Isaac Rithmound was drinking tea with his father late in the night. They were in his study, having retreated there after supper to hammer at paperwork, last minute negotiations, to read books for the morning's filibuster. It had gotten to the point where Gondoro had been calling a session every day, in hopes of exhausting Lord Rithmound's wit and improvisation.
So far, just barely, they had held. And now Lord Rithmound sat sipping at tea with honey to soothe his throat. He had spent ten hours speaking non-stop. And Isaac could tell it was starting to get to his father. When he spoke, it was with a pronounced rasp. No doubt after this election was over, he would need to rest his voice for a long while.
And yet, with the election dragging on for so long, it was starting to bleed into the Golden Round. The city waited with bated breath for the election of the new Doge, but decorations were starting to be strung up, statues were being painted gold, merchants from other parts of the Landmass were starting to funnel in and sell their wares.
A Doge without a Round was an anomaly. Something would have to give soon.
Isaac sipped at his tea. Looked at his father. Lord Bryce Rithmound was reading a book, and, in a rare moment of comfort, was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes shimmering as he read. Isaac looked at the cover.
“'The Wedding of Rosharin'?” he said, “A romance?”
His father looked up at him, flashed a quick smile, then returned to reading. Isaac stretched, thinking back on the day, on what he had to do before session tomorrow. Outside the room, he could hear, muted through the door, Khosrau and Alonso talking to one another. The Ogre Dragonfly was giving him a general update on the patrol. Then, Alonso mentioned something about the weather. Isaac heard Khosrau make that chuffing sound he realized was the guildfolk's laughter.
“How goes your courting?” his father said.
Isaac blinked. His father was looking at him. He had closed up the book.
An ambush.
Isaac cleared his throat.
“It goes well,” he lied.
“Oh, please,” Lord Rithmound said with a huff, “Don't play the liar to me. I've been keeping tabs on you.”
“Tabs-” Isaac's heart raced. He had hoped, with how busy things had been, with his father working every day and speaking, that his courtships would fall under the radar, that he would be beneath notice, but-
“You haven't worked on your courting at all, lately,” his father said, “Well, I suppose I can't blame you. It's a busy time, tending to your ailing father.”
He gave a dark snort. A smile that did not quite reach his eyes. A play at mirth.
“I admit,” Isaac said, “The election's kept me rather busy.”
“Busy enough that you have to sneak out at night?” Rithmound asked.
Isaac fixed his father with a level look.
“Yes,” Lord Rithmound said, “I know of your little sneak-outs. I have eyes all over the city, my son, and you are not privy to all of them.”
“Your secret aces,” Isaac said.
“Always have a few tricks up your sleeve,” Lord Rithmound said, “Always keep a few cards close to the chest.”
Even to your own son?
Isaac shook his head.
“Now, I know that you're sneaking out,” his father said, “To meet the Lady Busciver. Out in parks. Old, worn-down taverns in the slums. Always tailed by Ket, or Moriguchi, or Khosrau.”
“I'm in love, not a fool,” Isaac said.
“Ha. There's a difference?” Lord Rithmound said, and he shook his head, “I wonder what the other Houses would think, if they found out? A Rithmound and a Busciver, quite literally in bed.”
Isaac's nostrils flared. Rithmound sipped his tea.
“You should rest, father,” Isaac said, “You've got a busy day tomorrow.”
“What do you see in her, my son?” Lord Rithmound said, “Do you see the potential in a Busciver-Rithmound alliance?”
“It's...” Isaac hesitated, “It did cross my mind.”
“The gnome's in bed with Sunala,” Lord Rithmound said, “If he loses the election, she'll pull out of their little pact. All of his major trade deals rely on the elves, or on being Doge of the city. He'll become destitute.”
“'If,'” Isaac said.
Lord Rithmound snorted.
“'If' he wins the election,” Rithmound said, “Then I believe we'll have a much different problem on our hands.”
He stirred his tea. Took another sip. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze turning to the book he had been reading. When he looked back at the face of his son, his eyes were shimmering.
“...It's a bad deal, Isaac,” he said, “Our House would not prosper if you married the Lady Busciver.”
“I'm afraid...” Isaac's heart thumped. His hands shook. For a moment, he was about to nod. Agree with his father.
No.
Not again.
“I'm afraid that's not an option, father,” he said.
