House Eilonwy was one of the most prominent noble Houses in all of Scuttleway, and it had been for years. It was made up of those goblins and hobgoblins that had been enslaved by the Tlantoians long ago, forced out of their homelands across the multiverse and brought here, to Londoa, to work in the underground farms that provided most of the essential foods of Scuttleway. Bread in this city was a luxury. Salt, however, was an export, as were the crabs that lived in the underground lakes beneath the city. Many of these pools had been cordoned off and used specifically for breeding the crustaceans, from which Scuttleway had taken its name and symbology.

Pools that House Eilonway claimed. They owned roughly forty percent of the crab farms beneath the city, a monopoly that allowed them to control much of the industry. Isaac looked out, squinting in the half-lit dim of the great cavern that Lady Doria had guided him through. They were walking along the shores of an indoor pool, lake-sized, so vast that he could barely make out the edge on the other side. Nets divided the lake up into pieces, and workers were knee-deep in frigid water, dipping gloved hands in to grab at crabs, mostly orange in coloration, a result of the mineral rich waters. They put the largest ones into buckets on their backs. The smaller ones they left well alone, to grow.

Lady Eilonwy was walking with a cane, her feet sure against the uneven stone. She had been working these pools for years, first as a farmhand, then as a minor baroness. Eilonwy did not have a true familial unity like the other Houses – it was meritocratic in nature, and Doria had come from nothing, evolving into one of the most powerful beings in Scuttleway.

“I'm surprised the lake hasn't frozen over,” Isaac said, “It's cold, up above.”

He shivered. It was cold in here, too, even with a heavy fur coat.

“Ah,” Lady Doria said, “Fire elementals are stationed here and there, mostly under the pools. Keeps the crabs warm and growing.”

She turned a snide eye over to Isaac.

“But I thought you learned that in your tutoring?”

“Just trying to make conversation, milady.”

“Hmm,” Lady Doria said, “One must improve in many things, I suppose.”

She stepped over a small jut of stone, cane tapping against the ground. It echoed harsh across the cavern.

“We're in an interesting period of time, Lord Isaac,” Doria said, “Sunala's hold over Busciver grows with every passing day.”

Isaac was quiet, waiting for her to continue. The old crone continued her way across the shoreline, towards a small hill that sloped up to overlook the pool. A simple chair and table had been set up there, along with a lamp that burned a bright blue. Lady Doria sat down on it, letting out a relieved wheeze. A servant brought her a cup of tea, which she accepted with gentle thanks. The servant looked askance at Isaac, who shook his head.

“I tell you, Isaac,” Doria said, “The older you get, the worse everything becomes. Ye gods, my bones ache.”

She turned to him.

“I'm sorry, dear, give me a moment.”

“Of course,” Isaac said, giving her a smile. He gave her time to rest, taking a moment to survey the landscape, hands behind his back. The workers ignored them – they were used to Lady Eilonwy's comings and goings. Behind him, Isaac made out the silhouette of Ket. This was a natural arena for him, enough shadow for him to pull off the same feats he had performed at the gala. Isaac was in no danger.

“As I was saying,” Lady Doria said, “It appears that your father's warnings have borne true. Busciver has fully flung himself into the arms of Sunala. I thought him a fool, but not to this extent.”

“It's a dire situation,” Isaac agreed.

“And what are you doing about it?” Lady Doria asked.

Isaac was prepared for that.

“We're making our overtures,” he replied, “Poking and prodding at Callistopa and Mur. Setting up potential...”

He went quiet. For he didn't want to speak. He had found that the young Lady Callistopa, granddaughter and heir to the House, was still unwedded. She was coming of marriageable age in the Spring.

“Isaac,” Lady Doria said, chuckling, “You aren't thinking of marrying yourself off for something as little as the Dogeship, are you?”

“I might,” Isaac said, “The sacrifices we make, to stop the devil.”

“Hmm,” Doria hummed, “I think your father's gotten his claws deep in you, boy. If you're not careful, you'll end up just like him.”

“And is that such a bad thing?” Isaac said, though there was a slight tremor in his voice, “My father is a powerful man. He did not consider such trivialities as love.”

“He did, once,” Lady Doria murmured, “Once upon a time, Bryce Rithmound was a loving man. Wore his heart on his sleeve, like you do.”

She glanced over his way.

“Now,” she said, “I didn't put much stock in Lord Rithmound when he was younger, but I must say, you're his spitting image.”

