Lady Sunala was in her study when she received the first of two messages. A fresh flurry of snow had just sugared down outside her window, and amidst the blizzard was a messenger pigeon. She raised an eyebrow, before putting down her quill and drifting over to let the poor thing in. She felt a phantom pain creep on the stump of her arm as the cold bit against her wrist. Cutting off her hand on Chliofrond had been a necessary risk. Despite her own proclivities, her own opinions, she had hired two non-elves in order to assuage suspicions about her ties to the Verdant Reclamation.
But they had been Mutts, in the end. She hadn't made that mistake again.
She unlooped the scroll on the pigeon's back. Another message from Busicver. Sunala's stomach shook at the thought of the gnome. Such creatures, when controlled, were amiable enough. She was not like Adaya, she did not desire their extermination.
But working with them could prove difficult at times. And this was one of them. Since he had lost his ties to Lady Doria, he had been relying on her more and more. It was a mixed blessing. Their election, at first a secure formality, had now become a tense race. But, if they won, if they pulled through, then Sunala's hegemony over Scuttleway was all but assured. A victory for the Reclamation, when the time came for more overt action.
She could not stop her hand from shaking as she read Busciver's letter, and this was not from the cold. It was more and more of his ramblings. Sunala took out a quill, wrote down a reply, her usual spiel to assuage his stress.
She found it difficult to tie the letter up with only one hand. She had to call a servant in. The Elven guard was a younger woman, bright-eyed and eager to help. She reminded Sunala of Rosemary, and the noblewoman's heart panged.
But no.
Rosemary had betrayed her.
For a moment, Sunala was overcome with emotion. Sadness for someone who was becoming her protege. She had not been an elf, not truly. But she was close enough to it. Adaya would disagree. Call her a fool. But Sunala had her heart, and she could do naught but follow it.
She pushed those down. Thanked her new attendant. Put the message onto the tube on the pigeon's back, and sent it on its way.
It was murder to send birds out in this weather. But it was required.
Everyone had to suffer for a bit of glory.
***
Lady Sunala was eating lunch when she received the second of two messages. She was down in her dining room, eating alone, the long ivory table stretching down to the other end of the room, when a servant knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Sunala said.
The servant walked in, her footsteps echoing down against the marble floor as she crossed across the room to Sunala’s side. In her hand was the Silverfish. A message from the multiverse. Sunala hid her grimace. She did not want to speak to anyone from the Verdant Reclamation. Not now. Not when she had so much to do today.
But she complied. Took a deep breath. Plucked the Silverfish from her servant’s hands, gave them a wave to dismiss them.
The Silverfish was small in her hand, needle-shaped, with six long, locust-like legs that bit into the palm of her hand. She waited for the voice to cough into existence.
And it was Adaya's.
“Sunala,” he said, clipped.
“Adonal Adaya,” Sunala said, “To what to I have this privilege?”
“The Federation has launched an investigation into the dead plane.”
Sunala's heart fell.
“I see,” she said.
“Indeed,” Adonal Adaya said, “I must stress, Sunala, we believe the breach came from that guild freak, Rosemary.”
“She's not-” Sunala grimaced, “She wouldn't.”
“She was seen entering into the home of one of your rivals in Scuttleway, was she not?” Adonal Adaya said, “It only stands to reason. The rest of us have to run a tight a ship as we can. But you had to go and fraternize with those lesser than you.”
She could not refute that.
“So,” she said, “Are they only investigating Chliofrond for its economic potential for us?”
Adaya snorted.
“As if,” he said, “They know about the Shard, Lily-Ann.”
The world went cold.
Sunala’s vision swam in panic. In shock.
“I see,” she said, forcing the words out.
“I'm messaging a few contacts I have out in the Silver Eye,” Adaya said, “Hopefully the Federation will just get tied up on some Library World or other. Hopefully this won't get blown out of proportion. But Sunala, I am relying on you to send for me at once if he goes to the dead plane. I'm already on my way there if, gods forbid, he starts taking a closer look into our actions out here.”
