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Consequences emerge from Aric's dalliance with Queen Ansha, some of them more obvious than others. Things heat up in Tabisthalia.

Back to the intrigue, and to hints about what's going on in the background! You like politics, right? There's some more smut, though, and I hope some pieces are starting to fall into place. This is just past the halfway point for the novel. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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The Valiant and the Bold, by Rob Baird. Part 4, "Those Clamorous Harbingers"

“Were you going to tell me?"

I swallowed, and put as much effort as I dared into keeping my ears up. “I don't know. I wasn't certain how."

Colonel K'nSullach stared at me unblinkingly, and tossed my words back in my face with a scoff. “'Wasn't certain how'? You damned well better be able to explain what that means."

“It means that I… when she first started becoming more demanding, I didn't know who to talk to. I didn't know if I could tell you—how you'd react. You couldn't tell me to disobey an order from her. It seemed like it might only make things worse."

“It hasn't been going on very long," she said; it wasn't a question.

But I clarified myself as though it had been. “No, ma'am. Three days or so. The first time was after Kesterian Hall."

The Border Collie said nothing. She leaned back in her chair, fixing her attention on the door behind me, and then on the ceiling.

“I don't know what was expected of me, ma'am. Did you expect me to tell her 'no'? Did you expect me to report to you the moment I left the room?"

She straightened up again, and her eyes dropped back to meet mine. “Don't take that tone with me, major. No, I don't expect you to say 'no.' You're hardly the first. Perhaps I should share some of the blame, if only for not warning you. Not that it would've changed anything."

“Then what shall I do now? My resignation is of course—"

“No. You'll have to stay on. I'm not about to find anyone more qualified, and there's no use compromising the… relationships," she growled, acidly, “that you've already developed. Hallun Couthragn will have to swallow his pride and accept that."

“What has happened before? To the others?"

“Transferred, when there's a suitable opportunity. Sometimes there isn't. Sometimes we find more creative ways of dealing with that problem. You'll wait here."

She left me alone in her office. For the first five minutes I stayed where I was: standing stiffly, expectantly. At last I relaxed. I made my way around her desk to the window, which looked out on the desolate parade grounds of the fortress.

I did not know if I'd made a mistake. Not if you'll be punished_—that's different. But did you make a mistake? How could it have gone differently?_ If I'd told Ansha I needed to leave? That might have deferred the confrontation, but not indefinitely. She didn't seem the type to take rejection, and the consequences would in any case be far worse for me than for her.

She knew that, surely?

But then… how much did she know? Did she know that we'd been found out, no more than a few days since our indiscretion? Did she know the source of that knowledge? I did not, certainly, but I'd also never claimed to be conversant in political games.

An hour went by before K'nSullach returned. Hallun Couthragn was with her. Just behind them, one of the junior Guardsmen was carrying two wooden chairs. He put them down heavily and made a silent, quick escape. Colonel K'nSullach pointed at one of the chairs. I sat.

“What now?" the collie asked.

Hallun dropped into the remaining chair. “If Major Laner is still here, you don't want him taken care of."

“He's a soldier," she replied, the icy tone worryingly ambiguous. “If that's your decision, I'd like him to know before you poison his breakfast."

“We wouldn't do that." The badger's own voice was level: was he joking? Was he absolutely sincere? How many times have they had this conversation? I found myself wondering. Siron hadn't made it seem so… fatal. “There are options."

“Such as?"

“Someone in the court takes issue with his parentage—Lord Corrington would be plausible. He's covertly given some information about contacts Major Laner made in Issenrik, with Ellagdran agents, and raises it to… Geior herself, probably. Of course the major tells you he's been framed, and of course you tell me and Ansha that you believe him… but is it really worth the risk?"

“That could be messy," Ivra said. “If someone got it into their heads that the Guard was compromised…"

“True. But Corrington is unreliable—King Chatherral will understand that it's all just rumor, and we're only doing it to appease the Barland merchants who don't care for Issenrik threatening their trade. The proof will be when Major Laner is given a promotion and sent somewhere far, far away. Stanlira could always use good soldiers."

Ivra nodded. “Geior will want a say in his replacement, though."

Hallun had, I realized, not been joking before. He chuckled openly, his barrel chest hitching with the dark sound. “What's the matter, Ivra? You don't trust the storied soldiers of Inverbar? Maybe you've heard the stories, and that's the problem."

“Maybe it is."

“Coopersrace is another option. Perhaps one of the dead thieves' friends wishes to take revenge. There are plenty of ways a man of the Guard could run into trouble, even at Kenley Hill. It would look random, although I imagine the major would put up a fight."

I half-expected Ivra to remain impassive, but the Border Collie's ears drooped along with her shoulders. “Let's avoid that, if we can. What if he stays?"

“He can't stay."

“Why not?"

Scorn crept into Hallun's baffled stare. “I have to tell my superiors, Ivra. If he stays, they'll take it as tacit acceptance."

“So what?"

“They'll put pressure on you. It was supposed to be different this time, remember? They'll wonder who's pulling your strings—and mine. And if it ever becomes public, you and I will both have tickets stamped for review by Kutsar herself. I can't swim." Kutsar was goddess of the third level of hell: the level of traitors.

“Do you trust your sources, Hallun? Of course you do. It won't become public. The queen doesn't have to know that we suspect anything. Your contacts will believe what you tell them. And Major Laner will become a very, very useful asset. Isn't that right, major?"

Finally given the chance to speak, I didn't know what to say. “Asset, ma'am?"

“With the information you report back to us. Everything that goes on in the Iron Hall. What happens behind closed doors. Everything you do for the queen."

“Do you have an illustrator in mind?" Hallun interjected. “It could be quite popular, in certain quarters."

Ivra bristled, her lip curling. “You know what I mean, and so does he. If Queen Ansha tells him to keep it a secret, he'll let us know. Don't tell me you 'already have your sources,' Hallun. I'm aware of that. This comes right from her mouth."

“Would you be willing to do that?" Hallun asked.

I opened my muzzle, but found the answer wanting. Colonel K'nSullach saved me. “Speak your mind, Aric. I said you deserved to know your fate. In turn, we deserve to know your reservations."

My mouth felt dry. “It… has the appearance of putting me in conflict with my duties. I serve Queen Ansha. If she wishes something be kept a secret from you, it would be my responsibility to her to obey."

“Straighten yourself," Ivra ordered. “And start talking. May Galith himself forge…"

I sat upright in the chair, feeling Hallun's eyes join the collie's in watching me. “May Galith himself forge no stronger chain than this: that I, Aric Laner, declare my unbreakable faith and allegiance to His Majesty King Chatherral the Fourth, and to the Kingdom of Aernia, his dominion. That I will defend his person, his dignity and his domain to my utmost, pledging my very life to the Sovereign and his authority. That—"

“Enough," Colonel K'nSullach cut me off. “Your responsibility is to the Lodestone Sovereign, major. To the kingdom. Where is the conflict?"

“Yes, ma'am."

“That wasn't an answer."

I'd taken the oath as a teenager, freshly escaped from the family orchard. Wearing a uniform for the first time; listening, also for the first time, to the sound of the muskets to which I would be wed. I could still hear myself saying the words, though. “There is no conflict, ma'am."

“You're serious?" Hallun asked. The question was aimed at K'nSullach, who looked at him curiously. “Then this needs to fall under my authority. I'll take responsibility for it."

“Of course, Hallun."

His eyebrows lifted. “That means you shouldn't be here, Ivra."

“Really?"

“For you as much as for him, yes."

K'nSullach sighed, but left us alone. Hallun watched me. Looking for a reaction? Waiting for me to speak? But what was I going to say? Or was the badger choosing his own words, deciding how I might best be dealt with?

“She's a threat." I flinched and began, reflexively, to glance at the door. “Not the colonel. Queen Ansha. She's a threat to the kingdom. By extension, a threat to the king. I don't mean to say you mustn't like her, major. She's neither sinister, nor plotting, but the fact remains that she is a threat."

“The company she keeps?"

“It doesn't help," the badger said. “She's young, and she's susceptible to corrupting influences. She imagines herself a master of politics, but she doesn't always see corruption for what it is. Consequently, she's allowed her sympathies to drift too close to the public. This is not a surprise to you, I see."

“No."

“Sometimes that's for the better, like this… Alethna intervention. But often it is not. She doubts the divine mandate of the Lodestone Sovereign. In private, she favors devolving power to local councils—perhaps even direct elections; a kind of republican government, like they have in Issenrik."

“That is her right, though."

Hallun chuckled, and as before it dripped with dark, sticky venom. “Even the gods cannot stop us mortals from having opinions, that's true. It should be obvious that the king is not the center of power that he should be, though. In these conditions we cannot abide someone in the royal family undermining its ability to rule."

“She… Queen Ansha would say that the king's state by itself is something that cannot be abided."