“A mirror, some people say,” Isaac said.

“Only part of that was a compliment,” Lady Doria said, “Don’t let his passionless ways consume you, is all I say. This election is but one. Even if the elves take over Scuttleway, their time will pass. Even if it takes a hundred years. A thousand. Allow yourself to love, and feel joy.”

Isaac was quiet.

“Don't do anything drastic, Isaac dear,” Doria said, “Not for this election. You've played your best card. Now all you have to do is wait.”

“I'm afraid we can't,” Isaac said, “The next debate could very well be the last. It's only a matter of time before Deirdre concedes. She's got no point of winning, and she knows it, and...”

Something was percolating in his head. He started to understand. Lady Doria's smile turned vile and devious.

“House Korgan's sponsorship of Deirdre. That was you.”

The Lady Eilonwy sipped her tea. Isaac's brow was furrowed.

“...Why?” he asked.

“Your father's chances at becoming Doge sank the moment Sunala found that dead plane,” Doria said, “And you know it. He knows it. If Deirdre is the Whale, then the dead plane is its sea.”

“So you pay off Korgan, bribe them to push Deirdre to the forefront,” Isaac said, “Make them a third party in the election. It splits the votes.”

“House Deirdre won't win, and they know that,” Doria said, “But by putting in Vataya as a potential candidate, Deirdre can't be used to sway the remaining Houses. I know for a fact that at least a few members of the Tribunal would vote the same as Vataya, if she merely spoke to them outside the Commons.”

“So you put her in, so she can’t sway either side,” Isaac said, “Nor does she truly want the Dogeship.”

“So Deirdre can do nothing but remain quiet, and eventually, gracefully, step down. That will take time. People will understand. But it will take a few more rounds of debate. A few more weeks. It will be agony. It will be boring. The last thing any Scuttler wants. By then, we’ll be thanking Lady Vataya for turning the other cheek. It means we can end this damn election, and get on with our lives.”

She took another sip of her tea.

“If Lord Gordusus had not sponsored Lady Deirdre, what would have been the result?”

“We would have lost the election,” Isaac said, “If not the first debate, then the second, when Lord Busciver revealed more details on the dead plane.”

“And we'd be aligning our trade deals with Tlantoia, and Sunala's damned Verdant Reclamation.”

Lady Doria's eyes grew red. Her voice was venomous as she spoke.

“The things Tlantoia did to our people, Isaac... you've read the history books. But you haven't seen it with your own eyes, have you? They still practice slavery, on the other side of Moadma. People like you and me, in chains.”

She set her tea down.

“It could happen here. It will happen here, if Busciver is re-elected. When I say we're at a precipice, I mean it with full certainty.”

“Then time is our ally,” Isaac said, “So long as the dead plane remains as Busciver's trump card, then eventually a vote will break through, and Busciver will win.”

“So we delay,” Lady Doria said, “We wait for the Federation to wrest the dead plane from Sunala's grasp. Do everything in your power to stop the debates. Kill Busciver's trump card.”

***

The Minor Tribunal met, once more, the following day. It was also, once more, a debate that went nowhere. Ramsey watched from his customary perch on the third floor, leering down at the Grand Commons like a vulture. One of the Amber Foundation was beside him, Gouffant, a rat the size of a large pony. The guild’s apparent political observer, he knew that Gouffant had been some sort of politician on his home plane, the Consortium, and thus took a keen interest whenever an election rolled around.

“Your thoughts?” the Captain of the Guard asked. Far below, House Korgan was putting out a list of complaints the local unions had brought forth.

“They have been sitting on your desk for quite some time, now,” Lord Korgan was saying to Busciver, “Complaints on the conditions of trading ships that Busciver has sponsored, the engines of which are in dire need of repair. Already one ship, the Gnomish Delight, has sunk, lost with all hands. What do you say to this?”

“It will come, in time,” Busciver said, “Trust me on this, Lord Korgan. Such complaints were brought to my administration's attention. But, more often than not, they have been problems that have corrected themselves. House Deirdre, for example, bought a variety of such engines from Melmaen after the incident with the Gnomish Delight, and all was well with our fleet.”

“Never mind that the Gnomish Delight was a Busciver ship,” Gouffant muttered, “Another House had to cover his ass.”

“That's your thought on him,” Ramsey said.

The rat had a wheel of cheese clutched between his paws. He nibbled at it in thought.

