There had been another blizzard in the night. Isaac Rithmound awoke to find his window caked over with snow, servants shoveling the walk outside the Bronze-Hued Keep, swaddled in coats and heavy scarves. Someone had cast a spell of warmth over the manor as he stepped out of bed, and he found himself rather comfortable as he slipped on his usual uniform. Father had insisted that he look his best no matter what, even when he was at leisure.
And, due to the fact that the election was on, and assassins were starting to prowl the shadows, he was forced to do it himself. Not that the hobgoblin necessarily minded. He had learned to clothe himself, like a good little gob, at a young age, and detested when his servants helped. They had more important matters to attend to.
He stepped out, noting immediately that Ket was tailing him, the Inléan dancing with the darkness between corners, cast by furniture and paintings. He had personally requested Isaac's father to keep the Bronze-Hued keep dim, to lengthen and strengthen the shadows. Lord Rithmound had complied, and now it felt like dusk as Isaac made his way to his office to begin the morning's paperwork and tea.
His father was waiting for him as Isaac walked in. The elder Lord Rithmound was ever a steel pillar in his life, and though Isaac was often told he was cut from the same metal, he knew otherwise. For no one was like Bryce Rithmound, tall and imposing, with skin the color of ancient fire and eyes that burned with a dark intensity. Isaac had long ago learned his father was not a kind man. In place of that was intelligence, cunning, and courage.
But no love.
It had taken Isaac a long time to accept that. And to replace his father's love with respect.
Lord Rithmound gave Isaac a nod. He returned it with a quick salute.
“I need you to speak with Lady Doria today,” he said, “I've scheduled you to play Deepstone with her at her estate.”
“Lady Doria?” Isaac said, “Shall I sneak in, or arrive in a carriage?”
“A carriage,” Lord Rithmound said at once, “It's time that we make our alliance with House Eilonwy public.”
Isaac nodded at the news. Their dealings with Lady Doria's House had been an open secret since Doge Busciver's disastrous gala. But by going public with it…
“It'll mean that House Deirdre will pay attention to us,” he said.
“Indeed,” his father said, “It's time to start wooing the whale. If we get Deirdre's support, we'll be in a powerful position indeed when the opening debates start.”
Isaac nodded.
“Deepstone, then,” he said.
“Of course,” Lord Rithmound said, “Just a few games. A couple hours for a kind elderly lady whose children and grandchildren are far too busy with her House's affairs.”
Isaac smirked at that.
“Very well,” he said.
“After that,” Rithmound said, “Your afternoon practice.”
“Right,” Isaac said.
“Then, dinner with Lady Suella.”
Isaac felt his heart deflate at those words. He did not let his father see. Though, perhaps Lord Rithmound did. No matter, the elder ignored the younger's plight.
“...Very well,” Isaac said, “But I choose the restaurant. I'm growing sick of the usual fare.”
“'The usual fare' is provided by House Korgan,” Lord Rithmound said, “A major ally, if you'll remember?”
“Why not at Cherenfru's?” Isaac said.
His father's gaze went flat.
“I know, I know,” Isaac said, “It's run by merchants sympathetic to House Meandring. But we've got to court them to our side at some point, right? I'll show it as a message. Me and the lady friend, at Cherenfru's? It gets in the right ears, it gets the other Houses talking.”
“Hmm,” Lord Rithmound said, “It certainly wouldn't sow any discord into Busciver's caucus. Meandring and Busciver have been partners for several years now.”
“So were Eilonwy and Busciver,” Isaac said.
His father could not argue that. Scratching his chin, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said, “It is merely a restaurant. Perhaps I overthink things. Do at least try to have a good time, Isaac. I know that the Lady Suella's not your first choice.”
Isaac suppressed a wince. The old man saw far more than he let on.
“Anything else?” Isaac asked.
“No,” Lord Rithmound said, “I'll be taking my leave of you. I've got other matters to attend to.”
And at that, there was a devilish look in his eye. Isaac frowned, trying to figure out what just his father meant. They switched places, the son going to his desk, the father making for the door.