“You will marry someone else,” his father said.
“I don't believe I will,” Isaac said, “I love her.”
“Well!” and his father rose from his seat. He was angry, his aching voice became snake-like and coughing as he spoke, “Some spine in you, yet. But you will not court the niece of our greatest rival. Not during this election. Not after! Never!”
He crossed over.
“You are the last heir of our House!” his father snarled, “Everything of our future is relying on you!”
“If I am the last heir, then that means this House will be mine,” Isaac said, keeping his voice level. But he was trembling with emotion, “Won't that mean that, eventually, I make the rules? I decide who I marry?”
He was staring at the wall. But he turned to glare up at his father.
“I will one day be Lord Rithmound. I... I need merely outlast you.”
A vein throbbed in Lord Rithmound's temple. He let out a low hiss. Then, his eyes flickered back to the book, then back to him.
“You're-”
A knock at the door. Both of them turned.
“Enter!” Lord Rithmound spat.
A meek-looking servant opened the door, eyes flickering between the two Rithmounds.
“B-Begging your pardon, sirs,” she said, “But, a letter's come.”
“It can wait for the morning,” Lord Rithmound said.
“...It's from the Guttersnipe, milord. Captain Orvisan.”
Lord Rithmound stood up straight at that.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
The servant nodded. She fully entered the room, scroll in hand. She handed it to Lord Rithmound, gave a short bow to the both of them, and left. Lord Rithmound glared at his son for a moment, before breaking the scroll's seal and unfurling it. He read once. Then again.
And then he broke out into a dark grin.
“Well,” he said, “We will table this discussion for now. We've got more pressing matters.”
“...What does the letter say?” Isaac asked.
His father handed it to him.
“Our victory.”
***
The news trickled into Scuttleway in the night. Via bird. Via elemental. Via word of mouth, stolen whispers and rumors that snaked their way from House to House, leaked down into taverns, were shared in the night between parents worried for their children's futures.
The dead plane was dead. Truly.
No fresh water to ship out.
No trade deals related to the metahuman ruins. No tourism.
Nothing.
The High Federation had wrested control of the plane from House Sunala and House Busciver. And, in true Federation style, they had done what they did to all planes they disliked. That which they found abhorrent.
There had been a volunteer force of Scuttlers who had been sent out during the war with the Manticore. A few of them, old men and women now, remembered those planes that had been glassed by the Federation at the war's fever pitch. When the so-called civility was thrown out the window, and the open hand was replaced by the iron rod.
The dead plane was nothing but glass, now.
No mention of the elves who had been slaughtered like animals during the glassing. No mention of the rogue metahuman who had held a Shard of Imagination in one hand, his eyes glowing, his body cracking like a brittle clay soldier. No mention of the Federation investigator and the contingent of Rithmound and Amber Foundation.
Only that the dead plane was gone.
For that was all that mattered.
…
…
Captain Orvisan and the crew of the Guttersnipe returned to port broken. A quarter of the crew dead, the ship itself in dire need of repair. The gnome himself stepped off of the ship, and onto the dry ground of Scuttleway.
Investigator Ora Sota had left them, the Shrikeling having dropped them off on Londoa, near the Traveling Point at Beritale Landmass. There was only the two remaining passengers, who had become as close as crew on this short journey. Rosemary staggered off the ship, Meleko helping support her down the walkway and onto the dock. The Federation doctors had done what they could for her, but weakness of the magical variety was a foreign concept to them.
“It just doesn't make sense,” the doctor had said, “You guildfolk and your magics. Witchcraft, is what it is.”
Meleko had ignored the sly look they had shot at Rosemary. But the meaning was clear.
They would need Elenry.
Well, they were home now. Castle Belenus was just on the other side of the city.
She groaned.
“Alright if you can carry me?” she asked Meleko.
The Jugdran looked down at her. After a moment, he nodded. She jumped on his back, and he piggybacked her across the quiet city. The night life had gone somber. Decorations, lights and banners for the Golden Round, were half put up across the market district. The entire city had breathed in, and had yet to exhale.
That would come with tomorrow's debate.
And all of the city knew that it would be the last one.
***
“...So the entire plane's gone, then,” Becenti said.
Meleko nodded.
He had taken Rosemary to the infirmary. Elenry had immediately started tut-tut-ing over her, putting her to bed, brewing her potions and making calls to associates in other parts of Londoa. Meleko, after a quick check-up, was deemed able to leave the medical wing and make his report to guild leadership.
