The snow tonight was a light, powdery sort, quiet and unassuming, not like the gale force winds of the past few weeks. The mountains of white from earlier in the day had been cleared around the park, leaving only a small dusting, like the sugar atop a cake. Lamps blazed cheerily through the dark, unbeholden to the weather. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, they made the park feel like dusk.
She was waiting at the fountain, wrapped up in the ermine coat that Isaac had given her the year before, secretly, on her birthday. Lady Busciver's nose was red in the lamplight, and she was sniffling. She never was one for the colder season, and this intense winter, one for the history books, had made her miserable.
Isaac approached her slowly, looking around to make sure he hadn't been followed. But no – the city was asleep tonight, still exhausted from the debate the day before. They were alone.
He produced a thermos as he sidled up beside her, presenting it.
“Hot chocolate?” he asked.
And she looked up at him, her shivering face breaking out into a wide grin. By the gods, the way she looked at him, the way her eyes sparkled, the way the grin became even wider, a bit watery, the way she immediately pulled him down to plant a kiss on his cheek.
Winter had been cold. But Isaac found warmth here. Warmth he had never known before.
He handed her the thermos. She opened it up, sniffing it, before she took a tentative sip.
“Good,” she murmured, “You're a master at making these, Isaac.”
“Well, you wanted hot chocolate,” Isaac said, “I had to learn for my special girl.”
She giggled at that. Pressed herself against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, glancing around.
“You weren't followed?” he asked.
“No, Driona made sure of that,” Busciver said. She nodded towards the end of the park. Half-hidden in shadow was Busciver's Master of Arms. Isaac suppressed a shudder.
“She accompanied you?” he asked, nervous.
“Yes,” Busciver said, “But it's alright, Isaac. She won't say anything.”
“Does she even know?” Isaac asked, “I highly doubt she approves of our...”
He trailed off.
“Relationship?” Busciver finished.
“Yes,” Isaac said, “I suppose.”
“You suppose.”
The hobgoblin reddened. He glanced down at the gnome, but Buscie wasn't angry. She was giving him a mischievous grin. Isaac returned it.
“Why, yes, Lady Busciver,” Isaac said, “I suppose that we're in a relationship, considering that I've met you, in the middle of the night, during an election, with the only company being someone who could turn me inside out, and her Master of Arms.”
Busciver started laughing again, peals of laughter ringing out of the park. Isaac joined her, chuckling softly to himself.
A dog started barking in the distance, and the laughter died away. Both of them listened to it, listened for any movement.
But no. Nothing. Isaac glared at the shadows.
“I wish we didn't have to meet like this,” he said, “I wish that I had gone to Cherenfru's with you, and not Lady Suella.”
“I heard about that,” Buscie said, and the tremble in her voice betrayed her anxiety, “I thought... I thought...”
“You thought what?” Isaac asked, “That I'd fall in love with her, and not you?”
She nodded. Quickly.
“Don't worry about her,” Isaac said, “Lady Suella isn't you. She could never be you. You are like the sun, and she a sunflower, mimicking your beauty.”
“Very poetic,” Buscie snarked.
“It's an election,” Isaac said, “Father's running me like a warkrem. I haven't had time to do my usual poetry.”
“I know,” Buscie said, “But I meant what I said. Whenever you speak like that, I know it comes from your heart.”
She placed a hand on his chest. He let her, feeling her thin fingers press against his coat. He wished it were against his bare skin, like when they shared the night in bed, and not out in the cold. His heart beat quick and warm beneath her palm.
“Soon,” Isaac said, “The election will be over. The rivalries will cool. You and I will be able to go out again. In public, not like this, like a pair of shadows.”
“Maybe I like this,” Busciver said, “Maybe I like being a pair of shadows.”
But Isaac shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I don't want to hide what we have from the world.”
“Do you think...” Busciver's voice was quiet, “Do you think they'll let us wed?”
Isaac's heart skipped. He was quiet for a long time, and the gnome gave a small smile as she saw him think. There was a way that the hobgoblin's face went slack, his eyes darting to and fro, as he thought.
“If we win the election, perhaps,” Isaac said, “If I can convince my father that an alliance with Busciver would be more beneficial than with Suella.”
“Uncle would never approve,” Buscie said, “You should hear how he talks about your father. He and the Lady Sunala.”
“I don't doubt it,” Isaac said, “Yesterday was rough.”
“Indeed,” Buscie said. She removed her hand, balling it into a fist and digging it into her coat pocket, “Do you think... Even if you win, we don't have to get married here.”
Isaac looked down at her.
“We could...” Busciver took a shaky breath, “We could elope.”
Elope. The word sent ice through Isaac's body.
“I've got a few contacts, out at Ded-A-Chek,” Busciver continued, “We could go there, sail away from Moadma completely. The wind at our backs. Wouldn't that... wouldn't that be nice?”
“I... I suppose,” Isaac whispered.
“You suppose,” Busciver said, though this time her voice was sad. Resigned. For she knew that Isaac didn't like her proposal.
