Captain Acertan Vidanya sat beneath the deck of a ship once more, and a part of him rejoiced for this, but it was a subdued joy. The accoutrements were fine, a wardroom dressed in all the finery expected of royal Sporaton vessels, but it was a bittersweet nostalgia that filled him. The ship was not his own, the destination not his choice, and his role was little. He was here as an advisor, nothing more, and not even to the captain of the ship, but to one of the passengers. Even more egregiously, he was not the only advisor to that passenger.

  The Carrion diplomat sat across from him in the wardroom, appearing as at-ease as any living being could be. His hideously gaudy threads, offensive to the eyes, nonetheless served their purpose in dispying the might and reach of the Carrion Navy. Purple weavings, almost crystalline in the purity of their dyes, ducked and dived beneath an overcoat of cerulean fibers, both silks unique to destinations separated by five hundred leagues– fifteen hundred miles. Had the goods been transferred overnd, rather than by sea, the journey would have been nearly three thousand miles. The rest of his ensemble was simirly adorned, dispying wealth worthy of being called obscene, had he been anyone other than a member of the Carrion Navy. Yet, for a Captain of a Carrion Magecraft, the implied expense was far less, for he had purchased from no intermediaries. The breadth of Carrion duties were such that he had personally found the composite components in both locations, just by the nature of where his assignments took him. That had its own special aura of power, even more than what wealth would have implied.

  The only exception to his garish outfit was the hat, but only if one was inattentive. Folded in the traditional Carrion style to a steep peak, its bck leather was sealskin, and for that, there was no Carrion ship in existence that sufficed. That hat had to have been purchased and sent overnd from the frigid north, so foreign a nd that Vidanya could not reckon the distance traveled without the aid of a map. Actually, he did not think he had a map that covered such a breadth. He would have needed a globe, truly, to see the full extent of Captain Vanilflower's outfit.

  Vidanya was stirred from his mental reckoning of Vanilflower's outfit by the arrival of their host, the figure to whom they were both beholden. Vanilflower, by government edict and contractual obligation, and Vidanya, by blood and sacrifice.

  He had learned much of what the masked man was, since he had been brought back to the mortal coil, but it was not enough to reassure him in their presence. He did not even know if they were a man, truly; he only assumed, based off a few errant comments and the way he held himself beneath his flowing brown robes. The featureless mask growing into the skin of his face hid all else, including his voice, which shifted pitch and tone irrespective of his words or mood.

  "Ah, I do apologize for being te," the figure said, pulling out a chair to seat himself alongside Vidanya, across from Vanilflower. Not at the head of the table, which would imply his total dominance of the gathering, but decidedly to Vidanya's left, pcing Vidanya beneath him in authority, as his right-hand man, and thus more trusted than the Carrion diplomat. That Vanilflower was on the opposite side of the long table was unavoidable, as it was how they had been sitting before the official meeting began, but as host, it would have been among his rights to invite Vanilflower to his side of the table, to rectify the disparity. He had not.

  Mask– for he'd given Vidanya no name in these months, and Mask was all Vidanya had thought to call him– quickly got to business.

  "The Sporaton Navy will set sail in the coming weeks, in numbers they have not achieved since the disastrous Fifth Coalition formed against Admiral Sinti, near fifty years ago. You two, regardless of your original positions or loyalties, are the only two to have met with the commanders of the force this fleet shall soon be facing. Though I have discussed much with either of you in private, and found much to consider among your experiences, I thought it time to have a more open discussion. Of the questions I will soon ask, I know you will have already have answered many before, and beg your forgiveness for the repetition. Sometimes details come to light upon a second viewing, in a different context, that would have otherwise gone unappreciated."

  Both men nodded their heads at this, understanding. Vanilflower likely more than Vidanya, who had no formal diplomatic training. A trireme captain alone he was, a fact that ever weighed on his mind when the lofty Mask picked his brain for information on the Champion. He did not believe himself so reliable a source as Mask himself seemed to; his contact with the Champion no more than hour or two. Nonetheless, he always made a serious effort to repay the moral debt incurred by his revival.

  "Excellent. Now, beginning first, Captain Vanilflower. Your appraisal of the Champion of Amarat, in retion to naval tactics and warfare."

  Vanilflower leaned forward, pcing his elbows on the table to rest his chin atop his ced fingers. "Quite frankly, I think little of her in retion to naval combat. She regaled me with the tale of her involvement in the defeat of one our Magecraft, who I now know to have been operating under your– or Sporaton– direction, in an effort to apprehend the so-called 'mad Champion' before her arrival in Tulian."

  Mask interrupted with a raised hand. "You do not believe her to be mad, Captain Vanilflower?"

  "No, as I have said before. It would be an easy conclusion to draw, considering her plethora of eccentricities, but no. What appears first to be madness is in fact the machinations of a mind more finely tuned to manipution than the sleekest Carrion Skimmer is to the waves, and equally impossible to match by the unprepared. This, then driven by otherworldly knowledge, produces plots I cannot fathom nor reason, yet seem to invariably succeed. She is no madwoman, ser."

  "And you see no issue with so btantly contradicting Sporaton dogma, directly to two representatives of that nation?"

  "No." Vanilflower was unmoved. "If you seek my advice, you would be wise to seek it honestly, and not force me to dance about my views in ways that adhere to your sensibilities." A small smirk. "And I do not think you, strange mask that you wear, are truly Sporaton. Allied, perhaps, or under their employ, but the loyalty of your heart lies elsewhere."

  Mask's hand fell, rolling into a go-on gesture. "I see. Please, I apologize for the interruption. Do continue."

  Vanilflower leaned back slightly, pulling his chin from his hands, and sighed. "Ah, I was nearly done. It is my opinion that the Champion has no baring on the tactics of the Carrion Navy whatsoever. Her contribution begins and ends at its funding, and she leaves all else to her Admiral, Nora O'Gallison." Vanilflower's eyes darkened. "She who wears the uniform of a dead dream. You would do well to consider her foremost in your thoughts, ser, for if her uniform represents an aspiration, rather than a stylistic choice, the consequences could be–"

  Another raised hand ended Vanilflower's speech. "The Admiral is a second discussion to be had, separate from the Champion. I thank you for your thoughts, and for the honesty with which you presented them." Mask turned to Vidanya. "And as for you, Captain Vidanya? What think you of the Champion in retion to the coming battle at sea?"

  A topic that Mask had explored with him endlessly, exhaustively, past the point of wrote repetition. Vidanya cleared his throat, preparing to say what he always did, then paused, considering.

  "As you are... well aware, sir, my prevailing opinion is of the Champion's madness, but having heard the Carrion gentleman's assessment, I almost feel it necessary to temper my words. It was my belief that the Champion was beset by mania, an uncontrolble erraticism guiding her actions. She beguiled me first with honeyed words, settling into my breast over the course of a mere hour a fondness that ought to have taken weeks to engender, only to suddenly leap to her feet while screeching profanity, dragging me off to a noose without ceremony. That she then delivered my preserved body to Sporatos with such an ominous letter attached, I shuddered to imagine what runs through her mind. In matters of the Navy, I think she would be just as likely to tie all her vessels together before the city walls as a physical barricade as she would be to send them far, far abroad, raiding the northernmost Sporaton harbors. I can offer predictions aplenty, sir, but none with confidence beyond idle fancy."

  "But now that you have heard Captain Vanilflower's assessment?" Mask prompted.

  Vidanya spread his hands. "I am even less certain. If she has ceded all control of her navy to this Admiral Nora, I would be basing my predictions upon the temperament of a woman I know by name alone."

  Mask nodded, seemingly satisfied. Why he accepted such a useless answer, Vidanya still did not know.

