernel had tried to nettle him at their get-togethers.

No, wait, he was probably smart now too. And he’d always been…smart…she hesitated, then listened in more closely. Why did he have the Assassin’s Guild? Regis was talking to one of them? Was he more important than she…?

And Regis Reinhart himself seemed frustrated.

“What kind of Relic? Name one!”

A pause. Then Regis’ brows furrowed.

“What could I offer…? I have the wealth of House Reinhart, boy!”

He took his finger from his temple and hissed around the room.

“What would I have to offer Calidus Reinhart?”

The [Maids] who were dusting or sitting around shrugged.

“A good drink?”

“A scantily clad Golem?”

“A crossbow bolt to the head?”

Regis snarled.

“He has to want something! Use your brains, you fools! I command it by our binding!”

A dusky [Maid] floated up to Regis.

“He wants to not be as smart as he is. There’s little you can give him.”

The old ghost visibly faltered. And Damia, listening intently, had a thought. She knew Calidus. She raised her voice.

“Calidus loves pretentious things. Puzzles. Chess. Is there a—a locked box or some kind of unsolvable puzzle you have, Grandfather? A mystery?”

Regis focused on Damia for a moment, and she shivered, but his eyes lit up as he touched his temple again.

“Calidus, Nephew. Do you think I’m without something to delight even you? I have more than just old armor and weapons. How about a mystery? I have a puzzle box no one has ever managed to solve—something that pre-dates the Creler Wars and perhaps even the Continent of Glass. They call it the Obtrix Confundium. Before I acquired it, it was being used as ammunition in war. The half-Elves built a contraption that just hurled it as fast as they could make it go at enemy walls. It’s smashed at least six keeps—never broken. Even Fraerlings couldn’t figure it out.”

Damia’s mouth opened. Regis smiled.

“All yours. If you get them working. Now, I must go—if you need resources, I’ll provide them! Nothing for your amusement. Show results and I’ll deliver rewards!”

He cut the spell, then shook his head as he floated down.

“The most competent member of the family and the laziest. Well, I thought I’d see another member of the family sooner or later. Delilah or some such. You took your time working your nerve up to see me. Half the family’s been in here already. I don’t care what Magnolia’s done to you. You know the rules. Give me more than I shall give you or don’t waste my time.”

He sat down, and a drink was poured for him. Damia reddened.

“It’s Damia, Grandfather. I’m Cecille’s daughter.”

“Who…? Oh, yes. The one sleeping with her brother.”

Red-faced, Damia pointed at him.

“I didn’t know you could speak outside of your chambers, Grandfather! And how do we have the Assassin’s Guild? I thought it belonged to the Circle of Thorns and was destroyed!”

Regis’ eyes flickered as he put the cup down and sighed.

“I may speak with the family abroad per the conditions of my spells. No one else. Girl, the Assassin’s Guild is an asset of the north. If it is destroyed, we remake it. Or should we be lacking in such a valuable tool? What you know is no business of mine, even if that encompasses everything. Begone.”

He pushed at her, somehow. With his aura? Damia stumbled backwards, then windmilled her arms. She tried to stop herself, and the outrage of being shoved backwards made her feel—solid. Just for a second. Regis’ brows rose ever-so-slightly as Damia caught herself.

“I—I require help! You know what Magnolia’s done to us! Give me something, an investment, and I’ll return the favor, Grandfather.”

“Hah. That’s not how it works. I’ve heard that a million times.”

He bared yellowed teeth and licked his lips. Damia protested.

“I helped you with Calidus!”

“One unique thought and the ability to resist the weakest aura-push do not show me talent, girl. You are a Reinhart. Your aunt, that simpering, superior brat Magnolia, could manifest her aura when she was fifteen. She took her entire family over and fought a war before she was your age. That’s talent. I’m sure you’d like to believe she ‘held you back’ from your full potential. But it wasn’t much, either way.”

He pointed his finger, and Damia braced herself to res—

——

Regis Reinhart cursed as he eyed Damia’s blank face and drooling expression. He’d hit her with his aura, which was superior to any current Reinhart except for Magnolia…maybe. But she’d seen him speaking to Calidus.

Not the worst thing to find out, and she hadn’t seen him leave his vaults—that would have required her immediate removal or indoctrination.

But should he arrange an accident anyways? He drummed his fingers on the air, biting at a skin flap on his lips as he snarled at his [Maids].

“You were supposed to keep any visitors away! Useless sluts. How intelligent is she?”

“She sleeps with her brother, Wernel.”

One of them dodged his backhanded slap, and Regis thought about that, then eyed Damia.

“So she’s barely intelligent. Bah, just send her out.”

She wouldn’t piece anything valuable together, and having her break her neck somewhere would cause more trouble. His worthless family were good distractions for the Circle of Thorns. Regis sat in the air, frowning.

“Calidus is losing his nerve. I may need a backup to him.”

“Very good, Master. A backup to a backup.”

He ignored that too. He was surrounded by idiots and fools. He made use of what he had; Regis murmured.

“Give me a list of the new Circle of Thorns members. Who’s the most intelligent here? And draw up more gold and call Roshal again.”

He hated spending gold. Even if he was richer than most nations. Regis was annoyed by anyone with more wealth than him because wealth was power. He’d celebrated Khelt falling. There should only be one great ancient power in the world. He’d outlasted plenty of immortals, and more were popping up in this age; very well and good. Time to clear the board.

——

—she blinked, and she was standing in the courtyard where she’d been dazedly staring at the sky, drooling, for the last eight minutes. Damia jerked awake, and Lord Gorthes, striding back to a new carriage, snorted at her.

“Thought you had a chance with old Regis? You’re lucky you weren’t out of it a month. He can push your brain, stupid. Let me know if you want some jam tarts. I’ll have them delivered daily for breakfast. Dead gods but it’s good to eat proper food again! Get me a Lischelle Prime Steak for dinner!”

He leapt into the carriage and began to drive off. Damia stood there, then realized the servants and some of her family members were eying her from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. She turned red and stormed away.

——

Brothels. Brothels took a lot of work, and no one respected how hard they were.

Oh, sure, in theory you could run one with a curtain, a mattress and a single room, but dead gods was that not the ideal working environment. And Xesci had seen them all. For one thing, even if you were so desperate to do that, there were plenty of factors to consider.

Like hygiene. Mattresses got dirty very fast. Security—at some point, someone wasn’t going to pay or they got violent. Protection both against pregnancy and against diseases.

But even Ilvriss could have probably logiced his way to that point. What he really didn’t consider was…lumbar support.

You needed a really firm mattress. None of that soft stuff. And ambiance mattered a lot for men and women, no matter what they said. Soundproofing too; nothing like hearing someone else in the middle of a carnal act to put many off their mood.

There was an atmosphere to cultivate, scents to hide, and you wanted to also project the right vibe. The exotic allure of a forbidden space or a welcoming, relaxing spot where you knew people.

To that end, she rented a building in the town of Thirthoof, the nearest settlement to Ilvriss’ projects. It was only a thirty-minute march from here to Dig Site A, which was very helpful. It was also, frankly, a pretty remote and poor town.

Esthelm and Celum were prosperous cities compared to the town. This was, again, [Rancher] territory, and the only thing that was in plenty here was milk and beef and other farm-type products.

“‘S the Lischelle clans and Rominet herders. Big families round here. Most have their own farms with everything. No need for us, see?”

The [Pub Owner], who had a closed, unused pub, explained why there were people in town at all. Xesci smacked her lips.

“The meat is very good here, though Ilvriss talked about…cattle raids?”

It sounded hilarious to her, but the man just grimaced.

“That’s rancher stuff. My advice, Missy? You don’t mess with them [Ranchers]. You think the gangs in big cities are bad? These lots are big as the horses they ride, and they gang up.”

Xesci, who was wearing a Human face for the negotiations, glanced at a few women who had their arms folded or who grinned at the ‘gangs’ comment. One flicked out a switchblade, and Xesci raised one brow.

The Sister of Chell hesitated, and the blade disappeared before the [Pub Owner] turned. Xesci smiled.

“Well, I’d be happy to rent this place for a few months. Here’s the downpayment.”

He blinked at all the gold, but she knew how this worked and had a contract ready to sign. The [Pub Owner] scrawled his name, then squinted around.

“You ladies going to run your own pub here?”

“Something like that. We’ll definitely serve alcohol.”

The Sisters all chuckled as Xesci rolled the contract up, and the [Pub Owner] scratched his head. He might get annoyed when he knew what this place was going to be, but then again, he might just become a regular customer. Xesci nodded at the Sisters of Chell.

“Can you get this place worked up? I’ll have specifications about the mattresses and the like.”

“We know what’s up, Miss Xesci. But it’s a surprise to hear you want to work again. I heard you were some big sort-of-Face from the bosses.”

A Sister eyed Xesci; they didn’t quite know what to make of her, but the fact that she knew Haple, their commanding body, had impressed the women. They weren’t as organized as the Brothers, and Xesci gave the woman a polite smile.

“I don’t mind the work; it’s more profitable and easier than having to act as muscle. You’ll get a workout here.”

“Pah. You won’t catch me going back to that life. I’d rather be the one spreading legs than doing it for someone else.”

One of the Sisters spat, flexing a tattooed arm with knife-scars on it. Xesci smiled.

“Well then, grab a mop and clean that up.”

When the Sister glared at her, Xesci leaned on her. Not physically, but she stood a bit taller—she rose four inches and put on muscle. She leaned over the Sister as the others backed up, wide-eyed.

“This is my place, and I’m a Face. Not of the streets, but the sheets. No accidents or sloppiness here. Find me girls who want to work, and they’ll be safe. We’ll make money and all be happy. But we’re all sisters, agreed?”

“Yes, Miss. Absolutely.”

Rattled, the Sister stepped back and went to find a mop. Xesci turned and winked at the other Sisters, half of whom had their mouths open.

“I know you’ve heard stories about me from Boss Yeire. I’m usually just boring and whomever I need to be, but these are unprecedented times. I imagine Ilvriss’ workers will need to blow off steam, so we’re going to be nice and helpful. And make money.”

That was quite important. Ilvriss didn’t get it, and he was paying Xesci well, but this was the language the Sisters knew. Xesci cracked her knuckles.

“Okay, start recruiting. Oh, and find me someone who can make food and serve drinks.”

She was envisioning a friendly place; no need to be like the ones that tried too hard to be important or the most sinful. Classy. And not too many drapes. They looked good, hid a lot of things, but dead gods. No one ever changed the drapes.

You did not want to know what grew on them.

——

What did you do for fun if you were a relatively rich [Lady]? There were a lot of classics that Damia had gone to in the pre-freedom days.

Drugs, parties with peers, and the latest entertainments, be it fashion, shopping, or just novelties like a [Bard] or performances such as the Players of Celum.

Plebian, now. Predictable. She tried, though, after her humiliation with Regis, to cheer herself up while thinking of some way to get ahead.

Now her mockery of her mother had come back to bite her; despite her woes, Cecille had isolated and secured something of far more value than Gorthes and the stupid fancy [Bakery] in First Landing. But what about Damia? She had no intelligence, no connections…

So, to the brothel Damia went. It was not the kind of thing she’d dreamed of doing last year. But now she thought—why not?

What was going to be ruined, her reputation? This was a private place. Even if rumors came out, so what? Even her own mother had intimated there was more to life than whatever Wernel considered good technique in the bedroom.

There were a lot of curtains in the dark, scandalous brothel called The Dripping Abyss. It was the most risque of all establishments in First Landing, and they’d actually checked her identity at the door. It was all shadows within, and Damia pushed past some black silken drapes to see bodies undulating on a stage, people wearing masks and checking out prospective partners, and, well, sin.

She smiled. There was a man dancing attendance on her with a black mask on his eyes, dressed up like some kind of faux-[Butler], but in a far more revealing outfit.

“Did you have any particular preferences, lady?”

“I’m interested in the most extreme thing you have.”

“Oh, someone who knows what she wants. Well…”

He had a catalogue with illustrations, very graphic illustrations, of all kinds of body parts and faces. Damia swallowed.

“You have, uh, Centaurs?”

“And a Minotaur. Some of our most popular entertainers are—non-traditional species. We also have a variety of illusions if you’d like to try them out.”

Dead gods, you heard rumors, but—Damia hesitated, but she was conscious of the eyes on her. She had not, in fact, done much more experimenting beyond Wernel and other [Lords]—or staff—around her age. But she blustered.

“Everything else in the world is dull. How about—”

Her finger flicked down the page, and she pointed at random. Even the staff member hesitated.

“Er…are you sure about Golthox the Gorgon? It can be quite—intense.”

“I’m looking for intense. I’ve been bored these last months.”

Either let her have experiences that made it worth freeing herself from Magnolia’s cage or all the things she felt she was owed! Damia took a breath as she produced her Merchant’s Guild card. The member of staff began to murmur into a speaking stone, arranging the assignation as Damia smiled, when someone crashed down the steps into The Dripping Abyss.

“Argh! Hells! My balls—my back! My—oh, terribly sorry about landing on you.”

A figure slammed down onto one of the guests exiting the building, leapt up, and strode forwards—into a wall. He backed up unsteadily as a flood of people followed, and Damia turned and saw none other than…

Calidus Reinhart. The amiably wide, blonde-haired Reinhart always had on clothing that seemed winestained or askew, even if he hadn’t actually gotten them dirty yet. He twirled in place, spreading his hands, and murmurs arose.

He had no mask on. Damia had a mask on, and she recoiled as Calidus strode into the center of the Abyss.

“Dead gods, it hasn’t changed! Mwah! My home away from—come in, come in, everyone! I’m a regular here. I used to be, at any rate. Terland’s Golems, this place hasn’t changed! Is that Espo up there? Hello!”

One of the glistening figures on stage waved at Calidus, and whispers arose. Damia’s escort nearly dropped his speaking stone.

“Dead gods, that’s Calidus. He’s not dead yet?”

“You know him?”

The [Escort] nodded distractedly.

“He’s a famous member—very generous with his coin and, ah, affections. Who are his g—”

Then he froze, and so did Damia, because no less than twenty figures had followed Calidus inside. But these were no regular guests with masks on. They had full-face coverings of cloth, black clothing, and an unmistakable look to them.

[Assassins]? Calidus spun.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, they’re off-duty. New, you know? Where’s Calolach? Calo, my friend! I was hoping to book twenty rooms.”

The owner of the Abyss came out himself, and he stared at Calidus.

“You want to reserve us. For…[Assassins]? I heard they were all dead!”

“Who, this lot? No, no, they’re just, uh, employees! And this is a team-building exercise. Well, I say team, but that’s advanced stuff. Not sure they want to go for that. Let’s just get everyone paired up, shall we? You’ve got my card on file…”

He was booking everyone with the [Assassins]! Dragging them over by the shoulders.

“How about that lovely lady? Beautiful, believe me. Or our half-Elf of drugs and delights? No—wait—are you male or female? Well, excuse me! Let’s do the other side of this catalog then, unless you’re still tempted…? Ooh, is this a new member? I might have to introduce myself.”

Damia realized she’d been completely forgotten as Calidus dominated the room. She was trying to get the attention of her [Escort], who’d had to go over to help with Calidus.

“I’m terribly sorry, Lady. We’ll have your partner ready in five minutes—”

She couldn’t help but notice that Calidus had already finished his entire group and they were already vanishing. In fact, the [Lord] was mopping at his brows. He cast around, snagged a drink off a tray meant for someone else, and then spotted her. His eyes widened.

“Is that Damia?”

Somehow, he knew it was her! Damia turned bright red and jumped, but Calidus strode over.

“Aha! I knew it! Same hair style, familiar aura, same dress you wore at our get-together two years back. Fancy meeting you here! Kicked Wernel to the curb yet? Delighted, delighted, let’s never talk again, Cousin.”

He beamed at her, and she scowled at him.

“Calidus. You’re as obnoxious as ever. Do you always barge into places like this so thoughtlessly? There’s such a thing as tact, in First Landing, no less!”

He smiled at her, and she noticed he’d changed too. Calidus had always been quick on his feet, but he’d usually been amiable, practically redolent, and just drinking or flirting with anyone female he met who caught his eye.

Right now he looked…stressed. As if he were trying to have fun but he had too many things on his mind. He grimaced at the drink he held and took a gulp that reduced it down to half in a single go, then sighed.

“Thoughtlessly is the dream, Damia. As for tact…you know anyone can find out you’ve been here, don’t you? The staff sells names to [Gossips]. Which I don’t mind, but you seem to think that mask works. As for me coming in like a hot and bothered storm, I appear to have gotten my way faster than you. First time?”

She flushed as the [Escort] hesitated and stepped back, but Calidus just reached over and plucked the notes up.

“Let’s see who you chose, shall we?”

“Lord Calidus, that’s private—”

The man slapped away the hands, and his brows rose.

“Oh my. Golthox? Someone’s in far over her head. Have you been here before? Has she been here before?”

He turned to the [Escort], and Damia tried to snatch the clipboard.

“Give me that and stay out of my business—”

Calidus snapped his fingers, and now his eyes lit up.

“First time, probably tired of old Wernel, thinks she needs the most exotic thing in this brothel. Which you do not want to try with a Gorgon. Did you even read what you signed up for? It’s going to be rough; I’m really not sure if you can deal with Golthox’s, um, girth, and believe me, I’ve gone drinking with him enough times to really get a good look when we go to piss. Also, two.”

Damia hesitated.

“Do you mean he has two—”

Calidus rolled his eyes.

“Who doesn’t know that? No, wait, you didn’t know about Lizardfolk? Hah! Dear cousin, allow me to save you from yourself. Let’s just cross that off and choose someone…there. Lovely Gnoll fellow by the name of Nrram. Knows what he’s doing—I mean, one’s told. Educational. Put it on my tab.”

He handed the clipboard back to the [Escort], and Damia suddenly had every desire to leave. But Calidus just winked at her, and she glowered. They drew together and began to whisper.

“What are you doing here, Calidus?”

“Trying to get some new co-workers to relax. Well, employees?”

“Assassins? In First Landing? Are you mad?”

Calidus raised his eyebrows.

“No one stopped us. Assassins come and go. And I presume they need fun. This lot is dull as can be. Interesting—but dull. I got a ‘shipment’ from Chandrar. Fascinating that’s how it works, but I have to make something of them, and I thought, well, have any of them ever visited an establishment of such covert delights as this? When they said no…”

He spread his arms. Damia stared at him.

“That’s your reason for bringing them here?”

Calidus downed his drink, grabbed another as it came over, proving he really was a member the brothel knew quite well, and smiled. Without much mirth.

“Well, yes. I have to do something or at some point I assume they’ll just slit my throat or go rogue. I don’t know why I have to do this, but re-establishing the Guild—that’s my job, by the way, don’t tell anyone or do, it’ll be entertaining either way—is not easy.”

She stared at him. This man was the one Regis Reinhart trusted to…

“Why are we establishing it again? Why us?”

Calidus blinked at Damia.

“Aside from the fact that I think a lot of people want it back? Aside from the fact that it was a check on, well, everyone, and that we’re at the mercy of the south without it? Aside from the fact that a vacuum exists and one should be made because someone else will make one if we don’t? I mean, personally…I need something to do. And they’re far more fascinating people to talk to than family or peers of the realm. Once you open them up. Actually, I wonder if I can watch any of them in action. I have to admit, I’m curious. Excuse me, did any of them sign up for an open room…?”

Then he was gone. Damia Reinhart stood there, trying to come up with some kind of reply and realizing that Calidus was insane, a buffoon, but even Calidus was ahead of her in terms of everything.

She recalled he had his own estates, his own finances, even his own staff, although they were famously disloyal. Calidus was more established then she was.

It rattled her so much that she forgot to cancel her appointment. When Nrram the Gnoll came out to greet her, Damia hesitated, but she didn’t quite manage to refuse to at least see…what there was to see.

Which was an experience that definitely put itself as the #1 encounter of her life in that department and made her wonder what she had been doing until now. Someone with Skills and actual practice versus—

Then she realized Calidus had been right, and that soured her mood, but she did arrange to come back here later.

…As soon as she could afford it regularly. She hadn’t realized how much it had cost, but Calidus had put it on his tab.

How rich was he?

——

Calidus Reinhart was glad to see the back of Damia. He hated his family.

Not in a deep, philosophical way, like Aunt Magnolia. He quite respected her dislike of him and everyone else. Calidus just got depressed around them.

Even before they’d all gotten happily stupid, which he’d liked as a change for the better, they were just self-serving. Which, to be fair, so was he. But he didn’t like mirrors that much, and there was something predictable about his family.

They’d do what was in their best interests. They didn’t surprise. Magnolia surprised. The rest of his family just made him want to roll under one of their carriages after half an hour in their company.

At least he’d saved Damia from needing a [Healer]. A good deed for the day, astounding at his age, really. Calidus collected all the Ranks, the low-level [Assassins], after they’d finished their business, flirting with all the employees he knew by name at the same time.

“We’re supposed to be the exotic ones, Calidus!”

A Drake hissed in his ear, and he kissed her on the cheek.

“Well, now you can say you’ve slept with danger. Don’t be strangers! My home is always open to you—and we’ll be back!”

Not soon given how much that had cost, but he led the silent group back up the stairs and towards the waiting carriages he’d chartered. The Ranks filed into the coaches, all black outfits and that iconic look where you took a piece of black cloth and just turned yourself into a giant roll of fabric.

Cheap, effective, and…they sat in the carriage as Calidus sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the black clad figures.

They leaned away from him. He beamed around.

“Well, thoughts? Anyone see anything impressive? Who got to meet old Rilla? Oldest member of the Abyss. Sixty-two, though she doesn’t look a day over forty. Dead gods, her Skills—anyone?”

Silence. Calidus went on.

“Must have been someone in another coach. So, how’s it feel? Interested in going again?”

Nothing. The figures sat there, ready for orders, ready to be given commands. Low-level [Assassins] straight from Chandrar, Roshal, the new members of the Assassin’s Guild that Calidus was overseeing.

Foreign assassins. Not that Calidus was biased, but in time he’d have preferred recruits from Izril itself. These were from Roshal, and one suspected that Roshal might have ways to command them…if they really wanted to. But work with what you had.

The [Lord] laced his fingers together. Sat back. He tried to out-stare one of the Ranks, then gave up and blinked. They were immune to awkwardness or the need to socialize. Calidus exhaled.

“…Well, I hope you at least enjoyed it.”

They said nothing. He scowled.

“I know you were all virgins. Come now, that has to be something after all the training in whatever they made you do. Any fun? Do you lot even talk?”

Silence. He waited. After seven minutes, there was a voice from one of the eight in the carriage.

“It was…new. Good.”

Calidus smiled at last. He began extolling the virtues of the various ladies he knew personally and the lads he drank with. And he thought, in the back of his mind—

I need to get this lot on my side. Or they are going to murder me in my sleep. As well as all the older [Assassins].

After all, this was the Assassin’s Guild. You could rise to the top in a very traditional, pointed manner. Unless he changed the rules. And they had to be willing to accept said rules. Because if they realized that they outnumbered the Faces by far and that Calidus had no people besides them…

Well, the chaos to Izril would be the silver lining if this all didn’t work out. Damn Regis. But it beat being bored.

——

Calidus Reinhart’s estates were convivially unmanaged. His staff stole things. They quit often. He didn’t care; he had lived a life of parties, and until recently, he’d been content to waste his money and die in someone else’s bed or under a table and leave the world a finer place.

Then Magnolia had given him his mind back.

Drat her.

Of course, Calidus didn’t feel murderous towards Magnolia. If he ever saw her again and she wasn’t killed for her various involvements, he would probably shake her hand—if she let him touch her or gave him any mind whatsoever, very understandable if she did not—congratulate her on her survival, and ask if she’d put her Skill back on him. Beg, really. He had a lot of practice grovelling at the feet of attractive women.

He hated it here. And by ‘here’, he meant his head. His mind, which would not stop racing until he drowned it in drink or hit it. He hated how boring the world was when he was sober, how mundane things were.

How did you get up, farm every day of your life, then lie back down and not put your head under a grindstone? How did you—seem to enjoy the ‘little things’ he had heard life had? Perhaps money had ruined Calidus, or perhaps he’d still have been this unhappy if he’d been born a pauper.

He didn’t know, but few things interested him, and the problem with levelling was that it meant that things like alcohol or drugs no longer took away his mental clarity like they previously did. He was a [Genius of Sloth], and so despite resenting Regis for doing this to him, Calidus was glad the work was at least interesting.

Calidus did like a challenge, and the New Lands had been fun, but he didn’t get many updates given the mana drain stuff there. He’d enjoyed working on Rhaldon’s projects; the young man and Zeomtoril had produced some very fine natural aphrodisiacs which were making a lot of money. But Calidus had grown bored with the business as he always did when it was working. He was half-tempted to sell it off, but he supposed gold was gold and bought a lot of nice things.

Running the new Assassin’s Guild, now, this was a challenge, but it was not a happy challenge for Calidus because he felt distinctly unprepared, and he’d told Regis that again and again.

The problem with being an old ghost was that Regis probably forgot how things worked. He could get a bunch of [Assassins] shipped to Izril via Roshal, collect all the old members who’d survived, but this did not a functioning organization make.

Strange that Regis knew how to pull so many levers. Roshal makes sense; he has to have connections with any institution. But the [Assassins] in hiding?

Calidus had concluded that Regis had ties to the Assassin’s Guild and, perhaps, Circle of Thorns. But how many? He doubted Regis had tried to kill Magnolia like that; they might be Reinharts, but that had been a blatant assassination attempt of Izril’s foremost [Lady].

Then again, was it any business of Calidus’? He supposed Magnolia would have him killed if she knew what he was doing, but he was positive Regis would kill him if he didn’t do a good job, so there it was. At least the old man had thrown in some enticements for success. But…

“Assassin’s Guild. Assassin’s Guild. Guil-duh. Guillllld. Gui-el-do.”

His [Majordomo], Dorim, a former [Innkeeper], stared at Calidus as the [Lord] put his head down on the table in his banquet hall.

“Er, Lord Calidus?”

He wasn’t happy with the changes in the Calidus estates. No one was; the servants had to actually work hard to keep up with the near hundred [Assassins] living in the rooms, and more were going to come, apparently.

No one could tell how many there were; they didn’t exactly like lining up to be counted, and they came through windows as easily as doors, and oh yes, all of them wore damn masks.

There were a few Calidus thought he could recognize by voice and vague body shape, but the rest…? Dorim and the staff were terrified of the figures, just leaving food out and making beds or cleaning up whenever one appeared to tell them there was a mess.

Frankly, everyone would have quit except for the fact that they were certain if they did quit, they’d be dead. Like two servants who’d tried to slip away during the first two weeks and been found quite dead, quite garrotted, in the courtyard.

Then they’d been so terrified they hadn’t even left the estates until Calidus had gathered the [Assassins] to mandate that yes, the servants needed time off and not to kill them if they just had vacations. But the fact remained that everything hinged on the [Assassins] remaining under Calidus’ control.

…And the face-down [Lord] was not instilling confidence right now, but Dorim had known Calidus long enough to realize this was Calidus’ way. He was thinking out loud.

“Dorim, why do they call it the ‘Assassin’s Guild’?”

“…Lord?”

“Why would they? Prima facie, it’s to mimic the established naming patterns of everything else. Adventurer’s Guild, etcetera. But it occurs to me, [Assassins] are people.”

“Are…we sure about that, Lord Calidus?”

Dorim glanced at some black clad figures just…standing around. Waiting for orders. The Ranks unnerved him more than the regular [Assassins]. The Faces strode about, clearly with a purpose, ignoring the Ranks, but he got the impression the new ‘recruits’ might unnerve even the old [Assassins]. Which left him, Dorim, where? Calidus raised his head, a hint of a frown on his face.

“They do a job and, presumably, want pay, recognition, and everything else, Dorim. If they’re so different from their class…no, the Ranks are different. They’re manufactured, but even they need organization. That’s what a Guild is. Remember that poor fellow last night?”

Dorim shuddered. How could you forget?

——

Calidus was drinking and welcoming the new Ranks into his mansion when the doors opened and a figure fell into the room. Everyone had a blade out in seconds, but there was no attack.

Just a black-clad body lying in a pool of rapidly spreading blood, back laid open. By a blade? Calidus had stood and called out.

“Who is this? Are we under attack?”

Silence. One of the [Assassins] of old, an [Instructor] apparently, replied with a low, gravelly voice. She was female and checking the body over.

“The wound’s not fresh. They must have made it here on foot. No. Horse outside. Contract, then. Failed or successful?”

“You don’t know? Does anyone know who this is or what job they were on?”

Calidus spun, and there was dead silence. He clapped his hands together, annoyed.

“No, seriously, enough with the silence. Does anyone know? I need an answer, yes or no.”

After a moment, he got his replies. No. Figures shook their heads or went back to sitting and eating, and Calidus spun around.

“No one knows who this is. Where they went. What they were doing. Question: is this even one of our people? Were they really on a contract or is this someone who was fleeing vengeance against the Circle of Thorns and found their way to us?”

Everyone paused at this, and Calidus rubbed at his face.

“I need to call my grandfather.”

——

That had pre-empted Calidus’ call and then his decision to try to get the Ranks to open up by taking them to the brothel.

Both of which had been failures, if mildly amusing. No help from old Regis, that skinflint. And the Ranks had not proven to be very…friendly.

Calidus sat back in his chair as it creaked.

“We must have organization. What’s our progress on the buildings?”

Dorim hesitated.

“The rooms and training areas for the Assassin’s Guild, sir? Mostly completed; the building frames are up, but the, ah, senior members have a lot of requirements.”

“Well, we’ll have housing by the time the next batch rolls in. But damn—okay, I need desks. Get copies of those desks at, uh, the Adventurer’s Guilds. Paper, tons of it. Quills, ink, filing cabinets, and [Receptionists].”

The [Majordomo] was all hesitation.

“I—I can try, sir, but where…?”

Calidus’ voice turned impatient.

“Just go to a local Adventurer’s Guild, hire the best of them out, and ask where they get all their stuff from. Copy it! Set it up, I don’t know, in town. We’ll run it like an Adventurer’s Guild. I’ll have all the [Assassins] report in. Losmere!”

He shouted, and one of the striding figures halted and turned. She seemed annoyed he could tell who she was, but the female [Instructor] came over.

“Lord Calidus? I am b—”

“Yes, yes, you’re always busy. I’m having the [Assassins] register themselves in a Guild. You had a format like that, correct?”

She hesitated.

“We had…membership roles, and people sent us out, yes. But nothing like a—a standard Guild. We had procedures, but it was more akin to ceremony.”

Calidus beamed at her.

“Well, in lieu of any of that organizational stuff since none of you seem to remember or are willing to help, we’re doing it my way. Unless you’d like to take over? Well then, each [Assassin] will report and register with the Guild, and we’ll issue the contracts from there. Report in tomorrow, and ah, lose the black clothing. No masks. Plain clothes. Or someone will report the lot of us, and we’ll all be dead as soon as Aunt Magnolia finds the time. Or any other member of the Five Families.”

Losmere paused, and an ominous chill ran up Dorim’s spine.

“Lord Calidus, I do not believe the [Assassins] will be happy with that.”

For once, the jovial [Lord] didn’t smile along with her or acquiesce. He slapped the table, and his voice grew distinctly annoyed.

“Well, the [Assassins] are as helpful as cats with burrs in their fur and about as easy to wrangle! I admire the chill-down-your-spine effect by the way, very titillating, but my decision’s my decision. If you object, take it up with old Regis or just kill me, please. Until that happy moment, report in tomorrow or start rebelling.”

He waited, and Losmere nodded after a beat. Calidus beamed.

