Death of a Kingdom

By M. Edward McNally

The Second Book of the Norothian Cycle, and the sequel to "The Sable City."

After a narrow escape from the Sable City, Tilda and company have arrived in Souterm, where the Duchess Claudja is able to contact the Emperor and announce that her home realm of Chengdea has accepted the Code. While such an acceptance may stave-off invasion by Ayzantine forces, King Hughes of Daul will not take the betrayal well, and a new war threatens to erupt between the Empire and the River Kingdom.

Meanwhile, Nesha-tari learns that she must perform additional tasks for her Blue Dragon Master before she will be allowed to return home. Together with others in the Dragon's service, the sorceress must enter the murderous world of Ayzant politics, where Crown, Church, and Cult vie for power.

Epic fantasy, Muskets & Magic. Historical fiction in a fictional world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Edward McNally
• Release date: Jun 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458198198

M. Edward McNally

M. Edward McNally is a North Carolinian of Irish/Mexican extraction. Grew up mostly along I35 northbound (KS, IA, MN) and now resides in the scrub brush surrounding Phoenix, AZ, where the scorpions and the javelinas play. MA in English Lit from ISU and Russian/East European History from ASU, though both date from an earlier era when there was a lot of Grunge on the radio and Eddie wore entirely too much flannel, even in the summer. Deus impeditio esuritori nullus.

Book preview

Death of a Kingdom

Book II of the Norothian Cycle

By M. Edward McNally

Copyright 2011 by M. Edward McNally

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For maps, glossary, short histories, etc., please visit http://sablecity.wordpress.com/ or http://www.facebook.com/thesablecity

Part One: Souterm

Chapter One

The necklace was a species of choker, made of platinum-plated wire forming geometric designs around square mounts for gem stones. One mount was empty, but the other nine were filled by small diamonds of exquisite and perfectly-matched cut that made Kyops think Dwarves must have been involved in their fashioning. When he had first seen the piece across the table in a shadowy booth of a tavern a few blocks over, the jeweler had expected the gaudy thing would turn out to be fake. Now, with a magnifying lens pinched in one eye socket and the necklace spread atop a square of green felt on his desk beneath a lantern, Kyops gave a grunt as he judged that the gems, and the platinum, were real.

He looked up at the young woman seated across his desk, who was not. She was a real woman, of course: Slim and fetching in a crisp dress, blouse, and a short jacket of good cloth. All were a pearly shade of gray that somehow or another had some pink in it, which matched the hat pinned cockeyed to the cascading tresses of her raven hair. The hat was an impractical bowler of minute size that was all the rage this year among the ladies of Souterm who could afford to labor under the yoke of a slavish devotion to the passing fashions of a season.

But this woman was no local lady. She was dark enough to be a woman of Doon even with a rather too-heavy layer of powder on her pretty face, but she had represented herself to Kyops as the Lady Haversmythe of Lothdowne. Neither name meant anything to the jeweler, though both sounded vaguely Beoan. After their initial meeting two days ago, Kyops had checked the registry at the swanky First Fort Inn and found that no woman was staying there under that name. Yet the message he had sent to arrange this second meeting had plainly reached her. It was troubling, or rather it would have been troubling to a businessman of a more reputable repute.

I trust the piece has held its own under your gaze? the woman asked, her own brown eyes warm and wide, and a vapid smile showing pearly teeth framed by painted ruby lips. She did speak the Imperial tongue with a flat Beoan accent, but then so did Kyops and he had only been in Souterm and the Empire for a decade. Ten years ago there had been some unpleasantness with the Boolan regime of his native Majerka, across the Channel on Kandala. Kyops was still a foreigner here in Codia, and it was not so very hard for him to spot another.

There is a stone missing, he said, removing the lens from his eye and setting it gently down next to the necklace. The woman nodded, bobbing the tiny hat pinned to her head.

I am afraid that has been gone for ages. I would have had it replaced, but I have always felt it gives the piece a certain character. Even a romance. Surely, its absence invites the invention of some sorrowful tale, no?

The woman’s smile became a grin, losing the look of vapidity she was trying to maintain for a moment before she blinked her big eyes like an innocent fawn. She did have a point, though. Kyops had a few well-heeled ladies of Souterm in mind who possessed the requisite boldness to wear such a gaudy piece, and they were all of a kind to be swayed by a sad story. The missing stone could actually be a selling point as Kyops saw it, for in his mind the necklace was already his.

Perhaps we might move on to a discussion of price? the woman who was definitely not the Lady Haversmythe of Lothdowne bubbled, batting her eyelashes. Kyops steepled his fingers with his elbows on the desk.

Very well, Lady. Permit me to make an opening offer.