“And you? Would you say that? Of course you wouldn't. 'The people,' whoever they are, are not fit to rule. The Republican Society is a group of delusional fools, and I'd be happy to let them make an utter mockery of themselves—but the hint that the queen supports their cause gives their lunacy a dangerous edge."

“Why?" From what I'd seen of the Society, they were essentially harmless—fools, as Hallun put it, lords with too much time on their hands and too much penchant for the quirky and absurd. They indulged in republicanism the same way they indulged in sponsoring artists and playwrights.

“Nobody is about to stand for open revolution. Let me be extremely frank, Mr. Laner. King Chatherral is not in a position to defend the crown against more subtle forms of sedition, and Enthar is not exactly a font of strength, himself. Allowing the prince to develop into a capable ruler requires our utmost, unflinching support."

“What does that have to do with the Republican Society?"

“I said open rebellion is unthinkable. What if Ansha proposes a peaceful transition of power, though? The Governor's League hears the seductive promise of direct rule. Carregan and Whitley and the others think that they could purchase a seat at the table. Then the Republican Society isn't a clique of fools—they're fools with the Iron Corps behind them."

“I don't imagine the queen is likely to do that, sir."

“You're welcome to hope she isn't. But she doesn't see that they flatter her because they know she's weak to it—that she craves respect, and they're giving it to her because it suits them. None of them truly desire her as an ally. When they find a way to take advantage of their position, they will."

“You sound very certain of that."

“You're also welcome to think me a fool, if it helps you sleep better… as long as you understand your responsibilities. So: here's what you'll do—unofficially, of course. If Ansha directs you to convey any message, report its contents to K'nSullach. If it's a sealed letter, report the recipient. Let her put you closer to the Republican Society, and watch every damned thing they do. That's how we're going to make sure it doesn't come to anything. Too much is at stake to trust in what you imagine—we need to know."

***

The next weeks offered no such opportunity. Ansha focused on soothing Arkenprincess Chavan, and borrowed me on occasion to relieve her frustrations with the Raghish. And for the most part, things settled back into routine—K'nSullach, thankfully, said nothing to hint our conversation had even taken place.

The queen was listening to Prince Enthar review his lesson on the finer points of logical reasoning when her ears twitched and she stood up straight. “Can you hear that? It's coming from Tallachet Square," Ansha decided.

I could hear the distant sound of alarm bells, too: the city's fire brigade was being summoned into action. Tallachet was on the far side of the Tabis River from the Iron Hall; I hadn't found any reason to visit.

But Ansha told me the square itself was only a half-century old—created after a previous fire demolished warehouses along the waterfront. “Find somebody who knows what's going on," she ordered.

The denizens of the palace contented themselves with observation, jostling for position on balconies to watch the steadily thickening smoke. After ten minutes I gave up, running to the street in front of the Iron Hall and pulling aside the first constable I found.

“Ask the gods," he said.

“What do you mean?"

“Bloody mess. Nobody knows where the commander is—I heard—don't repeat that. I've just been told to—oi!" He raised his paw, bringing an oncoming carriage to a halt. “Corrow Bridge is closed. Turn around."

“But we wanted to see—"

“Closed," the constable barked. “Turn around. See what I mean? It's a mess," he said, when the carriage was out of earshot. “About all we can do is stop the gawkers."

“The wind's blowing away from the river," I pointed out. “Somebody has to stop the fire. Right?"

A wagon clattered up behind us, with the colors of the Royal Guard and its seal on the doors. The driver pulled it to a halt and I—not the constable's imminent defiance of passage—turned out to be the object of her quest. “Sir! The Guard is being mobilized. You're to come with us."

“I'm Queen Ansha's personal escort. I can't leave her without permission."

Colonel K'nSullach leaned her head out of the wagon. “She knows, major. Get in."

The wagon started off again even before I had the door closed. As we rattled unevenly down Tabisthalia's streets, K'nSullach unfolded a pocket map of the city, and glanced outside to check the passing signs. Studying it with her was a man I recognized as Sergeant-Major Perran, one of her closest advisors. His brow was deeply furrowed.

“They're supposed to be trying to contain it along Broad Street and Chenwyck Street," the Border Collie explained for my benefit, tracing the map with her claw. “But the last update is that the fire has crossed Broad south of Lisser Avenue."

“The tenements," muttered the sergeant-major. “Those'll go quick."

“Right." The wagon jolted hard. “That's the bridge. We'll be at Chenwyck Park in a few minutes. Major, take thirty men and go house-to-house in the quarter. Get as many people out as you can. Direct them… Mr. Perran, your thoughts? Where can they go?"

Sergeant-Major Perran leaned forward to look at the map. “East, I think? They can cross over the Martel or the Corrow Bridge."

“If only we had boats," K'nSullach sighed. “Is that clear enough, major?"

“Yes, ma'am."

At Chenwyck Park I took the first thirty guardsmen who volunteered. All of them understood the urgency of the situation. Indeed, they understood it more than many of the residents. It wasn't long before we met resistance—an otter woman who'd only unlocked the door of her building after repeated pounding. My order to evacuate was not received kindly.

“Where? Where are we to go?"

I pointed down the increasingly crowded avenue. “Head east, to the Martel Bridge. There'll be escorts to take you across the river to safety."

“We need to pack."

“There's no time. You have to get out."

The fire was close enough to hear, now, demanding and hungry. I'd hoped that would be persuasive enough, but the otter shook her head vehemently. “This is all we have! What will happen to us?"

“I don't know," I admitted. “But you'll be alive."

“Why aren't they stopping it? Why aren't they doing anything to help us? Why—"

The soldier next to me reached out, grabbing her shoulder firmly and pulling her from the door. “No time. Come on."

She stumbled, and managed to keep her balance but not her composure. I had to ignore the yelp of anguish, and turned back to the shocked faces lurking in the dark of the unlit room. “That goes for all of you! Go!"

Building by building, quickly as we could, we made sure the rest of the citizens knew the block was doomed. Just after the last building, a lance corporal in the guard ran up to intercept us. “Sir!" He was panting hard with the exertion, and the salute wobbled.

“At ease. Do you have an update?"

“Yes, sir. Word from Colonel K'nSullach. The fire has been contained on Chenwyck from the Moss Hotel all the way to the river."

“Contained?" I asked.

The rabbit looked over his shoulder, at the heavy smoke that hid sunset, and the defiant orange glow of a blaze intent on making its own. “From the Moss, sir, yes. Silk Row is burning. The factories are lost."

“What are the colonel's orders?"

“If this block has been cleared, she's asked you and Captain Cavell to regroup back at Chenwyck Park. I don't know what's next, sir."

I had to hope the tenements had, indeed, been cleared—that nobody had ignored our warnings, or slipped past us to grab what treasure they could from the lives they were about to abandon. That we hadn't missed anyone. That we'd done as much as we could. Time was running out.

We found Ivra K'nSullach arguing with one of the firemen; finally she growled, and he hurried off before the growl could become anything worse. “Where's Cavell?"

“A few minutes behind us, ma'am," the rabbit answered. “There was some trouble."

The Border Collie spared the answer a fresh growl. “No water. There's no pressure in any of the mains past Church Road. We're fighting with hand pumps, and one boat from the Royal Navy."

“They'll be abandoning Silk Row," added the younger guardsman. “The wind's picking up. It's too dangerous. Another detachment from the Ralcarry district was supposed to be here by now, but I was told their wagons are in disrepair."

“I was told that, too. Captain!"

I turned to see Lissa Cavell approaching. The lioness raised her paw in a salute that brought 'some trouble' into relief: her right side was soaked in blood. Given the way she winced, at least some of it was her own.

“What happened?"

“One of the tenants. He wasn't willing to leave. He thought a knife might be more persuasive… one of the guards subdued him. The rest of the block is cleared."

“Get your injuries looked at before anything else, captain. Right now." She huffed at the lioness's tardy departure before returning to business. “If it's crossed Broad, there's nothing stopping the fire from spreading all the way to the eastern canals."

“That cuts off the roads we're using to get people to the bridges, too," I said.

“I know. Lieutenant Samkirk, you're in charge of Cavell's squad. Cordon off Glenmarran between Lisser and Chenwyck Street, and all crossings of the Old Canal. Major Laner…" K'nSullach stared at the map before giving up with a shake of her head. “It's too late. How are you with explosives, major?"

“Not terribly experienced, ma'am, I'm afraid."

“Fine. Lieutenant Marcorring will handle that on his own. I need you to make sure we can get a clear path up from the docks. It'll be easier said than done."

And indeed, it was clear what she meant immediately: Glenmarran Road was thick with people—fleeing without knowing where they were even going, packed into the alleys and crushed against the storefronts. When I reached the pier, where a Royal Navy barge waited, the crowd had to be shoved away one person at a time to make space for the crates we were offloading.