“He knows how to use the other Houses,” Gouffant said, at length, “He's always been the middleman for a wide variety of trade deals in the city. Only natural, then, that he's just a middleman for the infrastructure of Scuttleway, too.”

“He's good at deflecting, at least,” Ramsey said, “He's got an answer for each and every challenge.”

“Aye,” Gouffant said, “But notice: he hasn't done anything himself, has he? The Busciver administration's always found someone to do the heavy lifting for them. They're the ultimate connector.”

Ramsey furrowed his brow. But he could not disagree.

“Shouldn’t all good Houses be?” he asked.

“Yuh,” Gouffant said, “To a point.”

Ramsey looked away as the rat stuffed the entire wheel of cheese into his mouth.

***

A vote was not called this session. None of the three factions were keen on seeing the results, not when they were needing to dig in their heels and fight a protracted debate. So the third session of the Minor Tribunal ended with an exhausted sigh. Ramsey was among the last to leave, lost in thought as the rest of the city streamed out of the Grand Commons. When no one was looking, he took a moment to light a cigarette, taking a drag. Most smokes were forbidden in the Commons, but at this point most everyone was too tired to object.

Besides, he was Captain of the Guard, who were assigned to protect this place. He could tell whoever admonished him to shut up.

“Sir,” a voice said beside him, “Smokin's not allowed.”

He rolled his eyes at Lieutenant Antsy, and then quietly put the smoke out. The gnome was standing to attention, arms clasped behind her back.

“Anything I can help you with, Lieutenant?” Ramsey said, “I'm rather busy, at the moment.”

“Aye, sir,” Antsy said, “A rep from Deirdre's here to speak with you.”

He turned. Behind his Lieutenant was a nervous looking, sickly lady. Vataya Deirdre's daughter, the Lady Uvalendri. She looked like she was attending a funeral, all in black, with deep rings under her eyes.

“Milady,” Ramsey said, “What do you need?”

“I-I-I would prefer to speak in private, Captain,” she had a high, nervous voice, and she seemed to be fighting off a stutter. Ramsey nodded.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“The upper rooms of the Commons would work,” he said, “No eyes there.”

She made to say something.

“No ears, either,” Ramsey said.

She closed her mouth.

Antsy accompanied them as they went up a flight of stairs. At this time of day, the only people in the Grand Commons were a couple miscellaneous servants and the Guard. When there was not a debate, usually it had a couple of nobles too, politicians with so much ambition jammed up their ass that they chose, voluntarily, to stay here after sessions were over. Ramsey had no idea why one would want to do that. He'd rather just go home.

Which, after these debates, most the nobility, the nobility that mattered, did. Good.

It meant that they could walk into an empty room, a small study, and were well and left alone. Antsy did the usual check-up, searching inside for any listening devices or elementals. She sneered at a couple of pigeons that were outside, picking at the roof's shingling. After she gave the all-clear, Ramsey and Lady Uvalendri went inside.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Lady Uvalendri said, “My mother, she refuses to hear what I'm saying.”

“Of course,” Ramsey said, “Now, milady, what seems to be the problem?”

“It's this election, Captain,” Uvalendri said, “And the effect it's having on my family.”

Ramsey lifted an eyebrow. He leaned against a desk, crossing his arms.

“Milady, to be frank,” he said, “I'm not a family therapist.”

“It's not therapy I seek, Captain,” Uvalendri said, “It's protection.”

Antsy gave Ramsey a look. He gave a shrug.

“Explain,” he said.

The Lady Uvalendri took a deep breath. She looked to and fro, as though she were letting them in on a dark secret.

“I-It goes like this, sir” she said, “Up until one day before the first debate, House Deirdre had no intention of allowing anyone to sponsor my mother for Dogeship.”

“I... see,” Ramsey said, “That's...”

“I-I-I-I know,” she said, “The House was united by the fact that we were to play a major role nonetheless, and both the Busciver and Rithmound caucuses were at our doorstep with multiple trade deals and gifts and offers of alliance. T-To be c-candid, sir, we would have made out like bandits.”

“You can choose whoever gives you the biggest stack,” Ramsey said.

“C-Correct,” Uvalendri said.

“Until Lord Korgan sponsored your mother as a potential Doge.”

“Captain, it's torn my House apart,” Uvalendri said, “I-It's... I-It's...”

Her hands were shaking. She started to take quick, short breaths. Anty, at once, crossed over to her side, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“It's alright, milady,” she said, “Atta girl, get yourself a rest. There we are...”