The younger Rithmound realized it when he sat down.
“The Federation,” he said, “They approved an investigation.”
“Yes,” his father said. He had a decidedly Rithmound smirk on his face, “A major blow to their interplanar holdings, if it goes the way I hope.”
“A Shard of Imagination...” Isaac began rifling through the stacks of paper at his desk, “Is it truly that heinous? It's... quaint.”
“Ha, no such thing as a simple stone,” Lord Rithmound said, “I've heard stories... if they were not so hated by the Federation, I would covet one for myself. But they are dangerous, my son. They are weapons, even in the way we're using this one, now.”
He gave a curt nod to his son. Then closed the door behind him. Isaac fixed the door with a look for another moment, his mind drifting to the Lady Busciver. How he wished she were here...
Then, he looked down, and began reading out his morning's work.
***
Alarms for Nelnuthans were chime-like. Soft, other beings would say. Three quiet rings, repeating every five point three seconds. Ora Sota awoke after the fifth series of chimes, opening his violet eyes and staring at the ceiling. He rose out of bed after the seventh series, bare paws touching the cold, golden floor of his home. Ora crossed over across the loft that was his bedroom, silencing the alarm, his ears flickering in annoyance as he got closer to the sound. His hearing was especially sensitive today. He made a mental note to wear earbuds before he went out.
All of his home was designed to be as silent as possible. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, all of them were insulated with a metal from Doremi that deafened sounds. Heavy footsteps became soft. Loud music became quiet. Shouts turned to whispers.
It was garish to call such silence golden, but Ora's family had long been paid well for their services to the High Federation. Dealing with the multiverse, its idiosyncrasies, its quirks and pitfalls, was difficult work. Work that very few in the galaxy could handle.
Ora poured himself a cup of Daerusian tea. He sipped at it, letting the caffeine enter his system, as he walked to his desk. He stifled a yawn as he got to work. Fifteen cases, and this was a light load. Many of them were decades old. Not worth getting up to investigate them. Some trading between barbarians on Melmaen. Arguments on Neos over warp travel laws. A polite request to probe Danquah, the major superpower on Great Rana, in its recent developments of mechanical humanoids.
For a moment, Ora looked at it. Reviewed the request. It came from a minor politician within Danquah's government. An up-and-coming idealist from one of the border communities on Danquah's frontier. Ora could not help but smile at that, musing.
Then, he put in a denial. One of his colleagues had investigated Great Rana a mere twenty years ago, and said that nothing was amiss. Who was he to rock the ship?
More work came to his desk. He sorted through those. All in all, a quiet day. Nothing worth getting out of bed for. He almost regretted it. But it was too late. The caffeine had kicked in, and Ora was well and awake.
The morning passed. Ora rose from his desk, stretched, and went to grab lunch. He had recently gotten into preparing his meals over the weekend, putting them away into neat little containers, each of them marked for each of his work days. The day that he was given off, he usually went out drinking with coworkers. It was how he knew they existed.
Today was a simple fare of Mogret sushi with a sauce taken from the Shy Islands, a brown, tangy affair that Ora had found he rather liked. He had gotten it imported, after hearing about it from an acquaintance. He had meant to visit the plane last year, but had heard of potential terrorist activity in the surrounding squall.
Never mind that, then. He would take his sauce without the bombs.
Ora ate on the patio, a sea of stars before him. His manor, built by his forefathers generations ago, was just on the edge of Taisho Station, a High Federation outpost turned city, built on the back of an asteroid. As such, his vistas were not the usual bright days and nights of a planet-found soul, but rather the full majesty of the Silver Eye. The stars twinkled and wheeled. He could see a starship fluttering overhead to Taisho Station's port.
Above all, it was quiet. He had rarely had to go off-station, and those were trips of sound and fury. He disliked both immensely.
He ate. Quietly. Slowly.
Then, returned to his work.
A new alert sat on his monitor. Brow furrowing, Ora clicked it open. Read it quickly.