“There's more," the sailor promised. “Coming from the depot. Half an hour or so, if… if ye've time for it…"

I looked over my shoulder at the thick smoke and the hellish glow it reflected from beneath. “Let's hope the gods grant us that," I muttered, and helped the other guardsmen shove our way back towards Chenwyck Park. 'A clear path' proved immediately to be wishful thinking—the best we could do was to reach the camp K'nSullach had set up.

Lieutenant Marcorring arrived, and the stout bear immediately summoned a dozen soldiers to take the crates from our wagon. Then it was back to the docks—I was helping to get the cart loaded again when the heavy roar of an explosion washed over us. Then another.

“Cannon?" a sailor asked. “Oh, gods! No! They're blowing it up—look!"

I turned in time to see the silhouette of a factory on Silk Row buckle, and collapse. There were screams from the crowd, now, and anguished shrieks. You have to stop them, I heard someone wail—at me? At the Coral Valley?

It couldn't have been at me. Ignoring any protests, I guided the laden wagon towards Chenwyck. At times simply pushing—at others, using it as a battering ram to get our way through the panicked Tabisthalians. Lieutenant Marcorring reached the park just after we did.

The bear took Colonel K'nSullach's map of the city and drew a thick black line through a row of buildings. “And?" the Border Collie asked.

Marcorring handed the map back and pointed to our wagon. “This'll do."

***

I was given to think that the catastrophe might have been worse, and simultaneously that I did not see how. I'd seen glimpses of a quick sketch produced by surveyors—a battle map, really, more than anything else. On it the streets had been marked, and the damage along each block shaded in carefully.

That alone was stark. Up close, with the smoke cleared, it was even worse. Block after block of rubble; the remains of sturdier buildings reached up through the debris like the hand of a buried corpse.

What had been the Tallachet temple to Artem was now listing heavily to one side. The glass had been shattered: the jagged edges were stark, giving the holes the appearance of a gaping, ghastly mouth.

Queen Ansha told me that it was her place to visit the scene. I felt certain that more uncharitable Aernians would view this unfavorably: as a sign that the queen wanted to be seen as having offered some response to the tragedy by her visible presence.

But I, personally, believed this wasn't the truth of the matter. The truth was that Ansha saw it as her responsibility to be aware of the plight of the citizenry, and doing so required her to be knowledgeable about what, exactly, had transpired.

Back in the Iron Hall, the damage was already being downplayed. Sixty-one Tabisthalians were known to have perished, but considering the fire's rapid spread—and the close-packed nature of the tenements—I couldn't sincerely argue with anyone who described that outcome as “fortunate." Many of the factories in the Silk Row were insured.

But minimizing the impact was a political decision, and Ansha told me she wanted to know what Tallachet really looked like. Even had I considered it political theater, I had no choice but to obey when she sent me ahead to judge whether or not a visit was safe.

She wasn't the only nobleman. Nantor Berdanish, Duke Cirth-Arren, was already there, along with some surveyors from the Royal Army. I approached to find the duke in conversation with a pair of civilians, a fox and a mixed-breed dog—both, given their clothing, solidly in the upper class.

“What I want to know is how he'll make it right to us. What with it being his fault and all," the dog was saying.

“I don't believe that's a fair assessment of what happened, Mr. Adratha," Duke Cirth-Arren replied. “We don't know the cause of the fire, yet, but the government responded as quickly as it could to bring it under control."

“Selat. How in Æmer's name can you say that?"

“Well, to start with, if the Guard hadn't—"

“The Guard!" the fox spat angrily, cutting Berdanish off. “The Guard blew up every damn building on Glenmarran."

“And if they hadn't, the fire might've reached all the way to the canals. Perhaps more than that. We're lucky it was brought under control when it was."

“'Lucky.' Easy for you to say. We didn't ask for the Guard to do any gods-damned thing."

“Aye. They did go beyond their bloody orders, didn't they?" The mongrel shook his head, his muzzle wrinkling to hint at a muted growl. “Interfering with the constables everywhere—poking their nose into that affair in Coopersrace? You tell your master that—"

Nantor took a quick, threatening step forward. “He's your master, too, Lar. Don't forget that."

“Is he?"

The bear drew himself up to full height, baring his teeth. Lar, the mutt, flattened his ears and leaned backwards. I was reminded that Duke Cirth-Arren saw himself as a warrior—and not without cause.

When Nantor's lip stayed curled and his pose became no less confrontational, Lar turned the lean into a full step, putting himself out of the bear's range. “He is. Yes, of course. It's my frustration. I'm just frustrated, that's all… meant nothing by it. Civil affairs are complicated."

Nantor relaxed, and nodded. “Yes. But they should remain civil. I'll advise the sovereign of your concerns about the Guard's activity—and, yes, your concerns, too, Mr. Gara. Still, I counsel you to consider that despite this catastrophe, we're all doing what we can."

“That 'counsel' isn't worth as much as it could be," Lar sighed. “Time for an official petition, is that it?"

“That would help. For now, I must ask you to leave. There's work to be done here, and I wouldn't want to waste your time while we're finishing it up."

The pair understood that, even if was phrased in deference to their own time, they were being ordered to leave. I waited until they were gone and stepped forward to catch the duke's attention.

Busy as he was, he smiled when he saw me. “Major Laner, right? I remember you from Tanif."

“Yes, your grace."

“Queen Ansha's guard. Did she send you?"

“Yes. Her Majesty wishes to know if a visit would be safe."

Nantor turned to look at the departing pair of men. “There is no more physical danger. If she believes that an appearance serves her purposes, she is welcome. The worst is already over. You, however, might consider putting something over your uniform."

“I gather the Royal Guard isn't exactly the most popular organization in this area right now, sir."

“Diplomatically put. I'm sure they'll come to their senses, but the wounds are fresh—the last memory they still have is of the Guard demolishing their hard work. Nonsense, all of it, major, but in the interest of prudence it might be best not to be so clearly identified."

I thanked him for the suggestion and let him know that I would be returning with Queen Ansha. A little over halfway back to her carriage, though, a new conversation caught my attention.

“… hardly say that." Hearing Cædor's voice, I strained my ears to find the prince. He was next to the twisted ruins of a wagon, the metal rims of its tires warped and twisted by heat.

With him were Lar Adratha and Gara, the fox. I saw Lar stiffen. “How?"

“If anything, more should've been destroyed. Be honest, it was rather old—and the inhabitants weren't much to speak of. Alfen, wouldn't you rather have this space for a new factory?"

Gara's muzzle hung slightly open as his head turned to survey the ruins of the Silk Row. “Over time, I'm sure the quarter will be redeveloped, Your Highness, but—"

“And now it's happening faster," Cædor pronounced. “So I repeat, it's quite inappropriate to think of it as a tragedy. More like… cleaning up. That has to be done sometimes!"

I approached quickly, and cleared my throat to announce my presence to the older men before they could say anything. “Your Highness."

“Oh, it's the soldier. Hello!"

“Hello." I bowed, hoping that would help me for the request that followed. “Your mother is looking for you. She's still back at the carriage."

“Looking for me? I can't imagine…"

“She was quite explicit, sire. Shall I escort you?"

He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “I can find my own way, soldier. Until we meet again," he added breezily, to Adratha and Gara, and strolled off in the direction of the river.

“I should follow him," I allowed. “Apologies for the interruption."

“None required," Gara said. I was almost out of earshot when I heard him mutter: “what a bizarre child."

“Ghoulish," Adratha suggested. “A ghoulish one."

I hurried onward, mindful that lying to Prince Cædor was also the Guard overstepping its bounds. Despite my haste, he still reached the carriage before me. “Mother! Your soldier said you were looking for me!"

Queen Ansha looked puzzled—but then, thankfully, she raised her head enough to catch sight of me. Hoping it was enough, I nodded subtly. “Ah. Of course I was. You're not to be wandering this area by yourself, Cædor. Where's your escort?"

“At home, mother. I heard father's friends were surveying the ruins—it's safe, anyway, all cordoned off by soldiers and policemen. Nothing exciting is even happening anymore."

“All the same, you know what I've said about leaving by yourself. Now you're to stay with me—get into the carriage."

“But…" he sulked. “I can walk."

“You can, yes, but not for now. Into the carriage."

He climbed in with a sullen scowl. Ansha murmured an order to the driver, and the carriage began slowly making its way in the direction of Nantor and the others. The doe stayed behind, watching it depart.

“We can catch up with them in a bit," she explained. “I didn't want Cædor to hear anything. Was he getting into trouble, Aric?"

“His words were… somewhat unsympathetic. I was worried about the impression he was giving to his audience. It's not really my place, but…"

“What sort of words?" I recounted what I'd seen; Ansha closed her eyes, sighing. “You were right to stop him. I don't know what gets into his head, sometimes."

“He's young. Children don't always understand things like that."

