Second Lieutenant Allister Ashworth shook with fury as he surveyed the crowd of Laiqarians and his troops in the Eastern Expeditionary Force.

  Men, women and children in the crowd stared mutely at him as he paced back and forth within the guardrails of his walking-platform.

  The EEF's progress had slowed drastically, to the point that the railway machines were beginning to catch up to them. Looking back to the west, he could even see the smudge of coal smoke from their construction staining the horizon.

  Commander Talbot was livid. Allister's division was supposed to be miles beyond this town. But here they were, stuck in yet another of those innumerable Laiqarian villages, a paltry patch of dust, flies, bizarre produce, and sickly animals. The people that filled it were thin, wide-eyed, and shrank from the EEF's riflemen.

  "I will ask you again," he barked, "where are the soldiers hiding?" His clear tenor rang out across the dusty square. His translator jabbered at the crowd, who remained silent.

  Allister activated his walking-platform. It blatted, belching black smoke, then began marching back and forth through the square with a hiss and squeal of steam power. He glared down at the crowd. "Do you think your silence protects them? Simply tell us, and we will shower you with money and food and technology!"

  These Laiqarian devils didn't understand customs of civilized warfare. Rather than surrendering, or just running away and staying away, they would scuttle off and hide in the deserts to the south. Then the remnants of the defeated armies would band together and strike at the flanks of the EEF, or even at the railway workers.

  Allister'd had his troops tearing back and forth across the countryside, crushing these little uprisings. His army had probably marched three times the distance to Namar?n, as they doubled back down the railway to deal with yet more savages.

  The Laiqarans weren't militarily effective, but they were slowing the whole process down to a maddening degree. And of course, it had all started right after Commander Talbot had pinned the new pip onto his epaulet, making him a second lieutenant.

  He'd been promoted, and now he was failing.

  Not failing in warfare, of course. The Eastern Expeditionary Force had already proven tenfold over that they could defeat and destroy the armies of Laiqar in detail. But these savages kept nibbling uselessly at the edges of Ardenian might.

  And now even these poverty-stricken villagers resisted him, standing there, rebellious and mute, hiding the latest batch of barbarians that would have him running back here in a week to smash them yet again.

  Allister's duty and his humiliation drove his face to redness.

  "Tell me where they hide!" he screamed. "We would treat you with kindness, if we could! We would treat you honorably, if we could! We would bring you such wealth as you have never known! Simply stop attacking our railway! Stop attacking our troops!"

  The sea of sad, silent eyes stared back at him. Some of the crowd began to disperse at the edges, slipping away into alleys.

  It was the final straw. These ignorant savages, not just mocking him with their reticence, but ignoring him, walking away? The might of Arden and the pride of the Eastern Expeditionary Force could not bear it.

  Allister could not bear it.

  "Riflemen!" he shrieked. "Pull back! Bring in the earth-drivers!"

  It took only a few minutes for the EEF to clear out of the little village. In the distance, the roar and chuff of coal-engines blared, and the rattling clank of treads and the groan and hiss of heavy machinery sounded. Over the rise appeared a dozen, two dozen squat machines, belching smoke, clanking forward on treads.

  "I will leave no quarter or comfort for the dishonorable soldiers of Laiqar!" he shrieked. "The wicked soldiers who will not meet us civilly on the field of battle will find no respite here! If the villagers love the soldiers so, then they can join them in the desert! Earth-drivers! Remove this town!"

  The squat machines shrieked as their thick steel plows lowered.

  Allister stared, grim and resolute, as the powerful earth-drivers rolled through the village, crushing the simple houses and destroying everything in their path. The villagers screamed and fled, streaming away in every direction. Many escaped. Some fell before the pitiless machines. All shrieked in terror.

  Allister had finally broken their silence, at least.

  Fortney gazed around the campus. The sun was high, and a stiff breeze scurried across the lawn, rustling bushes and toying with the grass. In the distance loomed the dark mass of the clock tower, silhouetted against the sun. It was a great mechanical monstrosity that could be seen from anywhere on campus.

  She had not seen Rami since they'd landed three days ago. He really must be very busy, or she had deeply upset him somehow.

  In spite of that, she had begun settling herself. She'd managed a brief conference with the headmaster, almost none of which she'd understood. But she'd parsed out enough to at least understand the daily routine.

  For the young ladies, the morning held breakfast, then classes in comportment, elocution, and languages. Lunch was served in the dining hall strictly at noon. Afternoon classes depended on the student and the day of the week.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He'd started talking about a "standard of dress", which sounded like he expected her to wear the same massive, frilly, impractical clothing she'd seen other girls wear here.

  She'd pretended not to understand his words. These women looked as though they were barely able to move. Fortney would in no wise bind herself so.

  She'd followed that conversation by asking what fighting courses she'd be allowed to take, but her limited Ardenian must have failed her, because the headmaster looked mortally scandalized, and no amount of her explaining seemed to calm his upset.

  She'd have to figure that bit out later.

  Fortney had walked out of the headmaster's office, sharing mutual disdain with him.

  She began her classes that afternoon. The classes in elocution had been difficult; she barely understood the Ardenian language, pronouncing it with the proper, lilting precision demanded by the teacher was nearly beyond her.

  Comportment she understood, at least. Carrying yourself properly communicated to others what you were. If a warrior walked like a mouse, no one would respect them, and their fellow warriors would be reluctant to depend on them.

  In Arden, apparently, the purpose of comportment for ladies was to make them appear otherworldly, ethereal, like a gossamer wisp, untouchable and unattainable. They were to stand straight, and mince in a way so they appeared to float rather than walk, keep their heads meekly down, hands clasped, and speak quietly.