His heart began to hammer as the full meaning washed over him, a sudden rogue wave of bothersome noise.
It was a request from only a month ago. A priority request, from Londoa, the Broken World. Ora clicked through his database quickly, trying to find out what that plane's history was.
There. A relatively backwards plane. Had once belonged to the elves. The request, however, was from a being named Bryce Rithmound. A hobgoblin. Ora had seen one of those once, a stuffed one, in the Museum of the Multiverse on Everlasting Truth.
He looked back. Made sure the request was legitimate. Read it again. A second time. A third.
The words 'SHARD OF IMAGINATION' burned themselves into his mind. He had heard only stories. From his father. From his grandfather, around a fire, when his parents had dragged him out to the family camping trips.
Bad news.
Bad enough that it had become a priority. It had already been approved by the higher-ups.
Ora sighed. Rubbed his forehead.
He would need to charter a ship out there. To Londoa, or whatever. But he didn't want to. It would mean noise. It would mean he would need to make a call to the Department of Interplanar Transportation. His stomach shivered.
Perhaps...
Perhaps he didn't need to go to Londoa directly. He read over the case again. The Shard of Imagination had been in contact with a guild during the proceedings. The Amber Foundation.
Hope bloomed in his chest. He looked over their file. A middling guild, local to Londoa. Had a couple of celebrities, some witch or other. Nothing to write home about, in his opinion.
He was more concerned with the job they had undertaken for this House Sunala. They would have had to write up the records. And, like good little guildfolk, they would have needed to mention the Shard in their report.
Their information was stored on Petulant Child. Perfect. He could fly there on his own. No commcall necessary. The Nelthuthan was relieved.
He wasn't prepared for this sort of trip, not so suddenly. He would do it tomorrow, when he was more prepared. Yes, that would be fine. One had to be prepared for making an outing. He drew up a map of the Post-Colonial. Petulant Child was only a few days away. Perfect.
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He spent the rest of the day lounging. He did not actually begin packing until it was time for bed, and that was a frantic thing. He barely knew what to bring. His reading tablet. A small charm, given to him by his late sister, for luck. A change of clothes. The replicator would provide him food, though it would not be tasty. So he brought a bag of Korelin nuts, a favorite treat.
With that, he went to bed. Awoke early in the morning. His heart ached to be separated from his routine, but duty called, and he would make his forefathers proud.
The ship was an heirloom as well. The Silence of Glory, it was called. A fine name, for such a thing. Ora flew it rarely, and it creaked and croaked as it powered up. But it could still fly, though he would need to replace the engine soon.
It occurred to him that he had no idea how to go about doing that.
Oh well, a problem for later.
The ship rumbled off to Petulant Child.
***
Rosemary awoke in the early morning with her stomach already twisted into knots. Mallory was still asleep across from her, the Steamer having worked late into the night helping with Vicenorn. The Braindoll still was in his pot, though there had been plans to get him a new body, and she had been working with him on getting blueprints and parts and whatnot. There was a lot of math that went over Rosemary's head.
As though she would be able to help with that. She was still on duty for the worst chores in the guildhall, along with Joseph. Phineas still had not returned from his journey to Amzuth.
It had been a month since the three of them had left the guild for Melmaen. To be honest, Rosemary was surprised that she hadn't been kicked out. She had given vital information to a client's rival, and...
And the day's coming conversation with Wakeling came back to her once more. The guildmaster had been merciful, had allowed Rosemary to recover after the disaster on Stellaluna, and the journey home. But now, with the Minor Tribunal meeting soon, the time had come to talk about what Rosemary had given House Rithmound.
She sighed. Walked over, wrapped herself up in her cloak. She wore it as she opened the door.
Whiskey was standing there, waiting. Rosemary started. The marionette stared down at her.
“Morning,” she said, “Are you... Are you here to escort me?”