  "Then we will turn to the point you wished to discuss, Captain Vanilflower. This Admiral Nora, you have met with her, yes?"

  "On brief occasions only, ser. She was a busy woman during my time in the Tulian capital, and did not join the Champion on the tours throughout the city. In fact, it was noted by my aids, she never once set foot off the deck of a ship, including to go below to rest."

  Vidanya's eyebrows rose. It was not his pce to question, but he hoped Mask would pursue that dangling thread.

  Thankfully, he did. "You cim that the Admiral did not ever spend time below, and that when she was in sight, she was always awake?"

  "She spent time below on occasion, sir, but rarely more than a handful of hours. After I set a dedicated watch tracking her, on the second day of our visit, they recorded her longest excursion below as a mere three hours, while her longest time spent active and above deck was fifty-two hours. They reported no sign of fatigue throughout, save for occasional difficulties with her prosthetic leg."

  "And the word of her fgship?" Mask leaned forward, this topic taking his interest more than most. "I know not what the Carrion spies had determined, Captain Vanilflower, but our own have had vanishingly little success in garnering a proper look at the vessel. Upon reaching a certain stage of completion, the behemoth was towed beyond the harbor to an unknown location, presumably to be finished there. The tours you were given did not include any information on the vessel?"

  Vanilflower shook his head. "Only that it would not require the efforts of artificers, according to the Champion, unbelievably. If your spies saw even the half-finished hull being towed from port, you must know what an absurdity such a cim smacks as. Without protective enchantments, so massive a vessel would require maintenance of a cost many multiples its construction each year."

  "And yet the Champion, so frugal in her governance, is building it anyway. Do you believe she was lying to you with such a cim?"

  Vanilflower ughed. "How am I to know?" He asked. "She is the Champion of Amarat, ser. She could cim she intends to rip the stars from the sky with her bare hands without sounding the slightest bit farcical, and should she try to convince me of it, it would require quite the effort to maintain my belief she cannot. Any information I gained from her is, unless corroborated by a secondary source, inherently unreliable. She cims to value truth, but admits her lies are fwless."

  Mask hummed, a harsh, buzzing tone when filtered through his enchanted mask. "It is the fgship that concerns me the most, gentlemen, this I have no qualms admitting. Regardless of its size, of the ancient wood it is built of, and of the strange Admiral at its helm, it should be no match for true Magecraft. Our fleet will be composed of a hundred and five conventional ships, lead by fifteen Magecraft, but..."

  "The fgship is an unknown," Vidanya provided, taking a rare risk to speak out of turn. Mask tended to grow overlong in his contemptions, and Vidanya detested the silence.

  "Indeed. We have a few scant weeks before setting sail, gentlemen, and once we do, battle will likely be met within days. Should either of you gather or recall information on that vessel, I permit you to interrupt me from any other duty I may find myself in, so that the information can be accounted for as promptly as possible."

  Vidanya ducked his head. "I understand, sir."

  "As do I, ser."

  Mask left the room, leaving the two Captains to themselves. Vidanya had no official duties to excuse himself for, and neither did Vanilflower, so they were trapped by social convention. Being two Captains gathered on the same ship, a rare opportunity when months could be spent at sea without companionship of an equal, propriety dictated that they continue the conversation. Yet Vidanya had nothing to say. He did not know this man, and even if they had both once commanded a ship, they could not be said to truly be equals. Vidanya's ship was at the bottom of Tulian harbor, while Vanilflower's Magecraft was being commanded by another in his absence, the political machinations that had driven him to such a lowly advisory position likely to rob him of his Captainship outright in the coming months.

  After a while, Vanilflower stood and moved to a cabinet, retrieving from within a bottle of wine and two gsses. He brought them back to the table, sat across from Vidanya, and poured two scarlet cups. Seeing as Vanilflower had poured, Vidanya chose his gss first, a procedure between foreign Captains to ensure a ck of poison. They both took a simultaneous sip, and when it was done, Vanilflower sighed, long and low, a sorrowful expression dominating his face.

  "What think you of our chances?" He asked, a Carrion accent creeping back into his words.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Against the Tulian Navy." Vanilflower took another drink of his wine, a deep one. "Against her."

  "The Champion?"

  "Aye. But not the Champion you're thinking of." Vanilflower refilled his wine gss, which made Vidanya blink in surprise. How had he finished it? "You know what the commoners of the Carrion Navy are starting to call her? The Tulian Admiral?"

  "No," Vidanya replied, taking a far more chaste sip of his wine. Where was this man leading him?

  "The Champion of the Sea."

  Vidanya looked into Vanilflower's eyes, searching for a sign of jest. There was none. He set his gss down.

  "The commoners say this?"

  "Of course," Vanilflower snorted. "You think a Carrion Captain would admit to harboring such superstition? A Champion of the Sea? Preposterous!" He shook his head. "I do not know. There are stories."

  "Of?"

  "Of this O'Gallison. Of where she got her uniform, of how she sailed a junk into the hull of a Skimmer on her first time behind the wheel." Another deep draught of his wine, another refill of his gss. "They're true, you know. We have been trying to keep it under wraps, but we lost a Skimmer to a junk. By a ramming."

  Vidanya felt compelled to moderate this strange mania. "I had heard as much, but the Champion was there, was she not? Some Ability of the gods would more than account for the impossibility."

  "She was there, aye, and did little to achieve the victory, by her own admission. This... Captain O'Gallison. We are going to face her, dragged along with the rest of this doomed fleet."

  Vidanya could not believe what he was hearing. He said as much. "Captain Vanilflower, you are exaggerating. Even if the Sporaton forces are no equal to the Carrion Navy, our Magecraft–"

  "The Carrion Navy fears her!" Vanilflower shouted, thumping his wine bottle down. It seemed he had sought the drink as a preemptive excuse for his outburst, but it failed, because no wine was potent enough to have taken effect so quickly. This fear was his own. "They pretend otherwise, they joke and prod and reference old maid's tales, but they fear her! They don't know what she is, Captain Vidanya. No one does! Not even the Admiral herself!"

  Vidanya was taken aback. "And you have told our charge this? Warned him of it?"

  "Of course I did! I told everyone! But the fools, they see that I have spent a week beset by the whispering of Amarat's Champion, and they think I am nought but her puppet. They look to history, as is proper, and find no precedent for what awaits them. They think that because it has not happened before, it cannot happen now, and so blind themselves to all the signs that sprout like spring leaves before them!"

  Vanilflower poured another shaky drought of wine into his gss, his eyes fixed to Vidanya even as alcohol spilled on the tablecloth. "The dead dream does not stir, Captain. It rumbles and groans, eyelids twitching, the heir to its greatest extent rising before our very eyes." He stopped pouring, his gss long since overfilled. "The Zavian Strait, Vidanya. How long has it been? Millenia? More? Sinti was so, so close, and now we set sail for battle with his protégé. We are the st hope to keep the locks sealed, and yet we have no hope left for ourselves." He threw his winegss back, draining it one go. He dropped it to the table with a cnk, staring at Vidanya. "I know nothing of how this war will progress upon nd, Captain. But on the sea, my only advice is this: keep close to something which will float."

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  Nidd looked over the shoulders of a young woman, watching her hands tremble. The farmer beneath her needle had a rather gruesome wound, skating off the lower left two ribs before widening as the scythe had dug in, perforating his abdomen. It was as yet impossible to tell through the profuse bleeding, but Nidd suspected the bde had punctured the intestinal tract, as well. This was not a wound that would be recoverable without a healer; fecal matter would contaminate the bloodstream in short order. The young woman continued to hold her hands over the wound, frozen to inaction by her fear.

  Nidd couldn't bme her.