And, as it stood, Wakeling was still asleep. So it was Becenti, so late at night, the two of them in his office, who took the report. The old metahuman took the news of Chliofrond's destruction with his usual stoic aplomb, leaning back in his chair, his face set in a deep frown.
“Yeah, all of it,” Meleko said, “I'm sorry, Myron.”
Becenti nodded.
Stood up. Walked over to his shelf, his fingers dancing on the spines of his books as he searched around, finding what he was looking for. He pulled it out. A green book, a small one, called 'Epochia: Legends and Truths,' with a picture of a Dragon holding its tail in its claws, ever-circling and eternal.
If only.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He stared at the book, walked back to his desk, sat down. Meleko let out an awkward cough.
“I can... make the appropriate report,” he said, “I'll try to get it to your desk by tomorrow afternoon.”
“...Take your time with it,” Becenti said, “In fact, get some rest. I'm not going to expect the report until the day after tomorrow. You need...”
He faltered.
“You need rest.”
Meleko nodded. He sensed that the metahuman wanted to be left alone, so he stood up, gave him one last nod, and exited the room.
Becenti opened the book, flipping through its worn pages. He had been given the book as a young man.
By Luminary.
His old friend.
He chose not to dwell on that.
He found the page he had been looking for. On Chliofrond. A small etching of one of her island cities took up an entire page. He stared hard at it. At its buildings, its statues, stick-like in the picture, magnificent in his memory.
He had been to Chliofrond but once.
But he, nonetheless, wiped stray tears from the edges of his eyes.
Another heritage lost. Another monument destroyed. All that was the past would be gone. His people were stuck in an endless present.
He closed the book.
***
It was late at night when the Lady Vataya Deirdre received the news. She was still awake, for she dreamed of her children. All three of them, her sons and daughter. They were peaceful dreams, which was the worst part. She never realized that nightmares could have green fields and blue skies and the scent of green tea.
And yet.
Her guild bodyguard was a nice enough lad. A young man, Joseph by name. A metahuman, she had heard. He stood awake with her tonight, leaning against the wall, a cup of coffee in hand. Far too much creamer for her liking.
The two of them stood alone in the great gallery, the painting of her son above her, as she read the letter. The delivery bird, four-winged and toothed, preened itself for a moment, before lighting off back into the sky. Joseph took the chance to look out the window, at the small flock of birds that flew over the city now. News was traveling fast. Whatever it was.
“The dead plane,” Lady Deirdre said, “It's gone.”
Joseph's head snapped to her.
“Chliofrond?” he said.
“The one that Sunala went on the expedition on,” Lady Deirdre said, “Yes.”
“I-” Joseph's mind raced. Rosemary and Meleko, they had gone to that plane, for the investigation, right?
“My guildmates,” he said, “My friends. An elf and an alien. Does the letter mention it?”
“I'm afraid not,” Lady Deirdre said, “Only that the dead plane's gone. Glassed.”
Joseph's stomach boiled.
“I-I see,” he said.
He wanted to bolt out the door, at that very moment. Run back to Castle Belenus. Make sure that Rosemary and Meleko had gotten home safely. That they were alright.
But he was on a job. And he had promised Wakeling (damn her) that he would keep guarding her.
“Is... everything alright, Mr. Zheng?” Lady Deirdre asked.
Joseph sighed.
“Just... hoping they're alright,” he said.
“I can write a letter to Castle Belenus,” the noblewoman said, “Make inquiries on their status. On your behalf.”
“Y-You would do that?” Joseph said.
She smiled.
“Of course, dear boy,” she said, “Enough... enough has been taken from us through this damn election. For your sake, I hope you have not lost much.”
She rolled up the letter. Walked over to a small table that she had set up in the room with paperwork and quills. And began to write.
***
The answer came promptly. A sudden flash of light, and a scroll in his hand. Joseph looked down at it. Lady Deirdre's eyebrow quirked up.
“Your guildmaster's magic extends this far?” she said.
“Guess so,” Joseph said. He unfurled the scroll, and read, “Joseph: Rosemary + Meleko safe. Stay put, dangerous times.”
“Dangerous times, indeed,” Deirdre said, her voice scented bitter, “But... I am glad.”