Whiskey nodded. Without another word, he lumbered down the hall. Rosemary followed him as they wound their way through the guildhall. He was not taking her to Wakeling's usual office. No, instead, he went downstairs, out the door, out into the snow. Rosemary could see Joseph and Lazuli shoveling snow away, the metahuman's soul out and full, scooping the stuff up in its great talons and tossing them into a massive pile.
Lazuli, the little asshole, was watching, an unused shovel in hand.
Wakeling was waiting at the fountain. There was a distinct circle of grass around her, melted away by whatever magic the old guildmaster used. As Rosemary got closer, the cold air became warm, as though it were a calm Summer's day.
“Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “Coffee? Tea?”
A conspiratorial look creeped onto her face.
“Wine?”
“Coffee, please,” Rosemary said, “The usual.”
The guildmaster's eyes flashed, and Rosemary's customary, sugar-filled drink appeared. She took it, giving it a few careful sips, and sat down by the fountain.
“...You wanted to talk?” Rosemary said.
“Yes, Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “Whiskey, dear, thank you for bringing her here. You're dismissed, if you want.”
The marionette gave a slow shrug. He stayed where he was, content to enjoy the warmth that Wakeling had created.
“Very well,” Wakeling said, “You can stay. No talking about this.”
Whiskey gave another shrug.
“That's why he's one of my favorites,” Wakeling said, smirking, “Knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
Rosemary went red with shame. Wakeling's eyes widened.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “I didn't mean- Not quite like-”
“It's alright,” Rosemary said, forcing out a laugh, “Really.”
“Rosemary, I didn't mean it like that,” Wakeling said, “It was just an idle joke, a little... Oh dear, I've made a mess of things already, haven't I?”
They both went silent. In the distance, Joseph realized that Lazuli wasn't actually doing anything. They watched as he lifted the android into the air, and buried him headfirst into the pile of snow. Lazuli's legs wriggled like two metal worms, kicking and flailing, and they could hear his electronic yelps from the fountain.
Both of them chuckled at that.
“Rosemary,” Wakeling said, starting again, “What happened on InterGuild?”
Rosemary's laughter died. Her expression became forlorn.
“I know that you and Sunala became rather close after the expedition,” Wakeling said, “But that changed after InterGuild. She didn't do anything, did she?”
“No,” Rosemary said, “She...”
She sighed.
“She took me to the conference there. For the Verdant Reclamation. Have you heard of them?”
“I have,” Wakeling said, “They've got a couple chapters in Tlantoia.”
Rosemary winced at that. Tlantoia. Just on the other side of the landmass. She was reminded that it was more than just Sunala here.
“They had a rally,” Rosemary said, “That's what Sunala took me to. They cordoned off a space, invited as many Elven guilds as they could. Dozens of flags. And their leader, Adonal Adaya, he started to speak. Started...”
She shivered.
“There was hate there, Wakeling. A lot of it. All of it directed at non-elves. They're supremacists. All of them, even Sunala.”
She let the words hang rank in the air. After a moment, she glanced up to Wakeling.
“You're sure we can just... speak like this? Out in the open?” she asked, “Sunala uses air elementals. Invisible sentries.”
“Yes, I detected a few of them were deployed outside the guildhall when you left for Melmaen,” Wakeling said, “But they're amateur spellwork, my dear. You really think simple witchcraft would get past me?”
She grinned. It was devoid of mirth.
“You're safe here, Rosemary. People will get to you over my damn dead body.”
“So that's that, then,” Rosemary said, “That's why I told Rithmound about the Shard of Imagination. So he could use that information as he saw fit.”
“Hmm,” Wakeling said, “A tricky play, Rosemary.”
“I know,” Rosemary said, “But, I didn't know what else to do. Joseph... he needed help. I think things would have gotten a lot worse if Phin and I hadn't gone with him.”
“True,” Wakeling said, “And you also wanted to strike at Sunala.”
Rosemary reddened again.
“I... I didn't... I just...”
“It's alright, Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “I just wanted to know why you gave the information to Rithmound. I have a feeling it was for more than just to help a guildmate.”
The wind whipped up again. Joseph started piling snow onto Lazuli's still-trapped form, covering him completely.