Kyops glanced at the serving girl who had accompanied the woman today, a little slip of a Far Westerner in a battered jacket and trousers waiting quietly on a bench by the office door. A swordsman had come with them as well, and while that fellow had certainly looked formidable, he was downstairs in the parlor and had no idea he was surrounded. There was only one of him, and Kyops had hired six men for the day’s events. Disposing of the three bodies was going to be the larger chore.

You will leave this gaudy thing right where it is, and remove yourself from my house, Kyops said. In return, I shall not report you to the City Watch for trafficking in stolen merchandise.

The woman blinked, and did not quite keep her gauzy smile from faltering. The little Westerner’s face remained blank under a tangle of inky-black hair, letting Kyops know that she did not understand Codian.

It is not stolen… the woman said, and Kyops snorted.

Let us dispense with that notion, Lady. And why don’t we leave-off the silly title as well? You are neither a noble nor a Codian, and you brought one swordsman to what will rapidly become a gunfight if I but speak the word.

The woman stared, and Kyops was aware of a grin on his own face, which surprised him faintly. In a career full of shady dealings, he had never before threatened murder with every intention of seeing it through. That should have been troubling as well, but Kyops did not think about it. As he had for two days, he thought only of the necklace that even now was right beneath his hovering hands. It was the only thing that mattered.

The faux-Lady gave a sigh, and her posture went out with her breath. Her shoulders slumped and for the first time she leaned all the way back in her chair, gloved hands limp on the armrests. Her brown eyes settled on the shining choker and she shook her head.

I knew this was going to be a pain, she muttered, her Codian quite suddenly taking on an accent Kyops could not immediately place. I should have just sold it to the appraiser. But try getting a decent price out of a Miilarkian, I ought to know!

I shall count to three, Kyops said, and the woman rolled her eyes.

That is dramatic. First, hear my counteroffer.

Kyops blinked. This is not actually a negotiation, ma’am. Your choice is flight or death.

That was what he said, though in his own mind Kyops had already made the choice for the woman and her companions. She prattled on oblivious.

You want to know where I acquired the necklace? Fine. Three weeks ago it was around the furry neck of a four-legged demon in a tower within Vod’Adia. I shot the nasty critter in the chest, and took its collar as a memento.

Kyops snorted despite himself. Vod’Adia. The legendary Sable City of the ancient Ettaceans?

The very same. It Opened on the first day of Tenthmonth, I expect you heard. Still has a week left before it Closes, but we were done there.

I suppose you are an adventurer? Kyops smirked, for that was the only sort of desperate fool who would have sought to enter the fearsome city in the wilderness during the one month in a century when its mystical wards were permeable. Hundreds if not thousands of such idiots had passed north through Souterm over the last few months, bound for one of only two locations from where the creatures of the Vod Wilds allowed entry into their domains for the Opening. For a staggering price, of course. This girl looked about as much like one of those people as she did a Beoan noblewoman.

Well, not professionally or anything, she shrugged. I was more a victim of circumstance. It is a very long story.

You made good time getting to Souterm, Kyops sneered. She shrugged again.

Wizards are not much for taking the long way to anywhere.

Oh, I see. You are a mage, are you?

No, not me. But I have interesting friends. If you wish to avoid finding out just how interesting, I suggest you call off anyone trying to sneak-up on my associate downstairs. Otherwise, I can make no guarantees for their continued health and well-being.

Kyops chuckled, for he was feeling very pleased with himself and with his life in general. The necklace was as good as his, and it was right beneath his fingers. He had a desire to reach down and touch it, perhaps stroke it fondly, but that was a gratification he was willing to delay. Briefly. Instead he held one finger in the air and locked his eyes on the woman‘s.

One.

She shook her head. Not a good idea.

Two.

The other woman, the little Far Westerner, moved faster than Kyops would have thought possible. By the time he realized she had one hand on the edge of his desk, her wooden-soled sandal was kicking him across the face.

*

His Lordship Uriako Shikashe, one-time ruler of Sekibune on Korusbo, had not taken a seat on a plush couch as the jeweler's servants offered. Instead the ronin samurai remained standing in the middle of the parlor, surrounded by sumptuous décor and potted plants, with an untouched bottle of wine on a nearby end table. His feet were slightly spread and his arms were crossed before his do-maru breast plate, which along with kote sleeves and sune-ate shin guards were as much of his full o-yori armor as had seemed practical for the streets of Souterm. The wider sode arm shields and armored haidate skirt were back on their rack at the First Fort Inn, as was his great kabuto helmet. Uriako-sama’s head was bare, dark hair in a formal top-knot, and while his face was impassive his eyes changed after the servants had disappeared for the last time. Shikashe's eyes narrowed even more than usual and lost focus, for he was concentrating his ki to listen intently. With the only light in the parlor coming in from the street through high windows in the front wall, the edges of the room were lost in shadow. Though he could no longer see them clearly, Shikashe had marked each door and hall leaving the room in his mind when he entered.