  It was a bad, bad wound. Their operating environs consisted of a tarp in a muddy field, and two of the man's friends– one of whom had inadvertently dealt the potentially fatal blow as he turned about with the scythe– were holding him down so they could work. Nidd probably would've been shaking like a leaf, a few months ago.

  But he couldn't now. No matter how much he hated it.

  "Give me your evaluation," he instructed his student quietly. "In clinical fashion, if you'd please. There are civilians present."

  He had a hunch that Netess, who had entered her tutorship little less than two months ago, had an affinity for medical terminology that most, including Nidd, cked. Unlike him, she seemed to take to Sara's obtuse cssification systems like a duck to water, something he oft praised her for, and he hoped to steady her mind by reminding her of what she excelled at.

  As he'd intended, she took a slow, calming breath.

  "Superficial ceration exposing the left false ribs, deepening to severe abdominal ceration which visibly exposes the fascia and internal cavity. Cause of wound was a scythe, which patient's companions state was not contaminated with dirt at the time of incident, having just been sharpened, which accounts for the clean path of ceration. Profuse bleeding. Patient was carried to care site, markedly pale on arrival, paled further since. Conscious, but not lucid. Blood loss estimated... two quarts."

  "He would not st long, without us," Nidd said quietly.

  Netess took a deep breath. "No, he would not." She looked at the two men who had chanced across them on the road, carrying the patient between them. "Hold him still."

  The patient's friends braced their knees against his arms as she moved forward, her thin fingers dabbing a sterile cloth to clear away as much of the blood as she could. Nidd cupped a rge crystal carefully in his palm, moving to give her as much light as he could. The shockingly bright crystals that Sara had commissioned for Nidd's use were rge, incredibly warm to the touch, and expensive. One had to wear a thickly padded glove to handle them in the short few days they sted before fracturing from heat stress, but when properly handled, they were often indispensable.

  Such as this particur crystal proved. In the short time that blood did not obscure the wound channel, Netess's barehanded probing located a jaggedly cut piece of intestine. She snagged it with an admirable ck of hesitation, ignoring her patient's thrashing groan, and brought it upward, adeptly piercing the flesh with the tip of her suturing needle.

  Her tool was a built as a thin, curved semicircle, made of the finest steel Tulian was presently capable of manufacturing. Its shape allowed her to begin deftly looping catgut suture through the intestinal lining, sealing off its fetid contents from further contaminating the body. A second dabbing of the wound channel cleared away more blood, and she took what time she felt she could afford to search for other internal damage.

  Finding none, she pulled herself from the man's stomach, pivoting on her knees to plunge her hands into a bucket of freshly boiled water. She hissed as she did so; it was still scaldingly hot, but not dangerously so. A quick shake of her hands cleared most of the blood from her skin, and she left the needle at the bottom. As she dried her hands on a sterilized towel, Nidd prepared a different needle for her, of a different curvature.

  "I-is he goin' ta be a'right?" The man pinning down the patient's left arm nervously asked. "Yer not gonna- not gonna just leave him all cut open–"

  "Silence while the surgeon is working," Nidd admonished, not looking up from his preparations. The man's jaw smmed shut with an audible click.

  Netess turned back around, accepting the needle Nidd had prepared. The following procedure was a point of contention among the surgeons and healers Nidd had worked with. In incidents such as this one, there was uncertainty regarding whether or not it was better to fully pierce the skin before looping the thread, allowing the needle to enter the body properly, or to keep the stitches limited to the upper yers of the skin. Nidd himself preferred fully piercing through, as the yers beneath the skin were very thin, and he thought taking the additional time to carefully wind a partial-depth stitch was not worth the blood loss that would occur in the meantime. Some of the healers and surgeons, including a number among those he had trained, argued that any opening to the interior of the body was to be avoided at all costs, regardless of whether or not the catgut suture would plug the gap afterward.

  Nidd did not know which practice was truly best, and every time he had to make such a decision, he felt a twisting stab of agony that he was making the wrong one.

  Netess, either through her inexperience or an innate self-assuredness he cked, did not deliberate. She weaved her stitches rapidly through the skin, piercing deeply, as Nidd preferred, and in a matter of minutes had sealed the eight-inch ceration shut. The patient had lost what remained of his consciousness during the process, rather startling his friends, but Nidd was not concerned. Few, no matter how delirious, were capable of remaining awake while a teenager rummaged about in their guts.

  Netess sat back on her heels, blowing out an explosive sigh. She stared off into the distance for a time, breathing heavily, and Nidd did not interrupt her.

  The patient's friends, however, showed no such tact.

  "Is- are you done? Sir? Ma'am? Is he gonna–"

  "We are finished," Nidd replied, answering for Netess.

  "And Tohn, he's gonna live?"

  "A question for the surgeon, not I."

  Netess, hearing this, finished collecting herself, blowing out another sigh. Still on her knees, she turned to look at the patient– Tohn's– friend.

  "He will likely live, but only if you do exactly as I say."

  "I– but– you healed him?" The man's words were quavery, nearly cracking on every word. He was the one that had inadvertently injured the patient.

  "No." Netess said. "I stitched his wounds. With enough rest, that may have been enough to save his life, but the intestine was cut. He will soon be showing signs of blood sickness. You need to get him to a healer as soon as possible."

  "But– but aren't ya a healer–?"

  "No." Netess brushed a lock of sweaty hair from her forehead, standing. "I am a surgeon in training."

  "A what? Training?"

  "I am her tutor," Nidd said, cutting off the illogical arm in the man's voice. Watching a friend nearly die was not when one was at their most rational, Nidd had learned. "She had to perform the operation, as I would not have been able to fit my hands within without widening the wound. In training or no, she performed to exacting perfection, I assure you."

  "I- Oh–! I didn't mean, I wasn't meaning to say–"

  "I understand." She waved her hand, brushing the man's stuttering aside. "Now, you and your friend will need to construct a litter for the patient. Tohn, you said? Yes. You will need to construct a litter for Tohn, and will have to carry him to the nearest healer, ensuring he moves as little as possible. If the stitches within his abdomen burst, he will die of blood sickness before the day is out. Tie him down if you must, but under no circumstances are you to have him drunk into a stupor, or, gods forbid, bludgeon him to unconsciousness. Even once he has been healed, you will want to monitor for signs of illness. I recommend staying for at least three days in a location with a healer before you can be certain an illness has not taken root. Some healer's spellcraft will resolve only what is actively harming the body, and if an infection is lying in festering wait, the spells may miss it."

  "We– we have a healer, in our vilge–"

  "Then why were you running on the road with Tohn slung between you?"

  "The healer, she was exhausted, fer the Tancil's ceiling broke while they was shoring up the–"

  "I understand. Well, in that case, I recommend you continue on to the next vilge, have Tohn healed, stay overnight, then return the following morning. If Ton's pride will not be irreparably wounded, I would have you carry him back on the litter, even after healing. Best not to aggravate an infection, if there is one."

  "I– we will, ma'am."

  And with that, the impromptu surgery was completed. The patient's friends watched like a hawk as Nidd began gathering up the supplies they had scattered across the tarp, taking care to separate the soiled and clean.

  After the men had finished constructing the litter for carrying their friend, Nidd and Netess resumed their journey, heading towards the vilge that they had been intending to visit in the first pce. They walked quietly for a time, the silence companionable, if not wholly natural. Nidd could tell his student had a lot on their mind.

  "It is not a gmorous profession, is it?" He eventually asked.

  Netess gnced up, startled from her thoughts. "No," she replied at length, "it is not. I don't think I will ever meet a patient that does not wish for miracles I cannot provide."