She looked at Joseph. His eyes were closed. He breathed in. Then out. As though trying to overpower his emotions. When he opened them again, they were clear and hard.
“You wish that you were there, with them,” she said.
“I do,” he said, “But I also have to guard you. I'd rather it be me, then-”
He shut up at that. They both knew who he meant. The Amber Foundation had a bit of a stain on their record, with the Deirdres. Neither of them had spoken about Chadwick since his arrival to the manor. But she understood. And nodded.
Part of her was grateful.
***
They met late at night. Scuttleway was a frosted over corpse, the only signs of life being the birds still carrying news high above. They met at a park, again, noting how magical lights had been strung up, will-o-the-wisps that glowed and drifted like fireflies, just in time for the Golden Round. Isaac had thought himself to be alone when he left the Bronze-Hued Keep. Yet one of the fliers high above was far too large to be a bird. Khosrau. It was his turn to be chaperone tonight. Lady Busciver's usual guide was her Master of Arms, Driona, and she glared at Isaac as he met with Buscie, the two of them sitting down on a park bench.
“You got the news,” he said.
She was hesitant, her eyes downcast. Her hair was askew. Isaac began tending to it, pushing it out of her heart-shaped face.
“How is...”
“I don't want to talk about it, Isaac,” she said.
Isaac nodded. She rested her head against his shoulder. He held her hand in his, thumb running against her palm.
“...He's catatonic,” she said, “He didn't expect this. Not at all.”
“They weren't warned?” he asked, “Of a Federation investigator?”
“No,” she said, “Sunala said she sent out a message to her contact out there. But he apparently never got it. He's dead now.”
She shivered.
“First the Deirdres, now this.”
A lot of dead. But he didn't say this aloud.
“Did... did he and Sunala talk?”
“Yeah,” she said, “They argued. She screamed at him. She... she beat him, Isaac.”
His blood ran cold at that.
“Said... said a lot to him. I don't know. I was hiding in my room. But she screamed so loud I could hear it. When I saw him, Isaac, he... I think she broke his nose.”
She was fighting back tears.
“Isaac,” she said, her voice breaking, “I'm so, so scared.”
***
The Grand Commons was uncharacteristically quiet as the people of Scuttleway streamed in. The news of last night meant that almost the entire city had come out. A crowd of Scuttlers sat outside the palace, and they would have all entered the building had Ramsey not assigned the Militia to keep them away from the entrance. Gone were the last few sessions’ low turnout. Every House sat in attendance. Becenti almost couldn't secure a seat. He noted that Gouffant had to all but push people out of the way to sit down. They were across the room from each other, looking out from different balconies down to the main debate floor below.
The city filed in. Martin Gondoro looked exhausted, deep purple bags under his eyes, and he was sipping at a cup of Friendbucks coffee as he shuffled a few papers.
“Right,” he said, “If we're all here. I call this meeting of the Minor Tribunal into... yada yada.”
He rubbed his temples.
“Lord Rithmound,” he said, “Last I recall, you were talking about current trends in... krem breeding. Gods above.”
The hobgoblin rose. He looked out across the room. Lord Korgan was looking down at the table, whispering a few words to his daughter. Lady Deirdre, despite everything, despite her two dead sons and near-overthrown House, sat tall, a mourning veil covering her icy face. One of the Amber Foundation, a man in a blue jacket, was at her left side, her daughter on her right. Lady Doria Eilonwy had a dire grin on her face. She was looking at Rithmound, hands steepled politely on the table. Lady Sunala glared across the room at Lord Rithmound. His eyes met hers, then moved over to Lord Busciver.
At Sunala's handiwork. The gnome sat on the throne. He smiled serenely, though it did not quite reach his eyes, and looked pained. As though magic had been used to hastily repair his face, but he could still feel the pain, wincing and stinging. He looked truly uncomfortable.
Lord Rithmound cleared his throat.
“Friends,” he said, “Enough about the krem.”
He rapped at the table. Scratched at it with a long nail.
“No doubt,” he said, “You've all heard the news.”
The crowd murmured.
“Good,” he said, “Then we appear to be at a crossroads of a sort. We have been, truly, for a while. Let me ask you a question: has Doge Busciver succeeded?”
He let the question simmer. Let the crowd think.