To her credit, the Lady Uvalendri was quick to recover herself. Probably, Ramsey surmised, because there was no one who would help her, but herself.

“Th-thank you,” Lady Uvalendri said, “Captain, I-I apologize for my a-attack. Th-these are t-t-troubling times.”

“Quite alright,” Ramsey said, “You were saying.”

“I-I was saying,” Uvalendri said, “That it's torn the House apart. My brothers, they didn't realize that we were going to be declared for candidacy. They're calling for my mother to be deposed. My mother is arguing with them. Servants are being given all sorts of orders. They...”

She paused. As if, by speaking, she was calling forth the discord in her home.

“They stopped posting guards at my mother's door at night,” she whispered, “Th-They've dismissed our Master a-at Arms, and replaced him with... with s-someone from off-p-plane. A W-White Feather.”

Ramsey was quiet.

“Sir,” she said, “I-I need... M-My mother needs outside protection.”

“As a member of the Militia, we can't guard private Houses,” Ramsey said, “That's why you have your guards.”

“I-I am well a-aware,” Uvalendri said, “B-But I'm not asking for you to guard them. I'm aware that you've made contracts with the local guild, hiring them to protect Mr. Gondoro, the Executor.”

“We have,” Ramsey said.

“I-I would ask that you help me secure an audience with them,” Uvalendri said.

“An... audience,” Ramsey said, “And why not go there yourself?”

There was a pause.

“I am watched,” she said, “In these times, even the rain has eyes. I-I have l-little power on my own. They dismissed my handmaid. I-I think my b-brothers are going to t-try and pull a takeover...”

“I see,” Ramsey said. He turned to Antsy, “Lieutenant. Call for Becenti.”

“Sir?” Antsy said, “I thought we were supposed to stay away from all this.”

“Perhaps we are,” Ramsey said, “Perhaps we aren't.”

Antsy's brow furrowed. But she nevertheless did as he ordered.

***

As it stood, Becenti was still outside the Grand Commons, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate with Gouffant and Joseph. The young metahuman was, Gouffant joked, out on furlough. For even if the entire debacle at Melmaen had been swept under the rug, people in the guild still knew that something had gone down. Joseph had been put on the worst chores in the guild. Phineas still had not returned from Amzuth, so devastating were his injuries.

And there was the fact that Joseph was always accompanied by at least someone, usually Lazuli or Whiskey.

Lieutenant Antsy was, to be honest, a bit intimidated by their local guildfolk. She had heard stories of the Amber Foundation, this strange collection of individuals from across the reaches of reality. Some of them wandered the city well enough, to the point that she knew a few of their names – Rosemary, Dama Runebreaker, and the like. She had even almost hooked up with one of them, a human with spiky purple hair and a strange instrument and a hell of a kisser, but decided against it later in the night when she broke a fellow guard's nose. But occasionally one of their more esoteric members would come out of the orange castle on the edge of the city. A mass of plantlife with two heads, a strange jellyfish that spoke in color, a walking marionette that never spoke and always stared.

But the three outside seemed well enough. Even the giant rat.

The oldest of them, a brown-skinned man, looked at her.

“Lieutenant,” he said, a bit terse.

“Good day, sir,” Antsy said, “Captain Ramsey wants to speak with ya.”

“Ah, I see,” Becenti said, “About our contract?”

“Ah, no,” Antsy said, “About...”

She glanced out. Realized she was out in the open. And, these days, it seemed like the city itself had eyes and ears.

“He's waiting in the Grand Commons, sir,” she said.

Becenti gave a curt nod. He turned to the others.

“I'll catch up with you later,” he said, “Remember what I told you, Mr. Zheng. We'll continue your practice tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” the younger man said, “Love getting up at dawn to shovel snow. Some training.”

Becenti smirked, then joined Antsy.

***

But the smirk died away, as Becenti listened to Lady Uvalendri. He took one last sip of his hot chocolate, putting the cup down, and steepled his fingers.

“These guards,” he said, “This White Feather. Do you think they'll do actual harm to your mother?”

“I...” and Uvalendri wilted a bit, “I-I am not sure.”

“If the Amber Foundation publicly protects your mother,” Becenti said, “It could be seen as us unfairly taking a side in these debates.”

He did not mention the fact that, by sending out Meleko and Rosemary to protect the Federation investigator, the Amber Foundation had taken a side. He had to be careful.