“Perhaps. I hope," she amended. “I hope he'll change." The doe took my paw and squeezed it tenderly. “Thank you for everything, Aric. I'm truly grateful for your companionship."

***

My 'companionship,' when next called upon, seemed unexpectedly sedate. Queen Ansha told me that a meeting had been organized with the town's business leaders, and ordered me to come with her to Arvan Hall—an old, ornate building where the stately mansions of the Old Quarter met the gilt-lettered businesses of the King Enthar Docks.

There, singularly regal, she walked to the front of the room. She did not have to raise her voice, for the others listened in silence without being reminded of their station. “I know it has been said that we have not been fast enough in responding to the needs of the displaced. I know there many who are homeless; who have lost everything. As your queen, my heart aches for their loss."

I looked around the room, watching candlelight flickering over the lords and aristocrats in attendance—men and women who could not possibly 'lose everything.' If nothing else, they would have their name to fall back on.

But as Ansha spoke, they nodded politely. None of them seemed to think that what she was saying was in any way unreasonable. Queen Ansha announced the creation of a special commission that would evaluate the claims of anyone who said they had been affected by the fire.

“The royal treasury will pay to make them whole, as best we can. It is the least that we can do for our subjects: the true lifeblood of our great empire." There was some polite applause. “And now, I yield the floor to Dr. Kirchvar."

If anything, the applause built. Dr. Kirchvar was not someone I recognized, but he looked the part of a professor: white muzzle, a greying mane, and long robes that flowed with his unsteady gait. The hare took nearly a minute to reach the lectern.

“Good evening," he said. His voice was quavering. “On behalf of the true lifeblood."

The audience laughed, and I wondered if it had not all been some strange joke. Then I saw that Kirchvar was smiling, too. His eyes glinted.

He began again. “You understand." Unlike Ansha, his voice rang out—a preacher's conviction; a battlefield commander's purpose. “You understand how strange it is to think that that would be the sound of our voice."

Another spate of laughter ran through the crowd.

“I know that you're thinking what I am thinking. This fire is more than a catastrophe—more than an injustice visited upon those least able to correct it. This fire reached the very heart of the Iron Hall… even if they don't know it yet.

“This fire may prove to be what set the fuse for our… well." The hare paused, gripping the podium with both bony paws. “I shall not call it liberation. It is our recognition, the admission of our place in the world."

Kirchvar went on to explain further, as I listened with one ear perked. He said that the fuel had been piling up for years, while the Lodestone Sovereign hid from its very reality. He said that Chatherral could not have known what was coming, because he had never bothered to acquaint himself with those “forced to live amidst the tinder."

He talked at length about the businesses of Silk Row, built by entrepreneurs, many of whom had started with nothing. Factories, painfully constructed, brick by brick. Machinery designed by the greatest minds on the continent. When he said it, his listeners applauded—and when he added, “the most independent, the strongest," the audience roared.

Dr. Kirchvar waited for them to calm down, his smile unwavering at the commotion he'd evoked. “And when it came to it, what was the King's response? To explode them. To blast them to pieces with powder, as an inconvenience."

I twitched, and immediately afterwards was grateful that Queen Ansha was facing away from me and had not seen it. She was watching Kirchvar raptly, her delicate paws folded.

“He did this," the hare suggested, “because he felt that it was his right to do. He felt that it was his right because he felt that it was his property. But how can it be? He didn't build the factories, didn't design the machines; didn't toil at their engines.

“Those buildings were taken, I say. You know it. They were taken from those who truly did own them. And now you see how this will unfold. It is time that we assert that mere fact of ownership. The 'accountability' of the Lodestone Sovereign must be a recognition of the rights and authority of those to whom he is accountable."

More cheering followed. Kirchvar was done, and asked if there were questions. A well-dressed man stood, in the front row; he gestured to Kirchvar without setting down his glass of wine. “What do you say, exactly? Is Mayor Arblack in agreement?"

“Do I need to say it plainly? We're among friends. Our gracious host would doubtless tell me that. Tabisthalia must have its own representation, and its own leadership. Now, they say that we're autonomous—that means that Mayor Arblack can choose his own method of leadership. I say he needs to listen to those closest to him… and Chatherral needs to listen to the mayor, whoever that happens to be."

The answer, which I found slightly opaque, nonetheless satisfied the questioner. In his stead, a woman spoke up. “How far do you think we can push against the divine authority vested in His Majesty, though, doctor?"

Kirchvar chuckled. “Divine authority? To do what? To commune with the Coral Valley, citizen? To grant miracles? If all 'divine authority' means is a special privilege to sit in a special chair, well, I say: damn near any of us are capable of sitting. I'd like to do so, now that you mention it…"

The mood of the room was with the doctor, not the woman. There were no further questions—instead, from the shadows, I heard the sound of a quartet striking up. Presently someone brought the gas-lamps up so we could see the musicians.

People began to rise, to mingle with one another. Servants appeared, bearing silver trays of food. Seeing me decline one such tray, Ansha patted my shoulder. “You should eat," the doe teased. “It's been a long day. It will be a longer night."

Out of concern that she might be right, I took food but no drink—the queen herself was not so inhibited. The longer the party went on, the more I decided my caution had been warranted. All around me I heard conversations alternately blasphemous and grievously disrespectful to the crown.

“Bound to happen, eventually—the way things have gone," an older gentleman said, shaking his head. “I know Alureth has now been heard from." Heard from? his listener asked, politely inquisitive behind a glass of scarlet wine. “They'll have more to say in time, I'm sure."

About what? I didn't know. Little of the dialogue made sense to me.

A stoat suggested that the king used the Guard to demolish Tallachet because he wanted it turned into a hunting preserve. Nobody disagreed with his theory. Indeed, a fox countered that Chatherral was training the Guard 'in combat' because he was afraid that the Aernian people had grown tired of him.

And rightly so, someone answered. I bit my tongue. There were other mad ramblings to take in—and worse. I caught sight of a familiar face: Kalera, the panther from the teashop. A circle of curious onlookers surrounded him. The mage held his paws apart, splaying his fingers. Light began to dance from clawtip to clawtip, then across the empty air before his chest.

Thin, blue-white tendrils spun themselves slowly into form—a lightning-wreathed figure, a child holding a balloon. “Touch it," the panther ordered. The onlookers exchanged glances. At last a young, wild-maned lion proved brave enough.

The moment his claw reached the balloon it popped, showering everyone with sparks. They gasped, the lion included, but Kalera's calm seemed to be infectious. Suspended in the air between his fingers, the child reached up for the now-vanished balloon.

“Of course," the mage began, then grinned wickedly. “You have seen this before. Every day, on the streets of your city. What of my home?"

More sparks flew, whirling, coalescing into the form of a lithe feline woman rendered with perfect clarity. She spun, her robes following fluidly along. Eerie music hummed in time to her dance. Kalera watched to ensure that everyone was spellbound. Even from a distance, I certainly was.

His paws flicked, and the apparition disappeared. “Divine authority, Lady Melim," Kalera said. “Do you suppose the king can do something like that with his… divine authority?"

The lady agreed that, indeed, King Chatherral could do nothing of the sort.

Magic shows and idle conversation gave way to dancing, some of it talented and some of it merely enthusiastic. Queen Ansha, I saw, was one of the dancers. Unsettled, I moved closer. The crowd was close, the lights were dim, and I'd become painfully aware of just how easy it would have been for someone to injure her.

But the guests surrounding Ansha seemed more interested in her dancing than in anything so political. I should not have been even slightly surprised by the queen's gracefulness. It was surprising, nonetheless, to see how smoothly it matched the wavering undulations of the strange music.

Someone stepped from the shadows, trailing a long silk ribbon. Ansha circled closer, taking it without breaking stride. The movements of her arm rippled down the ribbon in fluid waves and mesmerizing spirals.

At times the silk encircled her; at others it slipped to wider distance—as if it was a companion, an observer, something with a life of its own. When the song ended, Ansha immediately dropped to a crouch, and the ribbon went lifeless.

Ansha ignored the applause and strode over to me. Her breathing was heavy with exertion, but the doe's smile showed not the faintest trace of exhaustion. It was excited, filled with the same light that caught in her eyes.

“Do you like it, Aric?"

“You are a talented dancer, Your High—"

“But do you like it?" The doe's arms wrapped around my neck. She pulled herself into the kiss that followed. I felt her tongue at my lips, demanding entry. She tasted of sweet wine—and was even more out of breath when she finally pulled free. “Do you prefer this?"

“I… well…"

Rather than clarifying my answer, she settled on her own. “We should find a private room, then. The night is young."

“A private room?" The gala was still in full swing—which meant that she might, I presumed, be called upon. And, of course, it meant that there would be witnesses.

The question didn't concern her, though, or she didn't understand why I asked. Ansha took my paw and pulled me into the darkness. In silhouette I saw her pause, put her head to a door. “It's not occupied," she decided, and let us inside.