“Understood,” Sunala said.
“The plane will be out of forecast soon,” Adaya said, “At least, the most discovered path for a Silverfish will be. I’ll be out of touch with you through these usual methods. If the investigator comes here, send word out via elemental. Send it through the Nordian Squall.”
“I will, if I catch word of the investigator heading to you,” Sunala said.
There was a moment of dark silence. She could imagine Adaya sighing. Rubbing his thin temples.
“I feel as though I must remind you,” he said, “That if we lose the Shard, we lose everything in Londoa.”
“I am aware,” Sunala said.
“Are you?” Adaya snarled, and for a moment his voice became distorted by the Silverfish, “If we lose Scuttleway, we cannot advance into the inner parts of Moadma. The eln meia are unifying, Sunala, and if we were to pursue a war with them, we must have that city as a landing zone.”
“I know,” Sunala said, almost whispered.
“This is your dream, Sunala,” Adaya said, “I know that you've been aiming to establish Scuttleway as an Elven city for a long time. The time of climax is upon us, after your years of planning. Are you going to just let it slip through your fingers? Take the initiative. Do what must be done. Or I will send Tirmo Telundela to assess your further position in the Reclamation.”
And he cut the connection. Sunala swallowed. Held the Silverfish in her hand for a moment, staring down at it.
Then, she threw it across the room as hard as she could.
***
The Minor Tribunal was composed of the eleven most prominent merchant Houses in Scuttleway. They met in the Grand Commons, the great palace that had long been the meeting place for the city's government. Once upon a time, it had been the governor's offices when Scuttleway was under the thumb of Tlantoia, the Elven nation on the other side of the landmass. As such, it had Elven architecture in its blood, marble rises that were carved out into the shape of leaves, a golden dome, and prominent statues lining the alcoves, though the Elven figures here had been replaced with famous Doges of the past.
The room where the Minor Tribunal met was a chamber, circular, with the eleven Houses meeting on the ground floor in circular tables that ringed the center of the room, where sat a throne for the incumbent Doge. Busciver sat there now, like a child on that golden seat, the Phrygian Cap upon his head like a limp half-moon.
A series of stone galleries lined the ring-shaped room, set high above on the second and third floors of the palace, so observers could peer down and watch the proceedings. The chamber was large enough that one's voice below could echo up to the top of the galleries.
And every seat was filled. Hundreds of people were here. Representatives from the other Houses in Scuttleway, dignitaries from the various other city-states that dotted Moadma Landmass, such as One Claw, Procambarus, and Mantis Shrimp. Guildfolk were here as well – the Amber Foundation had sent a couple of theirs to watch the proceedings, Gouffant the Rat and Orion, as well as Becenti. The Exodus Walkers had sent a few of theirs as well, Alonso Moriguchi stood behind Lord Bryce Rithmound as the hobgoblin took his seat beside his son. On top of the third floor was Khosrau, the Ogre Dragonfly, Moriguchi's guildmate. White Feathers were here, that Elven guild, in the form of Urya Orna. She drew a few stares as she stood by the railing on the second floor, for the blue plasma scar on her face was unlike anything the majority of the city had seen.
Beside her was an ambassador from Tlantoia. Whispers followed this one's footsteps, for he had visited Sunala's estate just the night before.
The other major Houses filled in the bottom floor. Busciver and Rithmound, the two major powers in this election. Sunala stood beside Busciver. The Lady Doria's House, Eilonwy, had gone public with its new alliance with Rithmound, and the Thirsty Lady sat just next to Isaac Rithmound.
On Rithmound's side were Houses Eilonwy and Korgan, the Orcish House. Korgan's Patriarch, Gordusus, stood tall and proud, his prominent tusks sporting twin golden rings. He was whispering a few hoarse, deep words to his daughter, who was nodding as she stared across the aisle at Sunala. The Elven noblewoman simply smiled.