  The lessons there had not gone especially well, either.

  For now, she was heading to her Classical Literature class. She was mildly curious about it. Literature was a new concept to her. In Namar?n, stories were told and retold, embellished and purified as they passed through a thousand lips.

  Here in Arden, they were permanent, singular things, hammered into stone and sunk in amber. Set on a page and duplicated perfectly, time after time, distributed with mechanical exactness.

  When a story was told in Arden, it was told the exact same way every time. The idea both fascinated and repulsed her. Repulsion, because who wanted to listen to the same exact story over and over? Fascination, because they must be truly amazing stories for the Ardenians to want to preserve them perfectly forever.

  Fortney found the proper building for her class, and after a few false starts, the proper classroom. She pushed open the door and walked in.

  The classroom was filled with a handful of students, both men and women. The teacher at the front of the class was tall but hunched, with a baggy face. His dark frock was loose and ill-fitting.

  Everyone was chatting with each other while the teacher prepared his notes at the front of the class, but the room fell silent when she opened the door. Curious eyes stared at her as she walked in.

  Fortney's first instinct was to wilt under the attention. She was out of place, an aflīj in a foreign land, wounded, clumsy, and ignorant.

  As soon as she felt uncertainty and weakness creep in, she stiffened. She wasn't in the wrong place. The place around her was wrong. She was Fortney Nurani, princess of Namar?n. She was Bayze Shab, the Night Raptor. She had fought and killed three hashashim.

  A roomful of curious savages were not a worry to her. Fortney stood tall and gave the room an imperious glare.

  It was slightly spoiled by a look of surprise as she recognized a face in one corner of the room: the drunk who had helped her find the school. He was reclined in his desk, with his feet on the seat next to him. He gave her a saucy grin and a mocking salute.

  "It is a pleasure to meet our newest student," the teacher said. "Everybody please welcome Miss Nurani of Namaroon." He gestured to her. "Please choose a desk so we can begin class."

  "Yes, mo'allem."

  Fortney scanned the room. There were only a few free desks. She finally chose one between two girls near the back of the class. One was dumpy and fat and slightly disheveled, and the other was tall and stuffy and starched tight with lace and frippery. Both looked equally useless. Fortney sat stiffly between them, focusing her attention on the teacher.

  "Ew," said the girl on her right softly. "Why must the barbarian sit next to me? She smells."

  Fortney turned to her. The girl sneered, her blonde curls bouncing.

  "And you smell like a flower garden. Only useful for attracting attention."

  It was, perhaps a bit of an unfair comparison. Flower gardens, after all, could calm the spirit and inspire the heart. But the girl looked confused and slightly offended, so Fortney considered that the insult had accomplished its purpose, at least.

  "Girls, you can socialize after class," the teacher said. Then he began speaking in a dry, grating voice.

  Fortney set her eyes forward, determined to draw something useful from the lecture.

  Rami al-Sahir stalked back and forth in the empty office.

  This was supposed to have been simple.

  Kill the Shazedah on the way to Arden. Blame Mirashan. The Sultan, in mad grief, would send troops against Mirashan, one of his few allies. Then Rami would arrive in Arden as ambassador, and help gin up war with Namar?n.

  Isolated, overpowered, and outnumbered, a weakened Namar?n would be easy for Laiqar to take.

  And yet, the foolish princess had survived again. Her continued existence personally offended Rami now. Clearly any direct attempt on her life was going to fail.

  A subtler approach was needed.

  In any case, the plan could still move forward, however long she still drew breath. The future was inevitable.

  The door opened.

  Lord Charles Fairfax stepped in. He was tall, thin, and imperious, with gray hair and beard, but immaculately dressed. He glared disapprovingly at Rami.

  "What are you doing in my office?"

  Rami's countenance and stance flipped like a switch. His straight back bent, and his scowl melted away. He bowed repeatedly, obsequiously, bobbing like a drinking bird. He pasted a bright, too-large smile across his features.

  "I with to speak with the honorable Lord Fairfax," Rami said in a wheedling, submissive voice, still bowing. "I am Rami al-Sahir, and I come to speak for Namar?n."

  Fairfax walked around behind his desk and seated himself.

  "Ah, another blasted savage country of the Eastern Reaches," he said. "I don't suppose you could be expected to know, then, the civil way to arrange an audience."

  Rami bowed deeply, his smile never faltering.

  "Ah, poor Rami is foolish and ignorant. The great nobles of Arden are as patient as they are wise."

  "Very well, we may as well speak now. What do you want?"

  "I seek only to assist noble Arden in growing our sad, backward land," Rami said. "We eagerly await Arden's guidance into a new age."

  "Hmm." Fairfax pulled a sheaf of papers out of his desk and flipped through them. "You devils speak with a forked tongue. You say you want our guidance, but the reports from our ambassador, Conrad Weatherby suggest that negotiations over the spice trade have stalled." He raised an eyebrow at Rami. "Hardly a country thirsting after progress, no?"

  "I would not ever speak ill of so honorable a man as your Weatherby. But he is a man who believes the best in others, no?" Rami bowed again. "Namar?n respects power, honorable Lord Fairfax, not words. Men of words accomplish nothing. Men of steel accomplish much. The Sultan does not think you are men of steel. Only by showing your strength can you show them your sincerity."

  Lord Fairfax steepled his fingers and leaned back in his seat.

  "Steel, eh? Steel. Hm." He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling for a bit. "Well, then. I think I know just the way to show your countrymen the sincerity of Arden."

  Rami's grin widened and very nearly became sincere.

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