When he heard a thud from up the stairs where the jeweler had led the women, Shikashe dropped to a knee and grabbed the wine bottle by its neck. An instant later when Amatesu shouted the Ashinese word for ambush, the samurai hurled the bottle across the room and into the end of a darkened hall at the height of a crouching man’s head. There was a heavy clunk and a pained exclamation.

Shikashe rolled aside to vacate the front of the hall, and so he did not see one man fall to the floor in the flash of a second man lighting a taper attached to a matchlock pistol. The hand-gunner stepped on and stumbled over his fallen companion as he charged pistol-first into the parlor. Already beside the doorway, Shikashe seized the man's wrist and pointed the gun across the room at the wooden lattice above the counter dividing parlor and kitchen. The surprised man triggered his shot with a welter of white smoke, sending an iron ball through the lattice and getting a yelp from the next room.

Shikashe chopped down on the man’s elbow with a straight hand and hit him hard in the face with his own spent pistol. The man started to go limp but the samurai made sure by grabbing his neck and banging the back of his head against the wood-paneled wall. Shikashe let that man fall aside, leapt into the hall, and put a boot in the ear of the fellow trying to rise after taking a wine bottle off his forehead. That man went and stayed down as well.

The layout of the ground floor was unknown to Shikashe, so he ran into the dark hall only far enough to get out of the light from the parlor, turned back and crouched to the floor. Across the room the door beside the kitchen counters banged open and two more fellows ran in, swarthy Doonmen armed with matchlocks like the others and likewise outfitted in heavy leather tunics padded as armor. They looked at their fallen fellows and one charged past them into Shikashe’s hall, though his companion shouted for him to wait.

The fellow almost trod on the samurai before Shikashe rose, wrapped the man around the waist, and hoisted him high enough to bang his head on the low ceiling. The man’s pistol discharged before it flew out of his hand, and Shikashe hoisted the limp figure as he ran back into the parlor.

The remaining man, the last of the four Shikashe had heard getting into position, leveled his pistol but knew he had no shot without hitting his companion in the back. Shikashe expected him to fire anyway, but the rough thug must have possessed some rudimentary sense of honor, or at least companionship. He dropped the unfired pistol and drew a Doonish cutlass from his hip. Shikashe stopped running, tossed the third limp man aside, and from his left hip he drew the long katana sword known as the Breath of Winter into his right hand. A faint white smoke, as of something frosty brought suddenly into a warm house on a winter's day, rose along the steel blade.

The man with the cutlass swallowed hard, an audible gulp. Then the front door flew open and two more men rushed in from outside, leveling readied muskets with long barrels at the samurai. They were a problem, but one that was quickly resolved.

The parlor stairs gave onto a landing above, where the jeweler’s office door was now open. Amatesu and Matilda Lanai were at the railing with the groggy merchant on his knees between them, the shukenja holding a valise and the Miilarkian Islander with a fist full of the man’s thinning hair. Tilda whistled sharply for the musketeers’ attention, and in the sunlight from the windows she waggled a knife blade before Kyops' throat.

Have you been paid in full? she asked the men in Codian, which Shikashe understood better than he typically let on. If you were expecting the second half afterwards, you may want to take a moment to think about what happens next.

The fellow with the cutlass was a bit older than the rest, a dusting of gray at the temples of short, dark hair and in his long mustache. He glanced at his three prone companions, one of whom was already groaning and none of whom looked to be dead, most likely.

You will walk out of here? he asked Tilda. She nodded. Shikashe only saw her in the corner of his eye, but he was not unimpressed. The Miilarkian girl, despite being a trained Guilder from the Islands, tended toward a blithe manner and a certain grinning flippancy. But at the moment there was a dark hardness in her eyes that left no doubt that if she had to, she would use her knife. Only the jeweler Kyops, on his knees in front of her, could not see it.

Shoot them! the merchant sputtered. Kill them all!

Tilda very calmly rapped the man’s mouth against the banister rail, hard enough to split both lips without knocking any teeth out. He mewled but stopped talking.

The man with the cutlass lowered it to his side, and looked at the musket men.

Get in off the street before someone calls the Watch.

The pair, both still aiming at Shikashe, stepped carefully in and to either side. Tapers hissed as they smoldered above the match pans of what were old and cheap-looking locks, and Shikashe half expected one or the other to go off if this took much longer. With his sword still before him, he was confident he could lunge and kill at least the lead thug even with a shot in him.

