“So, that's two for two,” Hyperion said, “Two hits from the Amber Foundation on Agrippa's business.”
“That is his conclusion?” Tacera asked, “Out of all the guilds, Wakeling's backwater?”
One stood, one sat midair, out in an open field, near the Traveling Point that led to Nesona. There was a gas station nearby, though it had long ago been abandoned by Nexcorp, the company that had been the major gas mogul on Hanbusan before its collapse. The greens and reds of the Nexcorp logo had faded with time, and the shell of an old car was parked in front of the hollowed building. The rain elemental, Themble, downpoured and painted the horizon in a thick fog, the elemental hunting ceaselessly for the interlopers.
“You should have seen him,” Hyperion said, “Ranting about Becenti and Wakeling, at how they've ruined him.”
She was not looking at Hyperion, but she could sense his amusement.
“You know how he gets,” the sunman said.
The demon gave no response. She cared little, in truth, for her employer's little temper tantrums. She was more used to fighting in wars on Agrippa's behalf – sent out to wartorn planes, where fire was law, where such things as civility and goodwill had been discarded for simple brutality. Hanbusan was a plane that should have had such things – indeed, she could feel within the earth the rumblings of militia groups and rebels beginning to arm themselves for open war – but not here.
This part of Hanbusan was choosing to die quietly.
And so the two members of Pantheon were alone, waiting for anyone to arrive here.
The air behind them rippled. The Traveling Point was free-form, the remains of a gate having moldered away long ago. Hyperion and Tacera turned to consider the new arrival. A man in combat armor stepped out, a plasma rifle in hand, his face obscured by a globular helmet. He stood simple and tall, nodding to each of them in turn.
“The lease,” Hyperion noted, “You're early.”
“I had time,” the man said.
“I would have your name,” Hyperion said, smiling serenely, “So that we may be better acquainted.”
The man was quiet for a few moments. Tacera could sense his unease, and she joined Hyperion in smiling at this, her fleshless jaws contorting and twisting.
“...Manny,” he said.
“Manny,” Hyperion said, “Good.”
“I was not aware there was another joining us,” Tacera said, “Is there a reason for this?”
Manny shrugged.
“We must be stretched thin,” Hyperion said, “From what I believe, Agrippa is re-assigning anyone in this Paradigm to lock down Hanbusan. He's looking for outside help.”
The sunman leered down at Manny.
“Yes?”
Manny gave another shrug.
“I was told to look out for three people,” he said, “A druid, a mechanical man, and an acro.”
“Ah,” Hyperion said, “So one is a circus freak. Madmolian would be thrilled.”
“A shame, to kill it,” Tacera said, “Those things rarely leave their home plane.”
Manny checked his rifle, and said nothing else.
Instead, he stepped out to survey the landscape. He nodded.
“A car's approaching,” he said, “Just down the road.”
***
“Three at the Traveling Point,” Ichabod grimaced, “Shit, it's Pantheon.”
“What makes you say that?” Contort asked.
“Only guildfolk around,” Ichabod said, “I'm-”
The plasma bolt seared through the front windshield, out the back, burning a perfect hole. The air stank of burning chemicals as Ichabod briefly lost control, grabbing hold of panic's momentum and spinning the car around. He stopped it, the three of them ducking as another plasma bolt whizzed through the car, just barely missing Contort's head.
Ichabod opened the door, stumbling out and drawing his pistol, resting it on the car's hood and taking aim. His enhanced vision kicked in, zooming in on the three Pantheon members guarding the Traveling Point. One was a hired gun, a mercenary, in a domed helmet, his plasma rifle steaming. Beside him was a man in silver armor, a sun floating serenely where the head should have been. The other...
Ichabod swore.
“What we got?” Contort said. He was taking cover beside Ichabod, his back to the car, his hairs standing on edge.
“A Narideesh,” Ichabod said.
Contort swore. Such demons were rare. Hard to summon, even harder to bind to a pact. The fact that one was a member of Pantheon spoke multitudes of Agrippa's influence on the darker parts of reality.
The Narideesh sat cross-legged in midair, her great arms lazing about on either side, both of them ending in large, clawed, six-fingered hands. She was naked, though it were as though all of the skin had been torn away, revealing pulsing muscles and half-exposed bone underneath. The entire head itself was bare, revealing a horned skull, three on one side of her temple, two on the other. She brought up a massive hand and rested it on the domehead's shoulder, motioning for him to stop.
Then, her other hand went to her chest, twisting in inhuman ways, her fingers splaying out and dislocating into a symbol-
“Spell!” Ichabod shouted, “Get away from the-”
He leaped. As did Contort. He wasn't sure if Rorshin did.