“Excellent. And on an unrelated topic, may I once again invite you to an all-expenses-paid dinner at one of First Landing’s finest restaurants? I know anonymity is a concern, but since we have to take off masks—”

Dorim stood as still as a statue, watching Lord Calidus once again trying to get Losmere to join him on a date. The [Assassin] sighed, and Dorim edged back, but then she tugged her mask down and revealed a very scarred face. The woman had short hair, a slightly snub nose, and she was in her early forties.

“You won’t find any beauties under our masks, Lord Calidus. Just disappointment.”

He waggled his brows at her.

“Miss Losmere, I am far from disappointed by dangerously alluring women. Six o’clock? They do a marvellous fondue.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t eat cheese. And I’m busy tomorrow. I’m…free today. Do you know anywhere with seafood?”

Calidus beamed. He was making arrangements at the best restaurant that did seafood which still let him into it in First Landing when he got another call.

“Grandfather, have to run. I have a date with this lovely lady with all these scars—”

He was applying cologne as Regis barked into his ear.

“Focus, Calidus! I have a job for you and the [Assassins]. There’s a damn Drake nosing around the southeast of our lands! I want him gone. Not necessarily assassinated—just get rid of him! If someone else wants to off him, let them, but the Assassin’s Guild needs to stay in the shadows. It’s a Wall Lord Ilvriss; ensure his operations collapse.”

“What, just like that? Listen, grandfather, about this Guild thing—I need support. Or else it’s going to end up with a dead me and a bunch of infighting [Assassins]. The Faces are clearly not comfortable with the Ranks; they’re used to outnumbering the ‘disposable’ assassins even if the old Guild got deliveries. If the Ranks start trying to murder them to take their positions, it’ll be chaos, and I need more help. Whatever you think—hello? Hello?”

The old man had hung up on him. Calidus sighed.

“Maybe once I’m dead he’ll regret being so cavalier to me.”

That cheered him up, and he began to think up gifts for Losmere. As he worked, Calidus tapped a speaking stone.

“Zeomtoril, my [Polymath], my friend! What’s a Wall Lord doing in Izril’s north?”

The grumpy genius living in Calidus’ home responded snappily.

“I’m working, Calidus! How the hells have you not heard about Wall Lord Ilvriss? There was a <Quest> issued on him and everything! I’m surprised no one’s killed him yet.”

“Quest? I must have been drunk.”

“You are ninety percent of the time. I’ll have someone take a file down.”

Zeomtoril hung up, and Calidus waited until a [Servant] brought him files. Zeomtoril loved his notes, and Calidus skimmed what was as good as a [Spymaster]’s report. Then he stopped and frowned.

Digging? Yes. He’d been there for months, and that <Quest>…

“That’s the [Innkeeper] who plays chess. I wonder what she’s up to. I was hoping for a rematch.”

He hadn’t heard much from her—not that he’d been paying attention, what with the [Assassins] and Magnolia freeing them all. Calidus read, and his eyes flickered.

Why would a Wall Lord dig in the north?

In that moment, the permanent expression of boredom Calidus wore behind all the smiles and vague amusements vanished from his face. His eyes lit up, and his lips curved upwards in a true grin. He peered around and strode for his library to find some maps and history books. Because he knew there was something here he didn’t understand. That was—

Fascinating.

——

“He is looking for Naamreles, the City of Purity. It is buried approximately where he is digging. How the Drake knows the location is a mystery. A…ghost may have told him.”

“A ghost.”

The nervous speaker hesitated and quailed as the older, more cracked voice interrupted, but he went on after a moment.

“Yes, Lady Ulva. That is our—our best guess. The records should have been expunged. Naamreles, the City of Purity, fell long before House Terland ever reached Izril’s shores. Yet it is not unknown to us.”

Lady Ulva Terland sat forwards on her floating Sanctum of Health, which had a permanent rejuvenatory effect on her body. She had four Autonomous-class Golems of the Glaistone set standing behind her, transparent crystal showcasing intricate ‘veins’ and ‘muscles’ of metal moving every time they shifted, armed with swords and shields made of Mithril. Dented; the same weapons they’d borne to war when the Terlands had conquered Izril an age ago.

Some of the most powerful Golems still remaining in Terland possession, standing guard over the most powerful living Terland of all, Ulva Terland. Head of her family, [Bereaved Matriarch of House Terland].

She sat in one of her inner sanctums in the House of Stone, the northern mansion deep in Terland lands where most of her family worked from. No [Assassin] had a hope of penetrating these Golem-patrolled walls. An army would falter and break before the mighty sentinels laying dormant in the Terland vaults.

Still. She checked her enchanted rings that were Relic-class items to protect from arrows, poison, hostile magic, and more. The [Historian], who had been granted access to Terland records, had been checked four times for weapons or dangerous items. Even so, if he sneezed, the bodyguard-Golems might not eviscerate him instantly.

Despite all her paranoias, Ulva Terland motioned the man on.

“So that’s what that damn Drake wants.”

Some of the Lords and Ladies of Hearts, high-ranking members of House Terland, stirred as they listened to this very secret briefing. The [Historian] wet his lips and went on, coughing; no one had given him any water this close to Ulva.

“Yes, Lady Terland. It, ah, it can only be Naamreles. The location matches the rough area where it was said to reside.”

“But it still exists? And—no one has found it before? Why to both?”

The [Historian] swallowed.

“Walled Cities were made incredibly well, Lady Ulva. How much is intact after all this time and the ground shifting is unknown, but it could be substantial. The City of War was said to be built out of pieces of other Walled Cities.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, it’s a ‘last-generation’ Walled City by their standards. Which is to say, still exceedingly old. As for why no one dug up Naamreles, I don’t believe it was so much ignorance as the location being expunged from records. Thoroughly. Even our own.”

“But these are records from House Terland that date back to our presence in Terandria!”

She reminded him sharply. Terlands came from the nation of Levicus, which was no longer a great power of Terandria, but it had been one of the Hundred Kingdoms first founded. Their records were old. Yet the [Historian]’s face was grim.

“They were purged and the record of the purging attributed to ‘keeping the rot of Naamrales’ folly buried’, Lady Ulva Terland. I have run into similar such moments in history.”

“One assumes your class would rebel against the notion, Historian Vredes.”

The man ducked his head; he was balding, and the light was getting in Ulva’s eyes as it shone into the domed room with only a single window, triple-warded by barriers for security. He coughed as she shielded her eyes with a fan.

“It does until I read the reasons for such redactions, Your Ladyship. It’s rather akin to reading horror stories in history, even as dry as some of my peers can be. Moments that are merely heinous are recorded in vivid detail. But locations of dangerous objects or more…memetic threats are hidden.”

“What is ‘memetic’?”

“Threats that hurt you by the knowledge of them. Such as…certain monsters from Baleros, Lady Ulva.”

She did know of Bogleraums and shivered, cursing Petria for ever asking about them. No one else in the room got the reference, and the [Historian] was sweating faintly.

“Not just that. There are records of dangerous beings who had similar powers to appear before those who knew of them. Or just gained power from…there’s even a reference to a travelling establishment of some kind that was redacted. Thankfully, most such things are dead. Mostly dead.”

“I see. And Naamreles was one such, then.”

The [Lady] lowered her fan, frowning. Ulva’s hair was faintly green and the rest brown, like her eyes, but motes of yellow dotted her irises. A striking effect; the paintings of Petria Terland showed her with the same eyes, though she was always the dynamo in the old paintings of the [Twin Virtues of House Terland]. Before her death during the Second Antinium War.

Ever since, Ulva had reigned alone. Time had not touched her greatly due to her many protections, but she had a weight about her. Ulva drummed her fingers on her stone armrest.

“So that’s what he’s been up to. Well, we must claim that city after we kill him.”

A stir from her audience. The [Historian] protested.

“Lady Ulva, the warnings are quite clear! House Terland itself helped end the issue of Naamreles!”

“Really, we were in Izril back then?”

“It was an intercontinental threat, Lady Ulva! And I do believe your family was, ah, scouting Izril even back then. This was during the famous Age of Plagues where the Putrid One damned multiple Walled Cities! Not a long age in the grand scheme of totality, but a consequential one. I must warn you—”

“Yes, yes. But a Walled City is valuable, and I will not cede that if there’s potential there. But especially not to damned Drakes. Council of Hearts, your thoughts? You may withdraw, Historian.”

He had to bow backwards, and some of the other Lords and Ladies of Hearts spoke. Not all of them were here; Lord Xitegen, for instance, was too far away in Celum to be represented, but a Golem stood in his place, and it shifted and moved as he did.

Terlands spoke via Golems; far more secure than Wistram. They loved Golems. A bit too much, sometimes, but that was who they were. Ulva saw the first [Lady] rise to her feet.

“Great Aunt, if there is a Walled City there, it must be worth a fortune, though I don’t know if we should dig it up given the warnings.”

“The Drake is trying.”

Ulva knew Ilvriss’ name, but she wrinkled her mouth every time she thought of it. She sipped from some Purified Water in a special canister for it and grimaced.

“I want him dead.”

“Ulva, given the <Quest> and the potential harm it might cause with the Walled Cities—”

Only Nouzcrat was old enough to call her by her name. He wavered as she shot him a glower.

“The Walled Cities have grown too bold. First they strike our north, next this. Should we allow armies of Drakes to march past our borders?”

Her glare made them all know what she thought of that, but it was Xitegen who spoke up. Always the contrarian, damn him.

“I remind you, Great Aunt, that was because Tyrion sieged Liscor.”

“He never crossed into Drake lands! You warned that fool of a Drake, and now he’s dead. Where’s the Hunter-Killer Golem we deployed?”

Ulva snapped, and the room went silent again. This time with a hint of excitement despite the trepidation of what that meant. Historian Vredes hugged his notes to his chest, shivering.

“It should be in the area, Lady Ulva. It was successfully transported and set up and merely awaits activation.”

“Good. Have the command sent, and have it move towards the Drake’s location. I want a Heart’s Connection set up.”

Direct control over the Golem. Xitegen smiled thinly.

“Eager to let someone play with our Golems, Great Aunt? I’m not for killing Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

She glared at him.

“Xitegen, if you go on one more time about that damn Winter Solstice—”

“I was there, Great Aunt. There were that many Draugr, and every single member of my entourage has testified via truth stone repeatedly. That’s the only reason I can think for Ilvriss to be digging up a Walled City. The concern is real.”

Ulva drummed her fingers on the armrest of her throne.

“Then you can dig it up, Xitegen. You’re closest. But no Drake will be grabbing what’s there. He knew what he was doing. He dies.”

Her tone brooked no argument. The room moved as someone got up to arrange the Heart’s Connection link with the Hunter-Killer. It knew Ilvriss’ name; it would home in on him and kill him. This was an old weapon from the Terland vaults. The family was forbidden from using them and Ulva refrained from activating them. Drakes, though…Drakes were an exception to that rule.

“Well, I’ll prepare for war with Liscor, then. The [Innkeeper] will not forget that.”

Xitegen’s tone was light, but Ulva rolled her eyes.

“For all you speak of her, she has never troubled the north in any meaningful way, Xitegen. You make mountains out of a local molehill.”

“She’s never had a reason to come north, Aunt. I imagine Erribathe said the same thing of her until recently. But that’s merely the Kingdom of Myths. It’s not like she took on the Assassin’s Guild in Invrisil by summoning the Small Queen to war.”

Ulva’s lips quirked for reasons no one but her got. Dead gods, Xitegen annoyed her. He’d always been braver than his peers, because he’d seen the Goblins. But he annoyed her personally. She’d been glad he went south to do something and get out of her hair.

But she couldn’t help but feel that Petria would have liked him. For that reason, she hadn’t drubbed him down to a Lord of Function and allowed all his little madnesses. Well, that and he was high-level among them and brave.

Bravery mattered. She used to be brave. Ulva wet her lips again, then rasped.

“Onto more important matters. Has anyone found one of these—Earthers? How can we be the only group without one?”

The Lords and Ladies of Hearts shrugged. One of them cleared her throat.

“Perhaps they’re just that rare, Great Aunt. Or maybe it’s more of a hoax? I find it hard to lend credence—”

“Nonsense! Too many unique things are occurring. They have to be out there. I will have them. We have wealth and splendor. Have one found and furnish us with information! Have any of the Five Families found one?”

Heads shook.

“If the other Five Families have one, they’ve denied it to our faces. The Reinharts are all mad from the Winter Solstice, and Wellfar are busy with their war, but El, Veltras, both deny having one.”

“Veltras denies having one when the Wind Runner is clearly one of them. Either Lord Tyrion is a fool, which is true, or he’s blind and besotted. Also likely true.”

Ulva retorted, annoyed. She exhaled and leaned back.

“And they’re in Baleros. So get me another.”

“Funny, Aunt. You know there was this [Innkeeper] who I swear was one such Earther, but I don’t know if she’d be that keen on joining us especially after we killed her Drake fr—”

The Xitegen-Golem stopped speaking as Ulva bounced her cup off its head. She only threw it because she knew full well she couldn’t scratch the beautiful ceramic Golem. Even so, most of the others gasped in shock.

“Great Aunt Ulva!”

“Golems serve us, not the other way around, Alorelle!”

Ulva snapped at the recently-promoted Lady of Hearts. Eldertuin’s wife had mostly reached her status by virtue of his achievements, and she flushed. Ulva beckoned.

“Where’s the Mirror of Connections?”

It was wheeled into the room, and everyone shuffled to see it as it flickered to life. The mirror revealed grass moving rapidly underfoot in huge lurches that were nauseating unless you had experience seeing through a Golem’s eyes. Ulva squinted.

“Not much cover.”

“It’s under an [Invisibility] spell, Lady Ulva.”

“Hmf. Shoddy spell for a Hunter-Killer. What grade?”

“It’s a Grismel 3-8, Lady Terland.”

She grumbled under her breath.

“That would do for a modern Wall Lord, I suppose. I asked for noisy—it will be that, and messy too. Knife-hands?”

“Eight per, with enchanted steel fingers. And the legs—”

“Yes, yes. Where’s the Heart’s Connection?”

A far more involved contraption was the Heart’s Connection which allowed someone, usually a [Controller], to remotely operate Golems. Not all of them had this function, but Ulva saw half the nobles in the room raise their hands like children, wanting to be the one to use it.

Given their druthers, every Terland would take all the Golems out of storage and try piloting them or see them in action. Like a child with toys. And that would wear out or destroy even the most well-made Golems, so her job was to keep them from doing what they all wanted. But any excuse to see a true Golem in action…

Ulva smiled as it was brought out. She almost beckoned it over, then paused.

“I want this done privately. Only him and his bodyguards. How close is it?”

“A few miles. It should be—oh, I think there’s the camp.”

Everyone was peering as the bounding Hunter-Killer grew closer and closer. Someone zoomed the view in on the bouncing image of a Drake camp, and Ulva frowned.

“It’s light and busy. Hold the Golem back until it knows where this Wall Lord is and—wait. What’s going on?”

It was evening, and she assumed the Drakes would be finishing work or resting, but it looked like an anthill, all churned up. As the Hunter-Killer slowed and advanced, she raised her brows.

Not all those shapes were people. There were…cows? Stampeding away, and Drakes and Humans, she realized, as the view zoomed in more.

“What’s going on?”

Xitegen knew. He chuckled as she glanced at him.

“I believe it’s a cattle raid, Great Aunt. The Wall Lord is experiencing the hospitality of the local [Cattle Barons]. They take almost as much umbrage with him as you do.”

Her brows raised as she saw a full-scale fight in the Drake camps. Amused, Ulva sat back in her chair.

“You say this happens often?”

——

“Cattle raid! Cattle raaaaaaaaaid!”

Captain Osthia Shieldscale hated the damn alarm. Because it meant trouble, Humans, and most of all—she couldn’t kill anyone.

She leapt off her horse and plunged into the melee as she saw [Riders] on horseback whooping and shouting as they rode, scaring cows and trying to lead them away from Ilvriss’ camps.

They were stealing cows!

It sounded funny until you realized any good cow was a decent amount of money! Maybe not much in prime rancher territory, but a hundred?

And the Humans were trying to steal them all. Osthia roared as she flexed her wings.

“Get those cows back! Head off those [Thieves]!”

She could have flown after the thieves, but she was needed in the camp itself. Why? Because the Drakes and Gnolls of Salazsar obviously weren’t about to let [Thieves] run off with all that prime beef. So part of cattle raids in the north was sending [Riders] out to steal the cows…

While every damn [Rancher], [Farmhand], [Hostler], and Human idiot attacked the camp!

There were at least a hundred Humans throwing punches, kicking, and tussling with Salazsarian [Miners] and [Soldiers] in a melee. They’d ridden up, jumped off their horses, and begun punching heads.

Humans. Osthia’s hand twitched for her sword, but she just ran forwards and threw an elbow into the back of the first Human’s head.

It didn’t drop him, for all that she put her entire body weight into the blow. He turned as she recoiled, and his neck was gigantic. The bull of a man was flushed red and threw a fist like a ham at her.

“Ancestors damn it—”

She ducked, went for a leg hook, and failed that too. A Drake shouted.

“Captain, I’ve got this bastard! Let’s get him, boys!”

Wall Lord Dramm charged up and threw two decent hooks into the Human’s side. Two buddies charged with him, bounced off the [Farmhand], and hesitated. The Human punched Dramm off his feet and went in swinging.

“Hah! Take that, you damn Drakes!”

Osthia had never thought she’d see [Miners] losing in a fight to anyone, but they must have eaten well in the farmlands—and the [Ranchers] were good with their damn fists. Still, she was a soldier; the oversized Human went down when she kicked the back of his knee and folded him up. When he tried to get up, he discovered she had boots and very fast stomping feet.

Panting, Osthia whirled.

“Where’s Wall Lord Ilvriss?”

She knew he’d be in the thick of things, and there was danger here, even without blades. Someone pointed, and she saw a group of women sitting on an open ranch gate.

The Sisters of Chell were watching with complete amusement at the brawl between the two sides. Osthia snapped at them.

“Are you going to sit around or help?”

One of the Sisters, a woman with a tattoo on her arm of a wicked blade wrapped in brambles, shrugged.

“You want us to join in? We don’t do brawling. We do stabbing. We’re guarding against real [Thieves] and the like. We join and this gets nasty real fast.”

“They steal all our cattle again and it’s going to go to blood!”

Osthia swore, but she went running through the fighting. More [Ranchers] were riding up and jumping off their horses. When Osthia saw a gang of twelve wading into the fight, she did half-draw her sword.

“In the name of House Gemscale, halt damnit!”

They warily put their hands on their sides, and one produced a wicked butchering knife. Osthia had on armor, and she knew she had levels and training on these idiots. She was striding forwards when someone jovially smacked into her.

“None of that now. I take my eyes off the situation for five seconds and here we are!”

Nerul Gemscale had a bloody nostril, but he forced the sword back into its sheath. He and a group of [Bodyguards] were in the fray, and the moment the [Ranchers] saw Osthia’s sword vanish, they lowered their weapons.

“Too scared t’ fight us like men, Drakes?”

“I’m a woman and you’re dead, Human.”

Osthia growled, and she charged the group of twelve, much to their astonishment. It wasn’t…a good idea. She was no hero, and one on twelve? Osthia’s first punch took the speaker by surprise—she got two punches in, and one of his buddies grabbed her. So she headbutted them and probably broke a nose, which was great—until someone else punched her in the helmet.

Which hurt their knuckles terribly but did make her head ring. Then there was a blow to the back of the head, and she was staring at a knee coming up—

But Nerul’s flying elbow dropped the Human about to knee her, and he actually picked up the first Human and tossed him. When another man punched him in the chest, Nerul turned, and his right hook took the Human out of today and put him into tomorrow.

The [Bodyguards] joined the fighting too—Rubirel Guard who didn’t reach for their weapons, but grinned as the Humans took one look at their enchanted armor and backed up. Osthia blinked.

“Diplomat, thank you! How the hell did you learn to fight like that?”

Nerul smiled.

“I never was much cough with swords, but a fistfight? [Diplomats] have to know how to survive a barfight! No blades, Captain! I told you and Ilvriss: this is a custom, and the last thing you want is [Ranchers] taking shots at you or treating this like a war.”

“This isn’t a war?”

She pointed at the huge brawl, which was going to leave plenty with bruises or broken bones the next day. And it wasn’t the first or even dozenth time it had happened! Nerul grunted.

“It’s got echoes, but it’s how the Humans around here settle disagreements. Better than a real battle, you should know, Captain.”

She did know, but it was so damn aggravating—Nerul pointed.

“I think Ilvriss is that way. Come on, let’s bail him out. This is a big fight. Dead gods! Who’s that fellow there?”

They saw a Gnoll go flying over the heads of the brawlers, and then they saw Ilvriss Gemscale, in the middle of the action, trying to push back the Humans led by the only Human that Osthia had met who was bigger than Nerul. A huge, heavyset man with as much fat as muscle and who laughed as he decked another [Soldier].

Nerul exhaled.

“I think that’s no less than [Cattle Baron] Marvus Lischelle. Come on—let’s get Ilvriss out of there.”

They turned as the two leaders locked eyes. Ilvriss threw a punch and hit Marvus straight in the face. The [Cattle Baron] ignored the punch, and his return blow made Ilvriss go stumbling back a dozen steps.

——

This sucks.

That was Ilvriss’ first thought after the world stopped spinning. He staggered upright and decided he really, really hated the north. In general and this part of it.

Ranchers. Who knew they were this…ornery. The moment he’d come north, they’d picked fights, but it had only gotten to this point when he’d bought cattle; he needed a supply of food, and there was no other real way to guarantee a lot of good food given no one wanted to sell to Drakes. He could only—wait, that [Cattle Baron] was charging him—

Ilvriss had to throw himself sideways to avoid another punch, and he rolled up, panting, and heard the huge man laugh.

In a battle with swords Ilvriss wouldn’t have been worried, but this was a damn brawl, and he bet he weighed half of what this man did. The Human was tossing Drakes and Gnolls around and decking everyone not in armor.

“Y’all remember this is from the Lischelles! Good night, you damn intruders!”

He punched one of Ilvriss’ adjutants so hard the Drake dropped in an instant. Ilvriss snarled.

“Get out of my camp! Salazsar, to me!”

He and a bunch of [Miners] began punching forwards and met the [Ranchers] in a melee; Ilvriss ate another hit to the jaw and staggered back.

I really miss Liscor. Zel would have known what to do here. Actually, Zel would have probably been able to out-punch this entire damn group himself.

He had been a [General]. Ilvriss? He was a [Wall Lord of Corporate Opulence]! No warrior like his father, Zail, but a hybrid leader-economic manager. He almost fell as he saw a man raise his hands together like a hammer—

“Nephew, I see the problem!”

Nerul’s punch to the stomach made the Human puke—but Ilvriss dodged just in time, so the vomit just got over his tail, which was still horrible. But then Nerul was there with the Rubirel Guard! The [Diplomat] waded into the fight, and he dropped another Human with a kick to the chest.

Ilvriss grinned as Captain Osthia began bellowing orders, and [Soldiers] in armor pushed forwards and began handing the Humans’ tails to them. Right up until he saw the huge man in a leather vest and one of those stupid [Rancher] hats turn and size Nerul up.

“There’s a big Drake. Hoi, little man. Let’s dance.”

The [Cattle Baron] came charging through the crowd, and Nerul whirled.

“Ah—”

They collided, and Ilvriss saw Nerul go reeling. He was used to his jovial uncle being one of the bigger men in the room in personality and size, but the [Cattle Baron] was larger and visibly—stronger. When Nerul went to grab his lapels and headbutt him, the man grabbed Nerul’s wrists, forced them back, then began headbutting Nerul repeatedly.

“Uncle!”

Ilvriss fought to get over as Nerul kicked at the man’s legs, earning an oath, and they began to trade punches. Nerul threw a punch that turned the man’s head; the [Cattle Baron] whirled around and knocked Nerul flat. When the dazed [Diplomat] tried to get up, he threw a muzzy punch; the man leaned out of the way, hit Nerul in the chest, and Nerul sagged.

Then Ilvriss drop-kicked the man in the back. And he wished that did more than make the Human stagger.

Ancestors. It was like fighting Grimalkin, and that was not a comparison Ilvriss needed right now. He dodged backwards, avoiding swings that felt like they’d take his head off.

“Get—the—hint?”

The Baron of Beefcakes, the Rancher of Rawhide, the—he didn’t seem to be paying attention to Ilvriss punching him! Ilvriss went staggering back as he earned a kick, but he’d dodged most fists, and after the first flurry of swings, he realized the man had a weakness:

He was no [Soldier]. He was already sweating hard in the heat, and [Rancher] or not, he hadn’t been drilled to fight on the battlefield for long bouts. Ilvriss kept dodging and blocking punches, tiring him out. The Drake began throwing punches as the [Cattle Baron] backed up, raising his fists on the defensive, snarling.

“I haven’t even attacked—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ilvriss got one warning before the kick nearly went straight between his legs. When he leapt sideways with an oath, the [Cattle Baron] was running.

“Boys, let’s ride!”

He dashed back to his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and kicked off so fast that Ilvriss was still running at him when the [Cattle Baron] was riding past him. He rode like he was born to it. One boot knocked Ilvriss flat. The Wall Lord heard whoops, and then horses were stampeding away.

With the cows that Osthia’s people hadn’t saved. Ilvriss pushed himself up slowly, body aching, jaw screaming, and saw Nerul rolling over with a groan.

“That brings me back to my youth. Me and Mister Superior getting thrashed…ow. Nephew, I see there’s an issue.”

Their camp was in disarray. Captain Osthia landed, panting, but not visibly that badly dinged up. She helped Ilvriss up as he rubbed at his face, and he said it. He’d really tried not to say it, but…

“I think we might need some more help, Uncle. Is, uh, is The Wandering Inn busy?”

He’d tried so damn hard to keep it all working and not rely on the one place he felt like he shouldn’t bother. But between personnel shortages, the [Rancher] problems, all these damn nobles trying to impede him, and Drakes being their own worst enemy—he hung his head.

Nerul, much battered, just sat up and winced. He pointed a broken tip of a claw left, and Ilvriss’ head turned. He saw a [Princess], a little white Gnoll girl, a brown-haired Human girl with atrocious fashion sense, and a small entourage staring at him and realized he’d fallen in a cowpat.

Despite all that, Ilvriss smiled.

——

Lyonette du Marquin had promised to help Ilvriss. In truth, there was a bit less altruism in the choice than she cared to admit.

“We’re all sick of the rains, even though it might be ending soon, Wall Lord. With Tessa settled, I thought I’d check in, especially since Nerul insisted you needed help. We owe you for Tenbault. And, er, it’s rather hectic in Liscor.”

“Trouble?”

He was gingerly rubbing cream on his bruises. No healing potions; he’d refused the ones she offered him. Lyonette tried again.

“Honestly, Ilvriss, we have plenty.”

“There’s a shortage, Lyonette. I can’t justify using one on me. I’m even digging with the crews; it’s not pleasant here.”

That made sense, and he did have a kind of charisma and business sense she admired. Though she had to say, his battle-sense for charging the biggest Human she’d ever seen in a hand-to-hand fight might be lacking.

Colfa certainly agreed; she was applying more balm to Nerul with a business-like attitude.

“Vall Lord. You are an idiot for taking on Marvus in a fight. Much less for keeping your cattle out like that.”

Ilvriss eyed Colfa, who’d come riding with Lyonette when she heard where the [Princess] was going. He tried not to snap.

“Miss, er, Colfa. We’ve met at Liscor, correct? It’s not my choice that damn [Cattle Baron] is attacking us! He’s only lucky we haven’t decided to draw swords!”

She raised one brow at him and leaned forwards to pointedly offer him a hand to shake.

“I am Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle, Wall Lord.”

“Val—oh, Ancestors. I apologize—”

She smiled without baring her sharp teeth. The Vampire woman ameliorated her fake accent and adjusted the scarf she liked to wear that hid her usual rashes; her skin was pale, and she wore black with crimson highlights. Fashionable, dangerous, Lyonette’s best friend.

And local to this area, it transpired. She even had a bit of an accent like the locals here.

“It’s been some time since I came home. ‘Taint like I miss it. But I’ll tell you, Wall Lord, what anyone with sense says: don’t make this bloody. The Lischelles won’t win a battle with your soldiers. They won’t try. They’ll ride up, shoot arrows, set bushfires, and make your life a misery. They do it with other [Ranchers], and it’s a bloody, bloody mess.”

Ilvriss grimaced.

“That’s what Nerul said, but the cattle raids—”

“You put all your cows in a pasture and posted guards on them.”

“Yes, and they knock down the walls, steal the cattle, and I’m not made of gold!”

He protested, and Colfa rolled her eyes.

“So, what you do, Wall Lord, is build multiple fences and hang colorful pieces of cloth so the cows don’t stampede through when they get nervous. And get some good dogs; they can also calm frightened herds. I’d have thought you Drakes would get the concept of walls.”

Ilvriss hesitated.

“Oh. I see. Ranching is…not a Salazsarian affair, Miss Colfa.”

She smiled at him politely.

“So I see. I’ll make some recommendations, if I may?”

“Please, Captain Shieldscale and my people can take your advice…ow.”

He tried to get up and winced; he was clearly not feeling good after the punches; his scales were puffed up or discolored, and Lyonette eyed his bare chest. Then realized at least one of her daughters was doing the same.

Dame Ushar handed Ilvriss a fresh shirt to Nanette’s disappointment, and he sat up.

“To be honest, they won’t even take my meetings, only sell me the same damn cows I suspect they’re stealing from me. Any help you could provide would be gratifying, Lyonette.”

She ducked her head.

“I’m completely willing to help, Ilvriss, and Colfa is too! I’m so sorry—”

She recalled when he’d proposed this venture to Erin and that the two things Ilvriss had needed were a Gang to back him up—and a noble to assist him where the Gang couldn’t. Ilvriss had the Sisters of Chell, but she was supposed to be his noble contact. And she’d let him go because, well, she’d been busy.

She had excuses, but when Ilvriss smiled in clear relief, it still hurt. He turned.

“I can, ah, show you around the camp. Let me just check on Brilm’s son. He’s at the [Healer]’s. Uncle. Are you alright?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve eaten a few bad punches, Nephew. Highly embarrassed, nothing more. Frankly, Captain Shieldscale makes us look bad; she barely appears rumpled from that dustup. Miss Colfa, do you know that [Cattle Baron]?”

The two Drakes got up, groaning. Colfa raised her brows.

“Who, Marvus? We used to date.”

Lyonette’s head snapped around, and so did Nanette’s. Mrsha just held a handkerchief over her nose. Colfa’s eyes twinkled.

“I used to live here, Wall Lord. Lischelle farms aren’t far; small wonder they’re one of the groups giving you the most trouble. Well, we own a lot of land. We’re all but nobles. I haven’t come back often, but I can at least get them to let us in. Though it might be—tricky. I didn’t leave the family on the best of terms.”

And she’d run off north to marry Himilt and become a Vampire. Lyonette had so many questions, but then they were moving out of the tent, and Ilvriss was walking along.

“Everyone in good enough shape? Well done, everyone. I’ll have to ask Alrric to authorize combat pay. Again.”

He was making poor jokes, smiling and grimacing, but shaking hands with Gnolls and Drakes who were nursing bruises. To Lyonette’s surprise, Ilvriss got enough grins or jests.

“We showed them. Damn Humans, Wall Lord. Er, present company excepted.”

“Saw a few of them break fingers on the Rubirel Guards and Erchirite Spears. Can’t we just march on them?”

“None of that now. We’re not trying to start a war…”

Ilvriss admonished one Drake and turned. A [Miner] gnawing on a butt of a cigar was thrusting away a [Healer]’s hands; he had a black eye and was glaring.