With the lock fastened, and the lamplight dim, she embraced me again. Her lips closed firmly on mine. I returned the kiss more by obligation than desire. “Do you not have aff—matters—matters to attend to, ma'am?"

Her touch skimmed over me; I couldn't see her smile, but her ears lifted and twitched, and its sound was on her voice. “Oh, I very much do. And then, later, perhaps we can see how the ball is going."

“If you…"

“You'd rather be back out there?" Ansha stepped away from me. I heard rustling, and fabric falling to the floor. “You would not," she declared, her body warmer with only her bare pelt between us.

“No, ma'am."

“They're probably planning the same thing."

“Not about Tallachet?"

She laughed gaily. “I imagine not. Boring details like that aren't why you have these gatherings, Aric. It's just to be seen. And to allow yourself to feel important." The doe paused, considering her thoughts, and laughed again. “You, of course, are important. Get undressed, Aric. We've both had too much stress lately."

“Yes, ma'am. The bed is… comfortable enough?"

“Enough for what you have in mind, soldier." She bent forward over it, prodding to test the material. Then she turned, looking at me over her shoulder. “No," she decided, languidly twisting about to settle upon the bed, on her back. “No. Like this. Come, Aric."

I tried to put my breastplate carefully down, but the darkness made the job difficult. Even the quiet clang was jarring, in the little room. But then, everything was jarring. The rest of my uniform fell away, and I joined my queen on the bed.

She parted her legs to bring me closer, tugging me into another kiss with a supple paw on my neck. Jarring or not, improper or not with the ball carrying on just beyond the door, my body responded on instinct. My shaft was already stiff, and as I felt her downy fur against me it was too easy not to resist.

Too easy not to bring us together, to work my hips in those subtle, questing shifts that sought her out until my tip caught, nudging something softer than fur and more yielding. She broke the kiss with a shaky, quiet gasp when I began to enter her.

I paused, half sunk into the doe's slick folds, and pulled gently away. Then I thrust back in, a little deeper on my second stroke, and my third. It was on the fourth, as I began to slide forward, that she found her voice.

“Don't hold back…" It was a purr, a honeyed whisper. I pushed in, firmly—this time I didn't stop, couldn't stop, and the movement drove me in all the way. Ansha tensed up, hips lifting, her breath frozen for several long seconds until she relaxed, sighing her gratified moan.

When her panting stilled I started to move, thrusting in a steady, slow rhythm. We'd done this enough that I could predict what would follow. She'd urge me on: faster, more forceful until I was rutting between her wide-spread legs with her clinging desperately to me, begging me at last to claim her.

For now my movements stayed measured, though. Her paws stroked my sides, and muted cries of pleasure escaped her open lips, but Ansha remained demure. It was my need that saw the pace increase, and strengthen.

I hadn't asked to be there, coupling with the doe in the dark on a bed strange to us both, bright music from the party filtering in between our heated panting. And yet it was my desire that had me bucking heavily into her, pressing hard at the end of every plunge to make sure Ansha yielded to my knot.

Were we guaranteed enough privacy that I could tie her? Would it leave us too compromised? I was crossing past the point at which I cared—at which I was able to care—when the doe's leg hooked about me, and her voice flooded my ear in a hoarse plea. “Take me, love!"

Take me was not new. The last word was. I tried to reply; my wordless grunt was unintelligible, and Ansha's grip tightened before I could ask again. My thrusts became constricted, and fast—a barrage of erratic, forceful lunges as I lost control. The growl came unbidden, and so did the way my jaws clamped on her shoulder.

While she keened I froze, tense with pleasure, every part of me still save my trembling muzzle and my twitching, lurching shaft. And, pinning my bitch to the sheets, I pumped my seed deep into her cunt—me motionless, her graceful hips squirming in place as she obediently took my load.

And in those last, feral moments I was just using her—sating my desires like she was one of those harbor waifs who'd let you tie them for four crowns and the promise of breakfast. But instead of bearing my release mutely, her delicate gasps marked each new throb spreading the warmth of my cum deeper inside, and I caught her perfume mixing with the notes of our exertion and arousal.

The scent flooded my nose when I finally gave in and sank down atop her chest. I was fighting to catch my breath; Ansha stroked my ears soothingly. “I think you're beginning to like this, Aric," she teased. “And isn't it a good diversion?"

“From the party?"

“Mm-hm. All the meaningful work is done, anyway."

“The meaningful work? Letting the businessmen feel important?"

The doe sighed drowsily and relaxed into the bed, the movement of her fingers slowing. “Mm-hm. Important, and listened to. Most of the time, nobody listens to them. But I do. Eventually, we'll be able to figure out the money, I suppose. I admit, I haven't the first idea of how much it would cost to rebuild that. What's a factory worth?"

My shrug was weakened both by my position, and my own tiredness. “I don't know, ma'am. Thousands of pounds, at least."

“Is that all? That's what all this fuss is? That can't be it."

“Pounds that they once owned, though. It matters a little bit more to them."

“Oh, I suppose."

Ansha didn't sound convinced, and appeared to consider the gala dispensed with—we stayed in the room until the last of it died away. She didn't call me love the second time, braced against the wall and groaning desires that edged right up against the profane.

But, to some degree, they were. I washed myself before making my usual report to Colonel K'nSullach. The Border Collie wouldn't care about the room, in all likelihood, but her thoughts were with the event because it was the first thing she asked me about. “That conference in Arvan Hall. Was it to your liking?"

“It was… as you would have expected, ma'am. A high-society affair. Her Majesty promised relief for the unfortunates who have lost their property."

Ivra nodded; she didn't bother taking any notes. “There are plenty of those. I believe the latest report said six thousand, in total."

“The Republican Society was also in attendance. I didn't recognize the speaker, but his name was Dr. Kirchvar, I believe. He said that Tabisthalia needs to be more representative, since the mayor is autonomous. The subject of challenging the king's divinity explicitly came up."

“Dr. Scad Kirchvar. Latterly of King Rawlon's college, but now he mostly concerns himself with that Republican Society nonsense. They have many absurd ideas," the Border Collie went on. “Unfortunately for us, they can't be helped."

“No, ma'am. I also heard mention of an Alureth. Specifically, that something had been heard from them—the speaker did not know what, but the listener seemed interested nonetheless. I didn't recognize either of them—their accents were of Ketta, I think."

“One moment." K'nSullach pulled open one of her desk's drawers and began to riffle through the contents. Finally she found what she was looking for, extracting a thin folder and opening it to reveal a few handwritten pages. “Were either of them foxes?"

“No, ma'am."

“Another rabbit? Might it have been Lord Finchot, major?"

“A rabbit, yes. As for the identity, I'm afraid I can't say with any certainty."

“Kedrin, Lord Finchot is the president of a telegraph company. It connects a station outside Karlied with one of the northern cities in the Ellagdran Confederacy. He earned the title for doing so."

I nodded, without really knowing the significance. “Is Alureth the name of the company?"

“No. It's an underground society that perseveres with Lord Finchot's..." K'nSullach paused, trying to choose the right word. “I should say 'acceptance,' but 'patronage' is more accurate."

“What do they want?"

“You don't know Tarsca Alureth? Maybe it was more of an eastern story. Think of them as the errant fist to accompany the Republican Society's rambling muzzle. The Alurethian Band appears to desire action more than words."

“Isn't that… treason?"

“Isn't it? Fortunately they're just a fringe society: a few scattered cells, here and there. Mr. Couthragn hasn't made progress in infiltrating them—or he hasn't told me, at least—but they're nothing more than a few dozen idiots. The only remarkable thing is that they felt so comfortable in speaking openly…"

“They certainly did. But." Now it was my turn to consider how best to phrase the sentiment. “There were a great many people saying things I would not have suspected they'd be comfortable with."

“Indeed. Did the queen enjoy herself?"

“I believe so, ma'am."

Colonel K'nSullach picked up her pen, as if trying to decide whether or not something should be committed to paper. About the queen? Alureth? I didn't know. In any case, she set it down again. “Good for her, I suppose. Anything else I should know?"

“Kalera was there. I didn't recognize most of them. Kalera put on a magic display. He also questioned His Majesty's divine right to a… Lady Melim, I believe? Nobody really argued with him, as they did not argue with Dr. Kirchvar. They expressed a sentiment I have heard elsewhere: that the Guard's demolition of the warehouses exceeded our authority."

“We're a convenient place to lay blame for the moment, yes," K'nSullach said. “But as long as it's just angry words, I'm not too bothered. We did the right thing. I know we did the right thing. I hope you didn't take it personally, major."

“No, ma'am."

“Is that all? Very well. Something else for you, then, since you mentioned Mr. Kalera. I've put out some requests for information on the attack in the Coopersrace market. You said that the people who saved you were using some kind of ranged weapon, but not firearms?"