The ground beneath them ruptured into a geyser, the car was thrown high into the sky. It hung there, for a brief second, before it fell like a meteor to the ground, dirt spraying up with its landing. Ichabod stumbled up to his feet, firing a few potshots at Pantheon. He wasn't sure if it was enough. The sun-headed man began to glow, lowering himself into a stance, his head becoming awash with light.
The solar flare roared at Ichabod. He grimaced, out of cover, out of-
The wall of roots absorbed the flare well enough. Rorshin was on his feet, gnarled staff in hand, the wind roaring around him, picking up his threadbare cloak, his beard. Power rippled off of him as he glared at Pantheon.
In the dying city on Neos, he was weak.
And although Hanbusan was dying, too, it still held much power for the druid to tap into. The wind was his servant, the plains his steward. All the world bowed to him, though he would deny such things.
He shot both hands out, open-fingered, as though he were pushing against a wall. The wind snapped like a whip at his command. The sun-headed being recoiled. The flare ceased. The Narideesh brought both of her hands to her forehead, and formed from it a mark. The other coiled to her stomach-
Rorshin spun his staff, planting it into the earth. He was shaking. Shuddering.
And Ichabod could tell there was a battle deeper in the world, in a place he could not see.
Contort was stumbling to the side, grasping his leg, his face twisted in a look of pain.
The sun-headed man, in the distance, was still offline. He would be getting up soon.
The mercenary...
Was taking aim at Rorshin. Ichabod's pistol whipped up, his mechanical mind taking over, guiding his shots. The first one fired true, and the mercenary grunted as it clipped his shoulder, the force making him stumble back for a brief second. The second pierced his helmet, and he fell to the ground.
Not dead, of course, but he was certainly on the ground trying to get his senses back.
Contort was staggering to his feet. He had shifted his body enough to cover any injuries he sustained. He and Ichabod locked eyes. They both nodded. Ichabod tossed him his other pistol, and Contort took aim, firing off a few shots. They went awry – he didn't possess Ichabod's enhanced aim. But it was enough for the sun-headed man to duck down, not wanting to be caught by a stray.
Whatever Rorshin and the Narideesh demon were doing in worlds above and below, it was starting to leak onto Hanbusan. The air began to take on a greasy air, and smelled of burning rubber.
Then, the air between them exploded in a shower of oil and tar. Rorshin let out a gasp, and fell to his knees. The oil caught aflame as it fell to the ground, like a hundred raining stars.
Contort took the chance to close the gap. The Narideesh turned to consider him. Her hands began to spin on their sockets-
And Rorshin reached into the earth, and it obeyed. It cracked, splintered open beneath the demon. She spun to him, her hands forming a symbol, and the falling flames coalesced and speared towards the druid.
He was screaming. The wind was taking his voice, forming it into a gale, one that struck at the demon and forced her downwards into the hole. She fell. The earth closed around her.
The oil pierced through Rorshin, three of them driving through his stomach, his right shoulder, a knee. He let out a gasp of pain, collapsing.
Ichabod ran over to his side, firing off at the mercenary, who was getting to his feet, holding his shoulder. The mercenary took cover-
And Contort opened fire on him, only a mere ten feet away. The mercenary hunkered down, letting his armor absorb the worst of it. The pistol spent, Contort flipped it around and swung it at the mercenary's head, who dropped his rifle and grabbed at Contort's arm. Contort's shoulder dislocated, his bones unsettled, and though the mercenary caught his arm, it was still like a whip, rubberbanding into the mercenary's temple.
The mercenary stuttered back, and Contort took a chance to catch his breath. The sun-headed Pantheon was recovering-
And a bullet pierced through his head, and the being fell to his knees. Ichabod was making his way to the Traveling Point, supporting Rorshin, practically carrying him. He fired off another shot at the guildfolk, who was having trouble reforming.
The mercenary stood up, raising his fists. Contort gave him a dark smile.
“Alright, guy,” he said, “Let's go-”
And the mercenary rushed him down, throwing out a few jabs that Contort avoided easily. Contort spun, smacking the mercenary in the head with the back of his fist. The mercenary still held on, and he pressed a hand against Contort's chest-
And the mercenary's next strike whipped at Contort, his entire arm going rubbery. Contort was caught unawares, the strike snapping against his ribcage. He grunted, wincing back-
Only for the mercenary to grab his throat. Wings, bat-like and massive, pulled themselves out of his back. With one gust of wind, he was aloft, lifting Contort high in the air. Contort grimaced legs bending and twisting around the mercenary's waist, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He stabbed them into the mercenary's side, blood trailing as the two flew higher and higher-
But the wind was Rorshin's, and the druid pointed a weak, bleary hand at the mercenary. The air solidified around him, held him fast. Separated him from Contort.