“There's so much to do,” Isaac said, “My father, he's relying on me.”
“He wouldn't approve,” Busciver said, “But... but maybe, maybe he would. In time. Once he sees how happy you are. How happy we are, how-”
“My father doesn't care for happiness,” Isaac murmured.
“But...”
“He would hunt us,” Isaac said, “And so would your uncle, if he won the election.”
“They wouldn't be able to find us,” Busciver said.
“Wouldn't they?” Isaac said, and his smile was false as he looked at her again, “You don't know my father. You don't know what he's capable of, when he puts his mind to it. Old man's like a wolf.”
Buscie deflated. She sighed, resting a cheek against his arm. He held out a hand, and she took it. Their fingers steepled together, orange and white, warm and cold.
“I'll figure something out, Busciver,” Isaac said, “Once this election is over. We will have our day.”
“Okay,” Busciver said, and her voice was small.
***
They enjoyed each other's company into the small hours of the morning. Then, Busciver whispered into his ear that she had to leave. He watched her go, the ghost of her hand upon his cheek, the memory of her lips against his, still playing in his head as she walked out of the park, where the Master of Arms was waiting to escort her to Moonstone on the Len. After a moment, Isaac collected himself, forcing himself to his feet. The entire world was cold and bitter as he began to walk back home.
He passed through Scuttleway quietly.
And realized, as he turned through an alley, that he was being followed. He unhooked the knife hidden in his sleeve, letting it slip into his hand as he turned, his brow furrowed.
“...Raulito.”
He relaxed, just a bit, as Alonso Moriguchi stepped out of the alley behind him. The roshador was wearing a heavy, wool-lined coat, his hands in his pockets, though he still wore the same blue, red, and green wrestling mask. Isaac had never seen him without it.
He doubted that anyone had seen Moriguchi without it for a very long time.
“Glad it was you,” Isaac said, “You follow me?”
“Of course, Raulito,” Moriguchi said, “You must think that you are sneaky, no? That you are like a shadow.”
Isaac rolled his eyes.
“Ket saw me,” he said.
“Indeed, my friend,” Moriguchi said, “But Ket, he doesn't like the cold. So he sent me out instead. Look at what you've made me do, Raulito. I had to get dressed and everything.”
“Sorry to make you come all the way out here,” Isaac said, “What did you see?”
“I saw your little tryst,” Moriguchi said, and when Isaac opened his mouth to protest, the roshador put up a hand, “Relax, my lord, your secret is safe with me.”
“Is it?” Isaac said, “You're under my father's employ.”
“Yes, I am,” Moriguchi said, “But that does not mean I am his servant. Ours is a mutually beneficial relationship: he pays me, and I make sure his idiot son doesn't get himself killed.”
Isaac glared.
“I am not here to admonish you, nor tell you where your heart should wander,” Moriguchi said, “Trust me, Raulito. I know all too well that love cannot be denied.”
And he stepped forward.
“What I am here for is to make sure that your heart does not overrun your mind, as it did tonight,” Moriguchi said, “Assassins stalk the streets, my lord. Things are getting tense in the election. And Sunala has eyes and ears everywhere. Listen to the wind, and it sings her song.”
“Sunala...?”
“Indeed,” Moriguchi said, “Khosrau's already picked off a few of her more obvious elementals. She's been using them more, probably on loan from those White Feathers.”
“I thought my father told you to keep an eye on them,” Isaac said.
“Ah, but we are, Raulito,” Moriguchi said, “Why do you think we brought Khosrau in? Regardless, you are in no position to admonish me. You were fraternizing with the enemy, no?”
The young Rithmound reddened at that. But Moriguchi was right. He took the jab.
“A fair point,” Isaac said, “I presume you're here to get me home?”
“Indeed,” Moriguchi said, “Your father will be up in a few hours, so you'll need to look like you're presentable, at least. He doesn't need to know that you were out.”
Issac smiled at that.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Of course, Raulito,” Moriguchi said, “Now, let us head home.”
***
Rosemary woke up in the morning with Wakeling's calm voice beckoning her downstairs. She got up, pulling on a spare change of clothes and donning her cloak. It was cold out, so she put on a pair of mitts and a hat into her bag, just in case she had to go outside today. She picked up her sceptre, staring down at it for a moment. The crack that it had sustained on Chliofrond had not grown. Good. But she could not still her worry that it was only a matter of time before the crack widened, and the entire thing shattered.
She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she stole away down the stairs. She had gotten up late – already much of the guild was awake and going about their daily lives. Gouffant and Orion were taking up the hall, talking to each other about the election, and Rosemary had to squeeze past them. Joseph was dozing in a corner, Lazuli drawing obscene symbols on his face. Chadwick stared at Rosemary as she headed down into the Great Hall.
Wakeling was down by the Glass Slipper, the massive sword that was embedded in the Great Hall's center. She was being held by Whiskey, the marionette swaying as though a calm wind were blowing through the guildhall.