Tilda and Amatesu moved swiftly, between them wrestling the portly jeweler down the stairs to the parlor floor. Tilda managed to keep her knife at his gulping throat throughout the maneuver. She nodded Shikashe toward the open door, though he did not go until the man with the cutlass quietly told his musketeers to lower their aim. Both matches still smoldered but the men pointed their barrels at the floor.

Shikashe stepped outside into noonday sun on a pleasant, quiet street with shade from trees dappling the cobblestones, all still bearing leaves in the gentle winter along the Norothian Channel. Amatesu pressed against the side of the doorway with her hand on the knob, while Tilda backed out onto the stoop, leaving Kyops just inside with the point of her knife now at the back of his neck, and one hand on his collar.

This is not over, bitch, the jeweler rasped, blood burbling on his split lips. Tilda sighed and met Amatesu’s eyes.

Try not to think too poorly of me. But that was uncalled for.

The shukenja priestess raised an alarmed eyebrow for a moment, but the Guilder took her knife away from Kyops’ spine and merely gave him one sound prick in the right buttock. He yelped and sprang back into the room, Amatesu slammed the door behind him, and the three islanders from Miilark and Ashinan strode with more briskness than dignity to the nearest corner, and away.

Chapter Two

Phinneas Phoarty did not know the names of the uniformly pretty women and girls who worked in the First Fort Inn's taproom, but Zeb seemed to have learned them all by heart, every shift. They knew him by now, too.

The dark-haired woman who worked the bar over lunch set down a platter which was quickly whisked away by a blonde serving girl. They both nodded and smiled at Zebulon Baj Nif, perched on his regular stool at the bar. He nodded back, but mostly eyed the food. Zeb had been bivouacked in the taproom for most of the last two weeks, and while he was on a familiar first-name basis with the staff, the menu changed from day-to-day.

Merciful Shanatar, did you see the size of that fish steak? Zeb said, gazing after the steaming platter as it was deposited before a well-heeled fellow at a corner table.

Thresher shark, out of the Channel, Phin said from the stool next to Zeb‘s, sipping from a porcelain cup of heady Xoshan coffee. The upscale First Fort did not even offer the local Doonish brew.

Shark, eh? Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure. I may have to give one of those a home of me own.

Zeb scratched at his belly through a formal doublet of good blue cloth that was suitable for the inn’s level of elegance, but a bit much for the bushy-headed mercenary.

Phin snorted, dressed identically to Zeb but for old shoes instead of bulky, hobnailed boots at the ends of crisp trouser legs. Phinneas Phoarty was shaving clean with the dawn for the first time in years, lest he be recognized by any casual acquaintances in Souterm. He kept touching his face around his mouth as though missing something.

You ate damn-near half a pig for breakfast, he told Zeb.

Yes, but that was hours ago.

"That was two hours ago."

Zeb grinned at Phin and brought both hands fondly to his own belly.

Phinny-boy, I’ve a confession to make. I am considering becoming a Fat Man. Not merely portly, but out-and-out obese. A true man of substance, casting a great shadow wherever I do roam.

Phin was tired, but he smiled faintly. In two weeks, Zeb had seldom strayed from the fine inn adjacent to the offices of the Codian Government, housed in the ancient Ettacean citadel known as the First Fort. Phin, meanwhile, had spent most of that time on the streets of Souterm, doing miles of walking each day. He was looking for something, though he had not told Zeb nor any of the others just what it was he sought. Not yet.

Is that part of your master plan for wooing Tilda? Phin asked. Zeb stopped patting his midsection and frowned.

I have absolutely no idea. Whatever I am doing now is not working. She’s hardly said two words to me in as many days.

Zeb glanced around before leaning closer to Phin. He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

Did I tell you we kissed?

Phin stared back at him.

Hmm, let me see. Yes, I seem to recall you have mentioned that. Two, three…maybe four-dozen times in the last two weeks. And often with an amount of grisly detail that was frankly uncalled for.

Zeb's grin returned, for it was never absent long. He took a breath as though about to launch into a soliloquy, but just before he started a voice said, Ahem, behind him.

Phin and Zeb turned around to find Her Grace Claudja Perforce, Duchess of Chengdea, looking at them with her fine features annoyed and a pinch at the corners of her wide gray eyes. Phin had been through enough with the Duchess to feel that the color of her eyes owed to the fact that the noblewoman was full of steel from tip to toe.