Then sent him careening to the earth like a missile.
Contort fell, as well, but his was an acrobat's childhood. He spun, flipped through the air, landed like a cat.
“Fuck!” he said, and the pain in his leg flared up again. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
“That won't keep them down for long!” Ichabod said, “Through the Traveling Point, now!”
And they ran through. The world shimmered, broke, became miasma. They were sent careening towards Nesona, practically dripping out of the Traveling Point and out to the other side.
The Deadlands greeted them. Like Hanbusan, but worse, the world cold, the mountains in the distance foreboding and scarred. Even the very sky was a different shade, from the empty evening sunset to brown and choked with dust clouds.
“Run!” Ichabod said, “Go, Contort!”
The three of them limped their way across the Deadlands, leaving the Traveling Point behind. It was well in the distance when it started to convulse, and the sun-headed man stepped out.
Rorshin stumbled. Ichabod picked him back up.
“W-Where...” he said, “Where are we?”
“Deadlands, Nesona,” Ichabod said, “Are you...?”
The druid did not respond.
“Rorshin?”
“North,” Rorshin said, and his voice was very quiet, “North. There is a landscape to the north.”
“North we go, then,” Contort said.
He cast a sad look to Rorshin. He and Ichabod traded looks.
But neither of them said anything.
The rain elemental billowed out of the Traveling Point a while later, but as it snared itself to the Deadlands, they heard a scream like clapping thunder. No rain greeted them on the horizon. It would need to retreat, back to Hanbusan, where there was life. Weather that could sustain its being.
But the sun-headed man still stalked them. The mercenary was nowhere to be seen.
Even so, as Ichabod counted the number of bullets he still had left, it was a dire situation.
Rorshin continued stumbling, still carried by Ichabod. The mechanical man tore off parts of his longcoat, making a makeshift bandanna to tie around their faces. It did little to stave off the coldness of the place, the sense of loss in their limbs.
“Pantheon's slowing down, too,” Contort said to Ichabod. By now it was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping even lower. Ichabod shivered.
“Good,” he said, “Any sign of the demon?”
“...She is h-here,” Rorshin gasped, “I-I can s-sense...”
Ichabod looked down at him. The druid was haggard. The spears of oil had cooled, become stone-like, and he could tell they were the only things that were keeping the druid in his half-living state.
“...It's time,” Rorshin said, simply.
His guildmates traded looks. Ichabod looked back.
“...The sun-head stopped,” he said, “It's getting too cold for him, I think. His head's practically a wisp.”
“Then we can set down here for a second,” Contort said, “To rest. To...”
He sighed. Nodded to Ichabod. The mechanical man put the druid down.
“O-on my back,” Rorshin whispered, “So I can see the stars.”
They did so. But there were no stars, only a curtain of dust high above. But Rorshin was starting to slip into another place, for he smiled and his eyes grew large.
“A-Ahh,” he said, “I... I wish you... could see this.”
Ichabod knelt down by Rorshin's side. Took out a cigarette. Lit it, and offered it to Rorshin.
“...I do not smoke, half-man,” the druid said.
“Might as well, wildman,” Ichabod said, “It's what my old crew and I used to do, on jobs like these.”
He put it into Rorshin's mouth. The druid made an exaggerated sucking sound, practically inhaling the cigarette.
And he coughed, his lungs making an unnatural wheezing noise.
“All of that trouble,” he said, “E-every time you s-smoke these damnable th-things, and...”
And he was silent. His body relaxed. Contort looked down at him sadly.
“I never liked him, you know,” he said, “But still, when it came down to it, he was alright.”
“He saved our lives, I suppose,” Ichabod said.
They were quiet for a few awkward moments. Two men and a body.
“He wouldn't want to be buried, would he?” Contort said, “I don't know what his burial rituals were.”
Ichabod gave a shrug.
“He'd want to be left out here, I think,” the mechanical man said, “To nature.”
“Ha,” Contort said, “You call this 'nature'?”
“...To be more practical,” Ichabod said, “I'm not carrying a corpse while we're being pursued by Pantheon. We barely made it out of that little spat, didn't we?”
“We made it out because of him, Ichabod,” Contort said, “I don't think just leaving him here is the way to go. He... he saved us, is all.”
“Then by all means, carry him,” Ichabod said, “Throw his corpse at the sunman, when he catches up to us tomorrow morning.”