  "This is one of many of unfortunate elements of our work. According to Sara– er, the Governess, surgeons were among the most vaunted professions of her old world. Without magical means to heal, the work we now do was the only aid any could provide. To achieve even a fraction of what a healer is capable of, the surgeons of her world were trained to unimaginable heights. The procedure you just handled likely would have only been attempted after ten years of schooling, if the Governess is to be believed."

  "A decade?" Netess looked back at the patch of muddy road they had just used as an operating room. "That is almost unbelievable. You were right that it is simir to becoming a seamstress, because all I did was stitch flesh together."

  "But imagine if there were no healers to send the patient to? What would you do, if the skill of your hands was all that held the patient's life aloft?"

  Netess looked conflicted. "Change profession," she said, after a moment. "The contaminants were spread, the wound dirty, the patient's fate sealed. Were there no healers to provide the final touch, my actions would have been little more than torturing a dying man."

  "And yet, the surgeons of her world, she tells me, succeeded more often than they failed. Far more often, in fact."

  "That is impossible," Netess stated, her words certain.

  "You may think so, but she has convinced me it is the truth. Here, in our world, we are mere aids to healers. We stitch things back to their proper position, staunch the bleeding, and perform triage analysis, informing them of where and how they should best direct their energies, ensuring that they do not waste more effort upon each wounded than is necessary. By closing the most egregious wounds, by preparing the body for its healing, we allow those gifted by the gods to stretch their wonders far further than they otherwise could."

  Nidd's sigh was filled with a mix of emotions. "Yet in her world, we would be the only option avaible to those who were injured. We would work with our hands, poultices, and the knowledge of those surgeons that came before us, and nothing else. The Governess, she insists to me that there is nothing stopping the surgeons that I train from achieving those same heights, some day. No time soon, she warned, perhaps requiring centuries of study and development, but eventually there could be little need of healers, save for the most egregious of cases."

  The conversation was repced for a time by huffs of effort as they were forced to weave off the road when the trees began to press close to the trail. Despite Netess's retive inexperience, both of them had treated more than a few patients injured by a lurking jungle predator, unching its ambush from treelines like the one they had just avoided. When they returned to the road, breathing considerably harder than before, Netess shifted her pack and grunted Nidd's way.

  "Why tell me this? We have healers, and we always will, unless the gods abandon us. The ways of another world are useless to us."

  "Perhaps." Nidd shaded his eyes, searching for the upcoming vilge in which they were to being spreading the word of germ theory. "I suppose that I think of the Governess's stories so often that I felt I should share them with you. Whether the surgeons of that other world humble you or provide something to aspire to, I don't know. Perhaps you'll forget them, and pursue your own path without regard for theirs."

  Nidd trailed off, feeling that there had been more to his point, something more profound. If there was, however, he couldn't bring it to his lips. The vilge they were seeking was on the horizon, and the sun was sliding into the afternoon. Soon the farmers would be in from the fields, and they would begin the arduous effort of transting complex scientific theory into something a group of illiterate field hands would not just understand, but take to heart.

  Nidd swallowed, thinking back to the farmer's wound. He really wasn't cut out to be a surgeon, he knew. His own hands had been shaking worse than Netess's, like they always did, at least until the very moment he began to cut. Netess and her co-students would some day rightfully repce him, and he prayed that day would be soon. Yet for some reason, the Champion of Amarat had trusted him with the responsibility of preparing the next generation, and until they were ready, he had no choice but to live up to her demands.

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  Ignite Parables turned down the street with a slump to his step, exhausted. The final preparations of the guard had been completed a week ago, which meant his work had changed to something far more challenging. Rather than spirited soldiers, young and hungry for battle, he had taken to task a rabble of civilian volunteers. The infirm, the ill, the injured, all were welcome to receive the basic training he could afford before the Sporaton arrival, so that if the worst happened, they could be called to battle, a st of the st reserve.

  He had trained them first in the basics of holding spears, of how to pce their feet, of how to maintain their line with their fellows, but at the Governess's request, he moved on as soon as he thought reasonable. The Governess wanted them training with crossbows, crossbows, and more crossbows, each and every one of them. She cimed to have acquired a considerable reserve of the weapons from Nora's piracy, but of varying and strange make, and so asked that Ignite train the militia to readily adapt themselves to all sorts of strange mechanisms. He had done so, doing his utmost to keep them adaptable enough to handle whatever weapon might fall into their hands, but doing so required constant, exhausting personal attention.

  And so it was with great relief that he shoved open the door to his home, calling out in his own nguage.

  "I'm home, dear!"

  There was no response. Ignite guessed that Pupils was in her study, and could not hear him. Eager to see her, he began unbuckling his armor, pcing it on the stand he kept by the door for such a purpose. Once he was dressed in his pinclothes, he hurried up the stairs, each step lifting his spirits a little bit more. Intending to surprise her with his arrival, he opened the door to the study without a knock, stepping inside.

  And froze.

  Hunched over her desk, a quill scratching violently across parchment, Pupils was locked into concentration. Before her, resting on the windowsill, was a beady-eyed hawk, the unmistakeable enchanted bands of a messenger bird csped about either leg. The hawk's beak snapped up to Ignite, then let out a frightening screech.

  Pupils jumped up from her desk, whirling to face Ignite, the paper she'd been writing upon dripping ink from within her balled fist.

  Ignite stared at Pupils.

  Pupils stared at him.

  She lunged for the firepce, which was already alight, trying to throw the paper in. Ignite, still a Sergente to her Guardiamarina, easily ripped it from her fingers. In the tumult, the hawk took to the wing, screeching all the while. Pupils began cwing at his arm, trying to retrieve the paper, but he was stronger than her by multiples, and he easily held her back as his eyes scanned what he could.

  A burning, terrible pain seized his chest. The words upon the paper had his heart lurching unnaturally, agony spreading as it skipped beat after beat.

  "No, no, no!" Pupils screamed, raining ineffectual blows against him. She had been among the newest recruits to his Guariamarines, and the life of hermitage since Hurlish had saved her from the sinking Magecraft had not gotten her any closer to his skill.

  "Pupils..." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  "You weren't supposed to see! You weren't supposed to know!" She wailed.

  Ignite dropped the paper, whirling on his lover, grabbing both her forearms. She colpsed in his grip, already spent.

  "What have you done?" He hissed.

  "What I must!" She spat back, her voice pitiable. "What we should have been doing! What you failed to see!"

  "What you must? Pupils, you have betrayed our people!"

  The parchment sat half-crumpled on the floor between them, innumerable details of Tulian works listed across it. Ignite had not read more than the first lines before he recognized what it was: the report of a spy, of an enemy reporting what Pupils knew to Sporaton forces.

  "Our people?" Pupils ughed hysterically. "Ignite, we have no people! We forfeit our home the moment we failed to sink with our brothers and sisters! There is nothing left for us, not in the Navy, not in Tulian!"

  "We were given another chance!" He yelled back. "We were saved from the- the dishonor of our actions!"

  "Dishonor?!" Pupils' ugh took on a hideous air. "We were fighting on a Carrion Magecraft! We were soldiers of our people, forging the future! We had a duty, a family, a goal and the means to achieve it!"

  "The goal we were given was that of mercenaries! Paid to assault the innocent! No, we were not even mercenaries, Pupils, we were pirates!"

  "Better a Carrion pirate than a listless traitor," she spat, tears filling her eyes. "Have you no shame for those we left behind? Here we sat in a foreign city, taking comfort in each other's warmth, while our brothers and sisters slip through the icy deep! Have you no shame?"