“If they want a damn war, let’s show them one! How many times do we gotta finish digging up damn pieces of pottery then punch a bunch of idiots, Wall Lord, huh?”

Nerul whispered to Lyonette as Ilvriss talked with the angry [Miner].

“I think that’s [Advance Miner] Georgie. Higher-level fellow. One of the people headhunted for Ilvriss’ special soldier initiatives, but he’s turned down all offers four times. Rather…hotheaded.”

From the way he was snapping back at Ilvriss even with superiors glaring, Lyonette believed that. She whispered back.

“What brought him all the way up north? Loyalty to the Gemscale corporation?”

Nerul snorted.

“Probably just better pay. We are paying a premium for anyone willing to come this far, and he, ah, might have a disposition that makes him harder to hire.”

Ilvriss seemed used to dealing with angry [Miners], though, which surprised Lyonette because she assumed he’d be more strict than that. But a manager of a big Salazsarian company had to have decent interpersonal skills…but it was a Drake’s method. Which was to say…them.

“Georgie, I hear your complaints, and believe me, I don’t like it either. Miss Lyonette and Miss Colfa are experts I’ve called in to negotiate on the matter. Let’s all sleep this one off.”

“Hard to sleep off a black eye, Wall Lord!”

“Precisely. So here’s what I want my [Forepeople] to do. Let’s have a keg brought out and a drink poured all around for every group that had to deal with the Humans. And you’ll see combat pay, as if these were mine-monsters. Acceptable?”

The bristling Drake hesitated.

“I suppose that’s not bad. The good kegs?”

“As good as you get in Human lands.”

Ilvriss gestured to a [Mining Forewoman], who nodded and began overseeing drinks. Lyonette winced. Well, giving your workforce free drinks and money was one way to deal with complaints…

“It’s very, um, corporate how the Wall Lord treats his people.”

She remarked to Nerul, and the [Diplomat] gave her a strange look.

“Corporate? That’s what we are, Miss Lyonette. They may be ‘his people’, but they’re not like your staff or members of your nation. They’re employees, at the end of the day. A brisk handshake and a pat on the back doesn’t earn much love, though you’d be surprised how many companies try it in Salazsar.”

She knew that! It was just—Lyonette shook her head. Ilvriss came back towards them.

“Sorry about that. We’ve had some, ah, interpersonal issues of late.”

“Drakes being Drakes?”

Lyonette meant it as a joke, but Ilvriss’ lips only twitched a bit.

“Sadly…yes. Turnover is very high, and not many locals want to dig, even if they had the classes—which they don’t. We lost a lot of our Esthelm Humans and Liscorian Drakes to what I now realize are preventable issues. Of culture.”

He glowered at a young Drake limping past him and swearing about Humans for some reason. Ilvriss stopped the lad and introduced Lyonette to a young Wall Lord Dramm, who blinked at her. And then stared at the ring on her finger.

Ilvriss hurried Lyonette off as more people eyed the [Princess], and Lyonette realized in hindsight she should have taken off Ilvriss’ Ring of Salazsar he’d given Erin. But it was useful and—

“I apologize, Ilvriss. It’s just that I needed it in case of trouble and—”

“No, no. Quite appropriate you should have it. Er, just rumors, but I suppose that’s as per usual. What is keeping you away from Liscor and the inn?”

She flushed, because he assumed they were leaving because of something and was thusly entirely accurate. Lyonette cleared her throat as Nanette piped up.

“That would be the damn elections, Wall Lord.”

“Nanette, language!”

“Sorry, I meant to say the fucking elections. It’s in the last stretch, and everyone harasses the inn nonstop whenever we appear. The Council’s fighting for their seats, and they have lots of challengers.”

Lyonette winced, but Ilvriss frowned.

“I thought we liked the current Council. Very progressive, very adaptive—don’t we?”

He turned to Lyonette, and she hesitated.

“Well, yes, of course. Elirr, Krshia, even maybe Lism, but therein lies the problem, Ilvriss. The Wandering Inn’s backing is, ah, not exactly a vote of confidence for many Liscorians.”

“Ah, then why ask…?”

“Well, they want us to do something. Create a Solstice event, offer Liscor a substantive break on door fees—and I don’t really want to embroil myself in Liscorian politics. With respect, we’re trying to draw a line between us and the city that way. Mostly, it’s them wanting us to literally unearth some monsters or create a new invention or some such.”

She sighed, and Ilvriss gave her a sympathetic nod.

“Fair enough. Well then, accommodations are not nearly as pleasant as the inn, but I’ll put you up in the best tents if you don’t have your own.”

They did, in fact, and Ushar and the staff that Lyonette had taken—all Calanferians because Goblins and Antinium would be more headaches—were ready for a bit of a trip.

All except for one. It turned out that one of the aces in the hole that Ilvriss had been counting on to help with his problems—or at least make life interesting—bowed out.

I bow out, Wall Lord. I must take my leave and go back home. Mother, I shall return tonight with greatest sympathies. It is not often I am routed before I find chaos or chaos finds me, but I must away.

Mrsha held up the notecard, and Ilvriss took it, mystified. Then stared at her face.

Mrsha the Menace, the Purveyor of Tragedies, the [Survivor of Fates], the growing darling daughter of Lyonette, had not taken a handkerchief away from her face except to write that one missive.

She held up another card.

This place stinks. It stinks so hecking bad how can you stand it I’m going to die.

The Drakes and Humans sniffed the air, and Ilvriss hesitated.

“Oh, the, er, manure? It is rather pervasive. And everywhere. Watch your step, everyone. I gather most of the ground is, well, just manure. This has been cattle territory for ages.”

It’s not just the manure. The ground stinks. The town stinks. I want to stick my head into a privy, and it’d be better.

Mrsha’s eyes were literally watering, and Ilvriss grunted.

“That would be the lack of any septic systems. They have a…pit. Where one empties their buckets or outhouses. It sloshes when it rains.”

Lyonette turned mildly green, and Ilvriss shuddered.

“No plumbing, and yes, there’s an odor, especially in some of the dig sites…the Gnolls tell me it’s bad for one week, then their noses stop working, but none are, uh, children.”

Taking children here is a crime, Wall Lord. I must go.

It really didn’t smell that bad, but Lyonette knew her nose was many times less powerful than Mrsha’s. She knelt down.

“Are you sure, Mrsha? I’d love to have you, and if you’re worried about causing an incident, we’re going to be very responsible here—”

Mother, with all due respect, I could care less if a second [Palace of Fates] opened up and swallowed me whole. At least that place smelled nice. I am going to puke, then make a nosebag out of that to feel better. That’s how bad this place smells.

“…Okay then. Er, well, we’ll have Ser Dalimont bring you back right away. Do you not want to stay at least to say hi to—”

Mrsha backed up. Lyonette shot Ilvriss an apologetic look, and he scratched at his head.

“Well, I shall have to make do with a Lischelle, a [Princess], and her trusty staff and [Knight], then. I hope we meet under more pleasant-smelling circumstances, Mrsha.”

She waved at him, and Nanette piped up.

“And a witch. I notice you haven’t commented on my attire, Wall Lord. How rude of you!”

“I see the polka dots, Nanette. I don’t speak on crimes against humanity, let alone Drake-kind.”

That made Lyonette smile. She began asking Ilvriss about his woes as he smiled and seemed to relax in their presence. Though it quickly became clear he did need help, and not just with ornery [Ranchers]. It really didn’t stink that bad, though Lyonette did tell Ushar to investigate baths for tonight.

She was informed Ilvriss had a few permanent shower spells via magical water rigged up. No plumbing meant you had to make a wood fire and heat a bath…in a tent. Oh, and they had a chamberpot for privies you needed to empty in the septic pond.

Pond.

Lyonette was an adult who worked and lived in the world. She didn’t let anyone do anything she wouldn’t, these days. Even so, hauling her own bucket over to the waste pits…

She began to wonder how Ilvriss had survived this long. The north, as it transpired, was not that pleasant away from civilization for someone used to a Drake city.

Or maybe it was just being alone and far from home.

——

Selys Shivertail didn’t miss home. She didn’t like the north; in fact, she’d been drifting from city to city and not liked any of them enough to stay.

But she really, truly, didn’t miss home.

Not with the inn causing trouble and killing people, like an infection that couldn’t be stopped. That…that inn with that Human she’d once called her friend.

Erin. She’d been innocent when Selys had offered Erin help. Selys, the first person to be Erin’s friend in this world, and look what her reward was.

Her grandmother dead. Her city attacked over and over, and Selys homeless.

Of course, you could argue that none of this was Erin’s fault, that Selys had chosen to leave. Certainly, there was a voice in Selys’ head that said that. But she still saw Tekshia lying on the pyre as they were burning her, and Selys knew she’d never forgive Erin.

Not for that. Nor for Zel. Nor for…

She was poking at a wobbling abalone, not really hungry, when her belt vibrated and squeaked. As if they could tell she was brooding, two little companions, her only friends in this world, rustled, and Selys jumped and whispered.

“Shh, you two! I’m in a fancy restaurant! Here.”

She cut some abalone off and fed it into a belt pouch. Then smiled at a diner giving her a very strange look at another table.

Rhata and Haldagaz nibbled at the abalone and evidently found it to their liking, because they squeaked for more. Which was good because Selys didn’t have much of an appetite, despite this being a super-fancy restaurant in the north.

First Landing, no less. It was an amazing city, even if it was diametrically different to the Walled Cities. She was rather surprised no one had given her a hard time for being a Drake, but like a Walled City, you got non-natives enough that there were a few Drakes here.

Even if she’d had to get used to the comments. Most people weren’t overtly hostile to Drakes, but she supposed it was the experience of being a foreigner in Human lands.

Like, say, a Human girl who came to a Drake city where no one would help or trust her.

Selys stabbed herself with a fork rather than pursue that line of thought. She glared at her meal before assuring the [Waitress] that yes, she loved the abalone, delicious. Really.

She had lost her place at home, anyways. As an [Heiress], none of her old friends could relate to her. Selys had gold, but no job. And the job she wanted, she deserved—Guildmistress of the Adventurer’s Guild—had been blocked to her.

By…her grandmother.

That hurt most of all. To realize Tekshia thought that little of her. Now Selys would never prove—so she left.

She left. She was going to make something of herself, up north. Selys had the coin. She had the ability.

Even without managing her properties in Liscor, Selys Shivertail was Rich, and you had to capitalize it. She’d merely been ‘rich’ with the Heartflame Breastplate generating gold for her and people like Keldrass renting it for absurd sums.

But with her apartments pulling in a tidy sum, and other investments generating income, she was wealthier than most other [Landlords]. The real profits were from Solar Cycles, though.

She had a stake in their company, having been the money behind Kevin’s bicycles. And that made her very Rich.

Kevin. Another casualty of being friends with Erin. Selys stared at her plate. Then she went to get the bill. She was in no mood for the food; she just tossed the abalone in her belt pouch. She passed by some Human [Lord] flirting outrageously with a hugely embarrassed woman with scars all over her arms. He was trying to lick her fingers clean, and Selys watched as one of the [Maître D’hôtel] tried to get him to stop or kick him out.

Who came up with a class like that, anyways? It was so…Drathian-sounding. Selys left and went stomping back through the street to the finest inn money could buy without being a noble, then began packing her things.

She’d just come to First Landing for the sights. She wouldn’t find work or a project here. Two little rats scurried out of her belt pouches after the Drake had found a sleeping tonic and used that to drift off. They ran around the room, concerned for her.

Someone had to be.

——

Haldagaz’s studied opinion on the matter of present events was that too much abalone would give you bad poos, given that the rats weren’t used to a seafood diet. He based this on his intuition, observations from watching the non-ratians of the world talking and teaching him without knowing it, and his reading of Selys’ books in her library.

And Calruz’s Skill. The [Honorable Prisoner] had gained a number of Skills to empower his little rat companions, who had been his only friends in prison. He was doing better, which Haldagaz was grateful for, even if he wished he could be with his friend and savior. The fact that Haldagaz felt more intelligent ipso facto indicated Calruz was advancing in levels.

However, someone had to be with their other miserable friend, Selys, who had no friends in this world. Whether that was by her own actions or the confluences of fate, who could speculate? It was not for a rat to moralize.

He might have vouchsafed, however, that Selys would have had a link back to Liscor had she allowed it. She had a number of magical safeguards that had kept her from trouble. An anti-pickpocketing enchantment on her bag of holding, anti-poison and an arrowward ring—and a new Wistram-made ring that prevented [Appraisal] and scrying spells.

Including the [World’s Eye Theatre]. Or at least, it made it hard to find Selys. Haldagaz didn’t know the specifics, but he recalled Mrsha trying to contact Selys with some regularity. Selys had not been…pleasant to the girl. So, Mrsha had eventually stopped. Which had made the Drake more annoyed for a week. But that was her choice, wasn’t it?

Haldagaz could not communicate these thoughts satisfactorily in any medium, even the squeaking of rats, for they had no language half so advanced. But he tried his best to communicate it to his sister, Rhata, who had been granted strength of body to match his acuity of the mind.

She ate half her body weight in abalone. Haldagaz sighed.

Bad poops it was.

He nosed around the room, peeking out the window to stare at First Landing as Rhata did what she could to help Selys. Namely, making sure the door was actually closed and locked—the Drake hadn’t done that. Pulling together some of Selys’ scattered possessions she’d forgotten so she picked them up the next day, and refilling her waterflask with water from the magical faucet.

In these ways, the rats liked to think they earned their keep. Why, they’d helped defend Selys from the machinations of other rodents, bugs, and even a seagull once on their long journey. Haldagaz’s mind and Rhata’s ability to beat up even a seagull meant…

…Haldagaz stood outside the window and rested a paw on the glass. He saw Selys tossing and turning despite the sleep tonic, still clothed, tears in her eyes. Rhata joined him solemnly, and they waited.

Such a miserable, lonely Drake. He hoped she found something out here. Something to give her a purpose. One should have a purpose. But even if they had none of that…they had honor.

That was what the Minotaur and his first pupil believed in. So Haldagaz waited for the day to dawn, curling up beside his sister. Abiding ever onwards.

——

Rhata’s stomach hurt. In the middle of the night, she had to poo bad. So she did. She had no idea where they were. The big horn-man was gone. She missed him.

But the food was good.

——

The next day, Selys Shivertail rolled over, stared at the sun blearily, then at the largest rat droppings she’d ever seen in her life. She went to toss it, because she didn’t feel like giving the staff that job, and tipped well, then left.

She did make one stop on her way out of the city, but it went as well as she had expected. Better, really.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you had an opening at your Guild? I’m travelling the north, and I have a good amount of experience—I’m looking to upgrade my class.”

It wasn’t the most standard job application, but the [Receptionist] in the Adventurer’s Guild at First Landing could look Selys up on file unlike most smaller Guilds, and Selys’ resume was apparently impressive enough that the Guildmaster himself came out.

Guildmaster Winstre was a former Named-rank adventurer. Which befit the largest Adventurer’s Guild in the north, but it was hugely amazing to shake his hand for Selys.

“You were one of the Conquerers of Chalence, correct, Guildmaster?”

He was dark-skinned, a former [Sailor]-turned-adventurer, and he had a huge scar that became a starburst on one arm, which he showed her.

“Not one of the rich ones! Haha…well, that still smarts my ego, but yes. I got this from the boss monster itself. Damned super-sea urchin.”

“That’s really what it was? I mean, I read all the accounts, but…”

Winstre waved this off as he rubbed at his arm. It moved around slowly, and she saw it had very little mobility. She bet his bones were badly splintered, but he was still in great condition.

“That’s what I call it, and why not? Chalence had a lot of water around it, despite its proximity to the mountains. Perhaps some sea urchins found the magic there and mutated…whatever it was, it was all magic at that point. Monsters always are. Each spine could change, adapt, and it could disassemble itself and move through the inner maze. Fast as a Demon, too. No one in close-combat range had a chance, but, well…”

His lips twisted.

“Orchestra had the right Skills and setup to do the job. You know how they finally got it?”

“Via the water. It conducted the sound, and when they heated it up—”

“Boom. You know your stuff. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from a [Receptionist] at a real Guild. Ours barely qualifies sometimes. Half our people are either retired old guard or young nobles playing at being an adventurer with little to do. Unless the Kraken Eaters or a real threat pops up, in which case I have to pull both groups back and find active Gold-rankers to do the job.”

“Wouldn’t Cosmenaut the Duelist or Caleis, the Favor of the North, be around…? I know many have left—”

The Guildmaster snorted.

“You’d think, but Cosmenaut’s too busy defending people’s honor, and Caleis would slay monsters—but the nobles just go to him directly anyways. If it’s not on their lands…we have plenty of powerful nobles, but the Adventurer’s Guild is for rich and poor alike. And there’s not much interest in the latter.”

Selys nodded respectfully. That was a fascinating, if dismaying insight into the north’s famous adventuring teams. She also appreciated that he knew Liscor and respected it! But Winstre kept up to date on adventurer goings on. He leaned forwards, offering her some coffee.

“Tell me about the Horns of Hammerad.”

She flushed, thinking of Pisces, but she did. They had an enjoyable half an hour before Winstre grinned, then checked her file.

“I’d offer you a job, Miss Selys, but I can’t do better than, well, [Receptionist]. I have two Acting Guildmasters, but we don’t have the hours or, really, work for a third.”

“I understand. I just wanted to at least say hello in such a famous Guild.”

He smiled at her, then added the part she didn’t like, but was used to.

“And it says here you weren’t recommended by Guildmistress Tekshia. With respect to her—and I am sorry to hear of her passing—that makes it harder to bump you up so high.”

Selys tensed up, and there was a squeak from her belt pouch that made the man do a double-take. She knew this wasn’t the Guild, but she argued it anyways, like she’d done dozens of times.

“I understand that, Guildmaster, but she was my grandmother, and I think—you know how nepotism works? Tekshia was the opposite of that. I just need a chance! I’m overqualified for a [Receptionist], and if not that—”

He was nodding, glancing down at the file he held.

“I understand, Miss Selys. But I can’t give a recommendation to another Adventurer’s Guild. As a [Receptionist], yes! If you want one, I’ll write it up, but to take over in any Guild requires you to know the spot or…”

Have a recommendation. Selys’ teeth ground together, but she held out a hand.

“I—understand, sir.”

He got up and shook her hand, sympathetic.

“If it helps, there’s not much harder than Liscor I could name; a few Guilds—maybe, but those are because they’re underserved, not overwhelmed. If you want to get some real experience, such that anyone’d hire you, the New Lands are trouble.”

“I know. But guess who went the wrong way?”

He grinned ruefully.

“Well, those Wistram Carriages take you far if you can afford them…”

“Thankfully, that’s how I’ve been getting around.”

His brows rose, and he double-checked the file. Selys was aware how expensive the magical carriages were. There were a limited number, and you had to pay lots of gold to reserve one. Hundreds of gold for the trips she’d been on.

Well, she was rich enough. The Guildmaster walked her to the door.

“Ah, it’s Solar Cycles, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be able to recommend me to that place, would you? I’d love one of their products…you can get knockoffs, but the real thing would be a treat.”

“I’ll swap you recommendations, Guildmaster!”

She teased him, and he sighed.

“Well, then…”

They were almost at the doors when an impatient man shouted.

“I have a monster issue plaguing my ships! I require adventurers!”

He had come in and didn’t want to wait in line, clearly. But there were nobles and commonfolk in line, so Selys rolled her eyes at classic Human nobility trying to skip the line. Guildmaster Winstre grimaced.

“Hey, loudmouth, wait your turn like the rest of us commonfolk, eh?”

An annoyed man waiting for help from a Bronze-ranker for his basement turned and smirked at the nobleman, who was wearing a very odd dress. Selys frowned. Unlike modern clothing, which had taken notes from Magnolia Reinhart pioneering Earth-like fashion, his coat was bright red and had the oddest patterning she’d seen.

Red and white and gold, and there was a crest on his chest that wasn’t one of the Five Families or any major house she knew—and she’d educated herself once Humans had come to Liscor. And his accent was—

Before she could place him, the nobleman walked forwards and backhanded the speaker across the face. There was a gasp, and Guildmaster Winstre growled.

“How dare—!”

The nobleman snapped his fingers and a hither-to unseen [Knight] wearing huge furred armor strode forwards and knocked four more people out of line. He only stopped when an appalled [Lord] backed up.

“Sir.”

“Commonfolk. Speaking back to me! Taima, preserve me! This Gura-damned continent is full of strangeness!”

Selys stared as the…nobleman? From the Taimaguros Dominion nodded to the [Lord], speaking to himself. Then Guildmaster Winstre was striding for him, so furious he gave off an aura that knocked everyone back but the [Knight].

Selys didn’t wait for the fight. She had places to be, and frankly, if that kind of person was in First Landing, she was out. It made the Five Families seem like reasonable people by comparison. She got in a carriage and headed south, choosing a town at random. Searching for…something. Because, she realized, she could not be content with being unimportant. Not after Liscor. If she gave Erin anything, it was that the [Innkeeper] had ruined her on a quiet life. Selys had spoken to Winstre like equals because they were, classes and deeds aside.

Both had seen real monsters. Selys had seen war and horrors.

It changed you, even if you didn’t want it to.

——

Your first war changed you, they said. How much…she hadn’t known until she had been there and seen it.

She had nightmares. And she stayed up too late because she knew the nightmares would continue, so she woke at 10 AM and screamed once, then came out of her bedroom.

“They’re attacking! They’re—”

A passing servant stared wide-eyed at Lady Desinee El, and a resigned member of her family, who’d had this happen for the last three months straight, snapped.

“Desinee! Either see a [Thought Healer] or buy a silencing spell, because I won’t tolerate this any longer! I’m informing Lord Deilan!”

Which, of course, got Desinee a meeting with the overworked, harried leader of the House of El. The young Lord Deilan El.

He wasn’t that young. But he was compared to the previous matriarch, and he stood in her shadow, so he would be young, untested, and…and just not her.

Maviola El, whom Desinee couldn’t believe was dead sometimes. Not her. Of course, Desinee had loved and been annoyed by that overbearing woman, who had ruled the House of El with a flaming fist for over a decade. She had carried them through the Second Antinium War and into the end of an era.

Not perfectly; she and Fulviolo, her brother and the former house head, hadn’t kept El any richer than before. They’d made mistakes, but the two had fought wars against Drakes, Antinium, and even other Humans and won.

They’d been splendid heroes of another age. And now she was gone. Ridden off into the sunset and vanished.

Desinee considered herself lucky to have seen Maviola again before the end. Even if she didn’t understand her…it had been something to see the young [Lady] in her glory.

Even then, with all she’d done, fighting the Assassin’s Guild, waving that flag and burning across Izril, Desinee thought that had been the final flare of Maviola’s life. When she had been truly young, Desinee remembered how she had burned across Izril. Fought with the hated Drakes like Salazsar and damned Lord Eschowar and his lightning strike raids in the north.

So yes. Deilan El was no Maviola. But that was arguably a good thing for the House of El because Deilan had what so few of his predecessors had: good business sense.

There was a rumor the House of El was cursed to be forever poor. Which was not a real curse (the House of El had checked many times) just bad business. They were inventors, artisans. If they didn’t make what was wanted or popular, they had to tighten their belts. And tighten again. And then buy a new belt to tighten, which cost money they didn’t have…

Deilan, though, Deilan was the one selling Kaalblades, and wouldn’t you know it, but they were popular thanks to a certain Wind Runner. He’d taken the windfall, reinvested it, and there were other good factors.

“Noelictus wants more crossbows for their Veteran Hunters. As many high-end models as they can get. That border conflict with Ailendamus shook them up, they’ve found more gold, or…and we’re solidly in the black on bicycles, skateboards, and Earther-tech.”

He was speaking animatedly to a half-Elf scratching at her ears with a quill.

“I know, Lord Deilan. But it feels wrong.”

“How so, Zelonica?”

He frowned as Desinee waited for him to break off his meeting. Deilan and his assistant really were products of the last generation. Zelonica was the daughter of none other than Zedalien, the legendary helper of House El, who’d quit with Maviola’s passing.

She was ‘new’ to her post, which meant she’d only worked in the family business for thirty years, and at fifty years old she looked young. But she’d lived among Humans that entire time; she’d grown up running around with Desinee as the older kid, and Desinee quite resented how damn young Zelonica looked. Now, the [Production Manager] gave Deilan a helpless look as she showed him her spreadsheet.

“I keep adding up our budgets, and you’re right, we’re making a profit.”

“And?”

“…And it doesn’t feel right. Zedalien never had such a good year.”

Deilan stopped tensing up and smiled, and Desinee wore a pained smile too. He sighed.

“We owe it to Maviola. Her last project was the right one to back. Not least because Archmage Valeterisa is so famous.”

He nodded at a portrait on the walls, that of Maviola El. Not as she had been in age, but the fiery-haired [Lady of Fire] blowing a kiss at the viewer. It was rather provocative, but Desinee supposed someone had to remember the House of El had been that.

The rest of them were, well, dull. Deilan was a [Lord of Manufacture]. He’d probably levelled, but he was no Level 40 prodigy. And Desinee was a [Artisan Lady], even lower-level. Level 28, actually.

She’d levelled six times surviving the Winter Solstice. Which was why she was here. Zelonica excused herself as Deilan turned to Desinee.

“Desinee, good. We owe some of that success to you too. You being in Liscor and managing to get images and some of the parts of Solar Cycles’ work let us make our versions—even if they maintain a monopoly on premium bicycles.”

He grimaced at that, and so did she; the House of El hated being second best. They were the counterpart to Pallass; the creators of the north. He went on as she nodded.

“Not least, you’ve been there when Miss Griffin was moving around. Another asset. How is your project, incidentally?”

House of El nobles worked. Maviola had insisted on it; if you didn’t work, you didn’t get your allowance. If Terlands had their silly Golems they loved to collect and hoard and fight over who got to use, then the House of El oversaw projects, not land.

They had the smallest holdings of any of the Five Families except for the Wellfars, who lived at sea, because they devoted their time to workshops instead. Each family had a ‘project’. Some played it safe and made old standbys, like the automatically-reloading crossbows, and earned mostly safe incomes that way.

Desinee, as a married [Lady] with a young son to raise, had more free time for a bit of the experimental stuff; her husband, Irve, was always just making custom crossbows, the high-end ones that cost tens of thousands of gold pieces to buy.

“Decently, Deilan. We’ve put together a bicycle that lets you attach a little carriage for children. Er, but it’s not that safe; it needs far too much cushioning if you wipe out. And we managed to make a chain-version of the magical lifts that Wistram has.”

“Oh, a mechanical elevator? Like Pallass?”

“Yes…it’s rather heavy and makes a loud sound.”

Using the bicycle chains but adapted for more intricate gear systems just couldn’t beat magic. Deilan sighed.

“Understandable, but we may have some buyers. If we can pass it as ‘Earth tech’, someone will purchase it. I’m half minded to send you to the Great Plains to see if you can get a piano copy…”

“Deilan, I have Qibby!”

She protested; her boy wasn’t barely two! Deilan coughed and shuffled his papers.

“Right, of course. Doing well, is he?”

“Yes…”

He’d forgotten about Qibby. Desinee saw Deilan adjust his spectacles.

“Perhaps the air is good for the lad? No, no, a nursemaid could take care of him. It’s just that, well, you may need to go on a trip, Desinee. At least until the [Thought Healer] manages to work on those night terrors! We’ve had two [Master Crafters] complain they slipped while working on enchanting runes, and you know that’s gold when they do.”

Desinee turned bright red.

“I—it’s not that bad, surely.”

“It was the Master Rune of Animus.”

She swallowed. That was a thousand-gold piece rune. Desinee began to explain herself as Deilan glanced over his spectacles at her.

“I am trying, Deilan, truly! It’s just that it’s not as simple as soundproofing my rooms—they are soundproofed, and my chambers as well!”

It was just that she came running out of her chambers, screaming because she saw the Draugr charging at her. Sleepwalking ran in the El family, and Desinee…

Desinee had been at the Winter Solstice. She hadn’t done much, just activated some Skills and—and seen it.

The terror of that lady with three faces. The way the Five Families and Drakes had fought off such overwhelming odds. The Hag Queens—

The [Innkeeper].

Deilan cleared his throat.

“I know you’ve done a lot in the name of the House of El, Desinee. Maviola would be proud. But this is a matter of, well, work.”

“I—I understand.”

“Perhaps if you went on a vacation?”

Desinee hesitated.

“Qibby’s, ah—Qibby’s sleeping in a separate room at the moment. I wake him if we’re together.”

She hated to admit it, but both the boy and her husband had been avoiding her at night. Deilan was sympathetic and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps a solo vacation, then? To First Landing or…? You know, we could use someone to sell our designs. Maybe do a tour, hit Liscor again, and see if they have anything new. I hear Solar Cycles is back with a will. Drat them.”

He smiled, then gazed down at his hands. Desinee knew that the inventor, Kevin, was dead, and so their greatest foe was gone. But she couldn’t celebrate it.

“Maybe.”

“You’re quite good in the field, Desinee. Perhaps you should consider doing sales. Why, you’ve survived two major battles. The Village of the Dead and Liscor. Some are saying you’re a miniature Maviola!”

The field was what they called anything but their headquarters. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Maviola never had children, and I hate sales, Deilan. I’ll…consider a vacation.”

He smiled at her, then his eyes slid sideways.

“Wonderful. And we have a full catalog of items to show prospective buyers. And a bag of holding of samples—”

Zelonica was back. With a bag of holding and a bright catalogue in hand. Then Desinee realized that Deilan’s suggestion was actually more of what was going to happen starting now. She leapt up.

“Deilan! I have a child!”

He pretended to be working, and when Desinee dashed back to hear her husband and baby boy cry and wail for their beloved mother and wife, she found the boy solemnly watching his father carving a rune into a piece of scrapwood. It made the little piece of wood glow, and Qibby giggled, then glanced up. Irve coughed.

“Well, it’s terrible, Desinee, but maybe the fresh air will do you some good?”

Qibby, as a boy of two now, which meant he was a bit older than an Earther—apparently—nodded. She gazed at them in horror, and Irve, in his hapless way, realized he’d insulted her.

“I just meant that we have many prospective buyers coming, and you do alarm people, Desinee. It’s just a short break, and it is business. We’ve never done so well. Deilan’s even talking about re-enchanting the roof, and that would be splendid!”

Desinee gasped, then burst into tears.

“You don’t know what I’ve seen! None of you—h-how dare you all pretend I’m insane when—when—”

She stared around. And her lips moved as Qibby fled and Irve shuffled back, searching for Deilan. But Desinee just stood there.

“It feels like a great battle. I know it was. But the rest of the world didn’t see it. Pretends it never happened, like the Goblin King. Both did occur, I know it. We have fought and bled, and some of us died for the north. No, for Izril, for the world. Why is it all so peaceful?”

She gazed at her son and husband, and they stared back, and she realized she was the one out of place, not them. Marked by a war no one really believed had been that bad.

Change and change again. Desinee gazed at a little image of Maviola on her mantle. And she wondered what she would be in this new era.

——

At some point, you had to assume great events in the world were all connected. There was, apparently, a literal string of fate that you could see and alter.

He’d heard that from a [Witch], once. A dreadful [Witch] who’d dug her way down to the heart of the world and trapped an Old One in a pit of magic to summon until the end of time.

He should know. He’d done the digging. And she hadn’t helped a damn bit.

There was a synectic view of the world by which one could predict the future. Again—whatever in the name of Giants’ dangling testicles that meant.

No one used the expression ‘Giants’ dangling testicles’ anymore. That hurt him more than most changes about the world. Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer supposed that was because no one had seen one in ages. But he felt like that kind of thing should have been etched into the memories of mortals forever.