As she had recently been the victim of a kidnapping, Claudja had arrived in Souterm without much in the way of baggage. In addition to providing quarters for the Duchess and her entourage in the First Fort Inn, the Codian Grand Duke of Doon's largesse had extended to dispatching tailors and seamstresses to see to her Grace’s needs. This had resulted not only in several dresses for Claudja (and at least one for Tilda, who had managed to horn-in on the action), but also the distinguished doublets and trousers now adorning the members of her makeshift retinue.

Despite her renewed access to better garments, the Duchess was outfitted this middle morning in a fashion verging on militaristic. She wore riding boots and dark trousers with a stripe of piping on the legs, and a short blue jacket reminiscent of a Daulic dragoon's. Her hair had been cut short several weeks ago as she had left her country in the guise of a peasant girl, and she was presently wearing a stiff front-brimmed cap of the sort known as a kepi back in Daul. Despite the odd garb, the whole taproom had fallen politely silent at the Duchess's entrance. Zeb and Phin both hurried off their barstools to perform short bows.

Your Grace, Phin said, looking at Claudja's boots for a moment. Are you, or we, going somewhere?

Possibly, Claudja snapped, gesturing absently for both men to rise. Where is Shikashe?

Tilda ran off with him, Zeb said, Amatesu, too. Said they had an early errand before the stores opened.

Claudja frowned, and Phin thought it was rather a shame. The young Duchess was under a great deal of stress owing to negotiations that had been dragging-on for two weeks already, while to the east across the breadth of the Vod Wilds in Daul her father's lands were under constant threat of invasion by the forces of Ayzantium.

What errand, where have they gone? Claudja demanded.

The woman tells me nothing, your Grace, Zeb said, giving Claudja his most hangdog look, with which he certainly had vast practice. The Duchess tightened her mouth rather than smiling, and spoke quietly.

I have been summoned to another meeting in the Fort, and it does not look proper if I show up unescorted.

The samurai Uriako Shikashe had been acting as the Duchess's escort in Souterm, for the swordsman from the Farthest West possessed a bearing of extreme impressiveness. Such things mattered when one was dealing with nobles.

Look no further. Zeb stood to attention and brushed a few hours-old crumbs off his doublet. He elbowed Phin in the side. Should I run and fetch my axe?

Um, your Grace, Phin interrupted. I am sorry, but...will there be representatives of the Circle at this meeting?

There will, Claudja nodded. You had best stay here.

Phin nodded but was sorry. Short months ago he had been a member of the Imperial Circle of Wizardry here in Souterm, specifically its lowliest member. Phin's Absence was distinctly Without Leave, and he had taken to hiding under tables and diving into alleyways whenever a gray-robed figure was sighted. He did not believe that the Circle was actually looking for him, as he had hardly been of a position worthy of the effort, and it was quite possible no one had actually noticed that he was gone. Still, there was no point in going to a place where it was known Circle Wizards would be present.

It will have to be just you, Zebulon, Claudja said. Do try to look respectable. The Duchess narrowed her eyes and reached up to flick a vagrant crumb off Zeb's shoulder. Zeb snapped his heels together.

Was that a yes or a no on the axe, milady?

Now Claudja did smile, faintly. I have seen you employ that weapon, Zebulon. I should honestly feel safer if you left it here.

Zeb turned to Phin and shrugged helplessly, giving a martyred sigh. Claudja turned and strode across the taproom for the lobby, Zeb falling into place behind her and instantly finding the stride of a lifelong soldier. Phin watched them go, mainly the Duchess, and gave a single sigh of his own before retaking his seat.

*

Though Tenthmonth was the first of winter, Brother Kendall Heggenauer of Jobe did not feel the least bit chilled. The Grand Duchy of Doon and its capital city of Souterm were at the extreme southern end of the sprawling Empire of the Code, but the Heggenauer clan was from Exland, north across the Girding Mountains and beyond Lake Beo. There would be snow by now on the Exlandic plains, but here on the Channel the weather was only pleasantly cool. Local Doonmen and women went about this morning in light jackets or short cloaks, but the young priest of Jobe wore only the practical blue work tunic of his order. Stitched in silvery thread across the chest was the holy symbol of Jobe the Builde: An arcing line representing at once both an Arch and a Bridge.

Despite the characteristic garb, priest was not the first thing that came to mind when one looked at the Jobian. The Heggenauers were nobles of ancient lineage in Exland, and the youngest son still had the build and bearing suitable for a knight. His shoulders were broad and his limbs powerful, face clean shaven and blonde hair only a little too long for a true martial style. His blue eyes would not have been out of place staring from the visor of a helmet. Yet for his appearance, Kendall Heggenauer was but a humble servant of the Builder, though today his business was his own.