Beside them was someone Rosemary had never seen before, but with all the trappings of a High Federation bureaucrat. He resembled a humanoid fennec fox, though his fur was a deep purple and his ears were forked at the top. They flickered every so often, and despite the fact that he was trying his damned hardest to look official and orderly, Rosemary could tell that the sounds of the guild were disturbing to him. He was wearing a white robes, sullied a bit by his journey. The four interlocking hands of the High Federation was emblazoned on his breast, and a helmet was slung underneath one arm.
Rosemary had to stifle a snort at the sight of him. He looked far too uncomfortable to be here. He practically jumped at the sight of her, his eyes widening, his muzzle scrunching.
“Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “This is Mr. Ora Sota. He's an official from the High Federation, here to discuss a few things with us on a job that we went on a few months before. Do you remember it?”
There was a glimmer in the guildmaster's eye. Rosemary picked up what she was putting down.
“I dunno,” she said, “I go on a lot of jobs. You'll need to be more specific.”
“I-I can be more specific,” Ora Sota said. He held out a tablet to her, “This one. Right here. This job. Please, can you enlighten me on the details?”
Rosemary took the pad, giving it a readover.
It was the Chliofrond job. Her heart sank, but she wasn't surprised. Wakeling had warned her about this, hadn't she?
“Do you recognize the details?” Ora Sota asked.
“I do,” Rosemary said, “Kind of a wild one.”
“Can you... enlighten me, please?” Ora Sota repeated.
“Maybe it's a good idea if we went into my office,” Wakeling said.
“A-Are you sure?” Ora Sota asked.
Three heads turned to look at him. The purple alien's ear flickered.
“I assure you, Mr. Sota,” Wakeling said, “I won't hurt you, or anything like that. I had assumed you would want somewhere more... private? For your interrogation.”
“Interrogation,” Ora Sota repeated, and there was a hint of apprehension in his voice.
Oh, ye god, Rosemary realized.
He was new to all of this.
“First time traveling?” Rosemary asked.
After a moment, Ora Sota nodded.
“We don't bite,” Rosemary said, “Well, some of us do. But I don't.”
“Does the... puppet?” Ora Sota squeaked.
“Marionette,” Wakeling said, “And no, Whiskey does not. Now, shall we head to my office?”
“Indeed,” Ora Sota said, “Lead on, then.”
They went up the stairs. The fennec was out of breath on the third flight.
“Rosemary,” Wakeling said, “Be a dear, and make sure our friend the investigator gets up here safely.”
And with that, she and Whiskey continued walking. Rosemary glanced back at Ora, who was leaning against the wall, panting heavily. She waited for him to catch his breath.
“How much more?” he asked.
“A bit,” Rosemary said.
Ora Sota snorted.
“Of course,” he said, “And 'a bit' means several more stories, yes?”
“...Yeah,” Rosemary admitted, “Sorry.”
The alien just gave a gasp in response. He snailed up the stairs behind Rosemary, who waited for him as though he were an old man, all the way up to the top of Wakeling's tower. The guildmaster was waiting for them on her desk, Whiskey standing at attention by one of the shelves.
“Ah, Mr. Sota,” Wakeling said, “How good to see you again. Tea? Wine?”
“Water,” Ora Sota said.
The guildmaster blinked.
“Well, haven't had that in a long time,” she said. Her eyes glowed, and a bottle of water materialized out of thin air. He stared at it, incredulous.
“No teleporters?” he asked, “No replicators?”
“Just magic, dear,” Wakeling said.
“How... quaint.”
Wakeling didn't respond to that, though Rosemary saw a peevish look flicker on her face for the briefest of seconds. She waited for Ora to open the bottle, drain it, and put it on the table. It disappeared in another flash of light.
Rosemary sat down across from him, Wakeling between them. The guildmaster moved over to the side of the desk, turning so she faced both of them. The alien cleared his throat, scrolling through his tablet for a few moments.
“R-Right,” he said, “As I was stating, it has come to the High Federation's attention that a potential cross-tampering between two pre-Warp planes may have occurred. The Amber Foundation is involved.”
Wakeling quirked an eyebrow.
“Cross-tampering?” she asked, “Of what nature?”
“We received a message from an anonymous source here on this plane,” Ora said, “That one of the factions here has recently acquired a Shard of Imagination.”
“I see,” Wakeling feigned, “And, who is this source?”
“Anonymous, as I said,” Ora said.
“And who holds the Shard?” Wakeling asked.
Ora was quiet for a moment.
“I'm just here to ask questions in relation to the job you went on, to this apparent... 'dead plane,'” he said, “What is the nature of a dead plane? What attributes were there? Your report goes into detail that it was covered in greenery and had clean water. But it fails to mention anything about a Shard.”
“And yet, you got an anonymous tip,” Wakeling said.
“Indeed.”
“And you wanted to speak to someone who worked directly with the client,” Wakeling said, “Why not me?”
“To be blunt, Ms. Wakeling,” Ora said, “You are not an elf.”
Ah.
“So,” he said, turning to Rosemary, “Ms. Rosemary, yes? Any last name? Workman's title?”