It was probably the third most upsetting thing to happen to him recently.

Number one, the death of his Master, the Putrid One. The final end to the most glorious being to ever grace this world, slain by the unworthy, mewling shits of a [Paladin] and her team he had ground into paste a fraction of a moment too late.

Two, the realization that another world had existed where his Master had lived and some alternate copy of him had pledged a kind of crazed loyalty to Erin Solstice, who’d become a living goddess, and that he was sharing those memories and charge to help that most wretched of beings in this or any world.

Three, the lack of the expression about Giants’ hanging testicles.

Four and onwards were probably being bested by a [Princess] in a game of gambling and being suckered into a Skill-based pact and being repeatedly stabbed by that damned Unicorn, but really, the top three were the worst.

Tolveilouka stood on the top of a local cliff, plucking feathers off a bird. A living bird. It shrieked and writhed, and he patted it on the head.

“Shh. Shh. I’m sharing my emotions, wing-friend. Like my kind does. This is how I feel.”

He plucked another feather out, and the blue bird screamed. Which made Tolveilouka feel better. He sat as some [Lady] left what he was told was ‘The House of El’.

Replacements for the Drakes and Gnolls. Tolveilouka sighed.

“Pathetic. Really.”

The trembling bird didn’t get it, but he did. He spoke conversationally.

“I could hop down there and wipe the entire place out in…eight minutes. Even if I didn’t get them all, the rest would die of plague thereafter. I was saving them, working up to it. First villages, seeding the area, then—topple a few of the institutions. Place a few Drake scales down, watch them fight. Now look at me.”

He plucked another feather and listened to the bird.

“It’s all her fault. The [Innkeeper]. She gave me a charge. Somehow, she knew that copy of me might make it here. So—and this is hilarious—”

His fist clenched just tight enough to make the bird scream, but not kill it; he needed an audience. The half-Elf’s face warped as he lifted the bird up, blood vessels bulging like his flesh which began to rot—

“Now I have to be helpful. Because that was the last thing my Master ordered, and she thinks I’m going to do it, despite it being another world, another time that never was! That pathetic little shit of a goddess…”

The bird didn’t reply. After a moment, Tolveilouka released his grip, and it panted, making a sound, begging for life. Tolveilouka sat there.

“…Ridiculous, really. It’s not my Master. Even though it was. Even if—no. It’s not like I have anything better to do, and I know who killed them. Those…dead gods. So they die. And that aligns with her request. Tactics. You fight a war with any allies you have. I even teamed up with that Silver Dragon once. It’s just—”

He was putting his hands out, gesticulating, making boxes. This was that, and that was this—he let go of the bird. It tried to flutter away, but it had lost a lot of feathers, and he caught it. Brought it to eye-level and smiled as it shook.

“—do you really think it changes who I am? For instance, do you think you are going to enjoy the next few days, little bird? Divine goddess of goodness and hugs giving me a mandate or not?”

It didn’t reply. But the angry raven who exploded up and pecked out one of Tolveilouka’s eyes did squawk. He fell backwards, cursing.

“What the—”

Wham. He went tumbling down the cliff he’d been dangling over, hitting every rock on the way down. He broke his neck twice, landed in a way that ruptured his spinal column, and above him, the raven grabbed the little bird and flew off. Tolveilouka sat up, slowly, as his body re-knit.

It wasn’t the pain that made him leap up so fast he sent shockwaves through the forest. It was the indignation.

“How dare you—”

He landed on the cliff, flesh bulging outwards, ready to rupture and obliterate anything moving with plague—

Nothing. No bird. No animals. Nothing for miles around him. Tolveilouka swivelled about and realized the forest had gone dead. The raven was gone with the bird it had rescued. He sat back down. Regrew his eye.

“Damn [Druids].”

No regular bird could peck out his eye that fast. Either that or a [Witch]’s familiar. If he saw it again, he’d…

Reflexively, Tolveilouka cast around. He spun, checked his back, then peered down the rocky cliff. He swivelled around, walked over, checked behind an aspen tree. Looked behind him again.

“No Unicorn. Where the hell is he?”

A bit unsettled, Tolveilouka went back to his seat. By now, that damn Unicorn would have snuck up and stabbed him. This entire area was his ‘territory’; the headquarters of El bordered the Vale Forest.

He really was gone. To those New Lands or further? Tolveilouka scratched at his flowing hair. Brushed it out.

“Well, that fool’s left Izril to me. I’ll cut a swath across his precious home! Even if that Dragon—wait, damn, he’s there again. But he dares not strike me in my Master’s abode! I’ll—”

He raised a hand, grinning, then stared at it. Lay down on the rocks.

“Damn that woman.”

He supposed he really had to do it, didn’t he? Be helpful. Tolveilouka’s cheeks bulged. He puked maggot-infested rot over the cliff. Then, gloomily, had to clean it up before it created an infestation.

——

Here was the thing. Tolveilouka didn’t have to do anything. If Erin Solstice in her alternate Goddess form came before him, all things else being equal, and pleaded with him to help her, he’d have happily ripped her face off and tried to plague even the divine.

…But his Master, the Putrid One, the great Zacheales, the ultimate [Necromancer] who would never be surpassed, Tolveilouka’s creator who had taken a pitiful half-Elf and made him into the ultimate servant, his love and adoration—

He had liked Erin. Which was fine! His Master could have bad taste. Tolveilouka had disposed of irritants not deserving of the Putrid One’s affection over his long life. Other servants competing for the throne of his master’s love.

Just…if that was all, he’d have let Erin live. The complication was that she and the Putrid One were on the same side. That was, against the dead gods. And they…they had killed the Putrid One.

Taken his ghost and thus erased any hope of his return. This was true; Tolveilouka had heard it from Erin and confirmed it via the memories of alternate-Tolveilouka. Thusly, he had six beings—or was it less?—that had to die.

No matter what, he would kill them in ways so horrific he had yet to imagine them. And that was the problem, you see?

Tolveilouka was not sure he could kill them. Kasigna had been…dangerous. She’d tried to control him and come closer than any other being he’d ever met. Her power was almost that of the Putrid One.

If he’d wanted to, and specialized in mere Draugr, his master could have summoned a hundred thousand in one action. With preparation. Definitely.

…Tolveilouka didn’t know how to kill his foes. He’d given it a damn good shot with all the traditional methods. He needed knowledge. He needed a plan, and he was aware the [Innkeeper] knew things about the gods he didn’t. They were on the same side. And his Master had told him to listen to Erin Solstice in that alternate world.

“Argh!”

Tolveilouka stopped slamming his head into a cliff when it collapsed on him. He dug himself out of the rubble and gloomily went for a walk. He ran ten miles in ten minutes, looking for something to torment, but everything was avoiding him.

He was still Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer, though, the second-greatest traitor to half-Elves, the second-most abhorred member of their species to ever live. His master was obviously first.

The half-Elf told himself that. This ‘Irurx’ fellow? Nothing but a few-centuries old poser who did a few things with bugs. This ‘Death of Magic’? Bah. Young.

If they knew he was alive, the half-Elves would turn their kingdoms brown with terror. He was the monster who could do anything, kill anything…

And he had to help the damn [Innkeeper]. He ground his teeth together and spat one into the ground.

Fine! Fine. But he was going to do it as himself. The [Innkeeper] would regret his assistance. Right, so who did he have to help?

Giants’ hanging testicles, he had ulcers all over his stomach purely from the stress.

——

Tolveilouka went for a walk to think. He strolled along, past a plateau of stone he felt like he’d been responsible for creating. Going for a walk through House Veltras’ lands.

Wasn’t this where we’d had that knock-down, drag-out fight with the [Archmage of Tectonic Might]? Tolveilouka felt like he’d eaten a Tier 7 spell around here and had to crawl away from the fighting while his master took on the [Archmage].

Funny. There were Humans living on top of the plateau, now. An entire city of ‘em. You looked away one second, and…

——

High above Tolveilouka, Lord Swey held a sword in hand, his other fake-hand at the ready. For…something. His family and all the residents of his lands were either here, armed and searching the forest for whatever was out there, or ready to scale ropes and evacuate.

Something—he watched the trees in the forest slowly rippling as flocks of birds flew in dead silence. Evading the thing knocking down the vast trees one-after-another. In seconds. It was coming this way, and he’d sent for House Veltras’ forces, but Tyrion was on another continent. Swey waited, sweating—

——

Tolveilouka kicked over another tree glumly. There was…another reason Tolveilouka had to help Erin. His copy had brought back more knowledge with him. This was just personal.

A little aside as worlds ended. A realization—inference, really—that his beloved master, the Putrid One…hadn’t really cared about Tolveilouka as the world ended. An understanding, delivered to him, that he never had truly loved Tolveilouka as much as his creation and servant had loved him.

That…

Tolveilouka didn’t put that down to another world being different, or a lie, or something. That was probably true.

You didn’t live as long as he had with his master and not notice the signs. It wasn’t like he was a fool. Nor had he cared, really. Love was allowed to run stronger one way. The Putrid One was a [Necromancer], and he had created servants who were, ultimately, extensions of his will. Of course, Tolveilouka had seen his master obsess over other enemies, servants, allies—it was just that the half-Elf had remained constant, the winner by the attrition of everything else.

It wasn’t like Erin had to tell him. Or feel bad about it. It changed nothing. He had always been proud to be the Putrid One’s greatest servant.

“Did I want to be his equal, more than just his finest work of art and weapon?”

He didn’t know. The half-Elf stood, gazing at that plateau, and remembered looking up and seeing his master waging war with the greatest beings in the world.

“Perhaps I liked being a servant, you stupid Human…woman. It changes nothing at all, to me. Not a thing. I waited an eternity for him to wake. For that is loyalty. What could you give me, beyond revenge? A death against insurmountable odds? There is no future for me.”

Was he going to appear at her inn, waiting on diners while hiding his putrid nature? Play cards with Mrsha and teach Antinium how to roller-skate?

He puked again, black bile, at the very notion. Tolveilouka wiped his mouth and shook his head. He kicked a fir tree so hard it lost all of its needles, then stomped off. Minor tremors in the earth.

He would not be one of her pets, even if this version of her and he could ever see eye-to-eye. He saw the [Innkeeper] in her [Garden of Sanctuary], loosing lightning bolts at him.

No, not this version of her. And not this version of I.

There would only be—he stopped, and in his mind’s eye, he saw the [Innkeeper] sailing through the burning sea, spells landing around her.

Only that. Only calamity. Only an ending to everything, and an existence as long as any other great defier of death. Tolveilouka stretched, and he gazed at the sky.

“Ah. That I might do. Until I find someone who attracts my eyes, far more comely and rotten than you. A glorious little corner to infest and grow into something new, if I’ve the heart for it. Until then—”

He supposed he’d have to do her bidding. In his twisted, selfish ways. He’d gone so long with a master—he was out of practice being anything else.

Tolveilouka sighed. But he felt better. This was important, to take personal time for things. He kicked over another tree for the hell of it and hoped it really upset some [Druid]’s feelings.

He still resented helping Erin. He had to make sure she regretted some part of it.

——

The key was thinking correctly. It had taken some doing, but Tolveilouka had logicked his way into a course of action that made him happy with some deep thought.

He had to help Erin and her damn inn. True. But ‘helping’ wasn’t the same as darning their socks, killing a monster for them, patting them on the back, and tucking them into bed with a glass of warm milk, was it?

They needed levels. Suffering caused levels. And help, well—consider the case of one Lyonette du Marquin.

[Princess]. Slightly cunning. Ran the inn. Thought she’d trapped him with her Skills, and her mother certainly had a decent bit of will to her. Whenever he thought of going near the inn, she’d push him back, enforce that Skill with the weight of his debts to make him back off.

He knew it cost her to do that. There was a huge power differential between them; she was probably wearing her body down with the strain. Now, in theory, Tolveilouka should politely knock on Lyonette’s door, swear obeisance in all things, and end this battle between him and Queen Ielane.

Or—and this is where you had to follow the logic—he had to think about Lyonette and her best interests. Her mother was a controlling, manipulative harridan squatting on her pathetic throne, her lineage stolen from a Dragon. Oh, Tolveilouka had looked her up out of curiosity, and he knew Terandria, where he had come from. He knew her type.

She was probably ruining her children’s lives, tormenting them by her iron fist and rules. Therefore, the best and most helpful thing to do was…continue fighting with her and eventually make her head explode from the sheer strain.

Perfect logic. Tolveilouka had actually patted himself on the back when he’d realized the correct course of action there. It also meant harassing Lyonette was fair game. She had to level.

And, wouldn’t you know it, but a little undead zombie he’d pasted to the side of one of the High Passes told him that the [Princess] had left her inn. Which was where her mother’s power was greatest. Tolveilouka rubbed his hands together.

“Misery, won’t you be mine? 

Sadness, come and give us the time.

Go for a stroll under the deadmans’ pier

Our fates don’t require the eyes of a [Seer]…”

He strolled across Izril, readying a prize for the [Princess]. Plagues. Now, he was good at plagues. A good sickness, the kind that left you scarred, the ones you had to fight to survive, that was always worth a level or two in his books. You didn’t need two arms. Lose one and there was a free level right there.

Perfect plan. Perfect…he frowned as he tried to figure out where they’d gone. Wait, there were so many damn openings to that teleportation door, and he wasn’t made of running. Nor did he track spells well.

Er…

——

“Exchuuuse me, Good Missah! I was just wondering if you perchance happened to know the whereabouts of a certain woman I was searching for?”

Liska saw a lot of things on door duty. Lots of characters. But the half-Elf with the giant black mustache and funny way of talking got her to peek up from sorting people into doors.

“Hey, buddy, which city?”

“I was just wondering if you had seen—”

“Get in line or get out.”

Tolveilouka faltered. He rolled a gold coin across his fingers and presented it to Liska with a flourish.

“I happen to be looking f—”

She smacked the gold coin out of his hands.

“I’m busy! Shoo!”

She actually shoved him across the room with a [Lesser Forcewall]. Tolveilouka debated breaking it, but the damn [Queen] was pushing at him frantically. He shouted.

“You damn ingr—”

She flicked him through the door to Invrisil, and he went tumbling down the street. Tolveilouka lay there until a [Guardswoman] tried to arrest him for making a scene at the portal door. He kicked her in the shin, and she lay there, making a whimpering sound.

Tolveilouka got up. He folded his arms, then walked off as he tore the mustache he’d grown off his face.

“I actually grew it. Hair follicles and all. Perfect disguise. She didn’t even banter. Didn’t haggle. Does no one even engage with a bribe?”

This was now the fourth-most upsetting thing to ever happen to him. What happened to class? Style? He peered around.

“You. You there. Are you a [Warrior]?”

He stopped a likely-looking Human on the street. Captain Todi, on his day off, stared at Tolveilouka as he and Elia Arcsinger—who had no friends aside from Calescent—wandered the city. They stared at him.

“Er…yes? Gold-ranker, Todi. What d’you want.”

Tolveilouka looked the man up and down. His face fell.

“Gold-ranker. With a body like that?”

Todi flushed as Tolveilouka stared at his belly, which wasn’t fat, but not nearly as aesthetically pleasing as—

Todi punched Tolveilouka in his stomach. The half-Elf didn’t blink. Todi recoiled, and he and Elia saw the half-Elf’s taut stomach muscles moving. Todi went for a stomp and knee to the groin. Tolveilouka just stared at him.

“That’s your aesthetic? You should be bare-chested, sword on your shoulder, bearing your battle-scars! Even with your frame, it’d work! And you—”

He eyed Elia. Hmmed.

“Bare-chested could work, but maybe a huge, conical hat? Leaflike tunic and some accessories. Does no one have arm-bangles?”

Todi stepped back behind Elia with his instinct for danger. Elia just blinked at Tolveilouka.

“For…adventurers? I’m an [Archer]. Anything dangling would get in the way of everything.”

“Yes, but the style—what about [Unimpeding Accoutrements]? It’s just one Skill! So this is modern fashion.”

The half-Elf drew himself up and looked both adventurers up and down.

“And they call me disgusting.”

He walked off disconsolately. He’d have to find where that damn [Princess] was on foot. Todi and Elia glanced at each other. Todi peered at the door.

“Inn thing?”

“Mm.”

“Alright, let’s get the hell inside before half the city explodes.”

They ran for it. Tolveilouka ran southwards, because he had established Lyonette hadn’t come through Invrisil. Her pretty-[Princess] stink, one of the ways via which he could track people, was too old.

So that meant hot-footing it about four hundred miles then finding her. He sighed and started jogging.

——

Transport across Izril was easier these days. You had Wistram trialling teleportation spells across the continent, though most people preferred the enchanted carriages, Valeterisa’s comet-based delivery service, and the classic Overnight Carriages, whose industry was being harmed by all of the above.

Functionally, most people had to use an Overnight Carriage. Even Lady Desinee El; it was that or ride a horse, which the [Lady] could do, but not all day, thank you. The House of El might be richer of late, but they did not waste coins. In their way, they were the most frugal of all the Five Families; you’d never catch a Terland taking public transport.

Or a Reinhart. When Damia Reinhart tried to obtain transit south, she found, to her huge annoyance, there were no carriages to be had.

“What do you mean they’re all taken?”

The half-wincing [Carriage Matron] was a unique class in the Reinhart family. Vultine, the bastard daughter of one of the family’s trysts with commonfolk.

You might ask why you could have an illegitimate daughter in the Five Families, who did not practice the Terandrian tradition of marrying other nobles to ensure bloodline ‘purity’, and even Terandrian kingdoms let commonfolk marry into their houses with decent commonality.

The answer was that her father had declined to adopt Vultine when the [Maid] had presented her daughter, and he had done what mostly happened: given her a prestigious job in the family.

It had been one of her uncles that Magnolia had killed…who was it again?

Ah, yes, old Krallis. All that meant that Vultine might still be a servant, but she was allowed to snap back at her family, within reason, and her icy expression frosted over as she stood, levering her weight on an axle to take it off a carriage in repair. She had grease on her overalls and, rather to Damia’s shock, a lot of muscle.

Vultine kicked the axle and somehow got it to roll across the workshop floor to where a waiting pair of young [Tinkerers] hauled it off to be repaired or something. The [Carriage Matron] nodded at the chassis suspended by a lot of straps in the air; someone was actually swinging themselves under it for a look, which seemed risky to Damia, straps or not. That was a lot of weight to drop on you.

“There’s the only carriage I’ve got that’s not reserved or in use, Lady Damia. You want to fix it up to get it rolling faster, be my guest. Otherwise, every Reinhart your age wants one made and custom-fitted at that. You won’t have one for weeks.”

“Weeks? What are you all doing? You should be able to serve every Reinhart here with ease!”

Damia was mad. She tried taking out her pique at her state of events on Vultine, and the [Matron]’s eyes flashed. She swung her long wrench down dangerously and leaned on the huge thing.

“We had enough carriages to do just that, milady. Right up until everyone decided to carry on the family tradition of running into anything they don’t like! Lord Gorthes alone has gone through eleven. He’ll pay for that.”

She meant in coin. Magnolia had been giving an allowance to the family while she had them under her Skill, but that wasn’t how it traditionally worked; they had more of a ‘grab and give’ one where you used up family assets and then you paid it back or the rest of the family made your life a living hell. And you paid your dues to Regis if you needed something valuable he had.

“You should have reserved some for me!”

Damia insisted hotly. Vultine looked her up and down.

“You and Lord Wernel never use my carriages except to borrow a backseat for one of your little trysts, Lady Damia. You’ve no dedicated [Driver] nor do you contribute to the family wealth or power. You’re low on the list, and take it out on me if you want—the rest of your family will be on you when their carriages aren’t repaired timely. And they’re all learning the same lesson: back you might be, but invincible yer not, especially your damn carriages!”

She kicked another wheel off the carriage with an oath, and Damia hesitated. She eyed the carriage and only now noticed the rather distinctive holes blown out of the woodwork.

“What’s that from? Those are gouge marks…we enchant our carriages, so they must be from arrows or bolts. Enchanted ones that exploded and tore chunks of the body.”

Vultine paused on the third wheel and gave Damia a half-glance of interest. They’d never talked much, but the [Matron] grunted.

“Good to see that brain of yours working. Maybe I’ll have some actual competition around here in chess. Cosoi and Calidus were the only good players while you lot were stupid and dumb.”

“You knew we were bound? And that implies—you weren’t?”

“Sure. Magnolia needed the staff in good order. Doubt she could mind-blank the lot of us. What? We knew better than to say anything. She had the Assassin’s Guild at her beck and call and her staff.”

“What about Cosoi? Isn’t she in Terandria?”

She was weird, wasn’t she? Cecille had never gotten on with her, and Vultine jerked a thumb back into the mansion.

“She’s back. Diplomat as far as we go. One of the family who worked with your aunt Magnolia rather than fought her, so she kept her wits. Not sure she’s long for the world, but I’m not the one buying daggers. And like I said, your family’s not getting all its way. See this carriage? One of your cousins thought they could just storm one of Magnolia Reinhart’s safehouses with a few dozen of the house retainers.”

Damia focused on the carriage, noting the shattered glass windows, broken fourth wheel, and she knew they had the best enchantments money could buy.

“Who attacked them?”

“Magnolia’s staff, of course. Shot everyone but Lady Ethra dead. Took her two days to get back, and she didn’t bring the carriage; I had to send a team out special.”

Vultine spat, and Damia frowned.

“Ethra’s an egomaniacal twit. Even if she’s smarter—who’s finding Magnolia’s estates and properties? I thought they were hidden.”

“Sure are. When Lord Gorthes and Lord Ricule went to take one, the entire place was empty, lands sold off to one of the Veltras family. She’s not making your return to power easy.”

This all seemed highly amusing to the [Matron], and the upshot was that Damia had no transport. No [Driver], either, which Vultine pointed out again.

“You need a good one. I’m not letting some hamfisted lackwit drive our carriages. You’ll run someone over, and the Watch’ll seize my vehicle no matter what you bribe them if it’s a family. You lose a carriage, you give me enough gold to replace it or my workshop’s closed to you. If you want a custom-rig, you need to make it worth my while to upgrade it and maintain a berth. Just so we’re clear, I do prioritize.”

She rubbed her fingers together meaningfully. Damia tilted her head.

“You seem rather well-placed to make a profit given how much the family loves carriages, Vultine.”

Another snort.

“You think I chose this job because I love the family? I claimed it, and now I’m getting what’s mine. That’s the family way, isn’t it? Best of luck, Damia. I wouldn’t want to be you, a full Reinhart without the venom. I’ve placed myself quite well, and I’m underneath your deadly games.”

She saluted Damia with a wrench and smiled thinly.

“Oh, and don’t try the smooth-face on us. Everyone can see you’re floundering. You’re one viper in the flowergarden among many, here.”

That was the problem. Damia fancied she was smarter than Gorthes and at least a match for her mother if she had the same assets to wield, but her entire family was, well, Reinharts. She bit her lip, mind racing.

Everything I’ve tried—which hasn’t been much—has led to nothing at all. I need help. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a good [Driver] for me, Vultine? I’ll take someone low-level I can train up. And I’ll remember the favor.”

“What, one of my lads? When we’re swamped? I think—”

Vultine nearly spat before Damia interrupted impatiently.

“I’m not Wernel. The Reinharts are back, and I imagine you know to hedge your bets, don’t you? Give me something. I need transport south, and a Reinhart repays her debts, good and ill.”

They were famous for that. People associated them all with the negative, but Damia was proud. She meant it, and Vultine hesitated, chewing on a block of some gum. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“Trade routes are a mess since Magnolia’s no longer keeping them. This is some gum-stuff from Baleros. Comes in blocks. She got me two pounds of the damn stuff every month. Different flavors. I can’t get enough. Not everything we want is just more gold or power, Damia. Fascinating, entertaining things are worth more to the family. That one’s free. The [Drivers]…”

She cast a glance around, shook her head.

“Even if my lads wanted to take the class and job, I can’t spare ‘em. Nor do I have a carriage.”

“But—”

Vultine jerked a gloved thumb back over her shoulder.

“Here’s the favor: go find your Aunt Cosoi. Play very nice with her and she’ll help you travel wherever you need to go. I’ll expect something within two months if I hear you’re doing well.”

Then she turned, began hollering orders, and got back to work. Damia frowned, and her mind again remembered it was supposed to be doing something for a living these days. She closed her mouth, spun on her heel, and left.

Vultine glanced up as she saw Damia striding out of the workshop. She blew a bubble, and it popped.

[Gum Pop: Hidden Comment].

“That one’s smarter than her brother. Tell anyone interested in the staff she can hold her temper and take advice.”

One of her people glanced up from where he was swearing over the ruined frame of another carriage and took a lunch break. Vultine nodded to herself. They had to keep themselves safe, the staff. When the Reinharts were done getting all their energy out, they’d start clawing at each other again and the Five Families, and you wanted to be on the right side then.

So much more dangerous and tricky. But—the [Carriage Matron] and [Gum Chewer]—Level 24, incidentally—grinned to herself.

She had to admit, this was a lot more fun.

——

Think, Damia, think! She poked the sides of her head, because if she wasn’t careful…she stopped thinking!

Magnolia truly had done a number on her. Damia’s one reward for freeing herself from a lifetime spent under Magnolia’s aegis was this:

She’d levelled once.

She was a Level 9 [Incestuous Lady], having been Level 8 until the Winter Solstice. And her Level 9 Skill, the great reward for such an—an exalted class, was this:

[Think Harder].

Highly insulting. However, it was, perhaps, a sign of what Damia was capable of. In that…even without the Skill, she had learned how to engage her brain.

That sounded like a joke, but Calidus would have understood. After a lifetime of not thinking about much, whenever Damia’s mind actually had to work it was immediately apparent to her. So she could force it to engage in ways she believed other people couldn’t.

She engaged it now as she sought out Cosoi, who had a suite to herself in the far end of the mansion. Why did Vultine give her that advice? Assuming it wasn’t just to get Damia out of her hair…

One must assume that Aunt Cosoi’s a bit of a pariah if she worked with Aunt Magnolia. Perhaps even in danger of being killed, though I don’t know how angry the family is at her, and we’re not that murderous to each other.

Who’d be on her side? No one. And therein lies the…the…

She pulled something out of her bag of holding and paged through a dictionary until she found the word.

Fallacy. It’s so annoying not knowing the word for what I mean. Be nice to her means take her side or do her a favor.

But why Cosoi? The answer must be because…she’s had probably twenty years of being quick-witted while we’ve been idiots. Of course! If anyone has a base of power, it’s her!

All this understood, Damia changed tack at once. She returned to her rooms and put on her best dress for meeting her aunt. Something actually respectable not…Wernel walked in as she was changing and ogled her.

“Damia, where have you been all day? Want to have a quick—”

She threw a perfume bottle at him.

“Out!”

“What?”

His eyes were yellow, and he reeked of Hazyflower. She brushed past him.

“I’m not sleeping with you anymore, Wernel. Stop smoking Hazyflower and look around. We have more important things to be doing!”

“More important than sex? Damia, just stop thinking. Doesn’t your head hurt?”

“Yes! At times! Don’t you feel more alive?”

He shrugged as he stood there and called out after her.

“What’s the point of knowing how to do things better? We’re rich. I don’t need to figure out how to kill that bastard who slighted me at the pub and hide a razor in his food; I can just hire an [Assassin]. You know Cousin Girhel murdered someone and was hiding them in the basements? Mother had him dragged out of his rooms and beaten like a commoner.”

Damia half-slowed.

“Girhel? So he’s moved on from animals then. Huh. Sounds like Aunt Magnolia had a point. Is he being arrested?”

“No, just beaten, and they’re finding a [Thought Healer]. Mother says she’ll have him imprisoned in the family dungeons if he does it again.”

“I wonder if he’ll change.”

So the real idiots were taking themselves out if they couldn’t control themselves. Mindful of this, Damia knocked on Cosoi’s doors. A [Servant] admitted her, though the woman kept dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Damia had a box of expensive treats Wernel had bought for her she’d repackaged.

What she expected from Cosoi Reinhart, Damia didn’t know. But the [Lady]’s rooms were unlike any other Reinhart’s that Damia had ever met.

She had a suit of Terandrian armor in the entranceway to her large suite; every Reinhart of station had a vast amount of chambers in the family manor, and they’d build entire wings for their space. But she also had a hand-woven tapestry of Terandria on the wall above. Pre-Creler Wars and likely authentic; it was dated by a little plaque just so you knew how expensive it was.

There was a dead lion’s pelt draped over another chair, and the head of the most hideous purple thing that Damia had ever seen was mounted next to a crude spear of bone lovingly hung on a rack. It was…

“It’s a hippo. One of the deadlier non-magical monsters of Chandrar. I shot the damn thing when I really wanted an Oliphant, but I was advised to not kill one or have every [Druid] in a hundred miles on me. The spear’s Cenidauian. I made it myself when I visited. If you want something of me, I’m rather not in the mood, Damia.”

Cosoi Reinhart wore her hair up in a Terandrian fashion with needles pinning the tower of hair up, and she was red-eyed. She had a cup of wine in one hand and travel-clothing on, even indoors, another Terandrian look.

Kaazian, with fur on the collar and hems. She had six servants with her, all of whom were red-eyed. Damia blinked and held out the box.

“Aunt! I was hoping to speak to you—is something wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, Damia. Just my [Serving Man], Vorghen. Someone strangled him and dumped him in the well. I suspect Gorthes. Kill his bodyguards.”

Cosoi put her cup down, took the box, handed it to a servant, and stared down at Damia. She didn’t seem surprised, and her eyes flicked to the doors, then Damia’s dress.

“Is this a social call from Cecille? Is your…delightful brother around?”

“Half-brother. No, I came on my own. I—am sorry for the loss. Did Uncle Gorthes really do that?”

“Oh, yes. He never could control his temper. It’s the most overt the family’s gotten. Three of my staff are dead, but I thought I’d convinced them it wasn’t worth the blood to go after anyone else. I might have to move back and take the embassy job in Calanfer again at this rate, but no one in the family can agree we need an overseas presence. It’s all grab, grab, blame me for choosing the winning side—no one sent you?”

A sharp look, and Damia realized Cosoi was all on guard as she poured a very generous cup of wine for Damia. The [Lady] held it and didn’t drink.

“I need a favor, Aunt. I’m trying to establish myself now that I’m—awake.”

“Of course you are.”

Cosoi didn’t appear dismayed or resigned, but faintly amused. She sipped from her cup.

“Your brother…?”

“Smoking himself stupid on Hazyflower. And I heard Girhel murdered someone.”

The older Reinhart didn’t blink.

“Magnolia suppressed more than just intellect. For the better in Girhel’s case. He was always disturbed, but she didn’t put down children even if they were rabid dogs. She had rules. A life for a life. He’d be fair game now.”

Magnolia would murder a fellow Reinhart? Damia shivered; they were a lot of things, but even now, she couldn’t see that being…easy or acceptable. And Cosoi was watching her, so she smiled.

“I’m not here to fight about Aunt Magnolia. You chose the winning side, Aunt Cosoi. Blaming you is pointless. I do need help, and I’m willing to repay favors.”

Cosoi swirled her glass around and peered into it.

“Helping the family is not something I’m inclined to at the moment. I’m not a typical Reinhart, Damia, and you’ll soon know what that means. I like travel. I am, in fact, a [Lady of Travel] in base class. Family’s dull. I suppose I could toss a favor your way since you’re the only member of the family who’s not shooting daggers or Skills at me. Dead gods, they think I got soft in Terandria. I’ve had to win fifteen aura clashes…a deed for a deed.”

“What do you want?”