For on Busciver's side were Houses Sunala, Meandring, Mur, and Callistopa. All of them had been wooed to the gnome's side during the last election, reaping profits from Sunala's ties to the multiverse. They had been given new clients from beyond Londoa, new places to export crab, mushrooms, textiles, and spices.
There were three Houses that were undecided. Deirdre, the so-called 'Whale.' The House that had produced the Doges of Scuttleway's past, whose monopoly on Scuttler politics had lasted for three generations. Even now, diminished, no longer able to position one of their own as Doge, they were a force to be reckoned with. And they knew this. The matriarch of Deirdre, Vataya, was a thin, witch-like creature, her skin paler than the snow outside, and twice as sickly. She was wearing an oversized band on her head, and hovering a few inches from her face, set just a bit upwards like a half-opened helmet, was a bronze mask.
Houses Voltaise and Mescrova were the other two who had not publicly given their support to either of the two major factions. They both specialized in salt products, be it providing salt from the mines below the city or in salting meats and other items directly. Neither had been convinced yet.
Both representatives from the Houses sat across from the other. Both of them glared. The rivalry between the two Houses was legendary.
Busciver was smiling primly, though his eyes betrayed a fraction of his anxiety. He looked over at Sunala, who nodded to him. She was wearing a beautiful dress today, orange nasturtiums, to signify victory in battle. Patriotism. Some thought this meant to Scuttleway. Others suspected otherwise.
Otherwise, and correctly.
A man rose from amongst the tables, a symbolic gesture. The Executor of the Minor Tribunal came from the people, was selected by them to act as mediator. He was an ogre, a squat one at that, with a missing ear and a nasty scar on his face, a result of the Remington War between Scuttleway and Eocarcinus twenty years ago. Martin Gondoro stood tall as he shuffled a few papers in his thick, green hands, settling at a desk in front of the throne. He adjusted his monocle as he surveyed the landscape.
“Let this election for Doge begin,” he recited, and his deep voice, like stones at the bottom of a well, resonated through the chamber, “On this blessed day three hundred and thirty in this Year 342 of Independence. Long have our Doges led Scuttleway. They are the best of us, our most shrewd, our most wise. May our next Doge guide us in peace and in war. May they put us first, and not last.”
A murmuring rippled across the crowd. Becenti whispered something to Gouffant. Urya Orna flickered a couple of hand signals to Sunala below.
Martin waited for the whispers to die down.
“My first order of business,” he said, “Is to speak to our current Doge. Lord Busciver, of House Busciver. You have served as our steward, our ruler, our Doge, for the last five years. Do you tire of the role we, the people, have given you?”
“I have not,” Doge Busciver said, at once.
“If we, the people, have chosen another Doge, and see you are no longer fit for the role we have given you, do you swear to stand from your throne and re-join our multitudes?”
There was just a split-second of silence.
“I will,” Busciver said.
And a sigh of relief came from the audience. For there had been Doges in the past who had said no. Who had tried to make the Doge something more than the will of the people.
And who would do that?
Sunala whispered something to one of her attendants, wrote down a few notes on a piece of parchment.
“We will now begin the Vote of Confidence,” Martin said, “Are the Great Houses of the Minor Tribunal in agreement? Do we believe that Busciver should serve our city for another five years?”
There was another series of murmurings between the Houses. As they talked, a number of attendants walked across the room, handing out a series of balls, a golden and a silver for each House, along with a purple velvet bag.
Each of the Houses made their decisions, dropping one of the balls into their bags. Gold for approval of Doge Busciver, Silver for disapproval, and a resulting election.
The attendants put each of the purple sacks into a box, which Martin then shook, walking up to the throne. He placed the box by the throne's base, and began pulling the bags out, taking out each ball in turn.
“Gold,” he said, “Approval of Busciver.”
He pulled out another.
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“Silver,” he said, “Disapproval of Busciver.”
And he continued. It was a heavily ritualized sequence, and Martin Gondoro had done this twice before. He knew the words, the proper cadence, the heaviness of the responsibility given to him.
When it was finished:
Six Golden
Five Silver.