“Just Rosemary.”
Ora nodded.
“I see,” he said, “Now, was there a Shard of Imagination there, or not?”
Rosemary glanced to Wakeling. Who nodded. She took a deep breath.
“Yes,” he said.
Ora Sota nodded, writing that down.
Then he froze. His eyes went wide.
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“B-By the First,” he said, “Truly?”
Rosemary grimaced.
“No!” he said, “No! A Shard? I didn't expect- I wanted-”
He took a moment to compose himself, breathing in, then out, his eyes shut tight. When they opened again, they were hard, a bit of that Federation indignation in his voice.
“Why,” he said, “Pray tell, was this not reported?”
“It wasn't reported,” Wakeling said, “On request of our client.”
“Your client,” Ora said.
“Indeed,” Wakeling said.
“And what sort of client is this?” Ora Sota asked, “What damned client thinks they're stupid enough to think they can pull a fast one on us, hm?”
He leaned in.
“I see that she is Lady Lily-Ann Sunala, yes? That is her name? What is she like? Where is she now?”
“She's in the city,” Wakeling said.
“Then I will, at once, visit her,” Ora said. He rose.
That got Rosemary on her feet.
“Don't,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?” Ora said, “Did you just-”
“Listen to her, Mr. Sota,” Wakeling said, “Please.”
“She's beholden to the law of the High Federation, is she not?” Ora said, “This is a case of cross-contamination. I'm sure she'll be made to see reason, won't she?”
“That is dangerously naive of you to think,” Wakeling said, “Do you honestly believe she'll tell you the truth?”
“Of course she will,” Ora said, “I represent the High Federation, I...”
But he slowed down. Gripped the back of the chair, thinking, his brow furrowing, his snout curling.
“That's right, Mr. Sota,” Wakeling said, “Think. You're an investigator, are you not?”
“She's already told you to keep it off the official report,” he said, and he looked up at Wakeling, “Why?”
“Because it's a Shard of Imagination,” Rosemary said, then added, with a touch of sadness, “Because it's Sunala.”
“What is she, to you?” Ora Sota asked, “Why are you just telling us now, when they've sent me out here? Why didn't you tip us off before?”
“Because we only realized the extent of her goals a few weeks ago,” Wakeling said, “She's been working with a group known as the Verdant Reclamation in order to secure funding for her various enterprises.”
Ora Sota nodded. He sat back down.
“I might have heard of them,” he said, “From a colleague. References to them. They're a charity organization, aren't they?”
“They're a supremacist group,” Rosemary said, nearly spat, “They have an elves-first policy, and are gearing up to retake old lands.”
“I fail how that has to do with why you didn't report the Shard,” Ora said, “It could be your heads for this.”
“Which is precisely why we didn't mention it,” Wakeling said, “Mr. Sota, your Federation's policy of punishment means that, were we to report it, all of Londoa would be liable for the repercussions. Note that we're on Londoa, yes?”
“Indeed,” Ora said, “So you were, what, going to hide it?”
Wakeling was quiet at that. She was unwilling to voice her answer. Ora’s eyes narrowed at her, as he caught her meaning.
“What's stopping me from just waltzing up to wherever this... Sunala, is,” Ora said, “And interviewing her?”
They were silent. Wakeling looked away.
“...Well?”
“You wouldn't leave Londoa,” Rosemary said.
Ora blinked. Then, as the full weight of Rosemary’s words hit him, he let out a gasp, doubled over as though sucker-punched. Wakeling sighed.
“You think that Sunala would do that?” she asked.
“That damn Shard, that damn plane, it's what's holding Busciver's election together,” Rosemary said, “Go to the debate today. They're going to bring it up.”
“Is it truly worth killing for?” Wakeling said, “Worth silencing a Federation official?”
“S-Silencing?” Ora said.
“You didn't hear Adonal Adaya, Wakeling,” Rosemary said, “He means to make good on his promises. And Sunala's... Sunala's with him, all the way.”
“I don't believe it,” Ora said, “I don't...”
He was spiraling. They both watched, in real time, as Ora's mind raced. He made up his mind as he glared up at them.
“I don't believe you,” he said, “I refuse to believe you. Both of you.”
He took a shaky breath.
“Here's what's going to happen,” he said, “I'm going to head over to wherever Sunala is, and take her aside. Do you understand?”
Rosemary glanced to Wakeling for an answer. But the guildmaster merely nodded.
“Very well,” she said.
“Do you... Do you know where I might find her?”
“She'll be at the royal palace,” Rosemary said, “Preparing for the debate.”
“I'm sure she'll have time,” Ora said, “Good day, ma'ams.”
And he stood up again, and walked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him in a huff. Rosemary looked at Wakeling.
“I know,” she said, “Becenti and Gouffant are already there. I'll message them to keep an eye out.”
“I'll go, too,” Rosemary said, “If that's okay.”
“It is,” Wakeling said, “Take Meleko with you. Maybe someone from the Silver Eye will be able to set Mr. Sota straight.”