“What sort of Doge makes deals such as this, out in the multiverse, with promises and deals, but then can't even play the game? The High Federation is always hounding after us, always making sure we're under the radar. Anyone who goes too far, any flower that grows too tall, gets plucked.
“And the good Lord Busciver played the multiverse like an amateur.”
“Now, Lord Rithmound-” Busciver said.
“I have the floor, Busciver.”
The gnome, before, would have objected. Would have fought back. But he said nothing else. The Minor Tribunal noted that.
“We don't need,” Lord Rithmound said, “A man who acts as a child. Empty promises like the one our Doge made could spell disaster for the city. We stand, eternally, on a precipice. We cannot show weakness. And Doge Busciver, in his tenure as the leader of our city, has shown nothing but that.”
He moved out from his desk, crossing over.
“When he receives bad news, what happens to him? Look at Doge Busciver now.”
He nodded at the gnome.
“I'm a military man. I know the evidence of magical healing, and you, sir, are nothing but. When you received the news, did you slam your head against the wall? No, sir, you were beaten. Like a child.”
Gasps from the crowd. Everyone knew it. But no one was willing to point it out.
“Who beat him? Well, there are a variety of guesses that I think we can all surmise. But I am not so callous as to accuse anyone here. But it does mean one thing: Busciver is not his own master.
“No, his master is the Lady Sunala. And we all know it. Why else would the elves be so involved in this year's election? Why else would Elven assassins stalk our streets at night? Why else would Tlantoia, our old oppressor, send their ambassadors to the election today, when they have ignored us for the past five election cycles?”
He glared around the room.
“The gnome you see on the throne is a puppet. And a Doge should not be that. They are to serve the city. I stand here, as your better option. With trade deals that will yield fruit. With economic plans that will strengthen us as a city, not bend us to the will of another. I stand here, before you, my friends, as your servant.”
He bowed. When he rose, he looked the exhausted Gondoro dead in the eye.
“I yield the floor.”
And the Minor Tribunal whispered. Lord Rithmound sat down. His son looked at him.
“Hell of a speech,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Lord Rithmound said, “But it is not the speech that's won me the day, I believe. Just the final punch for the knock-out.”
Indeed, the heads of Meandring and Callistopa were looking at one another. Lady Deirdre was whispering a few words to her daughter. Martin Gondoro rose.
“We will now,” he said, “Start the Vote for Dogeship.”
The silver and gold balls began to be passed out. The entire room was silent save for the sounds of movement, of swishing robes and awkward coughs, of hastily concealed entries into the purple bag that the servants were passing around the room.
Gondoro began to count:
BUSCIVER: 3
RITHMOUND: 8
***
The crowd rippled. Sunala rose, a mutinous look on her face, and she stomped out of the Grand Commons. Busciver sank in his seat. He looked lost. Lonely.
“With a two-thirds majority of votes,” Martin Gondoro said, “It is decided. The Vote for Dogeship passes in favor of Lord Bryce Rithmound. All, please rise for your new Doge.”
And the Minor Tribunal rose. The city stood. All eyes were on Lord Rithmound, who left his seat, as well, and crossed over to the center of the room.
To the throne.
Busciver stayed seated.
“Come, Busciver,” Rithmound murmured, so low that only the gnome could hear, “You had a good run. An admirable one.”
Slowly, as though he were stuck on the throne, Busciver peeled off. Placed the half-moon Phrygian Cap on the throne's arm. Walked quietly to his seat, sat down beside his niece, who rested a hand on his shoulder. Lord Rithmound took the throne. Placed the cap on his own head, for the Doge was not king, but a servant to the city. No one would place the cap on his head save himself, and no one would help him remove it, when his time came and his tenure ended.
“Have you any words?” Martin Gondoro said.
“Only a thank you,” Lord Rithmound said, “And I will serve you as Doge. I accept your votes. I accept your request for a new servant. I will work to make this city a better place. A place worthy of the name 'Scuttleway.'”
And the crowd applauded.
***
Sunala went to her room. Sat at her desk. The stump of her hand throbbed. The other was curled up in anger. She was seeing red. So much effort. So much time. So much sacrifice. Her ship. Her hand. Her reputation. Her career. Her dreams.
All of it gone, with a simple letter.
Adaya was dead. Urya Orna was dead. Her ship was gone.
Her father had given her the Gil-Galad. A parting gift. It had been his ship, and his mother's before that.