He had left the Builder's House on the east side of Souterm early and crossed the river by ferry, putting-in at a landing beyond the seawall and landfill that delineated the sheltered harbor still known from pre-Imperial times as the Pirate Cove. Heggenauer mounted the wooden steps up from the ferry landing, his practiced-eye noting with approval the stoutness of their construction. The stairs brought him to the north head of the Cove on a level with the noisy docks and wharves that serviced cargo vessels off the river, as well as the city's contingent of Imperial Navy ships. Even at the height of its strength the old independent Kingdom of Exland had never been a naval power, and Heggenauer could not help sending a distrustful glance toward the sea-going war vessels moored at anchor below the looming black mass of the First Fort. Looking at the Fort itself was little better, for the ancient work that now headquartered the Codian government in Souterm had been built by the ancient Ettaceans out of great, black stones. It was of a style and material that were only too familiar to Heggenauer after the days he had recently spent within another Ettacean metropolis: The Sable City of Vod‘Adia.

Heggenauer walked west past the open entry gate to the fortress and exchanged nods with the two legionnaires posted there, both holding a spear and a tower shield and wearing the black slouch hat that was the signature of the 6th Legion. There were usually three full Legions stationed in Souterm, but a few days ago two of them had been shifted north up the Imperial Post Road. Now the elite 6th was stretched thin to handle even the menial tasks of warding the city streets. Heggenauer had an inkling of why the redeployment might have been made, and it troubled him.

The acolyte continued on toward the elegant inn adjacent to the Fort, but stopped as he realized that one of the two people approaching him on the plank sidewalk was precisely the person he had come here to see. When the two drew near, Heggenauer bowed deeply from the waist.

Why, if it isn't the good Brother, Zebulon Warchild said, the gregarious mercenary from Wakminau giving Heggenauer a wide grin. Zeb halted with a click of his heels and started to extend a hand before he hesitated, and frowned.

Exlanders don't really shake hands much, do they? Zeb asked.

No, Heggenauer said. We mostly nod at each other from beyond the length of a sword. Nevertheless, he took Zeb's hand and gave it a firm shake. Together, Zeb and Heggenauer had been the rearguard of the seven-member party that had pursued the Duchess Claudja's kidnappers into the Sable City. Though they had only been acquainted for a matter of weeks, Heggenauer had swiftly come to regard the Minauan as a worthy friend.

Standing behind Zeb, the Duchess herself gave Heggenauer a decidedly less-friendly look. What is it you want, she demanded. Or should I not even bother to ask?

With no change of his bearing, Heggenauer inwardly sighed. I wish only to speak with you, your Grace.

The Duchess frowned, her delicate features marred by her irritation and the tired lines around her eyes. We have been through all this before, and I have no time to rehash settled matters now. I have been summoned to another meeting, one that hopefully will not be as tedious and pointless as the rest.

The Duchess prodded Zeb in the back to get him moving, which he did with an amused smirk at Heggenauer. They passed by and after giving another small sigh the acolyte fell into line behind the little Duchess. Claudja gave him one hard look over a narrow shoulder but only shook her head and muttered something to herself in what sounded like a low and debased form of her native Daulic.

The Duchess of Chengdea had been in and out of the First Fort continually for the last two weeks, and she was recognized by the guards. The legionnaires rapped the butts of their spears and bowed as the trio passed between them, drawing coos from a covey of orange-headed Soutermese pigeons roosting on a ledge above the wide doors.

A long hall led into an immense, high-ceilinged chamber of a grandeur that had very much impressed Heggenauer the first time he had seen it. The center space of the First Fort took up a sizable portion of the interior, with a vaulted ceiling cut by grill-covered skylights high above allowing shafts of light to shine down upon the black marble columns, smooth-worn flagstones, and a central fountain from Agintan times adorned with cherubic carvings. Throughout the long history of the city now known as Souterm the chamber had served as everything from a pirate feast hall to a military museum for the crusading Albatrossers. It was presently a sort of office-mall for the Codian Imperial bureaucracy. Wooden partitions had been built along the walls, with crisply-lettered signs identifying departments such as Harbor Management, Immigration, and the Bureau of Roads. Everywhere in the great chamber people moved about: Scribes and clerks working at desks or podiums, lines of civilians waiting in roped-off queues, and a few black-hatted legionnaires circulating through the crowd. The business day in Souterm habitually began at an early hour, for during much of the year the noonday sun brought oppressive heat. Winters were gentle, but the ways of the locals were ingrained after hundreds of years.

The Duchess’s party had barely entered the edge of the chamber before they were approached by a uniformed castellan, a young man whose tabard was of the golden coloration of the Grand Duke’s personal staff. He bowed formally to the Duchess and welcomed her with a few words, but by now he knew better than to try and strike up any small talk. He immediately led the way down another guarded hall leaving the chamber, and as Claudja followed him Zeb fell into stride behind her, next to Heggenauer.