Damia wasn’t sure she could do anything, but here she was wrong. Cosoi peered over her cup at Damia, then smiled.

“Cecille. Convince your mother to stop hounding me and have her talk to some of the others. Do that and I’ll do you a favor. Which is…?”

Damia hesitated.

“I could try that. I need transport. Something fast, private, even a [Driver] and carriage if you have one.”

“To where?”

When the young woman was silent, Cosoi sighed.

“Damia, I’m not going to give you that kind of help if it will blow up in my face. If you’re thinking of going to Liscor and embarrassing the family, it might come back to me. Your mother’s already tried that, and she got what she could.”

Damia hesitated, but she had to say something, so she shook her head.

“I do want to go to Liscor. Invrisil. It seems to me a lot of events are occurring around there, and if there’s any quick fortunes to be won…”

“Well observed. I’ve been meaning to visit myself. I do have a way south, faster than even Gorthes or your mother could obtain. But you have nothing to trade, and I doubt you have the gold to invest.”

A third pointed glance. Damia gritted her teeth.

“I do not…so some gold might be useful. I need a staff.”

A light snort. But Cosoi was pondering. She spoke abruptly.

“Get your mother to relent, Damia, and I’ll make you a deal. I don’t fancy staying in Izril while the family’s looking for a victim. I’m heading off. Chandrar, Terandria, even Baleros; there’s value to being the Reinhart abroad. Even Oteslia! It might be my one chance to visit Drake cities at this moment…but I can’t uproot my entire staff. I’ll turn over their employment to you. You’ll keep them alive and treat them well enough, and that will solve me having to pay for funerals every time Gorthes is drunk. I’ll even throw in some gold. Deal?”

She tapped Damia on the chest with a finger, and the young [Lady] hesitated. Her mother must really be more dangerous than she thought if Cosoi was offering all this. Or perhaps it was a way to divest herself of problems and shove them into Damia’s lap.

Either way, the [Lady] leapt at the offer because she had nothing. She nodded, and Cosoi plucked the wine cup from her hands.

“Splendid! Don’t drink that, it’s laced. Let me know when you have your mother’s word and I’ll get my end of the deal at once.”

Which left Damia with the unenviable task of speaking to her mother.

——

“Mother. I need a favor.”

Damia marched into Cecille’s study and found the [Lady] with a catalogue of, well, people and one of her own servants. The [Lady] scowled and spoke.

“One moment, Damia. Is this the best we have for security?”

“The rest of the family has already bought the contracts for a number of [Mercenaries] and [Bodyguards], Lady Reinhart.”

“Fine. I’ll select from the lot. I want someone who can beat that damned [Spearmaster].”

A visible moment of hesitation from the [Manservant] who had served Damia all her life.

“That might be—”

“Do it. Damia, I’m busy. I have no allowance to give you or Wernel. Is this a crisis? Please tell me you’re not pregnant.”

Cecille’s expression when she glanced at her daughter was of someone dealing with a hassle. Damia glowered.

“I need an actual favor, Mother. I’ve been speaking to Aunt Cosoi, and she’d like—”

Cecille’s eyes flickered, sliding right to left and then focusing on Damia and something else in a moment.

“No.”

“I haven’t even—”

“You want me to ‘forgive’ her as a favor to Cosoi. No. I’m not sure if she’s impressed you or you think this is clever, Damia, but I really am busy. I can’t waste time speaking with you if you’re going to be as slow as Wernel.”

That stung so much Damia halted, and her eyes narrowed. Slow? She began again.

“It’s true I have some—”

“There is no incentive. Hence the ‘no’.”

Cecille cut her daughter off again, and this time, the younger Reinhart tilted her head. And Cecille, watching Damia’s angry, petulant face out of the corner of one eye, saw Damia frown. And think.

“Mother, I need help, and I’m thinking again. Surely—”

“It is personal. She didn’t stand with us, and she has had twenty years of clearheadedness while we lost it all!”

Cecille snapped. She hunted for a cigarette, annoyed. Damia’s eyes flickered.

“Familial love? If you gave me a small loan of ten thousand—”

“Hah! If I were set up, I might consider it. We are grabbing, and I’m wrestling with your aunts and uncles for primacy. You’ll benefit from that, so no.”

They were speaking faster now, and Cecille realized her daughter could keep up with her. Damia frowned mightily.

“I’m an asset. Clearly staffing is a priority, and no one’s capable in our employ. I, though—”

“Questionable loyalty.”

“Have I ever done anything against—?”

“No, and a negative does not prove loyalty. You and Wernel are net-negatives. The sex. Ugh. Did you visit a brothel?”

“I—yes—”

“Splendid, maybe that will deal with the issue. At least you’re not murdering. You know about—”

“Yes, Wernel told me.”

“I will disinherit you if you’re that stupid.”

“Noted. I don’t see the point. If it’s someone I don’t hate.”

Silence. Mother and daughter glanced at each other, and now there was something in the air that the watching [Serving Man] could see. That old Reinhart intellect, fast as striking snakes. He…backed up a bit. Sometimes, they worked together. Sometimes, they fought and ate each other. Again, like snakes.

Cecille lit a cigarette up and blew some smoke out.

“Well then. You’re showing promise. But again: it’s personal. Cosoi. Why would I relent and spend social capital?”

Damia thought. She had nothing to use. No assets, nothing but her relationship with her mother. Like Calidus, Vultine, everyone knew—her eyes narrowed. She smiled.

“I’ll stop sleeping with Wernel.”

Cecille’s head snapped around. She looked Damia up and down.

“Temporarily?”

“Permanently.”

“That’s no incentive.”

“Help me in this, Mother. Or I’ll marry him.”

Cecille’s eyes narrowed.

“Ridiculous. You’re too smart for that.”

Damia innocently batted her eyes.

“I could get it arranged very fast, and you can’t stop me, busy as you are. Every noble will know about that.”

A threat, not a bribe. Cecille thought about how much her reputation might suffer if her daughter and son—even if they were half-siblings—married each other. She blew some smoke out.

“That’s not a bad threat. I want a promise on a truth stone.”

“Done! And your word that Aunt Cosoi’s left alone?”

The [Lady] growled as she chewed on her cigarette, but she jerked her head at last, sighing.

“She’s not worth trading blows with. Agreed. Go tell your brother. Oh, and Damia?”

The young woman halted as she was striding for the door, a victorious smile on her lips. Cecille gave her the oddest of gazes.

“Not bad. I was half your age when I threatened my parents for the first time, of course. But given Magnolia, not bad. Do it again and I’ll teach you a lesson.”

That was as close to affection as she and Damia had shared in a while. They hurried off since neither wanted to comment on it.

——

Wernel took the news well. He peered at Damia.

“Okay. What, forever?”

When she assured him this was the case, he sighed.

“I’ll have to build one of those…harems, then. There’s plenty of attractive women. Way more than you, Damia.”

She knew he was saying that to get a rise out of her, and his peeking at her as she rolled her eyes and walked off made it obvious.

——

Cosoi was far more complimentary. She spun.

“You already convinced your mother? I thought you’d have to work on her for at least a week. How?”

“I threatened to marry Wernel.”

The [Lady of Travels] threw back her head and actually laughed.

“Hah! Clever! You might be a real Reinhart after all, Damia. Well then, I have some packing to do. Binevy, take a list of everyone who wants to leave and everyone who wants to either join the regular staff or Damia’s employ. Transfer two thousand gold pieces to her account via the Merchant’s Guild.”

“Only two thousand?”

Damia was a bit crestfallen, but Cosoi gave her a level look.

“The rest of my favor is worth more, and that is a lot of gold you earned from a very short deed, Damia. Learn what it means. Most of the family doesn’t understand wealth. That’s my tip. I have to pack.”

She was striding into her rooms, and Damia followed as Binevy presented herself.

“I’m Lady Cosoi’s [House Head], Lady Damia. Level 16 with Vorghen’s passing. I’ll be working for you as I don’t travel. Here is a list of servants who shall serve you in House Reinhart.”

She had a file, and Damia skimmed it as she followed Cosoi.

“Do I have your suite, Aunt Cosoi?”

“Hah!”

Damn. Damia’s heart sank as she saw very little of value on the list of servants; just low-level [Servants] with the base class, all under Level 20, half under Level 10. Young. Binevy herself seemed to be Damia’s age or younger.

I’ll make do. We’re all low-level, and that means we’re adaptable. Capable of growth. Everyone will underestimate us, and now I have some funds to work with and…

“Aunt Cosoi, I want to be going as soon as I can. What about transport?”

The older [Lady] glanced over her shoulders as she pointedly barred the door with an arm.

“Oh, that. Taken care of.”

“Ah, then you have a carriage?”

“No, I don’t bother with the damn things. I never got the family obsession. You’ll be taking commercial transport.”

“But—”

That outraged Damia’s sensibilities! She needed privacy, security! She was about to insist Cosoi hold up her end of the bargain when Cosoi handed her something.

A black card. Jet black, glossy, a rectangle with nothing visible on either side. Right up until Cosoi produced a little quill and brushed the bright feather’s end over the card.

She revealed, like someone sweeping ash off metal, the outline of a coach. Then she showed Damia the other end of the quill.

“It needs no ink. You write where you are, and the card will note how long for pickup; it can take days if it’s not heading the right way. But it will beat Gorthes’ carriage and anything else. Binevy, go with Damia and tell her the rules. Don’t break them or the driver will kill you.”

“What is this?”

Damia felt the magic in it, and Cosoi smiled.

“That’s the Unmarked Coach, Damia. I’m on the list of clients, and believe me, it is worth far more than you think.”

Then she turned and slammed the door to her study. She called out from within.

“I’ll want it back when I return to Izril!”

——

Damia had to do some reading up on the Unmarked Coach, and what she found impressed her greatly. Not that there was a book on such things you could read in a normal library, but the Reinhart family mansion had a lot of…dossiers.

Up-to-date information from [Spies] or their other contacts that they put in, well, a library format. The head [Librarian] was a musty old man, Grahaven, who glared and didn’t care if you got the files messed up; he had the master copies, and he’d just charge you for them.

“Apparently, it’s been out-of-service for quite some time, Lady Damia. But it’s active again.”

“I see. So we just wait and it picks us up? And there’s no fee?”

The [House Head] ducked her head.

“I believe any fee is already paid to obtain the card. Or you’re charged once you use the service enough. You will be informed.”

Well, that meant Damia had better get good use out of it. They stood outside House Reinhart a few hours later; as luck would have it, the Unmarked Coach had claimed to be ‘only’ a few hundred miles away, but crucially, heading southwards.

It was hard to believe anything was that fast…until Damia saw the coach riding hell-for-leather down the road.

A very annoyed woman with dusky skin and a top-hat was whipping a pair of black stallions and leaving a dust-cloud in her wake. She was racing down the road as another carriage tried to ram her from the side. But she was outspeeding none other than—

“Is that Uncle Gorthes?”

The angry [Lord] was trying to run the offending Unmarked Coach off the road; it had probably refused to yield for him. However, he couldn’t keep up! His coach accelerated as he used a Skill to catch up, and he went to ram the Unmarked Coach.

He had spikes on his wheels, designed to snap and break another coach, and visible metal reinforcing his carriage as his team of six horses screamed and tried to race faster while he whipped at them. In response, the driver of the Unmarked Coach, who was named ‘Karsaeu the Unmarked’ by the Driver’s Guild according to her file, pulled a strange move.

She let Gorthes swing towards her, then pulled away. Which meant he turned far too hard, expecting to slam into her, and the movement at such high speeds—

His wheels were not the rubber, compact wheels of another world. They were big round ones made of enchanted wood, which meant they had excellent grip and durability, but they still obeyed the laws of physics.

All that weight on such a narrow edge…the carriage overbalanced and then rolled. The horses tore loose from the yokes designed to snap free rather than kill them in just such emergencies, and Damia and Binevy winced.

Her uncle had been in the driver’s seat. He lay on the ground, hurled a dozen paces from the carriage, and Damia wondered if he was dead…until she heard the distant swearing.

“There goes another job for Vultine. I suppose this coach is as good as they say.”

The Unmarked Coach slowed, and the very annoyed driver snapped down at Damia.

“Get in.”

Damia opened her mouth to say something, and her brain activated. She closed her mouth, got in the carriage, and it took off.

——

The inside of the Unmarked Coach showed none of the racing speed of outside, and Damia had to crack a window to see how fast they were going twice. She was very impressed—even if she didn’t like the company.

Four people in the coach. A fastidious, short woman who was writing in a notepad, ink on her fingers; a rather uncomfortable nobleman, who eyed Damia then instantly tried to cover his face and pretend he didn’t know her; and two [Gang Leaders], who were regulars. Male and female.

“Oi, first time in the Unmarked Coach? How the hell are people getting invites? I had to kill for this.”

Damia didn’t interact with commonfolk much, but one glance at the scarred hand that extended and she shook it gingerly.

“We are new, yes.”

She knew better than to give names, and in that sense, she was a smarter passenger than a certain Wind Runner and Vampire had been back in the day. The [Gang Leader] eyed Damia.

“Well, let me catch you up on the rules.”

“I know the rules, thank you.”

“Sure, sure, but our [Driver]’s mad right now. Never seen her break a passenger’s bones—she’s been racing across Izril.”

“Trying to keep up with everyone who needs to go places. She was out for a month. Ne’er heard of that. I missed a lot of damn meetings because of that.”

The other [Gang Leader] grumbled. That got a nod from the secretary-like woman who said nothing; the nobleman kept trying to hide his face.

An amused look from the female [Gang Leader]; she jerked a thumb at her chest.

“We’re regulars. Big names up north. Not that I bet a noblewoman like you’d know.”

Damia’s heart beat a bit too fast.

“Why would you assume I’m noble?”

Even Binevy tried not to smile as half the coach laughed, including Karsaeu. The female [Gang Leader] twiddled her fingers.

“Everything? Don’t worry, we don’t really care if some new noble’s got ties to the underworld. We just remember. Like sir over yonder; might be good work, so we’re all respectful like.”

She winked at the [Lord], who flinched, and Damia eyed him and sighed.

“I should have brought a mask.”

“Yup! Most of us don’t care, but we’re commonfolk. We’ve had all sorts in here. [Assassins]—haven’t seen much of them anymore. Shame, they were all decent. We even had the Wind Runner herself in here when she went to wake Archmage Valeterisa.”

“Really?”

Damia knew all the big events in Izril, of course, and the [Gang Leader] proudly told the story of how she’d been in this very coach when Ryoka had been riding north. Damia was fascinated.

This was what she wanted! The Unmarked Coach reeked of power, most of it unspoken. Like the free, magical food, the way the passengers were all clearly important. None of it needed to be shown off. That was real authority.

The [Lord] got off on the first stop, which wasn’t his destination, but Damia clearly made him uncomfortable. She leaned over to Binevy.

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know, milady. Not a nobleman I’m familiar with.”

“Me neither. But you saw his coat? The fool was wearing the sigil of House Everight. That’s not possible; it’s dead. Lord Toldos was the last heir.”

Binevy had to fuss with a folder.

“I have a [Message] scroll. I can contact our people, I mean, your people in the mansion, milady. And inquire—”

The two listening [Gang Leaders] and the unknown woman were eavesdropping on Damia’s conversation as they lounged, and the fussy, note-taking short woman glanced up.

“House Everight has a new [Lord]. If that was him, that was Lord Gliven, who was confirmed to be a long-lost member of the bloodline by House Reinhart, among other families.”

Damia’s head swung around. She frowned.

“Impossible.”

“That’s how it is, Miss.”

The note-woman shot back, and Damia hesitated. Brain-engaged. She spoke slowly.

“If that is the new [Lord], it’s the new [Lord]. But he’s no distant relative. Lord Toldos Everight searched for years for family members. I find it incredible that one would pop up after his very public search. He had even tried to induct someone into his family to continue his bloodline as he did not wish to sire another heir.”

That was just the kind of thing a noblewoman knew; the gossip of the houses. Even the note-taker’s brows rose, and Damia went on, thinking out loud.

“Given his presence in the Unmarked Coach, Lord Gliven seems to have a few interesting contacts for such a new member of the nobility. If not much sense.”

He hadn’t seemed that refined to her. He might have recognized her, but she hadn’t reacted to being embarrassed or out-of-place. Good nobility meant you were poised even when embarrassed; it was like how Damia could go silent and blank-faced without flushing or shifting around. So, new to nobility.

“Sounds like someone’s made a mistake. Or arranged for a fellow to get a noble class. You’re not half-bad, Miss.”

The male [Gang Leader] said, voice amused. Damia nodded at him.

“I’m new, but I intend to establish myself quickly. I’m bound for Invrisil. You?”

“Same. We’re moving into a more profitable area. With a lot of…friends.”

A feral grin from the female [Gang Leader]. Damia nodded.

Ah, so they were moving to the City of Adventures as well. With their gangs. She held out a hand again.

“Perhaps we might do business. I have interests in Invrisil and all the connections.”

A chuckle as the callused hands shook hers again. The female [Gang Leader] had bad teeth and a lot of knife-scars. Some of which seemed fresh.

“Never hurts to know people. But frankly, Miss, I doubt you could afford us. Then again, if you can get in here, that’s something.”

Damn, how did one acquire enough money to buy a gang out? Damia sighed internally. She needed something of great value in Liscor or the other cities, and she had hopes…!

“Anything of value in the area I should know of that you’d care to share?”

The two [Gang Leaders] hesitated, but it seemed Damia had earned some credit with the conversation about Lord Gliven, so the male one shrugged. He carried a weird little pointed spear at his side, but with a wide handle. Like a dagger-spear?

No, it might extend outwards. What an interesting weapon. A compact spear. He counted on his fingers.

“What’s not valuable? There’s a good trade in scrolls…or there was. Damn shame we missed it, but maybe it’s there. Have to muscle out the damn hatmen for that, and that’s no fun. But food’s aplenty from the Unseen Empire, even if I hear it’s dicey working there too. Mostly? It’s about transport.”

“With the portal doors.”

Nods.

“You take cargo from one city that has something to another where it’s rare. Say…something nice to sniff, and that saves a lot of travel and hassle. They don’t check at most of the door exits that well save for Pallass. Though you have to have the right signs or I hear the operator of the door gets you.”

“Signs?”

Binevy was taking as many notes as the stranger across from her, and the [Gang Leader] shrugged.

“Sure. Everyone knows you need an Ullsinoi sign; give you that for free. That’s the only one they accept, apparently. Anything else and you might get caught unless you’re high level. It’s pretty reasonable to pay for a few signs that last a month. Bet it’s worth a lot to the [Illusionists], though.”

So The Wandering Inn had a deal with the Ullsinoi of Wistram. If transport’s the real value, perhaps I could take something valuable in the north down south? 

She’d work on it. Damia went back to asking more questions, which seemed to amuse the other riders, and she was working on being…sociable. Someone they wanted to know.

The rest of the time, Damia stared out the window.

Dead gods, they moved fast. She was so taken with this transport that even when they reached Invrisil, she and the other passengers elected to keep in the Unmarked Coach.

“We’re actually hoping to scope out Celum, and I hear there’s a damn Golem at the checkpoint. You heading south, driver?”

The [Gang Leader] rapped on the sliding panel, and Karsaeu barked back.

“All the way to Zeres and back. Won’t take longer than half a day.”

Dead gods, she was blazing down the roads. To Damia’s surprise, the initial group of three had stayed in the coach the entire time.

The note-taker, the two [Gang Leaders], and Damia all eyed each other.

“What, all of us have business in Celum?”

“It’s as good a place as any for me to start. You?”

“I have an investment to check on in the east. I’d prefer not to answer any more questions.”

The note-taker replied calmly. The [Gang Leader] put up her hands.

“Fine, fine. But like I said, Miss Lady, you can’t afford us.”

“But if I did have an offer, how much?”

“Depends on the job—look, look, you need a rep, and no offense, but you’re definitely no Face of the streets. You do something big, smart, and we’ll all listen, but until then…”

Damia sighed as she glanced out the window. Karsaeu was throwing caution to the wind with the Unmarked Coach’s usual secrecy. She was racing down the side of the main road, over the grass because the people on the road would get in the way. Faces turned, and Damia smirked as she saw the disbelieving expressions.

Karsaeu passed an Overnight Coach carrying Desinee El into Invrisil, and Damia blew a kiss at the noblewoman travelling in far less style. She blasted past a Courier who slowed; Salamani and Ci eyed the mad Djinni riding like the wind. Karsaeu flipped off Termin and Rhaldon, who waved at her.

Some idiot was riding a Wistram Carriage and tried to race Karsaeu. It went neck-and-neck with her for sixty miles, then ran out of magical power and left the excited young nobles who’d chartered it in the middle of the road, utterly stranded.

Karsaeu passed by a herd of Corusdeer, a traffic jam on the road, a stop where [Vampire Hunters] were trying to test people, a running half-Elf—

…No, wait. The running half-Elf glanced over his shoulder, saw her gaining on him, and began running faster. The angry Djinni, still shaking from her encounter with the Immortal Tyrant herself, didn’t realize she wasn’t passing him at first until she saw him running ahead of her.

Then she accelerated, pouring more magic into the carriage she had created, faking her horses picking up more speed. The air was tearing around her, leaving a slipstream in its wake. And the half-Elf…

Jogged faster. He didn’t even seem like he was running fast. Just jogging along, blonde hair blowing behind his head, wearing some kind of Drathian robes, bare-chested, spinning on one sandal, blowing her a kiss—

Then a vein stood out on Karsaeu’s forehead. She accelerated to her max speed, hit a flying dove who never saw the coach barreling towards it, and exploded the dove like a thunderclap. And the half-Elf…

Kept ahead of her. Now he was pumping his arms and legs, appearing highly amused. He locked eyes with her, and then—then the Djinni faltered.

Because he was smiling. And the being she had taken for a Courier was bounding along, each step tearing up the ground, carrying him hundreds of feet—

Even Named-ranks in her day hadn’t been that strong. She slowed suddenly, and the Djinni could not sweat, but her magical essence could change; it writhed as she emitted waste magic and the horses steamed with the same.

Almost…disappointed, the half-Elf slowed to jog just ahead of her. Just ahead, and they were staring at each other now.

“Want a rematch? This time, I’ll chase.”

He mouthed at her. She stared straight ahead. Turning her carriage down a side-road. And now he was following after her, grinning. Just grinning.

You think you’re the scariest monster on this road? She began sending [Message] spells to her master. He didn’t respond at first; the idiot thought she was invincible, but there was always a bigger monster on the roads. Always…

The Unmarked Coach and half-Elf were still moving at ludicrous speed. But they turned into a town south of Invrisil with nothing apparently interesting about it save for a gathering of young people in a nearby forest.

The passengers were not aware they were in danger…no, the woman taking notes had glanced up and was feeling at the goosebumps on the back of her neck. But Lady Damia just wondered who that fast half-Elf following them was as she peered out the window. And stopped.

Karsaeu, who’d just received an order to bail out even if it meant leaving her passengers behind, Tolveilouka Ve’delina Merr, and Lady Damia Reinhart—as well as a member of the Haple of the Sisters of Chell and two [Gang Leaders] who were Faces in the underworld—passed by a gathering in the trees.

Mostly Human, though of note, there were actually Gnolls and Drakes in the crowd. Very odd. Very strange. Something only popular in this day and age.

Some had on only black and had white facepaint. [Goths]. Others were older-fashioned. Literal [Anarchists], members of a Gang, or just…the classes that found each other.

Not just your average [Rebel] or dissident, but new classes. There were a gaggle of Humans who’d ridden up on bicycles, [Skateboarders], and—Karsaeu broke off plotting her escape—sounds in the air.

Screeching. The hammering of drums. Even the sounds of string instruments and someone trying to copy the wail of an electric guitar. There was even, she realized, a Gnoll shouting.

“Hey! Hey, get in line! Get in the damn line or it’s not going to look good! This is, uh, Izril’s first Battle of the Bands! You hear that? That’s us! Let me hear it!”

The first underground concert in Izril was underway, and it was chaotic and messy; no food vendors, no real organization. The member of Haple, the secret leadership of the Sisters of Chell, took one look out the window and sighed.

Someone had thrown this together by putting the word out and not expected the numbers or figured out how to organize things. Bands were setting up and arguing with each other. By the looks of it, there’d been at least one fight already, but probably no blood. It was youth and ego, and it was so funny that Tolveilouka stopped following the Djinni to stare.

“Kraken’s tits. Well, someone has style in this era at least!”

He beamed and popped over in an instant to a group of Gnolls with dyed fur squaring off with some local Humans. He didn’t take his eyes off Karsaeu, of course. When she tried to circle the gathering, he kicked a stone so fast and hard that no one saw it.

Ordinary stones didn’t really damage Djinni unless they made themselves physical, like the carriage. Even then, it only blew out one of the Unmarked Carriage’s wheels, but she stopped. Tolveilouka heard people arguing, then the first band got on stage.

They were copying a certain Battle of the Bands that had captured attention a little bit ago. But unlike the Fraerlings, this lot had less practice. A lot of heart, though. Cheering and booing started as someone with a four-string guitar tried to copy the Singer of Terandria’s music.

The music was, uh…okay?

No, really. It wasn’t bad. To the surprised half-Elf, who hadn’t been paying attention to the changes in music, it was functionally decent.

A bit too much performance, but the young [Musicians] had levels. Tolveilouka had no Eyes of Appraisal, so he estimated they ranged from Level 5 to Level 20 on the higher ends.

Which was decent levelling speed if some had only picked up the instruments last year. In this way, Tolveilouka was out of touch because he thought a Level 1 to Level 30 growth spurt in a year’s time was what the average citizen could do.

Well, partly that was because he was generally responsible for said levels when he led an army of plague zombies across their nations, breeding famine, pestilence, and plague.

Still, he liked the energy. Some of the bands or soloists were trying to copy the Fraerlings, high kicking, screaming into enchanted microphones—someone even attempted a stage-dive, which went hilariously badly.

Broken collarbone. Tolve watched as the frozen Unmarked Coach sat there, and a [Lady] inside began asking what the holdup was. Karsaeu told her to shut the hell up, which made all of the passengers realize they were in trouble and go silent—

Tolve watched until he grew bored, and then he thought he might kill the Djinni or infect her and go back to figuring out where the hell Lyonette was. But he was amused.

The crowd was not on the band’s sides. Oh, they were receptive, but they jeered, screamed along to the singing, which threw off the more inexperienced performers; when they shouted insults from the stage, the audience would come up to fight them.

A different crowd from the Fraerlings. Also, they didn’t have a dedicated MC or [Innkeeper] to make this place, well, work. Lovely chaos, youth in its myriad forms on display, uncertain, but innovative, as it had always been.

Tolveilouka liked that. He was always young at heart. You grew old, you died.

The half-Elf decided he’d watch one more performer, then start killing.

——

Damia Reinhart was aware there was trouble, but she didn’t know what. She sat, tense, head scanning the crowd as the Djinni waited, silent. No one asked her what was going on.

Damia had begun to do that, but the others had told her to shut up. Her mind had agreed.

Don’t distract professionals. Everyone was swivelling, heads spinning, except the note-taker. She was speaking.

“I need backup. Location is a town just south of Invrisil. Something has halted the Unmarked Coach. Unclear what it is.”

“Got a gang behind you, lady? We’re whistling ours up, but they’re on the move.”

The two [Gang Leaders] were checking their weapons. The extending-spear fellow had his spear in his hands. His friend had two wicked, serrated knives in her fists. The note-taker lowered the speaking stone, exhaled.

“I suppose if it keeps us from killing each other and we survive long enough—yes. I’m with the Sisters.”

“You?”

It surprised everyone. The Sisters were a major gang. Damia blinked at the least-tough woman in the coach, including Damia, but the note-taker just folded her arms.

“Dead gods. You’re one of them leaders, aren’t you? A Haple.”

A look and the female gang-leader shut up. The member of Haple spoke calmly.

“It’s the half-Elf. He was outpacing the coach. He did something when we listed—my guess is he’s over Level 50.”

Silence. Damia was sweating as Binevy wrote furiously, perhaps trying to get help from House Reinhart. This was why she needed a [Bodyguard]…

“No offense, but I’m running.”

“I suspect we’re all dead, but that would be my plan. I doubt he cares for witnesses.”

Silence. Damia stared out the window, searching for any asset. Think! She was a genius! She thought she was. Something. Something—

A new group trudged onto stage as the last band was booed off. Not the planned performer; there was a hiccup. The Gnoll trying to do the MC’s job shouted.

“Next—uh—we’ve got a mystery act—”

Someone, a black-scaled Drake, grabbed the microphone as a hooded figure stood to the side.

“Hey, you pathetic idiots! This concert sucks!”

There was a roar from the crowd, who half-agreed. The Drake pointed.

“Here’s a real legend and musician for you! He’s gonna play a new song. What’s, uh…Numb, what’s the—”

She went over, then dashed back to the microphone. And Damia saw the hooded figure holding something.

A guitar? Not the first she’d seen, but something about him made her look twice. A presence. The member of Haple frowned.

“That’s a high-level person. Higher level than anyone else out there.”

“Good, maybe they’ll die first. Driver, do we got backup?”

On stage, the female Drake was arguing with the hooded figure. Who seemed…upset. But Damia’s eyes were locked on him as the wind blew and revealed something that made the crowd of young people go silent.

Then gasp. Some drew back. A few screamed; others laughed. The rest just cheered.

Because he was—

A Hobgoblin.

——

Numbtongue, the [Sybarite Soulbard], did not want to be here. And he did. He was shaking with nerves.

Salkis, who’d found out about this event through her friends, who seemed to be all over Izril, was excited. She hissed at him.

“Numb, come on! I’ve got friends in the crowd!”

“Your mysterious ones or actual friends?”

“…Both! Show them a real performance.”

Numbtongue was waiting to see if the crowd tried to murder him. He’d been moving across Izril’s north. He’d fled towns trying to lynch him, run around with gangs, and just—

Not gone home. The inn was searching for him. Some [Informant] had pulled him aside to say that. Numbtongue had punched him in the face.

So what? Numbtongue was tired. He didn’t know what the crowd saw.

The [Soulbard] had lost weight. A mostly liquid diet did that. It made his cheekbones stand out more, and he was tall, his hair a wave of jet black, still fit, a crimson Dragoncrystal sword at his side.

He stood like everything that was wrong or forbidden in this world, crimson eyes bored and tired, and his scars spoke of battles that few had ever dreamed of in their safe worlds. His pointed ears and his green skin, the way he held himself with a warrior’s earned grace, guitar in hands, facing the crowd without fear of them—

And he wondered why they’d gone silent. Why Salkis and her friends followed him around.

They knew him.

Some had seen him on the scrying orb. Or just heard the story. The Goblin with the guitar who conjured lightning. The Hob wandering in the north.

In him was the echo of his father, Garen Redfang, for how soon people forgot, but the story retold itself in him.

But Numbtongue was not happy on his adventure, like Rabbiteater. He felt lost.

He felt…

His claws touched the guitar strings, and a flash of lightning made the person holding the scrying mirror go still. The crowd watched, and so did Lady Damia, even the fascinated half-Elf.

Like the Battle of Bands in Lemoste, this event would not be broadcast live. It would be re-broadcast later, after being submitted to Channel 2 News. Yet unlike Lemoste, it would quickly become a sensation. This Goblin, this song, would eventually travel the entire world and catch parts of it like a storm.

Later that day, the [Princess] waiting for word of a lost Hobgoblin would see it. And so, if Lyonette du Marquin, worried, wanted to know how Numbtongue was doing, this was her answer.

——

He had backup. Salkis grabbed some drumsticks and began to play. Numbtongue was the bass and lead. [Counter Melody] let him play both parts.

As for Salkis, she’d learned [Echo Competency: Music].