“Right,” Rosemary said, “I'll tell him to bring his big guns.”
***
The Minor Tribunal met just after breakfast. They were arrayed out at their tables again, Busciver on his throne. His niece, Lady Busciver, stood at the table beside Lady Sunala. She did not meet Isaac Rithmound's eyes as he and his contingent took their places. Lord Rithmound gave a dark look over at Gordusus, but the head of House Korgan was being mum, whispering a few words, once more, to his daughter.
Martin Gondoro was already sitting at his desk before the throne, adjusting a monocle. He looked weary, having spent the last couple days taking questions and letters from citizens throughout the city. At one point the night before, a group of 'concerned' individuals representing Busciver's cabinet had shown up at his door.
Which was why Orion now stood beside Martin now. The city had quickly contracted out the Amber Foundation for Martin's security. The dark-skinned man stood tall, blade hanging casually at his side, his dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail.
The fact that he was there at all, that it had gotten to that point, caused whispers to echo throughout the chamber. But Martin ignored them, ignored the rumors that would surely come. He cleared his throat.
“Let this second session of the Minor Tribunal begin,” he recited, “On this blessed day three hundred and thirty-two in this Year 342 of Independence.”
He sorted through a few papers.
High above, on the third floor, Rosemary brought Ora Sota to the edge of the balcony. Unable to catch Sunala before the debates, he had been picked up by Rosemary and brought to the Grand Commons. She gestured downward, and the alien's eyes squinted. He made out the Lady Sunala, today wearing a violet dress, a gladiolus lapelled on her shoulder.
“How long will this take?” he muttered to Rosemary.
“Most of the day,” Rosemary whispered back, “Be patient, you'll be able to talk to her soon.”
Below, Martin started up.
“We last discussed our foreign policies here on Londoa proper,” the ogre said, “But now, our next question goes to, perhaps, the most pressing matter in Scuttleway: our relation to the multiverse.”
He turned first to Busciver.
“Lord Busciver,” he said, “As the leading Doge, you have overseen the export of the goods we create here to fifteen different nations foreign to Londoa, as well as organized the expedition into at least one undiscovered plane. While the former is lauded by the majority of us in this room, the latter is questioned. I ask you, what is the economic value of such an expedition?”
“You're already starting to see it,” Busciver replied, “For one, it's a large source of freshwater. Imagine an ocean-sized lake, my friends. All of it freshwater. Pristine. Drinkable.”
He gestured, and one of his aides walked over with a bottle.
“In here,” he said, “Is a bottle of water taken directly from that dead plane. Would anyone like to drink?”
“This is a debate, Busciver,” Lady Doria said, “Not a sales pitch.”
A few chuckles. Busciver deflated a bit. The Lady Sunala rose from her seat.
“What matters is the economic value that we have here,” she said, “Once we are able to mass transport this product, we'll be able to secure ourselves a monopoly. I know for a fact that Beritale Landmass's drought is intensifying.”
“That's assuming that you can get an enterprise up and running,” Rithmound said, “What is the location of this dead plane? How often is it in reasonable forecast?”
“The plane's location is classified,” Sunala said.
“By who?”
“By the current administration,” Busciver interrupted.
“So you admit, this is a nationalized effort,” Rithmound said.
“I do,” Busciver said.
“Despite the fact that, as of now,” Rithmound began sorting through his own notes. Isaac found what he was looking for first, handing the memo to his father, “As of now, the plane is being tended to by a combination of agents from the Verdant Reclamation and the White Feathers.”
There was a series of whispers.
“The White Feathers,” Sunala said, “Have a contract.”
“With who?”
“Lord Busciver,” Sunala said, “And the Verdant Reclamation is there on my behalf.”
“Then this is more of an Elven enterprise, then,” Rithmound said.
“Nothing of the sort,” Busciver said, “What we do there is for all of Scuttleway.”
“Lord Busciver,” Lady Deirdre spoke, “If you lose the Dogeship to another member of the Minor Tribunal, this enterprise you are on, this dead plane, will you hand its suzerainty over to the city?”
“Y-Yes,” Busciver said, “It's the city's plane. It is a shining example of what we can do, when we put our minds to it. Scuttleway is entering the multiverse with a bang, everyone.”
The crowd started talking to one another. They were looking at Busciver with a new look. The gnome was practically swelling as he smiled at them.
Rosemary heard movement behind her, footsteps. She turned to see Meleko pushing through.
“Sorry I'm late,” he said, “What'd I miss?”
“Busciver just announced his bombshell,” Rosemary whispered, “He revealed the extent of Chliofrond.”
“Oh, shit,” Meleko said, “Well, damn.”
He glanced over.
“Oh, hey,” he said, “You're the Federation advisor, right?”
“I am,” Ora said, looking the Jugdran up and down, “And you are...?”
“Meleko, Amber Foundation.”
“I am Ora Sota.”