A question, if I might, the Minauan said quietly as the group moved to an ascending stairway. I haven’t been to one of these meetings before. Is there anything I am supposed to do as a member of her Grace’s retinue?

Uriako generally just stands around looking grim, Heggenauer said. He was still deep in thought regarding what he must say to the Duchess, but he did wonder faintly why the samurai was not here today.

Grim, Zeb sounded a bit dubious. Hmm. The Duchess said ‘respectable.’ Sad to say neither of those is quite my long suit.

The stairway wound up to the third level of the Fort, and there the group was led into a very specialized room on the interior side of a hallway. The place was rectangular, windowless, and though elsewhere in the Fort the rooms and even hallways were well furnished and appointed, here there was not a stick of furniture and the walls were all of smooth, undressed stone. Illumination was via simple lamps spaced along the walls, but the wicks were kept short and the place was consequently dim.

The floor was far more notable. The heavy planks common elsewhere in the Fort had here been overlaid with softer pine, buffed to a warm shade of beige. In the center of the room there was a square section of planks set at an angle to the rest of the floor, forming a diamond-shape several paces across. The diamond was further divided into two triangular halves. That with its point to the south was of darker wood than the main floor, though jointed seamlessly into place. All across its surface were inscribed fine runes, though some of those near the middle of the shape cut off abruptly, even severing individual characters. The northern or upper triangle of the diamond was painted a deep black, thick enough that the lines of individual planks were lost, leaving a smooth surface that looked almost like a hole in the floor.

Several men and women were present in the room, awaiting the Duchess Perforce and preparing for the forthcoming casting. Around the unique section of the floor a half-dozen Circle Wizards were busying themselves, all shapeless in their robes of Abverwar gray. The rest were all functionaries and advisors in service to a person of a far higher station who was unobtrusive among them. The unassuming man of middling years was dressed sedately in a plain doublet and trousers, though a great silver key did hang about his neck on a thick chain. His name was Sydney Garibald-Uxton, and though he came originally from the Beoshore his present titles included Lord Mayor of Souterm and Codian Grand Duke of Imperial Doon.

The Duchess strode toward the Grand Duke’s party, her boot heels ringing smartly across the floor. There was a flurry of bows and curtseys and numerous polite words, and mostly to avoid being drawn into it all Heggenauer stayed close to the doorway and took a position against the wall. Zeb glanced around curiously before moving to stand next to the Jobian.

So what exactly is all this, then? Zeb asked quietly. Heggenauer answered from the side of his mouth.

This is the manner in which the Circle Wizards communicate across the distances of the Empire. Her Grace is shortly to be in contact with a representative of the Emperor, in Laketon.

Zeb blinked, wide-eyed. How in the Gods’ Names does that work?

The Gods have nothing to do with it, the acolyte grumbled. This is no invocation of divine favor, but only wizardly spell-craft. The image of the Duchess shall be projected in a room very much like this one within Hold On in Laketon, while the image of a person in that place appears here, so that the two may speak.

Zeb stared at Heggenauer a few moments before turning to watch the Wizards with his eyebrows raised. That is very nifty, he decided.

Not entirely, Heggenauer frowned. It can be dangerous, for it is a manner of tampering with reality. When it goes wrong, it goes unwell for those involved.

Indeed, it was evident that over in the cluster of nobles the Grand Duke and his staff were once again trying to politely dissuade her Grace Claudja from taking part herself in the Wizards’ spell. Garibald-Uxton and his people had made the same arguments before every meeting thus far, but the Duchess was again firmly shaking her head.

She’s a gutty little one, got to give her that, Zeb murmured. Heggenauer frowned, for he would have used the word headstrong.

The discussion among the nobles was resolved in the usual way, and four of the Wizards positioned themselves along two sides of the rune-inscribed triangle. Claudja stepped between them to stand within the carved shape, while the Grand Duke’s party moved pointedly away to line one wall. The Duchess raised a hand as though to remove her cap, but then decided to leave it in place. She straightened the collar of her jacket and smoothed the sleeves, though the crisp garment did not really require it.

The Wizards began to chant and gesture in unison, smooth movements of arms and hands. Their intonations were rhythmic and uttered in clear voices, though the language was strange. It was a very old and otherwise obsolete dialect of the province of Tull, where all Circle Wizards in the Empire were trained at the city of Abverwar.

As the four voices rose it seemed they were joined by others, and a shimmer began to glow above the black portion of the floor. After taking a deep breath the Duchess of Chengdea stood with her feet spread slightly apart, hands clasped behind her back, facing the shimmer expectantly.