Numbtongue began to strum on his guitar, and the music was electric. The crowd, who’d begun to murmur, went silent. The beat that Salkis was laying down on the drums was as fast as his racing heartbeat.

Don’t do this. The Hobgoblin ignored the voice in his head. He closed his eyes and lifted something as he played. Gazed down at an image of an [Innkeeper] caught by a scrying spell in Baleros. Gazing into the camera as a Lizardman interviewed her.

His eyes locked on Erin Solstice’s face. Then Numbtongue leaned forwards. The crude wooden microphone was waiting for him.

So he sang.

“I never thought that I’d feel this old

Thought I’d be dead long ago

That’s the way it goes, that’s how [Heroes] go—”

It sounded like the Singer of Terandria. The same style. Pop? Dance. A genre so advanced that lexicons hadn’t evolved fast enough to keep up. But the Hobgoblin sang, and even Salkis nearly forgot to keep playing.

No one, not his family, not his tribe, knew that Numbtongue could sing like that. He was shy. He’d always been shy, and when he performed in the past, he had been serviceable, decent.

Practicing. Practicing in his rooms and singing only with Bird or Mrsha as an audience. Or Octavia and Garia in the mines.

He had never cut loose in public, never shouted how he felt. But now the words, practiced, given voice by his heart and sleepless nights and encouraged by Salkis—they came out of him.

Too late to stop. The crowd began to cheer almost at once. Because they could tell. The words—

They were speaking to them. But that was just how he began. They thought he was going to sing a war song, and he was.

Just not one about battles with swords.

“I’ve been to war, but I’d rather be back in hell

It’s easier than you asking if I’m well.

After all you’ve done, how dare you ask?”

Wait. A [Goth] raising his hands blinked. It sounded like a—

Love song. The Hobgoblin’s eyes had been closed. Now, they opened and stared at something only he could see. They glowed bright.

“Here’s how I’m doing:

Eat shit! I wish you knew how I was feeling

But you don’t care, do you?

Across the world and you don’t look back—”

His audience got that. They understood this song, and they had never heard it like this. The Singer of Terandria, the [Popstar], sang classics from her world. Many had lots to do with love. But most were hits, not this. This—

This was bitter. And original. They had never heard this song in this or any other world. The Hobgoblin confirmed that feeling in the next moment.

“Go to Rhir!

Go further and maybe I’ll forget you existed

Then I’ll start to heal

Sorry if that stings just keepin’ it real!”

Then they were just—cheering. Swept up in the [Sybarite Soulbard]’s greatest performance of his life. His eyes swept the crowd jumping, now, because they had to get the energy rushing through their legs out.

Mosh pit. He imagined someone, and his eyes fixed on that image; his voice became gravelly. He sang harder.

“How do you live with all the things you’ve done?

Ripped my heart out and left me to bleed

That’s the least of all your deeds.

“Fuck you!

For a woman of fire you’re so cold

You never think you could be wrong

Freeze me with all your guilty flames you deserve.”

They were cheering as he strode down the stage, waving their arms—a pair of Humans were shouting in the crowd next to a half-Elf pumping both hands in the air, eyes alight with joy. The Hobgoblin shook his head as the Unmarked Coach and those inside stared, mouths open.

“Shoot my heart like you shot my family apart

I wish I could say you’re grateful

But you tossed me aside and never looked back

They say I’m the monster but they’ve never met you

You kill everything that loves you just because you can.”

For a second, the swelling music slowed. Salkis put down the drumsticks, and he sang alone. Quietly, breathing hard, staring at something, someone, he had written for.

“Tell me: when is it my turn?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, jerking his head away as the drums picked up speed again. And he let it out. Everything he wanted to say.

“Tell me: when is it my turn?

Please hate me.

Look at me like you want me dead

Then I know I’ll never leave your head

Otherwise I’m just a statue for you to admire

Another victim on your pyre

I hope when it’s your turn

It breaks you to pieces.”

He kept playing. There was more, of course; refrains and the like. But that—

That got the heart of the song across.

It was a really good song too. The kind that captured something you’d felt and put in a form you wish you could have given voice to.

The kind of thing that caught fame. The cheering crowd didn’t stop shouting long after the Hobgoblin had finished. He had to come back on stage and perform again, then do other songs he knew. When it was done, everything revolved around him.

People asking who he was. Trying to get close. Wanting to know where he’d go next as Salkis tried to shove forwards and make sure no one got any ideas about who his girlfriend was. People just—loving the song.

Like Tolveilouka, who cheered with the crowd, completely forgetting about murdering anyone. He didn’t even look around when the Unmarked Coach shot away.

He was having too much fun. The half-Elf couldn’t wait to see the [Innkeeper]’s face when she heard that one. It was so worth being her ally after all.

——

Music travelled faster than gossip, which could outrun fact. That song and broadcast spread across the world—fast.

It struck most people individually. Some…some knew what it meant. Knew the Goblin. And their opinions were irrelevant because they were just individuals and that was a movement.

No one paid attention to a little Gnoll girl sitting in an inn lost to the world, crying as she saw her older brother singing that with all the bitter hate in the world. Only she knew what he should look like.

——

To everyone else, he was just the singing Hobgoblin. Creator of that damn good song.

“Dead gods. I can’t get it out of my head. Someone turn it off! We’re having a cookout, and we’ve company.”

“But Ma—”

An excited crowd of children—and she saw them as children, even if some were twenty—were all gathered around the scrying orb. At her warning look, her eldest son switched the orb off, but Aronia Lischelle privately bookmarked the song to come back to later.

“Goblins. They’d better not be in our north or we’ll have to round up a posse and take it out.”

That came from the man standing at the huge metal grille where he was cutting pieces of dripping meat off the fire and serving them onto plates. Huge, glistening chunks of prime beef covered in fat and seasoned until you wanted to scream and take another bite.

Hot as could be, served with fresh bread, potatoes that had been plucked from fields bare hours ago, and that damn good corn from up north, the blue stuff, for sweetness.

A feast, and the architect of it was Aronia Lischelle. It was an impressive meal, talk of the region. People marked on their calendars when a Lischelle threw a cookout, riding for a hundred miles to make it.

They were famous for it. This was a smaller gathering because it had come together so fast—such a hassle to put on with a day’s notice, but that was family for you.

Only three hundred people, not including the guests who numbered about forty. The Drakes and Gnolls had been worried about taking so many—until they’d been told they’d be well outnumbered.

The Lischelles, the Rominet, and a good number of Calabies as well as smaller families. Literal families, but also their workers—these were the clans who lived in the Cowpat Plains, the local name for this prime ranching spot.

As a certain Gnoll had observed, it did smell, but the huge roasts of meat were overpowering the usual dung scent, and you got used to it. Your reward?

The best damn sausages you’d ever had in your life. Slices of roast beef, pork tenderloin that would make a city-[Chef] cry for he had nothing a tenth as good from smaller, lesser farmers. This was Lischelle meat.

And they were unto royalty for their class.

It was the best damn meat you’d ever eaten.

“This is the best damn meat I’ve ever eaten. How in the name of the walls are they doing it? Is it…[Expert Cooking] or something?”

Aronia’s [Long Ear] picked up a Gnoll chomping down on a leg of chicken and looking thoroughly rattled as he stood with the Salazsarian contingent, who were…guests…at the cookout. Which meant no brawling, no knives, nothing.

Even if Aronia would have happily seen that purple-scaled Wall Lord run out of the north at the tip of a pitchfork, there were such things as manners. She’d reminded Herbus Calabie about that as well; the [Cattle Baron] had a temper.

Well, so did Marvus, but he was busy at the grill. The [Cattle Baron] and head of the family, her husband, was busy making sure the food was seared to excellence; he was so busy clapping people on the back and serving food he didn’t have time to throw a punch. She could hear his huge voice as he turned, sweat staining his work-clothes after a long day riding in the sun.

“Anyone seen the Golvas? Bah, we’ll put something aside for them. They’ll have to ride thirty miles to get here, and I bet no one told ‘em until this morning.”

Thirty miles of riding or more was not something you did casually, but again—[Cattle Barons]. The best riders, ranchers, and fistfighters in the north. Their herds could stretch from one end of the plains to another, and all this meant that this was their land.

Not any noble’s. Not for generations. None of the Five Families came this far south. Aronia was proud about that. No taxes, no rules save for the ones they made, and it was all fair.

Fair trade, free land, pride in what you did.

So that was why when a bunch of Drakes came north, they got what was coming to them. Not a war; she’d told Marvus not to shoot the first arrow. Lischelle sent men down to the Bloodfields each year, and she didn’t need a war up here. Not with a Walled City.

But the only thing keeping her from walking over and giving the Drake a hand he’d not soon forget was the fact that it was a cookout. And, well, the fact that someone was vouching for him.

Her oldest daughter Burlise was fiddling with her belt, which she’d bought, a fancy Wyvern belt from Pallass no less. She’d argued for ages with her mother about getting a Drake belt and insisted; the damn thing didn’t even fit her properly. She hesitated, tossing back her orange hair.

“Ma. Ma—are you going to talk t’ the Drake and that other [Lady] or stare all day? You’ve been shooting [Death Beams] the entire time.”

“Hush, you. We’re letting them fill their bellies first.”

Burlise dodged a hand going for her ear because she wanted to hear today.

“Sure—but you never don’t talk to ‘em. Even the Golvas you walk up and shake hands, and you hate—”

Everyone looked around, but the Golvas weren’t here, and Aronia lowered her voice.

“Hush. They’ve got Gnolls. It’s not the Gnolls, it’s that Drake. Let your father talk first.”

“It ain’t the Drake. It’s Aunt Colfa. You sure it’s her?”

Her loudmouth daughter, love her, could not let anything drop like an adult and pick up on cues. Aronia half-glanced towards a woman standing next to the red-haired [Lady] and a [Knight] of all damn things. Terandrians? They were all on the Drake Wall Lord’s side. Aronia’s voice was so cool it probably would have frosted the stew she was tending to. She began serving it into bowls.

“It’s Colfa. She was always—like that.”

“But her hair’s white, and she’s pale as—”

A swat.

“Stop staring. She’s got a farm up north. Or had. ‘Round Reizmelt. She didn’t bring her husband here either.”

“Just as well. Shifty fellow.”

One of Aronia’s brothers muttered. She shot him a look, and all the adults went silent. Aronia’s voice was firm.

“She’s come back, and we’re giving her the welcome she deserves, even if she did ask for a cookout without any notice. Hear them out, mind your manners, and if we don’t like what we hear, the lot of you can go kick that bunches’ teeth in the next time Marvus is minded to rumble.”

Indeed, the fact that any number of families were here proved they wanted to hear what this Drake had to say. And if they didn’t like it, they’d put aside their feuds and rivalries and deal with the problem.

No damn Drakes in our land. But Aronia just watched her sister. Colfa.

Dead gods, the years hadn’t touched her. She was beautiful, aside from that rash on her arm, but she was so pale. Her eyes.

Her red eyes. Did she color them with alchemy or had she changed? She didn’t feel like a [Rancher] anymore. Aronia was one of the highest-levelled women in this entire section of Izril. She could stare down even Big Burlap himself; she’d once had to knock the bull flat, and they told stories about that. She had thunder and wrath in her left hand, and the ability to feed an army in her right.

Her sister…

Felt empty. The young woman next to her sister had a glow about her. Something fancy, bright, and annoying to Aronia. Like a city’s [Merchant] who looked down on country people. It would have been polite for them to come over and say something. They hadn’t even had any food.

But Aronia gave them just a hint of grace. They were still staring at the scrying orb with the Hobgoblin playing the guitar. From the look on their faces…Aronia listened as the [Princess] finally stopped watching the replay after the seventh time. She glanced up, face utterly calm, and spoke.

——

Lyonette du Marquin, Nerul and Ilvriss Gemscale, Dame Ushar, Nanette Weishart, his command staff save for Captain Osthia, who was guarding the camp, Wall Lord Dramm and several younger officers, everyone was here.

The only person who hadn’t come to the ‘cookout’, whatever that was, was Xesci, who claimed it was too fancy for her.

Fancy was not how Lyonette would have termed the informal gathering. There weren’t even many places to sit! People just stood around with tin plates, eating off them, chatting—well, the Humans did.

The Drakes and Gnolls from the south stood apart, a clear line in the sand drawn between north and south. Lyonette knew she should do something about it; she’d put on her best travel dress since she’d been advised by Colfa not to wear a formal piece, and she’d come with Ilvriss to make peace.

But then she’d seen the broadcast with Numbtongue on it, and that…

Ilvriss was watching with a pained expression in his eyes. Nanette’s mouth was covered by her hands. Ushar was glancing around, doing her job, and Lyonette?

Lyonette hoped Mrsha hadn’t seen it. Calmly, she beckoned Ushar over.

“Ushar? I believe that’s a northern town nearby or some such? Find out where it is. Then see if we can hire an [Assassin].”

Dame Ushar smiled weakly. Then she saw Lyonette’s blue eyes were not blinking. The Thronebearer licked her lips, and someone spoke in a too-loud voice.

“Seems like we both can agree on one thing, then. Goblins walking around in daylight? It wouldn’t stand in the Cowpat Plains. Nor anything else a Lischelle’d quibble at. Y’all not hungry? There’s plenty to go around.”

Lyonette blinked and remembered her hosts. She smiled as a woman walked forwards, hand stretched out.

“Aronia Lischelle. You know Marvus. Colfa!”

“Aronia. Good to see you.”

They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks, but the normally-energetic Colfa was rather subdued at the moment. She hadn’t wanted to do this, but Lyonette took a deep breath.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Aronia—the broadcast was highly distressing.”

“Well, it’s surely interesting to see a [Lady]’s [Lady] such as yourself do things like they do up in First Landing. I thought all the [Assassins] were gone.”

Ah—perhaps not a good first start. Lyonette hesitated as Ilvriss jumped and began shaking hands with Aronia’s family, who’d come over warily. Where was Nerul? She smiled.

“That was a joke. And we have brought you something—thank you for hosting such a delightful event!”

“Of course. Oh, thank you!”

They’d brought a bunch of Salazsarian wine and even some ice cream carefully wrapped in ice that was mostly melting. Aronia’s children grew visibly interested at the treat they definitely knew, but the woman took one look at the food and wine and gestured.

It went onto the tables. The far end of the tables, and Lyonette saw it put down by one of Aronia’s daughters, whereupon no one touched it.

Right.

Back to work. She took a breath as she studied Aronia and got the distinct impression the woman was doing the same to her.

Lyonette would have described Aronia like this to Ielane. A woman in her mid-fifties, overweight, but a working woman, clearly, who wore boots and clothing in the same style as the [Ranchers]; even if she didn’t necessarily ride, she felt like a [Rancher] to Lyonette, but higher-grade than any [Peasant] in Calanfer. Her clothing was actually quite detailed and fine, even if it was common cotton, and she had orange hair. Not royal red, but distinct enough, braided up into a bun.

With her husband, they were an imposing duo and tall; that was the one thing they shared with Colfa. But the Vampiress’ hair, skin, everything, made her so foreign she was like someone from another continent compared to the Lischelles.

They were a boisterous, noisy lot. They reminded Lyonette of [Hostlers] or [Farmers], rough and ready, and she could see how they were all too willing to throw fists with the Drakes. They were a distinct contrast to Ilvriss’ company-oriented Salazsarian crew too.

She didn’t know how to interact with Aronia, but politeness and dignity did work everywhere in Lyonette’s view, so she smiled.

“May I introduce Wall Lord Ilvriss?”

“Charmed, Miss Aronia. Or is it…Lady Aronia? I apologize, I don’t know the ranks of your classes here.”

That made her laugh, loudly enough for her husband to glance up and begin edging her way.

“Lady? Not us, not here. Oh, we’re [Cattle Barons], but that’s just the name of the class. We’re not proper royalty like you, Lady Lyonette, though some of us give ourselves airs.”

She didn’t glance at Colfa there, but Lyonette swore she saw Colfa twitch. Was that…a Skill? From the way Colfa grimaced, it seemed like that comment had actually hurt!

“[Barbed Comment]. Your Highness, she’s got Skills. She’s one to convince as well.”

Ushar used a Skill to murmur in Lyonette’s ear. The [Princess] smiled.

“Well, we’re all equals here in my eyes. As I said, this is very gracious of you to put on at such short notice.”

“Think nothing of it, but you’re not hungry at all?”

Lyonette began to demur, but Wall Lord Ilvriss’ stomach rumbled, and Aronia smiled. She gestured.

“Come on, let’s get some food in you. Do you all not eat a kind of meat?”

“Er, no, not at all. What have we here?”

Ilvriss asked the wrong question because the woman began to tell him in detail exactly what they had, which vaguely impressed Lyonette. Oh, it wasn’t at all made elegantly, but the cuts of meat looked exceedingly fine, which she supposed you got from the s—

One bite of the first piece of steak and Lyonette choked. Nanette’s eyes went round, and Ilvriss blinked.

“This is excellent.”

It was, in fact, one of the best steaks that Lyonette had ever had in her life, and she was a [Princess]! Nanette began to gobble her food as Lyonette and Ilvriss turned to compliment Aronia, and the woman laughed.

“Of course it is! It’s a Lischelle steak! Colfa never served you any?”

“We had to get rid of our cows when we moved to Liscor. We have new ones, but nothing I’d serve at a cookout.”

Colfa murmured, and Aronia turned. Everyone in earshot, her extended family, went silent, then Aronia spoke.

“We’ll have to send some to you then! What happened up north, Colfa?”

“Poison in the wells.”

“Dead gods. Are you alright? Is that girl and boy of yours, Fierre, Rivel, alright?”

Colfa murmured as the conversation turned on her, providing brief explanations. Lyonette nudged Nanete.

“Nanette, stop gobbling!”

“But it’s so good! Mrsha should have stayed!”

The witch protested, and Aronia beamed and pinched her cheek.

“What a darling girl with good taste! Is she yours?”

“Yes, yes she is. And I have another girl, but she had to return home, sick. She’s a Gnoll, and her nose was sensitive.”

Aronia nodded, and one of her sisters put in drily.

“Oh, aye. We’ve had Gnolls come by and have a sneezing fit something terrible. Poor folks. But it’s only real bad here where Cowpat Plains is deepest. Still, I’ve heard some cityfolk say they can’t stomach the stench! How about you, Miss Lyonette?”

“I barely smell a thing.”

The [Princess] was sure her lie was genuine, but there was a moment of silence, and she felt, instinctively, she was making mistakes. But she was trained by Ielane! What was she doing—

“Er, Your Highness. Your Mother has notes for you. She would like you to know you’re behaving incorrectly.”

Lyonette jumped, turned to Ushar, and hissed at her.

“She’s watching me?”

Of course she was. Lyonette still refused to speak to Ielane, but damn it—she might be correct. Flustered, Lyonette stepped back, and fortunately at that moment, the hero of the hour came in. Nerul Gemscale, [Diplomat], accept no other expert.

Where he’d been while Lyonette and Ilvriss were putting their foot in it was made obvious at once. He had loaded up a plate with an obscene amount of food and, from the looks of it, had made an amazing dent already. He had an ale in his hand, and he strode into the conversation as loud as could be.

“Miss Aronia, this food! The best I’ve had! I shall sing your praises from the towers of Salazsar—if I can manage all the steps! Your husband is a fine charrer of meat.”

For some reason, that last bit sounded like an insult. Aronia wavered as Lyonette took her cues from Nerul.

“Marvus burned some of the meat?”

“Only a bit, and it’s the most excellent stuff I’ve had.”

“Oh, drat the fool—he was probably jawing with the Golvas. They just rode in. How do you do?”

“Excellent, and may I add that your farmstead is splendid? I love the ranch style of things; we’re all up and down, you know. Is that a genuine ivory dining set?”

“That? Bull horns, nothing fancy—excuse me, I’d best check on the food. You just have a bit and we’ll be right back!”

Aronia stepped away, and Lyonette blinked. Ilvriss raised his brows as Nerul began shaking hands with the impressed members of the Lischelles, who watched him with a sudden respect Lyonette hadn’t gotten herself.

“Uncle, what was that? Did you go into her house?”

Nerul whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I surely did, Nephew. I’d like to be all sun and roses here, but they do not like us, and they need us to throw a few jabs at them to respect us. Miss Lyonette, you’re playing far too Terandrian courts. Go Erin Solstice. Your mother would astound you how fast she can class switch.”

Lyonette blinked. Sure enough, though, Nerul had put the Lischelles on the back foot a second. Nerul strode back into the conversation, loud as could be, dictating the flow of it.

“Yes, Salazsar! [Diplomat], drunkard, it’s very much the same energy. I can’t handle the flatness here. It’s all heights back home, but here you ride for thirty miles and you’re lucky to find an anthill! And the damn cowpats! I’ve stepped in five this morning, and the stench! Well, this is fantastic. Now—which of you bastards were stealing our cows and are we eating them?”

He punched the shoulder of a surprised man and had them laughing at a bawdy joke he was telling in moments. Nerul could out-drink and out-personality most people. Ilvriss, on the other hand, checked something he had been given.

“I’ve got a gift to present, but I was told to hold onto it until that [Cattle Baron] gets here. He does not like us, Lyonette.”

“No, he does not. I’ll push back more. How have they treated you thus far?”

He raised his brows at her.

“Treated me? Lyonette, they didn’t say anything to me. Refused to hear any messengers I sent—I’ve bought from all the ones here, but only lower-level representatives. Nerul just got dead silence, but he’s been dealing with the Five Families.”

Colfa muttered to both.

“That’s how it works. Their silence is a sign there’s trouble. If they’re loud and arguing, at least you have them talking. Marvus is not as bad as Aronia.”

“She seemed pleasant enough.”

Ilvriss muttered back. Lyonette and Colfa eyed him, and he hesitated.

“…No? Her husband broke half a dozen jaws.”

“She let him. Don’t get her mad. We grew up together; I’m the older sister, but I don’t have any levels. She does.”

Colfa was visibly nervous, and Lyonette whispered to her.

“Colfa, is there a rift of some kind I should know about?”

“Nothing complex, Lyonette. I left for Himilt.”

“You ran away?”

“Oh, no. He got their blessings. But he had to work for it, and I—left.”

“But they gave their blessings?”

Colfa sighed.

“Yes, Lyonette. But what does that mean? Aronia and I haven’t done more than send letters for over a decade. We are going to have a conversation, but not here. Not now. I don’t know how you’re going to win them over, though. They won’t relent. They’ve fought at the Bloodfields.”

“I had no idea they cooperated with the Five Families that much. Or that they had this much sway this far south.”

Ilvriss frowned. Colfa eyed him.

“The Five Families won’t get more than spit down here, Ilvriss. They’re not loyal to any noble house. They’re just…north Izrilian. Why wouldn’t we fight at the Bloodfields?”

He hesitated, and here came Marvus and Aronia, and the [Cattle Baron] strode over, shook Ilvriss claw, then stood back, hooking his thumbs in his belt.

“Hope you’re all enjoying the food. Go on, eat up! Then, turn around and get the hell out of my lands, if you don’t mind!”

He laughed, but there was nothing friendly about the look he gave Ilvriss. The Wall Lord cleared his throat.

“Mister Marvus, I understand Salazsar’s presence here is unwelcome, but I’d like to discuss a cessation of hostilities. We have not begun any offensive actions between our people or any of the local rancher-families, and I have a token of goodwill for you, if you’ll accept it.”

Marvus’ brows crossed.

“You what—?”

Aronia whispered in his ear, and he grunted.

“You want to make peace. Not likely. What do you want to give us?”

For answer, Wall Lord Ilvriss opened a black, Wyvernleather briefcase, and Marvus Lischelle went temporarily blind.

Even Lyonette du Marquin had to own—she’d never seen that many expensive gemstones packed into such a small place. They…glittered.

It was harsh but true to say that a well-cut and spelled piece of glass could usually look as good as your average gemstone. True, the real thing had a bit of luster to it, but most gemstones were rocks when you got down to it, and the cut and finish mattered almost more than the quality to the neophyte’s eyes.

But magical gemstones. Magical ones…they glowed. They glittered. They shone with little motes of brilliant light or ran like water, like the opals in the—

Aronia closed the briefcase, and there was a sigh from her daughter. Not just here; everyone had been goggling at the gems, but the woman’s face was all smiles. Her tone was not.

“You must think we can be bought easily, Wall Lord.”

“Not at all, Miss Aronia. This is a gift.”

“Damn expensive for a gift. I guess that’s the City of Gems for you.”

Marvus’ already impressive chest puffed out, and Ilvriss’ eyes flickered. He might not have been the best diplomat ever—Lyonette had met him the first time he’d come to Liscor, after all—but he was a [Wall Lord] without a combat focus.

Adaptable, and the Ilvriss of today could listen to his Uncle. He smiled and chuckled.

“No, no. I fear we’ve all made a mistake. This is no gift in the sense of a…a bribe. This is a thank-you for your lovely cookout. It’s traditional for Drakes to give gifts to neighbors, and this is a Salazsarian one.”

“It’s so—it’s quite a lot.”

One of Aronia’s sisters changed what she was about to say, and Ilvriss gestured at the case.

“If you have such fine livestock, then Salazsar has the same in gems. Please, as you have offered us your specialties, I insist. This is purely a gift, no strings attached.”

He handed it to the woman who’d spoken, and she didn’t try to hand it back fast enough. Very, very clever. Marvus or his wife would have done that. Aronia hesitated.

“Let’s put it aside, Rachele.”

She meant on the table where the melting ice cream was, not to be touched. But that one had struck a blow, Lyonette could tell. Marvus glanced about.

“Awful lot of armored Drakes for a group coming here peaceful. What’re you digging for? That’s what I hear you lot do all day. Dig and more digging. Must be a fortune in, what, metals?”

“Something like that, Marvus.”

Ilvriss copied the man’s straightforward posture and tone, and his voice was polite.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss House Gemscale business with anyone but our partners.”

“And you’re his partner, Miss…?”

Marvus shook Lyonette’s hand and smiled at her, but glanced at Ilvriss as the Wall Lord clarified.

“Miss Lyonette is a very valuable business partner of House Gemscale. From Liscor.”

“Liscor? With the Goblin King nonsense?”

Lyonette met the man’s eyes as he glanced her up and down and wrote her off for reasons she suspected had to do with his willingness to believe the news. She smiled, and her skin hurt from all the smiling.

Her cracks from taking on Erin’s curse. But her makeup was very good, so she doubted even Aronia could tell she had more than heavy makeup on.

“It’s not nonsense, sir.”

“Bah. I lived through the last Goblin King. If he really appeared, he wouldn’t have stopped like that. But I suppose Liscor’s where you get peculiar ideas like trusting Drakes. These are our lands, Lord Ilvriss. No one invited you.”

“As far as I understand it, there’s no owner of the lands we’re digging in. I requested and obtained permits through the town—”

“Town nothing. We graze our herds here.”

“So you legally own the lands, Mister Marvus?”

Lyonette jumped in, and the man hesitated. He did not, but Aronia returned from putting the briefcase aside.

“There’s nothing legal about it, Miss Lyonette. We don’t deal in that sort of thing nor does the Merchant’s Guild or any other Guild have much to do with us. We’re just honest countryfolk. We’re merely expressing how we feel to Wall Lord Ilvriss, frankly.”

“Ah, that would include the cattle raids? My people haven’t used blades, Cattle Baron Marvus. But we cannot afford to keep this state of affairs up.”

Marvus bared his teeth in what would have been a friendly smile for Drakes.

“Shame about that, then. For us country bumpkins, it’s a good warmup after dinner and a way to whet the appetite before dessert.”

“Could we negotiate a truce?”

“No. I don’t think we can. Y’see, we’ve heard about the sabotage the Drakes got up to in the north. Even had a few fellows try it here. They thought they blended in. Well, they learned how well that worked. Whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to get it easy, Wall Lord. Mind you, I appreciate you not drawing blades on us. I’d hate for things to get worse.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss inhaled and met Marvus’ gaze as the tension ratcheted up, and people began to shift around them. Wall Lord Dramm was glaring at some of the younger men behind Marvus, and Lyonette wished Ilvriss hadn’t brought his friend’s nephew here. Hot tempers were the last thing they needed. Ilvriss murmured.

“I’d hate for that too, Marvus. Does this feel like a waste of everyone’s time?”

“Not ours. What made you think you could just walk up north? Salazsarian might?”

Ilvriss’ eyes flashed for one second, and Lyonette nearly interrupted, but the Wall Lord put out a claw and glanced at Aronia, then around.

“Possibly because Zel Shivertail did just that. He was a friend of mine. I have not come to fight a Goblin Lord, but I took his lessons to heart.”

For a moment, Marvus’ steady hostility wavered, and Lyonette exhaled. She smiled at Ilvriss as he demonstrated that charisma he did have. Wall Lord Dramm backed up, glaring, as Ilvriss pointedly glanced at him, and the tension diffused a moment.

“Excuse us a moment, would you, Wall Lord? This isn’t only our family’s decision, and you should meet the other heads of the families.”

Aronia murmured, and Lyonette smiled, then turned to Ilvriss.

“That was well done. She’s calling in backup.”

“Yep. We haven’t swayed them an inch, but maybe given them room to think. Now we let the heavy hitter come in.”

They turned, and as both sides converged again, Aronia and Marvus walked forwards with six other men and women, and they were the polite ones compared to some of the glares in the group. But Lyonette and Ilvriss had brought Nerul.

He had come prepared for this engagement. The first thing the [Diplomat] did was hip-check Nanette, who’d come forwards with hand raised, out of the way. He came in fast, Skills blazing.

“Rabbo Golva. How the hell are you, my man? I owe you a drink!”

“You do? We’ve never met.”

The head of the Golvas was instantly taken aback, but Nerul grinned.

“I once served a Golva steak at a high-stakes—aha—meeting. Won the Gnoll over so much we stopped an entire border war! That’s quality. I always said to myself, ‘Nerul, if you ever meet the fellow who raised that head of cattle, buy him a drink’.”

“Well, we sell to—”

“It was a Golva Goldstar Porterhouse. 18 A.F. I remember it because half my peers didn’t want to eat it; slightly blue meat?”

The man named Rabbo had calluses on the front and back of his hands, and Lyonette got the impression Aronia and Marvus did not like him for all they stood together. A wiry mustache twitched, and his eyes widened.

“I remember that year. It was one of the best damn herds we had, but for the blue dyegrass they got into. I just had to get someone to taste the stuff and—”

“Exactly. Well, someone put me onto it, and Salazsar had an entire shipment in. Now, I’ll be paying for drinks whenever you want, but I’m forgetting myself! Ranton, yes?”

Nerul knew everyone by name already, and he was doing the old divide-and-conquer method. It was so artful Lyonette wondered if her mother was impressed. Nerul was complimenting the Golvas, who were probably rivals with the Lischelles, and putting a chink in their armor. It was—

——

“—Not bad.”

Ielane commented, wiping at the blood coming out of her nose. She murmured as a little witch jumped.

“Er—who is this?”

Ushar had handed Nanette a speaking stone. The [Queen] spoke.

“Your grandmother, Nanette Weishart. That Drake isn’t bad. He’s pressing the entire lot hard on their territory, and with a month’s work, I think he might get them fighting each other unless they check it. Tell your mother a certain half-Elf might be coming.”

“I don’t know if Lyonette or I appreciate being spied on—what was that?”

Nanette hesitated as Ielane wiped at her nose again.

“He’s not hostile. Just…odd. Tell her. And the [Diplomat] isn’t bad, but he’s made a mistake. This is going to fail.”

The little witch was peering at Nerul.

“I think Diplomat Nerul is quite adept, Grandmother Ielane or however I should address you. Yuck. I can’t imagine he’d fail.”