Contort glared.
“...Fine,” he said, “We leave him here.”
“Let's rest up as much as we can,” Ichabod said, “We make our way north. To the landscape. Got it?”
But Contort didn't respond. He picked up Rorshin's gnarled staff, gave his guildmate one last dark look, and turned his back to him.
…
They left in the early morning, having rested for a few hours. The sunman, with the day's arrival, started back up again, stalking after them relentlessly.
The landscape was on the horizon. A field of gold. An airship whirred high above.
And they continued.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
***
The letter was delivered to the Bronze-Hued Keep by means of an Ogloric Falcon. It was a bird-of-prey native to Salthirn, a strange, scaled creature, a living fossil, with teeth lining its beak and a toe on each foot upraised and sickle-like. It was a bird used by House Korgan.
It was a message from Gordusus. The servants within the manor scried it for potential poisons, before handing it over to Ket. The Inléan looked over it once, twice, then nodded. He and the letter disappeared into the shadows, and he reformed himself in Lord Rithmound's office. The hobgoblin and his son were taking brunch, looking over a bit of paperwork. Isaac was trying not to pay too much attention to the marriage contract his father had conjured up, between him and Lady Suella.
“A letter,” Ket said. He handed it to Lord Rithmound.
“From who?”
“Korgan.”
Lord Rithmound nodded. He opened it as Ket melted back into the shadows, giving it a read-over.
“I see,” he said, and he turned the letter over to Isaac, “What do you make of this?”
Isaac looked down at it, and his brow furrowed.
“I...” he said, “I don't know. It's in code. I don't recognize the cipher.”
“It's from an old language Gordusus and I used to use,” Lord Rithmound said, “He says that Lady Deirdre is going to withdraw from the election, with his blessing. They're going to announce it tomorrow.”
“...Ah,” Isaac said. He took a deep breath, “I... I heard about what happened.”
“An attempted assassination,” Lord Rithmound said, “Smart of them, to hire the Amber Foundation.”
“...A few of my contacts told me about what happened,” Isaac said, “Lord Alabaster and Lord Pearl dead, along with their assailants. Place was a bloodbath.”
“A few of your contacts, hmm?” Lord Rithmound said.
Isaac didn't respond. He didn't want to tell his father that he had met Lady Busciver that night. That she was beside herself, for she was good friends with the Lady Uvalendri. That Lady Uvalendri was inconsolable, that...
Well, his silence was answer enough. But his father said nothing.
He finished his coffee, a signal that his meal was over, and rose to his feet.
“I must be off,” he said.
Isaac raised an eyebrow.
“You?” he said.
“Yes, me,” Lord Rithmound said, “I will speak with Lady Deirdre. This is a ripe opportunity.”
“Is she not in mourning?” Isaac said.
“She will be,” Lord Rithmound said, “And in her grief, I will introduce to her an idea.”
“An idea,” Isaac said, finding himself growing angry, “That's... callous.”
“It is,” Lord Rithmound said, “But it is necessary. Stay here, Isaac. The city is not safe, and only one of us should be going out.”
His son was silent, but gave a nod. He was giving his father a reproachful look. But Lord Rithmound ignored it, and made his way down to his carriage.
***
“That was too much, Chadwick,” Wakeling said.
The calico had been recalled back to Castle Belenus. He sat down at the guildmaster's desk, the head glaring down at him. But Chadwick ignored the dark look she was giving him, instead choosing to lick his paw.
“Oh?” Chadwick said, “In what way?”
“You know precisely the way,” Wakeling said, “The contract stated that you were to protect the Lady Deirde from any assassins, hitmen, or otherwise. Not to kill her children.”
“Oh, please, Vyde,” Chadwick mewled, “Her sons were in on the hit. They practically ordered it. You told me to protect the Lady Deirdre, yes?”
His eyes twinkled.
“I just took the next step.”
“That wasn't-” Wakeling scowled, “You little-”
“What's wrong, Vyde?” Chadwick said, “You wanted me for this job, didn't you?”
And his grin became devious.
“I may be trapped like this, you witch, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be a good little cat. Let me have my fun, I may have just saved your little city.”
Wakeling glared at him.
“I'm taking you off the job,” Wakeling said.
“Why, I'm surprised that Deirdre even wants us at all,” Chadwick said, “I've rather put a claw into some intense interpersonal drama, haven't I?”
“Get out of my sight, imp,” Wakeling snapped.
“You're stretched thin as is, aren't you?” Chadwick said, “Everyone else is on their little jobs, or injured, or dead-”
“Get out!”