*

The runes on the floor became wholly visible to Claudja first, intricate writing matching that within the triangle where she stood flowing across the floor, words and characters becoming whole. Outside of the diamond formed by the two triangles the room in the First Fort became hazy, the four Wizards standing at its edges becoming only indistinct gray shapes. The Grand Duke and the others further back were almost entirely lost to view.

But directly in front of her, standing within a now-visible triangle that was the mirror image of her own, a new figure became clear. The man was relatively young and of a reedy build, swarthy as a native of Doon and dressed quite elegantly in a gray linen suit with a long jacket, an embroidered waistcoat, and polished boots. His dark hair was shoulder length though clasped at the back of his neck, and his face clean-shaven but for a wisp of mustache. Claudja had spoken with him three times previously, in exactly the same way as this, and there was no need for introductions. The man was named Domingo Sedenio, and despite his relative youth he was the First Earl of Adersot and the chief diplomat of the Codian throne.

Claudja appeared in the Earl’s vision just as he did in hers, and he gave a smooth bow. Your Grace, he said, and to Claudja’s ears his voice was as clear as if they had stood in the same room, though the Earl was in fact several hundreds of miles to the north, in the Imperial Capital at Laketon. He held his deep bow until Claudja performed a short curtsey her trousers made a bit awkward.

My lord Earl, she said as both straightened. The Earl raised a dark eyebrow at Claudja’s choice of garments.

Is your Grace perhaps going riding this morning? he asked. When speaking the Earl of Adersot had a tendency to clutch his lapels as though preparing to begin an oration. Claudja got swiftly to business.

Your Right Honorable Lordship, she said, the cumbersome term appropriate for his station in the Empire. Surely you have not summoned me to make small talk concerning how I choose to pass the time while the fate of my homeland is in the balance. Have you anything new to say to me?

A slight look of discomfort flittered across the Earl’s narrow features and he cut his eyes sideways for a moment. Though the people in the same room as Claudja were visible to her if only as shapes, whoever else occupied the room in Laketon were wholly invisible to her. The Earl may have looked toward a Wizard flanking his own triangle, or even toward the Emperor of All Lands Under the Code.

I am afraid not much has progressed, the Earl said, returning his somber eyes to Claudja’s. His Imperial Majesty has spent many hours in council examining the situation, though I regret to say that as of yet a definite course has not been determined.

Examining the situation?’ Claudja snapped, catching herself as her voice began to rise. On second thought she allowed it to, and spoke at the higher volume. The situation is very plain, my Lord Earl. Even now the port of Larbonne has fallen to the mercenary hordes of Ayzantium, closing the mouth of the Nan. It is not so very far upriver from Nanshea to Chengdea. My father, through me, has informed His Imperial Majesty that Chengdea fully accepts the Code, and thereby its place within the Empire. Our border is now your border, and it is threatened."

Yes, well, the Earl drummed his fingers against his chest. Actually there is some question regarding the propriety of your father's, I should say...

Claudja interrupted and spoke by rote. 'Shall the sovereign power over a recognized territory or people make formal Acceptance of the Code, that territory or people shall forthwith be deemed as Under the Code, subject to all Fundamental Laws and Regulatory Measures as are applied to Lands classified thusly.' Volume 4, section 23, paragraph 3. She continued with another quotation. Volume I, section 2, paragraph 12. 'All whomsoever dwell Under the Code owe full Faith and Adherence to the Rules and Disciplines contained therein, and in return His August Majesty the Emperor has as His task the stalwart defense and resolute preservation of All the Lands Under the Code, and all who dwell therein.'

The Earl raised an eyebrow. That is very impressive, your Grace. Might I ask where you came across those particular passages?

The King of Daul has copies of the Core Volumes in the Royal Library at Bouree.

Hmm. The Earl looked thoughtful, then smiled faintly. You seem determined to make King Hughes regret his possession of such a manuscript, your Grace.

I am determined to see to the defense and preservation of my land and people, Claudja said. Is that not the sacred duty of sovereigns everywhere?

The Earl's faint smile was for a moment touched by something a bit chagrined. "Touché, as you say in Daul."

I ceased being from Daul the moment my father accepted the Code, Claudja said, crossing her arms. My Lord Earl, you have thus far said nothing new to me. Why have you called for this meeting?

The Earl’s expression became more serious and he spoke with formal intonation. Duchess Perforce, it is the Emperor’s wish to know precisely what your father expects to come from his stated acceptance of the Code. The Duke must understand that it is quite impossible for us to reach your lands with any sort of military presence without violating the territories of one or more nations with whom we are at peace.

Claudja blinked. This was the first time the subject of military intervention had been raised directly, and she felt a surge of hope that things in Laketon might be progressing with more