  "OF COURSE I DO!" Ignite bellowed, releasing Pupils' arms with a shove. She gasped as she was thrown back, nding on the writing desk, knocking the jar of ink askew. It spilled across the desk, across her clothes. Ignite started to step forward, raising a hand, but the sudden cringe in his lover's shoulders, the flinch as she prepared herself to be struck, stopped him. With nothing to do with his balled fist, Ignite turned to the wall with a roar, smming it through the wood.

  "I hid you! I did all you asked! Never, never once, in all the time with the Governess, did I mention your name! She forgot you, everyone forgot you! I did everything you wanted! I hid your so-called 'shame,' I found us a house and home for you to hide away from the world within! I brought you food, and clothes, and spoke gentle comforts into your ear for months, MONTHS, all to help you accept the fact that you still live, and this? THIS? This is how you repay me?!"

  Pupils, who had never been the most stable of women since her defeat upon the Magecraft, spun around, furiously crawling across the desk on hands and knees. Realizing she intended to fling herself from the window in shame, Ignite leapt forward and snagged her ankle, dragging her back in. She nded on the ink-sodden floor, bck soaking her olive skin, and he towered over her, fury like he'd never known soaking him until he trembled.

  And then Pupils' eyes began to water. Her lip quivered, her arms tucking into a tight hug about herself, her torso shaking.

  Ignite's anger colpsed so suddenly he felt like it might take him to the floor. He wobbled, unsteady, but did not fall.

  "Why?" He whispered, kneeling next to her. "Why did you do this, darling?"

  Her voice quavery, she turned to the side, unable to look him in the eyes. "...I shouldn't be alive," she whispered.

  "No, darling, no," Ignite whispered, reflex having him reach out to cup her cheek. "The time has passed. There would be no honor in death, not now. Through fate or luck, we have been given another chance, another life. Can you not see that?"

  She bit her lip, eyes wrenched shut. "No. No. All I see is the dead, asking why I am not with them."

  Ignite did not know why Pupils had done this. He did not know what she had revealed. He did not, it seemed, know very much at all about the woman who had shared his bed for so many months now.

  But he did know what he must do. He reached down and scooped her up in his arms, her weight barely noticeable, and headed towards the stairs.

  He had known Sara for many months, now, and he had thought he served her faithfully. He had thought he was earning his life once more. Now all of that was thrown into disarray, and he knew nothing of what he was.

  He only hoped she would give him one st assignment, one st opportunity to right the wrongs he had heaped upon his peoples.

  ----------------------------

  -------------------------

  ----------------------

  Tinny didn't really think his shit was that squared up. The other peeps, they did, they made funna him for it, but he didn't care. After the Queen Bitch rolled into town, with hair down to her ass and a girl with more braids than brains hanging off her arm, everybody'd started wearing wearing their own shit out. Not Tinny. He kept his close cut, just about bald, the type'a close you could see his scalp through it. He wasn't gonna be following some trumped-up bitch's style, that was for sure.

  Not like he was following her in any way, anyway. He didn't want nothing to do with this Tulian bullshit, and tonight, he was gonna prove it. His people didn't think he would, said his balls'd shrivel up halfway there, but they were wrong. He hadn't. He was standing in front of the pce right now, all his shit lined up, and he was gonna do something about it.

  In the dead of night, when no one but the Queen Bitch's so-called guard was stomping around, Tinny dropped his bag on the stones and started shuffling through it, keeping a good hard eye on the Union building while he did so. They were all home by now, none of the weavers stayed there overnight, like some'a the other Unions, which was why he was here. Gncing one st time to make sure the windows really were clear, he started hauling his shit out.

  He had 'bout ten bricks in the bag, as much as he could carry and still run if he got caught, and he had lots paper with all his shit written on it, too. The st few sheets had nothing at all, but they was a lot more paper, and he had his fire striker for them.

  He was wrapping rope around the first brick, tying up the paper, when he heard a cng and a quiet "shit!" from behind him. Tinny nearly shit his britches then and there, getting ready to run, but the thought of what his peeps'd say if he came back without doing the job scared him worse, so instead he grabbed the brick and turned, raisin' it over his head.

  It took him a second to find 'em, but he did. Climbing out of a grate on the corner of the building was a tall-ass woman, with an even taller-ass orc dy following behind her. Hadn't seen him yet. Tinny kept the brick raised and waited, 'cause he didn't wanna throw shit at gals for no reason, he wasn't that kinda guy, but when the first gal stood up and he got a load of her face, he damn wished he'd chucked it.

  It was the Queen Bitch herself! The Champion of Amarat and one'a her wives, crawling outta some shithole in the ground! Tinny might'a been here to send a message to the Union, but he wasn't stupid. Busting Sara Brown's nose would be one helluva better way to start things off!

  Tinny let the brick fly, throwing with all his might, and for once in his damn life, the thing flew straight! It barely spun as it blew through twenty feet of air towards the Queen Bitch, heading right for her face.

  Then the Queen Bitch looked up at him, looked at the brick, looked at her wife. Looked back at Tinny, looked at the brick again. Made a face. Then she moved her head to the side. The brick flew on, just as straight, right into the wall behind her, and if it had been any other day, Tinny woulda been proud of how hard it hit the stones. Practically shattered, it did. 'Course, things were different when he'd been aiming for something else.

  "The fuck was that?" The Queen Bitch asked.

  "Fuck you, Bitch!"

  Tinny bent down and snagged another brick, whirling it at her chest. The dumbass wasn't even wearing armor, just her weird jacket shit, and he figured if he couldn't hit her head, he could at least knock a tit off or something. He didn't even wait 'till it nded before he grabbed another brick, then another one, seeing as this was the best damn chance he'd ever get. He threw a third brick, then a fourth, then a fifth, barely aiming, screaming his head off all the while.

  "Stupid fucking whore gonna ruin my fucking town? I'll show you! I'll fuck you up!"

  Tinny kept lobbing bricks, half surprised he wasn't dead yet, considering how big the Queen Bitch's wife was, but if he still had bricks to throw, he was gonna throw 'em.

  "Oh, hell, I'm too drunk for this shit," the Queen Bitch muttered. Tinny paused as he was aiming his next brick, really taking her in for the first time.

  She was walking towards him, a stack of six bricks banced in her left hand, the st one he'd thrown held in her right. As he watched, she added the seventh brick to the tower, bancing– and holding– it like it was nothing, then rubbed at the corner of her eye with a knuckle.

  "I thought we had to get home quick," the orc grunted, her voice low, even for an orc dy. Tinny knew, 'cause one of his peeps was an orc gal, and her voice was a lot sweeter than that behemoth, even if Tuk wasn't all grown yet, she always said.

  "Yeah, yeah, Evie's waiting, but I'm sure whatever this is will only take a minute."

  Tinny stumbled backward as the Queen Bitch dropped most of the bricks she'd caught, snagging the one at the bottom, which still had his papers tied around it. She slipped the note out and dropped the brick, squinting to read it under the starlight.

  "Oh, I see how it is," she said with a chuckle.

  "You don't know shit!" Tinny squeaked, the bad habit that earned him his name comin' out at the worst time, as usual. He woulda run for it, but the big orc dy looked like she was ready for it, and he didn't think he could outpace her when her legs looked twice as long and four times as thick as his.

  For some un-fuckin-believable reason, the Queen Bitch started reading the note out loud.

  "The peeples of Tulian don't want, don't need, and won't ever have a Queen Bitch whipping them and keepin them down. Unless she wants every pce in the city to end up like this one, the Queen Bitch is gonna get gone."

  Said Queen Bitch read the note impassively, like she was reading a posting on fish prices or something. Tinny'd at least expected her to get angry or something, but she didn't really seem to care. She crumpled the note up and sighed, popping out a hip to rest her hand on.

  "What've you got in the bag?"

  "Go fuck yourself!"