And her ship was gone.
She glanced down to the letter that had arrived, via Royal Elemental, that morning. From Serce Aldhellen, the second leader of the Verdant Reclamation:
Sunala.
The Federation has considered the dead plane matter open and shut. It is gone now. Glassed. You have cost us dearly. Londoa is a lost cause. You are forbidden from returning to Yorhellas. We are sending Tirmo Telundela to ascertain your status in the new hierarchy. Expect a visit from him soon.
Tirmo Telundela. They sent him only in cases of abysmal failure. To demote her. To execute her, if he deemed that the cost had been too great. One did not ever want a visit.
“Damn you, Busciver,” she growled.
She grabbed her desk, with one hand overturned it.
“Damn you!”
She looked around. Books, piles of books, towered around her. She started to push them over. Grab them, throw them across the room. Screaming. She grabbed the curtains by the window, tore them off with such force that the bar holding them was ripped from its hinge. She grabbed the rod, stomped over to the painting over her bed-
And she was interrupted by the sound of fireworks. They were being let off at the Grand Commons. In celebration of the new Doge. Sunala stopped.
Fireworks.
An idea...
An idea was percolating in her head.
She took a look at the painting over the bed. At Montaine, tall and regal, his curved blade almost shimmering off of the canvas. He had founded this city, hadn't he? Taken the prisoners from his wars across the Inner World and had them build this magnificent city. This city was her people's birthright. The vermin here just didn't realize it.
They needed to be taught that again.
There were still servants in the city. Still those loyal to the cause. They had not received word yet of Sunala's impending departure.
But there would be no departure.
“Heaven through violence,” she whispered.
And she got to work.
***
The airship traveled across the breadth of Nesona. Pantheon did not pursue them, leaving Ichabod and Contort alone. The crew did not disturb them. They were left to their own devices, to stew in the small room that had been provided to them. It gave Ichabod time to work on cracking the firewall around the contract they had stolen from the Tower of Eden. Contort sat resting in a bed, his eyes always on the door, or looking out the window for danger below.
For only foolish guilds did not have flying members. He held Ichabod's pistol in hand, finger always itching at the safety. Call it poor firearm safety, but the last few weeks had been anything but safe.
Neither of them spoke about Rorshin. One of them would need to break the news to Wakeling when they got back home.
“It's fair weather, at least,” Contort noted, “Clear skies. I think that's a landscape down below.”
“...You think?” Ichabod said.
“Har,” Contort replied, and he shot the cybernetic man with a grin that was far too harsh for his liking. They had left Pantheon behind – the demon, the rain elemental, all of it. But they did not feel safe. Indeed, their stress only intensified with each passing day.
Ichabod continued work on the firewall.
***
It was only after several days of travel that he managed to get in. Open it up without deleting the entire thing. He took a ragged breath, bringing out his arm.
“Alright,” he said, “Ready?”
Contort nodded. It was late at night, the engine a warm chorus beneath their feet, the world outside bitterly cold and clouded. Ichabod opened the contract. Read through it once. Twice. He presented it to Contort, whose eyes narrowed as he skimmed through it.
“We need a Silverfish,” he said, “This information, it can't wait for us to mozy on back to Londoa.”
“Agreed,” Ichabod said.
The cybernetic man's glass eyes kept falling on the first paragraph. The first lines:
THIS AGREEMENT IS MADE THIS YEAR 2045 OF THE AGE OF REST BY AND BETWEEN GUILD 'LIKE SHADOW' (HEREIN REFERRED TO AS CONTRACTOR) AND ONE 'LADY LILY-ANN DORIAMA SUNALA' (HEREIN REFERRED TO AS CLIENT)
PER REGULATIONS RELATED TO THE ACT OF RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION AND THE FORESTER'S TREATY, THIS CONTRACT SERVES AS RECORD THAT CLIENT WISHES FOR THE NON-CONSENSUAL BIOLOGICAL TERMINATION OF TARGET 'LORD BRYCE RITHMOUND,' THE METHODS OF WHICH, AS WELL AS THE CONTRACTOR'S PARTICIPANTS, ARE THE CONTRACTOR'S TO DECIDE.
THE CLIENT AGREES TO PAY FOUR HUNDRED THOUSAND CREDITS TO THE CONTRACTOR ON CONFIRMATION OF TERMINATION.