“You should have seen the way Adaya spoke,” Rosemary said, “Should have heard the things that Sunala whispered to me. Wakeling, I don't know what's going to happen if Busciver wins the election again. When I left, he was relying so much on Sunala's ties with the Verdant Reclamation. He's practically her puppet.”
She sighed.
“What'll happen to Scuttleway? To us?”
“I don't know, Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “Only that I'll protect this place with my life.”
“I know,” Rosemary said, “But... you don't have to be the only person to do that. I saw an opportunity. I took it.”
“You're playing with fire, is what you're doing,” Wakeling said, her voice soft, “Rosemary, tell me, what do you think will result in what you've revealed?”
“I figure,” Rosemary said, “House Rithmound will sit on the information for a few days, debate what to do. They don't have the reach like Sunala does, not in the multiverse. They don't have the backing of something like the Verdant Reclamation. So they can't directly go after Sunala. Even rumors of something as powerful as a Shard of Imagination could get Busciver re-elected right then and there, in the first debate.”
“So who will they take the information to?”
“The High Federation,” Rosemary said, “I figure that, even past the usual gridlock they're known for, the Shard of Imagination will wake them up. Get them interested. Start an investigation.”
“Yes, Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “You're relying on an authoritarian state like the High Federation to do the dirty work for you.”
She sighed, shaking her head.
“Men like Adaya are often friends with men like Valm.”
“I know,” Rosemary said, “And I know the risk.”
“Do you?” Wakeling said, “What if, theoretically, the Federation does find the Shard of Imagination? They could blame the Verdant Reclamation. They could do more digging, find the contract that we had with Sunala. They would look at Scuttleway as perpetrators for a cross-planar contamination. You know what that means.”
The faerie's blood ran cold.
“I knew that,” she whispered, though saying it and realizing it were two different things, “But I didn't see much of a choice.”
The witch tried hard not to glare at her. But she failed.
“Well,” Wakeling said, “What's done is done, Rosemary. We'll just have to wait. See what their investigation digs up. And, if need be, find a quick exit out of Londoa.”
“I might have just made things up worse,” Rosemary said, “I… I hope I didn’t.”
“Perhaps, Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “Perhaps.”
***
Petulant Child was a Library World located clear on the other side of the Post-Colonial. It had, once upon a time, been one of the colonies that had given the Post-Colonial its name. Over time, however, as food ran dry and the planet's resources were dispersed amongst the rest of the Silver Eye, it had been converted into an information repository. Where once had been green fields was wasteland. The sky had once been blue, but now choked on chemicals from a thousand worlds, pollutants that had forced the crops to grow fast and far too large, pesticides that had wiped out the native insect populations. For certain species, Nelnuthans included, it was unsafe to breathe without a mask.
As such, Ora put his on, disliking how it fit over his snout. It was far too tight. His breathing became quickened for a moment, before he remembered his exercises, calming himself with thoughts of a silent place. His home. He would go back to it soon. Just had to look at a few records, then get out.
He stepped out and into the sick air. A couple of librarians, also wearing masks, nodded to him as he flashed them a badge indicating his position. One of them approached, a Mechuvian with a pronounced fang.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” Ora said, “Amber Foundation. I need their records.”
The Mechuvian's eyes went green as she pored over the local database. Ora knew that around half of her brain had probably been replaced with a wireless node to connect her to the planet's information network. It certainly helped with processing times.
“There,” the Mechuvian said, “This way.”
And she led him to one of the massive domes that dominated the planet's surface, a great metal abomination that dwarfed the horizon and seemed taller than the sky. They went inside, the air going from humid to clammy, and Ora's fur became matted and cold.
The inside of the dome was festooned with archived records like berries on a bush. Light blue datarods, by the hundreds, lined the walls, were set up on honeycombed shelves, were set in stacks on floating platforms that flew them to and fro. The Mechuvian took Ora down to a landing pad, clicking a button to call a shuttle.
“Amber Foundation, hm?” she said.
“Ah, yes,” Ora said.