Ielane smiled despite herself. The uppitiness of a witch…but she corrected Nanette.

“He’s already lost the battle. Watch.”

Nerul was moving like a snake. Striking with pinpoint accuracy like a [Fistfighter]. And the problem with analogies was at some point—someone swung a fist.

——

It was a telegraphed blow, and Lyonette herself saw it.

“Watch out—”

Marvus swung at Nerul, and the [Diplomat] blinked, flinched, and put up his guard. Marvus halted the punch, laughing, as Ilvriss put an arm out.

“Hah! Got you, you bastard! I knew you were the fellow who tried to take me on yesterday. Thrashed him like a bug, Aronia.”

“Marvus!”

She slapped his arm but not hard, and Marvus swaggered over. Nerul smiled, but there was a sudden tightness to the smile.

“Marvus Lischelle? We didn’t get a chance to say hello. Nice right hook. I’m hoping we can talk.”

“Bah. Talking, drinking—I don’t have a mind to change things. Not when this is so much fun.”

A second feint, and this time, Nerul barely moved when Marvus aimed at his stomach, but it was there, and Marvus grinned, then was slapping Nerul on the shoulder.

“Just a joke! Just a joke—no one fights at a cookout. You drink? Let’s get a drink!”

“I do drink! And I owe the Golvas one, but if I may—”

“Let’s have a round, then.”

Marvus pulled, and Nerul resisted a moment, but then it became a question of strength. Lyonette doubted the [Diplomat] could throw Marvus. More than that—she turned to Ilvriss as the mood suddenly changed.

Rabbo Golva blinked and shook himself like a dog coming awake, and then other people were laughing and following Marvus, who was calling for drinks.

“What was that?”

“I don’t—know. Nerul can throw anyone he wants in a social engagement, even the most annoying or aggressive people. I’ve never seen that happen.”

Ilvriss blinked just as hard. They saw Nerul trying to pull the conversation back to them, but Marvus was getting everyone drinks and commenting on the fight. It was when Nanette came over and tugged on Lyonette’s arm that the [Princess] understood.

Well, it was her mother’s dry voice in her ear that made her insides tighten up.

“The [Diplomat] made the error of losing a fight to the [Cattle Baron]. It’s probably a Skill. [Might Makes Right] or some variant. Or just the fact that he lost the fight.”

“Is that what it is?”

Nanette exclaimed, and would have asked more, until Lyonette covered the speaking stone.

“Nanette, stop talking to busybodies. Ask the Quarass if you have these kinds of questions.”

Oooh. The [Princess] saw the little witch’s mouth drop open in delight at that level of pettiness. But Lyonette was now worried, because Ielane was right, damn her.

Lyonette didn’t get it until she saw Marvus gesturing with his fists, occasionally feinting at Nerul or acting—well, like a giant bully. Nerul was good; he barely reacted to the provocations, but it didn’t matter.

Damn it. She’d never thought Nerul could lose a fight, but clearly, in the land of masculine machismo or the language of people who respected a good punch, he’d fallen behind. He eventually escaped the drinking and strode over.

“Ancestors damn it, this is why you never drink in bars before engaging. They got me, Nephew. You need to step up.”

Nerul shook out his lapels, exasperated, and Ilvriss nodded.

“Just tell us what to do, Nerul.”

“In two words? Impress them! Make it so they think they need you more than they need to be rid of you! Damn, damn, damn. He’s uniting them around hating us, and that Aronia’s tough too.”

Colfa nodded.

“She’s got the other house ladies united. And they’re going to start bullying you now. Watch out.”

Lyonette thought that meant someone tossing drinks or sabotage Calanferian style. But she didn’t see any of that, and then she heard someone break out a fiddle and blinked as Marvus turned. He took a huge bite of a skewer of meat, tossed it at his wife, who did the same before passing it around, and hollered.

“Enough talking for a second! This is a cookout—let’s have some dancing! You lot dance?”

Ilvriss and Lyonette exchanged glances. They smiled.

Did they dance? The Wall Lord offered Lyonette a hand, and she bowed.

“We could do some impressing.”

Nerul sat down, wiping at his brows, as Nanette came to offer him a hand. He lifted a palm.

“I appreciate the offer, Miss Nanette, but I think I need to monitor things. This is not going according to plan.”

The young witch put her hands on her hips. She’d already made inroads with some of Aronia’s children; they’d given her a cowboy hat and even a leather jacket she was going to incorporate into her style, and she’d traded them a soccer jersey from Liscor and was making friends.

“They’re playing into our trap, Nerul. Lyonette and Ilvriss’ dancing turned Oteslia on its head.”

The big Drake grunted.

“True. They’re both dancing experts, trained from birth. Tell me. Do you think either have practiced square dancing? Country dancing? Line dances?”

The young witch hesitated. She lifted the speaking stone.

“Er, Your Majesty?”

“What do you think?”

——

It would be wrong to assume that Lyonette and Ilvriss were out of their element when the dancing began. Oh, they were. Lyonette quickly realized that the rougher ground and the boots that everyone wore meant there were no gliding moves, and there was a certain high-stepping energy to the Lischelles’ dances.

However! She was a [Princess], and dead gods damnit, this was what she had been bred for! Ilvriss eyed the two-stepping jig as they observed. No one was walking them through the dancing, but Lyonette bet everyone was watching them to see if they failed.

None of the other Drakes or Gnolls were trying to dance. Welsca was observing from the sides with the uncomfortable Salazsarians, and while Nerul could probably dance, no one wanted to but Nanette.

“You don’t have to dance, Lyonette. I feel like I’ve given you a headache—I don’t know if I can keep up with the steps.”

She gave him a patently annoyed, bright smile.

“Ilvriss, I’m here to resolve this pettiness. And I dance.”

“Yes, but we don’t have any practice. Erin could—”

She poked him in the chest. That was a sore point with Lyonette, actually. She loved Erin, but—

“Ilvriss Gemscale. Erin is not the first [Dancer] in the inn. I don’t have the class because [Princesses] dance like we breathe!”

“…Seldomly observed, in my experience?”

She colored as he replied, then snapped back.

“You’ve seen me dance! I love dancing, I just don’t have any partners who can keep up with me! Now, let’s show them—”

She held out a hand, and he took it. For a moment, they were whirling on Oteslia’s dance floor. Ilvriss cautiously watched the swing dancing, then Lyonette went in, and he followed and—

——

“Strike me with a horseshoe. I didn’t know Drakes could dance.”

Marvus and Aronia loved dancing, but they were more focused on the intruders than anything else, and they’d expected both to back out. What they hadn’t expected was to see the [Princess], if the rumors that one of Aronia’s aunts had brought up was true, and the Wall Lord go swinging around by the elbows and match the other dancers kick for kick.

“They’re not bad.”

That was the best compliment Aronia dished out; she was all competition, but she just took another bite from the skewer and then casually nodded to the musicians. This wasn’t a social engagement.

Accordingly—Burlise glanced up and stopped whirling a young man who worked for the Lischelles around on the dance floor. She tugged him away, and Nanette, who’d grabbed a boy her age and was dancing energetically, if completely off-tempo, blinked as half the young folk dodged out of the dance floor.

“What’s going on? I like this song! It’s great!”

Lischelle music was indeed excellent with only a few string instruments. However, it picked up in sound and tempo, and Marvus led his wife onto the floor. Nanette quickly realized why their sons and daughters had evacuated.

The next song was incomparably harder in intensity. Accordingly, the line dance was a complex shuffle of feet where you placed your foot next to everyone in line in the right order—mess up once and someone was stepping on your feet or you’d be literally bumped flat.

The fact that Nanette stuck around, despite instantly tripping, earned her a lot of laughter, but not unkindly. In fact, she was the only person that Aronia liked. Marvus grinned at Nanette as her pigtails slapped her unfortunate partner in the face.

“Girl’s got heart. Nephew Tibb’s swept off his feet.”

Aronia grimaced.

“She’s a little heartbreaker. Focus, Marvus!”

The complex line dance was very impressive. Such that even the Drakes and Gnolls were nodding along as the clapping began. Out of the corner of their eyes, both husband and wife watched the [Princess] and Wall Lord bobbing their heads to the beat. Then—

They entered the line dance and kept up. Aronia actually turned her head as they did a full-body swing around, a two-step back, turn, hooking their feet in with their partner’s, unhook in a spin out, and—

Neither one fell. She swore Lyonette did flinch as the two clasped hands, but almost like she was in pain, not—

“Dead gods, they can dance.”

One of her sisters remarked, and Aronia glared.

“Pick it up.”

The dances got more complex.

——

Lyonette was enjoying herself. She saw a panting Nanette cheering for her after two more dances, and she knew she was impressing the Lischelles. Even Colfa was impressed; she’d taken a few partners onto the floor, but she probably missed Himilt.

But she was fast enough. The [Princess] was grinning as Ilvriss took a gulp of water.

“Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad! But let’s have an old-fashioned dance next! Who’s up for the old Highstepper?”

Marvus shouted, and Lyonette instantly saw half the adults leave the floor. Marvus’ own children turned their heads, and she smiled.

“Oh, I think they’re pulling out a hard dance, Ilvriss. Let’s do th—”

Marvus and Aronia Lischelle took the floor as the [Fiddler] spat on her hands, then took up the bow. She began to play like a maniac, and the Human and Drake stared.

There were damned dances like the legendary 5-Step from Terandria. In the annals of horrific ankle-destroying dances, the Highstepper—or Shepherd’s Highstepper—was one such.

It was both complex and fast. How fast? Well, consider one of the traditional moves of a dancer. It was the casual one where you came down the floor, kicking a foot in and out, switching feet every step. It looked very lovely when you did it. You normally did it to the beat of a song, fast enough.

Step-step-step-step, about as fast as you clapped your hands together at a decent pace. The Highstepper had you doing that move about two steps per second.

And that was just one move. Lyonette thought of herself as an excellent dancer, but her jaw dropped as she saw Marvus and Aronia, who were not, politely, in the same weight class as her and Ilvriss speeding across the floor, holding their belts, trousers flashing.

“Ancestors!”

And they were dancing together. Half the Highstepper’s moves treated you as a unit; you had to keep in tune with your partner. Any mistake would definitely send you sprawling.

First went Marvus and Aronia. Then Rabbo Golva and his wife joined the procession, and Lyonette’s heart sank.

They were dancing like Demons! The Death of Footwork! When the third [Cattle Baroness] and her husband demonstrated the dance, she knew they had to do it.

“Ilvriss, let’s—”

They needed to practice. But the Wall Lord just stared at the feet and blanched.

“Lyonette, that’s way beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t think—”

“Nonsense! If they can do it, we can! We’re half their age!”

“You’re half their age. Okay, dead gods, let’s…”

The others gave them two circuits of the dance, and then every eye turned to the [Princess] and Wall Lord. They could have bowed out, of course. There was no shame in not dancing the obviously incredibly hard dance.

Just…

A [Princess] and a Wall Lord glanced at each other, and admitting when they couldn’t do things was something they’d obviously been taught you could do.

If you were other people. They strode over, faced each other, and put their hands on their belts. Nanette Weishart covered her eyes, then peeked.

——

Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle gave Lyonette this: her friend was no coward. And she was very good, but the Highstepper? She never had a chance.

They made it sixteen seconds, which was twice as long as Colfa would have bet, before Lyonette misjudged a step, tangled with Ilvriss’ tail as he turned the wrong way, and they went sprawling.

Cue laughter like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever seen. The [Princess] got up slowly, and Colfa wondered if Lyonette’s condition meant—

No, Ushar was there, and she even had a covert healing potion. Colfa relaxed, and that was that.

No one was going to make the two do the Highstepper again. It was just—a message.

As if everything else tonight hadn’t been a big one as to how welcome Ilvriss was. Normally, you bought anyone who tried the Highstepper a drink. Ilvriss was alone as he limped back to his side of the dancefloor to ask Nerul if his tail looked broken.

“Hah! That was worth all the effort!”

Marvus grinned at the Drakes as Colfa heard the Lischelles mocking the [Princess] and her people. They might have been smiles at times, and Nanette had won some admirers, but that was kids. Lyonette and Ilvriss had to know that behind all this façade was a knife, and it was being sharpened.

“It does my heart good to see a noblewoman sprawl like the rest of us.”

Aronia was gloating too, and this, more than anything, prompted Colfa to walk over. She pointedly eyed the skewer of meat that Marvus had prepared and put her hands on her hips.

“You two can stop acting now. If you could do the Highstepper without that [Fleetfoot Grill], you’d deserve to look down your noses at them. What’s old Rabbo’s trick? [Drunker Dancing]?”

She’d noticed him taking down shots before he stepped over; he seemed distinctly unsteady now.

Everyone cheated at the Highstepper. Unless, of course, you could just do it without help. Aronia lost her smile. She locked eyes with her older sister, Colfa, who could do the Highstepper in her youth. And who was not bowing to the unspoken rules of nicety here.

“Colfa. First you call a cookout for that Drake, now you want to lecture us on having a bit of fun?”

“They’re coming here and willing to try the Highstepper in the name of peace. Can’t you give them the time of day? Marvus, how many men have you lost in fights with Wall Lord Ilvriss?”

He hesitated, then nodded at her stiffly.

“Colfa. None save for some broken bones but—”

“Do you think any Wall Lord would be half as reasonable as Wall Lord Ilvriss? Believe me, he’s trying to be diplomatic.”

“No one asked him to come here, Colfa. Where’s Himilt?”

“Working our farm. I’m here as a favor to Ilvriss.”

“How much of a favor?”

One of their sisters-in-law asked snidely, and Colfa glanced at her, and the woman hesitated. Skilless she might be, but Colfa had lived here.

“None of a Skill. Neither one needs it. It’s called mutual respect, Maire. Something you might have forgotten.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve walking in here and insulting the family, Colfa. And trading in on our name in the north, I heard. I’ve had Lischelle-Drakle products. They’re not much of anything.”

Colfa reddened as Aronia peered at her fingernails because it was true. Without Skills, the most she and Himilt could do was treat their animals right. She had used the name to keep the farm selling well. Colfa took a breath.

“We made a living up there as best we could. I haven’t asked for any favors. I’m asking for one now. Just hear them out.”

She didn’t know if Ilvriss would tell the Lischelles what they were searching for. It’d come out sooner or later, Ilvriss had admitted, but…Aronia stepped forwards.

“If you’re such a friend, why don’t you tell them to turn around, Colfa? Or do you think we’re working with the enemy?”

“They’re not the same Drakes you go to war with, Aronia. Get the wool out of your ears.”

“Do not come in here and try to give me orders, Colfa.”

The two women glared at each other as Marvus backed up. He was not going to get in the way of this one. Colfa felt something pushing on her.

Aura. Dead gods, her younger sister had become a force every bit as strong as their mother. Colfa wanted to be proud, but she remembered why she’d left. She lowered her voice until they were both whispering.

“Don’t make this personal, Aronia. I’ve left you alone.”

“Personal? You don’t visit, you don’t speak to us—I had to ask for a picture of Rivel!”

“It’s another life—”

“One you’ve always wanted! So don’t come crawling back to us! I’m glad your farm went under. I always said you could do better than that fellow, Himilt, but you chose him, but it’s disrespectful to us and the animals to do that poorly.”

That one hurt. Colfa’s head jerked with the impact of a Skill that went along with the slap of an insult. She took a breath and fired back.

“No matter how big Marvus makes our herds, you’re never going to be better than mother. You’re just the Lischelle ‘lady’. And however much you play at being the gracious country royalty, Lyonette can see right through it and all your petty little barbs that you never grew out of because you’re so insec—”

She had been waiting for the slap. Aronia might have wanted to play nice and polite, but she had a temper like one of their bulls, and she came with a lefthanded slap that had made her famous.

Colfa blocked her hand with her own, and the ground shifted as she slid back a pace. There was a gasp from everyone behind Aronia. No one blocked that—

Colfa’s right hand cracked across Aronia’s cheek so fast her younger sister blinked and wobbled. Then the red mark appeared, and she went cross-eyed a second. Colfa hadn’t hit Aronia as hard as she could, but she raised her other hand as Lyonette, Ilvriss, and everyone stared.

“You want to throw down, Aronia? Don’t tempt me.”

The [Cattle Baroness]’ eyes narrowed. She raised her right hand, and Colfa sighed. She caught Aronia’s hand with the speed only a Vampire could achieve. As long as she caught a Skill, it was f—

Aronia twisted under Colfa’s arm, and her left hand came around in a backhand. Colfa tried to dodge, but her head somehow jerked back and still ended up straight in the path of the hand.

“Rhir’s hells, she’s got another Sk—”

——

Lyonette had seen the slap and been aghast. She’d had fights with her sisters, but hair-pulling at worst. Never anything physical.

But she was a [Princess], and Colfa had hit Aronia hard. Lyonette had seen how strong and fast Colfa could be as a Vampiress, even one without Fierre’s full strength.

She did not expect Colfa to go flying across the cookout, hit the ground, roll once onto her feet, and skid four paces. Her cheek was completely red, instantly swollen, and she wobbled.

“Colfa!”

Lyonette dashed forwards in horror. She actually fell to one knee, then gritted her teeth. There was blood oozing from her mouth; it had been cut on her teeth!

“Lyonette, get back.”

“What was—what was—”

“[Bull’s Slap]. She once slapped a bull out of the way.”

Lyonette’s jaw dropped. She’d heard of hand-Skills before; Magnolia’s [Deft Hand] had once laid out a [Lord], and she’d used it to deflect arrows and even move a Mortemdefieir Titan in battle, but a slap Skill?

Colfa was working her jaw with clicking sounds.

“I’ve got this. Is that the best you’ve got, Aronia?”

“I took it easy on you, Colfa. You’ve gotten weaker.”

The [Cattle Baroness] was coming, cheek red, eyes glittering, and Colfa was gritting her teeth. Lyonette no longer had confidence Colfa was the one with the advantage. Before her very eyes, Aronia’s cheek changed from a flaming red to her regular skin tone.

“What is that?”

“[Ignored Insult]. She’s always been tough. Lyonette, get out of the way, she’s going to hit you or anything else in the way, and she can lay out Ilvriss.”

Lyonette actually didn’t doubt that if Aronia had once knocked a bull aside. The left hand of doom rose, and Colfa shook out hers.

“Excuse me, enough. I don’t know why you’re fighting, but Colfa is my friend. Kindly desist.”

Lyonette spoke to Aronia. The [Baroness]’ eyes blazed.

“I will not be told to stop in my home when someone’s breached all niceties. Back up, Princess or whatever you’re supposed to be.”

She raised a hand, and Lyonette caught it with her own. She called on her aura.

[Calming Touch], [Imperial Aura], the authority of The Wandering Inn and Calanfer…she didn’t use her Skills as much as she should. She had so many.

So many negatives. Her body was screaming from trying that dance. Her [Crippled Reflexes] meant she couldn’t do the Highstepper, much like the 5-Step. But she was angry. And a [Princess].

“Miss Aronia, I said enough.”

The royal power ran through her, and Aronia’s arm began to lower like she had a huge weight on it. She wavered, then her eyes blazed.

“No one orders me around in my household.”

Her hand came up, and Colfa snapped.

“Don’t!”

She blocked the slap. So did Lyonette with a gasp as she felt the Skill coming and halted it. The very air snapped with a shockwave that blasted around the two, and there was another gasp.

The legendary Lischelle slap blocked twice? Aronia’s eyes widened, and her other hand came up with the wrath of—

She saw the [Princess]’s head snap around, and Lyonette twirled in place. Twice, three times—Colfa’s eyes slid sideways, and she and her sister froze.

“Lyonette?”

Lyonette completed four full rotations. Her eyes were rolled up in her head. And her cheek—looked distinctly indented, as if someone had hit it with a hand.

Despite never having been touched? Colfa’s eyes widened.

Oh no. [Resonant Flesh]. Lyonette’s new—

Dame Ushar caught Lyonette as the [Princess] went down, healing potion already in hand. Aronia hesitated.

“Was that—?”

Ilvriss had leapt to his feet with a shout. The Salazsarians were standing, and even the other rancher families were confused, wondering if Aronia had hit Lyonette after all. The way she’d gone down looked really bad.

Was—

Were those red cracks on her skin? Aronia stared at the makeup that had opened to reveal cracks on the [Princess], like a porcelain doll that had fallen. Then she heard someone clear her throat and a thwap! of sound that made everyone flinch.

Marvus Lischelle stopped and stared at the vibrating crossbow bolt four inches away from his right foot. He nearly reached for a knife, but it wasn’t a Drake or Gnoll who’d fired the hand-crossbow.

Nanette Weishart reloaded the crossbow, then aimed it at Aronia’s shin.

“Step away from my mother, please, and give Dame Ushar room. Touch her again and I will shoot you somewhere you won’t recover.”

She smiled as her eyes filled with worry for her downed mother. Wall Lord Ilvris looked around, then rubbed at his forehead.

This meeting had not gone well.

——

When Lyonette got up, everything hurt. Her legs, her spine, her back—and especially her cheek.

“I regret that. Ushar, healing potion.”

The [Knight]’s face swam into visibility as Ushar helped her up; they were still at the cookout, it seemed, though the partying seemed mostly done. Ushar gave Lyonette a concerned gaze.

“You had one already, Your Highness—”

“I did? Damnit.”

The [Princess] cursed. Her body did not heal well, it seemed. But at least she wasn’t dead. Aronia Lischelle hit like Lord Raithland. 

“What’s happened? Is anyone dead?”

“Your daughter threatened to shoot Miss Aronia with a crossbow when you fell.”

“Oh no—”

Lyonette sat up in alarm, but she found, instead of a full battle or standoff, Aronia Lischelle sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, pouring one for Colfa and Nanette. She was all smiles and, when Lyonette stared at her, waved a hand.

“Miss Lyonette? Your young daughter is quite stellar. I am so sorry about that. I had no idea you had a—such a condition. Won’t you sit? Are you well? We have a [Healer] coming.”

She was all smiles and politeness again. Even to Colfa, who was sipping from a cup as Nanette added milk to her coffee. She gave her mother a nod.

“Miss Aronia was quite apologetic, Mother. She had no idea about your cracks. Um, which are showing.”

Lyonette’s hands flew to her face, but Aronia broke in, voice gentle.

“I’d never have involved you in my tiff with Colfa if I’d known—you must be careful, Lyonette! What a dreadful ailment! And Nanette says it’s from a class?”

“Yes, a—it’s to help a friend. I’m fine, Nanette. And thank you, Miss Aronia. I hope we can be peaceful?”

“Absolutely.”

Colfa and Aronia assured Lyonette. They even gave each other what looked like genuine smiles. Everyone insisted Lyonette sit and have the coffee, which the Lischelles loved so damn much.

——

“Puts my hair up when the womenfolk play nice after that kind of throwdown. We can just hate each other straight, eh, Wall Lord?”

For once, Ilvriss had to agree with Marvus. They were having a drink to the side next to some of the fences that bordered the prime Lischelle land. Ilvriss was just glad Lyonette was alive.

“Your wife’s hand seems like a force of nature, if that’s not rude, Baron.”

Marvus laughed.

“She’s killed monsters with it. I don’t know…I’m glad she’s not dead. That Miss Lyonette.”

Ilvriss swallowed his ale hard.

“That’s likely?”

“If she got hit at full power? It’d break her neck.”

Ilvriss’ guess was that Lyonette’s Skill had given her the blow minus the actual force of it or she might have actually died there. Or perhaps Ushar had helped; she’d been there with shield raised to block the slap too.

Well, the truce between him and Marvus caused by the social fight between sisters had a half-life, and it was wearing off. The [Rancher] nodded at his farms.

“See my herds?”

“Prime Lischelle beef. Very impressive. I might not know much about ranching, but I do know something about economics, and this is a rich operation.”

Ilvriss tried his best, and Marvus grunted.

“You speak like a [Merchant]. It sure is all that. But I mean look at my cattle. Anything stand out?”

Lots of cows? They didn’t all have that black-and-white spot coloration that Ilvriss was used to. You had hairy cows, brown cows, grey cows, blue cows. Magical breeds and nonmagical, and this was just one herd, he knew. Plenty of space so they didn’t transmit diseases, probably rotated into different areas to graze, shepherd dogs, plenty of [Ranchers] who’d milk and feed and take care of them and—

He blinked.

Ilvriss saw a bull.

He could tell it was a bull because even as an amateur to the country, bulls were bigger. And had horns. And were just…more ominous than cows.

You thought bulls were big. But until you saw one, really got up close and saw one, multiple tons of living weight, longer than you were tall by far and just…huge…

You didn’t realize how scary one was. Ilvriss had a respect for his warhorse, which could kill someone with a hoof. This bull was brown with one huge, rolling eye focused his way as it stood with some much smaller cows.

It made Ilvriss’ scales itch like [Dangersense]. Marvus nodded to it.

“That there is Big Burlap, my prime bull. Thirteen years old. Thirteen feet long. Guess how heavy he is.”

Ilvriss recalled some spreadsheets.

“Most bulls get to around one ton to two without Skills, but they can go even higher. Four thousand pounds?”

That was a thousand higher than any one he’d seen. Marvus took a deep drink.

“Five. He’s got all my Skills on him. More children than you can dream of. And you know what? That’s his pasture.”

They were leaning against the fence. But no one was beyond the gates. Not dogs nor the [Ranchers]. Marvus went on.

“When he’s there, no one goes beyond the gates. We’ve got bulls in plenty of pastures. One in a thousand of ‘em are friendly. We don’t need no guard dogs nor [Ranchers] watching overnight. Not with them. We had Carn Wolves come this way once. Ever seen them? Nastiest wolves I ever did see, three times bigger than normal.”

“I’ve seen them.”

“The bulls got ‘em. Big Burlap there killed three. Now, you think he’s just a bull, dumb as can be. But he sees everything. Bulls can see almost entirely behind them.”

“Really?”

That seemed improbable, but Marvus nodded.

“Oh yes. Almost every part but the exact behind him—so if he’s turned his head, he’s still watching you. And you think you’re fast. Maybe you think you can jump the fence or get around him. You just try it. I’ll watch.”

He was encouraging. Ilvriss glanced at Big Burlap, who was just standing there. And, Ilvriss noticed, not eating grass or wandering off. Watching the newcomers he didn’t know.

He reminded Ilvriss of Zel Shivertail when the Drake went still, and that was the oddest, most telling comparison he had because that was how dangerous the bull seemed. And at five thousand pounds of angry muscle…he might actually hit as hard as the Tidebreaker.

“Good to know. We didn’t buy any bulls, but I have respect for that.”

Marvus grunted.

“Well, Big Burlap knows his territory. He knows me. And I never go out there without something t’stand behind or a Wand of Paralysis. Even if I think he likes me. He’s killed men. Not many, and only fools or I’d have had to put him down. But that’s his land, and whatever troubles his kids’n wives dies.”

He swung to face Ilvriss.

“That’s his land. This is mine.”

Marvus pointed at the ground, and his chest inflated, much like the bull himself. Full of distrust, and dislike written all over his blunt face.

And pride. Something had been bugging Ilvriss this entire time the cookout had been going on. He had assumed that Lyonette would have a bit more notoriety because she was a [Princess]. Everyone knew it. Not even in a ‘ha-ha, what [Princess], this is Lionette’ kind of way.

She was a [Princess], and no one was rushing to treat her incredibly different. True, Aronia and Marvus’ children looked a bit starstruck, but their parents were cordial at best. Aronia had nearly taken Lyonette out of this world with a slap! Didn’t a [Princess] trump all other cards?

Well, not in Izril. And not here, Ilvriss realized, because Marvus spread his arms.

“You must’ve thought it was too easy to walk in here, the Cowpat Plains, and plant a claim, didn’t you? This here—no one owns this land. No cities, no [Lords].”

“I did think it was odd.”

Marvus spat a commendable distance.

“Well, that’s because the noble houses who owned this place all died in the Sacrifice of Roses. Not that there were many. When I was a boy, you’d be dodging their bullyboys shaking you down for grazing in their lands. For what? They said they kept down bandits and monsters, but I dealt with both growing up and never saw their people doing a thing. Then came the Goblins, and they all fled.”

Just as well no one knew about the inn’s policy on Goblins. It was a story Ilvriss had heard before from Drakes just as upset the Walled Cities had fallen back and abandoned them during the Antinium Wars. He listened as Marvus’ voice rose.

“So you know what we did? We moved in. All the biggest ranch-families. We rebuilt the herds. Married each other, hired on new hands. All this is ten years of work. And when the nobles came back, sayin’ this was their lands, well, they didn’t say it long.”

“You warred with the Five Families?”

Marvus half-turned and spat again, but his voice lowered a touch.

“Them? None of them ever came down this far. That Terland in Celum and Magnolia Reinhart are the only ones who’ve ever paid attention to the south. I’m talking regular nobles with a hundred men who think they can string up a few people and arrest the others and make an example. They weren’t prepared for a war. You’ve brought enough Drakes to make a proper fight, but you never tried it.”

“I did not come here for blood.”

“Shame.”

For a moment, Marvus’ eyes seemed like that of Big Burlap. He leaned against the fence as the bull watched them in the distance.

“We can keep raiding you all day and night, Wall Lord. My boys get a concussion one night and roll out of bed the next day bright and cheerful. They don’t get tired, they don’t quit. I don’t know how you got Colfa on your side, but Aronia’s out-levelled her. She shouldn’t have slapped that [Princess], but I’m surprised she even managed to walk on her.”

And there it was. Ilvriss felt a tingle on his scales, and an unpleasant idea crept into his head. Maybe it wasn’t Nerul getting beaten in a fight. Maybe it wasn’t just the odd customs of these people or the dislike between Drakes and Humans.

The Goblin King had destroyed a good portion of the north. Ilvriss had never heard it framed as anything other than a disaster, especially to the nobility’s populations. But it had resulted in a consolidation of strength. Tyrion Veltras, Magnolia Reinhart, the leadership of the north had levels as a result of the war. High level individuals, even if the majority had failed to level and just—died.

Only, there were no nobles here. Ilvriss gazed at Big Burlap’s herd, and then his eyes roamed the rest of the plains. All he saw were grazing animals. Far as the eye could see, not one huge line of them, because that was bad ranching, but herds upon herds.

“Your beef feeds most of Izril, doesn’t it, Marvus?”

The [Rancher] snorted.

“It feeds most of the world. High-grade stuff, not whatever the local [Farmer] is selling with his cheap cows.”

“How many herds do you have, if I may ask? How many heads of cattle?”

“You think I count all that? Aronia’s the one with a head for numbers.”

But there was a glint in his eyes. Ilvriss glanced around, casual.

“I’d guess, based on similar productions around Salazsar, that you’d be able to take on, oh, twenty thousand head of cattle at most. That’s about what we have.”

That was also a lie; the biggest ranch he knew of was 18,000 head of cattle. He knew Gnollish tribes could exceed those numbers, or at least, they had, but Marvus? He threw his head back and laughed hugely.

“You’re talking about Shimmerbeef Pastures. I know ‘em. They’re not as good as our beef. Had that nasty plague two years back. Sure, they’re around there. Last I checked, we have sixty thousand head of cattle. Just the Lischelles. That’s the difference between your ranches and ours.”

Ancestors. It confirmed Ilvriss’ suspicions. Reluctantly, he glanced up and took a long drink from his mug. And he admitted it.

The other man was pressuring him. Not with his aura, but just his presence. Ilvriss was once again out-levelled. Ilvriss twisted a ring on one finger on a hunch, then sighed.

Marvus Lischelle, [Rancher Baron of the Wild Plains], Level 42.

He didn’t even have a ring of anti-appraisal. He didn’t have bodyguards or high-level magic, but who needed those here? He was master of all he surveyed, with an army of [Ranchers]. The [Cattle Baron] lifted his mug and drank.