Rosemary turned to look at her guildmate. Meleko hadn't brought his big guns, though perhaps that was too obvious. But she could tell he had still managed to smuggle in a pistol, a couple of grenades. Part of the advantage of being on Londoa, a place 'in the boonies,' as one might call it, was that the guards weren't trained to recognize certain items and how they were hidden. Meleko was ready in case anyone tried anything.
And, she noted, he was already being protective of Ora Sota, crossing over so that he could cover the alien, if need be.
The debate continued throughout the day.
At the end, another vote was called:
BUSCIVER: 5
RITHMOUND: 4
DEIRDRE: 2
“Already,” Rithmound muttered, “They've got us locked down good, there.”
“The multiverse is theirs, father,” Isaac said, “So long as they have the dead plane. It's only a matter of time.”
“We knew today was going to be rough,” Rithmound said, “But they've already pulled another to their side. We need to meet Deirdre as soon as we can. Present an alliance.”
“Right,” Isaac said.
Martin called for another adjournment. Once more, people began to file out.
Rithmound glanced over to Korgan. The orc gave a curt nod, but said nothing.
“You think he voted for Busciver?” Isaac asked.
“No,” Rithmound said, “He's the one who backed Deirdre. The two votes have got to be them.”
“Two for us, if we can bag them,” Isaac said, “Then we just need to peel one off of Busciver, and we're set.”
His father nodded. They rose.
***
“Lady Sunala.”
The noblewoman turned around to see an alien standing before her. He was wearing the livery of a High Federation official, and his eyes betrayed a nervous edge as he held a tablet in hand.
The investigator.
He was here.
How had no one told her? How had the elementals set up in the city not tipped her off?
She smiled at him, hiding her sudden panic.
“Good day, sir,” she said, “Can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me,” the investigator said, “My name is Ora Sota, from-”
“The High Federation, yes?” Sunala said.
Fortunately, he was inexperienced. Sunala nodded to one of her attendants, who glanced up to the top of the gallery. Urya had clocked him. She was already moving out, no doubt to mobilize a few of her guildmates.
“I was wondering if you could speak to me of a job you went on a few months ago,” the Federation official said, “To this apparent dead plane that we've been hearing so much about.”
Oh, indeed, he was scared. He was using 'we.' Federation officials always used 'we.' As though the full might of the Silver Eye was behind him. But this poor alien didn't realize just how alone, how isolated he was.
She relaxed. There was nothing to fear.
“Of course,” she said, “We went to the dead plane, and you see its product before you.”
She crossed over to Busciver, who was still sitting on his throne, talking to his niece. She plucked the water bottle from his hand, and handed it to Ora Sota.
“There you have it,” she said, “The result of our expedition.”
“...Water,” the Federation official said.
“Not all of us have access to a thousand marine worlds, sir,” Sunala said, “We make do, and make our breakthroughs.”
“And that's it?” he said, “No mention of anything... illicit?”
“In what way?” Sunala asked.
“Well,” the Federation official said, “I've heard word that a Shard of Imagination was found there.”
Busciver tensed, and he glanced over to Sunala's conversation. But the noblewoman gave a light laugh.
“A Shard?” she said, “Please, no, nothing of that nature. Just water.”
“I see,” the Federation official said, “You're... quite sure?”
“Positive, sir,” Sunala said, “Nothing to see.”
And she smiled. And the official nodded.
“Very well,” he said, “Good day.”
“And to you.”
The alien turned, and melded with the crowd. Busciver leaned in.
“Dear lord, Lily-Ann,” he said, “They're already here.”
“Relax, Busciver,” Sunala said, “I'll take care of it.”
“But-”
“I will. Take care. Of it.”
The Lady Busciver was glancing between her and her uncle. But she was a good girl, one who wisely kept her mouth shut.
Sunala sighed.
Already, she knew, Urya was stalking him.
The Inner Sun was already setting. It would happen soon.
***
The two Amber Foundation who had accompanied him were nowhere to be seen. Typical. He should have requested an escort. Perhaps for someone from Pagan Chorus. But he had chosen to go alone. It was his first investigation out in the multiverse proper, after all, right? He had armed himself with a knife, though that had been confiscated when he entered the palace. The guards had refused to give it back, as well, citing security reasons.
So Ora Sota wandered an alien city, alone, as snow began to drift. The stars were strange and multi-colored (and, he would later learn, were not stars at all) and the sun began to dim like a dying lamp as it went down past the horizon.
Something was starting to bloom in his chest as he walked down an alley, shivering.
Something akin to fear.
No, it was fear. Trepidation. He was alone, out here.
It had been stupid. He had been stupid. He should have prepared more, should have known just how hostile people would be. The elf noble had the audacity to lie straight to his face! She was beholden to the Federation, was she not?
All of these people were. Ora Sota looked around. There were a few beggars on the street. They were beholden to the Federation, too. All of the nobles in that grand palace were, as well.
Everyone was. He should have been given the proper treatment, the proper answers, the proper-
He felt a hand fall on his shoulder. A thrill of cold horror ran up his spine. He glanced over.
An elf. Though this one was wearing dark clothes, their face covered up by a burgundy scarf.