“I've looked through their records a couple of times. Quite the guild, yes, quite the guild.”
Ora cringed. He disliked small talk immensely.
“Y-Yes,” he said again.
He had a feeling that he was supposed to say something else, continue the conversation. But he didn't. And so the silence that lapsed became an awkward one.
By and large, the shuttle settled down, a small, two-person craft that the Mechuvian beckoned Ora into. They spent the next twenty-odd minutes flying across the expanse of the dome. A few other shuttles passed them by. Ora let out a cough.
And then the shuttle settled down, into another part of the archive that looked no different from the one he had just been in.
“You'd think that we'd have all this digitized by now,” Ora commented, “Put on a cloud.”
“Ha, I remember there was a bill about it,” the Mechuvian said, “Didn't even reach the First Council. I think there's a company that produces datarods, and they pushed for it to be dropped.”
She began sorting through the records. Ora awkwardly walked over to a table.
“You want anything to drink?” Mechuvian said, “I know it's cold in here. Tea?”
“Is that allowed?” Ora said.
“Yeah,” the Mechuvian said, “I like Coribaldi black tea, myself.”
“Sure,” Ora said, “Do you have Daerusian?”
“Ha, a classy guy,” the Mechuvian said, with a wink, “Very well, a cup of Daerusian tea for the fancy man.”
“Thank you,” Ora said.
It would only come to him later that the Mechuvian had been trying to flirt with him. He wasn't sure how to respond to that.
“So, what are we looking for, here?” the Mechuvian asked.
“A record that details a contract the guild took with one Lily-Ann Sunala,” Ora said, “An expedition to what is described as a 'dead plane.'”
The Mechuvian nodded, began looking more earnestly.
By and large, their tea arrived on a floating table. Ora took his, giving a few sips. The Mechuvian drained hers.
“Ah, love this job,” she said, “Just tea and sorting archives. The life, right?”
“I can see the appeal.”
“My dad did this, you know,” the Mechuvian said, “So did my mum. Their parents. Same with you?”
“Hmm?” Ora said, and he realized he had been drifting off in thought, “Oh, yes. My father taught me about the multiverse, the investigations, the laws. We've been doing this line of work for generations, since the Second Age of Contemplation.”
“Hey, same as my family,” the Mechuvian said. Her long fingers flitted through a few more datarods, before finding one that she looked over quickly. She shook her head, and replaced it.
Ora finished his tea. He set it down, and the table took it away, flying up and back up towards the top of the dome.
“Almost got it, sorry,” the Mechuvian said.
“Quite alright,” Ora said, “Take your time.”
It was another few minutes before she pulled out the record, presenting it to Ora. The Nelnuthan took it in hand, reading over, brow furrowing. It had been written in a peculiar dialect, so it took him a moment to comprehend what the report said.
The writer was the Amber Foundation’s guildmaster. Vyde Wakeling. The witch herself. She and Sunala had taken a team to this dead plane. It had been a plane full of water, with a couple of ruins from a long-gone civilization. Fresh water. Ora could see the economic impact of that.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said.
He read through the record again. A third time. His translation was correct. No mention of a Shard of Imagination.
Looking back, he should have simply left it there. The guild had not mentioned a Shard, so there was no Shard. To not mention it would have been rather underhanded. One was not supposed to lie on an official record to the High Federation.
And yet...
If he was wrong, and they had lied, and there was a Shard of Imagination...
He heaved a great sigh. The Melchuvian's eyebrow quirked up.
“Everything alright?” she asked.
“No, I'm afraid not,” Ora said, “What I'm looking for isn't here. It means I need to actually go out to the multiverse and question the witnesses personally.”
“Oh, dear,” the Melchuvian said, “Out into the wilds, eh?”
“Yes,” Ora said, and his eyes grew distant. He had never left the Silver Eye before. Neither had his father, or his father before him. He was about to do something new for the Sota name.
And he disliked this immensely.
“Well,” he said, more to himself than anything, “Nothing to do but go out, and see for myself.”