“I understand,” Lady Uvalendri said, “But I-I do fear for m-my mother.”

“You fear for her, but you are unsure,” Becenti said, “I see there's much that clouds your mind.”

“I...”

“What are the results,” Becenti said, “If one of your brothers takes over House Deirdre?”

“We would pull out of the election,” Uvalendri said, “Become the 'Whale' that s-so many w-wish us to be.”

“Who would you vote for?” Becenti asked.

“I...”

She was quiet for a long while. Becenti allowed her time to collect her thoughts.

“I-I-I believe it would be B-Busciver,” she confessed, “My older b-brother, Alabaster, he h-has many t-trade deals with him. W-We were o-offered a lucrative deal, a monopoly on carving-stone trade, to Tlantoia and beyond...”

“I see,” Becenti said, “Very well.”

He rolled his shoulder, suppressing a wince as an old pain wound its way down his arm.

“I can offer a few of us to observe your mother,” he said, “Protect her discreetly. But if anything happens, you cannot mention us.”

“Of course,” Uvalendri said, “I-I have...”

“We'll draw up the contract when the election is over,” Becenti said.

“I..” Uvalendri said, “Y-You can do that?”

“We need merely to send a report to the Federation when this is over,” Becenti said, “I'll talk with my guildmaster about it, let her know that we're bending the rules a bit.”

Ramsey was grimacing.

“Usually you want specific stipulations, don't you?” he said, “You're making this all rather under-the-table.”

“I am,” Becenti said, “But I have my reasons.”

He took a shaky breath.

“A White Feather is your Master of Arms now?” he said, “Who?”

“I-I don't know,” Uvalendri said, “A f-friend of my brother's.”

“Very well,” Becenti said, “I have but one last question for you.”

Uvalendri nodded.

“Your mother,” Becenti said, “Does she like cats?”

***

Thus did Lady Vataya Deirdre gain two bodyguards, one of whom she was aware of, another of whom she was not.

The first was Chadwick, who was only convinced by the fact that Deirdre was known to import numerous bottles of spiced milk. Emerald eyes danced with merriment as he was brought to Deirdre's estate, a beautiful, blue-bricked manor in the center of the noble district, on a satin pillow. A Deirdre servant, loyal to Vataya, dropped him off at the door, whereupon another servant picked up the pillow and brought it up the multitude of stairs to the Lady Deirdre's personal rooms. They set it down at the base of her bed.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“The Amber Foundation sends me a cat, hm?” she said.

“Oh, don't sound too upset,” Chadwick said, preening a paw, “I assure you, little one, I am quite capable of defending you and your home.”

“'Little one'?” Lady Vataya said, and she smirked, “What is your name, friend?”

“Chadwick,” the cat said, “I will require spiced milk twice a day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the finest crab you can provide. All you need give me is food, and I will protect your family.”

“From what my daughter so crudely told me,” Lady Vataya said, “It is not my family whom you must protect.”

Chadwick's eyes glittered.

“Indulge me,” he said.

There came a knock at the door. Chadwick continued licking the back of his paw, before curling up on the pillow and closing his eyes.

“Enter,” Lady Vataya said.

Of her three children, Alabaster Deirdre was her oldest and most prominent, a tall, thin man with the familial sickly white skin, though his was not quite so yellowed, more marble than sickly. He was all but glaring at his mother. He had caught her right as she was about to get ready for bed, her hair tied up in a series of curlers for the next morning.

“Tired already, mother?” Alabaster asked, “Did today truly exhaust you?”

“Tomorrow is a busy day, my son,” Vataya said, “I am going to meet with Lord Korgan to discuss a particular shipment of cargo that was lost the other week.”

“Nothing else?” Alabaster said, “Mother, what did Korgan promise you?”

“Lord Korgan,” Vataya corrected, “He promised me nothing, my son. Only that we had mutual goals.”

“Mutual goals,” Alabaster sneered, “Of course, mother. Of course.”

His eyes fell on Chadwick.

“A cat, mother?” he said, “Moving on so soon, after Gertruda?”

“A gift,” Lady Vataya said, “Nothing more.”

Alabaster drew further into the room, stalking inside like a bear. He was glaring at the cat.

“I thought we agreed,” he said, “No more cats. No more pets. You're getting too old to take proper care of them, mother, and none of us will want it after you're gone.”

“True,” Vataya said, “But I cannot refuse a gift, yes?”