The crowd tensed. Martin, however, nodded.
“Doge Busciver,” he said, “Does not possess the required eight votes necessary to be re-instituted as Doge of Scuttleway. He may, with shrewdness, obtain them. However, I declare the city now to be Auheru.
Auheru. An Elven word, from when the city was still a colony of Tlantoia. It meant without leader. It meant that there truly would be an election, though the entire city knew it. But still, there had been some who had hoped that they wouldn't have to do this entire show. That there was not tension between the Great Houses.
Martin cut through the silence.
“We will now begin the Vote of the People,” Martin said, “Those who have a sibling in our city, a friend, a comrade, rise and name them, and the Houses will see if they are fit to be Doge.”
Sunala rose, at once.
Heads turned to her. Her glare was imperious. Strong.
“I name Lord Busciver, of House Busciver, as a candidate for Dogeship.”
A formality. But it was recorded.
Lady Doria of House Eilonwy rose.
“I name Lord Bryce Rithmound, of House Rithmound, as a candidate for Dogeship.”
This caused a stir. Rithmound and Eilonwy's alliance had only been made public a few days before. The fact that it was Doria, of all people, to declare Rithmound for candidacy was unheard of.
Just how deep did this alliance go?
Lady Doria, for her part, sat down quickly. She avoided the hurt look Busciver threw at her.
“Are there any other declarations?” Martin asked.
There was a quiet murmuring. Then, Lord Gordusus rose.
“I name Lady Vataya Deirdre, of House Deirdre, as a candidate for Dogeship.”
Lord Rithmound's head snapped to his left to look at the orc. Gordusus had sat back down again, ignoring the rumbling of the crowd. He met the hobgoblin's gaze, but his face was like stone.
High above, Becenti leaned into Gouffant. The great rat was chittering in thought.
“Well,” the metahuman murmured, “Things just got interesting.”
“Yuh,” Gouffant said, “Rithmound's bound to be angry, nah?”
“Hmm,” Becenti said.
Across the chamber, Captain Ramsey grimaced. This was not what he had anticipated. Elections like these, with such powerful personalities, were already fraught. But this...
This was a stark division of Rithmound's caucus.
Far below, Rithmound broke off his glare from Gordusus. He sat down, and his voice was sharp as he spoke.
“What the hell does he think he's doing?” he snapped.
“Evidently Deirdre's gotten bold,” Isaac murmured beside him, “Thought the Lady Vataya wasn't in the running.”
“She's not,” Lord Rithmound said, “She's got absolutely no chance of winning. Deirdre's unpopular, especially after that debacle with the eln meia. No, this is a ploy by Sunala. It'll split us in half.”
“Deirdre's not contesting,” Isaac said, “Vataya's accepting the candidacy.”
He glanced over to his father.
“You sure this isn't a third faction?”
“If it's a true third faction, then this is going to take weeks,” Lord Rithmound said.
Isaac nodded at that. He looked around the table, grimacing as he realized the only drink provided was water.
“They should bring something stronger,” he muttered.
“Don't go giving up already,” Lord Rithmound said, “Keep true. We grind out the day with arguments, then go behind the scenes.”
“Right,” Isaac said.
Martin Gondoro cleared his throat. He had returned to his place at the desk before the throne.
“Anyone else?” he asked.
There was silence.
“We have before us the three candidates for Dogeship of Scuttleway,” Martin said, “We shall now begin the initial debates.”
He leafed through a couple papers, turning to the throne.
“Lord Busciver,” he said, “Let us begin with the most pertinent question of the hour. Across the sea are the eln meia, whose wars have been wreaking havoc on our weather, and there are those who worry that, now that they have unified under the Gathered Flags, that they will set their sights on the rest of the Inner World. What say you to those claims?”
Busciver cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “Certainly any imperialistic nation is a worry for our city. But our history is one of facing down such ambitions, and casting off the yoke they try and throw on us. The weather will subside – I've already worked with the Weatherfolk already to mitigate the hardest effects.”