Her roar shook the entire room. Chadwick leaped from the desk and scampered off. Wakeling leaned back, rocking a bit, biting back tears. She had made another mistake, hadn't she? Another damn...
“No, Vyde,” she said, “No.”
She took control of herself. Forced herself to think logically. The contract was still active – Deirdre letters had merely asked for Chadwick's replacement, not for a termination altogether. They still needed protection, especially since they could not trust their own. But he was right.
The Amber Foundation was spread thin. Her guildmates were on their own projects, their own missions.
That left...
Lazuli, but no. He wasn't built for combat like what had transpired. Neither was someone like Whiskey.
“Oh, dear,” Wakeling said, “Well, let's ask, I suppose.”
***
Joseph was standing at Tek's door. He could hear the mound rumbling inside, working on this and that, probably pieces for Vicenorn's new body. He had seen glimpses of the new design, now and again. The Braindoll had put up a poll on the chalkboard to vote if he should have a beard or not (the beard won out), as well as if he should re-install his old arm implements. It was… fun, if he was being honest.
He had tried doing that more, opening up and doing more of those things. Participating in the funny votes. The daily practices. Between all of his chores, at least.
But he still had a hurdle to jump through, and he knew it. Joseph took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
Tek stopped working inside. Joseph could hear him lump over to the door, opening it a crack. The mound adjusted his glasses as he looked down at Joseph.
“Hey, Tek,” Joseph said.
“...Joseph,” Tek said, his voice careful, “Did Becenti need anything?”
“No, I,” Joseph shrugged, “I just... can I come in?”
The mound was quiet for a moment. Then, he sighed, and opened the door.
“Don't touch anything, Zheng,” he said.
The room was, as always, cluttered and claustrophobic. Pieces of machinery littered the floor and the desk. Tek had been working on an arm, a bronze piece that was gorgeously detailed, designs embroidered into its surface, curving and flower-like.
The mound walked over to his desk, and sat down. His horn-like fingers picked up the arm, inspecting it for a few moments. Joseph looked around awkwardly, shuffled a bit. Cleared his throat.
“...Go ahead, Joseph,” Tek said.
“Tek, I'm sorry,” Joseph said.
“That's the fourteenth time you've said that to me,” the mound said.
“Yeah, I know,” Joseph said, “But it's...”
“The first time you've said this to me since you up and left. No note, with a half-dead Phineas in tow.”
Joseph pulled a face. He couldn't refute that.
“...It took you long enough,” Tek said.
“I know,” Joseph said, “I... I wanted to think things over, once I got back. Put my thoughts into order, instead of being half-assed, like before.”
Tek stopped his work, looking up at the metahuman.
“I don't know what I was doing,” Joseph said, “I was... lashing out. I was only thinking for myself. I got desperate, and I ended up treating you like a stepping stone. I shouldn't have done that.”
“You shouldn't have,” Tek said.
“So, I'm sorry,” Joseph said.
“...Alright, Joseph,” Tek said.
Things were quiet. Joseph blinked.
“So... now what?”
“Oh,” Tek said, “I don't forgive you.”
Joseph's heart sank.
“You, to use your more crass language, fucked me over, Zheng,” Tek said, “That meeting with Professor Adesanya was to be my big break. The thing that helped propel my career. Have you heard of Moundumaine?”
“N-No.”
Tek shrugged.
“It's a primitive world,” he said, “Mounds like me come from there. We're only seen as dumb muscle. Slave labor – certain planes in our local Squall are known to have raiders who come to Moundumaine to kidnap us, sell us off to the highest bidder. That's how I lost my daughter. It's how I wound up here.”
Joseph was quiet. He let Tek continue.
“Naturally,” the mound said, “We're looked down upon, in certain fields of science. A mound, working on an interplanar engine? Perish the thought.”
“I... I see,” Joseph said.
“Now, someone else will claim the glory of discovery,” Tek said, “Not me, not a mound. My career, small as it is, is in tatters. The time will come, of course, where I can try again. But that could take decades.”
He fixed Joseph with a level look.
“I do not forgive you, Zheng,” he said, “But I... I acknowledge, that you seem to have grown from this. So take this away: put your nose to the grindstone. Walk the walk, as you've now talked the talk. Do the work the guild needs you to do. Don't try and pull what you did again. Then, we can, perhaps, make better.”
He resumed inspecting the arm. Took out a small screwdriver, and twisted at a joint.
“But that could take decades.”
Joseph nodded. Sighed. Pushed down a frustration, the biting snark he was about to give Tek.
He was learning, more and more, that the frustration he felt was for himself, and not anyone around him.