“That's right, yes. From what I remember of it."

The colonel opened a leather-clad binder on her desk, riffled through the contents, and selected a piece of paper. From what I could see, it looked like a telegram. “One of my contacts in the municipal patrol says that his supervisor was ordered not to pursue the investigation. He wouldn't go so far as to put it in writing that the supervisor was bribed."

“But… you believe they were?" It troubled me to think that corruption extended so far in the city—far enough that the constables couldn't be trusted, and that Ivra would seem so unsurprised by this fact.

“I talked to my contact in person. His supervisor has ties to the Carregan Railroad—this telegram confirms it. I'm beginning to believe that your unknown saviors might've been Railroad employees."

Railroad employees? But they shouldn't have been armed, not inside the city limits. And I was familiar with their mercenary army; I knew the kind of weapons they used. “The Iron Corps? But they're—"

“Not the Iron Corps. There's a special detachment. They're not publicly acknowledged, and they report directly to Carregan's headquarters in Stanlira."

The more I reflected, the more I thought I'd heard of something like that before. I tried to recall the name. “The… the Ravens? I've heard of them in stories."

“Yes, but they're more than stories. They're some kind of… secret police force, I suppose. It's almost impossible to find out about them. I'm blocked at every turn. I'll keep looking, but if you hear rumors, let me know."

“Yes, ma'am."

***

For all that I respected Ivra K'nSullach, I knew that she was not up to navigating the political waters of the Iron Hall and its surroundings. Lord Ashenar appeared to have done better, and as I increasingly thought of Siron Yanisca as a friend I decided to seek her advice on the matter.

I found her at the docks, wearing a sailor's outfit rather than formal attire. I watched her tilt her head, inspecting something about one of the smaller warships moored in the harbor, then pull out a small book and jot down a few notes.

I waited until she was done to introduce myself. “Commander Yanisca?"

She turned around, perking up and putting the notebook away. “What a pleasant surprise. You must not be hungover from Arvan Hall. Quite an event, wasn't it?"

“You were there?"

She chuckled. “No. This was for Ansha's benefit, not anyone in the Admiralty, and I don't rate an invite without that kind of an excuse."

“For Ansha? It was about the fire in Tallachet."

“Yes. But the Old Council won't listen to the opinions of the queen; the Republican Society is more than happy to indulge her. I guess it's harmless," she decided, and shrugged. “What brings you here? Business?"

“Personal business."

“Ah, you are out of uniform," the otter realized. “What sort of 'personal business?'"

“Can I ask you a favor?"

Her smile charted a thin course between genuine and wary. “In this town? No. But if you've come all the way to the docks… let's say you can describe the kind of favor you might've asked. I'll give you that much. I know you can find your way to Arvan Hall from here, so it can't be that. Did you want to go sailing again?"

“Actually, I was curious if you might know anything about the Ravens—they're the Railroad's—"

Her eyes hardened, and she went rigid. “I know who they are. And I know you well enough to know you wouldn't be asking out of idle curiosity. This goes beyond 'favors,' Aric. I can't help you."

“You don't even know what I want, commander."

The otter kept glaring. But then, finally, she shut her eyes and let her shoulders drop. “No. I don't. But if you have a good reason to ask, things are worse than I feared. And if you have a bad reason to ask, you're being told worrying stories. When are you back on duty?"

“Tomorrow morning. Her Majesty's family is visiting today—I'm not to interfere."

“Kiss me. A peck on the cheek—demure, if you like."

“What?"

“Do it."

I swallowed my apprehension and kissed the otter's cheek softly. She forced a smile, took my paw, and began leading me from the pier towards the activity at the docks. “What are you doing?"

“Only in the interest of inter-service cooperation, of course," she said, her voice bright. Siron grinned, and tugged me to a sailor standing by a crate of supplies with a clipboard in his hand. “Seaman Werra."

“Ma'am?"

“Did you cancel the lord's reservation at Darlan's tonight?"

“Not yet, ma'am."

“Don't bother. Let them know it will be myself and Major Aric Laner, of the Royal Guard." She gestured with her free paw to indicate me. “And we should have the journeyman's booth, if possible."

Seaman Werra evidently saw nothing out of the ordinary in her request. “Yes, ma'am," he said with a nod.

“And if you can, please have the report on…" Yanisca turned to look at me, screwing one eye closed in thought. “You said Friden, Major Laner? Have the report on the Fourth Fleet sent over. That will be all."

Werra glanced from his clipboard to the wooden crate. In the end he judged that his new orders took priority—'that will be all' had sealed the decision—and left us. “I guess we can't talk here?"

“I don't want to take any chances. Darlan's is on the river by the hill of the same name. The reservation is for nine o'clock. Wear the nicest thing you have. Or your dress uniform."

The two were the same. When I arrived at Darlan's, I found that I wasn't the only one in uniform: a third of the guests, at least, seemed to be soldiers.

Lieutenant Commander Yanisca waited in what must've been the “journeyman's booth"—secluded, with heavy curtains around it. The otter had donned a pale satin dress, colorless in the candlelight. It didn't seem nearly as natural a fit on her as the uniform had been.

I took my seat facing her. “Is this place officially…"

“It's not anything. However, since many of the officers are accustomed to a certain level of comfort, it helps to have a place for them to relax. You won't be noticed here."

“The Royal Guard doesn't make it down to the docks very often."

“No. But you're a proper soldier, and Ivra K'nSullach likes you. As far as the spies are concerned, you probably came to talk to me about practical affairs. And I recommended this place, because… well, it's how we do things."

“Queen Ansha counseled me to avoid saying anything 'in public.' As far as she was concerned, 'public' had a very broad definition."

“Indeed it does." Yanisca tapped a button on the table; I heard a bell ring, and the curtains parted for a trim, well-dressed fox. “Two glasses of the Lake 898. A good year," she told me, when the fox left. “You've already breached that advice by coming to me. This is public, but… safe, if you trust me. And you do, I suppose."

“Yes."

Our server returned, pouring two crystal glasses of the dark, blood-red Lake region wine. “The bottle, if you please," Yanisca said. “We'll be a while. I'll summon you when we're ready for food."

“Very well, ma'am." He bowed, set the bottle upon the table, and drew the curtains shut once more.

“Are there no spies here?"

She shook her head. “No. Everyone here is too well-known. The subterfuge that goes on is between knowing participants. Again, I presume you trust me. What do you want to know about the Ravens?"

“Someone suggested that they might've been involved when I was attacked at the market."

“'Someone'?" Yanisca took a sip of wine, and smiled. “It was a good year. Take some advice, major—good wine is something to appreciate. In that regard, don't be like Ivra. I'm sure she drinks barracks swill like she was back on the border. Do you know where she got the idea that Ravens were involved?"

“The constables—something with the constables, rather. An investigation. I don't really know the details." Yanisca looked skeptical. I indulged her by sampling the wine, dwelling on the subtle taste and telling myself I had any idea what made it a 'good year.' “I don't. I swear."

In the end she decided that she believed me. “Nothing about them is official. It's safe to assume the Railroad likes it that way. They report to General Carregan, the commander of the Iron Corps."

“Rescat?" I knew that name better than any other in the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad: she had led the uprising in Dhamishaya. “Cargal'th."

“Yes. But they're not part of the Iron Corps. They're accountable only to General Carregan. They handle all of the affairs that she doesn't want public. Who knows what? Theft, secret communications, assassinations…"

“And all of it completely in the dark?"

“All of it," she confirmed. “They're a concern for the Royal Navy. I know that Lord Ashenar is… paranoid."

The Iron Kingdom, Yanisca reminded me, was not a naval power. Denigrated as the navy was, though, it held one unique position as the only military force where His Majesty's power was unchallenged.

There were, for example, the bannered militias of the Aernian march—which the King's Own Army had fought, in recent memory. But those, at least, were theoretically loyal to the sovereign. Even if their first allegiance was to their own lords, in the end they considered themselves Aernian, and bound to serve the Kingdom.

The Iron Corps was not. The Iron Corps served the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad, like the Signalers served the Royal Aernian Telegraphy Company. A dozen other private forces of similar charter—and similar reputation—protected smaller business concerns through the Kingdom and its outlying areas.

None of them had any naval presence of which to speak, not even the Iron Corps. And so, Yanisca explained, Lord Ashenar maintained constant vigilance for any sign that the Royal Navy had been compromised.

“Has there been any sign?"

“Not that I know of. I'm not the one to ask. Don't," she quickly added. “Don't ask anyone else. But that's the worrying thing. The admiralty might believe the Carregans are trying to gain influence with the merchant communities in Issenrik, or the corsairs of the far coasts. But not here."

“But it's the seat of government. And Ithil Carregan was here a few days ago, visiting the royal family."

“I heard that. Of course, we were told of the meeting too late to have the Naval Lord in attendance, and nobody's told us what the topic of discussion was. Fighting on the frontier would be a convenient excuse, but I don't believe it."