“And,” Martin said, “If the eln meia invade?”
The gnome grimaced for a moment.
“As always,” he said, “We must join a coalition. One must remember that we sent our best, along with a rather substantial contract with our local guild, to face Salthirn when they began to spread out. We will gather our allies. We will do as we've always done.”
He let the statement settle.
Martin turned to Lord Rithmound. This was an open floor debate, and anyone could say their piece, but Rithmound was the House most associated with martial prowess and defense. The hobgoblin rose.
“You assume,” he said, “That Salthirn is the same as the eln meia. That we will simply be able to outmaneuver them, ally ourselves with the right factions. What you fail to realize, Lord Busciver, is that such alliances take work, and we cannot simply stand by and let other cities do the work.”
“I am not presuming such things,” Busciver said, “I am simply-”
“Which allies?” Rithmound asked, “Ded-A-Chek and Dad-A-Chum are at war with each other, with no hope of reconciliation. One Claw is undergoing a miniature civil war of its own. Our treaty with Mantis Shrimp, our defense pact with that city, lapsed over a year ago. Under your purview, our relations with the other cities on Inner Moadma have broken down. Scuttleway exports more and more of our products to Outer Londoa. To the same Salthirn we fought only a few years before. To Tlantoia.”
He leaned in.
“Will these be our allies?”
“Y-Yes,” Busciver said, “Tlantoia has been a rather potent trading partner.”
“Indeed, we've certainly made money off of them,” Rithmound said, “We've truly lived the Scuttle Way, hmm? But what about if they invade? Will we allow Tlantoian soldiers to aid us? Allow them into our gates?”
The crowd stirred. Whispered. The thought of old enemies returning to Scuttleway in force was… a dark thought.
“Now, Rithmound,” Busciver said, “No one's ever said anything about letting our former oppressors into our city. But Tlantoia is a powerful nation. Scuttleway has been using them as a business partner precisely because they are not in-fighting. Not like Ded-A-Chek and Dad-A-Chum. We don't sell weapons, do we? We sell food. Textiles. Salt. All of which are easier to sell to a stable nation.”
“So, you state that we don't need the other cities, our old allies, because they are weak?” Rithmound said.
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Yet you imply it.”
“I do not imply it!”
“Enough of that,” Martin interrupted. He turned to Deidre, “Lady Vataya, if the eln meia unify, and invade, what are your proposals?”
The old crone rose from her seat. She was quiet.
“...Lady Vataya?”
“It will be a staggering campaign,” she said, “If the eln meia come, it will be from the north. They have an entire landmass's worth of marching. We must delay them before they reach the city.”
“And the elves can do that,” Busciver said, “It will strengthen our trade relationships with them.”
“It will,” Lord Rithmound conceded, “But it will align us with their interests. What is the end result of this game, Busciver?”
“Lord Rithmound,” Busciver said, “Are you accusing me of something?”
The hobgoblin was silent. He was in a dangerous spot. Even if they were in a state of Auheru, accusing Busciver of Tlantoian sympathies would be tantamount to treason.
“I'm saying,” he said, his voice measured, “Is that under your leadership, our city has fallen out of favor. You speak of sending our best and greatest to face the eln meia. But our military's competence since the war with Salthirn has diminished. We aren't standing tall. Not anymore.”
He leaned forward.
“If,” he continued, “A war comes with the eln meia, we should not just be relying on Tlantoia, or the other cities on Moadma. We must build our own military. Prepare for the worst. Our victories in the past have not come from us begging other nations for help, but from our own fortitude and strength.”
He let that point stick. Busciver should have made a rebuttal. Needed to make a rebuttal.
He said nothing. He glanced at Sunala. But that was that, and Martin Gondoro moved to the next topic.
“Lord Busciver,” the ogre said, “Your economic policies have so far been rather strict as of late, and as such...”