“'Allo,” she said, “How are you this evenin'?”
“I am... fine,” Ora Sota said.
“I'm sure you are, sure you are,” the elf said, “Right then, if you'll come along with me.”
Her grip was vise-like. She twisted, steering him into a dark alley.
“I beg your pardon,” Ora said, “L-Let go of me, please, I don't-”
Another elf materialized out of the shadows.
They were holding something silvery, something-
The elf holding him shoved him forward. The other one grabbed him-
There was the dundun sound of a plasma pistol. The elf in the alley crumpled, half of their head seared away. The one who had grabbed his shoulder spun, drew out a dagger. Her assailant was a whirl of scarlet, wielding a miniature star. They danced for a moment, before the star's arc turned deadly, a blade of light erupting from its tip and plunging into the elf's chest.
The elf coughed, her burgundy scarf staining dark, before she fell to the ground, her eyes devoid.
Rosemary stood over her, wiping blood from a mace forged out of glass, a rose held within. Meleko, the Jugdran, stepped out of the alley, reholstering his pistol.
“Let's get out of here,” he said.
“Come with us,” Rosemary said to Ora, “Quick, before they get word of us.”
Ora's heart was hammering. He was looking at the two bodies on the ground in front of him...
And he retched up his meal, coughing it out into the snow. He looked up at Rosemary and Meleko. The Jugdran was checking the surrounding area, glancing this way and that. Rosemary was looking right at him, a serious look on her face.
Her warning played in his head.
“Alright,” he said, “I-I'll follow.”
***
They gave Ora a blanket and a cup of hot tea. He sat in a dark room, alone, for a few hours, letting him recuperate after what had gone down. He heaved again at one point, his mind playing and replaying the scene he had just witnessed. He had never seen a plasma bolt kill someone before. He had never seen the sheer ferocity that motion gave, the dance that ended with one killing another.
And they had meant to kill him. Sunala had.
It was almost enough for him to want to go home completely. Report that there was nothing unseemly. The lead had been false.
They wouldn't even read it. He knew that. No one would read it. They had sent it to him to convey that they were taking such a matter seriously.
He could end it all, right now.
He took a shaky breath.
But...
But if they had wanted him dead, just for asking a few questions.
Well, that was an answer itself, was it not?
He rose. Walked over to the door. Knocked.
A man in a blue jacket opened it up.
“'Sup,” he said.
“H-Hello,” Ora said, “Er... and you are...?”
“Joseph,” the man said, “Wakeling asked me to guard the door.”
“Ah, thank you,” Ora said.
“No problem,” Joseph said, shrugging.
“Is... Wakeling... available?”
“Naw,” Joseph said, “She just went to bed. You'll have to talk to her tomorrow.”
Ora wilted.
“I'm just shitting you, man,” Joseph said, “Come on, I'll get her.”
And he moved off. Ora blinked.
Then followed.
***
“Well, Mr. Sota,” Wakeling said, “What do you expect me to do?”
“I need to know the location of the Shard,” Ora Sota said, “If I can get physical evidence that Sunala has it, I can relay that to my superiors.”
“And then what happens?” Wakeling said, “They come here, and glass our home?”
The Nelnuthan grimaced for a moment, his ear flickering.
“I-If it's here, perhaps,” he said.
He let that hang in silence. Wakeling nodded, lost in thought, and Ora found he could not blame her. She was gambling on her entire life here, was she not? It was only natural for her to play carefully. Sunala would have the same reasoning...
And he drew his conclusion.
“It's not on Londoa,” he said.
“No,” Wakeling said, “It is not.”
“It's still on this... dead plane.”
“Chliofrond, the plane is called,” Wakeling said.
“Chliofrond,” Ora said. He let the word roll on his tongue, in his mind. The name was familiar...
“You'll need to go there,” Wakeling said, “Get evidence that the Shard is there.”
“Yes,” Ora said, “Though... I cannot do it alone.”
He looked at her.
“I would like to contract protection from your guild. I have... never been out in the multiverse before. It is my first time traveling.”
“I see,” Wakeling said, “Well, I've got two rather capable guildmembers who can guide you across the multiverse. They've already helped you, you see.”
“The Jugdran,” Ora said, “And... Rosemary.”
“They were both there on the original job,” Wakeling said, “I'll get money to charter a ship out of the city for you. They'll protect you the entire way.”
Ora smiled.
“Th-thank you,” he said.
“Of course,” Wakeling said, “Let me draw up the contract.”
***
Urya Orna returned back to Sunala's manor late in the night. She was grimacing as she walked in, her hands shaking slightly as she stood at the noblewoman's desk. Sunala had not slept. Not since the Federation official had visited. She sat at her desk, absently going over paperwork, trying to calm her nerves and not think about the fact that Urya had arrived so late.
“Report,” Sunala said.
“Zayatri and Gilthuril are dead,” Urya said, “One to a plasma bolt. The other by magic.”
“The Amber Foundation,” Sunala said, at once, “Wasn't it?”
“It was,” Urya said, “We tracked the Fed to Castle Belenus.”