“Alright,” he said, “I hope that... I hope that I can be better.”
Tek said nothing.
“I'll be better,” Joseph re-iterated, more to himself than anything, “I'll... leave you alone now.”
“See that you do.”
And Joseph left the room. Closed the door behind him. The shame he felt had lessened, somewhat.
But he knew actions spoke louder than words. He would need to do better. All that he could do now was do the work.
And, at that moment, he felt a small ring in his head.
“Wakeling,” he said.
Ah, Joseph, Wakeling's voice whispered in his mind. Even through telepathy, she was choosing her words carefully, I was hoping that you, ah, have time for, ah...
“It's alright,” Joseph said, “Say what you want.”
It might be a better idea if you come up here, Wakeling sent, Please.
“...Be right up,” Joseph said.
***
“So that's the job,” Wakeling said, “Chadwick went too far, and I'm out of options. I need someone to guard Lady Deirdre.”
Joseph's arms were crossed. With his arrival, the sky above, the false ceiling that Wakeling enchanted to show a starry sky, had become cloudy and gray. It was as though he carried the weather with him, now.
Well, that was to be expected.
“I know that you've had your little punishments,” Wakeling said, “The more... unique, chores, of the guildhall. You've had to put up with Lazuli for quite a while. I'm expecting you're feeling exhausted.”
Joseph shrugged.
“Maybe I am,” he said.
“And this job would most likely be dangerous,” Wakeling said, “Although the two perpetrators of the attempted takeover were killed, there still is a chance that further violence could happen.”
“What kind of violence?” Joseph asked.
“Assassins,” Wakeling said, “This election's been heating up to a fever pitch, and it's far more brutal than it's been in recent years. There's a reason why House Rithmound's kept the Exodus Walkers around for so long.”
Joseph was quiet. He nodded, however, and Wakeling could not discern the young man's thoughts.
“In...” Wakeling sighed, “I don't expect you to do this for free, or for the usual guild fare that would be owed to you.”
She took a shaky breath.
“I'm... prepared, now, I think,” the guildmaster said, “I had to collect a few diaries, make a few calls. But I knew Fēngbào. I knew your grandmother.”
Joseph's nostrils flared. The stone mask he was wearing melted, for just a second, into a face of anger.
But then, he pushed that away.
“If you... do this job,” Wakeling said, “I'll tell you everything I know.”
“You already were going to do that,” Joseph said.
Damn, this kid had gotten too good. Wakeling grimaced. Looked away. She was caught in another lie.
“It's alright,” Joseph said, “I'll go on the job.”
Wakeling looked at him.
“You... you don't have to.”
But Tek's words were coming back to the metahuman. He just gave a (slightly forced) smile.
“I've been cooped up in here too long,” he said, “I could use the time out. Even if it's fighting assassins, or whatever.”
***
So it was that Joseph of the Amber Foundation became the bodyguard to the Lady Deirdre, as Lord Rithmound's carriage pulled up to the manor. The metahuman was dressed in his usual blue jacket, though he had added a pair of gloves and a scarf due to the recent blizzards that had been rolling through. He decided to put himself in a respectable distance from Lady Deirdre. The matriarch was in mourning. She was paler than she had ever been. Her hands shook, as did her bottom lip, at random intervals. At times, she fixed Joseph with a harsh look.
But he accepted those. Chadwick had killed her kids.
His opinion on the cat sank lower.
Lord Rithmound drew into the gallery that Deirdre was eating brunch in. It was a room devoted to her children's paintings. All Deirdres, from the time of the revolution, were painters, and their greatest works were put into this very room, on stark white marble walls. Some were realists, with incredibly detailed works that showed hobgoblins and ogres and humans wielding pitchforks and war scythes against an army of faceless elves. Others were more abstract, strange, Picasso-esque self-portraits.
Joseph noted Guerico hiding among them. He gave a short, subtle nod to the Abstract Man. Guerico gave a thumbs up.
The Lady Deirdre had set up a small table beside a rather sizable painting of her daughter. Lady Uvalendri was a sickly-looking girl, hardly seventeen by Joseph's guess, and her black dress with her stringy black hair gave her a dour aura. But her late brother, Alabaster, had done the painting, and he had captured her look well. Part of Joseph was impressed.
Part of him kept an eye out for danger, because it was Alabaster who had orchestrated the whole mess the night before. His painting was a reminder to keep on your toes.
Lord Rithmound sat down across from Lady Deirdre. He gave a cursory glance to Joseph, his eyes glittering in sudden recognition, before turning his attention back to the noblewoman.
“I wanted to express my condolences in person, milady,” he said.