***
The debates continued on. Becenti began to ignore the exact minutae of the debates, the talk of treaties and trade agreements, instead concentrating on the reactions of each of the major Houses. The initial talk of the eln meia had been held purely by the three candidates. The organization of the city's defenses, of the Scuttleway Militia, was the Doge's responsibility. But talks of the economy brought the entire Minor Tribunal to bear. Questions were barraged at all three candidates. Gouffant, who sat beside Becenti, took to it with rapt attention, the rat absently gnawing on a cow's femur, the remains of his breakfast earlier in the day.
Busciver, when it came to such questions, talked easily. He was assertive. Despite his short stature, the nervous trembling of his hands, he spoke with the confidence that had won him the Dogeship five years prior. Rithmound, too, was strong. The economic reforms he was presenting turned heads, created murmurs. It was obvious he had been preparing for these debates for a long time.
“Notice Lady Vataya is hardly contributing,” the rat said to Becenti.
“Is she just relying on the fact that she's Deirdre?” Becenti said, “Letting her name carry her through these?”
“Naw,” Gouffant said, “Can't be. She's not as prepared as Rithmound or Busciver. Must have been last minute, to have Korgan sponsor her.”
“And why would Korgan do that?”
“Can't have been from a long-held betrayal,” Gouffant said, “Otherwise they would have gone public with it a lot earlier, prepared Lady Vataya for these debates. Someone's taken a bribe.”
“From Sunala?” Becenti asked.
“Or Busciver,” Gouffant said, “That old gnome's got more influence than her, at least in the other Houses. He's just relying on Sunala for the funds.”
“I see,” Becenti said.
He grimaced as Rithmound slammed a hand on the table. He was shouting now, pointing an accusing finger at Busciver over the lapsed deal with Kelphaven.
“They're a day away from us!” he roared, “They've been traditional trading partners with us since our liberation! You cannot just simply let these deals slide off the table! Kelphaven will be able to ask for twice as much as they did before!”
“It lapsed for a reason!” Busciver said, “We need to redraw the lines in the sand, start from scratch with those treaties that favored them more than us! You wouldn't understand, what with your warmongering and-”
“Fuck you!” the voice came from up in the gallery. One of the minor Houses started throwing leftover food, mushrooms and crab shells, down to the Tribunal below. The entire chamber erupted into roars.
“Enough!” Martin roared, “Enough!”
He lifted up a gavel, and slammed it down. Three times, and the chamber began to quiet, the harsh yells turning into venomous whispers.
“Lord Busciver,” Martin said, “Please, finish your statement.”
“Thank you, Gondoro,” Busciver said, “As I was saying. Our alliance with Kelphaven is a sacred and treasured part of our history. I am not erasing that, but rather recreating it. Our treaty with Kelphaven must be made anew, in a new deal that will benefit Scuttleway. Remember, Rithmound, that the original deal with Kelphaven arrived by swordpoint.”
Rithmound's jaw was jutting as he glared at the gnome.
“I think,” Martin said, with the sun beginning to set, “That our time here is finished.”
“No,” Rithmound said, “I call for a Vote of Dogeship.”
The crowd began to mutter again. Martin looked over at him.
“Are you... quite sure?” he said, “Lord Rithmound, this debate is over if any one of the three candidates gets the vote of eight Houses.”
“I am,” Rithmound said, his voice steel.
“Very well,” Martin said, “Is the Minor Tribunal in agreement?”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Very well,” Martin said, “The servants will present the representative of each House a trio of balls: golden for Busciver, silver for Rithmound, bronze for Deirdre.”
The vote began. As before, the members of the Minor Tribunal made their votes, placing one of the balls into the velvet bag, before placing them in a chest in front of Martin.
Who shook the bag.
And began to pull them out:
BUSCIVER: 4
RITHMOUND: 4
DEIRDRE: 3
Three for Deirdre. Four for Busciver. One of the Houses sworn to the gnome had turned. Rithmound nodded at that. Vataya had not just split Rithmound's faction, but also Busciver's. Which House? Voltaise? Callistopa?