  "Honestly, with the way Evie likes me these days, I think I probably could. But seriously, what's in the bag?" The Queen Bitch edged closer, standing on her tiptoes to see in. "Just more bricks? Some more propaganda?"

  "Like I'd tell you a fuckin' thin-"

  The Champion put a hand to her hip and whispered something, then she was crouched next to him. He hadn't seen her move at all, and now she was bumping up against his leg, shuffling around in his bag.

  "Let's see here," she hummed. "Bricks, bricks, some bnk paper, more manifestos that're, ooh, all written different, that's a nice touch, and..." she made a tsking noise. "Fire starters. For the bnk paper, I'm guessing?"

  Tinny balled both his fists up over his head and smmed 'em down, square on the top of the Queen Bitch's head.

  "Ow," she stated dryly, still looking through the bag. "The hell was that for, kid?"

  Despite the fact that he'd just watched the woman eat his best shot like it was nothing, only one thought came to mind.

  "I ain't a kid!"

  "Adults don't get defensive when you call 'em kids, kid, just annoyed. Also, don't hit me again. Guard dog might rip your head off."

  Tinny looked back up and found the big orc standing in arm's length of him, arms crossed, a frown on her face.

  "I wouldn't rip your head off," she offered, like it was a distinguishment worth making. "Might go for some bone breaking, though."

  "Fuck you, too," Tinny spat.

  "Don't talk to her like that," the Champion snapped, lightly flicking him on his shin as she stood back up. The force of it blew his leg out from under him, spinning him to the floor. His teeth ccked loudly as his jaw collided with the cobblestone, rivers from his split skin painting the grout red.

  "You can say that shit to me, but don't you dare bring it to Hurlish. Also, shit, sorry. You not have your first level or something?"

  Tinny felt a hand on the back of his shirt pulling him up into the air, spinning him around so he was right side up. He was set down before the stars had cleared from his vision, and he wobbled backward, nearly falling before another tug on his shirt pulled him forward.

  "You good? You feeling like you got a concussion? Hurlish, do his eyes look dited?"

  "It's midnight, babe."

  Tinny hocked up as much spit as he could muster, aiming for her eye.

  The Champion, of course, dodged it.

  "Guess he's good," she said as the wad of saliva spttered across the cobblestones far beyond her.

  "Funny definition of good," the orc intoned.

  Tinny shoved at the arm holding the front of his shirt as hard as he could, and to his surprise, it worked. He stumbled backward as her grip was broken, a scrap of his shitass shirt clutched in her fist.

  "Fuck do you want with me?" He demanded, backing up until he was against the wall. Both the cool stone and not having to bance felt nice.

  "Originally? I was wondering why you threw a brick at me. Evie's been real worried about assassins, but unless you had some kinda spell tied to the bricks, I don't think you're from Sporatos." She nodded to the crumpled paper she'd tossed aside earlier. "I get it now, though. You're baby Tulian's first anarchist."

  "The fuck does that mean?"

  "You're an anarchist. Someone that believes authority goes hand-in-hand with authoritarianism, that so long as any system is in pce to empower one above others, oppression is both inevitable and inherent."

  Tinny's whirling brain took a minute to wrap around that one. Maybe he really did have a concussion, whatever that was.

  "I ain't an anarchist or whatever the hell!" He eventually decred. "I just don't want any big society types pushing their shit on people! Don't matter how you pretty it up, nobles or no, you're all the same!"

  "So you'd agree with the statement that, so long as there's people sitting in fancy chairs making rules that everyone else has to follow, you're not gonna be happy?"

  Tinny frowned. It felt real odd to hear something that stirred him up like it did being said in such a boring-ass way, but he couldn't deny it. "Not gonna be happy?" He spat. "I ain't gonna stop fighting 'till that shit's done and gone!"

  The Champion, for some weird reason, grinned. "Yeah, you're basically an anarchist, buddy. Or a proto-anarchist, at least. Probably just don't have a word for it here yet." The Champion tapped her foot on the cobblestone, looking up at the Union building. "So, what was the pn? Smash some windows, toss some propaganda in, then light the joint up and dip before the Guard got here?"

  Tinny said nothing, but he couldn't hide his flinch, and the Champion caught it.

  "Figured as much. Standard fare, but I think you fucked up on a couple of points."

  "Ah, shit, here we go," the orc groaned. "Evie's gonna be pissed if you're te, babe."

  "I'll only take five minutes, promise. And you know I can make it up to her."

  "Whatever," the orc huffed. "It's your ass."

  The Champion dropped to her heels in front of Tinny's bag, rifling through it once more.

  "Alright, kid, here's some lessons for you, 'cause it looks like you're either the first of your kind in this world, or at least the first I've met. Not much chance for you to learn from people that have tried before." The Champion found and seized Tinny's fire starter, stuffing it in a jacket pocket. "First thing's first: establish your goal. Long term goal, not short term. Sound like you've got that sorted, seeing as you already said you don't want any kind of government at all. But how're you going to do it?"

  The Champion stood back up, jerking her head in a nod at the Weaver's Union Tinny had been so close to smashing up. "Them? They're not a good target, kid. You'd be robbing people of their work, and in the society they're trapped in, that's a surefire way to piss them the hell off. No job, no money, no food. Well, if I hadn't done wellfare stuff, that'd be true, at least. Anyway, you're not gonna get converts to your cause like that."

  "Wha-"

  "See, what you've got to do is identify two types, right?" The Queen Bitch held up two fingers, counting them off. "There's the top-tier cunts, the rich and powerful like me, yeah? They're the ones you gotta be going for, not your average worker, cause they're the second type you gotta figure out. The moderates, the fence-sitters, the bitches that ain't made up their mind yet, you feel me? The sort that's doing bad with the way things are, the kind that are kinda pissed, but not doing anything about it. Them? Y'can't attack them. You gotta convert 'em. Call 'em what you want, your target audience, the proletariat, the salt-of-the-earth, whatever, but they're the ones you gotta fight for, not against."

  The Champion made a face. "'Course, that's hard right now, ain't it? I've been tryna work my way from the bottom up, shore up the worst-off before I do anything for the people that were doin' just fine. But I ain't perfect. Figure I fucked up in a few spots, y'know, 'cause there's gotta be somewhere I missed. Them's the ones you gotta find, kid, and them's the ones that are gonna be the easiest to convince. Hell, Tulian was pretty close to anarchism before I showed up, wasn't it?"

  "And we were doing fine!" Tinny hollered, finally managing to get a word in edge-wise. "People were doing what they wanted, living how they pleased, and you fucked it all up!"

  "Mm, I dunno, considering the state I found the pce in, but I get whatcha mean. Certainly was a helluva lot closer to anarchism than it is now, no doubt there. Like to think me bringing the tradeskills back helped batten down the hatches, get people ready for Sporatos and all that, but who knows? Maybe I just fucked up what was gonna finally turn into a proper series of anarchist communes. I'd hate to think I fucked up that bad, though."

  "Fuckin' Sporatos?" Tinny hocked up another ball of phlegm, sending it spttering on the stones in disgust. "They're comin' here 'cause of you! It's your fault we got this fuckin' war breathin' down our necks, your fault we're gunna end up lickin' the boot of a king again!"

  "I think he was gonna come anyway," the Champion said, "but you may be right. Way I figure it, he was only holdin' off 'cause of his own shit, the nobles squabblin' and all that, and once that was sorted he'd gobble us up just as happy as could be be. Free shit's free shit, y'know?" The Champion paused, as an expression flitting over her face. "But that's not what I was being about, anyway. Talkin' bout how you shoulda been approaching it, that's what we need."

  Tinny couldn't believe what he was hearing. "The fuck do you care? I'm tryna get rid of you."