Lady Deirdre was quiet. She had hardly touched her meal, eggs benedict with crab. But she took the opportunity now to put a forkful in her mouth, chewing slowly, so as to avoid speaking.
“If it were my own son, I would be heartbroken,” Lord Rithmound said.
She swallowed.
“Your son,” she said, all but forcing the words out, “Did not try and have you killed.”
“Perhaps,” Lord Rithmound said, “But all the same, they were your children.”
“I raised them to be killers.”
“You raised them to think for themselves,” Lord Rithmound said, “Any parent would be lucky.”
Kind of a fucked up way to put it, Joseph thought. But he was here to guard, not to pry. So he kept his mouth shut.
“I...” Lady Deirdre looked at him, “You are a very odd man, Bryce.”
“Hmm,” Rithmound said, “I... suppose I am.”
They were quiet for a time. Lord Rithmound waited for Lady Deirdre to speak, but she took the time to take another few bites of her food.
Even in grief, one must eat. Joseph was just surprised she was composing herself so well.
“The election will not stop,” Lady Deirdre said, at length, “I wish it would.”
“Indeed,” Lord Rithmound said, “It's gotten out of hand.”
He sighed. A servant came into the room with a bottle of wine and a single glass. She poured out a glass to Rithmound, and handed the bottle to Deirdre. The pale old woman took it and began to drink. Joseph almost wished that the servant would offer a glass to him, but from the dark look she shot at him, he guessed not. Amber Foundation wasn't exactly popular in the manor.
“Wonder why,” he muttered under his breath.
“Tell me, Bryce,” Lady Deirdre said, “Did you imagine that your life would wind up like this? Your sons plotting against you, the city hating you?”
“Hate you?” Lord Rithmound said, “No one hates you, Vataya.”
“You do.”
“I do not,” Rithmound said.
“Then why...” Lady Deirdre choked for a moment. She whispered something to Rithmound, words for him alone. He nodded, closing his eyes. Sipped his wine.
“...Because you were not the only one I loved,” he replied.
Lady Deirdre took this as an answer, taking another swig from the bottle. Dribbles of wine spilled from past her lips, dribbled onto her drab black dress.
“Things have...” she said, “Things have gotten so out of hand, Bryce. I wish it were...”
She trailed off. But Rithmound nodded.
“I know,” he said, “Things are getting too heated. Even...”
He stopped.
“It's alright, Lord Rithmound,” Deirdre said, “My sons are dead. They cannot hear you.”
“Even the last debate was too much,” the nobleman said, “Even my own son proved difficult to rein in. We need cooler heads to prevail.”
“On that, we agree,” Lady Deirdre said, and she took another drink. Her eyes rolled over to Joseph, “Mr. Zheng, was it?”
“Y-Yeah,” Joseph said.
“You aren't going to kill my daughter too, are you?”
“I...” Joseph said, thinking quickly, “I'm just here to protect you, that's all.”
“Ha!” Deirdre barked, suddenly, “A non-answer. You'd make a noble yet, young man.”
She took another swig. Lord Rithmound gave a glance to Joseph. Who shrugged.
It appeared the Lady Deirdre could hardly hold her drink.
“How do you do debates on your home plane, Mr. Zheng?” Lord Rithmound asked.
Joseph blinked.
“Uh,” he said, “We don't do it like you do it here, from what I've been hearing.”
“Then how do you do it?” Lady Deirdre asked.
“People stand up, say their pieces, then sit back down,” Joseph said, “Counter-arguments happen, but they’re separate from the first speaker's allotted time. It goes back and forth. It's a series of speeches and questionings, not a conversation.”
“Ah, that's how the elves did it,” Lord Rithmound said, “The Rite of the Voice, it was called. We could do it, if the Minor Tribunal voted.”
And that suggestion, that little idea, filled Lady Deirdre's bloodshot eyes. She took on a new air.
“Were we able to do that,” Lord Rithmound said, “I believe it would have saved a lot of trouble, don't you?”
They continued to speak for another hour or so, on other matters – the new heir, the secret childhoods they had lived, old friends who had been lost to war or betrayal. But the look Lady Deirdre now wore never disappeared. Even as Lord Rithmound took his leave, and she moved from the gallery to her bedroom. Even long into the night, when sleep evaded her and the memory of her sons overtook her.
***
The debate started back up the next day. The Grand Commons was unusually silent as the Minor Tribunal took their places. Joseph, the new bodyguard, sat at the table with House Deirdre, feeling distinctly out of place. The Houses of Scuttleway were dressed in their finest apparel, in dresses and suits, a few in masquerade masks (which, to Joseph, was a bit much.)