Whatever the case, Busciver was reacting poorly to the vote. He looked aghast to see that both he and Rithmound were tied. Sunala, too, was scribbling ferociously on her parchment, shooting dark looks over to the Houses that had sworn themselves to her faction.
Lady Deirdre, for her part, remained in her seat. The old crone seemed unperturbed that she had gotten the least number of votes. Perhaps her game was only starting. Or, perhaps, she was just working on being an obstacle.
“Without the required eight Houses,” Martin said, “Then the Vote for Dogeship fails. As Executor of the Minor Tribunal, I declare adjournment.”
He leaned in.
“It's getting late, folks, and my wife's sick with the flu. That means I'm cooking dinner. We will meet again in two days' time. You're all dismissed.”
With that, he rose. And the chamber rose with him. The din rose, though it wasn't as aggressive as before. More conversational. The crowd began to stream out of the chamber.
Lord Rithmound pushed his way through, and an orange hand reached out to snag hold of Lord Korgan's arm.
“What's your game, Gordusus?” Rithmound said, “Knifing me in the back so soon?”
“My plans are my own,” Gordusus rumbled, “Let go of me, Bryce.”
“I thought we had a pact,” Lord Rithmound spat, “Is Orcish honor so tarnished...?”
“Let. Go. Of. Me.”
Lord Rithmound realized he had gone a hair too far. He pulled back, adjusted his suit.
“I thought, out of everyone, that you would support me, Gordusus,” the hobgoblin said, “Must you abandon me, too?”
Gordusus looked stricken. He gave a curt nod.
“Time is your ally, old friend,” he said, “Remember our time in Otria's Wood.”
Rithmound furrowed his brow. Gordudus gave a final nod, before walking out with the crowd. He stood tall over the heads of everyone else as he went, a mottled green bobber over a sea of nobility.
***
Busciver's hands shook as he and Sunala loaded up in a carriage, set for Moonstone on the Len. The two of them were alone, with Lady Busciver taking a separate ride back so the two of them could talk in secret.
“That was...” the gnome said, “That was more intense than I anticipated.”
“Rithmound's coming out swinging,” Sunala said, “And, like we thought, he's going for the major weaknesses in your administration.”
“I didn't anticipate him bringing up Kelphaven,” Busciver said, “I was bullshitting on that.”
“I know,” Sunala said, “But you sounded strong, at the very least.”
“I doubt it,” Busciver said, “He made some good points.”
He began to hum to himself as he looked out the carriage's window. Scuttleway to his left and right. His city. He could not help but smile as he saw the throngs of people who had been outside the palace to watch the Minor Tribunal leave.
Sunala's eyes narrowed.
“'Good points?'” she asked.
“He is right,” Busciver said, “Scuttleway's personal security is currently tied up in the Militia, and little else. The other Houses have their private guards, of course, but-”
“Never mind about that,” Sunala said, “The alliances we can forge will be more than sufficient. Rithmound's conflating a gaggle of blue-skinned savages for an actual, well-trained army. We will be fine.”
Busciver wilted.
“...Do you think Tlantoia would defend us?” he whispered, “Truly?”
“I have friends there, Busciver,” Sunala said, “I need merely call in a few favors, and you will have your army.”
“But Lily-Ann,” Busciver said, “What if Rithmound's right? We're tying a lot into relying on Tlantoia.”
“You're not relying on them,” Sunala said, “You're relying on the Verdant Reclamation.”
“Then why don't I just say that?” Busciver said.
“Because they won't like it,” Sunala said, “You know that.”
“I hardly think they like that I brought up Tlantoia so much,” Busciver said.
“They just don't know,” Sunala cooed, “Don't worry, Busciver. We just have this election. Stick to your debates. We'll find what makes Deirdre tick. I'll talk to Vataya myself, if it comes to that. Once it's over, the naysayers will see. You're leading Scuttleway to glory.”
“To glory,” Busciver repeated, and his eyes shone like two suns, “I'd go down in history, wouldn't I?”
“You would,” Sunala said, smiling, “And you will.”