“You can,” Alabaster said, and he moved towards Chadwick, “Better to throw it out now, mother.”

He reached out a hand.

Chadwick opened up a single, emerald eye.

His shadow danced, and lengthened, and Alabaster's eyes widened. His heart began to hammer as he made out the shadow's shape. Large, winged, vicious. The form the shadow belonged to was far larger than the simple calico on the satin pillow.

He took a step back. Tried to still his shaking hand.

“Well,” he said, “Best to keep it there, for now. But I want it gone, mother.”

“If I pass on, you may return it,” Lady Vataya said, “Now, leave my room. I am tired. And a busy day beckons.”

Lord Alabaster faltered for a second, before giving a curt nod and leaving.

Chadwick closed his eye. It was a good time for a nap, was it not?

***

A being slipped out from beneath the pillow. Guerico, an Abstract Man, a living piece of art from some distant place. He lived in a two-dimensional world, and as such his crawling out from beneath the pillow was him merely moving against the floor, sliding along the marble, his one eye flickering to and fro, the nose on the top of his head sniffing about.

Chadwick opened a lazy eye again. Watched Guerico peel towards the door, easily inking beneath its frame, and into the hallway proper. Better three eyes than two, for someone like the Lady Deirdre.

Guerico kept watch, slinking to the ceiling, hiding in a shadow, just out of sight. He could not affect the material, three-dimensional world, not really, but he had a certain eye for things. Chadwick worked best when he knew what to expect. He tended to go overboard when he was surprised.

And, Becenti had stressed, this was not the sort of job to go overboard on.

***

“She's got something with her,” Alabaster said to the new Master of Arms.

They were in a private room, one of the wings that Alabaster had taken over for his own musings and plans when he had come of age, as was his right as the firstborn of his House. Deirdre was not like the other old Houses of Scuttleway, which were descended from the slaves and serfs that Tlantoia had brought from their empire on the other side. No, Deirdre was a human house, with a couple of metahumans rumored to be mixed among their number. Merchants from across the multiverse who had been trading partners to Tlantoia in times past. They had only been allowed to settle in Scuttleway because it was a Deirdre who had, with great reluctance, closed the gates of the city, trapping the Third Tlantoian in its walls, to be slaughtered by the uprising.

And yet, even after that hesitant betrayal, they were still friends to the elves. In certain respects, at least. Alabaster and the new Master of Arms, a high elf named Usanur, were friends. Confidants, from their old days attending a university in the Silver Eye. Usanur leaned against the wall, twin axes looped on her belt, her arms crossed.

“You think she knows?” Usanur asked.

“She's getting suspicious,” Alabaster said, “Someone must have let slip what's been happening here.”

“It's getting far too obvious,” Usanur said, “Trust me on this, try all you might, familial drama tends to draw rumors, no matter how much you put a clamp down on it.”

Alabaster nodded in agreement.

“Whatever the case is,” he said, “It's put me in a bad situation. She knows that I can't very well call for her to step down. My sister supports her, and my brother is still on the fence about... all of this.”

He gestured to Usanur, who shrugged.

“I think you know what you have to do,” Usanur said, “Don't you?”

“I...” Alabaster hesitated, “She's my mother.”

“Then why did you replace your old Master of Arms with me?” Usanur asked. There was a dark edge to her voice.

Alabaster knew what she was suggesting.

“There's a difference,” Alabaster said, “I hired you to look the other way, in case our rivals decide to take matters into their own hands, and remove her. I didn't hire you to do the deed yourself.”

“Family means little, at the end of the day,” Usanur said, “They are your closest allies, until they are not.”

“You speak plainly,” Alabaster said, “I knew your father. I knew he was not a kind man. Don't apply your trauma to me.”

Usanur rolled her eyes.

“The sooner your mother concedes, the sooner we can get this all out of the way,” she said.

“Right,” Alabaster said, “Tell Sunala that. Let her make that choice.”

“'Reach Heaven through violence,'” Usanur quoted.

Alabaster didn't reply to that.

He didn't want to.

Despite his own ruthlessness, he was still his mother's son. Still had that bond, no matter how frayed the election had made it.

He...

He would not kill his own mother.

Especially not with that cat who-was-not-a-cat was guarding her. Such a creature made things too obvious. Too risky.

Usanur moved away, presumably to her own offices, where she was reviewing the paperwork their old Master of Arms had left behind. Leaving Alabaster alone.