  "Yeah, I know. Funny thing is? So am I." The Champion made a wide wave, indicating the whole of Tulian around them. "All this shit? I'm tryna set it up to run without me. Soon as I get things nice and settled, I'm dipping, heading out into the jungle or some shit. And while I'm gone, y'know what I want?" She stabbed a finger in Tinny's direction. "People like you." She cocked her head, biting back a smirk. "Well, people like you're tryna be, anyways. Instead of me, there's gonna be a government full of people, just regur old bitches, and they'll prolly be pretty good. For a while. Then the shine'll wear off, and they'll get greedy, and they'll get nasty, and they'll stop worrying so much about what people want, what they need. That's where you come in."

  Tinny blinked rapidly. This entire exchange was just too fuckin' weird for him to understand. The Champion didn't seem to give a shit, though.

  "See, the people in charge? They need somethin' to fear. They can't be like those shitass nobles up in Sporatos, thinkin' they're invincible, and it's gonna be your job to prove it. There's gotta be consequences to their fuckups, more than just losin' an election, more than just their pocketbooks taking a hit. They gotta have something to fear, primal-like. Their lives, if you can manage it."

  The Champion hefted one of the bricks, looking it over like she was inspecting a fancy sword.

  "Bricks are a good start, but not when it's just you. Y'gotta throw a lot of 'em to do real damage. Guess you don't have anyone else rolling with you yet, so I'd say hold off on busting windows and throwin' notes around." She dropped the brick, picking up his fire starter. "Fire? Better, but not in the city. Shit's too close together here, and you're liable to hurt the people you want to help, and they'll hate you more than me. A fort, or a stand-alone government building? Sure, go for it, if it's ripe for the pickin's. Not something like the Union headquarters, though."

  She pursed her lips. "Really, I'd say what you need is some lower-profile stuff right now. I'm too popur, and goin' against me openly is gonna shove the fence-sitters over to my side. Bide your time, get some skills and shit together, and start spreading the word all slow-like. Get the idea in people's head of how shitty being under a boot is, best you can, and keep on waiting. Eventually someone'll fuck up, piss a lotta people off, and that's when you capitalize. All the shit you got ready, you spring it on some good target, reted to whatever went wrong, and make a big show of yourself."

  She pocked the fire starter once again, shrugging. "At least, that's how I'd do it. Up to you. But I wouldn't recommend going for the Peasant's Theatre any time soon. My girlfriend'll kill you."

  "Oh, gods," the orc excimed, tuning back into the conversation, focusing on Tinny with a serious expression. "Kid, she ain't fucking around with that one. You try and screw with the Peasant's Theatre and Evie'll have your guts for garters." The orc's face twisted. "And... that might be literal. So don't fuck with it."

  "At least 'till I move out," the Champion added.

  "He probably still shouldn't."

  "Unless he wants to."

  "He'll get killed."

  "Not if he's smart about it. Y'know, I actually managed to smash the window of the Chief of Police's car, once? I could see where the cameras on his dash were, right..."

  Tinny's head had stopped spinning enough for him to feel steady on his feet. With the two women now engaged in their conversation, he began stumbling away, unsure and uncaring if they noticed him leave.

  He had a lot to think about. A whole lot. But first thing's first.

  Tuk was not gonna believe this shit!

  -------------------------------

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  -------------------------

  Graf Urs paced his way through abandoned training rooms, the martial click of his heels echoing loudly. It was te, and none were present to train, the Night's Eye mercenaries having retired to the rooms that the King allowed them to still occupy across the Eliah estate. He paced back and forth across the soft wooden grain, pivoting on a heel at the sparring square's corner, and retracing his steps.

  He was lost in thought. It happened often, at his age. After eight decades of life lived, how could it not? He had more to reminisce over than he'd ever thought he would.

  Yet tonight his thoughts kept returning to one moment, ten years gone. He had been in this very room, but a very different version of it. When he focused, he could see it nearly as clearly as he could on the very day.

  Fresh-cut grass had been spread across the sparring mat at his orders, small saplings and young trees impnted alongside, with foreign bamboo creating a barrier of an appropriate height to block the vision of the young Eliah heir. At twelve years old, she was just encroaching upon five feet in height, and when he crouched down to her level, he could almost believe the fake forest was real.

  No matter her mother's wishes, he knew the young girl would not spend all her life cloistered in the city. If the Lady did not allow her child to see the wilderness, he would bring the wilderness to her. Trees, dirt, grass, and all that came with it, and damn the expense.

  Graf watched her feline ears twitch and jerk atop her head, so much more expressive than her mother's. Though her tail was an impossibility for her kind to control, her tutors knew her ears could be trained, and worked the child dearly to corral their movements. Despite their harshness, they hadn't yet succeeded at taming those vivid reactions, for which Graf was grateful. He caught the moment when their twitching abated, and knew she had taken note of what he had prepared.

  "What is it?" She whispered, crouched in the dirt trail he had ordered to be spread through the sparring yard for her training.

  Crouched beside her, he shook his head. "I do not know, Miss Eliah. That is for you to determine. It is common for those beneath your station to travel alone through the wilderness, and as they make do without my guidance, so will you."

  Miss Eliah sniffed primly, eyes and ears locked upon the faux-trail before her. She did not question him. That had been a lesson learned early, and one she learned well.

  She began moving forward, using one hand to support her crouching walk. Her formal dress was tucked up to her waist, tied there by a simple leather belt, exposing the practical breeches she secretly wore beneath near every outfit her nannies chose for her. Her over-long hair was tied in tight braids, so as not to tangle in her arms as she maneuvered a practice bde. She did not look a peasant's child, but neither did she look a noble scion. At this particur moment, she seemed someone between, an identity irrespective of her bearing.

  In the dark room of the present, Graf shook his head. As was happening ever more often, the views that came to him ter seeped easily into the past, where they did not belong. Miss Eliah, not yet a Lady, had then been little more than the noble child she looked. It was only ter, he reminded himself, that she would shift. He traced the path of his memory through the room, walking in the steps where the young feline had prowled, so long ago.

  Miss Eliah stopped after moving only a few short feet down the dirt pathway, every inch of her locked into rigid alert. She had traveled down the middle of the path, Graf noted. Not predisposed to hiding herself, the Eliah heir. That would need to be a ter lesson.

  She slowly moved to her left, circling the point that had drawn her attention, cat's ears smoothly tracking her target so that they seemed motionless above her shifting body.

  He saw the moment when she discovered it. It was not hard. The fur of her ears and tail spiked, her eyes widening, the hand she'd used to support her crawl clutching at the soil.

  "A snake?" She hissed, doing all she could to be heard without being overly loud. "You brought a snake into the House?"

  "Perhaps he found his way in," Graf suggested, perfectly deadpan. "It's a rather suitable little trail we've made for him, isn't it?"

  Miss Eliah looked as if she wanted to scoff, but she didn't. She was being as silent as possible. He supposed it was natural that her tutors hadn't covered the fact that snakes were nearly deaf. Little relevance to one of her station, that.

  But not if she wished to travel with an army, marching through muddy roads.

  The snake was happily ensconced in the den his troops had built for it, a passable facsimile of what it would normally occupy in the wild. With the constant thudding of training soldiers reverberating through the floor, the creature had no desire to leave safety, and he had felt comfortable waiting for Miss Eliah to find it on her own. The catfolk under his employee had assured him that if her ears were as good as theirs, she ought to be perceptive enough to pick up the quiet hisses and shifting of its scales from several paces away.

  And if she wasn't, then she still would have learned a lesson, if a more painful one.