“Well?” Sunala said, “What has he been up to?”
Urya was quiet.
Sunala rose from her place. She walked out of the room, going down the marble stairs to her Enchanting Room. There, a series of glass orbs floated in the air, each displaying a different scene from Scuttleway. Her grounded elemental network, spread out across the city.
Half of the orbs were dim, the elementals eliminated from their places. Exodus Walkers had been busy.
Sunala strode over to the center of the room, where an Elven magician sat at a desk. He was starting to doze a bit, this late at night, and Sunala slammed a fist on the table to jolt him awake.
“Castle Belenus,” she said, “Now.”
The magician nodded, hand waving in the air. One of the orbs drifted over to his open palm.
It was dim.
“Wakeling,” Sunala hissed, “She's onto us.”
Been onto us, she realized. Rosemary's doing. The betrayal bit deep. But she forced that away now. She had to be all business.
“The docks,” she said, “The docks, now!”
The magician brought forth three orbs. Each of them showed a portion of the docks between the great rent that cleaved Scuttleway in two. Many of the ships were moored there, including Sunala's own, the Gil-Galad. It was usually a quiet night, even during the election – the snowstorms had been especially intense, and had grounded most business.
But now...
Now, there was a ship leaving port. A small one, yes, but a ship nonetheless.
And she knew, she knew, in her gut, her soul, that the investigator was on it.
She spun to Urya.
“You,” she said, “Get a team. Shoot down that ship. Kill the investigator. Now.”
“On the Gil-Galad?” Urya asked.
“Just go!”
The White Feather drew off. Sunala was already rushing up the stairs. She had to send a message to Adonal Adaya, inform him of what transpired.
She stopped halfway up. Was he to be bothered with this?
If Urya halted the investigator's progress now, then it was nothing. It would look like she was panicking.
(Which, she was.)
However, if Urya did not succeed (and, knowing the Amber Foundation's abilities, as a real possibility) then Adonal Adaya would not realize the investigator was going to Chliofrond. He would show up out of the blue. And, now that he was with the Amber Foundation, he would be able to sneak in. None of the naive flaunting, like at the Grand Commons.
The Amber Foundation already knew the way there. Knew where to look. It would be nothing, to them.
Urya Orna would have to take the Gil-Galad. No choice. It was the fastest ship they'd be able to get out of port. But it was still slow, especially if it was actively pursuing and attempting to shoot down the other vessel.
An air elemental would be faster. A message.
One of the subtle annoying parts of missing her hand was that she could feel a phantom itch crawl up where it used to be. She scratched at the stump, instead, as she walked back up to her office. She wrote quickly. Jotted down the most pertinent information. Advised that she had sent a White Feather contingent, but in case they did not succeed, to prepare for a potential incursion.
She tied it up into a wooden tube. Beckoned forth a wind elemental, which wavered in the air like a heat mirage. She gave it the tube.
Then watched as it flew off.
She could not hide her fear. Her panic. Her shaking hand, the sweat beading on her brow, despite the sheer cold of winter. She sat down at her desk. Called for tea, to hopefully calm the nerves. In the distance, she could see the ice-white hull of the Gil-Galad as it took off into the night sky. It was a desperate move. It would cause rumors, for House Sunala was not the only House watching the docks.
But she had to do it.
Now all she could do was trust that Urya Orna was up to the task.
She took a deep breath.
Another.
It was out of her control.
…
This was something she was not used to.
***
The elemental alighted high into the sky, flying with the letter in hand in the direction of the nearest Traveling Point.
It was roughly a mile out of the city when something fast, something predatory, zipped through it, destroying it utterly, snatching the letter out of the now open air.
Khosrau was an Ogre Dragonfly, a Gigantoneura, easily dwarfing the average sapient in size, able to lift a man high into the air through sheer strength alone. He was one on his plane who had the rare curse of speech and higher learning, and had joined the Exodus Walkers after being driven out for his...
Mutation, though he didn't like thinking of it like that.
Khosrau crested through the winter night sky, zipping towards an outcropping of stone that poked out over the snow-covered grass plain. His guildmate, Ket, bled out of the shadows, reaching out a hand to snatch the letter out of Khosrau's claws. The Ogre Dragonfly landed nearby, head turning this way and that, his great red, hex-patterned eyes watching to make sure there was no one around.
Ket opened the letter. Read it.
Closed it, and as he did so a dark flame took to the paper, burning it away. Ash scattered into the wind, looking like off-color snow.
“Lord Rithmound will be pleased,” the Inléan said.
“Good,” Khosrau rasped, “Extra pay, eh?”
Ket nodded.
“Continue your patrol,” he said, “I will inform Lord Rithmound personally of what has transpired. Excellent work.”
For a moment, the two waited there, a pair of shadows.
Then, without another word, Ket fell back into the darkness, sinking into it as though it was a deep lake. Khosrau took a moment to chitter his mandibles, wipe at his eyes, shudder a bit at the cold.
Then he took off.
And the world was quiet once more.