“And you don't know what it might've been?"

“Not the faintest idea, major. But it better not have been anything to do with the city. No armed troops are permitted here, save for the Royal Guard and a few scattered sailors with special privilege to leave the docks. The Iron Corps is forbidden. If the Ravens are here, Carregan is in violation of the law."

It didn't sound to me like anybody cared—not while they indulged such close ties with King Chatherral. An incident like that could be covered up, and promptly ignored completely.

But Yanisca wasn't mollified. “Not necessarily. There are loyalists who might force His Majesty to take action. Do you see now why I said that if you had a good reason to ask about them, affairs were bad? And if you had a bad reason to ask, affairs were even worse?"

“A crisis over nothing. The Railroad might not back down. They might try to make a move."

“Either way, if they were really involved, they knew the risk they were taking. Why were you in the Coopersrace Market, anyway?"

“Not purposefully. I was delivering something to a merchant on Barcani Street, and I thought Coopersrace would be the easiest way back. Nobody bothered to tell me of its reputation."

“Few in the Guard spend enough time south of the river to know it." She took a small, delicate sip of wine that lent a telling emphasis to what she said next: “And nothing on Barcani should intersect the path of anyone reputable. Including you."

“You're calling Her Majesty disreputable?"

“No. I'd need more than just wine to be that seditious. Maybe she has good reasons to consort with swindlers and immigrants smuggling contraband in. They're not her friends, I guess. She's never done anything that would interfere with the Royal Navy's investigation of all that illicit trade. You were there for innocent reasons?"

“So far as I know."

In the end, we came to no useful conclusions. The food was good, and eventually Siron turned the conversation to more pleasant topics. On the way back to my quarters, I realized what should have been bothering me all along.

It was Adratha's angry voice, as the fire died down, complaining about the Guard becoming involved where it should not have been. Colonel K'nSullach's investigation hadn't been without risk. But she'd done it anyway.

Queen Ansha had not. I heard nothing from her, despite her promise to find out what had happened. I had known that was a lie, even when she said it.

But it didn't settle my nerves.

***

“Soldier!"

I recognized Cædor's voice even before I saw the prince—and he was the only one who referred to me in this way. I turned, bowing politely. “Your Highness."

“We need to speak," he declared. “About important affairs."

He was dressed in a remarkable facsimile of a Royal Army uniform. Not formal attire, either: heavy black trousers, and a steel-grey coat with two burnt-red sashes crossing at the chest. “Military affairs, Your Highness?" I guessed.

Cædor grinned. “Do you like it? Father had it made for me."

I studied the pattern of the braids on his epaulets. “The 2nd Light Infantry, sire? A venerable unit. My instructor of tactics was from the Stalwarts—one of the bravest, wisest men I've ever met."

The prince smiled indulgently. “I'm sure, soldier. But this is a Huntsman's uniform. I'd expect you to know better."

I did not recall which battle, precisely, earned the 2nd Light Infantry the privilege of the gold band at the tips of their epaulets, but I knew they had earned them. The 6th Light—the Huntsmen—had not, though the braids were otherwise identical. “My mistake, Your Highness."

“I suppose you'll still have to do. Come along."

I followed him into the garden, past the roses and to a tent, likewise styled after those used by the Royal Army—albeit in miniature. Cædor seemed to realize that I wouldn't fit; sighing his irritation, he slipped into the tent and dragged out a table, waist-high to the boy.

On it was a map of the Iron Kingdom and its surrounding lands, stretching east to Kamir and south to the Low Kingdom. Flags marked the location of the Royal Army's major commands. “What do you think?"

“Finely detailed, sire," I said carefully. There was no point in questioning where he had gotten the information, or why he believed himself entitled to it.

“A complete overview of the disposition of our forces in the homelands. Enno brought it to me from the east. But do you notice something, soldier?"

'Enno' could only have been Ennobeck Carregan, Ithil's young son. He should not have had that information, either. “I'm afraid you will have to be more specific…"

“Nothing here about the colony, is there?"

“Ah. No, sire, there is not."

Cædor gave a severe nod, and produced from one of his jacket pockets a folded note that could've come from any runner in the Royal Army. “The Lord Darmont, at Marskirk, is responsible for military affairs in that province. The 6th, 34th, and 42nd line regiments, along with the 12th Calpathian mounted."

“That's correct, sire. I served with the 34th. There are also the native auxiliaries: four thousand men in the Royal Frontier Corps, and another thousand in the Vigarkhan Habikat."

“But they report to the viceroy, not Lord Darmont. The viceroy, I need not remind you, is a traitor—he took up arms against us in the Harvest Rising. Now, that brings me to my questions."

Lord Gyldrane, Viceroy of Dhamishaya, hailed from the Aernian March, like Colonel K'nSullach. I had no reason to believe that—like K'nSullach—he was anything but loyal to the king, despite the unpleasantness of the Harvest Rising. His leadership in the province had proven remarkably stabilizing.

Cædor would not want to debate this, so I bit my tongue, nodded, and asked him to explain what his questions were. “First: why was the rebellion put down with such a light touch?"

“I would not say that it was, sire. Many died in the pacification campaigns, after we were reinforced. A good number of those did not have to: farmers, merchants… refugees caught trying to escape…"

“Traitors," the prince said bluntly. “More traitors. Afterwards, they went back to their farms. The colonial government only executed thirty people. Do you suppose they learned their lesson?"

“It's been more than ten years of peace, Your Highness. I believe they have."

“Until they start complaining again! Hmph." He shook his head quickly. “We did the same thing after the Harvest Rising—let them go back as if nothing had happened. No doubt that's exactly where the viceroy learned it from. What about next time?"

“Next time?"

He looked pointedly at the map. “How do we punish the next insurrection? That's what we need to figure out, soldier. Now…" He began setting new markers on the map, representing the borderland militias. “The way I see it, they can raise little more than a dozen regiments, all told. None of them with artillery. Do you know much of artillery?"

“Not its command, sire. But I have seen its employment."

“Good. Now, I think what we need to do is force them into battle, on the eastern side of the Tins River, if possible. Border cavalry will be no match for our guns. Of course, this does mean the Seffishire command will need reinforcing. Another… four regiments, would you say?"

I paused, uncertain how to answer him. Cædor fiddled with the flags, carefully adjusting the location of the militias—brow furrowed as though the exercise required deep, profound contemplation.

He glanced up. “Just a quick guess, soldier."

“I…" He seemed to have no idea what he was implying, and I didn't know how to correct that. “I do not think they would accept that battle, sire. The border cavalry pride themselves on maneuver. They'd be much more likely to outflank a large body of our men. And the supply lines are quite vulnerable—both the Seffish and the Tins can be crossed at only a few bridges in strength."

“They'd have no choice. I learned this from Enno, too. He's actually visited the Shrouded Rocks, that's what he said! We'll have to deal with our own barbarians just like the island ones, major: if they won't submit, begin by burning every village to the ground. Aberdeyas has no walls—it would be quite easy to level it with cannon."

My ears were pinning. I could feel it. “Those are noncombatants, though. Innocent people."

“Rebels, or supporting rebels. It makes no difference. This is how they did it in the Shrouded Rocks," he went on, patiently. “Demand surrender. If it's not given? Bayonet every fourth resister. Then ask again. It works!"

“While I… do not doubt this, sire…"

“Ennobeck says his father almost never had to ask a third time."

“I see."

Cædor smirked, satisfied that the lesson had been taught to me, as well. “The fields, too. Burn them. They'll be—why, they'd just be kindling to our fire-starting weapons! And I imagine—don't you?—don't you imagine those impetuous borderlands would learn a bit of humility then? I certainly think so."

“Perhaps. But I… I think the Royal Army might balk at being asked—"

“Excuse me?"

“It is not an easy thing to ask a soldier to do something like that, Your Highness. To murder—"

The prince rolled his eyes, snorting. “Murder? It's not murder if they choose to stand against us. This is quite easy. Unless you're accusing the Royal Army of disloyalty, and I certainly hope that's not your point."

“No, sire. Of course not. The Royal Army serves the king alone and unquestioningly."

“And what kind of king will I be if I have to beg those eastern farmers for what they owe us to begin with? I swear, I'm really disappointed in the lack of resolve I see. Someone will have to put them in their place, soldier. Don't be a fool."

“Apologies, Your Highness. I…" I fumbled for the closest excuse at hand. “I know very little of these matters. I'm sure my opinion is ill-informed."

He snorted again. “I'll say it is. Just remember: I'll be the reason you're on this side of a barrage of canister shot, major. So you shouldn't ask questions that might make your loyalty suspect."

My blood ran immediately cold. “Your Highness, I meant no—"

The young stag abruptly guffawed. “Gods, what a look. Oh, yes, yes, of course I know you're loyal. Just a bit of a fool, that's all. You're dismissed!"