He was still wearing his jacket and scarf. He took off his gloves and laid them on the table.
Orion, his guildmate, took note of him, gave him a nod.
The mediator of the debate rose, a large ogre with a monocle.
“We begin today in the newest rounds of the debate to decide our Doge of Scuttleway. Before we begin in earnest, I have been notified of an announcement.”
He opened up a small letter.
“The Lady Vataya Deirdre, with permission from her sponsor, Lord Gordusus Korgan, has withdrawn her candidacy for Doge of Scuttleway.”
There was a series of murmurs, but they died down rather quickly. No one could say they were surprised. Her sons were dead.
“My lady,” the ogre said, “Do you have any words to say on this?”
Lady Deirdre rose. She was freshly cleaned up, after yesterday's drinking binge, her servants having to bathe and dress her by hand. She wore all black, customary for her house, symbolic for her grief, with a veil that obscured her face. She lifted this up to speak to the Minor Tribunal.
“My friends, my rivals,” she said, “My people of Scuttleway. It is with great sadness that I must announce my dropping from this race. House Deirdre has been rocked with unimaginable loss, and I cannot in good conscience allow myself to continue without properly addressing my family's grief, and the future of my House.”
She cleared her throat again, swallowing dramatically.
“I call, as my last act as candidate, for a vote. We have gone too far in our debates. Things have become too personal, too heated. I only wonder, if the events of the other day had not transpired between these walls, if my sons would still be alive.
“I motion for our style of debate to revert to the Rite of the Voice.”
This drew whispers. Rithmound looked to Korgan, who nodded. Sunala shot Busciver a look. High above, Ramsey gestured to a few of his Militiamen.
“We may vote for it,” the mediator said, “Let us begin the vote to change the manner of debate from the Rite of the Many to the Rite of the Voice.”
And they voted.
It passed.
“Well, then,” the ogre said, “Let us begin, then. Lord Busciver, would you...?”
“Of course,” Busciver said. The gnome sat up on his throne, clearing his throat.
“My fellow citizens of Scuttleway,” he said, “I call on you to vote, when all is said and done, for this charade to be over. The calls have been cast, the deals have been made. Things are hitting a fever pitch, one that can only end in one thing: the vote.
“Yes, the vote. A beautiful voice that allows us to decide our own futures, outside of what our oppressors wished for us and forced for us. Everything we do hinges on the fact that we are a free city. And, I assure you, no matter what happens, we shall be free.
“I call on you all, my Minor Tribunal, my friends, my rivals-”
He winked at Rithmound.
“-To decide carefully, with all of the facts laid out to you. See where the best deals lie. See where money can be made. But also see where freedom rings. That is all I have to say.”
And he sat down.
“Very well,” the ogre said, “Lord Rithmound, your counterpoint...?”
“I have the floor?” Lord Rithmound said.
“You do.”
And the hobgoblin rose. He was holding a book in hand. A few people traded looks. Joseph's brow furrowed.
Lord Rithmound opened the book, clearing his throat. Looked around for a few moments.
“It was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips.”
Lord Korgan exchanged an odd look with his daughter. One of Busciver's eyebrows was raising. Martin Gondoro looked through his papers in confusion.
“Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived.”
A few in the gallery were catching onto what Rithmound was doing. Joseph caught Becenti's eye, the old metahuman sitting beside Gouffant the rat. He smiled at Joseph, winked.
“'Augrh!' said Father Wolf. 'It is time to hunt again,'” Lord Rithmound said, giving an exaggerated, harsh cough of a voice.
Sunala's eyes widened. She rose.
“Stop this at once!” she snarled, “Stop it!”
“I have the floor!” Lord Rithmound roared, “And I will use my time with it as I see fit!”
The Elven noblewoman shot the mediator a mutinous glare. As did a few of the others in the Minor Tribunal. But the mediator shook his head.
“He has the floor,” he said simply.
Nobles began to rise and shout. But the mediator lifted his gavel and slammed it hard.
“We voted to change to the Rite of the Voice!” he roared, “I will have order! Order!”
House Sunala's attendants were starting to file out. As were a few from Buscver's party. The rest sat down, muttering to one another.
“Please, Lord Rithmound,” the mediator said, and he sounded exhausted, “...Continue.”
“Gladly, Mr. Gondoro,” Lord Rithmound said, and his smirk made Joseph want to stand up and throttle the man.
The head of Rithmound continued reading. The Minor Tribunal settled in. Dug in their heels.
For Lord Rithmound had his perfect weapon for delaying the vote.
He had started a filibuster.