“To good food, civility at cookouts, and fine dancin’.”

Then Marvus poured out the rest of his drink onto the ground. He rolled his shoulders.

“Get off my land. You think we’re bad now? We’re just warming up. Ain’t nothing you, that Drake with the fancy Skills, nor anyone can do about it.”

After a second, he added.

“You best check on that [Princess], though. If Aronia’s hit her that hard, she might have addled her brains, even if she can walk. She hit someone she was fighting with once. Fellow walked it off, lay down, never got back up.”

Ilvriss took a drink from his mug as Marvus walked away, hands in his pockets. The Wall Lord had to say it.

“Humans.”

He thought about that, then amended his statement.

“Ranchers.”

That felt more accurate. Smaller mass generalizations.

——

Two things happened before they left. Nerul was shaking his head, adjusting his suit.

“I’m off, Nephew. We can’t do more here; we’ve been a bit trounced, but we made some good impressions. Not ideal. I’ll tell Captain Shieldscale to prepare for raids. Even tonight.”

Ilvriss was cursing as he decided to go around one last time to at least thank everyone—Lyonette still looked woozy, which was why he was delaying departure.

He was walking around when he saw Aronia’s daughter, Burlise. With the Drakes and Gnolls leaving, some people had actually begun poking around the gifts table.

Several bottles of wine had vanished; the other rancher-families were heading off, and a few had wandered by the tables to take the expensive wine. Same for the ice cream; Ilvriss swore he’d seen one of the uncles pouring it into a container, possibly to just eat or re-freeze.

He understood that. You didn’t show you appreciated the gifts. Drakes did something of the same thing, only their version was to thank someone for the gift, take it—they took everything valuable—then put it next to a better gift to pointedly show how less valuable yours was.

Good old fashioned hostilities. There was something noble about the Lischelles after all, but sometimes you couldn’t resist.

Burlise, for instance, just had to peer at some of the gems, but she was trying to do it without anyone watching. She jumped as one of her relatives turned, hid a gemstone behind her back—and it squirted out of slippery hands. Then she stepped on it.

“Oh no!”

Ilvriss went striding over instantly when he turned, saw the broken gem flashing with vanishing magic, and heard Burlise’s shout. Marvus was there before him.

“Burlise! Look what you’ve done!”

“I didn’t—I only wanted to look—”

“Allow me. Let me see which one broke.”

The [Cattle Baron] really wanted Ilvriss gone so he could start raiding the Drake, and he was embarrassed. He blocked Ilvriss.

“It’s all fine. The rest’s all there, and it’s her fault, no need to try and replace it or nothin’—”

Ilvriss shook his head.

“Not that! It’s a magical gemstone! They can cause damage when they’re broken like that! When the magic releases—one side!”

Marvus hesitated, then his eyes widened and stepped aside. Ilvriss knelt down.

“Does your skin feel fine, Miss? Let me see which gem it was…just one of the Lightning Topazes. Good. That one just discharges. You didn’t feel a jolt, right? Welsca, get me an analysis paper!”

She dashed over with a kit, and he held out a piece of paper as Burlise assured him that she was fine and she hadn’t felt…anything? Ilvriss nodded and wiped at his brows. He turned to Marvus.

“Just a discharge. If it had actually affected her, it’d have soaked into her skin.”

“You can do that with gemstones?”

“Magical ones, yes. But they don’t usually break easily; it must have been a stone and the exact right pressure, or just one that had a weakness that wasn’t spotted. I apologize, but they’re made into magical artifacts or used in magic, so there is a danger involved, even if the case should be fine.”

Marvus nodded.

“Right. Good. Burlise, take the case inside so no one does anything foolish like that again. Carefully. Thank the Wall Lord.”

“Th-thanks, sir. Sorry about that.”

She nodded at him, and Marvus nodded too.

“Thank you.”

Ilvriss stuck out a hand. The [Cattle Baron] hesitated.

“I really am just digging for something important. I don’t want to steal it or cause hostilities. My people used to live here, Baron, but I see this is your land.”

Can we at least try? The man stared at Ilvriss, and his hand twitched before he tucked it under an armpit.

“I’ve lost brothers, friends, and more to the Bloodfields. My da fought in wars against your lot.”

“So did mine. We don’t have to keep doing it.”

“Funny. I heard Drakes say that only when they’re losing.”

Marvus was searching Ilvriss’ face, but that hostility—Ilvriss knew it. He’d been Marvus in many ways, and he exhaled. How did you convince him? Did the [Cattle Baron] have a Periss to lose and a magical [Innkeeper]? Ilvriss turned to Lyonette…but the [Princess] was woozy, so he turned back.

“I won’t leave. And with respect, I’d like t—”

He heard the shouts, the cries of alarm, then the sound like a roaring, raging moo, but braying, almost comical until the notes of real desperation and horror were in the air. Marvus whirled.

“Someone’s gotten into the pastures.”

He glanced at Ilvriss, and the Wall Lord turned his head. He started running—but there was just one scream. Just one, then silence.

When he got there, he knew what he’d find.

——

It wasn’t Wall Lord Dramm’s fault. He was standing there, with a lot of the younger officers, at the paddock’s gate. They’d been stopped from going in by the [Ranchers]. It wasn’t his fault, but Ilvriss just gazed at him.

Then at the dead Drake boy the [Ranchers] had pulled from the fence beyond.

“It—he just—we were talking, and he thought that if they were stealing our cows, why not steal them, Wall Lord. I—we—”

One of his friends had tears in his eyes. He’d been egging the boy, Gem Officer Liuss, to hop the fence and try wrangling some cows or letting them out. Someone might have told them about the bull, but like Marvus said, the huge animals didn’t appear fast.

It had run him over, snapped his spine, and crushed his head in. Ilvriss stared at the bull. Marvus had his hat in his hands. For all he hated Drakes, he was shaken.

“Never go in a bull pen. You never…he’s a vicious one. You and you. Put him down.”

It was what you did to bulls that were too murderous, Ilvriss supposed. He thanked Marvus, then stood there.

“We need to bring him back and cremate his remains. Who has a bag of holding?”

When he spoke, the younger officers jerked. Dramm spoke up.

“Bag of holding? Sir, we can carry—”

Ilvriss just regarded him.

“No.”

“Sir, I knew Liuss! He’s no Wall Lord, but we—”

Ilvriss wanted to shout at the boy. To take out the anger and loss on him, but that was bad leadership, so he walked over, put a hand on Dramm’s shoulder, and looked in the boy’s eyes. He didn’t know what was on his face, but he glanced at the others.

“Wall Lord Dramm. It’s miles to camp. On horseback. It’s getting dark, and how would we bear him? On foot? In a tarp? Insects will be after him, next. I wish to do Liuss the dignity he deserves. The bag of holding is a necessity. I have buried comrades in due time, but we carried them in Chests of Holding. Let’s go.”

Welsca produced her own bag of holding, and he nodded at her. In silence, Ilvriss turned.

“Mount up. Someone ask if Miss Lyonette needs an escort back, but I believe she may wish to find her own way. Let’s go.”

A terrible note to end the night on. He rode, head bowed, as the silence began, then recriminations. Arguing and shouting, and he just thought to himself. Liuss was young; he’d have been one of the youngest. So if there was someone who would get in trouble and get away from it, the lowest on the chain of command, it’d have to be him. It wasn’t Dramm’s fault, but…that was why it was him who was dead.

Because they stole from us, we have to steal from them.

“Drakes.”

——

Xesci greeted Ilvriss back at camp. She was smiling, having set up her brothel. She hadn’t known about Liuss. She stood there.

“Poor boy. Aside from that, I take it the meeting went poorly. I thought it might, even with Nerul.”

He just stared at her. She pulled up her skirt and began inserting something into her—

“Xesci, what are you doing?”

“Cleaning up. Right, sorry, sensibilities. And deaths—tragic. People die, Wall Lord. I wish I could be more horrified, but I used to run with the Sisters of Chell. They die fast and hard.”

Sometimes, he forgot how jaded she was. Even so, he didn’t feel like addressing her while she was taking care of her unmentionables with a dead boy whose family needed to be told.

“If you don’t mind, Xesci? I’d like a moment.”

“Of course, Wall Lord.”

She was walking out when he stopped her.

“Why…did you avoid coming to the cookout? And how’d you know it would go poorly, even with Nerul? We could have used you there.”

She turned and half-smiled at him.

“I’ve been to Cowpat Plains, Ilvriss. I worked across Izril. I know Baroness Aronia’s type, and I’m the class she doesn’t want anything to do with. She’d let me in, of course, niceties being what they are around here, but it would make the visit even worse. I doubted it’d work because, well, they hate you.”

She shrugged. Ilvriss stared at her. Stared at his desk.

“I thought we had a chance. If we were reasonable, polite, made good offers—”

This time, the [Courtesan of Change] smiled, and her face was merciless. Without vindictiveness either, just cold.

“Wall Lord. I knew you by reputation before we met. A year or two ago, you’d have murdered every Human trying to ranch around Salazsar. Oh, you’d have done it with armies and legality, but you would have slaughtered them.”

He opened his mouth, and she leaned over the desk.

“You made war against the Trisstral Alliance and Zel Shivertail. Thousands of Drakes and Gnolls died. It was over trade. The same Tidebreaker everyone mourned, you were dueling to the death along the High Passes.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him—”

But it had been a battlefield. If he had died, Ilvriss would have probably said to his father it was—

Rattled, the Wall Lord leaned back in his seat, and Xesci shrugged.

“Just remember that’s where he is. I can feel it. They want you dead, and the only reason they’re not shooting arrows is because they don’t know how many [Soldiers] Salazsar will send. You won’t have Humans who come from here working anywhere, not in any numbers. Morale’s low in camp after the death. I’ll raise it with the girls and boys. That’s my contribution.”

She walked out. Ilvriss sat there and just remembered the scream. The boy’s face. He had to write a letter to his family. How did he phrase it? It wasn’t a combat death…

——

There was one last piece of misery, and this was not meant to be funny humor to undercut the horror of the death.

It was just…it was just damned inconvenience.

Ilvriss had a chamberpot to relieve himself with. Which you tossed in the damn cesspool that was a literal pond of sewage. Small wonder they called this place the damn Cowpat Plains. It was cattle and Humans.

He hated it. He hated that this trivial, gross act bothered him when he should focus on a young Drake being dead, but he just couldn’t deal with the chamberpot.

“Anything for a damn toilet. Anything!”

He knew the Humans didn’t like it either. They laughed at him, joked about it, but the outhouses in the Lischelle lands had stunk of flies, and he saw people grimacing, Humans or Drakes (he had exempted Gnolls on the grounds of the smell) when they dragged it to the septic pond.

Well, that’s the one thing the Lischelles didn’t have. Plumbing. Damn them. Damn it all. I thought Lyonette could do miracles. It’s not fair on her. I just—

I should have told them about the bulls when Marvus warned me. But we were leaving. Damn Dramm. Damn Drake culture and having to repay every insult.

Damn Sserys for giving me directions to this place.

“Damn the Necromancer. Damn you for leaving, Erin. Does no one care but me that he’s out there? I know there’s more! I know! But he has to die forever!”

He knew there were dead gods and horrors and—but Periss. Ilvriss sat on the ground, not the chamberpot, and pulled up his trousers. He sat, covering his face, as a fly buzzed around him. It was so hard to do this and find nothing but pieces of ceramic tiles that were supposed to be the City of Purity!

He hadn’t even shown Lyonette and Nanette the dig site because, well, there was nothing to show! Just dirt, dirt and stone, and not knowing how far down you had to dig, and he needed more personnel, and the cattle raids halted everything, and he refused to quit, but Ancestors—

An eight-foot tall Golem with a screaming bull’s face soldered to a serpentine body with daggers for fingers punched through the tent wall. It slashed down right where Ilvriss should have been if he’d been on the chamberpot.

He stared as the blades gouged a hole in the earth. The Wall Lord looked up. The Hunter-Killer Golem stood there, inspecting its hands. The Minotaur’s head rotated left and right, mouth open in a frozen scream. It turned, oddly slowly, and he scrambled to his feet.

“Ancestors. Ancest—”

It slashed and left trails of light in the air. Ilvriss jerked an arm against them, and his rings shrilled. He felt blood running down his arm as it laid open his scales. But he was busy dodging the arm, which came down like lightning. The Golem paused, head rotating as he scrambled left, shouting.

“Attack! Attack—”

——

Ulva Terland’s teeth were bared in excitement. She saw the Wall Lord fleeing, and she raised one hand, slashed—missed.

She cursed, and the watching Lords and Ladies of Hearts murmured. Ulva Terland sat in the Heart’s Connection, the device that let her operate the Hunter-Killer Golem.

It resembled a strange, circular space where the person in the seat could move a suit of armor synced up to a Golem’s body. It was a huge, cumbersome connection. If you had Skills and were closer, you could be far, far faster.

A [Golem Controller] could maneuver some Golems at the speed of thought if they were good enough and had the right Golem. But from all the way in the north? This was incredible magic.

It was also…highly suboptimal. Ulva kept missing the Wall Lord as he ran, dodging the blows she sent his way. She was already panting, and there were voices all around her, annoying her. They overlaid the sounds the Golem was hearing.

“—nt Ulva, left, left! He’s drawing his sword!”

“No, use the firebreath! It has firebreath, right?”

“Silence! I nearly have him!”

She snapped, and a voice rose above the others.

“Lady Terland, the Hunter-Killer is not indestructible! Please, relinquish control or allow one of us to take over! The Wall Lord is armed!”

A very upset [Golem Controller] was urging her to let the Golem do its job without her. Ulva was very annoyed.

She’d requested the Heart’s Connection because she’d wanted to do what every Terland desired: control a mighty Golem. But she’d failed to hit and kill the Wall Lord for whatever reason, and now—

“Ridiculous! I have him!”

She swung again, and he ducked. For such a small figure in her eyes—he was so—fast—

There was a warning siren. Someone cried out.

“Damage! Superficial across chest structure! His sword’s enchanted!”

“It barely did anything.”

Lady Ulva grumbled. But she saw the Wall Lord attacking, sword striking in artful blows. More little sirens; she had a monitor for the Golem’s health in the corner of the display. It showed the barest damage to the chest, which was enchanted metal.

But…it was a Hunter-Killer, which couldn’t be remade, and was barely repairable, even a lower-grade model. Ulva wrestled with her ego. She’d used Hunter-Killers before, when she and Petria were young, as well as any [Controller]!

Age. She stared at the liver spots on her hands, then snapped.

“—Fine. Restore the programming. But I will remain here. Transfer the spell-abilities to me.”

She kept herself hooked up to the Heart’s Connection. The relieved [Controllers] adjusted the chassis, and the Golem began to move of its own will. The viewpoint became sickeningly disorienting as it moved at increasing speeds, attacking the alarmed Wall Lord with far more finesse, and Ulva saw more icons light up.

Not many abilities. Firebreath, activating the Razorline Claws, and a temporary [Threefold Arcane Barrier]. She shrugged, then sat back, fingers resting on the activation studs in her glove’s palm. She wanted to see the Drake die.

No forgiveness for him nor the Goblins. Xitegen claimed not to have forgiven Goblins either, but he suffered them. Never here. She stared into the Drake’s eyes as he lifted his sword.

“Salazsar! Salazsar!”

Yes.

That was how she remembered them dying.

——

He should have known. Nerul had warned him he’d do his best, but some never forgave. Like him. Like his father. Ilvriss’ sword was raised in a guard stance, just as he’d practiced—but the Golem was so fast. Whatever had been wrong with it, it had nearly taken his head off twice. Only his rings had saved him, and one was now dead.

“Salazsar! Salazsar, to me!”

Confusion in the camps. Ilvriss felt like he’d been screaming for hours, but it had probably only been seconds. They—they were shouting alarms.

“Where are the Humans?”

Dead gods, they thought it was the [Ranchers]! Ilvriss slashed.

“In here! Golem attack!”

His enchanted longsword barely scored a line down the Golem’s front. In return, it slashed, and he leaned out of the way.

Remember your parrying technique—he actually deflected one arm and pushed himself off it, a move he’d learned from the sword school he’d practiced. No regular warrior fought like that. It was why he was still alive. That and Shriekblade showing him how fast a real Named-ranker moved.

His time was running out fast. Ilvriss heard a shout, then someone ran into the tent.

“The Wall Lord is under attack! Here! [Piercing Thrust]!”

The Rubirel Guard! The Drake thrust a halberd into the Golem’s side—and his enchanted weapon barely penetrated the enchanted metal. The Golem turned, slashed across the Rubirel Guard’s armor with a screech, and he staggered, but his armor saved him!

The Golem’s Minotaur head had emerald eyes. They flashed, and the Golem paused for a millisecond—then kicked the Rubirel Guard.

“Ancestors!”

It knew how to handle foes in armor! Ilvriss backed out of the outhouse tent, and the Golem came at him, not the downed guard trying to get up. He emerged into a camp in chaos. The Golem tore out of the tent, and Ilvriss saw two halberds descend and blocked them—barely. It began slashing the Rubirel Guards, but it wanted him.

“Get the Erchirite Spears!”

They needed a full battalion to charge up their spears and blast the Golem! This had to be a Terland Golem—it was taking on his bodyguard, and they weren’t dying, but neither were their halberds doing much to that metal shell!

The finest of Salazsar versus the finest of Terland. Armor versus armor, a deadlock—except for Ilvriss, who had no armor and who the Golem was targeting. He went rolling left, onto one knee, and realized it had taken off half his neck spines.

Blood was running from a huge gash down his back. The Wall Lord wavered.

“Ah.”

He was no Saliss of Lights. That one dodge had nearly killed him. He stumbled up.

“Wall Lord, back! Form the lines! Reinforcements! Rein—”

It sprayed fire at two of the Rubirel Guard attacking and leapt at him. Ilvriss flung up his sword to parry—

“[Desperation Dive]! [Thunderous Impact]!”

Captain Osthia Blackwing hit the Golem and sent it staggering back. She recoiled, flipped up into the air, and she was flying.

“Wall Lord, fall back! To arms!”

His personal bodyguard were all around him. Handpicked Drakes and Gnolls from their anti-Az’kerash training force, trying to attack the Golem from all sides. But it just barged through them, slashing.

Too damn fast for anyone under Level 30 to handle. Not without the Rubirel Guard’s armor. Ilvriss could barely keep up with it himself.

“[Reaching Slash]. [On Guard]—”

He deflected one knife-hand, then the Golem was on top of him. He was backpedalling as the others tried to get around the Golem, bring it down, target the legs—

Nothing. Ilvriss saw horrified [Miners] and members of his expedition forming a huge circle, staring at the Wall Lord fighting for his life. He stumbled—and someone yanked him back.

“[Pull to Safety]. [Bloody Stab]—shitshitshit, get it!”

“The hell is that? We can’t—”

“It’s a fucking Terland Golem!”

Women. Human women. For a moment, he thought it was Lyonette, but the woman just had ruby red hair like her, but a completely different, older face. The Sisters of Chell. They were around Ilvriss, but they were as unarmored as he was. They had daggers, shortswords at best.

Members of a Gang, but not—[Soldiers]. The ruby-haired woman turned to Ilvriss.

“Get back—it’s after you, idiot! Girls, get ar—”

The Golem slashed her head off. The blood hit Ilvriss in the face, and one of the Sisters faltered.

“Mirand—”

It ran her through, kicked another Sister, who crunched, and slashed across the others. Ilvriss saw them fall as fast as they’d come. He gazed up. The emerald eyes on the Minotaur’s head flashed, and it turned to look at him, but there was something on the neck. A glowing oval stone. Its real eyes were probably there.

Someone was watching him through the head. He felt it. Her. He could feel her malice, far as they were.

“I have come in peace.”

He told the Golem. The Golem breathed fire at him. Ilvriss recoiled, but a shield rose and blocked it.

“[Elemental Ward]! Ilvriss, fall back! Get behind us! Formation!”

Osthia Blackwing landed, slashing at the Golem’s neck. In response, it generated some kind of magical barrier, and when it blew her up, it grabbed her, then slammed her down.

He heard her bones break as the Golem turned. Again, to Ilvriss. The Wall Lord cast around. He saw the Rubirel Guard moving forwards, his guards trying to take up a formation. The Wall Lord looked at the Golem, at his sword, and he did something he’d have never dreamed of. Something his foe didn’t think he’d do.

He ran.

——

Wall Lord Zail burst into the command room where Alrric was holding a scrying orb. He was bleary, but the Last Defender of the Wall burned with his reclaimed classes. He took one look.

“Hunter-Killer Golem. The Rubirel Guard have to stop it. Or a full charge of the Erchirite Spears.”

He’d seen the Terlands unleash them. Seen fellow Wall Lords and Ladies gutted as they went through formations. Ilvriss—

“How is he alive?”

He stared as the scrying orb swung, then saw something…Zail’s mouth opened. Wall Lord Ilvriss was running.

Arms pumping, holding his sword, but just running through the camp, the Hunter-Killer in hot pursuit. People were trying to stop it, but the odd, loping style of the Golem meant it was bounding, having trouble locking onto him. It lunged, and he leapt right, through some tents, emerged out the other side—

The viewpoint jostled as whomever was holding the scrying orb tried to keep up. In that moment, someone spoke up in the emergency room.

“What is he doing? His bodyguard were right there! Drakes don’t run!”

It came from some junior officer, a [Major] by his stripes. Zail reached out and backhanded the Drake. He did it too hard; he’d forgotten he was as strong as he used to be. The [Major] went over, and the rest of the people in the room stared at Zail. He rasped.

“That’s Sserys’ line, you coal-headed hatchlings.”

“Indeed. I have orders. Get me in touch with whomever’s leading the forces. Now.”

Eschowar was there, taking command. Good. Zail just watched as his son ran. The Hunter-Killer…were they watching, those damn Terlands? They had to be. His claws were breaking the stone around the projection table.

The Hunter-Killer cornered Ilvriss in half a minute. One second he was vaulting, running, the next something slapped him down, and he fell on the ground. Rolled and nearly lost his tail. Zail turned his head.

“What was that? I didn’t see—”

Eschowar’s voice was quiet.

“Aura. Can anyone throw a Skill?”

——

Ulva Terland was panting from the effort, but she watched as the Wall Lord ate eight daggers. They stabbed into his stomach, and he screamed. At last—blood.

Pang. The Golem’s arm recoiled, and the Wall Lord threw himself left. Someone spoke in her ear.

“There goes his ring. Must have recharged. Damn. Does he have a potion?”

He was drinking a potion as he backed up. The Golem slashed at something attacking it—flashes of light were assailing it. [Mages]. The camp was mobilizing, but they’d lost the heavy Drakes in armor. Time to finish this then recall the Hunter-Killer. Ulva caught her breath, heart thudding in her chest as she snarled.

“Firebreath.”

She caught the Drake full on, and he writhed and fell onto his back, twisting and trying to put the flames out. They extinguished, and she saw his head rise, bloody, as he tried to mouth something at her.

“Stop—”

Then the vision of him rotated. Vanished—and Ulva jerked.

“What—what’s going—”

She was staring at the ground. A siren rang out.

“Concussive impact. What was—”

——

Xesci threw the Golem and her back out. She clutched at it as the Minotaur-form she wore cried out in agony. She was no [Warrior]! And the damn thing was getting back up.

“Xesci, get out—”

Ilvriss was badly burned. But the [Courtesan of Change] faced the Hunter-Killer, standing between him and it.

She was no hero. If it charged, she’d step aside. But…

Sisters are dead. Haple’s going to be unhappy. She spared one thought for the women she’d asked to protect Ilvriss. For them, and because she was the highest-level person here, and because she had a feeling, a certainty from her class, the Drake held her ground.

Her face was changing. Minotaur wouldn’t do much good. All she knew were throws and immobilization moves. No warrior; she’d die the moment it came at her. But something—

The Minotaur’s head was twisting towards her as the Golem righted itself with more effort; it wasn’t good at standing. Xesci saw spells hammering it, saw someone toss a rope that bounced off a glowing barrier. Her face, voice, everything morphed.

She was usually shy about it. What did Ilvriss see for a second as she glanced at him? A monstrosity like the one from the High Passes?

Or just…

A woman? He stared up at her, uncomprehending, and she spread her arms as the Hunter-Killer Golem raised a hand to erase the obstacle between it and its target.

Then it halted. It froze up, and those emerald eyes focused on a woman who stood there, her hair blowing green around her, a ponytail swishing in the night. Face illuminated by magic, stubborn and strong-jawed, not exactly short, but neither tall yet with that intensity of expression.

Will and faith in stone, like the Controller’s pendant that hung around her neck. A tattoo of her house on one bared arm, pride and compassion and, perhaps, even wisdom in her eyes.

Petria Terland, one of the [Twin Virtues of House Terland], stood there as she had been before her death, breathing in and out, eyes locked on the Golem’s face. Half a continent away, a woman froze.

——

“Petria?”

How? Ulva had stopped the Golem. She held it, ignoring the sirens as the Drakes attacked it from behind, staring.

“Ulva! Ulva, it’s a trick!”

“It looks just like her. It’s…”

Voices around her. She didn’t hear them. Her heart was thundering. She was shaking. Ulva gazed at her twin.

The face she had not forgotten, nor who had been out of her mind a single day in the twelve years since Petria had died. Only, this was Petria as she had been. Young, beautiful, when they had been in their primes.

The one in Ulva’s heart. Someone had taken it from her. She even had Petria’s voice.

“Don’t.”

That was it. The brief warning that she refused to elaborate on because it said everything. Ulva was still. Then she was shaking. Shaking with horror and rage and—

——

“Who are you? How dare you?”

The Golem bent forwards awkwardly, and the voice came from its mouth. Ilvriss hadn’t known it could speak. He felt the watcher’s wrath, horror, and the knife-hand came up—

Xesci flinched, but she was channeling Petria, and she refused to move. The hand didn’t swing down. The person on the other end couldn’t do it.

“Move.”

“In the name of House Terland, I shall not! Golems witness me!”

“Stop it. Stop it. You’re not her. I see you. I see your true face, you—you faceless mirror.”

She was using her aura from afar. Xesci wavered, but Petria’s face firmed.

“Kill me, then. Kill me, Sister, and damn the north! I am Terland, and I speak to my better half!”

This was madness. Ilvriss was forcing himself upright, gasping. This—Xesci was beyond anything he had dreamed of her. She’d told him he’d regret it if she channeled Periss or Erin, but—

She was pulling straight from Ulva. And the Matriarch of House Terland was shaking so bad the Golem was doing likewise.

“Stop it. Stop using her voice! You don’t know her!”

For a second, Xesci paused and moved sideways as the Golem tried to edge around her.

“I met her.”

“Liar. What are you? Move—move.”

Then came the shove with all the power of one of the Five Families. Hard and fast, and Petria-Xesci stumbled. Ilvriss reached out—pushed back. If the Golem got around Xesci, he was dead, but Ulva refused to strike that image of her sister.

“I said move!”

Xesci almost did, skidding sideways, but Ilvriss put out his hand.

“No.”

“Back away Ulva Terland.”

Someone joined him—thrusting back Ulva’s distant authority. Lyonette? He heard her, but he dared not take his eyes off the Golem. The Minotaur head was jerking towards him. It raised its fist, and someone fired a crossbow bolt that pinged off its head.

Nanette. He registered that with distant comprehension, his mind processing everything, seeing a way out. If the Rubirel Guard got there.

“Out of my way.”

Ulva Terland threw everything at them, and Xesci slid as Ilvriss and Lyonette fought around her. Aura versus aura. Dead gods, the Terland matriarch was strong! Xesci was windmilling her arms, Petria’s face a mask of concentration.

Like someone figuring out a horrible puzzle. Then she went calm and sighed. Coming to a dreadful conclusion. The screaming Ulva Terland was raging, throwing her very soul at the [Princess] and Wall Lord, when Petria Terland, caught between the aura war, glanced up.

“You made a mistake, Ulva. Just like when the Goblin King killed me. You made a mistake. Look at me.”

The Golem’s head swung towards her, and Petria was holding something. A belt dagger. There was a single moment as Ilvriss’ head turned to her. Ulva gasped.

“PETRIA—”

The blade slashed across Petria’s throat. A ribbon of red ran down her throat, and she dropped the knife. Lifted her hands and cupped the blood.

“Ulva. Stop.”

——

The Matriarch of House Terland froze. Utterly, heart halting in her chest. The war with the Wall Lord and [Princess], the sight of her beloved Petria.

The strain of commanding the Hunter-Killer—

Enmeshed in the House of Stone, hidden from all threats or danger, Ulva Terland had hid away.

Nothing to hurt or kill her. No blades to find her back. Nothing of her to wound.

Except her heart.

She waited, and it refused to beat. The Lords and Ladies of Stone were shouting, then they saw her slump.

“Lady Ulva?”

“Great Aunt? Great—”

——

Petria Terland drank a healing potion, gasped, then held a finger to the edge of her throat.

“Ancestors, that hurts. I’m glad you gave us more of these or I’d have never tried that.”

She walked away from Ilvriss, shaking her head. He jerked. The Golem had frozen, and the aura-storm halted.

“Xesci, what are you—?”

The Drake sat down.

“You’d better destroy that thing or tie it up. They might reactivate it. But I’m pretty sure we just gave Ulva Terland a heart attack. Not sure if she’s dead, but she’s gone.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss stood there as the Rubirel Guard charged the Golem with chains. Lyonette, standing with Ushar, Colfa, and Nanette, turned her head. Her face went white.

“What?”

——

Very, very calmly, Lord of Hearts Nouzcrat clapped his hands for silence. The [Healers] were surrounding Ulva, and the room was in panic. Tears on most faces.

Lord Xitegen via his Golem was still. And his Golem could weep, but he just watched. Lord Nouzcrat spoke.

“They’ve killed the Hunter-Killer.”

The viewpoint had gone dark. Every head turned to it, then to him, and Nouzcrat glanced around.

“The Matriarch of House Terland may be dead. Not a word leaves this room. Convene the family for an emergency. And—activate four Hunter-Killers. Kill that Drake.”

Then he turned and ran after Ulva.

Author’s Note:

This chapter is, for lack of a better word, fast. It is a huge chapter, but I recall a sense of progression while writing it. Of various plotlines, tying it all together, and yes, this is the poll chapter.

But it’s a lot of perspectives moving forwards at once. I think this is a good time for such a chapter and that it’s needed. Call it instinct. There are times when such chapters are needed, and other times when it’s good to stop and enjoy a moment. This feels like a heart beginning to thunder and running forwards—too much of it and I feel like it could be akin to running towards a cliff edge, an exhausting pace.

But we need it at times, too. Hence my subconscious setting this as the tone for the chapter and my regular mind agreeing. The next few chapters might have this same pacing, if not always the same ‘speed’. Argh, writing terms are hard, and I never bothered to study how one talks about writing. I’m sure this is all prosaic and someone more educated could explain this better.

I am going on my break, but that’s because I’ve pushed very hard to write this poll option. The result will be some big chapters that I think are very promising—even if I’m not finished writing them yet.

Tiring, however! The little bird-terrorist continues to plague me, as well as the barking of hounds. One, in particular. I’ll try to get some sleep but would you believe I need both earplugs and the kind of soundproof headphones they use in construction sites to ignore the dog?

It’s so loud. Anyways! This month might be devoted to both poll options since I haven’t even touched the Rickel one. But I knew both perspectives mattered, and getting the mandate to do both is good.

I hope you enjoy this arc, and our return to our favorite purple Drake (I mean, unless you like Lism, he’s in this arc too, I think), and leave me your thoughts! Thanks,

—pirateaba

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