  The snake's bck eyes glittered at Miss Eliah, matching her dagger gre without blinking. Its dark tongue flicked out to taste the air, forked and disturbing, to one who had never seen such a thing in the flesh. Miss Eliah, to her credit, did no more than flinch.

  After several unbroken minutes of staring, Miss Eliah retreated, returning to Graf's side. She shrunk down beside him, anticipating some reprimand for failure, as would be natural of her other tutors. Graf did not oblige her. He said nothing at all, confident he was more patient than any twelve year old in existence, no matter how blue their blood.

  Eventually, she spoke up, whispering in a different tone.

  "The snake is long, Master Graf. Perhaps five feet. Wider than the trail, so it could reach me easily no matter where I walk. Its den faces the road, and the thicket to either side is too dense to traverse. I could strike it from above, piercing the soil with a knife, but I am not confident I could aim well enough through the dirt to kill it in one blow."

  "I see," he said neutrally.

  Miss Eliah frowned, childish frustration building across her face. "You said I had to get to the far end of the trail, Master Graf, but it blocks the way. If I were really a peasant, I would have been told by my parents how to deal with such a situation. But I am not, and I do not know."

  "This is true," he said.

  Her irritation grew. "So, I have failed. I did not get to the other side of the trail. I am back with you, asking questions."

  "Is the trail colpsed? Was there a time limit enforced for your task?"

  She huffed. "No. But if I knew a way to succeed, I would have done so. What now?"

  "I don't know. You're alone on this trail, aren't you?"

  At this, her lip finally curled, exposing a sharp canine. "I am most certainly not. You are here as well, Master Graf."

  "So it would seem."

  The young noble was reaching a breaking point, Graf noted. She was running him through with the same expression she reserved for her mother's back, when she knew she could get away with it. Cogs and gears ground in her mind, throwing insolent sparks, until suddenly her face contorted.

  Miss Eliah stood from her crouch, unbuckled the belt that kept her dress up, and looked down her nose at him.

  "As the heir to the Eliah Estate, I hereby order you to safely traverse the path before me, in a manner I am capable of imitating."

  Master Graf stood as well, rolling his shoulders, shaking a leg out. Old bones didn't like him staying on his knees, making their compints known with pops and clicks.

  "If you so order it, Lady Eliah, it will be done."

  Without further adieu, Graf walked over to the left side of the trail, whistling a jaunty tune, and ambled his way down the dirt path. He spared the snake's den a brief gnce as he passed it, but that was all, and very soon he was at the end of the simuted wilderness. He turned around, calling out to Miss Eliah.

  "Your next orders, My Lady?"

  If the young heir had looked irritated before, now she seemed utterly furious. Her arms were crossed over her chest, fingers white as they dug into her forearms, and her tail– which was halfway through an awkward growth spurt, making it overlong– was shing hard enough to painfully smack the ground.

  "An illusion, then?" She eyed the den suspiciously. "A trick that I was supposed to figure out?"

  Graf walked back towards her at a casual pace, returning to her side before answering. On seeing him pass the snake without issue a second time, her ire only grew.

  "The snake is quite real, I assure you," he said. "Purchased from an exotic trader in the city market just st evening."

  "Then it is not dangerous? Lacking in poison?"

  "One bite is enough to kill a bull."

  "Defanged?"

  "Do you think me so cruel?"

  "Tied in pce?"

  "Only by the comfort of its den."

  Miss Eliah stomped her foot, throwing up a puff of dust. "Then what? Why did you just walk past it, thinking yourself so safe?"

  "Well, for one, I am faster than it. I could easily avoid its bite."

  "But I am not, and I instructed you to behave in a manner I could imitate."

  "You would not need to dodge it."

  "If it lunged at me, I most certainly would, and as you well know, I would fail."

  "That is true, isn't it?"

  Her overlong tail shed so furiously that it came up to smack her across the cheek, startling her into a yelping hop, and at that, even Graf could not maintain his stoicism. He ughed heartily, driving Miss Eliah further into her frenzy. She whirled on her own tail and snagged it between both hands, pinning its squirming length to her side, then whirled back upon him.

  "Why are you being so needlessly obtuse?!"

  "Because you have not yet reached the far end of the trail, Miss."

  Miss Eliah blew out a long, huffing sigh, very nearly a growl, an excmation which Graf had learned to be the young woman's equivalent of a drunken sailor's raging diatribe. She stomped forward, releasing her tail, and eyed the trail.

  Taking a deep breath, she began walking slowly forward, pressed as far to the left side of the path as she could manage without snagging herself on the branches. Her eyes never left the snake's den as she pced one foot after the other, matching Graf's pace near exactly.

  And then she was past the snake, the end of the path open to her. She paused, as if surprised, and took a moment to search for some hidden trick among the dirt and trees to either side. Finding none, she walked to the end, her practice boots moving from dirt to the sparring mat.

  "Very good," he said.

  Miss Eliah stared at him from twenty feet away, practically quivering with rage. "If you do not tell me the purpose of this exercise this instant, I will spend the rest of the month convincing my mother to fire you."

  Graf bellowed his ugh, grabbing his chest. He followed in her footsteps, passing the venomous snake, and put a hand on her shoulder, pointing to the snake.

  "Look at the little thing, Miss Eliah."

  "Little?" She asked incredulously. "It was as long as I am tall."

  "And a tenth your weight, with a mouth which could fit two of your fingers. Why would it attack you, Miss?"

  She sputtered. "Because... because it is a snake! A venomous creature, with a forked tongue that the demons of the hells base themselves upon!"

  "Devils may ape its form, Miss Eliah, but not its actions. A devil fights for the pure delight of suffering, but a snake attacks only to survive. It could not eat you, and its venom would not kill you for several minutes after the first bite. In that time, you could easily kill it, if for no reason other than spite. It has no reason to attack you."

  She did not look convinced. Her tongue worked in her mouth, her tutor's lessons guiding her towards a clever set of words to express her thoughts. "To trust to a snake's self-interest is like hanging a sword above your bed, trusting the rope to keep your neck attached. Just because there is no reason for it fail, doesn't mean it won't."

  "True enough, I suppose. But a rope rarely fails, and a snake rarely strikes without provocation. Seeing as you had to get to the other end of the trail, what was best? To take the risk of attacking a creature which held no ire for you, or moving peaceably past, trusting in its common sense?"

  "The second," she snipped, detesting having to admit it. "But I still think it foolish to even walk the trail."

  "Sometimes, there are paths we must take, no matter how much we wish for another route."

  She rolled her eyes. "A warrior-poet you are, Master Graf. Truly, you missed your calling for Knighthood."

  "I refused it, as a matter of fact."

  Miss Eliah sniffed, turning towards the sparring grounds that hadn't been filled with debris. "As if. No commoner would be fool enough to deny a Knighthood."

  Abruptly, Graf reached the end of his pacing. There was only a row of benches before him in the dark training studio, the end to his walk pulling him from the memory. He looked throughout the empty hall, running a hand through his snow-white hair.

  Ten years gone, yet you remember it too, Miss.

  Graf sighed, lowering himself to the bench with a low groan. His hips popped once more, protesting even this simple motion. At his age, he hurt when he moved, and he hurt when he rexed. It was the natural way of things, but with the life he'd led, he'd never thought he'd see the day when he felt it for himself. Mercenaries, no matter how accomplished, didn't live to see eighty-one.

  Yet here he was. An old man, growing older, still in charge of those who trusted him with their lives. He had failed them before, of course, but not often, and for that, he was proud. For however long he had left, he wished to keep that pride, and in the message that Sen had reyed, he sensed his former apprentice wished the same.

  "A serpent lies hissing beside a path you must travel. Do you walk on?"

  A question with many faces.

  Ah, Lady Eliah, how I despise your love of wordpy.