I ignored the impetuous wave of his hand with which he banished me, and the tone of his voice. The steely threat and the mocking; the glare and his look of boyish amusement—I endured them all.

And gladly so: it allowed me to leave the garden.

***

I might not have admitted what, exactly, I was looking for when I found myself walking through the Butcher's Quarter. But I heard a familiar voice call from behind me, and found I was glad to see Teya Danveller again. “Made your way back, did you?"

“I did."

“Just walking again? It could be a long night."

“Walking, yes. Gathering my thoughts."

“I imagine some company would help, wouldn't it?" she asked, giving me a wry, playful smile. “I don't have to be busy."

My first thought was that Teya was dressed inconspicuously, like me. That was silly, of course: what sort of uniform did a prostitute even have? “Well, if you don't have to be, then yes—I could use the company."

This time the dog didn't ask for money up front. We wound up in a different room, of the same configuration; she took a seat on the bed and waited to see what I did next.

I sat next to her. “I'm not sure where to start. How've you been?"

“Well enough. What about you, Aric? Were you involved in the… excitement in Tallachet?"

“I was." I was glad to see she remembered my name, too, and enough of my occupation to have made the guess. “Did anyone close to you… was anyone affected?"

“Well, everyone's affected, of course." Teya shrugged. “Nobody was hurt. Most of my friends live on this side of the river. Most of my clients… well, I don't ask. The Butcher's Quarter seems to have escaped. We had our own fire eight years ago, though."

By this, she seemed to be implying that it was simply the nature of things—perhaps the nature of Tabisthalia, in particular. As if, sometimes, it simply had to be destroyed by fire, piece by piece. “Was it as bad as this?"

“I lost my apartment. So… it certainly seemed so, for me, though I think it didn't cover as many blocks, and no factories. I'm fortunate to live where I do. The Butcher's Quarter isn't the nicest neighborhood, no, but as close to Ralcarry as we are, nobody can afford to let things get too bad."

“But I would've thought that about Tallachet, too. So many businesses in the Silk Row…"

But Teya shook her head. “The wrong kind of people, Aric, with the wrong kind of titles. Bank accounts alone won't save you. Once you cross the Corrow, it's a different world."

I asked her to explain, and the dog closed her eyes thoughtfully. On the north bank of the river, she finally said, nobility ruled. To the south, it was a question of money. “I wouldn't expect to bribe a constable in the Butcher's Quarter, if they felt like throwing their weight around 'cause I was out on the street instead of staying in like a decent woman."

“You're not allowed on the street?"

“No. But they generally don't mind, if we're not causing trouble. Only really matters when somebody solicits the wrong lord, and I've been lucky so far." She watched to see my reaction, but the truth of the matter was that her occupation didn't really bother me—Surowa had numbed me to that kind of thing. So she grinned. “And I stick to businessmen, or soldiers. South of the river, though? In Chenwyck Park, sure, I could bribe the constables, but… but I'm not the only one, and I've heard some stories."

Stories, she went on vaguely, about men with dark desires to indulge and the freedom to buy off any investigation into the consequences. I could read between the lines. “Are there places you wouldn't go? Chenwyck Park? Tallachet?"

“Not by myself nor after dark, no. And I wouldn't go further east at all."

“Not even Barnadech Hill? That's supposed to be a good neighborhood."

“A clean neighborhood," she corrected me. “They pay off the authorities for their own benefit, and I don't count. Beyond that you get to the Eastern Quarter, and the Bank." The dog shuddered. “I've never been, and I don't want to go. And if you're smart, you'll stay out of there, too."

I grunted. “You don't have to tell me. I was attacked by pickpockets in the Eastern Quarter. 'Pickpockets' with knives."

She patted my thigh gently. “Count yourself lucky. You're a soldier in the Royal Guard, even, and I bet they told you you'd never find out anything about who attacked you. Right?"

“Pretty much. What if I paid them? What then?"

“Like as not you'd find yourself up against someone with a bigger coinpurse. Coming to me for advice again, Aric? I don't think you can trust anyone in this city to protect you, not when it really matters. Are you more surprised that they let Tallachet burn down, or that they exploded the Silk Row without asking?"

“We did that, not 'they.' To save the rest of the city, which… which I thought would matter. I keep hearing that like we did it just… just because. On a whim. We had no other choice—I was there, damn it. I could see where the flames were going."

Her paw rubbed soothingly. “Sorry. I guess that's part of it, too. We're all used to thinking of the authorities as… well… bet you anything that the bathhouses were just as full the night of the fire as any other night."

“Almost certainly. They don't always seem to care that much about their people, which… might make you wonder why they're in control."

“It might. Of course, considering the people I interact with, I'm not sure I'd want them in control, either. Not that you were saying that, but I've heard it before and…" She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Everyone wants a Tarsca Alureth, but it's like they never bothered paying attention to the rest of the story."

“What is the story? I never heard it."

“Never? It's a Thæban love story. What temple did you go to?"

“We went to Cassalfen, when my father was in the mood."

“Oh, I see. You're not devout, right? Good," she said, snickering. “Gerenant mythology is very boring. You don't get all the interesting demigods we do."

That was true: gerenant speakers, formal as they were, took a dim view of all the mythic heroes and spirits that the vondean school embraced. “I know Thæban is a trickster, at least. And… in love with Isul?"

“Hopelessly so," Teya confirmed. She took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and began. “Tarsca Alureth should've had nothing at all to do with tricksters, nor the goddess of the underworld. He was a simple farmer, with a gift for language—he could persuade anyone of anything. Why, it was even said that he talked his harvest into blossoming…"

And then, one year, the crops failed across the land. Alureth went on behalf of his town to the prince, who could do nothing to help: the blight was everywhere. Nothing at all grew. But one of the prince's advisors had an idea. Obviously, the advisor said, it was the fault of the gods. What if we showed them we were not to be treated this way?

Teya's voice, speaking as the advisor, took on a wicked, smirking drawl. As the prince, she was faltering: “why would they do this?" “Because they can. And they'll never stop. We're weaker than them. What have you ever done to suggest otherwise?"

The prince suggested their farms, and their irrigation canals—the regular sacrifices they'd made, every season. The advisor simply cackled: there was only one thing the gods truly understood. You may be right, the prince quavered. But the people would never follow me.

“But Tarsca!" Teya perked her ears, and took my paws, looking into my eyes. “Tarsca could convince anyone. And for the sake of the prince, he called the people together. He reminded them of their suffering. He lamented the fate they all faced. And when he said: 'to arms! To our destiny!' oh, Aric, they followed. I would've."

“To the Coral Valley?"

“Just as Thæban wanted. Shapeshifter bastard that he was, he dropped the guise of princely advisor and went to see Isul. He watched gleefully with her as the gods of the Coral Valley struck back—of course. They're gods, you know. Tarsca was one of the only survivors, and when he tried to explain himself Seolva cut out his tongue."

The rest of the dead wound up with Isul: Thæban's dowry. And that would've been that, but the prince—now without anyone to rule—devoted himself to penitence, and wasted away. Isul was so busy with her new husband that, when at last the prince died, nobody was there to collect his soul.

“The task fell to Artem—kindly, playful Artem. She asked the prince what had happened, and he told her everything. Artem was aghast. She saw that Thæban had been the one to destroy the crops, and to persuade Tarsca Alureth to his crimes. She hastened to Æmer as only a moon goddess can hasten, and begged him to be merciful."

And, in Teya's retelling, he was. He ordered Galith, god of forges, to craft Alureth a new tongue, and he demanded Isul release the souls she'd collected. This she did under duress. And then, gods being fickle, she chained Thæban up for ten thousand years as a sign of her irritation.

“But in the end, it isn't that Tarsca won. His countryfolk were still dead, after all. Free to leave the Windless Fen and be reborn into our realm in some form, but it isn't like marching on the Coral Valley really got them anything. Some people take the wrong message from that."

I nodded. Her story had taken some time to recount. I was on my back, now, staring up at the ceiling and wondering whether the citizens of Tallachet had lost the favor of their rulers, or the gods, or possibly both. The ceiling had no answer. “You're a good storyteller, though."

“Lots of practice," Teya answered. “Plenty of people want to hear stories. It's just that most of them are less… instructive."

“Instructive?"

She fell back on the bed, rolling to prop herself up on an elbow. “About who they're pretending to be. Who I'm pretending to be. What I want to do to them. You have to understand, Aric, most people expect something different out of their ten crowns."

“I really don't mean to be difficult," I assured her.

Teya laughed, and settled down at my side. “I don't mind. It's nice to feel some people can still surprise you."

Despite her station, relative to my own, I was willing to take the compliment as it was offered. “I guess, as you said, your line of work doesn't exactly bring you the best of society…"

“No. Never trust anyone who wants power, no matter what they say."